Mr. Wicker's Window Part 12

Chris turned and led Amos to where he half expected to see his mother's house. But where his house would stand in some future year, nothing was to be seen but a dense grove of trees growing along the top of a little rise of ground. Someone had once built a fire at the corner, where his front door would one day be. Chris kicked idly at the ashes and picked up a metal b.u.t.ton blackened by the fire.

"What you-all looking for?" patient Amos asked.

"Just something I hoped I'd find," Chris answered, filled with a sense of desolation.

Then he made himself remember that his house had yet to be built, and aware of the hollowness of his stomach, he said to Amos: "Must be lunch time. Let's go down to the creek to eat."

They scrambled down the bank near where, in his time, there was a children's playground, and weaving in and out of the thick wood, found the creek, clear and fresh. Here they ate their lunch, and then, running and leaping, followed the turns of the stream until they neared the marshes and the river.

CHAPTER 15

The two boys came out toward the mouth of Rock Creek and as the woods thinned, they saw ahead of them a sandy sloping bank on which a small boat was drawn up. Around the coals of a fire nearby, three men were crouching. Remembering Mr. Wicker's warning to be cautious, Chris put out a hand to touch Amos and the two stood still.

"Let's climb up a little above them," Chris suggested. "We're beyond the bridge--they might be--well, we'd better be careful. I want to see what they're doing before they see us."

Amos agreeing, the two boys, with extra care for rattling twigs, moved stealthily up the banks of the Potomac that rose with increasing steepness. The men, who were huddled near their fire now, came directly into their view below, and Chris and Amos could see that they were playing cards. One seemed to be losing to the other two. He had piled a heap of his small possessions in front of him on the sand, in lieu of money.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

They were certainly a villainous-looking trio. The boys could hear some of their exclamations, and it was with a mingled feeling of curiosity and uneasiness that Chris recognized the losing gambler to be Simon Gosler, the humpbacked cripple.

"Come now, Gosler!" they heard one of the men cry out in annoyance, "Pay up--you've lost!"

"I've no money to pay you," complained the sly voice of the cripple.

"I'm a poor man--well you know it. A cripple--just a poor old cripple!"

"Ah--none o' that!" cut in the second winner. "We know how well you do at your begging--more in a day than we get in a month's pay. Pay up now, or it won't go well with you," he rasped out, laying his hand on a dagger stuck into his belt.

"What about your gla.s.s, your spygla.s.s, Gosler?" urged the first man.

"Put that up and it will cover your losses well enough!" he sneered, but Simon Gosler hugged his coat to him and looked from side to side searching for a way of escape.

"No, no, good fellows," he moaned, "not my gla.s.s. I won that from the Captain himself three years ago, and that I never shall part from willingly."

"You'd part from it for silver quick enough!" snarled the first gambler, "and of that you must have plenty, for 'tis rare you ever lose. Come now, we'll give you a few minutes more to make up your mind, but make it up you must. Either the gla.s.s or silver, you may choose."

The two gamblers rose menacingly and moved away to put their boat into the stream. Simon Gosler was left mumbling and sniveling and fingering his coat pocket, in which he kept his gla.s.s. Chris, watching him, had a sudden inspiration and whispered to Amos. "Hide here behind those bushes and don't follow me. Don't move or show yourself. I'm going to have that gla.s.s."

So saying he moved carefully back until he was out of sight of Amos, and then, for the first time on his own, he tried a change of shape.

Choosing a broad flat stone at the edge of the shrubbery and safely removed from the sight of the two winners, he changed himself into a silver coin and allowed himself to drop with a sweet metallic ring on the stone, waiting winking in the sun for Simon Gosler. The old cripple saw the coin before it had bounced twice on the stone, and with a quick sly look over his shoulder at the backs of his companions as they pushed at the boat, hoisted himself up on his crutch and began hobbling over toward his find.

But instead of a coin, he found only a resolute boy awaiting him, tossing and catching a silver piece. It was one of those Mr. Wicker had given Chris but an hour before. He looked Simon Gosler in the eye.

"I've heard what went on, Simon Gosler," said Chris, his eyes on a level with the rheumy watering eyes of the cripple, "and if you will sell your spygla.s.s to me, I'll buy it off you with this silver piece.

Otherwise you shall not have it."

Simon Gosler's eyes dripped tears of greed at the sight of the coin, and then another expression washed over them. Fast as he was and fast as was his movement, Chris was faster. As the old beggar braced himself and brought the head of his crutch down where Chris's head should have been, someone from behind dealt him a staggering blow with a sizable club, and yet when he turned around no one was there. When he faced about again, rubbing his head and whimpering with rage and frustration, he found himself once more facing the boy who was tossing and catching, tossing and catching, the round silver coin.

Chris stood with his legs apart, his head back, his eyes full of scorn. His hand did not cease to toss and catch the silver piece.

"Well, you old villain," he challenged, "will you take the coin in fair exchange, or shall I hit you again with that club you just felt?"

he asked. "It doesn't feel the same when you get it back as when you give it out, does it, you old faker? Hurry up--your friends will soon be coming back, and I don't think they intend to argue," he added.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Gosler, still rubbing his head and muttering, finally spoke. "Very well, you nasty young man, I'll sell my gla.s.s. Give me the coin!" and he stretched out a dirty claw.

"Oh no!" Chris shook his head decisively. "No indeed! You put the gla.s.s down between us--carefully, mind you--and back away. I'll throw you the coin when I've seen if the gla.s.s is worth the silver!"

Mumbling to himself, Simon Gosler did as he was told. He reached back in his coat pocket to draw out a small spygla.s.s, which he laid down on the ground. He then backed away. Chris picked up and examined the gla.s.s, tested it, and then just as the two gamblers came back up the riverbank, tossed the silver piece to the beggar. Gosler caught it in mid-air with the dexterity of years of practice. In an instant Chris had vanished into the thick shade of the wood, and going as fast but as quietly as he could, regained the place where Amos waited for him.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"Gee, Chris!" Amos exclaimed, for he had caught all Chris's expression of speech, "We got us a spygla.s.s!"

"We sure have!" Chris agreed, "And it's a fine one--best I ever saw,"

he said. "Here, try it out over the river there, where that s.h.i.+p is anch.o.r.ed."

Amos pointed the gla.s.s through the shrubs toward a distant s.h.i.+p that swung at anchor close to the sh.o.r.e, and while he tried out their prize, Chris watched the departure of the three gamblers. Gosler had evidently paid up while Chris was returning to their hidden perch, for he was now hustled into the boat by the other two. Soon the three were far down the stream and their boat was moving into the main flow of the river.

"Here," Amos said pa.s.sing back the gla.s.s, "you look. That's a mighty fine s.h.i.+p out there, black as the _Mirabelle_ is white, but she looks fast and strong just the same."

But Chris, taking the gla.s.s, was idly following the progress of the three men. Gosler, lost in gloom, sat in the stern hugging his rags about him. The other two bent their backs to the oars and headed straight for the anch.o.r.ed s.h.i.+p.

Turning the gla.s.s to the brig Chris hunted for the name as the prow swung about. Through the gla.s.s the letters, gold on the black-painted side, leapt at his eye across the distance. _Venture_, Chris read, and with a beating heart he saw his adversary's s.h.i.+p for the first time.

CHAPTER 16

"Come along, Amos! We must get a closer look at that s.h.i.+p!" Chris cried, putting his gla.s.s away. Scrambling down, the two boys ran along the stream until it was shallow enough to cross. The water was icy, telling, as well as the turning leaves and cooler air, that fall had come and winter was on the way.

Hurrying forward, Chris and Amos reached the mouth of the stream where it joined the river. There on the left bank of Rock Creek, high rushes grew in rank profusion on the marshy land. They rose higher than the heads of the two boys and were too closely packed to allow for easy pa.s.sage.

"We'll have to skirt the very edge," Chris said glancing about.

"Barefoot would be the best. This soft ground would soon go over our shoes and maybe suck them down."

"Keep right against the rushes," Chris warned Amos, "and if a boat shows up coming from the wharves, we can't take any chances. We'll have to dive into the rushes and hide, just in case it's Claggett Chew."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"That's right," Amos nodded his head vigorously. "I don't want to meet _him_ again, and you do less'n me!" he chuckled.

The two went on, making slow progress, for the river was deep at that point, with little foothold between the end of the jungle of reeds and deep water.