CHAPTER 8 THE STORM CAVE

“Well, Penny,” remarked Mr. Parker casually at the breakfast table. “I finally bought the cottage.”

Penny closed her history book with a loud snap, favoring her father with complete attention. “You bought a cottage?” she echoed. “Where? When? Why?”

“I’ve talked about it for the past week, but you were so busy stealing the Star’s advertisers that you never listened.”

“I’m all ears now, Dad,” Penny assured him, absently reaching for a piece of toast. “Tell me all about it.”

“The cottage is located on the Big Bear River. Four rooms and a boathouse. Incidentally, I’ve hired a man to look after the place and keep the boat in shape. He calls himself Anchor Joe.”

“Are we going to live at the cottage this summer?” Penny inquired.

“No, I merely bought it for week-end trips. I plan on a bit of fishing now and then. You may enjoy going with me.”

“Oh, Dad,” groaned Penny, “how can I? These days I don’t even have time to wash my neck. Running a newspaper is more work than I figured.”

“I’ll give you the address of the cottage, at least,” smiled Mr. Parker. “If you have any spare time during the next three months drive out and look over the place.”

“I’ll get there somehow,” Penny promised, pocketing the card. Her hand encountered a typed, folded sheet of paper which she immediately placed in front of her father. “Oh, by the way, sign this for me, will you?”

“No more cheques.”

“This is only an order for a ton-roll of paper. I’m trying to store up a few supplies so that eventually I can publish the Weekly in my own plant.”

Mr. Parker signed the order, inquiring teasingly: “Have you engaged your pressman yet? Their wages come rather high you know.”

“It takes everything the Weekly makes to meet its current bills,” sighed Penny. “But one of these days I’ll get the paper out in my own plant. Just wait and see!”

“I’ll wait,” chuckled Mr. Parker. “My hope is that you don’t fail in your studies before that happy day arrives.”

On her way to school, Penny studied the card given her by her father, and noticed that the new cottage was situated not far from The Willows. Often she and Louise had talked of calling upon Peter Fenestra, but both had been kept busy at the Times office. Now that a linotype operator had been hired to set type, they had a little more free time.

“If Louise will accompany me, I’ll visit both places tonight,” decided Penny.

Four-thirty found the two girls walking through a dense maple and oak woods which rimmed the Big Bear River. A breeze stirred the tree leaves, but even so the day was hot and sultry.

“I wish it would rain,” remarked Louise, trudging wearily beside her companion. “I never knew it to be so warm at this time of year.”

“Maybe we can cool off by taking a boat ride when we get to the cottage,” encouraged Penny. “I think I see the place through the trees.”

Directly ahead, in a tiny clearing, stood a freshly painted white cottage. Quickening their steps, the girls soon arrived at the front door. No one seemed to be within call, so they pushed it open.

A long living room with a cobblestone fireplace met their gaze. Beyond was the kitchen, a dining alcove, and two bedrooms.

As they went outside again, they saw a short, wiry man coming toward the cottage from the river.

“You’re Miss Parker?” he asked, looking at Louise.

“No, I am,” corrected Penny. “And you must be Anchor Joe.” Her eyes fastened for an instant upon the tattoo of a four-masted sailing ship imprinted on his arm.

“That’s me,” agreed the man. “Go ahead an’ look around all you like.”

Penny and Louise wandered about the grounds, then returned to find Anchor Joe giving the motor boat, which was upturned on the grass, a coat of varnish.

“We thought you might take us for a ride,” remarked Penny. “It must be cool on the water.”

“I sure would like to, Miss Parker,” said Anchor Joe regretfully. “But I dasn’t get ’er wet now. Not until this varnish dries.”

Penny nodded, and then asked: “You’re a sailor, aren’t you? Where have you sailed?”

“The Atlantic, the Great Lakes, the Gulf o’ Mexico. Oh, I been everywhere.”

Penny and Louise chatted with Anchor Joe for a time but, although they asked any number of questions, they gained very little definite information. The sailor seemed unwilling to tell anything about himself, save in generalities.

“We may as well go on to Peter Fenestra’s place,” Penny presently remarked. “It’s getting late.”

Anchor Joe’s varnish brush became motionless. He glanced up with sudden interest.

“I wouldn’t go there if I was you gals,” he said.

“Why not?” questioned Penny in astonishment.

“The weather don’t look so good. She might blow up a gale before sundown.”

“Oh, we’re not afraid of a little wind or rain,” answered Penny carelessly. “Come along, Lou.”

Anchor Joe said nothing more, but his sober gaze followed the girls as they walked away.

Keeping close to the river, Penny and Louise trod a path which they knew would lead to the main road and Peter Fenestra’s farm.

“Queer sort, wasn’t he?” Penny remarked thoughtfully.

“Anchor Joe?”

“Yes, I wonder where Dad found him? He certainly didn’t tell us much about himself.”

Crossing the river by means of a swaying, suspension bridge, the girls came out from beneath the solid canopy of trees. Penny paused to stare up at the sky.

“Aren’t those clouds odd?” she observed. “Just watch them boil!”

“They must be filled with wind,” declared Louise uneasily. “Anchor Joe said he thought a storm would blow up.”

“It’s not far away either. Unless we step right along, we’ll surely get caught in it.”

“Perhaps we should forget The Willows and start home.”

“We never could get there now,” responded Penny. “If we hurry we may reach Fenestra’s place before the storm breaks.”

Walking even faster, the girls hastened along the winding path. The air remained sultry and very still. The sky, Penny noted, had changed to a peculiar yellowish color.

Then, as she watched with increasing alarm, a writhing, twisting, funnel-shaped arm reached down from the boiling clouds, anchoring them to earth. For a moment the entire mass seemed to settle and flatten out.

“Listen!” commanded Penny.

Plainly they both could hear a sullen, deep-throated roar as the storm moved forward.

“A tornado!” gasped Louise. “It’s coming this way!”

“Run!” urged Penny, seizing her hand. “We still have a chance to make Fenestra’s place.”

In a clearing beyond a weed-grown field stood a white farmhouse, a red barn and a silo. One side of the property was bounded by the willow-rimmed river, the other by the road.

Crawling beneath a barbed-wire fence, the girls cut across the field. The sky was darker now, the roar of the wind ominous. They could see the tail of the funnel whipping along the ground, veering to the south, then coming toward them again.

“We’ll never make the house,” Louise cried fearfully.

“Yes, we will,” encouraged Penny.

She raised another wire strand for Louise to roll beneath. Her own sweater caught on the sharp barbs, tearing a large hole as she jerked free.

Dust had begun to blow. Trees and bushes bowed before the first gusts of wind.

Glancing frantically about for a place of refuge, Penny saw a low, circular cement hump rising from the ground not many yards distant. Instantly she recognized it as an old fashioned storm cellar.

“We’ll get in there, Lou!” she shouted. “Come on!”

Running across the yard, they reached the cave. Entrance was guarded by a door built in the side of the cement dome. A brass padlock hung unsnapped in the hasp.

“Thank goodness, we can get in,” gasped Louise. “Hurry!”

Penny tugged at the heavy door. It would not raise, and then it gave so suddenly that she nearly tumbled backwards.

The door clattered back against the cement dome. Through the rectangular opening protruded the head and shoulders of Peter Fenestra. His face was convulsed with rage.

“What are you trying to do?” he demanded harshly. “Speak up!”