Ben Stone at Oakdale

The mastiff was not disposed of so quickly; for, although it had been knocked down by the first blow it received, it uttered a snarling roar, and again flung itself at the boy the moment it could regain its feet.

Against the fence the white-faced little girl crouched, uttering wild cries of fear, as, with terror-filled eyes, she watched the desperate encounter.

Knowing he would be torn, mangled, perhaps killed, if the teeth of the great dog ever fastened upon him, Ben fought for his very life. Three times he beat the creature down with his club, but for all this punishment the rage and fury of the animal increased, and it continued to return to the attack with vicious recklessness.

The boy set his teeth and did his best to make every blow count. Had his courage and nerve failed him for a moment, he must have been seized and dragged down by the frothing dog. He kept his wits about him, and his brain at work. Repeatedly he tried to hit the mastiff on the nose in the same manner as he had struck the mongrel, but for some moments, which seemed like hours, every attempt failed.

Once Ben’s heart leaped into his mouth, as his foot slipped again, but he recovered himself on the instant and was fully prepared for the big dog’s next charge.

At last he succeeded in delivering the blow on which he believed everything depended. Hit fairly on the nose by that club, which was wielded by a muscular young arm, the raging beast was checked and paralyzed for a moment.

Seizing the opportunity, Ben advanced and struck again, throwing into the effort every particle of strength and energy he could command. The dog dropped to the ground and lay still, its muscles twitching and its limbs stiffening; for that final blow had broken its neck.

Quivering and panting with the excitement and exertion of the struggle, Ben stood looking down at the body of the dog, giving no heed for the moment to the hoarse cries of rage which issued from the lips of Old Tige Fletcher, who was hobbling toward him with his stiff leg. Nor did he observe three boys who were coming along the path from the academy at a run, having been led to quicken their steps by the cries of the girl and the barking of the dogs.

Of the trio Roger Eliot was in the lead, and he was running fast, the sound of the frightened girl’s screams having filled him with the greatest alarm. He was followed closely by Chipper Cooper, while Chub Tuttle brought up the rear, panting like a porpoise, and scattering peanuts from his pockets at every jump.

These boys came in sight soon enough to witness the end of the encounter between Stone and the huge mastiff. They saw the dog beaten back several times, and Roger uttered a husky exclamation of satisfaction when Ben finally finished the fierce brute with a blow that left it quivering on the ground.

By that time Eliot’s eyes had discovered the girl as she crouched and cowered against the fence, and he knew instantly that it was in defense of her that Ben had faced and fought Fletcher’s dreaded dogs.

Even before reaching that point Roger’s heart had been filled with the greatest alarm and anxiety by the sounds coming to his ears; for he believed he recognized the voice of the child whose terrified cries mingled with the savage barking and snarling of the dogs. His little sister had a habit of meeting him on his way home after football practice, and he had warned her not to come too far on account of the danger of being attacked by Fletcher’s dogs. That his fear had been well-founded he saw the moment he discovered the child huddled against the fence, as it was, indeed, his sister.

“Amy!” he chokingly cried.

Reaching her, he caught her up and held her sobbing on his breast, while she clung to his neck with her trembling arms.

“Drat ye!” snarled Tige Fletcher, his face contorted with rage as he stumped forward, shaking his crooked cane at Ben Stone. “What hev ye done to my dorg? You’ve killed him!”

“I think I have,” was the undaunted answer; “at any rate, I meant to kill him.”

“I’ll hey ye ’rested!” shrilled the recluse. “That dorg was wuth a hundrud dollars, an’ I’ll make ye pay fer him, ur I’ll put ye in jail.”

Roger Eliot turned indignantly on the irate man.

“You’ll be lucky, Mr. Fletcher, if you escape being arrested and fined yourself,” he declared. “You knew your dogs were vicious, and you have been notified by the authorities to chain them up and never to let them loose unless they were muzzled. You’ll be fortunate to get off simply with the loss of a dog; my father is pretty sure to take this matter up when he hears what has happened. If your wretched dogs had bitten my sister – ” Roger stopped, unable to find words to express himself.

The old man continued to splutter and snarl and flourish his cane, upon which Tuttle and Cooper made a pretense of skurrying around in great haste for rocks to pelt him with, and he beat a hasty retreat toward his wretched hovel.

“Don’t stone him, fellows,” advised Roger. “Let’s not give him a chance to say truthfully that we did that.”

“We oughter soak him,” said Chub, his round face expressive of the greatest indignation. “A man who keeps such ugly curs around him deserves to be soaked. Anyhow,” he added, poking the limp body of the mastiff, “there’s one dog gone.”

“Ain’t it a dog-gone shame!” chuckled Chipper, seizing the opportunity to make a pun.

Roger turned to Ben.

“Stone,” he said, in his kindly yet unemotional way, “I can’t thank you enough for your brave defense of my sister. How did it happen?”

Ben explained, telling how he had heard the barking of the dogs and the screams of Amy Eliot as chance led him to be passing Fletcher’s hut, whereupon he ran as quickly as possible to her assistance.

“It was a nervy thing to do,” nodded Roger, “and you may be sure I won’t forget it. I saw some of it, and the way you beat that big dog off and finished him was splendid.”

“Say, wasn’t it great!” chimed in Chub, actual admiration in his eyes as he surveyed Ben. “By jolly! you’re a dandy, Stone! Ain’t many fellers could have done it.”

“I won’t forget it,” repeated Roger, holding out his hand.

Ben flushed, hesitated, then accepted the proffered hand, receiving a hearty, thankful grip from Eliot.

CHAPTER VIII.

A RIFT

Ben came down quietly through the grove behind the house, slipped round to the ell door and ascended to his bare room without being observed by any one about the place. It did not take him long again to draw out his battered trunk and pack it with his few possessions.

He then found before him an unpleasant duty from which he shrank; Mrs. Jones must again be told that he was going away.

It is not remarkable that he hesitated over this, or that as the shadows once more thickened in that room he sat for a long time on his trunk, his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, gazing blankly at the one leaden window.

To his ears came the sound of wheels, which seemed to stop before the house. A few minutes later Jimmy’s voice called from the foot of the stairs:

“Ben, Ben, you up there?”

He opened the door. “What’s wanted, Jimmy?”

“I didn’t know you was home,” said the lame boy, in some surprise. “I didn’t see y’u come, an’ I was watchin’. They’s somebody down here wants to see y’u.”

“Wants to see me?” he exclaimed, unable to repress a feeling of apprehension. “Who is it?”

“It’s Roger Eliot,” answered the boy below, “an’ he’s jest got a dandy hoss an’ carriage. He said you must be here, but I didn’t think y’u was.”

“Roger Eliot!” muttered Ben, descending at once. “What can he want?”

“I dunno,” admitted Jimmy, limping after him as he left the house. “He jest tole me to tell y’u to come out.”

“Hello, Stone!” called Roger from the carriage in front of the gate. “Come, get in here and take a little drive with me.”

Greatly surprised by this invitation, Ben hesitated until the boy in the carriage repeated his words urgently, but with a touch of that command which had made him a leader among the boys of the village and captain of the football team.

“I – I haven’t much time,” faltered Stone; but he wonderingly took his place at Roger’s side and was whirled away, regretfully watched by Jimmy, who hung on the sagging gate and stared after the carriage until it turned the corner under the street-light opposite the post office.

In front of the post office Chub Tuttle was munching peanuts and telling Sile Crane and Sleuth Piper of the wonderful manner in which Stone had defended Amy Eliot from Tige Fletcher’s dogs. He had reached the most thrilling portion of the tale when the carriage containing Roger and Ben turned the corner.

“Jinks!” exclaimed Crane. “There he is naow with Roger. Where d’you s’pose they’re going?”

“The mystery is easily solved,” declared Piper at once. “My deduction of the case is as follows: Eliot has a sister; this sister is attacked by the vicious dogs of one Fletcher; Stone rushes to her defense; he beats off the said dogs and kills one of them; the before-mentioned Eliot takes his before-mentioned sister home; he relates to his folks how she was rescued from dire peril and a fearful fate by the before-mentioned Stone; at once her parents wish to see and thank the said Stone; Roger is dispatched post haste for the hero of the thrilling and deadly struggle; said hero is carried off in triumph to the palatial residence of the before-mentioned parents. I’ll stake my professional reputation on the correctness of the deduction.”

“Guess you’re right, Sleuth,” said Chub. “Roger thinks an awful lot of his sister, and he choked and couldn’t seem to find words to say when he tried to thank Stone.”