SUSPICIONS
Jerry Hopkins looked at the men sharply. With the exception of one,
who seemed to be a sort of foreman, they were all laborers. Just who
had spoken neither Jerry nor his chums could determine exactly, for
there were five men looking at them, four resting on their long-handled
spades.
“Huh! He’s got nerve, whoever he is,” remarked Jerry. “I think I see
myself chasing off my mother’s land!”
“Are we on her property now?” asked Bob.
“Not exactly, but she has a right of way over this strip, leading in
from the creek. We’ll be on her land as soon as we cross that low
fence. Come on, fellows! We’ll see what this means!”
Jerry started forward, his chums following.
They tried to step from one grass hummock to another, but at times
they would slip off, and into the mud and water. It was well they had
thought to wear long rubber boots.
The three boys had not more than crossed the fence, to stand with
uncertain footing on the land owned by Mrs. Hopkins, than the man who
seemed to be the foreman hurried forward.
“What’s the matter with you fellows?” he demanded, angrily. “Can’t you
understand plain United States?”
“Why, I guess so, when it’s properly and politely spoken,” drawled
Jerry, with provoking calmness.
“Come, now! None of your impertinence!” blustered the man.
“And none of yours!” cried Jerry, sharply this time.
“You heard what I said!” snapped the man. “I told you to clear out!
This is private property, and trespassers aren’t wanted. We’ll have
signs up in a day or so, but, in the meanwhile, you’ll have to take my
word for it. Get off this land!”
“I guess you’re laboring under a slight delusion,” went on Jerry,
speaking evenly. “You may have some authority over that land on the
other side of the fence, but, as it happens, my friends and I are on
my mother’s property, and we don’t propose to vacate for you, trespass
signs to the contrary.”
The man seemed to start. He gazed keenly at Jerry for a second, and
then looked along the line of fence. In many places the boundary mark
had fallen over, because the posts holding the wire had rotted away. In
other sections there was no fence at all, but there were enough posts,
and sufficient wire, to indicate where the fence had originally run.
“I don’t know you, young man,” said the foreman, speaking slowly, “but
you speak as though you knew what you were talking about,” and his tone
was more respectful than at first.
“I do know,” was Jerry’s brief answer.
“And you say you’re on your mother’s land there?”
“We are.”
“Then you must be----”
“Jerry Hopkins,” supplied the tall lad, with a twinkle in his brown
eyes.
“Ah, yes. We did hear that Mrs. Hopkins owned a strip of land somewhere
about here, but we didn’t know just where it was. And, as my company
happens to have bought up most of this swamp, we didn’t care to have
the public walking about it. It’s dangerous--for the public,” he added,
with what he evidently meant for a frank smile. But, somehow, in spite
of that smile, Jerry and the boys took an instinctive dislike to the
man. He did not seem sincere.
“Yes, it is a bit dangerous in here,” agreed Jerry, looking across to
where the men had been digging. Piled about them were heaps of the
stiff, yellow clay, which underlay the top layer of slime and mud. “I
don’t get here very often myself.”
“Well, since you are here, let me introduce myself,” went on the man.
“I am Rickford Fussel. Sorry I can’t give you a card, but I don’t carry
them when I’m out prospecting.”
At that word Bob gave Ned a nudge, and whispered:
“Did you hear that? Prospecting! He’s after gold, sure!”
“Dry up!” ordered Ned, in a like whisper. “You leave this to Jerry.
Whoever heard of gold in a swamp like this?”
“Then it’s diamonds!” hissed Bob.
Ned tried to wither his chum with a look, but Bob evidently had big
ideas in his head. He looked triumphantly at his companion.
“I’m glad to know you,” said Jerry to the man. That was polite fiction
on his part, but it is a common expression, so we will let it go at
that. “I’m Jerry Hopkins, as I told you,” he went on, “and these are my
friends, Bob Baker and Ned Slade.”
“Glad to know you all,” responded Mr. Fussel. “I’d shake hands only I’m
pretty dirty,” he went on, showing his palms, covered with the yellow
clay. “Sorry I tried to order you off your own land,” and he laughed,
but it was rather forced. “Mistakes will happen,” he continued. “And
so this is the Hopkins strip? I guess you know our company has tried to
purchase it from your mother,” and he looked at Jerry.
“Yes. She said something about it,” Jerry replied.
“I haven’t anything to do with that part of it,” went on Mr. Fussel.
“I’m only connected with the field forces--the prospecting line.”
“Then you’re from the Universal Plaster Company?” asked Jerry.
“Yes, that’s the concern.”
“And you say you are--prospecting,” resumed Jerry, hesitating over the
word. “Is it for anything special? What line is your company in?”
“There you’ve got me,” admitted Mr. Fussel, with seeming frankness.
“I’ve only been with them a short time, and, as far as this present job
is concerned, I was only told to make some ditches to drain this land.”
“Oh, then you’re not getting out the clay?” asked Ned, taking a part in
the talk.
Mr. Fussel glanced at Ned sharply.
“We’re taking out clay, certainly,” he said, and again he seemed to
want to appear very frank and open. “But we have to do that to make the
drainage ditches deep enough.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Jerry, and there was considerable meaning in his
tones. “Some folks have tried to make use of the clay, but they haven’t
succeeded,” went on the tall lad.
“It doesn’t seem to amount to much, that’s a fact,” spoke Mr. Fussel,
kicking a lump of the yellow stuff into a nearby puddle of water.
“Well, I’m glad to have met you boys, and I want to tell you how sorry
I am that I ordered you off.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” responded Jerry, quickly. “We just came out to
have a look at the place. I sort of wondered what your company wanted
my mother’s land for.”
“And I can’t tell you,” declared Mr. Fussel. “As I said, I have only
been with the concern a short time. All I know about the Universal
Plaster Company is that it is incorporated to do all sorts of business.
It can buy and sell land, erect buildings, manufacture anything it sees
fit to, that isn’t protected by patents, and, in short, deal in all
sorts of things. It’s one of those corporations with a very liberal
charter.
“Just at present it is engaged in developing this land. This swamp can
easily be drained, and the land made much more valuable. But it will
take considerable money to do it. That is why it has to be done on a
large scale.”
“Yes, I suppose the swamp would be valuable if it could be made dry,”
admitted Jerry.
“It certainly can!” declared Mr. Fussel, with conviction. “I’m an
engineer by profession, and I am sure of that. But what the company
will do with the land when it is drained is more than I can say.”
“Does the concern own much swamp?” asked Jerry.
“As far as you can see,” replied the engineer. “That is, all but your
mother’s strip, and I understand negotiations are under way to obtain
that.”
“Yes, they are,” admitted Jerry, for Mr. Fussel looked at him
questioningly. “But I’m not so sure my mother will sell,” he went on.
“Well, of course you and she know your own business best,” remarked the
engineer, “but if the land were mine, and I had a fair offer for it
from a concern that owned on all sides, I should sell. Her land will be
of no value after the property all about it is drained,” he resumed,
“and if the water is allowed to remain on her land it will not only
make it valueless, but will be a nuisance to the adjoining property.
“In fact,” and Mr. Fussel again smiled frankly, “I am not certain but
what your mother could be compelled to drain her land to prevent the
water from it from running on our land, after we have made it dry,” he
said. “My company would probably go to law about it, and, while we do
not desire litigation, we could not afford to have our land spoiled,
after going to a big expense draining it, you see.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed impulsive Bob, hardly knowing what he was
saying.
Ned gave his fat chum a dig in the ribs that made Bob grunt.
“Hey! What’s the matter with you?” he asked of Ned, indignantly.
“Oh, nothing. I was killing a mosquito that was biting you,” replied
Ned, winking at Bob; whereat Chunky subsided.
“Well, my mother hasn’t quite made up her mind,” said Jerry, slowly,
for the engineer seemed to expect him to say something. “I just thought
I’d take a run out here. I wanted to see why the Universal Plaster
Company wanted the land.”
“And I tell you, plainly, I don’t know,” said Mr. Fussel. “It may want
it for building purposes, or the erection of some sort of a plant, or
it may be trying to demonstrate a new method of drainage. All I know is
that I was told to drain this swamp, and I’m doing it. You’ll see a big
change here in a few weeks. You fellows can keep on working,” he said,
addressing the laborers. “We’re only sinking experimental ditches now,”
he resumed, “to ascertain the direction of the flow of the surface
water.”
“There’s a lot of that yellow clay,” remarked Ned, half casually.
“Yes; isn’t there?” exclaimed Mr. Fussel. “It’s hard digging in it,
too. Mr. Nixon was glad enough to part with his swamp land,” he
continued, “and so was Colonel Wright. Now, when we get your mother’s
strip, we’ll have the whole tract,” and he smiled at Jerry. He seemed
to like to smile, perhaps to show his big white teeth.
“Well, perhaps she’ll sell,” spoke our tall hero. “I’ll tell her what
I’ve seen, anyhow.”
Mr. Fussel went back to direct his men. Jerry and his chums walked
about a little, but there was nothing more to see. It was gloomy and
dismal in the swamp, and the mosquitoes were a pest. The boys’ hands
and faces were badly bitten.
“The next time I come here I’m going to bring along a bottle of
citronella, and a bundle of Chinese punk sticks!” exclaimed Bob,
slapping vigorously at his neck.
“That’s right! They’re fierce!” agreed Jerry. “Well, I guess we might
as well go back.”
He led the way to the motor boat, seemingly indifferent to the
operations of the men in the swamp. But, when he was out of their
sight, around a clump of trees, Jerry began digging with a sharp stick,
turning up some of the yellow clay.
“What in the world are you doing?” asked Ned. “Going to plaster some
of that on your mosquito bites? I’ve heard that mud was good for a bee
sting, so it might be good for mosquito bites.”
“Nothing like that,” said Jerry. “I just want to get some samples of
this clay, that’s all.”
“But I thought you said it was no good,” spoke Bob.
“I did say so,” admitted Jerry, “but I’m not so sure of that now. Ned,
did you happen to notice that, though Fussel said they were only making
drainage ditches, the men had all the yellow clay they took out piled
in one place? Did you notice that?”
“I did, but what does that mean?”
“It means, in my opinion,” said Jerry, slowly, “that those fellows were
up to some other game than merely draining this swamp.”
“You think----” began Ned, excitedly.
“I don’t know exactly what to think,” interrupted Jerry, “but I have
my suspicions. I’m going to have this clay analyzed. It may be of some
value after all, and mother’s land is full of it! In fact, there’s more
on her strip than anywhere else in the swamp.”