The Mystery of the Blinking Eye Read Online Free PDF Page B

plouplou sounds in their throats.
    The hansom cabs skirted the big lake, which was alive with rowboats carrying families—mothers, fathers, children. Back of the rowboats, children trailed paper boats on strings. One boy had made a flotilla of little aluminum foil boats, and the sun, glinting through the trees, turned them to fairy ships.
    It was quiet in the park. The hansom drivers kept up a constant flow of information, and, since the two cabs kept close together, the passengers talked back and forth, exchanging impressions of the park.
    One of the drivers, the older one, a round-faced white-haired gentleman, had been driving a hansom cab for years. “I used to drive for Mrs. Andrew Carnegie,” he told his group proudly.
    The other driver snorted. “Don’t believe a word of it,” he said hotly. “He’s driven that selfsame cab since Peter Minuit bought Manhattan from the Indians.”
    “I’m not that big a liar,” the old Irishman replied. “But I did drive the old lady herself. She was a great old lady, and she loved the park. She’d always wait for me. She liked everybody. Every year she had red geraniums planted in front of her house up there on Ninety-first Street.” He pointed north with the tip of his whip. “She did it so that people who rode the buses could see them.”
    Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop. The patient horses traveled along.
    “How big is Central Park?” Barbara asked. “It seems almost as big as the whole city of Des Moines.”
    “Eight hundred and forty acres,” Mart answered quickly.
    “That’s not much bigger than your Uncle Andrew’s farm and ours put together,” Ned said.
    Bob and Barbara and Ned—in fact, everyone in the two cabs—were fascinated with the park and their two drivers... everyone, that is, except Trixie. Her mind seemed miles away.
    Honey nudged her. “What’s the matter? You look so serious,” she whispered.
    “I can’t help it. I keep thinking about that Mexican woman and what she wrote. Honey, it’s coming true!”
    “You’re fooling. What are you talking about?”
    “ ‘Great-headed man,’ ” Trixie quoted. “It really means ‘big-headed,’ as we first thought. If I’ve ever heard a big-headed man talk, it’s that driver with all his boasting.”
    Honey burst out laughing. Everyone looked at her inquiringly, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. “It’s a private joke,” she said hastily.
    “It sounded funny enough to share,” suggested Mart.
    “You wouldn’t think it funny at all,” Trixie said. Then she added to Honey under her breath, “Laugh if you want to, but you’ll find out I’m right.”
    Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.
    “Just look at those boats!” Bob cried. His eyes almost stood out from his head. “Over on that little pond!”
    “That’s Conservatory Pond,” Brian told him. “Do you think we could leave the cabs here, driver, and go over to the pond to look at the boats? I’ve only been there once before, Bob.”
    “Let’s,” Mart said. “The boats are really neat. They’re all scale models. Men over there at the Kerbs Memorial Boathouse help boys, and grown-ups, too, to make model boats.”
    “Gosh!” Bob scrambled out.
    Conservatory Pond was a clear mirror set in a green frame of fresh-cut grass. Scale model boats of all kinds and sizes dotted its waters. Their white sails were reflected in the clear water, which rippled gently, stirred by a gentle breeze that sent boats to windward, each with its own self-steering rig.
    They all settled themselves on the bank to watch. “Uncle Andrew gave you a sailboat when we came here before,” Trixie said to Brian. “It was becalmed, and you were furious. Do you remember?”
    “I was furious because I sat here for hours waiting for it to come to shore.” Brian laughed, remembering. “Then I had to leave. I don’t know what ever became of it.”
    “The men at the boathouse over there probably hauled it in and, when no one claimed it, gave it to some boy—maybe