Читать книгу The Great Oakdale Mystery - Scott Morgan - Страница 6

Fred’s parents were regular church attendants, and Fred himself rarely failed to appear with them at morning service on the Sabbath day. It must be regretfully confessed that church had little attraction for many of the youths of Oakdale, and among those who seldom sat through a sermon was Roy Hooker.

Roy, however, was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the church when Fred came out. It was a mild, sunny day, and the outside world looked most attractive. In response to a covert signal from Hooker, Sage joined him.

“Come for a walk, old man,” invited Roy. “Gee! you must be dopey, sitting in that dark old church and listening to a dry sermon.”

“I did get a bit sleepy,” Fred confessed. “You’re not going to walk far, are you?”

“Oh, you can suit yourself about that. What time do you have dinner?”

“Around two o’clock.”

“That will give us a couple of hours. It’s mighty pokey loafing around all day Sunday, with nothing for amusement. If you’d only go gunning – ”

“Not on the Sabbath. Too many fellows do that around here.”

Fred’s parents had lingered to exchange a few words with some friends, and as they finally came down the walk he told them he was going for a short stroll with Roy.

“Be home to dinner, surely,” urged his mother.

He promised, and set off with Hooker, turning down the street. At the square, in the center of the village, they turned on to Lake Street and proceeded eastward, passing the new bank, a small, square building of brick and stone.

“That makes a great improvement on this street,” commented Fred.

“Oh, yes,” nodded Hooker; “but it would have looked better had they been able to purchase that little old hut and the land belonging to Aaron Quinn. That shanty, squatting right there almost under the rear eaves of the bank, is a regular eyesore, but I understand old Quinn refused to sell at any price.”

The building in question was a tiny old house that stood some distance from the street, partly hidden by two large oak trees and a straggling growth of lilac bushes. It was sorely in need of repairs and paint, and some of the broken windows had been patched or stuffed with rags.

Aaron Quinn, the owner of this disreputable little shanty, was a surly, blustering old sea captain, who had given up his calling on account of age and rheumatism and returned to spend the latter days of his life at his birthplace in Oakdale. His irascible temper and general crabbedness made him more or less unpopular among the villagers, and especially so with the boys of the town, who seldom lost an opportunity to jibe or annoy him.

As the two friends were passing beneath the spreading limbs of one of the oaks, something struck Roy on the shoulder and bounded to the sidewalk. It was an acorn, and Hooker might have thought that it had fallen in a natural manner from the tree had it not been followed almost immediately by another, which clipped the edge of his cap-visor.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, looking up. “Who’s throwing them? Oh, I see; it’s that confounded monkey.”

Grinning down at the boys from one of the branches, a large monkey let fly another acorn with surprising accuracy. The creature belonged to the old sea captain, being, apparently, Quinn’s only congenial companion; and, like his master, the monkey had learned to detest the village lads.

“Ah! ha! Mr. Jocko,” cried Hooker, as he quickly stepped off the sidewalk and found a stone. “Two can play at that game.”

“Don’t,” said Fred.

But before he could interfere Roy had sent the stone whistling and clipping through the branches of the tree, causing Jocko to utter a chattering scream of mingled dismay and defiance as he quickly mounted higher.

In a moment there came a roar from the hut beyond the lilac bushes, and forth from the door, which had been standing ajar, issued Aaron Quinn with his stout cane. At one time, although rather short of stature, he had been a sturdy, husky man, who commanded the respect, if not the liking, of his sailors. Now the bushy fringe of whiskers beneath his chin seemed to bristle, his lips were drawn back from his teeth, and his eyes glared with rage.

“You young lubber!” he shouted, as he came hobbling down the path, flourishing the cane. “I’ll teach ye! I’ll larn ye to stone my monkey! If I ketch ye, I’ll break your back!”

With a mocking shout of laughter and a taunt, Hooker took to his heels.

“Run, Fred!” he cried. “The old gink will swat you if you don’t!”

But Sage did not run. Instead, he remained calmly facing the wrathy old sailor, who seemed bent on using the stout cane over the boy’s head.

“Why don’t you skedaddle?” snarled Captain Quinn. “Ain’t you got sense enough to run?”

“I didn’t do anything, and I sha’n’t run,” was the quiet retort. “I don’t believe you’ll hit me.”

The man paused with the cane uplifted, surprise written on his face.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said in a milder tone. “You’re about the only brat around here who hasn’t tried his tricks on me. You seem to be different from the rest of these unmanly cubs. No, I won’t crack ye, but if ever I get my hands on that other rascal, he’ll have to take to his bed.”

“Aw, you couldn’t catch a snail,” taunted Hooker. “Somebody will shoot that monkey of yours some day.”

“If anybody hurts him, they’ll sartain wish they hadn’t,” retorted Quinn. “He knows more than half the people in this town, and that ain’t giving him a great deal of credit. Here, Jocko – here, come down.”

Chattering a little, the monkey slowly swung himself down to the lower limbs and dropped to his master’s shoulder, where he perched in evident assurance of security, making faces at the boys.

Fred laughed and rejoined Hooker, while, assisted by his cane, Aaron Quinn hobbled back toward the hut, carrying the monkey.

“It would be a good thing if that old pirate would get out of town,” said Roy. “He’s no benefit to the place.”

“He’s harmless enough if people will let him alone,” retorted Fred; “but he’s been pestered so much that he seems to have it in for everybody. At the most, it’s doubtful if he lives many years, and when he dies the bank people will doubtless get his little place for what it’s really worth.”

They proceeded on their way, the conversation soon drifting into other channels, football for a time being the main topic, as, to Sage’s surprise, Hooker betrayed considerable interest in the game.

“You’re right about old Stoney,” he said. “He knows the new rules. Why, he must have studied them until he has every word by heart. Perhaps he’ll make a fairly good captain, after all, though he never can come up to Roger Eliot.”

“Perhaps not,” admitted Sage. “Eliot certainly was a natural leader at anything he undertook. I’m glad you came out yesterday.”

“Oh, it isn’t likely I’ll get a chance to play.”

“I’ll guarantee you will if you pitch in. Why, there’s Piper, the last fellow one would ever suppose could make good at the game.”

“That’s right,” agreed Roy. “Say, he came round and interviewed me last night. He’s got another bug in his bonnet. Asked me all sorts of questions about the strange man I saw in the woods. What do you suppose he thinks he’s up to?”

“He’s struck a trail,” laughed Fred. “He was up at my house to see me, too.”

“Well, it would give me some satisfaction if he could find out who the man was. Don’t suppose you were able to enlighten him any?”

“Not a bit. I told you yesterday that I hadn’t the remotest idea who the stranger could be.”

“I know you did, but I thought you might have placed him since.”

Down the river on the road to Clearport they entered a grove and sat chatting for some time on a fallen tree. Roy was anxious for another gunning expedition, but Fred feared that school work and football practice would give him little time for it. Finally they returned to the village, and Roy walked up Main Street to accompany his friend part of the way toward home.

On the sidewalk in front of Urian Eliot’s house they saw Mr. Eliot talking with Lucius Timmick, the cashier of the bank. Timmick was a man under thirty years of age, thin, smooth-faced, save for some high cut “siders,” and a trifle sanctimonious in his manner. He was dressed wholly in black and carried a Bible in his hand.

Mr. Eliot spoke pleasantly to the boys as they passed, and Timmick gave them a grudging nod.

“That dried-up shrimp makes me tired,” muttered Hooker. “Just because Urian Eliot took him into the bank and made him cashier, he thinks he’s something. I know him; he always was a sneak. Why, he used to watch the boys nights and blow on them every time they had a little fun. He caught us hooking apples once, and made an awful fuss about it. Talked of having some of us sent to the reform school. Now he teaches a class in Sabbath School, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

“It is evident,” smiled Fred, “that you don’t love Mr. Timmick much.”

“You wouldn’t think much of him either, if you’d lived long in Oakdale. He has too much dignity now to sneak round nights trying to find out what the fellows are doing, but he’s just as much a fox as he ever was. If I was president of a bank, I’d never trust him to handle the cash.”

“Evidently Mr. Eliot trusts him thoroughly.”

“Oh, yes, he’s got Urian Eliot fooled. Well, guess I’ll hike for home, as Rod Grant would say. Bye, bye, old man.”

Thus far Fred had found no good opportunity to tell his father privately about the mysterious stranger and about what he had seen from his window the night before, nor did he find such a chance that day. The following morning he dismissed the matter from his mind, fancying it improbable that the man would again be seen around Oakdale.