Lantern Sam and the Blue Streak Bandits (26 page)

“But how did you get
here
from Erie? It must be forty miles!”

“Simple. The Bessemer and Lake Erie line runs straight here from Erie. I hitched a ride on the caboose with Charlie, Clarence’s brother, and got here just in time to see you and Ellie disappear into that tunnel at the beginning of the ride. I could barely catch my breath, because the next thing I see is Connie and Ty turning around to wave at Judge Ambrose. And you know the rest.”

“All except one thing. I didn’t put it all together until just now. Right before you went flying out the door, you tried to tell me that Judge Ambrose was Connie’s father, didn’t you? How did you know?”

“Ah, that. It was simple. Something the judge said way back when he came after me with that cane. He said that he
and his daughter
were allergic to cats. At the time I didn’t think anything of it. Never thought that she could be on the train. It wasn’t until later that it
made sense to me, when I saw how he looked at her. It was the look of a proud father. Now come here—I have something for you.”

I looked around to see if anyone was watching and then slipped quietly over to the tree. “What is it, sardines?” I asked.

“As if I would share my sardines, you silly human. No, what I have isn’t quite so valuable … to me, that is.”

He climbed down from the branch and I dropped down to my knees to pet him. I couldn’t help noticing all his scars and that kinked tail and wondering just how many more lives remained in his sorry-looking body.

“Here, give me a hand with this collar,”
he said, using one of his back legs to push it over his ears.

“You don’t wear a collar,” I said, feeling for the buckle. My eyes bugged out of my head when I saw that his “collar” was, in fact, Mrs. Strasbourg’s necklace, with the Blue Streak sparkling as bright as ever.

“Not bad for a calico from the wrong side of the tracks, eh?”
he said.

“How did you … but I saw … this is impossible,” I said, although the very presence of the necklace made it clear that obviously it was
not
.

“I’m surprised at you, kid. I figured that after all we’ve been through, I wouldn’t be able to shock you anymore.”

“Well, yeah, but … this is
huge
,” I said, admiring the necklace in the sunlight.

“Don’t get too attached to that thing,”
said Sam.
“You have to give it back, you know.”

“I know. It’s just … I’ve never seen anything like it. Probably never will again.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Something tells me that Henry Shipley is going to do very well for himself. I told Clarence, ‘We haven’t heard the last of that Shipley kid.’ And now that I’ve done all I can do here, it’s time I was on my way. I’ll catch the Shoreliner on its way back to New York tonight.”

“Clarence will be surprised to see you,” I said. “Won’t he?”

“Not sure anything I do really surprises the old boy anymore. I might get a raised eyebrow out of him when he sees me waiting on the platform, but that’ll be about it. It might call for a celebration, though. Sardines, perhaps, especially if I can lay my paws on some of the Sail On brand. You really should try them. They’re far superior to the others. They use a higher-quality oil, I think. But I’m boring you. You need to go back to your family, and deliver your little package to Ellie.”

“Thanks, Sam. I—I …”

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, kid, okay? Because if there’s one thing I hate—well, besides running out of sardines—it’s a long,
awkward goodbye scene. I already told you, I haven’t heard the last of Henry Shipley. And I’m never wrong.”

And with that, he turned and sauntered away, his tail stubbornly pointing to the left as always.

The party at the Dreamland Ballroom lasted until past midnight (
well
beyond my usual bedtime), but my parents didn’t seem to mind that I was still up. With Jessica in Julia’s capable hands, they stayed out on the dance floor for hours, making up for the time they’d spent apart while Father was away on the
Point Pelee
. It was the first time I’d ever seen them dance, and I was surprised that they even knew
how
. (Mother told me later that when she and Father first met in 1925, they went dancing almost every Friday night.) I don’t think they ever looked happier.

Ellie’s mom wore the Blue Streak, which sparkled and shimmered under the spotlights as she and Mr. Strasbourg spun around the floor again and again, like a king and queen in a fairy tale. Ellie ran out of steam before me, falling asleep in her chair, still clutching the stuffed calico cat that her father had won for her on the midway.

Through it all, Madeline Parker belted out song after song in a voice that was used to filling Broadway theaters. At the rear of the ballroom, the enthusiastic young clerk from the hotel desk swayed back and forth in time
with the music, eyes closed, a happy, contented look on his face.

Across the room at the bar, however, was the strangest sight of all: Alabama Woodward and a hatless Phyllis Finkleman sharing a table … and more than a couple of drinks. Ellie and I had been fully prepared for fireworks when she first asked to join him, but they never came. He actually smiled at her and motioned for her to sit. They even danced a couple of times.

It was that kind of night.

Over breakfast in the hotel dining room, the Strasbourgs offered to drive us home to Ashtabula, but Father declined, insisting that they had already done too much for us.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Strasbourg. “We’ll be in debt to Henry for the rest of our lives. At the very least, you must permit us to have Billings drop you off at the train station.”

“That would be much appreciated,” said Father.

Outside, under a blazing morning sun, Mr. Strasbourg shook my hand once more, and Mrs. Strasbourg hugged me, squeezing the breath out of me. “Thank you, Henry. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Even though she’d only known me for a couple of days, Ellie knew there was no chance I was going to hug her. She walked up to me and stuck out her hand, very businesslike.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Henry Shipley,” she said with just a hint of a smile.

“Um … yeah … me too,” I said, shaking her hand. “Maybe we’ll … um …”

“Of course we will,” she said. “I already told you, we’re going to be friends forever.”

I climbed into the backseat of the car, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. A voice calling my name made me look up one last time as Billings turned the car toward the exit. It was Ellie, of course.

“Henry! I kept something of yours! I’m sorry!” she shouted. But judging by the size of the grin on her face, she wasn’t sorry at all.

“What is she talking about?” I wondered aloud. “She’s such a … girl.”

Billings pulled the car out into the street and accelerated away from the amusement park.

It took me about ten seconds more to realize what she’d kept: my sketchbook. It had my name and address inside, and I knew for certain that (to borrow a phrase from Lantern Sam) I hadn’t heard the last of Ellie Strasbourg.

School let out for summer vacation a few days later. There’s nothing quite like those first days of freedom after nine endless months of grammar and geography and uncomfortable
clothes. My parents had given me a break from my usual summer chores because of my cast, so I wandered down to the pier where the
Point Pelee
was docked and spent some time watching the crew, who were hanging over the side, touch up her paint before her next voyage. Even though the
Point Pelee
was “past her prime,” Father was very particular about the way she looked.

When that grew old, I decided to go to the train station, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Shoreliner as it stopped in Ashtabula on its way back to New York. My timing was perfect; as I stepped onto the platform, I heard a train’s horn in the distance and looked down the tracks.

“Do you know what train that is?” I asked the man selling newspapers.

“That’ll be the Shoreliner,” he said without looking up. “Right on time.”

I felt a grin spread across my face as the big locomotive went past, its wheels gripping the iron rails as it slowed to a stop at the far end of the platform.

“Ashtabula!” called out a familiar voice. “Ashtabula, this stop!” Clarence stepped down from the car to the platform and checked his pocket watch. I smiled, remembering how many times I’d seen him do that.

“You’re late!” I shouted.

He hesitated, frowning and checking his watch again.
Suddenly he looked up and spotted me. “Henry! Thank goodness you’re here!”

Behind him, Sam leaped onto the platform and raced toward me. For a moment I thought he was in a hurry just to see me. I should have known better.

“C’mon, kid, we have to work fast. That ship of your father’s—it’s called the
Point Pelee,
right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Is it still in port?”

“Yes. What’s going on?”

“It’s those wacky Henshaw Sisters—Gladys and Gwendolyn! Remember, the ones who sing like a couple of dogs howling at the moon?”

“Of course I remember. What about them?”

“They have a brother named George, and we have to find him quicker than you can say ‘canned sardines.’ For the past eleven months and three weeks, those crazy dames have turned every port on the Great Lakes upside down looking for Georgie-boy. If they don’t get his John Hancock on some important papers in the next seven days, they’re going to lose their business. I know, I know—normally when I hear a story like that, I shrug and say something sarcastic and snide, but this time it’s different.”

“Why?” I asked suspiciously.

“Sardines, kid. Millions of them. A lifetime supply.”

I glanced at Clarence. “What is he talking about?”

“He’s telling the truth,” said Clarence. “Apparently, the Henshaws own a sardine cannery out in California, but they owe some back taxes on the property. There’s another piece of property they’re trying to sell to raise the money, but all three of the Henshaw kids’ names are on the deed. They can’t sell without George’s signature.”

“What does any of this have to do with the
Point Pelee
?” I asked.

Sam sighed.
“That’s what I’ve been
trying
to tell you. Gladys and Gwendolyn have been searching for their brother for a year, and a few days ago they met somebody in Duluth, Minnesota, who informed them that George is the cook aboard the
Point Pelee.
Small world, eh, kid?”

“Holy Catawba! George! I
know
him! He’s the one who saves the sardine keys for me! I guess that explains why they have so many sardines on board. Uh-oh. What time is it?” I asked, suddenly remembering the promise I’d made to Father to wave to him from the jetty.

“One-eighteen,” said Clarence. “On the nose.” The train shuddered to life behind him.

“The
Point Pelee
casts off at three-thirty! And then they won’t be in port for
days
.”

“I’m waiting on you,”
said Sam.
“As usual.”