Originally published: 1910
Genres: Adventure, Children's
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64407
Chapters: 29
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
THE CATASTROPHE
A glorious midsummer morning, clear, balmy, and bracing. An ideal stretch of macadam, level as a floor and straight as a die for close to two miles, with interminable fields of waving wheat on either side. A new, high-power car in perfect running order.
It was a temptation for speeding which few could resist, certainly not Brose Stovebridge, who was little given to thinking of the consequences when his own pleasure was concerned, and who had a reputation for reckless driving which was exceeded by none.
With a shout of joy, he snatched off his cap and flung it on the seat beside him. The next instant he had opened the throttle wide and advanced the spark to the last notch. The racing roadster leaped forward like a thing alive and shot down the stretch—cut out wide open and pistons throbbing in perfect unison—a blurred streak of red amidst a swirling cloud of dust.
Stovebridge bent over the wheel, his eyes shining with excitement and his curly, blond hair tossed by the cutting wind into a disordered mass above his rather handsome face. The speedometer hand was close to the fifty mark.
“You’ll do, you beauty,” he muttered exultingly. “I could squeeze another ten out of you if I had the chance.”
The horn shrieked a warning as he pulled her down to take the curve ahead, but her momentum was so great that she shot around the wide swerve almost on two wheels, with scarcely any perceptible slackening.
The next instant Stovebridge gave a gasping cry of horror.
Directly in the middle of the road stood a little girl. Her eyes were wide and staring, and she seemed absolutely petrified with fright.
The car swerved suddenly to one side, there was a grinding jar of the emergency and the white, stricken face vanished. With a sickening jolt, the roadster rolled on a short distance and stopped.
For a second or two Stovebridge sat absolutely still, his hands trembling, his face the color of chalk. Then he turned, as though with a great effort, and looked back.
The child lay silent, a crumpled, dust-covered heap. The white face was stained with blood, one tiny hand still clutched a bunch of wildflowers.
The man in the car gave a shuddering groan.
“I’ve killed her!” he gasped. “My God, I’ve killed her!”
He would be arrested—convicted—and imprisoned. At the thought, every bit of manhood left him and fear struck him to the soul. He knew that every law, human or divine, bound him to pick up the child and hurry her to a doctor, for there might still be a spark of life that could be fanned into flame. But he was lost to all sense of humanity, decency, or honor. Maddened by the fear of consequences, his one impulse was to fly—fly quickly before he was discovered.
In a panic, he threw off the brakes, started the car, and ran through his gears into direct drive with frantic haste. The car leaped forward, and, without a backward glance at the victim of his carelessness, Stovebridge opened her up wide and disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
The child lay still where she had fallen. Slowly the dust settled and a gentle breeze stirred the flaxen hair above her blood-stained face.
Then came the throbbing of another motor approaching, a deep-toned horn sounded, and a big, red touring car, containing four young fellows, rounded the bend at a fair speed.
Dick Merriwell, the famous Yale athlete, was at the wheel, and, catching sight of the little heap in the roadway, he stopped the car with a jerk and sprang out.
As he ran forward and gathered the limp form into his arms, he gave an exclamation of pity. Then his face darkened.
“By heavens!” he cried. “I’d like to get my hands on the man who did this. Poor little kid! Just look at her face, Brad.”
As Brad Buckhart, Dick’s Texas chum, caught sight of the great gash over the child’s temple, his eyes flashed and he clenched his fists.
“The coyote!” he exploded. “He certain ought to have a hemp necktie put around his neck with the other end over a limb. I’d sure like to have a hold of that other end. You hear me talk!”
Squeezing past the portly form of Bouncer Bigelow, Tommy Tucker leaned excitedly out of the tonneau.
“Is she dead, Dick?” he asked anxiously.
Merriwell took his fingers from the small wrist he had been feeling.
“Not quite,” he said shortly. “But it’s no thanks to the scoundrel who ran her down and left her here.”
His eyes, which had been looking keenly to right and left, lit up as they fell upon the roof of a farmhouse nestling among some trees a little way back from the road.
“There’s a house, Brad,” he said in a relieved tone. “Even if she doesn’t belong there, they’ll make her comfortable and send for a doctor.”
With infinite tenderness, he carried the child down the road a little way to a gate, and thence up a narrow walk bordered with lilac bushes. The door of the farmhouse was open and, without hesitation, he walked into the kitchen, where a woman stood ironing.
“I found—” he began.
The woman turned swiftly, and as she saw his burden, her face grew ghastly white and her hands flew to her heart.
“Amy!” she gasped in a choking voice. “Is—she—”
“She’s not dead,” Dick reassured her, “but I’m afraid she’s badly hurt. I picked her up on the road outside. Someone in a car had run over her and left her there.”
For an instant, he thought the woman was going to faint. Then she pulled herself together with a tremendous effort.
“Give her to me!” she cried fiercely, her arms outstretched. “Give her to me!”
Her eyes were blinded with a sudden rush of tears.
“Little Amy, that never did a bit o’ harm to nobody,” she sobbed. “Oh, it’s too much!”
“Careful, now,” Merriwell cautioned. “Take her gently. I’m afraid her arm is broken.”
“Would you teach a woman to be gentle to her child?” she cried wildly.
Without waiting for a reply, she gathered the little form tenderly into her arms and laid her down on a sofa which stood at one side of the room. Then running to the sink for some water, she wet her handkerchief and began to wipe off the child’s face.
“You mustn’t mind what I said,” she faltered the next moment. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just wild.”
“I know,” Dick returned gently. “A doctor should be called at—”
“Of course!”
She sprang to her feet and flew into another room, whence Dick heard the insistent ringing of a telephone bell, followed quickly by rapid, broken sentences. As the handkerchief fell from her hand he had picked it up and was sprinkling the child’s face with water.
Presently the girl gave a little moan and opened her eyes.
“Mamma,” she said faintly—“Mamma!”
The woman ran into the room at the sound.
“Here I am, darling,” she said, as she knelt down by the couch. “Where do you feel bad, Amy dear?”
“My arm,” the child moaned, “and my head. A big red car runned right over me.”
“Red!” muttered Merriwell, his eyes brightening.
“My precious!” soothed the mother. “The doctor’ll be here right off. Does it hurt much?”
The child closed her eyes and slow tears welled from under the lashes.
“Yes,” she sobbed, “awful.”
Dick ground his teeth.
“It’s a crime for such men to be allowed on the road,” he said in a low, tense tone. “I’m going to do my level best to run down whoever was responsible for this, and if I do, they’ll suffer the maximum penalty.”
“I hope you do,” the woman declared fiercely. “Hanging’s too good for ’em! My husband, George Hanlon, ain’t the man to sit still an’ do nothing, neither.”
“They—wasn’t—men,” sobbed the child. “Only one.”
“One man in a red car of some sort,” Dick murmured thoughtfully. “He must belong around here; a fellow wouldn’t be touring alone.”
Then he turned to Mrs. Hanlon.
“I think I’ll be getting on,” he said quickly. “I can’t do anything here, and the longer I delay the less chance there’ll be of catching this fellow. I’ll call you up tonight and find out how the little girl is doing.”
“God bless you for what you’ve done,” the woman said brokenly.
“I wish it might have been more,” Dick answered as he walked quickly toward the door. “Goodbye.”
As he hurried out he almost ran into a slim young fellow, who was running up the walk. He was bare-headed, and his long black hair straggled down over a pair of fierce black eyes that had a touch of wildness in them.
Catching sight of Dick he glared at the Yale man and hesitated for an instant as if he meant to stop him. Then, with a curious motion of his hands, he brushed past Merriwell and disappeared into the house.
“I’ve found a clue, pard,” Buckhart announced triumphantly, as Dick reached the car.
“What is it?”
The Texan held up a cloth cap.
“Picked it up by the side of the road,” he explained. “Find the owner of that and you’ll sure have the onery varmint who did this trick. You hear me gently warble!”
Dick took it in his hand and turned it over. The stuff was a small black and white check and was lined with gray satin. Stamped in the middle of the lining was the name of the dealer who had sold it:
“Jennings, Haberdasher,
Wilton.”
Wilton was a good-sized town they had passed through about four miles back.
“I thought he belonged around here,” Merriwell said as he rolled up the cap and stuffed it into his pocket. “Look out for a fellow without a hat, alone, in a red car of some sort, Brad. That’s all we’ve got to go by at present, but I shouldn’t wonder if it would be enough.”
He stepped into the car and started the engine, Brad sprang up beside him and they were off.
They had not gone a hundred feet when the black-haired youth rushed out of the gate to the middle of the road. His eyes flashed fire, and as he saw the car moving rapidly away from him his mouth moved and twisted convulsively as if he wanted to shout, but could not.
Then, as the touring car disappeared around a turn in the road, he clenched one fist and shook it fiercely in that direction. The next moment he was following it as hard as he could run.
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