Tom Slades Double Dare | Page 8

now. You can't do

it, kid. But you'd better fail trying than not try at all. What do you say?"
There was no answer, for Hervey Willetts had already plunged into the
torrent, by which hazardous act ten minutes might be saved. Or
everything lost. Tom caught a glimpse of that funny perforated hat
bobbing in the rushing water of the cove, pulled tight down over its
young owner's ears. Sober as his thoughts were in the face of harrowing
peril, he could not repress a smile that Hervey should toss his life so
blithely into the enterprise and yet be careful to save that precious hat.
He was more proud of it than of all his deeds of reckless valor.
Tom knew there was no restraining him, or advising him. He knew no
more of discipline than a skylark does. He was either the best scout in
the world or no scout at all, as you choose to look at it. He was going
upon this business in reckless haste, without forethought or caution. He
would stake his life to save twenty yards of distance. There was no
discretion in his valor. Blithe young gambler that he was, he would do
the thing in his own way. No one could tell him. Tom knew the utter
futility of shouting any last warnings or instructions to him.
For Hervey Willetts was like a shot out of a rifle. With him it was a
case of hit or miss. He had no rules....
CHAPTER VI
SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT
One thing Hervey did bear in mind, and that was what Tom had told
him about how to distinguish a dark object in the dark. He would not
remember this twenty-four hours hence, but he remembered it then, and
that is saying much for him. He tried to improve upon the formula by
experimenting with his eyes cross-eyed, but it didn't work. Skirting the
lower western reach of the mountain and beyond, in the comparatively
flat country, he kept squinting away at old Crows Nest and its shadowy,
black mass guided him. "Slady's got the right dope on mountains," he
said to himself.
The race was about as Tom had said; four miles for the horses, against

a mile and a half for Hervey. Both routes were bad, Hervey's the worse
of the two. All things considered, hills, muddy roads, trackless
woodland, swampy areas, it should take the heavily loaded team a little
over an hour to reach the bridge. By Tom's calculation it must take
Hervey at least an hour and a half.
So there you are.
Going straight north, Hervey would have that dim black mass, hovering
on the verge of invisibility, to guide him. Traveling a little west of
north he might have reached the road at a nearer point. But here the
traveling was bad and the danger of getting lost greater. Tom had
weighed one thing against another and told Hervey to go straight north.
Hervey found the first half hour of his journey very difficult, picking
his way around the base of the mountain. Beyond the country was flat
and comparatively open, being mostly sparse woodland. The wind was
very keen here, since there was no mountain to break its force and the
rain blew in his face, almost blinding him.
Again and again he wiped his dripping face with his sleeve and plodded
on, picking out his beacon now and again in the darkness. It was
surprising how easy it was for him to do this by the little trick of which
Tom had told him. His eyes would just catch the mountain for a second,
then it would evaporate in the surrounding blackness, like breath on a
pane of glass.
Suddenly, something happened which quite unnerved him. He was
hurrying through a patch of woodland when, not more than ten feet
ahead of him, he was certain that he saw something dark glide from one
tree to another.
He stopped short, his heart in his mouth. The minutes, he knew, were
precious, but he could not move. The wind in the trees moaned like
some lost soul, and in his stark fear the beating of the drops on the leafy
carpet startled him. He heard these because he was standing still, and
the ceasing of his own footfalls emphasized the steady patter.
Somewhere, in all that stormy solitude and desolation, an uncanny owl

hooted its dismal song.
Hervey did not move.
It was not till he bethought him of those horses lumbering along the
road ever nearer and nearer to that trap of death that he got control of
himself and started off.
It was just the gloom of those dark woods, the play of some freakish
and deceptive shadow conjuring itself into a human presence, that