Читать книгу Tom Slade at Shadow Isle - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

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They tumbled sleepily out of one car at Boston and into another one. And when they alighted upon the platform at Rhodes, Brent was not fully awake.

He stood blinking his eyes while Tom inquired of the wizened looking station agent the way to Rhodes Beach. Then a Ford taxi wheeled around into the driveway, Tom hailed the driver, they piled in with their bags.

After they were settled comfortably the taxi started away and swung them unceremoniously around as it turned into a rut filled road. Brent commented upon it and mumbled that it was worse than any Jersey detour.

“After this then,” Tom said, “I hope you’ll never make another mean remark about my flivver.”

“Bring your flivver out here first, Tommy,” Brent said. “Drive her along a road like this and then I’ll give you my honest opinion.”

A man carrying a small bag was walking the road just ahead of them. Brent noticed him indifferently at first, but the nearer they came to him the more familiar did he appear.

He grasped Tom’s arm. “Look, Tommy!” he exclaimed. “As I live, it’s that bird again!”

“What bird?” Tom asked, looking around. All he could see was the man’s back about fifty yards away.

“The bird with the hat band,” said Brent. “The fancy blue one.”

“Well, what of it?” asked easy-going Tom. “Why the excitement? Can’t he come to Rhodes too?”

“Sure,” Brent answered in that droll way of his, “as long as he stays in Rhodes. But he can’t follow us out to Shadow Isle and stare at me there. I won’t let him.”

“What’ll you do to him?” Tom laughed.

“I’ll throw him out in the ocean,” said Brent.

At that juncture their cab whizzed by the man, raising a cloud of dust that obstructed any further view of him. Then they turned again, leaving him in full possession of the road.

“He probably came up here for fishing,” Tom said.

“He ought to make a good catch,” Brent said. “He has patience enough, that’s certain.”

Then the vast expanse of ocean spread before them. A small sandy beach rolled down to meet it. To the left, a large pier jutted its nose far out into the white foam.

The cab stopped in front of a little, white painted building. A huge gilt-lettered sign hung dejectedly from its porch bearing the inscription:

WHITE HOUSE

HOTEL

RHODES BEACH

At odd times it was used as a bulletin board as was evidenced by numerous thumb tacks and bits of faded paper stuck fast under its ornate lettering.

Brent scrutinized it while Tom was paying the driver. Then he turned his attention to the farther side of the street where a yellow painted building stood imposingly in the early sunlight. A hitching post outside in the road added to its old-fashioned atmosphere.

A number of small shacks dotted both sides of the road. The curtains were all drawn and from the backyards came the crowing of the busy roosters. Nothing else stirred, not even in the White House Hotel. Only the ocean pounded below on the beach, like many distant drums.

The cab turned and rattled its way back to the station. “Where are we to meet Old Man Fearful?” Brent asked.

“Right here,” Tom answered. “He said he’d be watching for us.”

“We might as well look the village over while we’re waiting,” Brent said. “It’s too early to see the populace, I guess. Evidently they don’t get up with the chickens in these fishing villages.”

“That ought to suit you, Brent,” Tom laughed. “Want to walk around?”

“Me?” Brent asked, indignantly. “I should say not. I’m tired out. I think I’ll go up on the White House porch and rest my weary bones. I can see all of the village from up there.”

“Some thriving village,” Tom commented, looking around. “I wonder if this is all that comprises Rhodes.”

“There might be some houses holding out on us,” drawled Brent. “They’ll probably come out of their hiding places when we’re not looking.”

Tom smiled, then his features grew serious. “You can just imagine why that little Peter kid ducks the crowd at camp. This crowded metropolis probably boasts of at least twenty-five families.”

“I wonder if the White House man will give us breakfast before we sail the high seas,” Brent mused.

“I’m hoping so,” Tom said. “Still, an empty stomach might be better to ride the waves on.”

They both looked toward the deserted beach. It was high tide and the waves dashed swiftly up on the shore. They saw no sign of a boat upon the horizon. Nothing but sunlight, sky and water.

To the east a stretch of rocky land abutted upon the ocean. Sharply it swerved, making a decided turn away from the little village. From that point the rocks piled high, stretching along as far as the eye could see. Thick growths of stubby pines hung tenaciously from the cliffs.

“I imagine the lighthouse must be off there, east,” Tom said. “It’s all woodland to the west so it can’t be there. Little Pete said the lighthouse had lots of rocks about it so I guess the island is just a good sized reef.”

Even as he talked, Tom could see a moving figure out at the pier’s edge. Brent, too, saw it and they watched in silence. Then they discerned that it was the figure of a man walking landward.

“Tommy,” Brent drawled from his easy chair on the porch. “I’ve a sneaking feeling that it’s Old Man Fearful himself.”

“So have I,” Tom said. “Think I ought to wave to him?”

“You can run on down and kiss him if you want to,” Brent answered. “But I’ll sit here and wait until he comes. I have my reputation to think of.”

Tom laughed. “I hope he understands you,” he said. “He’s likely to think you’re kidding him half the time.”

“There’s an even chance I will be,” Brent said whimsically.

The man drew nearer and nearer. As he left the pier he walked over toward the beach and his figure loomed larger with each step.

He was a little over six feet tall, a trifle bent and wore a small black cap atop his white, straggling hair. One could see even at that distance that his frame was spare, but powerful.

“Heavens, Tommy!” Brent exclaimed. “I think he’s Jack the Giant Killer in disguise!”