The Frostola Man
Rick Brant was filled with cold anger. It showed in the determined set
of his lips as he swung Dr. Miller's car around the turn leading to the
bridge across the creek. He was no longer content to wait for
developments. After last night's episode, he and Scotty intended to take
the war to the enemy--for war it had become, the moment the Blue Ghost
had led them on the wild-goose chase ending with Rick in a deep quarry.
It was pure luck that Rick had not been hurt by the drop into the
quarry. True, the ghost had led them to the side that dropped sheer into
the water, but impact with the water after a fifty-foot drop was enough
to cause damage if one landed in the wrong position. Rick had hit feet
first, simply by chance.
Scotty looked at him as the car turned toward the picnic grounds.
"Aren't we going to town?"
"Sure. But I want another look at the landscape."
"What do you expect to see?"
"I don't know," Rick admitted. "I'm just hoping for an idea."
He drove through the trees, across the picnic ground, and came to a stop
before the mine shaft. There was no one in sight, and the grounds were
just as they had left them.
Rick studied the scene, searching for anything offbeat, any anomaly.
There was nothing, except for the iron pipe from which spring water
flowed. That bothered him. Dr. Miller's explanation might be the right
one, but he didn't really think so. If tailings from the mine had been
dumped there, the hill would not be so steep or so regular. The years
would have weathered the rock debris, but not to such a natural-looking
formation.
"If they didn't dump the tailings there," he thought aloud, "where did
they dump them?"
"Tailings?" Scotty prompted.
"Rock from the mine. Stuff with no ore in it, or such low-grade stuff
that it was worthless."
"I see. Well, they didn't dump it in sight. But they couldn't have
dumped it far from here. It wouldn't be sensible to cart worthless rock
away any distance."
They hadn't used the tailings for roads around the mine. The roads were
natural dirt, with good drainage and no sign of rock ballast. Rick tried
to imagine another use, but couldn't, until Scotty spoke.
"Suppose they used up all the rocks throwing them at the Yankee
soldiers?" Scotty asked whimsically.
The question started a train of thought that gave Rick the answer in a
few seconds. "You've hit it. They didn't throw the rocks, but they used
them against the Yankees. I'll bet on it. Come on."
He got out of the car and led the way through the trees to where the
creek flowed on its quiet way. There were low embankments a few yards
back from the water's edge. "There are the rocks."
"Where?" Scotty couldn't see them. "I don't see nary a rock."
"In the embankments, covered with dirt. See? There's a place where the
dirt cover has been washed away by the rain. I've seen defenses like
this before. They used rocks as a base, filled in the cracks with clay,
then put dirt on top and planted grass to hold it. That gave them a
permanent earthwork."
"Why plant grass?" Scotty wanted to know.
"To fool enemy reconnaissance, I guess. I can't think of any other
reason, except to prevent erosion. In those days scouting was done by
cavalry, and from the other side of the river these look like natural
grassy banks."
Inspection of the embankment disclosed that Rick had guessed right.
Scotty inspected the place where the rain had washed the topsoil away,
probably because some careless picnicker had ruined the grass in that
spot. The rocks were clearly of the kind in the mine.
Suddenly Scotty bent lower and began to pry at something. "Rick, there's
something buried here."
Rick hurried to help out, and in a moment they had lifted away enough
rocks to disclose a considerable amount of moldy cloth.
Scotty took a piece and shook it, then chuckled. "The answer is in the
writing on the bag. Wilbur's Premium Portland Cement." He grew serious.
"Only where was it used? I've seen no construction around here."
"Maybe someone brought picnic supplies in the bags and buried them with
the garbage," Rick said.
"I doubt it. You can't get all the cement out of a bag, because the
powder sticks in the fabric. If you try to wash it out, it only sets the
cement."
Rick thought his pal probably was right. No one would use a cement bag
for supplies, now that he thought about it. He looked up suddenly as a
sound came through the trees. It was a motor, but a small two-cycle
kind, like a scooter or a small motorcycle.
"Someone coming," he said. "Let's go see who it is."
Scotty held onto the bag. They walked back through the trees and into
the camping ground in time to see a lanky, white-clad individual on a
three-wheeled motor scooter--the kind where the driver sits on a cargo
box--come to a stop. On the box were blue letters, dripping with white
frost, that spelled FROSTOLA. Underneath the letters was a list of
products: cream pies, frozen cones, cream sandwiches, icicles, and
quarts and pints.
Although Rick had never heard of Frostola, it was immediately clear that
this was an ice-cream vendor, of the kind that appears in swarms in warm
weather with ringing bells and tooting horns, in trucks, on scooters,
and even on bicycles.
The Frostola man gave them a cheery wave and tilted his white cap to the
back of his head. "Hi! Where's the crowd?"
"We're it," Scotty answered. "Were you expecting more?"
"Wasn't expecting anything," the man retorted. "It's a nice day for a
swim, so I thought I'd come sell refreshments to the swimmers."
"They're afraid of ghost fish," Rick said. "The place is haunted."
The man grinned. "I heard about the ghost. If he shows up I'll sell him
a cream pie."
"Sell me one," Rick invited, and Scotty echoed the thought.
"Pleasure." The man got off the seat and Rick saw that he was over six
feet tall, and built like a sapling. The boy also saw that he wasn't as
young as he at first appeared. That was odd, because the peddlers on
scooters were usually either very young or old.
The Frostola man opened the seat box and the boys looked in, at neat
stacks of ice cream packaged in various ways. The stuff was kept frozen
by slabs of dry ice wrapped in brown paper.
The cream pies were on a stick, and coated with chocolate, butterscotch,
and vanilla with coconut. Rick paid for his selection and Scotty's, then
commented, "It's a long way out here from town."
"Sure. But I enjoy the ride. It's a chance to get away from howling mobs
of kids."
A strange comment from one who made most of his sales to kids, Rick
thought. He noticed that the peddler was eying the bag Scotty had picked
up, and was trying to be surreptitious about it. Anyone would be curious
about someone carrying a moldy bag, but why try to conceal that
curiosity? On impulse, Rick said, "There's a trash can, Scotty. Throw
the bag away and let's go." To the peddler, he added, "We're doing our
bit to keep the place clean."
"Good thing to do," the man admitted.
The boys got in the car. Rick turned it around and headed for town. The
rear-view mirror told him that the Frostola man watched them until the
trees hid them from view.
Rick said thoughtfully, "If you were anxious to make your fortune
selling Frostola, where would you go to do it?"
Scotty grinned. "My thought exactly. I'd go where there are people. I'd
either go up streets ringing my bell, or I'd park at an intersection
where cars could stop. I wouldn't go to a deserted picnic ground--if I
knew it was deserted."
"If he didn't know, he's a stranger here. Could he be a new man?"
Scotty shook his head. "A new man wouldn't know the way out here, and if
he asked, he'd be told that people are staying away because of the
ghost."
"True. Your thoughts are as lucid as Costin's Creek, ol' buddy. Also, he
is not the typical ice-cream salesman, and he's not from around here.
He's a little old for riding a scooter cart, and the look on his face
and the way he carries himself are wrong. He doesn't fit the part.
Besides, his speech isn't local. He's no more a Virginian than you are."
"He sounds more like a Yankee," Scotty agreed.
Rick sighed. "Well, we've got something, although I don't know what.
Cement bags where there is no construction and an ice-cream man who
doesn't fit the part. What do you make out of that?"
Scotty chuckled. "Simple. The Frostola man is building a secret
ice-cream stand. A modern one, out of poured concrete walls. He's not
building it where anyone can see it, because he doesn't want to be
bothered by customers."
Rick grinned. "Okay, Hawkshaw. That's enough deduction for one morning.
Take a look at that sky. Have you heard a weather report lately?"
Scotty glanced upward to where mare's-tails were making streaks across
the sky. "Looks like a storm brewing. Why not turn on the radio?"
Rick did so, but there was only music from a nearby station,
interspersed with local commercials. Before there was a chance to get a
weather report they were rolling into town.
Lansdale was too small even to be called a "whistle stop," because no
trains came near it. An interstate bus route passed through on the main
highway, and that was the sole link with the towns to north and south,
except for private cars.
Rick drove right up the main street. He saw a drugstore, an independent
food market, a hardware-and-farm-supply store, a variety store, and two
gas stations. On the outskirts of town was a huge farmers' market open
only on Fridays and Saturdays.
The market was obviously the main center of trade for the farm people of
the area. Lansdale would be very busy on Fridays and Saturdays, and just
about abandoned, except for the few hundred people who lived in town,
for most of the week.
He turned the car at the edge of town and drove back down the main
street. Opposite the drugstore he found the sign he wanted. Jethro
Collins, Real Estate and Notary Public. He parked in front of the house.
Collins had his office in what had once been the parlor of his own home.
Rick could see him through the window, an enormously fat man in a white
shirt and red suspenders. As Rick rang the bell, he yelled, "Well, come
on in!"
Once inside, the bull voice was reduced in volume to fit the room, a
small one, cluttered with photographs of houses.
"What can I do for you, kids?"
The question was not courteous. The tone said Collins was impatient at
the interruption, that he was sure these kids would only waste his time,
and that he hated kids and everyone else.
Rick thought he looked like a Chester White hog, only meaner, but he
answered politely. "We've come from Dr. Miller's place, sir."
"So? Does he want to sell?"
"No, sir. Not without more information. If you could tell us the name of
the purchaser ..."
"I can. I won't. None of your business. If Miller wants to talk business
he can come see me. Now get out."
The boys lingered. "You must admit that it was an unusual offer, sir.
The price was rather high for worthless land."
Piggish eyes surveyed them. The bull voice grated, "Get out!"
They went. There was nothing else to do.
Scotty started to get into the car, but Rick stopped him. "Let's go to
the drugstore. I want to get a spray can of insect repellent."
"Okay." Scotty chuckled. "You can see why Dr. Miller is not fond of Mr.
Collins."
"I'm going to join the anti-Collins club as soon as we get back. Look,
druggists know everything about their town. Let's see if we can find out
if the Frostola man is new."
Rick opened the screen door and they went into a drugstore that had not
changed substantially for half a century, except for the addition of
modern sales items. The druggist, a wisp of a man, was friendly. They
sat down at the marble-topped soda fountain and Rick asked, "Got any
Frostola cream pies?"
"Don't carry them," the druggist replied. "They're sold only by the
route man."
"I see you have a new man in this territory," Rick said casually.
Bright eyes inspected him through rimless glasses. "Fairly new. Seems
all right."
"He's pleasant enough," Rick assented. "Has he been on the job long?"
"Six weeks, more or less."
The boys settled for cokes, then drove back to the Millers. Rick was
pleased. They hadn't made much progress, but at least they had uncovered
an interesting character in the new Frostola man. His arrival, according
to the druggist, coincided with the appearances of the Blue Ghost. He
traveled to the mine area when no customers could be found there. He was
curious about a cement bag. He didn't fit the character of an ice-cream
route man.
Rick headed straight for the picnic ground. There was no sign of the
Frostola scooter, which meant the man had left right behind them,
otherwise they would have met him on the road on the return trip.
On a hunch, Rick got out of the car and walked to the trash can where
Scotty had put the cement bag. The bag was gone.