FISHING!
Not until later, until our adventure was over with and the excitement
had died out of my nerves, did I fully realize how fortunate it was for
the two of us that Scoop, in good presence of mind, had smashed down
the hall door in advance of the soap man’s entrance into the old hotel.
For we would have been at a disadvantage, as you can see, if we had
waited and the enemy had heard us smashing our way to freedom. There
would have been no chance then for us to gain possible secret
possession of the talking frog.
The spy had entered the hotel through the kitchen door. But we couldn’t
hear him in the building. And this worried us, in a measure. For we
were fearful of suddenly meeting him, face to face, in the building’s
shadowy halls.
Of course, in meeting him we could have outrun him. Easy. We were in no
particular danger. But it was necessary to our plans to not let the
newcomer know that we were ahead of him in the building. This was the
main reason why we didn’t want to meet him.
We had descended the two flights of stairs to the ground floor and were
almost to the doorway leading into the kitchen when our ears were
suddenly punctured by a gurgling sneeze.
We stopped as quick as scat.
“He’s in the kitchen,” whispered Scoop.
“Maybe he’s laying for us.”
“Probably.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get a look at him if I can.”
So we tiptoed to the door. But when we got there we didn’t dare to put
out our heads. It was too risky.
To one side of the kitchen, against the wooden wall, was a stairway
leading to a room directly above. This gave us an idea. And going back
up the stairs, to the second floor, we sought the room over the
kitchen, hoping that we would be able to see into the room where the
spy was through a knot hole in the board ceiling.
We were lucky. Not only was there many knot holes, but directly over
the spy was an open trapdoor.
It took careful walking, I want to tell you. For you know how a board
floor sort of groans and creaks when you step on it. We were fully
three minutes crossing the room to the trapdoor. Each step was taken
with extreme caution.
Below us, seated on a box, the soap man was hard at work. A dozen or
more bars of soap lay on the floor at his feet. He was cutting these
bars into slices. Each slice was given a few drops of perfume and then
squeezed separately in an iron jigger, which seemed to be a sort of
mold. In went a thin slice of soap, then squeeze, then out came a cake
of Bubbles of Beauty with the name pressed into the soap just as slick
as you please. The big bars on the floor were marked I-V-O-R-Y.
“What the dickens?...” I breathed in Scoop’s ear. “Does he make his
beauty soap out of Ivory?”
“Seems so.”
I was dizzy.
“But it made Miss Prindle beautiful.”
“That’s what you said. I didn’t see her.”
“Red, too.”
I couldn’t understand it. It would seem on first thought that the
beauty soap was a fake. Still, it couldn’t be a fake, I told myself.
For in the dressmaker’s case, and in Red’s case, too, it had done all
that was claimed for it.
We had wondered what the soap man’s purpose was in coming to the old
hotel. We had thought, at first, that he knew something about the
ghost. But now we quickly concluded that he had been selling soap in
the neighborhood, and had stopped at the hotel to fix up a supply of
soap for the coming day’s business. There was nothing in his actions
that would suggest that he knew about the ghost. His thoughts were
wholly on his work.
The traveling bag that he had brought into the hotel was on the floor
directly behind him. Getting a closer look at the bag, I was convinced
beyond all doubt, and so was Scoop, that it was Gennor’s bag. How it
had come into the soap man’s possession we couldn’t imagine. But here
it was. And we were determined to get it.
Scoop pulled a piece of fishline out of his pocket.
“If we had a hook,” he grinned, “we could do some fishing.”
“Anything you want,” I grinned back, “just ask me for it,” and I dug up
a piece of wire. I don’t know why I had the wire in my pocket along
with my other truck. But, lucky for us, it was there.
Fastening the bent wire to the fishline, Scoop let the hook down,
swinging it slowly back and forth, trying to hook the handle of the
traveling bag.
“Be careful,” I grinned, “and don’t hook old soapy’s wig.”
“Keep still. How can I get a ‘bite’ with you talking.”
“You need a bobber,” I joked.
He jiggled the line up and down for several moments.
“Hot dog!” I breathed as the hooked bag was lifted from the floor.
The soap man was still at work. He didn’t know that his traveling bag
had “swallowed” our hook. I grinned to myself in the thought of how
amazed he would be to suddenly learn that his bag had vanished.
But I grinned too soon.
With the hooked bag within a few inches of our hands, the string broke.
And down went the bag, kerplunk!
The talking frog angrily awakened.
“R-r-r-a-t-s!” it rumbled, indignant over its fall. “R-r-r-a-t-s!
R-r-r-a-t-s!”
Well, if ever you saw a scared man it was the spy. He pretty nearly
jumped out of his skin, as the saying is. His eyes bulged like sliced
marbles.
For all he knew to the contrary, the bag had suddenly come to life and
had jumped into the air like a grasshopper. Maybe he believed in
spooks. I don’t know. Anyway, he took to his heels. A talking bag was
more than he could stand.
It was funny. Oh, boy, how we laughed! Still, we didn’t waste any time.
Dropping through the trapdoor to the kitchen floor, we grabbed the bag
and hoofed it for the river.
To this day we don’t know where the soap man disappeared to or what
became of his old horse and soap satchel. But it was a wise thing for
him that he cleared out. Otherwise he would have landed in jail. For
the officer was looking for him the following morning. If he is still
alive, I imagine that he’ll give Tutter a wide berth hereafter.
Coming to our boat, I whipped out my knife and cut the tie rope,
wanting to get away from the pier as quickly as possible. Scoop cranked
the motor. Put! put! put! Did the little old exhaust sound good to us?
I’ll tell the world. The spy couldn’t catch us now.
Passing the Woodlawn Bay Hotel, we soon came within sight of the
bridge, a shadowy span in the early darkness. Hearing us coming, Deacon
Pillpopper ran to the pier to meet us to learn how we had come out and
to help us put the boat away.
It was after nine o’clock when we came into town. And when we rounded
the hotel corner, there sat Gennor in his red automobile, directly
under a street light, sort of posing important-like for the benefit of
the common, everyday people passing along the sidewalk.
But his pushed-up chest went punctured when we hurried by, carrying the
leather bag. Oh, boy, did his eyes bulge! But he kept shut. For he had
sense enough to realize that he was licked.
Scoop chuckled.
“I wish I could have seen his face when he discovered the empty luggage
box. I’ll bet he felt sick.”
We learned afterwards that the red car struck a bad bump shortly after
it had disappeared from our sight. No doubt the bag was thrown from the
car into the road, where it was picked up by the soap man.
I suspect it is a wonder to Gennor to this day how the bag came into
our hands.
He left town that night, headed for Chicago. That is the last we ever
saw of him. And moreover that is the last we ever want to see of him or
any boy like him.
For, as Scoop says, the fun of being rich lies in doing good turns for
other and less fortunate people. And when a fellow gets Gennor’s idea
that money is something to lift himself above other people, he’s all
wrong. Without his money he might have been a good kid. For he was
smart. But with his money he was a fizzle. And that is why I hope that
he’ll forever keep out of my way.
When we came even with the town hall, Scoop paused, letting his face go
thoughtful.
“I think that we better make a prisoner of the talking frog, Jerry.
For, with all of the trouble that we’ve had recovering it, we certainly
don’t want to fumble and again lose it. I can’t feel that it’s wholly
safe in our hands. And the better plan will be to put it where a thief
won’t be able to get it.”
“Is it your idea,” I laughed, “to ask Bill Hadley to lock it up in one
of his steel jail cages?”
“Why not?” grinned Scoop, starting for the door.
Seated at his desk, the town marshal gave us a questioning look when we
entered.
Scoop’s request brought a hearty laugh.
“How’d it be,” grinned Bill, good-natured-like, “if I locked your
valuable bag in the big office safe?”
“That suits me,” nodded Scoop.
A twinkle came into Bill’s eyes as he took the bag and hefted it.
“What have you got in it?” he questioned. “A gold brick?”
“A talking frog,” informed Scoop; and he gave a quick account of our
adventures.
“Well, I swan!” exploded Bill, staring at us with admiring eyes. “If
you hain’t the beatin’est kids I ever heard tell of. One time it’s a
whispering mummy that you’re chasin’, and the next time it’s a
rose-colored cat. Now it’s a talkin’ frog.”
Then the conversation turned to the ghost.
“Of course,” waggled Scoop, “I may be all wrong about the ghost’s
identity.”
“I hope you hain’t,” Bill said, grim-like. “Fur I’d like to see this
murder mystery cleared up. Anyway, we’ll soon find out who the ghost
is,” and locking the frog in the office safe, he started heavily for
the door, motioning for us to follow him.