OUR BARREL TRAP
Dusk settled low upon the land as we sat in the doorway of the old
mill and planned how we would deliver our cats into the buyer’s hands
early the following morning. If we could manage to crowd all the cats
into one load so much the better. There was a chance that the buyer
would accept the lot. In that event we _would_ be in luck. We joyously
pictured the envy in Bid Stricker’s homely face upon learning the story
of our good fortune. He was welcome to his little old five dollars.
Huh! _We_ were going to earn twenty dollars. This happy thought took
the keen edge from our dejection and humiliation.
“If the cat buyer wants only eighty cats,” said Scoop, “we’ll fill the
order and then drive deeper into the country and drop the remaining
cats here and there along the Treebury pike.”
Peg laughed.
“‘Here and there’ is the right way to do it,” he agreed, recalling, I
guess, the unfortunate results that attended our first attempt to get
rid of the cats wholesale.
Scoop readily understood what the other meant.
“Yes,” he nodded, “if it becomes necessary to drop the cats along the
turnpike we’ll spread them out and not release them in bunches like we
did over by the dairy farm.”
The mysterious cat buyer was a target for a good bit of our speculative
conversation. Was he indeed the prowler who had stopped the full swing
of my club the previous night when Peg and I played ghost? And was
he in the mill in quest of the yellow cat? To put answers onto these
questions would likely clear up the mystery, and that, of course, is
what we were anxious to do. But would we be able to pump the stranger
as Scoop anticipated? The cat buyer was a man; we were boys. It didn’t
seem possible to me that he would fall into any of our traps. Still I
was hopeful.
Peg thoughtfully advanced the theory that the prowler might be an agent
of Mrs. Kepple’s.
“I read in a story one time,” he explained, “how a woman had her
pet dog insured against theft, then hid it and tried to collect the
insurance money. That may be Mrs. Kepple’s game.”
Listening with eager ears, I instantly thrilled under the thought that
Peg’s theory supplied a reason for the unusual cat advertisement.
Instructed to steal the cat, the prowler had made the discovery that
the cat wasn’t in the mill. His next step was to run the advertisement
in the newspaper under the hope that in rounding up all the stray cats
in Tutter the desired cat would be delivered into his hands. This
accomplished, Mrs. Kepple could safely file her five-hundred-dollar
claim with the insurance company.
In tumbling, excited words I spilled my thoughts to the others. Scoop,
though, couldn’t see it my way.
“You entirely overlook the fact,” said he, “that the cat advertisement
was placed in the newspaper _before_ the prowler visited the mill.”
He was right. My excitement subsided and I shut up.
The moon lifted its round white face into the sky as though to assure
us of its friendship and support. A powerful electric searchlight could
have given us no more complete protection. Nevertheless we safeguarded
the cat farm against possible invasion, which task completed, we
dropped onto our cots, sleeping the night through without disturbance.
Awakening at the call of the first factory whistle, we divided the
work of preparing breakfast and crating the cats; then set forth
happily, mindful of Mr. Ellery’s injunction that the borrowed delivery
wagon must be returned to the store within an hour.
Our early-morning ride into the country touched up my pep and made me
gladder than ever that I was alive. It was a magic world, sort of.
The leaves tenanting the trees seemed washed and refreshed under the
disappearing dew. Once we dipped into a hollow and a tang crept toward
us from out of the low lands, putting imaginative pictures of colorful
growing things into my mind. Not infrequently in such contented moments
I have the industrious feeling that I want to be a farmer when I grow
up. Running a farm is hard work; but there comes a fine contentment, I
bet, from living close to fields and forests. Dad jokes about educating
me to be a minister. He says I can do the preaching and he’ll take up
the collection and we’ll split fifty-fifty. That is his nonsense, of
course. When I _do_ get to be a man as big and tall as he is, with
number eight shoes and a safety razor of my own, he’ll likely forget
about the minister business and let me be a farmer if I want to be one.
The clattering delivery wagon built a wall about my thoughts and I
gave critical attention as a future-day farmer to the adjacent fields
of growing corn. There was one poor field. I told myself stoutly that
there would be no crooked corn rows in _my_ farm; nor would there be
weedy patches. No, sir-e! Then we came to a sloping meadow spread
upon the sunny hillside like a huge blanket, all green and soft and
velvety, and I turned my attention to the grazing cattle, drawing a
mental comparison between these cows and the cows that were to be a
part of _my_ farm. Pretty soon in imagination I got to be a big land
owner and all the farms paralleling the turnpike were my farms and all
the cattle were my cattle and I scowled back at the weedy cornfield,
saying to myself that the hired man who had charge of that particular
field would hear from me, all right, all right. I even had it figured
out in my mind what I would hand the lazy bum, then Red gagged up a
bug or something, and thus jerked out of my dream world I was made to
realize that I was a boy in knee pants with a big patch on the seat and
the only farm I owned was a quarter interest in a cat farm, which was
nothing to brag about.
Pretty soon we came within sight of the brick house and Scoop pulled on
the reins, slowing the trotting horse into a jerky walk. A tree-hung
lane gave entrance to the barnyard in the rear. Turning into this lane,
we made use of the farmer’s hitching post to secure our horse, then
unloaded the big cat crate onto the lawn in front of the house.
No one came to inquire our business, so Scoop went onto the front porch
and twisted the tail of the door-bell. Footsteps sounded from within.
Then the doorknob turned and a large woman stood framed in the opening.
“Good morning,” was her polite greeting, as she regarded us inquiringly.
“Good morning,” returned Scoop. Remembering his manners he slid from
under his cap. “I believe,” he proceeded in a snappy, businesslike way,
“that this is the place where we sell our cats.”
At this the woman’s face clouded and one hand moved nervously to her
cheek.
“You are mistaken,” she returned quietly yet firmly. “This is the _one_
place where you do _not_ sell your cats--if _I_ know anything about it!”
Well, to have her come back at Scoop that way was a knockout, sort of.
The amazement that gripped us was reflected in our staring eyes. Was it
her intention to step in between us and the cat buyer and cheat us out
of the chance of selling our cats? It would seem so.
But Scoop had his wits about him.
“A young man,” said he, “who lives in this house put an advertisement
in the Tutter newspaper for cats. We would like to show him our unusual
assortment of cats. I dare say he never set eyes on a finer collection.
We even have a few choice rose-colored specimens.”
The friendly grin on the speaker’s face brought an answering smile from
the woman. But when he asked her to call the cat buyer to the door to
inspect our cats she stiffened.
“You can take your cats away from here and keep them away,” she
returned shortly. “We don’t want them. Our farm is overrun with cats
as it is. Humph! It may be some one’s idea of humor to clutter up our
buildings with cats, but _I_ don’t regard it as a joke.”
Right away all the joy and contentment that had filled my mind on the
way from town went kerplunk! into a bottomless pit, as they tell about
in church. Could it be possible that despite all precaution we had
tumbled headlong into some joker’s trap? I shot a troubled glance at
the cat crate. And I groaned in the thought of further chaperoning that
bunch of yodelers. Cats! cats! cats! Was there nothing in the world
but cats? I wanted to grow wings and fly away to some distant planet
where the nearest thing they had to a cat was a petrified cat-tail
marsh.
Scoop is a persistent talker. Maybe he had a sickening chill like I
had, but if so he didn’t let it freeze his gab. That is fortunate,
because his questions kept the woman’s tongue in action and brought out
the fact that the young man who had paid the Strickers real money for
their cats was a boarder at the farmhouse.
“He rode his bicycle into the yard about a week ago,” the woman
informed us. “Seemed like a nice young man, so I agreed to board him
for a short time. It was a mistake, however. Yesterday my suspicions
were aroused. I told myself that no man in his right mind would buy
eighteen cats. Then the telegram came and he rode away, leaving the
cats shut in the granary.”
Here was a new phase of the mystery. I didn’t wonder at the dazed look
that flitted across Scoop’s face.
“You say the man got a telegram?” he fumbled.
The woman nodded.
“It was telephoned to him from town. When I went up to his room ten
minutes later I found on the dresser the money he owed me and a note
saying he wouldn’t return.”
As though to dismiss us, she stepped back and took hold of the doorknob.
“Just a minute,” cried Scoop, lifting a detaining hand. “You see,” he
tumbled on, “there is a mystery about your boarder and we need your
help to solve it.”
The woman looked bewildered.
“A mystery?” she repeated.
Scoop quickly recited our adventures to date.
“You can see,” he concluded, “how we came to connect up the cat buyer
with the prowler who entered our cat farm. We were hopeful that in
meeting him here we would be able to pick up bits of information that
would help in solving the mystery.”
“Land of Goshen!” cried the woman. “He might have murdered us in our
beds.”
Scoop grinned.
“I don’t think he aims to murder anybody. What he wants is the
rose-colored cat.”
The woman’s bewilderment deepened.
“But it seems ridiculous that a man should go to such trouble to get
possession of a cat.”
“Lady Victoria,” informed Scoop, “is no ordinary cat. We realized
that from the first. Even before she arrived in Tutter we scented a
mystery. Didn’t we, fellows?”
“Sure thing,” put in Red. “And when we _saw_ the cat we told each other
Mrs. Kepple had a _reason_ for calling it rose-colored.”
“Then,” went on Scoop, “the prowler came searching for the cat in the
darkness to further confirm our suspicions that Lady Victoria was a
mystery cat. That was night before last.”
Here the woman gave a gasp.
“I do believe you’re right in connecting up the cat buyer with the
prowler who disturbed you. Yes! You say it was Thursday night?”
“Between eleven and twelve o’clock,” Scoop nodded.
“On Thursday night,” said the woman in a steady voice, “the cat buyer
left here shortly after supper and never returned till midnight.”
To thus learn that the prowler was positively the cat buyer gave me a
queer nervous thrill. Then my mind went confused under the mystery’s
befuddling and conflicting angles. Old questions confronted me. Who was
he? What were his motives? I reached for the answers but fell short.
Scoop, though, shared none of my bewilderment. A reflective look clung
to his face that told me as plain as words that his thoughts were
being put one on top of another in orderly sequence. Presently he
turned to the woman and inquired:
“When the man left your house Thursday evening, did he have on a gray
cloth cap?”
“Now let me think. Ye-es, he did.”
Scoop’s eyes snapped.
“And when he rode away last evening, did he have on the same gray cap?”
“No-o. He wore a black hat.”
“I suspected as much,” Scoop said quickly. Then he gave a scattered
laugh. “I bet I can tell you the size hat your husband wears.”
The woman stared as though she suspected her ears of deceiving her. It
_was_ a crazy thing for Scoop to say. I wondered what was he getting at.
“The size,” grinned Scoop, “is seven and a quarter.”
“How did you know?”
“Because that is the size of the cap the cat buyer left behind when he
paid us a visit night before last.”
Now I tumbled to what Scoop was driving at. It was his belief that the
capless cat buyer had snitched the farmer’s hat rather than ride away
from the farmhouse bareheaded. I told myself it was pretty smart of
Scoop to figure it out.
“I can’t believe it,” cried the woman, when the situation was explained
to her.
“You can easy enough prove it,” returned Scoop, “by looking on the hook
where your husband hangs his hat. But that can wait,” he added hastily,
as she made a move to enter the house. “Um---- the telegram is more
important. Suppose you tell us about it.”
“Well, I answered the ’phone, recognizing Carrie Mulliguy’s voice.
‘This is Western Union,’ says she. ‘Have you a cat buyer staying
at your place?’ ‘Maybe you mean Mr. Barnes,’ says I. ‘He put an
advertisement in the _Globe_ for cats.’ ‘Yes,’ says Carrie, ‘Mr. Barnes
is the party I want. Call him to the ’phone, please, as I have a
telegram for him.’”
“She didn’t tell you where the telegram was from?” queried Scoop.
“No.”
“When the man got the message, did he act worried or happy or what?”
“Worried, I should say.”
“Then,” said Scoop, “it was bad news.” He drew a long breath. “Um----
I’d like to know what was in that telegram. I suspect it came from
Chicago.”
“From Mrs. Kepple?” I put in.
He nodded.
“Maybe,” he said reflectively, “we can find out from Miss Mulliguy.”
The farmer’s wife leaned forward, an eager light in her eyes.
“If you find out----” she began.
“Yes,” grinned Scoop, “if we find out we’ll let you know.” Here he
glanced at his watch. “Crickets!” he exploded. “We’ve got to shake a
leg and get back to the store.”
Red scowled.
“But you said we were going to drive into the country and drop the cats
along the turnpike,” was his reminder.
“Not this trip,” Scoop returned shortly. “We haven’t time.”
“And do we have to lug that crate of yowlers back to the old mill?”
Scoop grinned.
“Let’s not worry about the cats,” said he, slapping Red on the back.
“We can get rid of them later on. Just now I want to follow up the
telegram clew. That is important. The message probably connects up
with the rose-colored cat in some way or another.”
“Gee!” said Red, shedding his gloom in the thought of possible
adventures.
As we turned to leave, the woman touched Scoop on the arm.
“Maybe you would like some more cats----”
“Hardly,” Scoop declined before she could finish.
“But how in the world am I going to get rid of the cats in the granary?”
“You might put up a sign near the turnpike,” laughed Scoop, “offering
the cats as premiums. For instance: ‘Fresh eggs, only thirty cents a
dozen. Each customer given a beautiful full-grown cat absolutely free.’”
He meant it as a joke, of course. But the woman took him seriously.
That to us was the funny part.
Loading the cat crate into the delivery wagon, we drove out of the
lane lickety-cut, heading the horse toward town. It was a jolty ride.
Our excited conversation was punctuated more or less by resentful
yowls from the jostled cats. We gave little thought, however, to their
probable discomfort. The telegram was the big thing in our minds.
Upon meeting the Stricker gang in Grove Street we temporarily lost the
keen edge of our enthusiasm. It was not pleasant to face them with the
knowledge that we had failed where they had succeeded.
“Lookit the cat farmers!” jeered Bid. “What do you know,” he added, “if
they hain’t bin takin’ their cats out tourin’ in a delivery wagon.”
“So kind of them,” yipped Jimmy Stricker, “to give their cats an
early-morning ride.”
“I see the rose-colored cat on the front seat,” whooped Bid. “It’s got
a red head and freckles.” Then the whole gang made a pretense of being
cats and hissed at us. It was very disgusting.
“Some day,” growled Red, as we clattered past the smart alecks and
beyond their hearing, “I’m going to push Bid Stricker’s face down his
throat and let it strangle him to death.”
Peg grimaced.
“I’m glad they don’t know where we’ve been.”
“You and me both,” I put in feelingly.
Scoop went thoughtful.
“I’ve been wondering more or less,” said he, “if the man would have
bought our cats had we delivered them to him yesterday afternoon.”
“Probably,” surmised Peg without enthusiasm. “He bought the Strickers’
cats.”
Scoop went deeper into his reflections.
“It’s a queer mess,” he proceeded. “I can’t understand it. Evidently
the man got instructions in the telegram to buy no more cats. But why
should he beat it without saying anything of his intentions to the
farmer’s wife?”
Peg gave a gurgle like he frequently does when he gets braced to recite
his excited thoughts.
“Do you suppose,” said he, “it’s leaked out about the rose-colored cat
being dead?”
“I never told anybody,” came quickly from Red.
“Nor me,” said Scoop and I in the same breath.
“If _I_ had been sent to Tutter to get the rose-colored cat,” continued
Peg, putting himself imaginatively into the cat buyer’s shoes, “and I
got a telegram saying the cat was dead, what would I do?”
“Dig out,” Scoop supplied shortly.
“Exactly,” said Peg, complacently nodding his head.
“But no outsider knows the cat is dead,” came from Red. “How could any
one telegraph what they don’t know?”
Peg’s only reply to this was a shrug of his broad shoulders.
We made short work of dumping the cat crate into the old mill, then
headed for the grocery store, hopeful that Mr. Ellery would overlook
the fact that we were ten minutes late.
He came from the back door onto the loading platform as we drove up.
“Get rid of your cats?” he grinned in a friendly way.
“Not yet,” Scoop returned shortly.
“No? I thought you had a buyer?”
“We got fooled,” said Scoop.
Mr. Ellery’s laugh put an up-and-down motion into his over-sized
stomach.
“I guess,” he chuckled, “you’ll have to keep your cats and start a fur
farm. I understand there’s a profitable market for cat skins the right
time of the year. And it ain’t no expense raising the cats, because you
have a rat farm next door to the cat farm, and you feed the multiplying
rats to the cats, then skin the cats and feed the insides to the rats.”
“Let’s go into partnership,” grinned Peg. “We’ll furnish the cats and
you can catch the rats.”
“Um----” evaded Mr. Ellery, letting his forehead go puckered in a
comical way. “Reckon I better go answer the ’phone; I hear it ringing.”
We waited on the platform while Scoop got some gumdrops, then the four
of us headed for the telegraph office. Miss Mulliguy smiled as Scoop
stepped up to the counter to carry on the conversation.
“We’re trying to locate a cat buyer named Barnes,” he began. “The man,”
he explained, “who got a telegram from Chicago yesterday afternoon.”
“You mean Springfield, not Chicago,” corrected Miss Mulliguy.
“Mr. Barnes has disappeared,” continued Scoop. “It is important that we
locate him, because his firm buys cats and we’ve got cats to sell. Do
you think we can secure his address by getting in touch with the party
who sent him the telegram?”
“That is doubtful,” said Miss Mulliguy. “As I recall the telegram was
received under the newspaper key.”
Scoop looked puzzled.
“I mean,” Miss Mulliguy explained patiently, “that Mr. Barnes’ name
didn’t appear in the telegram. It was addressed to the Tutter Cat
Buyer, ’phone 9044.”
“And it is your belief,” followed up Scoop, “that whoever sent the
telegram didn’t know Mr. Barnes’ name?”
“I’m quite sure that is the case, having in mind the nature of the
message.”
Scoop leaned eagerly across the counter.
“I suppose you can tell us from memory what was in the telegram.”
Miss Mulliguy gave him a suspicious glance and stiffened.
“I can,” she returned coldly, “but I don’t intend to. Western Union
operators are not permitted to divulge the contents of telegrams
passing through their hands. It is a company ruling.”
There was some more talk, but Scoop couldn’t budge her. It was
disappointing. I guess we said some mean things about the telegraph
company as we kicked our way to the old mill.
“It surprised me,” said Scoop, “when she said the telegram came from
Springfield. That’s the state capital.”
Red grinned.
“Maybe,” he suggested, “it’s a message from the governor.”
“Huh!” snorted Scoop, giving the joker a contemptuous up-and-down look.
“It surely can’t be Mrs. Kepple,” came thoughtfully from Peg.
Scoop shook his head.
“By every right in the world,” he reflected, “the telegram should
have come from Chicago. That’s where the yellow cat came from; and if
thieves, for some unknown reason, are trying to get the cat away from
us, you’d naturally conclude they were Chicago men. Otherwise how would
they know about the cat?”
“Do you suppose,” said Peg out of his thoughts, “that the telegram is a
blind?”
We stared.
“Maybe,” he continued in steady tones, “it’s a scheme to throw us off
our guard. Then, when we least expect it, the prowler’ll descend upon
the mill in further quest of the cat.”
Scoop’s forehead went puckered.
“I don’t know----” he began uncertainly.
“It would be my idea,” went on Peg, “to sort of pretend we’re asleep
at the switch. That’ll fool the prowler and give us the advantage. We
can even leave the mill door wide open when night comes. Instead of
snoozing, however, we’ll be on the job with four stout clubs. And when
the prowler _does_ come----”
“We can rush up on him,” I cut in excitedly, “and knock him out.”
Peg nodded grimly.
“What if he has a gun?” reminded Scoop.
Here Red gave a yip.
“I know what we can do,” he cried, his eyes sparkling. “We’ll set a
trap for him and catch him in a barrel. Then he won’t have a chance to
draw a gun on us.”
Well, when we were made to understand what Red was driving at we told
each other it was a pretty slick scheme. And we had a good laugh
among ourselves as we pictured the unsuspecting prowler hooked in our
barrel like a fish trapped in a fyke net. Red is handy at rigging up
mechanical things. He understands electricity, too. We knew he could
make his scheme work.
Tumbling into the mill, we took a comprehensive survey of the overhead
beams, deciding on the best place to suspend the barrel. It was our
theory that the prowler upon entering the mill would pass quickly
before the row of cat boxes, flashing his light through the slats.
Naturally he would make longer pauses before the boxes containing
yellow cats so as not to overlook Lady Victoria. It was our decision,
therefore, to put a bright yellow cat in one of the central boxes
and fix up the barrel trap at that particular spot. We would use for
the trap a big sugar barrel with one end knocked out. This could be
suspended by a rope and pulley and the loose end of the rope brought
into the side room where we slept. Then when we got the signal that
the prowler was standing on Red’s electric floor switch we could
release the rope and down would come the barrel.
“We’ll drive some shingle nails through the sides of the barrel,”
grinned Red, “with the ends pointing up. That will let the barrel slide
down over the prowler’s head and body; but if he tries to lift up on
the barrel the nails’ll hook into his clothes.”
We put in a busy morning. First we took the cats from the crate and
shut them in the boxes. Then Scoop and Peg rolled the required barrel
from the store to the mill. I helped them get the barrel properly
suspended, open end down. Under trial it worked as slick as a button,
only once the rope came untied and poor Peg pretty nearly got his
brains knocked out. While the three of us were rigging up the barrel,
Red skidded here and there with a coil of wire on his arm and a pair
of wire nippers in his hands. The floor switch he contrived was
principally a copper strip nailed fast at one end. Under foot pressure
it was made to form a contact with another copper piece, closing the
dry battery circuit on a tiny electric light in the side room.
“When the light goes on,” explained Red, “we’ll know the prowler is
standing directly under the barrel. Then, bingo! we let go of the rope.”
“But suppose,” Peg put in thoughtfully, “that something gets out of
kilter with your contrivance and the trap doesn’t work when it should.”
“No danger of that,” Red returned confidently.
“How would it be,” persisted Peg, “if we played safe by fixing another
trap at the doorway? It’s a cinch we don’t want the prowler to escape
us.”
“Aw, shucks!” growled Red.
Peg laughed.
“How long does it take to wash off ink?” was his queer question.
“You mean school ink?” I inquired.
He nodded.
“It doesn’t wash off; it has to wear off,” I told him. I ought to know!
If there’s a school kid in Tutter who gets more ink daubed on him than
I do I don’t know who he is.
“Exactly,” said Peg. “And if we gave the prowler an ink bath, would we
recognize him if we met him in the street, or wouldn’t we?”
“What do you mean?” Scoop demanded.
Peg took us to the doorway and explained how easy it would be to
balance a bucket of ink water just above the top casing.
“We can fix a string,” said he, “so that anybody running into it will
upset the bucket. Down will come the ink and Mr. Prowler’ll get a free
bath.”
“But he’ll bump into the string coming into the mill,” was Scoop’s
objection.
“The string will then be on the floor and he’ll step over it,”
explained Peg. “I haven’t got it figured out, but I bet you we can
fasten the string to the barrel rope so that when the barrel is
released my string will tighten knee high.”
“Hot dog!” said Red. “Just leave it to me.”
“We’ll need plenty of ink,” concluded Peg. “Everybody bring a bottle
this noon. If you can bring a couple of bottles, hop to it.”
“Golly Ned!” I put in. “This is fun.”
Yes, that is what I said. And I gave an easy, contented laugh. Like
the other fellows, I felt pretty sure of myself. Had I known what was
_going_ to happen I would have been as hilarious as a clam with the
toothache.