Jerry Todd and the Bob-Tailed Elephant

Front matter

JERRY TODD

AND THE

BY LEO EDWARDS sn 3

Contents

UncLE JONAH’S Cork TREE ., Tue Mystery BEGINS © 4 wu HENNY’s DISAPPEARANCE

Rep’s BirTHDAY PRESENT . .,

A Busy AFTERNOON . .. «ws

Chapter I The Haunted House

Boy, did we ever have fun with that peachy little elephant. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. And having seen the comical pictures in this book I dare say that the elephant is the thing you want to hear about first.

But this is going to be a long story. Starting at Hallowe’en it doesn’t end till the following summer. And before I can tell you about the elephant I’ve got to tell you about Henny Bibbler, the boy who disappeared so mysteriously.

Henny lived on a little farm just north of town in Happy Hollow. He’s the kid who used * to wear the little red hat to Sunday school. Boy, that was some hat. Every chance we got we tipped it up behind and slid it down on his nose, which may explain why he never was much of a hand to mix with us.

So I was a long time getting acquainted with him. I found out, though, when we did get together, that he was a swell kid. Full of pep, with a lot of original ideas. And just before his amazing disappearance he and I got real chummy. So much so, in fact, that Red Meyers got jealous.

I dare say you remember Red. For he ap-' pears in the most of my books. His temper is as fiery as his hair. And eat? Say, he has a stomach like a goat... I never saw that kid when he wasn’t hungry. His mother tells the story that he asks for pie in his sleep. Mrs. Meyers is nice. Still, I’ve never forgotten the mean things that she said about our elephant. As though it was any discredit to Bingo that he mistook her imported porch rug for a hay sandwich. Good-night! The poor little animal had to eat. And it was a grass rug. I think he showed intelligence.. For everybody knows that grass and hay are the same thing.

Red has beautiful freckles parked all over his face like pimples on a pumpkin. But if he’s little in size he sure makes up for it in gab. Bla! bla! bla! Dad laughingly calls him the little squirt with the big squawk.

Another recent addition to our gang is Rory Ringer, a little English kid. He calls owls ‘‘howls’’ and eagles ‘‘heagles.’’ Gee! He sure is a card. At school the teacher hardly ever dares to call upon him to read aloud. For you can imagine what a class of lively boys would do if one of their number got up and dished out a lingo like this:

‘“‘Once upon a time there was a ’ermit who ’ad a trained ’awk. And the trained ’awk’s name was ’Hinery. One day the ’ermit took ’*Enery the trained ’awk into the woods to ’unt. That day ’Enery the trained ’awk brought down two heagles and a howl. But the ’ermit could not heat heagles and howls. So ’Enery the trained ’awk caught for ’is master the ’ermit a brace of ’ares.’’

And so on and so forth.

Other members of our gang, as you’ll recall, are Scoop Ellery and Peg Shaw. In fact Scoop has long been our leader. And a bully good leader he is, too. Smart? Well, I hope to snicker he’s smart. But then he should be. For Mr“Ellery is one of the keenest business men in Tutter. And how lovely for us that he has a candy counter in his store. Um-yumyum! Scoop is a big asset to our gang, all right.

Peg Shaw is a great big guy with cast-iron muscles, like the blacksmith in the chestnuttree poem. But though we differ in size we’re practically the same age. Peg may be a month or two the oldest. But not much. His folks shoved a lot of husky grub into him, I guess. And it turned into muscle. I never saw him pick a scrap in my life. He isn’t that kind of a kid. But don’t get the foolish notion that you can shove him around. I guess not. He knows how to take care of himself. And he knows how to help his pals, too, good old scout that he is.

Now, as I say, Henny Bibbler had been admitted into our gang. And he and I were together a great deal. In fact we shared the same double seat at school, with Red and Rory just ahead of us. Scoop and Peg sat across the aisle. So you can see how easy it was for the six of us to pass notes and otherwise make outside plans. Sometimes Henny would play games with me after school. And other times I’d go home with him. Then, too, we frequently stayed all night with each other.

He never was much of a hand to talk about family affairs. And I used to wonder why his pa and ma didn’t live together as a pa and ma should. Mr. Bibbler lived in a little cabin on one side of the winding creek, as it threads its way through their small farm, and Mrs. Bibbler lived in the farmhouse on the other side of the creek. Henny sort of divided his time between the two places, having two birthdays and two Christmases. One day when he was playing at my house I overheard Mother and Dad talking about him. They looked at him kind of sober-like and said it was ridiculous for his pa and ma, good Methodists that they were, to let a little thnig like dyed hair and jet earrings break up the peace of their home. It was bad for Henny, they said. For he was just at the age where he needed a combined father’s and mother’s care and not a half-and-half substitute.

Dyed hair and jet earrings! That didn’t make sense to me. And I came right out and asked Henny what my folks meant. I kind of wished I hadn’t, though, when I saw the blood rush to his face. Gee! I could tell, too, that something was hurting him inside. And when he answered me his voice was as stiff as a poker.

““Sometimes I get all out of patience with ma and pa. And I[’d like nothing better than to take them across my knee and give them a good paddling. ’’

‘“‘You’d look funny,’’ I grinned, ‘‘paddling your big pa. Maybe in the end you’d get the worst of it. But it’s none of my business,’’ I added hastily. ‘‘I didn’t mean to butt in, Henny. Just forget what I said.’’

‘‘No,’’ he waggled, kind of determined-like. “Tm going to tell you all about it. Not that I want to run down my folks. No boy should do that. But now that you come out to my house so often I think you ought to know just how silly they are. Kids quarrel and get over it.

They don’t let it make them mean and sour inside. But parents as old as mine ought to set a better example.’’

* “Have they been quarreling?’’ I inquired curiously.

‘‘They did before pa built the new cabin and went there to live. But now they don’t even speak to each other.’’

‘‘What did they quarrel about?’’ I further inquired.

‘“‘That’s the silly part,’’ his face flushed again. ‘‘It makes me feel foolish to tell you about it. Ma’s earrings started it.’’

‘‘Harrings?’’ I looked at him with added curiosity.

‘‘Sure thing. You’ve seen her wear them. Those big black ones. Pa got mad one day (you know how he flares up over a little of nothing) and wanting to say something mean, like people do when they lose their temper, he told her that it wasnt civilized for women to wear earrings. And he called her a barbarian.”’

‘‘Gee!’’ I grinned. ‘‘I can imagine what she told him.”’

For it’s a fact that Mrs. Bibbler, quicktempered herself, can talk faster and say more in a given time than any two women in Tutter. Boy, she sure can spread the gab around. Some people say she talks too much. But that’s all right. If she wants to talk it’s her own business. Certainly, this is a free country.

“‘Yes,’’ Henny nodded, ‘‘ma said a mouthful. For she was mad enough at pa to claw his eyes out. Earrings, she fired back at him, wasn’t half as ridiculous as dyeing one’s hair with shoe blacking.’’

I remembered then how black Mr. Bibbler’s hair was. And I had wondered at it. For he was a man of sixty or more. And usually men of that advanced age have faded hair.

“‘Well,’’ Henny continued his story, ‘‘they got to going it hotter and hotter, like a couple of silly kids. Finally pa ran out of the house. He wasn’t going to live with a freak, he said, to be reminded of barbarians every time he looked at her. Either the earrings had to go or he’d go. He should have known, though, that ma wouldn’t give up her earrings—not when he talked that way. So they separated. And she told him never to come back until he had the good sense to let his hair grow red, the way God made it, instead of plastering it over with shoe blacking. Which, of course, made him madder than ever. It wasn’t shoe blacking, he stormed. It was hair dye. But ma said it was just as bad as shoe blacking the way it got on the towels and pillow cases, and she wasn’t particular about a name for the nonsensical stuff.’’

‘‘But why does your pa dye his hair?”’ I inquired.

“‘That’s exactly what I asked him. Red hair, I said, wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. But he hates it, I guess. Anyway a lot of elderly people dye their hair, as I understand it. So it isn’t anything to hold against him. But I wish you could have seen him, Jerry, the day he fell in the creek. Half of his hair was red, where ’ the water got at the dye, and the other half was black. It was the funniest sight that I ever saw in all my life. That was the time he ran me down and paddled me. Remember? But I should worry. I had a good laugh anyway. This quarrel of theirs, though, is no laughing matter. And when I go to bed at night I lay there for hours wondering if there isn’t something I can do to bring them to their senses. I’ve talked to them. I’ve talked cross, too. But it does no good. They can’t fool me, though. I know that deep in their hearts they’re really hungry for each other. But they’re both too stubborn to give in.’’

- So now you know the truth about Henny’s parents. And I dare say it’s your opinion that his pa and ma showed mighty poor sense in thus letting their tempers get away from them. For grown-up people who get married so solemn-like shouldn’t act like kids. They should be willing to give and take. To quarrel over earrings and dyed hair was baby stuff.

Henny really had better sense than his two parents put together. And afterwards he talked with me a lot about his family troubles, confiding in me how unhappy it made him to have his pa and ma act so silly.

‘‘Why,’’ said he, kind of hot-like, ‘‘they’re the laughingstock of the town. For everybody knows about their quarrel. Harrings and shoe blacking! Wherever I go people look at me kind of sympathetic-like. And how I hate it. Jerry,’’ he added fiercely, ‘‘I want you to help me. And between the two of us we’re going to bring my ma and pa together.”’

Red Meyers, though, thought that Henny was lucky.

““Twoe birthday cakes,’’ said he, in that hungry way of his, ‘‘and two Christmas dinners. Um-yum-yum! I wish my pa would dye his hair with shoe blacking. Then if he and ma separated I could eat all of my meals at both places.’’

Henny, though, isn’t like Red. And it added nothing to his life to have a birthday cake one day with his ma and another birthday cake the next day with his pa, only Mrs. Bibbler’s cake always was the best, with no lumps of flour in it, for cooking is a woman’s job. Still, Henny’s pa was pretty handy around the kitchen, having lived alone for more than two years.

I’ve been there with my chum when the old man was cooking things. One day he was frying doughnuts and the grease in his iron kettle got afire. The house, which never looked neat like Mrs. Bibbler’s on the other side of the creek, got smoked up worse than ever. And I thought then, as I looked around, how silly it was for him to live like this. But it’s a fact that his bushy hair got blacker and blacker each month, which in itself showed that he was so determined not to give in that he was using a lot more shoe blacking than was necessary. And to show how she felt about it, Henny’s ma kept the big jet earrings in her ears all the time, week days and Sundays.

It was getting along toward the last of October, with a cool crispy feeling in the morning air which made a fellow think of comifg snowstorms and ice skating. The summer’s bully. But there’s heaps of winter fun in a small town like ours. And we’re particularly fortunate in having so many streams and ponds. On moonlit winter nights hundreds of grown-up people turn out to skate on the big first quarry. Which, of course, pleases the kids, myself included. We have big bonfires. Sometimes we have ‘‘hot-dogs,’’ only Rory calls them ‘‘ ’otdogs.’ When we have a special treat like that

Mrs. Meyers always goes and sits beside the fire. For one time Red ate eleven ‘‘weenies’’ and the doctor bill set Mr. Meyers back fifteen _ dollars, So it’s cheaper, Red’s mother thinks, to sort of follow him around on an oceasion of that kind. Then, too, speaking of our winter fun, we build huge snow forts and have pitched battles. But before the snow and ice comes we have the fun of foraging in the woods for walnuts. And that is what we were doing the Saturday morning that we ended up in the yard of the old Rumson place.

It was here that Mr. Arnold Rumson, a sexton, hung himself in the attic. And for that reason a lot of superstitious people believe that the house is haunted. So no one lives there. The windows and doors are boarded up. And the lilage’ bushes that Mrs. Rumson planted in the yard a short time before her death are so tall that you can hardly see the house from the lane.

It’s fun to fool around a place like that. And it was added fun to-day for we had Red and Rory along. Do you know that a great many English boys believe in ghosts? Rory says that they do. And he listened with eyes as big as saucers while I told him the story of the threelegged ghost (Dad says it’s a calf with three white legs and one black one) as it is to be found here on Hallowe’en, clattering in and out of the lower rooms. Then up in the attic was the headless ghost of the sexton himself. Br-r-r-r! It was all right to come here in the daytime, I said. But it was no place to hang around at night, especially on Hallowe’en.

‘‘But what became of the sexton’s ’ead?’’ Rory wanted to know.

‘“‘T heard,’’ Henny put in, ‘‘that his head. dropped off when they cut him down.”’

‘‘But ’ow can ’e see,’’ the smaller one further inquired, ‘‘if ’e ’asn’t got a ’ead?’’

‘“‘He feels,’’ said Henny. ‘‘He’s got long snaky arms.”’

‘¢And you say ’e talks?’’

‘‘And yet ’e ’asn’t got a ’ead?”’

‘“‘The voice comes out of his neck.’’

‘“What does ’e say?’’

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Rory had heard enough.

‘‘Well,’’ said he, picking up his bag of walnuts, ‘‘Hi’m ready to start for ’ome if you guys are.”’

But Henny and I were determined to explore the old house, the more so when we discovered that some one had nailed a human skull over the back door. Was it the sexton’s skull? Probably not. Still, the sight of it gave me a queer feeling.

Leading the way through the cluttered yard, the bushes of which towered many feet above our heads, Henny suddenly stumbled. And there in front of him was an open well, at the bottom of which we could see a pool of wickedlooking water.

“‘Gee!’’ said he, when I grabbed him at the brink of the yawning hole. ‘‘That was a narrow escape for me, all right.’’

Later, having found a loose window board, he and I ran through the house, yelling: ‘‘Get out of our way, you crummy old ghost, or we’ll kick the seat of your pants off.’? And finding that nothing harmed us, Red and Rory finally joined us. Climbing the stairs we found ourselves in a room with bare rafters. And there, just as it had been left by the coroner, was the rope wifh which the sexton had ended his life. Jumping up, Henny grabbed the rope, swinging back and forth. But I wouldn’t touch it. And it is well for me that I didn’t. For suddenly the rope broke, spilling Henny on the dirty floor.

Red almost had a fit when he heard the noon whistles, so afraid was he that he’d miss his dinner. And yelling to Rory to follow him, he dashed down the stairs.

‘‘Aren’t you coming, Jerry?’’ he looked back, as he started off with his bag of nuts.

‘‘No,’’? Henny spoke for me. ‘‘My ma is expecting him to eat dinner at our house.’’

Chapter II Hallowe’en’

Rep and Rory having disappeared down the baunted-house lane, as it connects with the Treebury pike a short distance away, Henny and I separately shouldered our bags of walnuts and started off in the opposite direction, soon coming within sight of the Bumblehopper farmhouse at the extreme east end of the long tree-bordered lane, where we stopped to get a drink.

And Mrs. Bumblehopper, of course, had a million questions to ask us about things on the adjoining farm. For she and Mrs. Bibbler are great friends. By road their homes are fully two miles apart. But by cutting across the intervening fields they can shorten the distance to half a mile, which explains why Henny and I had come this way instead of following Red and Rory down the Treebury pike.

‘‘Ma hardly ever has dinner before twelvethirty,’’ said Henny, when we came within sight of his father’s squatty cabin on the west bank of the creek. ‘‘So let’s stop here for a minute or two.’’

Mr. Bibbler is a tall, big-boned man, kind of stooped like most old people and a bit uncertain on his long thin legs. He wears glasses for close work, but always looks over them when he talks to people. His eyes are a faded blue, a peculiar contrast to his coal-black hair. At times these eyes can spit fire. For he has a mean temper. Yet at other times they seem so wistful-like that you feel kind of sad as you look into them. Of the two, I like Henny’s ma the best. But the old man is all right.

A warm smile flashed across his grizzled face when we tumbled into the kitchen where he was baking cookies,

““T was jest thinkin’ of you boys,’’ he told us. ‘‘For I know how you like cookies, Henny. And these are some of the best ones I’ve baked in months. ... Lose that heifer that took sick on you last week?”’

‘‘No,’’ said Henny, nibbling gingerly at one of the cookies. ‘‘Ma fixed up some medicine for vt?”

A cloud passed over the old man’s face.

_ “AHumph!’? he grunted, kind of contemptu- ‘ous-like. ‘‘The wonder is then that it didn’t die.”’

‘“‘Yes,’’ Henny shot back, ‘‘and the wonder is that you don’t die eating junk like this.’’

‘“‘Heh?’’ the farmer bristled. ‘‘Don’t you like my cookies?’’

“They taste like sawdust flavored with wagon grease.”’

“‘Tiook a-here, young man,’’ came severely, as the scowl deepened on the elderly face, ‘‘I7l take a stick to you if you git too sassy. The idea of you talkin’ that way to your pa when he gives you good cookies to eat.’’

Henny put a hand to his jaw.

‘“‘Oh, oh,’’ he groaned, pretending that he was in great pain. ‘‘I broke a tooth.’’

After which, of course, I expected the hot-tempered old man to blow up. And I got ready to run. But instead of lighting into Henny he rushed to the cook stove where the smoke from a batch of burned cookies was rolling out of the oven. And did he ever bellow when he burned his fingers on the oven door. In a way, it was funny.

‘«Serves you right,’’ said Henny heartlessly. “‘T don’t feel a bit sorry for you. For you don’t have to do your own cooking.’’

‘‘A husband has got his own personal rights,’’ said Mr. Bibbler stubbornly. ‘‘And a marriage certificate doesn’t take those rights away from him, nuther. He can dye his hair if, he wants to with shoe blacking or any other, kind of blacking.’’

‘‘And a wife has her rights, too,’’ said Henny. ‘‘If she wants to wear earrings it’s nobody’s business but her own.’’

‘‘It’s tarnation foolishness. ’’

‘““That’s what you say. And ma says your hair dye is tarnation foolishness. It’s six of one and a half dozen of the other.’’

““Get out of here and don’t sass me,’’ the old man completely lost his temper. ‘‘And if your ma sent you here to say those things you jest tell her that my hair’ll stay dyed as long as she acts like a barbarian and wears earrings. Get out, I tell you. And it’s lucky for you, you young sass-box, that I don’t warm you up good and proper.’’

Crossing the creek, Henny looked back at the squatty cabin.

“‘T didn’t let on to him, Jerry, but every time I see ma doing his work around the farm I razz her the same as I razzed him. For I want to bring them together if I can and give the neighbors something else to talk about for a change. But pa in particular is as stubborn as a mule. Still, I like him a lot and he likes me. And the same is true of my ma. I’ve got a good pa and ma, with all of their faults. They just got started wrong on this thing. And I’d give a leg if I could get them straightened out. Shoe blacking! Gr-r-r-r!’’ and he socked a rock at the fence. ‘‘Harrings! Gr-r-r-r!’’ and he grabbed another rock.

A small, waspish, bright-eyed little old lady, Mrs. Bibbler works as hard as she talks. Her house is as neat as wax. She keeps a beautiful yard, too, full of trimmed bushes and fancyshaped flower beds. Henny cuts the grass twice a week in the summer time. His ma makes him trim around the trees, too. And one Saturday he and I stretched a woven-wire fence clear around the farmhouse, for it was his ma’s complaint that the chickens were scratching up her choice flowers. Later Henny built a swinging gate in front, which now slammed behind us as we hurried up the path to the two-story farmhouse, a collie dog barking at our heels.

‘‘Laws-a-me, Henny,’’ the talkative parent flew to the kitchen door to meet us. ‘‘I was beginning to worry about you. I was for a fact. For I know how reckless boys are when it comes to climbing walnut trees. And the wonder to me is that more of them aren’t brought home with broken ribs. But do you see what time it is? Just look at that clock. And I always go to town with the eggs on Saturday afternoon. You know that. I like to get an early start, too. For Saturday afternoon is the only chance I have all week long to find out what’s going on in town.’’

‘‘T stopped in to see pa,’’ said Henny, pitching his cap at a hook.

‘‘Humph!’’ the little old lady stiffened. **You didn’t see much.’’

‘‘He looks kind of peaked.’’

“Well. ... Is it anybody’s fault but his own?’’ came tartly.

‘What would you do,’’ said Henny, ‘‘if he got sick?’’

‘“What would I do? Why, I’d do the same as he would if J got sick: I’d stay at home and mind my own business. He has his own friends. Let them take care of him.’’

I noticed, though, that she talked less than usual during the noonday meal. She seemed uneasy, too.

“‘Did—did your pa say it was his old stomach complaint?’’ she finally inquired, getting Henny’s eye across the table.

‘“Well,’’ she gave a nervous gesture, ‘‘what did he say?’’

‘“‘Nothing about himself. He never does when he’s sick. You know that, ma. But he sure looks bad.”’

‘‘Goodness gracious! We mustn’t let him die. I’ll get some medicine after dinner and you can take it over to him. But don’t you dare to hint to him that I sent it.’’

‘‘Gee,’? Henny smacked. ‘‘These are bully good cookies. And pa always did like your cookies.’”

‘<Yes; I’ll put some in a bag for him.’’

‘“You see how it is,’’ said Henny, when we were outside. ‘‘They think just as much of each other as ever.”’

‘‘Then why don’t they make up?’’

““They’re too stubborn.’’

‘¢And you want me to help you bring them together?’’ I grinned.

He looked at me earnestly.

‘‘ Jerry, if we can do that I’ll be the happiest kid in the world.’’

The teacher lost all patience with us the following Thursday. For this being Hallowe’en we couldn’t keep our minds on our work. All we could think of was the fun that we were going to have that night.

In Dad’s day the boys used to cut up some pretty wild capers on Hallowe’en. Lumber wagons were hung in trees. And small buildings were tipped over. Down our way, though, that kind of fun is a thing of the past. What we do, instead of wrecking stuff, is to dress up in all kinds of ridiculous costumes. A sort of street carnival. Even the old folks turn out with their horns and noise makers. Everybody has fun, with the band tooting and the mayor dressed up the most ridiculous of all. Starting ‘at dusk, the carnival frequently lasts till midnight.

Henny had to stay after school that night. For the teacher caught him shooting paper airplanes across the room. Getting out at five o’clock he hurried home to do his chores, later calling me up on the telephone to find out how I was progressing with my Hallowe’en suit, it having been agreed between us that we were to dress up like ghosts.

‘‘Mother’s putting the eyes in it now,’’ I; told him.

‘‘Say, Jerry,’’ he spoke eagerly, like the « bully good pal that he is, ‘‘can’t you come out to my house to-night and eat supper with me? Ma’s going to bake johnnycake. And Mrs. Bumblehopper brought us over some new honey to-day.’’

““Um-yum-yum!’’ I smacked into the mouthpiece. For it’s a fact there’s nothing I like better than johnnycake and honey, especially the kind of johnnycake that Mrs. Bibbler makes.

‘*T’ll meet you at the mill in twenty minutes,’? said Henny, who readily understood what my ‘‘Um-yum-yum!’’ meant. ‘‘For I’ve got to drive to town for a bag of calf feed.’’

Later he and I drove out of town lickety-cut, the bag of calf feed jouncing up and down in the back of the buggy. Coming to the farmhouse lane I jumped out and opened the gate, after which we clattered down a gravelly hill to the floor of the hollow where we rumbled across a bridge, later putting the horse away in its accustomed stall in the barn.

Mrs. Bibbler, of course, was as talkative as ever. But what interested me a whole lot more than her gab was the swell johnnycake that she brought out of the oven. Oh, baby! We sure did murder that johnnycake, covering it first with big gobs of country butter and then plastering on a layer of honey. I’d be ashamed to tell you how much I ate. For I don’t want you to put me in Red Meyers’ class. But this was a sort of special occasion. And all boys are entitled to fill up once in a while.

Staggering into the parlor, I entertained myself with the family album while Henny wiped the supper dishes for his ma, after which he joined me on the settee.

‘‘Who’s that?’’ I asked him, pointing to one of the old-fashioned pictures. ‘‘ Your pa?’’

‘“No. That’s my Uncle Jonah. He and pa are twins. And except for their hair no one can tell them apart.’’

‘He looks like a sailor,’’ I further studied the odd picture.

A sailor by the name of Jonah!

‘‘Maybe he’s the fellow,’’ I laughed, recalling a recent Sunday-school lesson, ‘‘who swallowed the whale.’’

‘‘You’re: getting things twisted, Jerry. It was the whale who swallowed Jonah. But not this Jonah.’’

Sailors are interesting. For usually they know a lot of peachy pirate stories. So I told Henny to let me know the next time his uncle came to town. For I wanted to meet him. ~-“T wish he would drop in on us. As a matter of fact, Jerry, I’ve never seen him. Nor has he written a line to pa in many years.’’