The Black Dog Mystery (11 page)

“She’s over at Mrs. Pindler’s,” whispered Tommy. “But we can go out back of the woodshed. Gee, what happened?”

They crouched down behind the woodshed and Djuna related every detail of his morning adventure, while Tommy listened wide-eyed, with frequent exclamations.

“And what I’m wondering about now,” concluded Djuna, “is how, if they hadn’t been in Clinton before, did they find out about everything? How did they know where that back road is, so they could get back to Riverton?”

“Gee!” exclaimed Tommy, “that’s right! How
could
they?”

“Well, that’s what I’ve got to work out,” said Djuna, frowning. “But, shucks, what’s the use? Let’s go fishing tomorrow, shall we?”

“Swell!” exclaimed Tommy. Then his face fell. “Oh, gee, I can’t, tomorrow,” he said ruefully. “My mother said I have to go and get my hair cut tomorrow. Oh, gosh!”

“Well, as soon as you get back, come on over to Lost Pond,” said Djuna. “We can use Mr. Boots’s boat, prob’ly. I’ll go over and ask him.”

They filled two tomato cans with worms and earth and Djuna carried them home with him so that he wouldn’t lose any time in the morning.

It was still daylight when he had finished his supper. He took the bottle of turpentine and the scrubbing-brush that Mr. Boots had left behind, and went down to the old man’s shop. Mr. Boots was sitting at his doorstep, smoking his pipe. As he saw Djuna coming along the path he got up hastily, went indoors, and at once reappeared.

“Somethin’ you wanted, Djuna?” he asked in a tired voice, as Djuna reached the door. “I was just about to climb into bed early. Ain’t feelin’ so spry tonight. Oh, that’s my turps you got there, hey? Much obleeged to ye, much obleeged to ye.”

Djuna sensed that Mr. Boots didn’t feel like talking much. “I just came over to ask you if I could use your boat tomorrow,” he said.

“Oh, sure, sure!” said the old man. “You know where it is, over to the pond. Here, I’ll get the oars for ye.”

He left Djuna standing at the doorsill, hurriedly fetched the oars from a corner of the shop, and handed them to him eagerly.

“That’s all you wanted, was it?” he asked. “Well, good luck to ye! Hope you catch a big one! Goodnight, goodnight!”

Djuna thanked him, put the oars on his shoulder, and walked home slowly. He was puzzled and worried. What was the matter with Mr. Boots? He had promised Djuna to lend him his fishing-rod, and now he seemed to have forgotten all about that promise, and Djuna hadn’t wanted to remind him of it. Well, he would just have to do the best he could, without it. There was a pile of old branches beside the road, left over from an old hickory tree that had been cut down the year before, and Djuna stopped on his way home and selected a long slender branch from the pile, from which to make a pole. He trimmed the twigs off. It wasn’t very good, but it would have to do.

And then he went to bed. He was very tired.

E
ARLY THE NEXT
morning, Djuna and Champ started for Lost Pond.

Lost Pond was shaped like the letter H. It was really made up of two narrow ponds, side by side, with a strip of shallow water connecting them in the middle. The road from Edenboro ended at an old gravel pit near the upper left-hand corner of the H, and it was at that corner of the pond that Mr. Boots kept his rowboat. Les’ Sedd’s tumbledown house was at the lower right-hand corner, half a mile away.

Djuna put his home-made fishing-rod and cans of bait into the bottom of the boat, stepped in, untied the mooring rope from the post, and, putting the oar against the post, gave a push that sent the boat out into deeper water. Then he picked up the other oar and began to row to the middle of the lake. Champ stood in the bow of the boat and looked ahead as if he thought he was Christopher Columbus himself.

Except for the creaking of the oars in the oar-locks and the dripping of the water that ran down from their blades as Djuna lifted them, there wasn’t a sound. Nobody else was out fishing that morning, and the woods all around the pond were very still.

Djuna rowed for only a little while and then couldn’t wait any longer before beginning to fish. He put down the oars. “Now,” he said to Champ, “I’ll show you how to catch a good big fish for dinner.”

Champ wriggled a little, to show his approval, but stayed where he was. Djuna baited his hook with a good fat worm, threw his line out as far as it would go, and sat there waiting, while the boat drifted slowly. But there wasn’t a nibble.

A half an hour went by while Djuna threw his line out again and again, but without any results. The boat drifted slowly toward the marsh grass and cattails that lined the shore, and Djuna took up the oars and rowed again to the middle of the pond. The sun grew hotter. Champ began to wiggle impatiently, and Djuna had to tell him to keep quiet. Champ lay down in the bottom of the boat, with a grunt of protest, and put his chin on his paws. He didn’t think fishing was much fun.

Little by little, the boat drifted toward the channel connecting the first pond with the second, and still there was no luck. The fish just weren’t biting. As they got opposite the channel, Djuna looked over in that direction. The trees were taller over there and threw their shadows farther out across the water. “Let’s go over there, Champ,” said Djuna hopefully. “I’ll bet the fish are all staying in the shade.”

But although he kept the boat in the shade of the trees, rowing a few strokes at a time, then throwing out his line patiently, his luck was no better than before. Gradually his boat moved nearer and nearer to the second pond. And as they reached it, Champ suddenly jumped up on his short little legs and gave a warning bark.

Djuna looked around. Ahead of them, just around the bend of the channel which had until then hidden it from view, was another rowboat, anchored in the shade. In it was Mr. Morrison. He was sitting in the stern of the boat, on the floor boards, his back propped comfortably against a canvas cushion, which he had placed against the stern seat, and with his legs stretched out in front of him. A newspaper that he had been reading covered his knees. His fishing-pole lay across the seat in front of him.

“Hullo, there!” he said pleasantly. “Any luck?”

Djuna smiled back at him. Mr. Morrison’s greeting was so friendly that Djuna felt as if they had known each other for a long while.

“No, sir,” said Djuna. “Haven’t had a single bite.”

Mr. Morrison laughed. “You’re luckier than I am,” he said. “I’m
covered
with ’em! These mosquitoes won’t leave me alone.”

“I guess they’re worse in the shade than out in the sun,” Djuna observed. “I didn’t notice any till just now.”

Mr. Morrison slapped at another mosquito. “Got him!” he exclaimed. “But there’s too many of them for
me
. Guess I’ll fish a little more.”

He folded his newspaper, tucked it under the stern seat, and stood up. The boat rocked a little, because he wasn’t careful to stand right in the middle; and when he took a hurried step toward the center seat, he was again careless and made the boat tip even more. He almost lost his balance, and sat down in the middle seat so suddenly that the boat rocked again. Djuna was surprised. Mr. Morrison’s movements had been so awkward that it seemed as if he had never been in any rowboat before. And yet Djuna had heard him say to Mr. Pindler, only two days before, that he liked to go fishing. “Well, maybe he’s always fished from a pier,” thought Djuna to himself.

Mr. Morrison laughed good-naturedly at his own clumsiness. “My word, that was a close shave!” he exclaimed, as he picked up the oars and fitted them into the oar-locks. “This is the tippiest boat I ever saw!”

Djuna knew it wasn’t the boat’s fault, but he said nothing. Mr. Morrison began rowing. First he dipped his right-hand oar into the water and pulled on it, and the boat made a circle on the left. Then he pulled on the left-hand oar and the boat began to circle toward the right. Djuna began to wonder if this was the first time Mr. Morrison had ever tried to row a boat.

“Pull on both oars at the same time,” he couldn’t resist calling out.

Mr. Morrison glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Of course,” he said pleasantly. “I used to know how to manage these things, but I’m a little out of practice, I’m afraid. You fellows up here in the country are the lucky ones. I envy you.”

He took another stroke or two and the boat drifted slowly over beside Djuna’s. Mr. Morrison laid down his oars and put out his hand and held on to the side of Djuna’s boat to check his own boat’s movement. Champ barked, but wagged his tail.

“Well, here we are again,” said Mr. Morrison, smiling. “Where’s your friend Tommy? Did you have a good time over in Clinton the other day?”

“Oh, he had to go to Clinton again today,” said Djuna, eagerly. “Didn’t you hear about the bank robbery, Mr. Morrison?”

“Bank robbery!” exclaimed Mr. Morrison, looking astonished. “My goodness! Where? You don’t mean to tell me that
Tommy
has had anything to do with a bank robbery?”

Djuna laughed. “Oh, gee, no!” he exclaimed. “That was day before yesterday—the day you took us over to Clinton. Didn’t you hear about it?”

“Great heavens, no!” said Mr. Morrison, looking more puzzled than ever. “What bank was it that was robbed? We don’t hear a thing here, Les’ Sedd and I. We haven’t been to Riverton since the day you saw us. What happened?”

“Gee, we
saw
it!” exclaimed Djuna. “We saw the whole thing!”

“You did?” said Mr. Morrison, wonderingly. “Which one of the Riverton banks was it? Were the robbers caught?”

“Oh, but it wasn’t in Riverton!” protested Djuna. “It was the bank in Clinton, and they all got away. The robbers, I mean.”

“Well, this is certainly exciting!” said Mr. Morrison. “And you say you saw the whole thing yourself?”

“Yes, sir!” said Djuna eagerly. “You remember when you and Mr. Sedd let us off at the corner there at Clinton? Well, it was just a little while after that. And Champ almost got shot!”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Morrison, reaching over and patting Champ’s head. “Was there actually shooting? It must have been terrible! Was anybody hurt?”

“Well, they killed a dog,” said Djuna bitterly. “An awful nice dog! And then they got away.”

“Why, it’s disgraceful!” exclaimed Mr. Morrison indignantly. “Weren’t there any guards in the bank?”

“They don’t have any guards in the bank,” explained Djuna. “I guess you’ve never seen it, Mr. Morrison. It’s just a little bank, and they don’t have any guards. There are only two or three people work in it, and I guess they were so surprised when the robbers came in that they couldn’t do anything. They didn’t have time.”

“Well, aren’t there any police in Clinton?” demanded Mr. Morrison. “Where were
they
while this was going on?”

“Yes, sir,” said Djuna; “but they were all in the police station, all three of them. Captain Crackle, he’s the Chief, got there first; but he was just too late because their car got away so fast, and he was pretty mad at me because I got in his way and he couldn’t shoot at them.”

“You got in his way?” exclaimed Mr. Morrison.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Djuna. “Champ was chasing them, and I was so afraid he’d get shot that I ran out in the middle of the road after him. Oh, boy, was I scared!”

“I don’t blame you a bit!” said Mr. Morrison sympathetically. “By George, you certainly had an adventure! And, imagine, all this was going on while Les’ Sedd and I were over in Riverton! We never heard a thing about it! I suppose we would have, if we had stopped in Clinton on the way back. But we came right home, and haven’t been away from here since.”

“I know,” said Djuna. “You passed us on the way home, Tommy and me.”

“Passed you?” said Mr. Morrison, in a puzzled tone. Then his face cleared. “Oh, yes, I remember now!” he exclaimed. “And that was right after the robbery, was it? By George, I wish we
had
stopped! You could have told us all about it right then. Why, yes, I remember—we were in a hurry to get back here, because Les’ had bought some ice, and he wanted to get back before it melted. He hasn’t got an electric icebox, you know. As a matter of fact, I suggested we stop, when we saw you walking along the road there, but he said there wouldn’t be room for you. He had ice piled all over the back of the truck, with canvas over it to keep it from melting.”

“On top of the shingles?” asked Djuna, innocently.

Mr. Morrison glanced at him sharply. “You remember everything, don’t you?” he smiled. “Yep, on top of the shingles. What makes you ask?”

Djuna grinned. “It would have been nice and cool to sit on,” he said.

Mr. Morrison laughed. “So it would,” he agreed. “I hope you’ll forgive us for not giving you a lift. You’ll have to blame Les’ for that.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Djuna. “Mr. Boots gave us a hitch.”

“See here,” said Mr. Morrison, “tell me more about this robbery. Did they get anything? Have they got any idea who did it?”

“They got an awful lot of money!” exclaimed Djuna. “Almost a thousand dollars! I heard Captain Crackle say so! And
nobody
knows who they were, because nobody got a good look at them except me!”

“You
di
d
?” exclaimed Mr. Morrison, looking at Djuna with new respect. “Why, great Scott, that makes you a pretty important person! If they ever catch them, you’ll probably be called to identify them in court!”

Djuna shook his head. “I don’t believe they’re
ever
going to catch them,” he blurted out. “They aren’t looking for them the right way. They won’t ever catch them, the way
they
act!”

Then he began to flush, thinking he had been too bold in expressing such an opinion about the police. He hoped Mr. Morrison wouldn’t think he was being conceited. But Mr. Morrison didn’t laugh at all. Instead, he showed by the way he spoke that he was very much interested in what Djuna had started to say.

“What makes you think they’re going about it the wrong way?” he asked. “Aren’t they doing the best they can?”

Djuna had been thinking so much about the robbery, ever since it happened, that he was eager to talk to someone about it, someone who would really listen to what he had to say.