Cattle-Ranch to College Part 32

"What!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Gray in astonishment.

"Yes, that's what I wanted that wheel for. I straddle it to-morrow and go East. I haven't said anything about the plan, for I wasn't sure the wheel would be mine."

"Did you expect to win?" Gray asked.

"I've trained a month. That's what gave me the wind to finish so strong.

You see my plans need transportation East. I had to win--I'm going to ride that wheel to college."

That evening John bade the Marstons good-by. They tried to dissuade him from going; they pictured the career that was open to him in the town where he had made friends and had gained a reputation, but his mind was made up, and though he was touched by their kindness, go he must.

"I don't like to have you leave," said the Professor. "You'll be thrown into circ.u.mstances unlike any you have ever met before. But I know that you can adapt yourself to new conditions, and for that reason it may be best for you while your mind is growing. You will never forget the West, but I feel sure you will not leave the East, once you are settled there.

Good-by, my boy, and G.o.d bless you."

John never forgot the kind parting words nor Professor Marston's always considerate treatment.

The two friends, Worth and Gray, talked long and earnestly that night and it was late when they retired, but at daybreak they were stirring.

John ate a deliberate breakfast, strapped a few necessaries to his wheel, bade his friend a sincere farewell, and rode off.

He pedalled on in the crisp morning air till he reached a high point, where he dismounted and took a long look at the town where he had struggled so hard, but which was the scene of his triumph as well as his trials. His satisfaction was mixed with regret, for he left behind good, true friends and a known esteem, for--he knew not what. The town lay in the hazy valley below, morning smoke-wreaths now curling from many chimneys, the gray s.h.i.+ngle roofs embedded in dark-green foliage; it was a scene of contentment and rest. He contrasted this with other scenes, active, restless, hazardous ones; the cattle range, the sheep camp, and the mine. The thought of his home was not so clear as the later scenes, though he had visited it during his stay at school. He had found Ben an almost grown-up, vigorous, business-like ranchman, glad to see his brother, but interested in his own affairs; not the same old boyish Ben of old.

It was with real regret that he turned and left the town that had in a way been a cradle and a home to him.

He mounted his wheel and sped down the slope--Eastward.

Day after day the traveller pushed on, following the windings of the roads now where formerly he would have ridden his horse as the crow flies.

Seventy miles a day. Eighty miles a day. Population increased; roads were better, ninety miles a day. His training for racing stood him in good stead. One hundred miles a day; his face always turned Eastward.

Rains came; the roads became rivers of mud. He was driven to the drier railroad track and jolted along over the ties. Sixty miles a day. The end not yet in sight, money exhausted, prospects not very cheerful; but with resolution undaunted he pushed along. A brickyard afforded temporary work. Five dollars earned, he "hit the trail" again.

Midday was fiercely hot; he took advantage of the cool mornings, and by twilight pedalled continuously. Wide swamps intervened. Insects, stingingly vicious, beset him. The sand along the river banks was heart-breaking to a wheelman and the mountains formed almost unsurmountable barriers. People he met misdirected or were ignorant, and he often went far out of his way.

But the goal was sighted at last. The day he reached Sherman's town he made one hundred and twenty miles and rode up the main street a sorry specimen--tired, dirty, tanned leather color by sun, wind, and rain.

His plans were fully made. The wheel was p.a.w.ned at once, and two hours later John Worth emerged from a little hotel, bathed, shaved, and neatly clothed.

The address of his friend written for him was made nearly illegible by friction, sweat, and dirt. But by the aid of a friendly policeman he was able to find Sherman's house. He rang the bell, was admitted promptly by a neat maid, and ushered into a sumptuously furnished parlor, the like of which he had never seen before. The chair that he at last dared to use was soft and luxurious, and the journey had wearied him so that he was just about dropping off to sleep when Sherman entered.

"How do you do, sir?" Sherman's greeting was rather formal. "What can I do for you?"

At the sound of his voice John started to his feet with a jump.

"Don't you know me, Sherman?" he said.

"You--you can't be John Worth? Why, bless my heart, is it really you?"

cried Sherman.

In an instant the one idea that had sustained him through the trying hours and apparently endless miles of his journey came to John's mind.

"Yes," he said, the light of triumph in his eyes. "I'm John Worth. And I've come to college."