Jerry Todd and the rose-colored cat

Dusk settled low upon the land as we sat in the doorway of the old mill and planned how we would deliver our cats into the buyer’s hands early the following morning. If we could manage to crowd all the cats into one load so much the better. There was a chance that the buyer would accept the lot. In that event we would be in luck. We joyously pictured the envy in Bid Stricker’s homely face upon learning the story of our good fortune. He was welcome to his little old five dollars. Huh! We were going to earn twenty dollars. This happy thought took the keen edge from our dejection and humiliation.

“If the cat buyer wants only eighty cats,” said Scoop, “we’ll fill the order and then drive deeper into the country and drop the remaining cats here and there along the Treebury pike.”

Peg laughed.

“‘Here and there’ is the right way to do it,” he agreed, recalling, I guess, the unfortunate results that attended our first attempt to get rid of the cats wholesale.

Scoop readily understood what the other meant.

“Yes,” he nodded, “if it becomes necessary to drop the cats along the turnpike we’ll spread them out and not release them in bunches like we did over by the dairy farm.”

The mysterious cat buyer was a target for a good bit of our speculative conversation. Was he indeed the prowler who had stopped the full swing of my club the previous night when Peg and I played ghost? And was he in the mill in quest of the yellow cat? To put answers onto these questions would likely clear up the mystery, and that, of course, is what we were anxious to do. But would we be able to pump the stranger as Scoop anticipated? The cat buyer was a man; we were boys. It didn’t seem possible to me that he would fall into any of our traps. Still I was hopeful.

Peg thoughtfully advanced the theory that the prowler might be an agent of Mrs. Kepple’s.

“I read in a story one time,” he explained, “how a woman had her pet dog insured against theft, then hid it and tried to collect the insurance money. That may be Mrs. Kepple’s game.”

Listening with eager ears, I instantly thrilled under the thought that Peg’s theory supplied a reason for the unusual cat advertisement. Instructed to steal the cat, the prowler had made the discovery that the cat wasn’t in the mill. His next step was to run the advertisement in the newspaper under the hope that in rounding up all the stray cats in Tutter the desired cat would be delivered into his hands. This accomplished, Mrs. Kepple could safely file her five-hundred-dollar claim with the insurance company.

In tumbling, excited words I spilled my thoughts to the others. Scoop, though, couldn’t see it my way.

“You entirely overlook the fact,” said he, “that the cat advertisement was placed in the newspaper before the prowler visited the mill.”

He was right. My excitement subsided and I shut up.

The moon lifted its round white face into the sky as though to assure us of its friendship and support. A powerful electric searchlight could have given us no more complete protection. Nevertheless we safeguarded the cat farm against possible invasion, which task completed, we dropped onto our cots, sleeping the night through without disturbance. Awakening at the call of the first factory whistle, we divided the work of preparing breakfast and crating the cats; then set forth happily, mindful of Mr. Ellery’s injunction that the borrowed delivery wagon must be returned to the store within an hour.

Our early-morning ride into the country touched up my pep and made me gladder than ever that I was alive. It was a magic world, sort of. The leaves tenanting the trees seemed washed and refreshed under the disappearing dew. Once we dipped into a hollow and a tang crept toward us from out of the low lands, putting imaginative pictures of colorful growing things into my mind. Not infrequently in such contented moments I have the industrious feeling that I want to be a farmer when I grow up. Running a farm is hard work; but there comes a fine contentment, I bet, from living close to fields and forests. Dad jokes about educating me to be a minister. He says I can do the preaching and he’ll take up the collection and we’ll split fifty-fifty. That is his nonsense, of course. When I do get to be a man as big and tall as he is, with number eight shoes and a safety razor of my own, he’ll likely forget about the minister business and let me be a farmer if I want to be one.

The clattering delivery wagon built a wall about my thoughts and I gave critical attention as a future-day farmer to the adjacent fields of growing corn. There was one poor field. I told myself stoutly that there would be no crooked corn rows in my farm; nor would there be weedy patches. No, sir-e! Then we came to a sloping meadow spread upon the sunny hillside like a huge blanket, all green and soft and velvety, and I turned my attention to the grazing cattle, drawing a mental comparison between these cows and the cows that were to be a part of my farm. Pretty soon in imagination I got to be a big land owner and all the farms paralleling the turnpike were my farms and all the cattle were my cattle and I scowled back at the weedy cornfield, saying to myself that the hired man who had charge of that particular field would hear from me, all right, all right. I even had it figured out in my mind what I would hand the lazy bum, then Red gagged up a bug or something, and thus jerked out of my dream world I was made to realize that I was a boy in knee pants with a big patch on the seat and the only farm I owned was a quarter interest in a cat farm, which was nothing to brag about.

Pretty soon we came within sight of the brick house and Scoop pulled on the reins, slowing the trotting horse into a jerky walk. A tree-hung lane gave entrance to the barnyard in the rear. Turning into this lane, we made use of the farmer’s hitching post to secure our horse, then unloaded the big cat crate onto the lawn in front of the house.

No one came to inquire our business, so Scoop went onto the front porch and twisted the tail of the door-bell. Footsteps sounded from within. Then the doorknob turned and a large woman stood framed in the opening.

“Good morning,” was her polite greeting, as she regarded us inquiringly.

“Good morning,” returned Scoop. Remembering his manners he slid from under his cap. “I believe,” he proceeded in a snappy, businesslike way, “that this is the place where we sell our cats.”

At this the woman’s face clouded and one hand moved nervously to her cheek.

“You are mistaken,” she returned quietly yet firmly. “This is the one place where you do not sell your cats—if I know anything about it!”

Well, to have her come back at Scoop that way was a knockout, sort of. The amazement that gripped us was reflected in our staring eyes. Was it her intention to step in between us and the cat buyer and cheat us out of the chance of selling our cats? It would seem so.

But Scoop had his wits about him.

“A young man,” said he, “who lives in this house put an advertisement in the Tutter newspaper for cats. We would like to show him our unusual assortment of cats. I dare say he never set eyes on a finer collection. We even have a few choice rose-colored specimens.”

The friendly grin on the speaker’s face brought an answering smile from the woman. But when he asked her to call the cat buyer to the door to inspect our cats she stiffened.

“You can take your cats away from here and keep them away,” she returned shortly. “We don’t want them. Our farm is overrun with cats as it is. Humph! It may be some one’s idea of humor to clutter up our buildings with cats, but I don’t regard it as a joke.”

Right away all the joy and contentment that had filled my mind on the way from town went kerplunk! into a bottomless pit, as they tell about in church. Could it be possible that despite all precaution we had tumbled headlong into some joker’s trap? I shot a troubled glance at the cat crate. And I groaned in the thought of further chaperoning that bunch of yodelers. Cats! cats! cats! Was there nothing in the world but cats? I wanted to grow wings and fly away to some distant planet where the nearest thing they had to a cat was a petrified cat-tail marsh.

Scoop is a persistent talker. Maybe he had a sickening chill like I had, but if so he didn’t let it freeze his gab. That is fortunate, because his questions kept the woman’s tongue in action and brought out the fact that the young man who had paid the Strickers real money for their cats was a boarder at the farmhouse.

“He rode his bicycle into the yard about a week ago,” the woman informed us. “Seemed like a nice young man, so I agreed to board him for a short time. It was a mistake, however. Yesterday my suspicions were aroused. I told myself that no man in his right mind would buy eighteen cats. Then the telegram came and he rode away, leaving the cats shut in the granary.”

Here was a new phase of the mystery. I didn’t wonder at the dazed look that flitted across Scoop’s face.

“You say the man got a telegram?” he fumbled.

The woman nodded.

“It was telephoned to him from town. When I went up to his room ten minutes later I found on the dresser the money he owed me and a note saying he wouldn’t return.”

As though to dismiss us, she stepped back and took hold of the doorknob.

“Just a minute,” cried Scoop, lifting a detaining hand. “You see,” he tumbled on, “there is a mystery about your boarder and we need your help to solve it.”

The woman looked bewildered.

“A mystery?” she repeated.

Scoop quickly recited our adventures to date.

“You can see,” he concluded, “how we came to connect up the cat buyer with the prowler who entered our cat farm. We were hopeful that in meeting him here we would be able to pick up bits of information that would help in solving the mystery.”

“Land of Goshen!” cried the woman. “He might have murdered us in our beds.”

Scoop grinned.

“I don’t think he aims to murder anybody. What he wants is the rose-colored cat.”

The woman’s bewilderment deepened.

“But it seems ridiculous that a man should go to such trouble to get possession of a cat.”

“Lady Victoria,” informed Scoop, “is no ordinary cat. We realized that from the first. Even before she arrived in Tutter we scented a mystery. Didn’t we, fellows?”

“Sure thing,” put in Red. “And when we saw the cat we told each other Mrs. Kepple had a reason for calling it rose-colored.”

“Then,” went on Scoop, “the prowler came searching for the cat in the darkness to further confirm our suspicions that Lady Victoria was a mystery cat. That was night before last.”

Here the woman gave a gasp.

“I do believe you’re right in connecting up the cat buyer with the prowler who disturbed you. Yes! You say it was Thursday night?”

“Between eleven and twelve o’clock,” Scoop nodded.

“On Thursday night,” said the woman in a steady voice, “the cat buyer left here shortly after supper and never returned till midnight.”

To thus learn that the prowler was positively the cat buyer gave me a queer nervous thrill. Then my mind went confused under the mystery’s befuddling and conflicting angles. Old questions confronted me. Who was he? What were his motives? I reached for the answers but fell short.

Scoop, though, shared none of my bewilderment. A reflective look clung to his face that told me as plain as words that his thoughts were being put one on top of another in orderly sequence. Presently he turned to the woman and inquired:

“When the man left your house Thursday evening, did he have on a gray cloth cap?”

“Now let me think. Ye-es, he did.”

Scoop’s eyes snapped.

“And when he rode away last evening, did he have on the same gray cap?”

“No-o. He wore a black hat.”

“I suspected as much,” Scoop said quickly. Then he gave a scattered laugh. “I bet I can tell you the size hat your husband wears.”

The woman stared as though she suspected her ears of deceiving her. It was a crazy thing for Scoop to say. I wondered what was he getting at.

“The size,” grinned Scoop, “is seven and a quarter.”

“How did you know?”

“Because that is the size of the cap the cat buyer left behind when he paid us a visit night before last.”

Now I tumbled to what Scoop was driving at. It was his belief that the capless cat buyer had snitched the farmer’s hat rather than ride away from the farmhouse bareheaded. I told myself it was pretty smart of Scoop to figure it out.

“I can’t believe it,” cried the woman, when the situation was explained to her.

“You can easy enough prove it,” returned Scoop, “by looking on the hook where your husband hangs his hat. But that can wait,” he added hastily, as she made a move to enter the house. “Um—— the telegram is more important. Suppose you tell us about it.”

“Well, I answered the ’phone, recognizing Carrie Mulliguy’s voice. ‘This is Western Union,’ says she. ‘Have you a cat buyer staying at your place?’ ‘Maybe you mean Mr. Barnes,’ says I. ‘He put an advertisement in the Globe for cats.’ ‘Yes,’ says Carrie, ‘Mr. Barnes is the party I want. Call him to the ’phone, please, as I have a telegram for him.’”

“She didn’t tell you where the telegram was from?” queried Scoop.

“No.”

“When the man got the message, did he act worried or happy or what?”

“Worried, I should say.”

“Then,” said Scoop, “it was bad news.” He drew a long breath. “Um—— I’d like to know what was in that telegram. I suspect it came from Chicago.”

“From Mrs. Kepple?” I put in.

He nodded.

“Maybe,” he said reflectively, “we can find out from Miss Mulliguy.”

The farmer’s wife leaned forward, an eager light in her eyes.

“If you find out——” she began.

“Yes,” grinned Scoop, “if we find out we’ll let you know.” Here he glanced at his watch. “Crickets!” he exploded. “We’ve got to shake a leg and get back to the store.”

Red scowled.

“But you said we were going to drive into the country and drop the cats along the turnpike,” was his reminder.

“Not this trip,” Scoop returned shortly. “We haven’t time.”

“And do we have to lug that crate of yowlers back to the old mill?”

Scoop grinned.

“Let’s not worry about the cats,” said he, slapping Red on the back. “We can get rid of them later on. Just now I want to follow up the telegram clew. That is important. The message probably connects up with the rose-colored cat in some way or another.”

“Gee!” said Red, shedding his gloom in the thought of possible adventures.

As we turned to leave, the woman touched Scoop on the arm.

“Maybe you would like some more cats——”

“Hardly,” Scoop declined before she could finish.

“But how in the world am I going to get rid of the cats in the granary?”

“You might put up a sign near the turnpike,” laughed Scoop, “offering the cats as premiums. For instance: ‘Fresh eggs, only thirty cents a dozen. Each customer given a beautiful full-grown cat absolutely free.’”

He meant it as a joke, of course. But the woman took him seriously. That to us was the funny part.

Loading the cat crate into the delivery wagon, we drove out of the lane lickety-cut, heading the horse toward town. It was a jolty ride. Our excited conversation was punctuated more or less by resentful yowls from the jostled cats. We gave little thought, however, to their probable discomfort. The telegram was the big thing in our minds.

Upon meeting the Stricker gang in Grove Street we temporarily lost the keen edge of our enthusiasm. It was not pleasant to face them with the knowledge that we had failed where they had succeeded.

“Lookit the cat farmers!” jeered Bid. “What do you know,” he added, “if they hain’t bin takin’ their cats out tourin’ in a delivery wagon.”

“So kind of them,” yipped Jimmy Stricker, “to give their cats an early-morning ride.”

“I see the rose-colored cat on the front seat,” whooped Bid. “It’s got a red head and freckles.” Then the whole gang made a pretense of being cats and hissed at us. It was very disgusting.

“Some day,” growled Red, as we clattered past the smart alecks and beyond their hearing, “I’m going to push Bid Stricker’s face down his throat and let it strangle him to death.”

Peg grimaced.

“I’m glad they don’t know where we’ve been.”

“You and me both,” I put in feelingly.

Scoop went thoughtful.

“I’ve been wondering more or less,” said he, “if the man would have bought our cats had we delivered them to him yesterday afternoon.”

“Probably,” surmised Peg without enthusiasm. “He bought the Strickers’ cats.”

Scoop went deeper into his reflections.

“It’s a queer mess,” he proceeded. “I can’t understand it. Evidently the man got instructions in the telegram to buy no more cats. But why should he beat it without saying anything of his intentions to the farmer’s wife?”

Peg gave a gurgle like he frequently does when he gets braced to recite his excited thoughts.

“Do you suppose,” said he, “it’s leaked out about the rose-colored cat being dead?”

“I never told anybody,” came quickly from Red.

“Nor me,” said Scoop and I in the same breath.

“If I had been sent to Tutter to get the rose-colored cat,” continued Peg, putting himself imaginatively into the cat buyer’s shoes, “and I got a telegram saying the cat was dead, what would I do?”

“Dig out,” Scoop supplied shortly.

“Exactly,” said Peg, complacently nodding his head.

“But no outsider knows the cat is dead,” came from Red. “How could any one telegraph what they don’t know?”

Peg’s only reply to this was a shrug of his broad shoulders.

We made short work of dumping the cat crate into the old mill, then headed for the grocery store, hopeful that Mr. Ellery would overlook the fact that we were ten minutes late.

He came from the back door onto the loading platform as we drove up.

“Get rid of your cats?” he grinned in a friendly way.

“Not yet,” Scoop returned shortly.

“No? I thought you had a buyer?”

“We got fooled,” said Scoop.

Mr. Ellery’s laugh put an up-and-down motion into his over-sized stomach.

“I guess,” he chuckled, “you’ll have to keep your cats and start a fur farm. I understand there’s a profitable market for cat skins the right time of the year. And it ain’t no expense raising the cats, because you have a rat farm next door to the cat farm, and you feed the multiplying rats to the cats, then skin the cats and feed the insides to the rats.”

“Let’s go into partnership,” grinned Peg. “We’ll furnish the cats and you can catch the rats.”

“Um——” evaded Mr. Ellery, letting his forehead go puckered in a comical way. “Reckon I better go answer the ’phone; I hear it ringing.”

We waited on the platform while Scoop got some gumdrops, then the four of us headed for the telegraph office. Miss Mulliguy smiled as Scoop stepped up to the counter to carry on the conversation.

“We’re trying to locate a cat buyer named Barnes,” he began. “The man,” he explained, “who got a telegram from Chicago yesterday afternoon.”

“You mean Springfield, not Chicago,” corrected Miss Mulliguy.

“Mr. Barnes has disappeared,” continued Scoop. “It is important that we locate him, because his firm buys cats and we’ve got cats to sell. Do you think we can secure his address by getting in touch with the party who sent him the telegram?”

“That is doubtful,” said Miss Mulliguy. “As I recall the telegram was received under the newspaper key.”

Scoop looked puzzled.

“I mean,” Miss Mulliguy explained patiently, “that Mr. Barnes’ name didn’t appear in the telegram. It was addressed to the Tutter Cat Buyer, ’phone 9044.”

“And it is your belief,” followed up Scoop, “that whoever sent the telegram didn’t know Mr. Barnes’ name?”

“I’m quite sure that is the case, having in mind the nature of the message.”

Scoop leaned eagerly across the counter.

“I suppose you can tell us from memory what was in the telegram.”

Miss Mulliguy gave him a suspicious glance and stiffened.

“I can,” she returned coldly, “but I don’t intend to. Western Union operators are not permitted to divulge the contents of telegrams passing through their hands. It is a company ruling.”

There was some more talk, but Scoop couldn’t budge her. It was disappointing. I guess we said some mean things about the telegraph company as we kicked our way to the old mill.

“It surprised me,” said Scoop, “when she said the telegram came from Springfield. That’s the state capital.”

Red grinned.

“Maybe,” he suggested, “it’s a message from the governor.”

“Huh!” snorted Scoop, giving the joker a contemptuous up-and-down look.

“It surely can’t be Mrs. Kepple,” came thoughtfully from Peg.

Scoop shook his head.

“By every right in the world,” he reflected, “the telegram should have come from Chicago. That’s where the yellow cat came from; and if thieves, for some unknown reason, are trying to get the cat away from us, you’d naturally conclude they were Chicago men. Otherwise how would they know about the cat?”

“Do you suppose,” said Peg out of his thoughts, “that the telegram is a blind?”

We stared.

“Maybe,” he continued in steady tones, “it’s a scheme to throw us off our guard. Then, when we least expect it, the prowler’ll descend upon the mill in further quest of the cat.”

Scoop’s forehead went puckered.

“I don’t know——” he began uncertainly.

“It would be my idea,” went on Peg, “to sort of pretend we’re asleep at the switch. That’ll fool the prowler and give us the advantage. We can even leave the mill door wide open when night comes. Instead of snoozing, however, we’ll be on the job with four stout clubs. And when the prowler does come——”

“We can rush up on him,” I cut in excitedly, “and knock him out.”

Peg nodded grimly.

“What if he has a gun?” reminded Scoop.

Here Red gave a yip.

“I know what we can do,” he cried, his eyes sparkling. “We’ll set a trap for him and catch him in a barrel. Then he won’t have a chance to draw a gun on us.”

Well, when we were made to understand what Red was driving at we told each other it was a pretty slick scheme. And we had a good laugh among ourselves as we pictured the unsuspecting prowler hooked in our barrel like a fish trapped in a fyke net. Red is handy at rigging up mechanical things. He understands electricity, too. We knew he could make his scheme work.

Tumbling into the mill, we took a comprehensive survey of the overhead beams, deciding on the best place to suspend the barrel. It was our theory that the prowler upon entering the mill would pass quickly before the row of cat boxes, flashing his light through the slats. Naturally he would make longer pauses before the boxes containing yellow cats so as not to overlook Lady Victoria. It was our decision, therefore, to put a bright yellow cat in one of the central boxes and fix up the barrel trap at that particular spot. We would use for the trap a big sugar barrel with one end knocked out. This could be suspended by a rope and pulley and the loose end of the rope brought into the side room where we slept. Then when we got the signal that the prowler was standing on Red’s electric floor switch we could release the rope and down would come the barrel.

“We’ll drive some shingle nails through the sides of the barrel,” grinned Red, “with the ends pointing up. That will let the barrel slide down over the prowler’s head and body; but if he tries to lift up on the barrel the nails’ll hook into his clothes.”

We put in a busy morning. First we took the cats from the crate and shut them in the boxes. Then Scoop and Peg rolled the required barrel from the store to the mill. I helped them get the barrel properly suspended, open end down. Under trial it worked as slick as a button, only once the rope came untied and poor Peg pretty nearly got his brains knocked out. While the three of us were rigging up the barrel, Red skidded here and there with a coil of wire on his arm and a pair of wire nippers in his hands. The floor switch he contrived was principally a copper strip nailed fast at one end. Under foot pressure it was made to form a contact with another copper piece, closing the dry battery circuit on a tiny electric light in the side room.

“When the light goes on,” explained Red, “we’ll know the prowler is standing directly under the barrel. Then, bingo! we let go of the rope.”

“But suppose,” Peg put in thoughtfully, “that something gets out of kilter with your contrivance and the trap doesn’t work when it should.”

“No danger of that,” Red returned confidently.

“How would it be,” persisted Peg, “if we played safe by fixing another trap at the doorway? It’s a cinch we don’t want the prowler to escape us.”

“Aw, shucks!” growled Red.

Peg laughed.

“How long does it take to wash off ink?” was his queer question.

“You mean school ink?” I inquired.

He nodded.

“It doesn’t wash off; it has to wear off,” I told him. I ought to know! If there’s a school kid in Tutter who gets more ink daubed on him than I do I don’t know who he is.

“Exactly,” said Peg. “And if we gave the prowler an ink bath, would we recognize him if we met him in the street, or wouldn’t we?”

“What do you mean?” Scoop demanded.

Peg took us to the doorway and explained how easy it would be to balance a bucket of ink water just above the top casing.

“We can fix a string,” said he, “so that anybody running into it will upset the bucket. Down will come the ink and Mr. Prowler’ll get a free bath.”

“But he’ll bump into the string coming into the mill,” was Scoop’s objection.

“The string will then be on the floor and he’ll step over it,” explained Peg. “I haven’t got it figured out, but I bet you we can fasten the string to the barrel rope so that when the barrel is released my string will tighten knee high.”

“Hot dog!” said Red. “Just leave it to me.”

“We’ll need plenty of ink,” concluded Peg. “Everybody bring a bottle this noon. If you can bring a couple of bottles, hop to it.”

“Golly Ned!” I put in. “This is fun.”

Yes, that is what I said. And I gave an easy, contented laugh. Like the other fellows, I felt pretty sure of myself. Had I known what was going to happen I would have been as hilarious as a clam with the toothache.