Elizabeth Hobart at Exeter Hall Part 28

"Far from it. I'm going, with or without your permission. Please telephone now, and I'll explain while I await their coming. Tell them it's a matter of life and death. If I kill the horses with hard driving, I'll pay twice what they're worth. Every minute counts! Won't you telephone?"

Dr. Morgan obeyed the peremptory request. She believed that news of the strike had affected Nora until she did not know what she was about. She would accede to her request, and perhaps by the time the horses were at the Hall, Miss O'Day would listen to reason.

"Now," said Nora, the order having been given, "I'll tell you some facts about myself and my family you never knew. I know who has brought this strike about, and I know how to stop it." She spoke calmly, methodically.

Dr. Morgan seated herself to listen. Miss O'Day began her story. When she had finished, the horses were at the door, Jefferies with them. Dr. Morgan hesitated.

"I've known Jefferies for years. He is a friend of my father. He will take care of us," said Nora, studying the expression of Dr. Morgan's face.

"Then go, Nora. My prayers go with you."

A few minutes later, Elizabeth, the center of a laughing group, was drawn hurriedly aside by Nora.

"Here's a long storm coat. Put it on over your light dress. We have no time to change. Put on the cap, and tie a heavy veil upon it. It is raining; but it will matter little." The speaker was enveloped in a long, dark, travelling cloak, beneath which her orange colored gown showed. A soft hat swathed in a heavy veil hid her head and face.

Elizabeth did as she was bid, being wholly carried away by the excitement and force in the speaker's voice.

"Why--what--" she began.

"Don't waste time talking. There, you are ready. Come!"

"Go with your friend," said Dr. Morgan. "She will tell you on the way."

She walked with them to the door. The girls pa.s.sed out into the storm and the night.

CHAPTER XV.

VICTORY.

The country roads were almost ankle deep with mud. The soft drizzling rain had resolved itself into a steady downpour. The carriage seemed swallowed up in the darkness. It was well that Jefferies knew the way and the horses he was driving. He chirruped and called them by name and they went plunging on through the mire.

No sooner were the girls seated in the conveyance, the storm-robes being drawn about them, than Elizabeth turned to her companion with eager questioning. She was quivering with suppressed excitement.

Nora, on the contrary, was quite calm. She had made her plans, and now saw her way clear to carry them out. Her self-confidence spared her unnecessary alarm. However, appreciating Elizabeth's state of mind, she at once explained the condition of affairs at Bitumen. She was sufficiently tactful to tell her only that which was necessary for her to know. She also warned her to be careful what she said should anyone stop them on the road.

"If we meet the strikers, they will help us along because I am the daughter of Dennis O'Day. But they must not know who you are. On the other hand, if we meet anyone else, you are to impress them with the fact that you are Superintendent Hobart's only child, and that you _must_ reach Bitumen to-night."

Turning to Jefferies, she urged him to keep the horses moving. "I know the carriage will be ruined, and the horses laid up with stiff joints for a week or more; but I'll pay for that. Get us to Bitumen before daylight, and Mr. McCantey may make the bill what he chooses."

Although they were moving as fast as it was possible it seemed but a snail's pace to Elizabeth. She could realize nothing but that her father was in danger. After hearing Nora's reasons for this sudden journey, she spoke no word but sat rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was leaning forward, trying to pierce the darkness of the road before them.

The rain beat into her face. Her cap and veil were drenched but she heeded them not.

Determined to make the journey a trifle less strenuous for Elizabeth, Nora kept up a continuous flow of talk. It mattered little about what; only that there was no silence, but Elizabeth might as well have been a wooden girl so far as listening to her companion was concerned. They left the flat country roads, and began ascending the mountain. The road was so narrow that heavy logs had been placed for safety along the outer side.

For the first time since the beginning of their journey Jefferies spoke: "We should make better time here. The roads are well enough trained, and we would if I could see a yard ahead of me. I'll let the horses go their own gait--they're sure-footed enough. All we've got to do is to trust in Providence. I'll get you there or kill the horses in trying."

At last, at the opening of a small ravine, the road broadened. The horses sprang forward.

Suddenly Elizabeth, still looking eagerly ahead, exclaimed, "I see a light! It looks like a lantern."

The click of the horses' hoofs upon the stones rang loud and clear.

Jefferies drew them up. He leaned over sidewise to peer about. "I was trying to see just where we are. Oh, we're all right. That light hain't no lantern. That's where Ketchomunoski lives. We'll go on. He may come out if he hears us go by. I'll go slow and whip up just as we reach his shanty."

"Is he a miner?" It was Nora who asked the question.

"Yes."

"Draw down your veil, Elizabeth, and don't say a word to him. I'll do the talking."

Scarcely had she spoken when the flickering light moved out into the road, directly in their way. Ketchomunoski, lantern in hand, barred their way.

Jefferies could have urged the horses on, letting the big Polander run the risk of getting beneath their hoofs. But Jefferies was a peaceful man, so long as peace served his purpose. If strategy served, he preferred it to war; if not, then he was ready for the last. At the flourish of the lantern, he drew rein, calling out in friendly tone: "That you, John?" By that name every foreigner was known. "Come here, I want to speak to you."

The Pole came to the side of the carriage. "We've got to get to Bitumen, John, and get there to-night. How's the road?"

"No one go to there to-night," he replied, in his broken English. He was to watch the road. Men were above. He would fire his gun if any one suspicious pa.s.sed. They could not go on. This was the purport of his speech.

Leaning forward, Nora touched the man's arm. "Don't you know me?" she said. "I'm Dennis O'Day's daughter. Listen! I must reach my father at once. _At once_, do you understand? I have a message to give him which will affect the strike. But _I_ must give it to him. Fire your gun, and let the miners meet us. I want them to take me to my father."

She kept her hand on the man's arm as she was speaking. She looked him directly in the eye, as though by force of her own will she would compel him to do her bidding. Her words threw a new light upon the case. Yet in times like this, one can trust the words of no one.

"Where have I seen you?" he asked, scrutinizing her closely.

Her face flushed, but she answered bravely. "Do you remember two years ago, you came to my father for help? One of your people was in jail--someone had been hurt, killed, perhaps. An Italian named De Angelo.

And my father went to court with you to tell that Gerani, I think that was his name, was not present when the Italian was hurt. I was at home when you came."

The man nodded. There was no question now in his mind. She was Dennis O'Day's daughter, the daughter of the man, who, although himself not a miner, stood shoulder to shoulder with them when they needed a friend. She saw him hesitate.

"If you are afraid to allow us to pa.s.s, fire your gun, and let the miners know we're coming. I am not afraid of them. They will befriend me."

He stepped aside. At that instant Jefferies brought down his whip upon the backs of the horses, and they started forward.

"We're rid of him," exclaimed Nora. "I'm not afraid of anyone else. I'll reach Bitumen and see my father before daylight."

"And save mine," said Elizabeth.

"Elizabeth Hobart, your father is perfectly safe. No doubt, he's home warm and comfortable in bed, while we, poor mortals, are out in the night, drenched and forlorn."

They had not gone up the mountain road more than a mile, when the sharp report of a gun was heard. There was a moment's silence, followed by a second report.

"Ketchomunoski is sending word of our coming," said Nora. "I begin to feel that I am of some importance. This is the first time my appearance has been heralded." Then more seriously, "I would like to know what two shots mean. Why wasn't one sufficient? Do you know, Jefferies?"

But Jefferies knew nothing. He would not even express an opinion on the subject. He had no time to give to mere surmises. His work was to keep the horses moving. This he did, encouraging them with chirrups, or touching them lightly with the whip.

Though on the mountain road there was no mud, for the steep ascent was well-drained, it was hard traveling even for strong and swift horses.