Читать книгу Tom Slade at Shadow Isle - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 5

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A week later Tom was on the train bound for New York. Brent and he were to meet there at the railroad station and journey on to Maine together.

Brent’s reply to Tom’s letter had been brief but enthusiastic over the contemplated venture at Shadow Isle. And as for keeping his mouth shut, he wrote Tom that he would promise faithfully not to say a word after they reached Maine.

Tom smiled at the thought. It sounded just like Brent. And it would be comforting to have him along. Especially now that he had heard from Lightkeeper Pearson. His reply had been very interesting.

Evidently he was a very shrewd man. He reiterated the need for secrecy and courteously warned Tom and his friend against talking of their plans. He told them to inform whoever might ask that they were merely on a few weeks’ visit to the lighthouse at Shadow Isle, and concluded by saying he would meet them at Rhodes in a dory.

This thoroughly aroused Tom. He was positive now that there was something underlying Pearson’s business venture. He couldn’t wait for the train to get in so that he might ask Brent his opinion.

That long, lanky person strolled leisurely up the platform to greet Tom. As usual, his spectacles were perched halfway down his nose and he gave one the impression of being made for his clothes, rather than his clothes being made for him.

“Well, Tomasso!” he drawled. “I’m here on the stroke of the hour you see.”

“I see,” Tom returned and clasped his hand feelingly. “It’s good to see you, Old Scout! All set for Shadow Isle?”

“All set,” Brent answered in that droll way of his. “My microscope is in the bag.”

Tom laughed. “Is that all?” he queried.

“No,” said Brent, “I haven’t overlooked a single necessity. I stopped in the five and ten too, before I left and bought a pair of canvas gloves.”

“What for?” Tom asked.

“Fingerprints, old dear,” Brent drawled. “Suppose I should confuse my own with someone else’s? The trusty canvas gloves will prevent any such catastrophe. One can’t be too careful.”

“Still the same old Brent,” Tom laughed. “You may need them at that. From the tone of Pearson’s letter he has something more than business in his head.”

“Didn’t I tell you!” Brent said in that funny, drawling way. “I shall put them on the moment we reach the place.”

“I’d wait till I was seated in the dory if I were you,” Tom advised.

“Safety first,” Brent said, solemnly. “I take no chances with old geezers who are willing to pay big money to people just because they promise not to talk.”

“There’s something in that,” Tom agreed. “But seriously, Brent, what do you think we ought to do first?”

“Get our tickets, Tommy,” said Brent. “It’ll be a load off my mind to set down this bag and take a nap in the Pullman. I’m not fond of manual labor you know. It just tires me out.”

“I know,” Tom grinned.

They pushed their way laboriously through the late August vacation crowd. The station fairly hummed with activity and heat. Finally Tom espied their ticket window. A long line stood waiting to be accommodated, moving forward at a snail’s pace.

“Do we have to wait behind that?” Brent asked, pointing a despairing finger at the line.

“You don’t,” Tom said, affably. “You can hold the bags, if that will suit you better, and I’ll get the tickets.”

“I’ll wait on the line, Tommy,” said Brent, promptly. “You hold the bags.”

Tom laughed. “Just as you say, Brent,” he said. “Only make it snappy before the line gets longer.”

Brent had never hurried in his life. He strolled. And by the time he reached the line there were a half-dozen people or more ahead of him, perspiring and excited. Not so Brent. He took his place, cool and calm looking, and motioned Tom to come nearer and move along beside him.

Tom shook his head in answer. He had already found a place to deposit the bags a little out of the crowd and was sitting contentedly on top of them. Brent stared at this picture of comfort, then pulled a wry face in mock disgust.

Ten minutes later Brent found himself facing the ticket seller. He also faced the fact that he had forgotten the name of the place that the train would take them to.

He turned and shouted at the top of his voice to Tom. “Before Shadow Isle,” he yelled, “where to?”

“Rhodes!” Tom roared back above the din of the crowd.

In his anxiety not to miss Tom’s answer, Brent unconsciously stepped backwards. He felt his rubber heels pressing down on someone’s toes. Quickly he turned, all apologies, to a dark, straw-hatted man behind him, upon whose toes he had trodden.

The man whisked away the offense with a half-grin. He looked curiously at Brent but said nothing. And the tall, lanky adventurer proceeded with his business of ticket buying.

As Brent turned away from the window he felt the man still watching him. He instinctively looked up and their eyes met. Then the man took his place at the window.

Brent was still thinking of the man’s curious look when he approached Tom. “Did you see the way that chap gazed at me?” he asked.

“No,” Tom answered. “What did you do to him?”

“Not enough to warrant him staring, that’s sure,” said Brent. “My rubber heels might have caused a little pressure on his pet bunions but that’s all.”

“Isn’t that enough!” Tom exclaimed. “Be thankful you didn’t get more than a look.”

“But I apologized,” Brent exclaimed. “And the man grinned and started staring at me as if I ought to be quarantined or something worse.”

Just then the dark haired subject of their discussion walked past. He was busily stuffing his railroad tickets into a bulging, green leather wallet and did not seem to be aware of either Tom’s or Brent’s presence.

“Some fancy blue band he has around his hat,” Tom commented as the man disappeared through the revolving door. “He didn’t give you a tumble that time, Brent.”

“It’s fortunate for him that he didn’t,” Brent said.

“Why?” Tom queried. “What would you have done?”

“I’d have said, Tag, you’re it,” answered Brent. “No other words could express my feelings more effectively, Tommy.”

“Maybe he senses that you’ve a Sherlock Holmes complex,” Tom laughed.

“In that case,” drawled Brent, “I’d reverse my opinion of the brute. One must make allowances for him if his staring was prompted by noble impulses. He’s evidently recognized the genius that’s in me.”

“Oh, don’t we love ourselves,” Tom said in sing-song tones and picking up his bag.

“It’s my one means of encouragement,” said Brent in his droll way. He took up his bag and followed Tom out to the train.

“It’ll be a toss-up who’s worse,” said Tom as they climbed the short steps into the Pullman, “you or Lightkeeper Pearson.”