Chapter XXVIII: John Hears an Account of His Adventure

The morning after his visit to Ratke's John left Mrs. Boyle's house. To the very last she opposed his departure.

"I have special reasons for wanting you to stay, John," she said. "I can't tell you what they are, but I wish you wouldn't go."

"It is impossible for me to stay longer," said John.

"Then," said Mrs. Boyle, "you'll tell me where you are going."

"I will write after I get settled," answered John. "But you will keep the knowledge of my whereabouts to yourself. I wonder if a mother were ever as kind as you have been to me. Good-bye."

John found Barton Junction to consist of a store and a depot. He had been in the depot but a short time when two young men entered the waiting-room and stood near an old lady whose baggage was strewn about the seats. The young men had the appearance of rowdies, although they were quite well dressed. Both wore dark suits and felt hats. One hat was girt with a flat and one with a round braid. The younger, who wore the flat-braided hat, seemed to be an ardent admirer of the other, for he simulated many of his actions. He was most anxious to acquire the dexterity which his companion exhibited in ejecting tobacco-spittle through his teeth in a fine stream. He attempted this feat so frequently, and his teacher gave him so plentiful instruction that the floor was soon spotted with yellow stains, and the old lady hastily began picking up the articles on the seats to keep them from pollution.

"Where did you get that hat, Tom?" asked the younger man, trying to train his mustache to curl upward and then lop down at the ends as did that of his comrade.

"Oh, I got that to Port Huron," said the one addressed with the air of an instructor. "They're all the rage now."

"It's nobby, sure enough. Guess I'll have to git one," said the imitator, sending a small stream of tobacco-juice almost into the satchel with a skill which until then he had not attained.

The good old lady was not fretful, but she was averse to having her queer mixture of luggage subjected to such treatment. Without the haste and nervousness with which most women would have performed the task, she arranged the several parts of her baggage and prepared for departure.

"Did you ever hear anything of that feller that stole Whipple's colt?" said the young man, who was called Tom. "I ain't been around here much this summer, you know, and I didn't learn much about it."

"No, they never heard anything of him. He was sharp, that feller was, and they wanted to keep right out of his way."

"How do you know, Al? Did you see him?"

"See him?" repeated Al. "I guess I did! I was in a boat trying to head him off, and he shot within four inches of my hand, and the next time the ball just skipped over my head. I tell you that was a close call, Tom."

"Why didn't you head him off?" inquired Tom.

"Oh, he slipped by some way and got away from us. He dove into them tamaracks, and then all Michigan couldn't have caught him."

"Didn't you all feel kind o' timid?" asked Tom. "Wasn't you a little afraid when he come close to you?"

"Timid? No, sir! I told him just what I thought of him, called him every name I could lay my tongue to."

"The train's a comin'," said a rustic looking man who had been watching from the outside.

Wrengell, who had been for some minutes uneasy in his quarters, yet afraid to show any sign of impatience, made for the door as soon as he heard the first rumble of the approaching wheels. He was aboard while the cars were still butting each other back and forth in the last few jerks before the total suspension of motion. A blue cloud and an odor of tobacco announced to him that in his haste he had taken the smoking-car. With the consolation that there were worse odors than that of tobacco and that he was in the presence of strangers, he seated himself, but his brief season of congratulation was cut short by the entrance of the young men who had been discussing his adventure.

After a few preliminary puffs and jerks the engine started with its load from Barton Junction. As the little depot and the diminutive store with its proprietor on the steps moved backward into the separating distance, neither the voices about him nor the danger of recognition by his former pursuer could keep him from sending a protracted farewell look in the direction of Ratke's. It would be long before he could retrace his steps. During the period of waiting, whose extent was painfully uncertain, he would often in his boundless fancy send the reverberations of his music through the major's parlor, would wander through an orchard with springing leaves and opening blossoms, would pass his arm about an object beside whose attraction that of the richly-clad trees was insipid, if not forgotten. And how, when he had fed on the husks of dreams and found in them no nutriment, would he grow restless, waiting for the reality which did not come, how his heart would sink if year after year the struggle for respectability was continuous and unavailing. He was aroused from his reverie by some negroes in front of him noisily playing High, Low, Jack and the Game. Soon after, he became conscious that the young men whom he had seen in the depot were engaged in a talk, which was likely to prove interesting to him.

"They nabbed Wallace and Ab, nice," remarked the one who was called Al.

"So I heard," answered his companion, "but I didn't learn how they done it."

"Oh, that was Jerusalem Ratke's work," said Alf. "You know in the spring they had what they called a 'committee of five,' to hunt out the thieves. After they had the big hunt, everybody got disgusted and didn't go a cent's worth on the committee. All of 'em laid the whole blame off on Ole Jerus'lem, But, when they had such a time with that feller, what was his name?--Wrengell--they found a road that had been cut out in the swamp, yes, sir, a regular road, and a place where horses had been kept. Then Ole Jerus'lem, he was hot, you know, he raised a big rumpus. He said if anybody hurt his man, Wrengell, they'd be sorry for it. Somebody noticed that Ab and the ole man wasn't to home the next day, so what did Ole Jerus'lem do but hatch up a plan with the committee (Green was dead, and this here Montcalm had gone away), hatch up a plan with the committee, you know, to watch the house nights. They didn't stay away only one day. They come back, and one night Jim Turner was a watching--he thinks there never was a man like Jerus'lem--he saw 'em go out of the house. He followed 'em down beyond Oakville, and there they got a horse from a barn that belonged to a man by the name of Matthews. Jim saw 'em go to their own barn with the horse, and then he went home. In the morning he got out a warrant for 'em and took 'em to Jackson."

At the next station a young fellow walked into the smoking-car.

"Helloa, Jim," said Tom, "we was just a-talking about you."

"I hope it wasn't anything bad," said the new-comer.

John gave a start as he listened to the words. For a moment he vainly tried to recollect where he had heard that voice, as he was certain that he had met its owner, but he soon became assured of the young fellow's identity. He was in the presence of Jim Turner, who has been given in two preceding chapters the distinction only of being a friend to Ratke and of wearing a peculiar white hat. He was alarmed at the new arrival. A boy came into the car selling books, pamphlets and papers. John bought a large pamphlet and held it so as to shield him from the observation of Turner, who was seated with his back toward him, but who would, according to all likelihood, occasionally glance backward as he conversed with his companions. "Oh, yes. We was giving you Jesse," said Tom. "We was talking about your getting that horse away from Wallace.

"I didn't get him away," said Turner.

"I thought you followed 'em to the barn."

"Yes, I did," assented Turner, "That is, purty near there. I come back, me and the sheriff, and we couldn't find a horse nor a track, nothing but Wallace's old plugs."

"Well, now, that's funny," said Tom. "I don't see where they could have gone to."

"Nor I neither," answered Turner. "Funniest thing I ever heard of. I didn't know but maybe the major could help me out of that. He's got a head on him, Mister Man, if he is cracked about his Jerusalem wagon. Didn't he come it slick on that Boutwell, boys?"

"I guess so," said Tom. "The old man pummeled him, didn't he?"

"Larrupped him like all possessed," said Turner. "He turned him over to me, and the fellow had some bad marks on him."

At this point Turner's companions got into a trivial discussion over which they staked a quantity of beer. John ventured to look out of a window. Fence posts and telegraph-poles were rushing swiftly by, while far-away hills and woods seemed to move more slowly, the apparent speed varying according to the proximity of the spectator to the place of observation, the nearer objects seemed to pass between him and the more distant ones. The country was comparatively level, the hills, therefore, sloping, and the cuts through which the track ran long and shallow. The land was well wooded and diversified, here and there, by low and uncultivated strips. Traces of the terrible drought were everywhere apparent. One marsh was blackened by fire and still smoking. Next on the route was a small stream which was overhung by stubby willows.

At Sharptown Jim Turner and the young men who had rode from Barton Junction left the train. Sharptown was built on the first of a series of hills which was spread over the greater part of Washtenaw County. From this village eastward the track ran alternatively through deep cuts and along elevated grades. The great bumps which roughened the face of the country were scattered thickly about, hiding the smaller ones, which in other places would have been called large. While they were halting at a small station, John saw, even through the smoke-dimmed atmosphere, five elevations, rising one behind the other according to the order of size, the largest in the background.

Wrengell terminated his ride at Ann Arbor. He ascended a rise of ground and came to the main part of the city.

"Can you tell me where the hospital is?" he inquired of a young fellow who had the air of a student.

"Which one?" asked the fellow,

"I hardly know," answered John. "I thought there was only one."

"Well," said the young fellow, "there is but one that amounts to anything. You don't want anything to do with those homeopathic quacks. Go around the corner, and you will see a large square building with parts built on it. Just beyond it you will see another like it, and on that one you will see University Hospital in large letters. You are sure you can find it?"

"I think so," said John.

"I think I had better go with you," said the fellow, turning about and accompanying Wrengell. "If you should get in with those Homeopathists, you wouldn't get a bit of help. What is the trouble with you?"

"A trouble which I have had a long time," answered John.

"Excuse me," said the guide. "Patients don't always like to tell their ailments. That is the building there, where that man is standing."

"I am obliged to you for your trouble," said John as the young man hurried away.