The Ghost of Opalina

by Peggy Bacon

  “Poor little fellers!” he thought. “I’ll keep ‘em away from that ornery granpaw fer a coupla days.” Aloud he said: “Reckon yer folks would let yer stick around here?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said optimistic Pelley.

  “I don’t think Grandpa and Grandma like to have us there too much,” Pat said dolefully.

  Batsy pondered, tugging at his beard. There was a problem. He managed to feed himself by hunting and fishing. Could he catch enough for the three of them?

  “How much do yer git to eat, when yer to home?”

  “Whatever we want,” Pelley answered casually.

  “Well — what’all do yer git?”

  “Oh, anything — everything.”

  “Whatever Cook fixes,” said Pat.

  “Well, what?”

  “Oh, cereal and bacon and eggs and fruit —”

  “And meat and fish and potatoes and vegetables—”

  “And bread and butter and jam and pies and puddings—”

  “And soup and cake and milk — oh, lots of milk.”

  “We each get a quart a day and we can have more.”

  “All we like, because they say it’s good for us and we both love milk.”

  Batsy was taken aback. “Well, you’d never git all that here with me, not by a long chalk!”

  The boys saw their mistake and hastened to say they would gladly go without vegetables — soup and cereal, too —

  Batsy grunted. “You won’t git no pies and puddin’s, nor cake nor jam neither. Meat and fish I can git yer — plenty, some days. But how’m I goin’ ter git them other things? And all that milk! Cans o’ milk ain’t lyin’ around loose, like apples and hickory nuts.”

  “We don’t have to have all that!” cried the boys, regretting their careless words.

  “Ah, if yer folks give yer all that food, stands to reason it’s because yer need it; and I hear tell kids don’t thrive without milk. I ain’t aimin’ to have yer sicken on me.”

  “Oh, we won’t!”

  “We wouldn’t!”

  But Batsy was firm. “I ain’t akeepin’ yer without we find the right food and the milk for yer to drink. Thing is, where am I goin’ ter git the money?”

  “Grandpa’s rich,” said Pelley. “He gives us pocket money.”

  “Only he never lets us buy what we like,” Pat grumbled. “We have to show him we spent it on something sensible.”

  “Food is sensible,” Pelley said. “I shouldn’t think Grandpa would mind paying for our food.”

  “Ain’t no harm in askin’,” Batsy allowed. “Go ask him.”

  “We can’t go,” said Pelley. “The minute he sees us, he’ll thrash us for being late. You ask him, Batsy.”

  “Yes, you ask him,” Pat echoed.

  “Naw!” Batsy growled. “I ain’t goin’ beggin’, not fer myself, nor yet fer nobody else. Anyhow, I can’t pay calls on the quality in these old duds o’ mine.”

  Scrutinizing Batsy’s appearance for the first time, the twins were forced to admit to themselves that he was right. Grandpa never gave anything to tramps; and the servants had orders to turn them away from the door. Although the twins considered Batsy a hero, he didn’t actually look the part, and Grandpa Cumberland wouldn’t appreciate him.

  A short silence followed, broken by Pelley. “What’s the matter with writing Grandpa a note?”

  “How could we get it to him?” Pat wondered.

  “One of us could sneak up through the shrubbery and slip it underneath the kitchen door. Cook would be sure to find it and take it to him.”

  “We can say we’re staying with Mr. Diggs down by the brook, near the Indian Trail and we need —”

  “You kin stop right there!” Batsy said loudly. “I won’t have yer lettin’ on where I hang out. ‘Fore yer know it, them stuck-up folks in the village will all come pokin’ their noses into my business, and their young varmints will be roarin’ around, scarin’ the game, and muddyin’ the river, so’s there won’t be nothin’ left to eat, let alone pesterin’ me nigh to death!”

  After another pause, Pelley said: “Suppose we say we’re visiting a friend who doesn’t keep cows and we need some money for milk. Grandpa really couldn’t object to that.”

  “But if we write the note, Grandpa and Grandma won’t believe we’ve been properly invited. Grandma says the host or hostess is the person who always has to issue the invitation. Instead of giving us the money to stay, they’ll tell us to come straight home.”

  “Well then, Batsy will have to write the note.”

  “Yes, you write it, please.”

  “Naw!” said Batsy. “Naw! I ain’t doin’ that!”

  “Why not?”

  “Why won’t you?”

  “‘Cause I ain’t never had a heap o’ schoolin’, so I ain’t got the know-how, you might say, to write a letter nice enough to read.”

  “We’ll write it for you,” Pelley proposed.

  “Nope! That’d be forgery. It’s a big sin. They could get the law on us fer that.”

  The twins were looking discouraged when Batsy’s face brightened. “Tell yer what! I know my ABC. Only thing is, I can’t spell so good. I kin tell yer the words I aim to say and you kin tell me the letters I should make. That way, I’ll be writin’ the note myself, ‘shooin’’ the invitation, like yer granma wants.”

  “I’ve got a pencil.” Pat dug in his pocket. “What about paper?”

  “There’s a bit of the wrapping that come around a loaf of bread,” said Batsy, “up to home.”

  “Home!”

  “Have you got a home?”

  The twins were as shocked as they would have been to hear that Robin Hood lived in a big hotel.

  “Sure I got a home,” said Batsy complacently, “a real nice home. C’mon along, I’ll show yer.”

  The boys followed Batsy up the hillside to a granite cliff, screened by trees and vines. Underneath a heavy mantle of creepers was a narrow opening, through which he led them. Striking a match, he lit a candle end, and as the flame steadied and grew bright, the twins gazed around them in astonishment.

  They were in a small, round, cave. The floor of the cave was thick with pine needles, over which were scattered the skins of animals which Batsy had trapped or shot — bears, foxes, wildcats, rabbits and muskrats. Stretched across the back was a bin of rough boards filled with dry leaves. The leaves and the pine needles gave the air a fragrant woodsy smell.

  Against the wall leaned a handmade fishing pole, a shotgun, a saw, an axe and a hammer. A burlap bag and an old broom hung on a peg. In the center of the cave, a cross section of tree trunk served as a table. It was covered with red oilcloth; and in the middle of that was a chipped saucer. Altogether a nice home, as Batsy had boasted; the cave was clean, cozy, even gay. And the twins were relieved to find no humdrum dwelling, but, on the contrary, the perfect hideout for an adventurous hunter, a lone wolf.

  “We better git goin’ with our letter writin’,” said Batsy, sticking the candle to the saucer. He fetched a rather rumpled piece of paper from the burlap bag, accepted the pencil from Pat, and they all crouched down around the lighted tabletop.

  Writing the letter turned out to be no easy matter. It would have gone faster had one of the twins written it, but Batsy’s fear of the law wouldn’t allow it. He insisted on composing the message himself and rejected all suggestions as to wording.

  “Now then: reckon I begin with ‘Mister.’”

  “Dear Mr. Cumberland,” Pat corrected him.

  “He ain’t dear to me so I don’t say it.”

  “That’s the usual way to start a letter.”

  “Well, I ain’t callin’ him dear, nohow. Jest ‘Mister.’”

  Batsy refused to bother with “Cumberland.” “Too much work fer nothin’. Mister’s enough.”

  He had partly forgotten his alphabet. At first his E’s and R’s faced the wrong way. He had to be shown how to make an S and taught to separate words. He grunted with th
e effort of shaping the letters, hunched over the paper, licking the pencil, holding it clumsily, pushing it before him as though it were a plough. Several false starts used up most of the paper, till there was only a small piece of it left. On this, after an hour of hard labor by all, and many arguments, the note read:

  MR:

  i GOT THE BOYS AND i WANT

  MONEY FOR THEM. LEAVE iT iN THE

  TOOL SHED BY THE WOODS EARLY TOMORROW.

  “That’s a real nice lookin’ letter.” Batsy smoothed the scrap of paper, held it to the light and smacked his lips, gloating over his handiwork.

  The twins, who had tried to persuade him to expand it, were not so pleased. Patrick scanned the letter critically over Batsy’s shoulder. “Somehow it doesn’t look like a proper invitation. You haven’t said you want us to stay with you.”

  “Wouldn’t have yer if I didn’t want yer. Stands to reason! Never had nobody else.”

  If only this gratifying compliment could have been plainly stated for Grandpa to read!

  “It ought to say what the money is for,” Pelley grumbled, for the third time.

  “It says the money’s fer you, don’t it?” Batsy answered, likewise for the third time.

  “But it ought to say we’re going to spend it on food,” Pelley insisted. “Wholesome stuff like milk and eggs and potatoes, so Grandpa will know we aren’t planning to buy candy and popcorn and sodas and balloons.”

  “It’s a real good letter, I’m tellin’ yer,” Batsy retorted, touchy as an artist defending his latest creation. “There’s plenty of ABC’s in that letter a’ready. Short and sweet is jest the way I want it.”

  “But why shouldn’t Grandpa leave the money on the gatepost by the drive, instead of way down there in tool shed, at the bottom of the orchard? It’s ever so much further for us to go, and it’s acres and acres from the house.”

  “That’s so yer grand kinfolk won’t git the chance to be lookin’ outer their winders snickerin’ at me, likely sayin’ I ain’t fit ter be seen.”

  “Well, anyway,” said Pelley, giving up, “you’d better sign the letter.”

  “Well, I can’t.”

  “You mean you can’t sign your own name?”

  “No more could you, if you’d a name like mine.”

  “Pooh! Batsy is easy to spell. So is Diggs.”

  “Ah, but Batsy ain’t my own true name, and I ain’t signin’ it ‘cause I don’t like it too well. Batsy is short fer Bats-in-the-Belfry, jest a nickname they give me, back in the orphanage. My true name is a right fine name to be proud of — Bartholomew — and I bet yer can’t spell that!”

  Bartholomew! The boys admitted they couldn’t.

  “Bartholomew Diggs,” Batsy repeated triumphantly. “A good big name and a real humdinger to spell!”

  “Sign yourself Diggs, why don’t you?” Pelley suggested.

  “Naw! That’s too stuck-up.”

  “Then sign it ‘a friend.’“

  “That’s it! That’s real civil.”

  Pat spelled it out and Batsy printed it.

  A bit of space below the signature allowed the twins to add a few words in longhand: “Dear Grandpa: please don’t lick us for being late. Love Patrick.” “Dear Grandpa: we want some food. Love Pelley.” (That was to show that the money would be wisely spent.)

  “Now I’ll be takin’ the letter to yer granpaw’s house.” Batsy folded it small and stuck it in his pocket.

  The old hermit was as spry as ever, though the boys were drooping with fatigue.

  “Git yerselves some sleep, why don’t yer’?” said their host, pointing to the bin at the rear of the cave. “Crawl in there. Plenty of room fer all.”

  There was indeed! The bin could have easily served as a bed for half-a-dozen grown men. As the boys sank into the softly rustling leaves, Batsy tossed a deerskin over them, blew out the guttering candle and left the cave.

  Mr. Cumberland was very angry. He had been angry for a long time, ever since dinner, and it was nearing midnight. Mrs. Cumberland was also angry, because she was a dutiful copycat, but she had gone to bed at ten as usual and so had all the servants.

  Mr. Cumberland had told the butler to tell the others not to stay up for the boys. “And tell Cook she is not to fix them supper, not to leave anything out for them to eat. They can go to bed hungry for once. It will do them good.”

  Mr. Cumberland was quite convinced that the twins were staying away simply to spite him, in revenge for his scolding them the night before. At breakfast they had both put on a show of being humble and contrite. A sly pretense! Secretly they had intended to continue defying him and flouting his commands.

  They were a boisterous unmannerly pair, outrageously inattentive and disrespectful! Since his daughter and son-in-law refused to train their brats, it was a grandparent’s plain duty to chasten the youthful sinners. So Mr. Cumberland sat alone by the coal fire in his study, waiting for the twins, ready to spank them, doggedly nursing his wrath.

  At half past one he could keep awake no longer. He would punish the miscreants tomorrow. Sooner or later they would tire of playing hooky and would come sneaking home. He debated whether to lock them out of the house, but decided not to go to that extreme. Emily would be angry at him if she heard of it. Leaving the front door unbolted, he went through the downstairs rooms, locking up and turning out the lights. When he entered the kitchen, he saw on the table a suspicious- looking mound covered with a napkin; and under the napkin, to his huge annoyance, he found a stack of turkey and lettuce sandwiches, a pitcher of malted milk and a bowl of chocolate sponge, which was the Montague twins’ favorite dessert.

  So even the servants chose to ignore his orders! He was not master in his own house! As Mr. Cumberland stood there, brooding bitterly over the numerous acts of disobedience undermining his domestic empire, his eye happened to fall on a morsel of paper sticking out from under the door to the back stoop. He picked it up, unfolded it; glanced at it sleepily; then read it for a second time with horror! “Mr: I got the boys and I want money for them.”

  Here I must say that although Batsy intended to make a perfectly simple, harmless statement, what the sentence meant to Mr. Cumberland was something entirely different and altogether dreadful — to him it conveyed the news that the twins had been kidnapped and were being held for ransom!

  Mr. Cumberland was wide awake now and trembling in every limb. What should he do? Clutching the note, he hurried back to the study and paced the floor, trying to collect his thoughts.

  If this were a city or even a small town, he would be able to summon the police. Here in the village, there was only the sheriff, a thickheaded bumbling fellow, good for little more than to threaten a naughty boy for stealing apples or to lead the village drunkard home to bed,

  The twins’ father was the person to call upon, but he couldn’t get hold of him at such short notice. The kidnapper wanted the money “early tomorrow.” By the time the horses were harnessed and driven ten miles, and Austin Montague had been aroused, had dressed himself and driven ten miles back, the sun would be up long since.

  Mr. Cumberland scanned the letter again. The boys’ own messages cut him to the heart. “Dear Grandpa: please don’t lick us for being late.” Did Patrick really believe his grandfather was so unjust as to punish them for being late to dinner when they had been kidnapped and were prisoners? — “Dear Grandpa: we want some food. Love Pelley.” How harrowing! The villain was starving them!

  Mr. Cumberland felt it was quite all right to send his grandsons to bed without any supper, but very wicked of anyone else to do so. Though Mr. Cumberland was not imaginative, an awful vision seemed to rise before him like a genie out of a jug: he saw two pitiful children, bound hand and foot, languishing in a deep dank cellar, weeping and wasting away from hunger and thirst! The villain had probably eaten their picnic lunch and they had had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast!

  The one important thing was to get them home. It would be safer to confide
in nobody. If he spread the news that the boys were missing, people were sure to raise a hullabaloo, alarming the villain, driving him into hiding. Then they might never see the boys again. He must ransom the twins and get them back, before attempting to capture the criminal.

  The ransom money! The wretch demanded money but he failed to say how much. He was sure to expect a large amount; everyone knew that the Cumberlands were rich and that the Montagues were well-to-do. The nearest bank was twenty-five miles away, and the doors would not be open till nine o’clock. Mr. Cumberland kept several hundred dollars in a little safe built into the wall of his study. The question was, would the kidnapper be satisfied with such a modest sum? It might not strike him as anything like enough to ransom twin boys from such a wealthy family. Yet it was all the money there was in the house.

  Mr. Cumberland opened up the safe and took out the metal box containing the cash. Carrying the box and a lighted lantern, he made his way across his lawns and gardens, his plantations, his pastures and orchards to the shed far off on the boundary of his property. Depositing the box inside the door, he looked about for a spot where he might hide, to spy on the wretch when he came to collect the ransom. He wanted to see the man with his own eyes, so that he would be able to identify him, if and when the fellow was arrested. But the kidnapper had chosen the spot well. There was no shelter in sight. This southern slope was planted in young peach trees, too small to shield a kitten, much less Mr. Cumberland’s substantial form; and the shed itself was a paltry cubicle to house the gardening tools and pruning shears.

  There was nothing more he could do tonight so he went home to bed, though not to sleep. Haunted by waking dreams of his descendants helplessly suffering in captivity, he was also maddened by Mrs. Cumberland’s contented snores.