THE PRISONER
We felt pretty blue and sick-like over the theft of the talking frog.
For now Tom and his pa and Aunt Polly would have to go to the
poorhouse. The invention that was to have put them on Easy Street had
fallen into the enemy’s hands. It would earn a million dollars for the
dishonest president of the Gennor Radio Corporation. But poor Mr. Ricks
would get not one penny.
“I told you that young Gennor was tricky,” cried Tom, as we stood
beside the hole in the cellar’s dirt floor. “Oh, why didn’t we suspect
that he had the spy in here digging up the frog!” and the speaker’s
arms went up in despair.
Scoop looked dizzy. But his thinker wasn’t wholly stalled. And to tune
it up he circled the cellar, tugging at his hair.
“We’ve got to act quick,” he said to Tom, “if we hope to save your pa’s
invention.” He turned to me. “Jerry, make a bee-line for the hotel and
keep an eye on Gennor. If he leaves the hotel, get onto his trail.”
“And what about you fellows?” I inquired.
“As I said a moment ago Gennor may not know that the spy has the
talking frog. But he soon will know it unless we cut in. For the spy,
knowing that the other is due to arrive in town, will go to the hotel
to report. So keep your eyes peeled, Jerry, for the soap man. If he
comes into the hotel with a package under his arm, grab it and run.
We’ll wait here to receive mister smarty in case he decides to pay us a
visit. Under the circumstances I guess we won’t be put into jail if we
make him comfortable in one of the upper rooms and keep him there for a
day or two.”
My eyes were popping.
“You mean,” I cried, excited, “that you’re going to make him a
prisoner?”
Scoop gave a queer, tight-lipped grin.
“Something on that order,” he said, slowly wagging his head. “Only we
won’t call him a prisoner. He’ll be our guest. See? And we’ll be very
attentive to him and feed him on the best there is in the house and
read him to sleep if necessary.”
I thought of the old man in the mill.
“Are you going to prison-up the spy, too?”
“Whatever is necessary,” said Scoop, “to recover the talking frog.”
“Maybe he’s found the hidden fortune,” I cried, “and is now making his
get-away.”
“You look after Gennor,” Scoop told me, “and we’ll look after the spy.
Eh, Peg?”
“I’ll keep an eye on mister spy,” waggled Peg, his jaw squared.
“Hot dog!” I cried, jumping for the stairs. And I ran lickety-cut into
town.
Coming within sight of the Commercial House, which is a rather small
building and not big and showy like the towering city hotels, I slowed
up. For I was puffing like a loose-jointed merry-go-round engine.
Getting my wind, I walked naturally to the hotel door and squinted
inside.
But contrary to what I had thought would be the case, Gennor wasn’t in
the hotel lobby. Nor was his car parked in front. I was scared for a
moment in the thought that he had already met the spy and had left town
with the stolen invention.
The hotel manager got his eyes on me and grinned.
“Howdy, Jerry,” he said, good-natured-like.
If you can imagine a man so tall that he has to close up like a
jackknife in order to get into a regular-size bed, that is Mr. Rufus
Tomlinson, who shares the ownership of the Tutter hotel with his son,
Mr. Charley Tomlinson. And he is about three points skinnier than an
underweight toothpick. In our Halloween parades he usually takes the
part of Uncle Sam. That is how he got his nickname.
Realizing that the sooner I located young Gennor the better for our
purpose, I came quickly into the small lobby, squinting here and there.
“Where have you got him hid?” I inquired, as a starter.
“Heh?” said Uncle Sam, scrooching and craning his neck.
“I heard he was in town,” I said. “So I came on the run to take a
squint at him.”
“Take a squint at who?”
“Felix Gennor, Jr.,” I returned, “the wonderful boy millionaire from
Chicago.”
Uncle Sam’s face went sort of screwed up.
“Um ...” he mumbled, meditative-like. “Didn’t know Mr. Gennor was a
millionaire. Mebby I ought to ‘a’ put him in the bridal soot.”
I pretended surprise.
“What,” I cried, “you don’t mean to tell me that you put him in an
ordinary room? Now that’s too bad. For he’ll be offended, and we won’t
get the new toy factory.”
“Toy factory?” scrooched Uncle Sam.
“I understand,” I went on, “that he intends to build a radio toy
factory here if he likes the town.”
The other could hardly swallow this.
“Him? Pshaw! He’s jest a boy.”
“His father,” I said, “is backing him in whatever he does.”
A crafty light came into the narrowed eyes.
“Toy factory, heh? Um....”
“It will be a big thing for the town,” I waggled. “And those lots of
yours down by the depot will be worth a thousand dollars apiece.”
“I was jest thinkin’ of them lots.... Has he got an option on a factory
site?”
“Not yet,” I said, “for he’s just arrived.”
“Of course; of course. Um....”
“The thing for you to do,” I said, “is to show him a lot of attention
here in the hotel. Then he’ll like Tutter and we’ll get the toy
factory. See?”
“I’ll move his luggage into the bridal soot right away,” nodded Uncle
Sam, shuffling eager-like.
“How are you fixed for a bell-boy?” I inquired.
“Hain’t got one at present.”
“He suspects that this is a regular hotel,” I said, “And whoever heard
of a hotel without a bell-boy?”
“Mebby——”
“All right,” I jumped in, “you’ve got me won over. So tote out the
uniform and I’ll flop into it.”
The other looked sort of dizzy.
“Uniform?” he repeated. “Um.... I hain’t got no sech thing.”
“Then,” I said, starting for the door, “the new bell-boy will have to
furnish his own uniform.”
I was filled with giggles as I ran down the street to our house. For I
had a blinger of an idea. Finding the doors locked, I went in through a
cellar window. And without a second’s delay I beat it for the attic to
get the messenger-boy suit.
I had worn this suit in a school play. It was made of bright red cloth,
with brass buttons up and down the front of a monkey jacket, and gold
braid on the seams of the long trousers. Also the peakless cap was
decorated with braid and buttons.
I got dressed. And rubbing the powder from my face I grinned at the
young darkey whose face was reflected in the bedroom mirror.
“Who are you?” I inquired.
“Ah’s the new bell-boy,” he replied, “an’ mah name is Gawge.”
“All right, George,” I nodded, “let’s see you grin.”
“Ya’, suh, boss; ya’, suh.”
“Fine!” I laughed; and rolling my other clothes into a bundle, I cut a
bee-line for the hotel.
The lobby was full of excited men. For in the time of my absence Uncle
Sam had ’phoned to the mayor and the president of the Chamber of
Commerce and a lot more prominent business men. They were buzzing
around young Gennor. And did he like it? I’ll tell the world!
“Yes,” he said, throaty-like, trying hard not to pull in his chest, “my
father is the president of the Gennor Radio Corporation of Chicago. And
we may build a factory here. It all depends.”
“I’m sure,” said the mayor, “that the town will meet you more than
halfway.”
“Yes, indeed,” spoke up Mr. Fisher of the Chamber of Commerce. “If we
could—ah—arrange to discuss the matter with your father——”
I knew why he paused. He couldn’t quite convince himself that he would
gain anything for the town by talking business with this boy. He was
used to doing business with men.
But in the next ten minutes young Gennor’s swaggering lingo had them
all guessing. About every other word was “I” this or “we” that. To hear
him tell it, the world contained just three wonderful people: Felix
Gennor, Sr., was one and Felix Gennor, Jr., was the other two.
And convinced that they had everything to gain and very little to lose,
the business men got their heads together and cooked up a program to
entertain the young visitor. They figured, I guess, that the more they
did for him the better pleased his father would be. There was to be a
get-together banquet in the hotel dining room; and one of the excited
aldermen rounded up the band boys. Into the lobby they came, horns and
bass drum and everything, and another such whanging and banging and
tooting you never heard in all your life. I tell you it was exciting.
Poor Mrs. Tomlinson came running from the kitchen, her glasses hanging
on one ear, to see if the house was tumbling down. My cap got knocked
off in the jam and bent out of shape under some one’s foot. And the
mayor cheered so loud that he shot his false teeth down the back of Mr.
Fisher’s neck.
Gennor was the only one who didn’t enjoy the music. For he had to quit
talking about himself and listen.
Well, in the course of an hour the band boys sort of ran dry on tunes
and the mayor and the others went home to get their speeches written
down and memorized for the coming banquet, to which, of course, Felix
Gennor, Sr., was to be invited, the guest of honor.
“Guess I’ll go up to my room,” Gennor said to Uncle Sam.
Here was my chance.
“Ya’, suh, boss; ya’, suh,” I said, polite-like, popping into view. I
bobbed my head and grinned, just as I had been taught to do in the
school play. And if ever there was a surprised man, it was Uncle Sam
Tomlinson!
Getting the key to the bridal suite, I started for the stairs,
motioning to the other to follow me. Unlocking the door, I fussed
around inside of the room just like a regular bell-boy, raising the
windows and switching the lights on and off.
And what do you know if I didn’t get a ten-cent tip!
“Thanks, boss,” I grinned, bowing and scraping.
Gennor’s eyes were narrowed suspiciously.
“Haven’t I seen you before?” he inquired.
“Ya’, suh, boss; ya’, suh.”
“Where?”
“Ya’, suh, boss; ya’, suh.”
Scowling with disgust, he stripped off his coat. And having no further
excuse to remain in the room, I reluctantly reached for the doorknob.
But the other stopped me.
“Just a minute,” he said, running water into the lavatory basin.
“Ya’, suh, boss; ya’——”
“Shut up! You’ve said that seventeen times in the last minute.”
“Ya’, suh——”
I dodged the bar of soap that he fired at me and grinned.
Drying his hands, he dropped into a seat at the writing desk and worded
a short note, enclosing it in an addressed envelope.
“Know where that man lives?” he inquired, handing me the envelope.
“Ya’, suh,” I nodded, after a glance at the name. “Mistah Ricks am the
funny gen’man who makes machinery things.”
“That’s him,” said Gennor. “See that he gets this right away. And if
you bring back an answer, I’ll be likely to find another dime for you.”
“Ya’, suh——”
“Git!” he threatened.
I had no intention of leaving the hotel with that note. For the spy
might come while I was away. The thing to do, I concluded, was to find
out what the note contained and ’phone to Scoop.
A few moments later I came quickly into the empty lobby and put in a
call under Mr. Ricks’ number.
“Hello,” said Scoop.
“This is Jerry,” I informed; and keeping my voice low, I quickly told
the other what had happened.
“Read the note,” he instructed, crisp-like.
I went through the note hurriedly, keeping my eyes on the door.
“Evidently,” said Scoop, “he doesn’t know that Mr. Ricks is out of
town. And that bears me out in my theory that he hasn’t talked with the
spy. Have you seen anything of the soap man, Jerry?”
I told him that I hadn’t.
“Peg went over to the mill about an hour ago. We haven’t seen anything
of him since.”
There was some more talk. Scoop told me what to do. And in line with
his instructions, I kept out of sight for ten-fifteen minutes. Then I
went puffing to the door of the bridal suite.
“Well?” grunted young Gennor, when my knock had gained permission to
enter.
“Mistah Ricks wasn’t at home, suh. But you all am to come to his house
to talk business. The folks say so.”
The listener scowled.
“What? Me chase after that hick inventor? I guess not! If he wants to
get in on my proposition he’s got to come here.”
Something had to be done to make Gennor change his mind. And I jumped
into a scheme of my own.
“Mah lan’,” I said, rolling my eyes, “you-all should ’a’ seen the funny
talkin’ frowg Mistah Ricks is gone an’ ’vented. Ya’, suh, boss.”
A cunning look camped in Gennor’s eyes.
“Did you see the talking frog?”
“Ya’, suh,” I replied truthfully.
“Um.... And you say Mr. Ricks wants me to come to his house?”
“The folks say they hain’t a-goin’ to sell the frowg to the other
gen’man till they is talked with you-all, suh.”
“What other man do you mean?”
“Aw calc’lates as heow he am a Milwaukee man, suh.”
Gennor said something under his breath and grabbed his hat.
“What street do I take?” he inquired.
My directions put a sick look into his face.
“What?” he screeched. “You say that Mr. Ricks lives in the big brick
house on the edge of town?”
“Ya’, suh,” I grinned.
And on the moment I wanted to let out a tickled whoop. For I knew well
enough what was in his mind. But, of course, I kept shut.
“Git out of here,” he said, savage-like, giving me a shove. And
following me into the hall, he put the key of the locked room into his
pocket and stomped down the stairs.
When he was well out of sight in the street, I ’phoned to Scoop. Then I
went to the basement and skinned out of my fancy uniform, putting on
the clothes that I had brought from home. Hiding the uniform behind a
flour barrel, I whitened my face with the flour and crawled through a
window into the alley.
Overtaking Gennor, I kept well behind. And when he turned in at the
brick house and cranked the door-bell, I circled to the rear and
tumbled in through the kitchen door.
The visitor was talking loudly in the front hall.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” he demanded, ugly-like, “that old Ricks lived
here?”
“Is that a riddle,” returned Scoop, “or a question?”
“Don’t git fresh with me.... Where’s the old man? I came to talk
business.”
“Oh!...” said Scoop. “Have a seat.”
“I understand,” said Gennor, after a moment, “that Ricks has perfected
his talking frog.”
“Well?”
“I’m here to buy it.”
“Mr. Ricks may consider your offer.”
Gennor raised in his seat.
“May consider it? Well, he better jump at it if he knows what’s good
for him.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Scoop.
“Bring him here and I’ll tell him myself.”
“He isn’t in the house just now.”
There was a short silence.
“Say,” scowled young Gennor, “if it’s your game to hold me up, you’re
going to get left. See?”
“Mr. Ricks,” said Scoop, “wants only what is coming to him.”
“This invention of his belongs to our company, anyway.”
“That’s what you say.”
“We hired him to do some work on a radio transmitter. And the talking
toy idea came to him while he was on our pay-roll. My father says so.
But we want to be fair. And we’re willing to pay him ten thousand
dollars for his invention.”
“Ten thousand dollars,” said Scoop, “wouldn’t interest Mr. Ricks.”
“And if we build our new toy factory here in Tutter,” Gennor added,
“we’ll put him in charge of it.”
“Did your father send you here to tell us that?”
“You ask him.”
There was another silence.
“Suppose,” suggested Scoop, “that we get down to brass tacks.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” said Gennor.
“You say that you’re ready to pay ten thousand dollars for Mr. Ricks’
invention and put him in charge of a factory to be built in Tutter?”
“Yes,” nodded Gennor, “if we build the factory here, he’ll be appointed
manager.”
“But you aren’t sure that the factory will be built here?”
“We’re going into the radio toy game on a big scale. That was decided
at the last directors’ meeting. And it was further decided to locate
old Ricks and make him an offer not to exceed ten thousand dollars. But
we haven’t decided where we’ll build the new factory. It may be here.
It may be in Chicago.”
“I understand,” said Scoop. “And does that complete your proposition?”
“I’ve got a paper——”
“Just keep it in your pocket. For we’re signing no papers to-day.”
“My! You talk as though you are somebody.”
“I’m a friend of Tom Ricks’,” returned Scoop, quiet-like, “if that
means anything to you.”
“It doesn’t,” and Gennor gave a mean laugh.
“Notwithstanding,” said Scoop, in the same even tone, “it means
something to Tom. For I’ve promised to stand by him and protect his
father’s invention.”
“No one is trying to steal it.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Say! Who do you mean?”
“I was looking at you.”
“I’ll push your face in.”
“No danger of that,” sneered Scoop. “You might hire somebody to do it
for you, but you wouldn’t dare to tackle the job yourself.”
Gennor sprang to his feet.
“You’re a big bluff,” Scoop went on, in the same sneering tone of
voice. “But you haven’t fooled me in the least with this
ten-thousand-dollar offer. For why should your father offer to buy the
invention when he has hired spies to steal it?”
“I’ll git you for this,” screeched Gennor. And when Tom and I ran into
the room, he sneered: “Three against one.”
“Three against one,” scowled Scoop, “is a fair game as compared to what
your father is doing.”
“He never intended to steal the invention.”
“We happen to know better,” said Scoop. “But don’t pat yourself on the
back when I tell you that the spies succeeded in getting the frog away
from us. For your man will have no chance to turn it over to you; and
that, of course, is what brought you to town.”
Gennor’s eyes held an expression of cunning satisfaction as he backed
to the door. And wheeling suddenly he grabbed the knob.
“I locked the door,” said Scoop, “when you came in.”
The defeated one flew into a rage.
“This is a holdup! But you’ll get no money from my father.”
“We don’t expect or want any of his money. But we do intend to keep you
here till we recover the talking frog.”
“You’ll go to jail for this.”
“So you say.... Git up those stairs.”
“I won’t.”
But he did. For, bully that he was, he went scared to death when our
leader started to roll up his shirt sleeves.
Scoop locked the bedroom door on the prisoner and put the key in his
pocket.
“Better go outside, Tom,” he advised, “and watch the windows. For we
don’t want him to wave a distress signal or otherwise attract
attention.”