Left Tackle Thayer Part 10

"That's so," agreed Amy. "Somehow, there was something sort of sneaky about them, though, wasn't there? Bet you anything they were robbers or--or something."

"Robbers don't usually travel around the country at night in autos,"

said Clint thoughtfully. "But I felt the way you did about them, I guess. I sort of felt that it would be just as well if we didn't b.u.t.t in! One of them had a club that looked right hefty."

"Let's go out there and see if we can find anything," suggested Amy.

"All right, but I don't suppose we can even find the place in the dark."

They went out very cautiously and tramped about where it seemed that the mysterious visitors had been, and Amy even got down on hands and knees and felt over the ground. But nothing of moment rewarded their search, the only thing either of them discovered being a head-high bush into which Clint walked. At last:

"Well, this isn't much fun," said Amy. "And I'm cold clear through. Now we know where the road is, Clint, let's get on it and walk. At least it will warm us up."

"All right. I wish I knew what those fellows were up to, though. Maybe if we waited until daylight--"

"And froze to death! Nothing doing," chattered Amy. "Curiosity killed a cat, and although I don't feel exactly kittenish, I refuse to take any chances. What time do you suppose it is?"

"About midnight, I guess." Clint drew out his watch, but he couldn't even discern the outline of it. "A fellow's a fool to go without matches," he muttered disgustedly.

"Bet you it's a whole lot later than that," said Amy. "Anyway, let's get going. Which direction do you think Wharton is?"

They debated that for some time after they had reached the road, and in the end they decided that the town lay to their left, although, as Clint pointed out, the men in the automobile had gone in the opposite direction.

"They might be going to Thacher," said Amy. "Anyhow, we're bound to get somewhere in time. All I ask of Fortune is a bed and a breakfast; and I could do without the bed, I guess. Somewhere in the world, Clint there are two cups of hot coffee waiting for us. Is that not a cheering thought?"

"I wish I had mine now," replied the other s.h.i.+veringly. "I dare say we're headed in the wrong direction for Wharton."

"Say not so," exclaimed Amy, whose spirits were rapidly returning.

"Courage, faint heart! Onward to coffee!"

For awhile they speculated on the mysterious mission of the two men in the automobile, but neither of them could offer a satisfactory solution of the problem, and finally they fell silent. Fortunately the road ran fairly straight and they got off it only once. After they had been walking what seemed to them to be about an hour, although there was no way of knowing, Clint called attention to the fact that he could see the road. Amy replied that he couldn't, but in a moment decided that he could. To the left of them there was a perceptible greying of the sky.

After that morning came fast. In a few minutes they could make out dimly the forms of trees beside the way, then more distant objects became visible and, as by a miracle, the sleeping world suddenly lay before them, black and grey in the growing light. Somewhere a bird twittered and was answered. A chilling breeze crept across a field, heralding the dawn and bringing s.h.i.+vers to the boys. Soon after that they came across the first sign of life, a farm with a creaking windmill busily at work, and a light showing wanly in an upper window of the house.

"Some poor fellow is getting out of a nice, warm bed," soliloquised Amy.

"How I pity him! Can't you see him shaking his fist at the alarm-clock and s.h.i.+vering as he gets into his panties?"

"He's lucky to have a nice, warm bed," responded Clint. "If I had one it would take more than an alarm-clock to get me out of it!"

"Me too! Say, what do you think about sneaking over there to the stable and hitting the hay for a couple of hours? Maybe the chap might give us some coffee, too."

"More likely he'd set the dog on us at this time of morning," answered Clint. And, to lend weight to his objection, a challenging bark came across the field.

"Right-o," agreed Amy. "I didn't want any coffee, anyway. Isn't that a sign-post ahead?"

It was a sign-post, looming black and forbidding, like a wayside gibbet, where a second road turned to the left. "Wharton, 2 M--Levidge's Mills, 4 M--Custer, 6 M," they read with difficulty.

"We can do two miles in half an hour easily," said Amy. "Gee, I can almost smell that coffee, Clint!"

They went on in the growing light, pa.s.sing another farm-house presently and another unfriendly dog. The greyness in the east became tinged with rose. Birds sang and fluttered. A rabbit hopped nimbly across the road ahead of them and disappeared, with a taunting flick of his little white tail, in the bushes. Further on a chipmunk chattered at them from the top of the wall and then, with long leaps, raced ahead to stop and eye them inquiringly, finally disappearing with a last squeal of alarm. A second sign-post renewed their courage. Wharton, it declared, was but a mile distant. But that was a long, long last mile! They were no longer sleepy, but their legs were very tired and the chilly breeze still bored through their coats. But their journey came to an end at last.

Straggling houses appeared, houses with little gardens and truck patches about them. Then came a factory building with row on row of staring windows just catching the first faint glow of the sun. Then they crossed a railroad and plunged into the town.

But it was a silent, empty town, for this was Sunday morning, and their steps on the brick sidewalk echoed lonesomely. The awful thought that perhaps there would be no eating-place open a.s.sailed them and drew a groan of dismay from Amy. "Still," he declared, "if the worst comes to the worst, we can break a window and get taken to jail. They feed you in jail, don't they?" he added wistfully.

But near the centre of town a cheering sight met their anxious eyes. A little man in a white ap.r.o.n was sweeping the doorway of a tiny restaurant, yawning and pausing at intervals to gaze curiously toward the approaching travellers. Before they reached him, however, his curiosity either gave out or was sated, for, with a final tap of the broom against the doorway, he disappeared. "Suppose," exclaimed Amy, "he changes his mind and locks up again!" They urged tired feet to a faster pace and reached the door. On one wide window was the legend: "Cannister's Cafe." The door was closed but unlocked. They opened it and entered.

There was no one in sight, but from beyond a part.i.tion which ran across the room at the back came the cheering sounds of rattling dishes and the heartening fragrance of coffee. There were eight small tables and a little counter adorned with a cash register and a cigar case, and these, excepting an appropriate number of chairs, comprised the furnis.h.i.+ngs; unless the various signs along each wall could be included.

These announcements were printed in blue on grey card-board, and the boys, sinking into chairs at the nearest table, read them avidly: "Beef Stew, 15 Cents"; "Pork and Beans, 10 Cents"; "Boiled Rice and Milk, 10 Cents"; "Coffee and Crullers, 10 Cents"; "Oysters in Season"; "Small Steak, 30 Cents"; "Buy a Ticket--$5.00 for $4.50"; "Corn Beef Hash, 15 Cents; With 1 Poached Egg, 20 Cents."

Their eyes met and they smiled. It was pleasantly warm in the little restaurant, the sun was peeping in at the window, the odour of coffee was more delightful than anything they had ever inhaled and it was extremely good to stretch tired legs and ease aching muscles, and for several minutes they were content to sit there and feast their hungry eyes on the placards and enjoy in antic.i.p.ation the cheer that was to follow.

"What are you going to have?" asked Amy presently.

"Beans and a lot of bread-and-b.u.t.ter and seventy-five cups of coffee,"

replied Clint rapturously.

"Corned beef hash for mine. And a lot more coffee than that. Say, why doesn't he come?"

Evidently the proprietor had drowned the sound of their entrance with the rattle of dishes, for the swinging door in the part.i.tion remained closed and the little ledged window beside it showed only a dim vista of hanging pots and saucepans. Amy rapped a knife against the edge of a gla.s.s and the noise at the rear ceased abruptly, the door swung open and the man in the enveloping white ap.r.o.n viewed them in surprise. He was a bald-headed, pink-faced little man with a pair of contemplative blue eyes.

"Morning, boys," he said. "I didn't hear you come in. Don't usually get customers till most seven on Sundays. Want something to eat?"

"Yes, can we have something pretty quick?" asked Clint. "We're nearly starved."

"Well, I ain't got anything cooked, but the fire's coming up fast and it won't take long. What would you want?"

They made known their wishes and the little man leisurely vanished again. A clock above the counter announced the time to be twenty-five minutes to seven.

"We might have got him to bring us some coffee now," said Amy.

"I'd rather wait until I get my breakfast," Clint replied. "I wonder when we get a train for Brimfield. I reckon they don't run very often on Sundays."

"Maybe this chap can tell us. We'll ask him when he comes back."

Other and delicious odours mingled with the coffee fragrance, and a promising sound of sizzling reached them. "That," said Amy, settling back luxuriously and patting his waistcoat, "is my corned beef hash. I sort of wish I'd ordered an egg with it. Or, maybe, two eggs. Guess I will. Some crullers would taste pretty good, wouldn't they?"

"Anything would taste good," agreed Clint longingly.

Ten minutes pa.s.sed and the door opened to admit another customer. After that they drifted in by ones and twos quite fast. The boys gathered that the newcomers were men employed at the railway yards nearby, and presently Amy questioned one who was reading a paper at the next table.

"Can you tell us when we can get a train for Brimfield?" he asked.

"Brimfield? Yes, there's one at seven-twelve and one at nine-forty-six."

"I guess we couldn't get the seven-twelve," said Amy, glancing at the clock. "The other would be all right."

"I ain't sure if that one stops at Brimfield, though. Say, Pete, does the nine-forty-six stop at Brimfield?"

"No," replied a man at another table. "Express to New York."