_The Mystery of the Deserted Village_
by
Elbert M. Hoppenstedt
_Franklin Watts, Inc._
575 Lexington Avenue · New York 22
_Library of Congress Catalog Card Number_: 60-11186
© 1960 by Franklin Watts, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
FIRST PRINTING
_For Richard_
_The Mystery of the Deserted Village_
_Chapter 1_
Ronnie was in the hayloft sliding down the piles of newly-stacked
hay when he heard the car drive up into the yard and come to a stop.
Spitting a mouthful of hayseeds from his lips and tongue, he ran over
to the open doors and peered down into the yard.
The car was shiny and new, a big black sedan with white-walled tires. A
man in a business suit carrying a briefcase climbed out of the driver’s
seat and headed briskly for the front door of the house.
Ronnie knew who he was and why he was here, and his heart sank. Why did
the St. Lawrence Seaway need a piece of the Rorth farm land, and _why_
did it have to be just that part where the deserted village lay?
Of course he really knew the answers to his questions. What he meant
was--why did it have to _happen_ that way? Why did the land have to be
so low that when the dam was built and the waters of the St. Lawrence
River began to pile up behind it, the deserted village would be flooded?
He thought of Grandfather and Father in the parlor talking with the man
and he wondered about what they were saying and how it would all turn
out. The last time Mr. Evans had come in his black sedan Grandfather
had gotten very angry and Ronnie had heard him shouting and thumping
his cane on the floor.
Ronnie went over to the opening in the loft floor and, grasping the
ladder, climbed quickly down to the bottom. It was darker below, and
for a moment the boy had trouble seeing his way. He heard Beatrice
stamping in her stall, and smelled the sharp, pungent odor of fresh
manure.
His bare feet padded across the hard earth floor as he moved toward the
barn door. A moment later he was out in the glaring sunlight, the full
heat of the afternoon striking him on his bare shoulders and back.
He saw his brother Phil lying in the hammock beneath the grape arbor.
“Hey, Phil!” he called. “That man’s here again.”
Phil opened his eyes lazily. “What man?” he asked indifferently.
Ronnie squatted down beside him. “The man from the Seaway, of course. I
just hope Grandfather gets hopping mad again and gives it to him good.
Nobody’s got a right to just come along and tell a person he’s got to
sell his land. Nobody!”
Phil closed his eyes again and started the hammock swinging.
“Of course _you_ don’t care one bit, Philip Rorth!” Ronnie continued.
“I think Grandfather was right. He said you’re not a _real_ Rorth!
’Cause a _real_ Rorth’s got fighting blood and a love for his land, and
most of all he wouldn’t let the village go without a fight.”
Phil opened his left eye and squinted up at his brother. “All the
fighting in the world’s not going to save the village, Ronnie, ’cause
when the government wants something, it gets it. _Period!_”
Ronnie turned away in disgust. What could he expect of Phil? His
brother had never gotten excited about anything, and he probably never
would.
He headed toward the other side of the house, partly because it was
shady there, but mostly because he knew the parlor window was open and
he might be able to hear what was going on inside.
He passed the woodshed and swung around the corner of the house. Almost
immediately he heard Grandfather’s voice. “Why, young fellow, do you
know this land’s been in the family close onto a hundred and fifty
years? And you come along, and without so much as a how-do-you-do,
tell me I got to up and off it? Hah! Well, I’ve got a lawyer, too, to
protect my rights!”
Ronnie settled down in the shade near the lilac bushes. He really
wasn’t eavesdropping. He’d been wanting to weed the lily-of-the-valley
bed for some time now, and this was a perfect time to do it with the
sun on the other side of the house. He grabbed hold of a ragweed and
started to pull it, but he stopped tugging after a few seconds so he
could hear what Mr. Evans was saying.
“Mr. Rorth,” the man said, his voice like a whisper compared to
Grandfather’s, “Mr. Rorth, I wish you’d try to understand. We--”
He didn’t get any further because when Grandfather was angry he didn’t
usually give anyone else much time to talk. “I don’t understand, eh?
Well, young fellow, I understand just fine, and just don’t you bother
giving me any more of that hogwash about how wonderful it will be when
big ships can come sailing down the river from the ocean to the Great
Lakes, because that doesn’t touch me one bit.”
Ronnie heard his father’s voice next. “Father,” said Mr. Rorth, “it
doesn’t do a bit of good getting yourself all upset like this. The
Seaway Authority has told us that the water level of the lake formed
behind the dam will cover the section of land where the deserted
village is, and for this reason it will have to be purchased. There
isn’t a thing we can do about it. Our lawyer has told us that himself.”
“More hogwash! Sometimes I think that lawyer is working for both sides
and against the middle.”
The weed came loose from the ground with a suddenness that sent Ronnie
reeling backward. Before he could catch himself he had crashed against
the side of the house. When he looked up, there was his father peering
at him from behind the screen. “Ronnie, what are you doing out there?”
“I--I’m weeding the lily of the valley,” he managed to stammer.
“Well, you’d better weed it some other time. Now go somewhere else.”
“Y--yes, sir.” Ronnie wandered away toward the front of the house. He
felt ashamed for having been caught snooping, and he was peeved at
himself too. He wanted to hear what happened next. He hoped and prayed
that there could be something that would save the village.
Almost without thinking, he headed across the dirt road that led out to
the paved highway and then he entered the apple orchard. The blossoms
had faded already, and in their place were clusters of tiny green
knobs with big whiskers on the ends.
A few minutes later he left the orchard and stood for a moment at the
top of the bluff, looking down into the tight little valley where the
buildings of the deserted village lay half hidden among the hemlocks
and spruce and maples and oaks. Great-great-grandfather Ezra Rorth’s
father had built the village, and had chosen a beautiful location. The
brick and stone buildings were nestled comfortably in the deep ravine.
A cobbled road ran through the center of the village, and Goose Brook
raced along its rock-strewn course down to the St. Lawrence.
Every time he stopped to look at the village from up here on the bluff,
Ronnie thought of Grandfather. When Ronnie was hardly old enough to
walk, his grandfather had brought him here. For many years after that
the old man and the boy had walked together down the cobbled road in
the late evenings, and Grandfather had told stories of the days when
the village was alive with people, and the glass furnace belched smoke
day and night and Rorth glassware was known almost around the world.
Now, as always, the village drew Ronnie like a magnet. He raced down
the face of the bluff, whirling his arms about like propeller blades to
keep his balance. At the bottom he stopped. Now that he was here, he
couldn’t decide just which part of the village he wanted to visit. He
could swing on the wild grapevines in front of the gristmill, and maybe
take off his trousers and go sailing feet first into the millpond. Or,
he could have fun climbing around on the pile of rubble that remained
from the old bakery building.
He decided to visit the old, padlocked, boarded-up building which
had been the office of the Glassworks back in Great-great-grandfather
Ezra’s days. He started down the path, keeping his eyes open for any
big toadstools he could splatter against a tree trunk. Then he spied
Bill.
His best friend was coming through the trees from the opposite
direction. Ronnie put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly.
“I was just coming over to your place,” Bill greeted him. “Where are
you headed?”
“No place special. Thought maybe I’d climb around on the old office
building roof and maybe get a look at that swift nest down the chimney.
You figuring on something else?”
“Nope.”
They started down the path together. “You know, Ronnie,” Bill said as
they came to the cobblestone road through the middle of the village,
“you know, I’d sure like to get a look inside that building sometime.
How come your grandfather keeps it all locked up with shutters on the
windows?”
“He’s had it open once or twice.”
“I’ve never seen it open.”
“I guess that’s because he hasn’t opened it up since we were big enough
to remember,” Ronnie said.
“My pa was talking about it the other night. He said it’s supposed to
be haunted. You believe that, Ronnie?”
Ronnie thought it over. “Maybe, maybe not.” He wouldn’t let Bill know
how he really felt. Grandfather never seemed to want to talk about the
building, so perhaps there _was_ something that he wanted to hide.
Of course, Ronnie had heard the stories from others, about how his
great-great-grandfather Ezra had killed someone in the office building
and had robbed the Glassworks of money. No two people told the same
story, and Ronnie had decided not to believe any of them.
“I’d sure like to get inside,” Bill repeated.
The old office stood back from the cobblestone road. Two giant sentinel
pines towered over the roof, dwarfing the building and the sapling
hemlocks and pines that crowded close to its sides.
“Race you to it!” Bill yelled suddenly and started down the narrow path
from the cobbled road.
Ronnie knew he couldn’t outrun Bill with his longer legs, but he’d
sure try anyway. Gasping for breath, Ronnie reached his friend, who
had dropped to the ground and stretched himself out in a nest of last
year’s leaves just in front of the padlocked door. Ronnie threw himself
down beside Bill.
They lay there for a few minutes catching their breaths. Then Bill got
up and began to hunt around on the ground. He found a rock and brought
it over to the door.
“What are you aiming to do?” Ronnie asked.
“I can smash that lock easy,” Bill answered.
Ronnie pulled himself to his feet. “Forget it. We were going to climb
to the roof and look down the chimney at the swift’s nest--remember?”
Bill looked at the stone in his hand and then into Ronnie’s face.
“O.K.,” he said, letting the rock drop to the ground. “Some other time,
maybe. But, by golly, I sure want to see what’s inside.”
“Grandfather said there’s nothing much. And he knows because he’s
hunted through everything.”
Bill had shinnied up a young sapling and was pulling himself carefully
onto the roof. “What was he looking for?” he grunted.
Ronnie started up after him and by the time he reached Bill’s side he
had conveniently forgotten to answer the question. They mounted the
slope together and then edged their way down the other side where the
chimney was located. Bill had no trouble peering down into the chimney
flue, but Ronnie had to stand on his toes to do it.
“See anything?” Ronnie asked.
“I can make out the nest. See it, over there toward the back? I think
there are eggs in it.”
“Yes,” Ronnie agreed. “Looks like three of them.”
They watched for a minute or two more and then lost interest. Instead,
they sat down on the edge of the roof, with their legs hanging
dangerously over the side.
Off in the distance, Ronnie could see a stretch of the St. Lawrence
River and a smudge of smoke from a river boat, now already out of sight.
“A man from the Seaway’s at the house talking with Dad and
Grandfather,” he said suddenly.
“The Seaway’s dickering with my pa, too,” Bill said. “Pa says it’s the
best thing that ever came to him. They’re going to pay him five hundred
dollars an acre, and most of it’s no-good swamp land. ’Course, it’s
different with you, Ronnie. I know it’s the village that’s going.”
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“Pa says there’s not a chance.”
“I know. Grandfather won’t say it, but he knows he’s licked.”
“Sure is a shame, because they don’t really need that part where the
village is. Not for the main steamship lanes, anyway. But just because
it’s bottom land and will flood up, it’s got to go.”
“Goose Brook will be swallowed up, too.”
“Too bad your great-great-grandfather didn’t build the village on high
ground. But then, I guess they used the stream for power to turn the
wheels for the gristmill.”
Ronnie nodded. “I sure as shooting wish I could just pile up a heap of
ground along the river to keep the water out. Then they wouldn’t want
the village land.”
He was looking at the narrow gap where Goose Brook tumbled between the
two bluffs that formed the margins of the valley. Why, it wasn’t more
than seventy-five or a hundred feet across, and if it were filled in,
the water behind the new Seaway dam could rise as high as it needed to
without flooding the valley.
Ronnie almost lost his balance and plunged over the edge as the thought
struck him. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “I’ve just gotten the coolest idea you
ever did hear of. Now why in the name of common sense didn’t I think of
it sooner?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Bill answered, “seeing I haven’t got the
slightest idea of what you’re talking about.”
“Well, come on and I’ll show you!” Ronnie exploded. Then he scrambled
up the roof and back over the other side, and swung himself into the
sapling like a monkey let out of its cage.
_Chapter 2_
Ronnie was so busy telling Bill about his idea, and Bill was listening
to it so intently, that neither of the boys saw the station wagon until
it was almost upon them. “... and if we could build a dam across that
narrow gap the village could be saved,” Ronnie was saying.
It was Bill who saw the station wagon first and he stopped dead in his
tracks. “Look, Ronnie,” he exclaimed, “a car--in _here_!”
There was an old dirt road leading from the highway and connecting
with the cobblestone road, but neither of the boys could ever remember
seeing it used. But now that Ronnie thought about it, there wasn’t any
reason why it couldn’t be used--if someone had a mind to get to the
village without walking, someone traveling along the highway, that is.
And here apparently was someone who wanted to do just that.
The man stopped the car, turned off the engine, and stepped out. He
came toward the boys, smiling broadly. “You don’t know how glad I am
to see you. I thought sure I was lost and the road was too narrow to
turn around and go back to the highway.” He took a step toward Ronnie,
offering his hand. “My name’s Caldwell,” he said. “Joseph Caldwell.”
Ronnie shook hands. “I’m Ronnie, and this here’s Bill. You looking for
something special, mister?”
“Yes. The old Rorth Glassworks.”
“You’ve found it,” Bill answered.
“But there’s nothing here any more, Mr. Caldwell,” Ronnie added
quickly. “I mean, they don’t make glass now--not for the last
seventy-five or eighty years, near-abouts.”
“I know.” The man smiled faintly. “Anybody who’s traveled up that dirt
road could guess that there’s been no activity here for years.”
Ronnie grinned. “Now that you’re here, what are you fixing to do?” he
asked.
“Well, what I’d like to do is look the place over. But I suppose I’ll
have to get permission first.”
Ronnie shook his head. “You won’t have to do that, Mr. Caldwell. This
land belongs to my grandfather. He’ll let you look. Maybe you’d like to
have us show you around?”
“I’d like that very much!” Mr. Caldwell answered.
As Ronnie led the man down the cobbled street, a hundred stories
Grandfather had told him about the village leaped to his mind and
begged to be told. He remembered the evening Grandfather and he had sat
on the top of the bluff overlooking the village, with the bats circling
overhead and the buildings standing silent below and fading from sight
among the trees in the gathering darkness. How vividly Grandfather
had told the story of the great fire of 1871 when ten of the workers’
cottages had burned to the ground, and Great-great-grandfather Ezra had
worked beside his men, battling the blaze until he had fallen from
smoke poisoning.
Or, the winter of the great blizzard when the roof of the Glassworks
had caved in from the weight, and when the drifts were so high it took
three days to dig out the road so that supplies could be procured from
the storehouses.
He remembered, too, the story Grandfather told about the duchess
from Bavaria who had visited the Works because she admired the Rorth
glassware so much. Great-great-grandfather had blown a special piece
for her that day, and she, in turn, had left a treasured piece of
Bavarian glass.
They approached the two-story building beside Goose Brook. “This was
the gristmill,” Ronnie told Mr. Caldwell. “Every bit of flour and meal
for the village was made here from the grain grown on the fields up
above where Dad has his orchards now.”
Caldwell inspected the huge, overshot waterwheel mounted on its two
stone-and-cement piers and connected to the inside of the building with
a rusty shaft by which the power was transferred to the grinding stones.
They went inside. A musty smell of damp stone and stale air touched
Ronnie’s nostrils. The large grinding stone stood motionless now. Big
copper caldrons and stone mixing pots gave evidence that the grain had
not only been ground to flour, but baked into bread as well. A massive
fireplace with an iron oven on each side formed the entire rear wall.
Caldwell poked about among the smaller articles for a while and then
followed the boys outside. Next they visited the main building where
the glass had been made and blown. Bill showed the man the main
furnace with its four openings into the main chimney which rose like a
giant above the furnace and disappeared through the roof. Some of the
long-handled “pots” in which the glass was heated were still stacked
against the wall.
Otherwise, the building was bare of its former equipment. Caldwell led
the way outside. “I’ve got time for more--if you have,” he announced.
The church, sawmill, and a few of the workers’ houses which were still
intact, followed. Then came a quick inspection of the smith shop and
finally the old office.
“All boarded up and locked, I see!” Caldwell commented. “Something
special housed inside?”
“Why, no, sir!” Ronnie answered. He didn’t feel like giving an
explanation of something so personal that even Grandfather didn’t like
to talk about it.
Caldwell didn’t press his question. “I certainly am impressed by how
well preserved some of the buildings are,” he said instead.
“That’s because Grandfather didn’t want to see the village fall to
pieces,” Ronnie answered. “Before he came down with his gout he spent
days working down here, every time he could get away from the farm. He
told me for a while he even milled his own lumber from the wood lot
so’s he could afford to do it.”
“Your grandfather must have a real love for this place,” the man said
sincerely.
“I reckon it’s just about the biggest thing in his life.” Ronnie was
going to add “and mine too,” but he didn’t because Caldwell had turned
away and had started down the path toward the cobbled road.
“Grandpa even replaced some of these stones in the old roadbed,” Ronnie
added as the three headed back toward Mr. Caldwell’s car.
He handed each of the boys a quarter. “You’ve been real fine guides,”
he said. “Thank you for taking me around.”
“You don’t need to pay us, mister,” Ronnie said, handing the money
back. “Bill and I--we would have hung around here anyway.”
“Keep it, please,” the man insisted. “Who knows--I may want you to help
me more, and then I wouldn’t feel right asking you, would I?”
“All right,” Ronnie agreed. Bill had already pocketed his quarter.
“Say, Mr. Caldwell,” Ronnie had an idea, “do you suppose other people
would pay money to have us show them around?”
Mr. Caldwell thought about the question. “I’m sure you could attract
quite a few interested people--if they knew about it.” He opened the
door to his car. “Say, son, I wonder if I could come to see your
parents tomorrow and your grandfather, too.”
“I haven’t got any mother. She died when I was born. But you can sure
come to see Dad and Grandfather. Something you want, maybe?”
“Well, perhaps. You see, I’m writing a book about early American
glassware, and an idea just struck me that might prove interesting. But
let me go back to my motel and think it over, and I’ll tell you about
it tomorrow when I visit your folks.”
“Suits me fine,” Ronnie answered.
Caldwell climbed into his car and started the engine. Ronnie and
Bill watched him while he maneuvered his machine about on the narrow,
cobbled roadway and headed in the opposite direction. Then Caldwell
leaned from the window and waved good-by. He started back up the road
toward the highway in low gear.
Bill turned to Ronnie.
“Now just what do you suppose brought him here to see the village in
the first place? He couldn’t have stumbled on it just by accident,
that’s for sure!”
“He was eying the locked-up building mighty suspicious-like, I’ll tell
you that!” Ronnie added. “Did you see him, Bill?”
Bill nodded his head. “He’s come here for something, and I don’t think
writing a book is the whole answer.”
They walked up the path together, picking up old acorns and shooting
them into the trees. Suddenly Bill stopped and confronted Ronnie. “How
come you asked him would other people pay money to see the village,
Ronnie?” he asked.
“I was putting one and one together, and I think I came up with two.”
“And what’s this two you came up with?”
“Well, that narrow gap where Goose Brook comes down through the valley,
plus some money we might be able to earn this summer showing people
around. Maybe it equals a dam and saving the village.”
Bill thought about that while he searched the dried leaves beneath a
giant bull oak for more ammunition. “How much you figure a dam would
cost?”
Ronnie shrugged. “I haven’t got the slightest idea. A hundred dollars,
maybe?”
Bill shook his head. “Maybe more like a thousand. Maybe ten thousand.”
“Well, it would be a _beginning_ anyway. And I know people hereabouts
who would want to see the village saved, too, and I’ll bet if they
heard how we were working to earn money, maybe they’d help out too. My
dad knows the president of the historical society in town, and he told
Dad he was sick hearing about how the village would be bulldozed and
flooded, and if there was anything the society could do to help, he
should just speak up.” Ronnie sighed. “I’d sure like to _try_ to earn
the money to save the village. It would be fun, too--you and me and
maybe Phil, if he wants to, and you don’t care.”
“And then if we can’t use the money for the village, we can always have
it to put in the bank.”
“Let’s try it, huh, Bill?” Ronnie said.
“It’s a deal! Rorth and Beckney, Guided Tours of the Rorth Glassworks’
Deserted Village.”
As they walked together down the path, each of the boys was filled with
ideas as to how they would proceed. There would have to be a sign on
the highway, of course. And the road leading into the village would
need some repairs, and the branches overhanging it should be pruned
short. They’d have to decide upon how much to charge and what they’d
tell their guests about each of the buildings.
They stopped where the path divided--one route leading toward the
Beckney farm, the other, up the embankment to the Rorth orchard.
“Tomorrow, Bill?” Ronnie asked him.
“Tomorrow, partner!” Bill answered.
Ronnie turned and began to run, digging his toes into the embankment
as he scrambled to the top. He raced through the apple orchard, leaping
a time or two to grab at a pea-sized apple. He suddenly felt light
enough to fly. At least now he’d be _doing_ something to save the
deserted village, not just standing by and listening to Grandfather
argue with Mr. Evans.
_Chapter 3_
When Ronnie entered the house, he was whistling a tune through the
space between his two front teeth. In the living room he found Phil
sprawled out on the couch with his head propped up against a pillow and
a comic book in his hands. Phil turned a page and looked up at Ronnie.
“Hi!” he said. “Where’ve you been?”
“Down in the village.” Ronnie went over to Dad’s desk to see if there
might be some important-looking papers as a result of the meeting that
afternoon. “Don’t you get tired of lying around all the time?” he asked
Phil.
“Not me.” Phil shifted his position. “It’ll take me another month to
rest up from a year of school. What’re you looking for?”
“Oh--nothing. Maybe a deed to the village property.”
“Nothing like that--yet. Gramp’s lawyer arrived soon after you got
booted away from the window, and they got nowhere from then on!”
“How’d you know what happened to me?”
“Because I was listening from the other side--from the hall! Soon’s
the lawyer arrived, Gramps began demanding a lot more money for the
property than the Seaway wanted to give, and they argued about that for
a while and then Mr. Evans left. I’m telling you all this because I
know you’re going to ask me anyway.”
Ronnie nodded. “Sure I want to know about it. Where’s Dad?”
“Out in the barn, I think.”
Ronnie turned and headed for the kitchen, where he was met with a frown
from Mrs. Butler, who did the housework and prepared the meals for the
Rorths.
Mrs. Butler was a huge woman with a heavy-set jaw and a sharp, straight
nose and piercing eyes that darted rapidly from one place to another.
“Now don’t you be running off somewhere!” she warned Ronnie. “Supper’s
nearly ready to serve up, and if it’s like usual I’ll have to hunt the
four corners of the farm to find everyone.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean no ma’am.”
“If you’re going out back, take a look at the gas tank for me, will
you? I don’t think it’s been exchanged in a month.”
The indicator showed the tank to be almost half-full. Ronnie passed
this information on to Mrs. Butler and then hurried toward the barn,
chasing a dozen chickens out of his path.
His father was sitting on the homemade, bicycle-propelled grindstone
sharpening one of the blades to his haymower. He didn’t look up from
his work as Ronnie came to a stop at his side and stood watching him.
“Want me to spell you, Dad?” Ronnie shouted above the racket.
Mr. Rorth slowed down his pumping and then climbed off. “All right,” he
answered. “I’m on the last one, but my legs are getting tired.”
Ronnie climbed onto the seat and started turning the pedals. The
eight-inch-diameter stone began to whirl. Sparks shot in every
direction as Mr. Rorth laid the edge of the blade against the stone.
A few minutes later, he signaled the boy to stop. “There, that’s
better,” he said, running his finger cautiously along the edge of the
blade. “Now if the weather holds out, I can get the north field cut and
maybe into the loft.”
“You’re going to have company in the morning, Dad,” Ronnie said.
“_Now_ who’s coming?” Mr. Rorth sounded annoyed. “I wasted the whole
afternoon on this property deal when I should have been haying. Now
who’s going to take over another half a day?”
Ronnie sympathized with his father. It wasn’t an easy job teaching
agriculture in the local high school during the winter and then trying
to run a sixty-acre farm during the growing season. Ronnie wanted to
say, “I’ll give you a hand, Dad,” but he couldn’t summon enough will
power to do it because he was looking forward so eagerly to starting
his business venture.
Instead, he answered his father’s question. “Mr. Caldwell, Dad.”
“Caldwell? Never heard of him.”
“Me neither, until a little while ago. He came driving into the village
while Bill and I were there, and he asked us to show him all around.
And after we’d done that, he said he’d an idea he wanted to see you
about--you and Grandfather.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure Grandfather can take care of it by
himself.”
Mrs. Butler’s voice bellowed from the rear door. “Come and get it!
Come and get it before I throw it down the sink.”
Mr. Rorth grinned to himself. “Nice wholesome creature, that Mrs.
Butler. But heaven knows what we would do without her.”
Mr. Rorth wiped his hands free of grease and started toward the
barnyard door. Ronnie snapped off the overhead bulb and followed.
“Dad,” he said, hurrying to catch up, “Dad, if you need me with the
haying, I’ll help.”
Mr. Rorth thought it over. “I guess not. Thanks, son. Maybe after I
get it cut, you can help load the truck. And I’ll probably need a hand
getting it up into the loft, the same as last week.”
Ronnie went into the dining room to wait for the others to arrive. He
stood in front of the sideboard, idly tinkling the bullet-sized glass
crystals that hung in a circle of dewdrops from the rim of one of the
Rorth candlesticks. A ray of light from the ceiling chandelier struck
one of the crystals, and a rainbow of colors danced before the boy’s
eyes.
Grandfather’s cane came thumping into the room and stopped behind the
boy. “You watch your step with that candlestick!” Grandfather warned.
“Doesn’t pay to monkey around with it for no good purpose. There’s
little enough of the old Rorth glassware left in the world, and those
two candlesticks are the prize of the lot.”
“I won’t harm it, Grandfather.”
“I know. I know. I’ve heard you say that before--with disastrous
results. Those sticks, next to the village, are the pride of my life.
Now you wouldn’t want to have _everything_ taken from me, would you,
lad?”
“No, Grandfather.” He turned away from the sideboard and looked up at
his grandfather. “Grandpa,” he said, “Dad told me once there was a
story about the candlesticks. Will you tell me about it? Dad said you
were the one to tell me if I was to know.”
Grandfather’s gray eyes twinkled for a moment. “Remember how not so
long ago you used to come sit a spell in my room after supper, and we’d
talk about the village and about your Great-great-grandfather Ezra and
about the Glassworks?”
Ronnie nodded.
“Well, maybe if you were to slip in for a while tonight, we could talk
about the candlesticks.”
“And maybe about the locked-up building, too, huh, Grandpa?”
The old man frowned. “That’s best forgotten, lad, best forgotten.”
Phil was already seated at the table, and Mrs. Butler was glaring in
Ronnie’s direction, warning him to do the same. He helped Grandfather
into his special armchair at the head of the table, and then slipped
around and sat down next to Phil. Grandfather said grace, Mrs. Butler
brought in the corned beef and cabbage, and Mr. Rorth made a late
entrance to take his place opposite Grandfather. Mr. Rorth’s face was
drawn into a frown. “I wish,” he exclaimed irritably, “the Seaway would
hurry up and buy the land so I could get on with the farm work.”
A loud snort from Grandfather warned him that he had not worded his
feelings in quite the way the old man would understand. “What I mean
is,” he hurried to correct himself, “what I mean is that we haven’t got
a ghost of a chance of saving it, so we might as well be done with the
whole thing.” But it was too late. Grandfather had already risen to his
feet, his hand turning white as he clenched the handle of his cane. His
face was a fiery red against his snow-white hair, and the vein on his
right forehead popped from the surface like a big purple knot.
For a moment he was so angry his words wouldn’t come out straight.
“You, why, you--you’re a traitor to the Rorths! The village is the
soul, the heart, the _life_ of this family, and you throw it away in a
few idle words. Why, why this boy here,” he pointed to Ronnie, “has a
greater appreciation for what the village means. Far greater. I can’t
understand it. I just can’t understand it.” He sank back down into his
chair, breathing rapidly.
For a minute there wasn’t a sound in the room. Ronnie could hear a
cricket chirping mournfully in the cellar. Then his father looked up
from his plate. “I’m sorry,” he said to Grandfather. “I really didn’t
mean it the way it sounded.”
Grandfather grunted, but said nothing.
After supper Ronnie and Phil helped Mrs. Butler with the dishes. “Folks
down in town are mighty sad knowing the old deserted village isn’t to
be spared,” she said as she wrapped up some of the table scraps to take
home to her cats. “Mighty sad. It’s surprising how many folks there
have a fond spot in their hearts for the place. Fact is, there’s talk
going around to do something about saving it--if there’s a way to get
it done.”
Ronnie pricked up his ears at this. “Gosh, do you think they can?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, boy, sometimes public opinion is powerful strong
magic when it comes to something like this. The government doesn’t
like to rouse up public sentiments if they can help it.”
There was a lot to what Mrs. Butler had said, and Ronnie stored the
information away for later use. Maybe a combination of raising money
for the dam and getting the townspeople interested might just turn
the trick. Now, more than ever, he was anxious to get started on his
venture.
Mrs. Butler had her scraps wrapped, and turned now to putting away the
dishes Phil had dried. “You know,” she said, “either I’m getting daffy
in my old age, or something mighty queer’s going on around here.”
“How come, Mrs. Butler?” Phil asked.
“Well, I’ll let you figure it out. This afternoon I put a blanket out
on the line to air. A little while ago I went out to get it, and it
was gone. I even got a flashlight to follow the line down to the barn,
thinking maybe I’d put that blanket farther away from the house than
I’d figured.”
“And it wasn’t there?” Phil asked.
“Nowheres about. Not even on the ground, figuring maybe the wind might
have taken it--if there’d been a wind. Asked your pa, asked your
grandpa if they’d taken it.”
“Golly, that is strange,” Ronnie agreed.
“Some tramp, probably,” Mrs. Butler grumbled, going to the closet to
get her coat. But something in her voice told Ronnie she didn’t believe
it.
_Chapter 4_
After Mrs. Butler had left, Ronnie headed for the sunny room on the
ground floor of the back wing of the house. There he found Grandfather
seated in his Morris chair, working frantically at the dials of his
radio transmitter. “Confounded sunspots,” the old man growled. “I just
can’t seem to make contact with Donavon tonight.”
“Maybe he’s not home.”
“Now that’s as foolish an explanation as I’ve ever heard. Of course
he’s home! He’s been home every night for the past two years, all ready
to give me his next move and hope like the devil that he’s got me
stymied.”
Ronnie looked over at the table beside the transmitter where
Grandfather had his chess set. It was a beautiful board of alternating
light and dark squares of imported inlaid woods. The chessmen
themselves were large and ornate and handsomely carved from the best
ivory.
The crackle in the loudspeaker was suddenly broken by Albert Donavon’s
voice in Detroit. “W3x2Z calling W2N4L. Come in, W2N4L.”
“Why in blazes are you telling _me_ to come in, you old fogy?”
Grandfather retorted. “I’ve been trying to raise you for the past ten
minutes. What’s the matter--you afraid I’m going to check you with my
next move?”
“There isn’t a move in the books you could check me with!” Donavon
returned.
They chatted for a few minutes about the weather and each other’s
health, and then exchanged their moves. “Move my castle to White’s king
rook file, third rank,” Grandfather told him, “and then sweat that one
out!”
“Why you old buzzard!” Donavon came back, “you think that’s going to
help you? Wait until you see what I’ve got in store for _you_! Move my
queen’s bishop to the king knight’s file, fifth rank. Now figure that
out if you can!”
“Ha!” Grandfather was indignant. “You’ll have to get up early in the
morning to find a move that I can’t figure out. Your trouble always has
been that you jump to too hasty conclusions, Donavon!”
But Grandfather looked worried, Ronnie noticed. He was studying the
board and frowning. “See you tomorrow night, same time!” Donavon signed
off, and the loudspeaker went dead.
Then Grandfather turned off his transmitter and receiver. “Thinks he
has me cornered, does he! Well, let him figure out that move I gave
_him_!”
He leaned back in his chair. “Ronnie,” he said, “it’s nice having you
back in here with me like old times. I’ve been fearing that maybe
you and I were drifting apart of late.” He closed his eyes for a few
moments and leaned his head back against his chair. “So many things
have been slipping from me these past weeks, so many things.” He opened
his eyes again and looked at Ronnie. “You aren’t going to slip from me
too, are you, boy?”
“Of course not, Gramps. It’s because you’ve been worried about the
village and I didn’t want to pester you,” Ronnie explained. “That’s why
I haven’t been coming in here to see you so much lately.”
“Of course, and you’ve been worried too!” Grandfather added. “Why,
it’s been written all over you. You wouldn’t be my boy if you weren’t
worrying about the village.” He stretched out his game leg to ease
some of the pain. “You won’t be forgetting the wonderful times we had
together in the village now, will you, boy?”
“No, sir, Gramps!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Why, just this afternoon I was
telling Mr. Caldwell some of the stories you told me!”
“Caldwell? I don’t recall that name.”
Ronnie explained to Grandfather how Caldwell had driven into the
village and how Bill and he had taken the man on a tour of the
buildings. “And he gave me and Bill a swell idea, Gramps. We’re going
to make money so we can build a dam across that pass where Goose Brook
comes through, and then they won’t have to flood the valley and--”
“Say, hold on there a minute, boy! You’re going faster than a runaway
locomotive down a steep grade, and I lost you a ways back. Now just how
are you going to make this money, and _what_ pass are you going to dam
up? This all sounds pretty fantastic to me.”
But by the time Ronnie had finished explaining his plans, Grandfather
was nodding his head slowly and puckering his lips the way he did when
he was almost convinced. “There’s a chance ... there’s a chance,” he
kept repeating. “I know the spot you mean. It would take a lot of fill,
but it’s not impossible. And with folks in town stirring things up for
the Seaway, it might come about. Of course, you realize you couldn’t
raise near enough money yourself to do the job, don’t you?”
“Maybe not, Grandpa, but somebody’s got to start things going.”
“You never said a truer word, boy! You’ve got my blessings. Go to it,
and don’t forget, just because I’ve got a leg here that won’t do its
job any longer doesn’t mean I can’t help. There’s one thing I got
plenty of--advice!”
Ronnie smiled up at his grandfather. “We’ll lick this yet, won’t we,
Gramps? And now will you tell me about the candlesticks?”
The old man nodded, then frowned. “Now where in tarnation do I begin a
story like this? Well, let’s begin with your great-great-grandfather,
Ezra Rorth. He was the son of the man who founded the Glassworks down
in the valley, but it was really Ezra who built it up so that it was
known practically around the world for its fine glass. I reckon Ezra
was a real craftsman, an artist in his trade. He had a habit, so I
hear, of rarely duplicating what he once had made.
“Well, now, this Ezra, for some reason nobody’s ever been able to
figure out, took in a partner, a man by the name of Jacob Williams.
Seems like both these men fell in love about the same time and got
themselves engaged. Then they decided to hold a double wedding
ceremony. Old Ezra, about that time, got the idea he and Jacob ought
to give their brides-to-be something extra special for a wedding
present. So the two went off for three, four days into the Glassworks
and shut themselves up and said they didn’t want anybody busting in
and bothering them for any reason at all. When they came out, they’d
created two pairs of those candlesticks, one pair for each bride. Those
in the dining room came right down the family tree from generation to
generation. I gave them to your grandmother, and when your dad got
married he gave them to your mother. It’s your turn next, seeing you’re
the oldest.”
“Me?” Ronnie blushed. “I’m never going to get married, not on your
life.”
Grandfather roared with laughter. “You’ll sing a different tune in
another ten years--maybe sooner.”
“No, sir! I’m going to stick around and take care of _you_,
Grandfather!”
“Well, that’s mighty nice of you to say, lad. Tarnation, you don’t know
how sad this whole affair with the village has made me. And your father
isn’t showing the fighting spirit I expected of him. So it’s good to
hear you say nice things like that.”
“Dad really is fighting, Grandpa. I know he is--in his own sort of way.”
“Well, maybe so, and I’m sure sorry I lost my temper like I did at the
table. Always was one for blowing off steam and then feeling sorry
about it afterward. I’m glad that’s _one_ trait you didn’t inherit from
me.”
Ronnie got up, stretching, and then started for the door. “Gramps?”
he said, turning about suddenly. “You’ll tell me about the boarded-up
building too, won’t you?”
Grandfather’s eyes came closed wearily, as if he were trying to shut
out thoughts of the building. “No, boy,” he answered finally, his eyes
still closed. “Let’s let its secret die along with me. I searched the
place timber to timber, but I found nothing. She’s stubborn, that
building, just like some of the Rorths. I guess she’s old and set
in her ways, and if she won’t tell me what happened, she won’t tell
anybody.”
“She likes me, Grandfather. I know she does. I’ve sat on the roof lots
of times, and listened to the swifts down in her chimney, and I’m sure
she was telling me to look! But I don’t know what to look for.”
Grandfather’s eyes were open again and he was smiling. “You’re a clever
rascal, you are, boy! Trying to touch my sentiments, are you? Well,
I’ve made up my mind the secret’s to die with me, so there’s no use in
your pestering further.”
“Oh, all right. But I think it’s a shame, letting the secret get buried
under all that water.”
Grandfather’s smile faded and his face grew flushed and the vein on his
temple began to swell and turn purple. He started to rise, too, but
suddenly changed his mind and sank back down and rested his head back
against the chair. “I won’t get tempered over it again,” he said, more
to himself than Ronnie. “But don’t you go talking like that any more.
Remember, always keep thinking the _best_ is going to happen.”
“I really do believe that, Gramps. I was just saying what I did because
I hoped you’d change your mind and tell me the secret.”
“Well, I’ll think on it. I’ll think on it. Maybe I’ll decide to tell
you. But don’t bother me about it any more, you hear?”
“Yes, Gramps.”
“All right. Now go on and get out of here. I’m tired and I’m going to
bed.”
Ronnie was tired too, but he stopped in the dining room on his way
upstairs to take another look at the candlesticks. They _were_
beautiful. Twelve cut-glass, diamond-shaped crystals hung by spun glass
chains in a circle from the rim of the candle holder. The base and
stick itself were of solid frosted glass, embellished with intricate
designs of rose and turquoise embossing. He set one of the crystals in
motion and it tinkled like a bell against its neighbor crystal.
He climbed the stairs to the upstairs hall. Phil was in his own room,
working at his desk. Ronnie poked his head inside and watched his
brother cutting out baseball players’ pictures from the backs of cereal
boxes he had been accumulating. “Bill and I are starting a business in
the morning. You can come in with us if you want.”
“What kind of a business? If it’s work, you can count me out.”
Ronnie explained what they had in mind. Phil seemed interested. “I’ll
sleep on it,” he told Ronnie and went on with his work.
Ronnie moved down the hall and entered his own room. He didn’t turn
on the light, but instead went to the window and, brushing back the
curtains, stared out into the blackness.
The moon was at the quarter, but there was enough light from it to
light up patches of the St. Lawrence River so that it looked like
stretches of a concrete highway cutting through the darkness. Below and
a little to the left, the night was blackest, and here Ronnie located
the deserted village.
For a moment he thought he could picture the black, inky water covering
the land as the floodwaters rose behind the proposed dam. The thought
of such a thing happening sent his stomach sinking.
Then suddenly his eyes widened. He blinked a few times to make sure he
wasn’t seeing something that wasn’t there.
It was there all right! Directly in the center of the black patch of
night where he had located the village, a halo of light lay shimmering
over the roof of one of the buildings. It moved a little to the left,
then shifted back again slowly, faded slightly, and brightened again.
Ronnie rubbed at the windowpane to clear the glass. But he couldn’t
erase the light he had seen--not for another minute or two anyway. Then
it disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.
_Chapter 5_
Ronnie was up bright and early the next morning. All the time he was
washing himself and brushing his teeth, he was trying to figure out
what it was he had seen the night before.
It had looked somewhat like a flashlight beam hitting the thick foliage
from underneath a tree. But that wouldn’t account for the way the light
had reflected from the sloping-roof surface of one of the buildings.
“I reckon that was just about where the boarded-up building is,” he
told himself.
He wondered if he should tell anybody about what he had seen. Nobody
was likely to believe him. In fact, he was having a hard job trying
to convince himself that his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him.
Sometimes the netting in the screens made lights take on strange shapes
and do crazy things. Or maybe it was the moon coming out suddenly from
behind a cloud and lighting up the roof of the building. Yet this
wasn’t the first time he had gazed out over the deserted village from
his bedroom window, and he had never seen the light before. He pulled
on his trousers and went down to the kitchen where he found his father
at the table finishing a bowl of cold cereal. “Morning, Dad,” he said.
“Morning, Ronnie! What’s the special occasion--getting up so early, I
mean?”
The boy explained about the plan Bill and he had made--how they hoped
to attract tourists to the deserted village and perhaps earn some money
too.
“Sounds like a fine idea to me, son!” Mr. Rorth nodded his head. “Let
me know if I can help you in any way.”
Mr. Rorth washed his dish out at the sink and set it into the drain to
dry. “A fine day for haying,” he said glancing out the window at the
sky. “In a few days I’ll need you and Phil to help gather it in.”
After his father had left, Ronnie got his breakfast of fruit juice and
cereal from the refrigerator and pantry shelf and then sat down at the
table to eat.
While he was eating, he thought over all the things Bill and he would
do that day to prepare for their new business venture. He jotted them
down on a piece of scrap paper: “Clean out all the buildings that are
in pretty good shape. Cut off all the branches that stick out over the
dirt road and the cobblestone road. Clear a small parking place. Print
a sign to put on the highway.”
Then he added: “Tell Bill what I saw last night?” He added two more
question marks at the end of the words.
Just as Ronnie was finishing his meal, he heard Mrs. Butler drive up
in her car. A few minutes later she came bustling into the kitchen.
“Well,” she exclaimed, “aren’t you the early bird!”
She opened the cupboard door and placed her pocketbook inside.
“Strangest thing about that blanket,” she said to Ronnie. “I was sure
I’d find it this morning. But I don’t see hide nor hair of it. Did you
make your bed, youngster?”
Ronnie flushed. “No, ma’am,” he confessed.
“I might have guessed. Well, I’ll take care of it for you this once.
’Pears like you’ve got some mighty important things on your mind, or
you wouldn’t be up so early. Keep your eyes peeled for that blanket.”
She picked up the carpet sweeper from beside the refrigerator and
hurried from the room.
Phil shuffled into the kitchen, still in his pajamas. He fell into a
chair and yawned deeply. “That cereal looks O.K. Mind fixing me up a
batch?”
“Help yourself. Be my guest.” Another idea had come to Ronnie and he
jotted it down on his list: “Maybe make some circulars to leave around
town telling about the village.” Lots of tourists came through Massena
on their way to the Thousand Islands. Some might be interested in
seeing the old glassworks.
Phil settled himself at the table with a bowl of corn flakes and a
bottle of milk. “Watcha writing?” he asked his brother.
“Just jotting down some ideas about starting our business.”
“Maybe I’ll tag along and see what it’s all about. If it looks
interesting, I’ll think about joining up.”
“Don’t put yourself out.”
“Aw, I don’t mind. In fact, it sounds kind of intriguing. Maybe I can
pick up a few fast bucks to get that bicycle I’ve had my eye on.”
Ronnie put down the pencil, folded up the paper and stuffed it in his
trouser pocket. “All the money we make is going into helping to save
the village. If you want to come, you’d better get dressed because I’m
taking off in a few minutes.”
“You can go on ahead. I’ll join you later.”
Ronnie washed out his plate and glass and put them away. Then he left
the house. The sun was hardly over the treetops, and the grass still
sparkled with early morning dew. A fine haze streaked the horizon, and
the boy knew it was going to be hot before the day was over. He cut
through the orchard, slid down the embankment, and cut into the forest
where the buildings of the village were scattered.
On the cobbled road he paused and whistled shrilly, a signal to Bill.
He listened, but no answer came back to him. Well, he’d wait for Bill
by the boarded-up house.
He cut down the side path to the building. The bare earth, where the
leaves had blown away, was damp from the night dew, and his bare feet
padded noiselessly along. He broke out into the small clearing that
faced the front of the building and stopped abruptly.
For a second he had thought the figure moving hurriedly away from the
rear of the building was Bill, and he had been just about to whistle a
greeting. Now he saw that it was a man, and while he could only see a
portion of his shoulders and head, he thought of Mr. Caldwell, the man
who had driven into the village the day before. “Hi, Mr. Caldwell!” he
yelled.
The man turned for an instant to face the boy, then whirled about and
hurried into the woods.
The man’s face had been in the shadows for that single instant he had
faced Ronnie, and the boy still wasn’t sure whether he was the man
who had paid them the visit and promised to return for a talk with Mr.
Rorth. Ronnie shrugged, as if to tell himself that it really didn’t
matter. If it had been Caldwell, he’d explain his actions later.
Ronnie decided to take a quick swing around the building to see if he
could find anything that might tell him about the light he had seen the
evening before. The rusty lock, snapped in place three or four years
before when Grandfather had abandoned his search, was still in place.
The window shutters were as tightly closed. Everything looked perfectly
normal.
“Strangest thing ever,” he said to himself. He was beginning to believe
he _had_ been seeing things the night before.
He spied a narrow crack where the shutter did not fit tight against the
window frame, but it was a little too high to look through. But off in
one of the thickets of hemlock saplings, he saw a fair-sized log. He
grabbed hold of it, rolled it over beneath the window, and then wedged
a smaller piece of wood under it to keep it from moving.
Holding onto the window frame for support, Ronnie climbed onto the log
and placed his right eye against the crack. The room was dark except
for the glow from a faint patch of light that found its way down the
chimney flues.
The light, however, was sufficient for him to make a very puzzling
discovery. Somebody, apparently, had spent the night sleeping in the
boarded-up house! Spread out on the hearth was Mrs. Butler’s missing
blanket. The stub of a candle was waxed securely to the floor, and a
flashlight lay to one side.
“Hi, Ronnie!” he heard Bill’s voice behind him. “Gee, let me take a
look inside too!”
Ronnie stepped down from the log. “Hi, Bill. I just discovered the
queerest thing. You take a look and tell me what _you_ think.”
“Sure thing!” Bill was only too happy to comply. He climbed the log
and, shielding his eyes, peered through the crack. A minute later he
was down on the ground again facing Ronnie. “Looks like somebody’s been
sleeping in there!” he exclaimed.
“Just what _I_ thought!” Ronnie agreed. “And that looks just like the
blanket Mrs. Butler lost yesterday. I know it because it’s the one she
uses when she takes her nap in the afternoon. I’d know that Indian
blanket anywhere!”
“Well! Let’s go in and take a look around,” Bill exclaimed.
“In?” Ronnie was flabbergasted. “Why, I don’t know how _he_ got in! I
just looked at the lock, and--and all the shutters are still nailed
shut--I _think_.”
“Couldn’t be!” Bill started out on his own inspection tour. He joined
Ronnie a few minutes later, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re
right,” he said. “I couldn’t find any way to get in, either. You’d
better tell your dad about this, Ronnie!”
“I’ll sure do that,” he said.
“And maybe your grandfather will open up and take a look inside to find
out what’s going on.”
“Yea, sure.” Ronnie was still too deep in thought to pay much attention
to Bill’s remarks. _How_ had the intruder gotten in? he asked himself
over and over again. Mrs. Butler had hung the blanket on the line the
day before, and now Ronnie was sure that it was inside the boarded-up
building. But _who_ had put it there, and _how_ had he gotten inside?
The boys didn’t give up searching for an answer until they had
re-examined the four walls and had even climbed to the roof for an
inspection. “Maybe he went down the chimney!” Bill suggested.
“Don’t be silly!” Ronnie laughed. “Even a baby couldn’t get down
there.” He peered over the top and looked down the flue. “Besides, the
swifts’ nest is still there, and it would be broken if anyone had gone
down.”
Just then Bill spied Phil coming down the cobblestone road. “Hey,
Ron-_nie_. Hey, Bill,” Phil called out.
“Don’t let on what we’ve found inside,” Bill warned Ronnie. “It’s our
secret--yours and mine. O.K.?”
Ronnie nodded. They went down the path to meet Phil, who had seated
himself on a fallen log to wait for them to join him. He had cut
himself a walking stick from a wild cherry tree and was busy paring
ringlets and designs by stripping off the bark. The live wood showed
through, a pale green.
“Thought you’d never get here,” he said without looking up from his
work. “How’s the business coming?”
“We haven’t started yet.” Bill turned to Ronnie. “I was thinking last
night that first off, we’ve got to have an office to work in, and where
we can keep all our stuff.”
“That’s right!” Ronnie agreed.
“How about one of the workers’ cottages?” Phil suggested. “Gramps fixed
up a couple of them and they’re still in good shape.”
Ronnie and Bill agreed, and the three set off down the cobbled road,
crossed Goose Brook and struck out down the overgrown path that led
to the row of workers’ cottages. Only two of them were still in good
repair, the two on each end of the row that formerly contained close
to a dozen. Of the rest, most had completely fallen to ruin. Only their
foundations and chimneys were still standing. A few had walls, but the
roofs were caved in and rotting.
The boys chose the one closest to the cobbled road and set to work
cleaning it up. While Ronnie and Phil removed the debris that littered
the floor, Bill ran home to get a broom and pail and mop.
By noontime the walls and floors had been mopped with water from the
brook, a makeshift desk had been constructed from old lumber, and
several rickety but serviceable chairs had been located in other
buildings.
“We should have done this a long time ago,” Bill said, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead, “even if it was just for a clubhouse.
It’s real neat!”
Before leaving for lunch they agreed to return that afternoon and begin
work on some of the items Ronnie had written on his list at breakfast
that morning. “The road from the highway comes first,” he decided.
“Then, cleaning up the buildings we’re going to use in our tour. Then,
the sign.”
Phil groaned. “I just remembered,” he announced. “I’ve got a date with
the hammock for the afternoon.”
When Ronnie came within sight of his own house fifteen minutes later,
he recognized Mr. Caldwell’s station wagon parked near the back door.
He’d already left Phil a good distance behind, so he began to run,
afraid that he might already have missed something of importance.
Mr. Caldwell was in the barn, talking with Ronnie’s father. He looked
up and smiled in the boy’s direction as Ronnie entered. “Hello,
Ronald,” he said.
“Hi!” Ronnie answered.
Ronnie tagged along behind his father and Mr. Caldwell as they walked
slowly from the barn and then stopped alongside Mr. Caldwell’s car for
a few final words. Then Mr. Caldwell climbed into his station wagon and
started the engine. Ronnie waved good-by.
“Dad,” he asked, following his father back to the barn, “what did he
want?”
“Supposing you come up in the loft with me and help pile up the hay you
knocked down the other day. Then I’ll be able to get the rest of it
in after it’s finished drying on the fields. I’ll tell you about Mr.
Caldwell while we work.”
Ronnie followed his father up the ladder. It was stifling hot in the
loft. Mr. Rorth opened the two loft doors that faced onto the barnyard.
Overhead a wasp darted angrily among the beams, droning like a model
airplane.
Mr. Rorth picked up two pitchforks and handed one of them to Ronnie.
“How come you’re so interested in this Mr. Caldwell?” he asked,
starting to move some of the hay toward the rear of the loft.
Ronnie grinned. “I guess maybe because I’m just plain nosey!” he
answered.
Mr. Rorth had gathered up a large pile of hay. Now he jabbed the
tines of his fork underneath it and heaved the load to the top of the
stack. Then he turned to face the boy. “Couldn’t ask for a more honest
answer than the one you gave me, could I?” he queried. “I’ll say this,
though, about the man,” he went on, more seriously, “I’ll say that I
was impressed by the way he talked. He seemed genuinely interested in
antiques, particularly glassware. And apparently he’s built up quite a
name for himself as a connoisseur of old glass.”
Ronnie thought about what his father had just told him. “Dad, what’s a
connoisseur?”
“A connoisseur? Well, he’s a person who knows a great deal about some
special art subject. Caldwell got interested in glassware when he was a
boy. It seems his family had a couple of pieces of Rorth glassware that
had been handed down from one generation to the next. He started doing
some research on them, and pretty soon he was studying up on all makes
of glassware. Now he’s writing a book on early American glassware. He
wants to include a few chapters about Rorth glass.”
Ronnie stopped work long enough to turn toward his father. “And is that
why Caldwell came to see you?” he asked.
“Yes, in a way.” Mr. Rorth leaned lightly on the handle of his fork.
“He wants to spend some time here poking around in the buildings and
talking with your grandfather about the history of the Glassworks. He
thought maybe he could bed down in one of the buildings in the village.”
“He _does_!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Golly, maybe he’ll help us set up our
business, specially if he knows so much about glassware. Think he
might, Dad?”
“Well, now, I don’t know. He’s coming here to learn more about it
himself. But you ask him if you want.”
Ronnie went over to the opening of the loft and sat down on the edge
with his feet dangling out over the barnyard. The perspiration was
running down his body in streams, and he wanted to cool off. The
hayseeds were sticking to his skin, too, and itching something awful.
His father came over and stood behind him, leaning on the handle of his
fork, trying to catch a few puffs of the cooler air.
“When’s he moving in, Dad?” Ronnie asked.
“Right after lunch, I think. He went back to check out of the motel.”
“I wonder if he really slept in the motel last night,” Ronnie mused.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because _somebody_ slept in the old office building, that’s why. And
who else would it be excepting Mr. Caldwell?”
“That’s nonsense, Ronnie,” his father protested. “Why would Mr.
Caldwell want to sleep in the old office building? And how would he get
in without breaking down the door?”
“That’s what Bill and I were wondering too.”
Mr. Rorth shook his head slowly as if to say, “These kids!” and then
picked up his fork and moved back to work. Ronnie got up and followed
him. “Don’t you believe me, Dad?” Ronnie asked.
“Well,” Mr. Rorth said, grinning, “I’ll say I’m having a hard time
believing you. For instance, how can you tell that a man slept
there--what evidence do you have?”
“Well, there’s a little crack in the window, and Bill and I climbed up
and looked through it. We saw the blanket Mrs. Butler was looking for
last night.”
Mr. Rorth raised his eyebrows a bit and looked straight at Ronnie.
“Well, that _is_ convincing.” He thought about it for a moment. “Tell
you what, Ronnie. I’m going down to the village later this afternoon to
see if Mr. Caldwell got settled all right. I’ll take a look at the old
office building on the way.”
“The crack is in the south window and you can peek in through there.”
“Never mind the crack. I’ll bring the key--if that old lock will still
turn. Last time I looked it was wrapped with a cloth to keep it from
rusting.”
“Not any more it isn’t,” said Ronnie.
After lunch Ronnie gathered together some tools and lumber to use in
building a sign for the highway. With these under his arms, he stopped
by the grape arbor where Phil was lying in the hammock. “You coming
down?” he asked, hoping he would so he could carry some of the load.
Phil eyed the lumber and tools. “I’ll be down after my siesta,” he
said. “Nobody with any sense exercises during the heat of the day.”
By resting his load on the ground every few hundred feet, Ronnie
reached their new office without too much trouble. Bill hadn’t shown up
yet, so Ronnie stretched out in one of their chairs, making plans for
the afternoon while he waited for his friend.
But after five minutes he grew restless and decided he’d kill some
time by taking another peek through the shutter into the boarded-up
building. He slipped out of the office and made his way toward the
building. Soon he was standing on the log and peering through the crack.
“Oh, _no_!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Now what’s Dad going to think of
me?”
The blanket, candle, and flashlight were no longer in sight.
_Chapter 6_
“That man,” Ronnie told himself again and again as he trudged back to
their office, “that man I saw this morning running from the boarded-up
house is the person who slept in there last night.” And “that man” had
looked an awful lot like Mr. Caldwell, even seen from a distance and
hidden somewhat by the early morning shadows.
Ronnie groaned. He sure did hate the thought of the teasing he’d get
when his father inspected the building and found nothing there.
Bill was waiting for him when he reached their office building. “’Bout
time you got here,” he said.
“I’ve been here,” Ronnie retorted. “I went over to take another peek
into the boarded-up building. But I wished I hadn’t.”
“How come?”
Ronnie told him. Bill groaned too. “I told my pa about it, too, and he
said he was going to call your pa on the telephone. Somebody’s made a
monkey out of us for sure!”
“Well, _we_ know somebody slept there last night,” Ronnie announced
stoutly. “Some mighty strange things are going on around here, let me
tell you.” He decided to break down and tell Bill about the peculiar
light he’d seen the evening before, and about the man who looked like
Mr. Caldwell who had turned and run when the boy had shouted his name.
Bill gave a long, loud whistle of amazement. “Looks like we’ve got
_two_ things to do this summer--save the village and solve this
mystery, too.”
But within a few minutes they had forgotten the mysterious prowler.
Armed with the pruning sheers and sickle that Bill had brought with
him, they started clearing the overhanging branches from both sides of
the dirt lane. A half hour later, when they were within sight of the
main road, Mr. Caldwell’s station wagon turned off the highway and came
toward them.
He stopped alongside the boys and poked his head out the window. “Hop
in and I’ll drive you back in--that is, if you’re finished.”
Ronnie nodded and the two climbed into the front seat. “You’ve done a
fine job of clearing the roadway,” Mr. Caldwell said. “You are going
ahead with your tourist business, I take it.”
“Yes,” Ronnie answered, “how did you know about it?”
“Your father told me.” Mr. Caldwell swung off the dirt road onto the
cobblestones. “Now, the question is--which building shall I occupy?
Your father said I could have my choice.”
“How about one of the workers’ cottages?” Bill suggested. “We’re
using one of them for our office, but there’s a real good one with a
fireplace at the other end of the row.”
“Sounds like just what I’m looking for,” Caldwell agreed.
Ronnie and Bill helped Mr. Caldwell unload his suitcases and cardboard
cartons from the rear of the station wagon and carry them into the
cottage. Then they sat on the floor with their backs against a wall and
watched him unpack.
Just about that time, Mr. Rorth drove up in his pickup truck. In the
back he had a cot and mattress, blankets and sheets, a table and a few
chairs, as well as some cooking utensils.
“These should make you comfortable,” he told Mr. Caldwell.
Ronnie walked back to the truck beside his father. “Now,” said Mr.
Rorth, “let’s take a look at the evidence of this mysterious guest
we’re supposed to be harboring in the old office building!”
Ronnie looked up sheepishly at his father. “It’s not there any more,
Dad,” he said.
“Oh? So the ghost picked up his bedding and walked away, eh?”
“But it _was_ there this morning, Dad. Honest it was. Bill saw it too.
He’ll tell you.”
Mr. Rorth stared at his son a moment, then laughed and climbed into the
truck. Ronnie’s face was scarlet as he turned back to join Bill.
For the remainder of the afternoon the boys worked at cleaning up the
gristmill and the general store. Phil joined them about three o’clock,
but as usual he wasn’t much help.
Twice during the afternoon they took a breather to see how Mr. Caldwell
was coming with his unpacking. On their final visit, Ronnie exclaimed,
“Gosh, Mr. Caldwell, you’ve got this place looking just like home!”
“And that’s what it’s going to be for a couple of weeks. Who knows, I
might just decide to stay on indefinitely!”
“Oh, but you couldn’t do that--not unless you want to be under water,”
Ronnie explained.
Mr. Caldwell looked at Ronnie questioningly, not knowing whether to
take the boy’s remark seriously or as some kind of joke. “Are you
fooling?” he asked.
“Oh no. In a year or two, when they build the dams on the St. Lawrence
Seaway, this’ll all be under water. Gramps is furious, but Dad says he
can’t do anything about it.”
“What a pity. What a great pity!” Mr. Caldwell exclaimed. “I’m
certainly glad I decided to come here when I did.”
Mr. Caldwell’s alarm clock showed four-thirty. Bill suggested that
they start work cleaning up the main building where the glass had been
manufactured and packed. “We’ll never get started showing people around
at the rate we’re going,” he told Ronnie and Phil.
Ronnie, of course, didn’t need any convincing. He would work all night
if it would step up their opening date. Phil tagged along reluctantly.
They managed to cart five or six loads of the larger debris from the
building and dump it in the woods out of sight, and then Bill announced
that it was probably time for him to get home. He had chores to do
before supper, and so did Ronnie and Phil.
They walked back to the office together. Bill wanted to gather up his
tools to take home. “I’ve got to be _sure_ to get these back,” he
explained. “A couple of nights ago a saw and hammer and a couple of
other tools disappeared from the barn, and Pa insists I took them and
left them somewhere.”
“We haven’t been using any tools like that,” Ronnie said indignantly.
They walked down the cobbled road to where their paths separated. “You
know,” Bill suggested, “we could work on the sign tonight and leave the
cleaning up for the daytime. Think you could get away for a while after
supper?”
“Sure,” said Ronnie. He turned to his brother. “Want to come too, Phil?”
Phil mumbled something about a television show.
When Ronnie got home, he pitched into his chores immediately. He chased
the few remaining hens into the chicken house, filled their trough
with water, and fastened the door shut. He stabled the horse and then
watered and fed her. Then he went into the house to collect the garbage
and trash to take to the dump for burning.
Returning from the dump, he caught sight of his father driving the
tractor and pulling the mowers down the farm road from the fields.
Ronnie cut through the triangle of alder bushes to meet him. “Say,
Dad,” he asked, climbing up beside him, “could I go back down to the
village after supper and work for a while with Bill? We’re going to
make our sign to put out on the highway.”
“I don’t see why not. You pretty near ready to start your big business
venture?”
“Just about, I guess.”
Mr. Rorth nodded his head in approval. “I was in town today and I
happened to run into Steve Mercer. He’s president of the historical
society. Told me that they’d written a letter to the Seaway saying
their society’s violently opposed to any flooding of the village unless
it’s absolutely necessary.”
Ronnie’s heart leaped. “Maybe that’ll help us get permission to build
the dam across the top of the valley.”
“It might,” his father agreed. A smile tugged at his lips. “Think you
can raise that kind of money?”
“No,” Ronnie said honestly. “But it’ll get the ball rolling, and that’s
what counts, Grandpa says.”
“And of course he’s right,” Mr. Rorth agreed. “Heaven knows I want to
see the village spared as much as you and Gramps. But I can’t let the
whole farm go to pieces in the meantime. You’ve got to be practical
about these things.”
* * * * *
When Ronnie reached the office at eight o’clock, Bill was waiting for
him. Bill had brought a kerosene lantern and it was already burning
when Ronnie entered the door. Outside, the late evening shadows were
deepening among the trees, and the peepers were piping down in the
marshes along the river.
“Pa gave me a piece of plywood for our sign,” Bill announced, “and I
brought some paint and brushes.”
They sat down at their improvised desk and composed the words they
would letter on the sign:
Original Buildings and Furnaces
of One of America’s Renowned Glassworks
from the Last Century
Including a Haunted Building with a Strange History
Complete Tour: Adults--50¢ Children--25¢
“That ought to get their curiosity roused up!” Bill exclaimed when they
had finished. “Now let’s get it laid out on the plywood.”
The time passed quickly for the two. Outside, the night closed in among
the old buildings and the silent trees.
“Now that looks right nice!” Bill said at last standing back to survey
the sign. “Looks almost like a real sign painter made it. Tomorrow,
first thing, we’ll get it up on the road.”
Ronnie glanced at his wrist watch. “I’d best be getting on home.
Nothing much more we can do tonight anyway.”
They picked up their flashlights, and then Bill blew out the lantern.
The two stepped out into the night. The beams from the flashlights
cut a solid lane down the path as they made their way toward the
cobblestone road. Bill was in the lead. Suddenly he stopped and pointed
off into the trees. “Look!” he whispered.
It was the light again, the same light Ronnie had seen last night from
his bedroom window. Now that it was closer, he could make out more of
the detail.
At first glance it seemed like some strange, unearthly cloud resting
motionless over the top of the building. But Ronnie was quick
to discover that what he really saw was the light striking the
undersurface of the thick canopy of foliage that overhung the roof,
setting the leaves aglow.
Ronnie moved closer to his friend and whispered, “Sure looks spooky,
doesn’t it? First off it does, anyway.”
“Yea,” Bill answered, “sure does. Somebody must be behind the building,
pointing a flashlight up into the trees.”
Ronnie shook his head. “Whoever’s doing it is _inside_ the building,
poking around in the chimney. Otherwise you’d see the light in a
circle.”
“Maybe you’re right. Let’s slip over and take a peek through the crack
in the shutter.”
“I’m with you, boy!” Ronnie answered. “Let’s go!”
_Chapter 7_
Ronnie shivered. The shiver started at his shoulder blades, traveled
down his spine, and made his flesh stand out in goose pimples. Just
a few feet ahead, almost in the thick blackness that lay between the
bushes along the path, he could make out Bill’s light-colored shirt.
And at the end of the path lay the padlocked building with its strange
halo of light still shimmering in the foliage over the roof.
As they drew closer, Ronnie could see that the light did come from
the chimney as he had suspected. “Somebody poking a flashlight around
in the chimney flues, all right!” he thought. But why? Was it just a
trick to scare Bill and him away for some unknown reason, or was this
intruder searching for something?
They were almost to the building when the light went out and the
blackness closed in over the roof. Ronnie shivered again. The building
seemed lonelier and more desolate than it had before.
Bill turned about and came close to Ronnie. “There’s somebody inside
for sure!” he whispered. Ronnie could feel his friend’s breath against
his cheek. “Listen. I can hear him walking around.”
Ronnie heard the sounds too--floor boards creaking under the intruder’s
weight. “Come on,” he breathed, and taking his friend’s arm, steered
him toward the side of the building.
The log was still in place below the window. Ronnie found a hold on
the window frame and pulled himself up. He leveled his eye against the
crack and peered inside.
Only a small portion of the interior came within his view, and the
intruder, whoever he was, was out of range. But a portion of his
flashlight beam was visible and lit up the fireplace and the hearth
before it. Then the light shifted suddenly to the other side, stayed
out of view for a moment, and then returned.
A moment later the light went out completely and the building was
plunged into complete blackness.
Ronnie felt Bill tugging at his arm. “I hear something around back!”
his friend warned. “Maybe he’s getting out.”
“But there’s no way out through the back,” Ronnie protested. Hadn’t
Bill and he searched every square foot of the outside of the building?
But then, the intruder had to enter and leave the building _somewhere_.
Ronnie stole another quick look through the crack before making up his
mind. The interior was still pitch-black. “You stay here and watch the
front and sides,” he directed Bill. “I’ll see what’s going on around
back.”
Before Bill could protest, Ronnie had dropped from the log and was
making his way toward the rear of the building. It wasn’t easy finding
a way through the thick tangle of vines and bushes, but he didn’t want
to risk giving his presence away by turning on the flashlight.
He rounded the corner of the building just in time to see the figure
of a man step back, away from the rear wall of the old office. For
a moment or two his face was silhouetted against a patch of sky.
“Caldwell!” Ronnie called angrily before he realized what a foolish
thing he was doing.
The man’s hand rose. A brilliant beam of light struck the boy full in
the face, blinding him instantly. Then the light went out and the man
sprang away into the darkness.
Burning with anger and disappointed from the stupid mistake he had
made, Ronnie leaped wildly after him, and plunged into the undergrowth.
He had taken no more than a few steps when he tripped over a log and
hurtled headlong through the air. He landed with a jolt in a tangle
of briars and his head smashed against a tree trunk. Whirling lights
and brilliant flashes stood out before his eyes as he fought for
consciousness.
The next thing he knew Bill was standing over him. “You all right,
Ronnie?” Bill was asking. “Ronnie, you all right? Say something, can’t
you?”
Ronnie struggled to sit up. The top of his head throbbed and he could
feel a lump rising. “I--I guess I’m all right,” he said.
He tried to stand up. The trees, the sky, the building started to swing
around before his eyes. He grabbed Bill’s hand for support.
Within a few minutes he felt better. Bill took his arm and helped him
down the path. “Golly, I sure as shootin’ messed that up,” he said to
Bill. Then he told his friend what happened.
“So you figure it was Mr. Caldwell?” Bill asked when Ronnie had
finished.
“Well, I reckon I did _then_, or I wouldn’t have called his name.
But, gosh, now I’m not so sure. It was plenty dark. What a fool I was
yelling out to him. Boy, could I kick myself in the pants for being so
stupid.”
“Yea,” Bill agreed, “yea, if you weren’t so woozy, I’d do it for you.
But what do you say we pay Caldwell a hurry call? I think we can still
beat him back to his cottage, seeing he’s got to detour around through
the woods. Feel well enough to try it?”
Ronnie agreed that he did. Except for a slight throbbing in his head,
he felt as well as he had before the accident.
They hurried down the cobblestone road, using their flashlights only
when they needed them to find the way. They approached Caldwell’s
cottage cautiously. Light was shining from the two windows that faced
the path.
“Let’s take a peek in the window first,” Bill whispered. “You know--see
what he’s doing before he gets wise that we’re here.”
They crept noiselessly to the window and peered over the sill. Caldwell
was seated before a small table that held his typewriter and a kerosene
lamp. He was busily at work.
Bill leaned over to whisper in Ronnie’s ear. “Boy, either he’s real
sneaky or else he wasn’t ever out of the building,” he said. “He
_looks_ as if he’d been at work for hours.”
“Maybe he has been,” Ronnie said. But if Caldwell wasn’t their man, why
had he turned so instinctively when Ronnie had called out his name?
“Let’s go in and have a talk with him just the same,” Bill suggested.
“But don’t let him know we suspect him of anything.”
Caldwell opened the door to them after Bill had knocked. “Well!” he
exclaimed, motioning for them to come in. “How did you know I was just
itching for a little company?”
The two boys sat down on the edge of his cot.
Caldwell turned his chair away from his typewriter to sit facing them.
“What are you doing down here at this time of the night?”
“We were working on our sign,” Bill answered.
“I thought I saw a light coming from your office windows, and I was
thinking about going down to investigate earlier. But I got so wrapped
up in my work I just never got around to it.”
Ronnie glanced over at Bill to find his friend looking at him too. Bill
was thinking the same thing, evidently. Caldwell was claiming that he
hadn’t left his cabin all evening. That didn’t prove a _thing_, of
course, Ronnie realized. In fact, Caldwell might have told them this
just to cover his movements.
Mr. Caldwell got up and crossed over to his “kitchen” and returned with
a box of crackers. “I can’t offer you much, but perhaps you’ll have a
few crackers?”
“Thanks,” Bill answered taking several. “We can’t stay much longer.
I’ve got to be getting back home soon.”
A miller moth made a dive-bomb attack at the lamp. Caldwell picked up a
folded newspaper he had handy and swatted the insect. The lamp swayed
precariously and the moth flew off unharmed.
“Dad’s got some old screens in the barn,” Ronnie said.
“I’ll bet you they could be made to fit the windows. Might even be a
screen door. I’ll ask him about putting them up.”
“You just get them to me--along with some tools--and I’ll do the
putting up, gladly!” the man answered.
Bill stuffed the last cracker into his mouth. “We’d better be getting
along right now.”
Mr. Caldwell came to the door with them. “If I can help you with your
tourist business in any way, just say the word. You’re welcome to use
any of the information I’ve gathered when you’re talking about the
village.”
“Thanks, Mr. Caldwell,” Ronnie answered. “We just might take you up on
that. I’ve been thinking maybe we’d mimeograph a little booklet about
the place.” He turned to Bill. “We could use the Grange mimeograph, and
the paper wouldn’t cost much. We could tell all about the Glassworks
and life in the village in the olden days and--”
“And the mysterious locked-up office building,” Bill added, picking
up the idea with great interest, “and even about those old glass
candlesticks of your grandfather’s, Ronnie!”
“Candlesticks!” exclaimed Mr. Caldwell. “_Rorth_ candlesticks?”
Ronnie nodded.
“They must be worth a great deal,” Caldwell said. “What do they look
like?”
Ronnie described them. Caldwell nodded slowly as Ronnie brought out
detail after detail. “I’d certainly like to see them sometime,” he said
when Ronnie had finished.
“Come on up to the house any time,” Ronnie offered. “I’m sure Grandpa
would be glad to show them to you.”
When they were alone outside, Bill turned to Ronnie. “You know,” he
said, “I think Caldwell is kind of a swell guy. I just can’t believe
he’s the one sneaking around the village and running off when we catch
sight of him.”
Ronnie thought about this after he had left Bill and was hurrying
up the steep incline to the orchard above. Was Bill right about Mr.
Caldwell? There were arguments for and against. That silhouette of the
man’s face against the night sky, for instance. Ronnie had tried again
and again during the evening to convince himself that he had been wrong
when he had called out Caldwell’s name. But somehow he just couldn’t do
it. And he couldn’t forget what had happened that morning! It had been
daylight then. Was it just a coincidence that _both_ times Caldwell’s
name had come to his mind?
He’d talk to Gramps about it, that’s what he’d do. But when he arrived
home he found the door to his grandfather’s room closed and no light
showing from underneath.
He climbed the stairs and headed for his room. Phil was in his own
room, in his pajamas, and lying on his bed with a pile of old comic
books at his side. A wild idea hit Ronnie suddenly and he poked his
head into Phil’s room. “Have you been in the house all evening?” he
demanded. Maybe, just maybe, Phil was playing tricks on them and he had
been in the padlocked house!
Phil looked at his brother in surprise. “What’s the matter--the heat
got you or something? Sure I was here all the time.”
“OK. I was just wondering.”
Phil dropped his comic book and sat up. “Say, something real
interesting must have happened to you down in the village, or you
wouldn’t be putting me on the witness stand. Come on, out with it.”
“Nothing happened. You’re imagining things, that’s all.” Ronnie hurried
down the hall, hoping that Phil wouldn’t have the energy to follow him.
Phil didn’t. Ronnie ducked into his room and closed the door. Then he
went over to the window and looked out.
The valley was in complete darkness. Even the lights in Mr. Caldwell’s
cottage were out. The deserted village was asleep.
_Chapter 8_
After breakfast the following morning Ronnie looked for Gramps in his
room, but there was no sign of him there nor anywhere about the house.
It was Mrs. Butler who told Ronnie where his grandfather had gone.
“Why, seems to me I saw him headed out the door a while back,” she
said. “Went off toward the orchard, I’d guess.”
Ronnie took off after his grandfather. He found him sitting on a
rock at the top of the bluff and looking out over the valley and the
deserted village.
“Hi, Gramps,” Ronnie greeted him.
“Well, now, boy, come set a spell with me. My old legs won’t let me get
down there in the village any more, but by golly, they can’t keep me
from sitting here and looking.”
“Gramps?”
Grandfather shifted his position by leaning heavily on his cane. He
faced Ronnie. “Boy, you’ve got something on your mind, and don’t tell
me you haven’t because I’ve come to know when you’re troubled.”
Ronnie nodded. “There’s something going on down in the village that I’m
all mixed up about.”
“You’re darned tootin’ there’s something going on down there!” the old
man retorted. “Those Seaway people plotting and scheming to take the
village away from me. I know what’s going on.”
“Not that, Gramps. Something else.” Ronnie went on to tell him about
the blanket and the candle he had seen through the crack in the
shutter, and about the strange light that had startled Bill and him the
night before. He told Gramps about the mysterious prowler too.
“Gramps,” he concluded, “do you suppose it’s got anything to do with
the secret of the boarded-up building? Maybe there’s something hidden
there that this man is looking for.”
Grandfather looked at Ronnie sharply. “What man?” he demanded.
Ronnie looked away. “I don’t know who it was,” he answered.
“Come on, boy. Speak up if you know!”
“Really, Gramps. I’m not sure. I don’t want to say until I’m real sure.”
Grandfather didn’t press the point. “Ronnie,” he said, “this village
has been the love and joy of my life. But lately it’s just as if--just
as if the prophecy were meant to come true.”
“What prophecy, Gramps?” Ronnie asked. “Is that what the secret’s all
about?”
“Yes, in a way, I suppose.” The old man looked out over the valley and
then back to the boy. “I reckon the time has come when you must hear
the story. It can’t die the way I’d hoped it would. The past won’t let
it.”
Gramps took out his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. He filled
the bowl of the pipe and placed the stem between his yellowed teeth.
“Turn your mind back, boy, to what I was telling you the other evening
when we were talking about the candlesticks.” He lit a match and drew
heavily on the stem of the pipe until the tobacco glowed crimson.
Then he exhaled the blue smoke in a cloud that rose over his head.
“I told you about your great-great-grandfather Ezra and his partner
Jacob Williams, if you’ll recollect. This Williams fellow was a kind
of no-good scoundrel, from everything I’ve heard tell, and why Ezra
got bamboozled into such an arrangement, nobody’ll ever know. Took
him in as a full partner he did, lock, stock, and barrel, or in other
words--Glassworks, land, and merchandise.”
“Then half this land doesn’t really belong to us, Gramps? Is that
right?”
“Yep, I reckon so, if there’s anyone around to claim it. I’ll come
to that later. Well, anyway, these two partners seemed to have
gotten along well for a number of years. The business flourished.
Rorth glassware got to be known practically around the world. Then
around 1886 or thereabouts, things started worsening up, and by
1888 the company was well-nigh bankrupt. Now this Jacob Williams,
who was keeping the books, finally got around to telling your
great-great-grandfather how bad things were, and darned if he didn’t
accuse Ezra of milking the company dry. Yep, he claimed Ezra had been
stealing quantities of money and glassware from the company. And this
Williams didn’t stop at that. He spread it all around the neighborhood,
and pretty soon people began to believe it was true.”
“But it really wasn’t, was it, Gramps?” Ronnie asked anxiously.
“Can’t really answer that because it’s never been proven one way or
the other. But maybe when you hear the rest of what happened, you’ll
understand it a mite better. Now one day in June of 1889 Jacob Williams
disappeared. Of course, everybody started saying Ezra had done away
with him to keep him from accusing Ezra of the thefts. And I guess
there was some evidence to make people believe it, too. First of all,
more money and glassware were missing. Then there was this man, John
Sutton, a worker at the Glassworks, who testified that he’d heard Ezra
and Jacob Williams arguing and shouting at one another. Then, when he
passed by the building again later, he claims he heard Jacob screaming
for help. He didn’t go in, figuring it was none of his business, but
later on he got to thinking about it, and went back. There was no sign
of Ezra or Jacob Williams. Fact is, that was the last anybody ever
heard of Jacob Williams. Old Ezra made a search for his partner--even
put notice of a reward in the paper for anybody sending news of him.
It was like the earth had swallowed Jacob--him and the money and the
missing glassware.”
Grandfather tamped his pipe with a leathery thumb and continued. “Well,
boy, people here put two and two together, and there began to be talk.
When people begin to talk, they make things bigger and meaner. Old
Ezra had killed Jacob to cover up his own thefts and he’d hidden the
body somewhere. Search parties went over every square foot of the
village, but they didn’t turn up a clue. Well, no matter, people said,
Jacob Williams’ curse was on the Rorth family until Jacob’s death was
avenged.”
Grandfather puffed hurriedly at his pipe to start up the dying coals.
“But what happened to Great-great-grandfather Ezra?” Ronnie asked.
“The case came before the grand jury, but the jury failed to indict
Ezra. There wasn’t proof of anything, really. So Ezra was freed, but
people didn’t stop accusing him for a long time. Some even tried to
find Jacob Williams’ son, then a man in his late twenties, to persuade
him to come back and avenge his father’s death. But he wasn’t anywhere
to be found.
“Then came reports of people who claimed they’d seen Jacob Williams’
ghost near the old office building, and there were those who said the
ghost had cried out that he’d never stop haunting the Rorth family
until his death was avenged. Funny thing was, though--no Rorth ever saw
this ghost!”
“Which just proves the whole thing’s a phony!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Who
believes in ghosts, anyway?”
“No one--excepting maybe those who haven’t gotten a proper education.
But there’s more to this story. A few years after Williams disappeared,
an epidemic of typhoid struck the village. Probably came from drinking
the water out of Goose Brook. Anyway, lots of people died and the rest
left like rats from a sinking ship. Soon there were only Ezra and his
family left. He sent them away, too, while he stayed behind to close
up. The Glassworks never opened again. When Ezra’s wife and my father
returned, they had the office boarded up tight and padlocked, and I
guess it was never opened until I went in there five or six years ago.”
“You were hunting for something, weren’t you, Gramps?”
“Yep.”
“Something that would prove Ezra didn’t harm his partner?”
“Yep, that’s right. It was a terrible blot on the family name. I
couldn’t stand the thought of it. But all my searching proved nothing.
I’m afraid the evidence--if there is any--will be covered by the
floodwaters when they come.”
“_Now_ who’s the one giving up without a fight?”
Grandfather smiled down at Ronnie. “You’re right, boy. That wasn’t a
Rorth talking then, but a discouraged, old man.”
Ronnie looked down into the valley. The thin mists that had settled in
the lowlands during the night were dissipating now under the hot sun.
“Gramps, do you think this man I saw is hunting for evidence too--the
way you were?”
Grandfather thought over the question for a moment or two. “Nope, I
don’t think so, Ronald. More’n likely--if he’s hunting for anything at
all--he’s after the money and glassware that was stolen. There’ve been
others before him.”
“Gramps?” Ronnie asked again. “What finally happened to
Great-great-grandfather Ezra?”
“Well, when my father and mother returned after the epidemic was over,
they found him in the office building. He was dead from the typhoid.
But everyone said it was Jacob’s ghost that did it.”
The old man grasped the head of his cane with both hands and pulled
himself to his feet. He stood for a minute with the hot breeze ruffling
his snow-white beard and hair while he looked down into the valley. His
sharp eyes darted from one building to another and finally rested upon
the old, padlocked building.
“The answer’s in there somewhere,” Ronnie heard him say, although the
wind tried to take his words away. “I hope the good Lord will let me
live long enough to see it found.” He turned to face the boy. “Ronnie,”
he said, “Ronnie, your father’s in town now, but when he comes back
tonight, you tell him I said he’s to let you have the keys to the Rorth
office building. You and this friend of yours take a good look around
inside and maybe you can find what this man is doing in there. And
maybe your keen, young eyes will find what I’ve failed to find all the
times I looked.”
“Sure, Gramps!” Ronnie’s eyes lit up with excitement. “You bet we’ll
find something to prove Great-great-grandfather Ezra didn’t harm Mr.
Williams. And maybe we’ll find the glassware--and the money too!”
Grandfather was looking down into the valley again. “Went through every
paper in the place,” he was saying, not waiting for Ronnie to finish
talking. “Hundreds of them. But not a clue. Not a single clue. Just old
bills and statements and records. Put them all back in the files, I
did, just the way I found them. But somewhere in that building there’s
an answer. I’m convinced of that.”
He drew himself up tall and breathed in deeply and squared his
shoulders. “We aren’t licked yet. No, sir, not by a long shot! Now,
boy, how about helping an old man back to the house?”
_Chapter 9_
“Now we’re officially in business!” Ronnie exclaimed. He stowed the
spade he had been carrying in the corner of their office and dropped
into a chair. His hair was wet with perspiration and beads of it were
rolling down his face and stomach. “That’s the hardest ground I’ve ever
had to dig a hole in,” he added, fanning himself with a newspaper.
The boys had just finished erecting the sign alongside the highway.
Layers of coarse gravel and heavy blue clay had made the job of digging
difficult. But, as Bill had said, they wanted the sign planted plenty
deep so the first heavy wind wouldn’t carry it away. “Who knows,” he
had added, “we may want it there a long, long time!”
On their way back from the highway, Ronnie had told Bill everything
that Grandfather had said about old Ezra Rorth. Bill said nothing
until they reached the office. “Ronnie,” he said then, “Ronnie, this
afternoon you bring the key to the padlocked building with you, you
hear? We’ve got business to attend to in there!”
“You bet we have,” Ronnie agreed. “Once we find out who this man is
who’s sneaking around the village--and _why_ too--maybe we’ll get to
the bottom of all these shenanigans.”
Bill nodded. “We’ll search the building from top to bottom, and maybe
we’ll have more luck than your grandfather did. Maybe we’ll clean up
this mess around your family name.”
“I _know_ my great-great-grandfather didn’t harm Jacob Williams or
steal anything, either. I just know it.”
“Sure, Ronnie, sure, but we’ve got to prove it. And that isn’t going
to be easy, not after all these years have passed. But we’ll do it.
Every minute we’ve got when we aren’t showing people around, we’ll use
to hunt for clues. And the first thing we do is search that old office
building, so don’t forget to bring the keys.”
Ronnie sprawled a little lower in his chair and watched a drop of
perspiration run down over a fold of skin on his stomach. Bill, he
knew, wanted to hunt for clues immediately, but it was just too hot
to move. It all seemed like such a tremendous, almost impossible job.
Hadn’t Grandfather tried and failed?
A moment later Phil sauntered into the building and plunked himself
down in the one remaining chair. “I don’t know why I killed myself
coming down here,” he sighed.
“I don’t see why you did either,” Ronnie commented with a smile. “All
you did was move from the hammock to that chair. You shouldn’t exert
yourself so much.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself,” said Phil.
A horsefly buzzed angrily across the ceiling and slammed into the wall.
It fell dizzily for a few feet and then regained its balance. Off it
went in the opposite direction and slammed into the other wall. “Crazy
critter,” Phil commented. “See how he’s exerting himself--and where
does it get him?”
Before Ronnie could think of an appropriate answer, there were
footsteps on the path and Mr. Caldwell popped his head in the door. He
entered and perched himself on the edge of the desk. “I’m going up to
your house this afternoon to take a look at those candlesticks,” he
told Ronnie. “From the description you gave me I’d say that the pair I
have at home are identical.”
The horsefly suddenly stopped buzzing and the office seemed strangely
quiet. Ronnie sat up and looked at Mr. Caldwell, his mouth hanging open
just a bit. “Did--did you say you--you had a pair of candlesticks like
Gramps’?”
“Yes.” Mr. Caldwell looked puzzled. “Is that so strange?”
Ronnie gulped and nodded. “Yes, sir. It is.”
“I don’t see why. There were probably quite a few pairs turned out
during the years the Glassworks was in operation.”
Ronnie opened his mouth to protest, and closed it again. There was
plenty of time to tell Mr. Caldwell what he knew. He decided to play
it safe for the time being. “Yes,” he answered, “yes, I suppose there
_could_ be quite a few around, if they haven’t been lost or destroyed.”
A car drew up in the improvised parking lot and came to a stop. Ronnie,
looking out the window, saw a man, woman, and two boys leave the car
and start toward the office. Ronnie and Bill went out to meet them.
“We’d like to take the tour. Are there guides?”
“Yes, sir,” Ronnie answered. “We’d be glad to take you about.”
The man looked first at Ronnie and then at Bill. He seemed a bit
skeptical. “Well, all right,” he said finally. “Where do we begin?”
Ronnie and Bill led them down the path to the cobblestone road. “This
is the original road that ran through the center of the village,” he
told them. “Some of the cobblestones have been replaced from time to
time, but mostly it’s just the way it used to be. Mules used to pull
cartloads of sand along this road to be used in making the glass.”
They swung off the cobblestone road and approached the two-story
building beside Goose Brook. Bill, slipping up beside Ronnie,
whispered: “Hey, you’re doing all right!”
“Now this was the gristmill where all the wheat from the surrounding
fields was ground into flour. That overshot water wheel you see there
was in running order when my grandfather was a boy. He says our family
still used it to grind the grain.”
They visited the main building where the glass had been made and blown.
From here they moved to the general store, the blacksmith shop, the
smith shop, the carriage buildings, and the workers’ cottages. This
brought them in a circle back to their office.
There, they found another car pulled into the parking area. Two men
were waiting inside the office. Before entering, Bill and Ronnie
collected their fees and said good-by to the first group. “We enjoyed
the tour very much,” the man told Ronnie and Bill. “It was well worth
the stop.”
“Thank you, sir!” Ronnie beamed. “Tell your friends about it.”
Mr. Caldwell was still in the office, chatting with the two men. He
introduced them to Ronnie and Bill. “This is Mr. Perkins, and this is
Mr. Brown.” Ronnie and Bill shook hands with the men.
“They’re interested in learning more about the business you’ve
started,” Caldwell went on to explain. “You see, they’re from the
Massena Sunday paper, and they’re thinking about writing a story for
next Sunday’s edition.”
“That’s right,” Brown broke in. “We feel that more people will take an
interest in the fate of this place if they’ve heard about what you two
boys are doing. Besides, it’ll help bring you business!”
“Gee, that’s swell of you!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Bill and I are awfully
anxious to do everything we can to save the village.”
Mr. Perkins pulled out a notebook and seated himself at the desk.
“Let’s make that our first question,” he said. “Just how do you expect
to save the old village by taking tourists through it?”
Ronnie explained how they hoped to raise some of the money to build a
dam across the narrow gap in the valley through which Goose Brook ran
down to the river. “My dad says it could be done,” Ronnie continued.
“’Course, we won’t get enough money ourselves to do it. But we’re
hoping maybe other people will get worked up enough to want to help
out.”
“People are beginning to wake up already,” Mr. Brown said. “I happen to
know that your father saw Steve Mercer the other day and put a bug in
his ear about the village. Steve wrote to the Seaway Authority, trying
to convince them to use your plan and save the village. He got some
kind of a letter back--but they didn’t commit themselves one way or
the other. It’ll take time, but I’m sure it can be done.”
Mr. Brown’s remark gave Ronnie some of the encouragement he needed.
Sure, he’d had his doubts, right from the beginning when he’d first
thought of opening the village to the public. They would need public
support, and perhaps more money too--unless the Seaway agreed to foot
the bill.
By the time the two men were ready to leave, Mr. Perkins had several
pages of notes, some of them on the history of the village itself. “I
think I’ll get a statement from the Seaway Authority, too,” Brown said
as he slid into the driver’s seat. He had an impish smile on his face.
“That will really put them on the spot! They know how the people around
here feel about the village, and if there’s a way to save it, they’ll
have a hard time explaining why not!”
After the car had driven off, Mr. Caldwell left to work on the notes
he had gathered in the Glassworks during the morning. Ronnie, Phil,
and Bill walked back toward their office. Ronnie had cooled off
considerably, and now he felt more like working again. There wasn’t
time before lunch for hunting for clues or cleaning out a building, but
he had an idea in mind for a sign to hang outside the office door. It
would read: “Tours from 9-12 and 1-5. OFFICE.”
He had found a suitable piece of wood the day before and now he set
to work sandpapering it down smooth. Bill sat opposite him, tipping
back in his chair again. Phil seemed restless, and a few minutes later
announced that he was going back to the house.
“You know,” Bill said thoughtfully as he watched Ronnie rubbing
vigorously with the sandpaper, “you know, Ronnie, there are two things
that bother me. Two questions I can’t answer.”
“Yes?” Ronnie asked looking up for a moment. “What are they?”
“Well, the first one is this: How is this fellow we’ve seen around here
getting in and out of the padlocked building?”
“That’s a question maybe we can answer this afternoon when I get the
key and we get a chance to look inside,” Ronnie said.
“Maybe. But I don’t see what we can see from the inside that we can’t
see from the outside.”
Ronnie ran his hand over the wood to see how smooth it was. “Oh, I
don’t know about that. Supposing he’s dug a tunnel? We couldn’t see
that from the outside. Anyway, what’s the other question?”
“This question’s a real stickler,” Bill said. “Remember what Mr.
Caldwell said before--that he has a pair of candlesticks like your
grandfather’s?”
“You mean, he _thinks_ he has. He hasn’t seen ours yet.”
“Well, let’s just say that he finds out this afternoon that he _has_.
And let’s say these candlesticks have come down through his family the
way he claims.”
“Get to the point, will you?” Ronnie was impatient.
“All right. My question’s this: Doesn’t that mean that Mr. Caldwell
owns half this land?”
_Chapter 10_