“Check on that bag, Mr. Green,” said Mr. Turk. Milo gingerly fished out a number of smeared cellophane envelopes, read the labels by the flickering glow of the cigarette lighter: ‘Sandpiper’ ‘Sparrow’ ‘Sea gull’ ‘Duck’ ‘Chicken’.

  Milo replaced the bags. “You won’t find any tern around here,” he said. “Perhaps a few finches, a grosbeak or two, but hardly any tern.”

  “You hear that?” barked Mr. Turk. “Now get off the island!”

  Milo rose at six, dressed, made coffee and toast, scrambled two eggs, squeezed a glass of orange juice, sat down at his big table of polished dark wood and ate his breakfast. Then he wandered downhill to his ginseng patch, searched the ground for vigorous young shoots. After a fruitless five minutes he rose, brushed the soil from his knees. He looked up and down the ridge, debating where to plant more of the golden acres. $5,000 an acre! Ten acres meant $50,000! Or if he harvested two crops a year, five acres would yield him the same amount. If three crops, three and a third acres …

  After lunch he walked down the hill to the hotel, where he had arranged to receive his mail. There was a letter from the Ginseng Growing and Receiving Company, Box 523B, Steubenville, Ohio. Milo tore it open.

  Dear Sir:

  Through an unfortunate oversight we neglected to enclose planting instructions with your shipment of ginseng seed. We take this means to repair the omission.

  Sincerely,

  R. Bingham, Sales Manager.

  Milo scanned the accompanying mimeographed sheet.

  Sow seeds one-quarter of an inch apart, one-quarter inch deep in a mixture of moist mold, sphagnum moss, and fine Coraland Brand sand (obtainable from us). Let germinate in a hothouse at a constant temperature of eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and at a humidity of not more than 70 per cent, to protect the delicate seedlings from Sporillia Mortephytes type fungi. Soil must be moist but never wet. When plants are two years old, transplant to shady, well-drained slightly acid soil on a site protected from wind. Spray plants monthly against aphids, chinch-bugs, cutworms and ginseng moths, with Special Ginseng Protective Liquid (obtainable from us). Protect these delicate plants from frost during cold months by using Little Giant Brand Ginseng-type Smudge-pot (now in stock). When plants are eight years old, harvest with the Double-action Ginseng Root-puller (obtainable from us) …

  Milo carefully laid the letter in the fireplace and retired to his study, where he spent the afternoon mixing drinks at the bar, setting them on the electric train and sending them around the room to himself.

  Chapter XIV

  Like a toy balloon at a tank of compressed air, Miss Pickett’s tight little world went up in her face.

  During the last few weeks Miss Pickett had noticed a peculiar cessation to the complaints of Madeline Cheabrough, the academy’s most versatile hell-raiser, and her cronies Skippy Ballard and J. B. Carr. Miss Pickett had been gratified that the girls were at last submitting to discipline, and so perhaps had failed to maintain her usual vigilance.

  Then suddenly Mrs. Cheabrough came striding through the door.

  “Why Mrs. Cheabrough —” began Miss Pickett.

  Her visitor thrust a magazine under Miss Pickett’s nose. “Look at that!” Mrs. Cheabrough’s voice was graveled with emotion.

  Miss Pickett’s mouth sagged. She fumbled at the magazine.

  “Where’s Madeline?” demanded Mrs. Cheabrough. “Bring her here at once!”

  Miss Pickett looked dazedly up from the magazine. “Sue,” she instructed a nearby student, “find Madeline Cheabrough, please.” She went back to Nude-Art magazine. It had fallen open to a well-thumbed page. Displayed was an Arcadian scene — a tree, a young woman demurely studying something in the gnarled branches overhead, perhaps a bird’s nest. The tree was unmistakably a Monterey cypress, the nature enthusiast was unmistakably Madeline.

  “Miss Pickett!” said Mrs. Cheabrough. “How do you explain this terrible thing?”

  Miss Pickett’s bosom heaved. “I simply can’t understand.” On sudden thought she thumbed hastily through the other pages. “Oh,” she gasped. For here was the arch Miss Skippy Ballard bending provocatively over a clump of wild daisies, and a little further on she found the enticing Miss J. B. Carr, prone on a sand dune, with sunny highlights along her shoulder blades and upturned feet. “My word!” gasped Miss Pickett. “My word!”

  Madeline sauntered down the hall. “Why hello, Mother. What on earth brings you here?”

  Mrs. Cheabrough thrust the magazine at her. “Madeline — what does this mean?”

  Madeline looked. “Hm. So that’s how they turned out. Not bad. Little skinny in the ribs, maybe — only that’s the style nowadays.”

  “Do you know who told me about this?” cried Mrs. Cheabrough. “Mrs. Hugh!”

  “Ah!” Madeline nodded. “That nasty little Dicky Hugh spotted it, I bet.”

  “Do you realize that it’s all over town? Do you realize that your reputation is ruined?”

  “I don’t see why it should be,” reasoned Madeline. “Somebody’s got to pose for these pictures. We made five dollars apiece that day.”

  “That day!” cried Mrs. Cheabrough and Miss Pickett in unison. “Do you mean there’ve been others?”

  “Every Sunday.”

  Mrs. Cheabrough turned to Miss Pickett and began to speak. During her fourth topic Mrs. Cheabrough broke off suddenly. “I’m exhausted,” she said in a broken voice. “Utterly exhausted! Oh Madeline …” She stumbled to a nearby chair.

  Miss Pickett stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. Madeline cleared her throat. Miss Pickett whirled and gave her a terrible look.

  “Say, Miss P,” said Madeline in a low, hurried voice, “I can fix everything up — for a price.” She glanced across the room to where her mother sat with brooding head. “If Mother makes a fuss, you’re done for — you and the whole academy. The publicity —”

  Miss Pickett tightened her mouth.

  “Now, for a few concessions,” said Madeline, “such as weekly dances, no limit to our spending money, Friday and Saturday nights out, ice cream three times a week, dancing in the hall to records — in other words, a thorough liberalization of policy — I’ll take the rap, and talk Mother into letting me stay here. And I know if she doesn’t do anything, Mrs. Ballard and Mrs. Carr won’t either, because they simply fawn on Mother. Is it a deal?”

  “Is there nothing you wouldn’t stoop to?”

  “You’d better make up your mind,” said Madeline. “Here comes Mother.”

  “Yes,” sighed Miss Pickett.

  Madeline slipped across the room to where her mother was struggling to her feet.

  “Sit still, darling,” she said. “There’s been a terrible mistake. Miss Pickett’s not at all to blame. Let me explain. You see, we girls took those pictures of each other — to help us in figure drawing, modeling of muscles, light and shadows — you know? A book of photographs costs five dollars — so we each saved five dollars. Well, Skippy took the film to be developed and she lost it in Monterey. And somebody probably picked it up, developed it, and used it in this awful way. I guess there’s nothing some people won’t do.”

  The next day Miss Pickett called a meeting of the student body.

  Miss Pickett’s message was short.

  “The suggestion has been made that you young ladies might like to manage your own social affairs through various committees and activity chairmen and so forth. If that is the case, you have my permission, provided that any extracurricular engagements do not interfere with your classroom work … I am sure that you young ladies will use a measure of discretion, and perhaps impose upon yourselves a set of sensible regulations. I have decided to concern myself only with the academic side of your life here, because I feel that you are all mature and sensible enough to look out for yourselves.

  “Another thing, I have decided to relax all restrictions upon your spending money. I wish to remind you, however, that ostentation and vulgarity are synonymous, and that over-indulgence in sweets ruins the complexion, the digestion and the figure.

  “Now I think Clarissa Landowne will make a good chairman pro tem. I will leave and you may choose your own governing committees.”

  She stalked from the room, and the girls recovered from their shock in time to rouse her out with a spontaneous cheer.

  An hour later the pupils of Miss Pickett’s Academy had formed themselves into a self-governing body. There was a President and Secretary-Treasurer and an Executive Committee. There was a Grievance Committee and a Judicial Committee and a Recreation Committee and a Social Board. Resolution followed resolution. One of the first was a decision to hold a First Annual Grand Ball three weeks from the coming Saturday.

  Immediately after the assembly broke up, every girl in the academy retired to write a letter of invitation to some especially favored boy friend.

  Miss Pickett, when apprised of the developments, clamped her teeth and said nothing.

  Chapter XV

  A shadow fell across Coves’ face as he stood at the desk checking accounts. Looking up, he saw Tiger Joe Connolly.

  “’Afternoon, Mr. Coves,” said Tiger Joe. He saw Rexie. “Ha, there’s the nice pussy! Ch’k, ch’k, ch’k! Howsa kitty?”

  Rexie turned his face to the wall.

  “Place stays filled up, eh, Mr. Coves?” said Tiger Joe jovially.

  “Yes, Mr. Connolly, it certainly does.”

  “Must make you a mint.”

  “Business is fair,” Coves agreed distantly.

  “Glad to hear it. I like to see a place do good. Especially a nice place like this.”

  Coves nodded and turned back to his accounts.

  The next morning at 7:00 A.M., Coves rose, brushed his teeth, combed his hair with a precise touch. Entering the cool lobby, he was surprised to note the robed figure of Mr. Emmett Tharp stalking apparently from the servants’ quarters.

  Mr. Tharp’s dark face wore a frown.

  “Mr. Coves, I appreciate the extension of your service — but, so far, it is incomplete. The shoes have not been returned.”

  “Shoes?” inquired Coves.

  “Exactly,” snapped Mr. Tharp. “Where are they?”

  “Why, Mr. Tharp,” stammered Coves, suddenly noting that Mr. Tharp walked barefoot, “where did you leave them?”

  “Outside my door, of course — exactly as your sign instructed.”

  Coves looked from side to side. “What sign?”

  Mr. Tharp pointed out a placard on the landing of the second floor. Coves hurried to investigate. The sign was printed in rude black letters.

  NOTICE TO GUESTS!

  Before retiring, put all shoes and boots

  outside door for free cleaning and

  polish. They will be returned before

  morning. Also all slippers, moccasins,

  clogs and galoshes for servicing.

  The Management

  “See?” said Mr. Tharp.

  Coves sank down on the top step.

  “I know nothing about it.”

  Coves faced his hostile guests, each of whom wore footgear of the most primitive improvisation, or else went barefoot.

  “Mr. Coves,” barked Mr. Boyce, “your enjoyment of this incredibly stupid prank by now must be palling upon you. Will you please distribute our shoes at once?”

  “If it’s a joke, it’s pretty silly,” rumbled Mr. Craintree Bezemer.

  Coves held up his hands. “Gentlemen, please! I assure you that I have no slightest knowledge of where your shoes are! There’s some terrible mistake —”

  “Mistake be damned!” roared a tall red-faced man. “If you don’t know where our shoes are, who does?”

  “Hold on now,” said Mr. Turk. “It’s probably not Mr. Coves’ fault at all. Let’s get to the bottom of the matter.”

  Tiger Joe Connolly descended the steps, his large feet shod in comfortable black shoes.

  “Hey,” exclaimed Mr. Boyce, “you’ve got your shoes on!”

  Tiger Joe nodded.

  “How come? Why didn’t you put your shoes out?” inquired a voice from the throng.

  “Oh, I didn’t want to cause Mr. Coves trouble,” said Tiger Joe. “I felt there’d be enough to do with all these other people.”

  Mr. Boyce stamped savagely toward the stairs. “I’m checking out. And what’s more, if anyone mentions Bird Island Hotel to me, I’ll certainly have something to say.”

  “Mr. Boyce!” cried Coves. “Just a moment! I’m sure there’s some explanation!”

  Mr. Boyce paused. “Give me my shoes and I’ll let the explanations go.”

  The door to the lobby opened and Al Carper entered.

  “’Mornin’.” He stared at the array of bare feet, sidled to the desk, laid down a packet of mail.

  “Where’s everybody’s shoes?” he asked Coves.

  “Gone.”

  “I guess I know what’s become of ’em.”

  Coves leaned forward, his plump face quivering.

  “I seen a whole mess of shoes and slippers and such in the middle of the bay as I was comin’ across. I guess they was your shoes.”

  A sudden concept sprang into being behind Coves’ sweat-beaded forehead. “Gentlemen!” he cried. “I think I know the answer!”

  “Well?” was Mr. Tharp’s sharp inquiry.

  “An attempt is being made to ruin me.”

  The tall red-faced man snorted. Mr. Boyce turned away in disgust.

  “Just a minute,” bellowed Mr. Turk. “Let Mr. Coves finish.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Coves, “I assure you that this is sabotage.”

  “Bah!” snorted Craintree Bezemer. “Who’d want to sabotage you? It can’t be competitors. There’s not another hotel on the island.”

  “It wouldn’t be competitors,” said Coves. “It would be gangsters.”

  Faces still stared uncomprehendingly.

  “I suppose an explanation is due you ladies and gentlemen.” Coves looked at his register, at Mr. Turk, over his shoulder at Rexie. “This island,” said Coves, “formerly was a gangsters’ hangout. When they were apprehended, I bought the island at a tax sale. That was some years ago, of course. Now I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they wanted to locate here again. There’ve been a number of unpleasant incidents. Mr. Green was slugged, and we’ve seen prowlers around. That’s all I know. I’ve laid my cards on the table.”

  During the recital, expressions changed slowly — from anger to skepticism, to interest, and at last, conviction.

  The tall red-faced man lit a cigar. “So you believe, then, that somebody — one of the gang — stole our shoes just to ruin you?”

  “I’m sure of it,” said Coves.

  “A dirty trick!” exploded Cecil Lissacutt.

  “Vicious, vicious,” said Mrs. Pedro Charmington from the arms of Ottilie, her maid.

  “Well, I for one won’t let anyone scare me off,” said Mr. Boyce bluntly. “I’ll stick it out.”

  “Of course,” said Coves listlessly, “I’ll replace the shoes.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Boyce. “Mine were well-worn. I’d merely like to get hold of the scoundrel that stole them.”

  “Gentlemen!” cried Craintree Bezemer. “I’ve a notion that may suit us all. Here we are, a number of intelligent men and women, with nothing but leisure on our hands. We’ve seen a crime committed. In fact, we’ve been personally done dirt to. If it happened in the Congo, I’d find the blighter and make him beg for mercy! I suggest then that all of us bend our efforts and track down the guilty man. He must be here among us, because that note was definitely an inside job.”

  “I’m with you,” said Mr. Tharp.

  “Sound notion,” said Cecil Lissacutt.

  “I’ll do my best,” announced Mrs. Pedro Charmington.

  Tiger Joe Connolly appeared dubious. “Probably no clues around. Seems like a lot of trouble to me.”

  “There are always clues,” explained Craintree Bezemer. “There’s always some kind of clue.”

  Tiger Joe straightened his necktie. “Probably just someone’s little joke.”

  Mr. Boyce looked at Tiger Joe’s comfortably shod feet, then at his own, mottled red, white and blue as they were from the unaccustomed exposure. “It’s easy for you to find humor in the situation.”

  Tiger Joe tightened his heavy fists, lurched his shoulders forward. He caught the eye of Mr. Turk, who stood leaning against the desk, and his mouth curved into an ingratiating smile.

  “Well, yeah, I guess it was a pretty dirty trick.”

  “Dirty trick!” snapped Mr. Boyce. “An outrage! Not only against Mr. Coves, but against me! Let he who is guilty beware!”

  Tiger Joe yanked at his necktie, pushed his hands in his pockets, slouched to one side.

  “Today then,” said Craintree Bezemer, “we get ourselves new shoes, and then, Mr. Coves, when we return we’ll locate the crook that’s trying to wreck your business.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you —” Coves became aware of a grim figure standing just inside the lobby door.

  Ike O’Rourke took a couple of steps forward, made a gesture with his shotgun.

  “Which one o’ you is the varmint I’m looking for?” He gazed from face to face. “Come on now! Stand out and take your medicine!”

  “Mr. O’Rourke,” stammered Coves, “what’s the trouble?”

  “Why, I’ll tell you, Mr. Coves, there’s no trouble. I’m just a-goin’ to make a angel outa the man what let my whales loose.”

  Coves stared numbly.

  “I trailed him over the hill comin’ toward the hotel, and then a stretch o’ gravel choked the sign. But I aim to find the varmint somewheres close by.”

  “You mean all your whales are — gone?”

  “Lock, stock, and barrel. They’s two hundred miles away now, all except one ol’ sick critter what only stayed because he was too tired to swim out the gate.”