City Boy (32 page)

Night came. The bugle blew taps, and the camp was darkened. Herbie, curled tensely in his cot, glanced at the phosphorescent numerals of his wrist watch, a handsome two-dollar birthday gift that he had never expected to put to such suspenseful use. It read ten minutes after ten. From now on every moment counted; already he had been cheated of ten precious minutes out of the nine allotted hours by a laggard bugler.

And now a new aggravation cropped up. His bunkmates were wakeful and talkative. While Herbie wriggled and fretted under his blanket, getting hotter and more impatient every minute, they held a long, thorough inquiry on the question whether Uncle Sid was or was not the worst counselor in the camp (the affirmative won). Then they thrashed out the historic problem, was Jesus Christ a Jew or a Christian (no decision); then they carefully reviewed all the Intermediate girls one by one from the physical, mental, and moral standpoints; and, just when they seemed to be dropping off, Uncle Sid came by with a flashlight and bawled at them for talking after taps, bringing them all wide awake again and starting a fresh discussion of his failings. Luckily this topic had been well worked over once. When the talk finally died away and Herbie cautiously slipped out of the bunk, his watch read ten minutes to eleven.

Cliff, a shadowy figure alread dressed in city clothes, was pacing in front of the camphor locker when Herbie arrived.

“Holy cats, I thought you'd given up,” said Cliff.

“Not me.” By the light of Cliff's flash, Herbie groped into the locker and donned his city clothes, choking over the camphor fumes.

“Howdja get the lock open, Cliff?”

“The wood's rotten. Pried it loose with a stone.”

“We gotta hammer it up again.”

“Yeah, in the morning when we get back.”

“'Ja bring money?”

“Five dollars. 'Ja bring the note to stick in the safe?”

“Yeah. Got it in my back pants pocket. Don't lemme forget it.”

“You bet I won't.”

Skulking from shadow to shadow, the two boys went up the hill to the stable. At the top of the rise Herbie paused and looked back at the sleeping camp, two rows of black little boxes by the moonlit lake. The cold night wind stirred his hair. A sense of the enormity of lawbreaking on which they were embarked overwhelmed him.

“Cliff, fer the last time—lemme go this alone. You ain't gonna get nothin' out of it but trouble.”

“Come on, we got no time to talk,” answered his cousin.

They avoided the light that streamed from the windows of the guest house and reached the gloomy stable. The door opened at a push with a startling creak. Clever Sam neighed and stamped.

“Hey, take it easy, Sam, it's us,” whispered Cliff. Nimbly he led the horse out of his stall and saddled him.

“Come on, Herbie, climb on the bench and get on behind me,” he said, and jumped into the saddle. Herbie felt as though he were being carried away on a powerful black tide, against which it was useless to struggle. He ascended via the bench to his risky perch in back of Cliff. His cousin walked the horse outside, closed the stable with a shove of one strong arm, and turned the animal's head toward the gate.

“Gee-up,” he said, “we got a long way to go.”

Clever Sam pranced to one side and to the other, then broke into a quiet trot. With no further antics he carried his double burden out through the gate and, at a click of Cliff's tongue, quickened his pace and set off toward the highway.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, jounce, jounce, jounce, jounce, down the deserted dirt road in the moonlight went the two boys on their aged, ramshackle steed. Clever Sam's gait was stiff and bumpy. Cliff rode to it well, but his cousin did not. Herbie clutched Cliff's middle and tried not to think about the pounding at his posteriors. The insides of his legs began to feel warm. Then they grew hot. Then they became fiery. Then they were raw steaks broiling on either side of a red-hot grill sliding up and down, up and down between them—

“Cliff,” faintly, “this is murder.”

“Oh, sorry, Herbie. Can't you post?”

“Wha—” (bounce) “what's post?”

“Every time the horse goes up,
you
go up. Every time he comes down,
you
come down. See, like me.”

Herbie flung himself up and down in time with his cousin a few moments, lost the rhythm, came down when Clever Sam was going up, struck hard, and tumbled off the horse into the road. Cliff and the animal vanished into the night.

Herbie stood up, brushed the dirt off his back, rubbed his sore head, and groaned, “Oh, Lord, whose idea was this?”

His cousin came trotting back to him and held out his hand.

“Here, stick your foot in the stirrup. I'll pull you up.”

Herbie obeyed. With a wrench of his arm in its socket that made a dull horrid noise, he was back in his place behind Cliff. His clothes were damp inside with sweat; the night air chilled him.

“I guess trotting is tough on you, Herbie. I'll see if I can get him to single-foot.”

They started off again. But Clever Sam, for all his rich background, had evidently never heard of single-footing. Cliff's efforts to lead him into the gait resulted in an even rougher and more ungainly trot. Herbie felt as though he were being punished for all the sins he had ever committed. From the waist down he seemed to be in flames.

“Ohhhh, Cliff!”

“Hm. I'm afraid to gallop. Well, I
know
he can lope. Hey, Sam—ck, ck.”

The horse faltered and subsided into an easy rocking motion that was balm to Herbie.

“That's wonderful, Cliff. That's great. Whew!”

And so they loped out to the highway. When Cliff spied the broad ribbon of concrete, he pulled Clever Sam up. The boys jumped to the ground. While Herbie staggered here and there, trying to restore his legs to their normal functioning, his cousin led the horse off the road and went out of sight among thick shrubs and trees. After two minutes he reappeared.

“Whadja do with him, Cliff?”

“Tied him up good an' told him to stay put. He'll be O.K. Nobody won't find him.”

Two cars flashed by in succession along the highway.

“Come on,” said Cliff. “One o' them mighta taken us.”

The boys ran to the main road and stood waiting. Soon a pair of headlights gleamed in the distance. They waved their hands eagerly as the car bore toward them, but it roared past. Then all was silence and cloudy moonlight.

“Not so good,” said Herbie.

“What time is it?”

“Five to twelve.”

“Boy. It's gonna be close.”

Another pair of headlights appeared, far off.

“I got a feeling,” said Herbie. “This is it.”

It was. The car slowed at their summons and stopped a few feet past them. The cousins scampered toward the door held open for them.

“Hop in, fellows,” shouted a husky voice.

The next instant Herbie felt himself yanked by the arm into the bushes. His cousin, Cliff, held his upper arm in a pincers grip, and was dragging him further into the gloom of the woods.

“Hey, what's goin' on?”

“Sh-sh.” Cliff pulled the fat boy with him into the middle of some thick bushes, unmindful of scratched skin and ripping clothes, and crouched. “Dincha see the car when we got up close? The guy's a state trooper!”

H
erbie's breath failed him for a moment. Then he gasped, “Whew! Thanks, Cliff. I never noticed. It's lucky—”

“Sh-sh! For cryin' out loud!”

The boys heard the car door closing. Then came the steps of the trooper, crunching on twigs and leaves. A flashlight beam poked here and there between the shadowy trees.

“All right, kids! You needn't be afraid of me. Come on out.” The trooper's raised voice was coming from some distance. The boys did not speak or stir. “All I want to know is what you're doing out on the road so late at night. If you're in trouble, I'll help you.”

More cracking of twigs under heavy boots. The flashlight beam hit the bushes in which the boys were hiding, but only a thin gleam filtered through to them. It moved and left them in blackness.

“Come on, now. I can find you easily enough if I want to.”

Pause. Stamping, cracking, beating of bushes, and gyration of flashlight beam. Then:

“O.K. Spend the night in the woods if you prefer. I have a whole highway to patrol. I'm offering you a lift, but have it your own way. I'm leaving.”

The steps moved off. The car door opened and slammed, and the motor roared up and faded away. Cliff began groping out of the bushes. His cousin seized him by the slack of the jacket.

“Are you nuts? Bet he's pullin' a trick. Stay right here.”

They waited ten minutes by the glowing dial of Herbie's wrist-watch. Peculiar noises from the trees—cracks, groans, sighs, hoots—startled them now and again. Crickets were making music with full orchestra. After a while ants began to dispute the terrain with them.

“Hey,” said Cliff, scratching and slapping himself, “do we lay here all night, or what?”

“All right, let's peek now,” whispered Herbie.

The boys made their way to the road. Their two heads poked out of the brush, and suddenly drew in again like a pair of snail's horns.

“He—he's still watchin' for us,” Herbie murmured. “We'll be stuck here forever.”

The boys had seen a car parked by the roadside, its headlights agleam, not fifty feet from them.

“I dunno. It didn't look exactly like the same car.” Cliff slowly poked his head out again. “Nope. It ain't the same.” He stepped boldly into the light. “It's a Buick. There's a fat guy in it. Come on!”

The boys approached the automobile. The inside light was burning, and they could see plainly a stout, grizzled man in a creased green suit, with a pallid face and stubbly jaws, slouched at the wheel, his eyes closed. Half a cigar, ashy and no longer burning, protruded from his mouth. One hand in his lap held a flat brown bottle.

“Asleep,” said Cliff.

“Maybe he's sick or somethin',” said Herbie, and rapped on the driver's window. The fat man started and opened his eyes. He rolled the window down.

“Whaddya want?” He said hoarsely and sleepily.

“If you're goin' to New York, mister, could we have a hitch?” said Herbie.

The fat man squeezed his eyes, shook his head, and rubbed both hands over his face. “Sure, sure, hop in,” he said, and threw open the back door. “Glad you woke me. I pretty near fell asleep three times at the wheel. Hadda stop for a doze for a minute. Like to have company to talk to on these long runs. Keeps me awake.”

The cousins gratefully nestled in the back seat amid boxes, books, and luggage. They noticed a powerful smell in the car, but said nothing. The driver started up the car, shifted gears, and suddenly snapped the motor off and turned on the boys with narrowed bloodshot eyes.

“Hey! What are a coupla kids like you doing out on the road at midnight, anyhow?”

Cliff and Herbie looked at each other helplessly.

“Well, talk, boys. Where are you from?”

“Camp Manitou,” Herbie managed to say.

“What's that?”

“Boys' camp near here.”

“Where you going?”

“New York, like we said.”

“Why?” said the man, with a squint of drunken cunning.

“My brother's dying.”

The driver's suspicious look altered. He spoke more softly.

“Oh. Well, now. Who's this other boy?”

“He's my brother.”

Herbie could feel Cliff jump slightly.

“What? He don't look like he's dying.”

“He ain't. He's O.K. He's my brother Cliff. My brother Lennie is dying.”

“What from?”

“He got run over. My pa sent us a telegram to come home right away.”

“Why aren't you on a train?”

“Ain't no train till morning. We figured we could hitch and maybe get there sooner in case Lennie dies. Mr. Gauss gave us permission. He even drove us out to the highway.”

“Who's Mr. Gauss?”

“He owns the camp. You can call him up an' ask him, only please, mister, hurry.”

The driver said to Cliff, “Is all this true?”

“Why should Herbie lie?” said Cliff.

The driver pondered a moment. He picked up the brown bottle, twisted off the metal cap, and took a drink. Herbie pulled out a handkerchief and sniffled. Luckily he had been required to weep in the last camp show. His imitation was polished.

“Gosh, mister, call up my father an' reverse the charges if you wanna. His name's Jacob Bookbinder, we live in the Bronx, an' the number's Dayton 6174. Or let us outta the car an' we'll get another hitch. We gotta get goin'. How do we know Lennie won't be dead when we get there?” His grief became louder.

“Well, hold on, boy. I'll take you where you're going. I just don't want to be mixed up in trouble, see? I got enough of my own. Heck, I'll drive you right to the door. I go through the Bronx. Sit way back in that seat and relax.”