Bobby Blake on the School Nine: or, The Champions of the Monatook Lake League

“A pretty kettle of fish,” grumbled Pee Wee.

“We’re up against it for fair, I guess,” admitted Mouser. “But let’s get out and see how bad the trouble is.”

The boys joined the procession of passengers going down the aisle and jumped off the steps of the car into a pile of snow beside the track that came up to their knees. Pee Wee, who as usual was last, lost his balance as he sprang, and went head over heels into a drift. His laughing comrades helped him to his feet.

“Wallowing like a porpoise,” grinned Fred.

“You went into that snow as if you liked it,” chuckled Bobby.

“Lots of sympathy from you boobs,” grumbled Pee Wee, as he brushed the snow from his face and hair.

“Lots of that in the dictionary,” sang out Mouser. “But come ahead, fellows, and see what’s doing.”

The others waded after Mouser until they stood abreast of the locomotive.

It was a scene of wintry desolation that lay stretched before their eyes. As far as they could see, they could make out little but the white blanket of snow, above which the trees tossed their black and leafless branches. Paths and fences were blotted out, and except for the thin column of smoke that rose from a farmhouse half a mile away, they might have been in an uninhabited world of white.

“Looks like Snowtop, sure enough,” muttered Mouser, as he looked around.

The conductor and the engineer, together with the trainmen, had gathered in a little group near the engine, and the boys edged closer in order to hear what they were saying.

“It’s no use,” the grizzled old engineer was remarking. “The jig’s up as far as Seventy-three is concerned. I tried to get the old girl to buck the drifts, but she couldn’t do it.”

The boys thought it was no wonder that Seventy-three had gone on strike, as they noted that her cowcatcher was buried while the drift rose higher than her stack.

“It’s too bad,” rejoined the conductor, shaking his head in a perplexed fashion. “I’ve been worrying about the gulch ever since it came on to snow so hard. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if it hadn’t been for the wind. That’s slacked up some now, but the damage is done already.”

“What are you going to do, boss?” asked one of the trainmen.

“You’ll have to go back to the last station and wire up to the Junction for them to send the snow-plough down and clear the track,” responded the conductor. “Get a hustle on now and ask them to send it along in a hurry.”

The trainman started back at as fast a pace as the snow permitted, and the engineer climbed back into his cab to get out of the wind while waiting for help. The conductor started back for the smoking car, and as he went past, Bobby ventured to speak to him.

“How long do you think we’ll have to wait here?” he inquired.

“No telling, sonny,” the conductor answered. “Perhaps a couple of hours, maybe longer. It all depends on how soon they can get that snow-plough down to us.”

He passed on and Mouser gave a low whistle.

“Scubbity-yow!” cried Fred, giving vent to his favorite exclamation. “Two long hours in this neck of the woods!”

“And nothing to eat in sight,” groaned Pee Wee.

“I wish I’d let Meena put up that lunch for us this morning,” said Bobby regretfully. “My mother wanted me to bring one along, but I was in a hurry and counted on getting something to eat at the railroad lunch station.”

“What are we going to do?” moaned Pee Wee.

“Fill up on snowballs,” suggested Mouser heartlessly.

Pee Wee glared at him.

“I’m almost as bad as Pee Wee,” said Fred. “I feel as empty as though I hadn’t had anything to eat for a week. I could eat the bark off a tree.”

“I tell you what, fellows,” suggested Bobby, who was usually the leader when it came to action; “what do you say to going over to that farmhouse and trying to buy something to eat? I don’t think they’d let us go away hungry.”

They followed the direction of his pointing finger, and new hope sprang up in them.

“But it’s an awful long way off,” objected Pee Wee, whose fear of exertion was only second to his love of eating.

“Have you got another stone bruise on your foot?” asked Mouser sarcastically.

This was a standing joke among the boys. Whenever Pee Wee hung back from a walk or a run, he usually put forth the excuse of a stone bruise that made him lame for the time.

“No, I haven’t any stone bruise,” Pee Wee rapped back at him, “but how do you know I didn’t bark my shins when I had that tumble a few minutes ago?”

He put on a pained look which might have deceived those who did not know him so well. But the steady stare of his comrades was too much for him to stand without wilting, and he had to join rather sheepishly in the laugh that followed.

“You stay here then, Pee Wee, while we go over and get something to eat,” suggested Fred. “We’ll ask the farmer to bring you over something on a gold tray. He’ll be glad to do it.”

“Oh, cut it out,” grinned Pee Wee. “Go ahead and I’ll follow.”

“Foxy boy, isn’t he?” chuckled Fred. “He wants us to break out the path so that it will be easier for him.”

“I’d rather have Pee Wee go ahead,” remarked Mouser. “He’d be better than any snow plough.”

With chaff and laughter they started out, Bobby leading the way and the rest following in single file. They had pulled their caps down over their ears and buttoned their coats tightly about their necks. Luckily for them the wind had moderated, although the snow still kept falling, but more lightly than before.

They did not do much talking, for they needed all their breath to make their way through the drifts. As they had no path to guide them, they made straight across the fields, bumping every now and then into a fence that they had to climb. They were pretty well winded and panting hard when at last they reached the fence that bounded the spacious dooryard in front of the farmhouse.

A big black dog came bounding down to the gate barking ferociously. The boys took comfort from the fact that the fence was high and that the dog was too big and heavy to leap over it.

“He’s glad to see us – I don’t think,” said Fred.

“Seems to have a sweet disposition,” muttered Pee Wee.

“Let Mouser get to talking to him,” suggested Bobby. “He’ll tame him down in no time.”

Mouser, somewhat flattered, stepped forward. He had gained his nickname because he had a number of mice which he had taught to do all sorts of clever tricks. His fondness extended to all animals, and he had the remarkable power over them with which some people are gifted. No matter how savage or frightened they might be, they seemed to yield to his charm.

It did not fail him now. He muttered some words soothingly to the dog, whose barking grew feebler. Soon it stopped altogether, and in another minute or two the brute was wagging his tail and poking his muzzle through the rails of the fence for Mouser to pat him.

It was almost uncanny, and the boys held their breath as they watched the transformation.

“It’s all right now,” said Mouser, lifting the latch of the gate. “Come along, fellows.”

“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Bobby. “How do you do it?”

“You ought to be with a circus,” said Fred in undisguised admiration. “You’d make a dandy lion tamer.”