OUR NEW CHUM
Well, there wasn’t any more sleep for us _that_ night. First of
all we got the old detective into the Cap’n’s bed. Then we sent a
hurry-up call for Doc Leland. But old Doc was out of town. So we had
to get busy and take care of the injured man ourselves.
He was talking now. But it wasn’t sensible talk. He didn’t know what
he was saying or what was going on around him. The whack that he had
gotten on the head had jammed his brain wheels.
“Pretty birdie,” says he, sort of rambling-like, a vacant look in his
watery eyes. “Pretty birdie in the treetop.”
Having done everything possible for the injured man, Scoop screwed
down the wick of the bedroom lamp.
“Now,” says he to the patient, “close your eyes and go to sleep.
You’ll be all hunky-dory in the morning. All you need is a little
sleep.”
“My haid,” says the old man, feeling of his damaged upper story. “It
hurts.”
“Keep your hands down,” says Scoop, taking the pottering hands and
putting them down. “You mustn’t touch the bandage. For if you do
you’re liable to start the cut to bleeding again.”
“I can hear the birdies,” says the old man.
“Of course you can,” says Scoop. “There’re nice birdies, too. And if
you’ll lay still and listen to them they’ll sing you to sleep.”
I was anxious to have a talk with the Ott kid. For I figured he could
clear up the mystery of the spying face. So I was glad when Scoop
signaled to the kid to follow us into the sitting room.
“Now,” says the leader, giving the other one a steady eye, “you can
loosen up, if you will, and tell us what you know about this.... Who
did it?”
“I don’t know,” says the kid.
Scoop scowled.
“Come on, tell us the truth.”
“I _am_ telling the truth.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Jerry and Red tell me,” says Scoop, “that you’re all right. They
say they’ve made friends with you. But _I_ don’t know whether we
can trust you or not. It looks to me as though you’re covering up
something.”
“I haven’t anything to cover up,” says the kid, his eyes seeking the
door of his father’s bedroom in a troubled way.
“Were you and your father together in the alley?”
“No. He was struck down before I got here.”
“But what was he doing here at this time of night?”
“You ought to know.”
“Sleuthing?”
“Of course.”
“And were _you_ sleuthing, too?”
“I followed Pa to town to look out for him,” says the kid, flushing
at Scoop’s sarcasm. “I didn’t want him to get locked up. He gave me
the slip a block or two from here. Then I heard a scream. I found him
in the alley. And that’s all I know.”
“Wasn’t there any one else in the alley when you got here?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t any idea who hit your father?”
“No.”
The kid was telling the truth. I could see that. The leader could
see it, too. And suddenly he shoved out his hand.
“Shake,” says he. “If you’re a friend of my pals, and they trust you,
you’re my friend, too.”
“Ditto,” says Peg, getting in on the hand shaking.
The kid was uneasy.
“Do you suppose,” says he, watching the door of his father’s room,
“that Pa’ll be all right in the morning, as you say?”
“Sure thing,” says Scoop. “It isn’t a bad cut. He got hit with a
club, I guess.”
“It wouldn’t have happened,” says the kid, after a moment, “if he had
stayed at home to-night as I wanted him to do. But he wouldn’t listen
to me. He never does.”
Scoop’s forehead was puckered.
“It puzzles me,” says he, “who hit your father, and why.”
“Maybe it was the Cap’n,” says Peg.
“But why should the Cap’n come here on the sly?” says I. “That
doesn’t make sense to me.”
“He’s got a secret, Jerry. You know that.”
“Yes,” says I, “and he’s got a temper, too. And if he had seen us in
here he would have made short work of kicking us out.”
Scoop got a flashlight.
“We can soon tell if it was the Cap’n,” says he.
We followed him outside. I kind of shivered in the darkness. It was
heavy. Like a black blanket. The alley looked awfully spooky and
risky to me.
We found footprints under the window where Red had seen the spying
face. But we found no prints of a peg-leg. So we knew the spy wasn’t
our queer old friend.
“Whoever it was,” says Scoop, “he saw us with the black parrot.
There’s no doubt about that.”
“What?” says the kid, staring. “Is the black parrot _here_?”
“We discovered its hiding place about an hour ago,” says Scoop. “The
spy saw us feeding it. That was just a minute or two before your
father was struck down.”
There was a bright look in the kid’s eyes.
“I can see what happened,” says he. “Pa surprised the man at your
window. See? And then the man wheeled with a club.”
“I’d know the man,” says Red, “if I was to see him again. For he had
a mean face. Like a killer.”
I shivered.
“For the love of mud!” says I, trying to cut the darkness with my
eyes. “Shut up and stay shut. You give a fellow the creeps. A
killer! Br-r-r-r! Let’s go inside.”
We were pretty well acquainted with the new kid now. And we started
calling him Poppy.
“I like that name,” says he, “better than my real name.”
“What is your real name?” says Scoop.
“I hate to tell you.”
“Is it worse than Poppy?”
“_Is_ it! Nicholas Carter Sherlock Holmes Ott. How do you like that?”
“_Good_ night!” says Scoop. “Who gave you that name?--some half-baked
librarian?”
The kid laughed.
“My father named me after his two favorite detective heroes. But just
forget about the name. I don’t tell it to everybody. Poppy suits me
better, as I say. The Cedarburg kids gave me that nickname because I
peddled popcorn.”
Scoop grinned.
“In _this_ gang,” says he, joking, “we stand by each other and use
each other right. So you’ve got our promise never to disgrace you in
public by calling you by your real name. From now on you’re Poppy Ott
to us. And we’ll just forget that you ever had any other name.”
“You tell ’em,” says Peg.
“And now,” says the leader, “let’s get down to business. For, as
I see it, we’ve got a real job ahead of us in solving this parrot
mystery. Here’s the dope. The Cap’n has a stolen parrot in his house.
Maybe _he_ stole the parrot; maybe some one else stole it. Anyway, as
I say, the parrot is here. But before we turn it over to the law, to
be returned to its rightful owner, I’d like to have a day or two to
dig into this thing. For instance, who is the spy? What’s he after?
Is it the black parrot? Does the Cap’n know about the spy? Is that
why he has been hiding the parrot? You can see what we’re up against.
There’s a lots bigger mystery here than we thought. And if something
_dark_ is piling up around the Cap’n--something that is liable to
harm him, I mean--and he’s innocent, I think we ought to stand by him
and help him.”
“He’s got the stolen parrot,” says I. “We know that. So how can he be
innocent?”
Scoop nodded, grave-like.
“You’re right, Jerry,” says he. “It does look as though the Cap’n
is behind the stealing. But I’m going to give him a chance to clear
himself. And if he _can’t_ do that ... well, then, Poppy, we’ll let
your pa have the parrot. And if the law steps in on the Cap’n to
punish him he’ll have to take his medicine. For it isn’t my scheme
to shield him if he’s guilty. Not so you can notice it.”
“I’m beginning to feel ashamed of myself,” says Poppy, with a gentle
look toward the bedroom. “I thought Pa was an old dumb-bell in his
detecting. But if he gets this thousand dollars I’ll have to admit
that he’s pretty smart.”
“The thousand dollars,” says I, glad in the thought, “will set you up
in a good home.”
“It seems almost too good to be true,” says Poppy, his eyes shining.
“A thousand dollars! I’m beginning to feel proud of Pa, kind of.”
Red laughed in the sudden turn of his thoughts.
“Say,” says he, “what did your pa say about the broken wagon wheels?”
“Oh,” says Poppy, “he got mad and jawed around. But he shut up when
_I_ got mad worse. I told him what was what. The old wagon was going
to stay right here, I said. I told him if he put any more wheels on
it I’d smash _them_ to pieces, too.”
“You won’t have to live in the wagon,” says I, “when you get the
thousand dollars. For then you can rent a regular house.”
“I don’t mind living in the wagon,” says he. “What I don’t like is
being a tramp.”
Peg laughed.
“We’ll help you put a foundation under the wagon and fix it up swell.”
“Hot dog!” says I. “That will be fun.”
“And we’ll put out a sign,” says Scoop in nonsense.
_PRIVATE DETECTIVE_
Whatever your mystery
You’ll have it not
If you bring it to
Horatio Calabash Ott.
Poppy couldn’t see anything funny in that.
“No,” says he, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to put out a
detective sign. I want Pa to quit his foolish detecting and do
something useful.”
“But he’s making money,” says I, thinking of the thousand dollars.
“He hasn’t got the money yet,” says Poppy. “And even if he does get
it I have a hunch that this will be his first and last successful
case. Luck was with him this trip.”
We had put the black parrot back in its wall hole before unlocking
the alley door. And now we brought the bird out. At sight of it
Poppy gave a queer cry.
“I knew it was too good to be true,” says he, acting as though the
world had dropped from under him.
Scoop caught his breath.
“What do you mean?” says he quickly.
“Pa’ll never get a thousand dollars for _that_ bird. For it’s a real
parrot--can’t you see? It’s a coal-black parrot. It isn’t the stolen
mino bird at all.”
Peg was in his glory.
“What’d I tell you?” says he to Red, acting superior.
Scoop’s eyes were fastened on the black bird.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” says he at length. “If this isn’t the
stolen bird, what bird is it?”
“S-s-solomon Gu-gu-gu----” says the parrot, cocking its funny eyes at
us.
“It’s trying to tell you who it is,” says I, laughing.
“Gu-gu-gu----” says the parrot. Then it whistled. “Gu-gu-GRUNDY.
Solomon Gu-gu-GRUNDY. Nice Solomon Gu-gu-GRUNDY. Gu-gu-give me a
k-k-kiss.”
“Go ahead, Red,” says I, “and let it smack you.”
“And get a hunk bit out of my nose!” says the freckled one, scowling
at me. “What do you take me for?--a pumpkin?”
“K-k-kiss the c-c-cook,” says the parrot. “K-k-kiss the cook and
t-t-tickle her back with a p-p-poker. When do we e-e-eat? Gu-gu-give
me some blood. I k-k-killed him! I k-k-killed him! Gu-gu-give me a
bucket of blood. I like blood. Gu-gu-give me a bucket of blood.”
Scoop shook his head.
“We’re finding out secrets,” says he, with a queer laugh. “But I’ll
be blamed if I know what it’s all about.”
Peg bent over the leering parrot.
“Say,” says he, in a steady voice, “who did you kill, anyway? Tell
us.”
“H-h-ham,” says the parrot, sort of dull and rasping-like. “H-h-ham.
I killed H-h-ham. Blood. Gu-gu-give me some blood.”