Mollie Peer Or The Underground Adventure of the Moosepath League Read online

  “Bird!” came a harsh croak, and the boy's eyes went wide. Hilda jumped with a little shout.

  Mollie had seen the man coming in the periphery of her vision. She looked up and smiled, saying, “Mr. Pembleton,” as one would greet a friendly neighbor.

  The man gave her a sharp look. He was a scarecrow; ragged, thin, and dirty. He wore an ancient hat and a long, pockety coat, and even his blond hair—long and thin and hanging at all angles from under his hat—lent him the appearance of something standing in a field. He dropped his gaze to the little boy and swung an arm. “Come here! Where were you going?”

  The boy had no answer but obeyed the command quickly, shoulders hunched as if in expectation of a blow.

  The blow was aimed—the girls saw the man's muscles tense—but he shot a glance backward and lowered his hand to the boy's shoulder. His grip went white. “Come, come. We've been looking for you. Did you get lost?”

  Behind the two young women, past the houses and through the trees on the street above them, the clouds glowed with a last purplish grandeur.

  Ahead of them, in the direction the raggedy man and the raggedy boy disappeared, murk and shadow rose like an incoming tide.

  Mollie took Hilda's arm and tugged; there was only a moment's resistance before Hilda fell in. “Goodness, he frightened me!” said Hilda.

  “He likes to frighten, is my guess.”

  “Well, he can frighten someone else, thank you.” Hilda was beginning to take note of the gathering gloom. They were alone on the street. “Haven't we come far enough? It's getting dark.”

  “So, what did Mr. Court say to you when you remarked how strong he was?” asked Mollie, looking avid to know the answer.

  “Oh, he blushed!” Hilda laughed. “I like a man who can blush, don't you?”

  “A man who can't blush has no shame, my mother used to say.”

  Hilda's chatter filled the air once more as they descended slope hill with more of a fast walk than a leisurely stroll. Bits of lamplight appeared ahead of them, glowing bowls in islands of gathering fog through which the silhouettes of Mr. Pembleton and Bird rose and disappeared.

  Hilda was still extolling Mr. Court's virtues, as well as the virtue of young men in general, when it occurred to her that Mollie was tiring her out. “What is the hurry, dear?” she asked.

  “No hurry,” answered Mollie. “I'm feeling energetic.”

  “That can't be healthy. Let's go home. It's getting dark.”

  “The lamps are lit.”

  “We have to walk up this hill?” exclaimed Hilda, as if suddenly realizing that what went down must go up.

  “We're nearly to the foot of it. We might as well say we went the entire way.”

  “Mollie, what are you about?”

  “About? I'm about nothing. I'm going for a stroll, is all.”

  “You're following that man and that boy, aren't you.”

  “Now, why would you think that?”

  “You said yourself, it's your business.”

  “And you said yourself, they won't make the society pages.”

  “Then let's go back.”

  Mollie glanced anxiously down the street. The shadows of the two ahead of them were hardly discernible near the bottom of the hill. “Oh, come! Where's your sense of adventure?” She pulled at Hilda's arm with sudden urgency, her voice lowered to a whisper.

  “Sitting next to my bed, in Mrs. Randolph's latest novel!” Hilda was hurrying with Mollie despite her protestations.

  “But aren't you concerned for that boy?”

  “He's with his father.”

  “He wouldn't call his father Mr. Pembleton.”

  “Mollie!”

  Mollie Peer stopped to look at Hilda standing just above her on the sidewalk. “I am going alone, then,” she said simply, and hurried off.

  “You most certainly will not!” exclaimed Hilda, and hurried after.

  They slowed their pace near the bottom of the hill, where Plum Street emptied onto Commercial Street. At the brick building there, they stopped to creep up to the lamp-lit corner. There were no shadows to hide in, but Mollie stayed close to the cold brick as they peered out at the wide street and the warehouses and waterfront beyond.

  Fog rolled in from the harbor, billowing about the bows of great ships that loomed above the cobblestones and shifted between the buildings with the movement of water like stirring creatures in their berths. There were footsteps in the gathering atmosphere, ringing on the pavement in the dampness; hoofbeats and wheels railing out of the dark beyond the limits of the lamplight. Hilda held her breath. Mollie leaned away from the corner of the building, searching for the figures of the man and the boy.

  A hand gripped her wrist with sudden ferocity; Mr. Pembleton was dragging her from her cover. “Feeling interest, are we?” snarled the man as he drew her close, and though she was as tall as he, he seemed to tower over Mollie with his dark anger.

  Hilda let out a frightened wail.

  “Let go of me!” demanded Mollie, doing her best to sound unafraid, though his clutch on her wrist was painful.

  He focused a hard eye upon her, gritting his teeth as he bore down. Mollie cried out, and when Hilda stepped closer to the struggle, he stopped her with a single glance. “You must have something you care to ask me!” he was saying. “You've taken such care to follow me!” The night mist rose up from around their feet.

  “Let me go!” Mollie said again.

  Hilda had only gotten hold of the man's ragged coat when some dark force lifted her into the air and dragged her several feet away. A great bull of a man held her as she would the smallest child, and in his unyielding clench Mollie could see no sign of her struggling against him. For a moment Hilda and the large, silent man disappeared as the fog blew past in an unexpected gust of wind and a man's voice from around the corner shouted out a surprised “Whoops!”

  A homburg hat floated into Mollie's view, spiraling on its own axis to land not six feet away.

  “Where did it go?” came the voice.

  “I think it went round the corner,” came another.

  Mollie feared that Pembleton and his associate would make short, nasty work of her and Hilda, but then they were gone, vanished in the gloom and haze.

  A tall, young man hurried onto the side street and found the hat. “It's here, Mister Walton,” he called. The women were still frozen against the brick wall, and when he straightened up with the hat, he caught sight of them with a small start. “Hello,” he said in such a friendly, straightforward manner that, conversely, tears came to Mollie's eyes. He tipped his own hat.

  “Hello,” she said with surprising conviction.

  There was laughter again and a jolly voice declaring that hats sometimes showed as much a mind of their own as the heads on which they sat. Then a portly gentleman wearing spectacles and without a hat (or hair to speak of) appeared. “Have you found it, then? Sundry, thank you! I am reminded of the day I came back to Portland and met Cordelia Underwood….” He caught sight of the two young women then, paused, and reached to tip his hat before realizing that his friend was in possession of it. “Good evening, ladies,” he said with a cordial smile.

  “Sir,” said Mollie, standing straight now.

  It was clear that the portly fellow thought they had surprised two women of the night and was politely ready to allow them to go their way; but then a look of concern fell across his face, and having retrieved his hat from his friend, he stepped closer. “Is everything all right?” he asked, directing his question toward Mollie.

  “Well, to tell the truth,” she said, feeling an unaccountable sense of security with this man, “to tell the truth, we've had a bit of a fright.”

  Hilda let out a sob, and Mollie took her under one arm.

  “How can we help you?” asked the bespectacled man, hat in hand as he stepped forward. “My name is Tobias Walton.” The young man who had retrieved Mister Walton's hat was at his side with the readiness of a squire. “This is my g
ood friend Sundry Moss,” said Mister Walton.

  Mollie stepped forward, albeit shakily, and offered her hand. Mister Walton's grip was firm, but it conveyed a gentleness that worked like a salve on her rattled nerves. He did not ask what had happened, demonstrating a degree of circumspection that she herself would not have possessed. The young Mr. Moss peered into the rolling mist, up Plum Street, looking for the who or what that had frightened the young ladies.

  “May we take you somewhere?” Mister Walton was asking.

  Mollie thought of Mr. Pembleton and his large associate waiting above them in the fog. “Yes, that would be very kind of you.”

  “Our carriage is just down the street.”

  “We would be sorry to inconvenience you.”

  “Not at all,” said Mister Walton as he led the way. “We were just going to the Shipswood to meet friends—a weekly sort of thing we do—and they will forgive us for being a few minutes late.” The horse, then the vehicle itself, loomed out of the fog, and a driver dropped down from his seat to turn up the lanterns and open the door. “Mr. Griggs,” said Mister Walton.

  “Mister Walton,” answered the driver, surprised to see his recent fare so quickly again. He glanced at the women curiously.

  “Good heavens, child!” Mister Walton said as he handed Hilda into the carriage. “You're shivering.” He insisted that she take his coat.

  Mollie explained where she and Hilda lived. “It's only straight up on Plum Street,” she said, “but if you could take a round way about—” She was thinking of Mr. Pembleton watching from somewhere on the hill.

  Mister Walton caught a raised eyebrow from Sundry Moss, then looked up and down Commercial Street. “Of course, dear. We'll go to Middle Street by way of Market and circle around.”

  Mollie rested a hand on his. “Thank you.”

  There was silence between the two parties as the carriage got under way, during which they attempted, in those darkened confines, to size one another up without appearing to do so.

  “If there is anything else we can do …,” Mister Walton began, his expression composed but his eyes filled with what Mollie had long ago termed (in her own father) an unassuming concern.

  “Thank you,” said Mollie. “We will be fine.” Hilda, who had not said a single word since the attack, looked ready to belie this, and Mollie laid a hand on her friend's lap.

  “The fog is quite thick tonight,” said Mister Walton.

  He did remind Mollie of her father—not physically (her father was large and muscular; Mister Walton, barely of medium height and portly), but there was a gentle vitality to both men. Watching Mister Walton, who smiled placidly as he peered out the window, she realized that he was not as old as she had first imagined.

  The younger man wore a bemused expression, his arms crossed, his legs stretched where he could find room for them. He was not handsome, exactly, but pleasant enough to look at, with a wide nose and a square jaw. He was long and wiry, his manner courteous, if reserved. “I always thought a thick fog more like chowder than pea soup,” he said to no one in particular. He seemed gratified by an expression of mystification on Hilda's face and a small smile from Mollie.

  “There were two men,” said Hilda suddenly.

  Mister Walton glanced from one to the other of the young women. “Are you sure you're all right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Mollie. “You came just in time.” She felt it necessary to say as little about the incident as possible; her landlady already thought her more adventurous than was becoming to a young woman. Mister Walton, she was sure, sensed (in a general way) the reason for her reticence and was debating how far he could, in good conscience, honor it. “I write for the Eastern Argus,” she said, as if this would clear the matter.

  “Really,” he said, then, to the younger man, “Mr. Ephram will be very pleased. A fellow club member,” he explained to Mollie, and she could see a delighted amusement enliven his eye. “Mr. Ephram is a great reader of the Eastern Argus.”

  “How nice,” said Mollie, at a loss for further response. “A fellow member, you say.”

  “Yes,” said Mister Walton, and this, too, seemed to amuse him. “You may have heard of us—the Moosepath League. Several members were in the newspapers last summer.”

  Mollie had heard of them. “Was that the buried treasure?” she asked, and sat forward, curiosity overcoming her recent fright.

  “It seems very much buried at the moment,” said the man. “But my friend, here, came very close to recovering it.”

  “A miss is as good as a mile,” said Sundry Moss with good-natured self-deprecation. It was clear, however, that he was still thinking about Hilda's single comment.

  “And there was a woman kidnapped,” continued Mollie.

  This was a subject about which Mister Walton could not jest. “There was indeed,” he said, his expression serious again. “Though it all turned out well, I fear she had a very frightening experience.” And this train of thought led (quite unintentionally) back to the two young women and their own recent fright.

  “Did these men … accost you somehow?” asked the younger man.

  Hilda only looked to Mollie, who said, “The fog makes everything so much more frightening, of course.”

  They were pulling up to the address Mollie had indicated, and she quickly took advantage of the distraction, opening the door before Sundry could reach it and expressing her gratitude.

  She stepped onto the street, and Mister Walton appeared from around the horses. “Are you sure there is nothing else we can do for you?” he asked, his hat in hand, his balding head shining beneath the streetlight.

  “Thank you, but we're really fine now,” said Mollie, though Hilda did not look so sure of this. “It's been so nice to meet you.” But by the time she had given her hand to both men, the door to the boardinghouse had opened, and Mrs. Makepeace was peering out at the assemblage. “Oh, dear,” said Mollie. “This will take some explaining. Hilda, you'll never walk with me again.”

  “Would it ease matters if I went in with you?” asked Mister Walton.

  “Oh, Mister Walton,” said Mollie, “we've kept you away from your friends far too long already.” She was shaking again, suddenly, and needed to use the distance between the street and the boardinghouse porch to gather herself for the inevitable round of questions from an inquisitive, if well-meaning, landlady. “Thank you so much,” she said again, putting off any further offers on the part of Mister Walton, and taking Hilda's arm, she deliberately led them away from the carriage.

  2

  At the Shipswood

  Smoke and violin music similarly drifted through the atmosphere of the Shipswood Restaurant, and if the members of the Moosepath League did not indulge in the Luciferian practice (any more than they played the stringed instrument), yet they were accustomed, here in their weekly meeting place, to the smoke of other men's cigars and pipes and felt invigorated, in a manly way, by the blue haze, even if they did not contribute to it. The violin music was nice, too.

  The Shipswood was a fine establishment, with pleasant round tables and brightly lit chandeliers. The tablecloths were always clean, the service was friendly, and the tall, many-paned windows gave view during the hours of light to the business and hurry of Commercial Street and the better section of the waterfront.

  Mr. Matthew Ephram, Mr. Christopher Eagleton, and Mr. Joseph Thump (of the Exeter Thumps) were old hands at this sort of thing. They had been meeting weekly at the Shipswood for more than twelve years, but that was before the fateful night when they were inspired to form a club. That was, in fact, before they had met and admired Mister Tobias Walton, whom they elected as their chairman; and it was well before they experienced several exploits in several other parts of the state while forming the Moosepath League!

  During the past weeks they had had a succession of breathless escapades, taking tours about the city and even dining at Mister Walton's home. They had celebrated Eagleton's fortieth birthday, on which occas
ion Mister Walton had introduced them to the glories of baseball. They had observed a bicycle race at Deering Oaks and become subscribers to Portland's telephone service. They had made several telephone calls to one another.

  Despite these wild sprees, Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump had not lost their sense of wonder; in fact, they continued to wonder a good deal, and on the evening of October the eighth they were wondering very specifically as to the whereabouts of their chairman.

  “I do not recall,” said Ephram, “that he has ever been late to one of our gatherings.”

  Eagleton, the club's self-appointed historian, gazed into the middle distance and considered this. “I myself have no recollection of any such tardiness and in fact rather consider him a man of admirable promptitude.” It was well said, and Eagleton was feeling the effect of his own words when he realized that the particular middle distance in his direct line of sight consisted of a striking young woman who was returning his gaze with a good deal of interest. Thinking that he had collected more than was his share, Eagleton averted his eyes, sat straight in his seat, and raised his menu.

  Ephram glanced toward the entrance of the Shipswood Restaurant. “What do you think, Thump?” he asked.

  Thump looked up from his own menu and said, “Hmm?”

  Ephram did not repeat his question, for it was then that a general hale-and-hearty welcome arose from the fore of the restaurant, and the three Moosepathians knew, from recent practice, that their chairman had arrived.

  Other folk dined at the Shipswood of a Thursday night, and in the past several weeks they had come to recognize Mister Walton, who was able to spread cheer simply by passing their tables. His face beamed with sincere interest and pleasure in his surroundings as he entered, his manner was gracious as he stopped at a table to say hello, and his sense of humor was ever ready to appreciate a quip from this group or further a running jest with that.

  Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump watched with pride as their chairman found his way to their table, followed by Sundry Moss. (A trusted companion and something of a gentleman's gentleman to Mister Walton, Sundry had been inducted as the fifth member of their society.) “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Mister Walton when he arrived. “Forgive our tardiness.”