The Rare Stamp Mystery. Mary Adrian
called, and a dog barked in the distance.
A sad expression crept over Skeet’s face as he listened to the dog barking. He was reminded of Tippy, the sheep dog, who had lived on the farm. Last week Tippy had gone to sleep for the last time because of old age. Skeet had been so upset about Tippy that his dad had promised to get another dog very soon, but Skeet felt sure he would not be a second Tippy. No dog could replace him.
With a heavy sigh Skeet was about to leave the window when a light in the meadow caught his attention.
It was a big light, and it moved along, bobbing up and down in the dark.
Skeet could not make out who was carrying the light, but he kept watching until it went into the other barn on the farm.
“Jeepers!” he cried aloud. “I’d better do something—quickly.”
He ran out of the room and into his parents’ bedroom.
“Wake up, Dad!” he shouted, shaking his father by the shoulder. “Wake up!”
Mr. Macdonald opened one sleepy eye and stared at Skeet.
“Someone just went into the barn with a flashlight,” said Skeet. “You’d better get up, Dad. Right away.”
Mr. Macdonald threw back the covers, slipped out of bed, and grabbed a bathrobe to put over his pajamas.
Skeet dashed back to his room for a bathrobe. He caught up with his father hurrying down the stairs with a flashlight.
Once they were outside Mr. Macdonald used the flashlight to guide them. As they walked rapidly across the barnyard, Skeet pulled his bathrobe tightly around him. He shivered from the cool night air and also a little from fright since he was afraid that the person who had gone into the barn might have a gun with him.
When Mr. Macdonald switched on the lights in the barn, Skeet trembled from head to toe, but he went along with his dad. They looked in every part of the barn, even the hayloft where bats were flying in and out of the open window, but they could find no person hiding anywhere.
Skeet suddenly felt foolish. Wishing to defend himself, he said, “I did see someone go into the barn, Dad. Honest I did.”
“I believe you, son, but there is no one here now, so let’s go back to bed.”
Skeet nodded halfheartedly, for he still believed that someone was in the barn, and he wanted to find him. Rather than stay behind, though, he climbed down the ladder from the hayloft and then stopped to take a quick look at his pets. The door to Possum White’s cage was closed, but when Skeet came up to the cage, he discovered that his pet was not there.
“Dad!” he cried out in alarm. “Possum White is gone.”
Mr. Macdonald was about to switch off the lights, but instead he came running when he heard Skeet’s voice. He stared in amazement at Possum White’s empty cage.
“I was right,” said Skeet. “Somebody did come into the barn. He stole Possum White. I wish Tippy had been here because he would have stopped the thief.”
“He certainly would have!” exclaimed Mr. Macdonald. “Tippy was a fine watchdog, but we’re going to get another dog real soon, Skeet, and I’ll get you another pet, too.”
“He won’t be like Possum White.” Skeet bit his lip to keep from crying. “Gee, Dad. Possum White is very special. You don’t often see a white possum.”
“That’s true. You don’t. Skeet, are you sure you didn’t leave the cage door open as you did the one on Pixie’s cage?”
“I’m sure,” Skeet replied positively. “And my friends Chris and Gayle saw me. They’ll vouch for me.”
“All right, son,” said Mr. Macdonald, “I’ll take your word without any vouching. Maybe we’ll find Possum White somewhere in the morning. If not, I’ll call the police. They might be able to help us.”
The tears were streaming down Skeet’s face as he and his dad walked out of the barn, but Skeet managed to look around for any clues to the disappearance of the opossum.
He blinked his eyes to make sure he was seeing correctly, and then cried aloud, “Dad, here are some fresh footprints.”
“Sure enough!” exclaimed Mr. Macdonald. He bent down in the half-light to examine the footprints. “They’re new, Skeet, because they were made since the dew fell tonight. That should be a good lead for the police. I’ll call them the first thing in the morning.”
Skeet slept very little the rest of the night. In the morning he was up at six o’clock. He prepared his own breakfast, and, after eating it, telephoned Chris. Instead of getting his friend, though, he found himself talking to Chris’s father, who sounded very annoyed.
“I’m sorry if I got you out of bed, Mr. Mason,” Skeet apologized. “There has been a robbery here, and I thought Chris should know about it.”
“A robbery!” cried Mr. Mason. “How much cash did the thief get?”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Mason. The thief stole Possum White.”
“Oh, Possum White. That’s too bad. I’m sorry, Skeet. He was your favorite pet, wasn’t he? Well, I’ll tell Chris about it as soon as he gets up.”
It turned out that Chris was already up and had heard some of the telephone conversation. He then talked to Skeet and agreed to come to Macdonald farm as soon as he had his breakfast.
True to his promise Chris arrived at the farm in a short while. Gayle came with him. She, too, wanted to help find Possum White. So when her brother and Skeet examined the footprints in front of the barn, she got down on her hands and knees with them.
“The thief was wearing those funny rubber-soled shoes,” said Skeet. “You can see the ridges across each footprint.”
“Let’s make casts of the footprints,” suggested Chris, “and keep them for evidence. That’s what the FBI men do. They use plaster of Paris to make a cast. I’ve read about it in a book.”
Skeet was thrilled with the idea. He gave Chris a friendly slap on the back. “I’ll ask Dad if we can use some of his plaster of Paris. He has a box of it in his workshop.”
In a short while Skeet was following Chris’s instructions with the plaster of Paris. He took some of the powder, put it in a container, and then mixed water with the powder until if flowed smoothly.
After that Skeet carefully poured the liquid over one of the footprints.
“Please let me do the next one,” said Gayle. “Please. I won’t spill it.”
“Okay. Watch what you’re doing, though,” said Skeet.
Gayle poured the liquid carefully, but she did it so slowly that Skeet and Chris thought she would never finish. Then Chris poured the stuff over a footprint for himself.
Presently the liquid hardened, and there were three perfect casts, one for each of them.
“It works like magic,” exclaimed Gayle with delight. “I’m going to ask Mother to buy some plaster of Paris so that I can make loads of casts. Then I’ll have the footprints of all my friends.”
“What do you want to do that for?” asked Skeet. “We’ve made these casts so that we can track down a thief.”
“Do you suspect anyone?” asked Chris.
Skeet thought a moment. “Mr. Stone works on the farm. He’s Dad’s handyman. He doesn’t come every day, though, but he was here yesterday.”
“Maybe he took Possum White,” said Gayle.
“I don’t know,” answered Skeet. “You must have evidence before you accuse a person. That’s what Dad told me.”
“Let’s go to Mr. Stone’s house then,” replied Gayle, “and see if he is