er
Bobby Blake at Rockledge School; or, Winning the Medal of Honor
CHAPTER I
"THE OVERLAND LIMITED"
A boy of about ten, with a freckled face and fiery red hair cropped close to his head, came doubtfully up the side porch steps of the Blake house in Clinton and peered through the screen door at Meena, the Swedish girl.
Meena was tall and rawboned, with very red elbows usually well displayed, and her straw-colored hair was bound in a tight "pug" on top of her long, narrow head. Meena had sharp blue eyes and she could see boys a great way off.
"Mis' Blake – she ban gone out," said Meena, before the red-haired boy could speak. "You vant somet'ing? No?"
"I – I was looking for Bobby," said the visitor, stammeringly. He and Mrs. Blake's Swedish girl were not on good terms.
"I guess he ban gone out, too," said Meena, who did not want to be "bothered mit boys."
The boy looked as though he thought she was a bad guesser! Somewhere inside the house he heard a muffled voice. It shouted:
"Whoo! whoo! whoo-whoo-who-o-o-o!"
The imitation of a steam whistle grew rapidly nearer. It seemed to be descending from the roof of the house – and descending very swiftly. Finally there came a decided bang – the landing of a pair of well-shod feet on the rug – and the voice rang out:
"All out! All out for last stop! All out!"
"That's Bobby," suggested the boy with the red hair, looking wistfully into Meena's kitchen.
"Vell!" ejaculated the girl. "You go in by the dining-room door, I guess. You not go to trapse through my clean kitchen. Vipe your feet, boy!"
The boy did as he was bade, and opened the dining-room door. A steady footstep was thumping overhead, rising into the upper regions of the three-story house.
The red-haired youngster knew his way about this house just as well as he knew his own. Only he tripped over a corner of the dining-room rug and bumped into two chairs in the darkened living-room before he reached the front hall.
This was wide and was lighted above by ground-glass oval windows on all three flights of stairs. The mahogany balustrade was in a single smooth spiral, broken by no ornament. It offered a tempting course from garret to ground floor to any venturesome small boy.
"All aboard!" shouted the voice overhead.
"The Overland Limited," said the red-haired boy, grinning, and squinting up the well.
"Ding-dong! ding-dong! All aboard for the Overland Limited! This way! No stop between Denver and Chicago! All aboard!"
There was a scramble above and then the exhaust of the locomotive was imitated in a thin, boyish treble:
"Sh-h! sh-h! sh-h! Choo! choo! choo! Ding-dong-ding! We're off – "
A figure a-straddle the broad banister-rail shot into view on the upper flight. The momentum carried the boy around the first curve and to the brink of the second pitch. Down that he sped like an arrow, and so around to the last slant of the balustrade.
"Next stop, Chi-ca-go!" yelled the boy on the rail. "All o-o-out! all out for Chicago!"
And then, bang! he landed upon the hall rug.
"How'd you know the board wasn't set against you, Bobby?" demanded the red-haired one. "You might have had a wreck."
"Hello, Fred Martin. If I'd looked around and seen your red head, I'd sure thought they'd flashed a danger signal on me – though the Overland Limited is supposed to have a clear track, you know."
Fred jumped on him for that and the two chums had a wrestling match on the hall rug. It was, however, a good-natured bout, and soon they sat side by side on the lower step of the first flight, panting, and grinned at each other.
Bobby's hair was black, and he wore it much longer than Fred. To tell the truth, Fred had the "Riley cut," as the boys called it, so that his hair would not attract so much attention.
Fred had all the temper that is supposed to go with red hair. Perhaps red-haired people only seem more quick tempered because everybody "picks on them" so! Bobby was quite as boisterous as his chum, but he was more cautious and had some control over his emotions. Nobody ever called Bobby Blake a coward, however.
He was a plump-cheeked, snub-nosed boy, with a wide, smiling mouth, dancing brown eyes, and an active, sturdy body. Like his chum, he was ten years old.
"Thought you had to work all this forenoon, cleaning the back yard?" said Bobby. "That's why I stayed home. 'Fraid some of the other fellows would want me to go off with them, and we agreed to go to Plunkit's Creek this afternoon, you know."
"You bet you!" agreed Fred. "I got a dandy can of worms. Found 'em under that pile of rubbish in the yard when I hauled it out."
"But you haven't cleared up all that old yard so soon?" determined Bobby, shaking his head.
Fred grinned again. "No," he said. "I caught Buster Shea. He's a good fellow, Buster is. I got him to do it for me, and paid him a cent, and my ten glass agates, and two big alleys, and a whole cage-trap full o' rats – five of them – we caught in our barn last night. He's goin' to take 'em home and see if he can tame 'em, like Poley Smith did."
"Huh!" snorted Bobby, "Poley's are whiterats. You can't tame reg'lar rats."
"That wasn't for me to tell him," returned Fred, briskly. "Buster thinks he can. And, anyway, it was a good bargain without the rats. He'll clean the yard fine."
"Then let's get a lunch from Meena and I'll find my fish-tackle, and we'll start at once," exclaimed Bobby, jumping up.
"Ain't you got to see your mother first?"
"She knows I'm going. She won't mind when I go, as long as I get back in time for supper. And then – she ain't so particular 'bout what I do just now," added Bobby, more slowly.
"Jolly! I wish my mother was like that," breathed Fred, with a sigh of longing.
"Huh! I ain't so sure I like it," confessed Bobby. "There's somethin' goin' on in this house, Fred."
"What do you mean?" demanded his chum, staring at him.
"Pa and mother are always talkin' together, and shutting the door so I can't come in. And they look troubled all the time – I see 'em, when they stare at me so. Something's up, and I don't know what it is."
"Mebbe your father's lost all his money and you'll have to go down and live in one of those shacks by the canal – like Buster Shea's folks," exclaimed the consoling Fred Martin.
"No. 'Tain't as bad as that, I guess. Mother's gone shopping for a lot of new clothes to-day – I heard her tell Pa so at breakfast. So it ain't money. It – it's just like it is before Christmas, don't you know, Fred? When folks are hiding things around so's you won't find 'em before Christmas morning, and joking about Santa Claus, and all that."
"Crickey! Presents?" exclaimed Fred. "'Tain't your birthday coming, Bob?"
"No. I had my birthday, you know, two months ago."
"What
