CHAPTER XXI.
TWELVE HUNDRED MILES AWHEEL TO COLLEGE.
The academy reopened with some new pupils and many old ones. John shook hands with his few friends, glad to get back, and, with firm determination to carry out the purpose that now possessed him, started to work.
Professor Marston kept his word about the winter job, and John was duly installed as janitor of the building, with opportunity to make extra pay by sawing wood and doing errands.
He was fully occupied, as may well be imagined, and poor Lightning, though sure of good care, missed the companionship that both he and his master delighted in. John foresaw that he would not be able to keep the horse, and he finally decided what to do with him. He would give him his freedom.
One day the boy took him out on the prairie some distance from the town.
"Lite, old boy," he began, rubbing his nose and patting him, "we've had good and bad times together, and we've been good friends, but we've got to separate now."
He took off the saddle and bridle: "Take care of yourself, old boy."
The horse looked at him a moment inquiringly; then curvetted around a minute in high glee; but as he saw his much-loved master leaving him he turned and followed, refusing to be cast off. "Go back, Lite," John commanded, waving his hat to scare him. "Go back!" But the little horse refused to leave him, and followed him back to town, where he was taken in and petted again. John was touched to the heart by this loyalty and affection.
Next day a stableman took him out among the range horses and dismissed him. This time he stayed, and John never saw or heard of him afterward.
That was a wrench.
Lightning gone, John allowed himself no pleasures, but instead took every bit of work that came his way, whether it yielded money or knowledge.
He joined the Debating Society and made it a duty to do his best when called upon. Toward spring, as wood sawing became scarce, he took to delivering morning papers to the more distant parts of town; and in order to do this more quickly he hired an old bicycle, learned to ride it, and made his rounds just after daybreak on that. So he was able to get back to the school house and study a while before opening up.
"I don't see how you do it all, Worth," said Professor Marston.
"Well, I couldn't, I guess, if I didn't have a big stake to work for. If I keep my present school work up and study this summer I'll get into college this fall," and John told him of the offer Sherman had made him.
"I hope your friend won't forget," the Professor suggested, fearing that his pupil was building high hopes on an insecure foundation.
"He won't forget; he's not that kind."
"I hope not; but how are you going to get there? It's a long way."
John looked up quickly: he had not thought of that before. It was a serious question.
"I don't know; but I'll get there somehow." He spoke confidently but he was much perplexed, for he was without money, his clothes were threadbare, and it was a necessity to study all summer, with no chance to earn money. It was certainly a question that could not be answered offhand. He studied over this matter for days and no solution presented itself. Borrow he might, but this he would not do without giving security, and of security he had none. He left it for a while, hoping to be able to think of a way out of the difficulty later.
Before he realized it Commencement had arrived, and with it the open meeting of the Debating Society at the Opera House. To his astonishment he found that he was appointed one of the two orators of the occasion. In vain he protested that he was busy, that he was unfitted; he had to accept. "Orator—Opera House—Me!" he fairly gasped with astonishment. He was rather worried about it, but Gray, whom he consulted that night, reassured him.
"Don't worry, anyhow," he advised. "Take a subject you're interested in, write out what you think about it, boil it down so you can repeat it in twenty minutes, then memorize it."
John also consulted Beeman, the other orator, who said he was going to speak about the Chinese Question.
"Against them," he said, in answer to the other's sharply put query. "That's the only way to please a crowd—take the popular side."
"Well, I'm going to take the side I want, and I'll tell 'em what I think about it, too," said John vehemently, his spirit thoroughly roused.
"Go ahead," said Beeman, visions floating before him of an opportunity to hurl his thunders at a definite champion (and an inexperienced one) of an unpopular cause.
THE SUN RIVER RANCH HOUSE. (Page 241.)
John set to work on his speech with his usual eagerness and energy. His heart was in it, and the prospect of a contest of wit or muscle always stirred him. He wrote, rewrote, cut down, filled in and polished until Gray, his friend and critic, pronounced it "good stuff."
In the meantime, he not only kept at work at his studies, his duties as janitor and paper boy, but he was at work at something else that he thought might prove most important.
At a half-mile race track, a little distance out, a very early rising citizen, if he happened to be in that vicinity at daybreak, would have wondered greatly to see a half-clad figure on an old bicycle go flying round and round the track. If, overcome by curiosity, he had waited a while, he would have seen the same figure, neatly clothed, appear from under the grand stand carrying a bundle of papers under his arm. Then if he watched he would see him mount an old bicycle and ride off. But this performance took place so very early that no one witnessed it.
At last the day of the Debating Society's open meeting came—the day on which John was to make his first public appearance. His speech was complete, memorized, and ready for delivery. He spouted it for the last time to Gray, who put the stamp of his approval on it and advised him to forget it all till the time came to speak.
The Opera House was crowded when John and Gray reached it, for the town's people took great interest in its institutions, and of these the academy was one of the most important.
John looked out from the wings on the sea of upturned faces, appalled.
Beeman came first. He went out before the audience, cool, self-possessed, graceful, and delivered his oration smoothly, forcibly, and well. He chose the popular side, and the audience rewarded him with generous applause.
Then John heard the chairman announce, "Oration by John Worth."
He walked out from the dimness of the flies into the full glare of the brightly lighted stage, bewildered, and, without any preliminaries, began:
"In the history of every country, however just, however good or great, there are certain pages besmirched by the record of black deeds of wrong."
So his carefully written, carefully memorized speech began. As he stood before his audience he saw nothing but the pages of his manuscript: he felt that he must keep his mind on them or he would be lost. He followed down the first page, mentally turned it over, and began the second. Beeman had touched a point on the second page, and treated it in a ridiculous way, he thought. His concentration was broken, and he began to fear for the first time that his memory would fail. A dozen lines down the second page he faltered, stopped, and stood riveted, miserable. The few moments' pause seemed endless. He tried to think of the next line, next page, anything; in vain, it was all a blank. The pile of manuscript, a minute ago so clearly before his mind's eye, had vanished, and he stood staring at the crowd before him. Some one behind tried to prompt him; it brought him to life. Beeman's fallacies had incensed him; he'd tell them so, and in no uncertain way. With a whole-arm gesture he mentally cast away his carefully prepared speech.
"It's wrong! All wrong!" he said intensely, and with conviction in his tones. His own voice electrified him. His first few sentences were mere bursts of indignation, his tongue went on of its own volition, it could scarcely give utterance to his stirred feelings. As he went on, his emotions grew more quiet but none the less earnest. Constant yodelling to cattle for years had given him a voice which carried to the farthest corner of the building. He had carefully studied his subject, and now that he had regained his nerve he spoke his mind with enthusiasm and vigor. His arguments were well chosen and his language terse and to the point. Stimulated by excitement, new ideas came, and he uttered them with a confidence that afterward amazed even himself. Parts of his own prepared oration came back to him and he spoke it as if it was impromptu, with force and freedom.
The time had come to stop, and without a pause he launched out on his original peroration with the ease, confidence, and fire of a veteran orator. The closing sentence rang out clear and strong: "Men and women of America, let us wipe out the blot from this page of our country's history and make her in truth the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave."
His speech over, John stumbled, rather than walked, off the stage to the street. The reaction was great. He did not hear the applause, the cheering; he did not know that he had aroused the enthusiasm of people naturally prejudiced against his side of the question.
John went straight to his room and to bed, but not to sleep—his nervous tension would not allow that. The thing uppermost in his mind, the thing that worried him, was that he had forgotten his speech—the speech he had so carefully prepared and learned by heart.
The papers had to be delivered in the morning, however, and a certain self-imposed engagement at the racetrack kept, so he was up betimes.
After these two duties were finished, he rode down the street to discover if possible the depths of ignominy to which he had been brought by forgetting his speech. The idea that he had disgraced himself still clung to him. Two fellows appeared right away, and before John could voice his greeting they called out: "Say, Worth, you just ate Beeman up last night. Are you sure you wrote it yourself?"
"He doesn't know that I forgot it," thought John, who hesitated a minute before he answered aloud: "Of course, it was all my own."
"Well, it was a rattling good speech, anyhow."
John thanked him, and then the talk drifted to the games to be held next day, and to the bicycle race especially, where the winner would receive a brand new up-to-date bicycle as a prize.
"That's going to be a hot old race," said Searles, one of the two students. "Every pedal kicker in town is after that new wheel."
"Yes, that's a prize worth riding for," and John had a look in his eyes that Searles did not understand till later.
Several times that day persons of various degrees of importance—among them Mr. Haynes, the financial and political corner-stone of the community—stopped John, called him by name, and chatted pleasantly with him. Mr. Haynes said that he was a credit to the school and the town. So John's self-respect began to come back. His good fortune was dawning, now that he was making preparations to leave it all.
Field day came clear and beautiful, and the crowd came en masse to see the sports. A series of well-advertised events were to be run, the climax of which was the one-mile bicycle race. The prize wheel had stood labelled in the donor's window for a week, and every wheelman and boy in the neighborhood had gazed at and coveted it.
The early events were well contested, and worked the spectators up to a fever heat of interest. By the time the bicycle race was announced the crowd was wildly enthusiastic. Discussions as to the probable winner were rife.
"There's none of them that'll beat Tucker," said one. "He'll have a walk-over."
"He won't walk over Bolton," declared another.
And so it went, till the contestants appeared on the track. Tucker and Bolton were the favorites.
As the men lined up at the stake some one remarked: "Why, there's Worth, with the old bike, too. He's the fellow that made the speech. I thought he had more sense than to go out with that old rattle-trap."
"They're off!" The shout went up as the starter's pistol cracked.
Tucker jumped to the front, and everybody cheered him; but Bolton was near, and as the riders passed the stand for the first time it was seen that he was close behind. Following Bolton's rear wheel closely was a strange rider on an old wheel, whom the crowd did not recognize at first.
"By George! It's Worth," said a student, surprised. The men swept by, closely bunched, their wheels rattling, their legs going like pistons, and the bodies of some swaying as they exerted themselves to the utmost to keep up.
"Bolton's going past. He's leading!" And the speaker jumped up and down in his excitement. But John clung to the leader's rear wheel and went with him. Faster and faster they raced, past Tucker, opening a big gap between the bunch. Bolton was riding for glory, but John was riding for something besides glory: his success meant position, standing, a great opportunity, a future.
A hundred feet from the finishing tape he bent his head and made a tremendous effort. Early morning training stood him in good stead now, for he began to gain on Bolton, and inch by inch to pass him. The old machine groaned alarmingly, but it stood up to its work in spite of its protests. Twenty feet from the finish John seemed to leap forward, and crossed the tape just ahead of the laboring Bolton.
The crowd was rather disappointed to see its favorites beaten, but applauded the winner generously as he went up to the judge's stand to receive his shining prize.
Gray was the first man to wring his hand; his was an honest, unfeigned, glad congratulation.
"Say, Gray," said John, "you ride her home. I want a farewell ride on this old wheel. I pull out to-morrow."
"What!" ejaculated Gray in astonishment.
"Yes, that's what I wanted that wheel for. I straddle it to-morrow and go East. I haven't said anything about the plan, for I wasn't sure the wheel would be mine."
"Did you expect to win?" Gray asked.
"I've trained a month. That's what gave me the wind to finish so strong. You see my plans need transportation East. I had to win—I'm going to ride that wheel to college."
That evening John bade the Marstons good-by. They tried to dissuade him from going; they pictured the career that was open to him in the town where he had made friends and had gained a reputation, but his mind was made up, and though he was touched by their kindness, go he must.
"I don't like to have you leave," said the Professor. "You'll be thrown into circumstances unlike any you have ever met before. But I know that you can adapt yourself to new conditions, and for that reason it may be best for you while your mind is growing. You will never forget the West, but I feel sure you will not leave the East, once you are settled there. Good-by, my boy, and God bless you."
John never forgot the kind parting words nor Professor Marston's always considerate treatment.
The two friends, Worth and Gray, talked long and earnestly that night and it was late when they retired, but at daybreak they were stirring. John ate a deliberate breakfast, strapped a few necessaries to his wheel, bade his friend a sincere farewell, and rode off.
He pedalled on in the crisp morning air till he reached a high point, where he dismounted and took a long look at the town where he had struggled so hard, but which was the scene of his triumph as well as his trials. His satisfaction was mixed with regret, for he left behind good, true friends and a known esteem, for—he knew not what. The town lay in the hazy valley below, morning smoke-wreaths now curling from many chimneys, the gray shingle roofs embedded in dark-green foliage; it was a scene of contentment and rest. He contrasted this with other scenes, active, restless, hazardous ones; the cattle range, the sheep camp, and the mine. The thought of his home was not so clear as the later scenes, though he had visited it during his stay at school. He had found Ben an almost grown-up, vigorous, business-like ranchman, glad to see his brother, but interested in his own affairs; not the same old boyish Ben of old.
It was with real regret that he turned and left the town that had in a way been a cradle and a home to him.
He mounted his wheel and sped down the slope—Eastward.
Day after day the traveller pushed on, following the windings of the roads now where formerly he would have ridden his horse as the crow flies.
Seventy miles a day. Eighty miles a day. Population increased; roads were better, ninety miles a day. His training for racing stood him in good stead. One hundred miles a day; his face always turned Eastward.
Rains came; the roads became rivers of mud. He was driven to the drier railroad track and jolted along over the ties. Sixty miles a day. The end not yet in sight, money exhausted, prospects not very cheerful; but with resolution undaunted he pushed along. A brickyard afforded temporary work. Five dollars earned, he "hit the trail" again.
Midday was fiercely hot; he took advantage of the cool mornings, and by twilight pedalled continuously. Wide swamps intervened. Insects, stingingly vicious, beset him. The sand along the river banks was heart-breaking to a wheelman and the mountains formed almost unsurmountable barriers. People he met misdirected or were ignorant, and he often went far out of his way.
But the goal was sighted at last. The day he reached Sherman's town he made one hundred and twenty miles and rode up the main street a sorry specimen—tired, dirty, tanned leather color by sun, wind, and rain.
His plans were fully made. The wheel was pawned at once, and two hours later John Worth emerged from a little hotel, bathed, shaved, and neatly clothed.
The address of his friend written for him was made nearly illegible by friction, sweat, and dirt. But by the aid of a friendly policeman he was able to find Sherman's house. He rang the bell, was admitted promptly by a neat maid, and ushered into a sumptuously furnished parlor, the like of which he had never seen before. The chair that he at last dared to use was soft and luxurious, and the journey had wearied him so that he was just about dropping off to sleep when Sherman entered.
"How do you do, sir?" Sherman's greeting was rather formal. "What can I do for you?"
At the sound of his voice John started to his feet with a jump.
"Don't you know me, Sherman?" he said.
"You—you can't be John Worth? Why, bless my heart, is it really you?" cried Sherman.
In an instant the one idea that had sustained him through the trying hours and apparently endless miles of his journey came to John's mind.
"Yes," he said, the light of triumph in his eyes. "I'm John Worth. And I've come to college."
