Читать книгу Dick Merriwell's Day; Or, Iron Nerve - Burt L. Standish - Страница 6

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After the ejectment of the hobo Fernald and Hammerswell remained some little time before the bar, talking earnestly in low tones.

The whisky seemed to have a bad effect on Fernald. He grew flushed and excited. His indignation increased steadily as he thought of the trap into which he had fallen, and he repeatedly asserted his desire to square up with Buckhart.

“It’s not enough to simply dope the fellow!” he growled.

“Be still,” cautioned Hammerswell, touching his companion’s wrist. “Don’t let any one hear you speaking of that.”

“I know what I’ll do,” said the Rockford sharp. “I’ll have that fresh young fellow put out of business to-night unless he sticks close to this hotel.”

“Put out of business?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I know a way. I’d like to thump him myself, but I don’t want to take part in it. I’ll find the boys to do it. Let’s have another drink.”

After drinking again Fernald bade Hammerswell “so-long,” promising to meet him within an hour at the same bar.

“That’ll give me time to get the dope,” whispered Hammerswell. “I think I’ll have it ready for you then.”

Having left the hotel, Fernald turned down the street that led toward a part of the place known as Peaceful Point. This name was a misnomer, for Peaceful Point was anything but peaceful. In fact, it was the most dangerous and degraded section of Rockford. The most disreputable characters of the place lived on the point, where there were a number of low saloons, kitchen barrooms, gambling rooms, and other resorts of bad repute. Although it was said to be dangerous for a well-dressed man to venture onto the Point after dark, Fernald proceeded thither unhesitatingly.

The street was crooked, the houses in need of repair and paint, and the neighborhood ill-smelling.

The night being warm, the doors and windows were open everywhere. There were men and women and a few ragged, shrill-voiced children on the street. Lights shone from the windows and the open doorways. Some carousing sailors went staggering and singing along the street ahead of Tom Fernald. Profanity and the smell of beer was in the air.

The appearance at that hour of a man dressed as well as Fernald was enough to cause the Pointers to survey him keenly. However, instead of creating surprise whenever he was recognized—and almost every one seemed to know him—his name was spoken and he was permitted to pass unmolested. Occasionally a man saluted him.

No one paid the slightest attention to the trampish-looking young man who slouched at a distance behind Fernald, carefully keeping track of the deposed manager of the Rockford team. This was the chap who had been thrown out of the Corndike barroom.

At last the hobo saw the man he was following pause a moment in front of a house from which came the sound of music, dancing, and bacchanalian laughter.

The pursuer reeled forward, as if finding it difficult to keep on his feet, and paused at the open doorway to look in. Beyond a short hall was another open door, and beyond that a room in which the dancing was taking place. Fernald had paused in the second doorway. He surveyed the disreputable throng searchingly, and soon singled out a strapping, big youth who was waltzing with a girl. Fernald lifted his arm and the man nodded. A moment later, without asking to be excused, the fellow abandoned his partner on the floor and joined the man in the doorway.

“Sorry to bother you, Bingo,” said Fernald.

“No bother at all, boss,” was the answer.

“Step over by this window,” invited Fernald, who did not fancy the odor of the place. “Want to speak with you a moment, McCord.”

They stopped by the open window, neither of them aware that outside that window a man was leaning against the side of the building.

“You know the Fairhaven catcher, don’t you, Bingo?” asked Fernald.

“Sure t’ing,” nodded the youth, wiping the perspiration from his face with his shirt sleeve. “I know all dem ball players in der whole league.”

“Well, I suppose you took my pointer and bet something on the game to-morrow, didn’t you?”

“Dat’s what I did.”

“I thought likely you would.”

“Why, boss, I found some guys dat was bughouse. Dey have an idea dem kids is going to put it all over your team to-morrer. I borrowed ten plunks and shook it at um. De whole ten is up, and I count meself that much ahead. It’s like finding money.”

“It was a safe thing as long as I remained manager of the team here, Bingo; but I am out of it now.”

“W’at?” gasped McCord, in astonishment. “What’s dat you’re giving us, Tom, old man? Out of it! Ain’t you manager any more?”

“No.”

“How’s dat?” gasped the excited and astonished Bingo.

“It will take too much time to explain. But if you want to make it a sure thing that you gather in your bets it’s up to you to do something.”

“Tell me what, boss!”

“I want you to get after the Fairhaven catcher. The whole team is stopping at the Corndike. If you can run onto that fellow Buckhart on the street to-night and put him out of commission you’ll fix the thing so your bets will be safe, as there is no other man who can fill his place to-morrow with Merriwell in the box.”

“You want me to knock de block off dat chap, do yer?”

“If you can put him into the doctor’s hands it will be a good job. Don’t be satisfied to give him a thumping, but use him up so he’ll be unable to play ball to-morrow. That’s my advice.”

“I’ll do it if I get der chance, boss,” nodded McCord. “Of course I don’t want to be pinched for der job, and I can’t jump him right out in public where dere’ll be witnesses.”

“Of course not. It’s a warm evening, and I fancy the most of those fellows will walk out for a breath of air. If you could hang around and follow Buckhart until you get a good opportunity to light on him, it would be a fancy piece of work.”

“I hate ter leave dis ball,” confessed McCord; “but I can’t afford to drop any good money on dat game.”

“If you polish this Buckhart off in first-class shape, so he can’t play to-morrow, I’ll drop you a fiver out of my own pocket,” promised Fernald.

“I’ll get after dat guy right away, Tom,” nodded the young thug.

“Better take two friends with you.”

McCord looked surprised.

“What fer?” he demanded. “Don’t you t’ink I can take care of him all by my lonesome? Why, I can eat dat chap! He’s nutting but a boy.”

“But he may have friends with him. You will need at least two or three companions to keep his friends off while you do him up. I suggest that you take not less than three. Then if you happen to run onto a bunch of them you will be all right.”

“Mebbe dat’s good advice,” confessed Bingo. “I want to do der job in a hurry. I’d better have some good scrappers wid me.”

“Any one here you can get?”

“None of my gang, but I guess I know where ter find der boys. Tapper Mullin is fingering the pasteboards down at Mike McGinnis’ joint. He picked up a couple of sailor chaps what t’ought dey knew a lot about poker, and he’s skinning dem of dere loose coin. I’ll git him all right, and den I’ll look after Skip Billings, anodder good man. You say der baseball chaps are at der Corndike? Well, you jest stroll back dere and hang around. If you see dis feller we’re arter stroll out for a walk, jest watch which way he goes. I’ll be along wid my pals in twenty or t’irty minutes.”

Fernald left the place and retraced his steps toward the hotel. Instead of following him, the young hobo, who had listened outside the window, waited until Bingo McCord came out. He then trailed McCord.

Bingo had made no mistake in saying he knew where to find one of his pals. At McGinnis’ place he was admitted to the room where the poker game was in progress, and he appeared just as one of the sailors vociferously announced that he had been cheated. There were five persons in the game, and three of them proceeded to jump on the two sailors without a moment’s delay. The encounter that followed was decidedly brief, for McCord sailed into it and McGinnis himself took a hand. In less than two minutes the sailors, badly battered and minus their money, found themselves kicked into the street.

McCord tapped a tall, perspiring, red-headed chap on the shoulder.

“Seems ter me I dropped around jest in time, Mullin,” he said.

“That’s what!” growled Mullin, with a surly grin. “I saw you smash one of them chaps under the ear and drop him into the corner. They squealed over losing a little money. I’ve got some of it in my clothes. Come over to Pete Daley’s and I’ll blow you off.”

“Over to Pete’s it is,” said McCord, in satisfaction. “I was jest going to invite you over dere meself. Dere’s something doing, Tapper. I want ter find Skip Billings.”

“Skip hangs around Pete’s most of the time.”

Together they proceeded to Daley’s barroom, which was well filled with disreputable-looking and thirsty individuals. Neither of them noted that as they entered the young hobo followed at their heels, almost knocking against them.

Skip Billings, who had a broken nose and was thoroughly vicious in his appearance, was leaning against one end of the bar. McCord and Mullin joined him.

“This is on me,” said Mullin, as he ordered beer.

“I beg your pardon, gents!” exclaimed the hobo, as he seemed to lose his balance and stumbled in among them. “Awful slippery floor! Don’t waste your money. I will pay for the suds.”

“Well, dat saves you a swipe on de jaw,” said McCord. “You want ter be careful about butting inter dis bunch or you may git your block knocked off.”

The hobo looked them over in an interesting manner.

“One, two, three,” he counted, motioning toward each one of them with his finger. “Mebbe there’s enough of you to do it.”

“What’s that?” the trio exclaimed in a breath, as they turned toward him.

“Wait a minute! wait a minute!” urged the tramp, holding up his hand. “After I pay for the suds you can try it if you want to. No use to fool yourself out of a drink in your haste.”

McCord began to laugh.

“I guess dat’s right, stranger,” he admitted. “We’ll drink on you and den we’ll kick your face in.”

The tramp did not appear to be frightened. Instead of that, standing in their midst, he coolly paid for the drinks from a small amount of loose change.

“The last of a misspent fortune,” he said dolefully. “When that’s gone I’ll have to work—or steal. What’s the use to quarrel, gents? Mebbe the three of you can put me out in short order, but I will go any one of you singly at any old thing. I will run, jump, wrastle, or fight any man in the place.”

Now it happened that Skip Billings regarded himself as a clever wrestler, while as a fighter Tapper Mullin was known on the Point to be second only to Bingo McCord.

“Here’s where we have a little sport!” exclaimed Bingo. “Clear der floor, gents, and see Skip pile this frisky chap up in a hurry.”

The prospect of a wrestling match seemed to delight every one present, and without delay the space was cleared. Deliberately the young hobo removed his ragged coat and tossed it into a corner, flinging his battered hat after it.

“Better take your drink first,” grinned McCord, motioning toward the single glass left standing on the bar.

“I’ll take that later,” said the hobo. “Had enough already. Mebbe I’ll want it after I put this gent on his back.”

“If you wait until you put me on my back,” said Billings, “you’ll never take another drink. Come on!”

A moment later they clinched.

If any one present expected to see Skip Billings down the stranger he was disappointed.

Although Billings seemed to obtain the best hold and made an effort to hurl the tramp over his hip, the strength and skill of the hobo enabled him to avoid a fall.

“Go on, Skip!” cried several. “Pile him up! Down him!”

“Down he goes!” panted Billings, as he back-locked his antagonist.

While they were falling the stranger seemed to fetch a remarkable writhing twist in the air, and when they struck heavily on the floor a shout of surprise went up, for Billings was underneath and flat on his back.

Billings himself was astounded, for until he landed on the floor he had fancied himself the victor. How he had been brought underneath while falling he could not conceive.

“What’s dis?” shouted McCord, in great astonishment. “Did he t’row you, Skip? What’s de matter wid yer?”

“Accident!” declared Billings savagely. “I had him going.”

The tramp laughed.

“The secret of success,” he observed, “is to keep a good thing up after you’ve started. You can’t keep it up, me friend.”

Being released, Billings scrambled to his feet, his face flushed and his eyes glaring.

“You’ll never fool me another time that way!” he declared. “You can’t throw me again in a hundred years!”

“Various opinions about that, me friend,” chuckled the tramp. “But I guess this business is settled. One fall was to end it.”

“One fall don’t end it!” snarled Billings. “You will have to try it again.”

“Now, hold on!” cried the stranger, holding up his hand. “I say it ain’t fair—it ain’t fair!”

“Make him take his medicine, Skip!” exclaimed several.

In spite of his protest, the tramp was compelled to meet Billings again.

The two men crouched at a little distance from each other, while McCord gave the word.

“Are you ready?” was his question.

“Sure!” growled Billings.

“All ready,” said the stranger.

“Then fly at it!”

Round and round they circled, crouching low, their arms swinging, watching for an opening. Suddenly the tramp seemed to give Billings his chance. Skip rushed in and grabbed.

With a writhing twist, the tramp seemed to avoid the other man’s hands, and an instant later he seized Billings about the body, flung the fellow’s heels into the air, and hurled him fairly over his head.

The building shook and the glasses and bottles behind the bar rattled as Skip came down with a terrible thump, flat on his shoulder blades. The concussion stunned him for a moment, and he lay prone on his back, blinking at the smoky ceiling.

After a moment’s silence the witnesses of this remarkable thing uttered a shout. Never had they seen a handsomer piece of work.

Slowly Billings sat up, looking around for his antagonist.

“Go for him!” he weakly muttered. “Knock the stuffing out of him!”

“Hold on, gents!” urged the tramp, once more holding up his hand. “I acknowledge you can do it if you all jump on me. There ain’t no question about that. I’ll take you one at a time; but I throw up the sponge if you’re going to tackle me in a bunch.”

“Let me git at him!” urged Tapper Mullin. “Mebbe he can wrastle, but when it comes to handling his dukes with me I think he’ll be out of it. Where’s the gloves, Pete? Bring out the mitts and I will pound him to a pulp!”

The prospect of a fistic encounter delighted the rough crowd and they burst into applause, wildly calling for the gloves.

“I acknowledge, gents,” said the hobo, “that you’ve seen me at my best. As a wrastler I’ve made my reputation. When it comes to the gloves, I am nothing but a second-rater.”

This seemed to increase Mullin’s desire to get at the stranger.

“Be quiet as you can, gentlemen,” said Daley, the proprietor, as he fished out a set of hard gloves from beneath the bar. “You know my place is strictly quiet and respectable.”

“Where’s my second?” inquired the tramp, as he inspected the gloves. “Ain’t I got no one ter back me up? Is this whole bunch agin’ me?”

To the surprise of all, Skip Billings immediately stepped forward.

“I’m behind you, pal,” he said. “A man that can throw me over his head is pretty nifty, and I’m goin’ to prophesy that you make it lively for Tapper.”

“Thanks!” grinned the hobo, his dark eyes flashing. “Jest you watch out that I git fair play. Help me tie these mitts on, will you?”

Billings aided in tying the gloves onto the stranger’s hands. In the meantime, McCord attended to Mullin, who had stripped down for the encounter.

“Don’t let him touch you, Tapper,” urged Bingo.

“Don’t worry about that,” retorted Mullin. “You’re the only gent around this town that can put me out of business.”

The interest of the crowd in the stranger had been thoroughly aroused. They saw now that he was not a bad-looking fellow by any means; indeed, it was possible that, washed up and dressed in decent clothing, he would present a rather attractive appearance.

In a few moments both men were ready. The interested spectators were now back on either side against the walls, in order that the boxers might have plenty of room.

“I’ll bet a round for the crowd that Tapper puts him down and out within three minutes!” cried one.

“I will go you!” instantly exclaimed Skip Billings.

Without any formality the contestants met and began to spar. The stranger assumed a correct position and easily warded off the leads of his opponent when Mullin started without delay to press the contest. Round and round they went, ducking, dodging, and parrying.

“Get into him, Tapper!” urged the man who had offered to bet on him. “You’re wasting time!”

Mullin heeded this adjuration and attempted to press his opponent. The tramp, however, was astonishingly catlike on his feet, and Tapper could not get in a telling blow.

At length the hobo broke through the other fellow’s guard and gave him a severe jolt on the chin.

“That’s it! that’s it!” cried Billings, in satisfaction. “You reached him that time!”

This blow angered Mullin, who opened up furiously. Twice he touched the stranger, but the blows were too light to be effective. Then he received a thump in the ribs that brought a groan from his lips.

Faster and fiercer grew the contest. The spectators shouted their delight.

Suddenly the tramp landed on Tapper’s mouth and split his lip, starting the blood.

Bingo McCord whistled his surprise.

“It’s an even match,” he declared. “Tapper will have to scratch gravel.”

Mullin was intensely annoyed by his failure to get in an effective blow. This annoyance led him to give several openings, and finally he received a jolt that sent him to the floor.

Billings actually danced in delight.

“I told you!” he whooped.

Mullin scrambled up, his eyes glaring with fury. The moment he was on his feet he made a rush.

The stranger side-stepped and banged his opponent on the ribs. The blow seemed to stop Mullin in his tracks. His hands dropped a little, and an instant later he received a right-hander on the jaw that once more sent him flat.

This did not end the contest, however, for Tapper was not seriously hurt. He rose slowly, but rushed again as soon as he was on his feet. This time he swung twice and then attempted to clinch. His blows were avoided, and the stranger seized him about the waist and gave him a whirling flop into the air.

Mullin came down in the same heavy fashion as Billings had fallen.

“Foul! foul!” cried several.

“Excuse me!” exclaimed the stranger. “I didn’t know any particular rules were mentioned.”

A discussion arose that was stopped by McCord, who agreed with the hobo that no rules had been mentioned, and, therefore, no rules had been broken.

By this time Tapper was up once more. Although he had been jolted severely he would not quit.

“Give him all that’s coming,” urged Skip Billings, in the tramp’s ear. “He won’t crow over me after this.”

The end of the match was not long postponed. Mullin had lost his head, and he quickly gave his opponent an opening that was accepted. A smashing blow on the jaw sent Tapper down and out. In fact, fully ten minutes elapsed before Mullin fully recovered.

During those ten minutes the stranger was congratulated by several witnesses, including Bingo McCord.

“You’re a better man dan Mullin,” confessed Bingo. “If I didn’t have a little business on my hands to-night I’d try you a go myself. What’s your name?”

“It’s Hepworth Hoboson,” was the answer. “I’m usually called Hep for short.”

“Well, Hep, you’re a rattler, and dat’s straight goods. Are you going to stay round dese parts?”

“I may linger till I git restless,” laughed Hoboson. “I can’t stay very long in one place, for I adore traveling.”

“Well, as long as you stay here dis is de gang for you to run wid,” said McCord. “We’ll take you in wid us. What do you say, Skip?”

“Why, sure,” nodded Billings.

Mullin made no objection, and in this manner Hoboson was accepted as one of the tough set of Peaceful Point.

Although he did not call attention to the fact, Hep Hoboson was skillful in yet another manner. With the craft of a juggler he managed to spill the contents of every glass set before him, emptying the stuff into a sawdust-filled box that served as a cuspidor and stood close under the rail of the bar. Not even a swallow passed his lips. Once or twice he was seen lowering his empty glass, as if he had drunk the contents, and the suspicions of his companions were not aroused.

McCord seemed to take Hoboson into his confidence, for he asked the fellow to join them in going after Brad Buckhart.

“I’ve got good coin on der game to-morrer,” said Bingo, “and I want to make it a sure t’ing dat Rockford wins. Wid dis catcher in der hospital, dem island chaps will be a cinch.”

Thus it came about that the tramp was one of the party that left the Point in search of Buckhart.

Tom Fernald was smoking a cigarette in front of the Corndike Hotel when McCord and his companions passed. Fernald made a signal that caused McCord to step aside.

“Buckhart is out for a walk now,” said the late manager of the Rockford team. “Merriwell is with him. They turned up Granite Street.”

“All right,” muttered Bingo. “We’ll try to find him. Der four of us can put dem two guys out of business in about ten seconds.”

Talking of baseball matters, Brad and Dick had turned to retrace their course to the hotel when they were met by McCord and his gang near the outskirts of the town. It happened that there was no street light in the immediate vicinity, and the spot was a favorable one for the purpose of the ruffians.

“Here dey are!” hissed McCord, as the unsuspecting boys appeared. “Git into dem and make a quick job, pals.”

To the astonishment of McCord and his friends, Hoboson uttered a shout of warning.

“Look out, boys!” he cried. “They are going to slug you!”

“What’s dat?” roared McCord furiously, as he wheeled on the tramp.

Already Mullin and Billings had made a rush at Dick and Brad.

“Drat you!” grated Bingo. “What do you mean?”

“I always like to see fair play,” declared Hoboson. “It ain’t fair for four gents to jump on two boys.”

Furious with rage, McCord tried to hit the hobo. He struck at Hep’s face with his left, but the man dodged and Bingo’s fist passed over his left shoulder. Quick as a flash, Hoboson reached up behind his neck with his right hand and grasped McCord’s wrist. With a sweeping swing he sent Bingo McCord sailing through the air in a half circle, and flung him at least thirty feet away into some bushes by the roadside.

“I am with you, boys,” cried the hobo, as he turned and sprang to the assistance of Dick and Brad, who were having their hands full.

In the bushes, with his shoulder twisted out of the socket, Bingo McCord rose, groaning, to his knees, and heard his companions shouting cries of dismay.

Merriwell and Buckhart were astounded by the manner in which Hoboson sailed into the two thugs. He struck Mullin and sent the fellow flying. Then he seized Billings and hurled him through the air.

After rising to his feet, Mullin lost no time in taking to his heels, and Billings was not slow in following him.

Already McCord had floundered out of the bushes, and, realizing his own helplessness, he dodged away into the darkness.

Hoboson stood with his hands on his hips, chuckling softly to himself.

“What does this mean?” asked Dick, in surprise.

“That’s whatever I’d like to know,” said Buckhart.

“It means,” said the tramp, “that some tough characters planned to eat you up, but made a slight mistake by taking me into the game.”

“Who are you?” asked Merriwell.

“I am a knight of the road. I am a preambulator of the highways. In other words, boys, I am what is disdainfully called a hobo.”

“I don’t understand it at all,” again declared Dick.

“Then I will clear up the haze,” said the tramp. “In this town there’s a gent by the name of Fernald who has it in for Brad Buckhart.”

“And I’m Brad Buckhart,” muttered the Texan. “Was Fernald behind this business?”

“Sure as shooting. He put up the job and engaged the gang to do you dirt. By chance, while pretending to take a nap in the Corndike barroom, I heard him talking it over. It interested me, and I decided that I would have a finger in the fun. That explains why I am here.”

“Well, we owe you thanks!” cried Dick, extending his hand. “What can we do for you?”

“If you git hard up for a rattling good ball player and a wizard behind the bat, don’t forget Hep Hoboson,” said the tramp.

“Are you a ball player?”

“Am I? You bet your wealth I am! I am a wonder!”

“Sorry,” laughed Dick; “but we don’t need any one just at present.”

“Can’t tell how soon you may,” said Hoboson. “Things are always happening, you know. I’ll be on hand to watch the game to-morrer, and if you need a substitute jest call on me. It would delight me to go behind the bat and handle the sphere in that position.”

“Are you in need of money?” asked Dick, thrusting his hand into his pocket.

Hoboson held up his hand, at the same time shaking his head.

“A little money is sufficient for my passing wants,” he said. “I couldn’t think of accepting anything from you.”

“Where are you stopping?”

“Any old place I hang my hat is home sweet home to me,” was the answer.

“Have you enough to pay for your lodging to-night?”

“Sure thing. You can’t reward me, my boy, for a little favor. I’ll see you at the game to-morrer. Good night and pleasant dreams.”

Then, although they called to him, the singular tramp hurried away and quickly disappeared in the darkness.