THE TENNESSEE SHAD SUSPECTS
THE Tennessee Shad, as has been told, was long, thin and full of bones.
His imagination was chiefly occupied in initiating ideas which would be
the cause of exertion in others. In the warmth of the budding season he
came out of his winter cage and could be seen for long hours perched on
his window sill in the Kennedy, legs pendent; like some dreamy vulture,
surveying the horizon for a significant point.
There was little that escaped the Shad. For some time his curiosity had
been stirred by the unusual attentions paid to Skippy Bedelle by his old
side-partner, Doc Macnooder. Doc was eminently practical and if Doc
devoted any part of his time to an inconsequential underformer, in the
language of the day, there was something doing.
The early visits of Macnooder to Skippy's room at the time of the Foot
Regulator campaign had been noted, likewise the subsequent cooling of
the affection. So when after a few weeks' lapse Macnooder was again seen
impelling Skippy in the direction of the Jigger Shop with a protecting
arm over his shoulders, the Tennessee Shad whistled softly through his
teeth and said to himself:
"I wonder what new flim-flam game is on?"
Now Macnooder was distinctly a trespasser, for Macnooder belonged to the
Dickinson and Skippy was of the Kennedy and, by that token, his lawful
prize. The Tennessee Shad's vigilance redoubled. He began to note the
air of mystery and solemnity which hung over the two roommates, their
frequent whisperings and the moments of intense excitement when, with
locked arms and heads close together, they drew surreptitiously away
from their fellows for secret conclave. When presently Greaser Tunxton,
a solitary youngster who ranked high among the polers and high markers
with a curious penchant for chemistry, began to be seen in their
company, the Tennessee Shad's vigilance became acute.
One night, when after hours he was returning from a midnight spread in
King Lentz's room, his ear detected unmistakable signs of activity
behind Skippy's door across the hall. A quarter of an hour later two
stocking-clad forms stole past his open door and slowly down the
treacherous stairs. The Tennessee Shad followed.
* * * * *
Below, the door of Greaser Tunxton opened cautiously and as cautiously
closed again. A moment later the Shad, now at the keyhole, heard the
window open and the sounds of a foray into the night. He calculated
nicely, passed into the room and out the window and took up the trail of
the three shadows moving in the general direction of Memorial Hall.
Ten minutes later the Tennessee Shad, having stalked his prey in classic
Deerslayer manner, reached the farther stretches of the pond and, flat
on his stomach among the high grasses, heard the following mysterious
dialogue:
"How's this, Skippy?"
"Fine! Must be millions of them."
"Do you suppose they sleep?"
"We'll wake 'em up."
"Shucks! It's only bullfrogs," thought the Tennessee Shad; but at this
moment perceiving the three in clear silhouette against the faint
moonlight, he instantly discarded that explanation. The three wanderers
into the night were clothed in helmets, from which voluminous folds of
cheesecloth descended to the waists, while each had his trousers rolled
up well above the knees. The conversation continued, to his growing
mystification.
"They're awake, all right. I can hear them coming!"
"You're the boss, Skippy. What's the order?"
"Twenty paces apart. Greaser, you shake the bell, slowly. Snorky, you
stand here, and, mind you, no slapping or moving. Everything
scientific."
"All right, but get a move on. Ouch, I've got two already."
"Red leg or blue leg?"
"Blue, darn it!"
"Fine! I'll count a hundred slowly. Start up, Greaser."
The low, harsh, grating sounds of a rusty bell slowly agitated began to
be heard, punctuating the droning count: "Five, six, seven!"
"For the love of Willie Keeler, what is it!" said the Shad, more and
more bewildered, as he rubbed one leg against the other and shook his
head to protect himself from the many insects. "It must be a secret
society and this is the initiation."
"Skippy?"
"Hello!"
"The bell's no good at all."
"Twenty-nine, thirty--remember your oath."
"Say! Count a little faster; I can't hold out much longer."
"Red leg or blue?"
"Both, darn it!"
"Any difference?"
The reply was too blasphemous to be set down here.
The Tennessee Shad, too, was paying dearly the price of his curiosity;
so, being convinced that he had stumbled upon a secret initiation, he
decided to get some enjoyment out of the situation. Presently,
trumpeting his mouth with his hands, he emitted a long, wailing sound:
"Ugh, wugh, guggle, guggle!"
"Good lord! What was that?"
"Did you hear it?"
"It's a night owl that's all; fifty-six, fifty-seven--"
"Oonah, woonah, WOO, HOO!"
"Night owls nothing; it's ghosts!"
"There ain't no ghosts, you chicken-livered--"
But at this moment the Tennessee Shad, smarting from head to foot, let
out an ear-splitting screech and the three experimenters in mosquitology
disappeared at top speed. The Tennessee Shad, satisfied, emerged,
examined with curiosity a discarded helmet smeared with
citronella-soaked cheesecloth, and picked up a rusty dinner bell. This
last stuck in the crop of his imagination.
"Secret-society stuff," he said to himself as he slapped his way out of
the marsh. "But why the bell? Darn mysterious, that bell. . . ."