The Black Dog Mystery (16 page)

“I’m coming, too,” said Tommy.

They marched forward. But before they had taken two steps, the little black dog came flying back around the bend in the path, running as hard as he could, as if something were chasing him. He hurled himself into Djuna’s arms and wiggled with joy, trying to lick Djuna’s face over and over.

Djuna and Tommy didn’t wait to see what had frightened him. Carrying Champ with them, they hurried back along the way they had come, until they had left both the haunted house and Les’ Sedd’s shack far behind them. Not until they reached the path leading around Lost Pond did they pause for breath.

“Say, Djuna, do you believe in ghosts?” were Tommy’s first words.

“Course not,” said Djuna sharply. “There aren’t any such things!”

“Well, neither do I,” said Tommy hesitatingly. “But that’s the way Champ acted—he acted just like he’d seen a ghost!”

Djuna was silent for a few moments, as they trudged on through the woods by the lake.

“I don’t believe it,” he said at last. “But maybe
dogs
can. Nobody knows about dogs.”

“Gee whizz!” said Tommy in an awed voice. “Do you suppose Champ really saw something?”

Djuna walked along in silence. “Well, nobody can ever find out,” he said finally. “Say, what made you say that house is haunted?”

“Well, Mr. Pindler said so,” Tommy insisted. “I heard him.”

“When did he say so?” demanded Djuna. “
I
never heard him say anything about a haunted house.”

“Oh, it was a long time ago,” said Tommy. “I forgot to tell you. It was one time when I was there in the store, and Mr. Pindler was telling stories with Mr. Johnson and Mr. Sedd, about haunted houses an’ everything. And Mr. Pindler said, ‘Well, there’s a good old haunted house over by your place, Les’,’ and then they all laughed. And I asked Mr. Pindler where it was, and I guess he was going to tell me, but then Mr. Boots came in and wanted to buy something, and they got to talking about something else, and I had to go home. And I asked my mother if she knew where it was, and she said she didn’t know anything about it, and she said not to listen to stories about haunted houses. But I’ll bet that’s the house, all right!”

“I’m going to ask Mr. Boots about it,” said Djuna. “He’ll prob’ly know.”

“Sure!” said Tommy eagerly. “We’ll ask him!”

But even as he spoke, Djuna miserably remembered the last time he had tried to talk to Mr. Boots. Would he ever again be able to talk to him, as he once had? Would they
ever
have any more good times together?

A lump rose in his throat as he remembered all the pleasant hours he had spent with Mr. Boots and realized that they might never be repeated. Hours when he stood at the old man’s side at the long work-bench in the little carpenter shop, watching Mr. Boots make wonderful things—the wooden bench that he made for Miss Annie, and that still stood at her kitchen door; a little ship, with masts and sails, that he had made for Tommy; all sorts of things!—while all around them was the good sweet smell of fresh pine shavings.

Even when he and Tommy had got back to Edenboro, and had said “So long!” to each other at Tommy’s doorstep, and Djuna had gone on home, he could not drive Mr. Boots from his unhappy thoughts.

When he had finished his supper, he got a book and read for a long while, hoping that the book would make him forget his worries. It grew dark, Miss Annie lit the lamps, and he read a little longer. But it was no use. He grew more and more restless, and found himself staring at the page without seeing the words printed there. He jumped up and put the book back on its shelf.

“I guess I’ll take a little walk, Miss Annie,” he said slowly. “I think I’ll go over and talk to Mr. Boots for a little while.”

Miss Annie looked up from her own book and nodded. “That will be nice,” she smiled. “Put out the lights when you come in. I’ll probably be in bed before you get back.”

Djuna wandered slowly through the darkness out-of-doors. Champ was already asleep in his box. Djuna turned the corner by the store and came in sight of the old man’s little house. He could see Mr. Boots standing in the doorway, outlined by the light of the lamp over the work-bench. He was about to call out to him, when the old man turned and went back into his shop, pausing at the bench to turn down the lamp and blow it out. The ground floor of the little house was plunged in darkness.

But at that same instant, startling Djuna by its unexpectedness, a faint light appeared at the
attic
window! Djuna gasped. Someone up there in Mr. Boots’s attic had struck a match, was holding its flame to a cigarette as he paused near the window. For one swift second, Djuna could see the man’s face as he held the match, and then—darkness again. Whoever it was, it was not Mr. Boots, Djuna was sure! The old man was still downstairs. He had not had time to climb the stairs, nor even time to step from his work-bench to the stairway leading to the attic! No, there was someone else in the house, besides the old man—some man who was hiding!

A man in hiding! One thought, and only one, rushed through Djuna’s mind like a dreadful wind.
Mr. Boots was hiding a criminal!

D
JUNA WAS
staggered by that dreadful thought.

The recollection of the strange nervousness that Mr. Boots had shown ever since the day of the bank robbery—yes, beginning with the night
before
the bank robbery—rushed over him and overwhelmed him with horror.

It flashed over him that it had begun at that very moment when Mr. Boots had been handed that letter, in Mr. Pindler’s store. Mr. Boots had opened it, read it, had rushed away immediately. That very night he had driven away on some mysterious errand to Riverton. He had not come back at all that night. The next morning, the bank was robbed; and still Mr. Boots had not come home. How queerly he had acted when Tommy and Djuna had told him about the robbery! How nervous and frightened he had been, ever since! No one knew, even yet, where the three robbers were hiding. Was it possible that Mr. Boots, even though he had not actually taken part in the robbery, had helped to plan it? Had he helped the three men to escape, afterwards? Was one of those three men, right at this very minute, hiding in Mr. Boots’s house? Had Mr. Boots kept him hidden there in the attic ever since the robbery? What else could explain the nervousness that Mr. Boots had shown whenever Djuna had come to see him?

Djuna’s heart almost burst with grief. All that day he had been trying to convince himself that nothing was really wrong with Mr. Boots. But what could he say now? If Mr. Boots was giving shelter to a criminal, wasn’t he equally guilty?

All this rushed through his mind as he stood there staring, horrified, at the dark window which had flickered for that one dreadful instant with the light of the match. He could bear it no longer. Gritting his teeth to keep from screaming aloud, he hurried home, his knees trembling beneath him.

In the shelter of his own room, he wondered miserably if he ought to go at once to Miss Annie and tell her what he had seen, and what he suspected. But Miss Annie had already gone to bed, and he shrank from waking her. He put out his light and tried to go to sleep. But it was a long time before he dropped off to sleep, for his troubled thoughts raced around and around in his brain, feverishly. Try as he might, he could not decide what to do, and yet he knew that he must do something quickly. Ought he to go straight to Mr. Boots the next morning and beg him to confess? Ought he to tell Miss Annie and Mr. Pindler and ask them to tell the police at Clinton? What was right? How could he
ever
bring himself to betray his good old friend, whose heart would break if he were taken to prison? He could
never
do that! Lying there in the dark, Djuna tossed and tumbled, tortured with his thoughts. At last, worn out, he fell into a sleep tormented by unhappy dreams.

Morning came at last, bright with sunshine, but Djuna’s heart was still heavy. Miss Annie glanced at him anxiously as he sat down at the breakfast table.

“Why, Djuna, you look as pale as a ghost!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you feel well?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” mumbled Djuna. “I didn’t sleep much, I guess.”

“You haven’t got a headache, have you?” asked Miss Annie anxiously, putting her hand on his forehead. “Your head feels a little hot. I think I’d better take your temperature.”

Djuna protested that he didn’t feel sick, but Miss Annie got the thermometer and studied it anxiously after he had held it in his mouth.

“No,” she said, looking relieved, “it’s just normal. Go ahead and eat your breakfast, but if I were you I’d take it easy today. You’ve been doing too much these last few days. Why don’t you rest a little, this morning?”

Djuna insisted that he didn’t feel tired, but after he had eaten a little of his breakfast he found that he didn’t have any appetite for the rest of it. Pushing back his plate, he went out-doors, fed Champ, and then started off, with the little black dog following him. There was a worried look on Miss Annie’s face as she watched him walk slowly away, his head bent, his hands plunged in his pockets.

“Poor boy,” she murmured to herself, “he’s got something on his mind. I
wish
he’d tell me what’s worrying him!”

But Djuna had been unable to make up his mind. Even now, he had not been able to decide what was the right thing to do. Slowly he walked toward Mr. Pindler’s. Perhaps, he thought miserably, he would have the courage to ask Mr. Pindler’s advice.

But he never reached the store. Clarabelle Smith was sitting on the steps of her uncle’s house, and as Djuna came slowly closer she hailed him.

“Hey, Djuna! Come on over!” she shouted. “I want to tell you something!”

Djuna crossed the road and walked slowly up the path to her house. “What about?” he asked, as he reached the steps.

“Well, where were you and Tommy yesterday afternoon?” Clarabelle began. “I looked all over for you.”

“Oh, we just went over to Lost Pond for a while,” said Djuna. “Why?”

“Well, you missed something,” said Clarabelle. “I couldn’t find you, and Tommy’s mother said she didn’t know where you’d gone, so I went over to Mr. Johnson’s farm, to see if you were there, maybe. And I’ll bet you can’t guess what
I
saw!”

“What?” said Djuna. “I’ll bet you didn’t see
any
thing.”

“I did too!” said Clarabelle. “I saw a woodchuck!”

Djuna laughed, for the first time that day. “Well, what of it?” he demanded. “There’s
millions
of woodchucks around here.
That’s
nothing.”

Clarabelle’s face fell. “Well,
I
never saw one before,” she said. “He was sweet. I’m going to paint a picture of him for my memory book!”

She spread a newspaper out on the top step, and on this she had placed her box of water-color paints, her drawing-tablet, and a tumbler of fresh water.

“See?” she said, holding up the picture for Djuna to look at. “Isn’t he funny-looking?”

She had already drawn the picture in pencil, and it was a very good one. The woodchuck was standing up on a little mound in the middle of the pasture, with his little paws pressed against his chest, and his little bright eyes looking right at you.

“First I’m going to paint the grass,” said Clarabelle, “and then I’m going to put in a blue sky. Want to watch me?”

Djuna moved up to the top step and sat down, resting his chin on his hands. He was perfectly willing to sit and think for a while, while Clarabelle painted. He was in no hurry to go on to Mr. Pindler’s store. He dreaded what might happen when he told Mr. Pindler about the man hiding in Mr. Boots’s attic. Champ didn’t agree. He waited a while, and then wandered off by himself.

Clarabelle opened the paint-box, selected a brush, dipped it in the water, and with the tip of the brush moistened the lozenge of green paint nested in the box. She dabbed a little on the inside of the paint-box lid, which was of white enamel, and looked at it thoughtfully, puckering her lips.

“I don’t think that’s just the right shade of green,” she muttered. “It’s too dark. That grass out in the pasture where the woodchuck was didn’t look like that.”

“Didn’t look like what?” asked Djuna, bending over to see.

“Like this,” explained Clarabelle, pointing to the green paint in the box. “It’s so dark green, it’s almost black. There was sun on the grass out in the pasture. It was almost yellow. It wasn’t this color at all.”

Djuna looked quickly at her, with new interest and respect. He liked to use his eyes and to notice things, but he had never bothered especially to notice that one kind of green might be different from another kind of green. To discover that Clarabelle was so observing was a surprise, a surprise that made him a little ashamed of the way he had made fun of her just because she had never seen a woodchuck before.

“Oh,
I
see,” he said. “But what can you do about it? That’s the only kind of green you’ve got, isn’t it?”

“Well, I can make some,” said Clarabelle.

“Make some?” Djuna exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

Clarabelle pretended to be surprised. “Why,
anybody
knows that! All you have to do is to make it to suit yourself. Look, I’ll show you.”

She washed the green paint off the brush, and then took up some yellow paint on the end of the brush and smeared a spot of it on the white enamel lid. Then she washed off the yellow paint left on the brush and dipped the brush in blue. Carefully she touched the blue to the yellow. Immediately the two colors blended together and made a green—not a dark green, like the one in the paint-box, but a bright yellowish green.

“See?” said Clarabelle triumphantly. “That’s the sort of green I wanted.
That’s
the way grass looks when the sun shines on it! But if I wanted to make it darker, all I’d have to do would be to mix some more blue with the yellow. But this is just right, I guess.”

“For Pete’s sake!” exclaimed Djuna, admiringly. “That’s swell!”

Clarabelle began to paint the grass in her picture, mixing more blue and yellow paint together whenever she needed some more green, and Djuna watched her, thinking hard all the time. He hadn’t been able to forget Mr. Boots, even while he was talking to her.