CHAPTER X

THE ROBBERY

Mother was putting the supper on the table when I got home.

“We won’t wait for your father,” says she, “for Poppy’s hungry after his hard work and wants to eat.”

I counted four plates on the table.

“Hot dog!” says I. “Is Poppy going to eat with us?”

“He’s upstairs in the bathroom washing his face and hands,” says Mother. “I asked him to stay to supper. He’s a good boy, Jerry.”

“You tell ’em,” says I.

“What do you suppose he’s been doing this afternoon.”

“Job hunting?”

“Not all the afternoon. He came to the back door about three o’clock and asked me if he could mow the lawn. I was surprised at first, for that’s your job. Then I thought maybe you had asked him to do it. But he said you hadn’t. He wanted to do it, he said, to repay us for the clothes we gave him this morning.”

“I noticed that the grass was cut,” says I.

“He worked on the lawn for two hours. Then he fixed the hinge on the back door. He’s handy with tools.”

I hadn’t thought of Poppy doing anything like this to repay us for the clothes we had given to him. But I could see now that he had done the right thing. He wasn’t the “gimme” kind of a kid, that was one sure thing. He was willing to work for what he got. I liked his spirit.

Giving my cap a throw, I beat it upstairs to the bathroom.

“Hi,” says I, digging my new chum in the ribs.

“Hi, Jerry,” says he, acting glad to see me.

“You should have been with us this afternoon,” says I. “We had a barrel of fun.”

“I was busy,” says he. Then he laughed. “Say,” says he, his eyes twinkling, “do you know where I can get a good wheelbarrow?”

I took my medicine with a grin.

“Any time you want a wheelbarrow,” says I, “just write me a note.”

“I heard about the four fake notes,” says he, laughing.

“The Strickers are blabbing it all over town, hey?”

“Sure thing.”

“They won’t think it’s so funny,” says I, “when we turn the tables on them.”

“Do I get in on the fun?” says he eagerly.

“_Do_ you?” says I. “Kid, we need you. For there’s five of them. And with you on our side we’ll be even numbers.”

Red weaved into the house while we were eating supper. His stomach was all out of kilter, he said, rubbing it. It was his sister’s baking-powder biscuits.

“I wouldn’t dast to go in swimming to-night,” says he, waggling serious-like. “I’d sink.”

Mother laughed.

“Shame on you,” says she, “for talking that way about your sister’s cooking. Clara is a good cook for a young girl.... Is your mother still in Chicago?”

“She went to Chicago with Aunt Pansy,” says Red.

I grinned at the sufferer.

“Why don’t you eat here while your mother’s away?” says I.

He jumped at the chance.

“Can I, Mrs. Todd?”

“No, you can’t,” says Mother. “I wouldn’t offend your sister by encouraging you to come here for your meals.”

A groan came from the unhappy one.

“If I die before Ma gets home,” says he, rolling his eyes like a sick cow, “bury me under the mulberry tree.”

“We’ll bury you under a gooseberry bush,” says Poppy.

Supper over, my two chums went outside as Dad breezed in.

“Well,” says he, mussing up my hair, “we have a new night watchman at the factory.”

“Mr. Ott?” says I, grinning.

“Sure thing. And for his son’s sake I hope he tends to business and makes good. But I don’t feel enthused. For he’s an absent-minded old codger.”

“Jerry has been telling me some very interesting things about this old detective and his son,” says Mother. “The boys have taken Poppy into their gang. And they’re going to take him to school in September and help make a home for him. I think that’s fine.”

Dad gave me a look that made me feel good.

“Jerry’s all right,” says he, bragging on me. “I wouldn’t trade him for a million-dollar shoe brush.”

Passing into the street, Poppy and Red and I meandered to the corner, where we met Scoop and Peg. The others were headed for old Caleb’s place, so we joined them. Coming to the old bachelor’s house, we found the front door wide open. But no one answered when we knocked. So we went around the house to the weedy garden, thinking that the old man might be there. But he wasn’t.

Peg got his eyes on a man next door.

“Where’s Mr. Obed?” says he.

“_Him?_” says old Paddy Gorbett. “I hain’t seed him since the middle of the afternoon.”

“His front door’s wide open,” says Peg.

“Course ’tis. _He_ never locks it. Why should he? He hain’t got nothin’ in thar worth stealin’ ’cept mebbe his stuffed birds.”

We had seen old Caleb’s case of stuffed birds. He has a lot of them. Fixing up stuffed birds is a hobby of his. He has been doing it for years.

Scoop was thirsty. And when he went into the open house to get a drink we followed him. That was all right. For old Caleb was our friend.

Red is quick with his eyes.

“Lookit!” says he, pointing. “Here’s a new bird. It must be Mrs. Solomon Grundy.”

We ran across the room to the stuffed-bird collection.

“It’s a dead-ringer for the Cap’n’s parrot,” says the observing one.

Peg saw a chance to start an argument.

“A black crow,” says he, turning up his nose.

“Like so much mud,” says Red, bristling. “It’s a black parrot. See its bill.”

Poppy was interested in the stuffed bird.

“It isn’t a crow,” says he, “and it isn’t a parrot. I wonder if it isn’t a mino bird.”

Red gave a yip.

“Maybe it’s the stolen mino bird,” says he, excited.

“Jinks!” says Peg, his thoughts jumping along. “It could be. For old Caleb was at the sailor’s funeral. Don’t you remember, fellows? He went with the Cap’n.”

“Sure thing,” says I, checking back in my memory.

“I bet a cookie,” says Red, “that this _is_ the stolen mino bird. Old Caleb hooked the bird for his collection. See?”

“Mrs. Strange told my father,” says Poppy, “that she would pay him a thousand dollars for the mino bird. But, of course, the bird isn’t worth anything to her dead.”

Red screwed up his forehead.

“Is she a mean woman?” says he, after a moment.

“Mean? I don’t think so. Why do you ask that?”

“I was thinking,” says the freckled one, “that she could put old Caleb in jail for this.”

I didn’t like the thought of old Caleb going to jail. And I told the others that we ought to keep still about the new stuffed bird until we knew for sure that it was indeed the stolen mino bird.

Poppy took this as a direct hint.

“I give you my promise,” says he, “that I won’t say anything to Pa about this. It would only excite him and take his mind away from his work. Anyway, he isn’t a detective any more--he’s a night watchman. So why should I tell him? It will be better for me to keep still.”

I grinned.

“You say your pa isn’t a detective any more,” says I, “but _you_ are.”

“No,” says he, shaking his head.

“Oh, yes you are,” says I. “Scoop and I and Red and Peg are Juvenile Jupiter Detectives. And if you’re going to be in our gang you’ve got to be a Juvenile Jupiter Detective, too. It’s fun.”

“However,” says Scoop, laughing in the recollection of the way old Mr. Arnoldsmith skinned us, “it won’t cost you a dollar and a quarter to get in, as it did each of us. We’ll let you in free.”

It was getting dark now. We could hear the Indian medicine man tooting his bugle to draw a crowd to his free show. So we hurried down town to see the fun.

A lot of people were gathered around the show wagon. But we got good places up in front. A kid always can do that. Bid Stricker was there. I gave him a stiff-arm. He didn’t dast to shove back, for he saw my gang. But he had a mean grin. He was thinking about his wheelbarrow trick, I suppose. I can’t bear that kid!

The Indian’s face was the color of my Sunday shoes--a sort of reddish tan. He had long black hair and black eyes. I never saw sharper eyes in a man. He wore head feathers and his leather pants and jacket had leather fringe. For shoes he had on a pair of beaded moccasins.

Before he started doing his tricks he gave a lecture, telling about himself. It was “me” did this and “me” did that. His talk sounded silly to me. If he was as smart in book education as he said, and really had been to an Indian college in Pennsylvania, why didn’t he use his education and say “I” instead of “me”? I figured it out, though, that he talked this way to sound more like a real Indian. It helped him to get business.

His magic tricks were better than his lecture. White handkerchiefs were changed into fancy flags; a wooden cube was made to cross the stage from one hat to another. I don’t remember all of the tricks. But that doesn’t matter. The only trick that comes into my story is his “spirit writing.”

“My friend Bill,” says he, starting the trick, “a heap fine friend Bill was. Poor Bill him die. Bill him go to happy hunting ground. But Bill him come back in spirit. Sure thing, Bill him come back to-night. Bill him write spirit message.”

Here he passed out four blank sheets of writing paper. And people wanting to get a “spirit letter” from “Bill” were told to write their names on the sheets. That was to mark them. Then the sheets were rolled up together and put into a glass tube. The tube was corked at the ends. We could see the sheets through the glass. After a few minutes the sheets were taken out. And what do you know if they didn’t have writing on them!

“Yes, Bill him heap smart spirit,” says the Indian. “Bill him tell everything. Bill him tell old bachelor how to get fine squaw. Sure thing. White squaw. Me mean wife. You call him wife and me call him squaw. One time Bill him tell white man where money hid. Deep down in ground. Man he go dig hole. Get money. Rich man. To-morrow night Bill him write more spirit letters. Maybe Bill him tell where more money hid. Deep down in ground. Then _you_ get rich. Bill him heap smart spirit.”

At Scoop’s signal we got out of the crowd.

“Hot dog!” says he. “Now I know how we can get even with the Strickers and pay them back for that wheelbarrow trick. The ‘spirit letter’ trick of the Indian’s gave me an idea. I know how to do that trick. It’s easy.”

“Isn’t it real magic?” says I.

“Real magic?” says he. “Don’t make me laugh, Jerry. There isn’t such a thing as real magic. The letters are written ahead of time with invisible ink. And there’s a chemical in the corks that causes the writing to show up when the sheets are shut up in the tube. See? But Bid Stricker doesn’t know the trick--I could tell so from his face. All right--listen to this.”

There was some quick talk.

“Jinks!” says I. “Do you think you can work it?”

“Leave it to me,” says the leader.

Red had some money. So we invited him to treat us to ice-cream cones as a sort of celebration of our coming revenge. Then we had some bananas and chocolate bars.

It was ten-thirty now. So we got ready to do some spy capturing in the Cap’n’s alley.

“It would be my scheme,” says Scoop, taking the lead as usual, “to stretch a rope at each end of the alley. We’ll let the man in. See? Then when he tries to run away we’ll raise the rope and trip him up.”

“He’ll get an awful bump,” says I.

“We should worry about that. The harder he falls the easier it will be for us to capture him.”

“What are we going to do with him after we get him?” says I.

“Make him talk. Maybe we’re all wrong in thinking that old Caleb stole the mino bird. Maybe it was this spy.”

“I hope so,” says I quickly. “For I’d hate to see old Caleb get into trouble.”

“If the spy has the stolen mino bird,” says Peg, “or knows where it is, it’s a cinch, with him hanging around here this way, that there _is_ some connection between the two black birds after all.”

Scoop waggled.

“The Cap’n has told us a part of his parrot’s secret. But I’m convinced that he hasn’t told us everything. He’s keeping something back.”

“We should have quizzed him about the spy,” says I.

“Yes,” says Scoop, “we could have done that. But I think it will be more fun to capture the spy and get his story first-handed. That’s my idea of real detective work.”

So we got the Cap’n’s clothesline and cut it in the middle. This gave us two ropes long enough for our purpose. Fixing the ropes, one at each end of the alley, we lay down in the dark.

It came eleven o’clock; then twelve o’clock.

“He ought to come pretty quick,” says Peg. “For he was here at midnight last night.”

“Sh-h-h-h!” says Scoop.

“I hope he doesn’t come at all,” says Red, who had been scared from the start.

“We’re five to his one,” says Scoop. “So what’s there to shiver about?”

“He’s a man,” says Red. “And he’s got an awful mean face. I’d hate to have him swish his club at _me_.”

Peg chuckled in the dark.

“I bet he’ll carry a knife to-night,” was the way old hefty further cheered up the frightened one. “A dagger with a double edge.”

Red gurgled.

“_Good_ night!” says he. “Let’s beat it.”

We lay in hiding until one o’clock, then gave up our job and started for home. We’d have to try our luck some other night, we said.

The down-town streets were empty. No one was in sight except us. But pretty soon the deep quietness of the business section was broken by a rattling flivver. The car came into sight on the tear. As it passed us we saw that the driver was Bill Hadley, the Tutter marshal.

“Something’s happened,” says Scoop, excited. “Come on, fellows. Let’s follow him.”

We set out on the run. Bill, of course, was traveling many times faster than us. But we managed to keep his red tail light in sight.

“He turned into the brickyard,” says I, panting.

Poppy gave a queer throat sound.

“I knew it,” says he. “It’s Pa. He’s done something.”

The brickyard office was all lit up. Dad was there. We could see him through the open door. We could see Bill Hadley, too, and old Mr. Ott.

Dad had been rummaging the safe.

“Cleaned out as slick as a whistle,” says he. Then he turned to Poppy’s father, who was standing like a dumb-bell in the middle of the room. “You’re _some_ watchman, you are!... Lock him up, Bill. For there’s a lot of money missing.”

The old detective got his voice.

“Heh?” says he, cackling-like. “Lock me up, you say? Lock _me_ up? What fur? I hain’t done nothin’.”

Bill snapped a pair of handcuffs on the pottering wrists.

“I’ve been suspicious of you,” says he, scowling, “ever since you hit town.”

The old detective drew himself up.

“Um ...” says he in dignity. “Mebbe you don’t know who I be.”

Bill grunted.

“I admit it,” says he, “but I hain’t worryin’ none about it.”

“Sir,” says the old man, “I want you to know that I am a member of the purfession.”

“Which purfession?” says Bill, with a sneer. “Safe crackin’ or bootleggin’?”

“I am a detective, sir,” says Mr. Ott in continued dignity.

“You’ll be a ‘defective,’” says Bill, grim-like, “when I get through with you--you old crook!”

Poppy flew into the office then.

“Don’t you dare to call Pa a crook,” says he, facing Bill with flashing eyes. “For he isn’t a crook. He never did a crooked thing in his life. He’s queer. But he isn’t bad.”

Bill stared.

“Who are you?” says he.

“He’s my father,” says Poppy.

“In that case,” says Bill, “mebbe I better lock both of you up.”

“Pa isn’t guilty,” says Poppy, dogged-like. “He wouldn’t steal a penny, I tell you.”

Bill is awfully blunt.

“Is the old guy cuckoo?” says he, pointing to the prisoner with a jab of his elbow.

Poppy flushed.

“No,” says he angrily, “Pa isn’t cuckoo. He’s just queer. But that’s none of your business.”

“Sometimes,” says Bill, “queer and cuckoo mean the same thing.”

That hurt Poppy. And at the moment I wished I was big enough to knock the tar out of Bill. The big bully!

Our new chum had his father by the arm now.

“What happened, Pa?” says he. “Tell me about it. Maybe I can help you.”

The old man acted dizzy.

“Why,” says he, feeling his way into his thoughts, “I was a-sittin’ in here an’ all of a sudden a man come in. He said he was the president an’ general manager of the company. ‘You hain’t the man what hired me,’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘that was my brother. We run the brickyard together,’ says he. ‘I’m the president and general manager and my brother’s the secretary and treasurer.’ He gimme a cigar an’ sit down at that desk over thar an’ started fussin’ with them papers. ‘Lots of times,’ says he, ‘I git up in the middle of the night and come down here and work for an hour or two.’”

“Did he ask you to open the safe so he could rob it,” says Bill, sarcastic-like, “or did he open it hisself?”

“_He_ opened it. He did it while I was makin’ my rounds in the brickyard. When I come back the safe was open, as I say, an’ the man was gone.”

“And so was my three thousand dollars,” says Dad angrily.

“I figured mebbe the safe door ought to be shet. So I telyphoned to you, Mr. Todd. An’ then----”

“We know the rest,” says Dad, sort of disgusted-like.

“If they’s bin a robbery here,” says the old detective, looking at the safe, troubled-like, “you kain’t blame me. Fur the man said he was your brother, Mr. Todd. Yes, he did. An’ when you hired me you never told me that you didn’t have a brother.”

Bill scowled at the stoop-shouldered prisoner.

“You’re a puzzle to me,” says he. “I don’t know whether you’re the slickest crook that ever hit this town or the dumbest.”

In the next hour Poppy’s father was taken to the jail and locked up in one of the steel cages. Our new chum was all broken up by the arrest. It was discouraging, he said.

Then he clenched his fists, like a fellow does when he gets ready to fight.

“I told you fellows that I didn’t care about being a detective,” says he, his jaw squared. “But I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to be a detective and catch this robber. This was _your_ case an hour ago. But now it’s _my_ case. I’m going to take the lead, if you don’t mind. For I’ve got more at stake than you have.”