During the autumn of 1896 in Portland, Maine, feisty society columnist Mollie Peer believes that a little ragamuffin boy, known only as Bird, is merely the subject of a story that will propel her to the level of a true reporter. Instead, the chain of events she sets in motion, and the heroic people she comes to know, lead her to better understand her own valor and compassion as she follows the boy into the dark world of the nightrunners. She is joined in her pursuit of these shadowy figures by the hapless, yet loveable members of the Moosepath League. This is an entertaining novel about the triumph of simply kindness.
During the autumn of 1896 in Portland, Maine, feisty society columnist Mollie Peer believes that a little ragamuffin boy, known only as Bird, is merely the subject of a story that will propel her to the level of a true reporter. Instead, the chain of events she sets in motion, and the heroic people she comes to know, lead her to better understand her own valor and compassion as she follows the boy into the dark world of the nightrunners. She is joined in her pursuit of these shadowy figures by the hapless, yet loveable members of the Moosepath League. This is an entertaining novel about the triumph of simply kindness.
Mollie Peer: Or the Underground Adventure of the Moosepath League
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Mollie Peer: Or the Underground Adventure of the Moosepath League
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Overview
During the autumn of 1896 in Portland, Maine, feisty society columnist Mollie Peer believes that a little ragamuffin boy, known only as Bird, is merely the subject of a story that will propel her to the level of a true reporter. Instead, the chain of events she sets in motion, and the heroic people she comes to know, lead her to better understand her own valor and compassion as she follows the boy into the dark world of the nightrunners. She is joined in her pursuit of these shadowy figures by the hapless, yet loveable members of the Moosepath League. This is an entertaining novel about the triumph of simply kindness.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781608935208 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Down East Books |
| Publication date: | 03/15/2016 |
| Edition description: | Reprint |
| Pages: | 360 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.90(w) x 9.07(h) x 0.75(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
OCTOBER 8, 1896
***
1. Out of the Fog
It was difficult to say no to Mollie Peer, especially knowing she had spent an entire day at her typewriter, working on her columns for the Eastern Argus. It had been a lovely afternoon, despite prognostications, and Hilda hated to deny her friend and fellow boarder a few minutes' walk before the sun went down. Besides, Mollie was never so ready to listen as when she had just finished her society column, and Hilda, as always, had much to say.
Stepping onto the porch of Makepeace's Boarding House, they were taken by how dark it had grown so early in the day. Signs of last night's storm spotted the lawn—leaves and twigs and smaller limbs strewn beneath the maples on either side of the walk.
The newspapers had warned against a hurricane, reporting telegraph messages of death and damage up the eastern seaboard (a ship was missing off the coast of Virginia), though later editions predicted merely a gale. From Portsmouth to the Maritimes, the coaster fleet sought shelter, and many of them had come into Portland the day before, so that the harbor was a thicket of masts and spars, and there was concern that the ships and schooners—so densely anchored in a high wind—might do damage to one another. But the storm that arrived on the seventh of October, though strong enough to warrant caution, had mostly blown itself out by the time it reached the Portland waterfront, and the eighth had come off cool and clear.
Mollie was glad that the trees had held on to their foliage; the maples and oaks along the street were red and yellow—looking purple and brown now in the gloaming. The air was colder than she had expected, and she considered going back for her wool cloak; but fearing to discourage Hilda, who had not been so keen for a stroll, she pulled her shawl closer about the shoulders of her jacket and led the way down the walk.
Hilda chatted, as she always did, discussing the private lives of her fellow workers at the rope factory and her flirtation with a packer who worked near her station. Mollie made the perfect companion for such talk; Hilda thought her friend overly secretive about her own affairs, but she knew from experience that Mollie would hear every word she said. Arm in arm, kicking at the fallen twigs, they let the path of least resistance draw them downhill in the direction of the harbor.
It was well past five o'clock and the streets were strangely quiet, as if an autumnal stillness had arrested the movements of homecoming shopkeepers and businessmen. Mr. Duncan, Plum Street's lamplighter, was mounting the hill, raising his long staff and fiery wick to the gas lamps as he approached them. He recognized Mollie and Hilda and tipped his hat when they passed, then turned and looked after them.
Hilda, with her light brown hair and plump figure, was an attractive enough girl, but the lamplighter's eyes lingered on Mollie before he turned back to his evening's chore.
Mollie was tall and moved with an assurance that one might suspect was developed through physical (even athletic) activity. She had strong shoulders and was considered large-boned for a woman. Though only twenty-two years old, she seemed, at first glance, more matronly than youthful. A second glance, however, often merited a third one—and the third, a fourth. Some men's heads would rise and fall as their attention grew increasingly distracted by what they saw, like a person who slowly begins to realize that he has misread an entire page of text.
As for her features, they were somehow more than the sum of their parts: Her nose had an Irish lilt (like her father's) and may have been a shade too small, and surrounding it her mouth and eyes (taken after her Italian mother's) seemed exaggerated and overprominent; and yet together with the intelligence in those eyes and the wry set of that wide mouth, those strangely matched features conspired to make her beautiful the more one considered them.
Hilda chatted. They breathed in the crisp air, spiced with the scent of dry earth and leaves and wood smoke. Mollie kept her friend to a brisk pace, arms swinging with pleasure—not the picture of demure femininity but of glowing suffrage.
Then Mollie saw the boy walking uncertainly in their direction; a waif, a ragamuffin, four or five years old, his clothes barely holding together. He must be cold, she thought. When he was within a few yards of them, he looked as if he might cross the street, and so she said hello to him.
He stopped, looking more uncertain still. Hilda ceased her gossip for a moment to consider the child, considered him of little interest, and recommenced her story.
"What's your name?" asked Mollie.
Hilda came to a second halt and looked put out. "What is it?"
"It's a little boy," said Mollie, approaching him.
"I can see that, but why are you talking to him?"
"Because he interests me." Mollie leaned down with her hands on her knees. "What's your name?" she asked again.
"Everything interests you," said Hilda with some irritation.
"It's my business."
"I dare say he won't make the society pages."
"I don't know. There have been millionaires who started with only a penny." She addressed this to the boy with an encouraging smile. "My name is Mollie." She held out her hand.
He put his hand in hers, as if he were giving her something rather than shaking it. He said something in a small voice.
"Bert?" said Mollie.
Only slightly louder, he said, "Bird."
"Bird!" she said, as if the word gave her great pleasure. "What a fine and unusual name! Where do you live?"
This was more problematic. Confusion and possibly even guilt swept past his face. "With Mr. Pembleton."
"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 the 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 her 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 good 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 thc 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 occasion 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 one 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."
"Good heavens!" said Ephram. "Never tardy! I would never say tardy! Would you, Eagleton?"
"Certainly not tardy!" agreed Eagleton. "What do you say, Thump?"
"I'm sure we were early," insisted Thump.
"You are very kind," said the portly fellow as he found his seat. "Sundry and I came upon two young women who had had a recent, if unspecified, fright, and we were pleased that they accepted an offer of a ride home."
"A fright?" said Ephram. The chairman was always in the middle of things, it seemed, and they greatly admired him for it.
"Young women?" said Eagleton.
"Hmm?" said Thump.
What had amounted to a slight digression in Mister Walton and Sundry's evening was viewed by their friends as a full-scale adventure. The members of the club were not a little taken with the description of the young women (Sundry's memory was especially glowing), and Ephram was very much amazed to hear that one of these ladies was a columnist for the Eastern Argus.
"Good heavens!" he said again. "And I a subscriber!" as if this were the most astonishing coincidence.
The conversation continued while dinner was ordered, waited on, and served, but Ephram found it difficult to immediately separate himself from thoughts of attractive young women and the Eastern Argus. Eventually, however, he rejoined the flow of discourse just as Sundry was informing them about his father's uncle, who had predicted the weather with great accuracy for twelve years, claiming all the while that he garnered his prophetic powers by milking a particular belted Galloway named Temperance. Certain anatomic features of the cow (which Sundry delicately left to the imagination of his listeners) were alleged to represent the four winds, and the difficulty or ease with which the milk came was given to foretell the corresponding variations of oncoming weather.
Ephram pulled at his fine mustaches.
Thump stroked his prodigious beard.
"I hope I do not sound precipitous," said Eagleton, who was fascinated with the weather, "when I say that I would like to look at this cow."
"I fear it is unlikely," said Sundry. "Both uncle and cow have long since departed." He raised his hands to stem the condolences; it had all happened long before he was born. "She lost her oracular powers, at any rate, before her demise. As a prank, one Halloween, some boys—or, rather, a crew of men behaving like boys—kidnapped her and bought her a ticket on the night train from Wiscasset. It wasn't till the train had nearly reached Bath that the conductor discovered her, but she was never the same again."
This seemed a sad end to a noteworthy career. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump looked solemn. Mister Walton could not suppress a chuckle.
"But for ten years," added Sundry by way of consolation, "the village of Sheepscott hayed without fear of rain and canceled long trips before any blizzards hit."
"Ten years?" asked Mister Walton. "I thought your uncle predicted the weather for twelve years."
"Yes, but for two years nobody believed him."
"Ah!" Delight twinkled in Mister Walton's eyes.
"The Portland Bantams are playing an exhibition game against Lewiston tomorrow morning," said Eagleton, who had stolen a glance at the newspaper beside his place at the table. Mister Walton's enthusiasms were of great moment to the members of the club, and through him the local baseball team had garnered their fierce loyalty, though the game itself was still something of a mystery to them. "The paper looks to Mr. O'Hearn for some feat by which the year, if not the season, might be made memorable."
Ephram made a sound of interest and leaned over to see the headline indicated by Eagleton's index finger. Thump frowned down at his hands, which were open before him. He was considering the mysteries of bovine anatomy.
"I'm sorry to miss that," said Sundry. "But I think we will be preparing a way north tomorrow morning."
"My word, yes!" said Ephram. "The Hallowell Harvest Ball!"
"We have been forgetting your impending rendezvous with Miss McCannon!" said Eagleton to Mister Walton.
"Hmm," said Thump. He seemed to be counting something on his fingers.
Mister Walton smiled. "The ball isn't till Monday night," he announced happily, "but Sundry and I will be leaving tomorrow."
Several weeks before, Mister Walton had received a letter (which even now resided in his breast pocket) from Phileda McCannon, whom he had met during the previous adventurous summer. Though he had been forced by circumstance to leave her side more quickly than he would have wished, they had kept in communication ever since by post.
His friends, all of whom had been greatly impressed with Miss McCannon, could not have been happier if they themselves had been invited. Sundry, who had detected a bit of loneliness in his employer of late, was perhaps the happiest of all.
"Wonderful!" said Eagleton.
"Bravo!" said Ephram.
"Hmm," said Thump.
"Twenty past nine," said Ephram, consulting one of the three or four watches that he always carried about his person. They had stopped outside the Shipswood to take stock of the night and those noises intrinsic to the waterfront.
"High tide at eleven forty-eight," announced Thump, though he was somewhat distracted. He was musing again over the anatomic structure of cows. He had never been very close to one.
"Some chance of ground fog this evening," assured Eagleton. "Though this should be cleared by a wind changing to the southwest and brief showers before dawn." The ground fog was, in fact, all about them, and their carriage, some lengths down the glistening street, was nearly obscured by the mists that slunk from the alleys and drifted along the cobbles.
"The fog does make things sound very much closer, doesn't it?" said Ephram, adding, "Or perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps the things we hear actually are near at hand and it is the fog that makes us think they are distant." He deferred in this question to Eagleton, whose great love, if not métier, was meteorography.
"I hadn't considered," said Eagleton carefully. "But it is a very remarkable effect."
Thump was looked to next, but he was still thinking about cows. "Hmm?" he said.
"I know that when my room is dark," said Sundry, "the foot of my bed is often not where I think it should be."
Ephram petitioned Mister Walton for his opinion on the subject of fog and its effects upon human perception. Eagleton attempted to explain to Thump the two theories that had already been expounded. Thump realized, with a start, what portion of the cow Sundry had been speaking of.
"I trust you will be back in time for next Thursday's meeting?" ventured Ephram.
"Oh, yes, surely," said Mister Walton.
Sundry, who had less confidence in human design, simply said, "Barring unforeseen incident," which comment they would all remember when next they met, at another time, in another place.
Mister Walton's late aunt August had always said, "Young Toby has a traveling bee," and it was perhaps not far from the truth, since he had spent many years away from the state of Maine. Recently, however, he had, with the help of Sundry (and his family's elderly retainers, Mr. and Mrs. Baffin), settled nicely into his family home and had remained more or less a constant inhabitant of Portland since the end of July. He had reacquainted himself with his neighbors, looked up old friends, and attended two or three concerts and a play.
He had, in fact, resituated himself from the outside in, spending his first month back in Maine traveling the state. August brought greater introspection, and he was seen less outside his house as he explored the family treasures and heirlooms from attic to cellar, reading old letters and much-beloved books, growing misty-eyed over brown photographs and silvered tintypes, tenderly brushing his father's suit or refolding his mother's wedding dress before putting them back into their trunks.
One day he took inspection of his parents' room and came across a small, stoppered vial of his mother's perfume. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he lifted the opened vial to his nose; the lily-of-the-valley scent had lost some of its vigor, but the ghostlike fragrance was all the more potent for its subtlety. Mister Walton felt as if his mother had walked into the room, and he was filled with an astonishing assemblage of emotions, wrapped up in affection and warmth. He was almost shocked to see his own face reflected in the mirror; he had not realized that he looked so much like her.
It was then that he forgot, for a moment, that he had made friends everywhere he went, that somewhere in the house Sundry was mending an old chair, Mr. Baffin was polishing the banister, and Mrs. Baffin was cooking supper. He forgot the members of the Moosepath League, who would have come running at the merest hint of his melancholy. He could only think of his parents and his brother, who were not here anymore, and of his sister, who was (the last he knew) in Africa. Sunlight fell through the window beside the bed and struck the waving shadows of an oak tree in the boundary of a skewed rectangle upon the carpet.
He was thinking of that patch of sunlight as the carriage rolled home that night. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump had gotten off before their respective doors (with many a lifted hat and hearty handshake). "Miss Greenwood was wearing lily of the valley," he said, so quietly that Sundry had to think a moment before realizing what had been said. Sundry was attempting a reply to this when the older gentleman looked up and smiled. "My mother wore lily of the valley," he explained.
Sundry nodded his understanding. "She made me think of my sister."
"They are lovely girls," said Mister Walton.
This fact had not escaped Sundry. Hilda had reminded him a little too much of his sister, but Mollie had struck him as a very handsome young woman.
Oh, Aunt August was saying in Mister Walton's mind, young Toby has a traveling bee. He could see the trapezoid of light on the carpet, the shadows of leaves and limbs waving.
"It will be good to see Miss McGannon," said Sundry.
Mister Walton nodded and smiled.
When they had paid the driver, bid him good night, and walked through the gate, the old house rose up before them—a welcoming presence in the evening air. A breeze ruffled the trees on either side of the house; crickets sounded a slow cadence. They mounted the steps, opened the door, and stepped into the hall. The smell of something baked filled the house, and they followed it to the kitchen, where one of Mrs. Baffin's apple pies awaited them in the warming oven.
Table of Contents
| from the Journal of Christopher Eagleton SEPTEMBER 24, 1896 | 1 |
| Prologue: The Nightrunners SEPTEMBER 28, 1896 | 3 |
| Book One OCTOBER 8, 1896 | 5 |
| 1. Out of the Fog | 5 |
| 2. At the Shipswood | 13 |
| Book Two OCTOBER 9, 1896 | 21 |
| 3. What the Cigar Revealed | 21 |
| 4. Between Piling and Post | 25 |
| 5. Saving the Blue Hubbard | 30 |
| 6. Second Sight | 33 |
| 7. Pawn to Queen Four | 38 |
| 8. Old John Neptune | 40 |
| 9. Below the Warf | 48 |
| 10. ...and Above | 50 |
| 11. Beneath the Streets | 53 |
| 12. The Man with the Strange Difficulty | 55 |
| 13. Bird | 58 |
| 14. Second Thoughts | 64 |
| 15. Forge Light | 67 |
| 16. At the Sign of the CrookedCat | 70 |
| 17. Echo Till Midnight | 75 |
| Book Three OCTOBER 10, 1896 | 83 |
| 18. Right Chapter, WrongBook | 83 |
| 19. Panic and Pancakes | 87 |
| 20. The Lilac Station | 90 |
| 21. More Pieces in Play | 96 |
| 22. The Best Revenge | 102 |
| 23. Quentin's Charm | 106 |
| 24. The Four Hinges of Happiness | 114 |
| 25. That Other Great Society | 118 |
| 26. Amos Buys In | 122 |
| 27. Off Widgery Wharf | 124 |
| 28. Merry Meeting | 132 |
| 29. Cliff Cottage | 140 |
| from the Eastern Argus, October 11, 1896 | 146 |
| Book Four OCTOBER 11, 1896 | 149 |
| 30. Fond Farewells | 149 |
| 31. Phileda | 153 |
| 32. Amos's Strange Sensation | 157 |
| 33. Several Figures in the Night | 159 |
| 34. Needle, Stone, Mirror | 165 |
| 35. Diversion and Duty | 176 |
| Book Five OCTOBER 12, 1896 | 183 |
| from the Eastern Argus, October 12, 1896 | 183 |
| 36. The Level of Private Thought | 184 |
| 37. Sun in the Afternoon | 192 |
| 38. Misspoke or Misled | 199 |
| 39. What You Don't Hold | 202 |
| 40. The Persistence of Melody | 206 |
| 41. Some Words with Wildfeather | 209 |
| 42. Shadows and Sleeping Furniture | 219 |
| 43. Flying with Bird | 222 |
| Book Six OCTOBER 13, 1896 | 229 |
| 44. The Opposite Direction | 229 |
| 45 | The News That Day Was the Accident on Commercial |
| Street | 231 |
| 46. Playing Catch | 235 |
| 47. Intruder from Another's Tale | 237 |
| 48. The Bottom Line | 242 |
| 49. The Hallowell Following | 245 |
| 50. Matching Colors | 252 |
| 51. An Argument to the Inch | 256 |
| 52. The White Bullet | 259 |
| 53. News from the Moosepath | 264 |
| 54. Crosscurrents | 264 |
| 55. And Then There Was Thump | 269 |
| Book Seven OCTOBER 14, 1896 | 277 |
| 56. Telegrams and Trains | 277 |
| 57. In a Single Place | 281 |
| 58. The Last of Amos | 286 |
| 59. Laying Wait | 288 |
| 60. The Members Were in the Dark | 295 |
| 61. The Hare at Bay | 299 |
| 62. What the River Would Give Up | 304 |
| 63. Foundering | 306 |
| Book Eight OCTOBER 16-30, 1896 | 311 |
| 64. The Telling Portrait (October 16, 1896) | 311 |
| 65. Nom de Plume (October 19, 1896) | 317 |
| 66. O'Hearn Farm (October 28, 1896) | 319 |
| 67. The Unsigned Verse (October 30, 1896) | 324 |
| Epilogue: Runners in the Night HALLOWEEN, 1896 | 331 |
| Author's Note | 333 |