MICKY DISAPPEARS
Without delay he resumed climbing. There were other big limbs at
frequent intervals which made this easier. Presently a heavy mass of
fragrant pine brushed his face. A moment later his groping hand touched
another wooden cleat nailed to the trunk, and a little exploration
convinced him that this was the bottom rung of a rough ladder which led
directly into the treetop.
And there, at last, he found what he was looking for. Far above the
level of the house roof, and completely hidden by the thick foliage, was
a small, wooden platform. That it was near the top of the tree Cavvy
knew from the swaying of the limbs about him and the chill beat of sleet
against his face. There were ropes here and a sort of rigging, the
purpose of which puzzled him until his searching fingers encountered the
shaft of a slim, tough pole which seemed to be held in place by a series
of u-shaped iron bands driven into the trunk. At a point about on a
level with his head as he stood on the platform, the wires left the
trunk and continued upward along the pole with a good deal of looseness
and play; and of a sudden an explanation of the whole ingenious
apparatus came to him.
The pole must hold the wireless aerials. It could not be placed
permanently in the treetop for the simple reason that it would project
above the branches and in the daytime be visible for a long distance.
Hence this device for lowering it except at night, the pole simply
slipped down through the irons and held by them close to the trunk of
the tree on the opposite side from the ladder. When darkness fell it
could be hoisted without danger. And it was at night, of course, that
those treacherous messages of information or warning were sent to the
enemy U-boats, for Wharton was within easy reach of the coast, and it
would be a poor wireless indeed which could not transmit many times that
distance.
In spite of the cold sleet and drenching rain that beat upon him,
Cavanaugh felt a glow of mingled triumph and anger at his discovery. It
seemed as if he could not reach the ground swiftly enough so eager was
he to start rolling the ball which would end in the capture of this
traitor and perhaps his confederates. In vastly less time than it had
taken him to make the slow ascent, he reached the bottom crotch and
scrambled to the shed roof. Without waiting for McBride’s help, he hung
by his hands and dropped. Then he tip-toed over to the house.
“Micky!” he whispered, a thrill of excitement quivering even in his
carefully lowered voice. “Micky! I’ve found it.”
There was no answer. Surprised and puzzled, Cavvy took a step or two
forward through the darkness and his outstretched hand suddenly touched
the casing of the door.
“Micky!” he repeated, this time a little louder. “Where the dickens are
you?”
Still no answer came, and the boy turned away with a muttered
exclamation of irritation. “He must have gone back to the others,” he
thought. “Funny thing for him to do, but of course that’s it.”
Hastily circling the house, he groped his way to the point as nearly as
he could find it where Ritter and Ferris had left the path. A backward
glance showed him the dim light still burning in the corner room, and he
called the boys’ names in a guarded but penetrating whisper. The
response was instant, and in a moment they stood beside him.
“Is Micky here?” asked Cavanaugh quickly. “Why, no,” returned Ferris.
“Isn’t he with you? I thought—”
“You haven’t seen him, then?”
“Not since you two went off together.”
Cavvy stood silent for a moment, fighting back the vague, yet persistent
feeling of alarm which was stealing over him. There must be some simple
explanation for McBride’s disappearance, but what was it? At any rate
this new development upset all his calculations. He had planned to
hasten back at once to Wharton and report his discovery so that
authorities might lose no time in coming out to capture the wireless
spy. But that was impossible now. No matter what lay in the balance, he
could not bring himself to leave this desolate place without finding out
what had happened to his friend. He tried to think, but all the time
that nagging sense of anxiety and misgiving grew stronger. Suddenly his
jaw squared and his chin went up.
“Listen, fellows,” he said abruptly. “You two will have to go back to
town and bring help. I don’t know what the dickens has happened to
Micky. He just seems to have disappeared. I left him by the back door
while I climbed the tree, and when I came down he was gone. He may have
slipped off to take a snoop around the house, but we can’t all go and
leave him, especially since there is a wireless up that tree, and you
know what kind of men would be running a thing like that these days. So
I’ll stay here and look around, and you hustle back as quick as you can
and get hold of somebody to come out here. You needn’t go all the way to
town if you can dig up two or three men at any of the farms along the
road. But they’ve got to be men you can depend on. Get me?”
“Y-y-yes,” stammered Ritter, his teeth chattering audible. “B-b-but what
about you?”
“Don’t worry about me; I’ll be all right. Now hustle; and for Pete’s
sake don’t lose any time!”
Obediently they started off; then Ferris ran back. “I forgot,” he said
hastily. “A little while ago we heard a car out on the road. It slowed
down, but we couldn’t tell whether it stopped, or whether the trees
muffled the sound.”
“A car?” repeated Cavvy thoughtfully. “Humph! Of course it might be just
a farmer’s jitney passing; it’s not really very late. Better be careful
when you get out on the road, though. This guy must have someone or
other to bring him news.”
Ferris nodded, and without further comment turned and vanished into the
shadows. Listening intently, Cavanaugh heard the faint rustle of their
hurried passage through the bushes. Then silence fell—a silence utter
and complete and different, somehow, in its quality from the silence of
even a few moments before. He was alone now—yet not alone. Somewhere in
that spooky ruin of a house mystery and danger lurked. He felt it in
every breath he drew, and it needed a distinct effort of will to force
himself into action.
But there was nothing else to do. He could not stop here; he must begin
at once to search for his missing friend. Slowly he approached the house
and circled it. At the back door he paused and whispered Micky’s name.
There was no answer, nor did he, curiously, seem to expect one. He took
a step or two forward, his eyes, by this time accustomed to the
darkness, sweeping the shadowy outlines of the house and shed. Then his
foot struck something on the ground and bending down he picked up a
stout stick which lay there in the tall grass.
Micky’s stick! He knew the heft and feel of it, and a fresh wave of
apprehension swept over him. Why should Micky have dropped it here after
carrying it with him all afternoon?
And then, as he stood there motionless, his heart began to throb
suffocatingly. A faint scraping sound had come to him, and in another
moment he realized that the door beside him was slowly, silently
opening.