INDIANS!
I shared Scoop’s unhappy feelings. And in a crazy moment I thought what
a blessing it would be to the world if a wizard came along and changed
all the cats into bedbugs. Not ordinary back-biting bedbugs, but a
_useful_ kind. Musical bedbugs, for instance. Certainly a bedbug would
be useful and desirable if it knew how to play tunes and put people
to sleep. I would like to own such a bedbug. It would be better than
owning a mangy cat. I was sick of cats. I hated cats. More particularly
I hated _these_ cats.
We had gloomily picked our way through the smoke to a spot back of the
ruins where the boxes were lined up, and now I glared at the yowlers.
“One escaped after the people rescued it from the fire,” Peg told us
wearily. “Otherwise they’re all here. You can count ’em.”
My thoughts on the moment took a sudden turn. The professor! Where was
he? There in the smouldering ruins was a human skull. Horror stricken,
I pointed.
“Oh,” Peg said without concern, “that’s an old yellow crock we kept
grease in for cat sores.”
“I--I thought it was the professor,” I mumbled weakly.
The other laughed.
“No, Jerry. The professor was rescued along with the cats. He took
after the escaping cat I just mentioned, and the last I seen of him he
was hotfooting it over the top of the hill.”
“Well,” snorted Scoop, “let’s hope he keeps on hotfooting it and
forgets to come back. All he brings us is bad luck.”
Peg dropped onto one of the cat boxes.
“I’ve been raking my brain for a scheme to get rid of the cats, and I
think I know how we can do it.”
“Why not chloroform ’em?” suggested Red.
“A better plan will be to load them into an empty box car and let the
railroad company give them a free ride.”
Here Peg’s thoughts switched and he searched our eyes.
“How did you fellows come out?” he inquired.
“Lovely,” informed Scoop. “We fell in a ditch and found the copper
collar and had dinner with the cat buyer.”
“Show me the collar and I’ll believe you.”
“How about this?” laughed Scoop, taking the copper band from his inside
pocket. “Ever see it before?”
“Where’d you get it?” Peg presently inquired.
We told him the complete story of our adventure.
“And you think these scratches have a hidden meaning?”
“Absolutely,” declared Scoop. “We’re going to get in touch with the
Chicago detectives through Mrs. Kepple. They’ll know how to figure out
the code.”
There was a brief silence as Peg bent over the collar.
“Here’s how we’ll work it,” Scoop continued. “I’ll take Jerry with me
to the sanitarium. Red, you borrow Mr. Todd’s dump cart and help Peg
with the cats. You’ll find plenty of empty cars on the Happy Hollow
siding. We’ll all meet down town.”
I knew Mother would worry if I missed two meals in succession, so I
asked Red to stop in and explain the situation to her. Then Scoop and
I got into the delivery wagon and drove to the barn in the rear of the
store. Here we unharnessed the horse and put it away for the night. Mr.
Ellery was nowhere in sight. We were glad.
Presently Scoop came through the back door of the store with a package
of crackers and a wedge of cheese. He had a pocketful of cookies, too,
and some chocolate mice. I took my half of the truck and we started.
No friendly truck driver happened along this time to give us a lift.
So we stretched our legs in order to get over the ground as quickly as
possible. The six o’clock whistles blew when we were crossing the long
river bridge, now completely painted. At the farther end the paint was
still sticky. Scoop tried to daub my face but I ducked.
Another mile and the sanitarium came into view. The sun was now
hurrying down from the sky as though eager to hide its red face in the
treetops on the far side of the lake. The reflections on the water made
a pretty picture, but I didn’t enjoy it. I was tired; and foremost in
my mind was the thought of the long return walk. It would be dusk then.
And the country road would be full of lurking shadows.
“What do you know about this?” Scoop cried in surprise, as we rounded a
corner of the main building and came upon an Indian village. Yes, sir,
right there on the hotel lawn. Indians in feathered headdress and a
dozen or more painted wigwams and a campfire and everything.
While we stood there staring a boy our age came running along. I knew
he was from the city because he was all dressed up in a pair of white
woolen pants and a white shirt. His stockings were white, too, and he
had on a pair of canvas sport shoes.
“Wonder what he’s up to,” I said, as the owner of the white pants
dodged behind an oak tree and whistled.
Scoop nudged me and stepped closer.
“I bet _you_ can tell us,” he said aloud, sort of bearing down on the
“you” to make the boy feel big.
It worked.
“Tell you what?” the other inquired freely.
“If these are real Indians.”
“Sure thing.”
“This is a queer place for _Indians_,” followed up Scoop.
“Oh,” informed the boy importantly, “they’ve been hired by the
entertainment manager to put on an outdoor show. Stick around and see
it. It’s free.”
“What do they do?”
“Sing Indian songs and dance.”
Here a shrill whistle sounded from a thicket beyond the lawn stretch.
“There’s Strick!” the boy cried, going excited. “Jinks! I hope he’s got
it.”
“Got what?”
“Old Rain Cloud’s head feathers. I’m going to play a trick on the
two-legged dumb-bell who tends the rowboats. He’s a first-class crab,
that Mick is! I’ll show him.”
“Did he get rough and take a rowboat away from you?” Scoop inquired,
sort of leading the other on.
This brought a dark nod from the boy.
“I told him I’d get even with him. And when I say a thing I mean it.
The old bat’s scared to death of the Indians. Thinks they’ll scalp
him. So I’m going to put an Indian dummy in his room. Pretty good, eh?
Strick said he’d swipe the feathers for me. I’m paying him, of course.
My father’s rich.”
Here another boy’s head and shoulders appeared out of a bush in the
foreground of the thicket. Each uplifted hand contained a feathered
headpiece.
I sort of stiffened when I recognized Jimmy Stricker. Until this moment
I hadn’t suspected who “Strick” was. Now I scowled at the young dude
in the white pants. He was my idea of a smart aleck, and moreover I
wanted nothing to do with him if he were going to put himself in Jimmy
Stricker’s class.
“Hey, Kepple!” Jimmy called. “Come here with your money. I’ve got two
of ’em. You can take your pick.”
Scoop thrust out a detaining hand.
“Is your name Kepple?” he inquired in a queer voice.
“Peter Kepple, Jr.,” the boy informed, puffing up.
“And is your mother the Chicago lady who owns the five-hundred-dollar
cat?”
“Sure thing.”
Scoop took the copper collar from his pocket.
“Ever see this collar on your mother’s cat?”
The boy shook his head.
“There’s a mystery about this collar,” Scoop hurried on. “We think it
was sent to us by the thief who got away with your mother’s pearls.”
Here the boy drew back and scowled.
“Aw, you can’t kid me!”
“I’m not kidding. Honest----”
But the other ran beyond hearing.
Skirting the circle of wigwams we passed up the porch steps and entered
the office. A new desk clerk was on duty. I put him down for a smart
guy the minute I set eyes on him.
“Well?” he snapped at us.
“We want to see Mrs. Kepple,” explained Scoop.
“Our guests don’t care to be annoyed by small boys. Run along now
before you get stepped on and bent out of shape.”
Here a man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform came up from behind.
“Did I overhear these boys inquiring for Mrs. Kepple?”
The clerk nodded coldly.
“I’m Mrs. Kepple’s chauffeur,” the man informed. Eyeing us, he
inquired: “Say, aren’t you the Tutter boys who have the cats?”
Scoop said that we were.
“Mrs. Kepple,” he added quickly, “will be glad enough to talk with us
if you’ll explain to her that we have some important news about her
stolen pearls.”
The man gave a start and stared at us. Then he turned to the clerk.
“I’ll take these boys in hand. Come this way,” he beckoned.
We followed our guide down a long hall and up two flights of stairs.
“This is the servants’ wing,” he told us shortly. Unlocking a door he
motioned us forward. “You can wait here in my room while I locate Mrs.
Kepple.”
He returned a few moments later with a young woman wearing a funny
little cloth jigger on her head.
“This is the maid,” he introduced. “She says Mrs. Kepple is dining with
friends at the country club and isn’t likely to return for several
hours.”
Here the maid leaned forward and searched our faces.
“What is it you know about the pearls?” she inquired.
“I’d rather wait and tell Mrs. Kepple,” Scoop returned uneasily.
“But I am her personal maid--you can trust me fully.”
“Yes,” the chauffeur put in quickly, “we both enjoy Mrs. Kepple’s
complete confidence. And if you have a clew, we ought to act
immediately: instead of waiting for her to return.”
Scoop looked into my face.
“Shall we tell them, Jerry?”
“Why not?” I returned.
Reflecting momentarily, he proceeded with an account of the dead cat
and the copper collar. Also he told about the prowler, and mentioned
all of the things entering into the mystery.
The chauffeur stared in amazement as the story grew to a conclusion.
“Great guns!” he cried. “And you say you have the collar with you?”
“Here in my pocket,” replied Scoop, patting the bulge in his coat.
The maid was trembling with excitement.
“We must send for Mrs. Kepple,” she cried.
“I’ll get her on the telephone,” the chauffeur offered, walking
hurriedly to the door.
The maid nervously excused herself and followed the man into the hall.
We could hear them talking in low tones. Presently she returned with a
tray containing a pitcher and two glasses.
“You look tired and thirsty,” she smiled, “and I imagine this lemonade
will taste good to you.”
While we were enjoying the unexpected treat, she questioned us about
the collar. We let her take a look at it.
“Ever see it before?” Scoop inquired.
She slowly shook her head.
“This is mighty good lemonade,” I bragged politely.
“Do have another glass,” she urged. “There is plenty. And if you don’t
mind I’ll leave you now to serve yourself as I have work to do. Just be
patient till we hear from Mrs. Kepple.”
When we were alone Scoop winked at me over his third glass.
“This is the life, Jerry.”
“Easy,” I returned contentedly.
“I guess we’ve got ’em all excited--what?”
“I’ll say.”
“Um---- Wonder how long we’ll have to wait.”
“I’m not worrying about that as long as the lemo holds out.”
He pricked up his ears.
“Some one in the next room,” he motioned with his elbow.
“What of it?” I returned without interest.
“Sounds like Jimmy Stricker’s voice. The dickens! Did you hear that?”
“It _is_ Jimmy Stricker just as sure as shootin’.”
“I can hear the Kepple kid, too. Wonder what they’re up to.”
The two voices on the opposite side of the wooden partition carried
to us plainly. And we soon got the drift of things. Plainly the hated
boatman occupied the adjoining bedroom. And now Jimmy and young Kepple
were in there rigging up the Indian dummy.
“How did you happen to get two headpieces?” we heard Kepple inquire.
“There happened to be two Indians,” laughed Jimmy.
“Both asleep?”
“Sure thing. Thought while I was about it I might just as well swipe
two headpieces as one.”
“Glad you did.”
Jimmy laughed.
“I bet old Rain Cloud won’t sneak into the woods the next time he wants
to take a snooze. He’ll have a fit when he wakes up and finds he’s been
picked. The other Indian, too.”
“And the Mick who tends the boats will have _seventeen_ fits when he
finds these Indians in his room,” laughed Kepple.
Scoop gripped my arm and pointed to a transom over a connecting door.
Evidently this door was permanently closed, because the chauffeur’s
bed was drawn up in front of it. Motioning for me to follow him, Scoop
tiptoed across the room and climbed onto the bed’s iron foot rail. In a
jiffy I was beside him.
“Can you see ’em?” he inquired in a low voice.
“Sure thing,” I told him, pressing my nose against the glass.
We watched while the others put an Indian dummy into the boatman’s bed.
Then they fixed another in a chair by the window. Both dummies wore
headpieces made of colored feathers.
“Wish we had a tomahawk to put in this guy’s mitt,” said Jimmy, giving
the chair dummy a hitch.
“I know where I can get a fireman’s ax,” said Kepple. “I saw it on the
hall wall outside the door of my room.”
“We need it.”
“Wait here and I’ll go fetch it.”
The iron rail was no comfortable footrest, so I got down. Crossing to
a window I looked out. The big garage and automobile court lay below.
While I stood there the chauffeur crossed the court and began fussing
around a classy green roadster. Evidently he was going after Mrs.
Kepple.
Then my interest quickened as the maid came running across the court.
She wore a coat and carried a small black traveling bag. There was some
excited conversation between the two servants, and in conclusion the
chauffeur opened the bag and transferred some small object to his coat
pocket. The maid seemed to wholly resent this. Under her persistent
demands the chauffeur angrily returned the article to the bag. Chucking
the bag into the car’s rear luggage compartment he got behind the wheel
and put the engine into motion.
I expected to see the car shoot up the grade just beyond the garage.
Instead, the motor stalled. Getting out, the chauffeur squinted at the
gasoline gauge, then yelled to one of the garage men to bring gasoline.
Scoop had earlier joined me at the window, but I now heard him
rummaging around the center table.
“Jerry,” he cried hoarsely, “we haven’t the brains of a bat,” and his
face in the gathering shadows seemed suddenly gray and strained. “We’ve
let the maid bamboozle us out of the copper collar. I just saw it in
the chauffeur’s hands. They’re the real thieves, and we never suspected
it. Oh-h, aren’t we the champion dumb-bells?”
I went dazed, but only for a few seconds. Then I dashed for the door.
It was locked on the hall side.
“The telephone----” I cried, wildly searching the walls.
“None here. Pound on the door. Some one’ll hear us and let us out.”
Bang! bang! bang! went our fists on the thin panels.
“What’s the rumpus in there?” came a suspicious voice from the hall.
It was Jimmy Stricker. Ordinarily I would have resented his presence.
But in this urgent moment I couldn’t think of him as an enemy.
“Unlock the door,” cried Scoop, “and we’ll give you a quarter.”
“Where’s the key?”
“Isn’t it in the lock?”
“No. Say, who are you guys, anyhow?”
I told him.
“Mrs. Kepple’s chauffeur is running off with our copper collar,” I
cried. “If he gets away with it we’ll lose the reward.”
“What reward?” Jimmy inquired through the keyhole.
Scoop jumped in with a hurried explanation of things.
“The green car’s stalled on the grade just beyond the garage,” he
cried. “Run quick, Jimmy, and grab the black bag as they drive off. And
if we get the reward we’ll divvy up with you.”
A diminishing clatter of shoes came from the hall. We ran to the
window. The green car was still there. A garage man was pouring
gasoline into the tank. I was crazy in the thought that Jimmy would be
too late. He hadn’t come into sight. The chauffeur got into the car as
the garage man screwed on the gas tank cover. A cloud of blue smoke
shot from the exhaust pipe. The wheels quivered as they gripped the
ground. Then, in the very instant that the car hurtled forward, Jimmy
appeared out of nowhere seemingly and successfully hooked the black bag.
“Hurray!” yipped Scoop, hugging me in his excitement.
“Jimmy’s a pretty good kid after all,” I cried, feeling suddenly weak
and dizzy in our victory over the chauffeur.
“You said it, Jerry ol’ pal.”
I took another look from the window.
“Lookit!” I pointed, sort of going cold.
Four boys had joined Jimmy in the roadway. It took us not more than
two seconds to recognize Bid Stricker and the rest of the Zulutown
gang. They saw us in the window and hooted. Then they waved good-by and
started down the road, Jimmy leading with the black bag.
“They intend to keep the collar and steal the reward on us,” I cried.
“No they won’t steal the reward,” Scoop gritted. “They won’t get a
chance, the dirty traitors. We should have known better than to trust
a Stricker.” The grip on my arm hurt. “Jerry, we’re going to get that
collar away from them if we’ve got to fight the whole gang.”
Releasing my arm he ran and sprang onto the bed’s foot rail.
“We can get out through the other room,” he cried, raising the transom.
“The door’s open.”
“But how are we going to get into the other room?”
“Watch me!”
Gripping the sill he drew himself up and through the transom. It took a
lot of wiggling, but he made it. There was a dull thud as he landed in
a heap on the floor.
“No bones broken,” he cried. “Come on, Jerry. I’ll catch you.”
Putting a chair on the bed, I climbed up and went through easy,
being skinnier than Scoop. But coming down headfirst put me dizzy.
Staggering, I bumped against the Indian dummy in the chair.
“Grab the blanket and feathers,” Scoop cried on the moment, doing the
same with the dummy in the bed. His brain works quick in a time like
this. I knew he had some kind of a scheme up his sleeve.
“Come on,” he cried, darting for the door.
Shortly we were outside. I headed for the road running past the garage,
but Scoop drew me into a footpath angling to the right.
“This is a shortcut to the river bridge,” he panted. “I followed it one
day this summer when I was fishing.”
“Think we can head ’em off?” I cried.
“We’ve got to.”
“But it’s five against two,” I reminded with some anxiety. “They’ll
lick the tar out of us.”
“Jerry, what do you think the Strickers would do if they were tackled
by two Indians?”
“Either die of heart failure or twist their legs out of shape running
for home.”
“Exactly! And that’s why you and I are going to be Indians for an hour
or two. Then the Strickers won’t dare fight us, even if it is five
against two.”
I got the drift of his scheme. And I sort of chuckled as I hugged my
blanket and feathered headpiece, only it was a jerky, nervous chuckle.
Our time was come! Now we’d get even with the Strickers for all the
mean tricks they had played on us. Yes, sir, we’d hand them a jolt
they’d remember with regret for the next twenty-eight years.