CHAPTER VII
MARK IS CAPTURED
Eagerly the boys hurried forward, intent on making the best time possible to the old Preakness homestead, which was a landmark for miles around, and which, in its day, had been a handsome house and estate. Now it was fallen into ruins, for there was a dispute among the heirs, and the property was in the Chancery Court.
“Do you think we’ll find him there?” asked Mark, as they made their way along the dusty highway. “Hard to tell. Yet, if he’s hanging out in this neighborhood, that would be as good a place as any, for him to hide in.”
“I wonder who he can be, anyhow? And how he knows me?”
“Give it up. Evidently he isn’t a tramp, though he stays in a place where there are plenty of the Knights of the Road.”
The boys increased their pace, and were soon on the main road leading to the Preakness house, and about a mile away from it. “We’ll soon be there now,” remarked Jack. “Then we’ll see if we can find that man.”
As he spoke, the lad put his hand in his pocket, and, a moment later, he uttered a startled cry.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mark, in some alarm.
“Matter? Why, gee whiz! If I haven’t forgotten to send that telegram Professor Henderson gave me! It’s to order some special tools to take along on our trip to the moon. They didn’t come, and the professor wrote out a message urging the factory to hurry the shipment. He gave it to me to send, just before the accident to the motor, but when that happened it knocked it out of my mind, I guess. I stuck the telegram in my pocket, and here it is yet,” and Jack drew forth a crumpled paper. “Wouldn’t that make you tired?” he asked. “It’s important, and ought to go at once. The professor won’t like it.”
“I’ll tell you what to do,” suggested Mark, after a moment’s thought. “The telegraph office isn’t so far away from here. You can cut across lots, and be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. Tell ‘em to rush the message, and it may be in time yet. Anyhow, we’re going to be delayed because of the accident to the motor, so it won’t make so much difference. But come on, let’s start, and we can hurry back.”
“I guess that’s the best plan,” remarked Jack dubiously, for he did not fancy a half-hour’s tramp across the fields and back again. Then, as he thought of something else, he called out:
“Say, Mark, there’s no use of both of us going to the telegraph office. I’ll go alone, as it’s my fault, and you can stay here, and watch to see if that strange man appears on the scene. I’ll not be long, and you can wait for me here.”
“How would it be if I went on a little nearer to the Preakness house?” asked Mark. “I can meet you there just as well as here, and something may develop.”
“Good idea! You go on, and when I come back, I’ll take the road that leads through the old slate quarry, and save some time that way. I’ll meet you right near the old barn that stands on the Gilbert property, just before you reach the Preakness grounds.”
“All right; I’ll be there, but don’t run your legs off. We’re out for all day, and there isn’t anything that needs to be done at home, or around the projectile, so take your time.”
“Oh, I’ll not go to sleep,” declared Jack. “I want to see if we can’t solve the mystery of the man who writes such queer notes.”
Jack started off across the fields at a swift pace, while Mark strolled on down the road, in the direction of the old Preakness house. He was thinking of many things, chiefly of the wonderful journey that lay before them, and he was wondering what the moon would look like when they got to it.
That it would be a wild, desolate place, he had no doubt, for the evidences of the telescopes of astronomers pointed that way, and, as is well known, the most powerful instruments can now bring the moon to within an apparent distance of one hundred miles of the earth. This is true of the Lick telescope, which has a magnifying power of 2,500 and an object lens a yard across. But, with this powerful telescope, it has been impossible to distinguish any such objects as forests, cities, or any evidences of life on the moon—that is, on the side that has always been turned toward us.
Almost unconsciously, Mark went on faster than he intended, and, before he knew it, he had arrived at the barn where he had promised to wait for his chum. Mark looked at his watch, and found that he would still have some time to linger before he could expect Jack to return. He sat down on a stone beside the fence, and looked about him. The day was warm for fall, and the last of the crickets were chirping away, while, in distant fields, men could be seen husking corn, or drawing in loads of yellow pumpkins.
“I wonder if we’ll have pumpkin pie on the moon,” thought Mark. “Though, of course, we won’t. I guess all we’ll have to eat will be what Washington takes along in the projectile—that is, unless we find people on the other side of the place.”
He sat on the stone for some minutes longer, and then, tiring of the inactivity, he arose and strolled about. Something seemed to draw him in the direction of the old house, which he knew was just around the bend in the road.
“I guess there wouldn’t be any harm in my going along and taking a peep at it,” mused the lad. “It will be some time before Jack returns, and I may be able to catch a glimpse of our man. I think I’ll go up where I can see the place, and I can come back in time to meet Jack. I’ll do it. Maybe the fellow might escape while I’m waiting.”
Mark thus tried to justify himself for his action in not keeping to his agreement with his chum. Of course it was not an important matter, Mark thought, though the results of his simple action were destined to be more far-reaching than he imagined. He thought he would be back in time to meet Jack, and so he strolled on, going more cautiously now, for, in a few minutes he would come in sight of the old, deserted house, and he did not know what he might find there.
Mark’s first sight of the Preakness homestead was of two old stone posts, that had once formed a fine gateway. The posts were in ruins, now, and half fallen down, being covered with Virginia creeper, the leaves of which were now a vivid red, mingled with green.
“Nothing very alarming there,” said Mark, half aloud. He could just catch a glimpse of the roof of the house over the tops of the trees, which had not yet shed all their leaves. “Guess I’ll go on a little farther. Maybe our friend, the enemy, is sitting on the front porch, sunning himself.”
Past the old gateway Mark continued, intending to proceed along the highway until he got directly in front of the old mansion. There, he knew, he would have a good view, unobstructed by trees or shrubbery.
When the lad got to this place in the road, he paused, and stooped over, as if tying the lace of his shoe, for it was his intention to pass himself off, if possible, as a casual passer-by, so that in case the mysterious man should be in the house, his suspicions would not be aroused by seeing the youth to whom he had written the note staring in at him.
And, while he was apparently fussing with his shoe, Mark was narrowly eying the old house.
“Not a very inviting place,” thought Mark. “I don’t see why any man who could afford anything better, would stay there—unless he has some strong motive for lingering in this section. And that’s probably what this fellow has, and I’d like to discover it. Well, I don’t see any signs of him, so I guess I might as well go back, and wait for Jack. He’ll be along soon.”
He stood up, took a good look at the house, and was about to retrace his steps down the highway, when he saw the sagging front door of the old mansion slowly open. It creaked on the rusty hinges, and Mark stared with all his might as he saw a man emerge, a man who did not look like a tramp, for his clothes were of good material and cut, and fit him well. Nor did he wear a stubbly growth of beard, but, on the contrary, his face was clean shaven. The man was about Mark’s size, perhaps a little taller, and nearly as stout. He stood on the sagging porch, and gazed off toward the road.
“Well, if that’s the man Dick Johnson got the note from he’s changed mightily in appearance,” thought Mark, as he looked at the fellow. “He isn’t very tall, and he hasn’t any black mustache. But of course he may have shaved that off, and I suppose in the dark, and when one is in a hurry to earn a quarter, it’s hard to say whether a man is tall or short. I wonder if this can be the person we’re looking for?”
Mark hardly knew what to do. He stood in the road, undecided, and fairly stared at the man, who had left the porch, and was walking down the weed-grown path. He was looking straight at Mark, but if the stranger was the person who had written the note, and if he recognized the lad, he gave no sign to that effect.
“Good afternoon,” said the man, as he paused at the gap in the front wall, where once a gate had been. “Pleasant day, isn’t it.”
“Ye—yes,” stammered Mark, wondering what to say next.
“Live around here?” went on the man.
“Not very far off.”
“Ah, then you know this old shack?”
“Well, I don’t get over here, very often. Do you live here?” ventured Mark boldly, determining to do some questioning on his own account.
“Me live here?” cried the man, as if indignant “Well, hardly! I was just passing, and, happening to see the old place, and having a fondness for antiques, I stepped in. But it is in bad shape. I should say tramps make it their hangout.”
“It has that name,” said Mark.
There was a pause for a moment, and the lad was a trifle embarrassed. The man was gazing boldly at him.
“I guess I’ve made a mistake,” thought Mark. “This can’t be the man we want. He doesn’t live here, and he doesn’t look like him. I’d better be getting back to meet Jack.”
“Are you engaged at anything in particular?” questioned the man taking a few steps nearer the youth.
“No, I’m not working, but I expect to take a trip, shortly, with some friends of mine,” answered Mark.
“Ah, is that so?” and there was polite inquiry in the man’s voice. “Are you going far?”
“Quite a distance.” Mark wondered what the man would say if he told him he was going to the moon.
“I wonder if you would do me a favor?” went on the man. “As I was passing through this old house I saw, on one of the outer doors, an old-fashioned knocker. I am a collector of antiques, and I would very much like to have that. But I need help in getting it off. I do not intend to steal it, but if it is left here some tramp may destroy it, and that would be too bad. I intend to remove it, and then hunt up the owners of this place, and purchase it from them.”
“It will be hard to discover who are the owners,” replied Mark, “as the title is in dispute.”
“So much the better for me. Will you help me remove the knocker? I will pay you for your time.”
Mark hesitated. He did not like the man’s manner, and there was a shifty, uneasy look about his eyes. Still he might be all right. But Mark did not like the idea of going into the old house with him alone. It might be safe, and, again, it might not. But the knocker was on an outside door. There could be no harm in helping him, as long as it was outside. The man saw the hesitation in the lad’s manner.
“It will not take us long,” the stranger said. “I want you to help me pry off the knocker, as I have no screw-driver to remove it. I will pay you well.”
As he spoke he came nearer to Mark, and the lad noticed that the man’s right hand was held behind his back. This struck Mark as rather suspicious. Suddenly he became aware of a peculiar odor in the air—a sweet, sickish odor. He started back in alarm, all his former suspicions aroused. The man seemed to leap toward him.
“Look out!” suddenly cried the fellow. “Look behind you!”
Involuntarily Mark turned. He saw nothing alarming. The next instant he felt himself grasped in the strong arms of the man, and a cloth that smelled strongly of the strange, sweetly sickish odor was pressed over the lad’s face.
“Here! Stop! Let me go! Help! Help!” cried Mark. Then his voice died out. He felt weak and sick, and sank back, an inert mass in the man’s arms.
“I guess I’ve got you this time,” whispered the fellow, as he gazed down on Mark’s white face. “I’ll put you where you won’t get away, either,” and, picking up the youth, he carried him a prisoner into the deserted house.