Pigeon Post

  Robin dipped his finger in the well, and licked it.

  “Nay, that’s queer,” he said. “Good water, too, and all these years I’ve niver known it was there.”

  “But it wasn’t,” said Nancy.

  Robin looked at her, and at the others, Roger, Peggy, Dorothea and John, who had come to see what he thought of it.

  “Stands to reason it was there,” he said.

  “Well, of course it was,” said Nancy, “but we had to dig for it. Titty found the place with a hazel twig, dowsing.”

  Robin looked as if he thought there was no point in arguing with Nancy.

  “Well, it’s good water,” he said. “Mother was feared you were lapping from yon beck. Beck’s not healthy, nor won’t be till we get rain and a big spate.”

  He dipped his finger and tasted the water again.

  “Good night to you all,” he said, and went off. For a long time they could hear his heavy boots on the stony track going down the wood.

  Back in the camp, the fire was blazing heartily. A saucepan was sizzling at one side of the fireplace. Susan and Peggy slung the big black kettle on its cross-pole and lowered it carefully into the flames.

  “Plain pemmican for the first night,” said Susan.

  “When?” said Roger.

  “Not till the kettle boils.”

  “Oh,” said Roger.

  “Rather be at Tyson’s?” said Nancy.

  “Jolly well not,” said Roger. “I say, it’s a long time since anybody’s had a squint at Squashy Hat.”

  “May as well,” said Nancy, “but he wasn’t there when I looked last.”

  A scouting party went up the edge of the Topps. Roger was first up the gully in the rock. He looked across to Grey Screes.

  “He’s jolly well been there,” he cried.

  “How do you know?” said Nancy. “Oh gosh! What on earth can he be up to?”

  Dusk was falling, but even in the twilight they could see that up there on Grey Screes Squashy Hat had been at work again. There had been two of those white spots. There were now three.

  “Blow supper,” said Roger. “Let’s start at once.”

  “Too late,” said John. “We’d have to take a lantern and we’d be seen for miles.”

  “Now you see the good of camping up here,” said Nancy. “No waiting for Mrs Tyson tomorrow. We’ll start at dawn and go up Grey Screes and find out what he’s doing and be down again while Squashy Hat’s still snoring in his feather bed.”

  They went back to the new camp, where in the dusk the camp-fire burned more and more cheerfully.

  “Tea’s nearly ready,” said Susan.

  “Mister Mate,” said Nancy. “That Squashy’s gone and painted another spot. We’ve got to see what it’s all about. John and I are going to start at dawn, and we’ll have to take Dick too, to see what it is Squashy’s hammering at. I don’t believe he’s found anything, but we’d better make sure.”

  “Dick’ll have to get early to bed,” said Susan.

  “We all will,” said Nancy.

  But for the first time those holidays they were camping in the wilderness in a camp of their own, free from even the friendliest of natives. Plain pemmican, followed by bread and marmalade and apples, was perhaps not quite so good as Mrs Tyson’s farmhouse suppers, but somehow it seemed much better worth eating, washed down with tea of Susan’s brewing made with water from their own well. “What about songs?” said Nancy, throwing the core of her last apple into the fire. They sang their old favourites, “Spanish Ladies” and “Hanging Johnny” and a dozen others, while the firelight flickered on the trunks of the trees and the half-circle of pale tents. After the songs they sat on, listening to an owl below them in the valley, and the crackle of their fire, and watching the smoke climbing above them into the starry sky. White spots or no white spots, good resolutions went for nothing. It was late indeed when at last they had snuggled down into their sleeping-bags and blown out their lanterns for the night.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE WHITE SPOTS

  IT was late indeed and the sun was pouring down on the tents before they woke again. It was already too late to be worth while starting before breakfast. John raced down to Tyson’s for the morning milk because he could do it quicker than anybody else. Breakfast was pitched in at high speed. Squashy Hat might be stirring now at any minute, and when John, Nancy and the professor hurried out across the Topps a scouting party was told to watch Atkinson’s farm and to give warning the moment the enemy was on the move.

  *

  “But what’s it for?” said Nancy.

  They were looking at a great patch of white paint on the face of a rock a long way up the steep slopes of Grey Screes. There seemed to be no reason for it at all. Here was nothing but craggy hillside, hard to climb, with no signs of old workings of any kind. Up here, they were high above the Topps. The country they had left spread below them like a map. They could even see glimpses of the distant lake, and the further hills, and High Greenland where, in the Christmas holidays, Dick had rescued a crag-fast sheep. But they had not climbed so high only to look at views. John scratched the white paint with his fingernail.

  “It’s just ordinary paint,” he said.

  “Come on,” said Nancy. “Let’s go on and have a look at another.”

  They climbed, sometimes on hands and knees on the rocks, sometimes skirting round a bit of crag too steep to climb. They came, breathless, to the second of the white patches. Standing beside it, they could see another higher still.

  “Well, it beats me,” said Nancy.

  “Found anything, Professor?” said John. Dick was digging at something with a knife and looking very worried.

  “He’s been hammering at this stuff,” he said, “but I can’t think why.”

  A little above the big round splash of paint there was a wide crack in the rock full of what looked like rust and ashes, brown, reddish and black. Here, and nowhere else, were marks of a hammer. Bits of the stuff were lying loose. It looked as if someone had been trying to clean out the crack.

  “What is it?” said John.

  “Iron, I should think,” said Dick, “with that rusty stuff, but I don’t know.” He had pulled the mineralogy book from his knapsack, but found no help in it.

  John and Nancy attacked the stuff with their hammers.

  “It’s just dirt,” said Nancy.

  “It can’t be that,” said John. “Let’s go up to the top one.”

  They climbed again, and came to the first and highest of the white patches. And here, too, there seemed to be no reason for it, unless it was that near this patch also was what looked like an old crack in the rock, six or seven inches across, full of this same reddish dirt.

  “He’s been doing a good deal of hammering at this one,” said John.

  “Trying to sink a well,” laughed Nancy, poking the handle of her hammer into a deep hole in the dirt. There were chips of grey rock round it as if someone had been using hammer and chisel. Small scraps of reddish dirt were scattered about.

  “Let’s go down again to the bottom one and see if there’s any of the same stuff there,” said John.

  “Right,” said Nancy. “That’ll settle it. But, I say, Professor, are you sure about the stuff?”

  “Not really,” said Dick, “but it looks like rust. And, anyhow, it isn’t gold.”

  They raced downhill, leaping, running, sliding, pulling up short and going carefully sideways down the steepest bits until they came to the lowest of the white paint splashes.

  “Here it is,” said John. “Just the same as up above.”

  They were looking at another crack in the rock full of red dirt exactly like the stuff they had been looking at. Here, too, were marks of Squashy Hat’s hammer and chisel. Dick picked up bits of the stuff one after another.

  “I don’t believe they’re worth anything at all,” he said.

  “Hullo, here’s his paint-pot,” said Nancy.

  They all three had a g
ood look at the paint-pot, as if that could answer questions. But it answered none. It was an ordinary tin of paint with a wire handle for carrying, and a press-in lid. It was labelled “Household Paint. White. For indoor or outdoor use.”

  “I wonder if it’s the same crack going all the way up the hill,” said Dick. “Each bit points about the same way, and there’s a lot of grass and loose stones. Perhaps if we could clear it away we’d find it was all one crack.”

  Dick, in that moment, had come very near the truth, but none of them knew it, and Dick himself presently threw the idea away. He was still looking at bits of the reddish stuff that had been chipped from the crack. “He can’t really be interested in that rubbish,” he said.

  “Got it,” said Nancy. “Galoots we are. Gummocks. Mutton-headed gummocks. Of course he isn’t. He’s only pretending. He’s guessed that Slater Bob has told us something he hasn’t told him. He comes up here just to have an excuse for watching us. From here he can see everything in High Topps. That’s it. You know, he didn’t start coming up here till after we’d begun prospecting.”

  She stopped suddenly, looking at John’s face which had turned the colour of an over-ripe tomato.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She turned to see what he was staring at.

  Fifty yards away on the hillside Squashy Hat himself was standing, with his back towards them, looking away into the distance as if he did not know they were there.

  Nancy’s mouth fell open. She still had the stranger’s can of white paint in her hands. She put it hurriedly down in the place where she had found it.

  AS IF HE DID NOT KNOW THEY WERE THERE

  “He was looking this way when I first saw him,” whispered John, who was feeling almost as if he had been caught in somebody else’s garden.

  “I’m sure it’s only iron,” said Dick, who had been scraping away at a bit with his pocket-knife.

  “Shut up!” hissed Nancy. “Look!”

  “Let’s ask him what the stuff is,” said Dick.

  “We can’t,” said Nancy. “We’ve got to get out. Come on. Don’t look his way.”

  Dick looked at John, but John, too, was all for getting out, as quickly as possible, without actually running away. After all, not one of them knew Squashy Hat. And even if he was a rival, and trying to find the gold that they were after, it was not very pleasant to be caught examining his can of paint and looking at the places where he had been busy with his hammer. Mother was the friendliest and most understanding of all natives, but this was not a thing of which she could be expected to approve.

  Silently, and not exactly hurrying, but not dawdling either, they went down Grey Screes and across High Topps to the camp.

  They did not once look back at the Screes. Squashy Hat may have been looking at them or he may not, but both John and Nancy felt his eyes on their backs. Dick, thinking of the red dirt, had other troubles. He cheered up, however, on the way.

  “Perhaps he didn’t know what it was himself,” he said at last.

  “He was only using it for an excuse to be up there spying on us,” said Nancy. “The white spots are all part of his villainy. What he wants is to keep an eye on us, and to be ready to jump our claim the moment we find the gold. We were quite right to go and look. Even Susan would say so. But I don’t know what our scouts were doing not to warn us he was coming.”

  Half-way across the Topps they met Roger, Peggy, Titty, and Dorothea hurrying to meet them.

  “Did he say anything?” asked Dorothea.

  “What happened?” asked Titty.

  “You’re a fine lot of scouts,” said Nancy bitterly. “Letting us get caught like that. Why didn’t you signal?”

  “We did,” said Peggy.

  “Like windmills,” said Roger, “for hours and hours, but it wasn’t any good because you never looked at us.”

  “I suppose we can’t have done,” said Nancy, rather sheepishly for her.

  Back in the camp, where Susan had made scrambled eggs for them on a huge scale, breaking sixteen eggs one after another into the frying-pan, a council was held. Whatever happened everybody was to keep clear of Squashy Hat. Susan was very firm on that, and John and Nancy, after the morning’s experience, seemed almost as native as Susan.

  “But he didn’t really say anything,” said Dorothea.

  “It was just as bad as if he had,” said John.

  “Perhaps worse,” said Susan.

  “Perhaps we ought to stop prospecting except when he isn’t there.”

  “If we do,” said Nancy, “he’ll know we’ve found out that his scratchings and blobs of white paint are just to hide that he’s watching to find out where Slater Bob told us to look.”

  “Nancy’s right,” said Captain John. “We’ve got to go on just as if we hadn’t found him out.”

  “We haven’t really,” said Dick.

  Sophocles was sent off soon after dinner. The message sent with him said nothing about Squashy Hat.

  “NEW CAMP COULDN’T BE BETTER. AND YOU JUST TRY OUR COOKING, SUSAN’S I MEAN.”

  The skull with which the message was signed was grinning so cheerfully that nobody could have guessed how near things had come to being very awkward.

  That afternoon a long line of prospectors combed the Topps as if there was no Squashy Hat busy on the hillside above them. And Squashy Hat, for his part, went on with his work as if there were no prospectors looking up every now and then to see what he was doing. He even added yet another white spot to the others, a little way below the third. He left Grey Screes and went home while the prospectors were still on the Topps. It seemed almost as if he did not care what they might be doing.

  There was no need now to get down to Tyson’s farm for supper, and the combing went on till dusk. Peggy was sent off first to run down for more milk. Susan followed her to get the fire going and to cook the supper. The others went on till they could hardly see.

  After supper Nancy and John marked the map that they had made, putting black dots to show the old workings they had found, and rough shading over the strips of country that had been combed. The shaded part seemed very small when they remembered how many days had gone.

  “You know we did more the first day than we’ve ever done since,” said Nancy.

  “Well, we’ve had to have somebody keeping an eye on him,” said John.

  “And then there was the well to dig and shifting camp,” said Nancy.

  “How many more days have we got?” said Titty.

  “Nobody knows,” said Nancy. “Anyway we jolly well will get up early tomorrow, and we’ll search about two hundred square miles.”

  “Combing?” said Roger. “I don’t believe it’s any good. Marching along in a row we’ll never find it. It may be in the part we won’t get at till it’s time to go. If it’s there at all.”

  “We jolly well know it’s there,” said Nancy. “We’re bound to find it if we go on. If we start just dashing about all over the place we may miss it altogether.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  ROGER ALONE

  “SQUASHY’S gone.”

  “Not really?” Titty, from the foot of the ash tree, was looking up at Captain Nancy who was high in its branches and looking out.

  “He has,” Nancy called down. “He’s gone off down the road. We’ll have the Topps to ourselves again.”

  Titty ran back into the camp.

  “Nancy says he’s gone down the road …”

  “Let’s get breakfast over quick,” said John, who had just got back from Tyson’s with the morning milk.

  A moment later Nancy slid down the last few feet of the look-out tree and rubbed the green lichen stain from her knees. Twenty minutes after that, the eight of them were already spreading out in a long line and beginning a new day’s combing of the Topps. With Squashy Hat gone the other way, down the road, perhaps, indeed, round the head of the lake to Rio, they meant to take their chance and cover all the ground they could.

  But, for one reas
on or another, it was a duller morning’s work than usual. They found only two old workings to look at, and neither of them even looked as if it might be the one of which Slater Bob had spoken. Both tunnels were in a broken-down state, and John and Nancy let none of the younger ones go inside. Titty’s ball of string was left unused. Roger grew more and more bored. Even Titty began to think it a pity there was no scouting to be done. Dorothea now and then looked regretfully towards the white splashes on the hillside. What sort of a story was it when it was without a villain? Dick alone, for whom, at the moment, nothing mattered but different kinds of stones, kept his hammer busy and was happy.

  At noon they were back again at the near side of the Topps. This was according to plan, and they ate their midday dinner, pemmican (cold), apples, bunloaf and marmalade, and a bottle of ginger-beer (grog) apiece, in the shade of the trees. They sent off Sappho early, to give her plenty of time to get home. The message was cheerful: “ALL GOING WELL.” Roger thought it much too cheerful considering there was more than half the Topps still to be searched.

  In the afternoon they started again on another strip of country, and worked their way across to the foot of the Screes. There was a little more interest this time, because they had several stony ridges to cross, and little valleys and ravines in the Topps, where they found heather and grey rock together. But though this seemed very hopeful, they found no signs of old workings, and when, towards evening, after moving north so as to cover fresh ground, they started to work back again towards the valley of the Amazon, Roger was almost in a state of mutiny.

  They were not half-way across the Topps when he invented a private game. He looked right and left along the line of prospectors. Nobody was as hopeful as in the morning, and the line was not as straight as it had been. Some lagged, others were going too fast, and the line curled this way and that among heather and bracken and rock as they made their way slowly home. Still, a line there was, and Roger thought that it would be rather good practice for scouting if he were to try to get from one end of it to the other without being seen. Nancy, whose eyes were sharpest, was luckily on his left. All the others were on his right. He took a good look across country. There were John, Titty, Dorothea, Peggy, Dick, and Susan. He noted things likely to be useful, a patch of rocks, a gully, and, best of all, a wide stretch of bracken, not twenty yards ahead of him and stretching away over the Topps, nearly as far as the rocky ridge over which Dorothea was scrambling on her hands and knees.