by E. S. Farber
Just then a deep voice out in the hall said, “Boys, may I help you?”
I froze.
“Um . . . no . . . thank you, Mystery—I mean, Mr. Mann,” said Roger in his serious voice. Mr. E. Mann is the director of the Whooping Hollow Library. No one knows what the E actually stands for—it’s a mystery (get it?). A lot of the kids call him Mystery Man and think he’s a spy. He is pretty cool. He’s traveled all over the world. He wears black clothes, and they say he has a pair of night-vision goggles in his briefcase and poison darts in the tips of his shiny leather shoes. He drives a superfast silver sports car and he can raise one eyebrow.
“We were just doing research for a report,” Roger said. “You know, for school.”
“That’s strange, since school is out for the summer.”
Mystery Man had a point there.
“It’s . . . um, summer homework . . . you know, to keep our minds busy, so they don’t dry up,” said Roger.
“What is the topic of this report that requires you to be in this particular section of the library?” Mystery Man asked in his deep voice. I bet he was arching his eyebrow, too.
“Funny you should ask,” began Roger.
“Since you do not appear to have an answer at the present moment, perhaps you would like to return when you do. Ciao!”
Mystery Man might not be a spy, but he sure was cool. Ciao means “good-bye” in Italian, by the way.
TAP! TAP! I heard footsteps moving down the hall.
“Seagulls don’t eat ice cream!” shouted T. J. “Seagulls don’t wear sneakers. Seagulls don’t—”
“SEAGULLS DON’T EAT PICKLES!” Roger yelled at the top of his lungs.
OH, NO! Our secret password!
My eyes darted wildly around the room, searching for an escape hatch. I heard the sound of a key in the lock. Then the doorknob began to turn.
Mystery Man stuck one foot in the room. I dove for the only cover I could find—the desk. I sure hoped he wasn’t planning to sit down, or I would be as doomed as a night crawler on the end of a fishing hook.
I watched as Mystery Man’s shiny, pointy shoes headed my way. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened them again, the shoes were just in front of me. What was Mystery Man doing? A minute passed, and then another. I started sweating. If he moved one inch closer, he’d step on me.
Just then Mystery Man cleared his throat like he was coughing up a humongous clam. He started talking in this weird, low voice. I had to strain my ears to hear him.
“ . . . mumble . . . lost treasure . . . the map . . . mumble . . . ”
Treasure map??? There was a pause.
“Pirates . . . mumble . . .” I held my breath, listening. “W. K. . . . ”
My mind started racing. Pirates? Map? W. K. as in—it couldn’t be, but then again, what else could it be but CAPTAIN WILLIAM KIDD????!!!
Mystery Man’s voice dropped to an even lower whisper. “Seven-thirty. At the duck pond . . . treasure . . . ”
Just then an incredibly loud, pulsing buzz filled the air. BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!
I was so startled I almost grabbed one of Mystery Man’s poison-dart shoes. Even worse, I couldn’t hear the end of what he said. Something about treasure, but what did that have to do with the duck pond? Was he planning to hunt for Captain Kidd’s treasure at the duck pond?
The alarm kept ringing and Mystery Man’s shiny poison-dart shoes left the room. I counted to sixty hippopotamus. I figured by then it would be safe to come out.
When I reached the hallway, Roger and T. J. were nowhere to be seen. There was nobody around at all. I raced out the door.
“Over here, Fish!” they called. They were standing in the parking lot.
“Phew!” I said. “That was a close one!”
“You’re telling me,” said Roger. “Lucky for you it was fire drill time.” He winked.
“You didn’t—” I began.
Roger drew his finger across his lips like he was zipping up a zipper.
I shook my head. Roger was always goofing around. He might have pulled the fire alarm, but then again he might not have. There was no way to tell. And that was just the way he liked it.
“So, did you find the treasure map?” T. J. asked.
“No, but you’ll never guess who else is hunting for Captain Kidd’s treasure . . . ”
“Who?” asked T. J.
Before I could answer, Mystery Man came walking across the parking lot. He was with the librarian with the red glasses. He wasn’t arching one eyebrow and making his “I’m a supercool undercover operative” face. He was smiling at her. It was like seeing a bluefish blow you a kiss instead of bite your finger off when it was on the end of your line.
I nodded at Mystery Man.
“What the heck?!” said Roger.
“Yep! It’s Mystery Man and I’m pretty sure he has the treasure map.”
“Whoa!” said Roger. “The librarian’s got the booty!”
Operation Quack
"We’ve got to figure out what Mystery Man is up to,” I said, as I carefully pushed my way through the last of the pricker bushes.
“Ouch!” said T. J. behind me.
“Faster, Mahoney!” said Roger. “If you quadruple your speed, you won’t get pricked.”
OOMPH! T. J. knocked into me as Roger knocked into him.
The three of us fell into a pile in the middle of the Monkey Fort. Big tupelo trees surrounded us. Their branches twisted together over our heads so it was like being in a tent. No one knows about the Monkey Fort except for us, maybe because of the pricker bushes. It’s where we hold our top-secret meetings.
“If Mystery Man has the map, it’s only logical he must be planning to dig up the treasure.” I stood up and started to pace.
“I sure got pricked.” T. J. pulled some prickers out of his arm. “I’m telling you, speed’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Does so,” said Roger. “It’s how fast you—”
“Your shorts are ripped again,” interrupted T. J., pointing to the jagged hole in the knee of Roger’s cargo shorts. “That’s ’cause of the prickers, so—”
“Guys, let’s review the facts from the top,” I said.
Roger jumped up and grabbed a stick. He drew two circles in the dirt. He wrote the letters W and K in one circle, and put a big blob with two smaller blobs under it and the number 730 in the other, diagramming the evidence.
“Whar doze bwahs?” T. J. asked, his mouth full of Tootsie Roll.
“Those aren’t blobs,” said Roger. “I diagrammed the evidence. That is a mama duck and two baby ducks. You knew those were ducks, right, Fish?”
“Yes! No! I mean, your drawing skills are not the point right now, Roger. We need to figure out why Mystery Man is secretly meeting someone about Captain Kidd’s treasure tonight at seven-thirty at the duck pond.”
“If I had the map, I’d just start digging,” said T. J. He reached under the branch he was sitting on and pulled out the cooler. There was nothing in it except an almost empty bottle of Yoo-hoo that some ants were crawling around on.
“There must be a reason he can’t,” I said, “which is why he’s having the meeting at the duck pond in the first place.”
Roger raised his eyebrows at me. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“No way.”
“Way.”
“What are you guys talking about?” asked T. J., his eyes on the Yoo-hoo.
“It’s too risky. We might get caught,” I said.
“Not if we go undercover,” said Roger.
“As what?” I asked. “Ducks?”
“Nah,” said Roger. “As trees. T. J. can get his dad’s camo face paint.
Hunting season’s over, so he won’t miss it, right, T. J.?”
“I guess, but what do we want to be trees for?”
“We’re not going to really be trees, T. J.,” explained Roger. “We’re going to camouflage ourselves so that we blend in with the trees.”
“Oh, I get it. Why?”
“So nobody sees us.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked T. J. He brushed the ants off the Yoo-hoo bottle and took a long swig.
“Chocolate-covered ants—yummy, dude!” said Roger.
T. J. shrugged and burped “delicious.” He can actually burp whole sentences. Once at school he burped the entire Pledge of Allegiance.
“We don’t have a choice,” I said. “We have to. This isn’t just about the bet anymore. It’s our duty to make sure Mystery Man and his partner don’t steal the treasure. We have to protect it in the name of the Lioness and the town of Whooping Hollow and the government of the United States.”
“Yeah!” yelled Roger. “For the Lioness and the town of Whooping Hollow and the government of the United States!”
“We’ll show him and stinky old Bryce, too,” I added.
“Hey,” said Roger. “Maybe Mystery Man is a double agent for another country and posing as a spy for our country, whose cover is that he’s the director of the Whooping Hollow Library.”
“You know what, Rog?” I shook my head. “You watch way too much TV.”
“I’m just saying,” said Roger. “It could explain a lot, like why he’s got the poison darts in his shoes. If someone blows his cover, he can shoot them to silence them.”
“Whoa!” said T. J. “We better tell Officer Babinski about this, since he’s the chief of police.”
“We can’t,” I said. “Remember? I wasn’t supposed to be in the Special Collection in the first place. And in the second place, Roger’s just making up that double agent stuff. And in the third place, it’s no crime for someone to meet someone else at the duck pond.”
“Then what are we going there for?”
“We’re going because we’re trying to prevent a crime from happening.”
“Oh, I get it,” said T. J. “Kinda like Batman and Robin.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Bring some of your dad’s hunting clothes, too, T. J.,” said Roger. “You know, camo hats and shirts and stuff.”
T. J. frowned. “Okay, but I get first dibs on the duck whistle, since it’s my dad’s.”
“Quack! Quack!” Roger and I said.
“Quack! Quack!” T. J. chimed in.
“Every mission needs a name,” said Roger after we stopped quacking. “Let’s call it . . . Operation Quack!”
Quackerjacks!
It was going to be a perfect night for a stakeout—warm but not too hot. The sky was blue, with just a few pink clouds. And there was a sliver of moon in the sky.
I knocked on Roger’s back door.
“Password?”
“Roger, it’s me,” I said. “Let me in.”
“Password.”
“Come on, Roger. We don’t have time.”
“I’ll give you a hint. It rhymes with tack.”
I rolled my eyes. “Quack!”
The door opened. Roger was wearing a camo fishing hat and a gigantic pair of hip waders. He had a garden hose tied around his waist to hold them up.
I laughed. “How are you going to walk in those?”
“Whaddya mean?” asked Roger, just as he tripped and landed on the kitchen floor. “A little practice is all I need.”
“Where’s Summer?” I said as we headed down the basement steps.
Roger pointed his finger up. “On the phone with the BFFs.”
I smiled. That was why we were meeting at Roger’s house. His mom was working late and Summer was in charge. That meant as long as the house didn’t burn down, Roger could pretty much do what he wanted.
T. J. was reading one of Roger’s vampire comic books. He was wearing a camo fleece and baseball cap, and was sucking down a cherry Pixy Stix. Roger tossed me a camo thermal.
“Let’s go, guys,” I said.
“Hold up, Finelli,” said Roger. “We need to do an equipment check.” He peered at a piece of paper that looked a lot like an old math test. Roger’s really good in math, but he hates to show his work, so the teacher puts red frowny faces next to his answers.
“Binocs?” he asked.
“Check.” I pulled a pair of binoculars out of my backpack.
“Rope?”
“Check.” I waved the rope around.
“Flashlight? Wait! I’ve got that.” Roger dug around in the Bug Patrol backpack. “Ta-da!” He pulled out a pink Barbie flashlight.
When we finished going over our equipment, T. J. jumped up. “Guys, you forgot the most important thing—snacks!” He tossed us each a Blow Pop.
“Now for the final touch,” said Roger. He opened a tin of dark, goopy stuff. “Fish, you’re the first victim.”
Before I could react, Roger smeared some all over my face. It was cold and gooey and smelled like skunk and toothpaste. YUCK!
When we were finally all face-painted, we headed up the steps and outside. I could hear the mower in my yard, which meant my mom and dad were still gardening.
I sure hoped Mystery Man and his partner would be punctual. If I wasn’t home by dark, I would be grounded for sure. Fortunately, sunset would be at 8:07 tonight. That meant it wouldn’t be dark till close to nine.
“Don’t you have to tell Summer you’re leaving?” T. J. asked, blowing a big pink bubble. T. J. can demolish a Blow Pop faster than an octopus can suck up a clam.
“Summer!” shouted Roger.
“Not so loud!” I grabbed Roger’s arm and pointed toward my yard.
“Carmine!” we heard my mother. “The petunias!”
My dad loves to pretend he’s going to mow over my mom’s flowers. Even though he never does, my mom falls for it every time.
Roger picked up a pebble and tossed it at Summer’s window. He missed. He threw another rock. This one hit the glass. PLINK!
Seconds later, Summer stuck her head out the window. “Roger, is that you?” she yelled.
Roger put his finger to his lips.
“Roger?!” Summer was staring straight down at us, but it was like we were invisible.
“Whatever!!!” With a disgusted sigh, she banged the window shut.
“I told you this camo would work,” said Roger. He bumped one shoulder into me and the other into T. J. “It’s the perfect cover.”
The duck pond is only a few blocks from our houses. We got there just as the sun was beginning to set. The place was full of quiet shadows from the tall, old trees.
Now that it’s summertime, the geese have moved in. Geese aren’t the nicest waterfowl, so you don’t want to make them mad. But what you really have to remember is to watch your step, so you don’t wind up with slimy, disgusting goose poop stuck to your shoes.
You also have to beware of the mutants. They’re these weird creatures that are part duck, part goose, part swan, and totally mean. No one knows where they came from. They say a mutant can bite off a kid’s hand with just one chomp of its razor-sharp beak.
“Now what?” asked Roger.
I stared around at all the trees and the darkened trails leading off in different directions. We would have to spread out. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my compass.
“Roger, you go east,” I said. “T. J., you go west, and I’ll go north.”
T. J. chomped on a handful of Cracker Jack. “Hey, you forgot south.”
“No, I didn’t. The entrance to the duck pond is our point of origin, so the only
thing south of us is Main Street.”
“Better stay in radio contact,” added Roger. “Right, Marco Polo, O great explorer who discovered India—”
“That was Vasco da Gama,” I cut in.
“Fish!”
“I can’t help it if Marco Polo went to China, not India.”
MACRO POLO
(c. 1254–1324)
Marco Polo was an Italian merchant and explorer. He was one of the first travelers to go all the way from Europe to China. When he returned to Venice 24 years later, he wrote about what he had seen and learned.
“The point is,” continued Roger, “whoever spots the suspects should alert the other members of the team.”
We pulled out our walkie-talkies and flipped the switches to ON.
“Hey, what about me?” said T. J., pieces of Cracker Jack shooting out of his mouth.
Roger’s eyes lit up. “I know. Blow the duck whistle. You’ve got it, right?”
T. J. nodded and pulled out the yellow plastic whistle. It looked kinda like a kazoo.
“Just blow it if you see Mystery Man and we’ll come,” I said. Then I handed T. J. my clipboard and pen. “Here. Write down everything you hear. It’s important, okay?”
T. J. nodded. He bent his head over the clipboard and started to write.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
“Everything you said,” said T. J.
“You’re not supposed to write what I say.”
“But you said to write everything important. And what you said is important, right?”
“No,” I began.
“But you said it was.”
“Yes, it is, but that’s not . . . ”
Roger and T. J. laughed. “T. J. got you good,” Roger said.
T. J. winked at me. I shook my head, but I had to admit it: He got me. T. J. is way smarter than he sometimes acts.
“Time to move out, men!” said Roger. He held up a hand, pinky out. T. J. and I held ours out, too. We all hooked pinkies. Then we did our secret handshake. And said our secret password: “S.D.E.P.” And we bumped fists again.