So we stood in our hiding places and waited. Like wooden Indians we stood, each behind a tree or bush, our eyes on the old sycamore tree. As I gazed at it, I said to myself, “What a lot of funny things happen around our old riverbank!” First one thing, then another. Never any let up. Here, now, was an old tree that somebody had fixed up to use for a private mailbox for private messages. Whoever it was had done the work well. A little square of the tree trunk had been cut like a door, fixed upon invisible hinges on the inside. Even from where I stood, not even a crack showed, and it would have taken an eagle eye to discover it. Even Link, sharp as he is, wouldn’t have found it if he hadn’t followed that boy and seen him open it.
Fifteen minutes seemed a long time to wait. I bet we waited longer than that. Nobody had a watch, and we couldn’t tell what time it was. Yet Dick didn’t give any order to move, and the boys all stood like statues in their hiding places. Some crows flying about in the treetops above us seemed to be making fun of us. Once the deep notes of a steamboat whistle from up the river came near breaking up our little watching party, but one look from Dick made the fellas change their minds, and they all kept their places. But another five minutes and Dick came over to my tree.
“I’m tired of waiting,” he said. “We might be big fools enough to wait here all day and not be here at the right minute when somebody comes for that message. I don’t think it will be called for today anyhow. Do you, Hawkins?”
“Hush! yes—come back here!”
With that I yanked him back toward me and behind the tree where I stood. For I had heard a twig snap. So had the other boys. They all straightened up behind their trees and waited without a sound. And just in time too, for a head was poked out of the bushes, and the next moment a boy had jumped out and run to the sycamore tree, in which was the secret post office.
It was Androfski!
Androfski the Silent—yeah, it was him, the same old fella. I hadn’t seen him since the time we captured Harkinson—but it was the same old Androfski who stood before us now. He still wore the old cap turned peak backward, and the old red sweater—yes, by jingo! he even wore the old faded No. 3 on his sleeve, which used to mean that he was third in line in the Red Runners. In the hollow of his arms lay the same old rifle, in the same old way we had seen it every time before. He looked thin—hungry, his eyes seemed to shine fire, his dark, stringy hair had grown long, and his beak of a nose seemed even longer and more hooked than when I had seen him last.
Quickly he sped to the tree and pulled open the little door. He shoved his hand in and pulled out the note. He read it quickly and then took off his cap, and pulling a pencil from under the peak, fell upon one knee. Resting the paper note on his knee, he began to write on the back of it. While he was writing, his rifle slipped slowly out of his arm and fell upon the ground. I saw Shadow Loomis start, as if he would run out and grab it. But he held himself in check and remained behind his tree. It was well enough that he did so, for at that moment, Androfski the Silent looked up quickly. He was a sharp ear, Androfski was. But he seemed to think it was only the wind brushing through the bushes or something like that, for he turned and began to write again on the paper on his knee.
For five minutes or more he wrote. Then, leaping to his feet, he threw the paper back into the cheese hole, closed the door, and walked rapidly away. I saw him jump into the bushes and disappear. Shadow Loomis came over to me, and he had an excited look in his eye.
“I had all I could do to mind Dick’s orders,” he whispered. “I knew it would be Androfski who would come for the message.”
“Who wrote the note, that’s what I want to know,” I said. “Who sent that message to Androfski?”
“He has many pals,” said Shadow. “It might be any—”
“Go over to the hole in the tree and see what he wrote on the back o’ that paper,” said the Rolling Stone. “Ain’t no use standin’ here jawin’ about it.”
We all crowded around the tree while Dick Ferris reached in and took out the note. The Silent Androfski had written this on the back of it:
Getting better. Sold my watch yesterday out to Watertown. They will have new ones. Seen one you would like and so will get it. Be careful. Looking all day for rain. You and me can’t ever get that far down stream to see old Hobbs’s. Wait till boat comes tomorrow.
“This doesn’t tell us anything,” said Dick, in disgust. “What kind of foolishness—”
“Let me have it a minute, Dick,” I said. “I’ll fix it so you can understand it.”
I took the note and, starting with the first word, began to cross out one word and leave the next, then cross out two and leave the next, and so on, till I came to the end. Then I handed him the paper.
“Here,” I said. “Now read the words that are not crossed out, and you will have Androfski’s message.”
Dick studied it a moment, and then read out loud:
Better watch out. They have seen you and will be looking for you. Can’t get down to Hobbs’s till tomorrow.
For a minute no one spoke. Then Dick, placing the note again in the hollow tree, turned to me and said:
“Hawkins, it’s best that we don’t have anything to do with it.”
“You’re right,” I said.
“Excuse me,” broke in Shadow Loomis. “But we will have something to do with it. We won’t be able to keep out of this, fellas. Androfski has not forgotten what we did to the Red Runners. He knows it was us boys who got them caught. Harkinson was Androfski’s best friend. And he has hated us ever since Harkinson died. He thinks we were to blame—”
“He knows how it came about,” spoke up Dick Ferris. “Androfski was there when we found Harkinson blind—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Shadow. “But I tell you, you fellas don’t know Androfski, and I do. Harkinson was a good scout compared with Androfski. There was a time when—”
But nobody paid any more attention to Shadow’s words. No. For like a soft call came to our ears the sound of Stoner’s horn—like a soft call at the start, rising into a brassy flare that brought back to me memories of days when Harkinson kept us on the jump with that same horn, and he had told me to keep it! At once I felt that old wish to have that horn back again. In a flash, all the careful orders of our captain were thrown to the winds.
“Stoner’s Boy!” cried Robby Hood.
“Just a minute,” said the Rolling Stone. “Might this Androfski fella have blowed that horn, d’ye think?”
We all looked at him—surprised. We had not expected that question from John.
“Might be,” said our captain. “Maybe he has stolen it from Stoner—”
“He is Stoner, himself,” said Bill Darby. “Listen, you fellas can’t fool me, I know. Every time I see Androfski around here, I feel as shaky as if Stoner and his horn were—”
But I didn’t wait to hear their talk. No. I saw Shadow and Robby Hood start running for the bushes where Androfski had disappeared. “I’m goin’ to follow ’em, Dick,” I said, and leaped away. I cleared the bushes by a foot; believe me, I never knew I could jump that way since I got so stout. But Shadow was far ahead of me, running down a grassy slope, and a hundred yards ahead of him ran Robby Hood. Once more came the sound of the brass horn while we ran. I turned once and saw the fellas strung out behind us, the Rolling Stone lumbering along in the lead, following our trail. Where Robby Hood was leading us, I did not know, for Androfski was not in sight—not a soul was to be seen ahead of us. Now we had reached the bottom of the slope—now we had started up the opposite climb—there I saw Robby Hood stop at the edge of the rise, drop upon his stomach, and peep over the ridge. When I came up, he and Shadow were both lying there looking down the other side. I took a look.
Androfski was sitting directly below us on a flat rock on the riverbank. His rifle lay upon the rock beside him. He was mopping his forehead with a dirty handkerchief—it looked like a gray handkerchief. Before we knew what was happening, Shadow had thrown his legs over the edge
and dropped—he landed upon his hands and knees upon the rock beside Androfski the Silent. For a minute the Silent One seemed surprised—but Shadow was up on his feet in an instant and jumped for the rifle. Androfski saw that the gun was lost and waited no longer but sprang from the rock and up the cliff path—oh, how that silent beak-nosed boy could run—
Shadow waved for us to come ahead. Robby and I scrambled over the ridge and dropped down together. I didn’t drop on the rock, though. No. No, I picked out a place over on the side where the new grass was growing thick, and I am thankful to this day that I did, for I landed in it like a featherbed, and didn’t hurt myself a bit. I jumped up and rubbed my hands as I ran. Robby right beside me. Together we followed Shadow up the cliff path—
“The cave—Hawkins—Stoner’s cave—” shouted Shadow, as he turned his head. Then he ran faster.
Well, sir, it was a run for your money. I ought to have better sense than to run like that, a fat fella like me, but honest to goodness, when you get excited and you know Androfski or Stoner is up to something, you just run till you’re all fagged out. That’s me, anyhow.
Stoner’s old cave! Seems like it ought to have stopped us right there. After all that had happened in that cave in the cliff—but we ran on just the same. Robby and I both reached the top of the path soon enough to see Androfski dart into the dark opening of the cave. Shadow followed him in like a deer. Then, as if he had dropped out of the sky, the Skinny Guy came tumbling down from somewhere on top of the cliff—
“Took a short cut,” he laughed. “Knowed he would head for this place, Hawkins—”
In we went. I could hear the footsteps of those ahead of me, pat-pat-pat-pat-pat, down the stony hallway they ran—
“Your flashlight, Hawkins—” called Shadow Loomis.
But none of us had a flashlight. For we had not expected we would need them.
“Follow the sound of his footsteps,” I yelled.
Which we did. But all of a sudden I thought—
“There’s a back way,” I yelled. “A hole in the hill by the roots of a tree—”
We were heading for that now. I knew at once that Androfski would seek his escape through that back entrance on the hilltop, where a path led back to the river and safety.
Up the steep passage we flew, in the dark, led only by the sound of the footsteps ahead of us. And then at last came the light of day—through the hole in the hillside—
“There he goes,” yelled the Skinny Guy. “Through the hole—look!”
A shadow had darkened the opening just for a second and was gone, the daylight streaming through again. Shadow was now close up, however, and he dodged through the opening and was followed by Link, and then I, having passed Robby Hood in the dark somewhere, squeezed myself through the opening.
As I did so, the sound of the old brass horn came floating upward. Shadow and Link stood there, by the roots of the old tree, looking down at the flying figure—
“There he goes,” said Shadow.
“I thought it was Androfski,” I said. For the fellow who was flying down the path ahead of us wore an old gray coat with a cape and a broad brim hat and had his face covered with a gray handkerchief. He blew the brass horn as he ran.
“Stoner’s Boy!” I said.
“Sometimes called Androfski the Silent,” said Robby Hood, who had just come out of the hole.
Nobody said a word. We stood there on the hillside and gave up the chase. What use? For only a moment after he reached the bushes at the bottom, we heard the chug-chug-chug of his gray launch which told us Stoner or Androfski—or whoever it was—was safe, and that we might as well take our time to figure this thing out in our clubhouse.
Which we did.
CHAPTER 13
Jude the Fifth
FOR a week I have been ill, not able to get out of the house. No school for me and not a single trip to the clubhouse since the day we chased Androfski into the cave and Stoner out. You ask me how that came about, well, I don’t know. There might be many ways a fellow could answer that question. But which answer would be the right one; who could say? All of the boys came to visit me while I’ve been ill. Seemed like each one had a different idea about it. Robby Hood is convinced that Androfski is the fellow who dresses up in the old gray coat and cape, ties a gray handkerchief about his face to hide his beak of a nose, and plays off as Stoner’s Boy. He says there is no Stoner’s Boy. He says it has been Androfski all the time. He says that when we chased Androfski into the cave, he ran to the place where he kept his old coat and cape and hat and handkerchief and put them on as he ran, so as to fool us. Robby says Androfski thought we would be afraid of Stoner’s Boy, and that is why he changed clothes in the dark cave. And when we came to the back entrance, of course it was Stoner’s Boy we chased out, or Androfski, rather, dressed like Stoner. But I don’t know about that. I’ve been ill. I haven’t felt like thinking. Every time I think I get a pain in my head. It’s only tonsillitis, Doc Waters says, but dern if I don’t feel worse than that. I feel all tuckered out. My mother says it came from that run through the woods after Androfski and the chase through the cave. Maybe, I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about what Shadow says, though. Shadow thinks that Stoner’s Boy and Androfski the Silent are in a partnership. He says he thinks Stoner’s Boy wrote the note that we found in the secret post office in the hollow sycamore tree. He wrote it to Androfski, Shadow thinks. He says he thinks Stoner’s Boy was in the cave before we came. When we chased Androfski into the cave, the racket we made gave Stoner’s Boy a warning, and he lit out, while Androfski succeeded in hiding himself and giving us the slip. Aw shucks, if it isn’t the worst puzzle I’ve ever had to figure out—I don’t know what to think. And me with my throat so sore I can hardly talk.
But I told Doc Waters I just had to get out today, this being Saturday—there’s not a boy who goes to school but wants to get out on Saturday and have some fun. That’s me, too. Here I am, sitting in my little writing room in the clubhouse—and oh, boy, doesn’t it feel good after a whole week—yeah, boy!
* * *
I couldn’t play ball. No. I left my writing room and walked past the hollow where the boys were playing, but I didn’t feel quite well enough to join the game. I said to myself, “Maybe a little slow walk in the woods is the thing that will make me feel alright.” So I cut myself a sassafras stick—one with a shinny root—and sat down to whittle it.
These are nice old woods. Seems like every tree in it is a friend of mine. I’ve been here ever since I was born. When I first started to play, big enough to be on my own legs and toddle around for myself, these woods were my first playgrounds. Yeah, even those noisy blackbirds, those half-size crows, seem to be screeching at me: “Haw-haw-Hawkins!” Then I laughed, when I thought that, and sat down and said to myself, “It’s because you’re ill that you think such things. Doc Waters was right, you ought to have stayed at home.”
But the sunshine shifted through the trees and fell upon me, and sunshine is good medicine. I got up in a little while and plodded on through the woods, leaning on the sassafrass stick and chewing on a piece of the sassafrass root I had whittled off the shinny twist. I kept on a’thinking about Shadow Loomis and Link and Robby and Dick, but I didn’t want to see any of ’em—ain’t it funny when you’re sick? Tonsillitis, yeah, I always got it in the neck around this time of the year.
Suddenly, I heard a sound and stopped. And it was good I did so, for I saw a boy and a rifle—or rather I saw a rifle first and then the boy who was holding it.
First, when I saw the gun, I thought Androfski was there, for it was such a rifle as the Silent One always carried. But the next minute, when I looked at the boy’s face, I dropped my sassafras stick in plain surprise. For it was a face I had not seen since Harkinson passed away—it was the face of Jude the Fifth. Yeah, Jude, fifth in line in the Red Runners! The last of the old Watertown gang, next to Androfski, left running around these woods. Jude! By jove, it was Jude! He had h
eard my footsteps, but he had not been able to tell from where the sound came. He stood ready with his rifle.
I walked right out onto him.
“Seckatary Hawkins!” he said with some surprise upon his handsome face. His hair was light and cut close to his head. His face was really handsome.
“Jude the Fifth,” I said. “How are you?”
His jaw dropped; he had not expected me to say that to him. I guess he thought I was looking for him to turn him over to the sheriff, to be put away with the rest of the Red Runners.
“I’m alright,” he said. “Very much alright, Hawkins. How are you?”
“Not so good, Jude,” I said. “I’m sick—that’s why I come out here all alone, to let the air of the old woods heal me up. But Jude, I’ve got to take you prisoner. The sheriff’s been looking for you since Christmas, you know.”
He gripped his rifle with a look of determination upon his face and backed up to the tree.
“No, by jinks,” he said. Then he shoved himself back until he rubbed against the tree and opened his mouth as if he would say something, but nothing came out of it. He looked at me steadily, his blue eyes bright and shining, and then he shouted again, “No, by jinks, not by a jugful, Hawkins. You’ll not take me.”
“Sit down, Jude,” I said. “It’s a fine day out here in these woods.”
I kept a corner of my eye on his rifle. But I acted as if I wasn’t afraid he would shoot. He kept his stand, both feet planted firmly before the tree. I looked up.
“Sit down!” I said in a louder voice.
His rifle dropped into the hollow of his arm, and he sat down, facing me, his back to the tree.
“What do you know about Harkinson?” I asked.
Jude raised his eyes. I saw there was suspicion in his look. “Not as much as you know,” he said. “Tell me, how did he die?”
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