CHAPTER I FRIENDS—NEW AND OLD
In the rear of a white cottage, known to all residents of the town ofTruesdell as “the Blake homestead,” stands a great apple tree, whoseleafy boughs have afforded shade in summer and fruit in autumn toseveral generations of Blakes. At present, its hospitable branches havebeen converted into an out-of-door gymnasium by Ned Blake,great-grandson of old Josiah Blake, from whose half-eaten apple-core thetree sprang some seventy years ago. “Six feet, two inches in his socksand as wide as a door,” is how tradition describes old Josiah, andalthough Ned Blake at seventeen stands less than seventy inches in hissneakers and tips the scales at a trifle less than one hundred and fiftypounds, he has something of the supple strength and a goodly measure ofthe courage and grit that made old Josiah respected among the earlysettlers of Truesdell.
Clad in a sleeveless jersey, duck trousers and sneakers, Ned has justclimbed a rope hand over hand to an upper limb from which he descends ina veritable cascade of cat-skinning, toe-holding, ape-like swings todrop on the turf beside his friend, Tommy Beals.
“Bully stuff!” applauded Tommy. “You sure can do the monkey tricks, Ned,but it makes me sweat just to watch ’em _this_ weather,” and Tommyhitched his rotund form farther into the shade of the friendly tree.
“It would do you good to try some of them, Fatty,” laughed Ned. “Come onnow. Here’s a simple one for a starter,” and catching a horizontal limbabove his head, Ned proceeded to chin himself with first one hand, thenwith the other, and finished with a two-handed hoisting swing that lefthim seated upon the limb.
Tommy Beals wagged his head in a hopeless negative. “Nope, it can’t bedone,” he sighed. “Whoever drew _my_ plans must have been thinking aboutballast instead of aviation, but if you ever want a good anchor for atug-of-war team why just count on _me_.”
“All right, I’ll keep it in mind,” promised Ned, “but here’s somethingyou can do for a little exercise,” he continued, dropping again to theground. “I want to grind my camp axe a bit, if you’ll turn for me.”
“Sure, I’ll do it,” agreed Tommy good-naturedly and, fetching a soap boxfor a seat, he squatted beside a heavy grindstone that stood in theshade of the tree.
For perhaps ten minutes the sharp _skurr_ of steel on stone sounded onthe hot August air, then ceased abruptly as Ned lifted the axe from thewhirling stone and tested its edge gingerly with his thumb. Tommy seizedthe opportunity to let go his hold of the crank-handle and wipe thebeads of perspiration from his plump countenance.
“Gosh, it’s hot!” he panted. “Ain’t the old cleaver sharp yet, Ned?”
“It’s pretty good, except for a couple of nicks,” replied Ned, “but youneedn’t turn any more, Fatty. Here comes Dave Wilbur and I’ll get him tospell you.”
“Yeah! I’ll sure admire to watch Weary Wilbur _work_,” grinned Beals, asa tall, lanky youth with hands deep in his pockets turned in at the gateand strolled leisurely across the lawn. “I’ll bet you the ice creamsodas, Ned, that Dave will find an alibi for _any_ job—if he sees itcoming,” continued Tommy, in a wheezy whisper.
“I’ll take that bet,” laughed Ned. “Hello, Dave,” he exclaimed, “you’rejust in time to save Fatty’s life! Grab hold of that crank and turn aminute or so. I’ve got to grind a couple of nicks out of this axe.”
Dave Wilbur, affectionately known to his friends as “Weary,” glancedsuspiciously at the axe in Ned Blake’s hands, then at the perspiringface of Tommy Beals whose grin was but partly concealed by his moppinghandkerchief, and lastly at the heavy grindstone whose crank-handleprojected so invitingly toward him. “Sure, I’ll turn for you,” hedrawled. “Hop up, Fatty,” and as Beals surrendered the soap box, Daveseated himself with cool deliberation.
“Just a few turns will be enough, Dave,” were Ned’s reassuring words, ashe pressed the axe upon the stone.
“Oh, that’ll be all right,” replied Wilbur. “One good turn deservesanother, you know, but say, before I forget it, who’s your newneighbor?”
“Neighbor?” repeated Ned. “_What_ neighbor?”
“Moving in next door,” explained Wilbur as he leaned back comfortablyagainst the tree trunk and inserted a clean straw in the corner of hismouth.
Ned laid down the axe and stepped quickly to the fence which divided hisback-yard from the property beyond. “I guess you’re right, Dave,” heremarked after a brief scrutiny. “There’s a big furniture van unloading,and the stuff is piled all over the sidewalk. There’s a young chaplugging it into the yard.”
“Yeah, I noticed him as I came along,” explained Wilbur. “I was justgoing to stop and give the young fellow a hand when I happened to thinkmaybe you would want to be in on it—you and Fatty.”
“It’s mighty nice of you not to hog the job all by yourself, Dave,”laughed Ned, “but let’s see what’s going on,” and slipping his arms intothe sleeves of a thin linen coat, he led the way toward the front of thehouse.
The furniture van had deposited its load and turned away toward therailroad station for a second installment. A slim, wiry lad aboutseventeen years of age was carrying the lighter articles into the house.
“Now’s your chance, Weary,” chuckled Tommy Beals. “Hop to it and rustlethat piano up the front steps!”
“Here comes Dan Slade,” announced Ned. “I wonder just how much helphe’ll offer.”
“Dan Slade could just about tote that piano all by himself, if he tookthe notion,” commented Beals, as he watched the youth who cameswaggering toward them. “It seems to me he gets bigger and huskier everytime I see him.”
“Yes. Bigger and huskier and meaner,” supplemented Wilbur. “It’ll bejust like him to start razzing that chap. Let’s stroll over and listenin.”
Slade had stopped at the heap of furniture, and the three friendsapproaching from the opposite direction were concealed from view as theyhalted to hear his opening salutation.
“Hey, kid,” he began. “What’s the big idea blockin’ the sidewalk withall this junk? This is a public street.”
The new boy straightened from the box he was preparing to lift andturned toward the speaker a freckled countenance. He had a wide mouthwith slightly upturned corners that gave an expression of good humor tohis face. “Sorry,” he apologized good-naturedly, “I’ll have this stuffcleared away soon, but if you’re in a hurry, I’ll”—here he paused andregarded Slade’s great hulking figure with a suspicion of amusement inhis blue eyes—“if you’re in a hurry I’ll try to carry you around it.”
The words, together with the grin that accompanied them, brought an uglyscowl to Slade’s face. “Don’t wise-crack _me_!” he growled. “I don’thave to be carried around this junk. I’m goin’ _through_ it!” andlunging ahead he put his weight against a tall bureau, causing it totopple toward the glass doors of a sideboard directly beyond. The newboy sprang forward in time to prevent the smash and succeeded inrestoring the bureau to its place. The good-humored expression of hisface had changed to one of surprise, not unmixed with indignation.
“I’ll ask you not to knock over our stuff,” he began in a voice thatseemed to tremble slightly in spite of his effort to control it.
“Ho! Ho!” jeered Slade, pleased by what he interpreted as an indicationof fear. “Now who do you think is goin’ to stop me?”
The freckled face paled slightly, but the wide humorous mouth compresseditself to a thin line and the blue eyes grew steely. Stepping forward,the new boy placed himself squarely in front of his tormentor. “_I’ll_try to stop you,” he said quietly.
It is doubtful if Slade had intended to do more than merely amusehimself by bullying the weaker boy into a condition of pleading, butthis unexpected show of resistance nettled him. Evidently the youngsterhad not been sufficiently impressed. At Slade’s feet lay a boxcontaining articles of fireplace furniture. Stooping, he picked up apoker made from a square rod of heavy iron. He seized the implement byits ends and fixed his bold black eyes up
on the freckled face oppositehim.
“_You’ll_ try to stop me, eh,” he sneered, “Why, I’d bend _you_ like Ibend this here poker!” and with a wrench of his powerful arms Sladechanged the straight bar into a letter U. “It takes somebody who can do_that_ to stop _me_,” he warned as he flung the distorted bar back intoits box.
“That’s quite a stunt,” exclaimed a voice at his elbow. “Now can youstraighten it again?”
Slade spun round to face Ned Blake, who had stepped into view closelyfollowed by Tommy Beals and Dave Wilbur. A belligerent expressioncrossed Slade’s face as he eyed the group before him. “Who wants toknow?” he sneered, doubling his big fists.
For a moment a fight seemed inevitable. Dave and Tommy felt the suddentension and the new boy stiffened perceptibly; but to provoke a fightwas not Ned Blake’s way of settling an argument and he answered withouta trace of ill humor. “Why, I guess we’re _all_ interested,” he saidsmilingly. “It takes some muscle to bend a bar like that, but they sayit’s even harder to straighten it. Can you do it?”
Slade hesitated. Into his rather dull mind there crept a suspicion thatperhaps he was being made the butt of some joke, and the thought broughtan angry flush to his face. He would have welcomed an opportunity to tryconclusions with this gray-eyed youth, who appeared so irritatingly cooland unafraid and yet offered no reasonable grounds for offense. Sladelooked him up and down for a minute. “Sure I can straighten it—if I wantto,” he growled.
“I’m wondering,” laughed Ned.
Stung to action as much by the tone as by the look of doubt in thesmiling gray eyes, Slade snatched up the poker. “I’ll show you,” hegritted as he put forth his strength upon it.
To his surprise the U-shaped poker resisted stubbornly. It was anawkward shape to handle, and in addition the attempted straighteningbrought into play a very different set of muscles from those required tobend it. Pausing for a new hold, Slade strained upon the bar till thesweat streamed down his face and his breath came in wheezy gasps. Slowlythe ends of the poker yielded to his power until the bar had assumed thegeneral shape of a crude letter W, much elongated. With a grunt ofdisgust, Slade flung it upon the ground.
“It’s crookeder than ever,” grinned Tommy Beals with an audible chuckle.
Slade made no reply, but his hard breathing was as much the result ofrage as of physical effort. Ned Blake picked up the bar and balanced itlightly in his hand.
“Bending a bar is much like mischief,” he remarked. “It’s easier to dothan to undo.” As he spoke, Ned shifted his grip close to one end of thebar and that portion of the crooked iron straightened slowly in hisgrasp. It was done with seeming ease, but a close observer would havedetected evidence of a tremendous effort in the whitening of theknuckles and the quiver of the muscles in chest and neck. The othercrooked end yielded in much the same manner, and the poker had againassumed the shape of a letter U or horseshoe.
Ned paused and drew his knuckles across his eyes, into which the sweatof effort had rolled. Stooping, he dried his hands in the powdery dustof the gutter and grasped the bar, not as Slade had done, but close uponeach side of the crook. With elbows pressed against his sides he inhaledto the full capacity of his lungs, bringing into play at the same momentevery ounce of power in his wrists and forearms. Slowly the stubbornmetal yielded until, after another quick shifting of grip, Ned’sextended thumbs came together in a straight line where the crook of theU had been.
“Here you are,” he said as he handed the bar to its owner, who hadwatched with no little surprise and uncertainty the little by-playenacted before his eyes. “And by the way,” continued the speaker, “myname is Blake—Ned Blake—next door, you know.”
The new boy’s freckles vanished in the flood of color that flushed hischeeks, as still keeping a wary eye upon Slade he reached forward togrip the friendly hand extended toward him. “Somers is my name—DickSomers.” And as he spoke, the humorous expression again lighted hisface.
“You seem to be obstructing traffic,” laughed Ned. “We’ll give you ahand with this stuff. Tommy Beals, here, is a great worker and as forDave Wilbur—why, he’s absolutely _pining_ for a job.”
For a moment Slade listened with ill-concealed disgust to thisconversation, then realizing how completely the mastery of the situationhad been wrested from him, he swung round on his heel and slouched away.
“Is he a neighbor?” asked Somers with a jerk of his thumb in thedirection of the departing Slade.
“No, thank heaven, he’s not,” replied Beals. “His name is DanSlade—Slugger Slade they call him where he lives up in the town ofBedford. He’s got a reputation as a great bully, but I don’t know justhow far he’d really go.”
“‘A barking dog seldom bites,’” drawled Wilbur, “but just the same,Somers, you showed a lot of spunk standing up to him the way you did. Myguess is that you’re the right sort.”
“I don’t mind admitting I was plumb scared half to death when I saw himbend that poker,” grinned Somers, “but that wasn’t anything comparedwith straightening it,” he continued with a look of genuine admirationat Ned Blake.
“Both stunts are mostly trick stuff,” declared the latter, “but let’sget busy with this furniture, before somebody else gets sore about thesidewalk being blocked.”
Four pairs of hands made short work of the pile, and by the time the vanhad arrived from the freight house with its second load, the walk wascleared and the boys were helping Mrs. Somers arrange the articlesindoors.
“This is awfully kind of you boys!” exclaimed Dick’s mother gratefullywhen the job was finished. “I wish I could offer you something cold todrink after your hard, hot work, but I haven’t a bit of ice in thehouse.”
“Don’t you worry about us, Mrs. Somers,” laughed Ned. “We’ve justinvited Dick to go down to the corner and join us in an ice cream soda.It’s Fatty Beals’ treat.”
“Sure,” agreed Beals, “you win all right, Ned,” and then with a grinningglance at the perspiring countenance of Dave Wilbur he continued, “Youwin—but I’ll say it’s been worth the price.”
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