The figure was that of a young man, his raiment torn and disordered and utterly drenched. He wore a plaid cap, which being pulled down over his ears by reason of the wind, gave him an appearance of toughness which his first words belied.

"You needn't be afraid," he said.

"I'm not afraid," said Hervey. "Who are you?"

"Did you hear some one scream?" the stranger asked.

"Scream? No. It was the wind, I guess. Are you lost, or what?"

"I want to get out of here, that's all," the young man said. "This place is full of children screaming. Did you ever kill anybody?"

"No," said Hervey, somewhat agitated.

The stranger placed a trembling hand on Hervey's shoulder. "Do you know a person can scream after he's dead?" he said.

"I don't know," said Hervey, somewhat alarmed and not knowing what to say. "Anyway, I have to hurry; it's up to me to save some people's lives. There's a bridge washed away along the road."

He did not wait longer to talk with this singular stranger, but thoughts of the encounter lingered in his mind, particularly the young fellow's speech about dead people and children screaming. As he hurried on, Hervey concluded that the stranger was demented and had probably wandered away from some village in the neighborhood. He had reason later to recall this encounter, but he soon forgot it in the more urgent matter of reaching the road.

He had now about half a mile of level country to traverse, consisting of fields separated by stone walls. The land was soggy, and here and there in the lower places were areas of water. These he would not take the time to go around, but plunged through them, often going knee deep into the marshy bottom. It was sometimes with difficulty that he was able to extricate his leg from these soggy entanglements.

But he no longer needed the uncertain outline of that black ma.s.s amid the surrounding blackness to guide him, for now the cheerful lights of an isolated house upon the road shone in the distance. There was the road, sure enough, though he could not see it.

"That's what Slady calls deduction," he panted, as he trudged on, running when he could, and dragging his heavy, mud-bedraggled feet out of the mire every dozen steps or so. Over a stone wall he went and scrambled to his feet and hastened on.

The lights in the house cheered and guided him and he made straight for this indubitable beacon. "Mountains are all--all right," he panted, "but kerosene lamps--for--for--mine. I hope that--bunch--doesn't go to--bed."

His heart was pounding and he had a cruel st.i.tch in his side from running, which pained him excruciatingly when he ran fast. He tried scout pace but it didn't work; he was not much of a hand for that kind of thing.

"It's--it's--all--right when--you're running through--the--handbook,"

he said, "but--but...."

Over another stone wall he went, tearing a great gash in his trousers, exposing the limb to rain and wind. The ground was better for a s.p.a.ce and he ran desperately. Every breath he drew pained him, now and again he staggered slightly, but he kept his feet and plunged frantically on.

Then one of the lights in the house went out. Then another. There was only one now. "That's--that's--what--it means for--for--people to--to go to--to bed early," he panted with difficulty. "I--I always--said----" He had not the breath to finish, but it is undoubtedly true that he had always been a staunch advocate of remaining up all night.

He fixed his eyes upon the one remaining light and ran with utter desperation. His breathing was spasmodic, he reeled, pulled himself together by sheer will, and stumbled on. On the next stone wall he made a momentary concession to his exhaustion and paused just a moment, holding his aching side.

Then he was off again, running like mad. The single little light seemed twinkling and hazy and he brushed his streaming face with his sleeve so that he might see it the more clearly. But it looked dull, more like a little patch of brightness than a shining light. Either it was failing, or he was.

He had to hold his stinging side and gulp for every breath he drew, but he ran with all his might and main. He was too spent and dizzy to keep his direction without that distant light, and he knew it. He was not Tom Slade to be sure of himself in complete darkness. He was giddy--on the verge of collapse. The bee-line of his course loosened and became erratic. But if his legs were weakening his will was strong, and he staggered, reeled, ran.

On, on, on, he sped, falling forward now, rather than running, but keeping his feet by the sheer power of his will. His heart seemed up in his mouth and choking him. With one hand he grasped the flying shred of his torn trousers and tried to wipe the blood from the cut in his leg.

Thus for just a second his progress was impeded.

That was the last straw. The trifling movement lost him his balance, his exhausted and convulsed body went round like a top and he lay breathing in little jerks on the swampy ground.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. In another five seconds he would rise. He raised himself on one trembling arm and looked about. He brushed his soaking hair back from his eyes and looked again.

"Where--what--where--is--it--anyway?" he panted. He did not know which direction was north or south or east or west. He only knew that a dagger was sticking in his side and that he could not rise....

Yes, he could. He pulled himself together, rested a moment on his knees, staggered to his feet and looked around.

"Where--where--th--the d.i.c.kens--is north?"

He turned and looked around. He looked around the other way. Nothing but desolation and darkness. He thought of what Tom had told him and, closing his eyes, opened them suddenly. The mountain must have been too near to show in outline now; it had probably melted into the general landscape. There was just an even, solid blackness all about him. The wind moaned, and somewhere, high and far off, he heard the screech of an eagle. But at least the rain did not a.s.sail him as it had done. This, however, was small comfort. He had lost, _failed_, and he knew it.

In pitiable despair, in the anguish of defeat, he looked about him again in every direction, as if to beseech the angry night to give him back his one little beacon, and let him only save those people if he died for it.

But there was no light anywhere. It had gone out.

CHAPTER VIII

ALMOST

Well, he would not go back. They should find him right there, his body marking the very last foot he had been able to go. He would die as those brother scouts of his would have to die. He would not go back.

That good rule of the scouts to stop and think was not in Hervey's line.

But he would do the next best thing--a thing very characteristic of Hervey Willetts. He would take a chance and start running. Yes, that would be better. There would be just one chance in four of his going in the right direction. But he had taken bigger chances than that before.

Anyway, the rain was ceasing. And he soon overcame the sentimental notion of just lying there.

The momentary rest had restored some measure of his strength. The aching in his side was not so acute. The land was not so muddy where he was and he took off his jacket and washed some of the heavy mud from his shoes.

Then he started off pell-mell. Who shall say what good angel prompted him to look behind? Perhaps it was the little G.o.d Billikins of whom you are to know more in these pages. But look behind Hervey Willetts did.

And there in the distance, very tiny but very clear, was a spark bobbing in the darkness.

He paused and watched it over his shoulder. It moved along slowly, very slowly. It disappeared. Then appeared again. And now it moved a little faster. A little faster still. Now it moved along at an even, steady rate. The long, hard pull up Cheery Hill was over, and the horses were jogging along the road. Oh, how well Hervey knew that lantern which hung under the rear step of the clumsy, lumbering old bus.

_Then it had not pa.s.sed._

Hervey Willetts was himself now. Tearing a loose shred from his tattered trousers, he soaked it in a little puddle, then stuffed it in his mouth.

He clasped his jack-knife in one fist and a twig in the other. He drew up his belt. He took that precious hat off and stuffed it in his pocket, campaign b.u.t.tons and all. Ah, no, he did not throw it away. He ripped off another rag and tied it fast around his neck and he bound his scarf around his forehead. He knew all these little tricks of the runner. It was not thought, but _action_ now.

But, oh, Hervey, Hervey! What sort of a scout are you? Did you not know that the shriek of the eagle must have been from the mountain in the north? Did you not know that eagles live on mountain crags? Why did you not face into the wind and you would have headed north? When the rain did not blow in your face or against either cheek, that was because you were facing _south_. It had not stopped raining. It was raining and blowing for _your_ sake and you did not know it. You were hunting for a kerosene lamp!

But there are scouts and scouts.

Bareheaded, half naked, he sped through the darkness like a ghostly specter of the night. He headed for a point some fifty yards ahead of the bus. He knew that coming from behind he could not catch it in time.

He was running to _intercept_ it, not to _overtake_ it. He was running at right angles to it and for a point ahead of it. Therein lay his only chance, and not a very good chance. By all the rules there was _no_ chance. By the divine law which gives power to desperation, there was--a little.

He ran in utter abandonment, in frenzy. Some power outside of himself bore him on. What else? Like a fiend, with arms swinging and head swathed in a crazy rag, he moved through wind and storm, invincible, indomitable! His head throbbed, his mouth was thick, his side ached, but he seemed beyond the power of these things now. Over the fences he went, leaving shreds of clothing blowing in the gale, and tearing his flesh on stone walls. In the madness of despair, and in the insane resolve that despair begets, he sped on, on, on....

The bus was now almost even with his course. He changed his course to keep ahead of it. The lumbering old rattle-trap gave out a human note now, which cheered the runner. He could hear the voices within it. Very faint, but still he could hear them. He knew he could not make himself heard because the wind was the other way. Besides which, he had not the voice to call. His whole frame was trembling; he could not have spoken even.

On, on, on. The trees pa.s.sed him like trees seen from a train window. He turned the wet rag in his mouth to draw a little more moisture from it.

He clutched his sweating hands tighter around the knife and twig. He shook the blowing, dripping hair from his eyes. Forward, _forward!_ If he slackened his speed now he would fall--collapse. Like a top, his speed kept him up.