Читать книгу Poppy Ott Hits the Trail - Edward Edson Lee - Страница 4

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Before I go on with my story, I think I better tell you something about myself and the town in which I live. And as my other chums have a prominent part in the story, I’m going to tell you about them too. Nor must I overlook faithful Davey Jones. Gee! He’s only a sea turtle. But if the time ever comes when animals are awarded hero medals he ought to get one as big as an elephant’s back porch.

For not only did he let us load him down with our camping truck, as the pictures in this book prove; but later on he actually saved our lives. Like Ali Baba’s greedy brother we got into the treasure cave all right. But we couldn’t get out! And without Davey’s help our bones undoubtedly would have been added to the pile under the air shaft. Those grim whitened bones! They told a strange story. And they further put an end to a still stranger mystery.

But I won’t say any more about the bones here. That part comes later on.

My name is Jerry Todd. And like my swell dad, who owns a brickyard, I was born and raised in Tutter, Illinois. You can tell by the name of our town that it isn’t very big. For “Tutter” doesn’t sound like Chicago or Boston or San Francisco. When you hear the name spoken, or see it in print, you naturally think of cowpaths and hitching posts. That’s us, all right! But I like it. I wouldn’t trade towns with any boy anywhere. Nor would I trade chums. For I think I’ve got the best home, and the best chums, of any boy in the whole United States.

Take my chum Red Meyers, for instance. With his freckles and brick-colored topknot he isn’t much to look at. In fact, it’s generally conceded, even in his own family, that he’s the homeliest kid in the community. But he’s true-blue to his pals. Every time. And what he lacks in size he makes up for in gab. Dad laughingly calls him the little squirt with the big squawk. And can he squawk! Oh, baby!

Red and I live in the same block. He has a swell big barn, where we often put on wild-west shows; and his father runs a moving-picture theatre. Mrs. Meyers and mother belong to the same church societies, mainly the Stitch and Chatter Club, which meets once a week to make fancy hair-curlers for the heathens. In the same way Mr. Meyers and dad attend the same lodges. Red and I in turn often trade meals. He lets me know when his ma is cooking up something special, like fried chicken or liver and onions. And I do the same with him. In that way we both get a double dose of everything.

He further trades meals with Rory Ringer, another member of our gang, who lives at the other end of the block. Rory recently came to America from England. And you should hear his gab! He can’t say “arm” to save his life—at least he never does. With him an “arm” is a “harm.” And a “house” is an “’ouse.” He further calls “hawks” “’awks,” and “owls” “howls.” It sure is funny. One time when he was eating at our house he asked mum to pass him the “kyke.” And then he asked for another “bananah.” It was Red who got him into our gang. I thought myself that the newcomer was kind of small. But I’ve learned since that mere size is unimportant. Grit is the thing that counts. And Rory sure has it in big gobs. In our numerous battles with the tough Stricker gang, he holds his own with the best of us. And can he heave rotten tomatoes! Oh, oh! He hits the bull’s-eye every time.

Older members of our six-cornered gang are big Peg Shaw and Scoop Ellery. As I have written down in my various books, Peg is our best scrapper. But don’t get the idea that he goes around looking for a scrap. Absolutely not! He’s the best-natured kid in town. But he can put aside that big grin of his in a jiffy, let me tell you, if the occasion requires it. And then—oh, boy! He’s a whole battalion in himself. As for Scoop, it’s his swell leadership that has brought us through more than one neighborhood battle with flying colors.

At one time Scoop was our sole leader. But now he shares the leadership of our gang with Poppy Ott. There’s a pair for you! Poppy himself likes to work out clever business schemes. It’s born in him. Scoop in turn is a born detective. In fact, we all have detective badges. We call ourselves the Juvenile Jupiter Detectives of America. And we’ve had the good fortune to bump into some real mysteries too.

First, there was the mystery of the strange “Whispering Mummy.” Then the mysteries of the “Rose-Colored Cat,” the “Oak Island Treasure,” the “Waltzing Hen” and the “Talking Frog.” I’ve put our adventures into a series of books, like this one. And while the titles may sound odd to you, or even childish, don’t get the idea that I write fairy tales. Hardly! Take the “Talking Frog” book for instance. The mechanical frog itself was the clever invention of an odd old man, whose valuable radio device would have been stolen by a crooked toy manufacturer if we hadn’t stepped in. There’s a “ghost” in this exciting story, and a queer “puzzle room.” From beginning to end the book is packed full of fun and mystery. Having put a finish to that adventure, we next solved the crazy mystery of the “Purring Egg,” and after that in turn more mysteries, one of which took us into a strange “Whispering Cave” on Oak Island. While there we played “Pirate” to help a strange boy, who stood in danger of losing his inheritance. Later we found ourselves in charge of a newspaper. I started in as Editor-in-Chief. But I got into so much hot water with my mixed-up editorials (the wonder is that I didn’t get into jail!) that I soon changed my title to “Editor-in-Grief.” Still later we set up a “Caveman” kingdom on Oak Island, a favorite haunt of ours. And now, as I say, we were about to stumble headlong into still another mystery.

Many Illinois towns are surrounded by flat prairies. But Tutter is shut in by big hills, rolled up, thousands of years ago, by the gigantic river that then emptied the Great Lakes into the Gulf of Mexico. There is still a small river in the floor of the valley. But the two streams that give us the most fun in summer are Clarks Creek, as mentioned, and the winding canal into which the creek empties. The land that the creek drains is too hilly for farming. And deep in these northern hills is a remarkable waterfall. In the spring, or in rainy weather, this waterfall is a sight worth seeing. But few people ever get to it. For it’s too wildly located. Some day, I dare say, it will be made into a state park, like Starved Rock, another local point of interest. And then, of course, expensive roads will be built, enabling people to get close to the falls in cars. I suppose that’s all right. As long as the natural beauty is there, the people who make up the state have a right to enjoy it. Yet I hate to see the old wildness disappear. For boys love that kind of stuff. And I’d like to see some of the natural wildness left for the boys who will follow me. The best fun in the world is camping. At least that’s my idea. And there’s no camping that equals wild camping. It’s real fun when you’re in a place where you can roam in all directions without being chased by bulls or confronted by a “keep-off-the-grass” sign. And a camp with electric lights, grocery-store service and running water is no camp at all.

I’m going to tell you about a real camp!

The Stricker gang that I mentioned lives in Zulutown, which is the name that the Tutter people have for the tough west-side section beyond my dad’s brickyard. The two parts of town are divided by a raised switch-track. This track is the danger line. And if we go beyond it, any time of the day or night, we sensibly arm ourselves with rocks and clubs.

Bid Stricker, the leader, hates the ground we walk on. And nothing pleases him any better than to corner us singly and plaster us with mud. He’s jealous too because we have the best ideas. If we put on a show he tries his best to break it up. And in the same way he followed us to Oak Island one time and stole our scow. That was the time we played “Pirate.” And did we ever fix him in the end! Oh, baby! I’m glad he’s in this book. For I want to show you how we handle him when he gets too fresh.

Other members of the gang that you’ll meet in the following pages are Jimmy Stricker, Bid’s cousin, Jum Prater (whose mouth is so big that he has to put clothespins on it when he yawns to keep from turning inside-out) and the two Milden brothers, Chet and Hib.

Before Rory and Poppy came along, to join forces with us, Bid had us outnumbered. But now the situation is reversed. So, whenever a battle starts, we’re pretty certain how it will end, if we’re all together. And even if we’re shy a warrior or two, we can usually hold our own if Peg himself is on hand.

But let’s get on with my story.

Poppy had just told me about his amazing discovery at Clarks Falls. He had every reason to believe, he said, that he had actually located the entrance to the Long Lost lead mine, as worked, years ago, by the native Indians. I had often hunted for the mine myself. But it never had occurred to me, or to the hundreds of other boys who had similarly searched for it, that the entrance was submerged.

I had heard it said that a landslide in the vicinity of the falls had undoubtedly blocked the hidden cave, which was further believed to contain all kinds of native Indian trinkets. But now it would seem that instead of covering up the cave direct, as suspected, the landslide instead had caused the water under the falls to back up and do the concealing.

Which in itself was odd. But even odder was the manner in which the cave had just been rediscovered. A captive bass had done the trick!

And now the successful young explorer was walking on air.

“Yes, sir, Jerry,” says he, with dancing eyes, “we’re going to be rich. For the lead in that cave is worth a fortune. And probably we’ll find a lot of valuable Indian pottery too.”

“But how are you going to get at it,” says I, “if it’s covered up with water?”

“First of all I’m going to make a diving suit, to explore the cave. And if it turns out to be the cave I suspect, we’ll buy a pumping outfit and pump the pool dry. Then we can go into the cave just like the Indians did.”

“You’ll need a pretty big pump,” says I, “if it works faster than the falls itself.”

“Shucks! We haven’t had a drop of rain for weeks. And the falls is almost all dried up.”

I did some heavy thinking.

“Poppy,” says I, at length, “had it occurred to you that there might be a curse on that mine?”

“What do you mean?” says he, searching my face.

“Well,” says I, “you say yourself that the trapper was killed by a landslide before he could get into the cave. That looks suspicious. And I’d sure hate to have a similar landslide get chummy with me.”

“I’ll take a chance,” says he daringly.

Then he added:

“By the way, Jerry, didn’t you tell me the other day that Red Meyers had rigged up some kind of a diving outfit to hunt for lost golf balls?”

“Sure thing,” says I. “But I know what’ll happen to you if you start out to explore a submerged cave with that goofy contraption. For poor Red himself almost suffocated the afternoon that he and Rory tried it out in their cistern.”

“Maybe I can perfect it.”

“All it is,” says I, “is a pail turned upside-down, with a rubber hose fastened to it. There are glass eyeholes in the pail, and a rubber neckband to keep the water out. With Rory pumping air into the hose with an auto pump, Red thought sure that he could go any place under water. But the place he came nearest to was the local hospital. And his mother tells the story that he still drips water out of his ears when he sneezes.”

Poppy laughed.

“I’m sorry I missed that.”

“Red and Rory are caddying this summer. And they found out that the big water hazard in the golf course is literally plastered with lost golf balls. That’s what gave them the idea for the submarine outfit. But so far as I know to the contrary, the water-logged golf balls are still there.”

“Nevertheless,” persisted Poppy, “I’d like to see their outfit. For we’ve got to have something like that.”

Here a peculiar scraping sound occurred at the front door.

“What’s that?” says I, startled.

Laughing, Poppy opened the door. And in waddled a huge turtle.

It was old Davey Jones himself!

If you have read my book about the “Prancing Pancake” you’ll need no introduction to old Davey, the educated sea turtle. He was brought to town by one of the book’s main characters, who at one time owned a complete animal circus.

The first time I saw Davey he scared the wits out of me. I stumbled upon him in the weeds in Happy Hollow, just outside of town. His odd master was feeding him bits of raw liver. And it was then that I heard his history.

He came from Boot Island, in the tropics. And it was generally conceded by scientists that he was hundreds of years old. Anyway he was the biggest thing of his kind that I ever had set eyes on. So, when he took after me, on those powerful legs of his, with outstretched neck, it isn’t to be wondered at that I screeched bloody murder. I thought then that he was going to chaw a hole in my back porch. But I learned later that this was his way of having fun. When spoken to, by his odd master, he looked up at me as meek as a kitten. And when instructed, he even offered me one of his front flappers. That was his way of “shaking hands.”

He had earlier saved his master’s life. That’s why he was retained when all of the other performing animals in the show were sold.

Called away, on important business, the retired showman had left his unusual pet with old Cap’n Tinkertop in Zulutown. But it was nothing uncommon for the turtle to get out of his pen and wander around town. At first he caused a sensation. But the people soon learned that he was harmless. And now he frequently carried small children on his back.

Some of the kids, of course, thought it was smart to poke sticks at him. But he soon put a stop to that! And did I ever hoot the day he took after Bid Stricker. Gosh! Bid’s eyes stuck out like halved onions. To save himself he climbed a tree. Nor did the turtle let him come down till ten o’clock that night.

“Who are you looking for, Davey?” says Poppy, as the big turtle lumbered from room to room.

“Maybe he misses his master,” says I.

“Let’s take him home,” suggested Poppy.

So we started down the street in the gathering dusk, the intelligent turtle following at our heels. Pretty soon we came to the corner of School and Elm Streets, where old Mrs. Glimme lives in a rambling wooden house.

A very wealthy woman, Mrs. Glimme helps support her extravagant daughter-in-law in Chicago. There’s a grandson too. When he comes to Tutter he runs around with Bid Stricker. And once the two of them cornered me in an alley and turned my pants inside-out. Even worse they tied my hands. So I had to go home that way. I never would run down any kid simply because he came from the city. I’d be silly to do that. For there’s just as many good boys in the city as in the country. But I’ve got to confess that I can’t bear the sight of Reginald Glimme. He’s a snob and a bully. Because he has money he thinks he can run everybody. But he can’t run me. That’s why he dislikes me.

There was a farm carriage in his grandmother’s private drive. And just as Poppy and I turned the corner, thus getting a full view of the big yard, a tall angular woman got out of the shabby looking rig and mounted the steps to the front door.

I never had set eyes on her before. And probably I wouldn’t have given her a second glance if Poppy hadn’t suddenly clutched my arm.

He was peculiarly excited.

“Wait here, Jerry,” says he, in a low voice.

And without another word he darted into the shadowy bushes and silently wormed his way to the waiting carriage. I saw him look inside. And somehow his manner suggested to me that he was disappointed. Then I saw him tiptoe toward the house.

Turning, I observed too that Davey Jones had similarly disappeared into the shadowy yard.