Chapter XIV Movements of the Enemy - Dave Porter and his Double by Edward Stratemeyer
As my readers doubtless surmise, it was Ward Porton who had made off with Dave’s overcoat and cap.
Leaving the room which they occupied on the third floor locked, the young moving-picture actor and his disreputable companion had stolen down the two flights of stairs leading to the lower hallway. Fortunately for them, no one had been present, and it had been comparatively easy for Porton to find Dave’s things and put them on. Tim Crapsey already wore his own overcoat and hat.
“We might as well provide ourselves with rubbers while we are at it,” remarked Crapsey, as his gaze fell upon a number of such footwear resting near the rack, and thereupon each donned a pair of rubbers that fitted him.
Thus equipped they had stolen out of the hotel through a side hallway without any one in the building being aware of their departure.
“We’re going to have a fight of it to get to the railroad station,” muttered Ward Porton, as the fury of the storm struck both of them.
“It’s lucky I know the way,” croaked Tim Crapsey. And then, as they passed over the porch in the light of the lantern by which Washington Bones had seen Porton, the man went on: “Say, what’s the matter with us stoppin’ at some drinkin’ place and gittin’ a little liquor?”
“Not now,” interposed his companion, hastily. “We want to make our get-away without being seen if we possibly can.”
“Oh, nobody will know us,” grumbled Crapsey, who had a great fondness for liquor, “and the stuff may prove a life-saver if we git stuck some place in the snow.”
The realization that they might become snowbound on the way to Pepsico made Porton pause, and in the end he agreed to visit a drinking place several blocks away, which, by the light shining dimly through the window, they could see was still open.
“But now look here, Tim, you’re not going to overdo it,” said the former moving-picture actor, warningly. “If we are going to pull this stunt off you are going to keep perfectly sober. It’s one drink and no more!”
“But I’m goin’ to git a flask to take along,” pleaded the man.
“You can do that. But I give you fair warning that you’ve got to go slow in using the stuff. Otherwise we are going to part company. In such a game as we are trying to put over, a man has got to have his wits about him.”
Having procured a drink, and also a package of cigarettes and a flask of liquor, the two set off through the storm for the railroad station, a mile and a quarter away. It was a hard and tiresome journey, and more than once they had to stop to rest and figure out where they were. Twice Tim Crapsey insisted upon it that he must have a “bracer” from the flask.
“I’m froze through and through,” he declared.
“Well, I’m half frozen myself,” retorted Ward Porton, and when he saw the man drinking he could not resist the temptation to take some of the liquor himself.
“We’ll be in a fine pickle if we get to Pepsico and then find that the train isn’t coming through,” remarked the former moving-picture actor, when about three-quarters of the journey had been covered and they were resting in the shelter of a roadside barn.
“That’s a chance we’ve got to take,” returned his companion. “But I don’t think the train will be stormbound. Most of the tracks through here are on an embankment, and the wind would keep them pretty clear.”
It was after one o’clock when the pair finally gained the little railroad station at Pepsico. They found over a dozen men and several women present, all resting in the tiny waiting-room, trusting that the train would soon put in an appearance.
“The wires are down so they can’t tell exactly where the train is,” said one of the men, in reply to a question from Porton. “They are hoping, though, that it isn’t many miles away.”
From time to time one of the would-be passengers would go out on the tracks to look and listen, and at last one of these announced that a train was on the way.
“But I can’t tell whether it’s a passenger train or a freight,” he said.
“Let’s git on it even if it’s a freight,” said Tim Crapsey to Ward Porton. “She’ll take us to Crumville jest as well.”
“All right, provided we can get aboard.”
Slowly the train puffed in and proved to be a freight. On the rear, however, was a passenger car, hooked on at the last station.
“The regular passenger train is stalled in the cut beyond Breckford,” announced the conductor of the freight, “and there’s no telling when she’ll get out. If you folks want to risk getting through, get aboard;” and at this invitation all those waiting at the station lost no time in boarding the mixed train. Then, with a great deal of puffing and blowing, the locomotive moved slowly away from Pepsico, dragging the long line of cars, some full and some empty, behind it.
Long before Crumville was reached it became a question as to whether the train would get through or not. The snow was coming down as thickly as ever, and the wind whistled with increased violence.
“I don’t believe we’ll get much farther than Crumville,” announced the conductor, when he came through to collect tickets. “We should have passed at least two trains coming the other way. But nothing has come along, and that would seem to show that the line is blocked ahead of us.”
As a matter of fact, the mixed train did not get even as far as Dave’s home town. Running was all right so long as the tracks were up on the embankment, but as soon as they reached the level of the surrounding country the snow became so deep that several times the train had to be backed up so that a fresh start might be made. Then, when they came to a cut not over three feet deep, just on the outskirts of the town, the engineer found it utterly impossible to get any farther.
“We’ll have to have a snow-plough to get us out,” he declared, “or otherwise we’ll have to remain here until the storm clears away.”
By listening to the conversation of some of the people in the car, Porton and Crapsey learned that it was only a short distance to the town, and they followed several men and a woman when they left the train to finish the journey on foot.
“I know where we are now,” said Porton, presently, as he and his companion struck a well-defined road leading past the Wadsworth jewelry works. “We’ll be right in Crumville in a little while more.”
Ward Porton knew very well that he must not show himself in Crumville any more than was necessary. Consequently, as soon as they came within sight of the town proper, he suggested that they look around for some place where they might remain until daybreak.
“Right you are,” answered Tim Crapsey. And a little later, coming to a large barn, they tried the door, and, finding it unlocked, entered and proceeded to make themselves comfortable in some hay, using several horse blankets for coverings.
Here both of them, being thoroughly exhausted, fell sound asleep and did not awaken until it was daylight.
“Now we’ve got to lay our plans with great care,” announced Ward Porton. “We can’t go at this in any haphazard way. Even though it may prove comparatively easy to get our hands on those miniatures, it will be another story to get away with them in such a storm as this, with the railroad and every other means of communication tied up.”
“This storm is jest the thing that’s goin’ to help us,” answered Crapsey. “With all the telegraph and telephone wires down the authorities won’t be able to send out any alarm. And with the snow so deep, if we git any kind of a start at all it will be next to impossible for ’em to follow us up.”
A discussion of ways and means followed that lasted the best part of an hour. Then, with money provided by Porton, and with many an admonition that he must not for the present drink another drop, Tim Crapsey was allowed to depart for Crumville.
“And you be very careful of how you go at things,” warned Porton.
Tim Crapsey had a delicate mission to perform. First of all he was to size up matters around the homes of the Wadsworths and the Basswoods, and then he was to do what he could to hire a cutter and a fast horse at the local livery stable. This done, he was to procure something to eat both for himself and for his companion.
As time went by Ward Porton, on the alert for the possible appearance of the owner of the barn, became more and more anxious, and twice he went out in the roadway to see if his companion was anywhere in sight.
“It would be just like him to go off and get full of liquor,” muttered the young man, with a scowl. “I really ought to part company with him. But when he is perfectly sober he certainly is a slick one,” he continued meditatively.
To pass the time the young man made a thorough search of the overcoat which he had stolen from Dave. He had already discovered a fine pair of gloves and had worn them. Now, in an inner pocket, he located a card-case containing half a dozen addresses, some postage stamps, and some of Dave’s visiting cards. There were also two cards which had been blank, and on each of these, written in Dave’s bold hand, was the following:
Signature of David Porter, Crumville
“Hello! what’s this?” mused the former moving-picture actor, as he gazed at the written cards. Then suddenly his face brightened. “Oh, I see! It’s one of those cards that I heard about–the kind he has been distributing among the storekeepers in an effort to catch me. Say, one of these may come in handy when I go for those miniatures!” he continued.
At last he heard a noise outside, and looking in that direction saw Tim Crapsey approaching in a somewhat dilapidated cutter, drawn, however, by a powerful-looking bay horse.
“Had a fierce time gittin’ this horse,” announced the man, as he came to a halt beside the barn. “The livery stable man didn’t want to let him go out, and I had to tell him a long yarn about somebody bein’ sick and my havin’ to git a doctor. And I had to offer him double price, too!” and at his own ruse the man chuckled hoarsely.
He had brought with him some sandwiches and doughnuts, and also a bottle of hot coffee, and on these both made a somewhat limited breakfast, the man washing the meal down with another drink from his flask.
“I kept my word–I didn’t drink a drop when I was in town,” he croaked. “But say, this is mighty dry work!”
“You keep a clear head on your shoulders, Tim,” warned Porton. “Some day, drink is going to land you in jail or in the grave.”
“Not much!” snorted the man. “I know when to stop.” But Porton knew that this was not true.
Another conference was held, and Crapsey told of having taken a look around, both at the Wadsworth place and the Basswood home.
“There is no one at the Basswood place but Mr. and Mrs. Basswood; and I understand the man is sick in bed,” he said. “All the telephone wires are out of commission, but to make sure that the Basswoods couldn’t telephone I cut the wire that runs into his real estate office–and I also cut the wire up at the Wadsworth house.”
“Good for you, Tim!” returned Ward Porton, and then he told of having found the two cards, each containing Dave’s signature.
“That’s fine!” cried the man. “That ought to help you a great deal when you ask for the miniatures.”
“I hope it does,” answered Ward Porton, thoughtfully. “Now let us go; the sooner we get at this affair the better.” And then both left the barn, entered the cutter, and drove rather slowly in the direction of the Basswood home.