Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  Ephram was leaning forward, so that his whisper might be heard above the rails. “Isn’t poker a form of gambling?” he asked the hawk-nosed man.

  “Gambling?” said Ben.

  “I am sure that it is!” said Eagleton; he had read about gambling once in a gripping novel—What Drove Him Mad! by Mrs. Melody Clydethrope.

  “Gambling?” said Ben again. He could not have been more puzzled if someone had objected to silverware at the dinner table. He flashed a glance in Sundry’s direction and Sundry smiled to indicate amusement rather than observation.

  “Poker doesn’t have to entail gambling,” said Sundry wisely.

  “It doesn’t?” said Ben Hasson.

  Sundry tapped the side of his nose. “I am sure that our friend would never suggest such a thing. Would you, sir?”

  “I wouldn’t?”

  “Please forgive me,” said Ephram. “I did not mean to cast aspersions.”

  “Never,” agreed Thump.

  “Ephram never casts aspersions,” informed Eagleton.

  “A certain amount of money does change hands, however,” continued Sundry. “It is a tradition of the game, not to mention a social nicety, for each player to pay the dealer a predetermined sum.”

  “A tradition, you say,” said Thump. He was fond of traditions.

  “Yes, that is nice,” concluded Ephram.

  “And you see,” said Sundry, “the dealer is whoever has taken the previous hand. Isn’t that the best way of explaining it?” With raised eyebrows, he appealed to the man with the cards.

  Ben thought this through, and a smile like a beam of light brightened his features. “I’ve never heard it explained with greater delicacy, sir.”

  “Sundry,” said the young man, holding out his hand. “Sundry Moss.”

  Presented with such an obvious alias, Ben felt at home with the fellow. “Ben Hasson,” he said.

  “Matthew Ephram,” said that gentleman, adding his hand to the round of shaking. “It is a very . . . traditional sort of thing, isn’t it.” Eagleton and Thump introduced themselves, adding their high regard for custom and social niceties.

  “How much would you suggest paying the dealer today?” wondered Ben Hasson. “Twenty-five cents?”

  “Fifty,” said Sundry.

  Hasson glanced at the three neophytes.

  “Oh, yes,” said Thump. “I’m sure that it is only fair. This dealing seems a complex thing.”

  “I am sure that you will get the hang of it,” said Ben.

  The conductor came by, just then, and turned a tolerant (if somewhat envious) eye away from the unfolding game of cards. Sundry watched as Ben Hasson produced his ticket, and caught enough of a glimpse to see the city of Bangor marked as his destination.

  Sundry and the members of the club had tickets that would take them all the way to Portland. While their tickets were being punched, he did his best to distract Ben Hasson by accidentally knocking the makeshift table, and therefore the cards, into the aisle.

  Sundry stepped off the train at Brownville Junction. It had been many hours of riding for him since this morning, and he had a legitimate need to stretch his long legs; but he was also hoping for communication from Mister Walton at the telegraph station.

  He had only known Mister Walton for the better part of a week and yet admired the man enough to obey his wishes without question, and cared enough about him to wonder if he should be serving directly at his side. It disturbed Sundry that his portly friend was dealing with the head of the snake, while Sundry himself kept watch over the body; and he might have hastily retraced (re-retraced, as it were) his path if not for the members of the club, who so obviously required his chaperonage.

  He had hoped for a word from Mister Walton to assure him that all was well, and he returned to the train unsatisfied and a little troubled.

  “Those are very good hands,” said Ben Hasson. He was helping Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump with their card playing. It was very nice of him, they thought, to look at their cards and coach them, when he had his own cards to worry about—not to mention the dealing, which had been his responsibility since they began. “Those are very nice hands, Mr. Moss,” he said.

  “I think they are learning quickly,” said Sundry.

  White-bearded Samuel Adams had scented out the odd game, much to Ben’s dismay, and social niceties dictated that he do his best to help the three men as well. Sundry was introduced to Mr. Adams as a friend of the boss’s, and when a third member of the gang lighted upon this diversion, Sundry was introduced as a good friend of the boss’s. He leaned back, smiled upon the members of the club, and conveyed vast pleasure, as if he liked nothing better than to see three innocents hoodwinked with such ease.

  For their part, Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump seemed well stocked with the necessary funds for such a fleecing, and quite cheerful to part with them.

  At Brownville, Sundry inquired, in vain once again, for any message, and upon his return he raised a questioning look from a naturally suspicious Ben Hasson. “Business,” said Sundry, thinking that a fully articulated excuse might be as suspect as nothing at all. Others of the gang had gathered around the game by then—a rough-and-ready looking bunch—and it occurred to Sundry that Miss Underwood might be secreted away on the train itself.

  He rose from his seat after what he hoped was an appropriate interval, and made a cursory tour of the train. There were no private compartments, however, in which a person could be held against her will; and if she were being kept in one of the freight carriers behind them, there was no way—outside of walking the tops of cars—for him to continue his search.

  It was in the window at the end of the last passenger car that he caught the reflection of someone peering in behind him, and it was all he could do to stop himself from looking quickly over his shoulder. Instead, he stood for a moment, looking out at the boxcar that followed, and the flash of passing forest to either side. He turned away deliberately, as if lost in thought, but knew before looking that the person tailing him would be gone.

  At Old Town Mister Walton caught up with him in a telegram. Sundry read it several times over with a mingled sense of relief and regret. He was certainly glad that Miss Underwood was safe, but Mister Walton had spoken of the young woman in such glowing terms that a young man could not be blamed for hoping to be the author of her rescue.

  “Business is fine,” said Sundry.

  “That’s good,” said one of the gang. “We thought you were going to wear yourself out.”

  68 No One Knew the Day Until the Sun Went Down

  THE CONDUCTOR’S VOICE RANG OUT WITH THE LITANY OF STOPS, AND BANgor loomed early in the call—large and daunting in Sundry’s mind. His nerve froze somewhat as he reassessed his intentions, and briefly he regretted sending that telegram to Mister Walton. But just when his heart was gripped, he took a breath, and felt suddenly giddy as he considered how much he was going to enjoy himself. It has been said that the devil is a collection of virtuous qualities put to bad ends. So it might be imagined that Sundry Moss had many of the traits of a true rascal, and was only waiting for the chance to employ them in a good cause.

  The perseverance, meanwhile, of Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump was heroic, considering that between them they had only realized two hands in all the distance from Millinocket to Greenbush. Once Thump was in the position of dealer, however, he had an odd run of luck that could not be broken by either Ben Hasson’s machinations or bad advice. Ephram and Eagleton were fascinated (and not a little awed) by their friend’s sudden command of the cards. Thump was embarrassed and apologized several times.

  From up ahead, the engine whistle pierced the air and the conductor came through the car announcing Bangor as the next stop. Sundry felt his stomach tighten. Ben Hasson found this an auspicious moment to call it a game and shuffle away the deck. Thump was pleased (he dreaded winning another hand) and he offered to give back the money he had won. Ben Hasson looked as if he had swallowed something wrong.

>   The outskirts of Bangor rose up around them—lumberyards and a brick factory, a sawmill on the river, and the aged constructions of the Devil’s Half-Acre. The steam whistle shrieked among the buildings; the rhythm of the tracks slowed; the brakes clashed and rang. The trail of ash and steam caught up with the cars as knowledgeable passengers shut the windows; a billow of white and gray obscured the station briefly, like a passing bank of fog.

  Then they were stopped; the brakes and the chuff of steam and the rumble of the tracks fell away to the babble and commotion of a busy railway station. “Well, gentlemen,” said Ben Hasson to the club members, “it has been a pleasure.” But doubt showed in his expression. “I will tell the boss how entertained we were.”

  “Certainly,” said Ephram.

  “We can’t tell you how much we appreciate your instruction,” assured Ephram.

  “You’re sure you won’t take your money back?” asked Thump.

  They extended their hands as they rose, but Ben Hasson was down the aisle with the rest of the gang, none of whom looked back.

  “A laudable company,” said Ephram. “I hope they will consider our club.”

  “It will be delightful to report our newly acquired expertise regarding the playing of cards to our chairman,” considered Eagleton.

  “Aces high!” he added as a sort of farewell to the men disappearing in file from the car. Sundry watched from the window as several of the gang dispersed from the platform, while others gathered about Ben Hasson, who seemed to be reading something.

  “It has occurred to me,” said the ever-astute Thump, “that we were supposed to stay close to Mr. Hasson.”

  “Good heavens, Thump!” said Eagleton. “I do believe you are correct!”

  “In the excitement of the cards,” said Ephram, “I quite forgot, but those were precisely Mister Walton’s words.”

  “I have received a further communication from . . . the chairman,” said Sundry, halting a sudden rush down the aisle, “and if you will follow me, we will execute his wishes.”

  “And there is the problem of our tickets,” said Thump, still brimming with revelation.

  “Good heavens!” said Eagleton again.

  “Our tickets are for Portland,” said Ephram. “It might be improper to get off at Bangor.”

  “It is impolite not to inform people of a change in plans,” agreed Eagle-ton regretfully.

  “I fear my knowledge of railroad etiquette is lacking,” admitted Ephram. “Where is the conductor?”

  Sundry herded the club members up the aisle of the passenger car and once outside, he led the way down the steps on the river side of the train, so that the locomotive and its line of cars would screen them from the platform.

  It was while passing through the car that Ephram discovered the previous day’s edition of the Portland Courier, a copy of which was abandoned on one of the seats. It is true that the Eastern Argus was Ephram’s journal of choice, but the very sight of a paper from home (after being deprived of such for three days or more) was enough to drive all other considerations from his highly occupied mind. The paper was folded open to one of the middle pages, and Ephram held it up before him as he fell down the steps.

  “Good heavens!” he said, as he got up from atop Thump. “There has been an incident at Leith and Gore’s Refined Soap Company!”

  “An incident!” declared Eagleton as he helped Thump to his feet.

  Thump, who recognized immediately his own favored organ, barely gave notice to the altered condition of his hat. “What has happened?” he wondered.

  Details are as yet not forthcoming, read the item, but we have been informed that an incident has occurred at Leith and Gore’s Refined Soap Company. Our readers can rely on us to report any further particulars.

  “Good heavens!” said Eagleton.

  The engine and the passenger cars had been disengaged from the freight cars and now were trundling out of the station. Fearing that they would be seen as soon as the train had pulled away, Sundry suggested that they turn slightly so that the raised newspaper concealed them from the platform. Truth to tell, this was not an ideal solution, and if any of the gang members at the station had not been distracted by other matters, they might have found the sight of a newspaper with four pair of legs worthy of closer inspection.

  Clumping down the steps of the car, Ben Hasson heard his name called from the platform. A boy in the official livery of the North East Telegraph Company stood there, and he called for Ben with a sort of authoritative query. The hawk-nosed man was startled to hear that his arrival was anticipated, and the reverse nod he gave the boy was curt and wary. “What is it?” he growled as the boy approached.

  “Telegram, sir.”

  “I know that! Give it here!” Ben snatched the paper from the boy’s hand, and when the boy did not immediately make himself scarce, he tossed him a small coin and a glare. Standing amidst the ebb and flow of people, he read the telegram.

  “What is it, Ben?” asked Samuel Adams. He and several of the gang were standing about, like actors in a play who had forgotten their lines.

  Ben looked sharply about him. “Get!” he said in a harsh whisper to the man nearest him. “You’re not to hang about. Come back tonight, as you were ordered.” He glanced at Samuel. “It’s from the boss. I’m supposed to meet a fellow named Leach outside the seminary.”

  “The seminary?” The idea seemed a little frightening.

  “The cemetery?” wondered one of the other men.

  “Get!” Ben stalked a few feet away, rubbing the stubble on his chin as he reread the wire. “Wait,” he amended. “Better you stay here after all. But don’t make a scene of yourselves.”

  “What is it?” asked Samuel again. Hasson tipped the telegram slightly so that Samuel, and only Samuel, could read it.

  NORTH EAST TELEGRAPH COMPANY

  OFFICE—MILLINOCKET, MAINE

  JULY 12 PM 6:15

  BANGOR STATION

  MR BEN HASSON

  CHANGE IN SITUATION. CHANGE IN PLAN. WAIT OUTSIDE SEMINARY IMMEDIATE TO ARRIVAL FOR PARSON LEACH. DON’T ALARM THE MEN.

  THE BOSS

  “You’re supposed to wait for a preacher?” said the white-bearded fellow incredulously.

  “Yes, and you’re coming with me.”

  “But why did he sign it ‘the boss’?” wondered Samuel.

  “If the situation has changed, he may have good reason not to use his real name. I don’t know. How should I know?” Hasson considered this unexpected twist while a second engine backed up to the freight and lumber cars, prior to pulling them onto a siding that overlooked the river. “Stay here, but . . . spread out,” Ben said to several of the men.

  “What is it, Ben?” asked one of them, wide-eyed.

  “I don’t know yet. It’s nothing. Just a little change. I’ll be back.” He made a gesture to Samuel and they disappeared around the station house.

  The rest of the men—those who hadn’t quickly scattered—stood about, looking more than ever like forgetful stage players. They glanced at one another, exchanged shrugs, whispered in huddles. A wagon loaded with sheep was drawn up above the station, and as the freight engine pulled away, the sound of the animals’ bleating took precedence over the platform.

  “Is he gone, then?” inquired someone.

  “Gone?” asked one of the men. He and his fellows nearly jumped out of their skins at the sight of Sundry and the club members amongst them. The men backed away in an irregular and widening circle.

  “Is he gone?” demanded Sundry.

  “Ben?”

  “Yes, Ben.”

  “He just left. And Samuel with him.”

  “Hmmm,” said Sundry. “The boss said that Samuel would go with him. He said to me, ‘Sundry, just you wait and see if Samuel doesn’t charge off with him.’ ”

  “He did, did he?” One of the older men approached Sundry with a dark look in his eye. “And why did he say that?’ ”

  “According to the boss,�
�� explained Sundry, “it was all the proof he’d need that they were in it together.”

  “Maybe you had better explain yourself,” said another in the now constricting circle.

  “They’ve double-crossed you, boys,” announced Sundry.

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think? And why do you think we’re here?” Sundry swept an arm out to include Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump.

  Thump, who had a degree of priority when it came to the Portland Courier, had been given command of the newspaper and he was reading from it to his friends. “Mrs. De Riche is beginning a new instructional on the season’s most popular dances.”

  Sundry looked back at the gang members; he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the club members. “They’re a cool lot, aren’t they? Now Hasson and Adams are not alone in their little scheme, so we had better move quickly.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Why, getting the chest and getting it out of here, of course.”

  “But we weren’t supposed to move it till after dark.”

  “I don’t like this,” said one of the gang, a large black-bearded fellow, who stepped forward. He poked a blunt forefinger in the vicinity of Sundry’s nose. “And I don’t know who you are, but—”

  A collective gasp from Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump brought a halt to the man’s final pronouncement. Thump had folded the paper back to its original shape, and some communication there had shocked him terribly. “Young woman abducted near Millinocket!” he read. The three members looked up in unison, expressed their horror to Sundry, then swept the stricken faces of the gang members with their wide eyes.

  “I believe that is the young woman of whom Mister Walton was speaking,” said Eagleton.

  “Why . . . it’s . . . illegal!” asserted Ephram.

  “I don’t know what your game is,” said the large man, his finger hovering an inch or so from Sundry’s nose, “but you’re sailing dangerous waters.”