The mystery of the missing eyebrows
The man was half way down the street before Renfro was to the front
door. And it was evident he did not intend taking a car so Renfro
skirted around a block and passed him farther down, face to face.
At least Renfro’s face was toward the other’s, whose visage was shaded
by a heavy pair of goggles.
But Renfro knew one thing. The man was not Captain Pete. And he was
almost sure of another. That he was the man whom he had met face to
face the first time he had seen Lang Tammy. But of one thing he was
uncertain. Mary had seen a stranger in the big house a short time
before. Then how could he have gotten across the town on foot in such a
short time?
CHAPTER XV.
A DEAL IN TURKEYS.
Saturday was almost over before Renfro got to see the Rev. Mr.
Bottleman, who was the clergyman in charge of the church which he and
his parents attended. He had made his first trip to the parsonage early
in the morning, before he had time to tell Mary about the stranger at
the little lunch room on the night before.
And Mr. Bottleman had been out making some early morning calls on the
sick. But his wife, a very friendly woman giggled and blushed like a
young girl, assured Renfro that he would be back at noon and urged him
to come then as she always considered the time, during which a man was
eating, the best time to make a request.
She and Renfro had been friends since Renfro’s dog had ruined the
garden of the deacon, whose wife criticized the parsonage lady for the
length or rather the lack of length to her street costume. Though she
didn’t have any idea what sort of a request he was going to make of her
minister husband she determined to help obtain it if she could.
From there Renfro had gone direct to a meeting of Morrison’s carriers.
Morrison usually had meetings only on great occasions such as giving
out Christmas presents or the bestowing of prizes won by his boys or
for other events of that order, but this time he felt that one was
necessary to stimulate all the carriers in his district to carry away
Thanksgiving turkeys.
It was the first time Renfro had seen the boys who worked in his part
of town together. They filled Morrison’s room, Boy Scouts in uniform,
tall boys out of uniform, little ones in corduroy suits and fat ones in
heavy overcoats. The boy next Renfro was a Freshman in high school and
the son in a family of eight children, all the boys in which were then
or had been newspaper carriers.
“It’s just like joining the army,” he informed Renfro. “Once it gets in
your blood you have to enlist. And we kids had to work to pay our way
thru high school.”
Morrison began talking. He told them how nearly to the winning mark
several carriers on other routes were. Then he gave the rating of the
boys in his own section. Renfro smiled when his name was read first on
the list. Now if his Sunday idea worked out all right he was sure that
he would move up miles ahead by Monday.
“Hooch Horn,” Morrison beamed on Renfro, “has Old Grief, and he got
every one of his subscribers out there on that route.”
The boy who had carried the route in the spring laughed derisively.
“Gettin’ subscriptions out there,” he said, “is as easy as eatin’
pancakes on a cold morning. But collecting the money for them is just
the same as eatin’ them same pancakes when it’s hot in July.”
Renfro stared at him but was silent. He knew that Morrison would tell
him how many subscriptions had been paid in advance. And Morrison did.
He had big hopes for Hooch he said.
After the talk Renfro noticed that the older carrier boys eyed him
with respect. It was a new experience for him to be rated according
to his own work and not just according to his father’s reputation,
and he liked it. None of the boys there knew whether his father was a
financier or a butcher; but they all did know that he was a successful
route carrier for The Globe and that was what counted.
The meeting over, Renfro called up the parsonage again but the minister
was still away. There was no use for him to come out there to wait,
Mrs. Bottleman told him, for her husband had telephoned that he was
going out to a country parishioner’s home after some supplies for a
poor family.
“He went with the doctor, and his car is pretty much out of order these
cold days,” she laughed, “so you just call from time to time today and
I’ll let you know when he comes.”
Back at his home Renfro ate his dinner and talked a short time to Mary.
The staff of detectives following a clue which they had obtained were
leaving for another city, the name of which was a secret. Some of Judge
Wier’s enemies had been tracked there.
There had been no more letters from Helen, so they were sure that she
was out of town and that these, the family had received, had been
brought back to town before they were mailed to avoid suspicion. Mrs.
Wier had given up hope of ever seeing her daughter again but the Judge
with his grim determination still believed that she would be found.
“And the guilty parties shall be punished,” he ended his declaration
sternly. Even his wife’s entreaties and the detectives’ advice to avoid
threats could not influence him.
Mary considered this news good news. But as to the man who had been
selling rabbits to the restaurant keeper the night before she didn’t
believe he would throw any light on their mystery. The town was full of
low heavy set men. And did Hooch see his eyebrows?
Hooch had not. He had worn heavy goggles. But still Mary was skeptical.
She had definitely arranged in her mind, following more research in her
correspondence school books, that the guilty parties would be lodged in
the haunted Hall house. Of course, she didn’t expect Helen Wier to be
found there. Like the detectives, she believed that the child had been
spirited out of the city, but she knew positively that the Hall men
knew something about the kidnaping, “Well, all about it,” she added.
That afternoon, the minister still being an absent personage, Renfro
canvassed his route for new customers and got just three. “A third of
a turkey, almost,” he laughed to himself.
Saturday’s paper was out early so he was thru delivering it by
four-thirty. He made it a rule to collect in the mornings. Straight
from Washington Street he went across the town to the Methodist
parsonage in which the Rev. Bottleman lived. And there he found that
that gentleman had just returned.
His smile when he shook his hands with Renfro was encouraging. With
spirits rising Renfro put forth a direct question, “Would you like to
help get some turkeys for three poor families in your church?”
The minister didn’t smile. “You bet!” he agreed boyishly.
Renfro plunged immediately into the story of the Globe’s offer of a
turkey for every ten new subscribers their carrier boys secured. “I’ve
made up my mind to have six,” his mouth closed in the firm decisive
line Henry Horn’s did when starting a business venture, “And I need
some more subscribers.”
“Yes,” Mr. Bottleman raised his eyebrows.
“I want you to announce my proposition to your parishioners after
church tomorrow morning. Tell them that the poor get the turkeys. I get
the business. That’s what I want.”
“Sure I’ll do it,” a gleam of amusement crossed the minister’s face but
Renfro didn’t see it. And immediately the pastor began talking.
“You stand at the little table just inside the outer door as the
congregation leaves the church,” he gave definite directions. “Exactly
as I do, following a missionary sermon, and preceding the missionary
collection. You’ll get some new subscribers I’m sure.”
Back home Renfro ate his supper and planned to have a quiet evening.
But there came a complaint from the office. Mr. Bruce had given
directions that each boy, on whose route there came any complaint of a
missing paper, was to see that that paper was properly delivered.
And there were two missing on Old Grief.
Renfro brought his skates and with them over his shoulder made his way
to the street. With the papers in his overcoat pocket he skated out to
the two little cottages at whose doors he had left papers earlier in
the evening. Either a neighbor’s dog or a neighbor’s boy he felt sure
had gotten the papers.
“Gee, I hope this doesn’t last all winter,” John Lehman, the carrier of
the best route in town, met Renfro on Main Street with a whole stack of
papers in his arms. “I think that the kidnapers must have decided to
steal newspapers instead of lawyer’s kids. I’m so dead tired I won’t go
to church in the morning,” he complained.
Renfro was glad of that for John went to Dr. Bottleman’s church.
And the next morning as he sat in the pew next his mother he looked
around and did not see a single Globe carrier whom he knew. He waited
impatiently all thru the sermon for Dr. Bottleman’s announcement about
the turkey proposition. When it did come he felt that he was blushing
to the roots of his hair and wondered why his mother did not put out
her hand and say that he could not do that.
But his mother was amazed along with several other members over the
peculiar announcement. Nor did she notice when he slipped out of the
pew and took his stand at the church door.
He saw neither of his parents until near the end of the processional
of people leaving the church. And then he was so excited over his good
luck in having gotten enough subscriptions, lacking one, to have won
the turkeys. He was counting the list when he happened to look up and
see his parents.
His mother’s face was fiery but his father was smiling. Gravely he took
out his pocket book and counted out the money for a subscription. “Have
it sent to Mary’s mother,” he said, “I heard her say the other day that
she wished they could afford the paper at her home.”
Renfro took the money, gravely counted it and then looked up at his
father, his eyes twinkling, “Dad,” he said boyishly, “You’re the fellow
who put the finishing touches on the flock. Your subscription makes me
have the necessary sixty. The turkeys are mine!”
CHAPTER XVI.
BOY SCOUTS TO THE RESCUE.
Twenty-four hours passed and Mary Dugan knew nothing about the winning
of the turkeys. On the way home from church Renfro had asked his father
and mother not to mention his success to Mary. “Afraid she’ll kick on
cooking the whole lot?” Mr. Horn laughed.
Mrs. Horn stared at her husband with hauteur. He was in admirable humor
over the whole affair. The Rev. Mr. Bottleman had shook his hand after
he and Renfro had had a little talk over the success of the scheme.
“Another king of industry, Horn,” the minister had laughed.
Renfro had touched his arm. “Will you have your three names ready for
the charity turkeys?” he asked. “I’d like to deliver them in a few
days.”
“I’ll get them to you tomorrow night,” the minister promised. “I want
to do some looking around to be sure that they are delivered at the
homes where there are the most children.” He put out his hands. “Come
again, when you have another deal like this one,” he said gravely.
And then the Horn family had gone out to their car and started home.
Mr. Horn, sensing the mood of his wife from the lofty elevation of her
chin, did a monologue on the sermon; and Renfro was trying to picture
Morrison’s pride in the morning when he heard that six turkeys would go
to one of his carriers.
When suddenly Mrs. Horn gave a moan and grabbed her husband’s arm.
“Oh,” she began, “what if there happened to be a reporter at the
church. We’ll be the laughing stock of the town all because you gave
your permission for him to carry that detestable route and--”
“We’ll be the victims of three funerals tomorrow if you grab my arm
like that again,” Mr. Horn said hotly, “Didn’t you see how close I ran
to that telephone pole?”
Then Renfro reassured his mother. The Globe would not use the story