Chapter Ten: The Case of the Foggiest Notion

by Jim Prime and Ben Robicheau

    Jim Grime entered the fish shack/detective agency with a flourish. He removed his oil-stained John Deere cap and threw it nonchalantly toward an ancient hat rack in the corner. It missed and landed on the wharf cat which promptly shat in it.

    “Well, I’m back, Gurrey, back from Seattle, Washington. What are you up to?”

     His partner was emerging from the small toilet that hung precarious out over the beach at the back of the shack, supported only by two rotting stilts. “Just finished up some paperwork,” he said. “Jobs not done until you finish the paperwork, you know.”   Grime sighed. “Well, it’s back to reality I guess,” he said.

    “How was your trip Grimesey?” said Gurrey, hoisting himself onto a hogshead and warming his hands by the pot-bellied stove.

    “I arrived on a Friday and it was raining. It rained Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, and then the weather took a turn for the worse. I’ll tell you it was just like home.”
    “And how’s your little grandson, Grimsey?” asked Gurrey.
    “Little Sam’s just like me,” said Grime proudly.
    “Incontinent is he?” asked Gurrey.
    “NO!” said Grime angrily. “No!...I mean, yes...of course he’s incontinent, he’s a baby for Pete’s sake! I meant he’s a good-looking kid, just like me.’
    ‘Dear God in heaven,’ thought Gurrey, but said out loud. “Oh that’s great old friend. I confess that I missed you. It isn’t the same trying to solve mysteries all by yourself.”
    “Right you are, old pal,” said Grime. “Sherlock had his Watson, Batman had his Robin, Superman had his Jimmy Olsen, the Lone Ranger had his Tonto, and…”
    Not wanting to be left out, Gurrey interjected “And Charlie Mccarthy had Mortimer Snerd.”
    “Yes…er, yes, that’s right,” replied Grime somewhat taken aback. “Tell me what’s been going on. Any crime on the go?”
    Gurrey lit his corn cob pipe and took two deep draws to get it going. “To tell you the truth Grimey, someone could have stole the whole village and I’d never have seen it. It’s been solid fog for two weeks. Can’t see across the Passage, or even across the street.”
    “Same out there today,” said Grime. “A real pea-souper. This is the kind of weather that criminals love. We’d better be on high alert.”
    Gurrey yawned and expelled a luxurious forty-six second fart.
    “Right you are Grimey,” he said contentedly.
    Suddenly the shop door flew open with a bang, admitting several cold, grasping fingers of fog clinging to the warm, stylish form of Dot Baker, who shook the heavy droplets from her clothes, looked around the detective office/fishgutting parlour, wrinkled her cute little button nose and commented, “I hope I’m not being rude, but this place really smells bad. You must have some rotting fish in here somewhere; maybe it’s time for a good cleaning.”
    With an uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed look, Gurrey replied, “Thanks for that house-keeping tip Dot, we’ll get right to it; in the meantime, what can we do for you?”
    “Well, as you know, I recently opened a donut shop over in Freeport...”
    “Dot’s Donuttery, we know it well”, interrupted Grime, “Your dulse donuts are one of my all-time favourites. You know, I’ve never been able to get them anywhere else, and I’ve tried, all the way from here to Seattle; I just get an odd look when I try to order them, I don’t know why other people don’t carry them, they’re delicious.”
    “Why, thank you Grime. I’m pretty sure you’re my biggest customer for that particular item. As a matter of fact, the bakery is the reason I’m here; we’ve been having some thefts recently. Every time the fog comes in - which is nearly all the time - someone goes around the neighbourhood stealing things. We’ve tried to catch him ourselves, but all we’ve been able to do is snatch a brief glimpse of a vague form disappearing in the mist.
    Everyone in the area has been hit to some extent by this fellow who we call The Crocker’s Hill Creeper, but I’ve been the worst affected because...” Here Dot paused and then continued, “What I’m about to tell you is a trade secret, I’m assuming there is some code of client-dick confidentiality that prevents you from revealing this to anyone else?”
    The two dicks nodded their heads - their couple of dick heads as it were - in confirmation.
    “My secret of success is that I cool my products in the fog, it makes everything nice and moist and imparts a slight flavour of the sea to all my baking. Because I have to put it all outside, I’m an easy target for The Creeper; he’s stealing almost everything I make.”
    “Not the dulse donuts!” Grime was leaning forward with a look of alarm.
    “No, that’s about the only thing he hasn’t taken so far.”
    With a sigh of relief, Grime settled back in his chair.
    “Anyway, since we didn’t have any luck trying to catch him ourselves, I decided it was time to bring in some able, competent professionals. Unfortunately, none of them were available, so here I am at your door. Do you think you can help me?”
    “Hmmm,” said Gurrey. “This reminds me of another case I read about – I can’t remember where. It involved a guy named Simple Simon.”
    “That’s a fairy tale character,” snapped Grime.
    “I don’t care about his sexual orientation,” replied Gurrey earnestly. “If he’s a crook, he’s a crook.”
    Grime ignored his partner and turned to question Ms. Baker in greater depth. “Pardon me for saying so Dot, but you are much better known for your egg tarts than for your donuts. Whenever they see you walk by, everyone’s first reaction is ‘Tart!’”
    Realizing that his comment could conceivably be interpreted negatively, he added “Not me of course. I prefer your buns.” Confident that he had cleverly covered up any imagined slight, Grime silently thanked his grade 11 teacher, Mrs. Hooper, for his diplomatic way with words. Little wonder that he was known as the Henry Kissinger of the tri-islands area.
    He continued with the questioning as Gurrey took notes. “This person you saw sneak away into the fog…was he tall, short – was there anything about him that was odd?”
    “Now you come to mention it,” began Dot, “he was carrying two huge bags slung low over his shoulders. They were stuffed with something very heavy because he could barely walk. Probably pies.”
    “Anything else?” prompted Grime. “Well, it was pretty foggy but I thought at first that he had two accomplices, one on either side, helping him along.” She paused. “One other thing. It may not be important but I could have sworn I heard him laughing. It was a very strange sound, like a seagull giving birth.”
    “I see,” said Grime. “Well thank you very much Dot. You’ve given us a lot to go on. We’ll be in touch when we have a result.”
    With a doubtful look, Dot left the building and the two dicks went back over the evidence carefully. “Read me your notes Gurrey,” said Grime.
    Gurrey flicked open his notepad and began to read. “Always start by putting an ‘X’ or ‘O’ in the center square. Don’t let Grime make the first…” He stopped abruptly. “Sorry, those are my strategy notes on tic-tack-toe. I swear I’ll master that game yet Grimesey.”
    Grime gave him a withering look as Gurrey found the right page in his notebook.
He read his notes:
    “Stole donuts/possibly three suspects/ carries heavy bags/heard laughter.” He stopped reading and looked at Grime.
    “That’s it?!” said Grime. “Those are the only notes you made in a 20-minute interview?!”
    “I have a mind like a steel trap,” replied his partner. “The rest is all up here!” He pointed toward his balding head, inadvertently poking himself in the eye with his Bic pen.
    Throwing down the pen, Gurrey rose from his chair and said,” Enough paperwork, it’s time for some action! Let’s roll!” He was halfway out the door before realizing his partner was not behind him. Turning back, he saw Grime writhing about on the floor.
    “What are you doing?”
    “You said to roll, so I’m rolling.”
    “I didn’t mean that literally, it’s a figure of speech; what I meant was, ‘Let’s get in the car and drive off.’”
    “Oh”, said Grime, getting up off the floor, “Well, try to make your meaning a little clearer from now on. Now I’ve got fish guts all over my suit.”
    A short while later the partners were sitting in the Dickmobile across from the Donuttery watching customers come and go. Gurrey was getting eye-strain trying to notice anything suspicious through the dense fog, while Grime was preoccupied with flicking rancid fish entrails off his sleeve and sulkily muttering to himself, “Nearly ruined my best suit...paid a lot of money for this suit...now I’ll have to get it dry-cleaned...probably cost a lot to clean a nice suit like this.”
    “Look”, said an exasperated Gurrey, “That’s a 1970’s disco suit that you got out of the bargain bin at Frenchy’s for $1.25. If it’s really ruined, buy another one, I’ll gladly give you the $1.25, just stop pouting about it!”
    After an uncomfortable hour spent sitting in strained silence, Gurrey finally said, “Well, Dot was right about the fog; when it’s this thick you can’t see anything, now it’s getting dark too. This is a waste of time; we might as well go back to the office and work on coming up with a plan.”
    “You go,” said Grime, getting out of the car, “I’m going to take a closer look at the scene of the crime, I’ll see you later.”
    Late the next morning, the Dickmobile was again in its usual spot across from the donut shop. Gurrey had been surprised when Grime arrived back at the office and announced that there was no need to bother with a plan; in the morning, he would be able to pick out the guilty party in front of the store next to Dot’s establishment. As they sat waiting, Gurrey noticed that there seemed to be a lot of activity this morning; people were streaming in from all directions and entering the only store in the village. Finally the front door opened and a pale, anxious-looking fellow came out carrying a large bundle under his arm.
    “That’s him!” cried Grime excitedly, “That’s our thief!”
    “Are you sure?” asked Gurrey incredulously, “But that’s Rev. McKinnon, why do you think he’s the thief?”
    “Yesterday while we were sitting here, I came up with a fool- proof plan to make The Creeper identify himself. I didn’t mention it to you at the time because I was still mad about the suit thing. After you left, I went in to talk to Dot, who was just about to put the chocolate icing on a batch of her irresistible breakfast donuts; everybody loves those, I figured if The Creeper is going to steal anything, he’ll steal those. When she turned her back for a moment, I dumped a package of ex-lax into the icing. It’s a perfect plan, he’ll steal the donuts, he’ll eat the donuts, the ex-lax will do its stuff; and according to my calculations, just about now is when he will be running out of toilet paper...and there he is.” Grime concluded by pointing at the hapless Rev. who was struggling valiantly with an extremely large package of toilet tissue.
    Gurrey was gob-smacked at this news, “Uh, Grimey, you do know that they don’t put icing on hot donuts don’t you? Those donuts were already cooled; they never went outside after they were iced, they probably went right into the display case.” With a rapidly increasing feeling of impending doom, Gurrey pointed out a fact that Grime already knew only too well, “Nearly everybody in town comes here first thing in the morning for a coffee and one of Dot’s delicious breakfast donuts.”
    “No, no” said Grime with a rising note of panic, “It’s a good plan! It’s a good plan! That’s our thief right there! I’m sure of it!”
    Just then the door opened again and another customer emerged carrying a package of toilet paper; he was quickly followed by another, then another, and another.
    “Oh, oh” said Grime.
    “Oh, oh is right” said Gurrey, “Congratulations Grimey old pal, you’ve succeeded in singlehandedly giving the entire village of Freeport a case of the runs.”
    “Oh, no” said Grime, sinking down in the car seat, “What do we do now?”
    “Well” replied Gurrey, “Under the circumstances, I think there is really only one option available to us.” With that, he started the engine and the two dicks surreptitiously slunk away into the mercifully enveloping fog.
    The next morning found Grime – in spite of the previous day’s events – in good spirits. Gurrey discovered him sitting at the splitting table/desk in front of a large sheet of paper covered in circles and arrows and dozens of cryptic notations.
    “I’ve been up all night working on a new plan,” he said.
    “I hope this one doesn’t involve a laxative,” Gurrey replied warily.
    “No,” replied Grime with a wink.” Although I’ve never seen the citizens of Freeport looking so regular. This time I think I may have an idea about who our donut thief is.”
    That evening, Gurrey and Grime were seated at the back of the room at the IOOF Hall, listening to the comic stylings of Bertram “Chuckles” Allbrite, the finest stand-up comic in the tri-islands area. The crowd was in hysterics and had been since the show began some two hours earlier. The knock-knock jokes had the patrons howling but the “that’s what she said” improvisational gambits had them gasping for air. To conclude his set, the morbidly obese comic had segued into a put-down argument with a tipsy member of the audience.
    “Hey, yer not funny,” slurred the clearly inebriated man in the second row.
    “Yeah, so’s your mother,” Chuckles had retorted and his witticism was rewarded with gales of guffaws.
    Encouraged by the response, Chuckles continued to attack his heckler. “You are short and ugly and I hope you die,” he said.
    The put-down was classic Allbrite material and people were literally rolling in the aisles. He ended with the same catch phrase with which he began and ended every show. “Getting’ any?”
    Several people had to be assisted in leaving the hall, they were laughing so hard.
    As Allbrite left the stage, Grime noticed that his buttocks were worthy of two separate postal codes.
    Outside in their dick-mobile, the two dicks discussed what they had seen and heard.
    “Notice anything about the way Chuckles tells jokes?” said Grime.
    “Only that he’s hi-larious,” responded Gurrey.
    “Yes, right,” said Grime, rolling his eyes. “Ever notice that he laughs at his own jokes?”
    “Sure, that’s his trademark,” replied Gurrey. “So what?’
    “So, he has a very distinctive laugh,” said Grime. “I think what we need is a laugh line-up. Round up five Joes off the street and our friend Chuckles and we’ll see if Dot can identify who she heard laughing.”
    An hour later, Gurrey showed up at the bakery with five local loafers he had found loitering around the desolate streets of Freeport. “I couldn’t find five guys named Joe”, he informed Grime, “But I did get one Joe, a Jack, two Johns and a Jimmy.”
    “I guess that’ll have to do,” replied Grime, “Put them in the back room with our suspect while I set up the interrogation equipment.” While Gurrey hustled the line-up participants into the storage room, Grime carefully unpacked his most prized possessions; his official Hey, Hey, We’re The Monkees portable record player and his stack of classic comedy albums: Richard Pryor Live on the Sunset Strip, Standup Comic with Woody Allen, The Button Down Mind of Bob Newhart, Comedian with Eddie Murphy, Class Clown with George Carlin, and A Wild and Crazy Guy with Steve Martin.
    “If these don’t make ‘em laugh, nothing will” thought Grime. “OK Gurrey, bring them in one at a time.”
    Grime was merciless in his interrogation, blasting each suspect with the time-tested comedic stylings of some of the greatest humorists known to mankind. One by one they succumbed under the relentless barrage of jokes, gags, comic impersonations, and humorous stories; eventually finding themselves reduced to a state of helpless laughing, chuckling and guffawing.
    When it was all over, Grime turned to Dot and said, “I regret that you had to witness such a spectacle, but it was unfortunately necessary. Which laugh do you recognize?”
    “I’m sorry” replied Dot, “A couple sounded close, but none of them sounded exactly the same as the laugh of The Crocker’s Hill Creeper.”
    Devastated, Grime half-collapsed on a near-by donut rack; squashing several of Dot’s freshly-glazed clam crunchies. “How could I be wrong again, Gurrey? I was so sure I had it figured out this time. Maybe what everyone says is true, that I’m too old, too senile, too stupid, too homely, too flatulent, too bald, too halitosis-ridden, too badly dressed for this job.”
    “Don’t listen to that kind of talk Grimey; they’re mostly wrong about almost half of those things. Run that line-up through one more time; I’ve got a hunch you might be right about this after all.”
    This time, just as each candidate opened his mouth to laugh, Gurrey shoved a donut in it. As soon as “Chuckles” Allbrite emitted his first crumb-spewing belly-laugh, Dot yelled out, “That’s it, that’s it, that’s the weird laugh I heard that night!”
      Confronted with the testimony of an irrefutable ear-witness, Allbrite quickly folded – at least as far as a man of his size and shape was able to fold – and confessed to being The Creeper. “Believe it or not, being a comic at the Freeport IOOF Hall doesn’t pay that well, and it takes a lot of energy to get up on a stage and perform, I was burning too many calories and started wasting away. When I dropped below 120 pounds, I got desperate, I know an artist is supposed to suffer for his art, but I was about to die for mine. I knew that Dot put her baking outside, so I started sneaking the odd jellyfish donut, or maybe a mussel muffin or lobster-bait brownie, just enough to give me the energy to get through another set. As you can see, it worked; in fact it worked too well; her treats are so delectable that I couldn’t restrain myself, I got addicted to the sugar-rush, had to eat more and more and finally became the morbidly obese man you see before you.”
    By this time, Gurrey, Grime and Dot were on the verge of tears at Chuckles’ sad story.
    “Isn’t there anything we can do?” asked Dot with a sniffle and a dainty little snort, “Does he have to go to jail?”
    “That’s up to you” responded Gurrey, “You were the main victim of his crimes; do you want to press charges?”
    A short while later, Gurrey and Grime were on their way to the ferry. Grime carefully selected another dulse donut from the box that Dot had given him in appreciation for solving the mystery of The Crocker’s Hill Creeper, and said, “Well, that turned out all right. Everyone seemed happy enough with the way things were resolved.”
    After it was decided that there would be no charges, an appreciative and repentant Chuckles promised to do some benefit shows at the Donuttery to make up for what he had stolen; and Dot, being a long-time supporter of the arts, agreed to become Chuckles’ corporate sponsor, manager and weight-loss coach.
    “Yep” said Gurrey, “A good day for all involved and another case closed for Gurrey and Grime.”
     “Getting any?” added Grime, and the two collapsed in laughter.

Chapter Nine - The Case of the Cold Case

by Jim Prime & Ben Robicheau 

    Gurrey and Grime were sitting across the desk/gutting table from each other. Each had a pen and was working intently on something. Finally, Grime slapped the instrument down on the desk and said “Done! That’s the fastest I’ve ever finished the New York Times Crossword – 8 minutes and 12 seconds. What’s that you’re working on Gurrey?”

    “That tic-tac-toe game we started yesterday Grimesey,” replied Gurrey. “I went over the rules again last night but I’ll be darned if I can understand it. I think I’ll have to concede the game to you.”
    “Well, never mind all that,” said Grime kindly. “Gurrey, my friend, “I think it’s time we opened up a cold case.”
    “Well, it’s only 8:30 in the morning, but why not? There’s most of a 2-4 of Ten Penny left in the ice box next to the scallop rims.” He started to get up.
    “Not that kind of cold case, Gurrey. I’m talking about a case that goes back a hundred and fifty years – to the time when Joshua Slocum lived just down the street.”   
    “Probably skunky by now,” said Gurrey.
    “It’s a detective case, Gurrey,” said Grime patiently. “A real mystery.”
    “I’m all ears,” said Gurrey.
    “Nothing that some extensive plastic surgery can’t repair, my friend. But back to the business at hand.” He reached into his ass pocket pulled out his wallet and extracted a carefully folded and brittle-looking letter. He unfolded the yellowed parchment very carefully. “I found it in an old Bible at the Syst family estate sale yesterday. I bid $12.00 on it and got it. Looks nice on the coffee table next to the National Geographics I got at the Thurber yard sale. There isn’t anything that shouts intelligence to the girlies more than old Bibles and National Geographics. I’ll have to beat em off with a thole pin.”
    “So the widow Syst is selling up and moving away?” Gurrey interrupted.
    “Yes, ever since her husband, old Sebaceous, died in that freak Gestetner accident at the school she hasn’t been herself. She figures if she moves away it’ll be easier to get on with life. Goin’ to Halifax, nice place on Gottingen Street. Sebaceous was a Syst on his father’s side but a relative of old Josh Slocum himself on his mother’s side….anyway, I found this letter in the Bible. It’s dated 1859 – he would have been about 15 years old I figure – still making boots with his father.”
    He carefully laid the letter out on his lap and read its contents:

Dear Mother,

Sorry I run away.

J S

    With Grime distracted by the note, Gurrey surreptitiously reached across the table and slid the newspaper over so he could see it. Just as he did every week, Grime made a big deal to Gurrey about doing the New York Times crossword puzzle, and just like every week, he claimed to have completed it in record time, and also just like every week, he refused to show the finished puzzle to Gurrey. But this week, Grime had inadvertently left the puzzle lying on the table.

    Just as he suspected, Gurrey could see that Grime had not completed the puzzle at all! He had simply filled in the spaces with the letters of the alphabet starting with an ‘A’ in the upper right-hand corner and continuing to ‘Z’, then repeating until all the boxes were filled. And not surprisingly, he hadn’t even done that right! Gurrey’s finely-honed detective’s mind, trained to pick up on any anomaly no matter how small, immediately saw that Grime had repeated the same mistake over and over in each set of letters. He had consistently inverted two letters, placing the ‘Q’ before the ‘P’ and confirming for Gurrey what he had known for quite some time now, that Grime was utterly incapable of minding his P’s and Q’s.
    Pushing the bogus puzzle aside, Gurrey turned his attention to the note that Grime was so fascinated with. “Why are you so interested in that scrap of paper? Just because you spent most of your retirement fund on it doesn’t make it valuable! You don’t even know for sure that it was written by Joshua Slocum; ‘J.S.’ could be anybody, John Smith, Jane Seymour, Jake Snake, Junior Stanton; lots of people have those initials.
    “True,” admitted Grime, “but I compared the handwriting to samples from his diaries that were printed in a National Geographic story on him. Looks the same to me.”
    “If that’s true,” said Gurrey, “we may have something of great historic value.
    “That’s true Gurrey, and I think I have a clue about that. People used to record everything in their Bibles back in the day, and I found this notation in the blank pages at the back.” Grime opened the well-thumbed book and turned it around for Gurrey to read.

“Josh was trying to run away again but the Rs caught him in time.

Has high notions for adventure. I fear for him.”

    With what seemed to be choreographed precision, Gurrey And Grime popped large chunks of chewing tobacco into their mouth from the supply that had been laying on their window sill alongside a half-empty bottle of Resdan since 1965.
    You could almost hear that flashback music they play in movies as they dropped off into some Old Chum-infused haze and drifted back, back, back to the time of their great-grandfathers:

    Out of the tobacco-induced mists emerged an image of a sunny summer’s morn in the year 1859. Along the rough dirt track that is Westport’s main street, a yoke of oxen is straining against a heavy wagonload of salt fish just out of the pickle and on their way for drying in the sunny fields up the New Lane. As the team plods along, it passes a disheveled youth standing in the road before a nondescript building; he doesn’t notice the ox team passing closely behind him, so deeply absorbed is he in peeling the shell from a soft-boiled seagull egg. The boy has a lot in common with the egg; in addition to the mottled, under-cooked physiognomy they both share, there are distinct similarities in their overall shape; although it must be said that the egg appears to hold the edge in the physical fitness department.

    Idly biting the top off the egg, he thinks to himself, “That’s a good egg, you can really taste the seagull”, then looks up at the sign above the door;

Ye Islands Detecting Agency and Fish Evisceration Services

Rich’d Gurrey Esq.  &  Rich’d Grime Esq.

Proprietors

    Although he could probably read the words if he worked at it long enough, he doesn’t bother; he already knows this is the right place.
    Inside the building, the above-mentioned proprietors, Richard Grime and Richard Gurrey - who, in this more proper period in history, are known as Private Richards, the word dick being found offensive to female sensibilities - were reviewing their notes on a recent scandalous case wherein a dastardly blackguard by the name of Pere Jacques had been filching the whalebone out of ladies corsets while the ladies were still wearing them. Suddenly the light level in the office/fish eviscerating emporium dropped perceptibly, causing Grime to instinctively glance toward the fish-oil lantern hanging from a beam in the centre of the room. Seeing that the flickering yellow flame was still lit, he then noticed that the brilliant sunlight which had been streaming through the open shop door was almost completely blocked by something struggling to fit through the opening.
     Acting under the assumption that one of the oxen from the street was attempting to enter the building, Grime grabbed a pitchfork and advanced upon the grunting, thrashing intruder. As he drew closer, Grime suddenly stopped, dropped the pitchfork, and called out, “Ah, young Otley; come in lad, come in.”
    Finally squeezing his corpulent frame through the doorway, Oberon Otley swallowed the last of his egg, pulled his cloth cap from his head and respectfully greeted the two distinguished detectives. “Good morning to you, Mr. Grime, and also to you, Mr. Gurrey. I bring you a message from Mr. Slocomb, the bootmaker, he desires to retain your services in the search for his son.”
    Gurrey stroked his long, luxuriantly flowing beard, his pride and joy and a source of contention between he and his partner who, try as he might, could raise no more than a few sparse hairs on his own chin, although that was still more than he had on his head. “Young Joshua has tried to run away to sea again has he?”
    “I’m sure I don’t know Sir, I only know that John Slocomb has spent the night looking for him on every vessel in the harbour; to no avail I’m afraid.”
    The two private Inspectors rose from their seats, grabbed their Bowlers from the hand-carved hat-rack by the door, strode from their place of business, and mounted their recently-acquired company conveyance; a modern and sleek-looking tandem velocipede, better known as a “bicycle built for two”. Astride their “wheel”, with its wooden frame and solid wood tires, they bumped and rattled along the rutted and puddle-pocked dirt road. “S-s-s-smooth mode of transport-t-t-tation” said Gurrey as they clattered along. “Y-y-y-yes” replied Grime, “Isn’t modern technology w-w-w-wonderful? The complete l-l-l-lack of suspension really lets you g-g-g-get a g-g-g-good feel for the r-r-r-road”.
    As they made their way along the bustling waterfront they took in the sights of the village; the blacksmith shop, the cooper’s, the cannery and the several fish plants were all alive with activity. They passed a cart loaded with heavy timbers on its way to the new copper mine at the back of the island, and another loaded with poles for the weir being constructed on Peter’s Island which was also home to a guano-processing factory. The passage was filled with watercraft of every size and description, busily criss-crossing the harbour and passing in and out of both Bays. As they watched, a large four-master came in past Dartmouth Point, yawed gracefully as it tacked around Peter’s island, then dropped anchor in Sweetcake Cove. In the clear morning air, Gurrey and Grime could easily see the crew scampering up the ratlines to stow the sails by lashing them to the yardarms.  As they passed Central House, the main hotel in town, Gurrey noticed a young girl climbing into the stagecoach that now made twice-a-week trips to Digby.
    “What an age we live in Grimey, old chap! Look how these islands have prospered from the generous bounty of the sea, we will never be able to deplete its rich resources! I predict that a hundred and fifty years from now, the population of our little town will have grown many-fold from its present 650, we will have four times as many fish processing plants, sailing ships will be twice as large, velocipedes will be able to carry up to four people, and the stagecoach will be making thrice weekly trips to Digby.”
    As they trundled along, the two Richards were constantly tipping their Bowlers to friends and acquaintances on the busy street. Spying another cyclist approaching, Grime grew most effusive in his greeting, “Good morning, Miss Robichini, I hope you are feeling well this glorious morning Miss Robichini!” Rikiletta Robichini favored Grime with a curt nod as she passed. The previous summer, Rikiletta had caused a village-wide scandal when she had had the temerity to be the first female to ride a bicycle in public.
    “I’ll never get used to the sight of a woman riding a cycle”, mused Grime.
    “Modern times, Grimey old chum, modern times!” replied Gurrey. “I believe it possible that at some point in the future, maybe one or two hundred years from now, women will be allowed to vote, and some may even run for public office; in fact, I believe that under the law, women will eventually be considered equal to men in every respect.”
    With a hint of pique in his voice Grime responded brusquely, “Really Gurrey! I enjoy your fanciful prognostications upon what the future holds for us, but sometimes you go too far sir! What you predict is contrary to the order of the world, for a woman to vote is as unlikely and as unnatural as it would be for fish to be raised in cages!”
      The duo rode on in silence over the small bridge that divided the town in half. As they crossed the stream flowing out of the Great Meadow, they left that part of Westport known to some as “Snobtown” behind and entered the more rough-and-tumble section known as “Irishtown”. Presently they pulled up in front of the bootshop and dismounted their conveyance with an athletic grace that left some of the local girlies quite aflutter.
         A tired and haggard-looking John Slocomb greeted them, “I don’t know what to do with that boy! He seems to think a life on the high seas will be more exciting than spending ten hours a day huddled in a dark and airless room pegging boots! I understand that he wants to make a name for himself, and I’ve tried to tell him that his path to fame lies in the Slocomb water-tight boot, whereas becoming a sailor is no path to acclaim and immortality. A century from now every man, woman and child will be wearing the Slocomb boot, the name will be on every lip, but who will know the name of some obscure sailor named Joshua Slocomb – or Slocum, depending on if he decides to change the spelling for some reason.
    Slocomb pulled a book off a shelf, “I even tried to discourage him by making him read this book of verse about other people all over the planet who tried to follow their dreams but were unsuccessful; apparently it didn’t leave any impression upon him at all.” He slammed the book down on the counter where Gurrey happened to notice the title: Failing Around the World: A Poem.
    “You may rest your mind sir.” Gurrey stated with confidence, “We will find the young scallywag and return him to you posthaste.”
    Upon leaving the bootshop, Grime turned to Gurrey and in that obtuse and pudden-headed way he was so well known for asked, “How are we going to find him Gurrey? His father spent all night searching and couldn’t find him. Ships have been coming and going all morning, how do we know which one he’s on?”
    Gurrey was paying no attention to Grime’s near-hysterics, “Something has been niggling at my brain Grime, something is not right.” Suddenly a wave of realization swept over his rugged yet intelligent face, “To the velocipede Grime, we have not a moment to lose!”
    As they rapidly re-traced their route through the village, Gurrey explained to a bewildered and confused Grime, “It occurred to me that when we passed the Hotel earlier, a young girl was getting on the stagecoach, but it took me some time to realise that she was the only passenger! It would be exceedingly unseemly for a young girl, in fact, for a female of any age, to be travelling unescorted. I suspect that young Slocomb, having failed many times before at running away to sea, has tried a different tack this time and, disguised in woman’s clothing, is simply taking the stagecoach out of town. Faster Grimey, we’ve got to catch the ferry!”
    As the two furiously-pumping Richards approached the ferry wharf, Grime suddenly stopped pedaling, and despite Gurrey heroically redoubling his efforts, they arrived just in time to see the ferry, with the stagecoach aboard, slip past the end of the wharf.
    “Sorry about that old chum,” panted Grime, “My gout started acting up something fierce and I was forced to cease my exertions.”
    “Not to worry old friend, what we need now is a fast boat to get us over to the other side where we can head off the stagecoach.”
    Casting their eyes about, the only watercraft nearby seemed to be a small sailboat that at first glance, appeared to be transporting a rather squat hogshead barrel. Upon closer inspection, Gurrey realized his mistake and shouted out, “Young Otley, may we conscript you and your craft to our cause?”
    Within minutes the partners were safely ensconced aboard the boat and they were both surprised to see that young Oberon Otley, who was somewhat lethargic and clumsy on land, was an able and competent sailor. “This is a sea-worthy little vessel” said Gurrey, “Is it your own?”
    “Yes”, replied Otley, “I just turned sixteen, and in this modern age where transportation is King, any young man who hopes to draw the attention of the ladies has to have his own set of keels.” With obvious pride, he pointed out some of the custom work he had done to his ride, “It’s got dual exhausts”, he said, pointing out a matching set of bilge pumps, “And I just installed a stick-shift”, he added, demonstrating the advantage of this feature by using a sturdy stick to shift the boom from port to starboard without having to get out of his seat.
    “What’s this contraption?” Grime asked, nudging with his foot at a net bag attached to a long rope.
    “Oh, that’s a drag for catching scallops; you tow it along the bottom of the ocean. Sometimes a bunch of us go out of an evening and see who can catch the most scallops in the fastest time. Yes, we quite enjoy ourselves at the Saturday night drag races.”
    By this time the ferry, with its head start and combination of sails and long, sweeping oars, was almost to the Freeport dock and it was obvious that they were not going to catch it. “Land us right on the beach in the cove”, instructed Gurrey, “The carriage will follow the road along the shore and it makes a stop at the bottom of Plunkett Street, we’ll intercept it there.
    Gurrey sprung easily from the sailboat onto the sandy shore, then turned to catch his arthritic and feeble partner before he fell face-first into the surf, “Sorry, old bean; inner ear problem.” Grime explained. Running up the beach, the intrepid Inspectors reached the stage just as it pulled to a stop. Yanking open the door, they both peered inside. Grime turned to Gurrey with a look even more stunned than usual and exclaimed, “Nothing!”
    “Not quite”, replied Gurrey, “Look there.” On the floor lay a cotton dress and a length of hemp rope, frayed out to resemble long hair. “The rascal has evaded us”, said Gurrey with a tinge of grudging admiration.
    Turning from the coach, he scanned the surrounding landscape. Obviously the prosperity that Westport had been enjoying had not spread to the neighbouring island. Several ragged and emaciated inhabitants of the village had collected on the beach near Otley who had stayed with his boat. “Can we hurry this up”, he shouted, “These people are beginning to look at me as if I were a giant pork chop.”
    Out of the corner of his eye, Gurrey caught a glimpse of someone entering one of the many tumble-down buildings that littered the waterfront.
    The two Richards arrived at the old warehouse at the end of the wharf and with their magnifying glasses in hand, strode through the decrepit building looking for clues to the missing boy’s whereabouts. Suddenly, they saw a slight movement behind an old crate and crept toward it. Seeing a tuft of hair sticking up, they deduced that it might be the lad in question and Gurrey reached down and plucked him up by his ear. “ Ok, let’s be havin’ ya,’ he said jovially.
    It was indeed the missing boy and the two Richards recognized him immediately as young Josh Slocomb. They knew Josh to be a good boy, perhaps a bit too fanciful, but a good lad nonetheless.
    “What’s all this young Josh?” said Grime kindly. “You mother’s worried about you.”
The boy, snotty-nosed and disheveled, blurted out his story.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he said. “There are so many people in the house and fathers always cross, and I hate makin’ shoes and boots. I want to travel the world – beyond Westport, even beyond Freeport and Mount Hanley. I want to sail the ocean.”
    The two seasoned Richards took him outside into the early morning sunlight where they sat him up on a hogshead and sat themselves on a upturned old dory.
    “You ever been to see Billy,” he said, before correcting himself. I mean ever been to sea Josh?”
    “No,” said Josh quietly.
    “Listen me bucko me lad,” said Gurrey. “Your day will come. But you’re too young for all that now. I know your father is a tad stern, but they’d be lost without ya.”
    “Gurrey’s right,” added Grime. “Let me tell ya a story, me laddie me buck. I was once a lad like you – wanted to travel and all that. My parents were convinced that the world ended just beyond Freeport, but I was havin’ none of that. I knew somewhere there was a central Grove and a Tiverton and even – God bless us all – a Digby.
    “One fine mornin’ in June of ’46, I set out to sea with my grandpa.
We sailed on the sloop John B, my grandfather and me – round Nasauu Town we did roam.
    As the two Richards spoke to the sad little boy, they couldn’t help but notice that a small blond-haired boy had approached quietly and was writing down what they said on a slate. They recognized him as Bartholomew Wilson, a lad who spent most of his time at the water’s edge with the other beach boys. They looked at him quizzically. He looked back shyly, and stammered “Sssomeday maybe I – or my ancestors – will form a garage band and write a song about your adventure Mr. Grime.”
    “What an odd thing to say,” Gurrey whispered to his partner. “And what’s a garage?’
    “Never mind that now,” replied Grime. “The point is we was drinkin’ all night and got into a fight. I was so broke up I just wanted to go home. So we hoisted the John B’s sail. I saw how the mainsail set. Well Gurrey here was the first mate and he got drunk and broke in the captain’s trunk and the constable had to come and take him away. Member that Gurrey?’
    “Sure do,” replied Gurrey. “Sheriff John Stone. He wouldn’t leave me alone. I was broke up like Grimey here. I just wanted to go home.”
    “This stuff practically writes itself,” mumbled young Wilson sitting on the ground nearby.
    “Then what happened?” said Slocomb, completely spellbound by the tale that was being spun.
    “Well, the poor cook, he caught the fits and threw away all my grits – and then – get this! He ate up all of my corn! Can you believe that laddie? My corn! Finally Gurrey and me just came back home and we’ve been here ever since. We’re just too Richards trying to make a livin’ now.”
    Gurrey looked the boy straight in the eye. ““But let me tell you this, Josh, me lad, me bucko, me boy,” he said “If you have a dream to go to sea, you have to do it. And you will. I can see greatness in you lad. Just don’t ever go on the sloop John B.” He paused to let a stream of tobacco juice fly over the boys left shoulder. Some landed on Grime.
    “Say it, don’t spray it,” said Grime angrily.
    “That’s it!” said Josh Slocomb. “If I ever have a boat, I’ll call it Spray and I’ll sail it around the world!” 

    Suddenly the door to the fish shack/detective office flew open and a blast of cold air woke the two dicks from their tobacco-induced dream.

    “Wow!” said Gurrey. “Was that real?”
    “I don’t know Gurrey,” said Grime haltingly, ‘ but I suggest we don’t tell anyone about it.”
    “How do you feel about circumnavigation Gurrey?” asked Grime.
    “I’m against it,” snapped Gurrey. “I’ve heard it’s painful and besides, at my age what’s the point?