It seemed so utterly foolish to waste his breath in this vain calling that Fred changed his plans for a short time, and once more tried to scale the straight wall.

This time he succeeded in making about four feet, and then had a tumble that quite jarred him.

"That ought to let me know, all right, that I'll never make the top in a year of Sundays, as Corney always says," he remarked, rubbing his elbow where he had barked it on a stone, so that it smarted.

To amuse himself while he tried to think up some new scheme, Fred fell to shouting again. He had a good, strong voice, but down in that confined s.p.a.ce it seemed m.u.f.fled, and he would never have recognized it himself.

Once he stopped and listened eagerly, his heart jumping with sudden hope. Oh! was it possible that he had really caught what seemed to be a distant voice calling?

If only it might not be some scolding bluejay; or perhaps a gossipy crow, perched on a neighboring dead tree.

It did not come again; and so Fred hurriedly started to shout once more, straining his lungs in order to make the sound carry further. So much depended on help coming to him before the night set in. If he had to spend many hours there he might suffer in the form of rheumatism for a long time afterwards, on account of the exposure in such a damp and cold place.

Then he stopped to listen again, holding his very breath in suspense.

What a thrill it gave him when he distinctly heard some one bawl out:

"h.e.l.lo! yourself! Where under the sun are you; and what's the matter?"

That was no crow or bluejay, he knew for a certainty; and accordingly Fred made haste to answer:

"I'm down in one of the lime pits here. Can't get out. Please come and give me a hand. This way! I'll keep calling to guide you; but don't leave me whatever you do."

Every few seconds thereafter he would give a shout, to be answered by the unknown, who was evidently getting warmer and warmer on the scent.

Never could Fred remember when a human voice had sounded so sweet to him; simply because it meant rescue and safety, and a chance to run in the great race upon which his heart was set.

Now he could actually hear the other moving above, and so he gave a last little whoop. The bushes were thrust aside as he called; "down here; I see you;" and then a human head was thrust into view. And Fred felt a chill that was not induced by the dampness of the lime pit, when he made out that face in the light of the setting sun. For he found himself staring at the grinning countenance of the last person in all the world he would have hoped to see--Buck Lemington!

CHAPTER XVI

A GLOOMY PROSPECT

"So, it's you yelping for help, eh?"

Buck was looking more or less surprised even when making this remark.

Fred had an idea he could see something like growing satisfaction, almost glee, creeping over the face of the other. The prospect evidently began to please Buck.

"Yes, it's me," the boy below replied, trying hard to appear to look at it all in the light of a huge joke, just as he might, had it been Sid Wells or Bristles Carpenter who had discovered his ridiculous plight.

"Huh! and however did you come in this old limestone pit?" demanded Buck.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Buck," he said, in a conciliatory tone; "Brad Morton, as track captain, ordered me to slip out of the bunch he sent over the regular roads laid out for the race. He wanted me to take the last five mile run in secret, you see; and long ago I had this little course mapped out, when I used to practice without anybody knowing I could run fairly well."

"Oh! you don't say?" sneered Buck. "And what was his reason, d'ye know?"

Fred knew that it was best to be frank with the other, who really had him so absolutely in his power. He would confide wholly in Buck, come what might.

"Well, I didn't take much stock in the thing myself, but Brad insisted, and as he was the captain of the team, I had to do what he said, you see, Buck. He had been told that Mechanicsburg had spies posted all along the course, to time the runners, and get points on their weak places. And somehow Brad got the idea in his head that they were more anxious to watch me run than any of the others. So he thought he'd surprise them by having me disappear, and get my practice alone."

Buck laughed at that, and it was a very disagreeable laugh, too.

"My! what an important person you've become, Fred Fenton," he observed, with the sneer more marked in his voice than ever. "Have to have a private course of your own because your running is attracting so much attention! No wonder your head has begun to swell. No wonder you look down on small worms, who only run up against hard knocks whenever they try to even up the score."

"But you're going to help me out of this, I hope, Buck?" Fred went on, pleasantly, almost pleadingly, for he had much at stake.

"Oh! am I? You don't say!" mocked the other. "Now, how d'ye suppose I c'n reach down seven feet or more, and give you the friendly hand? Think my arms stretch that far? Perhaps, now, you imagine I'll just drop in like the poor old goat did in the fable, to let the smart fox jump up on his back, and then out? If you do you've got another guess coming; see?"

"But there's an easy way to do it, Buck; and because Riverport needs every little help she can get to win out to-morrow, I'm going to ask you to do it for me."

"Sounds big; don't it?" the other went on, in his sneering way. "You're the Great Muck-a-muck, and will carry off the prize for the long distance run, I suppose you mean? Well, with the great luck you have, perhaps you will--if you're there when the pistol cracks for the start.

Now, go on and tell me what you mean, and how could I get you out of this hole--if I took the notion to try?"

"I suppose you've got your knife with you, Buck?" Fred went on.

"That's where you've got another guess coming, Fenton; fact is, I broke the last blade in it yesterday, and threw it away," Buck answered.

"Well, then, that seems to make it harder to carry out my plan," Fred remarked, disappointment in his tone.

"Wait," said Buck; "perhaps, after all, I might get a knife from the feller along with me, here."

He disappeared, and Fred, straining his ears, could hear him talking in a low tone with some one else. He was filled with a deep curiosity to know whatever brought Buck Lemington here to the old limestone quarry; just as the day was pa.s.sing. The last thing Fred had heard in connection with Buck was the fact that his suspected connection with the desperate attempt to spoil the calculations of Riverport school with regard to winning the laurels of the athletic meet by kidnapping their best sprinter, Colon, had met with universal condemnation among the good people of the town. There was even talk of a committee going to complain to his father.

Perhaps Buck had in some way gotten wind of that expected coming of the townspeople, and he might even now be on his way to some haven of refuge, to remain practically in hiding until the storm blew over.

A minute later, and once again the face of the grinning bully protruded beyond the edge of the pit above.

"I've got the knife all right, Fenton," he observed, curiously; "now, what d'ye expect me to do with it? A knife alone won't pull you up; and I reckon clotheslines don't grow around this region."

"No, but I think there's a fine stout vine close to your hand, Buck; and if you'd be so kind as to cut that off, and let one end of it down to me, with only a little help I'd be out of this hole in a jiffy--and mighty thankful in the bargain."

"Well now, that is a bright idea," remarked Buck, with exasperating slowness; "they always said you had a brain in your head, Fenton. It's a good, strong vine too, and even a sharp knife hacks into it pretty hard.

Oh! no doubt about it holding a fellow of your nimbleness, when you manage to get a grip on the same!"

Fred did not exactly like the way he said this. Somehow he seemed to feel that the other was working himself up into a condition where he would finally refuse to lend a helping hand to his old-time rival, now that the only chance for Fred to get free seemed to rest with Buck.

As he cut away, the bully continued to talk. He was evidently enjoying the unique situation keenly.

"Reckon you'd feel some chilly if you had to stay in that damp hole all night; eh, Fenton?" he went on.

"I sure would," replied Fred, trying to give a little laugh; "and it was mighty lucky for me that you and your friend happened along here just at such a time. Now, I wouldn't have supposed that anybody would come this way in a year; and when I hollered for help I didn't think there was a chance in a thousand anybody'd hear."

"Well, you'd win, because it was a chance in a thousand, Fenton," Buck went on to say, as he whittled away at the trailing vine. "Fact is, the people down in Riverport sent a committee of old fogies up to my governor to complain. Said I'd been guilty of a bad piece of business; that I'd engineered the scheme for carrying Colon off to that mill, and leaving him there, so's to knock Riverport's chances to-morrow. Perhaps you heard something about that, Fenton?"

"Oh! I believe one of the boys did mention that there was some talk about it being done; but honestly now, Buck, I didn't know they had gone over to your house to interview your father," Fred answered, candidly enough.

"Well, they did, all right," growled the other, cutting more furiously, as his feelings began to work upon him. "And when the old man called me in, I saw he was some mad. Reckon he'd had bad news just about then, because I saw a letter with a foreign postmark on it, lying open on his desk; and I know the signs of a storm under our roof."