Читать книгу Tom Slade at Shadow Isle - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 8

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He hailed Tom with a sort of snort, giving neither hand nor smile in greeting. “Reckon yore Slade and that’s yore friend Gaylong settin’ up there,” he grumbled in a deep, hoarse voice.

“And you’re Mr. Pearson, I believe,” Tom said, smiling pleasantly.

“Jonah Pearson. Old Lightkeeper Pearson,” he snapped. “That’s what the nosey ones call me in this here cursed place. Yer kin call me what ye like, long as yer don’t speak out o’ yore turn. Talk little. That’s what I say.”

“Are you any relation to the first Jonah?” Brent asked innocently and dragging himself unwillingly out of his chair.

“Don’t b’long ter nobody,” Pearson answered tersely. “Glad I don’t. Relations never was comfortin’.”

Brent studied him intently as he spoke. He had watery blue eyes that were almost hidden beneath shaggy white lashes. His nose was long and pointed and his lips resembled two straight purplish lines, so thin and compressed were they. The chin was pointed in keeping with his nose and his ears were remarkably small for so tall a man.

“We haven’t had our breakfast, Mr. Pearson,” Tom spoke up. “We thought perhaps the hotel would open soon.”

Jonah Pearson looked from Tom to the hotel and back again. His features instantly became distorted in a contemptuous sneer. Then he made a sweeping gesture with his clawlike hands. “Pity the sea wouldn’t sweep ’em all away. The whole pack o’ ’em. Breakfast—hmph! Like as not ye’d git pizened by his food. Yer kin have breakfast soon’s we git ter the light.”

With that he turned and started back toward the beach. “I suppose that means he’s ready to go right now,” Tom said in an undertone and picking up his bag.

“Without a shade of a doubt,” said Brent falling into step beside Tom. “One thing, he’s right to the point. No ceremony with him.”

Tom smiled. “Are your canvas gloves ready, Brent?” he asked in a low voice.

“Leave it to me,” Brent answered. “I intend to take note of the smallest detail. And further, I’m convinced that no whale will ever swallow this Jonah. He’s too mean to die.”

“Sh-sh!” warned Tom. Then in a loud voice, “I think it’s going to be a nice day.”

If Jonah Pearson thought so too he did not say so. He just slouched along ahead of them, his ill-fitting clothes flapping against his bony frame. And his little black cap looked quite absurd upon his large head.

Tom and Brent exchanged significant glances but said no more. They followed Pearson up on the pier and out to the end. He stood there waiting until they came up to him.

“I’ll git in first,” he said tersely. “Yer kin give me yore junk one at a time. Got ter take it easy. Sea’s heavy.”

He proceeded down the ladder and into a dory that bobbed gaily upon the swell. Tom followed and Brent handed him the bags which in turn he passed into Pearson’s grasping looking hands.

That done they entered the dory carefully. Tom looked around the little boat in wonderment that such a frail structure could ride the heavy waves with so much buoyancy. “Wouldn’t you think it would get swamped!” he remarked to Brent.

“Not with such light spirits aboard,” Brent said, dryly.

Pearson was untying the little craft from the pier. He looked Brent’s way, puzzled, but said nothing. Then he leaned down and brought up a pair of oars which he handed to Tom. Brent, comfortably seated in the stern, nodded smilingly to Tom.

As the lightkeeper seated himself at the prow he scowled toward Brent. “You Gaylong,” he snapped gruffly, “get the rudder. Take her easy.”

It was really Tom’s turn to smile at Brent but he had to concentrate on helping to guide the boat away from the pier. They were instantly swung around by the mountainous waves and he had all he could do to keep the oars fast in his hands. His eyes and his face smarted keenly from the salt spray.

“Take her easy,” Jonah Pearson shouted. “Let her go with the tide. Jest hold her steady.”

Tom did as he was told. He felt soaked to the skin and wondered if Brent was too. The thought made him smile. “We should have put on our bathing suits or our raincoats,” he laughed.

“If I could let go of this thing I’d get out my folding umbrella,” Brent said. “I packed it in right on top.”

“Little thing like water won’t hurt yer,” Pearson grumbled. “Yer’ll git wetter ’n that before yer go back to the city.”

After they passed around the bend the swell seemed to calm down. Tom felt relieved. He released an oar to dash away the spray trickling from his forehead. Brent looked at him and winked slyly, then looked interestedly over his shoulder.

“What do you see?” Tom asked curiously.

“The lighthouse,” Brent answered. “Quite a skyscraper.”

“Be there in ten minutes,” Jonah Pearson called quite humanly. “Git along faster when there’s three on the job.”

Tom felt quite encouraged at that. “I should think so,” he said cheerfully. “I can’t understand how you come over all alone. Especially near that pier. It sure is rough.”

“Don’t mind a’tall,” Pearson called gruffly. “Sooner be alone any time. Don’t like folks nowheres.”

“So agreeable,” Brent drawled between his teeth. “We’re in for a jolly time, Tommy!”

Tom moved his eyes frantically for Brent to be cautious about his remarks. But he could have spared himself that worry as Jonah Pearson was not aware of anything but his own thoughts. His brows were drawn up into many little lines and his mouth worked convulsively as if he were talking to himself. Brent watched him.

Suddenly he looked up. “Give yer a hundred dollars apiece,” he said quickly. “If yer willin’ ter do as I tell yer.”

Brent glanced at Tom.

“What,” Tom asked, “do you want us to do?”

Jonah Pearson rowed on for a few seconds in silence. Then he leaned forward confidentially, as if to even exclude the ocean from his secret. “There’s a man comin’. He’ll come next week ter see me. But I won’t be there. I won’t talk ter nobody if I kin help it. Leastways a smart aleck city chap like him. Most all of ’em’s trash.”

“Oh,” Tom said, ignoring the sarcasm, “you want us to interview him for you. Is that it, Mr. Pearson?”

“Yes,” Pearson grunted. “Old Jones hain’t got sense enough ter do it. You’re ter keep him up in the tower till after the city feller goes. Old Jones, he’s kind o’ deaf. He hain’t got no license ter know my business anyway.”

“You know best,” Tom said. “Could you tell us beforehand what the city chap is coming for?”

Tom could almost feel Pearson’s watery blue eyes boring through his back. He sensed the man was floundering about for a logical reason to give.

Finally he coughed. “He’ll ask yer questions ’bout me. ’N ’bout Peter. But you and Gaylong don’t know nothin’. ’Cept ye were jest knockin’ ’round nosin’ in lighthouses. Understand?”

Tom nodded. “Of course,” he answered. “Naturally, Mr. Pearson, you do not want to tell every stranger your business. I can understand that perfectly.”

Just then Brent caught a crafty smile passing across Jonah Pearson’s face. He looked off in the distance before he spoke again. “One thing,” he snapped, “no matter what he asks you there’s only one answer.”

“What’s that?” Tom queried, interestedly.

“Yer tell him Peter Pearson hain’t never lived here. Yer tell him he jest came vacations and he was no relation. And yer tell him he hain’t a-comin’ here no more, either—that he’s dead!”

Tom’s hands instinctively pressed down firmly upon the oars. And Brent’s long sensitive fingers clenched the rudder rope tightly.