Trolley to Yesterday (5 page)

Fergie scratched his nose and bit his lip. "I think it might be safe now," he said at last. "We oughta try anyway, before we freeze to death. Come on."

Silently Johnny and Fergie picked their way back across the common toward the dark house, with its overhanging second story and huge central chimney. A row of icicles hung from the eaves, and the small diamond-paned windows glimmered gray. They did not pause to test the nailstudded front door; they knew it would be locked. Instead they made their way around to the back, where, set into the stone foundation, there was a slanted double-leaved cellar door. The only thing that fastened it was a small branch shoved through the two door handles.

As carefully as he could, Fergie eased the branch out and pulled back one of the door leaves. The two boys followed stone steps down into a dark cellar that smelled of earth and mold. Fergie switched on his flashlight. They found steps that led upstairs, and at the top there was a room with a huge fireplace and a long wooden table flanked by cane-bottomed chairs. They continued toward the front of the house; they knew that the staircase to the second floor was there. Fergie turned the flashlight off, and he and Johnny crept forward on hands and knees till they reached the front door. Before them the narrow, shadowy staircase led up to the second floor. Johnny swallowed hard. What if the nasty man was squatting at the top of the steps with a pistol or a club in his hands? He paused, and so did Fergie. For a full minute they waited, listening for the slightest noise. Except for the faint sound of wind outside, all was still.

"We have to go up," Fergie whispered. "It's the only way."

Johnny nodded, and he started climbing one step at a time on hands and knees till he was peering into the moonlit room. The last red embers of a fire glowed in the fireplace. The curtains of the bed were drawn shut, and Johnny could hear a muffled snoring sound. He crawled across the floor, and Fergie followed. They stopped by the door of the firewood closet.

"Where do you think the tamper is?" asked Johnny in the faintest of whispers.

"Like I said before, I don't know," muttered Fergie. "I hit that dumb door with my hand when I fell down. It might be anywhere in the room, or in among all those logs in that dumb closet. Just stay put and I'll look for it."

In an agony of fear Johnny crouched by the closet door while Fergie scuttled around on the worn boards, feeling here and there with his hands. He had his flashlight, but he didn't dare turn it on. To Johnny it seemed like ages were passing. At any moment the man in the bed could come charging out, and the two of them would be doomed. Fergie went on searching. Johnny turned his head, and he saw to his horror that Fergie was under the bed! Then, suddenly, Johnny heard a metallic
clack.
With a soft shuffling sound Fergie crawled back and stopped near him. He was breathing heavily, and he held up something that glimmered faintly in the moonlight.

"I found it!" he whispered. "Let's get outa here!"

But he had spoken too loudly. The bed creaked, and with a muttered curse the man awoke. His bare legs came swinging out through the curtains. The boys were on their feet, and Fergie jerked the closet door open. In they went, picking their way clumsily over the firewood, till they reached the shimmering veil. Behind them they heard the man's quick footsteps as he hurried toward the door. In a flash Fergie raised the tamper and parted the veil; the boys dived inside, and the veil closed behind them as they rolled across the metal floor of the trolley. When they picked themselves up and looked back, they saw the tall burly man staring at the outside of the veil. To him it looked like a blank wall.

Fergie thumbed his nose at the man and ran to the driver's seat. Working feverishly he set the dials for the return trip, and Johnny scarcely had time to sit down when the trolley began to hum and whine. The trip back was a bit bumpy, but they arrived safe and sound. Fergie shut off the dials and put the tamper back in its box. Then he heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief.

"We made it, John-O!" he crowed with a wide grin as he slapped his friend on the back. "I told you we would, didn't I?"

Johnny took out his handkerchief and mopped his sweaty, pale face. "Fergie," he said quietly, "I don't want to do anything like this again. Do you hear? Not
ever!"

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

Johnny sneaked back into his house that night without being spotted. When he met Fergie after school the next day, they talked about their adventure, which was already beginning to seem like something they had dreamed. That evening the professor came back from his trip, and the boys wondered if he had noticed that anything was wrong. When they talked to him, he did not give any sign that he was upset; but the next afternoon Johnny noticed that a locksmith's truck was parked in front of the professor's house. Grampa said that the professor was having his front- and back-door locks changed. Johnny's heart sank, and the next time he visited the professor for a chess game, he braced himself for a bawling out. But none came. The professor was his usual cranky but kindly self, and he had baked a chocolate cake, which was as delicious as always. Once or twice when Johnny glanced at the old man across the chess board, he thought he saw a sly smile, as if the professor was enjoying some private joke.

A week passed, and nothing very exciting happened. Johnny got an A on an algebra test, and the kite-flying season began out at the Duston Heights athletic field. Johnny and Fergie studied together a lot, because there was a big history test coming up and half the kids in their class were scared to death of failing it. Johnny and Fergie were both pretty good at history, so they weren't really very worried, but they hit the books anyway because they enjoyed being together. Sometimes they went to the movies after they had finished doing their homework, and as they walked home they always stopped near the professor's house and looked to see if the basement light was on. Sometimes it was, and sometimes it wasn't. The professor was being more friendly these days, but he still acted secretive, and this was exasperating to the boys. Let's wait till he makes his move, Fergie said, and he said it often. At first this advice sounded good to Johnny, but gradually he began to realize that Fergie wasn't making sense. He told him so one afternoon when they were gobbling hot-fudge sundaes at Peter's Sweet Shop.

"What good is it gonna do for us to wait?" Johnny asked irritably. "If he decides to zoom off to Constantinople and save those people from the Turks, we'll never know till he's gone."

Fergie smiled knowingly and held up his dripping spoon. "Ah, that's where you're wrong, John baby!" he said. "That's where you're
wrong!
He's got to get together some equipment."

Johnny was mystified. "Equipment? What do you mean?"

Fergie's grin got wider. "I mean a gun, John baby. You didn't really believe all that stuff about how he wouldn't use a machine gun on the Turks, did you?"

Johnny could feel his face getting red. "If you really want to know, Fergie," he said angrily, "yes, I do believe what the professor says. He hates guns."

"Yeah, yeah, sure!" sneered Fergie, waving his hand scornfully at Johnny. "Look, kid. The prof is a little nutty, but he isn't all
that ..."

Fergie's voice trailed away. He had seen something out of the corner of his eye. The two of them were sitting in a booth near the front of the shop, and Fergie had caught sight of the professor's car through the big display window. "Hey!" he said excitedly. "Hey, John baby, look at that! The prof is goin' down the street, and I'll betcha he's goin' to the Merrimack Sporting Goods Shop to buy a rifle. How much you wanta bet?"

Johnny winced. He didn't like gambling, but Fergie had just declared war. "All right!" he said hotly. "I'll bet you fifty cents he isn't buying a gun."

"You're on!" said Fergie, and he slapped Johnny's hand to seal the bet.

The two boys finished their ice cream quickly, paid at the counter, and hurried out. The Merrimack Sporting Goods Shop was about a block and a half down the street, and they walked along slowly on the side of the street that was across from the shop, so the professor wouldn't notice them. By the time Fergie and Johnny got there, the professor had parked his car and gone in. Johnny peered at the display window that was full of shotguns, rifles, and target pistols. His heart sank, and he began to think that maybe Fergie was right. Minutes passed. The two boys crouched down behind a pickup truck and waited to see what the professor was going to bring out of the store. As the minutes ticked by on Johnny's watch, he wondered what on earth the old man was doing. Finally the professor came out, and the owner of the shop was with him. They were carrying a large yellow rubber inflatable life raft, the kind that comes with a paddle and a cylinder of compressed air, wrapped up with luggage straps.

"Oh my gosh!" whispered Fergie, and he put his hand over his face. "He's gonna try to get to Constantinople in that thing! He'll drown himself, that's for sure!"

Johnny was very alarmed. He had won his bet with Fergie, but that didn't matter to him now. What they had just seen was proof that the professor was going to try to get into the walled city. Once he was inside, what was he going to do? The boys didn't have the foggiest idea. They knew the professor wanted to save the people who were trapped inside the great Church of the Holy Wisdom, but they didn't know how. The whole idea seemed crazy and harebrained, and Johnny was afraid the old man would get himself killed or disappear forever into the past.

With the owner's help the professor lashed the rubber raft to the top of his car. As he drove off, Fergie stood up and let out a long, low whistle.

"Boy!" he said, folding his arms in disgust. "Ain't that somethin'? He's gonna go back there an' try to scare away those Turks with his Knights of Columbus sword! I really didn't think he was that wacky."

"Fergie," said Johnny in a low, serious voice, "we've got to stop him! Otherwise he'll get himself killed!"

"Relax, John baby," said Fergie soothingly. "Byron Q. Ferguson always comes up with some clever idea that will save the day."

Johnny glanced at him skeptically. "Oh, yeah? Like what?"

Fergie shrugged. "I haven't thought of it yet, but give me some time. Just give me a little bit of time, an' I'll figure out what to do."

Maybe they had time, and maybe they didn't. For all the boys knew, the professor might be planning to zoom off to Constantinople that very night. If he did, what could they do? Not much, and they knew it.

April violets sprang up as the days passed, and mild breezes blew. Every morning as he got ready for the long walk to school, Johnny glanced across the street to see if the professor was getting his car out of the garage. Usually he had eight-o'clock classes at Haggstrum College, and if he wasn't in too big a hurry, he would offer Johnny a ride. On mornings when he saw the car backing out, Johnny heaved a sigh of relief. Bu if the car stayed in the garage, he fussed and fretted. Was the professor in his house, or had he gone back to a world of long ago to carry out an impossible plan? By the time a week had passed, Johnny was convinced that the professor would be making his move soon. He and Fergie had better get busy and figure out a way to stop him.

One cold, drizzly evening toward the middle of April, Johnny and Fergie were playing chess in the parlor of the Dixons' house. They sat at a table that was drawn up near the big bay window, and they were both having a lot of trouble keeping their minds on the game. Every now and then one of them would glance quickly at the dark house across the street. There was a light on in the study window upstairs. That probably meant that the professor was grading papers. Unless, of course, he had left a light on up there to confuse them while he was poking around in the dark down in the cellar. The lights in the old subway tunnel couldn't be seen from outside, so he could be getting ready to go, for all they knew.

Johnny moved a bishop and then peered again out the window. When Fergie saw the move his friend had made, he laughed.

"Come on, John-O, give it up!" he said as he shoved Johnny's king over onto its side. "You're not pay in' any attention to this game, and neither am I! We oughta just go over there and hammer on his door an' yell
Hey prof, what's up?
or somethin' like that."

Johnny grimaced. "Oh, sure!" he said sourly. "That'd be just an A-number-one fine idea! We wouldn't get anywhere if we did that. He'd just pretend that he didn't know what we were talking about. Or else he'd give us that routine about how he just goes to the tower to stand and look at the city. If he ever does try to save those people in Constantinople, he'll go at three A.M. , and we'll never know anything about it till he gets back—if he does get back."

Fergie set his jaw—he looked grim and determined. "I hate to admit it, but I think you're right," he muttered. "So I guess there's only one thing to do—we have to fix it so the prof can't leave the tower." With a wicked grin Fergie reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a switchblade knife with a black bone handle. He touched a button, and a long glittering blade flew out with a snicking sound.

Johnny was stunned. Fergie often dressed like a leather-jacket hood, but he had never carried a knife before— not as far as Johnny knew, anyway. "Fergie!" he whispered in a shocked voice. "For gosh sakes, put that thing away! If my gramma sees you with that, she'll toss you out on your ear! Why did you bring
that
along?"

With a frown Fergie folded the knife up and stuck it back in his pocket. "Don't get yourself in an uproar, John baby," he said softly. "I just wanta use this thing to cut some nice big holes in the prof's raft, so he can't use it. Doesn't that seem like a good idea to you?"

Johnny thought for a bit. "Yeah, I guess so," he said slowly.

"But what if he takes the raft out in the water and it sinks under him and he drowns? How do you think we'll feel then?"

Fergie grinned maliciously. "Aah, he'll never get to the water with
that
raft! I'm gonna cut so many holes in it that it'll look like a big yellow Swiss cheese. He'll just have to climb into the trolley and come on back home. Come on! We'll scoot over there and do a little sabotage."