The Mysterious Man Again
Walter Burton missed his brother for many reasons during the latter’s
absence. Guy was always a good companion. Out of school, Walter scarcely
knew what to do with himself. Heretofore all his pleasures and all his
labors had been shared by the other twin. They had always gone to school
together, shoveled snow together, worked in the shop together, and
studied wireless together.
In this occupation, or amusement, Walter was now almost lost. He called
“V T” and informed the latter of Guy’s plan and was waiting with
receivers at his ears when his brother’s call came from New York. But
for several days thereafter he neglected his hobby entirely, not even
caring to amuse himself by catching messages from any commercial or
amateur source.
Nevertheless, Walter was deeply interested in everything wireless. The
thrill and excitement of “talking” electric waves, impelled with
air-splitting leaps of the current across the spark-gap, had often
enlivened his daydreams with radio visions, and it was hardly to be
expected that he would long remain idle, in view of the allurements and
possibilities at hand.
A quarter of a mile from the Burton home lived another boy, Anthony
Lane, who chummed a good deal with the “wireless twins.” Anthony, or
Tony, as he was familiarly called, was a poor boy, but this fact made no
difference with Walter or Guy; “he was the right kind of stuff,” and
that was all they cared for. He was one of the best ball players at
school, could row and swim like a sailor and a fish, and, although
strong and clever, was never known to act the bully.
This boy had manifested a deep interest in wireless telegraphy as soon
as he saw the apparatus of the Burton boys in operation. He learned the
Morse alphabet and practiced on the instruments of his friends at their
invitation. Up to the time when Guy left for Europe, however, he had not
acquired much skill and was therefore unable to fill, in this respect,
the vacancy left by the absent brother. But one day Walter said to his
friend:
“Tony, do you want to learn wireless so well that no operator can
dot-and-dash away from you?”
“You bet I do,” was the other’s reply. “I often thought I would, but I
couldn’t afford to buy an outfit like yours.”
“Then come over and live with me while Guy’s gone. I’m awful lonesome.”
“I’ll see what ma says,” answered Tony.
The result was as Walter suggested. Tony had a few chores to do home
every evening, for his father owned several acres and kept a cow, pigs,
and chickens. After this work was done, he was permitted to “go over to
Walter’s” and remain there until morning, when he must return and do
chores again. Meanwhile he devoted all his spare moments to wireless
practice, even when Walter was not at liberty to “talk” with him.
One afternoon as the boys were returning home from school discussing
some newly-developed feature of interest in their hobby, the subject was
suddenly changed by the appearance before them of one who has figured
earlier in this narrative. He was the man with the tall derby hat and
the trowel-shaped patent leathers.
“Did you notice that fellow?” Walter asked in a low tone as they passed
the man of conspicuous foot and headgear.
“I saw him, but didn’t have much to say to ’im,” replied Tony, smiling
at his friend’s startled manner. “Who is he—a detective lookin’ for
violators of the amateur wavelength law?”
“You’re makin’ fun o’ me. But you won’t be so gay when I tell you all
about him.”
“What is it?” asked Tony a little more seriously.
“You remember when Guy an’ mother went away—you were at the depot; that
man was there, too. Didn’t you see ’im?”
“I don’t know. What did he do?—steal a glass of buttermilk from the
cowcatcher?”
“You won’t take this seriously at all, Tony. But just wait till you come
over tonight and I’ll show you a letter from Guy that’ll surprise you.”
“What’s it about?” asked Tony, his levity gone.
“Never mind now. You made fun o’ me, and I’m going to keep you guessing
awhile.”
It was Guy’s first long letter since leaving Ferncliffe that Walter
showed to his friend that evening. The missive had arrived the day
before and was postmarked London. It contained much detail concerning
the voyage and the absent brother’s first impressions of the city on the
Thames.
After performing this traveler’s duty, Guy became more personal and told
of incidents more intimately affecting himself and his mother. He began
this part of his letter with an account of the peculiar actions of the
man with the high-crowned derby and the trowel-shaped patent leathers,
writing in part as follows:
“After we reached New York, we lost sight of him, and I forgot all about
him for several days. But he came back to my mind on the ship, and I
couldn’t help thinking of his funny actions. I’m sure now that he was
interested in what mother and I were talking about. I can’t forget the
way I caught him looking at me once when I turned around and faced him
in the car. And it’s mightly funny, too, his getting the seat just
behind us on both trains. I can’t believe it just happened that way,
though I thought so at first.”
“Now, what do you think?” asked Walter as his friend finished reading
the letter.
“I don’t know,” replied the other dubiously. “Guy hasn’t explained why
this fellow should be so interested in him and your mother.”
“He might ’a’ been a pickpocket,” suggested Walter.
“Yes, but he didn’t get anything. And if he’s a confidence man, he
didn’t try his game on them.”
“No, he didn’t,” Walter admitted slowly.
“You’d better give it up,” advised the wiseheaded Tony. “Even if the
fellow was interested in Guy and your mother, it didn’t amount to much.
He didn’t do anything, and they’re a long way from him now.”
“Oh, I was just worked up over the mystery,” Walter assured his friend.
“I wasn’t afraid of anything serious.”
The mystery, however, would not leave his mind, and he grew impatient
because of the persistence with which it haunted him. Next afternoon as
the boys were on their way home from school again, Guy called a halt in
front of the Chenoweth House, saying:
“Wait here a minute, Tony. I want to see the hotel clerk.”
Walter entered the hotel and was out of his friend’s sight a few
minutes. When he returned, he said:
“I guess there’s nothing to it.”
“Nothing to what?” inquired Tony.
“That man Guy wrote about. He’s a traveling jewelry salesman. I thought
he might be stopping here, and he was; but he’s gone now.”
“Were you thinking about him yet?” exclaimed Tony. “I told you there was
nothing to it. What’s ’is name?”
“Stanley Pickett.”
“Forget ’im.”
Walter did—for a few weeks.