CHAPTER 4 A RECORD ON ROCK

“What’ll we do?” Mrs. Breen murmured, gazing despairingly at her husband. “Where will we get the money?”

Penny stepped forward into Jay Franklin’s range of vision. Observing her for the first time, he politely doffed his hat, a courtesy he had not bestowed upon the Breens.

“Mr. Franklin, have you a cheque book?” she inquired.

“Yes, I have,” he responded with alacrity.

“Then I’ll write a cheque for the eight dollars if that will be satisfactory,” Penny offered. “The Breens are friends of mine.”

“That will settle the bill in full, Miss Parker.”

Whipping a fountain pen from his pocket, he offered it to her.

“Penny, we can’t allow you to assume our debts,” Rhoda protested. “Please don’t—”

“Now Rhoda, it’s only a loan to tide us over for a few days,” Mrs. Breen interposed. “Ted will get a job and then we’ll be able to pay it back.”

Penny wrote out the cheque, and cutting short the profuse thanks of the Breens, declared that she and Louise must return home at once.

“Driving into Riverview?” Mr. Franklin inquired. “My car is in the garage, and I’ll appreciate a lift to town.”

“We’ll be glad to take you, Mr. Franklin,” Penny responded, but without enthusiasm.

Enroute to Riverview he endeavored to make himself an agreeable conversationalist.

“So the Breens are friends of yours?” he remarked casually.

“Well, not exactly,” Penny corrected. “I met Rhoda at school and visited her for the first time today. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the family.”

“They’re a no-good lot. The old man never works, and the boy either can’t or won’t get a job.”

“Do you have many such families, Mr. Franklin?”

“Oh, now and then. But I weed them out as fast as I can. One can’t be soft and manage a tourist camp, you know.”

Penny smiled, thinking that no person ever would accuse Mr. Franklin of being “soft.” He had the reputation of ruthless devotion to his own interests. Changing the subject, she remarked that Mrs. Marborough had returned to the city to take up residence at Rose Acres.

“Is that so?” Mr. Franklin inquired, showing interest in the information. “Will she recondition the house?”

Penny replied that she had no knowledge of the widow’s future plans.

“No doubt Mrs. Marborough has returned to sell the property,” Mr. Franklin said musingly. “I should like to buy that place if it goes for a fair price. I could make money by remodeling it into a tourist home.”

“It would be a pity to turn such a lovely place into a roadside hotel,” Louise remarked disapprovingly. “Penny and I hope that someday it will be restored as it was in the old days.”

“There would be no profit in it as a residence,” Mr. Franklin returned. “The house is located on a main road though, and as a tourist hotel, should pay.”

Conversation languished, and a few minutes later, Penny dropped the man at his own home. Although she refrained from speaking of it to Louise, she neither liked nor trusted Jay Franklin. While it had been his right to eject the Breens from the tourist camp for non-payment of rent, she felt that he could have afforded to be more generous. She did not regret the impulse which had caused her to settle the debt even though it meant that she must deprive herself of a few luxuries.

After leaving Louise at the Sidell house, Penny drove on home. Entering the living room, she greeted her father who had arrived from the newspaper office only a moment before. A late edition of the Star lay on the table, and she glanced carelessly at it, inquiring: “What’s new, Dad?”

“Nothing worthy of mention,” Mr. Parker returned.

Sinking down on the davenport, Penny scanned the front page. Immediately her attention was drawn to a brief item which appeared in an inconspicuous bottom corner.

“Here’s something!” she exclaimed. “Why, how strange!”

“What is, Penny?”

“It says in this story that a big rock has been found on the farm of Carl Gleason! The stone bears writing thought to be of Elizabethan origin!”

“Let me see that paper,” Mr. Parker said, striding across the room. “I didn’t know any such story was used.”

With obvious displeasure, the editor read the brief item which Penny indicated. Only twenty lines in length, it stated that a stone bearing both Elizabethan and Indian carving had been found on the nearby farm.

“I don’t know how this item got past City Editor DeWitt,” Mr. Parker declared. “It has all the earmarks of a hoax! You didn’t by chance write it, Penny?”

“I certainly did not.”

“It reads a little like a Jerry Livingston story,” Mr. Parker said, glancing at the item a second time.

Going to a telephone he called first the Star office and then the home of the reporter, Jerry Livingston. After talking with the young man several minutes, he finally hung up the receiver.

“What did he say?” Penny asked curiously.

“Jerry wrote the story, and says it came from a reliable source. He’s coming over here to talk to me about it.”

Within ten minutes the reporter arrived at the Parker home. Penny loitered in the living room to hear the conversation. Jerry long had been a particular friend of hers and she hoped that her father would not reprimand him for any mistake he might have made.

“Have a chair,” Mr. Parker greeted the young man cordially. “Now tell me where you got hold of that story.”

“Straight from the farmer, Carl Gleason,” Jerry responded. “The stone was dug up on his farm early this morning.”

“Did you see it yourself?”

“Not yet. It was hauled to the Museum of Natural Science. Thought I’d drop around there on my way home and look it over.”

“I wish you would,” requested the editor. “While the stone may be an authentic one, I have a deep suspicion someone is trying to pull a fast trick.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve made a boner, Chief.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you,” Mr. Parker assured him. “If the story is a fake, it was up to DeWitt to question it at the desk. Better look at the rock though, before you write any more about it.”

As Jerry arose to leave, Penny jumped up from her own chair.

“I’d like to see that stone too!” she declared. “Jerry, do you mind if I go along with you?”

“Glad to have you,” he said heartily.

Before Penny could get her hat and coat, Mrs. Maud Weems, the Parker housekeeper, appeared in the doorway to announce dinner. She was a stout, pleasant woman of middle-age and had looked after Penny since Mrs. Parker’s death many years before.

“Penny, where are you going now?” she asked, her voice disclosing mild disapproval.

“Only over to the museum.”

“You’ve not had your dinner.”

“Oh, yes, I have,” Penny laughed. “I dined on chicken at the Dorset Tourist Camp. I’ll be home in an hour or so.”

Jerking coat and hat from the hall closet, she fled from the house before Mrs. Weems could offer further objections. Jerry made a more ceremonious departure, joining Penny on the front porch.

At the curb stood the reporter’s mud-splattered coupe. The interior was only slightly less dirty, and before getting in, Penny industriously brushed off the seat.

“Tell me all about this interesting stone which was found at the Gleason farm,” she commanded, as the car started down the street.

“Nothing to tell except what was in the paper,” Jerry shrugged. “The rock has some writing on it, supposedly similar to early Elizabethan script. And there are a few Indian characters.”

“How could such a stone turn up at Riverview?”

“Carl Gleason found it while he was plowing a field. Apparently, it had been in the ground for many years.”

“I should think so if it bears Elizabethan writing!” Penny laughed. “Why, that would date it practically in Shakespeare’s time!”

“It’s written in the style used by the earliest settlers of this country,” Jerry said defensively. “You know, before we had radios and automobiles and things, this land of ours was occupied by Indians.”

“Do tell!” Penny teased.

“The natives camped all along the river, and there may have been an early English settlement here. So it’s perfectly possible that such a stone could be found.”

“Anyway, I am curious to see it,” Penny replied.

The car drew up before a large stone building with Doric columns. Climbing a long series of steps to the front door, Penny and Jerry entered the museum through a turnstile.

“I want to see the curator, Mr. Kaleman,” the reporter remarked, turning toward a private office near the entrance. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

While waiting, Penny wandered slowly about, inspecting the various display cases. She was admiring the huge skeleton of a dinosaur when Jerry returned, followed by an elderly man who wore spectacles. The reporter introduced the curator, who began to talk enthusiastically of the ancient stone which had been delivered to the museum that afternoon.

“I shall be very glad to show it to you,” he said, leading the way down a long corridor. “For the present, pending investigation, we have it stored in the basement.”

“What’s the verdict?” Jerry inquired. “Do museum authorities consider the writing authentic?”

“I should not wish to be quoted,” Mr. Kaleman prefaced his little speech. “However, an initial inspection has led us to believe that the stone bears ancient writings. You understand that it will take exhaustive study before the museum would venture to state this as a fact.”

“The stone couldn’t have been faked?” Penny asked thoughtfully.

“Always that is a possibility,” Mr. Kaleman acknowledged as he unlocked the door of a basement room. “However, the stone has weathered evenly, it appears to have been buried many years, and there are other signs which point to the authenticity of the writing.”

The curator switched on an electric light which disclosed a room cluttered with miscellaneous objects. There were empty mummy cases, boxes of excelsior, and various stuffed animals. At the rear of the room was a large rust colored stone which might have weighed a quarter of a ton.

“Here it is,” Mr. Kaleman declared, giving the rock an affectionate pat. “Notice the uniform coloring throughout. And note the lettering chiseled on the surface. You will see that the grooves do not differ appreciably from the remainder of the stone as would be the case if the lettering were of recent date. It is my belief—don’t quote me, of course—that this writing may open a new and fascinating page of history.”

Penny bent to inspect the crude writing. “‘Here laeth Ananias’” she read slowly aloud. “Why, that might be a joke! Wasn’t Ananias a dreadful prevaricator?”

“Ananias was a common name in the early days,” Mr. Kaleman said, displeased by the remark. “Now on the underside of this stone which you cannot see, there appears part of a quaint message which begins: ‘Soon after you goe for Englande we came hither.’”

“What does it mean?” questioned Jerry.

“This is only my theory, you understand. I believe the message may have been written by an early settler and left for someone who had gone to England but expected to return. The writing breaks off, suggesting that it may have been continued on another stone.”

“In that case, similar rocks may be found near here,” Jerry said thoughtfully.

“It is an interesting possibility. On the underside, this stone also contains a number of Indian characters, no doubt added at a later date. So far we have not been able to decipher them.”

“Just why does the stone have historical value?” Penny interposed.

“Because there never was any proof that English colonists settled in this part of the state,” Mr. Kaleman explained. “If we could prove such were the case, our contribution to history would be a vital one.”

Penny and Jerry asked many other questions, and finally left the museum. Both had been impressed not only with the huge stone but by the curator’s sincere manner.

“Mr. Kaleman certainly believes the writing is genuine,” Penny declared thoughtfully. “All the same, anyone knows a carved rock can be made to look very ancient. And that name Ananias makes me wonder.”

“The Chief may be right about it being a fake,” Jerry returned. “But if it is, who planted the stone on Gleason’s farm? And who would go to so much unnecessary work just to play a joke?”

Frowning, the reporter started to cross the street just as an automobile bearing Texas license plates went past, close to the curb. As Jerry leaped backwards to safety, the automobile halted. Two men occupied the front seat, and the driver, a well-dressed man of fifty, leaned from the window.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, addressing Jerry, “we’re trying to locate a boy named Ted Wiegand. He and his sister may be living with a family by the name of Breen. Could you tell me how to find them?”

“Sorry, but I can’t,” Jerry answered. “I never heard either of the names.”

“Why, I know both Ted and Rhoda Wiegand,” Penny interposed quickly. “They’re living at the Dorset Tourist Camp.”

“How do we get there?” the driver of the Texas car inquired.

Jerry provided the requested information. Thanking him, the stranger and his companion drove on down the street.

“I wonder who they can be?” Penny speculated, staring after the car. “And why did they come all the way from Texas to see Rhoda and Ted?”

“Friends of yours?” Jerry asked carelessly.

“I like Rhoda very much. Ted seems to be a rather questionable character. I wonder—”

“You wonder what?” the reporter prompted, helping Penny into the parked automobile.

“It just came to me, Jerry!” she answered gravely. “Those men may be officers from Texas sent here to arrest Ted for something he’s done! I never meant to set them on his trail, but I may be responsible for his arrest!”