CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

Somehow Johnny stumbled through the early morning routine at Camp Chocorua. He washed up, pulled on his clothes, combed his hair, and staggered out to the flag-raising ceremony that always began the day. The skin of his face felt prickly, and he was nervous. But one thing was perfectly clear to him. Before the morning was over, he had to get to a phone so he could talk to the professor. He was dying to tell him about the discovery he had made, and he also wanted very much to know how Gramma was doing.

After the flag had been raised, the boys were dismissed. The orderly khaki-and-red lines broke up into a mob of boys running madly. Johnny tried to fight his way up to the flagpole so he could catch Mr. Brentlinger before he got away, but it was like trying to go up a staircase when everybody else is going down. Stubbornly battling his way forward, he finally reached it, just as Mr. Brentlinger was leaving.

"Mr. Brentlinger? Sir? Can I talk to you for just a minute?"

The head counselor turned and eyed Johnny curiously. He chuckled and shook his head. "Okay, Dixon, what is it now? I think I oughta charge you a fee for services above and beyond the call of duty."

Johnny was flustered. He paused and pulled himself together so he could ask his question. "Sir . . . I'd . . . I'd like to use a phone, if I may. I need to make a long-distance call, but it'd be a collect call. It wouldn't cost the camp any money."

Mr. Brentlinger looked pained. "Oh, God. You would ask for that! Dixon, look. There's kind of a problem about phones. This whole deal of having the camp open for this week, it was, well, kind of a spur-of-the-moment idea. The place was all shut down, and we had to turn the lights and the gas and everything back on. And you know how there's always something that doesn't get done? Well, the phone didn't get reconnected. Sooo . . . we're out here without a phone. How about that?"

Johnny's heart sank. He felt helpless and horribly frustrated. What was he going to do now?

"However" Mr. Brentlinger added, "there is a solution to this dilemma. In about five minutes I have to make a trip into town to mail some letters and make a few phone calls of my own. I use the public phone at the Squam House, which is the hotel in town. Mrs. Woodley knows me, and she'd be glad to let you make a call. So would you like to ride in with me?"

Johnny nodded happily. His problem was solved.

"Town" turned out to be Kancamagus Center, a small village about two miles down Route 16. It had a few side streets with comfortable-looking white clapboard houses, and a main street with a post office, a couple of stores, a gas station, a movie theater called the Scenic, an Odd Fellows Hall, and a white wooden church with a stubby square steeple. These buildings stood along one side of a grassy village common. On the other side of the common was the Squam House. It was a long, two-story structure with green shutters and a porch that ran across its entire front. There were rocking chairs on the porch, and there was a white sign by the steps. The sign said TOURIST ACCOMMODATIONS. Reasonable Rates. B. Woodley, proprietor.

Mr. Brentlinger and Johnny went to the post office first. Then they walked across the common to the Squam House. The lobby was deserted except for a young man who was sitting in an easy chair, reading a newspaper. As Johnny passed the man he stopped short. He had seen the man before. But where? He couldn't for the life of him remember. Even though Johnny had always been taught that staring was impolite, he couldn't stop himself. At first the young man tried to ignore him, but finally he put his paper down and gave Johnny a dirty look. He had pale blond eyebrows and frazzled reddish hair, hooded eyes, and a receding chin. He looked secretive, and he looked mean.

Johnny glanced quickly away and walked across the lobby to join Mr. Brentlinger, who was standing at the desk and talking with the proprietor, a fussy-looking old lady with her white hair pulled back in a bun. As she talked the lady pointed off to her left. There was the phone, a scarred black thing in one corner that stood on an antique table with bowed legs. Next to the phone was a skinny blue glass vase that looked like it would tip over if you breathed on it, and there was a funny little stool to sit on. Johnny almost groaned aloud. He had expected a regular phone booth with folding doors. He had wanted to make this a very private conversation, but that was not going to be possible.

Mr. Brentlinger told Johnny that he could use the phone for a long-distance call, as long as it was collect. Also he had to keep it brief, as Mrs. Woodley did not like to have people tying up the phone for too long. So Johnny went and sat in one of the easy chairs in the middle of the room while Mr. Brentlinger made his calls. He was staring aimlessly around the room, when— quite suddenly—he realized that the unpleasant young man was staring at him over the top of his newspaper. And the stare was not just curious, it was hateful. Johnny was startled. What did this creepy-looking guy have against him? Nervously Johnny snatched up an old copy of Yankee magazine from a little table and hid behind it.

Time passed. Finally Mr. Brentlinger was through with the phone, and Johnny got to use it. Soon the phone was ringing down in the professor's house in Duston Heights.

When the professor answered, he was in an exceptionally crabby mood. He had been defrosting his refrigerator, which was something that he absolutely hated to do. For about an hour he had been putting pans of boiling water inside the refrigerator and poking at the ice with his Knights of Columbus sword, while cursing loudly, fervently, and picturesquely. Now waves of crankiness were sweeping over him, and he was trying hard to make himself cheerful again.

"Hello," he snapped. "Who is it?"

The voice at the other end was timid and apologetic. "It's me, Johnny. I . . . I need to talk to you."

"John, why the devil are you whispering? Are you involved in a conspiracy? Is the FBI after you?"

Johnny explained that he was sitting out in the open in a hotel lobby.

"So what?" rasped the professor. "Do you have government secrets to pass on? What the blazes do you have to say that's so private?"

Johnny swallowed hard several times. His face got red, and the palms of his hands were sweaty. When people crabbed at him, he always became very flustered.

"I . . . I j-just wanted to t-talk to you for a m-minute," he stammered. "Is . . . is that okay?"

The professor calmed down. He knew about Johnny's problems, and he was sorry he had been such a bear a moment before. "Go ahead," he said, mildly. "I'm listening. Shoot."

"Well, I . . . first of all I just wanted to know how Gramma is. Have they operated on her yet?"

"Yes, they have. She had her operation on Monday night, and she is doing reasonably well, considering her age and everything. The doctors think that they got the whole tumor out, and it was malignant, I'm sorry to say. I'd be lying if I said that I thought that everything was going to be rosy from now on: there may be problems."

"Problems?" Johnny's heart sank.

"Yes, problems. There's always the possibility that the doctors didn't get the whole tumor out, and if that was the case . . . well, it'd be pretty bad. Also, there's your grampa. He's still fairly depressed, and it may be some time before he's his old bouncy self again. So there! I've given you the news, and it's mostly good. Do you have anything else that you want to discuss with me?"

Once again Johnny was hesitant. He looked around nervously and then said in a loud whisper, "I found out something about Mr. Glomus's will!"

The professor groaned. He clenched his fists and struggled against the urge to chew Johnny out. "John," he said through his teeth, "you are supposed to be enjoying yourself! You are supposed to be tramping about on woodland paths among the autumnal splendors of the White Mountains! What on earth are you doing thinking about dear old Mr. Glomus's will?"

Johnny explained. He told the professor about the arch that said Staunton Harold, and he told him why he thought the puzzle on the table fit in with it.

". . . and so I think that will just has to be on that old estate somewhere," Johnny went on breathlessly. "Don't you think I must be right?"

The professor was silent for so long that Johnny was afraid they had been cut off.

"Professor? Hello? Hello? Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here," said the professor in a strained, testy voice. "But if I were there, I'd be driving you into the ground like a tent stake! John, this puzzle solution of yours is terribly ingenious, but it is absolutely cockeyed! Please put it out of your mind and go back to hiking and . . . and whatever else you're supposed to be doing! Do you hear me?"

"But the place out here really does belong to the Glomuses!" said Johnny desperately. "It—"

"I don't care if it belongs to Nebuchadnezzar or Czar Nicholas the Second!" roared the professor, cutting him off. "Let us change the subject! Enjoy yourself! Go out and hike till your feet are sore! Collect autumn leaves and put them into albums! Do anything, but please get your mind off that idiotic will! That is an order!"

"Yes, sir," said Johnny, meekly. He wanted to argue, but he knew it would be no use. So he promised the professor that he would really try to enjoy himself, and then he said good-bye.

After Johnny had hung up, he looked around. First he turned toward the chair where the creepy young man had been sitting. He was delighted to see that the man was gone. Then Johnny noticed that Mrs. Woodley was standing, stock-still, behind the hotel desk. She was glowering at him. Johnny wondered if everybody in this hotel was crazy. First there was the young man, and now this old bat was making ugly faces at him, even though he hadn't done anything. Johnny happened to glance at the skinny blue glass vase that stood next to the phone. She thinks I’m gonna smash it, he said to himself. He had half a mind to knock the vase over and then catch it quickly before it broke, just to see what Mrs. Woodley would do. But most of all he wanted to get out of this creepy hotel as quickly as he could.

Johnny hurried across the lobby, down the front steps, and out into the autumn sunshine. As he crossed the common he thought about the phone conversation he had just had. He felt frustrated, but in an odd way he also felt relieved. He was glad to know that Gramma's operation was over, and that it had been a success. As for the puzzle business, it was true that the professor had not taken him seriously, but at least he had said what he wanted to say. And maybe the professor was right after all. Maybe Johnny should just forget about Staunton Harold and the Glomus will, shove the whole stupid mess out of his mind.

Mr. Brentlinger's station wagon was parked outside the post office, but Mr. Brentlinger was not there. Probably he was still shopping or chewing the fat with some friend of his. Johnny started to get into the car and wait for him, but as soon as he opened the car door, he noticed something lying on the seat. It was a small square of heavy white paper with ragged edges. Carelessly Johnny picked the paper up and turned it over. What he saw was an old-fashioned black-and-white woodcut. It showed some young men drinking in a tavern. Outside the tavern door stood a skeleton. It held a spear up over its head, and it looked like it was getting ready to throw the spear at the young men. Underneath the picture was a little two-line poem, printed in old-fashioned lettering. It read:

 

While Youth do chear

DEATH may be near