Frank Merriwell's Champions: or, All in the Game. Standish Burt L.
it was a hopeless chase. They were swinging on at a swift pace, and had gained so much that it was quite impossible for the Dutch boy to come up with them.
Discovering this, he became terrified.
“Vot uf dose shinermoons shoult pe hiding dese pushes behint, und kilt myselluf mit a club der head ofer?” he panted, staring about in wild-eyed expectancy.
He heard a movement in the bushes, which almost raised the hair on his head. The brush cracked. The sound came toward him.
He dropped his alpinstock and turned to run, but his short, fat legs became so weak they would not sustain him.
He dropped to his knees with a bellow of fright, and pleadingly threw up his hands.
The brush cracked again, sending cold shivers up the Dutch boy’s back, and a lean sow, followed by three or four thin, sharp-backed pigs, came into view.
Hans scrambled up, with a screech of fear.
“Vilt hocks!” he squawked. “Shimminy Ghristmas! I vos deat alretty yet!”
The sow ridged the rough bristles along her spine and made a sound which Hans thought her battle cry.
He gave another squawk and dived for the nearest tree. Into its low branches he scrambled, throwing his feet across a bough and pulling himself by his hands.
As it chanced, the tree was in the direct line of the sow’s flight. She dashed toward it, bringing another squeal of fear from Hans, and the pigs scampered at her heels.
While hanging in this inverted position, with his cap gone and his pockets upside down, some peanuts that Hans had thrust into a pocket to munch on the mountain climb, dropped out to the ground.
One of the pigs saw and scented them. Its chronic hunger overcame its fright, and, while its mother and the other members of the porcine family bounded on into the depths of the laurel it stopped and began to munch the peanuts.
“I vos a deat mans!” gurgled Hans, fairly paralyzed by terror. “He vos going to ead up dose beanuds und my gap, und den he vill glimb dese dree ub und I vill ead heem! Hel-lup! hel-lup!”
Now and then a peanut spilled out of the pocket, and when the pig had devoured all, it looked up at the peanut fountain for more, placing itself directly under Hans with its mouth expectantly open.
“Oh, I vos deat! I vos kilt!” he howled. “Someboty gome guick und shood me, so dot I von’t ead mineselluf ub!”
It was impossible for him to climb higher, both on account of his weakness, and the springy nature of the bough, and he was dimly conscious of the fact that he could not hold on much longer.
Ordinarily, the pig would have fled from him, but its hunger now caused it to half lift itself on its hind legs and stretch its long nose up toward him.
In that moment of supreme terror the Dutch boy’s strength entirely deserted him, and he fell from the bough, striking the pig directly in the center of the back.
It went down, with a squeal. Hans rolled quickly over and tried to scramble to his feet. He could do nothing, however, but thresh his heel in the air and bellow for assistance.
After a while it began to dawn on him that the dreaded monster was not devouring him alive, as he had fully expected, and that, since his fall, he had not heard a sound, except such as he made himself.
“Id vos skeert me avay,” he thought, stopping his flailing heels and turning his head slowly to the point where the ravenous beast might be expected to be seen.
He lifted himself slowly on his hands and stared, his eyes rounding out in astonishment.
The pig lay on the ground as if dead.
“Id vos maging a vool uf me, maype,” he reflected. “It vos shust agting like I vos deat. Id shust vant to play mit me, like I vos a gat und id vos a mouses.”
Still, when the pig maintained that strange silence, Dunnerwust’s courage began to come back.
He lifted himself still higher, ready to drop down and play the game of “’possum” for all it was worth if the pig showed signs of life and pugnacity. Still, the pig did not move.
Hans rolled over, and slowly got on his hands and knees, then lifted himself to a standing position, ready to run if the pig so much as moved.
“It maype is sdill voolin’ me, alretty yet!” he gurgled. “Dere vos no tepending on me somedimes. I haf heert apout dose vilt peasts dot blay sleeby to vool demselves like dot!”
But the pig was dead. There could be no doubt of it, and if Hans had not been insane from fright, he must have discovered the fact sooner. He had struck with all his weight, and that was not small, in the middle of the pig’s curved spine, and had snapped it as if it were a pipestem.
“Whoop!” he yelled, as soon as he was sure the pig was dead. “Dot vos a recklar knock-oud, you pet me! He vos kilt me der virst lick!”
Then, to make sure that the pig could not by any possibility come back to life to frighten him again, he picked up an enormous club, and proceeded to belabor it to such an extent that if there had been any life remaining in the pig’s body, it would have been beaten out.
Having done this, Hans walked around his fallen foe with the victorious air of a conquering hero, uttering exclamations of delight, and figuratively patting himself on the back for his valor.
“Who vos a cowart?” he demanded, squaring his shoulders and striking out at imaginary foes. “I vould bunch mine heat uf you sait nottings like dot, Hans Dunnerwust, you vos der pinking uf vighting mans dis moindain on, und don’d let dot vorget me! I pet him you vos der beacherino uf der Lilywhites!”
Then, still strutting like a peacock, he threw the dead pig over his shoulders, picked up his alpinstock, and marched along the path like a high-stepping horse.
From the top of the bluff, where his friends had found their way seemingly blocked, he heard voices calling to him – the voices of Harry Rattleton and Jack Diamond, who had turned back to search for him.
Hans answered, with a squeak of delight.
“See dot!” he cried, taking the pig from his shoulders and holding it above his head. “Dot vos a vilt hock vot kilt me ven I dried to ead him ub! I vos a fighder, I tolt you, ven I ged him starded!”
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