CHAPTER 10 IN THE MELON PATCH
“Which way did the fellow go?” Jerry demanded, bringing the car to a standstill.
“Into the woods,” Penny answered tersely.
Leaping from the automobile, they climbed a fence, and reached the edge of the woods. Pausing there, they listened intently. No sound could be heard, not even the crackling of a stick.
“This timber land extends for miles,” said Jerry. “We’d only waste time playing hide and seek in there. Our best bet is to notify Sheriff Daniels and let him throw a net around the entire section.”
“I guess you’re right,” Penny acknowledged regretfully.
Making all haste to Riverview, they stopped briefly at the sheriff’s office to make their report. Penny then said goodbye to Jerry and went to the newspaper building where she had parked Leaping Lena. The car would not start. Experienced in such matters, Penny raised the hood and posed beside it, a picture of a young lady in deep distress. Soon a taxi-cab cruised along.
“Having trouble, sister?” the driver asked.
Penny slammed down the hood, and scrambled into Leaping Lena.
“Just give me a little push,” she instructed briskly.
Obligingly, the taxi driver backed into position behind Leaping Lena. After the two cars had gathered speed, Penny shifted gears. Lena responded with an ailing cough and then a steady chug.
“Thanks!” Penny shouted, waving farewell to her benefactor. “I’ll return the favor someday.”
“Not with that mess of junk!” the taxi man laughed.
By keeping the motor running at high speed, Penny reached home without mishap. Her father had arrived ahead of her, she noted, for the maroon car had been put away for the night.
Locking the garage doors, Penny entered the house by way of the kitchen.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked the housekeeper, absently helping herself to a freshly baked cookie.
“Listen, and I think you can tell,” Mrs. Weems answered.
A loud hammering noise came from the basement. Inspired by an advertisement of Waldon’s Oak Paneling, Mr. Parker had decided to wall up the recreation room without the services of a carpenter. Much of his spare time was spent carrying on a personal feud with boards which refused to fit into the right places.
“Poor Dad,” Penny grinned as she heard a particularly loud exclamation of wrath. “I’ll go down and drip a few consoling words.”
Descending the stairs, she stood watching her father from the doorway of the recreation room.
“Hello, Penny,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “You may as well make yourself useful. Hold this board while I nail it in place.”
“All right, but be careful where you pound. Remember, I have only two hands and I prize them both.”
With Penny holding the board, Mr. Parker nailed it to the underpinning.
“Well, what do you think of the job?” he asked, standing back to admire his work.
“As a carpenter you’re a very good editor,” Penny answered with exaggerated politeness. “Aren’t walls supposed to come together at the corners?”
“I made a little mistake in my calculations. Later on I may build a corner cupboard to cover up the slight gap.”
“Slight!” Penny chuckled. “Dad, if I were you I wouldn’t get tangled up in any more carpenter jobs. It’s too hard on your disposition.”
“I never was in a better mood in my life,” Mr. Parker insisted. “Good reason, too. At last I’ve got the best of Mr. Ben Bowman!”
“Bowman?” Penny inquired in a puzzled tone.
“That crank who keeps sending me collect messages.”
“Oh, to be sure! I’d forgotten about him.”
“He sent another telegram today,” Mr. Parker declared, smiling grimly. “I suspected it came from him and refused to pay for it.”
“Bravo,” Penny approved. “I knew you could get the best of that fellow if you just put your mind to it.”
On the floor above a telephone rang, but neither of them paid any heed, knowing that Mrs. Weems would answer. In a moment the housekeeper called down the stairway, telling Mr. Parker he was wanted on the ’phone.
“It’s Mr. DeWitt from the office,” she informed him.
Putting aside his hammer, Mr. Parker went upstairs. Soon he returned to the basement, his manner noticeably subdued.
“What’s the matter, Dad?” Penny inquired curiously. “You look as if you had just received a stunning blow.”
“DeWitt telephoned to tell me the Star lost an important story today.”
“How did that happen, Dad?”
“Well, a correspondent wired in the news, but by accident the message never reached DeWitt’s desk.”
Penny regarded her father shrewdly. “Ben Bowman’s telegram?”
“I’m afraid it was,” Mr. Parker admitted. “The message came to two dollars. I didn’t know DeWitt had hired a correspondent at the town of Altona. Naturally I jumped to conclusions.”
“So you lost a news story because you refused a bona fide telegram,” Penny said, shaking her head. “Ben Bowman scores again.”
“You see what I’m up against,” the editor growled. “I’d give a hundred dollars to be rid of that pest.”
“You really mean it?” Penny demanded with interest.
“My peace of mind would be well worth the price.”
“In that case, I may apply my own brain to the task. I could use a hundred dollars.”
The discussion was interrupted by Mrs. Weems who called that dinner was ready. As Mr. Parker went to his usual place at the dining room table, he saw a yellow envelope lying on his plate.
“What’s this?” he demanded sharply.
“A telegram,” explained Mrs. Weems. “It came only a moment ago. I paid the boy.”
“How much was the message?” the editor asked, his face grim.
“A dollar and a half.” Mrs. Weems regarded her employer anxiously. “Did I do anything I shouldn’t have? I supposed of course you would want me to accept the message.”
“This is just too, too good!” Penny chuckled, thoroughly enjoying the situation. “Everything so perfectly timed, almost as if it were a play!”
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Weems murmured. “I’ve done something I shouldn’t—”
“It was not your fault,” Mr. Parker assured her. “In the future, however, refuse to accept any collect message.”
As her father did not open the telegram, Penny seized upon it.
“This is from a man who calls himself Isaac Fulterton,” she disclosed, glancing at the bottom of the typed page.
“Merely one of Ben Bowman’s many names,” Mr. Parker sighed.
“Ah, this is a gem!” Penny chuckled, and read aloud: “‘Here is a suggestion for your rotten rag. Why not print it on yellow paper? I know you will not use it because editors think they know everything. I once knew a reader who got a little good out of your paper. He used it to clean the garbage can.’”
“How dreadful!” Mrs. Weems exclaimed, genuinely shocked.
“Penny, if you insist upon reading another line, I shall leave the table,” Mr. Parker snapped. “I’ve had quite enough of Ben Bowman.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Penny apologized, slipping the message into her pocket. “I can appreciate that this doesn’t seem very funny to you.”
The telegram was not mentioned again. Nevertheless, Mr. Parker’s good humor had given way to moody silence, contributing no cheer to the evening meal. Mrs. Weems kept glancing uneasily at her employer, wondering if she had offended him. Only Penny, whose appetite never failed, seemed thoroughly at ease.
“Dad,” she said suddenly. “I have an idea how Ben Bowman might be trailed!”
“Never mind telling me,” her father answered. “I prefer not to hear his name mentioned.”
“As you like,” she shrugged. “I’ll shroud myself in mystery and silence as I work. But when the case is ended, I’ll present my bill!”
Actually, Penny held slight hope that ever she would be able to turn the elusive Ben Bowman over to the police. The wily fellow was far too clever ever to file two messages from the same telegraph office, and very seldom from the same city. However, the town of Claymore, from which the last message had been sent, was only fifty-five miles away. It had occurred to her that by going there she might obtain from telegraph officials the original message filed.
“In that way I’d at least have Ben Bowman’s signature,” she reflected. “While it wouldn’t be much, it represents a start.”
Always, Penny’s greatest problem was insufficient time. Greatly as she desired to drive to Claymore, she knew it would be out of the question for several days. Not only must arrangements for the orphans’ melon party be completed, but other interests demanded attention.
Temporarily dismissing Ben Bowman from her mind, Penny devoted herself to plans for the outing. Cars easily were obtained, and the following night, sixty excited orphans were transported to the Davis farm. With shrieks of laughter, the boys and girls took possession of the melon patch.
“Pick all you like from the vines,” Penny called, “but don’t touch any of the crated ones.”
In the yard not far from the storage barn stood a truck loaded with melons which were ready for the market.
“This must represent the cream of Mrs. Preston’s crop,” Jerry remarked, lifting the canvas which covered the load. “Maybe she’ll be luckier than her neighbors, the Doolittles.”
“What happened to them?” Penny asked, surprised by the remark.
“Don’t you ever read the Star?”
“I didn’t today. Too busy. Tell me about the Doolittles, Jerry.”
“Mr. Doolittle was taking a load of melons to market. Another truck brushed him on the River road. The melon truck upset, and the entire shipment was lost.”
“Can’t he get damages?”
“Doolittle didn’t learn who was responsible.”
“Was it an accident or done deliberately?” Penny asked thoughtfully.
“Sheriff Daniels thinks it was an accident. I’m inclined to believe the Black Hoods may have had something to do with it.”
“Why should anyone wish to make trouble for Mr. Doolittle, Jerry? All his life he has stayed on his little truck farm, and strictly attended to his own affairs.”
“There’s only one possible reason so far as I know,” the reporter answered. “Not long ago Doolittle refused to join the Holloway County Cooperative, an organization that markets crops for the truck farmers.”
“And you believe the Hoods may be connected with the Cooperative?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Jerry replied hastily. “Fact is, the Holloway Cooperative always has had a good reputation.”
“There’s no question the Preston barn was destroyed by the Hoods,” Penny said reflectively. “Although the evidence pointed to Clem Davis, I’ve never felt satisfied he was guilty.”
“Same here,” agreed Jerry. “Another thing, I keep mulling over what that melon sorter said yesterday.”
“You mean his hint that something might happen to Mrs. Davis’ crop?”
“Yeah. Maybe he knew more than he let on.”
“The Hoods will have to work fast if they destroy the Davis melons,” Penny rejoined. “Besides, didn’t the sheriff uncover proof that Clem Davis is a member of the organization?”
“That’s what he says. I wonder about that too.”
Not far from the truck was a small pile of discarded melons, culls which were misshapen or over-ripe. Selecting one, Jerry tossed it into the air and caught it.
“Just the right size for a hand grenade,” he remarked. “Watch!”
He threw the melon hard against the barn. It burst against the siding, breaking into a dozen fragments and leaving an unsightly blotch of oozing seeds.
“Jerry, you shouldn’t do that,” Penny chided. “Mrs. Davis won’t like it.”
“Okay, I’ll be good,” the reporter promised. “The temptation was just too strong to resist.”
By this time, the hubbub in the melon patch had slightly subsided as the youngsters gained their fill of cantaloupe. Soon institution officials began to pilot the children to the waiting cars. Several lads protested at the early termination of the party.
“Do let the boys stay awhile longer,” Penny pleaded. “Jerry and I will bring them back in a few minutes.”
“Very well,” the matron consented. “But don’t allow them to eat so many melons that they will be sick.”
The responsibility of looking after six orphans weighed heavily upon Penny. After the cars had driven away, she and Jerry patrolled the patch, trying vainly to maintain order. With institution authorities no longer present, the boys proceeded to enjoy themselves. They ran races down the furrows, lassoed one another with vines, and pelted ripe melons against the fence posts.
“Hey, you little hoodlums!” Jerry shouted. “Cut it out or you’ll go back to the Home pronto!”
“Says who?” mocked one saucy little fellow in a piping voice.
“Quiet everyone!” commanded Penny suddenly. “Listen!”
In the silent night could be heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs. Jerry whirled around, gazing toward the entrance to the lane. Two horsemen, black hoods covering their faces, rode at a hard gallop toward the storage barn.
