WHAT THE TURTLE DID TO ME
Peg told us that the Strickers’ camp was without a guard, but, even so,
it was wise for us, we concluded, to approach the island in secrecy.
For in a boys’ camp it is not uncommon at night for some wakeful or
hungry one to be abroad in search of fun or food. I’ve frequently done
it myself. And I could tell of tricks that have been played on me when
supposedly every member of the camp was asleep like myself. It would
seem from listening ashore that all of the members of this camp were
asleep. But, as I say, we took no chances.
It was now close to midnight. The moon, as we drew near to the silent
island’s east end, was almost directly over our heads. I was glad from
the bottom of my heart that the moon was out. For its fat glistening
face gave us a protecting wide range of vision in all directions.
What would the killer do, I wondered, now that he had been foiled, sort
of, in his intended evil scheme of stealing the piano leg’s greenbacks?
Would he, in fear of what we might have to tell about him, get quickly
out of the country? Or would he try to run us down, in continued
determination to get the money?
One thing in our favor, he didn’t know in which direction we had made
our escape, whether to the east, toward Steam Corners, or to the west.
So he would have no certain knowledge of where to turn to put his hands
on us. And to start searching for us in the canal’s extended wilderness
without a clew to our probable whereabouts would be like trying to find
the needle that was lost in the haystack.
It was more probable, I told myself, that he would keep close to the
lock tender’s dock, in the thought that we would be likely to return to
the lock to try and recover our show boat. If he held to that possible
plan we were safer still. For we had not the slightest intention of
trying to get possession of the scow. That, we had sensibly concluded,
was a job for our fathers, particularly my father, the boat’s owner.
Our job, instead of scheming and fighting for the boat, was to get back
to Tutter with the greenbacks and the bonds. Then the law, as
represented by the lock tender and his brother, could sort of settle
with us through our parents.
At sight of the piano leg in the boat I fell to wondering to whom the
greenbacks that we had found belonged. The lock tender had said in our
hearing that he had bought the piano at a second-hand sale. As he
seemed to know nothing about the hidden greenbacks, the money
undoubtedly had been contained in the hollow leg when he had brought
the piano home. This led to the logical conclusion that the money
belonged to the piano’s former owner. Yet it was puzzling to me to
understand why a man, after having secreted a thousand dollars in bills
in the leg of his piano, should turn around and sell the instrument for
little or nothing. And it was equally puzzling to comprehend how the
killer had come into his knowledge of the hidden money.
Suppose the law couldn’t locate the piano’s former owner? Would the
money in that event be ours? Hot dog! I said to myself, thinking of the
fun we could have with a thousand dollars.
Arriving at the island we placed the boat in charge of the girl,
cautioning her not to leave it or to move it. Then we proceeded single
file up the rocky slope to the knoll where the enemy was in camp.
Coming to the entrance to the hermit’s cave, Scoop turned in, signaling
to us to wait for him. In a moment or two he returned from the cave
with a three-foot length of rope that I remembered seeing on the cave’s
sandy floor the preceding day.
“It’s a good thing for my scheme,” he laughed, starting to untwist the
rope’s strands, “that the Strickers believe in ghosts.”
“What do you mean?” Peg inquired quickly, plainly puzzled to understand
what the other was planning to do with the rope.
The leader gave a short laugh.
“What was the name of the hermit who used to live here?” he inquired,
disregarding the question that the big one had put to him.
“Anton Hackman,” I supplied, out of my knowledge of the island’s
history.
The rope was now untwisted into curly strands.
“Take off your cap, Jerry,” the leader laughed.
“What for?” I wanted to know, in growing anxiety.
“Well, if you’re going to be old Anton’s ghost, you’ve got to have long
scraggly hair. For whoever heard of a hermit who shaved himself or
trimmed his hair?”
I backed off. For I saw into his scheme now. He was going to play ghost
to scare the Strickers out of their camp, so that we could have the
knoll to ourselves in the recovery of the bonds.
“Nothin’ doin’,” I told him firmly.
Peg laughed as he grasped the leader’s proposed scheme of starting me
out in a ghostly career.
“Shucks! Go ahead, Jerry. You’ll make a peachy ghost in your fancy
nightshirt. It’ll be fun, too.”
“‘Fun’?” I repeated, giving him a stiff look. “I wouldn’t call it ‘fun’
to have a bullet plugged into me.”
“They haven’t any guns.”
“Bid Stricker’s a good shot with a rock,” I came back, looking out for
myself. “And I’m not so small that he wouldn’t be able to crack me one
if he half tried.”
“I never heard of anybody pitching rocks at a ghost,” Peg argued.
“Of course not,” Scoop put in quickly, in support of his scheme. “The
proper thing for a fellow to do when he sees a ghost,” he added, acting
as though he knew it all, “is to take to his heels and skiddo. And
that’s exactly what the Strickers will do when they get sight of you,
Jerry. Honest, kid, I don’t want to envy you the fun you’re going to
have, but I’d think I was pretty lucky, let me tell you, to have a
ghost shirt like yours.”
“To show you how unselfish I am,” I offered quickly, “I’ll trade you my
nightshirt for your pants even-up.”
But he shook his head.
“No, Jerry,” he refused, in put-on seriousness. “I’m your loyal chum
and I would be ashamed of myself to take advantage of you in a trade.
Besides, I don’t believe that the nightshirt would fit me. My legs
aren’t shaped like yours.”
I was getting hot at him for trying to crowd me into taking the risky
part.
“You don’t want it to fit you,” I flared up, holding him with my
scowling eyes. “You want me to take all the risks. You’re good, you are
... to yourself!”
He straightway started to peel off his pants.
“Shucks!” I said, feeling foolish. “I didn’t mean it. What do you want
me to do?”
Peg patted me on the back.
“Good ol’ Pansy Blossom!” he bragged.
I wasn’t half as brave as he thought I was. But I had pride in wanting
to appear brave. So I let the others fix me up. The rope strands that
they tucked under my cap gave me the appearance of having hair to my
shoulders. I was a pretty-looking picture, let me tell you, when they
got through with me. I was then supplied with a crooked stick for a
cane and instructed how to walk, sort of bent over like an old man.
Having memorized the piece that I was to recite, we continued our
ascent of the hill.
“You better say good-by to your little Pansy Blossom,” I told the
others, when we came to the tents of the sleeping enemy. “For I have
the feeling that you won’t see Pansy whole again.”
“Rats!” laughed Scoop. “You aren’t in any danger, Jerry.”
“Something’s the matter with my knees,” I shivered. “They wiggle.”
“Toe in and they’ll be all right.”
“Maybe,” I suggested, “you fellows better come along with me and sort
of prop me up on each side.”
“Forget it!”
“I want to,” I returned quickly, “but you won’t let me.”
“Shucks! Think of the satisfaction of being able to tell the Strickers
later on that you were the ‘ghost’ that put them scooting.”
“They may ‘scoot’ at me,” I worried, “and knock my block off.”
Well, it had to be done. So, with a sort of resigned sigh, I got ready
to do it. Arranging my rope hair so that it hung down in my eyes I
gripped my crooked cane and went across the open spot where the
campfire had been built to the big tent, which, as Peg had said, was
set up directly over the place where we had buried the bonds. Squinting
inside, I saw Bid and another member of the gang snoozing to beat the
cars. His mouth open, the leader was going: “Hee-e-e-haw-w-w!
Hee-e-e-haw-w-w!” At sight of him I stiffened. What he had coming to
him! Oh, mamma! The thought of it sort of perked me up and stiffened my
grit. I had had to endure many mean tricks at his hands. But now I was
to get even. I was glad.
In line with Scoop’s instructions I gave a sort of graveyard groan,
standing in full view within the moonlit tent. Bid moved in his sleep.
Another blood-curdling groan brought his eyes wide open. He gave a gasp
at sight of my white nightshirt and rope hair. From the sound he made I
could imagine that his heart had just gone kerplunk! into a puddle in
the pit of his stomach. Raising himself on his hands he blinked at me,
as though he couldn’t make himself believe that he really was awake.
“I ... am ... the ... ghost ... of Anton ... Hackman ... the ...
hermit,” I recited slowly, letting my voice come out of my shoes, sort
of. “I ... was ... murdered ... on ... this ... spot,” I went on. “I
... warn ... you ... away.” Here I made a slashing motion with my
pocketknife. “I ... cut ... initials ... on boys’ ... gizzards,” I
concluded.
Well, I could tell from Bid’s face that there was no longer any doubt
in his mind that he was wide awake. He was seeing, so he thought, the
sure-enough ghost of the island’s dead hermit, whose story, of course,
he had heard.
And was he scared? I only wish you could have seen him! Oh, boy! His
eyes, glassy with horror, stuck out of his white face like halved
onions.
The tent’s other occupant was now awake and sitting up.
“What the dickens?...” Hib Milden stared, blinking at me. Then, in
better control of his senses, he let out a ringing screech. “It’s a
ghost! It’s a ghost!”
Bid didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He was scared speechless. But the
use of his arms and legs had not deserted him, as was shown when I
started at him with my pocketknife. Backing off on all fours, like a
crab, he went out of the tent under its canvas wall and down the hill
like a shot, the other kid hot on his flying heels.
Their screaming voices awakened the others. A pair of bare legs was
disgorged from one pup tent; a tousled head came out of another. To an
audience of five pairs of bulging eyes I did some more reciting and
knife flourishing. And it wasn’t many seconds, let me tell you, before
Bid’s trusty followers had joined their gallant leader at the foot of
the hill.
At the flight of the Strickers my chums came quickly into sight.
Tearing down the big tent, to get a clearer view of the ground, they
quickly located the spot where the treasure had been buried and set to
work, using a spade that they had picked up near the campfire.
Boy, I never saw faster digging in all my life! And as the others
worked in the recovery of the treasure I did a few more moonlight ghost
stunts for the benefit of the scared ones at the foot of the hill. But
they were fast getting over their scare. I could see that.
Pretty soon the spade struck the brass box. In another minute the
treasure was lifted out of the ground. The Strickers were now coming up
the hill on the run. But their fast approach didn’t excite us. For in
the time that it would take them to reach the top of the hill we would
be half-way to the boat.
The leader had the brass box locked tightly in his arms.
“Beat it, everybody!” he panted, starting down the hill on the gallop,
Red and Peg hard after him.
Of no desire to make the journey from the island into Tutter in a
borrowed nightshirt, I said to myself that here was my chance to get a
pair of pants. Darting to one of the pup tents I grabbed the first pair
of pants that came to my hands. I could hear the Strickers near by. So
I didn’t try to run back to the path, but jumped into the nearest clump
of hazel brush. It was shadowy here. I couldn’t see where I was putting
my feet.
Snap!
I gave a terrified shriek as the awful thing, whatever it was, set its
teeth into the toe of my left shoe. The island contained some monstrous
snakes. Five—six feet long. Black fellows with hungry eyes. And on the
moment all I could think of was that I had stepped into a snake’s nest.
I expected to have a wriggling body coil itself around my captured leg.
Oh!... I can’t begin to describe my terror and horror.
But it wasn’t a snake. Instead, it was a huge snapping turtle—the same
turtle, we were told later, that Peg and Red had captured in their trip
around the island. The Strickers had picked up the big turtle in
landing on the island and had tied it, by one hind foot, to a tree near
their camp.
Say, at sight of that turtle I felt like a dumb-bell right. With
seventeen billion places on the island to put my foot down, I had
picked out one of the very few places where danger lurked. I was good,
all right!
I gave my foot a sharp wrench. But the old snapper had a death grip on
the toe of my shoe. I could imagine from his dogged conduct that the
Strickers had been tantalizing him with sticks, getting him in exactly
the right frame of mind to want to chew the piston out of a locomotive.
What a piece of good luck, he probably was purring to himself, that a
nice juicy foot had finally come within snapping distance of his
watering jaws. Gr-r-r-r! Just to show me how tickled he was in the turn
of his luck he tightened down with his teeth. I gave another shriek. My
toes were being crushed.
The Strickers had by this time arrived in a fighting mood at the top of
the hill. I could hear them raving about the flattened tent. And
realizing what would happen to me if they got their hands on me, I
whipped out my pocketknife, slashing the rope that held the turtle to
the tree. Then the two of us, the snapper and me, rolled over and over
down the hill.
“It’s Jerry Todd!” I heard Bid Stricker screech. “After him, fellows,”
was the leader’s furious command.