I heard Poetry’s zipper on his sleeping bag zip a long zip. All of a
sudden my heart began to beat faster, and I knew he and I were going to
get up and go down to that boathouse and investigate. There wouldn’t be
any real danger, but if there _was_ any little girl in there, we could
probably hear her, and we could wake up Santa, or Barry and the whole
gang. And if there wasn’t anything to our idea, then we still wouldn’t
seem ridiculous to anyone except ourselves.
8
I was glad there was a little wind blowing so that the waves of the
lake were washing against the shore, and also that Dragonfly snored so
we wouldn’t be heard if we kept real quiet.
In a few jiffies, Poetry and I had our shoes on, and our trousers and
sweaters, and had worked our way out through the tent opening in the
front, and with our flashlights we were sneaking up along the beach
toward Santa’s cabin and his boathouse.
Suddenly I stopped. The whole idea seemed absolutely crazy to me. I
said, “You don’t think for a minute that any kidnapper would be dumb
enough to hide out in a boathouse that wasn’t any more than fifty yards
from where somebody actually lived, do you?”
“Who said anything about any kidnapper hiding out?” Poetry said. “He’s
maybe a hundred miles away from here by now. But he could have left the
Ostberg girl there, couldn’t he?”
“Why?” I said, and he stopped and hissed in my ear, “Not so loud!” We’d
been following a little footpath we knew about, from having been there
the year before.
I was trembling inside, maybe being a little cold, and at the same time
couldn’t see any sense to Poetry’s thinking maybe the kidnapper was in
that boathouse with the Ostberg girl. It didn’t make sense.
“You’re scared!” Poetry accused me, and I said I wasn’t, but only
thought the idea was crazy.
“It _can’t_ be,” Poetry said. “Listen--” Then he told me what he’d been
thinking, and it was, “What if the kidnapper, who, as the paper said,
is supposed to be a lumberman, was looking for an empty cabin up here
somewhere to hide out in, and suppose he drove off onto a side road,
to dodge the police who were maybe looking for his car, and suppose he
got off on the little half-obliterated road that leads to Santa’s cabin
which nobody hardly ever uses and suppose he found the boathouse with
the door open, and then just suppose that he put the girl in there,
gagged and tied up, like kidnappers do, and then suppose that while he
was there, Santa with us boys with him came roaring up to the dock in
his boat. Wouldn’t the kidnapper be scared, and maybe lock the girl in,
and beat it himself, and--”
Well, it made a little sense, so I hurried along behind Poetry, my
heart beating faster because we were hurrying so fast. Pretty soon we
were almost there, when Poetry stopped all of a sudden and said, “Sh!”
I shushed quick, ’cause I’d heard it as plain as day myself. There was
the sound of a car motor running, somewhere. It sounded like it was at
the top of the hill away up above the boathouse. We knew there was a
sandy road up there, ’cause we’d been on it once ourselves.
“Somebody’s stuck in the sand,” Poetry said, and it sure sounded like
it. The motor was whirring and whirring. I’d seen cars stuck in sand
and snow before, and I could imagine the driver, whoever he was, doing
what is called “rocking” the car, and starting and shifting from first
gear to reverse and back and forth, and the wheels spinning, and still
the car not getting out of the sand...
We were real close to the boathouse now. Poetry shoved the beam of his
light toward the door, and we both let out an excited gasp. I couldn’t
believe my eyes, and yet I had to, ’cause the boathouse _door was wide
open, and the hinge of the lock was hanging like somebody had forced it
open with a crowbar or something_.
We flashed our lights around inside, and there wasn’t anybody there,
but a cot in the other end was mussed up like somebody had been
lying down on it. A pile of shavings were on the floor and were also
scattered around under a carpenter’s work bench. On the wall above the
work bench were a lot of tools such as screwdrivers, saws, planes, and
other carpenter’s tools. Santa had maybe been working there, making
something during the day.
“Quick!” Poetry ordered. “Let’s go up the hill and get his license
number.”
I wanted to tell Santa or Barry or somebody, and get a lot of noisy
action around there, but I knew Poetry was right. We were maybe already
too late, and we maybe couldn’t do anything helpful. We’d probably be
shot if we were seen by the man, whoever he was. But if we could get
the car license number, it might help the police to trail him, if he
really was the kidnapper.
Up that hill we went, following that hardly-ever-used road. At the
top of the hill, we turned right and zipped along the edge of Santa’s
woods, where you could hardly see the road at all, but we knew it
would come out at the sandy road a little later, which it did. We
could see, even with our flashlights off, which they had to be, that it
was a newish car, as we sneaked up behind it. It had its tail light on
and only its parking lights, and the driver was “rocking” it, starting
slowly, going forward a few feet, then backwards, then forward, but not
getting anywhere.
Already I was close enough to see the license, but didn’t dare turn on
my flashlight, or the guy would find out we were there. “Wait,” Poetry
said, “I’ll sneak up behind that tree.” Right away he started to start.
Then he hissed to me, “DOWN, BILL! QUICK!”
Down we ducked and didn’t dare make a sound, ’cause the motor had
stopped and the guy was opening his car door and getting out. Right
there in front of our eyes not more than fifty feet away, we saw him
make a dive for the back left wheel, and heard him mumbling something
that sounded like mad swear words, and for a second I was glad that
Little Jim wasn’t there, ’cause it always hurts him terribly to hear
anybody swear, on account of the One whose Name is used in such a
terrible way when a person swears is Little Jim’s best Friend. I was
glad he wasn’t there for another reason, too, and that was that when he
hears somebody using filthy rotten words like that, he can’t stand it
and sometimes calls right out and says, “STOP SWEARING!”
We certainly didn’t want anybody to call out to that guy in the
automobile.
“What’s he doing?” I whispered in Poetry’s ear, and didn’t need to have
asked, on account of I heard a hissing noise coming from that left back
tire.
“The crazy goof!” I said to Poetry, “He’s letting air out of his tire!”
And he was... “Sssssss!” It made me feel creepy, ’cause if a man who
wanted to get away quick was foolish enough to let air out of his
tires, he must be insane.
In another jiffy, the tire had stopped hissing and the guy, still
grunting and mumbling to himself, like he was terribly mad, and also
maybe a little scared, was down on his knees beside the other back tire
and right away there was another hissing noise.
And right that second, the man stood up, and made a dive for the front
seat again, zipped in and stepped on the starter, and started to rock
the car again, then he backed up, and started forward again, and the
wheels started spinning and--
“Hey!” Poetry and I hissed to each other at the same time, “The car is
moving! He’s getting away!”
Poetry flashed his flashlight on the back of the car to get the license
number, and it was 324-179, and was a Minnesota license. My mind took a
picture of it quick, and I knew I’d never forget it, but just to make
sure, I kept saying it to myself “324-179, 324-179, 324-179...”
Say, the second that car which was a black newish car was out of that
sandy place, it shot down that road like a bullet.
There wasn’t a thing we could do, not a thing, I thought, and wondered
if the girl was maybe in the back seat and why on earth didn’t we try
to rescue her, if she was there?
We made a dive for the place where the car had been stuck, and studied
the road. Poetry let out a gasp and said, “He’s awfully smart, that
guy. Look at these wide tire tracks, will you?”
I looked, and Poetry was right. First I looked at how narrow they had
been before they got stuck in the sand, and then I looked at them
_after_ they’d gone on up the road, and they were almost half again as
wide.
“Letting out that air, increased _traction_,” Poetry said, “but he
can’t run on them half flat very far or very fast. He’ll have to stop
at the first gas station that’s open, and get some air. Come on! Let’s
get to a telephone quick, and call the Bemidji and the Pass Lake police
and have all the gas stations watch for him. Give them the license
number, and I’ll bet the police will catch him!”
With that, Poetry whirled around, his flashlight in his hand and we
were starting to run up the sandy lane to where the fire warden lived,
when I noticed something shining in the grass at the side of the lane.
“Look!” I said, “Shine your light over here a minute.”
I stooped over to pick up whatever it was, thinking it might be a scarf
pin or something the kidnapped girl might have had, but shucks, it was
only a piece of glass. I picked it up, though, and was going to throw
it away when Poetry grabbed my arm and stopped me and said, “Hey, wait!
Let me see it!”
“It’s a piece of broken glass,” I said, but let him look at it up close
with his flashlight. “Sure,” he said, “it’s a clue.”
“How could a piece of broken glass be a clue?” I asked.
“’Cause it isn’t stained with weather or anything, which means it
hasn’t been lying out here very long,” Poetry said, and tucked it in
his pocket.
It wasn’t any time to argue, but I thought his detective ideas were
nearly all imagination.
He was running awful fast for a barrel-shaped boy, and I was having a
hard time keeping up with him as we swished along down that sandy lane.
We knew the firewarden didn’t live very far up that lane on account
of we had been here the year before and knew that his house was the
nearest one that had a telephone--Santa not having one in his cabin, on
account of not wanting his vacation spoiled by people calling him up.
If he needed a telephone, he could always go to where there was one.
“Wait,” I said to Poetry all of a sudden. “Maybe we’re on a wild goose
chase, maybe we’re crazy to waste a lot of good sleeping time chasing
an imaginary kidnapper. How do we know that was a kidnapper’s car?
What if it was just _anybody_ who got stuck in the sand? He wouldn’t
appreciate having policemen stop him and ask a lot of questions!”
“It wasn’t just _anybody!_” Poetry said. “That guy was down there in
the boathouse less than a half hour ago, and there was a girl there,
too, see?”
Poetry stopped long enough to pull out of his pocket and show me
something he had picked up back there where the car had been, and it
was a girl’s yellow scarf!
“But that could be any woman’s or any girl’s scarf,” I said.
“It _could_ not,” Poetry disagreed with me with a very sure voice, and
also an excited one, “--see that green paint on it--and look! Here’s
some white paint also.” Well, I remembered Santa had been using green
and white paint in that boathouse that very afternoon, and remembering
that put wings on my feet, and I ran like a deer up that winding sandy
road toward the firewarden’s house and the telephone.
9
If anybody had seen Poetry and me swishing along down that narrow
winding road, following along in the bobbing path of our flashlights,
our breath coming in quick short pants, they might have thought we were
crazy. It was one of the crookedest roads I’d ever seen in my life, and
would you believe it, Poetry couldn’t resist puffing a part of a poem
as we raced along toward the firewarden’s cabin. The poem started out
like this:
“There was a crooked man, he walked a crooked mile;
He found a crooked six-pence beside a crooked style--”
Only we didn’t find any six-pence, but we did find something else, and
in a fast jiffy I’ll tell you what it was. In a half minute more we
knew we would be ready to turn the last bend in the road just before
we got to the firewarden’s house. All of a sudden Poetry stopped and
flashed his light about fifty yards down the road ahead of us, and as
plain as day I saw a great big beautiful reddish-brown deer standing
right in the center of the road. Its head was up and his big antlers
looked very pretty. His ears were large and were spread out like our
old Brindle cow back home spreads hers out when she is interested in
something, or scared. Say, that deer was _really_ scared. It turned and
like a reddish-brown flash it was gone, leaping away and disappearing
into the trees and bushes at the side of the road. It’s a good thing
we saw the deer, though, ’cause if we hadn’t maybe we wouldn’t have
stopped and wouldn’t have heard what we heard right that second. We
both heard it at the same time, and it sounded exactly like what we’d
heard before when we were standing out by the wood rick.
“It’s another screech owl,” Poetry said, and started on, but I stopped
him, and said, “Maybe it’s a loon.”
“It’s coming from out there in the trees,” he said. “Loons don’t stay
up here in the woods. They’re out on the lake or else right close to it
all the time.”
We both listened, my heart thumping like Pop’s hammer driving a
terribly big nail into a log in our barn at Sugar Creek. It was a worse
scare than I’d had in a long time. It certainly sounded exactly like
what we’d heard at the boathouse. I remembered the simpish looking owl
we’d seen standing in the hole of the hollow tree behind the boathouse
and how it had flown away, but this time I just _knew_ it wasn’t any
owl or any loon.
“Let’s go see,” Poetry said, and I said, “What if it _is_ the girl?
What’ll we do? What’ll--”
“Let’s decide later,” Poetry interrupted me by saying. We flashed our
lights out toward the trees and couldn’t see a thing, but we heard that
eery cry that was like a loon being choked, and then we started toward
it, our lights shoving the dark back as we went along, and we walked in
their yellowish bobbing paths.
We crept up slowly. I had a big stick in my hands, ready to use it as a
club if I had to. For some reason we didn’t stop to think that maybe we
ought to get to the firewarden’s house first, and tell him, but instead
we just kept right on going, the pine needles on the ground making
a spooky noise under our shoes and, then, all of a sudden, Poetry
stopped, and I, who had been following him, bumped into him.
“Look! There’s an Indian blanket with somebody wrapped up in it,”
meaning a blanket of many colors like most all families in Sugar Creek
have in their homes.
Then I heard it again, a low half-muffled half cry, and we knew we’d
found the kidnapped Ostberg girl.
Say, when I looked down at that blanket with the little five-year-old
girl wrapped in it, and saw the great big handkerchief the kidnapper
had stuffed into her mouth as a gag to keep her from talking or
screaming, and as we unwrapped her and saw that her hands were tied
together and also her feet so she couldn’t walk, and when I saw the
pretty yellowish all-tangled-up hair around her face and shoulders, I
forgot all about having been half scared to death a while ago, and got
a terribly angry feeling inside that made me want to find the kidnapper
and for just about three minutes turn loose both of my fiery-tempered
fists on his chin and nose and stomach and literally knock the living
daylights out of him.
My pop had told me true stories about how there are wicked men in
the world who don’t have any respect for God or girls or women, and
how every one of them ought to be locked up somewhere until a doctor
can get them cured, or else they should stay in jail for life or be
executed for their awful crimes, which means they ought to be put to
death in the electric chair or hung, Pop says. Anyway, there ought not
to be even one of them allowed to run free in this world, and if they
are allowed to, it’s the law’s or the people’s fault.
Well, we couldn’t stand there just staring and wasting good temper on
something we couldn’t help, but ought to get the firewarden quick and
he would know what to do.
Poetry certainly had presence of mind. “Take my flashlight,” he ordered
me, and almost before I could get it into my hand, he was stooped over
and taking the gag out of the girl’s mouth, and with his pocket-knife
was cutting the cords that were around her wrists and hands.
It was pitiful the way that pretty little girl, who was about three
or four years younger than Little Jim, sobbed and cried when we got
the gag out of her mouth. She had a terribly scared look in her face.
“H-E-L-P!” she half cried, but in a very muffled hoarse voice, like she
had been crying for a terribly long time and had worn her vocal cords
out.
“Mama! Mama!” she cried. “I want my M-M-Mama!” Then she would just go
into a kinda hysterical sobbing and we couldn’t hear a word she was
saying.
“We’re your friends,” we tried to tell her, “we’ve come to rescue you.
We’ll help you get to the firewarden’s house, and----”
But the poor little thing was so scared that she couldn’t say a word we
could understand, except she wanted her mama. She was also so weak she
couldn’t stand up and wouldn’t be able to walk the rest of the way to
the firewarden’s house, and we didn’t think we ought to try to carry
her.
We had to do something quick, though ’cause she probably needed a
doctor, too, so Poetry made me go on the run for the firewarden, while
he stayed with the helpless girl. He would yell to us when we came
back and flash his light so we could know where he and the girl were.
I tell you I _ran_, but I was trembling so much that it was hard for me
to keep going.
In a few jiffies I came in sight of some white birch saplings which
criss-crossed each other, making a homemade gate. I could see the house
just beyond and an old unpainted barn. Also, there was a light in the
window of what looked like an ordinary bungalow which meant that maybe
the firewarden was still up, not having gone to bed yet.
I lay down and squished myself under that gate, and in a hurried jiffy
was knocking at the door of the bungalow.
“Quick!” I panted as soon as the door opened. “We’ve found the
kidnapped Ostberg girl! She’s out there in the trees wrapped up in
an Indian blanket and----” and for some reason, right that second, I
remembered about the automobile and its license number. I half yelled
the things I wanted to say. The firewarden looked ridiculous in his
green-striped pajamas as he stood in the doorway of his kitchen, with a
flashlight in his hand.
“What _is_ it?” a woman’s voice called from somewhere back in the
house. It was the voice of a sleepy woman who had just woke up and
wanted to know what was going on.
“_Quick!_” I said. “The auto license number is Minnesota 324-179, and
he’s got two half-flat tires and will have to stop somewhere at an oil
station and get some air.”
I guess maybe the firewarden must have known all about the Ostberg
girl having been kidnapped ’cause it only took me a little while to
explain enough to him so he was ready for action. He was a kind of an
oldish man but he was very spry and could think fast. While his wife
was dressing somewhere in the house, he made two quick phone calls, and
almost right away he got his powerful electric lantern and the three
of us were on our way to his home-made gate. There we stopped while he
flashed his flashlight around a little and said, “Well, what do you
know--he must have thought our driveway was another bend in the road.
He started to turn in, then swung out again. See?”
I used my own flashlight on the tire tracks, and, as plain as day, I
saw that some car had made a sharp turn there, and as sure as the nose
on Dragonfly’s face, which, as you maybe know, turns south at the end,
I noticed that the back tires had wider patterns than the front.
We zipped up to where Poetry was waiting for us with the kidnapped
girl. That pretty little girl was still so scared that she couldn’t
talk without great sobs getting mixed up with her words, and you
couldn’t understand her very well. Say, the firewarden’s wife just
knelt down on the ground beside that tangled-up-golden-haired little
pretty-faced girl and gathered her into her arms and crooned to her
like she was her very own little girl, then stood up with her, and,
being a very strong woman, wouldn’t let her husband carry her but
carried her herself, and crooned to her all the way back to their cabin.
When we had first got to where Poetry was, though, I noticed he was
standing beside the crying little girl, with a little book in one hand
and was shining his flashlight on its pages and was reading something.
“What on earth?” I thought, and waited for a chance to ask him what he
was doing and why.
On the way to the cabin, while I was wishing the rest of the gang was
there, and thinking that we’d have some wonderful stories to tell that
would be even better than Paul Bunyan stories, and also could tell
our folks the same ones, I said to Poetry, “What were you doing back
there--reading stories to her to keep her quiet?”
“It’s a secret,” he said. “I’ll tell you tomorrow,--or anyway later...”
Well, I’ve got to step on the gas with this story. Almost right away,
we came to the birch-sapling gate. There we stood while I showed Poetry
where the kidnapper had started to turn in and then made a sharp turn
and gone on. Poetry flashed his flashlight down real close to the
ground and studied the patterns of the tracks and said, “He must have
slowed down a lot right here, or the tire patterns wouldn’t be so
plain.”
Right that second there were the headlight and also a spotlight of a
car swinging down the road coming toward us real fast. “It’s the police
already,” the firewarden said, and sure enough it was.
Say, there was certainly some excitement around there and also on the
inside of me for awhile.
First, they made sure the girl was all right. In fact, Mrs. Firewarden
was in the back seat of their car with the girl in her arms and the
girl was asleep. In another few minutes an ambulance was coming to take
her to a hospital.
“How’d you get here so quick?” Poetry asked one of the big blue-suited
policemen, and he answered in a pleasant voice, like he thought a boy’s
questions were as important as a grown-up’s, and this is what he said,
“We have a radio in our car. We were only a few miles up the highway
when the order came through, and so, here we are!”
Even before he had finished saying what he was saying, I was thinking
how absolutely silly it is for anybody to think he can commit a crime
and not get caught and punished, even though they hadn’t maybe caught
the kidnapper yet.
In the next seventeen minutes I saw one of the most interesting things
I’d ever seen in my life, and it made me even more sure than I was that
anybody--man or boy or even a woman or girl--was just plumb crazy to
try to be smarter than the law is and get by with any kind of a crime
or sin.
I whispered it to Poetry when I saw what the policemen were doing right
that minute, saying, “Anybody can’t get by with any kind of crime,” and
Poetry, who is almost as good a Christian as Little Jim is, and who not
only has a lot of poems on the tip of his tongue ready to be quoted
any second, but also knows many Bible verses, quoted one of them to me
right that minute instead of a poem, and it was, “Be not deceived; God
is not mocked: for whatsoever man soweth, that shall he also reap,” and
he added to it another which was, “It is appointed unto men once to
die, and after this the judgment.”
One of the cops heard him and looked up from what he was doing and
said, “That’s right, son; that’s what my mother used to say.”
Then we quit talking, almost, and in the light of his spotlight from
his car, watched what was going on. “What in the world?” I thought when
I saw the policeman take what looked like a fishing-tackle box out of
his car, carry it to the gate and set it down. Then he went back to the
car and brought out something else. “What’s that?” Poetry wanted to
know, and the friendly cop said, “A flash-bulb camera with a reversible
tripod. We’re going to snap a picture of these tire tracks.”
“Why?” I thought, but didn’t want to seem dumb enough to say so, ’cause
I supposed Poetry knew.
First, the cop laid a black cardboard down alongside of the tire track,
the edge of the cardboard looking like a ruler with little white inch
marks on it. Then he set up his camera with its lens focused right
straight down on the track. As quick as a wink, there was a blinding
flash of light which showed me that it was a flashlight picture they
were taking.
Right away, he opened the fishing-tackle-box-looking kit and took out
what looked like a Flit can, like the kind Mom uses on flies and also
on bugs and stuff in our garden, and began to spray something very
carefully all over the track for about two feet of it, holding the
spray gun about three feet high.
“It’s shellac,” the policeman said, and I said, “Why?” and he said,
“Wait and see,” which I had to do.
Pretty soon, he stopped spraying, screwed off the container at the
bottom of the spraying device and screwed on another can of something
else and started in doing the same thing, pumping away very carefully,
not letting the spray strike very hard on the sandy tracks, so as not
to make any of the sand move.
I looked at the other things in the kit which was spread wide open in
front of us, and saw what looked like a large salt shaker like the one
Mom uses when she is cooking raw fried potatoes, also there was a cup
made out of rubber, two other containers, a spoon and what is called a
spatula, which looked like a long flat stick our doctor uses when he
looks into my throat and makes me say “Ah,” and also looks at my tongue
and the place where my tonsils used to be.
“The dry shellac makes the tire impression firm enough to stand the
weight of the plaster of Paris without crumbling it,” the policeman
said, and even though I didn’t understand what it was all about or why,
it was very interesting to watch. Right away he started getting the
plaster of Paris ready.
It was certainly an interesting sight. They mixed some of the plaster
of Paris in the rubber cup, doing it almost exactly like I had seen
our Sugar Creek dentist do it, and also like we do it in school when
we make an art plaque or something. The only difference was, they
sprinkled in a little salt to make it harden quicker. The plaster of
Paris was poured on the top of the water, and allowed to sink to the
bottom of the rubber cup until the water couldn’t take any more, then
it was stirred with a spoon, and very carefully dipped out with the
spoon into the tire impressions. First, though, they made a little
cardboard wall along the side of the track so the plaster of Paris
wouldn’t run over the edges.
“What’s he doing now?” I said to Poetry, when some sticks and twigs and
little pieces of string were laid on top of the first layer of plaster
of Paris.
“I don’t know,” Poetry said, “reinforcing it, maybe,” which, it turned
out, he was. Right away another thicker layer of plaster of Paris was
put on, and then it was ready to let harden.
After awhile, when they were sure it was solid, they would just lift it
up and there would be a perfect plaster cast, a foot and a half long,
of the tire marks, which, whenever they found the kidnapper’s car,
would help them prove that he was really guilty.
We couldn’t stay there all night, though, ’cause tomorrow the gang had
a lot of things to do and see, and besides when a boy wants to be in
good health, he has to have plenty of sleep at night, so the firewarden
decided to drive us back to camp, while the police looked all around
the place where we’d found the little girl, and also in Santa’s
boathouse for other clues. We gave them the yellow scarf with the paint
on it, and went with the firewarden back to our camp to try to get some
excited sleep.
Boy oh boy, it had been a great experience! About an hour later, after
waking up all the gang and telling them the news, we were in our tents
again ready to sleep. The big hot round rock in the pail in the center
of the tent certainly had helped keep the tent warm, and when I was in
my sleeping bag again, as warm as toast, I felt that I had really done
something important in life... Before I went to sleep again, I got to
thinking about that little kidnapped girl, knowing how glad her parents
would feel when they got the news which they maybe already had, and
were maybe already on their way up here to see her. Of course, if she
was really sick, and had been mistreated terribly by the kidnapper,
she would maybe have to be in the hospital quite a while.
For a few minutes just before I dropped off to sleep, I was listening
to the waves lapping against our sandy shore, and was thinking and
thinking and thinking. I knew that if I had been up and was standing
by the shore looking out on the moonlit water, the rolling waves would
maybe look just like our oats field does down along Sugar Creek when
the wind is blowing ... waving and waving and rolling and rolling and
rolling and looking very wonderful; and for a minute I could see my pop
sitting up on our big binder, driving along, and maybe singing a song
which nearly always, when Pop sang or whistled, was a hymn we used in
our church.... It might be the one that goes:
“Bringing in the sheaves,
Bringing in the sheaves,
We shall come rejoicing
Bringing in the sheaves ...”
Then I remembered Poetry’s Bible verse and it was, “Whatsoever a man
soweth, that shall he also reap”.... It was absolutely silly, I thought
again, for anybody to sow a lot of sin in his life and not expect to
reap a harvest of the same kind, and the verse also said God couldn’t
be mocked, which maybe meant that every man would be punished for
living a sinful life. Then I imagined different things, such as Pop
saying to Mom, “I wonder how Bill is getting along up North,” and Mom
would say, “Oh fine--I hope. I wonder if he is warm enough. It gets so
cold up there at night, and you know how he is--he kicks the covers off
in his sleep, and lies there and half freezes without even waking up.”
And Pop would remember that I had my sleeping bag, and Mom would sigh
and they’d go to sleep. They really were wonderful parents, I thought
... and the waves of the blue water lake rolled and rolled and tossed
around some, and then a great big pair of horns stuck themselves up out
of the lake, and then a cow’s face, and then a whole cow splashed and
splashed, and the water turned all blue all around the big blue cow and
Mom tried to stop him from swishing around so much on account of he was
splashing around in her washing machine and getting too much bluing on
her clothes...
And then I guess I must have dropped off to sleep, ’cause the next
thing I knew it was morning and the gang was making a lot of boys’
noise and we had another wonderful day in which to live and have new
adventures.
Ho hum, here I am, with all the pages filled up and not even room to
tell you about how the kidnapper got away from the police and how the
Sugar Creek Gang ran kersmack onto his trail all by themselves the very
next day, and what a fierce fight we had and everything. But just as
quick as I can, I’ll get going on that exciting story, which was maybe
the most exciting experience that ever happened to us. Maybe I’ll get
started writing tomorrow.