The Mystery of the Deserted Village

Contents

The Mystery of the
Deserted Village

by
Elbert M. Hoppenstedt

Franklin Watts, Inc.
575 Lexington Avenue · New York 22

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 60-11186

© 1960 by Franklin Watts, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America

FIRST PRINTING

For Richard

The Mystery of the Deserted Village

Chapter 1

Ronnie was in the hayloft sliding down the piles of newly-stacked hay when he heard the car drive up into the yard and come to a stop. Spitting a mouthful of hayseeds from his lips and tongue, he ran over to the open doors and peered down into the yard.

The car was shiny and new, a big black sedan with white-walled tires. A man in a business suit carrying a briefcase climbed out of the driver’s seat and headed briskly for the front door of the house.

Ronnie knew who he was and why he was here, and his heart sank. Why did the St. Lawrence Seaway need a piece of the Rorth farm land, and why did it have to be just that part where the deserted village lay?

Of course he really knew the answers to his questions. What he meant was—why did it have to happen that way? Why did the land have to be so low that when the dam was built and the waters of the St. Lawrence River began to pile up behind it, the deserted village would be flooded?

He thought of Grandfather and Father in the parlor talking with the man and he wondered about what they were saying and how it would all turn out. The last time Mr. Evans had come in his black sedan Grandfather had gotten very angry and Ronnie had heard him shouting and thumping his cane on the floor.

Ronnie went over to the opening in the loft floor and, grasping the ladder, climbed quickly down to the bottom. It was darker below, and for a moment the boy had trouble seeing his way. He heard Beatrice stamping in her stall, and smelled the sharp, pungent odor of fresh manure.

His bare feet padded across the hard earth floor as he moved toward the barn door. A moment later he was out in the glaring sunlight, the full heat of the afternoon striking him on his bare shoulders and back.

He saw his brother Phil lying in the hammock beneath the grape arbor.

“Hey, Phil!” he called. “That man’s here again.”

Phil opened his eyes lazily. “What man?” he asked indifferently.

Ronnie squatted down beside him. “The man from the Seaway, of course. I just hope Grandfather gets hopping mad again and gives it to him good. Nobody’s got a right to just come along and tell a person he’s got to sell his land. Nobody!”

Phil closed his eyes again and started the hammock swinging.

“Of course you don’t care one bit, Philip Rorth!” Ronnie continued. “I think Grandfather was right. He said you’re not a real Rorth! ’Cause a real Rorth’s got fighting blood and a love for his land, and most of all he wouldn’t let the village go without a fight.”

Phil opened his left eye and squinted up at his brother. “All the fighting in the world’s not going to save the village, Ronnie, ’cause when the government wants something, it gets it. Period!”

Ronnie turned away in disgust. What could he expect of Phil? His brother had never gotten excited about anything, and he probably never would.

He headed toward the other side of the house, partly because it was shady there, but mostly because he knew the parlor window was open and he might be able to hear what was going on inside.

He passed the woodshed and swung around the corner of the house. Almost immediately he heard Grandfather’s voice. “Why, young fellow, do you know this land’s been in the family close onto a hundred and fifty years? And you come along, and without so much as a how-do-you-do, tell me I got to up and off it? Hah! Well, I’ve got a lawyer, too, to protect my rights!”

Ronnie settled down in the shade near the lilac bushes. He really wasn’t eavesdropping. He’d been wanting to weed the lily-of-the-valley bed for some time now, and this was a perfect time to do it with the sun on the other side of the house. He grabbed hold of a ragweed and started to pull it, but he stopped tugging after a few seconds so he could hear what Mr. Evans was saying.

“Mr. Rorth,” the man said, his voice like a whisper compared to Grandfather’s, “Mr. Rorth, I wish you’d try to understand. We—”

He didn’t get any further because when Grandfather was angry he didn’t usually give anyone else much time to talk. “I don’t understand, eh? Well, young fellow, I understand just fine, and just don’t you bother giving me any more of that hogwash about how wonderful it will be when big ships can come sailing down the river from the ocean to the Great Lakes, because that doesn’t touch me one bit.”

Ronnie heard his father’s voice next. “Father,” said Mr. Rorth, “it doesn’t do a bit of good getting yourself all upset like this. The Seaway Authority has told us that the water level of the lake formed behind the dam will cover the section of land where the deserted village is, and for this reason it will have to be purchased. There isn’t a thing we can do about it. Our lawyer has told us that himself.”

“More hogwash! Sometimes I think that lawyer is working for both sides and against the middle.”

The weed came loose from the ground with a suddenness that sent Ronnie reeling backward. Before he could catch himself he had crashed against the side of the house. When he looked up, there was his father peering at him from behind the screen. “Ronnie, what are you doing out there?”

“I—I’m weeding the lily of the valley,” he managed to stammer.

“Well, you’d better weed it some other time. Now go somewhere else.”

“Y—yes, sir.” Ronnie wandered away toward the front of the house. He felt ashamed for having been caught snooping, and he was peeved at himself too. He wanted to hear what happened next. He hoped and prayed that there could be something that would save the village.

Almost without thinking, he headed across the dirt road that led out to the paved highway and then he entered the apple orchard. The blossoms had faded already, and in their place were clusters of tiny green knobs with big whiskers on the ends.

A few minutes later he left the orchard and stood for a moment at the top of the bluff, looking down into the tight little valley where the buildings of the deserted village lay half hidden among the hemlocks and spruce and maples and oaks. Great-great-grandfather Ezra Rorth’s father had built the village, and had chosen a beautiful location. The brick and stone buildings were nestled comfortably in the deep ravine. A cobbled road ran through the center of the village, and Goose Brook raced along its rock-strewn course down to the St. Lawrence.

Every time he stopped to look at the village from up here on the bluff, Ronnie thought of Grandfather. When Ronnie was hardly old enough to walk, his grandfather had brought him here. For many years after that the old man and the boy had walked together down the cobbled road in the late evenings, and Grandfather had told stories of the days when the village was alive with people, and the glass furnace belched smoke day and night and Rorth glassware was known almost around the world.

Now, as always, the village drew Ronnie like a magnet. He raced down the face of the bluff, whirling his arms about like propeller blades to keep his balance. At the bottom he stopped. Now that he was here, he couldn’t decide just which part of the village he wanted to visit. He could swing on the wild grapevines in front of the gristmill, and maybe take off his trousers and go sailing feet first into the millpond. Or, he could have fun climbing around on the pile of rubble that remained from the old bakery building.

He decided to visit the old, padlocked, boarded-up building which had been the office of the Glassworks back in Great-great-grandfather Ezra’s days. He started down the path, keeping his eyes open for any big toadstools he could splatter against a tree trunk. Then he spied Bill.

His best friend was coming through the trees from the opposite direction. Ronnie put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly.

“I was just coming over to your place,” Bill greeted him. “Where are you headed?”

“No place special. Thought maybe I’d climb around on the old office building roof and maybe get a look at that swift nest down the chimney. You figuring on something else?”

“Nope.”

They started down the path together. “You know, Ronnie,” Bill said as they came to the cobblestone road through the middle of the village, “you know, I’d sure like to get a look inside that building sometime. How come your grandfather keeps it all locked up with shutters on the windows?”

“He’s had it open once or twice.”

“I’ve never seen it open.”

“I guess that’s because he hasn’t opened it up since we were big enough to remember,” Ronnie said.

“My pa was talking about it the other night. He said it’s supposed to be haunted. You believe that, Ronnie?”

Ronnie thought it over. “Maybe, maybe not.” He wouldn’t let Bill know how he really felt. Grandfather never seemed to want to talk about the building, so perhaps there was something that he wanted to hide. Of course, Ronnie had heard the stories from others, about how his great-great-grandfather Ezra had killed someone in the office building and had robbed the Glassworks of money. No two people told the same story, and Ronnie had decided not to believe any of them.

“I’d sure like to get inside,” Bill repeated.

The old office stood back from the cobblestone road. Two giant sentinel pines towered over the roof, dwarfing the building and the sapling hemlocks and pines that crowded close to its sides.

“Race you to it!” Bill yelled suddenly and started down the narrow path from the cobbled road.

Ronnie knew he couldn’t outrun Bill with his longer legs, but he’d sure try anyway. Gasping for breath, Ronnie reached his friend, who had dropped to the ground and stretched himself out in a nest of last year’s leaves just in front of the padlocked door. Ronnie threw himself down beside Bill.

They lay there for a few minutes catching their breaths. Then Bill got up and began to hunt around on the ground. He found a rock and brought it over to the door.

“What are you aiming to do?” Ronnie asked.

“I can smash that lock easy,” Bill answered.

Ronnie pulled himself to his feet. “Forget it. We were going to climb to the roof and look down the chimney at the swift’s nest—remember?”

Bill looked at the stone in his hand and then into Ronnie’s face. “O.K.,” he said, letting the rock drop to the ground. “Some other time, maybe. But, by golly, I sure want to see what’s inside.”

“Grandfather said there’s nothing much. And he knows because he’s hunted through everything.”

Bill had shinnied up a young sapling and was pulling himself carefully onto the roof. “What was he looking for?” he grunted.

Ronnie started up after him and by the time he reached Bill’s side he had conveniently forgotten to answer the question. They mounted the slope together and then edged their way down the other side where the chimney was located. Bill had no trouble peering down into the chimney flue, but Ronnie had to stand on his toes to do it.

“See anything?” Ronnie asked.

“I can make out the nest. See it, over there toward the back? I think there are eggs in it.”

“Yes,” Ronnie agreed. “Looks like three of them.”

They watched for a minute or two more and then lost interest. Instead, they sat down on the edge of the roof, with their legs hanging dangerously over the side.

Off in the distance, Ronnie could see a stretch of the St. Lawrence River and a smudge of smoke from a river boat, now already out of sight.

“A man from the Seaway’s at the house talking with Dad and Grandfather,” he said suddenly.

“The Seaway’s dickering with my pa, too,” Bill said. “Pa says it’s the best thing that ever came to him. They’re going to pay him five hundred dollars an acre, and most of it’s no-good swamp land. ’Course, it’s different with you, Ronnie. I know it’s the village that’s going.”

“I wish there was something I could do.”

“Pa says there’s not a chance.”

“I know. Grandfather won’t say it, but he knows he’s licked.”

“Sure is a shame, because they don’t really need that part where the village is. Not for the main steamship lanes, anyway. But just because it’s bottom land and will flood up, it’s got to go.”

“Goose Brook will be swallowed up, too.”

“Too bad your great-great-grandfather didn’t build the village on high ground. But then, I guess they used the stream for power to turn the wheels for the gristmill.”

Ronnie nodded. “I sure as shooting wish I could just pile up a heap of ground along the river to keep the water out. Then they wouldn’t want the village land.”

He was looking at the narrow gap where Goose Brook tumbled between the two bluffs that formed the margins of the valley. Why, it wasn’t more than seventy-five or a hundred feet across, and if it were filled in, the water behind the new Seaway dam could rise as high as it needed to without flooding the valley.

Ronnie almost lost his balance and plunged over the edge as the thought struck him. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “I’ve just gotten the coolest idea you ever did hear of. Now why in the name of common sense didn’t I think of it sooner?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Bill answered, “seeing I haven’t got the slightest idea of what you’re talking about.”

“Well, come on and I’ll show you!” Ronnie exploded. Then he scrambled up the roof and back over the other side, and swung himself into the sapling like a monkey let out of its cage.

Chapter 2

Ronnie was so busy telling Bill about his idea, and Bill was listening to it so intently, that neither of the boys saw the station wagon until it was almost upon them. “... and if we could build a dam across that narrow gap the village could be saved,” Ronnie was saying.

It was Bill who saw the station wagon first and he stopped dead in his tracks. “Look, Ronnie,” he exclaimed, “a car—in here!”

There was an old dirt road leading from the highway and connecting with the cobblestone road, but neither of the boys could ever remember seeing it used. But now that Ronnie thought about it, there wasn’t any reason why it couldn’t be used—if someone had a mind to get to the village without walking, someone traveling along the highway, that is. And here apparently was someone who wanted to do just that.

The man stopped the car, turned off the engine, and stepped out. He came toward the boys, smiling broadly. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you. I thought sure I was lost and the road was too narrow to turn around and go back to the highway.” He took a step toward Ronnie, offering his hand. “My name’s Caldwell,” he said. “Joseph Caldwell.”

Ronnie shook hands. “I’m Ronnie, and this here’s Bill. You looking for something special, mister?”

“Yes. The old Rorth Glassworks.”

“You’ve found it,” Bill answered.

“But there’s nothing here any more, Mr. Caldwell,” Ronnie added quickly. “I mean, they don’t make glass now—not for the last seventy-five or eighty years, near-abouts.”

“I know.” The man smiled faintly. “Anybody who’s traveled up that dirt road could guess that there’s been no activity here for years.”

Ronnie grinned. “Now that you’re here, what are you fixing to do?” he asked.

“Well, what I’d like to do is look the place over. But I suppose I’ll have to get permission first.”

Ronnie shook his head. “You won’t have to do that, Mr. Caldwell. This land belongs to my grandfather. He’ll let you look. Maybe you’d like to have us show you around?”

“I’d like that very much!” Mr. Caldwell answered.

As Ronnie led the man down the cobbled street, a hundred stories Grandfather had told him about the village leaped to his mind and begged to be told. He remembered the evening Grandfather and he had sat on the top of the bluff overlooking the village, with the bats circling overhead and the buildings standing silent below and fading from sight among the trees in the gathering darkness. How vividly Grandfather had told the story of the great fire of 1871 when ten of the workers’ cottages had burned to the ground, and Great-great-grandfather Ezra had worked beside his men, battling the blaze until he had fallen from smoke poisoning.

Or, the winter of the great blizzard when the roof of the Glassworks had caved in from the weight, and when the drifts were so high it took three days to dig out the road so that supplies could be procured from the storehouses.

He remembered, too, the story Grandfather told about the duchess from Bavaria who had visited the Works because she admired the Rorth glassware so much. Great-great-grandfather had blown a special piece for her that day, and she, in turn, had left a treasured piece of Bavarian glass.

They approached the two-story building beside Goose Brook. “This was the gristmill,” Ronnie told Mr. Caldwell. “Every bit of flour and meal for the village was made here from the grain grown on the fields up above where Dad has his orchards now.”

Caldwell inspected the huge, overshot waterwheel mounted on its two stone-and-cement piers and connected to the inside of the building with a rusty shaft by which the power was transferred to the grinding stones.

They went inside. A musty smell of damp stone and stale air touched Ronnie’s nostrils. The large grinding stone stood motionless now. Big copper caldrons and stone mixing pots gave evidence that the grain had not only been ground to flour, but baked into bread as well. A massive fireplace with an iron oven on each side formed the entire rear wall.

Caldwell poked about among the smaller articles for a while and then followed the boys outside. Next they visited the main building where the glass had been made and blown. Bill showed the man the main furnace with its four openings into the main chimney which rose like a giant above the furnace and disappeared through the roof. Some of the long-handled “pots” in which the glass was heated were still stacked against the wall.

Otherwise, the building was bare of its former equipment. Caldwell led the way outside. “I’ve got time for more—if you have,” he announced.

The church, sawmill, and a few of the workers’ houses which were still intact, followed. Then came a quick inspection of the smith shop and finally the old office.

“All boarded up and locked, I see!” Caldwell commented. “Something special housed inside?”

“Why, no, sir!” Ronnie answered. He didn’t feel like giving an explanation of something so personal that even Grandfather didn’t like to talk about it.

Caldwell didn’t press his question. “I certainly am impressed by how well preserved some of the buildings are,” he said instead.

“That’s because Grandfather didn’t want to see the village fall to pieces,” Ronnie answered. “Before he came down with his gout he spent days working down here, every time he could get away from the farm. He told me for a while he even milled his own lumber from the wood lot so’s he could afford to do it.”

“Your grandfather must have a real love for this place,” the man said sincerely.

“I reckon it’s just about the biggest thing in his life.” Ronnie was going to add “and mine too,” but he didn’t because Caldwell had turned away and had started down the path toward the cobbled road.

“Grandpa even replaced some of these stones in the old roadbed,” Ronnie added as the three headed back toward Mr. Caldwell’s car.

He handed each of the boys a quarter. “You’ve been real fine guides,” he said. “Thank you for taking me around.”

“You don’t need to pay us, mister,” Ronnie said, handing the money back. “Bill and I—we would have hung around here anyway.”

“Keep it, please,” the man insisted. “Who knows—I may want you to help me more, and then I wouldn’t feel right asking you, would I?”

“All right,” Ronnie agreed. Bill had already pocketed his quarter. “Say, Mr. Caldwell,” Ronnie had an idea, “do you suppose other people would pay money to have us show them around?”

Mr. Caldwell thought about the question. “I’m sure you could attract quite a few interested people—if they knew about it.” He opened the door to his car. “Say, son, I wonder if I could come to see your parents tomorrow and your grandfather, too.”

“I haven’t got any mother. She died when I was born. But you can sure come to see Dad and Grandfather. Something you want, maybe?”

“Well, perhaps. You see, I’m writing a book about early American glassware, and an idea just struck me that might prove interesting. But let me go back to my motel and think it over, and I’ll tell you about it tomorrow when I visit your folks.”

“Suits me fine,” Ronnie answered.

Caldwell climbed into his car and started the engine. Ronnie and Bill watched him while he maneuvered his machine about on the narrow, cobbled roadway and headed in the opposite direction. Then Caldwell leaned from the window and waved good-by. He started back up the road toward the highway in low gear.

Bill turned to Ronnie.

“Now just what do you suppose brought him here to see the village in the first place? He couldn’t have stumbled on it just by accident, that’s for sure!”

“He was eying the locked-up building mighty suspicious-like, I’ll tell you that!” Ronnie added. “Did you see him, Bill?”

Bill nodded his head. “He’s come here for something, and I don’t think writing a book is the whole answer.”

They walked up the path together, picking up old acorns and shooting them into the trees. Suddenly Bill stopped and confronted Ronnie. “How come you asked him would other people pay money to see the village, Ronnie?” he asked.

“I was putting one and one together, and I think I came up with two.”

“And what’s this two you came up with?”

“Well, that narrow gap where Goose Brook comes down through the valley, plus some money we might be able to earn this summer showing people around. Maybe it equals a dam and saving the village.”

Bill thought about that while he searched the dried leaves beneath a giant bull oak for more ammunition. “How much you figure a dam would cost?”

Ronnie shrugged. “I haven’t got the slightest idea. A hundred dollars, maybe?”

Bill shook his head. “Maybe more like a thousand. Maybe ten thousand.”

“Well, it would be a beginning anyway. And I know people hereabouts who would want to see the village saved, too, and I’ll bet if they heard how we were working to earn money, maybe they’d help out too. My dad knows the president of the historical society in town, and he told Dad he was sick hearing about how the village would be bulldozed and flooded, and if there was anything the society could do to help, he should just speak up.” Ronnie sighed. “I’d sure like to try to earn the money to save the village. It would be fun, too—you and me and maybe Phil, if he wants to, and you don’t care.”

“And then if we can’t use the money for the village, we can always have it to put in the bank.”

“Let’s try it, huh, Bill?” Ronnie said.

“It’s a deal! Rorth and Beckney, Guided Tours of the Rorth Glassworks’ Deserted Village.”

As they walked together down the path, each of the boys was filled with ideas as to how they would proceed. There would have to be a sign on the highway, of course. And the road leading into the village would need some repairs, and the branches overhanging it should be pruned short. They’d have to decide upon how much to charge and what they’d tell their guests about each of the buildings.

They stopped where the path divided—one route leading toward the Beckney farm, the other, up the embankment to the Rorth orchard.

“Tomorrow, Bill?” Ronnie asked him.

“Tomorrow, partner!” Bill answered.

Ronnie turned and began to run, digging his toes into the embankment as he scrambled to the top. He raced through the apple orchard, leaping a time or two to grab at a pea-sized apple. He suddenly felt light enough to fly. At least now he’d be doing something to save the deserted village, not just standing by and listening to Grandfather argue with Mr. Evans.

Chapter 3

When Ronnie entered the house, he was whistling a tune through the space between his two front teeth. In the living room he found Phil sprawled out on the couch with his head propped up against a pillow and a comic book in his hands. Phil turned a page and looked up at Ronnie. “Hi!” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

“Down in the village.” Ronnie went over to Dad’s desk to see if there might be some important-looking papers as a result of the meeting that afternoon. “Don’t you get tired of lying around all the time?” he asked Phil.

“Not me.” Phil shifted his position. “It’ll take me another month to rest up from a year of school. What’re you looking for?”

“Oh—nothing. Maybe a deed to the village property.”

“Nothing like that—yet. Gramp’s lawyer arrived soon after you got booted away from the window, and they got nowhere from then on!”

“How’d you know what happened to me?”

“Because I was listening from the other side—from the hall! Soon’s the lawyer arrived, Gramps began demanding a lot more money for the property than the Seaway wanted to give, and they argued about that for a while and then Mr. Evans left. I’m telling you all this because I know you’re going to ask me anyway.”

Ronnie nodded. “Sure I want to know about it. Where’s Dad?”

“Out in the barn, I think.”

Ronnie turned and headed for the kitchen, where he was met with a frown from Mrs. Butler, who did the housework and prepared the meals for the Rorths.

Mrs. Butler was a huge woman with a heavy-set jaw and a sharp, straight nose and piercing eyes that darted rapidly from one place to another.

“Now don’t you be running off somewhere!” she warned Ronnie. “Supper’s nearly ready to serve up, and if it’s like usual I’ll have to hunt the four corners of the farm to find everyone.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean no ma’am.”

“If you’re going out back, take a look at the gas tank for me, will you? I don’t think it’s been exchanged in a month.”

The indicator showed the tank to be almost half-full. Ronnie passed this information on to Mrs. Butler and then hurried toward the barn, chasing a dozen chickens out of his path.

His father was sitting on the homemade, bicycle-propelled grindstone sharpening one of the blades to his haymower. He didn’t look up from his work as Ronnie came to a stop at his side and stood watching him.

“Want me to spell you, Dad?” Ronnie shouted above the racket.

Mr. Rorth slowed down his pumping and then climbed off. “All right,” he answered. “I’m on the last one, but my legs are getting tired.”

Ronnie climbed onto the seat and started turning the pedals. The eight-inch-diameter stone began to whirl. Sparks shot in every direction as Mr. Rorth laid the edge of the blade against the stone.

A few minutes later, he signaled the boy to stop. “There, that’s better,” he said, running his finger cautiously along the edge of the blade. “Now if the weather holds out, I can get the north field cut and maybe into the loft.”

“You’re going to have company in the morning, Dad,” Ronnie said.

“Now who’s coming?” Mr. Rorth sounded annoyed. “I wasted the whole afternoon on this property deal when I should have been haying. Now who’s going to take over another half a day?”

Ronnie sympathized with his father. It wasn’t an easy job teaching agriculture in the local high school during the winter and then trying to run a sixty-acre farm during the growing season. Ronnie wanted to say, “I’ll give you a hand, Dad,” but he couldn’t summon enough will power to do it because he was looking forward so eagerly to starting his business venture.

Instead, he answered his father’s question. “Mr. Caldwell, Dad.”

“Caldwell? Never heard of him.”

“Me neither, until a little while ago. He came driving into the village while Bill and I were there, and he asked us to show him all around. And after we’d done that, he said he’d an idea he wanted to see you about—you and Grandfather.”

“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure Grandfather can take care of it by himself.”

Mrs. Butler’s voice bellowed from the rear door. “Come and get it! Come and get it before I throw it down the sink.”

Mr. Rorth grinned to himself. “Nice wholesome creature, that Mrs. Butler. But heaven knows what we would do without her.”

Mr. Rorth wiped his hands free of grease and started toward the barnyard door. Ronnie snapped off the overhead bulb and followed. “Dad,” he said, hurrying to catch up, “Dad, if you need me with the haying, I’ll help.”

Mr. Rorth thought it over. “I guess not. Thanks, son. Maybe after I get it cut, you can help load the truck. And I’ll probably need a hand getting it up into the loft, the same as last week.”

Ronnie went into the dining room to wait for the others to arrive. He stood in front of the sideboard, idly tinkling the bullet-sized glass crystals that hung in a circle of dewdrops from the rim of one of the Rorth candlesticks. A ray of light from the ceiling chandelier struck one of the crystals, and a rainbow of colors danced before the boy’s eyes.

Grandfather’s cane came thumping into the room and stopped behind the boy. “You watch your step with that candlestick!” Grandfather warned. “Doesn’t pay to monkey around with it for no good purpose. There’s little enough of the old Rorth glassware left in the world, and those two candlesticks are the prize of the lot.”

“I won’t harm it, Grandfather.”

“I know. I know. I’ve heard you say that before—with disastrous results. Those sticks, next to the village, are the pride of my life. Now you wouldn’t want to have everything taken from me, would you, lad?”

“No, Grandfather.” He turned away from the sideboard and looked up at his grandfather. “Grandpa,” he said, “Dad told me once there was a story about the candlesticks. Will you tell me about it? Dad said you were the one to tell me if I was to know.”

Grandfather’s gray eyes twinkled for a moment. “Remember how not so long ago you used to come sit a spell in my room after supper, and we’d talk about the village and about your Great-great-grandfather Ezra and about the Glassworks?”

Ronnie nodded.

“Well, maybe if you were to slip in for a while tonight, we could talk about the candlesticks.”

“And maybe about the locked-up building, too, huh, Grandpa?”

The old man frowned. “That’s best forgotten, lad, best forgotten.”

Phil was already seated at the table, and Mrs. Butler was glaring in Ronnie’s direction, warning him to do the same. He helped Grandfather into his special armchair at the head of the table, and then slipped around and sat down next to Phil. Grandfather said grace, Mrs. Butler brought in the corned beef and cabbage, and Mr. Rorth made a late entrance to take his place opposite Grandfather. Mr. Rorth’s face was drawn into a frown. “I wish,” he exclaimed irritably, “the Seaway would hurry up and buy the land so I could get on with the farm work.”

A loud snort from Grandfather warned him that he had not worded his feelings in quite the way the old man would understand. “What I mean is,” he hurried to correct himself, “what I mean is that we haven’t got a ghost of a chance of saving it, so we might as well be done with the whole thing.” But it was too late. Grandfather had already risen to his feet, his hand turning white as he clenched the handle of his cane. His face was a fiery red against his snow-white hair, and the vein on his right forehead popped from the surface like a big purple knot.

For a moment he was so angry his words wouldn’t come out straight. “You, why, you—you’re a traitor to the Rorths! The village is the soul, the heart, the life of this family, and you throw it away in a few idle words. Why, why this boy here,” he pointed to Ronnie, “has a greater appreciation for what the village means. Far greater. I can’t understand it. I just can’t understand it.” He sank back down into his chair, breathing rapidly.

For a minute there wasn’t a sound in the room. Ronnie could hear a cricket chirping mournfully in the cellar. Then his father looked up from his plate. “I’m sorry,” he said to Grandfather. “I really didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

Grandfather grunted, but said nothing.

After supper Ronnie and Phil helped Mrs. Butler with the dishes. “Folks down in town are mighty sad knowing the old deserted village isn’t to be spared,” she said as she wrapped up some of the table scraps to take home to her cats. “Mighty sad. It’s surprising how many folks there have a fond spot in their hearts for the place. Fact is, there’s talk going around to do something about saving it—if there’s a way to get it done.”

Ronnie pricked up his ears at this. “Gosh, do you think they can?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, boy, sometimes public opinion is powerful strong magic when it comes to something like this. The government doesn’t like to rouse up public sentiments if they can help it.”

There was a lot to what Mrs. Butler had said, and Ronnie stored the information away for later use. Maybe a combination of raising money for the dam and getting the townspeople interested might just turn the trick. Now, more than ever, he was anxious to get started on his venture.

Mrs. Butler had her scraps wrapped, and turned now to putting away the dishes Phil had dried. “You know,” she said, “either I’m getting daffy in my old age, or something mighty queer’s going on around here.”

“How come, Mrs. Butler?” Phil asked.

“Well, I’ll let you figure it out. This afternoon I put a blanket out on the line to air. A little while ago I went out to get it, and it was gone. I even got a flashlight to follow the line down to the barn, thinking maybe I’d put that blanket farther away from the house than I’d figured.”

“And it wasn’t there?” Phil asked.

“Nowheres about. Not even on the ground, figuring maybe the wind might have taken it—if there’d been a wind. Asked your pa, asked your grandpa if they’d taken it.”

“Golly, that is strange,” Ronnie agreed.

“Some tramp, probably,” Mrs. Butler grumbled, going to the closet to get her coat. But something in her voice told Ronnie she didn’t believe it.

Chapter 4

After Mrs. Butler had left, Ronnie headed for the sunny room on the ground floor of the back wing of the house. There he found Grandfather seated in his Morris chair, working frantically at the dials of his radio transmitter. “Confounded sunspots,” the old man growled. “I just can’t seem to make contact with Donavon tonight.”

“Maybe he’s not home.”

“Now that’s as foolish an explanation as I’ve ever heard. Of course he’s home! He’s been home every night for the past two years, all ready to give me his next move and hope like the devil that he’s got me stymied.”

Ronnie looked over at the table beside the transmitter where Grandfather had his chess set. It was a beautiful board of alternating light and dark squares of imported inlaid woods. The chessmen themselves were large and ornate and handsomely carved from the best ivory.

The crackle in the loudspeaker was suddenly broken by Albert Donavon’s voice in Detroit. “W3x2Z calling W2N4L. Come in, W2N4L.”

“Why in blazes are you telling me to come in, you old fogy?” Grandfather retorted. “I’ve been trying to raise you for the past ten minutes. What’s the matter—you afraid I’m going to check you with my next move?”

“There isn’t a move in the books you could check me with!” Donavon returned.

They chatted for a few minutes about the weather and each other’s health, and then exchanged their moves. “Move my castle to White’s king rook file, third rank,” Grandfather told him, “and then sweat that one out!”

“Why you old buzzard!” Donavon came back, “you think that’s going to help you? Wait until you see what I’ve got in store for you! Move my queen’s bishop to the king knight’s file, fifth rank. Now figure that out if you can!”

“Ha!” Grandfather was indignant. “You’ll have to get up early in the morning to find a move that I can’t figure out. Your trouble always has been that you jump to too hasty conclusions, Donavon!”

But Grandfather looked worried, Ronnie noticed. He was studying the board and frowning. “See you tomorrow night, same time!” Donavon signed off, and the loudspeaker went dead.

Then Grandfather turned off his transmitter and receiver. “Thinks he has me cornered, does he! Well, let him figure out that move I gave him!”

He leaned back in his chair. “Ronnie,” he said, “it’s nice having you back in here with me like old times. I’ve been fearing that maybe you and I were drifting apart of late.” He closed his eyes for a few moments and leaned his head back against his chair. “So many things have been slipping from me these past weeks, so many things.” He opened his eyes again and looked at Ronnie. “You aren’t going to slip from me too, are you, boy?”

“Of course not, Gramps. It’s because you’ve been worried about the village and I didn’t want to pester you,” Ronnie explained. “That’s why I haven’t been coming in here to see you so much lately.”

“Of course, and you’ve been worried too!” Grandfather added. “Why, it’s been written all over you. You wouldn’t be my boy if you weren’t worrying about the village.” He stretched out his game leg to ease some of the pain. “You won’t be forgetting the wonderful times we had together in the village now, will you, boy?”

“No, sir, Gramps!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Why, just this afternoon I was telling Mr. Caldwell some of the stories you told me!”

“Caldwell? I don’t recall that name.”

Ronnie explained to Grandfather how Caldwell had driven into the village and how Bill and he had taken the man on a tour of the buildings. “And he gave me and Bill a swell idea, Gramps. We’re going to make money so we can build a dam across that pass where Goose Brook comes through, and then they won’t have to flood the valley and—”

“Say, hold on there a minute, boy! You’re going faster than a runaway locomotive down a steep grade, and I lost you a ways back. Now just how are you going to make this money, and what pass are you going to dam up? This all sounds pretty fantastic to me.”

But by the time Ronnie had finished explaining his plans, Grandfather was nodding his head slowly and puckering his lips the way he did when he was almost convinced. “There’s a chance ... there’s a chance,” he kept repeating. “I know the spot you mean. It would take a lot of fill, but it’s not impossible. And with folks in town stirring things up for the Seaway, it might come about. Of course, you realize you couldn’t raise near enough money yourself to do the job, don’t you?”

“Maybe not, Grandpa, but somebody’s got to start things going.”

“You never said a truer word, boy! You’ve got my blessings. Go to it, and don’t forget, just because I’ve got a leg here that won’t do its job any longer doesn’t mean I can’t help. There’s one thing I got plenty of—advice!”

Ronnie smiled up at his grandfather. “We’ll lick this yet, won’t we, Gramps? And now will you tell me about the candlesticks?”

The old man nodded, then frowned. “Now where in tarnation do I begin a story like this? Well, let’s begin with your great-great-grandfather, Ezra Rorth. He was the son of the man who founded the Glassworks down in the valley, but it was really Ezra who built it up so that it was known practically around the world for its fine glass. I reckon Ezra was a real craftsman, an artist in his trade. He had a habit, so I hear, of rarely duplicating what he once had made.

“Well, now, this Ezra, for some reason nobody’s ever been able to figure out, took in a partner, a man by the name of Jacob Williams. Seems like both these men fell in love about the same time and got themselves engaged. Then they decided to hold a double wedding ceremony. Old Ezra, about that time, got the idea he and Jacob ought to give their brides-to-be something extra special for a wedding present. So the two went off for three, four days into the Glassworks and shut themselves up and said they didn’t want anybody busting in and bothering them for any reason at all. When they came out, they’d created two pairs of those candlesticks, one pair for each bride. Those in the dining room came right down the family tree from generation to generation. I gave them to your grandmother, and when your dad got married he gave them to your mother. It’s your turn next, seeing you’re the oldest.”

“Me?” Ronnie blushed. “I’m never going to get married, not on your life.”

Grandfather roared with laughter. “You’ll sing a different tune in another ten years—maybe sooner.”

“No, sir! I’m going to stick around and take care of you, Grandfather!”

“Well, that’s mighty nice of you to say, lad. Tarnation, you don’t know how sad this whole affair with the village has made me. And your father isn’t showing the fighting spirit I expected of him. So it’s good to hear you say nice things like that.”

“Dad really is fighting, Grandpa. I know he is—in his own sort of way.”

“Well, maybe so, and I’m sure sorry I lost my temper like I did at the table. Always was one for blowing off steam and then feeling sorry about it afterward. I’m glad that’s one trait you didn’t inherit from me.”

Ronnie got up, stretching, and then started for the door. “Gramps?” he said, turning about suddenly. “You’ll tell me about the boarded-up building too, won’t you?”

Grandfather’s eyes came closed wearily, as if he were trying to shut out thoughts of the building. “No, boy,” he answered finally, his eyes still closed. “Let’s let its secret die along with me. I searched the place timber to timber, but I found nothing. She’s stubborn, that building, just like some of the Rorths. I guess she’s old and set in her ways, and if she won’t tell me what happened, she won’t tell anybody.”

“She likes me, Grandfather. I know she does. I’ve sat on the roof lots of times, and listened to the swifts down in her chimney, and I’m sure she was telling me to look! But I don’t know what to look for.”

Grandfather’s eyes were open again and he was smiling. “You’re a clever rascal, you are, boy! Trying to touch my sentiments, are you? Well, I’ve made up my mind the secret’s to die with me, so there’s no use in your pestering further.”

“Oh, all right. But I think it’s a shame, letting the secret get buried under all that water.”

Grandfather’s smile faded and his face grew flushed and the vein on his temple began to swell and turn purple. He started to rise, too, but suddenly changed his mind and sank back down and rested his head back against the chair. “I won’t get tempered over it again,” he said, more to himself than Ronnie. “But don’t you go talking like that any more. Remember, always keep thinking the best is going to happen.”

“I really do believe that, Gramps. I was just saying what I did because I hoped you’d change your mind and tell me the secret.”

“Well, I’ll think on it. I’ll think on it. Maybe I’ll decide to tell you. But don’t bother me about it any more, you hear?”

“Yes, Gramps.”

“All right. Now go on and get out of here. I’m tired and I’m going to bed.”

Ronnie was tired too, but he stopped in the dining room on his way upstairs to take another look at the candlesticks. They were beautiful. Twelve cut-glass, diamond-shaped crystals hung by spun glass chains in a circle from the rim of the candle holder. The base and stick itself were of solid frosted glass, embellished with intricate designs of rose and turquoise embossing. He set one of the crystals in motion and it tinkled like a bell against its neighbor crystal.

He climbed the stairs to the upstairs hall. Phil was in his own room, working at his desk. Ronnie poked his head inside and watched his brother cutting out baseball players’ pictures from the backs of cereal boxes he had been accumulating. “Bill and I are starting a business in the morning. You can come in with us if you want.”

“What kind of a business? If it’s work, you can count me out.”

Ronnie explained what they had in mind. Phil seemed interested. “I’ll sleep on it,” he told Ronnie and went on with his work.

Ronnie moved down the hall and entered his own room. He didn’t turn on the light, but instead went to the window and, brushing back the curtains, stared out into the blackness.

The moon was at the quarter, but there was enough light from it to light up patches of the St. Lawrence River so that it looked like stretches of a concrete highway cutting through the darkness. Below and a little to the left, the night was blackest, and here Ronnie located the deserted village.

For a moment he thought he could picture the black, inky water covering the land as the floodwaters rose behind the proposed dam. The thought of such a thing happening sent his stomach sinking.

Then suddenly his eyes widened. He blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t seeing something that wasn’t there.

It was there all right! Directly in the center of the black patch of night where he had located the village, a halo of light lay shimmering over the roof of one of the buildings. It moved a little to the left, then shifted back again slowly, faded slightly, and brightened again.

Ronnie rubbed at the windowpane to clear the glass. But he couldn’t erase the light he had seen—not for another minute or two anyway. Then it disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.

Chapter 5

Ronnie was up bright and early the next morning. All the time he was washing himself and brushing his teeth, he was trying to figure out what it was he had seen the night before.

It had looked somewhat like a flashlight beam hitting the thick foliage from underneath a tree. But that wouldn’t account for the way the light had reflected from the sloping-roof surface of one of the buildings.

“I reckon that was just about where the boarded-up building is,” he told himself.

He wondered if he should tell anybody about what he had seen. Nobody was likely to believe him. In fact, he was having a hard job trying to convince himself that his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him. Sometimes the netting in the screens made lights take on strange shapes and do crazy things. Or maybe it was the moon coming out suddenly from behind a cloud and lighting up the roof of the building. Yet this wasn’t the first time he had gazed out over the deserted village from his bedroom window, and he had never seen the light before. He pulled on his trousers and went down to the kitchen where he found his father at the table finishing a bowl of cold cereal. “Morning, Dad,” he said.

“Morning, Ronnie! What’s the special occasion—getting up so early, I mean?”

The boy explained about the plan Bill and he had made—how they hoped to attract tourists to the deserted village and perhaps earn some money too.

“Sounds like a fine idea to me, son!” Mr. Rorth nodded his head. “Let me know if I can help you in any way.”

Mr. Rorth washed his dish out at the sink and set it into the drain to dry. “A fine day for haying,” he said glancing out the window at the sky. “In a few days I’ll need you and Phil to help gather it in.”

After his father had left, Ronnie got his breakfast of fruit juice and cereal from the refrigerator and pantry shelf and then sat down at the table to eat.

While he was eating, he thought over all the things Bill and he would do that day to prepare for their new business venture. He jotted them down on a piece of scrap paper: “Clean out all the buildings that are in pretty good shape. Cut off all the branches that stick out over the dirt road and the cobblestone road. Clear a small parking place. Print a sign to put on the highway.”

Then he added: “Tell Bill what I saw last night?” He added two more question marks at the end of the words.

Just as Ronnie was finishing his meal, he heard Mrs. Butler drive up in her car. A few minutes later she came bustling into the kitchen. “Well,” she exclaimed, “aren’t you the early bird!”

She opened the cupboard door and placed her pocketbook inside. “Strangest thing about that blanket,” she said to Ronnie. “I was sure I’d find it this morning. But I don’t see hide nor hair of it. Did you make your bed, youngster?”

Ronnie flushed. “No, ma’am,” he confessed.

“I might have guessed. Well, I’ll take care of it for you this once. ’Pears like you’ve got some mighty important things on your mind, or you wouldn’t be up so early. Keep your eyes peeled for that blanket.” She picked up the carpet sweeper from beside the refrigerator and hurried from the room.

Phil shuffled into the kitchen, still in his pajamas. He fell into a chair and yawned deeply. “That cereal looks O.K. Mind fixing me up a batch?”

“Help yourself. Be my guest.” Another idea had come to Ronnie and he jotted it down on his list: “Maybe make some circulars to leave around town telling about the village.” Lots of tourists came through Massena on their way to the Thousand Islands. Some might be interested in seeing the old glassworks.

Phil settled himself at the table with a bowl of corn flakes and a bottle of milk. “Watcha writing?” he asked his brother.

“Just jotting down some ideas about starting our business.”

“Maybe I’ll tag along and see what it’s all about. If it looks interesting, I’ll think about joining up.”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

“Aw, I don’t mind. In fact, it sounds kind of intriguing. Maybe I can pick up a few fast bucks to get that bicycle I’ve had my eye on.”

Ronnie put down the pencil, folded up the paper and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. “All the money we make is going into helping to save the village. If you want to come, you’d better get dressed because I’m taking off in a few minutes.”

“You can go on ahead. I’ll join you later.”

Ronnie washed out his plate and glass and put them away. Then he left the house. The sun was hardly over the treetops, and the grass still sparkled with early morning dew. A fine haze streaked the horizon, and the boy knew it was going to be hot before the day was over. He cut through the orchard, slid down the embankment, and cut into the forest where the buildings of the village were scattered.

On the cobbled road he paused and whistled shrilly, a signal to Bill. He listened, but no answer came back to him. Well, he’d wait for Bill by the boarded-up house.

He cut down the side path to the building. The bare earth, where the leaves had blown away, was damp from the night dew, and his bare feet padded noiselessly along. He broke out into the small clearing that faced the front of the building and stopped abruptly.

For a second he had thought the figure moving hurriedly away from the rear of the building was Bill, and he had been just about to whistle a greeting. Now he saw that it was a man, and while he could only see a portion of his shoulders and head, he thought of Mr. Caldwell, the man who had driven into the village the day before. “Hi, Mr. Caldwell!” he yelled.

The man turned for an instant to face the boy, then whirled about and hurried into the woods.

The man’s face had been in the shadows for that single instant he had faced Ronnie, and the boy still wasn’t sure whether he was the man who had paid them the visit and promised to return for a talk with Mr. Rorth. Ronnie shrugged, as if to tell himself that it really didn’t matter. If it had been Caldwell, he’d explain his actions later.

Ronnie decided to take a quick swing around the building to see if he could find anything that might tell him about the light he had seen the evening before. The rusty lock, snapped in place three or four years before when Grandfather had abandoned his search, was still in place. The window shutters were as tightly closed. Everything looked perfectly normal.

“Strangest thing ever,” he said to himself. He was beginning to believe he had been seeing things the night before.

He spied a narrow crack where the shutter did not fit tight against the window frame, but it was a little too high to look through. But off in one of the thickets of hemlock saplings, he saw a fair-sized log. He grabbed hold of it, rolled it over beneath the window, and then wedged a smaller piece of wood under it to keep it from moving.

Holding onto the window frame for support, Ronnie climbed onto the log and placed his right eye against the crack. The room was dark except for the glow from a faint patch of light that found its way down the chimney flues.

The light, however, was sufficient for him to make a very puzzling discovery. Somebody, apparently, had spent the night sleeping in the boarded-up house! Spread out on the hearth was Mrs. Butler’s missing blanket. The stub of a candle was waxed securely to the floor, and a flashlight lay to one side.

“Hi, Ronnie!” he heard Bill’s voice behind him. “Gee, let me take a look inside too!”

Ronnie stepped down from the log. “Hi, Bill. I just discovered the queerest thing. You take a look and tell me what you think.”

“Sure thing!” Bill was only too happy to comply. He climbed the log and, shielding his eyes, peered through the crack. A minute later he was down on the ground again facing Ronnie. “Looks like somebody’s been sleeping in there!” he exclaimed.

“Just what I thought!” Ronnie agreed. “And that looks just like the blanket Mrs. Butler lost yesterday. I know it because it’s the one she uses when she takes her nap in the afternoon. I’d know that Indian blanket anywhere!”

“Well! Let’s go in and take a look around,” Bill exclaimed.

“In?” Ronnie was flabbergasted. “Why, I don’t know how he got in! I just looked at the lock, and—and all the shutters are still nailed shut—I think.”

“Couldn’t be!” Bill started out on his own inspection tour. He joined Ronnie a few minutes later, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re right,” he said. “I couldn’t find any way to get in, either. You’d better tell your dad about this, Ronnie!”

“I’ll sure do that,” he said.

“And maybe your grandfather will open up and take a look inside to find out what’s going on.”

“Yea, sure.” Ronnie was still too deep in thought to pay much attention to Bill’s remarks. How had the intruder gotten in? he asked himself over and over again. Mrs. Butler had hung the blanket on the line the day before, and now Ronnie was sure that it was inside the boarded-up building. But who had put it there, and how had he gotten inside?

The boys didn’t give up searching for an answer until they had re-examined the four walls and had even climbed to the roof for an inspection. “Maybe he went down the chimney!” Bill suggested.