THE ABDUCTION OF ROVER
The Red-Headed Bandit had been lying on top of the willows, and when he
sat up so sudden he gave us a scare. We did not like the looks of him.
“Hello!” he said, and he looked us over. Then he said, “Where did you
get that dog?”
“Raised him from a pup,” I said.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Don’t try to tell me anything like that, young
feller. That’s my dog. A feller stole that dog from me.”
Well, I began to back away. I reached down and got hold of the rope that
was fastened to Rover’s collar.
“He did not!” I said. “Mr. Jack Betts gave my sister this dog when he
was a pup.”
“Well, don’t get mad!” the man said. “It might be I am mistaken. What
will you take for the dog? I’ll give you a quarter for him.”
“He ain’t for sale,” I said.
“I’ll give you half a dollar.”
“No, he ain’t for sale.”
“Give you a dollar for him,” said the man, but I didn’t wait to have any
more talk with him. I started back for our cottage.
Mr. Edwin Skreever was still walking up and down the porch and I sat
down on the rocks. Wampus stood a minute or so, and then he reached into
his pocket and took out a nail. He had a pocket half full of old, rusty
nails he had knocked out of old driftwood--old iron nails, all sizes.
“Look here, Mr. Skreever,” he said, “can you do this?”
He took the nail, flat, between his thumb and two first fingers and
threw it as hard as he could out over the river, making it spin, and it
sang as it went. Whine is a better word; it whined like a guitar string
when you pick it and then run your thumb up it.
“Did you ever hear anybody make a nail sing like that?” Wampus asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Edwin Skreever, “I have. I have heard that before. And I
cannot imagine why it is a boy delights in throwing away perfectly good
nails for the mere satisfaction of hearing them make a useless noise.
You may wish, some day, that you had not thrown away that nail.”
“Aw!” Wampus said.
“It is a useless and uncalled-for waste,” said Mr. Edwin Skreever.
“Nails cost money. Nails cost labor and time. A miner must dig the iron
ore, and another miner must dig coal, and laborers must turn the ore
into iron and fashion the nails from the iron. Salesmen must go out and
sell the nails, railroads must carry them, other salesmen must sell them
again. And you throw them into the river! Why? What good does it do
you?”
Wampus just said “Aw!” again, because he did not know what else to say,
and I thought I was gladder than ever that I wasn’t going to marry Mr.
Edwin Skreever. I was glad he was going to live in Derlingport and not
in Riverbank. I don’t like fellows that lecture you when you throw away
an old rusty nail. So I said to Wampus:
“Let’s eat a muskmelon.”
Well, all summer we had had a pile of muskmelons and watermelons under
the cottage. They’re cheap and whenever we wanted to eat one we did. We
used to get them by the skiff load. We would sit on the ripraps and eat
and throw the rinds into the river, and the yellow-jacket hornets would
come by the hundreds and pile all over any rinds that did not fall in
the river. They would crowd onto any juice that fell on the rocks, and
they would light on the very piece you were eating. There were lots of
yellow-jackets, but nobody minded them. If they got in the way we
flicked them off with a finger.
But there is one queer thing about yellow-jackets. They will buzz around
and fly around all summer and never sting you unless, perhaps, you step
on one with your bare foot, but there comes a day sooner or later when
every yellow-jacket everywhere gets hopping mad. All the yellow-jackets
for miles around go crazy on the same day. Maybe they all go crazy at
the same hour of the same day--or the same minute--I don’t know. Anyway,
this was the day. September 10th was the day the yellow-jackets quit
being calm and gentle that year and began to be angry and go around with
chips on their shoulders looking for a fight. So the first yellow-jacket
Wampus flicked off him swore a blue streak in yellow-jacket language and
buzzed in a circle to get up speed and banged right into Wampus’s neck.
Zingo!
Wampus made one jump and grabbed his cap and slashed at the air and in a
minute a dozen yellow-jackets were on the war-path. The next one to
sting went at Rover’s nose like a shot out of a rifle. We heard poor
Rover give one wild “Yeowp!” and he jumped about six feet in the air and
when he came down he was already running. He went out of sight down the
path, making about twenty feet at each jump and “yeowping” at the top of
his voice, and his “yeowps” grew fainter and fainter. Mr. Edwin Skreever
laughed, but I stood still, just holding my hat ready to swat any
yellow-jacket that came too near me.
“Come on!” I said to Wampus, “let’s get away from here. It’s stinging
time.”
So we gathered up the rest of our muskmelons and got away from there as
quietly as we could. We went up to his cottage, which was all boarded
up, and sat on the step.
Well, about six o’clock Orpheus Cadwallader came down from his shack to
get our supper for us. He brought a spring chicken and fried it and we
had a good supper, and then Wampus and I went out front. We fooled
around awhile and Mr. Edwin Skreever lighted the lamp and wrote some
letters or his will or something. It was none of our business what he
wrote. Orpheus Cadwallader washed the dishes and then came out and said
he was going to row down to town, and he went off in his skiff.
Then, presently, Wampus said:
“Where’s Rover?”
“Gosh!” I said, “I bet he’s wandering!”
“We’d better find him,” Wampus said, and I knew that was so.
I thought I knew where he would be, over back by the slough where there
were some dogfish on the shore that would never swim again.
Mr. Edwin Skreever came out on the porch.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Rover ran away,” I said. “We’ve got to find him.”
“Oh, drat you and your Rover!” he said. “Didn’t May tell you not to let
that dog run away? You certainly do aggravate me! For two cents I would
go down to town now and be quit of your foolishness.”
I did not say anything but Wampus did.
“Why don’t you go, then?” he asked. “We wouldn’t care.”
So we went to find Rover. We worked back to the slough, calling him all
the while--“Here, Rover! Here, Rover! Here, Rover!”--but not a yip nor
bark from him. We went up the slough and down the slough calling him,
and it began to get dark. Then, suddenly, Wampus stopped short.
“Say!” he said.
“What?”
“I know! That fellow got him--that red-headed fellow on the barge!”
“I bet he did!” I said.
Well, it seemed likely that that was what had happened. So Wampus and I
stood there in the dark a minute.
“Well, we’ve got to get him,” I said. “I’m not going to have anybody
steal my dog. Come on!”
We worked through the weeds and bushes, across toward the chute and down
toward the two willow barges. We came out not far from them as we saw
the red light the man had put on the barges as a signal. Then we crept
along Indian fashion, bent over, toward the barges.
“He would put him inside,” Wampus said, and I knew that as well as
Wampus did. That was what any dog-thief would do--put Rover down inside
the barge and close the hatch cover. We crept close to the barges. I
picked up a good-sized stone and so did Wampus.
Well, just as we got close up to the “U.S. 420” we heard Rover. We heard
just one bark and then we saw a man lifting the hatch cover. The man
slid down inside the barge and eased the cover back into place over his
head, and then we heard no more barking. The cover was thick and heavy
and I guess he wanted to shut in Rover’s barks while he was tying him
fast.
“Come on!” I said, and the next minute I was on the barge and Wampus
after me. Then I did not know what to do. We couldn’t yank up that cover
and go down and take Rover away from the man, because he might kill us
or something. But Wampus knew what to do.
“Here!” he said, and he tossed me a handful of his rusty nails. “Hurry
up! Get busy! Nail this cover down!”
So we did. We used the two rocks as hammers and drove in the nails, and
then we jumped for shore and ran, because we were frightened. We ran up
the path and we did not stop until we were almost at our cottage.
“Gee!” I said then. “We did it! We’ve got him! But what are we going to
do about it?”
“Do?” said Wampus. “We’ll get Mr. Edwin Skreever and Orpheus Cadwallader
and have Orpheus take his shotgun, and we’ll have them pry off that
cover and get your dog. That’s what we’ll do.”
“But Orpheus has gone to town.”
“Well, we’ll do it in the morning.”
That would have been all right, too, but just then the Bright Star came
around the lower end of Buffalo Island and steered for the two barges. I
went cold, I tell you! The only thing I could think of doing was to get
Mr. Edwin Skreever, so we ran to our cottage and called and shouted, but
he was not there. We guessed he had gone down to town as he had
threatened to do, maybe, so we ran down the path to the barges. The men
were already throwing off the cables. They were pretty cross, too,
because they don’t like to work at night, and they wouldn’t listen to
us. They told us to get away from there and they chased us. We had to
stand and see the Bright Star tow the barges out into the river and
away. We watched them until they were just dim red and green lights far
down the river. Then we went back to the cottage.
We were scared, I tell you! We thought maybe that man would stay nailed
down inside that barge until he starved to death and some day his bones
would be found and we would be arrested and, maybe, hung. And then, as
if that wasn’t bad enough, we saw Mr. Edwin Skreever’s motor-boat tied
in front of the cottage! He hadn’t gone down to town. Then we were
scared! Ten times over!
We sat in the cabin until it was awful late, hoping Mr. Edwin Skreever
was only out somewhere hunting Rover, but he did not come. We couldn’t
fool ourselves. We knew we had nailed May’s bridegroom inside that barge
and sent him down the river--nobody could tell how far, perhaps all the
way to New Orleans! And the wedding was the next day!
Well, it was terrible! We tried to think that we had not done anything
wrong--that we had only tried to keep our dog from being stolen--but it
was no comfort. About midnight we heard the creak of Orpheus
Cadwallader’s oars as he rowed home from town, but that did not comfort
us much, either. We went to sleep right there in the living-room of the
cottage, thinking what would happen to us the next day when the
wedding-time came and there was no Mr. Edwin Skreever. I dreamed awful
things all night, but the worst was a dream about May. She was all
dressed up in her wedding clothes, with a white veil and flowers, and
when it came time to be married, Mr. Edwin Skreever was not there, so
she wept and wept. Mother and father were very stern and cross, and
mother said, “Well, there is no help for it; you will have to marry
Rover!” so they dragged Rover in, yowling and pulling back, and father
and Mr. Smale held him up on his hind legs and then, all of a sudden,
Rover gave a big wiggle and turned into a pile of rusty nails. Then May
wept again, and in came Mr. Edwin Skreever, but he was nothing but
bones--just plain skeleton bones. He pointed his bone finger at me and
opened his bone face and I thought he was going to speak, but he didn’t.
He let out a noise like Mr. Jack Betts’s Skittery III.
That woke me up and, sure enough, I was hearing the noise of the
Skittery III. It wakened Wampus, too, and we went to the door, rubbing
our eyes. The Skittery III swung in toward our cottage and Mr. Jack
Betts shut off her power and taxied in. He jumped ashore and climbed up
the rocks.
“Hello, young fellows!” he said. “May and your folks sent me up; they’ve
changed their minds--want you and Skreever to come down right away and
not wait until noon.”
“Well--” I said. “Well; all right.”
“What’s all the welling about, son?” Mr. Jack Betts asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I guess there isn’t going to be any
wedding. I guess maybe Mr. Edwin Skreever won’t be there.”
“He isn’t here,” said Wampus.
Then I thought of something.
“Unless you would be the bridegroom,” I said to Mr. Jack Betts. “I guess
May wouldn’t like to get all ready for a wedding and not have one. I
guess, when she’s got her dress and the house all decorated and
everything--”
“My word!” said Mr. Jack Betts, laughing. “What are you trying to do?
Are you asking me to marry your sister?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“As a substitute? My word!”
“Well--well--” I said, and then he laughed again.
“What’s all this about Ed Skreever not being here and not being there
and not being anywhere?” he asked.
So I told him and Wampus told him. We both told him at the same time. We
told him how we had nailed Mr. Edwin Skreever into the hold of the barge
“U.S. 420” and sent him down the river. We said we were sorry, but maybe
the Bright Star would tow him all the way to New Orleans before he could
get out. We told him the whole thing.
“My word!” he cried, when he could stop laughing. “My word! I wouldn’t
have missed this for a million dollars; no, not for two million! For
eight million dollars I would let the stuck-up fellow stay in the barge.
I would for ten million dollars, anyway. But, no! I like May too much.
We can’t have May ‘waiting at the church.’”
“It isn’t going to be at the church,” I said. “It is going to be at our
house.”
Mr. Jack Betts looked at me then.
“George,” he said, “you are wonderful! You are just wonderful--no other
word for it! Come on, you two boys; we’ll go get that interned
bridegroom.”
Well, that was the only time I ever rode in the Skittery III, and I
don’t know whether I want to ride in her again or not. I was scared
every inch of the way--every single inch. It was like being shot out of
a gun or something. Mr. Jack Betts certainly could make the Skittery III
go! We skittered down the river and were past the town before I caught
my breath and we were miles below town before I could breathe my breath
after I caught it, and then there was the Bright Star lazying along
twelve miles below town and Mr. Jack Betts shut off his gas and slid up
alongside and told the captain what he had come for. The captain shouted
to the pilot and he jingled a bell and the Bright Star backed water and
half a dozen hands ran forward over the willows and pried off the hatch
cover and out came Rover and Mr. Edwin Skreever.
“A nice business!” Mr. Edwin Skreever said bitterly. “A fine hole to be
in! I’ll smell of tar all the rest of my days. But you young rascals
will suffer for this--I promise you that!”
We thought we would, too.
“Oh, no, now, Edwin!” Mr. Jack Betts said. “Come, now! That’s no way to
talk on your merry wedding morn. These boys meant no harm. Just forget
it!”
“I’ll not!” Mr. Edwin Skreever said, even more bitterly.
“Well, of course,” said Mr. Jack Betts cheerfully, “I appreciate your
feelings, but this boat of mine--this Skittery III--is such a peculiar
boat. She won’t carry any but forgetful people. I did hope you were
forgetful, Edwin, so I could take you aboard and skitter you back to
town in a couple of minutes. But if you really want to stay on this
barge--”
For a minute Mr. Edwin Skreever scowled at us all, and then he grinned.
“All right! I’ve forgotten,” he said.
We made a pretty heavy load for the Skittery III, but she skittered up
past the town and up to Birch Island in no time at all. Then Mr. Edwin
Skreever packed his things and Mr. Jack Betts skittered away and Mr.
Edwin Skreever and Wampus and I went down to town in the motor-boat.
Rover rode on the stern seat.
When we went up to our house, May was standing at the gate looking for
us. She waved her hand as soon as she saw us, and when we reached the
gate she took Mr. Edwin Skreever’s hand and said some soft stuff to him,
and then she said:
“And you didn’t forget Rover, did you, Edwin?”
“No,” he said, “I didn’t forget him. And I don’t believe I ever will.”
But you can see why I felt scared when it seemed likely that the
red-headed man with the scar over his eye in the Arkansas jail was the
Red-Headed Bandit. Because we knew the Red-Headed Bandit was a mighty
hard character. Of course, when you come to think of it, he did not
steal Rover, but he might have stolen him if he had thought of it and
had wanted a dog like Rover.