Read Online Puzzle of the Pepper Tree by Stuart Palmer - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart Palmer
Ads: Link
spirit of the thing with a whole heart, leaped upon the blue leather seat, pressed two dusty paws against the plate-glass window, and then dropped to investigate the floor again, sniffing noisily.
It was at this moment that the exploring party was interrupted by a stern voice from the door.
“Plane doesn’t leave for the mainland till four-thirty,” said Lew French. “You’ll have to wait in the waiting room—nobody allowed aboard here.”
They left the Dragonfly. “We were through with it anyway,” said Miss Withers. The sunlight was blinding after the semidarkness of the plane.
Up the slope, in the red bus, a perspiring young man was searching vainly for his ignition key.
“Oh—is this what you’re looking for?” Phyllis inquired innocently. She displayed the key. “I just found it a moment ago.”
The driver found himself at a complete loss for words. He inserted the key and raced his engine.
Miss Withers was already seated in the bus. Phyllis handed up Mister Jones and started to follow. Then she stopped.
“What, again?” she asked wearily. The little dog was wriggling uncomfortably.
Miss Withers turned around, jarred from the train of thought which had been taking her nowhere—fast.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Mister Jones wants to go,” Phyllis informed her. She lifted down the little dog.
“He doesn’t look to me as if he wanted to go,” Miss Withers observed. Mister Jones had lain down in the dust of the roadway, an abject picture of discomfort.
“Come on, snap out of it,” Phyllis commanded. She caught the dog by the scruff of the neck and lifted it to the flat top of the gatepost. “Let’s have a look, nuisance. What’s troubling you?”
“Dr. O’Rourke is a pretty good vet,” offered the driver. “Better take him in town to the doc.”
Phyllis nodded. But Hildegarde Withers was climbing out of the bus. “Wait,” she insisted. “Look at him.”
Mister Jones was shaken by tremor after tremor. Then followed a series of choking coughs.
“If you want to be sick, be sick,” Phyllis admonished the dog.
“If he wants to be sick, keep him often the bus,” put in the driver.
It was Miss Withers who analyzed the situation first. She did not hesitate. Swiftly she caught up Mister Jones in her arms and ran toward the shore, with Phyllis dazedly following and the bus driver staring at them as if they were all demented.
The animal’s heartbeats were like the pounding of a drum. “Poisoned!” gasped Miss Withers, as she ran. “I’ve seen it happen before, when neighbors get to fighting over their pets in the city.”
“What should we do?”
Miss Withers’s sensible heels were clattering over the pebbly shore.
“We ought to have salt and warm water. But there’s no time for that. Here—you hold him.”
Mister Jones was pathetically easy to hold. Phyllis held on as Miss Withers demonstrated, with the whiskery jaw open.
Then the schoolteacher took her two cupped hands and proceeded to dip up portions of the Pacific, at the expense of her shoes, stockings, and dress. Mister Jones gagged and fought weakly as the bitter salt water drenched mouth and stomach. But Miss Withers kept on.
“All right, you can put him down,” she said finally. Phyllis found a large and flat-topped stone and laid the unhappy dog on its side.
It was just in the nick of time, as Mister Jones chose that moment to get rid of sea water, breakfast, crackerjack bits, and, as the auction bills say, “other articles too numerous to mention.”
“You’ve just made him all the sicker,” Phyllis complained.
“He had to be sicker before he could be—weller,” said Miss Withers. “See—he’s all through.”
Mister Jones gave her the lie by instantly becoming more unwell than ever.
The two women surveyed the sufferer in perplexity. “Maybe we should have taken him to Dr. O’Rourke after all,” admitted Miss Withers.
Finally Phyllis picked up the little dog and started back toward
It was at this moment that the exploring party was interrupted by a stern voice from the door.
“Plane doesn’t leave for the mainland till four-thirty,” said Lew French. “You’ll have to wait in the waiting room—nobody allowed aboard here.”
They left the Dragonfly. “We were through with it anyway,” said Miss Withers. The sunlight was blinding after the semidarkness of the plane.
Up the slope, in the red bus, a perspiring young man was searching vainly for his ignition key.
“Oh—is this what you’re looking for?” Phyllis inquired innocently. She displayed the key. “I just found it a moment ago.”
The driver found himself at a complete loss for words. He inserted the key and raced his engine.
Miss Withers was already seated in the bus. Phyllis handed up Mister Jones and started to follow. Then she stopped.
“What, again?” she asked wearily. The little dog was wriggling uncomfortably.
Miss Withers turned around, jarred from the train of thought which had been taking her nowhere—fast.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Mister Jones wants to go,” Phyllis informed her. She lifted down the little dog.
“He doesn’t look to me as if he wanted to go,” Miss Withers observed. Mister Jones had lain down in the dust of the roadway, an abject picture of discomfort.
“Come on, snap out of it,” Phyllis commanded. She caught the dog by the scruff of the neck and lifted it to the flat top of the gatepost. “Let’s have a look, nuisance. What’s troubling you?”
“Dr. O’Rourke is a pretty good vet,” offered the driver. “Better take him in town to the doc.”
Phyllis nodded. But Hildegarde Withers was climbing out of the bus. “Wait,” she insisted. “Look at him.”
Mister Jones was shaken by tremor after tremor. Then followed a series of choking coughs.
“If you want to be sick, be sick,” Phyllis admonished the dog.
“If he wants to be sick, keep him often the bus,” put in the driver.
It was Miss Withers who analyzed the situation first. She did not hesitate. Swiftly she caught up Mister Jones in her arms and ran toward the shore, with Phyllis dazedly following and the bus driver staring at them as if they were all demented.
The animal’s heartbeats were like the pounding of a drum. “Poisoned!” gasped Miss Withers, as she ran. “I’ve seen it happen before, when neighbors get to fighting over their pets in the city.”
“What should we do?”
Miss Withers’s sensible heels were clattering over the pebbly shore.
“We ought to have salt and warm water. But there’s no time for that. Here—you hold him.”
Mister Jones was pathetically easy to hold. Phyllis held on as Miss Withers demonstrated, with the whiskery jaw open.
Then the schoolteacher took her two cupped hands and proceeded to dip up portions of the Pacific, at the expense of her shoes, stockings, and dress. Mister Jones gagged and fought weakly as the bitter salt water drenched mouth and stomach. But Miss Withers kept on.
“All right, you can put him down,” she said finally. Phyllis found a large and flat-topped stone and laid the unhappy dog on its side.
It was just in the nick of time, as Mister Jones chose that moment to get rid of sea water, breakfast, crackerjack bits, and, as the auction bills say, “other articles too numerous to mention.”
“You’ve just made him all the sicker,” Phyllis complained.
“He had to be sicker before he could be—weller,” said Miss Withers. “See—he’s all through.”
Mister Jones gave her the lie by instantly becoming more unwell than ever.
The two women surveyed the sufferer in perplexity. “Maybe we should have taken him to Dr. O’Rourke after all,” admitted Miss Withers.
Finally Phyllis picked up the little dog and started back toward
Similar Books
