UP THE RIVER
After what seemed an age to us, it came time for school to be dismissed
for the day. And with anxious hearts Tom and I and Peg hurried home. We
were hopeful that Scoop would be waiting for us at the brick house. And
in this we were not disappointed.
He was seated cross-legged at the kitchen table making ham sandwiches
and swigging down milk.
“This,” he told us, with a weary grin, “is my breakfast, dinner and
supper.”
Our tongues waggled with eager questions bearing on his adventure. But
he shook his head, motioning to us to be patient until he was through
eating.
I could see that he was doing some hard thinking as he got on the
outside of his food. Finally he pushed back from the table and loosened
his belt.
“Well,” he said, giving us a queer look, “I think I know who’s got the
talking frog.”
I immediately guessed young Gennor, explaining to our returned leader
about the Chicago kid’s sudden disappearance.
Scoop waggled with understanding.
“I know all about that,” he said. “For last night I followed Gennor to
the old Windmere Hotel. He was there until an hour ago.”
“In the hotel?” I inquired, staring in unbelief.
“Watching it,” Scoop said, “from the outside. And I, in turn, have been
watching him. When he came to town, I followed.”
“But why should he go to the old hotel? It’s been closed for years.”
“Because,” returned Scoop in a steady voice, “he suspects that the
talking frog is there. I want to tell you that kid is no dummy! Hearing
us tell about the ghost put him hep to things that we never dreamed of.
And he came here last night to learn who the ghost was. For it was his
hunch—and he had the right dope—that the ghost was the frog thief.”
“And didn’t he know that the ghost was one of his father’s spies?”
“He knew,” Scoop said steadily, “that the ghost wasn’t a spy. That’s
where he had the advantage over us.”
“And it was the ghost who dug up the talking frog and not the spy?”
The other nodded.
“But who is the ghost?”
I was tingling with excitement. For I could tell from Scoop’s
mysterious actions that he was holding something back.
“That,” he returned, “is what you and I are going to find out.”
“And you don’t know?” I cried, trying to pin him down.
“I suspect who it is,” he said. “But if I were to tell you, you’d say
that I was crazy.”
And that is exactly what I did say when my coaxing had brought out the
name.
“But even if you are right,” I said, coming from under my dazed
amazement, “why should he steal the talking frog?”
“I can’t answer that, Jerry. I only know that he was here last night.
Your cry scared him away. Gennor and I followed him to the old
hotel—though the other kid, of course, didn’t know that I was trailing
along behind.”
“And you say the ghost is living in the old hotel?”
“Apparently.”
“But if the talking frog is there,” I followed up, giving him a puzzled
look, “why didn’t you go in and get it?”
“Jerry, tell me the truth. Under the circumstances would you have gone
alone into that old deserted building?”
I quickly admitted that I wouldn’t have had the courage. For the risk
was plain.
“I could tell from Gennor’s actions,” Scoop went on, “that he wanted to
go in where the ghost was, but, like myself, he didn’t dare to. What
kept him there all day was the hope that the ghost would leave. Nothing
doing.... I have a hunch that he’s in town to get the Strickers to help
him. I’ve seen Bid riding around in the red car. We’ve got to shake a
leg. For the whole gang may be speeding for the river this very minute
in the enemy’s auto. You can see what we’re up against.”
Yes, it was a time for quick action. We had to get to the old hotel
ahead of the others. And it was decided on the moment that Scoop and I
should make the trip. Tom and Peg were to lay low in the brick house.
“And when the ghost comes to-night,” instructed Scoop, “don’t scare him
away. Let him have free run of the house. But watch what he does. He
has a reason in repeatedly coming here. And only in learning what his
reason is will we be likely to solve the mystery. I’m hoping that Jerry
and I will be back in time for the big show.”
It was somewhat after five o’clock when Scoop and I left the brick
house. Hurrying through town, we came to the long bridge spanning the
Illinois River. The Windmere Hotel road was on the opposite side of the
river. But instead of entering the bridge, as I had expected him to do,
the leader turned to the right, entering Deacon Pillpopper’s yard and
knocking on the kitchen door.
“Well, well,” cackled the old boat renter, tickled-like, “if it hain’t
Scoop an’ Jerry! Come right in; come right in,” he invited politely. “I
was jest gittin’ ready to set up an’ eat. Hain’t got a turrible sight
cooked, but you’re welcome to share what I’ve got. Jest shove that ol’
cat off its box, Jerry, an’ draw up to the table.”
Scoop shook his head, explaining that we were in a hurry.
“We’re headed for the old Windmere Hotel,” he said, “and we’ve got to
get there quick. For a stolen invention has been hid there, and a
friend of ours is liable to suffer if we delay a minute in recovering
it. We can get there quicker in a motor-boat. And under the
circumstances I’m going to ask you to let us borrow your small launch.
We haven’t any money to pay you, but if things work out as I hope,
you’ll get enough pay to buy a brand new launch and a rowboat or two
thrown in. Can we take it?”
“Well, neow,” the old man waggled, “I’d say ‘no’ right off to most
b’ys. But I hain’t afeered to trust you. I know you’ll be keerful.
Besides, I hain’t furgot ’bout that bag of apples you brought me last
fall.”
Full of gratitude for his kindness, we ran to the river pier. I untied
the boat while Scoop turned on the gas and electricity. Having been out
in the boat with its owner, we knew how to run it.
“Here we go!” cried Scoop, getting ready to press the control lever
into “forward.”
I yelled to him to hold up.
“The deacon’s coming on the run. Maybe he wants to go along.”
But that wasn’t the case.
“The ten-ring puzzle,” the old man wheezed. “Have you found it, b’ys?”
We told him that we had.
“I knowed it was the puzzle that the Bible markings had reference to.
Miz Kelly said it was money that was hid. I said, ‘No, it hain’t money,
it’s the ten-ring puzzle, which is jest as good as money, though. You
kin sell it any day in the week,’ I told her, ‘fur a thousand dollars
or better.’”
“We’ve got it,” grinned Scoop, “but we don’t know how to work it.”
“Um.... Let me git a whack at it.”
“We’ll bring it over to-morrow.”
“You didn’t find any money ’long with the puzzle?”
“Not a penny.”
The old man scratched his head.
“They may be money hid, all right. Fur, as Miz Kelly says, the old man
was rich.... I’m goin’ to have another look at that Bible.”
Headed up the river, we presently came to the new Woodlawn Bay Hotel,
which is the up-to-date resort that put the old Windmere House out of
business. For summer guests preferred the new hotel. Unable to make it
pay, the old hotel closed up. That was six-seven years ago.
Another mile and we came to the rotting pier of the shut-up Windmere
House. Here things looked deserted and gloomy. The barn-like building
stared back at us with its three tiers of window eyes. I dreaded to
enter. And speculating in my mind on its hidden dangers, I went sort of
shivery in the knees.
We tied the launch to the pier.
“See anything of Gennor and his gang?” inquired Scoop, squinting
ashore.
“Maybe they’re in the hotel.”
“We’ll circle the building and see if the red car is here.”
But to our satisfaction the roadster was nowhere in sight in the hotel
yard.
“Come on,” motioned Scoop, starting for a rear door.
I didn’t hurry.
“Do you suppose,” I said, sort of letting out my neck in all directions
at once, “that the ghost is watching us through one of those windows?”
“He probably is,” returned Scoop, “if he’s inside. For I happen to know
that he isn’t blind. And he must have heard our motor.”
I began to sweat.
“It’s awful risky,” I said, “going in there.”
“Tell me something that I don’t know.”
“I hate to see you do it,” I went on. “For he might kill you. And being
my best pal, I’ve got to look out for you.”
“You needn’t worry about me,” grunted Scoop. “I know how to take care
of myself.”
“But what are you going to do if he jumps at you?”
“Fight, of course.”
“If he jumps at me,” I said truthfully, “I’ll drop dead.”
“You’re trying awful hard,” Scoop grinned, “to make me think that you
haven’t any grit. But I know you, ol’ timer! Come on.”
The door was unlocked. And stepping into the musty, dirty kitchen, I
expected nothing else than to get a whang on the head.
Scoop dropped to his hands and knees, examining the footprints in the
floor’s coating of dust.
“A man’s,” he waggled, “and all of a size. So we know the Strickers
haven’t been here. Buck up, Jerry. I have the feeling that we’re going
to walk out of here with the talking frog.”
“And I have the feeling,” I groaned, “that we’ll be carried out in
pieces.”
“The tracks go this way,” Scoop said, advancing.
“I wish my tracks were going the other way.”
“Let’s not talk,” he advised. “The ghost might hear us.”
“I hope he does,” I said, “and runs.”
This kind of crazy talk sort of stiffened my wabbly knees. And soon I
was keeping abreast of my companion, just as brave as he was.
We followed the tracks up two flights of stairs to the third floor,
then down a long hall. The closed chamber doors on our right and left
gave me an uneasy feeling.
We were now almost to the hall’s end. Pausing, we sharpened our ears.
Then we crept to a closed door where the tracks showed in and out.
“Hands up!” he shouted, pushing open the door and bounding into the
room.
But the ghost wasn’t there!
Another such room I never expect to see. Here and there were odds and
ends of discarded furniture. Two rickety chairs, a cluttered bureau, a
three-legged table. An old oil stove had smoked black the wall behind
it and the ceiling directly overhead. The dirty cupboard was filled
with greasy pots and pans. It was hard to conceive how a man could live
in such stinking filth.
A bed was set up in an adjoining room, reached through a connecting
door. Here windows on two sides looked down upon the river and a
clutter of rotting sheds. Also we could trace the course of the weedy,
incoming road.
Opening a closet door, Scoop pointed to a man’s tattered raincoat.
There was a worn pair of shoes on the floor. We pawed through a litter
of paper and other trash, but failed to uncover the talking frog.
At this point the purr of a motor fell on our ears. Then we heard boys’
voices. Gennor and his gang had arrived. We realized that it was them,
even before we had gotten sight of them from the chamber window.
Bid got his eyes on our motor-boat.
“Lookit!” he screeched, pointing. The whole gang ran to the river’s
edge. We were afraid that they would untie the boat or damage the
engine.
Gennor came running from his car with an old leather traveling bag of
peculiar shape. Lining up the others in a bossy way, he advanced on the
hotel.
Hearing them on the stairs, and realizing that we were trapped, sort
of, Scoop shot the bolt in the connecting door. This gave us the
bedroom as a fortress.
The others tumbled into the adjoining room.
“What do you know about this?” cried Bid. “Somebody’s living here.”
“Let’s have some refreshments,” laughed Jimmy, and we could hear him
rustling paper bags. “Cookies!” he yipped.
“Me first.”
“Aw!... You know me, Jimmy.”
“Give me a fistful.”
Gennor came into the conversation.
“Let’s start our game.”
“Shoot,” laughed Bid.
“This is a haunted house. See? And I’ve come here to dig up the buried
treasure.”
“Do you put it in the leather bag?”
“Sure thing. The treasure is buried in this room. And I’ve got to dig
it up and escape. You fellows are ghosts. You’re to wait in the hall.
And when I come from the room, you chase me. If you catch me, the
treasure’s yours.”
“We git you.”
There was a clatter of feet into the hall. The door went closed. A key
clicked in the lock. Then Gennor began moving quickly about the room.
Scoop’s eyes held a worried look.
“He’s up to something, Jerry.”
“Easy,” I whispered.
“He hasn’t told them about the talking frog. They would have mentioned
it if they had known about it. They think it’s a game. I wish I could
see what he’s doing.”
A minute passed; two minutes.
“I can’t stand it any longer,” Scoop said in a strained voice. “I’ve
got to see what he’s up to.”
“But if you open the door,” I told him, worried, “he’ll hear you and
yell for his gang.”
But the other was not to be stopped.
The bolt was drawn back. And quietly turning the knob, he opened the
door. Then——
“Jerry! He isn’t here!”
Together we ran to an open window. On the ground directly below us
Gennor was coiling a long rope. He had thus made his escape, pulling
the rope after him.
“The rope was in the leather bag,” cried Scoop. “And he’s running away
with the talking frog. See? Here’s the wooden box that it was buried
in.”
Gennor was now cutting through the weeds toward the red roadster.
Throwing up the cover of the car’s rear luggage box, he tossed the
leather bag inside. Then he jumped into the seat.
I bounded to the door. But the key to open it wasn’t in the lock.
“What’s the matter in there?” Bid inquired from the hall.
“Gennor’s gone out through the window,” I cried.
“Who are you?”
I told him.
“If you’ll help us get the talking frog from Gennor,” I cried, “we’ll
pay you a hundred dollars.”
“Go lay an egg! You haven’t got a hundred cents.”
“We’ll have a lot of money,” I cried, “if we save the talking frog. Aw,
come on, fellows! We’re Tutter kids. You ought to stick up for us,
rather than let an outsider cheat us.”
There was an excited confab in the hall.
“He brought us here to play games,” said Jimmy.
“Sure thing.”
“He never told us that the frog was here.”
Bid hammered on the door.
“I believe you’re lying. For Gennor told us yesterday that he’d give us
ten dollars apiece if we’d help him find the talking frog.”
“Then he’s double crossing you. Yes, that’s it! He brought you here to
help him because he didn’t dare to come in here alone. And now he’s
skinning out.”
“The crook! Where is he?”
“He’s outside,” Scoop called from the window, “searching his pockets
for his auto key. You can head him off if you snap into it.”
A diminishing clatter of shoes came from the hall. I ran to the window.
The red car was still in the yard.
“Hey!” yelled Bid, coming into sight on the run.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” lied Gennor.
There was considerable exciting talk. We saw Gennor bring out a roll of
greenbacks and pass them around. Then the whole gang got into the car.
Having found his switch key, the driver started the motor. There was a
clashing of gears; the car hurtled forward, quickly disappearing from
our sight.
I looked at Scoop and he looked at me, but neither of us said a word.
We were too sick and discouraged to talk.
We were licked now. There was no doubt of that. Almost with our hands
on the talking frog, we had let Gennor slip in and get it away from us.
Long before we could get to town he would be on his way to Chicago with
the stolen invention.
Suddenly Scoop clutched my arm.
“Lookit!” he cried, pointing.
“Romeo!”
“And the old soap man!”
The spy and his skinny horse had come into sight at the spot where the
red roadster had disappeared. Getting out of the buggy in the mill
yard, the driver unhitched his horse, then came toward the hotel,
carrying in one hand his soap satchel and in the other a black leather
traveling bag.
Scoop made a queer throat sound.
“It’s Gennor’s bag!” he cried.
Clutching a chair, my now crazy companion smashed down the door into
the hall.
“Jerry,” he panted, his eyes shining, “our luck has changed. We still
have a chance to recover the talking frog.”