CHAPTER I✦

THE STRANGER ON THE TRAIN

Jerry Benson reached Washington, on his way back to North Bank School, two days late. This was not the fault of the railroad, as one who has traveled from Huckinsburg, North Carolina, to Washington might readily suspect, but was entirely due to the fact that Jerry had left home forty-eight hours after he should have. “Pap” Huckins, who was Jerry’s foster-father――his parents had died when he was a baby――had been poorly all summer and there had been no one to take his place in the little store when it had come time for Jerry to leave. So Jerry had stayed on until Pap had been able to hobble over, with the aid of his old holly-wood cane, and take command of the situation again. Just to be quite on the safe side, Jerry had dispatched a few lines to Mr. Ledyard, the school secretary, explaining everything, and so, when he climbed aboard the electric train that was to take him on the next leg of his journey, he had a clear conscience and an untroubled mind. Also, having dined well if not extravagantly in a white-tiled cafeteria, he was blessed with a fine sense of repletion and well-being. He had purchased a magazine with a vivid cover and contents to match, and now, his ancient valise safely between his feet and the train proceeding sedately through the squalid environs of the Capital, he settled back to a comfortable perusal of the startling adventures of the hero of “The Pearl Poachers of Bamba Strait.”

Jerry’s taste in literature was catholic to a degree. Last spring he had quite appalled Tom Hartley, his chum and roommate, by devouring everything in the way of American history he could lay his hands on, just as though, as Tom said ruefully, there wasn’t enough of it to be found in the school curriculum! And between whiles Jerry had been found digging tentatively into a sheepskin-bound volume entitled Jemmison on Jurisprudence. All of which, however, did not keep Jerry from devouring the stories and serials in Tom’s Saturday Evening Post. The pearl poachers were a bold, bad lot, and Jerry found their doings most interesting, and yet, right in the middle of the story, he found his attention faltering until, in obedience to some compelling force, his gaze wandered from the page and crossed the swaying car to where it encountered another. Jerry understood then why he had looked away from the magazine. The intent regard of the broad-shouldered stranger across the aisle would have penetrated the preoccupation of any one. They were very bright eyes that met Jerry’s, and very keen ones, and, ere they moved leisurely past him, they expressed a more than casual interest. The man was large in a lean, well-muscled way and his face was at once grave and pleasant. Although where his straw hat had been pushed slightly back from his forehead――the weather was warm for mid-September――the man’s hair was well grizzled with white, Jerry judged him to be no more than thirty. Jerry, returning to his story, chuckled to himself.

“He’s right nice looking,” he thought, “but, golly, if I’d robbed a bank or something I’d sure hate to find him watching me!”

After that he thought no more of the man across the aisle, and in course of time Naval Academy Junction was reached and Jerry took up his valise and made his way outside to the platform. Disdainfully the train sped on toward Baltimore, leaving Jerry and a handful of others to seek the shade and await the Annapolis train. Among those others was the broad-shouldered, brown-faced man he had caught looking at him. He took a seat on a bench, placed his suitcase between his feet and spread a Washington paper before him. Jerry studied him, conscious of an interest that he couldn’t explain. He had never seen the stranger before and would probably never see him again. Nor was there anything unusual about him to claim attention. Yet half a dozen times, having forcibly removed his gaze from the man, Jerry found his eyes returning to him. After all, there was not much to look at at the Junction: just four tracks running away to as many points of the compass, a station, a store, a switch-tower, all sizzling in the heat; and he may be excused for making the most of what seemed the more interesting. The other passengers, enduring the wait with what patience they could find, offered no interest at all to Jerry: a tired-looking woman with a restless baby and many bundles, a drummer with a sample-case, three inoffensive and colorless men of varying ages and four khaki-clad “doughboys” from the nearby camp. It was the latter, however, who eventually created a diversion that drew Jerry’s attention from the interesting stranger.

The soldiers had paid a visit to the store and had each returned with a bottle of strawberry-hued concoction which, it seemed, they had already lost their taste for. Further along the platform was a rudely-fashioned crate which stood, with two or three trunks――Jerry’s among them――on a truck. In the crate was a nondescript dog, one of the sort which, for want of a better name, is generally referred to as a rabbit dog. The weather was pretty hot and the traveler wasn’t very happy in his confined quarters, and Jerry, who had a weakness for dogs, had noticed the fact and had felt sorry for him. Now, wandering along the platform, the khaki-clad quartet discovered a source of mild amusement in the animal. One of them who wore a sergeant’s chevron――none of the four appeared more than twenty――conceived the idea of trying the tonic on the dog. The latter wagged a feeble tail and lapped eagerly enough at the mouth of the bottle, thrust through the slats of the crate. That moved the soldiers to laughter, and it was then that Jerry, willing to be amused, sauntered nearer and looked on.

“Say, he likes it all right,” said one of the doughboys. “Give him mine, Pete. Don’t spill it, you fool! Gee, he’s some thirsty, that mutt!”

“Likes it ’cause it’s sweet, I guess,” said another. “What’s he got in the tin dish there?”

“Looks like water,” answered the sergeant.

“Pour the tonic in there. He’d rather have it. Give him a good time, Pete. Looks like he’d die if he saw a square meal, don’t he?”

“Say ‘bone’ to him and he’d fall in a faint,” agreed the sergeant as he prepared to empty the contents of one of the bottles into the shallow tin dish.

“Reckon I wouldn’t do that,” said a drawling Southern voice at his elbow. “He’s going to need that water a heap before he gets where he’s going, and that sweet stuff will just make him thirstier.”

The sergeant looked around and ran his gaze derisively over the person of the intruder. He saw a tow-haired youth of seventeen with a plain but likable countenance from which, under light lashes, two pale-blue eyes looked placidly and good-humoredly forth. The boy was fairly tall for his age, a bit raw-boned and loose-jointed and not too well supplied with flesh. He wore a neat but inexpensive suit of blue serge and a yellowed straw hat, and no one would have made the mistake of supposing that either was purchased on Fifth Avenue. The sergeant grunted as he straightened up, the bottle in his hand dribbling its brilliantly colored contents to the platform.

“What’s troublin’ you, sonny?” he asked disdainfully.

Jerry smiled placatingly and blinked his blue eyes. “I was saying if you-all pour that stuff in his drinking dish he’s going to be powerful unhappy mighty soon. ’Tain’t going to satisfy his thirst like water does.”

“Is he your dog?” demanded one of the men.

“No, he ain’t mine, but――――”

“Chase yourself then, kid!” returned the sergeant. “This pup’s a whale for tonic; just laps it up! Here, Fido, have some more.”

“I wouldn’t do it,” reiterated Jerry earnestly as the sergeant again prepared to add the contents of the bottle to the dish. “He’s going to be right thirsty without any water.”

“Aw, shut up!” was the answer. “What are you butting in here for, anyway, you country jay? What business is it of yours?”

The tonic gurgled into the drinking dish as Jerry replied mildly: “I was just tellin’ you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just telling you to beat it before I hand you a wallop,” snarled the sergeant. Jerry blinked again, but he didn’t look alarmed. Neither did he accept the advice. He stood silently by while the dog lapped half-heartedly at the mixture of tonic and water and then, turning away from it, looked in friendly inquiry at the strangers.

“Go on and drink it,” said one of the soldiers. “That stuff costs money, dog!” But the dog only wagged his tail.

“Guess he’s looking for the meat course,” chuckled another. There was a shrill whistle from up the track and the electric train bore down on the station. The sergeant tossed the empty bottle aside and the quartet turned away. Jerry looked speculatively from the approaching train to his satchel and from that to the empty bottle. Then he looked at the dog and made up his mind.

“There’ll be another one in an hour, I reckon,” he muttered. He picked up the bottle and hurried into the station with it. Filling it was slow and difficult work, and when he returned to the platform the train was alongside. As he made his way quickly back to the baggage truck he saw that the man with the broad shoulders and sun-browned face was standing before the crate, and as he drew near the stranger spoke crisply.