“Paraguay by Saturday?” Helen shook her head. “Eustace, didn’t that strike you as a totally crazy thing for them to say?”
“Can’t say as it did.”
“But don’t you know where Paraguay is?”
“Someplace along the coast or the islands, looks like.”
“Eustace, Paraguay is in South America.”
“Ayup, an’ so’s Peru. An’ China’s in Asier an’ Moscow’s in Russier, an’ Poland’s in Poland an’ Paris is in France, but I can show you all those an’ a damn sight more on a map o’ Maine. Can’t say’s I could put my finger on Paraguay offhand, but I got no reason to s’pose we ain’t got one kickin’ around someplace. How’s about lettin’ me bank that fire, Cat, so’s she’ll last us the night? We might as well try to grab ourselves a wink o’ sleep.”
TWELVE
“WE’RE IN LUCK, PROFESSOR Shandy. It rained in the night.”
“Ungh?” For a moment Peter couldn’t recognize the voice, or remember why he was lying on a bed of boughs at the bottom of a rabbit hole. No wonder he’d been dreaming about little cakes labeled EAT ME. Then it all came back to him.
“Oh, Miss Binks. Good morning. What time is it?”
“A while before sunup is the best I can tell you. I’ve been outside reconnoitering. Observation seems to indicate we’re in the clear. The rain must have thrown the bloodhounds into confusion. Do you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if that mess you and Mr. Swope made trying to get through Muddy Bottom may have confused your pursuers into believing you were both sucked into the quagmire. You didn’t miss it by much, you know.”
“Er—no, I hadn’t realized.” Peter would have been as well pleased if she hadn’t told him, though he supposed he ought to be relieved that he was still around to be told. “So you think those goons have called off the hunt?”
“Appearances would so indicate, but vigilance should still be our watchword, don’t you think? We must remember it was overconfidence that lost the British the Battle of Trenton.”
Peter supposed they must, though he himself didn’t particularly want to. He ought to be up and doing with a heart for any fate instead of lollygagging here among the spruce tips. The spirit was willing enough, but what about the tensors and flexors? He tested a few muscles, counted his limbs and found them all present as far as he could tell without offending Miss Binks’s presumed maiden modesty, and slid out from under the blankets.
Getting dressed was no problem. He’d slept in his clothes on the premise that they must be ruined already, so what difference would a few more wrinkles make? A glance at his pant legs confirmed his assumption. A rub of his chin told him that his whiskers had been waxing while the rest of him waned. How in Sam Hill would he and Swope be able to hitch a ride back to Balaclava Junction looking like a pair of skid-row bums? Asking this elderly spinster whether she happened to have a razor on the premises seemed to him both futile and a trifle indelicate. He prowled along the tunnel to the so-called bathroom and did what he could, which wasn’t much.
Cronkite Swope was still asleep. Miss Binks didn’t appear to mind a body sprawled on her parlor floor, so Peter decided he didn’t, either. He hauled a short log near the fire to serve him for a stool and accepted the cup Miss Binks handed him. It was a mug this time, of thick white ironstone with a blue line around its cracked and discolored rim. The stuff inside looked like black coffee and smelled the way one might presumably expect rabbit-hole coffee to smell. Anyway, it was hot and wet. He took a sip and was pleasantly surprised.
“Ground dandelion roots,” Miss Binks explained. “I wash them carefully, roast them by the fire till they’re well browned all through, then pulverize them with my mortar and pestle.” She nodded toward a foot-square slab of shale in which a dishlike depression had been worn. In the hollow lay a smooth granite pebble about the size and shape of a jumbo egg. “I find the flavor more delicate than that of chicory root, though I sometimes blend the two for a more robust brew.”
Like any well-bred hostess, she picked up her own cup and settled herself facing him on another lump of firewood. “Now, Professor Shandy, I’ve been giving a good deal of thought to your next move. You won’t want to go back to Woeful Ridge and try to salvage your car, I shouldn’t think.”
“Perish the thought,” he assured her. “I doubt whether there’s anything left to salvage anyway. The demolition crew had already made impressive headway when Swope and I took our departure. Unless they’re incredibly stupid or cocky, they’ll have dragged the remains away and ditched them somewhere by now. Burned it, perhaps, or dumped it in a quarry hole. This happens to be the Balaclava County Fane and Pennon’s staff car, you see. The name was painted on both front doors and across the trunk.”
“Hardly a thing to leave sitting around,” Miss Binks agreed. “The survivalists would hardly want to call attention to the possibility that it was they who’d effected your demise. Which they haven’t, needless to say, but I do so hope they’re convinced they have. I noticed a few bits and pieces of Mr. Swope’s jacket and trousers caught on some briars beside the sinkhole, which may reinforce their conjectures. If Mr. Swope is a reporter, by the way, I sincerely hope you can dissuade him from printing anything about me.”
“No fear,” Peter assured her. “Swope’s not one to bite the hand that feeds him. Er—that wasn’t meant as a hint. We were planning to pick some chickweed for breakfast along the way,” he lied bravely.
“Oh, come now, Professor! You can’t be that tired of my cuisine already. I can’t offer you bacon and eggs, but you might enjoy my amaranth pancakes with birch and maple syrup.”
“They sound delicious,” he lied gallantly, “but please don’t put yourself to any bother for us.”
“You’re no bother, I assure. It’s fun having someone to cook for again. Perhaps I’ve been lonely after all, though I hadn’t meant to be.”
“Have you ever thought of keeping a pet?”
“Not seriously. I suppose I might adopt a stray dog or cat if one happened along, but so far they haven’t. I’ve nursed a few injured or abandoned forest creatures but always returned them to their natural habitat as quickly as possible. Having renounced domestication myself, I have no desire to foist it on my fellow wildlings.”
Even as she made her declaration of emancipation, Miss Binks was bustling around her kitchen, the picture of domesticity, Mrs. Bunnykins style. If she’d left the hair on her deerskin garb, Peter thought, she could easily have passed for a burrowing mammal herself. Since he couldn’t think of a way to be useful, he stayed on his log watching her measure out strange ingredients and stir them up, then slap spoonfuls of thin dough on a flat rock she’d been heating in the fire.
“Haven’t a griddle and don’t need one. These will be done in a couple of minutes. Shall we wake Mr. Swope? I don’t want to seem inhospitable, Professor, but I’d suggest you two get on the road fairly soon.”
“M’yes,” said Peter. “It’s a long walk back to Balaclava Junction.”
“Around twenty-five miles, I should say,” Miss Binks replied briskly. “Out of the question, of course. What I’ve been thinking is that you’d better go straight on to Whittington and either telephone a friend to pick you up or else rent a taxi. Which would cost the earth, no doubt. Not to be nosy, but do you have any money with you?”
Peter stuck his hand in his pocket, was relieved to find his wallet still there, and pulled it out. “About a hundred dollars. I expect Swope has a little money on him, too.”
“An embarrassment of riches, I should say. You won’t have any problem, then. Once we get you safely to Whittington, that is—which may take some doing. Mr. Swope, breakfast is ready.”
“Huh? Oh. Sure.”
With the resilience of youth, Cronkite bounded out of the blankets, dashed to the washroom, and was back by the time Miss Binks had flipped her first pancake. The cakes tasted rather strange but Peter and Cronkite ate them willingly enough with rather more than their fair share of Mi
ss Binks’s birch and maple syrup.
“Now,” said Miss Binks when the plates were empty and she’d declined any help with the dishes, “how are we going to get you out of here?”
“I guess we’ll just have to get up and go,” was the best Cronkite had to offer, and in truth Peter could have done no better.
Miss Binks, however, soon demonstrated that her question had been purely rhetorical. “First, we’ll need to do something about your clothes.”
Peter wasn’t too badly off in the dark gray corduroys and plaid flannel shirt that were his habitual off-duty garb. Although dirty, wrinkled, and torn in a few places, they were what any non-self-respecting knight of the road might be wearing. Cronkite’s formerly pale blue summer-weight slacks and red and cream checked jacket were another, sadder story. Their hostess shook her head.
“There’s simply no way you can show yourself on a public thoroughfare looking like that, Mr. Swope.”
“But I’ll have to, Miss Binks. It’s either this or my birthday suit.”
“Oh, I think we can do a little better than that. Let’s see what my wardrobe has to offer.”
Miss Binks darted into a tunnel the men hadn’t yet got to explore and returned with an armload of plastic cleaners’ bags. “I did bring some clothes with me when I moved into the lair. I soon realized they were hopelessly impractical for the kind of life I found myself leading, but I kept them anyway. One never knows when something will come in handy. Let’s see, Mr. Swope. You’re wearing what I’d call sneakers, though I expect they have a fancier name nowadays. Here’s a baggy old sweatshirt that looks as if it might fit you. Why don’t you put this on? We’ll cut off your pant legs as high as decency permits and you can pass for a jogger.”
“Hey, right on! Maybe I ought to shave first, if you don’t mind.”
“You have a razor, Swope?” cried Peter.
“Sure, I always carry one in my pocket. It says in the Great Journalists’ Correspondence Course that there’s nothing more off-putting to an interviewee than a reporter with a day’s growth of whiskers on his face. And you can’t always be running home to shave when there’s a hot story breaking. You want to borrow mine when I’m through, Professor?”
“Please. I resemble a hobo enough without the stubble.”
“The problem is not that you resemble a hobo, Professor,” Miss Binks corrected, “but that you resemble the man those hoodlums found exploring their arms cache yesterday afternoon. What we really need to do is change your appearance entirely. This ought to do the trick, don’t you think?”
She held up a full skirt of bright green cotton patterned in red and pink strawberries, and a plain green long-sleeved shirt that went with it. “These were my aunt’s. Aunt bought them new shortly before she died, and I couldn’t bear to give them away with her other things. She’d have wanted me to get some good out of them, and now seems to be the time. Aunt was quite a bit larger than I, and the skirt’s elasticized in the waist. You should be able to get into them all right.”
“But drat it,” Peter sputtered, “I can’t go parading down the road in a woman’s clothes with a man’s legs and a man’s face.”
“Nobody’s going to see your face. We’ll tie a scarf over your head and pull it well down in front. You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of sunglasses with you?”
He searched his pockets again. “Er—my driving glasses. Yes, I have them.”
“And your binoculars, too. Good man. You can carry my bird-watching book. As for your shoes, they’re sensible enough and that’s what counts. People expect bird-watchers to look a bit eccentric. You might shave your legs while you’re about it. We can stain them tan with walnut juice.”
She picked up a pair of scissors, good steel ones she surely had never retrieved from her grandfather’s cellar hole, and went to work on Cronkite’s pant legs. Peter resigned himself to being Miss Binks’s aunt, picked up the green and pink garments, and went to prepare for his debut as a transvestite. When he got back to the lair, he was confronted by a new Miss Binks, smartly togged out in gray flannel slacks, a turquoise blue polo shirt, and fairly clean white sneakers.
She greeted him with the amusement he’d anticipated. “Why, Professor Shandy, you’re a picture no artist could paint! Stand still and let me tie this scarf so it won’t slide off. Actually, I don’t think we need bother about your legs. Those socks you have on will do well enough, since the skirt is so long. Aunt always believed in getting full value for her money so she bought everything a size too large, luckily for us. Mr. Swope, quit cowering in that tunnel and get your shorts and sweatshirt on. We really do have to be starting. It will be sunup soon, and the early morning cloud cover will be disappearing. Not that it’s going to help us a great deal, I don’t suppose, but we need every scrap of advantage we can scrape together. Just till we get clear of the lair, you know. We’ll be in a less vulnerable position once we’re on the bikes.”
“Bikes?” cried Peter. “Miss Binks, you don’t mean you have bicycles here?”
“You weren’t supposing I’d expect you two footsore waifs of the storm to walk all the way to Whittington, were you? Or that I’d have been foolhardy enough to maroon myself out here with no means of transportation whatsoever? I thought Mr. Swope might sprint ahead on the two-wheeler, Professor, while you and I follow at a ladylike speed on the tandem. I must say I’m looking forward to getting dear old Daisy Belle out again. I haven’t had anyone to ride with since Aunt died. I did try to sell Daisy with the rest of the household effects, but nobody made me an offer, so I brought her along. As I said before, one never knows, does one? The thing of it is, your chaps, if they’re out patrolling the road, will be looking for two men on foot. One young cyclist by himself and two elderly ladies on a tandem ought to throw them off the scent, shouldn’t you think?”
“I’m beyond thinking, Miss Binks. I can only hope. But how will you get your bicycles home?”
“I’ll ride the two-wheeler, leaving Daisy Belle in some appropriate place of concealment. Perhaps you or Mr. Swope can help me retrieve her at a more convenient time.”
“Sure,” said Cronkite, “but what if somebody steals the old girl before we have the chance to get back to her?”
“Then we’ll be spared the bother,” Miss Binks replied briskly. “Are you quite ready, Mr. Swope?”
“I guess so. This sweatshirt’s a bit on the tight side.”
“Make believe it shrank in the wash. Shove the sleeves up so they won’t look too skimpy. Here, wear my cycling helmet. It will abet the dissimulation. Come along, gentlemen. The south tunnel, I think.”
This one didn’t have to be crawled through, Peter was relieved to learn. How he’d have managed that in the late Aunt Binks’s strawberry skirt was a riddle he was better pleased not to solve. They simply walked along, stooping more or less, depending on their respective heights, until they came to an apparently insuperable barrier. Miss Binks flicked it aside with one hand.
“Camouflage,” she whispered. “I keep the end walled off to remind me not to step too far and fall in. This is an old well. Very convenient to draw water from in the winter but awkward to get out of without the drawbridge. Be careful going across, the bridge doesn’t quite cover the hole.”
The drawbridge was merely a short section of plank. It stretched across what looked to Peter like a yawning abyss and rested, securely he hoped, on the bottom one of a few iron cleats that had been driven into the stone side of the well. Miss Binks capered nimbly across, swarmed up the cleats, and nudged away a partly rotted wooden cover over which brush had been piled. Cautious as a fox, she poked her head up, looked, sniffed, and listened.
Once sure the coast was clear, she beckoned the men to follow. Cronkite climbed like a kitten on a curtain. Peter hitched up his skirts and did his best. The two men helped to replace the well cover and rearrange the brush, then followed their leader by a circuitous route to a somewhat boskier dingle than they’d encountered hitherto. Here, Miss Binks li
fted a large clump of growing ferns to reveal a board-lined cache in which lay an assortment of wheels and handlebars.
Without wasting a word, this latter-day counterpart of Rima the Bird Girl picked out a wrench and a screwdriver from the cache and began fitting the pieces together. In two minutes by Peter’s count, both machines were ready to roll. Miss Binks perched Audubon’s Field Guide to the Birds conspicuously in the wire basket that hung from the tandem’s front handlebars and nodded to Peter.
“Professor, you and I will wheel Daisy Belle out to where the ground becomes flat enough to ride on. Mr. Swope, take charge of the two-wheeler.”
By now, both men would have followed her anywhere. They passed the vast cellar hole, still half-filled with charred wood and debris, struck an overgrown but passable drive, mounted their bikes, and after a few preliminary wiggles, were off.
Peter had never ridden a tandem before but he caught on fast enough. Miss Binks assigned him the rear seat, so all he had to do was stay on and keep pedaling. At first Cronkite lagged behind them. Once they were out on paved road and he knew which way to go, he swooped ahead, though not so far ahead as he’d have been able to go on a newer, faster bicycle. That was according to plan, they didn’t want to lose each other.
The Luck Runs Out Page 12