Daniel Plainway - Or The Holiday Haunting of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  Eagleton, still craning his neck, considered the immaculate blue between the pine caps and said, “Continued fair and seasonable. Winds in the west.”

  “High tide at-the Dash-It-All Boys!” declared Thump, a declaration that Ephram and Eagleton found difficult to interpret. Ephram thought his friend had experienced a sort of linguistic hiccup (he had suffered them himself from time to time) and inquired after Thump’s well-being with an “Are you-the Dash-It-All Boys!”

  “Good heavens!” declared Eagleton, not because he had sighted the men but because he had been so startled by Ephram’s shout. But upon actually seeing Durwood, Waverley, and Brink, he said instead, “Dash-It-All Boys?”

  Durwood, Waverley, and Brink rose from the largest heap of snow. Durwood had entangled himself in his scarf, and it was wrapped about his forehead. All three of the Dashians had become separated from their hats, and snow had been driven down their necks and up their backs.

  “That was not to be expected,” suggested Waverley.

  “I didn’t, in fact,” said Brink.

  “Good heavens, gentlemen!” said Ephram. “How did you get beneath that pile?”

  “I was standing there,” said Waverley.

  “I was standing beside him,” said Brink.

  Durwood was more dazed than his fellows (it was ascertained afterward that part of a branch had struck him on the head), and he was a little crosseyed.

  “Bad luck,” said Waverley.

  “In the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Brink.

  “Bad luck,” said Waverley again.

  “What a shame that you happened to come by just then,” said Thump concernedly.

  “It was,” agreed Waverley.

  “War will inevitably strike the innocent,” said Eagleton.

  “That’s very good, Eagleton,” said Ephram.

  “Thank you, Ephram.”

  The Moosepathians were apologetic, though they had not been responsible for what the trees had shed. They marveled at the coincidence.

  “Circumstances are peculiar,” agreed Durwood.

  39. Several Parties Not Necessarily Looking for One Another

  PORTLAND TELEGRAPH COMPANY

  Grand Trunk

  DECEMBER 6 AM 10:25

  C/O SOMERSET COUNTY SHERIFF

  MR. TOBIAS WALTON

  MR. A. TEMPEST NOT ON CALEB BROWN THOUGH KIT REMAINS.

  CAPT MATTHEWS PERPLEXED. FURTHERS?

  DEPUTY CHIEF FRITH

  “This news makes me sensible of Mr. Burnbrake’s situation,” said Mister Walton when he received the telegram from the Portland constabulary.

  “I hope he doesn’t find himself snarled in this business,” said Frederick.

  “Surely they have found what they wanted,” said Isabelle, “and will be gone, now that Arthur and Edgar are out on bail.”

  It was true that the members of the mysterious Broumnage Club had found something on Council Hill. Earlier that morning Capital Gaines and Paul Duvaudreuil had led Frederick Covington and a small expedition of Paul’s cousins back to the tor, where upon further investigation the remains of a second set of runes was discovered on the underside of a large flat rock opposite the first. Someone else had found these new runes before them, however, and had disfigured them till they were unreadable.

  Frederick had fallen back upon the first runes (the copies of it already circulating throughout the town had saved it perhaps), and studying them more closely, he was the more frustrated by their cryptic nature. Arthur’s final words of the night before rankled him.

  You haven’t translated it, have you?

  The sheriff had been wakened early that morning by a letter from a judge in town, who demanded that Arthur and Edgar be released. Darwin had stuck to form, however, and waited till bail was set and someone had physically put the money in his hands before he let them go.

  The state of things did not seem simpler when the telegram arrived, and it was decided that Mister Walton and Sundry should return to Portland and find Mr. Burnbrake.

  “He deserves to know what this is all about, at any rate,” said Isabelle.

  Moxie, still basking in the glow of her heroic behavior at the tor, was without opinion on the matter. Sundry made much of the dog at the station, ruffling the long fur behind her ears; he laughed when she licked his chin.

  The tracks were still closed between Iceboro and Richmond, so they had decided to stop at Hallowell, where Mister Walton could look in on Phileda McCannon’s house as he had promised. They hoped the line would be opened again by afternoon. “We will wire you if Mr. Burnbrake is still in Portland,” said Mister Walton.

  “Let me know if Mr. Tempest is found,” said Frederick.

  “Let us know if you translate those runes,” said Sundry.

  “I think we will stay in touch,” commented Isabelle with a smile.

  And so they waved to one another as Mister Walton and Sundry Moss found their seats and the train took its first lurch from the station. “Another adventure done, Sundry,” said Mister Walton. “What do you think?”

  “I think it isn’t over till we understand what happened,” said Sundry.

  Mister Walton laughed, but a moment later he was peering out the window and he sighed, saying, “I wish I’d gone to church this morning.”

  Hinkley, Shawmut, Fairfield, Waterville, Sidney, Augusta: These places fell past Mister Walton and Sundry, offering the sights of their villages and settlements and, between, the undisturbed intervals of snowy fields and treeless hills. Mister Walton saw little of it. He was thinking of Phileda McCannon and rather wished he could pass by Hallowell while she was not at home; looking in on her home, knowing she wasn’t there, seemed a melancholy thing to do.

  Sundry was deep in thought himself, though his mind was taken up by other things, most notably the pictograph on the rock at the Council Hill. He had no expertise in runic language, or languages at all outside his native one, yet he felt as if the meaning of that single figure-be it an ox or a plow-were on the tip of his tongue, like a half-remembered melody. He thought of his father plowing, then mused upon a neighbor, who plowed with oxen.

  One passenger did beguile a few miles for them; it was the man whose duck had been stolen and whom they had met on their trip to Skowhegan.

  “That man was a German, I think,” said the man with the duck. The bird sat in the bag beneath his feet and ate peanuts that the man shelled for it.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Mister Walton.

  “The man who stole my duck,” said the fellow, as if the conversation of two days before had never stopped. “He was a German, I think.”

  “I don’t know that they are,” said the man, “but there are Germans in “Are Germans prone to stealing ducks?” wondered Sundry aloud.

  Woolwich, I think.”

  “I’m German,” said a man who sat behind Mister Walton and Sundry. He did not look up from his newspaper. “I’ve never stolen a duck.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said the man, but he picked up the duck and set the bird on his lap. Nothing more on the subject of ducks or Germans was offered, but Sundry thought it was a fortunate business for it made Mister Walton laugh softly to himself.

  The sun was past the meridian when they stepped onto the platform at Hallowell. The shadow of the hill behind them was conquering the town, though the slopes on the opposing bank of the Kennebec were brilliant to the eye. The wind rallied the surface of the river into whitecaps, and sleighs rather than carriages were the order of the day among the streets and avenues; there were several such vehicles out, filled with bundled folk who braved the nippy air.

  The man with the duck joined them on the platform, though he had indicated that he was going as far as Gardiner. The German fellow had unnerved him.

  “Perhaps we should get something to eat at the Worster House,” said Mister Walton, “and then I can take a stroll up to Phileda’s.” to take them to the hotel, where they had spent some days the previous They left their
baggage with the stationmaster and soon hired a sleigh fall. The man with the duck seemed to think he had been invited to accompany them and climbed into the sleigh as well. Mister Walton and Sundry graciously accepted his company.

  Their first sight, upon approaching the Worster House, was that of a bundle of blankets in a sleigh below the hotel steps. The sound of snoring that arose from the blankets was so loud that Sundry wondered it didn’t startle the horses.

  “I don’t have the heart to wake him,” said the other sleigh driver, who stood alongside, lighting a pipe.

  Mister Walton and Sundry peered into the sleigh but could see only the red nose of some elderly person peeking from between the heap of throws and a red stocking cap. “It’s Colonel Barkoddel,” said the driver. “He’s had a vigorous morning.”

  “Has he?” said Mister Walton.

  The duck in the bag gave out a honk, which puzzled the driver. He returned to his train of thought, however, and explained, “He dispatched troops after a superior force and was uncommonly successful.”

  “Was he?”

  “One of the finest set-tos I ever witnessed.”

  “Good heavens!” said Mister Walton.

  “What? What?” came a voice from the blankets. There were two or three grunts, related somehow to the previous snores.

  “Are you awake, Colonel?” said the driver.

  “Of course I’m awake! Where are the men?”

  “They have been victorious and retired the field,” explained the driver. “They sent us ahead of them,” he explained to Mister Walton and Sundry. “Finest scrap I ever saw, I promise you. Here they come now.”

  Mister Walton and Sundry were interested in the arrival of the colonel’s troops and further interested to see a company of young boys and several grown men descending Winthrop Street. Three of the men conjured particular memories for the portly fellow and his young friend, and Mister Walton was ready to say that they reminded him of their fellows of the Moosepath League when he realized that they were their fellows of the Moosepath League!

  “My word!” said Mister Walton, and that well-loved voice reached up the street and tugged at the ears of Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump. These three worthies were strolling with uncharacteristic confidence alongside the boys and three other men, and that self-possession was raised to the level of the ecstatic at the sight of their chairman. “Good heavens, Thump!” said Eagleton.

  “Good heavens, yes!” agreed Thump.

  “Ephram!”

  “Yes, Eagleton! I am in concurrence.”

  To Mister Walton and Sundry the three members did have about them the look of successful contestants: Their faces beamed, their cheeks appeared red with happy exertions, their clothes were stained with dampness, and their hats were the worse for some physical aggravation. Their strides lengthened and became brisker.

  “Mister Walton,” said Sundry, for he was looking past the Moosepath League at three other men.

  “My word!” said Mister Walton again.

  “Truth to tell, Mister Walton!”

  Bringing up the rear of the column were the Dash-It-All Boys, looking less like success and more like philosophy and sodden to the skin.

  “Mister Walton!” declared Ephram. “Mr. Moss! How remarkable to see you! How very gratifying!”

  The nearer they got, the worse for wear they al looked, but Ephram, sure writ large upon their faces. Eagleton, and Thump approached Colonel Barkoddel’s sleigh with plea“We have participated in the most amusing melee, gentlemen!” asserted Eagleton.

  “Melee?” said Mister Walton; it sounded entirely too warlike, coming from the peaceable members of the Moosepath League. Several people, including the colonel and his driver, began to discuss the battle. The younger boys gathered about, still excited.

  “Wasn’t it wonderful, Thump?” said Eagleton.

  “I will remember it fondly,” said that man. His eyes glowed with delight. He let out a startled shout, however, when the duck in the bag made itself known again. “Great cats! What was that?” he wondered, and the duck squawked even louder when Sundry attempted to explain.

  “It’s a what?” asked Eagleton.

  “Duck!” called Sundry over the general hubbub, and the Moosepathians immediately crouched with their hands over their hats. Durwood, Waverley, and Brink did not shrink but looked about for incoming snowballs.

  Mister Walton’s already large eyes were like saucers behind his glittering spectacles, and he looked as delighted as his friends before he even realized what had occurred. The Dash-It-All Boys tipped what remained of their hats to Mister Walton and Sundry.

  “Our fates are entwined,” said Brink.

  “That’s rather poetic,” said Durwood.

  “Was it? I didn’t intend.”

  “Caught in the crossfire,” said Durwood, by way of explanation.

  “The downfall, actually,” corrected Brink.

  “A hot bath,” said Waverley like a toast. He raised his hat again as he passed the crowd at the bottom of the hotel steps.

  “Me too,” said Durwood as he followed his fellow inside.

  “I hope there’s more than one tub or it will be crowded,” said Brink.

  Another sleigh was pulling up before the hotel, and Mister Walton hardly had a moment to bid good day to the Dashians before a new commotion was begun.

  “It’s Miss Burn brake,” said Eagleton as a lovely woman stepped from the third sleigh. The duck was giving out a terrific roster of quacks.

  “It is a duck!” said Thump. He had only raised his head again when the name of Miss Burnbrake was pronounced.

  He and Ephram and Eagleton were all three telling their versions of recent events while shaking hands vigorously with Mister Walton, Sundry, and their driver, who thought he had much to tell his wife when he went home for dinner.

  “Charlotte!” came a new voice from the top of the steps, and Ezra Burnbrake stood there, waving to his niece. He was puzzled to see a strange man handing her down from the sleigh with an air of familiarity.

  “It’s my uncle,” she said to Daniel Plainway. “And, my goodness, the Moosepath League!”

  “The Moosepath League?” he returned.

  “Someone get me down from here!” shouted the colonel. He was struggling in the tangle of throws. The duck got itself out of its bag with a couple of flaps and landed beside the old soldier. “What?” he shouted. “Highly irregular!”

  “Miss Burnbrake!” said Ephram, followed closely by similar assertions from his fellow members. All eyes turned, if not all voices stilled, for the woman as she reached them.

  “How good to see you gentlemen again,” she said.

  Mister Walton and Sundry had doffed their hats, and the Moosepathians quickly (and proudly) introduced these two to Miss Burnbrake.

  The duck was stalking the back of Colonel Barkoddel’s sleigh like a sentry. “Does he think he’s a pigeon?” asked the old man. The man who owned the duck was attempting to retrieve the bird.

  “Mister Walton?” said Daniel Plainway when this name was pronounced. “Mister Tobias Walton?”

  “Why, yes,” said the portly fellow. He reached his hand out.

  “Mr. Daniel Plainway,” said Charlotte as the lawyer approached them, and there was something remarkable about the moment and about the two men as they shook hands. Even Sundry would say, years later, that here was a man to rival Mister Walton in several happy instances of character.

  Here, thought Daniel, is the man in possession of Nell’s portrait.

  “Mister Walton,” he said, “I have come far and long to meet you, and I believe, for the sake of people you have never met, I have much to thank you for.”

  Daniel’s Story (April 1892–April 1893)

  If not for his suspicions regarding the death of Jeram Willum, Daniel might have had some hope for Ian Linnett when the baby came to his house. The old man appeared sensible of his responsibility and was acquiescent and even interested when Mrs. Cutler arrived to help wi
th her own child in arm.

  Linnett expressed his wish that Nell be laid to rest in the tomb that had been built for himself, but he did not attend the funeral. Aunt Dora, dark and stern, returned for the service, though she stayed in town; she said that the old man was watching the graveside service from the woods above the cemetery, but Daniel did not look back. It was a windy day in April with the sun waking to the earth between running clouds. Leaves of the previous fall moved among the tombstones.

  “That’s not her,” Daniel told himself as the casket was carried in among the dark stones.

  The day after the funeral the sheriff came to ask Ian Linnett what he knew about Jeram Willum. The young man had drowned after suffering a blow to the head, but the coroner could not be sure that Jeram hadn’t fallen down a bank. Daniel’s horse and carriage were found wandering half a mile or so up the road from the Linnett drive.

  Ian was not helpful. He had not seen the boy. How did he come to the Willum place that day? He’d had a bad feeling about Nell and simply came. The sheriff tried to trick Ian by asking him what he had done with the note Daniel had written, but the old man only looked at him indignantly. He’d had a bad feeling.

  “It seems to me,” said the sheriff to Daniel, “that he would have had plenty of bad feelings before that particular day.”

  No one discounted in the meantime the possibility that Jerams father had made good with a long series of threats and followed his boy to the Linnetts’. Daniel didn’t know which was the worst scenario. Two days had gone by before the body was found, however, and rain had washed the fields of sign,. The sheriff came to Linnett twice with no more result. Jerams death was officially stated an accident. Mrs. Willum, looking hard and unrepentant, and some of Jeram’s younger brothers and sisters came to the service. Daniel stood by himself on the other side of the grave with his hat in his hands; the day was unseasonably warm, like May. At one point during the interment, something caught Daniels eye, and he looked up to see a robin hopping among the rows.