CHAPTER IX
SAVED BY A JAP TRICK
The force of Phil’s fall had stunned him into complete unconsciousness. He lay there for several moments, and the force of the rain beating on his face was evidently what revived him. He raised himself to a sitting posture and stared about him. Then his gradually dawning consciousness became complete and he remembered his falling.
He felt the back of his head, expecting to find that he had cut it badly, and was surprised to find there was nothing but a bad lump.
Phil figured that his heavy scout hat had somewhat broken the force of the blow. He felt of the bump gingerly, for it was as sore as a burn. Then he started to get on his feet, and groaned when the weight of his body bore down on his right foot.
He sat down again quickly and unlaced his shoe-pack.
A quick examination told him he had either sprained it, or at the least badly strained the ankle. Snatching a handkerchief from his pocket, he tore it into wide strips, and seeing that there was a puddle of water in a depression near him, soaked the strips in this, and then tightly bound the ankle, which was beginning to swell since the support of the shoe-pack had been removed.
Phil pulled the bandaging as tight as he could bear, clenching his teeth as sharp twinges of pain ran through his ankle and leg. Then he put his shoe-pack on again, lacing it tightly as he could.
Another try at standing proved to be little more successful than the first. He knew that it would be foolish to attempt to walk on it, for that would delay its recovery, and this was a time of all times when he did not want to be laid up.
Phil knew that he had to get home somehow, and yet he was a good ten miles, perhaps a trifle more, from home. How to get there was the question. Then he bethought himself of something.
He dragged himself to where he saw a sturdy sapling with a forked branch on it. Taking his knife, he whittled away laboriously at the bottom until he had cut it down. He had judged what would be the proper distance from his arm pit to the ground, and began to cut there. Then he whittled off the extra branches at the fork, leaving about four inches of each fork projecting. In this way Phil had fashioned a crutch for himself.
Using the crutch and hopping along on his one good foot, he searched until he found a mate for it, and after a few minutes more of work, had a serviceable if not comfortable and handsome pair of crutches. He then tore strips from the bottom of his shirt, and with these padded the forks as well as he could so that they would not chafe his armpits too severely. By this time the rain had stopped, and Phil decided that he would strike out for home immediately.
He had no idea how long it would take him to get home, but judged that it would be several hours, as he would be lucky if he could make two miles an hour with the crutches. After he had gotten the knack of using the crutches, he made better time, and after five miles of laborious and painful walking along the uneven bed of the railroad, he came to a pathway across the tracks that led up over the bank.
Phil decided to investigate this a bit, and getting up on the bank saw that the path widened considerably; at least he figured that it did, since it was too dark to see very plainly. He thought that it might lead to some house, and decided he might as well take enough time to follow it a little distance.
He was glad a few minutes later that he had decided thus, for he saw a light gleaming a few rods away. He hastened his steps, and came to a small cottage.
He banged at the door, which was thrown open, and a man stood there with an oil lamp in his hand. Phil explained the situation to him, saying that he had had a fall and sprained his ankle.
The cottager’s wife had followed her husband to the door, and when she saw the wet, bedraggled looking boy standing there, immediately invited him in, and soon Phil was enjoying the warmth of the fire.
He found out that the cottager was engaged in cutting cordwood, for that section was hard wood, rather than the usual spruce, hemlock and pine.
“I wonder if there is any way that I could get back to town,” said Phil. “It is important that I get there, as my friends will be worrying about me. I would be glad to pay for the trouble.”
“I’ve a horse and cart that I use to haul cordwood in, but it’s pretty late tonight. Hadn’t you better plan to stay here for the night and let me take you in the morning?”
Phil noticed that the cottager was reluctant to go out, and immediately made an attractive offer for the drive, provided they could start out immediately.
“Where you staying in town?” asked the man.
“At a Mrs. Drysdale’s. She’s generally known as Aunt Abbie in town, though, I guess.”
“Well, well, that’s a different matter altogether,” said the cottager. “Aunt Abbie is kin to my wife, and she’d raise fits if she found that a friend of hers wasn’t obliged in any way possible. I’ll hitch up the horse while Mother makes you a cup of hot coffee, and you dry out a little, and then I’ll have you there in no time at all.”
This was absolutely to Phil’s liking, and he waited for the coffee to be made. When it was ready he drank it gratefully, for the rain had drenched him to the skin and chilled him completely.
On the way into town the cottager, whose name Phil learned was Lorimer, asked several questions about Phil, but none that caused Phil to have to be evasive in answering.
At Aunt Abbie’s, he was ordered straight off to bed, and only Phil’s violent protestations kept her from sending for the doctor.
“Where’s Dick?” asked Phil.
“He went gallivanting off on something he said was important business nearly two hours ago, and hasn’t come back yet. My goodness, for boys like you, you seem to have a lot to do in the dead o’ the night; but I guess it’s all right, it’s in a good cause,” remarked Aunt Abbie in a doubtful tone. “My, these last few nights I’ve been staying up till all hours. Such excitement!”
She had no sooner finished speaking when there was a knock at the door, and she went to open and admitted Dick.
The chums greeted each other heartily, and quizzed each other as to developments during their respective missions.
Dick’s news was received with astonishment by all present, and he was warmly congratulated for his part in the successful night, although he modestly disclaimed having done such a great deal.
“I certainly am glad to see that Green again under lock and key,” said Mr. Everett. “I can’t help but think he is the one who is at the bottom of my misfortune; that is the threatening letters and then the burning down of my house. That leaves very few of that gang at large, now, doesn’t it?”
“Just Jean LeBlanc, and he hasn’t much farther to go,” said Phil.
“You forget one other, Phil,” put in Dick, “and that reminds me to tell you that I think I know who did the rattlesnake trick. I developed and printed the picture that was caught by the camera trap, and found that it was Jean’s brother, Baptiste.”
“I’d forgotten all about him, to tell you the truth,” said Phil. “Well, if we can get one, the other cannot be far away. Now let’s off to bed. With the wetting and this uncomfortable ankle, I am pretty tired.”
“Yes, it’s way beyond bedtime. All we can do now is wait for the morrow and pray that good news will come with it,” said Mr. Everett.
Phil had purposely said nothing of the startling disclosures made by his afternoon’s work, but waited until he and Dick had gone to their bedroom. There, as he undressed and rebound his ankle, he told Dick of the treachery on the part of Simmons.
“I waited until I could come and advise with you on the subject,” said Phil. “I thought at first of going on to Coldenham, when my fall put an end to that, and the best thing to do then seemed to be to come back.”
“I hardly know what to advise,” returned Dick. “I wish that Garry were here, so we could put the matter up to him. I should say, though, that action was needed. Now the sheriff is a sensible man, and so I move that we put it up to him. We can see him in the morning, that is we can if your ankle is better, if not I’ll go alone, and bring him here. Then we can follow his advice.”
“Yes, and there’s one other thing we can have him do. He probably knows how to take a fingerprint and he can take Lafe’s and those of the tramps, and while we are not experts, they are plain enough so that we can tell with a bit of study whether or not they compare with the one on the letter.”
“Well, that’s that, then. I’m going to turn in,” remarked Dick, smothering a yawn.
“Same here. Goodnight,” answered Phil.
They had hardly gotten into bed, however, before there came a knock at their door, and they heard Aunt Abbie.
“There’s a Frenchman just came to the door and says he has a message for you from Garry,” she announced.
“I’ll be right down, tell him,” said Dick, hopping out of bed as he spoke; and reaching for his clothes, started to dress.
Dick dressed hastily and went to the front door. When he opened it, he could see no one, and stepped down onto the walk to look about.
He had barely done so, when he was seized by the arm by someone who stepped out of the shrubbery that lined the walk.
“Come on,” said the man in French, and a second appeared in his wake.
Dick recognized the voice. It was that of Baptiste LeBlanc.
Certain capture stared Dick in the face. To call for help would be of no avail, for there was no one that could come to his aid quickly. He thought swiftly and then acted.
Once upon a time, during their school year, a Japanese boy had lived for a time in Colfax, the home town of the boys, and was the marvel of the town for his ability at jiu jitsu, the Japanese art of wrestling. He had taught many of the boys some of the simpler tricks of judo, as the art is often called, and now Dick remembered these.
Snapping back with his foot, the heel of his heavy shoe-pack caught the man standing in back of him square on the shin.
Then when the other had come near him, he used one of the holds taught him by the son of Nippon, and sent the other flying.
The beauty of the art of jiu jitsu is that weight and size of the opponent are never taken into consideration. Knowing the proper method, a girl of sixteen can throw a full-grown man several feet.
As everyone knows who has ever experienced it, there are few things that hurt any more than a well-directed blow on the shin. The force of the one dealt Dick’s capturer was sufficient to make him groan with pain, and loose his hold on the boy’s arm.
Free of his captors, Dick figured that discretion was the better part of valor in this case, and darted back into the house, slamming the door shut, and turning the key in the lock. Then he reached for his rifle and went to the front window and saw the pair sneaking off down the road.
“What was it?” asked Phil speedily.
“Nothing much; just Baptiste LeBlanc is on the trail of yours truly.”