CHAPTER XXI
BORROWERS' LUCK
With something of an effort, Bunny wrenched his gaze from the back ofthe disappointing automobile and turned to Specs.
"No, not everybody," he said, striving hard to be cheerful. "There'sthe peddler, you know; he isn't busted any more--quite!"
"What peddler?" The farmer lifted an inquiring head.
Everybody squirmed uncomfortably. It was the code of the Black EaglePatrol not to talk about the good turns it did, because that soundedlike bragging. But the farmer was persistent. Bit by bit, with questionand guess and prompting, he pieced out the story: how the boys hadfound the peddler on the road, with his second-hand wagon that hadcome to grief; how he had confessed he had no money for the necessaryrepairs; how the boys, because they were Scouts and it was their dutyto do a good turn when they could, had given him their last cent andsped him on his way rejoicing. When the last scrap of confession hadbeen dragged from them, the farmer held out his hand to Bunny.
"So you are the patrol leader, are you, Payton? Well, I am glad to knowa boy like you. Jenkins is my name; Alfred Jenkins."
Gravely, Bunny introduced the other Scouts. "And this is youngPrissler," he concluded. "He is training to be a tenderfoot, and justas soon as there is a vacancy in the patrol he will be taken in."
"So?" Mr. Jenkins nodded understandingly. He scratched at his beard. "Ireckon," he added, "you get a lot of satisfaction doing good turns likethat. By ginger, I'd like to have that feeling myself. If the old 'buswould only run--"
"What's the matter with it?" demanded the practical Specs.
Mr. Jenkins spread his hands helplessly. "I wish I knew. But I'm nomechanic. She's just dead; dead on her feet, you might say. Won't go.Won't even start."
"Gas line clogged, maybe."
"Loose connections."
"Carburetor float stuck."
"Magneto points burned off."
The farmer's eyes kindled before this volley of suggestions. "Say," heexclaimed, "do you boys know anything about a car?"
"A little," Bunny nodded. "Specs here is trying for a merit badge forautomobiling, and we all got sort of interested in his studying. Youhave to know a good deal about a car to get that badge."
"Well, say!" Mr. Jenkins was as eager as a youngster. "Say, let'strundle her out here and look her over. You might find out what'swrong."
Because Specs had honestly devoted a great deal of his spare time tohis ambition of qualifying for a merit badge in automobiling, Bunny puthim in charge. It was no trick at all, of course, to release the brakeand roll the car out of the homemade garage. Once in the open, Specshopped into the front seat.
"No, that self-starter hasn't worked for a long time," Mr. Jenkinsconfessed, as the Scout pressed a tentative foot against it and cockedhis ear expectantly for the hum of the motor. "Batteries dead, I'spose. You'll have to crank her."
"All right, Bi!" called Specs; "you're the boy to wind her up."
Bi grimaced. He might need his good right arm for pitching thatafternoon. But at a nod from Bunny, he sprang readily enough to thecrank. Unless the car started, it looked like there wouldn't be anybaseball game to play.
Balancing the crank once or twice against the compression, he lifted itsuddenly and spun it with all his might. But no explosion signaled thesuccess of his effort. Bi straightened up to catch his breath and wipeoff the perspiration that was trickling down his face.
"Try her again," Specs ordered. "I'll work the spark when you getgoing."
Bi bent to his task for the second time. Round and round whirled thecrank. But, as before, the motor refused to "catch."
"Prime her," suggested Bonfire.
Once more Bi cranked till he was ready to drop. In the meantime,Bonfire began prowling about and muttering to himself: "Tank full. Gasflows all right. Carburetor float not stuck. Must be the ignition."He tested with a long-bladed screwdriver. "Yep; no spark. Sureyou've--Hello! Why, you muckle-headed McGrew, do you expect to get amerit badge for trying to start a motor without throwing on the switch?"
"What!" Bi threw himself on the ground and kicked feebly. "Do you meanto say I've been cranking my head off when you didn't even throw overthe switch? Help!"
Specs grinned sheepishly. "I thought you needed the exercise," he said."All right; she'll start now."
But she wouldn't. Bi cranked till he was red in the face, without thereward of even one feeble puff from the exhaust. With a last spin ofthe handle, for good measure, he stepped back disgustedly.
"If anybody else thinks he can twist her tail any better than that," heannounced, "let him step up and try. I'm through; postilutely through."
By this time, even Specs was ready to admit that the motor was"busted." "It's the ignition," he explained. "As soon as we find outwhy she doesn't get a spark, we can fix her in a jiffy."
But discovering the nub of the trouble proved no easy job. The sparkplugs were taken out; all connections were examined; each wire wastraced to coil and magneto; the magneto itself came in for criticalinspection. But no break or short circuit revealed itself. Already, thefirst glowing enthusiasm of the boys was blowing cold and dead.
Bonfire snapped the switch backward and forward. "Feels loose," hesaid. "Let me have that screwdriver, Specs." With deft hands, heremoved the face of the switch-box. "Here's the little nigger in thewoodpile, fellows!" he called exultingly. "See, those loose nuts allowthe contact plate to drop down. The circuit is not completed even whenyou throw on the switch. No wonder she won't run!" He twirled the nutswith his fingers and clamped them tight with a wrench. "Now try her."
"Not me!" jeered Bi. "I've cranked her from here to Belden already. Letsomebody else crank her home again." But even while he talked, he waswalking toward the front of the car. Roundy reached for the swinginghandle, only to be pushed aside by Bi. With scarcely an effort, thestrongest Scout in the patrol turned her over again--and the motorsprang into life with a roar.
"Throttle her down!" Bi shouted to Specs. "Wake up there! Don't lether race! If ever you win a merit badge for automobiling, I'll eat itfor breakfast. Isn't he rotten, Mr. Jenkins?"
The farmer smiled. "Oh, he'll pass, I reckon. Now, let me see. Five ofyou on the back seat, two on the collapsible chairs--that's seven--andtwo of you on the front seat here with me. Wait just a minute till Iget my coat and tell my wife I'm going, and we'll start."
"With any kind of luck at all," Bunny promised happily, looking athis watch, "we should be at the Belden ball park a little after oneo'clock. It's 11:42 right now, and we have about thirty-seven miles tocover."
Specs held up his hand. "I've got my fingers crossed," he said. "Don'tforget all the things that have happened to us so far to-day. Touchwood when you say that, Bunny."
But luck seemed at last to be roosting with the Black Eagle Patrol.Once out upon the main highway, the motor settled down to a contentedpurr, with never a miss or hint of trouble, and the big car rolledplacidly toward Belden, piling the miles behind it quite as if it wereshod with seven-league boots instead of rubber tires. Mr. Jenkinsadmitted that he was "no great shucks at driving", but he more thanmade up for any lack of technical skill by his careful and common-sensehandling of wheel and accelerator. An hour before, Belden had seemed tothe Scouts some far spot on the rim of the world; now, as everybodyfelt, it lay just over the hill.
There is no denying that the boys enjoyed the ride. More than once,they had watched enviously as Royal Sheffield dashed into Lakevillewith his trim roadster; more than once, too, if the truth be known,they had lingered hungrily as he backed it out of Grady's barn afterschool and made ready for the homeward trip. But Sheffield lived inCharlesboro, and his motoring was done largely in the roads about thatvillage. True, the Sefton automobile never had a vacant seat when anyboy could be found to fit it; but Mr. Sefton used the car for business,and it was also frequently out of town. This was different, too; thiswas a cross-country jaunt, over unfamiliar roads, mile upon mile, withevery turn and rise revealing new wonders.
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"Like it?" asked Mr. Jenkins, without turning his head.
There was no adequate way of expressing their gratitude and pleasure,but the farmer seemed well content with Specs' explosive, "You bet wedo!" It was curious about Mr. Jenkins. He owned the car, and he musthave ridden thousands of miles in it; yet he seemed to be getting justas much fun out of this trip as any of his guests. "Haven't felt soyoung in thirty years," he said once, with a chuckle, as he swung wideto avoid a bump.
On and on sang the car: uphill, biting on second speed; across abit of tableland, feeling its oats on high; down a long incline,pulsing with such eagerness that it had to be restrained; through woodroads, bowered with cool, overhanging trees; into the bright sunshineagain; past farmhouses, with barking dogs and waving people; overlong stretches of concrete, that gave back never a jounce or jolt;through sleepy little villages, waking and nodding a single welcome andgood-by in one; out into the country once more, between green fieldsof sprouting corn and wheat; and on and on, motor humming drowsilyand rubber-tired wheels crisping their chorus. It was good just to beoutdoors on such a day in June.
They climbed a long, winding hill. At the top was a little cottage,bordered by a trim lawn, which was splashed here and there with gayflower plots. In the background loomed a barn, more than twice the sizeof the house, with a silo at one side and a windmill just beyond. Mr.Jenkins squinted meditatively from the spout of his radiator, steaminga bit, to the windmill.
"Reckon we'd better stop for water," he announced.
A gray, bent wisp of a man answered his knock on the door and listenedgravely to his request for the loan of a pail. He seemed to be looking,not at Mr. Jenkins, but through him, as if he were only vaguely awareof the other's presence. But he said, "Oh, yes," and brought the pail.
It took only a minute to fill the radiator. Mr. Jenkins began to screwon the cap, while the boys piled back into the car. Bunny picked upthe pail and carried it to the house. As he lifted his hand to knock onthe door, he heard something that made him hesitate.
Inside the house, a woman was crying softly, and a man's voice wassoothing, over and over, "Now, Ma! Now, Ma! Don't take on so! It can'tbe helped! Now, Ma! Now, Ma!"
After a moment of indecision, Bunny rapped. The sobbing stopped.Footsteps approached the door, and presently it was opened, a littlehesitatingly, by the man from whom Mr. Jenkins had borrowed the pail.Bunny extended it to him, with a word of thanks. He had meant to turnaway at once, but something seemed to hold him.
"Is--is anything wrong there?" he asked, jerking his thumb toward thedarkened room within.
"It's just Ma," the little man told him. He spoke meekly, almostapologetically, but his high-pitched voice carried clearly to the otherboys. "She's all broke up over not seein' John."
"John?" Bunny put a question in the word; then, when it brought noreply, he added, at a hazard, "He's your son, sir?"
"Yes, John's our boy. He's a good boy, John is. But he's been away along time, and now--"
"Is he coming home?"
The man raised his hand as if to ward off a blow. "No," he said in awavering voice. "He's going away, mebbe for years; going away to China.He's an engineer, John is; works for a big construction company inNew York City. This spring he wrote that he would come home to visitMa and me. So we tidied up all about for him." The little man waved anexpressive hand, and Bunny understood, all at once, why the grass wasso neatly cropped, and why the flowers studded the lawn, and why thepathway to the door was made of clean, white pebbles. It had all beendone for their son. "But to-day we got a telegram--delayed, they saidover the 'phone. He can't come. He's ordered to China, right away, tohelp build a new railroad. His boat leaves San Francisco on the sixth,and he can't even stop on his way across the country. But he said--"
"Yes?" Bunny encouraged.
"He wired to meet his train at Middletown on the third--that's to-day.It stops there twenty minutes. But the telegram just came, and wehaven't any way of getting there. That's why Ma is all broke up. Shewon't see him for years more, mebbe."
"Oh!" said Bunny. A queer, numb feeling seemed to be gripping him. "Howfar is Middletown?"
"Eighteen mile; nearer nineteen, mebbe."
"And Belden?" Perhaps Mr. Jenkins could come back.
"Nine mile and a half."
"When does that train get to Middletown?"
"Goin' on two o'clock, I think."
"Oh!" said Bunny again. He looked at his watch: 12:51. No, even if Mr.Jenkins were willing, it would be out of the question for him to comeback to Laurel in time to take the old couple to Middletown. There wasjust one way out of the difficulty.
The man's wistful eyes were staring again, looking straight throughhim, just as they had been when he answered Mr. Jenkins' knock. Bunnyunderstood now what they were straining to see. It was another boy,this little man's boy, bound for a foreign country. And inside thehouse, striving bravely to stifle her sobs, was the mother.
Bunny made up his own mind quickly enough. He knew what he wanted todo. But there were the other fellows to consider. They wouldn't agreeto his plan; no, not in a thousand years. They had a right to--
Behind him, he caught the murmur of a low question and answer. Then avoice called, "Oh, Bunny!"
"Yes?" He turned to the car. Save for Mr. Jenkins, it was quite empty.All the boys had climbed to the ground.
"Mr. Jenkins will take them to Middletown." It was Bi speaking. "Hesays he will be glad to do it. Tell her to hurry."
Bunny's heart gave a glad leap. It wasn't wholly because of thesacrifice they were all making, although that counted, of course, butbecause of the way in which they had decided the matter, unanimouslyand without a single objection. He wondered if anywhere else in theworld there were fellows like that!
"All right," he said, fighting hard to keep the catch out of his voice.Then to the man in the doorway: "Mr. Jenkins will take you and yourwife to Middletown, sir, so you can see your boy. Oh, no, we'll be gladto stretch our legs and walk a bit. That's nothing. Good-by, sir."
"Good-by," said the little man. His eyes were shining now. He held outa trembling hand. "Good-by and God bless you!"
And with this benediction ringing in their ears, the nine boys waved toMr. Jenkins, who was fussing with something on the dash, and began thehike down the long hill toward the wooded valley at the bottom.
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