CHAPTER V
THE DESERTED HUT
Bert's first thought, when he opened his eyes the next morning, was ofthe weather. This was destined to be the chief object of anxiety allthrough the trip. As long as it kept reasonably dry and clear, one bigelement of danger and delay could be left out of his calculations. Thelowering of the sky meant the lowering of his hopes.
As he rushed to the window and drew aside the curtain, he was relievedto see that the sun was rising. To be sure, there was a slight hazearound it that might portend rain later on. But for the present, atleast, the roads were good. If rain were on the way, all the more reasonwhy he should do some tall "hustling" while the going was fair.
His sleep had been restful and refreshing, and he hummed gaily tohimself, as he rushed through his ablutions. He stowed away a hasty butample breakfast, and then after a hearty farewell to his chums, hurriedaround to the garage where his machine was stored.
He was surprised to find a large gathering of motorcycle enthusiasts onhand. The news had spread abroad that one of the contestants in thegreat race had reached the city the night before, and delegations fromthe many clubs had gathered to give him a send-off and accompany him fora few miles out of town. Bert greeted them warmly, and, after assuringhimself that the "Blue Streak" was in first-class condition, leaped intothe saddle and started out at the head of the procession.
First one and then the other would make the pace, sprinting for a shortdistance for all that he was worth, and then dropping back into theruck. But Bert "saw their bluff and went them one better," and no matterhow hard they "hit it up," he was always within striking distance oftheir rear wheel. One by one they gave it up, and by the time thatthirty miles had been covered, Bert found himself riding on alone. Hehad welcomed the visitors, because of the goodwill that they had shownand the pace that they had made. Their company made the miles less longand furnished him a mental tonic. Yet he was glad, when, with nothing todistract him, he could bend all his energies to the task before him andput the "Blue Streak" to the top of its speed.
For he wanted to make this day a record breaker in the matter of milescovered. The roads were superb, and it behooved him to make the most ofthem, with a view to having some surplus of time on hand, when hestruck the slower stretches further on.
There was plenty about him to enlist his thoughts, had he allowed themto wander. He was on historic ground, and every foot was rich inRevolutionary memories. Here had Washington with his ragged andbarefooted and hungry armies defied all the power of Great Britain.Mifflin and Greene and Lafayette and "Light Horse Harry Lee" had heredone deeds of daring that electrified the world. And, before night, heexpected to be on the scene of that greater and sadder struggle, whereGrant and Lee had flung their giant armies at each other and drenchedthe soil with fraternal blood. But, although Bert was an ardent patriot,and, at any other time, nothing would have more strongly appealed tohim, now he was utterly engrossed in the colossal task set before him.This, in fact, was the one great quality that had won him so manyvictories in the athletic world--the ability of shutting out everything else for the time being, and concentrating all his strength andattention on the task that lay at hand.
Now, he was fairly flying. Mile after mile swept away behind him, as hegave the "Blue Streak" its head and let it show him what it could do.The "speed lust" ran riot in his veins. As he neared the differentvillages, on his route, he was forced to slacken speed to some extent.It would never do to be arrested for breaking the speed limit. Heforesaw all the heart-breaking delay, the officious constable, thedilatory country justice of the peace, the crowd of gaping rustics, thepossible jail detention. He was amply supplied with money to meet anypossible fine--but imprisonment was another matter, that might befraught with the direst consequences. So, although he inwardly raged atthe necessity, he curbed his natural impulse, and slowed up at crossingsand country towns. But when again he found himself out in the open, heamply reimbursed himself for "crawling," as he called it, through thetowns. It is doubtful whether the startled townspeople would have calledit "crawling." But everything in this world is comparative, and wherethey would have thought themselves flying at twenty miles an hour, Bertfelt that he was creeping at forty.
Few faster things had ever flashed like a streak of light along thecountry roads. Horses, grazing in the adjoining pastures, after one wildglance, tossed up their heels and fled madly across the fields. Even thecows, placidly chewing their cud, were roused from their bovine calm andstruggled to their feet. Chickens, squawking wildly, ran across theroad, and although Bert tried his best to avoid them, more than one paidthe penalty for miscalculating his speed. Dogs started fiercely inpursuit, and then disgustedly gave it up and crept away with their tailbetween their legs. And all the time the speedometer kept creepingrapidly up and up, until, within two hours after the start, he had wipeda hundred miles off his schedule.
Just once he had stopped in his mad flight, to get a glass of milk at afarmhouse. He was in the Pennsylvania Dutch district, the richest andthriftiest farming country in the world. All about him were opulentacres and waving fields of corn and big red barns crammed to bursting.They were worthy, sober people, rather prone to regard every newinvention as a snare of the Devil, and the farmer's wife was inclinedto look askance at the panting machine that Bert bestrode. But hisfriendly, genial face thawed her prejudice and reserve, and shesmilingly refused the money that he had offered for the rich creamy milkshe brought from one of the shining pans in her dairy.
By ten o'clock, he had passed through Baltimore, and, before noon, hewas riding over the splendid roads of the nation's capitol. Here,despite the temptation to spend an hour or two, he only paused longenough to take a hearty meal and check his time. He thrust aside thewell-meant invitations that were pressed upon him at the club, and bytwo o'clock had left Washington behind him and was riding like a fiendtoward West Virginia. He wanted if possible to reach Charleston beforenight closed in. If he could do this, he would be very well content todismount and call it a day's work.
But now old Nature took a hand. All through the morning, the haze hadbeen thickening, and now black clouds, big with threats of rain, wereclimbing up the sky. The wind, too, was rising and came soughing alongin fitful gusts. Every moment now was precious, and Bert bent low, as hecoaxed his machine to do its utmost.
And it responded beautifully. Like Sheridan's horse on the road toWinchester, it seemed to feel the mood of its rider. It was working likea charm. Mile after mile sped away beneath the wheels that passed lightas a ghost over the broad path beneath. Even when it had to tacklehills, it never hesitated or faltered, but went up one slope almost asfast as it went down another.
And the hills were growing more frequent. Up to this time the roads hadbeen almost as level as a floor. But now, Bert was approaching thefoothills of the Blue Ridge, and not until he struck the lowlands ofArkansas, would he be out of the shadow of the mountains, which, whilethey added immensely to the sublimity of the scenery, were no friends toany one trying to make a record for speed.
Still, this did not worry Bert. He expected to get the "lean" as well asthe "fat." The North American continent had not been framed to meet hisconvenience, and he had to take it as it came. All that especiallybothered him was that threatening sky and those frowning clouds thatsteadily grew blacker.
His eyes and thoughts had been so steadily fixed upon the heavens, thathe had scarcely realized the change in the surrounding country. But nowhe woke up to the fact that his environment was entirely different fromthat of the morning. Then he had been in a rich farming country, the"garden of the Lord;" now he was in the barren coal regions of WestVirginia. Beautiful mansions had given place to tiny cabins; prosperoustowns to mountain hamlets. The farms were stony and poorly cultivated.Great coal breakers stood out against the landscape like gauntskeletons. The automobiles that had crowded the eastern roads were hereconspicuous by their absence. The faces of those he passed on the roadwere pinched and careworn. He was seeing li
fe on one of its threadbarelevels.
But his musings on the inequalities of life were rudely interrupted by adrop of rain that splashed on his face. It was coming, then. But perhapsit would only prove a shower. That would not deter him. In fact he wouldwelcome it, as it would serve to lay the dust. But if it developed intoa steady downpour, he would have to seek shelter. It would only befoolhardy to plough through the mud with his tires skidding andthreatening an ugly fall that might mean a broken leg or arm.
Faster and faster the drops came down, and faster and faster the "BlueStreak" scorched along the road, as though to grasp every possibleadvantage, before the elements had their way. Gradually the roads losttheir white, dusty appearance and grew yellow in the waning light. Bertcould feel a perceptible slowing up as the mud began to grip the wheel.Still he kept on, holding like a miser to every precious mile that meantso much to him.
Soon, however, he realized that "the game was up." The rain was comingdown now in torrents, and he was wet to the skin. And with the rain camedarkness so thick as "almost to be felt." Then a flash of lightning rentthe sky, and a terrific crash of thunder warned him that the storm wason in earnest.
He looked about him for some place of shelter. But there was nothing insight, not even one of the little cabins, of whose hospitality he wouldso gladly have availed himself. The lightning came so fast now that thesky was aflame with it, and the thunder was continuous and deafening. Hedid not dare to seek shelter under the trees, and, in the open, thesteel and iron of his motorcycle might easily attract a lightningstroke.
As he looked about him in perplexity, a peculiarly blinding flash showedhim a little shack at the top of the hill he had been climbing when thestorm had broken. It was only a few rods ahead of him, and, with afeeling of immense relief and thankfulness, he made for it. There was nolight coming from it, and he did not know whether it was inhabited orabandoned. But, in either case, it was shelter from the fierceness ofthe storm, and that was enough.
Leading the wheel from which he had dismounted, he climbed theintervening space and rapped at the door. He waited an instant and thenknocked again. Still there was no answer and after pausing a moment, hepushed open the door, that had no latch and yielded to his touch, as hestepped inside.
At first, coming from the outer air, he could only make out the outlinesof the single room, of which the cabin seemed to consist. He called out,but there was no response. Then he rummaged in his tool box, and got outa bit of candle that he had provided for an emergency. From a waterproofpouch in his khaki suit, he produced a match and lighted the candle.Then, as the flickering light grew into a steady flame, he was able totake stock of his surroundings.
As he had surmised on his entrance, there was only a single room. Thefloor was of dirt, and the shack had been simply slung together in therudest kind of a way. There was a small table of unplaned boards and astool, from which one of the three legs was missing. A bunk in thecorner and a tattered blanket completed the entire outfit of thetemporary shelter in which Bert had so unexpectedly found himself.
It might have been a cabin formerly dwelt in by one of the "poor whites"of the mountains, or possibly a hunter's shack that served at intervalsfor a temporary camp. At all events, it was shelter, and, in his presentwet and desperate condition, Bert was not inclined to "look a gift horsein the mouth."
"It isn't exactly the Waldorf-Astoria," he thought to himself, as hebrought his motorcycle in out of the pounding rain, "but it surely looksmighty good to me just now."
There was a rude fireplace at one side and some wood and kindling leftby the previous occupant, and it was only a few moments before a cheeryblaze gave an air of comfort to the small interior. After the fire waswell started, Bert took his wet garments one by one and dried thembefore the fire. In a little while he was snug and dry, and inclinedto look philosophically on the day that had had such an unlooked forending. He even chuckled, as he looked at the speedometer and found thatit registered over two hundred and fifty miles. He at least was nearlyup to his schedule, in spite of the rain, and to-morrow was "a new day."
"It might easily have been worse," he thought. "Suppose it had rainedthat way this morning, instead of holding off as long as it did. I'vecleared the Eastern States, at any rate, and am at last 'down South.'"
As a precaution, when he stopped at Washington, he had secured a fewsandwiches and a can of sardines. These he put out on the rough table,and, as hunger is always "the best sauce," he enjoyed it hugely. Therewasn't a crumb left, when at last he leaned back contentedly andstretched his legs before the fire.
"Like Robinson Crusoe, I'm master of all I survey," he mused. "Not thatmy kingdom is a very extensive one," as he looked about the little room,that he could have covered with one jump.
The rain still kept on with unabated fury, but the harder it poured, themore cozy the shack seemed by contrast.
"Guess you and I will have to bunk it out together, old chap," he said,addressing his faithful wheel. "Well, I might easily find myself inworse company. You're a good old pal, if there ever was one."
He took from his kit some oiled rags and together with some old gunnysacking that he found in a corner, started to clean the machine. Themud with which it was caked made this a work of time, as well as a"labor of love," and two hours wore away before he had concluded. But itwas a thorough job, and, by the time he was through, the "Blue Streak"was as bright and shining as when it faced the starter at noon on theday before.
While he was at work, Bert at times seemed to hear something thatsounded like the roar and dash of waves. But he dismissed this asabsurd. It was probably the splashing of the water, as it ran down thegullies at the side of the road. He was far above the level of lake orpond, and there was nothing on his map to indicate the presence of anyconsiderable body of water in that locality. Once he went to the door, alittle uneasily. But in the pitch darkness, all he could see was thelights of a little town, far down the valley. He told himself that hewas dreaming, and, after promising himself an early start on thefollowing morning, he stretched himself out on the little bunk in thecorner, and in a few minutes had fallen into a deep and refreshingsleep.
Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer Page 5
