by Robb White
He went once again to the window. This time he didn't look down into the valley of the street, but only out toward the far-away woods, bright green now beyond the smoke of the city.
Suddenly Jonathan wanted to get out of this building, get out of the city itself, get out into the green, quiet woods.
And then he knew that he wanted to go onee more to the Farm. For one more warm, soft morning he wanted to wander around in the woods, to see the ponds and the fields again. It wouldn't matter, he deeided, how tumbled down the house was, or how high the weeds were on the lawns, he wanted to go out there.
He came downstairs, and Mrs. Johnson caught him before he got to the door. She made him eat breakfast and then told him to be sure to be on time for lunch.
Somehow to be bossed around by her irritated him. Generally he did what she told him to do and let it go at that. But this morning he resented her. ''I won't be home for lunch at all,'' he told her.
''Where are you going to be, Jonathan?"
"Out," he said. Then he realized that there was no use starting a battle, so he added, ''With Tim Brent. Til eat at his house."
''Has his mother asked you?"
"Of course," Jonathan lied. As he closed the door he wondered why he didn't want to tell her that he was going out to the Farm. He didn't even want Mamie to know.
It was a secret. He could feel himself getting excited as the elevator dropped him swiftly down.
In the lobby he debated as to how to get out to the Farm.
He had enough money to go on the bus but, somehow, he didn't want to go that way. He wanted to be all by himself going out there.
He tried to remember exactly how far it was but couldn't. Ten miles or so, he thought. On his bike it shouldn't take more than an hour and a half, if he pedaled steadily all the way.
His bike was running fine, and it didn't take long to get w^ay out past the railroad shops. He got lost a couple of times but finally found a road sign pointing toward Millers-ville which, he remembered, was the town a few miles beyond the Farm.
The sun was gnawing on the back of his neck by the time he got beyond the city limits. Jonathan wiped the sweat out of his eyes and kept on pedaling, sometimes having to swerve off on the shoulder to keep from being hit by the cars racing past him.
There weren't many houses out here and soon the road was lined with patches of woods on each side.
But it was getting hotter all the time^ and one of his legs felt as though it were turning into solid, aching bone. He began to w^onder whether he had passed the gates of the Farm, but when he saw a brick chimney rising from the long-burned ruins of a house he recognized it and knew that he was still miles away.
The hill was the thing that finally discouraged him. Ahead of him, white and hot in the sun, the highway climbed up a long, steep hill. The hill was so long that the
top of it was invisible in the haze of heat quivering above the road.
Jonathan decided that the best thing to do was to hide his bike in the bushes between the highway and the railroad tracks and then hitchhike a ride the rest of the way. He got off and hid the bike well and then went back to stand beside the road.
Nobody w^ould give him a ride. Drivers just went past pretending that they didn't even see him.
He was getting tired and disgusted by the time he heard the train whistle blow. Soon he could hear the slow panting of the engine.
Jonathan walked over to the tracks and down them. A mile or so away he saw the engine coming with a long line of freight cars strung out behind it.
He decided right then to hitch a ride on the train. With that many cars it would have to be going slow when it hit the hill, so he'd just get on it and ride. The tracks went right past the north pasture at the Farm and when the train got there he'd jump off.
Jonathan had heard of hoboes riding the rods and, though he wasn't sure what the ''rods" were, he was sure that it would be simple to catch a ride.
He climbed down the bank and hid in the bushes where his bike was.
The engine went past him making slow, painful noises. Jonathan watched the man in the cab, but he didn't even look down.
He let four or five cars go by before he sneaked out of the bushes and began to run along beside the end of a boxcar. When he was going fast enough, he reached up and caught the frame of the narrow iron ladder.
It was so easy and neat that Jonathan almost laughed. The movement of the train seemed to help, sweeping him up and swinging him against the car.
Between the two cars there was another ladder going straight up. Jonathan swung himself in between the cars and clung to the ladder. Now no one could see him except from the side of the train.
He felt proud of himself as he hung to the ladder, keeping his head down, for there was a steady rain of cinders falling between the two cars. Looking straight down he could see the shiny-topped track and the crossties flicking by one by one.
The engine got up over the top of the hill—he could tell by the way the crossties began to flick past faster. Finalhv when the whole train was on the downgrade, the ground straight below him was almost blurred, the train went so fast.
Jonathan got scared then. Turning his head slowly and holding on with all his might, he looked out to the side.
He gulped. Bushes and trees flashed by; the sloping graveled right of way ran like a river past the train.
How was he going to get off? Going that fast, if he jumped, the train wouldn't run over him, but he'd break every bone in his body on the gravel.
Jonathan turned his face back and rested his head against the gritty rung of the ladder. He was scared now, and aheady his arms were beginning to ache from hanging to the ladder.
Then he had an awful thought. Suppose this was a through freight? Suppose it didn't stop again until it got to New York? Maybe it was even going to Canada. He might have to hang on to that skinny ladder for days—and nights, too.
Suppose his fingers got numb? Got so they couldn't feel anything? Got so they couldn't hold on anymore? Then he would just drop oflf and fall down between the cars. Down on that silvery track streaming along right under him. He couldn't see the wheels, but he could hear them.
For a little while Jonathan was so afraid that he almost did let go. But after a while he pushed the fear back. Turning his head, he looked over at the coupling. He had thought that there would be some place where he could stand, but there wasn't. The coupling between the two cars was bouncing around too much to stand on.
Slowly then, rung by rung, Jonathan climbed the ladder. At the top he stuck his head up. A strong rush of wind hit him in the face and cinders peppered against his cheeks.
0'er in the center there was a little platform below the brake wheel on which he could sit. He climbed the rest of the way, his head turned. He held tight to the ladder and swung himself over to the platform and sat down on it, his back to the front of the train.
That was fine. Cinders flew past him and struck his back, but they didn't bother him.
All he had to worry about now was how he was going to get off that train. Maybe, he thought, when it goes across the river, he could climb up on the roof and dive off into the water. But he couldn't remember how high the bridge was.
Then, suddenly, Jonathan remembered the hill at the Farm. The house at the Farm was on top of that hill, and it was a high one. The north pasture was on the side of the hill.
He relaxed. When this freight train got to the hill at the Farm it would have to slow down even slower than it had been going when he got on it. It would be a cinch to get off just as easily as he had gotten on. Just jump off in the direction the train was going and hit running. He might fall down, but it wouldn't hurt him.
He was beginning to enjoy the ride when the train began to slow down. Thinking that it was coming to another hill, Jonathan stood up and, shielding his eyes, looked forward. The train was headed dow^nhill. And it kept on going slower and slower.
Maybe they were coming to a town. Jonathan coul
dn't remember any between here and the Farm. He looked ahead again, and couldn't see anything except woods along the tracks.
The train finally stopped. Jonathan, figuring that something was wrong with it, climbed up on top of the car and
looked along the train toward the engine. Two men got out of the engine and started walking back.
Jonathan looked down the other way. A man was coming up the tracks.
Maybe they had seen him. He scrambled over a little raised wooden walkway and lay down flat on the roof.
Lying there, he wondered what they would do to him if they caught him. He had only thirty-five cents.
Maybe they'd put him in jail. .
The idea scared him. First flunking summer school and now getting put in jail. What would his father do?
He lay as flat as he could, hardly breathing, and listened to the voices of the men down on the ground.
They grew louder, until he figured that the men \'ere beside the car he was on. Then the voices faded away.
Jonathan breathed again but didn't move. He lay there waiting for the train to start going again.
Then, very close to him, a man growled, "Hey, bo, come on down/'
CHAPTER THREE
Jonathan lay flat on top of the boxcar, his face down against the warm, cindery wood. He didn't move. He couldn't. All his muscles seemed to have turned to jelly.
He was thinking only of his father. He could almost see his father's face. Jonathan would be in jail and his father would come and look at him between the bars of his cell. His eyes would change the way they sometimes did—the faraway look would fade and he would look right at Jonathan and the sadness would be there in his eyes. A stronger sadness than when it was only a failing report card or some small thing Jonathan had done wrong.
In jail he would miss the final exam, too. That would make him flunk for the year.
The man growled again, his voice sounding tired. "Come on, bo. Climb down."
Hopelessly Jonathan pushed himself up with his hands and looked across the walkway toward the ladder. A man in a clean suit of blue coveralls had his head above the level of the roof. He looked at Jonathan and then turned, saying to
someone on the ground, ''It's a kid, Mr. Duncan/' Then he beckoned to Jonathan and went down the ladder.
Slowly, rung by rung, Jonathan climbed down. He didn't look at the men until he was standing on the ground.
There were three of them, all in the clean blue coveralls, all wearing long-visored railroad caps. One of them was older than the others, and Jonathan guessed that he was the engineer. He had a straggly gray mustache and a lot of wrinkles around his eyes. He walked up close to Jonathan, pushed his cap back, and scrubbed at the bristly hair on his head. ''Trying to kill yourself?" he asked.
Jonathan shook his head. His knees felt weak and he wished there was something he could lean against or sit down on.
"What were you doing up there?"
"Just riding," Jonathan said.
"That's against the law. You can go to jail for that," the man said. He still didn't sound mad. He had a quiet, slow voice.
Jonathan nodded.
"Where were you going?"
"To where I used to live. It isn't far."
"Millersville?" the man asked.
"Not that far. It's only about ten or twelve miles," Jonathan explained, hoping that things wouldn't be so serious if he was just riding a little way.
The man shook his head, frowning. "Don't you know you'd have killed yourself getting off, boy?" he asked.
24
''There's a hill there/' Jonathan told him. ''The train would have been going real slow."
''Had everything figured out, didn't you?'' the man asked. He sounded a little angry now.
''No, sir. Until I remembered the hill I was scared/' Jonathan admitted.
"There's only one real hill between here and Millers-ville/' the man told him. "That's at Barrett's."
"That's where I wanted to get off/' Jonathan said.
"Barrett's? Why?"
"That's where we used to live. That's where I was born."
The man stooped a little and looked at him. "What's your name?"
"Jonathan Barrett."
The man put his cap on straight. "You Bill Barrett's son?" he asked. Yes, sir.
"Does your father know you're hopping freights?" .
Jonathan was shocked and scared. ''No. Gosh, no!"
"Why'd you do it then?"
Jonathan told him about just deciding to go out to the Farm, but it was too far to go on a bicycle and no cars would give him a ride.
The man turned to the other two men. "You all know Bill Barrett?"
"Heard of him. The lawyer," one of them said.
"That's right. He and I used to hunt foxes together/' the
man said. ''WeVe listened to many a race/' Then he held out his hand to Jonathan. ''My name's Eb Duncan. Your dad used to be a good friend of mine, boy.''
Jonathan, still scared, shook hands with him. ''Have I got to go to jail, Mr. Duncan?"
The man's eyes smiled. "Not this time, but don't ever hop another train, hear? You'll get killed sure. Any time you want a lift on my train, just let me know. But not on top of it. Try the caboose."
Jonathan felt weak again, but a little proud. "Thank you," he said.
Mr. Duncan introduced the other two men. "This is 'Dollar' Bill Mathews, the brakeman, and this young sprout here is Jim Stroh, the fireman." Then, after Jonathan had shaken hands with them, Mr. Duncan asked, "You a fox hunter like your dad used to be, boy?"
Jonathan shook his head and said firmly, "No, sir."
"Too bad. Well, let's get on with the railroad's business. Dollar Bill, you take young Jonathan with you, and see that he rides inside and not on top of the caboose. I'll slow down at Barrett's so he can get off."
As Mr. Duncan started away, Jonathan said, "Mr. Duncan, are you going to tell my father about this?"
Mr. Duncan stopped and looked at him. "Don't you want him to know about it?"
Jonathan shuffled his feet. "I guess maybe I'd rather he didn't. I don't think he'd like the idea much."
Mr. Duncan pulled at his straggly mustache. "Your dad's
changed. Changed a lot since I used to set a log with him. Okay, Jonathan, we won't tell him."
''Thank you very much, Mr. Duncan."
Jonathan walked along toward the caboose with Dollar Bill. 'This railroad's breaking Mr. Duncan's heart," Dollar Bill announced. ''Ever since he caught the night run he can't hunt them foxes no more. Poor old man just sits up in that engine and cries when we happen to pass a hunt and he can hear the hounds barking. He truly loves that fox hunting."
"My father used to," Jonathan told him. "My father used to hunt all the time, and he had some wonderful hounds. He had one named Mister Blue that was the best in the whole state."
Dollar Bill said, "I don't know one end of a foxhound from the other. But you take a good setter or pointer then you've got you some real dog."
They climbed up into the caboose and Dollar Bill slowly waved a flag out the door. The train jerked a few times and then began to roll again.
Inside the little room Dollar Bill pushed a chair over for Jonathan. "You did a mighty foolish thing," he said seriously. "It's an easy way to get killed—riding the rods."
"What are the rods?" Jonathan asked.
"Well, you weren't really down on the rods. They're big steel drawrods underneath the cars. Hoboes ride 'em, and sometimes they fall asleep and drop down on the track. But
even hanging to the ladder is dangerous. A sudden jerk could throw you loose. And up on top! Oh, brother, that's murder! Train gets to swaying and it'll throw you off just like that!" He snapped his fingers.
Jonathan could feel again the fear he had had. ''Did you see me get on?'' he asked.
''Sure. Saw you get up out of the bushes and grab her. Mr. Duncan wanted to stop then, but it would've been hard getting started again up that grade, so he waited." Do
llar Bill laughed. "He really eased this old train to a stop, too. You notice that?"
"I wasn't noticing much of anything," Jonathan admitted.
"Guess not."
The train whistle tooted once, and Jonathan looked out the window. On the right he saw the fence and the north pasture.
Dollar Bill went with him back on the platform. "Pick a smooth place on the shoulder and drop down, loose, clear of the train. And be running as hard as you can. Old train's always going faster than you think she is."
Dollar Bill was right. Before he dropped Jonathan thought that the train was barely moving, but when he hit the ground he had to run for all he was worth, his legs pounding, to keep from falling forward on his face in the gravel.
When he could stop, the train was creeping away from him. He waved to Dollar Bill still on the platform and then
waved again as, far up the train, he saw a gloved hand slowly moving.
Jonathan went down into the gully and then climbed up the bank toward the fence. Above him there was one lonely old pine tree with a posted sign tacked high up on it.
Jonathan stopped for a moment, reading the sign's faded words. ''Posted. No hunting, fishing, or trespassing. Wm. Barrett."
Somehow the old, lonely tree and the faded sign made him think of his father. As he climbed up the bank he wondered what his father really thought about when he wasn't thinking about his work. He wondered if his father really cared much whether he made F's or A's in school. Jonathan even wondered for a moment whether his father would really mind if Mr. Duncan had put him in jail. He guessed he would about that, but he was afraid that his father was a little like the tree and the sign. Old and faded and lonely. As lonely even as he was.
At the top of the bank Jonathan climbed the rusting fence and stood beside the pine tree. Stretching away from him there was a wide pasture planted now in peanuts so that it was covered with green, tangled vines.
Standing there looking at it, it slowly became familiar to him. Although he had never before seen it planted in peanuts, he recognized it and, in his mind saw it as it used to be. It had been smooth green grass then, and over there there had been the jumps. He could almost see again the white wooden wings angling outward from the bars so that