Jerry Todd and the rose-colored cat

Ordinarily we get together on Saturday evening and head for down town. It is fun to be a part of the street crowd. But to-night we agreed to stick close to the old mill. As Scoop said, there was likely to be some exciting developments.

It came eight o’clock; then eight-thirty. Peg pointed to the clouds obscuring the moon.

“Not a star even,” said he.

“All the better for our purpose,” returned Scoop with satisfaction, meaning, of course, that the prowler would be more likely to pay us a visit if it were dark instead of moonlight. I told myself that if the man did come he was a gone goose. He couldn’t possibly escape both of our traps. In case the barrel trap failed in its purpose the ink brand would promptly lead to his detection.

As usual Red went uneasy with the fading of daylight and began fidgeting.

“Do you suppose,” said he, squinting into the outside darkness, “that hidden eyes are watching us?”

“Probably,” Peg returned easily.

“Let’s go to bed,” suggested Scoop in a loud voice. Getting to his feet he stretched his arms and legs, whispering the while: “Don’t talk of being watched, you poor boobs! Act unconcerned.” He added in loud tones: “Guess we’ll leave the door open to-night. Pretty hot in here.”

“Sure thing we’ll leave the door open,” spoke up Peg. “We don’t want to roast.”

Then we went to bed—in pretense. With the lantern’s flame turned high so that any one without the mill could easily see us through the open window, we sat on the cots and unlaced our shoes, dropping them heavily to the floor. Next we skinned out of our shirts and pants.

“You fellows get into bed,” said Peg, “and I’ll blow out the lantern. Ready? Here she goes.”

There was an interval of silence as our eyes sought to pierce the room’s sudden darkness. Then Scoop whispered:

“Easy now, fellows. Get into your clothes, only don’t make a sound.”

It was no small job dressing in the dark. First I got my pants on hind side to; then the sleeves of my shirt went twisted. When I reached for my shoes all I could find was the one fitting the left foot.

Here Red gave a tantalizing giggle and whispered:

I growled at Red to shut up and impatiently continued my search on the rough floor for the missing shoe. All I got for my pains was a sliver in my finger. Disgusted, I gave up the search. And with one shoeless foot I joined the others on Scoop’s cot.

There was very little whispering now. We sat there for the most part like stone statues, our eyes staring into the blackness to where the invisible electric lamp was mounted on the wooden wall. Red had hold of the barrel rope, ready to give it a quick unhooking jerk in case the light flashed. The cats in the adjoining room having quieted down for the night, the silence within the mill seemed suddenly deep and deadly. Like a tomb.

The minutes dragged along. Ten minutes; a hundred minutes; a million minutes. At least it seemed to me that a million minutes were born and lived and expired in the space of time that we sat there. I began to share Red’s uneasiness. The crowding darkness; the brooding silence; the constant expectation that the light would momentarily flash put a jumpishness into my muscles, sort of.

Peg got up and tiptoed to the window. I was glad. Even to have him move silently across the room helped to break the unnerving monotony of the situation.

“Well?” Scoop whispered, when Peg returned.

“Couldn’t see or hear a thing,” the other replied in a low breath.

The springs beneath Red creaked and by a sharp jab of my elbow I signaled to him to quit his fidgeting.

“Must be getting pretty late,” he spoke up in a hollow voice.

“A quarter after ten,” informed Scoop, looking at his watch’s illuminated dial.

There was a brief silence.

“I’ve a good notion,” said Peg out of his thoughts, “to slip outside and make a circle of the mill. I can find out easy enough if the prowler is near.”

“Yes; and he’d spot you in the time that you were spotting him,” was Scoop’s prompt objection.

“I don’t think so,” Peg returned confidently.

“I bet he’s watching the door at close range,” persisted Scoop.

“So much the better for my purpose,” Peg said quickly. “I can go safely through the window.”

“But it’s a drop of ten feet!”

“I’ll use a rope. There’s one under my cot.”

When Peg gets an idea fixed in his head you can’t budge him. So Scoop shut up.

Again the minutes straggled in endless procession in the time that it took Peg to get his rope fixed for a safe descent from the window. We could see nothing of him as he moved stealthily in the darkness, but from the slight sounds he made I figured he was tying one end of the rope to a roof post. The next step was to dangle the loose end of the rope from the window. When silence came I knew he was outside.

Suddenly the swift beat of running feet fell upon our startled ears. My heart jumped into my throat and I sprang erect. Plainly an unknown peril was snapping at Peg’s flying heels. Red’s breath came hot against the side of my face and his fingers closed on my arm. Then:

“Fire! Your pa’s brickyard, Jerry. Come quick!”

My lung valves working again, I gave a gasp and ran quickly to the window. I was the next thing to crazy, I guess. Pounding on my brain was the awful thought that a fire in the brickyard could easily wipe out Dad’s business. That would make us poor. And dozens of workmen would be left without jobs. My darting eyes searched for and detected a tongue of flame. Just beyond the brickyard barn. I gave a glad cry in the knowledge that the fire wasn’t in the main building where the machinery is housed.

“The fire’s just getting a start,” yelled Peg. “Maybe we can put it out. Hurry, fellows!”

Our faces painted in the red glow of the mounting flames, we went out through the window. Me first, then Scoop, then Red. In the sliding descent the rope burned my palms. I didn’t mind. Peg was dancing up and down like a man with bumblebees in his pants. He gripped my arm and we started down the hill on the run.

“There goes the fire bell,” panted Scoop.

Distant voices took up the hoarse cry of, “Fire! Fire!” We could hear the clatter of speeding feet. Then came the shrieking siren of the fire truck.

Slacking a bit, Peg cried in my ear:

“What’s the idea, Jerry? You run one-sided.”

“I don’t know,” I gasped.

“Why, you’ve lost a shoe,” cried Scoop, looking down at my feet.

“It’s in the mill,” I panted.

“You’ll need it,” said Peg, going dead still. “We’ll wait here while you run back and get it.”

I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to keep on running. Dad needed me. His brickyard was burning up. I should join him without delay and help put out the fire.

But in the brief interval that I wavered, Peg turned me around and started me off with a shove.

“Make it snappy,” he ordered.

Well, I was too utterly confused to stop and argue the matter. Vaguely I had the feeling that the forgotten shoe was not wholly necessary under the demands of the moment. I could go to the fire without the shoe, and should. But stronger in my jumbled mind than these impressions was Peg’s definite orders. Through long association with him I have come to rely upon his judgment in emergencies. He said I needed the shoe. And, as usual, I accepted his view of things and acted on his directions.

Headed for the cat farm, I sped over the ground like an arrow, tumbling up the hill lickety-cut. Rounding the corner of the mill, I paused for an instant to get my wind. The open doorway was but a few feet away. About to dash into the mill, I was held in amazement to my tracks by the unexpected sight of a moving light. Some one was in the mill!

I don’t know how long I stood there. Poised and stonelike. Maybe it was not more than a second or two. Anyway, in the instant that my blood started flowing again, the confusion went out of my mind. I am like that. One minute I’ll be rattle-headed and half scared out of my wits. Then a reaction will set in, putting me cool and courageous. I was wholly cool and courageous now, only I don’t want you to get the idea I’m bragging about it.

I knew, of course, who was in the mill. And I had the conviction that the prowler’s presence at this particular moment was no coincidence. Unquestionably the brickyard fire was a ruse of his to get us away from the mill so he could carry on his search undisturbed.

I went stiff and hot in the thought of what little regard the prowler had for Dad’s property. It seemed almost unbelievable that a man in his right mind would consider the destruction of a big industry in order to get possession of a yellow cat. Did the answer to the riddle lie in the fact that the man was crazy? Yes, that must be it. But even so the law would accept no excuses for the crime he had committed. He should be captured and put behind the bars where he could do no further harm. Grimly mindful of the barrel trap, I became possessed of a compelling determination to effect the capture single-handed. I could do it. I was sure I could.

Thus gripped with heroic courage and determination, I ran quickly to where Peg’s rope still dangled from the side window. Up I went hand over hand. Like a monkey. Only seconds elapsed before I was in the cot room. What slight noises I made were drowned by the clamor that came out of the adjacent brickyard. Automobile horns were honking in a continuous blast. Men’s voices were lifted in a hoarse chorus. Glancing back, I went momentarily sick in the knowledge that the fire was gaining ground. Its hungry tongue was a mighty torch that sent fingers of red light into the mill, through the windows and countless wall crevices.

Grimly I let my right hand close over a stout club, more determined than ever to capture the firebug and bring him to justice. Thus armed, I grasped the barrel rope. My eyes went glued to the cold signal light. The thought came to me that I’d need a rope to tie my prisoner. Not daring to change my position, I took my knife from my pocket and cut a two-foot length from the barrel rope. This was for the captive’s hands. I cut another two-foot length for his ankles.

One, two, three, four, five. I counted the seconds subconsciously. As high as twenty-seven. Then I got the signal. The prowler was standing on the floor switch. Directly beneath the suspended barrel. Stifling an exultant cry, I jerked on the rope. There was a responding clatter in the adjoining room as the barrel fell to the floor. Then a wild cry rang through the mill. My head bent forward like a sprinting football player, I gripped my club and dashed into the cat room. And what do you know if I didn’t run headlong into a man’s stomach!

“Ouch!” came angrily from the prowler, who in some unaccountable way had escaped the barrel trap. Before I could get the crick out of my neck a strong hand gripped me by the coat collar and I was jerked off my feet.

“You little imp! I’ll teach you to set traps for me,” and my teeth rattled in the terrific shaking I received.

But the collar grip relaxed when I kicked the man in the shins. “Thirteen” is our danger cry. Yelling the distress signal at the top of my voice I dashed for the outer door. I knew my waiting chums would hear me. Within a few feet of the open door something struck lightly at my knees. I never suspected it was Peg’s string till the ink water came down kerswish! With the bucket upended on my head and the ink water in my eyes and ears and mouth, I sort of melted into a heap, gurgling and spitting and coughing.

Well, if ever there was an inkspot that needed a blotter I was it. Laugh if you wish, but I want to tell you it was no laughing matter with me. Not so you can notice it! I was crazy in the thought that while I was plastered to the ground, sort of, the prowler would escape me.

So I struggled to collect my senses and get into action. The more so when a chuckle penetrated my half-drowned ears. It was the prowler laughing at my predicament. Despair gripped me in the silence that followed. I knew from the absence of all human sounds that the man was fast making tracks into the night.

And I had planned to capture him single-handed! I wanted to do that because it was heroic. I burned with humiliation. I was a hero, all right! So was a brass doorknob a hero. I was a big boob, that’s what I was. A dumb-bell. When it came to a matter of brains a concrete hitching post had me outclassed seven ways for Sunday.

This train of thought put me good and mad. So I wasn’t long getting to my feet. And if you think I didn’t fling that old bucket a million and fifty miles you should have been here to see for yourself. I was mad at everybody and everything: at Peg for fixing up the blamed ink trap; at Red because his barrel trap flivvered; at the prowler for getting the upper hand of me; at myself for having no better sense than to run into the bucket string when I knew it was there.

Fortunately only a few splatters of the ink water got into my eyes. But the taste in my mouth couldn’t have been any inkier had I been living on ink soup for the past ten years. Ink water dribbled from my nose and ears. My clothes were soggy. I had a bad smell, too. Plainly one of the fellows had put something into the bucket besides ink. Fish glue or stove polish.

While I stood there dripping ink water the sound of speeding feet fell on my ears. Even before the runner came into view I knew it was Peg. The others, I suspected, had gone on to the fire.

“I got caught in your confounded ink trap,” is what I fired at him, when he stopped dead still in front of me and stared.

“I should say you did,” he gasped. “Gosh! You look like ‘Topsy’ in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

He then wanted to know why I had sounded the danger cry and I explained about the man in the mill.

“You think it was the prowler?” he inquired excitedly.

“I know it was.”

“Queer,” said Peg, “that he should come here at the very moment when we were attracted to the fire.”

“Nothing queer about it,” I differed. “The brickyard fire was a scheme of his to get us out of the mill.”

Peg was incredulous.

“No man would burn up a brickyard to get possession of a yellow cat,” he contended.

“How about a crazy man,” I returned.

He stared.

“You think the man is crazy?”

“Of course he’s crazy,” I declared, and I told why I was of that opinion.

Here Peg wanted to know if I had gotten a good look at the prowler’s face. I shook my head, describing the manner in which I had rammed into the man’s stomach.

“It put me dizzy,” I concluded. “The only thing I saw was stars.”

Peg was lighting the lantern when Scoop tumbled into the mill.

“The fire’s out,” he cried. “But it was a bully good fire while it lasted.”

“Was it the brickyard barn?” Peg inquired, turning up the wick.

Scoop shook his head.

“The oil house,” he informed. “Not a big loss. Two-three hundred dollars maybe.”

His voice sort of trailed away as he noticed my black face. Questions formed in his mouth but evaporated on his lips.

Again I recited my unhappy adventures. While I was talking Red came in, jawing at Scoop for running away from him.

“They think some one set fire to the oil house,” he told us, when he got over his grouch. “I heard the fire chief say so.” He got his eyes on me and grinned. “What’s the matter?” he inquired. “Did the ink water fall on you?”

“Oh, no,” I snorted. “It didn’t fall on me. Of course not. I needed a bath so I got a ladder and lowered myself from the roof into the bucket. Huh!”

“Well,” giggled Red, “you better get out your ladder and lower yourself into some one’s cistern. You need rinsing.”

Peg told the other to shut up. He said I was out of luck and it wasn’t right for one pal to laugh at another in trouble. Red’s joke about the cistern, though, gave me an idea. I did need rinsing. More than that I needed a good scrubbing. I told the fellows I had best make a trip to the canal. Peg promptly invited himself to go along.

At the brickyard dock I stripped and dove in. It was moonlight now. Peg took my clothes to the water’s edge and rubbed them with soap while I scrubbed my head and body. A good bit of the ink came off. But I was far from white. I could easy enough figure out what Mother would say when she got her eyes on me.

Returning to the mill in my wet clothes I hung them on a bush to dry, then joined the others in the side room.

“I’ve been thinking it over,” said Scoop from his cot, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re up against a much bigger mystery than we imagined. Until to-night it seemed to be a boy-sized mystery. But if the prowler is likely to go around town starting fires I think it is high time we flagged the information to Bill Hadley.”

“To-morrow,” I said, “I’ll tell Dad. He’ll know what to do.”

“I bet he’ll hire an extra night watchman,” spoke up Red.

“That reminds me,” said Peg, “that we better do some watching to-night on our own hook. It’s the safest plan. I’ll stand guard till midnight. Then Scoop and Red can watch till daybreak. We’ll let Jerry snooze. He deserves it.”

With the sheet pulled up under my chin I shut my eyes and tried to go to sleep. But my nerves refused to quiet down. I thought of all the things that had happened to us. In conclusion I told myself that Scoop was right in contending that the mystery was now a man-sized affair. The law should indeed step in and take charge of the maniac. Otherwise there might be another and more disastrous fire; a murder even.

Here Scoop sat up in bed and started talking.

“Did you say the prowler choked you, Jerry, when you bumped into him?” he inquired reflectively.

“No, he shook me.”

“Didn’t even hit you with his fists?”

“No.”

“Then he isn’t crazy,” Scoop declared firmly, and lay down.

“Of course not,” came from Red. “A crazy man would have choked you till your eyes popped. Besides if he is crazy, the farmer’s wife would have suspected it.”

My thoughts went scattered. If the man wasn’t crazy, as I had concluded, how could one reconcile the brickyard fire? We were of the opinion that the prowler was searching for the rose-colored cat. Conceding that Lady Victoria was actually worth five hundred dollars, would a sane man set fire to a fifty-thousand-dollar brickyard on the chance of getting possession of a five-hundred-dollar cat?

The more I thought about it the dizzier I got.