CHAPTER VII
The Frostola Man
Rick Brant was filled with cold anger. It showed in the determined setof his lips as he swung Dr. Miller's car around the turn leading to thebridge across the creek. He was no longer content to wait fordevelopments. After last night's episode, he and Scotty intended to takethe war to the enemy--for war it had become, the moment the Blue Ghosthad led them on the wild-goose chase ending with Rick in a deep quarry.
It was pure luck that Rick had not been hurt by the drop into thequarry. True, the ghost had led them to the side that dropped sheer intothe water, but impact with the water after a fifty-foot drop was enoughto cause damage if one landed in the wrong position. Rick had hit feetfirst, simply by chance.
Scotty looked at him as the car turned toward the picnic grounds."Aren't we going to town?"
"Sure. But I want another look at the landscape."
"What do you expect to see?"
"I don't know," Rick admitted. "I'm just hoping for an idea."
He drove through the trees, across the picnic ground, and came to a stopbefore the mine shaft. There was no one in sight, and the grounds werejust as they had left them.
Rick studied the scene, searching for anything offbeat, any anomaly.There was nothing, except for the iron pipe from which spring waterflowed. That bothered him. Dr. Miller's explanation might be the rightone, but he didn't really think so. If tailings from the mine had beendumped there, the hill would not be so steep or so regular. The yearswould have weathered the rock debris, but not to such a natural-lookingformation.
"If they didn't dump the tailings there," he thought aloud, "where didthey dump them?"
"Tailings?" Scotty prompted.
"Rock from the mine. Stuff with no ore in it, or such low-grade stuffthat it was worthless."
"I see. Well, they didn't dump it in sight. But they couldn't havedumped it far from here. It wouldn't be sensible to cart worthless rockaway any distance."
They hadn't used the tailings for roads around the mine. The roads werenatural dirt, with good drainage and no sign of rock ballast. Rick triedto imagine another use, but couldn't, until Scotty spoke.
"Suppose they used up all the rocks throwing them at the Yankeesoldiers?" Scotty asked whimsically.
The question started a train of thought that gave Rick the answer in afew seconds. "You've hit it. They didn't throw the rocks, but they usedthem against the Yankees. I'll bet on it. Come on."
He got out of the car and led the way through the trees to where thecreek flowed on its quiet way. There were low embankments a few yardsback from the water's edge. "There are the rocks."
"Where?" Scotty couldn't see them. "I don't see nary a rock."
"In the embankments, covered with dirt. See? There's a place where thedirt cover has been washed away by the rain. I've seen defenses likethis before. They used rocks as a base, filled in the cracks with clay,then put dirt on top and planted grass to hold it. That gave them apermanent earthwork."
"Why plant grass?" Scotty wanted to know.
"To fool enemy reconnaissance, I guess. I can't think of any otherreason, except to prevent erosion. In those days scouting was done bycavalry, and from the other side of the river these look like naturalgrassy banks."
Inspection of the embankment disclosed that Rick had guessed right.Scotty inspected the place where the rain had washed the topsoil away,probably because some careless picnicker had ruined the grass in thatspot. The rocks were clearly of the kind in the mine.
Suddenly Scotty bent lower and began to pry at something. "Rick, there'ssomething buried here."
Rick hurried to help out, and in a moment they had lifted away enoughrocks to disclose a considerable amount of moldy cloth.
Scotty took a piece and shook it, then chuckled. "The answer is in thewriting on the bag. Wilbur's Premium Portland Cement." He grew serious."Only where was it used? I've seen no construction around here."
"Maybe someone brought picnic supplies in the bags and buried them withthe garbage," Rick said.
"I doubt it. You can't get all the cement out of a bag, because thepowder sticks in the fabric. If you try to wash it out, it only sets thecement."
Rick thought his pal probably was right. No one would use a cement bagfor supplies, now that he thought about it. He looked up suddenly as asound came through the trees. It was a motor, but a small two-cyclekind, like a scooter or a small motorcycle.
"Someone coming," he said. "Let's go see who it is."
Scotty held onto the bag. They walked back through the trees and intothe camping ground in time to see a lanky, white-clad individual on athree-wheeled motor scooter--the kind where the driver sits on a cargobox--come to a stop. On the box were blue letters, dripping with whitefrost, that spelled FROSTOLA. Underneath the letters was a list ofproducts: cream pies, frozen cones, cream sandwiches, icicles, andquarts and pints.
Although Rick had never heard of Frostola, it was immediately clear thatthis was an ice-cream vendor, of the kind that appears in swarms in warmweather with ringing bells and tooting horns, in trucks, on scooters,and even on bicycles.
The Frostola man gave them a cheery wave and tilted his white cap to theback of his head. "Hi! Where's the crowd?"
"We're it," Scotty answered. "Were you expecting more?"
"Wasn't expecting anything," the man retorted. "It's a nice day for aswim, so I thought I'd come sell refreshments to the swimmers."
"They're afraid of ghost fish," Rick said. "The place is haunted."
The man grinned. "I heard about the ghost. If he shows up I'll sell hima cream pie."
"Sell me one," Rick invited, and Scotty echoed the thought.
"Pleasure." The man got off the seat and Rick saw that he was over sixfeet tall, and built like a sapling. The boy also saw that he wasn't asyoung as he at first appeared. That was odd, because the peddlers onscooters were usually either very young or old.
The Frostola man opened the seat box and the boys looked in, at neatstacks of ice cream packaged in various ways. The stuff was kept frozenby slabs of dry ice wrapped in brown paper.
The cream pies were on a stick, and coated with chocolate, butterscotch,and vanilla with coconut. Rick paid for his selection and Scotty's, thencommented, "It's a long way out here from town."
"Sure. But I enjoy the ride. It's a chance to get away from howling mobsof kids."
A strange comment from one who made most of his sales to kids, Rickthought. He noticed that the peddler was eying the bag Scotty had pickedup, and was trying to be surreptitious about it. Anyone would be curiousabout someone carrying a moldy bag, but why try to conceal thatcuriosity? On impulse, Rick said, "There's a trash can, Scotty. Throwthe bag away and let's go." To the peddler, he added, "We're doing ourbit to keep the place clean."
"Good thing to do," the man admitted.
The boys got in the car. Rick turned it around and headed for town. Therear-view mirror told him that the Frostola man watched them until thetrees hid them from view.
Rick said thoughtfully, "If you were anxious to make your fortuneselling Frostola, where would you go to do it?"
Scotty grinned. "My thought exactly. I'd go where there are people. I'deither go up streets ringing my bell, or I'd park at an intersectionwhere cars could stop. I wouldn't go to a deserted picnic ground--if Iknew it was deserted."
"If he didn't know, he's a stranger here. Could he be a new man?"
Scotty shook his head. "A new man wouldn't know the way out here, and ifhe asked, he'd be told that people are staying away because of theghost."
"True. Your thoughts are as lucid as Costin's Creek, ol' buddy. Also, heis not the typical ice-cream salesman, and he's not from around here.He's a little old for riding a scooter cart, and the look on his faceand the way he carries himself are wrong. He doesn't fit the part.Besides, his speech isn't local. He's no more a Virginian than you are."
"He sounds more like a Yankee," Scotty agreed.
Rick sighed. "Well, we've got somet
hing, although I don't know what.Cement bags where there is no construction and an ice-cream man whodoesn't fit the part. What do you make out of that?"
Scotty chuckled. "Simple. The Frostola man is building a secretice-cream stand. A modern one, out of poured concrete walls. He's notbuilding it where anyone can see it, because he doesn't want to bebothered by customers."
Rick grinned. "Okay, Hawkshaw. That's enough deduction for one morning.Take a look at that sky. Have you heard a weather report lately?"
Scotty glanced upward to where mare's-tails were making streaks acrossthe sky. "Looks like a storm brewing. Why not turn on the radio?"
Rick did so, but there was only music from a nearby station,interspersed with local commercials. Before there was a chance to get aweather report they were rolling into town.
Lansdale was too small even to be called a "whistle stop," because notrains came near it. An interstate bus route passed through on the mainhighway, and that was the sole link with the towns to north and south,except for private cars.
Rick drove right up the main street. He saw a drugstore, an independentfood market, a hardware-and-farm-supply store, a variety store, and twogas stations. On the outskirts of town was a huge farmers' market openonly on Fridays and Saturdays.
The market was obviously the main center of trade for the farm people ofthe area. Lansdale would be very busy on Fridays and Saturdays, and justabout abandoned, except for the few hundred people who lived in town,for most of the week.
He turned the car at the edge of town and drove back down the mainstreet. Opposite the drugstore he found the sign he wanted. JethroCollins, Real Estate and Notary Public. He parked in front of the house.
Collins had his office in what had once been the parlor of his own home.Rick could see him through the window, an enormously fat man in a whiteshirt and red suspenders. As Rick rang the bell, he yelled, "Well, comeon in!"
Once inside, the bull voice was reduced in volume to fit the room, asmall one, cluttered with photographs of houses.
"What can I do for you, kids?"
The question was not courteous. The tone said Collins was impatient atthe interruption, that he was sure these kids would only waste his time,and that he hated kids and everyone else.
Rick thought he looked like a Chester White hog, only meaner, but heanswered politely. "We've come from Dr. Miller's place, sir."
"So? Does he want to sell?"
"No, sir. Not without more information. If you could tell us the name ofthe purchaser ..."
"I can. I won't. None of your business. If Miller wants to talk businesshe can come see me. Now get out."
The boys lingered. "You must admit that it was an unusual offer, sir.The price was rather high for worthless land."
Piggish eyes surveyed them. The bull voice grated, "Get out!"
They went. There was nothing else to do.
Scotty started to get into the car, but Rick stopped him. "Let's go tothe drugstore. I want to get a spray can of insect repellent."
"Okay." Scotty chuckled. "You can see why Dr. Miller is not fond of Mr.Collins."
"I'm going to join the anti-Collins club as soon as we get back. Look,druggists know everything about their town. Let's see if we can find outif the Frostola man is new."
Rick opened the screen door and they went into a drugstore that had notchanged substantially for half a century, except for the addition ofmodern sales items. The druggist, a wisp of a man, was friendly. Theysat down at the marble-topped soda fountain and Rick asked, "Got anyFrostola cream pies?"
"Don't carry them," the druggist replied. "They're sold only by theroute man."
"I see you have a new man in this territory," Rick said casually.
Bright eyes inspected him through rimless glasses. "Fairly new. Seemsall right."
"He's pleasant enough," Rick assented. "Has he been on the job long?"
"Six weeks, more or less."
The boys settled for cokes, then drove back to the Millers. Rick waspleased. They hadn't made much progress, but at least they had uncoveredan interesting character in the new Frostola man. His arrival, accordingto the druggist, coincided with the appearances of the Blue Ghost. Hetraveled to the mine area when no customers could be found there. He wascurious about a cement bag. He didn't fit the character of an ice-creamroute man.
Rick headed straight for the picnic ground. There was no sign of theFrostola scooter, which meant the man had left right behind them,otherwise they would have met him on the road on the return trip.
On a hunch, Rick got out of the car and walked to the trash can whereScotty had put the cement bag. The bag was gone.
The Blue Ghost Mystery: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story Page 7
