and our thief’s filthy language flying thick and fast against our
ears, Tom managed to say, “Your prize melon’s all right, and still not
plugged. I saw her in the tent back over there by the cornfield, when I
dashed in for the jug.”
That’s when our big bully of an overgrown boy growled into the middle
of everything that was happening and said, “Maybe I took it myself. I
was going to use a watermelon for a piggy bank instead of the water
_jug_--now are you satisfied?” And he started in twisting and fighting
and trying to get away again--and couldn’t.
But now I _do_ have to quit writing.
Several nights later, when Poetry and I were in our cots in the tent
under the plum tree, while the drumming of the cicadas was so deafening
we could hardly hear ourselves talk, we had one of the happiest times
of our lives telling each other everything that had happened.
“Who’d have dreamed Muggs McGinnis would have been hiding out right in
our territory?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I answered across the moonlit four feet of space between our
cots, “imagine me being a good enough detective to capture him all by
myself--Tom and Bob helping a little, of course.”
When I finished saying such a boastful sentence, it seemed like maybe I
_had_ been a pretty important hero. It felt fine to be one. But Poetry
spoiled my puffed-up feeling by saying, “It was Little Tom Till’s keen
mind that solved your mystery for you. That guy, Muggs, actually _was_
getting his drinking water from your iron pitcher pump and from the
spring with his jug. I, myself, thought of _that!_”
Poetry yawned, rolled over and sat up on the edge of his cot in the
moonlight, looking like the shadow of a big fat grizzly, yawned again
and said, “I think I’ll go get a drink. I can’t seem to remember
whether I got one the other night or not. Want to go along?”
I quick was sitting up on the edge my own cot, and demanding “Oh no,
you don’t!”--saying it so loud it could have been heard inside the
Collins’ downstairs bedroom--_and_ was, on account of a second later
a thundery voice boomed out across the lawn from the window near the
telephone, “_Will you boys be quiet out there? You’ll wake up your
mother, Bill. I’ve told you for the last time!_”--which is one of the
most interesting sounds a boy ever hears around our farm.
Poetry was still thirsty, though, so I said, “I’ve had years of
experience pumping that pump. I know how to do it without making it
squeak. I’ll get you a drink, myself.”
With that, I crept out of bed and moved out through the moonlight
toward the pump platform.
That’s when I heard Pop talking to somebody--to Mom, maybe, I
thought--and moved stealthily over to the living room window to see if
maybe he was saying anything about Poetry or me or about the exciting
experiences we had had capturing Muggs McGinnis.
But say! Pop wasn’t talking to Mom at all, but to Somebody Else--to
the best Friend a boy ever had and the Most Important Person in
the Universe, the One Who had made the stars and the sky and every
wonderful thing in the whole boys’ world. I’d heard Pop pray many a
time at our dinner table and in prayer meeting at church, but only once
in awhile when he was all by himself.
It seemed like I ought not to be listening but I couldn’t move now or
Pop’d hear me, so I waited awhile--and part of his kind of wonderful
prayer was:
“... Pour out Thy love upon Muggs McGinnis, and upon all the lost boys
in the world. Help them to find out in some way that Christ loved them
and poured out His blood upon the cross for the forgiveness of their
sins....
“Bless our son, Bill, and our precious little curly-haired Charlotte
Ann, so filled with play and mischief, and help Mother and me bring
them up to love Thee with their whole hearts, and to always try to do
what is right....”
Mom must have been right there beside Pop, cause when he finished, I
heard her say, “Thank you, Theo. I can go to bed now without a worry in
the world. I’ve given them all to Him.”
And Pop answered, “I’ve decided you’re not going to have even one hour
of insomnia tonight--not even _one_.”
Mom yawned then, and said while she was still doing it:
“The way I feel now, I may not even have one minute.”
I crept away then and moved out through the drumming of the cicadas
and the cheeping of the crickets toward the moonlit iron pitcher pump,
feeling fine inside and glad to be alive.
Seems like there’s always a mystery popping up at Sugar Creek. This
exciting story is no exception as it lands the Gang right smack in the
middle of some peculiar happenings in a watermelon patch in the middle
of the night. Author Paul Hutchens is the happy friend of all Young
America.
[Illustration]
_Be sure to read all the books In the SCRIPTURE PRESS series_:
THE SUGAR CREEK GANG GOES NORTH
ADVENTURES IN AN INDIAN CEMETERY
THE SUGAR CREEK GANG DIGS FOR TREASURE
NORTH WOODS MANHUNT
LOST IN A SUGAR CREEK BLIZZARD
SUGAR CREEK GANG ON THE MEXICAN BORDER
GREEN TENT MYSTERY AT SUGAR CREEK
10,000 MINUTES AT SUGAR CREEK
BLUE COW AT SUGAR CREEK
OLD STRANGER’S SECRET AT SUGAR CREEK
THE SUGAR CREEK GANG AT SNOW GOOSE LODGE
THE SUGAR CREEK GANG GOES WESTERN
WE KILLED A WILDCAT AT SUGAR CREEK
THE HAUNTED HOUSE AT SUGAR CREEK
TRAP LINE THIEF AT SUGAR CREEK
WATERMELON MYSTERY AT SUGAR CREEK
DOWN A SUGAR CREEK CHIMNEY
WILD HORSE CANYON MYSTERY
Other thrilling stories about the Sugar Creek Gang may be ordered
from your Christian bookstore.
_Published and Distributed Exclusively by_
[Illustration]
SCRIPTURE PRESS
SCRIPTURE PRESS PUBLICATIONS, INC.
1825 College Avenue · Wheaton, Illinois
Transcriber’s Note:
The Contents has been added by the transcriber. Variations in hyphenated
words has been retained as in the original publication; punctuation has
been standardised. Changes have been made as follows:
Page 12
having to follow a dumbish barrel-shaped boy _changed to_
having to follow a dumpish barrel-shaped boy
Page 75
go on over to Tills’ house _changed to_
go on over to the Tills’ house
End of Project Gutenberg's Watermelon Mystery at Sugar Creek, by Paul Hutchens