“What is it — what is it?” Mrs. Walker’s voice cried from within.
“Go back to bed, Isabelle. I will deal with this.”
“You’re looking for a runaway boy, I believe.”
“I am not. You were supposed to be looking for him, but he has returned. Who is this? You were not seriously going to present this vagabond as a candidate, were you?”
“Ma’am, you reported a runaway boy. We had a runaway boy. We—”
“No one with half an eye in his head could possibly imagine that this grimy little heathen could belong to this house. You are bunglers, sir! I shall lodge a complaint with your superiors in the morning. Good night to you.”
The door shut with a crash that set the glass a-rattle, and the bolt snapped home like a rifle-shot.
“Told you, Frank,” said an apologetic murmur. “We should’ve —”
“Well, melt — my — badge — for — a — revolving — rat-trap!” Frank rumbled on a rising note. “All right, my high and mighty hoity-toity Duchess, just you —”
“Ow!” the boy yelped. “Leggo my ear!”
“— just you come crying to us again with your runaways, or your arson, or your robbery —” their boots thumped down the steps, down the walk “—o r your bloody murder even, and see if I don’t show you the broad side of my—” His voice went on indistinctly through the gate. The buggy creaked. “Gee yup!” he roared. His whip cracked, and the horse went cantering down the lane with the sound of a massed cavalry charge.
‘Well,’ Susan sighed to herself, ‘at least Bobbie’s safe … Why didn’t he ever come to tell us what he found out? Good grief, it’ll take everybody forever to settle down in the house now … Wonder if Daddy and Mr. Sweeney heard all that?’ She looked at the watch: three minutes till midnight! Her stomach flopped over at a new thought. What if the two men had not heard the disturbance? The whole house had been between them and it, after all … In that case, they would be coming to the back door in a few minutes! And here she was, still outside …’
There was no more time for caution. She scrambled back on the porch through the clutching branches of hydrangea, and leaped to the window. The lower sash would not go up. Maybe the upper sash would come down? No. Next window, then. She pushed and panted at its sashes without result.
“Stop, thieves!” a voice shouted from the Hollisters’ house. Susan gave a start that lifted her feet clear off the porch floor.
“Horse thieves!” Mr. Hollister bawled. “Cutthroats! Don’t move — I’ve got you in my sights, you Republican sneaks!”
An instant of silence, then: “Oh, you will, will you?”
BALOOM! said a very large gun. Echoes bounced between the two houses and their stables: whap whap whap whap whap …
The echoes died away into a dreadful waiting quiet.
Susan cowered in terror. A door slammed at the Hollisters’. Footsteps pounded down the Hollisters’ walk, on the road, through the Walkers’ gate. The moon revealed Mr. Hollister, dressed in boots and white nightshirt, and carrying a gun nearly as long as himself.
Once more Susan threw her leg over the railing, and dropped down into the hydrangeas.
Mr. Hollister thumped up on the porch, pounded the door, and waited, breathing heavily and muttering “N-yas, n-yas,” to himself.
The door crashed open, and Cousin Jane shouted, “Are we to have no peace tonight?”
“N-yas, ma’am!” Mr. Hollister brayed. “I believe the customary tranquillity of our rural — ha — nocturne has been restored. Hiram W. Hollister at your service, ma’am. I—”
“This is an outrage!” Cousin Jane cried.
“It is indeed, ma’am!” Mr. Hollister trumpeted. “I share and endorse your sense of abomination! Perilous times, ma’am! But for my alertness and quick action, you and yours might have been murdered in your very beds, ma’am!”
“What?”
Mr. Hollister’s voice sank four tones. “Night prowlers, ma’am. I was awakened from my peaceful slumbers by the sound of their horses and vehicles. Looking out my window, I espied a gang of them creeping out of your stable and toward your house with sinister intent. I did not falter, ma’am! I addressed them in no uncertain terms, and fired a warning shot over their heads. My resolution took the heart out of ’em, ma’am! They have dispersed, and I believe I can safely say that our accustomed — ha — serenity reigns supreme.”
“Well, sir, I suppose we must thank you,” Cousin Jane said grudgingly. “You will be suitably rewarded in the morning.”
“Oh, no, ma’am!” Mr. Hollister brayed. “With all respect, allow me to tender my refusal. The knowledge that I have successfully defended a widow’s hearth and home, ma’am, is reward enough for—”
“Very well, sir. Thank you and good night. Pray do not raise your voice or discharge your weapon again. I assure you that this house is securely locked. If any ruffian manages to gain entrance notwithstanding, I shall make him regret it. Good night, sir.”
The door closed smartly, the bolt clicked into place, and Mr. Hollister stumped away, muttering “N-yas, n-yas,” as he went.
Susan chewed on her knuckle and pondered her next move. What were her father and Mr. Sweeney going to do now? How far had they been “dispersed” by Mr. Hollister? Would they give up, or would they wait and try to enter the house when all was calm again? ‘Oh, good grief!’ she thought. ‘I guess I’d better try to find out what they’re up to. If I stick close to the bushes, I might be able to get a look at them that’ll tell me something. If they’re still back there …’
She crawled out from under the hydrangeas, and began to creep around the right side of the house — the side away from the Hollisters’. There were two bays jutting out on this side. She had just reached the second one when she heard a stealthy sliding sound over her head.
19. Corporal Walker’s Ordeal
… have to go back and tell what happened to Bobbie first. When we were comparing stories later he said he almost ruined his special mission right at the beginning. The rest of what went wrong wasn’t really his fault …
Robert’s lying-in-wait station was a gnarled Northern Spy on the edge of the orchard. Sitting with his back against its trunk, he could just see the Hollisters’ stable through a waving screen of grass. He raised his face to the sunlight, closed his eyes, and thought about the day ahead.
There would be a row with Cousin Jane when he got back, of course. She would probably want to lock him up in his room. He would have to put his key in his shoe before he returned home, so that when she asked for it he could say that he had lost it, turning his pockets out for verification. Then if she did manage to lock him up anyway, he could still escape, and let Vicky out, and have everything ready for the execution of the plan.
As for the plan itself, he considered it brilliant. If there was any flaw at all, it was that he, Corporal Walker, would not be able to bring his cavalry saber into the action. It would really be capital if only — if only … A scene began to take shape in his mind: Mr. Shaw lay on the parquet floor, unconscious through some mishap; Susan and Victoria cowered in the shadows, wide-eyed with admiration; Mr. Sweeney, snarling with rage, backed into the elevator, quailing under the fearless frown of Corporal Walker. Blood trickled from a picturesque wound on Corporal Walker’s forehead, and the razor-keen blade of his saber gleamed …
He awoke with a start, just in time to see Mr. Sweeney in the flesh disappearing over the ridge in Hollisters’ pasture. “Great Caesar!” he sobbed. He leaped up and dashed toward the pasture, pommeling his head with both fists. Two more seconds of slumber, and his special mission would have failed utterly … He demoted himself to Private on the spot. ‘One more little mistake like that, Private, and I will drum you out of the regiment altogether!’ he raged.
He popped over the ridge in the pasture too quickly. ‘Look out, you idiot!’ his mind shouted. Mr. Sweeney was halfway to the woodlot, but had paused and was turning around. Robert dove into the grass. ‘O
h, look here, Private!’ he roared inside. ‘This won’t do at all! Going too fast is just as bad as falling asleep. What kind of a scout are you?’ If there had been a rank lower than Private, he would have demoted himself to it immediately.
After a while he raised his head very slowly. Mr. Sweeney was striding into the elephant-grey beeches and shaggy hickories of the woodlot. Robert slunk after him at a half-crouch, ready to drop instantly. His heart was beating high, but his head was steady now.
Mr. Sweeney led him through the woodlot, slantwise down the next meadow, across Ward Lane, and then behind the Ward Lane hedgerow until he came to a place opposite the Walker and Hollister homesteads. Here, in a thicket of sumac and elderberry, he could watch the houses without being seen from them. He sat down and made himself comfortable with his back against a boulder. Robert crept up as closely as he dared, ending under a clump of hawthorns about fifty feet behind and to the left of Mr. Sweeney. He carefully stretched himself out, rested his chin in his hands, and watched.
It slowly, painfully, maddeningly became clear that Mr. Sweeney intended to sit there for the rest of the afternoon, with only an occasional recess behind a willow thicket to take a few quick puffs on his cigar. Robert sweated in the heat, and shifted his weight, and blew at the wasps and bees and flies that hovered in front of his face, and crushed the spiders and other fauna that wandered into his sleeves and down his collar, and stifled the sneezes that bulged in his nose, and tried to ignore the hunger pangs that pinched his stomach with growing insistence, and shed tears of vexation, and yawned, and fought against the desire to lower his head and close his eyes for just a minute, and bit his lip, and lectured himself on the duty of a scout … and endured.
Only a few events punctuated the endless afternoon. Mrs. Hollister came out on her veranda and flapped her dust rag. Maggie appeared with a bucket and mop to sluice down the Walkers’ front porch. Mr. Shaw came walking back from town in a new straw hat. Mr. Sweeney made an ironical salute toward his back as he went up the Hollisters’ walk. Maggie set off townward in her bonnet. That was strange, Robert thought; it seemed too late in the afternoon for her to go strolling … A buggy came from town with — great Caesar! — a policeman and Maggie in it; they went into the Walkers’. Mr. Sweeney became as tense as a watchspring, and a sick anxious fear crept through Robert’s heart. What was the matter at home, what could have happened? Ah, here came the policeman again, alone. And here came Mr. Shaw out of Hollisters’ to talk to him. Mr. Sweeney’s back went rigid. Then the policeman drove on, Mr. Shaw ran back into the house, Mr. Hollister drove into his stable, and all was calm again — except Robert’s wildly speculating mind.
Mr. Sweeney retreated behind the willows and smoked the remainder of his cigar in quick, short puffs. Obviously his mind was in a turmoil of speculation, too.
But he calmed down again, returned to his watching place, and kept a lookout for another hour. Then he got up and went behind the willows for—no! He was walking away.
‘Ah!’ Robert thought. ‘Now we’ll find out what we want to know.’ It was dinnertime — as the painful state of his own interior told him — and Mr. Sweeney must be going to his lodgings to fortify himself for the night’s villainy. Robert heaved himself up, clenched his teeth against the pain in his stiff joints and muscles, and began to stalk his quarry.
But Mr. Sweeney did not go to the Knutsens’, or the Blalocks’, or anywhere else that Robert had mentioned to Mr. Shaw. He went by devious ways to the great beechwoods that crowned the hill some three-quarters of a mile distant from the two houses, and plunged in. Presently he could be heard breaking sticks.
Robert crept with exquisite care between the trees to the edge of a small glade. There was Mr. Sweeney in his shirtsleeves, crouched in front of an improvised stone fireplace, touching a match flame to a small heap of sticks. His coat and hat were hung on a nearby snag; underneath, a blanket was spread out on a pile of dead leaves; and beside this bed, lined up with mathematical exactness, were a calfskin valise, a box of cigars, an extra pair of boots, and shaving tackle.
‘A camp!’ Robert thought. Of course — it made more sense than lodging with people who might snoop or ask questions … Suddenly he had an idea. Mr. Sweeney would surely want to gloat over the purloined treasure before the light failed. Why not watch until that happened? Wouldn’t it be a triumph to report to Mr. Shaw that he had discovered the exact place where Mr. Sweeney had hidden it! Above and beyond the call of duty …
He hugged himself, and settled down to watch.
There followed a very bad half-hour, during which Mr. Sweeney slowly and fastidiously dined on toasted muffins and cheese, and drank tea. ‘Ah, you scoundrel!’ Robert thought, while his mouth watered and his stomach rumbled. Well, enjoy it while you can, you villain — it’s your last dinner in this century.’
‘Now!’ he told himself when Mr. Sweeney had finished. But Mr. Sweeney was not in a gloating mood yet. He laid himself down on his blanket, and luxuriated in a cigar. Then for a long time he did nothing. Then he smoked another cigar.
‘Oh, thunderation, come on!’ Robert groaned. Daylight was beginning to dim …
Ah! Now! For Mr. Sweeney suddenly started out of his reverie, glanced skyward, and jumped up. He threw his cigar butt into the embers, put on his coat and hat, slipped something from the valise into his coat pocket, and strode away — passing so close to where Robert lay hidden that Robert could have touched him.
Now what? Robert followed with a rapidly beating heart.
Mr. Sweeney led him, in the gathering darkness, across fields and meadows, over fences, through hedgerows, across Ward Lane — and to the Walkers’ own stable!
Robert’s head whirled with puzzlement. He crept up to the side of the stable. Voices were murmuring inside. He laid his ear against the weathered boards. Mr. Sweeney and Mr. Shaw were talking inside.
They were speaking in such low voices that he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He crept to the shelter of a mock orange bush where he could see the stable door, and crouched. Several windows in his house were lighted. It occurred to him for the first time — his heart gave a guilty lurch — that his mother might be seriously alarmed about his absence by now. He’d been gone almost the whole day … He’d better get back. But he was supposed to report to Mr. Shaw. How could he if—?
He waited, tense with anxiety, for more than an hour. Neither Mr. Shaw nor Mr. Sweeney reappeared. Well, he couldn’t make his report, then. He had to go back and get the scene with Cousin Jane over with, so that everyone could calm down and go to bed. They simply had to be asleep before he could let Vicky out, and bring her up to date, and make everything ready to carry out the plan.
He sighed, and stood up. So much time wasted for nothing …!
“I insist on knowing where you have been!” Cousin Jane snapped.
“Oh, Bobbie, Bobbie!” Mrs. Walker sobbed. Her haggard, tear-stained face cut him to the center of his soul. “I can’t tell you now, Mama,” he wept. “All I can say is, it was all for the best. You’ll see.”
“For the best!” Cousin Jane snorted. “You were expressly forbidden to leave this house, and yet you have been gone for twelve hours. We have been sick with worry. We have been put to the trouble of calling in the police. Do you say that is for the best? What have you been up to?”
He shrank under the glitter of her eyes, but remained silent.
“You’ve been associating again with that Shaw girl, haven’t you? With the daughter of a scoundrel, whom I forbade you ever to see again!”
“Bobbie,” his mother wept.
“I’m sorry, Mama. Please believe me.”
“Very well,” Cousin Jane snapped. “We shall see about leaving this house ‘all for the best.’ Where is the key to your room, sir?”
“I — I lost it,” he mumbled. It suddenly came to him that he had never put the key in his shoe after all. What if Cousin Jane demanded that he turn out his pockets —? He forced his hands to hang slack.
>
“Lost it? Have you no respect for anything? Very well, we shall see if this key fits.” She took from her neck the string loop on which Victoria’s key dangled, and pointed toward the stairs. “March!” she snapped.
“No,” Mrs. Walker said. Cousin Jane turned. “I beg your pardon, Isabelle?”
“I said, no!”
“You said what, Isabelle?”
“You are turning my house into a prison!” Mrs. Walker cried. “You lock all the doors. You have locked up my daughter. You are threatening to lock up my son. Why don’t you lock Maggie up? Why not lock me up, too? Oh, you are a monster! I won’t have it, I won’t have it!”
“You wrote to me, Isabelle,” Cousin Jane said in a deadly calm voice. “You urgently requested my advice and my aid. You knew that I could not be spared from my duties with the Tropical Islands Civilizing Mission, and the United Gentlewomen’s Crusade for the Suppression of Infamous Literature, and the Lady’s Society for the Moral Instruction of the Laboring Classes. And yet you called on me; and I, without hesitation, hastened to your side. And what did I find, Isabelle? I found you keeping a sullen, hysterical and incompetent servant. I found your finances in total collapse. I found you entertaining — and in the morning! — an obvious scoundrel, a man! I found your children disrespectful and disobedient. But did I shrink? No. I have stood by you unflinchingly. I have tried to make your servant see her duty. I have attempted to order your affairs. I have patiently endeavored to guide your children’s footsteps back to the path of civilized behavior. And at every step, Isabelle —” Cousin Jane’s voice had been getting louder and louder, and was now crackling like a fusillade “— at every turn, Isabelle, you oppose me; argue with me; try to thwart me! IS THIS GRATITUDE?”
Mrs. Walker was weeping too wildly to answer. Robert felt such a desire to hurl himself headfirst into Cousin Jane’s stomach that he almost swooned. ‘Steady!’ he heard a voice commanding him through the buzzing in his ears. ‘The plan must proceed!’
All in Good Time Page 14