Lantern Sam and the Blue Streak Bandits by Michael D. Beil Read Free Book Online Page B

claws.
“Back up, kid! You remember the Hindenburg? If that belly of his explodes, nobody is going to get out of here alive. Oh, the humanity!”
    The judge took the ransom note from Clarence and patted him on the back in a way that seemed to annoy the kindly conductor. “I think it’s best if I take over from here.I have experience dealing with situations like this, and besides, I’m sure you have other responsibilities. I’ll be in touch if I need to see inside the compartment where you found the note. I’ll be needing to send a telegram—have to let someone in Dunkirk know what’s going on, and to have them alert the local authorities.” And with that, he pushed Clarence and me (along with a loudly complaining Lantern Sam) out the door of the suite.
    “Mrrrraaa. What just happened?”
Sam asked, digging a single claw even deeper into my arm.
“Who does that blowhard think he is? Just because he’s the size of a small planet—no, I take that back, a huge planet—he thinks he can boss everyone around. Retired sheriff, my eye. Did anybody get a good look at that badge he flashed? Probably came out of a box of Cracker Jack.”
    “It looked real enough,” said Clarence.
    “Well, I’m not giving up,”
said Sam.
“There’s more holes in this case than a trainload of Swiss cheese.”
    “What can we do?” I asked.
    Sam jumped down to the floor.
“Back to the dormitory. I think best in my own bed. With a bowl of fresh Jersey cream. And a can of Sail On sardines. If only someone cared enough about me to provide those two simple necessities of life.”

While the two arrow holes in my neck healed, I began to think that perhaps it was time for me to see a bit of the world outside of Linesville, Pennsylvania. After all, I’d already been squashed by a thousand pounds of dairy cow and shish kebabed by one of the most dangerous creatures I know—a boy—and I was still two months away from my first birthday. How much more dangerous could the outside world be?
    I’ve never been a big fan of the long goodbye, so I strolled out of the barn before the morning milking one fine September day without a look back at my still-sleeping siblings, and headed north. Why north? Simple. I’d heard rumors of a lake so big that you couldn’t see across it, and boats overflowingwith fresh-caught perch and walleye. Lake Erie: it sounded like heaven.
    It didn’t take me long to figure out that traveling on paw was for the birds, so to speak. Luckily, I met a grizzled old tabby named Butch—originally from a town in northern Ontario—who introduced me to the world of train travel. Together we hopped a Bessemer & Lake Erie coal train bound for Ashtabula, and we were treated to a meal of canned tuna and slightly sour milk in the caboose by a conductor named Charlie Nockwood—Clarence’s older brother!
    When we got to Ashtabula, Butch pointed me in the direction of the piers where the fishing boats docked and sent me on my way with a single piece of advice: “Cats and boats don’t mix, Sam. Hang out all you want and enjoy the fresh fish, but whatever you do, don’t
ever
step aboard one of those death traps. It’s like being in prison, but with a much better chance of drowning. No boats. Promise?”
    I promised.
    Yes, I broke that promise—but to be fair, it was unintentional. I swear.
    The weather had turned unseasonably chilly, and I was sauntering down the pier where the fishermen clean their catch, hoping to snag a few scraps for myself. Through a porthole of a tidy, well-cared-for fishing boat, I spied a kerosene lantern burning brightly. I thought about Butch’swarning, but I convinced myself that I would go aboard only long enough to warm up, maybe find a little something to eat, and then plant my feet back on terra firma, where cats belong. Besides, the boat was named
Susie G
, and I had a sister Susie. Surely that was a good sign. And so, in a weak moment brought on by the cold and an empty stomach, I leaped from