The Grammar School Boys Snowbound
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H. Irving Hancock >> The Grammar School Boys Snowbound
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"I--I don't know," gasped Hen.
"Yes, you do," warned Dave Darrin crisply.
"No, I don't!"
"Hen Dutcher," Dick interrupted firmly, "we are out here to enjoy
ourselves, and we don't propose to be interfered with. We have a right
to be here, and no one else has. We've wormed it out of you that Fred
Ripley and some other fellows have come out here to torment us. Fred
Ripley has no right to come here and play mean tricks on us."
"Who gave you the right to be here?" demanded Hen sullenly. "Wasn't it
Fred Ripley's father?"
"Yes; but that gives Fred no right to be mean in the matter, and Lawyer
Ripley would be the first to say so, if I went and told him."
"And then you'd be 'Sneak Prescott,'" taunted Hen.
"I didn't say I was going to tell Fred's father," Dick answered, his
color rising, "and I haven't any thought of it, either. Any fellow of
anywhere near my own size who calls me a sneak can have his answer--two
of them," Dick went on, displaying his fists. "You know that well
enough, Hen Dutcher. You're one of our own crowd--that is, you go to the
Central Grammar with us, and yet you've joined in with some High School
boys to bother us and spoil our fun. Who's the sneak, Hen? Who will the
fellows at the Central Grammar call the sneak when they hear about
this?"
Hen began to look decidedly uneasy. He was well aware what the Grammar
School boys in Gridley did to one of their own number who was voted a
sneak.
"I--I didn't mean any harm," muttered Hen, almost whimpering.
"See here," demanded Dick, another idea coming to him, "how much did
Fred Ripley pay you to help work against us."
"He didn't pay me nothing," young Dutcher protested ungrammatically.
"How much did he agree to pay you, then? Come--out with it!" insisted
Dick.
Hen saw the other chums pressing about him threateningly, so he almost
blubbered:
"Said he'd give me a dollar if I did the trick right."
"So there was a trick?" cried Dick quickly; then added ironically: "Hen,
you ought never to tell lies. You don't do it skilfully. You let out the
truth, despite yourself. You've admitted that you've been hired to work
against us--to help spoil our peace and comfort. Now, you've got to tell
us all the rest of it, or you'll have to take the consequences!"
"Say, don't be mean with a feller!" pleaded Dutcher, ready to snivel.
"We're not mean with you," Dick insisted. "We've a right to protect
ourselves, and we're going to do it. Besides, you joined us, and now
you've got to be one of us and tell us the whole scheme against us."
"I didn't join you!"
"Do you belong to Fred Ripley's crowd, then? If so, you'd better join
that choice gang! Grab hold of him, fellows!"
Dave Darrin and Tom Reade gripped Hen, on either side, with great
heartiness. Dan Dalzell ran to unbar the door, after accomplishing which
he turned to view what might follow.
"Are you going to tell us, Hen, what Ripley and his crew are plotting
against us?" Dick insisted once more.
"They were going to come down here to-night," confessed Hen.
"What were they going to do here?"
"Scare you fellers."
"How?"
"Oh, they've got a lot of sheets, and a frame to rig up on Bert Dodge's
shoulders. With the frame above him, and covered with sheets, Bert will
make a 'ghost' about ten feet high."
"What else?" pressed Dick.
"Well, they've got a queer kind of whistle they can blow on, and it
makes a long, loud moan, or a wail," explained Hen. "Whee! It gave me
the creepy shivers the first time I heard it."
"Has Ripley's ghost party got anything else to make the night merry
with?" questioned Dick.
"Some kinder colored fire, that they were going to light at quite a
distance from here, to give an 'unearthly' glow through the woods."
"What else?"
"Oh, some other things," confessed Hen vaguely. "I can't tell you all
that crowd has, for I didn't see it and they wouldn't tell me about it."
"And you turned on Central Grammar boys to help a lot of High School
fellows out?" asked Dick in fine scorn.
"Well, I was crazy to have a day or two out here in the woods, and you
fellows didn't ask me," protested Hen. "The other crowd did."
"Yes; because they wanted to use you for a tool against us. They wanted
to make you their catspaw, Hen Dutcher. Oh, you must feel fine! And the
other Central Grammar fellows back in Gridley will be so proud of you!"
"You don't have to tell 'em," urged Hen Dutcher pleadingly.
"No; we don't have to," confirmed Tom Reade. "But we can. And most
likely we will. We want to separate the wheat from the chaff at the old
Central Gram."
"But, please don't tell 'em," whined Hen.
"We'll see about that," said Dick Prescott. "We won't make a solitary
promise. It may depend on how you act, Hen. Now, is there anything more
you ought to tell us about what Fred Ripley's crowd intends to do?"
"No-o-o. I don't believe so."
"Who's with Fred Ripley?"
"Bert Dodge."
"Who else?"
Hen named five other young fellows, two of whom were rather worthless
High School sophomores.
"And their plan," added Hen, unburdening himself, "was to swoop down
here this evening, lay the lines for a first class ghost scare and then
see you fellows start running and never stop till you reached Gridley.
They've brought some provisions along with them, and they were going to
move in here and camp, and laugh, and have a great joke about how the
Grammar School kids got cold feet, and----"
"Where are they now?" Dick queried.
"They were going to my Uncle Joel's for a few hours, have supper there
and then slip down here. But Uncle Joel's place must be four miles from
here, and even he didn't know just where this camp was. So the fellows
made me get the best idea I could from my uncle, and then sent me down
here to find the place. They'll be mad 'cause I ain't back."
"More likely they'll come, without waiting for you, Hen," observed Dave
Darrin grimly.
At this moment the latch-string moved; there was a click of wood against
wood as the latch was raised.
"Fellows, it's our ghost party!" whispered Dick, hoarsely. "Stand close
by me and sail in when I give the word. We'll do our best to make it hot
for the ghost!"
There were varying degrees of bravery shown in that instant. Not one of
the Grammar School boys dreamed that they could best Fred Ripley's crew
in a rough-and-tumble, but Dick & Co. were all determined to be as
"game" as possible.
It was different with Hen Dutcher. He turned pale and shook like a leaf.
CHAPTER IX
THE INTRUDER WHO TRIED TO BE "BOSS"
The heavy door was thrust open--and then the Grammar School boys had the
surprise of their lives.
No swarm had invaded their camp. Instead a solitary man, clad in heavy
overcoat, and with a cap pulled down over his ears, stamped into the
cabin.
In his astonishment and dismay Dick Prescott could not repress the cry
of:
"It's Fits--Mr. Fits himself!"
"I see you hain't forgot me!" snarled the fellow, as he slammed the door
shut, dropped the bar in the place, and then stood with his back to that
barrier.
"See here, you can't stay here," declared Dick, his eyes flashing.
"Can't, eh?" jeered the fellow. "And what's going to stop me?"
"We are. You've no business here."
"And if I don't see fit to go, my young bantam?"
"Then we'll put you out. We're smaller than you are, but there are seven
of us--six, I mean," Dick corrected, after a glance at quaking Hen.
"You'll find we can take care of you!"
"You kids, eh?" laughed Mr. Fits hoarsely. "Why, if you boys started in
to climb over me I'd pick you off and scrunch you, like so many ants.
Just try it and see!"
To make his bragging good, Mr. Fits crossed the cabin, helping himself
to the chair by the table.
"I see you've got plenty of grub here," the big fellow went on. "I'll
bother you to make me some hot coffee and get me the best you have to
eat. Step lively, too! Any younker that doesn't move fast enough I'll
pick up and swat, and then I'll throw him out in the snow to stay."
Saying which, with a savage snort, Mr. Fits rose and took off his
overcoat, tossing it on to the next chair.
"What are you two whispering about?" demanded the rough intruder, eyeing
Prescott and Darrin, who were now at the further end of the log cabin.
"Never you mind," Dave retorted tartly.
"Don't give me any impudence, younker!" growled Fits.
"Then don't talk to us," Dick advised.
"I can see that I've got to trim a couple of you," muttered the intruder
sourly. "And then, too, I reckon my supper will be coming along faster."
"You'll get no supper here," Dick warned him.
"I won't, hey? Why not, I wonder?" leered the fellow.
"Because we have no poison to mix with the food," Dave retorted.
"I'll have that grub, and some good coffee, set on mighty quick!"
growled the visitor. "If that doesn't happen, then I'll run you all out
into the snow. You won't last long out there, I warrant you! It's a
fearful night."
"Wait!" begged Hen Dutcher. "I'll wait on you, sir."
"No, you won't, Hen," spoke Dick sharply, firmly. "This man doesn't stay
here. He's going to leave mighty soon, or he'll wish he had. If you do
anything that we can't stand for, Hen, we'll put you outdoors with Mr.
Fits."
"You wait on me, boy," ordered Fits gruffly.
"Yes, sir, I----"
"----won't," Dave finished for him snappily. "See here, Hen, you are of
no account here. Look out that you don't make yourself too unpopular to
be allowed to remain here to-night."
"I see that I've got to teach some of you young cubs a lesson," remarked
Fits, rising from the chair.
"Look out that we don't teach you one!" cried Dick. "Watch him, fellows.
If Mr. Fits gets too familiar, then sail into him!"
Dick snatched up one hatchet, Greg another. Dan made a rush for the bow
and arrow, fitting a steel tipped arrow to the string. Tom Reade espied
the crowbar, and reached it in two bounds. Dave Darrin caught up a stick
of firewood, Harry Hazelton following suit.
Hen Dutcher didn't do anything except to slink away to one side of the
big room. His bravery didn't go beyond the risk of telling lies.
"If Fits makes a move towards any of us, fellows," commanded Dick, in a
tone whose steadiness surprised even young Prescott himself, "then the
rest close in on all sides and give this big bully the best you've
got."
"I wish there was a hatchet for me," growled Dave, whose eyes were
flashing dangerously.
"Take this one," replied Dick, passing over his own hastily snatched-up
weapon. Thereupon Prescott fell back for an instant, darting over to a
pile of boxes and picking up the air rifle that had been brought along.
"Let's see if this air rifle is working?" pondered Dick aloud. He took
quick aim and pressed the trigger.
"You dratted little pirate!" roared Mr. Fits, tensing for a leap
forward. "I'll show you----"
"You'll get a lot more, if you don't quit trying to run things here,"
Dick threatened coolly.
Mr. Fits was waving his right hand aloft. Dick had struck the back of
that hand with one of the pellets that the rifle carried in its
magazine. The skin wasn't broken on that right hand, but the place
stung, just the same, as Mr. Fits well knew.
"Hold on! Give him his supper, if he'll quiet down," urged Dave Darrin,
aloud, adding, in a whisper to Dick:
"And while he's eating it I'll try to find the nearest house, and get
men to come down here and grab him."
As cautiously as Dave spoke the big fellow heard him.
"Oh, you will, will you?" leered Fits. "Younker, how long do you think
you'd live in the storm that's going on outside? It's a blizzard. If you
don't believe me, go out and see. I'll wait till you come back."
For answer Dave ran to the door and opened it. A swirl of snow greeted
Darrin in the face, and another big swirl of the white fluff blew in on
the floor.
"Go right on out in the snow," jeered Mr. Fits. Dave did so, but the
other five chums kept their gaze steadily on the unwelcome intruder.
"By Jove, fellows," muttered Dave, as he stamped back into the cabin,
"the storm has grown so that I don't believe any of us could get through
it for a distance of three or four miles."
"And you see," continued Mr. Fits, "I stay here to-night for one very
good reason, if I didn't have any others. It would be plain manslaughter
to make me go out into the storm. I'd simply die in it before going a
mile."
"The snow is already up over my knees," confirmed Dave Darrin dismally,
"and I believe it would be twice as deep before I'd been gone an hour."
"So you see it wouldn't be decent to put me out," jeered the big bully,
"even if I were afraid of you younkers and your wild west outfit of toy
guns and archery."
Dave closed and barred the door with a grim tightening around the corner
of his lips.
"Now I'll trouble you boys to stow your amateur theatrical outfit in a
corner and get me a whopping big supper," continued the big fellow, with
a grin, as he returned to his former seat. "If you don't----"
He paused impressively, then added:
"If you don't I'll start something moving here that'll show you who's
boss. Or, if you feel too respectable to like my company, then you can
all put on your overcoats and step outdoors. Maybe you can find your way
to some pleasanter place for the night."
"If we could get through the storm," whispered Dick to Dave, "then we
might leave him here, and get to help who would come down and grab the
scoundrel."
"We'd get along all right at the start," muttered Dave, shaking his
head. "But I don't believe, the way the blizzard is coming now, that
we'd get more than a mile or so before we'd all lie down in the snow and
have to give up the fight. You've no idea, Dick, what a howler and piler
this storm is. You ought to go out and try it."
"If you say it can't be done, Dave, I'll take your word. You've as much
sand and fight as any of us."
"Supper!" yelled the intruder lustily.
"It's the cook's night off," jeered young Prescott.
"Oh, it is, hey?" roared the big fellow. "I'll show you."
Jumping to his feet, snatching up the chair on which he had been
sitting, and holding it above his head, Mr. Fits charged.
The crisis in the affair had arrived.
CHAPTER X
IN THE GRIP OF THE BIG BLIZZARD
Dick Prescott was squarely in the way. He didn't flinch or dodge,
either.
Like a flash he brought the air rifle up for use. But there was nothing
wicked in Dick Prescott. Even against such a foe as this big intruder;
Dick felt that it would be wrong, wicked, to aim for the face of Mr.
Fits.
Instead, Dick aimed for one of the fellow's legs. The little buckshot
went where aimed, but through the thick trousers and underwear the
little missile had no painful effect.
"Get back, you lunatic!" quivered Dan, in the same instant, drawing the
arrow to the head, ready to let drive.
But at that interesting moment another of the Grammar School boys saved
the situation. It was Tom Reade, who, just as Mr. Fits started forward,
and was still moving, thrust the crowbar between his legs.
Flop! Fits struck the earthen floor rather heavily, the chair flying
over the head of Dick Prescott and landing beyond.
"Good chance!" cheered Harry Hazelton, bringing down his stick of
firewood with a blow that resounded.
Tom Reade now raised the crowbar once more, standing where he could aim
at the fellow's head. Tom was both too generous and too tender hearted
to have struck a human being over the head with such an implement, even
had Fits given provocation.
"Don't get up, Mr. Fits," warned Dick, still gripping the air rifle. "If
you start to do so, it will be the signal for something to happen."
Their nerves tense from the peril of their surroundings, the Grammar
School boys, none of whom were cowards at heart, even though they were
pretty young, looked positively fierce in the eyes of the prostrate foe.
"You don't any of you dare hit me," he sneered, with an attempt at
bluster.
"Don't we?" scowled Dave Darrin. "Then start something--we'll do the
rest."
"Get back with that crowbar!" ordered the fellow sullenly. "Put that air
rifle down, and drop that bow and arrow."
"Get up and make us," advised Dick Prescott almost placidly. "Now, Mr.
Fits, I hope you realize that we're a few too many for you. As we
suggested some time ago, we're going to order you out of here--and at
once. And we're not going to take any fooling, either."
"But I can't go out," protested the big fellow. "Why, I'd be found
frozen to death in the blizzard."
"You won't have to go far," Dick informed him. "You of course know, as
well as we do, that there's a little cook shack at the rear of this
cabin. There's a stove there, some firewood and two barrels of coal.
Now, you're going there----"
"I won't."
"Yes, you are," Prescott asserted. "Unless you want us to beat you up
and simply throw you outside into a snowdrift."
"But I'm hungry," protested Mr. Fits. "Also, it's mighty cold lying
here."
"Stay right where you are," Dick went on sternly. "Hen, get this
fellow's overcoat and throw it on the floor near the door."
Dutcher obeyed, though he seemed to feel decidedly nervous about it.
"Now, Hen," continued the young leader, "go to the food supplies and
pick out two tins of corn beef. Got 'em? Also a loaf of bread. Put the
stuff on the coat."
This was done.
"Now, Mr. Fits," went on Dick more steadily still, "it would be unwise
for you to rise and walk to the door. We'd bother you if you did. But
you can crawl over to your coat. Start!"
"What are you trying to do with me?" appealed the recent bully, in a
voice that was now full of concern.
"Crawl over to your coat, and we'll tell you the rest of it. If you
don't obey, promptly, we'll take the food part away. Start--crawl!"
Mr. Fits obeyed. He appeared wholly to have lost his nerve, but Dick
wasn't so sure, for he ordered sharply:
"Watch out, fellows, that he doesn't play 'possum on us. We can't risk
that, you know."
Mr. Fits, however, by dint of crawling, reached his overcoat and the
food.
"Throw the door open, Dave," desired young Prescott. "Now, Mr. Fits,
rise, get your things and hustle around to the shack at the rear. Woe
unto you, if you try to turn and come back into this cabin! We won't
stand any more of you."
Like one beaten, and knowing it, Fits shambled out into the storm. No
one followed him to see that he reached the shack safely. Any man in
good health could do far more than perform that feat.
"Shut the door and bar it, please," chattered Dan Dalzell. "Whew, but
having that door open has made this place a cold storage plant!"
"Fellows," spoke up Dick, "if this blizzard is to continue, we'll
presently freeze to death in here unless we get more firewood while we
can."
"All right," grinned Dalzell. "I've a suggestion, and it's a bully one.
We'll appoint Hen Dutcher a committee of one on the woodpile. Go out and
study your subject, Hen, and bring in your report--I mean, a cord of
wood."
"No, you don't!" protested Hen sullenly.
"Get on, now! Beat your way to the wood pile," ordered Tom Reade.
"No slang, please," mocked Dave. "How can a fellow who's going to work
hard beat his way, I'd like to know?"
"If you don't think you'd have to beat your way, to reach the wood pile
to-night," retorted Tom, "then just go out again and face the wind and
storm. Hen, are you going?"
"No, I'm not," snapped Dutcher.
"Then I'm a prophet," declared Reade solemnly. "I can see you and me
having trouble."
"I won't go," cried Hen, with an ugly leer. "I know what you want to
do. You want to drive me out to that shanty, so that big fellow will
jump on me. Go yourself, Mr. Tom Reade."
"It's too hard a storm for any one fellow to bring in the wood alone,"
interjected Dick. "I'll go, and so will Greg. Hen, you'll come with us."
"No, I won't."
"Yes, you will," Dick informed him. "We've got to leave some of the
fellows here, to guard the doorway against Mr. Fits. We three will go
and attend to it all, and the rest of the fellows will stay right by the
door and see that Mr. Fits, who has been kind enough to go, stays gone.
Get on your coat, Greg, and you, too, Hen."
"I'll stay and help guard," proposed Dutcher.
"A bully guard you'd make," jeered Tom. "Into your coat--or else you'll
go without one."
Tom took hold of Hen by the collar, propelling him rapidly across the
cabin floor. Dick and Greg were slipping rapidly into coats, caps,
overshoes and mittens. Dick picked up the crowbar and Greg the lantern.
Hen Dutcher, making the gloomy discovery that it must be work or fight,
submitted sulkily.
"Don't hold the door open. Open it when we holler," was Dick's parting
direction.
"Whew!" muttered Greg, as they stepped outside. The wind blew in their
faces as they went around the end of the cabin, nearly taking their
breath, while the snow proved, even now, to be above their knees.
"We can do this in the morning just as well," cried Hen, panting in the
effort to make himself heard. "Let's go back."
"You try it, if you dare!" challenged Greg, waving the lantern in the
other boy's face.
Even with that short distance to go, it took the three youngsters some
little time to reach the great pile of logs. Sparks were flying from the
chimney-top of the shack, showing that Mr. Fits was preparing to warm
himself.
"And that's the way we've treated the fellow who stole mother's
Christmas present, and mine," muttered Dick.
At last the boys reached the pile of logs. Dick tackled it bravely with
the crowbar. Shortly he had half a dozen logs clear, though he was
panting, both from the beating of the storm and from the hard labor he
had taken upon himself.
"Get those in," called Dick. "While you're at it I'll pry more loose."
Hen Dutcher picked up the smallest of the logs, starting for the cabin,
but Greg caught him by the shoulder.
"See here, Mr. Lazy, if you're going to pick out such easy ones as that,
take two at a time."
"I can't," sputtered Hen.
"Then I'll turn you over to Dave Darrin when you get inside."
Hen thereupon picked up another small log, though he pretended to
stagger under the double burden. Greg also carried two logs, and he
staggered with good reason, for the weight was more than he should have
attempted in the deep snow.
In the very little time that had passed the snow seemed to have grown
much deeper. By the time the two wood-carriers reached the doorway and
were admitted they felt as though they had done an hour's work of the
hardest kind.
Dave Darrin stood just inside, booted and capped.
"Good enough," muttered Dave, holding out the air rifle. "Now, Greg, you
take this pill-shooter and let me go out for the next wood. We'll send a
new fellow every time."
"Then you can take my place, Darrin," proposed Hen readily. "Give me
that air rifle."
"Humph!" was all Dave said, as he poked Hen outdoors before him, while
Dalzell and Hazelton took the logs and stacked them at the further end
of the cabin.
When Dave and Hen returned they carried but a log apiece.
"Dick says each fellow is to take only one log at a time," reported
Dave. "In that way he thinks we'll last longer and get in more wood.
Now, Hen will stay back. Tom, I see you're in your overcoat and ready.
Come along with me. Dalzell get ready for the next trip, when I come
back with my second log."
"And I'll be ready to help Dick with the crowbar," called out Hazelton,
running for his coat.
In this way the Grammar School boys worked rapidly and effectively. Hen
was the only one in the crowd who made any objection to the amount of
work put upon him. Yet it was an hour and a half, from the start, before
Dick would agree that there was wood enough in the cabin.
"For it may snow for three days, and grow colder all the time," Prescott
explained. "By morning it may be impossible to get out at all. We don't
want to freeze to death."
Truth to tell, the exercise had put all of the Grammar School boys in a
fine glow. When, at last, the big lot of wood had been moved and stacked
up inside, and they closed the door for good at last, not one of them,
despite his hard work in the biting storm, felt really chilled.
"Now, what shall we do?" demanded Dave, his eyes dancing.
"Do you know what time it is?" asked Dick.
"Not far from ten o'clock."
"Yes; past bed time for all of us."
"Do you feel sleepy?" demanded Dave.
"I don't," chorused four or five.
"Let's sit up as late as we like, for once," proposed Greg Holmes.
"That's part of the fun of camping."
"Humph! I want to go to bed," gaped Dutcher.
"Well, there's nothing to stop you, Hen," responded Dick pleasantly. "If
you're really sleepy our chatting won't keep you awake."
"What bed shall I take?" inquired Hen.
"Any one that you like best. There are eight bunks to only seven
fellows, you know."
Hen took a look, finally deciding on one of the two that were nearest to
the chimney.
"What blankets shall I use?" he asked.
Dick looked rather blank at that question.
"Use the ones you brought with you," advised Harry Hazelton.
"But I didn't bring any with me," grunted Hen. "Hurry up, for I'm awful
sleepy."
"Well, you see, Hen," Dick went on, "we're in something of a fix on the
blanket question. Each fellow brought his own, and on a night like this
any fellow who lends any of his bedding is bound to catch cold when the
fire runs lower and the place gets chilly."
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