The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels

by Mildred Benson

  Although a strong swimmer, Penny found herself no match for the wild torrent. Only by going with it could she keep her head above water. To attempt to swim against it was impossible. Despairingly, she saw that she would miss the railroad station by many yards.

  “I’ll be swept into the main body of the flood!” she thought in panic. “I shouldn’t have attempted it!”

  Too late she tried to turn back toward the hillside. The swift current held her relentlessly. Struggling against it, her head went under. She choked as she breathed water, then fought her way to the surface again. The current carried her on.

  After that first moment of panic, Penny did not waste her strength uselessly. Allowing the flood to carry her along, she took only a few slow strokes, swimming just enough to keep from being pulled beneath the surface. As calmly as she could she appraised the situation.

  The station now was very close. Scarcely fifty yards separated her from it, but she knew her physical powers. Her strength was no match for that racing, swirling, debris-studded current. She could not hope to span the distance, short though it was.

  Penny despaired. And then her heart leaped with new hope. Directly ahead, a foot and a half above the water’s murky surface, rose a steel rod with red and green signal targets. She recognized the object as a switch stand, used by trainmen to open and close the passing track switch.

  “If I could reach that steel rod I could hold on!” she thought. “But do I have the strength?”

  The swift current swept Penny on toward the upright rod. She took three, four powerful strokes and reached frantically for the standard. Her fingers closed around the metal. The swift flowing water whipped her violently, but she held fast. Drawing herself close to the rod, she shoved her feet downward. Still she could find no bottom.

  Hopefully, Penny glanced toward the station, now less than twenty-five yards away. Although water completely surrounded the squat little building, it had not risen to the window level. Yet there was no sign of anyone near the place—no one to help her.

  Still clinging to the rod, she groped again with her bare feet. This time she located a steel rail. By standing on it, she raised herself a few inches and found firm footing. Suddenly an idea came to her.

  “If I shove off hard from this rail, maybe I can get enough momentum to carry me through the current! If I fail—”

  Penny decided not to think about that. Releasing her hold on the rod, she pushed off with all her strength and began to swim. Digging her face into the water, she held her breath and put everything she had into each stroke. Pull, pull, pull—she had to keep on. Her breath was nearly gone, strength fast was deserting her. Yet to turn her head and gulp air might spell defeat when victory was near. She could feel the torrent swinging her downstream. She made a final, desperate spurt.

  “I can’t make it!” she thought. “I can’t!”

  Yet she struggled on. Then suddenly her churning feet struck a solid object. It was the brick platform of the station!

  Raising her head, she saw the building loom up in front of her. The current no longer tugged at her body. She had reached quiet water.

  Penny stood still a moment, regaining her breath.

  Then she waded to the front door of the station. It could not be opened. Penny pounded and shouted. Her cries went unanswered.

  “The place is deserted!” she thought with a sinking heart. “Joe Quigley must have taken to the hills when the flood came.”

  Slowly Penny waded around the building, unwilling to acknowledge failure. Somehow she had to get word of the disaster through to the outside world. Yet even if she did get inside the station, she was far from certain it would do any good. Telephone wires undoubtedly were down.

  Penny made a complete circuit of the depot without seeing anyone. Sick with disappointment, she paused beside the glass-enclosed bay of the ticket office and peered inside. She could see no one. But as she pressed her face against the pane of glass she thought she heard the chatter of a telegraph instrument.

  “That means there still must be a wire connection!” she thought hopefully.

  Nearby, the flood had lodged a small board against the depot wall. Seizing it, Penny smashed the lower pane of glass with one well-aimed blow.

  She scrambled through the opening, crawled over the operator’s table and dropped to the floor. The little ticket office was deserted though Joe Quigley’s hat still lay on the counter.

  “If only I knew how to telegraph!” Penny despaired, hearing again the chatter of the instrument. “Just knowing Morse code won’t help me much.”

  The telegraph sounder was signaling the station call for Delta: “D-A, D-A, D-A.” Over and over it was repeated.

  Penny hesitated and then went to the instrument. She opened the key and answered with the station call, “D-A.”

  “Where have you been for the past twenty minutes?” the train dispatcher sent angrily at top speed. “What’s happened to No. 17?”

  Penny got only part of the message and guessed at the rest. Nervously, at very slow speed, she tapped out in Morse code that the train had been washed off the track.

  The dispatcher’s next message came very slowly, disclosing that he knew from Penny’s style of sending that he was talking to an amateur telegrapher.

  “Where’s Joe Quigley?” he asked in code.

  “Don’t know,” Penny tapped again. “Station’s half under water. Can you send help?”

  “Shoot me the facts straight,” came the terse order.

  Penny described what had happened at Huntley Dam and told how the railroad bridge had washed out. In return the dispatcher assured her that a relief crew would be sent without delay.

  “Stay on the job until relieved,” was his final order.

  Weak with excitement, Penny leaned back in her chair. Help actually was on the way! The dispatcher would notify the proper authorities and set in motion the wheels of various relief organizations. For the moment she had done all she could.

  She listened tensely as the dispatcher’s crisp call flashed over the wire. He was notifying stations farther up the line to hold all trains running into the valley. Repeatedly Penny heard the call “W-F” which she took to be Witch Falls. It went unanswered.

  Half sick with dread, she waited, hoping for a response. It was likely, almost a certainty that the station had been swept away, for the town would have been squarely in the path of the flood. What had happened to old Mrs. Lear and the Burmasters? Penny tried not to think about it.

  Unexpectedly, the outside office door opened. Joe Quigley, bedraggled and haggard, one arm hanging limp at his side, splashed toward the desk. Seeing Penny, he stopped short, yet seemed too dazed to question the girl’s presence in the inner office.

  “It’s awful,” he mumbled. “I was on the station platform when I saw that wall of water coming. Tried to warn the men in the roundhouse. Before I could cross the tracks, it was too late. One terrific crash and the roundhouse disappeared—”

  “You’re hurt,” Penny cried as the agent reeled against the wall. “Your arm is crushed. How did it happen?”

  “Don’t know,” Joe admitted, sinking into a chair the girl offered. “I was knocked off my feet. Came to lying in a pile of boards that had snagged against a tree trunk.” He stared at Penny as if really seeing her for the first time. “Say,” he demanded, “how did you get in here?”

  “Smashed the window. It was the only way.”

  The agent got to his feet, staggering toward the telegraph desk.

  “I’ve got to send a message,” he said jerkily. “No. 30’s due at Rodney in twenty minutes.”

  “All the trains have been stopped by the dispatcher,”Penny reassured him, and explained how she had sent out the call for help.

  Joe Quigley slumped back in the chair. “If you can telegraph, let the dispatcher know I’m on the job again. This hand of mine’s not so hot for sending.”

  Penny obediently sent the stumbling message, but as she completed it the
telegraph sounder became lifeless. Although she still could manipulate the key, the signals had faded completely.

  “Now what?” she cried, bewildered.

  “The wire’s dead!” Quigley exclaimed. Anxiously he glanced toward the storage batteries, fearing that water had damped them out. However, the boxes were high above the floor and still dry.

  “What can be wrong?” Penny asked the operator.

  “Anything can happen in a mess like this.”

  Reaching across the table with his good hand, Quigley tested the wire by opening and closing the lifeless telegraph key.

  “It’s completely out,” he declared with finality.

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  Quigley got to his feet. “There’s just one chance. The wire may have grounded when the bridge was swept away. Then if it tore loose again we’d be out of service.”

  “In that case we’re up against it.”

  “Maybe not,” Quigley replied. He splashed across the room to the switchboard. “If that should happen to be the trouble, we can ground it here.”

  He inserted a plug in the groundplate of the switchboard. Immediately the sounder came to life, closing with a sharp click.

  “I call that luck!” grinned Quigley. “Now let’s try that dispatcher. Want to get him on the wire for me?”

  Penny nodded and sat down at the desk again. Insistently she sent out the call, “D-S, D-S, D-S.” All the while as she kept the key moving, her thoughts raced ahead. She was afraid that persons had lost their lives in the flood. Property damage was beyond estimate. But catastrophe spelled Big News and she was certain her father would want every detail of the story for the Riverview Star. If only she could send word to him!

  “What’s the matter?” Quigley asked, his voice impatient. “Can’t you get an answer?”

  Just then it came—a crisp “I—DS” which told the two listeners that the train dispatcher again was on the wire.

  Quigley took over, explaining the break in service and giving the dispatcher such facts as he desired. Hovering at the agent’s elbow, Penny asked him if the dispatcher would take an important personal message.

  “For the Riverview Star,” she added quickly. “My father’s newspaper.”

  “I doubt he’ll do it,” Quigley discouraged her. “This one wire is needed for vital railroad messages. But we’ll see.”

  He tapped out a message and the reply came. It was sent so fast that Penny could not understand the code. Quigley translated it as “Okay, but make it brief.”

  With no time to compose a carefully worded message, Penny reported the bare facts of the disaster. She addressed the message to her father and signed her own name.

  “There, that’s off,” Quigley said, sagging back in his chair.

  Penny saw that the station agent was in no condition to carry on his work.

  “You’re in bad shape,” she said anxiously. “Let me bandage that smashed hand.”

  “It’s nothing. I’ll be okay.”

  “I’ll find something to tie it up with,” Penny insisted.

  In search of bandage material, she crossed the room to a wall closet. As she reached for the door handle, Quigley turned swiftly in his chair.

  “No, not there!” he exclaimed.

  Penny already had opened the door. Her gaze fastened upon a white roll of cloth on the top shelf. She reached for it and it came fluttering down into her hands—a loose garment fashioned somewhat like a cape with tiny slits cut for eyes. In an instant she knew what it was. Slowly she turned to face Joe Quigley.

  “So it was you!” she whispered accusingly. “The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow!”

  CHAPTER 21

  A MYSTERY EXPLAINED

  Joe Quigley did not deny the accusation. He slumped at the telegraph desk, staring straight before him.

  “Why did you do it?” Penny asked. “How could you?”

  “I don’t know—now,” Quigley answered heavily. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Penny shook out the garment. The whole, when worn over one’s head, would give an appearance of a sheeted goblin with body cut off at the shoulders. She tore off a long strip of the material and began to wrap Quigley’s injured hand.

  “You’ve known for a long time, haven’t you?” he asked diffidently.

  “I suspected it, but I wasn’t sure,” Penny replied. “Your style of riding is rather spectacular. Last night when I saw Trinidad leap the barrier at Sleepy Hollow I thought I knew.”

  “Nothing matters now,” Quigley said, self accusingly. “Sleepy Hollow’s gone.”

  “Don’t you think Mrs. Lear and the Burmasters had any chance to reach the hills?”

  “I doubt it. When the dam broke, the water raced down the valley with the speed of an express train. Probably they were caught like rats in a trap.”

  “It seems too horrible.”

  “I knew this would happen,” Quigley went on. “It was what I fought against. We tried through the Delta Citizens’ Committee to get Burmaster to help repair the dam before it was too late. You know what luck we had.”

  “So failing in ordinary methods, you tried to bring him around with your Headless Horseman stunt?”

  “It was a foolish idea,” Quigley acknowledged. “Mrs. Lear really put me up to it—not that I’m trying to throw any blame on her. She never liked Mrs. Burmaster, and for good reasons. The Headless Horseman affair started out as a prank, and then I thought I saw a chance to influence Burmaster that way.”

  “At that he might have come around if it hadn’t been for his wife.”

  “Yes, she was against the town from the first. She hated everyone. Why, she believed that our only thought was to get her away from the valley just to trick her.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter now,” Penny said. “The estate’s gone and everyone with it. Somehow I can’t realize it—things happened so fast.”

  “This is a horrible disaster, and it will be worse if help doesn’t get here fast,” Quigley replied. “Fortunately, the water doesn’t seem to be coming higher.”

  Penny had completed a rough bandaging job on the station agent’s hand. Thanking her, he got up to test the two office telephones. Both were out of service.

  Presently a message came in over the telegraph wire. It was addressed to Penny and was from her father. Quigley copied it on a pad and handed it to her.

  “Thank God you are safe,” the message read. “A special circuit will be cut through to the Delta station as soon as possible. Can you give us a complete, running story of the flood?”

  “What’s a running story?” Quigley asked curiously.

  “I think Dad wants me to gather every fact I can,”Penny explained. “He wants a continuous story—enough material to fill a wire for several hours.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “I don’t know,” Penny said doubtfully. “I’ve never handled a story as big as this—I’ve had no experience on anything so important.”

  “There’s no other person to do it.”

  “I want to find Louise,” Penny went on, rereading the message. “I ought to try to learn what happened to poor Mrs. Lear and the Burmasters.”

  “Listen,” Quigley argued quietly. “You can’t do anything for your friends now. Don’t you see it’s your duty to get news out to the country? Your father expects it of you.”

  Penny remained silent.

  “Don’t you realize there’s no one else to send the news?” Quigley demanded. “You’re probably the only reporter within miles of here.”

  “But I’m not really a reporter. I’ve written stories for Dad’s paper, it’s true. But not big stories such as this.”

  “Red Valley needs help. The only way to get it is by arousing the public. Do I wire your father ‘yes’or ‘no’?”

  “Make it ‘yes,’” Penny decided. “Tell Dad I’ll try to have something for him in an hour.”

  “You’ll need longer than that,” Quigley advise
d. “Anyhow, it’s apt to be several hours before we get a special wire through.”

  While the agent sent the message, Penny searched the office for pencil and paper.

  “You won’t get far without shoes,” Quigley said over his shoulder. “What became of yours?”

  “Left them over on the hillside.”

  “Well, you can’t go back for them now,” Quigley replied, gazing ruefully through the window at the racing torrent which separated the station from the high hill. “Let’s see what we can find for you.”

  He rummaged through the closet and came upon a pair of boots which looked nearly small enough for Penny.

  “We had a boy who wore those when he worked here,” he explained. “See if they’ll do. And here’s my coat.”

  “Oh, I can’t take it,” Penny protested. “You’ll need it yourself.”

  “No, I’m sticking here at my post,” Quigley answered. “I’ll be warm enough.”

  He insisted that Penny wear the coat. She left the station and waded toward higher ground. The coat over her drenched clothing offered only slight protection from the chill wind. With the sun dropping low, she knew that soon she would actually suffer from cold.

  Penny wondered where to start in gathering vital facts for her father. The flood had followed the narrow V-shaped valley, cutting a swath of destruction above Delta, and there spreading out to the lowlands. She decided to tour the outlying section of Delta first, view the wreckage and question survivors.

  “If only Salt were here!” she thought. “Dad would want pictures, but there’s no way for me to take them.”

  Keeping to the hillside, Penny reached a high point of land overlooking what had been the town of Delta. Two or three streets remained as before. One of the few business places still standing was the big white stone building that housed the local telephone company. Elsewhere there was only water and scattered debris.

  Penny headed up the valley, passing and meeting groups of bedraggled refugees who had taken to the hills at the first alarm. She questioned everyone. Nevertheless, definite information eluded her. How many lives had been lost? How great was the property damage? What fate had befallen Mrs. Lear and the Burmasters? No one seemed to know.