Читать книгу Poppy Ott and the Freckled Goldfish - Edward Edson Lee - Страница 4

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Poppy Ott was a sort of puzzle to me when I first began running around with him. Realizing that he was just a boy after all I couldn’t quite trust his big schemes. The thing for him to do, I thought, was to put his ambition on a strict diet. But from association with him over a decidedly lively period I’ve come to the conclusion that mere size is unimportant. A diamond is a million times more valuable than a paving brick. Certainly the mere fact that he’s a boy with fuzz on his upper lip hasn’t handicapped old Poppy to any noticeable extent.

The first adventure that I shared with him was the mystery of the “Stuttering Parrot.” There, let me tell you, is where the shivers piled in on us. Oh, baby! Even now if I wake up in the middle of the night, when all is silent, I find myself listening sort of breathless-like, my nerves all on edge, for footfalls on the roof. Those peculiar bird-like footfalls! Such a mystery!

Then came the “Seven-League Stilts.” It was fun to call ourselves stilt manufacturers. It sounded big. But there was no pretending with Poppy. No, sir-ee! The usual man-sized dreams were turning handsprings in the back of his head. And, as the story’s climax goes to prove, he made those dreams come true.

With our new stilt factory hippering along at full speed we then merrily set forth on a “hitch-hike,” as a sort of vacation, where we fell in with a mysterious old geezer and an equally goofy spotted gander. Oh, boy, talk about fun! No wonder the kids called the rickety old bus “The Galloping Snail.” Here, again, in the unusual house where the millionaire had died so strangely, we bumped into further “ghost” stuff—weird rap-a-tap-taps, which old Mrs. Doane declared was death raps, gliding footfalls, unseen, gimlet eyes, the pleasant smell of a “dead man,” and a bewitched clock.

The mystery solved, spotted gander and all, we lit out for home, and no sooner had we hit the old burg than we found ourselves, so to speak, buried in cucumbers up to our ears. Then came the famous “Pedigreed Pickles.” At one time things looked pretty dark for us. But with old Poppy manfully jiggling the helm, we weathered the gale, as the saying is, sailing into port with flying colors.

Oh, Poppy’s smart, all right! As I’ve said before, the angels had a particularly generous streak the day they screwed him together and tacked on the address. Instead of sifting in a spoonful of brains, the usual portion, they dumped in a whole kettleful. Then, to sort of even things, they dumped in an extra gob of courage and two extra gobs of loyalty. There he is as I know him—a boy with his wits about him, true-blue all the way through, as fine a buddy as ever slid down a slivery plank.

In further description, to be serious, I might add that old Poppy has the manliest ways, the broadest grin, the most thoughtful eyes, the best diving lungs and the biggest neck wart of any boy in Tutter. His pa, you may remember, if you have read the earlier books of this series, is the general manager of the growing stilt business. So spruce and dignified is Mr. Ott to-day, and so businesslike, that it’s hard to believe that only a short time ago he was a tramp. But, to that point, see the big change in Poppy, himself!

As written down in the opening of my story, the leader’s latest interest had puzzled me. But now I had a good line on him. He had bought the goldfish, not because he particularly wanted them, or even considered them a good investment, but to help out an old lady who had let him believe that she was too hard up to buy shingles for her own leaky roof.

That was like Poppy, of course! He’s never so happy as when he’s looking out for some one else. His idea of a daily good turn is to keep on turning until bedtime. And what a big joy it had been to him, no doubt, to liberally cough up the needed two hundred dollars. Yet, in doing so, what a silly monkey he had made of himself!

For, as I have written down, Mrs. Potter Warmley wasn’t poor at all, though to give her the curious once-over in her old-fashioned toggery you’d think that she had to depend, for clothing, on other people’s ragbags. She owns property in the heart of the business section that will bring a hundred thousand dollars any day in the week. A hundred thousand dollars, mind you! Probably, like the miser that she is, she has another hundred thousand dollars stuck away in the local banks. All you need to do is to take one squint at her run-down place to realize that her main interest in life is hoarding money. People of that stamp will let buildings rot to the ground for want of paint. They’ll even go hungry. And how my usually keen-minded chum had been so completely taken in was beyond me.

Of course, he had gotten something in return for his money—it wasn’t as though the two hundred dollars was an out-and-out donation. But two hundred dollars is a whale of a big price to pay for a thousand goldfish. I’ll tell the world! This was one time when Poppy’s kind heart had upset his usual good business judgment.

We could hear the voices of the carpenters as they galloped around the house roof with their hammers. And through the bushes, just ahead of us, came the silvery tinkle of the big fountain, at one time the central ornament in a wide, well-kept lawn. But when you shut your eyes on a lawn for years and years, giving it no attention, it fast becomes a jungle. And so it was here. The bushes that had been kept so carefully trimmed in an earlier day, were now young giants. New saplings had sprung up; and the mother trees tried constantly to find new ways of cluttering up the place. In consequence, the lonely homestead had gained the name of the “Hidden House.” And that is exactly what it was—a town house, built extravagantly in the middle of a square, with streets on all four sides, completely shut in by a living jungle.

Mrs. Warmley wasn’t liked very well. The neighbors were out of patience with her because she didn’t make her place look like something. She had no civic pride, they said. And the local real estate men, to their part, were out of patience with her because she wouldn’t give up a foot of her valuable land. What they wanted to do, of course, was to lay out the block in store frontages, for, as I say, the property was located in the very heart of the business section. But their big offers didn’t change her. And feeling the neighborhood’s growing unfriendliness, the old lady, in late years, had kept more and more to herself.

What gave me something of an interest in her was her unusual collection of goldfish, the raising of which was a sort of hobby. I had found out, though, that it didn’t please her for two cents to have the town kids hanging around her big goldfish fountain, which, though run down like the rest of the premises, was still able to squirt a fairly good-sized stream. It was the report that in the winter time the goldfish were kept in the house.

Pushing aside the bushes, Poppy and I came within full sight of the big fountain, and what do you know if Chester Ringbow wasn’t parked there, as big as cuffy, with a fishing pole stuck out in front of him. Catching our dollar goldfish, mind you! The nerve of some young sprouts!

The Ringbows haven’t lived in Tutter many months. And from what I’ve seen of them, mother and son, I can imagine how terribly grieved the other town was when they packed up and got out. Oh, yes! Mrs. Flossie Ringbow is the owner of the new beauty parlor on School Street, directly opposite Mr. Lung’s corner laundry. Some swell joint!—meaning the beauty parlor, of course, and not the laundry. But the old beauty parlor next door to the laundry, run by Red Meyers’ aunt, Mrs. Pansy Biggle, is still hitting on all six, I’m told, and getting its share of the local beautifying business.

The day “The Charm” had its grand opening, which was a kind of flower show set to orchestra music, with Mrs. Flossie flitting around among the tulips and sunflowers all lit up in satin and diamonds, young Rainbow, as we call him, playfully bounced a rock off Red Meyers’ bean, which nicely touched off the dynamite, so to speak, and when the battle clouds had cleared away, thus giving Mrs. Flossie a peek at the staggering human wreck that was once the cunning little rock-pegging genius of the family, there was indignant talk on mamma’s part of a lawsuit.

And here, as I say, was little fussbudget, twiddling a baited hook under the very snouts of some of our choicest stock-in-trade.

“Beat it,” scowled the lordly young sportsman, giving us our orders. “This isn’t a public park.”

“What is it?” says Poppy, showing his temper. “A zoo?”

“Don’t get funny with your Uncle Dudley,” Rainbow ran out his neck, “or I’ll give you a free ride to the hospital.”

“Who told you that you could fish here?”

“None of your business.”

I got the leader’s ear.

“He’s the target-hitter,” says I, “who socked Red Meyers with the young tombstone.”

“Well, well,” I then came in for special jeering attention, “if it isn’t little ‘Jelly.’”

He had heard the Chinaman call me that.

“Your face will be jelly,” I shoved out my jaw at him, “if I light into you.”

“Don’t muss up his face any worse than it is,” Poppy put in.

“If it looked half as bad as yours,” smarty neck-stretched some more, “I’d hate to own it.”

Just then the fisherman’s bobber went down.

“Hot dog!” he yipped, yanking on the line. “This is fun.”

Angrily jerking the pole out of the other’s hands, Poppy carefully unhooked the wriggling fish, returning it unharmed to the pool.

Bing! Before I could yell to my chum to warn him, a dirty cob struck the side of his face, after which ten-year-old stunt the enemy lit out on high gear.

“I’ll get you guys,” he screeched over his shoulder.

Poppy wiped his cheek.

“I have a hunch,” says he, with a kind of tight look around the mouth, “that young Rainbow and yours truly are going to meet again.”

“When you do meet him,” I spit out, “knock him cold. For he ought to know better than to go around pegging stuff like a little kid.”

“Oh! . . . I don’t want to get into a fist fight and have people call me a rowdy. There’s other ways of fixing him.”

During the past few months I had been too busy “Seven-League-Stilting” and “Pedigreed-Pickling” to give much thought to Mrs. Warmley’s goldfish tribe, but now, with a personal interest in the goldfish, I curiously circled the deep pool.

“Well,” grinned Poppy, following me, “what do you think of them?”

“If there aren’t two thousand here,” says I, watching the flashing gold as the fish turned their sides to the sun, “I’ll eat my shirt.”

“See that big one, Jerry,” the leader pointed. “Isn’t he a darb? Look at his spiffy tail.”

“That must be the papa,” I grinned.

“They sure are beauties.”

“It’s a queer hobby,” says I, “for a woman as tight as Mrs. Warmley.”

The other didn’t like that.

“Say, Jerry,” he caught my eyes, “where do you get that ‘tight’ stuff?”

“And do you still believe,” I stared at him in surprise, “that she’s a poor woman?”

“She has plenty of property,” he admitted, looking around.

“Yah,” I bobbed my head, “I guess she has! And she’s got money in the bank, too.”

“What makes you think so?” he followed up quietly.

“I think so, because the neighbors all say so.”

“It may be,” came in further quietness, “that the neighbors are wrong.”

“My,” I stuck up my nose, “aren’t we smart!”

The moment I said it, though, I was sorry. But to tell the truth it sort of griped me to have him contradict my story. For having lived in Tutter all my life I felt that I ought to know more about local history than him.

Still, it suddenly was pushed into my memory, all I knew about the queer goldfish owner was what I had heard. And plainly the leader had been in closer contact with her than me.

“Jerry,” he paid no attention to my spiteful outburst, “I’m going to tell you a secret. Mrs. Warmley is rich in property, as we all know, but she hasn’t enough real money coming in to support a canary bird.”

It wasn’t to be doubted that he knew what he was talking about. And in consequence I was somewhat bewildered. A fellow always feels that way when old ideas are suddenly turned upside down.

“If she’s as money poor as that,” was my natural question, “why doesn’t she sell out?”

Certainly I couldn’t see any sense in a woman suffering for the want of ready money when she owned a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of desirable property.

“Remember, Jerry,” came in further earnestness, “this is a secret.”

“Shoot,” says I. “For you ought to know by this time that you can trust me with any kind of a secret—even the name of your best girl.”

“I didn’t know I had one,” he grinned, like the good old pal that he is.

“Stick to your story,” says I.

“This place, as you may have heard,” he then went on, “was built by Mr. Potter Warmley, one of the county’s pioneer cement manufacturers.”

“Everybody around here knows about him,” I put in.

“He had big ideas, as was shown when he built this place. The house is a young hotel in size. It cost him fifty thousand dollars. To-day, in its run-down condition, it wouldn’t sell for five thousand dollars. But, as I say, the land is worth a fortune. Everything was kept ship-shape during Mr. Warmley’s lifetime. A landscape gardener gave all of his time to the grounds. Servants did the housework. There was a conservatory, too, filled with flowers the year around.”

“I know the place,” I nodded. “It’s around in back. That is where I caught the big owl that tried to nip my finger off.”

“Did you ever hear of Sidney Warmley?” Poppy then inquired.

“Sure thing. He was the only son.”

“On his tenth birthday his mother gave him a pair of goldfish, which explains how the goldfish got started. Later on, when he got into long pants, he turned out bad. Things went wrong at the cement mill, too. Dying, Mr. Warmley left more debts than ready cash. The mill was sold. And the money it brought, above the debts, was mostly spent by Mrs. Warmley in trying, without success, to locate her runaway son. It is in the continued hope that he still will walk in on her some day that she has kept the place all these years, just as it was when he left, goldfish and all. Now you know why she won’t sell; and you know about the goldfish, too. Instead of rolling in money, as the neighbors think, she hardly knows where her next sack of flour is coming from. I tell her that she ought, at least, to sell off a lot or two. But, no, she promised her dying husband that she would keep the entire property for the runaway son; and you can depend on it that she’ll never break her word, however foolish it looks to you and me.”

“From your talk,” says I, “you must be on pretty good terms with her.”

“I am,” he nodded. “When I first came to town I cleaned out her cistern, thinking, of course, like everybody else around here, that she was as rich as dirt. I wish now, though, that I hadn’t taken her two dollars. I remind her of her boy, she says, which explains why she has taken such a fancy to me. Yesterday I surprised her on the roof, trying to patch the leaks. Just imagine, Jerry, that old lady on the roof! I was scared stiff for fear she would fall and break her neck. Well, getting her down safely, I went up myself. But I saw it was a hopeless case. The old roof had seen its last days. Coming down, I told her that she’d have to shell out the jack for a new roof. And what do you suppose happened, Jerry?”

“What?” says I quickly.

“She fainted dead away. Well, I got her into bed. And I heard things then, when she was out of her head, that gave her away. I took a squint in the pantry. And when I saw the empty shelves I never felt so sick in all my life. The poor old lady! I got some groceries in a jiffy. Later, when she was able to sit up, we had a long frank talk. It did her a lot of good, I guess, to have some one to open her heart to. It was foolish to keep so many goldfish, I told her, when we could sell them. The deal followed. And now you know why I’ve set the price at a dollar apiece. For the more money we take in the more comforts we’ll be able to provide for her.”

I shoved out my mitt.

“Poppy,” says I, as sober as the day my poor tomcat skidded under the wheels of the garbage truck, “I want to ask your pardon. You aren’t dumb; and you aren’t greedy. You’re all right. I still don’t see how we’re going to sell dollar goldfish. But, kid, whatever you say goes. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

I stood there loving him with my eyes. And I guess, too, that they were kind of dim eyes. For in that moment, with the goldfish wagging their happy little tails beside me, I realized more than ever before what a wonderful pal he was.

Splash!

Thrown at us from the bushes, the rock fell short, landing in the pool. Some more of Rainbow’s small-boy tricks, of course. We took after him. But, with so many hiding places, he easily dodged us.