The Mark of the Knife

Teeny-bits knew instantly when it came to a stop, for the vibrations ceased. Only a moment passed before he felt himself lifted by two pairs of hands and a moment later realized by the sound and the motion that he was being carried up a long flight of steps. He heard a door open and shut and he sniffed a strange odor; food cooking and smoke, it seemed to suggest, but strange food and strange smoke. Another flight of steps was mounted, another door was opened, and Teeny-bits felt himself deposited upon something that seemed like a mattress. He tried to speak, to ask where he was and what his captors intended, but only muffled mumblings came from his lips. He heard the door close and knew that he was alone. A feeling of despair, the equal of which he had never experienced, swept over him; he was in the power of nameless enemies whose purposes were unknown and perhaps sinister.

For a long while Teeny-bits lay in dumb misery, while one dismal thought after another marched through his mind. On the eve of the big game – the game in which for long weeks his hopes had been fastened, first with interest and then with an almost feverish anticipation – he had been mysteriously spirited away. Now he would not even witness the great struggle between his school and its ancient rival – to say nothing of playing and winning his R. But there were other thoughts. What of his father, – old Daniel Holbrook? Teeny-bits now suspected that the telephone summons was part of a plan to entice him away from the school, but, of course, there was a possibility that an accident had occurred and that even now Daniel Holbrook was hovering between life and death, and wondering why Teeny-bits did not come to him. There was still another thought: circumstances had cast about him a cloud of suspicion which was evident to two persons whose respect he wished to retain, – Doctor Wells and Mr. Stevens. What would their feeling toward him be when they learned that he had disappeared from the school without saying a word to any one? They could arrive at only one conclusion: that he was guilty of stealing from his schoolmates and that, fearing to face the charges against him, he had run away like a coward. If the worst should happen – if he should not come out alive from the predicament in which he now found himself – his name would be remembered forever as that of one who had neither honor nor courage.

Those thoughts seemed to Teeny-bits more than he could bear, and suddenly a feeling of bitter rage welled up within him against the unknown enemy who had caused him all this misery. He could not believe that Snubby Turner had anything to do with it. The only persons in Ridgley School whom he had reason to suspect were Bassett and Tracey Campbell. He made up his mind that if he ever escaped from his present predicament he would go straight to those two members of Ridgley School and ask them point-blank if they were at the bottom of his troubles. If they could not come forth with an answer that rang true, he would give them both a thrashing that they would never forget. He would welcome a chance to meet them singly or as a pair. He began to struggle at his bonds and was soon dripping with perspiration from his efforts. After a time he saw the uselessness of it and, almost exhausted, lay breathing deeply the close atmosphere of the room.

The night before the "big game" at Ridgley School resembled the lull before a storm; word had been passed as usual that the dormitories were to be quiet and members of the school were to keep away from the rooms of the football players, who, of course, needed, on this night of all nights, a sound and long sleep. In Lincoln Hall, at meal time, there had been a hum of eager conversation: the Jefferson team had arrived in Hamilton and had gone to comfortable quarters at Grey Stone Inn, three miles from the school. They would remain at the inn until just before the game, when they would come to the field in automobiles. Several of the Ridgleyites who had been in the station at the time of the visitors' arrival reported that the Jefferson players were "huskies" and that Norris, the renowned full-back, was the biggest "of the lot." The main body of Jefferson students would arrive by special train at noon on Saturday.

Many a member of Ridgley School on this eve of the great struggle was filled with a feeling of restlessness; it seemed that the minutes were dragging with indescribable slowness, that the night would never pass and that the hour would never come when the referee would blow his whistle to start the contest upon which the Ridgley hopes and fears were centered.

Among those restless spirits who longed for some way to speed the minutes was Snubby Turner. He had gone down to the Hamilton Station and had come away not at all reassured by the sight that had met his eyes. The representatives of Jefferson School were a formidable looking lot, and it increased Snubby's peace of mind not at all to have had a close view of Norris' athletic form. He sensed a feeling of overflowing confidence in these big sons of Jefferson, and he longed to talk to some one who could dispel his doubts and drive away the insidious fears that were gnawing at what he called his "Ridgley spirit." In these circumstances he would have gone to Teeny-bits, or he might even have imposed upon the hospitality of Neil Durant, – if he had not known that loyalty to the school demanded that he should not bother any member of the eleven. He finally sought consolation by going down to the basement of Gannett Hall to pay a visit to old Jerry. He found the ancient janitor's assistant leaning back in a rickety chair reading by the light of an unshaded electric bulb. The old man put the volume down upon his knee and looked at Snubby with eyes that seemed to be gazing on distant scenes.

"What kind of book is that?" asked Snubby. "A novel?"

Old Jerry thrust his head forward slightly, as if seeing his visitor for the first time, and said:

"There's ijeers in this book, I wanter tell yer. It's about an awful smart feller who had ways of his own in gettin' at the bottom o' things – kind of a detecative chap."

Snubby looked at the title and saw that it was "The Mystery of the Million Dollar Diamond."

"It does a man good sometimes to exercise his brains on meesterious happenin's," said old Jerry, "and you know we got plenty o' reason to study up things o' that sort."

"Yes, we have; but I'm not half as much interested in that stuff just now as I am in the Jefferson game. Who do you think's going to win?"

Old Jerry laid the book carefully aside on his table, looked at his questioner seriously for a moment and said:

"I got my ijeers about that too, but it don't do no good to tell everythin' that is millin' aroun' in your head. Now I once heared of a feller who had a job forecastin' the weather for a noospaper, and he'd allus say right out positive whether it 'ud rain or shine – it was allus goin' to be bright and clear or dark and stormy – and along come a spell o' weather and every day for a week he said it was going to rain, and I'll be singed if there was a cloud in the sky all through them seven days – and the feller lost his job. Now the way I look at the game is this: we got a big chance to win and we got a big chance to lose, and if we do the things we oughter do it's goin' to be bright and fair, and if we do the things we hadn't oughter do it's goin' to be dark and stormy, – and I got my ijeers which is which. But, as I said, it don't do too much good to tell everythin' you know."

"It'll be an awful fight," said Snubby; "a terrible fight every single minute of the time, and I'll bet you two cents to a tin whistle that when that Jefferson crowd of heavy-weights gets through they'll know they've been playing somebody. I wish there were something I could do. I'm so doggone restless that I don't believe I'll sleep a wink to-night."

Old Jerry gave voice to a cackle of mirth. "Bet you'll sleep all right," he said. "I never yet seen a feller like you that didn't sleep when the time come for it, and as for helping, I guess you'll do your part if you keep on believin' that Ridgley School can't be beat and when the game is goin' on you yell your dumdest to encourage the team."

"Well," said Snubby, "I suppose you want to go on readin' that lurid-looking book of yours, so I'll be going up to my room, I guess."

"It ain't so lurid," said Jerry, "but it's interestin' 'cause it's kind o' teachin' me how to put two and two together so's they'll figger up to make four, if you know what I mean, and then I'm a mite stirred up myself about that game to-morrer and it's quietin' to my nerves."

So Snubby Turner left his friend in the little basement room, walked quietly up the stairs to his room and made up his mind that the best thing for him to do was to turn in.

Mass meetings, preliminary games and final practice were over and everything now awaited the climax of the season. By half-past nine lights were going out in the dormitories and presently quiet reigned over the white buildings on the hill and the stars, sending down their radiance from a clear sky, presaged fair weather for the great contest. The light was out in Teeny-bits' room and no one in the school – with the exception of two persons – doubted that the smallest member of the eleven was not sleeping soundly beneath the roof of Gannett Hall.

Saturday morning dawned as fair as the fairest day in the year; there was a nip in the air that suggested winter, but as the morning wore on, the mounting sun mellowed the chill until the "old boys" – men who had played for Ridgley and Jefferson twenty years before and who had come back to view once again the immortal combat between the "best school in all the world" and her greatest rival – slapped each other on the back and said:

"Perfect football weather!"

All roads led to Ridgley – or seemed to – on this day of days. The trains came rolling into the Hamilton Station, discharged their burdens of humanity and rolled on. Automobiles by the score climbed the long hill to the school, – automobiles bearing the fluttering red of Ridgley and the fluttering purple of Jefferson. There were shouts of greeting and shouts of gay challenge, honking of horns and a busy rushing here and there that suggested excitement, anticipation and hopes built high. And then came the special train from Jefferson – the Purple Express, so named – bearing hundreds of cheering students and a brass band of twenty pieces which led the procession into Lincoln Hall to the strains of the Jefferson Victory Song, – a fiendish piece of music in the ears of Ridgley's loyal sons, a stirring pean of confidence and challenge in the ears of those who waved aloft the purple. At Lincoln Hall the Jefferson guests – according to immemorial custom – sat down to a luncheon that Ridgley School provided. A year later the compliment would be returned. The band played, the visitors cheered, the song leader jumped on a table and swung his arms in time to the latest Jefferson song, – and all Ridgley School knew that Jefferson was having the time of her life. She had come to her rival with the best team in her history and she meant to enjoy every moment of a triumph which she was confident would be colossal. In all this excitement Teeny-bits' absence was not at first noticed. At breakfast some one asked for him and some one else said:

"I guess he's already eaten and gone; he probably didn't want to listen to our football gossip."

During the course of the morning two members of the faculty called for him – Doctor Wells and Mr. Stevens. They had an identical thought in mind – though neither knew that the other was thinking it. They were busy in extending the hospitality of Ridgley to the members of the Jefferson faculty and in greeting the "old boys" who had returned for the big game, but both wanted to have a word with Teeny-bits, – to tell him that they had confidence in him and that they knew everything would turn out right in the end and that they should watch him with special interest this afternoon and knew that he would forget everything else and play his best for Ridgley. They left word for him at the dormitory.

This was no ordinary game of football – Ridgley-Jefferson games never were ordinary – and this would transcend all past contests between the two schools. Jefferson was said to be irresistible; the Ridgleyites knew that the spirit of their team was irresistible, and when two "irresistible" forces come together something must give way. From Springfield, the nearest large city, came numerous copies of the Springfield Times with pictures of all the players and statistics in regard to age, weight and height. The largest amount of space was given to Norris, the Jefferson full-back, but Neil Durant came in for his share and a paragraph was devoted to Teeny-bits who was described in these words:

"The Ridgley left-half will be the lightest player on the field; he cannot be expected to do much against the heavy Jefferson line, but he has gained a reputation as a shifty runner and deserves to be watched on open plays."

At noon, when Teeny-bits did not appear for the special luncheon that was served to the members of the team in the trophy room of the gymnasium, Neil Durant and Coach Murray began to make inquiries.

"Where's Teeny-bits?"

Nobody had an answer.

"He'll probably be along pretty soon," said the coach. "He ought not to be late to-day, though."

When the luncheon was half-eaten Neil Durant got up and announced that he was going to send some one to look for the missing member of the team. He found Snubby Turner and asked him to run up to Gannett Hall and look for Teeny-bits.

When Snubby came back at the close of the meal with the report that Teeny-bits was not in his room and that nobody, as far as he could discover, had seen him all the morning, Neil Durant said:

"Maybe he went home. We'll probably find him down at the locker building."

But when the members of the team arrived at the field half an hour later in order to prepare themselves leisurely for the game, Teeny-bits had not appeared.

"That's mighty queer," Neil said to Ned Stillson. "I can't understand it. If he doesn't come we'll have to play Campbell in his place – and somehow I haven't much faith in Campbell. I'm going to call up Mr. Holbrook at the Hamilton station and find out if he knows anything about Teeny-bits."

In answer to Neil's call, Mr. Holbrook's assistant reported that Mr. Holbrook had gone home to dinner and was not coming back till late in the afternoon; he was going to the game.

"The Holbrooks haven't a 'phone in their house, have they?" asked Neil.

"No, they haven't," came the reply.

"Well, do you know where Teeny-bits is?"

"Why, up at the school, I suppose; I haven't seen him," was the answer.

It was evident that Mr. Holbrook's assistant had no information; Neil hung up the receiver and said to himself:

"Well, if his father is coming that's a good sign. When Teeny-bits shows up, I'll give him a lecture that'll make his hair stand on end."

At quarter-past one, when the Ridgley team ran out on the field for warming-up practice, Coach Murray looked over the squad and yelled sharply:

"Campbell, get out there in left-half and let me see you show some pep."

The tone of his voice was like a whiplash, and every member of the team knew that he was angry clear through.

Already the stands were beginning to fill with the friends of Ridgley and of Jefferson, though the cheering sections were as yet empty. In two long columns, stepping in time to the music of their respective bands, the Ridgleyites and the Jeffersonians were marching to the field.

CHAPTER VIII

STRANGE CAPTORS

Teeny-bits Holbrook was not the sort to give up hope quickly. When, after struggling vainly against his bonds, he had exhausted his strength and had at last lain back panting for breath, he had begun to think, – to try in some way to devise a plan that would offer hope of escape. But there seemed to be no possible loophole, no stratagem or maneuver by means of which he could win release. Inaction was galling, and, after lying still for a long time, Teeny-bits again began to struggle and twist and squirm. These bonds with which his arms and hands and feet and legs were fastened did not give way under his most violent efforts and, as previously, he exhausted himself before he had accomplished anything.

For hours Teeny-bits alternated these periods of struggling and resting. Twice he was aware that some one came into the room and went out, – evidently after watching him for a few moments. How much time had passed since his captors had pounced upon him on the hill road to Hamilton he had no means of knowing, but it seemed likely that more than half the night had gone.

In one of his struggles Teeny-bits rolled off the edge of the mattress on which he had been lying; to his surprise he did not fall with a crash some two or three feet, as he would have fallen from a bed of the usual height, but merely dropped a few inches before coming in contact with the floor. Evidently the mattress rested on springs that were laid directly on the boards. Teeny-bits rolled himself this way and that until he brought up against a wall. He was about to roll in the other direction when he realized that the folds of cloth that bound him were caught against something; from the feeling – the slight pull that was exerted against the movement of his body – he came to the conclusion that it was a nail. He wriggled a few inches length-wise along the wall, and the sound of ripping cloth came to his ears, – a sound that brought a thrill of hope. If the bonds that imprisoned him were too strong to be broken by the power of his muscles, perhaps he could tear and rip them by edging himself back and forth against the sharp projection which, judging by sound, had already effected the beginning of what he desired. By twisting and turning, he succeeded, in the course of the next five minutes, in gaining a certain amount of freedom for his arms.

When Teeny-bits had left his room in Gannett Hall to answer the telephone call he had pulled on a light sweater. Now it occurred to him that if he could catch the lower part of the sweater on the nail, he might, by working his body downward, pull the garment over his head and carry with it the stout cloth in which he was still swathed. At the cost of some skin scraped from his back, he got the nail fastened in the sweater and gradually succeeded in turning it inside out. In a minute or two he said to himself, exultantly, he would have his hands free, and then it would be quick and easy work to untie his feet.

At that moment, when escape was almost within his grasp, dreaded sounds came to his ears, – the opening of the door and the shuffle of running feet. Teeny-bits was in a hopeless position to make any resistance; the folds of tough cloth which had been wound about his body, pinioning his arms, had been pulled upward with the sweater until the whole mass was bunched across the top of his bare shoulders, and though he was able to move his arms slightly, he was still so tangled that he could do nothing except await whatever fate was in store for him. Two persons came into the room; he heard them speak sharply and knew then that they were Chinese; there was no mistaking the outlandish inflection of vowel and consonant. In a second rough hands were laid upon him and he was dragged away from the wall. He gave a few last futile wrenches and then lay still, face down, on the floor.

His captors had him at their mercy; they could do with him what they wished. One of them was pulling at the folds of cloth; Teeny-bits could feel the man's hands on his bare back. Suddenly the hands paused in their work; then the sweater was pushed an inch or two higher and there came to Teeny-bits' ears one of the strangest sounds that he had ever heard: an exclamation, a startled cry in syllables that, though wild and meaningless in themselves, conveyed an unmistakable effect, – discovery and the highest degree of astonishment. This strange cry was answered in kind by another voice, and Teeny-bits felt the two Chinese fumbling at his back with trembling fingers. To his surprise he realized, after a moment, that they were loosening the bonds, that they were freeing his arms and legs and removing the folds over his mouth and eyes.

In a few moments Teeny-bits sat up and looked about him; he had the same sensation that a person sometimes experiences on waking at night in a room away from home and finding the walls too near or too far and windows where they should not be. He had imagined himself in a wide, high, dimly lighted room with two villainous-looking desperadoes bending over him with weapons plainly displayed. He found himself in a low-ceilinged, box-like, little room lighted by a flaring gas jet, with two astonished-looking Chinese gazing at him with slant eyes that seemed to be almost popping from their heads. They were jabbering their outlandish tongue up and down the singsong scale as if here before them, sitting on the floor, were a new species of being, newly discovered and strange beyond imagination. Teeny-bits did not know what to make of them; he blinked his eyes and remained sitting there, wondering what would happen next. Both of the Chinese seemed to be asking him questions and they were pointing at him in a way that brought the thought to Teeny-bits that they were both insane. Then he suddenly realized what was the cause of their excitement – one of them came closer and pointed down at his shoulder – at the terra-cotta colored mark which had excited comment at Ridgley School because it so strikingly resembled a dagger-like knife with a tapering blade and a thin handle.

"What's the idea of all this business?" demanded Teeny-bits.

The Oriental who stood beside him bent down and touched the mark as if trying to discover if it were real. He called out something to his companion and a flow of words passed between them.

Teeny-bits stood up stiffly and began to pull on his torn sweater, while the two Chinese watched him with fascinated eyes.

"Why did you bring me here?" he demanded. "Are you crazy, or what is the matter with you?"

The two Chinese blinked at him vacantly; either they did not understand English or pretended not to. Suddenly one of them got down on his knees and began a queer song-like jabbering in which his companion joined.

Teeny-bits did not wait to listen, but began to move toward the door; he expected the men to jump in front of him and bar the way, but neither of them stirred until he was actually stepping out of the room. Teeny-bits ran stiffly down a dimly lighted flight of steps, then down another flight and out into a dark alleyway. Behind him he could hear the soft pattering of feet; the two Chinese were not far in the rear. Determined to waste no time in escaping, he dashed down the alley and came into a dark street; he ran faster and faster as the stiffness in his legs lessened, turning into one street after another, and he did not stop until he was breathing hard and had left the place of his captivity several hundred yards behind. He looked back then and listened. Apparently he had distanced pursuit, for no sounds of pattering feet came to his ears and he caught no glimpse of the two Chinese who had acted so strangely.

At any rate he was free, – though he did not know where he was; the streets down which he had been running were deserted; the houses were of brick tenement structure and stood close together. He went on at a swift walk, turning every few steps to look over his shoulder, and presently he came to a building which he recognized. It was the market that faced Stanley Square in Greensboro, a yellow brick building with a tall tower and a clock. As Teeny-bits gazed upward, trying to read the position of the hour hand in the half-light of the street lamps, the big timepiece boomed out two strokes. It was two o'clock.

Teeny-bits turned south along Walnut Street in the direction of Hamilton. When he had attended the high school in Greensboro he had gone twice each day on his bicycle over the four miles of road between the village and the bustling young city. He now set out at a swift walk, and as soon as he had passed the outskirts of Greensboro, he jogged along at a pace that kept him warm, in spite of his scanty attire and the nipping air.

Twice, while still on the city streets, he had passed belated pedestrians and once he had glimpsed a policeman under a street lamp. He had not paused, however, for his one desire was to get home and to discover if his father had been injured. It had occurred to him that perhaps he should report his experience to the police, but the thought then came to him that they might detain him, – and the one thing that he wanted now was freedom. So he went on swiftly toward Hamilton and before three o'clock was approaching the house that he had always known as home. All of the windows were dark, – a reassuring sign. If anything terrible had happened, surely there would be a light in the house.