At least Jack and Frances and Alexander had the next few things on their list. The kids from the house had slipped them into the supper basket—a sheaf of writing paper, a pen, and ink. Now the three of them in the barn were working on the next part of the plan.
Or, really, it was Frances who was doing most of the work. “My hand’s getting numb!” she complained as she finished writing out another page. She was huddled over a makeshift desk that they’d made from a wooden crate, scribbling furiously by lantern light. “Why am I doing this again?”
“So we can put those pages in the schoolroom as a decoy and make it look like Eli completed his punishment,” Alexander reminded her. “If we just unlocked the schoolroom and let him out, there’d be trouble.”
“I know why we’re doing it, silly,” Frances grumbled, straightening the growing stack. “What I want to know is why I have to be the one to write all the pages! Is it because it’s my little brother’s fault that Eli’s locked up?”
Jack laughed. “No! It’s because you can write the best. And the fastest.” He felt a little sorry for Frances, but she was filling the pages in no time—with the words to nursery rhymes, old songs, poems she must have known by heart from her Third Eclectic Reader. Of course, if Reverend Carey ever read the pages closely he’d know that they weren’t the sermon he’d assigned Eli to write out fifty times. But Jack would make sure Eli was free before the Reverend even read the first word.
“I’m running out of things to write,” Frances said with a sigh. “I’ve written out ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ six times in a row! Now what?”
“Just write whatever comes to mind,” Jack suggested. “You’ve only got a couple of pages left to go!”
Frances nodded wearily and dipped her pen into the inkwell, then went back to writing.
Alexander had started pacing again, the way he always did when he talked about plans. “We’ll sneak into the house tomorrow and get the pages to Eli. Then the next time the Reverend checks on him, he’ll start to read the pages. That’ll be Eli’s chance to slip out.”
“And then we’ll shut the schoolroom door on the Reverend and lock it from the outside,” Jack said.
Frances looked up from her writing and glared at him. Jack knew she didn’t approve of this part of the plan—she thought it was mean.
“We’ll lock it just for a minute or two, Frances, I promise,” Jack said. “Just long enough to give Eli a chance to escape . . .”
“And just long enough to let Sarah and Nicky and Anka and George gather their things,” Alexander said. “And then we’ll all hit the road.”
At breakfast the next day, Harold kept his eyes on the keys on Mrs. Carey’s belt. Last night, he had seen her give them to one of her daughters (he still didn’t know who was who), who in turn had taken a bowl of soup into the schoolroom for Eli. But then Olive or Eleanor gave the keys right back, and as far as he could tell, there was never a chance to just take the keys. What could he do?
The Reverend sipped his tea at the head of the table. “Children, one of you has taken a pen and ink from my study,” he announced. “Some paper, too. For what purpose do you need these things?”
Harold tried not to look over at Sarah too quickly. She had taken the writing things last night and packed them in the supper basket to send out to the barn kids. She turned a little pale but remained silent. So did the other kids. They don’t want to lie, he realized.
But then George spoke up. “I borrowed them, sir. I was teaching Harold the Cold Water Army song, and I wanted to write down the words. Right, Harold?”
“Right.” Harold nodded.
“Very well,” said Reverend Carey, giving both boys a stern look. “But you must ask before you borrow something.” He stood up and excused himself from the table, and a moment or two later, Harold heard him close the door to his study.
“Thanks,” Harold whispered to George. He was both glad that George was still his friend and sorry that he had to lie for his sake—just as Eli had.
As the children cleared the dishes from the breakfast table, Harold noticed one of the Carey girls—Eleanor, he thought—placing a bowl of oatmeal on a tray. For Eli, Harold realized. He hung back and watched Eleanor get the key from Mrs. Carey and walk down the hall toward the schoolroom. Then he followed her with his quietest footsteps.
He watched her unlock the door with the key and go inside. The door was wide open, he realized—could he slip into the schoolroom without her noticing? His legs felt shaky as he took the first steps. But then he pretended he was a ghost floating and invisible as he tucked himself behind the open door. It worked! Eleanor hadn’t seen him.
“You’re sure taking a long time to finish your punishment, aren’t you?” she said to Eli.
“Yes, ma’am” was all Eli said in reply.
Eleanor must not have liked being called ma’am, because she muttered “Suit yourself” and set the bowl down hard.
Harold watched from behind the door as she walked out. He did it! He had gotten into the schoolroom and he hadn’t even had to steal the key! Now all he had to do was—
The door shut at that moment with a loud thud. And then Harold heard the key turning in the lock. Locking it.
Uh-oh. Harold had been so excited about sneaking into the schoolroom that he had forgotten how the door worked. Now he was locked inside, just like Eli.
Eli looked over from his desk and gave a wry half smile. “Are you being punished, too, Red?”
25
THE FAKE FIGHT AND THE REAL FIGHT
The house kids were supposed to send a message letting the barn kids know they’d gotten the schoolroom key, but there hadn’t been a word all morning.
Frances was getting nervous. She’d wrapped the decoy pages in her shawl, which she then tied around her waist. Now she was working in the garden, waiting for the next part of the plan to begin. She kept looking over at the schoolroom window, though she knew it wasn’t likely she’d see anything—Jack had said it was too high up in the room to give a good view from either side.
As far as their plan was concerned, though, the most important window was the one in the kitchen. Jack and Alexander were at the woodpile by the barn making sure they remained in sight of the house. At the right moment, the two of them would stage a fistfight, and if all went well, the Careys would spot them from the kitchen and run out to break up the ruckus. Then, in the meantime, Frances would sneak into the house with the decoy pages.
But nothing would happen until they had the schoolroom key. Frances began to chew her lip with worry. She knew it would look suspicious to be working in the same spot in the garden for too long, and she began to glance around, wondering if anyone noticed her. She saw Olive and Eleanor out for a stroll, so she crouched down and started weeding, hoping to avoid them.
“Frances!”
She jumped at the sound of her name. Pipe down, Harold! she thought.
Then she straightened up. Harold? He was supposed to be in the house! She looked all around and then heard him again.
“Frannie! I’m locked inside!”
He was in the house—he was calling from the schoolroom window! She could see his shock of red hair in the narrow space, and his hand reaching out, waving frantically. He must have climbed up to reach the window—not a surprise, since Frances knew Harold could scale trees like a squirrel.
She rushed over below the window. “What happened? Are you being punished? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything! Eleanor locked me in!”
“What?” cried a voice from behind Frances. It was one of the Carey girls. “I did not lock you in!” Eleanor called up to Harold. “It must have been Olive!”
“I did no such thing!” Olive protested, her face turning bright red. “Not on purpose, I mean!”
The Carey girls were confused. Frances, though, had figured it out—Harol
d must have sneaked into the schoolroom, and Olive had locked the door. It had been accidental, of course—whoever had made the mistake (Olive, perhaps), Frances could see that both girls were flustered and felt bad about it. But then that gave her an idea. . . .
She turned to face the Carey girls. “You locked my little brother up?” she cried in a horrified voice. “My little brother, who’s sick?”
“N-not me,” Eleanor sputtered. “At least, I don’t think so. . . .”
“One of you did,” said Frances, her eyes narrowing. “Or maybe both of you. My poor, sick brother, what did he ever do to you?”
Up at the window, Harold began to cough loudly.
“It was an accident,” Olive said. “No need for Mother to know, right?” She glanced over at Eleanor, who nodded nervously.
“Of course not,” said Frances. “We can just go in quietly and let him out. I won’t say a word, and I’ll make Harold promise, too.”
Olive blew out a breath of relief. “Good. We’ll just need an excuse to get the keys from Mother.”
Frances smiled. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”
“Did you hear something?” Jack asked Alexander as they waited over by the woodpile.
“No, why?” Alexander asked.
“I thought I heard someone yelling,” Jack said, motioning to Alexander to stay quiet. The two waited for several moments, and Jack listened for the voice again. He didn’t want to say anything, but he could’ve sworn it was Harold, calling his sister’s name.
But there was nothing more. Finally Jack shrugged. “Never mind.”
They went back to stacking wood and discussing the best ways to stage their fake fight.
“You should shove me first,” Alexander suggested. “Then I’ll roll up my sleeves and take a swing, but you’ll duck so that I’ll miss.”
Jack wasn’t so sure. “What if you don’t miss? And why do I have to be the one to start it?”
“Because you’re the hotheaded one,” Alexander said with a grin.
“What? No, I’m not!”
“Sure you are. It’s why I have to be the one in charge.”
Jack snorted at that. “Oh, really?” Now Alexander was pulling that I’m-the-leader stuff again. “Well, if you’re so smart, and I’m the one with the temper, why are you trying to provoke me now, before we’ve even gotten the signal?”
He was trying to be logical, but he could feel his own face getting warm. Why did Alexander have to be such a pain sometimes? They’d been getting along better for the past few days, but that all had suddenly changed.
“Don’t be a turkey,” Alexander shot back. “I’m not trying to—wait a second . . . what’s going on?” He peered over Jack’s shoulder at the house.
Jack turned and saw Frances being led through the back door of the house by the Carey girls.
Why is she going inside? Jack wondered. He couldn’t see the expressions on any of the three girls’ faces from here, but it seemed as if Olive and Eleanor sure were keeping an eye on Frances. “I don’t understand,” he told Alexander. “She was supposed to wait for us to fight!”
“Then let’s fight now!” Alexander said. “What are we delaying for?”
Jack would have loved nothing more than to shove Alexander just then, for real. But something was wrong inside that house. He knew it.
“What if she’s in trouble?” Jack wondered. By now his mind was racing: Maybe Olive and Eleanor had caught Frances with the key and were taking her to Reverend Carey. Or maybe they had brought her inside because Harold had gotten hurt. It was all starting to add up, in dozens of awful ways. “That shouting I heard . . . I think it was Harold!”
Alexander’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“I think so,” said Jack. “I really think something’s wrong in there. We should sneak inside and help.”
For just a moment, Alexander seemed to agree. But then he straightened his shoulders and looked down at Jack as if he were three feet taller, instead of just of a couple of inches. “No,” he said firmly. “We’ll do what we planned with the fight. Create a distraction out here instead.”
Jack looked back toward the house. His hands were clenched into nervous fists. He’s wrong, he thought. I know he’s wrong.
“Come on,” Alexander said, taking a step toward Jack, as if daring him. “Or are you chicken? That’s why you’re second fiddle around here.”
Jack took a deep breath and shoved Alexander. Hard. So hard, in fact, that the older boy staggered backward and fell.
“What?” he yelped. “You pig! I’ll slug you for real!”
But Jack wasn’t listening. He was already running toward the house.
26
BEHIND LOCKED DOORS
Olive, Frances realized, was the shorter one of the sisters, and the cleverer one, too. She’d gotten the keys from Mrs. Carey with no trouble at all. “We need to unlock the cellar and bring up a few more pickle crocks,” she’d told her mother.
“Good idea,” Mrs. Carey had said. She’d hardly looked up from her work on the sewing machine as she handed the key ring over.
Then Frances and Eleanor followed Olive into the pantry and watched as she unlocked a trapdoor in the corner of the pantry floor.
Olive spoke under her breath to Frances. “That way it’s not a lie,” she said.
The girls left the cellar door open and ducked down the hall to the schoolroom. “I’ll keep watch here and make sure Mother’s not coming,” Eleanor whispered, while Olive stood ready with the key.
“Go in and fetch your brother,” she told Frances as she unlocked the door. “Make sure he keeps quiet about this. And keep an eye on him from now on, would you?”
“Sure.” Frances patted her shawl where the pages were hidden. She’d hand them off to Eli and tell him to wait for the Reverend to come in. Then she’d get Harold and slip out. “Don’t worry.”
Olive pushed open the door and let Frances go inside.
“Eli?” she whispered. “Harold?” The rows of desks were curiously empty.
“Frances!” Harold called. He was up on the sill of the high window.
“Shh! Why are you still up there?” Frances said, trying to contain her panic. “You’re going to break your neck!”
“It’s easier to get up than to get down,” Harold said.
“Never mind! Where’s Eli?” Frances hurriedly pulled out the sheaf of papers and dropped them onto one of the desks.
“He was standing over there behind the door a moment ago.” Harold motioned to the spot where Frances had just entered. “But now he’s gone.”
Frances whirled around. Eli had slipped out through the open door!
She ran into the hall. There was no Eli, only Olive and Eleanor standing there wide-eyed.
“Did you let that boy out?” she asked them.
“Olive did,” said Eleanor.
“I did not!” said Olive. “He just ran out! He went that way!” She pointed in the direction of the kitchen.
Frances was sure he’d escaped out the back door of the house. But before she could say anything, they heard footsteps clomping down the hall toward them.
Eleanor gasped and lunged at the open door to the schoolroom, pulling it shut. Olive hurriedly locked it and hid the keys behind her back. Harold’s still in there! Frances realized with horror, but the footsteps were coming closer, and there was nothing she could do.
The footsteps were Jeb’s. He stopped and looked at his sisters and Frances suspiciously. “What in the blazes just happened?” he said. “I thought I saw that darky boy run out through here!”
“Don’t call him that!” Frances said. “His name is Eli.”
“And . . . and . . . we don’t know what you’re talking about, Jeb!” said Eleanor, folding her arms nervously in front of her.
Franc
es could tell she wasn’t a very good liar, probably because she’d had to keep a promise to the Reverend all these years. “She means that Eli is still in the schoolroom,” Frances told Jeb, thinking quickly. “See, I’ll show you!” She knocked on the schoolroom door. “Eli, you’re in there, right?” she called. “Knock if you’re in there!” If Harold could knock in reply, Jeb would think it was Eli.
There was only silence. The three Carey teenagers gathered around Frances, and together they stared at the door. Frances felt her chest pounding. What if Harold couldn’t climb down from the windowsill?
Tap-tap! came the sound at last from the other side of the door.
Frances nearly fell over with relief. “See?” she told Jeb.
“Yes, see?” Olive said. Though, like Eleanor, she crossed her arms anxiously.
Just then, there were more footsteps, and Mrs. Carey appeared in the hall. “Olive!” she said sternly. “You left the cellar door open! Go and lock it, will you? And then return the keys to me.”
Olive mumbled a quick “Yes, Mother” and hurried down the hall.
Then Mrs. Carey turned to Frances. “Why, Frances! Are you here to see Harold?”
With her still-pounding heart, Frances could only nod for a moment. How many lies was she going to have to tell today? It felt as if her brain were doing somersaults.
“I’ve got his lucky pebble,” she said. “Eleanor said he’s upstairs . . . uh, right?”
She held her breath and hoped Mrs. Carey wouldn’t look around the house for Harold. She could tell by the expression on Eleanor’s face that she thought the same thing.
“I suppose he is,” said Mrs. Carey. “You may go up and say hello.”
“Thank you!” Frances gasped as she darted up the stairs. She had never been so relieved to get away.
To Jack’s surprise the back door to the house opened as he approached the steps. Nicky let him in, with his finger to his lips to indicate that Jack should keep quiet.
“What’s going on?” Nicky whispered. “We just saw you shove Alexander!” Behind him were Sarah and Anka and George—they’d been peeling potatoes and must have observed him and Alexander fighting through the window. Jack peered out back at the woodpile, but Alexander was gone.
On Track for Treasure Page 12