Tom Slades Double Dare | Page 9

"Who are you?"
"Did you hear some one scream?" the stranger asked.
"Scream? No. It was the wind, I guess. Are you lost, or what?"
"I want to get out of here, that's all," the young man said. "This place is full of children screaming. Did you ever kill anybody?"
"No," said Hervey, somewhat agitated.
The stranger placed a trembling hand on Hervey's shoulder. "Do you know a person can scream after he's dead?" he said.
"I don't know," said Hervey, somewhat alarmed and not knowing what to say. "Anyway, I have to hurry; it's up to me to save some people's lives. There's a bridge washed away along the road."
He did not wait longer to talk with this singular stranger, but thoughts of the encounter lingered in his mind, particularly the young fellow's speech about dead people and children screaming. As he hurried on, Hervey concluded that the stranger was demented and had probably wandered away from some village in the neighborhood. He had reason later to recall this encounter, but he soon forgot it in the more urgent matter of reaching the road.
He had now about half a mile of level country to traverse, consisting of fields separated by stone walls. The land was soggy, and here and there in the lower places were areas of water. These he would not take the time to go around, but plunged through them, often going knee deep into the marshy bottom. It was sometimes with difficulty that he was able to extricate his leg from these soggy entanglements.
But he no longer needed the uncertain outline of that black mass amid the surrounding blackness to guide him, for now the cheerful lights of an isolated house upon the road shone in the distance. There was the road, sure enough, though he could not see it.
"That's what Slady calls deduction," he panted, as he trudged on, running when he could, and dragging his heavy, mud-bedraggled feet out of the mire every dozen steps or so. Over a stone wall he went and scrambled to his feet and hastened on.
The lights in the house cheered and guided him and he made straight for this indubitable beacon. "Mountains are all--all right," he panted, "but kerosene lamps--for--for--mine. I hope that--bunch--doesn't go to--bed." His heart was pounding and he had a cruel stitch in his side from running, which pained him excruciatingly when he ran fast. He tried scout pace but it didn't work; he was not much of a hand for that kind of thing. "It's--it's--all--right when--you're running through--the--handbook," he said, "but--but...."
Over another stone wall he went, tearing a great gash in his trousers, exposing the limb to rain and wind. The ground was better for a space and he ran desperately. Every breath he drew pained him, now and again he staggered slightly, but he kept his feet and plunged frantically on.
Then one of the lights in the house went out. Then another. There was only one now. "That's--that's--what--it means for--for--people to--to go to--to bed early," he panted with difficulty. "I--I always--said----" He had not the breath to finish, but it is undoubtedly true that he had always been a staunch advocate of remaining up all night.
He fixed his eyes upon the one remaining light and ran with utter desperation. His breathing was spasmodic, he reeled, pulled himself together by sheer will, and stumbled on. On the next stone wall he made a momentary concession to his exhaustion and paused just a moment, holding his aching side.
Then he was off again, running like mad. The single little light seemed twinkling and hazy and he brushed his streaming face with his sleeve so that he might see it the more clearly. But it looked dull, more like a little patch of brightness than a shining light. Either it was failing, or he was.
He had to hold his stinging side and gulp for every breath he drew, but he ran with all his might and main. He was too spent and dizzy to keep his direction without that distant light, and he knew it. He was not Tom Slade to be sure of himself in complete darkness. He was giddy--on the verge of collapse. The bee-line of his course loosened and became erratic. But if his legs were weakening his will was strong, and he staggered, reeled, ran.
On, on, on, he sped, falling forward now, rather than running, but keeping his feet by the sheer power of his will. His heart seemed up in his mouth and choking him. With one hand he grasped the flying shred of his torn trousers and tried to wipe the blood from the cut in his leg. Thus for just a second his progress was impeded.
That was the last straw. The trifling movement lost him his balance, his exhausted and convulsed body went round like a