  Dirk pushed back his unruly hair, pulled a sheet of paper from the roller of his portable typewriter, and read what he had just written.
The writer surveyed this composition thoughtfully, scratched his ear, and replacing the page in the machine, added a brief paragraph.
Slipping his letter into an envelope addressed to “Mr. John T. Van Horn, President, Commerce National Bank,” Dirk stuck on a stamp and his missive was ready for the mail. He had just stepped outside the tent when he caught sight of Brick Ryan, lugging a sack on his shoulders and making his way down the hillside at a fast pace. “Hi, Brick!” Dirk hailed him. “Say, wait for a chap! Is that the mail-bag you have?” Brick halted and nodded. “Long Jim gave me the chance to take it down to Heaven for him today. He’s busy at the store.” “Well, here’s a letter I want to go in, special.” He caught up to his red-headed tent-mate and slipped his letter into the top of the canvas sack. Brick grunted. “Everybody must be writing to their mamas and sweethearts today, all right. Gollies, what a hefty load! Say, Van, do you want to go along and help row the boat? Give you some practice.” “Could I?” Dirk became reflective. “I’m supposed to be acting as aide today, but maybe I can go. I sure would like to help. I tell you—you go on down, and if I can get away, I’ll be down to the dock in a jiffy.” They parted, and Dirk raced to the lodge, where he found his councilor practicing with the camp orchestra in preparation for a vaudeville show that was on the program for the following night. Securing his ready permission to assist the mail-carrier of the day, Dirk cut through the trees below the tents and reached the dock almost as soon as the burdened Brick arrived. Selecting a steel-bottomed rowboat from among those moored in the lee of the diving tower, the two boys pushed off on the waters of Lake Lenape. Dirk, amidships, took the unwieldy oars and with unskilled motions began sculling in the direction of the north end of the lake, where a landing jutted from the weedy shore, beyond which faintly showed the roof of Heaven House, the little cottage that was used for the accommodation of parents and guests who visited the mountain camp. They had gone only a few hundred yards when Brick, lounging easily on the stern-sheets with the mail sack between his knees, made an offer. “Say, my lad, how would you like to see some baby kingfishers?” “Fine!” answered Van Horn. “Where are they?” “Well, cut over a few points toward the shore, and we’ll just stop in up the creek a ways. They have their nest in a hollow stump. We’ve got plenty of time to take a look, if we hurry.” Dirk pulled on his oars with renewed vigor, and the boat headed toward the reed-masked inlet of the marshy creek that cut into the camp side of the lake. He was already getting the knack of handling the little craft with greater ease, so that they slipped softly under an overhanging maple branch and entered the weed-bordered reach of water without a splash. “That’s right!” whispered Brick. “Keep quiet, or you’ll scare ’em. Say! Who’s that guy?” He pointed. Dirk clumsily shipped his oars, and at the sound a man on a little hillock above them wheeled sharply and stared, at the same time whipping one hand behind his back. The keel of the boat grated on the shore, barely missing a slender bamboo fishing rod that lay there neglected. The man ran toward them. “Sorry, sir!” cried Dirk cheerily. “We seem to have spoiled your fishing for you.” The stranger did not return his smile. He stared for a second, then queerly enough, exclaimed: “Why, if it ain’t young Van Horn!” For a space there was silence, except for the resounding thuds of axes on wood and the far shouts of boys toward the head of the creek where, Dirk recalled, a woodcraft squad was building a bridge of birch-trunks. He surveyed the unknown fisherman. The man was short and slender; and his dress was poorly adapted to the waterside, for he wore a suit of creased and dusty serge, and thin-soled, pointed low shoes. A cloth cap was pulled down over his pale face, almost hiding a pair of the steeliest blue eyes Dirk had ever seen, that stared at him coldly all the while as the man stood, hands behind back, biting his lip as if he would have cut short his surprising cry of recognition. Brick Ryan had all this time spoken no word. Finally Dirk broke the uncomfortable silence. “How did you know my name?” The man hesitated. “Why—I guess everybody knows by sight a famous kid like you. I thought I was right. Your old man’s the banker, ain’t he? Say,” he went on more easily, “how would you and your smart-lookin’ partner there like to take a little joy-ride around the country with me for half an hour or so? I got a little car over by the road, and you can drive a ways if you want to.” Such an offer a few days previously might well have tempted Dirk’s adventurous instincts; but he remembered that he and Brick were charged with a mission to perform. “That’s nice of you, especially since we upset your fishing here,” he returned; “but Brick and I have to take care of the mail. Besides, we don’t leave the camp without permission.” “Yeah, let’s beat it,” put in Brick, shoving the oars into the rowlocks. Dirk nodded, and began backing water. The man made a quick step toward them, and his right arm jerked impulsively; but he made no effort to detain them. He stood gazing at them with his cold blue eyes until they vanished again beyond the leafy screen that hid the entrance to the creek. Once more heading across the lake toward Heaven House, all thoughts of kingfishers’ nests forgotten, Brick spoke reflectively. “There’s something funny about that bird,” he began. “Ever seen him before, Van?” “Why, not that I remember. Funny he knew my name. I guess we spoiled his fishing—too bad.” Brick snorted. “Haven’t you got eyes? He’s no fisherman—not in that outfit. His rod didn’t even have bait on the line, and besides, any sap would know that there’s no fish in that part of the creek.” “Well, then, what was he doing?” “He was spyin’, that’s what!” the red-haired boy exploded. “Spyin’ on the camp, or I’m a monkey’s uncle! I guess you didn’t notice when we first saw him, but he was standin’ there on the hill, lookin’ through the trees with a pair of field glasses, straight at the lodge! He’s after no good, if you ask me!” “Why, Brick, are you sure?” “Sure, I’m sure! What I want to know is, what’s his game? ‘Let me take you for a joy-ride,’ he says. Huh!” Brick spat into the rippling wake of the boat. Dirk pulled thoughtfully at the oars. They were now nearing the wharf that was their goal. “It’s puzzling, all right. But I still think you’re too suspicious, Brick.” Nevertheless, he was not altogether sure that Ryan’s distrust was wholly without grounds, and he could not rid himself of the feeling that he had somewhere before seen that pale grim face and frosty eyes. The two boys tied their craft at the end of the jutting wharf, hauled the mail-sack ashore, and between them carried it up the path to Heaven House. The little cottage was empty at that time, but the flower garden in front was carefully weeded and tended. As they reached the gate, a cloud of dust bearing up the Elmville road told them that they had delivered their burden with little time to spare. The rattling flivver that served the rural route drew up before them with a screeching of brakes, and Lem Shuttle, the driver, took off his straw hat and wiped his bald head. “That there the camp mail, boys?” he asked. “Hot today, bean’t it? Got a mighty heap of letters for ye to take back, and a couple parcels.” Brick heaved the sack into the rear seat of the rattletrap car. “Say, Lem,” he said, “we just saw a strange guy fishin’ down by the creek. Know who he is? Wearin’ a blue suit, and doesn’t know much about how to catch fish.” Lem scratched one ear. “Heard tell of him as I come along. Peaked kind of little feller, eh? Yep, he drove up to the Petties last night in a blue sedan, and they took him in to board. Give his name as Brown or McGillicuddy or Harkins or some such. Claimed he wanted to do a bit of fishin’.” “Well, he was tryin’ to catch ’em without any bait on his hook. Down by the creek, too.” The mail-carrier chuckled. “Don’t surprise me a mite, now! Them city folk is all of ’em crazy as coots! Most of ’em don’t know oxen from buttercups! Wal, got to be goin’.” He tossed out the sack of incoming mail, released the brakes, and stepped on the gas. “Giddap, Napoleon!” The boys watched him as he careened off down the dusty road. Brick Ryan nodded reflectively. “H’mm! He wants to catch some fish, so he takes along a pair of field glasses to see ’em with! Stayin’ up at the Pettie house. Well, Van, old oyster, I’ll bet you this won’t be the last time we see Mr. Nosey Fisherman, or my name’s not F. X. A. Ryan!” |
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