The Shadow Passes A Mystery Story for Boys

“And then I saw it—the Shadow.”

The speaker’s eyes appeared to snap. Johnny Thompson leaned forward in his chair. “It glided through the fog without a sound.” The voice droned on, “Not a sound, mind you! We had a small boat with powerful motors. I stepped on the gas. Our motors roared. We were after that shadow.”

“And then?” Johnny Thompson whispered.

“For all I know,” the black-eyed man murmured, leaning back in his chair, “we might have cut that shadow square in two. Anyway, that’s the last we saw of it for that day.

“But think of it!” he exclaimed after a second’s pause. ”Think of the thing just disappearing in the fog like that!”

He was a romantic figure, this man Blackie. The boys of Matanuska Valley in Alaska loved this gathering of an evening about the red-hot stove in the store. And no part of the evening’s entertainment was ever half so thrilling as Blackie’s stories.

“It was spring then,” Blackie added, “late May, when the salmon run was on.”

“It was a whale after salmon, that shadow,” someone suggested.

“No, sir!” Blackie fairly shouted. “It was too fast for a whale! Some sort of Oriental craft, I shouldn’t wonder. Though how they’d make it go without a sound is beyond me.

“Ah well,” he sighed, “I’ll be rid of these by spring.” He kicked at the crutches beside his chair. “Then I’ll be after ’em again, those bloomin’ Orientals and their gliding shadows.”

“You going back into the Coast Guard Service?” Johnny asked eagerly.

“I sure am!” Blackie agreed heartily. “Boy! That’s the life! A speedy boat with two or three airplane motors in her hull, a good crew, plenty of gas, the wide open sea and enough trouble to keep your eyes open day and night. Man! Oh, man!”

“Take me along,” Johnny suggested impulsively.

“Me too!” put in Lawrence, his slim, bright-eyed cousin.

“What do you know about boats?” Blackie asked.

“Plenty,” was Johnny’s prompt reply. “Been on ’em all my life, power boats on the Great Lakes, Carib Indian sailboats in the Caribbean, skin-boats way up north. It’s all the same.

“And Lawrence here,” he added after a brief pause, “he knows about motors.”

“I—I was assistant mechanic in an airplane hangar for a season,” Lawrence agreed modestly.

“Well, it—might—be—arranged,” Blackie replied slowly. “Don’t know about pay. You sort of have to be on regular for that. But up here in the north, things can’t always be done according to department regulations. Anyway, it’s worth thinking about.”

“Thank—oh, thank you,” Lawrence stammered. Johnny knew how he was feeling at that moment. He, Johnny, had met adventure in many climes. Lawrence had lived a quiet life. Really to sail on a coast guard boat in search of Orientals suspected of stealing salmon, smuggling or spying off the Alaskan shores, to chase gray shadows that pass in the fog! Worth thinking of? Well, you’d just know it was!

Johnny was still thinking of all this when two hours later, he crept beneath the blankets in the small log cabin room occupied by Lawrence and himself.

“That would be great!” he was telling himself. In fancy, he allowed his mind to wander. Bristol Bay, a hundred and fifty miles wide and a hundred and fifty long, fishing boats on the water, canneries on the shore and back behind all this in the fog somewhere, beyond the three-mile line, great dark bulks that were Oriental ships. Why these ships? No one knew exactly. “Spying out our shore-line,” some said, “stealing our salmon,” said others. And perhaps they were smugglers. It was known that these ships carried smaller crafts that could be lowered to the water. “Could do anything, go anywhere, these small boats,” Johnny assured himself.

“And the Shadow, that mysterious gray form that goes streaking through the fog. What could it be?

“Ah, well,“ he settled deeper among the blankets. “It’s a long time till spring, and here, right in Matanuska Valley is exciting adventure aplenty.”

As if reading his thoughts, Lawrence murmured dreamily, “We’ll go after him again tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Johnny agreed, “tomorrow.”

“Lawrence! Look! There he is!” Johnny pointed excitedly up the glistening expanse of frozen river. Tomorrow had come. They were on the river.

“Wh—where?” Lawrence whispered.

“You don’t have to whisper.” Johnny laughed low. “He’s way up there. I can scarcely see him with the glass. Here! Take it. See that pool of water on the right side?”

“Yes—yes, I see.” Lawrence took the field glasses.

“At this end of that pool. I saw him move. Look quick!”

For a space of ten seconds Lawrence studied that pool. “Yes,” he exclaimed at last, “he is there! I saw him move over to the right.”

“Lawrence!” Johnny’s voice was tense with emotion. “I’m going after him!”

Johnny bent over to tighten a skate strap. “Here! Give me the bag. You follow me, but not too fast. You can keep the glasses. I won’t need them.”

“Al—all right, Johnny. Be careful! You—”

But Johnny was away. Skating from the hips, scarcely lifting a foot from the ice, he appeared to glide without effort over the glass-like surface of the river.

The boy’s spirits rose. They were “after him again.” And “he” was a grand prize indeed.

“If only we can get him,” Johnny was thinking. “If we only can.”

The distant future quite forgotten, Johnny was living intensely in the glorious present. Lawrence followed slowly. He, too, was a skillful skater. The river at this point was frozen solidly. No need for thought here. At once his mind was busy with memories of the not-too-distant past and plans for the future.

Life for him had been strange. Eight months before he had been on the broad, dry prairies of the Dakotas. Now he was skating on the Matanuska River in Alaska. Nor was this just an adventurous winter trip. The Matanuska Valley was his home and would be, he hoped, for years to come. Six miles back and up a half mile from the river was their claim and the sod-covered log cabin they called home.