The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Where will we sleep?” he asked Winters.

  “Never on a sleeper?”

  Chase smiled and shook his head. Then Enoch began to elaborate on the beds that were let down from the ceiling of the car, and how difficult they were to get into and out of, especially the latter in case of fire, which broke out very frequently on Pullmans.

  “An’ if anybody yells ‘Fire!’ you skedaddle to the fire-escape,” concluded Enoch.

  “Fire-escape? On a train? Where is it?” queried Chase, wonderingly.

  “Don’t you know where the fire-escape is?” asked Enoch, in innocent surprise. His round owl eyes regarded Chase in a most kindly light. “Well, you ask the porter. He’ll take an’ show you.”

  Straightway Chase forgot it in the interest of other things. The train was now in smooth, rapid motion; the fields and groves and farms flashed by. He saw the conductor enter the car and stand by Cas. Cas looked up, and then went on calmly reading his paper.

  “Tickets,” said the conductor, sharply. Cas paid not the slightest attention to him.

  “Tickets,” repeated the conductor, getting red in the face. He tapped Cas not lightly on the shoulder.

  “Wha-at?” demanded Cas.

  “Your ticket! I don’t wish to be kept waiting. Produce your ticket.”

  “I don’t need a ticket to ride on this bum road.”

  The conductor looked apoplectic. He reached up to grasp the bell-cord. “Your ticket, or I’ll stop the train and put you off.”

  “Put me off! I’d like to have a tintype of your whole crew trying to put me off this train.”

  Mac came into the car, and divining how matters stood, hurried forward to produce his party ticket. The conductor, still in high dudgeon, passed on down the aisle.

  “Good-evenin’, Mr. Conductor, this’s fine weather for travellin’,” said Enoch, in his soft voice. The conductor glanced keenly at him, but evidently disarmed by the placid round face and kind round eyes, replied in gracious affirmation.

  Enoch whispered in Chase’s ear, “Wait till the crew finds Cas’s bulldog. Don’t miss thet!”

  * * * *

  Some thirty miles out of Findlay, the train stopped at a junction. A number of farmers were lounging ’round the small station. Enoch raised the window and called one of them.

  “Hey! What’s the name of this place?” he asked of the one who approached, an angular, stolid rustic in overalls and top boots.

  “Brookville, mister,” was the civil reply.

  “Brookville! Wal, I swan! You don’t say! Fellow named Perkins live here?”

  “Yep. Hiram Perkins.”

  “Hiram—Hiram Perkins, my ole friend.” Enoch’s round face beamed with an expression of benign gratitude, as if he would, were it possible, reward the fellow for his information. “Tell Hiram his ole friend Si Hayrick was passin’ through an’ sends regards. Wal, how’s things? Ploughin’ all done? You don’t say! An’ corn all planted? Do tell! An’ the ham-trees grown’ all right?”

  “Whet?” questioned the farmer, plainly mystified, leaning forward.

  “How’s yer ham-trees?”

  “Never heerd of sich.”

  “Wal, dog-gone me! Why, over in Indianer our ham-trees is sproutin’ powerful. An’ how about bee’s knees? Got any bee’s knees this spring?”

  The rustic stretched his long neck. Then as the train started off Enoch put his head out of the window and called: “Rubber-neck! Rubber-neck!”

  The stout lady in the opposite seat plainly sniffed her disgust at these proceedings on the part of a grown man. His innocent round stare in no wise deceived her. She gave him one withering glance, adjusted her eyeglass, and went on reading. Several times following that, she raised a hand to her face, as if to brush off a fly. But there was no fly. She became restless, laid aside her magazine, and rang for the porter.

  “Porter, close the window above. Cinders are flying in on me.”

  “Window’s closed, ma’am,” returned the porter.

  “Something is most annoying. I am being stung in the face by something sharp,” she declared testily.

  “Beggin’ yo pardon, ma’am, you are mistaken. There’s no flies or muskeeters in my car.”

  “Don’t I know when I’m stung?”

  The porter, tired and crushed, wearily went his way. The stout lady fumed and fussed, and fanned herself with a magazine. Chase knew what was going on and was at great pains to contain himself. Enoch’s solemn owl face was blank, and Havil, who was shooting shot and causing the lady’s distress, bent a pale, ministerial countenance over his paper. Chase watched him closely, saw him raise his head at intervals when he turned a leaf of his paper, but could see no movement of his lips. He became aware, presently, when Havil changed his position, that the attack was now to be directed upon the bald-headed man in the forward seat.

  That individual three times caressed the white spot on his head, and then looking in the air all about him, rang for the porter.

  “Porter, drive the flies out of the car.”

  “There ain’t no flies, sir.”

  “Don’t talk back to me.”

  “You might be from a hotter place than Georgia, sir, fer all I care,” replied the porter.

  “I am annoyed, annoyed. Something has been dropping on my head. Maybe it’s water. It comes dot, dot, like that.”

  “I expect you’re dotty, sir!” said the porter, moving off. “An’ you sure ain’t the only dotty passenger this trip.”

  The bald-headed man resumed his seat. Unfortunately, he was so tall that his head reached above the seat, affording a most alluring target for Havil. Chase, watching closely, saw the muscle along Havil’s jaw contract, and then he heard a tiny thump as the shot struck much harder than usual. The gentleman from Georgia jumped up, purple in the face, and trembled so that his newspaper rustled in his hand.

  “You hit me with something,” he shouted, looking at Thatcher, for the reason, no doubt, that no one could associate Havil’s sanctimonious expression with an untoward act.

  Thatcher looked up in great astonishment from the book in which he had been deeply interested. The byplay had passed unnoticed so far as he was concerned. Besides, he was ignorant of Havil’s genius in the shot-shooting line, and he was a quiet fellow, anyway, but quick in temper.

  “No, I didn’t,” he replied.

  The Southerner repeated his accusation.

  “No, I didn’t, but I will jolt you one,” returned Thatcher, with some heat.

  “Gentlemen, this is unseemly, especially in the presence of ladies,” interposed Havil, rising with the dignity of one whose calling he appeared to represent. “Most unseemly! My dear sir, calm yourself. No one is throwing things at you. It is only your imagination. I have heard of such cases, and fortunately my study of medicine enables me to explain. Sometimes on a heated car a person’s blood will rise to the brain and, probably because of the motion, beat so as to produce the effect of being lightly struck. This is most often the case in persons whose hirsute decoration is slightly worn off—er, in the middle, you know.”

  The gentleman from the South sputtered in impotent rage and stamped off toward the smoking-car.

  “Dinner served in the dining-car ahead,” called out a white-clad waiter; and this announcement hurried off the passengers, leaving the car to the players, who had dined before boarding the train.

  Time lagged then. The porter lit the lights, for it was growing dark; four of the boys went into the smoker to play cards, and the others quieted down. After a while the passengers returned from the diner, and with them the porter, who began making up the berths. Chase watched him with interest.

  “Let’s turn in,” said Enoch. “It’s a long ride and we’ll be tired enough. Some of us must double up, an’ I’m glad we’re skinny.”

  Enoch boosted Chase into the upper berth and swung himself up.

  “Take off your outer clothes,” said Enoch, “an’ be comfortable.”

  Chase found
it very snug up there, and he lay back listening to the smooth rush of the train as it sped on into the night. And before long he fell asleep. When he awakened the car was dark, though a faint gray light came through the window above him. He heard somebody walking softly down the aisle and wondered who it could be. The steps stopped.

  Chase heard a sound at his feet, and rose to see an arm withdrawn between the curtains. He promptly punched Enoch in the side. Enoch groaned and rolled over.

  “Some of the boys stealing our shoes,” whispered Chase.

  “It’s the porter wantin’ ’em to shine,” said Enoch sleepily. Then he raised his head and listened. “Yep, it’s the porter. I’m glad you woke me. Now, listen an’ you’ll hear somethin’ funny. Cas always smuggles his bull-pup into the car, an’ hides him from the porter, an’ then puts him to sleep at the foot of the berth. Thet porter will be after Cas’s shoes pretty soon.”

  At intervals of every few moments the porter’s soft slipshod footsteps could be plainly heard. He was making toward the upper end of the car.

  “It’s comin’ to him,” whispered Enoch, tensely.

  A loud, savage, gurgling growl burst out in the stillness, and then yells of terror. A terrific uproar followed. Bumpings and bangings of a heavy body in the aisle; sharp whacks and blows; steady, persistent growling; screams of fright from the awakened women; wild peals of delight from the ball players; above all, the yelling of the porter, these sounds united to make a din that would have put a good-sized menagerie to the blush.

  It ended with the unlucky porter making his escape, and Cas coaxing his determined protector back into the berth. By and by, silence once more reigned in the Pullman.

  Chase, having had his sleep, lay there as long as he could, and seeing it was broad daylight, decided he would crawl over Enoch and get out of the berth. By dint of some extraordinary exertions he got into his clothes and shoes. Climbing over Enoch was no difficult matter, though he did not accomplish it without awakening him. Then Chase parted the curtains, put his feet out, turned and grasped the curtain-pole, and balanced himself momentarily, preparatory to leaping down. The position was awkward for him, and as he loosened his kneehold he slipped and fell. One of his feet went down hard into a very large, soft substance that suddenly heaved like a swelling wave. As Chase rolled into the aisle screams rent the air.

  “Help! Help! Thieves! Murder! Murder! Murder!”

  He had fallen on the fat woman in the lower berth. Chase saw a string of heads bobbing out of the curtains above and below, and he heard a mighty clamour that made the former one shrink by comparison.

  The conductor, brakeman, and porter rushed in. Chase tried to explain, but what with the wails of the outraged lady and the howls of the players it was impossible to make himself heard. He went away and hid in the smoking-car till the train stopped near Stubenville, where they were to change for Wheeling. When the Findlay team had all stepped off the Pullman, leaving the porter enriched and smiling his surprise, it was plain to Chase that he had risen in the regard of his fellow-players.

  “Say, Chase, you’re coming on!”

  “You’ll do, old man!”

  “It was the best ever!”

  “The fire-escape, my lad, is not in a lady’s berth!”

  “Go wan! What you giving us? You kicked her in the stomach just by accident? Go wan!”

  Chase found it impossible to make the boys believe that he had fallen from the upper berth and had stepped on the poor lady unintentionally.

  * * * *

  The run along the Ohio to Wheeling was a beautiful one, which Chase thoroughly enjoyed. It was his first sight of a majestic river. During the ride Mac sat beside him and decanted on baseball in general and base-running in particular.

  “Chase, a lad as fast as you ought to make all these catchers crawl under the bench. Now, listen to me. To get away quick is the secret. It’s all in the start. Of course, depend some on coachin’, but use your head. Don’t take too big a lead off the base. Fool the pitcher an’ catcher. Make ’em think you ain’t goin’ down. Watch the pitcher an’ learn his motion. Then get your start just as he begins to move. Before he moves is the time, but it takes practice. Run like a deer, watch the baseman, an’ hit the dirt feet first an’ twist out of his way. But pick out the right time. Of course when you get the hit-an’-run sign you’ve got to go. Don’t take chances in a close game. I say, don’t as a rule. Sometimes a darin’ steal wins a game. But there’s time to take chances an’ times not to. Got thet?”

  “Mac, where’s the bat-sack?” asked one of the players, when they arrived at Wheeling.

  “Sure, I forgot it,” said Mac, blankly. “I’ll have to buy some bats.”

  “You ought to be in a bush-league,” said one.

  “How do you expect us to hit without our bats?” asked another.

  “Did you forget my sticks?” cried Thatcher, champion-hitter, utterly lost without his favorite bats.

  Player after player loomed up over the little manager and threatened him in a way that would have convinced outsiders he had actually stolen the bats. Mac threw up his hands and in wordless disgust climbed into the waiting bus.

  To Chase, riding to the hotel, having dinner, dressing for the game, and then a long bus-ride out to the island grounds were details of further enjoyment. Findlay was a great drawing-card, and the stands were crowded. Chase was surprised to hear players spoken of familiarly, as if they were members of the home team. “That’s Castorious, the great pitcher.” “There’s old man Hicks, but say! He can catch some.” “See, that’s good old Enoch, the coacher.” “Where’s the new shortstop? The papers say he’s a wonder.” Chase moved out of hearing then and began picking over the new bats Mac had bought. Enoch came up and looked them over, too.

  “Bum lot of sticks,” he commented. “Say, Chase, Wheeling is a swell town to play in. The fans here like a good game an’ don’t care who wins. The kids are bad, though. Look out for them. This’s a good ground to hit on. You ought to lambaste a couple today. If Finnegan pitches, you wait for his slow ball and hit it over the fence.”

  Findlay won the game 6 to 1. Castorious was invincible. Dude Thatcher hit one over the right-field fence, and Chase hit one over the left-field fence. The crowd cheered lustily after each of these long drives.

  When the players piled into the bus to ride back to the hotel, Chase saw them bundling up their heads in sweaters, and soon divined the cause. His enlightenment came in the shape of a swiftly flying pebble that struck his head and made him see stars. As the bus rolled out of the grounds Chase saw a long lane lined with small boys.

  “Whip up your horses, you yahoo!” yelled Cas.

  “We’re off!” shouted another. “Duck yer nuts! Low bridge! Down with yer noodles!”

  Then a shower of stones, mud, apples, and tin cans flew from all sides at the bus. The players fell on the floor and piled upon one another, in every way trying to hide their faces. Chase fell with them and squeezed down as well as he could to avoid the missiles. It was a veritable running of the gantlet and lasted till the plunging bus had passed the lines and distanced the pursuers. Then came the strenuous efforts imperative to untangle a dozen or more youths of supple bodies. Only the fortunate players who had been quick enough to throw themselves to the floor first had escaped bruises or splotched uniforms, and they were hardly better off because of the mashing they had received.

  “Gee! I got a lump on my head, all right,” said Chase.

  “Thet was sweet as ridin’ to slow music. Wait, wait till we strike Kenton.”

  * * * *

  That evening after supper, while Chase was sitting in front of the hotel, Cas whispered to him to look out for tricks. He spent the evening in and around the lobby and kept his eyes open. Nothing happened, and at ten o’clock he went upstairs to find his room. He unlocked the door and opened it, to be deluged by a flood of water from overhead. Next a bucket fell on him and almost knocked him down. Shivering and thoroughly drenched, he
fumbled on the bureau, finally found matches and struck a light. A bucket, two sticks, and a string lay on the floor in a great pool of water.

  “One of the t-tricks,” muttered Chase, with chattering teeth.

  He locked his door, closed and fastened his transom, plugged the keyhole and then felt reasonably safe. For a long time there were mysterious goings on in that part of the hotel. Soft steps and subdued voices, snickerings, with occasionally a loud, angry noise, attested to the activity of those who were playing the tricks.

  Chase finally got to sleep and had a good night’s rest. In the morning as he came out from breakfast, he found most of his team assembled as usual in the lobby.

  “Hev a good night, Chase?” asked several.

  “Fine. Little wet, though, early in the evening,” replied Chase, joining in the general laugh.

  “Watch for Brill. Don’t miss it,” said somebody.

  Brill was one of the pitchers, a good player, quiet in his demeanor, and rather an unknown quantity. He was a slow, easy-going Virginian. Presently he appeared on the stairs, came down, and with pale face and deliberate steps he approached the players.

  “Mawnin’, boys,” he said, in his Southern drawl. “I shore hev somethin’ to say to yo’ all. I don’t mind about the ice-water, an’ I don’t mind about the piller somebody hit me with, but I tell yo’ all right hyar, the fellar who put thet there leap-frog in mah bed is goin’ to git licked!”

  But Brill never found out who put the leap-frog in his bed. Wild horses could not have dragged the secret from his comrades.

  * * * *

  That evening, when the players were sitting in front of the hotel with their chairs tipped back, a slight, shabbily dressed woman with a dark shawl over her head approached and timidly asked for Mr. Castorious.