  In the rear of a white cottage, known to all residents of the town of Truesdell as “the Blake homestead,” stands a great apple tree, whose leafy boughs have afforded shade in summer and fruit in autumn to several generations of Blakes. At present, its hospitable branches have been converted into an out-of-door gymnasium by Ned Blake, great-grandson of old Josiah Blake, from whose half-eaten apple-core the tree sprang some seventy years ago. “Six feet, two inches in his socks and as wide as a door,” is how tradition describes old Josiah, and although Ned Blake at seventeen stands less than seventy inches in his sneakers and tips the scales at a trifle less than one hundred and fifty pounds, he has something of the supple strength and a goodly measure of the courage and grit that made old Josiah respected among the early settlers of Truesdell. Clad in a sleeveless jersey, duck trousers and sneakers, Ned has just climbed a rope hand over hand to an upper limb from which he descends in a veritable cascade of cat-skinning, toe-holding, ape-like swings to drop on the turf beside his friend, Tommy Beals. “Bully stuff!” applauded Tommy. “You sure can do the monkey tricks, Ned, but it makes me sweat just to watch ’em this weather,” and Tommy hitched his rotund form farther into the shade of the friendly tree. “It would do you good to try some of them, Fatty,” laughed Ned. “Come on now. Here’s a simple one for a starter,” and catching a horizontal limb above his head, Ned proceeded to chin himself with first one hand, then with the other, and finished with a two-handed hoisting swing that left him seated upon the limb. Tommy Beals wagged his head in a hopeless negative. “Nope, it can’t be done,” he sighed. “Whoever drew my plans must have been thinking about ballast instead of aviation, but if you ever want a good anchor for a tug-of-war team why just count on me.” “All right, I’ll keep it in mind,” promised Ned, “but here’s something you can do for a little exercise,” he continued, dropping again to the ground. “I want to grind my camp axe a bit, if you’ll turn for me.” “Sure, I’ll do it,” agreed Tommy good-naturedly and, fetching a soap box for a seat, he squatted beside a heavy grindstone that stood in the shade of the tree. For perhaps ten minutes the sharp skurr of steel on stone sounded on the hot August air, then ceased abruptly as Ned lifted the axe from the whirling stone and tested its edge gingerly with his thumb. Tommy seized the opportunity to let go his hold of the crank-handle and wipe the beads of perspiration from his plump countenance. “Gosh, it’s hot!” he panted. “Ain’t the old cleaver sharp yet, Ned?” “It’s pretty good, except for a couple of nicks,” replied Ned, “but you needn’t turn any more, Fatty. Here comes Dave Wilbur and I’ll get him to spell you.” “Yeah! I’ll sure admire to watch Weary Wilbur work,” grinned Beals, as a tall, lanky youth with hands deep in his pockets turned in at the gate and strolled leisurely across the lawn. “I’ll bet you the ice cream sodas, Ned, that Dave will find an alibi for any job—if he sees it coming,” continued Tommy, in a wheezy whisper. “I’ll take that bet,” laughed Ned. “Hello, Dave,” he exclaimed, “you’re just in time to save Fatty’s life! Grab hold of that crank and turn a minute or so. I’ve got to grind a couple of nicks out of this axe.” Dave Wilbur, affectionately known to his friends as “Weary,” glanced suspiciously at the axe in Ned Blake’s hands, then at the perspiring face of Tommy Beals whose grin was but partly concealed by his mopping handkerchief, and lastly at the heavy grindstone whose crank-handle projected so invitingly toward him. “Sure, I’ll turn for you,” he drawled. “Hop up, Fatty,” and as Beals surrendered the soap box, Dave seated himself with cool deliberation. “Just a few turns will be enough, Dave,” were Ned’s reassuring words, as he pressed the axe upon the stone. “Oh, that’ll be all right,” replied Wilbur. “One good turn deserves another, you know, but say, before I forget it, who’s your new neighbor?” “Neighbor?” repeated Ned. “What neighbor?” “Moving in next door,” explained Wilbur as he leaned back comfortably against the tree trunk and inserted a clean straw in the corner of his mouth. Ned laid down the axe and stepped quickly to the fence which divided his back-yard from the property beyond. “I guess you’re right, Dave,” he remarked after a brief scrutiny. “There’s a big furniture van unloading, and the stuff is piled all over the sidewalk. There’s a young chap lugging it into the yard.” “Yeah, I noticed him as I came along,” explained Wilbur. “I was just going to stop and give the young fellow a hand when I happened to think maybe you would want to be in on it—you and Fatty.” “It’s mighty nice of you not to hog the job all by yourself, Dave,” laughed Ned, “but let’s see what’s going on,” and slipping his arms into the sleeves of a thin linen coat, he led the way toward the front of the house. The furniture van had deposited its load and turned away toward the railroad station for a second installment. A slim, wiry lad about seventeen years of age was carrying the lighter articles into the house. “Now’s your chance, Weary,” chuckled Tommy Beals. “Hop to it and rustle that piano up the front steps!” “Here comes Dan Slade,” announced Ned. “I wonder just how much help he’ll offer.” “Dan Slade could just about tote that piano all by himself, if he took the notion,” commented Beals, as he watched the youth who came swaggering toward them. “It seems to me he gets bigger and huskier every time I see him.” “Yes. Bigger and huskier and meaner,” supplemented Wilbur. “It’ll be just like him to start razzing that chap. Let’s stroll over and listen in.” Slade had stopped at the heap of furniture, and the three friends approaching from the opposite direction were concealed from view as they halted to hear his opening salutation. “Hey, kid,” he began. “What’s the big idea blockin’ the sidewalk with all this junk? This is a public street.” The new boy straightened from the box he was preparing to lift and turned toward the speaker a freckled countenance. He had a wide mouth with slightly upturned corners that gave an expression of good humor to his face. “Sorry,” he apologized good-naturedly, “I’ll have this stuff cleared away soon, but if you’re in a hurry, I’ll”—here he paused and regarded Slade’s great hulking figure with a suspicion of amusement in his blue eyes—“if you’re in a hurry I’ll try to carry you around it.” The words, together with the grin that accompanied them, brought an ugly scowl to Slade’s face. “Don’t wise-crack me!” he growled. “I don’t have to be carried around this junk. I’m goin’ through it!” and lunging ahead he put his weight against a tall bureau, causing it to topple toward the glass doors of a sideboard directly beyond. The new boy sprang forward in time to prevent the smash and succeeded in restoring the bureau to its place. The good-humored expression of his face had changed to one of surprise, not unmixed with indignation. “I’ll ask you not to knock over our stuff,” he began in a voice that seemed to tremble slightly in spite of his effort to control it. “Ho! Ho!” jeered Slade, pleased by what he interpreted as an indication of fear. “Now who do you think is goin’ to stop me?” The freckled face paled slightly, but the wide humorous mouth compressed itself to a thin line and the blue eyes grew steely. Stepping forward, the new boy placed himself squarely in front of his tormentor. “I’ll try to stop you,” he said quietly. It is doubtful if Slade had intended to do more than merely amuse himself by bullying the weaker boy into a condition of pleading, but this unexpected show of resistance nettled him. Evidently the youngster had not been sufficiently impressed. At Slade’s feet lay a box containing articles of fireplace furniture. Stooping, he picked up a poker made from a square rod of heavy iron. He seized the implement by its ends and fixed his bold black eyes upon the freckled face opposite him. “You’ll try to stop me, eh,” he sneered, “Why, I’d bend you like I bend this here poker!” and with a wrench of his powerful arms Slade changed the straight bar into a letter U. “It takes somebody who can do that to stop me,” he warned as he flung the distorted bar back into its box. “That’s quite a stunt,” exclaimed a voice at his elbow. “Now can you straighten it again?” Slade spun round to face Ned Blake, who had stepped into view closely followed by Tommy Beals and Dave Wilbur. A belligerent expression crossed Slade’s face as he eyed the group before him. “Who wants to know?” he sneered, doubling his big fists. For a moment a fight seemed inevitable. Dave and Tommy felt the sudden tension and the new boy stiffened perceptibly; but to provoke a fight was not Ned Blake’s way of settling an argument and he answered without a trace of ill humor. “Why, I guess we’re all interested,” he said smilingly. “It takes some muscle to bend a bar like that, but they say it’s even harder to straighten it. Can you do it?” Slade hesitated. Into his rather dull mind there crept a suspicion that perhaps he was being made the butt of some joke, and the thought brought an angry flush to his face. He would have welcomed an opportunity to try conclusions with this gray-eyed youth, who appeared so irritatingly cool and unafraid and yet offered no reasonable grounds for offense. Slade looked him up and down for a minute. “Sure I can straighten it—if I want to,” he growled. “I’m wondering,” laughed Ned. Stung to action as much by the tone as by the look of doubt in the smiling gray eyes, Slade snatched up the poker. “I’ll show you,” he gritted as he put forth his strength upon it. To his surprise the U-shaped poker resisted stubbornly. It was an awkward shape to handle, and in addition the attempted straightening brought into play a very different set of muscles from those required to bend it. Pausing for a new hold, Slade strained upon the bar till the sweat streamed down his face and his breath came in wheezy gasps. Slowly the ends of the poker yielded to his power until the bar had assumed the general shape of a crude letter W, much elongated. With a grunt of disgust, Slade flung it upon the ground. “It’s crookeder than ever,” grinned Tommy Beals with an audible chuckle. Slade made no reply, but his hard breathing was as much the result of rage as of physical effort. Ned Blake picked up the bar and balanced it lightly in his hand. “Bending a bar is much like mischief,” he remarked. “It’s easier to do than to undo.” As he spoke, Ned shifted his grip close to one end of the bar and that portion of the crooked iron straightened slowly in his grasp. It was done with seeming ease, but a close observer would have detected evidence of a tremendous effort in the whitening of the knuckles and the quiver of the muscles in chest and neck. The other crooked end yielded in much the same manner, and the poker had again assumed the shape of a letter U or horseshoe. Ned paused and drew his knuckles across his eyes, into which the sweat of effort had rolled. Stooping, he dried his hands in the powdery dust of the gutter and grasped the bar, not as Slade had done, but close upon each side of the crook. With elbows pressed against his sides he inhaled to the full capacity of his lungs, bringing into play at the same moment every ounce of power in his wrists and forearms. Slowly the stubborn metal yielded until, after another quick shifting of grip, Ned’s extended thumbs came together in a straight line where the crook of the U had been. “Here you are,” he said as he handed the bar to its owner, who had watched with no little surprise and uncertainty the little by-play enacted before his eyes. “And by the way,” continued the speaker, “my name is Blake—Ned Blake—next door, you know.” The new boy’s freckles vanished in the flood of color that flushed his cheeks, as still keeping a wary eye upon Slade he reached forward to grip the friendly hand extended toward him. “Somers is my name—Dick Somers.” And as he spoke, the humorous expression again lighted his face. “You seem to be obstructing traffic,” laughed Ned. “We’ll give you a hand with this stuff. Tommy Beals, here, is a great worker and as for Dave Wilbur—why, he’s absolutely pining for a job.” For a moment Slade listened with ill-concealed disgust to this conversation, then realizing how completely the mastery of the situation had been wrested from him, he swung round on his heel and slouched away. “Is he a neighbor?” asked Somers with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of the departing Slade. “No, thank heaven, he’s not,” replied Beals. “His name is Dan Slade—Slugger Slade they call him where he lives up in the town of Bedford. He’s got a reputation as a great bully, but I don’t know just how far he’d really go.” “‘A barking dog seldom bites,’” drawled Wilbur, “but just the same, Somers, you showed a lot of spunk standing up to him the way you did. My guess is that you’re the right sort.” “I don’t mind admitting I was plumb scared half to death when I saw him bend that poker,” grinned Somers, “but that wasn’t anything compared with straightening it,” he continued with a look of genuine admiration at Ned Blake. “Both stunts are mostly trick stuff,” declared the latter, “but let’s get busy with this furniture, before somebody else gets sore about the sidewalk being blocked.” Four pairs of hands made short work of the pile, and by the time the van had arrived from the freight house with its second load, the walk was cleared and the boys were helping Mrs. Somers arrange the articles indoors. “This is awfully kind of you boys!” exclaimed Dick’s mother gratefully when the job was finished. “I wish I could offer you something cold to drink after your hard, hot work, but I haven’t a bit of ice in the house.” “Don’t you worry about us, Mrs. Somers,” laughed Ned. “We’ve just invited Dick to go down to the corner and join us in an ice cream soda. It’s Fatty Beals’ treat.” “Sure,” agreed Beals, “you win all right, Ned,” and then with a grinning glance at the perspiring countenance of Dave Wilbur he continued, “You win—but I’ll say it’s been worth the price.” |
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