Tom Slade's Double Dare

by Percy Keese Fitzhugh

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 top and he lay breathing in little jerks on the swampy ground.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. In another five seconds he would rise. He raised himself on one trembling arm and looked about. He brushed his soaking hair back from his eyes and looked again.

"Where—what—where—is—it—anyway?" he panted. He did not know which direction was north or south or east or west. He only knew that a dagger was sticking in his side and that he could not rise....

Yes, he could. He pulled himself together, rested a moment on his knees, staggered to his feet and looked around.

"Where—where—th—the dickens—is north?"

He turned and looked around. He looked around the other way. Nothing but desolation and darkness. He thought of what Tom had told him and, closing his eyes, opened them suddenly. The mountain must have been too near to show in outline now; it had probably melted into the general landscape. There was just an even, solid blackness all about him. The wind moaned, and somewhere, high and far off, he heard the screech of an eagle. But at least the rain did not assail him as it had done. This, however, was small comfort. He had lost, failed, and he knew it.

In pitiable despair, in the anguish of defeat, he looked about him again in every direction, as if to beseech the angry night to give him back his one little beacon, and let him only save those people if he died for it.