“I’m going to ride on the back seat between you,” she called.
Mr. Eliot beamed on the boys. “You pulled out of that game pretty well, Roger,” he said. “I saw only the last of it, for I couldn’t get here sooner. I thought you were done for, son, but Ben saved you with that great run. That was really what won the game, as it gave you a chance to make the touchdown you needed.”
Roger’s father had called Ben by his Christian name, and Stone felt his heart swell. Seated in the tonneau of the automobile with Amy beside him, he was borne out of Clearport and away over the brown, winding road that led to Oakdale. Often he had longed to ride in an automobile and wondered if he would ever have the privilege. The sensation of gliding softly along as he lay back against the tufted leather cushions brought him a feeling of great satisfaction and peace. The sun, peeping redly over the western rim of the world, smiled upon him, and nowhere in all the sky was there a cloud, even as large as a man’s hand.
Amy talked gaily; she told how excited she had been as she watched Ben running with the ball, and, although she did not understand the game, she knew he had done a splendid thing.
“It would have been a frightful calamity for us if you had been knocked out at the finish of the first half, Ben,” said Roger. “I was afraid of it, and we never could have won that game without you.”
Stone recalled his suspicions, and a shadow fell athwart his face, but his lips remained silent. If Hayden had really perpetrated that foul trick, he had failed in his purpose, and Ben, triumphant, had no desire to speak of it.
A soft, tingling, cold twilight came on with the setting of the sun. At their bases the distant hills were veiled in a filmy haze of blue. The engine beneath the hood of the car purred softly as it bore them over the road with the power of fifty horses. As, with a mellow warning note of the horn, they swept around a gentle curve, they came upon a small, dusty human figure trudging slowly in the direction they were traveling. It was a boy, ahead of whom trotted a little yellow dog, held by a line attached to its collar. Over the back of the little lad a violin was swung by supporting strings.
The dog turned aside, pulling at the line, and the boy followed him, as if led and guided in this manner.
Ben Stone uttered a sudden shout. “Stop,” he cried wildly—“stop quickly! Please stop!”
“Stop, Sullivan,” commanded Mr. Eliot; and the chauffeur responded by bringing the car to a standstill as soon as possible. Even before the wheels ceased to revolve Stone had vaulted over the side door of the tonneau and was running back toward the boy they had passed. “Jerry!” he called. “Jerry! Jerry!”