CHAPTER VII

FOUR WHEELBARROWS

“Jerry,” Mother told me, when I tumbled into the kitchen where she was mashing the potatoes for dinner, “there’s a note for you on the Victrola.”

“Who from?” says I.

“Mr. Caleb Obed,” says she.

I was surprised.

“What’s the old man writing to me for?” says I.

“It’s about a wheelbarrow,” says she.

I got the note. Here it is:

JERRY: I just got word from Cap’n Tinkertop and he wants you to meet him at the river bridge at two o’clock with a wheelbarrow. CALEB OBED.

Here Dad came into the kitchen and started fooling around.

“The Cap’n must be on his way home with a boatload of bullheads,” says he, when he had read the note.

Mother laughed.

“Maybe,” says she, “the old man is tired from his long row and wants Jerry to wheel him home in style.”

I was looking at the note.

“We haven’t got a wheelbarrow,” says I.

“Sure thing we have,” says Dad. “Look in the garage behind the old porch screens.”

When dinner was over I got the wheelbarrow and started out. It was a mile to the river. And I can’t say that I was very crazy over my job. But I didn’t back down on account of the hot sun. I didn’t want to disappoint the Cap’n. We’re good friends and he does things for me. Besides I wanted to find out the truth about the stuttering parrot. And I figured it would help me if I were to get on the good side of him. He would tell me more then.

I couldn’t figure out, though, why the old man wanted me to meet him at the river bridge with a wheelbarrow. Certainly it wasn’t to bring home a big catch of bullheads, as Dad had said in fun. Could it be, I asked myself, that there was some mystery back of his note?

Red was ahead of me in River Street. I got my eyes on his bow legs. And when I got closer to him I saw in surprise that he was trundling a wheelbarrow like mine.

“It’s for the Cap’n,” says he, when I overtook him. “He had old Caleb Obed write me a note to meet him at the river bridge.”

“Old Caleb wrote me a note, too,” says I.

“Good night!” says Red, staring at my wheelbarrow. “The old man must be bringing home a ton of coal.”

We had a good sweat in our walk in the hot sun. Coming to the river bridge, we saw old Caleb fishing over the railing. Peg was there, too. And what do you know if our chum didn’t have a wheelbarrow as big as Red’s and mine put together.

Old Caleb was shaking his shaggy head and talking in a loud voice.

“No,” says he, “I didn’t write you no note ’bout a wheelbarrow. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”

Peg showed how he could scowl.

“How about this?” says he, shoving a piece of paper under the old man’s nose. “It’s got your name on it.”

“Um.... Let me see.”

“Right there,” says Peg, jabbing with his finger.

In the time that the near-sighted one was fumbling around for his spectacles we heard Scoop coming down the river road. He was whistling and stepping it off as big as cuffy.

“Lookit!” says Red, sort of squeaky-like, grabbing my arm and pointing to the newcomer.

“Another wheelbarrow!” says I, going dizzy.

“It’s kind of wabbly,” says Scoop, when he had joined us, “but it’s the only one in our block that I could find.” Here his gab trailed away in a sudden discovery. “What in Sam Hill?...” says he, blinking. “Four wheelbarrows! Is it an epidemic?”

Here a row of monkey faces was lifted into sight out of the weeds.

“Haw! haw! haw!” says Bid Stricker, jeering-like.

I saw then where the notes had come from. And did I ever feel cheap! To let a dumb-bell like Bid Stricker fool us this way! _Good_ night!

We took after the smart Alecks, running them into town. But we couldn’t catch them.

Old Caleb was cackling to himself when we came back to the bridge.

“Heh! heh! heh!” says he, shaking all over. “They fooled you slick, didn’t they?”

“Wait and see what _they_ get,” says Scoop, mopping his face and glaring in the direction of town where we could see the enemy kicking up dust in the river road.

“You’re goin’ to git back at ’em, hey?”

“_Are_ we?”

Peg grunted.

“I’d like to punch Bid Stricker in the snout.”

“You take Bid,” says I, “and I’ll take Jimmy.”

Scoop laughed.

“Do you know what _I’m_ going to do,” says he.

“What?” says Peg.

“I’m going to think up a snappy trick to play on them. That’ll be more fun than beating them up.”

“Hot dog!” says I, looking ahead to fun.

Yes, I was full of giggles. For I knew how smart Scoop was in thinking up tricks. But I guess I would have been full of shivers, instead, if I had known what we were heading into. In the trick that we later prepared for the Strickers I got the worst of it. Br-r-r-r! I don’t like to think about it. And to this day I always tremble when I go into a dark cellar. I expect to touch something _cold_.