Read Online The Mansion in the Mist by John Bellairs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Bellairs
Tags: montag f451 needs edit
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enough to his window to touch it. Still the tapping went on, and with a sudden cry of fear Anthony rushed to the door and flung it open. There was no one there.
The next morning Anthony looked exhausted—he had hardly slept a wink after the tapping incident. But when Miss Eells asked him if anything was wrong, he merely shrugged and munched his cornflakes. Miss Eells and Emerson knew Anthony pretty well by this time, and they were sure that they would not get anything out of him by pestering him. So they just let the matter drop, and breakfast was eaten in silence.
The rest of the morning was spent cleaning up the cottage. Miss Eells and Anthony did the laundry the old-fashioned way, with tub and washboard and soap flakes. Later they hung the wash out to dry on a clothesline behind the house, while Emerson refilled the kerosene lamps and polished their nickel-plated reflectors. After lunch the three of them played badminton till they were tired, and after a brief nap they went fishing. Emerson steered the boat leisurely around the lake. As he pulled at the oars he wondered if the sky would be clear tonight. In spite of the danger he was itching to go back, because he felt that it was important to follow up the clue scratched on the Brasher doubloon. Besides, Emerson liked danger—it got the blood pumping in his veins, it made him feel alive. But the gray clouds that were rolling in from the west did not make him feel very hopeful—it looked like another night of overcast sky.
When the cottage and its dock came into view, the three vacationers got a surprise: There, pulled up to the shore, was a rowboat with an outboard motor. And sitting in it was an old white-haired man who calmly puffed a corncob pipe and stared at them with a weary smile, as if to say At last! He seemed to be about sixty years old, and his chin was covered with a two days' growth of stubble. He wore a red plaid shirt, gray work pants, muddy combat boots, and a shapeless gray fedora stuck full of fishing flies.
"Evening," said the old man, as Emerson pulled the rowboat nearer.
"Good evening," said Emerson crisply, as he drew alongside the old man's boat. "We're the people who are staying in this cottage. Can we help you?"
The old man sighed. "Well, maybe you can. The truth is, I left my oars at home, and I just found out that I am out of gasoline. So I'll have to ask you to let me stay here tonight or... or help me to get home."
Emerson smiled. "As it happens, we can do either one: I have some extra gasoline, and I even have a spare set of oars. You're welcome to share our not-very-special evening meal and sack out in one of the spare rooms till morning or just go on your way. Whatever you want to do, we'll help you with it."
The old man seemed totally overcome by Emerson's offer of hospitality. Tears came to his eyes. "Thank you... thank you, sir," he said in a voice thick with emotion. "I was lucky to run into decent folks like yourselves. I will be glad to have dinner with you, and then I'll put some gas in my tank and go on my way. I live on the other side of the lake. It's not so far."
The old man pulled his boat up onto the shore, and Emerson hooked his to a post on the dock. Later, in the kitchen, they all had a simple meal of baked potatoes, sausage, and tea. As they ate, Emerson seemed to grow very interested in the old man. He looked at his hands a lot, and he also stared at the flies that were stuck in the hat that the old man wore as he gobbled down his food. After dinner Emerson got out a box of cigars and offered the old man one. The man shook his head vigorously and said no—he had decided that cigars were bad for him. Emerson lit one and blew clouds of smoke into the air. Then he looked straight at the old man and said, in an offhand way, "So how are the fish biting on the upper lake? I've heard that the muskellunge are biting up there—not to mention the trout. What do you say?"
At first the old man looked a bit disconcerted,
The next morning Anthony looked exhausted—he had hardly slept a wink after the tapping incident. But when Miss Eells asked him if anything was wrong, he merely shrugged and munched his cornflakes. Miss Eells and Emerson knew Anthony pretty well by this time, and they were sure that they would not get anything out of him by pestering him. So they just let the matter drop, and breakfast was eaten in silence.
The rest of the morning was spent cleaning up the cottage. Miss Eells and Anthony did the laundry the old-fashioned way, with tub and washboard and soap flakes. Later they hung the wash out to dry on a clothesline behind the house, while Emerson refilled the kerosene lamps and polished their nickel-plated reflectors. After lunch the three of them played badminton till they were tired, and after a brief nap they went fishing. Emerson steered the boat leisurely around the lake. As he pulled at the oars he wondered if the sky would be clear tonight. In spite of the danger he was itching to go back, because he felt that it was important to follow up the clue scratched on the Brasher doubloon. Besides, Emerson liked danger—it got the blood pumping in his veins, it made him feel alive. But the gray clouds that were rolling in from the west did not make him feel very hopeful—it looked like another night of overcast sky.
When the cottage and its dock came into view, the three vacationers got a surprise: There, pulled up to the shore, was a rowboat with an outboard motor. And sitting in it was an old white-haired man who calmly puffed a corncob pipe and stared at them with a weary smile, as if to say At last! He seemed to be about sixty years old, and his chin was covered with a two days' growth of stubble. He wore a red plaid shirt, gray work pants, muddy combat boots, and a shapeless gray fedora stuck full of fishing flies.
"Evening," said the old man, as Emerson pulled the rowboat nearer.
"Good evening," said Emerson crisply, as he drew alongside the old man's boat. "We're the people who are staying in this cottage. Can we help you?"
The old man sighed. "Well, maybe you can. The truth is, I left my oars at home, and I just found out that I am out of gasoline. So I'll have to ask you to let me stay here tonight or... or help me to get home."
Emerson smiled. "As it happens, we can do either one: I have some extra gasoline, and I even have a spare set of oars. You're welcome to share our not-very-special evening meal and sack out in one of the spare rooms till morning or just go on your way. Whatever you want to do, we'll help you with it."
The old man seemed totally overcome by Emerson's offer of hospitality. Tears came to his eyes. "Thank you... thank you, sir," he said in a voice thick with emotion. "I was lucky to run into decent folks like yourselves. I will be glad to have dinner with you, and then I'll put some gas in my tank and go on my way. I live on the other side of the lake. It's not so far."
The old man pulled his boat up onto the shore, and Emerson hooked his to a post on the dock. Later, in the kitchen, they all had a simple meal of baked potatoes, sausage, and tea. As they ate, Emerson seemed to grow very interested in the old man. He looked at his hands a lot, and he also stared at the flies that were stuck in the hat that the old man wore as he gobbled down his food. After dinner Emerson got out a box of cigars and offered the old man one. The man shook his head vigorously and said no—he had decided that cigars were bad for him. Emerson lit one and blew clouds of smoke into the air. Then he looked straight at the old man and said, in an offhand way, "So how are the fish biting on the upper lake? I've heard that the muskellunge are biting up there—not to mention the trout. What do you say?"
At first the old man looked a bit disconcerted,
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