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Perils of Pauline (dramatic reading)

<h1 id="id01173" style="margin-top: 6em">CHAPTER XI</h1> <h5 id="id01174">FROM CLOUD TO CLIFF</h5> "Wonder what he thinks he can do," growled Hicks as they sat in the runabout and watched Harry pass them. "Trying to break his own neck—for nothing," replied Owen. "If he keeps up that speed we'll get both birds with one sand bag." "I hope so. He didn't speak, did he? You can see by the way he acts he don't want us around—even now." "It doesn't matter what he wants—it's what he does." "You don't think he can save her?" "He might—and I don't want her saved this time, Hicks, you understand. I can't afford it this time. I've said too much." "Well?" "Where did you get this runabout?" "Upper East Side—private party; I didn't want to do any business near home." "That's right." "How much is this machine worth?" asked Owen irrelevantly. "Oh, six or seven hundred—it ain't new. Why?" "If anything should happen to it, there wouldn't be any trouble, provided the bill was paid, would there?" "I got an idea the owner would grab at $300 for this here buggy. But why?" "And if this automobile disappeared, vanished—no trace of it; you're sure there wouldn't be any investigation?" pursued Hicks. "Yes—it would be all right, I tell you. But I want to know what your scheme is. How can you use this machine to get rid of Harry? Tell me," Owen insisted. "Never mind—yet. How do you make the course of the balloon now?" "I guess she'll go over Quirksborough and then up between Hoxey and Brent." "Then we can pass him at Quirksborough." "How do you figure that?" "He'll stop for gasoline. He hasn't got enough to go more than two miles beyond there. I saw that he hadn't when we set out." "What do you want to pass him for? Why not let 'em both break their own merry little necks an' us pick 'em up an' do the weepin' afterward? That's our music." "You fool! Don't you think a balloon ever came down safe yet? Don't you know that young devil has got his head full of schemes to beat me out' again? I tell you we've got to make sure of this trick. We've got to get him." Unconsciously Hicks brought the machine to a stop as both men strained their eyes at the balloon, now traversing a lower course more slowly. They saw Pauline stand erect in the basket and lift the heavy anchor over the side. Harry, going at terrific speed on the deserted road, saw the drop of the anchor with a thrill of hope. At least—even if it was useless in itself—it showed him that Pauline was brave and calm enough to use her wits. He waved again but there was no answering signal. Suddenly the balloon itself was lost to sight from the road. At the lowering angle, drawn downward partly by the anchor and partly by the gradual loss of gas, it swung over the hills. The road led between two hills. Beyond it curved to the east and north. As he reached the curve Harry was surprised that the balloon was not in sight. When after circling another hill Harry had still failed to pick it up he was alarmed as well as puzzled. The hills had muddled his senses of direction, but he knew that he was near the river again—back on the verge of the Palisades. This added to his fears. There was but one thing to do, though—follow the road. He went on slowly. Suddenly he uttered a cry and threw on full speed. Over the top of a high, jagged cliff, set like a rampart between two bastion knolls, he saw the upper half of the gas bag. It veered and tossed in the wind like a tethered thing. The basket was invisible, but Harry knew that the anchor had caught on the cliff side. As he neared it he discovered that what was a cliff on one side was the river wall on the other. He thanked heaven that the road led to the top of it. He turned the machine up the road, which threaded narrow ledges through growths of bramble and stunted trees. He saw and turned sick in soul and body, for the pulling of the balloon held the basket almost inverted, and Pauline was not in the basket. The anchor had doubled itself into rock or root far down the cliff side. From it the balloon dragged toward the river instead of toward the shore. The taut rope writhed fifty feet out from the top of the declivity. To the edge of the cliff crawled Harry. He moved rapidly, but at the uttermost verge he paused and covered his eyes with his, hand. At last he looked down. To Pauline on her wild flight had come increasing calm. As she felt the balloon reaching lower levels—though it still soared high above the hills—she even allowed herself a little hope. Leaning over, she watched the shining blades of the anchor dance through the air. Northeastward she could see the waves of the great river dancing. On the little anchor, hung her hope of life; in the water beyond the farthest cliff lay her final peril. She had lost track of Harry and the other automobile long ago. She had given up all hope of aid from any living thing. The balloon moved slowly above the palisade. The anchor dragged on the landward side of the knolls. These were sheer rock that the steel talons clawed in vain. The balloon moved out over the river, then suddenly glided back. An eddy of breeze from the water had turned its course. The anchor dangled along the river wall of the precipice. Pauline seized the rope. She alternately pulled and loosened it, trying to hook the anchor to tree or shrub. Suddenly she was flung forward—almost out of the basket. The balloon had stopped with a jerk. Hopefully, fearfully, she pulled in the rope. The anchor held. The balloon was tugging and swaying wildly, but its tether did not break. She looked down at the ledge. Between her and that narrow footing the only thoroughfare was two hundred feet of swaying rope. She pulled upon the rope again. She dropped two more of the heavy ballast bags over the side, and the bag shook and groaned upon its stays as it dragged the anchor deeper into the rock. She put her feet over the edge of the basket. With her hands clutching the rim, she lowered herself. Taking her hands from the basket and grasping the rope, she started down. The raw hemp tore her hands. The fearful strain upon her arms made her sick and faint. Only desperation nerved her after the first ten yards. The wrenching of the balloon whirled and jostled her. At first, holding only by her hands, she was flung out from the aft halyard like a flag. Then instinct told her to wrap her feet around it and she trembled on. She looked down once, saw the far swaying river, and looked quickly up again. It was not until her groping feet touched the rock of the ledge that she opened her eyes again. At the top of a slender rope whirled and veered and battled a balloon with an empty basket. The sound of creaking ropes mingled in her ears with the chugging of a motor car. The chugging seemed a long way off, but its noise seemed to make her dizzy. She sank in a dead faint upon the narrow ledge beside the hooked anchor. "Pauline! Pauline! It's I—Harry. Can't you hear me? Pauline!" There came no sound in answer—only the creaking of the balloon rope in the air, the rasping of the anchor fluke upon the stone. He sprang up and back to the motor and began throwing out the robes, blankets, tools and chains. He laid a blanket on the ground and began to slash it into strips with his pocket knife. In the ends of the strips he cut slits and linked the slits with the chains to form a rope. He paused only once in his frantic labor. That was when he rushed back to the edge of the cliff to look again and call again-in vain. He fastened the chain at the end of his strange line to a sapling growing some ten feet back of the verge and with a throb of relief saw the other end drop to within a few feet of the unconscious girl. He tested the strength of the cable by pulling on it with all his might. It did not give. He put himself over the cliff side and began the descent. Owen and Hicks had not only lost the balloon, but had lost Harry, too. They could follow him only by the deep cut tracks of his flying car, and these were as likely to be over marshes and fields as on the highway. More than once Hicks urged that they turn back. "We can't do no good," he argued. "If they ain't dead they ain't— that's all." "I've got to be sure," muttered Owen. The little runabout had a hard fight to climb the cliff that Harry's big car had taken so easily. But as they came through the grove into view of the balloon and the empty basket the two felt amply rewarded for their worry and trouble and toil. "By George, it has happened. It's done!" cried Owen. No artist gazing on a finished masterpiece, no conqueror thanking the fates for victory could have spoken with more triumphant fervor. But Hicks was out of the machine and running to Harry's car. He saw the shreds of the blankets; he saw the knife; finally he caught a glimpse of the chain that was fastened to the sapling. "Don't be so sure," grumbled Hicks. "Come on—but come quiet." He got down on his hands and knees and crawled to the edge of the cliff. Owen followed him. Together they drew back with gasps of surprise and anger. Hicks sprang to his feet. His big-bladed knife flashed in his hand. He sawed excitedly at the small chain. A low curse escaped him as the blade bent on the links. Owen had dashed to Harry's auto. He was back with a pair of heavy pliers. In a flash he had cut the chain. The end of it shot over the cliff. There was a startled cry from below. It was several minutes before Hicks and Owen looked down again. The man they thought they had just killed and the girl whom they had marked to die stood on the ledge in each other's arms, oblivious of life or death, or foe or friend, of everything but love. Pauline was still aquiver with the shock of her waking. A cry ringing above her had brought her from her swoon and she had looked up to see the terrible balloon still reeling over her and to find Harry dangling from a rope's end not ten feet away. She rose weakly and stretched out her arms to him. "Be still; don't move, dear," he called softly. "You can't help me. You—" There was a sudden snapping sound from over the top of the cliff. The chain end of the line fell upon his shoulders. He dropped joltingly to the ledge and lunged forward toward a further fall. It was the soft arms of Pauline that caught and held him. Both trembling a little as their lips met. From overhead came the sound of a starting automobile. Harry shouted at the top of his voice. There was no answer. He stopped quickly and picked up the severed end of the life line. "Look; it wasn't broken; it was cut;" he cried. "Good heaven, Polly, who is it that hates us like that?" For answer she merely nestled nearer in his protecting arms. They sat down on the ledge, and Harry's keen eyes watched the tantrums of the balloon in the wind. It was pulling fiercely toward the river now, but the anchor held fast. Suddenly Harry sprang up. Pauline started to follow his example, but he motioned her to stay where she was. In his hand gleamed the revolver, that he had carried ever since the battle in Baskinelli's den. "Who is it?" whispered Pauline. "Can you see some one?" He raised the revolver in the air, took aim and fired. The balloon rope at his feet suddenly slacked and he caught at its sagging loop to gave the anchor from loosening. He fired twice again at the balloon bag, and Pauline, clinging to his shoulder saw the monster that had held her a slave to its elemental power, that, like some winged gorgon had held her captive in the labyrinth of air, crumple and wither and fall at the prick of a bullet; saw it collapse into a mass of tangled leather and rope and slide in final ruin down the smooth cliff. She looked at Harry with the whimsical smile that she could not suppress even on the dizzy heights of danger. "Did you really think I would fly away again?" she asked. "Hopeless ward," he said. "Pitiful case. Miss Pauline Marvin, crazy heiress—thinks she's funny when she's merely getting killed. No, Miss Flippancy, I wanted a line to slide the rest of the way on," he announced as he gave the anchor rope a twist around a rock. Pauline's merriment vanished like a flash. "Oh, I can't do it again, Harry, I can't," she cried tremulously. "It will be easy this time," he told her. "Here, give me your hands." With a piece of the blanket rope he tied her wrists together, and placed her arms about his shoulders, grasping a rope that sagged away to the wrecked balloon on the road far below. He placed a leg over the ledge, wrapped it around the rope and bracing the other foot against the rock wall, started joyously on his fearful task. Joyously, for if ever man rejoiced at the gates of death it was Harry Marvin. To him the chance to risk his life today was a blessing and a boon. It was what he had prayed for, hopelessly, on the long motor dash in the wake of the balloon—just the chance to try and save her. To die with her was all he asked; to die fighting for her was all he wanted; and here he was, holding her in his arms on a stout rope, already half way down the cliff. At the bottom he let her feel the firm earth once more. "Now you can open your eyes," he said. With his torn hands he started to lift her arms from his neck; but she clung there, weeping. "Oh, Harry, you are so patient, so good and brave, and I have made you risk your life again for me." "Sure; that's it; worry about me, now," he grumbled, although he held her tenderly and close. "When will you find out that my life doesn't matter; it's yours that counts?" "I will never, never do it again," said Pauline like a naughty child. "You used to say that when you were four years old. It was usually a lie," said Harry. "I love you," said Pauline irrelevantly. "Then why-in-the-dickens-don't-you-marry me?" he demanded. "Because—" She stopped. Steps sounded from the roadway. They peered through the thicket that concealed them and saw Owen approaching. Pauline hailed him. He turned toward the thicket in obsequious haste. "Thank Heaven, Miss Marvin," he cried. "It must be a miracle. And you are safe, too," he added, turning to Harry. "How did you know I was ever in danger?" inquired Harry grimly. "We heard shots," explained Owen. "We saw the balloon fall and we knew what you had done. It was magnificent. I congratulate you." "Congratulate Polly," said Harry. "She slid out of Heaven, while I only slid down hill." "Where is your car, Mr. Marvin?" "Up on the hill—if the kind persons who cut the chain didn't take it with them." Owen did not change color. "I will go and see if it is there. If not, I'll find Hicks and his runabout. He's waiting somewhere about." He set off briskly up the road. "Polly, you still trust that man?" asked Harry. "One has to trust one's guardian, doesn't one?" He tossed his hands above his head in a gesture of "Give it all up." "That's right; keep 'em there," said a rough voice, and a wiry man with white handkerchiefs tied over his face below the eyes sprang with crunching strides through the bushes. "Keep up your hands, I say," he thundered at Harry, as he leveled a revolver. Pauline was beside him and Harry dared not move. But Pauline dared. With the resourceful courage that always inspired her she whipped his revolver out his hip pocket and fired at the intruder's head. His hat fluttered off into the road. He sprang at Pauline and wrested the gun from her. As Harry rushed him, he had no time to fire, but the butt of one revolver crashed on the young man's forehead. Harry sank unconscious in the road. Pauline knelt beside him. She was screaming for Owen—even for Hicks. Hicks was instantly beside her but not to aid or rescue, for Hicks was the man with the handkerchief mask. He half dragged, half carried Pauline to a thicket that concealed the runabout. He drew a roll of tire tape from under the seat and bound it cruelly around her lips. He took ropes and tied her hands and feet, placed her in the seat beside him and started the machine. If Harry, struggling to rise out of the dust of the road, could have seen Pauline now, bound and gagged beside Hicks in the runabout, he would have known her to be in greater peril than ever the balloon had brought her. Pauline was not long unhidden. As the quick ear of Hicks caught the sound of wheels, he grasped her roughly by the arm and thrust her into the bottom of the machine. Without taking his hand from the lever or slackening speed, he pulled a blanket over her and tucked it in with one hand. "Don't move, either," he growled, "or you know." A farmer on his wagon came around a bend. His cheery "good morning" brought only a grunt from Hicks, but the sound of the kind voice thrilled Pauline. She struggled under the blanket and almost reached a sitting posture before Hicks crushed her back. The runabout had flashed by, but the farmer had seen something that alarmed even his stolid mind. When a half mile up the road he came upon a young man, dazed and wounded, staggering through the dust, he drew rein and leaped out. A draught of whiskey from the farmer's bottle braced Harry. "You passed them on the road?" he cried. "A machine with a man in it and somethin' else—somethin' in the bottom of it that moved," said the farmer. "A horse," said Harry, "quick—one of yours will do." The farmer hesitated. Harry thrust money into his hand. "Quick," he shouted. Together they unharnessed the team. Coatless and hatless, tattered, wounded and stained, Harry swung himself to the bare back of a stirrupless steed and galloped out on what he knew was the most dangerous of all the pathways of Pauline. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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