Like a hangman’s hood, black, over his head, driving blind!”
“I saw it, I saw it!” said a boy standing, similarly riven, nearby. The boy was me, Thomas Quincy Riley, better known as Tom or Quint and mighty curious. I ran. “Hey, wait up! Gosh! Driving
blind!
”
I almost caught up with the blind driver at Main and Elm where the Studebaker turned off down Elm followed by a siren. A town policeman on his motorcycle,stunned with the traveling vision, was giving pursuit.
When I reached the car it was double-parked with the officer’s boot up on the running board and Willy Crenshaw, the officer, scowling in at the black Hood and someone under the Hood.
“Would you mind taking that thing off?” he said.
“No, but here’s my driver’s license,” said a muffled voice. A hand with the license sailed out the window.
“I want to see your face,” said Willy Crenshaw.
“It’s right there on the license.”
“I want to check and see if the two compare,” said Willy Crenshaw.
“The name is Phil Dunlop,” said the Hooded voice. “121 Desplaines Street, Gurney. Own the Studebaker Sales at 16 Gurney Avenue. It’s all there if you can read.”
Willy Crenshaw creased his forehead and inched his eyesight along the words.
“Hey, mister,” I said. “This is real neat!”
“Shut up, son.” The policeman ground his boot on the running board. “What you
up
to?”
I stood arching my feet, peering over the officer’s shoulder as he hesitated to write up a ticket or jail a crook.
“What you
up
to?” Willy Crenshaw repeated.
“Right now,” said the Hooded voice, “I’d like a place to stay overnight so I can prowl your town a few days.”
Willy Crenshaw leaned forward. “What
kind
of prowling?”
“In this car, as you see, making people sit up and notice.”
“They done that,” the policeman admitted, looking at the crowd that had accumulated behind Thomas Quincy Riley, me.
“Is it a big crowd, boy?” said the man under the Hood.
I didn’t realize he was addressing me, then I quickened up. “Sockdolager!” I said.
“You think if I drove around town twenty-four hours dressed like this, people might listen for one minute and hear what I
say?
”
“All ears,” I said.
“There you have it, Officer,” said the Hood, staring straight ahead, or what seemed like. “I’ll stay on, ‘cause the boy says. Boy,” said the voice, “you know a good place for me to shave my unseen face and rest my feet?”
“My grandma, she—”
“Sounds good. Boy—”
“Name’s Thomas Quincy Riley.”
“Call you Quint?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Quint, jump in, show the way. But don’t try to peek under my cover-up.”
“No,
sir!
”
And I was around the car and in the front seat, my heart pure jackrabbit.
“Excuse us, Officer. Any questions, I’ll be sequestered at this child’s place.”
“Six one nine Washington Street—” I began.
“I know, I know!” cried the officer. “Damnation.”
“You’ll let me go in this boy’s custody?”
“Hell!” The policeman jerked his boot off the running board which let the car bang away.
“Quint?” said the voice under the dark Hood, steering. “What’s
my
name?”
“You said—”
“No, no. What do
you
want to call me?”
“Hmm. Mr. Mysterious?”
“Bull’s-eye. Where do I turn left, right, right, left, and right again?”
“Well,” I said.
And we motored off, me terrified of collisions and Mr. Mysterious, real nice and calm, made a perfect left.
Some people knit because their fingers need preoccupations for their nerves.
Grandma didn’t knit, but plucked peas from the pod. We had peas just about most nights in my life. Other nights she plucked lima beans. String beans? She harped on those, too, but they didn’t pluck as easy or as neat as peas. Peas were it. As we came up the porch steps, Grandma eyed our arrival and shelled the little greens.
“Grandma,” I said. “This is Mr. Mysterious.”
“I
“I saw it, I saw it!” said a boy standing, similarly riven, nearby. The boy was me, Thomas Quincy Riley, better known as Tom or Quint and mighty curious. I ran. “Hey, wait up! Gosh! Driving
blind!
”
I almost caught up with the blind driver at Main and Elm where the Studebaker turned off down Elm followed by a siren. A town policeman on his motorcycle,stunned with the traveling vision, was giving pursuit.
When I reached the car it was double-parked with the officer’s boot up on the running board and Willy Crenshaw, the officer, scowling in at the black Hood and someone under the Hood.
“Would you mind taking that thing off?” he said.
“No, but here’s my driver’s license,” said a muffled voice. A hand with the license sailed out the window.
“I want to see your face,” said Willy Crenshaw.
“It’s right there on the license.”
“I want to check and see if the two compare,” said Willy Crenshaw.
“The name is Phil Dunlop,” said the Hooded voice. “121 Desplaines Street, Gurney. Own the Studebaker Sales at 16 Gurney Avenue. It’s all there if you can read.”
Willy Crenshaw creased his forehead and inched his eyesight along the words.
“Hey, mister,” I said. “This is real neat!”
“Shut up, son.” The policeman ground his boot on the running board. “What you
up
to?”
I stood arching my feet, peering over the officer’s shoulder as he hesitated to write up a ticket or jail a crook.
“What you
up
to?” Willy Crenshaw repeated.
“Right now,” said the Hooded voice, “I’d like a place to stay overnight so I can prowl your town a few days.”
Willy Crenshaw leaned forward. “What
kind
of prowling?”
“In this car, as you see, making people sit up and notice.”
“They done that,” the policeman admitted, looking at the crowd that had accumulated behind Thomas Quincy Riley, me.
“Is it a big crowd, boy?” said the man under the Hood.
I didn’t realize he was addressing me, then I quickened up. “Sockdolager!” I said.
“You think if I drove around town twenty-four hours dressed like this, people might listen for one minute and hear what I
say?
”
“All ears,” I said.
“There you have it, Officer,” said the Hood, staring straight ahead, or what seemed like. “I’ll stay on, ‘cause the boy says. Boy,” said the voice, “you know a good place for me to shave my unseen face and rest my feet?”
“My grandma, she—”
“Sounds good. Boy—”
“Name’s Thomas Quincy Riley.”
“Call you Quint?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Quint, jump in, show the way. But don’t try to peek under my cover-up.”
“No,
sir!
”
And I was around the car and in the front seat, my heart pure jackrabbit.
“Excuse us, Officer. Any questions, I’ll be sequestered at this child’s place.”
“Six one nine Washington Street—” I began.
“I know, I know!” cried the officer. “Damnation.”
“You’ll let me go in this boy’s custody?”
“Hell!” The policeman jerked his boot off the running board which let the car bang away.
“Quint?” said the voice under the dark Hood, steering. “What’s
my
name?”
“You said—”
“No, no. What do
you
want to call me?”
“Hmm. Mr. Mysterious?”
“Bull’s-eye. Where do I turn left, right, right, left, and right again?”
“Well,” I said.
And we motored off, me terrified of collisions and Mr. Mysterious, real nice and calm, made a perfect left.
Some people knit because their fingers need preoccupations for their nerves.
Grandma didn’t knit, but plucked peas from the pod. We had peas just about most nights in my life. Other nights she plucked lima beans. String beans? She harped on those, too, but they didn’t pluck as easy or as neat as peas. Peas were it. As we came up the porch steps, Grandma eyed our arrival and shelled the little greens.
“Grandma,” I said. “This is Mr. Mysterious.”
“I
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