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<h2 id="c19">CHAPTER 19 PENNY’S PLAN</h2> Making elaborate preparations for the trip into the swamp, Mrs. Jones packed a lunch, and donned a huge straw hat and stout boots. However, she did not change the long, flowing skirt, which flopped about her ankles as she and Penny walked through the meadow to Trapper Joe’s dock. From the porch, the old guide saw the pair and watched them warily. “We’re takin’ yer boat, Joe,” the widow called to him from the creek’s edge. “We’re makin’ a little trip into the swamp.” Joe pulled himself from the chair and came quickly to the dock. “Hold on now!” he protested. “Two wimmin can’t go alone into the swamp! Leastwise, not beyond Lookout Point.” “Says who?” retorted the widow, already untying the boat. “That young ’un’s talked you into goin’ to Black Island! Ye can’t do it. You’ll git lost in one o’ the false channels. The hyacinths are bad this year.” The widow hesitated, then tossed her head as she dropped the package of lunch into the skiff. “Ye forgit I was swamp raised! Git me the paddles and a pole, Joe. Don’t stand there gawkin’.” “No wimmin ever went as far as Black Island. It hain’t safe!” “My Paw took me there when I was a little girl. I hain’t forgittin’ the way.” “Ye’r stubborn as a mule!” Joe accused, glaring at her. “If you’re dead set on goin’, I see I’ll have to give in and go with ye. But it’s agin my best judgment.” “No one asked ye to go with us, Joe,” the widow said tartly. “We aim to make this trip by ourselves. Jest git the paddles and pole.” Joe threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat and started slowly for the shack. “Wimmin!” he muttered. “There jest hain’t no sense in ’em!” He took his time inside the shack, but finally returned with the requested paddles and pole. “There ye are!” he snapped. “But I’m warnin’ ye, if ye git into trouble or lost, don’t expect me to come after ye.” “Now I’ll take the kicker motor,” the widow ordered, paying no heed to his words. “Not my motor!” Joe exclaimed defiantly. “I paid sixty dollars fer it secondhand and I hain’t lettin’ no female ruin it.” “Ye can’t expect me to blister my hands rowin’ all day,” the widow replied. “We aim to make a quick trip.” “Ye can’t use the motor in all them hyacinths!” “Maybe not, but it’ll take us through the open spots a heap faster. The motor, Joe.” Grumbling loudly, the guide went to the house once more. He came back with the motor which he attached and started for the widow. “Thank ye kindly, Joe,” she grinned at him as the boat pulled away from the dock. “I’ll make ye one of my apple pies when I git back.” “If ye get back,” the guide corrected morosely. Propelled by the motor, the skiff sped steadily through the channel and came presently to the Hawkins’ farm. The popping of the engine, which could be heard some distance, drew Mrs. Hawkins to the dock. She signaled the boat as it drew near. “Howdy,” the Widow Jones greeted her politely though with no warmth. She throttled down the engine and drifted in toward shore. “Goin’ in fer a little fishin’, I take it,” Mrs. Hawkins observed by way of inquiry. “But where’s yer fishin’ poles?” “Left ’em ter home,” the widow replied. “Then you hain’t fishin’.” “’Pears like yer right smart at usein’ yer eyes,” the widow agreed dryly. A slight frown which did not escape Penny, puckered the farm woman’s forehead. She seemed on the verge of speaking, then appeared to change her mind. As the boat drifted on, she watched stolidly. “Never did like that woman,” Mrs. Jones commented when the skiff had rounded a bend. “She’s got sharp eyes, and she don’t approve ’cause we’re goin’ inter the swamp together.” “Why should she care?” Penny asked. “I wonder myself.” “I’ve noticed that she always seems to be watching the entrance channel into the swamp,” Penny said thoughtfully. “Perhaps she is the one who taps out those signals!” “Signals? What do you mean, young’un?” Penny told of the strange pounding noises she had heard during her previous trip through the swamp. “I could almost wager Mrs. Hawkins will wait until we’re a safe distance away, and then signal!” the girl went on. “Don’t I wish I could catch her though!” “Maybe ye kin. We could shut off the motor and drift back and watch.” Penny’s eyes began to sparkle with excitement. “I’d love to do it. But won’t she be listening for the sound of our motor as we go deeper into the swamp? If she doesn’t hear it, she’s apt to suspect something.” “Ye’ve got a real head on yer shoulders,” said the widow approvingly. “By the way, I don’t like to keep callin’ ye young’un now we’re good friends. What’s yer name?” “I thought you knew. I’m sorry. It’s Penny Parker.” “Penny! I never did hear o’ a girl named after money.” “I wasn’t exactly,” Penny smiled. “My real name is Penelope, but no one ever liked it. So I’m called Penny.” “Penelope, hain’t sich a bad name. That’s what I’ll call ye.” “About Mrs. Hawkins—” the girl reminded her. “Oh, yes, now if ye was a mind to find out about her, it wouldn’t be so hard.” “How?” “We hain’t gone fur into the swamp yet. I could let ye out here on the bank and ye could slip back afoot to the bend in the channel.” “Where I’d be able to watch the house!” “Ye got the idea, Penelope. All the while, I would keep goin’ on in the boat until the sound o’ the motor jest naturally died out. Then I could row back here and pick ye up agin.” “Mrs. Jones, you’re the one who has a head on your shoulders!” Penny cried. “Let’s do it!” The widow brought the skiff alongside the bank, steadying it as the girl stepped ashore. “Ye got a watch?” she asked. “Yes.” “Then I’ll meet ye right here in ’bout three-quarters of an hour. I kin keep track o’ the time by lookin’ at the sun.” “That may not give me enough time,” Penny said anxiously. “If yer late, I’ll wait fer ye,” the widow promised. “But try to be here. If ye hain’t we may havter give up the trip, ’cause it hain’t sensible startin’ in late in the day.” “I’ll be here,” Penny assured her. “If nothing happens in three-quarters of an hour, I’ll just give it up.” The boat, it’s motor popping steadily, slipped away. Penny scrambled up the muddy bank, and finding a well-trod path, walked rapidly toward the Hawkins’ place. Soon she came to the bend in the creek, and there paused. From afar, she could hear the retreating sound of the skiff’s motor. Through a break in the bushes, the girl peered toward the distant farmhouse. To her disappointment, the yard was now deserted, and Mrs. Hawkins was nowhere in sight. “Maybe I was wrong,” Penny thought. “I’d hate to waste all this valuable time.” For a half hour she waited. Twice Mrs. Hawkins came out of the house, once to gather in clothes from the line and the second time to obtain a pail of water. “I guess my hunch was crazy,” Penny told herself. “I’ll have to be starting back to meet Mrs. Jones.” The sound of the motorboat now had died out completely, so the girl knew the widow already was on her way to their appointed meeting place. Turning away from the bushes, Penny paused for one last glance at the farmhouse. The yard remained deserted. But as she sighed in disappointment, the kitchen door again flew open. Mrs. Hawkins came outside and walked rapidly to the shed. She listened attentively for a moment. Then from a peg on the outside wall, she took down a big tin dishpan and a huge wooden mixing spoon. Penny watched with mounting excitement. This was the moment for which she had waited! Carefully, the farm woman looked about to be certain no one was nearby. Then with firm precision, she beat out a tattoo on the dishpan. “It’s a signal to someone in the swamp!” guessed Penny. “In code she is tapping out that Mrs. Jones and I are on our way into the interior!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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