Lost on the Moon, Roy Rockwood [best reads of all time .txt] 📗

to the motor, so it won’t make so much

difference. But come on, let’s start, and we can hurry back.”

 

“I guess that’s the best plan,” remarked Jack dubiously, for he did not

fancy a half-hour’s tramp across the fields and back again. Then, as he

thought of something else, he called out:

 

“Say, Mark, there’s no use of both of us going to the telegraph office.

I’ll go alone, as it’s my fault, and you can stay here, and watch to

see if that strange man appears on the scene. I’ll not be long, and you

can wait for me here.”

 

“How would it be if I went on a little nearer to the Preakness house?”

asked Mark. “I can meet you there just as well as here, and something

may develop.”

 

“Good idea! You go on, and when I come back, I’ll take the road that

leads through the old slate quarry, and save some time that way. I’ll

meet you right near the old barn that stands on the Gilbert property,

just before you reach the Preakness grounds.”

 

“All right; I’ll be there, but don’t run your legs off. We’re out for

all day, and there isn’t anything that needs to be done at home, or

around the projectile, so take your time.”

 

“Oh, I’ll not go to sleep,” declared Jack. “I want to see if we can’t

solve the mystery of the man who writes such queer notes.”

 

Jack started off across the fields at a swift pace, while Mark strolled

on down the road, in the direction of the old Preakness house. He was

thinking of many things, chiefly of the wonderful journey that lay

before them, and he was wondering what the moon would look like when

they got to it.

 

That it would be a wild, desolate place, he had no doubt, for the

evidences of the telescopes of astronomers pointed that way, and, as is

well known, the most powerful instruments can now bring the moon to

within an apparent distance of one hundred miles of the earth. This is

true of the Lick telescope, which has a magnifying power of 2,500 and

an object lens a yard across.

 

But, with this powerful telescope, it has been impossible to

distinguish any such objects as forests, cities, or any evidences of

life on the moon—that is, on the side that has always been turned

toward us.

 

Almost unconsciously, Mark went on faster than he intended, and, before

he knew it, he had arrived at the barn where he had promised to wait

for his chum. Mark looked at his watch, and found that he would still

have some time to linger before he could expect Jack to return. He sat

down on a stone beside the fence, and looked about him. The day was

warm for fall, and the last of the crickets were chirping away, while,

in distant fields, men could be seen husking corn, or drawing in loads

of yellow pumpkins.

 

“I wonder if we’ll have pumpkin pie on the moon,” thought Mark.

“Though, of course, we won’t. I guess all we’ll have to eat will be

what Washington takes along in the projectile—that is, unless we find

people on the other side of the place.”

 

He sat on the stone for some minutes longer, and then, tiring of the

inactivity, he arose and strolled about. Something seemed to draw him

in the direction of the old house, which he knew was just around the

bend in the road.

 

“I guess there wouldn’t be any harm in my going along and taking a peep

at it,” mused the lad. “It will be some time before Jack returns, and I

may be able to catch a glimpse of our man. I think I’ll go up where I

can see the place, and I can come back in time to meet Jack. I’ll do

it. Maybe the fellow might escape while I’m waiting.”

 

Mark thus tried to justify himself for his action in not keeping to his

agreement with his chum. Of course it was not an important matter, Mark

thought, though the results of his simple action were destined to be

more far-reaching than he imagined. He thought he would be back in time

to meet Jack, and so he strolled on, going more cautiously now, for, in

a few minutes he would come in sight of the old, deserted house, and he

did not know what he might find there.

 

Mark’s first sight of the Preakness homestead was of two old stone

posts, that had once formed a fine gateway. The posts were in ruins,

now, and half fallen down, being covered with Virginia creeper, the

leaves of which were now a vivid red, mingled with green.

 

“Nothing very alarming there,” said Mark, half aloud. He could just

catch a glimpse of the roof of the house over the tops of the trees,

which had not yet shed all their leaves. “Guess I’ll go on a little

farther. Maybe our friend, the enemy, is sitting on the front porch,

sunning himself.”

 

Past the old gateway Mark continued, intending to proceed along the

highway until he got directly in front of the old mansion. There, he

knew, he would have a good view, unobstructed by trees or shrubbery.

 

When the lad got to this place in the road, he paused, and stooped

over, as if tying the lace of his shoe, for it was his intention to

pass himself off, if possible, as a casual passer-by, so that in case

the mysterious man should be in the house, his suspicions would not be

aroused by seeing the youth to whom he had written the note staring in

at him.

 

And, while he was apparently fussing with his shoe, Mark was narrowly

eying the old house.

 

“Not a very inviting place,” thought Mark. “I don’t see why any man who

could afford anything better, would stay there—unless he has some

strong motive for lingering in this section. And that’s probably what

this fellow has, and I’d like to discover it. Well, I don’t see any

signs of him, so I guess I might as well go back, and wait for Jack.

He’ll be along soon.”

 

He stood up, took a good look at the house, and was about to retrace

his steps down the highway, when he saw the sagging front door of the

old mansion slowly open. It creaked on the rusty hinges, and Mark

stared with all his might as he saw a man emerge, a man who did not

look like a tramp, for his clothes were of good material and cut, and

fit him well. Nor did he wear a stubbly growth of beard, but, on the

contrary, his face was clean shaven. The man was about Mark’s size,

perhaps a little taller, and nearly as stout. He stood on the sagging

porch, and gazed off toward the road.

 

“Well, if that’s the man Dick Johnson got the note from he’s changed

mightily in appearance,” thought Mark, as he looked at the fellow. “He

isn’t very tall, and he hasn’t any black mustache. But of course he may

have shaved that off, and I suppose in the dark, and when one is in a

hurry to earn a quarter, it’s hard to say whether a man is tall or

short. I wonder if this can be the person we’re looking for?”

 

Mark hardly knew what to do. He stood in the road, undecided, and

fairly stared at the man, who had left the porch, and was walking down

the weed-grown path. He was looking straight at Mark, but if the

stranger was the person who had written the note, and if he recognized

the lad, he gave no sign to that effect.

 

“Good afternoon,” said the man, as he paused at the gap in the front

wall, where once a gate had been. “Pleasant day, isn’t it.”

 

“Ye—yes,” stammered Mark, wondering what to say next.

 

“Live around here?” went on the man.

 

“Not very far off.”

 

“Ah, then you know this old shack?”

 

“Well, I don’t get over here, very often. Do you live here?” ventured

Mark boldly, determining to do some questioning on his own account.

 

“Me live here?” cried the man, as if indignant “Well, hardly! I was

just passing, and, happening to see the old place, and having a

fondness for antiques, I stepped in. But it is in bad shape. I should

say tramps make it their hangout.”

 

“It has that name,” said Mark.

 

There was a pause for a moment, and the lad was a trifle embarrassed.

The man was gazing boldly at him.

 

“I guess I’ve made a mistake,” thought Mark. “This can’t be the man we

want. He doesn’t live here, and he doesn’t look like him. I’d better be

getting back to meet Jack.”

 

“Are you engaged at anything in particular?” questioned the man taking

a few steps nearer the youth.

 

“No, I’m not working, but I expect to take a trip, shortly, with some

friends of mine,” answered Mark.

 

“Ah, is that so?” and there was polite inquiry in the man’s voice. “Are

you going far?”

 

“Quite a distance.” Mark wondered what the man would say if he told him

he was going to the moon.

 

“I wonder if you would do me a favor?” went on the man. “As I was

passing through this old house I saw, on one of the outer doors, an

old-fashioned knocker. I am a collector of antiques, and I would very

much like to have that. But I need help in getting it off. I do not

intend to steal it, but if it is left here some tramp may destroy it,

and that would be too bad. I intend to remove it, and then hunt up the

owners of this place, and purchase it from them.”

 

“It will be hard to discover who are the owners,” replied Mark, “as the

title is in dispute.”

 

“So much the better for me. Will you help me remove the knocker? I will

pay you for your time.”

 

Mark hesitated. He did not like the man’s manner, and there was a

shifty, uneasy look about his eyes. Still he might be all right. But

Mark did not like the idea of going into the old house with him alone.

It might be safe, and, again, it might not. But the knocker was on an

outside door. There could be no harm in helping him, as long as it was

outside. The man saw the hesitation in the lad’s manner.

 

“It will not take us long,” the stranger said. “I want you to help me

pry off the knocker, as I have no screw-driver to remove it. I will pay

you well.”

 

As he spoke he came nearer to Mark, and the lad noticed that the man’s

right hand was held behind his back. This struck Mark as rather

suspicious. Suddenly he became aware of a peculiar odor in the air—a

sweet, sickish odor. He started back in alarm, all his former

suspicions aroused. The man seemed to leap toward him.

 

“Look out!” suddenly cried the fellow. “Look behind you!”

 

Involuntarily Mark turned. He saw nothing alarming. The next instant he

felt himself grasped in the strong arms of the man, and a cloth that

smelled strongly of the strange, sweetly sickish odor was pressed over

the lad’s face.

 

“Here! Stop! Let me go! Help! Help!” cried Mark. Then his voice died

out. He felt weak and sick, and sank back, an inert mass in the man’s

arms.

 

“I guess I’ve got you this time,” whispered the fellow, as he