IX
The Abduction of Rover
The Redheaded Bandit had been lying on top of the willows, and when he sat up so sudden he gave us a scare. We did not like the looks of him.
“Hello!” he said, and he looked us over. Then he said, “Where did you get that dog?”
“Raised him from a pup,” I said.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Don’t try to tell me anything like that, young feller. That’s my dog. A feller stole that dog from me.”
Well, I began to back away. I reached down and got hold of the rope that was fastened to Rover’s collar.
“He did not!” I said. “Mr. Jack Betts gave my sister this dog when he was a pup.”
“Well, don’t get mad!” the man said. “It might be I am mistaken. What will you take for the dog? I’ll give you a quarter for him.”
“He ain’t for sale,” I said.
“I’ll give you half a dollar.”
“No, he ain’t for sale.”
“Give you a dollar for him,” said the man, but I didn’t wait to have any more talk with him. I started back for our cottage.
Mr. Edwin Skreever was still walking up and down the porch and I sat down on the rocks. Wampus stood a minute or so, and then he reached into his pocket and took out a nail. He had a pocket half full of old, rusty nails he had knocked out of old driftwood—old iron nails, all sizes.
“Look here, Mr. Skreever,” he said, “can you do this?”
He took the nail, flat, between his thumb and two first fingers and threw it as hard as he could out over the river, making it spin, and it sang as it went. Whine is a better word; it whined like a guitar string when you pick it and then run your thumb up it.
“Did you ever hear anybody make a nail sing like that?” Wampus asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Edwin Skreever, “I have. I have heard that before. And I cannot imagine why it is a boy delights in throwing away perfectly good nails for the mere satisfaction of hearing them make a useless noise. You may wish, some day, that you had not thrown away that nail.”
“Aw!” Wampus said.
“It is a useless and uncalled-for waste,” said Mr. Edwin Skreever. “Nails cost money. Nails cost labor and time. A miner must dig the iron ore, and another miner must dig coal, and laborers must turn the ore into iron and fashion the nails from the iron. Salesmen must go out and sell the nails, railroads must carry them, other salesmen must sell them again. And you throw them into the river! Why? What good does it do you?”
Wampus just said “Aw!” again, because he did not know what else to say, and I thought I was gladder than ever that I wasn’t going to marry Mr. Edwin Skreever. I was glad he was going to live in Derlingport and not in Riverbank. I don’t like fellows that lecture you when you throw away an old rusty nail. So I said to Wampus:
“Let’s eat a muskmelon.”
Well, all summer we had had a pile of muskmelons and watermelons under the cottage. They’re cheap and whenever we wanted to eat one we did. We used to get them by the skiff load. We would sit on the ripraps and eat and throw the rinds into the river, and the yellow-jacket hornets would come by the hundreds and pile all over any rinds that did not fall in the river. They would crowd onto any juice that fell on the rocks, and they would light on the very piece you were eating. There were lots of yellow-jackets, but nobody minded them. If they got in the way we flicked them off with a finger.
But there is one queer thing about yellow-jackets. They will buzz around and fly around all summer and never sting you unless, perhaps, you step on one with your bare foot, but there comes a day sooner or later when every yellow-jacket everywhere gets hopping mad. All the yellow-jackets for miles around go crazy on the same day. Maybe they all go crazy at the same hour of the same day—or the same minute—I don’t know. Anyway, this was the day. September 10th was the day the yellow-jackets quit being calm and gentle that year and began to be angry and go around with chips on their shoulders looking for a fight. So the first yellow-jacket Wampus flicked off him swore a blue streak in yellow-jacket language and buzzed in a circle to get up speed and banged right into Wampus’s neck. Zingo!
Wampus made one jump and grabbed his cap and slashed at the air and in a minute a dozen yellow-jackets were on the warpath. The next one to sting went at Rover’s nose like a shot out of a rifle. We heard poor Rover give one wild Yeowp! and he jumped about six feet in the air and when he came down he was already running. He went out of sight down the path, making about twenty feet at each jump and “yeowping” at the top of his voice, and his “yeowps” grew fainter and fainter. Mr. Edwin Skreever laughed, but I stood still, just holding my hat ready to swat any yellow-jacket that came too near me.
“Come on!” I said to Wampus, “let’s get away from here. It’s stinging time.”
So we gathered up the rest of our muskmelons and got away from there as quietly as we could. We went up to his cottage, which was all boarded up, and sat on the step.
Well, about six o’clock Orpheus Cadwallader came down from his shack to get our supper for us. He brought a spring chicken and fried it and we had a good supper, and then Wampus and I went out front. We fooled around awhile and Mr. Edwin Skreever lighted the lamp and wrote some letters or his will or something. It was none of our business what he wrote. Orpheus Cadwallader washed the dishes and then came out and said he was going to row down to town, and he went off in his skiff.
Then, presently, Wampus said:
“Where’s Rover?”
“Gosh!” I said, “I bet he’s wandering!”
“We’d better find him,” Wampus said, and I knew that was so.
I thought I knew where he would be, over back by the slough where there were some dogfish on the shore that would never swim again.
Mr. Edwin Skreever came out on the porch.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Rover ran away,” I said. “We’ve got to find him.”
“Oh, drat you and your Rover!” he said. “Didn’t May tell you not to let that dog run away? You certainly do aggravate me! For two cents I would go down to town now and be quit of your foolishness.”
I did not say anything but Wampus did.
“Why don’t you go, then?” he asked. “We wouldn’t care.”
So we went to find Rover. We worked back to the slough, calling him all the while—“Here, Rover! Here, Rover! Here, Rover!”—but not a yip nor bark from him. We went up the slough and down the slough calling him, and it began to get dark. Then, suddenly, Wampus stopped short.
“Say!” he said.
“What?”
“I know! That fellow got him—that redheaded fellow on the barge!”
“I bet he did!” I said.
Well, it seemed likely that that was what had happened. So Wampus and I stood there in the dark a minute.
“Well, we’ve got to get him,” I said. “I’m not going to have anybody steal my dog. Come on!”
We worked through the weeds and bushes, across toward the chute and down toward the two willow barges. We came out not far from them as we saw the red light the man had put on the barges as a signal. Then we crept along Indian fashion, bent over, toward the barges.
“He would put him inside,” Wampus said, and I knew that as well as Wampus did. That was what any dog-thief would do—put Rover down inside the barge and close the hatch cover. We crept close to the barges. I picked up a good-sized stone and so did Wampus.
Well, just as we got close up to the U.S. 420 we heard Rover. We heard just one bark and then we saw a man lifting the hatch cover. The man slid down inside the barge and eased the cover back into place over his head, and then we heard no more barking. The cover was thick and heavy and I guess he wanted to shut in Rover’s barks while he was tying him fast.
“Come on!” I said, and the next minute I was on the barge and Wampus after me. Then I did not know what to do. We couldn’t yank up that cover and go down and take Rover away from the man, because he might kill us or something. But Wampus knew what to do.
“Here!” he said, and he tossed me a handful of his rusty nails. “Hurry up! Get busy! Nail this cover down!”
So we did. We used the two rocks as hammers and drove in the nails, and then we jumped for shore and ran, because we were frightened. We ran up the path and we did not stop until we were almost at our cottage.
“Gee!” I said then. “We did it! We’ve got him! But what are we going to do about it?”
“Do?” said Wampus. “We’ll get Mr. Edwin Skreever and Orpheus Cadwallader and have Orpheus take his shotgun, and we’ll have them pry off that cover and get your dog. That’s what we’ll do.”
“But Orpheus has gone to town.”
“Well, we’ll do it in the morning.”
That would have been all right, too, but just then the Bright Star came around the lower end of Buffalo Island and steered for the two barges. I went cold, I tell you! The only thing I could think of doing was to get Mr. Edwin Skreever, so we ran to our cottage and called and shouted, but he was not there. We guessed he had gone down to town as he had threatened to do, maybe, so we ran down the path to the barges. The men were already throwing off the cables. They were pretty cross, too, because they don’t like to work at night, and they wouldn’t listen to us. They told us to get away from there and they chased us. We had to stand and see the Bright Star tow the barges out into the river and away. We watched them until they were just dim red and green lights far down the river. Then we went back to the cottage.
We were scared, I tell you! We thought maybe that man would stay nailed down inside that barge until he starved to death and some day his bones would be found and we would be arrested and, maybe, hung. And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, we saw Mr. Edwin Skreever’s motorboat tied in front of the cottage! He hadn’t gone down to town. Then we were scared! Ten times over!
We sat in the cabin until it was awful late, hoping Mr. Edwin Skreever was only out somewhere hunting Rover, but he did not come. We couldn’t fool ourselves. We knew we had nailed May’s bridegroom inside that barge and sent him down the river—nobody could tell how far, perhaps all the way to New Orleans! And the wedding was the next day!
Well, it was terrible! We tried to think that we had not done anything wrong—that we had only tried to keep our dog from being stolen—but it was no comfort. About midnight we heard the creak of Orpheus Cadwallader’s oars as he rowed home from town, but that did not comfort us much, either. We went to sleep right there in the living-room of the cottage, thinking what would happen to us the next day when the wedding-time came and there was no Mr. Edwin Skreever. I dreamed awful things all night, but the worst was a dream about May. She was all dressed up in her wedding clothes, with a white veil and flowers, and when it came time to be married, Mr. Edwin Skreever was not there, so she wept and wept. Mother and father were very stern and cross, and mother said, “Well, there is no help for it; you will have to marry Rover!” so they dragged Rover in, yowling and pulling back, and father and Mr. Smale held him up on his hind legs and then, all of a sudden, Rover gave a big wiggle and turned into a pile of rusty nails. Then May wept again, and in came Mr. Edwin Skreever, but he was nothing but bones—just plain skeleton bones. He pointed his bone finger at me and opened his bone face and I thought he was going to speak, but he didn’t. He let out a noise like Mr. Jack Betts’s Skittery III.
That woke me up and, sure enough, I was hearing the noise of the Skittery III. It wakened Wampus, too, and we went to the door, rubbing our eyes. The Skittery III swung in toward our cottage and Mr. Jack Betts shut off her power and taxied in. He jumped ashore and climbed up the rocks.
“Hello, young fellows!” he said. “May and your folks sent me up; they’ve changed their minds—want you and Skreever to come down right away and not wait until noon.”
“Well—” I said. “Well; all right.”
“What’s all the welling about, son?” Mr. Jack Betts asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I guess there isn’t going to be any wedding. I guess maybe Mr. Edwin Skreever won’t be there.”
“He isn’t here,” said Wampus.
Then I thought of something.
“Unless you would be the bridegroom,” I said to Mr. Jack Betts. “I guess May wouldn’t like to get all ready for a wedding and not have one. I guess, when she’s got her dress and the house all decorated and everything—”
“My word!” said Mr. Jack Betts, laughing. “What are you trying to do? Are you asking me to marry your sister?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“As a substitute? My word!”
“Well—well—” I said, and then he laughed again.
“What’s all this about Ed Skreever not being here and not being there and not being anywhere?” he asked.
So I told him and Wampus told him. We both told him at the same time. We told him how we had nailed Mr. Edwin Skreever into the hold of the barge U.S. 420 and sent him down the river. We said we were sorry, but maybe the Bright Star would tow him all the way to New Orleans before he could get out. We told him the whole thing.
“My word!” he cried, when he could stop laughing. “My word! I wouldn’t have missed this for a million dollars; no, not for two million! For eight million dollars I would let the stuck-up fellow stay in the barge. I would for ten million dollars, anyway. But, no! I like May too much. We can’t have May ‘waiting at the church.’ ”
“It isn’t going to be at the church,” I said. “It is going to be at our house.”
Mr. Jack Betts looked at me then.
“George,” he said, “you are wonderful! You are just wonderful—no other word for it! Come on, you two boys; we’ll go get that interned bridegroom.”
Well, that was the only time I ever rode in the Skittery III, and I don’t know whether I want to ride in her again or not. I was scared every inch of the way—every single inch. It was like being shot out of a gun or something. Mr. Jack Betts certainly could make the Skittery III go! We skittered down the river and were past the town before I caught my breath and we were miles below town before I could breathe my breath after I caught it, and then there was the Bright Star lazying along twelve miles below town and Mr. Jack Betts shut off his gas and slid up alongside and told the captain what he had come for. The captain shouted to the pilot and he jingled a bell and the Bright Star backed water and half a dozen hands ran forward over the willows and pried off the hatch cover and out came Rover and Mr. Edwin Skreever.
“A nice business!” Mr. Edwin Skreever said bitterly. “A fine hole to be in! I’ll smell of tar all the rest of my days. But you young rascals will suffer for this—I promise you that!”
We thought we would, too.
“Oh, no, now, Edwin!” Mr. Jack Betts said. “Come, now! That’s no way to talk on your merry wedding morn. These boys meant no harm. Just forget it!”
“I’ll not!” Mr. Edwin Skreever said, even more bitterly.
“Well, of course,” said Mr. Jack Betts cheerfully, “I appreciate your feelings, but this boat of mine—this Skittery III—is such a peculiar boat. She won’t carry any but forgetful people. I did hope you were forgetful, Edwin, so I could take you aboard and skitter you back to town in a couple of minutes. But if you really want to stay on this barge—”
For a minute Mr. Edwin Skreever scowled at us all, and then he grinned.
“All right! I’ve forgotten,” he said.
We made a pretty heavy load for the Skittery III, but she skittered up past the town and up to Birch Island in no time at all. Then Mr. Edwin Skreever packed his things and Mr. Jack Betts skittered away and Mr. Edwin Skreever and Wampus and I went down to town in the motorboat. Rover rode on the stern seat.
When we went up to our house, May was standing at the gate looking for us. She waved her hand as soon as she saw us, and when we reached the gate she took Mr. Edwin Skreever’s hand and said some soft stuff to him, and then she said:
“And you didn’t forget Rover, did you, Edwin?”
“No,” he said, “I didn’t forget him. And I don’t believe I ever will.”
But you can see why I felt scared when it seemed likely that the redheaded man with the scar over his eye in the Arkansas jail was the Redheaded Bandit. Because we knew the Redheaded Bandit was a mighty hard character. Of course, when you come to think of it, he did not steal Rover, but he might have stolen him if he had thought of it and had wanted a dog like Rover.