“Roy Dobel saw it first,” I said. “I think we ought to give it to him.”
Which we did.
CHAPTER 16
An Old Friend
THE minutes of our meetings for the next few days would make only dry reading. We met as usual every day after school from Monday to Friday. But then came Saturday—ah! that Saturday! We had come down at nine o’clock in the morning and held our meeting. We were all still seated around the table in the clubhouse.
“Hawkins,” said the Skinny Guy. “I’m set on getting my hands on this Simon Bleaker fella. Today is the day I set my mind to catch him. ’Cause why? ’Cause most likely he goes to school down at Hobbs’s Ferry or somewhere during the week. But today is Saturday—he’ll be out all day.”
“You’re right,” said our captain, Dick Ferris. “He’s going to hang around here somewhere today, Link, and you’ve got to catch him. He’s got to explain to us what he’s got to do with Stoner and Jude and Androfski. We want to know. He looks mighty suspicious—the things he does around here have got to be explained, that’s all.”
There came from the porch the sound of footsteps. “Visitors,” announced Perry Stokes, who always stood guard at the door during meetings.
In came Briggen, the Pelham leader, with Ham Gardner and a number of other boys from across the river.
“Hope we ain’t buttin’ in,” said Briggen, trying to smile. “But I got to talk to Hawkins.”
“Talk up,” I said.
Briggen shifted from one foot to another. Then he turned to his side partner, old Ham Gardner, and they whispered awhile to each other. Then Briggen said:
“It ain’t right. We thought we ought to tell you about it, Hawkins, bein’ it’s so strange like. It’s over on Burney’s Field.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” I asked. “Say what you mean, Briggen.”
“Last night we seen it,” he said. “Just as we was comin’ home from Finchtown. It sprang out at us from the trees on the edge of Burney’s Field and scared us.”
“What did?” I asked. “Talk plain, Briggen. How you expect us to understand what you’re talkin’ about if you don’t tell us what it’s all about?”
Briggen smiled a thin smile. His face still looked as if he had been badly frightened.
“I wished I could,” he said in a low tone. Ham Gardner put his lips close to Briggen’s ear and whispered something; Briggen nodded his head and stood back. Ham stepped up and said:
“It wasn’t no livin’ thing, Hawkins, as come atter us on Burney’s Field. It just sprung out at us from the dark, sudden like, and let out a screech as would drive you outta yer wits. I ain’t been myself since the time old Harkinson scar’t me plumb silly. But I say to Brig, this ain’t no livin’ thing, it war’ a ghost, for sure and certain, else my name ain’t Ham Gardner.”
“You said Burney’s Field?”
It was the Skinny Guy who asked that question. Ham Gardner turned.
“Yeah,” he answered. “It war’ Burney’s Field I said.”
Link did not wait to hear more of the Pelham’s story; he pulled up one of his suspenders over his shoulder and shot out of the door without a word and was gone.
“We war’ a’thinkin’,” continued Ham Gardner, as if nothing had interrupted his telling of the tale, “that maybe you fellas, bein’ smarter as us, would figger this thing out—”
“Go back, Ham,” I said. “Go back to your side and don’t worry. I’m glad you told us about this, but one thing remember: don’t go near Burney’s Field again. I think there might be danger there. Worse than Harkinson, Ham—remember that—lots worse than Harkinson.”
I could not have said anything to make Ham Gardner more frightened. His recollection of Harkinson’s hypnotizing eyes showed in his face for a moment; he looked at me with a look of pain on his sooty face then backed out, shoving the others with him, until they were all on the porch, and Perry Stokes helped them along by shutting the door against the whole Pelham crowd. We laughed at Perry as we again faced one another around the table.
“Well,” said our captain. “What does it mean? Burney’s Field, I mean?”
“Those fellows,” spoke up Shadow Loomis, “are the worst lot of ’fraid cats I ever saw. They could see a shadow made by a swaying tree in the moonlight and a cat mee-yowing at the same time and imagine it was a ghost.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You heard the Skinny Guy ask a question?”
“Yes, he’s over there as quick as his legs can take him,” said Robby Hood with a laugh. “He probably figures it is Simon Bleaker—”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” said Dick Ferris, “if that fox had fixed up some slick way of—”
“Why are we sittin’ here then?” asked Jerry Moore. “Why ain’t we out with the Skinny Guy to do our share?”
“Your share, Jerry,” said Dick Ferris, “would spoil the Skinny Guy’s. You’d better stay here with us till Link sends for you. You fellas all know why I appointed Link to scout around. He’s the best spy we’ve got. If anyone can catch the fox—”
“I hope I am not breaking in upon one of your important meetings.”
We all turned at the sound of that dear old voice—the softest, kindliest voice I ever heard in all my life. We all looked toward the door. Brother Jim, our teacher, stood there.
“Won’t you come in, please?” asked Perry Stokes, who was unacquainted with Brother Jim, as Perry did not go to our school.
Brother Jim bowed to our little doorkeeper and said, “Thank you.” We all rushed to him with our chairs, but he held up his hand.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, with a smile on his face, “I will not sit down. This is not really a visit—I just dropped in to see if you boys would help me out with a problem—”
Problem? Us help our teacher with a problem? More like he help us—
“I’d rather not talk about it,” continued Brother Jim. “Let’s say we go to the scene of the problem and not speak of it further until then.”
“Sure,” I said. “We will go wherever you want us to, Brother Jim.”
That’s how we came to follow him without another word, leaving Perry with his rifle to watch the clubhouse. Brother Jim, not saying a word during the whole walk, took us up the river path to the main road and to his house. We all followed him into his parlor, and on into his study. Its walls were lined with bookshelves to the ceiling, and in the middle of the room stood a desk. In every corner of the room was a birdcage—I always knew Brother Jim loved canary birds, but dern if he didn’t have half a dozen cages—
“Now,” said he. “Here we are at the scene of the problem. Last night there were in each of these cages a highly prized canary—each one a particular friend of mine. What do they contain now?”
We all turned to look more closely at the cages.
“Blackbirds!” exclaimed Jerry Moore.
“Crows, young crows, to be more exact,” said Brother Jim, with a smile. “That doesn’t seem just right, does it, boys? Canary birds changed into crows, in these days? Maybe we are mistaken about fairies and enchanters and witches, however. Maybe there are such things, after all. What do you think, Hawkins?”
“I don’t know what I think, Brother Jim,” I answered. “But I know what you think. You think us boys played that trick on you—took out your canaries and put in crow babies; ain’t I right?”
Brother Jim smiled—he could smile so sweet you would know what he meant.
“Am I right, Hawkins?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Not by a long shot,” I said. “It ain’t our line, Brother Jim. We might play some little kind of a boy’s trick on you, just for fun. But we wouldn’t sneak into your own home at night and change birds on you. No sir, Brother Jim. You got us wrong. But if you’d give us time, maybe we can tell you who did this thing.”
Brother Jim waved his hand. That was all we needed. The boys were all scampering around at once, looking for something to give
them an idea as to who took the canary birds and played this dirty trick on our teacher. But it was no use. We found nothing. Not a little sign to tell—not even a footprint on the carpet. I thought perhaps Stoner—but I could not find the prints of his shoes with the many nails in the soles. I looked outside, under the windows—but no! There wasn’t a sign.
“It’s alright, boys,” said Brother Jim with a laugh as he stood in the door and told us good-bye. “I hope you won’t feel bad, about my coming to see you about it—you see, I knew of no other way—”
“Brother Jim,” said Dick Ferris. “I’m captain of this bunch, and I promise you we will look out for your canary birds—”
“Thank you,” broke in Brother Jim. “I know you will, but if you don’t, maybe I can train these black bobbies to talk and—well, we will get along. Good-bye, boys. See you Monday morning.”
* * *
Perry Stokes was walking up and down in front of the clubhouse when we came back.
“Link has been here,” he said. “He told me to tell you as soon as you came back to meet him on Burney’s Field.”
“That’s the orders, then,” said Dick. “Hawkins, you and Shadow and Johnny McLaren better go. I want to keep some of these fellas here. Robby Hood, you don’t mind if I ask you to stay here, do you? Those Pelhams seem to have something up their sleeve.”
I could see that Robby wanted to go along with me, but as soon as Dick mentioned the Pelhams, Robby was quite satisfied to stay and see if the Pelhams might be playing us a trick.
Shadow and Johnny and I got into a canoe and paddled across to Pelham. Not a single Pelham boy was in sight as we landed and passed up through their rows of shacks and so on to the woods behind them. We walked five minutes through the woods, taking a shortcut, and soon came to the edge of what is known as Burney’s Field. It must have been about one hour before noon then, and I wondered where all the Pelham fellows had disappeared to.
We stood there on Burney’s Field wondering which way to go. But even as we stood I saw a thin line of smoke rising to the left; it seemed to come out of the ground.
“The Skinny Guy is giving us a signal,” I said. “Look at that ribbon of smoke.”
Shadow and Johnny looked. Then, without a word, the three of us started in that direction. It was a long walk across the old, rough field, hard going too. Whatever this field was in years that were gone, it was a cinch that now it was a total ruin; nothing would grow on it, and nobody wanted to stay near it. The dreariest, lonesomest, ugliest place I have ever seen is Burney’s Field. As we walked across it in silence, I thought of the time that Jerry Moore and I were captured on the edge of this field by the Red Runners, near Halloween time, and tied to trees, until Shadow Loomis came in his Halloween costume on a costumed horse and scared the Red Runners into fits. I meant to ask Shadow if he was thinking of the same thing, and I know he was, but before I could make a sound, a sharp whistle came to our ears—only one boy used that whistle—the Skinny Guy.
At once the three of us turned sharply to the left. Ten steps and we stood before a pile of stones—limestone that seemed to have been dumped at different places around the field. Shadow leaped across the pile. I wanted to go farther on, for I saw now that the smoke issued from a hole in the ground about thirty paces from us.
“Here is a hole,” said Shadow.
That settled it. Johnny and I sprang across the pile and followed Shadow down into the hole. Steps made of the same kind of stones that lay in the pile led down into an opening that took us under the surface of Burney’s Field. As I went down the steps, I stopped a minute on the last one, and my head was just high enough to see the whole sweep of Burney’s Field. I turned and viewed it from one end to the other. Not a living thing upon the whole field. I went down into the hole. The last step—and I heard:
“Watch out. It’s dark. Gee, look out for this sheet—”
Sheet! Why didn’t he say so before it slapped me? Slapped me it did—a dirty, wet sheet that flapped back again as I whipped it from my face and dodged under it. We were in a dark passage—I heard something go whirring past my head, and I ducked and held my hand over my cap. The next minute I whipped out my flashlight and turned it on—the light showed a narrow passage, just wide enough for one boy to pass through, and about a foot over our heads was the roof of it. Ahead of me was Johnny McLaren, going slowly, his arms held out on either side, feeling his way along the passage. Shadow Loomis was going on ahead of him. No fear in those boys. Not so you could notice it. But me? I felt a little weak.
“Ah, you have come at last?”
It was the Skinny Guy’s voice. I pushed on faster and caught up with Johnny. We stood in a neat little cave room, lit up by an oil lamp that was stuck in a socket of the wall. The Skinny Guy sat smiling, swinging his feet, on a table made of boards and scraps of packing boxes. Over his head hung a cage—a homemade cage made of sticks and wire, and from it came the sound of birds’ voices—canary voices—
“Link,” I said. “For the love of Mike, Link, what is this—?”
Over my head again came that whirring sound—came and went as I ducked—I must admit it scared me. Shadow Loomis looked puzzled, as I caught sight of his face in that lantern light—
“Old friends, Hawkins,” said the Skinny Guy, grinning down at me. “You’re in the headquarters of old friends—look, these canary birds I found—how do you suppose they lived all those days without food or—”
“Look out Hawkins—”
“Good Lord, what is it?”
Once more I heard that whirring sound—and then, oh Lord! the thing settled down upon my shoulder, and I fought for a moment—but the Skinny Guy’s hand caught my arm—
“One moment, Hawkins,” he said. “Read this.” Link jumped off the table and pointed.
Forgetting for an instant, I bent down and read in the light of my flash lamp, a dust-covered book that lay open on the table and to which Link pointed.
I rubbed some of the dust off the page. The writing was faded.
My name is Wilmer Harkinson—
Began the writing—
“Link!” I cried.
“Look on your shoulder,” cried Link.
I took one look.
“The owl!” I cried. “Harkinson’s owl!”
“Harkinson is gone,” said Link to me, softly. “He gave you the horn, Hawkins, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“And the owl—”
“It’s the same owl, Hawkins,” said Johnny McLaren, in a whisper.
The bird on my shoulder said, “Whoo!”
“Harkinson, old fellow,” I said, reaching up and petting his speckled feathers. “I’ll take his place for you, too, old birdie.”
For in that one moment, I had lost my fear of the thing which had lighted upon my shoulder. It was Harkinson’s owl. To me now, since Harkinson had died, his owl was a friend, a friend who needed somebody to look after him.
“Then this is where Harkinson used to stay—”
“He built it when he broke with Long Tom,” broke in a new voice. Briggen, the Pelham leader, and Ham Gardner stood at the entrance of the cave room.
“Well then, you Pelham bums,” said Johnny McLaren. “Tell us how these canary birds got here.”
“You got to find that out for yourself,” said Briggen.
Which we did.
CHAPTER 17
The Deserted Dugout
WE could not get the Pelham fellows to come down into the dugout that used to belong to the Red Runners. They stood there in the entrance of the cave room and glared down at us. They evidently were afraid of something that we knew nothing about. We asked them if they knew how Brother Jim’s canary birds happened to be down in this hole in the ground. Johnny McLaren said he kind o’ thought Briggen and his Pelhams had taken the canaries out of Brother Jim’s cages and put crows in their places. But Briggen crossed his heart and said loudly that they knew nothing about it.
“What you ta
ke for that owl on your shoulder, Hawkins?” asked Briggen.
“Not for sale,” I said, then I laughed. “This old owl most likely was the thing that scared you the other night when you were coming home from Finchtown.”
“Not on your life it wasn’t,” said Briggen, shaking his head. “It weren’t no owl, Hawkins.”
“What was it, then?” I asked. “You haven’t told us yet what it looked like.”
“It war’ too scary for us to look at,” spoke up Ham Gardner.
Ham had such a serious, scared look on his face that I had to laugh.
“You mean,” said Shadow Loomis, “that you did not turn to look at the thing that frightened you that night?”
“Not us,” said Ham Gardner. “Us boys know when it’s time to run. Don’t yo’ hang around none, neither, if yo’ all hear that yell some night—”
“Well, then,” continued Shadow. “If you didn’t see what it looked like, how do you know it wasn’t the owl that scared you?”
“I saw its shadda,” said Ham. “A shadda bigger’n any owl could make. It war’ in the trees—”
“An’ a thrashin’ under foot,” broke in Briggen. “How could an owl make that noise?”
“An’ us fellas are here to tell ya,” said Dave Burns, another Pelham. “It ought be that you fellas are playin’ aroun’ dangerous places. It wouldn’t surprise us, we says, if that thar’ ghost thing is right close by at this minit.”
“That’ll be enough from you boys,” I said. “Get along while the gettin’s good. Don’t any of you Pelhams stay around dangerous places.”
They all turned as if their business with us was over. Ham was the last to go. As he reached the middle of the stone stairway, he turned.
“Hawkins,” he said, “if yo’ all come to find out what that thar’ dern spook is—”
“Go on,” I interrupted. “I think you fellows are a bunch of nuts.”
Ham did not say another word, but disappeared up the steps. Johnny, Shadow, and the Skinny Guy ran up after them to watch where they went. I stayed down in the old dugout and petted the bird upon my shoulder while I thought about old times. The owl that had once belonged to Harkinson had come to me. Now that its master was dead and gone, the little speckled bird had settled upon my shoulder of its own free will, as if it had picked me out for its next master. I never liked owls; in all my life I never knew a bird that I hated like I did the owl. Yet Harkinson’s owl was a friend of mine. You may be sure of that—it was a friend of mine. I remember that he called it Becky that night we had it penned up in our clubhouse along with the wild owl Roy Dobel had trapped.
The Gray Ghost Page 13