Читать книгу The Gold Ogre: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 6

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It was doubtful if there existed a more pleasant summer camp for boys than Camp Indian-Laughs-And-Laughs. The camp was named after the cliff-bordered lake cove, on the shores of which it was situated. How the cove got the name was a mystery, but many an Indian brave probably laughed with delight when he first saw the snug cove in which great fish leaped all night long, and the towering cliffs, and the little brooks that raced over the edge and fell sheer, turning into sparkling spray so that, during all hours when the sun shone, one could see at least one rainbow and often many, no matter in what part of the cove one stood.

Camp Indian-Laughs-And-Laughs was composed of a number of cabins and larger buildings, all made of logs, and surrounded by a stockade, after the fashion of forts in the frontier days. Picturesque was a word that hardly did the place justice. An array of birch-bark and canvas-covered canoes rested on racks along the lake shore.

The parents of boys who sent their sons to Camp Indian-Laughs-And-Laughs found it rather expensive. Consequently, there was a goodly number of sons of wealthy parents.

There were other boys, however, who worked their way through.

Don Worth was one of the working boys.

As yet, Don Worth had no inkling that anything mysterious had happened to his father, poor crippled Thomas Worth, who was airport night watchman in Crescent City.

Don Worth was at one of his tasks, chopping wood for the camp fireplaces.

His ax flashed, hissed and bit off great chips. He was almost a giant for his age—although still a youth, there were muscles cabled across his shoulders, and coiled inside his coat sleeves that made him more than a physical match for most fully grown men. Other boys were frequently amazed at big, quiet, serious Don Worth’s muscular strength. He was a young Hercules.

Don Worth had a will power that was stronger than his big muscles, although you didn’t realize that until you knew him well. He was a very gentle young man who never forced his ideas on anybody; also he was extremely ambitious. He was going to make a success in life, no matter how much earnest work it took. He got up early and went to work, and he labored industriously until dark, then usually could be found studying. Most busy bees were loafers compared to Don Worth.

Because he was so serious about life, Don Worth was kidded a lot. He took the razzing good-naturedly, and everybody liked him. Now and then some bully mistook his quiet seriousness for cowardice, so that Don Worth occasionally had a fight. The fight usually consisted of Don Worth’s taking hold of the bully, and after he’d had hold for a moment or so, the opponent was invariably howling and glad for a chance to run.

The camp chief approached Don Worth and handed him a telegram. Don opened it and read:

SOMETHING I CANNOT UNDERSTAND HAS HAPPENED TO YOUR FATHER. HE DISAPPEARED, THEN CAME BACK LOOKING AS IF HE HAD BEEN TERRIBLY BEATEN. NOW HE HAS VANISHED AGAIN. TRY NOT TO WORRY. YOUR MOTHER.

Don Worth was shocked and mystified.

“But this is the first I knew of anything wrong!” he exclaimed.

“I know,” the camp chief said. “Your mother asked us to keep it from you at first, so you would not be worried.”

The camp chief then handed Don Worth a sheaf of clippings from the Crescent City newspapers. Don read them, and began to get a feeling of deep bewilderment and uneasiness.

He went looking for B. Elmer Dexter.

He was not at all surprised when he found B. Elmer Dexter concocting a new get-rich-quick scheme.

B. Elmer Dexter was about the same age as young Don Worth, and they were pals. They had just two things in common. Both owned poor parents, and both were determined to make a success—but B. Elmer Dexter had no intention of working for it. Work? Not for B. Elmer. Not while he had so many swell ideas for getting rich in a hurry.

B. Elmer was surrounded by sheets of paper, a borrowed typewriter, and enthusiasm.

“I’m writing letters to companies that make diving suits,” he explained rapidly. “You know how many ships loaded with coal and iron ore have sunk in the Great Lakes? Dozens! Hundreds! I’m going to start salvaging them all. We’ll raise the ships and get the cargo. We’re young fellows, so the newspapers will play it up. Give us a lot of publicity. The companies will furnish us the diving suits free because of the publicity. Like companies furnished stuff to Admiral Byrd for his South Pole exploring. There’s millions in it! Millions! And it won’t cost us a cent! I’m gonna let you in on it, and Mental Byron, and Funny Tucker. We’ll all make so much money that— Say, what’s the matter with you?”

“Read this,” Don Worth said, and passed over the telegram and the newspaper clippings.

B. Elmer Dexter read swiftly. He did everything swiftly. He was a slender fellow with dark hair, snapping eyes, more conversation than a radio announcer, and a personality that whizzed like an electric dynamo. He was almost completely the opposite of big, serious, placid Don Worth.

“Blazes!” said B. Elmer, waving the telegram. “What does this mean?”

“I do not know,” Don replied seriously.

B. Elmer jumped up, waved the telegram and the clippings again.

“Let’s see what Mental Byron thinks of it,” he said. “Mental knows everything.”

Don Worth nodded. The opinion of Morris (Mental) Byron would be worth while. Everybody respected Mental’s brains and thinking powers.

They found Mental Byron, as they expected, seated comfortably against a boulder on the lake shore, cogitating. The boulder was his favorite spot, for it afforded one of the most inspirational and beautiful views around Camp Indian-Laughs-And-Laughs. Mental could sit for hours and contemplate something beautiful. He was a dreamer. And no mean philosopher, either.

“Hello,” Mental said placidly.

No one had ever seen Mental any other way than calm.

He was a long youth with a rugged face—in fact, he looked remarkably like the picture of Abe Lincoln.

“We’ve got trouble,” B. Elmer explained.

Mental Byron smiled slightly and said, “Don’t be too worried when you stumble. Remember, a worm is the only thing that can’t fall down.”

Which was a typical piece of Morris Mental Byron’s philosophy.

“Give the brains the telegram and clippings,” B. Elmer told Don Worth, “and see what he thinks.”

Mental took the message and examined it thoughtfully. From his manner, one would have guessed him as much older, whereas he was exactly the same age as Don Worth and B. Elmer Dexter.

“This is very strange,” he declared. He looked at Don Worth. “What is your thought about this?”

“My first impulse was to hurry home,” Don said.

Mental nodded. “Being on the right track is a very good thing. But if you just stand there, you’ll likely get run over.”

Don asked, “You mean I should go home?”

“Exactly.”

“And we should go with you,” Mental Byron added. “If two heads are better than one, think how good three heads would be.”

“Now look here,” Don Worth said uncomfortably, “I can’t burden you with my troubles. You’re having a swell time here at camp, and you don’t really want to go back to Crescent City. Thanks a lot. I appreciate it, but you fellows wouldn’t have a good time going with me.”

“I think we would,” Mental said.

“Why?”

“We like excitement. And this sounds exciting.”

As if this dismissed any chances for further argument, Mental arose from the rock and said, “I’ll have my bag packed in ten minutes.”

“I’ll have my bag in five!” B. Elmer yelled. He started to dash away, stopped, shouted, “Say, maybe we can solve this mystery, then make it into a story and sell it to the movies for a mint of money!”

And he was off after his bag.

“B. Elmer can see a get-rich-quick scheme in everything,” Don chuckled.

Mental nodded soberly. “If you go around firing a shotgun in the air long enough, you’re bound to hit a duck eventually. Some day, one of B. Elmer’s ideas will click.”

Don Worth was secretly delighted at the idea of his two pals accompanying him, but he did not want them to miss out on the fun of Camp Indian-Laughs-And-Laughs, so he was earnest in his protestations that they were working a hardship on themselves. Mental only smiled.

They went looking for their third pal.

“Where do you suppose Funny Tucker is?” Don pondered.

“Did you notice the luncheon he ate? Probably he’ll be in his cabin repenting.”

Leander (Funny) Tucker was in his cabin, all right, and he was full of repentance. Funny Tucker, if he didn’t watch out, would soon be as wide as he was tall—but there was scant possibility of his watching. Funny liked his food. Also his laughs. Funny Tucker was a roly-poly joy boy without a care in life. His fund of gags, both his own and those purloined from the radio and movies, was unlimited.

Funny was holding his stomach.

“If the bravest are the tenderest,” he complained, “the steer that provided that luncheon steak was sure a coward!”

“What you feel is probably the humiliation of the steer at finding out one boy could eat all of him,” Mental advised.

“I didn’t eat the whole steer. Only seven steaks.”

When he heard of their plans, Funny Tucker forgot his indigestion.

“Excitement!” he exclaimed. “Hot ziggety!”

The four of them caught the midafternoon launch that brought the daily mail and provisions to Camp Indian-Laughs-And-Laughs. It was with regret that they watched the camp, where they’d had so much fun, apparently sink into the sun-jeweled waves as the launch carried them away. They caught a train at the village where the launch landed them.

By dark that evening, the four young fellows were in Crescent City.

Morris Mental Byron and Leander Funny Tucker were—unlike Don Worth and B. Elmer Dexter—the possessors of fathers who had a great deal of money. So Mental and Funny staked the crew to a taxicab in which they rode from the station toward the rather poverty-stricken district on the edge of Crescent City, where the Worths lived.

The four had gotten to talking about mysteries, and people who were famous at solving them. Don Worth took little part in the conversation while it referred to the G-men, Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes, and others.

Suddenly Don spoke up.

“What about Doc Savage?” he asked. “Isn’t he one of the greatest mystery-solvers of all time?”

“You mean the individual they call the Man of Bronze,” Mental said thoughtfully. “I once read a book on psychology and philosophy that he wrote. It was amazing.”

“Doc Savage does a lot of things besides write books,” Don explained. “He is an astounding fellow. He was trained by scientists from childhood, until now he is a kind of combination of physical marvel and mental wizard. He has five assistants, and each one of these helpers is a famous expert in electricity or chemistry or some such line. But Doc Savage knows more about those things than any one of his assistants.”

“What does he need assistants for?” asked Funny Tucker.

“To help him in his strange life’s work.”

“Strange?” B. Elmer asked.

“Work of any kind seems strange to me,” announced Funny Tucker.

Don explained seriously, “Doc Savage goes to the far corners of the earth, righting wrongs and punishing evildoers, and he takes no pay for it.”

“No pay,” said B. Elmer, “makes it strange indeed.”

Mental Byron said thoughtfully, “You seem to know a great deal about this Doc Savage. Ever meet him?”

“No, I never met Doc Savage.” Don Worth colored with embarrassment. “You see, Doc Savage just happens to be the man I admire most in the world, next to my father.”

They arrived at the modest Worth home.

Mary Worth was well acquainted with Don’s companions, and she greeted them with a flicker of hope. Don was shocked at his mother’s worried expression—it seemed to him that much more horror lurked in her features than was warranted by the fact that his father had disappeared. The feeling that much more was wrong than appeared on the surface oppressed Don all through the tasty dinner which his mother prepared for them.

“Mother,” he said quietly, “there is something more that you haven’t told us.”

Mary Worth nodded miserably.

“What is it?” Don asked.

Mary Worth looked at the boys. She knew them well enough to be sure that they would not spread the impression that her husband had gone insane.

“Your father told me an incredible story,” she said, and gave them the tale of the little golden ogres.

Don Worth and the other three were rather close to speechlessness after the tale had ended. Telling ghost stories had been a favorite evening pastime at Camp Indian-Laughs-And-Laughs, but none of those hair-curlers quite equaled this one.

Without finding anything much to say, they went to bed. Because the house was small, they all bedded down on pallets in the living room. Mrs. Worth slept in the bedroom. The kitchen was the only other room in the small house.

Finally, Mental Byron spoke. “Don.”

“Yes.”

“Has there ever been any insanity in your family?”

“No,” Don said, shuddering. “There hasn’t.”

Mental reached over and put a hand on Don Worth’s shoulder. There was something that Don found definitely comforting about his touch.

“I’ve got a feeling in my bones, Don, that there isn’t anything in the least wrong with your father’s mind,” Mental said earnestly.

Don couldn’t have explained why, but the other boy’s reassurance made him feel a great deal better. Still, however, he was not able to sleep, and he judged from the squirmings that the others were having the same trouble. They did not hold a long conversation, something they ordinarily would have done; probably the weirdness of the story which Mrs. Worth had told them held them to silence.

It must have been after midnight when Don—he was rather more than half asleep by now—realized that Mental was getting up. To a whispered query, Mental responded that he couldn’t sleep and he was going out on the porch to sit and contemplate stars.

Don watched Mental move silently outdoors. It was a moonlight night, except at intervals when slinking clouds made it very dark. It would have been a quiet night, too, except for one thing—the snoring of Funny and B. Elmer. They were furnishing a goose-and-bumblebee duet, one doing the honking and the other buzzing accompaniment.

Came a moment when the clouds made it very dark. The interval of sepia lasted for at least five minutes, then it was suddenly bright moonlight again outdoors.

Abruptly, Mental whisked in from the porch. He moved silently, reached Don’s side, and sank down.

Don realized with a start that Mental was trembling.

“Don!” Mental breathed. “I just saw a little golden man who wore a breechcloth and carried a club!”