CHAPTER IX.
A STRUGGLE IN THE DARK.
Straight from Wolf’s Head Point to the club-rooms Don Scott had come, with a determination to have a talk with Sterndale, express his regret at what had happened that day on the football field and apologize to Renwood, if absolutely necessary. This he was resolved to do for his father’s sake, not wishing to cause the doctor further worry and distress on his account.
By chance he had arrived at the club-room just in time to hear Renwood denounce him as hot-headed and declare they could not both get along on the eleven.
Don left the place in no enviable frame of mind, at once turning his face toward home.
“It’s no use for me to try!” he muttered, furiously. “I can’t have anything to do with that fellow, even for father’s sake. I did think I would, though it was a bitter pill to swallow, but I give it up now. To-morrow I’ll tell father everything, and I don’t see how he can blame me very much.”
When he reached home, he found his aunt had something on the table for him to eat, and she urged him to sit down. The doctor had been called out on a critical case, not a little to Don’s relief, for the boy feared his father might question him.
Don did not wish to eat anything even then, but his aunt was persistent, and he sat down to please her.
“What can be the matter with you, Don?” the good woman asked, watching him closely. “You’re awful pale, and your hand shakes. I’m afraid you’re going to be sick.”
He forced a laugh, difficult though it was to do so, and did his best to reassure her, though he could not fully allay her anxiety. It was with no small difficulty that he compelled himself to eat anything, for anger had robbed him entirely of his appetite.
As soon as he could get away, he hurried up to his room, where he paced the floor for a time, thinking unpleasant thoughts and muttering to himself.
“I said I was done with the whole of them,” he grated, “and now I’ll stick by it. Of course I know Sterndale will stand by Renwood. Oh, they’re a fine set!”
He opened the closet door and dragged out his football suit.
“This belongs to the club,” he said, “for it was paid for out of the general funds. I won’t keep it another hour. My clothes are in the dressing-room under the grand-stand, but I have a key to the lock. I’ll take this old suit back and get my own clothes.”
He made a bundle of the football suit, and, with it under his arm, slipped downstairs and out of the house.
Hurrying up the street, he climbed Academy Hill once more that day. The night was quite dark, for the moon had not yet risen. It was rather cool, too; but the boy minded this not, for his blood was running swiftly in his body.
Reaching the ball ground, he opened the gate and entered. With noiseless steps, he advanced toward the grand-stand. As he approached it, he suddenly stopped, fancying he heard a strange sound. After a moment, however, he advanced to the door of the dressing-room.
To his surprise, the door was standing wide open. He paused again, wondering at this, for it was a rule to keep the door locked.
“A piece of carelessness!” he thought. “Somebody ought to be shot for it! Why, there’s plenty of stuff here that might be stolen. Somebody might have taken my clothes.”
He was startled by the thought. Perhaps somebody had been there and carried away his clothes, leaving the door standing open. With a little cry of dismay, he sprang into the dressing-room, intending to light a match and look about.
In the darkness he collided violently against a human form, which caused him to reel backward.
Some one was in the dressing-room!
Don heard a smothered exclamation, and then the unknown attempted to dart past him and escape by the open door.
Quick as thought, Don dropped the football suit and clutched at the unseen figure, crying:
“Hold on! What are you doing in here?”
He grasped the other, who made a desperate effort to jerk away, but Don held fast, and directly a fearful struggle took place in the darkness of the dressing-room.
Finding that the sole object of the unknown seemed to be to break away and escape, Don was convinced that the fellow had been doing something crooked.
“Let go!” was panted, in a hoarse tone of voice.
“I guess not!” returned Don. “Just keep still, will you!”
But the other would not keep still, and Don felt for his throat, grating:
“Then I’ll have to choke you till you do keep still!”
But he could not secure the hold he desired, for his antagonist fought him off. At last, getting a grasp about the fellow’s body, Don tripped and threw him heavily, coming down upon him with crushing violence.
Apparently the fall had stunned the unknown for the moment, at least, as he lay quite still. Noting this, Don rose to his knees and felt in his pockets for a match, which he intended to light.
“We’ll soon see who you are, my fine fellow,” he thought, “and we’ll learn what sort of a game you were playing all by your lonesome.”
He was breathing heavily from his exertions and his hands shook somewhat, for the encounter in the dark with a mysterious antagonist had been decidedly trying to his nerves.
To his great disappointment, he failed to find a match in his pockets.
As he was wondering what he could do, the unknown made a sudden spring and tried to fling him off.
“No, you don’t!” hissed Don, again grappling with the fellow. “I’m not done with you!”
The struggle was resumed with greater fury than before, for the mysterious visitor to the dressing-room seemed perfectly frantic in his desire to break from Scott’s grasp and make his escape. They squirmed and twisted and thrashed about on the floor, both panting heavily.
Don’s fighting blood was aroused, as he had recovered from the startled shock that assailed him when he discovered the intruder in the dressing-room, and somehow he took almost a fierce joy in this savage fight in the dark.
At last he found a grip on the throat of the unknown, determined to choke the fellow into submission; but then his antagonist struck out heavily, hitting Don’s shoulder with something that caused a twinge of pain and produced a ripping sound.
Instantly Scott released the other’s throat and grasped his arm and wrist, assailed by the conviction and fear that his foe was armed with a dangerous weapon. Down to the hand of the unknown Don’s fingers slipped, and there he found a knife securely clutched.
Then he knew the fellow had struck at him with the knife, which he had felt in his shoulder!
Having made this alarming discovery, Don held fast to the hand that gripped the knife, not daring to release it for a moment, as the fear of being stabbed was on him. Up to the moment of finding the knife in the hand of the unknown he had not fancied he was in deadly danger; but now his blood was chilled by the horror of this struggle in the dark with an antagonist desperate enough to use an open knife, and his every energy was bent to the task of wresting the weapon from his foe.
In the midst of this fearful struggle the active brain of the boy pictured a tragic ending for himself. He fancied that his antagonist would wrest his knife-hand free and strike again and again with the keen blade, plunging it to the hilt each time, which must soon bring an end to the struggle. The night would pass, morning come, and then the searchers would find the dead lad there in the blood-bespattered dressing-room. His father and his aunt would grieve, but he wondered how many others would care.
This grewsome fancy seemed to give him tremendous strength, for he slowly forced the fingers of the other to unclasp from the handle of the knife. Once his hand slipped and he felt the blade slash across his fingers, but he did not pause to wonder how badly he was cut. Believing he was now fighting for his life, he lost not a moment.
At last, with a fierce wrench, he forced the knife from the hand of the unknown; but, having bent all his energies in this direction, he had given no attention to the task of holding his foe so he could not escape. With a sudden twist, the fellow flung Don off, then scrambled up.
“Stop!” panted Don; but, giving no heed, the mysterious fellow darted out through the open door and disappeared.
As soon as possible Don sprang up and followed him. Outside the door, he halted in the darkness, looking to the right and to the left, but seeing nothing of his foe.
“He’s run for the gate,” thought the boy, and he made a dash for the exit from the field.
As he reached the gate, he heard a scrambling and knocking sound against the boards of the fence at the farther side of the field, following which, for a single moment, he fancied he saw a dark figure rise to the top of the fence, being dimly discernible against the sky. An instant later the figure was gone, and Don knew his unknown antagonist had made good his escape.
But Don’s bleeding fingers held the knife he had wrested from his mysterious foe.