Ann Arbor Tales

by Karl Edwin Harriman

Such was the weird spot to which Norse, independent freshman, skated, one freezing night, on the crust of that famous winter, to save a friend from the hands of the enemy.

At the bottom of the hill he stopped to reconnoitre. The blue-black of the heavens seemed strangely less dense above the house. Now and then a weird shimmer passed back and forth across the ragged wall. No light shone anywhere. Several of the windows gaped black, like open mouths, waiting to devour. Others were boarded. Up the path from the gate the door careened on one rotting hinge. In the summer this path was a shallow of tangled weeds, but now the crust lay level across it.

Norse advanced stealthily to the open door. The silence was thick. He removed his skates and tiptoed within. A breath of wind whistled through the warped clap-boards and the old house sighed. Tumbling stairs led to the floor above. Stooping, and feeling the steps ahead of him, he ascended.

At the top of the flight he struck a match, shielding the flame with his curved palm. In the faint illumination he perceived the second story to consist of two connecting rooms of unequal size with the larger at the front. Against the rear wall of the back room stood an old bin, at one time probably used for storing grain. In the corner of the front room was an oil stove; near it, a can. Lighting another match Norse deposited the satchel and his skates in the bin and tested the cover. The hinges did not creak and seemed firm. He looked at his watch. It was half-past seven.

He went into the front room and crouching, peered through a crack between the boards of the window. As far as he could see in either direction the road was deserted. A pale moon was rising behind black clouds.

In all probability Kerwin would be accompanied by two—possibly three—kidnappers. He would be bound, of course, and, more than likely, gagged. His guard would observe the greatest care. He would not be misused.

Norse ceased procrastinating. He realized that in one hour the representative freshmen would be gathering around the banquet board, spread in Nickels Hall on State Street, away back in town. Undetermined as to the means of accomplishment he was none the less conscious of the work that lay before him. It rested with him—with him, alone—to produce the toastmaster at the banquet, if not at its beginning, in time, at least, to announce the first toast....

He heard a slight scraping noise outside and crouching peered through the crack again. That instant the thin moon mounted the bank of clouds and cast a ghostly light upon the scene.

A hack on runners had drawn up at the gate. The door was opened from within and two men alighted. One of them stood at the step while the other held a whispered conversation with the driver; then, with his companion, he helped a third man out of the carriage. The hack drew away at once, turned and started back in the direction of town.

The young man at the window could not distinguish the features of the two men supporting a third between them who seemed to be hobbled, for the brims of their hats were pulled low over their faces. Save for the slight crunch as the trio advanced toward the house there was no sound. Norse tiptoed back into the smaller room. He held out his arms and his fingers touched the corner of the grain-bin. He heard footsteps that advanced, then stopped, on the floor below. He heard the crack of a match as it was struck. He lifted the cover of the bin carefully, threw one leg over the edge, felt the floor under his foot, drew the other leg after him, and sank, lowering the lid as he did so, like a trap-door.