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The High School Boys in Summer Camp, a fiction by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 15. The Interruption Of A Training Bout |
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_ CHAPTER XV. THE INTERRUPTION OF A TRAINING BOUT "Hazelton, the trouble with you is that you tackle a dummy just the way you'd catch a sack of potatoes that was being thrown out of a burning house!" laughed Dick. "I don't see any other way to tackle a dummy," grunted Harry, looking puzzled. "Why, you are supposed to tackle the dummy just as you'd tackle a running football player coming toward you," Prescott rejoined. "Greg, stand off there about fifty yards. At the word, run straight toward Harry. Hazelton, you grab hold of Holmes and don't let him get by you. Just hang on, and try to put him on the ground at that. All ready, Greg! Run. Tackle him, Harry!" This time Hazelton entered into the play with great zest. Just in the nick of time he leaped at Greg, tackled him and bore him to the ground. "That's the way!" cheered Dick. "Now, you look alive, Hazelton." "That was because I had something to tackle that was alive," Harry retorted. "It's much easier to tackle a living fellow than a stuffed dummy. What's the good of using the dummy, anyway, when we have plenty of live fellows around here?" "Oh, the dummy has its uses," Dick replied wisely. "A lot of faults can be better observed with a dummy for a background than is the case when you tackle a live one. The dummy is better for showing up the defects in your work. Now, Reade, you make a few swift assaults on the dummy." Tom did his work so cleverly as to call forth admiration from all the onlookers. A stout pole had been lashed across the space between two trees, being made secure in the forks of the lower limbs of the trees. The dummy itself had been made of old sail canvas and excelsior. It was not a very impressive-looking object, but it made a good substitute for the football dummies manufactured by sporting goods houses. It was a little more than a week since the night when Tag Mosher had been captured. Dick's hip which had been pronounced by Doctor Cutting as only bruised and strained, had now mended so far that nothing wrong could be observed in his gait. In fact, Prescott had all but ceased to remember the accident. For the others, the days had been full of football training, with long tramps and fishing and berrying jaunts thrown in for amusement. Now that Tag Mosher was safely locked up in the county jail there had been no more raids on the food supplies of the camp. It was now necessary, therefore, to leave but one boy at a time in the camp, and Dick, while his hip was mending, had usually been that one. Every member of Dick & Co. was brown as a berry. Muscles, too, were beginning to stand out with a firmness that had never been observed at home in the winter time. Enough more of this camping and hard work and training, and Dick & Co. were likely to return to Gridley as six condensed young giants. Nothing puts the athlete in shape as quickly as does camping, combined with training, in the summer time. This morning the work had begun with practice kicks, passing from that to the work of tackling the dummy. Two hours of hard work had now been put in, and all were comfortably tired. "Let's keep quiet and cool off," urged Dick at last. "Then for the swimming pool and clean clothes." "I wonder if Tag has died yet, as he expected to, now that he's out of the forest and locked up in a jail?" mused Tom Reade aloud. "He must be in fearfully depressed spirits," muttered Dick sympathetically. Dave Darrin regarded his chum curiously. "Dick, you seem to have a positive sympathy for that fellow." "I have," Prescott avowed promptly. "You even seem to like him," pressed Darry. "I do like him," Dick assented. "Darry, I believe that a lot of good might be found in Tag Mosher if he could have the same chance that most other fellows have. Usually, when a fellow says he has had no chance in life, the fact really is that he has been too lazy to take his chance. But I don't believe that Tag ever had a real, sure-enough chance. He has spent his days with a drunkard and a vagabond." "Yet Tag has been to school," objected Tom Reade. "Tag talks like a fellow who has had a very fair amount of schooling. Schools teach something more than mere book lessons. They give a fellow some of the first principles of truth and honor. Despite his schooling, however, Tag prefers to steal as a means of supplying all his needs. And now, at last, he is in jail, charged, perhaps, with killing a fellow being." "I wonder if Mr. Leigh is dead yet?" mused Dick. "I like being off here in the deep forest like this, but there's one drawback. We don't hear much news." "What news do you want?" asked a familiar voice behind him. Soft-footed Deputy Simmons stalked into the circle. "We were just wondering, Mr. Simmons," spoke Prescott, rising, "if Mr. Leigh is dead yet?" "Not yet," replied the peace officer, "but the doctors say that he is likely to die any day now." "Then will Tag be charged with manslaughter---or murder?" "He may be charged with murder, if we can catch him," replied the deputy. "If you can ca-----Why, what's up?" asked Dick eagerly. "Tag broke out of jail last night," replied the officer. "He's---at large?" "That's what he is," nodded Simmons. "Tag was looked upon as a kid, and wasn't watched as carefully as he should have been. So he got out. Not only that, but he visited the warden's office, late at night. So, when he left, he took with him a sawed-off shotgun---one of the wickedest weapons ever invented---and a revolver and plenty of ammunition. That's what I'm doing in the woods now. I came to see if you had seen Tag to-day, but your asking for news of him shows me that you haven't." "Is Mr. Valden with you?" asked Dick. "Yes; he's over at the road, in the car. He wouldn't come to camp. I guess the truth is"---Simmons' eyes twinkled---that Valden is ashamed to see you after the rebuke you gave him the other night, Prescott. After we got young Mosher to the jail and locked up, I gave Valden a talking-to, and told him I'd report him to the sheriff if I ever heard of his abusing a prisoner again." "So Tag escaped, with some field artillery, and you officers are out after him?" Tom asked. "Yes; and three other pairs of deputies are out also," nodded Mr. Simmons. "Did you get that car out of the creek?" asked Darry. "We never heard." "That car was a complete wreck," replied the officer. "We got it out of the creek, but left it in the woods nearby. The bridge has been rebuilt, and is stronger than before. How's your hip, Prescott?" "As well as ever, thank you," replied Dick. "I'm glad to know that, boy. Meant to drop in on you before. I must hurry along now. Of course, if Tag shows up about your camp, you won't tell him that you've seen me." "Certainly not, sir," nodded Dick. "We'll also try to get word to you, if we see him. Where is your home?" "Five Corners is my address," replied the deputy. "So long, boys! Glad to have seen you again." The cat-footed deputy was soon lost to sight among the trees. Dave was the first to speak, and that was some moments later. "Dick, you're foolish to feel any liking for Tag Mosher. He's bad all the way through. As it was he was locked up on a charge of possible manslaughter, and now he has escaped, taking with him firearms and ammunition enough to rid the county of peace and police officers. He'll do it, too, if he's cornered. Now, where's the good in that kind of a pest?" "I don't know how to answer you," sighed Dick. "Perhaps I am foolish, but I'm not yet prepared to admit it. Instead, I still contend that I feel a sneaking liking for poor Tag." "'Poor Tag,' indeed!" mimicked Tom Reade. "Poor wives and kids of the deputy sheriffs whom Tag may shoot down in their tracks before he's cornered at last! Dick, young Mosher is a budding outlaw and a bad egg all around." "No decent citizen should feel any sort of sympathy for him," affirmed Harry Hazelton. "Let Dick alone," objected Greg Holmes. "Dick generally knows what he's about, even in regard to his emotions and sympathies." "What do you say, Danny?" asked Dave. "May the sheriff deliver me from Tag Mosher!" replied Danny Grin. "You're a prejudiced lot," smiled Dick, as he rose from his camp stool. "Who'll watch camp this time while the rest of us go to swimming pool?" "I will," Darry volunteered. Carrying clean underclothing, soap and towels from the tent, the other five started through the woods to a new swimming pool that had been discovered lately. When they returned Dave went away alone for his bath. Tom Reade, as the cook for the day, lifted the lid of the soup pot to examine the contents. "I wish one of you fellows would go out into the woods and bring in some of that flowering savory herb for the soup," called Tom. "I know the kind you mean," nodded Prescott. "I'll go and get it." He strolled off in the opposite direction from the pool. Yet, truth to tell, his mind was very little on the herb he was seeking. His mind dwelt almost completely on the thought of Tag Mosher, once more at large, and most likely roaming about somewhere in this vast expanse of woods. "I don't believe it's so much badness in Tag, as it is that he's just a plain, simple savage, with the instincts and the passions of the savage," Dick reflected. "I wonder if Tag ever did really have a chance to be decent? Poor fellow! If he must be caught and returned to jail, and by and by pay the penalty of his attack upon Farmer Leigh, then I don't believe he ever will have a real chance to try to be decent again. I wonder if I'm wrong and the other fellows are right? Perhaps Tag would scorn a chance to be an all-around decent fellow. I wonder. I wonder!" His musings led Prescott rather far afield. At last he halted, looking about him in some bewilderment. "Humph! That's queer!" he muttered. "Now, I wonder if I can really remember what it was I came out here for?" For a few moments the bewilderment continued. "Oh, yes! Now, I know," he laughed. "I am after some of that savory herb for the soup." It was necessary to retrace his steps considerably, and to go in a somewhat different direction. At last he came upon a patch of the herb. "This stuff has been burned by the sun," he said to himself, turning away from the first specimens of the herb. "Over there in the shade it will be fresher and greener." Dick took a few rapid steps, halting before a fringe of bushes. Bending over, he extended a hand to pick some of the herbs. Just then he heard a slight sound, like the catching of someone's breath. Starting, Prescott raised his head just a trifle, to find himself looking straight into the eyes of Tag Mosher, as that youth lay flat on the ground. Two muzzles of a shotgun stared Dick in the face, while the fingers of the fugitive rested on the triggers of the gun. "If you're looking for me," grimaced Tag, "you've found me! I'm right here, and this is going to be my dizzy day!" _ |
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