I knocked twice and entered my father’s office. Dad had just finished dictating a letter to his secretary who quietly gathered up her notebook and departed.
“To what do I owe this honor?” My father asked. “I thought you were supposed to be home at home extracting Miss Airedale from the clutches of some disreputable member of the British Aristocracy.”
“It’s not Miss Airedale; it’s Miss Amhurst. And it’s a member of the German Aristocracy, this time.”
“Oh,” said my father, but I could tell he was not really listening. His eyes tend to glaze over when I talk about my literary characters’ dramatic entanglements.
“I’m incapable of focusing on the fictional troubles of the unfortunate Miss Amhurst,” I told my father. “I’m far too concerned, at the moment, with the problems of real people.”
“Oh?”
“It’s this dynamiting case that has me all tied up in knots. Dad, I want you to do me a favor. How about finding a job for Clarence Sinclair—”
“Job?”
“Yes, he was relieved of duty at the Seventh-Street bridge, you know. It was partly my fault. So I want you to square matters by finding other work for him.”
“Jane, how often must I remind you I am not an employment agency. Anyway, what do I know about the man? I’ll not risk recommending a shiftless person as a potential employee to any of my friends.”
“I wouldn’t call him shiftless,” I protested, although that was how Mr. Sinclair struck me, too. “I owe him a job, Dad. He says he likes to work around the waterfront. Can’t you get him something to do? It has to be an easy job because he can’t walk, and he can’t lift anything. He’s old, you know.”
“How about I arrange a nice pension for Mr. Sinclair while I’m at it?” My father sighed. “Well, I’ll see what I can do. Now you’d better be going. I have work to do.”
My father invariably laid back his ears and balked at my little schemes, but he usually came through after indulging in what he considers an appropriate amount of backchat, so I decided to scratch a job for Mr. Sinclair off my list of pressing tasks.
After I left the newspaper office, I stopped off at the Radcliffs to invite Flo to accompany me on another excursion to the river.
“But we were just there a few hours ago,” Florence protested. “I’ve had enough sailing for one day.”
“Oh, I don’t care to sail either. I thought it might be interesting to call on Noah.”
“That strange old man who has the ark?”
“What do you say?”
“Oh, all right. But if we end up regretting it, just remember it was your idea. How do you propose we get there? Isn’t Bouncing Betsy currently undergoing the ministrations of one of your troupe of devoted grease monkeys.”
Bouncing Betsey is my ancient Peerless Model 56. I love her like the Dickins. Although her suspension is shot to bits, and she costs me a small fortune in repairs, I can’t bear to part with her.
“Old Bets is currently undergoing surgery to repair a hole in her gas tank, but we can take the bus.”
Without approaching Halvorson’s Dock, Flo and I crossed the Grassy River over the Seventh Street bridge, which had just been reopened to pedestrian traffic only. We then walked along the eastern shore until we reached the mouth of Bug Run.
“It looks like rain to me,” Florence said, looking up at the gray clouds that scuttled overhead. “Just our luck to be caught in a downpour.”
“Maybe we can take refuge in the ark,” I suggested as I led the way up the meandering stream. “That is if we can find it.”
Trees and bushes grew thick and green along either bank of the run. Several times we sunk up to our ankles in the mud. I was afraid I had just ruined my second pair of shoes in the span of two days. I ignored Flo when she smugly pointed out that I should, like herself, had the foresight to wear rain boots instead of ordinary street shoes.
In one shady glade, a bullfrog blinked at us before making a hasty dive into the lily pads, but he seemed to be the only living soul around. There was no sign of a boat or any structure remotely resembling an ark. And then, rounding a bend, I spotted the ark silhouetted against a darkening sky.
“It looks just as if it had rolled out of the Old Testament,” Florence said.
It might have emerged from the pages of the book of Genesis if the Biblical ark had happened to have been equipped with bright blue and magenta paint, which I very much doubted.
The brilliantly stripped ark rose three stories from the muddy water. There was a large, circular window in the uppermost part, and tiny, square openings beneath. From within the strange boat, I heard a medley of animal sounds—the barking of a dog, the squeal of a pig, the squawking of a saucy parrot who kept calling: “Noah! Oh, Noah!”
Florence gripped my hand. “Let’s not go any nearer,” she said uneasily. “It’s starting to rain, and we ought to make a double dash for home.”
A few drops of rain splashed into the stream. They made a drumming sound as they dropped on the tin roof of the ark like tiny pellets of metal.
Evidently, the craft also housed hens, and they began to cackle on their roosts. The parrot screeched loudly, “Oh, Noah! Come on Noah!”
“Where is Noah? I certainly must see him before we leave,” I said.
As if in answer to my question, there emerged from among the trees a bewildering assortment of animals and fowl—a cow, a goat, a pig, and two fat turkeys. An old man with a long white beard which fell to his chest drove the creatures toward the gangplank of the ark.
“Get along, Bessie,” he urged the cow, tapping her lightly with his crooked stick. “The Lord maketh the rain to fall for forty days and forty nights, but you shall be saved. Into the Ark.”
“Oh, Florence, we can’t go now,” I whispered to Flo. “That must be Noah. And isn’t he a darling?”
Chapter Seven
Unaware that he was being observed, Noah again rapped the cow on her flanks.
“Get along, Bessie,” he urged. “The Heavens will open any minute now, and all the creatures of the earth shall perish. But this calamity shall not befall you, Bessie. You are one of God’s chosen.”
None too willing to be saved from impending doom, Bessie bellowed a loud protest as she was driven into the over-crowded ark. The goat and the squealing pig followed. The turkeys made more trouble, gobbling excitedly as the old man shooed them into the confines of the three-storied boat.
His task accomplished, Noah wiped his perspiring brow with a big red handkerchief. He stood for a moment, gazing anxiously up at the boiling storm clouds.
“This is it—the second great flood,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to himself or addressing the parrot, who had finally fallen silent. “For the Lord sayeth, ‘I will cause it to rain forty days and forty nights and every living substance that I have made will I destroy from off the face of the earth.’”
Noah made a striking figure as he stood gazing up at the sky. In his prime, the old man evidently had been a stalwart physical specimen and advancing years had done little to enfeeble him. His face was that of a Prophet of Old, but a child-like simplicity shone from his brilliant blue eyes. He still hadn’t noticed us, or at least he wasn’t letting on he had.
“Let’s speak to him,” I said and pulled Flo along toward the ark.
Noah turned quickly around at the sound of our steps on his gangplank. After the first moment of surprise, he smiled, leaned on his crooked stick and said:
“Why have you come, my daughters?”
“Well, we were curious to see this fine ark,” I said. “We picked up one of your floating blue bottles with a message in it.”
“Blessed are they that heed the warnings of the Lord. I, his servant, have prepared a place of refuge for all who come.”
By this time rain was falling steadily, and Florence’s attempts to keep her head dry by sheltering under her cardigan were a dismal failure.
“Jane, for Pete’s sake—” she protes
ted.
“Follow me, my daughters,” Noah said, motioning us up the gangplank into the ark. “Inside you will find food and shelter.”
“We could use a little shelter,” I said. “How about it, Flo? Shall we go inside and meet the animals?”
Florence looked far from convinced of the old man’s sanity. I wasn’t awfully convinced that he wasn’t a few crumbs short of a pound cake, but I was certain he was harmless.
“Come, my daughters,” Noah urged us. “Have no fear. The Lord sayeth, ‘Noah, with thee will I establish my covenant, and thou shalt enter into the ark.’”
“We’ll drown if we stay outside,” I said, following the old man. “Come on, Flo.”
Noah stooped to pick up a bedraggled kitten from underfoot and ushered us inside.
“It’s a very nice boat,” I said, dodging under the shelter of the roof. Florence huddled close beside me, her nails digging into my arm. I anticipated getting an earful from her later about my propensity for involving her with characters whose manifest destiny was likely an insane asylum.
“A sturdy ark,” Noah said proudly. “Many, many months did I labor building it. The Lord said, ‘make thee an ark of gopher wood.’ But of gopher wood there was none to be had. Then the Lord came to me in a dream and said, ‘Noah, use anything you can find.’ So I gathered timbers from the beaches, and I wrecked an abandoned cottage I found in the woods. I felled trees. And I pitched the seams within and without as the Lord bade me.”
“What animals do you keep inside?” I asked.
“Well, mostly creatures that aren’t too exacting in their needs,” said Noah, perching the wet kitten on his shoulder. “The Lord sayeth two of every kind, male and female. But it wasn’t practical. Some of the animals were too big to keep aboard the ark.”
A disturbance from within the boat interrupted the old man’s explanation. “Excuse me, daughters, I’ve got to fasten Bessie in her stall. If I keep her waitin’, she’s apt to kick the ark to pieces.”
Noah disappeared into the lower story of the boat. Through the open door, I saw row upon row of stalls and cages. There was a sty for the pigs, a pen for the goat, a little kennel for the dog, low roosts for the fowls. The walls of the room had been whitewashed, and the floor was clean.
“What a life Noah must lead,” Florence whispered in my ear. She’d stopped digging her nails into my skin, but she kept a firm grip on my arm. “It must be worse than being a zoo keeper.”
The old fellow reappeared and invited us up a little flight of stairs to the second floor of the ark.
“This is my bird room,” he said, opening a door.
“Hello, Noah!” croaked the brilliantly colored parrot, fluttering on her perch. “You old rascal! Polly wants a slug o’ rum!”
“I am humble and ashamed,” Noah apologized. “But the bird means no evil. I bought her of a sailor, who, I fear, had wandered from the ways of righteousness.”
The old man gave the parrot a drink—of water, I assumed, not rum—then directed our attention to a cage containing a pair of doves.
“When the flood waters recede, I shall send these birds forth from a window of the ark,” he explained. “If they return with a branch of a bush or any green thing, then I shall know that the Lord no longer intends to send the rain upon the earth.”
“How long do you imagine it will rain?” Florence asked absently, as she stared out the little round window.
“Forty days and forty nights,” answered Noah. He began to feed the chirping birds a little seed out of a cloth bag. “While your stay here may be somewhat confining, you will find my ark sturdy and snug.”
“Our stay here?” Florence echoed, and dug her nails into my arm again.
I gave her a little pinch to try and get her to loosen her grip and said to Noah, “We appreciate your hospitality and will be happy to remain until the rain slackens. But where are your living quarters?”
“On the third floor. First, before I conduct you there, I will throw out a few bottles. Although the fatal hour is near at hand, a number of persons may yet read my message and seek refuge in time to be saved.”
Noah moved to the porthole. He opened it and tossed a half dozen corked bottles which he selected from a basket beneath the window into the muddy water below.
“Now,” he announced, turning again to us, “follow me, and I will show you my humble quarters.”
The third floor of the ark proved rather a pleasant surprise. Noah had fitted it out with compartments, a tiny kitchen, living quarters, and a bedroom. The main room had a rug on the floor; there were several homemade chairs and a radio. Evidently, the master of the ark was musically inclined. An accordion, a banjo, and a mouth organ sat on one of the shelves.
“Sit down and make yourselves comfortable, daughters.” Noah waved us toward chairs. “I’ll stir up a bite to eat.”
He went into the tiny kitchen and poked about among the shelves; then he opened one of the portholes to test his fishing lines. Finding one taut, he pulled in a large catfish which he immediately began to dress.
“He intends to cook that for us,” Florence whispered. “I’ll not even taste it. Can’t we go now? You’ve seen all there is to see.”
I went to the window. The sky had grown much lighter, and the rain had slackened considerably.
“The storm is almost over,” I said. “Let’s step outside and see how things look.”
Noah, occupied with his culinary endeavors, did not even glance up as we quietly slipped away. As we descended the steps to the main deck, we huddled close against the wall to keep dry. Rain still fell, but even as we watched it grew lighter.
“Let’s say goodbye to Noah and streak for home,” Florence suggested when we had reached the creek bank. ”On second thought, let’s not say goodbye to Noah. What if he tries to keep us here?”
Before I could reply, a stranger emerged from among the bushes along the shore. He wore a raincoat and a broad-brimmed hat which dripped water. A bright badge gleamed on his chest.
“I’m Sheriff Anderson,” he announced, coming close to the ark. “Is Dan Grebe aboard?”
“Do you mean Noah?”
“Most folks call him that. The old man has lost his buttons. He’s harmless except that he’s been maintaining a public nuisance here with his ark.”
As the sheriff attempted to come aboard, Noah himself stepped out on deck.
“So here you be again!” Noah shouted angrily, grasping the narrow railing of the gangplank. “Didn’t I warn you not to trespass on the property of the Lord?”
“Noah, we’ve been patient with you,” the sheriff replied wearily. “The last time I was here, you promised to clean up this dump and move your ark downstream. Now you’re going to have to go with me to talk to the judge.”
“Stand back! Stand back!” Noah shouted as the officer advanced up the gangplank. “Beware, or I’ll call the wrath of the Lord down on your head.”
The sheriff laughed and kept advancing up the gangplank. With surprising strength and agility, Noah jerked the gangplank loose from the ark and hurled it into the water. Sheriff Anderson made a desperate lunge for an overhanging tree branch. Failing to seize it, he fell with a loud splash into the muddy water.
Chapter Eight
Noah slapped his thigh and cackled with glee as he watched Sheriff Anderson splash about in the muddy water.
“That’ll teach you; you meddlin’ son of Beelzebub. Next time maybe you will know enough to mind your own business and leave my ark alone.”
I picked up a tree branch to help the sheriff from the water, but he did not need my assistance. Clinging to the floating gangplank, the officer of the law awkwardly propelled himself to shore. As he tried to climb up the steep bank, his boots slipped, and he fell flat on his face in the mud. Noah went off into another fit of laughter which fairly shook the ark at its mooring.
“Laugh all you want, you old coot,” the sheriff muttered, picking himself up and futilely brushing at his sopping,
muddy uniform. “I’ve been mighty patient with you,” he told Noah, “but there’s a limit. Tomorrow I’m coming back here with a detail of deputies. I’ll run you and your ark out o’ here if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Be off with you!” Noah shouted as if backed up by a host of the angels of the Almighty. “Before my patience is gone!”
“I’m going,” said the Sheriff, before he turned on his sodden heel and squelched off into the woods. “But I’ll be back. And if this ark isn’t cleaned up or out o’ here, we’ll put you away.”
“I’m afraid you antagonized the wrong man that time, Noah,” I said as the squelching footsteps died away. “What will you do when he comes back?”
“That time will never come.” Noah appeared completely unperturbed. “Before the Lord will allow the ark to be taken from me, he will smite mine enemies with lightning from the Heavens.”
The rain had entirely ceased, and a ray of sunshine straggled through the ragged clouds.
“Well, guess this isn’t to be the Great Flood after all,” I said. “We’re most grateful for the shelter of your ark, Noah. Now if we can just reach shore, we’ll be on our way.”
“Aren’t you staying for dinner? I’m fryin’ up a nice catfish.”
“I’m afraid we can’t remain today,” I answered.
“Another time perhaps,” said Flo.
“Farewell, my daughters. You and your friends always will be welcome to take refuge in my ark. The Great Flood is coming soon, but you are among the chosen.”
We followed the twisting stream of Bug Run back to the main river channel. Water was rising rapidly along the banks, and at many places, bushes and tree branches dipped low in the swirling eddies.
“You know, if these spring rains keep up, Noah may get his big flood after all,” I told Flo. “Poor old fella. He certainly sealed the fate of his ark when he pushed Sheriff Anderson into Bug Run.”
Turning homeward toward Seventh Street bridge, we approached the river bank where police had searched for the escaped saboteur. I was curious to see the area again by daylight and detoured slightly in order to pass it.
Rogues on the River Page 5
