Part 4

It was half-past five, and quite dark, when he clambered over the high iron fence at the Michigan Central station, and started to climb the slippery State Street hill. The chimes, ringing out from the library tower in the crisp air, were clear and genuinely musical. For four hours he had skated over the flats above the pulp-mill. He noted mentally, now, that he would telephone Myrtle in the morning and have her come over for the afternoon. Skating alone is all very well for exercise, but not much in the way of pleasure, he considered. His skates, dangling from a strap over his shoulder, clinked, musically, as he picked his way with exceeding caution along the icy pavement. A moon was due in an hour and the street-lamps were unlighted. When he reached the top of the hill and saw ahead of him the street flooded with the golden glow of the store illuminations, he suddenly recalled the box of flash-light powder that he had, till now, forgotten. Myrtle had expressed a desire for a picture of her room to send "back home," and he had promised to take one. He would, he thought, secure a box at once and have done with it. He recalled having read in one of Heenan's _U. of M. Daily_ advertisements that a full line of photographers' supplies was carried. He noticed several cameras and plate-holders in the window as he entered the store. It was the supper hour and the single salesman was busy with a customer at the rear. She was examining the stock of tissue paper. Innumerable rolls lay before her on the table. Taking advantage of her indecision, the salesman served Norse, then returned to the girl who couldn't quite make up her mind whether she desired her lamp-shade to be pink or pale blue.

On a table in front of the fireplace, across the store, stood several tall piles of a new and exceedingly popular magazine. Norse lingered a moment to read the announcement poster. Thus engaged there fell upon his ear the sound of voices. Unconsciously listening he made out a word now and then of what seemed an earnest conversation carried on in undertone. And then he heard mentioned a name that caused him to start and cast a quick glance to the rear of the store where the salesman was still busy with the girl who could not make up her mind. The speakers whom he could not see were on the other side of the piles of magazines, in front of the fireplace. Norse craned forward, eagerly. He heard a throat cleared, and then these words, quite distinctly:

"At seven o'clock, eh? Ain't it funny he's not to be at his frat. house?"

"No; not under the circumstances," was the indefinite reply. "He doesn't suspect anything."

Norse grinned with sardonic delight.

"Don't you think it's a bloomin' long way to take him, Billy?"

"Oh, I don't know," was the reply. "It ain't over three miles."

Every muscle in Norse's body was tense, every nerve on edge.

"I know," he heard, "but it's so blasted cold. We don't want him to freeze on our hands."

"He won't. Morton lugged an oil stove out there yesterday. We can get some blankets at the livery."

Norse felt all hot, yet he shivered.

"Say."

He held his breath.

"What?"

He gripped the edge of the table.

"Do you think the place is really haunted?"

Could Norse, that instant, have given way to the rare delight that overcame him, he would have flung his skates through the great plate-glass window of the store in a very riot of joy. His eyes became all alight. He drew away noiselessly.

As he slipped out of the store he was observed neither by the interested clerk nor by the two stocky young men to whose conversation he had listened with such rapt attention, and who, that instant, stepped from behind the counter into the aisle. Before they reached the door he was speeding up State Street, past Tut's, past the Congregational Church, past the First Ward School, past Newberry Hall, thoughtless of the icy pavement, and, apparently, of the fact that a slip might mean the failure of the plan he outlined as he ran.

III

Kerwin's fraternity house stood on a prominent corner three blocks above the book-store. Norse rushed up the steps and inside without stopping to take breath. There was no one in the smoking-room; that is to say, no one but a high school pledgling, who sat in front of the fire, reading, and pledglings don't count.

"Is Kerwin here?" Norse gasped, leaning heavily against the door.

The youth at the fire turned, nonchalantly, and removing a cigarette from between his lips, as calmly as though panting freshmen with obviously loaded minds were but ordinary phenomena, replied:

"No. Saw him going out just as I came in. Said he wouldn't be back to dinner."

"Where did he go?"

"No idea." The pledgling flecked the ash from his cigarette.

"Well, I'm going up to his room a minute," Norse cried, turning back into the hallway.

"Told you he isn't there!" the infant called after him; but Norse did not seem to hear.

He knew the location of Kerwin's room from previous visits. Now he found it deserted. He perceived all the appointments with one sweep of his eyes--the signs, the tennis-net draped between the front windows and sagging with photographs, the huge Japanese umbrella dependent from the ceiling with many little favors and a multitude of dance cards dangling from the rim, the black-oak study-table, the swivel chair in front of it, the Comedy Club poster on the door, and the closet that projected rudely into the room.

A hand-bag lay on the floor in a corner. Norse did not pause to reflect, as, being the leading man in a stirring melodrama, he should have done. He acted without reflection, mechanically almost; but when he started back down the stairs, which he took in three leaps, he carried the hand-bag, stuffed, now, and fat.

"What you got there?" the pledgling called as the figure passed the smoking-room.

Norse did not waste breath replying.

The library clock was striking six as he issued into the street. He had the work of an hour to accomplish in twenty-five minutes. Some freshmen, under the circumstances, would have gritted their teeth and cursed. Norse only gritted his teeth, for he was of another sort. Up South University Avenue to Washtenaw he ran. There, on the northwest corner, was a huge stone, set, doubtless, to prevent delivery boys from running their wagons over the curbing. The wind had blown the snow clear of this stone and Norse sank upon it, half exhausted. He proceeded to fix his skates to the soles of his heavy shoes without waiting to regain his breath. He stood up to test the clamps. They gripped viciously. Ahead lay the road, gleaming in the pale light. Norse smiled. Through the handles of the satchel he passed the skate strap and thrust his head through the loop, that the bag might swing against his back. He dug the point of one skate into the gritty crust, struck out with long, even strokes, and began a swift ascent of the Scott Hill on the Middle Road to Ypsilanti.

IV

Fifteen years ago there were four distinct and widely separated haunted houses in the vicinity of Ann Arbor. One, in West Huron Street, was for years pointed out to naughty children as the home of the original bogey man. On an occasion,--so the story goes--three seniors resolved to spend a night in the ticklish place for the purpose of determining scientifically the causes of the strange knockings and human groans that previous tenants had complained of. The results of their investigations were never known. The seniors were never seen again!

That is the tale. The circulation of it tended to make their abiding-place secure to the spirits for many years. But at last an owner braver than those before him, and fortified by innumerable expressions of contempt in which a picturesque and virile profanity played a leading part, proceeded without more ado to raze the ancient structure to the ground.

His action gave rise to a second story. It became generally understood that the spirits, their own home gone, joined forces with the ghostly occupants of the second haunted house in nightly carryings-on. Then this house was rent asunder.

Thus it went until the time of this story when there remained but one authentic haunted house in town. Its location added to the mystery supposed to surround it. It capped a bleak hill on the left of the so-called "Middle Road" to Ypsilanti. Behind it loomed a dense wood and to the right and left stretched dreary fields, deserted save by the gophers and chipmunks whose superstition seemed not to warrant their leaving the premises after establishing or disestablishing the presence of ghostly occupants in the bleak house on the hill.

The place was consistently pointed out to strangers as the midnight carnival-ground of the devil and his imps, and it was further gravely averred that horses shied in passing after nightfall.

Such was the weird spot to which Norse, independent freshman, skated, one freezing night, on the crust of that famous winter, to save a friend from the hands of the enemy.

At the bottom of the hill he stopped to _reconnoitre_. The blue-black of the heavens seemed strangely less dense above the house. Now and then a weird shimmer passed back and forth across the ragged wall. No light shone anywhere. Several of the windows gaped black, like open mouths, waiting to devour. Others were boarded. Up the path from the gate the door careened on one rotting hinge. In the summer this path was a shallow of tangled weeds, but now the crust lay level across it.

Norse advanced stealthily to the open door. The silence was thick. He removed his skates and tiptoed within. A breath of wind whistled through the warped clap-boards and the old house sighed. Tumbling stairs led to the floor above. Stooping, and feeling the steps ahead of him, he ascended.

At the top of the flight he struck a match, shielding the flame with his curved palm. In the faint illumination he perceived the second story to consist of two connecting rooms of unequal size with the larger at the front. Against the rear wall of the back room stood an old bin, at one time probably used for storing grain. In the corner of the front room was an oil stove; near it, a can. Lighting another match Norse deposited the satchel and his skates in the bin and tested the cover. The hinges did not creak and seemed firm. He looked at his watch. It was half-past seven.

He went into the front room and crouching, peered through a crack between the boards of the window. As far as he could see in either direction the road was deserted. A pale moon was rising behind black clouds.

In all probability Kerwin would be accompanied by two--possibly three--kidnappers. He would be bound, of course, and, more than likely, gagged. His guard would observe the greatest care. He would not be misused.

Norse ceased procrastinating. He realized that in one hour the representative freshmen would be gathering around the banquet board, spread in Nickels Hall on State Street, away back in town. Undetermined as to the means of accomplishment he was none the less conscious of the work that lay before him. It rested with him--with him, alone--to produce the toastmaster at the banquet, if not at its beginning, in time, at least, to announce the first toast....

He heard a slight scraping noise outside and crouching peered through the crack again. That instant the thin moon mounted the bank of clouds and cast a ghostly light upon the scene.

A hack on runners had drawn up at the gate. The door was opened from within and two men alighted. One of them stood at the step while the other held a whispered conversation with the driver; then, with his companion, he helped a third man out of the carriage. The hack drew away at once, turned and started back in the direction of town.

The young man at the window could not distinguish the features of the two men supporting a third between them who seemed to be hobbled, for the brims of their hats were pulled low over their faces. Save for the slight crunch as the trio advanced toward the house there was no sound. Norse tiptoed back into the smaller room. He held out his arms and his fingers touched the corner of the grain-bin. He heard footsteps that advanced, then stopped, on the floor below. He heard the crack of a match as it was struck. He lifted the cover of the bin carefully, threw one leg over the edge, felt the floor under his foot, drew the other leg after him, and sank, lowering the lid as he did so, like a trap-door.

The bin was sufficiently large to permit of sitting with a certain degree of comfort. With his fingers he detected several cracks in the front wall. By twisting he could bring his eyes to the level of them. Groping he touched the hand-bag with his right hand and drew it nearer. The next moment he heard the stairs creak. He held his breath as the trio entered the room in front. One of them carried a dark lantern and in the pale illumination it afforded, Norse recognized Kerwin's captors and smiled.

Kerwin was blindfolded. The gag he wore was a tightly twisted handkerchief drawn taut through his mouth and tied behind. His hands were tied at his back. The taller of the kidnappers carried two horse blankets over his arm, one of which he flung upon the floor beside the oil stove. His companion set the lantern in the corner and stooping in front of the stove proceeded to light it. Kerwin stood in the middle of the floor. The man who had spread the blanket came around in front of him and placing a hand on either shoulder pushed him back. Bumping him into the wall he bore down upon him growling in a voice obviously assumed and grossly piratical: "Sit there!"

Kerwin slumped upon the blanket. The stove lighted, the kidnappers squatted in front of it and one of them produced a pipe and pouch of tobacco. Striking a match he said: "Well, how d'ye like the banquet?"

Kerwin shook his head.

"Let's take out that gag; he dassent yell," proposed the second outlaw.

"Aw right...."

They untied the handkerchief. Kerwin had worn it so long it was difficult at first for him to get his mouth back into its normal shape. For an instant his face resembled that of a gargoyle.

"Cold?" he was asked.

"A little," he replied. There was an utter absence of rancor in his tone.

The bandit nearest him drew the second blanket over his legs.

"Say, won't you fellows tie my hands in front of me.... I'm sittin' on 'em and they feel as though they were dead...."

"Sure we will, turn over."

He offered no resistance.

"You sure you ain't cold?... We don't want you to catch cold."

"No, I'm not cold," the captive replied.

Silence ensued which lasted some minutes.

Finally one of them ventured, glancing over his shoulder: "Well, we ain't seen any ghosts yet, have we, Billy?"

"Nope," was the dogged reply.

Billy extended his leg and kicked Kerwin on the ankle.

"Ever in a haunted house before?" he asked.

"Not that I remember," Kerwin answered.

"Guess you'd remember if you had been," suggested Billy. "Used to be one down in my town about six years ago. Fellow murdered there once, they said. Funniest things used to happen.... A hand would open the doors in front of you. You could see the tracks of a man's bare-feet in the dust when you went up-stairs...."

"Aw, shut up, Billy, cancha!" his companion muttered edging near him. "What's the use talkin' such stuff?"

"Why, I was just tellin' you," Billy replied, defensively. "I never took any stock in the stories, but one day, a fellow by the name of Thurber--Hank Thurber, regular dare-devil sort of chap--swore _he'd_ spend the night in that house or die in the attempt. Next morning he didn't show up. The town marshal went to find him. He found him all right. It was in one of the up-stairs' rooms, and there he sat in a busted chair, stone dead, with his fishy eyes staring at a hole in the wall. They got a bundle of old letters out of the hole. Seems it was a sort of secret cupboard in the first place, and had been plastered over. That wasn't all though; they found Thurber's dog jammed into the fireplace of a room down-stairs, with his neck broken...."

"Good Heavens! Billy! Billy! What was that!"

The story-teller caught himself quickly and he and his companion turned frightened eyes upon each other. In that moment's stillness they noted that the wind had freshened. Something creaked somewhere. Billy clutched his companion's leg.

"What was it?" His whisper rasped.

"Thought I heard something click...."

"Sure?"

"Sure's I'm sittin' here...."

"Where'd it seem to come from?"

"I dunno; thought it was--in there." He indicated the little room behind with a jerk of his head.

"Aw, 'twasn't anything; old rusty nail snapped, probably, in the wind." Billy swaggered with a monstrous assumption of bravery. There was more silence for a moment, then Billy went on:

"I was just tellin' you 'bout that haunted house down home...."

"Say, Billy, shut up, cancha? I don't care a _darn_ 'bout that haunted house, I'm...."

"Come off! You ain't really afraid of ghosts, are you?"

"Well, maybe I ain't, but...."

"What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"Never you mind, I----"

He broke off suddenly and his face went ashy pale.

"Did you see that?" he cried. "Did you see that! Like a blue flame!"

He got upon his feet unsteadily. His mouth was open; his eyes were staring.

"Why, what's the matter? You ain't drunk, are you? What did you see----?"

"_See! Look!_"

Billy wheeled like a flash. A light of dazzling brilliancy shone for an instant, and in the smaller room, through the doorway of which they gazed as though transfixed, floated a gossamer of unholy, blue smoke. Then, before the instant became an æon, they saw rise, as though from the very heart of the dazzle, the upper-half of a white, shrouded form. One arm waved sweepingly toward them. Before the æon died an unearthly screech rent the silence, followed by a scuffle and thug as both youths rushed down the stairs. They sped into the road and the deep shadows of the woods swallowed them.

V

Blindfolded, Kerwin had seen nothing, but the dazzle had pierced the covering of his eyes and he had felt the light, and he had _heard_. His head was like thistle-down borne on the wings of a zephyr. He attempted to move, to call out. A deadly nausea overcame him. He realized that he was fainting. Then, of a sudden, his melting senses took form again, as he heard a familiar voice cry:

"Kerwin, old chap!... By Jove! We'll fool 'em yet, if you hurry!"

And at that the handkerchief was torn from his eyes and he looked up blinking into the beaming countenance of Norse.

Norse did not wait to explain. He cut the twine binding his friend's hands and flung down the satchel within the circle of the lantern light.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, tersely, stooping to open the bag and noting Kerwin's steady gaze fixed upon him.

"_For Heaven's sake what have you got on!_"

"What ... got ..." And Norse burst out laughing.

"What have I got on?" he cried. "I've got on your dress-shirt---- Made me look more like a ghost." He whipped the garment off. "And now you get into it just as quick as you can!" he added.

For a brief moment a light of puzzlement lingered in Kerwin's eyes.

"Here's the collar and tie." Norse handed them to him. "And here's your dress-suit---- You see I overheard them talking it over---- I looked for you---- Then I came out here---- I'd a box of flash-light powder in my pocket---- That's all. I thought it was all up when they heard the satchel click. You see I'd opened it to get out your shirt. I had to put a good deal of trust in Providence!..."

"But Norsey...."

"Never mind talking! Hustle, man! Hustle!"

"I know, but...."

"There; there are your trousers.... Freeze if it wasn't for that stove, eh? Thoughtful of them, wasn't it? Here's your vest! What's the matter? Can't you button your collar? Scott, man, you've got to hustle! Touched her off just the right time, eh? Worked themselves all up talking about that other haunted.... Here's your coat! Say, you've got to hustle to make it; there's not over twenty minutes to spare!..."

"But, Norsey, it's no use. I can't get back to town in twenty minutes. Why, it will take two hours, walking over that crust...."

"You're not going to walk.--Gad! Here, let me tie that bow for you! Say, but you've got to hustle!..."

"Not going to walk! You don't mean to say you've got a carriage...."

"Hardly. Just time to get here myself."

"Well, I'd like to know, then, how...."

"_You're going to skate back to town, that's how--on my skates!_"

He rushed into the little room, and returning, held out his skates to Kerwin. Kerwin didn't seize them. He seized the youth's hand.

"Norsey," he muttered, with the faintest suggestion of a tremor in his voice, "you're the best old pal a chap ever had...."

"Oh, never mind the bouquets," Norse broke in. "Lemme see; you got all your clothes on? Those shoes are pretty bad for a swell function; but they'll be under the table. Yes, I guess you're all right. Take these skates and clamp 'em while I pack your other clothes in the satchel. Lucky you told me where you'd hid 'em.... Say, you've got to carry this bag back, Kerry.... I lugged it out."

"Of course, I'll carry it back; but Norsey"--Kerwin lowered his voice and glanced about him--"you don't suppose they're hanging around here somewhere, do you?"

Norse looked up from the packing. "Hanging around here!" he exclaimed. "Around _here_! Great Heavens, man! They're a million miles from here and runnin' yet if they're still alive and not scared to death. You ready?"

Kerwin slung the satchel over his shoulder. "Am I all right?" he asked.

Norse stepped back and regarded him curiously, a little smile playing around his mouth. Kerwin's face was very grimy. It looked almost black in the shadow above the white shirt-bosom, and there were three or four unmistakable smudges on that. Moreover it was a cold night for a man to skate three or four miles in evening clothes.

"My! You look funny!" Norse laughed. "But what's the difference?" he added. "Come on...."

Taking him by the arm he steadied him down the creaking stairs. "Now you can go it like the wind, right up to the door of Nickles," he said at the gate. "Are you ready?"

Kerwin dug the toe of his right skate into the crust and crouched like an animal about to spring.

"Go!"

For a moment his body was poised like a blot above the brow of the hill, then it disappeared.

Norse heard his name shouted. He ran forward and peered down.

"What's up?" he called.

"Nothing. I just wanted to say I'll suggest the toast 'The Kidnapping' and then you'll tell the whole tale. It'll make 'em look like a postage stamp...."

Norse laughed. "Why, I'm not going to your darn banquet," he said.

"Not going! The idea! You are, too, going."

"No, I'm not," Norse contended, "I've got something else to do...."

"What?"

"I've got to go over to Ypsilanti and tell Miss Green I can't take that picture of her room till next week. I'm as near there now as I am home...."

Before Kerwin could call to him again he turned on his heel and walked away.

Fifty yards along he glanced back over his shoulder. What he saw caused a sort of Mephistophelian grin to curve his lips.

Smoke, like a billowy veil in the moonlight, was rolling from the unboarded windows of the haunted house, and through the cracks he glimpsed the dance of flames.

"The stove must have been kicked over in the shuffle," he muttered, unctuously.

A moment he stood there watching the growth of the fire, then, resolutely turning his face to the east, he moved on down the icy road.

THE CHAMPIONS

I

"You can't do it, Nibs,--you can't do it--you may have the spurt speed, but you haven't got the wind."

"Rot--why, you don't know what you're talking about, Jimmy; I can beat him forty ways. _Look at those legs!_"

And the lank creature thrust them into view and patted them affectionately between the knee and the hip.