Penny’s eyes began to sparkle with excitement. “I’d love to do it. But won’t she be listening for the sound of our motor as we go deeper into the swamp? If she doesn’t hear it, she’s apt to suspect something.”
“Ye’ve got a real head on yer shoulders,” said the widow approvingly. “By the way, I don’t like to keep callin’ ye young’un now we’re good friends. What’s yer name?”
“I thought you knew. I’m sorry. It’s Penny Parker.”
“Penny! I never did hear o’ a girl named after money.”
“I wasn’t exactly,” Penny smiled. “My real name is Penelope, but no one ever liked it. So I’m called Penny.”
“Penelope, hain’t sich a bad name. That’s what I’ll call ye.”
“About Mrs. Hawkins—” the girl reminded her.
“Oh, yes, now if ye was a mind to find out about her, it wouldn’t be so hard.”
“How?”
“We hain’t gone fur into the swamp yet. I could let ye out here on the bank and ye could slip back afoot to the bend in the channel.”
“Where I’d be able to watch the house!”
“Ye got the idea, Penelope. All the while, I would keep goin’ on in the boat until the sound o’ the motor jest naturally died out. Then I could row back here and pick ye up agin.”
“Mrs. Jones, you’re the one who has a head on your shoulders!” Penny cried. “Let’s do it!”
The widow brought the skiff alongside the bank, steadying it as the girl stepped ashore.
“Ye got a watch?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll meet ye right here in ’bout three-quarters of an hour. I kin keep track o’ the time by lookin’ at the sun.”
“That may not give me enough time,” Penny said anxiously.
“If yer late, I’ll wait fer ye,” the widow promised. “But try to be here. If ye hain’t we may havter give up the trip, ’cause it hain’t sensible startin’ in late in the day.”
“I’ll be here,” Penny assured her. “If nothing happens in three-quarters of an hour, I’ll just give it up.”
The boat, it’s motor popping steadily, slipped away. Penny scrambled up the muddy bank, and finding a well-trod path, walked rapidly toward the Hawkins’ place.
Soon she came to the bend in the creek, and there paused. From afar, she could hear the retreating sound of the skiff’s motor.
Through a break in the bushes, the girl peered toward the distant farmhouse. To her disappointment, the yard was now deserted, and Mrs. Hawkins was nowhere in sight.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Penny thought. “I’d hate to waste all this valuable time.”
For a half hour she waited. Twice Mrs. Hawkins came out of the house, once to gather in clothes from the line and the second time to obtain a pail of water.
“I guess my hunch was crazy,” Penny told herself. “I’ll have to be starting back to meet Mrs. Jones.”
The sound of the motorboat now had died out completely, so the girl knew the widow already was on her way to their appointed meeting place.
Turning away from the bushes, Penny paused for one last glance at the farmhouse. The yard remained deserted. But as she sighed in disappointment, the kitchen door again flew open.
Mrs. Hawkins came outside and walked rapidly to the shed. She listened attentively for a moment. Then from a peg on the outside wall, she took down a big tin dishpan and a huge wooden mixing spoon.
Penny watched with mounting excitement. This was the moment for which she had waited!
Carefully, the farm woman looked about to be certain no one was nearby. Then with firm precision, she beat out a tattoo on the dishpan.
“It’s a signal to someone in the swamp!” guessed Penny. “In code she is tapping out that Mrs. Jones and I are on our way into the interior!”
CHAPTER 20
TRAILING HOD HAWKINS
After Mrs. Hawkins had pounded out the signal, she hung the dishpan on its peg once more, and went to the door of the shed. Without opening it, she spoke to someone inside the building. Penny was too far away to hear what she said.
In a minute, the woman turned away and vanished into the house.
Penny waited a little while to be certain Mrs. Hawkins did not intend to come outside again. Then, with an uneasy glance at her wrist watch, she stole away to rejoin Mrs. Jones.
The skiff was drawn up to shore by the time she reached the appointed meeting place.
“I was jest about to give you up,” the widow remarked as the girl scrambled into the boat. “Did ye learn what ye wanted to know?”
Penny told her what she had seen.
“’Pears you may be right about it bein’ a signal,” the widow agreed thoughtfully. “We may be able to learn more too, ’cause whoever had his’n ears tuned to Ma Hawkins’ signal may figure we’re deep in the swamp by this time.”
“Let’s keep on the alert as we near Lookout Point,”Penny urged.
Mrs. Jones nodded and silently dipped the paddle.
Soon they came within view of the point. Passing beneath an overhanging tree branch, the widow grasped it with one hand, causing the skiff to swing sideways into a shelter of leaves.
“See anyone, Penelope?” she whispered.
“Not a soul.”
“Then maybe we was wrong about Ma Hawkins signalling anyone.”
“But I do see a boat beached on the point!” Penny added. “And see! Someone is coming out of the bush now!”
“Hod Hawkins!”
Keeping quiet, the pair in the skiff waited to see what would happen.
Hod came down to the water’s edge, peering with a puzzled expression along the waterway. He did not see the skiff, shielded by leaves and dense shade.
“Hit’s all-fired queer,” they heard him mutter. “I shore didn’t see no boat pass here this mawnin’. But Maw musta seen one go by or she wouldn’t heve pounded the pan.”
Hod sat down on a log, watching the channel. Penny and Mrs. Jones remained where they were. Once the current, sluggish as it was, swung the skiff against a projecting tree root. The resulting jar and scraping sound seemed very loud to their ears. But the Hawkins youth did not hear.
Penny and the widow were becoming weary of sitting in such cramped positions under the tree branch. To their relief, Hod arose after a few minutes. Reaching into the hollow log, he removed a tin pan somewhat smaller than the dishpan Mrs. Hawkins had used a few minutes earlier.
“He’s going to signal!” Penny whispered excitedly. “Either to his mother, or someone deeper in the swamp!”
Already Hod was beating out a pattern on the pan, very similar to the one the girl had heard before.
After a few minutes, the swamper thrust the pan back into its hiding place. He hesitated, and then to the surprise of Penny and Mrs. Jones, stepped into his boat.
“If he comes this way, he’s certain to see us!” Penny thought uneasily.
With never a glance toward the leafy hideout, Hod shoved off, rowing deeper into the swamp.
“Dare we follow him?” whispered Penny.
“That’s what I aim to do,” the Widow Jones rejoined grimly. “I hain’t afeared o’ the likes o’ Hod Hawkins! Moreover, fer a long time, I been calculatin’to find out what takes him and Coon so offen into the swamp.”
“You mean recently don’t you, Mrs. Jones. Just since Danny Deevers escaped from prison?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about Danny Deevers,” the widow replied as she picked up the paddle again. “I do know that the Hawkins’ been up to mischief fer more’n a year.”
“Then you must have an idea what that city truck was doing on the swamp road the other night.”
“An idear—yes,” agreed Mrs. Jones. “But I hain’t sure, and until I am, I hain’t makin’ no accusations.”
Now that Hod’s boat was well away, the widow noiselessly sent the skiff forward.
“We kin follow close enough to jest about keep him in sight if we don’t make no n
oise,” she warned. “But we gotta be keerful.”
Penny nodded and became silent.
Soon the channel was no more than a path through high water-grass and floating hyacinths. Hod propelled his boat with powerful muscles, alternating with forked pole and paddle. At times, when Penny took over to give the Widow Jones a “breather,” she was hard pressed not to lose the trail.
“We’re headin’ straight fer Black Island, hit ’pears to me,” Mrs. Jones whispered once. “The channel don’t look the same though as when I was through here last. But I reckon if we git lost we kin find our way out somehow.”
Soon the skiff was inching through a labyrinth of floating hyacinths; there were few stretches of open water. Shallow channels to confuse the unwary, radiated out in a dozen directions, many of them with no outlets.
Always, however, before the hyacinths closed in, the Widow Jones was able to pick up the path through which Hod had passed.
“From the way he’s racin’ along, he’s been this way plenty o’ times,” she remarked. “We’re headin’ fer Black Island right enough.”
The sun now was high overhead, beating down on Penny’s back and shoulders with uncomfortable warmth. Mrs. Jones brought out the lunch and a jug of water. One ate while the other rowed.
“We’re most to Black Island,” the widow informed presently. “If ye look sharp through the grass, ye can see thet point o’ high land. Thet’s the beginnin’o’ the island—biggest one in the swamp.”
“But where is Hod?”
“He musta pulled up somewheres in the bushes. We’ll have to be keerful and go slow now or we’ll be caught.”
“Listen!” whispered Penny.
Although she could as yet see no one on the island, voices floated out across the water.
“We heerd yer signal, Hod,” a man said, “but we hain’t seen no one.”
“A boat musta come through, or Maw wouldn’t heve beat the pan.”
“Whoever ’twas, they probably went off somewheres else,” the other man replied. “Glad yer here anyhow, Hod. We got a lot o’ work to do and ye can help us.”
Hod’s reply was inaudible, for obviously the men were moving away into the interior of the island.
“Thet was old Ezekiel talkin’ to his son,” the Widow Jones declared, although Penny already had guessed as much. “They’ve gone off somewheres, so if we’re a mind to land, now’s our only chance.”
Penny gazed at her companion in surprise and admiration.
“You’re not afraid?” she inquired softly.
“Maybe I am,” the Widow Jones admitted. “But that hain’t no excuse fer me turnin’ tail! This here’s a free country ain’t it?”
She poled the skiff around the point to a thick clump of bushes. There she pulled up, and with Penny’s help made the skiff secure to a tree root hidden from sight by overhanging branches.
Scrambling up the muddy bank, the pair paused to take bearings. Voices now had died away and to all appearances the island might have been deserted.
Treading with utmost caution, Penny and the Widow Jones tramped along the shore until they came to a path. Abruptly, the girl halted, sniffing the air.
“I smell wood burning,” she whispered. “From a campfire probably.”
“An’ I smell somethin’ more,” added the Widow Jones grimly. “Cain’t ye notice thet sickish, sweet odor in the air?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“We’ll find out,” replied Mrs. Jones. “But if we git cotched, I’m warnin’ ye we won’t never git away from here. Ye sure ye want to go on?”
“Very sure.”
“Then come on. And be keerful not to crackle any leaves underfoot.”
The path led to a low, tunnellike opening in the thicket. Penny, who again had taken the lead, crouched low, intending to crawl through.
Before she could do so, she heard a stifled cry behind her. Turning, she saw that Mrs. Jones had sagged to one knee, and her face was twisted with pain.
Penny ran to her. “You’re hurt!” she whispered. “Bitten by a snake?”
Mrs. Jones shook her head, biting her lip to keep back the tears. She pointed to her ankle, caught beneath a tree root.
“I stumbled and wrenched it ’most off,” she murmured. “Hit’s a bad sprain and I’m afeared I can’t go on.”
CHAPTER 21
THE TUNNEL OF LEAVES
Penny raised the woman to her feet, but as Mrs. Jones tried to take a step, she saw that the sprain indeed was a bad one.
Already the ankle was swelling and skin had been broken. At each attempted step, the widow winced with pain, suffering intensely.
“If I kin only git back to the boat, I’ll be all right,” she said, observing Penny’s worried expression. “Drat it all! Jest when I wanted to find out what the Hawkins’are doin’ on this island!”
Supporting much of the widow’s weight on her shoulders, Penny helped her back to the skiff.
“I guess we may as well start back,” she said, unable to hide her bitter disappointment.
The widow reached for an oar, then looked keenly at Penny and put it back again.
“’Course it would be a risky thing fer ye to go on by yerself while I wait here in the boat—”
Penny’s slumped shoulders straightened. Her blue eyes began to dance.
“You mean you don’t mind waiting here while I see where that tunnel of leaves leads?” she demanded.
“’Pears like we’ve come too fur not to find out what’s goin’ on. Think ye can git in there and back without being cotched?”
“I’m sure of it!”
The widow sighed. “I hain’t sure of it, but you got more gumpshun than any other young’un I ever met. Go on if ye’r a-goin’, and if anyone sees ye, light out fer the boat. I’ll be ready to shove off.”
“Mrs. Jones, you’re a darling!” Penny whispered, giving the gnarled hand a quick pressure. “I’ll make it all right!”
Moving directly to the thicket, she dropped on all fours and started through the leafy tunnel where Hod had disappeared. The sweetish odor now was much plainer than before.
She had crawled only a few feet, when a hand reached out of nowhere and grasped her shoulder.
Penny whirled around, expecting to see a member of the Hawkins’ family. For a moment she saw no one, and then from the thicket beside the tunnel, a figure became visible. The hold on her shoulder relaxed.
“Who are you?” she demanded in a whisper.
“Friend.”
“Then show yourself!”
The leaves rustled, and a dark-haired lad with tangled curls crawled into the tunnel beside her. His shoes were ripped, his clothing dirty and in tatters. A rifle was grasped in his hand.
“Bada men,” he warned, jerking his head in the direction Penny had been crawling. “Mucha better go back boat.”
“Who are you and why do you warn me?” Penny asked, deeply puzzled.
The boy did not reply.
Light dawned suddenly upon Penny. “You’re the one who saved me from the boar!”
The boy’s quick grin was acknowledgment he had fired the shot.
“But why did you run away?” Penny asked. “Why didn’t you wait and let me thank you for saving my life?”
“You giva me to police maybe,” replied the boy in broken English. “I staya here—starva first!”
“Who are you?”
“Name no matter.”
Penny’s mind had been working swiftly. She was convinced the boy who had saved her also was the one who had stolen Trapper Joe’s gun. Evidently, he had needed it to survive in the swamp. He was thin and his eyes had a hungry look, she noted.
“How did you get to this island?” she inquired. “Do you have a boat?”
“Make-a raft.” The boy’s eyes darted down the leafy tunnel. “No good here,” he said, seizing Penny’s arm and pulling her back into the thicket. “Someone-a come!”
Scarcely had the pair flattened themselves on the g
round than Ezekiel Hawkins crawled out through the tunnel, pushing his gun ahead of him. Standing upright not three feet from Penny and her companion, he gazed sharply about.
“Thought I heerd voices,” he muttered.
Penny held her breath, knowing that if the swamper should walk down the shore even a dozen yards, he would see the Widow Jones waiting in the skiff.
To her great relief, Ezekiel moved in the opposite direction. After satisfying himself that no boat approached the island, he returned through the tunnel and disappeared.
“What’s going on back in there?” Penny whispered as soon as it was safe to ask.
“Bada men,” her companion said briefly.
“You’re driving me to distraction!” Penny muttered, losing patience. “Do those swampers know you’re here on the island?”
The boy shook his tangled curls, grinning broadly. “Chasa me once. No catch.”
“You’re Italian, aren’t you?” Penny asked suddenly.
A guarded look came over the lad’s sun-tanned face. His brown eyes lost some of their friendliness.
“Now I have it!” Penny exclaimed before he could speak. “You’re Antonio Tienta, wanted by Immigration authorities for slipping into this country illegally!”
The boy did not deny the accusation, and the half-frightened, defiant look he gave her, confirmed that she had struck upon the truth.
“I no go back!” he muttered. “I starva first!”
“Don’t become so excited, or those men will hear you and we’ll both be caught,” Penny warned. “Tell me about yourself, Tony. I already know a little.”
“How mucha you know?” he asked cautiously.
“That you acted as a guide to G.I.’s in Italy and stowed aboard a troopship coming to this country. Even now, I guess authorities aren’t certain how you slipped past New York officials.”
“No trouble,” boasted the lad. “On ship my friendsa the G.I.’s they feeda me. We dock New York; I hide under bunk; all G.I.’s leava boat. Boat go to other dock. Sailor friend giva me clothes. Sailors leave-a boat. I slippa out. No one geta wise.”
“Then where did you go?”
“Stay in-a New York only two—three days. Go hitchhike into country. Work-a on farm. No like it. Hear Immigration men-a come, so I go. Come-a one day to swamp. Good place; I stay.”
The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels Page 184