One cold, dark day early in November Johnny came home from school to find that nobody was there. Under the sugar bowl on the dining room table was a note, and it said,
Dear Johnny,
Have gone to take your grandmother to the hospital. Nothing to worry about. Just a checkup. We'll be back by dinnertime.
Grampa
As he read this Johnny felt his blood run cold. If he had been in a more reasonable frame of mind, he would have known that there was nothing strange about Gramma's going back to the hospital for a checkup. But now he was convinced that Gramma was dying. What on earth could he do?
Johnny sat very still on one of the dining room chairs. Some people yell and scream when they are upset, but Johnny always got very quiet, cold, and withdrawn. He stared at the picture of the Last Supper that hung over the sideboard. But the picture was just a blur to him. Instead, he saw Mount Chocorua and the crumbling stone arch that said Staunton Harold. He saw a train chugging northward up into the White Mountains. And now, slowly, as the Sessions clock ticked on the sideboard, a plan began to form in Johnny's fevered brain. He would go up to New Hampshire, to the estate called Staunton Harold. He would get a room at the hotel that the fussy old lady ran. What was its name? Oh, well, it didn't matter. He had some stationery with the hotel's name and phone number on it—it had been passed out to the Scouts so they could write letters home. Then he'd go out to the estate, and somehow, by hook or by crook, he would find the lost Glomus will, claim the reward, and use the money to get a brain surgeon for Gramma.
This was a crazy plan, and in one corner of his brain Johnny knew it. It was also dangerous, but, strangely enough, the danger attracted him. Even though Johnny was timid, the kind of kid who always looks six ways before crossing the street, every now and then he got the urge to do wild, untimid things. He was always longing to break free from his nervous, scaredy-cat side. All right, then. He would go. He wouldn't tell the professor and he wouldn't tell Fergie, either. Johnny wanted this to be his triumph, his alone. Okay. Let's get organized. What did he need?
The quiet, reasonable Sessions clock ticked on. The shadows in the dining room grew longer. Johnny sat like somebody who is under a spell. His eyes shone, and his mind was racing like a runaway steam engine, churning out a plan, a wonderful, improbable plan.
CHAPTER TEN
Later that same day, when Gramma and Grampa got back from the hospital, they told Johnny that the checkup had gone okay—everything was all right. Johnny did not believe them for a minute. He was convinced they were faking. And so, quietly and secretly, as the November days passed, Johnny got ready to put his plan into action. He went down to the railroad station and asked the station master about trains that ran up into the White Mountains. He found there was a Boston & Maine train that stopped in Kancamagus Center twice a day, early in the morning and then again late at night. The late train, which left Duston Heights at five p.m. was the one Johnny wanted. He could duck out of the house around four thirty, catch the train, and be far away before anyone knew that he was missing.
Then there was the matter of money. He would need to pay for the train ticket and for his hotel room. Although Johnny didn't have any money stashed away, he knew that his grandparents did. They'd lived through the Depression of the 1930's, when the banks had failed, and they'd never gotten over their distrust of banks. So they kept most of their savings on the top kitchen cupboard shelf, inside a red Prince Albert tobacco can. It wasn't much—about a hundred dollars in small bills. Johnny felt very bad about taking it, but he told himself that it was the only way. To keep Grampa from getting suspicious he decided to leave the money where it was until the day came when, suddenly, he would leave.
Johnny also replaced the batteries in his old beat-up flashlight and started picking out the clothes he would need. He'd want all his warm winter things, that was for sure—his parka, his stocking cap, his leather gloves, and his woolen muffler. New Hampshire could turn into a real icebox, and according to the weather reports, there had already been snow up in the northern counties. He wondered what the chapel and the old gloomy mansion would look like in the winter. With a little thrill and a little nervousness, he realized that he would soon be finding out.
And when was he leaving? For a while he himself wasn't sure, but then he decided on November 15 for no special reason. Since it was coming up soon, he stepped up his preparations. And through it all he hugged his secret tightly to him, like a miser with a bag of gold, terribly afraid that somebody would find out what he was up to and try to stop him.
On the morning of November 14 Johnny woke up and found that he had a cold. He felt feverish and achy, and his head was all stuffed up.
Johnny groaned. He wanted to be in top shape for the expedition. Should he postpone it, then? Wouldn't it be better to wait till he was really ready? He wavered and fussed all through breakfast, on his way to school, and during school too. The more he thought, the more convinced he became that he should wait till he was feeling better. But, on the other hand, Gramma could be dying. Time was important. At three thirty, when school let out, he had still not reached a decision.
On his way home Johnny stopped by the library. He wanted to look at that book that contained the article about the Glomus estate. He headed straight into the stacks, took the book down, went to a table, and opened it up. The first time Johnny had read it, the article hadn't really sunk in. But this time it made an unforgettable impression. Once again he read that the mansion was adorned with statues of the Nine Worthies, whoever they were. The chapel was a replica of a seventeenth-century English chapel built by an English nobleman named Sir Robert Shirley. His estate was called Staunton Harold, which was where Glomus got the name from. And then Johnny noticed something new: an inscription over the doorway of Glomus's chapel in honor of Sir Robert Shirley, just as there was over the doorway of the original chapel. At the bottom of the page there was an enlarged version of this inscription so it could be easily read. Johnny had studied it before, but he had only half-understood it. Now he read it again.
Suddenly it was as if a light had gone on in his brain. Another part of the puzzle was, maybe, solved.
"Wow!" Johnny exclaimed. He slammed the book shut and got a loud "Shhh!" from the librarian. Normally he would have been embarrassed, but right now nothing mattered except the lost will. He was closer to it than ever. Well, that settled it. He would go tomorrow evening as he had planned, and he would find it.
That evening went by quickly, with dinner, dishes, and homework. After everybody had gone to bed, Johnny got up and started packing his battered cardboard suitcase. He threw in clothes and the big screwdriver from the tool chest in the basement. Then he went downstairs to the kitchen, climbed up on a chair, took down the Prince Albert can, and counted out the money. Johnny still felt very bad about doing this, but he believed it was the only way he could save Gramma's life. With a heavy heart he went back upstairs to finish his packing.
The next morning when Johnny looked out the window, he saw that it was going to be a bright, sunny day. In the sky was a flock of those little gray clouds that have dark bottoms. They always reminded Johnny of boats and made him think of travel.
Downstairs at breakfast he heard on the radio that the first big snowstorm of the winter was sweeping down out of Canada. It would be snowing hard in the White Mountains area by that night. That might put a crimp in things... But, then, weather reports were often wrong—the professor was always saying that. Johnny went hastily over his plans in his mind: He would have to sneak out of the house with his suitcase about half an hour before the train came. Then he would have to hike across town to the railroad station. Should he leave a note of some kind? He'd better, or Gramma and Grampa would think that he had thrown himself into the Merrimack River.
"So, what's on your mind besides hair? Huh?" This was Gramma, who was sitting across from Johnny, munching toast and drinking coffee.
Johnny looked up, alarmed. "Oh, nothin', Gramma," he sa
id quickly. "I was just... worryin' about my Latin test."
Gramma snorted. "You can thank your stars that's all you got to worry about," she grumbled. "I hafta go back to the hospital again for more o' them crazy tests. This time it's that hospital over in Amesbury. What's its name, now, Henry?"
"Bon Sekoors," he said, after thinking a second. "French name—dunno what it means, though. We won't be back till after dinnertime, Johnny. Gramma made some sandwiches and put 'em in the icebox for ya."
Johnny looked at Gramma and Grampa. He felt like crying. They were so nice to him, so kind, and here he was running out on them! And with the money out of the can, on top of everything else! They would feel awful when they found out he was gone. How could he tell them that he was doing it all for Gramma?
Johnny went off to school, and the day passed like some sort of strange dream. He felt that everybody was looking at him, that Sister Mary Anthony and all the kids knew what he was up to. Finally, when he walked down the stone steps and out into the sunlight at a quarter past three, Johnny found that he was getting cold feet. He really didn't want to go. It would be so easy just to head home, unpack his suitcase, and relax. Johnny sighed wearily. Yes, that was what he would do, call the whole stupid thing off.
As he walked home Johnny felt better. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He ran quickly up the steps of his house and across the porch and opened the front door. On the kitchen floor lay the day's mail. It must have arrived after Gramma and Grampa had left. As Johnny bent over to pick up the letters, he stiffened. He could see the return address on the businesslike envelope that was lying at the top of the heap:
Digby and Coughlan / undertakers
Johnny's heart began to pound. He knew what this meant. Gramma was getting ready for her own funeral. She was a very practical, no-nonsense sort of person. And it was just like her to plan the whole business beforehand. A choking sob rose up in Johnny's throat. He couldn't stand by and let something like this happen! The best brain surgeon in the world would be at her side soon if John Michael Dixon had anything to say about it!
Up the stairs he galloped. He tore open the door of his room and then, panting, forced himself to calm down. It was only twenty minutes to four. He had lots of time. First he opened the top drawer of his bureau. Inside lay the wad of bills from the Prince Albert can with a rubber band around it. Next to it was a brass waterproof matchbox with an enameled inset of an Indian's head against the background of a large white star on the lid. This was the lucky matchbox Professor Childermass had given to Johnny. The professor had carried it all through World War One and had come out with only one small injury. If I ever needed luck, I need it now, thought Johnny, and he stuck the matchbox in his pocket. He put thirty dollars in his wallet and stuffed the rest into his suitcase, which he dragged out, all packed, from under his bed. He checked its contents once more, then ran downstairs to the basement and came back with an old rusty iron crowbar. After that was packed too, he ran back downstairs to eat the sandwiches they had left for him. Mmmm—roast beef with mustard and mayonnaise! Normally this would have been a real treat, but Johnny's nose was stuffed up, and everything tasted funny. Oh, well—it was food, and he was hungry. He wolfed them down, drank a glass of milk, and then headed upstairs again. He sat down at his desk and wrote the following note:
Dear Gramma and Grampa,
I have to do something very important. It is a life or death matter, and it can't wait. I'll be back in a few days, so don't worry. Don't be angry, please. I'll explain everything later.
Sincerely yours, John
PS: I'm sorry I can't tell you where I'm going. It must remain a secret.
Sadly Johnny took the note downstairs and left it under the sugar bowl. For the last time he tramped back upstairs to his room. With his suitcase in hand and a lump in his throat he wondered when he would see it again. Then quickly he turned, marched out the door and down the stairs. His suitcase banged against the banister as he went. Though Johnny's face was pale and drawn, he looked incredibly determined. He also looked scared.
Professor Childermass had not seen Johnny for a while. And for a good reason—he had been out in Springfield, in the western part of the state, attending his brother's funeral. Having arrived back in Duston Heights on the evening of the fourteenth, dead tired and in a foul mood, he had not wanted to see anyone. But now, twenty-four hours after his return, he was anxious to play a few tough, hard-fought games of chess with Johnny. After fixing an early dinner, he drove up to a candy shop in New Hampshire, bought a pound of dark chocolate creams (they were for Gramma, who loved them), and roared back down Route 125 toward Duston Heights. He pulled up in front of the Dixons' house at just about the time that Johnny was buying his ticket at the railroad station.
The professor jumped out of the car, whistling a jaunty tune. With the candy box in his hand he trotted up the front walk, mounted the steps, threw open the screen door, and marched quickly across the porch. There was a bell, but he preferred to bang on the door with his fist. No answer. He hammered some more and finally in desperation pushed the bell button. Still no answer. "Bah! Phooey!" he said, and started back across the porch. But just then he heard the sound of a motor, saw the flash of headlights, and turned toward the Dixons' car coming into the driveway.
"Ah!" said the professor, grinning, as he ran down the steps to meet his friends. Grampa rolled down his window and peered out.
"That you, Rod?" he called.
"It is, indeed!" intoned the professor. "Who did you think it'd be, the Grand Master of the Knights of St. John? And I was just about to give up on you folks and go home. By the way, where's John?"
Grampa looked puzzled. "Huh? You mean he's not in the house?"
The professor scowled. "Well, he may be in the bathroom or hiding in the coal cellar. But I am not in the habit of barging into my friends' houses when no one answers the door. Now, then! As soon as you folks can pry yourselves out of your car, let's go in and see if he's anywhere on the premises."
A few minutes later Gramma, Grampa, and the professor were huddled around the dining room table. Gramma was shaking her head, and she was starting to cry. Grampa looked stunned. The flesh of his face sagged, and he seemed very old. The professor, who was standing across the table from Grampa, was holding the note in his trembling hand. The muscle in the corner of his mouth had begun to twitch. Suddenly he threw the note out onto the middle of the table.
"We... have... got... to... stay... calm! LET'S STAY CALM, FOR GOD'S SAKE!" He roared. And to show how calm he was, the professor pounded both fists on the table. The sugar bowl jumped and came down on its side, spilling sugar everywhere. "Where on earth can he have gone? This is not like him—not like him at all. Oh, John, John, I thought you were so levelheaded and reasonable! Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason! Oh, God, God, God!"
Ranting and raving in this way, the professor paced up and down the dining room. Grampa kept staring vacantly into space while Gramma cried silently. Finally the professor stopped and planted himself next to Grampa.
"Henry, you must have some idea where he has gone!" he cried out in exasperation.
Grampa turned slowly to face the professor, his cheeks wet with tears. As soon as he saw Grampa's face the professor's attitude changed. He winced, sank down into a chair, and put his head in his hands.
"I'm a cranky old man," he said quietly, through his fingers. "Please forgive me. Now, we must keep our heads and try to figure out where he is." He drew a shuddering breath and wiped his hands over his face. "All right, he can't have gone to Korea to look for his dad, so we can eliminate that possibility. I assume he hasn't got enough money to go far. Henry, how much allowance do you give him?"
"A dollar a week," said Grampa wearily. "I wish we could give him more'n that, but..." His voice trailed away. A thought had just struck him. "Oh, dear!" he exclaimed, clapping his hand to his forehead. "You don't think..."
While the prof
essor stood watching, Grampa went out to the kitchen. There was a sound of scuffling and bumping, and then he came back with the Prince Albert can. He dumped it, upside down, on the table; it was empty.
"A hundred dollars!" he gasped. "He took the hull darned thing! I don't believe it!"
Gramma blew her nose loudly and looked up. "I bet I know what happened," she said in a voice thick with crying. "Some burglar probably broke in an' made Johnny give him the money. Then he held a gun to Johnny's head an' made him write that note. An' then he kidnaped Johnny."
The professor gazed skeptically at Gramma. "Madam," he said solemnly, "not to insult you, but your house is not the sort that would be selected by a burglar, unless that burglar was a nitwit." The professor scratched his nose and gazed abstractedly out the window. Then he snatched up the note and read it again.
"Life-or-death matter..." he muttered. "What in blue blazes does that mean?" He turned to Grampa. "Henry, would you mind terribly if I went up to Johnny's room and poked around a bit? I might find something that would indicate what he was up to. I mean..."
Suddenly the professor's mouth grew wide with alarm. "Great Caesar! You don't suppose... but no. He wouldn't! But even so... Look, you two must excuse me for a minute."
And with that the professor ran out into the front hall and dashed up the stairs. Gramma and Grampa watched him through the wide arch that separated the front hall from the dining room. And then they turned and looked at each other in utter astonishment.
The Mummy, the Will, and the Crypt Page 7