Kitobni o'qish: «Secrets of the Andes»

CHAPTER I
Stranded

“LOOK! The bridge is out! Stop the car – quick!” Bob Holton’s voice was unsteady as he gazed ahead at the place of danger.

Acting on the instant, Joe Lewis pushed the brake pedal to the floor and waited breathlessly, his mind filled with thoughts of tragedy.

The wheels of the small automobile locked, but the momentum carried the car on at a sickening pace. Despite the fact that the tires were new, they slipped over the road easily.

An instant later the youths saw that the distance between themselves and the washout was not great enough. In but a few seconds they would be plunging down the embankment into the swollen river.

There was not a moment to lose. Opening the doors as rapidly as possible, the chums jumped from the car and rolled over on the ground, their faces wet with perspiration.

And they were none too soon. The car sped on, reached the edge of the river bank, and then plunged out of sight.

There was a loud splash as it struck the water, and then all was quiet. The sun continued on its downward path, the faint wind played through the trees. Nothing but two lone boys were left to tell of the misfortune.

“Well,” sighed Joe, at last breaking the silence, “we sure had a tough break, didn’t we?”

“Lucky to get off with our lives, though,” Bob reminded him. “That was about the closest shave I’ve ever had. Wonder why the highway commission didn’t put out a sign?”

“Probably didn’t know the bridge was out. Not many cars go over this road, and it would not be exceptional for this to go unnoticed for quite a while.”

“We’ll sure make a report of it,” said Bob, getting to his feet and brushing off his mud-stained trousers.

Joe laughed unwillingly.

“That’ll be like locking the barn after the horse has been stolen,” he grunted. “Come on,” he went on, “let’s go over to the river bank and see if we can catch a glimpse of the coupé.”

The youths walked over and stared into the swiftly moving water. It had rained in torrents two days before, and the river was now almost a rapids.

“Car’s nowhere in sight,” said Joe Lewis gloomily. “But” – his face lighting suddenly – “it’s insured. So I guess there’s no use worrying.”

“Maybe not about the automobile. But how are we going to get back to Washington?”

“We’ll have to hike to the main highway, I guess,” Joe answered. “It’s about five miles away, too.”

The youths were returning to their homes in Washington, D. C., after having spent a delightful week-end in Virginia. Their accident came upon them in a rather out-of-the-way spot, a great number of miles from the city of their destination.

“If it hadn’t been for that hill,” remarked Joe, as he and his friend walked back up the road, “we would have seen this place in time to stop the car.”

“The hill is here, though,” returned Bob with a grim smile. “So that’s that.”

The boys paused a moment at the spot where they had jumped from the doomed automobile. With one last look at the washout, they turned and began climbing the grade.

“Five miles is a good distance to walk,” grunted Joe, “especially when we want to get home before long.”

“That last you said made the first all right,” laughed Bob Holton, “because on the Sahara and in Brazil we often hiked, not five miles, but several times that far without stopping.”

The friends were refreshed after the idle weekend trip and worked their legs like pistons. Despite their serious predicament, they observed the wonders of autumn with the eye of a nature lover.

Leaves of yellow and brown were lying about the ground in profusion, while others on the trees were almost ready to fall. There was a cool afternoon breeze that gave evidence of winter being not far off.

“Think there’s a chance of getting a ride with somebody?” asked Joe, as the youths followed the curving road.

Bob shook his head.

“Fellows in this part of the country are pretty careful about picking up strangers,” he returned. “Too many stick-ups and robberies. Still we might see some soft-hearted person who would not be afraid to take a chance with us.”

“The question is, though,” began Joe, “will we get in with somebody before night? It’s three o’clock now, and we may have to do a great deal of thumbing before anybody will stop and let us in.”

The road wound through a rather isolated section, with only an occasional farmhouse looming up from behind the trees. It was indeed a poor place to be stranded.

The sun was well down to the horizon when the youths finally reached the through highway. Although they had done their best, they had found it difficult to avoid the many large mud puddles that often reached nearly across the road.

“Now to get down to business,” said Bob, gazing far down the highway. “We’ll surely find a car before long that will pick us up.”

“Here comes one now,” observed Joe. “It’ll be here before long. Come on, let’s get out farther.”

The boys waited for the automobile to come nearer. Then they signaled the driver. But the latter appeared to pay no attention to the young men. A moment later the car whizzed on up the road.

Bob and Joe looked at each other. Their faces clearly showed that they expected the worst.

“Could hardly blame him, though,” remarked Bob. “So many innocent-faced crooks walk the highways that it’s unsafe to pick up anyone.”

“But you know the old proverb,” grinned the other youth. “‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.’ According to that, we – Look! Here comes another car. Maybe we’ll have better luck this time.”

Again the chums signaled, and were delighted to see that the car was coming to a stop. At a motion from the driver, who was the only occupant, they climbed inside.

“How far ye goin’?” the stranger asked. He was a short, fat man who looked capable of great mirth.

“To Washington,” replied Bob. “We had an accident with our car not far from here.”

“Accident, hey? Not hurt, I hope?”

“No. We were able to jump out in time. You see, we came unexpectedly on a spot where the bridge was washed away. Caused by the recent rain, no doubt.”

“Oh. Tough luck, wasn’t it? And the machine – was it insured?”

“Luckily it was,” replied Joe with a chuckle. “Though we may have trouble in proving it.”

“Fight it to the finish!” said the man, shifting his cud of tobacco to the other side of his mouth. “If you have to, take it to court.”

“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Joe said with a smile. “The insurance company bears a good name.”

“Wonder if this guy’s Scotch?” mused Bob to himself. Only recently the youth had read a good joke about a man of that nationality.

For the next half-hour the three carried on a varied conversation. It was at last broken as they neared a small town.

They had almost entered the city limits when a slowly moving freight train halted them. Reluctantly they settled back and waited.

“This will mean a big loss of time,” remarked Joe, as he gazed far down the track at the seemingly endless string of cars. “I’m anxious to – ”

“Listen!” commanded Bob, leaning forward wonderingly. “Did you hear anything? There it is again.”

“It’s a muffled cry for help, coming from one of those freight cars.” Joe had opened the door of the sedan.

With a parting word for the driver, the youths left the automobile and ran down the track, straining their ears for a repetition of the cry.

“There it is again!” declared Joe. “Sounds like a young boy. In that third freight car up there.”

Summoning all their strength, the youths ran on until they were opposite the box car. It was easy to keep abreast with the train, moving as slowly as it was.

The door was pushed back about three feet, leaving barely enough room for the youths to clamber up into the car. Their efforts were not in vain, however, and soon they found themselves inside.

“Where are you?” called Joe, glancing about at the scores of boxes and barrels.

“Here!” a faint reply came from a far corner.

At once the youths turned in that direction, searching for a passageway between the many objects that filled the car. At last they were within a few feet of the corner. But it was not possible to penetrate farther, for a large pile of heavy crates barred the way.

“Let’s get these to one side,” said Bob, and for the next few minutes the young men worked furiously.

Finally they made an opening sufficient for them to pass through.

“Now we’ll see who’s here,” muttered Joe Lewis.

The youths worked their way through the passage, their eyes trying to pierce the darkness.

Suddenly they drew back with a cry of surprise.

CHAPTER II
The Aimless Wanderer

EMERGING from behind a pile of boxes was a small boy, his face black with dirt that looked the product of weeks. The clothes he wore were soiled and torn, and his shoes barely clung to his feet.

“Thanks!” was all he said, as he glanced up shyly at Bob and Joe.

For several seconds the young men stared wonderingly at this forlorn being, as if trying to account for his presence. Finally Bob broke the silence.

“What’s it all about?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

The boy hesitated a moment, looked up at Bob and Joe, and then, satisfied that he could confide in them, spoke.

“I – I was caught behind that stuff,” he stammered. “I hid under a pile of bags when they loaded the car so they wouldn’t find me.”

“But why were you in the car?” demanded Joe. “Where are you going?”

The boy waited a moment before replying.

“I don’t know,” he confessed, dropping his head.

There was something about this youngster’s frankness that moved the youths to pity.

“Come,” urged Bob, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “tell us about it. Why did you run away from home?”

“I didn’t want to go to school, that’s why. Ain’t that reason enough?”

“H’m. Don’t like school, huh? Where do you live?”

“Chicago.”

There were exclamations of surprise from Bob and Joe.

While they gaze at the young lad in wonder, it might be well, for the benefit of those who have not read the first two books of The Exploration Series, to tell something about the two youths, and what had been their adventures up to the present time.

Bob Holton, who was generally the leader of the two, was a large, powerful boy of nineteen. His complexion was originally light, but an adventurous life in hot lands had made him bronzed. Wherever he went, he was a prime favorite of all.

Joe Lewis was Bob’s closest friend, the two being almost inseparable. Joe was of medium build and possessed many desirable characteristics. But in a crisis he was never as cool as the other youth.

Fortune favored the boys. Their fathers, Howard Holton and Benjamin Lewis, were noted naturalists, who often wandered to far corners of the globe in search of wild animals for a large Washington museum. The two families thus lived in Washington, their homes being but a few rods apart.

Shortly after Bob and Joe had graduated from high school, they were given an opportunity of accompanying their fathers to little-known Brazil. Here with wild animals and treacherous savages they had many thrilling adventures, which are related in the first volume of this series, Lost in the Wilds of Brazil. The boys proved themselves worthy of being called explorers, and the following spring were given another chance to penetrate the unknown.

On the Sahara Desert they encountered more perils and hardships. How, among other things, they endured a terrible sand storm, went for days without water, and finally fought hostile Arabs for freedom, is related in the volume entitled Captured by the Arabs.

At the time this story opens, the youths would have been in college had it not been for another proposed scientific trip. The naturalists had finally decided to explore the Andes Mountains in South America, and Bob and Joe were given the permission to accompany the men. The boys had argued stiffly that such an adventure would benefit them as much as a half-year at college, to which their fathers had finally agreed. Now less than two weeks remained before the expedition would depart.

As we return to Bob and Joe, who stood staring in amazement at the small lad who said his home was in Chicago, we see that Bob is speaking.

“And you came all this distance?” he asked. “How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Aren’t you sorry you ran away from home?” queried Joe.

“I ain’t sorry, but I’m goin’ back. That’s where I’m headin’ now.”

“Why did you change your mind?” Bob asked.

“Even school’s better’n goin’ without anything to eat,” the boy said.

For some time Bob and Joe sat staring at the floor. Everything was clear to them now. They were impressed by this little fellow’s resourcefulness in finding his way freely about.

Suddenly Joe glanced up. He had almost forgotten that he was on a moving freight train. The cold sweat burst out on his forehead as he saw that they were now traveling rapidly.

“No chance of getting off now, Bob. I guess we’re in for it. Where does this train go?” he asked the boy.

“Chicago,” was the response. “That’s where this car is headed for. I made sure before I got in it.”

Bob grunted.

“We’re booked for a ride, I guess,” he said. “Still there may be a chance of getting off at some town not far from here.”

“That’s what we’ll hope for,” the other youth said, nodding. He turned to the lad. “Can you find your way home after you reach Chicago?”

“Sure. This ain’t the first time I’ve run away. Gettin’ back ain’t what worries me.”

“What does?” inquired Joe.

“My old man. He’ll be mad enough to bite nails. Bet he’s got the razor strop hangin’ up now waitin’ for me.”

Bob and Joe smiled. The personality of this waif touched them.

“Bob Holton is my name, and this is my friend, Joe Lewis.”

A small hand was extended.

“I’m Spike Weaver, the son of a horse thief.”

The youths burst out in laughter.

“A horse thief?”

“Yes,” the boy said. “That’s what the old man used to be. I’m not onto him now, I been away from home so much.”

Another outburst of laughter followed. The youths were beginning to take a liking to this small wanderer.

One thing stood out in the young men’s minds: the family to which this boy belonged was evidently of a very low type morally. Little wonder that young Spike had turned out to be a worthless ne’er-do-well. There was apparently little hope for his future.

“Why don’t you go to school and try to make something out of yourself?” asked Bob. “Wouldn’t you like to be a big business man, or doctor, or merchant, or naturalist?”

“What’s that?” the lad asked.

“A naturalist is a scientist who travels to little-known places to collect wild animals for a museum or college,” explained Bob.

There was a glint of interest in young Spike’s eyes. He had absorbed this definition eagerly.

“Does he shoot with a big rifle, and camp out?” Spike demanded.

“That’s exactly what he does,” Bob replied. “And he usually has plenty of adventures, too.”

“Boy! That sounds swell! Wonder what it feels like to fire one of them guns.”

“Feels all right after you get used to it,” Joe said.

“How do you know?” Spike asked, as though he felt that Joe was talking of something that he knew nothing about.

“My friend has fired them,” explained Bob. “And so have I.”

At once the lad was all excitement.

“You’ve really hunted wild animals? Tell me about it.”

During the next hour Bob and Joe related some of their experiences in Brazil and North Africa, while their newly made young friend listened breathlessly. By the expressions on his face they knew that he was absorbing every word with interest. When they had finished, his admiration for them was beyond expression.

“Gee! You two are real naturalists,” he said.

“Not yet,” corrected Bob, “though we hope to be some day. To be a naturalist you must go through college and get your lessons every day. But it isn’t hard if you want to like it.”

For a time young Spike seemed lost in thought. Finally he roused himself and turned to his friends.

“I’m goin’ home and go to school, so I can be a naturalist,” he said conclusively. “And then maybe I can have a lot of fun huntin’ and campin’, like you fellows do. I always did want to do that.”

Bob and Joe glanced at each other. Did this lad’s decision mean anything, or was it merely a childish notion? At least they had induced him to attend school temporarily.

Joe started to speak, but Spike silenced him.

“Look!” he cried. “We’re comin’ to a stop. This must be a town.”

The boy was right. The train was gradually slowing up at a spot where the track had branched into several switches. At last it came to a full stop.

“Now’s our chance to get off,” declared Joe. “We – ”

“Keep still,” hissed Bob. “Somebody’s coming down the track. It may be a railroad policeman, or ‘bull,’ as the hoboes call them.”

“Let’s hide behind these boxes,” suggested Joe. “He may be coming in here.”

Quickly, yet quietly, the three concealed themselves in a corner of the box car. Then they waited.

The sound of someone walking grew louder, and the next moment a man stopped at the side of the box car. There was the sound of a door rolling forward, and then the click of a chain. Less than a minute later he was on his way up the tracks.

Hastily the hideaways slipped out from behind the boxes and into the center of the car.

Bob uttered an exclamation of dismay.

“That fellow locked the door!” he cried. “We’re trapped!”

CHAPTER III
Helplessly Trapped

SPIKE uttered a cry of fright, while Joe dashed forward to make sure that his friend was right.

As Bob had said, the railroad man had fastened the door securely. There was an opening of about eight inches, across which was a heavy chain that terminated at a large lock. In order to cut the chain, a file would be necessary.

Of the three prisoners, Spike was the first to resume his natural attitude. Perhaps this was due to his wide experience in riding freight trains. At any rate he seemed to forget his plight and resign himself over to any fate.

“Tough luck!” the lad said. “Guess you guys will have to ride with me to Chicago. May be several days before we can get anything to eat, too.”

“That’s the worst part about it,” lamented Bob. “It may be days, or even weeks, before we’ll reach our destination.”

Bob and Joe were inclined to be downhearted, but their young friend was cheerful.

“Don’t you worry,” he consoled them. “I’ve been in tight fixes like this many a time, and I’ve always got out all right. One time I went out West and got locked in just like we are now.”

Young Spike sounded like an experienced vagabond, and the youths could not help laughing.

“How did you get out?” asked Joe, after the laugh had subsided.

“It was easy. When we stopped at a town I just waited for some hobo to come along. Somehow he got ahold of a file and had me out in a jiffy. Hoboes are good to do anything like that for you.”

“Let’s hope history will repeat itself,” muttered Bob, who, along with Joe, did not like the prospects of a trip to Chicago.

Less than ten minutes later there was a slight jar, and the train started moving. Although pulled by a large engine, there was little chance of high speed, for a line of cars over a half-mile long stretched far down the track.

Bob, Joe, and Spike crowded before the crack to catch a glimpse of the town at which they had stopped. But aside from a number of freight cars and old buildings, there was little to be seen.

“Suppose we arrange boxes in front of what little opening there is,” suggested Joe. “We may as well amuse ourselves by looking out.”

“That reminds me,” burst out Spike. “I want to see if anything in this car has stuff to eat in it.”

He at once began a search of the many boxes, bales, and crates that were packed in each end of the car. Suddenly he gave a cry of delight.

“Here’s apples!” he cried excitedly. “Gee whiz! Who says we don’t eat?”

But the fruit was in tightly nailed crates, which could not be easily opened.

“Come here, fellows!” shouted Spike. “Give me a hand! You don’t expect me to open ’em when there’s big guys like you around, do you?”

“Wait a minute!” commanded Bob. “Whose apples are they?”

“Whose are they? I don’t know. Why?”

“Do you think it’s right to get in a box car and eat up somebody’s apples?”

“Ah, gee whiz! You ain’t gonna back out of a chance like this, are you? Come on. Be a sport.”

Bob stoutly refused.

“We’re not going to open any boxes or crates around here, and you’re not either! Get that and get it straight! Of course if we have to, to keep from starving, we will. But not now.”

Against this stout protest there was no use persisting, and Spike finally walked sullenly back to his seat before the slightly open door.

“You guys sure are the berries,” he said with an ironic smile. “You’ll never get anywhere that way.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Joe corrected him. “We will and you won’t, unless you get such notions out of your head.”

“Ah, blooey!”

A half-hour of silence followed, during which time the three gazed absently out, watching the farms, the forests, the rivers and creeks slip by. They were beginning to enter the Appalachian Mountains, and more of natural beauty promised to be visible.

But Bob and Joe did not care to observe the beauties of nature just then. Their thoughts were dwelling on the probabilities of the future. What lay in store for them? Would they be able to get home in time to accompany their fathers to the Andes Mountains, or would fate rule that they remain for an indefinite period in this box car? If the truth were known, the youths were not a little worried.

Darkness was beginning to enshroud the travelers, and the necessity of making improvised beds moved them to action. There was a large pile of burlap sacks in a far corner of the car. These they arranged a short distance from the partly open door.

“I don’t think these bags are inhabited,” smiled Joe. “They look almost brand-new. At any rate we’ll take a chance with them.”

“We’ll have to,” agreed Bob, who realized the necessity of a rest after such an arduous day.

However, the travelers spent an hour or so longer gazing out at the dim outlines of the mountains. Although Bob and Joe were tired, they had an uneasy feeling about resigning themselves over to sleep. Something unexpected might happen during the night.

Finally Bob arose and walked over to his bunk.

“Suppose we turn in,” he suggested. “We may need plenty of energy tomorrow. It’s possible for almost anything to happen, you know.”

Joe nodded and took his place beside his friend, but Spike announced that he would remain up awhile longer.

Almost at once the youths fell asleep. But from their experiences in dangerous lands they had learned to keep one eye open as a precaution.

This proved to be unnecessary, however, and they awoke the next morning greatly refreshed.

“We’re on the other side of the mountains,” observed Joe, as he stretched and glanced out of the crack.

“Now maybe we can make better time,” Bob said, moving over to the door.

The three travelers were forced to begin the day without breakfast. Spike insisted that they open the crates of apples, but Bob firmly refused.

“We may find some way out today,” the youth consoled him. “If we have to, we can eat a few of those apples tonight.”

All morning the train continued on its journey, passing small towns and villages. Along toward noon it stopped at Charleston, West Virginia, where after an hour of switching it was left on a side track.

Suddenly Joe, who was standing by the crack, caught sight of a trainman not far away. The man’s face was rather pleasant, with no trace of gruffness.

“There’s a chance,” Joe said. “Let’s ask him to help us out.”

“No, don’t,” pleaded Spike, pulling Joe back.

“Why not?”

“’Cause if he gets you out he won’t let me keep in this car to Chicago.”

“But what about Bob and me? We don’t want to ride all that distance.”

“No. Go ahead and call him,” directed Bob, who was moving up to the door. “Spike can find another car that’s going to Chicago. We want to get home.”

Disregarding the lad’s protest, Joe shouted and motioned for the man to come to the box car. There was a look of surprise on the fellow’s face as he moved over to where the three were trapped.

“What’s it all about?” he demanded. “You guys trying to steal a ride, huh? Come on out of there and pick a car that ain’t got anything in it.”

“We can’t get out,” explained Joe. “Locked in, I guess. That’s what we wanted of you. See if you can get the door open.”

“Oh! So they penned you up, huh? Yeah. I see that locked chain now. Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you.”

“But – but we’ve got to get out,” Joe said persistently. “We haven’t had anything to eat for quite a while.”

The man hesitated a moment.

“Got any money?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Let’s see it.”

Joe held up a half-dollar.

“O.K. There’s a grocery a block from here. Want me to get you something?”

Delighted at such a chance, Joe instructed the trainman to purchase several articles of food that would be sufficient to last for several days. It was with a feeling of high hope that the youths watched the man walk in the direction of the store.

In less than fifteen minutes he was back and handed Joe a sack of groceries in return for money. In recognition for his service, the youth tipped him generously.

“Now for a delicious meal,” said Bob, smacking his lips. “And will we eat!”

The boys did eat, and felt much better for it. When they had scraped up the last crumb, they stretched out on the burlap sacks.

The remainder of the day passed without incident. Darkness was just setting in when, with a slight jerk, the train started moving.

Even though they had expected an undisturbed sleep, Bob and Joe were delighted that they were again on their way. Every mile left behind would mean that they were nearer Chicago, which was perhaps the only city at which they could hope to escape from their prison.

“Let’s hope we make good time now,” breathed Bob, as he and his friends turned in, to get what sleep a rumbling train would allow them.

All through the night the freight rattled on, this time much faster than before. Although several stops were made, the train made unusually good time, pulling into Cincinnati late the next morning.

“Here’s where we’ll have to wait,” said Joe. “They might keep us switched here for several days.”

Almost at once their box car was sidetracked, and was not moved until late the next day. About four o’clock another engine was attached, a much shorter train being formed. Then slowly it pulled off the switch and found a through track.

Bob and Joe could hardly believe their eyes. Were they to leave Cincinnati so soon?

An hour later this question was answered. The boys found themselves speeding along to Chicago, after having remained on the switch less than twenty-four hours.

“I suppose we’ll stop at every town and small city in Indiana,” said Bob gloomily. “Even though this is a fast freight, a delay will be almost inevitable.”

The youth was right. It was nearly three days later when the train entered the city limits of Chicago. Gary and other cities of the Calumet district had been left behind.

After what seemed like hours of constant travel in the metropolis, the freight stopped at a busy switch yard, where scores of trains were moving in all directions.

Suddenly Bob cried out in delight as he caught sight of a man walking up the track. The youth recognized this fellow as the one who had snapped the lock on the box-car door, making the young men and Spike prisoners on the train.

Bob at once called the man, who, upon hearing, turned about in surprise.

“Why – what – what are you doing in that car?” he demanded angrily, as he caught sight of the youth.

“We want to get out!” Bob’s voice was cool and determined.

“But how did you get in there? I thought I locked that door. I – ”

“Let us out and we’ll tell you all about it,” Bob pleaded.

The man pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket and immediately unlocked the door. Bob hurriedly rolled it open and jumped out, followed by Joe and young Spike.

It was good to feel their feet on the ground again. Bob and Joe could have cried out in joy. But there was little time to do this, for the trainman demanded an explanation of their presence.

Briefly Bob narrated the circumstances that led to their boarding the train, shielding Spike as much as possible. When he had finished, the man viewed the young lad critically.

“I think I’ll turn you over to the yard master,” he said to Spike, “and see that you get what’s coming to you.”

He roughly caught hold of the boy’s arm and pulled him forward.

“Wait a minute,” begged Joe. “Spike didn’t do any harm. He’s promised to quit running around and go home and go to school.”

“Well, he ain’t gonna get no sympathy from me. I got no use for a kid that rides freights.”

He gave the boy another pull, this time so violent that the latter slipped and fell, bruising his face on the cinders.

Bob grew furiously angry. He stepped boldly up to the trainman.

“Let the boy alone!” he demanded, his eyes seeming to penetrate the man.