The Mystery of the Pilgrim Trading Post. Anne Molloy
Pete’s a mighty smart woman. You’d think she might have been smart enough to warn you about taking out old boats that haven’t been in the water going on a hundred years or so, especially dories. They’re likely to drop their bottoms out. And she should have told you several other things, such as how strong the current sets off here. And how, when the tide comes piling in, you can expect the whirlpool.”
“Mary Pete is a very busy woman,” said Lettie in her icy tone.
“And I’m a busy man. Let’s go,” Bart almost growled.
He pulled the starter cord on his motor and they moved off in a great curve. The dory, heavy with water, yawed from side to side like an animal being led to slaughter. Lettie was the only one who looked back at the whirlpool. She wanted to gaze down into its glassy funnel but Bart had snatched them to safety too early. She could only study small whirlpools like dimples that dotted the surface around them.
From time to time Bart turned to check on his tow. Will, as captain in the dory, felt he must wave to show all was well. He did it in a moderate sort of way; they mustn’t give Black Bart the false idea that they wanted to be friendly.
They were almost off the boathouse when the water in the dory stopped sloshing and the miniature waves corrugating its surface vanished. The old line had parted, they realized. Bart had left them behind. Soon he missed his tow and circled back.
“It’s a miracle the bottom didn’t drop out of that old-timer you picked to have yourself a time in. As I said, there’s a whole lot Mary Pete ought to tell you. Too bad she’s so busy,” he called to them.
Lettie stood up for Mary Pete. “This morning,” she said, “she had to hurry off and put up a prescription for someone foolish enough to get himself upset banqueting with politicians.” Lettie hoped that she sounded both dignified and unfriendly.
“So that’s what she told you,” Bart said curtly with a dark scowl. “Well, I guess you don’t need my help any longer. You’re practically in now.” His tone implied that it would do them good to struggle on with one oar. “For the love of Mike, if you kids have to get in scrapes, at least do it in a seaworthy boat. Come over any time and borrow one of mine. All Mary Pete’s got need a heap done on them, caulking, painting, probably a whole lot more. Yes, you come over to my wharf. I’ll fix you up with a boat.”
Lettie was about to say, “No, thank you,” in the icy tone she was beginning to enjoy, when Will spoke. “Thanks, we may do that.”
Bart planed off toward his wharf.
“How could you say you’d borrow a thing from him?” said Lettie.
“Don’t you see,” said her brother, “it will give us an excuse to go over there. You never can tell, we might just discover he was up to some skulduggery. We could use it against him to save the old house. At least it would make it easier to keep a watch on him.”
Jo agreed with Will. “Yes, it might help us if we could hurt him.”
“Even if he did save our lives, I still hate him. Makes me think of a shark or something, the way he smiles,” said Lettie. “Oh, Will, get a wiggle on and get us ashore. I’m just about frozen, sitting in all this ice water.”
Although the old dory was logy with water, it was out of the strong current. Will skulled them to the boathouse. Here they found two rusty cans and bailed out the water. Even so, the dory was still heavy from what it had soaked up in its dry boards. They struggled and tugged to get it halfway up to the door.
“Oh, I’m too starved to tug a bit longer,” complained Lettie. “Let’s go get some lunch and come back and finish then.”
The boys agreed to this.
“We’ll tie her up so she won’t drift off if the tide comes up,” said Will.
“After that,” said Jo firmly, “we hunt for shell heaps. I’m counting on them to turn us up something important, something important enough to end Bart’s old bridge before it’s even started.”
CHAPTER FOUR
EARTH AND WATER
Scrabbling for a meal took longer than they expected. In the first place they spent quite a bit of time in finding the food. The old house had so many odd cupboards and pantries that they had to hunt for what they wanted. Then, when their hunger was satisfied, Lettie wasn’t pleased with the appearance of the kitchen.
“What a mess!” she exclaimed, her nose wrinkled in disgust, “all these milky, sticky, eggy dishes. I’m going to wash them. It’s the first time I ever wanted to do such a thing. Maybe it’s because Mary Pete didn’t ask us to.”
Jo felt that washing the dishes might be a dangerous action. “She will expect you to the next time,” he said.
“You don’t have to. I’m going to,” Lettie announced.
She turned to the dishes and to her surprise Will joined her. She took the humming teakettle from the stove and poured hot water into the dishpan. Will refilled the kettle. Water came in a great leap from the iron pump by the sink as he moved the handle up and down although it did protest, oh, don’t, oh, don’t.
Before Jo left the house, he told them what direction he planned to go. They followed his route when they had finished the dishes. It took them through a tightly packed line of spruce trees along the far side of Mary Pete’s shop. Then they went over a tumbled stone wall. This brought them into an open field.
A flock of dipping, chattering goldfinch flew over. One Jersey cow with a mouthful of grass and daisies was the only occupant that they could see.
“Cow, Cow,” Lettie called, because she suddenly felt gay from being in this airy, open place, “can you tell us where the Indians made their shell heaps?” Not a moo came in answer. Lettie whirled on one heel to enjoy the complete circle of sky.
“Let’s go, Let,” said her brother impatiently.
They ran down the sloping pasture, in and out among great scattered boulders, toward the shore. Suddenly from a far corner came a hail. Jo was standing on a mound and waving excitedly.
Will paused only long enough to make a trumpet of his hands and shout through them, “Coming!” Then he and Lettie ran.
When they reached Jo they found him bent almost double. He was probing the mound with a stick.
“What luck?” asked Lettie.
In his excitement Jo stuttered. “P-p-lenty,” and straightened up. “This is one I’m on— an Indian shell heap, I mean!”
He waved the stick with which he had been digging among daisies and hawkweed. Will and Lettie climbed up beside him on the large ant heap of a mound. They peered into the hole. The exposed earth was very black and speckled quite evenly with bits of white broken shell.
“Jiminy!” said Will in an awed voice.
“Indians!” said Lettie in the same tone. After a pause she added, “Did they grind the shells all up like this?”
“Nope,” said Jo, “don’t imagine so. Probably they got that way from being here in all kinds of weather, you know, freezing and thawing and stuff, busted them up this way. Golly Moses, we ought to find most anything here—arrowheads, stone scrapers, fish weights!”
Once more he attacked the mound with his stick.
“I should think you’d get a shovel,” said Lettie. “Why don’t you go to the woodshed? There’s all sorts of tools there.”
“Okay,” said Jo, and he was off, running