Chapter XXI: The Shoe

Red Rodgers and Berley Todd lost no time in making their way back to the scout’s cabin. If those men who blinded and shot the moose were the kidnapers then they were safest under the protection of Ed’s “shootin’ irons.”

“Those men,” Ed said, when he had heard their story, “more’n likely were not your kidnapers at all. Moose hunters, more’n likely.”

“Moose hunters!” Berley Todd exploded. “You’re not allowed to kill a moose on Isle Royale!”

“Who said you were?” Ed threw back his head and laughed. “They’re not allowed to kidnap star football players and little half-portions like you, but here you are all the same!

“Case is not parallel though,” he added thoughtfully. “These men who come to the island for moose need the meat to feed their families; anyway that’s their excuse.

“And it’s good enough excuse for me!” he added emphatically. “I’m neither deputy nor game warden. I’m here to guard the buildings of this resort from fire and theft. If I interfere with these moose hunters I’m likely to be found cold and stiff under the snow.”

“But it is a shame!” Berley said quietly. “Moose are such magnificent creatures! And Isle Royale is about the only place you can see them. Think of the hundreds who come to the island every year just to see them.”

“Y-e-s,” Ed drawled, “I’ve thought of them and I’ve wondered why the moose are not protected in winter. But that distinctly ain’t my job. So there you are.”

“I’m not so sure those men were not members of the kidnaping band. There must be batteries and spotlights on the plane. They could hook those up and use them. They’ll be needing meat. Why shouldn’t they hunt moose?”

“Might be, but I doubt it.” Ed stirred the fire.

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed Berley Todd, as a sudden thought took possession of her. “Suppose those were moose hunters. Suppose they were to meet the kidnapers. Suppose they think the kidnapers are wardens and deputies; and the kidnapers think they’re detectives from the city. Suppose they meet and shoot it out!”

“And then suppose we come upon them all dead with their boots on,” Red drawled. “They do that in the movies.

“Ed,” he demanded, “when will this storm end?”

“Perhaps day after to-morrow.”

Red stared angrily at the fire. The girl threw him a teasing glance as she sang low:

“Come, play with me.”

“All right!” he exclaimed almost fiercely, “I’ll play with you to-morrow and the day after if need be; anyway until the kidnapers catch up with us or we are able to leave the island.”

“If you care to row,” Ed suggested, “it’s not too rough in the harbor. If you were to wear my canvas coat and cowboy hat—” He turned to Red. “If you went out before dawn and if Berley, here, sat low in the stern, no one would know but that it was just old Ed and his dog. You could play around among the little islands all day and be safe.”

“Shall we?” Berley’s tone was almost wistful. “We’ll take a lunch and eat it on the rocks.”

“Might be worse,” Red admitted. “Rowing will at least keep me in trim for the great day. And now for some sleep!” He disappeared behind the narrow curtain that led to one of the cubby-hole bedrooms in Ed’s cabin.

“The great day,” he whispered to himself, as he slid beneath the covers. That day now seemed very, very far away. But quite unconsciously he was losing his feeling of long weariness. The spring of youth was flooding back through every nerve and fiber of his being. “If only I could get a whack at that line,” he thought dreamily. “If only I could!”

* * * * * * * *

The person banging at Drew Lane’s door was none other than the person known as the Rat. Drew was surprised to see him. The Rat, like others of his kind, seldom appeared unless called. The object he unwrapped before the young detective’s astonished eyes was, he thought, worth a trip half way round the world. It was the shoe that had made the invisible footprint on the sleeping car sheet. Once Drew’s eyes fell upon it, he sat and stared. A full minute had passed into eternity before he could say:

“Where did you find it?”

“You know dat place beside de river? Down below de flower shop? Angelo Piccalo’s shop? Dat’s de place.”

Drew looked at Johnny. Johnny looked at Drew.

“Rat,” said Drew, “you’re a great old finder. Here’s a fiver. Now scram!”

The Rat vanished.

For a long time the detective and his young friend sat staring at the shoe.

“Johnny,” said Drew at last, “they say you can’t keep birds from flying over your head, but you can prevent their building nests in your hair. Also, ‘Where there is much smoke there must be some fire.’ First there’s the jimmy bar, and now there’s this shoe. Looks as if we were beginning to see light. Do you get me?”

“I—I think I do,” replied Johnny, in anything but a cheerful voice.

Johnny was on his way early next morning. He crossed the bridge and was about to pass the flower shop without going in, when Angelo stepped out of the door.

“Gooda morning, meester Johnny! Dees ees one—a fine morning.”

“Yes, sure, Angelo, it is fine.”

Apparently a box had been opened beside the flower shop door. The box was gone, but some broken fragments of wood remained. Picking up one of these, Angelo began to whittle absent-mindedly. His actions so fascinated the boy that he found it hard to talk coherently. However, he forced himself into the task of talking about the weather, the river, speed boats and rare flowers. In the meantime he watched the keen blade of Angelo’s knife chipping out short, sharp shavings of wood.

“He’s nervous. His fingers tremble,” he told himself.

A customer appeared. Angelo went inside. After a furtive glance, Johnny bent over, seized a handful of Angelo’s shavings, then hurried away.

A block down the street he paused to drop the shavings into a used envelope and thrust them into the side pocket of his coat. “Exhibit A,” he murmured as he marched on toward the office of the News where he was to study Exchanges. “Exhibit A. I wonder!”