When it was out of sight, Dick Ferris says, “Thank heaven that is settled.”
“Yeah,” I says, “but them Pelhams are gonna make more trouble for us with Stoner’s Boy; they will want that spider more than ever now.”
Dick shook his head. “Fellas,” he says, “that Stoner’s Boy can do more things than we think; don’t be supprised at anything you see anymore.”
Lew Hunter spoke up. “He is terrible,” says Lew. “It’s enough to make a fella lose his nerve.”
“Never mind, Lew,” says Dick, “we will forget Stoner for a while; let’s go up and practice our songs.”
Which we did.
CHAPTER 18
How Briggen Was Rescued
MONDAY.—Us boys been practicing hard for our commencement. Lew Hunter got leave from our teacher to take the boys down to the houseboat right after noon, so we could practice our songs down there. The teacher didn’t want to let us off at first, but Lew told him we could practice our songs better with the organ down in the houseboat, so he let us go.
We are getting pretty well along now, and we almost know the songs by heart, and believe me, we can sing. It sounds purty. When we got through singing today, all the Pelham fellas was standing outside, looking through the windows and listening.
Lew Hunter smiled at me as the other fellas went out to play. “Hawkins,” he says, “them Pelham fellas got a good ear for music.”
“Yeah,” I says, “they like it.”
“Well,” says Lew, “music has charms for fellas like them; they are purty wild Indians, ain’t they?”
I laughed. “You said it,” I answered.
I walked up the path with Lew. “Come on,” he says, “you can walk back to the school with me; I have to report to the teacher about our singing.”
“No,” I says, “I can’t, Lew; I got to write some in my seckatary book.”
So I went back down to the houseboat.
When I got there, I saw Doc Waters inside; he was looking through my seckatary book, which lay on the table.
“Hello, Hawkins,” he says, “you got a purty nice book here.”
“Yeah,” I says, “I don’t let people read it, though, Doc.”
“Oh,” says Doc, “excuse me; I didn’t know that.”
“Well,” I says, “being as it is only you, Doc, I don’t mind it.”
Doc smiled. “Thanks,” he says, “but you won’t mind if I give you a piece of advice, will you?”
I shook my head. “Anything from you, Doc,” I answered.
“Well,” he says, “you are a purty good writer, but you don’t know how to spell.”
I smiled again. “I guess you’re right, Doc,” I says, “but what can you expect from a school like I go to?”
Doc looked serious. “Forget it,” he says. “The school can’t make you learn, if you don’t study. You know better than to spell words like you do.”
I says, “Honest, Doc, I don’t.”
“Well,” he says, “learn.”
I says, “I’ll try harder, Doc.”
“And another thing,” says Doc, “you don’t know how to make paragraphs, and you don’t use punctuation right, and I don’t believe you ever saw quotation marks.”
I shook my head. “Not much on that,” I says.
“Well,” says Doc, “come and sit down here, and I’ll show you a few things.”
So Doc showed me how to make paragraphs right, and dern if he ain’t the finest, good-heartedest man I ever saw. After we had finished, he says, “Hawkins, I wish you would show me this book every week or so; I want to see if you are doing better.”
“All right, Doc,” I says, “anything you say. I know you always give me good advice.”
Doc put his hand on my shoulder. “Gosh,” he says, “you boys ain’t like other boys, Hawkins. I never saw such a bunch of fellas who were always up and doing things; I am proud of you. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t come down and loaf with you boys every once in a while.”
I shook his hand. “We are proud to have you come, Doc,” I answered. “Us boys wouldn’t know what to do without you, either.”
Doc smiled and said good-bye. I went to work at my seckatary book.
TUESDAY.—Us boys met again today after noon and had our singing practice in the houseboat. I had to call down Clarence Wilks for being too noisy in the houseboat after practice, and Jerry Moore pushed him out. It almost started a fight, because Oscar Koven and Tom Wingfield stuck up for Clarence, but Dick Ferris told them to go out and play a game of ball in the hollow. I was just finishing my writing in the houseboat all by myself when I heard a shuffle on the steps, and I looked up and saw Briggen standing in the door. “Hawkins,” he says.
“Yeah,” I answered, “come in; I am all alone here.” He stepped inside. “Hawkins,” he says, “I need you now like I never needed you before.”
I closed my seckatary book and stood up. “What’s the trouble?” I says. “What’s on your mind?”
Briggen looked terrible worried. “I’m in Dutch,” he says. “That gray ghost of a Stoner fella has been haunting me ever since he chased us out of his launch.”
I shook my head. “That was a bad move you made, Briggen,” I says. “You can’t blame a fella for being sore at you for the things you do.”
“No,” says Briggen, slowly, “not blame him for being sore, no; but it ain’t human for a fella to do things that Stoner does, either.”
“Well,” I says, “what’s he up to?”
“He is after me,” says Briggen. “He is sneaking around the Pelham bank every night looking for me; he asked Ham Gardner last night where he could get hold of me; he wants to make me a prisoner.”
I laughed low. “That’s not so bad,” I says. “He had poor skinny Link Lambert prisoner.”
“Yeah,” says Briggen, “but Link had the Red Head on his side; we ain’t got nobody to help us poor fellas.”
I looked at Briggen, and dern if I didn’t feel sorry for him. “What can I do, Briggen?” I asked.
He turned away. “I don’t know, Hawkins,” he says. “I come to see if you couldn’t think of some way out of this; maybe you can fix it with Stoner.”
Briggen looked straight at my eyes, like he expected me to tell him a way to get out of his trouble. It made me think, this thing did. Here was Briggen, a fella who was as tough as nails. He never was afraid of a fight, but Stoner’s Boy had his number; he was afraid of the gray ghost. But then, when you come to think of it, Stoner’s Boy had all of us fellas afraid. It wasn’t like a fuss with somebody you knew. It was like fighting with somebody in the dark, meeting a fella whose face you never saw, and a fella who wouldn’t stop at anything to get revenge.
“Well, Briggen,” I says, “if you will lay low for a few days, maybe we can get a note to Stoner and bargain with him.”
Briggen jumped. “Will you do that, Hawkins?” he asks.
I waved my hand and said, “I ain’t promising nothing, Briggen, my fellas ain’t very much stuck on you and your Pelhams, because of the way you treat us, but I’ll do this for you myself; go back to your side of the river, and lay low.”
“Thanks,” he says, “I ain’t much of a friend to be proud of, Hawkins, but any time I can do you a favor—”
“Get out,” I says, “before I change my mind.”
Briggen turned and went. I just begun to think of some of the mean tricks he did to us fellas in the past. And if he hadn’t gone right then, dern if I don’t think I would of changed my mind.
WEDNESDAY.—Today we all fixed up the finishing touches for our commencement. This afternoon we had our last singing practice, and tonight our commencement exercises were given in the old school hall. We made a fine showing; some of us fellas did purty nice this year in school. Bill Darby got a gold medal for being the fella who was at school every day. Our singing was great. After it was over, a lot of men who were friends of Brother Jim, our teacher, came down and spoke to Lew Hunter and told him wha
t a fine voice he had, and what a fine singing teacher he was.
“You trained those boys very well,” said one man.
“Yes,” says Brother Jim, “Lew is a born singer.”
But Lew tried to back away; he is a bashful sort of a fella. He says, “Don’t think I did it; it was the boys. They practiced long, and they all sing well.”
Ain’t that just like our old Lew? Dern if he don’t stick up for his pals. We had a little supper after the show was over, and when I started to get my hat to go home, Little Frankie Kane came up to me. “Ham Gardner is outside; he wants to see you,” says Frankie.
I slipped out the side door, and there was Ham Gardner. “What is it?” I asked.
Ham looked worried. “He’s gone,” says Ham. “We can’t find him nowhere.”
“Talk plain,” I says. “Who are you talking about?”
“Briggen,” says Ham. “Us Pelhams ain’t seen him since this morning.”
I whistled softly. “Doggone,” I says, “that gray ghost put one over. I been so busy with commencement, I forgot all about Briggen.”
I says to Ham, “You go back quietly, Ham Gardner; don’t let on like anything’s happened, and tomorrow morning I will be down to the houseboat early.”
HAM GARDNER
Ham didn’t say another word; he trotted away, and I could see a bunch of Pelham fellas waiting for him in the shadow of the trees beyond the schoolhouse.
THURSDAY.—Early this morning I struck out for the houseboat. School’s out. What a grand and glorious feeling to know we got a long vacation ahead of us; we don’t have to bother about anything now except to have fun and lazy around. There wasn’t a soul around when I unlocked the houseboat door. But just as I had opened some of the windows, in come the Skinny Guy.
“Hello, Link,” I says. “You’re an early bird.”
“Yeah,” he says, “and I’m after a worm, too.”
“What you mean?” I asked.
Link chuckled. “Stoner’s Boy,” he says, “that bird has been around here.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
Link didn’t answer. He begun to whistle to himself and sat down on a chair and took out a little saw and a file, and started to file the saw. I watched him for a few minits. Then I says, “You got a job of some kind?”
“Yeah,” says Link, “think I’ll have a purty tough one purty soon.”
I says, “Link, you know Briggen is gone?”
Link jumped up. “Where to?” he asked.
I waved my hand. “How should I know?” I says. “Ham Gardner said he disappeared.”
Link kept filing on the saw. “Well,” he says, “Stoner ain’t got him; that’s one thing to be thankful for.”
I says, “Link, how do you know that?”
Link stopped filing his saw and looked up. “I just been all through the cave,” he says, “in Stoner’s hiding place and everywhere; there ain’t a soul around.”
I says, “Well, us fellas don’t know much how this gray ghost works. I wish you would keep an eye on his hiding place, Link.”
Link said he would. He was still filing his saw when the other fellas come down. We held our meeting and made some plans how to spend our vacation. In the afternoon we played ball.
FRIDAY.—Link came in the morning, just as we sat down to have our meeting. “Wait,” he says, “I just come back from Watertown; I found out where Stoner lives.”
“How could you find his house, Link?” I asked.
Link grinned. “I saw Briggen sitting at a window,” says Link. “He made a motion for me not to make any noise, but I saw he was a prisoner, and when I passed under the window, he dropped this note out, and I picked it up.” Link held a piece of paper, and Dick Ferris took it.
“I’ll read it loud,” says Dick:
Dear Link,
I am caught, he got me, I ain’t been hurt none. I got enough to eat, but goodness knows what the gray ghost is going to do with me, he told me he was going to fix me before he let me go, get the fellas up here to get me out. I will pay you back some day. You know me.
Briggen.
“Yeah,” says Jerry Moore, “we know Briggen all right; we ain’t got no reason to get him out of this fix. He got himself in it.”
Dick Ferris hit the table with his wooden hammer and told Jerry to shut up.
“This ain’t a question of what we please to do; it’s what we got to do,” says Dick. “It ain’t because Briggen is in trouble, but because of the fella what’s got him locked up. Stoner is too dern smart; we got to get Briggen away from him.”
We all talked it over and said Dick was right.
Link said he would take us to the house in Watertown. We got our canoes and took our lunch with us, and just as we was ready to start, there came a sound up the road—the humming of the motor of the spider automobile, and while we looked, the ugly little machine flashed past.
“There’s two fellas in it!” hollered Bill Darby.
“Link will follow it,” says Dick.
And Link did. He was off like a shot before any of us had time to think. But I knew the Skinny Guy, fast as he was, couldn’t catch up with the spider automobile.
We pulled our canoes back into the bushes and went back into the houseboat to figger out what to do next. We heard the sound of the spider motor in about fifteen minits; it was going back the way it had come. Link showed up a little later.
“He beat me to it,” says Link. “I don’t know his game; he’s gone back to Watertown.”
I says, “Was he alone when he went back?”
“Yeah,” says Link. “Briggen is tied up in the cave somewhere.”
So we all started for the cave. We hunted high and low. We searched Stoner’s hiding place carefully. But we went home without knowing anymore than we did when we come in.
SATURDAY.—This morning we made another trip to Stoner’s hiding place. Skinny Link and Bill Darby and me struck out through a dark passage that we hadn’t seen before. The whole place is full of little openings that look like doors, and when you go in, you walk down or up a long passage like a hall; sometimes there are rooms, some little, some big. It is a scary place. Every once in a while a cold damp thing comes slapping you in the face, and you know you got in the way of a bat.
“Listen!” says Link, all of a sudden.
We all stood stock-still and listened. But we heard nothing. “What did you hear, Link?” I whispered.
“Hush up,” says Link. “Listen.”
We listened again. All I could hear was the rumbling of water far down in the rocky split. Then, all of a sudden, I heard a faint call like somebody a mile away.
“Help, help!” came the muffled cry.
“Good Lord,” says Link. “It’s Briggen; wonder if that gray ghost put him down in the pit.”
Link jumped down the rocky passage, flashing his light in front of him. We followed as close as we could.
“LINK BEGUN TO SAW AT THE THICK BOARD, CUTTING AROUND THE LOCK.”
When we caught up to Link, he was standing in front of a small hole like a window in the rocky wall. Briggen’s face peeped through the hole.
“For heaven’s sake,” says Briggen, “get me a drink, won’t you, fellas; I’m thirsting to death.”
“Keep your nerve,” says Link. “We will get you out in a little while.”
Briggen laughed. “I wonder how,” he hollers in a loud voice.
“You can’t find how that gray ghost opens the door to this place,” I says to Link. “The poor kid’s almost crazy, Link.”
Link nodded. “Yeah,” he says, “he is almost scared to death.”
But Link was flashing his light all around the place. “No cracks in the wall,” he says. “I thought it might be a door here.”
But then come a cry from Bill Darby. “Come here, fellas,” called Bill, “look at this.”
We rushed around the corner of the wall. Bill pointed to a heavy oak board; it was a door, the hinges fastened to the rock w
ith big iron spikes, and a brass padlock on the hasp.
“No keys to that,” says Link, “only one thing to do.”
He pulled something out of his waist. I saw it was the saw he had been filing the other day. “I told you I might need this, Hawkins,” says Link, grinning up at me.
I says, “Good boy.”
Link begun to saw at the thick board, cutting around the lock. He worked fast, but the board was thick.
After five minits I says, “Let me try a while.”
I sawed another five minits. The other fellas come up by this time. Bill Darby sawed a while.
All of a sudden there came a pounding on the other side of the door.
“Quick, quick,” hollered Briggen’s voice, “he’s coming, he’s coming; can’t you hear his spider humming?”
We all stood still for a moment. The noise of the motor of that little auto bug was coming to us.
Link grabbed the saw and sawed like wild. With a muffled cry he finished the job; the piece of door with lock hanging to it swung outward. We pulled open the door and jerked Briggen out.
“Hurry,” says Link quietly, “follow me. I know the best way out.”
I don’t know how many minits passed while we followed the flash of Link’s light, as he turned it on and off while we walked that cavern hall. We all breathed easier when we saw daylight coming in. The noise of the spider auto had stopped. We went down the rocky path single file.
“I wonder where he is?” says Bill Darby.
“Never mind about Stoner,” says Link. “We put a stop to another of his mean tricks; now let’s get Briggen back to where he belongs, and stay away from this place.”
Briggen was too tired and hungry and sore to talk. Link says he thought the poor kid was a bit dippy, but I said he would be all right again tomorrow—after he had a couple of square meals and some sleep.
We took him acrost the river in one of our canoes, and Ham Gardner and Dave Burns were so glad to see him they had tears in their eyes. We didn’t say a word to them. They took Briggen up the bank.
As we paddled back, I says to Link, “It’s a strange sight to see tears in a Pelham fella’s eyes, ain’t it Link?”
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