THE PRESCOTT PUZZLE
"Yes, sir--ter my mind, he's plumb crazy."
"Big Bill" Dugan, the stage-driver, wearing his usual sour expression,
growled these words, as he stood, late one afternoon, on the Resort
House porch.
There was the usual crowd present, sitting and lounging around, and
"Big Bill's" harsh voice was loud enough to reach them all. Sile
Stringer, the old man of Mountain Village, who had been half dozing in
a chair, sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Plumb crazy--who's plumb crazy, Bill Dugan?" he quavered.
"When I says a thing, Stringer, I says it oncet," growled Bill. "If yer
can't listen, I----"
"Who's plumb crazy?"
"Jest listen at him!" The lines above Dugan's nose deepened. "That
feller over ter Promontory."
"What's he gone and did now?"
"Always a-buttin' in, Sile Stringer--go ter sleep ag'in," and Dugan
walked impatiently to the other end of the porch.
"Neil Prescott crazy?" questioned Sam Randall; "I guess not--he's sharp
as a steel trap."
"I'm not talkin' ter the nursery," said Bill Dugan, ungraciously, "but,
ter my mind, if ye'd like ter know, he's plumb out of his senses."
"How--in what way?"
"What's he a-buyin' sich stacks of grub for, eh? He's got 'nuff ter
last a man six months."
"How d'ye find that out, Bill?" interrupted Tom Sanders.
"The feller he bought 'em of tole me--that's how. An' only yisterday I
seen him takin' over a lot more. An' ain't it 'nuff ter make any man
laugh ter see the way he handles that boat?"
Old Sile again sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Who--who d'ye mean, Bill Dugan? Handles what boat?" he asked.
The stage-driver cast a withering look at the "oldest inhabitant."
"Go ter sleep," he growled. "If the man ain't crazy, would he build a
fire so big that yer kin 'most feel the heat of it over here? No, sir,
fur my part, he's plumb crazy. An' what's he doin' on the island; an'
where's 'e come from, ennyway? Who knows 'im?" "Big Bill" paused and
glared at his auditors. "Who knows 'im?" he repeated.
"Knows who, Bill Dugan?" came a quavering voice.
This time, the stage-driver paid no heed. "If that man ain't plumb
crazy, I'm mistook."
"Wouldn't be the fust time," sneered Tom Sanders.
"Now, now--be good," laughed Mr. George Kimball, of Boston. "Bill, tell
us something more about this mysterious old character."
The stage-driver sniffed.
"As long's ye got nothin' ter do but loaf around all day, I should
think you'd know more'n me, who's got ter work fur a livin'," he
growled. "Guess nobody's goin' ter ask me ter grub with 'em, so I'll
git."
"I say, Bill Dugan," came a voice, "did you say some one's plumb crazy?
Who's plumb crazy?"
A sort of grunt not unlike the growl of a bear sounded, and "Big Bill"
Dugan was down the steps.
Old Sile Stringer sat up and looked around with a quizzical smile. Then
he remarked, "I suspicioned he was going to act that 'ere way. I've
know'd 'im since he was a kid, an' I ain't never know'd a day when Bill
didn't speak rude to some one."
When Sam Randall and Tom Clifton walked home, they were accompanied
part way by the last named youth, with whom they had made peace. Their
principal topic of conversation was the strange dweller on Promontory
Island.
"Let's skip over to-morrer mornin' an' see old Squeal Pressed
Biscuits," suggested Sanders.
Early next morning, the boys met at the wharf, and were not
particularly surprised to find "Little Bill" hanging around.
"He's brought the Dugan scowl with him, all right," observed Tommy
Clifton, with a laugh.
"Sure, jest look at the mug on him," added Sanders.
"Let's get on board so as to be as far away as possible when the row
starts," chimed in Sam, and his advice was followed.
Before the lines were cast off, however, "Little Bill" turned toward
them.
"My eye, Sanders," he exclaimed, "I always thought you was a purty big
chump, an' now I knows it. Goin' with this here crowd, now?"
"Run right along, an' warble ter Billee the Big," growled Sanders. "If
I oncet git up there, I'll chase yer!"
"Yer will, hey?" retorted "Little Bill." "Yer ain't big 'nuff by two
feet ter chase me. Yer 'most as bad as that elephant roamin' the
mountains. Chase me, hey?"
A bucket half full of water was standing near by; "Little Bill's"
wrath was too great to be appeased by mere words. Before Sam Randall
could push off, a sheet of water curved gracefully through the air and
descended squarely on Sanders' head and shoulders.
"Know'd I git a chancet some day," cried "Little Bill."
Then he and a cloud of dust kept pace together up the yellow road.
When Sanders had recovered sufficiently to speak, he turned a
forlorn-looking face toward the two Ramblers, and observed, with
considerable vehemence, "It's a good thing yer ain't a-laughin' at me."
Sam Randall's face had turned purple from suppressed mirth; it was
only by a great effort that he stifled his desire to roar, and thus a
tremendous row was probably averted.
Meanwhile, they had made a start. For once, they skirted the far shore
of Hemlock Island, finally anchoring just below the passageway.
The climb to Neil Prescott's cabin brought them a disappointment--the
place was deserted.
"Gee! This is mean luck!" grumbled Tommy.
"But the old duffer is on the island, for we saw his boat," put in Sam.
"Let's look around a bit."
So down the cliff they scrambled; then began to wander around amidst
the trees, gradually working their way toward the western end of the
island.
"Gee! Where can he be, I wonder?" said Sam. "We can't get much
further."
"Hello! Look at this," remarked Sanders, presently. "Pertaters."
He pointed to the ground.
"Jiminy! A regular trail of 'em," put in Sam.
"Maybe old Pressed Biscuits is going ter start a patch."
"Wonder how in the dickens they came here, anyway?" mused Tom.
"Give it up," said Sanders. "All I know is how some of 'em is a-goin'
ter leave."
Stooping over, he gathered a pocketful.
"For goodness' sake--there's Neil now!" exclaimed Sam, suddenly.
They had emerged from a clump of trees and the end of the island was in
sight.
Neil Prescott, at the very farthest point, had his back turned. He was
leaning over, with a long pole in his hand, apparently gazing at the
water. The boys saw an object resembling a cask floating slowly away on
the current.
"Sh--sh! Let's see what Pressed Bricks--that's as good a name fur
him--is up ter," whispered Sanders.
"Say! This is funny," muttered Tom.
Neil straightened up; then sat down on a rock, with his back still to
them.
"I'm a-goin' ter give him the s'prise of his life," grinned Sanders.
"Watch!"
He drew forth a potato, and sent it flying toward the sitter,
observing, pleasantly, "Keep still, an' listen fur the plunk."
The tuber was small and round, and the curve Sanders gave it was
perfect. Neil Prescott received it directly in the middle of the back,
and proceeded to arise much more quickly than he had sat down.
Sanders let out a tremendous yell, waved his arms in the air, and the
trio walked forward.
For an instant, the "hermit" seemed greatly nonplussed. Then,
recognizing the boys, he quietly resumed his seat.
"Well, well!" he exclaimed, reproachfully; "this here is a
surprise--who throw'd it?"
"See here, old sport," said Sanders, ignoring the question, and
pointing to the cask, "why did you chuck that in the lake?"
"H'm," Neil Prescott looked at the speaker calmly; "you're another one
of them quizzers from Quizzerville--jest joined, eh? Hain't got me
life's history writ out yet, an'----"
"Aw--wake up, an' answer me."
"Yes--go ahead, Neil," coaxed Sam Randall.
"Didn't yer never hear tell of them scientists what do all sorts o'
funny things?"
"What's this 'bout yer buyin' three tons of grub a week, old sport?"
asked Sanders, rudely.
"I kin swear I ain't buyin' an ounce over a ton," replied Neil, as he
filled a very large pipe and winked at Tommy Clifton. "No, fur a fact,
I hain't."
Tom Sanders sniffed.
"Now, old sport, you ain't as smart as you think. What was you a-goin'
ter do with them 'taters back there?" A jerk of his thumb indicated the
direction.
"'Tatars' is Latin fur pertaters, ain't it? I never went ter
no college, but l'arnin' comes nat'ral ter me, jist as it acts
kinder opposite with you. I remember oncet, when I was young an'
unsoapfixycated, a man says ter me----"
"Aw--cut it out," growled the disgusted Sanders. "Why did you throw
that thing in the water?"
"So as ter put in me life's hist'ry--writ by special request of the
chief quizzer of Quizzerville--that Neil Prescott, at the height of his
career, was a-studyin' currents. Who's a-comin' up ter the office?"
Neil winked and chuckled many times on the walk back, and laughed
gruffly at parting.
"We've learned an awful lot eh?" ventured Tommy Clifton.
"My eye, but I think Billee the Big hit it about right," said Sanders.
"The feller ain't got no sense in him."
"One thing sure," remarked Sam Randall, "Neil had just shoved off that
keg."
"Yep."
"And what in the dickens were those potatoes doing there?" put in Tommy.
The boys walked along in silence for a few steps, when Sam turned
toward his companions, and said, abruptly, "I give it up. The whole
thing is just a bit too deep for me."