THE MAN IN THE CAVE
Having completely forgotten about the supposedly strangled cat, you
can imagine how my eyes popped out when the bobtailed mouse catcher
unexpectedly meandered into the sitting room.
“Meow!” it broadcasted unhappily.
“An’ it had such a pretty tail, too,” sighed Mrs. O’Mally.
I was still staring.
“But how did it escape the cat killer?” I cried. And then, as my mind
took in a wider and more important sweep, I inquired of my chum how he
had escaped the cat killer, too.
“Our ‘cat killer,’ Jerry, instead of being a one-armed man, has turned
out to be a boy.”
“_Him?_” I switched my staring eyes from the cat to the unconscious
form on the couch.
Nodding, the leader then told me what had happened in the cellar.
“As you remember, I ran down the stairs with a flashlight, determined
to get a squint at the cat killer this time before he could make his
usual slick get-away. But the cellar was empty. The cat, though, was
still yowling bloody murder. I tried to spot it, thinking now, from
the choked sound, that a tub or box had fallen on top of it. But it,
too, was gone. Finally, though, I traced it to the chimney base. You
know how big the chimney base is. Right in the middle of the cellar
floor, too. The cat was inside! And there on the floor was a piece of
its tail! Instead of being solid brick, as we had supposed, I saw now
that one whole side of the chimney base was made of sheet iron, painted
to look like brickwork, and hung on hidden hinges. The quick closing
of this secret door had trapped the snooping cat, not only catching it
by the tail but completely cutting off the tip. The door, of course,
hadn’t opened and closed of its own accord. Hardly! And afraid that if
I waited for you it might be locked on the inside, I gave the chimney
corner a sharp tug, figuring that this was the edge of the secret door,
and, sure enough, the whole west side of the chimney swung back as
pretty as you please. This, of course, freed the cat, though not until
it had lost the tip of its tail, as I say. Turning the flashlight into
the chimney passage I saw the cat scooting down a flight of winding
stairs. I went down the stairs, too, the door closing behind me. I was
in a sort of well. Then I came to a room at the foot of the stairs.
My flashlight picked up a boy. I had expected to see a man! Lighting
into him, we both dropped our flashlights. And for two or three minutes
we tussled in the dark. What I aimed to do, of course, was to make a
prisoner of him. I guess I soaked him pretty hard. Anyway, he took a
back flop. When I saw that he had struck his head on the stone floor,
and was unconscious, I lugged him up the winding stairs, and here he
is.”
Mrs. O’Mally brushed back the long black hair from the white forehead.
“A nice-lookin’ b’y, too,” says she, in her motherly way. “Sure, ’tis
hard for me to think ill of him.”
I told them then that they were dead wrong in calling the stranger boy
the cat killer.
“It was the cat killer,” I wound up, “that I saw in the willow patch.”
Mrs. O’Mally was shivering over my story.
“How awful!” she cried. “’Tis little wonder that ye were scared out of
your wits.”
“I thought at first that it was an animal, crawling along on its
stomach. But now I’m sure that it was a man. And who more likely than
the cat killer, himself?”
“Ough!” further shivered Mrs. O’Mally. “Quit talkin’ about it. Sure, ye
give me the creeps.”
Coming to his senses, the kid seemed to be none the worse for his
mishap. I saw now that he had big black eyes. Nor were they sneaking
eyes, either. Of course, after what had happened at the foot of the
hidden stairs he showed no love for Poppy. But that was perfectly
natural. If I had been banged around the way he had I would have been
sore, too. But however much he glared at my chum, he showed no hatred
for me. Instead, I caught him looking at me curiously.
Having failed to get a single word out of the stranger, Poppy drew me
into the kitchen.
“What do you think of him, Jerry?”
“I’ve seen worse looking kids,” says I.
“What gets me,” came thoughtfully, “is his connection with the cat
killer. The man must be a crook, for otherwise he wouldn’t be breaking
into people’s houses. But I can’t make myself believe that the boy is a
crook.”
“What are we going to do with him?” says I. “Keep him prisoner until we
find the treasure?”
“We never could hold him, Jerry.”
I saw what the leader meant. If we made a prisoner of the kid the
one-armed man, on his side, would clean up on us in a jiffy. In fact,
it was hardly to be doubted that the cat killer already had his eyes on
us in evil plans.
“Let’s lock the doors,” I shivered.
I was crazy, of course, to see the hidden passageway that the leader
had discovered in the chimney base. But my increased fear of the
one-armed cat killer was stronger than my curiosity. _Me_ go down in
that hole and run the chance of getting necked, like the church cat?
No, thanks! I had had one narrow escape at the tunnel mouth. And that
was enough for me.
Mrs. O’Mally told us afterwards that the kid watched the kitchen door
like a hawk all the time we were out of his sight. For he knew, of
course, that we were talking about him, and that seemed to worry him.
But though we tried again to find out who he was, not a single word
would he tell us about himself.
Poppy finally came to a plan.
“Say, Jerry,” he drew me aside, “do you know where we can get a
rowboat?”
“The kid’s boat is in the creek,” says I.
“No,” he shook his head, “we’ve got to have another boat.”
Getting the details of his scheme, I took a grip on my club and started
out in the direction of the river bridge, two miles away, where old
Deacon Pillpopper, who helped us solve the mystery of the ten-ring
puzzle, as mentioned in my book, JERRY TODD AND THE TALKING FROG, runs
a boat livery.
The moonlight was almost as bright as day. So by keeping away from
the bushes and other sheltering things I felt pretty safe. Coming to
the road, I lit out on the run, feeling that with every flying step I
was leaving the shadowy, crawling thing farther behind me. Strangely,
though, even when I was a mile from the house, I had the uncomfortable
feeling that I was being watched. And from later developments I cannot
doubt that I _was_ watched.
It was two o’clock when I got the surprised and sleepy-eyed boat renter
out of bed. Dickering with him for a minute or two, I then set off
downstream. Boy, did I ever row! As I look back the wonder to me is
that I didn’t snap an oar. Coming within sight of the pirate’s house,
with its outstanding chimney, I pulled close to the shore. Then I gave
one long “hoot” and three short ones, signifying “thirteen,” which was
the signal that Poppy and I had agreed upon.
Several minutes passed. Then I got the expected answering
signal--“_Hoo-o-o-t! Hoot! hoot! hoot!_”--after which the “owl,”
himself, soon came into sight.
“The trick worked as slick as a button, Jerry,” he laughed. “As soon as
I got your signal I started to snore. The prisoner, of course, thought
that I had dropped asleep. And quick as scat he stepped over my body,
as I lay in front of his bedroom door, and skinned out.”
The leader then asked me if I had seen anything of the cat killer on my
way to the bridge. I hadn’t, I said. Nor had he seen or heard anything
of the man at the stone house, he then told me.
Piling into the boat we rowed for dear life, as it was our further
scheme to beat the kid and his uncle across the river. In going to
their cave they’d never suspect that we were following them, and so, by
secretly listening in on their gab, we could get a good line on them.
“Hot dog!” says Poppy, as the other boat came out of the creek into the
moonlit river. Flipping the oars harder than ever, we soon turned into
the opposite canyon, where we waited in a dark water cave.
Dip! Dip! Dip! We could hear the other oars now. Then the boat came
into sight.
“What the dickens?...” breathed Poppy, clutching my hand. “The kid’s
alone!”
In letting the prisoner escape, as a part of our scheme, we hadn’t
dreamed for an instant but what he and his rascally uncle would get
together at the creek and quickly light out for home in their boat. We
wondered now why the man had stayed behind. And we were uneasy, too,
over Mrs. O’Mally. Letting the other boat pass us, we guardedly took
in after it, keeping in the shadow of the towering wooded cliffs, now
wrapped in a peculiar abandoned silence. The water didn’t extend into
the canyon very far, and presently we saw the kid land and scoot off
into the trees, quickly passing from our sight. But fortunately I knew
where the principal caves were. And it was our good luck to find a
light in the first one that we came to.
Getting down on our stomachs we crawled like snakes from bush to bush.
But it was a lucky thing for us that we didn’t get too close to the
enemy’s hiding place. For all of a sudden the kid, himself, tumbled out
of the cave and threw himself face downward in the bushes.
Within the cave a talking machine had come to life. I don’t know what
the tune was. I suspect, though, that it was a very old one. As a
matter of fact, like Poppy, I was too amazed at the moment to pay any
attention to tunes. The big thing in our minds was _why_ the kid had
turned on the talking machine in the first place, and _why_ he was now
hiding in the bushes.
We soon found out.
“Um....” came a sleepy yawn from within the cave. And at the unexpected
sound Poppy caught his breath. I could imagine that he was doing some
quick thinking. “Who in tunket turned that dum thing on?” a deep voice
growled. “Tommy Weir! Did you do that?”
But the kid, if that was his name, didn’t answer.
“_Tommy Weir!_” the voice was raised.
Still no answer from the kid.
“Drat that boy! Ought to have his setter warmed up good an’ proper.
TOMMY WEIR! Air you goin’ to shet that thing off? Or will I have to git
up an’ take my cane to you?”
The kid still keeping silent, we heard the angry caveman get out of
bed. Then a record that had been jerked from the silenced talking
machine whizzed over the top of our heads.
Thump! thump! thump! A lame old man now stood, cane in hand, in the
door of the cave. He had on a long white nightgown, and never in all my
life had I seen another such bristly, mussed-up head of hair. He had
whiskers, too--the “fringy” kind, stretching from ear to ear, with the
chin and upper lip left bare. And what a grim, hard lip it was! Looking
at him, as he stood there in the moonlight, I could imagine that the
kid was in for a good beating.
“Tommy Weir! You git in here, now. Or I’ll come out there an’ lay it on
you good an’ proper.”
To our surprise the kid got up laughing.
“What’s the matter, Uncle Abner?”
“You young scallawag! Gittin’ your pore ol’ uncle out of his
comfortable bed at this time of night. Hain’t you ’shamed of yourself!”
“I wanted to tell you something, Uncle Abner,” says the kid seriously.
“Um.... You could ’a’ let it wait till mornin’.”
“No.”
“_Tommy!_” cried the old man in sudden excitement. “You hain’t meanin’
that you’ve _found_ it?”
“No.”
“Well,” came in disappointment, “what was it then?”
The two went into the cave out of sight.
“They caught me to-night, Uncle Abner.”
“They? Who do you mean?--the Irish lady?”
“No. Two boys. One of them knocked me cuckoo.”
“Um ...” came severely. “It’s what you git, Tommy Weir, for
gallivantin’ ’round on Sunday night, breakin’ the Sabbath, when you
should ’a’ bin home studyin’ your Bible lesson. Yes, you should! Jest
because we’re livin’ here in a cave is no reason why you shouldn’t go
on with your Bible work. Them old lessons I’ve got saved up is jest as
good as any new ones, fur the Bible is jest the same to-day as it was
a hundred years ago. I ought to take a stick to you fur not mindin’
me.... Where did they catch you?”
“In the room under the cellar.”
“Two boys, you say?”
“They’re staying there, I guess. They called each other Poppy and
Jerry. Jerry’s all right. But if I ever get a crack at that other simp!
Gr-r-r-r!”
“Tutter boys, prob’ly.”
“I suppose so. Oh, gee! I guess it isn’t any use, Uncle Abner,” and I
was struck by the weary, discouraged tone of the boy’s voice. “I’ve
searched and searched. But I don’t seem able to find a thing. And now
I wouldn’t dare to go back if I wanted to. For the boys know about the
secret door in the chimney. And they’d lay for me.”
“Um.... I’m all out of patience with you, Tommy Weir.”
“Please don’t scold, Uncle Abner.”
“You need to have a good stick laid on you, you do.”
I was beginning to see that the old man’s threats, like his fierce
expression, didn’t amount to much.
“Did you ever hear of a cat killer, Uncle Abner?”
“A which?”
“A cat killer--a man who strangles cats. The boys asked me about it
over and over, as though they thought _I_ ought to know what they were
talking about. And one of them says he _saw something_ at the mouth of
the tunnel. You know what I told you!”
“Tommy! Did he say it was _creepin’_?”
“Yes.”
“An’ _you_ say it was creepin’?”
“Yes. I saw it in exactly the same place, too.”
“Um.... Did the boys finally turn you loose?”
“No. I got away from them.”
“Heh?” the voice struck a sharper pitch. “What’s that?”
The kid recited the story of his escape.
“Tommy,” the old man snorted, “you’re dumb. Yes, you be, an’ you
needn’t look so indignant about it, nuther. You’re a good boy in some
ways, but you don’t make enough use of your head.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, them boys let you git away on purpose. The one you call Poppy
wasn’t asleep at all. He was jest foxin’. Where was the other one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Outside, prob’ly. An’ you never suspected that they was followin’ you?”
“No.”
Poppy chuckled in my ear.
“Uncle Abner isn’t so dumb, huh?”
“Sh-h-h-h!” I hissed. “There he is.”
Having again come to the door of the cave, the old man took a sweeping
look here and there, as though studying the general lay of things, then
pointed his cane directly at our hiding place.
“If they’re here,” says he sharply, “they’re hidin’ behind that bush.
Fur it’s the biggest an’ nearest one.”
Gee! Caught by surprise we had no chance to dig out.
“Um ...” old whiskers grunted savagely, as we stood up. “I thought
as much. Now, jest march in here, you young scallawags, an’ give an
account of yourselves.”