The Grammar School Boys of Gridley Part 42

"Why doesn't the tide rise and fall in inland rivers?"

It was a habit of Old Dut's to throw out questions like this in study time, for the purpose of waking up some of the intellects that needed rousing.

"Master Holmes, you may answer that," proclaimed the princ.i.p.al.

Greg started out of a brown study at hearing his name spoken. He had a vague recollection of having heard a question asked. But his mind was still far away, so he did not realize the enormity of his offense as he replied:

"I don't know, but I'll be the goat. What's the answer?"

A gasp of amazement sounded around the room.

"Master Gregory Holmes," uttered Old Dut sternly, "ten checks for that impertinence. And go and stand in the corner by the piano. Turn your back to the school that you've insulted!"

At that moment there came a rap on the door. Then a young man entered, handing a sealed envelope to the princ.i.p.al.

"Master Prescott, put your books away and come here," directed Old Dut.

The cla.s.s looked on wonderingly, while d.i.c.k obeyed.

"Here is a note from your mother, which requests that you be allowed to go home at once, as your father has been injured in an accident. I hope, my boy, that it is nothing serious," said the princ.i.p.al in a low tone.

"Your mother has sent a carriage in order that you may get home sooner.

Go at once, Master Prescott, and may you learn that the news is not too bad."

Old Dut held out the note, but d.i.c.k barely saw it. Instead, he turned and ran to the coat room, caught up his coat and cap and sped downstairs. The messenger had already started downstairs.

"There's the rig," announced the messenger, as d.i.c.k appeared on the steps.

Alongside a surrey was drawn up. A rain curtain and side panels covered the rear seat, but the driver, a silent individual, who had a full, heavy red beard and wore smoked gla.s.ses over his eyes moved to make room for d.i.c.k on the front seat.

"How badly is dad hurt?" demanded d.i.c.k breathlessly, as he bundled himself in on the front seat.

"Can't say," replied the driver, in a low, weak voice. "I was only hired to come after you."

"Hurry!" appealed d.i.c.k. The driver nodded, and started the horse away briskly.

Young Prescott was fearfully worried. His mother was a woman of cool, calm judgment. She was not likely to send a driver after him unless his father's injuries were dangerous.

"I hope dad isn't going to die," breathed the boy to himself. "If he must, then I hope I get home in time before he goes."

So absorbed was he in his own gloomy thoughts that d.i.c.k gave no heed to the road that was taken. Nor had the surrey gone far when the rain curtain behind parted, but Prescott did not see that.

Yet he had no suspicion of foul play until a pair of hands from behind gripped him about the throat.

In a twinkling d.i.c.k was drawn over the back of the front seat. Then he vanished behind the curtain.

"Anybody in the street see that done, Driggs?" whispered the voice of Abner Dexter.

"Nary one," retorted Driggs, in a more natural voice than he had used before.

Though d.i.c.k Prescott was half strangled he heard both voices, now, and they sounded wholly natural to him. Driggs was disguised, but Dexter had taken no such pains.

"Now, you keep mighty quiet, or you'll be worse off than you thought your father was," snarled Ab. Dexter. He had d.i.c.k jammed down on the floor, the boy's head just above the man's lap. Dexter's fingers kept their fearful grip at the boy's throat.

Not that d.i.c.k didn't fight back. He fought with all his strength. Yet that was not for long. Dexter had taken a foul hold and had the boy at his mercy. The gripping at the throat continued until d.i.c.k's muscles relaxed and he was still.

"He'll come back to his senses, though, in a minute," uttered Dexter to himself. He drew out a big handkerchief and a bottle. There was an odor of something sickishly sweet in the air for a moment, as the handkerchief was pressed to the boy's nostrils.

All the time Driggs had continued to drive onward at a brisk trot.

"I've got to open up this curtain a bit, Driggs," called Ab. Dexter, in a not-too-loud voice. "I don't want to whiff in much of the stuff that I'm giving the youngster."

Yet, though some air was admitted to the rear part of the surrey Dexter took pains not to expose himself to the possibly too-curious glance of any pa.s.ser on the street. At the same time the man bent over d.i.c.k, to note any signs of returning consciousness.

At last, seeing that second inhalation of the drug had rendered d.i.c.k wholly senseless, Dexter drew another handkerchief from a pocket, and with this he gagged the boy. Then, a moment later, he reached down and tied the youngster's hands.

It was in a direction very different from that of d.i.c.k's home that the surly, silent Driggs was driving. Before long he was out in the suburbs of the town, traveling up the back country into the hills.

"The cub will learn, this time," mused Dexter savagely. "If he doesn't, it will be because he's too stubborn to learn anything. And, in that case----"

After the first half hour the road grew wilder. After going some two miles up into the hills Driggs turned off at the right, following a road used only in winter, and then princ.i.p.ally by wood-cutters. Thus on, farther and farther into the woods, and turning, now and then, off into branching roads.

Though given an occasional whiff of the stuff from the bottle, that kept him senseless, d.i.c.k was allowed to regain his wits after the surrey had branched off over the forest roads.

"Keep quiet and be a good boy," admonished Dexter grimly. "You don't want any more of the stuff, do you? Too much of it might wind you up for good. We don't want to go that far--if you've got sense enough to be of use to us at last."

"Where on earth are they taking me--and what for?" wondered d.i.c.k, struggling against the nausea that the inhaling of the drug had caused.

"What's Dexter's newest piece of villainy, I wonder? Whew! But that was a slick trick! Anyway, dad can't be hurt at all. Mother would never pick them as the messengers to send for me! I'm glad dad's all right, anyway, even if I may happen to have a rough time ahead of me."

The messenger who had entered the schoolroom, it may be said in pa.s.sing, was not in the plot, nor had he been aware that there was any one at all in the rear part of the surrey. That messenger had been picked up on the street, by Driggs, and had been offered a quarter to take the note upstairs to the princ.i.p.al's cla.s.s room, "because," Driggs had explained, "I don't dare leave my horse."

"How on earth did this rascally pair ever manage to write a note that would look enough like mother's handwriting!" was d.i.c.k's next puzzle.

As this, of course, was beyond his fathoming, d.i.c.k's next and very natural thought was:

"What on earth do these scoundrels want of me? I don't believe they have brought me away just for vengeance."

"A nice ride like this, off amid the beauties of nature, is a whole lot better than spending your time over dull school books, isn't it?" Dexter asked mockingly.

But d.i.c.k could gain no idea as to the kind of country through which he was pa.s.sing, more than that the surrey was moving over rough road.

Jammed down where he was he could see nothing but the half dark interior of the vehicle.

At last Driggs began to whistle softly. That being a signal, Ab. Dexter again produced the bottle. There was the same sickening odor as a wet handkerchief was placed against d.i.c.k's nostrils. Then he lost track of what was happening.

"Whoa!" called Driggs and willingly enough the horse stopped. There was a ripping aside of the rubber side panels to the carriage, after which Driggs stood on the ground to receive the senseless boy as Dexter pa.s.sed him out.

"Into the house, I suppose?" inquired Driggs.

"Yes," nodded Dexter.