Roy Blakeley in the Haunted Camp.
by Percy Keese Fitzhugh.
CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE IN THE LANE
One fine day in the merry month of August when the birds were singing in the trees and all the schools were closed and hikes and camping and ice cream cones were in season, and the chickens were congregated on the platform of the Hicksville, North Carolina, post office, something of far reaching consequence happened.
On that day Joshua Hicks, postmaster-general of that thriving world centre, emerged from the post office, adjusted his octagon-shaped, steel-rimmed spectacles exactly half way down his long nose, held a certain large envelope at arm"s length and contemplating it with an air of rueful perplexity said,
"Well--by--gum!"
Then he c.o.c.ked his head to one side, then to the other, squinted first his right eye, then his left, and at last inquired, of the chickens, apparently,
"What--in--all--_cre-a-tion_ is this?"
The chickens did not answer him; on the contrary they departed from the platform, seeing, perhaps, that there was no mail for them. With the exception of two persons the chickens were the only creatures that ever waited for the mail in Hicksville.
In the peacefulness of the Hicksville solitude the train could be heard rattling over the bridge and into the woods beyond, going straight about its business as if Hicksville did not exist.
It was no wonder that Joshua Hicks was astonished, for things like this did not happen in Hicksville every day. The last previous event had been a circus but that was nothing compared to the large envelope. For the address on this was as follows:
To a lady in Hicksville, North Carolina, who lives in a white house with the end of the porch broken and with a dog that has a collar. Maybe there"s a window broken.
In the upper left hand corner was written:
If not delivered sometime or other return to W. Harris, scout, Raven Patrol 1st Bridgeboro New Jersey troop, Boy Scouts of America.
And at the lower right hand corner was the additional information:
P. S. There is a puddle outside the woodshed or a pail.
With such detailed information as this Uncle Sam, that world renowned errand boy, could hardly do otherwise than deliver this formidable doc.u.ment. And thus it was that W. Harris, scout, had stopped a great train, which goes to show you what boy scouts can do.
Thinking no doubt that an envelope of such imposing dimensions containing such explicit descriptive matter was ent.i.tled to the honor of rural free delivery, the postmaster-general himself took off his spectacles, put on a large straw hat and started up the road.
He came presently to a small white house some distance up a lane, where a dog with a collar greeted him with a cordial wag of the tail.
That dog, in his humble abode, did not know that his fame had gone abroad and that his personal distinction of a collar was known in the sovereign commonwealth of New Jersey, not to mention the vast cosmopolitan centre of Bridgeboro, county seat so-called, because of the comfortable propensity of the people living there to spend their time sitting down. Perhaps it might more appropriately have been called the county couch, since the inhabitants were said to be forever in a kind of doze.
But if Bridgeboro, New Jersey, dozed, Hicksville, North Carolina, had the sleeping sickness. And it did not even walk in its sleep for not a soul was to be seen about the little white house nor anywhere else.
There was no doubt, however, of its being the house in question. A pillar at the end of the porch had rotted away and the roof over the little platform was tumbling down. A pane of gla.s.s was missing from the sitting room window.
But Joshua Hicks was not going to take any chances. So he playfully ruffled the dog"s hair to make sure that the collar was around the animal"s neck and having satisfied himself of this he strolled around in back of the house for an official inspection of the puddle or the pail.
The United States government must be very thorough about these things; puddles especially....
There, sure enough, was the puddle, a perennial puddle, fed by a laughing, babbling, leaky drainpipe. Joshua Hicks dipped a finger in the mud and made sure of the puddle. He then looked for the pail, and not seeing it, put on his steel spectacles and glanced again at the envelope.
"A puddle _or_ a pail," he said. "I reckon that"s all right; it says _or_ a pail."
He was going to knock on the kitchen door, but he bethought him to make a supplementary inspection of the tumbled down porch roof. There could be no two opinions about that; even a profiteering landlord would have admitted the condition. And finally Postmaster Hicks satisfied himself in the best of all ways of the condition of the window, and that was by cutting his finger on a fragment of broken gla.s.s.
Staunch and true as he was, he was ready to shed his blood for his country.
CHAPTER II
AN ECHO OF THE WAR
Having satisfied himself beyond all doubt that this little white house was the proper destination of the letter, Joshua Hicks administered an authoritative knock on the front door. The response came in the form of a queer little old lady, who wore a very expectant look, a look almost pathetically expectant. She was slight and wizened, and stood straight.
But her face was deeply wrinkled and her hair was snowy white.
There was something about her trim, erect little figure and white locks and furrowed cheeks which aroused sympathy; it would be hard to say why.
Perhaps it was because her brisk little form suggested that she worked hard, and her thin heavily veined hands and wrinkled face reminded one that she ought not to work hard. There was a certain something about her which suggested that she was fighting a brave fight and keeping a good heart. At all events she wore a cheery smile.
"Joshua," she said, "I was kinder hoping to see you over to-day. It"s good of you to bring it yourself. I wanted to put my name on it so"s you could get me the money in Centerville when you go."
"Tain"t your pension, Mis" Haskell," Joshua said. "Leastways, I never seen no pensions come like this before. It"s like as if it wuz a letter turned inside out; all the writin" is on the outside."
"Jes" when I"m needing my pension most it don"t come," she said, taking the big envelope. "When I saw you prowling around in back I thought you was the sheriff"s man, mebbe. It give me a shock because--what"s this?"
"Don"t ask _me_, Mis" Haskell," said the postmaster. "It"s for you, I"m certain sure of that, and that"s all I can say."
With trembling hand and a look of pathetic fear and apprehension, the old lady started to tear open the envelope, saying the while, "You don"t reckon W. Harris is one of them smart lawyers up New York way, do you, Joshua? I"m ready to get out when I have to. I"ve--I"ve stuck it out alone, I always said I could fight, but I can"t fight the law, Joshua.
They don"t need to set no lawyers on me--they don"t."
She opened the envelope, and unfolded a sheet of paper. It was old and faded and wrinkled. She glanced at it, then grasped the door jam with her thin, trembling hand, as if she feared she might fall.
"Tain"t the law, is it?" Joshua Hicks inquired.
"You better be gone, Joshua," she said. "No, it ain"t the law--it"s--it"s something else. It ain"t the law, Joshua."
"Is it any trouble?" he asked.
She answered, strangely agitated, "No, "tain"t no trouble, Joshua."
"They ain"t a goin" to stop sendin" you your pension?"
"Not as I know of, Joshua, but jes" I want to be alone. It ain"t no trouble of money, Joshua, not this time...."
If it were no matter of money, then Joshua Hicks could not conjecture what in the world it was, for there were only two things in old Mrs.
Haskell"s life, and these were both concerned with money. One was the monthly receipt of her pension, for in her small way she had helped to make the world safe for democracy and all that sort of thing. The other was the mortgage and interest on her little home which the pension could not begin to take care of. Mrs. Haskell did not understand about this mortgage at all, but the most important part of it she did understand, and that was that pretty soon she was going to be put out. She did not have to be a financier or a lawyer to understand that. She had tried to beat this mortgage back by sewing and gardening and selling eggs, but the interest had grown faster than the potatoes, the pen was mightier than the needle and the mortgage had kept right on working while the chickens had taken a vacation.