by Joan Clark
Chapter XIV
THE LION'S DEN
"No answer at all?" Dorothy inquired anxiously.
"That's what I said." Bill's tone was a bit gruff. He walked over to therange and warmed his hands at the glowing coals.
"What I mean is, could you hear the bell ring in Stoker's house?"
"Oh, yes, the bell rang. But nobody came to the phone."
"That's what I wanted to know."
"Why? I can't see that the ringing of the phone bell makes anydifference--"
"All the difference," declared Dorothy. "Never mind why, now. I've justtold Mrs. Johnson that I had to park _Wispy_ on the other side of thereservation last night, and that some men over there were verydisagreeable and we were forced to accept Uncle Abe's hospitality forthe night."
"We think a heap of Uncle Abe on the reservation," affirmed thesuperintendent's wife. "And don't you worry about your airplane, MissDixon. We'll see that it don't come to no harm. My husband had to driveover to Katonah this morning, but I'll get Sam Watson on the job. He'sin the office right now. Sam!" she called, "come in here."
A stalwart, broad-shouldered young man walked into the kitchen. Hisnatty uniform marked him a member of the Reservation force.
"Did you want something, Mrs. Johnson?"
"This is Miss Dorothy Dixon of New Canaan, and Mr.--" she hesitated.
"Bolton--Bill Bolton," supplied that young man.
"The flyers!" Guard Watson's honest face wore a broad grin. "Heard aboutyou both--who hasn't? Pleased to meet you, I'm sure." He shook handswith them and nodded to Uncle Abe.
"It's like this, Sam," explained Mrs. Johnson. "Miss Dixon run out ofgas last night and her airplane is down to the woodlot just below RavenRocks in the Stone Hill River valley. Get Eddie, that's his beat anyway,and keep an eye on the airplane until these young folks pick it up thisafternoon. They had trouble with some tramps over there last evenin' andput up to Uncle Abe's for the night. Pass the word on to the rest of theboys about them dead beats that's botherin' people on the Reservation,will you?"
"I sure will, Mrs. Johnson. If they're still around, we'll run 'em offquicker'n greased lightning."
"You're very good," smiled Dorothy. "We saw a couple of suspiciouscharacters hanging round the Cross River entrance when we came over hereto headquarters just now."
"I'll rout 'em out," Sam Watson promised. "If they kick up a fussthey'll put in thirty days behind the bars. Well, I must be hoppin' it.Glad to have met you folks, I'm sure. So long, everybody!"
With a stiff salute and a broad smile he was gone. They heard him trampdown the hall and then the front door slammed.
"Checkmate to J. J. J.," murmured Bill.
Dorothy played chess with her father--"Not checkmate--check," shecorrected. "By the way, Mrs. Johnson, I wonder if we can trespass onyour good humor still further?"
"Land's sakes alive! I haven't done nothing for you yet!" Thesuperintendent's wife was busy with hot water and a teapot.
"Do you happen to have an extra car that we could borrow for a fewhours?"
"Why, sure I have, my dear. But there's no hurry about your leavin', isthere? A cup of tea, now, to warm you up and some of these nice crispcrullers I made yesterday? Then I'll get you and Mr. Bolton some drythings to put on and after dinner you can take the car and ride home.How'll that be?"
Dorothy laughed and shook her head. "You're awfully kind, really, Mrs.Johnson, but we can't stay. We've got an appointment that just can't bebroken."
"But your wet clothes, Miss Dixon?"
"Thanks for your offer, but we aren't so wet now. I will have a cup oftea if I may, although we only finished breakfast a little while ago."
"And don't forget those crisp crullers," protested Bill with a grin. "Icertainly do love homemade crullers, ma'am."
"An' dey ain't nuffin' better 'an de ones Miz Johnson makes," chuckledUncle Abe. "I'se tasted 'em befo' an' dis hyar nigger knows!"
Mrs. Johnson beamed delightedly.
"Even if I do say so who shouldn't," she remarked modestly, "this batchcame out pretty good. But are you sure I can't tempt you to stay forSunday dinner? We're having fish chowder, chicken friccassee, withdumplin's, and a pumpkin pie!"
"You sure do make my mouth water," groaned Bill. "I only wish we couldstop, and meet your husband, Mrs. Johnson. If you'll keep the invitationopen, we'd love to take advantage of it some other time."
The good lady passed them their tea and a plate heaped with golden browncrullers.
"We'll make it next Sunday noon then. Our children are all married, withhomes of their own. Mr. Johnson and I miss not having young folks roundthe house. It'll make it seem like the good old times again, if youcome. Don't forget now, next Sunday."
"We'll be here with bells on, Mrs. Johnson," promised Bill.
"And we'll try not to look like a couple of tramps then," added Dorothy.
"You'll always be welcome, no matter what you wear," declared theirhostess. "I'll make another pumpkin pie for you."
They chatted for ten minutes or so and then bade Mrs. Johnson goodbye.
"Uncle Abe will take you out to the garage," she said in parting. "Takethe Buick. You'll need a closed car on a day like this."
When the kitchen door had shut out the smiling, motherly figure, andthey were following the old darky along the drive, Dorothy turned toBill.
"And they say that New Englanders are not hospitable! Why, they're themost hospitable people in America if you really know them!"
"Country people, no matter what part of the United States they live in,are generally friendly. Living in cities, where your next door neighboris a stranger, makes a person suspicious. But I've found that mosthonest-to-goodness Americans will do a lot for a person in trouble."
"Dere's de kyar, Missy," Uncle Abe interrupted apologetically. "Reckondis hyar ol' nigger'll wish yo'all goodbye an' mo' comferble bedsternight."
Dorothy caught the old fellow's hand and held it between her own.
"Uncle Abe," she said, looking straight into his shining eyes, "do youreally like living up there in the woods, all by yourself?"
"Waal, dis nigger ain't used ter much, Missy," he said slowly, "an' decabin am a heap better 'an a barn er no roof atall. But, it sho' do getmighty lonesome, 'times."
"I bet it does. How would you like to live in quarters over our garageand work for my father? He was saying only a day or so ago that whatwith driving the cars and all Arthur has too much to do around theplace. We need a gardener and general handy man. The job is yours ifyou'll take it--and I don't mind saying I'll feel badly if you don't."
Ol' Man River winked back the tears with a brave effort, although thelittle wrinkles at the corners of his mouth puckered in a smile.
"Yo' sho' is good ter dis hyar nigger, Missy!"
"And you want to come? I won't take no for an answer--"
"It do me good fer ter hear you sesso, Missy. Kaze yo' sho' is dequal'ty and dis hyar ol' nigger never done had no real fambly 'time hecome No'th."
Bill winked at Uncle Abe.
"And if that nocount Dixon family don't treat you right, you come rightacross the road to my house."
"Spect I'll git 'long tollerbul well on Miss Dor'thy's side," hechuckled.
"Well, what's the good word now, Dorothy?" Bill motioned toward theBuick. "It's about time we beat it over to Stoker's, don't you think?"
"I do think," returned Dorothy. "And that's why we aren't going overthere."
"But surely--"
"But nothing. The boys aren't there or they'd have answered the phone.If you hadn't heard the bell ring we could be fairly sure the wire wascut and that they were holding the house in a state of siege, so tospeak. Now we know they aren't there." Bill did not seem impressed.
"If that line of reasoning is logical, I'm as cold on the right answeras a water tank in winter. How do you know Joyce's men haven't got themtied up in the house?"
"Because at this stage
of the game, Joyce would hardly do that and leavethem there for their friends to find. And if his men were still in thehouse, they'd be sure to answer the telephone. You and Uncle Abe getright into that Buick now. We are going to take a run up to Mr. John J.Joyce's place."
Bill did not attempt to hide his astonishment.
"Gee, whiz, Dorothy?--you've got a whale of a lot of nerve!"
Dorothy shrugged and looked steadily at Bill. "Well, are you game?"
For answer he followed her into the car.
"Pretty much like jumping feet first into the lion's den," he commented,"but considering your middle name is Daniel, or ought to be, I dare saywe'll have a roaring good time of it!"
"Stop talking jazz, Bill. How about you, Uncle Abe?"
The old man already lounged back on the rear seat.
"Reverse dis hyar injine inter de drive, Miss Dor'thy--an' when yo'allturned round I'se gwine ter show yo' where we'se a-gwine."
Dorothy, smiling over the steering wheel, backed out of the garage andgot the Buick headed toward the road.
"Well, Uncle?" she prompted.
"D'reckly in front of us, way over yonder on de far hill ez er bighouse."
"The white one in the trees?" asked Bill.
"Yaas, suh, de only one any pusson kin see from hyar. Dat am Hilltop,Marse Conway's ol' place."
"Where Mr. Lewis lives now!"
"Eggzackly so, ma'am. Marse Joyce's place ez jus' back er yonder."
"Bet he calls it, 'The Den,'" said Bill.
Uncle Abe cackled, "No, suh, Marse Bill--hee-hee--dat house done called'Nearma'."
"Near ma?" repeated Dorothy in a puzzled tone. "There are some queerIndian names in this part of the country, but that's a new one on me."
"'Tain't Injun, Missy. Dat dere hones' ter goodness 'Merican. MarseJoyce's ol' Ma uster lib cross de ridgeroad. Dat how he come ter name dehouse 'Near Ma'."
"That old scurmudgeon! I don't believe it!" cried Bill in an explosionof laughter.
"Dat am de spittin' trufe, Marse Bill. De ol' lady am daid, but he stillcall de place Nearma jus' de same."
"How do we get to it, Uncle?" Dorothy asked after a moment.
"Run out de entrance till we come ter de turnpike, Missy. Den right,long dat road to Cross River. From de village yonder we follers de roadter Lake Waccabuc, but we don't hafter travel dat far."
"Good enough." The car swung round the side of the house and into theroad. "I guess Sam got rid of the Watchers by the Gate--there's nobodyat the entrance."
They swept into the highroad and on through the pre-revolutionary hamletof Cross River. Half a mile further, as they were speeding along the topof a wooded ridge, Uncle Abe spoke again.
"Dat stone fence long de road ter de right b'long ter Hilltop," hepointed out. "De house am set way back from de road behin' de trees.Round de bend ahead yo'all gwine ter see 'nother higher wall, dat startsby three white birches. Yonder am where Marse Joyce's land begins."
"And what's on the farther side of the Joyce property?"
"Dere ain't nuffin, Missy, 'cept jes' mo' dese hyar woods."
"Fine! And I suppose, after being up here for nearly ten years, you canfind your way about in those woods?"
"Sho' can, Missy. Ef dere's er rabbit hole dis nigger a' missed in demwoods, I wanter know."
"Better and better. You're a marvellous help, Uncle Abe."
"What do you plan to do? Park the car near the road, hike back throughthe woods and cut over toward the house from that side?" Bill was notenthusiastic.
"Just about that."
"And when you sight the historic mansion?"
"I'm going into the house."
"Oh, yes, you are..."
"Oh, yes, I am!"
"And how do you expect to do that without being nabbed right off thebat?"
"Last night you told me I asked too many questions, Bill. And Uncle Abesays 'what's food for the goose is swell eating for the gander...'!"