A Bump on the Head

That same night Jack was impatient to be through with supper, and immediately after, he left his house and hiked down to Jones Street. He didn’t know exactly what to expect, nor was he sure that anything at all was going to happen. He thought that it would be best to stick around and if Mr. Grey came out of his hiding, to follow him. It was now four days after the fire on Water Street and something was bound to happen in the immediate future. But what, or how, or when, was still a mystery to him.

Jack took along with him a brown sweater. He thought that if there was any need for it, he would put it on, and thus be able to change his appearance, if only slightly. He had the sweater wrapped up in a package under his arm. That too would make a slight difference in his appearance—first carrying a package and later being without one.

He took the same position as the day before and he did not have to wait long for darkness to come. It was already dusk when he came to Jones Street. Just as soon as it was dark enough, he changed his place by coming forward and hiding behind the chassis of a wrecked car. That secured for him a better view of the street as well as the corner.

Watchful waiting—that was his task. But how long? Wasn’t Mr. Grey ever coming out? Was he to be disappointed tonight? He glanced at his watch; it was five minutes after nine. He saw the stars come out one by one in the sky and the moon come up on the horizon. In the street and around the corner there seemed to be very little activity. People passed up and down but he was not interested in them. Soon he saw the grocery man emerge and lock up his store.

Jack waited and watched, counting each minute. Time hung heavy on his hands. He began to wish, as he had the day before that he had never bothered with it at all, but the next instant he thought differently. He was in it and he meant to stick it through; he would not give it up just because he was impatient. It was quite possible, he thought to himself that Mr. Grey would not attempt one of his usual jaunts through the town. After all, one could not expect things to happen every night. It was quite possible that Mr. Grey had become suspicious, that he had actually become aware that he was being followed. Anything was possible, he thought to himself.

Ten minutes passed, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes—and still nothing happened. Gradually, Jack became convinced that Mr. Grey was not coming out tonight. Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps he had come too late. He remembered that the day before Mr. Grey had ventured forth at about six-thirty. And tonight he had not arrived there until about seven-thirty. He nodded to himself and thought that no doubt he had come too late. But what to do now and where to look first? He certainly could not just walk around town and look for his man; that would probably be futile. He debated with himself whether to go to Water Street, to the site of the last fire or to go to the house where he had followed Mr. Grey the night before. He decided on the latter course and off he went.

Peace and darkness shrouded the house. Jack walked up and down several times on the wrong side of the street. Then, growing bold he dashed across the street and into the yard. Not thinking it wise to approach the house, he crept noiselessly along the fence and all around the yard. There seemed to be not a soul around; except for the wind, nothing else seemed to stir. He approached the wall of the house and tried to peek into a window. But it was dark and, naturally, he saw nothing.

Cautiously, Jack approached the front of the house. Suddenly he stopped and held his breath. He heard a slight rumbling noise. He listened closely. Again the same noise. “Mice or rats,” he told himself. He moved forward again then, flattening himself out against the wall, he waited. A woman passed down the street. He took out his searchlight which he was now glad he had brought, and moved forward again to the front of the house. Putting his hand on the knob, he turned it and the door opened slightly. Wondering how it was that the hinges, probably rusty, did not squeak, he pushed the door wider open.

He flashed his light on and stepped quickly into the hall and closed the door behind him. He threw a beam of light on the papers which Paul had pointed out to him; they were still there, in the same spot and untouched. Again he thought he heard a slight rumbling noise. Backing up close against the wall, he listened. Yes, there it was again. Rats or mice, he thought to himself. For a fraction of a second he hesitated. What was he doing in here, he asked himself. Did he expect to find Mr. Grey in the house? If so, what would he do if he did? Beside, Paul, Ken and he had been in the house only that morning.

Brushing aside all the doubts in his mind, he tiptoed along the hall. He passed one door, the second door. He retraced his steps and threw a beam of light upon the stairway. Suddenly he felt a sharp blow on the back of his head. His knees gave way and before he crashed to the floor, he sensed a figure fleeing past him and out through the door. As he fell to the floor he saw a million colored stars converging upon his eyes. Innumerable distorted thoughts flashed through his mind. Then darkness and he knew no more.

Jack opened his eyes and through a haze saw two figures hovering over him. He reached to the back of his head and writhed with pain. Somebody was bending over him and talking but he could not understand what he was saying; it sounded like buzzing in his ears. He closed his eyes and relaxed. Very suddenly he sat up and looked around. He rubbed his eyes, then the back of his head; he felt a large bump there and touching it made him shiver with pain. “How are you, old boy?” somebody was asking him.

The person bending over him, murmured softly, “How do you feel, Jack old boy?”

The mist before his eyes cleared and in the darkness he made out Paul on his knees in front of him and a short distance away, Ken. He turned his head and he noticed that he was in the open. “W-w-where am I?” he asked, his face distorted with pain as he touched the bump on the back of his head.

“You’re all right,” Paul assured him. “Just tell me how you feel. Any broken bones?” he asked, smiling.

Jack felt himself all over, and answered, “No, I guess not.” Looking into his friend’s smiling face, he also grinned, “Just where am I and what happened to me?” he asked curiously.

“What happened to you, I don’t know; you will have to tell us that. But I can tell you where we are. We are in the yard of—”

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Jack. He now remembered the house, where he had been socked on the head. Rising to his feet, he felt a little wobbly. Paul supported him. “Let’s go away from here,” he said dejectedly.

Paul laughed. “Nobody will attack us,” he said.

They walked off. Jack was flanked on either side by Paul and Ken. After a short silence, Jack asked, “How did you come to be there? And tell me what happened, will you?”

“You’d better tell us what happened,” asserted Ken. “We found you there stretched out horizontally. Some bump you have, too.”

Jack touched the wound and groaned with pain. “It’s nothing much,” said Paul. “You’ll live a long time yet.”

Paul and Ken laughed. But Jack couldn’t see what was so funny. Ken said, “Come on, tell us what happened.”

“That’s just it,” protested Jack, “I wish I knew myself. The last thing I can remember is that I got an awful wallop on the back of the head and sock! I was out.”

“Who was that person we saw running away from the house?” asked Paul.

Jack stopped in his tracks. “Running away!” he exclaimed. “Who? What? When?”

“Ken and I,” Paul explained, “were coming up the street. We were about ten feet from the house, when we saw somebody dash out of the yard and down toward the other end of the street. We thought there might be something wrong so we investigated.”

“And we found you,” added Ken.

“He must have been the fellow who socked you on the head,” concluded Paul.

“Well, why didn’t one of you go after him?” demanded Jack.

“Somebody had to take care of you, didn’t they?” questioned Paul.

“By then it was too late,” added Ken.

Jack began to walk back toward the house. “Come on,” he said, “we’re going back and see what happened.”

“What for?” asked Paul. “We looked and didn’t see a thing.”

Jack felt his pockets. “Besides,” he added, “my flashlight must be somewhere there in the hall.”

“No. Here it is,” said Ken, taking it out of his pocket.

But Jack insisted on going back to the house and they did. Ken was left outside on guard while the other two entered the house. They found the first door in the hall open. The dust on the floor was stirred by many footprints but there was nothing else visible in the room. The two returned to the hall and searched but they found nothing. “I wonder who it was that socked me like that?” muttered Jack.

“It’s no use wondering because you can only guess,” asserted Paul. “My own opinion is that some stray individual happened to be in here when you entered and just as your back was turned, he hit you on the head and escaped. That’s all.”

“But why? Why?” demanded Jack. “And what was he doing here?”

“How should I know? And since there is nothing else we can do here, let’s go.”

Joining Ken, they walked off and went home.