“Hello,” said Perry softly, as if to himself.
I stopped and turned around. “What?” I asked.
But he didn’t have to answer. I heard it. Somebody shouting and halloing a long way off.
“What was it, Perry?” I asked.
“Sounded like one of our boys calling, sir,” answered Perry. “He’s calling; hear it?”
Again came the sound of that faraway call. This time I was ready for it. I listened. No. It was not one of our boys.
“Go on,” I said to Perry, and I allowed him to pass and get ahead of me. Slowly we made our way. We waited for the voice again. It was a long while coming. Just as I had begun to think that we would not hear it again, it came—
Ah! say, you can’t fool me on voices. When I hear a voice once, I’ll tell you whose it is when I hear it again. That voice that rang through the wildwood of this island—
“Simon Bleaker,” I said.
Perry turned swiftly.
“Here?” he asked. “On this island—Bleaker?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
Perry gazed at my face for a full minute, listening. But the sound did not come again. He shook his head.
“I thought it was Stoner’s Boy,” he said.
“Go on,” I told him. “Strike out, Perry, we are losing time.”
We traveled as fast as we could for some distance. Then Perry turned.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said. “Who was this Bleaker boy a’calling?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Don’t ask questions, Perry. Get on, hurry, else let me lead.”
We hurried on after that, and we didn’t stop until we came to the place we had left our canoe. Perry backed into me, and we collided with a jolt.
“Softly, Hawkins,” he whispered. “Look there.”
Simon Bleaker—yeah, it was him, standing—not on the island, but on the shore across on the left—where the river keeps on going. You see, the river divides at the island, the wider part going right on down, and a narrower branch curving around the island. Across the main stream stood Bleaker. In one hand, he carried a whip, a long whip with an extra piece of white braided cord on it to “crack” it with. Even as we watched, he raised his other hand to his lips and called:
“McJinty—McJinty!”
Loudly rang the voice, and across the river went its echo. I could hear it plainly, and I knew I wasn’t mistaken. He was calling for McJinty. Who was McJinty? Were we to meet another one of this kind, in league with Bleaker, whom we knew we had to fear when we were out alone?
“Best we stay here, Perry,” I whispered.
We nestled down into the tall grass and watched. Simon Bleaker stood awhile, waiting to see if he would get an answer to his call. But at last, he seemed to give it up. He cracked the whip viciously and turned on his heel. He whistled. From out the bushes trotted a pony—a dun-colored roan, if you can picture what that looks like—and the pony seemed to know his master very well, for without waiting for the animal to stop, Bleaker swung onto the saddle like a cowboy and was gone like a streak of lightning through the green—
We sailed on up the stream as soon as we could get into the canoe. Both Perry and I paddled, and we made good time. Soon we were passing Hobbs’s Ferry, then the wreck of the Smokey City. Neither of us spoke. Perry never talked much anyhow. We shot on up around the next bend and past the cliff head and started on our last lap. “Look there!” said Perry, who paddled in the fore.
We had come in sight of our old riverbank. And nestling close to the little old landing—what do you think it was? Why, Link’s boat, the beautiful Cazanova, the launch his mother had given the Skinny Guy last summer.
Now I know where our old friend Skinny Guy had been—he had gone home to see his mother. It was just like him to slip away and not tell us—but I’ll bet he was homesick for a sight of his mother and his good old pop. He had gone home and had come back in his fine launch.
We paddled the canoe up close to the launch. There wasn’t a sound. Link had probably arrived an hour ago and most likely was up in the hollow playing ball with the boys. But all of a sudden, I noticed a movement inside—the next second, a funny-looking somebody had sprung at me and landed in the window, and I felt two clawing hands grab my hair—oh, boy, how he pulled—it felt like I was going to lose my scalp.
“Perry!” I called.
Perry was there—with the canoe paddle he struck—and the hold on my hair loosened. I just caught a glimpse of something falling to the floor inside the launch. I slid down into the canoe, and said, “Let’s go,” and Perry swung his blade into the water, and we curved around the stern of the boat. Just as the canoe stuck her nose in the muddy bank, a little boy leaped from the prow of the boat and ran up toward the cliff path. He was a strange-looking little kid—his hair was about six inches long—black and tangled, sticking out from his head in all directions. He wore only a raggedy shirt, and he did not turn to look back at us but flew as fast as he could and disappeared around the base of the cliff.
“Who was it?” asked Perry.
“McJinty,” I said. “I bet you ten dollars, Perry, that was McJinty—the fella Simon Bleaker was calling. But come on, let’s go up and see Link.”
Which we did.
CHAPTER 20
The Ugly Dog
VACATION time had come again. The boys were down at the clubhouse early every morning. There was plenty of fun, baseball, swimming, fishing, and taking long trips up and down the river in the Skinny Guy’s big launch, the Cazanova.
I never will forget the day Link came back from a trip to his home, bringing the big launch with him. He had surprised us, of course. We were accustomed to his ways, and we did not think much of it when he did not show up for a few days at a time. But this time, he had gone home without saying a word to any one of us, and he stayed longer than usual. Naturally then, we began to wonder where he had gone. And then he had come back in his launch.
“I thought,” he said to me, “that the boys would get a lot of fun out of the big boat this summer. And I wanted to see my mother, anyhow. So I just snuck off and went home. I stayed a day. Mother and Dad are coming up here this summer to visit old Doc Waters. So I said I would come on and wait for them here. I’ll teach you how to run the boat, Hawkins, after our meeting.”
The meeting was called by our captain, and we all took our places around the table. I told them about our trip down to the island in search of Link and how we had seen Simon Bleaker and his roan pony. I also told them how, when we came back, we saw the Skinny Guy’s launch at our little wharf. And how, when I looked in the window, some little ragamuffin had landed on my head and pulled my hair.
“That sounds,” said our captain, “like as if we might have other enemies to bother us. Did you ever see this ragpicker before, Hawkins?”
“Never,” I said. “He is a new one to me.”
“Might be one of Androfski’s gang,” spoke up Shadow Loomis. “I heard Androfski was up to a lot of tricks in Watertown, and he has a bunch of boys with him again. The sheriff up there is looking for him.”
“How about Stoner’s Boy?” said Jerry Moore. “Don’t forget the old Gray Ghost, fellas. He ain’t been showin’ himself enough for me. I like to see him moving around. When he lays low like this for a long time, you can bet your last nickel he is cooking up something hot for us.”
“Pay your dues and shut up,” said our captain. “Dern if you ain’t always expecting trouble, Jerry. I never seen a fella like you.”
“Alright,” said Jerry. “Don’t pay no attention to me. But wait and see if I ain’t right.”
The boys paid their dime dues, and I marked it down in the book. Bill Darby called them out for a game of ball in the hollow, and they all left except Shadow Loomis and the Skinny Guy and Dick Ferris.
I went back into my little writing room while the other boys sat and talked. I knew what Dick and Shadow wanted. They were waiting for Link to take them down on the big
boat and show them how to run it. And I wanted to go too, but I had to write the minutes first.
Just as I closed my book, I heard the Skinny Guy say, “Well, look who’s here.”
I hurried out through the door curtains. Standing in the door of the meeting room were the twins, Oliver and Harold Court, smiling in at us.
“Hello, fellows,” they cried out together. It made me smile. These boys were so much alike. It was hard to tell the twins apart. When one said hello, the other said it too. They spoke as with one voice.
We all ran to them at once and grabbed their hands and pulled them in. It was good to see the twins, back from their fancy school in Massachusetts. Old times came back to my mind as we sat there and talked. They told us all about their school days and the good times they had and what fine teachers they had and how they enjoyed the sights in the big cities on their way home. Their father had come to the school to take them home, and he had stopped off at all the big cities with them to show them around.
“Too bad,” says the Skinny Guy. “This is the first year we didn’t meet you fellas at the depot.”
“Yes,” spoke up Oliver. “We sort o’ missed you when we stepped off the train.” And he laughed.
Then Oliver had to answer some more questions that the other boys asked. Harold pulled my sleeve, and we walked into my little writing room.
“I’ve been anxious to talk to you,” he said. “I’ve never forgotten the last few days I was here last fall.”
“The Red Runners?” I asked
“Yes; they were an interesting lot, eh what? They had me in a spell, Hawkins—”
“Me, too. I wrote you how they ended.”
“Yes, that was a bully letter, Seck. I’ve read it over fifty times. I call it the ‘Round Up of the Red Runners.’ ” It was, indeed, a great thing for you to do, to trap them with the call of that old brass horn. I suppose you’ve been happy over it ever since.”
“No,” I said slowly. “In a way, and then not so much. There was a sad side to it, Harold. You know what I mean?”
“Harkinson?”
I nodded my head.
“Yeah; too bad he had to go like that Harold.”
“I remember him well—he was not what I would call a good playfellow—too rough. I was afraid of him, Hawkins. I might not have shown it, but that last night—you remember the party on the Skinny Guy’s boat? I was afraid that night. I’ve never forgotten it. Oh boy, but he did make me nervous.”
“He made up with me, Harold,” I said. “He squared himself. And besides, he paid. Believe me, if you had seen him that last day, in the hospital, you would know how he paid. He died a good boy.”
Harold sighed and squeezed my hand as he turned away.
“All right, Seckatary,” he said with a smile. “That is all past and over now. Tell me, what have we this year? I hope this old riverbank hasn’t turned out to be a quiet, uninteresting place at last.”
“Not so you could notice it,” I said, laughing. “We have Stoner’s Boy back with us.”
Harold turned quickly.
“I had forgotten,” he said. “You didn’t write me anything about it, after you found that note on your door. So he has really come back?”
“Yes, and he is as slick as ever. You were the only one who ever caught him, Harold. But he got away from us when you left. But that was two years ago. I bet you won’t be able to hold him now.”
“Maybe,” said Harold. “But I’ll take a chance with him any day. What else?”
“Androfski,” I said. “You will be glad to meet Androfski the Silent.”
“Nice fellow?”
“In his own way,” I said. “Wait till you face him. And then, there’s one slick dude who comes around here by the name of Simon Bleaker. He is the fellow I think you will find the one to be afraid of. He’s smart, Bleaker is. He is a fine-looking chap. I think maybe he went to some fancy school like you and Oliver. He dresses swell.”
At that moment the Skinny Guy stepped into my little office.
“If you fellas want to go along,” he said, “we are goin’ down to my launch on the river. Shadow wants to try his hand at the steering wheel.”
“Let’s go,” said Harold, and off we went.
As we walked down the steps of the clubhouse, a dog came out of the bushes that lined the river path and stared up at us. It was an ugly dog, a cross between a bull and a bloodhound, or something like that. Tell the truth, I couldn’t judge what sort of an animal it was till it barked, and then I knew it must be a dog. He showed his teeth at us and then crossed the path and disappeared in the bushes on the other side.
“Some pup,” said Harold, and we laughed together.
“Seems to me I’ve seen him before,” said Shadow Loomis. “Once you see a dog like that you never forget him.”
“Where’d you see him before, Shadow?” I asked.
Shadow shook his head.
“Dern if I can remember now,” he said.
We walked along the river path but had not gone more than a dozen steps when Perry Stokes ran out to us.
“He’s here, Hawkins,” he said quickly, in a low voice. “The Gray Ghost, sir—Stoner’s Boy. I saw him down by the river looking at the big launch. He had a dog with him, sir.”
“Ah!” I said. “It was Stoner’s dog, fellas. That’s what it was. I might have known Stoner would have such a dog as that—”
“A strange thing,” broke in Shadow Loomis. “Now I recall it—that same dog was up in Watertown—”
“With Stoner’s Boy?” I asked.
“No, with Androfski the Silent,” replied Shadow. “I am sure of it now. Androfski had him.”
We all stopped suddenly and turned. The old brass horn had sounded in the trees behind the clubhouse. At the same time we heard the barking of the dog.
“After him,” said Harold. “Let’s run, Link. See who gets closest to the Gray Ghost—”
“No,” I said, catching Harold’s arm. “Stay here, Harold. Let Stoner go. Unless he bothers us, we are not to go near him.”
I laughed to myself as we walked ahead. I thought of what Oliver said. Why, if Stoner wanted to, he could outwit twice as many boys as we had in our club at one and the same time. Nobody could fool me about Stoner’s Boy. I knew him.
We reached the wharf and stood awhile to look at the beautiful big launch. Never had our old river seen such a magnificent boat as the Cazanova. She looked like a baby ocean liner to me. And spick and span, clean as a whistle, she looked as if she could make one hundred miles an hour.
“Step inside her,” said the Skinny Guy. “Look at her new outfit. We can take a month’s cruise in her now and live like kings. Look at the new bunks my pop put in her, and there’s a fine ice box in the pantry corner.”
Just as we started to board her, we heard the engine start. The boat began to tremble upon the water and strained at the chain that held her.
“Good night!” I yelled. “Somebody is on her, Link.”
The Skinny Guy leaped into the first window he came to. We all followed around the side. When we reached the door, the engine stopped suddenly. Link came up to us with a puzzled look.
“There’s no one here,” he said. “But the engine was going full blast. Somebody must have started her.”
“Look around,” said Harold. “Search the boat.”
Quickly, we scattered to all parts of the launch. It happened that I was to be the one to find the culprit. I came to that pantry corner, where the new ice box had been built. I swung the door open, and something leaped out at me like a cat.
“Grab him!” I yelled. “Here he is, fellas; get his hands out of my hair.”
It was the same little dirty ragamuffin that Perry and I had discovered on the boat the day it arrived at the wharf. He had leaped upon me again, and had twisted his dirty little fingers in my hair. There was something of a monkey about this chap—
They pulled him off. But he took a handful of my hair with him. I brushed
my head as I took a look at him, where the fellas held him by his arms and legs. He kicked and squirmed. But the boys held him still at last.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Wodda you care,” he snapped back, in a high little voice. “Make these fellers let me loose; I bet ya I pull yer hair out.” The boys laughed.
“You pulled enough out already,” I said. “But I ain’t got any hard feelings, little fella. Tell me, what were you trying to do?”
“I kin run this boat,” he snapped, and his eyes flashed. “I was on it first, afore you all come. You ain’t got no right on here. You can’t take this away from me. Let me go.”
“He thinks the boat belongs to the first one that gets on it,” laughed Dick Ferris.
“Take him up to the clubhouse,” I said.
“No,” cried a new voice, sharply, a commanding tone. “Turn him over to me.”
We all turned quickly at the sound of that voice. There, in the door, with a long whip in his hand, stood the handsome figure of Simon Bleaker.
Now, there is something about Bleaker’s voice that nobody likes. It makes you feel that you have to do whatever that voice says. And as soon as he spoke, our boys had let go of the little, dirty ragamuffin, and he took one jump away from them and stooped in a corner, keeping one eye on Simon Bleaker.
The Skinny Guy, as soon as he caught sight of Bleaker, and recognized him, started forward. But Bleaker held up the whip.
“Stand back, big boy,” he said. “This cowhide doesn’t taste very good. Anyway, I’m in a hurry and must be off at once. I only want my little pardner there—come on, McJinty, get up. Hustle.”
The little, dirty one whimpered.
“Get up!”
Bleaker whirled the whip, and the long, white braided cracker sounded like a pistol shot. The dirty kid leaped into the air and, running toward us, knocked Perry Stokes and Oliver down. Bleaker raised the whip again. This time the long end coiled around the bare legs of the dirty, little boy and made him howl. As soon as he felt the lash, he darted past Bleaker and out of the door. I caught a glimpse of him dashing past a window outside.
The Gray Ghost Page 16