Phantom Island

Chapter 3
 
Call Him Rocky

    The mysterious stranger took off in the direction of the International Headquarters of the Peters Knickknack Company, and his purposeful stride suggested that he knew exactly where he was going.
    Lucy and I watched him for a moment. Then she said, “This is a dream come true, a prayer answered. Oh, how I’ve wished that a mysterious stranger would enter my life! I’m going to follow that guy and see what he’s up to.”
    “That’s a good idea. I still think that there’s a possibility he’s a spy for Worldwide Whatnots or General Gewgaws. If so, there may be trouble when he reaches the IHQ, and I really ought to be there to lend a hand.”
    “If I were you, Larry, I’d stay out of that guy’s way if the going gets rough. He looks like a guy who knows how to handle himself in a scuffle, set-to, melee, or scramble.”
    We followed him. Following him was easy, because he never turned around to see if he was being followed, and yet it was also difficult, because he moved at such a quick pace, though he was only walking, not running.
    “He’s got quite a stride,” I remarked.
    “Yes, he is,” sighed Lucy. She seemed to be a bit out of breath.
    “‘He is’?” I asked. “He is what?”
    “Oh,” she said. “I must have misunderstood you.”
    When the stranger reached the door of IHQ, he went right in. We hurried to the door ourselves. Looking through the glass, we saw Biff, the faithful guard, give the stranger a smart salute and wave him on upstairs to the second floor, where my father’s office was.
    Lucy and I let ourselves in and approached Biff.
    “Do you know that guy?” I asked.
    “Sure do,” said Biff.
    “Who is he?”
    “Rocky. Rocky King.”
    “He’s a clamdigger?” asked Lucy.
    Biff laughed and started to speak, but then thought better of it.
    “Gee,” he said, “I don’t know whether I’m allowed to answer that. I think it’s classified.”
    “Classified? By the government?”
    “Well, no, but by your father.”
    “Okay if we go upstairs and see Dad?”
    Biff reached for the phone, then reverted to his usual happy-go-lucky manner and said, “Sure, you can go on up. You’re not spies.” He paused a moment and added, “Right?”
    “Biff,” I said, “I assure you that Lucy and I are loyal to the family and the family business. We cannot be bought. If there’s treachery underway and there are spies about, we are on the side of truth, justice, and Peters Knickknacks.”
    We mounted the stairs at a quick pace. In fact, we scampered up them.
    At the door to Dad’s office, we hesitated just the briefest instant, and then curiosity urged us through the door, overcoming any fear we may have had that we were about to interrupt something that wasn’t quite our business, to stick our noses in where they didn’t really belong, even if we were part of the family, noses included.
    Dad and the stranger were standing at the window, looking out over Murky Bay at the hulk of the clam boat, burned now to the waterline, smoking and steaming, but not flaming any longer. They turned when they heard us enter.
    “Larry! Lucy!” said Dad. “What brings you here?”
    “We followed him,” I said, pointing at the young man Biff had identified as Rocky King.
    “Well, Rocky,” said Dad, placing a hand on Rocky’s shoulder, “I guess your cover’s been blown.”
    “Not really, sir. Not yet, anyway. I think Larry and Lucy are convinced that I’m a witless clamdigger who carelessly blew up his clamboat by smoking in the engine room.”
    “I’ve seen clamdiggers,” said Lucy. Then with a sigh and dreamy eyes she added, “You’re no clamdigger.”
    I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect the big lug to get all hurt and offended by Lucy’s remark.
    “Hey, Cutie,” he said, “that’s coming pretty close to an offensive remark.”
    “No offense intended, ‘Cutie,’” said Lucy.
    “I just think you might want to examine your attitude toward clamdiggers,” he said. “You seem to be suggesting that clamdiggers are all alike. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that sounds like a prejudice to me. I’d say you’re taking the first small step toward becoming a bigot, albeit a very attractive one.”
    “I’ll spend the evening examining my attitudes toward the clamdigging fraternity and making any adjustments that seem necessary.”
    “You do that, and I think you’ll conclude that there is no reason why a clamdigger can’t be young, tall, good-looking—”
    “Or modest,” I added.
    “That too,” said Rocky, with no apparent humor.
    “Kids,” said Dad, employing a designation for us that made both of us wince, especially in the presence of this twenty-something weightlifter who seemed likely to be a beach bully, “meet Rocky King.”
    “I think we have already met Mr. King,” said Lucy icily.
    “Call me Rocky, Hot Stuff,” said the big lug.
    Impulsively, Lucy grasped the paw that he offered her.