Lucky for us we were of a size. For in the scramble to get dressed I got his pants and he got my shoes. Nor were we completely buttoned up until we were halfway down the block.
Except for the sounds that we stirred up ourselves as we skinned along on the toes of our rubber-soled shoes, the empty streets were as silent as their own deep shadows. And while it was mid-summer, with the days soaked full of heat, there was now a damp feeling in the air that sort of cranked up our shivering apparatus. Maybe, though, it wasn’t so much the night air that gave us the shivers as it was the excitement.
Murder! That’s the worst kind of a crime that can be committed. And if it were true, as Mrs. Clayton had told Doc over the ’phone, that an attempt had been made to kill old Mr. Weckler in his own home, then there was in Tutter a criminal of the worst sort. Naturally, Bill Hadley would be on the job. For, as town marshal, this was work in his line. There would be a quick search for clews; then, no doubt, an exciting arrest. As we had helped Bill before, and to very good results, too, as you should well know if you have read my books about the “Whispering Mummy” and the “Purring Egg,” we were quite sure that he would let us help him on this job. As a matter of fact, we felt that it was our duty to help him. For wasn’t Mr. Weckler our “silent” partner? Furthermore, if the same robber, in earlier work, had been in Poppy’s house, as we both thought, certainly Bill ought to know about it.
Our pickle store got scarcely a glance from us as we went by on the run. And a moment or two later we tumbled into the yard in front of the old-fashioned house of which we had seen so much lately, but over which now a cloud of mystery hung. There were bright lights in the downstairs windows. And the front door was open.
Under the circumstances we didn’t stop to knock. Nor did Doc or Mrs. Clayton seem at all surprised when we tumbled in on them. As a matter of fact, I think they were glad to see us. For, with the housekeeper shivering and shaking, we supplied the help Doc needed to get the unconscious man onto the library couch. Blood! His head was bloody and there was blood all over the floor. I even got my hands in it. Ough! It sort of sickened me.
“Some hot water,” says Doc crisply, “an’ make it snappy.”
Poppy and I got the water for him. For we could move faster than the housekeeper. To tell the truth, she wasn’t any help to him at all. And for fear that he might have her on his hands, along with the injured house owner, he ordered her to back up into a chair and stay there.
Later the still unconscious man was carried upstairs and put into his bed, after which Doc telephoned for a trained nurse. Mr. Weckler was in mighty bad shape, we learned. Even if he lived it probably would be necessary to operate on his skull to give him back the use of his mind.
“When he comes to,” Doc told the nurse, who got there just as the clock struck three, “he’ll prob’ly be as crazy as a loon. So be right here beside the bed. For if given a minute he may do hisself serious harm.”
“I’ll be here,” says the nurse grimly.