Fido Norton hurried to the police station in back of Ezra Corbett'sstore and aroused Officer Dopeson who was at the desk waiting forout-of-town speeders to be brought in. In a kind of waking dream theofficer heard an excited voice shout, "Mr. Ned Garrison's car is stolenfrom the shed down by the lake."
When Officer Dopeson was fully aware of this noisy intrusion, theintruder had disappeared. He lost no time, however, in setting the usualmachinery in motion. By a continuous series of movements of the receiverrack on the telephone he aroused Miss Dolly Bobbitt, the night operator,from the depths of the novel she was reading, and notified the PoliceDepartment in East Ketchem across the lake to be on watch for the car.The police department over there said that he would be glad to do that.The police departments of Conner's Junction and Rocky Hollow were alsonotified.
A long distance call to the New York police warned them to be on thelookout. Blinksboro, on the main road, did not answer. Knapp'sCrossroads had gone to a harvest festival and forgotten to come back.No answer. Lonehaven couldn't get the name of the car but said it wouldwatch out for a Plunkabunk. Wakeville said no car could possibly getthrough there as there wasn't any road. Miss Dolly Bobbitt returned toher novel.
And meanwhile the scout raised a mighty hand up into the vast, starryheaven, like some giant traffic cop....
"Pull that canvas cover off it," said Nick to his comrade who had justcome up the ladder. "The blamed thing's all rotten anyway, I guess.Strike a match and find where the switch is. Look out you don't slip inthe hole. Look at all the confetti and stuff," he added hurriedly, asthe tiny flame of the match illuminated a small area of the littlecupola. "War's over, huh?"
There upon the floor were strewn the gay many-colored little paperparticles, plastered against the wood by many a rain, mementos of thenight when even West Ketchem arose and poured this festive, flutteringstuff down necks and into windows. Someone who had thought to throw thesearch-light on the flag across the street, had spilled some ofinsinuating stuff in the little cupola. How old and stale, and a part ofthe forgotten past, the war seemed! And these once gay memorials of itsending were all washed out and as colorless as the big spiders thatclaimed the little cupola as their own. It smelled musty up there. Andwhenever a match was lighted the spiders started in their webs. A lonelybat, settled for the winter, hung like an old stiff dishrag from a beam.
"Did you find the switch?" Nick asked, as he fumbled hastily with thebig brass light. "All right, wait till I point the lens down, now turnit."
There was no light.
"Did you turn it?"
"Sure."
"Pull it out, maybe it works that way."
There was no light, Norton paused in suspense while Nick shook the brasscase and jarred the wiring to overcome a slight short circuit if therewas any there.
"All right, turn it again."
There was no light, and the two scouts stood baffled and heavy heartedin the lonely darkness.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MESSAGE
"I'm a dumb-bell!" said Nick in a quick inspiration. "Go down and turn onthe main switch; it's in a box on the wall in the vestibule; just pullthe handle down and push it in below. We'll never get any juice up herewith that turned off. Hurry up."
Norton descended the ladder and with lighted matches found his way tothe vestibule where the switch-box was. Here was the big switch on whichall other switches in the building depended. As he pulled it down onelonely bulb in the meeting-room brightened and cast a dim light in themusty, empty place. It was evidently the only bulb in which theindividual switch was turned on. Norton went through the meeting-roomand turned this off. The place smelled for all the world like aschool-room.
When he reached the ladder it was bathed in light. Nick was pointing ashaft of dazzling brightness downward. It revealed spiders and splitrungs on the ladder and all the litter at its foot. All the rottingframework of the place and all the disorder were drawn into the light ofday. A pile of old law books became radiant, dry and dull as they were.
"We've got it," called Nick, "hurry up, this blamed thing will reach tothe isle of Yap. What's S? Wait, I'll give 'em the high sign first."
A long, dusty column swept across the dark sky.
"Attention everybody," said Nick. "What's S?"
"Three dots," said Norton.
"Three flashes it is. How's that? I'm forgetting my A, B, C's. What'sT?"
"One dash."
"Is three seconds long enough?"
"Three for dashes and one for dots."
"O."
The long column swung slowly to right, then slowly back to left again,then slowly back to right.
"P's a hard one; here goes." "Good for you, _some_ handwriting."
In five minutes or less, Nick had sprawled across the open page of theheavens the words, "STOP BLUE CAR 50792 EAGLE ON FRONT." He paused abouthalf a minute then repeated the message.
That long, accusing arm crossed stars as it swayed and flashed. Itfilled the limitless sky like a rainbow. A giant spectre it was, swayingin the unknown depths, crossing clouds, and piercing realms of darkness,and speaking to those who could understand. A sick child, somewhere orother, saw it, and the watchful mother carried the little one to awindow the better to see this strange visitant.
"It's a search-light," she said. But to them it had no meaning. A merryparty returning home in the wee hours paused and watched it curiouslybut it spoke to them not. At Knapp's Crossroads they saw it, just as theharvest festival was breaking up, and Hank Sparker and Sophia Coysonlingered on their way home to watch it. But it spoke not their language.
Did it speak to any one, this voice calling in the dark? Did any oneunderstand it? Were there no telegraph operators in any of the stationsalong the line? They would understand. Was there no one?
No one?...
CHAPTER XIX
PAGE TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FOUR
If Pee-wee had stolen a glimpse from the buffalo robe at about the timethat he was writing under difficulties his momentous message to theworld, he might have noticed a little old-fashioned house nestling amongthe trees along the roadside.
At that time the house was dark save for a lamp-light in a little windowup under the eaves. Little the speeding hero knew that up in that tinyroom there sat a boy engrossed with the only scout companion that heknew, and that was the scout handbook. It had come to him by mail a fewdays before.
This boy lived with his widowed mother, Mrs. Mehetable Piper. His namewas Peter, but whether he was descended from the renowned Peter Piperwho picked a peck of pickled peppers, the present chronicler does notknow. At the time in question he was eating the handbook alive. Thespeeding auto passed, the mighty Bridgeboro scout pinned his missive tohis remnant of sandwich and hurled it out into the dark world, the boyup in the little room went on reading with hungry eyes, and that is allthere was to that.
Peter belonged to no troop, for in that lonely country there was notroop to belong to. He had no scoutmaster, no one to track and stalk andgo camping with, no one to jolly him as Pee-wee had. Away off inNational Headquarters he was registered as a pioneer scout. He had hiscertificate, he had his handbook, that is all. It is said in that bookthat a scout is a brother to every other scout, but this scout'sbrothers were very far away and he had never seen any of them. Hewondered what they looked like in their trim khaki attire. He couldhardly hope to see them, but he did dare to hope that somehow or otherhe might strike up a correspondence with one of them. He had heard ofpioneer scouts doing that.
In his loneliness he pictured scouts seated around a camp-fire tellingyarns. He knew that sometimes these wonderful and fortunate beings withbadges up and down their arms went tracking in pairs, that there waschumming in the patrols. He might sometime or other induce Abner Corningto become a pioneer scout and chum with him. But this seemed a Utopianvision for Abner lived seven miles away and had hip disease and lived ina wheel-chair.
Peter had a rich uncle who lived in New York and took care of a buildingand go
t, oh as much as thirty dollars a week. The next time this richuncle came to visit he was going to ask him if he had seen any realscouts with khaki suits and jack-knives dangling from their belts andaxes hanging on their hips.
Peter experimented with the axe in the woodshed but it was so long thatthe handle dragged on the ground and he could sit on it. He had likewisepinned a Harding and Coolidge button on his sleeve and pretended it wasa signalling badge. _A signalling badge!_ He did not tell his motherwhat he was pretending for she would not understand. Out in the smallbarn he had presented himself with this, with much scout ceremony, andhe had actually trembled when he told himself (in a man's voice) to"step forward and receive this token...."
The car in which Scout Harris was being carried reached the lake andstill Peter Piper poured over his scout handbook by the dim, oilysmelling lamp, up in that little room. The two scoutmasters rowed acrossand were greeted by their noisy troops and still Peter Piper read hisbook. The scout of scouts, W. Harris of the nifty Bridgeboro outfit, wasnearly suffocated, then escaped and stood triumphant over the ruins ofthe West Ketchem school, and still Peter Piper's smarting eyes werefixed upon that book. They were riveted to page two hundred andeighty-four and he was reading the words "Scouts should thoroughlymaster these two standard...."
He read it again and again for his strained eyes were blinking and thepage seemed all hazy. He paused to rest his eyes, then read on. But hedid not turn the page. For an hour his gaze was fixed upon it. Just onthat one page....
CHAPTER XX
STOP
Suddenly something, it seemed like a shadow, crossed the window outside.If Peter's little room had been downstairs he might have thought that aspectre of the night was passing. He looked up, startled, dumbfounded.And while he gazed the tall dusky apparition passed back across thewindow again.
Half frightened and very curious he raised the little sash and lookedout. The night was dark but the sky was filled with stars. Not a lightof man's making was there in all the country roundabout. He concentratedhis gaze along the back road and tried to pick out the spot wherePeace-justice Fee's house was, thinking that perhaps some signthereabout would furnish the key to this ghostly mystery. But there wasnot the faintest twinkle there, nor any sound of life. Only solemn,unanswering darkness. Somewhere in the woods a solitary screech owl washooting its discordant song.
"Is--is--anybody here?" Peter asked, his voice shaking. There was noanswer, nothing but silent, enveloping darkness.
Peter groped behind him for the old piece of broomstick which proppedthe window open, and with this in place, he leaned far out and gazedtoward the little graveyard where his father and his grandfather and allthe simple forbears of the lonely neighborhood had gone to their rest.Not a sound was there in that solemn little acre. He strained his eyesand tried to identify the place by Deacon Small's tall, white tombstone,but he could not make it out.
Suddenly, just above that silent, hallowed little area, a tall graything appeared, then disappeared as suddenly.
Peter trembled, yet gazed in fascination. He was fearful of he knew notwhat. Yet he could not withdraw his eyes from that spot. Hadsomeone--some _thing_ from that little graveyard come to his window andgone back again to its musty rest? Was it--_could_ it be--?
Hardly had he the chance to think and conjure up some harrowing fear,when the dusky column appeared again, then disappeared, then appearedagain. Then darkness.
Whatever put it into Peter Piper's head he never know, but quick likethose very flashes occurred to him the very words that he had beensaying over and over to himself but a few minutes before--saying overand committing to memory. "Three dots or flashes--S, three dots orflashes--three dots or flashes--"
Again it arose, that ghostly apparition, and filled the dark sky abovethe little graveyard. This time it remained, for one, two, three, fourseconds.
Peter's hand trembled now from a new kind of excitement, as he gropedbehind him for his one poor scout possession, the handbook. Then hereached for the lamp, but the night wind blew it out just as the tallthing came again, and stayed for several seconds.
Peter groped for the little box of safety matches which always lay nearthe lamp. These were the chief ornaments of his little room, the lampand the safety matches. He held a match close over page two hundred andeighty-four while he divided his gaze between this and the nextlingering visitation of that strange, long, shadowy thing over thegraveyard. He struck match after match, as each blew out. Yes, that waswhat three short flashes meant--S. And one long flash meant T.
Suppose--_suppose_ there should be three _long_ appearances now? Thatwould be O. Were these signs, expressed in ghostly strangeness, just thefigments of Peter's excited imagination? Just the Morse Code hauntinghim and coloring his fancy? He put his finger on the black symbol on thepage and waited.
--Two--three--then a pause.
S--T--O
His finger held upon the page trembled as he lighted another match andstill another and moved his finger to another printed symbol on thepage. And the long, dusty column over beyond the graveyard, came andwent, now for a second, now for several, now for several again, then forone short second.
"STOP!" said Peter, his voice shaking as if indeed some ghostly spectrewere upon him. Somebody, somebody was talking to him! Some scout, inreal khaki attire, out in the great world?
Peter did not know where to place his waiting finger next. A mighty handhad been raised in the black, solemn night, and had said _Stop_. Hadsprawled it across the open page of the heaven. Peter waited, as onewaits for a spirit to give some sign. He kept his eyes riveted upon thegeneral service code, lighting match after match and throwing them onthe floor as the fickle things went out. Some day, _some day, maybe_,Peter would have a _real_ flashlight with a switch button, a flashlightof shiny nickel that he could polish, such a flashlight as he had seen apicture of in _Boy's Life_. A flashlight that would not blow out.Sometime he would--maybe....
CHAPTER XXI
SEEIN' THINGS
Stop-blue-car-five-o-seven-nine-two-eagle-on-front.
Out of the solemn darkness, someone, somewhere, had called to PeterPiper of Piper's Crossroads; had stolen like a silent ghost to hislittle window and bidden him watch.
Far away that arresting voice may have been, away off in the big world,and none could say how far or near, or where or how it spoke, calling inthe endless wilderness of night. But it spoke to Peter Piper, of Piper'sCrossroads, to Peter Piper, pioneer scout.
And Peter Piper, with the aid of the only scout companion that he had,read it and was _prepared_, as it is the way of a scout to be.
He did not dare to hope that he was being drawn into the actual circleof scouting; he would not know how to act among those natty strangers.Wonderful as they were, with their pathfinding and all that, they couldhardly penetrate to his humble, sequestered little home. Peter Piper ofPiper's Crossroads was not going to allow himself to dream anyextravagantly impossible dreams. The nickel flashlight and acorrespondence with some unknown "brother," that was as far as his hopescarried.
He had still a lingering and persistent feeling that this whole amazingbusiness was unreal; that he had been dreaming it or at least reading ameaning where there was none. He knew that he could see trees and thestars in Hawley's pond when there were none there. Might not this be thesame? He had expected sometime or other to make a signal fire and givethis scout voice a try-out with some simple word. He had not expected tobe aroused and called to service by its spectral, mysterious command.
What should he do? Set it down to his own deceiving fancy and go back tohis handbook? Return to the wholesome realities of stalking and trailingwhich filled those engrossing pages? Poor Peter Piper felt that he hadmade a sort of bold excursion from Piper's Crossroads into the realm ofmiracles and that he had better not let that weird apparition overbeyond the graveyard dupe and mock him. Perhaps he had been "seein'things." Yet there were the long and short flashes and they had spelledthat warning message, or else he had go
ne out of his senses or beendreaming. He hardly knew what to think, now that he had time to think.
His credulity soon gained the upper hand, he began to doubt his owneyes, and he was just a bit ashamed of what he was resolved to do. Atall events he would have the delight of doing it, and no one would know.He would act just as a _real_ scout would _really_ act if the messagewas _real_ and _true_.
Stealing down the creaky, boxed-in stairs, he got a lantern from thekitchen and lighted it. The actual performance of this practical actmade his experience of the last few minutes seem fanciful, unreal. Hewas no longer under the spell of that ghostly column and he was not sosure that he believed in it. To bestir himself upon the authority ofsuch an uncanny warning seemed rather foolish. He almost found iteasier, now, to believe that he had seen some spectral thing in thegraveyard.
As he emerged from the house the familiar things about him seemed tomock his vision of a warning message in the sky. The startled chickensin the little hen-house resettled themselves comfortably on theirperches as if not to be disturbed by such nonsense. The calf resting atthe end of his pegged rope arose, looked about him and lay down again asif he would not be a party to poor Peter's absurd nocturnal enterprise.The darkness and the vastness of the wooded country seemed to chillPeter's hopes. Now that the gripping spell was over he hardly knew whatto think....
With his jack-knife he cut a piece from the rope which held the calf andmoved the peg nearer to the animal which looked curiously on at thisunexpected abridgment of its sphere of freedom. It almost seemed toPeter that the calf was laughing at him.
Pee-Wee Harris on the Trail Page 5
