The Red Chipmunk Mystery (13 page)

“That’s so, but to-night, when I pick up Socker, we’ll hit a couple more?” Cannonball asked anxiously.

“Anything you want to-night, Dannie,” Mr. Scissors said.

Every one waved his hand at the white car as it shot down the valley road leaving a cloud of dust behind it. Old Blade looked after the white car and wrinkled his nose as though to say, “Well, thank goodness,
that’s
over!” And Champ took his paws off his ears where he was lying under the wagon.

After that, Socker wanted to see everything in the wagon and on top of it. Buddy and Djuna had almost as much fun showing the stuff to him as they had had when Mr. Scissors showed
them
over the wagon. Finally, Mr. Scissors said they’d have to get started because he wanted to cover all of the farmhouses on the way to Ferry Crossing, and also the little hamlet itself, before they camped for the night.

It was late in the afternoon before Djuna and Socker Furlong had an opportunity to talk alone together. They had come to a pretty steep hill and Socker looked at it ruefully and said, “This one I think I better take under my own power.”

“I guess I’ll walk along with you, if it’s all right,” Djuna said.

“Glad to have you, pal,” Socker said, and he climbed laboriously to the ground after Mr. Scissors had halted Old Blade. They fell in behind the wagon, walking slowly so they wouldn’t overtake Old Blade as he plodded up the hill looking very sad indeed.

“How did you happen to come over this way, Mr. Furlong?” Djuna asked, after he had told in some detail about meeting Buddy and Mr. Scissors.

“I’m still on that same story Canavan gave me the day you left,” Socker said. “Don’t you remember Ben Franklin said he wanted to put me on to a tip he’d had about two escaped convicts?”

“They—they really escaped then?” Djuna asked, and something in his voice caused Socker to look at him quickly.

“Yeah. Why? What’s on your mind, kid?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Djuna said slowly. “Do the police think they came over this way?”

“The police think so, but I don’t,” Socker said. “They strung out a cordon, that’s a line, of men, around the location where they were last seen definitely, and I don’t think there was any way they could have got through it.”

“Well, a funny thing happened, Mr. Furlong,” Djuna said, and he told Socker about the footprints he had found outside their camp the previous morning, and about the two men who had created havoc with Mr. Scissors’ wagon the evening before when he had been watching it.

“I don’t know, Djuna,” Socker said, when he had finished. “I’m inclined to think that Mr. Scissors was right. That you heard a couple of cows crashing around outside your camp. Of course, there’s no denying that a couple of men went through Mr. Scissors’ wagon like a locomotive through a glass factory, but that doesn’t prove anything. Can you give me a description of them?”

“One of them,” Djuna said, “was tall and lean and had a thin, nasty face. He seemed to be the leader of the two. The other one was short and heavy and looked a little cross-eyed. He—–”

“Say! Maybe you’ve got something there, kid!” Socker said, and Djuna was amazed because it was the first time he had ever seen Socker Furlong excited. “Were they—–”

“Oh, wait a minute, Mr. Furlong!” Djuna said, and there was excitement in his voice, too. “I forgot to tell you that the day I lost my wallet, when Champ and I were about half-way to Dean’s Mills, a black sedan came by us and almost ran over us. I was out near the edge of the road jerking my thumb back and forth but they didn’t even look at me, they were going so fast. I was afraid they were going to hit Champ and jerked him back so hard we both fell in a brook.” Djuna snickered at the memory, and Socker laughed with him.

“But what do they have to do with the men who went through Mr. Scissors’ wagon?” Socker asked.

“They were the same ones!” Djuna said. “I recognised them, and the car they were driving, right away.”

“
O-o-h!
” Socker said, and he shook his head. “That let’s them out, kid. The two escaped convicts were definitely in another part of the state that day, and they had no car. I think they’re still hiding out some place in that same section.” Socker rumpled Djuna’s hair with his hand and added, “I thought you’d come up with something again, chum.”

“But, Mr. Furlong,” Djuna said, and then he stopped as he happened to remember what Mr. Scissors had said about not frightening Joan. “Don’t say anything to Mr. Scissors about any of this, please,” he said, “at least not in front of Joan, because he’s afraid it might frighten her.”

“Well, he’s right,” Socker said. “Those men who went through his wagon were probably a couple of thieves who saw that you were the only one there and decided to go through it in the hope they’d find some money.”

“But, Mr. Furlong,” Djuna said, “they acted as though they were
looking
for
something
.”

“Look, kid,” Socker said, and he looked as though he doubted his own judgment when he said it. “Once before I told you not to let your imagination run away with you. I ought to know better than to tell you the same thing again, but I’m going to. Forget it. You’re having a good time with Mr. Scissors, aren’t you?”

“Gosh, Mr. Furlong,” Djuna said. “I don’t remember
any
time I ever had so much fun before!”

“All right, then,” Socker said, but he still looked doubtful. “Forget it, and have all the fun you can. It’ll only last for a couple more days.”

“Okay,” Djuna said, and just then Mr. Scissors brought Old Blade to a halt to give him a rest and put a brake on the wheels, so Socker and Djuna went over to sit on a stone wall beside the road.

They had no more than found a comfortable stone to sit on when a pair of chipmunks came dancing out on the stone wall and stood looking them over while they preened themselves.

“Gosh,” Djuna said, as he watched the chipmunks. “Just before that car came along that nearly ran over Champ and me, I was watching a couple of chipmunks on a stone wall and a man who was a gamekeeper came along. We watched them together for a few minutes and he told me all about how smart they are and how they build their burrows under the ground.”

“They’re smart little rascals from what I’ve heard about them,” Socker said. “I remember that they build their burrows so that … now, let’s see, just how was it?”

“So that they have two entrances and exits,” Djuna supplied. “Then if anything comes in one entrance they can escape by the other one. That’s what I was thinking about those two convicts, Mr. Furlong. If chipmunks are smart enough to build an extra entrance to escape, maybe those men are just as smart. Perhaps that’s the way they got out of the section where you think they still are.”

For an instant Socker Furlong looked startled, and then his engaging grin spread across his plump face and he said, “Look, old kid,
forget
it. Enjoy yourself!”

“Okay, Mr. Furlong,” Djuna said. But any one looking at him would have known as well as he did that he wasn’t going to forget it.

MR. SCISSORS DISAPPEARS!

T
ROOPER
M
C
G
INTY
brought his white car to a halt with a screech of brakes right beside the spot where Mr. Scissors had built the evening camp-fire where he always camped—near the valley road about half a mile beyond Ferry Crossing. Socker Furlong, who had been forced to walk the last half-mile because of the increasingly hilly country west of Ferry Crossing, was sitting on a log wiping his face with a handkerchief. He waved the handkerchief feebly at Trooper McGinty and said, “Boy! Am I glad to see you! I was just shuddering at the thought that I might have to walk all the way to Riverton.”

“It would do you good,” Trooper McGinty said.

“Hallo, Dannie,” Mr. Scissors said. “You’re just in time for supper. You might give the boys a hand with them wands there. Socker don’t seem to be much help; he’s pretty well played out.”

“Okay,” the trooper said, and he reached for one of the bundles of straight branches over which the two boys had been working. Each branch was about five or six feet long, three-fourths of an inch in diameter at the base and tapering to the size of a lead pencil. Both Buddy and Djuna had been busy removing the bark from about two feet of the smaller ends and sharpening the tips. “Looks to me like a brigand steak,” the trooper added, as he got out his knife and went to work.

“Right you are, Dannie,” Mr. Scissors said. “Always have ’em when we camp here. There’s a nice stand of young sugar maples over there that are just right for wands.”

“
Gee!
What do you suppose a bri—bri—
that
kind of a steak is?” Buddy whispered. Djuna didn’t answer, because he was wondering too.

When all the wands were ready they took them over to Mr. Scissors, who was working with Joan on the bread boards on top of the mess boxes. In front of them was a large pile of thin steak about a half-inch thick and cut into squares of about one and one-half inches; a pile of sliced onions, and a pile of bacon cut in thin squares.

“Now,” Mr. Scissors said with a chuckle, “everybody gather round and fix his own steak.” They waited while Socker got up and tottered over beside them. “You take a piece of steak, like this, and spear it on the point and push it down about eighteen inches,” Mr. Scissors went on. “Then you put on a slice of onion the same way—a little cookin’ takes the conceit right out of an onion—then you put a slice of bacon on top of that, then you start over again until you’ve filled up the whole eighteen inches.”

When they all had their wands filled Mr. Scissors put a large stone over on one side of the fire to rest the tips of the maple branches on, and then he showed them all how to rotate the wand slowly over the fire while the meat and onions roasted.

“Of course when the brigands used to make these they didn’t have time to wait for a good bed of coals,” Mr. Scissors explained. “They used to start cookin’ ’em as soon as the fire was started. But they’re a mite too smoky for me, that way. They’re just what your Uncle Dudley ordered this way.”

While the steaks were roasting Trooper McGinty pulled Buddy off to one side and said, “I saw your parents. They were pretty relieved to hear that you were all right and agreed to let you stay with Mr. Scissors until he reaches Farmholme. I told them I’d see that you got home all right from there.”

“
Jeepers!
” said Buddy. “Thanks a lot, Mr. McGinty.”

“That’s all right,” the trooper said, “but next time let your parents know what you’re going to do.”

“Oh, I
will
!” Buddy said earnestly.

A few minutes later, when they began to eat the brigand steaks, Socker Furlong began to groan. After he had groaned half a dozen times Mr. Scissors chuckled and said, “What’s the matter, are you in pain, Socker?”

“
Pain!
” Socker said. “Those are moans of joy! I never ate anything as good in my life before.” Buddy and Djuna didn’t say anything. They had been taught not to talk with their mouths full.

After dinner was all over and everything cleaned up, Mr. Scissors put a little more wood on the fire and got out his accordion. And there, in the flicker of the firelight, with the stars and the moon shining bright overhead, and Mr. Scissors bringing magic out of his accordion, they sang almost everything they had ever heard of.

Trooper McGinty sang one in which at the end of each verse he did a kind of crooked and waggling strut, chanting:

All of them almost died of laughter each time he did it. And Mr. Scissors sang and played “The Old Grey Mare” until Old Blade whinnied at him to ask him, please, to stop. Joan sang, “Pop! Goes the Weasel” five or six times, and Socker Furlong had them all rolling on the ground when he sang and acted one that ended:

At ten o’clock Mr. Scissors looked at his big, round watch and said, “Boys, that’s all there is, there isn’t any more. If I play one more piece I won’t have the strength to sharpen nothin’ to-morrow.”

A few minutes later, just as Socker climbed into the white car with Cannonball McGinty, he shouted hoarsely, “Cannonball is going to bring me over to find you in the morning. Good-night, everybody!”

“Good-night!” they all shouted after them, and twenty minutes later they were all sound asleep in the wagon.

The sun was hanging high overhead when Old Blade pulled the blue and red wagon around a bend and trotted down the sloping road on the way to Rocky Hill. Mr. Scissors and the boys had been working steadily since they had left their camping place outside Ferry Crossing that morning. Every place they stopped there was something that needed sharpening.

“’Pears to me,” Mr. Scissors chuckled, “that every one along this stretch has been usin’ their tools to cut stones with.”

At the foot of the slope they crossed a tiny wooden bridge over the overflow from a pond that sparkled clean and bright in the morning sunshine. Red-winged blackbirds chattered in the marsh along its banks and a little green heron tucked its orange legs under it as it rose from the edge of the marsh.

“Well, boys,” Mr. Scissors said as he looked at the long, steep hill ahead of them, “now we begin to do a little leg work. We’ll all start walkin’ at the foot of the hill yonder. About half-way up there’s a slag pile beside the old slate quarry where we always give Old Blade a rest.”

“What kind of a slate quarry, Mr. Scissors?” Buddy asked.

“Why,” Mr. Scissors said, and he scratched his chin, “I didn’t know there was more’n one kind. It’s just a slate quarry where they used to get slate for roofs ‘n’ things like that. Ain’t been worked in more’n forty years. Joan’ll show it to you, but you want to be mighty careful you don’t slip into one of the big holes where they used to take out the slate.”

“Why don’t they get slate there now?” Djuna asked.