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Updated: May 29, 2025
At ten minutes past four, of an evening late in September, I sat in the buggy and swung out of the livery stable that boarded my horse. Peter, the horse, was a chunky bay, not too large, nor too small; and I had stumbled on to him through none of my sagacity.
They must have considered that these were not worth the taking, for they permitted their fingers to relax, the weapons falling to the floor with a clatter. Chunky lowered his rifle ever so little, and the Pony Riders uttered a yell of triumph. For one brief instant Chunky was off his guard. In that second he lost his prisoners.
With his sound one he was gazing into the fire, on a windy afternoon in the rainy season, when a chunky man in a sou'wester was-ushered into his presence, and after announcing that he was no other than Captain Peleg Scudder, of the schooner General Court, from Salem, he was made welcome in a manner quite out of proportion in its warmth to the importance that such a disclosure would have for the every-day citizen.
But he thought nothing of this, even though his new purchase was a mere bundle of bones and scarcely able to drag its weary body along. "She's mine," he whispered, as the sense of possession took full hold of him. "Mine, all mine!" Just ahead of him stood the home of Stacy Brown's uncle. Chunky was standing in front of the gate, both hands thrust into his trousers pockets.
"No, I am not scared, but I realize that we are in danger every minute we stay here. Those men wouldn't trifle with us, were they to catch us. Do you know what they would do to us if they caught us here, Chunky?" "Nu -nu -no." "They would fill us full of lead, that's what they would do. Light another match while I look into this niche. Then we will be making tracks for the outside."
Both boys were thoroughly exhausted by the time they were hauled up, and for a moment they lay breathing hard. "Lucky my pants didn't rip, wasn't it?" grinned Chunky. "Did you see me fall in? But where's Tad?" he exclaimed, suddenly sitting up. The Professor had already hurried to the edge as soon as he was able to get his breath, calling loudly into the depths. There was no answer.
He always wore a khaki shirt the wrinkles of which caught the grease in black lines, like veins with black trousers, blunt-toed shoes, and a pipe, the most important part of his costume. There was the round, anxious, polite Mexican, Tony Beanno, called "Tony Bean" wealthy, simple, fond of the violin and of fast motoring. There was the "school grouch," surly Jack Ryan, the chunky ex-chauffeur.
"O Chunky, you're hopeless. No, no! Nothing of the kind. Listen. When I move my hand up and down, just like this Understand?" "Sure." "That means I want to go down further. They don't wave their hands at all, at least I hope they don't while I am hanging in the air. Now, do you think you understand?" "Yes, I understand." "Repeat the directions to me then, please." Stacy did so. "That's right.
As for Chunky, he sat down beside the cat to enjoy the proud sense of victory, gazing down at the trophy with fascinated eyes. Deep down in his heart, he wondered how he ever had had the courage to attack it. But, of course, Chunky confided nothing of this to his companions. "Congratulating yourself, eh!" laughed Ned Rector. Chunky glanced up at him solemnly.
"The which?" He repeated his answer. "Wait a minute. Send for Joe," said the man in a lower tone. "You fellows stay just as you are if you don't want some daylight let through you." "I -I wish we did have a little daylight," stammered Chunky, which elicited a short laugh from his companions.
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