“No,” said John Loomis. “Because it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Androfski don’t fight that’a way.”
“That’s it, John,” I said. “What I’m afraid of is that Androfski won’t wait. What’s worrying me is maybe he will come down sooner and sneak up when they ain’t looking and give them what they’re not looking for.”
“He’s here now,” broke in a voice from the door. We all turned quickly. Robby Hood stood there. My heart was beating loudly, for I had thought that Androfski was announcing himself. That’s the way with us boys. We forget the most important things to remember. If I had thought quick enough, I would never have got the idea that Androfski was standing there speaking. For Androfski couldn’t speak. He had no voice. That’s the thing that I did not remember quick enough. You see how easy it is to think when you want to? If I hadn’t let myself be swept away right away by a sudden rush of excitement, I would have thought of the right thing at the first.
“Robby,” I said. “I thought you were at Watertown. Link and Harold are taking the big boat up to get you and Shadow.”
“I know,” laughed Robby. “I passed them half way up. I came down in my homemade launch. Now, about this Androfski business? I heard every word you said. What’s to be done about it?”
“The first thing,” I said, “is to keep it quiet. Don’t let on like we know. But we’ve got to keep close to Harold and Shadow. Don’t let them out of sight after dark.”
“No,” said Robby Hood. “As soon as they come down here, we will have to watch ’em. Old Androfski started out right before me this morning. He had a gray launch, almost like the one Stoner’s Boy uses. Might be the same one for all I know. I kept right on in back of him. Then, when the Skinny Guy’s big boat came in sight, Androfski steered his gray launch under a lot of willows hanging over the water. I don’t think the fellas saw him at all. They yelled at me as I passed. When I turned the bend I looked back, and I saw Androfski come out of his hiding place, and his boat followed me. He’s just about passing our little wharf at this very minute.”
“Time for us to scatter, then,” I said. “Remember, keep Shadow and Oliver in sight when they come. Never let them get away from us. Perry, take the gun and hang around the clubhouse porch. I’m going to write a letter.”
And so the boys scattered. Perry took his gun and went to do what I told him. I sat down and read over a wonderful letter that I had received from the Skinny Guy’s Uncle Lucio and sat down to answer it.
Before I had finished writing, the Skinny Guy’s boat returned, bringing Shadow back. From that moment we kept in close touch with them, to see that they would not run into Androfski before they expected. Nothing happened until Friday night.
* * *
I hurried down the river path alone. It was dark. Perry was waiting for me. He had his rifle. He didn’t say a word. Together we ran down to the path that turned off to the clubhouse. And the first thing that came to tell us that trouble was near was a long blast upon the old brass horn.
“Stoner, sir,” muttered Perry, as we both stopped at a little clump of bushes and crouched in the shadow there. The clubhouse was dark. Not a moving thing did we hear or see. We waited there, holding our breath.
“Where’s Oliver?” I whispered. “And the Rolling Stone?”
“Both are hiding beyond the clubhouse, sir. There have been others here before us. Watch sharp, Hawkins. Look. Coming up from the river, sir.”
Now, when I had heard Stoner’s horn, the first thing I expected to see was the Gray Ghost himself coming up the bank. But no. It was a crawling thing, a little shape that ran on all fours, stopping occasionally for a fraction of a second, then leaping on again like a monkey.
“McJinty!” I muttered.
And it was he. For at that very moment he straightened up on his legs and ran forward to the nearest tree, up which he climbed with such speed that I was fairly astonished. Then, while I still watched the moving branches up in the tree where McJinty had disappeared, Perry touched my arm.
“He has come, sir. Androfski the Silent.”
I saw him. Before Perry spoke, I saw him—the black silhouette against the starry sky atop the ridge of the riverbank. And there was no mistaking who it was. No. Even if that hook nose that looked like the beak of a bird weren’t enough to tell you who it was, the cap on his head with the peak turned to the back would have told you it was Androfski the Silent. And then, too, there was the rifle lying in the crook of his arm as he always carried it. He seemed to appear suddenly on the ridge—and he stood there, silent, waiting.
Almost as quickly came another boy from a dark place in front of the clubhouse—came running to where the silent one stood waiting. It was Shadow Loomis. He stopped within ten feet of Androfski. Androfski turned quickly. In a moment, he had thrown his rifle from him—he would play it fair anyway.
But that’s as far as it went. Yeah. And things happened so quickly after that that I can hardly write them down plain enough for anyone to understand. For as soon as I saw Androfski throw away his gun, I had run out of our hiding place with Perry close behind me. And from some place opposite us came Robby Hood and Oliver Court and the Rolling Stone. I turned my eyes upon them as they came—they yelled and shouted—and when I looked again Androfski had disappeared, and Shadow Loomis stood alone on the ridge, looking at us surprised and angry.
“Can’t I do as I please?” he cried at me. “Can’t I fight my own fights without—”
“Hurry, hurry,” yelled someone coming from the river. “It’s not too late yet, Shadow—”
It was Harold. He stopped, too, when he saw that Shadow was not alone.
“Help! Hawkins, help, help!” From the river came the call. For a second we all stood listening, and then Perry was off, leading us from where the sound came. Lights showed on the Skinny Guy’s big boat, and we could see that the boat was shaking. Before we got to it, however, there was a splash, and we saw two figures hit the water over the stern of the big boat. It seemed an hour, but it was only a minute, until a couple of heads bobbed up—one was the Skinny Guy, for he yelled to me:
“To the clubhouse, Hawkins, fast as you can—don’t mind me now, I’m all right—get to the clubhouse. Jude the Fifth is—”
I didn’t wait for him to tell me what Jude the Fifth was up to. I ran for the clubhouse. Perry, good old trusty Perry Stokes, stuck to me, and as we came in sight of the clubhouse, I saw there was a light inside. There had been no lights a few minutes before. We ran as quickly as our legs would take us, and suddenly I stopped short. Perry ran into me.
“Good heavens, sir,” he stuttered.
“Hush!” I whispered. “Look ahead.”
Ahead of us a figure was hurrying. No mistaking that swift, Silent Boy. It was Androfski. He was heading for the clubhouse. But as he passed under a certain tree, something fell out of the branches, leaped rather, onto his shoulders, and bore him to the ground. In a flash, however, Androfski was up and away again, with an ugly little figure running after him—McJinty. Together they raced for the steps of the clubhouse porch. Up the steps flew Androfski, and McJinty, running now straight and only on his feet, followed close upon his footsteps, and they disappeared into the clubhouse together.
“Come on, Perry,” I said.
“I have the rifle, sir.”
We reached the porch in a few leaps, it seemed. Up the steps I bounded. The front door stood open. The meeting room was dark, but there was a light in my little writing room beyond. Just as we entered somebody went out a side window of the dark meeting room. I didn’t pay any attention to it. I ran for the writing room and pulled back the curtains.
Ah, boy!
It was a shock. For it wasn’t Androfski. No. And it wasn’t McJinty. Nor was it Jude the Fifth. No. None of these. But sitting at my desk, writing in my book with my pen, was the Gray Ghost, Stoner’s Boy!
He looked up quickly as he heard me pull aside the curtains. The lower half of his face was covered with the gray
kerchief. His sharp little eyes just looked me over once. And then, without a word to me, he laid down the pen, closed the book, and made as if he were coming at me. Then, all of a sudden, he ran back and yanked open the little back door, and was gone into the night.
Perry flew to the back door, but I called him sharply, and he closed it and came back.
“ ’Twas him, sir,” he said, under his breath. “Him—Stoner’s Boy, the Gray Ghost, sir.”
“I saw him,” I said. “I know it.”
“Got him, Hawkins?” came from the door, as the Skinny Guy, followed by Shadow and Harold, came in.
“No,” I said. “What do you expect me to do? You never heard me say I would ever capture Stoner’s Boy, did you?”
“Stoner’s Boy?” repeated Link, in surprise.
“You mean Androfski,” spoke up Shadow.
“I expected to find Jude the Fifth, as you said,” I told Link. “Didn’t you say he was the one who pulled you off your boat? Didn’t you tell me he was heading for the clubhouse?”
“Yes, I did,” said Link. “But he wasn’t the one who gave me a soaking. It was Simon Bleaker.”
For a moment, we all looked at one another, silently. Then I went to my desk and opened the book.
“Look,” I said. “Stoner’s Boy was here, and wrote this in my book. Read it, Perry.”
Perry read:
It ain’t no use for you boys to try to fool me. You tried it too many times now already and you won’t ever do it, but if you don’t lay off me you will be sorry, and—
“That’s all, sir.”
Perry closed the book. We all stood there, like dummies, no one knowing what to say. The Rolling Stone broke the silence.
“Shadow,” he said. “Next time you want to coax some fella up here to fight, let us all in on it, and things won’t git mixed up so bad as this. I don’t know who I was runnin’ after now. I thought it was Androfski, but dern if I don’t think maybe it was that Stoney fella.”
“Or Simon Bleaker,” added Link.
“It don’t matter,” I said. “We ain’t goin’ to let those fellas think they can scare us.” I walked over to where Lew Hunter sat on the organ bench. “Lew,” I said. “Play us some music and we will sing ‘Home, Sweet Home’ before we go.”
Which we did.
CHAPTER 24
The Gray Ghost Escapes
IT didn’t matter much whether it was Jude or Stoner or Bleaker or Androfski who came to our riverbank; each one brought trouble with him always. And after that wild night on which Androfski the Silent had come up to fight Shadow, as he had been invited to do, there was a great deal of talk in the clubhouse at every meeting. How was it, asked Bill Darby, that each one of us had seen a different fellow that night? Perry and I had seen Androfski the Silent; so had Shadow. Link said it was Jude the Fifth who ran for the clubhouse, while Simon Bleaker had held him on the boat, off which they both tumbled into the river. And I know that I followed Androfski into our clubhouse—not Jude the Fifth. McJinty was running behind Androfski as they entered. I heard McJinty go out of a side window as I entered; and then I had run into the little writing room in back, but it wasn’t Androfski the Silent. No, the Gray Ghost—Stoner’s Boy was there.
Now all these things set me to thinking again of what I had thought early last spring, that somebody was playing a double role. Had I really followed Androfski? Was it he who had leaped into the clubhouse with McJinty at his heels? And if so, had Androfski quickly changed his disguise and put on the clothes which made him Stoner’s Boy in a few seconds? Who could tell me the answer to my questions? Who could tell me what part Simon Bleaker was playing? Where had Three-Finger Fred been while all this was going on? Good night, I said to myself, this is too much of a puzzle for me.
Then, one morning after the meeting, while I was writing in my little office as usual, there came the sound of a jolly laugh from the porch, and I jumped out of my chair—I knew that laugh. Never would I forget the jolly little Englishman—
“Hello, Hawkins.”
“Will Standish, sure enough,” I said. “Glad to see you, boy. Put ’er there, kid.”
Yeah, it was Will Standish. He had come. He had written he would come, and here he was, all the way from Cuba.
“I just got in a bit of a while ago, Hawkins, old top,” he said. “I could hardly wait till I came down and saw this old place again; had lots of fun here last summer. Been thinking about those good times ever since I went away.”
“Where you stayin’, Will?” I asked.
“Doc Waters is putting me up,” he said with a grin. “I don’t know a soul I like better than Doc. Say, wasn’t he a prince to us down in Cuba?”
“He’s a swell fella,” I said. “We couldn’t get along without Doc Waters. I’m glad you’re stayin’ with him. Some other folks are comin’ to visit him, too, Link’s pop and—”
“They are there now,” broke in Will Standish. “They drove all the way from Lexington—and say, wait till you see their swell motor car. It’s pippin. Plenty of money, eh, Hawkins?”
“Cazanova money,” I said, smiling. “You know, Will. You used to live right next to the old Cazanova plantation in Cuba.”
“Yes, I only left there less than a week ago,” said Will. “And I’m glad that I’m not going back. But the Cazanova has been making good since Uncle Lucio took hold of it, Hawkins. He was my best friend down there, and he’s the only reason I hated to leave. He told me to be sure and see you and tell you that he has not forgotten the exciting time you and he had through that underground place—when you got lost under the sea.”
I nodded and smiled. My thoughts flew back to more than a year ago, when, down in that little island country, Uncle Lucio and I had spent a night with a Spanish guide, Valdez, in the hollow places under the rocks of Cazanova. I shivered a little at the thought—
“Glad those days are gone, Will,” I said. “I have better times right here on the old riverbank. And just as exciting, too. There are some fellas—”
“I know,” he said. “There was that when I was here last summer. That jolly old Harkinson—”
I held up my hand.
“He’s gone. I wrote you about that,” I said softly.
Will nodded. He walked to the window and looked out.
“There is the old cliff where he laid for Link and me. Yonder is the rocky point from which he leaped into the river. He was a strange boy—that Harkinson. Too bad he had to go that way, Hawkins. I would have liked to meet him again.”
I did not want to talk any more about Harkinson.
“You will find others just as strange,” I said. “We have a few here who will make your hair stand up straight on a dark night. You never know what they are up to, and when you do, you can never tell what they’re goin’ to do next.”
Will Standish turned around quickly. There was a new light in his eyes.
“Ah, have you now?” he asked, as he came toward me. “New foes, Hawkins, and will they come, do you think, today?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “They might come most anytime, Will.”
But they didn’t come that day. Nor the next, or the next. In fact, it seemed to me that Will’s coming had something to do with the fact that all of our enemies kept away from our riverbank. Not that I was sorry about that. Not a bit. Because we had some good days together, and all of the boys liked Will Standish and were glad he was back. Jerry Moore and Will got to be very good friends. In fact, they always stood together. And we had some real ball games, I tell you. Will Standish is a pitcher with a curve that no one can figure out, and someday, if he wants to, he is going to be one of the best pitchers in the baseball business.
And then there was Abner—old Abner Green, the darkey servant whom I had met in Cuba and who used to work for Will Standish’s father. He had come back with us and would not return to Cuba when Will Standish had to go back. And so he had been given a job by Link’s father, and for them he had worked ever since. He ca
me down to see us—driving a big motor car that looked like a million dollars. It was such a big automobile that our little roads were too narrow for it. He stopped the machine away off from our clubhouse and yelled to me. I went over quickly when I saw who it was, and the old darkey’s face was lit up with smiles as he shook my hand.
“Abner,” I said to him. “When you goin’ back to Cuba?”
“No more Cooba fer dis yere black man,” he said, and the grin went from his face. “Say, Mister Seckatary, caint yo’ talk erbout su’thin’ pleasant? I jes’ come down to tell youse su’thin’ nice. Mister Lambert done tole me I should come down and say to yo’ dat dis yere ottermobill is your’n when you boys wants to use it, and I is got instruck’tins to drive yo’ fallers anywhar’ yo’ wants t’ go, I is.”
Well, this was a nice piece of news, to be sure. But I didn’t want the boys to start joy riding just yet, so I told Abner to take the machine back and I would send for him when I needed it. That was a little selfish on my part maybe, because the boys might have liked to ride. But I knew they were better off down here in the hollow playing ball and fishing in the stream, and I also thought that maybe a time would come when we could really make good use of the big motor car.
And then once more came Stoner’s Boy and threw our camp into a state of great excitement. It was about ten days after Will Standish had been with us. The Skinny Guy was the first to bring in the news.
“I saw him, Hawkins,” he said, excitedly, “and so did Harold and Shadow. He thought he would get past without being seen. He was in the gray launch—maybe it’s a new launch, because you can hardly hear the motor.”
“Which way did he go?” I asked.
“Down the river, toward the old wrecked steamboat. I’ll bet you he is there. I got a notion it’s one of his hiding places, the old wreck on the riverbank at Hobbs’s Ferry.”
“Come on, Hawkins,” broke in Will Standish. “I’d like to get a look at him, anyway.”
The Gray Ghost Page 19