Jerry Todd and the rose-colored cat

I never had been over this path. But I could tell from the general location of things that we were heading directly for the river bridge. The road the Strickers were following wound around a marsh sometimes called the Tutter Pond. In opposition, we were traveling in a comparatively straight line. So even with their start on us we stood a good chance of cutting in ahead of them.

The sun was now well out of sight, though the western sky still retained its heated glow. With the shadows of night creeping upon the land, we had to watch our flying steps lest we trip and fall over the tree roots that ribbed the uneven surface. Panting, we came within sight of the river, seemingly leaden and sluggish in the gathering darkness. Here a pier projected into the water; and anchored close by was a large motor boat. Plainly this boat was used by the sanitarium guests and it was their passage back and forth through the wood that had worn the footpath.

We came under the high bridge and clawed our way up the steep bank of the approach. Clutching a rod, I drew my head above the plank floor. The Strickers were not on the bridge. Nor were they within range of my eyes in either direction.

“Dig into the bank with your heels, Jerry,” Scoop panted, “and get your wind. You’ll need it.”

I made to let go of the bridge rod but my fingers clung to it. Then I scowled as I saw the mess I was in.

Scoop hadn’t noticed my predicament.

“Indians,” he murmured reflectively, “always paint their faces when they start out on a scalping party. Um—— Wish we had some paint.”

I held up my sticky fingers.

“Here’s plenty of red bridge paint,” I told him. “Just help yourself.”

“This is luck,” he cried, dabbing his fingers against the overhead rod. “Pocket your cap, Jerry, and let me fix you up. Then you can decorate me.”

I’ll tell the world we looked like real honest-to-John Indians when we got through with each other. Scoop’s face all over was a sort of sunset design. I helped him into his headpiece and blanket.

“Gosh!” I giggled. “If you jumped at me in a dark alley I’d kiss my old heart action good-by.”

He told me to hurry and get under my own feathers.

“Don’t let the blanket wind around your legs,” he cautioned. “We’ve got to chase ’em, you know.”

“We ought to have tomahawks,” I put in after a moment.

“Clubs’ll do. Look around for one.”

Here an automobile thundered over our heads.

“We may find ourselves in a pickle,” I pointed out uneasily, “if a car happens along while we’re in the road.”

“We’ll take the chance.”

I sharpened my ears.

“Some one laughed down the road,” I whispered hoarsely. “There it goes again.”

“Sounds like Bid Stricker’s yap. Can you see ’em, Jerry?”

“Too dark.”

“There they are! All ready?”

“You bet.”

“When I signal, jump out in front of them and give a regular old gee-whacker of a war whoop. Make it blood curdling. Then take after ’em down the middle of the road and keep on their heels till Jimmy Stricker drops the black bag.”

We crawled into the road and like gray shadows crouched against the heavy safety railing that parallels the bridge approach on both sides. The enemy was now well in sight. We could distinctly hear their chatter.

“If they can get the hundred dollars,” said Jimmy, “we can.”

“Sure thing,” grunted Bid.

“Who pays us all this money?” another put in.

“Haven’t found out yet,” replied Jimmy.

“Don’t let that worry you,” said Bid. “We can find out from Bill Hadley.”

Jimmy laughed.

“It sure was lucky that you fellers came over to the sanitarium to-night to see the free show. I wouldn’t have dared pull this trick alone.”

“I bet Scoop Ellery’s mad,” chuckled Bid. “Huh! Thinks he’s pretty smart. But we out-witted him to-night.”

“Jerry Todd, too,” a new voice put in.

“When I see Jerry,” said Bid, “I’m going to ask him how he likes being locked up.”

Scoop gripped my arm.

“Let’s go,” he whispered tensely.

Together we jumped in front of the surprised Strickers, flourishing our clubs and rivaling a whole band of fighting Indians with our war cry. The other boys stopped dead in their tracks. Scared out of their wits. Then, as we made a lunge at them, they got the paralysis out of their legs and ran screaming down the road. Say, it was bully!

We were right after them. But I suspect we never could have overtaken them. Fear puts added power into a fellow’s legs. And right now the Strickers were so jammed full of fear that it was hanging from their ears.

Realizing they were getting away, I drew back my club and let it fly full force at Jimmy Stricker’s head. He jumped seven feet when the club grazed him. Letting go of the bag, he grabbed at his neck, expecting, I guess, to find a tomahawk embedded there.

A motor car bore down on us from behind.

“Into the bushes,” cried Scoop, diving for the black bag.

“The driver never saw us,” I panted, as the car whizzed by.

“Just the same we’d better make tracks out of here,” Scoop counseled breathlessly. “The others may stop the car and head the driver this way.”

“Easy enough for us to hide on ’em,” I told him, unwilling to let any worry disturb me now that we had the bag.

“I’ll feel safer,” Scoop returned, “when we’re across the bridge.”

There was a brief silence.

“The collar’s here, Jerry.”

“Atta boy! Put it in your pocket and we’ll dig for home.”

Rolling up our Indian toggery, we pitched the bundle deeper into the thicket. But not before we had wiped our painty faces on one of the blankets. Some of the paint refused to come off. This gave us no concern. Once we were home we could put our faces white again with turpentine.

The long bridge was a peril. If the Strickers hailed an auto and bore down upon us from behind, we could hardly hope to outrun the car to the other end; nor was there a place to hide on either side. So we made sure no auto lights were visible before entering the bridge. And once started we ran as fast as our wearied legs would carry us.

But nothing happened.

It was after nine o’clock when we came into town. And there under a corner light on south River Street were Red and Peg waiting for us. Both bubbled with news.

“Mrs. Kepple’s green car,” cried Red, “is smashed to smithereens.”

“And there’s cats parked up every telephone pole on Main Street,” laughed Peg.

“They took the chauffeur to the emergency rooms with a big gash in his scalp and a broken neck——”

“You mean a broken rib,” corrected Peg.

“Well, whatever it was. Gee! You never seen so much blood in all your life. Just like a slaughter house. The fellow thought he was going to croak, and what do you know if he didn’t lose his grit and confess that he and a maid stole Mrs. Kepple’s pearls.”

“And the maid’s in the hospital, too,” Peg carried on, when Red ran out of breath. “Bill Hadley is going to put them in jail as soon as Doc Leland gets the chauffeur patched up.”

I went weak with disappointment. Bill probably had made the chauffeur tell where the pearls were hid and now he’d get the reward.

But Peg shook his head when I gave him a look into my unhappy thoughts.

“Bill never will get the reward. As I understand it the chauffeur hid the pearls in the copper collar——”

“Under the bumps in the outer band,” Red put in.

“And they were running off with the collar when the accident happened.”

So the scratches weren’t code marks after all! I glanced at Scoop. He probably was disappointed to have his theory exploded. But he seemed unconcerned about it.

Giving me a nudge he put in:

“And did the thief tell how he stole the collar on us at the sanitarium?”

Peg’s face lengthened as he nodded.

“That was tough luck, fellows. If we had the collar we could produce the pearls and walk off with the reward.”

“But where is the collar?” persisted Scoop.

“The chauffeur had it in a black traveling bag in the luggage box. He says the car skidded on the bridge, and likely the bag was flipped into the river.”

Scoop reached under his coat.

“How about this?” he inquired, flashing the collar on Peg.

Explanations followed. Then Peg separated the two copper bands and out dropped the missing pearls. Six of them, each as big as the nail on my little finger. Say, they were pretty! All I could think of was big pink teardrops. I felt pretty chesty as I held them in my palm. Twelve thousand dollars is a lot of money.

Scoop said we would put them in his father’s store safe for the night and take turns guarding the safe to make sure that no burglar got them. Then in the morning we would turn them over to their owner and thank her for the reward.

So I gave Scoop my handkerchief to tie the pearls in and we headed for the store. The wrecked automobile was drawn to one side on Main Street. And in the pile of rubbish I recognized many familiar cat boxes. Dad’s dump cart was there, too, with four ribs broken from the left wheel. Peg explained that he and Red were on their way to the Happy Hollow siding with the cats when the green car ran into them.

It turned out that the chauffeur and maid were a bad pair. It was their scheme to get the pearls out of the house by hiding them in the cat collar. Both servants knew Mrs. Kepple was planning to spend a few days at the sanitarium, so they sent us the cat, intending to quietly recover it when they were in the neighborhood. Of course, it was the chauffeur who did the prowling; and it was the maid who called for the cat, representing herself to be Mrs. Peter Kepple.

Everybody in Tutter was excited over the arrest. Yes, and they were even more excited over the cats. Gee-miny! I guess we had more cats for the number of people than any town in Illinois. People who didn’t like cats sort of glared at us when they met us in the street. But it wasn’t our fault that the cart got bumped into and the cats spread over Main Street. It was an accident. And Bill Hadley couldn’t do a thing to us except jaw.

Dad said, though, it wouldn’t be at all unwise for me to take a vacation and stay with my Aunt Em in the country for a spell. Sort of safety first. The other fellows had no aunt to visit, and I guess the townspeople made it pretty hot for them. I wanted to take Scoop and the others along, but Dad put his foot down.

“Nothing doing, Jerry,” he told me. “If I were to turn you loose in the country with that blamed Scoop Ellery and that red-headed Meyers kid, I would expect nothing else than to hear of the state militia being called out.”

He was joking, of course. That is Dad’s way.

Three weeks later he wrote me a letter saying it was safe to come home. The cats had thinned out until only a million were left, and it was his story that the neighbors were getting friendly again.

I was sick of the cats but I didn’t pick on them like a lot of others. As I could see they were no particular bother. Of course, at night they climbed the back fences and made unnecessary music; but that’s a cat’s way of visiting. And you can’t make a cat act any different than a cat. Of course not. But some people hadn’t the sense to take this view.

Besides, with plenty of cats on hand there wasn’t likely to be any rats to carry disease germs. But I guess it’s pretty hard to please everybody.

THE END