Things that go ‘thump’ in the dark

I was in the melon patch the other day, thumpin' and hopin,' and my thoughts drifted to crimes yet unpunished and Poncho Billings, the best thumper of his time.  

Our bunch was, as thieves go, reasonably considerate.  We'd learned that if we stole only one the theft might go unnoticed, which made it safer to return.  The key on those late-summer nights was to identify a ripe one and do so quickly.  Our favorite patch was guarded by a farmer who had a 12-gauge and no reluctance to use it. The dings in my car proved he lacked the common courtesy of a warning shot.

Identifying a ripe watermelon under favorable conditions is tricky.  The belly, that part in contact with the earth, should be pale, nearly white.  If the curly appendage growing nearest the stem is brown and dry that's a good sign.  “Plugging,” cutting and removing a small, triangular piece of the rind works well, but all this takes a tell-tale flashlight and more time than we cared to use.  

Thumping can be done in the dark.  It's reliable if the thumper knows exactly what to listen for.  This isn't easy.  Try it sometime in a grocery store.  You'll hear slightly different sounds from different melons, although they're presumably all ripe.  Mix in a few that are gourd-green, some that are almost ready, and others past their prime.  A person with rhythm can make thumping melons sound like a base fiddle.     

Poncho said it was more than the sound.  There was a feel, a resilience of the rind as he thumped.  He was, to my knowledge, wrong only once.  

There were five of us that fateful night, one of which was Jimmy S.  Jimmy was a nervous thief.  He went along mostly so he could boast about it.        

Anderson's farmhouse was the only one on a mile stretch of country road.  From the east the road was gravel to his driveway, the balance was dirt.  Coming from the west offered the advantage of not passing his house.  A storm was gathering as we left town, lightning flickering in the distance.  I turned onto the dirt and shut off headlights.  We reached the garden drive and turned the car around, ready for a get-away.

While Anderson's melons were big, 30 pounds and more, finding them in the dark took time.  We'd do so, whisper for Poncho, and he'd thump.  The first half dozen weren't ready, and we kept looking.  
Anderson had a scarecrow.  We'd seen it while casing the place earlier.  Poncho was thumping one of my finds when lightning flashed and he clutched my shoulder.  “Where,” he whispered, “is that scarecrow?”  I pointed over his shoulder and said it was back there. 

“There's another one between us and the road.”

This was raw terror.  We'd all been by earlier, knew there was only one 'crow.  We lay in the patch, waiting.  Jimmy, shaking so badly the earth trembled, finally could wait no more and crawled off toward the car.  Harry followed.  “How's this melon?” I whispered to Poncho.  “Dead ripe,” he whispered back, and away we scurried.  

Rain was starting.  Within moments it was pouring and I doubted we'd make the gravel.   The old Ford skidded into the ditch a block short and four passengers piled out to push, to slip, fall, scramble up and push some more.

They were plastered with mud when we got to town, and so was the car's interior.   

Under a streetlight Jimmy split the melon.  It was green; a sickening, disappointing green.  I never stole another one.  Years later Poncho admitted that he hadn't either,