THE TEN-RING PUZZLE
As on another day, we found the mill’s tenant cooking his food over the
smoky oil stove.
“What?” he scowled, pretending surprise at sight of us. “Be you boys
alive yet? I figured you was all dead an’ buried.”
We knew what he meant. He was grouchy because we hadn’t been working
for him lately.
“We’re in school now,” Scoop said. “But we’ll work for you to-night
after four o’clock if you want us to.”
“Um.... After four o’clock, hey? I’ll be lookin’ fur you.”
“We’ve covered the whole town,” our leader followed up, “so we’ll have
to work in the country.”
“You kin work anywhere in the country fur all of me.”
Scoop scratched his head.
“A thing I hate about the country,” he said, “is the distance between
the farmhouses. It takes so long to get from one house to another that
a fellow can’t do enough business to make it pay.”
“You ought to have bicycles,” the old man said.
“What we need,” Scoop said, “is a horse and buggy.”
The faded eyes were greedy in their expression.
“Mebby I kin let you borry Romeo.”
“I hate to drive other people’s horses,” hesitated Scoop. “For I’m not
a first-class driver.” Then he brightened. “I’ve got it!”
“Um....”
“You can do the driving and we will do the peddling.”
“Um....”
“We ought to sell at least ten dollars’ worth,” Scoop ran on, sort of
letting the “ten dollars” rumble around under his tongue. It made it
sound bigger. “And to pay you for driving us around in your buggy,
we’ll take only ten cents out of every quarter.”
“Um....”
“We’ll be here a few minutes after four. So be sure and have Romeo
hitched up. For we don’t want to waste any time.”
It was our leader’s scheme for two of us to go with the soap man while
the other pair tore up the puzzle room floor. It would be exciting to
find the murdered man’s hidden fortune. And, of course, we all wanted
to stay in town. So, to be fair, we drew cuts. In this way it was
decided that Tom and I were to go into the country while Scoop and Peg
went to the mill. I was disappointed, but I didn’t say anything. For a
fellow can’t expect to have things his own way all the time.
But I soon lost my depression. For on the way to school I got a sudden
idea. I told the other fellows about it. If we could work it, it was
very probable that Tom and I could get back to town in time to help
with the treasure hunting, leaving the soap man in the country.
By running, I had time, before the last bell rang, to go to Dad’s
brickyard office. He wasn’t there. But I told his stenographer to ask
him for me to take my bicycle along with him in the auto when he drove
to the east clay pit that afternoon, leaving the wheel at the Crandon
farm. I was intending to go to the Crandon farm in a buggy, I explained
to Miss Tubbs, and wanted the bicycle to ride home on. She promised to
deliver my message. I have a fine pa. We do things for each other. I
knew I could depend on him.
When I was passing into the school room that noon, Bid Stricker stopped
me.
“Did you know,” he grinned, “that William S. Hart is trying to get Miss
Prindle to break her contract with Douglas Fairbanks and sign up with
him?”
“Chase yourself,” I scowled.
“Honest. He was in town this morning.”
“And I heard,” Jimmy Stricker spoke up, poking his nose into the
conversation, “that Tom Mix is due in town to-morrow.”
Bid sort of rolled his eyes at the ceiling.
“Isn’t it wonderful,” he sighed, “what a little soap will do?”
Why did they keep talking about the beauty soap and about Miss Prindle
going into the movies? I wondered.
When Tom and I arrived at the mill at the conclusion of the day’s
school, the soap man had Romeo hitched to the buggy. We got in, one on
each side of the driver, with the satchel of soap at our feet.
“Git up,” the old man clucked, flapping the lines, and in response
Romeo sort of collected his wabbly joints and leaned forward until he
was in motion.
“We’ll go over in the Crandon neighborhood,” I spoke up. “Follow this
road to the first turn, then go to the right.”
It was four-thirty when we came within sight of the Crandon farm.
Taking six cakes of beauty soap in my hands, I scrambled out of the
buggy in front of the farmhouse, motioning to Tom to follow me.
“You wait here in the road,” I told the soap man.
When Mrs. Crandon, a cousin of Dad’s, opened the door, Tom and I
stepped quickly into the farmhouse kitchen. I had been here a number of
times to Sunday dinners. Chicken and hot biscuits and gravy. Um-yum!
The thought of it made me hungry.
“I’ve been expecting you, Jerry. Your wheel’s here.”
“I know it.”
“How did you come out?” she smiled, curious.
I told her about the old soap man. He was trying to steal some money, I
said, that belonged to some one else, and we were trying to save the
money for its rightful owner.
“Gracious me!” she cried, in sudden alarm.
“Tom and I are going back to town on my bike,” I explained, “and we
want you to keep the old soap man out in front as long as you can. When
he tumbles to the fact that we have disappeared, you mustn’t tell him
where we have gone to.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“Here’s some soap,” I grinned, giving her my six cakes. “In a few
minutes go out to the buggy and say: ‘I believe I’ll take another six
cakes.’ The old man will think that we’re in here. And he’ll be tickled
pink to let you have all of the soap that you want. Then you can wait
another two or three minutes and go out and get some more soap. See?”
Mrs. Crandon gave a hearty laugh.
“What if he tries to make me pay for the soap?”
“Tell him that you’ve changed your mind about buying it, and hand it
back to him.”
My bicycle, she told us, was in the carriage shed. Getting the wheel,
we cut through an orchard to the country road. With Tom on the
cross-bar, I pedaled for dear life.
We got to town before five o’clock. The brick house was closed. So we
knew that our chums were still in the mill.
“Dog-gone!” cried Scoop, sweating, when we came to the room where he
and Peg were at work, “We’ve ripped up the whole floor and haven’t
found a thing.”
Peg was smashing the brick hearth of the fireplace.
“Get busy, fellows,” he panted. “We haven’t a minute to spare.”
Tom and I gave a cheerful hand to the work. Suddenly the awfulest groan
fell on our ears that you can imagine. A sort of shivering, rattling
groan.
“The miser’s ghost!” I screeched, dropping my pick. “It’s coming up the
stairs!”
There was a rippling laugh from below. And who should come into sight
but the grinning Matson girl.
“Don’t ever tell me,” she laughed, “how brave boys are. For I certainly
had the four of you scared to death.”
Scoop scowled.
“What’s the idea?” he growled.
“Oh, I just did it for fun.”
“Huh!”
“I wanted to be here to help you. So I coaxed Mrs. Kelly to bring me to
town. She’s at the house.”
“You haven’t helped us any by scaring us,” grunted Scoop. Then he sort
of cooled off and told the newcomer, in better manners, where the soap
man was.
“We’ve got to hurry,” he concluded, “if we expect to find the hidden
fortune before the spy gets back to town.”
“Let me help you,” the girl offered quickly.
“It will be a big help to us,” Scoop told her, “if you’ll go below and
watch for the enemy. If he comes before we’re through up here, yell
‘jiggers.’”
Well, we kept on smashing the bricks. And pretty soon we disclosed a
metal box.
“The money!” I cried, excited.
The box was about a foot long by four inches wide and three inches
deep. Its padlock was so rusted that we knew no key would ever unlock
it. The only way to get the box open would be to break the padlock with
a hammer.
Scoop shook the box, rattling its contents.
“Gold!” I cried.
“Shall we break it open, or shall we let the girl open it? It’s hers.”
“We better hand it over to her as it is,” advised Peg.
We started for the stairs, anxious to get away from the dangerous
territory.
“I guess old soapy will get an awful shock when he comes home and sees
how we’ve messed up his sun parlor,” laughed Scoop, looking back at the
torn-up floor.
“He’ll want to kill us,” I shivered.
“He ought to be in jail,” grunted Peg.
“I’d feel a lot safer,” I said quickly, “if he was in jail.”
A horse whinnied.
“Romeo!” cried Scoop, stopping abruptly on the stairs.
“‘Jiggers,’” a voice called.
Peg saw my white face.
“Don’t be scared, Jerry. He can’t get us. When he comes into the mill,
we’ll go down the rope. We’ve got it ready.”
So down the rope we went, joining the girl in the mill yard.
“Here’s your grandfather’s fortune,” Scoop grinned, handing her the
metal box.
She gave a cry. It was the gladdest, happiest cry I had ever heard. And
she took the box and hugged it in her arms.
“Oh!” she cried.
We could hear the soap man in the mill.
“Let’s go over to the house,” suggested Scoop, “where we can lock
ourselves in if necessary. For we don’t know what the old coot is
liable to do.”
Fortified in the brick house, we broke open the metal box. But, to our
disappointment, it contained no money. Not a penny. Its only content
was the ten-ring puzzle that Mr. Matson had made just before he met
with his awful death.
“There’s money hid somewhere,” cried Mrs. Kelly. “I know it. For the
ould gintleman told me so.”
“He might not have been telling you the truth.”
“He was rich. If the money isn’t hid, where is it?”
“Maybe,” spoke up Peg, “it’s cemented into the mill wall, as the spy
seems to think.”
Mrs. Kelly got ready to leave for home.
“To-morrow,” she said, sort of decisive-like, “I’m goin’ to see the
judge an’ tell him the whole story. He’ll know what to do.”