22840	----	HONOR O'CALLAGHAN By Mary Russell Mitford Times are altered since Gray spoke of the young Etonians as a set of dirty boys playing at cricket. There are no such things as boys to be met with now, either at Eton or elsewhere; they are all men from ten years old upwards. Dirt also hath vanished bodily, to be replaced by finery. An aristocratic spirit, an aristocracy not of rank but of money, possesses the place, and an enlightened young gentleman of my acquaintance, who when somewhere about the ripe age of eleven, conjured his mother "_not_ to come to see him until she had got her new carriage, lest he should be quizzed by the rest of the men," was perhaps no unfair representative of the mass of his schoolfellows. There are of course exceptions to the rule. The sons of the old nobility, too much accustomed to splendour in its grander forms, and too sure of their own station to care about such matters, and the few finer spirits, whose ambition even in boyhood soars to far higher and holier aims, are, generally speaking, alike exempt from these vulgar cravings after petty distinctions. And for the rest of the small people, why "winter and rough weather," and that most excellent schoolmaster, the world, will not fail, sooner or later, to bring them to wiser thoughts. In the meanwhile, as according to our homely proverb, "for every gander there's a goose," so there are not wanting in London and its environs "establishments," (the good old name of boarding-school being altogether done away with,) where young ladies are trained up in a love of fashion and finery, and a reverence for the outward symbols of wealth, which cannot fail to render them worthy compeers of the young gentlemen their contemporaries. I have known a little girl, (fit mate for the above-mentioned amateur of new carriages,) who complained that _her_ mamma called upon her, attended only by one footman; and it is certain, that the position of a new-comer in one of these houses of education will not fail to be materially influenced by such considerations as the situation of her father's town residence, or the name of her mother's milliner. At so early a period does the exclusiveness which more or less pervades the whole current of English society make its appearance amongst our female youth. Even in the comparatively rational and old-fashioned seminary in which I was brought up, we were not quite free from these vanities. We too had our high castes and our low castes, and (alas! for her and for ourselves!) we counted among our number one who in her loneliness and desolation might almost be called a Pariah--or if that be too strong an illustration, who was at least, in more senses than one, the Cinderella of the school. Honor O'Callaghan was, as her name imports, an Irish girl. She had been placed under the care of Mrs. Sherwood before she was five years old, her father being designated, in an introductory letter which he brought in his hand, as a barrister from Dublin, of ancient family, of considerable ability, and the very highest honour. The friend, however, who had given him this excellent character, had, unfortunately, died a very short time after poor Honor's arrival; and of Mr. O'Callaghan nothing had ever been heard after the first half-year, when he sent the amount of the bill in a draft, which, when due, proved to be dishonoured. The worst part of this communication, however unsatisfactory in its nature, was, that it was final. All inquiries, whether in Dublin or elsewhere, proved unavailing; Mr. O'Callaghan had disappeared; and our unlucky gouvernante found herself saddled with the board, clothing, and education, the present care, and future destiny, of a little girl, for whom she felt about as much affection as was felt by the overseers of Aberleigh towards their involuntary protege, Jesse Cliffe. Nay, in saying this, I am probably giving our worthy governess credit for somewhat milder feelings upon this subject than she actually entertained; the overseers in question, accustomed to such circumstances, harbouring no stronger sentiment than a cold, passive indifference towards the parish boy, whilst she, good sort of woman as in general she was, did certainly upon this occasion cherish something very like an active aversion to the little intruder. The fact is, that Mrs. Sherwood, who had been much captivated by Mr. O'Callaghan's showy, off-hand manner, his civilities, and his flatteries, felt, for the first time in her life, that she had been taken in; and being a peculiarly prudent, cautious personage, of the slow, sluggish, stagnant temperament, which those who possess it are apt to account a virtue, and to hold in scorn their more excitable and impressible neighbours, found herself touched in the very point of honour, piqued, aggrieved, mortified; and denouncing the father as the greatest deceiver that ever trod the earth, could not help transferring some part of her hatred to the innocent child. She was really a good sort of woman, as I have said before, and every now and then her conscience twitched her, and she struggled hard to seem kind and to be so: but it would not do. There the feeling was, and the more she struggled against it, the stronger, I verily believe, it became. Trying to conquer a deep-rooted aversion, is something like trampling upon camomile: the harder you tread it down the more it flourishes. Under these evil auspices, the poor little Irish girl grew up amongst us. Not ill-used certainly, for she was fed and taught as we were; and some forty shillings a year more expended upon the trifles, gloves, and shoes, and ribbons, which make the difference between nicety and shabbiness in female dress, would have brought her apparel upon an equality with ours. Ill-used she was not: to be sure, teachers, and masters seemed to consider it a duty to reprimand her for such faults as would have passed unnoticed in another; and if there were any noise amongst us, she, by far the quietest and most silent person in the house, was, as a matter of course, accused of making it. Still she was not what would be commonly called ill-treated; although her young heart was withered and blighted, and her spirit crushed and broken by the chilling indifference, or the harsh unkindness which surrounded her on every side. Nothing, indeed, could come in stronger contrast than the position of the young Irish girl, and that of her English companions. A stranger, almost a foreigner amongst us, with no home but that great school-room; no comforts, no in-dulgences, no knick-knacks, no money, nothing but the sheer, bare, naked necessaries of a schoolgirl's life; no dear family to think of and to go to; no fond father to come to see her; no brothers and sisters; no kindred; no friends. It was a loneliness, a desolation, which, especially at breaking-up times, when all her schoolfellows went joyfully away each to her happy home, and she was left the solitary and neglected inhabitant of the deserted mansion, must have pressed upon her very heart The heaviest tasks of the half year must have been pleasure and enjoyment compared with the dreariness of those lonesome holidays. And yet she was almost as lonely when we were all assembled. Childhood is, for the most part, generous and sympathising; and there were many amongst us who, interested by her deserted situation, would have been happy to have been her friends. But Honor was one of those flowers which will only open in the bright sunshine. Never did marigold under a cloudy sky shut up her heart more closely than Honor O'Callaghan. In a word, Honor had really one of the many faults ascribed to her by Mrs. Sherwood, and her teachers and masters--that fault so natural and so pardonable in adversity--she was proud. National and family pride blended with the personal feeling. Young as she was when she left Ireland, she had caught from the old nurse who had had the care of her infancy, rude legends of the ancient greatness of her country, and of the regal grandeur of the O'Connors, her maternal ancestors; and over such dim traces of Cathleen's legends as floated in her memory, fragments wild, shadowy, and indistinct, as the recollections of a dream, did the poor Irish girl love to brood. Visions of long-past splendour possessed her wholly, and the half-unconscious reveries in which she had the habit of indulging, gave a tinge of romance and enthusiasm to her character, as peculiar as her story. Everything connected with her country had for her an indescribable charm. It was wonderful how, with the apparently scanty means of acquiring knowledge which the common school histories afforded, together with here and there a stray book borrowed for her by her young companions from their home libraries, and questions answered from the same source, she had contrived to collect her abundant and accurate information, as to its early annals and present position. Her antiquarian lore was perhaps a little tinged, as such antiquarianism is apt to be, by the colouring of a warm imagination; but still it was a remarkable exemplification of the power of an ardent mind to ascertain and combine facts upon a favourite subject under apparently insuperable difficulties. Unless in pursuing her historical inquiries, she did not often speak upon the subject. Her enthusiasm was too deep and too concentrated for words. But she was Irish to the heart's core, and had even retained, one can hardly tell how, the slight accent which in a sweet-toned female voice is so pretty. In her appearance, also, there were many of the characteristics of her countrywomen. The roundness of form and clearness of complexion, the result of good nurture and pure blood which are often found in those who have been nursed in an Irish cabin, the abundant wavy hair and the deep-set grey eye. The face, in spite of some irregularity of feature, would have been pretty, decidedly pretty, if the owner had been happy; but the expression was too abstracted, too thoughtful, too melancholy for childhood or even for youth. She was like a rose shut up in a room, whose pale blossoms have hardly felt the touch of the glorious sunshine or the blessed air. A daisy of the field, a common, simple, cheerful looking daisy, would be pleasanter to gaze upon than the blighted queen of flowers. Her figure was, however, decidedly beautiful. Not merely tall, but pliant, elastic, and graceful in no ordinary degree. She was not generally remarkable for accomplishment. How could she, in the total absence of the most powerful, as well as the most amiable motives to exertion? She had no one to please; no one to watch her progress, to rejoice in her success, to lament her failure. In many branches of education she had not advanced beyond mediocrity, but her dancing was perfection; or rather it would have been so, if to her other graces she had added the charm of gaiety. But that want, as our French dancing-master used to observe, was so universal in this country, that the wonder would have been to see any young lady, whose face in a cotillion (for it was before the days of quadrilles) did not look as if she was following a funeral. Such at thirteen I found Honor O'Callaghan, when I, a damsel some three years younger, was first placed at Mrs. Sherwood's; such five years afterwards I left her, when I quitted the school. Calling there the following spring, accompanied by my good godfather, we again saw Honor silent and pensive as ever. The old gentleman was much struck with her figure and her melancholy. "Fine girl that!" observed he to me; "looks as if she was in love though," added he, putting his finger to his nose with a knowing nod, as was usual with him upon occasions of that kind. I, for my part, in whom a passion for literature was just beginning to develope itself had a theory of my own upon the subject, and regarded her with unwonted respect in consequence. Her abstraction appeared to me exactly that of an author when contemplating some great work, and I had no doubt but she would turn out a poetess. Both conjectures were characteristic, and both, as it happened, wrong. Upon my next visit to London, I found that a great change had happened in Honor's destiny. Her father, whom she had been fond of investing with the dignity of a rebel, but who had, according to Mrs. Sherwood's more reasonable suspicion, been a reckless, extravagant, thoughtless person, whose follies had been visited upon himself and his family, with the evil consequences of crimes, had died in America; and his sister, the richly-jointured widow of a baronet, of old Milesian blood, who during his life had been inexorable to his entreaties to befriend the poor girl, left as it were in pledge at a London boarding-school, had relented upon hearing of his death, had come to England, settled all pecuniary matters to the full satisfaction of the astonished and delighted governess, and finally carried Honor back with her to Dublin. From this time we lost sight altogether of our old companion. With her schoolfellows she had never formed even the common school intimacies, and to Mrs. Sherwood and her functionaries, she owed no obligation except that of money, which was now discharged. The only debt of gratitude which she had ever acknowledged, was to the old French teacher, who, although she never got nearer the pronunciation or the orthography of her name than Mademoiselle l'Ocalle, had yet, in the overflowing benevolence of her temper, taken such notice of the deserted child, as amidst the general neglect might pass for kindness. But she had returned to France. For no one else did Honor profess the slightest interest. Accordingly, she left the house where she had passed nearly all her life, without expressing any desire to hear again of its inmates, and never wrote a line to any of them. We did hear of her, however, occasionally. Rumours reached us, vague and distant, and more conflicting even than distant rumours are wont to be. She was distinguished at the vice-regal court, a beauty and a wit; she was married to a nobleman of the highest rank; she was a nun of the order of Mercy; she was dead. And as years glided on, as the old school passed into other hands, and the band of youthful companions became more and more dispersed, one of the latter opinions began to gain ground among us, when two or three chanced to meet, and to talk of old schoolfellows. If she had been alive and in the great world, surely some of us should have heard of her. Her having been a Catholic, rendered her taking the veil not improbable; and to a person of her enthusiastic temper, the duties of the sisters of Mercy would have peculiar charms. As one of that most useful and most benevolent order, or as actually dead, we were therefore content to consider her, until, in the lapse of years and the changes of destiny, we had ceased to think of her at all. The second of this present month of May was a busy and a noisy day in my garden. All the world knows what a spring this has been. The famous black spring commemorated by Gilbert White can hardly have been more thoroughly ungenial, more fatal to man or beast, to leaf and flower, than this most miserable season, this winter of long days, when the sun shines as if in mockery, giving little more heat than his cold sister the moon, and the bitter north-east produces at one and the same moment the incongruous annoyances of biting cold and suffocating dust. Never was such a season. The swallows, nightingales, and cuckoos were a fortnight after their usual time. I wonder what they thought of it, pretty creatures, and how they made up their minds to come at all!--and the sloe blossom, the black thorn winter as the common people call it, which generally makes its appearance early in March along with the first violets, did not whiten the hedges this year until full two months later,* In short, everybody knows that this has been a most villanous season, and deserves all the ill that can possibly be said of it. But the second of May held forth a promise which, according to a very usual trick of English weather, it has not kept; and was so mild and smiling and gracious, that, without being quite so foolish as to indulge in any romantic and visionary expectation of ever seeing summer again, we were yet silly enough to be cheered by the thought that spring was coming at last in good earnest. * It is extraordinary how some flowers seem to obey the season, whilst others are influenced by the weather. The hawthorn, certainly nearly akin to the sloe blossom, is this year rather forwarder, if anything, than in common years; and the fritillary, always a May flower, is painting the water meadows at this moment in company with "the blackthorn winter;" or rather is nearly over, whilst its cousin german, the tulip, is scarcely showing for bloom in the warmest exposures and most sheltered borders of the garden. In a word, it was that pleasant rarity a fine day; and it was also a day of considerable stir, as I shall attempt to describe hereafter, in my small territories. In the street too, and in the house, there was as much noise and bustle as one would well desire to hear in our village. The first of May is Belford Great Fair, where horses and cows are sold, and men meet gravely to transact grave business; and the second of May is Belford Little Fair, where boys and girls of all ages, women and children of all ranks, flock into the town, to buy ribbons and dolls and balls and gingerbread, to eat cakes and suck oranges, to stare at the shows, and gaze at the wild beasts, and to follow merrily the merry business called pleasure. Carts and carriages, horse-people and foot-people, were flocking to the fair; unsold cows and horses, with their weary drivers, and labouring men who, having made a night as well as a day of it, began to think it time to find their way home, were coming from it; Punch was being exhibited at one end of the street, a barrel-organ, surmounted by a most accomplished monkey, was playing at the other; a half tipsy horse-dealer was galloping up and down the road, showing off an unbroken forest pony, who threatened every moment to throw him and break his neck; a hawker was walking up the street crying Greenacre's last dying speech, who was hanged that morning at Newgate, and as all the world knows, made none; and the highway in front of our house was well nigh blocked up by three or four carriages waiting for different sets of visiters, and by a gang of gipsies who stood clustered round the gate, waiting with great anxiety the issue of an investigation going on in the hall, where one of their gang was under examination upon a question of stealing a goose. Witnesses, constables, and other officials were loitering in the court, and dogs were barking, women chattering, boys blowing horns, and babies squalling through all. It was as pretty a scene of crowd and din and bustle as one shall see in a summer's day. The fair itself was calm and quiet in comparison; the complication of discordant sounds in Hogarth's Enraged Musician was nothing to it. Within my garden the genius of noise was equally triumphant. An ingenious device, contrived and executed by a most kind and ingenious friend, for the purpose of sheltering the pyramid of geraniums in front of my greenhouse,--consisting of a wooden roof, drawn by pullies up and down a high, strong post, something like the mast of a ship,* had given way; and another most kind friend had arrived with the requisite machinery, blocks and ropes, and tackle of all sorts, to replace it upon an improved construction. With him came a tall blacksmith, a short carpenter, and a stout collar-maker, with hammers, nails, chisels, and tools of all sorts, enough to build a house; ladders of all heights and sizes, two or three gaping apprentices, who stood about in the way, John willing to lend his aid in behalf of his flowers, and master Dick with his hands in his pockets looking on. The short carpenter perched himself upon one ladder, the tall blacksmith on another; my good friend, Mr. Lawson, mounted to the mast head; and such a clatter ensued of hammers and voices--(for it was exactly one of those fancy jobs where every one feels privileged to advise and find fault)--such clashing of opinions and conceptions and suggestions as would go to the building a county town. * This description does not sound prettily, but the real effect is exceedingly graceful: the appearance of the dark canopy suspended over the pile of bright flowers, at a considerable height, has something about it not merely picturesque but oriental; and that a gentleman's contrivance should succeed at all points, as if he had been a real carpenter, instead of an earl's son and a captain in the navy, is a fact quite unparalleled in the annals of inventions. Whilst this was going forward in middle air, I and my company were doing our best to furnish forth the chorus below. It so happened that two sets of my visiters were scientific botanists, the one party holding the Linnoean system, the others disciples of Jussieu; and the garden being a most natural place for such a discussion, a war of hard words ensued, which would have done honour to the Tower of Babel. "Tetradynamia," exclaimed one set; "Monocotyledones," thundered the other; whilst a third friend, a skilful florist, but no botanist, unconsciously out-long-worded both of them, by telling me that the name of a new annual was "Leptosiphon androsaceus." Never was such a confusion of noises! The house door opened, and my father's strong clear voice was heard in tones of warning. "Woman, how can you swear to this goose?" Whilst the respondent squeaked out in something between a scream and a cry, "Please your worship, the poor bird having a-laid all his eggs, we had marked un, and so--" What farther she would have said being drowned in a prodigious clatter occasioned by the downfal of the ladder that supported the tall blacksmith, which, striking against that whereon was placed the short carpenter, overset that climbing machine also, and the clamor incident to such a calamity overpowered all minor noises. In the meanwhile I became aware that a fourth party of visiters had entered the garden, my excellent neighbour, Miss Mortimer, and three other ladies, whom she introduced as Mrs. and the Misses Dobbs; and the botanists and florists having departed, and the disaster at the mast being repaired, quiet was so far restored, that I ushered my guests into the greenhouse, with something like a hope that we should be able to hear each other speak. Mrs. Dobbs was about the largest woman I had ever seen in my life, fat, fair, and _fifty_ with a broad rosy countenance, beaming with good-humour and contentment, and with a general look of affluence over her whole comfortable person. She spoke in a loud voice which made itself heard over the remaining din in the garden and out, and with a patois between Scotch and Irish, which puzzled me, until I found from her discourse that she was the widow of a linen manufacturer, in the neighbourhood of Belfast. "Ay," quoth she, with the most open-hearted familiarity, "times are changed for the better with me since you and I parted in Cadogan Place. Poor Mr. Dobbs left me and those two girls a fortune of---- Why, I verily believe," continued she, interrupting herself, "that you don't know me!" "Honor!" said one of the young ladies to the other, "only look at this butterfly!" Honor! Was it, could it be Honor O'Callaghan, the slight, pale, romantic visionary, so proud, so reserved, so abstracted, so elegant, and so melancholy? Had thirty years of the coarse realities of life transformed that pensive and delicate damsel into the comely, hearty, and to say the truth, somewhat vulgar dame whom I saw before me? Was such a change possible? "Married a nobleman!" exclaimed she when I told her the reports respecting herself. "Taken the veil! No, indeed! I have been a far humbler and happier woman. It is very strange, though, that during my Cinderella-like life at school, I used always in my day-dreams to make my story end like that of the heroine of the fairy tale; and it is still stranger, that both rumours were within a very little of coming true,--for when I got to Ireland, which, so far as I was concerned, turned out a very different place from what I expected, I found myself shut up in an old castle, fifty times more dreary and melancholy than ever was our great school-room in the holidays, with my aunt setting her heart upon marrying me to an old lord, who might, for age and infirmities, have passed for my great grandfather; and I really, in my perplexity, had serious thoughts of turning nun to get rid of my suitor; but then I was allowed to go into the north upon a visit, and fell in with my late excellent husband, who obtained Lady O'Hara's consent to the match by the offer of taking me without a portion; and ever since," continued she, "I have been a very common-place and a very happy woman. Mr. Dobbs was a man who had made his own fortune, and all he asked of me was, to lay aside my airs and graces, and live with him in his own homely, old-fashioned way amongst his own old people, (kind people they were!) his looms, and his bleaching-grounds; so that my heart was opened, and I grew fat and comfortable, and merry and hearty, as different from the foolish, romantic girl whom you remember, as plain honest prose is from the silly thing called poetry. I don't believe that I have ever once thought of my old castles in the air for these five-and-twenty years. It is very odd, though," added she, with a frankness which was really like thinking aloud, "that I always did contrive in my visions that my history should conclude like that of Cinderella. To be sure, things are much better as they are, but it is an odd thing, nevertheless. Well! perhaps my daughters...!" And as they are rich and pretty, and good-natured, although much more in the style of the present Honor than the past, it is by no means improbable that the vision which was evidently glittering before the fond mother's eyes, may be realised. At all events, my old friend is, as she says herself a happy woman--in all probability, happier than if the Cinderella day-dream had actually come to pass in her own comely person. But the transition! After all, there are real transformations in this every-day world, which beat the doings of fairy land all to nothing; and the change of the pumpkin into a chariot, and the mice into horses, was not to be compared for a moment with the transmogrification of Honor O'Callaghan into Mrs. Dobbs. 
33530	----	[Illustration: Cover art] [Frontispiece: "PROCEED!" COMMANDED THE RANGER, AND DOROTHY BEGAN THE THIMBLE CHASE--_Page_ 150] DOROTHY DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL BY MARGARET PENROSE AUTHOR OF "DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY." ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY THE DOROTHY DALE SERIES BY MARGARET PENROSE Cloth. Illustrated. DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY DOROTHY DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL (Other volumes in preparation) CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK Copyright, 1908, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY DOROTHY DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL CONTENTS CHAPTER I. TWO YOUNG GIRLS II. THE FIRE-BIRD III. A QUEER SPRING SUIT IV. A DAY OF DANGERS V. THE POLICE PATROL VI. A RIDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES VII. TAVIA'S DANGER VIII. AN INVERTED JOKE IX. COMMITTEE OF ARRANGEMENTS X. A LAWN PARTY "WITH BOYS!" XI. OFF FOR GLENWOOD XII. VIOLA'S MOTHER XIII. THE CATEGORY XIV. THE INITIATION XV. LOST ON MOUNT GABRIEL XVI. WHAT VIOLA DID XVII. THE STRIKE OF THE REBS XVIII. DOROTHY'S SACRIFICE XIX. THE TANGLED WEB XX. SUSPICIONS XXI. SUNSHINE AGAIN XXII. MISS CRANE AND VIOLA XXIII. THE REAL STORY DOROTHY DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL CHAPTER I TWO YOUNG GIRLS "And you are quite sure, daddy, I am not dreaming? That I am sitting right here with my arms around your neck, and you have just told me it is all perfectly true?" And, to make still more certain that the whole matter was one of unquestionable reality, the girl gave her parent such a flesh and blood hug that a physical answer came to her question in the shape of a protest from the very wideawake man. "Now, see here, Little Captain," he remarked, "it is all very well to make sure we are not dreaming, and that all the good news is real, but please remember I have put on a clean collar and--your tactics are quite military. You are acquiring muscle." Major Dale kissed his daughter fondly as she relinquished her hold on him, and smoothed back a stray lock of his silvery hair. "I'm so glad for you, daddy," she went on. "You do so need a real rest, and now we will not have to plan every day what we may spend to-morrow. I fancy I will still keep the note-book going with pounds and prices of things, and an occasional orange, and even some foreign fruit now and then. Dear me! I feel the good of that money already. We can have so many luxuries--no more scrimping and patching--" "But, daughter dear," interrupted the major, "you must not imagine that mere money can bring happiness. It depends entirely upon the proper use of that commodity--we must always exercise good judgment, whether one dollar or one hundred dollars are involved." "Oh, of course, I know we are not so very rich, we cannot just exactly live sumptuously, but we may live comfortably. And really, daddy, now that it is over, I may as well own up, I have longed with the longest kind of longing for a brand-new hat. May I really have one? Ribbons and all?" "Two, one for Sunday and one for every day," promptly responded the major, laughing. "But your hats always look new--" "They do say I have talent for hats, and that one must have originality to trim and keep old head-gear up to date. So, daddy dear, perhaps, some day, that hint of talent may develop--I may be an artist or something. Then I will bless the days when I had to make over hats to discover myself," and Dorothy promptly clapped upon her blond head such a confusion of straw and flowers, to say nothing of the dangling blue ribbons, that even the major, with his limited appreciation of "keeping old head-gear up-to-date" was forced to acknowledge that his daughter did know how to trim a hat. "When will the money come?" she asked, tilting her head to one side to get a look in the small oval mirror, that was sufficiently large for the major's neckties, but was plainly too short for hats. "We won't get it by the pound, like butter, you know, daughter. Nor is it a matter of so many blank checks to be filled out as we progress with penmanship--like copy-book work. As a matter of fact, I have just received the legal information that my dear old soldier uncle Ned--otherwise known as Captain Edward Dale on the retired list, resident of India, subject of Great Britain, has answered the last roll call--and left what he had to me. Uncle Ned was the hero of our family, daughter dear, and some day I will tell you why you are my Little Captain--his own successor," and the major laid his hand upon Dorothy's shoulder in a way he had of making a promise that he intended to keep. A commotion on the side porch interrupted their confidences, and the major took advantage of it to make his escape. He kissed Dorothy good-bye, and left her to the "commotion" that presently made its way in at the door in the shape of Tavia Travers, Dorothy's warmest friend in every thing. "Hurrah for the good news!" shouted Tavia, flinging her sailor hat up to the ceiling and catching it as promptly. "Three cheers for the money, When will it come? Give a feller some Tiddle-umtum-tum I have to say bunny, To make a rhyme with money!" And Tavia swung around like a pin-wheel to bring her "verse" to an effective full stop--a way she had of punctuating her impromptu productions. Dorothy made a comical "squat" to add more finish, and then the two girls, feeling better for having opened the safety valve of physical exertion to "let off" mental exuberance, sat down to talk it over quietly. "Are you perfectly positive, certain, sure, that it's just you, Dorothy Dale, and no fairy or mermaid," began Tavia, settling herself among the cushions on Major Dale's sofa. "Of all the delicious, delectable things! To have a rich, old uncle die 'way off in India, where you don't even have to make your nose red at his funeral. And to leave you a million dollars--" "Oh, not quite a million," interrupted Dorothy. "Something considerable less than that, I believe." "But it's all kinds of money I know," went on the other. "Dear me! I do wish some kind of money would run in our family even with red noses thrown in. But no such luck! When we have a funeral we always have to pay for the coach." "Tavia Travers! How dare you talk so, of such serious things!" "How else would you have me talk of serious things? The most serious thing in my life is money--its scarcity. Funerals, of course, take time, and are unpleasant in many respects, but, for right at home trouble, it's money." "It is nice to think that the dear old captain should be so good to father," said Dorothy. "Father was always his favorite relative, and he particularly liked him on account of his military honors." "Well, he ought to, of course," put in Tavia, "for your father keeps the name Dale up for military honors. But what in the world are you going to do with all the money? Don't, for goodness' sake, go away for your health, and other things, and leave poor me to die here without nobody nor nuthin'," and the girl burst into make-believe tears. "Indeed," said Dorothy. "We can enjoy the good fortune in no place better than in dear old Dalton, and among our own good friends," and she put her arms affectionately about Tavia. "But one thing has been definitely decided upon--" "You are going to buy the Harvy mansion?" "No, a new hat. Father has just this minute given his consent." "Make it a tiara and save the expense of hat-pins," suggested Tavia. "No, I have a hankering for a Gainsborough, the kind the lady hanging over Aunt Winnie's stairs wears--the picture queen, you know." "Oh, yes, she looks very nice in a picture over the stairs," remarked Tavia, "but my advice to you would be to wear elastic under your chin with a thing like that--or else try Gulliver's Glue. One breeze of the Dalton kind would be enough for a Gainsborough." "You shall help me pick it out," agreed Dorothy. "In the meantime don't sit on the only one I have. I just left it on the sofa as you came in--" "And if it isn't the dearest, sweetest thing now," exclaimed Tavia, rescuing the mass of perishables she had unwittingly pressed into something like a funeral piece. "Oh!" exclaimed Dorothy. "I did like that hat!" "And so did I!" declared Tavia. "That hat was a stunner, and I deeply regret it's untimely taking away--it went to pieces without a groan. That comes of having a real Leghorn. I could sit all over my poor straw pancake and it would not as much as bend--couldn't. It would have no place to bend to." "You could never wear anything that would become you more than a simple sailor," said Dorothy, with the air of one in authority, "and if I had your short locks I would just sport a jaunty little felt sailor all summer. But with my head--" "Jaunty doesn't go. I quite agree with you, picture lady, your head is cut out for picture hats. Another positive evidence of money running in your family--my head was cut out for an economical pattern--lucky thing for me!" and Tavia clapped her aforesaid sailor on her bronze head at a decidedly rakish angle, while Dorothy busied herself with a thorough investigation of the wreck of her own headpiece. As told in "Dorothy Dale: A Girl of To-Day," the first book of this series, these two girls, Dorothy Dale and Octavia Travers, were school friends, home friends and all kinds of friends, both about the same age, and both living in a little interesting town called Dalton, in New York state. Dorothy was the daughter of Major Dale, a prominent citizen of the place, while Tavia's father was Squire Travers, a man who was largely indebted to Dorothy for the office he held, inasmuch as she had managed, in a girl's way, to bring about his election. Tavia had a brother Johnnie, quite an ordinary boy, while Dorothy had two brothers, Joe, aged nine and Roger, aged seven years. There was one other member of the Dale household, Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, who had cared for the children since their mother had been called away. She was that sort of responsible aged woman who seems to grow more and more particular with years, and perhaps her only fault, if it might be termed such, was her excessive care of Roger--her baby, she insisted,--for to her his seven years by no means constituted a length of time sufficient to make a boy of him. The children called Mrs. Martin, Aunt Libby, and to them she was indeed as kind and loving as any aunt could be. Dorothy had an aunt, Mrs. Winthrop White, of North Birchland in summer, and of the city in winter, a woman of social importance, as well as being a most lovable and charming lady personally. A visit of Dorothy and Tavia to the Cedars, Mrs. White's country place, as related in "Dorothy Dale," was full of incidents, and in the present volume we shall become still better acquainted with the family, which included Mrs. White's two sons, Ned and Nat, both young men well worth knowing. Dorothy and Tavia might well rejoice in the good news that the major had so lately been informed of, for the acquirement of means to Dorothy would undoubtedly bring good times to Tavia, and both deserved the prospects of sunshine and laughter, for alas--in all lives, even those scarcely old enough to take upon their shoulders the burden of cares, there comes some blot to mar the page: some speck to break the glorious blue of the noonday sky. Dorothy Dale was not without her sorrow. A wicked man, Andrew Anderson by name, had come into her life in a mysterious way. Dorothy had befriended, and in her own way, helped back to a day of happiness an unfortunate man, Miles Burlock. This man had for years been in the strange power of Anderson, but before it was too late Dorothy had helped Burlock break the chains of strong drink that seemed to have bound him to the evil companion, and for this interference she had suffered--she was now the object of Anderson's hatred. Anderson was after the money that Miles Burlock had to leave at his death, but Dorothy and her father saved this for its rightful owner, a little daughter of Miles Burlock, who had for some years been kept away from her own father by Anderson. The child, now an orphan, came into the care of Major Dale, her legal guardian and so Anderson had new cause for his hatred for Dorothy--the money and child having both been put out of his reach. So this was Dorothy's sorrow: she had been persecuted because of her goodness. No one who knew Tavia Travers would have considered her capable of worry. She was as light-hearted as air, with a great faculty for mischief and a "hankering" for fun. But she did have a worry, a fear that some day Dorothy Dale might pass out of her life and end the attachment that came in childhood and waxed strong with girlhood. Dorothy was what might be considered a girl of the aristocratic class, while Tavia belonged to those who consider it a privilege to work for a living and have a keen appreciation of the opportunity--as Squire Travers proved when he turned in to show himself the best official, in the capacity of squire, of which Dalton ever boasted. Now a new danger threatened Tavia: Dorothy would be almost rich. Would that help to break the ties of love and friendship between the girls? Not that Dorothy could ever change in her sincere love for Tavia, but might not circumstances separate them, and then--? Tavia had been first to congratulate Dorothy on the good news and the smashed hat had furnished an incident sufficiently distracting to keep Tavia from the lamentations that at first filled her heart. Hence it has been necessary to take the reader through her sentiments in a very much less interesting way than Tavia herself would have disclosed them. She had a way of saying and doing things that was inimitable, and amusing, if not entirely elevating. "Then you think you will stay in Dalton?" asked Tavia, finally, as Dorothy succeeded in pulling the smashed hat back into some kind of shape, if not the right kind. "Why not?" asked Dorothy. "Are there not plenty of good people in Dalton?" "Oh, a few, perhaps. There's me and Johnnie--but we are not 'out' yet, and you will be looking for society friends. Well, here's good luck to you with your Indian millions, and don't forget that in your poorest days I used to lend you chewing gum," and at this Tavia threw her arms around Dorothy in a warm embrace, as if striving to hold to her heart and keep in her life the same old darling Dorothy--in spite of the new circumstances. "Say, Sis!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Do you realize that this is the very day you are to go for an automobile ride with Nat White?" "And that you are to go in the same machine with Ned White? Course I do, you selfish girl. So taken up with common money that you never noticed my get-up. Look at this," and Tavia drew from the folds of her skirt a cloud of something. "Automobile veil," she explained, giving the flimsy stuff a turn that sent it floating through the air like a cloud of smoke. "Splendid!" declared Dorothy. "Gloriotious!" remarked Tavia, "the real thing. I found it in an old trunk among dear old grandma Travers' things, and grandma loved it dearly. I persuaded mother to let me inherit it, and smell," putting the gray cloud of silk to Dorothy's face, "that perfume is lavender. Grandma always used it." "What a dear old lady she must have been," said Dorothy, looking over the dainty article critically. "You are not really going to wear it," she faltered, realizing the value of such an heirloom. "No, I am not, but--you are! There, Doro, darling, it is a gift for you from--me. You will always keep it and--love it--" "Indeed I will do no such thing as to take your dear grandma's things. You must always keep this yourself--" "But I want you to, Doro. It will make me happy to know I have given you something good--something I have loved, and something you will love for me. There," and she put the scarf over Dorothy's blond head, "you look like an angel. Grandma herself will be proud all the way from heaven, to see this fall upon the shoulders of one so worthy in face and in heart," and the two stood there clasped in each other's arms, the silvery veil of love falling about the shoulders of both, and binding "all the way to heaven," in its folds of sweetest lavender the hearts of two young girls. CHAPTER II THE FIRE BIRD Outside sounded the strident "honk-honk" of an automobile horn, followed by a series of explosions, like a Gatling gun in full operation, as Ned cut out the muffler, threw off the clutch, and brought the machine to a stop at the door. More "honk-honks" called Dorothy out to welcome her cousins, and presently Ned and Nat, and Dorothy and Tavia were chatting merrily on the porch, as the big machine puffed and "gasped" after its long run from North Birchland to Dalton. "We will go right off," insisted Dorothy, "so as to get all the ride we can, it is such a beautiful day. I only have to grab up the lunch basket, and Tavia is all ready--has been waiting in fact," as Tavia readjusted her "sailor," and endeavored to look spick and span, as she had looked before the series of embraces and other disturbing activities upset her rather perishable toilette--nothing wrinkles like freshly-ironed gingham. "Just a drink of cold water, lady," begged Ned, "before we start again. My throat is macadamized, my eyes are veritable kaleidoscopes, and I feel like a mummy generally." "Why, of course," apologized Dorothy, "you must want a rest after that long dusty ride. Come into the sitting room, and we will try to refresh you." "Just plain water, please," insisted Ned, "and then we will start off." Tavia lost no time in bringing a pail of fresh water--Nat doing the bringing, while Tavia smiled approval and encouragement; it is a matter of such importance to carry the pail just so, when one really wants a perfectly fresh drink and not a glass of bubbles, and Nat was seemingly so anxious to learn all about well water--all that Tavia could tell him. "Come on," called Ned, impatiently from the side window. "We want the water in time to get away before nightfall. Must be lovely to go fishing for water in a pail like Simple Simon. Nat, you can talk to Tavia indefinitely after we have slaked our 'Fire-Bird' thirst." Tavia blushed prettily at the good-natured rebuke, and Dorothy playfully shook her finger at the tardy one, who seemed to have forgotten all about Ned wishing a drink. Finally the boys were satisfied that Dalton wells did justice to their reputation, and so the "Fire-Bird" was made ready for the day's run. "I am so glad," commented Dorothy, "that Joe and Roger are not around, it would be hard to go off and leave them." "Plenty of time for little boys," remarked Nat, turning on the gasoline, then shoving the spark lever over, all ready to crank up. Tavia had taken her place in front, as Nat was to drive the car, while Dorothy was on the leather cushions in the tonneau, where Ned would interest her with talk of school and other topics which the two cousins held in common. Presently Nat cranked up, swung himself into the car and the Fire-Bird "grunted off" lazy enough at first, but soon increasing to a swift run through the streets of Dalton. "Isn't it splendid!" Tavia could not refrain from exclaiming enthusiastically. "Yes," answered Nat, "but I believe there is something in swift motion that unbalances human equilibrium. The madness of motoring would make a study. Dorothy would be proud of me could she hear me talk so learnedly," he said, smiling at his own seriousness, "but I do really believe half of the unaccountable accidents might be traced to the speed-madness." "It does feel dreadfully reckless," said Tavia, realizing something of the power of speed, and taking off her sailor hat before the straw piece made away on its own account. "I think it would be just like flying to be in a real race." "Not for mine," answered the practical Nat. "I like some kinds of a good time, but I have too much regard for the insurance company that saw fit to give me their 'promise to pay,' to trust my bones to the intelligence of a machine let loose. There is something so uncanny about a broken neck." A toot of the horn warned passersby that the Fire-Bird was about to make a turn. Tavia bowed to those on the walk. Nat touched his cap. "Who's the pretty one?" he asked, looking back, just a bit rudely, at Tavia's friends. "Alice MacAllister, the nicest girl in Dalton, except--" "Tavia Travers," finished Nat, politely. "Well, she does look nice. Better get up a lawn party or something and invite her, and incidentally ask Nat White." Dorothy leaned forward to whisper to Tavia that Alice was going out Dighton way to play tennis, that Alice had told her she expected to win a trophy and this was the game to decide the series. Alice certainly looked capable of winning most anything, she was such an athletic girl, the kind called "tailor made," without being coarse or mannish. Then the Fire-Bird flew on. Out over the hill that hid Dalton from its pretty suburbs, and then down into the glen that nestled so cozily in its fringe of pines and cedars. Nat slackened speed to allow the party full enjoyment of the shady road, and this gave all an opportunity of entering into lively conversation. The boys wanted to know all about the mysterious man Anderson, who had been lodged in jail. As Dorothy and Tavia had played rather a conspicuous part in the man's capture, and all this had happened since the girls had been out to the Cedars, on their visit, naturally Ned and Nat were interested in the sensational news. "I'm glad he's safe out of your reach, Doro," said Ned, "for you never seemed to know when or where he would turn up." "Yes," put in Tavia, "Doro has actually gained flesh since we landed him. He was such a nuisance. Had no regard for persons or places." "And how about the news from India?" asked Ned. "I suppose the major will sell out in Dalton and move to better accommodations now. Not but what Dalton is a first-rate place," seeing the look of reproach on Dorothy's face at the idea of anyone uttering a word against her beloved town, "but you know there are little conveniences in other places, postmen for instance, and well--something called society, you know." "We have no thought of going away," answered Dorothy. "Father says the money is just enough to make us comfortable and there is plenty of comfort to be bought in Dalton." "And some given away," ventured Nat, with an arch glance at Tavia. "Which way shall we go?" asked Nat, as a forking of the road made a choice necessary. "Through the glen," suggested Dorothy, "there is such a pretty spot there where we can lunch." "Which spot?" asked Tavia, "I thought this was all road with deep gutters at the side, running down to the river over the hill." "I am quite sure this is the road father took us out to picnic on," said Dorothy with some hesitation. "Well, maybe," said Tavia, "but I think this is the old river road. It seems to me I have been out this way before, and never even found a place to gather wild flowers, all road and gutters, then a big bank to the river." "Let's try it anyhow," decided Nat. "It looks nice and shady." So the turn was made to the left, and presently another turn rounded, then another, until both Tavia and Dorothy lost all sense of the location. "We will wind up somewhere," declared Nat, when the girls protested they would be lost if the machine were not turned around, and brought back to the river road. "This is such a tangle of a place," insisted Dorothy, "and we really might not meet a person to direct us." "Then we will keep right on, and run into the next state," joked Nat, to whom being lost was fun, and having an adventure the best part of a ride. For some time the Fire-Bird flew along, the beautiful August day adding a wonderful charm to the tender shade of the oaks that lined the road, and through which just enough sunshine peeped to temper the balmy shadows. "I am hungry. It must be lunch time," said Dorothy, as they reached a pretty spot, "let's stop here and eat." "Let's," agreed Nat, slowing up the machine. "What do you suppose this road is for?" asked Ned, as neither the rumble of a wagon wheel nor any other sound broke the stillness that surrounded the party. "For instance," suggested Tavia. "Or for maps," said Ned. "For automobile parties," declared Dorothy. "For yours truly," finished Nat, stretching himself on the soft sod, that came down to the road as beautifully as if it had been made to order on a well-kept terrace. The girls soon had the lunch cloth spread and the basket was then produced--or rather its contents were brought forth. "Yum, yum," exclaimed Nat, smacking his lips as Dorothy began placing the eatables on the cloth. "Oh, but water," sighed Tavia. "We were to get some as we came in the woods. There is a fine spring there." "Two miles back," announced Nat. "But there must be one near here," declared Tavia, "for there are forget-me-nots in this grass." "Is that a sign of water?" asked Ned. "Positive--sure sign," replied Tavia. "Let's hunt for the spring." "Too early," answered Nat, "against the game laws. Can't hunt for two whole months yet. Worse luck." "Well, look for the spring then," Tavia corrected herself. "I fancy I smell watercress--" "Well, of all the fanciers,--first bluebells mean spring water, then gasoline from our own tank smells like watercress. Now, Octavia Travers, I'll go you," said Nat. "Come and find spring water, bunches of watercress and a salt spring to go with the cress, or you will--walk home." Tavia answered the challenge by skipping along through the grassy track, with Nat dragging lazily along at her heels. "Don't get lost," cautioned Dorothy. "And don't expect us to watch this food all afternoon," said Ned, as the two disappeared over a bank on the "still hunt" for water and perhaps watercress. "Tavia knows everything that grows," remarked Dorothy to her cousin, "I think it is so interesting to have a practical knowledge of nature." "And quite convenient when it comes to lemonade with water," answered the boy. "It's queer Nat is like that too. He always knows things about things when things are shy for a feed. Likely he'll bring back a small-sized patch of the vegetable kingdom." Meanwhile the explorers were making discoveries at every glade. "There," called Tavia, triumphantly, "that's a spring. But the announcement came a second too late to save Nat from a foot bath. "So I have noticed," he declared, trying to shake some of the cold water out of his low cut shoes. "Oh, that's too bad," Tavia managed to say, although her joy at finding the spring made any regret at the method of its discovery quite out of the question. Being careful of her own footing she made her way along, until the stone basin at the spring source came into view. "Didn't I tell you?" she shouted. "And there is the watercress!" She was on her knees now, leaning over like the goddess who saw her face reflected in the water. Tavia knew the peculiarities of a spring, and knew how to avoid the common penalty of wet feet when getting either cress or a drink "by hand." "Let me," asked Nat, gallantly, as he saw her stooping over the brink. "I do want some of the cress," she said. "So do I," declared the knight. But alas; as he stepped to the brink he went down--down--down-- "Help!" he shouted, merrily, in spite of the second foot bath within a few minutes. But Nat kept on sinking, until what seemed like a joke soon assumed a serious aspect. "Give us a hand," he called to Tavia. "I must have struck quick-sand." Tavia ran to the side of the pool where the boy was imbedded. He had jumped right in, instead of feeling his way as Tavia had, to make sure of his ground. "Take my hand," said the girl anxiously, but the effort necessary in reaching toward her only served to make the unfortunate youth sink farther down. "I guess you'll have to go for help," he admitted finally, the danger of the situation forcing itself upon him. "But suppose you should go under while I am gone?" faltered Tavia. "Just pull that tree branch over to me," said Nat, "and I'll cling to that. This must be a glue spring. My, but it has a grip! There goes my shoe." "I'll run for Ned," cried Tavia, after she had given the boy in the pool a hold on the tree branch, and then she shot across the fields like a deer, leaving Nat to "say his prayers," as he described the situation. It seemed a long time to the imprisoned boy, but as a matter of fact, Tavia was back very soon with "reinforcements." Besides Dorothy and Ned, there came to the rescue a woman, who just happened by and heard of the danger. She knew the spring, and, depositing her basket of eggs in a safe place, pulled a fence rail from its post, and with Ned holding one end hurried on to the spring. By this time Nat was almost exhausted, for though it was an August day, standing to the waist in cold spring water was not an enjoyable position. "I found the spring," he tried to joke, as the others came up to him. "So we see," drawled Ned. "Here," called the strange woman, who evidently knew exactly what to do. "Young man, you take this end of the rail to the other side. I'll hold my end here, and the boy can pull out across it." Dorothy and Tavia looked on anxiously. They had heard of persons being swallowed up in quick-sands. Might not this be such a danger? The pool was uncomfortably wide just where Nat chose to try its depth, so that it was difficult to span it with the fence rail. "Easy now," called the little woman in the big sunbonnet. "Take hold first, then draw yourself up." Nat was only too anxious to do as he was told. It did seem so good to have something solid within reach once more. But tug as he would, he could not extricate his feet. "Guess some Chinaman has a hold of me," he said, trying to make the best of his predicament. "Wait a minute," called the farm woman. "There, now, you take the rail to the top of the spring and get down on it. Then you (to Nat) swing right up on it--now there, you've got it! Hold tight. Come here young girls. Quick! Pull! Pull! Altogether! There you are!" and, at that moment, a very muddy form was dragged from the spring. Nat was on dry land again. CHAPTER III A QUEER SPRING SUIT "Don't stop to talk unless you want to get the chills from that spring," urged the little country woman in the big sunbonnet, "but just chase across that field as fast as you can. If we are not on the road when you get there, keep right on running. It's the only thing. Then I'll see what I can do for you in the line of clothes. Sam hasn't got much, but they're clean." Nat stood shivering. The mud had relieved him of both shoes. "Run along," ordered the woman, "I tell you I know all about the kind of chills that come from that spring water. Why, we don't even eat the watercress out of it this summer, so many folks that did eat it were taken down. My son Sam had a spell. The doctor stuck to it it was swimmin' but I knowed better; it was eatin' that poison watercress." By this time Nat had followed directions and was going across the fields as fast as his uncomfortable legs would carry him. Tavia was running also; she felt it was her duty to stick by Nat, and get to the road with him, in case he should need any help. Dorothy could not hide her dismay. Nat might get cold, he certainly had spoiled some good clothes, and the automobile ride would not be as pleasant now. How could it be with such a soaked boy at the wheel? And he was sure to stick to his post. "Isn't it awful!" Dorothy remarked to Ned, as they hurried along after Nat and Tavia, while the country woman jogged on ahead of them. "Nothing of the sort," he contradicted her. "It will add to his general knowledge, and what an experience it will be when it is handed out to the fellows! Nat frequently has a way of making narrow escapes. Chances are, some subterranean monster held him down in that spring. Oh, that accident will just be pie for Nat," and his brother laughed at the possible story Nat would concoct about his spring bath. Breaking through the clump of bushes that divided the field from the road Nat and Tavia could be seen racing up and down like a pair in "training." "That's right," called the woman, "just cut across there to that house. I'll be there almost as soon as you." And in truth the farm woman was "no slouch," as Ned expressed it, for she tramped along at such an even pace that Dorothy found it difficult to keep up with her on the rough roads. The farm house was of the typical old-fashioned kind; long and narrow, like a train of cars side-tracked, Ned thought. Vines that had become tired creeping clung tenaciously to window sills and broken porch rails, while clumsy old apple trees leaned lazily toward the stone house, although they were expected to keep their place, and outline a walk to the garden. "Come right in the kitchen," invited the little woman. "I'll go upstairs and get the clothes, and then the young man can wash up a bit. Sam always keeps plenty of clean water in his room in summer time--ain't so pertic'lar about it in winter." Nat hesitated on the door sill. Although the place presented that crowded and almost untidy scene, so common to back doors in the country, the room within was clean and orderly, and Nat had no idea of carrying his mud through the apartment. Tavia, seeing his predicament, promptly found the broom and began such a vigorous scraping of the muddy clothes that Nat backed down to a bench and fell over it. "There," exclaimed Tavia, "no more will come off, I'm sure." "So am I," gasped Nat. "I wonder--well, never mind, you brushed me all right. If ever you want work just let me know." The woman, who had introduced herself as Mrs. Hardy, was at the door now, and ordered Nat to come in at once. "For clothes," she began, "I left out Sam's brand new pair of overalls. They hain't never been on him, and I thought they'd be better than anything else for summer. Then there's a clean soft shirt, and you won't need no coat, as it's a sight too warm to-day for coats. Them sneak shoes Sam only bought Saturday night. He likes to wear them to picnics, and there's to be one to-morrow evenin'." Nat seemed unable to thank the woman. He really felt so miserable, physically, and so confused mentally, that his usual ready wit forsook him. But Dorothy could have hugged that dear little woman who was so kind and thoughtful. Ned was out in the motor car, so Dorothy was the one in "authority." "You are so kind," she faltered to Mrs. Hardy, as Nat's muddy heels lost themselves from view up the box stairs. "I'm sure we cannot thank you enough." "Tut, tut," interrupted the woman, busying herself at once about the little cook stove. "If the same thing happened to my Sam I know you'd do as much for him. He'll be in to dinner. Maybe you'll see him. I am proud of Sam. He's all I've got, of course, that makes some difference." Ned now brought the machine up to the front of the house. He blew the horn to attract attention and Tavia ran out. "Of all the luck," he stammered, trying to talk and laugh at the same time, "every scrap of our lunch is gone. Dogs, chickens, and maybe a boy or two took it. At any rate, they did not leave as much as the basket." "Oh," gasped Tavia. "Isn't that mean!" "Rather," answered the boy. "But perhaps we can get some crackers and milk here. I feel that the pangs of hunger will do something desperate presently. Nat, I suppose, will get a warm drink, and no doubt something to make him strong--homemade bread is the usual, I think. But I may starve," and he looked truly mournful--dinner hour was "flush" as he expressed it, meaning that the time had come to eat, as both hour and minute hand were hugging twelve, whistles blowing and a distant bell sounding, all of which indicated meal time was "flush." "What's the matter?" asked Dorothy, coming around the house. "The commissary department has been looted," said Ned. "In other words, our grub is gone." "Gone!" echoed Dorothy, incredulously. "The very gonest gone you ever saw. Not so much as a toothpick left." "What shall we do," sighed the girl, who had put up such a tempting lunch, and had even partly spread it out on the paper-cloth in that "safe" place under the tree. "Victuals gone?" asked Mrs. Hardy, from the side window. "I might have told you as much, only for hurryin' to get them wet clothes off that boy. Why, our hounds would steal the eggs from the nests, worst thieves I ever saw. Well, never mind. When I get Sam back to the hayfield I'll do what I can for you. But he has to be quick, for it's all cut and there's no telling when a thunder storm 'll come up." "Oh, we wouldn't think of troubling you so much," demurred Dorothy. "Is there any store around?" asked Ned, significantly. "One a mile off that has not a morsel fit to eat in it. I'd as soon swallow poison as eat anything out of that place. Here, young girl (to Tavia), you run down to the dairy there, the door is unlocked, and bring up a pail of milk that's on the bench under the window. I'll give you a couple of glasses and you can help yourselves until Sam gets done." Tavia hurried off, willing enough to fetch the milk, and before she reached the door on her return trip--there was Nat! Nobody dared to laugh. What might Mrs. Hardy think? But Nat in overalls! And a dark blue shirt! And the yellow sneaks! "Splendid," declared Dorothy, feeling the absolute necessity of saying something grateful. "I feel like a new man," said Nat. "Bet you do now," spoke Mrs. Hardy, looking him over approvingly. "Nothing like clean clothes, and them is becoming." Nat went near her so he could carry on conversation without delaying the dinner preparations. "That spring suit," he said laughing, "I'll just throw down on the rubbish heap. The clothes are so covered with mud, I am sure they never could be cleaned, and if Sam will have time to get in town before the picnic perhaps he can sell me these things. Or, if not, I'll buy whatever he wants and send them out." "Well, he won't need the overalls till next week," answered the mother. "Then I can buy them?" asked Nat. "And the shoes--" "I'll have a pair sent out directly I reach town. I'll see that they come special so there will be no mistake." "And the shirt--you are welcome to that." "Now then," said Nat, "here's five dollars, whatever will be over the price of the clothes I am sure I owe you--" "Five dollars!" exclaimed the woman with genuine surprise. "Why, bless you boy, that would buy my Sam a full, whole winter suit." "Get him one, then," insisted Nat. "I would be glad to help him, as he certainly has helped me greatly. Just surprise him with a new suit for the picnic. We'll be off as soon as I get my share of that milk, if they have left me any, then he will know nothing of the accident. You can give him a complete surprise," seeing the look of delight on the poor woman's face. "But you dasen't drink none of that cold milk," she protested. "Step right over here to a cup of tea, it's just fresh. But I don't feel I should take all that money." "Oh, just to give Sam a little surprise," argued Nat, "and indeed, I owe it to you, for I might have taken an awful cold," and he drank down his "piping" hot tea. "Well, Sam will be happy," admitted the mother fondly, "and if you can afford it--" "Of course I can. There, they have actually stopped drinking. We are so much obliged for the invitation to take dinner, Mrs. Hardy, but we couldn't really stay," finished Nat. "No," said Dorothy, coming in at that moment, "it is very kind of you to ask us, Mrs. Hardy, but my cousin says we must go on. Here is something for the milk--" "No more money!" declared the woman. "I've taken more now than the Bible would say was due me." "Oh, just this change," urged Dorothy. "Not a penny! Not one cent!" Mrs. Hardy insisted, but as Dorothy stepped out to join the others, who by this time were getting into the car, she managed to find a place to hide the coins--where Mrs. Hardy would find them later on. "I'm to the bat," said Ned, as Nat took up his place in front. "Not much," shouted Nat. "I haven't been put out yet, and, in overalls and blue shirt, Nat, the good-looking and always well-dressed boy, let loose the Fire-Bird for another fly through the country." CHAPTER IV A DAY OF DANGERS "What do you suppose will happen next?" asked Dorothy, as the automobile sped along the narrow road through a woodland way. "Don't tempt the fates," cautioned Ned, "we can always get enough trouble without beckoning it." "It was good sport, meeting the little country woman and all that," said Nat, "but I must admit I did not enjoy the mud bath. I have heard of mud baths in sanitariums. Do you suppose they are that kind?" "Oh, no," laughed Ned. "They perfume the mud and mix it with bay rum. Then they allow it to trickle down your spinal column to the rhythm of your favorite poem--so many drops to so many feet." "I'll never forget how you looked when you came up on that rail," declared Tavia, merrily. "I have heard of such things, but that is the first time I ever saw any one really ride a rail--" "And my initial performance, I assure you. Well, do not be so painfully faithful as never to forget my appearance. I think you might sympathize with a fellow." But Tavia only laughed more heartily. She declared he could not have been drowned; of course it was wet and cold and muddy-- "And he might have fallen, and not have been able to get to his feet again," remarked Dorothy, with apprehension. "I am awfully afraid of mysterious accidents; and who can tell what is at the bottom of a spring?" "For expert testimony," replied Nat, "apply to Nathaniel White, Esquire. He is in every way qualified--Oh, I say, my knee! Ouch! Can't move it," and he winced in pain. "Let me get there," insisted Ned, "you may take a kink somewhere and make us turn turtle. Besides you will not get so much breeze back here." Nat was easily persuaded now, for the fact was he did not feel at all comfortable--the mud bath was getting in its work,--so the machine was stopped while he got in the tonneau and his brother took the place at the wheel. "Put this dust robe around you," ordered Dorothy. "You may miss your coat in spite of the day, for the wind is sharp when we cut through the air this way. I do hope you will not be ill--" "Never! That race Mrs. Hardy gave me, or made me take, saved my life. But it's pleasant to change seats. Ned will get a lot of laughs from Tavia, and I will enjoy a chance to talk with you." So the little party dashed along, until a turn in the road brought a row of houses into view, and presently, among them, could be seen a sign that indicated eatables were for sale there. Both girls and boys went in to do the buying--so keen were their appetites now that each preferred to do his or her own selecting. Tavia wanted buns, cheese and pickles. Nat had cheese, rye bread and butter (he bought a quarter of a pound) and besides he found, on the very tip top shelf, some glass jars of boneless herring. "Let's make a regular camp dinner," suggested Ned. "Buy some potatoes and sliced bacon, make tea or coffee--" "In what?" asked Dorothy. "Oh, yes, that's so. We did not bring the lunch basket. By the way, you have not seen the basket mother received for her birthday. It has everything for a lunch on the road; a lamp to cook over, tea and coffee pot, enameled cups, plates, good sharp knives--the neatest things, all in a small basket. Mother never lets us take it out, when we're alone. She thinks so much of it." "I should think she would," remarked Dorothy. "But we were speaking of a camp lunch--" "Yes, let's," joined in Nat. "It's no end of fun, roasting potatoes in a stone furnace." "And toasting bacon on hat pins," suggested Tavia. So it was agreed the camp lunch should be their meal, Dorothy and Ned doing most of the work of buying and finding things fresh enough to eat in the old-fashioned dusty store, while Tavia and Nat tasted pickles and tried buns, until Dorothy interposed, declaring if either ate another mouthful before the real meal was ready they would not be allowed a single warm morsel. "Just one potato," pleaded Nat. "I do so love burnt potatoes." "And a single slice of bacon," urged Tavia. "I haven't had that kind of bacon since we were out at the Cedars, and I think it is so delicious." "Then save your appetites," insisted Dorothy, "and help with the work. No looking for fresh spring water this time. Nat, carry this bottle of milk. Ned has paid for the bottle and all, so we will not have to come back with the jar." The paper bundles were finally put into the car, and then, turning back to the woodland road, it was not difficult to find a place suitable to build the camp-fire, and set table on a big stump of a newly-felled tree that Tavia said made her more hungry than ever, for the chips smelt like vinegar and molasses, she declared. So pleasant was the camp life our friends had embarked upon, they did not notice how far the afternoon was getting away from them, and before they had any inclination to start out on the road again, the sun had rolled itself up into a big red ball, and was sinking down behind the hills. "Oh, it may be dark before we get back to Dalton," said Dorothy in alarm. "We should have started an hour ago." "But the potatoes were not done," Tavia reminded her, "and we never could have left without eating them after carrying cords and cords of wood to the oven." "Get aboard," called Nat, "I'll take the wheel now, Ned. I'm entirely thawed out." It had certainly been a delightful day, even the accident at the spring was now merely an event to laugh at, while the meal on the big chestnut stump, beside the camp-fire, had been so enjoyable, and now, all that remained was the pleasant ride home. That is all that appeared to remain, but automobile rides, like chickens, should not be counted until all is over, and the machine is safely put up for the night. Chickens have the same tendency as have autos toward surprises--and disappointments. "There's a hill," remarked Ned, quite unnecessarily, as a long stretch of brown road seemed to bound up in front of them. "A nice climb," acquiesced Nat. "Now, Birdy, be good. Straight ahead. No flunking now--steady," and he "coaxed" the machine into a slow, even run, that became more and more irksome as the grade swelled. "But when we get at the top?" asked Tavia. "We will not stay there long," answered Nat, "for if there is one thing this machine likes to do it is to coast down hill." The Fire-Bird made its way up the steep grade, and presently, as Nat predicted, turned the hill-crest and "flew" down the other side. The swiftness of the motion made conversation impossible, for the machine was coasting, the power being off, and surely the Fire-Bird was "flying through the air." Reaching the level stretch again, Nat threw in the clutch, but a grinding and clanking noise answered his movement of the lever. "Hello!" called Ned from the rear. "Busted!" "Something wrong," agreed Ned, looking at the spark and gasoline controllers. Presently, as the boys expected, the machine slowed up, and then came to a stop. Both were out at once, and they examined the mechanism together. "It's the leather facings on the friction clutch," declared Ned. "See that one worn off?" "Guess that's right," answered Ned. "Well, now for a horse." "I sold my wheel for an automobile; Get a horse! Get a horse!" sang Tavia, while she and Dorothy climbed out to join the inspection committee. "Is it bad?" asked Dorothy. "Bad enough to stall us until we can get it fixed up somewhere," said Ned. "We'll have to take part of the clutch out," and he proceeded to do so. "Yes, we cannot move until we get a new leather on here," added Nat. "I wonder how far we might be from a blacksmith shop." "A couple of miles," answered Tavia. "I have often been through this woods." "Then I suppose," went on Ned, rather dolefully, "there is nothing to be done but 'hike' to the shop." "You go and I'll stay and take care of the girls," suggested Nat. "Oh, both go," chimed in Tavia. "You will get back sooner, and you may have some trouble getting it fixed at the shop, for I have been there and I know the man is as deaf as a post and--other things," she finished vaguely. "There is a house just across the fields there and we are not the least bit afraid--" "If it will hurry the work you had best both go," Dorothy added. "As Tavia says, there is a house in sight, and we could run there if anything came along to scare us." "Well, trot along Nat," commanded Ned, as he took up the piece of the clutch. "This is sure your busy day. I'll race you to the bend to make good time, and I assure you, young ladies, we will not be one moment longer than necessary away from you." "We are so very fond of you," joked Nat, "that every moment will be unto us an hour--" "Oh, come, quit your nonsense, if you are going to run--" But before Ned had finished, his brother had gained quite a handicap and was making tracks through the glen, and then out again into the open. "Isn't it lonely," said Dorothy, getting into the disabled machine after the youths were out of sight. "Not a bit," declared Tavia. "No tramps around here. But such a day! I almost feel as if one more thing must happen. Bad luck goes in threes, you know. One more will surely make up our day--" "Oh, please don't talk so," and Dorothy shivered. "I do wish we were safely back in Dalton." "And the boys gone back to the Cedars! Well, I would rather have the ride ahead of me, than to have it all ended. It is so nice to have good times. Sometimes I think I'll just run away, and see what there is to do and observe outside of that stupid old Dalton," exclaimed Tavia. "Tavia!" and Dorothy's voice betrayed how shocked she was at the very thought of such a thing as "running away." "How can you talk so?" "Oh, it's all very well for you, Doro. You can have and do as you please; but poor me! I must be content--" "Tavia, I am sure I heard someone coming!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Quite likely. This is a common road, you know. We have no fence around it." "But suppose it should be some rough person--" "If we don't like his looks when he comes up we can run," said Tavia, coolly. "And leave the car?" "Can't take it with us, surely." For a few moments neither girl spoke. Dorothy had never gotten over the frights she had received when the man Anderson followed her for the purpose of getting information about the Burlock matter, and every trifling thing alarmed her now. "It's a man," said Tavia, as the form of a heavily-built fellow could now be discerned on the path. "Oh, and he has that same kind of hat on," sighed Dorothy, referring to the hat previously worn by Anderson. "And it--really--does look like him! Let's run! We have just about time to get to that house. Come out this side. There, give me your hand," and Tavia, glancing back to the figure in the road, took Dorothy's hand and urged her on over the rough path, until Dorothy felt she must fall from fright and exhaustion. The road to the farm house was on a little side path turning off from the one followed by the boys on their way to the blacksmith shop. Having once gained the spot where the roads met, Tavia stopped to look back at the car. "I declare!" she gasped. "He is climbing into the machine." "Oh, what shall we do?" wailed Dorothy. "Can't do a thing but hide here until the boys come. We can see him if he gets out, but if we went over to the house we might miss the boys, and they might run right into his arms." "Oh," cried Dorothy. "I am so dreadfully frightened. Don't you suppose we can get any help until the boys come?" "Not unless someone happens to pass. And this is a back road: no one seems to go home from work this way." "Oh, if someone only would!" and Dorothy was now almost in tears. "Just see!" exclaimed Tavia, "he is examining the front now. Suppose he could start it up?" "But he cannot," Dorothy declared, "if the car worked the boys would never have left us here all alone," and again she was dangerously near shedding tears. "There now, he is getting in again. Well, I hope he stays there until someone comes," said Tavia. "Isn't it getting dark?" "And if the boys do not get back-- Oh, perhaps we had better run right straight on. We may get to some town--" "We would be running into a deeper woods, and goodness knows, it is dark enough here. No, we had better stay near the house, then, if worst comes to worst, we can ask them to keep us all night--" "Tavia you make me shudder," cried Dorothy. "Of course we will not have to do any such thing." But Tavia's spirit of adventure was thoroughly aroused, and, in her sensational way, she forgot for the moment the condition of Dorothy's nerves, and really enjoyed the speculation of what might happen if "the worst came to the worst." "There he goes again," she burst out, beginning to see humor in the situation, as the figure in the car climbed from the front seat to the back. "He is like the little girl who got into the house of the 'Three Bears.' One is too high and one is too low--there now, Doro, he has found your place 'just right' and will go to sleep there, see if he doesn't." "Hark! That's Ned's voice--" "And that's Nat's--" "Yes, there they come. Oh, I am so glad--" "Me too," said Tavia, in her pardonable English. "Had we better go and meet them?" "No, indeed, the man in the car might take it into his head to come to. Better keep quiet." Presently Ned and Nat reached the corner. "Hush," called Tavia, coming out from her hiding-place. "Well, what on earth--" began Nat. "Listen," commanded Tavia. "There's a man in the car. He has been there ever since you went away--" "In our car! Well, his time is up," blurted out Ned. "He must move on," and the boy's manner indicated, "I will make him move on." "But he may be dangerous," cried Dorothy. "Oh, please Ned, don't go near him until you have someone to help you!" "And what would I be doing?" said Nat, in that same challenging manner. "Come along, Ned. We will teach that fellow to let our girls and our property alone." "But please!" begged Dorothy, clinging to Ned. "Call someone from that house. He did look so like--" "Our friend Anderson," finished Tavia, for Dorothy seemed too frightened to utter the name. "Did he though?" and Nat gave Ned a significant look. "All the more reason why I should like to make his acquaintance. You girls will have to hide here until we get rid of him, and we have no time to spare if we want to work by daylight. Come along, Ned. Girls, don't be the least alarmed. We will be down the road after you in a jiffy. It won't take two seconds to put in this clutch." "But I feel sure it is that dreadful man," wailed Dorothy. "Oh, if some strong person would only come!" "Now, you just sit down there," said Ned, tenderly, "and when you hear us whistle you will know it is all right. It may be only a poor farmer resting on his way home." But the girls were too certain that no farmer would have enjoyed climbing from one seat to the other as they had seen this man doing, and they had strange misgivings about him--of course Anderson was in jail, but-- "Now, don't be a bit worried," added Nat. "We will be spinning down the road directly," and at this the boys left the girls again, and started down the road to interview the strange man in their automobile. "Oh, I do feel as if I shall die!" cried Dorothy. "Let us pray, Tavia, that nothing will happen to the boys!" "You pray, but I have to watch," answered Tavia, not realizing how scriptural her words were, "for if they should need help I have got to go to that house after it." Then, on the damp grass, poor Dorothy buried her head in prayer, such prayer as can come only from a heart in distress. Tavia, as she had said, stood straight out in the middle of the road, watching through the dim light. The boys were at the car now, and they were speaking to the man! CHAPTER V THE POLICE PATROL For some moments neither girl spoke: Tavia stood out in the road like an officer, while Dorothy did not lift her head from her attitude of prayer. Suddenly Dorothy, in a frenzy of fear, rushed out to where Tavia stood, and threw her arms around her. "Tavia," she exclaimed, "I must go to them. I cannot stand another moment like this--I am simply choking. Come: See, they have not been able to manage him. He is in the car yet. Oh, do let us go!" and the look on the terrified girl's face so frightened Tavia she forgot to watch, forgot everything but Dorothy--something would surely happen to her if that anxiety was not soon relieved. But to go to the boys! Might not that make matters worse? "Dorothy, darling," began Tavia, "don't be so frightened. Perhaps they are just talking pleasantly to him--" "Then I must hear them. I must know what it is all about. Do come!" and she tried to drag Tavia from the spot to which she seemed riveted. "If you would only wait here while I go down first, and then if it is all right, that is, if the boys want us to come--" "No, no," cried Dorothy. "I must go at once! See! Oh, Nat is coming this way--" "Yes, here comes Nat. It will be all right now," and Tavia was soothing Dorothy as if she were a baby--patting her, smoothing her hair, and even pressing her lips to her cheek. In truth Dorothy appeared as weak as a baby, and seemed to require that help which a loving human hand may impart to a nervous body, at once the sense of protection and the assurance of sympathy. "Ned is starting up the machine," exclaimed Tavia. "Oh, I know. He is going to give the man a ride." Little dreaming how truly she spoke, for indeed Ned was going to give the strange man a stranger ride, Tavia showed Dorothy that she believed everything was all right now, and then Nat was there--they could call to him. Yes, he was whistling lightly. How silly they were to have been frightened! "What is it?" demanded Dorothy, as soon as her cousin could hear her voice. "I guess it was--" "Nat! Nat!" screamed Tavia, at the same time running to him and whispering a word in his ear. "There, now, Dorothy. Didn't I tell you. Only a poor farmer. Where did he say he lived, Nat?" "Tavia, you told Nat not to tell me--" "Ha! ha! ha!" roared Nat. "Well, of all things. Not to tell you. Well I guess I will. Sit right down here, my little Coz, and I shall be delighted to tell you all I know," and at this he drew the almost exhausted girl down to a tree stump, to "tell her." But Tavia kept close at the other side of the young man--she could nudge him if--well, of course, just to make the story funny--perhaps! "Wanted a ride, that was all," declared Nat. "See, here they are. We must not notice them as they pass!" "Why?" asked Dorothy. But in answer Nat squeezed her hand so hard she knew he meant for her to keep quiet. The car flew past. Ned never glanced at those by the roadside. And how strange he looked-- "Oh, Nat!" almost screamed Dorothy. "That man had on striped clothes--like--" "Queer kind of sweater. They come in all sorts of stripes," her cousin interrupted, with a side glance at Tavia. "But his leg was out of the car, and that was--" "Also striped. Yes, I noticed his suit was not exactly of the newest fall pattern, but there is no telling where a farmer may pick up his duds. Like as not his wife made the trousers out of some good strong bed ticking." "Nat, you are trying to deceive me. That man is an escaped convict, and Ned is riding alone with him--Oh, what will become of us?" and tears welled to Dorothy's eyes. That outlet of the overstrained--a good cry--had come to her relief. "Oh, there!" begged Nat. "Don't take on so. It will be all right. Ned will be back for us before you have your eyes dry," and he kissed his little cousin affectionately. "And it was that awful man out of jail! I knew it! I could tell him before he ever got to the car! I can always tell when he is coming. Oh! suppose he should kill Ned--" and she burst into a fresh flood of hysterical tears. Meanwhile Tavia had not yet heard what had happened to induce Ned to take the convict away--for Anderson it was. Nat had told her it was that awful rascal when she cautioned him to hide it from Dorothy. Certainly it was all very strange, and very dangerous. "I suppose we have to sit here and wait for Ned to come back," ventured Tavia. "Or else walk to meet him," suggested Nat, who was really anxious to do something beside sitting there listening to Dorothy cry. "Dry your tears, Dorothy," he said kindly, "and we will walk along. It is pleasant and cool, and it will do us good to have a walk." "Can't we get back to Dalton this way?" asked Dorothy. "Isn't this the road we came out?" "It may be the road but it is some miles from town," answered Nat. "Listen! What was that?" "The gong of an ambulance, it sounded like," exclaimed Tavia. "Hark!" At that moment a wagon turned a corner and came towards them. It was a black wagon--yes, it did look like an ambulance. "Oh," shrieked Dorothy. "What ever has happened now?" "Why, it's only the 'police patrol," answered Nat, trying to be indifferent about the matter. "Probably they're--" "Hello there, young fellow!" called a man from the wagon. "Have you seen a fellow in stripes about these woods?" The speaker was addressing Nat, and he wore the uniform of a police officer. "Yes, we have," answered the young man. "And I can tell you all about him." The wagon came to a full stop now, and the officer stepped down from the seat at front, while simultaneously, two other officers dropped from the step at the back, so that our friends suddenly became surrounded by bluecoats. "There," said Tavia aside to Dorothy. "You are not afraid now, are you? We have enough of protection at last." "Which way did he go?" asked the officer. "Straight for Danvers," answered Nat, "and in my brother's custody. We had to go to a shop to get a piece of the machine fixed and left these two young ladies alone here. When we returned the fellow was in our auto--he had taken possession of it, and refused to give it up. We did everything to induce him, but he absolutely refused to leave, and demanded a ride, so, recognizing him from the description as the fellow who had escaped from Danvers, my brother decided there was nothing to do but give him a ride back to the jail." "Well, he's a plucky lad, I must say," declared the officer spokesman. "That fellow is dangerous, he was just about to be committed to the asylum. He's a lunatic, and should never have been in jail--" "Oh," cried Dorothy. "If he should turn on Ned--" "Not the least danger as long as the lad humors him," said the officer. "We saw that," said Nat, "and my brother knows how to manage him, I guess." "And you are stalled now, can't get home until the machine comes back?" asked one of the blue-coats, looking at Dorothy's pale face. "I might walk, but the girls never could," answered Nat. "Then suppose you go with us?" suggested the officer. "If the young ladies would not mind riding in a patrol." "Oh, not at all," declared Tavia, but Dorothy looked askance at the wagon, in which so many criminals had ridden from their freedom. "The best thing we can do," said Nat, realizing how much better any kind of ride would be than the uncertainty of waiting there as night came on. "Jump in then," invited the officer. "We must be moving. I don't know what the captain will think of our prisoner coming up in an automobile, and the wagon bringing in this party." Up the back step sprang Tavia, while Dorothy followed with less alacrity--it did not seem pleasant to get in the big ugly black wagon; a girl of Dorothy's nature feels the mere touch of things tainted by real crime. "All right?" asked Nat, as he stepped in last. "Yes," answered Dorothy, timidly, taking her place on the leather seat. "Isn't it too jolly!" burst out Tavia. "I bet on the horse every time. Of course the auto is delightful, but when night cometh on,--Get a horse! Get a horse!" "The horse is a good old stand-by," admitted Nat. "But isn't this great, though! Riding into Dalton in the hurry-up wagon!" and he joined Tavia in the laugh over their new adventure. "But we must watch for Ned," spoke Dorothy, "He might go back to that lonely place." "I've told the officer at front to look out for him," remarked Nat. "He has to come this way." "And to think," whispered Dorothy, "that the man was crazy, and the officer said he should never have been in jail!" "Don't you worry about him," Nat told her. "That fellow has the faculty of making himself comfortable any place. Look at his nerve in the Fire-Bird." "We were lucky to have gotten away in time," reflected Tavia. "We would scarcely have known how to entertain a lunatic." "Oh, don't talk so!" Dorothy checked her. "I am so nervous and so anxious about Ned." "Now, Dorothy," declared Nat, "Ned is certainly all right, and will be the first person to meet us when we alight from this chariot. Thunder, but this is fun!" The officers outside were talking of the strange capture. A reward had been offered for the taking of the lunatic, for he had been at large for some days, and now the bluecoats had just missed the capture. While at the blacksmith's Ned and Nat had heard of the escape of Anderson and so recognized him at once when they encountered him in their car. "I told you we would have three adventures," Tavia reminded Dorothy. "And we are not home yet," added Nat, laughing. The wagon rattled on, now and then clanging its gong to warn mere "people," not to interfere with the law--to keep out of its way. "We are in some village," said Dorothy, looking out the little glass window at front, and seeing street lights along the way. Presently a gang of urchins discovered the patrol wagon and as the horses slowed up around a corner the youngsters tried to get on the steps to catch a glimpse of the "prisoners." "Look at that!" exclaimed Tavia, laughing. "Wonder what they think we were taken up for?" "Oh, I feel so queer about it," said Dorothy, plainly discomfited. "I wish we could get out." At that moment the wagon sprang forward, the horses having been urged on, and before Nat had a chance to reply to Dorothy's wish they were rattling on, at greater speed than had been attained during the entire trip. To reach Danvers jail the route was through Dalton, and now Tavia could see Dalton houses, Dalton churches, and there was the postoffice block! Surely the officer would not let them out right in the center! "Here you are!" called the man at front, while the wagon stopped and Nat saw they were in front of the bank, the most conspicuous spot in all Dalton. There was nothing for them to do but to alight of course, and, by the time the officers had vacated the back step, and Nat put his foot on it, a crowd of people surrounded the wagon--waiting to see the "prisoners" get out. "Girls!" exclaimed the surprised crowd in chorus. "Tavia Travers!" declared one voice, as Tavia showed her head. "And if that isn't Dorothy Dale! Well, they're nice girls!" came another sneer, "talk about being good and always preaching." This, was almost in Dorothy's ear. "I guess they had better begin at home!" Tears came to Dorothy's eyes. If her father were only there to take her hand--could that be little Joe? "Dorothy! Dorothy!" called a young voice. "Come this way! We have been down to the telegraph office," went on Joe, for Dorothy was beside him now, "and we never had any idea you were in that wagon. Ned just got back. He was going out again to look for you." "Is Ned all right?" Dorothy managed to say, while Nat was thanking the officers who were in haste to be on their way again. "Oh, he's all right, but I guess he had an awful time. He was too hurried to tell us about it, for he said he had to go back--There's his car now! Ned! Ned!" shouted Joe at the top of his voice, while Nat, seeing his brother at the same moment, gave his familiar whistle. Tavia had not yet been able to extricate herself from the crowd. Many of the boys recognized her, and she was plied with all kinds of curious questions. What had happened? Had they been arrested for speeding? (Ned's presence in the automobile prompting this query), or was someone hurt? In fact, there seemed to be no limit to the quality or quantity of questions that were being poured into Tavia's ears. But Tavia was not the sort of girl to make explanations--under the circumstances. If friends, or those who appeared to be friends, could so easily lose all sympathy, and become so annoyingly curious about her and Dorothy, why then, she declared to herself (and also made it plain to some of the boys who were at liberty to tell the others), what really did happen "was none of their business." But unfortunately there were, in that crowd, those too willing to draw their own conclusions, especially as regarded Dorothy Dale, a girl of whom so many others had been jealous. Dorothy was aware of some of the remarks made, but she little realized what a part the patrol wagon ride was to play in her life, nor how a girl who had observed her in the vehicle was to use that knowledge against her. CHAPTER VI A RIDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES Mrs. Winthrop White was talking earnestly to her brother, Major Dale. She had come in from the Cedars the morning after the memorable ride in the Fire-Bird, and was now in the major's study, discussing the situation with Dorothy's father. "But the child has had so many shocks lately, brother," said Mrs. White. "It does seem the only practical plan is to remove her entirely from these surroundings. Of course, it will be hard for you to let her go away, but you must remember, Dorothy has always been a little over-strained with care for one of her years, and now that your means will allow it, she should have every possible advantage to make up for what she may have lost in the way of nerve force." "Oh, I am sure you know, sister," replied the major, "I would not deprive the child of anything she should have, no matter what it cost me, in money or--the loss of her company. She has certainly been my Little Captain, for I can always depend upon her to keep the young troopers in line--" "But why remain here at all? You can give up business now. Do, brother, come and make your home with me. I really need you so often, when I have no one to advise with about the boys. And Joe and Roger would be so much better off with me to look after them. Mrs. Martin has done wonderfully well for her years, but she is no longer able to see to them properly. Just give up this place and come to the Cedars," urged Mrs. White. "I would not know how to leave dear old Dalton or my newspaper," mused the major. "Of course you are very good to think of bothering with another family. Most women think one family enough to bring up." "Indeed, I need something to do," argued the sister, "and Roger would be a perfect treat to me. He is such a darling. Joe will go to school, of course (already taking it for granted that her invitation would be accepted), but I would have Roger taught at home for this year. He is too young to mix up with all the others." "I am sure it would be good for the children--" "And for yourself! Why, you are not too old to enjoy your life. The idea of a man of less than fifty years, considering himself old," and Mrs. White laughed in that captivating manner of hers, that had so often won her cause when all other arguments failed. "And that school you speak of for Dorothy, the one in the mountains of New England, what did you call it?" "The Glenwood School," replied the major. "Mrs. Pangborn, who conducts it, is an old friend of mine, and if I should trust Dorothy with anyone it would be with Louise Pangborn, for she knew Dorothy's mother and would be sure to take an interest in her daughter." "The very thing! Capital!" exclaimed Mrs. White enthusiastically. "We must make arrangements at once. There is little time left before the term opens. Dear me, brother, some women may like to idle, but give me a girl to dress up for school! Perhaps because I have never had the joy for doing it for my own daughter, I so love to take up Dorothy and experiment on her. No girl at school shall be better equipped than Dorothy Dale--" "Now take care, sister. We are plain folks, you know." "Not one whit plainer than your sister Ruth. I shall only get Dorothy things that befit her station, in fact the best dressed girls do not, by any means have more clothes than others. They simply have what is needed." "Oh, I know! I know I can depend upon you, Ruth. Only I also know you think Dorothy--" "A wonderfully pretty and attractive girl, and one who must wear the right kind of clothes. There, I feel I am looking through the shops now. I must admit I have a weakness for pretty things, whether girls or their dresses." "Strange I should have so lately received a letter from Mrs. Pangborn inquiring about Dorothy," remarked the major. "I have it some place," and he pulled a packet of papers from his desk, soon finding the one wanted. "There," he went on, glancing over the missive, "Louise says she has now two assistants, a Miss Crane and a Miss Higley." "Might I see the letter?" asked Mrs. White, already assuming the mother part toward Dorothy, and feeling it her duty to know all she might be able to find out concerning the woman to whom Dorothy would be entrusted. "Why, certainly," replied the major, handing her the letter. She glanced over the paper. "There," she said presently, smiling. "I fancy I see Miss Crane, whom Mrs. Pangborn describes as being such a favorite with the girls. And the other, Miss Higley--her name is enough. She must be the sort of teacher who does good work in classes, but seems to put a damper on the girls' pranks. Of course, such a person is always valuable in a boarding school," and she handed back the paper, "but what a lot of trouble they can make! I went to a boarding school myself, you know, and I know and remember all about the Miss Higleys." "Then you think it would be a good plan to send Dorothy to Glenwood?" and the major's voice showed that he looked favorably upon the proposition. "Glenwood School, in the mountains of New England! I can see the tags on Dorothy's trunks," she replied merrily. "Nothing could be better. And that splendid mountain air! Why, you won't know the child when she comes home for her holiday. But I am going to write this very morning. Or will you do it? And I will write in reply to the next. Yes, I think that would be better. And now I am going right up to Dorothy and tell her all about it. The child had such a headache from her experiences yesterday that I insisted upon her lying down. Wasn't that the most absurd thing for those children to ride to town in the police patrol? The boys will never stop talking of it. And Tavia Travers thinks it the joke of her life. But Dorothy is not keen on that sort of jokes. She does not relish the curiosity which the incident has stirred up. I could see that this morning, when those school friends were talking it over with her." "Dorothy is a very sensitive girl." "All fine natures are sensitive, Allen. They neither offend nor relish being offended. It is perfectly natural that the child should resent such remarks as some of those I have heard passed about the patrol ride." "Of course they only came from children," apologized the major, "and youngsters will have their say." "Yes, but sometimes the 'say' of jealous young girls may go a long way. A jealous girl is, I believe, even a more dangerous enemy than a woman scorned, about whom so much is written and said. But I am sure Dorothy can hold her own in spite of any girl." Why had Mrs. White been so apprehensive about the small talk she had overheard? What could any one say against Dorothy Dale? That afternoon a school friend called on Dorothy and brought with her a young girl who had been spending part of her vacation at the MacAllister home. She was introduced as Miss Viola Green of Dunham, and while rather a pretty girl she had something in her manner that made Dorothy feel uncomfortable. This unaccountable dislike on Dorothy's part was heightened when Tavia went over to the veranda where the girls were sitting, and upon Alice introducing Tavia to her friend the latter merely bowed stiffly, and refused to accept the hand that Tavia had offered in greeting. This was all the more strange since Alice was so splendid a girl herself. But Viola Green had made a serious mistake in refusing to accept the honest hand of Tavia Travers, although strange to say the incident was a most fortunate happening, as far as Tavia and Dorothy were concerned--it told them the kind of girl Viola was. Alice, seeing the slight, winked slyly at Tavia, who, after flushing furiously, managed to return the secret sign of Alice by snapping her own brown eye open and shut. "I simply thought I should die," began Alice, anxious to start conversation. "When I saw you step out of that wagon last night. Viola and I were just down to the post-office and when the crowd gathered of course, we had to see what was going on. Well, when I saw Tavia--" A burst of laughter stopped Alice. She had a way of seeing humor in things and of enjoying the process of extracting it. Tavia joined her in the merriment, but Viola sat there with a curled lip. Dorothy was not laughing either--she was observing the stranger. "Wasn't it great!" exclaimed Tavia. "I wish you could have been along. Dorothy was scared to death, but the very idea of any one being afraid while surrounded by four strapping policemen!" "And when your cousin came into the post-office to send his telegram--to his mother, wasn't it? And we beheld--a dude in overalls and jumper!" and Alice laughed again. "Really," she continued, finally, "I thought I should pass away!" "Was that your cousin?" asked Viola unpleasantly. "Why, Ola," exclaimed Alice, the ring of something like anger in her voice, "I certainly told you the young man was Mr. Nat White from North Birchland, Dorothy's cousin." "Oh," sniffed the other. "I am sure I thought you said he was Tavia's cousin." "That's good," chimed in Tavia. "Wish he was; he would make all kinds of nice cousins, for he is the dandiest boy--" "So!" almost sneered Viola. "Yes, that's so," declared Tavia, with a challenging look at the stranger. "Viola thinks nice boys should not be cousins," remarked Alice, trying to patch up the squabble. But Dorothy had risen from her seat and was toying with the honeysuckle. Evidently she had no intention of joining in the unpleasant argument. "I declare, Doro," said Alice suddenly. "I have scarcely heard your voice to-day. And all the stories that I have been contradicting about you. That you were hurt in an auto accident; that your chauffeur was arrested for speeding and you were obliged to go to police court to make a statement; that some lunatic chased you, and you had to get in the wagon to save your life--Oh! I tell you, Doro, you never know how popular you are until you take a ride in the 'hurry up' wagon. I would have given my new dog (and I love him dearly) to have been in that tally-ho with you," and Alice threw her arms about Dorothy, whose face, she could not help observing, was white and strained. "It certainly was an experience," admitted Dorothy, joining the group again. "But what in the world makes you act like such a funeral?" Alice blurted out. "I have just heard something that makes me serious," answered Dorothy. "I may as well tell you now. I am going away to boarding school!" "This term?" exclaimed Viola, before either Alice or Tavia had time to speak. "Certainly," replied Dorothy coolly. "Why not?" "Oh, nothing, of course," returned Viola, "Only after yesterday folks might think--oh, you know country folks can never understand the trick of deciding things quickly. You had not thought of it--of going away before, had you?" Dorothy was too indignant to speak. What ever could the girl mean by such insinuations? Even Alice seemed dumbfounded, and Tavia positively dangerous. She walked straight up to the chair Viola occupied. "Miss Green," she called. "'After yesterday,' as you express it, is precisely the same as before yesterday, to all concerned. The experiences were unusual--" "I should think so--" the stranger had the temerity to remark, but Alice had risen to go, while Viola stepped down from the porch, without offering a word of apology or explanation. "And where are you going, Dorothy dear?" asked Alice tenderly, trying to undo the harm that her visitor had been so successful in creating. "To the Glenwood School, in the mountains of New England, I believe," answered Dorothy. "Indeed?" spoke up Miss Green again. "That is where I attend. How strange we should meet just before the term opens," and she smiled that same unpleasant smile that had chilled Dorothy when Alice introduced them. "You do!" exclaimed Tavia rather rudely. Then she added: "Dorothy Dale, who told you you could go away to school? You have not asked my permission yet. To the mountains of New England! I would like to see you run away and leave me!" "It would be unpleasant indeed!" called back Viola. "You had better come to Glenwood too!" "Maybe I will," snapped Tavia. "One thing is certain. Dorothy Dale will have friends whereever she goes and if I could go, I would be most happy to look on while she reaps her new conquests. Dorothy is a regular winner, Miss Green. You will have to look out if she goes to Glenwood. She will cut you out with your best friends. She always makes one fell swoop of the entire outfit!" A look of deep scorn was the answer Viola made to Tavia's attempt at raillery. Evidently she had made up her mind that Dorothy Dale would never "cut her out" at Glenwood. And Mrs. White had remarked to her brother, Major Dale, that a jealous girl was a dangerous enemy! CHAPTER VII TAVIA'S DANGER "Whatever can that girl mean?" exclaimed Dorothy, when Alice and Viola had passed down the walk. "Mean! The meanest thing I ever met! Did you see her refuse my hand?" asked Tavia. "Well, it's a good thing to be able to size up a girl like that at the first meeting; it saves complications. But who cares for green violets? What I want to know is, are you really going away, Doro?" and the look on Tavia's face could not be mistaken. She would be dreadfully grieved if compelled to part with Dorothy's companionship. "Aunt Winnie thinks I should go, and father has decided it is best. Of course I shall hate to leave you, Tavia," and Dorothy wound her arm affectionately around her friend. "In fact I shall never, never, find any girl to take your place in my heart," and something very like tears came into Dorothy's voice. "I knew it! I just knew you would go away when you got that hateful Indian money. And what in the world will I ever do in Dalton? Now I have learned how much pleasure I could have, visiting your friends and riding in automobiles, and then, just when I get to realizing what a good time we could have, you up and leave me! I might have know better than to go out of my own limits!" and here Tavia actually burst into tears, a most remarkable thing for her to do. "I am so sorry," said Dorothy with a sigh, putting her arm around the weeping girl. "There! What a goose I am! Of course I would not have done differently if I could do it all over again. The good times we have had are the most precious spots in all my life. And, Doro dear, you did not drag me out of my shell--I was always running after you for that matter, so you need not think the loneliness will be any fault of yours--except that you are such a dreadfully dear girl that no one could help loving you. You really should try to curb that fault." Tavia had dried her tears. She was that sort of girl who is both too proud and too brave to show "the white feather" as she often expressed the failing of giving away to emotion that might distress others. "I do wish you could go along," said Dorothy. "Well, I don't believe I would really like to go, Doro," Tavia surprised her by saying. "I should probably get into all kinds of scrapes with that Green Violet, and the scrapes would likely make it unpleasant for you. Besides I have been thinking I ought to go to work. I am old enough to do something--fifteen next month you know--and I would just like to get right out into the world--go with the tide." "Tavia!" exclaimed Dorothy in alarm, for these rash sentiments had of late been strangely common with Tavia. "You do not know what you are talking about. Go with the tide--" "Yes, I just mean take my chances with other girls. I had a letter from a girl in Rochester the other day. She had got work and she is no older than I am." "At what?" asked Dorothy. "On the stage. She is going to take part in some chorus work--" "Tavia, dear!" cried Dorothy. "You must not get letters from such girls. On the stage! Why, that is the most dangerous work any girl could possibly get into." "Now, Doro, I have not got the place, worse luck. And you must not take on so just because I happened to mention the matter. But you must realize there is a vast difference between poor girls like me, and those of your station in life!" What had come over Tavia lately? Why did she so dwell upon the difference between Dorothy's means and her own? Was it a natural pride or a peculiar unrest--that unrest, perhaps, that so often leads others, who are older, stronger and wiser than Tavia Travers, into paths not the most elevating? And then they may urge the excuse that the world had been hard on them; that they could not find their place in life, when in reality they scorn to take the place offered them, and instead of trying for a better or higher mark they deliberately refuse the prospects held out, and turn backward--then they blame the world! This condition is called "Social Unrest," and Tavia Travers, though young and inexperienced, was having a taste of its bitter moral poison. "Promise me you will never write another letter to that girl," begged Dorothy, solemnly. "I know your father would not permit it Tavia, and I know such influence is dangerous." "Why the idea! You should have read her letter, Doro. She says the killingest things--But mercy, I must go. I have to go to the Green before tea," and, with a reassuring kiss, Tavia darted off. Dorothy looked after her friend as she skipped down the path, and a sense of dread, of strange misgivings, took possession of her. What if Tavia should actually run away as she had often threatened in jest! Then Dorothy remembered how well Tavia danced, how she had practiced the "stage fall" after seeing the play in Rochester, and how little Johnnie Travers had barely escaped the falling ceiling that came down with Tavia's attempt at tragedy. Then, too, Dorothy thought of the day Tavia had painted her cheeks with mullin leaves and how Dorothy then remarked in alarm: "Tavia, you look like an actress!" How strangely bright Tavia's eyes seemed that day! How wonderfully pretty her short bronze locks fell against her unnaturally red cheeks! All this now flashed through Dorothy's dazed brain. How could she leave Tavia? And yet she would so soon have to go away--to that far-off school-- And that strange girl who had come with Alice. What could she have meant by those horrid insinuations about Dorothy so "suddenly making up her mind" to go to boarding school; and that it would be "too bad to leave Tavia alone in Dalton just then!" as if everyone did not know by this time just what had happened on the auto ride, and that Ned had actually been offered the reward for the capture of Anderson. Not only this but her two cousins, Ned and Nat, had received public praise for brave conduct, and the two girls, whose names were not mentioned (Major Dale had asked the reporter to omit them if possible from the report), were also spoken of as having taken part in the capture, inasmuch as they allowed Anderson to remain quietly in the car until the young owners of the machine arrived upon the scene. Dorothy sat there thinking it all over. It was almost dusk and on the little vine-clad porch the shadows of the honey-suckle shifted idly from Dorothy's chair to the block of sunshine that was trying so bravely to keep the lonely girl company--every other ray of sunlight had vanished, but that gleam seemed to stay with Dorothy. She did not fail to observe this, as she always noticed every kindness shown her, and she considered the "ray of light" as being very significant in the present rather gloomy situation. "But I must not mope," Dorothy told herself presently. "I simply must talk the whole thing over with Aunt Winnie." How much better for Tavia it would have been had she too determined to "talk the whole thing over" with someone of experience? Dorothy found her aunt busy writing the boarding school letters, and when that task had been finished Mrs. White was entirely at the girl's service. Dorothy tried to unfold to her the situation, without putting unnecessary blame on Tavia, who was such a jolly girl and so absolutely free from dread--never had been known to be afraid of anything, Dorothy declared, and of course there was therefore, all the more reason to be worried about her risks. To Tavia, a risk was synonymous with sport. "I had no idea she would be interested in that sort of thing," said Mrs. White, referring to the matter of going on the stage, "and, perhaps, Dorothy--" "But I am not at all sure that she is interested in it, auntie," Dorothy interrupted. "I am only afraid she may get more letters from that girl-- And besides, I will be so lonely without her, and I know she will miss me." "Well, there, little girl," and the aunt kissed Dorothy's cheek, "you take things too seriously. We will see what can be done. I, too, like Tavia, She is an impulsive girl, but as good as gold, and I will always be interested in her welfare." "Thank you, auntie dear. You are so kind and so generous. It would seem enough to be bothered with me, but to give you further trouble with my friends--" "Nonsense, my dear, it is no trouble whatever. I heartily enjoy having your confidences, and you may rest assured very little harm will come to the girl who chooses a wise woman for her adviser. And I do hope, Dorothy, I am wise in girls' ways if not in points of law, as your dear father always contends." "And auntie," went on Dorothy, rather timidly, "I want to tell you something else, Alice MacAllister brought a girl to visit me this afternoon, and she said such strange things about yesterday's accidents. She was positively disagreeable." "You are too sensitive, child. Of course people will say strange things every time they get a chance--some people. But you must not bother your pretty head about such gossip. When you do what is right, good people will always think well of you and, after all, their opinion is all that we really care for, isn't it?" "But why should she be so rude? She is a perfect stranger to me?" "Some girls think it smart to be rude, Dorothy. What did she say that troubled you so?" "That's precisely it, auntie, no one could repeat her remarks. They were merely insinuations and depended upon the entire conversation for their meaning." "Insinuations? Perhaps that you had been arrested for stealing melons?" and the aunt laughed at the idea. "Well, my dear, I believe it will be well for you to be away from all this country gossip." "But Viola Green goes to Glenwood School!" declared Dorothy. "No! Really? Who is she?" "A friend of Alice MacAllister, from Dunham. I was so surprised when she said she went to Glenwood." "But, my dear, what will that matter? There are many girls at Glenwood. All you will have to do is to choose wisely in selecting your friends from among them." "If Tavia were only with me I would not need other friends," demurred Dorothy. "Does she want to go?" asked Mrs. White suddenly. "I believe she does, but she denies it. I think she does that because she does not want me to bother about her. She is such a generous girl, auntie, and dislikes any one fussing over her." "There's a step on the porch," and both listened. "Yes," continued Mrs. White, "that's Tavia looking for you. Run down to her and I will speak with both of you before she leaves." CHAPTER VIII AN INVERTED JOKE "Dorothy! Dorothy!" called Tavia. "Come here just a minute. I want to speak to you." "Won't you come in?" asked Dorothy, making her way to the side porch. "No, I can't, really. But I couldn't wait to tell you. I know what the Green Violet meant by her mean remarks. And it's too killing. I am just dead laughing over it." "I'm glad it's funny," said Dorothy. "The funniest ever," continued Tavia. "You know when we got out of the wagon Miss Green was standing a little way off from Alice. That dude, Tom Burbank, was with her (they say she always manages to get a beau), and she was watching us alight--you know how she can watch: like a cat. Well, Tom asked Nat what was the matter, and if he had been speeding. Everybody seemed to know we had gone off in the auto, for which blessing I am duly grateful. I don't often get a ride--" "Tavia, will you tell me the story?" asked Dorothy with some impatience. "Coming to it! Coming to it, my dear, but I never knew you to be so keen on a common, everyday story before," answered Tavia, with provoking delay. "The remarks?" "Oh, yes, as I was saying, Tom asked Nat were we speeding. And Nat said no. Then, looking down at his farmer clothes, he added: 'Not speeding, just melons.' And the dude believed him,--the goose! Then Viola took it all in and she too thinks we were arrested for stealing muskmelons." The idea seemed so absurd to Tavia that she went off into a new set of laughs, knotted together with groans--she had laughed so long that the process became actually painful. "Who told you?" asked Dorothy, as soon as Tavia had quieted herself sufficiently to hear anything. "May Egner. She stood by and heard the whole thing. But you must not mention it to Alice," cautioned Tavia, "for she didn't hear it, and I just want the Green Violet to think it is true, every word. It's a positive charity to give that girl something definitely mean to think about. I can see her mental picture of you and Nat and myself standing in a police court pleading 'Guilty' to being caught in a melon patch. Wish we had thought of it: there were plenty along that road, and I have not tasted a fresh muskmelon since I stole the last one from the old Garrabrant place. Ummm! but that was good!" "Well, I am glad it is no worse," remarked Dorothy. "I had a suspicion she was trying to insinuate something like that. And the idea of her not believing that Nat was my cousin!" "Oh, yes, and that was more of it," went on Tavia. "Tom asked Nat if I was his cousin and he said yes. Wasn't Nat funny to tease so? But who could blame him? I wish I had a chance to get my say in, I would have given Greenie a story! Not only melons, but a whole farm for mine!" "Lucky you were otherwise engaged then. I noticed you had your hands full answering the questions of that crowd of small boys," remarked Dorothy, smiling at the remembrance of Tavia's struggle with the curious ones. "But, Doro, are you really going away?" and Tavia's voice assumed a very different tone--it was mournful indeed. "Yes, I think it is quite decided. I would not mind it so much if you were coming." "Me? Poor me! No boarding school for my share. They do not run in our family," and she sighed. "But perhaps your fairy godmother might help you," went on Dorothy. "She has granted your wishes before." "Yes, and I promised her that time I would never trouble her again. There is a limit, you know, even to fairy godmothers." At that moment Mrs. White appeared on the porch. "What was that I heard about godmothers?" she asked. "You know, Dorothy, I hold that sacred position towards you, and you must not let any one malign the title," she said, laughingly. "Oh, this was the fairy kind," replied Dorothy. "Tavia was just saying she had promised to let hers off without further requests after the last was granted." "When Doro goes away to school," interrupted Tavia, "I shall either become a nun or--" "Go with her! How would that do?" asked Mrs. White, convinced that the parting of Dorothy and Tavia would mean a direct loss for both. "If I worked this year and earned the money to go next? Or do they consider the wage-earning class debarred from boarding school society?" asked Tavia. Again the sentiment Tavia had expressed to Dorothy: the difference in the classes. This was becoming a habit to Tavia, the habit of almost sneering at those who appeared better off than herself. And yet, as Mrs. White scrutinized her, she felt it was not a sentiment in any way allied to jealousy, but rather regret, or the sense of loss that the lot of Tavia Travers had been cast in a different mold to that of Dorothy Dale. It had to do entirely with Tavia's love for Dorothy. "Now, my dear," began Mrs. White, addressing Tavia, "you really must not speak that way. You know there is a class of people, too prominent nowadays, who believe that the rights of others should be their rights. That there should be no distinction in the ownership of property--" "Gloriotious!" exclaimed Tavia. "Do you suppose they would let me in their club?" "I'll tell you, girls," said Mrs. White. "Squire Travers is going to call here this evening by appointment. And if you are both very, very good little girls, perhaps I will have some very important news to give you in the morning." At this both Tavia and Dorothy "took steps," Tavia doing some original dance while Dorothy was content to join in the swing that her partner so violently insisted upon taking at every turn. Mrs. White laughed merrily at seeing the girls dance there in the honeysuckle-lined porch, and she was now more positive than ever that their companionship should not be broken. "All hands around!" called Tavia, at which invitation the stately society lady could not refrain from joining in the dance herself, and she went around and around until it was Dorothy who first had to give in and beg to be let out of the ring. "Oh!" sighed Mrs. White, quite exhausted, "that is the best real dance I have had in years--quite like our dear old German." "They call it the Virginia Reel in Dalton," said Tavia, not meaning to deprecate the value of the society dance mentioned. "Yes, and that is the correct name, too," agreed Mrs. White, "for almost all the good figures of the German were taken from the old time country dance. But I am warm! I must go in at once or I may check this perspiration too quickly. Dorothy, don't walk too far with Tavia," she remarked, as both girls prepared to leave the porch, "I have some little things to talk over before tea." "Only to the turn," replied Dorothy, with her arm wound lovingly around Tavia, "I just want to finish about something very important." "She must go with Dorothy," said Mrs. White to herself, watching the two girls make their way through the soft autumn twilight. CHAPTER IX COMMITTEE OF ARRANGEMENTS "Isn't it too delicious," exclaimed Tavia, excitedly. "Delightful," answered Dorothy. "I hope hereafter you will never doubt the goodness of your fairy godmother." "Or that of my fairy godsister," added Tavia. "And Aunt Winnie is to do all your shopping. Your mother asked her to get everything you will need. The money you received from the railroad company for the loss of your hair in the accident has been put aside by your father for your education. So you cannot longer boast of that romantic poverty you have been holding over my poor, innocent head," and Dorothy gave her friend a "knowing squeeze," that kind of embrace that only girl friends understand fully. "I can scarcely realize it," pondered Tavia, "not to have you leave me here all alone! Why, Doro, I could not sleep nights, worrying about what would become of me in this hamlet without you." "And I was equally tortured with worries about what would become of me, when I could not tell you all my troubles. Especially when I thought of having to--" "Fight the Green Violet alone! I don't blame you. But I am just dying to know what use she will make of the muskmelon story. I met Alice yesterday and she felt dreadfully about the way Viola acted. She is coming over to apologize to you as soon as she can do so without carting the vegetable along. Pity they did not name her cucumber instead of violet--the green would match her better. I am going to call her 'Cuke' hereafter! Short for cucumber, you know." "Oh, that would be unkind," objected Dorothy. "Unkind nothing," replied the impulsive one. "I wish I could think of a good rhyme for her new name. I would pass it around--" "Now, Tavia, you must not keep me worrying about the mischievous things you intend to do at Glenwood. Remember that is one of the stipulations--you are to be very, very good." "I feel a sore spot under my shoulder blade now," declared Tavia, putting her hand back. "Wings as sure as you live, just feel!" "But do you realize it, we have only this week? We must be in Glenwood next Monday." "All the better. I cannot wait. Won't it be too gloriotious?" and Tavia again indulged in "steps," her favorite outlet for pent-up sentiment. "The boys are coming over to-morrow afternoon," announced Dorothy, "I had a note from Ned this morning." "Goody," exclaimed Tavia, coming to a full stop with a twirl that stood for the pedal period. "Another ride?" "No, I'm afraid not. Ned said he and Nat were going to spend the afternoon with us." "Well, it will be fun anyway. It always is when the boys get jollying. I am afraid I do love boys--next to you, Doro, I think a real nice boy is the very nicest human possible." "Next to me? On the other side you mean?" "No, on the second side, the boy is on the outside of the argument. You are always first, Doro." Meanwhile the news, that Dorothy and Tavia were to leave Dalton for a school in New England, had spread among their former school companions. Alice MacAllister, Sarah Ford, May Egner and a number of others had held a little consultation over the matter and decided that some sort of testimonial should be arranged to give their friends a parting acknowledgment of the regard and esteem in which Dalton school girls held Tavia Travers and Dorothy Dale. Of course Tavia was never as popular as Dorothy had always been--she was too antagonistic, and insisted upon having too much fun at the expense of others. But, now that she was leaving them, the girls admitted she had been a "jolly good fellow," and they would surely miss her mischief if nothing more. May Egner wanted the committee of arrangements to make the affair a "Linen Shower" such as brides are given. "Because," argued the practical May, "it will be so nice to have a lovely lot of handkerchiefs and collars. No one can have too many." "Well, we can include the shower if you like," said Alice, who was chairman, "but I vote for a lawn party, with boys invited." "A lawn party with boys!" chorused the majority, in enthusiastic approval. "I think it would be a charity to let the Dalton boys come to something," declared Sarah Ford. "If we leave them out all the time, by and by, when we want someone to take us home on a dark night--" "When you stay chinning too long with Roberta," interrupted a girl who knew Sarah's weakness for "dragging along the way." "Well, you may be out in the dark some time yourself, Nettie, and it is very nice to have--" "A very nice boy--" "Order! Order!" called the chairman. "We have voted to invite them and--" "It's up to them," persisted Nettie Niles, who, next to Tavia Travers, had the reputation and privilege of using more slang than any other well-bred girl in Dalton. "It is to be a lawn party then," declared the chairman, with befitting dignity. "And we have only one day to arrange the whole thing." "I'll collect the boys," volunteered the irrepressible Nettie. "Then you are appointed a committee of one to invite all the nice boys in the first class," said Alice, much to the surprise of the joker. "And not any other?" pouted Nettie. "If I should run across a real nice little fellow, with light curly hair, and pale pink cheeks, and--and--" "New tennis suit," suggested someone, who had seen Nettie walking home with a boy of the tennis-suit description. "Oh, yes," agreed the chairman, "I forgot to include Charlie. He is not now at Dalton school, but of course, Nettie, you may invite Charlie." "Thanks," said Nettie, determined not to be abashed by the teasing. "We will have cake and lemonade," proposed May Egner. "I'm glad I only have to bring boys," said Nettie aside, "I couldn't bake a cake to save me." "And I'll bring a whole pan of fresh taffy," volunteered Sarah. "Put me down for two dozen lemons," offered May Egner, who seemed to think the entire success of a lawn party depended upon the refreshing lemonade. "Where shall we have it?" asked Alice. The girls glanced around at the splendid lawn upon which the little meeting was being held. It was the MacAllister place, and had the reputation of being well-kept besides affording a recreation ground for the family--the secret of the combination lay in the extent of the grounds: they might be walked upon, but were never trampled upon. Mr. MacAllister made it a rule that games should be kept to their restricted provinces, as the tennis court and croquet grounds: other games should never be indulged in on the range close to the house or near the paths. "Plenty of room to play tag in the orchard," he would tell the children, and this plan kept the place in an enviable condition. "The schoolyard is awfully dry and dusty," remarked Nettie in answer to the question of a site for the party. "You are welcome to come here," said Alice, modestly. "Oh, that would be splendid!" declared May, whereat all the others voiced similar sentiments. It was promptly decided that the invitation to hold the affair on the MacAllister grounds should be accepted with thanks, and as there remained not many hours of the day to attend to arrangements, as the next afternoon would bring them to the test, the girls hastily scattered to begin their respective duties in the matter. Viola Green was present at the meeting. Alice had told her of its purpose, and as only a few days remained of the time allotted Viola to remain at Dalton, Alice was not sorry when her visitor pleaded another engagement. That engagement consisted of a promise to walk through the Green with Tom Burbank--he, too, was a stranger in Dalton, spending a week of his holiday with the Bennet family. Viola could boast of a well-filled trunk of stylish clothes, and in no other place, of the many she had visited during her vacation, had this wardrobe shown to such advantage as in Dalton. Even the attractive linens that Alice was invariably gowned in (except on Sundays, when she wore a simple summer silk), seemed of "back date" compared with the showy dresses Viola exhibited. They were stylish in that acceptance of the term that made them popular, but were not distinctive, and would probably be entirely out of date by the following summer. On this particular afternoon Viola wore a deep blue crepe with shaded ribbons, a dress, according to the feminine ethics of Dalton, "fit for a party." Tom Burbank sported white flannels, a very good summer suit indeed, but a little out of the ordinary in Dalton. It was not to be wondered at, then, that the appearance of these two strangers attracted some attention on the Green. Neither could it be doubted that such attention was flattering to Viola, a stylishly dressed girl often enjoys being credited with her efforts. "Wasn't that the greatest," Tom was drawling to Viola, "about those folks riding in the police wagon." "Disgraceful, I should say," replied Viola, emphatically. "And the fellow in the--farmer's duds. Wasn't he a sight?" and the young man chuckled at the thought of Nat in the overalls and jumper. "And those two girls are going to Glenwood--the boarding school I attend!" and Viola's lip curled in hauteur. "The dickens they are! I--beg your pardon, but I was so surprised," said Tom. "I don't blame you. I was equally surprised myself. In fact, I guess everyone was--they made up their minds so suddenly. I suppose--" Then Viola stopped. "Well, what do you suppose?" "Perhaps I shouldn't say it--" "Why not? Can't you trust me?" "Oh, it wasn't that. But it might seem unkind." "Nonsense," and the young man gave Viola a reassuring look. "A thing said in good faith is never unkind." "I'm so glad you feel that way. Alice is so different, and I have been just dying to talk to somebody--somebody who would look at things as I do. Sometimes I am almost homesick." "I suppose you are," said the youth, falling a victim to the girl's coquetry as readily as water runs down hill. "A fellow is never that way--homesick, I mean; but for a girl--" "Oh, yes," sighed Viola, "this visiting is not all it is supposed to be. Alice is a lovely girl, of course, but--" "A trifle high flown," said Tom, trying to help the faltering girl with her criticism. "And so strangely fascinated with that Dorothy." Viola toyed evasively with the stick of her parasol. "Of course she is a pretty girl--" "Too yellow--I mean too blondy," said Tom, feeling obliged to say something against Dorothy. "Do you know her cousin, Nat White?" "Not very well, I only met him the other night. But he seems like a decent fellow." "I cannot imagine any boy allowing two girls to get in such a predicament," said Viola, "feeling her way" to further criticism. "It was rough, but then you see he was not with them, he had gone to the blacksmith shop to get something fixed, I believe." "Oh, they were alone!" and Viola had gained one point. "Was it really melons, do you suppose?" "So he said, but he seemed to take the whole thing as a joke. Ginger! It was funny to go out in a red flyer and come back in a Black Maria," and Tom laughed at his own attempt at a pun. "Then, when the cousin came back the girls were in the police patrol? That accounts for it. I could not possibly see how any young fellow could allow girls to get into such a scrape," persisted Viola. "Yes," said Tom vaguely, not being at all particular as to what was the nature of the remark he had given acquiescence to. "But to be arrested!" went on Viola. "Were they arrested?" asked Tom in surprise. "Why, of course," declared Viola. "Didn't Mr. White say so?" "Oh, I suppose he did. That is--I really had not looked at it that way. I thought it was some kind of joke." But Tom had said, "Yes," Nat told him they had been arrested! And Tom Burbank never intended to say anything of the kind! Viola Green with her pretty clothes and pretty looks had "put the words into his mouth and had taken them out again!" "We must be going!" said Viola, leaving her seat beside the little fish pond in the park. "I suppose I shall see you at the lawn party?" "If I am invited?" "Then I invite you now. You need not say you got my invitation before the others were out--but be sure to come!" CHAPTER X A LAWN PARTY "WITH BOYS!" The day was perfect--an item of much importance where lawn parties are concerned. Dorothy and Tavia were kept in ignorance of the testimonial that had been arranged in their honor, and were now, at one hour before the appointed time, dressing for an afternoon with Alice. Ned and Nat were to go with them and then-- "I am going to dress in my brand new challie," Tavia announced to Dorothy, as she left for that operation. "I'll show Miss Cucumber what I can look like when I do dress up." "I'll wear my cadet blue linen," said Dorothy, "I think that such a pretty dress." "Splendiferous!" agreed Tavia, "and so immensely becoming. Well, let us get there on time. I am just dying to say things at, not to, Miss Cuke." "Tavia!" but that young lady was out of reach of the admonition Dorothy was wont to administer. The Green Violet, the Green Vegetable and all the other Greens seemed sufficiently abusive to Dorothy, but she was determined not to tolerate the latest epithet Tavia had coined to take the place of that name--Viola Green. "Of course," admitted Dorothy, reflecting upon Tavia's new word, "Viola does seem sour, and her name is Green, but that is no reason why we should make an enemy of her. She might make it very unpleasant at Glenwood School." Ned and Nat arrived just as Dorothy finished dressing. They had been invited over the telephone by Alice, who, in taking them into the lawn party plot, had arranged that they bring Dorothy and Tavia ostensibly to spend the afternoon with her. Scarcely had the cousins' greeting been exchanged when Tavia made her appearance. She did look well in the new challie--one of the school dresses so lately acquired through Mrs. White's good management. "We had better go at once," said Ned, after speaking a word to Tavia. "I am really anxious to become better acquainted with Miss Alice. She seems such a jolly girl." "And as good as gold!" declared Dorothy warmly. "We all just love Alice!" "I am sure you do. I would to--if I had a chance," joked Ned. Along the road Tavia was with Nat as usual, trying to find some heretofore unfound item of interest in reviewing the ride in the police wagon. But concerning the interference of the stranger, Viola Green, Tavia was silent. Nat might say something that would spoil Tavia's idea of the joke on Viola. Reaching the MacAllister gate both boys wondered that no sign of the festivities were apparent. Even upon the very threshold of the stately old mansion not a sound betrayed the expected lawn party. Alice answered the ring and, with a pleasant greeting, showed the company into the reception room, then, as she drew back the portiers opening up the long parlor there was a wild shout: "Surprise! Surprise on Dorothy! Surprise on Tavia!" And the next moment there was such an "outpouring," as Tavia termed the hilarity, that neither Dorothy nor Tavia could find herself, so tangled had each one become with all the others in their joyous enthusiasm. It was a complete surprise. This fact made the affair especially enjoyable--girls do love to keep secrets in spite of all proverbial statements to the contrary. "Didn't you even guess?" quizzed May Egner, addressing Dorothy. "Never suspected a thing," declared Dorothy, as she finally managed to make her way to a cozy little seat in the arch, and there ensconced, began a pleasant chat with May Egner. "Nettie is responsible for the boys," May began. "She was a committee of one on them. But she declares she never invited that Tom Burbank, see him over there with Viola? And Alice is a little put out about it. He is a stranger, you know, and none of the boys seem to take him up." "I am glad there are boys here," remarked Dorothy, looking pleasantly about the room and noting how well the Dalton boys had turned out, and what a really good-looking set they were. "But surely someone must have invited Tom Burbank." "I suspect Viola," whispered May. "She seems to have something private to say to him and insists no one else shall hear it. Just see where they are." In a most secluded nook indeed, a very small cozy corner under the stairway, could be seen the pair in question. Viola looked particularly pretty in a light green muslin that brought out to perfection the delicate tints of her rather pale face. Her dark hair was turned up in a "bun," and it might be said, in passing, that no other girl in the room had assumed such a young lady-like effect. This, with her society manners, and Tom at her elbow, easily gave Viola a star position at the lawn party. Tavia was still gasping over her "surprise." The boys found it a matter of ease to become at once a part of the party where Tavia was concerned. They might have felt a trifle awkward before she came, this being the social debut of most of them, but when Tavia, "got going," as they expressed it, there was an end to all embarrassment. Like a queen she sat on the low couch, her head thrown back in mock scorn, while not less than a half dozen boys wielded palm leaf fans about her, in true oriental fashion. Someone brought a hassock for her feet, then another ran to the porch and promptly returned with a long spray of honeysuckle that was pressed into a crown for her head; Alice confiscated a Japanese parasol from the side wall for her "slave" to shade her with and then-- The couch was the kind without a back support, cartridge cushions under the rolled ends finishing the antique design. Against one of these Tavia was resting, but no sooner had all her accessories been completed than her suite fell into line, four "slaves" making hold of the couch, lifting it majestically from its place, and with the air of Roman history, "gents" solemnly marching off with the queen and her retinue in full swing. George Mason was chief waver--that is, he had the post of honor, next the "chariot" with his fan. "Ki-ah!" he called, "Tavy-wavy-Ki-yah!" This was the signal for a solemn chant in which all of the twenty boys present, including Ned and Nat, but not Tom Burbank, participated. "Ki-ah!" called the leader. "Ki-ah!" answered the retinue. "Loddy-Shoddy, Wack-fi-Oddy Ki-ah!" sang out the head "Yamma," while Queen Octavia smiled majestically at her subjects, and bore the honor thrust upon her as gracefully as if born heir to an Indian throne. The girls were bending and fanning and bowing, some even endeavoring to kiss the queen's hand as she passed. "It takes boys to find fun," remarked Alice, "But see here, Yum-kim, or Loddy-Shoddy, whoever may be in authority," called Alice, "please bring back that couch, very carefully now, when you have dumped the queen on the lawn." At this the slaves stopped, but did not dump their queen. Instead, they slowly lowered the chariot, and even assisted her to alight. "Thanks, awfully," said Tavia, in common English, "I suppose that honor is saved for most persons' funerals. It's something to have tried it--I think Indian funeral marches perfectly lovely. I must die in India." "Funeral march! Well, I like that!" groaned George Mason. "Of all the frosts--" "That, my dear queen," declared Ralph Wilson, "was your triumphant procession-all! Did you notice the procesh? Funeral indeed! You would never get off that easy with a funeral in India." Viola was standing on the porch smiling pleasantly. Somehow she seemed very agreeable to-day. Dorothy noticed how cordially she had greeted her, and even Tavia felt she should certainly have to be civil to the "Green Violet" if the latter kept her "manners going." "Introduce me to your cousins," said Viola affably, coming up to where Dorothy stood. "Certainly," answered Dorothy. "I was waiting for an opportunity. The queen-show took all our attention." "Wasn't it splendid," and Viola seemed to have enjoyed the fun. "I do think boys do the funniest things." "Yes, they certainly are original. I have two small brothers and they keep me going." "How lovely to have brothers!" remarked Viola. "I am all alone at home." "It must be lonely," sympathized Dorothy, "but then, you can have everything your own way." "Just like lying abed on a holiday," said Viola, "one never enjoys it. I believe we always want what we cannot get, and scarcely ever appreciate what we have." "I find it that way sometimes," admitted Dorothy, "but to make sure I am not mistaken I often suppose myself without that which I fail to appreciate. It is a good test of one's real self, you know." "But a lot of trouble," sighed Viola. "I take things as they come--and always want more, or to be rid of some. But I have one real love, and that's music. I was called Viola because my dear grandfather was a celebrated violinist, and perhaps that is why I have such a passion for music." "Do you play?" asked Dorothy, interested. "Yes, I study the piano and violin, but of course I like the violin best. There is one of your cousins--" "Nat!" called Dorothy, as that boy ran across the lawn. "Come over here a minute, if you can spare time from that un-understandable game." "Don't you know that game?" asked Nat, coming up to the rustic bench upon which the two girls were seated. "Why, I'm surprised. That is a genuine American game 'Follow the Leader.'" "Let me introduce you to a friend," began Dorothy, indicating Viola. "This is Miss Green--Mr. Nat White." Nat bowed and spoke pleasantly--he was no country boy. Viola had noticed that long ago. "Viola has just been telling me her one hobby is music," said Dorothy, to start the small talk, "and she studies the violin. I think it so much more interesting than the piano," she commented. "Oh, I've tried it," admitted Nat. "It is more interesting for others, but when it comes home to a fellow it is awfully scratchy and monotonous. But I suppose Miss Viola has gone past that period. I stuck there." "That is because you did not start early enough," said Viola. "To do anything with the violin one ought to start before the squeaks and scratches can be realized." "Good idea," agreed Nat. "That work should certainly be done in the--sub--conscious state." "I'll leave you to settle the violin," said Dorothy, "while I pay my respects to Mrs. MacAllister. She has just come out, and wasn't it splendid of her to let us all come here?" Dorothy made her way across the lawn to the knot of girls where Mrs. MacAllister was gracefully presiding. But instantly Tavia saw that Nat was alone with Viola--the very thing she wanted to avoid. Nat might tell her the truth about the "chariot race," as the police patrol ride had become known. Besides, Viola could find out so many things from an unsuspecting boy. "Come with me," said Tavia to Nettie, dragging the innocent girl along. "I want to present you to a friend of mine. Do you see that boy over there? The best looking fellow here? Well, he's a friend of mine." "Delighted--I'm sure," agreed Nettie. "But what about the other girl? Miss Nile Green?" "Cut her out," said Tavia, in her most business-like way, using the slang with the old as well as the newer significance. "Certainly," responded Nettie, with a coquettish toss of her head. "I'm on the boys committee--as a matter of fact they are all here in my care," and straightforth the pair made for Viola's bench. "Wasn't it too funny!" Viola was exclaiming as Tavia came up. "I should think so," they heard Nat answer, "But Dorothy was ready to--" "Hush!" whispered Viola, but the warning was just a moment too late, for Tavia heard it. Then Viola said something that Tavia did not hear. Nat was very pleasant to Nettie. It was evident the introduction had broken in on something interesting to Viola, if not to Nat, but he gave no sign of the interference being annoying, although the girl was not so tactful. "Nettie is the committee on boys," declared Tavia, "so I thought it high time she had a chance to censure you--I mean to look over your credentials." "Well, if you and the others would join me in a swallow of that lemonade I see under yonder tree, Miss Nettie,--No, not you Tavia, nor Miss Green? Then we will have to drink alone, for I am deadly thirsty," and at this he walked away with Nettie, leaving Viola on the bench with Tavia. "Oh, there's Tom looking for me," exclaimed Viola, jumping up instantly, "won't you let me introduce you, Tavia?" (she actually said Tavia!) "He's a stranger and some out of place." "Yes," said Tavia vaguely, probably referring to the "out of place" clause, and not exactly giving assent to the introduction. Then came Viola's turn--she left Tavia with Tom and as promptly made her own escape! "Of all the--clams," Tavia was saying to herself, rather rudely, it must be confessed. But Tom evidently liked Tavia, at any rate he talked to her and showed a remarkable aptness in keeping up the tete-a-tete, "against all comers," said Nat to himself, noticing the monopoly. "That's the time Miss Tavia was beaten at her own game," was Viola's secret comment. "How glad I am to get rid of that bore. I heartily wish I--that he had not been asked." "What do you think of that?" inquired Alice of Dorothy, observing the girl's change of partners. "Look at Nat with Viola and Tavia with Tom!" "I would like to hear what Tavia has to say," and Dorothy smiled at the idea of Tavia's possible conversation. "I'm just dying to tell her that Viola's name did not come from the vegetable kingdom." "We had really better break up these little confabs," said Alice, feeling her responsibility as hostess, "or we may have reason to doubt the advisability of giving a lawn party with boys." "The simplest games will be the most enjoyable, I think," suggested Dorothy. "I would begin with 'drop the handkerchief.'" "Fine idea," replied Alice. "But notice how many times Tom gets a 'drop.' I'll bet the girls will be afraid he would keep the handkerchief. He looks girlie enough to fancy one with lace on," and at this Alice went forth to inaugurate the old-time game. CHAPTER XI OFF FOR GLENWOOD The lawn party ended in a shower; not only a linen shower as May Egner had planned, but in a specific downpour of rain. The day, so beautifully promising, suddenly changed colors and sent, from a sky of inky blackness, one of the heaviest rainfalls of the season. But this change only added sport to the festivities, for a game of blindman's buff had to be finished in the dining-room, and the way the boys ducked under the big table actually put the "blind man" (Nettie) out of business. It had been a splendid afternoon, every moment of the hours spent seemed to all present the best time of their gay young lives, and that Viola had contributed to the merriment and made herself particularly agreeable, left nothing to be wished for, Alice thought. Dorothy and Tavia felt that the time had come to make their adieux, and were about to undertake that task when, at a signal from Alice, the room was suddenly filled with flying bits of linen--the other shower. "Hurrah!" cried the boys, catching the gifts and tossing them up again and again. "Fen!" called Tavia, using a marble game expression, but the boys would not desist. They liked the linen shower first-rate, and insisted on keeping it going. "Then let us snowball the travelers," suggested Sarah Ford, and at this Dorothy and Tavia were forced into a corner and completely snowed under with the linen. When the excitement had subsided, and the gifts were counted, Dorothy found she had fourteen beautiful dainty little handkerchiefs, four hand-made collars, and a darling pink and white linen bag. This last gift was from Alice, and had Dorothy's name done in a tiny green vine, with dots of pale lavender violets peeping through. This was such a beautiful piece that Alice admitted she had worked on it sometime previous to the party, intending to keep it for Dorothy's birthday gift. Next Tavia counted twelve handkerchiefs, and seven collars. She declared the girls knew she never had a decent collar, and, in her profuse thanks, almost wept with joy at the unexpected blessing. "It's the collar that makes the girl," she assured those who stood about her admiring her treasures, "and I never could make the collar. So you see you have saved me from disgracing Dorothy at Glenwood. I suppose every boarding school girl sports the hand-made variety." "And to think that I cannot give a party in Dalton to pay you back," remarked Dorothy, as she was saying good-bye to a group of girls and boys in the hall. "We are going to move to North Birchland, you know." But the girls did not know, and the information was received with much regret--everyone would miss the Dales. The girls would miss Dorothy, the boys would miss Joe, and as for Roger, he had always been a neighborhood pet. Then Major Dale was a popular citizen, besides being especially endeared to many whom he had befriended with money and advice. "But you will come down to see us on your holidays," insisted the boys and girls, "and perhaps we can get something up so that we may have a reunion." Dorothy agreed to this, and then, when all the good-byes had been said, and all the earnest protestations of affection expressed, the merry-makers dispersed, making their way through the wet and muddy roads, but happy with a clear sky above--for some of the girls wore real party dresses and the shower had made them apprehensive until it stopped. Dorothy and Tavia remained to thank Alice and Mrs. MacAllister for all the trouble they had taken. During the conversation Viola assured the girls they would be delighted with Glenwood and said it was a pity Alice had to stay longer at Dalton school to finish a special course. "Because," said Viola, "we could have such glorious times all together." "Do you think," said Tavia, as she took Dorothy's arm and "picked her steps," across the wet road on her way home, "that Viola really means it? That she is glad we are going to Glenwood?" "I wouldn't like to say," hesitated Dorothy. "She has such an odd way. All afternoon she acted to me like one who had gained some point and was satisfied." "Then I didn't get her away from Nat in time," declared Tavia. "I heard her say something suspicious as I came up to them. No use asking Nat what he told her, he would invent something to tease me and--" "Declare you were jealous," finished Dorothy. "We will hope she was in earnest with her graciousness--perhaps she is always that way--antagonistic with strangers." "Never," and Tavia went into a mud puddle in her attempt to speak very decidedly. "There! I'm glad that was not my canvas shoe. I was tempted to wear them. Ouch! Wet through! But I was about to say that Viola is not mean to all strangers. Did you see the way she went for Nat?" "Well, we must not make trouble by going out of our way to meet it," preached Dorothy. "Viola may not have a chance to bother us at Glenwood, even if she cared to try." "Chance! You can depend upon her to make all the chance she wants. But I have my defense all mapped out. I am certain she will try to disgrace us with the patrol story." "What disgrace could she make out of that?" asked Dorothy in surprise. "Don't know, haven't the least idea, only I fancy she will fix something up. But I'll give her 'a run for her money,' as the boys say," and Tavia displayed something of the defense she had "mapped out" in a decidedly vindictive attitude. Packing of trunks and doing up of girls' belongings made the time fly, so that when the morning of the actual departure did arrive both girls felt as if something important must have been overlooked, there was so much hurry and flurry. But the train puffed off at last, with Dorothy Dale and Octavia Travers passengers for the little place called Glenwood, situated away off in the New England mountains. Major Dale felt lonely indeed when his Little Captain had kissed the two boys--her soldiers--good-bye, and, when she pressed her warm cheek to his own anxious face, it did seem as if a great big slice of sunshine had suddenly darted under a heavy black cloud. But it was best she should go, he reflected, and they must get along without her. Tavia's folks were conscious of similar sentiments. The squire, her father, and her little brother Johnnie went to the station to see the girls off, and Johnnie felt so badly that he actually refused to go fishing with Joe Dale, an opportunity he would have "jumped at" under any other circumstances. Roger Dale had rubbed his pretty eyes almost sightless trying not to cry and listening to Aunt Libby's oft-told story that had never yet failed to heal a wound of the baby's heart, but he surely did not want Doro to go, and he surely would cry every single night when she did not come to kiss him. "I just do want her," he blubbered on the newly-ironed gingham apron that Aunt Libby buried his sweet face in, "and I don't love Auntie Winnie for taking her away." So the Dalton home was left behind. "I wish we did not have to change so often," said Dorothy to Tavia, when she had finally dried her eyes and looked around with the determination of being young-lady-like, and not crying for those left behind in dear old Dalton. "Oh, that's the most fun," declared Tavia. "All new people maybe, and different conductors, besides a chance to try if our feet are asleep--mine feel drowsy now," and she jumped into the aisle just to straighten out and make people wonder if she had lost something. "We will meet the others at the junction--Viola's folks, you know. And that reminds me,--I never had a chance to tell you why she was called Viola. Her grandfather was a great violinist and she was called after his--" "Fiddle! Good!" interrupted Tavia, the irrepressible. "Then I'll call her 'Fiddle.' That's lots better than the vegetables." "It's a comfort to have all our things go by express," Dorothy remarked when "Next station Junction!" was called from the front door of the car. "I feel as if I am constantly forgetting something, when I have nothing to carry, but it is a relief to find our racks empty." "My hat is up there," Tavia remarked, taking down the straw sailor. "And our box of candy--you don't call that an empty rack, do you? Alice's best mixed--all chocolate too." "I was quite sure you wouldn't forget the candy," answered Dorothy. "And it was awfully good of Alice." "Junction! Junct-shon!" called the trainman. "There's our porter," remarked Tavia; with conscious pride as the colored man, whom the major had given the girls in charge of, stepped up the aisle, secured the small satchels and, without so much as, "by your leave," or, "are you ready," handed the two girls off the train. CHAPTER XII VIOLA'S MOTHER At the change of cars the Dalton girls were met by Viola and Mrs. Green. Viola and her mother soon arranged seats for four in the chair car, and Dorothy, with Tavia, joined them in such comfortable quarters as are provided for long distance passengers. Then the little party settled down for a long ride--and all the enjoyment that might be discovered therein. Viola appeared delighted to meet the Dalton girls--she inquired particularly about Dorothy's cousin Nat, but this society "stunt," as Tavia termed it, was due more to the city habit of remembering friends' friends, than a weakness on Viola's part for good looking boys. But it was Viola's mother who interested both Dorothy and Tavia. She was a small woman, evidently of foreign extraction (Spanish, Dorothy thought) and with such a look of adoration for Viola that, to Dorothy and Tavia, observing the wonderful mother-love, it seemed like something inhuman, divine perhaps, or was it a physical weakness? They noticed that Mrs. Green used her smelling salts freely, she often pressed her hand to her head, and seemed much like a person too delicate to travel. "Are you all right, momsey?" Viola would ask continually. "I do wish you had not risked coming." "But I could not allow you to travel all alone," the mother would answer with a delightful foreign accent. "And you know, my daughter, that father was too busy." "But, momsey, do not sit up if you are tired," cautioned Viola. "Just lie back and try to be comfortable." "I am enjoying every word you speak," declared the little woman, inhaling her salts. "You and your charming friends." Dorothy had never seen so wonderful a mother--to actually hang on her daughter's frivolous nonsense. And the attention was a positive tonic to Tavia's chatter. She said such amusing things and saw such ridiculous comparisons--the kind little children surprise their elders with. To Dorothy, who had never known a mother's affection (she was such a tot when her own dear mother left her), this devotion appeared to be nothing short of marvelous. Tavia thought it unusual--Viola seemed worried when it became too extreme. Then she would urge her mother to rest and not excite herself over foolish schoolgirl talk. Even such an admonition from a mere daughter did not appear to bother the strange little woman, with the almost glaring black eyes. Tavia observed this peculiarity, then made a mental observation that whatever ailed Viola might have to do with a similar affliction on the mother's part--perhaps a family weakness! As they journeyed on Dorothy found it very pleasant to talk with Mrs. Green and so left Viola and Tavia pretty much to themselves. Numbers of Glenwood girls were picked up at various stations, and, as each was espied, the chair car party hailed them, Viola being acquainted with the last year's girls. Before the last station--some twenty miles from the destination of the students--had been struck off the time-table, there were actually twelve "Glenwoods," aboard. Those from Dalton felt just a bit "green" Tavia admitted, never before having mingled with a boarding school "tribe," but on the whole the scholars were very sociable and agreeable, and made all sorts of promises for future good times. "You see," explained Rose-Mary Markin, a very dear girl from somewhere in Connecticut, "we count all this side of Boston in the Knickerbocker set, 'Knicks,' we call them. The others are the Pilgrims; and isn't it dreadful to nickname them the 'Pills?'" Tavia thought that "the best ever," and declared she would join the Knicks (spelled "Nicks" in the school paper) no matter what the initiation would cost her. "Viola is secretary of the Nicks," volunteered Amy Brook, a girl who wore her hair parted exactly in the middle and looked classical. "We have lots of sport; plays and meetings. You will join, surely, Dorothy, won't you?" "But I will not be secretary this year," interrupted Viola, without allowing Dorothy to answer Amy. "It's too much trouble." "But you can't resign until the first regular meeting in November," said Amy, surprised that Viola should wish to give up the office. "I intend to resign the very first thing," asserted Viola. "The Nicks can get along with a pro-tem until the regular meeting." Mrs. Green now fixed her strange gaze upon her daughter, and Dorothy, who was plainly more interested in the delicate little woman than in the schoolgirls' chatter, noticed a shadow come into the pale face. Evidently Mrs. Green could stand no arguments, no confusion, and, when the girls continued to discuss the pros and cons of a secretary pro-tem, Dorothy suggested that they change the subject as it might be distressing to Mrs. Green. Quick as a flash Viola was all attention to her mother, inquiring about her head, offering to bring fresh ice water, and showing unusual anxiety, so it seemed to Dorothy's keen observation, when the lady was not really ill. Then, at the first opportunity Viola called the girls down to the end compartment, and told them that her mother had only just recovered from a serious illness. "She had a dreadful attack this time," said Viola, "and she should never have come on this journey." "Then why did she?" asked Tavia, in her blunt way. "Well, she seemed so set upon it," declared Viola, "that the doctors thought it more dangerous to cross her about it than to allow her to come. Our doctor is on the train, but mother does not know it. I do wish she could get strong!" The tears that came to the girl's eyes seemed very pitiable--every one of the party felt like crying with Viola. Dorothy attempted to put her arms about the sad girl, but Viola was on her feet instantly. "We must go back," she said. "Then we can arrange to sit in another place," suggested Dorothy. "Perhaps if she were quiet she might fall off asleep." Viola left the compartment first. There were people in the aisle--in front of her mother. What had happened? "Oh!" screamed the girl. "Mother! Let me go to her!" and she hurried through the car, pushing aside the trainmen who had been summoned. "Mother! Mother!" called the frightened Viola, for her mother was so pale and so still! "Oh, she is dead!" whispered Tavia, who had succeeded in reaching the chair. "Open the windows!" commanded Viola. "Call Dr. Reed, quick! He is in the next car!" It seemed an eternity--but in reality was only a few minutes--before the doctor reached the spot. Dorothy could see that Mrs. Green had not fainted--her eyes were moving. But poor Viola! How could they ever have thought ill of her when this was her sorrow: this her sad burden! Dorothy Dale resolved in her heart, at that moment, that never a care nor a sorrow should come to Viola Green if she could protect her from it. She would be her champion at school, she would try to share this secret sorrow with her; she would do anything in her power to make life brighter for a girl who had this awful grief to bear. "It's her mind," Dorothy had heard someone whisper. Then the doctor had the porters carry the sick woman to a private compartment, and with her Viola remained, until the train reached Hanover. There Dr. Reed left the train and with him went Mrs. Green in care of an attendant. When they were gone Viola returned to her companions weeping and almost sick herself. "The doctor would not let me go back home," she sighed, "and as soon as mother was conscious she insisted on me going on to school. Dr. Reed can always manage her so well, and if I were with him perhaps mother would fret more. But I did think she would get over those awful spells--" and the girl burst into fresh tears. "Viola, dear," said Dorothy soothingly. "Try to be brave. Perhaps the trip may benefit her in the end." "Oh, don't try to be kind to me," wailed the unhappy girl. "I can't stand it! I hate everybody and everything in this world only my darling little sweet mother! And I cannot have her! She can never go with me to her own country now, and we had planned it all! Oh, mother darling! Why did you inherit that awful sickness! Why can't we cure you!" and so the sad daughter wailed and wept, while her companions looked on helplessly. "But you will let me be you friend," pleaded Dorothy. "Try to think it will all come right some day--every sorrow must unfold some blessing--" "My friend!" and Viola looked with that same sharp glance that her mother had shown--that queer glare at Dorothy. "Dorothy Dale, you do not know what you are talking about!" And every girl present had reason to remember this strange remark when days at Glenwood school proved their meaning. CHAPTER XIII THE CATEGORY "Isn't it great!" exclaimed Tavia, shaking out her blue dress, and tying a worn handkerchief over its particular closet hook so that no hump would appear in the soft blue texture. "I never would believe boarding school was such fun. Here comes Rose-Mary with more Nicks to introduce. I hear her laughing--hasn't she got the jolliest little giggle--like our brook when it bubbles over." "I wish, Tavia, you would confine your wardrobe to your own half of the closet," Dorothy remonstrated, as she took down several articles that had "crossed the line." "Oh, I will, dear, only I was just listening to what those girls were saying. I thought I heard Viola's voice. Isn't it strange she does not call on us. I told her our room was Number Nineteen." "I suppose she's busy, every one appears to be except Rose-Mary. She doesn't seem to mind whether her trunk is unpacked first day or on Christmas," said Dorothy, working diligently at her own baggage. "I would just love to go the rounds with her," declared Tavia, "if you did not insist upon going right to work. I would rather have fun now and unpack later." "But there is no later. We must go to bed at eight thirty, my dear, and we have no time to spare. School will begin to-morrow." "All the more reason why we should have the fun now," persisted Tavia, who was nevertheless getting her clothes on the hooks in short order. "There! I'm all hung up," she declared, banging the closet door furiously, in spite of Dorothy's hat box trying to stop it. "But your hats," Dorothy reminded her. "They have got to go on that shelf, and there isn't an inch of room left." "Then I'll just stick the box under the bed," calmly remarked the new girl, making a kick at the unlucky box and following it up to the "goal." "Against the rules," announced Dorothy, pointing to a typewritten notice on the door. "Read!" "Haven't time. You read them and tell me about them. I'll take the box out if it says so, but if we have to keep things in such angelic order why in the world don't they give us room?" "Room? Indeed this is a large room, given us especially, and it is quite a favor to be allowed to room together--only real sisters ever get a double." "Heaven help the singles!" sighed Tavia in mock devotion. "But come on, Doro,--we are missing all the fun. I did think I heard the mob at our door." Without further leave or license Tavia dragged Dorothy from her work and closed the door of Number Nineteen behind her. In the hall they found Rose-Mary, whom the girls called "Cologne," Amy Brook, Nita Brant, and Lena Berg. All were trying to talk at once, each had "the very most delicious vacation" to tell about, and to Dorothy it appeared the first requisite for boarding school ways was the coining of absurd and meaningless phrases. Tavia fell right into line, and could discount anyone of the crowd. "Splendifiorous, glorioutious and scrambunctious," were plainly hard to beat, and no one seemed willing to try. Cologne had a way of saying things in a jerky little jump that suggested bumping noses, Amy Brook fairly strangled with dashes and other unexpected shorts stops, while Nita Brant "wallowed" in such exclamations as: "Fine and dandy! Perfectly sugary! Too killingly, dear, for anything!" It was Cologne who declared Nita "wallowed" in slang, because the Nicks had decided that no ready-made slang should be used at meetings, and Nita persisted in ignoring the rule. Each new term brought the season's current phrases back in the custody of the sandy-haired Nita and now, on the first night, her companions took precious good care to remind her of the transgression. Altogether Dorothy found it difficult to keep track of anything like conversation, and was forced to say "yes" and "no" on suspicion. Tavia had better luck, Edna Black (christened Ebony Ned) took her in charge at once, and the two (Ned had already established her reputation as a black sheep), dashed off down the corridor, bursting in on unsuspecting "Babes" (newcomers), and managing, somehow or other, to upset half-emptied trunk trays, and do damage generally. "Hello! Hello!" came a shout from the first turn or senior row. "Come, somebody, and fan me!" "That's 'Dick,'" Ned told Tavia. "Molly Richards, but we call her Dick. By the way, what shall we call you? What is your full name? The very whole of it?" "Octavia Travers! Birthday is within the octave of Christmas," declared the Dalton girl impressively. "Oct or Ouch! That sounds too much like Auch du lieber Augustine, or like a cut finger," studied Edna. "Better take yours from Christmas--Chrissy sounds cute." "Yes, especially since I have lately had my hair cut Christy--after our friend Columbus," agreed Tavia, tossing back her new set of tangles. "I was in a railroad accident, you know, and lost my long hair. I had the time of my life getting it cut off properly, in a real barber shop. Dorothy's cousins, two of the nicest boys, were with us--Dorothy went too. It was such fun." "All right, it shall be Chrissy then," decided Edna. "It's funny we always turn a girl's name into a boy's name when we can. Let's go and see Dick," and at this she dragged Tavia out of the corner of the hall where they had taken refuge from a girl who was threatening them for upsetting all her ribbons and laces. "Oh, there you are, Ned Ebony," greeted Molly as the two bolted into her room. "Where's everybody. I haven't seen Fiddle yet." "Viola Green?" asked Tavia. "Funny I should have thought of that name for her." "You knew she plays the fiddle adorably." "No, but I knew she had been named after her grandfather's violin. What a queer notion." "Queer girl, too," remarked Molly, "but a power in her way. Did she come up yet?" "On our train," said Tavia, too prudent, for once in her life, to tell the whole story. "She is going to cut the Nicks," announced Edna. "She told me so first thing. Then she slammed her door and no one has caught a glimpse of her since." Tavia was fairly bursting with news at this point, but she had promised Dorothy not to interfere with Viola in any way and she wisely decided not to start in on such dangerous territory as Viola's visit to Dalton. So the matter was dropped, and the girls went forth for more fun. Dorothy had met Miss Higley, Mrs. Pangborn's assistant. She proved to be a little woman with glasses, the stems going all the way back of her ears. She seemed snappy, Dorothy thought, and gave all sorts of orders to the girls while pretending to become acquainted with Dorothy. "The crankiest crank," declared one girl, when the little woman had gone further down the hall with her objections. "But, really, we need a chief of police. Don't you think so?" "Isn't Mrs. Pangborn chief?" asked Dorothy. "Oh, she's president of the board of commissioners," replied Rose-Mary. "Miss Honorah Higley is the chief of all departments." "And Miss Crane?" inquired Dorothy. "I have met her." "Oh, she's all right," declared the informer. "Camille Crane is a dear--if the girls do call her Feathers." "I thought all that nick-name business was done in colleges," remarked Dorothy. "Every one here seems to have two names." "Couldn't possibly get along without them," declared Cologne. "I've been Cologne since my first day--what have they given you?" "I haven't heard yet," said Dorothy, smiling. "But I do hope they won't 'Dot' me. I hate dots." "Then make it Dashes or Specks, but you must not be Specks. We have one already." "Glad of it," returned Dorothy. "I don't like Specks either." "I guess we will make it 'D. D.' That's good, and means a whole lot of things. There," declared Cologne. "I've had the honor of being your sponsor. Now you must always stick by me. D. D. you are to be hereafter." "That will tickle Tavia," declared Dorothy. "She always said I was a born parson." "Better yet," exclaimed Cologne. "Be Parson. Now we've got it. The Little Parson," and away she flew to impart her intelligence to a waiting world of foolish schoolgirls. CHAPTER XIV THE INITIATION The first days at Glenwood revolved like a magic kaleidoscope--all bits of brilliant things, nothing tangible, and nothing seemingly important. Dorothy had made her usual good friends--Tavia her usual jolly chums. But Viola Green remained a mystery. She certainly had avoided speaking to Dorothy, and had not even taken the trouble to avoid Tavia--she "cut her dead." Edna tried to persuade Tavia that "Fiddle" was a privileged character, and that the seeming slights were not fully intended; but Tavia knew better. "She may be as odd as she likes," insisted the matter of fact girl from Dalton, "but she must not expect me to smile at her ugliness--it is nothing else--pure ugliness." Dorothy had sought out Viola, but it was now plain that the girl purposely avoided her. "Perhaps she is worrying about her mother, poor dear," thought the sympathetic Dorothy. "I must insist on cheering her up. A nice walk through these lovely grounds ought to brighten her. And the leaves on these hills are perfectly glorious. I must ask her to go with me on my morning walk. I'll go to her room to-night after tea--during recreation. I have not seen her out a single morning yet." So Dorothy mused, and so she acted according to the logical result of that musing. At recreation time that evening Dorothy tapped gently on the door of Number Twelve. The door was slightly ajar, and Dorothy could hear the sounds of papers being hastily gathered up. Then Viola came to the entrance. "May I come in?" asked Dorothy, surprised that Viola should have made the question necessary. "Oh, I am so busy--but of course--Did you want to see me?" and there was no invitation in the voice or manner. "Just for a moment," faltered Dorothy, determined not to be turned away without a hearing. Viola reluctantly opened the door. Then she stepped aside without offering a chair. "I have been worried about you," began Dorothy, rather miserably. "Are you ill, Viola?" "111? Why not at all. Can't a girl attend to her studies without exciting criticism?" Dorothy's face burned. "Oh, of course. But I did not see you out at all--" "Next time I leave my room I'll send the Nicks word," snapped Viola. "Then they may appoint a committee to see me out!" Dorothy was stung by this. She had expected that Viola would resent the interference--try to keep to her chosen solitude--but the rudeness was a surprise. "But you are getting pale, Viola," she ventured. "Couldn't you possibly take your exercise with me to-morrow? I would so like to have you. The walk over the mountains is perfectly splendid now." "Thank you," and Viola's black eyes again looked out of their depths with that strange foreign keenness. "But I prefer to walk alone." Dorothy was certain a tear glistened in Viola's eye. "Alone!" repeated the visitor. "Viola, dear, if you would only let me be your friend--" "Dorothy Dale!" and the girl's eyes flashed in anger. "I will have none of your preaching. You came here to pry into my affairs just as you did on the train, when you made me tell all about my dear, darling mother's illness, before those giggling girls. Yes, you need not play innocent. I know the kind of girl you are. 'Sugar coated!' But you may take your sympathy where strangers will be fooled by it. Try it on some of the Babes. But you must never again attempt to meddle in my affairs. If you do I'll tell Miss Higley. So there! Are you satisfied now?" Dorothy was stunned. Was this flaming, flashing girl the same that had smiled upon her when the sick mother was present? What was that strange unnatural gleam in the black eyes? Anger or jealousy? "I am sorry," faltered Dorothy; then she turned and left the room. One hour later Tavia found Dorothy buried in her pillows. Tears would still come to her eyes, although she had struggled bravely to suppress them. "Doro!" exclaimed her friend in surprise. "Are you homesick?" "No," sobbed the miserable girl. "It isn't exactly homesick--." Then the thought came to her that she should not implicate Viola, she had promised to save her from further suffering. Surely she had enough with the sick mother. "Then what is it?" demanded Tavia. "Oh, I don't know, Tavia," and she tried again to check her tears, "but I just had to cry." "Nervous," concluded the Dalton girl. "Well, we must cure that. You know we are to be initiated this evening. Aren't you scared?" "Oh, yes," and Dorothy sat upright. "I quite forgot. Do we join the Nicks?" "Unless you prefer the Pills. They are the stiffest set--not a bit like our crowd. And the way they talk! A cross between a brogue and Tom Burbank. 'I came hawf way uptown before I could signal a car-r'," rolled out Tavia, mocking the long A's, and rolled R's of the New England girl. "How's that for English? I call it brogue." "It does sound queer, but they tell me it is the correct pronunciation," Dorothy managed to say, while working diligently with her handkerchief on her eyes and cheeks. "Then, as in all things else," declared Tavia, "I am thankful not to be orthodox--I should get tonsilitis if I ever tried anything like that." "Where is the meeting to be held?" asked Dorothy. "Don't know--we must not know anything. Ned says it will be easy. Dick is the guide, and I know Cologne has something to do with it. I do hope you won't be sad-eyed, Doro." "You can depend upon me to do Dalton justice," declared the girl on the bed. "I'm anxious to see what they will do to us. No hazing, I hope." "In this Sunday school? Mercy no! No such luck. They will probably make us recite psalms," asserted the irreverent Tavia. "But being Parson that would be appropriate for me," Dorothy declared. "And for a Chris! That would be all right also," added Tavia. "Well, I know one or two." "There is someone coming to call us," and Dorothy jumped to her feet. "I must bathe my stupid eyes." A half hour later the meeting was called. It was held in a little recreation room on the third floor. To this spot the candidates were led blindfolded. Within the room the shuffling of feet could be heard, then a weird voice said in a muffled tone: "Hear ye! Honored Nicks! Let their scales fall!" At the word the bandages were dropped from the eyes of Dorothy and Tavia. A glimpse around the half-lighted room showed a company of masked faces and shrouded forms--sheets and white paper arrangements. On the window seat sat the Most High Nick--the promoter. At her feet was crouched the Chief Ranger. "Number one!" called the Ranger, and Dorothy was pressed forward. "Chase that thimble across the room with your nose," demanded the Ranger, placing a silver thimble at Dorothy's feet. Of course Dorothy laughed--all candidates do--at first. "Wipe your smile off," ordered the Promoter, and at this Dorothy was obliged to "wipe the smile" on the rather uncertain rug, by brushing her mouth into the very depths of the carpet. "Proceed!" commanded the Ranger, and Dorothy began the thimble chase. It is all very well for the "uppers" to laugh at the Babes, but it was no easy matter to get a thimble across a room by nose effort. Yet Dorothy was "game," her nominating committee declared in the course of time, and, between many pauses, chief of which was caused by the irrepressible smiles that had to be wiped off on all parts of the floor for every offense, Dorothy did get the thimble over to the corner. "Number two," called the Ranger, and Tavia took the floor. "The clock," indicated the Promoter, whereupon Tavia was confined in a small closet and made to do the "Cuckoo stunt." Each hour called was responded to by the corresponding "cuckoos," and the effect was ludicrous indeed. Every break in the call meant another trial, but finally Tavia got through the ordeal. Next Dorothy was called upon to make a speech--the subject assigned being "The Glory of the Nicks." An impromptu speech might be difficult to make under such circumstances had the subject been a word of four letters, like Snow, Love or even Hate, but to extemporize on the society which was giving her the third degree--Dorothy almost "flunked," it must be admitted. The final test was that of singing a lesson in mathematics to the tune of America, and the try that Tavia had at that broke every paper mask in the room--no, not every one, for over in the corner was a mask that never stirred, one that left the room before the candidates had been welcomed into the society of honorable Nicks. That mask went into room twelve. CHAPTER XV LOST ON MOUNT GABRIEL A full month of school life had passed at Glenwood. The beautiful autumn had come to tint the leafy New England hills, when Mrs. Pangborn announced that her classes might go on a little picnic to the top of Mount Gabriel. The day chosen proved to be of the ideal Indian summer variety, and when the crowd of happy students skipped away through the woods that led to the mount, there seemed nothing to be wished for. Miss Crane had been sent in charge, and as Edna said, that meant just one more girl to make sport. As usual Viola did not join the merry-makers. She had the continuous excuse of her mother's illness, which had really been a matter of great worry to her, as Mrs. Pangborn, if no other at the school, knew to be true. "It's as warm as August," declared Nita Brant, scaling a darling little baby maple and robbing it of its most cherished pink leaves. "Oh, Nita," sighed Tavia, "couldn't you take some other tree? That poor little thing never wore a pink dress before in all its young life!" "Too young to wear pink," declared the gay Nita, affecting the brilliant leaves herself. "I just love baby leaves," and she planted the wreath on her fair brow. This started the wreath brigade, which soon terminated in every one of the picnickers being adorned with a crown of autumn foliage. At the foot of the mountain the girls made an effort to procure mountain sticks, but this was not an easy matter, and much time was taken up in the search for appropriate staffs. Those strong enough were invariably too hard to break, and those that could be procured were always too "splintery." But the matter was finally disposed of, and the procession started up the mountain. It was growing late in the afternoon, the pilgrimage not having been taken up until after the morning session, and when the top of the mountain was finally reached, Miss Crane told her charges that they might scurry about and get such specimen of leaves or stones as they wished to bring back, as they would only remain there a short time. The air was very heavy by this time, and the distant roll of thunder could be heard, but the gay girls never dreamed of a storm on that late October afternoon as they ran wildly about gathering bits of every procurable thing from moss to crystal rocks. Tavia wanted Jacks-in-the-pulpit, and sought diligently for them, getting away from all but Dorothy in her anxiety to find her home flower. She dearly loved Jacks--they grew just against the Dale wall in dear old Dalton, and she wanted to send one flower home to little Johnnie. It would be crushed in a letter of course, but she would put some dainty little ferns beside it and they would keep the lazy look. Then she could tell Johnnie all about the mountain top--send him some bright red maple leaves, and some yellow ones. "Oh, Dorothy!" she exclaimed. "I see some almost-purple leaves," and down the side of a ledge she slipped. "Come on! The footing is perfectly safe." Dorothy saw that the place was apparently safe, and she made her way eagerly after Tavia. Dorothy, too, wanted to send specimens home from Mount Gabriel, so she, too, must try to get the prettiest ones that grew there. The roll of thunder was now heard by the pair but it was not heeded. Bit by bit they made their way along the newly-discovered slope; step by step they went farther away from their companions. Suddenly a flash of lightning shot down a tree! The next minute there was a downpour of rain, like the dashing of a cloud burst. "Oh!" screamed Dorothy. "What shall we do?" [Illustration: "OH! WHAT SHALL WE DO?" CRIED DOROTHY--_Page 155.] "Get under the cliff!" ordered Tavia. "Quick! Before the next flash!" Grasping wildly at stumps and brush, as they made their way down the now gloomy slope, the two frightened girls managed to get under some protection--where trees, overhanging the rocks, formed a sort of roof to a very narrow strip of ground. "Oh! What shall we do?" cried Dorothy again. "We can never make our way back to the others." "But we must," declared Tavia. "I'm sure we cannot stay here long. Isn't it a dreadful storm?" Flash upon flash, and roar upon roar tumbled over the mountain with that strange rumble peculiar to hills and hollows. Then the rain-- It seemed as if the storm came to the mountain first and lost half the drops before getting farther down. It did pour with a vengeance. Several times Tavia ventured to poke her head out to make weather observations, but each time she was driven unceremoniously back into shelter. "It must be late!" sighed Dorothy. "That it must!" agreed her companion, "and we have got to get out of here soon. Rain or no rain, we can't stay here all night. The thunder and lightning is not so bad now. Come on! Let's go!" Timidly the two girls crept out. But the rain had washed their path away and they could barely take a step where so short a time before they seemed to walk in safety. "Don't give up!" Tavia urged Dorothy. "We must get to the top." But the stones would slide away and the young trees, loosed by the heavy rain, would pull up at the roots. "Try this way," suggested Tavia, taking another line from that which the girls knew ran to the mountain top. This proved to be safer in footing at least. The rocks did not fall with such force, and the trees were stronger to hold on to. But where was that path taking them? Both girls shouted continually, hoping to make the others hear, but no welcome answer came back to them. Then they realized the truth. They were lost! Night was coming, and such a night! On a mountain top, in a thunder storm, with darkness falling! The girls never knew just what they did in that awful hour, but it seemed afterwards that a whole lifetime had been lost with them in that storm. So far from every one on earth! Not even a bird to break that dreadful black solitude! And the others? The storm, violent as it was, did not deter them from searching for Dorothy and Tavia. Miss Crane had shouted her throat powerless, and the others had not been less active. But by the strange circumstances that always lead the lost from their seekers, both parties had followed different directions, and at last, as night came on, Miss Crane was obliged to lead her weeping charges down Mount Gabriel and leave the two lost ones behind. CHAPTER XVI WHAT VIOLA DID "When we get to the top we will surely be able to see our way down," declared Tavia. "So let us keep right on, even though this is not the path we came up." "But the others will not find us this way," sighed Dorothy, "and isn't it getting dark!" "Never mind. There must be some way of getting out of the woods. No mountains for mine. Good flat _terra firma_ is good enough for Chrissy." Dorothy tried to be cheerful--there were no bears surely on these peaks, and perhaps no tramps--what would they be doing up there? "Now!" cried Tavia, "I see a way down! Keep right close to me and you will be all right! Yes, and I see a light! There's a hut at this end of the mountain." To say that the lost Glenwood girls slid down the steep hill would hardly express the kind of speed that they indulged in--they went over the ground like human kangaroos, and made such good time that the light, seen by Tavia, actually stood before them now, in a little house against the hill. Two ferocious dogs greeted their coming--but Tavia managed to coax them into submission, and presently a woman peered out of a dingy window and demanded to know what was wanted. She seemed a coarse creature and the place was such a hovel that the girls were sorry they had come. "Don't answer her," cautioned Dorothy quickly. "Let's make our way to the road." Tavia saw that this would be safest, although she was not sure the woman would allow them to pass unquestioned past her stone fence. But with a dash they did reach the highway and had made tracks along through the muddy narrow wagon road before the woman, who was now calling after them, could do anything more disagreeable. The dogs followed them up for a few paces, and then turned back while the woman continued to shout in tones that struck terror into the hearts of the miserable girls. "We may be running away from Glenwood!" ventured Tavia, spattering along, "but this road surely goes to some place--if we can only get there." "Oh, I'm so out of breath," panted Dorothy. "We can walk now. The woman has ceased shouting." "Wasn't it dreadful!" exclaimed Tavia. "I was just scared stiff!" "We do get into such awful predicaments," mused Dorothy. "But I suppose the others are almost as frightened as we are now,--I was dreadfully afraid when the woman shouted to us." "Wasn't she a scarecrow? Just like an old witch in a story book. Listen! I thought I heard the girls!" "Hark!" echoed Dorothy. "I am sure that was Edna's yoddle. Answer it!" At the top of her voice Tavia shouted the familiar call. Then she listened again. "Yes," declared Dorothy, "that's surely Ned. Oh, do let's run! They might turn off on another road! This place seems to be all turns." When the welcome sounds of that call were heard by both parties little time was lost in reaching the lost ones. What had seemed to be nightfall was really only the blackness of the storm, and now, on the turnpike, a golden light shot through the trees, and wrapt its glory about the happy girls, who tried all at once to embrace the two who had gone through such a reign of terror. "Hurry! Hurry!" called Miss Crane, skipping along like a schoolgirl herself. To tell the story of their adventures, the Dalton girls marched in the center of the middle row--everyone wanted to hear, and everyone wanted to be just as near as possible to Tavia and Dorothy. Taking refuge under the cliff seemed exciting enough, but when Dorothy told how they had lost the trail to the mountain top, and how all the footing slipped down as they tried to make the ascent, the girls were spell-bound. Then to hear Tavia describe, in her own inimitable way, the call of "the witch"--made some shout, ad the entire party ran along as if the same "witch" was at their heels. When the report was made to Mrs. Pangborn, that dignified lady looked very seriously at Dorothy and Tavia. Miss Crane had explained the entire affair, making it clear that the girls became separated from the others by the merest accident, and that the storm did the rest. "But you must remember, my dears," said Mrs. Pangborn kindly, "that, as boarding school girls, you should always keep near to the teacher in charge even when taking walks across the country. It is not at all safe to wander about as you would at home. Nor can a girl depend upon her own judgment in asking strangers to direct her. Sometimes thoughtless boys delight in sending the girls out of their way. I am glad the affair has ended without further trouble. You must have suffered when you found you really could not reach your companions. Let it be a lesson to all of you." "Oh, if Miss Higley had been in charge," whispered Edna, when the girls rehearsed their interview with Mrs. Pangborn. "You would not have gotten off so easily. She would have said you ran away from us." So the days at Glenwood gently lapped over the quiet nights, until week after week marked events of more or less importance in the lives of those who had given themselves to what learning may be obtained from books; what influence may be gained from close companionship with those who might serve as models; and what fun might be smuggled in between the lines, always against the rules, but never in actual defiance of a single principle of the old New England institution. "Just the by-laws," the girls would declare. "We can always suspend them, as long as we do not touch the constitution." This meant, of course, that innocent, harmless fun was always permissible when no one suffered by the pranks, and no damage was done to property or character. Rose-Mary Markin had become Dorothy's intimate friend. She was what is termed an all-round girl, both cultured and broad minded, a rare combination of character to find in a girl still in a preparatory school. She was as quick as a flash to detect deceit and yet gentle as one of the Babes in settling all matters where there was a question of actual intention. The benefit of the doubt was her maxim, and, as president of the Glenwood Club, the membership of which included girls from all the ranks, there was plenty of opportunity for Rose-Mary to exercise her benificence. Viola Green had, as promised, resigned from office in the Nicks, and what was more she had organized a society in direct opposition to its principles. All the girls who had not done well in the old club readily fell in with the promises of the new order, and soon Viola had a distinct following--the girls with grievances against Rose-Mary, imagined or otherwise. Molly Richards kept her "eye pealed for bombs," she told Dorothy, and declared the "rebs" would be heard from sooner or later in the midst of smokeless powder. "It's a conspiracy against someone," announced Molly to Rose-Mary one evening. "I heard them hatching the plot and--well I wouldn't like to be unfair, but that Viola does hate Dorothy." "She can never hurt Dorothy Dale," answered the upright president of the Glenwood Club. "She is beyond all that sort of thing." But little did she know how Viola Green could hurt Dorothy Dale. Less did she think how serious could be the "hurt" inflicted. The mid-year examinations had passed off, and the Dalton girls held their own through the auspicious event. Dorothy showed a splendid fundamental education; that which fits a girl for clear study in subsequent undertakings, and that which is so often the result of the good solid training given in country schools where methods are not continually changing. Tavia surprised herself with getting through better than she had hoped, and credited her good luck to some plain facts picked up in the dear old Dalton schoolroom. But a letter from home disturbed Tavia's pleasant Glenwood life--her father wrote of the illness of Mrs. Travers and said it was necessary that their daughter should come home. For a few weeks only, the missive read, just while the mother had time to rest up and recover her strength--the illness was nothing of a serious nature. It did not seem possible that Tavia was packed and gone and that Dorothy was left in the school. A sense of this loneliness almost overpowered Dorothy when she realized that her sister-friend was gone--and the little bed across her room all smooth and unruffled by the careless, jolly girl who tried to make life a joke and did her best to make others share the same opinion. It was Rose-Mary who came to cheer Dorothy in the loss of Tavia. She sat with her evenings until the very last minute, and more than once was caught in the dark halls, the lights having been turned out before the girl could reach her own quarters. Rose-Mary and Dorothy had similar fancies. Both naturally refined, they found many things to interest them--things that most of the girls would not have bothered their pretty heads about. So their friendship grew stronger and their hearts became attuned, each to the other's rhythm, until Dorothy and Rose-Mary were the closest kind of friends. Mrs. Pangborn had decided upon a play for mid-year. It would be a sort of trial for the big event which always marked the term's close at Glenwood and the characters would embrace students from all departments. The play was called Lalia, and was the story of a pilgrim on her way, intercepted by a Queen of Virtue and again sought out by the Queen of Pleasure. The pilgrim is lost in the woods of doubt, and finally brought to the haven of happiness by the Virtuous Queen Celesta. This Pilgrim's Progress required many characters for the queen's retinues, besides the stars, of course, and the lesser parts. Dorothy was chosen for Lalia--the best character. The part had been assigned by vote, and Dorothy's splendid golden hair, coupled with that "angelic face," according to her admirers, won the part for her. Rose-Mary Markin was made Celesta, the Queen of Virtue: and Viola Green, because of her dark complexion, being opposite that of Celesta, was elected to be Frivolita, the Queen of Pleasure. Each queen was allowed to select her own retinue--a delicious task, said the ones most interested. Mrs. Pangborn made a neat little speech at the Glenwood meeting where these details were decided upon, and in it referred to the lesson of the story, incidentally hinting that some of the pupils had lately taken it upon themselves to do things not in strict accord with the history of her school--the forming of a society, for instance, without the consent or knowledge of any of the faculty. This secret doing, she said, could not continue. Either the girls should come to her and make known the object of their club, or this club could no longer hold meetings. This came like a thunderbolt from a clear sky--and by some Dorothy was promptly accused of tale bearing. But in spite of it all another secret meeting was held and at it the "Rebs," as they actually called themselves, declared open rebellion. They would not submit to such tyranny, and, further, they would not take part in any play in which Dorothy Dale held an important part. It was then the bomb was thrown by Viola, the bomb that she carried all the way from Dalton, and had kept waiting for a chance to set it off--until now--the hour of seeming triumph for Dorothy. "I'll tell you the positive truth, girls," Viola began, first being sure that no one but those in the "club" were within reach of her voice, "I saw, with my own eyes, that girl, who pretends to be so good and who goes around with a text on her simpering smile--I saw her get out of a police patrol wagon!" "Oh!" gasped the girls. "You really didn't." "I most positively did. Indeed!" sneered the informer, "every one in Dalton knows it. Tavia Travers was in the same scrape, and in the same wagon. It was after that affair that they made up their minds, in a hurry, to get out of their home town and come to Glenwood!" CHAPTER XVII THE STRIKE OF THE REBS One miserable day Dorothy found all her friends, at least those who had claimed to be her friends, suddenly lost to her. Those who were not openly rude enough to deliberately turn their backs upon the astonished girl, made some pretense of avoiding conversation with her. It all came so unexpectedly, and without any apparent explanation, that Dorothy was stunned--even the effervescent Edna only gave her a measured smile and walked down the hall to the study room without breaking her silence. The day wore on like a dream of awful fancies that try to choke but withhold even such a mercy as a final stroke. What had she done? Where was Rose-Mary? And why would not someone come and accuse her outright, that she might at least know the charge against her--a charge serious enough to spread in one day throughout Glenwood school! Evening fell, but even then Rose-Mary did not come to Dorothy's room. On the following day there was to be a rehearsal for the play, and how could Lalia repeat her lines? How could Dorothy pretend to be the happy little pilgrim who starts alone on the uncertain path of life? Mrs. Pangborn was ready in the recreation hall, some of the others were there discussing their characters and other things. The hour for the rehearsal came, and with it appeared some twenty girls, among them, but not their leader (so it seemed) being Viola Green. They approached Mrs. Pangborn and then Adele Thomas spoke. "Mrs. Pangborn," she began with flushed cheeks, "we have come to say that we cannot take part in the play unless another girl is selected for the character of Lalia." "Why!" demanded the astonished principal. "What does this mean!" and she too flushed at the very idea of her pupils' insurrection. "Because--" faltered the spokeswoman, "we do not like her. She has pretended to be what she is not, and never will be." This was a bold speech. Dorothy Dale paled to the lips. "Hush this instant!" ordered the surprised Mrs. Pangborn. "Let no one dare make such an assertion. If anything is wrong my office is the place to settle it. Leave the hall instantly. I shall send for you when I desire to make an investigation." Mrs. Pangborn placed her hand tenderly on Dorothy's shoulder as she passed out. "Do not worry, dear," she whispered. "This is some nonsense those girls with the new club idea have originated. It will be all right." But Dorothy flew to her room and alone she cried--cried as if her heart would break! If only Tavia had not left her! If Rose-Mary would only come to her! Where was Rose-Mary? She had not even appeared at class that day. But, after all, what did it matter? Perhaps she too--no, Dorothy could not believe that. Rose-Mary would never condemn her unheard. How long Dorothy lay there sobbing out her grief on the little white bed, she did not know. Dusk came and the supper hour, but she made no attempt to leave the room. A maid had been sent to her with some toast and tea, and a line from dear Miss Crane, but Dorothy was utterly unable to do more than murmur a word of thanks to be repeated to the thoughtful teacher. When it grew so dark that the window shadows no longer tried to cheer her with their antics, Dorothy was startled by a sudden tap at her door, and, the next moment, Rose-Mary had her in her warm, loving arms. [Illustration: THE NEXT MOMENT, ROSE-MARY HAD HER IN HER WARM, LOVING ARMS--_Page_ 172] "What is it?" demanded the older girl at once. "Tell me about it. What have they said to you?" "Oh, Rose-Mary," sobbed Dorothy, bursting into fresh tears, "why did you leave me all alone?" "Why, I did not leave you! I had to go into Rainsville early this morning, and have just this very minute gotten back. Mrs. Pangborn knew I would be late and sent James with the cart to meet me." "Oh, I did not know you were out of school," and the explanation afforded Dorothy at least one ray of relief. "Didn't Nita tell you? I asked her to do so at study hour." "Not a girl has spoken to me all day!" declared the weeping one. "Oh, Rose-Mary, what do you think it is all about?" "I cannot find out. They seem determined not to let me know. I thought you could tell me." "I haven't the slightest idea. If only Ned or Dick would tell you then I might have a chance--" "I'll never sleep until I find out!" declared Rose-Mary. "The idea!" and her brown eyes flashed indignantly. "I never heard of such a thing! You poor little dear!" and she held Dorothy to her in an unmistakable embrace. "If Tavia were here--" "Yes, she would settle it soon enough--with her fists if necessary. And I do believe that such work deserves just such treatment. But I will do all I can for you, and perhaps our vengeance will be just as sure if not so swift!" "It seems strange that all the girls should take the same view of it," reflected Dorothy. "I should think some of them would speak to me about it." "No good to try guessing at such a thing," said Rose-Mary, wisely. "And now do eat up that toast. Who sent it?" "Miss Crane." "The dear! I hold Camille Crane the guardian angel of Glenwood. But eat her toast. There, take this sip of tea, or shall I light the lamp under it?" "I like it cold," said Dorothy, whose lips were quite feverish. "I will take the toast--I feel so much better since I have you back." "But if I am to see Dick and Ned I must be about it," spoke Rose-Mary, consulting her watch. "Just go to sleep and don't worry a single bit. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow," and, with a hearty kiss, the sweet girl was gone. As if events conspired to keep Dorothy worrying, it was announced the next morning that Mrs. Pangborn had been called to Boston and this meant, of course, that the investigation would have to wait for her return. Neither was Rose-Mary successful in gaining the desired information. Molly had not heard all about it, neither had Edna, so they said, but they did admit they had promised not to tell either Rose or Dorothy, for that would mean trouble for the tale bearer. "It's something about Dalton," said Edna, really anxious to tell Rose, but feeling she must keep her promise, as the matter had assumed such an importance. Molly declared that Amy Grant had told her it was about Dorothy and Tavia being in some awful scrape and that they had been arrested for it. This seemed so ridiculous that Rose-Mary did not for a moment credit it with being the story that caused the trouble. She would not insult Dorothy with a hint of that silly gossip, and, if those girls were foolish enough, she decided, to believe in any such nonsense, why, let them go right on, they must learn their own lesson. So it happened that Dorothy did not get the hint--that which would have been enough to afford her the opportunity of making an explanation. But Edna did speak pleasantly to her after Rose-Mary's talk, and Molly actually apologized. Mrs. Pangborn had been away two days, then a week had passed since the promise of an investigation, and Mrs. Pangborn was not at school yet. The girls in Viola's club (they still regarded themselves as being in it, although the forbidden meetings were suspended), left Rose-Mary, Dorothy, Molly and Edna entirely to themselves. "Dick" and "Ned" were charged with telling the story to Rose-Mary, although they stoutly denied the allegation. But Adele Thomas suspected them, they had always been such friends of the Dalton girls, it seemed best to the "Rebs" to keep them out of further affairs of the kind--they should hear no more of the secrets against the despised Dorothy. Even the play was at a standstill, nothing but lessons and sadness seemed Dorothy's share at Glenwood now. If only Mrs. Pangborn would come and give her a chance to speak for herself, she would write home immediately and ask to go back to her dear "daddy," to thoughtful, brave little Joe, and to dear, darling, baby Roger. Yes, and Aunt Libby would love her so--it would be so good to have all love again! And they were all at North Birchland, with Aunt Winnie. Every letter brought good news of the happy home established there since Dorothy left for Glenwood. "I will ask to go home next week," sobbed Dorothy, "whether Mrs. Pangborn comes back or not. I simply cannot stand this--I feel like--Oh, I feel like I did when I stepped out of that awful police patrol." CHAPTER XVIII DOROTHY'S SACRIFICE The day had been unusually tiresome, all the little spots of jollity, club meetings, evening fudge parties and the like having suddenly been abandoned, and Dorothy, with Rose-Mary, was trying to find comfort in watching a winter sunset. "Did you know Mrs. Pangborn had come back?" asked Rose, burying her chin in her palms, and dropping into a reclining attitude. "No," said Dorothy, simply, still watching the floating clouds. "Yes, and I overheard a maid ask Viola Green to go to the office after tea." "Viola?" echoed Dorothy abstractedly. "Of course you know it is she who made all this fuss, and I'm right glad she has been called to give an explanation at last." "I have not been able to get the least hint of what it was all about," mused Dorothy. "I had a letter from Tavia to-day, and I'm afraid she cannot come back this term. My last lingering hope went out when I read that. Tavia would be sure to dig it out someway." Rose-Mary thought how foolish had been the talk she had "dug out," and smiled when she imagined Tavia at work at such nonsense. But she would not pain Dorothy with the thought of that talk--too silly and too unkind to bother her with,--decided Rose, so that then, as well as on other occasions when the opportunity came to her to mention the arrest story, she let it pass. "Let's go see Dick," suggested Rose, "we'll find Ned there and perhaps we may manage some fun. I'm positively getting musty." "You go," said Dorothy, just as Rose had expected, "I'll do my exercises--I'm pages behind." "Not without you," argued the other, "I have lots I ought to do, but I'm going to cut it for this night. Come along," and she took Dorothy's arm. "I'm dying to hear Ned sing a coon song." But they found number twenty-three vacant. Edna was out, so was Molly, in fact everybody seemed to be out, for knots of girls talked in every corner of the halls and always stopped speaking when Dorothy and Rose came up to them. "It's the investigation!" whispered Rose. "They are waiting for Viola; did you ever see such a crowd of magpies." "I'm going in," said Dorothy, nervously. "I can't bear the way they look at me." "All right," assented Rose, "I'll see you home since I dragged you out. And I'll promise to make known to you the words of the very first bulletin. Sorry to be so cruel, but I cannot find any sympathy in my heart for Viola Green." "Oh, indeed I can," spoke up the kind-hearted Dorothy. "She has so much worry about her mother. And perhaps she inherits some peculiar trait--" "Bottle Green, I suppose. Well, you can pity her if you like, but I will save mine until I know why." So Rose-Mary kissed Dorothy good-night--she had done so regularly of late, and the two friends parted. For some time the hum of voices could be heard in the corridor outside Dorothy's door, then the lights were turned out and everything seemed as usual. But in room twelve Viola Green was struggling--struggling with a weighty problem. What Mrs. Pangborn had said to her that evening in the office meant for Viola dismissal from school, unless--unless-- Viola was thinking of a plan. Surely she could make Dorothy agree to it, Dorothy was so easy to manage, so easy to influence. In room nineteen Dorothy had not yet gone to her bed. She felt nervous and restless. Then too, she had fully decided to leave Glenwood and she had to think over what that meant for her, for her father and for Aunt Winnie. What explanation could she make? She had never been a coward, why could she not face this thing and show everybody that she deserved no blame? Surely Major Dale's Little Captain should display better courage than to let a crowd of foolish schoolgirls drive her from Glenwood! Dorothy was thinking over the whole miserable affair when a timid knock came to her door. It was too late for any of the girls--perhaps it was Mrs. Pangborn! Dorothy opened the door promptly. Viola Green stood before her--in a nightrobe, with her thick black hair falling about her like a pall. "Viola!" whispered Dorothy, as kindly and quietly as if that girl had not stood between her and happiness. "Oh, let me come in," begged the black-eyed girl in a wretched voice. "Quick! Some one may see me!" "What is it?" asked Dorothy, making a chair ready and then turning up the light. "Oh, please don't turn that up," begged the visitor. "I can't stand it! Dorothy, I feel as if I should die!" Dorothy had felt that way herself a moment ago, but now there was someone else to look after; now she must not think of herself. How different it was with Viola! The ability to act is often a wonderful advantage. Viola made excellent use of her talent now. "Dorothy," she began, "I have come to ask a great favor of you. And I do not know how to begin." She buried her face in her hands and left the other to draw out the interview as she might choose to. It was gaining time to lose it in that way. "Is it about your mother?" asked the unsuspecting Dorothy. "Yes, it is," wailed Viola. "It is really about her, although I am in it too." "Is she worse?" "Dreadfully bad"--and in this Viola did not deceive--. "I had a letter to-day--But Oh! Dorothy, promise you will help me!" "I certainly will if I can!" declared Dorothy, warmly, quite anxious about Viola's grief. "Oh, you can--and you are the only one who can! But how will I ask you?" and again Viola buried her white face in her equally white hands. "Tell me what it is," said Dorothy, gently. "Oh, you know that foolish story about the Dalton police wagon--" "What about it?" asked Dorothy, perplexed. "Oh, that nonsense about you and Tavia riding in it," and Viola tried to pass off the "nonsense" without allowing Dorothy time to realize just what she had to say. "Well, what of that?" asked Dorothy again. Would she ever grasp it? Viola was almost impatient, but of course she dare not show such a sentiment. "Why, you know I told it to a couple of girls just for fun one day, and they took it up in earnest. The silly things!--and then to make all this trouble over it!" "What trouble could that have possibly made?" and Dorothy seemed as much in the dark as ever. Could it be that Dorothy had lived it all down and did not now consider it trouble? Viola's heart gave a jump for joy at the thought. It might after all be easier than she expected. "I am so glad they have not said anything to you about it. I have been dreadfully worried over it," went on Viola with a sigh. "I am sorry, I hope you haven't been worrying on my account." "Well, I was. You did seem so sad--but I should have known you had better sense." "I have been and am still very sad at Glenwood. In fact, I have almost made up my mind to leave." "When?" gasped Viola. Then to hide the joy that Dorothy's words brought her, she continued, "Do you have to go? Is someone ill?" "No, not at home. But I am afraid I'll be ill if I do not stop this worrying," and Dorothy indeed looked very pale and miserable. Even Viola could not help noticing that. "I wouldn't blame you," spoke Viola. "It's dreadful to be homesick." "But I am not homesick," replied Dorothy. "I would not allow that feeling to conquer me when I know what it meant for father to let me come here. I must make good use of my time, and not be foolish. But no matter how I try to be happy, it seems useless. And I know I am not strong enough to keep that up. So," and Dorothy sighed heavily, leaning her head against the blanket that covered the foot of her bed, "I feel I must go away!" Tears rolled down her cheeks. She loved Glenwood and could not bear the thought of leaving the school which had been so pleasant before Tavia went, and before that awful afternoon in the hall. "What I really wanted to ask you, Dorothy, is about that story." "What story?" "You are not listening to me, Dorothy, and I am just as miserable as I can be. Do tell me you will do what I ask." "I certainly was listening, and I am sorry you are miserable. But what is it you want me to do?" Viola decided instantly upon a bold strike. She would make her demand and then follow it up so closely Dorothy would not know just what she was giving her promise to. "Mrs. Pangborn sent for me to-night, and gave me such a dreadful scolding, I just cried myself sick," said Viola, "and now when she sends for you, and asks you about that ride, I want you to promise you will not deny it!" "Certainly I shall not deny it! Why should I?" "Then, if she wants to know what it is all about, just don't give her any more information. Say you did ride in the patrol wagon and that I had not told a lie. She actually said she would dismiss me if--if you said I had told what was not true. And oh, Dorothy! You know that would kill mother! Just as sure as a shot from a gun would kill her, my dismissal from Glenwood would do it!" "But why should you be dismissed? If you only told the story in fun, and it has done no harm--" "Of course that's exactly the way to look at it. But I'm so afraid Mrs. Pangborn will take another view of it. Promise me, Dorothy! Oh, please promise me!" and Viola actually knelt before the girl on the bedside. "When Mrs. Pangborn asks for an explanation just say I told the truth, that you did ride in the police wagon. And then if she insists on hearing all the story make some excuse, but do not tell it! Oh! if you knew how worried I am! And how dreadful it would be if she took it into her head to dismiss me!" As Viola expected, she did bewilder Dorothy. Why should Viola weep and carry on so? But of course her mother was very delicate and perhaps it might get mixed up so that Viola would be blamed! As if anything could be more mixed than that story was at present! Dorothy arranging to leave school because she could not find out why her companions had taken a sudden dislike to her, and Viola there telling her why, and yet keeping the real truth as far from her as it had ever been hidden. "But why should I not tell Mrs. Pangborn about the ride if she asks me?" insisted Dorothy, trying to see what was hidden from her. "Because, don't you see, those girls may have made foolish remarks, and they will be blamed on me. Just because I was silly enough to believe they could see through a joke. And if you do not tell the story, there can be no further complications. It may be a little hard but, oh, Dorothy! do promise me!" and again Viola grasped both Dorothy's cold hands in hers. "I certainly would not do anything that would bring trouble on you," reflected Dorothy aloud, "especially if that might worry your poor, sick mother." "Oh, you darling! I knew you would promise. Now, no matter what Mrs. Pangborn says, promise you will not do more than admit you took the ride--be sure not to say why you took it!" Dorothy was not suspicious by nature, else she would have seen through the thin veil that hung between Viola and that word "promise." She was using it too frequently for good taste, but she wanted and insisted on getting a real, absolute Promise. "But it might be rude for me to refuse to tell why we were in the wagon, and at the same time to say we were in it." "Rude!" echoed Viola. "What small account that would be compared to my dismissal from school." Dorothy tried to think--just as Viola had planned, she was not able to reason it all out clearly--it was too complicated. The night was getting old, it was ten o'clock and every Glenwood girl was expected to be sleeping honestly, but these two were still far from reaching a satisfactory settlement of their difficulty. "One thing is certain, Viola," said Dorothy firmly, "I cannot and will not do anything that would seem disrespectful to Mrs. Pangborn. Not only is she a grand, sweet woman, a kind, just teacher, but she was my mother's friend and is still my father's friend. So that it would be impossible for me to do, or say, anything rude to her!" This was a declaration of principles at last. And Viola for the moment seemed beaten. But girls of her type have more than one loophole in such an emergency. "I had no idea of asking you to do anything unlady-like," she said with a show of indignation. "It was you who made use of that word. I merely asked that you would, if possible, not make known to Mrs. Pangborn the details of the story. Of course I was foolish to think you would care about their effect upon me, or my dying mother." Viola rose to leave. Tears were in her eyes and she did look forlorn. "I will do all I can to save you," Dorothy assured her, "and if I can avoid the story, without being impertinent, I promise to do so." "Oh, bless you, Dorothy Dale!" exclaimed the now truly miserable girl. "I am sure, then, that it will be all right. When you make a promise you know how to keep it!" and before Dorothy could say another word her visitor was gone. CHAPTER XIX THE TANGLED WEB What happened that night seemed like a dream to Dorothy. Accustomed to think of others and to forget herself, she pondered long and earnestly over the grief that Viola had shown. Surely there was some strange influence between mother and daughter. Dorothy remembered the looks akin to adoration that Mrs. Green continually gave her daughter that day in the train. Viola had certainly done an imprudent thing in telling the story, Dorothy had no idea it was more than imprudent; neither did she know how seriously that act had affected herself. Even now, as she tried to grasp the entire situation, it never occurred to her that this was the story that stood between her and the friendship of the Glenwood girls. For the time that unpleasant affair was almost forgotten--this new problem was enough to wrestle with. Early the next morning Mrs. Pangborn sent for Dorothy. The president's appearance immediately struck the girl as different; she was in mourning. "I hope you have not lost a dear friend," said Dorothy, impulsively, before Mrs. Pangborn had addressed her. "Yes, Dorothy," she replied, "I have--lost my father." There was no show of emotion, but the girl saw that no grief could be keener. "I am so sorry," said Dorothy. "Yes, my dear, I am sure you are. And your father knew him well. They were very old friends." "I have heard him speak of Mr. Stevens." "Yes, I suppose you have. Well, his troubles are over, I hope. But, Dorothy, I sent to ask you about that story some of the young ladies have been circulating about you. Of course it is all nonsense--" "What story have you reference to, Mrs. Pangborn?" "You must have heard it. That you and Octavia were seen getting out of a police patrol wagon in Dalton. It is absurd, of course." "But we did ride in a patrol wagon, Mrs. Pangborn," answered Dorothy, trying hard to keep Viola's tearful face before her mind, to guide her in her statements. "How foolish, child. It might have been a joke--Tell me about it!" "If you would excuse me, Mrs. Pangborn, and not think me rude, I would rather not," said Dorothy, her cheeks aflame. "Not tell me!" and the lady raised her eyebrows. "Why, Dorothy! Is there any good reason why you do not wish to tell me?" "Yes, I have made a promise. It may not be of much account, but, if you will excuse me, it would relieve me greatly not to go over it." Mrs. Pangborn did not answer at once. For a girl to admit she had ridden in a police van and for that girl to be Dorothy Dale! It seemed incredible. "Dorothy," she began, gravely, "whatever may be back of this, I am sure you have not been at fault--seriously at least. And since you prefer not to make me your confidant I cannot force you to do so. I am sorry. I had expected something different. The young ladies will scarcely make apologies to you under the circumstances." She made a motion as if to dismiss Dorothy. Plainly the head of Glenwood School could not be expected to plead with a pupil--certainly not to-day, when her new and poignant grief could not be hidden. "I shall say to the young ladies," said the teacher, finally, "that they are to show you all the respect they had shown you heretofore. That you have done nothing to be ashamed of--I am sure of this, although you make the matter so mysterious. I would like to have compelled the girl who spread this report to make amends, but I cannot do that. You do not deny her story." At that moment Dorothy saw, or at least guessed, what it all meant. That had been the story of her trouble! It was that which made the girls turn their backs on her--that which had almost broken her heart. And now she had put it out of her power to contradict their charges! Mrs. Pangborn had said "good morning," Dorothy was alone in the corridor. She had left the office and could not now turn back! Oh, why had she been so easily deceived? Why had Viola made her give that promise? Surely it must have been more than that! The story, to cause all the girls to shun her! And perhaps Mrs. Pangborn believed it all! No, she had refused to believe it. But what should Dorothy do now? Oh, what a wretched girl she was! How much it had cost her to lose Tavia! Tavia would have righted this wrong long ago. But now she stood alone! She could not even speak of leaving the school without strengthening the cruel suspicion, whatever it might be. What would she do? To whom would she turn? Heart-sick, and all but ill, Dorothy turned into her lonely little room. She would not attempt to go to classes that morning. CHAPTER XX SUSPICIONS "What did she say?" eagerly asked a knot of girls, as Viola Green made her appearance the morning after her interview with the head of Glenwood school. "Humph!" sniffed Viola, "what could she say?" "Did she send for Dorothy?" went on the curious ones. "I have just seen her step out of the office this minute and she couldn't see me. Her eyes wouldn't let her." "Then she didn't deny it!" spoke Amy Brook. "I could scarcely make myself believe that of her." "Ask her about it, then," suggested Viola, to whom the term brazen would seem, at that moment, to be most applicable. "Oh, excuse me," returned Amy. "I never wound where I can avoid it. The most polite way always turns out the most satisfactory." "And do you suppose she is going to leave school?" asked Nita Brant, timidly, as if afraid of her own voice in the matter. "She told me so last night," said Viola, meekly. "I don't blame her." "No," said a girl with deep blue eyes, and a baby chin, "I do not see how any girl could stand such cuts, and Dorothy seemed such a sweet girl." "Better go and hug her now," sneered Viola, "I fancy you will find her rolled up in bed, with her red nose, dying for air." "It is the strangest thing--" demurred Amy. "Not at all," insisted Viola, "all sweet girls have two sides to their characters. But I am sick of the whole thing. Let's drop it." "And take up Dorothy again?" eagerly asked Nita. "Oh, just as you like about that. If you want to associate with girls who ride in police wagons--" "Well, I do want to!" declared Nita, suddenly. "And I don't believe one word against Dorothy Dale. It must be some mistake. I will ask her about it myself." "If you wish to spare her you will do nothing of the kind," said Viola. "I tell you it is absolutely true. That she has just this minute admitted it to Mrs. Pangborn. Don't you think if it were a mistake I would have to correct it, when the thing has now been thoroughly investigated?" It was plain that many of the girls were apt to take Nita's view. They had given the thing a chance to develop, and they were satisfied now that a mistake had been made somewhere. Of course the clever turns made by Viola, kept "the ball rolling." "There's the bell!" announced Amy, reluctantly leaving the discussion unfinished. This was the signal for laying aside all topics other than those relative to the curriculum of Glenwood, and, as the girls filed into the chapel for prayers, more than one missed Dorothy, her first morning to absent herself from the exercise. Miss Higley was in charge, Mrs. Pangborn also being out of her accustomed place. Directly after the short devotions there was whispering. "Young ladies!" called the teacher, in a voice unusually severe, "you must attend strictly to your work. There has been enough lax discipline in Glenwood recently. I will have no more of it." "Humph!" sniffed Viola, aside, "since when did she buy the school!" Miss Higley's eyes were fastened upon her. But Viola's recent experiences had the effect of making her reckless--she felt quite immune to punishment now. "Attend to your work, Miss Green!" called Miss Higley. "Attend to your own," answered Viola under her breath, but the teacher saw that she had spoken, and knew that the remark was not a polite one. "What did you say?" asked the teacher. "Nothing," retorted Viola, still using a rude tone. "You certainly answered me, and I insist upon knowing what you said." Viola was silent now, but her eyes spoke volumes. "Will you please repeat that remark?" insisted Miss Higley. "No," said Viola, sharply, "I will not!" Miss Higley's ruddy face flashed a deep red. To have a pupil openly defy a teacher is beyond the forgiveness of many women less aggressive than Miss Higley. "You had better leave the room," she said--"take your books with you." "I won't require them," snapped Viola, intending to give out the impression that she would leave school if she were to be treated in that manner by Miss Higley. "Get at your work, young ladies," finished the teacher, fastening her eyes on her own books, and thus avoiding anything further with Viola. To reach her room Viola was obliged to pass Dorothy's. Just as she came up to number nineteen Dorothy opened the door. Her eyes were red from weeping, and she looked very unhappy indeed. "Oh, do come in Viola," she said, surprised to see the girl before her. "I was going to you directly after class--I did not know you were out." "I cannot come now," answered Viola. "I must go to my room!" "Is there anything the matter?" inquired Dorothy, kindly. "Yes," replied Viola, using her regular tactics, that of forcing Dorothy to make her own conclusions. "Is your mother worse?" "I, oh--my head aches so. You must excuse me Dorothy," and at this Viola burst into tears, another ruse that always worked well with the sympathetic Dorothy. The fact was Dorothy had spent a very miserable hour that morning, after her talk with the president, and she had finally decided to put the whole thing to Viola, to ask her for a straight-forward explanation, and to oblige her to give it. But now Viola was in trouble--Dorothy had no idea that the trouble was a matter of temper, and of course her mother must be worse, thought Dorothy. How glad she was, after all, that she did make the sacrifice! It was much easier for her to stand it than to crush Viola with any more grief! Crush her indeed! It takes more than the mere words of a just school teacher and more than the pale face of a persecuted girl to crush such a character as that which Viola Green was lately cultivating. And as Viola turned into her room she determined never to apologize to Miss Higley. She would leave Glenwood first. Meanwhile what different sentiments were struggling in Dorothy's heart? She had bathed her face, and would go into the classroom. She might be in time for some work, and now there was no use in wasting time over the trouble. She would never mention it to Viola, that poor girl had enough to worry her. Neither would she try to right it in any way. After all, Mrs. Pangborn believed in her, so did Edna and Molly, and a letter from home that morning told of the recovery of Tavia's mother. Perhaps Tavia would be back to school soon. It might be hard to meet the scornful looks of the other girls, but it could not possibly be as hard as what Viola had to bear. So thought our dear Little Captain, she who was ever ready to take upon her young and frail shoulders the burdens of others. But such virtue plainly has its own reward--Dorothy Dale entered the classroom at eleven o'clock that morning, with peace in her heart. Viola Green was out of the school room and was fighting the greatest enemies of her life--Pride, mingled with Jealousy. It had been that from the first, from the very first moment she set her eyes on Dorothy Dale, whose beautiful face was then framed in the ominous black lining of the police patrol. It had been jealousy ever since. Dorothy had made friends with the best girls in Glenwood, she had been taken up by the teachers, she had been given the best part in the play (but Viola could not stand that) and now that the play had been abandoned on account of the death of Mrs. Panghorn's father, and that Dorothy had been disgraced, what more did Viola crave? Was not her vengeance complete? But the girls were beginning to doubt the story, and those who did not actually disbelieve it were tiring of its phases. The promised excitement did not develop. All the plans of the Rebs were dead, and to be a member of that party did not mean happiness,--it meant actual danger of discipline. Viola was too shrewd not to notice all this, and to realize that her clientele was falling off alarmingly. Would she really leave Glenwood? The wrong done Dorothy seemed to be righting itself in spite of all her devices, and that girl, disgraced though she stood in the eyes of many, seemed happier at the moment than Viola herself. "I wish I had gone home when I had father's last letter," reflected the girl, looking in her mirror at the traces of grief that insisted on setting their stamp upon her olive face. "But now, of course that old cat Higley will make a fuss--Oh, I wish I never had seen these cracked walls. I wish I had gone to a fashionable school--" She stopped suddenly. Why not get away now to that swell school near Boston? She could surely set aside her mother's foolish sentiment about Glenwood,--just because she had met Mrs. Pangborn abroad and had become interested in this particular school for girls. Viola had enough of it. She would leave--go home. And then perhaps--she might get to the Beaumonde Academy. CHAPTER XXI SUNSHINE AGAIN A sense of suppressed excitement greeted Dorothy as she entered the classroom. Edna and Molly managed to greet her personally with a pleasant little nod, and even Miss Higley raised her eyes to say good morning. Certainly Dorothy felt heroic--and she had good reason. Having suffered so long from a mysterious insult, she now had fortified herself against its stigma. At the same time she was conscious of an awful weight hanging over her head--like the gloom of those who suffer without hope. "She just looks like a sweet nun," whispered Ned to Amy. "Doesn't she," agreed Amy. "I wish we could make her smile." But Dorothy buried herself in her studies, with a determination born of perfect self-control. The morning wore into mid-day, then the recreation hour brought relaxation from all mental effort. A number of the girls who had been at first conspicuous figures in the Rebs made a particular effort to speak to Dorothy. She met their advances pleasantly, but with some hesitancy--they might only mean to make an opportunity for further trouble, Dorothy thought. "See here!" called Edna, running along the walk after Dorothy. "Have you taken the black veil? Not that such a vocation is to be made light of," seeing a frown come over Dorothy's face, "but you know we cannot spare you just yet. You may be the dear little nun of Glenwood, but you will have to keep up with the Glens and the Nicks. We are planning a reunion, you know." "Yes, and we are going to give a play on our own account," said Molly, coming up at that moment. "Mrs. Pangborn has granted permission and we are about to select the operetta--it will be a musical affair this time." "That ought to be lovely," responded Dorothy. "There are so many fine players among the girls." "Yes, and you can sing," declared Molly. "We are counting on you for our prima donna." "Oh, and we might have Viola accompany her on the violin! Wouldn't that be divine!" enthused a girl from Portland. A hush followed this suggestion. It was the awkward kind that actually sounds louder than a yell of surprise. "What is it?" asked Rose-Mary, joining the group and giving Dorothy a hug "on the half shell," which in the parlance of schoolgirls means a spontaneous fling of the arms around the one on the defensive. "Cologne will be sure to suggest something from English Lit." predicted Molly. "She being a star in that line herself thinks the stuff equally pie for all of us. We might try French--I said 'try,' Ned Ebony; you need not strangle yourself with that gasp!" "Came near it," admitted the one with her mouth open. "Fancy us doing French!" "Then suppose we go back to the woods--try Red Riding Hood?" "Fine and dandy!" exclaimed Nita Brant. "I'll be the wolf." "Because he was the only party who got in on the eating," remarked Edna. "Let me be the squire--and don't all speak at once for the grandmother's fate." "Think it over girls; think it over!" advised Nita. "Back to the woods might not suit some of our rural friends. For my part I prefer--ahem! Something tragic!" "Beat Red Riding Hood for tragedy then," challenged one of the group. "Of all the atrocities--" "And desperate deals--" "To say nothing of the grandmother's night cap going in the mix up--" And so they laughed it all off, and marveled that the mere mention of the old story should awaken such comment. Dorothy seemed to enjoy the innocent sallies. It was pleasant to be with the jolly crowd again, and to feel something akin to the old happiness. "What happened to Fiddle?" asked Amy Brook. "I thought she would come back to class when her pout wore off." "Pout?" repeated Dorothy. "I met her in the hall and she seemed to be in great distress." "Shouldn't wonder," remarked Nita. "Any one who crosses swords with Miss Higley is bound to come to grief sooner or later. If I had been Fiddle I should have apologized at once--easiest way out of it with Higley." Dorothy was confused. She had no idea of the scene that had taken place in the schoolroom that morning between Miss Higley and Viola. But as it was impossible for her to keep up with the run of school events lately, she ventured no more questions. "When's Chrissy coming back?" asked Edna. "I'm almost dead without her. Haven't had a single scrap since she went. And I've got the greatest lot corked up ready to explode from spontaneous combustion." "I hope she'll be back before the end of this term," answered Dorothy. "I heard to-day her mother is entirely recovered." "Good for the mother! Also more power to her. I think I'll crawl up the skylight and do perfectly reckless stunts on the roof when Chrissy returns just to celebrate," and suiting her words with the jubilant mood the girl waltzed away down the path, making queer "jabs" at the inoffensive air that was doing its best to make life bright and pleasant for the girls at Glenwood. CHAPTER XXII MISS CRANE AND VIOLA Viola Green was thoroughly upset. She had quarreled with Miss Higley. She had more than quarreled with Dorothy. Mrs. Pangborn had told her plainly that if her story concerning Dorothy was found to be untrue she would have to leave Glenwood, for that story had touched on the fair name of a pupil of the school, to say nothing more. Having defamed the honored name of Dale made the matter of still greater importance. What should she do? To leave Glenwood seemed to be the only answer to that oft-repeated question. But to get into Beaumonde required a clean record from the former academy, and would Mrs. Pangborn furnish such a record under the circumstances? It was evening, and the other girls were probably enjoying themselves, visiting about and settling wherever there was the best prospect of fudge--the only confection students were allowed to make in their rooms. But Viola would not go out, she was in no humor for visiting. While reclining on her small white bed, thinking the situation over until her head ached from very monotony, a note was slipped under her door. She saw it instantly but did not at once attempt to pick it up--the sender might be waiting outside and notice her readiness to become acquainted with the contents. Hearing the light step make its way down the hall Viola took and opened the note. "Humph!" she sniffed, "from Adele Thomas." Then she glanced over the note. It read: MY DEAR VIOLA: We are all so worried about you. Do please come out of your room or let some of us in. We wish very much to talk to you, but if you persist in keeping us at bay won't you please make up your mind to apologize at once to Miss Higley? There are so many counts against us this month that the latest is positively dangerous in its present form. Do Viola, dear, answer, and tell us you feel better and that you will comply with the request of the committee. Lovingly yours, LOWLY. "Apologize!" echoed the girl. "As if my mother's daughter could ever stoop to that weak American method of crawling out of things!" and her dark eyes flashed while her olive face became as intense as if the girl were a desperate woman. "Don't they know that the blood of the de Carlos flows in my veins?" she asked herself. "No, that's so, they do not know it--nor shall they. Let them think me Italian, French or whatever they choose--but let them not trifle with Spain. Ah, Spain! and how I have longed to see that beautiful country with mother--darling mother!" This thought of affection never failed to soften the temper of the wily Viola. True she had seen fit always to hide her mother's nationality from the schoolgirls. Often they had questioned her about her foreign face and manners, but like many who do not admire the frankness of Americans, it had pleased her to remain simply "foreign." A supercilious smile crept over Viola's face. She held Adele's note in her hand and read it again. "Worried about me!" she repeated, "as if they care for anything but excitement and nonsense. And they are aching for me to give the next spasm of excitement! Well, they may get that, sooner than they expect." A step stopped at her door. Then a light tap sounded on the panel. Casting aside the note, Viola opened the portal and was confronted by Miss Crane. Without waiting for an invitation the pleasant little woman stepped inside. "Good evening, Viola," she began. "Mrs. Pangborn sent me to have a talk with you." "Yes?" replied Viola, in her most non-committal tone. "She has been much worried of late, so many things have been going on that did not add to her peace of mind." "That's a pity," said Viola, and this time her tone admitted of any number of interpretations. But Miss Crane expected all this and was fully prepared for it. "Especially that matter about Dorothy Dale," went on the teacher. "She is determined that the whole thing shall be cleared up at once." "It ought to be," said Viola coolly, without appearing to take the least interest in the conversation. "In the first place," argued Miss Crane, "Mrs. Pangborn wished me to say to you that a full explanation on your part would in the end save you much--trouble." "State's evidence!" almost sneered Viola. "Not at all," contradicted her visitor. "Simply a matter of common justice." "I believe that's what they call it," persisted the girl, tossing her head about to show a weariness of the "whole miserable thing." "You insist that you saw Dorothy Dale and Octavia Travers alight from a police patrol wagon?" asked Miss Crane severely. "I do!" answered Viola, as solemnly as if taking an oath. "And that you were told they had been arrested for some theft? Garden stuff, I believe?" "I heard Nat White, Dorothy Dale's own cousin, say so," again declared Viola. "And you had reason to believe he was in earnest?" "Every reason to believe and know so." Miss Crane stopped. She had expected Viola to break down on this cross-examination, but evidently her story was not to be shaken. "Is that all?" asked the girl with a show of hauteur. "No," said Miss Crane. "I would like you to tell me the whole story." "And if I refuse?" "You surely would not risk dismissal?" "No risk at all, my dear Miss Crane, I court it," and all the Spanish fire of Viola's nature flashed and flamed with her words. "Viola! Do you know what you are saying?" "Perfectly. Have you finished with the 'third degree?'" "Refrain from slang, if you please. I never countenance such expressions." Viola only smiled. Evidently Miss Crane had reached "the end of her rope." "And you will make no explanation of why you told such a story to the girls of Glenwood?" and the calm voice of the teacher rang out clearly now. "No other reason to give for depriving one of the sweetest and best of these girls of her happy place among her companions? And that same girl refuses to tell her own story, because of a promise! She must bear all the shame, all the suspicion, all the wrong silently, when everybody knows she is shielding someone. Viola Green, to whom did Dorothy Dale make that promise?" "How should I know?" replied the other with curled lip. "Who, then, is Dorothy Dale shielding?" "Shielding? Why, probably her dear friend, Tavia Travers. I don't know, of course. I am merely trying to help you out!" That shot blazed home--it staggered Miss Crane. She had never thought of Octavia! And she was so close a friend of Dorothy's--besides being over reckless! It might be that Dorothy was shielding Tavia and that she would not and could not break a promise made to the absent member of Glenwood school. Miss Crane was silent. She sat there gazing at Viola. Her pink and white cheeks assumed a red tinge. Viola was victorious again. She had only made a suggestion and that suggestion had done all the rest. "I will talk to Mrs. Pangborn," said Miss Crane finally, and she arose and quietly left the room. CHAPTER XXIII THE REAL STORY That night before twelve o'clock a telegram was delivered at Glenwood school. It was for Viola Green and called her to the bedside of her mother. It simply read: "Come at once. Mother very ill." So the girl who had been tempting fate, who had refused to right a wrong, who had turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of friends and the commands of superiors, was now summoned to the bedside of the one person in all the world she really loved--her mother! Viola grasped the message from the hands of Mrs. Pangborn herself, who thought to deliver it with as little alarm as possible. But it was not possible to deceive Viola. Instantly she burst into tears and moans with such violence that the principal was obliged to plead with the girl to regard the feelings of those whose rooms adjoined hers. But this did not affect Viola. She declared her darling little mother would be dead before she could reach her, and even blamed the school that marked the distance between the frantic daughter and the dying parent. How bitterly she moaned and sobbed! What abandon and absolute lack of self-control she displayed, Mrs. Pangborn could not help observing. This was the character Viola had fostered, and this was the character that turned upon her in her grief and refused to offer her sympathy or hope. "You should try to control yourself, Viola," said Mrs. Pangborn gently. "You will make yourself ill, and be unfit for travel." But all arguments were without avail. The girl wept herself into hysterics, and then finally, overcome with sheer exhaustion, fell into a troubled sleep. On the first train the next morning Viola left Glenwood. It was Dorothy who helped her dress and pack, and Dorothy who tried to console her. At one moment it did seem that Dorothy had finally reached the heart of the strange girl, for Viola threw her arms about the one who had made such sacrifices for an unrelenting pride, and begged she would pray that the sick mother might be spared. "If she is only left to me a little longer," pleaded Viola, "I will try to be satisfied, and try to do what is right. Oh, I know I have done wrong," she wailed. "I know you have suffered for me, but, Dorothy, dear, you did it for my mother, and I will always bless you for it. If I had time to-day I would try--try to clear you before the girls." "Then I will make the explanation," said Dorothy, relieved to feel that at last she might speak for herself. "Oh, please don't," spoke up Viola again, not quite sure that she was willing to be humiliated in spite of the words she had just spoken. "Try to forgive me, and then what does it matter about the others?" So Viola Green passed out of Glenwood, and left Dorothy Dale praying that the sick woman might be spared. "I could not do anything against her," Dorothy reflected. "Poor girl, she has enough to bear! It must be righted some day--oh, yes, some day it must all come right. Another Power looks after that." A long letter from home, from Major Dale, was brought to Dorothy on the early mail. This cheered her up and reflected its smiles of happiness on all the school day. The major told how well the boys were; how they longed to see Dorothy, and how little Roger had saved all his kindergarten cards and pictures for her. Besides these a wonderful house made of toothpicks and stuck together with green peas was in imminent danger of collapse if Dorothy did not hurry up and come home. Then Aunt Winnie had planned a surprise for all her children who were away at school, the letter also stated, and on the list, for the good time promised, were Dorothy, Tavia, Nat, Ned, Joe (and of course little Roger), besides a guest that each of these mentioned would be allowed to invite home for the holiday. Easter was only a few weeks off. The day passed quickly indeed. Spring sunshine had come, everything had that waiting look it takes on just before the buds come, and Dorothy was almost happy. If only everybody could know that she and Tavia had not done wrong and had not been in disgrace! The classes were dismissed and Dorothy was up in her room reading her father's letter for the third time. There was a rush through the hall! Then the girls' voices in laughter stopped exactly at her door! The next minute Tavia bolted into the room. "Not a soul to meet me!" she began cycloning around and winding up with crushing Dorothy. "Oh, you old honey-girl!" and Tavia kissed her friend rapturously. "I have been dead and buried without you. Run away, little girls (to those peeping in at the door). Run away--we're busy." Dorothy was so surprised she just gazed at Tavia, but a world of love and welcome went out in the look. "If we had known you were coming," she faltered. "Known it! Couldn't you feel my presence near! Well, James brought me up. But say, Dorothy! I ran across--whom do you think?" "Couldn't guess!" "Viola Green! And say, she looked like her own ghost. Her train had a long wait at noon and she saw me. And the way she bolted out of her car and made her way to my window, just to say, 'Tell Dorothy to go ahead and tell her story! It will be all right!' Now I'd like to know if Viola Green had really gone daffy?" "Why, no, Tavia. It is all about--Oh, it is such a long story." "The very thing for mine--a serial. There's Cologne and Ned and Dick! Come on in, everybody! I want you all to see this hat before I take it off. The milliner declared I would never get it on right again." In rushed the "troop," all so glad to see Tavia back, and all aching for a glimpse of the new spring hat. "Tell me about the story, Cologne," said Tavia. "You can go on admiring me just the same. What's Dorothy's serial that Viola has the copyright on?" "That is precisely what we want you to find out," answered Rose-Mary. "We have been trying to do it for a whole month." "And I'll wager it won't take me ten minutes!" "But do take your things off," pleaded Dorothy. "Not yet. I can't give up this hat so unceremoniously. Isn't it a beauty? But for the story. Go ahead, Cologne." "Why, I couldn't tell where to begin," begged off Rose-Mary. "Begin at the place where Dorothy Dale went to pieces, and lost all her pretty pink cheeks," suggested Tavia, noting how much Dorothy had changed during her absence. "I'll tell you," said Rose-Mary. "We'll all run away and let you have a minute to yourselves. Perhaps the serial will leak out." "What is it, Dorothy?" asked Tavia seriously when they were alone. "Why, all about that police ride," sighed Dorothy. "I really never could find out just what story was told--they kept me in ignorance of it all, except that it was dreadful. Oh, Tavia! Only lately the girls notice me. They all gave me up, all but Ned, Dick and Cologne!" "Gave you up! And about that story! Why didn't you tell them?" "Oh, I had promised Viola, and she was afraid she would be dismissed--" "Promised Viola!" and Tavia stared blankly at Dorothy. "You poor little darling! And no one here to take your part!" and she held Dorothy to her heart a moment. "Who knows the story as she told it--I always knew she would tell it!" "Perhaps some of the Pilgrims may know. They split and formed the Rebs." "Without me? I'll bet they died an early death! I'm the only thoroughbred Reb in America!" and she brandished her hatpin wildly above her head. "But you just stay here a minute. My ten minutes alloted for clearing up the mystery is escaping," and at this Tavia flew out of the room. It seemed she could not have gone down the corridor when she ran into Dorothy's room again. "Well, of all the frosts!" she exclaimed. "I almost passed away when that stuttering girl from Maine tried to tell me. But I haven't seen Mrs. Pangborn yet. I'll just run into the office and show her my hat," and she was gone again. "How good it was to have Tavia back," thought Dorothy. It seemed as if everything had been made right already. But Tavia would surely do something surprising. What would she say to Mrs. Pangborn? But while Dorothy was thinking it over, a very lively little chat was taking place in the principal's office. At the first word about the "Story," Tavia blurted out the entire tale in such a way that even Mrs. Pangborn was obliged to admit she "knew how to string words together." "My dear!" said that lady, when Tavia stopped, "I think this matter has gone so far it will be best to make a public explanation." "Let me make it?" asked the girl eagerly. "If you wish," agreed Mrs. Pangborn. "Where? When?" asked Tavia impatiently. "Now, if you like," consulting her watch. "We had called a meeting of the Glenwoods for five, it wants a quarter of that now. Suppose you speak to them in the hall?" "Gloriotious!" exclaimed Tavia, forgetting to whom she was making the self-coined remark. The girls were already filing into the hall. Dorothy went with Rose-Mary, Tavia preferring to go in last and so show everyone the spring hat. It certainly was pretty, no one could deny that, and, as she stepped to the platform, at the signal from Mrs. Pangborn, she looked as Dorothy had seen her look before--like an actress! Her golden brown hair formed a halo about her face and the flowers (what she called the spring hat) made a beautiful wreath buried in the soft shining tresses. A buzz of excitement greeted her appearance on the platform. Then she began: "My dear teachers (they were all present), friends and acquaintances!" "Three cheers for the acquaintances," broke in one girl, and this was the signal for a hearty cheer. When order prevailed again, Tavia continued: "I understand you have heard a queer story about the girls from Dalton" (there was silence now), "and with the kind permission of our dear principal, I will try to tell you all of that story. I have been informed that you were told that Dorothy Dale and myself had been arrested in a country place, taken to a lock-up and then bailed out!" (Dorothy looked more surprised than any one present; this was the part of the story she had never heard). "Well," went on Tavia, "that is so absurd that I cannot imagine the complications that could possibly have won such a story a hearing. But perhaps when I am here a few hours, I will be allowed to laugh over the details. However, I will tell you all exactly what did happen," and Tavia cleared her throat like a veteran speaker. "One lovely day last August, Dorothy Dale and her two cousins, Ned and Nat White from North Birchland, took me for an automobile ride. We had a number of adventures during the day and towards night something happened to the machine, and the boys were obliged to leave us while they went to have something repaired. While they were away a man, who afterward turned out to be a lunatic, came along, and as we ran from the car, he got into it." "Oh! mercy!" exclaimed Nita Brant, and similar exclamations went about the room. "When the boys got back," went on Tavia, "and we felt they never would come in sight, we had waited so long, and were so frightened, they could not induce the man to leave the machine. He was crazy and wanted a ride. Finally one of the boys, Ned, was obliged to get into the car with him and he rode off, never stopping until he landed the lunatic in Danvers jail!" Cheers again interrupted the speaker, and she paused a moment--long enough to look at Dorothy, then she went on: "But we were all alone out there, it was getting dark, and how were we to get back to town, nine miles off? That was the point where the police patrol wagon came into our lives. The wagon was out looking for the escaped prisoner, at least the officers in it were, and upon questioning us, and hearing how we had lost the auto, they asked us to ride home in their patrol!" "Three cheers for the officers!" broke out Edna, and the shouts that followed caused Miss Higley to put up her hands to protect her ears. "Well, we did ride home in the patrol," cried Tavia, anxious now to finish, "and when Nat stood by the wagon trying to jolly those curious ones about him, a young man, in the company of--of one who has just left us, asked Nat, 'Speeding?' and Nat answered, 'No, just melons.' Now that is the entire story of our famous ride, and I thank you for your kind attention, etc., etc.," and bowing profusely Tavia managed to get down from the platform. Then Mrs. Pangborn stood up. "My dear pupils," she said, "I cannot tell you how glad I am to have this matter settled. It has given great sorrow to see our dear friend Dorothy suffer so. And you do not yet know the real story of her heroism. When I asked her about this report she begged me not to question her, because she had promised a girl not to tell the story if I would allow her to remain silent. That girl urged as her excuse her own possible dismissal from school should Dorothy make known the facts, not the story that has been told me, and told you, but those facts which you have just now heard for the first time. And to save the feelings of a selfish and I must say it--dishonest girl,--Dorothy Dale has willingly suffered your scorn and my possible displeasure. But I never doubted her for one moment. And now we must forgive the other." At this every head was bowed for a moment. When Mrs. Pangborn sat down, the girls surrounded Dorothy. Miss Higley ran to the piano and struck up the "Glenwood Reel." "Get your partners!" shouted Molly, while there was a wild scramble for "another pair of hands," everyone trying to get Dorothy, who had already been taken possession of by Miss Crane. Tavia actually took her hat off when Edna caught her. Then the merry dance began, and such dancing! The old hall rang with mirth broken now and then with wild cheers when Dorothy would "go down the middle," or "swing all hands around." There seemed to be no restrictions, no restraint--everyone was enjoying herself to her heart's content. And the meeting all ended in the uproarious and unanimous election of Dorothy Dale, as president of the Glenwoods of Glenwood School! "What a happy ending of all our troubles," said Dorothy to Tavia that night. "If they are all ended," responded Tavia. "Perhaps everything is not yet smoothed out." And what Tavia suspected proved true, as we shall learn in the next volume, to be called "Dorothy Dale's Great Secret." Tavia was responsible for the secret, but Dorothy kept it faithfully. A few days later Mrs. Pangborn received a telegram that Mrs. Green was better and out of danger,--at least for the present. "Do you imagine Viola will come back to Glenwood?" said Tavia. "If she does, I will--I will try to do--my best by her," answered Dorothy slowly. "You dear, forgiving Dorothy Dale!" cried her chum, and kissed her. THE END THE RUBY AND RUTHY SERIES BY MINNIE E. PAULL _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid._ _Four bright and entertaining stories told in Mrs. Paull's happiest manner are among the best stories ever written for young girls, and cannot fail to interest any between the ages of eight and fifteen years._ RUBY AND RUTHY Ruby and Ruthie were not old enough to go to school, but they certainly were lively enough to have many exciting adventures, that taught many useful lessons needed to be learned by little girls. RUBY'S UPS AND DOWNS There were troubles enough for a dozen grown-ups, but Ruby got ahead of them all, and, in spite of them, became a favorite in the lively times at school. RUBY AT SCHOOL Ruby had many surprises when she went to the impossible place she heard called a boarding school, but every experience helped to make her a stronger-minded girl. RUBY'S VACATION This volume shows how a little girl improves by having varieties of experience both happy and unhappy, provided she thinks, and is able to use her good sense. Ruby lives and learns. * * * * * THE DOROTHY DALE SERIES By MARGARET PENROSE _Author of "The Motor Girls Series"_ _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 80 cents, postpaid._ Dorothy Dale is the daughter of an old Civil War veteran who is running a weekly newspaper in a small Eastern town. Her sunny disposition, her fun-loving ways and her trials and triumphs make clean, interesting and fascinating reading. The Dorothy Dale Series is one of the most popular series of books for girls ever published. DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY DOROTHY DALE AT GLENWOOD SCHOOL DOROTHY DALE'S GREAT SECRET DOROTHY DALE AND HER CHUMS DOROTHY DALE'S QUEER HOLIDAYS DOROTHY DALE'S CAMPING DAYS DOROTHY DALE'S SCHOOL RIVALS DOROTHY DALE IN THE CITY DOROTHY DALE'S PROMISE DOROTHY DALE IN THE WEST DOROTHY DALE'S STRANGE DISCOVERY DOROTHY DALE'S ENGAGEMENT * * * * * THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES BY ALICE B. EMERSON _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid._ Ruth Fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. Her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL _or Jasper Parloe's Secret_ RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL _or Solving the Campus Mystery_ RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP _or Lost in the Backwoods_ RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT _or Nita, the Girl Castaway_ RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH _or Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys_ RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND _or The Old Hunter's Treasure Box_ RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM _or What Became of the Raby Orphans_ RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES _or The Missing Pearl Necklace_ RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES _or Helping the Dormitory Fund_ RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE _or Great Days in the Land of Cotton_ RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE _or The Missing Examination Papers_ RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE _or College Girls in the Land of Gold_ RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS (_New_) _or Doing Her Bit for Uncle Sam_ RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT (_New_) _or The Hunt for a Lost Soldier_ * * * * * THE CURLYTOPS SERIES BY HOWARD R. GARIS Author of the famous "Bedtime Animal Stories" _12mo. Cloth, Beautifully Illustrated. Jacket in full color._ _Price per volume, 60 cents, net_ Splendid stories for the little girls and boys, told by one who is a past master in the art of entertaining young people. THE CURLYTOPS AT CHERRY FARM _or Vacation Days in the Country_ A tale of happy vacation days on a farm. The Curlytops have many exciting adventures. THE CURLYTOPS ON STAR ISLAND _or Camping out with Grandpa_ The Curlytops were delighted when grandpa took them to camp on Star Island. There they had great fun and also helped to solve a real mystery. THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN _or Grand Fun with Skates and Sleds_ Winter was a jolly time for the Curlytops, with their skates and sleds, but when later they were snowed in they found many new ways to enjoy themselves. THE CURLYTOPS AT UNCLE FRANK'S RANCH _or Little Folks on Pony Back_ Out West on their uncle's ranch they have a wonderful time among the cowboys and on pony back. * * * * * THE PATSY CARROLL SERIES BY GRACE GORDON _12mo. Illustrated. Beautiful cloth binding, stamped in gold with cover inlay and jacket in colors._ _Price Per Volume $1.25 Net._ _This fascinating series is permeated with the vibrant atmosphere of the great outdoors. The vacations spent by Patsy Carroll and her chums, the girl Wayfarers, in the north, east, south and west of the wonderland of our country, comprise a succession of tales unsurpassed in plot and action._ PATSY CARROLL AT WILDERNESS LODGE Patsy Carroll succeeds in coaxing her father to lease one of the luxurious camps at Lake Placid, in the Adirondack Mountains, for the summer. Once established at Wilderness Lodge, the Wayfarers, as they have decided to call themselves, find they are the center of a mystery which revolves about a missing will. How the girls solve the mystery makes a splendid story. PATSY CARROLL UNDER SOUTHERN SKIES (_New_) Patsy Carroll and her three chums spend their Easter vacation is an old mansion in Florida, where an exciting mystery develops, which is solved by a very curious acrostic found by Patsy, and which leads to very exciting and satisfactory results, making a capital story. * * * * * THE JANE ALLEN COLLEGE SERIES By EDITH BANCROFT _12mo. Illustrated, Beautiful cloth binding, stamped in gold with cover inlay and jacket in colors._ _Price Per Volume S1.25 Net._ _This series is a decided departure from the stories usually written of life in the modern college for young women. They contain a deep and fascinating theme, which has to do with the inner struggle for growth. An authoritative account of the life of the college girl as it is lived today._ JANE ALLEN OF THE SUB TEAM When Jane Allen left her beautiful Western home in Montana, sorely against her will, to go East, there to become a freshman at Wellington College, she was sure that she could never learn to endure the restrictions of college life. But she did and the account of Jane's first year at Wellington is well worth reading. JANE ALLEN: RIGHT GUARD (_New_) Jane Allen becomes a sophomore at Wellington College, but she has to face a severe trial that requires all her courage and character. The meaning of true soul-nobility is brought out in the development of the trying experience. The result is a triumph for being faithful to an ideal. * * * * * THE MOTOR GIRLS SERIES By MARGARET PENROSE Author of the highly successful "Dorothy Dale Series" 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 80 cents, postpaid Since the enormous success of our "Motor Boys Series," by Clarence Young, we have been asked to get out a similar series for girls. No one is better equipped to furnish these tales than Mrs. Penrose, who, besides being an able writer, is an expert automobilist. THE MOTOR GIRLS _or A Mystery of the Road_ THE MOTOR GIRLS ON A TOUR _or Keeping a Strange Promise_ THE MOTOR GIRLS AT LOOKOUT BEACH _or In Quest of the Runaways_ THE MOTOR GIRLS THROUGH NEW ENGLAND _or Held by the Gypsies_ THE MOTOR GIRLS ON CEDAR LAKE _or The Hermit of Fern Island_ THE MOTOR GIRLS ON THE COAST _or The Waif from the Sea_ THE MOTOR GIRLS ON CRYSTAL BAY _or The Secret of the Red Oar_ THE MOTOR GIRLS ON WATERS BLUE _or The Strange Cruise of the Tartar_ THE MOTOR GIRLS AT CAMP SURPRISE _or The Cave in the Mountain_ THE MOTOR GIRLS IN THE MOUNTAINS _or The Gypsy Girl's Secret_ * * * * * THE KHAKI GIRLS SERIES BY EDNA BROOKS _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors._ _Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid._ _When Uncle Sam sent forth the ringing call, "I need you!" it was not alone his strong young sons who responded. All over the United States capable American girls, stood ready to offer their services to their country. How two young girls donned the khaki and made good in the Motor Corps, an organization for women, developed by the Great War, forms a series of stories of signal novelty and vivid interest and action._ THE KHAKI GIRLS OF THE MOTOR CORPS _or Finding Their Place in the Big War_ Joan Mason, an enthusiastic motor girl, and Valerie Warde, a society debutante, meet at an automobile show. Next day they go together to the Motor Corps headquarters and in due time are accepted and become members of the Corps, in the service of the United States. The two girl drivers find motoring for Uncle Sam a most exciting business. Incidentally they are instrumental in rendering valuable service to the United States government by discovering and running down a secret organization of its enemies. THE KHAKI GIRLS BEHIND THE LINES _or Driving with the Ambulance Corps_ As a result of their splendid work in the Motor Corps, the Khaki Girls receive the honor of an opportunity to drive with the Ambulance Corps in France. After a most eventful and hazardous crossing of the Atlantic, they arrive in France and are assigned to a station behind the lines. Constantly within range of enemy shrapnel, out in all kinds of weather, tearing over shell-torn roads and dodging Boche patrols, all go to make up the day's work, and bring them many exciting adventures. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York 
48596	----	TAKE IT FROM DAD [Illustration] THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTO [Illustration] TAKE IT FROM DAD BY GEORGE G. LIVERMORE New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1920 _All rights reserved._ COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1920. TAKE IT FROM DAD LYNN, MASS. _September 25, 19--_ DEAR TED: Your letter asking me if I think you are a failure at school, and wanting to know whether I can give you a job in the factory, came this morning. "Yes," to the first, and, "I can but I won't" to the second. I didn't send you to Exeter to have you leave in a week; and as for the factory, I guess it can stagger along a couple of years more without you, although I sure do appreciate your wanting to work. It's so different from anything else you have ever wanted, and as Lew Dockstader once said, "Variety is the spice of vaudeville." Sure, Exeter is a rotten place in the fall, when it rains eight days a week, and there's nothing except soggy leaves and mud everywhere, and a continuously weeping sky that's about as cheerful as the Germans at the peace table. You don't know any one well enough yet to say three words to, and your teachers seem to be playing a continual run of luck, by always calling on you for the part of the lesson you haven't learned. Sure it's rotten; not Exeter, but what's the matter with you. It begins with an "h" and ends with a "k," but like other diseases, lockjaw excepted, and you'll never have that anyway, it's just as well to catch it young and get it over with. Then, too, I guess you're beginning to realize that the leader of the Lynn High School Glee Club and left end of the football team isn't so big a frog, after all, when he gets into a puddle with five hundred other boys, most of whom never heard of Lynn. Your learning this young is a blessing which you don't appreciate now. I had to wait until I took that trip to Binghamton with the Masons. I'd thought till then I was some pumpkins of a shoemaker grinding out eight thousand pairs a day, eleven with two shifts, but when I moseyed through Welt & Toplift's and saw them make fifty thousand pairs without batting an eye, I realized I had been looking at myself through the wrong end of the telescope. Say, Ted, did I ever tell you about the time your grandfather and grandmother went to the Philadelphia Exposition and left me at Uncle Nate's? You never saw Uncle Nate; but I don't know as you need feel peeved about it. Anyway, Uncle Nate had whiskers like a Bolshevik, and catarrh. He was a powerful conscientious man, except in a horse dicker, when he shed his religion like a snake does his skin. Uncle Nate lived over at Epping Four Corners, six miles from our farm, and owing to his judgment of horse flesh he was about as popular there as General Pershing would be at a Red meeting. I landed at Uncle Nate's at noon, and by six o'clock he had asked me four times if I was a good boy, and I could tell by the look in his eye that he'd ask me that a dozen times more before I went to bed. [Illustration] Along about seven it began to grow dark and I began to miss my mother. Uncle Nate sat in a rocking chair in the dining room with his feet on the stove, chewing fine cut and reading a farm journal, and I sat in a small chair with my feet on the floor, reading the "Pruno Almanac" and chewing my fingers. He said nothing, and I said the same. After a while I got so blame lonesome I stole out on the back steps and stood there wishing I was dead or in jail, or something equally pleasant. Gosh all hemlock! I was homesick. Then I remembered Sandy, our hired man, was still at the farm. I pointed my nose toward home and skedaddled and, believe me, I went some until I hit the woods just below the intervale, where the wind was soughing through those tall pines like invisible fingers plucking on Old Nick's harp. It sure was the lonesomest place I had ever been in; but the thought of Uncle Nate drove me on until I came to where the old Shaker graveyard runs down close to the road. I'd forgotten the graveyard until just as I got up to it a white, shapeless figure jumped into the road and ran toward me, waving its arms. Old Von Kluck did a turning movement before Paris; but he had nothing on me. I turned and, believe me, son, I went back to Uncle Nate's so fast I almost met myself coming away. I slid into the house like a dog that's just come from killing sheep and found the old gentleman asleep in his chair. When he awoke he said I'd been a good boy not to disturb his nap, and he gave me a nickel, which surprised me so I almost refused it. After that we were great pals, and I actually hated to leave him when the folks got home. Cheer up, Ted, you'll like the school better before long, and try learning all your lessons instead of only part; you can fool a lot of teachers that way. One thing more, don't write any doleful letters to your Ma just now. I'm planning a surprise trip with her to the White Mountains for our twenty-first wedding anniversary, and if you go butting in on her good time I'll tan you good. No, I won't, I'll stop your allowance for a month. That'll hurt worse. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. P. S.--I forgot to tell you the ghost I met by the graveyard was a half-wit who had escaped from Danvers in his nightshirt. They caught him the next morning, in a tree on the common, where he sat singing songs, thinking he was a canary. [Illustration] LYNN, MASS., _September 30, 19--_ DEAR TED: So your roommate is a ham, is he? Well, if he is, you're in luck. Ham is selling for fifty cents a pound in Lynn and is going up. Time was when ham was looked down upon as the poor man's meat, but now, when there are no poor except professional men and shoe manufacturers, his pigship has come into his own. Seriously, Ted, I didn't care much for your last letter, it left a taste in my mouth like castor oil. I've got a pretty good idea of the appearance and general make-up of that "ham" of yours, and I'm laying myself a little bit of a lunch at the Touraine next time I'm in Boston, against reading one of your Ma's new books on the Ethical Beliefs of the Brahmins I'm right. Comes from a small town in Kansas. Never been fifty miles away from home before, and would have taken the next train back after the frigid reception you gave him if he had had the price, and the old folks out there weren't betting on him to make good. Wears half-mast pants, draped with fringe at the bottom, and the sleeves of his coat seem to be racing each other to his elbows, and for general awkwardness he'd make a St. Bernard puppy look as graceful as Irene Castle. You're at an age now, Ted, when you know so much more than you ever will again, it would be presumptuous for me to offer any advice. Advice is the most beautiful exponent known of the law of supply and demand. No one wants it, that's why so much of it is always being passed around free. A man will give you a dollar's worth of advice when he'd let you starve for a nickel. But while I think of it, I want to tell you of something that happened at the Academy the year your Uncle Ted was there. That fall there blew into school a rawboned youth from the depths of Aroostook, Maine. He tucked his jean trousers in high cowhide boots, wore red flannel underwear, and spent most of his time stumbling over some one else's feet when he couldn't trip over his own. The school was full, and the only vacant place was the other half of Ted's room, so the faculty planted him there. Ted made him about as welcome as a wood pussy at a lawn party, for at the time he was badly bitten by the society bug and thought a backwoodsman roommate would queer him with the club he wanted to make. For a week Ted was as nasty to his new roomie as possible, hoping he'd get sick of his company and seek other quarters. Apparently Aroostook never noticed a thing. Just went on in his awkward way, and the nastier Ted got, the more quiet he became. On the night of the president's reception Ted hurried back to his room to dress, filled with pride and prunes. Pride because of a brand-new dress suit he had bought with an unexpected check dad had absent-mindedly sent him, and prunes because supper at the place he boarded consisted mostly of that rare fruit. When Ted opened the door his roommate was greasing his cowhide boots, and wearing an air of general expectancy. Ted brushed by him into the bedroom, and changed into his dress suit, his mind delightfully full of his lovely raiment and the queen of the town belles he had persuaded to accompany him. At last, hair slicked and clothes immaculate, he rushed out into the study where his roomie stood, evidently waiting for him. "Guess I'll walk along with you, Ted, if you don't mind?" Aroostook said. "I cal'late this reception thing is a right smart way to get to know folks." "In those clothes?" Ted asked with biting sarcasm, delightfully oblivious of the fact that he was wearing evening clothes for the first time. Ted says he hates to remember the look that came into his roommate's eyes at his remark. The sort of a look a friendly pup has when he wags himself to your feet only to receive a kick instead of the expected pat. His roommate did not reply, and furious at himself for having spoken as he did, and also afraid of the guying he might have to stand for his roommate's appearance, Ted walked silently down the stairs beside him. At the door he shot another venomous arrow by hurrying off in an opposite direction, exclaiming, "Well, you can't go with me anyhow! I'd stay home if I were you. I don't think you'll enjoy yourself." Basking under the smiles of his fair lady, Ted walked by her side to the reception, pouring into her ears the story of his ridiculous roommate, and she, as heartless a young miss as ever lived, made Ted promise to introduce her so she and her friends might enjoy him at close quarters. After a few dances Ted spied his victim leaning awkwardly against a pillar in the gym, and looking about as much at ease as a boy who's been eating green apples. Ted introduced his partner, and in five minutes his roommate was surrounded by a bevy of town beauties. Boys are cruel as young savages, but for sheer, downright, wanton cruelty give me the thoughtless girl of seventeen. That precious crew let him try to dance with them, mocked and guyed him when he stumbled over their feet or stepped on their dresses, and poked so much fun at him that at last he left the hall, his face flaming, and his eyes wet with tears of mortification. Little beast that Ted was, he took upon himself great credit for his humiliation and acted like a perfect cad for the rest of the evening, starting delighted giggles whenever possible by brilliant remarks about his backwoodsman. Later, as Ted and his fair companion were walking down Main Street on the way to her home, they met a little rat-eyed "townie" by the name of Dick Cooke whom Ted had thrashed a week before, for trying to steal his coat from a locker in the gym. He made an insulting remark to the girl and started to run. Seeing, as Ted believed, a cheap chance to play the hero, he piled after him. He only went a few feet, then turned and from out of the shadows of one of those old houses, four of his cronies lit into Ted. Ted went down with a crash, his head hitting the sidewalk so hard he saw stars. Then he heard a shout, "Stick it out, Ted, I'm coming!" There was a rush of heavy feet and spat, spat, spat, came the sound of bare fists landing where they were aimed. When Ted struggled to his feet his gawky roommate was standing beside him, and the "townies" were tearing down the street as though Old Nick himself were after them. Ted didn't make a long speech of apology for his meanness to his roommate. It's only in stories a boy does that, but, believe me, he treated him differently. And, would you believe it, in less than two months Aroostook was wading through the Andover line as if it were so much knitting yarn, and at mid-year Ted was taken into the Plata Dates on the sole recommendation of being his roommate. A fellow by the name of Burns once said, "Rank is but the guinea's stamp"; now, I don't know much about guineas, but what I do know is that the grain on a side of sole leather don't tell the whole story. It's the sound, clean, close-knit fibers underneath that make it figure right. Son, there's going to be a place at our Sunday dinner table for that "ham" of yours. Bring him home. I've a notion it's sweet pickle he needs to be cured in, not sour. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _October, 2, 19--_ DEAR TED: You could; but I wouldn't. If you go to the principal and tell him a senior sold you the wall paper in your room, he'd get your money back for you; and you'd get interest with it, not the six per cent kind either; but a guying from the whole school, and probably the nickname of "Wally", that would stick to you closer for the rest of your life than that paper stuck to your wall. You seemed surprised that any one who talked so nicely and seemed such a likeable, jovial sort of good fellow, would flim-flam you like that. Let me tell you right here, that the easy talkers and jolly good fellows, are the ones you want to watch in business sharper than an old maid watches her neighbors. The short worded man I'll listen to, for he condenses all he has to say, and is usually worth hearing. But when one of your slick word wrestlers gets by the outer guard, and begins filling my office with clouds of rosy talk of how I'll soon have John D. shining my shoes if I'll only buy goods of him, I slip my wallet into my hip pocket and lean back on it, while I make signs to Mike to clear a path to the door. Honestly, Ted, I'm glad you bought that wall paper. The male human is so constituted that he has got to make at least one fool investment during his life and it's just as well to get it out of your system early. If I were you, I'd write that six dollars down in my expense book as spent in a worthy cause, for it may save you from some day buying stock in the Panama Canal, or a controlling interest in the Brooklyn Bridge. Speaking of fool buys, naturally reminds me of the time your Ma and I were boarding with your Aunt Maria over in Saugus. We'd just been married, and I was spending my days bossing the sole leather room in Clough & Spinney's, and my nights in trying to figure how the fellow who said two can live as cheaply as one got his answer. Your Aunt Maria was a good woman, but so tight she squeaked, and when she let go of a dollar the eagle usually left his tail feathers behind. Aunt Maria, in my estimation, was the most unlikely prospect in the whole of Massachusetts, for a book agent, but one day a slick specimen representing, "The Heroines of English Literature," blew into her parlor, and when he left he had fifty dollars, in cash mind you, of her money, and an order for a set of twenty volumes. The next day, when she had somewhat recovered from the effects of her severe gassing; and had begun to think of that fifty, lost forever, her mouth looked as though she had been eating green persimmons, and she was about as amicable as a former heavy weight champion just after he has lost his title. For a month we had so many baked bean suppers, your Ma and I began to wonder if she had bought the world's supply, and took to accepting invitations from people we didn't like. Now Aunt Maria in spite of her closeness, was some punkins in Saugus society. She was president of the Sewing Circle, and a strenuous leader in the Eastern Star, and one Saturday afternoon about six weeks after she had invested in, "The Heroines of English Literature," the Sewing Circle was holding a meeting in her parlor, while I was in the dining room trying to figure out a trip to the Isle of Shoals for your Ma and me. After they had got through shooting to pieces the reputation of the absent members, and had guzzled their tea, one of the bunch spied "The Heroines" on a little side table where Aunt Maria had installed them upon their arrival. Out of sheer curiosity, the crowd fell upon them with cackles of delight, and to make themselves solid with their president, praised the books to the sky. Aunt Maria saw a great light; and before her guests left she had sold them enough sets so that the commissions from the publishers more than made up her fifty dollars, and as a special favor to her dearest friend she delivered her own set to her then and there. For a time, after that, "The Heroines" were the most popular reading matter that ever hit Saugus. Popular with the women, I mean, for the men figured Aunt Maria's epidemic of literature cost them a good many new suits of clothes, and the village watch dogs almost went on a strike, because there were so many collectors coming around after partial payments it was hard for a dog to tell whether they were tramps or new members of his family. [Illustration] Which all goes to prove that even a poor buy may sometimes be turned into a good account. Now you can draw some, Ted, or at least your teacher said you could, when he pried a hundred dollars out of me for pictures to decorate the high school. I told him you could overdraw your allowance all right, but he insisted you had true technique, whatever that is, so I loosened up. Why not try a little freehand stuff on your newly acquired wall paper! You might start a fad like Aunt Maria did, that would stamp you as one of the school weisenheimers, and by the way if the boy who sold you the wall paper isn't going to college tell him I'd like to see him some day. I'll need a cub salesman in the Middle West, next summer, and I don't like to see so much natural ability going to waste. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _October 15, 19--_ DEAR TED: There have been farmers and doctors and lawyers and preachers in the Soule family, and, in the old days, I believe we boasted of a pirate and a highwayman or two, but no artists, and I'd rather you didn't break the record. Am glad though the faculty didn't fire you, for carrying out that fool suggestion of mine of decorating the other boy's wall paper. Fifteen rooms is going some Ted, and the $30.00 you received will come in real handy to pay for new school books, won't it? After you've been tried here in the factory, to prove whether you can ever be made into a shoe manufacturer, and we decide you can't; I have no objection to your joining the grave diggers union, or driving a garbage cart, but as for your being an artist, you haven't a chance. Your Ma says I am prejudiced against artists because they are temperamental, but so far as I can see the accent must all be on the first part of the word for I never knew one who had brains enough to make a living. You remember Percy Benson, son of old man Benson who lived on Ocean Street, don't you? Well, Percy was a promising youngster until he began to draw the cover designs of the high school Clarion, although I told his father when he was born that the name Percy was too much of a handicap for any kid to carry successfully. The old man allowed he'd never heard of a shoe manufacturer with that name but said, "The boy's Ma got it out of a book she'd been reading and that settled it." and knowing Mrs. Benson I guess he was right. [Illustration] As I was saying, Percy did real well until he started drawing covers for the high school paper. After these had been accepted he swelled up like a pouter pigeon and nothing would do but he must go abroad to study. His father kicked like a steer; but in the end Percy and his mother prevailed, and Lynn lost sight of him for a few years. For a time, I used to ask the old man how Percy was getting along with his painting, but as he always changed the subject to the leather market, I soon quit. One day after Percy had been gone about three years, I came home early and found your Ma holding a tea fight in the parlor. After balancing a cup on my knees without spilling more than half of its contents, and getting myself so smeared with the frosting of the cake I was supposed to eat that I'd have given ten dollars for a shower bath, the conversation lulled, and remembering your Ma had told me I never talked enough in society, I asked Mrs. Benson how Percy was doing. Ted it tickled her most to pieces, and she opened up a barrage of technique, color, fore-shortening, and high lights, winding up with the astonishing fact that one of Percy's pictures had been hung in a saloon. I was gasping for breath like a marathon runner at the end of the twenty-third mile, but your Ma was all smiles so I thought I must be making a hit. That's where I went wrong, and while you're about it Ted just paste this in your hat for future reference. When you begin to be pleased with yourself you're in as much danger as a fat boy running tiddelies on early November ice. As saloon was the only word in the Benson cannonade that I understood, I replied when the bombardment was over. "Glad to hear it, I'm sure. If the French brewers are paying him for pictures to hang in their saloons, he should be able to paint some snappy clothing ads for American manufacturers before long." Mrs. Benson choked, gasped, strangled, and grew so red in the face I thought she was going to have apoplexy. Then she bounded out of her chair with one word, "insulting," and made for the door with your Ma one jump behind, imploring her to stay. When your Ma returned, I learned saloon was the French word for picture gallery, and that my society stock had gone down like an aviator in a nose dive. About a year later Old Man Benson busted trying to flood the retailers with bronze kid boots, and it was a real honest-to-goodness failure. The old man was wiped out and Percy came home from Paris. One morning I was over at the Benson's factory along with a bunch of other creditors. The meeting had hardly got under way, when Percy entered in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and with a breath that made me think the French knew what they were about when they called the place at which he had been studying Booze Arts. No one there had much love for Percy, but we all realized his father was too old to start again and that it was up to Percy to go to work, for from his general appearance it did not look as though the artist business was paying any dividends. So as gently as I could, I suggested he paint the inside of my factory at $25 per. I was pretty sure it was more than he was worth, but I felt sorry for the old man. Did he take it? He did not. He gave me one scornful glance and strode out of the room with the air of an insulted king. Did he go to work? Not much! He married a waitress at the Dairy Lunch who ought to have known better, and to-day she is working in the stitching room at Fair Bros. while Percy spends his days coloring photographs for about ten a week, and his nights preaching revolution at radical meetings. Forget the artist stuff Ted, and take a second helping of the education they pass around so liberally at Exeter. It can't hurt you any, and who knows but it may do you some good. And by the way if you can spare the time from your studies (and I guess you can if you try real hard) why not play a little football? Your Ma says she's afraid you'll have your brains knocked out, but I tell her not to worry over the impossible. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _October 21, 19--_ DEAR TED: As I was walking down Market Street to the factory the other afternoon, I overheard two of your old schoolmates refer to me as the father of the Exeter end. I'm glad you're on the team, and for the next year or two I don't mind being the father of a star end, provided you keep it firmly fixed in your head that it's just as important to keep old Julius Cæsar from slipping around you for twenty-five yards, as it is to keep the Andover quarter from running back kicks. After you go to work, if anyone refers to me as the father of an end, I'll feel like turning the factory over to the labor unions, because if there is anything that disgusts a live business man it's to see a young fellow in business trying to live on a former athletic reputation. Just you remember, son, that the letter on your sweater fades quickly; but the letters on a degree last through life. I didn't care much for that part of your last letter where you said you were afraid you were not good enough to hold down a regular job on the team, and I want to go on record right now that if that's the way you feel about it you're dead right. No man ever succeeded without confidence in himself, and it don't hurt any to let others know you have it. I don't mean boasting. I despise above all else a person who is in love. That is, with himself, but as yet I have never heard of a scientific organization of bushel raisers, so it won't do you a bit of harm to let a little of your light shine forth now and then. And, Ted, go out on the field every day with the idea that you're better than the average as a football player, and when you get a kick in the ribs or have your wind knocked out, come up with a grin and go back at 'em harder than before. Play to win, Ted, but play clean. Your coach doesn't tolerate dirty football, and I don't tolerate dirty business. Play nothing except football on the football field, do nothing except study in your class rooms, and when you go to work, work in business hours. If you stick to that prescription you'll come out with a pretty fair batting average at the end of your life. You say that if you play in the Andover game you'll be up against an opponent who will out-weigh you fifteen pounds. Don't let that worry you. No less a person than the great Lanky Bob said, "The bigger they are the 'arder they fall." All through your life you will be running up against men who are bigger than you physically, mentally, and in a business way, so it's just as well to get used to the fact while you're young. Your dreading your bigger opponent reminds me of something that happened to me when I was about your age. In those days the Annual Cattle and Poultry Show held at Epping was quite the event of our social season, and the one thing all the people looked forward to, for months. This particular year I had been saving my money a nickle here and a dime there, for your grandfather was determined none of his children should grow up to be spendthrifts, and would turn over in his grave if he knew the allowance I give you. You needn't tell your Ma this, but in those days I was sweet on Alice Hopkins who was the belle of the town, and after much careful planning and skillful maneuvering had wrung an ironclad promise from her to let me escort her to the show, and I was pretty sure she would keep it, for somehow she got wind of the fact that I had all of $10 to spend which was considerably more than any of her other swains had managed to accumulate. My father loaned me his best buggy for the occasion, and I spent the entire afternoon before the great day washing and polishing it, and grooming our bay mare until she shone; and believe me, I was some punkins in my own estimation when I drove up to Alice's house the next morning and she rustled in beside me in a new pink dress. As we rolled along the river road, the mist rising white from the marshes, the brilliant splashes of color on the sumac and maples, the autumn tang of the crisp September air, and Alice looking prettier each minute at my side, all made my thoughts turn toward a rosy future in which she and I would ride on and on. I was oblivious of the fact that my entire capital consisted of a spavined colt and the ten dollars in my pocket, and that I had about as much chance of gaining my parents' consent to marry, as a German has of being unanimously elected the first president of the League of Nations. Alice, I found after I had hitched the horse to the rail in the maple grove inside the fair grounds, had no such vague ideas. She had the curiosity of a savage, the digestion of an ostrich, and the greed of a miser. At her prompting we drank pink lemonade, ate frankfurters at every booth, and saw all the side shows, from the bearded lady and the blue monkey to the wild man from Borneo and the marvel who could write with his toes. At times I protested feebly, as my supply of dollars dwindled, but Alice would pout prettily and guide me gently by the elbow to the ticket seller, and then almost before I knew it another quarter had been squandered. At noon, I remembered the nice box of luncheon my mother had put up for us and which I left under the buggy seat, but Alice tossed her head and marched smack into the dining tent where a sloppy greasy meal was served at a dollar a plate. I followed meekly, groaning inwardly, for all I had left was three dollars, but trying to console myself with the reflection that after all the candy and popcorn, and frankfurters, and pink lemonade, and with a regular country dinner besides, Alice couldn't eat much in the afternoon and my wallet would get a rest while we watched the races. On our way over to the track, after dinner, I noticed a group of men and boys clustered about a placard which read, "Wrestling Tournament For Boys Under Eighteen." Now I was the champion wrestler of the village for I was big and strong for my age and quick as a cat, and when we drew near and I saw a prize of $10 was offered to the winner, I felt that there was a chance to retrieve my fallen fortunes and get the necessary wherewithal to feed Alice throughout the afternoon if her inclinations still ran in that direction. The judges entered me in the second group, the winner of which was to wrestle the winner of the first group for the championship. The second group was composed of boys all of whom I had defeated, and all of whom promptly withdrew when I entered. Two contestants remained in the first group, a great hulking farm boy, Caleb Henry, whom I had beaten the only time we had ever met, but only after a severe struggle on my part, and a little undersized shrimp of a fellow who looked half scared to death and whom I was sure I could lick with one arm. [Illustration] Hoping that by some miracle the little chap might win, for I had no hankering for a severe struggle with Caleb, I escorted Alice over to a seat beside the track and was overjoyed on my return to find my hopes had been fulfilled. As I threw off my coat and advanced with overflowing confidence toward the little unknown, he looked smaller and more insignificant than ever, and my head was so filled with the thoughts of the heaps of ice cream I could buy for Alice with the $10 prize money that I grappled my antagonist carelessly, and the next minute was giving a very creditable imitation of a pinwheel as I flew through the air lighting on the back of my neck, the little fellow sitting on my chest and pinning my shoulders to the grass. I spat out a mouthful of dirt and struggled to my feet. One of the legs of my Sunday pants was ripped clear to the knee, and one shirt sleeve was torn off. Again we grappled, and again I was thrown as quickly as before. Sore with defeat, I pulled on my coat and limped away with the jeers of the crowd echoing in my ears. Alice was not where I had left her, and after a half an hour's search I found her in a booth eating ice cream with Jim Davis, a hated rival who promptly informed me she had promised to ride home with him. Rats, you know, Ted, leave a ship under certain conditions. Yes, I got a licking from my father when I reached home for spoiling my Sunday suit. A corker it was, too, with a hickory branch. Oh! I forgot to say the little fellow who threw me so hard was the Champion Lightweight of New England. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _October 26, 19--_ DEAR TED: If you imagine I've been wringing tears out of my handkerchief, and wearing crepe on my hat since I got your last letter, you're as mistaken as the Kaiser was when he started out to lick the world. To tell the truth, Ted, I had to wipe a number eleven smile off my face when I reached the part about the seniors making you moan like new mown hay. From the way you have been strutting around Lynn the past few months, I rather expected there was something coming to you, so I wasn't surprised to learn you'd collected it, for things are so arranged in this world that people usually get what is due them, whether it's a million dollars or Charlestown. Some persons claim hazing is brutal. Maybe some kinds are; but your handwriting seems pretty firm in your last letter, especially in the part where you ask for an extra $10, so I guess you have not suffered any great damage. Personally, I have always maintained that hazing, if not carried too far, is the greatest little head reducer on the market, and it doesn't cost a dollar a bottle, war tax extra, either. Perhaps it is not in keeping with the lordly dignity of your advanced years, to furnish entertainment for your schoolmates by fighting five rounds with your shadow, or asking your girl to go to a dance over an imaginary telephone. You should remember, however, that your turn will come with the new boys next fall, and you've got a long time ahead in which to think up original stunts. Every time hazing is mentioned it reminds me of Sammy Smead and the Brothers of Mystery. I can't remember ever having told you about the Brothers, or Sammy either, for that matter, and as I have a few minutes before starting for the 10:30 to Boston, here goes! Sammy was the son of old Isaac Smead, sole owner of the Eureka Wooden Ware factory in Epping. As old Isaac could smell a dollar farther than a buzzard can a dead cow, and as he had in early life developed a habit of collecting farm mortgages, which in those days were about as easy to pay off as the national debt of Germany, he waxed sleek and prospered mightily, until at the time about which I write, he was not only Epping's wealthiest resident, but also a selectman, pillar in the Second Church, president of the bank, and general grand high mogul of everything. Sammy was the old man's only child, and knew it. He wore velvet pants: and patent leather shoes in the summer when all the other boys were barefooted; but his most heinous crime as I remembered it, was the round white starched collar he used to wear over the collar of his jacket. Sammy's mother did what she could to spoil him. At that she didn't have to put in any overtime, for he was about as willing a subject, as could possibly have been found. Those were the days, when any quantity of fraternal societies were coming into existence, and as Epping was a town where not more than five persons ever agreed on any one subject, it was a mighty good territory for new lodges. Naturally, with all the men joining the Amalgamated Brotherhood of Clodhoppers, and the order of Husbandmen, and the women scrambling over each other in a bargain counter rush to be charter members of the Sisters of Ceres, we boys thought we had something coming to us in the way of a secret society, so we gathered in Fatty Ferguson's barn one afternoon, and banded ourselves into the Brothers of Mystery. Fatty Ferguson being the proud possessor of a discarded uniform once worn by a member of the Epping Cornet Band, was elected Grand Exalted Ruler, and I was made Keeper of the Sacred Seal, although my chance of doing business, depended on our improbable capture of such an animal, which we planned to keep in Fred Allen's duck pond. The editor of the Epping Bugle printed some red silk badges for us to pin on our coats, and the Brothers were ready. At first, we attracted considerable attention at school by our badges, elaborate handclasps, and whispered passwords whenever two of the Brothers chanced to meet. As all the boys in our neighbourhood were members, with the exception of Sammy Smead, the novelty soon passed. Now Sammy had everything we boys had, and a good many things we hadn't, but like everyone else in the world, he wanted what he hadn't which at that particular time, was a full-fledged membership in the Brothers. Sammy, needless to say, had not been excluded from our select circle by chance, and it is doubtful if he would ever have become a member, if his mother, who was High Priestess of the Sisters of Ceres, had not found out that her darling had been left out in the cold. She straightway called upon my mother, who having designs on an office on the Executive Board of the Sisters, passed the word along to me that if I wanted a new sled for Christmas, it would be well to see that Sammy was made a Brother. Sammy being about as popular with the Brothers as sulphur and molasses, I was howled down when I proposed his name at a meeting, until I had a happy thought, that as all the Brothers were charter members, we had had no initiations. The idea of initiating Sammy, instantly became tremendously popular, and he was duly informed that he had been elected a member, and was told to report at our barn at three o'clock the next afternoon. [Illustration] Did Sammy show up? He did, velvet pants, patent leather shoes, white collar and all. Only a circus could have kept him away. We blindfolded him, and put him through a course of sprouts in the barn, including making him ride a pig bareback around the floor, and walk the plank which was a beam above the hay mow, and to which he hung like a cat, squalling and whimpering, until Skinny Mason stepped on his fingers and made him let go. Having exhausted the resources of the barn, we marched him out into the yard planning to hang him by the heels from a tree, when to our delight we discovered a two-wheeled iron barrel of tar, which the workman who had been mending our driveway, had left uncovered when he knocked off for the day. Instinctively, we marched Sammy up to the tar barrel, and I liberally daubed his hateful and, wonderful to relate, still clean collar with its contents, taking more pains to get it on his collar, than to keep it off his clothes. It was hard work, for the tar was lukewarm and naturally heavy; but I was making a pretty good job of it, when I heard Fred Allen yell, "Look Out!" [Illustration] I turned just in time, and saw charging full tilt across the yard my old billy goat. The Brothers scattered in all directions, but Sammy who was blindfolded and did not sense his danger, stood patiently waiting his fate. Billy struck him squarely amidships, and Sammy leaving his feet, described a beautiful curve in the air, and landed head first in the tar barrel, just as his mother, who had been visiting my mother, stepped out on the porch to see how her darling was enjoying himself with his little playmates. I only mentioned Sammy, to show you that you got off easy. The next time you are called upon to perform, do whatever is asked willingly. There's no fun in making a person do what he wants to do, and if you show no great indignation at doing a few tricks, you'll soon be let alone. Don't try to be funny, if you succeed you will have to give encores, and I take it that is not what you are after. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. P. S. I did not get a sled; but I did saw three cords of wood, stove length. LYNN, MASS., _October 30, 19--_ DEAR TED: Somehow the price of cut soles is worrying me more, just now, than the fact that you have not been elected to one of the school clubs. I realize that your not making one of the school clubs yet, is a terrible tragedy in your young life; but I feel as though you are going to survive, and perhaps you will be elected to one after all. I've found it a pretty good rule, not to figure a shipment of shoes a total loss even when the jobber writes that he's returning them, and if I were you I wouldn't borrow trouble until it's necessary. Trouble is the easiest thing in the world to borrow, and about the hardest to discount at the bank. Maybe it's just as well you are having your touch of society chills and fever young, for it may save you from making a bigger fool of yourself later on. No one minds a young fool much, but an old one is about as sad an object as a Louisville distiller attending a Supreme Court decision on the prohibition law. Society is all right, some of it; but just because you eat dessert at the end of your dinner, is no reason why you should make a meal of it. A little society, like the colic, goes a long way, and you want to remember that a man, like a piece of sole leather, usually figures out to what he is. Burns, not Frankie the lightweight, but Bobbie who used to edit the Edinborough Daily Blade, back in the days when freshmen wore whiskers and plug hats, hit the nail on the head when he said, "A man's a man, for a' that." I'll never forget when Aunt Carrie caught the society fever, nor will she. It was a couple of years before I was married, and it didn't make me want to postpone having a home of my own, although it did influence me to choose a girl who was society proof. After your Grandmother Soule died, Carrie ran our old house and was doing a pretty good job of it, until Algernon Smiley came to Epping as principal of the grammar school. Algernon wore spectacles, a lisp, and long hair, and he could spout more poetry than a gusher well can oil. At that, he was a harmless sort of insect, if the girls of the town hadn't taken him seriously. Algernon was a graduate of Harvard, and the only thing I ever had against that university. It didn't take him long to discover there was no real society in Epping, and not being at all backward about coming forward when he had anything to say, Carrie and her girl friends soon had the same idea. Now Epping had staggered along over two hundred years without the help of society, and was doing quite well thank you, with its church sociables, bean suppers, and candy pulls, until Algy butted in. Everything we did was all wrong. "There was no culture," and having the hearty backing of all the girls he set out to culturate us. His first offense was a series of lectures, but after the young men had listened to him rave about the art of Early Egyptian Dancing, and the history of Nothing before Something, they unanimously had previous engagements when Algy sprang a lecture. [Illustration] Next Algernon started a Browning Club, which consisted, so near as I could judge, in his reading a poem, and then everyone in the club expressing a different opinion as to what the poem meant. It may be good business for a poet to write a poem no one can understand, but believe me when I buy a rhyme for a street car ad it's got to be one every woman will recognize as advertising "The Princess Shoe." To get back to Algy, after a while the attendance at the Browning clubs began to get mighty poor, and he had to think up a new scheme to keep the town from getting decultured. Somehow, the little cuss had scraped an acquaintance with some pretty solid men on the Harvard faculty, and he managed to drag several of them up to Epping to deliver lectures, with the result that the culture business began to show a healthy growth. Epping was not stupid, it had been bored. Now while Algy had been trying to culturate Epping, he'd worn considerable horsehair off the sofa in Farmer Boggs' parlor, sitting up nights with his daughter Ruby. Ruby was a nice cow-like girl, who hadn't much to say and proved it when she talked, and as Algy was never so happy as when he was doing all the talking, he got along with her fine. Then, too, Pa Boggs owned free and clear the best farm in the township, and had $15,000 salted away in Boston and Maine stock, and Algy, for all his culture, wasn't overlooking any bets like those. Where Algy went wrong, was in patronizing people he thought didn't know as much as he. Whenever old man Boggs juggled beans with his knife, Algy would smile upon him so condescendingly the old man would almost bust with rage; and when Mrs. Boggs said "hain't" he would raise his eyes as though calling upon heaven to forgive her; but what blew the lid off came at a Browning Club meeting that Carrie had insisted upon having at our house. Algy imported a noted Professor to give a talk on Prehistoric Fish, and when the great man had finished, we all stood around, the girls telling him how much they enjoyed it, and the men wishing he would go, so they could retire to the kitchen and shirt sleeves. Poor Ruby, during a lull in the general conversation, started the old chestnut about Ben Perkins the light keeper at Kittery falling down the light house stairs, ending with, "and you know he had a basket of eggs in one hand, a pitcher of milk in the other, and when he reached the bottom they had turned into an omelette. Ain't spinal stairs awful?" At the word "spinal" the Professor snickered, and Algy who was always nasty when Ruby made a break, said, "I'm surprised at your ignorance Ruby: you mean spiral." Ruby began to cry, and everyone looked uncomfortable. I was hopping mad. I guess maybe it was the tight patent leather shoes I had on. Anyway I'd seen about enough of Algy. "Shut up, you Goat," I snapped at him. "Haven't you brains enough to know she meant the back stairs!" Algy claimed he was insulted. I allowed it wasn't possible. Then he said he was a fool to have tried to culturize Epping. I said I reckoned his allowing he was a fool, made it unanimous, and invited him out in the yard to settle things, although I never could have hit him, if he had accepted my invitation. In two weeks Algy left town, and the next fall Ruby married Will Hayes over at George's Mills, and has been happy ever since. Ted, I wouldn't think too much about those clubs. There's no use worrying about what people think of you; probably they don't. You've only been at Exeter a few weeks, so if I were you I wouldn't jump into the river yet. Now I'll admit it will please me if you are elected to a club, but if you aren't, I'm not going to go around with my head bowed in shame, and neither are you, for ten years from now, no one will be greatly interested whether you belonged to the Belta Pelts or the Plata Dates, and above all things don't toady. Eating dirt never got anyone anything. Look at Russia. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _November 6, 19--_ DEAR TED: I'm glad you've been elected to the Plata Dates, if for no other reason than because now that you have stopped worrying whether you would be, you will have time to worry about your studies. Don't you fool yourself that because E stood for excellent at the high school, I don't know that it stands for Execrable at Exeter. Now you are on the football team, it's better to have an E on your sweater, than on your report. I thought when you were elected to the Plata Dates, you would be bubbling over with joy, but your letters are about as cheerful as a hearse. The teachers are picking on you, the football coach doesn't recognize your ability, and even the seniors so far ignore your presence, by failing to remove their hats and step into the gutter when you come along. Whatever you do, don't get sorry for yourself. There's nothing in the world more silly than a person who is sorry for himself, and the ones who are, are always the ones who have no cause to be. Now I don't believe for a minute that the teachers at Exeter have picked you alone, out of five hundred boys, to jump on; they're too busy, and I guess your coach's main idea is to get a team together that can lick Andover, so it might be well, if you are finding people hard to please, to ask yourself if it's their fault. If you go into your classrooms with only part of your lessons learned, you aren't going to fool your teachers very long, and if you go on to the football field with an air that the coach can't show you anything he's not likely to try. Half knowledge, is the most dangerous thing in the world. I never saw a successful shoe manufacturer who only had half knowledge of making shoes, and I guess Walter Camp isn't putting anyone on his All American, who only knows how to play his position half way. You might as well make up your mind, Ted, to learn Virgil, from the "Arma virumque cano" thing to Finis. And it's just as well to let the coach think he can show you something about football: he only played three years on the Harvard 'Varsity, and even if you do know more than he, it will make him feel good. Being sorry for yourself is a bad habit. I had it once for a whole year, and believe me it was the worst year I ever put in, and I'm counting the panic of 1907 too. I'd been super. over at Clough & Spinney's in Georgetown for three years, and had the little shop running like a high-grade watch, when Henry Larney of Larney Bros. in Salem died and left the whole show to his son Claude. "But in trust" nevertheless, as the wills say, and it's a mighty good thing he did for Claude spent most of his time and all his money at Sheepshead Bay and Saratoga Springs, and couldn't tell a last from a foxing. Old Josiah Lane was trustee, and having about as much respect for Claude's ability as a shoemaker as I have for the Bolsheviki as business men, he looked around for someone to run the factory and lighted on me. When I got over being dizzy at the thought of running a five thousand pair factory, I grabbed the job, because I was afraid I'd refuse it if I stopped to consider the responsibility. That's a pretty good plan for you to follow, Ted. Don't let a big job scare you, just lay right into it, and if you keep both feet on the floor and don't rely too much on the bridge to make fancy shots, pretty soon the job begins to shrink, and you begin to grow, and before long you fit. I had every possible kind of trouble with the factory: a strike that tied us up flat for eight weeks in the middle of the summer, to a fire in the storehouse that destroyed five thousand cases of shoes and every blamed time I was in the midst of a mess, old Josiah Lane would blow in, and blow up. It seemed like the old cuss was always hovering around like a buzzard over a herd of sick cattle, and when he lighted on me I felt as though he went away with chunks of my hide in his skinny fingers. I was the worst shoemaker in the world, couldn't handle help, was a rotten financial man, had no head for details, and was so poor a buyer, it was a wonder some of the leather companies didn't run me for governor. As for production, he could make more shoes with a kit of cobbler's tools, than I could turn out with the help of the S. M. Co. That old bird used to sit in the office chewing fine cut, and drawling out sarcastic remarks, until I could have knocked him cold; but even then I realized that a man who made shoes from pegs to welts, knew something, and I needed all the knowledge I could get. After every bawling out, old Josiah used to creak to his feet, remarking, "I'll give ye another trial though I'm foolish to do it," while I stood by trembling with rage, wishing I wasn't married so I could bust his ugly old head open with a die. Gosh! I used to get mad for the things that happened weren't my fault. First, I thought how foolish I'd been to leave my soft job at Clough & Spinney's, then, I began to get mad at the factory, myself, and all the daily troubles that were forever piling in on me, and I determined I'd lick that job if it killed me. I gave more time to listening to old Josiah at my periodical dressing downs, and less time to hating him, and I lived in that old ark of a factory, until I knew every nail in every beam in its dirty ceiling, and could run any machine in it in the dark. Along in the late fall, the monthly balance sheets began to look less like the treasury statements of the Dominican Republic, but they weren't so promising that there was any danger of J. P. Morgan coming to me for advice on how to make money, and on the 15th of December I wrote out my resignation, and handed it to old Josiah. The old man never even read it. Just tore it up, threw it under the desk, and sat chewing his fine cut, until I thought I'd jump out the window if he didn't say something. "Want to git through do ye?" he drawled at last. "I don't want to, I am," I snapped back. Old Josiah reached in his pocket and handed me a paper. I opened it and nearly fainted. It was a three year contract calling for an annual $1000 increase in salary. When I hit the earth again, I looked at the old man sitting there wagging his jaws and grinning, but somehow his smile had lost its sarcasm, and he seemed less like one of these gargoyle things that the foreigners hang on the outside of their churches, and more like a shrewd kindly old Yankee shoemaker. Ted, I learned something that year besides how to run a big shoe factory. I learned that a rip snorting bawling out doesn't necessarily mean your superior thinks you a lightweight: if he couldn't see ability, he wouldn't take the trouble to cuss you. So when your teachers, or the coach, land on you don't think of "Harry Carey", (that isn't right but it's the nearest I can come to Jap for suicide) but if they land on you twice for the same mistake, pick out a nice deep spot in the jungle. If you don't the ivory hunters will get you. Cheer up Ted crepe is expensive, and when you get blue be glad of the things you haven't got. I will be in Exeter Saturday afternoon. Look for me on the 1:30. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _November 20, 19--_ DEAR TED: I didn't say anything about it when you were home last Sunday, for you were so happy basking in the glory of that thirty-five yard drop-kick that won the Andover game I hadn't the heart to cast any gloom, but honestly Ted, as a deacon in the First Church I don't enjoy walking to service with a son who looks like a combination of an Italian sunset and a rummage sale of Batik draperies. It's perfectly true that clothes don't make the man, but they help to, and because Joseph wore a coat of many colors and was chosen to rule a nation, is no reason for a young fellow to get himself up like an Irish Comedian at Keith's and expect to do likewise. Customs have changed a little in the last few thousand years, and although it may still be true that a South Sea Islander may rule the tribe by virtue of being the proud possessor of a plug hat and a red flannel petticoat, it doesn't follow that a passionate pink tie with purple dots, and pea green silk socks with bright yellow clocks, will help you to sell a bill of goods to a hard-headed buyer in Kenosha, Wisconsin. I don't want to rub it in too hard, for I realize that in boys there's an age for loud clothes, the same as there is in puppies for distemper, and that if given the right treatment they usually survive and are none the worse for their experience. I won't hire a salesman who wears sporty clothes and carts around a lot of jewelry, for when one of my men is calling on the trade he is not exhibiting the latest styles in haberdashery, but the latest samples of the "Heart of the Hide" line, for I've learned that a buyer whose attention is distracted from the goods in question is a buyer lost. All this reminds me of an experience I had when I was in my first and only year at Epping Academy. The Academy was really a high school although I believe my father did pay $10 a year for my tuition, and the teachers were called professors. Well anyhow, at that time my one ambition in life was to own a real tailor-made suit, vivid color and design preferred. Now buying my clothes had always been a simple matter, for when I needed a new suit which in my father's estimation was about once in two years, my mother and I drove over to the "Golden Bee Emporium: Boots & Shoes, Fancy Goods & Notions" at Bristol Centre, where, after much testing for wool between thumb and finger, and with the aid of lighted matches, and in direct opposition to my earnest request for brighter colors, I was always fitted out in a dark gray, or blue, or brown, ready made, and three sizes too large so I could grow into it. One afternoon on my way home from school, I stopped in at the Mansion House, to see if I could persuade Cy Clark, the clerk, to go fishing on the following Saturday. As I entered the door an array of tailors' samples, on a table by a front window, caught my eye. All thoughts of Cy promptly left my mind as I let my eyes feast longingly upon their checks and plaids and stripes. The salesman, seeing that his wares had me running in a circle, assured me that the Prince of Wales had a morning suit exactly like one of his particularly violent black and white checks and that Governor Harrison had just ordered three green and red plaids. The salesman informed me that $25 was the regular price but as a special favor I could buy at $20. Now I had $18 at home which I had earned that summer picking berries and doing chores, and finally protesting so violently I was sure he was going to weep, the drummer gave in and I raced home, broke open my china orange bank, and was back at the hotel having my measurements taken inside of ten minutes, for I was mortally afraid some one else would snap up the prize in my absence. For the next three weeks I hung around the express office so much that old Hi Monroe threatened to lick me if I didn't keep away and not pester him. Finally my suit came. To tell the truth, I was somewhat startled, when I opened the box, for although the sample was pretty noticeable, the effect of the cloth made up in a suit was wonderful. From a background of stripes and checks of different colors, little knobs of brilliant purple, yellow, red, blue, and green broke out like measles on a boy's face, and I felt that maybe after all I had been a little hasty in my choice. But when I tried the suit on, and gazed at myself in the mirror, my confidence returned, and I felt I had the one suit in town that would make people sit up and take notice. I was right. I entered the dining room that evening just as my father was raising his saucer of tea to his lips. "Good heavens!" he cried, spilling the tea in seven different directions. "Why William, what have you got on?" my mother asked. My brother Ted answered for her, "A rug." Do you know Ted, blamed if that suit didn't look like a rug, an oriental one made in Connecticut, and your Uncle called the turn, although I never forgave him for it. That's why I named you after him. At first, my father vowed no son of his was going to wear play actor's clothes around the village, but when he heard I had paid $18 for the suit, he changed his mind and said he wouldn't buy me another until it was worn out. Your Uncle Ted made a lot of cheap remarks about rugs, which I put down to jealousy, and general soreheadedness, because I had made him pay me the day before, a dollar he owed me for six months. Even Grandma Haskins vowed it looked more like a crazy quilt than a suit of clothes, and I was feeling pretty blue until my mother made them lay off. [Illustration] Next morning, I started for school, full of pride in my new clothes for I was sure my folks didn't know a nobby suit when they saw it, although there were knobs enough on that one for a blind man to see. Ted had sneaked out ahead of me though, and when I reached the school yard I was greeted with cries of "Rug," and "Good morning, your Royal Highness," and "How's Governor Harrison this morning?" Ted had told them all. On the way home, I met old Jed Bigelow in the square driving a green horse. Just as the horse got along side of me he shied, and then ran away throwing Jed into the ditch and ripping a wheel off his buggy. I always thought it was a piece of paper that did the trick, but Jed swore it was the suit and threatened to send the constable after me. How I hated that suit. At the end of two days I would never have worn it again but my father hid my other clothes and would only let me wear them to church on Sundays. Then I did my best to spoil it by wrestling and playing football in it, but the cloth was about an inch thick, it wouldn't tear and mud came off it like cheap blacking comes off a pair of shoes. Finally, at the end of the month, my mother came to my rescue and sent it to the poor in Boston and I want to state right here that it's probably still being worn somewhere in the slums of that city, for it never would wear out. It was the only indestructible suit ever made. Of course I know that as end on the football team you have a certain position to uphold, and I want you always to look well dressed; but I do wish you would try to choose clothes that I can't hear before you turn the corner, and by the way Ted, everything's going up except your marks. Now the football season's over perhaps you'll have more time to study. I'd try if I were you, it can't hurt you any. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _December 1, 19--_ DEAR TED: I can't say I was totally unprepared for the news, when your report came yesterday, for I met Professor Todd at the club a week ago and much against his will he had to admit, that when he asked you in your oral English exam., who wrote "The Merchant of Venice," you weren't sure whether it was Irvin Cobb or Robert W. Chambers. Naturally, I expected a disaster when the fall marks came, but I was not prepared for a massacre. I had hoped for a sprinkling of C's with maybe a couple of B's thrown in careless like for extra poundage; but that flock of D's and E's got under my hide. It's all very well, for you to say that you can't see how it's going to help you make shoes to know how many steps A must take to walk around three sides of a square field two hundred feet to a side, if he wears number eight shoes and stops two minutes when half way round to watch a dog fight; but let me tell you one thing, son, any training that will teach you to think quickly, and get the right answer before the other fellow stops scratching his head, is valuable. And to-day, in the shoe business, the man who can trim all the corners and figure his product to fractions, is the man who buys the limousines, while the fellow who runs on the good old hit or miss plan is settling with the leather companies for about fifteen cents on the dollar, and his wife is wondering whether she can make money by giving music lessons. Probation is a good deal like the "flu": easy to get, and liable to be pretty serious if you don't treat it with the respect it deserves. It isn't as if you were a fool. No son of your Ma's let alone mine could be, and your Grandfather Soule could have made a living selling snowballs to the Eskimos. It's pure kid laziness, and shiftlessness, mixed in with a little too much football, and not enough curiosity to see what's printed on the pages of your school books. Now you're on probation, there's only one thing to do, and that's what the fellow did who sat down by mistake on the red hot stove, and the quicker you do it the more comfortable it's going to be for all concerned including yourself. So far as I've been able to see, there's no real conspiracy among the teachers at Exeter to prevent your filling your pockets with all the education you can carry away, and if I were you I'd be real liberal in helping myself. Education is a pretty handy thing to have around, and it stays by you all your life. Just because I've succeeded without much, is no sign you can, and anyway you'll feel a lot more comfortable later on when the conversation turns to history, and you know the Dauphin was the French Prince of Wales, and not a fish, as I always thought, until I looked the word up in the Encyclopedia. Now I want you to sail into that Math., just as you hit the Andover quarter when he tried your end, and drop old J. Cæsar with a thud before he can get started. I know J. C. was a pretty tough bird, and how he ever found time to write all those books between scraps, I never could quite understand, unless he only fought an eight hour day, but it's your job to get him and get him hard. One thing, Ted, that's going to save you heaps of trouble if you can only get it firmly fixed in that head of yours, is that you can't get anywhere or anything without WORK. Just because you're the old man's son, isn't going to land you in a private office when you start in with William Soule. There's only one place in this factory a young fellow can start, whether he's a member of the Soule family or the son of a laborer, and that's bucking a truck in the shipping room at twelve per, where he'll get his hands full of splinters from the cases, and a dressing down from Mike that'll curl his hair whenever he makes a fool mistake. There's no short cut to achievement, and work is what'll land you on the top of the heap quicker than anything else, although I've seen a lot of lightweights who spent enough time working hard to avoid work, to succeed with half their energy if spent in the right direction. That reminds me of a fellow named Clarence I hired some years ago to make himself generally useful around the office. He said he was looking for work and he told the truth all right. He wanted to find out where it was, so he could keep away from it. I let him stay a couple of months because I rather enjoyed watching his methods. In the morning, he would spend the first two hours scheming how to get the other clerks to do his work for him, and in the afternoon he was so blame busy seeing they had done it, he had little time to do anything else. I had seen people who hated work, but I had never seen anyone before who avoided it as though it were the plague. The last straw came one afternoon when old Cyrus White of Black & White, the big St. Louis jobbers, walked out of my private office just after giving me an order for three thousand cases and tripped in a cord that fool work avoider Clarence had rigged up, so he could raise or lower the window shade without leaving his desk. Now old Cy weighs about two twenty and Clarence who had looped one end of the string around his wrist weighed about ninety-eight pounds with a straw hat on, so when Cy went down with a crash that shook the whole factory, he just naturally yanked Clarence right out of his chair, and the two of them became so tangled up in the cord, they lay like a couple of trussed fowls while the water cooler which had also capsized gurgled spring water down old Cy's neck. [Illustration] You're right, I lost that three thousand case order, and it was ten years before I could sell old Cy another bill of goods, and to make matters worse, I had to pay Clarence $200 damages, for in his rage Cy nearly bit off one of his ears. Ever since, when I find anyone on my pay roll who is working to avoid work, he gets a swift trip to the sidewalk. Now I'm not going to stop your allowance because you're on probation, I've more heart for the suffering Exeter shopkeepers than to do that. Neither am I going to forbid your going to the Christmas house party: those would be kid punishments and you're no longer a kid, although you've been acting like one for some time. I'm simply putting it up to you as a man to get off probation by New Year's, and I want you to remember that as a 'varsity' end you've got to set a good example to the "preps." Think it over. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _December 10, 19--_ DEAR TED: I always thought J. Cæsar, Esq., and one Virgil wrote Latin, but when I was in your room last Saturday afternoon I saw you had copies of their books in English. Now I'll admit that an English translation is the only way I could ever read those old timers. Latin is as much a mystery to me as the income tax; but one reason I am sending you to Exeter, is so you can play those fellows on their home grounds with a fair chance of winning. I always thought you were a pretty good sport Ted, and I have always tried to teach you the game, and to play it square. I still think you're a good sport, and the only reason you are using those "trots" is because you haven't stopped to consider how unfair it is to J. Cæsar & Co. I have a sneaking sort of liking for those old birds. J. Cæsar was the world's first heavyweight champion, and in his palmy days could have made Jack Dempsey step around some, and as for Virgil he could make words do tricks even better than I. W. W. meaning I. Woodrow Wilson. So it was a sort of shock to me to see you giving them a raw deal. When you get right down to cases, son, your lessons are one of the few things that can't beat you if you study 'em, so it's pretty small punkins to try to rig the game against 'em. A shoemaker can buy his leather right, and figure his costs correctly on an order, but the buyer may get cold feet and refuse them, or the unions may call a strike, or one of about a hundred other things may happen to knock the profits higher than one of Babe Ruth's home runs. With lessons it's different. Study them and they can't beat you. You wouldn't expect much glory if the Andover team you beat had been made up of one legged men. What about the handicap you're making the All-Romans play under when you tackle them with a couple of "trots" in your fists. There's another reason I don't want you using "trots", and it's because it's liable to get you into the habit of doing things the easiest way. Now anyone is a boob if he doesn't do a thing the easiest way provided it's the right way; but he's more of a boob if he does a thing the easiest way only because it's the easiest way. And using English translations on your Latin is like paying number one prices for a block of poor damaged leather: it may be easier to get the leather, but when it's made into shoes and you begin to hunt for the profit you find it's gone A. W. O. L. I don't remember ever having told you about Freddy Bean, but speaking of doing things the easiest way reminds me of him, so while I have the time I'll tell you. Freddy's Pa ran a little store in Epping just across from the railroad station, where according to its sign he sold Books, Magazines, Newspapers & Stationery, and as he owned his own house and had a thrifty wife he managed to make a living although Epping was not a literary community. Pa Bean was an inoffensive little fellow who always wore a white tie with his everyday clothes, and loved to work out the piano rebuses in the newspapers in the evenings. He had advanced ideas on politics, was a single taxer, and to-day would be classed as a radical. Then we used to call him Half-Baked. Freddy was a good average boy and likeable enough except for his one bad habit of wanting to do everything the easiest way, and believe me he carried it to extremes. He used to sleep in his clothes because it was easier than dressing in the morning, but his Ma walloped that out of him. Then he had the bright idea of putting a sign with the price marked on it on most of the articles in his Pa's shop and going to the ball game, when the old gentleman went over to Bristol Centre Saturday afternoons on business. This worked all right at first for the Epping folks were honest, but one Saturday some strangers carried off about $100 worth of goods and Freddy got his from his father and got it good. I could tell you a lot about the messes Freddy got into trying to do things the easiest way, but the super. is hanging around with a lot of inventory sheets so I'll have to cut this short with Freddy's prize performance. One summer morning Freddy's Pa and Ma went away for the day, but before they started Half Baked led Freddy out into the yard, shoved an axe into his unwilling hands and ordered him to cut down an oak that stood close to one side of the house, and was growing so big it was shutting out a lot of sunlight. Now there wasn't a boy in Epping at that time who hadn't had considerable experience in chopping wood, unless it was Sammy Smead and he never counted anyway except on the afternoon we initiated him into the Brothers of Mystery, and there wasn't one of us who didn't hate it; but Freddy loathed it more than anything else, principally I guess, because there wasn't any easy way out. If you had to cut wood you had to cut it, and that's all there was to it. Along about two that afternoon, a crowd of us boys bound for the swimming hole happened by Freddy's house, and found him pretty limp and blistery. He'd only hacked about half through the tree, but I think his mental anguish was worse than his physical exhaustion, because scheme as he might he had hit on no easy way to fell that oak, and the job looked as though it would last till sundown. Freddy was a good diplomat, and he tried all the Tom Sawyer stuff on us he carried, but not a chance. There was not one of us who would chop wood when he didn't positively have to, and it looked as though Freddy was going to chop until the job was finished, when Dick Harris said something about blowing it up with some gunpowder his father had stored in a keg in his corn crib. There was not one of us who would have helped Freddy cut down the tree, neither was there one of us who would refuse to help him blow it up, and Freddy, because he saw an easy way out, was the most enthusiastic of all. We did it. First we dug a hole about four feet deep at the foot of the tree and buried the keg of powder after boring a hole in the top for a fuse. We packed the dirt down tight all around the keg leaving just enough loose to run the fuse through. Then Freddy as master of ceremonies lighted the fuse and we stepped back to wait results. We didn't wait long. There was a roar and we found ourselves on the grass in the midst of what resembled a volcano on the war path. Dirt, stones, grass, sticks, and heaven knows what else were milling around us in clouds, and out of the corner of one eye I saw Ma Bean's geranium bed sail gaily across the street and drape itself over Mrs. Harry Brown's front gate. Glass was falling around us like shrapnel, for every window in the Bean's house shivered itself out onto the lawn. The tree--well, Sir, it fell on the house, knocked off a chimney and broke down the piazza roof, and the next day Half Baked had to hire Jed Snow's team of oxen to pull it clear before they could even start cutting it up. [Illustration] I've a very vivid recollection of what my father gave me, and I rather think Freddy's was the same only more so, in fact none of the crowd slid bases for some time, and Half Baked made Freddy cut six cords of wood during the next month. I don't know what has become of Freddy, but I have never seen his name in the headlines, so I guess he's still hunting for easy ways to do things, but you can bet he's left gunpowder out of his schemes for the last forty years. Now Ted you just mail me those "trots." I'll enjoy them, and you give those old timers a fair show from now on. It's not sporting Ted to pull a "pony" on them, for they can't win any way if you don't want them to. Play the game. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _January 27, 19--_ DEAR TED: That notice from Professor Todd stating that you had been taken off probation was the most welcome bit of news I've had in a long time, and the enclosed check is my way of saying thank you. I knew if you once stopped fooling and got right down to cases, that none of those old best sellers like J. C. or Virgil could hold you for downs, and as for Quadratic Equations, your instructor writes me that if you'll take 'em seriously you can make 'em eat out of your hand. Now you're again on speaking terms with your lessons, you can keep their friendship by visiting with them a couple of hours a day, and when they once learn you mean business they'll follow you around like a hungry cat follows the milk man. There's nothing succeeds like success, whether it's getting respectable marks in your studies, or selling shoes, and if you don't believe it ask Charlie Dean. Probably you've always thought of Charlie as my star salesman and you're right, but it wasn't many years ago Charlie couldn't have sold five dollar gold pieces for a quarter, even if he gave a patent corn cutter away with each as a premium. Charlie came to work for me right out of the high school, and as he was always willing to do a little more than his share around the office, I decided to give him a try on the road, where he'd have a chance to make real money. So when a younger salesman left me one New Year's, I put Charlie through a course of sprouts in the factory to be sure he knew how the "Heart of the Hide" line was made, gave him a couple of trunks full of new samples, and shipped him out to the middle west. Charlie was gone three months and he didn't sell enough goods to pay the express on his samples, but realizing a cub salesman's first trip is always his hardest, I swallowed my tongue and sent him out again. I couldn't understand it. Charlie was no loafer, and I felt sure he was working hard each day, but he had no more success in persuading buyers to stock "The Heart of the Hide" line than old King Canute had in bossing the sea around. If he had done fairly well, I'd thought he was just green and would develop, but when he had been out six months and his sales record sheet was as white as a field of new fallen snow, I decided too much was enough, and wired him to return to the factory, for Fair Bros. were getting more solid in that territory every day, and I simply had to have distribution there. When Charlie arrived in Lynn, I was going to fire him, for I never believed in putting a man back in the office who has been on the road. He's too liable to be down on the house, and afflict all the other clerks with the same poison; but Charlie pleaded so hard to stay, I finally gave him back his old job, and, as he showed no signs of being a trouble maker, I paid him no further attention. The next winter, I had a hunch that women's fall styles would run heavy on calfskin, so I loaded up with a hundred thousand pairs of heavyweight cut soles and patted myself on the back that I had put one over on the trade. A few weeks later, the buyers made so loud a noise about Vici Kid a deaf mute could have heard 'em. There I was, caught flatfooted with a hundred thousand pairs of soles stored in the basement, and the market on them dropping every day so fast I got dizzy when I tried to figure out how much I stood to lose. I tried to take a loss and turn them back to the manufacturer. Nothing doing, nor would any other cut sole house take them except at a price that would have come near to busting me. Next I tried the manufacturers of women's shoes, not a chance. Then as the soles ran pretty heavy I tried boys' makers, again nothing doing. I was getting desperate, for I had a lot of money tied up in those soles, and so far as I could see I was liable to own 'em for some time unless the sheriff took 'em. One morning, I happened to think of Al Lippincott. You know his factory in Dover, the red one you can see from the station? Al makes a line of boys' and youths', but he is the hardest buyer in the whole trade, a regular rip tearing snorter who begins to yell the minute a salesman steps into his office, and keeps it up until the salesman either wants to lick him or to beat it. I got Al on the long distance, and finally, after his usual outburst that nearly melted the wire, he allowed he was going to be in Lynn that afternoon and would drop in. I went home feeling somewhat better, but while I was eating lunch the telephone rang, and I learned your Ma had been badly smashed up in an automobile accident, and had been taken to the Salem Hospital. I never thought of Al again until I was going to bed that night, and then I was so worried about your Ma I didn't care much whether he'd called or not. The next morning, when I rolled back the top of my desk, I found an order for the whole hundred thousand pairs of cut soles made out in Charlie Dean's handwriting and billed to Al Lippincott at two cents a pair more than I had paid for 'em. I never asked Charlie how he made the sale, and he never told me, but when he asked for another chance on the road he got it, and knowing he'd sold the toughest man in the United States he made good from the kick-off. I only mention Charlie because when you were on probation you were in the same kind of fix he was before he sold Al Lippincott. Now you know you can lick those studies of yours. I want you to crowd 'em so hard the teachers will mark down at least a B for you when you get up to recite. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _February 10, 19--_ DEAR TED: This trouble you seem to be having with your eyes, is causing your Ma a great deal of worry. She has visions of a blind son tapping his way through life with a cane and I expect in a few days, she'll have reached the dog on a leash stage. I'd be more worried, if I hadn't happened to remember that the mid-years are only two weeks off, and that eye trouble is one of the best known alibis. Your suggestion of coming home early Sunday, so you can give your eyes a rest, I agree to most heartily. We'll go into Boston and have an oculist examine you. Then if you need glasses, I'll see that you get them, and if you don't, you're out of luck if you're trying to establish an alibi for flunking your exams. Eyesight is a mighty curious thing. Some folks get so nearsighted they'll step over a ten dollar bill to pick up a nickel, and others can see a dollar a pair profit in a shipment of shoes the ordinary manufacturer would be glad to sell at cost. It takes pretty good eyesight to be a successful shoe manufacturer nowadays, for it's the ability to see profits where they don't exist, and then handle your output so that you make two little profits grow where only one grew before, that buys new tires for the car, and sends sons to "prep" schools. Somehow, your reports don't make me feel you've strained your eyes studying. If you had, you wouldn't have made the break you did in your oral English exam. when according to Professor Todd you stated that Ben Johnson was president of the American League. Then, too, I haven't had an excess electric light bill from the school, so it's hard for me to believe your eyesight has been ruined by your burning the midnight electricity. I remember a clerk I once had in the office, who had a terrible time with his eyes, especially, when he was about due for a bawling out for some fool mistake. He once made out a lot of shoe tags with the specifications calling for eight iron soles on comfort slippers, and when I was about to claw his hide for such a blunder, he claimed his desk was so far from a window he couldn't half see. I remembered that a lot of folks can read real well by electric light, and there was a hundred candle power bulb right over him; but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and moved him over beside a window. Two weeks later, he made a mistake in a bill that cost me several hundred dollars, and then it was the bright light that dazzled him. I was suspicious, but he pleaded so hard for a day off, to rest his poor eyes in a darkened room, I told him to go ahead, and the next noon as I was driving home along the boulevard I spotted him fishing from some rocks, in a glare that would have made an Arab see green. I meant to fire him, but I was so busy I forgot it, and for a month he went along without making a noticeable mistake. Then he came to me one day for a raise. I told him that his eyesight was so poor, that if the cashier put any extra money in his envelope he'd never even see it, and that he'd better strain his eyes a little looking for another job, as I couldn't have the responsibility on my shoulders of his going blind while working for me. The old man wasn't born yesterday, Ted, and having had considerable experience with eyesight alibis he's a bit gun shy. Perhaps one reason I'm a little suspicious of this eye trouble of yours, is that I have a very vivid recollection of your Uncle Ted the first year he was at boarding school. Ted started out like a whirlwind that fall, all A's and B's in his studies, until along in November he began to get more interested in wrestling with a flute he was trying to learn to play, than with his lessons, so that in December his marks had a striking resemblance to those of the present-day Germany. In January, he developed serious eye trouble. He wrote home that his eyes were so bad he couldn't study, and was sure to fail at mid-year. Whether my father believed the first part of his wail I never knew, but I'm sure he did the second. Anyway he collared Ted one Saturday afternoon, and drove him over to the oculist at Bristol Centre taking me along as ballast. Ted put up some pretty good arguments against going, claiming a terrible headache and a violent pain in his stomach. My father made him though, and when we finally reached the oculist, Ted really did look sick enough to have had not only eye trouble, but about all the other known diseases, as well. Doctor Boggs, who was a queer little scrap of a man, as quick tempered as gunpowder, plumped Ted down in a chair, and began to peer at his eyes through a magnifying glass. The more he looked, the more nervous Ted became. Finally, the doctor asked him if his eyes felt any better, and Ted allowed they did. Then the doctor put a lot of charts up about twenty feet away, and asked Ted to read the letters on them, which he did so quickly the doctor couldn't change the charts fast enough. I grinned, for by then I was sure Ted was faking. Ted also realized that for a boy whose eyes had been causing him so much trouble, he'd been giving a remarkable exhibition so when Doctor Boggs began trying different glasses on him, Ted protested that he couldn't see a thing with any of them. The doctor was very patient, trying on pair after pair, Ted groaning louder with each new one. At last, the old fellow stopped for a few minutes and rummaged around in a desk drawer where he kept a lot of his eyeglasses. Suddenly, he turned to Ted clapped a new pair on his nose, and stood back smiling sweetly at him. "There my boy," he said, as sweet as honey. "Those are much better, aren't they!" I took a look at Ted and almost choked. Then I realized what was coming to him, so I tried to pass him the high sign. It was too late. "Those are the only ones I've been able to see through, doctor," Ted chirped innocently. The next instant, the doctor with one word "Fraud!" grabbed Ted by an ear and marched him to the door, while father followed looking about as pleasant as a thunder storm. You've probably guessed the reason why already. There was no glass in the last frames. After we got home, father and Ted retired to the woodshed and I heard the most heartrending sounds. When Ted returned to school his marks began to improve at once, and they kept on getting better and better until the end of the year, and since that day Ted has never had on a pair of glasses. It was one of the quickest and most complete cures of eye trouble ever recorded, and it also proved that old Doctor Boggs knew his job. Faking is mighty poor business Ted, whether it's trying to establish an alibi for flunking your school exams, or making army shoes with paper soles for the government. The first is apt to get you into the habit of shirking your work, and the second is mighty likely to land you in jail. Some business men, not many, by faking the quality of their goods shoot up like a sky rocket, but when the time for repeat orders comes along, they come down like the stick, and if there's anything any more useless than the spent stick of a sky rocket, it's a man who tries to ease his way through life on alibis. Do your best and stand by it. If it is your best, you have no cause to be ashamed no matter how it turns out, and remember that a man who never made a mistake never made anything. My boy, if there really is something the matter with your eyes, we can't have them attended to any too quickly, and if there isn't I somehow feel a little frankness now, on my part, may effect almost as rapid a cure as your Uncle Ted's and without any painful ending. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _February 20, 19--_ DEAR TED: My boy, I owe you an apology for doubting you had eye trouble. It was hard for me to believe you were faking; but the circumstantial evidence against you was pretty strong. I should have known better, though, for you have always played fair with me so I ask your pardon. That letter from the oculist, in Portsmouth, saying you needed glasses was a relief and a disappointment. A relief, to know you weren't trying to slip one over, and a disappointment to learn you must wear glasses. Don't let wearing glasses disturb you. You won't need them when you are playing football, and if you only wear them when you read your nose won't be disfigured by the strain. It's funny how a young fellow like you, who has the time and the education to appreciate them, don't seem to care about reading good books, while an old rough and ready like your dad, can't have enough of them. When I was your age, I was too busy trying to help support the family, to find time to read much besides the Epping Bugle, whereas, you seem to be too busy figuring out how to have a good time, to care what the biggest men of the world thought about things. You've wanted to know why I am always buying so many books, and although I never realized it before, I guess it's because I couldn't have them when I was young. Yes, on that house party at Manchester, Ted, go ahead and have a good time and while I remember it here's a check that may come in handy for a few extras. If I were you, I'd take all the extras in the way of clothes you can cram into a suit case. Forewarned is forearmed you know, and it's just as well when going to a house party, or to a fight, to carry all the heavy artillery you muster, for you never can be sure you won't need it. I've been to only one house party, and I don't expect I shall ever go to another; but if I do even if it's only for a week end, I'm going to take every rag of clothing I own from oilskins to dress suit, not forgetting rubber boots and pumps, especially the pumps. I believe a person is supposed to have a good time at a house party, but my only offense was about as enjoyable as the time I had typhoid. Perhaps you remember the summer your Ma and I went to Pittsfield for two weeks, and left you with your Aunt Sarah over at Marblehead. Well anyway we did, and I haven't thought much of Pittsfield since. We got there on a Friday, and the next morning I went down town for something and ran slap into Jack Hamilton. Jack and I were boys together in Epping, and used to do considerable business trading rabbits and whatever live stock we happened to own. Jack left Epping when he was seventeen, went to work for a stock broker in Boston, and made barrels of money, incidently marrying a Philadelphia girl who had callouses on her thumbs from cutting coupons. Jack has always been my broker and handled all my finances, but for a good many years we hadn't seen much of each other socially, so when he suggested your Ma and I go out that afternoon to his cottage in Lenox, and stay over Sunday, I was glad to accept, thinking we'd have a chance to talk over old times. I went back to the hotel and told your Ma, and then promptly forgot all about it, for there was an old fellow living in Pittsfield who'd just invented an extension last that looked good to me. I spent most of the afternoon in the old inventor's shop and when I returned to the hotel along about five, I found a high-wheeled cart outside which Jack had sent over to get us, and your Ma having duck fits for fear I wouldn't show up. She said she'd put everything in my suit case I'd need, so I only slicked up a bit and we were off. It was a mighty pretty ride over to Lenox, but when we turned in at the gate to Jack's cottage, I thought our driver had made a mistake, for the place looked bigger than the Boston Public Library, and about as homelike as a New York apartment house. A frozen-faced individual in brass-buttoned red vest and a waiter's uniform met us at the front door, and when I told him I was William Soule of Lynn he led the way into the hall and disappeared. We hung around for some time. Then a maid came along and showed us to our rooms. It was a mighty nice room I had, with pink silk wall coverings and gray wicker furniture, and with a tiled bath off it, that gleamed like a Pullman porter's smile. I looked the bed over carefully, decided it was comfortable, and then thought I'd go out in the yard and walk around. As I stepped on to the piazza, a haughty-faced woman disentangled herself from a group of ladies who were playing cards, and came towards me murmuring, Mr. Soule? I pleaded guilty, and she extended two cold fingers, that had about as much cordiality in them as a dead smelt, and said she was pleased to meet me. From her tone, I judged she wasn't going to lead any cheers over the fact, so I bowed politely and marched on out to the stables in front of which I saw a boy exercising a mighty likely-looking colt. Jack had some fine horses, and a wonderful herd of Jerseys. His head groom was a real human sort of chap, who knew more about cattle than any man I ever met, and we were having a real good visit together when a gong like a fire alarm started somewhere in the house. I made the piazza in three jumps, tore through the hall and up the stairs determined to get your Ma out before the house burned down, for what I'd seen of the Lenox Fire Department, sitting in his shirt sleeves before the door of the hose house as we drove over from Pittsfield, hadn't inspired me with any great amount of confidence in his ability to put out anything bigger than a bonfire. As I rushed into the upper hall, I thought it funny I didn't smell smoke, so when I ran smack into a maid I grabbed her and asked her where the fire was. "Fire!" she squealed. "Yes," I answered, "wasn't that a fire gong?" Ted, you should have seen her face. I thought she'd choke. She did her best to keep it straight, and not laugh, but it was some struggle. At last she managed to stammer, that the gong wasn't for fire at all, but to let the guests know it was time to dress for dinner. I felt as big as a man on Broadway looks from the tower of the Woolworth building, so I slipped her a dollar and ducked for my room. There I sat down to get my breath, hoping that girl wouldn't tell on me, and wishing I was back in Lynn, for I saw rough weather ahead unless I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut. I shaved, and started to climb into my regimentals. Your Ma had put in shirts, studs, collars, tie, vest, coat, silk socks, pants, and every last article of necessary trappings except pumps, and pumps were about as necessary to me then as a little leather is to a pair of shoes. I had a horrible sort of feeling as though my stomach was slowly revolving around inside of me, and my legs felt as if they were trying to go two ways at once, for I had worn a pair of tan shoes over from Pittsfield, and I knew from the glimpse I'd caught of Mrs. Hamilton's friends, that if I didn't wear my dress suit I'd rank lower than the deuce in that game. Just how to wear that dress suit I couldn't quite figure out. It had to be done, that was certain, but as raw as I was on society stuff, I knew tan shoes and full dress would not get by. Then I remembered the bell in the wall beside the bed. In two jumps I had a thumb on it squeezing for dear life, for I thought if one of the servants answered, I could get word out to my friend the head groom to lend me a pair of black shoes. What size didn't matter, I'd have made any size fit. Then I heard someone running along the hall outside, and yanked open the door in the face of the same maid I'd asked about the gong. I slammed the door shut and looked at my watch. It was seven o'clock, and I figured half an hour at the most, was all the time I had to get a pair of black shoes, and from the way I was located, a pair of black shoes seemed as easy to get as money from the government on a war contract. [Illustration] Jack wasn't home, and anyway he wore shoes about three sizes smaller than mine, and as for his wife she was out of the question. I'd about decided to go to bed and play sick, when I happened to glance out of the window and saw a girl about fifteen riding a horse around the circular drive in front of the house. She was a real friendly-looking kid, and grinned up at me as she passed, so the next time she came around I leaned out and beckoned to her. She rode up under my window, and I told her the fix I was in. "What size?" she asked without any hesitation. "Anything from nine up," I replied. "Gimme some money," she said. I dropped her a ten spot. She caught it and was off, tearing down the drive like a jockey, and twenty minutes later she shoved a pair of pumps through my door she'd bought in Pittsfield, and I sailed down to dinner a trifle late, but as dignified as a London alderman. Now Ted you've had considerable more experience with society than I've had, and probably you won't make any break at that house party, but if I were you after you get your suit case packed, I'd go through it a second time to see if anything's missing. Carefulness is a mighty handy habit to have around the house, whether it's a man's ability to look far enough ahead not to borrow on his insurance policy, or his wife's skill in keeping down the bills. I've had clerks in the office who'd do a job in jig time and leave behind enough mistakes to make the Bolsheviki envious, and when it comes time to sweeten salaries they are always surprised and hurt, because they are passed by for the fellows who haven't such fancy windups, but do have better control. Speed is a tremendous asset to-day, and when it's combined with control it's almost unbeatable. For example, Walter Johnson. Still, I've seen old Cicotte mow down the Red Sox with only two hits when he hadn't enough speed to break a window, and you'll find that a young fellow who can do a job in half a day, and get it right, is a better man to have on your pay roll than a chap who can do the same work in half an hour, and then spend a day correcting his mistakes. Have a good time, and perhaps when you get back to school your eyes will feel better so you can make a creditable showing at your mid-years. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. P. S. The girl who bought me the pumps is Jack Hamilton's daughter. She's married and has three children so don't get excited. LYNN, MASS., _February 28, 19--_ DEAR TED: I did considerable wondering while you were home last week, why it was your clothes carried a reek that seemed a cross between a tannery vat and a grease extractor. Your Ma says "stink" is vulgar. Maybe it is, but it's good plain English, and it describes that poison gas you seemed to be carrying around with you, better than any such ladylike word as smell. I wasn't wise until you stopped at the corner on the way to the station and lighted one. I was looking out the window at the time, and it made me plumb disgusted to see you swagger off polluting the air with a cigarette. Now I never believed in raising a boy on "Don't." When you say "Don't" do a thing, the average person at once wants to do the very thing you tell him not to do, although before you had forbidden it, you probably could not have hired him to do it. "Don'ts" were what got the Germans in bad. When I was in Berlin in '99 attending the International Shoe Manufacturers' Congress, there were "Verboten" signs on pretty nearly everything. "Verboten" is German for "Keep off the Grass," or something like that, anyway it means "Don't," and every time I saw one of those blamed signs, I immediately wanted to do what was forbidden. One evening Al Lippincott and I strayed away from the bunch, and wandered into a sort of open air garden. There was a theatre, with a vaudeville show that the Watch and Ward Society at home would have closed up the first night. But the music was fine, so we picked out a table and ordered a light lunch of pickled pigs feet and sauerkraut, and were attending strictly to business when the manager, followed by two German army officers, walked up, and informed us we'd have to give up our seats. Seems they had some fool rule about civilians having to clear out if army officers wanted their table. Now Al has always had dyspepsia, and the pickled pigs feet and sauerkraut had not done his stomach any good, and I had been "verbotened" almost to death ever since I had been in Berlin so we told them to run away and play, and turned our backs. The next instant someone grabbed Al by the coat collar and gave him a shake. "Do you not understand pig dog it is verboten?" a voice said. Al wrenched free, and saw it was the younger of the two officers who had given him the shaking. He was a pasty faced, pimperly, fair-haired young man, with a monocle in one eye, and a waist that looked like it was made that way by corsets, and he had a 45 calibre sword dangling by his side that was bigger than any the Crusaders ever carried. If he hadn't said "verboten," Al might have given him a good bawling out and let it go at that, but "verboten" to us by that time was like waving a red flag in front of a he cow, so Al gave him a good shove. The officer tripped over his sword and sat down ker-splash in a plate of hot soup an old lady was eating at the next table. Waiters came running from all directions, but Al and I grabbed up a couple of chairs and they danced around in a circle not daring to close, while the soup spiller and his friend sputtered with rage. "I am disgraced," yelled the one Al capsized. "I want to fight. I would kill you, but you are not titled. I'm disgraced." "You're a disgrace, all right," Al interrupted, "but if you want a fight, I guess we can help you out. I'm the Earl of Dover," he continued kicking a waiter in the shin who had come too near for safety, "and my friend here is the Duke of Lynn, so if you know some nice quiet place where we can settle this without gloves, lead on, we're with you." At the mention of our titles the officers quieted down, and whispered together, then the older one bowed stiffly to me and said, "My friend accepts your friend's challenge. Follow us if you please." They stalked out. Al and I followed. We turned into a side street, and finally came into a quiet square with a watering trough in the centre. "We will not be interrupted here," said the older officer. "Fine," Al replied, peeling off his coat, while the soup spiller did the same. "Here is a sword," said the older officer handing Al his. "What's that for?" Al asked. "To fight with," the officer replied. "I fight with my fists," Al shouted. "Fighting with the fists is verboten," the officer replied. "Get out of my way" Al yelled, and, shoving him aside, he grabbed the younger, sat down on the edge of the watering trough, spread him across his lap, and gave him with his own sword a good spanking, while the older one danced around yelling like a wild man. Ted, you never heard such a yowling and hollering as those two set up. It would have raised the dead, and it did raise about twenty police, who grabbed us just as Al was ducking the younger one in the watering trough for the second time. Well sir, they carted Al and me off to jail, and dumped us into a cell, where there was a straw mattress on the floor. Al had hay fever, and, believe me, we spent a pretty miserable night. In the morning, we learned the young officer Al spanked was Prince Pigestecher, a fourteenth cousin of an aunt of the Kaiser's. We were in bad. It took the American Embassy three weeks working night shifts to get us out of jail, and then we greased our way with a five hundred dollar fine each, and that's why I made nurses' shoes at cost for the British Government when the war started. I only mentioned this experience of Al's, to show the danger of too many "Don'ts," and it's one reason why I am not going to say, "Don't smoke cigarettes." I want you to think it over carefully, and see if in your own mind you think a boy not yet eighteen is doing a fine, manly thing to go around with a scent on his breath like Moon Island at low tide. Is he setting a good example to the younger boys, who look up to him because he's a 'varsity end, and one of the big men of the school? Ask your trainer if cigarettes will improve your wind. I have read a lot of truck written by men with a string of letters after their names, who try to prove that cigarettes do not hurt a man, but I never yet have read anything that proved to my satisfaction that they did anyone any real good. Remember Ted that no matter how seriously you take yourself, you are not a man. I want you to grow up a clean, manly, two-fisted shoemaker, not a chicken-breasted, weasel-eyed manufacturer of cigarette ashes. Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, and a few others who were not bush leaguers managed to do pretty well without smoking cigarettes, and they are good examples for a young American to imitate. Think it over, my boy. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _March 12, 19--_ DEAR TED: The most welcome letter I found waiting for me on my return from St. Louis was the report of your mid-years. Ted, you did real well considering all the handicaps you were working under, and I'm more than pleased to see that the old Soule fighting spirit has been passed along to you. We Soules have always prided ourselves on being able to do our best work when things looked blackest. That back to the wall, "Don't give up the ship," determination has pulled us through some mighty rough places, whether hauling trawls on the Grand Banks, or fighting our way up from the ranks in business. You are just beginning to realize you have the same amount of grit engrained in your hide, and it's a mighty comforting thought to wear under your shirt, for the man who won't be licked seldom is, and the quality of never knowing when you are beaten has made more impossible things possible, than any other one thing in the world. I remember how when my father died and left me my mother, two young sisters, and a big mortgage to support. I was mad clear through. Not at the idea of having to support my folks, I was glad enough to do that, for no boy ever had better; but because I couldn't finish my schooling. I determined I'd work like blazes to cheat Fate for the nasty wallop it had handed me, and work like blazes I did. After all I think it was good for me. A boy who has to make his own way usually does, if he has the right stuff in him, and that's why I don't intend you shall step from school into a private office here in the factory. It's so much more gratifying when the time comes to look back, to know that what you have, you alone have made possible, and not to have to give the credit to some one else. And that's why, when you go to work, I'm going to see to it that you learn shoemaking from tanning to selling, so that when your time comes to look back you can say to yourself, "My father left me a ten thousand pair factory, but I've boosted it to twenty-five." There was one thing though in your recent letter I don't quite get, and that's the necessity for your spending so much of your time in Portsmouth. Now I know Portsmouth is a nice New England town, filled with quaint old colonial houses, and enough historical incidents to make a three volume series, but I never knew you to be wildly interested in such things, and since I got that bill of $24.25 from the Rockingham for dinners, I'm suspecting you don't go there to study history. One evening last fall, on the way home from Ogunquit, the car broke down in Portsmouth, and while it was being repaired, I took in one of the movies. The show was quite good and I enjoyed it, until I came out when it was over, and found a crowd of Exeter boys hanging around the entrance speaking to any good looking young girl who was alone. Then there was a general pairing off, and strolling up and down the main streets, looking in the shop windows, and much loud talking, giggling, and laughter, while the young townies stood on the corners making cheap remarks. Some of your schoolmates took their lady friends into the little lunch rooms with which Portsmouth is so plentifully supplied, and bought them suppers of ham and eggs, and ice cream, while a few with more money went to the Rockingham. I moseyed around the town quite a bit watching these schoolmates of yours, and was thoroughly disgusted. Not that I saw anything really wrong. I didn't. Every one of the boys had taken the cars for Exeter by eleven, but there was such a general kissing and dumbfoolishness I'd like to have spanked the lot. Perhaps it's heaps of satisfaction to a young fellow, one of the big men of the school, to hike for Portsmouth with a few dollars of his dad's burning holes in his pocket, cut the prettiest shop or factory girl out of a crowd, and carry her off for supper, spending his week's allowance in one evening, but I can't see it. Now don't think I'm down on factory girls. I'm not. I've employed heaps of them, and with mighty few exceptions they've been respectable hard-working girls, who could hold their head up anywhere, and although as a rule they would scratch a fellow's eyes out who tried to get fresh with them, they don't mind paying for what they consider a good time with a few kisses. Now I'm not a snob, and if I ever see any signs of your becoming one, I'll whale it out of you in jig time, for I hate a too-proud-to-speak individual, as much as I hate a crooked leather salesman. But I'd rather you spent your evenings in Exeter, on the piazza of those Eaton girls to whom you introduced me, than parading the streets of Portsmouth with a factory girl hanging on your arm. I remember my first lesson in chivalry, and before the super. comes in to tell me there's an embargo on freight out of Lynn, I'll pass it along. I was in the grammar school, and about ten years old. One day at recess, a little girl named Sally Perkins had a bag of peppermint candy and was treating the other girls, when Butcher Burch, a great hulking boy of twelve, snatched the bag out of Sal's hand and began to gobble it as fast as he could. I was furious, for little Sally was a nice pleasant girl who never stuck her tongue out at me, and I should like to have whaled the Butcher, but he had soundly thrashed me on several occasions, and I knew he would repeat if I made any protest. [Illustration] I stood hesitating. Sally was crying her head off, and the Butcher was cramming the candy into his ugly mouth as fast as he could, when along came my father. "What's the trouble?" he asked. I told him, suggesting he make the Butcher return the candy. "That's your job," he replied. "But he can lick me," I stammered, remembering former disastrous battles I had fought with the bully. "That makes no difference," replied my father. "It's just as well for you to learn now, that whenever you see a girl or a woman insulted, it's the business of every decent man or boy to come to her rescue. I give you your choice of fighting that boy now, or taking a licking from me when you come home." I took a good look at my father and saw he meant every word he said, and then because I hated the Butcher for what he had done to Sally, I lowered my head and sailed in, fists flying like a windmill. Luckily, one of my first blows hit the Butcher full on the mouth and he let out a howl--and candy. He must have had half a pound in his mouth when I hit him. Knowing that my only chance was to bewilder him with my attack, I let fly everything I knew, and for a couple of minutes I had the best of it. Then his weight and strength began to tell, and he hammered me about as he pleased, finally landing a swing on my jaw that knocked me off my feet. When I came to, I found my head resting on my father's knee, while Sally was mopping away at my bloody nose with her little, and not too clean, handkerchief, clutching in her other hand the remnants of her bag of candy. Young as I was I'll never forget the look of pride on my father's face, when later he handed me over to my mother for repairs, saying, "Patch him up, Mother, he's been fighting to protect a girl." Ted, my boy, I want you to grow up with a reverent respect for all women, for the worst woman who ever lived, you may be sure, had some good qualities, and the best of them are far too good for any man. Besides you owe it to your Ma, for no sweeter, better woman than she ever breathed, and although there may be no real harm in the girls you meet in Portsmouth, the sort who let a fellow pick them up on the street and kiss them good night, are not the kind who are going to increase your respect for women, so my advice to you is, cut it out. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _March 20, 19--_ DEAR TED: You didn't have to write me that those boys you brought home with you on last Sunday were wonders. They told me so themselves. Seriously Ted, they didn't make much of a hit with me. I don't mind a young fellow holding up his head. It's a sign of spirit the same as it is in a horse. No man who wears his chin on his vest gets far in life, and no one but a tin horn who's trying to throw a bluff he can ride, wants a horse that hangs its head between its knees; but neither have I much use for the young chap who's nose is forever pointing skyward as though he were marching along the edge of a tanning vat on a hot summer day. Spirit's all right now that we have prohibition, but superiority of manner isn't. If you really are a man's superior he knows it, and if you aren't and try to act as if you are, he's liable to laugh at you; and by superior I mean superior in brains or ability to accomplish worth while things. Now one of your friends thought he'd impress me by saying that he was descended from the Earl of Hampton, and he didn't like it a bit when I told him I wouldn't hold that up against him, and that for all I knew the Earl might have been perfectly respectable. He also said his ancestors came over on the Mayflower, and wanted to know if any of my family had crossed on the same ship, and I'll bet he thought I was impossible when I told him it was more likely to have been the Cauliflower, for the Soules were always fond of New England boiled dinners. The other was money superior. From what he said, I learned that his dad had made a mint out of raincoat contracts during the war, and has ever since been setting up autos for the family like the lumber jacks used to set up drinks for the crowd in Pat Healey's saloon on pay night. Money's a mighty useful article to have around these days, and it's nothing against a man if he has plenty of it, nor is it to his discredit if he hasn't--and ancestors don't do a fellow any harm if he keeps remembering they're dead and can't help him earn a living. Money will buy many things worth having, but not the things most worth while. For a poor man with a reputation for keeping his word is a better citizen any day than a millionaire who's a liar, and I'd much rather have a young man on my pay roll, whose family came over in the steerage and hasn't a grudge against work, than a fellow who can trace his ancestry back to the peerage and is trying to get by on dead men's reputations. Now don't think I'm down on millionaires. I'm not; some of the biggest men in this country are also the richest. But when you and I took that trip to Washington, the men whose statues we saw in the Hall of Fame, were not honored by their states for the money they had made, but for what they had done, and I didn't notice any inscription reading, "John Jenkins Stuart, Great-grandson of the Second Assistant Royal Bartender." It's usually a poor plan to criticise a person's friends, but I'm going to do that very thing in regard to yours, for I've had considerable more experience than you, and I know how dangerous the wrong kind of friends are. The right kind of friends never did anyone any harm, and the wrong kind never did anyone any good, and take it from me, son, the two boys you brought home over the week end are not the right kind. Unless I'm much mistaken, one will try to get by on his ancestors' reputation, and the other on his father's money, and neither will be classed among the three hundred hitters when the great Umpire calls them out. You don't have to be ashamed of your ancestors, or my money, and it did me a world of good to overhear you say to young Raincoats that I might not have made a million out of the war, but there wasn't a leather company in the country which wouldn't sell me any amount of stock I cared to order. That's the sort of a reputation I've always tried to deserve. It's the aim of every decent American business man, but just the same it's fine to feel my only kid's as proud of it as I am. Now I've met several of your schoolmates I'd sooner tie up to than the boys you exhibited. That roommate of yours for instance. He's pretty green yet, and his taste in neckties is awful, although it's improving, but I'll bet that ten years from now you'll be more proud of what he's accomplished, than he will of what you've done, unless you scratch considerable dirt in the meantime. That other boy, the dark-haired one from Virginia, he'll get on too; he's worth while, cultivate him. When I was a little older than you, I once made a mistake in a friend that had mighty serious results, and I don't want you running the same risks. It was when I was working in the Epping National Bank, that a pretty slick fellow by the name of J. Peters Wellford blew into town, hired two rooms at the Mansion House, and the best rig Sol Higgins had in his livery stable, and settled down to live the life of a gentleman of leisure. Now every man in Epping worked, except George Banes the town half wit, and Jim Spencer the town drunk, and a person who labored neither with his hands nor brains was considered not quite respectable. J. Peters, however, didn't get drunk, and he had a wit that was sharper than a new-honed razor, and, as he wasn't curious, paid his bills, and seemed to mind his business and no one else's, besides having faultless manners and a pocket full of ready money, the younger folks after a short period of probation welcomed him with open arms. He never made much of a hit with the old people, and as I look back I can see it was their intuition gained by hard experience that warned them that J. Peters was not all he seemed, although at the time I put it down to pure envy. From the first, J. Peters who was at least fifteen years older, took a great fancy to me. He was forever hanging round the bank, inviting me to dinner at the Mansion House, driving me about the country and going fishing with me on Saturday afternoons. J. Peters was extremely well read, seemed to have traveled everywhere, and knew men intimately whose names in the financial world were all majestic. I thought J. Peters a whale of a chap and tried in every possible way to imitate him, even to copying so far as I was able his slow drawling way of speaking. My father couldn't see J. Peters with a spy glass, but neither could he prove anything to his discredit, and as I was then at the beautiful age of eighteen when one knows so much more than he ever does again, my father's warnings flowed out of my ears like water from a sieve. One day, six months after J. Peters had arrived in Epping, he proposed that I accompany him on a week end trip to Boston which I was crazy to do, but had to refuse on account of my finances being at low tide. J. Peters wouldn't take no for an answer, however, and finally persuaded me to go as his guest. We were to take the noon train on a Friday; but when Thursday night came he called to me from the piazza of the Mansion House as I was on my way home from work, and told me that something had come up which would prevent his going until Saturday. He pushed a roll of bills into my hands telling me to go as we had planned, engage rooms at the American House, buy theatre tickets for Saturday evening, and wait for him as he would follow on the Saturday noon train. His story sounded plausible enough so I followed his directions, and had a gorgeous time until six o'clock Saturday evening came and with it no J. Peters. I waited for him in the lobby of the hotel until midnight, and then went to bed feeling he must have missed his train but would show up the next day. He didn't though, and I spent Sunday roaming around the city seeing the sights, returning to the hotel for supper. Just as I was pushing my way through the front door someone grabbed me, then I felt something cold and steely clasped around my wrists, and looking up saw Hen Winters, the sheriff of Epping County, scowling down at me. When I recovered enough from my fright to understand what it all meant, I learned that I was wanted for stealing $20,000 in Cash from the Epping National Bank, and that explanations were out of order. The bank had been robbed. J. Peters and I were missing, and the mere fact that all the money Hen found in my pockets after a painstaking search amounted to $9.75 didn't get me anywhere, for my intimacy with J. Peters was known to everyone in town. Back I went to Epping handcuffed to Hen, and the fact that we reached home late when no one was at the station to see us, was all that kept my folks from dying of shame. My father stood my bail, and in a few days the detectives put matters straight by discovering that on the night I left for Boston, J. Peters alone had robbed the bank and made good his escape to Canada, but, believe me, Ted, until that mess was cleaned up I felt about as joyful as a leather merchant who's carrying a big stock in a falling market. Now I don't believe for a minute, that either of those boys you brought home with you over Sunday, will turn out to be a J. Peters. It takes brains to be a successful bank robber, and in my estimation neither has enough of that commodity to head the lowest class in a school for feeble minded. But I do think they have enough nonsense in their heads to get you into a peck of trouble if you continue to run with them, so if I were you I'd cut them out. At the best those boys may be harmless. There are a lot of things that don't do a man any particular harm, but life is only a short stretch, so why clutter it up with a lot of harmless things, when every young American has the opportunity to enrich it with what is really worth while. The friends you make during the next few years will be your friends through life, and if I were you I'd select them as carefully as you do your neckties for they will wear much longer. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _March 28, 19--_ DEAR TED: Don't think that the old man has set up as a sort of a composite wiseacre, who believes he knows more than Solomon, Socrates & Company. A man can't knock around the shoe trade for thirty odd years without picking up a pretty general line of useful knowledge, and if he has a son, it's kind of up to him to see that the boy gets the benefit of what his dad learned in the School of Hard Knocks. That's why I have tried to give you some hints in my letters in regard to certain things I would not do. Betting is one of them. When I read your last letter in which you said you cleaned up twenty bucks on the Indoor Games, I realized that although you were not yet slithering down the greased toboggan slide to perdition, it wouldn't do any harm to hand out a little advice you can use as a sort of sand paper seat to your pants, to keep you from exceeding the speed limit. Speaking of sand paper, reminds me of something that happened one year on the train coming home from the Shoe and Leather Fair at St. Louis, and as I have a few minutes before Miss Sweeney brings in the figures on that last shipment of the Company's leather, I'll pass it on to you for what it's worth. I was in the observation car, trying to write a few letters amid the chatter of a group of red hot sports, who I judged from their remarks, were on the way home from playing the races at New Orleans. One young fellow, in a sunset suit, was particularly noisy. Every few minutes, he would draw a huge wad of bills out of his pocket and waving them under his friends' noses would boast of what he was going to do to Wall Street when he hit little old New York. Now I have considerable respect for Wall Street's ability to take care of itself, and somehow I couldn't picture all the old bulls and bears putting up the shutters and hiking for the tall grass, when that particular youth who had a chin like a fish's, landed in their midst. The train stopped at a small town, and an old man who looked like the greenest rube in captivity came into the car. He sat down opposite the bunch of sports and pulling a country newspaper out of his pocket buried himself in its pages. From where I sat, I could see the sporting fraternity sizing him up and presently the young loudmouth crossed over and sat down beside him. "Nice country around here Uncle," young freshy began. "Shore is," the old farmer answered. "So durned fine I hate tew leave it. I bean here nigh on forty years, and I hain't left Bington more'n twict. I sold the old farm a short spell back, and I'm going to Chicago now to live with a granddarter." [Illustration] "Have a cigar?" asked the young sport. "Don't keer if I do," replied the farmer biting off the end, and taking one of the safety matches from a holder on the wall of the car he tried to strike it on the sole of his boot. Now at that time safety matches had not been used to any great extent, still I didn't suppose it was possible there was anyone who did not know what they were, although I knew that in some of those small mountain towns away from the railroad, the people were said to be a hundred years behind the times. When the old man tried to scratch another, and then a third, I was convinced he'd never heard of or seen a safety match, and I wondered what he'd do next. "Powerful pore matches, these be," he said with a grunt, as he reached for a fourth and attempted to light it on the leg of his trousers. A crafty, cunning look, spread over the young sport's weak face. "You can't light those matches that way," he said. "I'll bet I kin," the old man replied doggedly, making his fifth unsuccessful attempt. "What will you bet?" the young fellow asked, quickly, an evil light gleaming in his fishy eyes. "Wal I never yet seen a match I couldn't light on my pants. I'll bet you a quarter." The young man fished out his wad of bills. "I'm no tin horn," he replied, with a sneer. "But if you want to lose your money, I'll bet you $100 you can't light one of those matches on your trousers." "Land sakes!" cried the old farmer. "A hundred dollars?" "That's what I said," replied the young fellow, grinning at his pals. "This gentleman will hold the money," he continued, peeling off a hundred dollar bill from his roll and thrusting it into my hands. I had just about decided to spoil the game with a little history on safety matches, when the old farmer who had been fishing around in his wallet, darted a shrewd glance at me, then deliberately winked. Finally, he counted out $100 in small bills, which he handed over to me, grabbed a safety match from the container, rubbed it on the leg of his trousers, and when to my astonishment, it burst into flame, calmly lighted his cigar and held out his hand for the $200 which I passed over to him. Later, in the pullman, as the old fellow was mooching by my chair, he raised his coat enough to show me the side of a safety match box sewed to the leg of his trousers. Now the only trouble with betting, Ted, is that it's wrong. It's wrong for several reasons. First, because it's trying to get something for nothing; second, because a man always loses when he can't afford it; third, because gambling of any kind will sooner or later get a young fellow into the kind of company he don't want to introduce to his folks; fourth, because if a fellow sticks to gambling all his life he's pretty sure to die in the neighborhood of the poorhouse; and fifth, no matter how slick a gambler you become, you will always meet a slicker one, who will trim you to a fare-thee-well. It's fine to back your teams to the limit, and I'd think you a pretty poor sort of a stick if you didn't yell your head off at a game, but do you think it helps to steady a players nerve in a pinch, to know that if he doesn't deliver, his schoolmates will have to live on snow balls or some other light refreshment for a couple of months. No Ted, old scout, betting is not only wrong, it's foolish. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _April 6, 19--_ DEAR TED: I agree with you, you do need a new hat. One about two sizes larger than you have been wearing, I should judge from the line of talk you turned loose when you were home last Sunday. Now it's all right for a fellow to think well of himself. He'll never get far if he doesn't, but it's just as well to be careful how you sing your own praises, for some day your audience may consist of persons who know the folks who live next door to you. You've done pretty well so far in making a decent showing in your mid-years under a big handicap, playing on the football team, and making the glee club, besides being elected to the Plata Dates and the student council, but you want to remember that even a vegetarian can't live long on his laurels and keep up the good work, for you haven't completed your school course by a good bit. Sunday, you gave a pretty fair exhibition of enlargement of the cranium commonly known as swelled head. That's one of the most dangerous of all known diseases, and one you can't cure any too quickly. It's all right to be pleased with yourself for accomplishing something worth while, but it's all wrong to keep on being pleased with yourself unless you keep on accomplishing things worth while. Whenever you can look at yourself in the mirror and be satisfied, you should consult a conscience oculist, for as sure as shooting there's something wrong with your inner sight. But worst of all, is to let people know you're satisfied with yourself, and it's just as well to remember that the word I is the most superfluous in the English language. Hot air may be a necessity in the Balloon corps, but the private offices in the factory are steam heated, and the men who sit in them are not there because they talk about themselves, but because they think for the firm. The reason I'm handing you a pretty stiff dose in this letter, is principally because you need it. I've seen a lot of promising young fellows start out with a rush, and then after they have made a moderate success, become so satisfied with themselves that they stick in a small job, when they have the ability to go much higher if they could stand prosperity. There is always an over production of beginners but the supply of completers is never equal to the demand, and I want you to remember that the 31st of December is just as good a day on which to do business as January first. It's all very nice to be considered the biggest man in your class, but you aren't going to be long if you go around telling people how big you are. Keep from making liars of the friends who praise you, and remember that persons who try to show off their greatness usually end by showing it up. A horse who rushes the field for the first quarter doesn't always finish in the lead. No one deserves much credit for starting out with a big splash. It's the fellow who's doing business at the finish who really counts. You've been a little too successful so far this year in everything except your studies, and your success has settled in your head. Now don't think I'm not glad you are popular with your schoolmates: I am, but I'd much rather you weren't quite so popular with yourself. I don't want to rub it in Ted, but I do want you to realize that it's a blamed sight easier to reduce a swelled head when it's young than after it begins to get bald. I had my little experience when I was super. at Clough & Spinney's in Georgetown so I'll pass it along to you for what its worth. I'd started in as a boy in the shipping room, been promoted to shipping clerk, then I'd worked as a laster, going from that to the sole leather room. I'd married and been promoted to foreman, and having saved some money I'd bought a little house which was nearly paid for when I was made super. I was about as happy a young fellow as you could find in all the New England shoe trade, for I'd been progressing steadily ever since I'd started work and it looked like a rosy future ahead. As I look back now, I see that it was my help that made my success possible quite as much as my own efforts. Americans to the backbone, everyone of them! Steady going respectable men and women some of whom had been working in the shop when I was born, and who would have told any agitator to mind his own business, who might have undertaken to tell them they were working too hard. Well, anyway, at the end of two years I had that little factory running as slick as a greased pig, and I was wearing a self-satisfied smile in consequence that I didn't even try to conceal, for old Hiram Spinney had taken to calling me William, and Ezra Clough used to invite your Ma and me to supper most every Sunday evening. Then one day old Hiram landed a whopping big government contract, and it was up to me to make the shoes according to specifications and on time. Well sir, there was a great bustle and hurrying around the little shop, extra hands were hired, new machinery installed, and then I started for Boston to buy the leather. For the first time I was doing business in a really big way, and I was so full of the size of the order I was to place, I felt sure there was only one leather company that could handle my business, so I pooh-poohed several salesmen whom I met on South Street, and who having heard of our government contract assured me they had blocks of leather I could use to good advantage. I bought my leather at what I considered a very good figure, had a good lunch at the old United States, and sat around the lobby for a while talking with the shoe and leather men I knew, letting it be pretty generally understood that as a superintendent I was some punkins. Then on the strength of my wonderful ability as a buyer, I went up town and blew in about $100 on a new outfit for myself and some presents for your Ma. When I took the train for Georgetown that evening, I ran bang into old Hiram Spinney and as we settled down in the same seat, he began to quiz me about the orders I had placed. Full of pride because I considered I had bought to the best advantage, I started in to tell the old man what a great superintendent he had, poking a good deal of scorn at the foolish salesmen who had tried to interest me in their small blocks of leather, when I was out to buy a large quantity. Old Hiram didn't say anything until I got through praising myself, which took some time as I was thoroughly sold on the idea. When I'd finished, he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "Didn't even bother to look at those small lots of leather?" he asked. "Nope, couldn't waste my time on 'em," I replied. "I did," he answered, "looked pretty good to me too." He went on telling me the prices quoted on each lot, describing the leather so accurately I knew I had passed by some mighty good things. Gee! Ted, I could feel myself all shrivel up like a red toy balloon after a kid sticks a pin in it. I'd eaten a mighty good supper, but I felt hollow inside, and I guess my face looked as though I was seasick, for as near as I could figure I'd paid $12,000 more for my leather than I needed to have done. Old Hiram let me squirm until the train reached Georgetown and we had stumbled off on to the platform. "Thought maybe you'd like to know I bought those odd blocks," he said as I started for home. "You did!" I replied, for I couldn't see how we possibly could use them along with what I'd purchased. "Yep." "What about the lot I bought?" I asked. "I just stepped in and cancelled your order ten minutes after you'd left." I was so happy I could have yelled for joy and at the same time I felt like two bits and a nickel. "William," said old Hiram walking up and laying a hand on my shoulder, "you're a good boy, and you've done real well, but lately you've given signs of being too self-satisfied. Forget your own importance for the next ten years and then you will have reason to be proud." He gave me a friendly little pat, and trudged off into the dark. Old Hiram cured me. To this day I've remembered his advice, and tried to follow it. It's still bully good dope. I'd play it for all its worth if I were you. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _April 30, 19--_ DEAR TED: Frankly Ted, I don't see how you ever did it. I have had some experience with expense accounts having twenty salesmen on the road; but no travelling man I have employed, ever had the nerve to present such a collection of outrageous bills as was contained in your last letter. I'll admit, I was prepared for a few modest accounts, mostly for extra food, for a boy your age is nearly always hungry, and of course they starve you at the Commons, although I managed to get quite a substantial meal there the night I had dinner with you. But as near as I can judge the Exeter townspeople must be on the verge of starvation, for surely you have consumed all the food supplies in all the stores in the township. I put you on an allowance this year, so you could learn how to handle money, and so far the net result has been that you have given a most perfect example of how not to do it. A boy who can't keep pretty close to his allowance, is going to grow into a man who can't live within his income, and neither are going to score many touchdowns in the game of life, although they may do a whole lot of flashy playing between the twenty yard lines. Besides, it's just as well to remember that no one yet ever succeeded in eating his way into Who's Who. Perhaps some of it is hereditary, though, for I remember when your Uncle Ted first went away to school, your grandmother gave him an allowance and made him promise to keep account of every cent he spent. When he came home on his first vacation, she sat down with him and went over his accounts, on the whole much pleased, because he had kept within what she had given him. Every third or fourth entry was S. P. G. and being a devoutedly religious woman she was delighted to find her boy had given so much of his money to the Society for Propagation of the Gospel, until Ted, being honest, had to own up that S. P. G. stood for Something, Probably Grub. Your bills for extra feed, would make those of a stable full of trotting horses look like the meal tickets of a flock of dyspeptic canaries. But I don't mind those so much for I don't want to see you starve. What I do mind is six silk shirts at twelve per, and a dozen silk sox at three dollars a pair. Now when you are making $15,000 a year which you won't be for some time, if you want to pay twelve dollars for a shirt that's your funeral, although I rather suspect that by then you will have found out that real good shirts can be bought much cheaper. [Illustration] Of course when you had bought a few shirts at twelve dollars a throw, a dressing gown at forty, and silk pajamas at $15 came real natural. Did I ever tell you how a necktie cost me $150? Well I will, before the super. comes in and tells me there's a new strike in the stitching room. I was nineteen, and had been clerking for three years in Jed Barrow's store. Jed was so busy putting sand in the sugar, and mixing his Java with a high grade of chicory, he didn't have much time to think of advancing my wages, but I was careful, I had to be, and at the end of three years I had saved $178. I never have forgotten the exact figures, because it came so blamed hard. There, one day, Jed suggested I take a week's vacation. I think he was afraid I was going to ask for a raise, and did it to get me out of the way, but as my Uncle Ezra had invited me to visit him in Boston I took my week, without pay, and hiked to the big town. Uncle Ezra was the aristocrat of the family. He lived in one of those old yellow brick houses on Beacon Hill just across from the common, the kind with the lavender glass in the downstairs windows, and if the old man hadn't been so busy being an aristocrat, he'd have made a first-rate radical, for he was continually writing letters to the Transcript complaining about everything as it was. Uncle Ezra greeted me cordially enough, until he caught sight of my necktie which I'll admit was somewhat bewhiskered and more green than black. "My boy, what an awful tie!" he exclaimed. "Really, you must let me buy you another," and he pulled some money out of his pocket. Being proud, I refused, making some excuses about not having time to buy a new one. The first chance I got, I scooted across to a fancy haberdasher on Tremont Street, and picking out a handsome dark-blue tie told the clerk to wrap it up. I had never paid more than a quarter for a tie, and when he calmly told me it was two dollars I almost fainted, but I felt I couldn't very well refuse to take it so I went to the back of the store and put it on. Do you know Ted, when that rich silk tie was contrasted with my blue serge that had seen considerable service as Sunday best, I felt about as comfortable as a man in overalls wearing a plug hat. He who hesitates is sold. I hesitated, and the next thing I knew a smart young salesman was selling me a new suit, then I noticed the shoes I was wearing were patched. Well, sir, before I finished I had a complete new outfit, and that store had $150 of my money. It didn't worry me any until I was passing the Savings Bank at home. Then it struck me all of a sudden that in a week I had spent what it had taken three years of back-twisting work to save, and that the net result of my labor I could show in money was exactly nothing. Ever since I have spent a little less than I earned, and that is a bully principle for you to imitate. I hate a tightwad, Ted, as much as you do; but I hate what is commonly known as a good spender a blame sight more. I don't want you to grow into a man who groans every time he spends a cent, and neither do I want you to feel that money is like the smallpox to be gotten rid of as quickly as possible. A good spender is usually a man who believes in giving himself a good time, and who leaves his wife to take in boarders and his children to shift for themselves. Now I'm going to pay your food bills, this time for I don't believe the Exeter townspeople will get much to eat until the storekeepers collect the money owing them, and can lay in a new stock; but you are going to pay for those silk shirts, pajamas, and other dodads, at the rate of three dollars a week until you've paid me back what I advance. Then after you have paid in full, if you want to buy more on the same terms all right. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _May 10, 19--_ DEAR TED: If I'd had time before I left Exeter last week, you and I would have had a heart to heart talk about some of those freak books and magazines I found strewn all over your room. "Equalization of the Masses," "The Worker's Share," and "The Exploitation of the People," are heavy-sounding titles, and the contents, I should judge from my hurried examination, would be about as easy to digest as a bake-shop plum pudding. Your study table also seemed to be carrying more than its share of long-haired magazines, and although I read some of their foolishness just to see how foolish they really were, I was afraid all the time I was looking at them, some one would come in and catch me. Now I've read a considerable number of fool articles in my life, but that one on "Soviet Government for the United States," wins in a walk. How anybody outside of Danvers could believe in such nonsense is beyond me, especially after what has happened in Russia, but as old Jed Bigelow used to say, "There ain't nothin' so foolish but some critter will believe it," and Jed was right. When you told me a few weeks ago you had joined the Radical Club, I thought it was just a kid fad you'd taken up to have a little something extra to do, but I didn't imagine you'd started in to support all the crack-brained, long-haired, wild-eyed writers who are making a living out of the good nature of this country. Radicalism is mighty dangerous business Ted, about as safe as smoking cigarettes in a patent leather factory, and if I really thought you believed you were in sympathy with all that nonsense I'd whale you good. The trouble with you is you're just beginning to think a little for yourself. Now thinking for yourself is fine, but until you begin to direct your thoughts in the right direction you're a good deal like the cannon Uncle Abijah invented during the Spanish War. It was a first-rate gun when he could control it, but it was as likely to kill the people behind it as those at whom it was aimed, so Uncle Abijah gave it up as a bad job after it had blown off most of his whiskers and a couple of fingers. These radical galoots who want to tip everything in the country upside down from the constitution to the movies get under my hide, and if I had my way I'd make everyone of them work at least eight hours a day and bathe oftener than every thirty-first of February. It makes me mad clear through, to see these snakes who leave their own countries because the sheriff wants 'em, busy before the immigration authorities can disinfect 'em, plotting to overthrow the government who gives 'em the only chance they ever had. In a republic all men are born equal, but that's all. It's nonsense to suppose that a good for nothing loafer who makes his living by stirring up hatred against law and order, is the equal of a decent, God-fearing, hard-working citizen, who minds his own business, pays taxes, and tries to raise a family of straight Americans, and if anyone tries to tell me two such men are equal, I'll let him know mighty quick I think he's either a liar or a blame fool. A lot of children cut open their dolls to see what's inside, and a lot of folks who ought to know better are monkeying around with this radicalism business to see what's in it. I can tell you what's in it: "Nothing!" and working to promote nothing is a fool's job. Now you may think I'm too conservative, but I believe that when Thomas Jefferson & Co. wrote the constitution of the United States they did a pretty fair job, and until some one can improve on it, which hasn't been done yet, I'm backing up the old constitution with every bit of my strength. Whenever I hear of anyone becoming interested in radicalism, it always reminds me of an old fellow by the name of Charlie Gabb who lived in Epping. Now Gabb was rightly named, for he used to hang around Sol. Whittaker's store filling the place with hot air, until Sol. nailed chicken wire over the top of his cracker barrels. Gabb was against everything as it was. Nothing was right, work included, I guess, for he was never known to do any, and was supported by a long-suffering wife who used to earn their living by going out working by the day. He was agin the government, and agin all law, and claimed all wealth should be divided equally among the people. There wasn't anything he couldn't improve on, but as he was harmless in spite of all his talk, no one paid any serious attention to him. Gabb went on talking for a number of years, without exciting any of the Epping folks over much, and then the woolen mill was built, and a lot of Poles came to town to work in it. They were hard working, saving sort of people, but as they had only just come over from Poland where I imagine they had a pretty rough time with the Germans on one side and the Russians on the other, both trying to rob them of everything they had, they were down on all governments on general principles, and it wasn't long before old Gabb had made a big impression on them. I don't know as they could be blamed for Gabb could talk louder, and longer, and faster, than anyone else I ever heard, and I'll admit that some of the stuff he had to offer sounded pretty well, until one sat down and started to figure out what it really meant. Those Poles couldn't have understood much Gabb said, but it sort of flattered them to have an American take any notice of them, so in a short time Gabb became their leader, and used to gather them all together twice a week, on the common, and give them a harangue that would make your hair curl. Then Epping got the surprise of its life, for one day the Poles quit the woolen mill in a body, and under old Gabb's leadership hiked over to a deserted village five miles back in the hills, where they lived a community life sharing everything alike. This was a splendid arrangement for Gabb, for never having had anything, when it came time to divide up what there was, Gabb got a little something from each family, and owning nothing himself he didn't have anything to give away. Then, too, as chief of the tribe, he was allotted the best house, and was altogether much better off than he had ever been in his life. For a time, the village prospered, for the Poles were workers, and weren't afraid to put in a little overtime when their farms needed it, and old Gabb whenever he drove over to Epping used to crow over the success of his socialistic experiment. Now Gabb had a brother who lived at Bristol Centre, who was a regular fellow, and couldn't see the Epping member of his family with a telescope. The Bristol Centre Gabb had worked hard all his life, and owned one of the largest hog ranches in New England. One day, this brother who was a bachelor died, and Charlie suddenly found himself the owner of a farm and about two thousand hogs. [Illustration] Now if Charlie Gabb really believed what he'd been preaching for years, he'd have divided up his farm and two thousand hogs among the Poles, who'd been more or less supporting him, but he did nothing of the kind. He left his socialistic friends and moved over to Bristol Centre, taking possession of his brother's farm, hogs, and all. The Poles heard of their leader's good fortune and waited patiently for him to divide. Nothing doing. Finally, a committee went over and asked old Gabb when the grand division of pigs was to take place, and he chased them off his farm with a pitchfork. A week later, in the middle of the night, Epping was awakened by the greatest yelling, and squeaking, and grunting, that was ever heard in one place in the history of the world. The Poles had raided old Gabb's hog farm, and were driving through Epping what they considered their share of his property. Old Gabb was trailing along behind, cursing and howling for the sheriff, who when he heard what had happened couldn't be found, although I remember seeing him hanging out his window in his night shirt, laughing so hard I thought he'd bust. Old Gabb started about a hundred lawsuits, but everyone sympathized with the Poles, and as one pig looks about as much like another as two peas do, Gabb couldn't swear to his property, so he lost every case. From the time of the great pig raid until he died, Gabb was the staunchest conservative in the country, and if anyone mentioned socialism to him he nearly had a fit. Now, Ted, you are going to cut out this radical business pronto, toot sweet, and at once, and if I don't hear from you within a week that you have resigned from that Radical Club and severed diplomatic relations with that sort of nonsense, you'll leave Exeter so quick you won't know what hit you, for as long as I'm head of the Soule tribe, no member of my family is going to do anything that can in any manner be regarded as harmful to the country that our grandfathers fought for from Bunker Hill to Gettysburg. I know that it is curiosity that has interested you in radicalism. Well, try to realize that in these trying days when the whole future of the world is at stake, every American no matter how young, has as stern a duty to perform in upholding law and order as ever our continentals had at Valley Forge. Organize an American Club. Get together the biggest boys you can and start a club to teach the young foreigners who work in the mills and factories that America gives a square deal to all. Show these young fellows through teaching them our American sports, that clean playing and good sportsmanship are two of the biggest things in life. Help teach them to build up, not tear down. You Exeter boys are only boys, and yet as Americans there is nothing you cannot accomplish; and God knows that to help in every possible way, the newcomers among us, to understand our American ideals is as great a privilege as was given to the boys who went "over there," that liberty might not perish from the earth. Make me proud of you my boy, not ashamed. Make me feel that when I take down the old family Bible and turn to its fly leaf, where the history of our family has been written for generations, that in time your name will be worthy of a place beside those of our men who did their part in making the United States the greatest nation the world has ever known. Play up Ted! You're one of the country's pinch hitters, and I know you can be depended upon to deliver. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _May 26, 19--_ DEAR TED: You can't imagine how proud I am of this new American Club of yours, and the school is too, if the letters I received from the principal, and most of the professors are good indications of what they feel. The Boston papers have taken it up, and as you have probably seen, Andover is forming an American Club for the young foreigners in the Lawrence mills, and yesterday when I met the Governor, he asked to be introduced to you when he speaks in Lynn next week. This sort of work is so much more worth while than the radical business, I know you can't help feeling you're a better American for having undertaken it, and you may be sure that when you are older, you'll get a heap of satisfaction out of the thought, that there are a lot of good Americans who might have grown up to be trouble makers, if you and your friends hadn't helped to steer them into good citizenship. If I were you, I'd accept the principal's offer for the use of the vacant room in the Administration Building. Fit it up as a reading room with a lot of the best magazines, histories of the United States, and lives of famous Americans for the young foreigners who can read English, and get some of the instructors to help teach the ones who can't. Thursday I'll send you a check for $200 which I've raised among a few friends. This will help buy the books, so in the fall when school reopens, you'll be ready to start things with a rush. As to where you are going to college when you finish school, I wouldn't worry about that now if I were you. Finish school first, by then you'll probably know where you want to go. I've always found it a pretty good rule to follow, never to worry about another job, until I've finished the one I'm working on. There are lots of people who make themselves sick worrying about things that never happen, when they might as well save their doctor's bills and enjoy life. Personally, I think it doesn't make much difference where you go, as long as you go to college to do a fair amount of work, and not just to play football and have a good time. There are a lot of advantages in going to one of the big universities, where you can study anything from Egyptian Hair Dressing in the fourth century B. C., to the vibrations caused by an airplane flying at one hundred miles an hour, and where you have the advantage of wonderful libraries, museums, and laboratories, to help you in your work. Then again, the small college with its solid academic course, based principally on honest to goodness horse sense, is a pretty good place, for not having fifty-seven varieties of courses, it's apt to rub thoroughly into a boy's hide what it does have to offer. [Illustration] When the time comes for you to go to college I'm not going to interfere, I am going to let you make your own choice; but as that time is nearly two years away, I'd do a little more thinking about how you are going to pass your final exams, this year, than worrying about what college you are going to enter a year from next fall. You remind me of a clerk, by the name of Charlie Harris, I once had in the factory. Charlie was a good, hard working boy, came to me right from high school, and as he didn't seem to have a grudge against the hands of the clock because they moved slowly, and was always willing to do a little more than his share of the work, I became interested in him. Charlie had one queer trick, though, he was never satisfied with finishing the job he had on hand, but was forever worrying about the next bit of work he might have to do, not worrying mind you, because he had the next job coming to him. As I said before Charlie wasn't afraid of work, but he was always afraid something was going to queer the future job, before he could get to it, and get it finished. [Illustration] One winter, when you were a little chap, my shipper got the grippe and was out for three months. I wished his job on Charlie, and Charlie made good although you never would have thought so from the length of his face. Our shipments were sent out on time, well packed, and properly routed, but Charlie was as doleful as a rejected suitor at a pretty girl's wedding. There wasn't a day, he didn't come in and spill gloom all over my office, prophesying that soon every thing would go wrong. Nothing happened though, so I used to laugh at him, and tell him to forget it. Early in February, I was due to make a big shipment of shoes to a jobbers' warehouse on or before March first. Everything had gone smoothly. I'd had no labor troubles, had bought my stock right, and stood to make a nice juicy profit, for on the first day of February all the shoes were in cases in the shipping room, ready to start on their journey to Chicago. [Illustration] On the night of the second, it started to snow, for three days it came down in perfect clouds burying Lynn four feet deep. For three days traffic was completely stalled, for although the snow was wet and sticky when the storm started, along in the afternoon of the second day, it turned cold, with the result that the whole mass turned into ice, and made it impossible to clear the streets. Still I wasn't worrying any, for Jim Devlin my old truckman, I knew, would be among the first to do business as soon as it was possible to get through the streets, and I still had several days leeway before my shoes must start for Chicago. On the morning of the fifth day when pungs were beginning to get around, Charlie gloomed into my office, and informed me that Devlin hadn't a single team on runners, having the previous fall traded off all his pungs for drays. Devlin had been so sure he could hire enough pungs to take care of our big shipment, he hadn't even told us the fix he was in, until having tried every teamster and livery stable within miles of Lynn, he found he couldn't get a single one. Everybody wanted pungs, and the truckmen who owned any were rushing theirs night and day to take care of their regular customers. [Illustration] I tried to borrow from everyone I knew, with no luck, for all the shoe manufacturers had use for every pung they could get their hands on to get their own shoes to the freight yards. Finally, I gave up in disgust, and sat down to figure out my loss, when I happened to glance out the window of my office, that looks out on the alley that leads to our shipping room door. There were about three hundred kids lined up there, each one with a sled, and I wondered what in the world they were up to, when one staggered around the corner of our building, dragging a sled after him, on which was perched a shoe case with "The Princess Shoe," stencilled in red letters across the top. I let out a whoop, and dove for the shipping room, where I found Charlie and his crew as busy as ants, tying cases of shoes onto the kids sleds as fast as the boys backed them up to the shipping-room door. Before night, every case of shoes had been delivered to the freight yards, and Charlie's pay had been increased $10 a week, but the next morning when I reached the factory, I found him almost weeping because he was afraid that when the snow melted it would flood our shipping room which in those days was level with the street. For five years after that, I used Charlie as a sort of pinch hitter around the factory giving him all sorts of work, but never letting him know what his next job was to be, and as he couldn't worry about what was coming, he more than made good. Ted, any real college is a good college. It's all up to you, for so far as I know, there's nothing to prevent you learning a lot in any one of them. The thing for you to do for the next two years, is to study hard at Exeter, then when it comes time to take your exams, you needn't be afraid about being able to get into any college you choose. I'll be in Exeter Saturday to have a look at your American Club, and at his special request I'm bringing the Governor's private secretary with me. So long old boy. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _June 8, 19--_ DEAR TED: If the super. had come in, and told me the hands were going to strike, unless I lowered the piecework rates, I wouldn't have been more surprised, than I was at your last letter. It was some shock; and at first I couldn't believe you were serious; after re-reading it I see you are, and I guess a few hints from the old man may help relieve the pain a bit, for it's as plain as your Aunt Sarah you're going to suffer, no matter how your love affair turns out. To me, the idea of your really being in love, seems as impossible as Trotsky being elected Alderman by the Beacon Hill Ward of Boston, but it doesn't take a specialist to diagnose the symptoms, and from the stuff you have spilled all over the pages of your last letter, I should say you had an acute case with a fever going on 105 degrees. Now, I say no matter how things turn out it is going to be painful, and at your age and vast experience of life, it can only turn out one way, and that's a broken heart for you for about a week, and then a gradual interest in life, until two weeks from now the outcome of the baseball game with Andover, will be even more important to you than how to get enough to eat between meals. There's one thing you have done though Ted, you've played fair with the old man, and that's entered on the credit side of your ledger, although you may not think so when you've finished this letter. I am glad you introduced me to the girl at the game last Saturday, and I assure you I enjoyed every minute of her society, and would again, for she and I had a lot in common, both of us being practical business men. But when it comes to having her for a daughter-in-law, I can think up more reasons for not wanting her, than a jobber can for refusing to stock a line of shoes he feels may be out of style, before he can unload them on the retailer. In the first place, Ted, I should judge she is slightly older than you, about eight years is my guess, and although eight years is all right when it's on the man's side, it's apt to be pretty awkward when your wife is constantly referred to by strangers as your mother; likely to make you feel foolish, and the lady peevish; and about the time you'll be thinking of changing from tennis to golf, she'll be changing from one piece dresses to wrappers, and wrappers never yet kept a man's eyes from straying in other directions. Miss Shepard is good looking, I'll admit; real attractiveness though in spite of the soap advertisements and beauty doctors, is more than skin deep, and you must remember that no matter how perfect a surface a thing has, it's the quality underneath that counts. After all there's not much difference between girls and sole leather. A run of leather on the warehouse floor, may look like nice profits, and when it's cut you find it didn't figure out at all as you expected; and a girl may look like a June morning before marriage, and turn out an equinoctial storm afterwards. A smart shoe man, doesn't buy a block of leather without sizing up what's under the grain, and a young man when looking around for steady company can well do likewise. I don't want you to think I have anything against good looks, I haven't and if you can get them with other qualities, all right. It must be tough, to have to sit opposite a face at breakfast, that curdles the milk in your coffee, but better that and sizzling ham and eggs, than a rose bud for looks, and cold oatmeal. Your lady-love didn't strike me as a young woman of means, and as for your capital, it consists principally of some loud clothes and a fair knowledge of football, neither being what you might call liquid assets, when it comes to setting up housekeeping. And speaking of housekeeping, do you think she is the kind of girl, who would enjoy getting three squares a day, running the vacuum cleaner in between, with dish washing and mending as side lines? Now Hortense may be only six or eight years older than you. In wisdom she's nearly twenty, and you had better believe she's got no fool ideas about trying to live on three dollars a day, with sugar twenty cents a pound. No girl who's lived all her life in an academy town is so foolish as that, and if you think I'm going to finance you a couple of years from now, in a home of your own, you're taking off with the wrong foot. I know I married when I was only twenty and was getting $18.00 a week, but your Ma is one woman in a million, a country town girl who was taught housekeeping from childhood, and who could make a dollar go further than even the immortal George, when he made his famous throw from deep center in the Potomac League. She could take my week's pay on a Saturday night, after having set aside the rent and insurance money, buy enough food for the next week, the clothes we needed, and still have some left to tuck away in the savings bank. And right here, let me tell you if you ever make another crack like you did two weeks ago, about your Ma wearing too many rings, I'll give you the worst licking you ever had. Perhaps she does, but she likes 'em, and when I think of the work those fingers have done for us, she's welcome to cover 'em with rings, if she likes, and her thumbs also for that matter. Your Ma made me, and the right girl is the best inspirer of success a young fellow can have, while the wrong kind, is about as much help to a man trying to shin up the greased pole of success, as a nice thick coating of lard on his fingers. Probably you don't remember John White. John and I were great pals when we were boys. Used to swim, play ball, and hunt together, fought at least one pitched battle a week, but when any one touched either of us, the other was on the intruder like a wildcat. We both got married about the same time, and John who was sensible as he could be in most things, picked out a girl who hadn't the brains of an intelligent guinea pig. We were both working in Clough & Spinney's at the time, and three months after John was married, he had indigestion, and was wearing safety pins on his clothes instead of buttons. Noon hours, he used to tell me what a lucky fellow he was to have married Priscilla, but as the weeks went by his praises seemed to lack the right ring, although I must say he did his best. I often wondered how he was getting along, for in my estimation Priscilla Brown was pretty much of a lightweight, and although a nice enough girl, about as useful around a house, as one of those iron dogs some folks have on their front lawns. One day, John invited us over to Topsfield, where he lived, to supper. When we got there, I thought your Ma would have a fit. She's as orderly as a West Point Cadet, and there were clothes strewn all over John's parlor, and more dust on the furniture, than there is in some of the seashore lots the fly-by-night real estate companies sell. We waited, and waited, and then waited some more for our supper. Finally, we had it, everything out of a can and cold, but the prize performance came when Priscilla started to serve jam and bread for dessert. She put down beside me, a loaf of bread she said she had just baked, and asked me to cut it. I tried. All I had was a knife. What I needed was a chisel. In my efforts to hack through the crust, the loaf slipped off the table and landed like a thousand bricks on my pet corn. I hollered right out, and made an enemy of Priscilla for life. After supper, while Priscilla and your Ma were doing the dishes, John and I held a funeral in his back yard, and buried that loaf of bread beside a stone wall at the rear of the garden. A month later, old Josh Whipple who was near sighted, struck it while he was mending John's wall, and before he realized it wasn't a stone, he had slapped it into a hole in the wall with a lot of mortar. It stayed there until the next winter, when the weather finally destroyed it. John had brains, and ambition, and was never an enemy of work, but to-day he is foreman of the making room in a measely little Maine factory, when he might be running his own, and it was only Priscilla who queered him. Whenever he'd manage to put by a little money, she always needed a new set of furs, or a vacation, or a thousand other things which she got. John never got his factory. After all, I think I'm indebted to Hortense Shepard, for letting you spend most of your allowance on her, and clutter up her front porch on spring evenings. You might be spending your time and my money, in worse places. I'm not going to forbid you seeing her. What I am going to do is to ask you as man to man, if you don't think it would be fairer to the lady in question, not to propose until you have some visible means of support? Just think of the awful hole you'd be in, if you did, and she called your bluff and said, "Yes." [Illustration] A school widow like Hortense, isn't a bad institution after all, for she gives a young man like you a chance to be in a love with a nice girl, even if she is old enough to be, let's say, his aunt. I'd ease off gradually, there, if I were you. I'm sure it won't keep her awake nights, if you call only once a week instead of five times. For no matter how much you may think she cares, she doesn't, any more than for any nice young fellow, who'll give her candy and flowers, and beau her around to the games. After you've gone through school and college, and have been in the factory long enough to have faint glimmers of shoemaking, it'll be time enough to think of getting married. Now, I'd spend more time with the queens of history and less time with those of Exeter. Don't take it too hard my boy, and remember that when the right time and right girl come along, the old man will be rooting tooth and nail for you to win. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. LYNN, MASS., _June 16, 19--_ DEAR TED: Well son the school year is about over now and taking it all in all you haven't done so badly. Of course that probation mess last winter was not at all to my liking, and I could have survived the shock of a higher average of marks for the year, still I think you have given promises of better things to come. When I asked you last Sunday what you intended doing this summer vacation, thinking you had planned hanging around home most of the time, I must say I was startled to learn the itinerary you had laid out for yourself. It looks as though you were going to be about as busy as the Prince of Wales was when he was visiting in New York, and he was busier than a one-armed paper hanger with St. Vitus dance. Now I never believed in bringing you up on the all work and no play theory, but from the jobs you've set yourself I should judge you will be working harder at playing this summer than you ever did at anything else. Newport, Narragansett, Magnolia, Kenneybunkport, and Bar Harbor are not exactly the places I should choose to get rested in for a coming year of work, but you are young and maybe you can stand it. Still I don't want you to make the mistake I did the year of the panic. Nineteen seven was some year for me. Business was so jumpy I never knew when I came home at night whether the next day would bring the sheriff into the factory, or whether I might get a big order that would float me safely over the rocks. By June, I had lost thirty pounds and couldn't sleep nights, but the sheriff wore a disappointed look when I met him, and I didn't have to walk on the opposite sidewalk when I passed the Company's store in Boston. Your Ma had been doing considerable worrying about my being overworked, and when I had pulled things around so that I could breathe again, she suggested a vacation. I agreed having in my mind a nice, quiet, little village on the Maine coast, where I could lie around in the sun and dose, or go fishing when I felt real rambunctious. Now your Ma, had just been reading a book called, "The Invigoration of the Human Mind and Body," by some fellow with a string of letters after his name. Professor Wiseacre claimed that to get a thorough rest a person should spend his vacations in doing exactly the opposite from what he did the rest of the year, and as much as I should like to I can't quarrel with him about that, but what I am ready to go to the mat with him for, was his elaboration of this theory into the fact that if a person kept away from society most of the year, his vacation should be spent in the midst of its giddy whirl. Your Ma was thoroughly sold on this idea, although I calculate she didn't have to be persuaded much harder than a shoe jobber does to take a thousand cases at present prices, when he thinks the market is going up. I fell for it. Your Ma ordered a lot of sixty horse power clothes, and we rented a big cottage at Magnolia. Now I knew Magnolia was fashionable; but it's on the coast so I thought that once in a while I could slip away in a dory for a few hours' fishing off Norman's Woe, or get over to Gloucester for a chin with some of the captains of the fleet; but I soon found out that I had about as much chance of doing either as a rabbit has of dying of old age in the snake cage at the zoo. The first morning, I came down in an old suit and flannel shirt, with a cod line in my pocket, carrying a can full of clams for bait. When your Ma saw me she waved me back like a traffic cop, and asked in a hurt tone if I had forgotten we were going to take our meals at the hotel. I had. I never did again. I changed into white flannels and stood around on the hotel piazza after breakfast saying, "Fine morning, Glad to meet you," while your Ma renewed her acquaintance with a number of ladies. About eleven, I tried to make a break, but learned I was to escort to the beach a crowd of females aged fifteen to seventy-five. I sat on the beach for an hour getting my shoes full of sand, and then it was time to convey the crowd back to the hotel for lunch. Next, we went for an auto ride, stopping at the Grill for tea, after which it was time to dress for dinner, and then I had to stick around at a dance until after midnight. I kept this up for two weeks, and the only time I escaped was one rainy day when I managed to dodge the hotel debating society, and get in a morning's fishing before it cleared up. In two weeks, I was so fed up with changing my clothes, and going to the beach, and having tea, and hanging around dances, I just longed for the peaceful clatter of the making room, and would have done something desperate, if I hadn't met a young doctor who was making a great reputation advising people to do just what they wanted. He told me I needed a complete change. I didn't put up any argument against that, and I sort of hinted the factory would be the most complete change I could think of; so he ordered me back to work and charged me a tremendous fee, but it was worth it, for in two weeks after I had returned, I felt rested. Now I had rather hoped you and I would get a chance to pal around together this summer, for you will be away from home quite a lot during the next few years, and I want to be a real chum to you, Ted. I never had any use for the father and son business where the old man says, "Why, good morning Reginald," in a sort of a surprised tone as though he suddenly remembers he has a son after all. I want to be a real friend of yours, in on your good times, and ready to lend a hand whenever it's needed. In a few years I want to change the firm name from William Soule & Company to William Soule & Son, and I want it to be more than a change in the firm's name. I want it to be a real partnership. We'll be glad to have you home again Ted, even if it's only between trips, for you've been missed this year, my boy. Your Ma and I aren't as young as we were, and there's been many an evening when I've been reading the paper, and she's been sewing, and neither of our minds on what we were doing, for we were thinking of a hulking kid of ours. Some years from now when you have a boy of your own you'll understand. That's why, I guess, I hoped you'd be at home a lot this summer, and that later you and I could take a fishing trip together, but I promised you you could do anything within reason this vacation and my word has never been broken. We'll expect you Thursday. Your affectionate father, WILLIAM SOULE. P. S. Bully for you, Ted. Your letter saying you are going to chuck all the fancy stuff and stay home this summer just came. You couldn't have pleased us more, and I've cabled old Indian Joe to save us two weeks in August. You and I are going to Newfoundland after salmon. Will we have a good time? I'll say so! TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Numerous errors have been corrected and inconsistencies in spelling have been resolved; otherwise the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
14635	----	Proofreading Team Ruth Fielding In Moving Pictures OR HELPING THE DORMITORY FUND BY ALICE B. EMERSON AUTHOR OF "RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL," "RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS Books for Girls BY ALICE B. EMERSON RUTH FIELDING SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL Or, Jasper Parloe's Secret. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL Or, Solving the Campus Mystery. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP Or, Lost in the Backwoods. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT Or, Nita, the Girl Castaway. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH Or, Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND Or, The Old Hunter's Treasure Box. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM Or, What Became of the Baby Orphans. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES Or, The Missing Pearl Necklace. RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES Or, Helping the Dormitory Fund RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE Or, Great Times in the Land of Cotton. * * * * * CUPPLES & LEON CO., PUBLISHERS. NEW YORK. COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY * * * * * RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES Printed in U.S.A. * * * * * [Illustration: IN THE ITALIAN GARDEN SCENES, THE SENIORS AND JUNIORS WERE USED Ruth Fielding in Moving Pictures] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. NOT IN THE SCENARIO 1 II. THE FILM HEROINE 9 III. AT THE RED MILL 18 IV. A TIME OF CHANGE 28 V. "THAT'S A PROMISE" 36 VI. WHAT IS AHEAD? 46 VII. "SWEETBRIARS ALL" 52 VIII. A NEW STAR 60 IX. THE DEVOURING ELEMENT 67 X. GAUNT RUINS 76 XI. ONE THING THE OLD DOCTOR DID 84 XII. "GREAT OAKS FROM LITTLE ACORNS GROW" 90 XIII. THE IDEA IS BORN 100 XIV. AT MRS. SADOC SMITH'S 108 XV. A DAWNING POSSIBILITY 117 XVI. THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG 125 XVII. ANOTHER OF CURLY'S TRICKS 134 XVIII. THE FIVE-REEL DRAMA 141 XIX. GREAT TIMES 153 XX. A CLOUD ARISES 161 XXI. HUNTING FOR AMY 168 XXII. DISASTER THREATENS 176 XXIII. PUTTING ONE'S BEST FOOT FORWARD 183 XXIV. "SEEING OURSELVES AS OTHERS SEE US" 190 XXV. AUNT ALVIRAH AT BRIARWOOD HALL 201 RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES CHAPTER I NOT IN THE SCENARIO "What in the world are those people up to?" Ruth Fielding's clear voice asked the question of her chum, Helen Cameron, and her chum's twin-brother, Tom. She turned from the barberry bush she had just cleared of fruit and, standing on the high bank by the roadside, gazed across the rolling fields to the Lumano River. "What people?" asked Helen, turning deliberately in the automobile seat to look in the direction indicated by Ruth. "Where? People?" joined in Tom, who was tinkering with the mechanism of the automobile and had a smudge of grease across his face. "Right over the fields yonder," Ruth explained, carefully balancing the pail of berries. "Can't you see them, Helen?" "No-o," confessed her chum, who was not looking at all where Ruth pointed. "Where are your eyes?" Ruth cried sharply. "Nell is too lazy to stand up and look," laughed Tom. "I see them. Why! there's quite a bunch--and they're running." "Where? Where?" Helen now demanded, rising to look. "Oh, goosy!" laughed Ruth, in some vexation. "Right ahead. Surely you can see them now?" "Oh," drawled Tom, "sis wouldn't see a meteor if it fell into her lap." "I guess that's right, Tommy," responded his twin, in some scorn. "Neither would you. Your knowledge of the heavenly bodies is very small indeed, I fear. What do they teach you at Seven Oaks?" "Not much about anything celestial, I guarantee," said Ruth, slyly. "Oh! there those folks go again." "Goodness me!" gasped Helen. "Where _are_ these wonderful persons? Oh! I see them now." "Whom do you suppose they are chasing?" demanded Tom Cameron. "Or, who is chasing _them_?" "That's it, Tommy," scoffed his sister. "I understand you have taken up navigation with the other branches of higher mathematics at Seven Oaks; and now you want to trouble Ruth and me with conundrums. "Are we soothsayers, that we should be able to explain, off-hand," pursued Helen, "the actions of such a crazy crowd of people as those----Do look there! that woman jumped right down that sandbank. Did you ever?" "And there goes another!" Ruth exclaimed. "Likewise a third," came from Tom, who was quite as much puzzled as were the girls. "One after the other--just like Brown's cows," giggled Helen. "Isn't that funny?" "It's like one of those chases in the moving pictures," suggested Tom. "Why, of course!" Ruth cried, relieved at once. "That's exactly what it is," and she scrambled down the bank with the pail of barberries. "What is _what_?" asked her chum. "Moving pictures," Ruth said confidently. "That is, it will be a film in time. They are making a picture over yonder. I can see the camera-man off at one side, turning the crank." "Cracky!" exclaimed Tom, grinning, "I thought that was a fellow with a hand-organ, and I was looking for the monkey." "Monkey, yourself," cried his sister, gaily. "Didn't know but that he was playing for those 'crazy creeters'--as your Aunt Alvirah would call them, Ruthie--to dance by," went on Tom. "Come on! I've got this thing fixed up so it will hobble along a little farther. Let's take the lane there and go down by the river road, and see what it's all about." "Good idea, Tommy-boy," agreed Ruth, as she got into the tonneau and sat down beside Helen. "Fancy! taking moving pictures out in the open in mid-winter," Helen remarked. "Although this is a warm day." "And no snow on the ground," chimed in Ruth. "Uncle Jabez was saying last evening that he doesn't remember another such open winter along the Lumano." "Say, Ruthie, how does your Uncle Jabez treat you, now that you are a bloated capitalist?" asked Helen, pinching her chum's arm. "Oh, Helen! don't," objected Ruth. "I don't feel puffed up at all--only vastly satisfied and content." "Hear her! who wouldn't?" demanded Tom. "Five thousand dollars in bank--and all you did was to use your wits to get it. We had just as good a chance as you did to discover that necklace and cause the arrest of the old Gypsy," and the young fellow laughed, his black eyes twinkling. "I never shall feel as though the reward should all have been mine," Ruth said, as Tom prepared to start the car. "Pooh! I'd never worry over the possession of so much money," said Helen. "Not I! What does it matter how you got it? But you don't tell us what your Uncle Jabez thinks about it." "I can't," responded Ruth, demurely. "Why not?" "Because Uncle Jabez has expressed no opinion--beyond his usual grunt. It doesn't really matter how the dear man feels," pursued Ruth Fielding, earnestly. "I know how _I_ feel about it. I am no longer a 'charity child'----" "Oh, Ruthie! you never were _that_," Helen hastened to say. "Oh, yes I was. When I first came to the Red Mill you know Uncle Jabez only took me in because I was a relative and he felt that he _had_ to." "But you helped save him a lot of money," cried Helen. "And there was that Tintacker Mine business. If you hadn't chanced to find The Fox's brother out there in the wilds of Montana, and nursed him back to health, your uncle would never have made a penny in _that_ investment." Helen might have gone on with continued vehemence, had not Ruth stopped her by saying: "That makes no difference in my feelings, my dear. Each quarter Uncle Jabez has had to pay out a lot of money to Mrs. Tellingham for my tuition. And he has clothed me, and let me spend money going about with you 'richer folks,'" and Ruth laughed rather ruefully. "I feel that I should not have allowed him to do it. I should have remained at the Red Mill and helped Aunt Alvirah----" "Pooh! Nonsense!" ejaculated Tom, as the spark ignited and the engine began to rumble. "You shouldn't be so popular, Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill," chanted Helen, leaning over to kiss her chum's flushed cheek. "Look out for the barberries!" cried Ruth. "I reckon you don't want to spill them, after working so hard to get them," Tom said, as the automobile lurched forward. "I certainly do not," Ruth admitted. "I scratched my hands all up getting the bucket full. Just fancy finding barberries still clinging to the bushes in such quantities this time of the year." "What good are they?" queried Helen, selecting one gingerly and putting it into her mouth. "Oh! Aunt Alvirah makes the loveliest pies of them--with huckleberries, you know. Half and half." "Where'll you find huckleberries this time of year?" scoffed Tom. "On the bushes too?" "In glass jars down cellar, sir," replied Ruth, smartly. "I did help pick those and put them up last summer, in spite of all the running around we did." "Beg pardon, Miss Fielding," said Tom. "Go on. Tell us some more recipes. Makes my mouth water." "O-o-oh! so will these barberries!" exclaimed Helen, making a wry face. "Just taste one, Tommy." "Many, many thanks! _Good_-night!" ejaculated her brother, "I know better. But those barberries properly prepared with sugar make a mighty nice drink in summer. Our Babette makes barberry syrup, you know." "Ugh! It doesn't taste like these," complained his sister. "Oh, folks! there are those foolish actors again." "_Now_ what are they about?" demanded Ruth. "Look out that you don't bring the car into the focus of the camera, Tom," his sister warned him. "It will make them awfully mad." "Don't fret. I have no desire to appear in a movie," laughed Tom. "But I think _I_ would like to," said his sister. "Wouldn't you, Ruth?" "I--I don't know. It must be awfully interesting----" "Pooh!" scoffed Tom. "What will you girls get into your heads next? And they don't let girls like you play in movies, anyway." "Oh, yes, they do!" cried his sister. "Some of the greatest stars in the film firmament are nothing more than schoolgirls. They have what they call 'film charm.'" "Think you've got any of that commodity?" demanded Tom, with cheerful impudence. "I don't know----Oh, Ruth, look at that girl! Now, Tommy, see there! That girl isn't a day older than we." "Too far away to make sure," said Tom, slowly. Then, the next moment, he ejaculated: "What under the sun is she doing? Why! she'll fall off that tree-trunk, the silly thing!" The slender girl who had attracted their attention had, at the command of the director of the picture, scrambled up a leaning sycamore tree which overhung the stream at a sharp angle. The girl swayed upon the bare trunk, balancing herself prettily, and glanced back over her shoulder. Tom had brought the car to a stop. When the engine was shut off they could hear the director's commands: "That's it, Hazel. Keep that pose. Got your focus, Carroll?" he called to the camera man. "Now--ready! Register fear, Miss Hazel. Say! act as though you _meant_ it! Register fear, I say--just as though you expected to fall into the water the next moment. Oh, piffle! Not at all like it! not at _all_ like it!" He was a dreadfully noisy, pugnacious man. Finally the girl said: "If you think I am not scared, Mr. Grimes, you are very much mistaken. I _am_. I expect to slip off here any moment----Oh!" The last was a shriek of alarm. What she was afraid would happen came to pass like a flash. Her foot slipped, she lost her balance, and the next instant was precipitated into the river! CHAPTER II THE FILM HEROINE When the motion picture girl fell from the sycamore tree into the water, some of the members of the company, who sat or stood near by panting after their hard chase cross-lots, actually laughed at their unfortunate comrade's predicament. But that was because they had no idea of the strength and treacherous nature of the Lumano. At this point the eddies and cross-currents made the stream more perilous than any similar stretch of water in the State. "Oh, that silly girl!" shouted Mr. Grimes, the director. "There! she's spoiled the scene again. I don't know what Hammond was thinking of to send her up here to work with us. "Hey, one of you fellows! go and fish her out. And that spoils our chance of getting the picture to-day. Miss Gray will have to be mollycoddled, and grandmothered, and what-not. Huh!" While he scolded, the director scarcely gave a glance to the struggling girl. The latter had struck out pluckily for the shore when she came up from her involuntary plunge. After the cry she had uttered as she fell, she had not made a sound. To swim with one's clothing all on is not an easy matter at the best of times. To do this in mid-winter, when the water is icy, is well nigh an impossibility. Several of the men of the company, more humane than the director, had sprung to assist the unfortunate girl; but suddenly the current caught her and she was swerved from the bank. She was out of reach. "And not a skiff in sight!" exclaimed Tom. "Oh, dear! The poor thing!" cried his sister. "She's being carried right down the river. They'll never get her." "Oh, Tom!" implored Ruth. "Hurry and start. _We must get that girl_!" "Sure we will!" cried Tom Cameron. He was already out of the car and madly turning the crank. In a moment the engine was throbbing. Tom leaped back behind the wheel and the automobile darted ahead. The rough road led directly along the verge of the river bank. The picture-play actors scattered as he bore down upon them. It gave Tom, as well as the girls, considerable satisfaction to see the director, Grimes, jump out of the way of the rapidly moving car. The friends in the car saw the actress, whom Grimes had called both "Hazel" and "Miss Gray," swirled far out from the shore; but they knew the current or an eddy would bring her back. She sank once; but she came up again and fought the current like the plucky girl she was. "Oh, Helen! she's wonderful!" gasped Ruth, with clasped hands, as she watched this fight for life which was more thrilling than anything she had ever seen reproduced on the screen. Helen was too frightened to reply; but Ruth Fielding often before had shown remarkable courage and self-possession in times of emergency. No more than the excited Tom did she lose her head on this occasion. As has been previously told, Ruth had come to the banks of the Lumano River and to her Uncle Jabez Potter's Red Mill some years before, when she was a small girl. She was an orphan, and the crabbed and miserly miller was her single living relative. The first volume of the series, entitled "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill," tells of the incidents which follow Ruth's coming to reside with her uncle, and with Aunt Alvirah Boggs, who was "everybody's aunt" but nobody's relative. The first and closest friends of her own age that Ruth made in her new home were Helen and Tom Cameron, twin children of a wealthy merchant whose all-year home was not far from the Red Mill. With Helen and Mercy Curtis, a lame girl, Ruth is sent to Briarwood Hall, a delightfully situated boarding school at some distance from the girls' homes, and there, in the second volume of the series, Ruth is introduced to new scenes, some new friends and a few enemies; but altogether has a delightful time. Ensuing volumes tell of Ruth and her chums' adventures at Snow Camp; at Lighthouse Point; on Silver Ranch, in Montana; on Cliff Island, where occur a number of remarkable winter incidents; at Sunset Farm during the previous summer; and finally, in the eighth volume, the one immediately preceding this present story, Ruth achieves something that she has long, long desired. This last volume, called "Ruth Fielding and the Gypsies; Or, The Missing Pearl Necklace," tells of an automobile trip which Ruth and her present companions, Helen and Tom Cameron, took through the hills some distance beyond the Red Mill and Cheslow, their home town. They fall into the hands of Gypsies and the two girls are actually held captive by the old and vindictive Gypsy Queen. Through Ruth's bravery Helen escapes and takes the news of the capture back to Tom. Later the grandson of the old Gypsy Queen releases Ruth. While at the camp Ruth sees a wonderful pearl necklace in the hands of the covetous old Queen Zelaya. Later, when the girls return to Briarwood, they learn that an aunt of one of their friends, Nettie Parsons, has been robbed of just such a necklace. Ruth, through Mr. Cameron, puts the police on the trail of the Gypsies. The Gypsy boy, Roberto, is rescued and in time becomes a protégé of Mr. Cameron, while the stolen necklace is recovered from the Gypsy Queen, who is deported by the Washington authorities. In the end, the five thousand dollars reward offered by Nettie's aunt comes to Ruth. She is enriched beyond her wildest dreams, and above all, is made independent of the niggardly charity of her Uncle Jabez who seems to love his money more than he does his niece. Unselfishness was Ruth's chief virtue, though she had many. She could never refuse a helping hand to the needy; nor did she fear to risk her own convenience, sometimes even her own safety, to relieve or rescue another. In the present case, none knew better than Ruth the treacherous currents of the Lumano. It had not been so many months since she and her uncle, Jabez Potter, out upon the Lumano in a boat, had nearly lost their lives. This present accident, that to the young moving-picture actress, was at a point some distance above the Red Mill. "If she is carried down two hundred yards farther, Tom, she will be swept out into mid-stream," declared Ruth, still master of herself, though her voice was shaking. "And then--good-night!" answered Tom. "I know what you mean, Ruth." "She will sink for the last time before the current sweeps her in near the shore again," Ruth added. "Oh, don't!" groaned Helen. "The poor girl." Tom had driven the automobile until it was ahead of the struggling Hazel Gray. An eddy clutched her and drew her swiftly in toward the bank. Immediately Tom shut off the power and he and Ruth both leaped out of the car. A long branch from an adjacent tree had been torn off by the wind and lay beside the road. Tom seized this and ran with Ruth to the edge of the water; but he knew the branch was a poor substitute for a rope. "If she can cling to this, I'll get something better in a moment, Ruth!" he exclaimed. Swinging the small and bushy end of the branch outward, Tom dropped it into the water just ahead of the imperiled girl. Ruth seized the butt with her strong and capable hands. "Cut off a length of that fence wire, Tommy," she ordered. "You have wire-cutters in your auto kit, haven't you?" "Sure!" cried Tom. "Never travel without 'em since we were at Silver Ranch, you know. There! She's got it." Hazel Gray had seized upon the branch. She was too exhausted to reach the bank of the river without help, and just here the eddy began to swing her around again, away from the shore. The men of the company came running now, giving lusty shouts of encouragement, but--that was all! The director had allowed the girl to get into a perilous position on the leaning tree without having a boat and crew in readiness to pick her up if she fell into the river. It was an unpardonable piece of neglect, and there might still serious consequences arise from it. For the girl in the water was so exhausted that she could not long cling to the limb. It was but a frail support between her and drowning. When the men arrived Ruth feared to have them even touch the branch she held, and she motioned them back. She knew that the girl in the stream was almost exhausted and that a very little would cause her to lose her hold upon the branch altogether. "Don't touch it! I beg of you, don't touch it!" cried Ruth, as one excited man undertook to take the butt of the branch. "You can't hold it, Miss! you'll be pulled into the water." "Never fear for me," the girl from the Red Mill returned. "I know what I am about----Oh, goody! here comes Tom!" She depended on Tom--she knew that he would do something if anybody could. She gazed upon the wet, white face of the girl in the water and knew that whatever Tom did must be done at once. Hazel Gray was loosing her hold. "Oh! oh! oh!" screamed Helen, standing in the automobile with clasped hands. "Don't let her drown, Tommy! Don't let her go down again--_don't_!" Tom came, with grimly set lips, dragging about twenty feet of fence wire behind him. Luckily it was smooth wire--not barbed. He quickly made a loop in one end of it and wriggled the other end toward Ruth and the excited men. "Catch hold here!" he ordered. "Make a loop as I have, and don't let it slip through your hands." "Oh, Tom! you're never going into that cold water?" Ruth gasped, suddenly stricken with fear for her friend's safety. But that was exactly what Tom intended to do. There was no other way. He had seen, too, the exhaustion of the girl in the water and knew that if her hands slipped from the tree branch, she could never get a grip on the wire. Without removing an article of clothing the boy leaped into the stream. It was over his head right here below the bank, and the chill of the water was tremendous. As Tom said afterward, he felt it "clear to the marrow of his bones!" But he came up and struck out strongly for the face of the girl, which was all that could be seen above the surface. Hazel Gray's hold was slipping from the branch. She was blue about the lips and her eyes were almost closed. The current was tugging at her strongly; she was losing consciousness. If she was carried away by the suction of the stream, now dragging so strongly at her limbs, Tom Cameron would be obliged to loose his own hold upon the wire and swim after her. And the young fellow was not at all sure that he could save either her or himself if this occurred. Yet, perilous as his own situation was, Tom thought only of that of the actress. CHAPTER III AT THE RED MILL Helen, greatly excited, stood on the seat of the tonneau and cheered her brother on at the top of her voice. That, in her excitement, she thought she was "rooting" at a basket-ball game at Briarwood, was not to be wondered at. Ruth heard her chum screaming: "S.B.--Ah-h-h! S.B.--Ah-h-h Sound our battle-cry Near and far! S.B.--All! Briarwood Hall! Sweetbriars, do or die---- This be our battle-cry---- Briarwood Hall! _That's All!_" At the very moment the excited Helen brought out the "snapper" of the rallying cry of their own particular Briarwood sorority, Ruth let the limb go, for Tom had seized the sinking actress by the shoulder. "He's got her!" the men shouted in chorus. "And that's all those fellows were," Ruth said afterwards, in some contempt. "Just a _chorus_! They were a lot of tabby-cats--afraid to wet their precious feet. If it hadn't been for Tom, Miss Gray would have been drowned before the eyes of that mean director and those other imitation men. Ugh! I de-_test_ a coward!" This was said later, however. Until they drew Tom and his fainting burden ashore, neither Ruth nor Helen had time for criticism. Then they bundled Hazel Gray in the automobile rugs, while Tom struggled into an overcoat and cranked up the machine. The director came to inquire: "What are you going to do with that girl?" "Take her to the Red Mill," snapped Ruth. "That's down the river, opposite the road to Cheslow. And don't try to see her before to-morrow. No thanks to _you_ that she isn't drowned." "You are a very impudent young lady," growled the director. "I may be a plain spoken one," said Ruth, not at all alarmed by the man's manner. "I don't know how you would have felt had Miss Gray been drowned. I should think you would think of _that_!" But the man seemed more disturbed about the delay to the picture that was being taken. "I shall expect you to be ready bright and early in the morning, Miss Gray!" he shouted as the automobile moved off. The young actress, half fainting in the tonneau between the Briarwood Hall girls, did not hear him. It was several miles to the Red Mill, and Ruth, worried, said: "I'm afraid Tom will catch cold, Helen." "And--and this po--poor girl, too," stammered Tom's sister, as the car jounced over a particularly rough piece of road. Hazel Gray opened her eyes languidly, murmuring: "I shall be all right, thank you! Just drive to the hotel----" "What hotel?" asked Ruth, laughing. "In Cheslow. I don't know the name of it," whispered Hazel Gray. "Is there more than one?" "There is; but you'll not go all the way to Cheslow in your condition," declared Ruth. "We're taking you to the Red Mill. Now! no objections, please. Hurry up, Tommy." "But I am all wet," protested the girl. "I should say you were," gasped Helen. "Nobody knows better than I," said Ruth, "that the water of the Lumano river is at least _damp_, at all seasons." "I will make you a lot of trouble," objected Miss Gray. "No, you won't," the girl of the Red Mill repeated. "Aunt Alvirah will snuggle you down between soft, fluffy blankets, and give you hot boneset tea, or 'composition,' and otherwise coddle you. To-morrow morning you will feel like a new girl." "Oh, dear!" groaned Miss Gray. "I wish I _were_ a new girl." A very few minutes later they came in sight of the Red Mill, with the rambling, old, story-and-a-half dwelling beside it, in which Jabez Potter's grandfather had been born. Although the leaves had long since fallen from the trees, and the lawn was brown, the sloping front yard of the Potter house was very attractive. The walks were swept, the last dead leaf removed, and the big stones at the main gateway were dazzlingly white-washed. The jar and rumble of the grist-mill, and the trickle of the water on the wheel, made a murmurous accompaniment to all the other sounds of life about the place. From the rear of the old house fowls cackled, a mule sent his clarion call across the fields, and hungry pigs squealed their prayer for supper. A cow lowed impatiently at the pasture bars in answer to the querulous blatting of her calf. Tom was going on home to change his clothes; but when Ruth saw the fringe of icicles around the bottoms of his trouser legs, she would not hear to it. "You come right in with us, Tom. Helen will drive the car home and get you a change of clothing. Meanwhile you can put on some of Uncle Jabez's old clothes. Hurry on, now, children!" and she laughingly drove Tom and Hazel Gray before her to the porch of the old house, where Aunt Alvirah, having heard the automobile, met them in amazement. "What forever has happened, my pretty?" cried the little old lady, whose bent back and rheumatic limbs made her seem even smaller than she naturally was. "In the river? Do come in! Bring the young lady right into the best room, Ruthie. You strip off right before the kitchen fire, Master Tom. I'll bring you some things to put on. There's a huck towel on the nail yonder. Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" Thus talking, Aunt Alvirah hobbled ahead into the sitting room. The girl who had fallen into the river was now shivering. Ruth and the old lady undressed her as quickly as possible, and Aunt Alvirah made ready the bed with the "fluffy" blankets in the chamber right off the sitting room. "Do get one of your nighties for her, my pretty," directed Aunt Alvirah. "She wouldn't feel right sleepin' in one o' _my_ old things, I know." Ruth was excited. In the first place, as to most girls of her age, a "real live actress" was as much of a wonder as a Great Auk would have been; only, of course, Hazel Gray was much more charming than the garfowl! Ruth Fielding was interested in moving pictures--and for a particular reason. Long before she had gained the reward for the return of the pearl necklace to Nettie Parsons' aunt, Ruth had thought of writing a scenario. This was not a very original thought, for many, many thousand other people have thought the same thing. Occasionally, when she had been to a film show, Ruth had wondered why she could not write a playlet quite as good as many she saw, and get money for it. But it had been only a thought; she knew nothing about the technique of the scenario, or how to go about getting an opinion upon her work if she should write one. Here chance had thrown her into the company of a girl who was working for the films, and evidently was of some importance in the moving picture companies, despite the treatment she had received from the unpleasant director, Mr. Grimes. Ruth remembered now of having seen Hazel Gray upon the screen more than once within the year. She was regarded as a coming star, although she had not achieved the fame of many actresses for the silent drama who were no older. So Ruth, feeling the importance of the occasion, selected from her store the very prettiest night gown that she owned--one she had never even worn herself--and brought it down stairs to the girl who had been in the river. A little later Hazel Gray was between Aunt Alvirah's blankets, and was sipping her hot tea. "My dear! you are very, very good to me," she said, clinging to Ruth's hand. You and the dear little old lady. Are you as good to every stranger who comes your way?" "Aunt Alvirah is, I'm sure," replied Ruth, laughing and blushing. Somehow, despite the fact that the young actress was only two or three years older than herself, the girl of the Red Mill felt much more immature than Miss Gray. "You belittle your own kindness, I am sure," said Hazel. "And that _dear_ boy who got me out of the river--Where is he?" "Unseeable at present," laughed Ruth. "He is dressed in some of Uncle Jabez's clothing, a world too big for him. But Tom _is_ one of the dearest fellows who ever lived." "You think a great deal of him, I fancy?" "Oh, yes, indeed!" cried Ruth, innocently. "His sister is my very dearest friend. We go to Briarwood Hall together." "Briarwood Hall? I have heard of that. We go there soon, I understand. Mr. Hammond is to take some pictures in and around Lumberton." "Oh!" exclaimed Ruth. 'That will be nice! I hope we shall see you up there, Miss Gray, for Helen and I go back to school in a week." "Whether I see you there or not," said the young actress with a sigh, "I hope that I shall be able some time to repay you for what you do for me now. You are entirely too kind." "Perhaps you can pay me more easily than you think," said Ruth, bashfully, but with dancing eyes. "How? Tell me at once," said Miss Gray. "I'm just _mad_ to try writing a scenario for a moving picture," confessed Ruth. "But I don't know how to go about getting it read." Miss Gray smiled, but made no comment upon Ruth's desire. She merely said, pleasantly: "If you write your scenario, my dear, I will get our manager to read it." "That awful Mr. Grimes?" cried Ruth. "Oh! I shouldn't want _him_ to read it." Hazel Gray laughed heartily at that. "Don't judge, the taste of a baked porcupine by his quills," she said. "Grimes is a very rough and unpleasant man; but he gets there. He is one of the most successful directors Mr. Hammond has working for him." "You have mentioned Mr. Hammond before?" said Ruth, questioningly. "He is the man I will show your scenario to." Then she added: "If I am still working for him. Mr. Hammond is a very nice man; but Grimes does not like me," and again the girl sighed, and a cloud came over her pretty face. "I would not work under such a mean man as that Grimes!" declared Ruth. "You might have been drowned because of his carelessness." "It is my misfortune--being an actress--often to work under unpleasant conditions. I want to get ahead, and I would like to please Grimes; he puts over his pictures, and he has made several film actresses quite famous. Of course, although my first consideration must necessarily be my bread and butter, I hope for a little fame on the side, too." "Oh! you have achieved that, have you not?" said Ruth, timidly. "I thought you had already made a name for yourself." "Not as great a name as I hope to gain some day," declared Hazel Gray. "But thank you for the compliment. I was carried on to the stage when I was a baby in arms by my dear mother, who was an actress of some ability. My father was an actor. He died of a fever in the South before I can remember, and when I was seven my mother died. "Kind people trained me for the stage; they were kind enough to say I had talent. And now I have tried to do my best in the movies. Mr. Hammond thinks I am a good pantomimist; but Grimes declares I have no 'film charm,'" and Miss Gray sighed again. "He has another girl he wants to push forward, and is angry that Mr. Hammond did not send her to head this company." "Then this Mr. Hammond is quite an important man?" asked Ruth. "Head of the Alectrion Film Corporation. He is immensely wealthy and a really _good_ man. Of course," went on Miss Gray, "he is in the business of making films for money; just the same, he makes a great many pictures purely for art's sake, or for educational reasons. You would like Mr. Hammond, I am sure," and the girl in bed sighed again. Ruth saw that talking troubled Miss Gray and kept her mind upon her quarrel with the moving picture director; so it did not need Aunt Alvirah's warning to make the girl of the Red Mill steal away and leave the patient to such repose as she might get. CHAPTER IV A TIME OF CHANGE Tom Cameron looked funny enough in some of the miller's garments; but he was none the worse for his bath in the river. He, too, had been dosed with hot tea by Aunt Alvirah, though he made a wry face over it. "Never you mind, boy," Ruth told him, laughing. "It is better to have a bad taste in your mouth for a little while than a sore throat for a week." "Hear! hear the philosopher!" cried Tom. "You'd think I was a tender little blossom." "You know, you _might_ have the croup," suggested Ruth, wickedly. "Croup! What am I--a kid?" demanded Tom, half angry at this suggestion. He had begun to notice that his sister and Ruth were inclined to set him down as a "small boy" nowadays. "How is it," Tom asked his father one day, "that Helen is all grown up of a sudden? _I'm_ not! Everybody treats me just as they always have; but even Colonel Post takes off his hat to our Helen on the street with overpowering politeness, and the other men speak to her as though she were as old as Mrs. Murchiston. It gets _me_!" Mr. Cameron laughed; but he sighed thereafter, too. "Our little Helen _is_ growing up, I expect. She's taken a long stride ahead of you, Tommy, while you've been asleep." "Huh! I'm just as old as she is," growled Tom. "But _I_ don't feel grown up." And here was Ruth Fielding holding the same attitude toward him that his twin did! Tom did not like it a bit. He was a manly fellow and had always observed a protective air with Ruth and his sister. And, all of a sudden, they had become young ladies while he was still a boy. "I wish Nell would come back with my duds," he grumbled. "I have a good mind to walk home in these things of the miller's." "And be taken for an animated scarecrow on the way?" laughed Ruth. "Better 'bide a wee,' Tommy. Sister will get here with your rompers pretty soon. Have patience." "Now you talk just like Bobbins' sister. Behave, will you?" complained Tom. Ruth tripped out of the room to peep at the guest, and Aunt Alvirah hobbled in and, letting herself down into her low chair, with a groan of "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" smiled indulgently at Tom's gloomy face. "What is the matter, Mister Tom?" she asked. "Truly, you look as colicky as Amos Dodge--an' they do say he lived on sour apples!" Tom had to laugh at this; but it was rather a rueful laugh. "I don't know what is coming over these girls--Ruth and my sister," he said, "They're beginning to put on airs like grown ladies. Cracky! they used to be some fun." "Growin' up, Mister Tom--growin' up. So's my pretty. I hate to see it, but ye can't fool Natur'--no, sir! Natur' says to these young things: 'Advance!' an' they've jest got to march, I reckon," and Aunt Alvirah sighed, too. Then her little, bird-like eyes twinkled suddenly and she chuckled. "Jest the same," she added, in a whisper, "Ruth got out all her doll-babies the other day and played with 'em jest like she was ten years old." "Ho, ho!" cried Tom, his face clearing up. "I guess she's only making believe to be grown up, after all!" Helen came finally and they left Tom alone in the kitchen to change his clothes. Then the Camerons hurried away, for it was close to supper time. Both Helen and Tom were greatly interested in the moving picture actress; but she had fallen into a doze and they could not bid her good-bye. "But I'm going to run down in the morning to see how she is," Tom announced. "I'll see her before she goes away. She's a plucky one, all right!" "Humph!" thought Ruth, when the automobile had gone, "Tom seems to have been wonderfully taken with that Miss Gray's appearance." When Jabez Potter came in from the mill and found the strange girl in the best bed he was inclined to criticize. He was a tall, dusty, old man, for whom it seemed a hard task ever to speak pleasantly. Aunt Alvirah, when she was much put out with him, said he "croaked like a raven!" "Gals, gals, gals!" he grumbled. "This house seems to be nigh full of 'em when you air to home, Niece Ruth." "And empty enough of young life, for a fac', when my pretty is away," put in Aunt Alvirah. Ruth, not minding her Uncle Jabez's strictures, went about setting the supper table with puckered lips, whistling softly. This last was an accomplishment she had picked up from Tom long ago. "And whistling gals is the wust of all!" snarled Jabez Potter, from the sink, where he had just taken his face out of the soapsuds bath he always gave it before sitting down to table. "I reckon ye ain't forgot what I told ye: "'Whistlin' gals an' crowin' hens Always come to some bad ends!'" "Now, Jabez!" remonstrated Aunt Alvirah. But Ruth only laughed. "You've got it wrong, Uncle Jabez," she declared. "There is another version of that old doggerel. It is: "'Whistling girls and blatting sheep Are the two best things a farmer can keep!'" Then she went straight to him and, as his irritated face came out of the huck towel, she put both arms around his neck and kissed him on his grizzled cheek. This sort of treatment always closed her Uncle Jabez's lips for a time. There seemed no answer to be made to such an argument--and Ruth _did_ love the crusty old man and was grateful to him. When the miller had retired to his own chamber to count and recount the profits of the day, as he always did every evening, Aunt Alvirah complained more than usual of the old man's niggardly ways. "It's gittin' awful, Ruthie, when you ain't to home. He's ashamed to have me set so mean a table when you air here. For he _does_ kinder care about what you think of him, my pretty, after all." "Oh, Aunt Alvirah! I thought he was cured of _little_ 'stingies.'" "No, he ain't! no, he ain't!" cried the old lady, sitting down with a groan. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones! I tell ye, my pretty, I have to steal out things a'tween meals to Ben sometimes, or that boy wouldn't have half enough to eat. Jabez has had a new padlock put on the meat-house door, and I can't git a slice of bacon without his knowin' on it." "That is ridiculous!" exclaimed Ruth, who had less patience now than she once had for her great uncle's penuriousness. She was positive that it was not necessary. "Ree-dic'lous or not; it's _so_," Aunt Alvirah asserted. "Sometimes I feel like I was a burden on him myself." "_You_ a burden, dear Aunt Alvirah!" cried Ruth, with tears in her eyes. "You would be a blessing, not a burden, in anybody's house. Uncle Jabez was very fortunate indeed to get you to come here to the Red Mill." "I dunno--I dunno," groaned the old lady. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones! I'm a poor, rheumaticky creeter--and nobody but Jabez would have taken me out o' the poorhouse an' done for me as he has." "You mean, you have done for him!" cried Ruth, in some passion. "You have kept his house for him, and mended for him, and made a home for him, for years. And I doubt if he has ever thanked you--not _once_!" "But I have thanked him, deary," said Aunt Alvirah, sweetly. "And I do thank him, same as I do our Father in Heaven, ev'ry day of my life, for takin' me away from that poorfarm an' makin' an independent woman of me a'gin. Oh, Jabez ain't all bad. Fur from it, my pretty--fur from it! "Now that you ain't no more beholden to him for your eddication, an' all, he is more pennyurious than ever--yes he is! For Jabez's sake, I could almost wish you hadn't got all that money you did, for gittin' back the lady's necklace. Spendin' money breeds the itch for spendin' more. Since you wrote him that you was goin' to pay all your school bills, Jabez Potter is cured of the little itch of _that_ kind he ever had." "Oh, Aunt Alvirah! Think of me--I am glad to be independent, too." "I know--I know," admitted Aunt Alvirah. "But it's hard on Jabez. He was givin' you the best eddication he could----" "Grumblingly enough, I am sure!" interposed Ruth, with a pout. She could speak plainly to the little old woman, for Aunt Alvirah _knew_. "Surely--surely," agreed the old lady. "But it did him good, jest the same. Even if he only spent money on ye for fear of what the neighbors would say. Opening his pocket for _your_ needs, my pretty, was makin' a new man of Jabez." "Dear me!" exclaimed Ruth, thinking it rather hard. "You want me to be poor again, Aunt Alvirah." "Only for your uncle's sake--only for his sake," she reiterated. "But he can do more for Mercy Curtis," said Ruth. "He has helped her quite a little. He likes Mercy--better than he does me, I think." "But he don't have to help Mercy no more," put in Aunt Alvirah, quickly. "Haven't you heard? Mercy's mother has got a legacy from some distant relative and now there ain't a soul on whom Jabez Potter thinks he's _got_ to spend money. It's a terrible thing for Jabez--Meed an' it is, my pretty. "Changes--changes, all the time! We were going on quite smooth and pleasant for a fac'. And _now_----Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" and thus groaningly Aunt Alvirah finished her quite unusual complaint, for with all her aches and pains she was naturally a cheerful body. CHAPTER V "THAT'S A PROMISE" The family at the Red Mill were early risers When the red, red sun threw his first rays across the frosty waters of the Lumano, Ruth Fielding's casement was wide open and she was busily tripping about the kitchen where her Uncle Jabez had built the fire in the range before going to the mill. Ben, the hired man, was out doing the chores and soon brought two brimming pails of milk into the milk-room. "Aunt Alviry will miss ye, Ruthie, when ye air gone back to school," Ben said bashfully, when Ruth, with capable air, began to strain the milk and pour it into the pans. "Poor Aunt Alvirah!" sighed Ruth. "I hope you help her all you can when I'm not here, Ben?" "I jest _do_!" said the big fellow, heartily. "T'tell the truth, Ruthie, sometimes I kin scarce a-bear Jabe Potter. I wouldn't work for him another month, I vow! if 'twasn't for the old woman--and--and _you_." "Oh, thank you, Ben, for that compliment," cried Ruth, dimpling and running into the kitchen to set back the coffee-pot in which the coffee was threatening to boil over. The breakfast dishes were not dried when the raucous "honk! honk! honk!" of an automobile horn sounded without. The machine stopped at the gate of the Potter house. "My mercy! who kin that be?" demanded Aunt Alvirah, jerkily, and then settled back into her chair again by the window with a murmured, "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" "It can't be Tom, can it?" gasped Ruth, running to the door. "So early--and to see Miss Gray?" for the thought that Tom Cameron was interested in the actress still stuck in Ruth's mind. "It doesn't sound like Tom's horn," she added, as she struggled with the outer door. "Oh, dear! I _do_ wish Uncle Jabez would fix this lock. There!" The door flew open, and swung out, its weight carrying Ruth with it plump into the arms of a big man in a big fur coat which he had thrown open as he ascended the steps of the porch. Ruth was almost smothered in the coat. And she would have slipped and fallen had not the stranger held her up, finally setting her squarely on her feet at arm's length, steadying her there and laughing the while. "I declare, young lady," he said in a pleasant voice, "I did not expect to be met with such cordiality. Is this the way you always meet visitors at this beautiful, picturesque old place?" "Oh, oh, oh! I--I--I----" Ruth could only gasp at first, her cheeks ruddy with blushes, her eyes timid. Her tongue actually refused to speak two consecutive, sensible words. "I must say, my dear," said the gentleman who, Ruth now saw, was a man as old as Mr. Cameron, "that you are as charming as the Red Mill itself. For, of course, this _is_ the Red Mill? I was directed here from Cheslow." "Oh, yes!" stammered Ruth. "This is the Red Mill. Did--did you wish to see Uncle Jabez?" "Perhaps. But that was not my particular reason for coming here," said the stranger, laughing openly at her now. "I find his niece pleasanter to look at, I have no doubt; though Uncle Jabez may be a very estimable man." Ruth was puzzled. She glanced past him to the big maroon automobile at the gate. Therein she saw the squat, pugnacious looking Mr. Grimes, and she jumped to a correct conclusion. "Oh!" she cried faintly. "_You_ are Mr. Hammond!" "Perfectly correct, my dear. And who are you, may I ask?" "Ruth Fielding. I live here, sir. We have Miss Gray with us." "Quite so," said Mr. Hammond, nodding. "I have come to see Miss Gray--and to take her away if she is well enough to be moved." "Oh, she is all right, Mr. Hammond. Only she is still lying in bed. Aunt Alvirah prevailed upon her to stay quiet for a while longer." "And your Aunt Alvirah is probably right. But--may I come in? I'd like to ask you a few questions, even if Hazel is not to be seen as yet." "Oh, certainly, sir!" cried Ruth, thus reminded of her negligence. "Do come in. Here, into the sitting room, please. It is warm in here, for Uncle Jabez kept a fire all night, and I just put in a good-sized chunk myself." "Ah! an old-fashioned wood-heater, is it?" asked Mr. Hammond, following Ruth into the sitting room. "That looks like comfort. I remember stoking a stove like that when I was a boy." Ruth liked this jolly, hearty, big man from the start. He was inclined to joke and tease, she thought; but with it all he had the kindliest manner and most humorous mouth in the world. He turned to Ruth when the door was shut, and asked seriously: "My dear, is Miss Gray where she can hear us talk?" "Why, no, sir," replied Ruth, surprised. "The door is shut--and it is a soundproof door, I am certain." "Very well. I have heard Grimes' edition of the affair yesterday. Will you please give me _your_ version of the accident? Of course, it _was_ an accident?" "Oh, yes, sir! Although that man ought not to have made her climb that tree----" Mr. Hammond put up a warning hand, and smiled again. "I do not ask you for an opinion. Just for an account of what actually happened." "But you intimated that perhaps Mr. Grimes was more at fault than he actually _was_," said Ruth, boldly. "Surely he did not push her off that tree!" "No," said Mr. Hammond, drily. "Did she jump?" "Jump! Goodness! do you think she is crazy?" demanded Ruth, so shocked that she quite forgot to be polite. "Then she did not jump," the manager of the Alectrion Film Corporation said, quite placidly. "Very well. Tell me what you saw. For, I suppose, you were on the spot?" "Yes, sir," said Ruth, not quite sure just then that the gentleman was altogether fair-minded. Later she understood that Mr. Hammond merely desired to get the stories of the accident from the observers with neither partiality nor prejudice. Ruth repeated just what happened from the time she and her friends arrived in the Cameron car on the scene, till they reached the Red Mill and Miss Gray had been put to bed. "Very clear and convincing. You are a good witness," declared Mr. Hammond, lightly; but she saw that the story had left an unpleasant impression on his mind. She did not see how he could blame the motion picture actress; but she feared that he did. When Ruth tried to probe into that question, however, Mr. Hammond skilfully turned the subject to the picturesqueness of the Red Mill and its surroundings. "This would make a splendid background for a film," he said, with enthusiasm. "We ought to have a story written around this beautiful old place, with all the romance and human interest that must be connected with the history of the house. "Do you mind if we go out and look around a little? I would not disturb Miss Gray until she is perfectly rested and feels like rising." "Surely I will show you around, sir!" cried Ruth. "Let me get my coat and hat." She ran for her sweater and tam-o'-shanter, and joined Mr. Hammond on the porch. Mr. Hammond said nothing to Grimes, but allowed him to remain in the limousine. Ruth took the moving picture magnate down to the shore of the river and showed him the wheel and the mill-side. The old stone bridge over the creek, too, was an object of interest. In fact, Ruth had thought so much about the situation of the Red Mill as a picture herself, that she knew just what would attract the gentleman's interest the most. "I declare! I declare!" he murmured, over and over again. "It is better than I thought. A variety of scene, already for the action to be put into it! Splendid!" "And I am sure," Ruth told him, "Uncle Jabez would not object to your filming the old place. I could fix it for you. He is not so difficult when once you know how to take him." "I may ask your good offices in that matter," said Mr. Hammond. "But not now. Of course, Grimes could work up something in short order to fit these scenes here. He's excellent at that. But I think the subject is worthy of better treatment. I'd like a really big story, treated artistically, and one that would fit perfectly into the background of the Red Mill--nothing slapdash and carelessly written, or invented on the spur of the moment by a busy director----" "Oh, Mr. Hammond!" cried Ruth, so excited now that she could no longer keep silent. "I'd dearly love to write a moving picture scenario about the old mill. And I've thought about it so much that I believe I could do it." "Indeed?" said Mr. Hammond, with one of his queer smiles. "Did you ever write a scenario?" "No, sir! but then, you know," said Ruth, naively, "one must always do a thing for the first time." "Quite true--quite true. So Eve said when she bit into the apple," and Mr. Hammond chuckled. "I would just _love_ to try it," the girl continued, taking her courage in both hands. "I have a splendid plot--or, so I believe; and it is all about the Red Mill. The pictures would _have_ to be taken here." "Not in the winter, I fancy?" said Mr. Hammond. "No, sir. When it is all green and leafy and beautiful," said Ruth, eagerly. "Then," said Mr. Hammond, more seriously, "I'd try my 'prentice hand, if I were you, on something else. Don't write the Red Mill scenario now. Write some thrilling but simple story, and let me read it first----" "Oh, Mr. Hammond!" gasped Ruth, with clasped hands. "Will you really _read_ it?" "Of course I will," laughed the gentleman. "No matter how bad it is. That's a promise. Here is my card with my private address upon it. You send it directly to me, and the first time I am at home I will get it and give it my best attention. That's a promise," he repeated. "Oh, thank you, sir!" murmured Ruth delightedly, smiling and dimpling. He pinched her cheek and his eyes grew serious for a moment. "I once knew a girl much like you, Miss Ruth," he said. "Just as full of life and enthusiasm. You are a tonic for old fogies like me." "Old fogy!" repeated Ruth. "Why, I'm sure you are not old, Mr. Hammond." "Never mind flattering me," he broke in, with assumed sternness. "Haven't I already promised to read your scenario?" "Yes, sir," said Ruth, demurely. "But you haven't promised to produce it." "Quite so," and he laughed. "But _that_ only goes by worth. We will see what a schoolgirl like you can do in writing a scenario. It will give you practice so that you may be able to handle something really big about this beautiful old place. You know, now that the most popular writers of the day are turning their hands to movies, the amateur production has to be pretty good to 'get by,' as the saying is." "Oh! now you are trying to discourage me." "No. Only warning you," Mr. Hammond said, with another laugh. "I'll send you a little pamphlet on scenario preparation--it may help. And I hope to read your first attempt before long." "Thank you, sir," Ruth responded. "And if ever I write my Red Mill scenario, I am going to write Miss Gray into it. She is just the one to play the lead." "And she is a good little actress I believe," said Mr. Hammond. "I knew that Grimes had a girl that he wanted to push forward as the lead in this company he has up here. I never like to interfere with my directors if I can help it. But I will see that Miss Gray gets a square deal. She has had good training in the legitimate drama, she is pretty, and she has pluck and good breeding." "That Mr. Grimes was horrid to her," repeated Ruth, casting a glance of dislike at the man in the limousine. "Oh, well, my dear, we cannot make people over in this world. That is impossible. But I will take care that Hazel Gray gets a square deal. _That's_ a promise, too, Ruth Fielding," and the gentleman laughed again. CHAPTER VI WHAT IS AHEAD? While Ruth and Mr. Hammond had been walking about, the Camerons had come. Tom's automobile was parked just beyond the moving picture magnate's handsome limousine; and Tom had given more than one covetous glance at the big car before going into the house. When Ruth returned and entered the big and friendly kitchen after ushering Mr. Hammond Into the sitting room again, she found the twins eagerly listening to and talking to Miss Hazel Gray, who was leisurely eating a late breakfast at the long table. "Good morning, Ruth Fielding!" cried the guest, drawing her down to kiss her cheek. "You are a _dear_. I've been telling your friends so. I fancy one of them at least thoroughly agrees with me," and she cast a roguish glance at Tom. Tom blushed and Helen giggled. Ruth turned kind eyes away from Tom Cameron and smiled upon Helen. "Yes," she said, demurely, "I am sure that Helen has been singing my praises. The girls are beginning to call her 'Mr. Boswell' at school. But I have heard complimentary words of you this morning, Miss Gray." "Oh!" cried the young actress. "From Mr. Hammond?" "Yes." "He is a lovely man," declared Hazel Gray, enthusiastically. "I have always said so. If he would only make Grimes give me a square deal----" "Those are the very words he used," interrupted Ruth, while Tom recovered from his confusion and Helen from her enjoyment of her twin's embarrassment. "He says you shall have a square deal." While the young actress ate--and Aunt Alvirah heaped her plate, "killing me with kindness!" Hazel Gray declared--the young folk chattered. Ruth saw that Tom could scarcely keep his eyes off Miss Gray, and it puzzled the girl of the Red Mill. Afterward, when Miss Gray had gone out with Mr. Hammond, and Tom was out of sight, Helen began to laugh. "Aren't boys funny?" she said to Ruth. "Tom is terribly smitten with that lovely Hazel Gray." "Smitten?" murmured Ruth. "Of course. Don't say you didn't notice it. He hasn't had a 'crush' on any girl before that I know of. But it's a sure-enough case of 'measles' _this_ time. Busy Izzy tells me that most of the fellows in their class at Seven Oaks have a 'crush' on some moving picture girl; and now Tom, I suppose, will be cutting out of the papers every picture of Hazel Gray that he sees, and sticking them up about his room. And she has promised to send him a real cabinet photograph of herself in character in the bargain," and Helen laughed again. But Ruth could not be amused about this. She was disturbed. "I didn't think Tom would be so silly," she finally said. "Pooh! it's nothing. Bobbins and Tom are getting old enough to cast sheep's eyes at the girls. Heretofore, Tommy has been crazy about the slapstick comedians of the movies; but I rather admire his taste if he likes this Hazel Gray. I really think she's lovely." "So she is," Ruth said quite placidly. "But she is so much older than your brother----" "Pooh! only two or three years. But, of course, Ruth, it's nothing serious," said the more worldly-wise Helen. "And boys usually are smitten with girls some years older than themselves--at first." "Dear me!" gasped Ruth. "How much you seem to know about such things, Helen. _How did you find out?_" At that Helen burst into laughter again. "You dear little innocent!" she exclaimed. "You're so blind--blind as a bat! You never see the boys at all. You look on Tom to-day just as though he were the same Tom that you helped find the time he fell off his bicycle and was hurt by the roadside. You remember? Ages and ages ago!" But did Ruth look upon Tom Cameron in just that way? She said nothing in reply to Tom's sister. They came out of the house together and joined Mr. Hammond and Miss Gray just as they were about to step into the limousine. Aunt Alvirah waved her hand from the window. "She's just lovely!" declared Miss Gray. "You should have met her, Mr. Hammond." "That pleasure is in reserve," said the gentleman, smiling. "I hope to see the Red Mill again." Tom came hurrying down to shake hands with Miss Gray. Ruth watched them with some puzzlement of mind. Tom was undoubtedly embarrassed; but the moving picture girl was too used to making an impression upon susceptible minds to be much disturbed by Tom Cameron's worship. Mr. Hammond looked out of the door of the limousine before he closed it. "Remember, Ruth Fielding, I shall be on the lookout for what you promised me." "Oh, yes, sir!" Ruth cried, all in a flutter, for the moment having forgotten the scenario she proposed to write. "That's a promise!" he said again gaily, and closed the door. The big car rolled away and left the three friends at the gateway. "_What's_ a promise, Ruth Fielding?" demanded her chum, with immense curiosity. Ruth blushed and showed some confusion. "It's--it's a secret," she stammered. "A secret from _me_?" cried Helen, in amazement. "I--I couldn't tell even you, dearie, just now," Ruth said, with sudden seriousness. "But you shall know about it before anybody else." "That Mr. Hammond is in it." "Yes," admitted her chum. "That is just it. I don't feel that I can speak to anybody about it yet." "Oh! then it's _his_ secret?" "Partly," Ruth said, her eyes dancing, for there and then, right at that very moment, she fell upon the subject for the first scenario she intended to submit to Mr. Hammond. It was "Curiosity"--a new version of Pandora's Box. Helen was such a sweet-tempered girl that her chum's little mystery did not cause her more than momentary vexation. Besides, their vacation time was now very short. Many things had to be discussed about the coming semester. At its end, in June, Ruth and Helen hoped to graduate from Briarwood Hall. The thought of graduating from the school they loved so much was one of mingled pleasure and pain. Old Briarwood! where they had had so much fun--so many girlish sorrows--friends, enemies, struggles, triumphs, failures and successes! Neither chum could contemplate graduation lightly. "If we go to college together, it will never seem like Briarwood Hall," Helen sighed. "College will be so _big_. We shall be lost among so many girls--some of them grown women!" "Goodness!" laughed Ruth, suddenly, "we'll be almost 'grown women' ourselves before we get through college." "Oh, don't!" exclaimed Helen. "I don't want to think of _that_." What was ahead of the chums did trouble them. Their future school life was a mystery. There was no prophet to tell them of the exciting and really wonderful things that were to happen to them at Briarwood during the coming term. CHAPTER VII "SWEETBRIARS ALL" "Oh, dear me!" complained Nettie Parsons, "I never can do it." "'In the bright Lexicon of Youth, there is no such word as "fail,"'" quoted Mercy Curtis, grandiloquently. "That must be a pretty poor reference book to have in one's library, then," said Helen, making fun of the old saying which the lame girl had repeated. "How do we know--perhaps there are other important words left out--_A bas le_ Lexicon of Youth!" "Perseverence is the winning game, Nettie," Ruth said to the Southern girl, cheerfully. "Stick to it." "And if _then_ you can't make the sum come right, come to Aunt Ruthie and _ask_. That's what _I_ do," confessed Ann Hicks, the ranch girl. "Perseverence wins," quoth Helen. "Oh, it does, does it?" cried Jennie Stone, called by the girls "Heavy," in a smothered tone, for her mouth was full of caramels. "Let me tell you that old 'saw' is a joke. My little kid cousin proved that the other day. She came to grandfather--who is just as full of maxims and bits of wisdom as Helen seems to be to-day, and the kid said: "'Grandpa, that's a joke about "If at first you don't succeed," isn't it?' "And her grandfather answered, 'Certainly not. "Try, try again." That's right.' "'Huh!' said the kid, who is one of these Cynthia-of-the-minute' youngsters, 'you're wrong, Grandpa. I've been working for an hour blowing soapbubbles and trying to pin them on a clothes line in the nursery to dry!' Perseverence didn't cut much of a figure in her case, did it?" finished Heavy, with a chuckle. The crowd of girls was in the big "quartette" room in the West Dormitory of Briarwood Hall. The school had reopened only a week before, but all the friends were hard at work. All but Ann Hicks and Nettie Parsons hoped to graduate the coming June. In the group, besides Ruth and Helen, were their room-mates, Mercy Curtis and Ann Hicks; Jennie Stone; Mary Cox, the red-haired girl usually called "The Fox;" and Nettie Parsons, "the sugar king's daughter," as she was known to the school. She was the one really rich girl at Briarwood--and one of the simplest in both manner and dress. Nettie was backward in her studies, as was Ann Hicks. Nettie was a lovable, sweet-tempered girl, who had several reasons for being very fond of Ruth Fielding. Indeed, if the truth were told, not a girl in the quartette that afternoon but had some particular reason for loving Ruth. Ruth's life at the school had been a very active one; yet she had never thrust herself forward. Although she had been the originator of the most popular--now the only sorority in the school, the Sweetbriars, she had refused to be its president for more than one term. All the older girls were "Sweetbriars" now. Mercy Curtis, who had a sweet voice, now commenced to sing the marching song of the school, which had been adopted by the Sweetbriars and made over into a special sorority song. Sitting on her bed, with her arms clasped around her knees, the lame girl weaved back and forth as she sang: "'At Briarwood Hall we have many a lark-- But one wide river to cross! The River of Knowledge--its current dark-- Is the one wide river to cross! Sweetbriars all-l! One wide River of Knowledge! Sweetbriars all-l! One wide river to cross! "'Sweetbriars come here, one by one-- But one wide river to cross! There's lots of work, but plenty of fun, With one wide river to cross!'" "Altogether!" cried Heavy. "All join in!" "The dear old chant!" said Helen, with a happy sigh. Ruth had already taken up the chorus again, and her rich, full-throated tones filled the room: "'Sweetbriars all-l! One wide River of Knowledge! Sweetbriars all-l! One wide river to cross!'" "Once more!" exclaimed the girl from Montana, who could not herself sing a note in harmony, but liked to hear the others. The chant continued: "'Sweetbriars joining, two by two-- There's one wide river to cross! Some so scared they daren't say 'Booh!' To the one wide river to cross!" "That was _us_, Ruthie!" broke off Helen, laughing. "Remember how scared we were when we walked up the old Cedar Walk with The Fox, here, and didn't know whether we were going to be met with a brass band or a ticket to the guillotine?" The Fox, otherwise Mary Cox, suddenly turned red. Ruth hastened to smooth over her chum's rather tactless speech, for Mary had been a different girl at that time from what she was now, and the memory of the hazing she had visited on Ruth and Helen annoyed her. "And what did meet us?" cried Ruth, dramatically. "Why, a poor, emaciated creature standing at the steps of this old West Dormitory, complaining that she would starve before supper if the bell did not sound soon. You remember, Heavy?" "And I feel that way now," said Jennie Stone in a hollow tone. "I don't know what makes me so, but I am continually hungry at least three times a day--and at regular intervals. I must see a physician about it." "Aren't you afraid of the effect of eating so much, Jennie?" asked Helen, gently. "What's that? Is there a new disease?" asked the fleshy girl, trying to express fear--which she never could do successfully in any such case. Jennie had probably never been ill in her life save as the immediate result of over-indulgence in eating. "No, my dear," said Ruth Fielding's chum. "But they do tell me that eating _too_ much may make one _fat_." "Horrors!" ejaculated Jennie. "I can't believe you. Then that is what is the matter with me! I thought I looked funny in the mirror. I must be getting a wee bit plump." "Plump!" "Hear her!" "She's the girl who went up in the balloon and came down 'plump!'" The shouts that greeted Heavy's seriously put remark did not disturb the fleshy girl at all. "That is exactly the trouble," she went on, quite placidly. "And it cost me half a dollar yesterday." "What's that?" asked somebody, curiously. "Where?" asked another girl. "In chapel. Didn't you see me trying to crawl through between the two rows of seats? And I got stuck!" "Did you have to pay Foyle the fifty cents to pry you out, Heavy?" demanded Ann Hicks. "No. I dropped the half dollar and tried to find it. I looked for it; that's all I _could_ do. I was too fat to find it." "Did you look good, Jennie?" asked Ruth, sympathetically. "Did I look good?" repeated the fleshy girl, with scorn. "I looked as good as a fat girl crawling around on all fours, ever _does_ look. What do you think?" The laugh at Jennie Stone's sally really cleared the room, for the warning bell for supper sounded almost immediately. Heavy and Nettie, and all who did not belong in the quartette room, departed. Then Mercy went tap, tap, tapping down the corridor with her canes--"just like a silly woodpecker!" as she often said herself; and Ann strode away, trying to hum the marching song, but ignominiously falling into the doleful strains of the "Cowboy's Lament" before she reached the head of the stairway. "I really would like to know what that thing is you've been writing, Ruth," remarked Helen, when they were alone. "All those sheets of paper--Goodness! it's no composition. I believe you've been writing your valedictory this early." "Don't be silly," laughed Ruth. "I shall never write the valedictory of this class. Mercy will do that." "I don't care! Mrs. Tellingham considers you the captain of the graduating class. So now!" cried loyal Helen. "That may be; but Mercy is our brilliant girl--you know that." "Yes--the poor dear! but how could she ever stand up before them all and give an oration?" "She _shall_!" cried Ruth, with emphasis. "She shall _not_ be cheated out of all the glory she wins--or of an atom of that glory. If she is our first scholar, she must, somehow, have all the honors that go with the position." "Oh, Ruthie! how can you overcome her natural dislike of 'making an exhibition of herself,' as she calls it, and the fact that, really, a girl as lame as she is, poor creature, could never make a pleasant appearance upon the platform?" "I do not know," Ruth said seriously. "Not now. But I shall think it out, if nobody else _can_. Mercy shall graduate with flying colors from Briarwood Hall, whether I do myself, or not!" "Never mind," said Helen, laughing at her chum's emphasis. "At least the valedictorian will hail from this dear old quartette room." "Yes," agreed Ruth, looking around the loved chamber with a tender smile. "What will we do when we see it no longer, Helen?" "Oh, don't talk about it!" cried Helen, who had forgotten by this time what she had started to question Ruth about. "Come on! We'll be late for supper." When her chum's back was turned, Ruth slipped out of her table drawer the very packet of papers Helen had spoken about. The sheets had been typewritten and were now sealed in a manila envelope, which was addressed and stamped. She hesitated all day about dropping the packet in the mailbag; but now she took her courage in both hands and determined to send it to its destination. CHAPTER VIII A NEW STAR Ruth had actually been trying her "prentice hand," as Mr. Hammond had called it, at the production of a moving picture scenario. It was the first literary work she had ever achieved, although her taste in that direction had been noted by Mrs. Tellingham and the under-instructors of the school. Oh! she would not have had any of them know what she had done in secret since arriving at the Hall at the beginning of this term. She would not let even Helen know about it. "If it is a success--if Mr. Hammond produces it--_then_ I'll tell them," Ruth said to herself. "But if he tells me it is no good, then nobody shall ever know that I was so foolish as to attempt such a thing." Even after she had it all ready she hesitated some hours as to whether or not she should send it to the address Mr. Hammond had given her. The pamphlet he had promised to send her had not arrived, and Ruth had little idea as to how a scenario should be prepared She had written much more explanatory matter than was necessary; but she had achieved one thing at least--she had been direct in the composition of her scenario and she had the faculty of saying just what she meant, and that briefly. This concise style was of immense value to her, as Ruth was later to learn. Ruth managed to slip the big envelope addressed to Mr. Hammond into the mailbag in the hall without spurring Helen's curiosity again. She had to chuckle to herself over it, for it really was a good joke on her chum. Unconsciously, Helen had given her the idea for this little allegorical comedy which she had written. And how her friend would laugh if the picture of "Curiosity" should be produced and they should see it on the screen. The girls crowded into the big dining room in an orderly manner, but with some suppressed whispering and laughter on the part of the more giggling kind. There were always some of the girls so full of spirits that they could not be entirely repressed. The long tables quickly filled up. There were few beginners at this time of year, for most of the new scholars came to Briarwood Hall at the commencement of the autumn semester. There was one new girl at the table where Ruth and her particular friends sat, over which Miss Picolet the little teacher of French, had nominal charge. Nowadays, Miss Picolet's life was an easy one. She had little trouble with even the more boisterous girls of the West Dormitory, thanks to the Sweetbriars. The new pupil beside the French teacher was Amy Gregg. She was a colorless, flaxen-haired girl, with such light eyebrows and lashes that Helen said her face looked like a blank wall. She was a nervous girl, too; she pouted a good deal and seemed dissatisfied. Of course, being a stranger, she was lonely as yet; but under the rules of the Sweetbriars she was not hazed. The S.B.'s word had become law in all such matters at Briarwood Hall. After they were seated, Heavy Stone whispered to Ruth: "Isn't that Gregg girl the most discontented looking thing you ever saw? Her face would sour cream right now! I hope she doesn't overlook my supper and give me indigestion." "Behave!" was Ruth's only comment. There was supposed to be silence until all were served and the teachers began eating. The waitresses bustled about, light-footed and demure. Mrs. Tellingham, who was present on this evening, overlooked all from the small guest table, as it was called, placed at the head of the room on a slightly raised platform. Mrs. Tellingham, Ruth thought, was the loveliest lady in the world. The girl of the Red Mill had never lost the first impression the preceptress had made upon her childish mind and heart when she had come to Briarwood Hall. At last--just in time to save Heavy's life, it would seem--Miss Picolet lifted her fork and the girls began to eat. A pleasant interchange of conversation broke out: "Did you hear what that funny little Pease girl said to Miss Brokaw in physiology class yesterday?" asked Lluella Fairfax, who was across the table from Ruth. "No. What has the child said now? She's a queer little thing," Helen said, before her chum could answer. "She's rather dense, don't you know," put in Lluella's chum, Belle Tingley. "I'm not so sure of _that_," laughed Lluella. "Miss Brokaw became impatient with little Pease and said: "'It seems you are never able to answer a question, Mary; why is it?' "'If I knew all the things you ask me, Miss Brokaw,' said Pease, 'my mother wouldn't take the trouble to send me here.'" "I'm sure _that_ doesn't prove the poor little kiddie a dunce," laughed Ruth. "Say! we have a dense one at this very table," hissed Heavy, a hand beside her mouth so that the sound of her whisper would not travel to the head of the table where Miss Picolet and the sullen looking new girl sat. "What do you mean?" asked Belle, curiously. "_Whom_ do you mean?" added Helen. "That infant yonder," hissed the fleshy girl. "What about her?" Ruth asked. "I'm rather sorry for that little Gregg. She doesn't look happy." "Say!" chuckled Heavy. "She tried for an hour yesterday to coax electricity into the bulb over her table, and then went to Miss Scrimp and asked for a candle. She got the candle, and burned it until one of the other girls looked in (you know she's not 'chummed' with anybody yet) and showed her where the push-button was in the wall. And at that," finished Heavy, grinning broadly, "I'm not sure that she understood how the 'juice' was turned on. She must have come from the backwoods." "Hush!" begged Ruth. "Don't let her think we're laughing at her." "Miss Scrimp's very strict about candles and oil lamps," said Nettie. "We use them a lot in the South." "That old house of yours in 'So'th Ca'lina' must be a funny old place, Nettie," said Heavy. "It isn't ours," Nettie said. "The cotton plantation belongs to Aunt Rachel. She was born on it--the Merredith Place. We usually go there for the early summer, and then either come No'th, or into the mountains of Virginia until cool weather. My own dear old Louisiana home isn't considered healthy for us during the extreme hot weather. It is too damp and marshy." "'Way down Souf in de land ob cotton-- Cinnamon seed an' sandy bottom!'" hummed Heavy. "Oh! I wish I was in Dixie--right now." "Wait till my Aunt Rachel comes up here," Nettie promised. "I'm going to beg an invitation for you girls to visit Merredith." "But it will be hot weather, then," said Heavy; "and I don't want to miss Light-house Point." "And I'm just about crazy to get back to Silver Ranch," said Ann Hicks. "Me for Cliff Island," cried Belle Tingley. "No land of cotton for mine, this summer." "When is your aunt coming, Nettie?" asked Ruth. "To see you graduate, my dear," replied the Southern girl, smiling. "And wait till she meets you, Ruthie Fielding! She'll near about love you to death!" "Oh, everybody loves Ruth. Why shouldn't they?" cried Belle. "But everybody doesn't give her a fortune, as Nettie's Aunt Rachel did," laughed Heavy. Ruth wished they would not talk so much about that money; but, of course, she could not stop them. She made no rejoinder, but looked across the room and out at the upper pane of one of the long windows. It was deep dusk now without. The evening was clear, with a rising wind moaning through the trees on the campus. Tony Foyle, the old gardener and general handy man, was only now lighting the lamps along the walks. "There's a funny red star," Ruth said to Helen. "It can't be that Mars is rising _there_." "Where?" queried her chum, lazily, scarcely raising her eyes to look. Helen was not interested in astronomy. Nobody else was attracted by the red spark Ruth saw. Against the dusky sky it grew swiftly A new star---- "It is fire!" gasped Ruth, softly, rising on trembling limbs. "_And it is in the West Dormitory_!" CHAPTER IX THE DEVOURING ELEMENT Not even Helen heard Ruth's whispered words. She went on calmly with her supper when her chum arose from her seat. Ruth quickly controlled herself. The word "fire" would start a panic on the instant, although both dormitories were across the campus from the main hall. The girl of the Red Mill erased from her countenance all expression of the fear which gripped her; but about her heart she felt a pressure like that of a tight band. Her knees actually knocked together; she was thankful they were invisible just then. When she started up the room toward Mrs. Tellingham's table Ruth walked steadily enough. Some of the girls looked after her in surprise; but it was not an uncommon thing for a girl to leave her seat and approach the preceptress. Mrs. Tellingham looked up with a smile when she saw Ruth coming. She always had a smile for the girl of the Red Mill. The preceptress, however, was a sharp reader of faces. Her own expression of countenance did not change, for other girls were looking; but she saw that something serious had occurred. "What is it, Ruth?" she asked, the instant her low whisper could reach Ruth's ear. The girl, looking straight at her, made the letters "F-I-R-E" with her lips. But she uttered no sound. Mrs. Tellingham understood, however, and demanded: "Where?" "West Dormitory, Mrs. Tellingham," said Ruth, coming closer. "Are you positive?" "I can see it from my seat. On the second floor. In one of the duo rooms at this side." Ruth spoke these sentences in staccato; but her voice was low and she preserved an air of calmness. "Good girl!" murmured Mrs. Tellingham. "Go out quietly and then run and tell Tony. Do you know where he is?" "Lighting the lamps," whispered Ruth. "Good. Tell him to go right up there and see what can be done. Warn Miss Scrimp. I will telephone to town, and Miss Brokaw will take charge and march the pupils to the big hall to call the roll. I hope nobody is in the dormitories." Mrs. Tellingham had pushed back her chair and dropped her napkin; but her movements, though swift, were not alarming. She passed out by a rear door which led to the kitchens, while Ruth walked composedly down the room to the main exit. "Hey! what's the matter, Ruthie?" called Heavy, in a low tone. "Whose old cat's in the well?" Ruth appeared not to hear her. Miss Brokaw, a very capable woman, came into the dining hall as Ruth passed out. Miss Brokaw stepped to the monitor's desk at one side and tapped on the bell. "Oh, mercy!" gasped Heavy, the incorrigible. "She's shut us off again. And I haven't had half enough to eat." "Rise!" said Miss Brokaw, after a moment of waiting. "Immediately, girls. Miss Stone, you will come, too." A murmur of laughter rose at Jennie Stone's evident intention to linger; but Heavy always took admonition in good part, and she arose smiling. "Monitors to their places," commanded Miss Brokaw. "You will march to the big hall. It is Mrs. Tellingham's request. She will have something of importance to say to you." The big hall was on the other side of the building, and from its windows nothing could be seen of either dormitory. Meanwhile, Ruth, once alone in the hall, had bounded to the chief entrance of the building and opened one leaf of the heavy door. It was a crisp night and the frost bit keenly. The wind fluttered her skirt about her legs. She stopped for no outer apparel, however, but dashed out upon the stone portico, drawing the door shut behind her. That act alone saved the school from panic; for it she had left the door ajar, when the girls filed out into the entrance hall from the dining room some of them would have been sure to see the growing red glow on the second floor of the West Dormitory. To Ruth the fire seemed to be filling the room in which it had apparently started. There was no smoke as yet; but the flames leaped higher and higher, while the illumination grew frightfully. A spark of light coming into being at the far end of the campus near the East Dormitory, showed Ruth where Tony Foyle then was. He was not likely to see the fire as yet, for in lighting the campus lamps he followed a route that kept his back to the West Dormitory until he turned to come back. Like an arrow from the bow the young girl ran toward the distant gardener. She took the steps of the little Italian garden in the center of the campus in two flying leaps, passed the marble maiden at the fountain, and bounded up to the level of the campus path again without stopping. "Tony! Oh, Tony!" she called breathlessly. "Shure now, phat's the matter widyer?" returned the old Irishman, querulously. "Phy! 'tis Miss Ruth, so ut is. Phativer do be the trouble, me darlin'?" He was very fond of Ruth and would have done anything in his power for her. So at once Tony was exercised by her appearance. "Phativer is the matter?" he repeated. "Fire!" blurted out Ruth, able at last to speak. The keen night air had seemed for the moment fairly to congest her lungs and render her speechless and breathless. "That's _that_?" cried Tony. "'Fire,' says you? An' where is there fire save in the furnaces and the big range in the kitchen----" He had turned, and the red glare from the room on the second floor of the West Dormitory came into his view. "There it is!" gasped Ruth, and just then the tinkle of breaking glass betrayed the fact that the heat of the flames was bursting the panes of the window. "Fur the love of----Begorra! I'll git the hose-cart, an' rouse herself an' the gals in the kitchen----" Poor Tony, so wildly excited that he dropped the little "dhudeen" he was smoking and did not notice that he stepped on it, galloped away on rheumatic legs. At this hour there was no man on the premises but the little old Irishman, who cared for the furnaces until the fireman and engineer came on duty at seven in the morning. Ruth was quite sure that neither Tony nor "herself" (by this name he meant Mrs. Foyle, the cook) or any of the kitchen girls, could do a thing towards extinguishing the fire. But she remembered that Miss Scrimp, the matron, must be in the threatened building, and the girl dashed across the intervening space and in at the door. There was not a sound from upstairs--no crackling of flames. Ruth would never have believed the dormitory was afire had she not seen the fire outside. The girl ran down the corridor to Miss Scrimp's room, and burst in the door like a young hurricane. The matron was at tea, and she leaped up in utter amazement when she saw Ruth. "For the good land's sake, Ruthie Fielding!" she ejaculated. "Whatever is the matter with you?" "Fire!" cried Ruth. "One of the rooms on the next floor--front--is all afire! I saw it from the dining hall! Mrs. Tellingham has telephoned for the department at Lumberton----" With a shriek of alarm, Miss Scrimp picked up the little old "brown Betty" teapot off the hearth of her small stove, and started out of the room with it--whether with the expectation of putting out the fire with the contents of the pot, or not, Ruth never learned. But when the lady was half way up the first flight of stairs the flames suddenly burst through the doorframe, and Miss Scrimp stopped. "That candle!" she shrieked. "I knew I had no business to give that girl that candle." "Who?" asked Ruth. "That infant--Amy Gregg her name is. I'll tell Mrs. Tellingham----" "But please don't tell anybody else, Miss Scrimp," begged Ruth. "It will be awful for Amy if it becomes generally known that she is at fault." "Well, now," said the matron more calmly, coming down the stairs again. "You are right, Ruthie--you thoughtful child. We can't do a thing up there," she added, as she reached the lower floor again. "All we can do is to take such things out as we can off this floor," and she promptly marched out with the little tea-pot and deposited it carefully on the grassplot right where somebody would be sure to step on it when the firemen arrived. Miss Scrimp prided herself upon having great presence of mind in an emergency like this. A little later Ruth saw the good woman open her window and toss out her best mirror upon the cement walk. Miss Picolet came flying toward the burning building, chattering about her treasures she had brought from France. "Le Bon Dieu will not let to burn up my mothair's picture--my harp--my confirmation veil--all, all I have of my youth left!" chattered the excited little Frenchwoman, and because of her distress and her weakness, Ruth helped remove the harp and likewise the featherbed on which the French teacher always slept and which had come with her from France years before. By the time these treasures were out of the house a crowd came running from the main building--Mrs. Foyle, some of the kitchen girls and waitresses, Tony dragging the hose cart, and last of all Dr. Tellingham himself. The good old doctor was the most absent minded man in the world, and the least useful in a practical way in any emergency. He never had anything of importance to do with the government of the school; but he sometimes gave the girls wonderfully interesting lectures on historical subjects. He wrote histories that were seldom printed save in private editions; but most of the girls thought the odd old gentleman a really wonderful scholar. He was in dishabille just now. He had run out in his dressing-gown and carpet slippers, and without his wig. That wig was always awry when he was at work, and it was a different color from his little remaining hair, anyway. But without the toupé at all he certainly looked naked. "Go back, that's a dear man!" gasped Mrs. Foyle, turning the doctor about and heading him in the right direction. "Shure, ye air not dacently dressed. Go back, Oi say. Phat will the young ladies be thinkin' of yez? Ye kin do no good here, dear Dochter." This was quite true. He could do no good. And, as it turned out later, the unfortunate, forgetful, short-sighted old gentleman had already done a great deal of harm. CHAPTER X GAUNT RUINS Ruth Fielding felt a strong desire to return to the threatened building, and to make her way upstairs to that old quartette room she and her chums had occupied for so long. There were so many things she desired to save. Not alone were there treasures of her own, but Ruth knew of articles belonging to her chums that they prized highly. It seemed actually wicked to stand idle while the hot flames spread, creating a havoc that nobody could stay. Why! if the firemen did not soon appear, the whole West Dormitory would be destroyed. The burst of smoke and flame into the corridor at the top of the front flight of stairs shut off any attempt to reach the upper stories from this direction. And although the back door of the building was locked, Ruth knew she could run down the hall, past Miss Scrimp's already gutted room, and up the rear stairway. But when she started into the building again, Miss Scrimp screamed to her: "Come out of that, you reckless girl! Don't dare go back for anything more of mine or Miss Picolet's. If we lose them, we lose them; that's all." "But I might get some things of my own--and some belonging to the other girls." "Don't _dare_ go into the building again," commanded Miss Scrimp. "If you do, Ruthie Fielding, I'll report you to Mrs. Tellingham." "Shure, she won't go in and risk her swate life," said Mrs. Foyle. "Come back, now, darlin'. 'Tis a happy chance that none o' the young leddies bes up there in thim burnin' rooms, so ut is." "Oh, dear me! oh, dear me!" gasped Miss Picolet. "I presume it is _posi-tive_ that there is nobody up there? Were all the mesdemoiselles at supper this evening?" "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Tellingham's own voice. "Miss Brokaw has called the roll and there is none missing but our Ruthie. And now _you_ would better run back, my dear," she added to Ruth. "You have no wrap or hat. I fear you will take cold." "I never noticed it," confessed Ruth. "I guess the excitement kept me warm. But oh! how awful It is to see the old dormitory burn--and all our things in it." "We cannot help it," sighed the principal. "Go up to the hall with the other girls, my dear. Here come the firemen. You may be hurt here." The galloping of horses, blowing of horns, and shouting of excited men, now became audible. The glare of the fire could probably be seen by this time clear to Lumberton, and half the population of the suburbs on this side of the town would soon be on the scene. Not until the firemen actually arrived did the girls in the big hall know what had happened. There had been singing and music and a funny recitation by one girl, to while away the time until Mrs. Tellingham appeared. Just as Ruth came in, her chum had her violin under her chin and was drawing sweet sounds from the strings, holding the other girls breathless. But the violin music broke off suddenly and several girls uttered startled cries as the first of the fire trucks thundered past the windows. "Oh!" shrieked somebody, "there is a fire!" "Quite true, young ladies!" exclaimed Miss Brokaw, tartly. "And it is not the first fire since the world began. Ruth has just come from it. She will tell you what it is all about." "Oh, Ruth!" cried Helen. "Is it the dormitory?" "Give her time to speak," commanded the teacher. "Which dormitory?" cried Heavy Stone. "Now, be quiet--do," begged Ruth, stepping upon the platform, and controlling herself admirably. "Don't scream. None of us can do a thing. The firemen will do all that can be done" "They'll about save the cellar. They always do," groaned the irrepressible Heavy. "It is our own old West Dormitory," said Ruth, her voice shaking. "Nothing can be taken from the rooms upstairs. Only some of Miss Scrimp's and Miss Picolet's things were saved." "Oh, dear me!" cried Helen. "We're orphans then. I'm glad I had my violin over here!" "Is everything going to be really burned up?" demanded Heavy. "You don't mean _that_, Ruth Fielding?" "I hope not. But the fire has made great head-way." "Oh! oh! oh!" were the murmured exclamations. "Won't our dormitory burn, too?" demanded one of the East Dormitory girls. But there was no danger of that. The wisdom of erecting the two dormitories so far apart, and so far separated from the other buildings, was now apparent. Despite the high wind that prevailed upon this evening, there was no danger of any other building around the campus being ignited. Miss Brokaw had some difficulty in restoring order. Several of the girls were in tears; their most valued possessions were even then, as Heavy said, "going up in smoke." Very soon practical arrangements for the night were under way. Unable to do anything to help save the burning structure, Mrs. Tellingham had returned to the main building, and the maids from the kitchen were soon bringing in cots and spare mattresses and arranging them about the big hall for the use of the girls. The East Dormitory girls were asked to sit forward. ("The goats were divided from the sheep," Helen said.) Then the houseless girls were allowed to "pitch camp," as it were. "It _is_ just like camping out," cried Belle Tingley. "Only there's no scratchy and smelly balsam for beds, and our clothes won't get all stuck up with chewing gum," said Lluella Fairfax. "Chewing gum! Hear the girl," scoffed Ann Hicks. "You mean spruce gum." "Isn't that about the same?" demanded Lluella, with some spirit. "You chew it, don't you?" "I don't know. I wouldn't chew spruce gum unless it was first properly prepared. I tried it once," replied Ann, "and got my jaws so gummed up that I might as well have had the lockjaw." "It is according to what season you get the gum," explained Helen. "Now, see here, girls: We ought to have a name for this camp." "Oh, oh!" "Quite so!" "'Why not?" were some of the responses to this suggestion. "Let's call it 'Sweet Dreams,'" said one girl. "That's an awfully pretty name for a camp, I think. We called ours that, last summer on the banks of the Vingie River." "Ya-as," drawled Heavy. "Over across from the soap factory. I know the place. 'Sweet Dreams,' indeed! Ought to have called it 'Sweet Smells,'" "I think 'Camp Loquacity' will fit _this_ camp better," Ruth said bluntly. "We all talk at once. Goodness! how does _one_ person ever get a sheet smooth on a bed?" Helen came to help her, and just then Mrs. Tellingham herself appeared in the hall. "I am glad to announce, girls," she said, with some cheerfulness, "that the fire is under control." "Oh, goody!" cried Heavy. "Can we go over there to sleep to-night?" "No. Nor for many other nights, if at all," the preceptress said firmly. "The West Dormitory is badly damaged. Of course, no girl need expect to find much that belongs to her intact. I am sorry. What I can replace, I will. We must be cheerful and thankful that no life was lost." "What did I tell you?" muttered the fleshy girl. "Those firemen from Lumberton always save the cellar." "Now," said Mrs. Tellingham, "the girls belonging in the East Dormitory will form and march to their rooms. It is late enough. We must all get quiet for the night. The ruins will wait until morning to be looked at, so I must request you to go directly to bed." Somebody started singing--and of course it was their favorite, "One Wide River," that they sang, beginning with the very first verse. The words of the last stanza floated back to the West Dormitory girls as the others marched across the campus: "'Sweetbriars enter, ten by ten---- That River of Knowledge to cross! They never know what happens then, With one wide river to cross! One wide river! One wide River of Knowledge! One wide river! One wide river to cross.'" "But just the same it's no singing matter for us," grumbled Belle. "Turned out of our beds to sleep this way! And all we've lost!" She began to weep. It was difficult for even Heavy to coax up a smile or to bring forth a new joke. Ruth and her chums secured a corner of the great room, and they insisted that Mercy Curtis have the single cot that had been secured. "I don't mind it much," Ann Hicks declared. "I've camped out so many times on the plains without half the comforts of this camp. Oh! I could tell you a lot about camping out that you Easterners have no idea of." "Postpone it till to-morrow, please, Miss Hicks," said Miss Brokaw, dryly. "It is time for you all to undress." After they were between the sheets Helen crept over to Ruth and hid her face upon her chum's shoulder, where she cried a few tears. "All my pretty frocks that Mrs. Murchiston allowed me to pick out! And my books! And--and----" The tragic voice of Jennie Stone reached their ears: "Oh, girls! I've lost in the dreadful fire the only belt I could wear. It's a forty-two." There was little laughter in the morning, however, when the girls went out-of-doors and saw the gaunt ruins of the dear old West Dormitory. The roof had fallen in. Almost every pane of glass was broken. The walls had crumbled in places, and over all was a sheet of ice where the cascades from the firemen's hose had blanketed the ruins. It needed only a glance to show that to repair the building was out of the question. The West Dormitory must be constructed as an entirely new edifice. CHAPTER XI ONE THING THE OLD DOCTOR DID Every girl in Briarwood Hall was much troubled by the result of the fire. The old rivalry between the East and the West Dormitories, that had been quite fierce at times and in years before, had died out under Ruth Fielding's influence. Indeed, since the inception of the Sweetbriars a better spirit had come over the entire school. Mrs. Tellingham in secret spoke of this as the direct result of Ruth's character and influence; for although Ruth Fielding was not namby-pamby, she was opposed to every form of rude behavior, or to the breaking of rules which everyone knew to be important. The old forms of hazing--even the "Masque of the Marble Harp," as it was called--were now no longer honored, save in the breach. The initiations of the Sweetbriars were novel inventions--usually of Ruth's active brain; but they never put the candidate to unpleasant or risky tasks. There certainly were rivalries and individual quarrels and sometimes clique was arrayed against clique in the school. This was a school of upwards of two hundred girls--not angels. Nevertheless, Mrs. Tellingham and the instructors noted with satisfaction how few disturbances they had to settle and quarrels to take under advisement. This class of girls whom they hoped to graduate in June were the most helpful girls that had ever attended Briarwood Hall. "The influence of Ruth and some of her friends has extended to our next class as well," Mrs. Tellingham had said. "Nettie Parsons and Ann Hicks will be of assistance, too, for another year. I wish, however, that Ruth Fielding's example and influence might continue through _my_ time----I certainly do." The girls of the East Dormitory held a meeting before breakfast and passed resolutions requesting Mrs. Tellingham to rearrange their duo and quartette rooms so that as many as possible of the West Dormitory girls could be housed with them. "We're all willing to double up," said Sarah Fish, who had become leader of the East Dormitory. "I'm perfectly willing to divide my bureau drawers, book-shelves, table and bed with any of you orphans. Poor things! It must be awful to be burned out." "Some of us haven't much to put in bureau drawers or on bookshelves," said Helen, inclined to be lugubrious. "I--I haven't a decent thing to wear but what I have on right now. I unpacked my trunk clear to the very bottom layer." However, as a rule, selfish considerations did not enter into the girls' discussion of the fire. When they looked at the ruined building, they saw mainly the loss to the school. A loyalty is bred in the pupils of such an institution as Briarwood Hall, which is only less strong than love of home and country. A new structure to house a hundred girls would cost a deal of money. There was no studying done before breakfast the morning after the fire; and at the tables the girls' tongues ran until Miss Brokaw declared the room sounded like a great rookery she had once disturbed near an old English rectory. "I positively cannot stand it, young ladies," declared the nervous teacher, who had been up most of the night. "Such continuous chatter is enough to crack one's eardrums." The girls really were too excited to be very considerate, although they did not mean to offend Miss Brokaw. If the window or an outer door was opened, the very tang of sour smoke on the air set their tongues off again about the fire. Once in chapel, however, a rather solemn feeling fell upon them. The teacher whose turn it was to read, selected a psalm of gratitude that seemed to breathe just what was in all their hearts. It gave thanks for deliverance from the terrors of the night and those of the noonday, for the Power that encircles poor humanity and shelters it from harm. "We, too, have been sheltered," thought Ruth and her friends. "We have been guarded from the evil that flyeth by night and from the terror that stalketh at noonday. Surely God is our Keeper and Strength. We will not be afraid." When Helen played one of the old, old hymns of the Church she brought such sweet tones from the strings of the violin that Miss Picolet hushed her accompaniment, surprised and delighted. And when they sang, Ruth Fielding's rich and mellow voice carried the air in perfect harmony. When the hymn was finished the girls turned glowing faces upon Mrs. Tellingham who, despite a sleepless night, looked fresh and sweet. "For the first time in the history of Briarwood Hall as a school," she said, speaking so that all could hear her, "a really serious calamity has fallen." "We are all determined upon one thing, I am sure," pursued Mrs. Tellingham. "We will not worry about what is already done. Water that has run by the mill will never drive the wheel, you know. We will look forward to the rebuilding of the West Dormitory, and that as soon as it can possibly be done." "Hoo-ray!" cried Jennie Stone, leading a hearty cheer. "We will have the ruin of the old structure torn away at once." The murmur of appreciation rose again from the girls assembled. "I do not recall at this moment just how much insurance was on the West Dormitory; I leave those details to Doctor Tellingham, and he is now looking up the papers in the office. But I am sure there is ample to rebuild, and if all goes well, a new West Dormitory will rise in the place of these smoking ruins before our patrons and our friends come to our graduation exercises in June." "Oh, bully!" cried Ann Hicks, under her breath. "I want Uncle Bill to see Briarwood at its very best." "But the dear old ivy never can be replaced," Mercy Curtis murmured to Ruth. "We shall endeavor," went on Mrs. Tellingham, smiling, "to repeat in the new building all the advantages of the old. We shall have everything replaced, if possible, exactly as it was before the fire." "There was a big inkspot on my rug," muttered Jennie Stone. "Bet they can't get _that_ just in the same place again." "You homeless girls must, in the meanwhile, possess your souls with patience. The younger girls who had quarters in the West Dormitory will be made comfortable in the East. But you older girls must be cared for in a different way. "Some few I shall take into my own apartments, or otherwise find room for in the main building here. Some, however, will have to occupy quarters outside the school premises until the new building is constructed and ready for occupancy. Arrangements for these quarters I have already made. And now we can separate for our usual classes and work, with the feeling that all will come out right and that the new dormitory will be built within reasonable time." She ceased speaking. The door near the platform suddenly opened and "the old doctor" as the girls called the absent-minded husband of their preceptress, hastily entered. He stumbled up to the platform, waving a number of papers in his hand. He stammered so that he could hardly speak at first, and he gave no attention to the amazed girls in the audience. "Mrs. Tellingham! Mrs. Tellingham!" he ejaculated. "I have made a great mistake--an unpardonable error! In renewing the insurance for the various buildings I overlooked that for the West Dormitory and its contents. The insurance on that ran out a week ago. There was not a dollar on it when it burned last night!" CHAPTER XII "GREAT OAKS FROM LITTLE ACORNS GROW" Mercy Curtis was one of the older girls quartered in Mrs. Tellingham's suite. She told her close friends how Doctor Tellingham walked the floor of the inner office and bemoaned his absent-mindedness that had brought disaster upon Mrs. Tellingham and the whole school. "I know that Mrs. Tellingham is becoming more worried about the doctor than about the lapsed insurance," said Mercy. "Of course, he's a foolish old man without any more head than a pin! But why did she leave the business of renewing the insurance in his charge, in the first place?" "Oh, Mercy!" protested Ruth. "No more head than a pin!" repeated Nettie Parsons, in horror. "Why! who ever heard the like? He writes histories! He must be a very brainy man." "Who ever _reads_ them?" grumbled Mercy. "They look awfully solid," confessed Lluella Fairfax. "Did you ever look at the whole row of them in the office bookcase?" Jennie Stone began to giggle. "I don't care," she said, "the doctor may be a great historian; but his memory is just as short as it can be. Do you know what happened only last half when he and Mrs. Tellingham were invited to the Lumberton Association Ball?" "What was it?" asked Helen. "I suppose it is something perfectly ridiculous, or Heavy wouldn't have remembered it," Ruth suggested. "Thank you!" returned the plump girl, making a face. "I have a better memory than Dr. Tellingham, I should hope." "Come on! tell the joke, Heavy," urged Mary Cox. "Why, when he came into the office ready to escort Mrs. Tellingham to the ball, Mrs. T. criticised his tie. 'Do go back, Doctor, and put on a black tie,' she said. You know, he's the best natured old dear in the world," Jennie pursued, "and he went right back into his bedroom to make the change. They waited, and they waited, and then they waited some more," chuckled Jennie. "The doctor did not reappear. So Mrs. Tellingham finally went to his bedroom and opened the door. She saw that the old doctor, having removed the tie she didn't like, had continued the process of undressing, and just as Mrs. Tellingham looked in, he climbed placidly into bed." "I can believe that," said Ann Hicks, when the laughter had subsided. "And I can believe that both he and Mrs. Tellingham are just as worried about the destruction of the dormitory as they can be," Nettie added. "All their money is invested in the school, is it not?" "Except that invested in the doctor's useless histories," said Mercy, who was inclined to be most unmerciful of speech on occasion. "Is there nobody to help them rebuild?" asked Ann, tentatively. "Not a soul," declared Ruth. "I believe I'll write to Uncle Bill Hicks. He'll help, I know," said Ann. "Next to Heavy's Aunt Kate, Uncle Bill thinks that the finest woman on this footstool is Mrs. Tellingham." "And I'll ask papa for some money," Nettie said quickly. "I had that in mind from the first." "My father will give some," Helen said. "We'll write to Madge Steele," said Belle. "Her father might help, too." "I guess all our folks will be willing to help," Lluella Fairfax added. "And," said Jennie, "here's Ruth, with a fortune in her own right." But Ruth did not make any rejoinder to Jennie's remark and that surprised them all; for they knew Ruth Fielding was not stingy. "We are going about this thing in the wrong way, girls," she said quietly. "At least, I think we are." "How are we?" demanded Helen. "Surely, we all want to help Mrs. Tellingham." "And Old Briarwood," cried Belle Tingley. "And all the students of our Alma Mater will want to join in," maintained Lluella. "Now you've said it!" cried Ruth, with a sudden smile. "Every girl who is now attending the dear old Hall will want to help rebuild the West Dormitory." "All can give their mites, can't they?" demanded Jennie. "And the rich can give of their plenty." "That is just it," Ruth went on, still seriously. "Nettie's father will give a good sum; so will Helen's; so will Mr. William Hicks, who is one of the most liberal men in the world. Therefore, the little gifts of the other girls' parents will look terribly small." "Oh, Ruth! don't say that our folks can't give," cried Jennie, whose father likewise was rich. "It is not in my province to say who shall, or who shall not give," declared Ruth, hastily. "I only want to point out to you girls that if the rich give a great deal the poorer will almost be ashamed to give what they can." "That's right," said Mary Cox, suddenly. "We haven't much; so we couldn't give much." The girls looked rather troubled; but Ruth had not finished. "There is another thing," she said. "If all your fathers give to the dormitory fund, what will you girls personally give?" "Oh! how's that, Ruth?" cried Helen. "Say," drawled Jennie Stone, the plump girl, "we're not all fixed like you, Ruth--with a bank account to draw on." Ruth blushed; but she did not lose her temper. "You don't understand what I mean yet," she said. "Either I am particularly muddy in my suggestions, or you girls are awfully dense to-day." "How polite! how polite!" murmured Jennie. "What I am trying to get at," Ruth continued earnestly, "is the fact that the rebuilding of the West Dormitory should interest us girls more than anybody else in the world, save Mrs. Tellingham." "Well--doesn't it?" demanded Mary Cox, rather sharply. "Does it interest us all enough for each girl to be willing to do something personally, or sacrifice something, toward the new building?" asked Ruth. "I getcha, Steve!" exclaimed the slangy Jennie. "Oh, dear me, Ruthie! we _are_ dense," said Nettie. "Of course! every girl should be able to do as much as the next one. Otherwise there may be hard feelings." "Secret heartburnings," added Helen. "Of course," Mercy said, "Ruth would see _that_ side of it. I don't expect my folks could give ten dollars toward the fund; but I should want to do as much as any girl here. Nobody loves Briarwood Hall more than I do," added the lame girl, fiercely. "I believe you, dear," Ruth said. "And what we want to do is to invent some way of earning money in which every girl will have her part, and do her part, and feel that she has done her full share in rebuilding the West Dormitory." "Hurrah!" cried Jennie. "That's the talk! I tell you, Ruth, you are the only bright girl in this school!" "Thank you," said Ruth. "You cannot flatter me into believing that." "But what's the idea, dear?" demanded Helen, eagerly. "You have some nice invention, I am sure. You always do have." "Another base flatterer!" cried Ruth, laughing gaily. "I believe you girls say such things just to jolly me along, and so that you will not have to exercise any gray matter yourselves." "Oh! oh!" groaned Jennie. "How ungrateful." "Of course you have something to suggest?" Nettie said. "No, not a thing. My idea is, merely, that we start something that every girl in the school can have her share in. Of course, that does not cut out contributions from those who have money to spare; but the new building must be erected by the efforts of the girls of Briarwood Hall as----" "As a bunch of briars," chuckled Jennie. "Isn't that a sharp one?" "Just as sharp as you are, my dear," said Helen. "You know what that means, Heavy," said Mary Cox. "You're all curves." "Oh! ouch! I know that hurt me," declared the plump girl, altogether too good-natured to be offended by anything her mates said to her. "So that's how it is," Ruth finished "Call the girls together. Put the idea before them. Let's hear from everybody, and see which girl has the best thought along this line. We want a way of making money in which everyone can join." "I--don't--see," complained Nettie, "how you are going to do it." "Never mind. Don't worry," said Mercy. "'Great oaks from little acorns grow,' and a fine idea will sprout from the germ of Ruth's suggestion, I have no doubt." It did; but not at all in the way any of them expected. The whole school was called together after recitations on this afternoon, which was several days following the fire. The teachers had no part in the assembly, least of all Mrs. Tellingham. But the older girls--all of them S.B.'s--were very much in earnest; and from them the younger pupils, of course, took their cue. The West Dormitory must be built--and within the time originally specified by Mrs. Tellingham when she had thought the insurance would fully pay for the work of reconstruction. Many girls, it seemed, had already written home begging contributions to the fund which they expected would be raised for the new building. Some even were ready to offer money of their very own toward the amount necessary to start the work. Even Ruth agreed to this first effort to get money. She pledged a hundred dollars herself and Nettie Parsons quietly put down the same sum as her own personal offering. "Oh, gracious, goodness, me, girls!" gasped Jennie Stone, who had been figuring desperately upon a sheet of paper. "Wait till I get this sum done; then I can tell you what I will give. There! Can it be possible?" "What is it, Jennie?" asked Belle Tingley, looking over her shoulder. "Why! look at all those figures. Are you weighing the sun or counting the hairs of the sun-dogs?" "Don't laugh," begged the plump girl. "This is a serious matter. I've been figuring up what I should probably have spent for candy from now till June if I'd been left to my own will." "What is it, Heavy?" asked somebody. "I wager it would pay for erecting the new dormitory without the rest of us putting up a cent." "No," said the plump girl, gravely. "But it figures up to a good round sum. I never would have believed it! Girls, I'll give fifty dollars." "Oh, Heavy! you _never_ could eat so much sweets before graduation," gasped one. "I could; but I sha'n't," declared Miss Stone, with continued gravity. "I'll practise self-denial." With all the fun and joking, the girls of Briarwood Hall were very much in earnest. They elected a committee of five--Ruth, Nettie, Lluella, Sarah Fish and Mary Cox--to have charge of the collection of the fund, and to go immediately to Mrs. Tellingham and show her what money was already promised and how much more could be expected within ten days. There was enough, they knew, to warrant the preceptress in having the work of tearing away the ruins begun. Meanwhile, the girls were each urged to think up some new way of earning money, and as a committee of the whole to try to invent a novel scheme of including the whole school in a plan whereby much money might be raised. "How we're to do it, nobody knows," said Helen gloomily, walking along beside Ruth after the meeting. "I expected _you_ would have just the thing to suggest." "I wish I had," her chum returned thoughtfully. "Mercy says, 'Great oaks from little acorns grow'----" They turned into the hall and saw that the mail had been distributed. Ruth was handed a letter with Mr. Hammond's name upon it. She had almost forgotten the moving picture man and her own scenario, in these three or four very busy days. Ruth eagerly tore the envelope open. A green slip of paper fluttered out. It was a check for twenty-five dollars from the Alectrion Film Corporation. With it was a note highly praising Ruth's first effort at scenario writing for moving pictures. "What is it?" demanded Helen. "You look so funny. There's no--nobody dead?" "Do I look like that?" asked Ruth. "Far from it! Just look at these, dear," and she thrust both the note and the check into Helen's hands. "I believe I've struck it!" "Struck what?" demanded her puzzled chum. "'Great oaks from little acorns grow' sure enough! Eureka! I have it," Ruth cried. "I believe I know how we all--every girl in Briarwood--can help earn the money to rebuild the West Dormitory." CHAPTER XIII THE IDEA IS BORN "What? What? _What_?" Helen cried, as she gazed, wide-eyed, at the check and at Mr. Hammond's letter. The check for twenty-five dollars there could be no mistake about; and she scanned the moving picture man's enthusiastic letter shortly, for it was brief. But Helen quite misunderstood the well-spring of Ruth's sudden joy. "Oh, Ruthie Fielding!" she gasped. "What have you done now?" and she hugged her chum delightedly. "How wonderful! _That_ was the secret between you and that Mr. Hammond, was it?" "Yes," admitted Ruth. "And you've written a _real_ moving picture?" "That is it--exactly. A _one_ reel picture," and Ruth laughed. "And he says he will produce it at once," sighed Helen. "So Mr. Hammond says. It's very nice of him." "Oh, Ruth!" cried Helen, hugging her again. "Oh, Helen!" responded Ruth, in sheer delight. "You're famous--really famous!" said Ruth's chum, with sudden solemnity. Ruth's clear laughter rang out spontaneously. "Well, you are!" "Not yet." "But you've earned twenty-five dollars writing that play. Only think of that! And you can give it to the dormitory fund. Is that what you are so pleased about? Mercy, Ruth! you don't expect us all to set about writing picture plays and selling them to Mr. Hammond?" "No," said Ruth, more seriously. "I guess that wouldn't do." "Then what do you mean about every girl at Briarwood helping in this way toward the fund?" Helen asked, puzzled. "At any rate, twenty-five dollars will help." "But I sha'n't do that!" cried Ruth. "Sha'n't do what?" "I shall not give this precious twenty-five dollars to any dormitory fund--no, indeed!" and Ruth clasped the check to her bosom. "The first money I ever earned with my pen? I guess not! That twenty-five dollars goes into the bank, my dear." "Goodness! You needn't be so emphatic about it," protested Helen. "I am going to open a special account," said Ruth, proudly. "This will be credited to the fact that R.F. can actually make something _with her brains_, my lady. What do you think?" "But how is it going to help the dormitory fund, then?" demanded her chum. "Not by adding my poor little twenty-five dollars to it. We want hundreds--_thousands_! Don't you understand, Helen, that my check would only be a drop in the bucket? And, anyway, I would come near to starving before I would use this check." "We--ell! I don't know that I blame you," sighed her friend. "I'd be as pleased as Punch if it were mine. Just think of your writing a real moving picture!" she repeated. "Won't the girls be surprised? And suppose it comes to Lumberton and we can all go and see it? You _will_ be famous, Ruth." "I don't know about that, dear," Ruth returned happily. "There is something about it all that you don't see yet." "What's that?" "This success of mine, I tell you, has given me a great, big idea." "About what?" "For the dormitory fund," Ruth said. "Mercy is right. Great oaks _do_ grow from little acorns." "Who's denying it?" demanded Helen. "Go on." "Out of this little idea of mine which I have sold to Mr. Hammond, comes a thought, dear," said Ruth, solemnly, "that may get us all the money we need to rebuild the West Dormitory." "I--don't--just--see----" "But you will," cried Ruth. "Let me explain. If I can write a one-reel picture play, why not a long one--a real play--a five-reel drama? I have just the idea for it--oh, a grand idea!" "Oh, Ruth!" murmured Helen, clasping her hands. "I will write the play, we will all act in it, and Mr. Hammond shall produce it. It can be shown around in every city and town from which we girls come--our home towns, you know. Folks will want to see us Briarwood girls acting for the movies--won't they?" "I should say they would! Fancy our doing that?" "We can do it. Of course we can! And we'll get a royalty from the film and that will all go into the dormitory fund," went on the enthusiastic Ruth. "Oh, my dear!" gasped Helen. "Would Mr. Hammond take such a play if you wrote it?" "Of course I don't know. If not he, then some other producer. I _know_ I have a novel idea," asserted Ruth. "What is it?" asked the curious Helen. "A schoolgirl picture, just as I say. Of course, there will have to be some _real_ actors in it; we girls couldn't be funny enough, or serious enough, perhaps, to take the most important parts. We could act out some real scenes of boarding school life, just the same." "I should say we could!" cried Helen. "Who better? Stage one of our old midnight sprees, and show Heavy gobbling everything in sight. That would make 'em laugh." "But we want more than a comedy," Ruth said seriously. "I have the germ of an idea in my mind. I'll write Mr. Hammond about it first of all. And we must have Miss Gray in it." "He says here," said Helen, glancing through the moving picture man's letter again, "that he wants you to try another. Oh! and he says that in a few days he is coming to Lumberton with a company to take some films." "So he does! Oh, goody!" cried Ruth. "I'll see him, then, and talk right to him. He is an awfully rich man--so Hazel Gray told me. We'll get him interested in the dormitory fund, anyway, and then, whether I can write a five-reel drama well enough or not, maybe he can find somebody who will put it into shape," Ruth added. "Why, my dear!" exclaimed her chum, with scorn. "If you have written _one_ moving picture, of course you can another." Which did not follow at all, Ruth was sure. "We'll have to ask Mrs. Tellingham," said Helen, with sudden doubt. "Maybe she will not approve." "Oh! I hope she will," cried Ruth. "But we must put it up to the girls themselves, first of all. They must all be in it. All must have an interest--all must take part. Otherwise it will not accomplish the end we are after." "Oh, oh, oh!" cried Helen, finally waking up. "Of course! this is the very thing you wanted, Ruthie--to give every girl something to do that is important toward earning the money for the building of the new dormitory." "That's it, my dear. We all must appear, and do our part. School scenes, recreation scenes, athletic scenes in the gym; marching in our graduation procession; initiating candidates into the S.B. sorority; Old Noah's Ark with the infants arriving at the beginning of the year; the dance we always have in the big hall at holiday time--just a great, big picture of what boarding school girls do, and how they live, breathe and have their being!" "Oh, jolly!" gasped Helen, taking fire from her friend's enthusiasm. "Say! the girls are going to be just about crazy over this, Ruth. You will be the most popular girl in the school." "I hope not!" gasped Ruth, in real panic. "I'm not doing this for any such purpose. Don't be singing my praises all the time, Helen. The girls will get sick and tired to death of hearing about 'wonderful me.' We all want to do something to help Mrs. Tellingham and the school. That's all there is to it. Now, _do_ be sensible." They were not long in taking the girls at large into their confidence. When it was known that Ruth Fielding had actually written one scenario for a film, which had been accepted, paid for, and would be produced, naturally the enthusiasm over the idea of having a reproduction of school life at Briarwood filmed, became much greater than it might otherwise have been. As a whole, the girls of Briarwood Hall were in a mood to work together for the fund. "No misunderstandings," said Jennie Stone, firmly. "We don't want to make the sort of mistake the rural constable did when he came along by the riverside and saw a face floating on the water. 'Come out o' that!' he says. 'You know there ain't no bathing allowed around here.' And the face in the water answered: 'Excuse me, officer; I'm not bathing--I'm only drowning!' "We've all got to pull together," the plump girl continued, very much in earnest. "No hanging back--no squabbling over little things. If Ruth Fielding can write a picture play we must all do our prettiest in acting in it. Why! I'd play understudy to a baby elephant in a circus for the sake of helping build the new dormitory." Already Mrs. Tellingham and the doctor had been informed by the girls' executive committee of the sums both actually raised by the girls, and promised, toward the dormitory fund. It had warranted the good lady's signing contracts for the removal of the wreckage of the burned building, at least. The way would soon be cleared for beginning work on a new structure. Offers of money came pouring in from the parents interested in the success of Briarwood Hall; and some of the checks already received by Mrs. Tellingham were for substantial sums. But this proposal of Ruth's for all the girls to help in the increase of the fund, pleased Mrs. Tellingham more than anything else. She read Ruth's brief sketch of the plot she had originated for the school play, and approved it. "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" was forthwith put into shape to show Mr. Hammond when he came to Lumberton, that event being expected daily. About this time the girls of Briarwood Hall were so excited and interested over the moving picture idea that they scarcely had time for their studies and usual work. CHAPTER XIV AT MRS. SADOC SMITH'S Mrs Tellingham, wise in the ways of girls, had foreseen the excitement and disturbance in the placid current of Briarwood life, and made plans following the fire to counteract the evil influences of just this disturbance. The girls who hoped to graduate from the school in the coming June must have more quiet--must have time to study and to think. The younger girls, if they fell behind in their work, could make it up in the coming terms. Not so Ruth Fielding and her friends, so the wise school principal had distributed them, after the destruction of the West Dormitory, in such manner that they would be free from the hurly-burly of the general school life. A few, like Mercy Curtis (who could not easily walk back and forth from any outside lodging), Mrs. Tellingham kept in her own apartment. But the greater number of the graduating class was distributed among neighbors who--in most cases--were not averse to accepting good pay for rooms which could only be let to summer boarders and were, at this time of year, never occupied. The Briarwood Hall preceptress allowed her girls to go only where she could trust the land-ladies to have some oversight over their lodgers. And the girls themselves were bound in honor to obey the rules of the school, whether on the Briarwood premises or not. Visiting among the outside scholars was forbidden, and the girls studying for graduation had their hours more to themselves than they would have had in the school. Special chums were able to keep together in most instances. Ruth, Helen and Ann Hicks went to live at Mrs. Sadoc Smith's; and there was room in the huge front room on the second floor of her rambling old house, for Mercy, too, had it been wise for the lame girl to lodge so far from the school. Mrs. Smith got the girls up in season in the morning to reach the dining hall at Briarwood by breakfast-time; and she saw to it, likewise, that their light went out at ten o'clock in the evening. These were her instructions from Mrs. Tellingham, and Mrs. Sadoc Smith was rather a grim person, who did her duty and obeyed the law. There being an extra couch, Ruth persuaded her friends to agree to the coming of a fourth girl into the lodging. And this fourth girl, oddly enough, was not one of the graduating class, or even one of the girls whom they had chummed with before. It was the new girl, Amy Gregg! Amy Gregg, whom nobody seemed to want, and who seemed to be the loneliest figure and the most sullen girl who had ever come to Briarwood Hall! "Of course, you'd pick up some sore-eyed kitten," complained Ann Hicks. "That child has a fully-developed grouch against the whole world, I verily believe. What do you want her for, Ruthie?" "I don't want her," said Ruth promptly. "Well! of all the girls!" gasped Helen. "Then _why_ ask Mrs. Tellingham to let her come here?" "Because she ought to be with somebody who will look out for her," Ruth said. She did not tell her mates about it, but Ruth had heard some whispers regarding the origin of the fire that had burned down the West Dormitory, and she was afraid Amy would be suspected. The older girl had reason to know that Mrs. Tellingham had questioned Amy regarding the candle she had obtained from Miss Scrimp's store. The girl had emphatically denied having left the candle burning on leaving her room to go to supper on the fatal evening. The girls had begun, after a time, to ask questions about the origin of the fire. They knew it had started on the side of the corridor where Amy Gregg had roomed. They might soon suspect the truth. "If they do, good-bye to all little Gregg's peace of mind!" Ruth thought, for she knew just how cruel girls can be, and Amy did not readily make friends. Although Ruth and her room-mates tried to make the flaxen-haired girl feel at home at Mrs. Sadoc Smith's, Amy remained sullen, and seemed afraid of the older girls. She was particularly unpopular, too, because she was the only girl who had refused to write home to tell of the fire and ask for a contribution to the dormitory fund. Amy Gregg seemed to be afraid to talk of the fire and refused to give even a dollar toward the rebuilding of the dormitory. "It isn't _my_ fault that the old thing burned down. I lost all my clothes and books," she announced. "I think the school ought to pay _me_ some money, instead." After saying this before her room-mates at Mrs. Smith's, all but Ruth dropped her. "Sullen little thing," said Helen, with disgust. "Not worth bothering with," rejoined Ann. The only person to whom Amy Gregg seemed to take a fancy was Mrs. Smith's scapegrace grandson, Henry. Henry was the wildest boy there was anywhere about Briarwood Hall. He was always getting into trouble, and his grandmother was forever chastising him in one way or another. Nobody in the neighborhood knew him as "Henry." He was called "that Smith boy" by the grown folk; by his mates he was known as "Curly." Ruth felt that Curly never would have developed into such a mischievous and wayward youth had it not been for his grandmother. When a little boy Henry had come to live with Mrs. Sadoc Smith. Mrs. Smith did not like boys and she kept Henry in kilts until he was of an age when most lads are looking forward to long trousers. She made him wear Fauntleroy suits and kept his hair in curls down his back--molasses colored curls that disgusted the boy mightily. Finally he hired another boy for ten cents and a glass agate to cut the curls off close to his head, and he stole a pair of long trousers, a world too wide for him, from a neighbor's line. He then set out on his travels, going in an empty freight car from the Lumberton railroad yards. But he was caught and brought back, literally "by the scruff of his neck;" and his grandmother was never ending in her talk about the escapade. The curls remained short, however. If she refused to give Curly twenty cents occasionally to have his hair cut, he would stick burrs or molasses taffy in the hair so that it had to be kept short. There seemed an affinity between this scapegrace lad and Amy Gregg. Not that she possessed any abundance of spirit; but she would listen to Curly romance about his adventures by the hour, and he could safely confide all his secrets to Amy Gregg. Wild horses would not have drawn a word from her as to his intentions, or what mischief he had already done. Curly was a tall, thin boy of fifteen, wiry and strong, and with a face as smooth and pink-and-white as a girl's. That he was so girlish looking was a sore subject with the boy, and whenever any unwise boy called him "Girly" instead of "Curly" it started a fight, there and then. Henry was forbidden by his grandmother to bother the girls from Briarwood Hall in any way, and to make sure that he played no tricks upon them, when Ruth and her mates came to the house to lodge, Mrs. Smith housed Curly in a little, steep-roofed room over the summer kitchen. It was a cold and uncomfortable place, he told Amy Gregg. Ruth heard him tell her so, but judged that it would not be wise to beg Mrs. Smith for other quarters for her grandson. She was not a woman to whom one could easily give advice--especially one of Ruth's age and inexperience. Mrs. Smith was a very grim looking woman with a false front of little, corkscrew curls, the color of which did not at all match the iron-gray of her hair. That the curls were made of Mrs. Smith's own hair, cropped from her head many years before, there could be no doubt. It Nature had erred in turning her actual hair to iron-gray in these, her later years, that was Nature's fault, not Mrs. Smith's! She grimly ignored the parti-colored hair as she did the natural exuberance of her grandson's spirit. If Nature had given him an unquenchable amount of mirth and jollity, that, too, was Nature's fault. Still, Mrs. Sadoc Smith proposed to quell that mirth and suppress the joy of Curly's nature if possible. The only question was: In the process of making Curly over to fit her ideas of what a boy should be, was not Mrs. Smith running a grave chance of ruining the boy entirely? And what boy, living in a house with four girls, could keep from trying to play tricks upon them? If the shed-chamber had been a mile away over the roofs of the Smith house, Curly would have been tempted to creep over the shingles to one of the windows of the big front room, and---- Nine o'clock at night. All four of the girls quartered with Mrs. Smith were busy with their books--even flaxen-haired Amy Gregg. The rustle of turning leaves and a sigh of weariness now and then was all that had broken the silence for half an hour. Outside, the wind moaned in the trees. It was cold and the sky was overcast with the promise of a stormy morrow. Suddenly Helen started and glanced hastily at the window behind her, where the shade was drawn. "What's that?" she whispered. "Huh?" said Ann. "I didn't hear anything," Ruth added. Not a word from Amy Gregg, who likewise appeared to be deeply immersed in her book. Another silence; then both Ruth and Helen jumped. "I declare! Is that a bird or a beast?" Helen demanded. "What is it?" cried Ann, starting up. "Somebody rapping on that window," Ruth declared. "This far up from the ground? Nonsense!" exclaimed the bold Ann, and marched to the casement and ran up the shade. They could see nothing. There was no light in the roadway before the house. Ann opened the window and leaned out. "Nobody down there throwing up gravel, that's sure," she declared, drawing in her head again, and shutting the window. Just as they returned to their books the scratching, squeaking noise broke out again. This time Ruth ran to see. "Nothing!" she confessed. "What do you suppose it can be?" asked Helen nervously. "I declare, I can't study any more. That gets on my nerves." Mrs. Smith put in her head at that moment. "Of course you haven't seen that boy, any of you?" she asked sharply. The three older girls looked at each other; Amy Gregg continued to pore over her book. No; Ruth, Helen and Ann could honestly tell Mrs. Smith that they had not seen Curly. "Well, the young rascal has slipped out. I went up to his door to take him some clothes I had mended, and he didn't answer. So I opened the door, and his bed hasn't been touched, and he went up an hour ago. He's slipped out over the shed roof, for his window's open; though I don't see how he dared drop to the ground. It's twenty feet if it's an inch," Mrs. Smith said sternly. "I shall wait up for him and catch him when he comes back. I'll learn him to go out nights without me knowin' of it." She went away, stepping wrathfully. "Goodness! I'm sorry for that boy," said Ann, beginning leisurely to prepare for bed. But Ruth watched Amy Gregg curiously. She saw the smaller girl flush and pale and glance now and then toward the window. Ruth jumped to a sudden conclusion. Curly was somewhere outside that window on the roof! CHAPTER XV A DAWNING POSSIBILITY "Well, the evening's spoiled anyway," yawned Helen, seeing Ann braiding her hair. "I might as well stop, too," and she closed her books with relief. "It's time small girls were on their way to the Land of Nod," said the Western girl, taking the book from the resisting hand of Amy Gregg. "Hullo! it's time _you_ were in bed, girlie, sure enough. Holding the book upside down, no less! What do you know about that, ladies?" "Certainly she should go to bed," Helen said sharply. "We're all sleepy. Do hurry, child." "Speak for yourself, Helen," snapped Amy. "I don't have to mind _you_, I hope." "You do if you want to get anywhere in this school--and mind every other senior who is kind enough to notice you," said Ann. "You've not learned that lesson yet." "And I don't believe _you_ can teach me," responded the younger girl, ready to quarrel with anybody. "Give me back my book!" Ruth went to her and put her arm around Amy's neck. "Don't, dear, be so fractious," she begged. "We had all to go through a process of 'fagging' when we first came to Briarwood. It is good for us--part of the discipline. I asked Mrs. Tellingham to let you come over here with us so that you really would not be put upon----" "I don't thank you!" snapped Amy, ungratefully. "I can look out for myself, I guess. I always have." "You're like the self-made man," drawled Ann. "You've made an awfully poor job of it! You need a little discipline, my dear." "Not from you!" cried the other girl, her eyes flashing. It took Ruth several minutes to quiet this sea of trouble. It was half an hour before Amy cried herself to sleep on her couch. The other girls had both crept into bed and called to Ruth sleepily to put out the light. Ruth was not undressed; but she did as they requested. Then she went to the window and opened it. Nothing had been heard from above since Mrs. Smith had looked in at the chamber door. But Ruth was sure the grim old woman was waiting at her grandson's window, in the cold shed bedroom, ready for Curly when he came in. And Ruth was sure, too, that the boy had not dropped to the ground. _He was still on the roof_. "That was a tictac," Ruth told herself. She had heard Tom Cameron's too many times to mistake the sound. "And Amy was expecting it. Curly had told her what he was going to do. And now what will that reckless boy do, with his grandmother waiting for him and every other window in the house locked?" "What are you doing there, Ruthie?" grumbled Ann. "O-o-oh! it's cold," and she drew her comforter up around her shoulders and the next moment she was asleep. Helen never lay awake after her head touched the pillow, so Ruth did not look for any questioning on her chum's part. And Amy had already wept herself unhappily into dreamland. "Poor kiddie!" thought Ruth, casting a commiserating glance again at Amy. "And now for this silly boy. If the girls knew what I was going to do they'd have a spasm, I expect," and she chuckled. She leaned far out of the open window again, and, sitting on the window-sill, turned her body so as to look up the slant of the steep roof. "Curly!" she called softly. No answer. "Curly Smith!" she raised her voice decisively. "If you don't come here I'll call your grandmother." A figure appeared slowly from behind a chimney. Even at that distance Ruth could see the figure shiver. "Wha--what do you want?" asked the boy, shakingly. "Come here, you silly boy!" commanded Ruth. "Do you want to get your death of cold?" "I--I----" "Come down here at once! And don't fall, for pity's sake," was Ruth's warning, as the boy's foot slipped. "My goodness! you haven't any shoes on--and no cap--and just that thin coat. Curly Smith! you'll be down sick after this." "I'll be sick if Gran' catches me," admitted the boy. "She's layin' for me at my window." "I know," said Ruth, as the boy crept closer. "You telltale girls told her, of course," growled the boy. "We did not. Ann and Helen don't know. Amy is scared, but she's gone to sleep. _She_ wouldn't tell." "How did Gran' know, then?" demanded Curly, coming closer. Ruth told him. The boy was both ashamed of his predicament and frightened. "How can I get in, Ruth? I'd like to sneak downstairs into the sitting room and lie down by the sitting room fire and get warm." "You shall. Come in this way," commanded Ruth. "But, for pity's sake, don't fall!" "She'll find it out and lick me worse," said Curly, doubtfully. "She won't. The girls are asleep, I tell you." "Well, _you_ know it, don't you?" demanded Curly, with desperation. "Curly Smith! If you think I'd tell on you, you deserve to stay out here on this roof and freeze," declared Ruth, in anger. "Oh, say! don't get mad," said Curly, fearing that she would leave him as she intimated. "Come on, then--and whisper. Not a sound when you get in the room. And for pity's sake, Curly Smith--don't fall!" "Not going to," growled the boy. "Look out and let me swing down to that window-sill. Ugh! I 'most slipped then. Look out!" Ruth wriggled back into the room and almost immediately Curly's unshod feet appeared on the sill. She grasped his ankles firmly. "Come in!" she whispered. "That's the boy! Quick, now!" All this in low whispers. The girls did not stir, and Ruth had no light. She could barely see the figure of the boy between her and the gray light out-of-doors. Curly dropped softly into the room. Ruth led him by the hand to the door, which she opened softly. The hall was pitch dark, too. "You're all right, Ruthie Fielding!" he muttered, as he passed her and stepped into the hall. "I won't forget this." Ruth thought it might be a warning to him. In the morning his grandmother admitted having found the boy curled up in a rug and asleep before the sitting-room fire. "An' I thought he was out o' doors all the time," she said. "I ought to punish him, anyway, I s'pose, for scaring me so." Ruth Fielding spent all her spare time (and that was not much, for her studies were just then very engrossing) in planning and sketching out the five-reel drama in which she hoped to interest Mr. Hammond, head of the Alectrion Film Corporation. She called up the Lumberton Hotel every day to learn if the film company had arrived. At length the clerk told her Mr. Hammond himself had come, and expected his company the next day. Mr. Hammond was near and was soon speaking to the girl of the Red Mill over the telephone. "Is this the famous authoress of 'Curiosity?'" asked Mr. Hammond, laughing. "I have received your signed contract and acceptance, and the scenario is already in rehearsal. I hope everything is perfectly satisfactory, Miss Fielding?" "Oh, Mr. Hammond! I'm not joking. I want to see you very, very much." "About 'Curiosity?'" "Oh, no, sir! I'm very grateful to you for taking that and paying me for it, as I told you," Ruth said. "But this is something different--and much more important. _When_ can I see you?" "Any time after breakfast and before bedtime, my dear," Mr. Hammond assured her. "Do you want to come to town, or shall I come to Briarwood Hall?" "If you would come here you could see Mrs. Tellingham, too, and that would be lots better," Ruth assured him. "The principal of your school?" he asked, in surprise. "Yes, Mr. Hammond. One of our buildings has burned down----" "Oh! I saw that in the paper," interposed the gentleman. "It is too bad." "It is tragic!" declared Ruth, earnestly. "There was no insurance, and all us girls want to help build a new dormitory. I have a plan--and _you_ can help----" "We--ell," said Mr. Hammond, doubtfully. "How much does this mean?" "I don't know. If the idea is as good as I think it is, Mr. Hammond," Ruth told him, placidly, "you will make a lot of money, and so will Briarwood Hall." "Hullo!" ejaculated the gentleman. "You expect to show me how to make some money? I thought you wanted a contribution." "No. It is a bona fide scheme for making money," laughed Ruth. "Do run out sometime to-day and let me talk you into it. You shall meet Mrs. Tellingham, too." The gentleman promised, and kept the promise promptly. He heard Ruth's idea, approved of it with enthusiasm, and went over with her the briefly outlined sketch for "The Heart of a Schoolgirl." He was able to suggest a number of important changes in Ruth's plan, and his ideas were all helpful and put with tact. Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Tellingham came to an understanding and made a written agreement, too. Many of the pictures were to be taken at Briarwood Hall. Mrs. Tellingham, on behalf of the dormitory fund, was to have a certain interest in the profits of the production. These legal and technical matters Ruth had nothing to do with. She was able, with an untrammeled mind, to go on with the actual work of writing the scenario. CHAPTER XVI THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG Those were really strenuous days indeed for Ruth Fielding and her friends at Briarwood Hall. The class that looked forward to graduating in June was exceedingly busy. Had Mrs. Tellingham not made an equitable arrangement in regard to Ruth's English studies, allowing her credits on her writing, the girl of the Red Mill would never have found time for the writing of the scenario which all hoped would ultimately bring a large sum into the dormitory fund. With faith in her pupil's ability as a writer for the screen, Mrs. Tellingham had gone on with the work of clearing away the ruins of the burned building, and had given out contracts for the construction of the new dormitory on the site of the old one. The sums already gathered from voluntary contributions paid the bills as the work went along; but in "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" must lie the earning power to carry the work to completion. As each girl of the senior class had special work in English of an original nature, Mrs. Tellingham announced that Ruth's scenario should count as her special thesis. "We will let Mr. Hammond judge it, my dear," the principal said to Ruth. She was already proud of the girl's achievement in writing "Curiosity," for she had now read that first scenario. "If Mr. Hammond declares that your drama is worthy of production, you shall be marked 'perfect' in your original English work. That, I am sure, is fair." In spite of all the studying she had to do, and her work on the scenario of the five-reel drama, Ruth found time to look after Amy Gregg. Not that the latter thanked her--far from it! Ruth, however, did what she thought to be her duty toward the younger girl. Once Jennie Stone hinted that she suspected Amy of starting the dormitory fire, but Ruth stopped her with: "Be careful what you say, Jennie Stone. I am sure you would not want to set the other girls against little Gregg. She's apt to have a hard time enough here at Briarwood, at best." "Her own fault," declared the plump girl. "Her unfortunate nature, I grant you," said Ruth, shaking her head. "But don't say anything to make it worse. You'd be sorry, you know." "Huh! If she deserves to have it known that the fire started in her room----" "But you don't know that!" again interrupted Ruth. "And if it chanced to be so, that's all the more reason why you should not suggest it to the other girls." "Goodness, Ruth! you are so funny." "Then laugh at me," responded Ruth, smiling. "I don't mind." "Pshaw!" said Jennie. "There's no getting ahead of you. You're just like the little kid I heard of who was entertaining some other little girls at a nursery tea. 'My little sister is only five months old,' says one little girl, 'and she has two teeth.' "'My little sister is only six months old,' spoke up another guest, 'and she's got three teeth.' "The other kiddie was silent for a moment; she wanted to be polite, but she couldn't let the others put it over her like that! So finally she bursts out with: "'Well, my little sister hasn't any teef yet; but when she _does_ have some, they're goin' to be gold ones!' Couldn't get ahead of her--and nobody can get the best of _you_, Ruthie Fielding! You've always an answer ready." At Mrs. Sadoc Smith's, Amy Gregg had just as little to do with the three older girls as she possibly could; but she remained friends with Curly. She was his confidant, and although Curly considered Ruth about the finest girl "who ever walked down the pike," as he expressed it, he felt in no awe of Amy Gregg and treated her more as he would another boy. All was not plain sailing for Ruth in either her studies or in the writing of the scenario for "The Heart of a Schoolgirl." The coming examinations in all branches would be difficult, and unless she obtained a certain average in all, Ruth could not expect a diploma. A diploma from Briarwood Hall was an entrance certificate to the college in which she and Helen hoped to continue their education the following autumn. And Ruth did not want to spend her summer in making up conditions. She wished to graduate in her class with a high grade. It was a foregone conclusion in her mind that Mercy Curtis was to bear off the highest honor. Nor had she forgotten that she must invent (if nobody else could) a way for Mercy to speak the principal oration on graduation day. Her powers of invention, however, were taxed to their utmost just now as she wrote the scenario of the picture drama. Before Mr. Hammond and the Alectrion Company left Lumberton, Ruth was able to get into town with the draft of the first part of the play, and read it to Mr. Hammond. Miss Hazel Gray was present at the reading, and Ruth had given that pretty young girl a very good part indeed in the new film. "You _dear_!" whispered Hazel, her arms around Ruth, and speaking to her softly, "I believe I have you to thank for much further consideration from Mr. Hammond. And you have given me a delightful part in this play you are writing. What a really wonderful child you are Ruth Fielding!" Ruth thought that she was scarcely a child. But she only said: "I am glad you like the part. I meant it for you." "I know. Mr. Hammond told me that you insisted on my playing the part of Eve Adair. And, oh! what about that nice boy, Thomas Cameron? Are he and his sister well? I received a lovely box of sweets from Thomas after I went back to the city that time." "He is well, I believe," said Ruth, gravely. "He is not far from here, you know; he attends the Seven Oaks Military Academy." "Oh! so he does. Maybe we shall go that way," said Hazel Gray, carelessly. "It would be lots of fun to see him again. Give my love to his sister." "Yes, Miss Gray," Ruth returned seriously. "I will tell Helen." She really liked Hazel Gray, and wished to see her get ahead. And it was through her acquaintanceship with Hazel that Ruth had made a friend of Mr. Hammond. But it annoyed Ruth that the actress should continue to be so friendly with Tom Cameron. She thought no good could come of it Tom Cameron had always seemed such a seriously inclined boy, in spite of his ready fun and cheerfulness. To have him show such partiality for a girl so much older than himself, really a grown woman, as Hazel Gray was, disturbed Ruth. She said nothing to her chum about it. If Helen was not worried about her twin's predilection for the moving picture actress, it did not become Ruth to worry. Ruth went back to Briarwood, encouraged to go on with the writing of the drama. From Mr. Hammond's fertile mind had come several helpful suggestions. The plot of the play was very intimately connected with the history of Briarwood. There was included in its scenes a "Masque of the Marble Harp," in which the whole school was to be grouped about the fountain in the sunken garden. The marble figure of Harmony, or Poesy, or whatever it was supposed to represent, was to come to life in the picture and strum the strings of the lyre which it held. This was a trick picture and Mr. Hammond had explained to Ruth just how it was to be made. The legend of the marble harp, which had been kept alive by succeeding classes of Briarwood girls for the purpose of hazing "infants," came in very nicely now in Ruth's story. And the arrangement of this trick picture suggested another thing to Ruth Fielding, something which she had been racking her brains about for some time. This idea had nothing to do with the present play; it had to do, instead, with Mercy Curtis and the graduation exercises. One idea bred another in Ruth Fielding's teeming brain. Her dramatic faculties, were being sharpened. With all their regular studies and recitations, the seniors had to take their usual turns as monitors, and Ruth could not escape this duty. Besides, it was an honor not to be scorned, to be chosen to preside over the "primes," or to take the head of a table at dinner. A teacher was ill on one day and Miss Brokaw asked Ruth to take certain classes of the primary grade. The recitations were on subjects quite familiar to Ruth and she felt no hesitancy in accepting the responsibility; but there was more ahead of her than she supposed when she entered on the task. As it chanced, the flaxen-haired Amy Gregg was in the class of which Ruth was sent to take charge. Amy scowled at the senior when the latter took the desk; but most of the other girls were glad to see Ruth Fielding. A little wrangle seemed to have begun before Ruth arrived, and the senior thought to settle the difficulty and start the day with "clear decks," by getting at the seat of the trouble. "What is the matter, Mary Pease?" she asked a flushed and indignant girl who was angrily glaring at another. "Calm down, honey. Don't let your anger rise." "If Amy Gregg says again that I took her gold pen, I'll tell something about _her_ she won't like, now I warn her!" threatened Mary. "Well, it's gone!" stormed Amy, "and you're the nearest. I'd like to know who took it if you didn't?" "Well! of all the nerve! I want you to understand that I don't have to steal pens." "Hold on, girls," put in Ruth. "This must not go on. You know, I shall be obliged to report you both." "Of course!" snarled Amy. "You big girls are always telling on us." "Oh!" and "Shame!" was the general murmur about the classroom; for most of the girls loved Ruth. "Why, you nasty thing!" cried Mary Pease, glaring at Amy. "You ought to be ashamed. I'll tell what I know about _you_!" "Mary!" exclaimed Ruth, with sudden fright. "Be still." "I guess you don't know what I know about Gregg, Ruth Fielding," cried the excited Mary. "We do not want to know," Ruth said hastily. "Let us stop this wrangling and turn to our work. Suppose Miss Brokaw should come in?" "And I guess Miss Brokaw or anybody would want to know what I saw that night of the fire," declared Mary Pease, wildly. "_I_ know whose room the fire started in, and _how_ it started." "Mary!" cried Ruth, rising from her seat, while the girls of the class uttered wondering exclamations. But Mary was hysterical now. "I saw a light in _her_ room!" she cried, pointing an accusing finger at the white-faced and shaking Amy. "I peeped through the keyhole, and it was a candle burning on her table. She said she didn't have a candle. Bah!" "Be still, Mary!" commanded Ruth again. Amy Gregg was terror-stricken and shrank away from her accuser; but the latter was too excited to heed Ruth. "I know all about it. So does Miss Scrimp. I told her. That Amy Gregg left the candle burning when she went to supper and it fell off her table into the waste basket. "And that," concluded Mary Pease, "was how the fire started that burned down the West Dormitory, and I don't care who knows it, so there!" CHAPTER XVII ANOTHER OF CURLY'S TRICKS Miss Scrimp, the matron of the old West Dormitory, had bound Mary Pease to secrecy. But, as Jennie put it, "the binding did not hold and _Pease_ spilled the _beans_." The story flew over the school like wildfire. Miss Scrimp, actually in tears, was inclined to blame Ruth Fielding for the outbreak of the story. "You ought to have taken Mary Pease and run her right into a closet!" declared the matron. "Such behavior!" Ruth was a good deal chagrined that the story should have come out while she was monitor; but she really did not see how she could have helped it. The quarrel between Amy Gregg and Mary Pease had commenced before Ruth had gone into the classroom. "And how could you help it?" cried the faithful Jennie. "I expect little Pease has been aching to tell all these weeks. She should have been quarantined, in the first place." But there was nothing to do about it now, save "to pick up the pieces." And that was no light task. Feeling ran high in Briarwood Hall against Amy Gregg. Some of the girls of her own age would not speak to her. Many of the older girls made her feel by every glance and word they gave her that she was taboo. And it was whispered on the campus that Amy would be sent home by Mrs. Tellingham, if she could not be made to pay, or her folks be made to pay, something toward the damage her carelessness had brought about. Ruth sheltered the unfortunate Amy all she could. She even influenced her closest friends to be kind to the child. At Mrs. Sadoc Smith's Helen and Ann did not speak of the discovery of the origin of the fire, and, of course, good-natured Jennie Stone did just as Ruth asked, while even Mercy Curtis kept her lips closed. Amy, however, not being an utterly callous girl, felt the condemnation of the whole school. There was no escaping that. Amy had denied having a candle on the night of the fire, and it shocked and grieved Mrs. Tellingham very much to learn that one of her girls was not to be trusted to speak the truth at all times. Not because of the fire did the preceptress consider sending Amy Gregg home, for the origin of the fire was plainly an accident, though bred in carelessness. For prevarication, however, Mrs. Tellingham was tempted to expel Amy Gregg. The girl had denied the fact that she had left a candle burning in her room when she went to supper. Mary Pease had seen it, and both Miss Scrimp and Ruth Fielding knew that the fire started in that particular room. Why the girl had left the candle burning was another mystery. Recklessly denying the main fact, of course Amy would not explain the secondary mystery. Nagged and heckled by some of the sophomores and juniors, Amy declared she wished the whole school had burned down and then she would not have had to stay at Briarwood another day! Ruth and Helen one day rescued the girl from the midst of a mob of larger girls who were driving Amy Gregg almost mad by taunting her with being a "fire bug." "What are you wild animals doing?" demanded Helen, who was much sharper with the evil doers among the under classes than was Ruth. "So she's a 'fire-bug?' Oh, girls! what better are you than poor little Gregg, I'd like to know? Every soul of you has done worse things than she has done--only your acts did not have such appalling results. Behave yourselves!" Ruth could not have talked that way to the girls; but many of them slunk away under Helen's reprimand. Ruth took the crying Amy away--but neither she nor Helen was thanked. "I wish you girls would mind your own business and let me alone," sobbed the foolish child, hysterically. "I can fight my own battles, I'll tear their hair out! I'll scratch their faces for them!" "Oh, dear me, Amy!" sighed Ruth. "Do you think that would be any real satisfaction to you? Would it change things for the better, or in the least?" What made the girls so unfeeling toward Amy was the fact that from the beginning she had expressed no sorrow over the destruction of the dormitory, and that she had refused to write home to ask for a contribution to the fund being raised for the new building. When every other girl at Briarwood Hall was doing her best to get money to help Mrs. Tellingham, Amy Gregg's callousness regarding the fire and its results showed up, said Jennie, "just like a stubbed toe on a bare-footed boy!" Really, Ruth began to think she would have to act as guard for Amy Gregg to and from the school. The girl was not allowed to play with the other girls of her age. Wherever she went a small riot started. It had become general knowledge that Amy Gregg's father was a wealthy man, and that the family lived very sumptuously. Amy had a stepmother and several half brothers and sisters; but she did not get along well with them and, therefore, her father had sent her to Briarwood Hall. "I guess she was too mean at home for them to stand her," said Mary Pease, who was the most vindictive of Amy's class, "and they sent her here to trouble _us_. And see what she's done!" There was no stopping the younger girls from nagging. The fact that so much was being done by others to help the dormitory fund kept the feud against Amy Gregg alive. Her one partisan at this time (for Ruth could not be called that, no matter how sorry she was for her) was Curly Smith. Once or twice Amy slipped away before Ruth was ready to go back to Mrs. Smith's house for the evening, and started alone for the lodgings. The Cedar Walk was the nearest way, and there were many hiding places along the Cedar Walk. Mary Pease and her chums lay in wait for the unfortunate Amy on two occasions, and chased her all the way to Mrs. Sadoc Smith's. What they intended doing to the much disliked girl if they had caught her, nobody seemed to know. They just seemed determined to plague her. Ruth did not want to report the culprits; but warning them did not seem to do any good. On a third occasion Amy started home ahead, and Ruth and Helen hurried after her to make sure that none of the other girls troubled the victim. Half way down the walk, Helen exclaimed: "See there, Ruth! Amy isn't alone, after all." "Who's with her?" asked Ruth. "I can't see--Why! it can't be Ann?" "No. But she's tall like Ann." "And that girl walks queerly. Did you ever see the like? Strides along just like a boy--Oh!" Out of a cedar clump appeared a crowd of shrieking girls, who began to dance around Amy and her companion, shouting scornful phrases which were bound to make Amy Gregg angry. But Mary and her friends this time received a surprise. Amy ran. Not so the "girl" with her. This strange individual ran among Amy's tormentors, tripped two or three of them up, tore down the hair of several, taking the ribbons as trophies, and sent the whole crowd shrieking away, much alarmed and not a little punished. "It isn't a girl!" gasped Helen. "It's Curly Smith. And as sure as you live he's got on some of Ann's clothes. _Won't_ our Western friend be furious at that?" But Ann Hicks was not troubled at all. She had lent Curly the frock and hat, and when he behaved himself and walked properly he certainly made a very pretty girl. He gave Amy's enemies a good fright, and they let her alone after that. "But, goodness me! what is Briarwood Hall coming to?" demanded Ruth, in discussing this incident with her room-mates. "We are leaving a tribe of young Indians here for Mrs. Tellingham to control. Helen! you know we never acted this way when we were in the lower grades." "Well, we were pretty bad sometimes," Helen said slowly. "We did not engage in free fights, however." "They all ought to have a good spanking," declared Ann, with conviction. "And I suppose you seniors ought to do it?" sneered Amy, who could not be gentle even with her own friends. "I'm not convinced that I sha'n't begin with you, my lady," said the Western girl, sharply. "I lent those old duds of mine to Curly to help you out, and you are about as grateful as a poison snake! I never saw such a girl in my life before." CHAPTER XVIII THE FIVE-REEL DRAMA There was a spark of romance in old Mrs. Sadoc Smith, after all. Ruth read to her the first part of "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" and to further the continuation and ultimate successful completion of that scenario, the old lady would have done much. Curly looked upon Ruth with awe. He was a devotee of the moving pictures, and every nickel he could spare went into the coffers of one or the other of the "picture palaces" in Lumberton. Lumberton was a thriving city, with both water-freight and railroad facilities besides its mills and lumber interests; so it could well support several of the modern houses of entertainment that have sprung up in such mushroom growth all over the land. Mr. Hammond's films taken at Lumberton were of an educational nature and the Board of Trade of the city expected much advertising of the industries of the place when the films were released. However, to get back to Mrs. Sadoc Smith--Her instructions from Mrs. Tellingham included the putting out of the lamp in the big room the four Briarwood girls occupied by ten o'clock every night; but Mrs. Smith allowed Ruth to come downstairs after the other girls were in bed and write under the radiance of the reading lamp on her sitting-room table. It was quiet there, for Mrs. Sadoc Smith either sent Curly to bed, or made him keep as still as a mouse. And there was nobody else to disturb the young author as she wrote, save the cat that delighted to jump up into her lap and lie there purring, while the scenario was being written. Ruth did not avail herself of this privilege often; but she was desirous for the scenario to be finished and in Mr. Hammond's hands. So sure had that gentleman been of her success, and so pleased was he with the plan of the entire play, that he had taken a copy of the first part with him when he left Lumberton and now wrote that Mr. Grimes was already making a few of the studio scenes. The young author rather shrank from letting the pugnacious Mr. Grimes have anything to do with her story; but she knew that both Mr. Hammond and Hazel Gray thought highly of the man's ability. Nor was she in a position to insist upon any other director. She was working for Briarwood, not for her own advantage. "If Grimes takes hold of it with his usual vigor, it will be a success," Mr. Hammond assured Ruth in his letter. "Hurry along the rest of the play. Spring is upon us, and we shall have some good open weather soon in which to take the pictures at Briarwood Hall." Ruth hurried. Indeed, the story was finished so rapidly that the girl scarcely realized what she had done. There was no time for her to go over the scenario carefully for revision and polishing. The last scenes she read to nobody; she scarcely knew herself how they sounded. Ruth Fielding had written an ingenious and very original scenario. Its crudities were many and manifest; nevertheless, the true gold was there. Mr. Hammond had recognized the originality of the girl's ideas in the first part of the play. He was not going into the scheme, and risking his money and reputation as a film producer, from any feeling of sentiment. It was a business proposition, pure and simple, with him. In the first place, nobody had ever thought of just this kind of moving picture. The producer would be in the field with a new idea. In addition, the drama would be looked for all over the country by the friends of the pupils, past and present, of Briarwood Hall. The girls themselves appearing in some of the scenes would add to the interest their parents, friends, and the graduates of the Hall, were bound to take in the production. To Ruth, nervous and overworked after the finishing of the scenario, the days of waiting until Mr. Hammond read and pronounced judgment on the play, were hard indeed to endure. No matter how much confidence her friends--even Mrs. Tellingham--had in her ability to succeed, Ruth was not at all sure she had written up to the mark. Try as she might she began to fall behind in her recitation marks during these days of waiting. Her nervousness was enhanced by the doubts she felt regarding her general standing in her classes. Mrs. Tellingham talked cheerfully in chapel about "our graduating class;" but some of the girls who were working with a view to receiving their diplomas in June would never be able to reach the high mark necessary for Mrs. Tellingham to allow them those certificates. There would be a fringe of girls standing at the back of the class who, although never appearing at Briarwood Hall another term, could not win the roll of parchment which would enter them in good standing in any of the women's colleges. Ruth did not want to be among those who failed. She worried about this a good deal; she could not sleep at night; and her cheeks grew pale. She worked hard, and yet sometimes when she reached the classroom she felt as though her head were a hollow drum in which the thoughts beat to and fro without either rhyme or reason. Ruth Fielding was a perfectly healthy girl, as well as an athletic one. But in a time of stress like this the very healthiest person can easily and quickly break down. "I feel as though I should fly!" is an expression often heard from nervous and overwrought schoolgirls. Ruth wished that she might fly--away from school and study and scenarios and sullen girls like Amy Gregg. One evening when she came back to Mrs. Sadoc Smith's with a strapful of books to study before bedtime, Ruth saw Curly Smith by the shed door busy with some fishing tackle. Ruth's pulses leaped. Fishing! She had not thrown a hook into the water for months and months! "Going fishing, Curly?" she said wistfully. "Yep." "Where are they biting now?" "There's carp and bream under the old mill-dam up in Norman's Woods. I saw 'em jumping there to-day." "Oh! when are you going?" gasped the girl, hungry for outdoor sport and adventure. "In the morning--before _you're_ up," said the boy, rather sullenly. "I wager I'll be awake," said Ruth, sitting down beside him. "I wake up--oh, just awfully early! and lie and think." Curly looked at her. "That don't get you nothin'," he said. "But I can't help it." "Gran says you're overworked," Curly said. "Why don't you run away from school if they make you work so hard? _I_ would. Our teacher's sick so there isn't any session at the district school to-morrow." "Oh, Curly! Play hooky?" gasped Ruth, clasping her hands. "Yep. Only you girls haven't any pluck." "If I played hooky would you let me go fishing with you to-morrow?" asked Ruth, her eyes dancing. "You haven't the sand," scoffed Curly. "But can I go if I _dare_ run away?" urged Ruth. "Yep," said the boy, but with rather a sour grin. "What time are you going to start?" "Four." "If I'm not down in the kitchen by that time, throw some gravel up to the window," commanded Ruth. "But don't break the window." "Oh, shucks! you won't go when you see how dark and damp it is," declared Curly. When, just after four o'clock in the morning, Curly crept downstairs from his shed chamber, knuckling his eyes to get the sleep out, there was a light in the kitchen and Ruth was just pouring out two fragrant cups of coffee which flanked a heaping plate of doughnuts. "Old Scratch!" gasped Curly. "Gran will have our hides and hair! You're not _going_, Ruth Fielding?" "If you will let me," said Ruth, meekly. "Well--if you want. But you'll get wet and dirty and mussy----" Then he stopped. He saw that Ruth had on an old gymnasium suit, her rubber boots lay on the chair, and a warm polo coat was at hand. She already wore her tam-o-shanter. "Huh! I see you're ready," Curly said. "You might as well go. But remember, if you want to come home before afternoon, you'll have to find your way back alone. I'm not going to be bothered by a girl's fantods." "All right, Curly," said Ruth, cheerfully. Curly put his face under the spigot, brushed his hair before the little mirror in the corner, and was ready to sample Ruth's coffee. "We want to hurry," he said, filling his pockets with the doughnuts, "it'll be broad daylight before we know it, and then everybody we see will want to come along. The other fellows aren't on to the old dam yet this season. The fish are running early." He brought forth a basket with tackle and bait, dug over night. Ruth burdened herself with a big, square box, neatly wrapped and tied. Curly eyed this askance. "I s'pose you expect to tear your clo'es and want something to wear back to town that's decent," he growled. "Well, I want to look half way respectable," laughed Ruth, as they set forth. The damp smell of thawing earth greeted their nostrils as they left the house. No plowing had been done, save in very warm corners; but the lush buds on the trees and bushes, and the crocuses by the corner of the old house, promised spring. A clape called at them raucously as he rapped out his warning on a dead limb beside the road. A rabbit rose from its form and shot away into the dripping woods. The sun poked a jolly red face above the wooded ridge before the two runaways left the beaten track and took a narrow woodpath that would cut off about a mile of their walk. It was a rough way and the pace Curly set was made to force Ruth to beg for time. But the girl gritted her teeth, minded not the pain in her side, and sturdily followed him. By and by the pain stopped, she got her second wind, and then she began to tread close on Curly's heels. "Huh!" he grunted at last, "you needn't be in such a hurry. The dam will stay there--and so will the fish." "All right," responded Ruth, still meekly, but with dancing eyes. The fishing place was reached and while yet the early rays of the sun fell aslant the dimpling pools under the dam, the two threw in their baited hooks. Curly evidently expected to see the girl balk at the bait, but Ruth seized firmly the fat, squirmy worm and impaled it scientifically upon her hook. She caught the first fish, too! In fact, as the morning drew leisurely along, Ruth's string splashing in the cool water grew much faster than Curly's. "I never saw the beat of your luck!" declared the boy. "You must have been fishing before, Ruth Fielding." "Lots of times." "Where?" Ruth told him of the Red Mill on the bank of the Lumano, of her fishing trips with Tom Cameron, and of all the fun that they had about Cheslow, and up the river above the mill. Mid-forenoon came and Curly produced some crackers and a piece of bologna. The doughnuts he had pocketed were gone long ago. "Have a bite, Ruth?" he said generously. "I wish it was better, but I didn't have much money, and Gran won't ever let me carry any lunch. She says the proper place for a boy to eat is at his own table. It's there for me, and if I don't get home to get it, then I can do without." Ruth accepted a piece of the bologna and the crackers gravely. She baited her hook with a piece of the bologna and caught a big, struggling carp. "What do you know about that?" cried Curly, in disgust. "You could bait your hook with a marble and catch a whopper, I believe!" Meanwhile, Ruth was having a most delightful time. The roses had come back into her cheeks at the first. Her eyes sparkled, and she "wriggled all over," as she expressed it, "with just the _feel_ of spring." She did not spend all her time fishing, but ran about and examined the early plants and sprouting bushes, and woke up the first violets and searched for May flowers, which, of course, she did not find. Squirrels chattered at them, and a blue jay hung about, squalling, evidently hoping for crumbs from their lunch. Only there were no crumbs of Curly's frugal bologna and crackers left. When the sun was in mid-heaven the boy confessed to being as hungry as ever, and tightened his belt. "Crackers don't stick to your ribs much," he grumbled. Ruth calmly began opening her box. Curly looked at her askance. "You aren't figgering on going home _now_, are you?" he asked. "Oh, no. I sha'n't go home till you do." Then she produced from the box sandwiches, deviled eggs, a jelly roll, a jar of peanut butter, crackers, olives, and some more of Mrs. Smith's good doughnuts. "Old Scratch!" Curly ejaculated. "You're the best fellow to go fishing with, Ruth Fielding, that I ever saw. You can come to _my_ parties any time you like." They spent the whole day delightfully and, tired, scratched, and not a little wind-burned, Ruth tramped home behind Curly in good season for supper at Mrs. Sadoc Smith's. She did not tell the boy that the whole outing had been arranged the night before with his grandmother before Ruth herself went to bed. Curly expected to be "called down," as he expressed it, by his grandmother when they arrived home. To his amazement they were met cheerfully and ushered in to a bounteous supper on which Mrs. Smith had expended no little thought and time. Curly was stricken almost dumb by his grandmother's generosity and good-nature. After supper he whispered to Ruth: "Say! you're a wonder, you are, Ruth Fielding. Never anybody got around Gran the way you do, before. You're a wonder!" Helen and Ann met Ruth in great excitement. "Where under the sun have you been--and in that ragged old gym suit?" gasped Helen. "You look as though your face was burnt. I believe you've been playing hooky, Ruth Fielding!" cried Ann. "Right the first time," sighed Ruth, happily. "Oh, I feel _so_ much better. And I know I shall sleep like a brick." "You mean, a railroad tie, don't you?" demanded Ann. "_That's_ a sleeper!" "Of course we found your note, and we told Miss Brokaw. But she's got it in for you just the same," said Helen, slangily. "And only guess!" "Yes! Guess! Ruth! Fielding!" and Ann seized her and danced her about the room. "You missed it by being absent to-day." "Oh, don't! Never mind all this! I'm tired enough. I've walked _miles_," groaned Ruth. "What have I missed?" "Mr. Hammond is in Lumberton. He came to see you about the scenario," Helen eagerly said. Ruth sat down and clasped her hands, while her cheeks paled. "It's a failure!" she whispered. CHAPTER XIX GREAT TIMES That was not so, however, and Helen and Ann soon blurted out the good news: "It's a great success!" "He's going to bring up the company next week and make the pictures at the Hall!" "He's been with Mrs. Tellingham all the afternoon planning when the pictures shall be taken, and how they shall be taken," Helen said. "I guess it's _not_ a failure!" "I should say not!" joined in Ann Hicks. "Oh, girls!" If it had not been for Ruth's long day in the open and the fact that her nerves had become much quieter, she could never have forced back the tears of relief that answered so quickly these reassuring words. Then a great flood of thankfulness welled up in her heart. She had accomplished something really worth while! Later, when she saw, on the screen, the story she had written, she was to feel this gratitude and joy again. She went to bed that night and slept, as she had promised, until Mrs. Sadoc Smith knocked on the door for them all to rise. She got up with all the oppression lifted from her mind, and wanted to race the other girls to the Hall before breakfast. "It won't do for you, young lady, to go gallavanting into the woods with Curly another day," said Helen, holding on to Ruth. "You're neither to hold nor to bind after such an expedition. I say, girls, let's all go with Curly next time." Amy had been very sullen ever since the evening before. Now she snapped: "I guess Curly didn't want her--or any of us. Ruth just forced herself upon him. He doesn't like girls." "Bless the infant!" said Ann. "What's got her _now_?" "Jealous of our Ruth, I declare!" laughed Helen. Amy burst out crying and ran ahead, nor did the older girls see her at the breakfast table. Ruth was sorry about this. She had only then begun to win Amy Gregg's confidence, and now she feared that the girl would be angry with her. That day, however, Ruth was too happy to think much about Amy Gregg. Recitations went with a rush. Miss Brokaw even was disarmed, for all Ruth's quickness and coolness seemed to have returned to her. She did not fail once and the strict teacher praised her. Besides, there was a long conference with Mrs. Tellingham and Mr. Hammond. The scenario of "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" was to be filmed at once. "We will do our best to release it for first presentation in six weeks," the producer said. "And I assure you that means some quick work. You girls," he added, to Ruth, "must do your prettiest when we take the pictures here. Your physical culture instructor will drill you in marching, and forming the tableaux we require. Your exposition of the legend of the Marble Harp is a clever bit of invention, Ruth, and in the picture will make a hit, I am sure." Of course Ruth was proud; why should she not be? But her head was not turned by all the flattering things that were said to her. The girls adored her. The fact that they were all working in unison toward the rebuilding of the dormitory, removed from the daily life and intercourse of the big boarding school one of its more unpleasant features. It was only natural that there should be cliques among two hundred girls. But now rivalries were put aside. All were striving for the same end. Some of the girls interested various societies in their home towns to hold fairs and bazaars for the benefit of Briarwood Hall. Personal appeals were made directly to every girl on the alumni list--and some of those "girls" now had girls of their own almost old enough to attend Briarwood. By these methods the dormitory fund was swelled. In the results from the moving picture drama, however, was the possibility for the greatest help. Mrs. Tellingham risked rebuilding the dormitory on the same scale as the burned structure, because of Mr. Hammond's enthusiasm over Ruth's achievement. The days of early spring passed in swift procession now. It seemed that the longer the days grew, the faster they seemed to go. There were not hours enough in which to accomplish all that the girls, who looked toward graduation in June, wished. Even Jennie Stone worked harder and took her school tasks more seriously than ever before. "But, see here!" she said to her mates one day, "here's some 'hot ones' Miss Brokaw has been handing the primes, and I believe they'd puzzle some of us big girls. Listen! 'What is longitude?' Sue Mellen came to me, puzzled, about _that_," chuckled Jennie, "and I told her longitude is those lengthwise stripes on a watermelon." "Oh, Heavy!" gasped Lluella. "How could you?" "Didn't hurt me at all," proclaimed Jennie, calmly. "And I told her that a 'ski' is what a Russian has on the end of his name. That quite satisfiedski Miss Mellenski, whether it does Miss Brokawski or not!" Mrs. Tellingham gave the school a serious talk the day before the film company arrived to take the first pictures for Ruth's play. She read and explained that part of the scenario in which the Briarwood girls would appear, and begged their serious co-operation with the director who would have the making of the film in charge. Ruth still shrank from seeing Mr. Grimes again; but she found that, while engaged in the work of making these pictures, he behaved quite differently from the way he had acted the day she had first seen him on the bank of the Lumano river. He was patient, but insistent. He knew just what effect he wanted and always got it in the end. And Ruth and Helen told each other that, ugly as he could be, Mr. Grimes was really a most wonderful director. They did not wonder that Hazel Gray expressed her desire to work under Mr. Grimes, harsh as he had been to her. It was difficult for the girls--even for Ruth who had written the scenario--to follow the trend of the story of "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" by closely watching the taking of these scenes in and about Briarwood Hall; for they were not taken in proper rotation. Mr. Grimes had his schedule before him and he skipped from one part of the story's action to another in a most bewildering way, getting the scenes about the school filmed in each "setting" in succession, rather than following the thread of the story. Nor could Ruth judge the effect of the several pictures. She was too close to them. There was no perspective. Sometimes when Mr. Grimes seemed the most satisfied, Ruth could see nothing in that scene at all. Again he would make the participants go over and over a scene that seemed perfectly clear the first time. Hazel Gray and several other professional performers were at Briarwood and had their parts in the scenes with the schoolgirls. Hazel played the heroine of Ruth's drama, but Mr. Hammond had insisted upon Ruth herself acting the part of the heroine's chum--a not unimportant role. Ruth did not feel that she had histrionic ability; but she was so anxious for the moving picture to be a success, that she would have tried her very best to suit Mr. Grimes in any role. She was surprised, however, when he warmly praised her work in her one scene which was at all emotional. "You naturally feel your part in this scene, Miss Fielding," he said. "Not everybody could get the action before the camera so well." "'Praise from Sir Hubert!'" whispered Hazel Gray, smiling at her young friend. "You should be proud." Ruth was not quite sure whether she was proud of this unsuspected talent or not. She had written to Aunt Alvirah about her acting in the play, and the good woman had warned her seriously against the folly of vanity and the sin of frivolity. Aunt Alvirah had been brought up to doubt very much the morality of those who performed upon the stage for the amusement of the public. What Mr. Jabez Potter thought of his niece's acting for the screen, even his opinion of her writing a play, was a sealed matter to Ruth; for the old miller, as Aunt Alvirah informed her, grew grumpier and more morose all the time. "He is a caution to get along with," wrote Aunt Alvirah Boggs in her cramped handwriting. "I don't know what's going to become of him. You'd think he was weaned on wormwood and drunk nothing but boneset tea all his life long." However, it must be confessed that Ruth Fielding's thoughts were not much upon her Uncle Jabez or the Red Mill these days. The work of making the pictures occupied all her thought that was not taken up with study. Jennie Stone, Sarah Fish, Helen, Lluella and Belle, all appeared prominently in the "close up" scenes Mr. Grimes took. In the classroom, dining hall, the graduation march, and in the Italian garden scenes, most of the seniors and juniors were used. A splendid gymnasium scene pleased the girls, and views of the hand-ball, captain's-ball, tennis and basket-ball courts, with the girls in action, were bound to be spectacular, too. These typical boarding school scenes closely followed the text of Ruth's play. Hazel and Ruth were in them all; and on the tennis court Hazel and Ruth played Helen and Sarah Fish a fast game, the former couple winning by sheer skill and pluck. Ruth naturally had to neglect some duties. Discipline was more or less relaxed, and she lost sight of Amy Gregg. One evening the smaller girl did not appear at Mrs. Sadoc Smith's after supper. Of late the other girls had let Amy Gregg alone and Ruth had ceased to watch her so carefully. But when darkness fell and Amy did not appear, Ruth telephoned to the school. Miss Scrimp, who answered the call, had not seen her. It was learned, too, that Amy had not been at the supper table. Nobody had seen her depart, but it was a fact that she had disappeared from Briarwood Hall sometime during the afternoon. Nor had she been near Mrs. Sadoc Smith's since early morning. CHAPTER XX A CLOUD ARISES While Mrs. Smith and Helen and Ann Hicks were "running around in circles," as Ann put it, wondering what had become of Amy Gregg, Ruth did the only practical thing she could think of. She hunted up Curly. "Old Scratch!" ejaculated the boy. "I haven't seen Amy to-day. Sure I haven't! No, Ma'am!" "Not at _all_?" asked Ruth. "And don't you know where to look for her?" "Oh, she'll take care of herself," said the boy, carelessly. "She isn't as soft as most girls." "But Mrs. Tellingham will be awfully angry with me," Ruth cried. "I was supposed to look out for her when she came over here." "Shucks!" exclaimed Curly. "Amy didn't want to be looked out for." "That doesn't absolve me from my duty," sighed Ruth. "Haven't you the least idea where she's gone?" "No, Ruth, I haven't," the boy declared earnestly. "If I had I'd tell you." "I believe you, Curly." "She and I haven't been so friendly," admitted the boy, in some embarrassment, "since you went fishing with me that time." "Goodness me! she's not jealous?" cried Ruth. "I don't know what you call it," said Curly, hanging his head. "It's some foolish girl stuff. Boys don't act that way. I told her I'd take her fishing, too--if she'd get up early enough." Here Curly began to laugh. "You can bet, Ruth, that wherever she is, she got there before dark and won't come back until daylight." "What do you mean?" asked Ruth, sharply. "I know she's afraid as she can be of the dark. She's a regular baby about that. Of course, she won't own up to it." "Why! I never knew it," Ruth exclaimed. "She wouldn't go fishing because I start so early--while it's still dark. Catch _her_ out of the house before sun-up!" "Oh, Curly! I blame myself," gasped Ruth. "I never knew that about her. Are you sure?" "'Course I am. She's scared of the dark. I can make her mad any time by just hinting at it. So that proves it, don't it?" responded this young philosopher. "Maybe she has gone somewhere and is afraid to come back till morning," repeated Ruth. "She's been after me to take her up to that dam where we caught the fish, in the afternoon; but I told her we couldn't get home before pitch dark. I ought to have taken her along, I guess, and said nothing," Curly added reflectively. "Last night she was talking about it. She said I should take her because I took you there." "You don't suppose she's gone clear over there by herself, do you?" Ruth cried, in alarm. "I don't believe she knows how to start, even," Curly said easily. "And I told her last night she'd better not go anywhere till she got rid of that sore throat." "Sore throat!" repeated Ruth, with added worriment. "I never knew her throat was sore." "She told me, she did," Curly said. "It was pretty bad, I guess, too. I guess maybe she was afraid to say anything about it. I don't like to tell Gran when there's anything the matter with me. She mixes up such nasty messes for me to take!" "The poor child!" murmured Ruth, thinking only of Amy Gregg. "What _shall_ we do?" "I'll get a lantern and we'll go hunt around for her," suggested Curly, ripe for any adventure. "But where will we hunt?" "Maybe she's gone with some other girl somewhere." "You know that can't be so," Ruth said. "There isn't a girl friendly enough with her for her to say ten pleasant words to. The poor little mite! I'm just as sorry as I can be for her, Curly." "Well!" returned Curly, "what did she want to tell a story for? I know what she did. She left the candle burning in her room because she was afraid to come back to it in the dark after supper. I made her own up to that." "Oh! the poor child!" cried Ruth. "And she didn't understand the electric light. They don't have electricity in the town where she comes from; natural gas, instead. So that's the _why_ of the fire," Curly said. "I picked that out of her long ago." "And she was so close-mouthed with us!" exclaimed Ruth. "She doesn't like it at Briarwood. She doesn't like the girls. She doesn't like the teachers. Old Scratch!" exclaimed the boy, "I don't blame her--and I guess I'd run away myself." "You don't suppose she _has_ run away, Curly Smith? Not for _keeps_?" "I don't know," answered the boy. "Her folks don't treat her right, I guess. They sent her to Briarwood to get her out the way. So she says. And she's afraid of what her father will do to her if he ever hears about that candle and about how the dormitory got afire." "That's why she wouldn't write to him for a contribution to the rebuilding fund," cried Ruth. "I guess so," said Curly. "She never said much to me about it. I just wormed it out of her, as you might say. She isn't so awful happy here, you bet." "Oh, Curly! I blame myself," groaned Ruth. "What for?" "Because I ought to have learned more about her--got closer to her." "You might's well try to get close to a prickly porcupine," laughed the boy. "She'd made up her mind to hate the rest of you girls and she's going to keep on hating you till the end of time. That's the sort of a girl Amy is." "And nothing to be proud about," declared Ruth, with some vexation. "Don't you think it, Curly?" "Huh! I don't. You're silly, Ruth--but I like you a whole lot more than I do Amy." "Goodness! what a polite boy," cried Ruth. "There's the telephone!" She ran back upstairs, hoping the message would be that Amy Gregg was found. But that was not it. Over the wire Mrs. Tellingham herself was speaking to Ann. "No, Ma'am. We don't know where to look for her," Ann said. "We haven't any idea." "Yes, Ma'am; Helen and I have looked. She hasn't taken any of her clothes." "Oh, goodness! you don't really suppose she's run away?" "Do come here, Ruth, and hear what Mrs. Tellingham says!" Ruth went to the telephone and heard the principal of Briarwood Hall talking. What Mrs. Tellingham said was certainly startling. It seemed that Amy Gregg had received a letter that afternoon. It was from her father, and, of course, was not opened by the principal. But afterward--after the child had disappeared from the premises, of course--the letter came into Mrs. Tellingham's hands. It was found by Tony Foyle down by the marble statue in the sunken garden. Evidently Amy had run there, where she would be out of the way, to read it. It was a very stern letter and accused Amy of some past offense before she had left home. It likewise said that Mr. Gregg had received an anonymous letter from some girl at Briarwood, telling about the fire, and about Amy's supposed part in starting the blaze, and complaining that Amy would not ask for a contribution to the dormitory fund. Mr. Gregg was extremely angry, and he told his daughter that he would come to Briarwood in a few days and investigate the whole matter. Why Amy Gregg should run away was now clear. She was afraid to meet her father. "Make sure that the poor child is nowhere about Mrs. Smith's, Ruth," Mrs. Tellingham begged her over the wire. "I am sure I should not know what to say to Mr. Gregg if he comes and finds that his daughter has disappeared. The poor child! I shall not sleep to-night, Ruth Fielding. Amy must be found." Ruth felt just that way herself. No matter what her friends said in contradiction, Ruth felt that she was partly to blame. She should have kept a close watch over Amy Gregg. "I let that picture-making get in between us," she wailed. "I'm glad it's all done and out of the way. I'd rather not have written the scenario at all, than have anything happen to Amy." "You're a goose, Ruthie," declared her chum. "You're not to blame. Her father's harshness with her has made the child run away. _If_ she has." "Her own unhappy disposition has caused all the trouble," said Ann, bitterly. "Oh! don't speak so," begged Ruth. "Suppose something has happened to her." "Nothing ever happens to kids like her," said Ann, bruskly. But that was not so. Something already had happened to Amy Gregg. She was lost! CHAPTER XXI HUNTING FOR AMY In spite of her seemingly heartless words, it was Ann Hicks who agreed to go with Ruth to hunt for the lost girl. Helen frankly acknowledged that she was afraid to tramp about the woods and fields at night, with only a boy and a lantern for company. "Come along, Ruthie. I have helped find stray cattle on the range more times than you could shake a stick at," declared good-natured Ann Hicks. "Rouse out that lazy boy of Grandma Smith's." Mrs. Sadoc Smith had to give just so much advice, and see that the expedition was properly equipped. A thermos bottle filled with coffee went into Ruth's bag, while Curly was laden with a substantial lunch, a roll of bandages, a bottle of arnica and some smelling-salts, beside the lantern. "Huh!" protested the boy to Ann, "if she was sending us out to find a lost _boy_ all she'd send would be that cat-o'-nine-tails of hers that hangs in the woodshed. I know Gran!" "And the cat-o'-nine-tails, too, eh?" chuckled the Western girl. "You bet!" agreed Curly, feelingly. They set forth with just one idea about the search. Amy Gregg, as far as Curly could remember, had expressed a wish to go to but one place. That was the old dam up in Norman's Woods, where he and Ruth had gone fishing. They were quite sure that it would be useless to hunt for the girl in any neighbor's house. And Mrs. Sadoc Smith's premises had already been searched. They had shouted for Amy till their throats were sore before the news had come from Briarwood Hall. The fact that Amy had been suffering from a physical ailment, as well as one of the mind, troubled Ruth exceedingly. "Maybe she was just 'sickening for some disease,' as Aunt Alvirah says," the girl of the Red Mill told Ann Hicks, as they went along. "A sore throat is the forerunner of so many fevers and serious troubles. She might be coming down with scarlet fever." "Goodness gracious! don't say _that_" begged Ann. Ruth feared it, nevertheless. The two girls followed Curly through the narrow path, the dripping bushes wetting their skirts, and briers at times scratching them. Ann was a good walker and could keep up quite as well as Ruth. Beside, Curly was not setting a pace on this occasion, but stumbled on with the lantern, rather blindly. "Tell you what," he grumbled. "I don't fancy this job a mite." "You're not 'afraid to go home in the dark,' are you, Curly?" asked Ann, with scorn. "Not going home just now," responded the boy, grinning. "But the woods aren't any place to be out in this time of night--unless you've got a dog and a gun. There! see that?" "A cat, that's all," declared Ruth, who had seen the little black and white animal run across their track in the flickering and uncertain light of the lantern. "Here, kitty! kitty! Puss! puss! puss!" "Hold on!" cried the excited Curly. "You needn't be so particular about calling that cat." "Why not? It must be somebody's cat that's strayed," said Ruth. "Ya-as. I guess it is. It's a pole-cat," growled Curly. "And if it came when you called it, you wouldn't like it so much, I guess." "Oh, goodness!" gasped Ann. "Don't be so friendly with every strange animal you see, Ruth Fielding. A pole-cat!" "Wish I had a gun!" exclaimed Curly. "I'd shoot that skunk." "Glad you didn't then," said Ruth, promptly. "Poor little thing." "Ya-as," drawled the boy. "'Poor little thing.' It was just aiming for somebody's hencoop. One of 'em 'll eat chickens faster than Gran's hens can hatch 'em out." Pushing on through the woods at this slow pace brought them to the ruined grist mill and the old dam not before ten o'clock. There was a pale and watery moon, the shine of which glistened on the falling water over the old logs of the dam, but gave the searchers little light. The moon's rays merely aided in making the surroundings of the mill more ghostly. Nobody lived within a mile of the mill site, Curly assured the girls, and if Amy had found this place it was not likely that she had likewise found the nearest human habitation, for that was beyond the mill and directly opposite to Briarwood and the town of Lumberton. They shouted for Amy, and then searched the ghostly premises of the ruined mill. Years before the roof had been burned away and some of the walls fallen in. Owls made their nests in the upper part of the building, as the party found, much to the girls' excitement when a huge, spread-winged creature dived out of a window and went "whish! whish! whish!" off through the long grass, to hunt for mice or other small, night-prowling creatures. "Goodness! that owl is as big as a turkey!" gasped Ruth, clinging to Ann in her fright. "Bigger," announced Curly. "Old Scratch! I'd like to shoot him and have him stuffed." "I'd rather have some of the turkey stuffing," chuckled Ann Hicks. "Owl would be rather tough, I reckon." "Oh, not to eat!" scoffed Curly. "I'd put him in Gran's parlor. And that reminds me of an owl story----" "Don't tell us any old stories; tell us new ones, if you must tell any," Ann interrupted. "How do you know whether this is old or young till I've told it?" demanded Curly, as they all three sat on the ruined doorstep of the mill to rest. "Quite right, Curly," sighed Ruth. "Go ahead. Make us laugh. I feel like crying." "Then you can cry over it," retorted the boy. "There was a butcher who had a stuffed owl in his shop and an old Irishman came in and asked him: 'How mooch for the broad-faced bur-r-rd?' "'It's an owl,' said the butcher. "The old man repeated his question--'how mooch for the broad-faced bur-r-rd?' "'It's an owl, I tell you!' exclaimed the butcher. "'I know it's _ould_,' says the Irishman. 'But what d'ye want for it? It'll make soup for me boar-r-rders!'" "That's a good story," admitted Ruth, "but try to think up some way of finding poor little Amy, instead of telling funny tales." "Oh, how can I help----" Curly stopped. Ann, who was sitting in the middle, grabbed both him and Ruth. "Listen to that!" she whispered. "_That_ isn't another owl, is it?" "What is it?" gasped Ruth. Somewhere in the ruin of the mill there was a noise. It might have been the voice of an animal or of a bird, but it sounded near enough like a human being to scare all three of the young people on the doorstep. "Sa-ay," quavered Curly. "You don't suppose there are such things as ghosts, do you, girls?" "No, I don't!" snapped Ruth. "Don't try to scare us either, Curly." "Honest, I'm not. I'm right here," cried the boy. "You know I never made that noise----" "There it is again!" exclaimed Ann. The sound was like the cry of something in distress. Ruth got up suddenly and tried to put on a brave front. "I can't sit here and listen to that," she said. "Let's go," urged Ann. "I'm ready." "Oh, say----" began Curly, when Ruth interrupted him by seizing the lantern. "Don't fret, Curly Smith," she said. "We're not going without finding out what that sound means." "Maybe it's young owls, and the old one will come back and pick our eyes out," suggested Ann. "Get a club, Curly," commanded Ruth. "We'll be ready, then, for man or beast." This order gave Curly confidence, and made him pluck up his own waning courage. These girls depended upon him, and he was not the boy to back down before even a ghostly Unknown. He found a club and went side by side with Ruth into the mill. The sound that had disturbed them was repeated. Ruth was sure, now, that it was somebody sobbing. "Amy! Amy Gregg!" she called again. "Pshaw!" murmured Ann. "It isn't Amy. She'd have been out of here in a hurry when we shouted for her before." Ruth was not so sure of that. They came to a break in the flooring. Once there had been steps here leading down into the cellar of the mill, but the steps had rotted away. "Amy!" called Ruth again. She knelt and held the lantern as far down the well as she could reach. The sound of sobbing had ceased. "Amy, _dear_!" cried Ruth. "It's Ruth and Ann, And Curly is with us. Do answer if you hear me!" There was a murmur from below. Ann cried out in alarm, but Curly exclaimed: "I believe that's Amy, Ruth! She must be hurt--the silly thing. She's tumbled down this old well." "How will we get to her?" cried Ruth. "Amy! how did you get down there? Are you hurt, Amy?" "Go away!" said a faint voice from below. "Old Scratch! Isn't that just like her?" groaned Curly. "She was hiding from us." "Here," said Ruth, drawing up the lantern and setting it on the floor. "It can't be very deep. I'm going to drop down there, Curly, and then you pass down the lantern to me." "You'll break your neck, Ruth!" cried Ann. "No. I'm not going to risk my neck at all," Ruth calmly affirmed. She set the lantern on the broken floor and swung herself down into the black hole. She hung by her hands and her feet did not touch the bottom. Suddenly she felt a qualm of terror. Perhaps the cellar was a good deal deeper than she had supposed! She could not raise herself up again, and she almost feared to drop. "Let down the light, Curly!" she whispered. CHAPTER XXII DISASTER THREATENS Before Curly could comply with Ruth's whispered request, her fingers slipped on the edge of the flooring. "Oh!" she cried out, and--dropped as much as three inches! "Goodness me, Ruth!" gasped Ann Hicks. "Are you killed?" "No--o. But I might as well have been as to be scared to death," declared the girl of the Red Mill. "I never thought the cellar was so shallow." There was a rustling near by. Ruth thought of rats and almost screamed aloud. "Give me the lantern--quick!" she called up to Curly Smith. "Here you are," said that youth. "And if Amy is down there she ought to be ashamed of herself--making us so much trouble." Amy was there, as Ruth saw almost immediately when she could throw the radiance of the lantern about her. But Ruth did not feel like scolding the younger girl. Amy had crept away into a corner. Her movements made the rustling Ruth had heard. She hid her face against her arm and sobbed with abandonment. Her dress was torn and muddy, her shoes showed that she had waded in mire. She had lost her hat and her flaxen hair was a tangle of briers and green burrs. "My _dear_!" cried Ruth, kneeling down beside her. "What does it mean? Why did you come here? Oh, you're sick!" A single glance at the flushed face and neck of the smaller girl, and a tentative touch upon her wrist, assured Ruth of that last fact. Amy seemed burning up with fever. Ruth had never seen a case of scarlet fever, but she feared that might be Amy's trouble. "How long have you been here?" she asked Amy. "Si--since--since it got dark," choked the girl. "Is your throat sore?" asked Ruth, anxiously. "Yes, it is; aw--awful sore." "And you're feverish," said Ruth. "I--I'm aw--all shivery, too," wept Amy Gregg, quite given up to misery now. Ruth was confident that the smaller girl had developed the fever that she feared. Chill, fever, sore throat, and all, made the diagnosis seem quite reasonable. "How did you get into this cellar?" she asked Amy. "There's a hole in the underpinning over yonder," said the culprit. "Come on, then; we'll get out that way. Can you walk?" "Oh--oh--yes," choked Amy. She proved this by immediately starting out of the cellar. Ruth lit the way with the lantern. "Hi!" shouted Curly Smith, "where are you going with that light?" "Come back to the door," commanded Ruth's muffled voice in the cellar. "You can find your way all right." "What do you know about that?" demanded Ann. "Leaves us in the lurch for that miserable child, who ought to be walloped." "Oh, Ann, don't say that!" cried Ruth, as she and the sick girl appeared at the mill door. "No! don't come near us. I'll carry the lantern myself and lead Amy. She's not feeling well, but she can walk. We must get her to Mrs. Smith's just as soon as possible and call a doctor." "What's the matter with her?" demanded Curly, curiously. "She feels bad. That's enough," said Ruth, shortly. "Come on, Amy." For once Amy Gregg was glad to accept Ruth Fielding's help. She had no idea what Ruth thought was the matter with her, and she stumbled on beside the older girl, sleepy and ill, given up to utter misery. Curly and Ann began to be suspicious when Ruth forbade them to approach Amy and herself. "Old Scratch!" whispered the boy to the Western girl. "I bet Amy's got small-pox or something. Ruth Fielding will catch it, too." "Hush!" exclaimed Ann, fiercely. "It's not as bad as that." It was a long walk to Mrs. Sadoc Smith's. At the last, Ruth almost carried Amy, who was not a particularly small girl. Curly grabbed the lantern and insisted upon walking close to them. "No matter if I _do_ catch the epizootic; guess I'll get over it," said the boy. They finally came to the Smith house. Helen and Mrs. Sadoc Smith came out on the porch when the dog barked. Ruth made Ann and Curly go ahead and held back with the sick girl. "You go right upstairs with Helen, Ann," commanded Ruth. "I want to talk to Mrs. Smith about Amy. She must be put in a warm room downstairs." Mrs. Sadoc Smith agreed to this proposal the instant she saw Amy's flushed face and heard her muttering. "You telephone for Doctor Lambert, Henry," commanded Mrs. Smith. "We'll have him give a look at her--though I could dose her myself, I reckon, and bring her out all right." Ruth feared the worst. She secretly stuck to her first diagnosis that Amy had scarlet fever, but she did not say this to Mrs. Smith. They put Amy to bed between blankets, and Mrs. Smith succeeded in getting the girl to drink a dose of hot tea. "That'll start her perspiring, which won't do a bit of harm," she said to Ruth. "But I never saw anybody's face so red before--and her hands and arms, too. She's breaking all out, I do declare." Ruth was thinking: "If they have to quarantine Amy, I'll be quarantined with her. I'll have to nurse her instead of going to school. Poor little thing! she will require somebody's constant attention. "But, oh dear!" added the girl of the Red Mill, "what will become of my school work? I'll never be able to graduate in the world. Lucky those moving pictures are taken--I won't be needed any more in those. Oh, dear!" Ruth did not allow a murmur to escape her lips, however. She insisted on remaining by the patient all night, too. Mrs. Smith was not able to quiet the sick girl as well as Ruth did when the delirium Amy developed became wilder. It was almost daylight before Dr. Lambert came. He had been out of town on a case, but came at once when he returned to Lumberton and found the call from Mrs. Sadoc Smith's. "What is it, Doctor?" asked the old lady. "She's as red as a lobster. Is it anything catching? This girl ought not to be here, if it is." "This girl had better remain here till we find out just what is the matter," the doctor returned, scowling in a puzzled way at the patient. He had seen at once that Ruth could control Amy. "But what is it?" "Fever. Delirium. You can see for yourself. What its name is, I'll tell you when I come again. Keep on just as you are doing, and give her this soothing medicine, and plenty of cracked ice--on her tongue, at least. That is what is the matter; she is consumed with thirst. I'll have to see that eruption again before I can say for sure what the matter is." He went, and left the house in a turmoil of excitement. Helen and Ann did not wish to go to Briarwood and leave Ruth; but Mrs. Tellingham commanded them to. Much to his delight, Curly was kept out of his school to run errands. Ruth got a nap on the lounge in the sitting room, and felt better. The doctor returned at nine o'clock in the forenoon and by that time the sick girl's face was so swollen that she could scarcely see out of her eyes. Her hands and wrists were puffed badly, too. "Where has she been?" demanded Dr. Lambert. Ruth told him what they supposed had happened to Amy the day before and where she had been found late at night. "Humph!" grunted the medical practitioner. "That's what I thought. Effect of the _Rhus Toxicodendron_. Bad case." This sounded very terrible to Ruth until she suddenly remembered something she had read in her botany. A great feeling of relief came over her. "Oh! poison-ash!" she cried. "Good land! Nothin' but poison ivy?" demanded Mrs. Sadoc Smith. "Poison oak, or poison sumac--whatever you have a mind to call it. But a bad case of it, I assure you. I'll leave more of the cooling draught; and I'll send up a salve to put on her face and hands. Don't let it get into the poor child's eyes--and don't let her tear off the mask which she will have to wear." "Then there is no danger of scarlet fever," whispered Ruth, feeling relieved. CHAPTER XXIII PUTTING ONE'S BEST FOOT FORWARD Amy Gregg's escapade created a lot of excitement at Briarwood Hall. Inasmuch as it affected Ruth, the whole school was in a flutter about it. Helen and Ann had come to the Hall, late for breakfast, and spread the news in the dining hall. They were both sure, by Ruth's actions and the doctor's first noncommittal report, that Amy had some contagious disease. Curly had made a deal of the sore throat Amy had confessed to. "And if that's so," Helen said, almost in tears, "poor Ruth will be quarantined for weeks." "Why, Helen, how will she graduate?" gasped Lluella. "She won't! She can't!" declared Ruth's chum. "It will be dreadful!" "I say!" cried Jennie, thoroughly alarmed. "We musn't let her stay there and nurse that young one. Why! what ever would we do if Ruthie Fielding didn't graduate?" "The class would be without a head," declared Mercy. "It would be without a heart, at least--and a great, big one overflowing with love and tenderness," cried Nettie Parsons, wiping her eyes. "I don't want any more breakfast," said Jennie, pushing her plate away. "Don't talk like that, Nettie. You'll get me to crying too. And that always spoils my digestion." "If Ruth isn't with us when we get our diplomas, I'm sure I don't want any!" exclaimed Mary Cox. And she meant it, too. Mary Cox believed that she owed her brother's life to Ruth Fielding, and although she was not naturally a demonstrative girl, there was nobody at Briarwood Hall who admired the girl of the Red Mill more than Mary. In fact, the threat of disaster to Ruth's graduation plans cast a pall of gloom over the school. The moving pictures were forgotten; Amy Gregg's part in the destruction of the West Dormitory ceased to be a topic of conversation. Was Ruth Fielding going to be held in quarantine? grew to be a more momentous question than any other. Ruth, however, was only absent from her accustomed haunts for two days. The second day she remained to attend the patient because Amy begged so hard to have her stay. In her weakness and pain the sullen, secretive girl had turned instinctively to the one person who had been uniformly gentle and kind to her throughout all her trouble. Nothing that Amy had done or said, had turned Ruth from her; and the barriers of girl's nature and of her evil passions were broken down. It was not, perhaps, wholly Amy Gregg's fault that her disposition was so warped. She had received bad advice from some aunts, who had likewise set the child a bad example in their treatment of Mr. Gregg's second wife, when he had brought her home to be a mother to Amy. The poor child suffered so much from the effect of the poison ivy that the other girls, and not alone those of her own grade, "just _had_ to be sorry for Amy," as Mary Pease said. "To think!" said that excitable young girl. "She might even lose her eyesight if she's not careful. My! it must be dreadful to get poisoned with that nasty ivy. I'll be afraid to go into the woods the whole summer." Of course, it took time for these sentiments to circulate through the school, and for a better feeling for Amy Gregg to come to the surface; but the poor girl was laid up for two weeks in Mrs. Sadoc Smith's best bedroom, and a fortnight is a long time in a girls' boarding school. At least, it sometimes seems so to the pupils. What helped change the girls' opinion of Amy, too, was the fact that Mrs. Tellingham announced in chapel one morning that Mr. Gregg had sent his check for five hundred dollars toward the rebuilding of the dormitory, the walls of which now were completed, and the roof on. She spoke, too, of the reason Amy had left her candle burning in her lonely room in the old West Dormitory that fatal evening. "We failed in our duty, both as teachers and fellow-pupils," Mrs. Tellingham said. "I hope that no other girl who enters Briarwood Hall will ever be neglected and left alone as Amy Gregg was, no matter what the new comer's disposition or attitude toward us may be." To hear the principal take herself to task for lack of foresight and kindness to a new pupil, made a deep impression upon the school at large, and when Amy Gregg appeared on the campus again she was welcomed with gentleness by the other girls. Although Amy Gregg still doubted and shrank from them for some time, before the end of the term she had her chums, and was one of a set whose bright, particular star was her one-time enemy, Mary Pease. Meanwhile, the older girls--the seniors who were to graduate--had a new problem. The films for "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" were reported almost ready. Mr. Hammond was to release them as soon as he could, in order to bring all the aid to the dormitory fund possible before the end of the semester. Now the query was, "How is the picture to be advertised?" Merely the ordinary billing in front of the picture playhouses and on the display boards, was not enough. An interest must be stirred of a deeper and broader nature than that which such a casual manner of advertising could be expected to engender. "How'll we do it?" demanded Jennie, with as much solemnity as it was possible for her rosy, round face to express. "We should invent some catch-phrase to introduce the great film--something as effective as 'Good evening! have you used Higgin's Toothpaste?' or, 'You-must-have-a pound-cake.' You know, something catchy that will stick in people's minds." "It has taken years and years to make some of those catchy trademarks universal," objected Ruth, seriously. "Our advertising must be done in a hurry." "Well, we've got to put our best foot forward, somehow," declared Helen. "Everybody must be made to know that the Briarwood girls have a show of their own--a five-reel film that is a corker----" "Hear! hear!" cried Belle. "Wait till the censor gets hold of _that_ word." "Quite right," agreed Ruth. "Let us be lady-like, though the heavens fall!" "And still be natural?" chuckled Jennie. "Impossible!" "Her best foot forward--one's best foot forward." Mary Cox kept repeating Helen's remark while the other girls chattered. Mary had a talent for drawing. "Say!" she suddenly exclaimed. "I could make a dandy poster with that for a text." "With what for a text?" somebody asked. "'Putting One's Best Foot Forward,'" declared Mary Cox, and suddenly seizing charcoal and paper, she sketched the idea quickly--a smartly dressed up-to-date Briarwood girl with her right foot advanced--and that foot, as in a foreshortened photograph--of enormous size. The poster took with the girls immensely. There was something chic about the figure, and the face, while looking like nobody in particular, was a composite of several of the girls. At least, it was an inspiration on the part of Mary Cox, and when Mrs. Tellingham saw it, she approved. "We'll just send this 'Big Foot Girl' broadcast," cried Helen, who was proud that her spoken word had been the inspiration for Mary's clever cartoon. "Come on! we'll have it stamped on our stationery, and write to everyone we know bespeaking their best attention when they see the poster in their vicinity." "And we'll have new postcards made of Briarwood Hall, with Mary's figure printed on the reverse," Sarah Fish said. They sent a proof of the poster to Mr. Hammond, and to his billing of "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" he immediately added "The Briarwood Girl with Her Best Foot Forward." Locally, during the next few weeks, this poster became immensely popular. The campaign of advertising did not end with Mary's poster--no, indeed! In every way they could think of the girls of Briarwood Hall spread the tidings of the forthcoming release of the school play. Lumberton's advertising space was plastered with the Briarwood Girl and with other billing weeks before the film could be seen. As every moving picture theatre in the place clamored for the film, Mr. Hammond had refused to book it with any. The Opera House was engaged for three days and nights, a high price for tickets asked, and it was expected that a goodly sum would be raised for the dormitory right at home. However, before the picture of "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" came to town, something else happened in the career of Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill which greatly influenced her future. CHAPTER XXIV "SEEING OURSELVES AS OTHERS SEE US" "I want to tell you girls one thing," said Jennie Stone, solemnly. "If I get through these examinations without having so low a mark that Miss Brokaw sends me down into the primary grade, I promise to be good for--for--well, for the rest of my life--at Briarwood!" "Of course," Helen said. "Heavy would limit that vow to something easy." "Perhaps she had the same grave doubt about being able to be good that the little boy felt who was saying his prayers," Belle said. "He prayed: 'Dear God, please make me a good boy--and if You don't at first succeed, try, try again!'" "But oh! some of the problems _are_ so hard," sighed Lluella. "'The Mournful Sisters' will now give their famous sketch," laughed Ruth, as announcer. "Come, now! altogether, girls!" "'Knock, knock, knock! the girls are knocking----Bring the hammers all this way!'" "Never mind, Ruthie Fielding," complained Lluella. "We don't all of us have the luck you do. All your English made up for you in that scenario----" "And who is _this_ made up, I'd be glad to have somebody tell me?" interposed Jennie. "Oh, girls! tell me. Do you all see the same thing I do?" The crowd were strolling slowly down the Cedar Walk and the individual the plump girl had spied had just come into view, walking toward them. He was a tall, lean man, "as narrow as a happy thought," Jennie muttered, and dressed in a peculiar manner. Few visitors came to Briarwood save parents or friends of the girls. This man did not even look like a pedler. At least, he carried no sample case, and he was not walking from the direction of Lumberton. His black suit was very dusty and his yellow shoes proved by the dust they bore, too, that he had walked a long way. "He wears a rolling collar and a flowing tie," muttered the irrepressible Jennie. "Goodness! it almost makes me seasick to look at them. _What_ can he be? A chaplain in the navy? An actor?" "Actor is right," thought Ruth, as the man strutted up the walk. The girls, who were attending Ruth and Ann and Amy Gregg a part of the way to Mrs. Sadoc Smith's, gave the strange man plenty of room on the gravel walk, but when he came near them he stopped and stared. And he stared at Ruth. "Pardon me, young lady," he said, in a full, sonorous tone. "Are you Miss Fielding?" The other girls drifted away and left Ruth to face the odd looking person. "I am Ruth Fielding," Ruth said, much puzzled. "Ah! you do not know me?" queried the man. "No, sir." "My card!" said the man, with a flourish. Jennie whispered to the others: "Look at him! He draws and presents that card as though it were a sword at his enemy's throat! I hope he won't impale her upon it." Ruth, much bewildered, and not a little troubled, accepted the card. On it was printed: AMASA FARRINGTON Criterion Films "Goodness!" thought Ruth. "More moving picture people?" "I had the happiness," stated Mr. Farrington, "of being present when the censors saw the first run of your eminently successful picture, 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl,' Miss Fielding, and through a mutual friend I learned where you were to be found. I may say that from your appearance on the screen I was enabled to recognize you just now." Ruth said nothing, but waited for him to explain. There really did not seem to be anything she could say. "I see in that film, Miss Fielding," pursued Mr. Farrington, "the promise of better work--in time, of course, in time. You are young yet. I believe you attend this boarding school?" "Yes," said Ruth, simply. "From the maturity of your treatment of the scenario I fancied you might be a teacher here at Briarwood," pursued the man, smirking. "But I find you a young person--extremely young, if I may be allowed the observation, to have written a scenario of the character of 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl.'" "I wrote it," said Ruth, for she thought the remark was a question. "I had written one before." "Yes, yes, yes!" exclaimed Mr. Farrington. "So I understand. In fact, I have seen your 'Curiosity.' A very ingeniously thought out reel. And well acted by the Alectrion Company. Rather good acting, indeed, for _them_." "I have not seen it myself," Ruth said, not knowing what the man wanted or how she ought to speak to him. "Did you wish to talk to me on any matter of importance?" "I may say, Yes, very important--to yourself, Miss Fielding," he said, with a wide smile. "This is a most important matter. It affects your entire career as--- I may say--one of our most ingenious young writers for the screen." Ruth stared at him in amazement. Just because she had written two moving picture scenarios she was quite sure that she was neither famous nor a genius. Mr. Amasa Farrington's enthusiasm was more amazing than his appearance. "I am sure I do not understand you," Ruth confessed. "Is it something that you would better talk to Mrs. Tellingham about? I will introduce you to her----" "No, no!" said Mr. Farrington, waving a black-gloved hand with the gesture _Hamlet_ might have used in waving to his father's ghost. "The lady preceptress of your school has naught to do with this matter. It is personal with you." "But what _is_ it?" queried Ruth, rather exasperated now. "Be not hasty--be not hasty, I beg," said Amasa Farrington. "I know I may surprise you. I, too, was unknown at one time, and never expected to be anything more than a traveling Indian Bitters pedler. My latent talent was developed and fostered by a kindly soul, and I come to you now, Miss Fielding, in the remembrance of my own youth and inexperience----" "For mercy's sake!" gasped Ruth, finally. "What do you wish? I am not in need of any Indian Bitters." "You mistake me--you mistake me," said the man, stiffly. "Amasa Farrington has long since graduated from the ranks of such sordid toilers. See my card." "I _do_ see your card," the impatient Ruth said, again glancing at the bit of pasteboard. "I see that you represent something called the 'Criterion Films.' What are they?" "Ah! now you ask a pointed question, young lady," declared Mr. Farrington. "Rather you should ask, 'What will they be?' They will be the most widely advertised films ever released for the entertainment of the public. They will be written by the most famous writers of scenarios. They will be produced by the greatest directors in the business. They will be acted by our foremost Thespians." "I--I hope you will be successful, Mr. Farrington," said Ruth, faintly, not knowing what else to say. "We shall be--we must be--I may say that we have _got_ to be!" ejaculated the ex-Indian Bitters pedler. "And I come to you, Miss Fielding, for your co-operation." "Mine?" gasped Ruth. "Yes, Miss Fielding. You are a coming writer of scenarios of a high character. We geniuses must help each other--we must keep together and refuse to further the ends of the sordid producers who would bleed us of our best work." This was rather wild talk, and Ruth did not understand it. She said, frankly: "Just what do you mean, Mr. Farrington? What do you want me to do?" "Ah! Practical! I like to see you so," said the man, with a flourish, drawing forth a document of several typewritten pages. "I want you to read and sign this, Miss Fielding. It is a contract with the Criterion Films--a most liberal contract, I might say--in which you bind yourself to turn over to us your scenarios for a term of years, we, meanwhile, agreeing to push your work and make you known to the public." "Oh, dear me!" gasped Ruth. "I'm not sure I want to be so publicly known." "Nonsense!" cried the man, in amazement. "Why! in publicity is the breath of life. Without it, we faint--we die--we, worse--we _vegetate_!" "I--I guess I don't mind vegetating--a--a little," stammered Ruth, weakly. At that moment Mary Pease came racing down the walk. She waved a letter in her hand and was calling Ruth's name. "Oh, Ruthie Fielding!" she called, when she saw Ruth with the man. "Here's a letter Mrs. Tellingham forgot to give you. She says it came enclosed in one from Mr. Hammond to her." The excited girl stopped by Ruth, handed her the letter, and stared frankly at Mr. Amasa Farrington. That person's face began to redden as Ruth idly opened the unsealed missive. Again a green slip fell out. Mary darted toward it and picked it up. She read the check loudly--excitedly--almost in a shriek! "Goodness, gracious me, Ruthie Fielding! Is Mr. Hammond giving you this money--_all_ this money--for your very own?" But Ruth did not reply. She was scanning the letter from the president of the Alectrion Film Corporation. Mr. Farrington was plainly nervous. "Come, Miss Fielding, I am waiting for your answer," he said stiffly. "If you join the Criterion Films, your success is assured. You are famous from the start----" Ruth was just reading a clause in Mr. Hammond's kind and friendly letter: "Don't let your head be turned by success, little girl. And I don't think it will be. You have succeeded in inventing two very original scenarios. We will hope you can do better work in time. But don't force yourself. Above all have nothing to do with agents of film people who may want you to write something that they may rush into the market for the benefit of the advertising your school play will give you." "No, Mr. Farrington," said Ruth, kindly. "I do not want to join your forces. I am not even sure that I shall ever be able to write another scenario. Circumstances seemed really to force me to write 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl.' I am glad you think well of it. Good afternoon." "Can you beat her?" demanded Jennie, a minute later, when the long-legged Mr. Farrington had strutted angrily away. "Ruthie is as calm as a summer lake. She can turn an offer of fame and fortune down with the greatest ease. Let's see that check, you miserable infant," she went on, grabbing the slip of paper out of Mary's hand. "Oh, girls, it's really so!" Ruth was reading another paragraph in Mr. Hammond's letter. He said: "The check enclosed is for you, yourself. It has nothing to do with the profits of the films we now release. It is a bribe. I want to see whatever scenarios you may write during the next two years. I want to see them first. That is all. We do not need a contract, but if you keep the check I shall know that I am to have first choice of anything you may write in this line." The check went into Ruth's bank account. That very week "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" was to be shown at the local Opera House. Mrs. Tellingham gave a half holiday and engaged enough stages besides Noah's old Ark, to take all the girls to the play. They went to the matineé, and the center of enthusiasm was in the seats in the body of the house reserved for the Briarwood girls. The house was well filled at this first showing of the picture in Lumberton, and more than the girls themselves were enthusiastic over it. To Ruth's surprise the manager of the house showed "Curiosity" first, and when she saw her name emblazoned under the title of the one-reel film, Ruth Fielding had a distinct shock. It was a joyful feeling that shook her, however. As never before she realized that she had really accomplished something in the world. She had earned money with her brains! And she had written something really worth while, too. When the five-reel drama came on, she was as much absorbed in the story as though she had not written it and acted in it. It gave her a strange feeling indeed when she saw herself come on to the screen, and knew just what she was saying in the picture by the movement of her lips--whether she remembered the words spoken when the film was made or not. Everything went off smoothly. The girls cheered the picture to the echo, and at the end went marching out, shouting: "S.B.--Ah-h-h! S.B.--Ah-h-h! Sound our battle-cry Near and far! S.B.--All! Briarwood Hall! Sweetbriars, do or die-- This be our battle-cry-- Briarwood Hall! _That's all!_" CHAPTER XXV AUNT ALVIRAH AT BRIARWOOD HALL Mr. Cameron, Helen's father, and Mrs. Murchiston, who had acted as governess for the twins until they were old enough to go to boarding school, were motoring to Briarwood Hall for the graduation exercises. They proposed to pick Tom up at Seven Oaks Military Academy, for he would spend another year at that school, not graduating until the following June. They also had another guest in the big automobile who took up a deal of the attention of the drygoods merchant and Mrs. Murchiston. A two-days' trip was made of it, the party staying at a hotel for the night. Aunt Alvirah was going farther from the Red Mill and the town of Cheslow than she had ever been in her life before. First she said she could not possibly do it! What ever would Jabez do without her? And he would not hear to it, anyway. And then--there was "her back and her bones." "Best place for old folks like me is in the chimbly corner," declared Aunt Alvirah. "Much as I would love to see my pretty graduate with all them other gals, I don't see how I can do it. It's like uprooting a tree that's growed all its life in one spot. I'm deep-rooted at the Red Mill." But Mr. Cameron knew it was the wish of the old woman's heart to see "her pretty" graduate from Briarwood Hall. It had been Aunt Alvirah's word that had made possible Ruth's first going to school with Helen Cameron. It was she who had urged Mr. Jabez Potter on, term after term, to give the girl the education she so craved. Indeed, Aunt Alvirah had been the good angel of Ruth's existence at the Red Mill. Nobody in the world had so deep an interest in the young girl as the little old woman who hobbled around the Red Mill kitchen. Therefore Mr. Cameron was determined that she should go to Briarwood. He fairly shamed Mr. Potter into hiring a woman to come in to do for Ben and himself while Aunt Alvirah was gone. "You ought to shut up your mill altogether and go yourself, Potter," declared Mr. Cameron. "Think what your girl has done. I'm proud of my daughter. You should be doubly proud of your niece." "Well, who says I'm not?" snarled Jabez Potter. "But I can't afford to leave my work to run about to such didoes." "You'll be sorry some day," suggested Mr. Cameron. "But, at any rate, Aunt Alvirah shall go." And the trip was one of wonder to Aunt Alvirah Boggs. First she was alarmed, for she confessed to a fear of automobiles. But when she felt the huge machine which carried them so swiftly over the roads running so smoothly, Aunt Alvirah became a convert to the new method of locomotion. At the hotel where they halted for the night, there were more wonders. Aunt Alvirah's knowledge of modern conveniences was from reading only. She had never before been nearer to a telephone than to look up at the wires that were strung from post to post before the Red Mill. Modern plumbing, an elevator, heating by steam, and many other improvements, were like a sealed book to her. She disliked to be waited upon and whispered to Mrs. Murchiston: "That air black man a-standin' behind my chair at dinner sort o' makes me narvous. I'm expectin' of him to grab my plate away before I'm done eatin'." The day set for the graduation exercises at Briarwood Hall was as lovely a June day as was ever seen. The Cameron automobile rolled into the grounds and was parked with several dozen machines, just as the girls were marching into chapel. The fresh young voices chanting "One Wide River to Cross" floated across to the ears of the party from the Red Mill, and Aunt Alvirah began to hum the song in her cracked, sweet treble. The automobile party followed the smaller girls along the wide walk of the campus. There was the new West Dormitory, quite completed on the outside, and sufficiently so inside for the seniors to occupy rooms. Not the old quartettes and duos of times past; but very beautiful rooms nevertheless, in which they could later entertain their friends who had come to the graduation exercises. The organist began to play softly on the great organ in the chapel, and played until every girl was seated--the graduating class upon the platform. Then the school orchestra played and Helen--very pretty in white with cherry ribbons--stood forth with her violin and played a solo. Mrs. Tellingham welcomed the visitors in a short speech. Then there was a little silence before the strains of an old, old song quivered through the big chapel. Helen was playing again, with the soft tones of the organ as a background. And, in a moment Ruth stood up, stepped forward, and began to sing. The Cheslow party had all heard her before. She was almost always singing about the old Red Mill when she was at home. But into this ballad she seemed to put more feeling than ever before. The tears ran down Aunt Alvirah's withered cheeks. Ruth did not know the dear old woman was present, for it was to be a surprise to her; but she might have been singing just for Aunt Alvirah alone. "This pays me for coming, Miz' Murchiston, if nothin' else would," whispered Aunt Alvirah. "I can see my pretty often and often, I hope. But I'll never hear her sing again like this." The exercises went smoothly. A learned man made a helpful speech. Then, while there was more music, a curtain fell between the graduating class and the audience. When it rose again the girls were grouped about a light throne, trimmed with flowers, on which sat the girl who had proved herself to be the best scholar of them all--the lame girl, Mercy Curtis. She was flushed, she was excited and, if never before, Mercy Curtis looked actually pretty. Laughing and singing, her mates rolled the throne down to the edge of the platform, and there, still sitting in her pretty, flowing white robes, Mercy gave them the valedictory oration. It was Ruth's idea, filched from the transformation scene in her moving picture scenario. Afterward the other girls had their turns. Ruth's own paper upon "The Force of Character" and Jennie's funny "History of a Bunch of Briers" received the most applause. Mrs. Tellingham came last. As was her custom she spoke briefly of the work of the past year and her hopes for the next one; but mainly she lingered upon the story of the rebuilding of the West Dormitory and the loyalty the girls had shown in making the new building a possibility. There was a debt upon it yet; but the royalties from the picture play were coming in most satisfactorily. The preceptress urged all her guests to do what they could to advertise the film of "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" in their home towns, and especially urged them to see it. "You will be well repaid. Not alone because it is a true picture of our boarding school life, but because the writer of the scenario has produced a good and helpful story, and Mr. Hammond has put it on the screen with taste and judgment." These were Mrs. Tellingham's words, and they made Ruth Fielding very proud. The diplomas were given out after a touching address by the local clergyman. The girls received the parchments with happy hearts. Their faces shone and their eyes were bright. The graduating class held a sort of reception on the platform; but after a time Helen urged Ruth away from the crowd. "Come on!" she said. "Let's go up into the new-old-room. We'll not have many chances of being in it now." "That's right. Only to-night," sighed Ruth. "Away to-morrow for the Red Mill. And next week we start for Dixie. I wonder if we shall have a good time, Helen. Do you think we ought to have promised Nettie and her aunt that we would come?" "Surely! Why, we'll have a dandy time," declared Helen, "just us girls alone." This belief proved true in the end, as may be learned in the next volume of this series, to be entitled "Ruth Fielding Down in Dixie; Or, Great Days in the Land of Cotton." "I didn't see your father or Tom or Mrs. Murchiston," Ruth said, as she and Helen walked across the campus. "They are here, just the same," said Helen, laughing. "Where?" "I shouldn't be surprised if we found them up in our old quartette. Ann is with her Uncle Bill Hicks, and Mercy is with her father and mother. We shall have the room to ourselves. We'll get out my new tea set and give them tea. Come on!" Helen raced up the stairs, opened the door of the big room, and then got behind it so that Ruth, coming hurriedly in, should first see the little, quivering, eager figure which had risen out of the low chair by the window. "My pretty! my pretty!" gasped Aunt Alvirah. "I seen you graduate, and I heard you sing, and I listened to your fine readin'. But, oh, my pretty, how hungry my arms are for ye!" She hobbled across the floor to meet Ruth and, for once, forgot her usually intoned complaint: "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" Ruth caught her in her strong young arms. Helen slipped out and joined her family in the hall. In a little while Tom thundered on the door, and shouted: "Hey! we're dying for that cup of tea Helen promised us, Ruthie Fielding. Aren't you ever going to let us in?" Ruth's smiling face immediately appeared. Her eyes were still wet and her lips trembled as she said: "Come in, all of you, do! We are sure to have a nice cup of tea. Aunt Alvirah is making it herself." THE END 
14630	----	Proofreading Team Ruth Fielding On Cliff Island OR THE OLD HUNTER'S TREASURE BOX BY ALICE B. EMERSON AUTHOR OF "RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL," "RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS =Books for Girls= BY ALICE B. EMERSON RUTH FIELDING SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume, 40 cents, postpaid. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL Or, Jasper Parloe's Secret. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL Or, Solving the Campus Mystery. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP Or, Lost in the Backwoods. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT Or, Nita, the Girl Castaway. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH Or, Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND Or, The Old Hunter's Treasure Box. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM Or, What Became of the Raby Orphans. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES Or, The Missing Pearl Necklace. CUPPLES & LEON CO., PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND [Illustration: SHE SHOT OVER THE YAWNING EDGE OF THE CHASM AND DISAPPEARED] CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE WRECK AT APPLEGATE CROSSING 1 II. THE PANTHER AT LARGE 9 III. UNCLE JABEZ HAS TWO OPINIONS 17 IV. ON THE WAY TO BRIARWOOD 26 V. A LONG LOOK AHEAD 35 VI. PICKING UP THE THREADS 42 VII. "A HARD ROW TO HOE" 49 VIII. JERRY SHEMING AGAIN 57 IX. RUTH'S LITTLE PLOT 66 X. AN EXCITING FINISH 73 XI. A NUMBER OF THINGS 82 XII. RUFUS BLENT'S LITTLE WAYS 90 XIII. FIGHTING FIRE WITH FIRE 98 XIV. THE HUE AND CRY 106 XV. OVER THE PRECIPICE 115 XVI. HIDE AND SEEK 124 XVII. CHRISTMAS MORNING 133 XVIII. FUN ON THE ICE 143 XIX. BLENT IS MASTER 150 XX. THE FISHING PARTY 157 XXI. JERRY'S CAVE 166 XXII. SNOWED IN 173 XXIII. "A BLOW FOR LIBERTY" 181 XXIV. A MIDNIGHT MARAUDER 189 XXV. THE TREASURE BOX 197 RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND CHAPTER I THE WRECK AT APPLEGATE CROSSING A September morning has dawned, with only a vague tang of autumn in the air. In the green old dooryard at the Red Mill, under the spreading shade trees, two girls are shelling a great basket of dried lima beans for the winter's store. The smaller, black-haired girl begins the conversation. "Suppose Jane Ann doesn't come, Ruth?" "You mean on this morning train?" responded the plumper and more mature-looking girl, whose frank face was particularly attractive. "Yes." "Then Tom said he would go back to meet the evening train--and we'll go with him," said Ruth Fielding, with a smile. "But I could not go this morning and leave poor Aunt Alvirah all these beans to shell." "Of course not," agreed her friend, promptly. "And Jane Ann won't feel offended by our not meeting her at Cheslow, I know." "No, indeed, Helen," laughed Ruth. "Jane Ann Hicks is altogether too sensible a girl." "Sensible about everything but her name," commented Helen Cameron, making a little face. "And one can scarcely blame her. It _is_ ugly," Ruth responded, with a sigh. "Jane Ann Hicks! Dear, dear! how could her Uncle Bill be so thoughtless as to name her that, when she was left, helpless, to his care?" "He didn't realize that fashions in names change--like everything else," observed Helen, briskly. "I wonder what the girls at Briarwood will say to that name," Ruth pondered. "Why The Fox and Heavy will help us make the other girls toe the mark. And Madge Steele! She's a regiment in herself," declared Helen. "We all had such a fine time at Silver Ranch that the least we can do is to see that Jane Ann is not hazed like the other infants." "I expect we all have to stand our share of hazing when we go into fresh company," said Ruth, reflectively. "But there will not be the same crowd to meet her that met us, dear." "And the Sweetbriars will be on hand to preserve order," laughed her chum. "Thanks to _you_, Ruthie. Why--oh! see Tom!" She jumped up, dropping a lapful of pods, and pointed up the Cheslow road, which here branched from the river road almost opposite the Red Mill. "What is the matter?" demanded Ruth, also scrambling to her feet. A big touring car was approaching at top speed. They could see that the only person in it was a black-haired boy, who sat at the steering wheel. He brought the machine to an abrupt stop before the gate, and leaped out. Tearing off his goggles as he ran, he approached the two girls in such a state of excitement that he could scarce speak coherently. "Oh, Tom! what is it?" gasped Helen, seizing his arm with both hands. It took but a single glance to discover the relationship between them. Twins never looked more alike--only Tom's features lacked the delicacy of outline which belonged to his sister. "Tom!" cried Ruth, on the other side of the excited youth, "don't keep us on tenter-hooks. Surely nothing has happened to Jane Ann?" "I don't know! They won't tell us much about it at the station," exclaimed the boy. "There hasn't been a wreck?" demanded Ruth. "Yes. At Applegate Crossing. And it is the train from the west that is in trouble with a freight. A rear-end collision, I understand." "Suppose something has happened to the poor girl!" wailed Helen. "We must go and see," declared Ruth, quick to decide in an emergency. "You must drive us, Tom." "That's what I came back for," replied Tom Cameron, mopping his brow. "I couldn't get anything out of Mercy's father----" "Of course not," Helen said, briskly, as Ruth ran to the house. "The railroad employes are forbidden to talk when there is an accident. Mr. Curtis might lose his job as station agent at Cheslow if he answered all queries." Ruth came flying back from the house. She had merely called into the kitchen to Aunt Alvirah that they were off--and their destination. While Tom sprang in and manipulated the self-starter, his sister and the girl of the Red Mill took their seats in the tonneau. By the time old Aunt Alvirah had hobbled to the porch, the automobile was being turned, and backed, and then it was off, up the river road. Uncle Jabez, in his dusty garments, appeared for a moment at the door of the mill as they flashed past in the big motor car. Evidently he was amazed to see the three--the girls hatless--starting off at such a pace in the Camerons' car. Tom threw in the clutch at high speed and the car bounded over the road, gradually increasing its pace until the hum of the engine almost drowned out all speech. The girls asked no questions. They knew that, by following the river road along the placid Lumano for some distance, they could take a fork toward the railway and reach Applegate Crossing much quicker than by going through Cheslow. Once Tom flung back a word or two over his shoulder. No relief train had gone from their home station to the scene of the wreck. It was understood that a wrecking gang, and doctors, and nurses, had started from the distant city before ever the Cheslow people learned of the trouble. "Oh! if Jane Ann should be hurt!" murmured Helen for the twentieth time. "Uncle Bill Hicks would be heartbroken," agreed Ruth. Although the crossroad, when they struck into it at the Forks, was not so smooth and well-built as the river highway, Tom did not reduce speed. Mile after mile rolled away behind them. From a low ridge they caught a glimpse of the cut where the two trains had come together. It was the old story of a freight being dilatory in getting out of a block that had been opened for the passage of an express. The express had run her nose into the caboose of the freight, and more harm was done to the freight than to the passenger cars. A great crowd, however, had gathered about. Tom ran the car into an open lot beside the tracks, where part of the railroad fence had been torn away. Two passenger cars were on their sides, and one or two of the box cars had burst open. "Look at that!" gasped the boy, whose bright eyes took in much that the girls missed, for _they_ were looking for Jane Ann Hicks. "That's a menagerie car--and it's all smashed. See! 'Rival's Circus & Menagerie.' Crickey! suppose some of the savage animals are loose!" "Oh! don't suggest such a thing," begged his sister. Tom saw an excited crowd of men near the broken cage cars of the traveling menagerie. Down in the gully that was here crossed by the narrow span of the railroad trestle, there was a thick jungle of saplings and brush out of which a few taller trees rose, their spreading limbs almost touching the sides of the ravine. It must be confessed that the boy was drawn more toward this point of interest than toward the passenger train where Jane Ann might possibly be lying injured. But Ruth and Helen ran toward this latter spot, where the crowd of passengers was thickest. Suddenly the crowd parted and the girls saw a figure lying on the ground, with a girl about their own age bending over it. Ruth screamed, "Jinny!" and at the sound of the pet name her uncle's cow punchers had given her, the girl from Silver Ranch responded with an echoing cry. "Oh, Ruth! And Helen! I'm not hurt--only scratched. But this poor fellow----" "Who is he?" demanded Helen Cameron, as she and Ruth arrived beside their friend. The figure on the ground was a very young man--a boy, in fact. He was roughly dressed, and sturdily built. His eyes were closed and he was very pale. "He got me out of the window when the car turned over," gasped Jane Ann. "Then he fell with me and has either broken his leg, or twisted it----" "Only strained, Miss," spoke the victim of the accident, opening his eyes suddenly. Ruth saw that they were kind, brown eyes, with a deal of patience in their glance. He was not the sort of chap to make much of a trifle. "But you can't walk on it," exclaimed Jane Ann, who was a large-framed girl with even blacker hair than Helen's--straight as an Indian's--and with flashing eyes. She was expensively dressed, although her torn frock and coat were not in very good taste. She showed plainly a lack of that motherly oversight all girls need. "They'll come and fix me up after a time," said the strange youth, patiently. "That won't do," declared Ruth, quickly. "I suppose the doctors are busy up there with other passengers?" "Oh, yes," admitted Jane Ann. "Lots of people were hurt in the cars a good deal worse than Mr.--Mr.----?" "My name's Jerry Sheming, Miss," said the youth. "Don't you worry about me." "Here's Tom!" cried Helen. "Can't we lift him into the car? We'll run to Cheslow and let Dr. Davison look at his leg," she added. Tom, understanding the difficulty at a glance, agreed. Between the four young folk they managed to carry Jerry Sheming to the car. They had scarcely got him into the tonneau when a series of yells arose from the crowd down near the derailed freight train. "Look out! Take care of that panther! I told you she was out!" shouted one voice above the general uproar. Ruth Fielding and her friends, startled indeed, ran to the brow of the hill. One of the wide-branched trees rose from the bottom of the ravine right below them. Along one of the branches lay a long, cat-like body. "A black panther!" gasped Tom. CHAPTER II THE PANTHER AT LARGE "Say! let's get out of here!" exclaimed the girl from the West. "I don't want to be eaten up by that cat--and Uncle Bill would make an awful row over it. Come on!" She seized Ruth's hand and, leaving Tom to drag his sister with him, set off at full speed for the motor car, wherein Jerry Sheming, the stranger, still lay helpless. Helen was breathless from laughter when she reached the car. Jane Ann's desire not to be eaten up by the panther because of what Mr. Bill Hicks, of Bullhide, Montana, would say, was so amusing that Tom's twin forgot her fright. "Stop your fooling and get in there--quick!" commanded the anxious boy, pushing his sister into the tonneau. With the injured Jerry, the back of the car was well filled. Tom leaped into the front seat and tried to start the car. "Quick, Tom!" begged Ruth Fielding. "There's the panther." "Panther! What panther?" demanded Jerry, starting up in his seat. The lithe, black beast appeared just then over the brow of the hill. The men who had started after the beast were below in the ravine, yelling, and driving the creature toward them. The motor car was the nearest object to attract the great cat's wrath, and there is no wild beast more savage and treacherous. Tom was having trouble in starting the car. Besides, it was headed directly for the huge cat, and the latter undoubtedly had fastened its cruel gaze upon the big car and its frightened occupants. Ruth Fielding and her friends had been in serious difficulties before. They had even (in the woods of the Northern Adirondacks and in the foothills of the Montana Rockies) met peril in a somewhat similar form. But here, with the panther creeping toward them, foot by foot, the young friends had no weapon of defense. Ruth had often proved herself both a courageous and a sensible girl. Coming from her old home where her parents had died, a year and a half before, she had received shelter at the Red Mill, belonging to her great uncle, Jabez Potter, at first as an object of charity, for Uncle Jabez was a miserly and ill-tempered old fellow. The adventures of the first book of this series, entitled "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill; Or, Jasper Parloe's Secret," narrate how Ruth won her way--in a measure, at least--to her uncle's heart. Ruth made friends quickly with Helen and Tom Cameron, and when, the year previous, Helen had gone to Briarwood Hall to school, Ruth had gone with her, and the fun, friendships, rivalries, and adventures of their first term at boarding school are related in "Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall; Or, Solving the Campus Mystery." In "Ruth Fielding at Snow Camp; Or, Lost in the Backwoods," the third volume of the series, are told the mid-winter sports of our heroine and her friends; and later, after the school year is concluded, we find them all at the seaside home of one of the Briarwood girls, and follow them through the excitement and incidents of "Ruth Fielding at Lighthouse Point; Or, Nita, the Girl Castaway." When our present story opens Ruth and the Camerons have just returned from the West, where they had spent a part of the summer vacation with Jane Ann Hicks, and their many adventures are fully related in the fifth volume of the series, entitled "Ruth Fielding at Silver Ranch; Or, Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys." Few perils they had faced, however, equalled this present incident. The black panther, its gleaming eyes fixed upon the stalled motor car and the young folk in it, crouched for only a moment, with lashing tail and bared fangs. Uttering another half-stifled snarl, the beast bounded into the air. The distance was too great for the brute to pass immediately to the car; but it was plain that one more leap would bring her aboard. "Start it! Quick, Tom!" gasped Helen. "I--I can't!" groaned her brother. "Then we must run----" "Sit still!" commanded Jane Ann, with fire in her eye. "I'm not going to run from that cat. I hate 'em, anyway----" "We can't leave Mr. Sheming," said Ruth, decidedly. "Try again, Tommy." "Oh, don't bother about me," groaned the young man, who was still a stranger to them. "Don't be caught here on my account." "It will not do us any good to run," cried Ruth, sensibly. "Oh, Tommy!" And then the engine started. The electric starter had worked at last. Tom threw in his clutch and the car lunged ahead just as the snarling cat sprang into the air again. The cat and the car were approaching each other, head on. The creature could not change its course; nor could Tom Cameron veer the car very well on this rough ground. He had meant to turn the car in a big circle and make for the road again. But that flashing black body darting through the air was enough to shake the nerve of anybody. The car "wabbled." It shot towards the tracks, and then back again. Perhaps that was a happy circumstance, after all. For as the car swerved, there was a splintering crash, and the windshield was shivered. The body of the panther shot to one side and the motor car escaped the full shock of the charge. Over and over upon the ground the panther rolled; and off toward the road, in a long, sweeping curve, darted the automobile. "Lucky escape!" Tom shouted, turning his blazing face once to look back at the party in his car. "Oh! More than luck, Tommy!" returned Ruth, earnestly. "It was providential," declared Helen, shrinking into her seat again and beginning to tremble, now that the danger was past. "Good hunting!" exclaimed the girl from the ranch. "Think of charging a wildcat with one of these smoke wagons! My! wouldn't it make Bashful Ike's eyes bulge out? I reckon he wouldn't believe we had such hunting here in the East--eh?" and her laugh broke the spell of fear that had clutched them all. "That critter beats the biggest bobcat I ever heard of," remarked Jerry Sheming. "Why! a catamount isn't in it with that black beast." "Where'd it go?" asked Tom, quite taken up with the running of the car. "Back to the ravine," said Ruth. "Oh! I hope it will do no damage before it is caught." Just now the four young friends had something more immediate to think about. This Jerry Sheming had been "playing 'possum." Suddenly they found that he lay back in the tonneau, quite insensible. "Oh, oh!" gasped Helen. "What shall we do? He is--Oh, Ruth! he isn't _dead_?" "Of a strained leg?" demanded Jane Ann, in some disgust. "But he looks so white," said Helen, plaintively. "He's just knocked out. It's hurt him lots more than he let on," declared the girl from Silver Ranch, who had seen many a man suffer in silence until he lost the grip on himself--as this youth had. In half an hour the car stopped before Dr. Davison's gate--the gate with the green lamps. Jerry Sheming had come to his senses long since and seemed more troubled by the fact that he had fainted than by the injury to his leg. Ruth, by a few searching questions, had learned something of his story, too. He had not been a passenger on the train in which Jane Ann was riding when the wreck occurred. Indeed, he hadn't owned carfare between stations, as he expressed it. "I was hoofin' it from Cheslow to Grading. I heard of a job up at Grading--and I needed that job," Jerry had observed, drily. This was enough to tell Ruth Fielding what was needed. When Dr. Davison asked where the young fellow belonged, Ruth broke in with: "He's going to the mill with me. You come after us, Doctor, if you think he ought to go to bed before his leg is treated." "What do you reckon your folks will say, Miss?" groaned the injured youth. And even Helen and Tom looked surprised. "Aunt Alvirah will nurse you," laughed Ruth. "As for Uncle Jabez----" "It will do Uncle Jabez good," put in Dr. Davison, confidently. "That's right, Ruthie. You take him along to your house. I'll come right out behind you and will be there almost before Tom, here, and your uncle's Ben can get our patient to bed." It had already been arranged that Jane Ann should go on to Outlook, the Camerons' home. She would remain there with the twins for the few days intervening before the young folk went back to school--the girls to Briarwood, and Tom to Seven Oaks, the military academy he had entered when his sister and Ruth went to their boarding school. "How you will ever get your baggage--and in what shape--we can only guess," Tom said to the Western girl, grinning over his shoulder as the car flew on toward the Red Mill. "Guess you'll have to bid a fond farewell to all the glad rags you brought with you, and put on some of Ruth's, or Helen's." "I'd look nice; wouldn't I?" she scoffed, tossing her head. "If I don't get my trunks I'll sue the railroad company." The car arrived before the gate of the cottage. There was the basket of beans just where Ruth and Helen had left them. And Aunt Alvirah came hobbling to the door again, murmuring, "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" and quite amazed when she saw Ben come running to help Tom Cameron into the house with the youth from the railroad wreck. "Though, landy's sake! I don't know what your Uncle Jabez will say when he comes back from town and finds this boy in the best bed," grumbled Aunt Alvirah, after a bit, when she and Ruth were left alone with Jerry Sheming, and the others had gone on in the car, hurrying so as not to be late for luncheon at Outlook. CHAPTER III UNCLE JABEZ HAS TWO OPINIONS Dr. Davison came, found that Jerry's leg was not broken, left liniment, some quieting medicine to use if the patient could not sleep, and went away. Still Uncle Jabez had not returned from town. Dinner had been a farce. Ben, the hired man, was fed as usual; but Ruth and Aunt Alvirah did not feel like eating; and, considering his fever, it was just as well, the doctor said, if the patient did not eat until later. Jerry Sheming was a fellow of infinite pluck. The pain he had endured during his rough ride in the automobile must have been terrific. Yet he was only ashamed, now, that he had fainted. "First time I ever heard of a Sheming fainting--or yet a Tilton, Miss," he told Ruth. "I don't believe you belong near here?" suggested Ruth, who sat beside him, for he seemed restless. "I don't remember hearing either of those names around the Red Mill." "No. I--I lived away west of here," replied Jerry, slowly. "Oh, a long ways." "Not as far as Montana? That is where Jane Ann comes from." "The girl I helped through the car window?" he asked, quickly. "Yes. Miss Hicks." "I did not mean really West," he said. "But it's quite some miles. I had been walking two days--and I'm some walker," he added, with a smile. "Looking for work, you said?" questioned Ruth, diffident about showing her interest in the young fellow, yet deeply curious. "Yes. I've got to support myself some way." "Haven't you any folks at all, Mr. Jerry?" "I ain't a 'mister,'" said the youth. "I'm not so much older than you and your friends." "You seem a lot older," laughed Ruth, tossing back her hair. "That's because I have been working most of my life--and I guess livin' in the woods all the time makes a chap seem old." "And you've lived in the woods?" "With my uncle. I can't remember anybody else belongin' to me--not very well. Pete Tilton is _his_ name. He's been a guide and hunter all his life. And of late years he got so queer--before they took him away----" "Took him away?" interrupted Ruth, "What do you mean by that?" "Why, I'll tell you," said Jerry, slowly. "He got wild towards the last. It was something about his money and papers that he lost. He kep' 'em in a box somewhere. There was a landslide at the west end of the island." "The island? What island?" "Cliff Island. That's where we lived. Uncle Pete said he owned half the island, but Rufe Blent cheated him out of it. That's what made him so savage with Blent, and he come pretty near killin' him. At least, Blent told it that way. "So they took poor Uncle Pete into court, and they said he wasn't safe to be at large, and sent him to the county asylum. Then--well, there wasn't no manner o' use my stayin' around there. Rufe Blent warned me off the island. So I started out to hunt a job." The details were rather vague, but Ruth felt a little diffident about asking for further particulars. Besides, it was not long before Uncle Jabez came home. "What do ye reckon your Aunt Alvirah keeps that spare room for?" demanded the old miller, with his usual growl, when Ruth explained about Jerry. "For to put up tramps?" "Oh, Uncle! he isn't just a _tramp_!" "I'd like to know what ye call it, Niece Ruth?" grumbled Uncle Jabez. "Think how he saved Jane Ann! That car was rolling right down the embankment. He pulled her through the window and almost the next moment the car slid the rest of the way to the bottom, and lots of people--people in the chairs next to her--were badly hurt. Oh, Uncle! he saved her life, perhaps." "That ain't makin' it any dif'rent," declared Uncle Jabez. "He's a tramp and nobody knows anything about him. Why didn't Davison send him to the hospital? The doc's allus mixin' us up with waifs an' strays. He's got more cheek than a houn' pup----" "Now, Jabez!" cried the little old lady, who had been bending over the stove. "Don't ye make yourself out wuss nor you be. That poor boy ain't doin' no harm to the bed." "Makin' you more work, Alviry." "What am I good for if it ain't to work?" she demanded, quite fiercely. "When I can't work I want ye sh'd take me back to the poor farm where ye got me--an' where I'd been these last 'leven years if it hadn't been for your charity that you're so 'fraid folks will suspect----" "Charity!" broke in Uncle Jabez. "Ha! Yes! a fat lot of charity I've showed you, Alviry Boggs. I reckon I've got my money's wuth out o' you back an' bones." The old woman stood as straight as she could and looked at the grim miller with shining eyes. Ruth thought her face really beautiful as she smiled and said, wagging her head at the gray-faced man: "Oh, Jabez Potter! Jabez Potter! Nobody'll know till you're in your coffin jest how much good you've done in this world'--on the sly! An' you'll let this pore boy rest an' git well here before he has to go out an' hunt a job for hisself. For my pretty, here, tells me he ain't got no home nor no friends." "Uh-huh!" grunted Uncle Jabez, and stumped away to the mill, fairly beaten for the time. "He grumbles and grunts," observed Aunt Alvirah, shaking her head as she turned to her work again. "But out o' sight he's re'lly gettin' tender-hearted, Ruthie. An' I b'lieve you showed him how a lot. Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" Before supper time a man on horseback came to the mill and cried a warning to the miller and his family: "Look out for your stables and pigpens. There's three beasts loose from those wrecked menagerie cars at the crossing, Jabez." "Mercy on us! They ain't bound this way, are they?" demanded Uncle Jabez, with more anxiety than he usually showed. "Nobody knows. You know, the piece of woods yonder is thick. The menagerie men lost them an hour ago. A big black panther--an ugly brute--and a lion and lioness. Them last two they say is as tame as kittens. But excuse me! I'd ruther trust the kittens," said the neighbor. Then he dug his heels in the sides of his horse and started off to bear the news to other residents along the road that followed this bank of the Lumano River. Jabez shouted for Ben to hurry through his supper, and they closed the mill tight while the womenfolk tried to close all the shutters on the first floor of the cottage. But the "blinds" had not been closed on the east side of the house since they were painted the previous spring. Aunt Alviry was the kind of housekeeper who favored the morning sun and it always streamed into the windows of the guest room. When they tried to close the outside shutters of those windows, one had a broken hinge that the painters had said nothing about. The heavy blind fell to the ground. "Goodness me!" exclaimed Ruth, running back into the house. "That old panther could jump right into that room where Jerry is. But if we keep a bright light in there all night, I guess he won't--if he comes this way at all." It was foolish, of course, to fear the coming of the marauding animal from the shattered circus car. Probably, Ruth told herself before the evening was half over, "Rival's Circus and Menagerie" had moved on with all its beasts. Uncle Jabez, however, got down the double-barreled shotgun, cleaned and oiled it, and slipped in two cartridges loaded with big shot. "I ain't aimin' to lose my pigs if I can help it," he said. As the evening dragged by, they all forgot the panther scare. Jerry had fallen asleep after supper without recourse to the medicine Dr. Davison had left. As usual, Uncle Jabez was poring over his daybook and counting the cash in the japanned money box. Ruth was deep in her text books. One does forget so much between June and September! Aunt Alvirah was busily sewing some ruffled garment for "her pretty." Suddenly a quick, stern voice spoke out of the guest room down the hall. "Quick! bring that gun!" "Hul-_lo_!" murmured Uncle Jabez, looking up. "That poor boy's delirious," declared Aunt Alvirah. But Ruth jumped up and ran lightly to the room where Jerry Sheming lay. "What _is_ it?" she gasped, peering at the flushed face that was raised from the pillow. "That cat!" muttered Jerry. "Oh, you're dreaming!" declared Ruth, trying to laugh. "I ain't lived in the woods for nothin'," snapped the young fellow. "I never see that black panther in her native wilds, o' course; but I've tracked other kinds o' cats. And one of the tribe is 'round here----There! hear that?" One of the horses in the stable squealed suddenly--a scream of fear. Then a cow bellowed. Uncle Jabez came with a rush, in his stocking feet, with the heavy shotgun in his hand. "What's up?" he demanded, hoarsely. "I am!" exclaimed Jerry, swinging his legs out of bed, despite the pain it caused him. "Put out that light, Miss Ruth." Aunt Alvirah hobbled in, groaning, "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" Uncle Jabez softly raised the sash where the blind was missing. "I saw her eyes," gasped Jerry, much excited. He reached out a grasping hand. "Gimme that gun, sir, unless you are a good shot. I don't often miss." "You take it," muttered Uncle Jabez, thrusting the gun into the young fellow's hand. "My--my eyes ain't what they once was." "Send the women folk back. If she leaps in at the winder----" Suddenly he raised the gun to his shoulder. It was so dark in the room they all saw the crouching creature on the lawn outside. It was headed for the open window, and its eyes gleamed like yellow coals. In a moment the gun spoke--one long tongue of flame, followed by the other, flashed into the night. There was a yowl, a struggle on the grass outside, and then---- "You're something of a shot, you be, young feller!" boomed out Jabez Potter's rough voice. "I was some mistaken in you. Ah! it hurt ye, eh?" and he proceeded to lift the suffering Jerry back into bed as tenderly as he would have handled Ruth herself. They did not go out to see the dead panther until daybreak. Then they learned that the pair of lions had already been caught by their owners. CHAPTER IV ON THE WAY TO BRIARWOOD If anything had been needed to interest Ruth Fielding deeply in the young fellow who had been injured at the scene of the railroad wreck, the occurrence that evening at the Red Mill would have provided it. It was not enough for her to make a veritable hero of him to Helen, and Jane Ann, and Tom, when they came over from Outlook the following morning. When the girl of the Red Mill was really interested in anything or anybody, she gave her whole-souled attention to it. She could not be satisfied with Jerry Sheming's brief account of his life with his half-crazed uncle on some distant place called Cliff Island, and the domestic tragedy that seemed to be the cause of the old man's final incarceration in a madhouse. "Tell me all about yourself--do," she pleaded with Jerry, who was to remain in bed for several days (Uncle Jabez insisted on it himself, too!), for the injured leg must be rested. "Didn't you live anywhere else but in the woods?" "That's right, Miss," he said, slowly. "I got a little schooling on the mainland; but it warn't much. Uncle Pete used to guide around parties of city men who wanted to fish and hunt. At the last I did most of the guidin'. He said he could trust me, for I hated liquor as bad as him. _My_ dad was killed by it. "Uncle Pete was a mite cracked over it, maybe. But he was good enough to me until Rufus Blent came rummagin' round. Somehow he got Uncle Pete to ragin'." "Who is this Rufus Blent?" asked Ruth, curiously. "He's a real estate man. He lives at Logwood. That's the landin' at the east end o' the lake." "What lake?" "Tallahaska. You've heard tell on't?" he asked. "Yes. But I was never there, of course." "Well, Miss, Cliff Island is just the purtiest place! And Uncle Pete must have had some title to it, for he's lived there all his life--and he's old. Fifty-odd year he was there, I know. He was more than a squatter. "I reckon he was a bit of a miser. He had some money, and he didn't trust to banks. So he kept it hid on the island, of course. "Then the landslide come, and he talked as though it had covered his treasure box--and in it was papers he talked about. If he could ha' got those papers he could ha' beat Rufus Blent off. "That's the understandin' I got of him. Of course, he talked right ragin' and foolish; but some things he said was onderstandable. But he couldn't make the judge see it--nor could I. They let Rufus Blent have his way, and Uncle Pete went to the 'sylum. "Then they ordered me off the island. I believe Blent wanted to s'arch it himself for the treasure box. He's a sneakin' man--I allus hated him," said Jerry, clenching his fist angrily. "But they could ha' put me in the jug if I'd tried to fight him. So I come away. Don't 'spect I'll ever see Tallahaska--or Cliff Island--again," and the young fellow's voice broke and he turned his face away. When Jane Ann Hicks heard something of this, through Ruth, she was eager to help Jerry to be revenged upon the man whom he thought had cheated his uncle. "Let me write to Bill Hicks about it," she cried, eagerly. "He'll come on here and get after this thieving real estate fellow--you bet!" "I have no doubt that he would," laughed Helen, pinching her. "You'd make him leave his ranch and everything else and come here just to do that. Don't be rash, young lady. Jerry certainly did you a favor, but you needn't take everything he says for the gospel truth." "I believe myself he's honest," added Ruth, quietly. "And I don't doubt him either," Helen Cameron said. "But we'd better hear both sides of it. And a missing treasure box, and papers to prove that an old hunter is owner of an island in Tallahaska, sounds--well, unusual, to say the least." Ruth laughed. "Helen has suddenly developed caution," she said. "What do you say, Tom?" "I'll get father to write to somebody at Logwood, and find out about it," returned the boy, promptly. That is the way the matter was left for the time being. The next day they were to start for school--the girls for Briarwood and Tom for Seven Oaks. It was arranged that Jerry should remain at the Red Mill for a time. Uncle Jabez's second opinion of him was so favorable that the miller might employ him for a time as the harvesting and other fall work came on. And Jane Ann left a goodly sum in the miller's hands for young Sheming's use. "He's that independent that he wouldn't take nothing from me but a pair of cuff links," declared Jane Ann, wiping her eyes, for she was a tender-hearted girl under her rough exterior. "Says they will do for him to remember me by. He's a nice chap." "Jinny's getting sentimental," gibed Tom, slily. "I'm not over you, Mister Tom!" she flared up instantly. "You're too 'advanced' a dresser." "And you were the girl who once ran away from Silver Ranch and the boys out there, because everything was so 'common,'" chuckled Tom. Ruth shut him off at that. She knew that the western girl could not stand much teasing. They were all nervous, anyway; at least, the girls were. Ruth and Helen approached their second year at Briarwood with some anxiety. How would they be treated? How would the studies be arranged for the coming months of hard work? How were they going to stand with the teachers? When the two chums first went to Briarwood they occupied a double room; but later they had taken in Mercy Curtis, a lame girl. Now that "triumvirate" could not continue, for Jane Ann had begged to room with Ruth and Helen. The western girl, who was afraid of scarcely anything "on four legs or two" in her own environment, was really nervous as she approached boarding school. She had seen enough of these eastern girls to know that they were entirely different from herself. She was "out of their class," she told herself, and if she had not been with Ruth and Helen these few last days before the opening of the school term, she would have run away. Ruth was going back to school this term with a delightful sense of having gained Uncle Jabez's special approval. He admitted that schooling such as she gained at Briarwood was of some use. And he made her a nice present of pocket-money when she started. The Cameron auto stopped for her at the Red Mill before mid-forenoon, and Ruth bade the miller and Aunt Alvirah and Ben--not forgetting Jerry Sheming, her new friend--good-bye. "Do--_do_ take care o' yourself, my pretty," crooned Aunt Alvirah over her, at the last. "Jest remember we're a-honin' for you here at the ol' mill." "Take care of Uncle Jabez," whispered Ruth. She dared kiss the grim old man only upon his dusty cheek. Then she shook hands with bashful Ben and ran out to her waiting friends. "Come on, or we'll lose the train," cried Helen. They were off the moment Ruth stepped into the tonneau. But she stood up and waved her hand to the little figure of Aunt Alvirah in the cottage doorway as long as she could be seen on the Cheslow road. And she had a fancy that Uncle Jabez himself was lurking in the dark opening to the grist-floor of the mill, and watching the retreating motor car. There was a quick, alert-looking girl hobbling on two canes up and down the platform at Cheslow Station. This was Mercy Curtis, the station agent's crippled daughter. "Here you are at last!" she cried, shrilly. "And the train already hooting for the station. Five minutes more and you would have been too late. Did you think I could go to Briarwood without you?" Ruth ran up and kissed her heartily. She knew that Mercy's "bark was worse than her bite." "You come and see Jane Ann--and be nice to her. She doesn't look it, but she's just as scared as she can be." "Of course you'd have some poor, unfortunate pup, or kitten, to mother, Ruth Fielding," snapped the lame girl. She was very nice, however, to the girl from Silver Ranch, sat beside her in the chair car, and soon had Jane Ann laughing. For Mercy Curtis, with her sarcastic tongue, could be good fun if she wished to be. Here and there, along the route to Osago Lake, other Briarwood girls joined them. At one point appeared Madge Steele and her brother, Bob, a slow, smiling young giant, called "Bobbins" by the other boys, who was always being "looked after" in a most distressing fashion by his sister. "Come, Bobby, boy, don't fall up the steps and get your nice new clothes dirty," adjured Madge, as her brother made a false step in getting aboard the train. "Will you look out for him, Mr. Cameron, if I leave him in your care?" "Sure!" said Tom, laughing. "I'll see that he doesn't spoil his pinafore or mess up his curls." "Say! I'd shake a sister like that if I had one," grunted "Busy Izzy" Phelps, disgustedly. "Aw, what's the odds?" drawled good-natured Bobbins. The hilarious crowd boarded the _Lanawaxa_ at the landing, and after crossing the lake they again took a train, disembarking at Seven Oaks, where the boys' school was situated. From here the girls were to journey by stage to Briarwood. There was dust-coated, grinning, bewhiskered "Old Noah Dolliver" and his "Ark," waiting for them. There was a horde of uniformed academy boys about to greet Tom and his chums, and to eye the girls who had come thus far in their company. But Ruth and her friends were not so bashful as they had been the year before. They formed in line, two by two, and slowly paraded the length of the platform, chanting in unison the favorite "welcome to the infants" used at the beginning of each half at Briarwood: "Uncle Noah, he drove an Ark-- One wide river to cross! He's aiming to land at Briarwood Park-- One wide river to cross! One wide river! One wide river of Jordan! One wide river! One wide river to cross!" The boys cheered them enthusiastically. The girls piled into the coach with much laughter. Even Mercy had taken part in this fun, for the procession had marched at an easy pace for her benefit. Old Dolliver cracked his whip. Tom ran along in the dust on one side and Bobbins on the other, each to bid a last good-bye to his sister. Then the coach rolled into the shadow of the cool wood road, and Ruth and her friends were really upon the last lap of their journey to the Hall. CHAPTER V A LONG LOOK AHEAD "Hurrah! first glimpse of the old place!" Helen cried this, with her head out of the Ark. The dust rolled up in a cloud behind them as they topped the hill. Here Mary Cox had met Ruth and Helen that first day, a year ago, when they approached the Hall. There was no infant in the coach now save Jane Ann. And the chums were determined to save the western girl from that strange and lonely feeling they had themselves experienced. There was nobody in view on the pastured hill. Down the slope the Ark coasted and bye and bye Cedar Walk came into view. "Shall we get out here, girls?" called Madge Steele, with a glance at Mercy. "Of course we shall," cried that sprightly person, shaking her fist at the big senior. "Don't you dare try to spare _me_, Miss! I am getting so strong and healthy I am ashamed of myself. Don't you dare!" Madge kissed her warmly, as Ruth had. _That_ was the best way to treat Mercy Curtis whenever she "exploded." Suddenly Helen leaned out of the open half of the door on her side and began to call a welcome to four girls who were walking briskly down the winding pathway. Instantly they began to run, shouting joyfully in return. "Here we be, young ladies," croaked Old Dolliver, bringing his tired horses to a halt. They struggled forth, Jane Ann coming last to help the lame girl--just a mite. Then the two parties of school friends came together like the mingling of waters. One was a very plump girl with a smiling, rosy face; one was red-haired and very sharp-looking, and the other two balanced each other evenly, both being more than a little pretty, very well dressed, and one dark while the other was light. The light girl was Belle Tingley, and the dark one Lluella Fairfax; of course, the red-haired one was Mary Cox, "The Fox," while the stout girl could be no other than "Heavy" Jennie Stone. The Fox came forward quickly and seized both of Ruth's hands. "Dear Ruth," she whispered. "I arrived just this morning myself. You know that my brother is all right again?" and she kissed the girl of the Red Mill warmly. Belle and Lluella looked a bit surprised at Mary Cox's manifestation of friendship for Ruth; but they did not yet know all the particulars of their schoolmates' adventures at Silver Ranch. Heavy was hurrying about, kissing everybody indiscriminately, and of course performing this rite with Ruth at least twice. "I'm so tickled to see you all, I can't tell!" she laughed. "And you're all looking fine, too. But it does seem a month, instead of a week, since I saw you." "My! but you are looking bad yourself, Heavy," gibed Helen Cameron, shaking her head and staring at the other girl. "You're just fading away to a shadow." "Pretty near," admitted Heavy. "But the doctor says I shall get my appetite back after a time. I was allowed to drink the water two eggs were boiled in for lunch, and to-night I can eat the holes out of a dozen doughnuts. Oh! I'm convalescing nicely, thank you." The girls who had reached the school first welcomed Jane Ann quite as warmly as they did the others. There was an air about them all that seemed protecting to the strange girl. Other girls were walking up and down the Cedar Walk, and sometimes they cast more than glances at the eight juniors who were already such friends. Madge had immediately been swallowed up by a crowd of seniors. "Say, Foxy! got an infant there?" demanded one girl. "I suppose Fielding has made her a Sweetbriar already--eh?" suggested another. "The Sweetbriars do not have to fish for members," declared Helen, tossing her head. "Oh, my! See what a long tail our cat's got!" responded one of the other crowd, tauntingly. "The double quartette! There's just eight of them," crowed another. "There certainly will be something doing at Briarwood Hall with those two roomsful." "Say! that's right!" cried Heavy, eagerly, to Ruth. "You, and Helen, and Mercy, and Jinny, take that quartette room on our other side. We'll just about boss that dormitory. What do you say?" "If Mrs. Tellingham will agree," said Ruth. "I'll ask her." "But you girls will be 'way ahead of me in your books," broke in Jane Ann. "We needn't be ahead of you in sleeping, and in fun," laughed Heavy, pinching her. "Don't be offish, Miss Jinny," said Helen, calling her by the title that the cowboys did. "And my name--my dreadful, dreadful name!" groaned the western girl. "I tell you!" exclaimed Ruth, "we're all friends. Let's agree how we shall introduce Miss Hicks to the bunch. She must choose a name----" "Why, call yourself 'Nita,' if you want to, dear," said Helen, patting the western girl's arm. "That's the name you ran away with." "But I'm ashamed of that. I know it is silly--and I chose it for a silly reason. But you know what all these girls will do to 'Jane Ann,'" and she shook her head, more than a little troubled. "What's the matter with Ann?" demanded Mercy Curtis, sharply. "Isn't 'Ann Hicks' sensible-sounding enough? For sure, it's not _pretty_; but we can't all have both pretty names and pretty features," and she laughed. "And it's mighty tough when you haven't got either," grumbled the new girl. "'Ann Hicks,'" quoth Ruth, softly. "I like it. I believe it sounds nice, too--when you get used to it. 'Ann Hicks.' Something dignified and fine about it--just as though you had been named after some really great woman--some leader." The others laughed; and yet they looked appreciation of Ruth Fielding's fantasy. "Bully for you, Ruthie!" cried Helen, hugging her. "If Ann Hicks agrees." "It doesn't sound so bad without the 'Jane,'" admitted the western girl with a sigh. "And Ruth says it so nicely." "We'll all say it nicely," declared The Fox, who was a much different "Fox" from what she had been the year before. "'Ann Hicks,' I bet you've got a daguerreotype at home of the gentle old soul for whom you are named. You know--silver-gray gown, pearls, pink cheeks, and a real ostrich feather fan." "My goodness me!" ejaculated the newly christened Ann Hicks, "you have already arranged a very fanciful family tree for me. Can I ever live up to such an ancestress as _that_?" "Certainly you can," declared Ruth, firmly. "You've just _got_ to. Think of the original Ann--as Mary described her--whenever you feel like exploding. Her picture ought to bring you up short. A lady like that _couldn't_ explode." "Tough lines," grumbled the western girl. "Right from what you girls call the 'wild and woolly,' and to have to live up to silver-gray silk and pearls--M-m-m-m!" "Now, say! say!" cried Belle Tingley, suddenly, and seizing upon Ruth, about whom she had been hovering ever since they had met. "_I_ want to talk a little. There aren't any more infants to christen, I hope?" "Go on!" laughed Ruth, squeezing her. "What is the matter, _Bella mia_?" "And don't talk Italian," said Belle, shrugging her shoulders. "Listen! I promised to ask you the minute you arrived, Ruthie, and now you've been here ten at least." "It is something splendid," laughed Lluella, clapping her hands, evidently being already a sharer in Belle's secret. "I'll tell you--if they'll let me," panted Belle, shaking Ruth a little. "Father's bought Cliff Island. It's a splendid place. We were there for part of the summer. And there will be a great lodge built by Christmas time and he has told me I might invite you all to come to the house-warming. Now, Ruth! it remains with you. If you'll go, the others will, I know. And it's a splendid place." "Cliff Island?" gasped Ruth. "Yes. In Lake Tallahaska." "And your father has just bought it?" "Yes. He had some trouble getting a clear title; but it's all right now. They had to evict an old squatter. I want you all to come with me for the mid-winter holiday. What do you say, Ruthie?" asked Belle, eagerly. "I say it's a long look ahead," responded Ruth, slowly. "It's very kind of you, Belle. But I'll have to write home first, of course. I'd like to go, though--to Cliff Island--yes, indeed!" CHAPTER VI PICKING UP THE THREADS Ann Hicks must see the preceptress at once. That came first, and Ruth would not go into the old dormitory until the introduction of the western girl was accomplished. There was a whole bevy of girls on the steps of the main building, in which Mrs. Grace Tellingham and Dr. Tellingham lived. Nobody ever thought of putting the queer old doctor first, although all the Briarwoods respected the historian immensely. He was considered very, very scholarly, although it would have been hard to find any of his histories in any library save that of Briarwood itself. It was understood that just now he was engaged upon a treatise relating to the possible existence of a race before the Mound Builders in the Middle West, and he was not to be disturbed, of course, at his work. But when Ruth and Ann Hicks entered the big office room, there he was, bent over huge tomes upon the work table, his spectacles awry, and his wig pushed so far back upon his head that two hands' breadth of glistening crown was exposed. The fiction that Dr. Tellingham was not bald might have been kept up very well indeed, did not the gentleman get so excited while he worked. As soon as he became interested in his books, he proceeded to bare his high brow to all beholders, and the wig slid toward the back of his neck. The truth was, as Heavy Stone said, Dr. Tellingham had to remove his collar to brush his hair--there really was so little of it. "Dear, dear!" sputtered the historian, peering at the two girls over his reading glasses. "You don't want me, of course?" "Oh, no, Dr. Tellingham. This is a new girl. We wished to see Mrs. Tellingham," Ruth assured him. "Quite so," he said, briskly. "She is--Ah! she comes! My dear! Two of the young ladies to see you," and instantly he was buried in his books again--that is, buried all but his shining crown. Mrs. Tellingham was a graceful, gray-haired lady, with a charming smile. She trailed her black robe across the carpet and stooped to kiss Ruth warmly, for she not only respected the junior, but had learned to love her. "Welcome, Miss Fielding!" she said, kindly. "I am glad to see you back. And this is the girl I have been getting letters about--Miss Hicks?" "Ann Hicks," responded Ruth, firmly. "That is the name she wishes to be known by, dear Mrs. Tellingham." "I don't know who could be writing you but Uncle Bill," said Ann Hicks, blunderingly. "And I expect he's told you a-plenty." "I think 'Uncle Bill' must be the most recklessly generous man in the world, my dear," observed Mrs. Tellingham, taking and holding one of Ann's brown hands, and looking closely at the western girl. For a moment the new girl blushed and her own eyes shone. "You bet he is! I--I beg pardon," she stammered. "Uncle Bill is all right." "And Jennie Stone's Aunt Kate has been writing me about you, too. It seems she was much interested in you when you visited their place at Lighthouse Point." "She's very kind," murmured the new girl. "And Mrs. Murchiston, Helen's governess, has spoken a good word for you," added the preceptress. "Why--why I didn't know so many people _cared_," stammered Ann. "You see, you have a way of making friends unconsciously. I can see that," Mrs. Tellingham said, kindly. "Now, do not be discouraged. You will make friends among the girls in just the same way. Don't mind their banter for a while. The rough edges will soon rub off----" "But there _are_ rough edges," admitted the western girl, hanging her head. "Don't mind. There are such in most girls' characters and they show up when first they come to school. Keep cheerful. Come to me if you are in real trouble--and stick close to Miss Fielding, here. I can't give you any better advice than that," added Mrs. Tellingham, with a laugh. Then she was ready to listen to Ruth's plea that the room next to The Fox and her chums be given up to Ruth, Helen, Mercy and the new girl. "We love our little room; but it was crowded with Mercy last half; and we could all get along splendidly in a quartette room," said Ruth. "All right," agreed the principal. "I'll telephone to Miss Scrimp and Miss Picolet. Now, go and see about getting settled, young ladies. I expect much of you this half, Ruth Fielding. As for Ann, I shall take her in hand myself on Monday and see what classes she would best enter." "She's fine," declared Ann Hicks, when they were outside again. "I can get along with her. But how about the girls?" "They'll be nice to you, too--after a bit. Of course, everybody new has to expect some hazing. Thank your stars that you won't have to be put through the initiation of the marble harp," and she pointed to a marble figure in the tiny Italian garden in the middle of the campus. When Ann wanted to know what _that_ meant, Ruth repeated the legend as all new girls at Briarwood must learn it. But Ruth and her friends had long since agreed that no other nervous or high-strung girl was to be hazed, as she and Helen had been, when they first came to the Hall. So the ceremony of the marble harp was abolished. It has been described in the former volume of this series, "Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall." The two went back to the dormitory that had become like home to Ruth. Miss Picolet, the little French teacher, beckoned them into her study. "I must be the good friend of your good friend, too, Miss Fielding," she said, and shook hands warmly with Ann. The matron of the house had already opened and aired the large room next to that which had been so long occupied by The Fox and her chums. The eight girls made the corridor ring with laughter and shouts while they were getting settled. The trunks had arrived from Lumberton and Helen and Ruth were busy decorating the big room which they were to share in the future with the lame girl and Ann Hicks. There were two wide beds in it; but each girl had her own dressing case and her locker and closet There were four windows and two study tables. It was a delightful place, they all agreed. "Hush! tell it not in Gath; whisper it not in Ascalon!" hissed The Fox, peering into the room. "You girls have the best there is. It's lots bigger than our quartette----" "Oh, I don't think so. Only a 'teeny' bit larger," responded Ruth, quickly. "Then it's Heavy that takes up so much space in our room. She dwarfs everything. However," said the red-haired girl, "you can have lots more fun in here. Shove back everything against one wall, roll up the rugs, and then we can dance." "And have Picolet after us in a hurry," observed Helen, laughing. "Barefoot dancing is still in vogue," retorted The Fox. "Helen can play her violin." "After retiring bell? No, thanks!" exclaimed Ruth's chum. "I am to stand better in my classes this half than last spring or Monsieur Pa-_pa_ will have something to say to me. He doesn't often preach; but that black-haired brother of mine did better last term than I did. Can't have that." "They're awfully strict with the boys over at Seven Oaks," sighed Heavy, who was chewing industriously as she talked, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "What are you eating, Heavy?" demanded Belle, suddenly. "Some of those doughnut holes, I bet!" giggled Lluella. "They must be awful filling, Heavy." "Nothing _is_ filling," replied the stout girl. "Just think, almost the whole universe is filled with just atmosphere--and your head, Lluella." "That's not pretty, dear," remarked The Fox, pinching Heavy. "Don't be nasty to your playmates." "Well, I've got to eat," groaned Heavy. "If you knew how long it seemed from luncheon to supper time----" Despite all Ruth Fielding could do, the girl from Silver Ranch felt herself a good deal out of this nonsense and joviality. Ann could not talk the way these girls did. She felt serious when she contemplated her future in the school. "I'd--I'd run away if it wasn't for Uncle Bill," she whispered to herself, looking out of the window at the hundreds of girls parading the walks about the campus. Almost every two girls seemed chums. They walked with their arms about each other's waists, and chattered like magpies. Ann Hicks wanted to run and hide somewhere, for she was more lonely now than she had ever been when wandering about the far-reaching range on the Montana ranch! CHAPTER VII "A HARD ROW TO HOE" Since Ruth Fielding had organized the S.B.'s, or Sweetbriars, there had been little hazing at Briarwood Hall. Of course, this was the first real opening of the school year since that auspicious occasion; but the effect of the new society and its teachings upon the whole school was marked. Rivalries had ceased to a degree. The old Upedes, of which The Fox had been the head, no longer played their tricks. The Fox had grown much older in appearance, if not in years. She had had her lesson. Belle and Lluella and Heavy were not so reckless, either. And as the S.B.'s stood for friendship, kindness, helpfulness, and all its members wore the pretty badge, it was likely to be much easier for those "infants" who joined the school now. Ann Hicks was bound to receive some hard knocks, even as Mrs. Tellingham had suggested. But "roughing it" a little is sometimes good for girls as well as boys. In her own western home Ann could have held her own with anybody. She was so much out of her usual element here at Briarwood that she was like a startled hare. She scented danger on all sides. Her roommates could not always defend her, although even Mercy, the unmerciful, tried. Ann Hicks was so big, and blundering. She was taller than most girls of her age, and "raw-boned" like her uncle. Some time she might really be handsome; but there was little promise of it as yet. When the principal started her in her studies, it was soon discovered that Ann, big girl though she was, had to take some of the lessons belonging to the primary grade. And she made a sorry appearance in recitation, at best. There were plenty of girls to laugh at her. There is nothing so cruel as a schoolgirl's tongue when it is unbridled. And unless the victim is blessed with either a large sense of humor, or an apt brain for repartee, it goes hard with her. Poor Ann had neither--she was merely confused and miserable. She saw the other girls of her room--and their close friends in the neighboring quartette--going cheerfully about the term's work. They had interests that the girl from the West, with her impoverished mind, could not even appreciate. She had to study so hard--even some of the simplest lessons--that she had little time to learn games. She did not care for gymnasium work, although there were probably few girls at the school as muscular as herself. Tennis seemed silly to her. Nobody rode at the Hall, and she longed to bestride a pony and dash off for a twenty-mile canter. Nothing that she was used to doing on the ranch would appeal to these girls here--Ann was quite sure of that. Ruth and the others who had been with them for that all-too-short month at Silver Ranch seemed to have forgotten the riding, and the roping, and all. Then, Helen had her violin--and loved it. Ruth was practicing singing all the time she could spare, for she was already a prominent member of the Glee Club. When the girl of the Red Mill sang, Ann Hicks felt her heart throb and the tears rise in her eyes. She loved Ruth's kind of music; yet she, herself, could not carry a tune. Mercy was strictly attentive to her own books. Mercy was a bookworm--nor did she like being asked questions about her studies. Those first few weeks Ann Hicks's recitations did not receive very high marks. Often some of the girls who did not know her very well laughed because she carried books belonging to the primary grade. Ann Hicks had many studies to make up that her mates had been drilled in while they were in the lower classes. One day at mail time (and in a boarding school that is a most important hour) Ann received a very tempting-looking box by parcel post. She had been initiated into the meaning of "boxes from home." Even Aunt Alvirah had sent a box to Ruth, filled with choicest homemade dainties. Ann expected nothing like that. Uncle Bill would never think of it--and he wouldn't know what to buy, anyway. The box fairly startled the girl from Silver Ranch. "What is it? Something good to eat, I bet," cried Heavy, who was on hand, of course. "Open it, Ann--do." "Come on! Let's see what the goodies are," urged another girl, but who smiled behind her hand. "I don't know who would send _me_ anything," said Ann, slowly. "Never mind the address. Open it!" cried a third speaker, and had Ann noted it, she would have realized that some of the most trying girls in the school had suddenly surrounded her. With trembling fingers she tore off the outside wrapper without seeing that the box had been mailed at the local post office--Lumberton! A very decorative box was enclosed. "H-m-m!" gasped Heavy. "Nothing less than fancy nougatines in _that_." She was aiding the heartless throng, but did not know it. It would have never entered Heavy's mind to do a really mean thing. Ann untied the narrow red ribbon. She raised the cover. Tissue paper covered something very choice----? _A dunce cap._ For a moment Ann was stricken motionless. The girls about her shouted. One coarse, thoughtless girl seized the cap, pulled it from the box, and clapped it on Ann Hicks's black hair. The delighted crowd shouted more shrilly. Heavy was thunderstruck. Then she sputtered: "Well! I never would have believed there was anybody so mean as that in the whole of Briarwood School." But Ann, who had held in her temper as she governed a half-wild pony on the range, until this point, suddenly "let go all holts," as Bill Hicks would have expressed it. She tore the cap from her head and stamped upon it and the fancy box it had come in. She struck right and left at the laughing, scornful faces of the girls who had so baited her. Had it not been disgraceful, one might have been delighted with the change in the expression of those faces--and in the rapidity with which the change came about. More than one blow landed fairly. The print of Ann's fingers was impressed in red upon the cheeks of those nearest to her. They ran screaming--some laughing, some angry. Heavy's weight (for the fleshy girl had seized Ann about the waist) was all that made the enraged girl give over her pursuit of her tormentors. Fortunately, Ruth herself came running to the spot. She got Ann away and sat by her all the afternoon in their room, making up her own delinquent lessons afterward. But the affair could not be passed over without comment. Some of the girls had reported Ann's actions. Of course, such a disgraceful thing as a girl slapping another was seldom heard of in Briarwood. Mrs. Tellingham, who knew very well where the blame lay, dared not let the matter go without punishing Ann, however. "I am grieved that one of our girls--a young lady in the junior grade--should so forget herself," said the principal. "Whatever may have been the temptation, such an exhibition of temper cannot be allowed. I am sure she will not yield to it again; nor shall I pass leniently over the person who may again be the cause of Ann Hicks losing her temper." This seemed to Ann to be "the last straw." "She might have better put me in the primary grade in the beginning," the ranch girl said, spitefully. "Then I wouldn't have been among those who despise me. I hate them all! I'll just get away from here----" But the thought of running away a second time rather troubled her. She had worried her uncle greatly the first time she had done so. Now he was sure she was in such good hands that she wouldn't wish to run away. Ann knew that she could not blame Ruth Fielding, and the other girls who were always kind to her. She merely shrank from being with them, when they knew so much more than she did. It was her pride that was hurt. Had she taken the teasing of the meaner girls in a wiser spirit, she knew they would not have sent her the dunce cap. They continued to tease her because they knew they could hurt her. "I--I wish I could show them I could do things that they never dreamed of doing!" muttered Ann, angrily, yet wistfully, too. "I'd like to fling a rope, or manage a bad bronc', or something they never saw a girl do before. "Book learning isn't everything. Oh! I have half a mind to give up and go back to the ranch. Nobody made fun of me out there--they didn't dare! And our folks are too kind to tease that way, anyhow," thought the western girl. "Uncle Bill is just paying out his good money for nothing. He said Ruth was a little lady--and Helen, too. I knew he wanted me to be the same, after he got acquainted with them and saw how fine they were. "But you sure 'can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.' That's as certain as shootin'! If I stay here I've got a mighty hard row to hoe--and--and I don't believe I've got the pluck to hoe it." Ann groaned, and shook her tousled black head. CHAPTER VIII JERRY SHEMING AGAIN Ruth, with all the fun and study of the opening of the fall term at Briarwood, could not entirely forget Jerry Sheming. More particularly did she think of him because of the invitation Belle Tingley had extended to her the day of their arrival. It was a coincidence that none of the other girls appreciated, for none of them had talked much with the young fellow who had saved Ann Hicks from the wrecked car at Applegate Crossing. Even Ann herself had not become as friendly with the boy as had Ruth. The fact that he had lived a good share of his life on the very island Belle said her father had bought for a hunting camp, served to spur Ruth's interest in both the youth and the island itself. Then, what Jerry had told her about his uncle's lost treasure box added to the zest of the affair. Somewhere on the island Peter Tilton had lost a box containing money and private papers. Jerry believed it to have been buried by a landslide that had occurred months before. There must be something in this story, or why should "Uncle Pete," as Jerry called him, have lost his mind over the catastrophe? Uncle Pete must be really mad or they would not have shut him up in the county asylum. The loss of the papers supposed to be in the box made it possible for some man named Blent to cheat the old hunter out of his holdings on Cliff Island. Not for a moment did Ruth suppose that Mr. Tingley, Belle's father, was a party to any scheme for cheating the old hunter. It was the work of the man Blent--if true. Ruth was very curious--and very much interested. Few letters ever passed between her and the Red Mill. Aunt Alvirah's gnarled and twisted fingers did not take kindly to the pen; and Uncle Jabez loved better to add up his earnings than to spend an evening retailing the gossip of the Mill for his grandniece to peruse. Ruth knew that Jerry had soon recovered from his accident and that for several weeks, at least, had worked for Uncle Jabez. The latter grudgingly admitted that Jerry was the best man he had ever hired in the cornfield, both in cutting fodder and shucking corn. Just before Thanksgiving there came a letter saying that Jerry had gone on. Of course, Ruth knew that her uncle would not keep the young fellow longer than he could make use of him; but she was sorry he had gone before she had communicated with him. The girl of the Red Mill felt that she wished to know Jerry better. She had been deeply interested in his story. She had hoped to learn more about him. "If you are really going to Cliff Island for the holidays, Belle," she told the latter, "I hope I can go." "Bully!" exclaimed Belle, joyfully. "We'll have a dandy time there--better than we had at Helen's father's camp, last winter. I refuse to be lost in the snow again." "Same here," drawled Heavy. "But I wish that lake you talk about, Belle, wouldn't freeze over. I don't like ice," with a shiver. "Who ever heard of water that wouldn't freeze?" demanded Belle, scornfully. "I have," said Heavy, promptly. "What kind of water, I'd like to know, Miss?" "Hot water," responded Heavy, chuckling. Helen, and most of the other girls who were invited to Cliff Island for Christmas, had already accepted the invitation. Ruth wrote to her uncle with some little doubt. She did not know how he would take the suggestion. She had been at the mill so little since first she began attending boarding school. This Thanksgiving she did not expect to go home. Few of the girls did so, for the recess was only over the week-end and lessons began again on Monday. Only those girls who lived very near to Briarwood made a real vacation of the first winter holiday. A good many used the time to make up lessons and work off "conditions." Thanksgiving Day itself was made somewhat special by a trip to Buchane Falls, where there was a large dam. Dinner was to be served at five in the evening, and more than half the school went off to the falls (which was ten miles away) in several big party wagons, before ten o'clock in the morning. "Bring your appetites back with you, girls," Mrs. Tellingham told them at chapel, and Heavy, at least, had promised to do so and meant to keep her word. Yet even Heavy did justice to the cold luncheon that was served to all of them at the falls. It was crisp autumn weather. Early in the morning there had been a skim of ice along the edge of the water; but there had not yet been frost enough to chain the current of the Buchane Creek. Indeed, it would not freeze over in the middle until mid-winter, if then. The picnic ground was above the falls and on the verge of the big millpond. There were swings, and a bowling alley, and boats, and other amusements. Ruth had fairly dragged Ann Hicks into the party. The girls who had been meanest to the westerner were present. Ann would have had a woefully bad time of it had not some of the smaller girls needed somebody to look out for them. Ann hated the little girls at Briarwood less than she did the big ones. In fact, the "primes," as they were called, rather took to the big girl from the West. One of the swings was not secure, and Ann started to fix it. She could climb like any boy, and there did not happen to be a teacher near to forbid her. Therefore, up she went, unfastened the rope from the beam, and proceeded to splice the place where it had become frayed. It was not a new rope, but was strong save in that one spot. Ann coiled it, and although it did not have the "feel" of the fine hemp, or the good hair rope that is part of the cowman's equipment, her hands and arm tingled to lassoo some active, running object. She coiled it once more and then flung the rope at a bush. The little girls shouted their appreciation. Ann did not mind, for there seemed to be no juniors or seniors there to see. Most of the older girls were down by the water. Indeed, some of the seniors were trying to interest the bigger girls in rowing. Briarwood owned a small lake, and they might have canoes and racing shells upon it, if the girls as a whole would become interested. But many of the big girls did not even know how to row. There was one big punt into which almost a dozen of them crowded. Heavy sat in the stern and declared that she had to have a big crowd in the bow of the boat, to balance it and keep her end from going down. Therefore one girl after another jumped in, and when it was really too full for safety it was pushed out from the landing. Just about the time the current which set toward the middle of the pond seized the punt, it was discovered that nobody had thought of oars. "How under the sun did you suppose a thing like this was going to be propelled?" Heavy demanded. "I never did see such a fellow as you are, Mandy Mitchell!" "You needn't scold me," declared the Mitchell girl. "You invited me into the boat." "Did I? Why! I must have been crazy, then!" declared Heavy. "And didn't any of you think how we were going to get back to shore?" "Nor we don't know now," cried another girl. "Oh-o!" gasped one of the others, darting a frightened look ahead. "We're aiming right for the dam." "You wouldn't expect the boat to drift against the current, would you?" snapped Heavy. "Let's scream!" cried another--and they could all do that to perfection. In a very few minutes it was apparent to everybody within the circle of half a mile or more that a bunch of girls was in trouble--or thought so! "Sit down!" gasped Heavy. "Don't rock the boat. If that yelling doesn't bring anybody, we're due to reach a watery grave, sure enough." "Oh, don't, Heavy!" wailed one of the weaker ones. "How can you?" Heavy was privately as frightened as any of them, but she tried to keep the others cheerful, and would have kept on joking till the end. But several small boats came racing down the pond after them, and along the bank came a man--or a boy--running and shouting. How either the girls in the boats or the youth on the shore could help them, was a mystery; but both comforted the imperiled party immensely. The current swung the heavy punt in toward the shore. Right at that end of the dam the water was running a foot deep--or more--over the flash-board. If the punt struck, it would turn broadside, and probably tip all hands over the dam. This was a serious predicament, indeed, and the spectators realized it even more keenly than did the girls in the punt. The youth who had been called to the spot by their screams threw off his coat and cap, and they saw him stoop to unlace his shoes. A plunge into this cold water was not attractive, and it was doubtful if he could help them much if he reached the punt. Down the hill from the picnic grounds came a group of girls, Ann Hicks in the lead. Most of her companions were too small to do any good in any event. The girl from the ranch carried a neat coil of rope in one hand and she shouted to Heavy to "Hold on!" "You tell me what to hold on to, and you'll see me do it!" replied the plump girl. "All I can take hold of just now is thin air." "Hold on!" said Ann again, and stopped, having reached the right spot. Then she swung the rope in the air, let it uncoil suddenly, and the loose end dropped fairly across Jennie Stone's lap. "Hold on!" yelled everybody, then, and Heavy obeyed. But the young fellow sprang to Ann's aid, and wrapped the slack of the rope around a stout sapling on the edge of the pond. "Easy! Easy!" he admonished. "We don't want to pull them out of the boat. You _can_ fling a rope; can't you, Miss?" "I'd ought to," grunted Ann. "I've roped enough steers--Why! you're Jerry Sheming," she declared, suddenly looking into his face. "Ruth Fielding wants to see you. Don't you run away before she talks with you." Then the rope became taut, and the punt began to swing shoreward slowly, taking in some water and setting the girls to screaming again. CHAPTER IX RUTH'S LITTLE PLOT The punt was in shallow water and the girls who had ventured into it without oars were perfectly safe before any of the teachers arrived. With them came Ruth and Helen, and some of the other juniors and seniors. Heavy took the stump. "Now! you see what she did?" cried the stout girl, seizing Ann in her arms the moment she could get ashore. "If she hadn't known how to fling a lasso, and rope a steer, she'd never have been able to send that rope to us. "Three cheers for Ann Hicks, the girl from the ranch, who knows what to do when folks are drowning in Buchane Pond! One--two--three----" The cheers were given with a will. Several of the girls who had treated the western girl so meanly about the dunce cap had been in the boat, and they asked Ann to shake hands. They were truly repentant, and Ann could not refuse their advances. But the western girl was still doubtful of her standing with her mates, and went back to play with the little ones. Meanwhile she showed Ruth where Jerry Sheming stood at one side, and the girl from the Red Mill ran to him eagerly. "I am delighted to see you!" she exclaimed, shaking Jerry's rough hand. "I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find you after you left the mill. And I wanted to." "I'm glad of your interest in me, Miss Ruth," he said, "but I ain't got no call to expect it. Mr. Potter was pretty kind to me, and he kept me as long as there was work there." "But you haven't got to tramp it, now?" "Only to look for a steady job. I--I come over this way hopin' I'd hit it at Lumberton. But they're discharging men at the mills instead of hiring new ones." "And I expect you'd rather work in the woods than anywhere else?" suggested Ruth. "Why--yes, Miss. I love the woods. And I got a good rifle and shotgun, and I'm a good camp cook. I can't get a guide's license, but I could go as assistant--if anybody would take me around Tallahaska." "Suppose I could get you a job working right where you've always lived--at Cliff Island?" she asked, eagerly. "What d'ye mean--Cliff Island?" he demanded, flushing deeply. "I wouldn't work for that Rufus Blent--nor he wouldn't have me." "I don't know anything about the man," said Ruth, smiling. "But one of my chums has invited me to go to Cliff Island for the Christmas holidays. Her father has bought the place and is building a lodge there." "Good lands!" ejaculated Jerry. "Isn't that a coincidence?" Ruth commented. "Now, you wouldn't refuse a job with Mr. Tingley; would you?" "Tingley--is that the name?" "Yes. Perhaps I can get him, through Belle, to hire you. I'll try. Would you go back?" "In a minute!" exclaimed Jerry. "Then I'll try. You see, in four or five weeks, we'll be going there ourselves. I think it would just be jolly to have you around, for you know all about the island and everything." "Yes, indeed, ma'am," agreed Jerry. "I'd like the job." "So you must write me every few days and let me know where you are. Mrs. Tellingham won't mind--I'll explain to her," Ruth said, earnestly. "I am not quite sure that I can go myself, yet. But I'll know for sure in a few days. And I'll see if Belle won't ask her father to give you work at Cliff Island. Then, in your off time, you can look for that box your uncle lost. Don't you see?" "Oh, Miss! I guess that's gone for good. Near as I could make out o' Uncle Pete, the landslide at the west end of the island buried his treasure box a mile deep! It was in one o' the little caves, I s'pose." "Caves? Are there caves on the island?" "Lots of 'em. Big ones as well as small. If Uncle Pete wasn't plumb crazy, he had his money and papers in a hide-out that I'd never found." "I see Miss Picolet coming this way. She won't approve of my talking with 'a strange young man' so long," laughed Ruth. "You let me know every few days where you are, Jerry?" "Yes, ma'am, I will. And thank you kindly." "You aren't out of funds? You have money?" "I've got quite a little store," said Jerry, smiling. "Thanks to that nice black-eyed girl that I helped out of the car window." "Oh! Ann Hicks. And she's being made much of, now, by the girls, because she knew how to fling a rope," cried Ruth, looking across the picnic ground to where her schoolmates were grouped. "She's all right," said Jerry, enthusiastically. "They ought to be proud of her--them that was in that boat." "It will break the ice for Ann," declared Ruth. "I am so glad. Now, I must run. Don't forget to write, Jerry. Good bye." She gave him her hand and ran back to join her school friends. Ann had gone about putting up the children's swing and at first had paid little attention to the enthusiasm of the girls who had been saved from going over the dam. But she could not ignore them altogether. "You're just the smartest girl I ever saw," Heavy declaimed. "We'd all be in the water, sure enough, if you hadn't got that rope to us. Come on, Ann! Be a sport. _Do_ wear your laurels kindly." "I'm just as 'dumb' about books as ever. Flinging that rope didn't make any difference," growled the western girl. "I don't care if you don't know your 'A.B., abs,'" cried one of the girls who had taken a prominent part in the dunce cap trick. "You make me awfully ashamed of myself for being so mean to you. Please forgive us all, Ann--that's a good girl." Ann was awkward about accepting their apologies; and yet she was not naturally a bad-tempered girl. She was just different from them all--and felt the difference so keenly! This sudden reversal of feeling, and their evident offer of friendliness, made her feel more awkward than ever. She remained very glum while at the picnic grounds. But, as Ruth had said, the incident served to break the ice. Ann had gotten her start. Somebody beside the "primes" gave her "the glad hand and the smiling eye." Briarwood began to be a different sort of place for the ranch girl. There were plenty of the juniors who looked down on her still; but she had "shown them" once that she could do something the ordinary eastern girl could not do and Ann was on the _qui vive_ for another chance to "make good" along her own particular line. She grew brighter and more self-possessed as the term advanced. Her lessons, too, she attacked with more assurance. A few days after Thanksgiving Ruth received a letter in Aunt Alvirah's cramped hand-writing which assured her that Uncle Jabez would make no objection to her accepting the invitation to go to Cliff Island for the holidays. "And I'll remind him of it in time so't he can send you a Christmas goldpiece, if the sperit so moves him," wrote Aunt Alvirah, in her old-fashioned way. "But do take care of yourself, my pretty, in the middle of that lake." In telling Belle how happy she was to accept the invitation for the frolic, Ruth diffidently put forward her request that Mr. Tingley give Jerry Sheming a job. "I am quite sure he is a good boy," she told Belle. "He has worked for my uncle, and Uncle Jabez praised him. Now, Uncle Jabez doesn't praise for nothing." "I'll tell father about this Jerry--sure," laughed Belle. "You're an odd girl, Ruth. You're always trying to do something for somebody." "Trying to do somebody for somebody, maybe," interposed Mercy, in her sharp way. "Ruth uses her friends for her own ends." But Ruth's little plot worked. A fortnight after Thanksgiving she was able to write to Jerry, who had found a few days' work near the school, that he could go back to Cliff Island and present himself to Mr. Tingley's foreman. A good job was waiting for him on the island where he had lived so long with his uncle, the old hunter. CHAPTER X AN EXCITING FINISH Affairs at Briarwood went at high speed toward the end of the term. Everybody was busy. A girl who did not work, or who had no interest in her studies, fell behind very quickly. Ann Hicks was spurred to do her best by the activities of her mates. She did not like any of them well enough--save those in the two neighboring quartette rooms in her dormitory building--to accept defeat from them. She began to make a better appearance in recitations, and her marks became better. They all had extra interests save Ann herself. Helen Cameron was in the school orchestra and played first violin with a hope of getting solo parts in time. She loved the instrument, and in the evening, before the electricity was turned on, she often played in the room, delighting the music-loving Ann. Sometimes Ruth sang to her chum's accompaniment. Ruth's voice was so sweet, so true and tender, and she sang ballads with such feeling, that Ann often was glad it was dark in the room. The western girl considered it "soft" to weep, but Ruth's singing brought the tears to her eyes. Mercy Curtis even gave up her beloved books during the hour of these informal concerts. Other times she would have railed because she could not study. Mercy was as hungry for lessons as Heavy Stone was for layer-cake and macaroons. "That's all that's left me," croaked the lame girl, when she was in one of her most difficult moods. "I'll learn all there is to be learned. I'll stuff my head full. Then, when other girls laugh at my crooked back and weak legs, I'll shame 'em by knowing more out of books." "Oh, what a mean way to put it!" gasped Helen. "I don't care, Miss! You never had your back ache you and your legs go wabbly--No person with a bad back and such aches and pains as I have, was ever good-natured!" "Think of Aunt Alvirah," murmured Ruth, gently. "Oh, well--she isn't just human!" gasped the lame girl. "She is very human, I think," Ruth returned. "No. She's an angel. And no angel was ever called 'Curtis,'" declared the other, her eyes snapping. "But I believe there must be an angel somewhere named 'Mercy,'" Ruth responded, still softly. However, it was understood that Mercy was aiming to be the crack scholar of her class. There was a scholarship to be won, and Mercy hoped to get it and to go to college two years later. Even Jennie Stone declared she was going in for "extras." "What, pray?" scoffed The Fox. "All your spare time is taken up in eating now, Miss." "All right. I'll go in for the heavyweight championship at table," declared the plump girl, good-naturedly. "At least, the result will doubtless be visible." Ann began to wonder what she was studying for. All these other girls seemed to have some particular object. Was she going to school without any real reason for it? Uncle Bill would be proud of her, of course. She practised assiduously to perfect her piano playing. That was something that would show out in Bullhide and on the ranch. Uncle Bill would crow over her playing just as he did over her bareback riding. But Ann was not entirely satisfied with these thoughts. Nor was she contented with the fact that she had begun to make her mates respect her. There was something lacking. She had half a mind to refuse Belle Tingley's invitation to Cliff Island. In her heart Ann believed she was included in the party because Belle would have been ashamed to ignore her, and Ruth would not have gone had Ann not been asked. To tell the truth Ann was hungry for the girls to like her for herself--for some attribute of character which she honestly possessed. She had never had to think of such things before. In her western home it had never crossed her mind whether people liked her, or not. Everybody about Silver Ranch had been uniformly kind to her. Belle's holiday party was to be made up of the eight girls in the two quartette rooms, with Madge Steele, the senior; Madge's brother, Bobbins, Tom Cameron, little Busy Izzy Phelps, and Belle's own brothers. "Of course, we've got to have the boys," declared Helen. "No fun without them." Mercy had tried to beg off at first; then she had agreed to go, if she could take half a trunkful of books with her. Briarwood girls were as busy as bees in June during these last few days of the first half. The second half was broken by the Easter vacation and most of the real hard work in study came before Christmas. There was going to be a school play after Christmas, and the parts were given out before the holidays. Helen was going to play and Ruth to sing. It did seem to Ann as though every girl was happy and busy but herself. The last day of the term was in sight. There was to be the usual entertainment and a dance at night. The hall had to be trimmed with greens and those girls--of the junior and senior classes--who could, were appointed to help gather the decorations. "I don't want to go," objected Ann. "Goosie!" cried Helen. "Of course you do. It will be fun." "Not for me," returned the ranch girl, grimly. "Do you see who is going to head the party? That Mitchell girl. She's always nasty to me." "Be nasty to her!" snapped Mercy, from her corner. "Now, Mercy!" begged Ruth, shaking a finger at the lame girl. "I wouldn't mind what Mitchell says or does," sniffed The Fox. "Fibber!" exclaimed Mercy. "I never tell lies, Miss," said Mary Cox, tossing her head. "Humph!" ejaculated the somewhat spiteful Mercy, "do you call yourself a female George Washington?" "No. Marthy Washington," laughed Heavy. "Only her husband couldn't lie," declared Mercy. "And at that, they say that somebody wished to change the epitaph on his tomb to read: 'Here lies George Washington--for the first time!'" "Everybody is tempted to tell a fib some time," sighed Helen. "And falls, too," exclaimed Mercy. "I must say I don't believe there ever was anybody but Washington that didn't tell a lie. It's awfully hard to be exactly truthful always," said Lluella. "You remember that time in the primary grade, just after we'd come here to Briarwood, Belle?" "Do I?" laughed Belle Tingley. "You fibbed all right then, Miss." "It wasn't very bad--and I did _want_ to see the whole school so much. So--so I took one of my pencils to our teacher and asked her if she would ask the other scholars if it was theirs. "Of course, all the other girls in our room said it wasn't," proceeded Lluella. "Then teacher said just what I wanted her to say: 'You may inquire in the other classes.' So I went around and saw all the other classes and had a real nice time. "But when I got back with the pencil in my hand still, Belle come near getting me into trouble." "Uh-huh!" admitted Belle, nodding. "How?" asked somebody. "She just whispered--right out loud, 'Lluella, that is your pencil and you know it!' And I had to say--right off, 'It isn't, and I didn't!' Now, what could I have said else? But it was an awful fib, I s'pose." The assembled girls laughed. But Ann Hicks was still seriously inclined not to go into the woods, although she had no idea of telling a fib about it. And because she was too proud to say to the teacher in charge that she feared Miss Mitchell's tongue, the western girl joined the greens-gathering party at the very last minute. There were two four-seated sleighs, for there was a hard-packed white track into the woods toward Triton Lake. Old Dolliver drove one, and his helper manned the other. The English teacher was in charge. She hoped to find bushels of holly berries and cedar buds as well as the materials for wreaths. One pair of the horses was western--high-spirited, hard-bitted mustangs. Ann Hicks recognized them before she got into the sleigh. How they pulled and danced, and tossed the froth from their bits! "I feel just as they do," thought the girl. "I'd love to break out, and kick, and bite, and act the very Old Boy! Poor things! How they must miss the plains and the free range." The other girls wondered what made her so silent. The tang of the frosty air, and the ring of the ponies' hoofs, and the jingle of the bells put plenty of life and fun into her mates; but Ann remained morose. They reached the edge of the swamp and the girls alighted with merry shout and song. They were all armed with big shears or sharp knives, but the berries grew high, and Old Dolliver's boy had to climb for them. Then the accident occurred--a totally unexpected and unlooked for accident. In stepping out on a high branch, the boy slipped, fell, and came down to the ground, hitting each intervening limb, and so saving his life, but dashing every bit of breath from his lungs, it seemed! The girls ran together, screaming. The teacher almost fainted. Old Dolliver stooped over the fallen boy and wiped the blood from his lips. "Don't tech him!" he croaked. "He's broke ev'ry bone in his body, I make no doubt. An' he'd oughter have a doctor----" "I'll get one," said Ann Hicks, briskly, in the old man's ear. "Where's the nearest--and the best?" "Doc Haverly at Lumberton." "I'll get him." "It's six miles, Miss. You'd never walk it. I'll take one of the teams----" "You stay with him," jerked out Ann. "I can ride." "Ride? Them ain't ridin' hosses, Miss," declared Old Dolliver. "If a horse has got four legs he can be ridden," declared the girl from the ranch, succinctly. "Take the off one on my team, then----" "That old plug? I guess not!" exclaimed Ann, and was off. She unharnessed one of the pitching, snapping mustangs. "Whoa--easy! You wouldn't bite me, you know," she crooned, and the mustang thrust forward his ears and listened. She dropped off the heavy harness. The bridle she allowed to remain, but there was no saddle. The English teacher came to her senses, suddenly. "That creature will kill you!" she cried, seeing what Ann was about. "Then he'll be the first horse that ever did it," drawled Ann. "Hi, yi, yi! We're off!" To the horror of the teacher, to the surprise of Old Dolliver, and to the delight of the other girls, Ann Hicks swung herself astride of the dancing pony, dug her heels into his ribs, and the next moment had darted out of sight down the wood road. CHAPTER XI A NUMBER OF THINGS There may have been good reason for the teacher to be horrified, but how else was the mustang to be ridden? Ann was a big girl to go tearing through the roads and 'way into Lumberton astride a horse. Without a saddle and curb, however, she could not otherwise have clung to him. Just now haste was imperative. She had a picture in her mind, all the way, of that boy lying in the snow, his face so pallid and the bloody foam upon his lips. In twenty-five minutes she was at the physician's gate. She flung herself off the horse, and as she shouted her news to the doctor through the open office window, she unbuckled the bridle-rein and made a leading strap of it. So, when the doctor drove out of the yard in his sleigh, she hopped in beside him and led the heaving mustang back into the woods. Of course she did not look ladylike at all, and not another girl at Briarwood would have done it. But even the English teacher--who was a prude--never scolded her for it. Indeed, the doctor made a heroine of Ann, Old Dolliver said he never saw her beat, and the boy, who was so sadly hurt (but who pulled through all right in the end) almost worshipped the girl from Silver Ranch. "And how she can ride!" the very girl who had treated Ann the meanest said of her. "What does it matter if she isn't quite up to the average yet in recitations? She _will_ be." This was after the holidays, however. There was too short a time before Belle Tingley and her friends started for Cliff Island for Ann to particularly note the different manner in which the girls in general treated her. The party went on the night train. Mr. Tingley, who had some influence with the railroad, had a special sleeper side-tracked at Lumberton for their accommodation. This sleeper was to be attached to the train that went through Lumberton at midnight. Therefore they did not have to skip all the fun of the dance. This was one of the occasions when the boys from the Seven Oaks Military Academy were allowed to mix freely with the girls of Briarwood. And both parties enjoyed it. Belle's mother had arrived in good season, for she was to chaperone the party bound for Logwood, at the head of Tallahaska Lake. She passed the word at ten o'clock, and the girls got their hand-baggage and ran down to the road, where Old Dolliver waited for them with his big sleigh. The boys walked into town, so the girls were nicely settled in the car when Tom Cameron and his chums reached the siding. Belle Tingley's two brothers were not too old to be companions for Tom, Bob, and Isadore Phelps. And they were all as eager for fun and prank-playing as they could be. Mrs. Tingley had already retired and most of the girls were in their dressing gowns when the boys arrived. The porter was making up the boys' berths as the latter tramped in, bringing on their clothing the first flakes of the storm that had been threatening all the evening. "Let the porter brush you, little boy," urged Madge, peering out between the curtains of her section and admonishing her big brother. "If you get cold and catch the croup I don't know what sister _will_ do! Now, be a good child!" "Huh!" grunted Isadore Phelps, trying to collect enough of the snow to make a ball to throw at her. "I wonder at you, Bobbins. Why don't you make her behave? Treatin' you like an over-grown kid." "I'd never treat _you_ that way, Master Isadore," said Madge, sweetly. "For you very well know that you're not grown at all!" At that Isadore _did_ gather snow--by running out for it. He brought back a dozen snowballs and the first thing the girls knew the missiles were dropping over the top of the curtains into the sheltered spaces devoted to the berths. There _was_ a great squealing then, for some of the victims were quite ready for bed, and the snow was cold and wet. Mrs. Tingley interfered little with the pranks of the young folk, and Izzy was careful not to throw any snow into _her_ compartment. But the tease did not know when to stop. He was usually that way--as Madge said, Izzy would drive a willing horse to death. It was Heavy and Ann, however, who paid him back in some of his own coin. The boys finally made their preparations for bed. Izzy paraded the length of the car in his big robe and bed slippers, for a drink of ice water. Before he could return, Heavy and Ann bounced out in their woolen kimonas and seized him. By this time the train had come in, the engine had switched to the siding, picked up their sleeper, and was now backing down to couple on to the train again. The two girls ran Izzy out into the vestibule, Heavy's hand over his mouth so that he could not shout to his friends for help. The door of the vestibule on the off side was unlocked. Ann pushed it open. The snow was falling heavily--it was impossible to see even the fence that bounded the railroad line on this side. The cars came together with a slight shock and the three were thrown into a giggling, struggling heap on the platform. "Lemme go!" gasped Izzy. "Sure we will!" giggled Heavy, and with a final push she sent him flying down the steps. Then she shut the door. She did not know that every other door on that side of the long train was locked. Almost immediately the train began to move forward. It swept away from the Lumberton platform, and it was fully a minute before Heavy and Ann realized what they had done. "Oh, oh, oh!" shrieked the plump girl, running down the aisle. "Busy Izzy is left behind." "Stop your joking," exclaimed Tom, peering out of his berth, which was an upper. "He's nothing of the kind." "He is! He is!" "Why, he's all ready for bed," declared one of the Tingley boys. "He wouldn't dare----" "We threw him out!" wailed Heavy. "We didn't know the train was to start so quickly." "Threw him off the train?" cried Mrs. Tingley, appearing in her boudoir cap and gown. "What kind of a menagerie am I supposed to preserve order in----?" "You can make bully good preserved ginger, Ma," said one of her sons, "but you fall short when it comes to preserving _order_." Most of the crowd were troubled over Isadore's absence. Some suggested pulling the emergency cord and stopping the train; others were for telegraphing back from the next station. All were talking at once, indeed, when the rear door opened and in came the conductor, escorting the shivering Isadore. "Does this--this _tyke_ belong in here?" demanded the man of brass buttons, with much emphasis. They welcomed him loudly. The conductor shook his head. The flagman on the end of the train had helped the boy aboard the last car as the train started to move. "Keep him here!" commanded the conductor. "And I've a mind to have both doors of the car locked until we reach Logwood. Don't let me hear anything more from you boys and girls on this journey." He went away laughing, however, and bye and bye they quieted down. Madge insisted upon making some hot composition, very strong, and dosing Isadore with it. The drink probably warded off a cold. Izzy admitted to Bobbins that a sister wasn't so bad to "have around" after all. While they slept, the car was shunted to the sidetrack at Logwood and the western-bound train went hooting away through the forest. It was still snowing heavily, there were not many trains passing through the Logwood yard, and no switching during the early part of the day. The snow smothered other sounds. Therefore, the party that had come to the lake for a vacation was not astir until late. It was hunger that roused them to the realities of life in the end. They had to dress and go to the one hotel of which the settlement boasted for breakfast. "Can't cross to the island on the ice, they say," Ralph Tingley ran in to tell his mother. "Weight of the snow has broken it up. One of the men says he'll get a punt and pole us over to Cliff Island if the snow stops so that he can see his way." "My! won't that be fun!" gasped Ann Hicks, who had overheard him. She had begun to enjoy herself the minute she felt that they were in rough country. Some of the girls wished they hadn't come. Ruth and Helen were already outside, snowballing with the boys. When Mrs. Tingley descended the car steps, ready to go to breakfast, her other son appeared--a second Mercury. "Mother, Mr. Preston is here. Says he'd like to see you." Mr. Preston was the foreman to whom Jerry Sheming had been sent for a job. Ruth, who overheard, remembered the man's name. Then she saw a man dressed in Canadian knit cap, tall boots, and mackinaw, and carrying a huge umbrella, with which he hurried forward to hold protectingly over Mrs. Tingley's head. "Glad to see you, ma'am," said the foreman. Ruth was passing them on her way to the hotel when she heard something that stayed her progress. "Sorry to trouble you. Mr. Tingley ain't coming up to-day?" "Not until Christmas morning," replied the lady. "He cannot get away before." "Well, I'll have to discharge that Jerry Sheming. Too bad, too. He's a worker, and well able to guide the boys and girls around the island--knows it like a book." "Why let him go, then?" asked the lady. "Blent says he's dishonest. An' I seen him snooping around rather funny, myself. Guess I'll have to fire him, Mis' Tingley." CHAPTER XII RUFUS BLENT'S LITTLE WAYS The crowd waded through the soft snow to the inn. It was a small place, patronized mainly by fishermen and hunters in the season. It was plain, from the breakfast they served to the Tingley party, that if the unexpected guests had to remain long, they would be starved to death. "And all the 'big eats' over on the Island," wailed Heavy. "I could swim there, I believe." "I am afraid I could not allow you to do that," said Mrs. Tingley, shaking her head. "It would be too absurd. We'd better take the train home again." "Never!" chorused Belle and her brothers. "We must get to Cliff Island in some way--by hook or by crook," added the girl, who had set her heart upon this outing. Ruth was rather serious this morning. She waited for a chance to speak with Mrs. Tingley alone, and when it came, she blurted out what she wished to say: "Oh, Mrs. Tingley! I couldn't help hearing what that man said to you. Must he discharge Jerry because Rufus Blent says so?" "Why, my dear! Oh! I remember. You were the girl who befriended the boy in the first place?" "Yes, I did, Mrs. Tingley. And I hope you won't let your foreman turn him off for nothing----" "Oh! I can't interfere. It is my husband's business, of course." "But let me tell you!" urged Ruth, and then she related all she knew about Jerry Sheming, and all about the story of the old hunter who had lived so many years on Cliff Island. "Mr. Tingley had a good deal of trouble over that squatter," said Belle's mother, slowly. "He was crazy." "That might be. But Jerry isn't crazy." "But they made some claim to owning a part of the island." "And after the old man had lived there for fifty years, perhaps he thought he had a right to it." "Why, my child, that sounds reasonable. But of course he didn't." "Just the same," said Ruth, "he maybe had the box of money and papers hidden on the island, as he said. That is what Jerry has been looking for. And I wager that man Blent is afraid he will find it." "How romantic!" laughed Mrs. Tingley. "But, do wait till Mr. Tingley comes and let him decide," begged Ruth. "Surely. And I will tell Mr. Preston to refuse any of Blent's demands. He is a queer old fellow, I know. And, come to think of it, he told us he wanted to make some investigations regarding the caves at the west end of the island. He wouldn't sell us the place without reserving in the deed the rights to all mineral deposits and to treasure trove." "What's 'treasure trove,' Mrs. Tingley?" asked Ruth, quickly. "Why--that would mean anything valuable found upon the land which is not naturally a part of it." "Like a box of money, or papers?" "Yes! I see. I declare, child, maybe the boy, Jerry, has told you the truth!" "I am sure he has. He seemed like a perfectly honest boy," declared Ruth, anxiously. "I will see Mr. Preston again," spoke Mrs. Tingley, decisively. The storm continued through the forenoon. But the boys and girls waiting for transportation to Cliff Island had plenty of fun. Behind the inn was an open field, and there they built a fort, the party being divided into opposing armies. Tom Cameron led one and Ann Hicks was chosen to head the other. Mercy could look at them from the windows, and urge the girls on in the fray. The boys might throw straighter, but numbers told. The girls could divide and attack the boy defenders of the fortress on both flanks. They came in rosy and breathless at noon--to sit down to a most heart-breaking luncheon. "Such an expanse of table and so little on it I never saw before," grumbled Heavy, in a glum aside. "How long do you suppose we would exist on these rations?" "We're not dead yet," said Ruth, cheerfully, "so you needn't become a 'gloom.'" "Jen ought to live on past meals--like a camel existing on its hump," declared Madge. "I'm no camel," retorted the plump one, instantly. "And a meal to me--after it has been digested--is nothing more than a beautiful dream; and you can bet that I never gained my avoirdupois by dreaming!" Mrs. Tingley beckoned to Ruth after dinner. Together they went into the general room, where there was a huge fire of logs. Mr. Preston, the foreman, was there. "I have been making inquiries," the lady explained to Ruth, "and I find that this Rufus Blent has not a very enviable reputation. At least, he is considered, locally, a sharper." "Is this the girl who is interested in Jerry?" asked the foreman. "Well! he ought to be all right if she sticks up for him." "I believe his story is true," Ruth said, shaking her head. "And if that's so, then the boss hasn't got a clear title to Cliff Island--eh?" returned the big foreman, smiling at her quizzically. "That isn't Mr. Tingley's fault," cried Ruth, quickly. "He'd be the one to suffer, however, if it should be proved that old Pete Tilton had any vested right in the island," said Preston. "You can bet Blent is sharp enough to have covered his tracks if he has done anything foxy. He was never caught yet in any legal tangle." "Oh, I hope Mr. Tingley won't have trouble up here," declared Mrs. Tingley, quite disturbed. Ruth felt rather embarrassed. As much as she was interested in Jerry Sheming, she did not like to think she was stirring up trouble for her school-mate's father. Just then the outer door of the inn opened and a man entered, stamping the snow from his boots upon the wire mat. "S-s-t!" said Preston, his eyes twinkling. "Here's Rufus Blent himself." It seemed that Mrs. Tingley had never seen the real estate man and she was quite as much interested as Ruth in making his acquaintance. They both eyed him with growing disapproval as the old man finished freeing his feet of the clinging snow and then charged at Preston from across the big room. "I say! I say, you, Preston!" he snarled. "Have you done what I tol' you? Have you got that Jerry Sheming off the island? He'd never oughter been let to git on there ag'in. I've been away, or I'd heard of it before. Is he off?" "Not yet," replied Preston, smiling secretly. "I wanter know why not? I won't have him snoopin' around there. It was understood when I sold Tingley that island that I reserved sartain rights----" "This here is Mis' Tingley," interposed Preston, turning the old man's attention to the lady. He was a brown, wrinkled old man, with sparse pepper-and-salt whiskers and a parrot-like nose. "Sharper" was written all over his hatchet features; but probably his provincialism and lack of book education had kept him from being a very dangerous villain. "I wanter know!" exclaimed Rufus. "So you're Tingley's lady? Wal! do you take charge here?" "Oh, no," laughed Mrs. Tingley. "My husband will be up here Christmas morning." "Goin' to have Preston send that boy back to the mainland?" "Oh, no, I shall not interfere. Mr. Tingley will attend to it when he comes. I think that would be best." "Nothin' of the kind!" cried Blent, his little eyes snapping. "That boy's got no business over there--snooping round." "What are you afraid of, Rufus? What do you think he'll find?" queried Preston, who was evidently not above aggravating the old fellow. "Never you mind! Never you mind!" croaked Blent. "If you folks won't discharge him and put him off the island, I'll do it, myself." "How can you, Mr. Blent?" asked Mrs. Tingley, feeling some disposition to cross swords with him. "Never you mind. I'll do it. Goin' back to-day, of course, Preston; ain't you?" "I'm hoping to get this crowd of young folk--and Mrs. Tingley--across to the island. And I think the snow is going to stop soon." "I'll go with you," declared Blent, promptly. "Don't you go till I see you again, Preston. I gotter ketch 'Squire Keller fust." He hurried out of the inn. Mrs. Tingley and Ruth looked at the foreman questioningly. The girl cried: "Oh! what will he do?" "He's going to get a warrant for the boy," answered Preston, scowling. "How can he? What has Jerry done?" "That don't make no difference," said the woodsman. "Old Rufus just about runs the politics of this town. Keller will do what he says. Rufus will get the boy off the island by foul means if he can't by fair." CHAPTER XIII FIGHTING FIRE WITH FIRE Ruth felt her heart swell in anger against Rufus Blent, the Logwood real estate man. If she had not been determined before to aid Jerry Sheming in every way possible, she was now. If there was a box of money and papers hidden on Cliff Island, once belonging to Pete Tilton, the old hunter, Ruth desired to keep Blent from finding it. She believed Jerry's story--about the treasure box and all. Rufus Blent's actions now seemed to prove the existence of such a box. He wanted to find it. But if the money and papers in the box had belonged to old Pete Tilton, surely Jerry, as his single living relative, should have the best right to the "treasure trove." How to thwart Blent was the question disturbing Ruth Fielding's mind. Of course, nobody but Jerry had as strong a desire as she to outwit the old real estate man. The other girls and boys--even Mrs. Tingley--would not feel as Ruth did about it. She knew that well enough. If anything was to be done to save Jerry from being arrested on a false charge and dragged from Cliff Island by Blent, _she_ must bring it about. Ruth watched the last flakes of the snow falling with a very serious feeling. The other young folk were delighted with the breaking of the weather. Now they could observe Logwood better, and its surroundings. The roughly built "shanty-town" was dropped down on the edge of the lake, in a clearing. Much of the stumpage around the place was still raw. The only roads were timber roads and they were now knee-deep in fresh snow. There was a dock with a good-sized steamer tied up at it, but there was too much ice for it to be got out into the lake. The railroad came out of the woods on one side and disappeared into just as thick a forest on the other. The interest of the young people, however, lay in the bit of land that loomed up some five miles away. Cliff Island contained several hundred acres of forest and meadow--all now covered with glittering white. At the nearer end was the new hunting lodge of the Tingleys, with the neighboring outbuildings. At the far end the island rose to a rugged promontory perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high, with a single tall pine tree at the apex. That western end of the island seemed to be built of huge boulders for the most part. Here and there the rocks were so steep that the snow did not cling to them, and they looked black and raw against the background of dazzling white. The face of the real cliff--because of which the island had received its name--was scarcely visible from Logwood. Jerry had told Ruth it was a very wild and desolate place, and the girl of the Red Hill could easily believe it. The crowd had left the inn as soon as the clouds began to break and a ray or two of sunshine shone forth. Two ox teams were breaking the paths through the town. The boys and girls went down to the dock, singing and shouting. Mrs. Tingley and the foreman came behind. Three other men were making ready a huge punt in which the entire party might be transported to the island. Later the punt would return for the extra baggage. This vehicle for water-travel was a shallow, skiff-like boat, almost as broad as it was long, and with a square bow and stern. There was a place for a short mast to be stepped, but, with the lake covered with drifting ice cakes, it was judged safer to depend upon huge sweeps for motive power. With these sweeps, not only could the punt be urged forward at a speed of perhaps two miles an hour, but the ice-cakes could be pushed aside and a channel opened through the drifting mass for the passage of the awkward boat. Mr. Preston had explained all this to Mrs. Tingley, who was used to neither the woods nor the lake, and she had agreed that this means of transportation to Cliff Island was sufficiently safe, though extraordinary. "Let's pile in and make a start," urged Ralph Tingley, eagerly. "Why! we won't get there by dark if we don't hurry." "And goodness knows we need to get somewhere to eat before long," cried Jennie Stone. "I am willing to help propel the boat myself, if they'll show me how." "You might get out and swim, and drag us behind you, Heavy," suggested one of the girls. "You're so anxious to get over to the island." They all were desirous of gaining their destination--there could be no doubt of that. As they were getting aboard, however, there came a hail from up the main street of Logwood. "Hi, yi! Don't you folks go without me! Hi, Preston!" "Here comes that Blent man," said Mrs. Tingley, with some disgust. "I suppose we must take him?" "Well, I wouldn't advise ye to turn him down, Mis' Tingley," urged the foreman. "No use making him your enemy. I tell you he's got a big political pull in these parts." "Is there room for him?" "Yes. And for the fellow with him. That's Lem Daggett, the constable. Oh, Rufe is going over with all the legal right on his side. He'll bring Jerry back here and shut him up for a few days, I suppose." "But on what charge?" Mrs. Tingley asked, in some distress. "That won't matter. Some trumped-up charge. Easy enough to do it when you have a feller like 'Squire Keller to deal with. Oh," said Preston, shaking his head, "Rufe Blent knows what he's about, you may believe!" "Who's the old gee-gee with the whiskers?" asked the disrespectful Isadore, when the real estate man came down to the dock, with the constable slouching behind him. "Hurry up, Grandpop!" shouted one of the Tingley boys. "This expedition is about to start." Blent scowled at the hilarious crowd. It was plain to be seen that any supply of milk of human kindness he may have had was long since soured. Ruth caught Tom Cameron's eye and nodded to him. Helen's twin was a very good friend of the girl from the Red Mill and he quickly grasped her wish to speak with him alone. In a minute he maneuvered so as to get into the stern with his sister's chum, and there Ruth whispered to him her fears and desires regarding Blent and Jerry Sheming. "Say! we ought to help that fellow. See what he did for Jane Ann," said Tom. "And that old fellow looks so sour he sets my teeth on edge, anyway." "He is going to do a very mean thing," declared Ruth, decidedly. "Jerry has done nothing wrong, I am sure." "We must beat the old fellow." "But how, Tom? They say he is all-powerful here at Logwood." "Let me think. I'll be back again," replied Tom, as the boys called him to come up front. The punt was already under way. Preston and his three men worked the craft out slowly into the drifting ice. The grinding of the cakes against the sides of the boat did not frighten any of the passengers--unless perhaps Mrs. Tingley herself. She felt responsible for the safety of this whole party of her daughter's school friends. The wind was not strong and the drift of the broken ice was slow. Therefore there was really no danger to be apprehended. The punt was worked along its course with considerable ease. The boys had to take their turns at the sweeps; but Tom found time to slip back to Ruth before they were half-way across to the island. "Too bad the old fellow doesn't fall overboard," he growled in Ruth's ear. "Isn't he a snarly old customer?" "But I suppose the constable has the warrant," Ruth returned, smiling. "So Mr. Blent's elimination from the scene would not help Jerry much." "I tell you what--you've got to fight fire with fire," observed Tom, after a moment of deep reflection. "Well? What meanest thou, Sir Oracle?" "Why, they haven't any business to arrest Jerry." "Agreed." "Then let's tip him off so that he can run." "Where will he run to?" demanded Ruth, eagerly. "Say! that's a big island. And I bet he knows his way all over it." "Oh! the caves!" exclaimed Ruth. "What's that?" "He told me there were caves in it. He can hide in one. And we can get food to him. Great, Tom--great!" "Sure it's great. When your Uncle Dudley----" "But how are we going to warn Jerry to run before this constable catches him?" interposed Ruth, with less confidence. "How? You leave that to me," Tom returned, mysteriously. CHAPTER XIV THE HUE AND CRY Ruth and Tom Cameron had no further opportunity of speaking together until the punt came very close to the island. Here the current ran more swiftly and the ice-blocks seemed to have been cleared away. There was a new stone dock, and up the slight rise from it, about a hundred yards back from the shore, was the heavily-framed lodge. It consisted of two stories, the upper one extending over the lower. Big beams crossed at the corners of this upper story and the outer walls were of roughly hewn logs. The great veranda was arranged for screening, in the summer, but now the west side was enclosed with glass. It was an expensive and comfortable looking camp. There were several men on the dock as the punt came in, but Jerry Sheming was not in sight. Tom had, from time to time, been seen whispering with the boys. They all now gathered in the bow of the slowly moving punt, ready to leap ashore the moment she bumped into the dock. "Do be careful, boys," begged Mrs. Tingley. "Don't fall into the water, or get hurt. I certainly shall be glad when Mr. Tingley comes up for Christmas and takes all this responsibility off my hands." "Don't have any fear for us, Mrs. Tingley, I beg," said Tom. "We're only going to scramble ashore, and the first fellow who reaches the house is the best man. Now, fellows!" The punt bumped. Such a scrambling as there was! Ann Hicks showed her suppleness by being one of the first to land and beating some of the boys; but she did not run with them. "They might have stayed and helped us girls--and Mrs. Tingley--to land," complained Helen. "I don't see what Tom was thinking of." But all of a sudden Ruth had an idea that she understood Tom's lack of gallantry. Jerry Sheming, not being at the dock to meet the newcomers, must be at the house. The boys, it proved later, had agreed to help "tip" Jerry. The first fellow to see him was to tell him of the approach of Blent and the constable. Therefore, when Rufus Blent and Lem Daggett reached the lodge, nobody seemed to know anything about Jerry. Tom winked knowingly at Ruth. "I tell ye, Preston, I gotter take that boy back to Logwood with me," shouted Blent, who seemed greatly excited. "Where are you hidin' the rascal?" "You know very well I came over with you in the boat and walked up here with you, Blent," growled the foreman, in some anger. "How could I hide him?" "But the cook, nor nobody, knows what's become of him. He was here peelin' 'taters for supper, cookie says, jest b'fore we landed. Now he's sloped." "He saw you comin', it's likely," rejoined Preston. "He suspected what you was after." "Well, I'm goin' to leave Daggett. And, Lem!" "Yes, sir?" said that slouching person. "You got to get him. Now mind that. The boy's to 'pear in 'Squire Keller's court to-morrow--or something will happen," threatened the real estate man. "And if he don't appear, what then?" drawled Preston, who was more amused by the old man than afraid of him. "You'd better not interfere with the course of the law, Preston," declared Blent, shaking his head. "You bet I won't. Especially the brand of law that's handed a feller by your man, Keller. But I don't know nothing about the boy nor where he's gone. I don't wanter know, either. "And none of they rest o' you wanter harbor that thief," snarled Blent, viciously, looking around at the gaping hired men and the boys who had come to visit Cliff Island. "The law's got a long arm. 'Member that!" "Will we be breaking the law if we don't report this poor fellow to the constable here, if we see him?" asked Tom Cameron, boldly. "You bet you will. And I'll see that you're punished if ye harbor or help the rascal. Don't think because Tingley's a rich man, and your fathers have probably more money than is good for them, that you will escape," said Blent. "I don't believe he's so powerful as he makes out to be," grumbled Tom, later, to Ruth. "_I_ was the one who caught Jerry and whispered for him to get out. I didn't have to say much to him. He was wise about Blent." "Where did he go?" asked the eager Ruth, quickly. "I don't know. I didn't want to know--and you don't, either." "But suppose something happens to him?" objected the girl, fearfully. "Why, he knows all about this island. You said so yourself. I just told him we'd get some grub to him to-morrow." "How?" "Told him we'd leave it at the foot of that tall pine at the far end of the island. Then he slipped out of the kitchen and disappeared." But Blent was a crafty old party and did not easily give up the pursuit of the young fellow he had come to the island to nab. The coat of fresh snow over everything made tracking the fugitive an easy task. After a few minutes of sputtering anger, the real estate man organized a pursuit of Jerry. He made sure that the forest youth had run out of the kitchen at about the time the visitors came up from the dock. "He ain't got a long start," said Blent to his satellite, the constable. "Let's see if he didn't leave tracks." He had. There was still an hour of daylight, although the winter evening was closing in rapidly. Jerry had left by the back door of the lodge and had gone straight across the yard, through the unbroken snow, to the bunkhouse used by the male help. There he had stopped for his rifle and shotgun, and ammunition. Indeed, he had taken everything that belonged to him, and, loaded down with this loot, had gone right up the hill, keeping in the scrub so as to be hidden from the big house, and had so passed over the rising ground toward the middle of the island. "The track is plain enough," Blent said. "Ain't ye got a dog, Preston? We could foller him all night." "Not with our dogs," declared the foreman. "Why not?" "Don't think the boss would like it. We don't keep dogs to hunt men with." "You better take care how you try to block the law," threatened the old man. "That boy's goin' to be caught." "Not with these dogs," grunted Preston. "You can put _that_ in your pipe and smoke it." Blent and the constable went off over the ridge. Ruth was so much interested that she stole out to follow them, and Ann Hicks overtook her before she had gotten far up the track. "Ruth Fielding! whatever are you doing?" demanded the girl from the Montana ranch. "Don't you know it will soon be night? Mrs. Tingley says for you to come back." "Do you suppose those horrid men will find Jerry?" "No, I don't," replied Ann, shortly. "And if they do----" "Oh! you're not as interested in him as I am," sighed Ruth. "I am sure he is honest and that Mr. Blent is telling lies about him. I--I want to see that they don't abuse him if they catch him." "Abuse him! And he a backwoods boy, with two guns?" snorted Ann. "Why, he wouldn't even let them arrest him, I don't suppose. _I_ wouldn't if I were Jerry." "But that would be dreadful," sighed Ruth. "Let's go a little farther, Ann." Dusk was falling, however, and when they got down the far side of the ridge they came to a swift, open water-course. Blent and the constable were evidently "stumped." Blent was snarling at their ill-luck. "He's took to the water--that's all _I_ know," drawled Lem Daggett, the constable. "Ye see, there ain't a mark in the snow on 'tother side." "Him wadin' in that ice-cold stream in mid-winter," grunted Blent. "Ain't he a scoundrel?" "Can't do nothin' more to-night," announced the constable, who didn't like the job any too well, it was evident. "And dorgs wouldn't do us no good." "Ha! ye know what ye gotter do," threatened Blent. "I'm goin' back to town when the punt goes this evenin'. But you stay here, an' you git the hue an' cry out after him to-morrer bright and early. "I don't want him rummagin' around this island at all. You understand? Not at all! It's up to you to git him, Lem Daggett." Daggett grunted and followed his master back to the lodge. The girls went on before and Ruth was delighted that, for a time, at least, Jerry was to have his freedom. "If it froze over solid in the night he could get to the mainland from the other end of the island, and then they'd never find him," she confided to Tom. But when morning came the surface of the lake was still a mass of loose and shifting ice. Lem demanded of Mrs. Tingley the help of all the men at the camp, and they started right away after breakfast to "comb" the island in a thorough manner. There wasn't a trace near the running stream to show in which direction the fugitive had gone. Had Jerry gone up stream he could have reached the very heart of the rough end of the island without leaving the water-trail. A party of the boys, with Ruth, Helen, and Ann Hicks, stole out of the lodge after the main searching party, and struck off for the high point where the lone pine tree grew. "I'd hate to think we'd draw that constable over there and help him to catch Jerry," said Bobbins. "We won't," Tom replied. "We are just going to leave the tin box of grub for him. He probably won't come out of hiding and try to get the food until this foolish constable has given up the chase. And I put the food in the tin box so that no prowling animal would get it instead of Jerry." It was hard traveling in the snow, for the party of young folk had not thought to obtain snowshoes. "We'll string some when we go back," Tom promised. "I know there are some frames all ready." "But no more such tobogganing as we had last winter up at Snow Camp," declared Busy Izzy, with deep feeling. "Remember the spill I had with Ruth and that Heavy girl? Gee! that was some spill." "The land here Is too rough for good sliding," said Tom. "But I wish the lake would freeze hard again. Ralph says there are a couple of good scooters, and we all have our skates." "And the fishing!" exclaimed Helen, eagerly. "I _do_ so want to fish through the ice again." "Oh! we're bound to have a bully good time," declared Bobbins. "But we'll do this Jerry Sheming a good turn, too, if we can." CHAPTER XV OVER THE PRECIPICE Under the soft snow that had fallen the day before was a hard-packed layer that had come earlier in the season and made a firm footing for the explorers. Ruth and her chum, with Ann Hicks, were quite as good walkers as the boys. At any rate, the three girls determined not to be at the end of the procession. The constable and his unwilling helpers (for none of the men about the Tingley camp cared to see Jerry Sheming in trouble) were hunting the banks of the stream higher up for traces of the trail the boy had taken when he ran away from Rufus Blent the previous afternoon. Therefore the girls and boys who had started for the rendezvous at the lone pine, were able to put the wooded ridge between them and the constable's party, and so make their way unobserved toward the western end of Cliff Island. "They may come back and follow us," growled Tom. "But they'll be some way behind, and we'll hurry. I have a note in this tin box warning Jerry what he must look out for. As long as that Lem Daggett is on the island, I suppose he will be in danger of arrest." "It is just as mean as it can be!" gasped Helen, plodding on. "The boys wouldn't leave much o' that constable if they caught him playin' tag for such a man as Blent, at Bullhide," Ann Hicks declared, with warmth. "This Blent," said Bobbins, seriously, "seems to have everybody about Logwood buffaloed. What do you suppose your father will say to the constable taking the men with him this morning to hunt Jerry down?" This question he put to Ralph Tingley and the latter flushed angrily. "You wait!" he exclaimed. "Father will be angry, I bet. I told mother not to let the men have anything to do with the hunt, but you know how women are. She was afraid. She said that if Blent and the constable were within their legal rights----" "All bosh!" snapped Isadore Phelps. "I do not think Mrs. Tingley would have let them go with Daggett if she'd had the least idea they would be able to find Jerry," observed Helen, sagely. "And they won't," put in Ruth, with assurance. "I know he can hide away on this island like a fox in a burrow." "But he'll find it mighty cold sleeping out, this weather," remarked Bobbins. "He sure will!" agreed Tom. The party went ahead as rapidly as possible, but even the stronger of the boys found it hard to climb the steeper ascents through the deep snow. "Crackey!" exclaimed Isadore. "I know I'm slipping back two steps to every one I get ahead." "Nonsense, Izzy," returned Helen. "For if you did _that_, you had better turn around and travel the other way; then you'd back up the hill!" They had to wait and rest every few yards. The rocks were so huge that they often had to go out of the way for some distance to get around them. Although it could not be more than five miles, as the crow flies, from the lodge to the lone pine, in two hours they still had the hardest part of the journey before them. "I had no idea we should be so long at it," Tom confessed. "It's lucky Heavy didn't come with us," chuckled Helen. "Why?" "She would have been starved to death before this, and the idea of going the rest of the distance before turning back for home and luncheon would have destroyed her reason, I am sure." "Then," said Ruth, amused by this extravagant language, "poor Heavy would have been first dead and then crazy! Consider an insane corpse!" They came out at last upon the foot of the last ascent. The eminence seemed to be a smooth, cone-shaped hill. On it grew a number of trees, but the enormous old pine, lightning-riven and dead at the top, stood much taller than any of the other trees. Here and there they caught glimpses of chasms and steep ravines that seemed to split the rocky island to the edge of the water. When the snow did not cover the ground there might be paths to follow, but at this time the young explorers had to use their judgment in climbing the heights as best they might. The boys had to help the girls up the steeper places, with all their independence, and even Ann admitted that their male comrades were "rather handy to have about." The old pine tree sprang out of a little hollow in the hill. Behind it was the peak of the island, and from this highest spot the party obtained an unobstructed view of the whole western end of Tallahaska. "It's one big old lake," sighed Isadore Phelps. "If it would only just freeze over, boys, and give us a chance to try out the iceboats!" "If it keeps on being as cold as it was this morning, and the wind dies down, there'll be all the ice you want to see to-morrow," declared Ralph Tingley. "Goodness! let's get down from this exposed place. I'm 'most frozen." "Shall we stop and make a fire here, girls, and warm up before we return?" asked Tom Cameron. "And draw that constable right to this place where you want to leave Jerry's tin box?" cried his sister. "No, indeed!" "We'd better keep moving, anyway," Ruth urged. "Less danger of frost-bite. The wind _is_ keen." Tom had already placed the box of food in a sheltered spot. "The meat will be frozen as solid as a rock, I s'pose," he grumbled. "I hope that poor fellow has some way of making a fire in his hide-out." They began to retrace their steps. Instead of following exactly the same path they had used in climbing to the summit, Tom struck off at an angle, believing he saw an easier way. His companions followed him in single file. Ruth happened to be the last of all to come down the smooth slope. The seven ahead of her managed to tramp quite a smooth track through the snow, and once or twice she slipped in stepping in their footprints. "Look out back there, Ruthie!" called Tom, from the lead. "The snow must have got balled on your boots. Knock it off----" His speech was halted by a startled cry from Ruth. She felt herself going and threw out both hands to say her sudden slide. But there was nothing for her hands to seize save the unstable snow itself. She fell on her side, and shot out from the narrow track her companions had trod. "Ruth!" shrieked Helen, in the wildest kind of dismay. But the girl of the Red Mill was already out of reach. The drifting snow had curled out over the brink of the tall rock across the brow of which Tom had unwisely led the way. They had not realized they were so near the verge of the precipice. Ruth's body was solid, and when she fell in the snow the undercrust broke like an eggshell. Amid a cloud of snow-dust she shot over the yawning edge of the chasm and disappeared. Several square yards of the snow-drift had broken away. At their very feet fell the unexpected precipice. The boys and girls shrank back from the peril with terrified cries, clinging to each other. "She is killed!" moaned Helen, and covered her face with her mittened hands. "Ruth! Ruth!" called Tom, charging back toward the broken snow-drift. But Bobbins caught and held him. "Don't make a fool of yourself, old man!" commanded the big fellow. "You can't help her by falling over the cliff yourself." "Oh! how deep can that place be?" gasped Ralph Tingley. "What will mother say?" cried his brother. "Ruth! Ruth!" shouted Ann Hicks, and dropped on her knees to crawl to the edge. "You'll be down there yourself, Ann!" exclaimed Helen, sobbing. "A couple of you useless boys grab me by the ankles," commanded the western girl. "Come! take a good hold. Now let me see----" She hung half over the verge of the rock. The fall was sheer for fifty feet at least. It was a narrow cut in the hill, with apparently unscalable sides and open only toward the lake. "I--I don't see a thing," panted the girl. "Shout again," urged Helen. "Let's all shout together!" cried Isadore. "Now!" They raised their voices in a long, lingering yell. Again and again they repeated it. They thought nothing now of the possibility of attracting the constable and his companions to the scene. Meanwhile nothing but the echoes replied to their hail. Down there in the chasm Ann Hicks saw no sign of the lost girl. The bottom of the place seemed heaped high with snow. "She plunged right into the drift, and perhaps she's smothered down there," gasped Ann. "Oh! what shall we do?" "If it's a deep drift Ruth may not be hurt at all," cried Tom. "Do let me look, Ann. That's a good girl." The western girl was drawn back and the boy took her place. Bobbins and Ralph Tingley let Tom slide farther over the verge of the precipice than they had Ann. "She went down feet first," panted Tom. "There isn't an obstruction she could have hit. She must have dropped right into the snowbank in the bottom--Ruth! Ruth Fielding!" But even his sharp eyes could discover no mark in the snow. Nothing of the lost girl appeared above the drift at the foot of this sheer cliff. She might have been smothered under the snow, as Ann suggested. And yet, that scarcely seemed probable. Surely the fall into the soft drift could not have injured Ruth fatally. She must have had strength enough to struggle to the surface of the snow. Her disappearance was a most mysterious thing. When Tom crept back from the brink of the precipice and stood on his feet again, they all stared at one another in growing wonder. "What could have happened to her down there?" groaned Helen, her own amazement stifling her sobs. CHAPTER XVI HIDE AND SEEK Ruth had fallen with but a single shriek. From top to bottom of the precipice had been such a swift descent that she could not cry out a second time. And the great bank of snow into which she had plunged did--as Ann suggested--smother her. The shock of dropping fifty feet through the air, and landing without experiencing anything more dangerous than a greatly accelerated heart-action was enough, of itself, to make the girl of the Red Mill dumb for the moment. She heard faintly the frightened cries of her companions, and she struggled to get to the surface of the great, soft heap of snow that had saved her from instant death. Then she heard a voice pronounce her name, and a hand was thrust into the snow bank and seized her shoulder. "Ruth Fielding! Miss Ruth! That come nigh to being your last jump, that did!" "Jerry Sheming!" gasped the girl, as he drew her out of the snow. "In here--quick! Are they after me?" Ruth shook the snow from her eyes. She was like a half-drowned person suddenly coming to the surface. "Where--where are we?" she whispered. "All right! This is one of my hide-outs. Is that old Blent up yonder?" "Oh, Jerry! he's not on the island to-day. He's left the constable----" "Lem Daggett?" "Yes. They are searching for you. But I was with Tom and Helen and the others. We brought you some food----" He led her along a narrow shelf, which had been swept quite free of snow. Now a hollow in the rock-wall opened before them, and there a little fire of sticks burned, an old buffalo robe lay nearby, and there were other evidences of the fugitive's camp. Ruth was shaking now, but not from the cold. The shock of her fall had begun to awaken the nervous terror which is the afterclap of such an adventure. So near she had been to death! "You are sick, Miss Ruth?" exclaimed Jerry. "Oh, no! Oh, no!" repeated the girl of the Red Mill. "But so--so frightened." "Nothin' to be frightened over now," he returned, smiling broadly. "But you _did_ miss it close. If that pile of snow hadn't sifted down there yesterday----" "I know!" burst out Ruth. "It was providential." "You girls and boys want to be careful climbing around these rocks," said Jerry Sheming, gravely. At that moment the chorus of shouts from above reached their ears. Ruth turned about and her lips opened. She would have replied, but the backwoods boy leaped across the fire and seized her arm. "Don't make a sound!" he exclaimed. "Oh! Jerry----" "If that constable hears----" "He isn't with us, I tell you," said Ruth. "But wait. He might hear. I don't want him to find this place," spoke the boy, eagerly. "He may be within hearing." "No. I think not," Ruth explained. Then she told Jerry of the morning's hunt for him and the course followed by both parties. He shook his head for a moment, and then ran to a shelf at the other side of the little cavern. "I'll communicate with your friends. I'll make them understand. But we mustn't shout. Lem Daggett may be within hearing." "But I can't stay with you here, Jerry," objected the girl. "Of course you can't, Miss. I will get you out--another way. You'll see. But we'll explain to your friends above and they will stop yelling then. If they keep on that way they'll draw Lem Daggett here, if he isn't already snooping around." Meanwhile Jerry had found a scrap of paper and a pencil. He hurriedly wrote a few lines upon the paper. Then he produced a heavy bow and a long arrow. The message he tied around the shank of the arrow. "Oh! can you shoot with that?" cried Ruth, much interested. "Reckon so," grinned Jerry. "Uncle Pete wouldn't give me much powder and shot when I was a kid. And finally I could bring home a bigger bag of wild turkeys than he could, and all I had to get 'em with was this bow'n'arrer." He strung the bow, and Ruth saw that it took all his strength to do it. The boys and girls were still shouting for her in a desultory fashion. Jerry laid his finger on his lips, nodded at his visitor, and stepped swiftly out of sight along the cleared shelf of rock. Ruth left the fire to peer after him. She saw him bend the bow and saw the swift flight of the arrow as it shot out of the chasm and curved out of sight beyond the broken edge of the snow-wreath which masked the summit of the cliff. She heard the clamor of her friends' voices as they saw the arrow shoot over their heads. Then they were silent. Jerry ran back to her and unstrung the bow, putting it away in its niche. But from the same place he produced a blue-barrelled rifle. "I know you won't tell Blent, or any of them, how to reach me, Miss Ruth," he said, looking at her with a smile. "I guess not!" exclaimed the girl. "I am going to show you the way out--to the other end. I wish you were wearing rubber boots like me." "Why?" "So you could wade in the stream when we come to it. That's how I threw them off the track," explained Jerry, laughing. "Why, I know this old island better than Uncle Pete himself knowed it." "And yet you haven't found the box you say your uncle hid?" asked Ruth, curiously. "No. I never knowed anything about it until Blent came to drive us off and swore that Uncle Pete had never had nothin' but 'squatter rights.' But I'm not sure that I couldn't find that place where Uncle Pete hid his treasure box--if I had time to hunt for it," added Jerry, gravely. "That's what Mr. Blent is afraid of," declared Ruth, with conviction. "That's why he is afraid of your being here on the island." "You bet it is, Miss." "And we boys and girls will do everything we can to help you, Jerry," Ruth assured him, warmly. "If you think you can find the place where your uncle hid his papers----" "But suppose I find them and the papers show that this Mr. Tingley hasn't a clear title to the island?" demanded the backwoods boy, looking at the girl of the Red Mill sharply. "Why should _that_ make a difference?" asked Ruth, coolly. "Well--you know how some of these rich folks be," returned the boy, dropping his gaze. "When it comes to hittin' their pocketbooks----" "That has nothing to do with it. Right is right." "Uh-huh!" grunted Jerry. "But sometimes they don't want to lose money any quicker than a poor man. If he's paid for the island----" "I don't see how he can lose," declared Ruth, quickly. "If Blent has claimed a title that cannot be proved, Blent will have to lose." "I bet Mr. Tingley didn't buy without having the title searched," observed Jerry. "Blent's covered his tracks. He'll declare he was within his rights, probably having bought Uncle Pete's share of the island through some dummy. You know, when deeds aren't recorded, it's mighty hard to establish them as valid. I know. I axed our town clerk. And he is one man that ain't under Blent's thumb." "I don't believe Mr. Tingley is a man who would stand idle and see you cheated even if he lost money through defending you," said Ruth, firmly. "Do you know him?" "No. I have never met him," Ruth admitted. "But his wife is a very nice lady. And Belle and the boys----" "Business is business," interrupted Jerry, shaking his head. "I don't want Tingley to know where I be--yet awhile, anyway." "But may I talk with him about you?" "Why--if you care enough to, Miss Ruth." "Of course I do," cried the girl. "Didn't I tell you we all want to help you?" and she stamped her foot upon the warm rock. "We'll bring you food, too. We'll see that the constable doesn't get you." "Well, it's mighty nice of you," admitted the suspicious young woodsman. "Now, come on. I'll take you through my hide-out to the creek. I told your friends you'd meet 'em there, and we want to get there by the time they arrive." "Oh, Jerry! that's a long way off," cried Ruth. "Not so very long by the way we'll travel," he returned, with a laugh. And this proved to be true. Jerry lighted a battered oil lantern and with his rifle in the other hand led the way. A narrow passage opened out of the back of this almost circular cave. Part of the time they traveled through a veritable tunnel. At other times Ruth saw the clear sky far above them as they passed along deep cuts in the hills. The descent was continuous, but gradual. Such a path wild animals might have traveled in times past. Originally it was probably a water-course. The action of the water had eaten out the softer rock until almost a direct passage had been made from the bottom of the cliff where Ruth had fallen to the edge of the swift stream that ran through the middle of the island. They came out behind a screen of thick brush through which Ruth could see the far bank of the brook, but through which nobody outside could see. Jerry set down the lantern, and later leaned the rifle against the wall when he had made sure that nobody was in sight. "I am going to carry you a ways, Miss Ruth," he said, "if you don't mind. You see, I must walk in the stream or they will find this entrance to my hide-out." "But--can you carry me?" "I bet you! If you only wore rubber boots I'd let you walk. Come on, please." "Oh! I am not afraid," she told him, quietly, and allowed him to take her into his arms after he had stepped down into the shallow, swiftly lowing current. "This water-trail confuses men and dogs completely," said Jerry, with a laugh. "That is--such men as Lem Daggett. If _I_ was hunting a fellow who took to the stream, with the water so shallow, I'd find which way he went in a jiffy." "How would you?" demanded Ruth, feeling perfectly secure in the strong arms of the young fellow. "That's telling," chuckled Jerry. "Mebbe--some time--I'll tell you. I hoped I'd get the chance of showing you and your friends around this island. But I guess I won't." "Perhaps you will. And if there is anything we can do to help you----" "Just one thing you might do," remarked Jerry, finally setting her upright upon a flat rock on the side of the stream nearest the hunting camp, and some distance away from the secret entrance to his hide-out. "Oh! what is that?" cried Ruth, eagerly. "Find me a pickax, or a mattock, and put it right here on this rock. Do it at night, so no one will see you. Good bye, Miss!" he exclaimed, and hurried away. In another minute he had disappeared behind the screen of bushes, and Ruth heard the glad shouts of her friends as they came over the ridge and saw her standing safe and sound beside the stream. CHAPTER XVII CHRISTMAS MORNING "How under the sun did you get here, Ruth?" Helen shouted the moment she saw her chum. "Did that Jerry Sheming bring you?" demanded Ann. The other members of the party were quite as anxious to learn the particulars of her adventure, and when they had crossed on the stepping stones, they gathered about her eagerly. Ruth would tell just so much and no more. She explained how she had fallen into the snow-drift at the foot of the cliff, how Jerry had heard her scream and pulled her out. But beyond that she only said he had left her here to wait their coming. "You needn't be so mysterious, Miss!" ejaculated Helen, rather piqued. "I guess she doesn't want to say anything about his hide-out that might lead to his being hunted out by Lem Daggett," observed the wise Tom. "But Jerry signed his name to the note he tied on the arrow." "And we sure were surprised when we saw that arrow shoot up from the depths," said Isadore. "What do you suppose mother will say?" cried one of the Tingley boys. "Don't let's tell her," suggested Ruth, quickly. "There's no need. It will only add to her worries and she will be troubled enough by us as it is." "But----" "You see, I'm not a bit hurt," insisted Ruth. "And the less we talk about the matter the less likely we shall be to drop something that may lead to the discovery of Jerry Sheming's hiding place." "Oh, well, if you put it that way," agreed Ralph. "I suppose mother will have all the trouble she wants. And maybe if she knew, she'd keep you girls away from this end of the island." They tramped home to a late luncheon. It was so very cold that afternoon and evening that they were only too glad to remain in the house and "hug the fire." The inclement weather drove Lem Daggett and the men indoors, too. The constable had to go back to Logwood without his prisoner, and he evidently feared the anger of Rufus Blent. "I want to warn ye, Mis' Tingley," he said to the lady of the lodge, shaking his head, "that when Blent sets out ter do a thing, he does it. That boy's got to be found, and he's got to be kep' off this island." "I will see what my husband says when he comes," replied Mrs. Tingley, firmly. "I will not allow our men to chase the poor fellow further." "You'd better ketch him and signal us at Logwood. Run up that flag on the pole outside. I'll know what you mean." "Mr. Tingley will decide when he comes," was all the satisfaction the lady gave the constable. After he had gone, Mrs. Tingley told Ruth she hoped no harm would come to the poor boy, "sleeping out in the cold alone." "Oh, Mrs. Tingley! I know he has a warm, dry place to sleep, and plenty of firewood--heaps and heaps of it." "You seem to know a good deal about him," the lady commented. "Yes, I do," admitted Ruth, honestly. "More about him and where he is hiding than he would care to have me tell you." So Mrs. Tingley did not catechise the girl further upon the subject of the fugitive. Just because they were shut in was no reason why the house party on Cliff Island should not have an extraordinarily good time. They played games and had charades that evening. They had a candy pull, too, but unlike that famous one at Snow Camp the winter before, Busy Izzy Phelps did not get a chance to put the walnut shells into the taffy instead of the kernels. The wind died down and it grew desperately cold during the night. The mercury soon left the zero point so far above that it threatened to be lost for the rest of the winter. They awoke the next morning to find the island chained fast to the mainland by old Jack Frost's fetters. A sheet of new ice extended for some hundreds of yards all around Cliff Island. Farther out the ice was of rougher texture, but that near at hand was clear and black. Out came the skates soon after breakfast, and everybody but Mercy went down to the lake. Later the boys made the lame girl and Mrs. Tingley come, too, and they arranged chairs in which the two non-skaters could be pushed over the smooth surface. Hockey was the game for the afternoon, and two "sides" were chosen to oppose each other, one of the boys and another of the girls. Although Ann Hicks had never had a hockey stick in her hand before, she quickly got into the game, and they all had a very merry time. The day before Ruth had not been able to find the implement that Jerry Sheming had spoken about, nor could she find a mattock, or pickax, on this second day. If she went to the toolshed and hunted for the thing herself she was afraid her quest would be observed by some of the men. She located the place where the tools were kept, but the shed was locked. However, there was a window, and that window could be easily slid back. Ruth shrank from attempting to creep in by it. "Just the same, I told him I'd get it--at least, I told myself I'd get it for him," thought the girl of the Red Mill. "And I will." Of course, Mrs. Tingley would have allowed her to borrow the tool, but it would have aroused comment had it become known that Jerry wanted it. "It must be that he really thinks now he knows where his uncle hid the treasure box. He wants to dig for it," was Ruth's thought. Yet she remembered that Jerry had said all along the old man had seemingly gone mad because his treasure box was buried under a landslide. She asked Mr. Preston, the foreman of the camp, where the landslide had occurred. "Why, right over yonder, little lady," explained the woodsman. "If the snow wasn't on the ground, you could easy see the scar of it down that hillside," and he pointed to a spot just beyond the secret opening of Jerry's cave. "The dirt and rock was heaped up so at the foot of the slide that the course of the brook was changed. That slide covered a monster lot of little caves in the rock," pursued the man. "But I expect there's others of 'em left and that Jerry's hidin' out in one now," he added, looking at Ruth with shrewd gaze. Ruth took him no further into her confidence. She felt that she must have somebody to help her, however, and naturally enough she chose Tom. Helen's twin thought a great deal of Ruth Fielding, and was never ashamed of showing this feeling before the other boys. On her side, Ruth felt that Tom Cameron was just about right. Nor was she mistaken in him when she placed her difficulty before the lad. Help her? Of course he would! They agreed to make the raid upon the toolshed that evening when the others were busily filling stockings and trimming the huge Christmas tree set up in the main hall of the hunting lodge. Ruth beckoned to her fellow-conspirator and Tom slipped out of the hall by one door while she made the outer air by another. The kitchen girls and the men hired about the camp were all in the big hall watching the fun, or aiding in decorating the lodge. Nobody saw Ruth and Tom. It was a very cold evening. There was a hazy moon and brilliant stars, but they did not think anybody would see their efforts to aid Jerry Sheming. Nevertheless, Ruth and Tom were very circumspect. They crept behind the toolshed and looked all about to make sure that nobody was watching. There was no light in the bunkhouse or in the cook's cabin. Although the toolshed was so carefully locked, Ruth knew that the window could be opened. Tom quickly slipped back the sash, and then dived into the dark interior of the place, head first. The moment he was on his feet, however, he drew from his pocket the electric spotlight he had supplied himself with, and flashed the ray about the shed. "Good! here's either one you want--pickax or mattock," were the words he whispered to Ruth. "Which do you suppose he would like best?" "A mattock is more practical, I believe," said Tom. "'Maddox,' they call it. We had a fellow working for us once who called it a 'mad-ax.' It has a broad blade and can be used to chop as well as dig." "Never mind giving a lecture on it," laughed Ruth, very softly, "hand it out." Tom chuckled and did as he was bid. In a minute he was with her and picked up the heavy implement. "I hope they don't come hunting for us," said the girl of the Red Mill, breathlessly. "We must take that risk. Come on, Ruth. Or do you want me to take it down to the brookside alone?" "I want to go along, too. Oh, dear! I do hope he will find it." "I have another cracker box full of food for him," said Tom. "I reckon he will be on the lookout for the pick, so he'll find the food, too." After a good deal of climbing, they reached the flat rock by the brookside where Jerry Sheming had requested Ruth to leave the mattock. There was no sign of the fugitive about. Ruth did not tell Tom where the mouth of the secret tunnel lay--nor did Tom ask for information. As they hurried back, mounting the ridge that separated the lodge and its outbuildings from the middle of the island, Ruth, looking back, suddenly grabbed Tom's hand. "See! see there!" she cried. Tom looked in the direction to which she pointed. The stars gave light enough for them to see miles across the ice. Several black figures were hurrying toward the western end of the island from the direction of the mainland--the southern shore of the lake. "Who do you suppose those men are?" asked Ruth, faintly. Tom shook his head slowly. "I expect it's Lem Daggett, the constable, and others to hunt for poor Jerry. I feel almost sure that the man in the lead is Daggett." "Isn't that mean?" exclaimed Ruth, her voice shaking. "It is. But I don't believe they will find Jerry very easily." Just the same, Ruth was not to be comforted. She was very quiet all the rest of the evening. Her absence, and Tom's, had not been noticed. The crowd went to bed before eleven, having spent a most delightful Christmas Eve. Ruth sat at a window that overlooked a part of the island. Once she saw the men who had crossed from the mainland climbing the hill toward the lone pine. "I hope they won't find a trace of him!" she murmured as she popped into bed. Ruth slept as soundly as any of her mates. A clanging bell at six o'clock aroused the whole household. The sun was not yet up, but there was a streak of gold across the eastern sky. It was Christmas morning. Ruth ran again to the west window. A pillar of smoke rose straight from a hollow on the higher part of the island. The searching party was still there. There was no time now to think of Jerry Sheming and his affairs. The girls raced to see who should dress first. Downstairs there were "loads" of presents waiting for them, so Belle declared. "Come on!" cried Heavy, leading the way. "Ready all? March!" The nine girls started through the hall and down the broad stairway in single file. Heavy began to cheer and the others chimed in: "'S.B.--Ah-h-h! S.B.--Ah-h-h! Sound our battle-cry Near and far! S.B.--All! Briarwood Hall! Sweetbriars, do or die-- This be our battle-cry-- Briarwood Hall! _That's All_!'" So sounding the Sweetbriars' challenge, they met the grinning boys at the foot of the flight, before the huge, sparkling tree. "Gee!" exclaimed Tom. "I'm mighty glad I suggested that name for your secret society, Ruth. 'Sweetbriars'--it just fits you." CHAPTER XVIII FUN ON THE ICE Of course, the girls had prepared one another's presents long before. Each had been tied in a queer bundle so, in trimming the tree, the nature of the contents could not be guessed. The oddest shaped things hung from the branches of the Christmas tree, and the boys had excelled in making up these "surprise packages." Mrs. Tingley handed the presents out, while the boys lifted them down for her. A long, tightly rolled parcel, which looked as though it ought to contain an umbrella, and was marked "To Helen from Tom," finally proved to contain a jeweler's box, in which nestled a pretty ring, which delighted his twin. A large, flat package, big enough to hold a large kite, was carefully opened by Belle, who finally found in it, among the many tissue wrappings, a pretty set of hair combs set with stones. In a roughly-done-up parcel was a most disreputable old shoe addressed to Lluella. She was going to throw it out, but the boys advised her so strongly not to that she finally burrowed to the toe and found, to her amazement, a gold bracelet. There was a good-sized box for Ann Hicks--just as it had come from the express office at Lumberton a week before. Having been addressed in Mrs. Tellingham's care, the western girl had known nothing about it. Now it was opened last. It had come all the way from Silver Ranch, of course. Such a set of furs no girl at Briarwood possessed. There were a number of other presents from the cowboys, from Mrs. Sally, and from Bashful Ike himself. Ann was so pleased and touched that she ran away to hide her tears. There were presents for each of the girls and boys who had been at Bullhide the previous summer. Bill Hicks had forgotten nobody, and, as Mrs. Tellingham had once said, the ranchman certainly was a generous man. No member of the house party was overlooked on this bright Christmas morning. Mercy's presents were as costly and numerous as those of any other girl. Besides, the lame girl had been able to give her mates beautiful little keepsakes that expressed her love for them quite as much as would have articles that cost more money. Her presents to the boys were funny, including a jumping jack on a stick to Isadore, the face of which Mercy had whittled out and painted to look a good deal like the features of that active youth. For two hours the young folk reveled in their presents. Then suddenly Heavy smelled the breakfast coffee and she led the charge to the long dining room. They were in the midst of the meal when Mr. Tingley himself arrived, having reached Logwood on the early train and driven across the ice in a sleigh. The Tingley young people met him hilariously. He was a big, bewhiskered man, with a jolly laugh and amiable manner. His eye could flash, too, if need be, Ruth judged. And almost at once she had an opportunity of seeing him stern. "What crowd is that over at the west end of the island?" he asked his wife. "I see they have a fire. There must be four or five men there. Is it some of Blent's doings?" "Oh, Dad!" cried Ralph Tingley, eagerly. "You ought to stop that. Those fellows are hunting Jerry Sheming." "Who is Jerry Sheming?" he asked, quickly. Mrs. Tingley explained briefly. "I remember now," said her husband. "And this is the young lady who spoke a good word for the boy in the first place?" and he beckoned the eager Ruth to them. "What have you to say for your protégé now, Miss?" "Everything that is good," declared the girl of the Red Mill, quickly. "I am sure he is not at all the sort of boy this man Blent would have you believe. And perhaps, Mr. Tingley, his old uncle _may_ have had some title to a part of this island." "That puts _me_ in bad, then--eh?" chuckled Mr. Tingley. "Unless Mr. Blent has cheated you, sir," suggested Ruth, hesitatingly. "He's a foxy old fellow. But I believe I have safeguarded myself. This trouble about something being buried on the island--Well! I don't know about that." "I believe Jerry really has some idea now where his uncle put the box. Even if the old hunter _was_ crazy, he might have had some valuables. And surely Jerry has a better right to the box than Blent," Ruth said, indignantly. "I'll see about that. Just as soon as I have had breakfast, I'll take Preston and go over and interview this gang of Blent's henchmen. I am not at all sure that he has any right to hunt the boy down, warrant or no warrant!" That was when he looked grim and his eyes flashed. Ruth felt that her friend's father was just the man to give Jerry Sheming a fair deal if he had the chance. When the boys proposed getting out the two iceboats and giving the girls a sail (for the wind was fresh), Ruth was as eager as the others to join in the sport. Not all the girls would trust themselves to the scooters, but there were enough who went down to the ice to make an exceedingly hilarious party. Ralph Tingley and Tom Cameron were the best pilots. The small iceboats were built so that two passengers could ride beside the steersman and sheet tender. So the girls took turns in racing up and down the smooth ice on the south side of the island. Ruth and Helen liked to go together with Tom, who had Busy Izzy to tend sheet. It was "no fair" if one party traveled farther than from the dock to the mouth of the creek and back again. The four friends--Ruth and her chum, and Tom and Busy Izzy--were making their second trip over the smooth course. Bobbins, with his sister and The Fox, and Ralph Tingley, manned the other boat. The two swift craft had a splendid race to the mouth of that brook which, because of its swiftness, still remained unshackled by the frost. The shallow stream of water poured down over the rocks into the lake, but there was only a small open place at the point where the brook emptied into its waters into the larger and more placid body. When the two iceboats swung about, the one Bobbins manned got away at once and swiftly passed down the lake. The sheet fouled in Tom's boat. Busy Izzy had to drop the sail and the boat was brought to a halt. "There are Mr. Tingley and Preston going over to talk to the constable and his crowd," remarked Isadore. "See yonder?" "I hope he sends those men off the island. I don't see what right they have here, anyway," Helen exclaimed. "If only Jerry knows enough to keep under cover while they are here," said Tom, looking meaningly at Ruth. They both wondered if the fugitive had ventured out of his cave to find the mattock and box of food they had left for him the evening before. The craft was under way again in a minute or two, and they swept down the course in the wake of the other boat. Suddenly the sharp crack of a rifle echoed across the island. Helen screamed. Ruth risked the boom and sat up to look behind. "There's a fight!" yelled Busy Izzy. "I believe they're after Jerry." They saw Mr. Tingley and Preston hastening their steps toward the brook. As the iceboat swept out farther from the shore, the four friends aboard her could see several men running in the same direction. One bore a smoking gun in his hand. "Right towards that rock, Ruthie!" gasped Tom, venturing a glance behind him. "What rock do you mean?" demanded his sister. "The rock where you folks found me the other day. It's near the opening to Jerry's cave. I see them!" "'Ware boom!" yelled Tom, and shifted his helm. The great sail went slowly over; the iceboat swooped around like a great bird skimming the ice. Then, in a minute, it was headed back up the lake toward the scene of the trouble. Another rifle shot echoed across the ice. CHAPTER XIX BLENT IS MASTER Ruth was truly frightened, and so was her chum. Could it be possible that those rough men dared fire their guns at Jerry Sheming? Or was the poor boy foolish enough to try to frighten his pursuers off with the weapons which Ruth very well knew he had in the cave with him? "Oh, I'm glad Mr. Tingley's here to-day," cried Busy Izzy. "He'll give that Lem Daggett what's coming to him--that's what _he'll_ do!" "Hope so," agreed Tom, grimly. The latter brought the iceboat into the wind near the shore, and Isadore dropped the sail again. They all tumbled out and ran up the bank. A little climb brought them to the plateau where they could see all that was going on near the rock on which Ruth and Tom had left the mattock the evening before. Lem Daggett had four men with him--all rough-looking fellows, and armed with rifles. Jerry Sheming was standing half-leg deep in the running stream, his hands over his head, and the men were holding him under the muzzles of their guns. "Why! it beats the 'wild and woolly'!" gasped Tom Cameron. "Silver Ranch and Bullhide weren't as bad as this. The scoundrels!" "Come out o' that brook, Jerry, or it'll be the wuss for ye." Lem Daggett drawled, standing on the flat rock and grinning at his captive. "What do you want of me?" demanded the fugitive, sullenly. "You know well enough. Oh, I got a warrant for ye, all right. Ev'rything's all right an' proper. Ye know Rufe Blent don't make no mistakes. He's got ye." "An' here he comes now!" ejaculated another of the rough men, looking toward the east end of the island. The four hurrying young folk looked back. Driving hastily from the lodge, and behind Mr. Tingley and Preston, came a heavy sleigh drawn by a pair of horses. Rufus Blent and a driver were in it. But Mr. Tingley approached first, and it was plain by a single glance at his face that he was angry. "What's all this shooting about?" he demanded. "Don't you men know that Cliff Island is private property? You are trespassing upon it." "Oh, I guess we're within our rights, boss," said Lem Daggett, laughing. "I'm the constable. And these here are helpers o' mine. We was arter a bird, and we got him." "A warrant from a justice of the peace does not allow you to go out with guns and rifles and shoot over private property," declared Mr. Tingley, angrily. "Be off with you--and don't you dare come to this island again without permission." "Hold on, thar!" yelled Rufus Blent, leaping from the sleigh with more agility than one would have given him credit for. "You air oversteppin' the line, Mr. Tingley. That officer's in the right." "No, he's not in the right. He'd never be in the right--hunting a boy with an armed posse. I should think you and these other men would be ashamed of yourselves." "You look out, Mr. Tingley," warned Blent, hotly. "You're a stranger in these parts. You try to balk me and you'll be sorry." "Why?" demanded the city man, quite as angrily. "Are you the law and the prophets here, Mr. Blent?" "I know my rights. And if you want to live in peace here, keep out o' my way!" snarled the real estate man. "You old scoundrel!" exclaimed Mr. Tingley, stepping swiftly toward him. "Get off Cliff Island--and get off quick. I'd spend a thousand dollars to get a penny's worth of damages from you. I'll sue you in the civil courts for trespass if you don't go--and go quick! "Don't think I went blindly into the transaction that gave me title to this island. I know all about your withholding the right to 'treasure trove,' and all that. But it doesn't give you the right to trespass here. Get out--and take your gang with you--or I'll have suit begun against you at once." Old Blent was troubled, but he had one good hold and he knew it. He shouted to Lem Daggett: "Serve that warrant, Lem, and come along. Bring that young rascal. I'll fix him." "Let me read that warrant!" exclaimed Mr. Tingley, suddenly. "No, ye don't!" yelled Blent. "Don't let him take it into his hand. Read it aloud to him. But make that pesky young Sheming come ashore first. Before ye know it, he'll be runnin' away ag'in." The men who "covered" Jerry motioned him to step up to the bank. They looked so threatening that he obeyed. Daggett produced a legal looking paper. He read this aloud, blunderingly, for he was an illiterate man. Its contents were easily gathered, however. Squire Keller had signed the warrant on complaint of Rufus Blent. Jerry was accused of having stolen several boxes of ammunition and a revolver. The property had been found in an old shed at Logwood where the boy had slept for a few nights after he had first been driven from Cliff Island. "Why, this is an old story, Blent," ejaculated Mr. Tingley, angrily. "The boy left that shed months ago. He came directly to the island, when I hired him, from the neighborhood of Lumberton, and Preston assures me he hasn't been to Logwood since arriving." "You can tell all that in court," snarled Blent, waving his hand. "If he's got witnesses to clear him, I guess they'll be given a chance to testify." "You're a villain!" declared the city man. "Lemme tell you something, Mr. Tingley. There's a law to punish callin' folks out o' their names! I know the law, an' don't you forgit it. Come here, you, Jerry Sheming! Git in this sleigh. And you, too, Lem. You other fellers can come back to Logwood and I'll pay ye as I agreed." Ruth had, meanwhile, met Jerry when he came ashore. She seized his hand and, almost in tears, told him how sorry she was he was captured. "Don't you mind, Miss Ruth. He's bound to git me out of the way if he can," whispered Jerry. "Rufe Blent is _all_ the law there is in Logwood, I guess." "But Mr. Tingley will help you." "Maybe. But if Blent can't prove this hatched up business against me, he'll keep right on persecuting me, if I don't light out. An' I believe I found something, Miss Ruth." "Your uncle's money?" "I wouldn't say that. But I was goin' to break into another little cave if I'd got hold of that mattock. The mouth is under the debris that fell with the landslide. It was about where Uncle Pete said he hid his treasure box. Poor Uncle Pete! Losin' that box was what sent him off his head complete, like." This had been said too low for the others to hear. But now Daggett came forward and clamped his big paw on Jerry's shoulder. "Come along, you!" commanded the constable, jerking his prisoner toward the sledge. "Oh, isn't it a mean, mean shame?" cried Helen Cameron. "Wish that old Blent was my size," grumbled Busy Izzy, clenching his fists and glaring at the real estate man. "I wish I could do something at the present moment to help you, Sheming," said Mr. Tingley, his expression very angry. "But don't be afraid. You have friends. I shall come right over to Keller's court, and I shall hire a lawyer to defend you." "You kin do all ye like," sneered Blent, as the sledge started with the prisoner. "But I'll beat ye. And ye'll pay for tryin' to balk me, too." "Don't you be too loose with your threats, Rufe," sang out Preston, the foreman. "If anything happens over here on the island--any of Mr. Tingley's property is destroyed--we'll know who to look to for damages." "Yah!" snarled Blent, and drove away. The fact remained, however, that, for the time being at least, Rufus Blent was master of the situation. CHAPTER XX THE FISHING PARTY Ruth felt so unhappy she wept openly. It seemed too bad that Jerry Sheming should be taken away to the mainland a prisoner. "They'll find some way of driving him out of this country again," remarked Preston, the foreman. "You don't know Blent, Mr. Tingley, as well as the rest of us do. Other city men have come up here and bucked against him in times past--and they were sorry before they got through." "What do you mean?" demanded the angry owner of Cliff Island. "Blent can hire those fellows from the lumber camps, and some of the guides, to do his dirty work. That's all I've got to say. Hunting camps have burned down in these woods before now," observed the foreman, significantly. "Why! the scoundrel sold me this island himself!" "And he's sold other outsiders camp sites. But they have had to leave if they angered Blent." "He is a dangerous man, then?" "Well--things just happen," returned Preston, shaking his head. "I'd keep watch if I were you." "I will. I'll hire guards--and arm 'em, if need be," declared Mr. Tingley, emphatically. "But take it from me--I am going to see that that boy Jerry is treated right in these backwoods courts. That's the way I feel about it." Ruth was glad to hear him say this. As she had decided when she first saw him, Mr. Tingley could be very firm if he wished to be. At once he went back to the house, had a team hitched to a sleigh, and drove over to the mainland so as to be sure that Blent did not get ahead of him and have court convened before the proper hour. The day was spoiled for Ruth and for some of the other young folk who had taken such a deep interest in Jerry. The boy had been caught because he tried to get the mattock Ruth and Tom had put out for him. Ruth wished now that she and Tom had not gone down to the brook. There was too much going on at Cliff Island for even Ruth to mope long. Mr. Tingley came back at dark and said he had succeeded in getting Jerry's case put over until a lawyer could familiarize himself with the details. Meanwhile Keller, Blent's man, had refused to accept bail. Jerry would have to remain in jail for a time. A man came across from the town that evening and brought a telegram for Mr. Tingley. That gentleman had without doubt shown his interest in Jerry Sheming. Fearing that the local legal lights might be somewhat backward about opposing Rufus Blent, he had telegraphed to his own firm of lawyers in New York and they were sending him a reputable attorney from an up-State city who would be at Logwood the next day. "Let's all go over to court to-morrow and see that lawyer get Jerry free," suggested Belle Tingley, and the others agreed with enthusiasm. It would be as much fun as snow-shoeing; more fun for those who had not already learned that art. The day after Christmas, in the morning, the boys insisted that everybody but Mercy Curtis should get out and try the shoes. Those who had been at Snow Camp the year before were able to set out quite briskly--for it is an art that, like swimming and skating, is not easily forgotten. There were some very funny spills and by luncheon they were all in a glow. Later the big sledge was brought around and behind that the boys strung a couple of bobs. The horses drew them down to the ice and there it was easy for the team to pull the whole crowd across to Logwood. The town seemed to have turned out to meet the party from Cliff Island. Ruth and her friends noted the fact that many of the half-grown boys and young men--those of the rougher class--seemed greatly amused by the appearance of the city folk. "But what can you expect from a lot of rubes?" demanded Tom, rather angrily. "See 'em snickering and grinning? What d'ye s'pose is the matter with them?" "Whatever the joke is, it's on us and we don't know it," remarked Heavy, who was easily angered by ridicule, too. "There! Mr. Tingley has gone off with the lawyer. I guess we'll know what it's all about pretty soon." And _that_ was true, sure enough. It came out that there would be no case to try. Justice Keller announced that the accusation against Jerry Sheming had been withdrawn. Mr. Blent had "considered Mr. Tingley's plea for mercy," the old fox said, and there was nothing the justice could do but to turn the prisoner loose. "But what's become of him?" Mr. Tingley wanted to know. "Oh, that does not enter into my jurisdiction," replied Keller, blandly. "I am not his keeper. He was let out of jail early this morning. After that I cannot say what became of him." Blent was not even at the court. It was learned that he had gone out of town. Blent could always find somebody to handle pitch for him. It was later discovered that when Lem Daggett had opened the jail to Jerry, several of Blent's ruffians had rushed the boy to the railroad yard, put him aboard a moving freight, given a brakeman a two-dollar bill as per instructions from the real estate man, and Jerry wasn't likely to get off the train, unless he jumped while it was moving, until it was fifty miles farther west. But, of course, this story did not come out right away. The whole town was laughing at Mr. Tingley. Nobody cared enough about the city man, or knew him well enough, to explain the details of Jerry's disappearance at that time. Mr. Tingley looked very serious when he rejoined the young folk and he had little to say on the way home, save to Ruth, whom he beckoned to the seat beside him. "I am very sorry that the old fox got the best of us, Miss Fielding. As Preston says, I must look out for him. He is sly, wicked, and powerful. My Albany lawyer tells me that Blent is notorious in this part of the State, and that he has great political influence, illiterate as he is. "But I am going to fight. I have bought Cliff Island, and paid a good price for it. I have spent a good many thousand dollars in improvements already. I'll protect myself and my investment if I can--and meanwhile I'll do what I can for your friend, Jerry Sheming, too. "They've got the boy away from the vicinity for the time being, but I reckon he'll find his way back. You think so, too, Miss Fielding?" "If he understands that we are trying to help him. And--yes!--I believe he will come back anyway, for he is very anxious to find that treasure box his Uncle Peter lost." "Oh--as to that--Well, there may be something in it. But Pete Tilton was really insane. I saw him myself. The asylum is the place for him, poor man," concluded Mr. Tingley. Ruth felt in secret very much worried over Jerry's disappearance. When she once became interested in anybody, as Helen said, "she was interested all the way through." The others could laugh a little about how the crafty real estate agent had fooled Mr. Tingley and gotten Jerry out of the way, but not Ruth. She could scarcely sleep that night for thinking of what might have happened to the ill-used youth. But she tried to hide her anxiety from her companions the next morning when plans were made for a fishing trip. All but Mercy joined in this outing. They went on snowshoes to the far end of the island, keeping on the beach under the huge cliffs, to a little cove where they would be sheltered and where the fishing was supposed to be good. Preston, the foreman, went with them. He and the boys dragged a bobsled well laden with the paraphernalia considered necessary for fishing through the ice. First the holes were cut--thirteen of them. Then, near each hole, and on the windward side, two stakes were set about four feet apart and a square of canvas lashed between them for a wind-break. A folding campstool had been brought for each fisherman and "fishergirl," and there were a lot of old sacks for the latter, especially, to put under their feet as they watched the "bobbers" in the little pool of water before which they sat. After Preston saw them well started, he went back to the house. The crowd intended to remain until evening, and planned to make their dinner on the shore of the cove, frying some of the fish they expected to catch, and making coffee in a battered camp pot that had been brought along. The fish were there, as the foreman had assured them. Each member of the party watched and baited two lines. At first some of the girls had considerable trouble with the bait, and the boys had to show them how to put it on the hook; but it was fun, and soon all were interested in pulling out the flopping fish, vying with each other in the catch, calling back and forth about their luck, and having a splendid time. It was so cold that the fish froze almost as soon as they were thrown upon the ice. Had they been catching for shipment, the fish could have been boxed and sent some distance by express without being iced. But the young folk did not mind the cold much, nor the fact that the sun did not shine and the clouds grew thicker as the day advanced. "I'm going to beat you all!" declared The Fox, after a great run of luck, in which she could scarcely bait rapidly enough to satisfy the ravenous fish. "Might as well award me the laurel wreath right now." "Don't you be too sure," drawled Heavy. "You know, 'He laughs best who laughs last.'" "Wrong!" returned Mary Cox. "The true quotation should be, 'He laughs best whose laugh lasts.' And mine is going to last--oh-he! here comes another!" Tom and Ruth got the dinner. There was plenty of dry wood under the fir trees. Tom cleaned the fish and Ruth fried them to a delicious brownness and crispness. With the other viands brought from home and cups of good, hot coffee, the thirteen friends made a hearty and hilarious meal. They were sheltered by the high cliff at their backs and did not notice when the snow began to fall. But, after a time, they suddenly discovered that the flakes were coming so thick and fast that it was all but impossible to see the farthest fishing shelters. "Oh, dear me! we don't want to go back yet," wailed The Fox. "And we were catching them so fast. Do, do let's wait a while longer." "Not much fun if it keeps on snowing this way," objected Bobbins. "Don't begin croaking, little boy," advised his sister. "A few flakes of snow won't hurt us." Nevertheless, the storm did not hold up. It was more than a "flurry" and some of the others, as well as Bob Steele, began to feel anxious. CHAPTER XXI JERRY'S CAVE For a while they tried to shelter themselves with the canvas, and shouted back and forth through the falling snow that they were having a "scrumptious" time. But some of the girls, as Isadore said, "began to weaken." "We don't want to be lost in the snow as we were the time we went for balsam at Snow Camp," said Helen. "How can you get lost--with us fellows along?" demanded Busy Izzy, in vast disgust. "Can't a boy be lost?" demanded Ann Hicks, laughing. "Not on your life!" declared the irrepressible Isadore. But just then Madge Steele got up and declared she had had enough. "This hole in the ice is filling up with snow. We'll lose the fish we've already caught if we don't look out. Come on, Bobby, and get mine." So it was agreed to cut the fishing short for that day, although The Fox declared she could have beaten them all in another hour. However, they had a great load of the frozen fish. Besides what they had eaten for dinner, there were at least a hundred handsome fellows, and the boys had strung each fisher's catch on a birch twig which they had cut and trimmed while coming down to the lake that morning. Tom and Ruth, left at the campfire to clean up after the mid-day meal, were shouting for them to come in. The girls left the boys to wind up the fishlines and "strike camp," as Ralph called taking down the pieces of canvas, and all hustled for the shore. They crowded around the fire, threw on more fuel, danced to get their feet warm, and called to the boys to hurry. The five boys had their hands full in retrieving all the chairs, and canvas sheets, and fish lines, and sacks. When they got them all in and packed upon the bobsled for transportation, the snow was a foot deep on the ice and it was snowing so fast that one could not see ten feet into the swirling heart of the storm. "I declare! it looks as though we were in a mess, with all this snow," complained Tom Cameron. "And with all these girls," growled Ralph Tingley. "Wish we'd started an hour ago." "I don't know about starting _at all_," observed Bobbins. "Don't you see that the girls will give out before we're half-way there? We can't use snowshoes with the snow coming down like this. They clog too fast." "Oh, they'll have to wade the same as we do," said Isadore. "Yah! Wade! And us pulling this sled, too? I wish Preston had stayed with us. Don't you, Ralph?" asked his brother. "Hush! don't let the girls hear you," was the whispered reply. Already the girls were comparing notes in a group around the fire. Now Madge turned and shouted for them: "Come here, boys! Don't be mumbling together there. We have an idea." "If it's any good, let's have it," answered Tom, cheerfully. "It is good. It was born of experience. Some of us got all the tramping in a blinding snowstorm that we wanted a year ago. Never again! Eh, girls?" "Quite right, Madge," said Ralph. "It is foolish to run into danger. We are all right here----" "Why, the snow will drown out your fire in half an hour," scoffed Isadore. "And there isn't so much dry fuel." "I know where there is plenty of wood--and shelter, too!" cried Ruth, suddenly. "So do I. At the lodge," scoffed Belle. "No. Nearby. Tom and I were just talking about it. Up that ravine yonder is the place where I fell over the cliff. And Jerry's cave is right there--one end of it." "A cave!" ejaculated Helen. "That would be bully." "If only we could have a good fire and get dry and warm again," quoth Lluella, her teeth already chattering. "I believe that would be best," admitted Madge Steele. "We never could get back to the lodge through this snow. The shore is so rough." "We can travel on the ice," ventured Ann Hicks, doubtfully. "And get turned around," put in Tom. "Easiest thing in the world to get lost out there on that ice without a compass and in such a whirlwind of snow. Ruth's right. Let's try to find the cave." "I'm game!" exclaimed Heavy. "Why, with all this fish we could live a week in a cave. It would be bully." "'Charming' is the better word, Miss Stone," suggested The Fox. "Don't correct me when I'm on a vacation," exclaimed the plump girl. "I won't stand for it----" Just then she slipped and sat down hard and they all laughed. "Lucky you weren't on the ice. You'd gone right through that time, Jennie," declared The Fox. "Now, let's come on to the cave if we're all agreed. I guess Ruth has the right idea." "We'll drag the sled and break a path for you girls," announced Tom. "All ready, now! Bring your snowshoes. If it stops snowing, we can get home on them to-night." "Oh, dear, me! I hope so," cried Belle Tingley. "What will mother and father say if we're not home by dark?" "They'll be pretty sure we wouldn't travel far in this storm. Preston and the other men will find us, anyway." "I expect that is so," admitted Ruth, thoughtfully, "And they'll find Jerry's cave. I hope he won't be mad at me for taking you all there." However that might be, it seemed to the girl of the Red Mill, as well as to Tom Cameron, that it was wisdom to seek the nearest shelter. The ravine was steep, but it was sheltered. There were not many big drifts until they reached that great one at the head of it, into which Ruth had fallen when she slipped over the brink of the precipice. Nevertheless, they were half an hour beating their way up the gully and out upon that ledge which led to the mouth of Jerry's cave. The boys found the laden sled a good deal of a load and the girls had all they could do to follow in the track the sled made. "We never _could_ have reached home safely through this storm," declared Madge. "How clever of you to remember the cave, Ruthie." "Ruth is always doing something clever," said Helen, loyally. "Why, she even falls over a cliff, so as to find a cave that, later, shelters us all from the inclement elements." "Wow, wow, wow!" jeered Isadore. "You girls think a lot of each other; don't you? Better thank that Jerry boy for finding the cave in the first place." They were all crowding into the place by this time. It was not very light in the cave, for the snow had already veiled the entrance. But there was a great store of wood piled up along one side, and the boys soon had a fresh fire built. The girls and boys stamped off the clinging snow and began to feel more comfortable. The flames danced among the sticks, and soon an appreciable sense of warmth stole through the cave. The crowd began to laugh and chatter. The girls brushed out the cave and the boys rolled forward loose stones for seats. Isadore found Jerry's shotgun, ammunition, bow and arrow, and other possessions. "He must have taken the rifle with him when he went to the other end of the tunnel," Ruth said. "Say!" exclaimed Ralph Tingley. "You could find the way through the hill to where you came out of the cave with Jerry; couldn't you, Ruth?" "Oh! I believe so," cried Ruth. "Then we needn't worry," said the boy. "We can go home that way. Even if the storm doesn't stop to-night, we ought to be able to find the lodge from _that_ end of the cave." "We've nothing to worry about, then," said Madge, cheerfully. "We're supplied with all the comforts of home----" "And plenty to eat," sighed Heavy, with satisfaction. CHAPTER XXII SNOWED IN Naturally, thirteen young folk in a cave could not be content to sit before the fire inactive. They played games, they sang songs, they made up verses, and finally Madge produced a pencil and a notebook and they wrote a burlesque history of "George Washington and the Cherry Tree." The first author wrote a page of the history and two lines on the second page. Then the second read those last two lines and went on with the story, leaving another two lines at the top of the next page, and so on. It was a wonderful piece of literary work when it was finished, and Madge kept it to read to the S.B.'s when they got back to Briarwood Hall. "For, of course," she said, "we're not going to be forever shut up in this cave. I don't want to turn into a 'cave man'--nor yet a 'cave woman'!" "See if the snow has stopped--that's a good boy, Tommy," urged Helen. "Of course it hasn't. Don't you see how dark it is, sis?" returned her twin. But he started toward the mouth of the cavern. Just then Bob looked at his watch in the firelight, and exclaimed: "No wonder it seems dark--do you know it's half after four right now?" "Wow! mother will be scared," said Ralph Tingley. Just then there came a cry from Tom. Then followed a heavy, smothered thud. The boys dashed to the entrance. It was pitch dark. A great mass of hard packed snow filled the opening, and was being forced into the cave itself. In this heap of snow struggled Tom, fairly smothered. They laid hold upon him--by a leg and an arm--and dragged him out. He could not speak for a moment and he had lost his cap. "How did you do that?" demanded Bob. "What does it mean?" "Think--think I did it on purpose?" demanded the overwhelmed youth. "I'm no Samson to pull down the pillars on top of me. Gee! that snow came sudden." "Where--where did it all come from?" demanded his sister. "From the top of the cliff, of course. It must have made a big drift there and tumbled down--regular avalanche, you know--just as I tried to look out. Why! the place out there is filled up yards deep! We'd never be able to dig out in a week." "Oh, dear me! what shall we do?" groaned Belle, who was beginning to get nervous. "Have supper," suggested Heavy, calmly. "No matter what we have to face, we can do it better after eating." They laughed, but took her advice. Nobody failed to produce an appetite at the proper time. "Dear me!" exclaimed Belle, "if only mother knew we were safe I'd be content to stay all night. It's fun." "And if we had some salt," complained Lluella. "I don't like fish without salt--not much." "You're a fine female Robinson Crusoe," laughed Tom. "This is real 'roughing it.' I expect all you girls will weaken by morning." "Oh, oh!" cried his sister, "you talk as though you thought we would be obliged to stay here, Tom." "I don't just see how we're to get out to-night," Tom returned, grimly. "Not from this end of the cave, at any rate. I tell you, tons and _tons_ of snow fell into its mouth." "But you know the other way out, Ruthie?" urged Lluella, half inclined to cry. "I think so," returned the girl of the Red Mill. "Then just hunt for the way," said Belle, firmly. "If it has stopped snowing I want to go home." "Don't be a baby, Belle," advised her brother Ralph. "Nothing is going to hurt us here." "Especially as we have plenty of fuel and grub," added Bobbins, thoughtfully. But Ruth saw that it would be wiser to try to get through the tunnel to the brookside. Nobody could dig them out at this end, that was sure. So she agreed with Tom and Ralph Tingley to try to follow the same passages that Jerry Sheming had taken her through upon the occasion of her first visit. "How shall we find our way, though, if it's dark?" questioned Ralph, suddenly. "_I_ can't see in the dark." "Neither can the rest of us, I guess," said Tom. "Do you suppose we could find torchwood in that pile yonder?" "Not much," Bobbins told them. "And a torch is a smoky thing, anyway." Ruth was hunting the dark corners of the big cavern in which they had camped. Although Jerry had been at the far end of the tunnel when he was captured by the constable and his helpers--outside that end of the tunnel, in fact--she hoped that he had left his lantern at this end. As it proved, she was not mistaken. Here it was, all filled and cleaned, hidden on a shelf with a half-gallon can of kerosene. Jerry had been in the habit of coming to the cave frequently in the old days when his uncle and he lived alone on the island. So Tom lit the lantern and the trio started. The opening of the tunnel through the hill could not be missed; but farther along Ruth had a dim recollection of passing cross galleries and passages. Should she know the direct tunnel then? She put that anxiety aside for the present. At first it was all plain traveling, and Tom with the lantern went ahead to illuminate the path. They came out into one of the narrow open cuts, but there was little snow in it. However, a flake or two floated down to them, and they knew that the storm still continued to rage. The moaning of the wind in the tree tops far up on the hill reached their ears. "Some storm, this," observed Tom. "I should say it was! You don't suppose the folks will be foolish enough to start out hunting for us till it's over; do you?" Ralph asked, anxiously. "They would better not. We're safe. They ought to know that. Preston will tell them about the caves in this end of the island and they ought to know we'd find one of 'em." "It's a wild spot, just the same," remarked Ralph. "And I suppose mother will be worried." "Ruth isn't afraid--nor Helen--nor the other girls," said Tom. "I think these Briarwood girls are pretty plucky, anyway. Don't _you_ get to grouching, Rafe." They pursued their way, Tom ahead with the lantern, for some rods further. Suddenly the leader stopped. "Now what, Ruthie?" he demanded. "Which way do we go?" The passage forked. Ruth was uncertain. She could not for the life of her remember having seen this spot before. But, then, she and Jerry must have passed it. She had not given her attention to the direction at that time, for she had been talking with the backwoods boy. She took the lantern from Tom now, and walked a little way into first the left-hand passage and then the right-hand one. It seemed to her as though there were places in the sand on the floor of this latter tunnel which had been disturbed by human feet. "_This_ is the path, I guess," she said, laughing and so hiding her own anxiety. "But let's take a good look at the place so we can find our way back to it if we have to return." "Huh!" grumbled Ralph Tingley. "You're not so awfully sure; are you?" "That's all right. Ruth was only through here once," Tom spoke up, loyally. "And we can't get really lost." In five minutes they came into a little circular room out of which no less than four passages opened. Ruth was confident now that she was "turned around." She had to admit it to her companions. "Well! what do you know about that?" cried Ralph. "I thought you said you could find the way?" "I guess I can," said Ruth, cheerfully. "But we'll have to try each one of these openings. I can't be sure which is the right one." Ralph sniffed, but Tom was unshaken in his confidence in his girl friend. "Let me have the lantern, Tom, and you boys stay here," Ruth said, quickly. "I'll try them myself." "Say! don't you get lost," cried Tom. "And don't you leave us long in the dark," complained Ralph. "I don't believe we ought to let her take that lantern, Tom----" "Aw, stop croaking!" commanded young Cameron. "You're worse than any girl yourself, Tingley." Ruth hated to hear them quarrel, but she would not give up and admit that she was beaten. She took the lantern and ventured into the first tunnel. Her carriage was firmer than her mind, and before she had gone a dozen steps she was nervously sobbing, but smothered the sounds with her handkerchief. CHAPTER XXIII "A BLOW FOR LIBERTY" Ruth was a healthy girl and particularly free from "nerves"; but she _was_ frightened. She was so proud that she determined not to admit to her companions that she was lost In the caves. Indeed, she was not entirely sure that she _was_ lost. Perhaps this was the way she had come with Jerry. Only, she did not remember passing the little room with the four tunnels opening out of it. This first passage into which she had ventured with so much apparent boldness proved to be the wrong one within a very few moments. She came to the end of it--against an unbroken wall. There she remained until she had conquered her nervous sobbing and removed as well as she could the traces of tears from her face. When she returned to Tom and Ralph she held the lantern well down, so that the shadow was cast upon her face. "How about it, Ruth?" demanded Tom, cheerfully, when she reappeared. "That's not the one. It is just a pocket," declared Ruth. "Wait till I try another." "Well, don't be all night about it," growled Tingley, ungraciously. "We're wasting a lot of time here." Ruth did not reply, but took the next tunnel. She followed this for even a shorter distance before finding it closed. "Only two more. That's all right!" exclaimed Tom. "Narrows the choice down, and we'll be surer of hitting the right one--eh, Ruthie?" She knew that he was talking thus to keep her courage up. Dear old Tom! he was always to be depended upon. She gathered confidence herself, however, when she had gone some distance into the third passage. There was a place where she had to climb upon a shelf to get along, because the floor was covered with big stones, and she remembered this place clearly. So she turned and swung her Tight, calling to the boys. Her voice went echoing through the tunnel and soon brought a reply and the sound of scrambling feet. "Hold up that lantern!" yelled Ralph, rather crossly. "How do you expect us to see?" Young Tingley's nerves were "on edge," and like a good many other people when they get that way, he was short-tempered. "Now we're all right, are we, Ruth?" cried Tom. "I remember this place," the girl of the Red Mill replied. "I couldn't be mistaken. Now you take the lantern, Tom, and lead on." They pursued the tunnel to its very end. There it branched again and Ruth boldly took the right hand passage. Whether it was right, or no, she proposed to attack it firmly. After a time Tom exclaimed: "Hullo, Ruthie! do you really think this is right?" "What do you mean?" He held up the lantern in silence. Ruth and Ralph crowded forward to look over his shoulders. There was a heap of rubbish and earth half-filling the tunnel. It had not fallen from the roof, although neither that nor the sides of the tunnel were of solid rock. "You never came through this place, Ruth!" exclaimed Ralph, in that "I-told-you-so" tone that is so hard to bear. "I--I didn't see this place--no," admitted Ruth. "Of course you didn't!" declared Ralph, crossly. "Why! it's right up against the end of the tunnel." "It _does_ look as though we were blocked, Ruthie," said Tom, with less confidence. "Then we'll have to go back and try the other passage," returned the girl, choking a little. "See here!" cried Tom, suddenly. "Somebody's been digging here. That's where all this stuff comes from, underfoot." "Where?" asked the others, crowding forward to look closer. Tom set down the lantern and picked up a broken spade. There was a cavity in the wall of this pocket-like passage. With a flourish Tom dug the broken blade of the spade into the gritty earth. "This is what Jerry wanted that mattock for, I bet!" he exclaimed. "Oh, dear, me! do you believe so?" cried Ruth. "Then, right here, is where he thought he might find his uncle's treasure box." "Ho, ho!" ejaculated Ralph. "That old hunter was just as crazy as he could be--father says so." "Well, that wouldn't keep him from having money; would it?--and might be a very good reason for his burying it." "And the papers he declared would prove his title to a part of this island," Ruth hastened to add. That didn't please Ralph any too well. "My father owns the island, and don't you forget it!" he declared. "Well, we don't have to quarrel about it," snapped Tom, rather disgusted with the way Ralph was behaving. "Come on! we might as well go back. But here's one blow for liberty!" and he laughed and flung the spade forward with all his strength. Jerry Sheming had never suspected it, or he would not have left the excavation just as he had. There was but a thin shell beyond where he had been digging, and the spade in Tom's hand went clear through. "For the goodness gracious grannies!" gasped Tom, scrambling off his knees. "I--I came near losing that spade altogether." There was a fall of earth beyond the hole. They heard it rolling and tumbling down a sharp descent. "Hold the lantern here, Ruth!" cried Tom, trying to peer into the opening. Ruth did so. The rays revealed a hole, big enough for a man to creep through. It gave entrance, it seemed, to another cavern--and one of good size. "Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Ruth, seizing Tom's arm. "I just know what this means." "You may. _I_ don't," laughed Tom Cameron. "Why, this other cavern is the one that was buried under the landslide. Jerry said he knew about where it was, and he's been trying to dig into it." "Oh, yes; there was a landslide on this side of the cliff just about the time father was negotiating for the purchase of the island last summer," said Ralph. "We all came up here to look at the place a while afterward. We camped in a tent about where the lodge now stands. That old crazy hunter had just been taken away from here. They say he tried to kill Blent." "And maybe he had good reason," said Tom. "Blent is without a doubt a pretty mean proposition." "Just the same, the island is my father's," declared Ralph, with confidence. "He bought it, right enough." "All right. But you think, Ruth, that perhaps it was in this buried cave that old Mr. Tilton hid his money box?" "So Jerry said. It looks as though Jerry had been digging here----" "Let's have another crack at it!" cried Tom, and went to work with the spade again. In ten minutes he had scattered considerable earth and made the hole much larger. They held the lantern inside and saw that the floor of the other cavity was about on a level with the one in which they stood. Tom slid the old spade through the hole, and then went through himself. "Come on! let's take a look," he said, reaching up for Ruth and the lantern. "But this isn't finding a way out," complained Ralph. "What will the other folks say?" "We'll find the opening later. We couldn't venture outside now, anyway. It is still storming, you can bet," declared the eager Tom. Ruth's sharp eyes were peering here and there. The cavern they had entered was almost circular and had a dome-shaped roof. There were shelves all around several feet above the floor. Some of these ledges slanted inward toward the rock, and one could not see much of them. "Lift me up here, Tom!" commanded the girl. "I want to scramble up on the ledge." "You'll hurt yourself." "Nonsense! Can't I climb a tree almost as well as Ann Hicks?" He gave her a lift and Ruth scrambled over the edge with a little squeal. "Oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "Here's something." "Must be," grunted Tom, trying to climb up himself. "Why, I declare, Ruthie! that's a box." "It's a little chest. It's ironbound, too. My! how heavy. I can't lift it." "Tumble it down and let's see," commanded Ralph, holding the lantern. Ruth sat down suddenly and looked at the boys. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know that we've got any right to touch it. It's padlocked. Maybe it is old Mr. Tilton's treasure-box." "That would be great!" cried Tom. "But I don't know," continued Ruth, reflectively. "We would better not touch it. I wouldn't undertake to advise Jerry what to do if _he_ found it. But this is what they call 'treasure trove,' I guess. At least, it was what that Rufus Blent had in mind, all right, when he sold Mr. Tingley the island with the peculiar reservation clause in the deed." CHAPTER XXIV A MIDNIGHT MARAUDER Meanwhile the boys and girls left behind in Jerry Sheming's old camp began to find the absence of Ruth and her two companions rather trying. The time which had elapsed since the three explorers started to find the eastern outlet of the cave seemed much longer to those around the campfire than to the trio themselves. Before the searching party could have reached the brookside, had the tunnel been perfectly straight, the nervous Belle Tingley wanted to send out a relief expedition. "We never should have allowed Ruthie to go," she wailed. "We all should have kept together. How do we know but they'll find the cave a regular labyrinth, and get lost in it, and wander around and around, and never find their way out, or back, and----" "Oh, for the goodness sake!" ejaculated Mary Cox, "don't be such a weeping, wailing Sister of Misery, Belle! You not only cross bridges before you come to them, but, I declare, you build new ones!" "She's Old Man Trouble's favorite daughter," said Heavy. "Didn't you know _that_? Now, Miss Fuss-Budget, stop croaking. Nothing's going to happen to Ruthie." "Not with Tom on hand, you can wager," added Helen, with every confidence in her twin brother. But at last the watches of the party could not be doubted. Two hours had crept by and it was getting very late in the evening. Some of the party were, as Ann said, "yawning their heads off." Lluella and Heavy had camped down upon the old buffalo-robe before the fire and were already more than half asleep. "I do wish they'd come back," muttered Bob Steele to Isadore Phelps. "We can't tell in here whether the storm has stopped, or not. I don't just fancy staying in this cave all night if there's any possible chance of getting to Mr. Tingley's house." "Don't know what can be keeping those folks. I believe I could have crept on my hands and knees through the whole hill, and back again, before this time," returned Busy Izzy, in a very sleepy voice. "Now, you can talk as you please," said Ann Hicks, with sudden decision, "but I'm going a short distance along that tunnel and see if the lantern is in sight." "I'm with you!" exclaimed Bob. "Me, too," joined in Helen, jumping up with alacrity. "Now, some more of you will go off and get lost," cried Belle. "I--I wish we were all home. I'm--I'm sorry we came to this old island." "Baby!" ejaculated her brother, poking her. "Do be still. Ralph isn't going to get lost--what d'ye think he is?" "How'll we see our way?" Helen asked Bob and Ann. "Feel it. We'll go in the dark. Then we can see their lantern the quicker." "There's no wood here fit for torches," Bob admitted. "And I have plenty of matches. Come on! We sha'n't get lost." "What do you really suppose has happened to them?" demanded Helen of Bob, as soon as they were out of hearing of the camp. "Give it up. Something extraordinary--that's positive," declared the big fellow. They crept through the tunnel, Bob lighting a match occasionally, until they reached the first crack in the roof, open to the sky. It was not snowing very hard. "Of course they wouldn't have tried climbing up here to get out," queried Helen. "Of course not!" exclaimed Ann. "What for?" "No," said Bobbins. "They kept straight ahead--and so will we." In five minutes, however, when they stopped, whispering, in a little chamber, Ann suddenly seized her companions and commanded them to hold their breath! "I hear something," she whispered. The others strained their ears to hear, too. In a moment a stone rattled. Then there sounded an unmistakable footstep upon the rock. Somebody was approaching. "They're coming back?" asked Helen, doubtfully. "Hush!" commanded Ann again. "Whoever it is, he has no light. It can't be Ruth." Much heavier boots than those the girl of the Red Mill wore now rattled over the loose stones. Ann pulled the other two down beside her where she crouched in the corner. "Wait!" she breathed. "Can it be some wild animal?" asked Helen. "With boots on? I bet!" scoffed Bob. It was pitch dark. The three crouching together in the corner of the little chamber were not likely to attract the attention of this marauder, if all went well. But their hearts beat fast as the rustle of the approaching footsteps grew louder. There loomed up a man's figure. It looked too big to be either Tom or Ralph, and it passed on with an assured step. He needed no lamp to find a path that seemed well known. "Who--what----" "Hush, Helen!" commanded Ann. "But he's going right to the cave--and he carried a gun." "I didn't see the gun," whispered Ann. "I did," agreed Bob, squeezing Helen's arm. "It was a rifle. Do you suppose there is any danger?" "It couldn't be anybody hunting us, do you suppose?" queried Helen, in a shaken voice. "Anybody from the house?" "Preston!" exclaimed Ann. "How would he know the way to get into this tunnel?" returned Bob. "Come on! let's spy on him. I'm worried now about Tom and the others." "You don't suppose anything has happened to Ruthie?" whispered Helen. "Oh! you don't believe _that_, Bobbins?" "Come on!" grunted the big fellow, and took the advance. They were careful of their own footsteps over the loose stones. The person ahead acted as though he had an idea he was alone. Nor did they overtake him until they had passed the open crack in the roof of the tunnel. Somebody laughed in the cavern ahead--then the girls all shouted. The marauder stopped, uttering an astonished ejaculation. Bob and the two girls halted, too, but in a moment the person ahead turned, and came striding toward them, evidently fleeing from the sound of the voices. Ann and Helen were really frightened, and with faint cries, shrank back. Bob _had_ to be brave. He leaped forward to meet the person with the rifle, crying: "Hold on, there!" "Ha!" exclaimed the other and advanced the rifle until the muzzle touched Bob Steele's breast. The boy was naturally frightened--how could he help being? But he showed pluck. He did not move. "What do you want in here? Who are you?" asked Bob, quietly. "Goodness me!" gasped the other, and dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground. "You sure did startle me. You're one of those boys staying with the Tingleys?" "Yes." "And here's a couple of the girls. Not Ruth Fielding?" "Oh, Jerry Sheming!" cried Ann, running forward. "You might have shot him with that gun." "Not unless I'd loaded it first," replied Jerry, with a quiet chuckle. "But you folks scared me quite as much as I did you--Why, it's Miss Hicks and Miss Cameron." "Where is Ruth?" demanded Ann, anxiously. "And Tom?" joined in Helen. "And how did you get back here to Cliff Island?" asked Bob. "We understood that you'd been railroaded out of the country." "Hold on! hold on!" exclaimed Jerry. "Let's hear first about Miss Fielding. Where's she gone? How came you folks in this cave?" Helen was the one who told him. She related all the circumstances very briefly, but in a way to give Jerry a clear understanding of the situation. "They've wandered off to the right. I know where they must be," said Jerry, decidedly. "I'll go find them. And then I'll get you all out of here. It has almost stopped snowing now." "But how did you find your way back here to the island?" Bob demanded again. "I ain't going to be beat by Blent," declared Jerry Sheming, doggedly. "I am going to have another look through the caves before I leave for good, and don't you forget it. "The engine on that train yesterday morning broke a piston rod and had to stop down the lake shore. I hopped off and hid on the far bank, watching the island. If you folks hadn't come over this way to fish this morning, I'd been across before the storm began. "I was pretty well turned around in the storm, and have been traveling a long time. But I got to the brook at last, and then worked my way up it and into the other end of this cave. I was going up there after my lantern----" "Ruth and the others have it," explained Helen, quickly. "Then I'll go find them at once. I know my way around pretty well in the dark. I couldn't get really lost in this cave," and Jerry laughed, shortly. "I've got matches if you want them," said Bob. "Got a plenty, thanks. You folks go back to your friends, and I'll hunt out Miss Fielding in a jiffy." Jerry turned away at once, and soon passed out of their sight in the gloom. As Helen and the others hurried back to the anxious party at the campfire, Jerry went straightway to the most satisfactory discovery of all his life. CHAPTER XXV THE TREASURE BOX When Jerry met Ruth and her companions coming slowly from the little cave, the boys bearing the heavy, ironbound box between them, he knew instantly what it was--his uncle's chest in which he had kept his money and papers. "It's yours to hide again if you want to, Jerry," Ruth told him, when the excitement of the meeting had passed, and explanations were over. "It was what both you and Rufus Blent have been looking for, and I believe you have the best right to it" "It belongs to Uncle Pete. And Uncle Pete shall have it," declared the backwoods boy. "Why, do you know, I believe if Uncle Pete once had this box in his possession again that he might recover his mind?" "Oh, I hope so!" Ruth cried. First, however, the crowd of young folk had to be led through the long tunnel and out into the open air. It was agreed that nothing was to be said to anybody but Mr. Tingley about the treasure box. And the boys and girls, too, agreed to say nothing at the house about Jerry's having returned to his cave. When they reached the brook, there were lights about the island, and guns being fired. The entire household of Tingley Lodge was out on the hunt for the lost ones. The boys and girls were home and in bed in another hour, and Mrs. Tingley was vastly relieved. "Never again will I take the responsibility of such a crowd!" declared the harassed lady. "My own children are enough; a dozen and a half active young ones like these would send me to the madhouse in another week!" But the girls from Briarwood and their boy friends continued to have a delightful time during the remainder of their stay at Cliff Island, although their adventures were less strenuous than those that have been related. They went away, in the end, to take up their school duties, pronouncing their vacation on the island one of the most enjoyable they had ever experienced. "Something to keep up our hearts for the rest of the school year," declared Heavy. "And you'll like us better, too, when we're gone, Mrs. Tingley. We _all_--even The Fox, here--have a good side to our characters." Even Ann Hicks went back to Briarwood with pleasant expectations. She had learned to understand her mates better during this holiday, and all the girls at Briarwood were prepared to welcome the western girl now with more kindness than before. We may believe that Ruth and her girl friends were all busy and happy during that next half-year at Briarwood, and we may meet them again in the midst of their work and fun in the next volume of the series, entitled "Ruth Fielding at Sunrise Farm; Or, What Became of the Raby Orphans." Ruth Fielding, however, did not leave Cliff Island before being assured that the affairs of Jerry Sheming and his uncle would be set right. As it chanced, the very day the crowd had gone fishing Mr. Tingley had received a letter from the head doctor of the hospital, to whom the gentleman had written inquiring about old Peter Tilton. The patient had improved immensely. That he was eccentric was true, but he had probably always been so, the doctor said. The old man was worrying over the loss of what he called his treasure box, and when Ruth confided to Mr. Tingley the truth about Jerry's return and the discovery of the ironbound box, Mr. Tingley determined to take matters into his own hands. He first went to the cave and had a long talk with Jerry. Then he had his team of horses put to the sledge, and he and Jerry and the box drove the entire length of Lake Tallahaska, struck into a main road to the county asylum, and made an unexpected call upon the poor old hunter, who had been so long confined in that institution. "It was jest what Uncle Pete needed to wake him up," Jerry declared to Ruth, when he saw her some weeks later. "He knowed the box and had always carried the key of it about his neck on a string. They didn't know what it was at the 'sylum, but they let him keep the key. "And when he opened it, sure enough there was lots of papers and a couple of bags of money. I don't know how much, but Mr. Tingley got Uncle Pete to trust a bank with the money, and it'll be mine some day. Uncle Pete's going to pay my way through school with some of it, he says." "But the title to the island?" demanded the excited girl of the Red Mill. "How did that come out? Did your uncle have any deed to it? What of that mean old Rufus Blent?" "Jest you hold your hosses, Miss Ruth," laughed Jerry. "I'm comin' to that." "But you are coming to it awfully slow, Jerry," complained the eager girl. "No. I'll tell you quick's I can," he declared. "Uncle Pete had papers. He had been buying a part of the island from Blent on installments, and had paid the old rascal a good part of the price. But when Blent found out that uncle's papers were buried under the landslide he thought he could play a sharp trick and resell to Mr. Tingley. You see, the installment deeds were not recorded. "However, Mr. Tingley's lawyers made old Blent get right down and howl for mercy--yes, they did! There was a strong case of conspiracy against him. That's still hanging fire. "But Mr. Tingley says he will not push that, considering Rufus did all he was told to about the title money. He gave Uncle Pete back every cent he had paid in on the Cliff Island property, with interest compounded, and a good lump sum of money beside as a bonus. "Then Uncle Pete made Mr. Tingley's title good, and we're going to live at the lodge during the closed season, as caretakers. That pleases Uncle Pete, for he couldn't be very well content anywhere else but on Cliff Island." "Oh, Jerry! I am so glad it has come out all right for you," cried the girl of the Red Mill. "And so will all the other girls be when I tell them. And Uncle Jabez and Aunt Alvirah--for _they_ are interested in your welfare, too." "You're mighty kind, Miss Ruth," said the backwoods boy, bashfully. "I--I'm thinking I've got a lot more to thank _you_ for than I ever can express right proper." "Oh, no! no more to me than to other folks," cried Ruth Fielding, earnestly, for it had always been her natural instinct to help people, and she did not wish to be thanked for it. That being the case, neither Jerry nor the writer must say anything more about the matter. THE END 
4506	----	LOST IN THE FOG by JAMES DE MILLE 1870 I. Old Acquaintances gather around old Scenes.--Antelope, ahoy!--How are you, Solomon?--Round-about Plan of a round about Voyage.--The Doctor warns, rebukes, and remonstrates, but, alas! in vain.--It must be done.--Beginning of a highly eventful Voyage. It was a beautiful morning, in the month of July, when a crowd of boys assembled on the wharf of Grand Pre. The tide was high, the turbid waters of Mud Creek flowed around, a fresh breeze blew, and if any craft was going to sea she could not have found a better time. The crowd consisted chiefly of boys, though a few men were mingled with them. These boys were from Grand Pre School, and are all old acquaintances. There was the stalwart frame of Bruce, the Roman face of Arthur, the bright eyes of Bart, the slender frame of Phil, and the earnest glance of Tom. There, too, was Pat's merry smile, and the stolid look of Bogud, and the meditative solemnity of Jiggins, not to speak of others whose names need not be mentioned. Amid the crowd the face of Captain Corbet was conspicuous, and the dark visage of Solomon, while that of the mate was distinguishable in the distance. To all these the good schooner Antelope formed the centre of attraction, and also of action. It was on board of her that the chief bustle took place, and towards her that all eyes were turned. The good schooner Antelope had made several voyages during the past few months, and now presented herself to the eye of the spectator not much changed from her former self. A fine fresh coat of coal tar had but recently ornamented her fair exterior, while a coat of whitewash inside the hold had done much to drive away the odor of the fragrant potato. Rigging and sails had been repaired as well as circumstances would permit, and in the opinion of her gallant captain she was eminently seaworthy. On the present occasion things bore the appearance of a voyage. Trunks were passed on board and put below, together with coats, cloaks, bedding, and baskets of provisions. The deck was strewn about with the multifarious requisites of a ship's company. The Antelope, at that time, seemed in part an emigrant vessel, with a dash of the yacht and the coasting schooner. In the midst of all this, two gentlemen worked their way through the crowd to the edge of the wharf. "Well, boys," said one, "well, captain, what's the meaning of all this?" Captain Corbet started at this, and looked up from a desperate effort to secure the end of one of the sails. "Why, Dr. Porter!" said he; "why, doctor!--how d'ye do?--and Mr. Long, too!--why, railly!" The boys also stopped their work, and looked towards their teachers with a little uneasiness. "What's all this?" said Dr. Porter, looking around with a smile; "are you getting up another expedition?" "Wal, no," said Captain Corbet, "not 'xactly; fact is, we're kine o' goin to take a vyge deoun the bay." "Down the bay?" "Yes. You see the boys kine o' want to go home by water, rayther than by land." "By water! Home by water!" repeated Mr. Long, doubtfully. "Yes," said Captain Corbet; "an bein as the schewner was in good repair, an corked, an coal-tarred, an whitewashed up fust rate, I kine o' thought it would redound to our mootooil benefit if we went off on sich a excursion,--bein pleasanter, cheaper, comfortabler, an every way preferable to a land tower." "Hem," said Dr. Porter, looking uneasily about. "I don't altogether like it. Boys, what does it all mean?" Thus appealed to, Bart became spokesman for the boys. "Why, sir," said he, "we thought we'd like to go home by water--that's all." "Go home by water!" repeated the doctor once more, with a curious smile. "Yes, sir." "What? by the Bay of Fundy?" "Yes, sir." "Who are going?" "Well, sir, there are only a few of us. Bruce, and Arthur, and Tom, and Phil, and Pat, besides myself." "Bruce and Arthur?" said the doctor; "are they going home by the Bay of Fundy?" "Yes, sir," said Bart, with a smile. "I don't see how they can get to the Gulf of St. Lawrence and Prince Edward's Island from the Bay of Fundy," said the doctor, "without going round Nova Scotia, and that will be a journey of many hundred miles." "O, no, sir," said Bruce; "we are going first to Moncton." "O, is that the idea?" "Yes, sir." "And where will you go from Moncton?" "To Shediac, and then home." "And are you going to Newfoundland by that route, Tom?" asked the doctor. "Yes, sir," said Tom, gravely. "From Shediac?" "Yes, sir." "I never knew before that there were vessels going from Shediac to Newfoundland." "O, I'm going to Prince Edward's Island first, sir, with Bruce and Arthur," said Tom. "I'll find my way home from there." The doctor smiled. "I'm afraid you'll find it a long journey before you reach home. Won't your friends be anxious?" "O, no, sir. I wrote that I wanted to visit Bruce and Arthur, and they gave me leave." "And you, Phil, are you going home by the Antelope?" "Yes, sir." "You are going exactly in a straight line away from it." "Am I, sir?" "Of course you are. This isn't the way to Chester." "Well, sir, you see I'm going to visit Bart at St. John." "O, I understand. And that is your plan, then?" "Yes, sir," said Bart. "Pat is going too." "Where are you going first?" "First, sir, we will sail to the Petitcodiac River, and go up it as far as Moncton, where Bruce, and Arthur, and Tom will leave us." "And then?" "Then we will go to St. John, where Phil, and Pat, and I will leave her. Solomon, too, will leave her there." "Solomon!" cried the doctor. "What! Solomon! Is Solomon going? Why, what can I do without Solomon? Here! Hallo!--Solomon! What in the world's the meaning of all this?" Thus summoned, Solomon came forth from the cabin, into which he had dived at the first appearance of the doctor. His eyes were downcast, his face was demure, his attitude and manner were abject. "Solomon," said the doctor, "what's this I hear? Are you going to St. John?" "Ony temp'ly, sah--jist a leetle visit, sah," said Solomon, very humbly, stealing looks at the boys from his downcast eyes. "But what makes you go off this way without asking, or letting me know?" "Did I, sah?" said Solomon, rolling his eyes up as though horrified at his own wickedness; "the sakes now! Declar, I clean forgot it." "What are you going away for?" "Why, sah, for de good oh my helf. Docta vises sea vyge; sides, I got frens in St. John, an business dar, what muss be tended to." "Well, well," said the doctor, "I suppose if you want to go you'll find reasons enough; but at the same time you ought to have let me known before." "Darsn't, sah," said Solomon. "Why not?" "Fraid you'd not let me go," said Solomon, with a broad grin, that instantly was suppressed by a demure cough. "Nonsense," said the doctor; and then turning away, he spoke a few words apart with Mr. Long. "Well, boys," said the doctor, at last, "this project of yours doesn't seem to me to be altogether safe, and I don't like to trust you in this way without anybody as a responsible guardian." Bart smiled. "O, sir," said he, "you need not be at all uneasy. All of us are accustomed to take care of ourselves; and besides, if you wanted a responsible guardian for us, what better one could be found than Captain Corbet?" The doctor and Mr. Long both shook their heads. Evidently neither of them attached any great importance to Captain Corbet's guardianship. "Did you tell your father how you were going?" asked the doctor, after a few further words with Mr. Long. "O, yes, sir; and he told me I might go. What's more, he promised to charter a schooner for me to cruise about with Phil and Pat after I arrived home." "And we got permission, too," said Bruce. "Indeed!" said the doctor. "That changes the appearance of things. I was afraid that it was a whim of your own. And now, one thing more,--how are you off for provisions?" "Wal, sir," said Captain Corbet, "I've made my calculations, an I think I've got enough. What I might fail in, the boys and Solomon have made up." "How is it, Solomon?" asked the doctor. Solomon grinned. "You sleep in the hold, I see," continued the doctor. "Yes, sir," said Bruce. "It's whitewashed, and quite sweet now. We'll only be on board two or three days at the farthest, and so it really doesn't much matter how we go." "Well, boys, I have no more to say; only take care of yourselves." With these words the doctor and Mr. Long bade them good by, and then walked away. The other boys, however, stood on the wharf waiting to see the vessel off. They themselves were all going to start for home in a few minutes, and were only waiting for the departure of the Antelope. This could not now be long delayed. The tide was high. The wind fresh and fair. The luggage, and provisions, and stores were all on board. Captain Corbet was at the helm. All was ready. At length the word was given, the lines were cast off; and the Antelope moved slowly round, and left the wharf amid the cheers of the boys. Farther and farther it moved away, then down the tortuous channel of Mud Creek, until at last the broad expanse of Minas Basin received them. For this voyage the preparations had been complete. It had first been thought of several weeks before, and then the plan and the details had been slowly elaborated. It was thought to be an excellent idea, and one which was in every respect worthy of the "B. O. W. C." Captain Corbet embraced the proposal with enthusiasm. Letters home, requesting permission, received favorable answers. Solomon at first resisted, but finally, on being solemnly appealed to as Grand Panjandrum, he found himself unable to withstand, and thus everything was gradually prepared. Other details were satisfactorily arranged, though not without much serious and earnest debate. The question of costume received very careful attention, and it was decided to adopt and wear the weather-beaten uniforms that had done service amidst mud and water on a former occasion. Solomon's presence was felt to be a security against any menacing famine; and that assurance was made doubly sure by the presence of a cooking stove, which Captain Corbet, mindful of former hardships, had thoughtfully procured and set up in the hold. Finally, it was decided that the flag which had formerly flaunted the breeze should again wave over them; and so it was, that as the Antelope moved through Mud Creek, like a thing of life, the black flag of the "B. O. W. C." floated on high, with its blazonry of a skull, which now, worn by time, looked more than ever like the face of some mild, venerable, and paternal monitor. Some time was taken up in arranging the hold. Considerable confusion was manifest in that important locality. Tin pans were intermingled with bedding, provisions with wearing apparel, books with knives and forks, while amid the scene the cooking stove towered aloft prominent. To tell the truth, the scene was rather free and easy than elegant; nor could an unprejudiced observer have called it altogether comfortable. In fact, to one who looked at it with a philosophic mind, an air of squalor might possibly have been detected. Yet what of that? The philosophic mind just alluded to would have overlooked the squalor, and regarded rather the health, the buoyant animal spirits, and the determined habit of enjoyment, which all the ship's company evinced, without exception. The first thing which they did in the way of preparation for the voyage was to doff the garments of civilized life, and to don the costume of the "B. O. W. C." Those red shirts, decorated with a huge white cross on the back, had been washed and mended, and completely reconstructed, so that the rents and patches which were here and there visible on their fair exteriors, served as mementos of former exploits, and called up associations of the past without at all deteriorating from the striking effect of the present. Glengary bonnets adorned their heads, and served to complete the costume. The labor of dressing was followed by a hurried arrangement of the trunks and bedding; after which they all emerged from the hold and ascending to the deck, looked around upon the scene. Above, the sky was blue and cloudless, and between them and the blue sky floated the flag, from whose folds the face looked benignantly down. The tide was now on the ebb, and as the wind was fair, both wind and tide united to bear them rapidly onward. Before them was Blomidon, while all around was the circling sweep of the shores of Minas Bay. A better day for a start could not have been found, and everything promised a rapid and pleasant run. "I must say," remarked Captain Corbet, who had for some time been standing buried in his own meditations at the helm,--"I must say, boys, that I don't altogether regret bein once more on the briny deep. There was a time," he continued, meditatively, "when I kine o' anticipated givin up this here occypation, an stayin to hum a nourishin of the infant. But man proposes, an woman disposes, as the sayin is,--an you see what I'm druv to. It's a great thing for a man to have a companion of sperrit, same as I have, that keeps a' drivin an a drivin at him, and makes him be up an doin. An now, I declar, if I ain't gittin to be a confirmed wanderer agin, same as I was in the days of my halcyon an shinin youth. Besides, I have a kine o' feelin as if I'd be a continewin this here the rest of all my born days." "I hope you won't feel homesick," remarked Bart, sympathetically. "Homesick," repeated the captain. "Wal, you see thar's a good deal to be said about it. In my hum thar's a attraction, but thar's also a repulsion. The infant drors me hum, the wife of my buzzum drives me away, an so thar it is, an I've got to knock under to the strongest power. An that's the identical individool thing that makes the aged Corbet a foogitive an a vagabond on the face of the mighty deep. Still I have my consolations." The captain paused for a few moments, and then resumed. "Yes," he continued, "I have my consolations. Surroundins like these here air a consolation. I like your young faces, an gay an airy ways, boys. I like to see you enjoy life. So, go in. Pitch in. Go ahead. Sing. Shout. Go on like mad. Carry on like all possessed, an you'll find the aged Corbet smilin amid the din, an a flutterin of his venerable locks triumphant amid the ragin an riotin elements." "It's a comfort to know that, at any rate," said Tom. "We'll give you enough of that before we leave, especially as we know it don't annoy you." "I don't know how it is," said the captain, solemnly, "but I begin to feel a sort of somethin towards you youngsters that's very absorbin. It's a kine o' anxious fondness, with a mixtoor of indulgent tenderness. How ever I got to contract sech a feelin beats me. I s'pose it's bein deprived of my babby, an exiled from home, an so my vacant buzzom craves to be filled. I've got a dreadful talent for doin the pariential, an what's more, not only for doin the pariential, but for feelin of it. So you boys, ef ever you see me a doin of the pariential towards youns, please remember that when I act like an anxious an too indulgent parient towards youns, it's because I feel like one." For some hours they traversed the waters, carried swiftly on by the united forces of the wind and tide. At last they found themselves close by Blomidon, and under his mighty shadow they sailed for some time. Then they doubled the cape, and there, before them, lay a long channel--the Straits of Minas, through which the waters pour at every ebb and flood. Their course now lay through this to the Bay of Fundy outside; and as it was within two hours of the low tide, the current ran swiftly, hurrying them rapidly past the land. Here the scene was grand and impressive in the extreme. On one side arose a lofty, precipitous cliff, which extended for miles, its sides scarred and tempest-torn, its crest fringed with trees, towering overhead many hundreds of feet, black, and menacing, and formidable. At its base was a steep beach, disclosed by the retreating tide, which had been formed by the accumulated masses of rock that had fallen in past ages from the cliffs above. These now, from the margin of the water up to high-water mark, were covered with a vast growth of sea-weed, which luxuriated here, and ran parallel to the line of vegetation on the summit of the cliff. On the other side of the strait the scene was different. Here the shores were more varied; in one place, rising high on steep precipices, in others, thrusting forth black, rocky promontories into the deep channel; in others again, retreating far back, and forming bays, round whose sloping shores appeared places fit for human habitation, and in whose still waters the storm-tossed bark might find a secure haven. As they drifted on, borne along by the impetuous tide, the shores on either side changed, and new vistas opened before them. At last they reached the termination of the strait, the outer portal of this long avenue, which here was marked by the mighty hand of Nature in conspicuous characters. For here was the termination of that long extent of precipitous cliff which forms the outline of Blomidon; and this termination, abrupt, and stern, and black, shows, in a concentrated form, the power of wind and wave. The cliff ends abrupt, broken off short, and beyond this arise from the water several giant fragments of rock, the first of which, shaped like an irregular pyramid, rivals the cliff itself in height, and is surrounded by other rocky fragments, all of which form a colossal group, whose aggregated effect never fails to overawe the mind of the spectator. Such is Cape Split, the terminus of Cape Blomidon, on the side of the Bay of Fundy. Over its shaggy summits now fluttered hundreds of sea-gulls; round its black base the waves foamed and thundered, while the swift tide poured between the interstices of the rugged rocks. "Behind that thar rock," said Captain Corbet, pointing to Cape Split, "is a place they call Scott's Bay. Perhaps some of you have heard tell of it." "I have a faint recollection of such a place," said Bart. "Scott's Bay, do you call it? Yes, that must be the place that I've heard of; and is it behind this cape?" "It's a bay that runs up thar," said the captain. "We'll see it soon arter we get further down. It's a fishin and ship-buildin place. They catch a dreadful lot of shad thar sometimes." Swiftly the Antelope passed on, hurried on by the tide, and no longer feeling much of the wind; swiftly she passed by the cliffs, and by the cape, and onward by the sloping shores, till at length the broad bosom of the Bay of Fundy extended before their eyes. Here the wind ceased altogether, the water was smooth and calm, but the tide still swept them along, and the shores on each side receded, until at length they were fairly in the bay. Here, on one side, the coast of Nova Scotia spread away, until it faded from view in the distance, while on the other side the coast of New Brunswick extended. Between the schooner and this latter coast a long cape projected, while immediately in front arose a lofty island of rock, whose summit was crowned with trees. "What island is that?" asked Tom. "That," said Captain Corbet, "is Isle o' Holt." "I think I've heard it called Ile Haute," said Bart. "All the same," said Captain Corbet, "ony I believe it was named after the man that diskivered it fust, an his name was Holt." "But it's a French name," said Tom; "Ile Haute means high island." "Wal, mebbe he was a Frenchman," said Captain Corbet. "I won't argufy--I dare say he was. There used to be a heap o' Frenchmen about these parts, afore we got red of 'em." "It's a black, gloomy, dismal, and wretched-looking place," said Tom, after some minutes of silent survey. II. First Sight of a Place destined to be better known.--A Fog Mill.--Navigation without Wind.--Fishing.--Boarding.--Under Arrest.--Captain Corbet defiant.--The Revenue Officials frowned down.--Corbet triumphant. The Antelope had left the wharf at about seven in the morning. It was now one o'clock. For the last two or three hours there had been but little wind, and it was the tide which had carried her along. Drifting on in this way, they had come to within a mile of Ile Haute, and had an opportunity of inspecting the place which Tom had declared to be so gloomy. In truth, Tom's judgment was not undeserved. Ile Haute arose like a solid, unbroken rock out of the deep waters of the Bay of Fundy, its sides precipitous, and scarred by tempest, and shattered by frost. On its summit were trees, at its base lay masses of rock that had fallen. The low tide disclosed here, as at the base of Blomidon, a vast growth of black sea-weed, which covered all that rocky shore. The upper end of the island, which was nearest them, was lower, however, and went down sloping to the shore, forming a place where a landing could easily be effected. From this shore mud flats extended into the water. "This end looks as though it had been cleared," said Bart. "I believe it was," said the captain. "Does anybody live here?" "No." "Did any one ever live here?" "Yes, once, some one tried it, I believe, but gave it up." "Does it belong to anybody, or is it public property?" "O, I dare say it belongs to somebody, if you could only get him to claim it." "I say, captain," said Bruce, "how much longer are we going to drift?" "O, not much longer. The tide's about on the turn, and we'll have a leetle change." "What! will we drift back again?" "O, I shouldn't wonder if we had a leetle wind afore long." "But if we don't, will we drift back again into the Basin of Minas?" "O, dear, no. We can anchor hereabouts somewhar." "You won't anchor by this island,--will you?" "O, dear, no. We'll have a leetle driftin first." As the captain spoke, he looked earnestly out upon the water. "Thar she comes," he cried at last, pointing over the water. The boys looked, and saw the surface of the bay all rippled over. They knew the signs of wind, and waited for the result. Soon a faint puff came up the bay, which filled the languid sails, and another puff came up more strongly, and yet another, until at length a moderate breeze was blowing. The tide no longer dragged them on. It was on the turn; and as the vessel caught the wind, it yielded to the impetus, and moved through the water, heading across the bay towards the New Brunswick shore, in such a line as to pass near to that cape which has already been spoken of. "If the wind holds out," said Captain Corbet, "so as to carry us past Cape d'Or, we can drift up with this tide." "Where's Cape d'Or?" "That there," said Captain Corbet, pointing to the long cape which stretched between them and the New Brunswick shore. "An if it goes down, an we can't get by the cape, we'll be able, at any rate, to drop anchor there, an hold on till the next tide." The returning tide, and the fresh breeze that blew now, bore them onward rapidly, and they soon approached Cape d'Or. They saw that it terminated in a rocky cliff, with rocky edges jutting forth, and that all the country adjoining was wild and rugged. But the wind, having done this much for them, now began to seem tired of favoring them, and once more fell off. "I don't like this," said Captain Corbet, looking around. "What?" "All this here," said he, pointing to the shore. It was about a mile away, and the schooner, borne along now by the tide, was slowly drifting on to an unpleasant proximity to the rocky shore. "I guess we've got to anchor," said Captain Corbet; "there's no help for it." "To anchor?" said Bruce, in a tone of disappointment. "Yes, anchor; we've got to do it," repeated the captain, in a decided tone. The boys saw that there was no help for it, for the vessel was every moment drawing in closer to the rocks; and though it would not have been very dangerous for her to run ashore in that calm water, yet it would not have been pleasant. So they suppressed their disappointment, and in a few minutes the anchor was down, and the schooner's progress was stopped. "Thar's one secret," said the captain, "of navigatin in these here waters, an that is, to use your anchor. My last anchor I used for nigh on thirty year, till it got cracked. I mayn't be much on land, but put me anywhars on old Fundy, an I'm to hum. I know every current on these here waters, an can foller my nose through the thickest fog that they ever ground out at old Manan." "What's that?" asked Bart. "What did you say about grinding out fog?" "O, nothin, ony thar's an island down the bay, you know, called Grand Manan, an seafarin men say that they've got a fog mill down thar, whar they grind out all the fog for the Bay of Fundy. I can't say as ever I've seen that thar mill, but I've allus found the fog so mighty thick down thar that I think thar's a good deal in the story." "I suppose we'll lose this tide," said Phil. "Yes, I'm afeard so," said the captain, looking around over the water. "This here wind ain't much, any way; you never can reckon on winds in this bay. I don't care much about them. I'd a most just as soon go about the bay without sails as with them. What I brag on is the tides, an a jodgmatical use of the anchor." "You're not in earnest?" "Course I am." "Could you get to St. John from Grand Pre without sails?" "Course I could." "I don't see how you could manage to do it." "Do it? Easy enough," said the captain. "You see I'd leave with the ebb tide, and get out into the bay. Then I'd anchor an wait till the next ebb, an so on. Bless your hearts, I've often done it." "But you couldn't get across the bay by drifting." "Course I could. I'd work my way by short drifts over as far as this, an then I'd gradually move along till I kine o' canted over to the New Brunswick shore. It takes time to do it, course it does; but what I mean to say is this--it CAN be done." "Well, I wouldn't like to be on board while you were trying to do it." "Mebbe not. I ain't invitin you to do it, either. All I was sayin is, it CAN be done. Sails air very good in their way, course they air, an who's objectin to 'em? I'm only sayin that in this here bay thar's things that's more important than sails, by a long chalk--such as tides, an anchors in particular. Give me them thar, an I don't care a hooter what wind thar is." Lying thus at anchor, under the hot sun, was soon found to be rather dull, and the boys sought in vain for some way of passing the time. Different amusements were invented for the occasion. The first amusement consisted in paper boats, with which they ran races, and the drift of these frail vessels over the water afforded some excitement. Then they made wooden boats with huge paper sails. In this last Bart showed a superiority to the others; for, by means of a piece of iron hoop, which he inserted as a keel, he produced a boat which was able to carry an immense press of sail, and in the faint and scarce perceptible breeze, easily distanced the others. This accomplishment Bart owed to his training in a seaport town. At length one of them proposed that they should try to catch fish. Captain Corbet, in answer to their eager inquiries, informed them that there were fish everywhere about the bay; on learning which they became eager to try their skill. Some herring were on board, forming part of the stores, and these were taken for bait. Among the miscellaneous contents of the cabin a few hooks were found, which were somewhat rusty, it is true, yet still good enough for the purpose before them. Lines, of course, were easily procured, and soon a half dozen baited hooks were down in the water, while a half dozen boys, eager with suspense, watched the surface of the water. For a half hour they held their lines suspended without any result; but at the end of that time, a cry from Phil roused them, and on looking round they saw him clinging with all his might to his line, which was tugged at tightly by something in the water. Bruce ran to help him, and soon their united efforts succeeded in landing on the deck of the vessel a codfish of very respectable size. The sight of this was greeted with cheers by the others, and served to stimulate them to their work. After this others were caught, and before half an hour more some twenty codfish, of various sizes, lay about the deck, as trophies of their piscatory skill. They were now more excited than ever, and all had their hooks in the water, and were waiting eagerly for a bite, when an exclamation from Captain Corbet roused them. On turning their heads, and looking in the direction where he was pointing, they saw a steamboat approaching them. It was coming from the head of the bay on the New Brunswick side, and had hitherto been concealed by the projecting cape. "What's that?" said Bart. "Is it the St. John steamer?" "No, SIR," said the captain. "She's a man-o'-war steamer--the revenoo cutter, I do believe." "How do you know?" "Why, by her shape." "She seems to be coming this way." "Yes, bound to Minas Bay, I s'pose. Wal, wal, wal! strange too,--how singoolarly calm an onterrified I feel in'ardly. Why, boys, I've seen the time when the sight of a approachin revenoo vessel would make me shiver an shake from stem to starn. But now how changed! Such, my friends, is the mootability of human life!" The boys looked at the steamer for a few moments, but at length went back to their fishing. The approaching steamer had nothing in it to excite curiosity: such an object was too familiar to withdraw their thoughts from the excitement of their lines and hooks, and the hope which each had of surpassing the other in the number of catches animated them to new trials. So they soon forgot all about the approaching steamer. But Captain Corbet had nothing else to do, and so, whether it was on account of his lack of employment, or because of the sake of old associations, he kept his eyes fixed on the steamer. Time passed on, and in the space of another half hour she had drawn very near to the Antelope. Suddenly Captain Corbet slapped his hand against his thigh. "Declar, if they ain't a goin to overhaul us!" he cried. At this the boys all turned again to look at the steamer. "Declar, if that fellow in the gold hat ain't a squintin at us through his spy-glass!" cried the captain. As the boys looked, they saw that the Antelope had become an object of singular attention and interest to those on board of the steamer. Men were on the forecastle, others on the main deck, the officers were on the quarter-deck, and all were earnestly scrutinizing the Antelope. One of them was looking at her through his glass. The Antelope, as she lay at anchor, was now turned with her stern towards the steamer, and her sails flapping idly against the masts. In a few moments the paddles of the steamer stopped, and at the same instant a gun was fired. "Highly honored, kind sir," said Captain Corbet, with a grin. "What's the matter?" asked Bart. "Matter? Why that thar steamer feels kine o' interested in us, an that thar gun means, HEAVE TO." "Are you going to heave to?" "Nary heave." "Why not?" "Can't come it no how; cos why, I'm hove to, with the anchor hard and fast, ony they can't see that we're anchored." Suddenly a cry came over the water from a man on the quarter-deck. "Ship aho-o-o-o-o-oy!" "Hel-lo-o-o-o-o!" Such was the informal reply of Captain Corbet. "Heave to-o-o-o, till I send a boat aboard." "Hoo-r-a-a-a-a-ay!" Such was again Captain Corbet's cheerful and informal answer. "Wal! wal wal!" he exclaimed, "it does beat my grandmother--they're goin to send a boat aboard." "What for?" Captain Corbet grinned, and shook his head, and chuckled very vehemently, but said nothing. He appeared to be excessively amused with his own thoughts. The boys looked at the steamer, and then at Captain Corbet, in some wonder; but as he said nothing, they were silent, and waited to see what was going to happen. Meanwhile Solomon, roused from some mysterious culinary duties by the report of the gun, had scrambled upon the deck, and stood with the others looking out over the water at the steamer. In a few moments the steamer's boat was launched, and a half dozen sailors got in, followed by an officer. Then they put off, and rowed with vigorous strokes towards the schooner. Captain Corbet watched the boat for some time in silence. "Cur'ouser an cur'ouser," he said, at length. "I've knowed the time, boys, when sech an incident as this, on the briny deep, would have fairly keeled me over, an made me moot, an riz every har o' my head; but look at me now. Do I tremble? do I shake? Here, feel my pulse." Phil, who stood nearest, put his finger on the outstretched wrist of the captain. "Doos it beat?" "No," said Phil. "Course it beats; but then it ony beats nateral. You ain't feelin the right spot--the humane pulse not bein sitooated on the BACK of the hand," he added mildly, "but here;" and he removed Phil's inexperienced finger to the place where the pulse lies. "Thar, now," he added, "as that pulse beats now, even so it beat a half hour ago, before that thar steamer hev in sight. Why, boys, I've knowed the time when this humane pulse bet like all possessed. You see, I've lived a life of adventoor, in spite of my meek and quiet natoor, an hev dabbled at odd times in the smugglin business. But they don't catch me this time--I've retired from that thar, an the Antelope lets the revenoo rest in peace." The boat drew nearer and nearer, and the officer at the stern looked scrutinizingly at the Antelope. There was an air of perplexity about his face, which was very visible to those on board, and the perplexity deepened and intensified as his eyes rested on the flag of the "B. O. W. C." "Leave him to me," said Captain Corbet. "Leave that thar young man to me. I enjy havin to do with a revenoo officer jest now; so don't go an put in your oars, but jest leave him to me." "All right, captain; we won't say a word," said Bruce. "We'll go on with our fishing quietly. Come, boys--look sharp, and down with your lines." The interest which they had felt in these new proceedings had caused the boys to pull up their hooks; but now, at Bruce's word, they put them in the water once more, and resumed their fishing, only casting sidelong glances at the approaching boat. In a few minutes the boat was alongside, and the officer leaped on board. He looked all around, at the fish lying about the deck, at the boys engaged in fishing, at Captain Corbet, at Solomon, at the mysterious flag aloft, and finally at the boys. These all took no notice of him, but appeared to be intent on their task. "What schooner is this?" he asked, abruptly. "The schooner Antelope, Corbet master," replied the captain. "Are you the master?" "I am." "Where do you belong?" "Grand Pre." "Grand Pre? "Yes." "Hm," he replied, with a stare around--"Grand Pre--ah---hm." "Yes, jest so." "What's that?" "I briefly remarked that it was jest so." "What's the reason you didn't lie to, when you were hailed?" "Lay to?" "Yes." "Couldn't do it." "What do you mean by that?" asked the officer, who was rather ireful, and somewhat insulting in his manner. "Wal bein as I was anchored here hard an fast, I don't exactly see how I could manage to go through that thar manoeuvre, unless you'd kindly lend me the loan of your steam ingine to do it on." "Look here, old man; you'd better look out." "Wal, I dew try to keep a good lookout. How much'll you take for the loan o' that spy-glass o' yourn?" "Let me see your papers." "Papers?" "Yes, your papers." "Hain't got none." "What's that?" "Hain't got none." "You--haven't--any--papers?" "Nary paper." The officer's brow grew dark. He looked around the vessel once more, and then looked frowningly at Captain Corbet, who encountered his glance with a serene smile. "Look here, old man," said he; "you can't come it over me. Your little game's up, old fellow. This schooner's seized." "Seized? What for?" "For violation of the law, by fishing within the limits." "Limits? What limits?" "No foreign vessel can come within three miles of the shore." "Foreign vessel? Do you mean to call me a foreigner?" "Of course I do. You're a Yankee fisherman." "Am I?" "Of course you are; and what do you mean by that confounded rag up there?" cried the officer, pointing to the flag of the "B. O. W. C." "If you think you can fish in this style, you'll find yourself mistaken. I know too much about this business." "Do you? Well, then, kind sir, allow me to mention that you've got somethin to larn yet--spite o' your steam injines an spy-glasses." "What's that?" cried the officer, furious. "I'll let you know. I arrest you, and this vessel is seized." "Wait a minute, young sir," cried Captain Corbet; "not QUITE so fast, EF you please. You'll get YOURSELF arrested. What do you mean by this here? Do you know who I am? I, sir, am a subject of Queen Victory. My home is here. I'm now on my own natyve shore. A foreigner, am I? Let me tell you, sir, that I was born, brung up, nourished, married, an settled in this here province, an I've got an infant born here, an I'm not a fisherman, an this ain't a fishin vessel. You arrest me ef you dar. You'll see who'll get the wust of it in the long run. I'd like precious well to get damages--yea, swingin damages--out of one of you revenoo fellers." The officer looked around again. It would not do to make a mistake. Captain Corbet's words were not without effect. "Yea!" cried Captain Corbet. "Yea, naval sir! I'm a free Nova Scotian as free as a bird. I cruise about my natyve coasts whar I please. Who's to hender? Seize me if you dar, an it'll be the dearest job you ever tried. This here is my own private pleasure yacht. These are my young friends, natyves, an amatoor fishermen. Cast your eye down into yonder hold, and see if this here's a fishin craft." The officer looked down, and saw a cooking stove, trunks, and bedding. He looked around in doubt. But this scene had lasted long enough. "O, nonsense!" said Bart, suddenly pulling up his line, and coming forward; "see here--it's all right," said he to the officer. "We're not fishermen. It's as he says. We're only out on a short cruise, you know, for pleasure, and that sort of thing." As Bart turned, the others did the same. Bruce lounged up, dragging his line, followed by Arthur and the others. "We're responsible for the schooner," said Bruce, quietly. "It's ours for the time being. We don't look like foreign fishermen--do we?" The officer looked at the boys, and saw his mistake at once. He was afraid that he had made himself ridiculous. The faces and manners of the boys, as they stood confronting him in an easy and self-possessed manner, showed most plainly the absurdity of his position. Even the mysterious flag became intelligible, when he looked at the faces of those over whom it floated. "I suppose it's all right," he muttered, in a vexed tone, and descended into the boat without another word. "Sorry to have troubled you, captain," said Corbet, looking blandly after the officer; "but it wan't my fault. I didn't have charge of that thar injine." The officer turned his back without a word, and the men pulled off to the steamer. The captain looked after the boat in silence for some time. "I'm sorry," said he, at length, as he heaved a gentle sigh,--"I'm sorry that you put in your oars--I do SO like to sass a revonoo officer." III. Solomon surpasses himself.--A Period of Joy is generally followed by a Time of Sorrow.--Gloomy Forebodings.--The Legend of Petticoat Jack.--Captain Corbet discourses of the Dangers of the Deep, and puts in Practice a new and original Mode of Navigation. This interruption put an end to their attempts at fishing, and was succeeded by another interruption of a more pleasing character, in the shape of dinner, which was now loudly announced by Solomon. For some time a savory steam had been issuing from the lower regions, and had been wafted to their nostrils in successive puffs, until at last their impatient appetite had been roused to the keenest point, and the enticing fragrance had suggested all sorts of dishes. When at length the summons came, and they went below, they found the dinner in every way worthy of the occasion. Solomon's skill never was manifested more conspicuously than on this occasion; and whether the repast was judged of by the quantity or the quality of the dishes, it equally deserved to be considered as one of the masterpieces of the distinguished artist who had prepared it. "Dar, chil'en," he exclaimed, as they took their places, "dar, cap'en, jes tas dem ar trout, to begin on, an see if you ever saw anythin to beat 'em in all your born days. Den try de stew, den de meat pie, den de calf's head; but dat ar pie down dar mustn't be touched, nor eben so much as looked at, till de las ob all." And with these words Solomon stepped back, leaning both hands on his hips, and surveyed the banquet and the company with a smile of serene and ineffable complacency. "All right, Solomon, my son," said Bart. "Your dinner is like yourself--unequalled and unapproachable." "Bless you, bless you, my friend," murmured Bruce, in the intervals of eating; "if there is any contrast between this present voyage and former ones, it is all due to our unequalled caterer." "How did you get the trout, Solomon?" said Phil. "De trout? O, I picked 'em up last night down in de village," said Solomon. "Met little boy from Gaspereaux, an got 'em from him." "What's this?" cried Tom, opening a dish--"not lobster!" "Lobster!" exclaimed Phil. "So it is." "Why, Solomon, where did you get lobster?" "Is this the season for them?" "Think of the words of the poet, boys," said Bart, warningly,-- "In the months without the R, Clams and lobsters pison are." Solomon meanwhile stood apart, grinning from ear to ear, with his little black beads of eyes twinkling with merriment. "Halo, Solomon! What do you say to lobsters in July?" Solomon's head wagged up and down, as though he were indulging in some quiet, unobtrusive laughter, and it was some time before he replied. "O, neber you fear, chil'en," he said; "ef you're only goin to get sick from lobsters, you'll live a long day. You may go in for clams, an lobsters, an oysters any time ob de yeah you like,--ony dey mus be cooked up proper." "I'm gratified to hear that," said Bruce, gravely, "but at the same time puzzled. For Mrs. Pratt says the exact opposite; and so here we have two great authorities in direct opposition. So what are we to think?" "O, there's no difficulty," said Arthur, "for the doctors are not of equal authority. Mrs. Pratt is a quack, but Solomon is a professional--a regular, natural, artistic, and scientific cook, which at sea is the same as doctor." The dinner was prolonged to an extent commensurate with its own inherent excellence and the capacity of the boys to appreciate it; but at length, like all things mortal, it came to a termination, and the company went up once more to the deck. On looking round it was evident to all that a change had taken place. Four miles away lay Ile Haute, and eight or ten miles beyond this lay the long line of Nova Scotia. It was now about four o'clock, and the tide had been rising for three hours, and was flowing up rapidly, and in a full, strong current. As yet there was no wind, and the broad surface of the bay was quite smooth and unruffled. In the distance and far down the bay, where its waters joined the horizon, there was a kind of haze, that rendered the line of separation between sea and sky very indistinct. The coast of Nova Scotia was at once enlarged and obscured. It seemed now elevated to an unusual height above the sea line, as though it had been suddenly brought several miles nearer, and yet, instead of being more distinct, was actually more obscure. Even Ile Haute, though so near, did not escape. Four miles of distance were not sufficient to give it that grand indistinctness which was now flung over the Nova Scotia coast; yet much of the mysterious effect of the haze had gathered about the island; its lofty cliffs seemed to tower on high more majestically, and to lean over more frowningly; its fringe of black sea-weed below seemed blacker, while the general hue of the island had changed from a reddish color to one of a dull slaty blue. "I don't like this," said Captain Corbet, looking down the bay and twisting up his face as he looked. "Why not?" Captain Corbet shook his head. "What's the matter?" "Bad, bad, bad!" said the captain. "Is there going to be a storm?" "Wuss!" "Worse? What?" "Fog." "Fog?" "Yes, hot an heavy, thick as puddin, an no mistake. I tell you what it is, boys: judgin from what I see, they've got a bran-new steam injine into that thar fog mill at Grand Manan; an the way they're goin to grind out the fog this here night is a caution to mariners." Saying this, he took off his hat, and holding it in one hand, he scratched his venerable head long and thoughtfully with the other. "But I don't see any fog as yet," said Bart. "Don't see it? Wal, what d'ye call all that?" said the captain, giving a grand comprehensive sweep with his arm, so as to take in the entire scene. "Why, it's clear enough." "Clear? Then let me tell you that when you see a atmosphere like this here, then you may expect to see it any moment changed into deep, thick fog. Any moment--five minutes 'll be enough to snatch everything from sight, and bury us all in the middle of a unyversal fog bank." "What'll we do?" "Dew? That's jest the question." "Can we go on?" "Wal--without wind--I don't exactly see how. In a fog a wind is not without its advantages. That's one of the times when the old Antelope likes to have her sails up; but as we hain't got no wind, I don't think we'll do much." "Will you stay here at anchor?" "At anchor? Course not. No, sir. Moment the tide falls again, I'll drift down so as to clear that pint there,--Cape Chignecto,--then anchor; then hold on till tide rises; and then drift up. Mebbe before that the wind 'll spring up, an give us a lift somehow up the bay." "How long before the tide will turn?" "Wal, it'll be high tide at about a quarter to eight this evenin, I calc'late." "You'll drift in the night, I suppose." "Why not?" "O, I didn't know but what the fog and the night together might be too much for you." "Too much? Not a bit of it. Fog, and night, and snow-storms, an tide dead agin me, an a lee shore, are circumstances that the Antelope has met over an over, an fit down. As to foggy nights, when it's as calm as this, why, they're not wuth considerin." Captain Corbet's prognostication as to the fog proved to be correct. It was only for a short time that they were allowed to stare at the magnified proportions of the Nova Scotia coast and Ile Haute. Then a change took place which attracted all their attention. The change was first perceptible down the bay. It was first made manifest by the rapid appearance of a thin gray cloud along the horizon, which seemed to take in both sea and sky, and absorbed into itself the outlines of both. At the same time, the coast of Nova Scotia grew more obscure, though it lost none of its magnified proportions, while the slaty blue of Ile Haute changed to a grayer shade. This change was rapid, and was followed by other changes. The thin gray cloud, along the south-west horizon, down the bay, gradually enlarged itself; till it grew to larger and loftier proportions. In a quarter of an hour it had risen to the dimensions of the Nova Scotia coast. In a half an hour it was towering to double that height. In an hour its lofty crest had ascended far up into the sky. "It's a comin," said Captain Corbet. "I knowed it. Grind away, you old fog mill! Pile on the steam, you Grand Mananers!" "Is there any wind down there?" "Not a hooter." "Is the fog coming up without any wind?" "Course it is. What does the fog want of wind?" "I thought it was the wind that brought it along." "Bless your heart, the fog takes care of itself. The wind isn't a bit necessary. It kine o' pervades the hull atmosphere, an rolls itself on an on till all creation is overspread. Why, I've seen everything changed from bright sunshine to the thickest kind of fog in fifteen minutes,--yea, more,--and in five minutes." Even while they were speaking the fog rolled on, the vast accumulation of mist rose higher and yet higher, and appeared to draw nearer with immense rapidity. It seemed as though the whole atmosphere was gradually becoming condensed, and precipitating its invisible watery vapor so as to make it visible in far-extending fog banks. It was not wind, therefore, that brought on the clouds, for the surface of the water was smooth and unruffled, but it was the character of the atmosphere itself from which this change was wrought. And still, as they looked at the approaching mist, the sky overhead was blue, and the sun shone bright. But the gathering clouds seemed now to have gained a greater headway, and came on more rapidly. In a few minutes the whole outline of the Nova Scotia coast faded from view, and in its place there appeared a lofty wall of dim gray cloud, which rose high in the air, fading away into the faintest outline. Overhead, the blue sky became rapidly more obscured; Ile Haute changed again from its grayish blue to a lighter shade, and then became blended with the impenetrable fog that was fast enclosing all things; and finally the clouds grew nearer, till the land nearest them was snatched from view, and all around was alike shrouded under the universal veil; nothing whatever was visible. For a hundred yards, or so, around them, they could see the surface of the water; but beyond this narrow circle, nothing more could be discerned. "It's a very pooty fog," said Captain Corbet, "an I only wonder that there ain't any wind. If it should come, it'll be all right." "You intend, then, to go on just the same." "Jest the same as ef the sky was clear. I will up anchor as the tide begins to fall, an git a good piece down, so as to dodge Cape Chegnecto, an there wait for the rising tide, an jest the same as ef the sun was shinin. But we can't start till eight o'clock this evenin. Anyhow, you needn't trouble yourselves a mite. You may all go to sleep, an dream that the silver moon is guidin the traveller on the briny deep." The scene now was too monotonous to attract attention, and the boys once more sought for some mode of passing the time. Nothing appeared so enticing as their former occupation of fishing, and to this they again turned their attention. In this employment the time passed away rapidly until the summons was given for tea. Around the festive board, which was again prepared by Solomon with his usual success, they lingered long, and at length, when they arose, the tide was high. It was now about eight o'clock in the evening, and Captain Corbet was all ready to start. As the tide was now beginning to turn, and was on the ebb, the anchor was raised, and the schooner, yielding to the pressure of the current, moved away from her anchorage ground. It was still thick, and darkness also was coming on. Not a thing could be discerned, and by looking at the water, which moved with the schooner, it did not seem as though any motion was made. "That's all your blindness," said the captain, as they mentioned it to him. "You can't see anything but the water, an as it is movin with us, it doesn't seem as though we were movin. But we air, notwithstandin, an pooty quick too. I'll take two hours' drift before stoppin, so as to make sure. I calc'late about that time to get to a place whar I can hit the current that'll take me, with the risin tide, up to old Petticoat Jack." "By the way, captain," said Phil, "what do you seafaring men believe about the origin of that name--Petitcodiac? Is it Indian or French?" "'Tain't neither," said Captain Corbet, decidedly. "It's good English; it's 'Petticoat Jack;' an I've hearn tell a hundred times about its original deryvation. You see, in the old French war, there was an English spy among the French, that dressed hisself up as a woman, an was familiarly known, among the British generals an others that emply'd him, as 'Petticoat Jack.' He did much to contriboot to the defeat of the French; an arter they were licked, the first settlers that went up thar called the place, in honor of their benefacture, 'Petticoat Jack;' an it's bore that name ever sence. An people that think it's French, or Injine, or Greek, or Hebrew, or any other outlandish tongue, don't know what they're talkin about. Now, I KNOW, an I assure you what I've ben a sayin's the gospel terewth, for I had it of an old seafarin man that's sailed this bay for more'n forty year, an if he ain't good authority, then I'd like to know who is--that's all." At this explanation of the etymology of the disputed term, the boys were silent, and exchanged glances of admiration. It was some minutes after eight when they left their anchorage, and began to drift once more. There was no moon, and the night would have been dark in any case, but now the fog rendered all things still more obscure. It had also grown much thicker than it had been. At first it was composed of light vapors, which surrounded them on all sides, it is true, but yet did not have that dampness which might have been expected. It was a light, dry fog, and for two or three hours the deck, and rigging, and the clothes of those on board remained quite dry. But now, as the darkness increased, the fog became denser, and was more surcharged with heavy vapors. Soon the deck looked as though it had received a shower of rain, and the clothes of those on board began to be penetrated with the chill damp. "It's very dark, captain," said Bruce, at last, as the boys stood near the stern. "Dradful dark," said the captain, thoughtfully. "Have you really a good idea of where we are?" "An idee? Why, if I had a chart,--which I haven't, cos I've got it all mapped out in my head,--but if I had one, I could take my finger an pint the exact spot where we are a driftin this blessed minute." "You're going straight down the bay, I suppose." "Right--yea, I am; I'm goin straight down; but I hope an trust, an what's more, I believe, I am taking a kine o' cant over nigher the New Brunswick shore." "How long will we drift?" "Wal, for about two hours--darsn't drift longer; an besides, don't want to." "Why not?" "Darsn't. Thar's a place down thar that every vessel on this here bay steers clear of, an every navigator feels dreadful shy of." "What place is that?" "Quaco Ledge," said Captain Corbet, in a solemn tone. "We'll get as near it as is safe this night, an p'aps a leetle nearer; but, then, the water's so calm and still, that it won't make any difference--in fact, it wouldn't matter a great deal if we came up close to it." "Quaco Ledge?" said Bruce. "I've heard of that." "Heard of it? I should rayther hope you had. Who hasn't? It's the one great, gen'ral, an standin terror of this dangerous and iron-bound bay. There's no jokin, no nonsense about Quaco Ledge; mind I tell you." "Where does it lie?" asked Phil, after a pause. "Wal, do you know whar Quaco settlement is?" "Yes." "Wal, Quaco Ledge is nigh about half way between Quaco settlement and Ile Haute, bein a'most in the middle of the bay, an in a terrible dangerous place for coasters, especially in a fog, or in a snow-storm. Many's the vessel that's gone an never heard of, that Quaco Ledge could tell all about, if it could speak. You take a good snowstorm in this Bay of Fundy, an let a schooner get lost in it, an not know whar she is, an if Quaco Ledge don't bring her up all standin, then I'm a Injine." "Is it a large place?" "Considerably too large for comfort," said the captain. "They've sounded it, an found the whole shoal about three an a half mile long, an a half a mile broad. It's all kivered over with water at high tide, but at half tide it begins to show its nose, an at low tide you see as pooty a shoal for shipwrecking as you may want; rayther low with pleasant jagged rocks at the nothe-east side, an about a hundred yards or so in extent. I've been nigh on to it in clear weather, but don't want to be within five miles of it in a fog or in a storm. In a thick night like this, I'll pull up before I get close." "You've never met with any accident there, I suppose." "Me? No, not me. I always calc'late to give Quaco Ledge the widest kine o' berth. An I hope you'll never know anythin more about that same place than what I'm tellin you now. The knowlege which one has about that place, an places ginrally of that kine, comes better by hearsay than from actool observation." Time passed on, and they still drifted, and at length ten o'clock came; but before that time the boys had gone below, and retired for the night. Shortly after, the rattle of the chains waked them all, and informed them that the Antelope had anchored once more. After this they all fell asleep. IV. In Clouds and Darkness.--A terrible Warning.--Nearly run down.--A lively Place.--Bart encounters an old Acquaintance.--Launched into the Deep.--Through the Country.--The Swift Tide.--The lost Boy. The boys had not been asleep for more than two hours, when they were awakened by an uproar on deck, and rousing themselves from sleep, they heard the rattle of the chains and the crank of the windlass. As their night attire was singularly simple, and consisted largely of the dress which they wore by day, being the same, in fact, with the exception of the hat, it was not long before they were up on deck, and making inquiries as to the unusual noise. That the anchor was being hoisted they already knew, but why it was they did not. "Wal," said Captain Corbet, "thar's a good sou-wester started up, an as I had a few winks o' sleep, I jest thought I'd try to push on up the bay, an get as far as I could. If I'd ben in any other place than this, I wouldn't hev minded, but I'd hev taken my snooze out; but I'm too near Quaco Ledge by a good sight, an would rayther get further off. The sou-wester'll take us up a considerable distance, an if it holds on till arter the tide turns, I ask no more." Soon the anchor was up, and the Antelope spread her sails, and catching the sou-wester, dashed through the water like a thing of life. "We're going along at a great rate, captain," said Bart. "Beggin your pardon, young sir, we're not doin much. The tide here runs four knots agin us--dead, an the wind can't take us more'n six, which leaves a balance to our favor of two knots an hour, an that is our present rate of progression. You see, at that rate we won't gain more'n four or five miles before the turn o' tide. After that, we'll go faster without any wind than we do now with a wind. O, there's nothin like navigatin the Bay o' Fundy to make a man feel contempt for the wind. Give me tides an anchors, I say, an I'll push along." The wind was blowing fresh, and the sea was rising, yet the fog seemed thicker than ever. The boys thought that the wind might blow the fog away, and hinted this to the captain. His only response was a long and emphatic whistle. "Whe-e-e-ew! what! Blow the fog away? This wind? Why, this wind brings the fog. The sou-wester is the one wind that seafarin men dread in the Bay of Fundy. About the wust kine of a storm is that thar very identical wind blowin in these here very identical waters." Captain Corbet's words were confirmed by the appearance of sea and sky. Outside was the very blackness of darkness. Nothing whatever was visible. Sea and sky were alike hidden from view. The waves were rising, and though they were not yet of any size, still they made noise enough to suggest the idea of a considerable storm, and the wind, as it whistled through the rigging, carried in its sound a menace which would have been altogether wanting in a bright night. The boys all felt convinced that a storm was rising, and looked forward to a dismal experience of the pangs of seasickness. To fight this off now became their chief aim, and with this intention they all hurried below once more to their beds. But the water was not rough, the motion of the schooner was gentle, and though there was much noise above, yet they did not notice any approach of the dreaded sea-sickness, and so in a short time they all fell asleep once more. But they were destined to have further interruptions. The interruption came this time in a loud cry from Solomon, which waked them all at once. "Get up, chil'en! get up! It's all over!" "What, what!" cried the boys; "what's the matter?" and springing up in the first moment of alarm, they stood listening. As they stood, there came to their ears the roaring of the wind through the rigging, the flapping of the sails, the dashing and roaring of the waters, in the midst of which there came also a shrill, penetrating sound, which seemed almost overhead--the sound of some steam whistle. "Dar, dar!" cried Solomon, in a tone of deadly fear. "It's a comin! I knowed it. We're all lost an gone. It's a steamer. We're all run down an drownded." Without a word of response, the boys once more clambered on deck. All was as dark as before, the fog as thick, the scene around as impenetrable, the wind as strong. From a distance there came over the water, as they listened, the rapid beat of a steamboat's paddles, and soon there arose again the long, shrill yell of the steam whistle. They looked all around, but saw no sign of any steamer; nor could they tell exactly in which direction the sound arose. One thought it came from one side, another thought it came from the opposite quarter, while the others differed from these. As for Captain Corbet, he said nothing, while the boys were expressing their opinions loudly and confidently. At last Bart appealed to Captain Corbet. "Where is the steamer?" "Down thar," said the captain, waving his hand over the stern. "What steamer is it? the revenue steamer?" "Not her. That revenoo steamer is up to Windsor by this time. No; this is the St. John steamer coming up the bay, an I ony wish she'd take us an give us a tow up." "She seems to be close by." "She is close by." "Isn't there some danger that we'll be run down?" As those words were spoken, another yell, louder, shriller, and nearer than before, burst upon their ears. It seemed to be close astern. The beat of the paddles was also near them. "Pooty close!" said the captain. "Isn't there some danger that we'll be run down?" To this question, thus anxiously repeated, the captain answered slowly,-- "Wal, thar may be, an then again thar mayn't. Ef a man tries to dodge every possible danger in life, he'll have a precious hard time of it. Why, men air killed in walkin the streets, or knocked over by sun-strokes, as well as run down at sea. So what air we to do? Do? Why, I jest do what I've allus ben a doin; I jest keep right straight on my own course, and mind my own biz. Ten chances to one they'll never come nigh us. I've heard steamers howlin round me like all possessed, but I've never ben run down yet, an I ain't goin to be at my time o' life. I don't blieve you'll see a sign o' that thar steamer. You'll only hear her yellin--that's all." As he spoke another yell sounded. "She's a passin us, over thar," said the captain, waving his hand over the side. "Her whistle'll contenoo fainter till it stops. So you better go below and take your sleep out." The boys waited a little longer, and hearing the next whistle sounding fainter, as Captain Corbet said, they followed his advice, and were soon asleep, as before. This time there was no further interruption, and they did not wake till about eight in the morning, when they were summoned to breakfast by Solomon. On reaching the deck and looking around, a cry of joy went forth from all. The fog was no longer to be seen, no longer did there extend around them the wall of gloomy gray, shutting out all things with its misty folds. No longer was the broad bay visible. They found themselves now in a wide river, whose muddy waters bore them slowly along. On one side was a shore, close by them, well wooded in some places, and in others well cultivated, while on the other side was another shore, equally fertile, extending far along. "Here we air," cried Captain Corbet. "That wind served us well. We've had a fust-rate run. I calc'lated we'd be three or four days, but instead of that we've walked over in twenty-four hours. Good agin!" "Will we be able to land at Moncton soon?" "Wal, no; not till the next tide." "Why not?" "Wal, this tide won't last long enough to carry us up thar, an so we'll have to wait here. This is the best place thar is." "What place is this?" "Hillsborough." "Hillsborough?" "Yes. Do you see that thar pint?" and Captain Corbet waved his arm towards a high, well-wooded promontory that jutted out into the river. "Yes." "Wal, I'm goin in behind that, and I'll wait thar till the tide turns. We'll get up to Moncton some time before evenin." In a few minutes the Antelope was heading towards the promontory; and soon she passed it, and advanced towards the shore. On passing the promontory a sight appeared which at once attracted the whole attention of the boys. Immediately in front of them, in the sheltered place which was formed by the promontory, was a little settlement, and on the bank of the river was a ship-yard. Here there arose the stately outline of a large ship. Her lower masts were in, she was decorated with flags and streamers, and a large crowd was assembled in the yard around her. "There's going to be a launch!" cried Bart, to whom a scene like this was familiar. "A launch!" cried Bruce. "Hurrah! We'll be able to see it. I've never seen one in my life. Now's the time." "Can't we get ashore?" said Arthur. "Of course," said Phil; "and perhaps they'll let us go on board and be launched in her." The very mention of such a thing increased the general excitement. Captain Corbet was at once appealed to. "O, thar's lots of time," said he. "Tain't quite high tide yet. You'll have time to get ashore before she moves. Hullo, Wade! Whar's that oar?" The boys were all full of the wildest excitement, in the midst of which Solomon appeared with the announcement that breakfast was waiting. To which Bart replied,-- "O, bother breakfast!" "I don't want any," said Bruce. "I have no appetite," said Arthur. "Nor I," said Pat. "I want to be on board that ship," said Phil. "We can easily eat breakfast afterwards," said Tom. At this manifest neglect of his cooking, poor Solomon looked quite heart-broken; but Captain Corbet told him that he might bring the things ashore, and this in some measure assuaged his grief. It did not take long to get ready. The oar was flung on board the boat, which had thus far been floating behind the schooner; and though the boat had a little too much water on board to be comfortable, yet no complaints were made, and in a few minutes they were landed. "How much time have we yet?" asked Bart, "before high tide?" "O, you've got fifteen or twenty minutes," said Captain Corbet. "Hurrah, boys! Come along," said Bart; and leading the way, he went straight to the office. As he approached it he uttered suddenly a cry of joy. "What's the matter, Bart?" Bart said nothing, but hurried forward, and the astonished boys saw him shaking hands very vigorously with a gentleman who seemed like the chief man on the place. He was an old acquaintance, evidently. In a few minutes all was explained. As the boys came up, Bart introduced them as his friends, and they were all warmly greeted; after which the gentleman said,-- "Why, what a crowd of you there is! Follow me, now. There's plenty of room for you, I imagine, in a ship of fifteen hundred tons; and you've just come in time." With these words he hurried off, followed by all the boys. He led the way up an inclined plane which ran up to the bows of the ship, and on reaching this place they went along a staging, and finally, coming to a ladder, they clambered up, and found themselves on the deck of the ship. "I must leave you now, Bart, my boy," said the gentleman; "you go to the quarter-deck and take care of yourselves. I must go down again." "Who in the world is he, Bart?" asked the boys, as they all stood on the quarter-deck. "Was there ever such luck!" cried Bart, joyously. "This is the ship Sylph, and that is Mr. Watson, and he has built this ship for my father. Isn't it odd that we should come to this place at this particular time?" "Why, it's as good as a play." "Of course it is. I've known Mr. Watson all my life, and he's one of the best men I ever met with. He was as glad to see me as I was to see him." But now the boys stopped talking, for the scene around them began to grow exciting. In front of them was the settlement, and in the yard below was a crowd who had assembled to see the launch. Behind them was the broad expanse of the Petitcodiac River, beyond which lay the opposite shore, which went back till it terminated in wooded hills. Overhead arose the masts, adorned with a hundred flags and streamers. The deck showed a steep slope from bow to stern. But the scene around was nothing, compared with the excitement of suspense, and expectation. In a few minutes the hammers were to sound. In a few minutes the mighty fabric on which they were standing would move, and take its plunge into the water. The suspense made them hold their breath, and wait in perfect silence. Around them were a few men, who were talking in a commonplace way. They were accustomed to launches, and an incident like this was as nothing in their lives, though to the boys it was sufficient to make their hearts throb violently, and deprive them of the power of speech. A few minutes passed. "We ought to start soon," said Bart, in a whisper; for there was something in the scene which made them feel grave and solemn. The other boys nodded in silence. A few minutes more passed. Then there arose a cry. And then suddenly there came to their excited ears the rattle of a hundred hammers. Stroke after stroke, in quick succession, was dealt upon the wedges, which thus raised the vast structure from her resting-place. For a moment she stood motionless, and then-- Then with a slow motion, at first scarce perceptible, but which every instant grew quicker, she moved down her ways, and plunged like lightning into the water. The stern sank deep, then rose, and then the ship darted through the water across the river. Then suddenly the anchor was let go, and with the loud, sharp rattle of chains, rushed to the bed of the river. With a slight jerk the ship stopped. The launch was over. A boat now came from the shore, bringing the builder, Mr. Watson; and at the same time a steamer appeared, rounding a point up the river, and approaching them. "Do you want to go to St. John, Bart?" "Not just yet, sir," said Bart. "Because if you do you can go down in the ship. The steamer is going to take her in tow at once. But if you don't want to go, you may go ashore in the boat. I'm sorry I can't stay here to show you the country, my boy; but I have to go down in the ship, and at once, for we can't lie here in the river, unless we want to be left high and dry at low tide. So good by. Go to the house. Mrs. Watson'll make you comfortable as long as you like; and if you want to take a drive you may consider my horses your own." With these words he shook hands with all the boys for good by, and after seeing them safely on board the boat, he waited for the steamer which was to tow the Sylph down the bay. The boys then were rowed ashore. By the time they landed, the steamer had reached the ship, a stout cable was passed on board and secured, her anchor was weighed, and then, borne on by steam, and by the tide, too, which had already turned, the Sylph, in tow of the steamer, passed down the river, and was soon out of sight. Bart then went to see Mrs. Watson, with all the boys. That lady, like her husband, was an old acquaintance, and in the true spirit of hospitality insisted on every one of them taking up their abode with her for an indefinite period. Finding that they could not do this, she prepared for them a bounteous breakfast, and then persuaded them to go off for a drive through the country. This invitation they eagerly accepted. Before starting, they encountered Captain Corbet. "Don't hurry back, boys," said he, "unless you very pertik'l'ry wish to go up to Moncton by the arternoon tide. Don't mind me. I got several things to occoopy me here." "What time could we start up river?" "Not before four." "O, we'll be back by that time." "Wal. Ony don't hurry back unless you like. I got to buy some ship-bread, an I got to fix some things about the boat. It'll take some time; so jest do as you like." Being thus left to their own devices, and feeling quite unlimited with regard to time, the boys started off in two wagons, and took a long drive through the country. The time passed quickly, and they enjoyed themselves so much that they did not get back until dusk. "It's too late now, boys, to go up," said the captain, as he met them on their return. "We've got to wait till next tide. It's nearly high tide now." "All right, captain; it'll do just as well to go up river to-night." "Amen," said the captain. But now Mrs. Watson insisted on their staying to tea, and so it happened that it was after nine o'clock before they were ready to go on board the Antelope. Going down to the shore, they found the boat ready, with some articles which Captain Corbet had procured. "I've been fixing the gunwales," said he; "an here's a box of pilot-bread. We were gettin out of provisions, an I've got in a supply, an I've bought a bit of an old sail that'll do for a jib. I'm afeard thar won't be room for all of us. Some of you better stay ashore, an I'll come back." "I'll wait," said Bart, taking his seat on a stick of timber. "An I'll wait, too," said Bruce. The other boys objected in a friendly way, but Bart and Bruce insisted on waiting, and so the boat at length started, leaving them behind. In a short time it reached the schooner. Captain Corbet secured the boat's painter to the stem, and threw the oar on board. "Now, boys, one of you stay in the boat, an pass up them things to me--will you?" "All right," said Tom. "I'll pass them up." On this Captain Corbet got on board the schooner, followed by Arthur, and Phil, and Pat. Tom waited in the boat. "Now," said Captain Corbet, "lift up that thar box of pilot-bread fust. 'Tain't heavy. We'll get these things out afore we go ashore for the others." "All right," said Tom. He stooped, and took the box of biscuit in his arms. At that time the tide was running down very fast, and the boat, caught by the tide, was forced out from the schooner with such a pressure that the rope was stiffened out straight. Tom made one step forward. The next instant he fell down in the bottom of the boat, and those on board of the schooner who were looking at him saw, to their horror, that the boat was sweeping away with the tide, far down the river. V. A Cry of Horror.--What shall we do?--Hard and fast.--Bart and Bruce.--Gloomy Intelligence.--The Promontory.--The Bore of the Petitcodiac.--A Night of Misery.--A mournful Waking.--Taking Counsel. A cry of horror escaped those on board, and for some time they stood silent in utter dismay. "The rope wasn't tied," groaned Arthur. "Yes, it was," said Captain Corbet; "it bruk; catch me not tyin it. It bruk; see here!" and he held up in the dim light the end of the rope which still was fastened to the schooner. "I didn't know it was rotten," he moaned; "'tain't over ten year old, that bit o' rope, an I've had it an used it a thousand times without its ever thinkin o' breakin." "What can we do?" cried Arthur. "We must do something to save him." Captain Corbet shook his head. "We've got no boat," said he. "Boat! Who wants a boat?" "What can we do without a boat?" "Why, up anchor, and go after him with the schooner." "The schooner's hard and fast," said Captain Corbet, mournfully. "Hard and fast?" "Yes; don't you notice how she leans? It's only a little, but that's a sign that her keel's in the mud." "I don't believe it! I won't believe it!" cried Arthur. "Come, boys, up with the anchor." As the boys rushed to the windlass, Captain Corbet went there, too, followed by the mate, and they worked at it for some time, until at last the anchor rose to the surface. But the Antelope did not move. On the contrary, a still greater list to one side, which was now unmistakable, showed that the captain was right, and that she was actually, as he said, hard and fast. This fact had to be recognized, but Arthur would not be satisfied until he had actually seen the anchor, and then he knew that the vessel was really aground. "Do you mean to say," he cried at last, "that there is nothing to be done?" "I don't see," said Captain Corbet, "what thar is to be done till the schewner muves." "When will that be?" "Not till to-morrow mornin." "How early?" "Not before eight o'clock." "Eight o'clock!" cried Arthur, in horror. "Yes, eight o'clock. You see we had to come in pooty nigh to the shore, an it'll be eight o'clock before we're floated." "And what'll become of poor Tom?" groaned Arthur. "Wal," said the captain, "don't look on the wust. He may get ashore." "He has no oar. The oar was thrown aboard of the schooner." "Still he may be carried ashore." "Is there any chance?" "Wal, not much, to tell the truth. Thar's no use of buo-oyin of ourselves up with false hopes; not a mite. Thar's a better chance of his bein picked up. That thar's likely now, an not unnatooral. Let's all don't give up. If thar's no fog outside, I'd say his chances air good." "But it may be foggy." "Then, in that case, he'll have to drift a while--sure." "Then there's no hope." "Hope? Who's a sayin thar's no hope? Why, look here; he's got provisions on board, an needn't starve; so if he does float for a day or two, whar's the harm? He's sure to be picked up eventooally." At this moment their conversation was interrupted by a loud call from the promontory. It was the voice of Bruce. While these events had been taking place on board the schooner, Bruce and Bart had been ashore. At first they had waited patiently for the return of the boat, but finally they wondered at her delay. They had called, but the schooner was too far off to hear them. Then they waited for what seemed to them an unreasonably long time, wondering what kept the boat, until at length Bruce determined to try and get nearer. Burt was to stay behind in case the boat should come ashore in his absence. With this in view he had walked down the promontory until he had reached the extreme point, and there he found himself within easy hail of the Antelope. "Schooner ahoy!" he cried. "A-ho-o-o-o-y!" cried Captain Corbet. "Why don't you come and take us off?" he cried. After this there was silence for some time. At last Captain Corbet shouted out,-- "The boat's lost." "What!" "The boat's adrift." Captain Corbet said nothing about Tom, from a desire to spare him for the present. So Bruce thought that the empty boat had drifted off, and as he had been prepared to hear of some accident, he was not much surprised. But he was not to remain long in ignorance. In a few moments he heard Arthur's voice. "Bruce!" "Hallo!" "The boat's gone." "All right." "TOM'S ADRIFT IN HER!" "What!" shouted Bruce. "TOM'S ADRIFT IN HER." At this appalling intelligence Bruce's heart seemed to stop beating. "How long?" he dried, after a pause. "Half an hour," cried Arthur. "Why don't you go after him?" cried Bruce again. "We're aground," cried Arthur. The whole situation was now explained, and Bruce was filled with his own share of that dismay which prevailed on board of the schooner; for a long time nothing more was said. At length Arthur's voice sounded again. "Bruce!" "Hallo!" "Get a boat, and come aboard as soon as you can after the tide turns." "All right. How early will the tide suit?" "Eight o'clock." "Not before?" "No." After this nothing more was said. Bruce could see for himself that the tide was falling, and that he would have to wait for the returning tide before a boat could be launched. He waited for some time, full of despair, and hesitating to return to Bart with his mournful intelligence. At length he turned, and walked slowly back to his friend. "Well, Bruce?" asked Bart, who by this time was sure that some accident had happened. "The boat's adrift." "The boat!" "Yes; and what's worse, poor Tom!" "Tom!" cried Bart, in a horror of apprehension. "Yes, Tom's adrift in her." At this Bart said not a word, but stood for some time staring at Bruce in utter dismay. A few words served to explain to Bart the situation of the schooner, and the need of getting a boat. "Well," said Bart, "we'd better see about it at once. It's eleven o'clock, but we'll find some people up; if not, we'll knock them up." And with these words the two lads walked up from the river bank. On reaching the houses attached to the shipyard, they found that most of the people were up. There was a good deal of singing and laughter going on, which the boys interpreted to arise from a desire to celebrate the launching of the ship. They went first to Mrs. Watson's house, where they found that good lady up. She listened to their story with undisguised uneasiness, and afterwards called in a number of men, to whom she told the sad news. These men listened to it with very serious faces. "It's no joke," said one, shaking his head. The others said nothing, but their faces spoke volumes. "What had we better do?" asked Bruce. "Of course ye'll be off as soon as ye can get off," said one. "The lad might have a chance," said another. "The return tide may drift him back, but he may be carried too far down for that." "He'll be carried below Cape Chignecto unless he gets to the land," said another. "Isn't there a chance that he'll be picked up?" asked Bart. The man to whom he spoke shook his head. "There's a deal of fog in the bay this night," said he. "Fog? Why, it's clear enough here." "So it is; but this place and the Bay of Fundy are two different things." "A regular sou-wester out there," said another man. "An a pooty heavy sea by this time," said another. And in this way they all contributed to increase the anxiety of the two boys, until at last scarce a ray of hope was left. "You'd better prepare yourselves for the worst," said one of the men. "If he had an oar he would be all right; but, as it is--well, I don't care about sayin what I think." "O, you're all too despondent," said Mrs. Watson. "What is the use of looking on the dark side? Come, Bart, cheer up. I'll look on the bright side. Hope for the best. Set out on the search with hope, and a good heart. I'm confident that he will be safe. You will pick him up yourselves, or else you will hear of his escape somewhere. I remember two men, a few years ago, that went adrift and were saved." "Ay," said one of the men, "I mind that well. They were Tom Furlong and Jim Spencer. But that there boat was a good-sized fishing boat; an such a boat as that might ride out a gale." "Nonsense," said Mrs. Watson. "You're all a set of confirmed croakers. Why, Bart, you've read enough shipwreck books to know that little boats have floated in safety for hundreds of miles. So hope for the best; don't be down-hearted. I'll send two or three men down now to get the boat ready for you. You can't do anything till the morning, you know. Won't you stay here? You had better go to bed at once." But Bart and Bruce could not think of bed. "Well, come back any time, and a bed will be ready for you," said Mrs. Watson. "If you want to see about the boat now, the men are ready to go with you." With those words she led the way out to the kitchen, where a couple of men were waiting. Bart and Bruce followed them down to a boat-house on the river bank, and saw the boat there which Mrs. Watson had offered them. This boat could be launched at any time, and as there was nothing more to be done, the boys strolled disconsolately about, and finally went to the end of the promontory, and spent a long time looking out over the water, and conversing sadly about poor Tom's chances. There they sat late in the night, until midnight came, and so on into the morning. At last the scene before them changed from a sheet of water to a broad expanse of mud. The water had all retired, leaving the bed of the river exposed. Of all the rivers that flow into the Bay of Fundy none is more remarkable than the Petitcodiac. At high tide it is full--a mighty stream; at low tide it is empty--a channel of mud forty miles long; and the intervening periods are marked by the furious flow of ascending or descending waters. And now, as the boys sat there looking out upon the expanse of mud before them, they became aware of a dull, low, booming sound, that came up from a far distant point, and seemed like the voice of many waters sounding from the storm-vexed bay outside. There was no moon, but the light was sufficient to enable them to see the exposed riverbed, far over to the shadowy outline of the opposite shore. Here, where in the morning a mighty ship had floated, nothing could now float; but the noise that broke upon their ears told them of the return of the waters that now were about to pour onward with resistless might into the empty channel, and send successive waves far along into the heart of the land. "What is that noise?" asked Bruce. "It grows louder and louder." "That," said bart, "is the Bore of the Petitcodiac." "Have you ever seen it?" "Never. I've heard of it often, but have never seen it." But their words were interrupted now by the deepening thunder of the approaching waters. Towards the quarter whence the sound arose they turned their heads involuntarily. At first they could see nothing through the gloom of night; but at length, as they strained their eyes looking down the river, they saw in the distance a faint, white, phosphorescent gleam, and as it appeared the roar grew louder, and rounder, and more all-pervading. On it came, carrying with it the hoarse cadence of some vast surf flung ashore from the workings of a distant storm, or the thunder of some mighty cataract tumbling over a rocky precipice. And now, as they looked, the white, phosphorescent glow grew brighter, and then whiter, like snow; every minute it approached nearer, until at last, full before them and beneath them, there rolled a giant wave, extending across the bed of the river, crescent-shaped, with its convex side advancing forwards, and its ends following after within short distance from the shore. The great wave rolled on, one mass of snow-white foam, behind which gleamed a broad line of phosphorescent lustre from the agitated waters, which, in the gloom of night, had a certain baleful radiance. As it passed on its path, the roar came up more majestically from the foremost wave; and behind that came the roar of other billows that followed in its wake. By daylight the scene would have been grand and impressive; but now, amid the gloom, the grandeur became indescribable. The force of those mighty waters seemed indeed resistless, and it was with a feeling of relief that the boys reflected that the schooner was out of the reach of its sweep. Its passage was swift, and soon it had passed beyond them; and afar up the river, long after it had passed from sight, they heard the distant thunder of its mighty march. By the time the wave had passed, the boys found themselves excessively weary with their long wakefulness. "Bart, my boy," said Bruce, "we must get some rest, or we won't be worth anything to-morrow. What do you say? Shall we go back to Mrs. Watson's?" "It's too late--isn't it?" "Well, it's pretty late, no doubt. I dare say it's half past two; but that's all the more reason why we should go to bed." "Well." "What do you say? Do you think we had better disturb Mrs. Watson, or not?" "O, no; let's go into the barn, and lie down in the hay." "Very well. Hay makes a capital bed. For my part, I could sleep on stones." "So could I." "I'm determined to hope for the best about Tom," said Bruce, rising and walking off, followed by Bart. "Mrs. Watson was right. There's no use letting ourselves be downcast by a lot of croakers--is there?" "No," said Bart. The boys then walked on, and in a few minutes reached the ship-yard. Here a man came up to them. "We've been looking for you everywhere," said the man. "Mrs. Watson is anxious about you." "Mrs. Watson?" "Yes. She won't go to bed till you get back to the house. There's another man out for you, up the river." "O, I'm sorry we have given you all so much trouble," said Bart; "but we didn't think that anybody would bother themselves about us." "Well, you don't know Mrs. Watson that's all," said the man, walking along with them. "She's been a worrytin herself to death about you; and the sooner she sees you, the better for her and for you." On reaching the house the boys were received by Mrs. Watson. One look at her was enough to show them that the man's account of her was true. Her face was pale, her manner was agitated, and her voice trembled as she spoke to them, and asked them where they had been. Bart expressed sorrow at having been the cause of so much trouble, and assured her he thought that she had gone to bed. "No," said she; "I've been too excited and agitated about your friend and about you. But I'm glad that you've been found; and as it's too late to talk now, you had better go to bed, and try to sleep." With these words she gently urged them to their bedroom; and the boys, utterly worn out, did not attempt to withstand her. They went to bed, and scarcely had their heads touched the pillows before they were fast asleep. Meanwhile the boys on board the Antelope had been no less anxious; and, unable to sleep, they had talked solemnly with each other over the possible fate of poor Tom. Chafing from their forced inaction, they looked impatiently upon the ebbing water, which was leaving them aground, when they were longing to be floating on its bosom after their friend, and could scarcely endure the thought of the suspense to which they would be condemned while waiting for the following morning. Captain Corbet also was no less anxious, though much less agitated. He acknowledged, with pain, that it was all his fault, but, appealed to all the boys, one by one, asking them how he should know that the rope was rotten. He informed them that the rope was an old favorite of his, and that he would have willingly risked his life on it. He blamed himself chiefly, however, for not staying in the boat himself, instead of leaving Tom in it. To all his remarks the boys said but little, and contented themselves with putting questions to him about the coast, the tides, the wind, the currents, and the fog. The boys on board went to sleep about one o'clock, and waked at sunrise. Then they watched the shore wistfully, and wondered why Bart and Bruce did not make their appearance. But Bart and Bruce, worn out by their long watch, did not wake till nearly eight o'clock. Then they hastily dressed themselves, and after a very hurried breakfast they bade good by to good Mrs. Watson. "I shall be dreadfully anxious about that poor boy," said she, sadly. "Promise me to telegraph as soon as you can about the result." Bart promised. Then they hurried down to the beach. The tide was yet a considerable distance out; but a half dozen stout fellows, whose sympathies were fully enlisted in their favor, shoved the boat down over the mud, and launched her. Then Bart and Bruce took the oars, and soon reached the schooner, where the boys awaited their arrival in mournful silence. VI. Tom adrift.--The receding Shores.--The Paddle.--The Roar of Surf--The Fog Horn.--The Thunder of the unseen Breakers.--A Horror of great Darkness.--Adrift in Fog and Night. When the boat in which Tom was darted down the stream, he at first felt paralyzed by utter terror; but at length rousing himself, he looked around. As the boat drifted on, his first impulse was to stop it; and in order to do this it was necessary to find an oar. The oar which Captain Corbet had used to scull the boat to the schooner had been thrown on board of the latter, so that the contents of the boat might be passed up the more conveniently. Tom knew this, but he thought that there might be another oar on board. A brief examination sufficed to show him that there was nothing of the kind. A few loose articles lay at the bottom; over these was the sail which Captain Corbet had bought in the ship-yard, and on this was the box of pilot-bread. That was all. There was not a sign of an oar, or a board, or anything of the kind. No sooner had he found out this than he tried to tear off one of the seats of the boat, in the hope of using this as a paddle. But the seats were too firmly fixed to be loosened by his hands, and, after a few frantic but ineffectual efforts, he gave up the attempt. But he could not so quickly give up his efforts to save himself. There was the box of biscuit yet. Taking his knife from his pocket, he succeeded in detaching the cover of the box, and then, using this as a paddle, he sought with frantic efforts to force the boat nearer to the shore. But the tide was running very swiftly, and the cover was only a small bit of board, so that his efforts seemed to have but little result. He did indeed succeed in turning the boat's head around; but this act, which was not accomplished without the severest labor, did not seem to bring her nearer to the shore to any perceptible extent. What he sought to do was to achieve some definite motion to the boat, which might drag her out of the grasp of the swift current; but that was the very thing which he could not do, for so strong was that grasp, and so swift was that current, that even an oar would have scarcely accomplished what he wished. The bit of board, small, and thin, and frail, and wielded with great difficulty and at a fearful disadvantage, was almost useless. But, though he saw that he was accomplishing little or nothing, he could not bring himself to give up this work. It seemed his only hope; and so he labored on, sometimes working with both hands at the board, sometimes plying his frail paddle with one hand, and using the other hand at a vain endeavor to paddle in the water. In his desperation he kept on, and thought that if he gained ever so little, still, by keeping hard at work, the little that he gained might finally tell upon the direction of the boat--at any rate, so long as it might be in the river. He knew that the river ran for some miles yet, and that some time still remained before he would reach the bay. Thus Tom toiled on, half despairing, and nearly fainting with his frenzied exertion, yet still refusing to give up, but plying his frail paddle until his nerveless arms seemed like weights of lead, and could scarce carry the board through the water. But the result, which at the outset, and in the very freshness of his strength, had been but trifling, grew less and less against the advance of his own weakness and the force of that tremendous tide, until at last his feeble exertions ceased to have any appreciable effect whatever. There was no moon, but it was light enough for him to see the shores--to see that he was in the very centre of that rapid current, and to perceive that he was being borne past those dim shores with fearful velocity. The sight filled him with despair, but his arms gained a fresh energy, from time to time, out of the very desperation of his soul. He was one of those natures which are too obstinate to give up even in the presence of despair itself; and which, even when hope is dead, still forces hope to linger, and struggles on while a particle of life or of strength remains. So, as he toiled on, and fought on, against this fate which had suddenly fixed itself upon him, he saw the shores on either side recede, and knew that every passing moment was bearing him on to a wide, a cruel, and a perilous sea. He took one hasty glance behind him, and saw what he knew to be the mouth of the river close at hand; and beyond this a waste of waters was hidden in the gloom of night. The sight lent new energy to his fainting limbs. He called aloud for help. Shriek after shriek burst from him, and rang wildly, piercingly, thrillingly upon the air of night. But those despairing shrieks came to no human ear, and met with no response. They died away upon the wind and the waters; and the fierce tide, with swifter flow, bore him onward. The last headland swept past him; the river and the river bank were now lost to him. Around him the expanse of water grew darker, and broader, and more terrible. Above him the stars glimmered more faintly from the sky. But the very habit of exertion still remained, and his faint plunges still dipped the little board into the water; and a vague idea of saving himself was still uppermost in his mind. Deep down in that stout heart of his was a desperate resolution never to give up while strength lasted; and well he sustained that determination. Over him the mist came floating, borne along by the wind which sighed around him; and that mist gradually overspread the scene upon which his straining eyes were fastened. It shut out the overhanging sky. It extinguished the glimmering stars. It threw a veil over the receding shores. It drew its folds around him closer and closer, until at last everything was hidden from view. Closer and still closer came the mist, and thicker and ever thicker grew its dense folds, until at last even the water, into which he still thrust his frail paddle, was invisible. At length his strength failed utterly. His hands refused any longer to perform their duty. The strong, indomitable will remained, but the power of performing the dictates of that will was gone. He fell back upon the sail that lay in the bottom of the boat, and the board fell from his hands. And now there gathered around the prostrate figure of the lost boy all the terrors of thickest darkness. The fog came, together with the night, shrouding all things from view, and he was floating over a wide sea, with an impenetrable wall of thickest darkness closing him in on all sides. As he thus lay there helpless, he had leisure to reflect for the first time upon the full bitterness of his situation. Adrift in the fog, and in the night, and borne onward swiftly down into the Bay of Fundy--that was his position. And what could he do? That was the one question which he could not answer. Giving way now to the rush of despair, he lay for some time motionless, feeling the rocking of the waves, and the breath of the wind, and the chill damp of the fog, yet unable to do anything against these enemies. For nearly an hour he lay thus inactive, and at the end of that time his lost energies began to return. He rose and looked around. The scene had not changed at all; in fact, there was no scene to change. There was nothing but black darkness all around. Suddenly something knocked against the boat. He reached out his hand, and touched a piece of wood, which the next instant slipped from his grasp. But the disappointment was not without its alleviation, for he thought that he might come across some bits of drift wood, with which he could do something, perhaps, for his escape. And so buoyant was his soul, and so obstinate his courage, that this little incident of itself served to revive his faculties. He went to the stern of the boat, and sitting there, he tried to think upon what might be best to be done. What could be done in such a situation? He could swim, but of what avail was that? In what direction could he swim, or what progress could he make, with such a tide? As to paddling, he thought of that no more; paddling was exhausted, and his board was useless. Nothing remained, apparently, but inaction. Inaction was indeed hard, and it was the worst condition in which he could be placed, for in such a state the mind always preys upon itself; in such a state trouble is always magnified, and the slow time passes more slowly. Yet to this inaction he found himself doomed. He floated on now for hours, motionless and filled with despair, listening to the dash of the waves, which were the only sounds that came to his ears. And so it came to pass, in process of time, that by incessant attention to these monotonous sounds, they ceased to be altogether monotonous, but seemed to assume various cadences and intonations. His sharpened ears learned at last to distinguish between the dash of large waves and the plash of small ones, the sighing of the wind, the pressure of the waters against the boat's bows, and the ripple of eddies under its stern. Worn out by excitement and fatigue, he lay motionless, listening to sounds like these, and taking in them a mournful interest, when suddenly, in the midst of them, his ears caught a different cadence. It was a long, measured sound, not an unfamiliar one, but one which he had often heard--the gathering sound which breaks out, rising and accumulating upon the ear, as the long line of surf falls upon some rocky shore. He knew at once what this was, and understood by it that he was near some shore; but what shore it might be he could not know. The sound came up from his right, and therefore might be the New Brunswick coast, if the boat had preserved its proper position. But the position of the boat had been constantly changing as she drifted along, so that it was impossible to tell whether he was drifting stern foremost or bow foremost. The water moved as the boat moved, and there was no means by which to judge. He listened to the surf, therefore, but made no attempt to draw nearer to it. He now knew perfectly well that with his present resources no efforts of his could avail anything, and that his only course would be to wait. Besides, this shore, whatever it was, must be very different, he thought, from the banks of the Petitcodiac. It was, as he thought, an iron-bound shore. And the surf which he heard broke in thunder a mile away, at the foot of giant precipices, which could only offer death to the hapless wretch who might be thrown among them. He lay, therefore, inactive, listening to this rolling surf for hours. At first it grew gradually louder, as though he was approaching it; but afterwards it grew fainter quite as gradually, until at length it could no longer be heard. During all these lonely hours, one thing afforded a certain consolation, and that was, the discovery that the sea did not grow rougher. The wind that blew was the sou-wester, the dreaded wind of fog and, storm; but on this occasion its strength was not put forth; it blew but moderately, and the water was not very greatly disturbed. The sea tossed the little boat, but was not high enough to dash over her, or to endanger her in any way. None of its spray ever came upon the recumbent form in the boat, nor did any moisture come near him, save that which was deposited by the fog. At first, in his terror, he had counted upon meeting a tempestuous sea; but, as the hours passed, he saw that thus far there had been nothing of the kind, and, if he were destined to be exposed to such a danger, it lay as yet in the future. As long as the wind continued moderate, so long would he toss over the little waves without being endangered in any way. And thus, with all these thoughts, sometimes depressing, at other times rather encouraging, he drifted on. Hours passed away. At length his fatigue overpowered him more and more, and as he sat there in the stern, his eyes closed, and his head fell heavily forward. He laid it upon the sail which was in front of him, so as to get an easier position, and was just closing his eyes again, when a sound came to his ears which in an instant drove every thought of sleep and of fatigue away, and made him start up and listen with intense eagerness. It was the sound of a fog horn, such as is used by coasting vessels, and blown during a fog, at intervals, to give warning of their presence. The sound was a familiar one to a boy who had been brought up on the fog-encircled and fish-haunted shores of Newfoundland; and Tom's hearing, which had been almost hushed in slumber, caught it at once. It was like the voice of a friend calling to him. But for a moment he thought it was only a fancy, or a dream, and he sat listening and quivering with excitement. He waited and listened for some time, and was just about to conclude that it was a dream, when suddenly it came again. There was no mistake this time. It was a fog horn. Some schooner was sailing these waters. O for day-light, and O for clear weather, so that he might see it, and make himself seen! The sound, though clear, was faint, and the schooner was evidently at a considerable distance; but Tom, in his eagerness, did not think of that. He shouted with all his strength. He waited for an answer, and then shouted again. Once more he waited, and listened, and then again and again his screams went forth over the water. But still no response came. At last, after some interval, the fog horn again sounded. Again Tom screamed, and yelled, and uttered every sound that could possibly convey to human ears an idea of his presence, and of his distress. The sounds of the fog horn, however, did not correspond with his cries. It was blown at regular intervals, which seemed painfully long to Tom, and did not seem to sound as if in answer to him. At first his hope was sustained by the discovery that the sounds were louder, and therefore nearer; but scarcely had he assured himself of this, when he perceived that they were growing fainter again, as though the schooner had approached him, and then sailed away. This discovery only stimulated him to more frantic exertions. He yelled more and more loudly, and was compelled, at last, to cease from pure exhaustion. But even then he did not cease till long after the last notes of the departing fog horn had faintly sounded in his ears. It was a disappointment bitter indeed, since it came after a reviving hope. What made it all the worse was a fixed idea which he had, that the schooner was no other than the Antelope. He felt confident that she had come at once after him, and was now traversing the waters in search of him, and sounding the horn so as to send it to his ears and get his response. And his response had been given with this result! This was the end of his hopes. He could bear it no longer. The stout heart and the resolute obstinacy which had so long struggled against fate now gave way utterly. He buried his face in his hands, and burst into a passion of tears. He wept for a long time, and roused himself, at last, with difficulty, to a dull despair. What was the use of hoping, or thinking, or listening? Hope was useless. It was better to let himself go wherever the waters might take him. He reached out his hand and drew the sail forward, and then settling himself down in the stern of the boat, he again shut his eyes and tried to sleep. But sleep, which a short time before had been so easy, was now difficult. His ears took in once more the different sounds of the sea, and soon became aware of a deeper, drearer sound than any which had hitherto come to him. It was the hoarse roar of a great surf, far more formidable than the one which he had heard before. The tumult and the din grew rapidly louder, and at length became so terrific that he sat upright, and strained his eyes in the direction from which it came. Peering thus through the darkness, he saw the glow of phosphorescent waves wrought out of the strife of many waters; and they threw towards him, amid the darkness, a baleful gleam which fascinated his eyes. A feeling came to him now that all was over. He felt, as though he were being sucked into some vortex, where Death lay in wait for him. He trembled. A prayer started to his lips, and burst from him. Suddenly his boat seemed caught by some resistless force, and jerked to one side; the next instant it rose on some swelling wave, and was shot swiftly forward. Tom closed his eyes, and a thrill of horror passed through every nerve. All at once a rude shock was felt, and the boat shook, and Tom thought he was going down. It seemed like the blow of a rock, and he could think only of the ingulfing waters. But the waters hesitated to claim their prey; the rushing motion ceased; and soon the boat was tossing lightly, as before, over the waves, while the hoarse and thunderous roar of those dread unseen breakers, from which he had been so wondrously saved, arose wrathfully behind, as though they were howling after their escaped victim. A cry of gratitude escaped Tom, and with trembling lips he offered a heart-felt prayer to that divine Power whose mighty hand had just rescued him from a terrible doom. Tom's agitation had been so great that it was long before he could regain his former calm. At last, however, his trembling subsided. He heard no longer the howling surf. All was calm and quiet. The wind ceased, the boat's motion was less violent, the long-resisted slumber came once more to his eyes. Still his terror kept off sleep, and as his eyes would close, they would every moment open again, and he would start in terror and look around. At length he saw that the darkness was less profound. Light was coming, and that light was increasing. He could see the dark waters, and the gloomy folds of the enclosing mist became apparent. He gave a heavy sigh, partly of terror at the thought of all that he had gone through, and partly of relief at the approach of light. Well might he sigh, for this light was the dawn of a new day, and showed him that he had been a whole night upon the waters. And now he could no longer struggle against sleep. His eyes closed for the last time. His head fell forward on the wet sail. He was sound asleep. VII. Lost in the Fog.--The Shoal and its Rocks.--Is it a Reef?--The Truth.--Hoisting Sail.--A forlorn Hope.--Wild Steering.--Where am I?--Land, ho! Tom slept for many hours; and when he at length awoke, he was stiffened in every limb, and wet to the skin. It was his constrained position and the heavy fog which had done this. He sat up and looked around with a bewildered air; but it did not take a long time for him to collect his wandering faculties, and arrive at the full recollection of his situation. Gradually it all came before him--the night of horror, the long drift, the frantic struggles, the boom of the surf, the shrill, penetrating tone of the fog horn, his own wild screams for help, the thunder of the breakers, and the grasp of the giant wave; all these, and many more, came back to his mind; and he was all too soon enabled to connect his present situation with the desperate position of the preceding night. In spite of all these gloomy thoughts, which thus rushed in one accumulated mass over his soul, his first impulse had nothing to do with these things, but was concerned with something very different from useless retrospect, and something far more essential. He found himself ravenously hungry; and his one idea was to satisfy the cravings of his appetite. He thought at once of the box of biscuit. The sail which he had pulled forward had very fortunately covered it up, else the contents might have been somewhat damaged. As it was, the upper edges of the biscuits, which had been exposed before being covered by the sail, were somewhat damp and soft, but otherwise they were not harmed; and Tom ate his frugal repast with extreme relish. Satisfying his appetite had the natural effect of cheering his spirits, and led him to reflect with thankfulness on the very fortunate presence of that box of biscuit in the boat. Had it not been for that, how terrible would his situation be! But with that he could afford to entertain hope, and might reasonably expect to endure the hardships of his situation. Strange to say, he was not at all thirsty; which probably arose from the fact that he was wet to the skin. Immersing one's self in water is often resorted to by shipwrecked mariners, when they cannot get a drink, and with successful results. As for Tom, his whole night had been one long bath, in which he had been exposed to the penetrating effects of the sea air and the fog. He had no idea whatever of the time. The sun could not be seen, and so thick was the fog that he could not even make out in what part of the sky it might be. He had a general impression, however, that it was midday; and this impression was not very much out of the way. His breakfast refreshed him, and he learned now to attach so much value to his box of biscuit, that his chief desire was to save it from further injury. So he hunted about for the cover, and finding it underneath the other end of the sail, he put it on the box, and then covered it all up. In this position the precious contents of the box were safe. The hour of the day was a subject of uncertainty, and so was the state of the tide. Whether he was drifting up or down the bay he could not tell for certain. His recollection of the state of the tide at Petitcodiac, was but vague. He reckoned, however, from the ship launch of the preceding day, and then, allowing sufficient time for the difference in the tide, he approximated to a correct conclusion. If it were midday, he thought that the tide would be about half way down on the ebb. These thoughts, and acts, and calculations took up some time, and he now began to look around him. Suddenly his eye caught sight of something not far away, dimly visible through the mist. It looked like a rock. A farther examination showed him that such was the case. It was a rock, and he was drifting towards it. No sooner had he ascertained this, than all his excitement once more awakened. Trembling from head to foot at this sudden prospect of escape, he started to his feet, and watched most eagerly the progress of the boat. It was drifting nearer to the rock. Soon another appeared, and then another. The rocks were black, and covered with masses of sea-weed, as though they were submerged at high tide. A little nearer, and he saw a gravelly strand lying just beyond the rocks. His excitement grew stronger and stronger, until at last it was quite uncontrollable. He began to fear that he would drift past this place, into the deep water again. He sprang into the bows, and grasping the rope in his hand, stood ready to leap ashore. He saw that he was drawing nearer, and so delayed for a while. Nearer he came and nearer. At length the boat seemed to pass along by the gravelly beach, and move by it as though it would go no nearer. This Tom could not endure. He determined to wait no longer. He sprang. He sank into the water up to his armpits, but he did not lose his hold of the rope. Clutching this in a convulsive grasp, he regained his foothold, which he had almost lost, and struggled forward. For a few moments he made no headway, for the boat, at the pressure of the current, pulled so hard that he could not drag it nearer. A terrible fear came to him that the rope might break. Fortunately it did not, and, after a short but violent struggle, Tom conquered the resistance of the tide, and pulled the boat slowly towards the shore. He then towed it near to the rocks, dragged its bows up as far as he could, and fastened it securely. Then he looked around. A few rocks were near him, about six feet high, jutting out of the gravel; and beyond these were others, which rose out of the water. Most of them were covered with sea-weed. A few sticks of timber were wedged in the interstices of the nearest rocks. As to the rest, he saw only a rocky ledge of small extent, which was surrounded by water. Beyond this nothing was visible but fog. At first he had thought that this was a beach, but now he began to doubt this. He walked all around, and went into the water on every side, but found no signs of any neighboring shore. The place seemed rather like some isolated ledge. But where was it, and how far away was the shore? If he could only tell that! He stopped, and listened intently; he walked all around, and listened more intently still, in hopes of hearing the sound of some neighboring surf. In vain. Nothing of the kind came to his ears. All was still. The water was not rough, nor was there very much wind. There was only a brisk breeze, which threw up light waves on the surface. After a time he noticed that the tide was going down, and the area of the ledge was evidently enlarging. This inspired hope, for he thought that perhaps some long shoal might be disclosed by the retreating tide, which might communicate with the main land. For this he now watched intently, and occupied himself with measuring the distance from the rock where his boat was tied. Doing this from time to time, he found that every little while the number of paces between the rock and the water's edge increased. This occupation made the time pass rapidly; and at last Tom found his stopping-place extending over an area of about a hundred yards in length, and half as many in breadth. The rocks at one end had increased in apparent size, and in number; but the ledge itself remained unchanged in its general character. This, he saw, was its extreme limit, beyond which it did not extend. There was no communication with any shore. There was no more indication now of land than when he had first arrived. This discovery was a gradual one. It had been heralded by many fears and suspicions, so that at last, when it forced itself on his convictions, he was not altogether unprepared. Still, the shock was terrible, and once more poor Tom had to struggle with his despair--a despair, too, that was all the more profound from the hopes that he had been entertaining. He found, at length, in addition to this, that the tide was rising, that it was advancing towards his resting-place, and that it would, no doubt, overflow it all before long. It had been half tide when he landed, and but a little was uncovered; at full tide he saw that it would all be covered up by the water,--sea weed, rocks, and all,--and concealed from human eye. In the midst of these painful discoveries there suddenly occurred to him the true name and nature of this place. Quaco Ledge! That was the place which Captain Corbet had described. He recalled now the full description. Here it lay before him; upon it he stood; and he found that it corresponded in every respect with the description that the captain had given. If this were indeed so, and the description were true,--and he could not doubt this,--how desperate his situation was, and how he had been deceived in his false hopes! Far, far away was he from any shore!--in the middle of the bay; on a place avoided by all--a place which he should shun above all other places if he hoped for final escape! And now he was as eager to quit this ill-omened place as he had once been to reach it. The tide was yet low. He tried to push the boat down, but could not. He saw that he would have to wait. So he got inside the boat, and, sitting down, he waited patiently. The time passed slowly, and Tom looked despairingly out over the water. Something attracted his attention. It was a long pole, which had struck against the edge of the shoal. He got out of the boat, and, securing it, he walked back again. It was some waif that had been drifting about till it was thus cast at his feet. He thought of taking it for a mast, and making use of the sail. The idea was an attractive one. He pulled the sail out, unfolded it, and found it to be the jib of some schooner. He cut off one end of this, and then with his knife began to make a hole in the seat for his mast. It was very slow work, but he succeeded at last in doing it, and inserted the pole. Then he fastened the sail to it. He was rather ignorant of navigation, but he had a general idea of the science, and thought he would learn by experience. By cutting off the rope from the edge of the sail he obtained a sheet, and taking off the cover of the biscuit box a second time, he put this aside to use as a rudder. But now, in what direction ought he to steer? This was an insoluble problem. He could tell now by the flow of the current the points of the compass, but could not tell in which direction he ought to go. The New Brunswick coast he thought was nearest, but he dreaded it. It seemed perilous and unapproachable. He did not think much better of the Nova Scotia coast. He thought rather of Cape d'Or, as a promising place of refuge, or the Petitcodiac. So, after long deliberation, he decided on steering back again, especially as the wind was blowing directly up the bay. By the time that he had finished these preparations and deliberations the boat was afloat. Eagerly Tom pushed it away from the shoal; eagerly, and with trembling hands, he let the sail unfold, and thrust the board into the water astern. The boat followed the impulse of the wind, and the young sailor saw with delight that his experiment was successful, and before long the dark rocks of Quaco Ledge were lost to view. Now, where there is a definite object to steer by, or a compass to guide one, and a decent rudder, even an inexperienced hand can manage to come somewhere near the point that he aims at. But take a boat like Tom's, and a rude and suddenly extemporized sail, with no other rudder than a bit of board, with no compass, and a surrounding of thick fog, and it would puzzle even an experienced sailor to guide himself aright. Tom soon suspected that his course was rather a wild one; his board in particular became quite unmanageable, and he was fatigued with trying to hold it in the water. So he threw it aside, and boldly trusted to his sail alone. The boat seemed to him to be making very respectable progress. The wind was fresh, and the sea only moderate. The little waves beat over the bows, and there was quite a commotion astern. Tom thought he was doing very well, and heading as near as possible towards the Petitcodiac. Besides, in his excitement at being thus saved from mere blind drifting, he did not much care where he went, for he felt assured that he was now on the way out of his difficulties. In an hour or two after leaving the ledge it grew quite dark, and Tom saw that it would be necessary to prepare for the night. His preparations were simple, consisting in eating a half dozen biscuit. He now began to feel a little thirsty, but manfully struggled against this feeling. Gradually the darkness grew deeper, until at last it assumed the intense character of the preceding night. But still Tom sat up, and the boat went on. The wind did not slacken, nor did the boat's progress cease. Hours passed by in this way. As to the tides, Tom could not tell now very well whether they were rising or falling, and, in fact, he was quite indifferent, being satisfied fully with his progress. As long as the wind distended his sail, and bore the boat onward, he cared not whether the tide favored or opposed. Hours passed, but such was Tom's excitement that he still bore up, and thought nothing of rest or of sleep. His attention was needed, too, and so he kept wide awake, and his ears were ever on the stretch to hear the slightest sound. But at last the intense excitement and the long fatigue began to overpower him. Still he struggled against his weakness, and still he watched and listened. Hours passed on, and the wind never ceased to fill the sail, and the boat never ceased to go onward in a course of which Tom could have no idea. It was a course totally different from the one which be intended--a course which depended on the chance of the wind; and one, too, which was varied by the sweep of the tide as it rose or fell; but the course, such as it was, continued on, and Tom watched and waited until, at last, from sheer exhaustion, he fell sound asleep. His dreams were much disturbed, but he slept on soundly, and when he awaked it was broad day. He looked around in deep disappointment. Fog was everywhere, as before, and nothing could be seen. Whether he was near any shore or not he could not tell. Suddenly he noticed that the wind was blowing from an opposite direction. How to account for this was at first a mystery, for the fog still prevailed, and the opposite wind could not bring fog. Was it possible that the boat had turned during his sleep? He knew that it was quite possible. Indeed, he believed that this was the case. With this impression he determined to act on the theory that the boat had turned, and not that the wind had changed. The latter idea seemed impossible. The wind was the chill, damp fog wind--the sou-wester. Convinced of this, Tom turned the boat, and felt satisfied that he had resumed his true course. After a time the wind went down, and the sail flapped idly against the mast. Tom was in a fever of impatience, but could do nothing. He felt himself to be once more at the mercy of the tides. The wind had failed him, and nothing was left but to drift. All that day he drifted, and night came on. Still it continued calm. Tom was weary and worn out, but so intense was his excitement that he could not think of sleep. At midnight the wind sprung up a little; and now Tom determined to keep awake, so that the boat might not again double on her track. He blamed himself for sleeping on the previous night, and losing so much progress. Now he was determined to keep awake. His resolution was carried out. His intense eagerness to reach some shore, no matter where, and his fear of again losing what he had gained, kept sleep from his eyes. All that night he watched his boat. The wind blew fitfully, sometimes carrying the boat on rapidly, again dying down. So the next morning came. It was Thursday. It was Monday night when he had drifted out, and all that time he had been on the deep, lost in the fog. And now, wearied, dejected, and utterly worn out, he looked around in despair, and wondered where this would end. Fog was everywhere, as before, and, as before, not a thing could be seen. Hours passed on; the wind had sprang up fresh, and the boat went on rapidly. Suddenly Tom sprang upright, and uttered a loud cry. There full before him he saw a giant cliff, towering far overhead, towards which the boat was sailing. At its base the waves were dashing. Over its brow trees were bending. In the air far above he heard the hoarse cries of sea-gulls. In his madness he let the boat drive straight on, and was close to it before he thought of his danger. He could not avoid it now, however, for he did not know how to turn the boat. On it went, and in a few moments struck the beach at the base of the cliff. The tide was high; the breeze was moderate, and there was but little sun. The boat was not injured by running ashore there. Tom jumped out, and, taking the rope in his hands, walked along the rough and stony beach for about a hundred yards, pulling the boat after him. There the cliff was succeeded by a steep slope, beyond which was a gentle, grass-grown declivity. Towards this he bent his now feeble steps, still tugging at the boat, and drawing it after him. At length he reached the grassy slope, and found here a rough beach. He fastened the boat securely to the trunk of a tree that grew near. Then he lifted out the box of biscuit, and over this he threw the sail. He stood for a few moments on the bank, and looked all around for signs of some human habitation; but no signs appeared. Tom was too exhausted to go in search of one. He had not slept for more than thirty hours. The country that he saw was cleared. Hills were at a little distance, but the fog which hung all around concealed everything from view. One look was enough. Overwhelmed with gratitude, he fell upon his knees, and offered up a fervent prayer of thankfulness for his astonishing escape. Then fatigue overpowered him, and, rolling himself up in the sail, he went to sleep. VIII. Off in Search.--Eager Outlook.--Nothing but Fog.--Speaking a Schooner.--Pleasant Anecdotes.--Cheer up.--The Heart of Corbet. After the arrival of Bruce and Bart, Captain Corbet did not delay his departure much longer. The vessel was already afloat, and though the tide was still rising, yet the wind was sufficiently favorable to enable her to go on her way. The sails were soon set, and, with the new boat in tow, the Antelope weighed anchor, and took her departure. For about two hours but little progress was made against the strong opposing current; yet they had the satisfaction of reaching the mouth of the river, and by ten o'clock, when the tide turned and began to fall, they were fairly in the bay. The wind here was ahead, but the strong tide was now in their favor, and they hoped for some hours to make respectable progress. During this time they had all kept an anxious lookout, but without any result. No floating craft of any kind appeared upon the surface of the water. Coming down the river, the sky was unclouded, and all the surrounding scene was fully visible; but on reaching the bay, they saw before them, a few miles down, a lofty wall of light-gray cloud. Captain Corbet waved his hand towards this. "We're in for it," said he, "or we precious soon will be." "What's that?" asked Phil. "Our old friend--a fog bank. You'd ought to know it by this time, sure." There it lay, a few miles off, and every minute brought them nearer. The appearance of the fog threw an additional gloom over the minds of all, for they saw the hopeless character of their search. Of what avail would it be to traverse the seas if they were all covered by such thick mists? Still nothing else was to be done, and they tried to hope for the best. "Any how," said Captain Corbet, "thar's one comfort. That thar fog may go as quick as it come. It ony needs a change of wind. Why, I've knowed it all vanish in half an hour, an the fog as thick as it is now." "But sometimes it lasts long--don't it?" "I should think it did. I've knowed it hang on for weeks." At this gloomy statement the boys said not a word. Soon after the schooner approached the fog bank, and in a little while it had plunged into the midst of its misty folds. The chill of the damp clouds, as they enveloped them, struck additional chill to their hearts. It was into the midst of this that poor Tom had drifted, they thought, and over these seas, amidst this impenetrable atmosphere, he might even now be drifting. In the midst of the deep dejection consequent upon such thoughts, it was difficult for them to find any solid ground for hope. The wind was moderate, yet adverse, and the schooner had to beat against it. As she went on each tack, they came in sight of the shores; but as time passed, the bay widened, and Captain Corbet kept away from the land as much as possible. All the time the boys never ceased to maintain their forlorn lookout, and watched over the sides, and peered anxiously through the mist, in the hope that the gloomy waters might suddenly disclose to their longing eyes the form of the drifting boat and their lost companion. "I tell you what it is, boys," said Captain Corbet, after a long and thoughtful silence; "the best plan of acting in a biz of this kind is to pluck up sperrit an go on. Why, look at me. You mind the time when that boat, that thar i-dentical, individdle boat, drifted away onst afore, with youns in it. You remember all about that,--course. Well, look at me. Did I mourn? Did I fret? Was I cast down? Nary down; not me. I cheered up. I cheered up Mr. Long. I kep everybody in good sperrits. An what was the result? Result was, you all turned up in prime order and condition, a enjyin of yourselves like all possessed, along with old O'Rafferty. "Again, my friends," he continued, as the boys made no remark, "consider this life air short an full of vycissitoods. Ups an downs air the lot of pore fallen hoomanity. But if at the fust blast of misforten we give up an throw up the game, what's the good of us? The question now, an the chief pint, is this--Who air we, an whar air we goin, an what air we purposin to do? Fust, we air hooman beins; secondly, we air a traversin the vast an briny main; and thirdly, we hope to find a certain friend of ourn, who was borne away from us by the swellin tide. Thar's a aim for us--a high an holy aim; an now I ask you, as feller-critters, how had we ought to go about it? Had we ought to peek, an pine, an fret, an whine? Had we ought to snivel, and give it up at the fust? Or had we ought, rayther, to be up an doin,--pluck up our sperrits like men, and go about our important work with energy? Which of these two, my friends? I pause for a reply." This was quite a speech for Captain Corbet, and the effort seemed quite an exhaustive one. He paused some time for a reply; but as no reply was forthcoming, he continued his remarks. "Now, see here," said he; "this here whole business reminds me of a story I once read in a noospaper, about a man up in this here identical river, the Petticoat Jack, who, like a fool, pulled up his boat on the bank, and wont off to sleep in her. Wal, as a matter of course, he floated off,--for the tide happened to be risin,--an when he woke up out of his cool an refreshin slumbers, he found himself afar on the briny deep, a boundin like 'a thing of life,' o'er the deep heavin sea. Besides, it was precious foggy,--jest as it is now,--an the man couldn't see any more'n we can. Wal, the story went on to say, how that thar man, in that thar boat, went a driftin in that thar fashion, in that thar fog; an he drifted, an drifted, an derifted, for days an days, up an down, on one side an t'other side, an round every way,--an, mind you, he hadn't a bit to eat, or to drink either, for that matter,--'t any rate, the paper didn't mention no such thing; an so, you know, he drifted, an d-e-e-e-rifted,--until at last he druv ashore. An now, whar d'ye think he druv?" The boys couldn't think. "Guess, now." The boys couldn't guess. "D'ye guv it up?" They did. "Wal, the paper said, he druv ashore at Grand Manan; but I've my doubts about it." The captain paused, looked all around through the fog, and stood for a moment as though listening to some sound. "I kine o' thought," said he, "that I detected the dash of water on the shore. I rayther think it's time to bring her round." The vessel was brought round on another tack, and the captain resumed his conversation. "What I was jest sayin," he continued, "reminds me of a story I onst heard, or read, I forget which (all the same, though), about two boys which went adrift on a raft. It took place up in Scott's Bay, I think, at a ship-yard in that thar locality. "These two unfortunate children, it seems, had made a raft in a playful mude, an embarkin on it they had been amoosin theirselves with paddlin about by pushin it with poles. At length they came to a pint where poles were useless; the tide got holt of the raft, an the ferrail structoor was speedily swept onward by the foorus current. Very well. Time rolled on, an that thar raft rolled on too,--far over the deep bellew sea,--beaten by the howlin storm, an acted upon by the remorseless tides. I leave you to pictoor to yourselves the sorrow of them thar two infant unfortunits, thus severed from their hum an parients, an borne afar, an scarce enough close on to keep 'em from the inclemency of the weather. So they drifted, an drifted, an de-e-rifted, until at last they druv ashore; an now, whar do you think it was that they druv?" The boys couldn't say. "Guess now." The boys declined. "Try." They couldn't. "Name some place." They couldn't think of any. "D'ye guv it up?" asked the captain, excitedly. They did. "Well, then," said he, in a triumphant tone, "they druv ashore on Brier Island; an ef that thar ain't pooty tall driftin, then I'm a Injine." To this the boys had no reply to make. "From all this," continued the captain, "you must perceive that this here driftin is very much more commoner than you hev ben inclined to bleeve it to be. You also must see that thar's every reason for hope. So up with your gizzards! Pluck up your sperrits! Rise and look fortin an the footoor squar in the face. Squar off at fortin, an hav it out with her on the spot. I don't want to hev you go mopin an whinin about this way. Hello!" Captain Corbet suddenly interrupted his remarks by an exclamation. The exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance of a sail immediately to windward. She was coming up the bay before the wind, and came swiftly through the fog towards them. In passing on her way, she came astern of the Antelope. "Schooner, ahoy!" cried Captain Corbet; and some conversation took place, in which they learned that the stranger was the schooner Wave, from St. John, and that she had not seen any signs whatever of any drifting boat. This news was received sadly by the boys, and Captain Corbet had to exert his utmost to rouse them from their depression, but without much effect. "I don't know how it is," said he, plaintively, "but somehow your blues air contiguous, an I feel as ef I was descendin into a depression as deep as yourn. I don't remember when I felt so depressed, cept last May--time I had to go off in the Antelope with taters, arter I thought I'd done with seafarin for the rest of my life. But that thar vessel war wonderously resussutated, an the speouse of my buzzum druv me away to traverse the sea. An I had to tar myself away from the clingin gerasp of my weepin infant,--the tender bud an bulossum of an old man's life--tar myself away, an feel myself a outcast. Over me hovered contennooly the image of the pinin infant, an my heart quivered with responsive sympathy. An I yearned--an I pined--an I groaned--an I felt that life would be intoll'ble till I got back to the babby. An so it was that I passed away, an had scace the heart to acknowledge your youthful cheers. Wal, time rolled on, an what's the result? Here I air. Do I pine now? Do I peek? Not a pine! Not a peek! As tender a heart as ever bet still beats in this aged frame; but I am no longer a purray to sich tender reminiscinsuz of the babby as onst used to consume my vitals." Thus it was that the venerable captain talked with the boys, and it was thus that he sought, by every possible means, to cheer them up. In this way the day passed on, and after five or six hours they began to look for a turn of tide. During this time the schooner had been beating; and as the fog was as thick as ever, it was impossible for the boys to tell where they were. Indeed, it did not seem as though they had been making any progress. "We'll have to anchor soon," said the captain, closing his eyes and turning his face meditatively to the quarter whence the wind came. "Anchor?" "Yes." "What for?" "Wal, you see it'll soon be dead low tide, an we can't go on any further when it turns. We'll have wind an tide both agin us." "How far have we come now?" "Wal, we've come a pooty considerable of a lick now--mind I tell you. 'Tain't, of course, as good as ef the wind had ben favorable, but arter all, that thar tide was a pooty considerable of a tide, now." "How long will you anchor?" "Why, till the next tarn of tide,--course." "When will that be?" "Wal, somewhar about eleven o'clock." "Eleven o'clock?" "Yes." "Why, that's almost midnight." "Course it is." "Wouldn't it be better to cruise off in the bay? It seems to me anything is better than keeping still." "No, young sir; it seems to me that jest now anythin is better than tryin to cruise in the bay, with a flood tide a comin up. Why, whar d'ye think we'd be? It would ony take an hour or two to put us on Cape Chignecto, or Cape d'Or, onto a place that we wouldn't git away from in a hurry,--mind I tell you." To this, of course, the boys had nothing to say. So, after a half hour's further sail, the anchor was dropped, and the Antelope stopped her wanderings for a time. Tedious as the day had been, it was now worse. The fog was as thick as ever, the scene was monotonous, and there was nothing to do. Even Solomon's repasts had, in a great measure, lost their attractions. He had spread a dinner for them, which at other times, and under happier circumstances, would have been greeted with uproarious enthusiasm; but at the present time it was viewed with comparative indifference. It was the fog that threw this gloom over them. Had the sky been clear, and the sun shining, they would have viewed the situation with comparative equanimity; but the fog threw terror all its own around Tom's position; and by shutting them in on every side, it forced them to think of him who was imprisoned in the same way--their lost companion, who now was drifting in the dark. Besides, as long as they were in motion, they had the consciousness that they were doing something, and that of itself was a comfort; but now, even that consolation was taken away from them, and in their forced inaction they fell back again into the same despondency which they had felt at Petitcodiac. "It's all this fog, I do believe," said Captain Corbet. "If it want for this you'd all cheer up, an be as merry as crickets." "Is there any prospect of its going away?" "Wal, not jest yet. You can't reckon on it. When it chooses to go away, it does so. It may hang on for weeks, an p'aps months. Thar's no tellin. I don't mind it, bein as I've passed my hull life in the middle of fog banks; but I dare say it's a leetle tryin to youns." The repast that Solomon spread for them on that evening was scarce tasted, and to all his coaxings and remonstrances the boys made no reply. After the tea was over, they went on deck, and stared silently into the surrounding gloom. The sight gave them no relief, and gave no hope. In that dense fog twilight came on soon, and with the twilight came the shadows of the night more rapidly. At last it grew quite dark, and finally there arose all around them the very blackness of darkness. "The best thing to do," said Captain Corbet, "is to go to sleep. In all kinds of darkness, whether intunnel or extunnel, I've allus found the best plan to be to sleep it off. An I've knowed great men who war of my opinion. Sleep, then, young sirs, while yet you may, while yer young blood is warm, an life is fresh an fair, an don't put it off to old age, like me, for you mayn't be able to do it. Look at me! How much d'ye think I've slep sence I left Mud Creek? Precious little. I don't know how it is, but bein alone with you, an havin the respons'bility of you all, I kine o' don't feel altogether able to sleep as I used to do; an sence our late loss--I--wal, I feel as though I'd never sleep agin. I'm talkin an talkin, boys, but it's a solemn time with me. On me, boys, rests the fate of that lad, an I'll scour these here seas till he turns up, ef I hev to do it till I die. Anxious? Yes, I am. I'm that anxious that the diskivery of the lost boy is now the one idee of my life, for which I forget all else; but allow me to say, at the same time, that I fully, furmly, an conshuentiously bleve an affum, that my conviction is, that that thar lad is bound to turn up all right in the end--right side up--with care--sound in every respect, in good order an condition, jest as when fust shipped on board the good schooner Antelope, Corbet master, for Petticoat Jack, as per bill ladin." The captain's tones were mournful. He heaved a deep sigh as he concluded, and relapsed into a profound and melancholy silence. The boys waited on deck for some time longer, and finally followed his advice, and sought refuge below. They were young and strong, and the fatigue which they felt brought on drowsiness, which, in spite of their anxiety, soon deepened into sleep. All slept, and at length Captain Corbet only was awake. It was true enough, as he had said, the fate of the lost boy rested upon him, and he felt it. His exhortations to the boys about keeping up their courage, and his stories about lost men who had drifted to a final rescue, were all spoken more with reference to himself than to them. He sought to keep up his own courage by these words. Yet, in spite of his efforts, a profound depression came over him, and well nigh subdued him. No one knew better than he the many perils which beset the drifting boat in these dangerous waters--the perils of storm, the perils of fog, the perils of thick darkness, the perils of furious tides, the perils of sunken rocks, of shoals, and of iron-bound coasts. The boys had gone to sleep, but there was no sleep for him. He wandered restlessly about, and heavy sighs escaped him. Thus the time passed with him until near midnight. Then he roused the mate, and they raised the anchor and hoisted the sails. It was now the turn of tide, and the waters were falling again, and the current once more ran down the bay. To this current he trusted the vessel again, beating, as before, against the head wind, which was still blowing; and thus the Antelope worked her way onward through all that dark and dismal night, until at last the faint streaks of light in the east proclaimed the dawn of another day. Through all that night the boys slept soundly. The wind blew, the waves dashed, but they did not awake. The anchor was hoisted, and the sails were set, but the noise failed to rouse them. Weariness of body and anxiety of mind both conspired to make their sleep profound. Yet in that profound sleep the anxiety of their minds made itself manifest; and in their dreams their thoughts turned to their lost companion. They saw him drifting over the stormy waters, enveloped in midnight darkness, chilled through with the damp night air, pierced to the bone by the cold night wind; drifting on amid a thousand dangers, now swept on by furious tides towards rocky shores, and again drawn back by refluent currents over vast sunken sea-ledges, white with foam. Thus through all the night they slept, and as they slept the Antelope dashed on through the waters, whose foaming waves, as they tumbled against her sides and over her bows, sent forth sounds that mingled with their dreams, and became intermingled with poor Tom's mournful cries. IX. Awake once more.--Where are we?--The giant cliff.--Out to Sea.--Anchoring and Drifting.--The Harbor.--The Search.--No Answer.--Where's Solomon? Scarce had the streaks of light greeted Captain Corbet's eyes, and given him the grateful prospect of another day, when the boys awaked and hurried up on deck. Their first act was to take a hurried look all around. The same gloomy and dismal prospect appeared--black water and thick, impenetrable fog. "Where are we now, Captain?" asked Bruce. "Wal, a con-siderable distance down the bay." "What are you going to do?" "Wal--I've about made up my mind whar to go." "Where?" "I'm thinkin of puttin into Quaco." "Quaco?" "Yes." "How far is it from here?" "Not very fur, 'cordin to my calc'lations. My idee is, that the boat may have drifted down along here and got ashore. Ef so, he may have made for Quaco, an its jest possible that we may hear about him." "Is this the most likely place for a boat to go ashore?" "Wal, all things considered, a boat is more likely to go ashore on the New Brunswick side, driftin from Petticoat Jack; but at the same time 'tain't at all certain. Thar's ony a ghost of a chance, mind. I don't feel over certain about it." "Will we get to Quaco this tide?" "Scacely." "Do you intend to anchor again?" "Wal, I rayther think I'll hev to do it. But we'd ought to get to Quaco by noon, I calc'late. I'm a thinkin--Hello! Good gracious!" The captain's sudden exclamation interrupted his words, and made all turn to look at the object that had called it forth. One glance showed an object which might well have elicited even a stronger expression of amazement and alarm. Immediately in front of them arose a vast cliff,--black, rocky, frowning,--that ascended straight up from the deep water, its summit lost in the thick fog, its base white with the foaming waves that thundered there. A hoarse roar came up from those breaking waves, which blended fearfully with the whistle of the wind through the rigging, and seemed like the warning sound of some dark, drear fate. The cliff was close by, and the schooner had been steering straight towards it. So near was it that it seemed as though one could have easily tossed a biscuit ashore. But though surprised, Captain Corbet was not in the least confused, and did not lose his presence of mind for a moment. Putting the helm hard up, he issued the necessary commands in a cool, quiet manner; the vessel went round, and in a few moments the danger was passed. Yet so close were they, that in wearing round it seemed as though one could almost have jumped from the stern upon the rocky shelves which appeared in the face of the lofty cliff. Captain Corbet drew a long breath. "That's about the nighest scratch I remember ever havin had," was his remark, as the Antelope went away from the land. "Cur'ous, too; I don't see how it happened. I lost my reckonin a little. I'm a mile further down than I calc'lated on bein." "Do you know that place?" asked Bart. "Course I know it." "It's lucky for us we didn't go there at night." "Yes, it is rayther lucky; but then there wan't any danger o' that, cos, you see, I kep the vessel off by night, an the danger couldn't hev riz. I thought we were a mile further up the bay; we've been a doin better than I thought for." "Shall we be able to get into Quaco any sooner?" "Wal, not much." "I thought from what you said that we were a mile nearer." "So we air, but that don't make any very great difference." "Why, we ought to get in all the sooner, I should think." "No; not much." "Why not? I don't understand that." "Wal, you see it's low tide now." "The tides again!" "Yes; it's allus the tides that you must consider here. Wal, it's low tide now, an the tide's already on the turn, an risin. We've got to anchor." "Anchor!" "Yes." "What, again?" "Yes, agin. Even so. Ef we didn't anchor we'd only be drifted up again, ever so far, an lose all that we've ben a gainin. We're not more'n a mile above Quaco Harbor, but we can't fetch it with wind an tide agin us; so we've got to put out some distance an anchor. It's my firm belief that we'll be in Quaco by noon. The next fallin tide will carry us thar as slick as a whistle, an then we can pursue our investigations." The schooner now held on her course for about a mile away from the shore, and then came to anchor. The boys had for a moment lost sight of this unpleasant necessity, and had forgotten that they had been using up the hours of the ebb tide while asleep. There was no help for it, however, and they found, to their disgust, another day of fog, and of inaction. Time passed, and breakfast came. Solomon now had the satisfaction of seeing them eat more, and gave manifest signs of that satisfaction by the twinkle of his eye and the lustre of his ebony brow. After this the time passed on slowly and heavily; but at length eleven o'clock came, and passed, and in a short time they were once more under way. "We're going to Quaco now--arn't we?" asked Phil. "Yes; right straight on into Quaco Harbor, fair an squar." "I don't see how it's possible for you to know so perfectly where you are." "Young sir, there ain't a nook, nor a corner, nor a hole, nor a stun, in all the outlinin an configoortion of this here bay but what's mapped out an laid down all c'rect in this here brain. I'd undertake to navigate these waters from year's end to year's end, ef I was never to see the sun at all, an even ef I was to be perpetooly surrounded by all the fogs that ever riz. Yea, verily, and moreover, not only this here bay, but the hull coast all along to Bosting. Why, I'm at home here on the rollin biller. I'm the man for Mount Desert, an Quoddy Head, an Grand Manan, an all other places that air ticklish to the ginrality of seafarin men. Why, young sir, you see before you, in the humble an unassumin person of the aged Corbet, a livin, muvin, and sea-goin edition of Blunt's Coast Pilot, revised and improved to a precious sight better condition than it's ever possible for them fellers in Bosting to get out. By Blunt's Coast Pilot, young sir, I allude to a celebrated book, as big as a pork bar'l, that every skipper has in his locker, to guide him on his wanderin way--ony me. I don't have no call to use sech, being myself a edition of useful information techin all coastin matters." The Antelope now proceeded quickly on her way. Several miles were traversed. "Now, boys, look sharp," said the captain; "you'll soon see the settlement." They looked sharp. For a few moments they went onward through the water, and at length there was visible just before them what seemed like a dark cloud extending all along. A few minutes further progress made the dark cloud still darker, and, advancing further, the dark cloud finally disclosed itself as a line of coast. It was close by them, and, even while they were recognizing it as land, they saw before them the outline of a wharf. "Good agin!" cried the captain. "I didn't come to the wharf I wanted, but this here'll do as well as any other, an I don't know but what it'll do better. Here we air, boys. Stand by thar, mate, to let fall the jib." On they went, and in a few minutes more the Antelope wore round, and her side just grazed the wharf. The mate jumped ashore, lines were secured, and the Antelope lay in safety. "An now, boys, we may all go ashore, an see if we can hear anything about the boat." With these words Captain Corbet stepped upon the wharf, followed by all the boys, and they all went up together, till they found themselves on a road. There they saw a shop, and into this they entered. No time was to be lost; the captain at once told his story, and asked his question. The answer was soon made. Nothing whatever was known there about any boat. Two or three schooners had arrived within two days, and the shopkeeper had seen the skippers, but they had not mentioned any boat. No boat had drifted ashore anywhere near, nor had any strange lad arrived at the settlement. This intelligence depressed them all. "Wal, wal," said the captain, "I didn't have much hopes; it's jest as I feared; but, at the same time, I'll ask further. An first and foremost I'll go an see them schooners." He then went off with the boys in search of the schooners just mentioned. These were found without difficulty. One had come from up the bay, another from St. John, and a third from Eastport. None of them had encountered anything like a drilling boat. The one from up the bay afforded them the greatest puzzle. She must have come down the very night of Tom's accident. If he did drift down the bay in his boat, he must have been not very far from the schooner. In clear weather he could not have escaped notice; but the skipper had seen nothing, and heard nothing. He had to beat down against the wind, and anchor when the tide was rising; but, though he thus traversed so great an extent of water, nothing whatever attracted his attention. "This sets me thinkin," said the captain, "that, perhaps, he mayn't have drifted down at all. He may have run ashore up thar. Thar's a chance of it, an we must all try to think of that, and cheer up, as long as we can." Leaving the schooners, the captain now went through the settlement, and made a few inquiries, with no further result. Nothing had been heard by any one about any drifting boat, and they were at last compelled to see that in Quaco there was no further hope of gaining any information whatever about Tom. After this, the captain informed the boys that he was going back to the schooner to sleep. "I haven't slep a wink," said he, "sence we left Grand Pre, and that's more'n human natur can ginrally stand; so now I'm bound to have my sleep out, an prepare for the next trip. You boys had better emply yourselves in inspectin this here village." "When shall we leave Quaco?" "Wal, I'll think that over. I haven't yet made up my mind as to what's best to be done next. One thing seems certain. There ain't no use goin out in this fog, an I've half a mind to wait here till to-morrow." "To-morrow!" "Yes,--an then go down to St. John." "But what'll poor Tom be doing?" "It's my firm belief that he's all right," said Captain Corbet, confidently. "At any rate, you'd better walk about now, an I'll try an git some sleep." As there was nothing better to be done, the boys did as he proposed, and wandered about the village. It was about two miles long, with houses scattered at intervals along the single street of which it was composed, with here, and there a ship-yard. At one end was a long, projecting ledge, with a light-house; at the other there was a romantic valley, through which a stream ran into the bay. On the other side of this stream were cliffs of sandstone rocks, in which were deep, cavernous hollows, worn by the waves; beyond this, again, was a long line of a precipitous shore, in whose sides were curious shelves, along which it was possible to walk for a great distance, with the sea thundering on the rocks beneath. At any other time they would have taken an intense enjoyment in a place like this, where there were so many varied scenes; but now their sense of enjoyment was blunted, for they carried in their minds a perpetual anxiety. None the less, however, did they wander about, penetrating up the valley, exploring the caverns, and traversing the cliffs. They did not return to the schooner till dusk. It would not be high tide till midnight, and so they prolonged their excursion purposely, so as to use up the time. On reaching the schooner they were welcomed by Captain Corbet. "I declar, boys," said he, "I'm getting to be a leetle the biggest old fool that ever lived. It's all this accident. It's onmanned me. I had a nap for two or three hours, but waked at six, an ever sence I've been a worretin an a frettin about youns. Sence that thar accident, I can't bar to have you out of my sight, for I fear all the time that you ar gettin into mischief. An now I've been skeart for two mortal hours, a fancyin you all tumblin down from the cliffs, or a strugglin in the waters." "O, we can take care of ourselves, captain," said Bart "No, you can't--not you. I wouldn't trust one of you. I'm getting to be a feeble creetur too,--so don't go away agin." "Well, I don't think we'll have a chance in Quaco. Arn't we going to leave to-night?" "Wal, that thar is jest the pint that I've been moosin on. You see it's thick; the fog's as bad as ever. What's the use of going out to-night? Now, ef we wait till to-morrow, it may be clear, an then we can decide what to do." At this proposal, the boys were silent for a time. The experience which they had formed of the bay and its fogs showed them how useless would be any search by night, and the prospect of a clear day, and, possibly, a more favorable wind on the morrow, was very attractive. The question was debated by all, and considered in all its bearings, and the discussion went on until late, when it was finally decided that it would be, on the whole, the wisest course to wait until the following day. Not the least influential of the many considerations that occurred was their regard for Captain Corbet. They saw that he was utterly worn out for want of sleep, and perceived how much he needed one night's rest. This finally decided them. Early on the following morning they were all up, and eager to see if there was any change in the weather. The first glance around elicited a cry of admiration from all of them. Above, all was clear and bright. The sun was shining with dazzling lustre; the sky was of a deep blue, and without a cloud on its whole expanse; while the wide extent of the bay spread out before them, blue like the sky above, which it mirrored, and throwing up its waves to catch the sunlight. A fresh north wind was blowing, and all the air and all the sea was full of light and joy. The scene around was in every respect magnificent. The tide was low, and the broad beach, which now was uncovered by the waters, spread afar to the right and left in a long crescent that extended for miles. On its lower extremity it was terminated by a ledge of black rocks, with the light-house before spoken of, while its upper end was bounded by cavernous cliffs of red sandstone, which were crowned with tufted trees. Behind them were the white houses of the village, straggling irregularly on the borders of the long road, with here and there the unfinished fabric of some huge ship; while in the background were wooded hills and green sloping fields. Out on the bay a grander scene appeared. Far down arose a white wall, which marked the place where the fog clouds were sullenly retreating; immediately opposite, and forty miles away over the water, arose the long line of the Nova Scotia coast, which bounded the horizon; while far up arose Cape Chignecto, and beside it towered up the dark form of a lonely island, which they knew, in spite of the evident distortion of its shape, to be no other than Ile Haute. The wondrous effects which can be produced by the atmosphere were never more visible to their eyes than now. The coast of Nova Scotia rose high in the air, dark in color, apparently only half its actual distance away, while the summit of that coast seemed as level as a table. It seemed like some vast structure which had been raised out of the water during the night by some magic power. Ile Haute arose to an extraordinary height, its summit perfectly level, its sides perfectly perpendicular, and its color a dark purple hue. Nor was Cape Chignecto less changed. The rugged cliff arose with magnified proportions to a majestic height, and took upon itself the same sombre color, which pervaded the whole of the opposite coast. Another discussion was now begun as to their best plan of action. After talking it all over, it was finally decided to go to St. John. There they would have a better opportunity of hearing about Tom; and there, too, if they did hear, they could send messages to him, or receive them from him. So it was decided to leave at about eleven o'clock, without waiting for high tide; for, as the wind was fair, they could go on without difficulty. After coming to this conclusion, and learning that the tide would not be high enough to float the schooner until eleven, they all took breakfast, and stimulated by the exhilarating atmosphere and the bright sunshine, they dispersed down the village towards the light-house. By ten o'clock they were back again. The tide was not yet up, and they waited patiently. "By the way, captain," asked Bart, "what's become of Solomon?" "Solomon? O, he took a basket an went off on a kine o' foragin tower." "Foraging?" "Yes. He said he'd go along the shore, and hunt for lobsters." "The shore? What shore?" "Why, away up thar," said the captain, pointing towards the headland at the upper end of the village. "How long since?" "Wal, jest arter breakfast. It must hev ben afore seven." "It's strange that he hasn't got back." "Yes; he'd ought to be back by this time." "He can't get any lobsters now; the tide is too high." "That's a fact." They waited half an hour. The rising tide already touched the Antelope's keel. "Solomon ought to be back," cried Bart, starting up. "That's so," said Captain Corbet. "I'm afraid something's happened. He's been gone too long. Two hours were enough." The boys all looked at one another with anxious faces. "If he went up that shore," said Bart, "he may have got caught by the tide. It's a very dangerous place for anybody--let alone an old man like him." "Wal, he did go up thar; he said partic'lar that he wanted to find somethin of a relish, an would hunt up thar. He said, too, he'd be back by nine." "I'm certain something's happened," cried Bart, more anxiously than before. "If he's gone up there, he's been caught by the tide." Captain Corbet stared, and looked uneasy. "Wal, I must say, that thar's not onlikely. It's a bad place, a dreadful bad place,--an him an old man,--a dreadful bad place. He'd be down here by this time, ef he was alive." "I won't wait any longer," cried Bart. "I must go and see. Come along, boys. Don't let's leave poor old Solomon in danger. Depend upon it, he's caught up there somewhere." "Wal, I think you're right," said Captain Corbet, "an I'll go too. But ef we do go, we'd better go with some preparations." "Preparations? What kind of preparations?" "O, ony a rope or two," said Captain Corbet; and taking a coil of rope over his arm, he stepped ashore, and all the boys hurried after him. "I feel kine o' safer with a kile o' rope,--bein a seafarin man," he remarked. "Give a seafarin man a rope, an he'll go anywhar an do anythin. He's like a spider onto a web." X. Tom ashore.--Storm at Night.--Up in the Morning.--The Cliffs and the Beach.--A startling Discovery.--A desert Island.--A desperate Effort.--Afloat again. Tom slept soundly for a long time in the spot where he had flung himself. The sense of security came to the assistance of his wearied limbs, and lulled him into profounder slumbers. There was nothing here that might rudely awaken him--no sudden boat shocks, no tossings and heavings of waves, no hoarse, menacing thunders of wrathful surges from rocky shores; nor were there distressing dreams to harass him, or any anxieties carried from his waking hours into the land of slumbers to annoy and to arouse. From Monday night until this time on Thursday, he had known but little sleep, and much fatigue and sorrow. Now the fatigue and the sorrow were all forgotten, and the sleep was all his own. Not a thought had he given to the land which he had reached so strangely. It was enough for him that he felt the solid ground beneath his feet. For hours he slept there, lying there like a log, wrapped in the old sail, moving not a limb, but given up altogether to his refreshing slumber. At length he waked, and, uncovering his head, looked around. At first he thought that he was in the boat, then he grew bewildered, and it was only after a persistent effort of memory that he could recollect his position. He looked all around, but nothing was visible. There was nothing around him but darkness, intense and utter. It was like the impenetrable veil that had enshrouded him during the night of his memorable voyage. He could not see where his boat was. A vague idea which he had of examining its fastening was dismissed. He felt hungry, and found the biscuit box lying under one corner of the sail. A few of these were sufficient to gratify his hunger. Nothing more could be done, and he saw plainly that it would be necessary for him to wait there patiently until morning. Once more, therefore, he rolled himself up in the sail, and tried to go to sleep. But at first his efforts were vain. The first fatigue had passed away, and now that he had been refreshed by sleep, his mind was too much occupied by thoughts of his past voyage to be readily lulled to sleep again. He could not help wondering what Captain Corbet and the boys were doing. That they were searching for him everywhere he well knew, but which direction they had chosen he could not tell. And what was the place whither he had drifted? He felt confident that it was the mouth of the Petitcodiac, and could not help wondering at the accuracy of his course; yet, while wondering, he modestly refrained from taking the credit of it to himself, and rather chose to attribute it to the wind and tide. It was by committing himself so completely to their guidance, he thought, that he had done so well. In the midst of such thoughts as these, Tom became aware of the howling of the wind and the dash of the waters. Putting forth his head, he found that there was quite a storm arising; and this only added to his contentment. No fear had he now, on this solid ground, of rising wind or swelling wave. Even the fog had lost its terrors. It was with feelings like these that he once more covered up his head from the night blast; and not long after he was once more asleep. When he next awaked, it was day. Starting to his feet, he looked around him, and shouted for joy. The sky was clear. The sun was rising, and its rays, coming from over the distant hills, were glittering over the surface of the water. The wind had changed. The fog had dispersed. No sooner had he seen this than he was filled with curiosity to know where he was. This did not look much like the mouth of the Petitcodiac. He stared around with a very strange sensation. Immediately beside him, where he was standing, the easy slope went back for a hundred yards or so, covered with short, wild grass, with here and there a stunted tree. Turning round, he saw the land rising by a steep acclivity towards the heights which bordered on the sea in such tremendous cliffs. Over the heights, and along the crest of those cliffs, were flying great flocks of sea-gulls, which kept up one incessant chorus of harsh, discordant screams. In front of him spread out a broad sheet of water, on the opposite side of which arose a lofty line of coast. Into this there penetrated a long strait, beyond which he could see broad waters and distant shores--a bay within a bay, approached by this strait. On each side of the strait were lofty, towering cliffs; and on one side, in particular, the cliffs were perpendicular, and ran on in a long and unbroken wall. The extremity of the cliff nearest him was marked by a gigantic mass of broken rock, detached from the main land, and standing alone in awful grandeur. What place was this? Was this the mouth of the Petitcodiac? Was that broad bay a river? Was he still dreaming, or what did it all mean? And that gigantic fragment severed from a cliff, which thus stood guard at the entrance of a long strait, what was that? Could it be possible? Was there indeed any other broken cape, or could it be possible that this was Cape Split? He hurried up the slope, and on reaching the top, saw that it descended on the other side towards the water. This water was a broad sheet, which extended for seven or eight miles, and was terminated by a lofty coast that extended down the bay as far as the eye could reach. One comprehensive glance was sufficient. He saw it all, and understood it all. It was not the mouth of the Petitcodiac River. It was the entrance to the Basin of Minas that lay before him. There lay the great landmarks, seen under new aspects, it is true, yet now sufficiently distinguishable. There was the Nova Scotia coast. In yonder hollow was Scott's Bay. That giant rock was Cape Split. The long channel was the Strait of Minas, and the cliffs opposite were Cape d'Or and Cape Chignecto. And now the recognition of all these places brought to him a great and sudden shock. For what was this place on which he stood? Was it any part of the main land? It was not. He looked around. It was an island. He saw its lofty cliffs, its wooded crest, its flocks of sea-gulls, its sloping east end, where he stood, running down to a low point. He had seen them all at a distance before; and now that he stood here, he recognized all. He was on Ile Haute! The moment that he recognized this startling fact, he thought of his boat. He hurried to the beach. The tide was very low. To his immense relief he found the fastening of the boat secure, and he turned away at once, without any further examination, to think over his situation, and consider the best plan for reaching the main land. Making a comfortable seat for himself on the sail, he sat down, and drawing out the box, he took some biscuit. Then feeling thirsty, he went off in search of fresh water. Before he had walked many paces he found a brook. The brook was a small one, which ran from the lofty west end of the island to the low land of the east, and thence into the bay. The water was good, and Tom satisfied his thirst by a long draught. Judging by the position of the sun, it was now about seven o'clock in the morning; and Tom seated himself once more, and began to try to think how it was that he should have come in a direction so entirely different from the one which he had believed himself to be taking. He had fully expected to land at Petitcodiac, and he found himself far away on the other side of the bay. Yet a little reflection showed him how useless it was to try to recall his past voyage, and how impossible it was for him to account for it, ignorant as he was of the true direction of the wind and of the tide. He contented himself with marking a rude outline of his course on his memorandum book, making allowance for the time when he turned on that course; and having summed it all up to his own satisfaction in a crooked line which looked like a slip-knot, he turned his attention to more important matters. There was one matter of first-rate importance which now pressed itself upon his thoughts, and that was, how to escape from his present situation. As far as he could see, there was no inhabitant on the island, no house, no cultivation, and no domestic animal. If there had been anything of that kind, they would be visible, he knew, from the point where he was standing. But all was deserted; and beyond the open ground in his neighborhood arose the east end, wooded all over its lofty summit. From Captain Corbet's words, and from his own observation, he knew that it was a desert island, and that if he wished to escape he would have to rely altogether upon his own resources. With this conclusion he once more turned his attention to his surroundings. Nearest to him was Cape d'Or, about four miles away, and Cape Split, which was some distance farther. Then there was the Nova Scotia shore, which appeared to be seven or eight miles distant. On the beach and within sight was the boat which offered a sure and easy mode of passing over to the main land. But no sooner did he recognize this fact than a difficulty arose. How was he to make the passage? The boat had come ashore at high tide, and was close up to the grassy bank. The tide was far down, and between the boat and the water was a broad beach, covered with cobblestones, and interspersed with granite boulders. It was too heavy a weight for him to move any distance, and to force it down to the water over such a beach was plainly impossible. On the other hand, he might wait until the boat floated at high tide, and then embark. But this, again, would be attended with serious difficulties. The tide, he saw, would turn as soon as he should get fairly afloat, and then he would have to contend with the downward current. True, he might use his sail, and in that case he might gain the Nova Scotia shore; but his experience of the tides had been so terrible a one, that he dreaded the tremendous drift which he would have to encounter, and had no confidence in his power of navigating under such circumstances. Besides, he knew well that although the wind was now from the north, it was liable to change at any moment; so that even if he should be able to guide his boat, he might yet be suddenly enveloped by a fog when but half way over, and exposed once more to all those perils from which he had just escaped. The more he thought of all these dangers, the more deterred he felt from making any such attempt. Rather would he wait, and hope for escape in some other way. But, as yet, he did not feel himself forced to anything so desperate as that. There was another alternative. At high tide the boat would be afloat, and then, as the tide fell, he could keep her afloat until it was at its lowest. He could then embark, and be carried by the returning water straight on to the Straits of Minas, and up into the basin. He now made a calculation, and concluded that it would be high tide about midday, and low tide about six in the evening. If he were to embark at that time, he would have two hours of daylight in which to run up with the tide. He saw now that his whole plan was perfectly feasible, and it only remained to make preparations for the voyage. As the whole afternoon would be taken up in floating the boat down to low-water mark, the morning would have to be employed in making whatever arrangements might be necessary. Certain things were needed which required all that time. His hastily extemporized mast and sail had done wonderfully well, but he needed something to steer with. If he could only procure something that would serve the purpose of a rudder, he would feel well prepared for his voyage. On the search for this he now started. He walked all about the open ground, looking around in all directions, to see if he could find anything, but without any success. Then he ascended the declivity towards the woods, but nothing appeared which was at all adapted to meet his wants. He saw a young tree, which he thought might do, and tried to cut it down with his pocket-knife. After about an hour's hard work he succeeded in bringing it down, and another hour was spent in trimming the branches. The result of all this labor at length lay at his feet in the shape of a rough pole, with jagged splinters sticking out all over it, which promised to be of about as much utility as a spruce bush. In utter disgust he turned away, leaving the pole on the ground, and making up his mind to sail, as he did before, without any rudder. In this mood he descended the declivity, and walked disconsolately towards the shore which was on the side of the island directly opposite to where the boat lay. He had not yet been near enough to see the beach; but now, as he came nearer, a cry of delight escaped him involuntarily; for there, all along the beach, and close up to the bank, lay an immense quantity of drift-wood, which had been brought here by the tide from all the upper waters of the bay. It was a most heterogeneous mixture that lay before him--chips from timber ponds, logs from ship-yards, boards from saw-mills, deals, battens, fence posts, telegraph poles, deal ends, edgings, laths, palings, railway sleepers, treenails, shingles, clapboards, and all the various forms which wood assumes in a country which makes use of it as the chief material of its manufactures. Along the countless streams that flow into the bay, and along its far-winding shores, and along the borders of all its subsidiary bays, and inlets, and basins, the manufacture of wood is carried on--in saw-mills, in ship-yards, and in timber ponds; and the currents that move to and fro are always loaded with the fragments that are snatched away from these places, most of which are borne afar out to sea, but many of which are thrown all along the shores for hundreds of miles. Ile Haute, being directly in the way of some of the swiftest currents, and close by the entrance to a basin which is surrounded by mills and ship-yards, naturally received upon its shores an immense quantity of these scattered and floating fragments. Such was the sight that now met the eyes of Tom, and presented him with a countless number of fragments of wood adapted to his wants, at the very time when he had worked fruitlessly for two hours at fashioning one for himself. Looking over the heaps of drift-wood, he found many pieces which suited him; and out of these he chose one which was shaped a little like an oar. Securing this prize, he walked over to where the sail was, and deposited it there. Then he ate some biscuit, and, after taking a draught from the cool brook, he rested, and waited, full of hope, for the rising of the tide. It was now rapidly approaching the boat. Tom watched it for some time, and felt new happiness as he viewed the roll of every little surf. There was not much wind, and nothing but a gentle ripple on the water. All this was in his favor; for, if he wished for anything now, it was a moderate breeze and a light sea. From time to time he turned his attention to the Straits of Minas, and arranged various plans in his mind. At one time he resolved to try and reach Pereau; again he thought that he would be content if he could only get to Parrsboro'; and yet again, he came to the wise conclusion that if he got to any settlement at all he would be content. At another time he half decided to take another course, and try to reach Scott's Bay, where he felt sure of a warm welcome and a plenteous repast. Aiming thus at so many different points, it mattered but little to him in what particular direction the tide might sweep him, so long as it carried him up the bay. The tide now came nearer, and Tom went down to the beach for a few moments. He paced the distance between the boat and the water. He noticed a few things lying in the boat. In the bow was a coil of rope which Captain Corbet had probably obtained when he was ashore at Petitcodiac. There was also a tin pan, used for baling. As the tide drew nearer, Tom began to feel more and more impatient. Again and again he paced the intervening space between the boat and the water, and chafed and fretted because it did not lessen more rapidly. If the boat were once fairly afloat, he felt that the time would pass much more rapidly; for then he would be working at some definite task, and not standing idly waiting. But everything has an end; and so, at length, the end came here. The water rose higher and higher, until, at length, it touched the keel. Tom gave a shout of joy. He now untied the rope, and tried to shorten his suspense by pushing the boat towards the water; but his strength was insufficient. He could not move it. He would have to wait longer. Thus far the things which he had taken out had been lying on the grass. It was now time to put them on board. So he carried down the sail, folded it up, and stowed it away neatly at the bottom of the boat. On this he stood the box of biscuit, taking care to put the cover over it, and to spread over that again one fold of the sail. This took up some time, and he had the gratification of seeing that the water had come up a few feet farther. He now tried once more to force the boat down, using his piece of board as a lever; but the board bent, and almost broke, without moving the boat. He stood for a moment waiting, and suddenly thought of the pole which he had left up in the woods. He determined to get this, and perhaps, with its help, he would be able to accomplish his wishes. So off he started at a run, and in a few minutes reached the place. Hurrying back again, he inserted one end of the pole under the bow, and exerted all his force to press the boat downward into the water. At first it did not move; but shortly after, when the water had risen still higher, he made a new effort. This time he succeeded; the boat moved slightly. Again. The boat moved farther. Once more. Still farther. And now he made a final trial. Thrusting the pole again underneath, he exerted all his force for the last time, and pushed the boat down for about a yard. It was at last afloat. The tide had not yet fully attained its height, but was close to it. The wind was blowing from the north, as before, and quite moderately. The sea sparkled and glittered in the rays of the sun. The little wavelets tossed their heads on high, and danced far away ever the sea. The air was bright, and stimulating, and exhilarating. All the scene filled Tom's heart with gladness; and the approach of his deliverance deepened and intensified this feeling. XI. Afloat again.--The rushing Water.--Down to the Bottom.--Desperate Circumstances.--Can they be remedied?--New Hopes and Plans. The boat was at last afloat before Tom's eyes. At first he had thought of holding it by the painter, and patiently standing on the beach, but the sight of it now changed his purposes. He thought that it would be a far more sensible plan to get on board, and keep the boat near the beach in that way. His bit of stick, which he had found among the drift-wood, could be used as an oar, and was good enough to enable him to move the boat as much as would be necessary. As he would have to wait for six hours at least, it was a matter of great importance that he should be as little fatigued as possible, especially as he had to look forward to a voyage, after the tide had fallen, attended with the possibility of increased labor and exertion. All these thoughts came rapidly to his mind, but passed in much less time than it takes to tell it, so that Tom had scarcely seen the boat afloat than he rushed through the water, and clambered into it. Then, taking his stick, he stood up and looked around. The scene around has already been described. Tom kept his stick in the water, so as to have it ready for use. He purposed keeping the boat at a convenient distance from the shore by pushing and paddling. By keeping it within a distance of from three to six yards, he thought he would, for the present at least, be able to keep afloat, and yet avoid the sweep of the tides. He did not expect to remain in this particular spot all the time, but expected to find some place which would be out of the way of the tide, where he could float comfortably without being forced to keep in too close to the land. But suddenly Tom's thoughts and speculations were rudely interrupted. It appeared to him that there was a very unusual feeling about the boat. She did not seem as high out of the water as she ought to have been, and her bows seemed to be lower than they had been. There was also a slight vibration in her, which he had never noticed before, and which struck him now as very peculiar. In the midst of this there came to his ears a low, faint, and scarcely perceptible sound, made up of peculiar bubbling and gurgling noises, which sounded from the boat. One brief examination showed him that the boat was certainly very much deeper in the water than she had been. Five seconds later her bows had sunk farther. Two seconds more, and Tom's feet were surrounded by water up to his ankles. The boat was filling! Scarce had he made this discovery than the water rose swiftly up, the boat sank quickly down, the sea rolled over her sides, and the boat went to the bottom. Very fortunate was it for Tom, at that moment, that he had not pushed out farther from the shore. When the boat went down he was not more than three or four yards off, and he did not sink lower than up to his neck. But the shock was a sudden one, and for a moment almost paralyzed him. The next instant, however, he recovered from it; and looking round, he saw the box of biscuit floating within his reach. Making a wild dash at this, he secured it, and waded ashore with it in safety. He then turned mournfully to look after the boat, and found that it was visible, floating on the surface. As he left it, it had floated up, his weight being the only thing that had sent it below. The tide was still coming in, so that it did not float away. Tom flung off his coat and waistcoat, and hurrying into the water, soon caught and dragged it as near as he could to the beach. Then he secured it once more, and waited. Standing there, he looked gloomily at the vessel, wherein such precious hopes had been freighted only to be lost. What had happened? Why could not the boat float? What was the matter with her? These were the wondering questions which occurred to him without his being able to give any answer. One thing he saw plainly, and that was, that he had lost this tide. The next high tide would be after midnight, and the next would be between one and two on the following day. If he could find out what was the matter with the boat, and fix it, he would have to wait till the next day, unless he chose to watch for his chance after midnight, and make the journey then. He was not a boy who could be long inactive; so now, after a brief period, in which he gave up to the natural despondency of his soul, he stirred himself up once more, and sought comfort in occupation. The box of biscuit did not seem much injured, it had not floated long enough for the sea-water to penetrate it. Assuring himself of this, he next turned to the boat and took out its contents. These were the old sail, the coil of rope, and the baling dipper. By this time the tide had reached its height, and after the usual time of delay, began to fall once more. The boat was secured to the shore, and after a time the water began to leave her. Tom sat at a little distance, wondering what could be the matter with her, and deferring his examination until the boat should be left aground. It was a mystery to him how this sudden change had occurred, and why the boat, which had floated so well during his long drift, should now, all of a sudden, begin to leak with such astonishing rapidity. Something must have happened--something serious, too; but what it was, or how it had happened, he could not, for the life of him, conjecture. As Tom sat there, the tide gradually left the boat; and as the tide left, the water ran out, keeping at just the same level inside as the water outside. This showed, even to his inexperienced eyes, that the leak must be a very large one, since it admitted of such a ready flow of water in and out. The water descended lower and lower as he sat, until, at last, the boat was left by the retreating waves. The water had all run out. Tom now advanced, and proceeded to examine her. When he was arranging her cargo before, the coil of rope had been in the bows. This had prevented him from detecting anything wrong in the boat. But now, since everything had been taken out, one glance only was quite sufficient to make known to him instantly the whole difficulty. There, in the bows, underneath the very place where the coil of rope had lain, was a huge aperture. The planks had been beaten in, and one side of the bow was destroyed beyond hope of remedy. The sight of such an irremediable calamity as this renewed for a time the despondency which he had felt at the first sinking of the boat. Full of depression, he turned away, and tried to account for it all. It was on the previous day that he had landed--about twenty-four hours ago. How had he passed the time since then, and what had happened? This he tried to remember. In the first place, up to the moment of landing the boat was perfectly sound, and far from all injury. It had not been hurt during the drift. It had struck at one place, but the long voyage that had followed showed that no damage had resulted. Finally, it had not been harmed by landing on Quaco Ledge. Since that time he had drifted in safety far across the bay, without meeting with any accident. All this proved clearly that the damage must have been done to the boat since his landing on the island. He found it very difficult to recall anything that had happened since then. On his first arrival he was worn out and exhausted. He remembered vaguely how he came in sight of the giant cliff, how he dragged the boat along, how he secured it to a tree, and then how he flung himself down on the grass and fell asleep. After that all was obscure to his memory; but he could recall his waking at midnight and listening to the roar of the wind and the dash of the surf. Evidently there must have been a heavier sea on the beach at that time than when he landed, and this was sufficient to account for the accident to the boat. She had been beating on the rough rocks at high tide, exposed to the full sweep of the surf, and her bows had been stove in. The melancholy spectacle of the ruined boat made Tom see that his stay on the island might be prolonged even beyond the following day. No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he went over to the articles which he had taken out of the boat, and passed them all in review before him, as though he were anxious to know the full extent of his resources. He spread out the wet sail in the sun. He spread out his coat and waistcoat. In the pocket of the latter he found a card of matches, which were a little damp. These he seized eagerly and laid on the top of a stone, exposed to the rays of the sun, so as to dry them. The clothes which he kept on were wet through, of course, but he allowed them to dry on him. He had been working now pretty industriously all the morning, first at searching after a piece of wood, then in cutting down the pole, then in searching among the drift-wood, and finally at the boat. He felt, at length, hungry; and as he could not yet decide upon what was to be done next, he determined to satisfy his desires, and kill the time by taking his dinner. The repast was a frugal one, consisting as before, of biscuit, which were washed down by cold water; but Tom did not complain. The presence of food of any sort was a cause for thankfulness to one in his position, and it was with a feeling of this sort, in spite of his general depression of spirits, that he ate his meal. After this he felt much more refreshed, and began to consider what he had better do next. Of course, the centre of interest to him was the boat, and he could not give up that hope of escape without a struggle. As long as there was a hope of making his way from the island by means of that, so long might he keep up his heart; but if the damage that had been done should prove irreparable, how would he be able to endure his situation? Whatever it was, it would be best to know the worst once for all. Perhaps he might stop the leak. He had material around which seemed to be the right sort of thing to stop a leak with. He had the piece of sail, which could be cut up into small pieces, and used to stop the leak. If he had possessed a hatchet and some nails, he would have made an effort to repair the fracture in the planks of the boat; but as he had nothing of that sort, he tried to devise some method by which the water might be kept out. As he thought, there gradually grew up in his mind the rude outline of a plan which promised something, and seemed to him to be certainly worth trying. At any rate, he thought, it will serve to give me an occupation; and any occupation, even if it proves to be of no practical value, is better than sitting here doing nothing at all. Having something to do once more quickened Tom's energies anew, and starting to his feet, he prepared to put his plan into execution. First of all, in order to carry out that plan, it was necessary for him to get a number of blocks and boards of different sizes. These, he knew, could easily be found among the driftwood on the beach. Over there he hurried, and after a moderate search he succeeded, at length, in finding bits of wood that seemed suited to the purpose which he had in view. With these he came back to the boat; but as there was a large number of them, he had to make several journeys before the whole collection was brought over. Then he took his pole, and, putting a block under it, used it as a lever to raise up the boat. By dexterous management he succeeded in doing this, and at the same time he ran a board underneath the bow of the boat as it was slightly raised. This manoeuvre he repeated several times, each time raising his lever higher, by means of a higher fulcrum, and thus constantly raising the bow of the boat; while after each elevation the bow was secured in its new position by running an additional board underneath it, over the other preceding boards. By carefully and perseveringly pursuing this course, he at length succeeded in raising the bow of the boat about a foot in the air. This gave him an opportunity to examine it thoroughly outside as well as inside, and to see the whole extent of the damage that had been done. It has already been said that the damage was serious. Tom's examination now convinced him that it was in every respect as serious as he had supposed, if not still more so. Even if he did possess a hatchet and nails, or a whole box full of tools, he doubted whether it would be in his power to do anything whatever in the way of repairing it. No less than three of the lower planks of the bows, down to the very keel, were beaten in and broken so badly that they seemed actually crushed and mangled. It must have been a fearful beating, and pounding, and grinding on the rocks which had caused this. The planks, though thus broken, still held together; but it seemed to Tom that with a blow of his fist he could easily beat it all in; and as he looked at it he could not help wondering how it had happened that the work which the rocks had thus so nearly effected had not been completely finished. However, the planks did hold together yet; and now the question was, Could any thing be done? In answer to this question, Tom thought of the old sail and the coil of rope. Already he had conceived the rude outline of a plan whereby the entrance of the water might be checked. The plan was worth trying, and he determined to set about it at once, and use up the hours before him as long as he could, without any further delay. If by any possibility he could stop that leak, he determined to start off at the next high tide, that very night, and run the risk. It was a daring, even a foolhardy thought; but Tom was desperate, and the only idea which he had was, to escape as soon as possible. He now made some measurements, after which he went to the old sail, and cut a piece from the end of it. This he divided into smaller pieces, each about a yard square. Each of these pieces he folded up in three folds, so as to make them about a foot wide and eighteen inches long. Others he folded into six folds, making them about half the size of the larger pieces. All this took up much time, for he measured and planned very carefully, and his calculations and measurements had to be done slowly and cautiously. Returning to the boat with these bits of folded canvas, he put one of the larger pieces on the inside, against the bow, right over the broken place. Another large piece was placed carefully over this, and then the smaller pieces were laid against these. In this way he adjusted all the pieces of canvas in such a way as to cover up the whole place where the leak was. Then he went over to the drift-wood, and spent a long time searching after some bits of wood. He at length found a half dozen pieces of board, about a foot long, and from six to eight inches in width. He also found some bits of scantling, and palings, which were only a foot or so in length. All these he brought back, and laid them down on the beach near the boat. He now proceeded to place these bits of wood in the bows, in such a way as to keep the canvas in a firm position. His idea was, that the canvas, by being pressed against the opening, might keep out the water, and the wood, by being properly arranged, might keep the canvas secure in its place. The arrangement of the wood required the greatest care. First of all, he took the smallest bits, and stood these up against the canvas, so that they might correspond as nearly as possible with the curve of the bows. A few more pieces were placed in the hollow part of this curve, and outside these the larger pieces were placed. Between the outside pieces and the inner ones he thrust some of the smallest pieces which he could find. After thus arranging all his boards, he found that there lay between the outside board and the first seat of the boat a space of about one foot. Selecting a piece of wood of about that length, he put one end against the board, and the other against the seat, and pressed it into a position where it served to keep the board tight in its place. Then he took other pieces of about the same length, and arranged them in the same way, so that, by being fixed between the board and the seat, they might keep the whole mass of boards and canvas pressed tight against the opening in the bows. After placing as many blocks in position as he conveniently could, his next work was to secure them all. In order to effect this, another journey to the drift-wood was necessary, and another search. This time he selected carefully a number of sticks, not more than half an inch in thickness, some of them being much thinner. He found pieces of paling, and laths, and shingles which suited his ideas. Returning with these to the boat, he proceeded to thrust them, one by one, into the interstices of the boards, using a stone to drive them into their places. At last the work was finished as far as he could accomplish it, and there remained nothing more to be done. As far as he could see, by shaking, and pulling, and pushing at the collection of sticks and canvas, it was very firm and secure. Every stick seemed to be tight, and the pressure which they maintained against the aperture was so strong that the wood-work now was forced out a little distance beyond the outline of the boat. He examined most carefully all about the bows on the outside, but saw no place which did not seem to be fully protected. It seemed to him now as though that piled-up canvas ought to resist the entrance of the water, or, if not, at least that it ought not to allow it to enter so rapidly but that he could easily keep the boat baled out. He was not altogether confident, yet he was hopeful, and as determined as ever to make a trial. XII. Waiting for high Water.--A Trial.--A new Discovery.--Total Failure.--Down again.--Overboard.--A Struggle for Life. Tom's work was thus, at length, accomplished, and it remained now to get the boat in readiness and wait. Slowly and carefully he raised the bow by means of the lever, and one by one he withdrew the boards which held it up. At last the boat lay on the beach, ready to receive the uplifting arms of the returning tide whenever it should make its appearance again. Tom saw with satisfaction that the boat was about three yards down below high-water mark, on the spot to which he had dragged it after the failure of his last experiment. This, of course, would be so much in his favor, for it would thus be able to float before the water should reach its height. He had worked hard all the afternoon, and it was already dark. The tide, which had been falling, had some time ago reached its lowest point, and was now returning. Between him and the lowest point was a great distance, for the tides here rise to a perpendicular height of over forty feet; but Tom knew that the time required to traverse the long space that here intervened between high and low-water mark was precisely the same as if it had only to rise a few feet. He was very hungry, but some things had yet to be done. He had to put on board the boat the articles that he had taken ashore. His matches were now quite dry, and he put them in his pocket with a deep sense of their value to him in his present position. His clothes also were dry, and these he put on. The sail, the coil of rope, and the box of biscuit were put on board the boat. Tom had still to make his frugal repast; but this was soon accomplished, and he felt again a sense of exceeding thankfulness at the possession of the box of biscuit. At length his evening meal was over, and by the time that he had finished it, it had grown quite dark. He now went to the boat, and tied up the sail around the mast. There was nothing to which he could fasten the boat; but it was not necessary, as he was on the watch. The water continued smooth, the wind was from the north, as before, and there was no sign of fog. Overhead the sky was free from clouds, and the stars twinkled pleasantly to his upturned eyes, as if to encourage him. There was no moon, however, and though it was not very dark, yet it was sufficiently so to veil the nearest shores in gloom, and finally to withdraw them altogether from his view. Still it was not a matter of necessity that he should see the opposite shores, for he knew that his chief, and indeed his only reliance must be upon the tide; and this would bear him in its upward course on the morrow. The night was only needed to float the boat down as far as low-water mark. The process of floating her would serve to test the security of the fastenings, and show whether he could venture to make the attempt. For hours Tom waited, sometimes seated in the boat, at other times walking along the beach down to the water. He found it difficult to keep himself awake, and therefore did not venture to sit down long. Wearied with his long work through the day, the necessity of constant exertion wearied him still more, until at length he could scarce draw his legs after him. But all things have an end, and so it was with Tom's dreary watch; for at length the waters came up, and touched the boat, and surrounded it, until at last, to his great joy, Tom found himself afloat. He seized his stick, and pushed the boat into deeper water, a few yards off, with the intention of keeping her at about that distance from the shore. The one thought that was now in his mind referred exclusively to his work in the boat. Was it firm? Would it hold? Did it leak? The boat was floating, certainly. How long would if continue to do so? For a few minutes he waited anxiously, as he floated there in deep water, with his eyes fixed on the work in the bow, and his ears listening intently to detect any sign of that warning, gurgling sound, which had struck terror to his heart on his last embarkation. But no sign came of any sound of that sort, and he heard nothing but the gentle dash of the water against the sides of the boat. Thus about five minutes passed. At the end of that time, he raised the sail, which he had laid along the bottom of the boat, and examined underneath it. The first touch of his fingers at the bottom lessened very largely the hope that was in him, and at once chased away the feeling of exultation that was rising. For there, in the bottom of the boat, he felt as much as an inch of water. After the first shock, he tried to believe that it was only the water that was in the boat before; and so, taking comfort in this thought, he waited for further developments, but at the same time took the dipper, so as to be ready to bale out the water, and have a struggle for it in case the worst should happen. Another minute assured him that this was not the water which had been in the boat before. A new supply was entering, and in the space of that short time of waiting it had risen to the height of another inch. Tom felt a sudden pang of dismay, but his stout heart did not quail, nor did his obstinate resolution falter. Since it was the sea water that was coming in, he determined to have a fight with it for the possession of the boat. So he set to work bravely, and began to bale. He pulled up the sail, so as to have plenty of elbow-room, and worked away, dipping out the water; but, as he dipped, he perceived that it was gradually getting deeper. He dipped faster, but without any visible improvement, indeed, his efforts seemed to have but very little effect in retarding the entrance of the water. It grew deeper and deeper. One inch of water soon deepened to two inches, and thence to three. Soon after four inches were felt. And now the water came in more rapidly. It seemed to Tom as though it had been delayed at first, for a little time, in finding an entrance, but that now, after the entrance was found, it came pouring in with ever-accelerated speed. Tom struggled on, hoping against hope, and keeping up his efforts long after they were proved to be useless. But the water came in faster and faster, until at length Tom began to see that he must seek his safety in another way. Flinging down his dipper, then, with a cry of vexation, he started up, and, seizing his bit of board, he looked around for the shore. He had been caught by some side current, and had been carried along in such a way that he was about a hundred yards from the island, and seemed to be drifting up the bay. The dark, shadowy shores were much farther away than he had suspected. While struggling to bale out the boat, he had forgotten how necessary it was to keep near to the shore. He now saw his mistake, and strove to paddle the boat back again. With such a clumsy oar it is not likely that he could have achieved his desire at all, had the flood tide been stronger; but now it was about at its height, and would soon turn, if it was not turning already. The current, therefore, was but a weak one, and Tom found himself able to move slowly back; but his progress was very slow, and working at such a disadvantage was excessively fatiguing. At last he saw that if he trusted to paddling he could never reach the shore. In a moment another idea suggested itself; there was no time to lose, and he at once acted on it. Darting forward, he loosed the sail. The wind was still blowing from the north; at once the sail was filled, and, yielding to this new power, the boat began to move more rapidly. Tom tied the sheet astern, and, seizing his paddle, tried to scull the boat. For some minutes he kept up this work, and the boat moved steadily forward, nearer and still nearer, until the land was at length not more than thirty or forty yards off. But by this time the danger had come nearer, and the boat was already half full of water. Tom began to see that it could not float as far as the shore. What was he to do? He waited a little longer. He looked around. The boat was drawing nearer, yet soon it must go down. To ease it, it would be necessary to relieve it of his own weight. He did not lose his presence of mind for a moment, but determined at once to jump overboard. In his perfect coolness he thought of one or two things which were of importance to him, and performed them swiftly and promptly. First he took the box of biscuit, and placed it on the heap of boards and canvas in the bows, so that it might remain as long as possible out of reach of the water. Then he took the card of matches out of his waistcoat pocket, and put them in his hat, which he replaced on his head. To secure thus from damage the two necessaries of food and fire was but the work of a few seconds. To throw off his coat, waistcoat, and trousers, and hang them over the top of the short mast, was the work of a few seconds more. By the time this had been done, the water was nearly up to the gunwales. In five seconds more the boat would have gone down; but, so well had Tom's work been done, and so promptly, that these five seconds were saved. Having done what he wished, he let himself down into the water; and, holding on by the stern of the boat, he allowed himself to float after it, kicking out at the same time, so as to assist, rather than retard, its progress. By this time the land was not more than twenty yards away. The boat did not sink so rapidly now, but kept afloat much better; still the water rose to a level with the gunwales, and Tom was too much rejoiced to find that it kept afloat at all to find fault with this. The wind still blew, and the sail was still up; so that the water-logged vessel went on at a very respectable rate, until at length half the distance which Tom had noticed on going overboard was traversed. The boat seemed to float now, though full of water, and Tom saw that his precious biscuit, at any rate, would not be very much harmed. Nearer and nearer now he came until at last, letting himself down, his feet touched bottom. A cry of delight escaped him; and now, bracing himself firmly against the solid land below, he urged the boat on faster, until at length her deep-sunk bows grated against the gravel of the beach. He hurried up to the box of biscuit, and put this ashore in a safe place; after which he secured the boat to a jagged rock on the bank. He found now that he had come to a different part of the beach altogether, for his boat was lying at the spot where the little brook ran into the sea. Well was it for him, in that rash and hazardous experiment, that he had floated off before the tide was high. It had led to his drifting up the bay, instead of down, and by a weak current, instead of a strong one. The wind had thus brought him back. Had it been full tide, he would have drifted out from the shore, and then have been carried down the bay by the falling water to swift and sure destruction. Tom now took off his wet shirt, and put on the dry clothes which he had so prudently hung on the top of the mast. He perceived that he had not a very pleasant lookout for the night, for the sail which he had formerly used to envelop himself with was now completely saturated. It was also too dark to go to the woods in search of ferns or mosses on which to sleep. However, the night was a pleasant one, and the grass around would not be so bad a resting-place as he had been forced to use while drifting in the boat. He had now become accustomed to hardship by bitter experience, and so he looked forward to the night without care. The day had been an eventful one, indeed, for him, and his last adventure had been full of peril, from which he had been most wonderfully rescued. These thoughts were in his mind, and he did not fail to offer up prayers of heartfelt gratitude to that good and merciful Being who had thus far so wonderfully preserved him. With such feelings in his heart, he sought out a sleeping-place, and after some search he found a mossy knoll. Seating himself here, he reclined his back against it, and in a few minutes the worn-out boy was buried in a deep sleep. He slept until late on the following day, and on waking looked around to see if there were any sails in view. None were visible. The tide was about half way up, and the wide waters spread before him without any vessel in sight. He then began his preparations for the day. He hung his shirt upon a bush, and spread out the wet sail on the grass. An examination of the biscuit showed him that they had scarcely been injured at all, the water having penetrated only the lower part of the box. He removed the lower layer of biscuit, and spread them out on a rock in the sun to dry. After this he breakfasted, and wandered about for a time. He then took a swim, and felt much refreshed. By the time that his swim was over, he found that the hot sun had dried his shirt, so that he could once more assume that very important article of clothing. The sun climbed high towards the zenith, and the tide came up higher, as Tom sat there alone on his desert island, looking out upon the sea. The boat from which he had hoped so much had proved false to those hopes, and all the labors of the previous day had proved useless. His attempt to escape had nearly resulted in his destruction. He had learned from that experiment that no efforts of his could now effect his rescue. He had done the very best he could, and it would not be possible for him, with his present resources, to contrive anything better than that which had so miserably failed. If he could only procure some tar, he might then stop up the interstices; but as it was, nothing of his construction would avail to keep back the treacherous entrance of the water. It seemed now to him that his stay on the island was destined to be prolonged to a much greater extent than he had first thought of, and there did not seem any longer a hope of saving himself by his own exertions. Alone on a desert island! It was a dreadful fact which now forced itself more and more upon Tom's mind, until at length he could think of nothing else. Hitherto he had fought off the idea whenever it presented itself, and so long as he had been able to indulge in any hope of freeing himself by his own exertions, he prevented himself from sinking into the gloom of utter despair. But now he could no longer save himself from that gloom, and the thought grew darker and drearier before him--the one fact of his present situation. Alone on a desert island! A very interesting thing to read about, no doubt; and Tom, like all boys, had revelled in the portrayals of such a situation which he had encountered in his reading. No one had entered with more zest than he into the pages of Robinson Crusoe, and no one had enjoyed more than he the talks which boys love to have about their possible doings under such circumstances. But now, to be here, and find himself in such a place,--to be brought face to face with the hard, stern, dismal fact,--was another thing altogether. What oppressed him most was not the hardships of his position. These he could have withstood if there had been nothing worse. The worst part of his present life was its solitude. If Bart had been here with him, or Bruce, or Arthur, or Phil, or Pat, how different it would have been! Even old Solomon would have enabled him to pass the time contentedly. But to be alone,--all alone,--without a soul to speak to,--that was terrible. Tom soon found that the very way to deepen his misery was to sit still and brood over it. He was not inclined to give way to trouble. It has already been seen that he was a boy of obstinate courage, resolute will, and invincible determination. He was capable of struggling to the last against any adversity; and even if he had to lose, he knew how to lose without sinking into complete despair. These moods of depression, or even of despair, which now and then did come, were not permanent. In time he shook them off, and looked about for some new way of carrying on the struggle with evil fortune. So now he shook off this fit of depression, and starting up he determined not to sit idle any longer. "I won't stand it," he muttered. "There's lots of things to be seen, and to be done. And first of all I've got to explore this island. Come, Tom, my boy; cheer up, old fellow. You've pretended to admire Robinson Crusoe; act up to your profession. And first of all, my boy, you've got to explore Juan Fernandez." The sound of his own voice had the effect of encouraging and inspiriting him, while the purpose which he thus assigned to himself was sufficient to awaken his prostrated energies. There was something in the plan which roused all his curiosity, and turned his thoughts and feelings into a totally new direction. No sooner, then, had this thought occurred to him, than he at once set out to put it into execution. First of all he took one parting look at the scene around him. The sun had now passed its meridian, and it seemed to be one o'clock or after. The tide was high. The boat, which had at first floated, was now nearly full of water. Tom threw a melancholy glance at this fresh proof of the utter futility of all his labor, and then examined the fastenings, so that it might not drift away during his absence. Then he searched among the drift-wood until he found a stout stick to assist him in climbing, and to serve as a companion in his walk, after which he started. The sun was bright, but over the sky some clouds were gathering, and the opposite shores seemed to have grown darker than they were a few hours ago, having assumed a hue like olive green. The wind had also died away, and the water was as smooth as glass. XIII. Where's Solomon?--An anxious Search.--The Beach.--The cavernous Cliffs.--Up the Precipice.--Along the Shore.--Back for Boats. The loss of Solomon had filled the boys with anxiety, and even Captain Corbet shared in the common feeling. He had preferred to set out, as he said, with a coil of rope; but the sight of this seemed to make Solomon's fate appear darker, and looked as though he might have fallen over a precipice, or into a deep pool of water. They all knew that a serious accident was not at all improbable. They had seen the lofty and rugged cliffs that lined the bay shore, and knew that the rising waters, as they dashed over them, might form the grave of a man far younger and more active than the aged Solomon. He was weak and rheumatic; he was also timid and easily confused. If the water had overtaken him anywhere, he might easily fall a prey. In his efforts to escape, he would soon become so terrified that his limbs would be paralyzed. He might then stumble over the rocks, and break some of his bones, or he might be intrapped in some recess of the cliffs, from which escape might be impossible without external help. Full of thoughts like these, the boys went on, with Captain Corbet, up through the village, looking carefully around as they went on, and making inquiries of every one whom they met. No one, however, could give them any information. At last they reached the end of the village. Here, on the left, there arose a high hill. The road wound round this, and descended into a valley, through which a stream ran to the bay. In this valley there was a ship-yard, where the half-finished fabric of a large ship stood before them, and from which the rattle of a hundred axes rose into the air. The valley itself was a beautiful place, running up among steep hills, till it was lost to view among a mass of evergreen trees and rich foliage. Below the shipyard was a cove of no very great depth, but of extreme beauty. Beyond this was a broad beach, which, at the farthest end, was bounded by the projecting headland before alluded to. The headland was a precipitous cliff of red sandstone, crowned at the summit with a fringe of forest trees, white at its base were two or three hollow caverns, worn into the solid rock by the action of the surf. One of these was about thirty feet in height at its mouth, and ran back for sixty or seventy feet, narrowing all the way, like a funnel, from its entrance to its farthest extremity. The tide was now nearly at its height, and progress down the beach and along the cliff was impossible. The caves were cut off also, and the water penetrated them for some distance. At low tide one could easily walk down to the extreme point of the headland, and rounding this, he would find it possible to go along in front of the cliffs for an immense distance, either by walking along the rough beach at their foot, or, if the water should rise again, by going along rocky shelves, which projected for miles from the surface of the cliff. Reaching the head of the beach, Captain Corbet paused, and looked around. "Before goin any further," said he, "we'd better ask the folks at this ship-yard. It ain't possible to tell whether he's gone by the beach or not. He may have gone up the valley." "O," said Bart, dolefully, "he must have gone by the beach." "I rayther think I'll ask, at any rate," said the captain. So saying, he walked up towards a house that was not far off, and accosted some men who were standing there. On hearing his question, they were silent for a few moments; and at last one of them recollected seeing an aged colored man passing by early in the morning. He had a basket on his arm, and in every way corresponded to the description of Solomon. He was on his way up the shore. "Did he go down to the pint," asked Captain Corbet, "or up to the top of the cliff?" The man couldn't say for certain; but as far as he could recollect, it seemed to him that he went down to the pint. "About what time?" "Between eight and nine o'clock--in fact, about eight--not much later." "Did he speak to any one here?" "No; he walked past without stoppin. An do you say he ain't got back?" "Not yet." "Wal," said the man, "for an old feller, an a feller what don't know the country hereabouts, he's gone on a dangerous journey; an ef he's tried to get back, he's found it a pooty hard road to travel." "Isn't there any chance of his gettin back by the cliff?" "Not with the water risin onto his path." "Is there any way of gettin up to the top of the cliff?" "Wal, fur a active young feller it wouldn't be hard, but for a pore old critter like that thar, it couldn't be done--no how." "Wal, boys," said Captain Corbet, sorrowfully, "I guess we'd better get on, an not lose any more time." They walked away in silence for some time, until at last they reached the foot of the cliff. A path here ran up in a winding direction so as to reach the top. "It seems too bad," said Captain Corbet, "not to be able to get to the beach. I wish I'd come in the boat. What a fool I was not to think of it!" "O, I dare say the top of the cliff will do," said Bruce. "Wal, it'll have to do. At any rate I've got the kile of rope." "We shall be able to see him from the top just as well, and perhaps better." "Wal, I hope so; but we'll be a leetle too far above him for my fancy,--ony we can use the rope, I s'pose. Can any of you youngsters climb?" "O, yes," said Bart, "all of us." "What kind of heads have you got--stiddy?" "Yes, good enough," said Bruce. "I'll engage to go anywhere that I can find a foothold; and here's Bart, that'll go certainly as far, and perhaps farther. And here's Phil, that can do his share. As for Pat, he can beat us all; he can travel like a fly, upside down, or in any direction." "Wal, I'm glad to hear that, boys, for it's likely you'll be wanted to do some climbin afore we get back. I used to do somethin in that way; but since I've growed old, an rheumatic, I've got kine o' out o' the way of it, an don't scacely feel sech confidence in myself as I used to onst. But come, we mustn't be waitin here all day." At this they started up the path, and soon reached the top of the cliff. Arriving here, they found themselves in a cultivated meadow, passing through which they reached a pasture field. After a walk of about a quarter of a mile, they came to the cliff that ran along the shore of the bay, and on reaching this, the whole bay burst upon their view. It was still a beautiful day; the sun was shining brilliantly, and his rays were reflected in a path of dazzling lustre from the face of the sea. The wind was fresh, and the little waves tossed up their heads across where the sunlight fell, flashing back the rays of the sun in perpetually changing light, and presenting to the eye the appearance of innumerable dazzling stars. Far away rose the Nova Scotia shore as they had seen it in the morning, while up the bay, in the distance, abrupt, dark, and precipitous, arose the solitary Ile Haute. Beneath them the waters of the bay foamed and splashed; and though there was not much surf, yet the waters came rolling among the rocks, seething and boiling, and extending as far as the eye could reach, up and down, in a long line of foam. Reaching the edge, they all looked down. At the bottom there were visible the heads of black rocks, which arose above the waves at times, but which, however, at intervals, were covered with the rolling waters that tossed around them in foam and spray. Nearer and higher up there were rocks which projected like shelves from the face of the cliff, and seemed capable of affording a foothold to any climber; but their projection served also to conceal from view what lay immediately beneath. Along the whole beach, however, up and down, there appeared no sign of human life. Anxiously they looked, hoping to see some human form, in some part of that long line of rock; but none was visible, and they looked at one another in silence. "Wal, he don't turn up yet; that's clar," said Captain Corbet. "We can see a great deal from here, too," said Bart, in a despondent tone. "Ay, an that's jest what makes the wust of it. I thought that one look from a commandin pint would reveal the wanderer to our eyes." "Perhaps he is crouching in among the rocks down there." "Wal, I rayther think he'd manage to git up a leetle further out of the reach of the surf than all that." "He may be farther on." "True; an I dare say he is, too." "There don't seem to be any place below these rocks, where he would be likely to be." "No; I think that jest here he could climb up, as fur as that thar shelf, certain. He may be old an rheumatic, but he's able enough to climb that fur." "I don't think anything could have happened to him here, or we should see some signs of him." "Course we would--we'd see his remains--we'd see his basket, or his hat, floatin and driftin about. But thar's not a basket or a hat anywhar to be seen." "The cliff is long here, and runs in so from that point, that if he went up any distance, it would be easy for him to be caught by the rising tide." "Course it would. O, yes, course. That's the very thing that struck me. It's very dangerous for an ole inexperienced man. But come, we mustn't stand talkin, we must hurry on, or we may as well go back agin, at onst." Starting forward, they walked on for some time in silence. For about a hundred yards they were able to keep close to the edge of the cliff, so as to look over; but after that they encountered a dense alder thicket. In order to traverse this, they had to go farther inland, where there was some sort of an opening. There they came to a wood where the underbrush was thick, and the walking difficult. This they traversed, and at length worked their way once more to the edge of the cliff. Looking down here, they found the scene very much like what it had been farther back. The waves were dashing beneath them among rocks whose black crests were at times visible among the foam, while from the cliffs there were the same projecting shelves which they had noticed before. "See there!" cried Bart, pointing to a place behind them. "Do you see how the cliff seems to go in there--just where the alder bushes grow? That looks like a place where a man might be caught. I wonder if he isn't there." "Can't we go and see?" "I don't think you can git thar." "O, it isn't far," said Bart. "I'll run back and look down. The rest of you had better go on; I'll join you soon." "I'll go with you," said Bruce. "Very well." Bruce and Bart then set out, and forced their way through the dense alder bushes, until at length they found themselves near the place. Here there was a chasm in the line of cliff, reaching from the top to the bottom. The sides were precipitous, and they could see perfectly well all the way down. At the bottom the water was rolling and tossing; and this, together with the precipitous cliffs, showed them plainly that no one could have found shelter here. Sadly and silently they returned, and rejoined the others, who had been walking along in advance. "Wal?" said Captain Corbet, interrogatively. Bart shook his head. They then walked on for some time in silence. "Come," said Captain Corbet; "we've been makin one mistake ever sence we started." "What's that?" "We've kep altogether too still. How do we know but we've passed him somewhar along down thar. We can't see behind all them corners." "Let's shout now--the rest of the way." "Yes; that's it; yell like all possessed." The cries of the boys now burst forth in shrill screams and yells, which were echoed among the woods and rocks around. "Now," cried Captain Corbet, "all together!" The boys shouted all together. "That'll fetch him," said the captain, "ef anythin doos. It's a pity we didn't think of this afore. What an ole fool I must ha ben to forgit that!" The boys now walked on shouting, and screaming, and yelling incessantly, and waiting, from time to time, to listen for an answer. But no answer came. At times Captain Corbet's voice sounded forth. His cry was a very peculiar one. It was high pitched, shrill, and penetrating, and seemed as though it ought to be heard for miles. But the united voices of the boys, and the far-piercing yell of the captain, all sounded equally in vain. No response came, and at last, after standing still and listening for a longer time than usual, they all looked despondingly at one another, as though each were waiting for the other to suggest some new plan of action. Captain Corbet stood and looked musingly out upon the sea, as though the sight of the rolling waters assisted his meditations. It was some time before he spoke. "I tell you what it is, boys," said he at last. "We've ben makin another mistake." "How so?" "We've gone to work wrong." "Well, what can we do now?" "Wal, fust an foremost, I muve we go back on our tracks." "Go back?" "Yas." "Why?" "Wal, you see, one thing,--Solomon can't hev come further than this by no possibility, onless he started straight off to walk all the way up the bay agin, back to Petticoat Jack by the shore route,--an as that's too rough a route for an ole man, why, I calc'late it's not to be thought of. Ef, on the contrairy, he only kem out to hunt for fish, 'tain't likely he come as fur as this, an in my pinion he didn't come nigh as fur. You see we're a good piece on, and Solomon wouldn't hev come so fur if he'd cal'lated to get back to the schewner. What d'ye say to that?" "I've thought of that already," said Bruce, sadly. "We've certainly gone as far as he could possibly have gone." "Terrew," said Captain Corbet, solemnly. "But what can we do now?" asked Bart. "Fust of all, go back." "What! give him up?" "I didn't say that. I said to go back, an keep a good lookout along the shore." "But we've done that already." "Yes, I know; but then we didn't begin to yell till quite lately, whereas we'd ought to hev yelled from the time of fust startin. Now, I think ef we went back yellin all the way, we'd have a chance of turnin him up somewhar back thar whar we fust came in sight of the cliff. Very likely, if he ain't already drownded, he's a twisted himself up in some holler in the cliff back thar. He couldn't hev got this fur, certain,--unless he'd ben a runnin away." All this seemed so certain to the boys that they had nothing to say in opposition to it. In fact, as Bruce said, they had already gone as far as Solomon could possibly have gone, and this thought had occurred to them all. Captain Corbet's proposition, therefore, seemed to them the only course to follow. So they all turned and went back again. "What I was a goin to say," remarked Captain Corbet, after walking a few paces,--"what I was a goin to say was this. The mistake I made was in not gettin a boat." "A boat? Why we've traced the coast from the cliff well enough--haven't we?" "No, not well enough. We'd ought to have planned this here expedition more kerfully. It wan't enough to go along the top of the cliff this here way. You see, we've not been able to take in the lower part of the cliff underneath. We'd ought to hev got a boat. Some of us could hev gone along the cliff, jest as we hev ben doin, and the others could have pulled along the shore an kep up a sharp lookout that way. We've lost any quantity o' time that way, but that's no reason why we should lose any more; so I muve that some of us go back, right straight off, an get a boat at the ship-yard, an come back. I'll go, unless some o' youns think yourselfes smarter, which ain't onlikely." "O, you can't run, captain," said Bart. "Bruce and I will go, and we'll run all the way." "Wal, that's the very best thing that you could do. You're both young, an actyve. As for me, my days of youth an actyvity air over, an I'm in the sere an yaller leaf, with spells o' rheumatics. So you start off as quick as your legs can carry you, an ef you run all the way, so much the better." The boys started off at this, and going on the full run, they hurried, as fast as possible, back over the path they had traversed, and through the woods, and over the fields, and down the cliff towards the ship-yard. Phil and Pat, however, remained with Captain Corbet; and these three walked back along the edge of the cliff; still looking down carefully for signs of Solomon, and keeping up constantly their loud, shrill cries. Thus they walked back, till, at length, they reached the place where the alders were growing. Here they were compelled to make a detour as before, after which they returned to the cliff, and walked along, shouting and yelling as when they came. XIV. Back again.--Calls and Cries.--Captain Corbet's Yell.--A significant Sign.--The old Hat.--The return Cry.--The Boat rounds the Point. Captain Corbet, with Phil and Pat, walked along the top of the cliff in this way, narrowly scrutinizing the rocks below, and calling and shouting, until, at length, they reached the place at which they had first come out upon the shore. "Now, boys," said the captain, "from here to the pint down thar is all new ground. We must go along here, an keep a good lookout. If we hev any chance left of findin anythin, it's thar. I'm ony sorry we didn't examine this here fust an foremost, before wanderin away off up thar, whar 'tain't at all likely that Solomon ever dreamed of goin. I hope the boys won't be long gettin off that thar boat." "Perhaps they can't get one." "O, yes, they can. I saw two or three down thar." They now walked on a little farther. At this place the cliff was as steep as it had been behind; but the rocky shelves were more numerous, and down near the shore they projected, one beyond another, so that they looked like natural steps. "If Solomon was caught by the tide anywhar hereabouts," said Captain Corbet, "thar's no uthly reason why he shouldn't save himself. He could walk up them rocks jest like goin up stairs, an git out of the way of the heaviest surf an the highest tide that these shores ever saw." "It all depends," said Phil, "on whether he staid about here, or went farther up." "Course--an it's my opinion that he did stay about here. He was never such an old fool as to go so far up as we did. Why, ef he'd a done so over them rocks, he'd never have got the use of his legs agin." "Strange we don't see any signs of him." "O, wal, thar's places yet we hevn't tried." "One thing is certain--we haven't found any signs of him. If anything had happened, we'd have seen his basket floating." "Yes, or his old hat." "I should think, if he were anywhere hereabouts, he'd hear the noise; we are shouting loud enough, I'm sure. As for your voice, why, he ought to hear it a mile away; and the point down there doesn't seem to be a quarter that distance." "O, it's further than that; besides, my voice can't penetrate so easily down thar. It gits kine o' lost among the rocks. It can go very easy in a straight line; but when it's got to turn corners an go kine o' round the edges o' sharp rocks, it don't get on so well by a long chalk. But I think I'll try an divarsify these here proceedins by yellin a leetle lower down." So saying, Captain Corbet knelt down, and putting his head over the cliff, he uttered the loudest, and sharpest, and shrillest yell that he could give. Then he listened in silence, and the boys also listened in breathless expectation for some time. But there was no response whatever. Captain Corbet arose with a sigh. "Wal, boys," said he, in a mournful tone, "we must git on to the pint. We'd ought to know the wust pooty soon. But, at any rate, I'm bound to hope for the best till hope air over." The little party now resumed their progress, and walked on towards the point, shouting at intervals, as before. From this place on as far as the point, the ground was clear, and there was nothing to bar their way. They could go along without being compelled to make any further detour, and could keep near enough to the edge to command a view of the rocks below. They walked on, and shouted without ceasing, and thus traversed a portion of the way. Suddenly Captain Corbet's eye caught sight of something in the water. It was round in shape, and was floating within a few feet of the shore, on the top of a wave. As Captain Corbet looked, the wave rolled from underneath it, and dashed itself upon the rocks, while the floating object seemed to be thrown farther out. The tide had turned already, and was now on the ebb, so that floating articles, such as this, were carried away from the shore, rather than towards it. Upon this Captain Corbet fastened his gaze, and stood in silence looking at it. At length he put his hand on Phil's shoulder, and directed the attention of the boys to the floating object. "Do you see that?" said he. "What?" "That thing." "What--that round thing?" "Yes, that round thing. Look sharp at it now. What doos it look like to your young eyes?" Phil and Pat looked at it very carefully, and in silence. Then Phil looked up into Captain Corbet's face without saying a word. "Wal?" "What is it, do you think?" asked Phil, in a low voice. "What do YOU think?" "Sure an it's a hat--a sthraw hat," said Pat. Captain Corbet exchanged a meaning glance with Phil. "Do you think it's HIS hat?" asked Phil. "Whose else can it be?" Phil was silent, and his gaze was once more directed to the floating object. As it rose and fell on the waves, it showed the unmistakable outline of a straw hat, and was quite near enough for them to recognize its general character and color. It was dark, with the edges rather ragged, a broad brim, and a roomy crown, not by any means of a fashionable or graceful shape, but coarse, and big, and roomy, and shabby--just such a hat as Solomon had put on his head when he left Grand Pre with them on this memorable and ill-fated voyage. They looked at it for a long time in silence, and none of them moved. Captain Corbet heaved a deep sigh. "This here," said he, "has been a eventfool vyge. I felt a derred persentment afore I started. Long ago I told you how the finger of destiny seemed to warn me away from the ocean main. I kem to the conclusion, you remember, that henceforth I was to dwell under my own vine an fig tree, engaged in the tender emplymint of nussin the infant. But from this I was forced agin my own inclynations. An what's the result? Why, this--that thar hat! See here, boys;" and the venerable seaman's tone grew deeper, and more solemn, and more impressive; "see here, boys," he repeated; "for mor'n forty year hev I follered the seas, an traversed the briny deep; but, though I've hed my share of storms an accydints, though I've ben shipwrecked onst or twiste, yet never has it ben my lot to experience any loss of human life. But now, but now, boys, call to mind the startlin events of this here vyge! Think of your companion an playmate a driftin off in that startlin manner from Petticoat Jack! An now look here--gaze upon that thar! Words air footil!" "Do you give him up, then?" cried Phil. "Poor, poor old Solomon!" Captain Corbet shook his head. "'Deed, thin, an I don't!" cried Pat. "What's a hat? 'Tain't a man, so it isn't. Many's the man that's lost his hat, an ain't lost his life. It's a windy place here, an ole Solomon's hat's a mile too big for him, so it is--'deed an it is." Captain Corbet shook his head more gloomily than ever. "Ow, sure an ye needn't be shakin yer head that way. Sure an haven't ye lost hats av yer own, over an over?" "Never," said the captain. "I never lost a hat." "Niver got one blowed off? 'Deed an ye must have." "I never got one blowed off. When the wind blowed hard I allus kep 'em tied on." "Well, Solomon hadn't any tie to his, an it cud tumble off his old pate asy enough, so it cud. Sure he's lost it jumpin over the rocks. Besides, where's his basket?" "At the bottom, no doubt." "Sure an it cud float." "No; I dar say it was full of lobsters." "Any how, I'll not believe he's gone till I see him," cried Pat, earnestly. "Seein's believin." "Ef he's gone," said Captain Corbet, more solemnly than ever, "ye'll never see him. These waters take too good care of a man for that." "Well, yer all givin up too soon," said Pat. "Come along now; there's lots of places yet to examin. Give one of yer loudest yells." Captain Corbet did so. In spite of his despondency as to poor old Solomon's fate, he was not at all unwilling to try any further chances. On this occasion he seemed to gain unusual energy out of his very despair; and the yell that burst from him was so high, so shrill, so piercing, and so far penetrating, that the former cries were nothing compared to it. "Well done!" cried Pat. "Sure an you bet yerself that time, out an out." "Stop!" cried Phil. "Listen. What's that?" Far away, as they listened, they heard a faint cry, that seemed like a response. "Is that the echo?" asked Phil, anxiously. "Niver an echo!" cried Pat, excitedly. "Shout agin, captain, darlin." Captain Corbet gave another shout as loud and as shrill as the preceding one. They listened anxiously. Again they heard the cry. It was faint and far off; yet it was unmistakably a human cry. Their excitement now grew intense. "Where did it come from?" cried Phil. "Wal, it kine o' seemed to me that it came back thar," said the captain, pointing to the woods. "'Deed an it didn't," cried Pat; "not a bit of it. It was from the shore, jest ahead; from the pint, so it was, or I'm a nagur." "I think it came from the shore, too," said Phil; "but it seemed to be behind us." "Niver a bit," cried Pat; "not back there. We've been there, an whoever it was wud have shouted afore, so he wud. No, it's ahead at the pint. He's jest heard us, an he's shoutin afther us. Hooray! Hurry up, an we'll be there in time to save him." Pat's confidence was not without its effect on the others. Without waiting any longer, they at once set off at a run, stopping at intervals to yell, and then listening for a response. To their delight, that response came over and over again; and to their still greater joy, the sound each time was evidently louder. Beyond a doubt, they were drawing nearer to the place from which the sounds came. This stimulated them all the more, so that they hurried on faster. The edge of the cliff was not covered by any trees, but the ground at its summit had been cleared, so that progress was not at all difficult. They therefore did not take much time in traversing the space that intervened between the spot where they had first heard the cry, and the point where the cliff terminated. The cry grew steadily louder, all the way, until at last, when they approached the point, it seemed to come directly from beneath. The cliff here was perpendicular for about forty feet down, and below this it seemed to retreat, so that nothing could be seen. The tide was on the ebb; but it was still so high that its waves beat below them, and seemed to strike the base of the rock. Beyond, on the right, there was a sloping ledge, which descended from the cliffs into the sea, over which the waves were now playing. It was from the hollow and unseen recess down at the foot of the cliff that the cry seemed to arise, which had come in response to the calls of those on the summit. On reaching the place above, they knelt down, and looked over, but were not able to distinguish any human being, or any sign of the presence of one. But as they looked anxiously over, the cry arose, not very loud, but quite distinct now, and assured them that this was the place which sheltered the one who had uttered that cry. Captain Corbet now thrust his head over as far as he could, and gave a call in his loudest voice. "Hal-lo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!" To which there came up in answer a cry that sounded like-- "Hi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i!" "Solomo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-on!" "He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ey!" "Is that yo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ou?" "It's me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!" "Where are y-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ou?" "He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-re!" "Come u-u-u-u-u-u-u-up!" "Ca-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-n't!" "Why no-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ot?" "Too hi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-gh!" "Go round the pi-i-i-i-i-i-nt!" "Too high ti-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-de!" "Wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-it!" "All ri-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ght!" Captain Corbet now sprang up as nimbly as a young lad, and looked at Phil and Pat with an expression of such exceeding triumph, that his face seemed fairly to shine. "It IS Solomon!" he cried. But it was of no use for him to convey that piece of information to the boys, who already knew that fact quite as well as he did. "It IS Solomon," he repeated; "an now the pint is, how air we to git him up?" "Let me go down," said Pat. "How?" "Sure an I can git down wid that bit o' rope you have." "Mebbe you can, an then agin mebbe you can't; but s'posin you was to git down, how upon airth would that help the matter?" "Sure an we cud give him a pull up." "I don't think we could manage that," said Captain Corbet, "and you couldn't, at any rate, if you were down thar with him. As far as I see, we'll hev to wait till the tide falls." "Wouldn't it be better," said Phil, "for us to go around, so as to come nearer?" "How? Whar?" "Why, down to the beach, and then we could walk around the point." "Walk? Why, it's high water." "So it is--I forgot that." "The fact is, we can't git any nearer than we air now. Then, agin, the boys'll be along in a boat soon. They ought to be here by this time; so let's sit down here, an wait till they heave in sight." With a call of encouragement to Solomon which elicited a reply of satisfaction, Captain Corbet sat down upon the grass, and the boys followed his example. In this position they waited quietly for the boat to come. Meanwhile, Bart and Bruce had hurried on as rapidly as their legs could carry them, and at length reached the path which went down to the beach. Down this they scrambled, and not long afterwards they reached the ship-yard. Here they obtained a boat without any difficulty, which the workmen launched for them; and then they pushed off, and pulled for the point, with the intention of rowing along opposite the shore, and narrowly inspecting it. Scarcely had they reached the point, however, when a loud and well-known voice sounded from on high. They both turned and looked up, still pulling. There they saw Captain Corbet, and Phil, and Pat, all of whom were shouting and making furious gestures at them. "We've found him! Come in closer!" cried Captain Corbet. "Whe-e-e-re?" cried Bruce. But before any answer could come, a loud, shrill scream, followed by a yell of delight, burst forth from some place still nearer. Burt and Bruce both started, and looked towards the place from which this last cry came. There a very singular and pleasing sight met their eyes. About six feet above the water was a shelf of rock, that ran down sloping to the beach, and over this there projected a great mass of the cliff. In this recess there crouched a familiar figure. He had no hat, but between his legs, as he sat there, he held a basket, to which he clung with his knees and his hands. As he sat there his eyes were fixed upon them, and their whites seemed enlarged to twice their ordinary dimensions, while yell after yell came from him. "Help, he-e-e-e-e-lp! Mas'r Ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-art! O, Mas'r Ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-art! He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-lp! Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ave me!" "Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Bart and Bruce, in a burst of heartfelt joy. "He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-lp!" came forth once more from Solomon. "All right," cried Bart; and at once the boat pointed towards the place where Solomon was sitting. The water nearer the shore was somewhat rough, but fortunately there were no rocks just there, and they were able to bring the boat in close to the place where Solomon was confined. At their approach Solomon moved slowly down the incline of the rock, on his hands and knees, for there was not room for him to stand upright; and as he moved he pushed the basket before him, as though there was something inside of uncommon value. Reaching, at length, a spot where the rock was about the level of the boat, he waited for them to approach. Soon the boat touched the rock. "Come, old Sol," cried Bart, "jump in!" "Hyah, take hole ob dis yar," said Solomon, even in that moment of rescue refusing to move till his precious basket should be safe. Bart grasped it, and put it into the boat, noticing, as he did so, that it was full of lobsters. "Come, Solomon, hurry up. I don't like the boat to be knocking here this way." "All right, sah," said Solomon, crawling along rather stiffly; "ben tied up in a knot all day, an feel so stiff dat I don't know as I'll git untied agin fur ebber mo. Was jest makin my will, any way, as you came along." By this time Solomon had tumbled into the boat, and worked his way aft, though not without many groans. "It's de cold rocks, an de wet," he groaned. "Sech an attack o' rheumaticses as dis ole nigga's gwine to hab beats all! Any how, I ben an sabed de lobsta. Loss me ole hat, but didn't car a mite fer dat so long as I sabed de lobsta." "All right," cried Bart; and at this the two boys pulled away from the rocks and rounded the point. As they came into the sight of those who were waiting on the top of the cliff, a shout of joy arose. XV. Exploring Juan Fernandez.--The Cliffs.--The tangled Underbrush.--The Fog Bank.--Is it coming or going?--The Steamer.--Vain Appeals.--New Plans. Starting off, as we have seen, to explore the island, Tom first directed his steps towards the elevated land which has before been mentioned. At first his path was easy, and the descent very gradual; but at length it became more difficult, and he had to ascend a steep hill, which was over-strewn with stones and interspersed with trees and mounds. Up among these he worked his way, and at length the ascent ceased. He was on the summit of the island. Here he walked to the edge of the area on which he stood, and found himself on the edge of a precipice that went sheer down to a beach, which was apparently two hundred feet beneath him. The precipice seemed actually to lean forward out of the perpendicular, and so tremendous was the view beneath, that Tom, although not by any means inclined to be nervous, found his head grow giddy as he looked down. Looking forth thus from his dizzy elevation, he could see across the bay to the New Brunswick shore, and could mark the general course which his drifting boat must have taken over those deep, dark, and treacherous waters. The sea was broad, and blue, and tranquil, and desolate, for even from this commanding height not a sail was visible. There was nothing here which could attract Tom's attention for any long period; so he prepared to continue his progress. In front of him lay a wood, before plunging in which he turned to see if there were any vessels coming through the Straits of Minas. None were visible; so, turning back once more, he resumed his journey, and went forward among the trees. His path now became a difficult one. It was necessary to keep away from the edge of the cliff, but still not to go out of sight of it. The trees were principally spruce and fir, but there were also birch and maple. He also noticed mountain ash and willow. Beneath him all the ground was covered with soft moss, in which he sank to his ankles, while on every side were luxuriant ferns and evergreen trailers. Tom recognized all these with great satisfaction, for they showed him the means of furnishing for himself a soft couch, that might be envied by many a man in better circumstances. Progress soon grew more difficult, for there were numerous mounds, and dense underbrush, through which he could only force his way by extreme effort. Windfalls also lay around in all directions, and no sooner would he have fairly surmounted one of them, than another would appear. Thus his progress was exceedingly slow and laborious. After about a half an hour of strenuous exertion, Tom found himself in the midst of an almost impassable jungle of tangled, stunted fir trees. He tried to avoid these by making a detour, but found that they extended so far that he could only pass them by going along close to the edge of the cliff. This last path he chose, and clinging to the branches, he passed for more than a hundred yards along the crest of a frightful precipice, where far down there yawned an abyss, at whose bottom was the sea; while abreast of him in the air there floated great flocks of gulls, uttering their hoarse yells, and fluttering fiercely about, as though trying to drive back this intruder upon their domains. Once or twice Tom was compelled to stop, and turn away his face from the abyss, and thrust himself in among the trees; but each time he regained his courage, after a little rest, and went on as before. At length he passed the thick spruce underbrush, and found the woods less dense. He could now work his way among them without being compelled to go so close to the edge of the cliff; and the dizzy height and the shrieks of the gulls no longer disturbed his senses. The trees here were not so high as those at the other end of the island, but were of much smaller size, and seemed stunted. There were no maples or other forest trees, but only scraggy fir, that seemed too exposed to the winds from the sea to have much health or verdure. The underbrush was wanting to a great extent, but moss was here in large quantities, and thick clusters of alder bushes. Wild shrubs also--such as raspberries and blueberries--were frequently met with; while ledges of weather-beaten rock jutted out from amid thick coverings of moss. Walking here was not at all difficult, and he went on without any interruption, until, at last, he found any farther progress barred by a precipice. He was at the lower or western end of the island. He looked down, and found beneath him a great precipice, while rocks jutted out from the sea, and ledges projected beyond. The gulls were present here, as elsewhere, in great flocks, and still kept up their noisy screams. Tom looked out over the sea, and saw its waters spread far away till it was lost in the horizon. On the line of that horizon he saw a faint gray cloud, that looked like a fog bank. It had, to his eyes, a certain gloomy menace, and seemed to say to him that he had not seen the last of it yet. On the left of the broad sea, the Nova Scotia Coast ran along till it was lost in the distance; and on the right was the long line of the New Brunswick shore, both of which had now that dark hue of olive green which he had noticed on the land opposite before he had started. Suddenly, while he was looking, his eyes caught sight of something white that glistened brightly from the blue water. It was about midway between the two coasts, and he knew it at once to be some sailing vessel. He could not make out more than one sail, and that showed that the vessel was either coming up the bay or going down; for if it had been crossing, she would, of course, have lain broadside on to his present locality, and would have thus displayed two sails to his view. The sight of this vessel agitated him exceedingly; and the question about her probable course now entered his mind, and drove away all other thoughts. Whether that vessel were going up or down became of exclusive importance to him now, if she were coming up, she might approach him, and hear his hail, or catch sight of his signals. Suddenly he reflected that he had no way of attracting attention, and a wild desire of running back and setting up the longest pole or board that he could find came into his mind; but such was the intensity of his curiosity, and the weight of his suspense, that he could not move from the spot where he was until he had satisfied himself as to the vessel's course. He sat down not far from the edge of the precipice, and, leaning forward with his hands supporting his chin, he strained his eyes over the intervening distance, as he tried to make out in which way the vessel was going. It seemed fully ten miles away, and her hull was not visible. It was only the white of her sails that he saw; and as the sunlight played on these from time to time, or fell off from the angle of reflection, the vessel was alternately more or less visible, and thus seemed by turns to draw nearer and depart farther from his sight. Thus for a long time he sat, alternately hoping and desponding, at every play of those sails in the sunlight. The calm of the water showed him that, even if the vessel were coming up, he could not expect any very rapid progress. There was now no wind, and the surface of the water was perfectly unruffled. Besides, he knew that the tide was falling rapidly. How, then, could he expect that the vessel could come any nearer, even if she were trying to? Thoughts like these at last made him only anxious to keep the vessel in sight. If her destination lay up the bay, she would probably anchor; if it lay down the bay, she would drift with the tide. He thought, then, that if she only would remain in sight, it would be a sufficient proof of her course. Thus he sat, watching and waiting, with all his soul intent upon those flashing sails, and all his thoughts taken up with the question as to the course of that solitary bark. It seemed a long time to him, in his suspense; but suspense always makes time seem long. At last, however, even though he hoped so persistently for the best, his hope began to die within him. Fainter and fainter grew those sails; at intervals rarer and rarer did their flash come to his eyes, until at length the sight of them was lost altogether, and nothing met his eyes but the gloomy gray of the fog cloud on the far horizon. Even after he had lost hope, and become convinced that she was gone, Tom sat there for a long time, in a fixed attitude, looking at that one spot. He would have sat there longer, but suddenly there came to his ears a peculiar sound, which made him start to his feet in a moment, and filled him with a new excitement. He listened. The sound came again. A flush of joy spread over his face, his heart beat faster and faster, and he listened as though he could scarce believe his senses. As he listened, the sounds came again, and this time much louder. There was now no mistake about it. It was a regular boat, which Tom knew well to be the peculiar sound made by the floats of a steamer's paddles. He had often heard it. He had but recently heard it, when the revenue steamer was approaching the Antelope, and again during the foggy night, when the whistle roused them, and the same beat of the paddles came over the midnight waters. And now, too, he heard it. He gave a shout of joy, and started off to catch sight of her. For a few paces only he ran, and then stopped. He was puzzled. He did not know in which direction it was best to go. He was at the west end of the island, but could not make out very well the direction of the sounds. He tried to think whether the steamer would pass the island on the north side or the south. He did not know, but it seemed to him that she would certainly go to the north of it. There was no time to be lost, and standing there to listen did not seem to be of any use, even if his impatience had allowed him to do so. Accordingly he hurried back by the way that he had come along the north side of the island. For some time he ran along through the trees, and at length, in about fifteen or twenty minutes, he reached the place where the dense underbrush was, by the edge of the cliff. From this point a wide view was commanded. On reaching it he looked out, and then up the bay, towards the Straits of Minas. He could see almost up to the straits, but no steamer appeared. For a moment he stood bewildered, and then the thought came to him, that he had mistaken altogether the steamer's course. She could not be coming down on the north side of the island, but on the south side. With a cry of grief he started back again, mourning over his error, and the time that he had lost. On reaching the more open wood, he thought that it would be better to hurry across the island to the south side, and proceeded at once to do so. The way was rough and tedious. Once or twice he had to burst through thickets of alder, and several times he had to climb over windfalls. At length, in his confusion, he lost his way altogether; he had to stop and think. The shadows of the trees showed him where the south lay, and he resumed his journey. At length, after most exhaustive efforts, he reached a part of the cliff, where a fringe of alders grew so thick, that he was scarce aware that he was at his destination, until the precipice opened beneath him. Here he stood, and, pressing apart the dense branches, he looked out. There was the steamer, about two miles off, already below where he was standing, and going rapidly down the bay with the falling tide. Another cry of grief burst from Tom. Where he was standing he could see the vessel, but he himself was completely concealed by the clustering bushes. He now lamented that he had left his first position, and saw that his only chance was to have remained there. To stay where he was could not be thought of. There was scarce a chance now of doing anything, since the steamer was so far away; but what chance there was certainly depended on his being in some conspicuous position. He started off, therefore, to the west point, where he had watched the schooner for so long a time. He hurried on with undiminished energy, and bounded over windfalls, and burst through thickets, as before. But in spite of his efforts, his progress could not be more rapid than it had formerly been. His route was necessarily circuitous, and before he could find the desired point, many more minutes had elapsed. But he reached it at last, and there, on the bare rock, springing forward, he waved his hat in the air, and sent forth a piercing cry for help. But the steamer was now as much as four or five miles away--too far altogether for his loudest cry to go. His screams and his gestures did not appear to attract the slightest attention. She moved on her way right under the eyes of the frantic and despairing boy, nor did she change her course in the slightest degree, nor did her paddles cease to revolve, but went rolling round, tossing up the foam, and bearing far, far away that boat on which poor Tom had rested his last hope. As for Tom, he kept up his screams as long as he could utter a sound. He tore off his coat, and shook it up and down, and waved it backward and forward. But none of these things were heard or seen. The steamboat passed on, until, at length, even Tom became convinced that further efforts were useless. This last blow was too much. Tom sank under it, and, falling on his face, he burst into a flood of tears. Struggling up at length from this last affliction, Tom roused himself, and his buoyancy of soul began once more to assert itself. "Come now, Thomas, my son," said he, as he dried his eyes, "this sort of thing will never do, you know. You're not a baby, my boy; you've never been given to blubbering, I think. Cheer up, then, like a man, and don't make me feel ashamed of you." This little address to himself had, as before, the effect of restoring his equanimity, and he thought with calmness upon his recent disappointments. He saw, by the passage of these vessels, what he had for a time lost sight of, namely, that this island, though uninhabited, was still in the middle of a bay which was constantly traversed by sailing vessels and steamboats. The latter ran regularly up to the Basin of Minas from St. John. As to the former, they were constantly passing to and fro, from the large ship down to the small fishing vessel. Inhabited countries surrounded him on every side, between the coasts of which there was a constant communication. If he only kept patient, the time must come, and that, too, before very long, when he would be delivered. In order to secure this delivery, however, he saw that it would be necessary to arrange some way by which he might attract the notice of passing vessels. On this subject he meditated for a long time. It would be necessary, he thought, to have some sort of a signal in some conspicuous place. Among the drift-wood he might, perhaps, be able to find some sort of a pole or staff which he could set up. One might not be enough, but in that case he could put up two, or three, or half a dozen. The next thing to decide about was the choice of a place. There was the east end, and the west end--which was the better? The west end, where he was standing, was high; but then it was surrounded by trees, and unless he could set up a very tall staff, it could scarcely be noticed. The east end, on the contrary, was lower; but then it was bare, and any kind of a signal which might be set up there could hardly fail to attract attention. He could also pile up a heap of drift-wood, and set fire to it, and, by this means, if a vessel were passing by, he could be certain of securing attention. It did not make much difference which end the signals were placed upon, as far as referred to the passing of vessels; for all that passed by would go along the island, so that both ends would be visible to them. As to the signals, he felt confident that he could find a staff, or, if one would not be long enough, several could be fastened together. The coil of rope in the boat would enable him to do this. The sail would afford material for a flag. All these plans came to his mind as he stood there; and the prospect of once more doing something which was to help him to escape from his prison drove away the last vestige of his grief. His courage again arose, hope revived, and he burst forth into a light and joyous song. Very different was he now from the despairing lad who, but a short time before, had been pouring forth his tears of sorrow; and yet but a few minutes had passed since then. The steamer was yet in sight down the bay, but Tom, who had lately been so frantic in his efforts to attract her attention, now cast a glance after her of perfect indifference. And now it was necessary for him to return to the east end of the island, and look about for the means of putting into execution his plan for making a signal. He started off on his return without any further delay. The path back was as rough and toilsome as the way down had been; but Tom was now full of hope, and his elastic spirits had revived so thoroughly that he cared but little for the fatigue of the journey. It was traversed at last, and he descended the slope to the place from which he had started. His exploration of the island had been quite complete. It seemed to him to be about a mile and a half in length, and a half a mile or so in width. The east end, where he had first arrived, was the only place where it was at all desirable to stay. Immediately on his arrival he examined the boat, and found it secure. To his surprise it was now about sunset. He had forgotten the lapse of time. He was hungry; so he sat down, ate his biscuit, drank his water, and rested from the toils of the day. XVI. A Sign for the outer World.--A Shelter for the Outcast's Head.--Tom's Camp and Camp-bed.--A Search after Something to vary a too monotonous Diet.--Brilliant Success. Tom sat down after his eventful day, and took his evening meal, as has been said. He rested then for some time. His excessive labors had fatigued him less than the great excitement which he had undergone, and now he felt disinclined to exert himself. But the sun had set, and darkness was coming on rapidly; so he rose, at last, and went over to the drift-wood. Here, after a search of about half an hour, he found something which was very well suited to his purpose. It was a piece of scantling about twenty feet long, and not very thick; and to this he saw that he could fasten the pole that he had made up in the woods. These two pieces would make, when joined, a very good flag-staff. These he brought up to the bank. Then he collected an armful of dry chips and sticks, which he carried over to a spot near where the boat lay. A rock was there, and against one side of this he built a pile of the chips. He then tried a match, and found that it was quite dry, and lighted it without any difficulty. With this he kindled the fire, and soon saw, with great satisfaction, a bright and cheerful blaze. He was so delighted with the fire that he brought up a dozen more loads of wood, which he laid near. Then he drew up the bit of scantling, and bringing the coil of rope, he cut a piece off, and proceeded to fasten to the scantling the pole which he had procured in the woods. He did this by winding the rope around in a close and even wind; and, finally, on concluding his task, he found that it was bound firmly enough to stand any breeze. It took a long time to finish this; but Tom had slept late in the morning, and, though fatigued, he was not sleepy. After this he sat down in front of the fire, and enjoyed its friendly light and its genial glow. He kept heaping on the fuel, and the bright flames danced up, giving to him the first approach to anything like the feeling of comfort that he had known since he had drifted away from the Antelope. Nor was it comfort only that he was mindful of while he watched and fed the fire. He saw in this fire, as it shone out over the water, the best kind of a signal, and had some hope of being seen and hailed by some passing vessel. In this hope he sat up till midnight, looking out from time to time over the water, and expecting every instant to see the shadow of some approaching vessel. But midnight came, and Tom at length thought of sleep. The sail had dried thoroughly through the day; so now he used it once more as a coverlet, and, folding himself in it, he reclined, as before, against the mossy bank, and slept. On awaking the next day, he arose and looked around. To his deep disappointment, he could see nothing. There was a fog over all the scene. The wind had changed, and his old enemy was once more besieging him. It was not so thick, indeed, as it had been, being light and dry, so that the ground was not at all moistened; but still the view was obscured, so that no vessel could be seen unless it came within half a mile; and that was rather closer than most vessels would care to come to his island. This day was Sunday, and all Tom's plans had to be deferred until the following day. However, it was not at all disagreeable to him to get rid of the necessity of work; and, indeed, never before did he fully appreciate the nature of the Day of Rest. The rest was sweet indeed to his exhausted and overworn frame, and he did not go far away from his fire. He had found some embers still glowing in the morning, and had kindled the fire anew from these, without drawing any more upon his precious store of matches. He resolved now to keep the coals alive all the time, by feeding the fire during the day, and covering it up with ashes by night. It was Sunday,--the Day of Rest,--and Tom felt all the blessedness of rest. On the whole, it turned out to be the pleasantest day which he had known since he left the schooner. Left now to quiet reflection, he recalled the events of the last week, and had more leisure to feel thankful over the wonderful safety which he had met with. Even now on the island he was not without his comforts. He had food and warmth. So, on the whole, though he had his moments of sadness, yet the sadness was driven out by cheerfulness. It was not all dismal. The words of that poem which is familiar to every school-boy rang in his ears:-- "O, Solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place." Yet these words were accompanied and counterbalanced by the more pleasing and consoling sentiments of others, which on this day accorded better with Tom's mood:-- "There's mercy in every place; And mercy--encouraging thought!-- Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot." Nothing occurred during the day to disturb the quiet of the island, and Tom went to bed early that night, so as to have a long sleep, and fortify himself for the labors of the morrow. The ashes were raked carefully round the coals, which, when Tom waked in the morning, were easily kindled again. He was up early on that Monday morning. He saw, with deep disappointment, that the fog still covered every thing, and that the wind was blowing quite brisk from the south-west, and raising rather a heavy sea. But he had a great deal to do now, and to this he turned his attention. First of all, he had to finish his signal-staff and set it up. He was very much troubled about the proper material for a flag. The canvas was rather too heavy; but as he had nothing else, he had to take this. He fastened a bit of the rope to the head of the staff, so as to form a loop, and through this he ran a piece which was long enough to serve for halyards. Thus far he had not used up more than a quarter of the coil of rope; but he needed all that was left for other purposes. The next thing was to set up his staff. To do this required much labor. He had already selected the place which seemed most suitable. It was at the extreme point of a tongue of land which projected beside the brook, and only a little distance from his resting-place. Here the ground was soft; and choosing a sharp stone, he worked diligently for about a couple of hours, until at length he succeeded in digging a hole which was about eighteen inches in depth. Then he fastened ropes to the staff, where the pole joined it, so that four lines came down far enough to serve as stays. Having done this, he inserted the end of the staff in the hole, and thrust in the earth all around it, trampling it in, and beating it down as tight as he could with a stone. After this he procured some sticks from the drift-wood, and, sharpening the ends, he secured the stays by fastening them to these sticks, which he drove into the ground. The staff then seemed to be as secure as was necessary. It only remained now to hoist up his flag; and this he did without any difficulty, securing it at half mast, so that it might serve unmistakably as a signal of distress. Upon completing this, Tom rested on the mound, and from that distance he contemplated the signal with a great deal of calm and quiet satisfaction. It was his own device, and his own handiwork, and he was very proud of it. But he did not allow himself a long rest. There yet remained much to be done, and to this he now directed his attention. He had been thinking, during his last employment, upon the necessity which he had of some shelter. A plan had suggested itself which he felt confident that he could carry into execution without any very great trouble. The fog that now prevailed, and which was far different from the light mist of the previous day, accompanied also, as it was, by the damp south-west wind, made some sort of a shelter imperatively necessary, and that, too, before another night. To pass this night in the fog would be bad enough; but if it should happen to rain also, his situation would be miserable indeed. He now set out for the beach, and found, without much difficulty, some pieces of wood which were necessary to his purpose. Bringing these back, he next looked about for a good situation. There was a rock not far from the fire, and in front of this was a smooth spot, where the land was flat, and covered with short grass. On the left it sloped to the brook. This seemed to him to be the best place on the island. It was sufficiently sheltered. It was dry, and in case of rain the water would not be likely to flood it. With all these it also possessed the advantage of being sufficiently conspicuous to any passing vessel which might be attracted by the signal-staff. Here, then, Tom determined to erect his place of residence. His first work was to select two long and slender pieces of wood, and sharpen the ends of them. Then he drove each of them into the ground in such a way that their tops crossed one another. These he bound fast together. Two other stakes were driven into the ground, and secured in the same way, about six or seven feet off. Another long piece of scantling was then placed so as to pass from one to the other of the two crossed sticks, so that it rested upon them. This last was bound tight to the crossed sticks, and thus the whole structure formed a camp-shaped frame. Over this Tom now threw the sail, and brought it down to the ground on either side, securing it there with pegs. At the back of the camp a piece of the sail was folded over and secured so as to cover it in; while in front another piece of the sail hung down until it nearly reached the ground. This could hang down at night, and be folded over the top by day. Tom now tore up some sods, and laid them over the edge of the canvas on each side, where it touched the ground, and placed on these heavy stones, until at length it seemed sufficiently protected from the entrance of any rain that might flow down the roof. His last task consisted in collecting a large quantity of moss and ferns from the woods, which he strewed over the ground inside, and heaped up at one end, so as to form a soft and fragrant bed. When this was accomplished the camp was finished. It had taken a long time, and when at last the work was done, it began to grow dark. Tom noticed this with surprise. He had been working so incessantly that he was not mindful of the flight of time, and now the day was done, and the evening was upon him before he was aware. But there were other things still for him to do before he could rest from his labors. His fire was just flickering around its last embers, and if he wished to have a pleasant light to cheer the solitude and the darkness of his evening hours, it would be necessary to prepare a supply of fuel. To this he attended at once, and brought up several armfuls of drift-wood from the beach. Placing these near the fire, he kindled it up afresh, and flung upon the rising flames a generous supply of fuel. The fires caught at it, and crackled as they spread through the dry wood, and tossed up their forked tongues on high, till in the dusk of evening they illuminated the surrounding scene with a pleasant light. A few more armfuls were added, and then the work for the day was over. That work had been very extensive and very important. It had secured a means of communication with the outer world, and had also formed a shelter from the chill night air, the fog, and the storm. It was with a very natural pride that Tom cast his eyes around, and surveyed the results of his ingenuity and his industry. The camp opened towards the fire, from which it was not so far distant but that Tom could attend to it without any very great inconvenience. The fire shone pleasantly before him as he sat down at his evening repast. As the darkness increased, it threw a ruddier glow upon all the scene around, lighting up field and hill, and sending long streams of radiance into the fog that overhung the sea. Tom had prepared an unusually large supply of fuel, this evening, for the express purpose of burning it all up; partly for his own amusement, and partly in the hope that it might meet the eyes of some passing navigator. It was his only hope. To keep his signals going by night and day was the surest plan of effecting a speedy escape. Who could tell what might be out on the neighboring sea? How did he know but that the Antelope might be somewhere near at hand, with his companions on board, cruising anxiously about in search after the missing boat? He never ceased to think that they were following after him somewhere, and to believe that, in the course of their wanderings, they might come somewhere within sight of him. He knew that they would never give him up till they assuredly knew his fate, but would follow after him, and set other vessels on the search, till the whole bay, with all its shores and islands, should be thoroughly ransacked. Fortunate was it for him, he thought, that there was so large a supply of drift-wood at hand on the beach, dry, portable, and in every way convenient for use. Thanks to this, he might now disperse the gloom of dark and foggy nights, and keep up a better signal in the dark than he could do in the light. Thus the fuel was heaped on, and the fire flamed up, and Tom sat near, looking complacently upon the brilliant glow. Thus far, for nearly a week, he had fed on biscuit only; but now, as he ate his repast, he began to think that it was a very monotonous fare, and to wonder whether it might not be possible to find something which could give a zest to his repasts. The biscuit were holding out well, but still he felt a desire to husband his resources, and if any additional food could in any way be procured, it would not only be a relish, but would also lessen his demand upon his one sole source of supply. He thought earnestly upon the subject of fish. He turned his thoughts very seriously to the subject of fish-hooks, and tried to think of some way by which he could capture some of the fish with which these waters abounded. But this idea did not seem to promise much. In the first place, he could think of no possible way in which he could procure any serviceable hook; in the second place, even if he had a hook and line all ready and baited, he did not see how he would be able to cast it within reach of any fish. His boat would not float him even for the little distance that was required to get into the places where fish might be. He could only stand upon the beach out of their reach. But, in the course of his thoughts, he soon perceived that other sources of food were possible to him besides the fish that were caught by hook and line. His mind reverted to the populous realm of shell-fish. These were all before him. Round the rocks and amid the sea-weed there certainly must be mussels. At low tide, amid the ledges and the sand, there surely must be some lobsters. Before him there was an extensive mud flat, where there ought to be clams. Here was his fire, always ready, by night and by day. Why should he not be able to make use of that fire, not only for cheering his mind, and giving him warmth, and signaling to passers-by, but also for cooking his meals? This was the question that he asked himself as he ate his biscuit. He could not see why he should not be able to accomplish this. As far as he could see, there ought to be plenty of shell-fish of various kinds on these shores. The more he thought of it, the more probable it seemed. He determined to solve the difficulty as soon as possible. On former occasions he had arranged his work on the evening for the succeeding day. On this evening he marked out this work for the morrow, and arranged in his mind a comprehensive and most diligent search for shell-fish, which should embrace the whole circuit of the island. With this in his mind, he arranged the fire as usual, so as to keep it alive, and then retired to his camp for the night. The presence of a roof over his head was grateful in the extreme. He let down the canvas folds over the entrance, and felt a peculiar sense of security and comfort. The moss and ferns which he had heaped up were luxuriously soft and deliciously fragrant. Over these he stretched his wearied limbs with a sigh of relief, and soon was asleep. So comfortable was his bed, and so secure his shelter, that he slept longer than usual. It was late when he awaked. He hurried forth and looked around. The fog still rested over everything. If possible it was thicker and more dismal than even on the preceding day. To his surprise, he soon noticed that it had been raining quite heavily through the night. Around, in many places, he saw pools of water, and in the hollows of the rocks he saw the same. This could only have been done by the rain. Going back to his camp, he saw that the canvas was quite wet. And yet the rain had all rolled off. Not a drop had entered. The moss and the fern inside were perfectly dry, and he had not the slightest feeling of dampness about him. His camp was a complete success. He now went off to search for clams. The tide had been high at about six in the morning. It was now, as he judged, about ten or eleven, and the water was quite low. Selecting a piece of shingle from his wood-pile, he walked down over the mud flat that extended from the point, and, after going a little distance, he noticed the holes that give indications of the presence of clams beneath. Turning up the sand, he soon threw out some of them. He now dug in several different places, and obtained sufficient for the day. These he carried back to the bank in triumph. Then he stirred up his fire, heaped on plenty of wood, and arranged his clams in front so as to roast them. In spite of Mrs. Pratt's theories, the clams were found by Tom to be delicious, and gave such relish to the biscuit, that he began to think whether he could not make use of the baling dipper, and make a clam chowder. This breakfast was a great success, and Tom now confidently expected to find other shell-fish, by means of which his resources might be enlarged and improved. XVII. Solomon's solemn Tale.--A costly Lobster.--Off again.--Steam Whistles of all Sizes.--A noisy Harbor.--Arrival Home.--No News. The shout of joy uttered by those on the top of the cliff at seeing old Solomon safe was responded to by those in the boat; and then, as the latter went on her way, Captain Corbet set out to return to the beach, followed by Phil and Pat. Soon they were all reunited, and, the boat being landed, they returned in triumph to the Antelope. On their way back, Solomon told them the story of his adventures. "Went out," said he, "on a splorin scursion, cos I was termined to try an skewer somethin to make a dinnah to keep up de sperrit ob dis yah party. Ben trouble nuff, an dat's no reason why we should all starb. I tought by de looks ob tings dar was lobstas somewhar long dis yah sho, an if I got a chance, I knowed I could get 'em. Dar was lots ob time too, ef it hadn't ben fur dat ar pint; dat's what knocked me. Lots o' lobstas--could hab picked up a barl full, ony hadn't any barl to pick up." "Well, but how did you happen to get caught?" "Dat ar's jes what I'm a comin to. You see, I didn't tink ob dat ar pint when I went up de sho,--but knowed I had lots ob time; so I jes tought I'd make sure ob de best ob de lobstas. Wan't goin to take back any common lobstas,--bet you dat,--notin for me but de best,--de bery best ones dar. Dat ar's what kep me. It takes a heap ob time an car to get de best ones, when dar's a crowd lyin about ob all sizes, an de water comin in too." "But didn't you see that the tide was coming up to the point?" "Nebber see a see,--not a see; lookin ober de lobstas all de time, an mos stracted wid plexity cos I couldn't cide bout de best ones. Dar was lots an lots up dar at one place, dough I didn't go fur,--but ef I'd gone fur, I'd hab got better ones." "How far did you go?" "Not fur,--ony short distance,--didn't want to go too fur away for feah ob not gittin back in time. An so I started to come back pooty soon, an walked, an walked. Las, jes as I got to de pint, I rose my ole head, an looked straight afore me, an thar, clar ef I didn't fine myself shut in,--reglar prison,--mind I tell you,--an all round me a reglar cumferince ob water an rock, widout any way ob scape. Tell you what, if dar ebber was a ole rat in a trap, I was at dat ar casion." "Couldn't you have waded through it before it got too high?" "Waded? Not a wade; de water was rough an deep, an de bottom was stones dat I'd slipped oba an almost broke my ole head, sides bein drownded as dead as a herrin. Why, what you tink dis ole nigga's made ob? I'm not a steam injine, nor a mowin machine, nor a life boat. I'm ony a ole man, an shaky in de legs too,--mind I tell you." "Well, how did you manage it?" "Manage! Why, I didn't manage at all." "How did you find that place where you were sitting?" "Wasn't settin. I was tied up in a knot, or rolled up into a ball. Any way, I wasn't settin." "Well, how did you find the place?" "Wal, I jes got up dar. I stood on de sho till de water drobe me, an I kep out ob its way till at las I found myself tied up de way you saw me." "Why didn't you halloo?" "Hollar? Didn't I hollar like all possessed?" "We didn't hear you." "Wal, dat ar's dredful sterious. An me a hollarin an a yellin like mad. Tell you what, I felt as ef I'd bust my ole head open, I did yell that hard." "Couldn't you manage to climb up that cliff?" "Dat cliff? Climb up? Me? What! me climb up a cliff? an dat cliff? Why, I couldn't no more climb up dat ar cliff dan I could fly to de moon. No, sah. Much as I could do to keep whar I was, out ob de water. Dat was enough." "Don't you know that we walked two miles up the shore?" "Two miles! Two! De sakes, now, chil'en! did you, railly? Ef I'd a ony knowed you war a comin so near, wouldn't I a yelled? I bet I would." "Why, you didn't think we'd have left you." "Lef me? Nebber. But den I didn't tink you'd magine anyting was wrong till too late. What I wanted was help, den an dar. De trouble was, when you did come, you all made dat ar circumbendibus, an trabelled clean an clar away from me." "We thought at first you could not be so near the point." "But de pint was de whole difficulty. Dat's de pint." "Well, at any rate, you've saved the lobsters." "Yah! yah! yah! Yes. Bound to sabe dem dar. Loss my ole hat, an nearly loss my ole self; but still I hung on to dem dar lobstas. Tell you what it is now, dey come nigh onto bein de dearest lobstas you ebber eat. I'be done a good deal in de way ob puttin myself out to get a dinna at odd times for you, chil'en; but dis time I almost put myself out ob dis mortial life. So when you get your dinnas to-day, you may tink on what dat ar dinna come nigh to costin." "I wonder that you held on to them so tight, when they brought you into such danger." "Hole on? Why, dat ar's de berry reason why I did hole on. What, let go ob dem arter all my trouble on dat count? No. I was bound to hab somethin to show whenebber I got back, if I ebber did get back; and so here I am, all alibe, an a bringin my lobstas wid me." "Well, Solomon," said Bart, in a kindly tone, "old man, the lobsters have come near costing us pretty dear, and we felt bad enough, I can tell you, when we went up there along the shore calling for you and getting no answer." "What, you did car for de ole man, Mas'r Bart--did you?" said Solomon, in a tremulous voice. Tears started to his eyes as he said it, and all power of saying anything more seemed to depart from him. He fell back behind the others, and walked on for the rest of the way in silence, but at times casting upon Bart glances that spoke volumes, and talking to himself in inaudible tones. In this way they soon reached the wharf where the schooner was lying. The first thing that they noticed was, that the schooner was aground. The tide had gone out too far for her to float away, and consequently there was no hope of resuming their voyage for that day. "We're in for it, captain," said Bruce "Yes; I felt afeard of it," said the captain. "We've got to wait here till the next tide." "We'll leave to-night, of course." "O, yes. We must get off at the night's tide, and drop down the bay." "How far had we better go?" "Wal, I ben a thinkin it all over, an it's my opinion that we'd better go to St. John next. We may hear of him there, an ef he don't turn up we can send out some more vessels, an give warnin that he's astray on the briny biller." "At what time will we be able to leave?" "Wal, it'll not be high tide till near one o'clock, but we can git off ef thar's a wind a leetle before midnight." "Do you think the wind will hold on?" The captain raised his head, and looked at the sky; then he looked out to sea, and then he remained silent for a few minutes. "Wal," said he, at last, slowly and thoughtfully, "it'll take a man with a head as long as a hoss to answer that thar. It mought hold on, an then agin it moughtn't." "At any rate, I suppose we can drift." "O, yes; an of the wind doosn't come round too strong, we can git nigh down pooty close to St. John by mornin." "We'll run down with the tide." "Percisely." "Well, I suppose we'll have to put the time through the best way we can, and try to be patient. Only it seems hard to be delayed so much. First there was the fog, which made our search useless; and now, when there comes a bright day, when we can see where we're going, here we are tied up in Quaco all day and all night." "It doos seem hard," said Captain Corbet, gravely, "terrible hard; an ef I owned a balloon that could rise this here vessel off the ground, an convey her through the air to her nat'ral element, I'd hev it done in five minutes, an we'd all proceed to walk the waters like things of life. But I don't happen to own a balloon, an so thar you air. "But, boys," continued the captain, in a solemn voice, elevating his venerable chin, and regarding them with a patriarchal smile,--"boys, don't begin to go on in that thar old despondent strain. Methinks I hear some on you a repinin, an a frettin, cos we're stuck here hard an fast. Don't do it, boys; take my advice, an don't do it. Bear in mind the stirrin an memiorable events of this here mornin. See what a calamity was a threatenin us. Why, I declare to you all, thar was a time when I expected to see our aged friend Solomon no more in the flesh. You could not tell it by my manner, for I presarved a calm an collected dumeanour; but yet, I tell you, underneath all that icy calm an startlin good-natur of my attitood, I concealed a heart that bet with dark despair. At that moment, when we in our wanderins had reached the furthest extremity that we attained onto, I tell you my blood friz, an my har riz in horror! Methought it were all up with Solomon; and when I see his hat, it seemed to me jest as though I was a regardin with despairin eye his tumestun whereon war graven by no mortial hand the solemn an despairin epigram, 'Hic jacet!' "So now, my friends," continued the captain, as he brushed a tear-drop from his eye, "let us conterrol our feelins. Let us be calm, and hope for the best. When Solomon took his departoor, an was among the missin, I thought that an evil fortin was a berroodin over us, and about to consume us. But that derream air past. Solomon is onst more among the eatables. He cooks agin the mortial repast. He lives! So it will be with our young friend who has so mysteriously drifted away from our midst. Cheer up, I say! Them's my sentiment. He'll come to, an turn up, all alive--right side up--with care,--C. O. D.,--O. K.,--to be shaken before taken,--marked and numbered as per margin,--jest as when shipped, in good order an condition, on board the schooner Antelope, Corbet master, of Grand Pre." These words of Captain Corbet had a very good effect upon the boys. They had already felt very much cheered by the escape of Solomon, and it seemed to them to be a good omen. If Solomon had escaped, so also might Tom. And, as their anxiety on Solomon's account had all been dispelled by his restoration, so also might they hope that their anxiety about Tom would be dispelled. True, he had been lost to them for a much longer time, and his absence was certainly surrounded by a more terrible obscurity than any which had been connected with that of Solomon. Yet this one favorable circumstance served to show them that all might not be so dark as they had feared. Thus, therefore, they began to be more sanguine, and to hope that when they reached St. John, some tidings of the lost boy might be brought to them. Solomon's exertions towards giving them a dinner were on this day crowned with greater success than had been experienced for some days past. Their exertions had given them an appetite, and they were able to eat heartily for the first time since Tom's departure. The rest of the day passed very slowly with them. They retired early, and slept until midnight. At that time they waked, and went on deck, when they had the extreme satisfaction of seeing the vessel get under way. A moderate breeze was blowing, which was favorable, and though the tide was not yet in their favor, yet the wind was sufficient to bear them out into the bay. Then the boys all went below again, full of hope. The night passed away quietly, and without any incident whatever. They all slept soundly, and the dreams that came to them were pleasant rather than otherwise. Awaking in the morning by daylight, they all hurried up on deck, and encountered there a new disappointment; for all around them they saw again the hated presence of the fog. The wind also had died away, and the vessel's sails flapped idly against her masts. "Where are we now?" asked Bruce, in a despondent tone. "Wal," said Captain Corbet, "as nigh as I can reckon, we're two or three miles outside of St. John harbor." "How is the tide?" "Wal, it's kine o' agin us, jest now." "There doesn't seem to be any wind." "Not much." "Shall we get into St. John to-day?" "Wal, I kine o' think we'll manage it." "How soon?" "Wal, not much afore midday. You see we're driftin away jest now." "Don't you intend to anchor till the next rise of tide?" "O, yes; in about ten minutes we'd ought to be about whar I want to anchor." At this disheartening condition of affairs the boys sank once more into a state of gloom. In about ten minutes, as Captain Corbet said, the schooner was at anchor, and there was nothing to do but to wait. "We'll run in at turn o' tide," said he. Breakfast came, and passed. The meal was eaten in silence. Then they went on deck again, fretting and chafing at the long delay. Not much was said, but the boys stood in silence, trying to see through the thick fog. "It was so fine when we left," said Bart, "that I thought we'd have it all the way." "Wal, so we did--pooty much all; but then, you see, about four this mornin we run straight into a fog bank." "Has the wind changed?" "Wal, thar don't seem jest now to be any wind to speak of, but it kine o' strikes me that it's somethin like southerly weather. Hence this here fog." After a few hours the vessel began to get under way again; and now, too, there arose a light breeze, which favored them. As they went on they heard the long, regular blast of a steam whistle, which howled out a mournful note from time to time. Together with this, they heard, occasionally, the blasts of fog horns from unseen schooners in their neighborhood, and several times they could distinguish the rush of some steamer past them, whose whistle sounded sharply in their ears. As they drew nearer, these varied sounds became louder, and at length the yell of one giant whistle sounded close beside them. "We're a enterin o' the harbure," said Captain Corbet. Hours passed away from the time the Antelope raised anchor until she reached the wharf. In passing up the harbor, the shadowy forms of vessels at anchor became distinguishable amid the gloom, and in front of them, as they neared the wharf, there arose a forest of masts belonging to schooners. It was now midday. Suddenly there arose a fearful din all around. It was the shriek of a large number of steam whistles, and seemed to come up from every side. "Is that for the fog?" asked Bruce. "O, no," said Bart; "those are the saw-mills whistling for twelve o'clock." The boys had already completed their preparations for landing, and had changed their eccentric clothing for apparel which was more suited to making their appearance in society. Bart had insisted that they should go to his house, and wait until they might decide what to do; and the boys had accepted his hospitable invitation. They stepped on shore full of hope, not doubting that they would hear news of Tom. They had persuaded themselves that he had been picked up by some vessel which was coming down the bay, and had probably been put ashore here; in which case they knew that he would at once communicate with Bart's people. They even thought that Tom would be there to receive them. "Of course he will be," said Bart; "if he did turn up, they'd make him stay at the house, you know; and he'd know that we fellows would come down here in the hope of hearing about him. So we'll find him there all right, after all. Hurrah!" But, on reaching his home, Bart's joyous meeting with his family was very much marred by the deep, dark, and bitter disappointment that awaited him and his companions. They knew nothing whatever about Tom. Bart's father was shocked at the story. He knew that no boy had been picked up adrift in the bay during the past week. Such an event would have been known. He felt exceedingly anxious, and at once instituted a search among the coasting vessels. The search was a thorough one, but resulted in nothing. There was no one who had seen anything of a drifting boat. All reported thick fog in the bay. The result of this search plunged Bart and his friends into their former gloom. Other searches were made. Inquiries were sent by telegraph to different places, but without result. The fate of the missing boy now became a serious question As for Bart and his friends, they were inconsolable. XVIII. Down the Bay.--Drifting and Anchoring.--In the Dark, morally and physically.--Eastport, the jumping-off Place.--Grand Manan.--Wonderful Skill.--Navigating in the Fog.--A Plunge from Darkness into Light, and from Light into Darkness. It was Saturday when Bart reached home. As much was done on that day as possible. Bart was in the extreme of wretchedness, and so eager was he to resume the search for his friend, that his father gave his permission for him to start off again in the Antelope. The other boys also were to go with him. They determined to scour the seas till they found Tom, or had learned his fate. Mr. Damer also assured Bart that he would take the matter in hand himself, and would send out two schooners to go about the bay. In addition to this, he would telegraph to different places, so that the most extensive search possible might be instituted. Every part of the coast should be explored, and even the islands should be visited. All this gave as much consolation to Bart and his friends as it was possible for them to feel under the circumstances. As much as possible was done on Saturday, but the next day was an idle one, as far as the search was concerned. Bart and the boys waited with great impatience, and finally on Monday morning they left once more in the Antelope. It was about five o'clock in the morning, the tide was in their favor, and, though there was a head wind, yet be fore the turn of tide they were anchored a good distance down the bay. "My idee is this," said Captain Corbet. "I'll explore the hull bay in search of that driftin boy. I'll go down this side, cross over, and come up on t'other. We'll go down here first, an not cross over till we get as fur as Quoddy Head. I think, while we air down thar, I'll call at Eastport an ask a few questions. But I must say it seems a leetle too bad to have the fog go on this way. If this here had ony happened a fortnight ago, we'd have had clear weather an fair winds. It's too bad, I declar." They took advantage of the next tide to go down still farther, and by twelve o'clock on Monday night they were far down. Since leaving St. John they had seen nothing whatever, but they had heard occasionally the fog horns of wandering schooners, and once they had listened to the yell of a steamer's whistle. "I've allus said," remarked Captain Corbet, "that in navigatin this here bay, tides is more important than winds, and anchors is more important than sails. That's odd to seafarin men that ain't acquainted with these waters, but it air a oncontrovartible fact. Most of the distressin casooalties that happen hereabouts occur from a ignorance of this on the part of navigators. They WILL pile on sail. Now, in clar weather an open sea, pile it on, I say; but in waters like these, whar's the use? Why, it's flyin clar in the face of Providence. Now look at me--do I pile on sail? Not me. Catch me at it! When I can git along without, why, I git. At the same time, I don't think you'll find it altogether for the good of your precious health, boys, to be a movin about here in the fog at midnight. Better go below. You can't do no good a settin or a standin up here, squintin through a darkness that might be felt, an that's as thick as any felt I ever saw. So take my advice, an go below, and sleep it off." It was impossible to gainsay the truth of Captain Corbet's remarks, and as it was really midnight, and the darkness almost as thick as he said, the boys did go below, and managed to get to sleep in about a minute and a half after their heads touched the pillows. Before they were awake on the following day the anchor was hoisted, and the Antelope was on her way again. "Here we air, boys," said the captain, as they came on deck, "under way--the Antelope on her windin way over the mounting wave, a bereasting of the foamin biller like all possessed. I prophesy for this day a good time as long as the tide lasts." "Do you think we'll get to Eastport harbor with this tide?" "Do I think so?--I know it. I feel it down to my butes. Eastport harbure? Yea! An arter that we hev all plain-sailin." "Why, won't the fog last?" "I don't car for the fog. Arter we get to Eastport harbure we cease goin down the bay. We then cross over an steal up the other side. Then it's all our own. If the fog lasts, why, the wind'll last too, an we can go up flyin, all sails set; an I'll remuve from my mind, for the time bein, any prejudyce that I have agin wind at sails." "Do you intend to go ashore at Eastport?" "Yes, for a short time--jest to make inquiries. It will be a consolation, you know." "Of course." "Then I'll up sail, an away we'll go, irrewspective of tides, across the bay." By midday the captain informed them that they were in Eastport harbor. "See thar," said he, as he pointed to a headland with a light-house. "That thar is the entrance. They do call this a pootyish place; but as it's this thick, you won't hev much chance to see it. Don't you want to go ashore an walk about?" "Not if we can help it. Of course we'll have to ask after poor Tom, but we haven't any curiosity." "Wal, p'aps not--ony thar is people that find this a dreadful cur'ous place. It's got, as I said, a pootyish harbure; but that ain't the grand attraction. The grand attraction centres in a rock that's said to be the eastest place in the neighborin republic,--in short, as they call it, the 'jumpin-off place.' You'd better go an see it; ony you needn't jump off, unless you like." Sailing up the harbor, the fog grew light enough for them to see the shore. The town lay in rather an imposing situation, on the side of a hill, which was crowned by a fort. A large number of vessels lay about at the wharves and at anchor. Here they went ashore in a boat, but on making inquiries could gain no information about Tom; nor could they learn anything which gave them the slightest encouragement. "We've got to wait here a while so as to devarsefy the time. Suppose we go an jump off?" said the captain. The boys assented to this in a melancholy manner, and the captain led the way through the town, till at last he halted at the extreme east end. "Here," said he, "you behold the last extremity of a great an mighty nation, that spreads from the Atlantic to the Pacific, an from the Gulf of Mexiky to the very identical spot that you air now a occypyin of. It air a celebrated spot, an this here air a memorable momient in your youthful lives, if you did but know it!" There was nothing very striking about this place, except the fact which Captain Corbet had stated. Its appearance was not very imposing, yet, on the other hand, it was not without a certain wild beauty. Before them spread the waters of the bay, with islands half concealed in mist; while immediately in front, a steep, rocky bank went sheer down for some thirty or forty feet to the beach below. "I suppose," said the captain, "that bein Pilgrims, it air our dooty to jump; but as it looks a leetle rocky down thar, I think we'd best defer that to another opportoonity." Returning to the schooner, they weighed anchor, set sail, and left the harbor. On leaving it, they did not go back the way they had come, but passed through a narrow and very picturesque channel, which led them by a much shorter route into the bay. On their left were wooded hills, and on their right a little village on the slope of a hill, upon whose crest stood a church. Outside the fog lay as thick as ever, and into this they plunged. Soon the monotonous gray veil of mist closed all around them. But now their progress was more satisfactory, for they were crossing the bay, and the wind was abeam. "Are you going straight across to Nova Scotia now?" asked Bart. "Wal, yes; kine o' straight across," was the reply; "ony on our way we've got to call at a certain place, an contenoo our investergations." "What place is that?" "It's the Island of Grand Manan--a place that I allers feel the greatest respect for. On that thar island is that celebrated fog mill that I told you of, whar they keep grindin night an day, in southerly weather, so as to keep up the supply of fog for old Fundy. Whatever we'd do without Grand Manan is more'n I can say." "Is the island inhabited?" asked Bruce. "Inhabited? O, dear, yas. Thar's a heap o' people thar. It's jest possible that a driftin boat might git ashore thar, an ef so we'll know pooty soon." "How far is it?" "O, ony about seven or eight mile." "We'll be there in an hour or so, then?" "Wal, not so soon. You see, we've got to go round it." "Around it?" "Yes" "Why?" "Cos thar ain't any poppylation on this side, an we've got to land on t'other." "Why are there no people on this side?" "Cos thar ain't no harbures. The cliffs air six hundred feet high, and the hull shore runs straight on for ever so fur without a break, except two triflin coves." "How is it on the other side?" "Wal, the east side ain't a bad place. The shore is easier, an thar's harbures an anchorages. Thar's a place they call Whale Cove, whar I'm goin to land, an see if I can hear anythin. The people air ony fishers, an they ain't got much cultivation; but it's mor'en likely that a driftin boat might touch thar somewhar." The Antelope pursued her course, but it was as much as three hours before she reached her destination. They dropped anchor then, and landed. The boys had already learned not to indulge too readily in hope; but when they made their inquiries, and found the same answer meeting them here which they had received in other places, they could not avoid feeling a fresh pang of disappointment and discouragement. "Wal, we didn't git much good out of this place," said Captain Corbet. "I'm sorry that we have sech a arrand as ourn. Ef it warn't for that we could spend to-night here, an to-morry I'd take you all to see the fog mill; but, as it is, I rayther think I won't linger here, but perceed on our way." "Where do we go next--to Nova Scotia?" "Wal, not jest straight across, but kine o' slantin. We head now for Digby; that's about straight opposite to St. John, an it's as likely a place as any to make inquiries at." "How long will it be before we get there?" "Wal, some time to-morry mornin. To-night we've got nothin at all to do but to sweep through the deep while the stormy tempests blow in the shape of a mild sou-wester; so don't you begin your usual game of settin up. You ain't a mite of good to me, nor to yourselves, a stayin here. You'd ought all to be abed, and, ef you'll take my advice, you'll go to sleep as soon as you can, an stay asleep as long as you can. It'll be a foggy night, an we won't see a mite o' sunshine till we git into Digby harbure. See now, it's already dark; so take my advice, an go to bed, like civilized humane beings." It did not need much persuasion to send them off to their beds. Night was coming on, another night of fog and thick darkness. This time, however, they had the consolation of making some progress, if it were any consolation when they had no definite course before them; for, in such a cruise as this, when they were roaming about from one place to another, without any fixed course, or fixed time, the progress that they made was, after all, a secondary consideration. The matter of first importance was to hear news of Tom, and, until they did hear something, all other things were of little moment. The Antelope continued on her way all that night, and on the next morning the boys found the weather unchanged. Breakfast passed, and two or three hours went on. The boys were scattered about the decks, in a languid way, looking out over the water, when suddenly a cry from Pat, who was in the bows, aroused all of them. Immediately before them rose a lofty shore, covered in the distance with dark trees, but terminating at the water's edge in frowning rocks. A light-house stood here, upon which they had come so suddenly that, before they were over their first surprise, they were almost near enough to toss a biscuit ashore. "Wal, now, I call that thar pooty slick sailin," exclaimed Captain Corbet, glancing at the lighthouse with sparkling eyes. "I tell you what it is, boys, you don't find many men in this here day an age that can leave Manan at dusk, when the old fog mill is hard at work, and travel all night in the thickest fog ever seen, with tide agin him half the time, an steer through that thar fog, an agin that thar tide, so as to hit the light-house as slick as that. Talk about your scientific navigation--wouldn't I like to see what one of them thar scientific captings would do with his vessel last night on sech a track as I run over! Wouldn't I like to run a race with him? an ef I did, wouldn't I make a pile to leave and bequeath to the infant when his aged parient air buried beneath the cold ground?" While Captain Corbet was speaking, the schooner sailed past the light-house, and the thick fog closed around her once more. On one side, however, they could see the dim outline of the shore on their right. On they sailed for about a quarter of a mile, when suddenly the fog vanished, and, with scarce a moment's notice, there burst upon them a blaze of sunlight, while overhead appeared the glory of the blue sky. The suddenness of that transition forced a cry of astonishment from all. They had shot forth so quickly from the fog into the sunlight that it seemed like magic. They found themselves sailing along a strait about a mile in width, with shores on each side that were as high as Blomidon. On the right the heights sloped up steep, and were covered with trees of rich dark verdure, while on the other side the slope was bolder and wilder. Houses appeared upon the shore, and roads, and cultivated trees. This strait was several miles in length, and led into a broad and magnificent basin. Here, in this basin, appeared an enchanting view. A sheet of water extended before their eyes about sixteen miles in length and five in breadth. All around were lofty shores, fertile, well tilled, covered with verdurous trees and luxuriant vegetation. The green of the shores was dotted with white houses, while the blue of the water was flecked with snowy sails. Immediately on the right there appeared a circular sweep of shore, on which arose a village whose houses were intermingled with green trees. Into this beautiful basin came the old French navigators more than two centuries ago, and at its head they found a place which seemed to them the best spot in Acadie to become the capital of the new colony which they were going to found here. So they established their little town, and these placid waters became the scene of commercial activity and of warlike enterprise, till generations passed away, and the little French town of Port Royal, after many strange vicissitudes, with its wonderful basin, remained in the possession of the English conqueror. "Now," said Captain Corbet, "boys, look round on that thar, an tell me of you ever see a beautifuller place than this. Thar's ony one place that can be compared with this here, an that's Grand Pre. But for the life o' me, I never can tell which o' the two is the pootiest. It's strange, too, how them French fellers managed to pick out the best places in the hull province. But it shows their taste an judgment--it doos, railly." It was not long before the Antelope had dropped anchor in front of the town of Digby, and Captain Corbet landed with the boys as soon as possible. There was as good a chance of Tom being heard of here as anywhere; since this place lay down the bay, in one sense, and if by any chance Tom had drifted over to the Nova Scotia shore, as now seemed probable, he would be not unlikely to go to Digby, so as to resume his journey, so rudely interrupted, and make his way thence to his friends. Digby is a quiet little place, that was finished long ago. It was first settled by the Tory refugees, who came here after the revolutionary war, and received land grants from the British government. At first it had some activity, but its business soon languished. The first settlers had such bright hopes of its future that they regularly laid out a town, with streets and squares. But these have never been used to any extent, and now appear grown over with grass. Digby, however, has so much beauty of scenery around it, that it may yet attract a large population. On landing here, Captain Corbet pursued the same course as at other places. He went first to one of the principal shops, or the post office, and told his story, and afterwards went to the schooners at the wharves. But at Digby there was precisely the same result to their inquiries as there had been at other places. No news had come to the place of any one adrift, nor had any skipper of any schooner noticed anything of the kind during his last trip. "What had we better do next?" "Wal," said Captain Corbet, "we can ony finish our cruise." "Shall we go on?" "Yes." "Up the bay?" "Yes. I'll keep on past Ile Haute, an I'll cruise around Minas. You see these drifts may take him in a'most any direction. I don't see why he shouldn't hev drifted up thar as well as down here." It was Wednesday when they reached Digby. On the evening of that day the Antelope weighed anchor, and sailed out into the Bay of Fundy. It was bright sunshine, with a perfectly cloudless sky inside, but outside the Antelope plunged into the midst of a dense and heavy fog. XIX. Tom's Devices.--Rising superior to Circumstances.--Roast Clams.--Baked Lobster.--Boiled Mussels.--Boiled Shrimps.--Roast Eggs.--Dandelions.--Ditto, with Eggs.--Roast Dulse.--Strawberries.--Pilot-bread.--Strawberry Cordial. Meanwhile another day had passed away on Ile Haute. When we last saw Tom he had succeeded in finding some clams, which he roasted in front of his fire, and made thus a very acceptable relish. This not only gratified his palate for the time, but it also stimulated him to fresh exertions, since it showed him that his resources were much more extensive than he had supposed them to be. If he had ever dreaded getting out of all his provisions, he saw now that the fear was an unfounded one. Here, before his eyes, and close beside his dwelling-place, there extended a broad field full of food. In that mud flat there were clams enough to feed him for all the rest of his life, if that were necessary. But what was more, he saw by this the possibility that other articles of food might be reckoned on, by means of which he would be able to relieve his diet from that monotony which had thus far been its chief characteristic. If he could find something else besides clams and biscuit, the tedium of his existence here would be alleviated to a still greater degree. He spent some time in considering this subject, and in thinking over all the possible kinds of food which he might hope to obtain. Sea and land might both be relied on to furnish food for his table in the desert. The sea, he knew, ought to supply the following:-- 1. Clams, 2. Lobsters, 3. Mussels, in addition to other things which he had in his mind. The land, on the other hand, ought to furnish something. Now that his attention was fairly directed to this important subject, he could think of several things which would be likely to be found even on this island, and the search for which would afford an agreeable amusement. The more he thought of all this, the more astonished he was at the number of things which he could think of as being likely to exist here around him. It was not so much for the sake of gratifying his appetite, as to find some occupation, that he now entered eagerly upon putting this new project into execution. Fish, flesh, and fowl now offered themselves to his endeavors, and these were to be supplied by land, sea, and sky. This sudden enlargement of his resources, and also of his sphere of operations, caused him to feel additional satisfaction, together with a natural self-complacency. To the ordinary mind Ile Haute appeared utterly deserted and forlorn--a place where one might starve to death, if he had to remain for any length of time; but Tom now determined to test to the utmost the actual resources of the island, so as to prove, to himself what one unaided boy could do, when thus thrown upon his own intelligent efforts, with dire necessity to act as a stimulus to his ingenuity. First of all, then, there was his box of biscuit, which he had brought with him. To this must be added his first discovery on the island, namely, the clams. Nothing could be of greater importance than this, since it afforded not merely a relish, but also actual food. The next thing that he sought after was lobsters, and he went off in search of these as soon as he could on the following day. He waited till the tide was low, which was at about twelve o'clock, and then went down along the beach. At high tide, the water came close up to the foot of the lofty cliff; but at ebb, it descended for some distance, so that there was some sort of a beach even in places that did not promise any. The beach nearest to where Tom had taken up his abode was an expanse of mud and sand; but passing along beyond this, on the north side, it became gravelly. About a hundred yards to the west, on this side of the island, he came to the place where he had tied his boat, on that eventful time when he had drifted here. Below this, the beach extended down for a long distance, and at the lowest point there were rocks, and sharp stones, and pebbles of every size. Here Tom began his search, and before he had looked five minutes, he found several lobsters of good size. A little farther search showed him that there was a large supply of these, so that, in fact, sufficient support might have been obtained for a whole ship's company. By the time that he had found a half dozen of these, and had brought them back to his hearth-stone, it had grown too dark to search for any more. Tom's search, however, had been so successful, that he felt quite satisfied; and though the day had passed without any change in the weather or any lifting of the fog, though he had listened in vain for any sound over the waters which might tell of passers by, though his signal had not been seen, and his bright burning fire had not been noticed, yet the occupation of thought and of action which he had found for himself, had been sufficient to make the time pass not unpleasantly. His evening repast was now a decided improvement on that of the preceding day. First of all, he spread some clams in the hot ashes to roast; and then, taking the dipper which had been used for baling, he filled it with water, and placing this on the fire, it soon began to boil. Into this he thrust the smallest lobster, and watched it as the water bubbled around it, and its scaly covering turned slowly from its original dark hue to a bright red color. His success thus far stimulated him to make some attempts at actual cookery. Removing some of the lobster from its shell, he poured out most of the water from the pan, and into what remained he again put the lobster, cutting it up as fine as he could with his knife. Into this he crumbled some biscuit, and stirred it up all together. He then placed it over the fire till it was well baked. On removing it and tasting it, he found it most palatable. It was already sufficiently salt, and only needed a little pepper to make it quite equal to any scolloped lobster that he had ever tasted. His repast consisted of this, followed by the roast clams, which formed an agreeable variety. Tom now felt like a giant refreshed; and while sitting in front of the evening fire, he occupied his mind with plans for the morrow, which were all directed towards enlarging his supply of provisions. He awaked late on the next morning, and found the weather unchanged. He tried to quell his impatience and disappointment, and feeling that idleness would never do, he determined to go to work at once, and carry out the plans of the preceding day. It was now Thursday, the middle of the second week, and the fog had clung pertinaciously around him almost all that time. It was indeed disheartening, and idleness under such circumstances would have ended in misery and despair; but Tom's perseverance, and obstinate courage, and buoyant spirits enabled him still to rise above circumstances, and struggle with the gloom around him. "O, go on, go on," he muttered, looking around upon the fog. "Let's see who can stand it longest. And now for my foraging expedition." Making a hearty repast out of the remnants of the supper of the preceding evening, he went first to the shore, so as to complete his search there while the tide should be low. It was going down now, and the beach was all before him. He wandered on till he came to where there was an immense ledge of sharp rocks, that went from the foot of the precipice down into the bay. Over these he clambered, looking carefully around, until at last he reached the very lowest point. Here he soon found some articles of diet, which were quite as valuable in their way as the clams and lobsters. First of all, he found an immense quantity of large mussels. These were entangled among the thick masses of sea-weed. He knew that the flavor of mussels was much more delicate than that of clams or lobsters, and that by many connoisseurs these, when good and fresh, were ranked next to oysters. This discovery, therefore, gave him great joy, and he filled his pan, which he had carried down, and took them back to the shore. He also took an armful of sea-weed, and, reaching his camping-place, he threw the mussels in a hollow place in the sand, placing the sea-weed around them. In this way he knew that they would keep fresh and sweet for any reasonable length of time. Returning to the ledges of rock, he walked about among them, and found a number of pools, some of which were of considerable size. These had been left by the retreating water; and in these hollows he soon saw a number of small objects moving about. Some of them he caught without much difficulty, and saw that they were shrimps. He had hoped to find some of these, but the discovery came to him like some unexpected pleasure, and seemed more than he had any right to count on. Beside the shrimps his other discoveries seemed inferior. There was a large number, and they could be caught without much trouble. He soon filled his pan, and brought these also to his camping-place. These he deposited in a little pool, which was on the surface of some rocks that lay not far from the shore. Over these he also laid some sea-weed. The tide was now coming up, but Tom made a further journey to the beach, so as to secure something which he had noticed during his previous expedition. This was a marine plant called dulse, which, in these waters, grows very plentifully, and is gathered and dried by the people in large quantities. It was a substance of which Tom was very fond, and he determined to gather some, and dry it in the sun. Collecting an armful of this, he took it to the shore, and spread it out over the grass, though, in that damp and foggy atmosphere, there was not much prospect of its drying. It was now about three o'clock in the afternoon, and Tom's researches along the shore were successfully terminated. He had found all the different articles that he had thought of and his new acquisitions were now lying about him. These were,-- Clams, Lobsters, Mussels, Shrimps, Dulse. As he murmured to himself the list of things, he smiled triumphantly. But still there was work to be done. Tom intended to keep fashionable hours, and dine late, with only a lunch in the middle of the day. His explorations of the afternoon were to be important, and he hoped that they would be crowned with a portion of that success which had attended the work of the morning. He took, therefore, a hasty lunch of biscuit and cold lobster, washed down with water, and then set forth. This time he turned away from the shore, and went to the top of the island. He carried in his hand a bit of rope, about a dozen feet in length, and went along the edge of the cliff as far as he could, turning aside at times to avoid any clumps of trees or bushes that grew too thickly. In front of him the line of cliff extended for some distance, and he walked along, until, at last, he came to a place where the gulls flew about in larger flocks than usual, almost on a line with the top of the rock. He had not noticed them particularly on his former walk along here; but now he watched them very attentively, and finally stood still, so as to see their actions to better advantage. Tom, in fact, had made up his mind to procure some gulls' eggs, thinking that these would make an addition to his repast of great importance; and he now watched the motions of these birds, so as to detect the most accessible of their nests. He did not have to watch long. A little observation showed him a place, just under the cliff, not far away from him. Hastening forward, he bent over, and, looking down, he saw a large number of nests. They had been constructed on a shelf of rock immediately below the edge of the cliff, and the eggs were within easy reach. The gulls flew about wildly, as the intruder reached down his hands towards their nests, and screamed and shrieked, while some of them rushed towards him, within a few feet of his head, as though they would assail him and beat him off. But Tom's determination did not falter. He cared no more for the gulls than if they were so many pigeons, but secured as many eggs as he could carry. These he took with him back to his camp. But he was not yet satisfied. He was anxious to have some vegetables; and over the open ground, among the grass, he had seen plants which were very familiar to him. There were dandelions; and Tom saw in them something that seemed worth more than any of his other acquisitions. Going forth in search of these, he managed to get his pan full of them. These he washed, and after cutting off the roots, he put them in the pan with water, and then set them over the fire to boil. While they were boiling Tom went off once more, and found some wild strawberries. They were quite plentiful about here, and this was the season for them. He stripped a piece of bark from a birch tree, as the country people do, and formed from this a dish which would hold about a quart. This he filled after a moderate search. He took the strawberries to his camp, and then, going back to the woods, he procured some more birch bark, out of which he made a half dozen dishes. It was now about five o'clock, and Tom thought it was time for him to begin to cook his dinner. The dandelions were not quite cooked as yet; so Tom had to wait; but while doing so, he heated some stones in the fire. By the time they were heated, the dandelions were cooked; and Tom, removing the pan, put some shrimps and mussels in it, to boil over the fire. He then removed the stones, and placed one of the lobsters among them in such a way, that it was surrounded on every side in a hot oven. He then buried a few clams among the hot ashes, and did the same with three or four of the gulls' eggs. One of the hot stones was reserved for another purpose. It was the largest of them, and was red hot when he drew it from the fire, but soon cooled down enough to resume its natural color, although it retained an intense heat. Over this he spread some of the wet dulse, which soon crackled and shrivelled up, sending forth a rich and fragrant steam. In roasting this dulse, a large piece would shrink to very small proportions, so that half of Tom's armful, when thus roasted, was reduced to but a small handful. After finishing this, he drew the gulls' eggs from the fire, and taking off the shells, he cut them in slices, and put them with the dandelions. Then he took the shrimps and mussels from the fire, and removing them from the pan, he separated them, and put them into different bark dishes. The clams were next drawn forth, and though rather overdone, they were, nevertheless, of tempting appearance and appetizing odor. Finally, the lobster was removed, and Tom contented himself with one of the claws, which he placed on a dish, reserving the remainder for another time. And now the articles were all cooked, and Tom's repast was ready. He looked with a smile of gratification upon the various dishes which his ingenuity and industry had drawn forth from the rocks, and cliffs, and mud, and sand of a desert island, and wondered whether other islands, in tropical climates, could yield a more varied or more nutritious supply. He thought of other plants which might be found here, and determined to try some that seemed to be nutritious. Here is the repast which Tom, on that occasion, spread before himself:-- 1. Roast clams, 2. Baked lobster, 3. Boiled mussels, 4. Boiled shrimps, 5. Roast eggs, 6. Dandelions, 7. Dandelions with eggs, 8. Roast dulse, 9. Strawberries, 10. Pilot-bread. In one thing only did Tom fall short of his wishes, and that was in the way of drinks. But before that dinner was finished, even this was remedied; for necessity, the great mother of invention, instigated Tom to squeeze about half of his strawberries into a little water. Out of this he formed a drink with a flavor that seemed to him to be quite delicious. And that made what Tom called,-- 11. Strawberry cordial. XX. New Discoveries.--The Boat.--A great Swell.--Meditations and Plans.--A new, and wonderful, and before unheard-of Application of Spruce Gum.--I'm afloat! I'm afloat! Tom sat there over his banquet until late. He then went down to the beach, and brought up a vast collection of driftwood, and throwing a plenteous supply upon the fire, he lay down beside it, and looked out over the water, trying, as usual, to see something through the thick mist. The flames shot up with a crackle and a great blaze, and the bright light shone brilliantly upon the water. The tide was now up, and the boat was full before him. Tom fixed his eyes upon this boat, and was mournfully recalling his unsuccessful experiment at making her sea-worthy, and was waiting to see her sink down to her gunwales as she filled, when the thought occurred to him that she was not filling so rapidly as she might, but was floating much better than usual. A steady observation served to show him that this was no fancy, but an actual fact; and the confirmation of this first impression at once drove away all other thoughts, and brought back all the ideas of escape which he once had cherished. The boat was admitting the water, certainly, yet she certainly did not leak quite so badly as before, but was floating far better than she had done on the night of his trial. What was the meaning of this? Now, the fact is, he had not noticed the boat particularly during the last few days. He had given it up so completely, that it ceased to have any interest in his eyes. Raising his signal, building his house, and exploring the island had taken up all his thoughts. Latterly he had thought of nothing but his dinner. But now the change in the boat was unmistakable, and it seemed to him that the change might have been going on gradually all this time without his noticing it until it had become so marked. What was the cause of this change? That was the question which he now sought to answer. After some thought he found a satisfactory explanation. For a number of days the boat had been admitting the water till she was full. This water had remained in for an hour or more, and this process of filling and emptying had been repeated every tide. The atmosphere also had been wet, and the wood, thus saturated with water so frequently, had no chance of getting dry. Tom thought, therefore, that the wooden framework, which he had constructed so as to tighten the leak, had been gradually swelling from the action of the water; and the planks of the boat had been tightening their cracks from the same cause, so that now the opening was not nearly so bad as it had been. Thus the boat, which once had been able to float him for a quarter of an hour or more, ought now to be able to float him for at least double that time. Tom watched the boat very attentively while the tide was up; and, when at length it began to retreat, and leave it once more aground, he noticed that it was not more than half full of water. If any confirmation had been needed to the conclusions which he had drawn from seeing the improved buoyancy of the boat, it would have been afforded by this. Tom accepted this with delight, as an additional circumstance in his favor; and now, having become convinced of this much, he set his wits to work to see if some plan could not be hit upon by means of which the boat could once more be made sea-worthy. Tom's indefatigable perseverance must have been noticed by this time. To make the best of circumstances; to stand face to face with misfortune, and shrink not; to meet the worst with equanimity, and grasp eagerly at the slightest favorable change,--such was the character that Tom had shown during his experience of the past. Now, once more, he grasped at this slight circumstance that appeared to favor his hopes, and sought to find some way by which that half-floating boat could be made to float wholly, and bear him away to those shores that were so near by. Too long had he been submitting to this imprisonment; too long had he been waiting for schooners to pass and to bring him help; too long had he been shut in by a fog that seemed destined never to lift so long as he was here. If he could only form some kind of a boat that would float long enough to land him on the nearest coast, all that he wished would be gratified. As he thought over this subject, he saw plainly what he had felt very strongly before--that the boat could not be sea-worthy unless he had some tar with which to plaster over the broken bow, and fill in the gaping seams; but there was no tar. Still, did it follow that there was nothing else? Might not something be found upon the island which would serve the purpose of tar? There must be some such substance and perhaps it might be found here. Tom now thought over all the substances that he could bring before his mind. Would clay do? No; clay would not. Would putty? No, and besides, he could not get any. What, then, would serve this important purpose? Tar was produced from trees. Were there no trees here that produced some sticky and glutinous substance like tar? There was the resin of pine trees, but there were no pines on the island. What then? These fir trees had a sort of sticky, balsamic juice that exuded plentifully from them wherever they were cut. Might he not make some use of that? Suddenly, in the midst of reflections like these, he thought of the gum that is found on spruce trees--spruce gum! It was an idea that deserved to be followed up and carried out. Thus far he had never thought of spruce gum, except as something which he, like most boys, was fond of chewing; but now it appeared before his mind as affording a possible solution of his difficulty. The more he thought of it, the more did it seem that this would be adapted to his purpose. The only question was, whether he could obtain enough of it. He thought that he might easily obtain enough if he only took the proper time and care. With this new plan in his mind, Tom retired for the night, and awaked the next morning by the dawn of day. It was still foggy; but he was now so resigned, and was so full of his new plan, that it did not trouble him in the slightest degree. In fact, he was so anxious to try this, that the sight of a boat landing on the beach, all ready to take him off, would not have afforded him an unmixed satisfaction. He took his tin dipper, and went up at once into the woods. Here he looked around very carefully, and soon found what he wanted. He knew perfectly well, of course, how to distinguish spruce trees from fir, by the sharp, prickly spires of the former, and so he was never at a loss which trees to search. No sooner had he begun, than he was surprised at the quantities that he found. To an ordinary observer the trunk of the spruce tree seems like any other tree trunk--no rougher, and perhaps somewhat smoother than many; but Tom now found that on every tree almost there were little round excrescences, which, on being picked at with the knife, came off readily, and proved to be gum. Vast quantities of a substance which goes by the name of spruce gum are manufactured and sold; but the pure gum is a very different article, having a rich, balsamic odor, and a delicate yet delicious flavor; and Tom, as he filled his pan, and inhaled the fragrance that was emitted by its contents, lamented that his necessities compelled him to use it for such a purpose as that to which this was destined. After four or five hours' work, he found that he had gathered enough. He had filled his pan no less than six times, and had secured a supply which was amply sufficient to give a coating of thick gum over all the fractured place. The tide, which had already risen, was now falling, and, as soon as the boat was aground, and the water out of her, Tom proceeded to raise her bows, in precisely the same manner as he had raised the boat on a former occasion. The next thing was to bring the gum into a fit condition for use. This he did by kindling the fire, and melting it in his tin pan. This would rather interfere with the use of that article as a cooking utensil, but now that Tom's mind was full of this new purpose, cooking and things of that sort had lost all attractions for him. As for food, there was no fear about that. He had his biscuit, and the lobster and shell-fish which he had cooked on the preceding day were but partially consumed. Enough remained to supply many more meals. The gum soon melted, and then a brush was needed to apply it to the boat. This was procured by cutting off a little strip of canvas, about a yard long and six inches wide. By picking out some of the threads, and rolling it up, a very serviceable brush was formed. Taking the gum now in its melted state, Tom dipped his brush into it, and applied it all over the broken surface of the bow, pressing the hot liquid in close, and allowing it to harden in the cracks. His first coating of gum was very satisfactorily applied, and it seemed as though a few more coatings ought to secure the boat from the entrance of the water. The gum was tenacious, and its only bad quality was its brittleness; but, as it would not be exposed to the blows of any hard substances, it seemed quite able to serve Tom's wants. Tom now went down to the drift-wood and brought up a fresh supply of fuel, after which he melted a second panful of gum, and applied this to the boat. He endeavored to secure an entrance for it into all the cracks that did not seem to be sufficiently filled at the first application, and now had the satisfaction of seeing all of those deep marks filled up and effaced by the gum. One place still remained which had not yet been made secure against the entrance of the water, and that was where the planks gaped open from the blow that had crushed in the bows. Here the canvas that was inside protruded slightly. Torn ripped up some of the canvas that was on the tent, and taking the threads, stuffed them in the opening, mixing them with gum as he did so, until it was filled; and then over this he put a coating of the gum. After this another pan, and yet another, were melted, and the hot gum each time was applied. This gave the whole surface a smooth appearance, that promised to be impenetrable to the water. The gum which he had collected was enough to fill two more pans. This he melted as before, and applied to the bows. Each new application clung to the one that had preceded it, in a thick and quickly hardening layer, until at last, when the work was done, there appeared a coating of this gum formed from six successive layers, that was smooth, and hard, and without any crack whatever. It seemed absolutely water-tight; and Tom, as he looked at it now, could not imagine where the water could penetrate. Yet, in order to make assurance doubly sure, he collected two more panfuls, and melting this he applied it as before. After this was over, he made a torch of birch bark, and lighting this, he held the flame against the gum till the whole outer surface began to melt and run together. This served to secure any crevices that his brush might have passed by without properly filling. The work was now complete as far as Tom could do it; and on examining it, he regretted that he had not thought of this before. He felt an exultation that he had never known in his life. If he, by his own efforts, could thus rescue himself, what a cause it would be always after to struggle against misfortune, and rise superior to circumstances! As to the voyage, Tom's plan was the same that it had been on a former occasion. He would float the boat at high tide, and then push off, keeping her near the shore, yet afloat until ebb tide. Then, when the tide should turn, and the current run up the bay, he would put off, and float along with the stream until he reached land. According to his calculations it would be high tide about two hours after dark, which would be some time after ten. He would have to be up all night; for the tide would not turn until after four in the morning. But that did not trouble him. He would have too much on his mind to allow him to feel sleepy, and, besides, the hope which lay before him would prevent him from feeling fatigue. One thing more remained, and that was, to bring up a fresh supply of fuel. The night would be dark, and while floating in the boat, he would need the light of the fire. So he brought up from the beach an ample supply of drift-wood, and laid it with the rest. When Tom's work was ended, it was late in the day, and he determined to secure some sleep before he began his long night's work. He knew that he could waken at the right time; so he laid himself down in his tent, and soon slept the sleep of the weary. By ten o'clock he was awake. He found the water already up to the boat. There was no time to lose. He carried his box of biscuit on board, and filled his pan with water from the brook, so as to secure himself against thirst in case the boat should float away farther than he anticipated. Then he took his paddle, and got into the boat. The water came up higher. Most anxiously Tom watched it as it rose. The fire was burning low, and in order to make more light, Tom went ashore and heaped an immense quantity of wood upon it. The flames now blazed up bright, and on going back again to the boat, the water was plainly visible as it closed around the bows. Most anxiously he now awaited, with his eyes fastened upon the bottom of the boat. He had not brought the old sail this time, but left it over his tent, and he could see plainly. Higher came the water, and still higher, yet none came into the boat, and Tom could scarce believe in his good fortune. At last the boat floated! Yes, the crisis had come and passed, and the boat floated! There was now no longer any doubt. His work was successful; his deliverance was sure. The way over the waters was open. Farewell to his island prison! Welcome once more the great world! Welcome home, and friends, and happiness! In that moment of joy his heart seemed almost ready to burst. It was with difficulty that he calmed himself; and then, offering up a prayer of thanksgiving, he pushed off from the shore. The boat floated! The tide rose, and lingered, and fell. The boat floated still. There was not the slightest sign of a leak. Every hour, as it passed, served to give Tom a greater assurance that the boat was sea-worthy. He found no difficulty in keeping her afloat, even while retaining her near the shore, so that she might be out of the way of the currents. At length, when the tide was about half way down, he found the fire burning too low, and determined to go ashore and replenish it. A rock jutted above the water not far off. To this he secured the boat, and then landing, he walked up the beach. Reaching the fire, he threw upon it all the remaining wood. Returning then to the boat, he boarded her without difficulty. The tide fell lower and lower. And now Tom found it more and more difficult to keep the boat afloat, without allowing her to be caught by the current. He did not dare to keep her bows near the shore, but turned her about, so that her stem should rest from time to time on the gravel. At last the tide was so low that rocks appeared above the surface, and the boat occasionally struck them in a very unpleasant manner. To stay so near the shore any longer was not possible. A slight blow against a rock might rub off all the brittle gum, and then his chances would be destroyed. He determined to put out farther, and trust himself to Providence. Slowly and cautiously he let his boat move out into deeper water. But slowness and caution were of little avail. In the deeper water there was a strong current, which at once caught the boat and bore her along. Tom struggled bravely against it, but without avail. He thought for a moment of seeking the shore again, but the fear that the boat would be ruined deterred him. There was a little wind blowing from the southwest, and he determined to trust to the sail. He loosened this, and, sitting down, waited for further developments. The wind filled the sail, and the boat's progress was checked somewhat, yet still she drifted down the bay. She was drifting down past the north shore of the island. Tom could see, amid the gloom, the frowning cliffs as he drifted past. The firelight was lost to view; then he looked for some time upon the dark form of the island. At last even that was lost to view. He was drifting down the bay, and was already below Ile Haute. XXI. Scott's Bay and Old Bennie.--His two Theories.--Off to the desert Island.--Landing.--A Picnic Ground.--Gloom and Despair of the Explorers.--All over.--Sudden Summons. It was on Wednesday evening that the Antelope passed from the sunshine and beauty of Digby Basin out into the fog and darkness of the Bay of Fundy. The tide was falling, and, though the wind was in their favor, yet their progress was somewhat slow. But the fact that they were moving was of itself a consolation. In spite of Captain Corbet's declared preference for tides and anchors, and professed contempt for wind and sails, the boys looked upon these last as of chief importance, and preferred a slow progress with the wind to even a more rapid one by means of so unsatisfactory a method of travel as drifting. At about nine on the following morning, the Antelope reached a little place called Wilmot Landing, where they went on shore and made the usual inquiries with the usual result. Embarking again, they sailed on for the remainder of that day, and stopped at one or two places along the coast. On the next morning (Friday) they dropped anchor in front of Hall's Harbor--a little place whose name had become familiar to them during their memorable excursion to Blomidon. Here they met with the same discouraging answer to their question. "Wal," said Captain Corbet, "we don't seem to meet with much success to speak of--do we?" "No," said Bart, gloomily. "I suppose your pa'll be sendin schooners over this here same ground. 'Tain't no use, though." "Where shall we go next?" "Wal, we've ben over the hull bay mostly; but thar's one place, yet, an that we'll go to next." "What place is that?" "Scott's Bay. "My idee is this," continued Captain Corbet: "We'll finish our tower of inspection round the Bay of Fundy at Scott's Bay. Thar won't be nothin more to do; thar won't remain one single settlement but what we've called at, 'cept one or two triflin places of no 'count. So, after Scott's Bay, my idee is to go right straight off to old Minas. Who knows but what he's got on thar somewhar?" "I don't see much chance of that." "Why not?" "Because, if he had drifted into the Straits of Minas, he'd manage to get ashore." "I don't see that." "Why, it's so narrow." "Narrer? O, it's wider'n you think for; besides, ef he got stuck into the middle of that thar curn't, how's he to get to the shore? an him without any oars? Answer me that. No, sir; the boat that'll drift down Petticoat Jack into the bay, without gettin ashore, 'll drift up them straits into Minas jest the same." "Well, there does seem something in that. I didn't think of his drifting down the Petitcodiac." "Somethin? Bless your heart! ain't that everythin?" "But do you think there's really a chance yet?" "A chance? Course thar is. While thar's life thar's hope." "But how could he live so long?" "Why shouldn't he?" "He might starve." "Not he. Didn't he carry off my box o' biscuit?" "Think of this fog." "O, fog ain't much. It's snow an cold that tries a man. He's tough, too." "But he's been so exposed." "Exposed? What to? Not he. Didn't he go an carry off that ole sail?" "I cannot help thinking that it's all over with him?" "Don't give him up; keep up; cheer up. Think how we got hold of ole Solomon after givin him up. I tell you that thar was a good sign." "He's been gone too long. Why, it's going on a fortnight?" "Wal, what o' that ef he's goin to turn up all right in the end? I tell you he's somewhar. Ef he ain't in the Bay of Fundy, he may be driftin off the coast o' Maine, an picked up long ago, an on his way home now per steamer." Bart shook his head, and turned away in deep despondency, in which feeling all the other boys joined him. They had but little hope now. The time that had elapsed seemed to be too long, and their disappointments had been too many. The sadness which they had felt all along was now deeper than ever, and they looked forward without a ray of hope. On Friday evening they landed at Scott's Bay, and, as old Bennie Griggs's house was nearest, they went there. They found both the old people at home, and were received with an outburst of welcome. Captain Corbet was an old acquaintance, and made himself at home at once. Soon his errand was announced. Bennie had the usual answer, and that was, that nothing whatever had been heard of any drifting boat. But he listened with intense interest to Captain Corbet's story, and made him tell it over and over again, down to the smallest particular. He also questioned all the boys very closely. After the questioning was over, he sat in silence for a long time. At last he looked keenly at Captain Corbet. "He's not ben heard tell of for about twelve days?" "No." "An it's ben ony moderate weather?" "Ony moderate, but foggy." "O, of course. Wal, in my 'pinion, fust an foremust, he ain't likely to hev gone down." "That thar's jest what I say." "An he had them biscuit?" "Yes--a hull box." "An the sail for shelter?" "Yes." "Wal; it's queer. He can't hev got down by the State o' Maine; for, ef he'd got thar, he'd hev sent word home before this." "Course he would." Old Bennie thought over this for a long time again, and the boys watched him closely, as though some result of vital importance hung upon his final decision. "Wal," said Bennie at last, "s'posin that he's alive,--an it's very likely,--thar's ony two ways to account for his onnat'ral silence. Them air these:-- "Fust, he may hev got picked up by a timber ship, outward bound to the old country. In that case he may be carried the hull way acrost. I've knowed one or two sech cases, an hev heerd of severial more. "Second. He may hev drifted onto a oninhabited island." "An oninhabited island?" repeated Captain Corbet. "Yea." "Wal," said Captain Corbet; after a pause, "I've knowed things stranger than that." "So hev I." "Air thar any isle of the ocean in particular that you happen to hev in your mind's eye now?" "Thar air." "Which?" "Ile Haute." "Wal, now, railly, I declar--ef I wan't thinkin o' that very spot myself. An I war thinkin, as I war a comin up the bay, that that thar isle of the ocean was about the only spot belongin to this here bay that hadn't been heerd from. An it ain't onlikely that them shores could a tale onfold that mought astonish some on us. I shouldn't wonder a mite." "Nor me," said Bennie, gravely. "It's either a timber ship, or a desert island, as you say,--that's sartin," said Captain Corbet, after further thought, speaking with strong emphasis. "Thar ain't a mite o' doubt about it; an which o' them it is air a very even question. For my part, I'd as soon bet on one as t'other." "I've heerd tell o' several seafarin men that's got adrift, an lit on that thar isle," said Bennie, solemnly. "Wal, so hev I; an though our lad went all the way from Petticoat Jack, yet the currents in thar wandorins to an fro could effectooate that thar pooty mighty quick, an in the course of two or three days it could land him high an dry on them thar sequestrated shores." "Do you think there is any chance of it?" asked Bruce, eagerly, directing his question to Bennie. "Do I think? Why, sartin," said Bennie, regarding Bruce's anxious face with a calm smile. "Hain't I ben a expoundin to you the actool facts?" "Well, then," cried Bart, starting to his feet, "let's go at once." "Let's what?" asked Captain Corbet. "Why, hurry off at once, and get to him as soon as we can." "An pray, young sir, how could we get to him by leavin here jest now?" "Can't we go straight to Ile Haute?" "Scacely. The tide'll be agin us, an the wind too, till nigh eleven." Bart gave a deep sigh. "But don't be alarmed. We'll go thar next, an as soon as we can. You see we've got to go on into Minas Basin. Now we want to leave here so as to drop down with the tide, an then drop up with the flood tide into Minas Bay. I've about concluded to wait here till about three in the mornin. We'll drop down to the island in about a couple of hours, and'll hev time to run ashore, look round, and catch the flood tide." "Well, you know best," said Bart, sadly. "I think that's the only true an rational idee," said Bennie. "I do, railly; an meantime you can all get beds here with me, an you can hev a good bit o' sleep before startin." This conversation took place not long after their arrival. The company were sitting in the big old kitchen, and Mrs. Bennie was spreading her most generous repast on the table. After a bounteous supper the two old men talked over the situation until bedtime. They told many stories about drifting boats and rafts, compared notes about the direction of certain currents, and argued about the best course to pursue under certain very difficult circumstances, such, for example, as a thick snow-storm, midnight, a heavy sea, and a strong current setting upon a lee shore, the ship's anchor being broken also. It was generally considered that the situation was likely to be unpleasant. At ten o'clock Bennie hurried his guests to their beds, where they slept soundly in spite of their anxiety. Before three in the morning he awaked them, and they were soon ready to reembark. It was dim morning twilight as they bade adieu to their hospitable entertainers, and but little could be seen. Captain Corbet raised his head, and peered into the sky above, and sniffed the sea air. "Wal, railly," said he, "I do declar ef it don't railly seem as ef it railly is a change o' weather--it railly doos. Why, ain't this rich? We're ben favored at last. We're agoin to hev a clar day. Hooray!" The boys could not make out whether the captain's words were justified or not by the facts, but thought that they detected in the air rather the fragrance of the land than the savor of the salt sea. There was no wind, however, and they could not see far enough out on the water to know whether there was any fog or not. Bennie accompanied them to the boat, and urged them to come back if they found the boys and let him rest in Scott's Bay. But the fate of that boy was so uncertain, that they could not make any promise about it. It was a little after three when the Antelope weighed anchor, and dropped down the bay. There was no wind whatever. It was the tide only that carried them down to their destination. Soon it began to grow lighter, and by the time that they were half way, they saw before them the dark outline of the island, as it rose from the black water with its frowning cliffs. The boys looked at it in silence. It seemed, indeed, a hopeless place to search in for signs of poor Tom. How could he ever get ashore in such a place as this, so far out of the line of his drift; or if he had gone ashore there, how could he have lived till now? Such were the gloomy and despondent thoughts that filled the minds of all, as they saw the vessel drawing nearer and still nearer to those frowning cliffs. As they went on the wind grew stronger, and they found that it was their old friend--the sou-wester. The light increased, and they saw a fog cloud on the horizon, a little beyond Ile Haute. Captain Corbet would not acknowledge that he had been mistaken in his impressions about a change of weather, but assured the boys that this was only the last gasp of the sou-wester, and that a change was bound to take place before evening. But though the fog was visible below Ile Haute, it did not seem to come any nearer, and at length the schooner approached the island, and dropped anchor. It was about half past four in the morning, and the light of day was beginning to be diffused around, when they reached their destination. As it was low tide, they could not approach very near, but kept well off the precipitous shores on the south side of the island. In the course of her drift, while letting go the anchor, she went off to a point about half way down, opposite the shore. Scarce had her anchor touched bottom, than the impatient boys were all in the boat, calling on Captain Corbet to come along. The captain and Wade took the oars. It was a long pull to the shore, and, when they reached it, the tide was so low that there remained a long walk over the beach. They had landed about half way down the island, and, as they directed their steps to the open ground at the east end, they had a much greater distance to traverse than they had anticipated. As they walked on, they did not speak a word. But already they began to doubt whether there was any hope left. They had been bitterly disappointed as they came near and saw no sign of life. They had half expected to see some figure on the beach waiting to receive them. But there was no figure and no shout of joy. At length, as they drew nearer to the east end, and the light grew brighter, Bart, who was in advance, gave a shout. They all hurried forward. Bart was pointing towards something. It was a signal-staff, with something that looked like a flag hoisted half mast high. Every heart beat faster, and at once the wildest hopes arose. They hurried on over the rough beach as fast as possible. They clambered over rocks, and sea-weed, and drift-wood, and at length reached the bank. And still, as they drew nearer, the signal-staff rose before them, and the flag at half mast became more and more visible. Rushing up the bank towards this place, each trying to outstrip the others, they hurried forward, full of hope now that some signs of Tom might be here. At length they reached the place where Tom had been so long, and here their steps were arrested by the scene before them. On the point arose the signal-staff, with its heavy flag hanging down. The wind was now blowing, but it needed almost a gale to hold out that cumbrous canvas. Close by were the smouldering remains of what had been a huge fire, and all around this were chips and sticks. In the immediate neighborhood were some bark dishes, in some of which were shrimps and mussels. Clams and lobsters lay around, with shells of both. Not far off was a canvas tent, which looked singularly comfortable and cosy. Captain Corbet looked at all this, and shook his head. "Bad--bad--bad," he murmured, in a doleful tone. "My last hope, or, rayther, one of my last hopes, dies away inside of me. This is wuss than findin' a desert place." "Why? Hasn't he been here? He must have been here," cried Bart. "These are his marks. I dare say he's here now--perhaps asleep--in the camp. I'll go--" "Don't go--don't--you needn't," said Captain Corbet, with a groan. "You don't understand. It's ben no pore castaway that's come here--no pore driftin lad that fell upon these lone and desolate coasts. No--never did he set foot here. All this is not the work o' shipwracked people. It's some festive picnickers, engaged in whilin away a few pleasant summer days. All around you may perceive the signs of luxoorious feastin. Here you may see all the different kind o' shellfish that the sea produces. Yonder is a luxoorious camp. But don't mind what I say. Go an call the occoopant, an satisfy yourselves." Captain Corbet walked with the boys over to the tent. His words had thrown a fresh dejection over all. They felt the truth of what he said. These remains spoke not of shipwreck, but of pleasure, and of picnicking. It now only remained to rouse the slumbering owner of the tent, and put the usual questions. Bart was there first, and tapped at the post. No answer. He tapped again. Still there was no answer. He raised the canvas and looked in. He saw the mossy interior, but perceived that it was empty. All the others looked in. On learning this they turned away puzzled. "Wal, I thought so," said Captain Corbet. "They jest come an go as the fancy takes 'em. They're off on Cape d'Or to-day, an back here to-morrer." As he said this he seated himself near the tent, and the boys looked around with sad and sombre faces. It was now about half past five, and the day had dawned for some time. In the east the fog had lifted, and the sun was shining brightly. "I told you thar'd be a change, boys," said the captain. As he spoke there came a long succession of sharp, shrill blasts from the fog horn of the Antelope, which started every one, and made them run to the rising ground to find out the cause. XXII. Astounding Discovery.--The whole Party of Explorers overwhelmed.--Meeting with the Lost.--Captain Corbet improves the Occasion.--Conclusion. At the sound from the Antelope they had all started for the rising ground, to see what it might mean. None of them had any idea what might be the cause, but all of them felt startled and excited at hearing it under such peculiar circumstances. Nor was their excitement lessened by the sight that met their eyes as they reached the rising ground and looked towards the schooner. A change had taken place. When they had left, Solomon only had remained behind. But now there were two figures on the deck. One was amidships. The schooner was too far away for them to see distinctly, but this one was undoubtedly Solomon; yet his gestures were so extraordinary that it was difficult to identify him. He it was by whom the blasts on the fog horn were produced. Standing amidships, he held the fog horn in one hand, and in the other he held a battered old cap which supplied the place of the old straw hat lost at Quaco. After letting off a series of blasts from the horn, he brandished his cap wildly in the air, and then proceeded to dance a sort of complex double-shuffle, diversified by wild leaps in the air, and accompanied by brandishings of his hat and fresh blasts of the horn. But if Solomon's appearance was somewhat bewildering, still more so was that of the other one. This one stood astern. Suddenly as they looked they saw him hoist a flag, and, wonder of wonders, a black flag,--no other, in short, than the well-known flag of the "B. O. W. C." That flag had been mournfully lowered and put away on Tom's disappearance, but now it was hoisted once more; and as they looked, the new comer hoisted it and lowered it, causing it to rise and fall rapidly before their eyes. Nor did the wonder end here. They had taken away the only boat that the schooner possessed in order to come ashore, leaving Solomon alone. They had noticed no boat whatever as they rowed to land. But now they saw a boat floating astern of the Antelope, with a small and peculiarly shaped sail, that now was flapping in the breeze. Evidently this boat belonged to the new comer. But who was he? How had he come there? What was the meaning of those signals with that peculiar flag, and what could be the reason of Solomon's joy? They stood dumb with astonishment, confused, and almost afraid to think of the one cause that each one felt to be the real explanation of all this. Too long had they searched in vain for Tom,--too often had they sunk from hope to despair,--too confident and sanguine had they been; and now, at this unexpected sight, in spite of the assurance which it must have given them that this could be no other than Tom, they scarce dared to believe in such great happiness, and were afraid that even this might end in a disappointment like the others. But, though they stood motionless and mute, the two figures on board the Antelope were neither one nor the other. Solomon danced more and more madly, and brandished his arms more and more excitedly, and there came forth from his fog horn wilder and still wilder peals, and the flag rose and fell more and more quickly, until at last the spectators on the shore could resist no longer. "G-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-d ger-ra-a-a-cious!" This cry burst from Captain Corbet. It was enough. The spell was broken. A wild cry burst forth from the boys, and with loud, long shouts of joy they rushed down the bank, and over the beach, back to their boat. The captain was as quick as any of them. In his enthusiasm he forgot his rheumatism. There was a race, and though he was not even with Bruce and Bart, he kept ahead of Pat, and Arthur, and Phil, and old Wade. Hurrah! And hurrah again! Yes, and hurrah over and over; and many were the hurrahs that burst from them as they raced over the rocky beach. Then to tumble into the boat, one after another, to grasp the oars, to push her off, to head her for the schooner, and to dash through the water on their way back, was but the work of a few minutes. The row to the schooner was a tedious one to those impatient young hearts. But as they drew nearer, they feasted their eyes on the figure of the new comer, and the last particle of doubt and fear died away. First, they recognized the dress--the familiar red shirt. Tom had worn a coat and waistcoat ashore at Hillsborough on that eventful day; but on reaching the schooner, he had flung them off, and appeared now in the costume of the "B. O. W. C." This they recognized first, and then his face was revealed--a face that bore no particular indication of suffering or privation, which seemed certainly more sunburnt than formerly, but no thinner. Soon they reached the vessel, and clambered up; and then with what shouts and almost shrieks of joy they seized Tom! With what cries and cheers of delight they welcomed him back again, by turns overwhelming him with questions, and then pouring forth a torrent of description of their own long search! Captain Corbet stood a little aloof. His face was not so radiant as the faces of the boys. His features were twitching, and his hands were clasped tight behind his back. He stood leaning against the mainmast, his eyes fixed on Tom. It was thus that he stood when Tom caught sight of him, and rushed up to shake hands. Captain Corbet grasped Tom's hand in both of his. He trembled, and Tom felt that his hands were cold and clammy. "My dear boys," he faltered, "let us rejice--and--be glad--for this my son--that was dead--is alive agin--" A shudder passed through him, and he stopped, and pressed Tom's hand convulsively. Then he gave a great gasp, and, "Thar, thar," he murmured, "it's too much! I'm onmanned. I've suffered--an agonized--an this--air--too much!" And with these words he burst into tears. Then he dropped Tom's hand, and retreated into the cabin, where he remained for a long time, but at last reappeared, restored to calmness, and with a smile of sweet and inexpressible peace wreathing his venerable countenance. By this time the boys had told Tom all about their long search; and when Captain Corbet reappeared, Tom had completed the story of his adventures, and had just reached that part, in his wanderings, where he had left the island, and found himself drifting down the bay. As that was the point at which Tom was last lost sight of in these pages, his story may be given here in his own words. "Yes," said he, "you see I found myself drifting down. There was no help for it. The wind was slight, and the tide was strong. I was swept down into a fog bank, and lost sight of Ile Haute altogether. Well, it didn't matter very much, and I wasn't a bit anxious. I knew that the tide would turn soon, and then I'd come up, and fetch the land somewhere; so I waited patiently. At last, after about--well, nearly an hour, the tide must have turned, and I drifted back, and there was wind enough to give me quite a lift; and so all of a sudden I shot out of the fog, and saw Ile Haute before me. I was coming in such a way that my course lay on the south side of the island, and in a short time I came in sight of the schooner. I tell you what it is, I nearly went into fits--I knew her at once. A little farther on, and I saw you all cutting like mad over the beach to my camp. I was going to put after you at first; but the fact is, I hated the island so that I couldn't bear to touch it again, and so I concluded I'd go on board and signal. So I came up alongside, and got on board. Solomon was down below; so I just stepped forward, and put my head over the hatchway, and spoke to him. I declare I thought he'd explode. He didn't think I was a ghost at all. It wasn't fear, you know--it was nothing but delight, and all that sort of thing, you know. Well, you know, then we went to work signaling to you, and he took the fog horn, and I went to the flag, and so it was." "I don't know how we happened not to see your boat," said Bruce. "O, that's easy enough to account for," said Tom. "I was hid by the east point of the island. I didn't see the schooner till I got round, and you must have been just getting ashore at that time." During all this time Solomon had been wandering about in a mysterious manner; now diving below into the hold, and rattling the pots and pans; again emerging upon deck, and standing to listen to Tom and look at him. His face shone like a polished boot; there was a grin on his face that showed every tooth in his head, and his little twinkling black beads of eyes shone, and sparkled, and rolled about till the winking black pupils were eclipsed by the whites. At times he would stand still, and whisper solemnly and mysteriously to himself, and then, without a moment's warning, he would bring his hands down on his thighs, and burst into a loud, long, obstreperous, and deafening peal of uncontrollable laughter. "Solomon," said Tom, at last, "Solomon, my son, won't you burst if you go on so? I'm afraid you may." At this Solomon went off again, and dived into the hold. But in a minute or two he was back again, and giggling, and glancing, and whispering to himself, as before. Solomon and Captain Corbet thus had each a different way of exhibiting the same emotion, for the feeling that was thus variously displayed was nothing but the purest and most unfeigned joy. "See yah, Mas'r Tom--and chil'n all," said Solomon, at last. "Ise gwine to pose dat we all go an tend to sometin ob de fust portance. Hyah's Mas'r Tom habn't had notin to eat more'n a mont; an hyah's de res ob de blubbed breddern ob de Bee see double what been a fastin since dey riz at free clock dis shinin and spicious morn. Dis yah's great an shinin casium, an should be honnad by great and strorny stivities. Now, dar ain't no stivity dat can begin to hole a can'l to a good dinna, or suppa, or sometin in de eatin line. So Ise gwine to pose to honna de cobbery ob de Probable Son by a rale ole-fashioned, stunnin breakfuss. Don't be fraid dar'll be any ficiency hyah. I got tings aboard dat I ben a savin for dis spicious an lightful cobbery. Ben no eatin in dis vessel ebber sence de loss chile took his parter an drifted off. Couldn't get no pusson to tetch nuffin. Got 'em all now; an so, blubbed breddern, let's sem'l once more, an ole Solomon'll now ficiate in de pressive pacity ob Gran Pandledrum. An I pose dat we rect a tent on de sho oh dis yah island, and hab de banket come off in fust chop style." "The island!" cried Tom, in horror. "What! the island? Breakfast on the island? What a horrible proposal! Look here, captain. Can't we get away from this?" "Get away from this?" repeated the captain, in mild surprise. "Yes," said Tom. "You see, the fact is, when a fellow's gone through what I have, he isn't over fond of the place where he's had that to go through. And so this island is a horrible place to me, and I can't feel comfortable till I get away out of sight of it. Breakfast! Why, the very thought of eating is abominable as long as that island is in sight." "Wal, railly, now," said Captain Corbet, "I shouldn't wonder if thar was a good deal in that, though I didn't think of it afore. Course it's natral you shouldn't be over fond of sech, when you've had sech an oncommon tough time. An now, bein' as thar's no uthly occasion for the Antelope to be a lingerin' round this here isle of the ocean, I muve that we histe anchor an resume our vyge. It's nigh onto a fortnight sence we fust started for Petticoat Jack, and sence that time we've had rare and strikin vycissitoods. It may jest happen that some on ye may be tired of the briny deep, an may wish no more to see the billers bound and scatter their foamin spray; some on ye likewise may be out o' sperrits about the fog. In sech a case, all I got to say is, that this here schooner'll be very happy to land you at the nighest port, Scott's Bay, frincense, from which you may work your way by land to your desired haven. Sorry would I be to part with ye, specially in this here moment of jy; but ef ye've got tired of the Antelope, tain't no more'n's natral. Wal, now,--what d'ye say--shall we go up to Scott's Bay, or will ye contenoo on to Petticoat Jack, an accomplitch the riginal vyge as per charter party?" The boys said nothing, but looked at Tom as though referring the question to him. "As far as I am concerned," said Tom, who noticed this reference to him, "it's a matter of indifference where we go, so long as we go out of sight of this island. If the rest prefer landing at Scott's Bay, I'm agreed; at the same time, I'd just as soon go on to Petitcodiac." "An what do the rest o' ye say?" asked the captain, somewhat anxiously. "For my part," said Bruce, "I think it's about the best thing we can do." The others all expressed similar sentiments, and Captain Corbet listened to this with evident delight. "All right," said he, "and hooray! Solomon, my aged friend, we will have our breakfast on board, as we glide past them thar historic shores. Pile on what you have, and make haste." In a few minutes more the anchor was up, and the Antelope was under way. In about half an hour Solomon summoned them below, where he laid before them a breakfast that cast into the shade Tom's most elaborate meal on the island. With appetites that seemed to have been growing during the whole period of Tom's absence, the joyous company sat down to that repast, while Solomon moved around, his eyes glistening, his face shining, his teeth grinning, and his hips moving, as, after his fashion, he whispered little Solomonian pleasantries to his own affectionate heart. At this repast the boys began a fresh series of questions, and drew from Tom a full, complete, and exhaustive history of his island life, more particularly with regard to his experience in house-building, and housekeeping; and with each one, without exception, it was a matter of sincere regret that it had not been his lot to be Tom's companion in the boat and on the island. After breakfast they came up on deck. The wind had at length changed, as Captain Corbet had prophesied in the morning, and the sky overhead was clear. Down the bay still might be seen the fog banks, but near at hand all was bright. Behind them Ile Haute was already at a respectful distance, and Cape Chignecto was near. "My Christian friends," said Captain Corbet, solemnly,--"my Christian friends, an dear boys. Agin we resoom the thread of our eventfool vyge, that was brok of a suddent in so onparld a manner. Agin we gullide o'er the foamin biller like a arrer shot from a cross-bow, an culleave the briny main. We have lived, an we have suffered, but now our sufferins seem to be over. At last we have a fair wind, with a tide to favor us, an we'll be off Hillsborough before daybreak to-morrer. An now I ask you all, young sirs, do you feel any regretses over the eventfool past? I answer, no. An wan't I right? Didn't I say that that thar lad would onst more show his shinin face amongst us, right side up, with care, in good order an condition, as when shipped on board the Antelope, Corbet master, from Grand Pre, an bound for Petticoat Jack? Methinks I did. Hence the vally of a lofty sperrit in the face of difficulties. An now, young sirs, in after life take warnin by this here vyge. Never say die. Don't give up the ship. No surrender. England expects every man to do his dooty. For him that rises superior to succumstances is terewly great; an by presarvin a magnanumous mind you'll be able to hold up your heads and smile amid the kerrash of misfortin. Now look at me. I affum, solemn, that all the sufferins I've suffered have ben for my good; an so this here vyge has eventooated one of the luckiest vyges that you've ever had. An thus," he concluded, stretching out his venerable hands with the air of one giving a benediction,--"thus may it be with the vyge of life. May all its storms end in calms, an funnish matter in the footoor for balmy rettuspect. Amen!" It was a close approach to a sermon; and though the words were a little incoherent, yet the tone was solemn, and the intention good. After this the captain dropped the lofty part of a Mentor, and mingled with the boys as an equal. This time the voyage passed without any accident. Before daybreak on the following morning they reached Hillsborough, where Mrs. Watson received them with the utmost joy. In a few days more the boys had scattered, and Bart arrived home with the story of Tom's rescue. 
36089	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 36089-h.htm or 36089-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36089/36089-h/36089-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36089/36089-h.zip) [Illustration: Zebedee lost his balance and shot over our heads into the soft snow.--_Page 190_] BACK AT SCHOOL WITH THE TUCKER TWINS by NELL SPEED Author of "The Molly Brown Series," "The Carter Girls Series," etc. [Illustration] A. L. Burt Company Publishers New York Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1917, by Hurst & Company, Inc. Made in U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE GET AWAY 5 II. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY 18 III. GRESHAM AGAIN 27 IV. RULES AND RESULTS 41 V. SOME LETTERS 52 VI. THE HALLOWE'EN PARTY 64 VII. WHEN GHOST MEETS GHOST 83 VIII. INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE 97 IX. ECCLESIASTICAL POWER 110 X. VIRGINIA VERSUS CAROLINA 119 XI. THANKSGIVING DINNER 136 XII. THE BALL 148 XIII. NODS AND BECKS 159 XIV. HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS 184 XV. CHRISTMAS GUESTS 199 XVI. CHRISTMAS EVE AT BRACKEN 211 XVII. SANTA CLAUS 220 XVIII. CHRISTMAS FOR SALLY WINN 237 XIX. BACK IN THE TREAD-MILL 255 XX. THE FIRE DRILL 265 XXI. THE REALITY 281 XXII. IN MOTLEY RAIMENT 300 Back at School with the Tucker Twins. CHAPTER I. THE GETAWAY. Could it be possible that only one year had passed since I started to boarding school? So much had happened in that time, I had met so many persons, made so many friends, and my horizon had broadened so that it seemed more like ten years. There I was once more on the train headed for Richmond, having arisen at the unearthly hour of five. Dear old Mammy Susan had as usual warmed up my bath water and prepared a bountiful breakfast. Father had been unable to accompany me to Richmond to put me on the Gresham train as we had planned, all because poor Sally Winn had made a desperate effort to depart this life in the night. It was all so exactly as it had been the year before, I had to pinch myself to realize it was not just a dream of what had happened. My new mail order suit was a little different cut from the last year's, as Cousin Sue Lee, in planning my wardrobe, insisted upon up-to-date style, and my suit case did not look so shiny new. That was about the only difference that I could see. The colt had had a year to settle down in, but he was quite as lively as ever. My last hug with Mammy Susan was cut short by his refusing to stand still another minute, and as I piled into the buggy with Father, the spirited horse whirled us around on one wheel and we covered the six miles to Milton in such a short time that I had half an hour to wait for my train. Sitting in the station at Richmond awaiting the arrival of my dear Tuckers and Annie Pore, I thought that if the first part of my journey had been a repetition of last year, now, at least, some variation was in order. Here I was waiting for friends I had already made, instead of wondering if I should meet any one on the train going to Gresham. Annie Pore came first, her boat, from Price's Landing, having arrived early. Could this be the same Annie? This young lady had a suit on rather too much like mine for my taste, as I simply hate to look like everybody else! But a mail order house does not profess to sell only one of a kind, and I myself had introduced Annie to the mysteries of ordering by catalogue, so I really had no kick coming; but I couldn't help wishing that our tastes and pocketbooks had not coincided so exactly. When I thought of the Annie of last September and the Annie of this, I hated myself for caring. My mind still retained the picture of the forlorn little English girl with her tear-stained face and crumpled hat, her ill-fitting clothes and bulging telescope. Now she looked like other girls, except that she was a great deal more beautiful. In place of the battered old telescope, she carried a brand new suit case; and a neat little hand bag held her ticket and trunk check, also a reservation in the parlor car. She was still timid but when she spied me a look of intense joy and relief came over her face, and in a moment we were locked in each other's arms. How school girls can hug! "Oh, Page, I'm glad to see you! I had a terrible feeling I had missed my train, but of course if you are here, I couldn't have." "Still the anxious traveler, aren't you, dear? We've at least twenty minutes." "Harvie Price was to meet me at the boat landing and bring me up here, but I was afraid to wait for him. He believes in just catching a train and it makes me extremely nervous not to be ahead of time. I am afraid he will think it very rude of me." "Maybe it will teach him a lesson and he will learn from the early bird how better to conduct himself," I comforted her. "Now the Tuckers say it is much better to have a train wait for you than wait for a train.--Speaking of angels,--here they are!" In they trooped, Mr. Tucker laden with suit cases and umbrellas, and Dum carrying gingerly in both hands a box about a foot square which contained something very precious, it was evident, as she most carefully deposited it on a bench before she gave me her accustomed bear hug. Dee had Brindle, her beloved bull dog, in her arms and she dispensed with the ceremony of putting him down before she embraced Annie and me, so we both got a good licking in the left ear from that affectionate canine. "Zebedee is mad with me for bringing him, as it means he will have to keep him in the newspaper office until luncheon time, but somehow I could not part with him before it was absolutely necessary. It hurt his feelings terribly when I went last year and did not let him see me off," and Dee wept a little Tucker tear on the wrinkled and rolling neck of her dog. To one who did not know Brindle, he seemed to be choking with emotion, but Brindle's make-up was such that every intaken breath was a sniffle and every outgoing one a snort. Mr. Tucker's handsome and speaking countenance beamed with delight as he waited his turn to give Annie and me the warm handshake that was as much a part of the Tuckers as anything else about that delightful trio. "What a place this station would be to have the Lobster Quadrille!" he exclaimed. "I am so glad to see you, little Page, and you, Miss Annie, that I feel as though I must dance, but that might get us in bad with that dignified-looking porter over there and so maybe we had better refrain--Besides, I could not dance on this day when my Tweedles are leaving me," and instead of dancing as he had threatened, this youngest of all the Tuckers, in spite of being the parent, began to show decided signs of shedding tears. "Now, Zebedee, this is ridiculous! You act worse than you did last year," admonished Dum. "Well, it is worse than it was last year," and Zebedee drew his girls to him while Brindle choked and chortled and tried to lick all three of them at once. "You see, last year we did not know just how bad it would be, and this year we know." "That's so!" tweedled the twins. "If you could only go with us to Gresham, it wouldn't be so bad." "If we had just been triplets instead of twins and a father!" said Zebedee, and then we all of us laughed. Just then Harvie Price arrived in a state of breathless excitement, having missed Annie at the pier and, aware of her timidity, fearing something dire had befallen her. Harvie had a great tenderness for his one-time playmate and usually assumed the big brother air with her, but the large box of candy he produced for the journey, and which he handed to her with very much a "Sweets to the sweet" expression, was not so very big brotherish to my way of thinking. Brothers have to be very big brothers indeed and sisters very little sisters for the former to remember that the latter might be pleased by some little attention in the way of candy on a trip. I don't mean to criticise brothers, as I'd rather have one than anything in all the world. I'd excuse him from all gallant attentions if he would only just exist. "If you had not brought Brindle, I believe I would go half way with you girls, and come back on the train we strike at the Junction," said Zebedee. "If you go, I will, too," chimed in Harvie. "Now, Virginia Tucker! Just see what you have done! You put that dog before your own flesh and blood!" exclaimed Dum. "No such thing! He is my own flesh and blood, Caroline Tucker," and Dee held the ugly bull dog close in her arms. "Tut! Tut! Don't have a row for Heaven's sake," begged their father. When Dum and Dee Tucker called one another by their Christian names, no one knew so well as their devoted parent how close they were to a breach that could only be healed by _trial de combat_. It was almost as serious a state of affairs as when they addressed him as Father or Mr. Tucker. "Do you know, I believe with a little strategy we can take Brindle, too, and not in the baggage car either. I know how he hates that." "Oh, Zebedee, how? Dum, I'm sorry I called you Caroline," and Dee gave her twin an affectionate pat. "Forget it! Forget it! Besides, I called you Virginia first." "Well, stop making up now. Sometimes you Tweedles make up with more racket than you do fighting it out. Now listen! We can dress Brindle up like a baby if you girls can dive in your grips for suitable apparel--anything white and fluffy will do. Take off that veil you've got twisted 'round your neck, Dum, and here is a cap all ready for baby," and he fashioned a wonderful little Dutch cap out of his large linen handkerchief and tied it under the unresisting and flabby chin of Brindle. We were so convulsed we could hardly contain our merriment, but contain it we were forced to do, because of the exceedingly dignified and easily shocked porter who stood at the door of the elevator like a uniformed bronze statue. "Gather 'round me, girls," begged Dee, "so we can have a suitable dressing room for Brindle. He is very modest." Brindle was so accustomed to being dressed up by Dee, who had played with him as though he were a doll ever since he had been a tiny soft puppy, that he submitted with great docility to the rôle he was forced to play. We all wanted Zebedee and Harvie to go with us to the Junction if it could be managed, but the cast-iron rules of the railroads forbade the carrying of dogs into the coaches. Brindle was there and there was nothing to do with him but take him, and take him we did. Annie had a short petticoat made of soft sheer material with lace whipped on the bottom and little hand tucks and hemstitching. This she took out of her new suitcase, proud to be the one to have the proper dress for baby. Dee tied the skirt around Brindle's neck and pulled it down over his passive legs. "Yes, my baby has never worn anything but handmade clothes," said Dee with all the airs of a young mother. Then Dum's automobile veil, the pride of her heart because of its wonderful blue colour, covered the sniffling, snuffling nose of our baby. The transformation was completed just as our train was called, and with preternaturally solemn countenances we trooped through the gate, the handmade dress of the baby hanging over Dee's arm in a most life-like manner. The man who punched the tickets at the gate looked rather earnestly at the very young girl with the rather large bunchy baby, and of course just as Dee passed him, Brindle had to let forth one of his especially loud snorts. Dee turned pale but Zebedee came to the rescue with: "My dear, I am afraid poor little Jo Jo has taken an awful cold. I have some sweet spirits of nitre in my case which I will administer as soon as we are settled in the Pullman." Dee looked gratefully at her thoughtful father and whispered: "Gather around me closely, girls." We gathered, while Harvie and Zebedee brought up the rear. We passed the solicitous Pullman porter, who even offered to take the baby, and we sank finally into our seats in a state of collapse. I had long ago found out that she who followed the Tuckers, father and daughters, would get into more or less scrapes; but she would have a mighty good time doing it and would always get out with no loss of life or honour. "Zebedee!" gasped Dee. "Why did you call Brindle, Jo Jo?" "Why, Jo Jo, the dog-faced boy! He was one of the marvels of my youth. No side show was complete without him. If the worst comes to the worst we can be a freak show traveling West, on our way to the fair in Kalamazoo." "What will you be?" I laughed. "Oh, I'll be 'Eat-'em-alive' and Miss Annie will have to be the lion tamer. They are always beautiful blondes. Dum and Dee of course will be the Siamese Twins disconnected for the convenience of travel." "And me--what will I be?" "Oh, you will have to be the little white rabbit I'm going to eat alive," and he made a horribly big mouth that I know would have made poor Jo Jo bark if he could have seen it through his thick blue veil, but the conductor appeared at this crucial moment and Zebedee had to sit up and behave. CHAPTER II. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. "Tickets, please!" this from the Pullman conductor, a tall, soldierly looking person with a very grim mouth. He punched all of us in sober silence. Harvie and Zebedee had not had time to buy Pullman seats, as they had been so taken up with the robing of Brindle. At the last minute Harvie had rushed to the ticket window and secured their tickets but they had to pay for their seats on the train. In making the change the conductor dropped some silver, and in stooping for it he and Zebedee bumped heads. Then the official was thrown by a lurching of the train against our precious baby's feet. This was too much for the patient Brindle and he emitted a low and ominous growl. The conductor looked much startled. We sat electrified. The ever tactful Dee arose to the occasion. "Why, honey, Mother didn't tell you to go like a bow wow. I thought my precious was asleep." Turning to the mystified conductor she continued, "He has so many cunning little tricks and we never know when he is going to get them off. He can go moo like a cow, and mew like a kitty, and can grunt just like a piggy wiggy," and what should that dog, with human intelligence, do but give a most astounding lifelike grunt. The conductor's grim mouth broke into a grin and we went off into such shouts of laughter that if Brindle had not been a very well-behaved person he would certainly have barked with us. Zebedee followed the man to the end of the car and with the aid of one of his very good and ever ready cigars, and a little extra payment of fare, persuaded him to let our whole crowd move into the drawing-room, explaining that we were to lunch on the train. When we were once settled in the drawing-room with a little table ready for the spread to which all of us were prepared to contribute (remembering from the year before the meagre bill of fare the buffet on that train offered), Dum disclosed the contents of the precious big box which she carried. It was a wonderful Lady Baltimore cake. A single pink candle was tucked in the side of the box and this was stuck in the centre of the delectable confection. "Whose birthday is it? I didn't know it was anybody's," I said. "Why, this is the birthday of our friendship, yours and Annie's and the Tuckers'," tweedled the twins. "We felt like commemorating it somehow," explained Zebedee. "You see, it is one of the best things that ever happened to us." "Me, too!" chimed in Annie and I. And so it was. When, the year before, Annie and I had been sitting in the station waiting for the train to Gresham, Annie was as forlorn a specimen of little English girl as could be found in America, I am sure; and while I was not forlorn, just because I never am forlorn as my interest in people is so intense that I am always sure something exciting is going to happen in a moment, no doubt I looked almost as forlorn as Annie, alone and friendless. The Tuckers, ever charming and delightful, came bounding into our presence, and they have been doing it ever since. They always come with some scheme for fun and frolic and their ever ready wit and good humour has an effect on all with whom they come in contact. Annie was certainly made over by a year's friendship with them. Some of the teachers at Gresham thought I had worked the change in Annie, but I just know it was the twins. As for Mr. Tucker--Zebedee--he was next to my father in my regard, and so different from my father that they could go along abreast without taking from each other. There was never such a man as Mr. Tucker. Thirty-seven himself and the father of twins of sixteen, he seemed to have bathed in the fountain of eternal youth,--and yet I have seen him, when occasion demanded it, assume the dignity of a George Washington. Occasion did not demand it at that birthday party and so he "frisked and he frolicked" very like the little rabs in the Uncle Remus story. One could never tell where he would be next. I knew a great deal of his glee was assumed to keep up the spirits of his dear Tweedles as the time for the arrival at the fateful junction was slowly but surely approaching. It was very early for luncheon but have it we must before Harvie and Zebedee left us. Mammy Susan had as usual put up enough food for a regiment in my lunch box. But enough food for a regiment seems to vanish before a mere squad if it happens to be as good food as my dear old Mammy Susan was sure to provide. What fun we had! The little table groaned with good things to eat. Even the baby's blue veil was carefully removed and he was allowed a large slice of Lady Baltimore, which he gobbled up in most unseemly haste. The little pink candle burned merrily and the toasts were most sincere: that there would be many, many happy returns of the day, as many, in fact, as there were to be days. Our friendship, now only a year old, was to live as long as we did, and we determined then and there to celebrate every year that we could. September fifteenth was to be a red letter day with us wherever we might be. The Junction was imminent and it meant telling good-bye to Zebedee, Harvie and Brindle. Dum grumbled a little about the loss of her veil but Brindle had to make his return trip in the same rôle of baby, and Annie's petticoat and Dum's veil had to be sacrificed. Zebedee promised to return them in short order. The pain of parting was much lessened by the amusement caused by the appearance of man and baby. He held the infant with great and loving care and Brindle chortled and gurgled with satisfaction. The Pullman conductor said nothing as Zebedee disembarked but his eyes had an unwonted twinkle and his grim mouth was twitching at the corners. I believe he knew all the time but could not bear to break up our pleasant party by consigning Brindle to the baggage car. The train conductor was in a broad grin and the porter looked dazed. "Is you partin' from yo' baby, lady?" he said to Dee. "Yes!" wept Dee with real Tucker tears, "he has to go back with his grandfather." "Grandpaw? That there ain't no grandpaw, that young gent." "Yes, he is," sobbed Dee. "He is just as much Jo Jo's grandfather as I am his mother, and I am certainly all the mother he has, poor lamb," and the kindly coloured man looked very sorry for the grieving young mother. "Is you fo'ced by circumstantials over which you ain't got controlment to abandon yo' offspring?" he questioned. "Yes," blundered Dee, something rare with her, "I have to go to boarding school and they don't allow do----babies there." "Well, well, too bad! Too bad! It pears like a pity you couldn't a got studyin' off'n yo mind befo' you indulged in matrimonial venturesomes. When a young lady gits married, she--" "Oh, I'm not married!" The porter's eyes turned white, he rolled them up so far. Dee saw her break and hastened to her own rescue. The rest of us were petrified with suppressed merriment. "That is, I'm not to say much married; you see, my husband is dead." "Oh! Sorrow is indeed visited you early. But grieve not. One so young as you is kin git many husbands, perhaps, befo' the day of recognition arrives." We were glad when his duties called him off because the laugh in us was obliged to come out. Our train backed up to get on the other track and the last we saw of Zebedee and Harvie they were standing in dejected attitudes, Zebedee grasping a squirming Brindle firmly in his arms while Harvie, acting as train-bearer, gracefully held aloft the trailing petticoat. Brindle had espied through the blue veil a possible canine acquaintance and was struggling with all his might to get down and make either a friend or enemy as the case might prove. Dee simply had to stop crying; in fact, she had stopped long before she felt that she should. She was forced to squeeze tears out to keep up the deception she had begun. "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive." "You came mighty near making yourself your own grandmother, you got so mixed up," laughed Dum. "Brindle is so pedigreed I don't believe he would thank you for the bar sinister you put on him." CHAPTER III. GRESHAM AGAIN. How strange it was to be back at school and to belong there, greeting old girls and being greeted as an old girl! We piled into the same bus, this time not getting separated as we had the first year, and who should be there saving seats for us but dear old Mary Flannagan, her head redder than ever and her good, fine face beaming with joy at our appearance. Our bus filled up with Juniors, all of us happy and gay and glad to see one another. Miss Sayre, a pupil teacher of last year and a full teacher for the present, got in with us. She was very popular with our class and not very much older than we were, so we talked before her without the least restraint. "I'm glad to see you, Page," she said, finding a place between Mary and me that Mary's bunchy skirt had successfully filled before. "You girls look so well and rosy I know you have had a good summer." "Splendid!" I exclaimed. "You know Tweedles had a house party down at Willoughby, and there was a boys' camp near us, and the fun we had with them! I never had such a good time in my life!" "Guess who came on the train with me!" broke in Mary. "Shorty Hawkins! He said----" "Well, who do you think came down to see us off and brought Annie a big box of candy and rode as far as the Junction and went back with Zebedee? Harvie Price, and he said----" But Dum interrupted Dee to inform the crowd that Stephen White, Wink, had taken them to the Lyric on his way to the University when he had come through Richmond. Before she could tell us what he said, which she was clamoring to do, Annie Pore spoke up to say that Harvie Price was going to the University to-morrow. What he said about going was cut short by Mary Flannagan who blurted out: "Shorty says that he hears that George Massie is so stuck on Annie that he is getting thin--He has waked up and has fallen off a whole pound." George Massie's nickname was Sleepy and he weighed about two hundred, so this set us off into peals of laughter. "Rags wrote me that Sleepy was drinking no water with his meals and eating no potatoes, trying to fall off," I ventured when I could get a word in edgewise. "I can't fancy Sleepy thin, but I think he is just as sweet as he can be, fat or thin." I caught a very amused look on Margaret Sayre's face. "What is it?" I asked. "Oh, nothing! I can't help wondering where the Sophomores go and the Juniors come from. You are the same girls who a year ago said you would bite out your tongues before you would spend your time talking about boys all the time, and since we got in the bus there has not been one word about anything but boys, boys, boys." "Oh, Miss Sayre, how silly you must think we are!" I whispered. "Not a bit of it! I just had to tease you a little. It is a phase girls usually go through and I knew it would hit you and your friends this year. If it doesn't hit you too hard it does not hurt you at all, just so none of you gets beau-crazy." "Well, I hope to gracious we will have too much sense for that," and I quietly determined to put a bridle on my tongue when boys were the subject of conversation. Here I was acting like a crazy Junior, that from the Sophomore standpoint of the year before I had so heartily condemned. I remembered the pranks of the class ahead of us and was amazed when a bus filled with rather sober girls came abreast of us and I recognized in them last year's Juniors, this year's Seniors. They were so much quieter and more dignified than the rollicking busload of which I made one. "Do you know Miss Peyton is ill and may have to take the whole year to get well?" asked Miss Sayre. "Oh, oh! How sorry we are!" came from the whole load of girls. Miss Peyton, the principal of Gresham, was much beloved by all the pupils. She was a person of infinite tact and charm and her understanding of the genus, girl, was little short of uncanny. "Who on earth is to take her place at Gresham?" I asked. "One of the teachers?" "There was no teacher to call on to fill the place, now that Miss Cox is married, so a principal from North Carolina has been engaged. She is a B.A., an M.A., a Ph. D., and every other combination of letters in the alphabet, from big Eastern colleges. I hope we will all pull together as we have under Miss Peyton's kindly hand. Her name is Miss Plympton. I have not met her yet," and Margaret Sayre looked very sad. She had been under Miss Peyton for many years, as a pupil first, then a pupil teacher and now she had hoped to have her first year of real teaching under the careful and understanding guidance of her beloved friend. All of us felt depressed, but it takes nothing short of an overwhelming calamity to keep down the spirits of girls of sixteen for any length of time. By the time our straining horses had pulled their load up to the top of Gresham hill we were bubbling over again, and I must say that now my attention had been called to it, there were certainly a great many "he saids" and "I told hims" to be distinguished in the hubbub. Miss Sayre and I stopped a minute before going into the building to look at the mountains. They were out in full force to greet us. Sometimes mountains behave so badly; just when you need them most they disappear and will not show their countenances for days and days. Gresham was looking very lovely, and in spite of the little empty feeling I always had about being away from Father and my beloved home, Bracken, I was glad to be there. It meant seeing my old friends and, no doubt, making many more new ones, and making friends was still the uppermost desire of my heart. "117 Carter Hall is still ours, so let's go up and shed our wraps and leave our grips and come down later to see the new principal," and Dum hooked her arm in one of mine and Dee took possession of my other side. "Annie and Mary Flannagan are to be right next to us. Isn't that great? I feel terribly larky, somehow. I reckon it's being a Junior that is getting in on me," and Dum let out a "Junior! Junior! Rah! Rah! Rah!" 117 was as bare as it had been when first we took possession of it, as all of our doo-dads had to come down when we left in June. One of the rules of the institution was that no furnishings could be left from year to year. "I wish our trunks would come so we could cover up this bareness. The nakedness of these walls is positively indecent," sighed Dee. "Wink is going to send me some pennants from the University. I just adore pennants." I could see the finish of our room. Last year there had been very little wall space showing and this year there was to be none. It was against the rules to tack things on the wall and everything had to hang from the picture railing, so the consequence was most of the rooms looked like some kind of telephone system gone crazy, wires long and short crossing and recrossing. Sometimes a tiny little kodak picture that some girl wanted to hang by her dresser would have to suspend from yards of wire. Sometimes an ingenious one would bunch many small pictures from one wire and that would remind me of country telephones and a party line where your bell rang at every one's house and every one's bell rang at yours. We stopped in 115, where Annie and Mary were to live, and found them very much pleased with their room, happy to be together and to be next to us. "Won't we have larks, though?" exclaimed Mary. "I feel terribly like I'm going to be one big demerit. I hear the new principal is awfully strict. A girl who knew a girl whose brother married a girl who went to the school Miss Plympton used to boss in North Carolina told me she heard she was a real Tartar. They say she makes you toe the mark." When I saw Miss Plympton I could well believe the girl that Mary knew, who knew a girl, whose brother married a girl who knew Miss Plympton, was quite truthful in her statement that Miss Plympton was something of a disciplinarian. She was mannish in her attire and quite soldierly in her bearing. Her tight tailored clothes fitted like the paper on the wall. She gave one the impression of having been poured into them, melted first. But above her high linen collar, her chin and neck seemed to have retained the fluid state that the rest of her must have been reduced to to get her so smoothly into her clothes. Her neck fell over her collar in soft folds and her chin--I should say chins--were as changing in form as a bank of clouds on a summer day. We never could agree how many she had, and Dum and Dee Tucker actually had to resort to their boxing gloves, something they seldom did in those days, to settle the matter. Dee declared she had never been able to count but four but Dum asserted that she had distinctly seen five, in fact that she usually had five. Be that as it may, she certainly had more than her share, and what interested me in her chins was whether or not the changing was voluntary or involuntary. I never could decide, although I made a close study of the matter. Her face was intelligent but very stern, and I had a feeling from the beginning that it was going to be difficult, perhaps impossible, to make a friend of her. "She is as hard as a bag of nails!" exclaimed Dee, when we compared impressions later on. "I'd just as soon weep on her back as her bosom," wailed Dum. "I don't believe there is one bit of difference. She's got about as much heart as Mrs. Shem, Ham, and Japheth in a Noah's ark." "She almost scared me to death," shivered poor Annie Pore. "Just think of the contrast between her and Miss Peyton." "I was real proud of you, the way you spunked up to her, Annie," broke in Mary Flannagan. "Wasn't she terrifying when she decided I was too young to be a Junior? I don't know what I should have done if you had not told her I led my class in at least one subject. I hope it is not the one she teaches or it will be up to me to hustle." "Well, girls," I said, "I see breakers ahead for all of us unless we can find a soft side to Miss Plumpton, I mean Plympton, and keep on it." A roar from the girls stopped me. "What a good name for her--Plumpton--" tweedled the twins. "Plumpton! Plumpton! Rah, rah, rah!" No great dignity was possible after that. No matter how stiff and military Miss Plympton could be, and she could out-stiffen a poker, we knew her name was Plumpton and were ahead of her. I had a feeling during our whole interview with her that she did not approve of us for some reason. I don't know what it was. It almost looked as though some one had got us in bad before we ever met her; but some of the other girls told me they had the same feeling, so no doubt it was just her unfortunate manner that made you think she looked upon you as a suspicious character. Looking back soberly and sanely on that year at school, I can understand now that the substitute principal was not quite as impossible as we thought she was, but the keynote of her character was that she lacked all sense of humour. A joke book meant no more to her than a grocery book. She was nothing but a bundle of facts. She thought in dates and eras (History being her subject) and if you could not begin at the creation and divide time up into infinitesimal bits and pigeon hole every incident, you were nothing but a numskull. Any one who had to learn a verse of poetry to remember the kings of England had softening of the brain in her eyes. She did not even think it permissible to say: "Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November." "Facts are much simpler to master than fancies," she would lecture, and my private opinion was that she could not learn poetry any more than some of us could learn dates. The calendar to her was just another month marked with black figures to be torn off. I usually resorted to some form of poetry to take the taste of her classes out of my mouth. I remember once when the lesson had been the making and remaking of the calendar by the arbitrary parties who took upon themselves that task, I got so bored and sleepy that all I could do was to keep on saying to myself: "January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow. February brings the rain, Thaws the frozen lake again. March brings breezes, loud and shrill, To stir the dancing daffodil. April brings the primrose sweet, Scatters daisies at our feet. May brings flocks of pretty lambs Skipping by their fleecy dams. June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies. Hot July brings cooling showers, Apricots and gillyflowers. August brings the sheaves of corn; Then the harvest home is borne. Fresh October brings the pheasant; Then to gather nuts is pleasant. Dull November brings the blast; Then the leaves are whirling fast. Chill December brings the sleet, Blazing fire and Christmas treat." CHAPTER IV. RULES AND RESULTS. The strangest thing about Miss Plympton was that she never was able to tell the Tucker Twins apart. This was an unforgivable offense in their eyes and in the eyes of their friends. They were as alike as two peas in some ways and the antipodes in others. They might mystify you from the back but once you got a good look in their eyes, the mirrors of their souls, you were pretty apt to get them straight and keep them straight. Then their colouring was so different. Dee's hair was black with blue lights and Dum's was black with red lights; Dee's eyes were grey and Dum's hazel; Dee had a dimple in her chin, while Dum's chin had an uncompromising squareness to it that gave you to understand that her character was quite as fixed as Gibraltar, and she had no more idea of changing her mind than Miss Plympton had of toying with unalterable facts, such as 1066 or 1492. From the very beginning I scented trouble between the new principal and the Tuckers. Miss Plympton called them Miss Tucker indiscriminately, and sometimes both of them answered and sometimes neither of them. Either way irritated Miss Plympton. She seemed to think they should know by instinct which one she meant. She finally grasped the fact that they had separate names but was more than apt to call Dee, Virginia, and Dum, Caroline, which was quite as unpardonable as saying Columbus discovered America in 1066 would have been to her. "The very next time she calls me Caroline, I'm going to call her Plumpton," declared Dum. "I don't mean that Dee ain't as good as I am and a heap better, but I'm me----" "Yes, and in the same vernacular Dee's her," I teased. We had a compact to correct the grammar of our roommates. "I stand corrected about ain't but I still stick to 'I'm me.' It is more forceful and means more than 'I'm I.' Of course I'm I, but in Miss Plumpton's mind there seems to be strong doubt whether I'm me. I is a kind of ladylike, sissy outside of a person, but me is the inmost, inward, soul self--I'm me--me--me!" "Well, you certainly are and there is no one quite like you. I don't see why Miss Plympton can't see it, too." "I know why! It's because she doesn't understand people. She thinks of us as being human beings of the female sex, who weigh a certain amount, are just so tall and so wide, have lived a certain time and come from such and such a city. Why, the only difference she sees between you and Mary Flannagan is that you are in 117 and Mary is in 115, and you have brown hair and Mary has red, and Mary is better on dates than you are. The real true Page Allison is a closed book to that fat head. I believe Miss Peyton knew our souls as well as she did our bodies." We missed Miss Peyton every hour of the day. Her reign had been wise and gentle and always just. We never forgot her kindness to us the time Dee kept the kitten in her room all night. She won us over for life then and there. Miss Plympton had retained all of Miss Peyton's rules and added to them. She fenced us around with so many rules that the honour system was abolished. Study hall was a very different place from what it had been in Miss Peyton's time. Then order had ruled because we were on our honour not to communicate with one another by word or sign. Of course some girls do not regard honour as a very precious thing and they broke their word, but most girls, I am glad to say, have as keen a sense of honour as the best of men. Miss Plympton's attitude toward us was one of doubt and suspicion and, the honour system being abolished, we naturally felt that the most serious fault we could commit would be breaking the eleventh commandment: "Thou shalt not be found out." We developed astonishing agility in evading the authorities and getting out of scrapes. From having been five law-abiding citizens, we turned into extremely slick outlaws. Even Annie Pore would sometimes suggest escapades that no one would dream could find harbour behind that calm, sweet brow. The same unrest pervaded the whole school. A day never passed that some group of girls was not called to the office to have a serious reprimand. We got so hardened that it meant no more to us than the ordinary routine of the day, while the year before to be called to the office to have Miss Peyton censure you about something was a calamity that every one earnestly prayed to avoid. Miss Peyton never talked to you like a Dutch Uncle unless you needed it, while Miss Plympton never talked to you any other way. "She makes me feel like an inmate of a detention home or some place where the criminally insane are sent," stormed Dee. "She makes out I have done things I never even thought of doing and has not got sense enough to know I never lie." "What was it this time?" I asked. "She said I changed the record on the Victrola Sunday night from 'Lead, Kindly Light,' sung by Louise Homer, to 'A-Roaming in the Gloaming,' by Harry Lauder. You see all that bunch of preachers was here, and, of course, only sacred music was permissible under the circumstances." "Why, I did that!" exclaimed Dum, "and didn't the preachers like it, though! Well, I reckon it is up to me to go 'fess up." "Not a bit of it!" declared Dee. "She never asked who did it--that's not her way. She works with a spy system, so let her work that way. I bet we can outwit any spy she can get." It seems strange when I look back on it that this spirit of mischief had entered into our crowd to such an extent, but we were not the same girls we had been the year before, all because of this head of the school who did not understand girls. If she had trusted us, we would have been trustworthy, I am sure. There was a printed list of don'ts a yard long tacked up in every available spot, and I can safely declare that during the year we did every single thing we were told not to do. If we missed one of them it was an accident. They were such silly don'ts. "No food must be kept in the rooms." Now, what school girl is going to keep such a rule as that? "No talking in the halls or corridors." That would be impossible except in a deaf and dumb institution. "No washing of clothes of any sort in the rooms or bath rooms." Then what is the use of having little crêpe de chine handkerchiefs and waists if they must be sent in the laundry and come back starched and all the nice crinkle ironed out of them? Who would put her best silk stockings in wash to have them come back minus a foot? "No ink to be taken to rooms." We would just as soon have written with pencils except that the rule made us long to break it. Of course, break it we did. "No talking after lights are out." Now what nonsense was that? When lights are out is the very time to talk to your roommate. I verily believe that there was not one single rule on that list that was necessary. There were lots more of them and all of them equally silly. The worst one of all was: "Absolutely no visiting in rooms." That meant no social life at all. We had looked forward to having Annie and Mary next to us, but if there was to be no visiting it would not do us much good. Annie thought up a scheme that surprised and delighted us. "Let's have telephonic communication. Our closets adjoin." "Good! So they do," tweedled the Tuckers. "We'll get Zebedee to send us the things to make it." Of course Zebedee sent them the required things as he always aided and abetted us in every scheme to have a good time. He bought one of the toy telephones that has a tiny battery attached and is really excellent as a house telephone. We installed it quite easily with the aid of an auger that Zebedee had the forethought to send with the toy. The things came disguised as shoes. That telephone was a great source of pleasure to us and at times proved to be a real friend. It was concealed behind Dum's Sunday dress and it would have been a clever detective who could have discovered it. "Let's not tell a soul about it," said Mary, "because you know how things spread. You know," holding up one finger, "and I know," holding up another, "and that makes eleven." We kept our secret faithfully and often mystified the other girls by communicating things to our neighbours when they knew we had not been to their room and had not spoken to them in the halls. Of course we did not have a bell as that would have been a dangerous method of attracting attention, but three knocks on the wall was a signal that you were wanted at the phone. Annie was the originator of another scheme that saved us many a demerit. Every one of us had a dummy that could be made in a few moments, and these we always carefully put in our beds when we went off on the spreads or what not that took us out of our rooms when we were supposed to be in them. "How on earth did you ever think of such a thing, Annie?" asked the admiring Mary. "I am ashamed to say the Katzenjammer Kids in the comic supplement put it in my head," blushed Annie. "I know it is not very refined but I always read it." It was rather incongruous to think of Annie Pore, the timid, shy, very ladylike English girl, who a little more than a year ago looked as though she had not a friend in the world and had never read anything more recent than Tennyson's "Maud," not only reading the funny paper but learning mischief from it and imparting the same to the Tucker Twins, past masters in the art of getting into scrapes. These dummies were topped by boudoir caps with combings carefully saved and stitched in the edge of the caps, giving a most life like look when stuffed out with anything that came to hand. A sofa cushion dressed up in a night gown, tucked carefully under the cover with the boudoir cap reposing on the pillow, would fool any teacher who came creeping into our room after lights out to see if we were in any mischief. Mary's hair, being that strong healthy kind of red hair, never came out, so she had no combings, never had had any. We ravelled out Dum's old red sweater sleeve and made a wonderful wig, some redder than Mary's, but in the subdued light in which it was to be viewed it did very well. "Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care," Mary would quote as she tucked her counterfeit self up in her warm bed preparatory to some midnight escapade. CHAPTER V. SOME LETTERS. From Virginia Tucker to Mr. Jeffry Tucker. Gresham, Oct. 15, 19-- Dearest Zebedee: It gets worse and worse--We've had a whole month of it now and my demerits are much more numerous than my merits. I see no way of getting out of the hole I am in. Everything I do or don't do means just another black mark for me. Now who can help sneezing when a sneeze is crying out to be sneezed? And who can help making a face when a sneeze is imminent? Not a Tucker! You know yourself what a terrific noise you make when you sneeze and how you jump up and crack your heels together just as you explode. If you were in church and a sneeze came you could not contain yourself within yourself without the risk of breaking yourself up into infinitesimal bits. I inherit my sneeze as directly from my paternal parent as I do my chin and my so-called stubbornness (we call it character, don't we, Zebedeedlums?). I do think it is hard to be kept in bounds a week for an inherited weakness--or shall we say strength? Our Tucker sneeze certainly should not be put down as a weakness. Another thing about this new principal is that she can't tell me from Dee or Dee from me. She seems to think both of us are me, lately, although at first she thought both of us were Dee. I kicked over the first condition, but Heaven knows the last is much more trying, as I get all of Dee's demerits; not that Dee does not behave like a perfect gentleman and insist on her share of blame and even more than her share. There is no use in arguing with Miss Plympton. She won't believe you if you say you didn't do a thing, and she won't believe you when you say you did. She just sits there and marks in her book and has the expression of: "The Moving Finger writes; and having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line Nor all your tears wash out a Word of it." The other day I sneezed, in fact I out-sneezed all the dead and gone Tuckers. I couldn't help it. I don't like to sew on hooks any more than Miss Plympton herself would and that sneeze popped off two. She looked up from the chronological page of dates she had been hammering into us and said sternly: "Caro-ginia Tucker, that unseemly noise must stop." "Yessum!" I gasped, holding my nose about as Dee does Brindle when he tries to get away from her to eat some little dog up. I held on with all my might, but every one knows that sneezes never come singly. The other one is as sure to come out as murder. When the next one came, it was worse than the first because of my efforts to hold it in, just as it makes more noise to shoot down a well than to shoot up in the air. (Don't you think my language sounds rather Homeric? I do.) Well, when the second report sounded, Miss Plympton put down her pencil and sat looking at me. She said nothing, but kept on making chins. As fast as she made one, another one disappeared, but nothing daunted, she just made another. I kept thinking: "I wish every time she made a chin something would go bang! and then maybe she would sympathize with me. I certainly can't help making sneezes any more than she can making chins." What do you think happened at this psychological moment? Why, Dee sneezed! As a rule, Dee is not quite so eruptive as you and I are; in fact, sometimes she irritates me by giving cat sneezes, but this time, whew! The Great Sneezeeks himself would have envied her. And do you know what that old stick-in-the-mud did? She looked square at me and said: "Viroline, ten demerits, a page of dictionary and two hymns." That isn't as bad as it sounds, as I know so many hymns I can get one up in no time, and I got even with her by saying the page of the dictionary beginning with chin. It goes Chin, China, Chinaman, Chincapin, Chinch, Chinchilla, Chin-cough, Chine, Chinese, Chink, etc. I took especial pains to accent the first syllable too. Of course Dee stood up and clamored to be heard and to claim the sneeze. It was certainly one to be proud of. Miss Plympton changed her expression from the Moving Finger to "That inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die, Lift not your hands to _It_ for help--for It As impotently moves as you or I." You know yourself, Zebedee, how hard it is to keep in the straight and narrow path when you are blamed whether you are there or not. I feel that I might as well be "killed for an old sheep as a lamb," so I do get into lots of scrapes. The school is not the same with Miss Peyton ill and Miss Cox married. Dee and Page and I are real blue sometimes, but not all the time. We do have lots of fun breaking rules and keeping the eleventh commandment. Now don't get preachy! You would stand Miss Plympton just about one minute and then you would pack your doll rags and go home. We like the new teacher in English a lot. She is much more interesting than last year's and seems to have some outlook. Miss Ball is her name. Zebedee, since Miss Plympton seems to have such a feeling against me, don't you think it would be well for me to stop history and take up china painting? I don't think much of the art course here, but it would be real fun to do china painting and I could paint you a cup and saucer to drink your coffee out of when we get to housekeeping. I am crazy to do some modelling and think another year you better let me go to New York and study at the art school. Dee and Page think so, too, and they want to specialize in something. We are nearly dead to see you. What say you to coming up here for Thanksgiving? You would miss the football game in Richmond, but we are certainly honing for you, honey. Dee will write soon. Page is just the same. She cheers us up a lot. She is awfully game--there is no prank going that she stays out of, but she kind of holds us down if our idea of a good time is too wild. Thanks for the little 'phone. It works splendidly. Good by, Your own DUMDEEDLEDUMS. From Page Allison to Dr. James Allison. Gresham, October 15, 19-- My dearest Father: We are having the most interesting course in English and I feel that I am really going to learn a whole lot about writing. I am glad I have read all my life, but I find that I have not half taken in what I have read. Miss Ball is teaching me to analyze the things I like best. She reads beautifully and gets meaning out of poetry without ruining the metre. She doesn't elocute (I hate that) but she has a full rich voice and her reading is just like music. She has us write a daily theme, any kind of snap-shot that suits us to write about--something we have seen or might have seen. It is awful funny what different things we choose. Dum always has descriptions of sunsets and moonrises and figures against the sky--how things look, in fact. Dee is great on animal stories, sick kittens and kindly beasts and abused horses and lame ducks. Mary usually gets a comic twist to her stories and has people falling off ladders and upsetting the ink and sitting down in the glue, etc. Annie is rather sentimental and wishy-washy in her compositions, willowy maidens in the moonlight with garlands of flowers. She is fond of using such expressions as: "Hark! From out the stillness," and "A dark and lonesome tarn." She is rather Laura Jean Libbyish I think. As for me, I always want to write about people, no difference what kind of people, old or young, black or white, rich or poor,--just so they are people. I made a real good little sketch of Christmas morning at Bracken. I described our going out with the colt and leaving Christmas cheer at the cabins, making an especial feature of Aunt Keziah, the "Tender." Miss Ball liked that a lot and wants me to do some more of our neighbours. I am dying to do Sally Winn, but somehow I am afraid she might know about it some day and it would hurt her feelings so. I think her character would be a very interesting one to write about. I may use her and put her in such a different environment that she would not know herself in broad day-light. Miss Ball is very complimentary about my efforts and I feel so encouraged. She is not a bit of a purist and thinks more of a good thought forcefully put than of a slip in the way of a split infinitive. We are having a right strenuous time getting out of scrapes. I have never been so unruly in my life, but somehow our new principal makes you want to break rules. I believe it is because she doesn't trust girls, and the consequence is we all of us feel like giving her something to cry about since she is going to raise a rumpus whether we do or don't. She is a mighty poor judge of human nature if she thinks any of our quintette could lie; but she doesn't believe us on oath. We argue that if she thinks we do things when we don't, we might just as well do them, since they are, after all, not really wicked things. There is nothing very bad about creeping out of your warm bed at midnight and flying down a cold hall to a class room, where you will meet other girls just out of their warm beds and when there you will, through smothered giggles, eat burnt fudge made on a fire surreptitiously kindled behind the barn, when you were supposed to be piously engaged in darning stockings in the mending class. I don't know just what the fun is, but it certainly is fun. The best fun is scaring the night watchman, who is an Irishman and horribly superstitious. He is afraid of ghosts and when he spies a flitting white figure down the end of a long corridor while he is making his rounds, he jumps to the conclusion it is a "hant" and not a naughty pupil. He never reports it to the principal, but adds it to his already interminable list of ghost stories. He makes his rounds as noisily as possible, so if anything is there it will hear him and depart. He is a little fat man with a military carriage, just as pompous in the back as the front. He has been told he looks like Napoleon, so he always wears very tight trousers and a long cape which he throws over one shoulder. One night I peeped out the window and saw him marching up and down in front of the building in the bright moonlight. The heavy cane he always carries he was holding like a musket and the poor little conceited thing actually had his hat on sideways, which gave him very much the look of the Emperor keeping guard for the sleeping sentry. I gave three taps on the wall, although it was the middle of the night, and got Mary Flannagan to the 'phone and told her to poke her head out of the window and go like a screech owl. You remember I told you how fine Mary was as an impersonator. Of course, Mary did as she was bid and poor Napoleon ran like a rabbit. It was kind of mean of me, but it was awfully funny. We are planning a party for Hallowe'en. Tell Mammy Susan to try to get me a box of goodies here in time for it. Don't send it to the school, but wait until I tell you where you can send it. They open everything and dig out all the contraband, and since everything is contraband but crackers and simple candy, they usually dig out everything of importance. I miss you and Mammy Susan mighty bad. Please give the dogs an extra pat for me and tell them not to forget me. Your devoted daughter, PAGE. CHAPTER VI. THE HALLOWE'EN PARTY. "Girls! Miss Plympton has actually given her consent to a Hallowe'en party in the Gym. We have to start at eight and stop at ten, though," called Mary through the concealed 'phone. "Pshaw!" exclaimed Dee, who had the receiver at her ear, although Dum and I were both crowding into the closet to get the news that Mary was giving so loudly that you could really hear it through the walls without the aid of the toy telephone. "That's no good. Witches don't walk so early in the night." "Well, it's better than nothing," answered Mary. "It can be a masquerade. We are thinking of having a sheet and pillow case party. The Seniors want all of our quintette to serve on the committee of entertainment. You see, the Seniors are really getting this up. That's why old Lady Plumpton will let us do it. She lets the Seniors do lots of things, but she certainly has got it in for the poor Juniors." Then there was a confused sound of Annie's trying to talk through the 'phone with Mary, and Dum decided Dee had had a long enough turn. Some mixup ensued in the two closets with the result that Dum's best dress, that served as a portiere for the batteries, had to be sent to the presser, and I got possession of our end of the line and found Annie on the other. "Page, Harvie Price writes me from the University that he is going to be at Hill Top, visiting Shorty Hawkins for a day or so soon, and he wants to come see me. Do you think Miss Plympton will permit it?" "Can't you work the cousin racket on her?" "No, she knows I have no relatives in the States." "Well, then, he may be allowed to sit in the same church with you if he should happen to be here over Sunday and his voice can mingle with yours in praise and thanksgiving," I teased. "You know how Miss Plympton sat on Jean Rice when her third cousin once removed from Georgia came to call. She refused positively to let her see him until his kinship was proved and then she only let him call fifteen minutes. If he had been a plain third cousin she would have permitted half an hour; second once removed an hour; plain second two hours; first once removed four hours; plain first eight hours----" "Page! This is not a problem in arithmetical progression. Please tell me how he can manage." "Bless you if I know--unless he can come to the sheet and pillow case party. You might let him know one is in prospect." A giggle from Annie answered me and a shout of joy from Mary as her roommate imparted this suggestion to her. "Of course it would never do," Annie said to me later on in the day when no wall divided us, "but wouldn't it be a joke on Miss Plympton and the faculty if some of the boys would come?" "Yes, quite like Tennyson's Princess, but if we got mixed up in it, it would be a serious misdemeanor." I was willing to go pretty far in fun, but I had no intention of being imprudent and giving Miss Plympton any real cause for the suspicion she seemed to entertain for our crowd. "I tell you, Annie, if I were you I'd go and ask Miss Plympton if Harvie can call and if she will not consent, just write and tell him so." Miss Plympton refused to grant permission for the call unless Harvie could obtain a request from Annie's father, and as that was seemingly impossible the matter had to be dropped. Annie wrote to the youth and told him the state of affairs and that was all she had to do with it. The Gresham girls and the Hill Top boys usually met at football games at Hill Top, and basketball games at Gresham; they sat across the church from each other on Sunday and prayer meeting night. As is the way with boys and girls and has been the way since the world began, I fancy, there were a few inevitable flirtations going on. Some of them, under the cloak of great piety, kept up a lively conversation with their eyes during the longest prayers, or sang hymns at each other with the greatest fervor. One ingenious boy actually wrote a love letter (at least that is what we loved to designate it) and sent it to his inamorata on the collection plate. With meaning glances he placed it on the plate together with his mite. The deacon, all unconscious of the important mission with which he was intrusted, proceeded with slow dignity to pass the plate to pew after pew of boys and then up the aisle on the girls' side. Every boy and girl in that church knew what was going on, but there was not a flicker of an eyelash as the exceedingly pretty and rosy Junior, for whom the note was intended, put out her daintily gloved hand, dropped in her nickel and quickly closed her fingers over the billet-doux and slipped it into her muff. There was a noiseless noise of a sigh, a sigh of extreme relief, that went over all the expectant pupils, boys and girls. Then with what vim and spirit did we rise and sing the appointed hymn: "A charge to keep I have"! The old gentleman who took up the collection was ever after known to us as "Deacon Cupid." Hallowe'en arrived. It was a splendid crisp, cold day, which put us in high spirits. Even Miss Plympton was in a frisky humour and actually cracked a joke, at least she almost did. She stopped herself in time and made another chin instead, but by almost cracking it she had shown herself to be almost human, which was in itself encouraging. Our quintette was out of bounds. We had worked off all of our demerits and were in good standing with the faculty. "Now if we can just stay good a while!" wailed Mary. "I, for one, am tired of getting into scrapes and mean to be a little tin angel for at least a week. I wouldn't think of putting a greater task on my sub-conscious self." I wasn't so sure of myself, as that minute I had under my mattress a box from Mammy Susan, filled to the brim with contraband food that would put me in durance vile for at least a month if I should be caught with the goods. The committee on arrangements for the sheet and pillow case party had determined that ice cream and cake should be the refreshments for the evening. The ice cream was usually cut in very slim slices and the cake was served in mere sample sizes, so I thought when the big ball was over I could gather a few chosen spirits and we could dispose of Mammy Susan's box in short order. I had not divulged to the others that this box had arrived, knowing it would be such a delightful surprise for them. Mammy Susan had sent it in care of a coloured laundress who did up our best shirt waists and collars, things we did not dare trust to the catch-as-catch-can method of the school laundry. Shades of my honourable ancestors! She had brought the box to the school concealed beneath the folds of fine linen. "Ef Miss Perlimpton ketch me she won't 'low me to set foot in this here place agin, but you young ladies is been so kin' an' ginerous to me that I's willin' to risk sompen fer yo' pleasure," the old woman had said as she lifted out the carefully ironed shirt waists and then the large flat box that had come by parcels post from Bracken. I had warned Mammy Susan to send things in flat boxes as they were so much easier to conceal than square ones. This one fitted nicely under my mattress. It gave the bed a rather hiked up look in the middle, but making beds was not the long suit of the Greshamites, so I hoped it would pass inspection, knowing that other beds that were innocent were much lumpier than mine. If you have never been to a sheet and pillow case party, go your first chance, and if no one else gets up one, get it up yourself. Drape a sheet about you in folds as Greek as you can manage, pinning the folds at the shoulders, and then put on a pillow case like a hood. If the case is old, cut holes in it for eyes. If you don't possess an old one, make a cotton mask to tie around your face and pull the hood well over your forehead. The effect is gruesome, indeed, and that night we looked like a veritable Ku Klux Klan. We wanted to mark ourselves in some way so that we could be told by one another, so we put on each back in black chalk a mystic V, standing for five, our quintette. Dum and Dee and Annie and I were almost of the same height. I was a little shorter, but not enough to make much difference, but Mary was a perfect chunk of a girl and when we got her draped she looked like a snow ball. The gymnasium, our ball room, was hung with paper pumpkin lanterns and papier-mâché skulls. "And in those holes where eyes did once inhabit" there shone forth lights giving a very weird effect indeed. The light was dim and the ghostly figures moving around would have frightened Mr. Ryan, the old night watchman, to death, I am sure. But he, good man, did not have to keep watch until eleven o'clock. The girls came in singly and in groups, all bent on disguise. Some of them sat against the wall, afraid that their walks would give them away, and all were silent for the most part except for a few ghostly groans or wails. Some one was at the piano playing the "Goblins will git yer ef yer don't mind out." In a little while couples took the floor and began whirling around. "Who is that tall girl dancing with the little chunky one?" whispered Dee to me. "I thought for a minute the chunky one was Mary, but I see she has no V on her back." "I can't think who is that tall here in school. There are two or three pretty tall Seniors, and then you know there is a new Sophomore from Texas who is a perfect bean pole, but she doesn't dance." "Well, this one dances all right and that little square girl she is dancing with seems lively enough. I believe I'll break in on them. You take the big one and I'll take the chunky one," and so we did. Dee started off leading, but I noticed they soon changed, as the short girl seemed to prefer guiding. I always let any one guide me who will, so my partner, who was the taller, naturally took the man's part. She was singularly silent, although I did some occasional whispering in what I considered a disguised voice. Annie and Dum were dancing together and I saw Mary's square figure leading out a rather heavy-looking girl who had up to that time been seated against the wall. As part of the committee, we considered it our duty to dig up the wall flowers. This one was not much of a dancer and in a moment my partner and I came a cropper almost on top of them. We picked ourselves up and Mary, recognizing me by my V, whispered: "Page, this girl can't dance a little bit. I tried to lead her and she has stepped all over me. For the love of Mike, see what you can do with her." So we changed partners and Mary went gaily off with my very good partner, who certainly danced better than any one I had before tried at Gresham, and I tripped off with the heavy-looking cast-off. It wasn't so bad. I let her guide and while she was not so very good, she was not so very bad. "Are you accustomed to guiding?" I said, forgetting and using my natural voice. "Ummm um!" came in a kind of grunt from my partner, and then in a high squeak, "Page!" The music stopped. My partner pressed my hand so affectionately that I wondered who she could be. I thought I could spot any of my intimates. "Now you know me, I think you ought to tell me who you are," I pleaded, "and not wait for the unmasking." "Unmasking!" she said in a strangely hoarse tone. "When?" "Why, at nine! Didn't you hear Miss Plympton this morning at chapel?" "Oh--Ah--Yes!" she muttered, and drew me to a seat in the corner. I chatted away gaily. Since my partner had discovered my identity, I might just as well make myself agreeable and I hoped to discover hers before nine. I ran over in my mind all the big heavy girls in school, and even the teachers. Miss Ball was rather large and Miss Plympton--could it be Miss Plympton? I peered eagerly through the holes at the eyes gazing into mine. Whose eyes were they? They certainly looked very familiar. The music started again, one of the new tunes, and I jumped up to find a partner or even take the one I still had who was not so terribly bad, but she drew me down again in my seat, hoarsely whispering: "Please sit it out with me." I seemed to be in a kind of dream. They say that one proof of transmigration of the soul is that we sometimes have a realization of doing the same thing we have done before perhaps æons and æons ago. I certainly held in my consciousness that once before some one with eyes, brown just like the ones I could see through the slits (cut, by the way, in a perfectly new pillow case), had begged me in much the same tone if not so hoarse to "sit it out." I looked at the dancers. Dum and Dee were dancing together; Mary was tearing around with the little chunky person, who seemed to be a mate for her. I looked for the other distinctive black V and saw that Annie was gliding around in the arms of the tall girl with whom I had danced, who had proven such an excellent partner. Annie's cowl had slipped back and above her mask her pretty hair, the colour of ripe wheat, showed plainly, making no doubt of her identity. I looked back at the mysterious eyes and an almost uncontrollable desire to go off into hysterics seized me. I suddenly remembered the hop at Willoughby and how I had sat out a dance with Wink White the night he proposed. The mystery was solved. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Stephen White!" I gasped. "I know you now and I know that that good dancer floating around with Annie Pore is Harvie Price, and that that little square figure with Mary Flannagan is no other than Shorty Hawkins. Don't you know that if Miss Plympton finds out about this that every last one of our crowd will get shipped without a character to stand on?" I know Wink wanted to giggle when I talked about a character to stand on, but he was too much in awe of my anger to giggle or do anything but plead with me to forgive him. "You see, dear Page----" "I am not 'dear Page' and I don't see!" I ejaculated. "But it was this way. I came over from the University with Harvie Price to see you, and when I got here, found out the old rules were so strict and ridiculous that I could not get near you in any other way----" "Well, getting near me was not necessary," I stormed. "You had better calm yourself or you will give the whole game away," admonished Wink; so I did try to compose myself and speak in a whisper. "Well, you had better get a move on you and depart as rapidly as possible." "Page, please don't be mad with me. I thought it would just be a lark and you, of all persons, would think it was a good joke," and the eyes through the holes looked very sad and pleading. "Well, you don't know me. I like a joke as well as any one in the world, but to get in a mixup at boarding school because of a lot of boys is not in my line. It would be harder on Annie Pore than any of us because her father is so severe. He would never forgive her if she should get in a real scrape." "But it isn't your fault. You were none of you aware of our intention of coming." "That makes not a whit of difference to Miss Plympton. She never believes us, no matter what we say. It is twenty-three minutes to nine and you had better grab Harvie and Shorty and beat it. At nine sharp if you don't take your mask off some one will pull it off." "Well, I don't care if they do; I am going to get a dance with the Tucker twins if I have to be thrown out. Which is Miss Dee?" As I had a secret desire to turn Stephen White's supposed affection for me into the proper channel, namely, in the direction of Dee, who was much more suited to him than I was, I could not resist the temptation of telling him, although in doing so I certainly placed myself in a position precarious, to say the least. I was aiding and abetting him in this attempt to hood-wink the school of Gresham. I was also getting the twins into the scrape with me by pointing them out to this terrible person, a male in a girl's school. I did not think of this until I had told Wink that all of our quintette had big black V's on our backs and he had made for the twirling twins and broken in on them. He got Dee, just by luck, and Dum sank on the bench by me. "Dum, do you know who that is that just got Dee?" I asked. "No, I have been wondering who she is and who that tall girl is with Annie Pore." "Well, get ready to hear something, but don't faint or scream," and I whispered to her the names of the venturesome boys. She only gasped and then went off into convulsions of laughter. "It is all very funny," I continued, "but tell me, what are we going to do if Miss Plympton finds it out?" "But she mustn't. We must get them out of here before we unmask. Don't you think Annie knows by this time that that is Harvie she is dancing with, and do you think for an instant that Mary and Dee are not on?" The music stopped just then and our quintette with the partners collected in our corner. Annie was trembling with fright, but was evidently having a pretty good time in spite of her fears, and Mary was in a gale only equalled to Tom Hawkins's. "Don't stop for adieux," I admonished. "Remember if you are caught all the blame will fall on us, and while I like all of you well enough, I have no desire to be expelled for the sake of having danced with you." This was rather sobering to their gaiety, and after whispered directions of how best to get out of the building, the three ghostly figures glided off. I was awfully afraid that some one had overheard, but no one seemed to be especially interested in us just then and I could but pray that we had been unobserved. As Wink had pressed my hand in farewell, he had begged for forgiveness and had said he intended to see us again by hook or crook. He was to be at Hill Top until Sunday night. "It will be in church, then," I had declared, because I was determined that I was not going to get into any more of a scrape than I was already in. I was very much relieved that the boys were gone, and my anger cooled down, although I was certainly disgusted that they had so little considered us in this mad escapade. I don't see why the pastors and masters of the young make it such a crime for boys and girls to have a good time together if they are off at boarding school. How much better it would have been if Miss Plympton had just invited the boys of Hill Top to come to the party and let us dance all we wanted to. There is certainly no harm in it in the summer, and why should there be harm in it then? At nine the masks were off and then we had the slight refreshments (very slight), followed by rather tame dancing until the ten o'clock gong warned us that in a few minutes lights would be out. CHAPTER VII. WHEN GHOST MEETS GHOST. "Gee, but I'm hungry!" exclaimed Dum, as we trailed our sheeted forms up the stairs. "Did you ever see such slim eats in all your life? Why, my cake was cut so thin and my ice cream was so scant, they could not have passed muster even at a church fair!" "Shh! Don't say a word, but I've got a box under my mattress. You let Annie and Mary know, while I see Jean Rice and Nancy Blair. We'll meet in the Gym at eleven. I believe we will be safe from old Mr. Ryan. He is sure to keep away from there as he knows that the skull lanterns are still up. We had better not try to have the spread in our room as we are so close to teachers. Tell Mary and Annie to get their dummies ready and tell Dee to start on ours. I'll be up just as soon as I put Jean and Nancy on." Jean Rice and Nancy Blair were two girls we had been seeing a good deal of. They were full of fun and while they were rather a frivolous pair, they were nice and good tempered and always ready for a lark. You could count on them to join in on any hazardous expedition. When eleven o'clock struck we were ready to repair to the Gym for our secret repast. We kept on our sheets and masks as part of the fun. We had made our dummies ready and tucked them in their little downies before we ventured forth. The corridors were dark and silent. The Gym was at the far end of the building from us, down two flights of stairs. We judged it prudent to separate and go one by one a few seconds apart as, if we should by chance run against any one in authority, it was easier for one to escape than five. I went first, the box of fried chicken clasped in my arms: Dum followed me with the beaten biscuit; then came Mary with ham sandwiches; and Annie close behind her, carefully hugging the caramel cake, too timid to let the space be too great between her and her friend. Dee valiantly brought up the rear with stuffed eggs and pickles. We found three girls instead of two waiting in the gymnasium. I thought Jean and Nancy had brought a friend and went up to make her welcome. They had lighted some of the pumpkin and skull lanterns and were standing with an air of expectancy. "Hello, girls!" I whispered, "you beat us to it, didn't you? Which of you is which?" "You tell us who you are first," demanded one of the figures, "and then we will tell you." "I am Page Allison. I bet you are Nancy Blair." There was a giggle from the masks. It was another bunch of Juniors on pleasure bent. They were waiting for five more girls and were going to have a spread and a ghost dance. It turned out that what one might call the cream of the Junior class was gathered there. If we got caught, it meant the whole class in disgrace, as it would be a well-known fact that the members of the class who were missing were so only because they were not asked to be present. It gave us a great feeling of security to be fifteen strong. We were seven and these eight more girls brought the number of law breakers up to fifteen. There were only twenty-five Juniors in the school and that left ten girls who were either too goody-goody to be included or not sufficiently attractive, which is not in itself a crime but is certainly unfortunate. The spread was wonderful. The little dabs of ice cream and cake we had been served at the party had only whetted our appetites and in no way diminished them. We ate in silence broken by whispers and giggles. We hoped the teachers and Miss Plympton were safe in their downies and we trusted in Mr. Ryan's superstitious nature to keep him out of the Gym. The ghost dance began later and was kept up buoyantly, without music except a weird rhythmic whistling that the dancers themselves furnished. This whistling is done by sucking in and never blowing out and the effect is most uncanny. It is very hard on your wind to whistle this way, but when your breath gives out, your partner picks up the tune where you leave off and keeps the ball rolling. The last candle burned down to its socket and guttered out, and then the spectres flitted back to their rooms. It was pitch black in the corridors and Annie was afraid to go alone, so we formed a cordon by catching hold of hands and crept along, keeping close to the walls. I was in front and once when we were quite near our rooms I came bang against a human hand groping along the wall towards me. I stopped dead still! It was all I could do to keep from squealing right out, but a sound of scurrying down the hall reassured me. It was just a student as afraid of being caught as I was. "Who goes there?" I demanded in stern and grown-up tones. No answer but more scurrying and in a moment the sound of a door cautiously closed. "Some poor girl scared to death," I thought. We found our rooms in the dark and with the help of an electric search light, the pride of Dee's heart, we snatched our poor dummies out of their warm beds and were soon snuggled down in their places. "How do you reckon it happened there were no lights in the halls?" whispered Dum. "Nancy Blair told me she had turned them out on purpose," said Dee. "She said she knew we would get caught if there was any light." "Good for Nance!" I murmured, and knew no more until morning. I can't believe we had done anything so very wrong or we could not have slept so soundly. The rising gong found us dead to the world and only the telephone call, three knocks on the wall, aroused us. "Trouble ahead!" whispered Mary Flannagan, "there was some one snooping around last night after we were all in bed." "Well, we can prove an alibi. Who was it?" I chattered through the 'phone. I had jumped out of bed and was huddled in the closet behind Dum's dress. The window was still up and the heat turned off. "You sound scared! Do you think they will catch us?" "Scared! Not a bit of it! I am just cold. Of course, they won't catch us,--thanks to having abolished the honour system," and I hung up the receiver and commenced the Herculean task of getting Tweedles out of bed. "Get up!" I urged, pulling the cover off of first one then the other. "I don't see what you would have done without a roommate. I'd like to know who would wake you up." Dee put her head under the pillow like an ostrich trying to evade pursuit and Dum curled up in a little ball like a big caterpillar when you tickle him with a piece of grass. "Girls! Get up! I tell you Mary says there is some mischief brewing. We had better get up and be down to breakfast in time with smiling morning faces or Miss Plympton will know who was up late feasting. Me for a cold bath!" "Me, too!" tweedled the twins, coming to life very rapidly. A cold plunge and vigorous rubbing took off all traces of the night's dissipations, and as a finishing touch we all of us let our hair hang down our backs in plaits. Since the summer we had with one accord turned up our hair. We felt that it added dignity to our years; but now was no time for dignity but for great simplicity and innocence. As the breakfast gong sounded, I am sure in all Virginia there could not be found five more demure maidens than tripped punctually into the dining room. Miss Plympton looked sharply up as we came in, but we felt we had disarmed her with the very sweet bows we gave her and the gentle "good mornings." There was an air of repressed excitement running through the school. We were dying to ask what it was but felt that silence on our part was the only course for us to pursue. Certainly there were fifteen very shiny-eyed Juniors and ten very smug-looking ones. I whispered to Nancy Blair as I passed her table on the way out: "What's up?" "I am not sure, but I do not believe they are on to our frolic." "There is something else," declared Jean Rice, who sat next to her chum, Nancy. "The servants are in a great state of excitement over something. I have had an oatmeal spoon and a butter knife spilled down my neck already and I see Miss Plympton's private cream pitcher has found its way to our table." "Well, we will find out what is the matter in Chapel," I sighed, as I hurried up to my room to put it to some kind of rights. I wanted to get our dummies pulled to pieces, leaving no semblance of human beings. We had twenty minutes between breakfast and Chapel to make our beds and do what cleaning to our rooms we considered necessary to pass inspection. I tell you we cleaned that room with what Mammy Susan called "a lick and a promise." Our dummies we pulled to pieces and scattered their members to the four winds, like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, when the winged monkeys got him. The telephone we concealed even more carefully than usual, draping a sweater over it and smoothing out Dum's dress so no suspicious wrinkle remained. "We weren't in our beds very long, so let's spread 'em," said Dee, suiting the action to the word and pulling up her sheets in the most approved unhygienic manner. We swept the dirt under the rugs and with a few slaps of a dust rag on bureau, chairs and tables, and a careful lowering of the shade so the light came in sufficiently softened not to show the dust, we betook ourselves to Chapel as the gong sounded, quaking inwardly but with that "butter won't melt in my mouth" expression we considered suitable for the occasion. Miss Plympton was on the platform waiting for the teachers and pupils to assemble. She had on a stiff, new, dark gray suit that fitted her like the paper on the wall and she was making chins so fast there was no keeping up with them. "Looks like tin armor and I tell you she is ready for a joust, too!" exclaimed Dum. Without any warning at all, Miss Plympton opened the Bible at the tenth chapter of Nehemiah and began to read: "'Now those that sealed were Nehemiah, the Tirshatha, the son of Hachaliah, and Zidkijah, Seraiah, Azariah, Jeremiah, Pashur, Amariah, Malchijah, Hattush, Shebaniah, Malluch, Harim, Meremoth, Obadiah, Daniel, Ginnethon, Baruch, Meshullam, Abijah, Mijamin, Maaziah, Bilgai, Shemaiah: these were the priests.'" I heard a sharply intaken breath from Dee. I also noticed the shoulders of a girl a few seats ahead of me shaking ominously. Miss Plympton proceeded: "'And the Levites: both Jeshua, the son of Azaniah, Binnui of the sons of Henadad, Kadmiel; And their brethren Shebaniah, Hodijah, Kelita, Pelaiah, Hanan, Micha, Rehob, Hashabiah, Zaccur, Sherebiah, Shebaniah, Hodijah, Bani, Beninu,'----" Other shoulders were shaking and Dee buried her face in her hands. There was an unmistakable snort from a dignified Senior. One of the tiny little girls giggled outright and suddenly without any one knowing how it started, the whole school was in a roar. Now it is not so difficult to come down on a few offenders, but when a whole school goes to pieces what is the one in command to do? It wasn't that there was anything so very humorous in the tenth chapter of Nehemiah, but the way Miss Plympton read it; the way she rattled off those impossible names with as much ease as she would have shown in calling the roll, the way she looked in her tight new suit,--just the way the whole school felt, anyhow--a kind of tense feeling that something was going to happen, made our risibles get the better of us. Everything in the room rocked with laughter except Miss Plympton. She just made chins. The teachers on the platform were as bad as the students. Miss Ball was completely overcome and the very dried-up instructor in mathematics had to be led off the platform in the last stages of hysterics. Margaret Sayre told me afterwards that she was very glad to do the leading as she herself was at the bursting point. Miss Plympton looked at the giggling and roaring mass of girls and quietly went on reading in her hard even tones, her voice slightly raised, however: "'The chief of the people: Parosh, Pahath-moab, Elam, Zatthu, Bani, Bunni; Azgad, Bebai, Adonijah, Bigvai, Adin, Ater'----" The laughter of some of the girls changed to weeping and about half the school had hysterics. Miss Plympton did not understand girls at all, but she understood them well enough to know that when once hysterics gets started in a crowd of girls there is no more stopping it than a stampede of wild cattle. I hate sacrilege, but for the life of me I can't see why any one should think that any human being could get any good or spiritual strength for the day from listening to the tenth chapter of Nehemiah. I never heard of a school breaking out into hysterics over the twenty-third Psalm or the Sermon on the Mount. Why should not a suitable thing be chosen to read to young people? Miss Plympton was furious, but whatever she said to the pupils, she would have to say to the teachers, so she held her peace and after making some hundred or so chins she had prayers and then a mild hymn. The storm had subsided except for an occasional sniff. Some of the most hysterically inclined had been forced to leave the assembly room and these came sneaking back during the singing of the hymn. The Math teacher had to go to bed and we all with one accord blessed Sheribiah, Shebiniah, Hodijah, Bani, and Beninu. CHAPTER VIII. INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE. "Keep your seats, young--ladies, I suppose I must call you. I have something to say to you." We thought it was coming and were glad to have it over with. "Something has occurred, very grave in its nature." "Pshaw!" I thought. "Having a feast in the Gym is not so terribly grave." I had for the moment forgot entirely about the boys' escapade. "Last night, Mr. Ryan, our night watchman, who faithfully keeps watch over the building while you are sleeping, was coming to his duties from the village where he lives when he was startled by an apparition. Three figures, garbed in white, came suddenly upon him out of the darkness. This was just outside the school grounds and about five minutes after nine o'clock--immediately after your unmasking, I take it. Mr. Ryan was very startled, so much so that he turned and ran all the way back to the village and he declares that these figures ran after him. He says that he was able to note that two of them were tall and one quite short. The poor old man is very superstitious and thinks they were ghosts, but we are too enlightened to believe such a thing. In fact, we have reason to believe we know the girls who perpetrated what, no doubt, they consider a joke, but to our minds it is nothing more than a cruel prank that none but unlady-like, ill-bred hoydens could be capable of." Here she paused and grasping firmly the last few superfluous chins that had formed above her collar, she resolutely pushed them back and resumed her discourse. "I need hardly say on whom my suspicions have fallen--the fact of its having been two tall figures and one short one can mean only Mary Flannagan and the Tucker twins." We sat electrified! Why Mary and the Tuckers any more than any other three girls in the school? Mary was certainly not the shortest girl in the school and the Tuckers were certainly not the tallest. It was so silly that I would have laughed aloud if I had not been too indignant. Tweedles sat up very straight and sniffed the air like war horses ready for battle, while Mary Flannagan looked for all the world like a little Boston bull dog straining at his leash to get at the throat of some antagonist. Now at this juncture a remarkable thing occurred when we consider Annie Pore's timidity. She stood up and with that clear wonderful voice, musical whether in speaking or singing, said: "Miss Plympton, I am exactly the height of the Tuckers and Mary Flannagan is my intimate friend and roommate! I insist upon being held in exactly the same ridiculous suspicion that you have placed my three friends." "I am a little shorter but will walk on my tip toes the rest of my life if it is necessary to prove that I was with the Tuckers and Mary Flannagan from the time of unmasking last night until we went to our room at ten!" I blurted out, springing to my feet. I was very angry with the boys for getting us into this scrape, but since we were there, I was determined to stay with my friends. Of course it was Harvie and Wink and Shorty who had met old Mr. Ryan. They had left the building just before nine, and he, poor old thing, being of a naturally superstitious turn of mind had come to the school earlier than usual, as he knew it was Hallowe'en and feared something might catch him. The boys saw he was scared and, boy-like, had given chase. "What have you to say for yourself, Miss Flannagan?" said Miss Plympton, ignoring Annie and me as though we had never existed. "Nothing but this: 'I deny the allegation and defy the alligator,'" said Mary, quoting Mrs. Malaprop with as much composure as she could muster. "And you, Miss Caro--ginia Tucker?" she demanded, looking first at Dum and then at Dee and finally striking a medium course and looking between them. "I--" tweedled the twins and then both stopped. "I--" still tweedling. "One at a time!" snapped our principal. "I don't know what you accuse us of exactly," said Dum, taking the lead. "If you accuse me of being the same height as my twin and of being much with her, I plead guilty. If you accuse us both of being much taller than our esteemed contemporary, Mary Flannagan, we both will plead guilty. As for running out in the night and scaring poor old Mr. Ryan to death,--why, that is absurd. We can prove as many alibis as necessary. Remember, though, we are merely twins and not triplets, nor yet quartettes. One alibi apiece is all we mean to furnish." "And I," said Dee, as Dum paused for breath, "I! I don't mean for one instant to furnish an alibi or anything else. I was not out of the Gym after we unmasked at nine until ten when we went to our rooms. I am accustomed to having my word believed and I do not intend to prove anything one way or the other. A criminal is innocent until he is proven guilty, anyhow, and I will leave the matter entirely in your hands." Dee sat down with a crash and opened a book. Miss Plympton looked somewhat taken aback, but she continued in her hard and even tones: "Do you mean to tell me then, Miss Vir--oline Tucker,--I mean the one who has just sat down,--do you mean to tell me you have no idea who the masked figures were who ran after Mr. Ryan?" "No, I did not mean to tell you that," said Dee, shutting her book very deliberately and rising again. "You did not ask me that question. But since you intimate that you did, rather than befoul my mouth with even the semblance of a lie, I will tell you that I have a very strong idea who the masked figures were, but that I have not the slightest idea of informing you or any one else on whom my suspicions rest." As Dee bumped down into her seat there was a murmur of admiration and wonder from the assembled school. Even Annie's bravery sank into insignificance by the side of this daring deed of Dee's. The Juniors who had been implicated in the feast of the night before were greatly astonished and somewhat relieved at the turn of affairs. They had felt that something was in the wind and certainly thought it was their feast at midnight. It seems that old Mr. Ryan had run all the way home and when he reached there was so out of breath that it took him many minutes to tell his wife what was the matter. He had refused to go to the school to keep watch on such a night, when graves give up their dead. The wife had come in the early morning to resign for her timid spouse. The tale had grown greatly in the telling and now the negro servants had it that sparks of fire flew from the eyes of the ghostly trio. No doubt that was Wink's cigarette, for he had threatened to light it before he was well out of the building. No wonder we had been able to pull off our midnight party without detection since the school had been minus a night watchman! We were all of us glad we were in trouble over something we had not done instead of something we had done. When Dee sat down with such a vicious bump, we wondered what next, but Miss Plympton soon put our minds at rest. She made about half a dozen new chins and then spoke, her voice not quite so even as before. "It is not my intention to bandy words with mere school girls, but I feel that in justice to myself, I must say that it is not merely the fact of the contrasting heights of these malefactors, but it is also evidence of a very convincing character that has been brought to light." We were all ears, waiting for the disclosure. "It is a well-known fact that the Misses Tucker use large handkerchiefs, gentlemen's handkerchiefs. This has been brought to my attention through mistakes that have occurred in the laundry,--ahem--using a similar kind myself,--" Here a smile went over the listening school. "This morning a handkerchief was picked up on exactly the spot where Mr. Ryan began his race with the supposed ghosts." Exhibit No. 1 was then produced and held up for inspection. It was a large and very shady-looking handkerchief with a great red T in the corner. We knew it in a moment for the property of Thomas Hawkins (alias Shorty). "See the initial!" pointing to the red T. We had joked Shorty the summer before about his very large and gaudy handkerchiefs. He had a varied assortment of H's and T's in all colours of the rainbow. Now Dum arose in her might. Her attitude was dignified and quiet and she held up her hand for permission to speak. "What is it, Caro--ginia?" "I wish to say, Miss Plympton, that up to this juncture I have felt that you have been making a mistake, the kind any one might make in a case of mistaken identity, that you have jumped to a conclusion, feeling as you do that my sister and I and our friends are rather wild,--but now let me say, Miss Plympton, that you have overstepped the possibility of being merely mistaken and I consider your remarks and accusations nothing short of insulting. It is bad enough to think we would go out in the night and deliberately scare a poor superstitious old man, but to think," and here Dum's voice took on that oratorical ring that I have heard Zebedee's take when he was very much in earnest about proving a point, "to think that my sister and I would own such a terribly inartistic looking handkerchief as the one you are holding, a great thick, cotton rag with a red initial on it,--and furthermore openly to accuse either one of us of carrying about our persons anything so filthy, so unspeakably dirty,--I wonder you can touch it!" This she said with such a vigorous intonation that Miss Plympton actually dropped the despised handkerchief. "And now, Miss Plympton, my sister and I will with your permission withdraw and will await an apology from you in our room, 117 Carter Hall." Before the amazed eyes of Miss Plympton and the whole school, those intrepid twins actually got up and with the greatest composure marched out of the assembly hall. Instead of having to prove their innocence, they had completely turned the tables on Miss Plympton and were demanding an apology from her about something that was entirely foreign to the matter in hand. Miss Plympton made some more chins and then quite like a good sport accepted her defeat and dismissed us to our classes, and as far as I know, to this day Mr. Ryan does not know what came so near getting him. He was persuaded to resume his duties, however. We nearly died laughing at Mary Flannagan, who got quite huffy at Dum for being so scornful of Shorty's cotton handkerchief. "It was a very appropriate, manly handkerchief and I don't think it was at all nice of Dum Tucker to say such mean things about it," fumed Mary, refusing to be comforted. "I hate a sissy boy who uses fine handkerchiefs. The kind Shorty has are good for so many things. He uses them to dust his shoes with and lots of other things." "Never mind, Mary, it was a nice handkerchief and if you want it, I'll go sneak it off the stage where old Miss Plumpton dropped it," I said, teasing our funny friend. I did get it and had it nicely laundered and put it on the school Christmas tree for Mary, much to her confusion. Tweedles told me they had hardly been in their room five minutes when Miss Ball came to see them as an emissary from Miss Plympton. She brought Miss Plympton's apology for the slur put upon them in regard to the handkerchief. It seems that their attitude in that matter had quite won over that strange woman, as she herself never used anything but the finest linen handkerchiefs and she quite appreciated their feelings. "Miss Plympton hopes you will accept her apology," continued Miss Ball; "she also hopes you will assist her in every way to find out the offenders so she can bring them to justice." "Now, Miss Ball, you know us well enough to feel that you are wasting your breath, don't you?" asked Dee. "Well, yes, but you must remember I am merely an emissary." "Well, as man to man, Miss Ball, is it up to us to tell all we suspect might possibly go on _outside_ of the school grounds?" "Oh! then it may not have been pupils from our school?" "Possibly not! But don't quote me. I merely suggest that you suggest," and Dee shut up like a clam. Miss Ball was not at all in love with her job as emissary and had no idea of trying to force a confession from Tweedles, so she left them no wiser than she came and the Tuckers resumed their classes as though nothing had occurred to interrupt the peace of the day. Miss Plympton seemed to have more respect for our crowd than she had before that scene in the assembly hall. The biggest thing that came from that experience, though, was that Dum and Dee Tucker immediately sent to Richmond for ladies' handkerchiefs. "We'll save the big ones for blowers but we must have some showers!" they tweedled. CHAPTER IX. ECCLESIASTICAL POWER. "Girls! Girls! Zebedee has gone and done it!" yelled Dee, bursting in the door of 117 and waving a lettergram wildly over her head. "Done what?" I gasped. Dee was so excited that I could not tell whether she was overcome with joy or grief. I had a terrible feeling way down in my bed-room slippers that maybe Zebedee had gone and got himself married. It was quite early in the morning, at least ten minutes before breakfast, and we were just getting into our clothes when Dee, the last one coming from the bath, had run against the maid in the hall, bringing up this mysterious message from Zebedee. "Oh, it is just like him!" "What's just like him?" and Dum snatched the telegram from her sister, and read: "'By wire-pulling, leg-pulling and visits to the Bishop and other clergy, have obtained a special dispensation for Tweedles, Page, Annie and Mary to be in Richmond for Thanksgiving game. Am wiring spondulix to Miss Plympton. Pack duds and take first train you can catch. I am treating the crowd. Zebedee.'" We performed a Lobster Quadrille then and there in honour of Zebedee and then we gave the mystic rap for Annie and Mary. Of course Annie did not think she should accept the railroad trip from Zebedee and wondered what her father would say, but we simply overrode her objections. All the time we were getting into our clothes as fast as we could, as there was an ominous sound below of breakfast on the way, and in a moment the gong boomed forth and we raced down stairs, I still in my bedroom slippers and Dum with her plait on the inside of her middy, hoping to conceal the fact that she had not combed her hair, only smoothed it over. Miss Plympton was not very gracious over our going. It was not usual for pupils to leave the school on Thanksgiving. That feast comes so close to Christmas it is quite an interruption to the education of the young; but what was she to do but comply? A special delivery letter from the Bishop, a telegram from two preachers and one from the Board of Directors of Gresham were certainly compelling, and there was nothing for her to do but consent. It was Wednesday and the next day was Thanksgiving. It seemed to me as though that day would never pass. We had to go to classes as usual and make a show of paying attention and reciting. Our train did not leave until six in the evening, at least, that was the one Miss Plympton decided we were to take, although we had hoped against hope that she would let us get off at noon. She was adamant on that score, however, and we had to be thankful that she would let us take that instead of keeping us over until the next morning, which would have meant arising at dawn and going breakfastless to a six a. m. local. Miss Plympton had been rather nicer to us since the episode in the last chapter. She had almost mastered the difference between Dum and Dee, and about once out of three times called them by their right names. She had always been rather nicer to me than to my chums and now she was, in a way, quite pleasant to me. This summons from Mr. Tucker had upset her recently acquired politeness and all day she found something to pick on our quintette. She chose as a subject of her history lecture the pernicious effect of arbitrary ecclesiastical power, which drew from me an involuntary smile. I thought she was off on a satisfying hobby and let my thoughts wander to the delights of our proposed trip to Richmond and a real blood and thunder football match between Carolina and Virginia. Suddenly I was awakened from my dream of bliss by Miss Plympton's addressing a remark to me: "Miss Allison, why were the Estates General convoked but rarely under Charles VI and VII?" "Estates General?" I gasped for time. What was the woman talking about anyhow? I thought she was off on arbitrary ecclesiastical power and here she was firing Estates General at me and raking up old scandals on Charles VI and VII. I couldn't answer on the spur of the moment, so I just giggled. "Miss Allison, I have been an instructor of history for many years and I have never yet found a pupil who could giggle her way through it. It is one subject that requires study." I took the reprimand like a lamb and tried to concentrate, but Mr. Tucker's cheerful countenance kept forcing its way in front of Estates General, and what that history lesson was about I do not know to this day. Six o'clock came at last and we piled on the train, the envy of all the girls at Gresham who had not had somebody pull wires and legs of the Bishop and other Clergy so they could go spend Thanksgiving in Richmond and see the famous game. Our train did not puff into the station at Richmond until way into the night and we were tired and very hungry. Our food since a one o'clock dinner had been nothing but stacks of chocolate and crackers and chewing gum and fruit we had purchased from the train butcher, who passed us every five minutes of the journey with a fresh supply of tempting wares. "Hello, girls!" Zebedee embraced all of us with his kind eyes, but Tweedles with his arms. "Geewhilikins! but I am glad to see you! I was afraid you were never coming. Train an hour late and I know you are starving." "Starving? Starved!" exclaimed Dum. "Well, I've had some eats sent up to the apartment and maybe you can make out until morning on what I have there." We packed ourselves two deep in the faithful Henry. We were tired and hungry but sleep was a million miles from the thought of any of us. When we arrived at the Tuckers' apartment and had satisfied the cravings of our inner men with the very substantial food that our host had provided for us, we decided that we might as well make a night of it, so we sat up to the wee small hours regaling the delighted Zebedee with tales of Gresham and Miss Plympton's chins. "I declare, you girls tell so many stirring tales of adventure I should think you would write a book about it. If it were possible for a mere man to do such a thing, I'd write a book for girls and put all of you in it." "Please don't," I begged, "because I am going to do that very thing myself just as soon as I get through with school. 'Bright, clean, juvenile fiction,' as the ads say, that's what I mean to make of it." "Are you going to put me in?" he pleaded. "Of course! Aren't you in it? How could I make a book of all of us without you?" "Well, if I am going to be in the great book of books as a hero of romance, I think I'd best go to bed and get some beauty sleep so I can make a good appearance in fiction. I've had a cot put up for myself in an empty apartment on the floor below so you young ladies can have the freedom of the flat. I'm going to let you sleep until luncheon. We have to get an early start for the ball park so we can get a good place. Speaking of romance,--did I tell you that Miss Mabel Binks is making a visit with your Cousin Park Garnett, Page?" "Heavens!" tweedled the twins. "Old Mabel Binks is always around." "She is looking very handsome, and is quite toned down. She is having a ripping time in society and Mrs. Garnett is doing a lot for her, dinner parties, teas and such." "I bet you have been to them and are being nice to her!" stormed Dum. "Well, I have been so-so nice to her but not so terribly attentive. She is not my style exactly." But Dum and Dee would not be satisfied until Zebedee promised he would not be any nicer to Mabel Binks in the future than common politeness demanded, and that they were to be the judge of what common politeness did demand. Zebedee went off laughing to seek his lowly cot in the vacant apartment and we were soon asleep, but the last thing Tweedles said was: "Horrid old Mabel Binks!" And certainly the last thing I thought before slumber held me was the same thing. CHAPTER X. VIRGINIA VERSUS CAROLINA. What a day that Thanksgiving was! Could anything be more fun than to be sixteen ('most seventeen); to have devoted friends; good health; to be allowed to sleep until mid-day; to get up to a good breakfast luncheon; and by one o'clock to be on the streets of Richmond en route for the great event of the year: the football match between Virginia and Carolina? We were in such a gale that Zebedee threatened to lock us up for the day. "I am afraid you will disgrace me before night," he declared. The best thing of all that happened was a sharp ringing of the bell while we were having the luncheon Zebedee had brought from the café and served in the apartment, and who should come in but Father? Zebedee had long-distanced him to Bracken and in spite of the sickly condition of the neighbourhood and Sally Winn's having him up in the night, he had caught the train to Richmond and was like a boy off on a holiday. Instead of the snug little Henry Ford that we had expected to go to the game in, Zebedee had rented for the day a great seven-seated car that held us all quite comfortably. It was a rusty old thing but was decorated from end to end with blue and yellow, the University of Virginia colours. Our host had ready for us a dozen huge yellow chrysanthemums, two for each girl and one for each man. We looked like a float in a parade and as we chugged out Monument Avenue, every one turned to look at the gay car. Everybody had a horn and everybody blew like Gabriel on the last day. Of course Zebedee had found out the very best place on the grounds to park the car and of course he got that place. He was a man of great resources and always seemed to know exactly where to apply for what he wanted. For instance, his getting permission for us to leave Gresham for Thanksgiving holidays was simply unprecedented. As he said, he had pulled every wire in sight, and where there wasn't a wire, he found a leg. Anyhow, there we were. "How on earth did you get such a grand place for the car?" asked Dee. A policeman seemed to be saving it for us, as the parking privileges were not very extensive at the ball grounds. "Oh, newspaper men get there somehow. We have what one might call 'press-tige'." We were wedged in between two cars, one decorated with the Virginia colours and one with the Carolina, white and light blue. Both were filled to overflowing with enthusiastic rooters for their respective states. The crowd was immense. I never saw so many people together. All of them seemed gay and happy, and good nature was the order of the day. There was much pushing and crowding, but no one seemed to mind in the least. The grandstand was creaking and groaning with people, and every inch of space within six feet of the fence that enclosed the gridiron was packed and jammed with one solid mass of enthusiasm. Zebedee seemed to know about half of the people who passed us. He had his hat off more than he had it on and usually called out some greeting to his acquaintances, who one and all addressed him as: "Jeff." Father saw many old cronies, schoolmates of by-gone years, members of his fraternity and learned doctors and surgeons, who, I noticed, greeted him with great respect and affection. Our car was the center of attraction seemingly. Young men and old stopped to speak to Father and Zebedee, were introduced to us and stayed to chat. Our old car gave several ominous squeaks as the visitors climbed on the steps or perched on the sides. It took it out in squeaking and did not go to pieces as I for a moment feared it would, but settled down into submission. "If there isn't old Judge Grayson!" shouted Dee. "I wish he would look this way." There he was, our friend of Willoughby Beach. His old pink face was beaming with enthusiasm as he wedged his way through the crowd. "Grayson! Grayson! Rah, rah, rah!" and then Zebedee blew such a blast from his beribboned horn that the crowd trembled and turned as one man, and Judge Grayson, of course, turning with them, saw us. He waved his large soft felt hat and in a moment was up in the car greeting us with his old-fashioned courtesy. "'Ah! happy years! Once more, who would not be a boy?'" Of course the dear old man had to greet us with a quotation. "Gad, Tucker, it is good to see you and your young ladies once more! Are you sure I won't crowd you, getting up in your car this way?" "Crowd us, indeed! We've got room for a dozen friends if they were as welcome as you, eh, girls?" We agreed, but the rented car gave another groan. Then the teams came trotting in, twenty-two stalwart giants. "I can't tell one from the other," I said. "There's George Massie, there, standing by himself to the left! Sleepy! Sleepy! Massie! Massie!" yelled Zebedee like a Comanche Indian. We all took it up until the object of our excitement heard his name above the roar of the crowd and looked our way. We were not so very far from him and he saw us and he said afterwards that the sun shone on Annie's hair so that he just knew who we were. "Hello, peoples!" Who but Wink White and Harvie Price should come clambering in our car from the back? Some good-natured passerby had given them a leg-up over the lowered top. The car gave another moan of agony. She was built to seat seven not to stand twenty, but stand at least twenty she had to. I was still dignified with Wink and Harvie for the position they had put us in at Gresham, but they were so contrite and so jolly that I had to cave in and be pleasant. It was too bright a day to have a grouch with any one, and besides, they had not really got us into trouble after all. Zebedee thought as I did, that they were certainly selfish and thoughtless to place us where sure expulsion would have been the outcome had the authorities discovered that boys had come to the dance, and we had been in a measure party to the crime. Harvie and Wink had not heard of how the escapade had turned out, as we had had no opportunity of informing them. We had been very careful in speaking of the matter at all and had only divulged our part in the affair to a chosen few who had sworn never to tell a soul. It was too good a story to keep indefinitely, however, and now Dum and Dee together told the whole thing while the teams were trotting around, making senseless looking passes (senseless to the uninitiated, at least). The automobile rocked with laughter at their description of Wink's tan shoes, No. 8, that were much in evidence under the drapery, and Harvie's falsetto giggle that at one time turned into a baritone guffaw. "What's the joke? What's the joke?" A strident voice broke into our gaiety. It could belong to only one person of my acquaintance. Sure enough, there stood Mabel Binks with all the glory of a grown-up society beau in her wake and all the manner a month of débutanting could give her. "Let me introduce Mr. Parker, girls. You just adore girls, don't you, Mr. Parker?" Mr. Parker, who was in a measure the Beau Brummel of Richmond, assured us he did and immediately took stock of our charms, at least that was his air, as Mabel, with many flourishes, presented us. She was quite impressive in her manner of introducing Tweedles and Annie Pore, and I heard her whisper behind her hand that Annie was a "descendant of nobilities." She almost ignored me altogether, but finally brought me in as "little Miss Allison from the country," and pretended to have entirely forgotten Mary's name. Mr. Parker was a type I had never met before. He was good looking and clever in a way, always knowing the latest joke and the last bit of gossip and retailing his knowledge to his greatest advantage, that is, never getting it off to one person but saving himself for an audience worthy of his wit. He was older than Zebedee, in his forties I should say, but his countenance was as rosy as a boy's. Dee declared she knew for a fact that he had his face massaged every day. His attire was as carefully thought out as any belle's: socks and tie to match, shoes and gloves also to match, and scarf pin and jewelled wrist watch in harmony with his general get-up. He was a man, I was told, not of the F.F.V.'s, but from his earliest youth Society with a big S had been his object and he had made good. He was invited everywhere but went only to those places that he felt would help him in his great object, that of being Dictator, as it were, to Society. He controlled the vote as to whether or not a débutante was a success. If he said she was to be the rage, she was the rage, and if her charms did not appeal to him, it was a very wonderful thing for her to get by with them. He was a man of no wealth, having held for many years the same position in a bank at a comfortable salary. It was no more than enough to enable him to belong to all clubs, to live in bachelor apartments, to support thirty pairs of trousers and a suitable number of coats and various grades of waistcoats, fancy and otherwise, and shoes and shoe-trees that mighty forests must have been denuded to obtain. Mr. Parker had smiled on the effulgent beauty of Mabel Binks, and her social fortune was made. Any girl with social ambition would rather be seen at the ball game with Hiram G. Parker than any other man in Richmond, although he was never known to have seats in the grandstand or to take a girl in an automobile. The honour of being with him was sufficient, and the prestige gained by his favour was greater than all the boxes in the grandstand could give or the delight of riding in a year-after-next model of the finest car built. Mr. Parker made no excuses, they say he never did, but just handed his lady fair up into our car and stepped in after her as though they had received written invitations. The car was already full to overflowing and so overflow it did. Father and Wink spilled out and were soon walking arm-and-arm, evidently striking up quite a friendship. Mabel made her usual set at Zebedee, who was willy-nilly engrossed by her favour. Mr. Parker eyed all of us with the air of an appraiser and Dum said afterwards she felt as a little puppy in a large litter must feel when the hard-hearted owner is trying to decide which ones must be drowned. Before he could decide which ones of us, if any, would make successful débutantes, the game was in full swing and even Mr. Parker had to let the social game give way to that of football. My, how we yelled! We yelled when Virginia came near making a point, and we yelled when she came near losing one. When we could yell no longer we blew our horns until throats were rested enough to take up the burden of yelling once more. Zebedee, standing out on the engine to make room for his many guests, invited and otherwise, behaved like a windmill in a cyclone. He waved his arms and legs and shouted encouragement to our side until they could not have had the heart to be beaten. Father's behaviour was really not much more dignified than Zebedee's. Love for his Alma Mater was as strong as ever and he rooted with as much fervor as any one on the grounds. Sleepy's playing was wonderful. I could hardly believe he was the same man we had known at Willoughby. There was nothing sleepy about him now; on the contrary, he was about as wide awake a young man as one could find. He seemed to have the faculty of being in many places at one time, and if he once got the ball in those mighty hands, it took eleven men to stop him. When he would drop, great would be the fall thereof. Sorry, indeed, did I feel for the one who was under him when he fell. He must have weighed a good two hundred pounds and over. He certainly did the best playing on the Virginia team, so we thought, and when he made a touch-down that Zebedee said should go down in history, we were very proud of being friends with the great Massie. We won! Everybody in our car was wild with delight, but I must say my pleasure was somewhat dampened when I saw the people in the car next to us, the one decorated in light blue and white, in such deep dejection. A middle-aged man was openly weeping and his nice, pleasant-looking wife was trying to console him and at the same time wiping her own eyes. Their son was on the Carolina team. It seems strange for non-combatants to take defeat so much to heart, but it is just this kind of enthusiasm that makes the annual game between Virginia and Carolina what it is: something to live for from year to year in the minds of a great many persons. If Father, with no son to root for, could have tears of joy in his eyes because Virginia won, why should not the father of the Carolina player weep copiously when his state lost? The victorious team were picked up bodaciously by the shouting crowd and borne on their shoulders to the waiting cars. The great Massie, begrimed almost beyond recognition, passed us in a broad grin. Zebedee leaped over the fence and shook the young giant's dirty hand. "Come to dinner with us! Got a table reserved at the Jefferson! Dinner at six! Dance after!" Of course Sleepy was pleased to come, having espied the sun glinting on Annie's hair. "Of all sights the rarest And surely the fairest Was the shine of her yellow hair; In the sunlight gleaming, Each gold curl seeming A thing beyond compare. Oh, were it the fashion For love to be passion, And knights still to joust for the fair, There'd be tender glances And couching of lances At the shine of her golden hair." I know Sleepy felt like a knight of old, way down in his shy heart, as he grabbed that football and turned over all his doughty opponents making for the goal. In his heart he wore Annie's colours and in his mind he kissed her little hand. Annie had been receiving Harvie's devotion with much politeness, but now that Sleepy was the hero of the hour, she turned from her more dapper admirer and waved her hand to the delighted and blushing George. Girls all love a football player. They are simply made that way. I think perhaps it is some old medieval spirit stirring within us, and we, too, fancy ourselves to be the ladyes faire and idealize the tumbling, rolling, sweating, swearing boys into our own true knights. After the Virginia team, borne by in triumph, came the poor Carolina men. They had put up a splendid fight and there had been moments when their success seemed possible. They took their defeat like the gentlemen they were, but I saw their mouths were trembling and one enormous blond with a shock of hair resembling our big yellow chrysanthemums, had his great hands up before his mud-caked face and his mighty shoulders were shaking with sobs, sobs that came from a real broken heart. I hope a hot bath and a cold shower and a good Thanksgiving dinner helped to mend that heart, but it was certainly broken for the time being if ever heart was. Now we all of us yelled for Carolina, yelled even harder than we had for our own team, and they gave us a sickly smile of gratitude. During the game Mr. Parker had been very busy in his polite attentions to all of us, and from his generally agreeable manner it looked as though he thought we were all worth saving and none of the litter was to be drowned. Mabel had renewed her attack on Zebedee and had crawled out on the engine by him, where she stood clutching his arm for support and generally behaving as though he were her own private property. "She makes me sick!" declared Dum. "And Zebedee acting just as though he liked it!" "Well, what must he do? Let her fall off?" I asked. "Yes, let her fall off and stay off!" All was over at last and the automobiles were busy backing out of their places. Mr. Parker gathered in the pushing Mabel, who had done everything in her power to be asked to dinner with us at the Jefferson, but Zebedee had had so many quiet digs from Tweedles that even had he considered her an addition to the party, he would have been afraid to include her. Our car was the last one out of the grounds because Mabel took so long to make up her mind to get off the engine and accept an invitation from some acquaintances who passed and asked her to let them take her home. "See you to-night!" she called affectionately to Tweedles as she finally took advantage of the offer. "Not if we see you first!" they tweedled, in an aside. CHAPTER XI. THANKSGIVING DINNER. "Just an hour for you girls to rest up and beautify yourselves and it will be time to break our fast at the Jefferson!" exclaimed Mr. Tucker as we swung up in our rocking old car to the door of the apartment house. "We will be eleven strong, counting White, Price and Massie. The Judge is to join us in the lobby of the hotel. I'll see if I can find some one to make it twelve." "All right, but not Mabel Binks!" warned Dee. "Why not? She isn't so bad. I find her quite agreeable," teased Zebedee. "I think she would be quite an addition to the party--" "Well, you just get her if you want to, but I'll let you know I will smear cranberry sauce on her if she sits near me," stormed Dum. I thought Tweedles made a great mistake in nagging so about Mabel. I had known very few men in my life, not near as many as the twins, but I had learned with the few I did know that a bad way to manage them was to let them know you were trying to. I, myself, felt rather blue about the way Mabel was monopolizing Zebedee, but I would have bitten out my tongue by the roots before I would have let him know it. Of course fathers are different from just friends. I don't know what I should have done if some flashy, designing person had made a dead set at Father. There weren't any flashy, designing females in our part of the county, and if there had been, I fancy they would not have aspired to the quiet, simple life that being the wife of a country doctor insured. For my part I should have liked a stepmother since I could not have my own mother. I often thought how nice it would have been if Father could have had a sweet wife to be with him while I was off at school. I trusted Father's good taste and judgment enough to know he would choose the right kind of woman if he chose at all. He never chose at all, however, although the many relatives who visited us during the summer made many matches for him in their minds. I hoped if he did make up his mind to go "a-courting" that the stepmother would wear my size shoes and gloves, and maybe her hats would be becoming to me. Even Mammy Susan tried to play Cupid and get Docallison to marry; but he used to say: "No, no! Matrimony is too much of a lottery and the chances are against a man's drawing two prizes in one lifetime." Tweedles fought the idea of a stepmother with all their might and main. I think one reason that it was ever uppermost in their minds was that so many well meaning friends were constantly suggesting to them the possibility and suitability of Zebedee's taking unto himself another wife. "Well, we'll make it hot for her all right, whoever she may be," they would declare. I never had a doubt that they would, too. I felt it was really an insult to Mr. Tucker to think he could become infatuated with such a person as Mabel Binks, but then, on the other hand, I knew how easy it is to flatter men; and while Zebedee did not like to be run after, Mabel's evident admiration and appreciation of him would, as a matter of course, soften his heart. Mabel was, however, not asked to make the twelfth at that Thanksgiving feast. Whether it was the dread of the battle royal that Dum was prepared to fight with cranberry sauce or just simply that Zebedee did not want her himself I did not know, but I was certainly relieved to find that our host had decided to leave the seat vacant. "We can let Mr. Manners sit in it," he said, squaring his chin at Dum. The Tuckers had played a game, when they were younger, called "Mr. Manners." That fictitious gentleman was always invited in when any rudeness was in evidence. Dum certainly had been rude about the cranberry sauce. "Yes, do!" snapped Dum, "and let him sit next to you--you started it--" "All right, honey, we'll put him between us and both of us will try to learn from him." So peace was restored. We had entered the Jefferson Hotel while Dum and her father were having the little sparring match, and as we came into the enclosure where the fountain plays and the baby alligators and turtles splash among the ferns and the beautiful statue of Thomas Jefferson stands in all its quiet peace and dignity, it seemed to me that quarreling was entirely unnecessary and I said as much. "You are right, Page," said Mr. Tucker. "There is always something singularly soothing and peaceful about this spot and it seems kind of an insult to Thomas Jefferson to be anything but well-bred in his presence." Our table was laid in the large dining-room and we were hungry enough to go right in to dinner, but the lobby was so full of excited and boisterous people rushing back and forth and greeting each other, hunting lost friends, finding old acquaintances, etc., that we hung over the balcony looking at the gay throng and forgetting that we were short one meal for the day, having crowded breakfast and luncheon into one. "Service is mighty slow on a crowded day like this, so you had better come eat," and Zebedee led the way to our table, where Stephen White, Harvie Price and George Massie immediately joined us. We had picked up Judge Grayson in the lobby. Of course George, alias Sleepy, was the toast of the occasion, and he blushed so furiously that he looked as though Dum had carried out her threat against Mabel and smeared poor, inoffensive and modest Sleepy with cranberry juice. We asked him so many questions and paid him so much attention that Zebedee finally interfered and made us let him alone. "You won't let the boy eat and I know he is starving," and so he was,--and so were all of us. We ate right through a long table d'hôte dinner, ordering every thing in sight from blue points to café noir. Wherever there was a choice of dainties we took both, much to the amusement of the very swell waiter, whose black face shone with delight in anticipation of the handsome tip he knew by experience was forthcoming when Jeffry Tucker gave his girls a party. "Pink ice cream for me!" exclaimed Father, when the question of dessert arose. "And me! And me!" from Mary and Annie and me. "Don't stop with that," begged Dee. "Dum and I always get everything on the menu for dessert except pumpkin pie. We can't go that." "Now pumpkin pie is all I want," put in the dear old Judge. "I feel sure you do not know the delights of pumpkin pie or you would not speak so slightingly of it. Do you happen to know this piece of poetry? "'Ah! on Thanksgiving Day When from East and from West, From North and from South Come the pilgrim and guest; When the care-wearied man Seeks his mother once more; And the worn matron smiles Where the girl smiled before: What moistens the lip, And what brightens the eye, What brings back the past Like the rich pumpkin pie?'" "Brava! Brava! Bring me some pumpkin pie along with the pink ice cream," cried Father. "And me!" "And me!" "And me!" The cry echoed from first one and then the other, all down the line. The waiter came in bearing great stacks of quarters of pies, since every one of the eleven guests had demanded it. "Th'ain't no mo'!" he said solemnly, as he put down the last slice in front of Zebedee. And that sent us off into such a gale of merriment that all the dining-room turned to see what was the matter. But the Richmond public seemed to think that what Jeffry Tucker and his twins did was all right, and if they chose to have a party and laugh so loud that one could not hear the band play, it was a privilege they were entitled to and no one must mind. I know we sat at that table two hours, as the service was slow with so many guests in the hotel. The food was good and we had plenty of time and when our ravenous appetites were somewhat appeased by the first courses, we cared not how long it took. We were having a jolly time with a congenial crowd, and a table in the big dining-room at the Jefferson was just as good a place to have it as any. The ball was not to begin until ten, so when we had devoured the last crumb of the bountiful repast we adjourned to a motion picture show to fill in the time. Wink White seemed rather anxious to have a talk with me, evidently desirous of making peace in regard to the masquerade on Allhalloween, but just as he was with some formality offering me his escort to the movies, Zebedee came up and without further ado or "by your leave," tucked my arm in his and led off the procession with me. "I haven't seen a thing of you, little friend, on this mad trip and I want to talk to you," and talk to me he did, about everything under the sun, but principally about whether I thought Gresham was helping Tweedles and bringing out the best that was in them. "They seem to me to be slangier than ever," which amused me very much as Mr. Tucker himself was the slangiest grown-up person I had ever known, and why he should have expected anything else of his girls I could not see. "All of us are slangy, but I can't see that it is taught to us at Gresham. In fact, I believe that Tweedles introduce all the newest slang and we sit at their feet to learn. I don't know where they get it, but every now and then they come out with a choice bit that is immediately gobbled up and incorporated into our lexicon of slang." "I'm afraid they get it from me," and Zebedee looked so solemn and sad that I could not help laughing. I knew they got it from him, and while I thought Gresham was not the place it had been under Miss Peyton's management, I did not think it should be blamed for the things that it was not responsible for. "Sometimes I think it would have been better for them if I had married again. Some real good settled stepmother would have taught them how to behave but, somehow, I have never had a leaning myself towards real good settled persons who might have been good for Tweedles. When the possibility of marrying again has ever come into my head, and I must confess that sometimes it does when I am lonesome, I can only think of some bright young girl as the one for me, some one near the age of Tweedles; and then I know that Tweedles would raise Cain. And no matter how fond they might have been of the girl beforehand, the moment they should get a suspicion that I am interested in her they would--well, they might smear her with cranberry sauce." "But Tweedles never did like Mabel Binks!" "Of course not! I was not thinking about Mabel Binks," and Zebedee went off into a roar of laughter. "I just meant that that form of revenge might be handed out to any luckless lady who met with my approval. I think Miss Binks could do as much damage with cranberry sauce as the twins combined. She seems to me a person singularly fitted to look out for Number One." "I think she is, but in a battle royal I bet on Tweedles," and so I did. I was greatly relieved to hear Zebedee say that he was not talking about Mabel in connection with a nice settled stepmother for his girls, but I wondered who it could be. Maybe she would be at the ball that night and I could have an opportunity of judging whether or not she might get on with my dear friends. I felt sorry for them, terribly sorry, and I felt sorry for Zebedee's little Virginia, the poor little wife who had lived such a very short time. How did she feel about having a successor? "How faithless men are!" I thought, forgetting entirely that I had rather wanted my own father to marry again. Anyhow, it was not Mabel Binks! CHAPTER XII. THE BALL. I can't fancy that the time will ever come when I shall be too jaded to be thrilled at the mere mention of a ball. On that Thanksgiving evening it seems to me I had every thrill that can come to a girl. I had been to but few dances--the one at the Country Club the winter before and the hop at Willoughby were the only real ones, and this grown-up ball with the lights and music and the handsomely gowned women and dapper men made me right dizzy with excitement. The twins took a ball as rather a matter of course, having been dancing around with their young father ever since they could toddle, but Annie's eyes were sparkling with joy and Mary Flannagan, who was very bunchy in "starch paper blue" taffeta, the very stiff kind with many gathers around her waist, was jumping up and down, keeping time to the music. Mary, with all her bunchiness, was an excellent dancer and as light on her feet as a gas balloon, (if a gas balloon could have feet). Sometimes her voluminous skirts had quite the appearance of a balloon and seemed to buoy her up. Mary was so frank and honest and gay that every one had to like her, and, strange to say, boys, who as a rule are quite snobbish about appearances and insist on a certain amount of beauty or style in the girls they go with, all liked Mary and she never lacked for a partner at a dance. She was so amusing and witty that they lost sight of her freckled face and scrambled red hair. Mary had good hard common sense, too, and such a level head that we were very apt to ask her advice on every subject in spite of the fact that she was many months younger than any of us. A cross-eyed cow would have had a good time at that Thanksgiving ball. There were so many stags and all of them seemed so eager to dance that the girls were really overworked. Wink and Harvie introduced many University of Virginia men to us and we had the honour of dancing with every member of the football team who was able to hobble. George Massie, poor Sleepy, who had been so wide awake on the gridiron and so unconscious of himself, in the ball room was overcome with shyness. He was a very good dancer if he did break through a crowd with somewhat the manner of a centre rush. He danced with Annie Pore wherever he could get to her and when some eager swain tried to break in he would seize her in his mighty grasp and bear her away with about the same ease he would a football. If opponents went down under and before him, why then next time they would know better than get in his way. Annie looked very lovely. The faithful white crêpe de chine had been cleaned and was still doing its duty. I heard many persons ask who she was and especially eager did the public seem to establish her identity when the great and only Hiram G. Parker singled her out for his attentions. "Does she belong in Richmond?" "She is sure to be a next year's belle with this start she is getting with Hiram G." "I can't see what he sees in her. She has no style to speak of and that dress is plainly last year's model," this from a lady whose daughter was what put in my mind the remark I just made about cross-eyed cows. You felt she was led out to dance only because of the superfluity of males. "Now that Miss Binks from Newport News," continued the mystified lady, "that girl has some style and you can see why Hiram G. took a fancy to her. Of course those Binkses are common as pig tracks but the mother is well connected and they do say that old Binks has made money hand over fist. Mrs. Garnett met her at Willoughby and asked her up to visit her. You may be sure she is rich because we know she has no claim to being an aristocrat. Park Garnett demands either blood or money." All of this I overheard between dances. I was standing on the edge of the crowd with Wink White with whom I had been laboriously dancing. I never could dance with Wink; we never seemed to be able to get in step. I knew it was his fault and he thought it was mine. He would persist, however, in asking me to dance. The conversation of the chaperones was rather embarrassing to both of us as Mabel was Wink's cousin, his family being the good connection that Mrs. Binks could boast of, and Mrs. Garnett was my cousin. We were forced, though, to hear more as we were wedged in near them for a few moments. "They do say that Jeffry Tucker is paying Miss Binks a lot of attention. I saw her in his car at the game to-day and my daughter tells me that the girl is begigged about him. She actually broke a partial engagement with Hiram G. Parker to go somewhere with Mr. Tucker last week." "Well, well! She looks fit to cope with those Heavenly Twins!" "Oh! They aren't so bad now. They do say they are toned down a lot. School has been good for them." "They never were to say bad--just wild and harum-scarum. I'd hate to think Jeffry Tucker would give his girls such a young stepmother. They need some middle-aged person." "Yes, but poor Jeffry! Can't you see him tied to some middle-aged person? He is too young a man to marry for his children's sake." "Well, he's too old a man to marry a girl right out of school and expect his daughters to respect her." I was certainly glad to start dancing again even with the four-footed Wink. It is a strange thing what makes a good dancer. Some of the most awkward-looking persons dance beautifully and, vice versa, some very graceful ones are as stiff as pokers on the ballroom floor. Now Wink was a very well set up young man, tall, broad shouldered, with an erect carriage, almost soldierly in his bearing. It is all right to walk like a soldier but to dance the way a soldier walks is not so exemplary. Wink always had a kind of "Present arms! March!" manner and a girl does not like to be held and carried around like a musket. Dee declared she thought Wink was a good dancer and she could make out finely with him, and thank goodness, Wink had found this out and broke in on Dee more than he did on me. I liked to talk to him; he was a very bright, agreeable young man with original ideas and lots of ambition. If only his ambition had not directed his attentions to me! I could not get over a certain embarrassment with him occasioned by the ridiculous proposal he had made me while we were at Willoughby. He had said to me then that he did not know how much he loved me until he saw me with my hair done up like a grown-up, and I had joked and told him that I could not judge of my feelings for him until he grew a moustache. He had immediately left off shaving his upper lip and now, to my confusion, every time I looked at him there bristled a very formidable moustache. Wink was very good looking, with nice blue eyes and a straight nose. I don't know why it seemed such a huge jest for him to be trying to make love to me. Lots of girls my age had devoted lovers, at least according to their accounts they did. I was almost seventeen and it would be rather fun, I thought, to encourage him and even have a ring to put very conspicuously on my left hand on the engagement finger, but when I thought of his "lollapalussing" ways that night on the piazza at Willoughby I just knew I could not stand it. "Lollapalussing" was a Tweedles word and meant sentimental spooning and a hand-holding tendency. We used that word at Gresham to describe the girls who have a leaning, clinging-vine way of flopping on you. Our quintette was very much opposed to lollapalussers, male or female. I fancy when you are very much in love that lollapalussing is not so bad, but then I wasn't at all in love, certainly not with Wink. Father had taken a great fancy to Wink and the attraction seemed mutual. They talked together a great deal, and even at the ball when the young man was not dancing with either Dee or me, he would seek out Father, who was looking on at the dancing with great interest, and the two evidently found much to converse about. "Page," said Father, coming up to me as I was standing for a moment with Mr. Tucker, after a most glorious dance in which not once had we missed step or bumped into any one, "I have asked Mr. White down to Bracken for a visit during the Christmas holidays. I want him to see the country," putting his hand affectionately on Wink's shoulder. "He is thinking of settling in the country after he gets his M.D., and has some hospital practice, and I am looking out for some one to throw my mantle on, as it were." "Oh--ye--that would be fine," I stammered, and I hate myself yet for blushing like a fool rose. Zebedee saw it and he looked so sad, just exactly as he had the winter before when Mr. Reginald Kent asked Dum for a lock of her hair. I did wish I could make him understand that it made not a whip stitch of difference to me where Wink White settled. That I was nothing but a little girl and did not care a bit for beaux, except, of course, for dancing partners, and maybe a candy beau or two. Every girl wants that kind. But as for serious, young, would-be doctors growing moustaches and coming to settle in our end of the county--it made me tired. I did not know how to let my kind friend know it did, though, and as just then the chrysanthemum-headed giant from Carolina, the one I had seen weeping on the field after the game, came up to claim a dance, I had to leave. A moment afterwards I had the doubtful pleasure of seeing Zebedee engaged in the gyrations of some new fangled dance with the beaming Mabel Binks in his arms. Mabel was certainly looking handsome. "I'll give it to her," as Mammy Susan says when she admits something pleasant about any one for whom she has no regard. She was dressed in a flame-coloured chiffon that set off her fiery beauty which was accentuated by the many diamonds, rather too many for a young girl, but I think it is usually the tendency of those who have no diamonds to wear to think that the ones who do have them wear too many. Needless to say that I have no diamonds to wear. "Isn't she the limit?" hissed Dum, as we stopped dancing near each other and Zebedee and his partner kept on for a moment after the music had stopped. "I call it lollapalussy to dance after the band quits." "She is looking mighty handsome, don't you think?" "Handsome! She looks oochy koochy to me! Too like the Midway to suit my taste." Well, we had certainly had a wonderful time and I was not going to let anything ruin it for me. Stephen White could grow a moustache as big as a hedge and come and settle all over the county if he wanted to, and Mr. Jeffry Tucker could dance with a loud-mouthed girl in flame-coloured chiffon until he scorched himself if he wanted to. I had been to a ball and been something of a belle and now I was tired and sleepy and wanted to get to bed and talk over things with the girls,--I did wish though that I had not blushed like a fool rose just at the wrong time and that Zebedee had not seen me. CHAPTER XIII. NODS AND BECKS. "'Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful jollity, Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek.'" quoted Mary Flannagan. "There is a name for our magazine, right there in sober-sided old Milton." "Why, that's as hackneyed as can be," objected Dum. "It seems to me that every school magazine I ever read was called 'Quips and Cranks.' Let's get something real original and different and try to make the mag the same way." "Of course I didn't mean 'Quips and Cranks.' I mean 'Nods and Becks.' I think that would be a bully name." And so did all of us, and "Nods and Becks" was unanimously elected as the name for the school paper that we were striving to get out before Christmas. I was chosen editor-in-chief, much to my astonishment. It seemed to me that one of the Tuckers should have had that job, with their father a real live editor. They must have inherited some of his ability; but the Lit. Society would have me and I had to turn in and do the best I could. I didn't mind the writing end of it so much as the part I had in turning down some of the effusions that were handed in by members of the society. Our object in the publishing of this magazine was to make it as light and gay as possible. We had chosen Christmas as our season for publication and that meant getting very busy after our Thanksgiving jaunt. We really had intended to use the little holiday we were to have at that time to get our magazine in shape. We called it a magazine for dignity, but it was really more of a newspaper. I am going to publish the whole thing just to show what girls can do at school. Every one thought it was very creditable. We had lots of ads from the tradespeople at Gresham and a few from Richmond firms, enough to pay for the printing. CHRISTMAS NUMBER OF _NODS AND BECKS_. GRESHAM, VA. SONNET TO SANTA CLAUS. BY PAGE ALLISON. Pan may be dead, but Santa Claus remains, And once a year he riseth in his might. Oft have I heard, in silences of night, Tinkling of bells and clink of reindeer chains As o'er the roof he sped through his domains, When youthful eyes had given up the fight To glimpse for once the rotund, jolly wight, Who in a trusting world unchallenged reigns. Last and the greatest of all Gods is he, Who suffereth little children and is kind; And when I've rounded out my earthly span And face at last the Ancient Mystery, I hope somewhere in Heaven I shall find Rest on the bosom of that good old man. BEAUTY HINTS AND ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. BY MARY FLANNAGAN. Dear Editor: I have cut two sleeves for the wrong arm in trying to make my new velour coat out of half a yard less goods than the pattern called for. I can't match the goods now. What must I do? (signed) AGITATED KATE. Dear Kate: Put one sleeve in hind part before and then get a Teddy Bear or a plush monkey matching your coat as near as possible or in pleasing contrast to it if you can't get it to match, and tack it under your arm. It will hide the discrepancy and at the same time give a chic, stylish punch to your costume. It would be better to sew it as you would find it something of a strain on bargain days to have to hold it and you might forget. (signed) EDITOR OF BEAUTY HINTS. Dear Editor: I am losing my good figure. What can I do to keep it? (signed) SYLVIA. Dear Sylvia: Pin it on tighter. Try black safety pins, they seem to be stronger than white. (signed) EDITOR OF BEAUTY HINTS. FACTS ABOUT FATIMA. It is the style to be tall and slender. Assume a virtue if you have it not and you who are short and fat, don't grow any shorter and fatter. The following obesity rules will prove very helpful to my correspondent who signs herself, Miss Rosy Round: Stand up for twenty minutes after meals (if you must have meals). Eat no potatoes. Eat no bread. Avoid all starchy food. Avoid meats of all kinds. Fish is fattening. Never touch sweets or pastry. Eat no fruit for fear of uric acid. Never drink water with your meals, but between meals do nothing but drink water, all the time that you can spare from the gymnastics that must be kept up to keep down the disfiguring fat. Always leave the table hungry, but take a pickle with you, a large dill pickle is the best for your purpose. Eat a great deal of pickle; it may ruin your complexion but a good complexion is only skin deep while fatness goes straight through. Sleep in your stays if you can, but if you can't just don't sleep. Sleep is a fattening habit at best. Keep a pickle under your pillow and take a bite when you think of it. Lose your temper on all occasions, as nothing is more conducive to stoutness than placidity. Stop speaking of yourself as a Fatty, and begin to speak of yourself as slender. Remember the power of Mind over Matter. Lead a lean life and think thin thoughts; dress in diaphanous gauze; make hair-splitting distinctions; talk and think much of your slender purse; walk the narrow way and have ever in your mind the eye of the needle through which you shall finally have to pass.--Before you know it you will lose pounds and pounds of flesh. RECIPES TRIED IN MY OWN KITCHEN (NIT). BY CAROLINE TUCKER. A GRESHAM CLUB SANDWICH. Take two tender new pupils (Freshmen preferred, Juniors out of the question), stick them together in a corner, with a thin slice of reserve between them, season to taste with some spicy gossip and a little lollapalusser. After a year in a cool place they will be fit to eat. * * * * * BROWN BETTY À LA FACULTY. Take two crusty members of the faculty and let them grate against each other until both are reduced to crumbs. Place in baking dish a layer of crumbs and a layer of tart apples of discord well chopped. Sweeten well with high-toned politeness, veiled with sarcasm. Serve piping hot with the same kind of sauce you give to the gander. * * * * * FRENCH DRESSING AS SERVED AT GRESHAM. Let the ingredients stay in bed until ten minutes before breakfast, then in a wild scramble cover with a thin layer of clothes without the formality of bathing or even taking off nightgown when breakfasting _en famille_. Do hair with a lick and a promise and beat all the other girls to the table. * * * * * FASHION NOTES. BY VIRGINIA TUCKER. The newest fad among the women who know and know they know, is to have their perfume harmonize with their costumes. An up-to-date society woman would no more wear a blue dress and smell of lavender sachet than she would wear a lavender hat with said blue dress. Vera Violet must go with a purple dress; Attar of Roses with a pink; New Mown Hay with green,--and so on. One very smart grande dame at a fine function, given lately at Gresham, gowned in a biscuit-coloured broadcloth, had a faint, delicious odour of hot rolls. * * * * * Hats are still worn hind part before and veils are put on to stay with no visible opening. One wonders sometimes "how the apple got in the dumpling." Some of the newest veils have a sliding dot, to be worn over or near the mouth. This can be opened by one knowing the combination and then a small aperture is discovered that will admit of a straw. The soft drink drugstore man need not despair. * * * * * It is not considered good taste to wear more than three shades of false hair at one time, and a similarity in the texture of the material used should be aimed at. The puffs must be of one shade and material although it would be too much to expect of a woman to have them match absolutely with the switch, rat, pompadour and bun. Rats are no longer in vogue but traps are now considered the sanitary and proper things. This steel construction lowers the fire rates, which is much in its favour. If we keep on with this false hair craze what will we come to? Perhaps to the fate of: "This old man with a very long beard, Who said: ''Tis just as I feared, A lark and a wren, Two owls and a hen Have builded a nest in my beard.'" If you have not hair enough of your own to cover the springs, there are plenty of kinds, colours and materials resembling human hair to be bought for a song. Goat hair is used a great deal as it is very durable and strong,--too strong in one sense, as:-- "You may break, you may shatter The vase as you will, But the scent of the roses Will cling 'round it still." * * * * * JOKES AND NEAR JOKES. NANCY BLAIR, EDITOR. The son of an eminent preacher was greatly interested in the story of Adam and Eve. One night the child seemed very restless, tossing and turning in his crib. The father leaned over him, asking: "My child, what is the matter? Why don't you go to sleep?" "Oh, Father, I can't! I've got such a pain in my ribs. I'm awful 'fraid God is sending me a wife." * * * * * Little Anne, aged five, was asked what she was fasting on during Lent. She answered, "Washing my hands." * * * * * A little girl who had never been to a wedding was greatly excited when one was going on across the street. She was especially interested in the little flower girls as they tripped out of the carriage in their dainty white frocks. "Mother!" she exclaimed. "If Daddy dies, will you marry again?" "No, my dear! Never! Why do you ask?" "'Cause, Mother, I do so hope you will and let me be your little flower girl." * * * * * Customer--That was the driest, flattest sandwich I ever tried to chew into! Waiter--Why, here is your sandwich! You ate your check. * * * * * One of the Sophomores wants to take Psychology because she says she understands that a course in it teaches you to do your hair up in a lovely Psyche knot--A Psychic Phenomenon! * * * * * Jean Rice has burst into poetry, viz.: "Come to my arms, You bundle of charms! With the greatest enthusiasm I will clasp you to my bosiasm." Lines written to Miss Polly Kent: There was a young lady named Kent, Who declared she had not a cent, She remembered a quarter She had hid in her garter, But on looking found that, too, had went. * * * * * A touching poem addressed to Miss Grace Greer, of Chicago, Ill. Miss Greer is the champion gum-chewer of Gresham. There was a young maid from the West, Who chewed gum with such marvelous zest, That they named a committee, Both tactful and witty Who suggested she let her jaws rest. * * * * * THE CORRESPONDENCE CURE. BY PAGE ALLISON. CHAPTER I. "That's just what I'll do for you, Hal. I'll write to this Uncle Sam person and get him to give you one of his letter treatments," said Mr. Allen, Hal's daddy. Jo Allen was so young that his incorrigible young son called him by his first name and regarded him as "one of the fellers" instead of a father; consequently he thought his own judgment as reliable as his Dad's and paid as much heed to his orders and requests as he would to one of the "fellers." "Thunder! I ain't sick. What I gotter have a treatment for?" "I didn't mean anything like paregoric, or milk and eggs and a teaspoonful of this in half a glass of water after meals. It seems to be something like this: an old man, calling himself 'Uncle Sam,' advertises in the _Times_ that he will write fatherly letters to difficult boys for $50.00 a course." "Aw, Jo! I swear, I bet it's a lot of stuff about 'do unto others.'" Hal always objected to other people's suggestions. "Well, we'll take a chance on it. You don't like my methods, if you can call 'em that. You are my first and only offspring and I don't seem to have much maternal instinct and no judgment where you are concerned. Son, it is as hard for you not to have your mother as it is for me not to have my wife." "It's all right, Jo, you know more 'bout being a father than I do 'bout being a son. But bring on your Uncle Sam and we can see what will happen. I don't have to read the letters if he writes a lot of rot." "Nine o'clock! I ought to be at the office and and you ought to be at school. Don't play hookey again to-day," Jo Allen said as he reached for his hat. Jo was a corporation lawyer and when he told the other members of his firm about his latest plans for bringing up his son, they all laughed. "What next, Jo? 'Sons put on the right path by mail.' It's a joke all right and so are you and Hal. You can't do a thing with that kid! When he stole the preacher's white horse and painted 'Hell' on it you just laughed. Why don't you beat him up a little?" inquired Jones good-naturedly. "But he is not downright bad, he is just mischievous and full of life. I can't do anything to him because it is all just what I used to do when I was a kid,--behold the monument!" "He looks so much like you that I always think something has happened to the clock and it is twenty years ago whenever I see him. He's got your snappy grey eyes and black hair and Sally's Greek instead of our honored partner's 'Roaming.'" Jo was always pleased when it was said that his son looked like him, for he knew that they were both of them extremely goodlooking. And, too, he was secretly proud of his slightly Roman nose, which did add a certain air of distinction to such a young man. He dictated a letter to Uncle Sam and two days later Hal got the first installment. "Dear Hal: "When I was a boy of twelve, just your age, I had just about the reputation you have. But my father had a family of seven children, of which I was the youngest, so when I cut up he knew just what to do with me. He realized that I had a great deal of surplus energy and having no good way of working it off, I always got into mischief and sometimes into rather serious trouble. "Your Dad told me about your stealing the minister's horse and putting a large red 'Hell' on one of his sides. When I was a boy I remember that I made a bomb out of a little powder and an old sock and put it under the porch of a Negro church (Hal, as man to man, I trust you not to try this stunt). Of course I stayed to watch the fun. I thought the fuse was longer than it was and came closer to adjust it--Bang! and I was left with no eyebrows. I was too scared to run and the darkeys began to pour out, threatening darkly as to the future welfare of my soul. They caught me and took me to the county lockup. That evening my brother came and bailed me out. My father asked me where my eyebrows were, and I said, 'I reckon part of them are by the Nigger church.' Of course he gradually got the details and a very thick silence followed. Then he told me just what I am going to tell you. But first,--Hal, don't you think it's funny what a passion all boys have to torment the parsons of both the white and black race? I do. "Dad said that I needed to be kept busy and with something that gave me pleasure. He was never strong on punishment and he suggested something that pleased me mightily. He said that if I would build a canoe and a pair of paddles by the last of May he would give me and three of my friends a camp for two weeks by the river. I was glad my eyebrows were gone, for who doesn't like to camp? "Now, Son, you ask your dad if he won't make this same agreement. You have a month to do it in and I reckon you can have a dandy canoe made by that time. "Let me know what Mr. Allen says. "Sincerely, "UNCLE SAM." Hal looked over the letter at his daddy and thought a minute. Then he said: "Jo, this here Uncle Sam ain't so worse. Here's a pretty decent thought that rattled out of his head." Mr. Allen took the letter and read it and then he, too, thought a minute. "I'm on, Son," he said, "and you can have your friends to help you." "All right! Then shall I write and tell our darling Unkil that it's a go?" And this was the letter Uncle Sam got from the "wayward youth he was trying to straighten out": "Mr. Uncle Sam, ---- Building, New York. "Dear Uncle S.: "Yours of the inst. rec'd., first. Jo--that's my dad and He's a peach too let me tell you--says your idea suits him fine and anyway he always goes to New York the first two weeks in June on business and then I have to stay with Aunt Maria at Sunny Glen and I hate it because she is so clean. I hate to milk too and she is so afraid I'll get drowned when I swim in the icepond. She is a terrible nut because I can swim fine. I've got a monogram for my sweater for swimming at the Y. M. C. A. pool and that's bigger and deeper than old spit-in-the-fire Aunt Maria's dinky little icepond. Daddy took me in the roadster over to the next town to order the stuff for the canoe. What do you think would be a good name for her after we finish it? We've put up part of the skeleton already. Sometimes on a straight road Jo lets me run the roadster--it's a Mercer. Do you like Mercers? I like them the best and so does Jo. I can't change gear very good yet and I am too young to get a license but I am strong enough to crank it. I've got right much muscle. Did you like to fight when you were a boy? I love my black eyes on other people. Jo says it is tough to fight, so he boxes with me. He can box fine, too. He can beat me swimming and diving all to pieces, too. I've got to stop now because Pete is whistling for me to come catch with him. "Rept. HAL ALLEN." CHAPTER II. "Jo, I wish you would bring me a Remington rifle from New York. I'm old enough to have a good one now, and tell my reformer I named the canoe 'Uncle Sam'. I like that old man so much I wish he'd come down here to live." "So long, Son! I hope you will have a peach of a time at your camp. Oh, yes! Aunt Maria told me to be sure and tell you not to go swimming but once a day, but I always lived in my bathing suit--at least we will say I had a bathing suit--and you can do the same." It was only an hour's trip to New York and Jo was busy thinking about the change in Hal and wondering if Uncle Sam would consider it strange for him to invite him to go home on a visit. He decided he would go by Uncle Sam's office and speak to him and make an engagement for the theatre that night. Jo Allen stopped a minute in front of Uncle Sam's office door to get out a card and then he rang the bell. A very handsome, auburn-haired, green-eyed girl answered his ring and he gave her his card with a rather bewildered smile, for he wondered why such an old man as Uncle Sam kept such a darned good-looking female to tickle the keys. "May I see Uncle Sam?" he asked. "Why, certainly!" she said. "Please come in." Her "Certainly" sounded Southern to Jo. He might have thought some more but he was interrupted by the girl. "You will sit down, won't you?" she smiled at him from her swivel chair. "Thank you! Will Uncle Sam be along soon do you think?" he queried. "Oh! I thought you understood. Why, Mr. Allen, I am Uncle Sam." "Ohgoodlord!" Jo said it very loud and as though it were all one word. Then after a minute, "What the devil will Hal say when he finds his Uncle Sam is a woman?" "I see no reason why he should know." Uncle Sam was very calm and unconcerned. "But you see I swore I'd bring Uncle Sam back on a visit. I had it all planned out that Uncle Sam and I would take in a show to-night...." "I don't reckon Uncle Sam would mind going to the theatre, Mr. Allen. You might ask him," said the girl very frankly. "Good for you, Uncle Sam,--you are a peach, after all. Hal may be disappointed, but, believe me, I am not. I wish you would tell me your name." Jo was looking much happier now. He had forgotten what Hal would say when he got home Uncle Samless,--but really her hair and eyes were enough to make him forget and her voice was very musical with its Southern accent. "Page Carter," she told him, "and I suppose you want to know the whys and wherefores of Uncle Sam's business. Well, you can probably tell from my name that I am a Virginian and from my occupation that I am poor, and if you could see my brain at work or my poor attempts at sewing, you would see why I had to choose this way of making a living. Yes, I had to do it. You see, my mother and father are dead and I could not accept my friends' kind invitations to come and be their barnacles." "Miss Carter, you need not worry about the workings of your brain. That was a dandy bluff you put up. I could see you with white hair, seated at a desk, writing Hal about your boyhood scrapes. Let's make it a supper before the theatre. Are you game?" "Sure," she said. Jo noticed she did not have to look in a mirror to make her hat becoming. "Mr. Allen, your son has written me so much about you that I feel as though I knew you. That is very bromidic, but it is so." Jo never knew what they had for dinner and Page Carter did not get many of the lines of the play. She had always been strong for black hair and grey eyes. She knew, too, that he was successful from his clothes and Hal's remarks about the Mercer, and he surely was an amusing companion. Hal interested her. New York wasn't much when you were in it by yourself and it was very evident that Jo liked her and his grey eyes were beginning to look.... The play was over; and she had promised to meet him for lunch and afterwards to pick out a rifle for Hal. A week later Hal jumped out of the canoe and rushed up to the boys in camp and waved a yellow slip of paper before them. "Listen," he yelled, "'Be home to-morrow. Got rifle. Uncle Sam with me. Dad.'" CHAPTER XIV. HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. _Nods and Becks_ met with great favour and we felt after our labours that we had earned the good times we meant to have during the holidays. The Tuckers had decided to come to Bracken for Christmas, so we were in the seventh heaven of bliss. Annie and Mary could not accept the invitation that Father had told me to give them as they had to go to their respective homes, Annie to be with her dignified paternal relative, and Mary with what she assured us was a far from dignified maternal one. We had never met any of Mary's people but hoped to some day, as all she told us of them sounded pretty nice. She had no father but was unique among us as she actually could boast a mother. She had one little tiny sister and a big brother who was a mining engineer. The Flannagans lived in the valley of Virginia. They were of rugged Scotch-Irish stock, very different from the softer, aristocratic types to be seen in the tide-water section. Their home was in Harrisonburg and we knew afterwards that they were well off but no word from Mary ever gave us to understand it. She always was quick to pay her share and more than her share in any jaunt we went on together, but I believe I never heard Mary mention money. Tweedles and I used to wonder if they were not fabulously wealthy because of all the material that was wasted in Mary's voluminous skirts. It seems that Mary's mother always wore full skirts and she just had Mary's made the same way. The last night before the holidays we broke about all the rules we could remember. Some may have escaped us, but I doubt it. We cooked in our rooms; visited in other girls' rooms; laughed and made a racket in the halls; slid down the bannisters; and were generally obstreperous,--so much so that Miss Plympton said we would have to work off our demerits when we got back from the holidays. This pleasing bit of news she imparted to us at the very early breakfast we had on the morning of our departure. But we were going home, and threatened demerits after the holidays had no more effect on our spirits than a sermon on hell fire would have had on the ardour of a new-born babe. On the way to the station we passed our dear old friend, Captain Pat Leahy, who was faithfully keeping the gate at the railroad crossing. He stumped out on his peg leg to give us the "top o' the morning." "An' phwat do ye hear of that poorrr sick angel, Miss Peyton? Bless her heart!" "We believe she is recovering, Captain Leahy. We miss her terribly." "Miss her! I should say ye would, with her winnin' ways and the kind smile of her. And phwat does the managemint mene by hoistin' a lady on ye poorr lambs with the manners of a Tammany boss? Whin I saw her schtriding off of the trrain last Siptimber in her men's clothes, all but the pants, and a voice like a trrain butcherr, I said to meself: 'Pat Leahy, ther'll be trooble oop at Gresham this sission!' I knew it more than iver whin she pushed me cats away with her oombrella that she carried like a shillalah. A lady, whin she has no use for cats, is either a very timid lady and surely no fit person to look arfter a girls' school, or ilse she is that hard-hearted that she ought to have the job of dhriving a team of mules to a rock waggon." "How are the cats, Captain?" asked Dee. "Foine, missy, foine! And here is Oliverr, grown to sich a great schize ye woud scarcely know him. He got over his runtiness jist as soon as you young ladies took oop with him." Oliver came running out of the little gate house at sound of his name. He had indeed grown to be a handsome cat. Dee, of course, had to stop and take him in her arms for a moment. Oliver was the kitten, grown into a great cat, that Dee had taken to her room the winter before. We would never forget the night he spent with us nor our efforts to feed him milk, heated over a candle. "I wonder what Miss Plympton would have said if we had gone to her and confessed about the kitten, as we did to Miss Peyton," said Dum. "Said!" exclaimed Captain Leahy. "Why, phwat she would have said would not be fit to print!" and he gave a great laugh which rang pleasantly in our ears as we ran to catch the train that was coming around the curve. The train was full of girls going home for the holidays and a very gay crowd we were in spite of its being so very early in the morning. We had come off with so little breakfast that it was not worthy of the name. Crackers and jam and weak coffee, heated over from last night's brewing, but not much heated over, just warmed up to the tepid temperature of a baby's bath, is not very satisfying to the growing girl. I can't see why the food at boarding school for both boys and girls seems to be the last thing considered. Their minds and morals are looked after with great care but their inner men are simply ignored. All the catalogues say: "Food wholesome and plentiful," but to my mind that at Gresham was neither. When it was poor it was plentiful and when it was plentiful it was poor, but if something was served very good and palatable, it usually gave out. Under Miss Plympton's régime it was much worse than when Miss Peyton wielded the scepter. Miss Peyton insisted on a certain balance of diet at least and had many a talk with the dull old housekeeper, who, I am sure, was the only person in the world who preferred Miss Plympton to Miss Peyton. Miss Plympton did not at all object to three kinds of beans being served at one meal, or sweet potatoes and Irish potatoes with no touch of green food. On the other hand when the housekeeper chose to have turnip salad and cabbage on the same day, so that we felt like Nebuchadnezzar when he ate grass like an ox, our principal said nothing. Girls' insides must be disciplined, too. If skim milk was served with their cereal that was more than they deserved. During that first half of my second term at Gresham I had to remember very often what Margaret Sayre had said to me about looking at the mountains when things did not go just exactly to suit me. I looked at them a great deal that first half. I had a good appetite as a rule but had been spoiled by Mammy Susan, whose one idea seemed to be to give me what I wanted, and the consequence was that unless food was well cooked and seasoned, I simply did not eat. Tweedles ate anyhow, but long stretches of cafés or boarding houses had inured them to cooking that I simply could not stomach. "You are a regular princess, Page," said Dee to me on that morning when we were leaving for the holidays. "Of course the food is bum but it is better than going empty." "Maybe it is, but I can't swallow bad coffee." "But you are looking as pale as a little ghost and you are so thin you can't keep on your skirts." This I could not deny as at that minute I had my skirt lapped over two inches and pinned with a large safety pin to keep it from dropping off altogether. "I'll buck up when I get home. Two weeks of feeding will fill out my belt again," I laughed. I left the Tuckers at Richmond and went on that day to Milton where Father met me and drove me over to Bracken. My, it was good to be home! Mammy Susan almost ate me up for joy, and the dogs actually threw me down in their efforts to get first lick. "Why, honey, chile, you is sho thin and peaked lookin'," declared my dear old friend. "You ain't no bigger'n a minute. What all them teacher's been a doin' to you?" "She is thin, Mammy Susan," broke in Father, "and I am going to put her on an iron tonic right away. She tells me she has no appetite." "Well, now, that's too bad! I done made a mess er chicken gumbo fer dinner and some er them lil bits er thin biscuit. I done knocked up a blackberry roll, too, with hard sauce that is as soft and fluffy as a cloud in Spring. It's too bad my baby ain't got no appletite." It was too bad surely, but if I had had one I don't know what I would have done, as without one I ate like a field hand. "Looks lak she is able to worry down somethin'," said Mammy Susan with a sly twinkle in her eye as she brought in another plate of hot biscuit. "Don't forgit, honey chile, to save a little spot on you innards fer the blackberry roll. It sho do smell toothsome. I is moughty glad them twinses is comin' down fer Christmas an' they paw, too. Did Docallison tell you that Blanche is goin' to be here enduring of the holidays?" Blanche was Mammy Susan's relative who had cooked for the Tuckers during the memorable house-party at Willoughby. The Tuckers were to come to Bracken on Christmas Eve. We were expecting Stephen White, also, and Mammy Susan said Blanche was to arrive on that day, too. I busied myself helping Mammy Susan prepare for the guests. There was much to be done in the way of fresh curtains in the bed rooms, rubbing silver and furniture, and dusting books. Mammy Susan had plum pudding, fruit cake and pies to make, and I helped with all of them. The kitchen at Bracken was a wonderful place. I believe I loved it more than any spot on earth. It was not under the same roof as the house but connected with it by a covered porch, enclosed in glass. This passage way had been my nursery as a child. Mammy Susan always had it filled with flowers in winter, gay geraniums in old tomato cans, begonias, heliotrope, ferns and a citronella, that furnished slips for half the county. The more slips that were taken from it, the more vigorous it would become. "That there limon verbeny 'minds me of Docallison," said Mammy. "The mo' it do give er itself, the mo' it do seem to have ter give. It looks lak as soon as yo' paw done finished wearing hisself out fer somebody, another pusson is a callin' on him; an' jes lak the limon verbeny, he branches out mo' the mo' he does." "He is thinking of having some one to help him, Mammy Susan. Don't you think it would be a good plan?" "Well, 'twill an' 'twon't! Ef'n he gits a man young enough ter take the bossin' that a helper's boun' ter git, he'll be too young ter suit the dead an' dyin'. Whin folks is sick they don't want no chilluns a feelin' of they pulps." "But he has in mind a young man who might take the bossing and make a good impression on the patients, too. He is coming on Christmas Eve for a visit and you must tell me what you think of him." "Is he yo' beau, honey?" "Why, Mammy Susan, how absurd!" "'Tain't so terruble absurd. Beaux is lak measles an' mumps. If you don't have 'em young, you mought go through life 'thout ever havin' 'em, but you is always kinder spectin' tew catch 'em. Ef you take 'em young, you don't take 'em quite so hard." Mammy Susan's philosophy always delighted me and I encouraged her to go on. I was sitting in the doorway of the kitchen where I could smell the heliotrope and citronella while I chopped apples and meat for the mince pies. Mammy was seeding raisins. She never would let the seeded raisins come in the house, scorning them as some kind of new-fangled invention that would ruin her pies and puddings. "Them unseedless raisins make lazy folks pies 'thout no virtue or suption in 'em." The kitchen was a low ceilinged room about twenty feet square. A range and great wood box occupied one side, with a copper sink and a pump. There was no plumbing in Bracken and this primitive pump connected with the well was all we could boast in the way of conveniences. In the broad window sills were more tomato cans of geraniums and various slips that Mammy was starting for neighbours. Skillets and pots and pans of various sizes were inverted on the many shelves, which were covered with newspapers with fancy scalloped borders and beautiful open-work patterns that it had always been my duty and pleasure as a child to cut out for Mammy Susan. Festooned from the rafters were long strings of bright red peppers, dried okra, onions and bunches of thyme and bay. Pots of parsley and chives occupied one of the sunny windows. Mammy Susan held that: "Seasonin' is the maindest thing in cookin', that an' 'lowin' victuals to simper and not bile too hard." "Mammy, is this going to be enough mince meat?" "Sho, chile! That's the quantity fer six full pies, none of yo' skimpy kin' wif the top pastry sticking to the bottom, lookin' lak some folks what don't boast no insides ter speak of,--but the full fleshed kind--them's what I call pies. I'm goin' ter make that there Blanche stir up a Lady Balmoral cake soon's she gits here. The Twinses and they paw kin git on the ou'side of a passel er victuals, and the saftest thing is ter have a plenty of them cooked up fer 'mergencies. Kin this new beau, Mr. White, eat as much as Mr. Tucker?" "Why, I don't know. I never noticed." "Well, then you ain't considerin' of him very serious lak. Whin a gal is studyin' 'bout a man, the very fust thing she takes notice on is his appletite. She'll know that whin she ain't quite sho what colour his eyes is, an' she'll want ter dish up his fav'rite victuals ev'y chanct she gits." I laughed and went on chopping apples. How peaceful and happy everything was at Bracken! The wind was blowing up cold and it looked like snow but the kitchen was warm, so warm that it easily spared heat for the glass porch and all the growing plants. The delicious smell of Mammy's fruit cake, baking in the range, mingled with the citronella and the wine sap apples I was chopping. Mammy reached up and broke off a pod of red pepper to drop in the bean soup that was bubbling in a great iron pot. "Put a little bay in, too, Mammy, I love it." Instead of needing iron tonic as Father had thought, I really needed a restraining hand. I felt as though I could never get enough to eat. Bean soup, so despised at Gresham, was being made at my request,--but then, there is bean soup and bean soup. "Please, Mammy Susan, have batter bread at least twice a day while Mr. Tucker is here. He is just crazy about it." "All right, honey chile!" I wondered what made Mammy Susan look at me so long and searchingly. "Is there anything more I can do for you, Mammy?" "No, chile, the cookery is about 'complished. All I've got ter do now is straighten up my shelbs with clean papers." "Oh, please let me cut the papers!" "'Deed you kin!" exclaimed the old woman delightedly. "I was afeerd you done got so growd-up with beaux an' things that you done los' yo' tase fer makin' pretty patterns fer the shelbs." So she got out some big shears and a pile of newspapers and I outdid myself in wonderful lacy patterns and scallops that made the old kitchen beautiful for Christmas. CHAPTER XV. CHRISTMAS GUESTS. It began to snow before dawn on Christmas Eve and kept it up steadily all morning. It was a fine dry snow that gave promise of good sleighing, and Father and I were delighted. He loved snow like a boy, provided it was the kind of snow that meant good sleighing. The colt was hitched to a little red cutter and they whizzed off to the sick folks with such a merry ringing of the bells that just the sound of them must have made the sufferers feel better. The Tuckers were to arrive on the three train, also Stephen White and perhaps Blanche. The roads were in a bad fix between Milton and Richmond and we feared to trust Henry Ford, so our friends were forced to travel by rail. The big wood sled was put into commission, with an old wagon bed screwed on top of it, and when this was filled with hay, I am sure no limousine in the world could offer more luxurious transportation. It had stopped snowing and the sun was trying to shine when I clambered into my equipage with Peg and one of the younger plow horses hitched to it. I stood up to drive, knee-deep in hay. Peg and the plow horse acted like two-year-olds and did the six miles to Milton almost as easily as Father and the colt. When the train came puffing up, they actually had the impertinence to shy and prance, much to the delight of our guests who came tumbling out of the last coach so laden with bundles that you could not tell which was which. Such excitement on the little station of Milton, usually so quiet and sedate! First came Dee carrying Brindle, wrapped in a plaid shawl, looking, as Zebedee said, like an emigrant baby, then Zebedee and Wink, with suit cases and great boxes and paper parcels; then Dum with more valises and more boxes and parcels. I was astonished to see Mr. Reginald Kent bringing up the rear. He, too, was almost completely concealed with baggage and bundles, but I could see his smiling, ruddy countenance above his load. "Why, Mr. Kent, I saw Jo yesterday and he did not tell me you were coming!" I exclaimed as he dropped some of his packages so he could shake my hand. "I did not let him know. I find when Cousin Sally expects me she makes herself sick cooking for me, so I thought I would surprise them." I certainly liked his spirit of unselfishness. Not many young men would have thought of sparing a middle-aged, complaining cousin whose one attraction was her cooking. Just then Jo Winn came gliding up in his little cutter, ostensibly for the mail but in reality to catch a glimpse of Dee who was the one female I have ever seen the shy man at his ease with. Of course he was at his ease with me, having known me since I was a baby, but I somehow never think of myself as a female to make the males tremble. Our hilarious greetings were under way and the train had begun to move when an agonizing screech came from the coloured coach, the one nearest the engine. There was a great ringing of the bell and then there emerged the portly form of "poor dear Blanche," as Zebedee always called the girl who had cooked for us at Willoughby the summer before,--not to her face, of course. Her great black-plumed hat was all awry, and from the huge basket, that she always carried in lieu of a valise, there dragged long green stockings and some much belaced lingerie. She was greatly excited, having come within an ace of passing the station. "I was in the embrace of Morphine, as it were, Miss Page, and had no recognizance of having derived at our predestination, whin I was sudden like brought to my sensibleness by hearing the dulsom tones of Miss Dum a greeting you. I jumped up and called loud and long for the inductor to come to my resistance. The train had begun to prognosticate! I was in respiration whin a dark complected gentleman in the seat opposing mine, very kindly impeded the bell by reducing the rope." "What did the conductor say?" I knew that it was a terrible offense for a non-official to pull the bell rope. "Say! Why, Miss Page, 'twould bring the blush of remortifycation to my maiden meditations to repetition that white man's langige." It was cheering indeed to hear Blanche's inimitable conversation once more. Thank goodness, there were enough other things to laugh at for her not to know we were overcome by her remarks. We bundled her into the far back corner of the sled, where she sat like a Zulu queen on a throne. Good-byes were called to Jo Winn and his cousin, who said they would come over to Bracken after supper to help decorate the house. I had promised Tweedles not to decorate until they came, but I had had some great boughs of holly cut ready for the rite. I had gathered quantities of running cedar myself and, at the risk of my foolish neck, had climbed up a great walnut tree and sawed off a stumpy branch literally loaded with mistletoe. "I bid to drive," cried Zebedee as soon as the crowd was packed in the sled. "Do you stand up to it?" "Yes, you always stand in a wood sled." I should have said: "Be careful!" as the art of driving standing is not one acquired in a moment, but I was so accustomed to Mr. Tucker's doing things well that I never even thought of it. "Gee up!" he called, cracking the whip. The plow horse and Peg geed all right and Zebedee, accustomed to running a small automobile or driving a light buggy, had no idea of the skill necessary to stand up on a large wood sled and safely turn it around without turning over. We twisted around on one runner and nothing but the fact that Blanche's great weight was on the upper side saved us from a very neat turnover. Zebedee lost his balance and, still clutching wildly at the reins, shot over our heads into the soft and comfortable snow. Pegasus and the plow horse fortunately took it all as a matter of course in their day's work, and although Zebedee's flying leap jerked them back on their haunches in a very rude and unmannerly way, they never budged, but waited for their crestfallen Jehu to pick himself up out of the snow bank and climb back into place. "Why didn't you tell me?" he reproached me as we roared with laughter. "Tell you what?" "Tell me to use the knowledge I have obtained as a strap hanger on trolley cars to keep my balance in a wood sled!" "This is the way to stand: put your feet far apart, so," said I, suiting the action to the word; and taking the reins in my hands, clucked to my team and we started gaily off, the sleigh bells jingling merrily. Everybody had to have a turn at driving standing up, and in the six miles we had to go to reach Bracken, they had more or less mastered the art. I love Bracken and am always proud of it, but there are times when it seems more beautiful and lovable than at others, and on that Christmas Eve it never had been more attractive. Fires glowed in every grate. Indeed, Bill, the yard boy, whose duty it was to keep the wood chopped and the fires going, said he had "done got lop-sided a totin' wood." The house shone with cleanliness and smelt of all kinds of delicious things: Christmas greens, mince pies, spiced beef, and dried lavender. Lavender was always kept between the sheets in the linen press and when many beds had just been freshly made the whole place would smell of it. My Mammy Susan was a rather unique specimen of her race. As a rule, darkeys need a boss to be kept up to a certain standard. They are far from orderly, and wastefulness is their watchword. Now Mammy did to a letter everything that my mother, with all the enthusiasm of a young housekeeper, had thought necessary and that, combined with the solid training she had received at the hands of my paternal grandmother, to whose family she had belonged before the war, meant a very well kept house. Father and I were so accustomed to her wonderful management that we would not have known how wonderful it was if it had not been for the many summer visiting cousins who sang Mammy's praises while telling of their own vicissitudes with domestics. Mammy's one fault was that she could not abide having an assistant in the house, and the consequence was we were in daily and hourly dread of her giving out and being ill. She had tried girl after girl, but they had always been found wanting. She preferred having a boy to help her, so the yard boy was called on whenever she needed him. She bossed Bill and Bill "sassed" her, but they were on the whole very fond of each other. Bill was about twenty, very black and bow-legged, and so good-natured that it was impossible to anger him. Bill was fitted out with white coats and Mammy and I had been endeavouring to train him to wait on the table, with most ludicrous results. He had once been on a steamboat and so aped the airs of the steamboat waiters. He would balance a tray on his five fingers and, holding it above his head, would actually cake walk into the dining room. "This here ain't no side show Docallison is a runnin'," Mammy would say. "What the reason you feel lak you got ter walk lak a champinzee? All you needs is a monkey tail stickin' out from that ere new coat ter make you look jis' lak a keriller I done seed onct at a succus. Come on here, nigger, and take in dese victuals I done dished up befo' dey is stone cold." And Bill would grin and reply, "You come on and put dis ice I done dug out de ice house in de frigidrater befo' it gits hot;" and so waged the merry war between the old woman and the boy. Blanche was quite a favourite of Mammy's and she looked forward to her visit with enthusiasm. The girl, being on the footing of a guest, did not come in for her share of abuse that the old woman usually felt bound to administer to the young coloured girls who came her way. She came out to the driveway to meet us on that Christmas Eve, her dear old head bound up in the gayest of bandannas and her purple calico starched to a stiffness that would easily have permitted it to stand alone. The Tuckers greeted her with the greatest affection. I introduced Stephen White, who showed himself to be the gentleman I knew he was by his very kind and cordial manner in speaking to the old woman. Nothing is a greater test of breeding than a person's manner on such an occasion. The old woman looked at him keenly and kindly. Wink was very good looking with his clear brown eyes and the rather stubborn mouth that the carefully tended moustache was doing its best to hide. Wink's moustache was really getting huge and it gave him very much the air of a boy masquerading as a man with a false moustache. Every time I looked at it I had an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. If he would only trim it down a little! "My little miss is done named you to me befo'," said Mammy with great cordiality. "Oh, has she really? That certainly was kind of her." "Well, it warn't much trouble fer her to do it," explained Mammy, fearful that she might be giving the young man too much encouragement. "What she done said was that she ain't never noticed whether you is much of a hand fer victuals or not." "Well, I can tell you he is," laughed Dee. "He is almost as good a hand as the Tuckers." CHAPTER XVI. CHRISTMAS EVE AT BRACKEN. "Do all of you want to go to-morrow morning with Page and me to play Santa Claus to our poor neighbours?" asked Father at supper. "Yes! Yes!" they chorused. "I feel bad about all these little nigs who know I bring them the things and so they don't believe in Santa Claus at all. I always think that belief in Santa Claus is one of the perquisites of childhood. Sometimes I have been tempted to dress up and play Santy for them, but I believe they would know me. Docallison is seen too often to have any mystery about him." "I have it! I have it!" and Dum clapped her hands in glee at the idea that had come to her. "Let's dress Zebedee up and let him go and give the kiddies their things." "Good!" exclaimed Father. "Will you do it, Tucker?" "Sure I will, if Page will do something I ask her." "What?" "I want you to recite your sonnet that Tweedles tell me you published in _Nods and Becks_. They have not been able to find their copies in the maelstrom of their trunks. I think from what they say of it, it might inspire me to act Santa Claus with great spirit." "Sonnet! What sonnet?" asked Father. "You don't mean you have not shown it to your father!" tweedled the twins. "Well, Father is so particular about poetry--somehow--I--I--" "Why, daughter!" "You know you are! You can't abide mediocre verse." "Well, that's so," he confessed, "but you might let me be the judge." And so I recited my sonnet, which I will repeat to save the reader the trouble of turning back so many pages to refresh her memory. "Pan may be dead, but Santa Claus remains, And once a year, he riseth in his might. Oft have I heard, in silences of night, Tinkling of bells and clink of reindeer chains As o'er the roofs he sped through his domains, When youthful eyes had given up the fight To glimpse for once the rotund, jolly wight, Who in a trusting world unchallenged reigns. Last and the greatest of all Gods is he, Who suffereth little children and is kind; And when I've rounded out my earthly span And face at last the Ancient Mystery, I hope somewhere in Heaven I shall find Rest on the bosom of that good old man." When I finished, Father sat so still that I just knew he thought it was trash. I could hardly raise my eyes to see, I was so afraid he was laughing at me. Father, while being the kindest and most lenient man in the world, was very strict about literature and demanded the best. I finally did get my eyes to behave and look up at him and to my amazement I found his were full of tears. He held out his arms to me and I flew to them, thereby upsetting a plate of Sally Lunn muffins that bow-legged Bill was just bringing into the dining room. Zebedee caught them, however, before they touched the ground, so no harm was done. "Page! You monkey!" was all Father could say, but I knew he liked my sonnet and I was very happy. He told me afterwards when we were alone that he liked it a lot and how I must work to do more and more verse. If I felt like writing, to write, no matter what was to pay. "I have got so lazy about it myself," he sighed. "When I was a boy I wanted to write all the time and did 'lisp in numbers' to some extent, but I got more and more out of it, did not put my thoughts down, and now I can only think poetry and don't believe I could write a line. Don't let it slip from you, honey." I had done my part, and now Zebedee was to be diked out as Santa Claus and give the little darkeys a treat that they would remember all their lives. Some of the bulky bundles the guests had brought from Richmond contained presents for our coloured neighbours. I had told Dum and Dee of the way Father and I always spent Christmas morning, and they had remembered when they did their Christmas shopping. They had gone to the five and ten cent store and, with what they declared was a very small outlay, had bought enough toys to gladden the hearts of all the nigs in the county. "Wouldn't it be more realistic if Mr. Tucker should go to-night?" suggested Wink. "No, no! 'Twould never do at all!" objected Father violently. "If Tucker goes to-night, I won't have a minute's peace all day to-morrow--What's more, young man," shaking his finger at Wink, "neither will you--I'll force you into service. Why, those little pickaninnies will stuff candy and nuts all night and lick the paint off the jumping-jacks and Noah's arks, and by morning they will be having forty million stomachaches. No, indeed, wait until morning. Let them eat the trash standing and they have a better chance to digest it." So wait we did. Jo Winn and his cousin, Reginald Kent, came to call after supper, and we all of us turned in to beautify Bracken. The great bunch of mistletoe we hung from the chandelier in the library, and holly and cedar was banked on bookcases and mantel. Dum deftly fashioned wreaths of running cedar and swamp berries, and Mr. Reginald Kent seemed to think he had to assist her to tie every knot. Bunches of holly and swamp berries were in every available vase, and Mammy Susan proudly bore in some blooming narcissus that she had set to sprout just six weeks before so that they would bloom on Christmas day. She had kept them hid from me so I could be surprised. I wondered how Father would take this interruption of his "ancient and solitary reign," and if he would regret the peaceful, orderly Christmas Eves he and I had always spent together. His quiet library was now pandemonium, and if it was turned up on the day before Christmas, what would it be on Christmas Day? He was sitting by the fire very contentedly, smoking his pipe and talking to Mr. Tucker, who had refused to help us decorate, and as was his way when he, Zebedee, did not want to enter into any of our frolics, he called us: "You young people" and pretended to be quite middle-aged. "Look at Zebedee!" said Dee to Wink. "Look at him Mr. Tuckering and trying to make out he's grown-up!" Wink, who looked upon Mr. Tucker as quite grown-up, even middle-aged, was rather mystified. I was very glad to see Wink and Dee renewing the friendship that had started between them at Willoughby. They were much more congenial than Wink and I were. If Wink would only stop looking at me like a dying calf and realize that Dee was a thousand times nicer and brighter and prettier than I was! It seemed to me that if it had been nothing more than a matter of noses, he was a goose not to prefer Dee. All the Tuckers had such good noses, straight and aristocratic with lots of character, and my little freckled _nez retroussé_ was so very ordinary. My nose has always been a source of great annoyance to me, but I felt then that I would be glad to bear my burden if Wink would just see the difference between Dee's nose and mine. I remember what Gwendolen's mother, in "Daniel Deronda," said to her when Gwendolen said what a pretty nose her mother had and how she envied her: "Oh, my dear, any nose will do to be miserable with in this world!" Well, I did not feel that way exactly, but I did feel that any nose would do to be happy with in this world if Wink would just stop "pestering" me. I was always afraid somebody would know he was whispering the silly things to me that he seemed to think I was very cruel not to respond to. I almost knew Zebedee understood, but I had kept very dark about it to all the girls. What irritated me was that I knew all the time what a very intelligent, nice fellow Wink was, and would have liked so much to have the good talks with him that our friendship had begun with at Willoughby; but now sane conversation was out of the question. Tender nothings were the order of the day whenever I found myself alone with Mr. Stephen White. The outcome was that I saw to it that I was alone with him as little as possible. Tender nothings are all right, I fancy, when it is a two-sided affair, but when it is all on one side--deliver me! Jo Winn followed Dee around with the "faithful dog Tray" expression in his eyes and was pleased as Punch when Dee gave him some difficult task to perform, such as festooning running cedar on the family portraits, hung high against the ceiling as was the way of hanging pictures in antebellum days. Father and I were determined to change their hanging just as soon as we could afford to have the walls done over, but they had to stay where they were until that time as they had hung so long in the same spots that the paper all around them was several shades lighter than behind them. The decorations finished, we drew up around the fire to tell tales and pop corn and chestnuts until a late hour, when Jo Winn and Reginald Kent made a reluctant departure with assurances that they would see us again the next morning. They had asked to be allowed to make themselves useful in the Santa Claus scheme we had on foot, and we readily agreed to their company. CHAPTER XVII. SANTA CLAUS. "Well, what on earth are you schemers going to dress me in?" demanded Zebedee at breakfast the next morning. "I have no idea of playing Santa Claus unless I am properly attired." "Oh, we stayed awake half the night planning a costume for you. You are going to be beautiful, you vain, conceited piece!" exclaimed Dee. "Dr. Allison has a red dressing gown--" "I knew I would be the goat," said Father ruefully. "My red dressing gown is only ten years old, Tucker, so do be easy on it." "Oh, we won't hurt it, Doctor," insisted Dum. "We are going to sew imitation ermine all around the bottom and front and sleeves,--and his whiskers--" "Yes, do tell me about my whiskers! That is the most important factor in a Santa Claus costume." "They are to be the flap off of an old white muff I had when I was a kid. Mammy Susan is digging it out of the old chest in the attic now." "And your embonpoint is to be a down cushion out of the library," put in Dee. "And your hat--my red silk toboggan cap with some of Page's tippet, that matches the muff, sewed in for hair!" from Dum. "Your boots--Father's duck-hunting rubber ones!" "Well, among you I reckon I'll be dressed in great shape. I fancy I had better get ready." "Just as soon as we sew on the ermine." We got to work, all hands at once, and sewed on the imitation ermine, made of bands of canton flannel with artistically arranged smuts at irregular intervals spotted around it, giving it very much the appearance of ermine. We adjourned to the library so Mammy Susan could begin on the dining room for Christmas dinner, which was the one great function of the year with Mammy. The table must be set with great precision with all the silver and cut glass that Bracken boasted, which was not any great amount. The best table cloth made its appearance on this occasion, a wonderful heavy damask that had been sent to my mother from England, with napkins to match that would easily have served for table cloths on ordinary occasions. Mammy always kept this linen wrapped in blue tissue paper, and after almost twenty years of use on grand occasions, it was still as beautiful as the day my mother received it as a bridal present. The library had been one great swirl of tissue paper and red ribbon and Christmas seals, something new for Bracken, as Father and I never thought of doing up our presents to each other at all. But the Tuckers spent almost as much on the things to wrap up the presents with, as they did on the presents, so Zebedee said. With the help of Blanche, who carefully saved every inch of ribbon or string, every piece of paper, no matter how rumpled or torn, and all the Christmas seals, I got the place cleared out enough for us to get to work on Santa Claus' costume. Father was oblivious to everything as he could not get his nose out of the wonderful book Mr. Tucker and the twins had given him. It was about 4,000 pages of poetry, every well known poem that ever was written almost, with every form of index. He was feverishly looking for half remembered poems of long ago and would hail with delight every now and then something entirely forgotten. "Listen to this, Tucker! By Jove, I haven't seen this since I used to recite it at school: "'I am dying, Egypt, dying! Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast And the dark Plutonian shadows Gather on the evening blast; Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear, Listen to the great heart-secrets Thou, and thou alone, must hear. * * * * * "'And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian-- Glorious sorceress of the Nile!-- Light the path to Stygian horrors, With the splendor of thy smile; Give the Cæsar crowns and arches, Let his brow the laurel twine: I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, Triumphing in love like thine. "'I am dying, Egypt, dying! Hark! the insulting foeman's cry; They are coming--quick, my falchion! Let me front them ere I die. Ah, no more amid the battle Shall my heart exulting swell; Isis and Osiris guard thee Cleopatra--Rome--Farewell!'" Father had arisen from his chaise longue and was declaiming like a school boy. We applauded him violently. I loved to see him so happy and so carefree. He usually had so many sick and poor people to bother him, but on this day, thanks in part to his foresight in saving up the Santa Claus act for Christmas morning, he had not been sent for, and he hoped the day would pass in idleness. It took two down cushions to give Zebedee's embonpoint the proper "bowl full of jelly" contour. The red dressing gown was snugly belted in around it, and, having been considerably turned up before we sewed on the imitation ermine, it reached in graceful folds to the top of the hunting boots. The beard was a masterpiece and was kept in place by a bit of elastic fastened in the back. We made a moustache out of the little tails on the old tippet and he was forced to submit to surgeon's plaster to hold that on. "But s'pose I give a Tucker sneeze! This contraption certainly does tickle my nose;" and forthwith Santa Claus did explode into a regular Tucker sneeze, thereby bursting his belt and unpinning his tum-tum so that much of the work had to be done over. "Now, Zebedee, stop!" commanded Dum. "You know perfectly well you do not have to sneeze so loud." "All right, Miss Plympton," teased the offender, and gave another sneeze. "We might just as well wait until he gets through," sighed Dee. "It always takes at least three to satisfy a Tucker." So we waited until the third and last explosion shook the house and then pinned on the down pillows again and put his belt back in place. The toboggan cap with the tippet sewed in for hair gave the proper finishing touch, and Zebedee stood forth as lovable and charming a Santy as one could find. "Well, we can 'glimpse for once the rotund, jolly wight,'" quoted Wink. "I almost wish I were a little nig so I could experience the sensations they will have when they see you driving up to the cabin, Mr. Tucker." "Now for the 'bundle of toys he had flung on his back'," and Dum hung over his shoulder a laundry bag stuffed full of lumpy, bumpy stockings. Putting the things in a stocking was a plan Zebedee had suggested,--one they use in the cities for Christmas. A mate to the stocking must be put in the toe and that means that each child gets a pair of stockings as well as its share of candy, nuts, toys, etc. "I bet Aunt Keziah will be pleased with this thing of bringing stockings, too. It will save the old woman lots of darning," said Father, who looked up from his poetry book to admire our handiwork. Dum was putting the finishing touches to Zebedee's countenance. I did not think he needed paint as his cheeks were rosy enough, but Dum loved to fix up people's faces and black their eyebrows, and Zebedee liked nothing better than being fixed up. "It gives you the feeling that you can make as big a monkey of yourself as you want to, if you just are disguised a little," and our Santa Claus bristled his great white moustache and patted his down pillows approvingly. Mammy Susan and Blanche and bow-legged Bill were called in to see old Santy, and great was their delight and joy. "Lord!" said Bill. "If'n he don' look jis' lak a picture er Santy I seed one time whin I was on de steamboat on de Mississip." "Aw, you allus got ter tell 'bout dat time you went a trabblin' on a boat. I low you wa'nt nothin' but a low lived roustabout at best," said Mammy Susan, anxious to keep Bill in his place, which, in her estimation, was way in the back. "You is sho mo' natural than life, Mr. Tucker. The infantry of the area of this vicinity should elevate theyselves and denounce you as blessed. 'As much as you have done the least of my little ones you have kep' my remandments.'" Mammy accepted the effusions of Blanche with perfect composure. Bill looked at her with admiration in his rolling stewed-prune eyes. I would have been glad of Santa Claus' beard to laugh behind. Zebedee took advantage of it, but the rest of us had to keep straight faces until the coloured contingent took their departure. "Hitch Peg to the cutter!" called Father to Bill. "I am afraid there will be too much hilarity for the colt, Tucker, otherwise I'd give you the pleasure of driving him this brisk morning." "Drive! Do you think I could drive anything around this protuberance?" he laughed, patting his make-up. "Why, I can't reach the buttons on my own waistcoat. Page will have to drive me." "But then they'll all of them know you are not Santa Claus if they see me." "Nonsense, daughter! They'll think he is Santa Claus if you are along. The only Christmas they have ever had has come through us, and they will just think we have invited Santy here to amuse them. I think we can trust Mr. Tucker to act the part. I am going to beg off and stay home with my book," and the dear man sank back in his chaise longue and buried his nose once more in his four thousand pages of poetry. So I drove Zebedee, and the girls and Wink went with Jo Winn and the New York cousin in a great old double sleigh that must have been in the Winn family as long as our family coach had been in ours. Father put down his beloved book long enough to see us off, and then with a great sigh of content, mixed with relief, sank back on his cushions and resumed his search for old favourites. What a merry crowd we were! Zebedee cracked his whip and "Whistled and shouted and called them by name. On, Dasher and Dancer! On, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet and Cupid! On, Dunder and Blitzen!" Old Peg did not know exactly what to make of all her new names, but like the intelligent beast she was, she divined that it meant to go as fast as she could, so she snow-dusted Jo Winn's team until they had to drop back a few yards. If it had not been for me, I think Zebedee's turn out would have fooled any one inclined to believe in St. Nick. Of course Peg did not look much like eight tiny reindeer, but then, he might have left his reindeer team in the Antarctic Circle and picked up a mere horse for the rest of the journey, which would have been a most thoughtful thing for our beloved Saint to have done. The little pickaninnies were on the lookout for Docallison, and as we neared Aunt Keziah's cabin a shout went up from the bushes where some of the little boys were hiding, watching the bend in the road. The window was black with expectant faces and Zebedee said he thought their smiles were more beautiful than any Christmas wreaths he had ever seen. You remember that Aunt Keziah was the neighbourhood "Tender," that is, she looked after all the children whose mothers were away in service. She was quite an institution and Father said did much to lower the death rate of her race. She raised a healthy crowd of children and as a rule they turned out to be a mannerly lot as well. "Perliteness is cheap an' a smile don' cos' no mo'n a frown," she would say, "an' you kin sho' buy mo' wif it if you is a tradin' wif white fo'ks." Certainly there were smiles to spare that Christmas morning and politeness to burn. The children, fourteen in all, came tumbling out of the cabin when the boys in the bushes gave warning of our approach. They thought it was Docallison until we were upon them, and then such a shouting and scrambling as was never seen. One of the strangest things that ever happened was that Aunt Keziah herself believed in Santa Claus and no power on earth could shake her faith in him. "'Cose I b'lieves in him! If'n I ain't nebber seed him befo' what dat got to do wif it? I ain't nebber yit laid eyes on Gawd an' de blessed Sabior but I b'lieves; an' now I done seed Santy Claus wif my own eyes. What's mo', he done brung me gif's wif his own han'. De preacher ub a Sunday done said dat Gawd would gib me honey an' de honey com', an' I will git gold, yea, fin' gold,--but I ain't nebber foun' none yit, an' all de honey dis here ole nigger done tas'ed fer yars an' yars is some bum'le bee honey what de chillun foun' in de woods. Cose I ain't a blamin' uf de Almighty,--I reckon he'll do fer me someday whin he gits to it, but so fer I done ebby thing fer myse'.--But Santy here he done foun' me and is a doin' fer me now," and the old woman munched her chocolate marshmallows, that seemed designed especially for her toothless state, and pulled around her lean old shoulders the nice warm shawl that Santa Claus had drawn from his bursting pack. The cabin, boasting only two rooms and a low attic where the male "boders" slept, was full to overflowing when all of us piled in, but we were anxious to see how the little darkeys took Santa Claus and if they really believed in him. They did, every last one of them. There was not a doubting Thomas among them. With no incredulity to overcome, Zebedee's task was a simple one. He told his cheerful and kindly lies with much gusto, to the delight of all his listeners, black and white. "Well, children, I thought I would never get here! I had so many places to go. I was coming last night down your chimney, which is the proper way to come after you are all asleep at night, but my reindeer got so tired I had to put them in a stable way up at Richmond and get down here just the best I could, and then borrow a horse from Docallison and get Miss Page to drive me over here. By the way, Docallison sent his kindest regards to all of you,--" Here some of the little nigs made bobbing curtseys and the ones who did not got soundly smacked by Aunt Keziah. "He couldn't come this morning but he thought you wouldn't mind since I was coming." At that, Little Minnie, who was one of the charity orphans Aunt Keziah was raising, began to blubber: "I ain't gwine take no castor ile from Santy. Docallison done tell me he gwine gib me a pinny if I tak castor ile." "Why, if I didn't almost forget!" exclaimed the ever-ready Zebedee. "I have a whole dime here for a little girl who was to take castor oil," and he began a frantic search for his pockets but the down pillows and dressing gown were too much for him and Wink came to his relief with the necessary coin. "Now you must promise to take your medicine right away." "But I ain't sick now!" wailed the little girl, clutching her dime. "I means whin I do git sick." "Now listen to that there lil' orphant Minnie!" exclaimed Aunt Keziah. "What cause she got to worrit about ile whin she ain't got ache or pain?" "But I'se thinkin' 'bout what I'se gonter git whin I done gits through a stuffin'," wailed Minnie. "I lows thin I gotter take ile." "Well, you've got your dime now and if you get sick you must take the oil," laughed Zebedee. "But Docallison gibs me a pinny. I ain't got no use fer a dime. Aunt Keziah won't let chilluns spen' nothin' but pinnies!" So Wink had to go through his pockets for the desired penny before little Orphan Minnie would be comforted. Aunt Keziah stood by with a tolerant smile on her wrinkled old face. It was a well known fact that the old woman spoiled all the little charity children, the ones she took for nothing, while she made the "bo'ders" toe the line and walk chalk. The twins she was raising, Milly Jourdan's twins, whom she had so euphoniously named Postle Peter and Pistle Paul, emboldened by the success of Minnie, now set up a whine for pennies, too, but Aunt Keziah knocked their heads together without ceremony. "You Postle Peter! You Pistle Paul! I'll learn you some manners, you lim's er Satan. Ain't you got sinse ernuf to know Santy Claus didn't come way down here from North 'Merica jis' ter listen ter yo' gabble? As fer gittin' pinnies fer a takin' castor ile,--you know jis' as well as I do that you lick de spoon ev'y chanct you git, you is dat fon' of ile. De ve'y las' time Docallison was here he done sayed you mak him sick to his stomach a guzzlin' ile de way you done." The old woman's tirade caused a general laugh, and Tweedles and I were really uneasy for fear Santy would shake off his bowl full of jelly he roared so loud. Wink found some more pennies which he surreptitiously handed to the crestfallen twins. "Here, Pistle Peter and Postle Paul! Here's some pennies for you, to make up for your names," he whispered to the grinning little nigs. CHAPTER XVIII. CHRISTMAS FOR SALLY WINN. There were other cabins to visit and we had to tear ourselves away from Aunt Keziah's. Mr. Kent took many photographs of Santa Claus with the little darkeys crowding around him. "This will be a gold mine to me," he averred. "I can see myself filling pages of advertising matter with illustrations from this morning." Everywhere we went, Santa Claus was hailed with delight. We left many packages at many cabins and finally ended up at Sally Winn's. This was at Dee's instigation. Indeed it was a kindly thought that took us there. Poor Sally had been exercising unwonted self-control in not sending for Father at midnight on Christmas Eve. Jo said she had felt all kinds of flutterations but had submitted to a dose of the "pink medicine," and that, with the comfort she had derived from a hot water bottle, had tided her through the night. Then she had felt it incumbent upon her to get up and make waffles for breakfast because of the guest from New York. We had some gifts for Sally tied up in the Tucker's best style, with sheets on sheets of tissue paper, yards and yards of red and green ribbon, and dozens and dozens of Christmas seals. Mammy Susan had been growing a citronella slip for her and it had reached quite a pretentious size and begun to branch out like the parent plant. Sally's delight was really pathetic to see. She, poor woman, had very little of interest in her life, so little that she had to make a real pleasure and excitement over her "spells." A visit from Santa Claus was almost as much fun to her as a visit from the Angel Gabriel would have been, and the sleigh bells were only next in cheer to the last trump. Sally, you will remember, was our neighbour at Milton who spent her life trying to die. Our coming was a great surprise to her. Any pleasure that happened to come her way always took her unawares. She was certainly one of the Mrs. Gummidges of this world and was "a poor lone lorn critter" if I ever saw one. She was a grateful soul and was profuse in her thanks for the gifts. I had never seen her more enthusiastic although Father and I had never missed a Christmas in giving her some nice present. I verily believe it was the festive wrappings that appealed to her. Of course Mr. Tucker took her by storm. He acted Santa Claus just as he had at Aunt Keziah's and Sally, I know, regretted that her education kept her from joining ranks with the believers. "Did you ever see anybody look so like himself? I have never seen a Santa Claus before that did not have on an ugly false face--hideous painted things that wouldn't fool a chicken," Sally began with her accustomed volubility. "I can't quite make up my mind that you are not Santy--" "Well, don't make up your mind to any such treason. I am Santy!" "Well, Santy or not, I am mighty glad to see all of you. Now you must try some of my eggnog and fruit cake. Dr. Allison says my fruit cake is the best he ever tasted and that it is so well mixed that it is as digestible as sponge cake. My eggnog, too, can't be beat,--made of pure cream and eggs that are so fresh they were warm when I broke them. I waited for those finest Dominickers to get off their nests before I made it. 'Tain't strong of liquor and won't hurt a baby. Jo, bring my best Bohemian glasses. You'll find them on the tray in the dining room all set out on the sideboard. Here's my cake and I am proud to cut it for such company. "Dr. Allison says he likes the looks of my cake. He says it looks like chewing tobacco, it is so nice and black and fruity, and that it tastes better than it looks. You can't trust all cooks with their fruit cake because it is so dark-like that dirt don't show in it and sometimes things that don't belong there get in it. I remember one time over at Mrs. Purdy's (of course I don't mean to be gossiping about her now that she is dead and gone)--but she cut a cake with all the airs and graces of a good cake-maker, which she never was, and what should I find in my piece--just one piece, mind you--but a shoe button and a bent pin. I just thought to myself: 'Well, if that's what I found, God in Heaven knows what I didn't find.' Now there ain't a thing in my cake but the best ingredients, and I'll wager nobody will ever find anything in my cooking foreign to the human digestion." We were certain of it, but Sally did not give us time to express our confidence. She plunged into a stream of eloquence concerning her Dominickers and their superior brand of eggs, as she ladled out the eggnog as smooth as a baby's cheek and as fluffy as a summer cloud. "There are some that hold that a white Leghorn's eggs are more delicate than any other kind, but I say there is a richness about an old-fashioned Dominicker's eggs that nothing can come up to. What do you want with an egg being too delicate, anyhow? Of course, for Angel's Food they might be best, but I have never seen anything that an egg laid by a Leghorn will do that a Dominicker's won't do just as well. Of course nobody wants a duck egg or a goose egg for anything short of ginger bread,--they are coarse! Now a hard boiled guinea egg is my favourite of all eggs. I think a nice hot guinea egg, boiled until it is mealy--it takes a good half hour--and then mashed up with good batter bread made of the fresh meal, ground over at Macy's mill, provided the batter bread is made the right way,--none of your batter bread raised with baking powders, but my kind, raised with eggs and plenty of them, well beaten and baked quickly,--I do say that there is no breakfast better." The strangest thing about Sally Winn was that she longed for company, not for the good she might get out of it but just so she could pour forth her soul in conversation. We might just as well have been dumb for all she got from us, but all the time we were eating her truly wonderful cake and drinking her eggnog that even she could not praise according to its deserts, she regaled us with a stream of conversation that made our heads swim. "I understand poor Jo better now," whispered Dee to me. "How can he ever talk? No wonder! He gets out of the habit at home and can't get in it when he goes away." "Tell Mammy Susan I have got a good starting of rose geranium for her. I would have sent it over by Jo this morning but I was so afraid it might be too cold for it. It looks like Mammy Susan has all the luck with citronella and I have luck with rose geranium. My bush is so big it looks like I'll have to get Jo's watering tub from the barn to plant it in. It has long out-grown its pot. I certainly do like to have plenty of healthy rose geranium on hand when I make apple jelly. Nothing gives it the flavour that a leaf of rose geranium will,--just pour the boiling jelly over a leaf--one to each glass." "That sounds fine!" exclaimed Santa Claus. "I don't think I ever tasted it." "Wait a minute! I am going to fix one up for you to take back to Richmond and next summer when I make my jelly, I'll make some for you. It comes in mighty handy for sudden company." Sally bustled off and came back bearing a tumbler of jelly that would have taken a prize at any fair in the world, I feel sure. "Here it is!" she panted. "Jo is that fond of it that I sometimes hate to think of leaving him because I don't know who will ever make it to suit him." "But are you thinking of leaving him?" questioned Mr. Tucker. "Dying! I mean dying!" "Oh, but you look so well!" "I think so, too, Sally," I ventured. "You are getting to be right fat." "Ah, my dear, that has nothing to do with health. The fatter I get the more of me there is to feel bad. I won't be long for this world, I am thankful to say. Fat! Why, I have seen many a fat corpse--more fat ones than lean ones." We could not gainsay such gruesome statistics, but I told her that Father had sent her a prescription that she must take immediately without fail. "And give up the pink medicine?" "He says you won't need that for to-day, that is, if you take the other. Father says you are to bundle up and come over to Bracken for dinner. Jo and Mr. Kent are to come, too, of course, and that will mean that you will have no household cares. He says you must come. It is the doctor's orders." "Well, if I must, I must!" she sighed. "I have great faith in Dr. Allison and am sure he would not prescribe something that would hurt me," and so Sally, with many layers of wraps enveloping her already portly person, and, clasping in her arms the rose geranium for Mammy Susan, was bundled into Jo's already overflowing sleigh and we merrily started off for Bracken. A very funny thing happened on the way, at least it turned out to be funny although it might have been very serious. Dee, who was on the front seat between Wink and Jo, insisted upon driving. Sally, on the back seat with Dum and Mr. Kent, was so wrapped up that she was oblivious to the speed that the two spirited horses were making. Of course Peg was ready for a race and so were all of us and race we did for most of the trip home. Jo's horses were young and good trotters and Dee, with blazing eyes and glowing cheeks, let them go as fast as they wanted to. My old Peg had seen better days as a racer but had the advantage of a cutter and a small load and so made the best of it. I hugged the road and kept it, while Zebedee hurled defiance at our pursuers. About an eighth of a mile before the public road turned into the avenue at Bracken, Dee saw a chance to catch up with us and pass us. There was a smooth, unbroken stretch of snow that she thought was part of the road and she swerved her team to cut through it and get in the lead--but snow, like Charity, covers a multitude of sins. This pure mantle covered a great gully. The snow had drifted to that side of the road and the gully was filled and then neatly smoothed over. There was nothing to warn a person unacquainted with the road. Jo was evidently so taken up with Dee's glowing countenance that he was paying no attention to where she was taking them, when over they went as quietly and peacefully as turning over in bed. The horses were wonderful. They stopped stock-still. The near one was dragged over by the weight of the sleigh but he lay quite still. Peg behaved like the almost thoroughbred she is and not only stood quietly but gave a ringing neigh of encouragement to the other horses. Zebedee and I were out in a jiffy and running to the assistance of the turnover. I deemed it wiser for me to attend to the horses. If they had struggled, it might have been quite serious. I loosened the traces on the one who had been able to keep his feet, and then the fallen one, and as soon as I had accomplished that, I caught hold of the bridle and got him up in no time. He was not hurt at all. Zebedee was digging out the crowd, who had, one and all, taken headers. A waving sea of legs presented itself to our astonished gaze. One by one they scrambled out, all looking more or less sheepish but all rosy and ready to laugh if they could just be reassured that no one was hurt. "Jo! Jo! Pull me out! The grey legs are mine!" came in muffled tones from the deepest part of the drift where two fat legs encased in homemade grey woolen stockings were wildly beating the air. "Sally!" we cried, and in a moment we had her out. "Oh, Lord!" I groaned. "Poor Father and more pink medicine!" but not a bit of it! Sally was as game as the rest of them, and came up smiling and happy when she, too, found no one was hurt. The snow was as dry as powder and shook off them like so much flour. The sleigh was righted in short order and they all clambered back. Dee penitently handed the reins to Jo. "I am not to be trusted. You had better drive." "Not at all! No one could have told that was not perfectly good road. I should have been looking at the road instead of--ahem--ahem--instead of--instead--of--that buzzard, sailing down there," pointing to one of the denizens of the air who had made his appearance in the sky almost as though he had expected some pickings from our turnover. "Humph! Buzzard, indeed!" grunted Sally. "If I was Miss Dee I shouldn't thank you to be a calling me a buzzard." Which went to show that Sally was not so much wrapped up that she could not see what was right in front of her. What a dinner we did have! Tweedles and I often spoke of it when we were back at school, especially on the veal pot-pie days. The table was resplendent with its fine old damask and silver and with its load of good things. "That there gobbler," said Mammy Susan, pointing with pride at the king of the feast sitting on his parsley throne, "don't weigh a ounce less 'n twenty pounds. He was the greediest one of the whole flock an' now see what he done come to! He was always the struttinest fowl and looks lak he is still some pompous with his bosom chuck full of chestnuts." Blanche and Bill were to wait on the table, but Mammy Susan had to come into the dining room to see that everything went off in proper style. She stood back like a head waiter in some fine restaurant and directed her minions with the airs of a despot. "Pass that ther macaroni to Miss Dum!" would come in a sibilant whisper. And then as Bill would prance by the old woman with all of the style he had learned on the Mississippi steamboat, she would say in stern undertones: "Don't wait fer folks to lick they plates befo' you gib um a sicond help." "Blanche, gib Miss Sally Winn some 'scalloped oyschters, and there is Mr. Tucker 'thout a livin' thing on his plate." Eating was not the only thing we did at that feast. We talked and laughed and cracked jokes until poor Sally Winn forgot all about dying and I think realized there was something in life, after all. What we had for that Christmas dinner was no doubt what every family in the United States who could have it was having, but it seemed to us to be better, and I believe it was. Mammy Susan had a witch's wand to stir things with and whatever she touched was perfect. Her cranberry sauce always jelled; her candied sweet potatoes were only equalled by marrons glacé, so Zebedee said. The cheese on her macaroni always browned just right; and her mashed potatoes always looked like banks of snowy clouds. She seemed to have the power of glorifying egg plant and salsify so that persons often asked what the delicious thing was they were eating. "Whew!" ejaculated Zebedee, "I am certainly glad I did not have to eat in my embonpoint. I would have touched the table long ago and would have had to stop. As it is, I can still eat about three inches without having a collision." Our day passed in feasting and merry making. The walls of Bracken rang with merriment. Even Father came out of his book and got quite gay. Sally Winn forgot to hold her heart and laughed like a girl at the jests. "It will be fatal to sit down after such a dinner," declared Dee. "We had better go out and coast and jolt it down." There was only one small sled, left from my childhood, but the attic was full of broken chairs, and in a few minutes the eager males had fashioned make-shift coasters out of old rockers and chair backs. "They are not very elegant but they will slide down the hill, which is the main thing," said Wink, as he lay flat on his stomach and whizzed down the long hill to the spring. We had a chair back apiece and so did not have to wait turns nor did we have to go double. I must say I like to coast by myself and guide my own sled. The impromptu sleds were not so very strong and it was much safer not to overload. We coasted until the long hill was as slick as glass and, with the exception of an occasional turnover, there were no casualties. Father and Sally Winn watched us from the library window but after a while they came out, Sally bundled up to within an inch of her life, and what should they do but mount some chair backs and get in the game. Jo Winn fell off his sled when he saw his invalid sister, who only the night before had been on the point of shuffling off this mortal coil, actually straddling a chair back and taking the hill like a native of Switzerland. "This is a new prescription I have given Sally," whispered Father to Jo. "She is to coast every day as long as the snow lasts, and after it melts we are to think of some other form of exercise for her." "How about horse-back riding?" I suggested. "Jo's old Bess is just like a comfortable rocker." "The very thing!" exclaimed Father. "Let her ride around the yard for a few days until she gains confidence, and then she can go on a regular ride. Go to Milton for the mail and even come over here after a little." "Must we still keep up the pink medicine?" asked Jo. "Oh, well! Give it to her in emergencies, but not too freely." Jo had a twinkle in his eye. He knew that the pink medicine was made of perfectly good pump water with a little colouring matter and enough bromide to quiet the nerves of an oyster. "This Christmas has done something for Sally if for no one else," said Father. "It has taught her that she can go heels over head in the snow without affecting her heart; that she can eat as good a dinner as the next without feeling bad; and that she can coast down a hill without turning a hair." I looked at Sally settling herself on a chair back that Wink had kindly pulled up the hill for her. Sticking out her fat, woolly, grey legs on each side, she took the hill in great shape. I hoped she was cured of her imaginary ailments and would let my dear Father get many a good night's rest by not sending for him every time she felt her heart beat. CHAPTER XIX. BACK IN THE TREAD-MILL. That is the way we looked on going back to school. It was not really a tread-mill, nothing nearly so dreadful, but we considered ourselves very much put upon that the holidays could not last forever, that books had to be studied, and rules either obeyed or punishments meted out if they were broken. We had gone home knowing that demerits were going to have to be worked off after the holidays, but as I have said before, it had had no more effect on our spirits than a threat of hell fire would have on a new-born babe. But babies must grow up and time will pass and holidays come to an end, and here we were paying up for our foolishness on our last night at school before Christmas. Almost all the Junior class was in bad, and misery loves company, so we lightened our labours all we could with sly jests and notes written to each other instead of the pages of dictionary we were supposed to be copying. Of all punishments, copying dictionary seems to me to be the most futile. It was disagreeable enough, but of course punishments should be that, but it was not only disagreeable but such a terrible waste of time. I did not mind learning hymns, especially if I already knew them, but the pages of dictionary almost persuaded me to behave myself,--not quite, though. "When we get out of this, let's be either very good or very careful," said Dum, as we finished up our first day in durance vile while the rest of the school, all the good girls, had gone for a nice walk in the woods. "I am liable to do something desperate if I get in bad again." "I am going to try," declared Mary, very penitent after having to memorize a very long and very lugubrious hymn. "It may not pay to be good, but you've certainly got to pay to be bad." All of us tried to be good. We studied like Trojans (not that Trojans ever did study as far as I know). I learned my history by heart and actually won a smile of approval from Miss Plympton. I knuckled down to geometry and if the figure was drawn exactly as it was in the book and the same letters were used to designate the angles, I got on swimmingly. A slight change of letter upset me considerably, however. I never could understand as I had under Miss Cox's reign. I was doing algebra as well, although the Juniors were supposed to be through with that delectable study; but I had started out so far behind that I had to keep on with it if I ever hoped to get my degree. English under Miss Ball continued to be delightful and all of us did good work with her. She had a power of making knowledge desirable by making it interesting, and she made literature delightful because she loved it herself and was never bored. The parallel reading she gave us to do was well chosen and broadening. One thing that especially pleased me about Miss Ball was her cheerful outlook. She did not believe that all good writing was through with,--that literature had died with Tennyson and Thackeray. She read modern poets with as much pleasure as Father himself and actually gave some of the modern novels for parallel reading. Nor did she scorn the five cent magazines. She encouraged us to do original work. It was a great relief to have a teacher say: "Write what suits you," rather than to give out one of the time-honoured hackneyed themes,--such as: My Afternoon Walk, or A Quiet Sunday Morning, or Thoughts on a Sunset. My head was so full of plots I could hardly concentrate on one. The trouble was I so often found my plot not to be so very original after all. Miss Ball would say a story was very good but point out its similarity to noted productions, and I would realize that I had been unconsciously influenced. She endeavoured to make us be ourselves at no matter what cost. "A poor thing but mine own" was to be our motto. "If you want to be successful be modern at least," she would say. "If you must imitate any one, imitate O. Henry or Ferber, even Montagu Glass. Don't try to write like Edgar Allan Poe. If you are going to write like him, you will do it, anyhow, and a poor imitation of him is terrible. If any of you want to make a living with writing find out what the public likes and what the magazine editors want and do that just as well as you can do it. You need not feel that you are hitching Pegasus to a plough and even if you do, ploughing is a very worthy occupation and there is poetry in it if taken properly." Then she read us some from Masefield's "Everlasting Mercy": "The past was faded like a dream, There came the jingling of a team, A ploughman's voice, a clink of chain, Slow hoofs, and harness under strain. Up the slow slope a team came bowing, Old Callow at his autumn ploughing, Old Callow, stooped above the hales, Ploughing the stubble into wales. His grave eyes looking straight ahead, Shearing a long straight furrow red; His plough-foot high to give it earth To bring new food for men to birth. O wet red swathe of earth laid bare, O truth, O strength, O gleaming share, O patient eyes that watch the goal, O ploughman of the sinner's soul. O Jesus, drive the coulter deep To plough my living man from sleep." "If you can hitch your Pegasus to a plough and 'bring new food for men to birth' you have done a better deed than if you had soared in the skies all the time in the wake of some great men. I consider O. Henry an unconscious philanthropist. He has opened our eyes to the charm of the usual." Such lessons as these gave us strength to bear with the extreme boresomeness of other classes. We worked off the demerits against us, and by being both good and careful we got no more to sadden our days. Our dummies were neatly folded up and seldom brought out. Just to show that we were still human beings, we did have an occasional spread, and once Miss Plympton let Tweedles and me go under the chaperonage of Miss Ball down to tea with dear old Captain Pat Leahy, the one-legged gate keeper at the crossing. He was so glad to see us he almost wept. He had sent us a formal invitation but doubted Miss Plympton's giving her consent. "An' the poosies have been a lickin' uv their furrr all morning to get rready for the coompany an' I got me neighbourr, Mrs. Rooney, to bake me a poond cake for tay." "Why, Captain, we did not dream you would go to any trouble for us. But we certainly do adore pound cake, and isn't that a beauty?" enthused Dee. The little table was set ready for tea. You remember how the Captain's gate house looked. It was very tiny, so tiny that you did not see how any one could live in it, but he declared he had more room than he needed. The lower berth from a wrecked Pullman served him as seat by day and bed by night. A doll-baby-sized cooking stove, very shiny and black, was at one side, while a shelf over it was covered with all the china and cooking utensils he needed. A little table, just like the one on sleepers, was hooked in between the seats and a very dainty repast was spread thereon. There were at least a dozen cats but all of them were handsome and healthy and very polite. There had been eight the winter before, counting Oliver, the one we took back to Captain Leahy. "They will mooltiply an' I have a harrd time findin' good homes for thim. Bett here behind the stove, has presinted Oliverr wid some schtip brothers and sisters. The good Lorrd knows what I am to do wid 'em." "Please, please let me hold some of them!" and Dee was down on her knees in the corner near Bett's bed. "Look! Look! Their eyes are open! Four of them! Oh, I do want all of them so bad." Bett seemed perfectly willing to trust Dee with an armful of kittens, indeed I think she was rather relieved to be rid of the care of them for a while, as she sidled out of the door and went trotting up the road, her large handsome tail waving joyously. "Now she's gone to the cloob or maybe to a suffragette meetin'. Poor Bett has a schtoopid life, confined as she is to rraisin' sooch larrge families," and the old man gave one of his rich vibrant laughs that warmed the cockles of your heart. We talked of Miss Peyton and how much we liked her, but since Miss Ball was a member of the faculty, we refrained from our criticisms of Miss Plympton, although we knew that Captain Leahy was dying to hear all about our latest scrapes and how we got out of them and what we had to say of our stern principal. She really was not nearly so stern as we gave her credit for, but we were nothing but girls and young people are always extreme in their opinions. Everybody is either perfectly lovely or perfectly horrid in their eyes. When I look back on my days at Gresham I realize that Miss Plympton's chief fault was that she had no humour, and surely lacking that God-given attribute was not her fault. We enjoyed that tea greatly. Captain Leahy certainly had his share and more of humour and his keen comments were a never failing source of delight. Miss Ball was young and full of spirits and good stories, and the little gate house actually rocked with laughter. We devoured every crumb of Mrs. Rooney's pound cake and the host had to fill his little blue tea pot three times before our thirst was quenched. Of course Dee had to save a little milk for the kittens and Captain Leahy seemed to think it was perfectly _au fait_ for her to let them lap from her saucer, although Dum and I are of one mind about eating at the table with cats. Now I don't mind a dog at the table at all, provided it is a polite dog who does not help himself until he is told to; but cats! Ugh! They are entirely too promiscuous, as Mammy Susan says. CHAPTER XX. THE FIRE DRILL. "Young ladies," said Miss Plympton one morning in March, "I fear that in a measure I have been lax in certain duties imposed upon the pupils of Gresham." A groan from somewhere in chapel, no one knew just where, was the eloquent response to this statement. We had actually passed January and February and plunged into the middle of March without getting into any very bad messes. The philosophical among us could look forward to the first of June and release from the stringent rules that bound us. I, for one, was not philosophical at all but had a feeling that I was to spend the rest of my life doing things by the clock and knowing a year ahead just what I was to have to eat for every meal. I know I do a lot of talking about food but it seems to me that something you have to contemplate three times a day is a rather important factor in life. I used to feel if they would only get mixed up and give us on Tuesday what they usually gave on Wednesday that I could bear it better. "The duty of which I speak," continued Miss Plympton, ignoring the groan, "is the fire drill that should be regularly practiced and, I regret to say, has not been. The building is as nearly as possible a fire-proof one. Nevertheless, I deem it prudent that we engage in this drill." "What a bore!" growled some of the girls. Others welcomed the news with pleasure, "Anything for a change!" "The fire alarm, as all of you perhaps know, is six short taps of the gong--a pause--and six more. When the alarm rings, which of course it will do without warning, I expect every pupil in the school to get out of the building with as little noise and confusion as possible. Indeed I demand no noise at all and no confusion. No one is to go to her room for any purpose whatsoever if the fire alarm should ring while she is in class or otherwise employed. If she should be in her room, she is to leave it as expeditiously as possible and not return to it until permission is given." "And let my deer skin and pictures burn up?" exclaimed Dum under her breath. "Nit!" "'Tain't a real fire, goosey!" said Dee. "Yes, but it might be." "Silence!" tapped Miss Plympton. "Now I have warned you of an alarm in the near future and I want to see who is to show the most presence of mind. I want to see who will be out of the building first but with no noise or confusion." "You notice she didn't say how she required us to get out of the building, by what route, I mean, and you watch me! I am going to get out my own way," Dum whispered to me as we were dismissed to our class rooms. "Well, I'm game. I'll go any way you do." "Good! I bet you will, and of course Dee will, too." We feverishly awaited the threatened alarm and the fire drill that was to follow. Gresham was a big building and the 125 girls in it should be able to get out without any great confusion. "If they only ring it while we are in our rooms we can work our scheme and beat all the girls to the open," said Dum. We had decided not to let Mary and Annie in on our plan as Annie was trying very hard not to get any demerits. Mr. Pore treated bad marks on a report very seriously, while our dear fathers did not look upon a bad mark as something that could not be lived down. "DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG!" a pause and then six more dongs. It was a few minutes before supper, so close to it, in fact, that for a moment we thought it was the gong for that frugal repast. We were just trying to doll up a bit after a very strenuous game of tennis, the first of the season as the courts had not been fit to use because of the many rains we had been deluged with. We had had some sheets tied together for days, ever since Miss Plympton had given warning about the fire drill. We had determined to astonish and delight her by the quiet and orderly way we would get out of the building. Dum began rapidly taking down pictures and wrapping them up in her beloved deer skin, the one she had shot and Zebedee had tanned and made into a rug for her. Dee tied the sheets tightly to the radiator while I gathered up the bits of jewelry and knotted them in a handkerchief. This we had rehearsed and knew how to do it in a moment. When Dee got the sheets tied, we were ready for the descent. Dum was to go first, as it was her scheme. With her bundle flung over her back by a strap, she grasped the improvised life line and slid safely to the ground. I followed, giggling so I came very near losing my grip. When I got to the end of the last sheet, I must say I hated to let go. I looked down and the ground seemed miles away. It was really only about six feet. Dee had taken up more in the knot she had tied around the radiator than we had allowed for in our calculations. "Drop," came hoarsely from Dum. So drop I did, wrenching my ankle painfully in the fall. Dee came down like a movie actress and then we scurried around the house in time to beat all the whole school out on the lawn. My ankle hurt like fury but I grinned and bore it. While Miss Plympton had not designated the manner of our exit from the building, we well knew that if she got on to our mode of egress we would hear from her and that not in endearing terms. She was standing near the great front door on the gallery, but it was dusk and we were able to sidle close to the wall and have all the appearance of coming out of the building. "Why, young ladies, you are very prompt," she said approvingly. "Are the inmates on your floor out of their rooms?" "We--we--we don't know." "We reckon they are." "We did not stop to see." The girls by this time came trooping out, some of them half dressed, getting ready for supper as they were when the gong sounded. They were very gay until they saw Miss Plympton; then they sobered down. Several of the more excitable ones were weeping, certain it was a real fire. Mary and Annie were the very last to appear. They, it seemed, had lost much time trying to find us. They were sure we would not have gone without warning them and so would not desert us. "We looked everywhere for you!" cried Mary when she spied us. "Where on earth have you been?" "Shhh! We'll tell you later!" I whispered. Annie was much flushed and excited and looked as though she, too, had feared it was a real fire. "I hated to leave my box," she said to me in a low tone. "You see, those are all the clothes I have and all I'll be likely to have for many a day. I was afraid it was a real fire and was very much frightened about you, my friends." The poor little thing burst out crying and we all turned in and comforted her till she began to laugh. All this time my ankle was killing me. I stood on one foot but the throbbing was intense, and then I knew the time was coming when Miss Plympton would order us back into the building, and how I was to walk I did not see. It had been all I could do to get from around the corner of the school after my fatal drop, and now that the excitement that had buoyed me up had subsided and I knew I was going to have to walk on cold facts, I did not see how it could be done. I was game, game enough for anything. What I dreaded most of all was giving Tweedles away. Miss Plympton had seen us arrive together and if I had a sprained ankle, whatever I had done to get it they must have done, too. "As soon as Lady Plympton gives the command, fly up to 117 and pull in the sheets," I whispered to Dum. "I've hurt my ankle and shall have to take things easy. Dee will help me get in, and please whisper to Mary Flannagan to get on my other side." I thought it better to have Dee stay behind where some sort of ready finesse might be needed. They got me in--I don't know just how. I have never imagined greater agony than I went through. I never uttered a single groan, however, although I felt like shrieking. Before we made our painful way to the stairs, Miss Plympton disappeared into the office, and then Mary and Dee picked me up bodaciously, making a chair with their hands, and they got me up to 117 in short order. The girls who were on our corridor just thought it was part of our monkey shines and did not question the reason. When I got to 117, of course I fainted. That was what I had been expecting to do all the time. It was a mercy I had not done it before. I had felt the cold sweat breaking out on my upper lip, which is a sure forerunner of a faint. I had never really fainted before. I had been knocked silly several times, once on the ice when Mabel Binks had bumped into me and knocked me down, but this faint was one that was simply the outcome of pain. It was a blessed relief from the agony I had been in and I did not thank whoever it was that put household ammonia under my nose and doused my head with cold water. I felt as though I should like to stay faint forever. "Did you get the sheets in out of the window?" I stammered when I struggled back to life. "Yes! Yes!" and a relieved giggle from Dum. Dee was busy turning over the leaves in her "First Aid to the Injured." "Let her lie down, put a pillow under her heart! There! Now which foot is it?" "Never mind which foot it is now! There goes the supper gong! Annie, you and Mary had better skidoo out of this room or you'll get so many demerits you won't be out of bounds to go home in June. Dee, you just unlace my left shoe and let me keep it upon the bed. Dum, please get out my nightie for me and then all of you go down to supper and tell the powers that be that poor little Page Allison was so excited over the fire drill that she had hysterics and had to go to bed without her supper." The long speech was too much for me and I came near going off again. "Go on! If you don't, we'll all get found out and then what?" Tweedles said they had never sat through such an interminable meal as that one. "Nothing but soda biscuit and stewed prunes and corn beef hash! But you would have thought it was the finest course dinner it took so long!" gasped Dee. "Let me see your poor foot. Gee, it's swollen!" "Isn't it a blessing it's Saturday night and no study hour? Now Dee and I can wait on you and get you comfy." "But, Dum, I don't want to keep you from dancing in the Gym. It is lots of fun and you know it." "Fun much! How could I enjoy myself when I know you are up here suffering?" "Well!" said Dee, consulting her book again, "the first thing is to soak it in very hot water, as hot as you can stand it. Go on, Dum, and fill our pitcher before the once-a-weekers get started on their tub night orgy." We always called the girls who took baths only on Saturday night the "once-a-weekers." My injured member was put to soak in such hot water that I trembled for my toe nails. Dee stood by with a pitcher ready to pour more in and "hot" it up as soon as it got to the bearing point. After a good half hour of soaking, Dee poured cold water over it and then put on as neat a bandage as any surgeon could have done I feel sure. It seemed too tight to me, but Dee insisted that it would loosen up and I must bear it tight. "You know if a doctor had hold of you he would put it in plaster. I am afraid maybe we ought to 'fess up and call in a doctor. It might be a very serious thing to neglect it." "Nonsense! I trust your bandaging more than I would old Dr. Stick-in-the-mud's, here at Gresham. You know he would not do anything quite so modern as put it in plaster." Dee carried the bandage well up on my leg to keep it from puffing out over the top and then I was put tenderly to bed. "I can't see that because I've got a sore foot it is any reason I should have to go hungry," I whined. "I am so empty I could easily eat up my bandage." "Don't you dare!" "Oh, honey, I am so sorry! I don't know why we did not think to sneak you something. You looked so pale and wan when we left you to go to supper that somehow I never connected you with the thought of food. To think of your being hungry!" and Dum's hazel eyes got moist. "But then's then and now's now! I reckon I can hold out 'til morning, however." One of the peculiarities of boarding school is that if you are sick at all you are supposed to be too sick to eat. If you are really very bad off, so far gone you have to be put in the hospital, then you are fed up. If a girl skips a meal from indisposition, nothing is done about her food by the housekeeper, but if her roommate chooses to sneak some of her own supply up to the sufferer, although it is supposed to be against the rules to take any food from the table, at a time like that the infringement is winked at. The girls were afraid to get out the alcohol lamp and make me a cup of instantaneous chocolate as we were almost sure one of the teachers would come to see how I was before they turned in for the night. As it was, they had hardly got the bowl of hot water out of the way and the room to rights before Miss Ball knocked on the door. She had a dainty tray of food for me. "I didn't think hysterics would last so long you would not want something to eat, Page," she said archly, laying a little stress on hysterics. "I cooked this for you on my chafing dish." The teachers, of course, used alcohol lamps all they chose. It was a nice cup of chocolate, with a marshmallow on top in lieu of whipped cream, two shirred eggs and a stack of buttered crackers. "Oh, Miss Ball, you are so good!" We felt sneaky indeed not to tell Miss Ball the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth concerning our escapade, but we knew it would be her duty to report us and the chances were she would do her duty. So we kept mum while I devoured the very good supper. I was pretty certain that Miss Ball did not give very much credence to the hysterics dodge. She knew me too well. I was not the hysterical type. She was too much of a lady, however, to question me and understood girls well enough to know when to let them alone. "Isn't she a peach, though?" was Dee's comment after the kind young teacher had gone off bearing the empty tray. I had devoured the last crumb, feeling much better in consequence. "Page," whispered Dum, after lights were out, "do you think you will be able to bear your foot to the ground by to-morrow?" "I can't tell. I am feeling lots better now and there is no telling what a night's rest will do for me. We shall just have to take no thought of to-morrow. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'" "Yes, just let to-morrow look after itself," yawned Dee. "We got out of the window and beat all the girls out of the building, and if one of us got a sprained ankle in consequence, we still have the glory of being out first and the thrill is still with me of sliding down that sheet. I'd like to do it again. That reminds me, I have not had time to untie the sheets. I'll do it in the morning to destroy all traces. Good ni--" But all of us were asleep before she got out the ght. CHAPTER XXI. THE REALITY. We all slept heavily. It had been an exciting evening and weariness was the result. I dreamed a terrible dream: that I was trying to get out of a fire and one leg was tied to the bed. In my struggles to pull myself loose, I awakened and found the matter was that my whole leg had gone to sleep by reason of the very tight bandage. I rubbed it back to consciousness and then determined to see if I could bear my weight on that foot. All of our machinations would be as naught if I should be laid up indefinitely, as investigations would be sure to follow. It was one of those hot, windy March nights. The wind had been blowing so that the ground had dried up until it was dusty. My throat felt parched and uncomfortable. I simply had to have a drink of water. Should I call one of the girls? I knew they would be angry with me for not doing it, but they were both sleeping so peacefully. I have always hated to arouse any one from sleep. It seems such a shame to break up the beatific state you are usually in when asleep. It fell to my lot to awaken Tweedles every morning at school until I should think they would have hated me. I put my bandaged foot to the floor and found I could stand it. I reached for my bed-room slippers but they were, of course, not in their accustomed place as I had not used them the night before, so I slipped on my shoes. It was difficult to get the left one on, by reason of the bandage plus the swelling, but I squeezed into it and laced it up for support. Donning my kimono, I made a rather painful way to the bath rooms. I wondered if I could walk without limping. Certainly not to church. I began to plan a headache for next day that would excuse me from everything. It seemed to me as I wandered down the dark hall that I did have a little headache, a kind of heaviness that I might call a headache without telling a very big fib. The water tasted mighty good and I drank and drank. What was that strange odour? It was burnt varnish! There was a faint light in the bath room and another far off down the hall. By that light I was sure I saw thin waves of smoke. I forgot my lame ankle and ran to the top of the steps. I could smell the burnt varnish more plainly. What should I do? Ring the fire alarm of course! I slid down the bannisters, not only to expedite matters but to save my ankle that had begun to remind me of its existence. The gong was just outside the dining-room door. "DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG!----DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG!" I rang it loud and clear; and then I thought maybe I had better repeat it, so I did. From a perfectly still house a moment before, now pandemonium reigned. The smoke was getting thicker. The smell of burnt varnish was making a tightening in my throat. The wind had increased and was blowing a perfect hurricane, as though it were in partnership with the fire. I ran upstairs thankful for the laced-up shoe. Our corridor was alive with excited girls who seemed to have no idea what to do. "Is it another fire drill?" asked one dazed freshman. "Oh, yes! It's a fire drill with realistic smoke to make you hurry," I called. "Get on your shoes and kimonos and coats just as fast as you can and go out of the building!" My words of command rather quieted the girls and some of them ran to do what I had said, but some of them just went on squealing. I found Tweedles sleeping sweetly. They were so in the habit of trusting me to awaken them when the gong sounded in the morning that its ringing in the middle of the night meant nothing to them. "Fire! Fire!" I shouted as I tore the covers off of them. "Get up and help! The hall is full of girls who need some one to lead them! The whole school is full of smoke!" They were awake in a moment and out of bed. There was no drowsy yawning or stretching with Tweedles. They were either fast asleep or wide awake. "Here, put on your shoes and wraps, something warm. You might as well be burnt up as die of pneumonia." Dum's pack with her pictures and deer skin had never been unrolled, so she strapped it on her back. "Don't stop for clothes, I am afraid there isn't time. We can come back for them if things are not as bad as I think." Dee had begun to empty bureau drawers into a sheet and to take things out of the wardrobe. "Well, I might as well throw this out the window for luck," she said, tying the sheet up into what looked like a tramp's great bundle. The hall was emptying as the girls raced down stairs, but an agonizing shriek arose from the lower hall, which was now dense with smoke. The front door could not be opened. It had been locked for the night and, according to a rule Miss Plympton had made, the key had been hung in her office. Of course no one knew this. There were many ways to get out of Gresham, so many that it was perfectly silly not to be able to get out, but that pack of silly, frightened girls came racing upstairs again. The lower hall was now too full of smoke to venture down in it again, and a lurid light was appearing, giving a decidedly sinister aspect to things. Tweedles and I, with Mary and Annie, met the panic-stricken girls at the top of the steps. "Why didn't you go out through the dining room?" I asked sternly. I found that some one would have to be stern. "Flames were there!" sobbed a great tall girl, the one from Texas. Teachers in a fire are no more good than school girls. There were two on our corridor in Carter Hall, but I saw one of them go frantically back into her room and throw the bowl and pitcher out of her window and come out carefully holding a down cushion. Dee was quite collected and cool. "Come into our room, 117," she commanded all the screaming crowd. "There is no smoke there. You can get out of our window." She immediately began tying the still-knotted sheets to our radiator and with a sly look at me she pulled another sheet off of her bed, muttering as she attached it to the others, "So it will be sure to reach the ground." "I can't go down there! I can't! I can't!" screamed the girl from Texas. "Nonsense! Then let some one else go first! You go, Page!" "I think I had better see if all the girls are out of their rooms first. But I am not a bit afraid. See, twist the sheet around your arm this way and then catch hold with the other hand and there you go!" and I sent a spunky little freshman spinning to terra firma. Dum and Dee got all the girls out in a few minutes, while I limped through all the rooms to see that no one was left. The rooms were in the greatest confusion imaginable as the inmates had endeavoured to save their clothes and had tied them up in bundles and thrown them out of the windows. I wondered if the other parts of the building had been emptied, but felt that I had better get out myself as the smoke was so thick you could cut it. Fortunately the moon was shining brightly for the electric light fuses were burnt out, and but for the moon and a few flash lights we would have been in total darkness. All the girls were out but Tweedles and me. "You next, Page! Be careful about your ankle, honey," and Dee tenderly assisted me out the window. I slid down, and thanks to the extra sheet, did not have to drop the six feet that had been my undoing the evening before. When I got to the ground I stood waiting for Tweedles to come down, but they had disappeared from the window; and though I shouted and called them they did not appear for several minutes. And then when they did come, what did they let down from the window but Annie's precious trunk! It gave me quite a shock. I was looking up, straining my eyes to see one of my precious friends begin the descent, when the end of the trunk appeared in the window and was gradually lowered by trunk straps they had fastened together. The glowing faces of the girls looked down on me. They were evidently having the time of their lives. "Drag the trunk away from the building!" shouted Dum above the noise made by 125 squealing, screaming girls and a raft of distracted servants, together with the rather tardy arrival of the village fire engine. The building was now doomed. Nothing ever burns so brightly as a fireproof building when once it starts. It is like the fury of a patient man. "Is every one out of the building?" called Dee. "Where is Miss Plympton?" quavered the teacher who had thrown her bowl and pitcher out of the window and was still hugging her down cushion. Where? Where indeed? The thing had happened so quickly and everything was in such an uproar that no one had thought of the principal. Could she have slept through the gong and the subsequent noise? "Miss Plympton! Where is Miss Plympton?" went up in a shout from the crowd. Her room was in a wing of the building that had not yet been touched by flames, although the blinding smoke was everywhere. I went through an agony of suspense that I hope never to have to experience again when my dear Tuckers disappeared from the window of 117, evidently to go in search of Miss Plympton. They found her in her room sleeping sweetly. Fortunately her door was not locked and they were able to get in. Dee told me she was lying on her back sawing gourds to beat the band. Of course, any one accustomed to sleeping in a noise such as she was making, could sleep through a bombardment. "Fire!" called Dum in her ear. "Get up or you'll be burnt up!" roared Dee. She turned over on her side and began that soft purring whistle that snorers give when their tune is interrupted. They had finally to drag her up and then they said she assumed some dignity, evidently thinking it was one of those Tucker jokes that she never could see through. When she realized the importance of hurry, she hurried so fast that she neglected the formalities of a kimono. The smoke was very dense in the hall as Tweedles half carried, half dragged her to their room, thinking it was best to trust to the old reliable sheets to get them out of the window rather than to attempt to descend from Miss Plympton's with the delay that would be necessary to knot more sheets. When they appeared at the window, a deafening shout went up from the expectant crowd. This shout of praise was turned into hysterical laughter when the figure of Miss Plympton was distinguished on the window sill. She was clad and clad only in pink pajamas and red Romeo slippers. Dum showed her how to twist the sheet around her right arm and clasp it below tightly with her left and let herself down. She came down like a game sport. If I had had a movie camera, I should have been assured of a fortune right there. I have seen many a film, but never one that equalled that scene of Miss Plympton coming down the sheets in her pink pajamas and red Romeo slippers. She was in a dazed state but quickly got her nerve. I gave her my coat as I had on a warm kimono, and I felt that the dignity of my sex demanded that Miss Plympton's pajamas should be quickly covered up. She thanked me, evidently grateful for the attention, and then she arose to the occasion and took command. Tweedles came down next in a great sister act. They were still enjoying themselves to the utmost. The firemen had got their engine going and were painfully pumping a thin stream of water on the building. Miss Plympton suggested that they put up their hook and ladders and try to go into the part of the building where the flames had not reached and save some of the girls' clothes if possible. This they did, and bundles similar to the one we had hurled out of our window began to be pitched from the rooms. Now began the fight with sneak thieves who had come up from the village. I saw one big negro woman making off with a bundle as big as she was. My ankle put me out of the running, but I put Mary Flannagan on to it and she darted after the thief. With her powers of a ventriloquist that so often she had used for our amusement, she threw her voice so that it seemed to come from the inside of the great bundle. "Who's carrying off my bones?" she cried in a deep sepulchral tone, and the scared darkey dropped her loot and ran like a rabbit. We formed a police squad among the Juniors and many a thief was made to bring back some prize he hoped to make away with. The building burned merrily on. It could not have been more than an hour before it was completely gutted, in spite of the gallant fight the village firemen put up with their rather pitiful excuse for an engine. The wind was high and blew every spark into flame. It got so hot we were forced to take a stand far from the school. The girls did their best to identify their bundles, and when once identified, they sat on them to make sure of them. Miss Plympton ordered us to form into classes out on the campus, and then she carefully went through each class to see that we were all there and all right. Then she put us in charge of teachers. This was very amusing, as I am sure the teachers had done little to deserve the honour of commissioned officers. I believe Margaret Sayre and Miss Ball were the only ones who had shown any presence of mind at all. No one seemed to know how the fire had started. All we knew was it was in the cellar. Mr. Ryan finally reported that he had not perceived it until after I had rung the alarm. He insisted he had made all the rounds, but I could not help having my doubts in the matter as I had covered a good deal of the building in my wild flights and had not once seen a gleam of his lantern. I told Miss Plympton how I had been forced to get up for a drink of water and how I had smelt burning varnish and how full the lower hall was of smoke. "Why didn't you call me?" "I thought the fire alarm would call everybody." "Ahem! Quite right," she said rather sheepishly. "The fact is I heard the gong in my sleep but was dreaming of the fire drill." "That seems to have been the case with almost every one. I fancy if I had not been thirsty all of us might still be sweetly dreaming." "I want to thank you for your behaviour and congratulate you on your presence of mind." This from Miss Plympton. "I wish you would tell the Misses Tucker to come to me. I have not yet thanked them for saving my life." I was amused at this, but did not think it at all funny that I was sent on an errand, as my foot felt like coals of fire and hot ploughshares and all kinds of terrible ordeals. I limped off but the first groan of the night slipped from me. "Why, child! What is the matter?" Her voice was actually soft and sympathetic. "Nothing!" I stammered, thinking to myself that I was in for an investigation now. "I ricked my ankle." "How?" "Getting out the window." I was a little sullen in tone now, but I was in so much pain by this time that nothing made very much difference to me. "Why, you poor little heroine! I am going to have you sent over to the hotel immediately and have a doctor look at it." Maybe you think I didn't feel foolish and sneaky! Miss Plympton thought I meant I had just sprained it that night instead of the evening before in the fire drill. I was not accustomed to subterfuge and my face burned with the effort to keep the secret. I was not at liberty to involve Tweedles in my confession, and it was impossible to make one without doing it. Just at this juncture old Captain Leahy came stumping up. "Well, phat is all this? The beautiful schcool all burnt oop! I am grievin' at phwat our sweet lady will say; boot praise be, she was not herre to go down wid the ship!" "Oh, Captain, I am glad to see you. I have sprained my ankle and I have just got to get somewhere and lie down." I had visions of keeling over again in a faint and thought it the better part of valour to save my friends that anxiety. "Ye poorr lamb! I'll fetch a wheelbarrow and get ye over to my mansion in a jiffy." Tweedles came just then and highly approved of the plan. "I tell you what, Captain Leahy, if you won't mind, let us stay in your house until the early train and then we can get to Richmond in time for lunch." "Moind! It would make me that prood! And the poosies would be overjyed." So Tweedles hustled around and found Annie and Mary and they all scratched in the débris for their belongings and mine, and soon we started off in a procession to Captain Leahy's. I was perched in a wheelbarrow that the good old man had found in a tool house by the garden and each girl had a sheet full of clothes slung over her back. When we got to the crossing, the Captain asked us to wait outside a moment while he put his house to rights. All he had to do was to convert his berth into seats again, and in a jiffy he was out to usher us into a ship-shape apartment. He was a singularly orderly old man to be so charming. I do not think as a rule that very orderly persons are apt to be charming. "Dum and I have to go to the station a minute," said Dee, just as though it were not three o'clock in the morning. "The station! What on earth for?" I demanded in amazement. "Well, you see the train dispatcher is there and we can get Zebedee on the 'phone." "What on earth is the use in waking him up this time of night and scaring him to death? I think to-morrow will do just as well." "To-morrow, indeed! By to-morrow 'twill be no scoop. Don't you know that if we get this to Zebedee now he will scoop all the papers in Richmond?" And so he did. Tweedles had not been brought up in a newspaper family for nothing. The ruling passion for news scoops was strong in death. CHAPTER XXII. IN MOTLEY RAIMENT. That was a strange trip we took to Richmond, catching that early train. No one had had any sleep, but we meant to have some naps on the train. Dear old Captain Leahy was as good as gold to us. He left us to keep house for him, as he put it, while he went back to the school with the wheelbarrow to get Annie's trunk. Annie was the only one who had a trunk now and grateful indeed she was to the Tuckers for saving it for her. She kept her clothes in her trunk as a rule, all of the best ones, at least, so she really had suffered almost no loss from the fire. The rest of us had to do some twisting and turning to get sufficiently clothed to travel. There were no hats at all in the company. Annie had a summer hat packed in her trunk, but no hat at all was better than a summer hat the middle of March. At that date the style of wearing your summer hat in winter and beginning on your winter hat in early fall had not yet penetrated to Gresham. Mary had fared worse than any of us and all her voluminous skirts had perished in the flames. At least, we thought they had at the time but we heard later that some of the Gresham darkeys were seen dressed in them. Thomas Hawkins reported this to us. He said he knew Mary's clothes and could not be mistaken. Mary's home lay in a different direction from Richmond and Mary thought she must leave us and go immediately to her mother, but we persuaded her to call up her mother on long distance and put it up to her that since she was burnt out and had no clothes she had better go to Richmond with us and purchase more. Mrs. Flannagan thought so, too, and was not a bit grouchy over being called up at five o'clock in the morning to decide. She even said she might come to Richmond herself and superintend the purchasing. We wanted to meet Mary's mother, but we were itching to have charge of the selection of Mary's clothes, certain, in the arrogance of youth, that we could do much better than Mrs. Flannagan. I am pretty sure that that was the first time school girls had ever left Gresham on that early train with a proper breakfast. Captain Leahy hustled and bustled, and with the assistance of the girls had a delightful little repast cooked on his doll baby stove. The coffee was not of the finest grade, but it was of the finest make. The toast was piping hot and the fried eggs were beyond reproach. The girls who had been taken to the hotel did not fare so well as we. Before train time Miss Plympton came to bid us good-bye. She was looking terribly harassed, having so many girls to attend to. I was glad to see she had changed her pink pajamas for a more suitable attire, also glad that she had remembered to bring my coat back to me. I had had a little talk with Tweedles while Mary and Annie were 'phoning Mrs. Flannagan, and we had come to the conclusion that we would 'fess up to Miss Plympton about how I got the sprained ankle. "I'll write to her, if you girls don't mind," I said. "I never felt sneakier in my life than when she bit so easily. I would have told her then but I did not want to get you into a scrape, too." "Oh, forget it! Forget it!" they tweedled. We had not expected the honour of a visit from her, as we had got her permission to take the first train home and thought that would be the last of it. She would not sit down at first, but stood a few minutes in the tiny house, looking curiously around at the Captain's arrangements. We had finished breakfast and Dum and Annie were clearing off the table preparatory to washing the dishes, although the host insisted on their leaving them. "We've half an hour to train time and might just as well put it in usefully," insisted Dum. "You look that tirred, lady," said the Captain, "if ye will excuse an ould man, I think if ye take a coop of coffee 'twill be the savin' of ye." She did take one and very grateful she was. I began to feel that Miss Plympton was much more human than I had ever deemed her. It wasn't easy to begin my confession, however, as there were so many present and Miss Plympton tired and broken was still Miss Plympton. "I have something to tell you," I faltered, after she had inquired almost tenderly after my ankle. "I--I--sprained my ankle in the fire drill, not in the fire. Tweedles--I mean Caroline and Virginia--and I, you remember, beat all the girls out of the building. We did not come out the regular way, but slid down the sheets out of our window. There were not enough sheets in our rope then to touch the ground and I had to jump about six feet--and my ankle turned. I did not mean to let you think it was in the fire I had hurt it, but you just took it for granted." I waited in great anxiety to see how this confession would strike our august principal. She looked at me curiously and then choked on her coffee and laughed and laughed until the little kittens in Bett's basket came out to see what was the matter. No one had ever seen Miss Plympton really laugh before. Finally she was able to speak. "After all, I did not say in my instructions to the school what route they were to take to get out of the building when the alarm rang, and if you chose to come by the window perhaps it was none of my business. At any rate, I don't see what is to be done about it now. Certainly demerits would be a farce." "Well, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Dum. "Somehow I've been having a feeling that demerits could never be a farce." "They are a farce now. There is something I want to say to you girls--all five of you. I might as well get it over with. I have not understood you and feel that there have been times when I have been unjust. I want you to accept my apology." Miss Plympton stood up and held out her hand like a perfect gentleman. We were so amazed we could hardly muster sense enough to shake it. Had the fire gone to her head? "When I realize that but for your bravery I might have lost my life--" "Why, not at all, Miss Plympton," put in Dee, "there was really plenty of time, as it turned out. The firemen could have got you out just as well. There was no hurry, but of course we thought there was or we would not have hustled you so." "If you don't mind, I like to think you saved my life. I must tell all of you good-bye now as I have a great many things to attend to and telegrams to send to the parents of the pupils. I am sending all home that I can to-day," and the poor woman gave another hand shake all around and even stooped down and gave Bett a pat, much to the astonishment of the Captain who thought our principal scorned cats. She thanked our host for his kindness, and started out the door and then came back and kissed me. Her face was crimson. Evidently she was not an adept in osculatory exercises. "I hope your ankle will be all right, my dear," she whispered. "Be sure and see a surgeon as soon as you get to Richmond." "Well, I'll be ding swittled!" gasped Dum, as the door closed on our one time _bête noir_. She expressed the sentiments of all of us. "The firre has milted herr icy hearrt. And did ye see herr pat poorr Bett?" "I am glad she is melted, but I must say I am also glad she didn't slush on me but that Page got it," said naughty Dee. "I can't believe that Miss Plympton has actually taken to lollapalussing." A motley crowd we were on that train to Richmond. Some girls had saved jackets and no skirts and some skirts and no jackets. Some of them had on bedroom slippers, and one girl, who was too fat to borrow, went home in her gymnasium suit and a long coat. Hats were a rarity and gloves unheard of. I am certain more clothes were saved than the girls ever saw, as the ghouls were very busy. We looked like a tacky party as almost every one had on something borrowed or incongruous. The excitement had kept up our spirits and, while we were one and all sorry about Gresham, we were one and all glad to be going home. I say all were glad, but that is not quite accurate. Annie Pore was not glad. Home was not a very entrancing place for her, poor girl. A country store in a small settlement on the river bank is not such a very cheerful place for a beautiful young girl with a voice she hopes to make something of. Annie's voice was deepening in tone and becoming very round and full. She really should be having it cultivated by a good master, but Mr. Pore was so parsimonious there was no telling whether or not he would let her have the necessary advantages. We talked of many things on that trip to Richmond. Sleep was out of the question, although we had planned naps to make up for the many hours we had been awake. Dee re-bandaged my ankle and I was much more comfortable. "I, for one, mean to go to New York to study Art," said Dum. "Well, if you go, I'm going, too," declared Dee. "I don't know just what I'll study, but I'm going to be either a trained nurse or a veterinary surgeon." "I mean to take a course in journalism at Columbia," I put in. "I do want to study singing in good, hard earnest," sighed Annie. "I mean to be a movie actress," said funny Mary Flannagan. "You needn't laugh. There is great demand for character work in the movies. Everybody can't be beautifully formed. I bet you John Bunny draws a bigger crowd than Annette Kellermann." "Well, I'll pay my dime to see you on the screen every day in the week!" I exclaimed. "I am really seriously considering the stage for a profession," declared Mary. "I could do vaudeville stunts in between my movie engagements." "Of course you could!" tweedled the twins. "I believe you could make a big hit in vaudeville. I never yet have seen or heard of a female ventriloquist on the stage," continued Dum. "Whatever we are going to do next winter," said Annie, "we are at least going to be together some this summer. Harvie Price has written me that his grandfather, General Price, has told him he can have a house party on his beautiful old plantation at Price's Landing any time this summer that suits him, and he is to have all of us." "Oh, what fun! Zebedee says Riverlands is one of the show places of Virginia and I know it will be just splendid to visit there," said Dee. "But speaking of visiting places," I exclaimed, "wouldn't I love to spend this unexpected spring holiday in travel!--not to far away places, you know,--" "I know," interrupted Dee eagerly, "just short trips--at a moment's notice--anywhere." "The kind Zebedee takes," added Dum. Oh, how I wished we might--but I knew we couldn't. And yet we did! I'll tell you some day what fun it was "Tripping with the Tucker Twins." THE END. The Girl Scouts Series [Illustration] BY EDITH LAVELL A new copyright series of Girl Scouts stories by an author of wide experience in Scouts' craft, as Director of Girl Scouts of Philadelphia. Clothbound, with Attractive Color Designs. PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT MISS ALLEN'S SCHOOL THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP THE GIRL SCOUTS' GOOD TURN THE GIRL SCOUTS' CANOE TRIP THE GIRL SCOUTS' RIVALS THE GIRL SCOUTS ON THE RANCH THE GIRL SCOUTS' VACATION ADVENTURES THE GIRL SCOUTS' MOTOR TRIP For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK Marjorie Dean College Series [Illustration] BY PAULINE LESTER. Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean High School Series. Those who have read the Marjorie Dean High School Series will be eager to read this new series, as Marjorie Dean continues to be the heroine in these stories. All Clothbound. Copyright Titles. PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH. 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THE BOY SCOUTS THROUGH THE BIG TIMBER; or, The Search for the Lost Tenderfoot. THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE ROCKIES; or, The Secret of the Hidden Silver Mine. THE BOY SCOUTS ON STURGEON ISLAND; or, Marooned Among the Game-Fish Poachers. THE BOY SCOUTS DOWN IN DIXIE; or, The Strange Secret of Alligator Swamp. THE BOY SCOUTS AT THE BATTLE OF SARATOGA; A story of Burgoyne's Defeat in 1777. THE BOY SCOUTS ALONG THE SUSQUEHANNA; or, The Silver Fox Patrol Caught in a Flood. THE BOY SCOUTS ON WAR TRAILS IN BELGIUM; or, Caught Between Hostile Armies. THE BOY SCOUTS AFOOT IN FRANCE; or, With The Red Cross Corps at the Marne. For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors were corrected. Varied hyphenation was retained. This includes words such as bed-room and bedroom; fire-proof and fireproof. Page 93, "Plymptom" changed to "Plympton" (at all, Miss Plympton) Page 184, chapter title was changed to all capital letters to match rest of chapter titles. Original print was in small capitals. Page 311, "ALLENS" changed to "ALLEN'S" (AT MISS ALLEN'S SCHOOL) 
32310	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 32310-h.htm or 32310-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32310/32310-h/32310-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32310/32310-h.zip) DOROTHY AT OAK KNOWE by EVELYN RAYMOND New York Hurst & Co., Inc. Publishers * * * * * THE DOROTHY BOOKS By EVELYN RAYMOND These stories of an American girl by an American author have made "Dorothy" a household synonym for all that is fascinating. Truth and realism are stamped on every page. The interest never flags, and is ofttimes intense. No more happy choice can be made for gift books, so sure are they to win approval and please not only the young in years, but also "grown-ups" who are young in heart and spirit. Dorothy Dorothy at Skyrie Dorothy's Schooling Dorothy's Travels Dorothy's House Party Dorothy in California Dorothy on a Ranch Dorothy's House Boat Dorothy at Oak Knowe Dorothy's Triumph Dorothy's Tour COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY THE PLATT & PECK CO. * * * * * [Illustration: "EVER RIDE IN AN OX-CART"? _Dorothy at Oak Knowe._] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. ON THE ROAD TO OAK KNOWE 9 II. UNFORTUNATE BEGINNINGS 24 III. PEERS AND COMMONS 39 IV. THE GILPINS HAVE A PARTY 55 V. THE FRIGHT OF MILLIKINS-PILLIKINS 69 VI. AT THE FALL OF THE MAIDEN'S BATH 85 VII. ALL HALLOW EVE FESTIVITIES 102 VIII. PEER AND COMMONER 117 IX. THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED 133 X. OPEN CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL 148 XI. WHAT CAME WITH THE SNOW AND ICE 164 XII. JOHN GILPIN JOINS THE SPORT 182 XIII. A BAD DAY FOR JOHN GILPIN 193 XIV. EXPLANATIONS ARE IN ORDER 206 XV. MRS. JARLEY ENTERTAINS 221 XVI. A PERPLEXING PROBLEM OF LIFE 232 XVII. COMMENCEMENT; AND CONCLUSION 249 DOROTHY AT OAK KNOWE CHAPTER I ON THE ROAD TO OAK KNOWE "This way for the Queen!" "Here you are for the Duke of Connaught! Right this way!" "Want the Metropole, Miss?" "Room there, stupid! She's from the States--any fool could see that! I'm from your hotel, little lady, the American. Your luggage, Miss, allow me?" If Dorothy's hands hadn't been too full, she would have clapped them over her ears, to drown the cries of the hackmen who swarmed about her as she stepped from the train at the railway station in Toronto. As it was, she clung desperately to her bag and shawlstrap, which the man from the American hotel seemed bound to seize, whether or no. But her heart sank and it was a forlorn little girl, indeed, who looked anxiously around seeking some face on which might be a smile of welcome. But nobody paid any attention to her, except the obstreperous hackmen, and in a sudden fright she let fall the tears she had so bravely kept back until then. It had been a long and lonely journey, but she had been assured that she would be promptly met and cared for when it ended. Now, amid all the throng of travelers and those who awaited them, not one was looking for a "dark haired girl in navy blue" and the tears fell faster as she cried aloud: "Oh! what shall I do! What shall I do!" Even the hackmen had forsaken her in pursuit of other, more promising patrons. The short autumn day was at its close and in the growing darkness her fright increased and her usual common sense left her. But, as she spoke, a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a rather gruff voice demanded: "Why, little stranger, what's a-troublin' ye?" Dorothy winked her tears away and looked up into the face of an old man, whose gray beard swept his breast while his head was entirely bald. He wore a long blue smock, carried an ox-goad in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. He looked as kind as he was homely and Dorothy answered quickly: "I'm lost, I guess. Or forgotten, and that's just as bad! I--I--" "Lost? Right here in this town? Well, that couldn't hardly be. Though I own it's a biggish place. But if you be, I'll see to it that you get found again, immediate. First start--who be ye?" "I'm Dorothy Calvert, from Baltimore. I came to the Oak Knowe School for Girls. Somebody was to meet me. Nobody has and--and--I don't know what to do." John Gilpin whistled and exclaimed: "No! Never! I saw at a glance you was no Cannuck! The little maids we raise in our Province have redder cheeks 'an yours. An' we don't let 'em go traversin' round the universe without their mothers or leastways nurses to look after 'em. But bless my soul, you've fell into safe hands. I know old Oak Knowe well. No better school in the whole Empire nor that. Moresomever, there's been some miscarry betwixt your folks and the Lady Principal or she'd never let you come to this pass. But my road lies same as yours. I'll just step-an'-fetch my oxen and head 'em straight for home. We'll get to the School in next to no time. Leastways, betwixt now and bedding-bell--they ring it about half-past nine." "Is it so far? Why, it must be hours till then!" At the cheerful sound of this old teamster's voice Dorothy forgot her fear. She didn't stop to reflect that she should have waited quietly in the station till somebody called for her, nor that she might have telephoned to her teachers to announce her arrival. All she realized was that here was a friend in need and that he was a quaintly interesting person. "'Tis a matter of some miles, lassie, and my old oxen are no electric tram. Slow and sure's their motto and what's an hour, more or less, in a little girl's lifetime? You got a box?" Dorothy glanced at the rug and magazine, tightly strapped together, and at the handbag she had set down upon the platform and replied: "No, Mr.--I don't know your name yet--I haven't now. I had one, but I ate the lunch out of it and tossed it from the car window." The old man stared as if she had spoken nonsense, but informed her: "Gilpin's my name. John Gilpin; but my dame says I'm no descendant of him that took that famous ride as is in the story books. I'm too slow, Dame says. But is all your clothes in that satchel?" It was Dorothy's turn to stare and to laugh. "Oh! no, indeed! They're in my trunk. Here is my check. Number 70777. I put that down in my little notebook, though it's easy to remember." "Humph! I've heard that in the States they call a box a 'trunk,' same's if it was an elephant. Well, give me the check. I'll just step-an'-fetch it and we'll be jogging." Mr. Gilpin took the check and lumbered away, dragging one leg stiffly as if he could not bend the knee, while Dorothy's spirits rose as she watched him. After all, this was a real adventure; and when it was over and she was safe at her fine school, she could write all about it to the friends at home. Thinking about them, she forgot how long John Gilpin tarried and roused from her reverie with a start when his hearty voice, guiding his oxen, came around the corner of the station. "Here we be, lassie! Ever ride in an ox-cart? Ever see a neater yoke o' cattle? That's an unco big box for a small maid to own and hefty, to boot. Step right in, for it's gathering clouds, I see, and we can't have that tidy dress of yours get spoiled while it's new." It was easy to "step in" to the low-hung vehicle and Dorothy nestled against her new friend on his spring-seat forward; all the back part of the wagon being filled with empty barrels and her own trunk. It had been some sort of holiday in the city and the streets were gay with flags and bunting, causing Dorothy to exclaim: "Why, it's just like Halifax, that time Earl Grey was coming! It's just as English as that was--even more so, for I don't see Old Glory anywhere, and there I did." Old John turned his bare, bald head toward her and demanded: "What do you know about Halifax? Or the Governor General? I thought you was United States." "So I am, so I am! But people may travel once in a while, mayn't they? I can tell you lots about Halifax, even though I was there but a little while. That was on a vacation journey and it was delight-ful!" Then, finding the farmer so interested, Dorothy eagerly recited the story of her "Travels" and their happy ending at her rightful home at Deerhurst and in the love of her Great-Aunt Betty. "Sounds like a story book, now don't it! And to think after all that the old lady should be willin' to despatch you up here to our Province, just to get a mite of education. Should ha' thought there'd be institooshuns of learning nigher hand 'an Oak Knowe, where she could ha' clapped eyes on ye, now and again. She--" "Oh! don't misjudge my darling aunt! She hated to have me come as badly as I hated to leave her; but, though I've never been really ill, she fancied that this climate would make me very, very strong. Besides, the minister who founded Oak Knowe--he was a bishop, I believe--was one of her girlhood friends, and so she chose it for that, too. Anyway, to her who has traveled so much, Canada and Maryland seem but a little way apart." "That's right, lassie. That's right. Be loyal to your friends, whether they be right or wrong. An' talk about travel, there beant many corners of this earth that I haven't took a glance at. I've not always been a farmer, though you mightn't think it now." They had passed out of the city streets into the open country, the oxen swaying and pacing sedately along, as if it mattered nothing how late they might reach home. To pass the time, Dorothy asked the old man to talk about his own travels, and he promptly answered: "In course, and obleeged for anybody to care to listen. Dame has heard my yarns so often, she scoffs 'em; but I've seen a power o' things in my day, a power o' things. I was born in Lunnon, raised in Glasgo', run away to Liverpool and shipped afore the mast. From sailor I turned soldier under Chinese Gordon--Ah! the man he wus! Miner, constable, me Lord's butler, then his cook, and now, at the fag end of my days, settled down to be my Dame's right-hand-man. She was a likely widow, coming from England to take up land here, and I met her aboard ship, last time I crossed seas. Didn't take us long to strike a bargain. She needed a man to till her farm; I needed a good woman to mend me and do for me, for I was that tired of rovin'--my hearties! We get along well. We get along prime. I do the talking and her does the thinking. She's that uncommon thing--a silent woman. Like to hear how I come nigh-hand to death along of a devil fish? Want to feel your hair rise on end and your arms get reg'lar goose-fleshy? Makes me nigh get that way myself, every time I recall--Whist! If that ain't thunder I'm a-dreamin', sure! Thunder this season of the year! Now that's fair ridic'lous. But mentionin' devil fish, yon comes one them red go-devils, Dame calls 'em, as squawkin', blazing-eyed automobeelyers--comin' this minute. No marvel natur' gets topsy-turvy with them wild things ramsaging round. But, quick, lassie! Do your young eyes see something or somebody lying beyond in the middle of the road?" The old man checked his garrulous tongue to rise and peer into the darkness, while Dorothy sprang to her feet beside him, straining her own eyes to follow his pointing finger. "There is, there is! Looks like a man or boy or bicycle or something and that horrid car is coming right toward it! Make 'em stop! Holloa! Loud, loud, for they don't see him! they'll run over him--he'll be killed!" But still the gay occupants of the car observed nothing; till at last a fiercer shriek from Dorothy sounded above their laughter and instantly hushed it, while the driver of the machine looked curiously at the cart which the wise oxen, perceiving their own danger, had drawn out of harm on the roadside. But the stop had been too late. Though the motor was swerved aside, it had already collided with the objects in its path, and it was in a terrified silence that the merrymakers descended from it. But even old John had been quicker than they and was now bending above the lad crushed beneath the forward wheels of this hated "go-devil." "Oh! my poor lad! Oh! my sunny Robin!" he groaned: then in a fury of anger at the great machine, tried his strength to lift it from its victim. Fortunately there were several men in the party, and the car well equipped against mischance, and so it was swiftly forced away, while the farmer again stooped over the motionless lad beneath and tenderly raised him in his arms. For a moment the group gathered about the pair believed that the boy was dead; then a low moan from his white lips mingled with the lamentations of John Gilpin and brought relief to everyone. Again came flashes of lightning and the growls of thunder, and the owner of the car exclaimed: "Lay the boy in the motor and we'll get him to a hospital at once. Maybe he isn't so badly hurt as seems. Pile up the cushions, somebody, and give him to me, old man. I'm stronger than you and better used to sick folks. Doctor Winston is my name." "The more shame to you then for what you've done this night!" hotly retorted old John, clasping his burden the closer and moving slowly toward his own humble cart. "Idiot! Don't put him in that shaky wagon. Delay may cost his life. Hospital's the place and the car is swiftest!" cried another of the gentlemen, indignantly. "Of course we'll see to it that he has the best of care with no expense spared." As if he had not heard, old John still moved away, quietly ordering Dorothy: "Undo that shawl of yours. Roll them barrels out of the wagon. Take off your jacket and make a piller of it. Spread the shawl out and cover him with part of it whilst I lay him down. Poor little Robin! The 'only son of his mother and she was a widow.'" Dorothy was glad to obey this strange old man who had been so genial and was now so stern, and it relieved her distress to be doing something to help. But as she tried to roll the barrels out, a hand fell on her arm and the doctor said: "I'll do that, Miss. They're too heavy for you. I wish you'd persuade your grandfather to trust me with this poor boy. It would be so much better." "He isn't my grandfather. I don't know him--I mean he was taking me--" But her words fell upon deaf ears, apparently. Having sent the empty barrels flying where they would, the doctor had now taken the pile of cushions somebody had brought him and arranged them on the wagon bottom. Next he calmly relieved John Gilpin of the injured boy and laid him gently down. Shaking out Dorothy's thick steamer rug, her "shawl," he carefully covered Robin and, sitting down beside him, ordered: "Drive on, farmer! Chauffeur, follow with the car. Lady Jane, the medicine case. To the nearest house at once." There was no resisting the firm authority of the physician and John Gilpin climbed meekly to his seat and at his urgent "gee-ho" the oxen started onward at a steady gait. But despite his anxiety there was a satisfaction in their owner's mind that the "nearest house" would be his own and that it would be his capable "Dame" who would care for Robin and not a hospital nurse. Meanwhile Dorothy seemed forgotten both by the people who had returned to their car and Mr. Gilpin; so, fearing that she would be left alone by the roadside, she sprang upon the end of the cart and sat there, her feet dangling over its edge. Now, indeed, her adventure was proving anything but amusing. What would Aunt Betty think of her heedless action? Or her dear guardian, Seth Winters, the "learned Blacksmith," wisest of men, whom the reader of this series will recall in "Dorothy's Schooling." Would she ever reach Oak Knowe, and how would this escapade be regarded there? Into her troubled thoughts now broke a sound of pain, that drove everything save pity from her mind. The rain was now falling fast and drenching her new clothes, but her anxiety was only that the injured boy should not get wet and she was glad that her rug was so thick and warm. It had been a parting gift from her "House-Boat" guests and held almost sacred as a memento of their happy trip together. But now the oxen were turning into a lane. She could dimly see the hedgerows on either side, that now and then the lightning flashes showed more plainly; and, after a time, something big and white seemed to block their way. A moment more and the white obstruction proved to be a cottage with a lamp shining through its window. Then a door opened and a woman's voice called cheerily: "Welcome home, my man! You're late the night. Met you up with any trouble? Didn't the apples sell well?" "More trouble than you dream, Dame, and I've fetched it for you to share. Light the bedroom to once. 'Tis the dead--or dyin'--is here." Without a word the woman turned away, moving heavily because of her great size, and an inner door opened, showing a comfortable bed, its covers already invitingly spread back. Lighting more candles the dame stood quietly aside, waiting her unexpected guest. The doctor brought the boy in, still wrapped in the rug and, tossing that to the floor, gently laid him down. John followed close behind, announcing: "'Tis Robin, Dame, our bonny Robin of the Glen. The heart of the mother will break. He--" "Help here. Hot water, please. More light. An old sheet for bandages. Don't dally. Undress him, Lady Jane." "But, doctor, I'm afraid!" objected that lady who, partly from curiosity, partly to avoid the rain, had followed the physician into the house. Indeed, all the motoring party had now swarmed into the kitchen, intending to be quiet yet really chattering noisily, and some of them sniffing covetously the odors from a great pot of soup, steaming away on the stove. But nobody was quite ready to respond to the doctor's appeals for help, even Mrs. Gilpin being confused and stupid before these strangers who had taken possession of her home. As for old John, he could simply stand and stare at the unconscious lad on the bed, too dazed and grieved to be of any use whatever. Not so Dorothy, who had entered with the rest and who noticed Dr. Winston's impatience--who knew that a hospital was where his patient should be and not this ill-equipped cottage. Throwing off her dripping jacket, she cried: "I'll help." A teakettle was singing beside the soup-pot on the stove and a dishpan was hanging near. To empty the kettle into the pan and to carry it to the chair beside the bed was an instant's task. Then, seizing the upper sheet and using her teeth for scissors, she swiftly tore it into strips; and by this time the dame had regained her own presence of mind. Without troubling to ask who Dorothy was or how she came to be there, she now took charge of things, saying: "You'll find clean towels in that chest of drawers. Fetch the doctor a pile. Shears are yon in that work-basket. You're spry on your feet as I can't be, but I do know how to take the clothes off this poor Robin. My, what's this he clenches so tight in hand? One of them telegraph letters 'tis his errand to deliver. All over the countryside the laddie rode on his wheel to earn the bit money would pay his mother's rent. Brave, bonny lad that he was!" Gently releasing the telegram from his fingers, Mrs. Gilpin held it up for the doctor to see. "For Oak Knowe. Open it, little girl, and read if it's important." She obeyed, but her voice trembled as she read. It was the belated message that announced her own coming and the hour of her arrival. It explained why she had not been met at the station, but she felt both shocked and guilty as she exclaimed: "Oh! it is my fault! It's all my fault that he is killed! Just about me it happened! What shall I do--what shall I do?" "Stop that sort of talk and see how your dead boy stares at you! Look well, Robin, you see a real live Yankee girl!" CHAPTER II UNFORTUNATE BEGINNINGS Even the most cultured Lady Principals do not enjoy being roused from their slumbers, an hour after midnight, by the tooting of a motor car beneath their bedroom windows. It was annoying to have to dress again and descend to a dimly-lighted reception room to receive a new pupil who had missed a train, on the route, and misdirected her telegram. Nor was there anything prepossessing about this especial girl, whose clothes steamed with moisture and whose travel-soiled cheeks were streaked by raindrops and tears. So it was small wonder that Dorothy's reception by Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon was decidedly cool and crisp. "This is really unprecedented, Miss Calvert. I cannot understand how any young lady, whose friends consider her intelligent enough to travel alone, could have made such stupid blunders, as you have. At the point where you knew you were to change trains, why did you not keep watch and inquire for direction?" "Well, you see there was a military parade and the soldiers looked so queer in their red uniforms and their funny little caps on the sides of their heads that--that--that I forgot. I mean the timetable told the right hour, course, but the first train was behind and so--and so--" It was a very lame excuse and Dolly knew it. But it was the truth and as such she gave it. Miss Tross-Kingdon made no reply. Inwardly she was commenting upon Dorothy's pronunciation of certain words, which was wholly at fault according to English custom, and realizing that here was the first fault to be corrected in her new pupil. Dorothy's heart sank. Uncle Seth's last advice to her had been: "Whenever you feel blue, just wave your flag of high courage and march ahead. Don't stop to think! March, march, march--toward the better time that will surely come." But that high-courage flag hung limply now and she felt she could never again wave it at all. But, fortunately, the Lady Principal now rose to terminate the interview. Touching an electric bell for the maid on night duty, she said: "It is very late and you are tired. Dawkins will show you to your cubicle and assist you in undressing. You may omit your bath, to-night, and are allowed an extra hour of sleep in the morning. Where are your suit case and hand bag?" Dorothy rose, as the lady did, but a fresh feeling of guilt made her eyes fall as she murmured: "I--don't--know." "Don't know!" echoed the Lady Principal, in amazement. Then directing Dawkins to supply what was needed, she returned to her interrupted repose, while Dorothy wearily followed the stern-faced maid; being cautioned, meanwhile: "Do not dare to make a noise and arouse the young ladies." Yet arrived at the cubicle, or small division of the great dormitory which had been assigned her, Dorothy realized that Dawkins was kinder than she looked. For presently she was being undressed, her face and hands sponged with cool water, and herself reclothed with the freshest of gowns. Then she was bodily lifted into the dainty little bed as if she were a baby. This unexpected gentleness touched her heart and, flinging her arms about the maid's neck, she sobbed: "Oh! do be good to me! I am so desolate!" "Whist, child! We must no be wakin' the troublesome girls around. And sure the lonesomeness'll pass, like the dew afore sun, once you get a good sleep and meet up with your mates. Good night, child, and sleep well." Then, since there was nobody to witness her unusual demonstration, maid Dawkins stooped and kissed the tired eyes of her new charge, and went quietly away. But there had been one observer of this caress. Peeping from her own compartment stood a girl whose keen eyes had noticed everything, and who felt she could scarcely wait until morning to spread the news. Creeping back to her own bed, she lay long awake, thinking the matter over. For this schoolgirl, who rejoiced in the title of the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard, had a deal of curiosity that was wholly roused now. "Never saw old Dawkins kiss anybody. Dawkins, of all creatures! Never knew a new girl come at this time of night--and she certainly was new. And she hadn't any clothes, I know, because that was one of the school hampers Dawkins had. Must be somebody very poor. I wonder who! Maybe--for goodness sake! Maybe she's some relation to old Dawk! Else why should she kiss her? Humph! I thought this was a school for young ladies, not for the poor relations of servants. There's one thing certain, mamma will never allow me to remain where there are paupers. Never in this world. Neither would Lord Christopher let Marjorie. No, indeed. So will Miss Tross-Kingdon find out. Why! one charity pupil at Oak Knowe would ruin it! Anyhow, I mean to hurry round in the morning and warn all my set against noticing the beggar and what our set does surely goes. Mamma gets odd notions about things, sometimes, like saying I must sleep in this old dormitory instead of having a private room, and that I have silly feelings about rank. Wanted the Lady Principal to make me more democratic: but even she couldn't wish me to sleep among paupers. Heigho! I wish it was morning! But I'll take a nap now and that will pass the time." Exhausted by the long journey she had taken, and by the startling events of the night, unconscious Dorothy slept calmly on, little dreaming of Gwendolyn's fancies about her; nor did she wake till long after all her dormitory mates had dressed and gone below to breakfast. When she did arouse it was to wonder about this strange place in which she found herself and at an elfish-looking child perched on the foot of her little bed, staring at her with wide eyes and keen impatience, and who greeted her first movement with the exclamation: "Well, old sleepy-head, I thought you never would wake up! Who are you, anyway, and what makes you stay in cubicle so long after breakfast? Won't you catch a lecture, though! I wouldn't be in your shoes for a sovereign!" "Don't believe you could be in them. You're so small they'd fall off," answered Dorothy laughing. "No, they wouldn't. I'd tie them on. If I wanted to. Who are you? When'd you come? How dare you stay in bed so?" Dolly laughed again. She had fallen asleep convinced that she could never laugh again, so tired and homesick had she been. But now, refreshed by rest and with the sunlight streaming through the windows, the world seemed a very different place. Besides, there was something so winning about this inquisitive little maid, that the stranger's heart was comforted that she had found a friend already. "Well, dearie, I suppose I dare because Miss Tross-Kingdon--" "Did she say you could? Isn't that odd! She's my aunt. I haven't any folks 'cept her, I'm a norphan. I'm Millikins-Pillikins, my brother Hugh calls me; and the girls, too. But I'm not, really. I'm Grace Adelaide Victoria Tross-Kingdon. That's my truly name. Nobody could call me all that, could they? Wouldn't be time. Auntie Princie calls me just plain 'darling' or 'dear.' I'm a Minim. I don't have to do lessons and things. I'm in the 'kindy.' Auntie Princie doesn't approve of a kindergarten in this School for Young Ladies; but it's a speriment the Board of Directioners wanted to try. Them's the gentlemen auntie has to mind. Fancy! My great big grown-up Auntie Prin having to mind them, same's I have to mind her! My Lord Bishop, he's the head Directioner, but he's the jolliest! I just love him! He knew my papa and mamma before they got drowned in the sea. My brother Hugh lives with the Bishop and writes things for him. They call him a seckeratary. He gets money for doing it. Think of that! Sometimes he gives me pennies and even six-pences. Sometimes--not often. You see he wants to earn enough to buy a cottage for him and me. I'm to be the lady of it--the mistress! Fancy! But Auntie Princie says I have lots to learn before then. I will have to make his bread, 'cause he won't have money enough to keep me and a cook, too. I'll have to have a housemaid to help me, but you know housemaids never do the cooking. But say, girl, you haven't told me your name yet?" Dorothy sat up in bed and drew the child toward her: "My dear, you haven't given me a chance yet, you've been so busy telling me who you are. But I've enjoyed it and I thank you for coming to wake me up. Now I must get up and dress. Maybe you will show me to the bathroom, though I don't like to go about in this way." "That's a school nightie you've got on. Where's your bath robe?" "In my trunk." "Where's your trunk?" "I suppose it's at John Gilpin's house. That is, if he didn't throw it out of the cart with the empty barrels." "Why did he throw out the barrels?" "To make a place for Robin to lie on." "What Robin?" "The messenger boy who was hurt. He was bringing my telegram and he fainted and fell and the motor car--but I mustn't stop now to talk. I must get dressed." "Couldn't you talk without stopping? I could." "I believe you, child. Will you show me?" "Of course--if you'll tell the rest. Wait. If you want a robe I'll get Gwendolyn's. It's right yonder." So it happened that the first act of the supposed charity pupil was to borrow a garment of the very girl who had so misjudged her, and who entered the dormitory just as Dorothy was leaving it for the lavatory. Curiosity had sent Gwendolyn and Laura Griswold, her chum and "shadow," back to this apartment at this unusual hour, but at sight of Dorothy disappearing toward the bath wearing Gwendolyn's robe, its owner forgot her curiosity in indignation. Stopping short, midway the great room, she clasped her hands in a tragic manner and demanded of Laura: "Did you ever in your life see anything so cool as that? The impudent girl! How dare she? I wonder what else she's taken! And that mischievous little Pill with her. That child's the nuisance of this school. Even if she is Lady Principal's niece, she shouldn't be given the liberty she has. But I'll report." "Yes, indeed, I'd report!" echoed Laura. "First, have to sleep in the school things; then help herself to yours. It's simply outrageous. Why not go right away? It's recess and Miss Tross-Kingdon has no class." "She has worse. The Bishop's in the reception-room, and Dr. Winston, too. They were all talking very fast and I wanted to stop and listen. But I didn't quite dare, for she was facing the door and might see me. But I did hear the Bishop say that if she was a Calvert she could hardly fail to be all right. She came of good stock--none better. I wondered who he meant; but Lady Principal saw me looking in and asked me if 'I wished anything?' Hateful woman! She has the most disagreeable manners!" "Never mind. Anyway, let's go tell her!" advised Laura, and the pair departed. However, the electric bell rang just then, announcing that recess was over and the telling had to be postponed to a better season. A few moments later a maid came to say that as soon as Dorothy was ready the Lady Principal would receive her in the west parlor. But she might stop in the breakfast-room on the way, where a dish of cereal and a bowl of hot milk was awaiting her. The maid added to the "Little Pill": "As for you, Miss Grace, the Minims are ready for their calisthenics and your teacher wants you." "But I don't want her. I want to go with Dolly." "You're too big a girl for dolls, Miss Grace, and quite big enough to obey orders." Grace's sharp little face darkened and she made a mocking grimace to the maid, retorting: "You don't know anything, Dora Bond! You don't know that the Dolly I play with is this new girl. I shall go with her. I hate them exercises. They make my back ache. I'm excused to-day, anyhow. I heard Auntie Princie tell a lady how I wasn't a bit strong and that she had to indulge me a lot. I shall do as I please. I shall go where I like. I shall, so, old Bondy! So there!" Dorothy was surprised by the unpleasant expression which had settled on the little girl's face, but said nothing. Following Bond's direction, she hurried through a long hall to a sunshiny breakfast-room and the simple meal prepared for her. She hastily drank the milk, but had no appetite for the cereal. Her heart was in a flutter of anxiety about the coming interview with Miss Tross-Kingdon. She had at once disliked and feared that lady, on the night before, and felt that her present appearance, in a rain-spotted frock and with her hair so hastily brushed, must only add to the sternness of this unknown Lady Principal. However, the clinging hand of Millikins-Pillikins gave a little comfort. She didn't feel quite so lonely and timid with the child beside her and, as she made her graceful curtsey at the open door, all her fear vanished and she became once more the self-possessed Dorothy of old. For, rising and crossing the room to meet her was her acquaintance of the night, who had brought her to Oak Knowe in his own car from John Gilpin's cottage. With extended hands he grasped hers and, turning to Miss Muriel, remarked: "Any time you need a nurse, madam, just call upon this little lady. She was the best helper I had last night. Quick and quiet and intelligent. She must train herself for that vocation when she is older." The color flew to Dorothy's cheeks and she flashed him a grateful smile, for the kind words that so soothed her homesick heart. The other gentleman in the room did not rise, but held out a beckoning hand and, with another curtsey to Doctor Winston, Dorothy excused herself to him and obeyed the summons. This other was a venerable man with a queer-shaped cap upon his white head and wearing knee breeches and gaiters, which made the young American remember some pictures of old Continental statesmen. "So this is my old friend Betty Calvert's child, is it? Well, well! You're as like her as possible--yet only her great-niece. Ha, hum! Little lady, you carry me straight back to the days of my boyhood, when my parents came from England--strangers to your Baltimore. But we were not strangers for long. There's a distant blood relation between our house and yours and we youngsters found in beautiful Bellevieu a second home. So you must remember that, since your aunt has done me the honor to send you away up here to this school of mine--of ours, I should say--you have come to another home just as I did then. Dear little Betty! What a mischief she was! Are you mischievous, too, I wonder?" Then he turned to the Lady Principal, warning her: "Look out for this little miss, Miss Tross-Kingdon! She looks as meek as a lamb, just now, but blood will tell and she'll bear watching, I believe." The dear old man had drawn Dorothy close to his side and was smiling upon her in a manner to win the heart of any girl and to cure her of her homesickness--at least for the time being. When he released her, he rose to depart, resuming for a moment the business talk with the Lady Principal, which Dorothy's entrance had interrupted. Both she and the doctor also arose and stood respectfully waiting till the Bishop disappeared. Then said Dr. Winston: "You'll like to hear about your boy patient, I suppose, Miss Calvert. Well, I think he's all right, or will be as soon as his bones and bruises mend. What I suspect is that the brave lad is about half-starved--or was. He's in danger of being overfed now, since he has fallen into Dame Gilpin's hands." "Half-starved, sir? How dreadful!" cried Dorothy, while Miss Tross-Kingdon exclaimed: "Can that be possible!" "Quite possible, indeed. His mother is a widow and very frail, old John tells me. Her husband was a carpenter who worked in town and was trying to pay for the little place he'd bought out here in the suburbs, hoping the open-air life might cure her. She'd gone into chicken and flower culture, thinking she could help in the payment. They were proud of Robin, the 'brightest, merriest, best boy in the Glen,' John claims, and had somehow got a second-hand bicycle for him to ride into school for the 'grand eddication' they wanted he should have. Then the father died and Robin got a position as messenger boy. Every cent he earned he gave his mother and she took in sewing. They ate just as little as they could and the result has been disastrous. A growing boy can't work all day and half the night, sometimes, on a diet of bread and water. So last night he fainted on his trip and fell off his wheel in the middle of the road. Then I came speeding along toward home and smashed them both up. But it's an ill wind that blows nobody good and the lad's accident may turn out his blessing. Dorothy and I and the Dame have mended a collar bone and a couple of ribs and my ambitious young 'Mercury' is laid up for repairs. John 'step-and-fetched' the mother, Mrs. Locke, and she, too, will get some rest and nourishment. She's worrying a good deal, but has no need. Plucky little Robin will soon be chirping again, 'fine as silk.' Maybe, after school hours, Miss Tross-Kingdon will permit me to take Dorothy with me in the car to visit her patient. May I, Madam?" The Lady Principal did not look pleased. The Bishop's and the doctor's treatment of the new pupil had really softened her heart toward the girl, but she was a stickler for "rules" and "discipline," and remembered that this was not the day on which her "young ladies" were allowed to pay visits. "Thank you, Doctor Winston, but I am obliged to decline the invitation for to-day. She has entered Oak Knowe some time after the opening of term and must pass examination, that I may understand for which Form she is best fitted. Nor have I yet been advised of such houses as her guardians desire her to visit. Commonly, the young ladies of Oak Knowe do not consort with laborers and messenger boys. But I thank you for your courtesy toward her; and, as that is the bell for my class in Greek, I must beg you to excuse me and I wish you good morning, Dr. Winston. Come, Miss Calvert, I will have your examination begin at once. Make your obeisance to the doctor." Dolly's heart sank. Why should she be made to feel so guilty and insignificant? Still, as she turned to follow the teacher, she obediently saluted the physician and, glancing up into his face, saw--was it possible that he winked? Though she felt as she were going to be tried for her life, this sight so surprised her, that she giggled hysterically and thus irreverently followed the haughty instructress out of the room. So doing, she added one more to the list of misdemeanors that lady had already placed against her account. CHAPTER III PEERS AND COMMONS Along the hall down which Dorothy followed the Lady Principal were many doors opening into small class rooms. Each class was under its especial teacher, its number being limited to ten students. It was the policy of the school that by this division better instruction could be given each pupil, and Dorothy wondered to which of these groups--if any--she would be assigned. Another hall and other class rooms joined the first and longer one, at a right angle, and here Miss Muriel paused, directing: "Proceed down this corridor till you reach the parlor at its end. There you will find Miss Hexam awaiting you. She will test your scholarship and report to me. Do not fail to answer her questions promptly and distinctly. I observe that you do not enunciate well. You slur some of your words and clip the endings from your participles. To say 'hopin'' or 'runnin'' is execrable. Also, there is no such word as 'daown' or 'araoun'.'" Dorothy's temper rose. She had done nothing right, it seemed, since she had arrived at this "school for criticism," as she termed it, and now said pertly: "I reckon that's the Southern way of talking. I noticed that the Bishop didn't bother about his 'gs' and he had the same twang that all do down home. He must have lived there a right smart time when he was little." "Many things are permissible in a cultured old gentleman which are not in an ignorant and forward girl. You came here for your own improvement. I shall see that you attain it; or, if you fail in this after a reasonable trial, you cannot be retained. That rule is plainly stated in our circular. I will bid you good morning until I send for you." Poor Dorothy fairly withered under this sternness that she felt was unjust, but she felt, also, that she had been impertinent, and running after Miss Muriel, as she moved away, she caught the lady's sleeve, imploring: "Please don't think I'm all bad, Miss Tross-Kingdon! I've been heedless and saucy, but I didn't mean it--not for badness. Please wait and try me and I _will_ 'improve,' as you said. Please, please! It would break Aunt Betty's heart if she thought I wasn't good and--and I'm so unhappy! Please forgive me." The dark eyes, lifted so appealingly, filled with tears which their owner bravely restrained, and the Lady Principal was touched by this self-control. Also, under all her sternness, she was just. "Certainly, Dorothy, your apology is sufficient. Now go at once to Miss Hexam and do yourself credit. If you have studied music, another person will examine you in that." Impulsively Dorothy caught the lady's hand and kissed it; and, fortunately, did not observe that dainty person wipe off the caress with her handkerchief. Then summoning her courage, the new pupil hurried to the end parlor and entered it as she had been taught. But the "den of inquisition," as some of the girls had named it, proved anything but that to Dorothy. "The Inquisitor" was a lovely, white-haired woman, clothed in soft white wool, and smiling so gently toward the trembling girl that all fear instantly left her. "So this is Dorothy Calvert, our little maid from Dixie. You'll find a wide difference between your Southland and our Province, but I hope you'll find the change a pleasant one. Take this chair before the fire. You'll find it comfortable. I love these autumn days, when a blazing log can keep us warm. It's so fragrant and cheerful and far more romantic than a coil of steam pipe. Have a biscuit, dear?" Miss Hexam motioned to a low wicker chair, which some girls had declared a "chair of torture," but which suited Dorothy exactly, for it was own mate to her own little reading chair "at home." Almost she could have kissed it for its likeness, but was allowed no time for foolishness. The homely little treat of the simple crackers banished all shyness and the dreaded "exam" proved really but a social visit, the girl not dreaming that under this friendly talk was a careful probing of her own character and attainments. Nor did she understand just then how greatly her answers pleased the gentle "Inquisitor." "You want me to 'begin at the beginning'? Why, that's a long way back, when I was a mere midget. A baby only a year and a half old. Papa and mamma died away out west, but, of course, I didn't know that then. I didn't know anything, I reckon, except how to make Mother Martha trouble. My father was Aunt Betty's nephew and she didn't like his marrying mamma. I don't know why; only Ephraim says 'Miss Betty was allays full o' notions same's a aig's full o' meat.' Ephy's Aunt Betty's 'boy,' about as old as she is--something over eighty. Nobody knows just auntie's real age, except Ephraim and Dinah. They've lived with her always and treat her now just as if she were a child. It's too funny for words, sometimes, to hear the three of them argue over some thing or trifle. She'll let them go a certain length; then all at once she'll put on her dignity and they fairly begin to tremble. She's mistress then and they're her servants, but I do believe either one would die to prolong her life. Dinah says: ''Pears lak death an' dyin' nebah gwine come nigh my Miss Betty Calvert.' And she's just right. Everybody thinks my darling aunt is the sweetest, most wonderful woman in the world. But I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to talk so much and hinder your examination." "Oh! that is all right. I love to hear your story that you've left off at its beginning. You're only a 'baby' so far, you know." "Well, if you like. When my father died, my mother felt that she would die, too, and she couldn't bear to leave me alone. So she just sent me to Aunt Betty. But she felt, auntie did, that she couldn't be bothered with a 'squalling baby,' nor could she cast me off, really. 'Cause she was my real great-aunt and my nearest relation and was rich enough to do what she liked in a money way. Besides, she wanted me to be raised real sensible. So she picked out a splendid couple she knew and had me left on their doorstep. She had pinned to my clothes that my name was 'Dorothy C.' Their name began with 'C,' too, so they guessed I was meant for them to keep, because they hadn't any other child. What a lot I'm talking! Do you want to hear any more? Won't the Lady Principal be angry if I don't get examined?" "I will make that all right, Dorothy, and I am greatly interested. It's 'like a story out of a book,' as the Minims say. Go on, please." "Well, these dear people took care of me till I was a real big girl. I love them dearly. He was a postman and he walked too much. So he had to lose his position with lameness and he's never gotten over it, though he's better now. He has a position in a sanitarium for other lame folks and Mother Martha is the housekeeper, or matron, there. Uncle Seth Winters, who knows so much that he is called the 'Learned Blacksmith,' is my guardian. He and Aunt Betty have been dearest friends ever since they were little. They call each other cousin, though they're no kin at all, any more than he's my uncle. He was my first teacher at his 'school in the woods,' but felt I ought to go to a school for girls. So I went to the Rhinelander Academy and he stayed at his smithy on the mountain, near Mother Martha's little farm and Aunt Betty's big one, and one vacation auntie told me who I was and took me home to live with her; and she liked Oak Knowe because the Bishop is her lifelong friend. She has had my name on the list waiting for a vacancy for a long, long time; so it's a terrible pity I should have been horrid, and offended the Lady Principal." "Let us hope she is not seriously offended, dear, nor have you told me what the offense is. But bear in mind, Dorothy, that she is at the head of a great and famous institution and must strictly live up to its standards and keep her pupils to their duty. But she is absolutely just, as you will learn in time. "I feel like hearing music, to-day, but get very little. All our practice rooms are sound-deadened. Do you play at all, on any instrument, or sing?" "A little of both, when I'm at home. Not well in either, though Aunt Betty loves my violin and my little songs. If I had it here, I would try for you, if you'd like. But it's in my trunk, my 'box,' Mr. Gilpin called it." Miss Hexam smiled and, opening a little secretary, took out an old Cremona, explaining: "This was my brother's, who died when I was young. He was a master of it, had many pupils. I allow few to touch it, but I'd be pleased to have you, if you would like." "Would you? May I?" asked Dorothy, handling it reverently for its sacredness to this loving old sister. And, after she had tuned it, as reverently for its own sake. It was a rare old instrument of sweetest tone and almost unconsciously Dorothy tried one theme after another upon it while Miss Hexam leaned back in her chair listening and motionless. Into that playing the young musician put all the love and homesickness of her own heart. It seemed as if she were back at Deerhurst, with the Great Danes lying on the rug at her feet and dear Aunt Betty resting before the fire. Then, when memory threatened to bring the tears she was determined should not fall, she stopped, laid the violin silently upon the table and slipped out of the room, leaving Miss Hexam still motionless in her chair. But she would have been surprised had she looked back into the "inquisition chamber" a few moments later to see the "inquisitor" arouse, seize a sheet of paper and rapidly write a few lines upon it. But the few lines were important. They gave a synopsis of Dorothy's scholarship and accomplishments, and unerringly assigned her to "Form IVb, class of Miss Aldrich." The "terrible exam" was over and Dorothy hadn't known a thing about it! Outside that little parlor another surprise awaited her. A crowd of girls was racing madly down the hall, the foremost looking backward as she ran and roughly colliding with Dorothy; with the result that both fell; while the others, following in such speed, were unable to check in time to prevent their tumbling over the first pair. Then such shrieks of laughter rang out that the teachers in the nearby classrooms came to their doors in haste. Even they were obliged to smile over the heap of girls and the tangle of legs and arms as the fallen ones strove to extricate themselves. They were all in gymnasium-costume and were bound for a side door of the building which led by a short cut to the gymnasium in the Annex. This was Dorothy's introduction to the "Commons," the largest and wildest "set" in the great school. They were all daughters of good families but of no "rank" or titles; and there was an abiding opposition among them to the "Peers," the smaller "set" of aristocrats to which the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard and Lady Marjorie Lancaster belonged. Mostly the "Commons" were a rollicking company, going to the extreme limits of behavior where any fun promised to follow, yet mostly keeping just safely within rules. Their escapades kept the faculty in considerable anxiety as to what they would do next, yet their very gayety was the life of Oak Knowe and even the Lady Principal was secretly fonder of them than of the more dignified "Peers." As they now scrambled to their feet, she who had run against Dorothy heartily apologized, yet paused half-way in that apology to stare and remark: "Why, heigho, there! I thought you were a Minim, you're so little. But I fancy you're a newcomer whom I don't know. Please explain; are you 'Peer' or 'Lower House'?" Dorothy laughed: "'Lower House,' I thought when you knocked me down, whatever that may be." "It means--is your father an Earl? or your mother a Duchess? Have you an Honorable amongst you? You hold your curly head as if you might have all three!" All the girls had now gathered about the stranger whom their leader was so unceremoniously quizzing and were eagerly inspecting her, but somehow Dorothy did not resent the scrutiny. There were big girls and little ones, fat girls and thin ones, plain and pretty, but each so good-natured looking and so friendly in her curiosity that Dolly's own spirits rose in response to their liveliness. "No, indeed! I'm just a plain American girl and prouder of that than of any title in the world. You see, all of _us_ are queens in our own right!" answered the newcomer, promptly. "Well, come on then; you belong to us and we all belong to the queen. Queen, what shall we call you? Where do you hail from?" "My home is in Baltimore, and my name is Dorothy Calvert." "Then you must be a sort of 'Peer' after all. I hate history, but I remember about that, for Lord Baltimore and Calvert are the same thing, I fancy. I'm sorry. I hoped you belonged to our 'set' and weren't an aristocrat." "But I'm not, I'm not!" protested Dorothy. "I do belong to you, I want to because you look so friendly and I need friends dreadfully. I'm so lonely, or I was. I've just come, you know." "Have you been 'inquisitioned' yet?" "I don't understand." The questioner explained, and Dorothy exclaimed: "Oh! I think that's cruel! Miss Hexam is perfectly lovely!" "So do we think, course, and she doesn't mind the nickname. It was first given her by a silly Seventh Form girl who thought she was all ready for the University yet failed to pass even a Fifth Form exam. I guess you'll not be put to study to-day, so best come over to the gym with us. What stunts can you do?" "None. But I've told you my name and you haven't told yours. Thank you, though, for asking me. I'm so glad to go." "Oh! you poor little lonesome Queen Baltimore! I'm Winifred Christie; this freckle face is Fannie Dimock; Annie Dow wears that blue bow in her hair; Florita Sheraton is the fat one; Ernesta Smith the thin; Bessie Walters--well, no need to point out Bessie. She's the nimblest girl in the gym. We here extend the freedom of the Lower House; and all in favor of grabbing this Yankee into our set before the other set catches her, say--Aye!" "Aye--aye--aye!" endorsed the motion and Dorothy clapped her hands over her ears, to keep out the ear-splitting shouts. How these girls dared make such an uproar amazed her; but she did not yet know that in the "long recess," now passing, much liberty was permitted and that a noise which did not interfere with study hours was not reprimanded. "It's the overflow of natural spirits and inevitable in the young," was one of the Bishop's beliefs, and not even the Lady Principal disputed his authority. "Come on, Queenie, and be put through your paces!" cried Winifred, throwing her arm around Dorothy's shoulders and forcibly racing her out of doors and across the lawn toward the gymnasium. But arrived there only one or two of the group attempted any exercise. The rest settled around Dorothy, whom the athletic Winifred had tossed upward upon the back of the wooden horse, and, with her arms folded upon the newcomer's knees, this leader of the "Commons" proceeded to cross-question her victim. [Illustration: "PROCEEDED TO CROSS-QUESTION HER VICTIM." _Dorothy at Oak Knowe._] "It's the cast-iron rule of our set to find out everything about anybody we receive into it. Begin at the date of your birth and proceed in a seemly manner until you come up to date. Where were you born? What sort of baby were you--good, bad, or indifferent? Begin!" Entering into the spirit of the thing Dorothy gave her simple life history in a few sentences. But when the questions came as to the events of the last few days her face grew serious and her voice faltered. "Why did I come to Oak Knowe alone? Because there was nobody to come with me. That is, Dinah or Ephraim, who might have come, couldn't be trusted to go back alone. My dearest girl friend, Molly Breckenridge, had been enrolled here and we expected to come together, but the Judge's health suddenly broke down and he was ordered to California and couldn't part with her. Uncle Seth wasn't well. He's my guardian and Aunt Betty's friend. She's my great aunt who takes care of me but she wouldn't leave Uncle Seth, even if he's not our kin at all, though we call him so. Jim Barlow is tutoring in a boys' school and; well, Aunt Betty said I could perfectly well and safely travel alone. I was put into the conductor's care when I started from Baltimore and he passed me along to the next one, and they've all been splendid to me. There'd have been no mistakes if I hadn't been careless myself. But I was. I missed a train I should have taken and didn't send the telegram I ought at the right time and there was nobody at the station to meet me and--and--" "The idea! A girl like you, traveling all the way from Baltimore to Toronto without a maid or any grown-up to take care of her! That's the strangest thing I ever heard. Weren't you just awfully scared all the time?" asked Florita Sheraton, amazed. "An English girl would have been in a blue funk every minute of the time." "I don't know anything about a blue or other colored funk, but every well-bred American girl can take care of herself if she chooses. If she 'loses her head' she gets into trouble right away. I lost mine last night and went riding off at dark with a strange old man, who said he'd bring me here, instead of stepping into the telegraph office and wiring the Lady Principal. Then all I'd have had to do would be to wait for her to send for me, and after all it wasn't the old man who brought me, it was Dr. Winston in his motor. He called here this morning and asked me to ride back with him and see Robin, but Miss Tross-Kingdon wouldn't let me." "Course she wouldn't. She never lets anybody do anything she wants to, if she can help it. Hateful old thing!" remarked Bessie Walters; at which the others laughed and Annie Dow inquired, "Who is Robin?" Dorothy told the story of last night, her new acquaintances listening intently, and Winifred commenting: "If you aren't the very luckiest girl in the world! Why I never had an adventure in my life, yet I'm ages older than you." At this a shout of derision rose, and Fannie Dimock exclaimed: "Don't believe that, Queen Baltimore. There's scarcely a day passes that she isn't in some scrape or other. Why, last term, she was in disgrace so often I really believed she wouldn't be allowed to come back." "Oh! little things like that don't count. But--" she stopped speaking so abruptly and such an earnest expression settled on her face that a mate remarked: "Look! There's something brewing this minute! Look out, Win, what you do! Don't mix any of us up in your schemes. I don't want any more extras so soon again;" then explained to Dorothy that "extras" were some difficult lessons any culprit was obliged to learn. Just then came the bell for mid-day luncheon, and all the Commons except Winifred answered the summons promptly. But she lingered behind, detaining Dorothy till the others were out of hearing, and then suggested something to her which made her clap her hands in delight. For the secret thus imparted seemed the simplest thing possible and one in which, to Dolly's ignorance of Oak Knowe rules, was entirely right. Arm in arm, the new friends entered the dining-room and Winifred marched Dorothy steadily forward to a seat at her own table, just opposite that occupied by some of the other "set," with the Honorable Gwendolyn among them. Dolly glanced across and nodded, but that titled young person returned the nod with a stare so intent and contemptuous that the color flashed to the stranger's face and her eyes fell as if she were in guilt. Yet she couldn't guess why, nor why she should be relieved when there arose a sudden diversion outside the doorway toward which everybody turned their eyes. CHAPTER IV THE GILPINS HAVE A PARTY The young ladies of Oak Knowe went out for their afternoon exercise for the half hour before supper. Those who had been long at the school were allowed to roam about the spacious grounds without a teacher, but newcomers, or those who wished to go further afield, were always attended by one. Most of Winifred's motherless life had been passed at Oak Knowe, even few of her vacations elsewhere. Her father was a very wealthy man, of large affairs which carried him often from the Province, to England or countries further away, so that his home was seldom opened. But to compensate his daughter for this state of things he had arranged with the authorities that her school life should be made as homelike as possible. She had her own private room with a tiny parlor and private bath adjoining. She was allowed to entertain her schoolmates there as she would have done in her father's house; always, of course, within the limits set by the faculty. But Winifred cared little for all this unusual luxury. She rarely asked for any money "banked" with the Lady Principal beyond the twenty-five cents a week which any pupil might spend; and she liked the common parlor far better than her own richly furnished one. Nothing hurt her feelings more than to have her mates refer to her wealth or to treat her differently from the poorest pupil. But there were times when she enjoyed her privileges to the utmost, and that first day of Dorothy's life at Oak Knowe was one such. Not having been "in disgrace" for a week at least she confidently asked permission to entertain the newcomer in her rooms, "Just we two by ourselves. She's lonely and I like her. Please, Miss Tross-Kingdon." "You'll be quiet, Winifred, and keep out of mischief?" asked the Lady Principal, with more gentleness than ordinary. It was natural that she should feel great interest in the girl she had almost reared and whose own power for good or ill Winifred herself could not yet comprehend. "Ah, now, Miss Muriel, you know I will! Why, surely, I've been as good for a whole week as if I were a kindergarten Minim. You should trust me more. I read the other day that people are just what you think they are. So, whatever you want me to be, please just think I _am_ and I'll be it!" and the audacious creature actually dabbed a kiss on the Lady Principal's own cheek. "Wheedler! Well, I'll try to fancy you're a saint, but I'm not so fanciful about this Dorothy Calvert. She's a pretty little thing and my Grace made friends with her at once and the Bishop says she is of good blood. That counts, of course, but she seems to me a little headstrong and very stupid. I don't yet understand how Miss Hexam came to put her into so high a Form. However, I know that she is very homesick, as all new pupils are, so you may entertain her if you wish. A maid shall send you in a tray and you are excused from school supper; but see to it, Winifred, that you use your influence aright. The more favored a person is in this world the more that individual should watch her own actions." Winifred thanked the teacher and backed out of the room as if in the presence of royalty itself. This action in itself was offensive to the teacher but was one she could hardly criticise; nor did she guess that, once out of sight, the "wheedler" should first stamp her foot and exclaim: "I'm sick to death of hearing about my 'influence' and being an 'individual.' Makes me feel like a spider, that time the German count came to visit Father and called his attention to 'that individual crawling down the wall.' He meant 'one, a solitary thing.' But I'm no 'solitary' just because Father has a little money. I often wish he hadn't a pound, especially when some of the 'Peers' try to make me believe he is at least a 'Sir'." Then hurrying to Dorothy she danced about in delight at her success. "Yes, she says you may come, and she's sure to send us in a fine supper. Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon never does a thing by halves, not even a lecture on 'individual influence.' Queen Baltimore, aren't you glad you're poor?" "Neither glad nor sorry, Winifred, because I'm neither rich nor poor. Anyway neither of us can help being just as we are, I reckon." "Come on, though, and hurry up. 'If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly,'" quoted Winifred, whose class reading just then was "Macbeth"; and seizing the smaller girl whirled merrily down the hall. Five minutes later, with hats and jackets on, they joined the other pupils out of doors. To Dorothy it seemed the beautiful grounds were alive with all sorts and conditions of girls, pacing rapidly up and down, "sprinting" to warm themselves against the chill of the coming evening, playing tennis for the brief half-hour, or racing one another from point to point. There were girls so many and so various, from Seventh Form young ladies to the wee little Minims, that Dolly wondered if she would ever know them all or feel herself a member of the great company. But Winifred gave her little time to gaze about her. "Oh! don't bother with them now. Our way is that lower gate, and it's a good bit of a distance, I hope you're a good walker." "Pretty good, I reckon," answered Dolly falling into step with the taller girl and hurrying forward at even a swifter pace. "But, begging your pardon, that's no way. We Canadians learn pedestrianism--whew! what a long word!--just as we learn our letters. Begin very slowly at first. Then when your muscles are limbered, walk faster--and faster--and faster! Till it seems as if your legs swing up and down of their own accord, just like machines. It's wonderful then how little you tire and how far you can go. Slack up a bit and I'll show you." Absorbed in this new lesson Dorothy scarcely noticed when they left Oak Knowe limits and struck out along a country lane, with hedgerows at either side; nor when having climbed a stile they set out across a plowed field, till her feet grew heavy with the soil they gathered. "Oh! dear! What mud! Why do you walk in it, Winifred?" "It's the shortest road. Here's a stone. Stop a bit and scrape it off--as I do. See?" answered the other, calmly illustrating her advice. "But I don't like it. My shoes will be ruined!" wailed Dolly who was always finical about "dirt." "Humph! Haven't you another pair? But they ought to be--such flimsy-wimpsy affairs! Look at mine. A bit of mud more or less can't hurt them and it's the boot-boy's business to clean them." The English girl held forth a good sized foot clad in a still larger shoe of calfskin, which though soiled with the clay had not absorbed much of its moisture: while the finer affairs of Dorothy's were already wet through, making her uncomfortable. "I couldn't walk in such heavy boots. And it's raining again. It rained last night. Does it rain every day in Canada? We ought to go back. Do let's, and try this some other time. I reckon this will finish my new suit, entirely." Winifred put her arms akimbo and stared at her new friend. Then burst into a hearty laugh over Dorothy's disgusted face. "Ha, ha, ha! And 'I reckon,' little southerner, that you'll be a more sensible girl after you've lived up here a while. The idea of turning back because it rains! absurd! Why, it's fine, just fine! The Lady Principal will overhaul your fair-weather-clothes and see that you get some fit to stand anything. This homespun suit of mine couldn't get wet through if it tried! But I shan't stand here, in the middle of a plowed field, and let it try. Come on. Its the States against the Province! Who'll win?" "I will! For old Maryland and the President!" cried Dorothy, and valiantly strode forward again. "For our Province and the King!" shouted the Canadian; and after that neither spoke, till the long walk ended before the cottage door of old John Gilpin and his dame. There Winifred gave a smart tap to the panel and holding her hand toward Dorothy, cried: "Quits, Queen Baltimore! We'll call it even and I'll never doubt your pluck again. But you certainly must get some decent clothes--if I have to buy them myself!" Then the door opened and there stood old John, peering from the lamp-lighted room into the twilight without. After a second he recognized Dorothy and drew her in, exclaiming joyfully: "Why, Dame, 'tis our little lass herself! Her of the night last spent and the helping hand! Step ben, step ben, and 'tother miss with ye. You're surely welcome as the flowers in spring." Mrs. Gilpin came ponderously forward, a smile on her big but comely face, and silently greeted both visitors, while her more nimble husband promptly "step-an'-fetched" the best chairs in the room and placed them before the fire. "Dry yourselves, lassies, whilst I tell the Robin you've come to see him. He'll be that proud, poor laddie, to have Oak Knowe young ladies pay him that honor! and he's mending fine, mending fine, doctor says. The mother--" He disappeared within that inner chamber still talking and as happy now as he had seemed sorrowful when Dorothy parted from him on the night before. Then he had anticipated nothing less than death for the boy he loved, despite the doctor's assurance to the contrary. He came back leading a woman by the hand, as protectingly as if she had been a child, and introduced her as: "The bit mother hersel'! Look at her well. Isn't she the very sight and image of Robin, the lad? And mind how she's pickin' up already. Just one day of good victuals and Dame's cossetting and the pink's streamin' back to her cheeks. Please the good Lord they'll never get that thin again whilst I have my ox-team to haul with and the Dame's good land to till. I'll just step-an'-fetch the rocker out--" At that point in his remarks the Dame laid a hand on his shoulder, saying: "That'll do, John Gilpin. Just brew a cup of tea. I'll tell the lad." Winifred was amused at this wifely reprimand, but no offense seemed meant nor taken. The farmer stopped talking and deftly made the tea from the boiling kettle, added a couple of plates to the waiting supper table, and drew from the oven a mighty dish of baked beans that might have been cooked in Yankee-land, and flanked this by a Yorkshire pudding. "Oh! how nice that smells!" cried Dorothy, springing up to add the knives and forks from the dresser; while Winifred clapped her hands in a pretended ecstasy and sniffed the savory odors, admitting: "I'm as hungry as hungry! And this beats any supper I asked for at Oak Knowe. I hope they'll want us to stay!" Her frankness made timid little Mrs. Locke smile as she had not been able to do since she had known of Robin's accident, and smiling was good for her. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of this simple, comfortable home was good for her, and the high spirits of these three young people delightful to her care-burdened heart. For, presently, it was the three--not least of these her idol, her Robin! Dorothy had followed the Dame into the boy's room and Winifred had promptly followed her; and because he was the sunny-hearted lad which the farmer had claimed him to be, he put all thought of his own pain or trouble out of mind, and laughed with the two girls at their awkward attempts at feeding him from the tray on the stand beside the bed. Having to lie flat upon his back he could still use one arm and could have fed himself fairly well. But this his visitors would not allow; and he was obliged to submit when Winifred, playfully struggling with Dolly for "My time now!" thrust a spoon into his ear instead of his mouth. The truth was that under the girl's assumed indifference to the fact that she was breaking rules by "visiting without permission" lay a feeling of guilt. "Double guilt" she knew, because she had imposed upon Dorothy's ignorance by stating that during "exercise hour" any long resident pupil was free to go where she chose. This was true, but only in a measure. What was not true was that so distant a point as John Gilpin's cottage should be chosen, much less entered without permission. But curiosity had been too strong for her and she had resented, on Dorothy's account, the refusal of Dr. Winston's invitation in the morning. Besides, she argued with her own conscience: "We're excused from school supper and free to entertain each other in my room till chapel. What difference does it make, and who will know? To-morrow, I'll go and 'fess to Miss Muriel and if she is displeased I'll take my punishment, whatever it is, without a word. Anyhow, Dolly can't be punished for what she doesn't know is wrong." So, feeling that she "was in for it, anyway" Winifred's mood grew reckless and she "let herself go" to a positive hilarity. Dorothy watched and listened in surprise but soon caught her schoolmate's spirit, and jested and laughed as merrily as she. Even Robin tried to match their funny remarks with odd stories of his own and after a little time, when he had eaten as much as they could make him, began to sing a long rigmarole, of innumerable verses, that began with the same words and ended midway each verse, only to resume. It was all something about the king and the queen and the "hull r'yal famblely" which Dorothy promptly capped with an improved version of Yankee Doodle. Whereupon, the absurd jumble and discord of the two contrasting tunes proved too much for old John's gravity. Springing up from his chair in the outer room he seized his fiddle from its shelf and scraped away on a tune of his own. For his fiddle was his great delight and his one resort at times when his wife silenced his voluble tongue. The old fiddle was sadly out of tune and Dorothy couldn't endure that. Running to him she begged him: "Oh! do stop that, please, please! Here, let me take and get it into shape. You make me cringe, you squawk so!" "You fix it? you, lassie! Well, if that don't beat the Dutch! What else do they l'arn children over in the States? Leave 'em to go sky-larkin' round the country in railway carriages all by themsel's, and how to help doctors set broken bones, and how to fiddle a tune--Stars an' Garters! What next? Here, child, take her and make her hum!" Presently, the preliminary squeaks and discords, incident to "tuning up," were over and Dorothy began a simple melody that made all her hearers quietly listen. One after another the familiar things which Aunt Betty and her guardian loved best came into her mind; and remembering the beloved scenes where she had last played them, her feeling of homesickness and longing made her render them so movingly that soon the little widow was crying and Robin's sensitive face showed signs of his own tears following hers. The tempting supper had remained untouched thus far. But now the sight of his guests' emotion, and a warning huskiness in his own throat, brought John Gilpin to his feet. "This isn't no mournin' party, little miss, and you quit, you quit that right square off. Understand? Something lively's more to this occasion than all that solemcholy 'Old Lang Synin', 'or 'Wearin' Awa'' business. Touch us off a 'Highland Fling,' and if that t'other girl, was gigglin' so a few minutes gone, 'll do me the honor"--here the old fellow bowed low to Winifred--"I'll show you how the figger should be danced. I can cut a pigeon-wing yet, with the supplest." Away rolled the table into the further corner of the room: even the Dame merely moving her own chair aside. For she had watched the widow's face and grieved to see it growing sad again, where a little while before it had been cheerful. Dorothy understood, and swiftly changed from the "Land O' the Leal" to the gay dance melody demanded. Then laughter came back, for it was so funny to see the farmer's exaggerated flourish as he bowed again to Winifred and gallantly led her to the middle of the kitchen floor, now cleared for action. Then followed the merriest jig that ever was danced in that old cottage, or many another. The cuts and the capers, the flings and pigeon-wings that bald-headed John Gilpin displayed were little short of marvelous. Forgotten was the dragging foot that now soared as high as the other, while perspiration streamed from his wrinkled face, flushed to an apoplectic crimson by this violent exercise. Winifred was no whit behind. Away flung her jacket and then her hat. Off flew the farmer's smock, always worn for a coat and to protect the homespun suit beneath. The pace grew mad and madder, following the movement of the old fiddle which Dorothy played to its swiftest. Robin's blue eyes grew big with wonder and he whistled his liveliest, to keep up with the wild antics he could see in the outer room. Nobody heard a knock upon the door, repeated until patience ceased, and then it softly opened. A full moment the visitor waited there, gazing upon this orgy of motion; then with an ultra flourish of her skirts Winifred faced about and beheld--the Lady Principal! CHAPTER V THE FRIGHT OF MILLIKINS-PILLIKINS For another moment there was utter silence in the cottage. Even the Dame's calmness forsook her, the absurd performance of her bald-headed husband making her ashamed of him. She had seen the Lady Principal passing along the road beyond the lane but had never met her so closely, and she felt that the mistress of Oak Knowe was high above common mortals. However, as the flush died out of Miss Tross-Kingdon's face Mrs. Gilpin's ordinary manner returned and she advanced in welcome. "You do us proud, madam, by this call. Pray come in and be seated." "Yes, yes, do!" cried John, interrupting. "I'll just step-an'-fetch the arm-chair out o' Robin's room. 'Twas carried there for his mother to rest in. She--" The mortified old fellow was vainly trying to put back the smock he had so recklessly discarded and without which he never felt fully dressed. He hated a coat and wore one only on Sundays, at church. But his frantic efforts to don this garment but added to his own discomfiture, for he slipped it on backwards, the buttons behind, grimacing fiercely at his failure to fasten them. One glance toward him set all the young folks laughing, he looked so comical, and even the dignified caller was forced to smile. "Don't see what's so terrible funny as to send ye all into a tee-hee's-nest! but if so be _you_ do, why giggle away and get shut of it!" testily cried the poor old man. To have been caught "making a fool of himself" was a "bitter pill" for him to swallow; having always prided himself upon his correct deportment. It was, as usual, the portly Dame who came to his relief, reminding: "There, husband, that will do." Then she quietly drew the smock over his head and slipped it back in proper guise. With this upon him his composure returned, and he apologized to Miss Tross-Kingdon as any gentleman might have done. "Sorry to have kep' you standing so long, lady, but I'll step-an'-fetch--" However he was spared that necessity. Dorothy had heard and understood that the best chair in the house must be placed at the caller's service and had as promptly brought it. For a moment Miss Tross-Kingdon still stood as if she would decline, till, seeing the disappointment on her host's face, she accepted it with: "Thank you. My errand could easily have been done without so troubling you. I came to see if you have any more of that variety of apples that you sent us last time. The _chef_ declares they are the finest yet. Have you?" "Yes, lady, I've got a few bar'ls left. Leastwise, my Dame has. She can speak for hersel', if so be she wants to part with 'em. I heard her say she meant to keep 'em for our own winter use. But--" "That will do, John. Bring a pan from the further bin and show Miss Tross-Kingdon. Maybe she'll like them just as well." "All right, wife. I'll step-an'-fetch 'em to oncet." So this obedient husband went out, his lame foot once more dragging heavily behind him, and he managing as he departed to pass by Dorothy and firmly clutch her sleeve, as he hoarsely whispered: "Did you ever see the beat! In your mortal 'arthly life, did ye? Well, I'm ashamed to the marrer of my bones to be caught cavortin' round like the donkey I was. Come on down suller with me and I'll get the apples. But carry 'em back--I shan't. Not this night. That woman--lady, I mean--has got eyes like gimlets and the less she bores 'em into old John Gilpin the better he'll like it. Worst is, what'll dame think? She won't say much. She's a rare silent woman, dame is, but she can do a power of thinking. Oh! hum!" So it happened that Dorothy returned to the kitchen, fairly staggering under the weight of the biggest pan of apples that the farmer could find. Mrs. Gilpin took them from her and showed them to the Lady Principal, who was inwardly disappointed at the failure of her visit. But the business was speedily concluded and, rising, she bade Mrs. Gilpin good evening. The only notice she bestowed upon her runaway pupils was to offer: "If your visit is ended, young ladies, you may return to Oak Knowe in my carriage." Dorothy did not yet know how serious an offense she had committed and merely thought that the Lady Principal was "stiffer" even than usual; not once speaking again until the school was reached. Then, as she moved away ignoring Winifred entirely, she bade Dorothy: "Go to your dormitory, take a warm bath, and dress yourself freshly all through. Your luggage has been unpacked and arranged in your wardrobe. Put on one of your wool gowns for the evening, and come to Assembly Hall. We are to have a lecture and concert, beginning at eight. Punctual attendance required." "She acts and looks as if we had done something dreadful, but I can't guess what," said Dorothy, perplexed. "Lucky for you that you can't! Your ignorance of school rules may save you this time, but it can't save me. One of the hardest things about it is, that you and I will be prohibited each other's 'society' for nobody knows how long. I'm a wild black sheep, who's led a little lamb--that's you--astray. It was fun--_was_ fun, mind you, but--but it's all over for Winifred!" "Win, you darling, what do you mean?" demanded Dolly, throwing her arms about her new friend's neck in great distress. "I mean exactly what I say. I'm an old offender, I've been there before and ought to know better. I did like you so! Well, never mind! The milk is spilled and no use crying about it!" Dorothy was surprised to see tears suddenly fill Winifred's eyes and to feel her clinging arms gently loosened. Under all her affected indifference, the girl was evidently suffering, but as evidently resented having sympathy shown her; so the new pupil made no further comment, but asked: "Do we have supper before that lecture? and should I dress before the supper?" "Huh! There'll be no supper for you nor me this night! And I'm just ravenous hungry! Why was I such a fool as to dance that jig instead of eating that pudding and beans? Yorkshire pudding's just delicious, if it's made right, and the Dame's looked better even than our _chef's_. If one could only look ahead in this world, how wise one would be, 'specially in the matter of suppers! Well, good-by, Queenie, with aching heart from you I part; when shall we meet again? Ah! me! When?" With a gesture of despair, half-comical, half-serious, the older girl dashed down the corridor and Dorothy turned slowly toward her own little room. There she found her luggage unpacked, her frocks and shoes neatly arranged in the wardrobe, underclothing in the small bureau, her toilet things on the tiny dressing table, and the fresh suit she had been asked to put on spread out upon the bed. It was all very cosy and comfortable, or would have been if she hadn't been so hungry. However, she had hardly begun undressing before Dawkins appeared with a small tray of sandwiches and milk, explaining: "Supper's long past, Miss Dorothy, but the Principal bade me bring this. Also, if there's time before lecture, you are to go to her private parlor to speak with her. I'll help you and 'twill make the time seem shorter." "Thank you, Dawkins, that's sweet and kind of you; but--but I don't feel any great hurry about dressing. Maybe Miss Tross-Kingdon'll be better-natured--I mean not so cross--Oh! dear, you know what I mean, don't you, dear Dawkins?" "Sure, lassie, I know you have a deal more fear of the Lady Principal 'an you need. She's that just kind of a person one can always trust." "I reckon I don't like 'just' people. I like 'em real plain _kind_. I--I don't like to be found fault with." "Few folks do so like; especially them as deserves it. But you will love Miss Muriel better 'an anybody at Oak Knowe afore the year's out. Only them that has lived with her knows her. I do know. A better woman never trod shoe leather, and so you'll find. Now, you've no time to waste." Nor was any wasted, though Dorothy would gladly have postponed the Principal's further acquaintance till another day. She found the lady waiting and herself welcomed by a gracious word and smile. Motioning to a low seat beside her own chair, Miss Muriel began: "You are looking vastly improved, Dorothy, since you've taken off your rain-soaked clothes. I hope you haven't taken cold. Have you felt any chill?" "Thank you, Miss Tross-Kingdon, none at all. Winifred says I will soon get used to rain, and she doesn't mind it in the least. She says she likes it." The Lady Principal's expression altered to one of sadness rather than anger, at the mention of the other girl, but she did not criticise her in words. "My dear little Dorothy, I sent for you to explain some things about Oak Knowe which you do not understand. We try to make our rules as few and lenient as possible, but such as do exist we rigidly enforce. Where there are three hundred resident and day pupils gathered under one roof, there is need for regular discipline, and, in general, we have little trouble. What we do have sometimes comes from ignorance, as in your case to-night. Your taking so long a walk without a chaperon, and paying a social visit without permission, was a direct trespass upon our authority. So, to prevent any future mistakes, I have prepared you a list of what you may and may not do. Keep this little notebook by you until you have grown familiar with Oak Knowe life. Also, you will find copies of our regulations posted in several places upon the walls. "And now that we have finished 'business' for the present, let us talk of something pleasanter. Tell me about that 'Aunt Betty' of yours, whom our good Bishop lauds so highly." Vastly relieved that the dreaded "scolding" had been so mild and Miss Tross-Kingdon so really kind, Dorothy eagerly obeyed, and was delighted to see a real interest in this wonderful aunt showing in the teacher's face. But her enthusiastic description of Mrs. Calvert was rudely interrupted by a childish scream and little Millikins-Pillikins flying wildly into the room, to spring into Miss Muriel's lap and hide her face on the lady's shoulder, begging: "Don't you let him! Don't you let him! Oh! Auntie, don't you!" "Why, darling, what is this? What sent you out of bed, just in your nightgown? What has frightened you?" "The debbil!" "Grace! What wicked word is that you speak?" "It was, _it was!_ I seen him! He come--set on my feet--an'--an'--Oh! Auntie Prin, you hold me close. 'Cause he was a talkin' debbil. He come to cotch me--he said it, yes he did." Miss Tross-Kingdon was as perplexed as horrified. That little Grace, her orphan niece and the dearest thing in life to her, should speak like this and be in such a state was most amazing. For a few seconds she did hold the little one "close" and in silence, tenderly stroking the small body and folding her own light shawl about it, and gradually its trembling ceased, the shuddering sobs grew fainter and fewer and the exhausted little maid fell fast asleep. Just then the clock on the mantel chimed for eight and Miss Muriel's place was in assembly, on the platform with the famous lecturer who had come to do her great school honor. She must go and at once. Dorothy, watching, saw the struggle in the aunt's mind depicted on her face. With a tender clasp of the little one she put her own desire aside and turned to duty; and the girl's own heart warmed to the stately woman as she had not believed it ever could. Dawkins had prophesied: "You'll love Miss Muriel, once you know her," but Dorothy had not believed her. Yet here it was coming true already! "Dorothy, will you please ring for a maid to look after Grace? Wake up, darling, Auntie Prin must go." The child roused as her aunt spoke, but when she attempted to put her down and rise, the frantic screams broke out afresh, nor would she submit to be lifted by the maid who promptly came. Miss Muriel's bell was not one to be neglected! "No, no, no! I shan't--I won't--the deb--" "Not that word, sweetheart, never again!" warned the Lady Principal, laying her finger on Grace's lips. "Go nicely now with Dora, and make no trouble." "No, no, no!" still screamed Grace: her flushed face and feverish appearance sending fresh alarm to her aunt's heart. "Why, look here, Millikins! I'm Dorothy. The 'sleepy-head' you came to wake up this morning. Won't you go with _me_, dear? If Auntie Prin says 'yes,' I'll take you back to bed, and if you'll show me where." Millikins looked long and steadily at Dolly's appealing arms, then slowly crept into them. "Pretty! Millikins'll go with pretty Dorothy!" So they went away, indeed a "pretty" sight to the anxious aunt. Dorothy's white gown and scarlet ribbons transformed her from the rain-and-mud-bespattered girl of a few hours before, while her loving interest in the frightened child banished all fear and homesickness from her own mobile face. Little Grace's room was a small one opening off from Miss Muriel's, and as soon as the lecture was over and she was free, she took Dr. Winston with her to see the child. Her dark little face was still very flushed, but she was asleep, Dorothy also. The girl had drawn a chair close to the child's cot and sat there with an arm protectingly thrown over her charge: and now a fresh anxiety rose in the Lady Principal's heart. "Oh! Doctor, what if it should be something contagious? I don't see why I didn't think of that before. Besides, I sacrificed Miss Calvert's opportunity to hear the lecture for Grace's sake. How could I have been so thoughtless!" "Well, Madam, I suppose because you are human as well as a schoolma'am, and love for your niece stronger than training. But don't distress yourself. I doubt if this is anything more than a fit of indigestion. That would account, also, for the imaginary visit of a goblin, which terrified the little one. However, it might be well to isolate Miss Dorothy for a day or so, in case anything serious develops." By that time Dorothy was awake and sat up listening to this conversation; and when the doctor explained to her that this isolation meant that she must live quite apart from the schoolmates she so desired to know, she was bitterly disappointed. "I haven't been here more than twenty-four hours, yet it seems as if more unpleasant things have happened than could anywhere else in a lifetime," she complained to Dawkins, who had come to arrange another cot for her to use and to bring the needed articles from her own little cubicle. "Ah, lassie! When you've lived as long as me you'll learn 't a 'lifetime' is a goodish long spell: and if so be you can't mix with your mates for a little few days, more's the blessing that's yours, alongside as you'll be of the Lady Principal. Now, say your prayers and hop into this fine bed I've fixed for you, and off to Noddle Island quick as wink. Good night and sleep well." Surely our Dorothy had the gift of winning hearts, and other Oak Knowe girls with whom Dawkins exchanged scant speech would have been astonished by the kindly gossip with this newcomer. Also, the maid's belief that Dorothy's intercourse with the Lady Principal would be delightful was well founded. Miss Muriel was grateful to her pupil for her patience with troublesome Grace, and regretful that her isolation from her mates had come about in just this wise. However, Dr. Winston had been right. Millikins-Pillikins had been allowed the run of the house and, like most children, found its kitchen its most attractive place. There her sharp tongue and amusing capers furnished amusement for the servants, who rewarded her with all sorts of "treats" and sweetmeats. The result was natural, but what was not so natural was her persistent declaration that she had been visited by an evil spirit. "I did so see him, Auntie Princie! He had big whitey eyes, and his head was all red--" "No more, darling. Say no more. Just play with your blocks. See what sort of house you can build, or--" "Auntie Prin, I do _hate_ blocks! And you don't believe me. Did Millikins ever tell you a wrong story in her whole life?" "No, darling, not to my knowledge. I'm proud to know you are a very truthful little girl. But even such can _dream_ queer things. Ask Dorothy to play for you and me. You know this is the last day she'll be shut up here and I'd like to hear some music." Dorothy laid down her book and went to fetch her violin, but the self-willed Grace would have none of that. Stamping her foot, she imperiously cried: "No, no, no! She shall come with me and seek that old debbil. She shall so. He had hornses and his face--" "Grace Adelaide Tross-Kingdon! if you disobey me again by mentioning that subject, I shall send for the Bishop and brother Hugh and see what they can do with you. Do you want to be disgraced before them?" The little girl pondered that question seriously. She could not understand why telling the truth should disgrace anybody. She loved the Bishop and fairly idolized her big brother Hugh. Her Aunt Muriel was more angry with the child than ever before in her short life and Millikins fully realized this fact. "I'm sorry, Auntie Prin. I'm sorrier than ever was. I hate them two should think I was bad and I wish--I wish you wouldn't not for to tell 'em. I isn't bad, you only think so. 'Cause it's the truthiest truth, I _did_ see him. He had--" Miss Tross-Kingdon held up a warning hand and her face was sterner than any pupil had ever seen it. Such would have quailed before it, but Millikins-Pillikins quailed not at all. Rising from the carpet, where she had been sitting, she planted her sturdy legs apart, folded her arms behind her and unflinchingly regarded her aunt. The midget's defiant attitude made Dorothy turn her head to hide a smile, while the little girl reiterated: "I did see him. I have to tell the truth all times. You said so and I have to mind. I did see that debbil. He lives in this house. When my brother Hugh comes, he shall go with me to hunt which room he lives in, and the Bishop shall preach at him the goodest and hardest he can. This isn't no badness, dear, angry Auntie Prin; it is the truthiest truth and when you see him, too, you'll believe it. If Hugh would come--" Miss Tross-Kingdon leaned back in her chair and threw out her hand in a gesture of despair. What made her darling so incorrigible? "Oh! I wish he would come, I certainly wish he would! This thing is beyond me or anything in my experience. I almost begin to believe that Bible days have returned and you are possessed of the evil spirit." Millikins-Pillikins returned to her play in supreme indifference. She knew what she knew. Couldn't a body believe one's own eyes? Didn't the _chef_ often say that "Seeing is believing," when the scullery maid stole the raisins and he found them in her pocket? She couldn't help Auntie Prin being stupid; and-- "Oh, oh, oh! Hughie's come! Hughie's come! Oh! you darling brother boy, let's go and seek that debbil!" The youth who entered and into whose arms his little sister had sprung, held her away from him and gasped. Then answered merrily: "That gentleman doesn't belong in good society, kiddie. It's not good form even to mention him. I'd rather go the other way." Then he set her gently down and turned to acknowledge his aunt's introduction to Dorothy. He was well used to meeting the Oak Knowe girls, but wondered a little at finding one at this hour in the Lady Principal's private parlor. As he opened his lips to address some courteous remark to her, a shriek of utter terror rang through the house and a housemaid burst unceremoniously in, white and almost breathless, yet managing to say: "Oh! Ma'am, I'm leavin'--I'm leavin' the now! Sure, 'tis a haunted house and Satan hisself dwells in it!" CHAPTER VI AT THE FALL OF THE MAIDEN'S BATH There had, indeed, been strange happenings at Oak Knowe. Beginning on that first day of Dorothy's life there, with the crash outside the dining-room door. That had been caused by the tripping and falling with a loaded tray of one of the best waitresses employed. Afterward it was discovered that a wire had been stretched across the doorway, low down near to the floor, and not easily noticeable in the dim passage. Who had done this thing? Miss Tross-Kingdon paid scant attention to the incident, apparently, although she caused a very thorough investigation to be secretly made. Nothing came of it. Matters went so wrong in the servants' quarters that they became demoralized and several threatened to leave. Thefts from one and another were frequent; yet as often the missing article was found in some unusual place where, as Dawkins declared: "Nobody but a crazy person would ha' puttin' it." One morning the _chef's_ spotless marble molding-board was found decorated by a death's-head and bones, done in red paint, and his angry accusations of his fellow-workers brought the Lady Principal to the kitchen to restore peace. But peace did not last long. The head laundress, who personally "did up" the finest pieces in "the wash," found her pile of them deluged with blueing, so that her work had to be done all over again. These were but samples of the strange happenings; and though most of the servants had been so long at Oak Knowe that they considered it their real home, some of the most loyal to its interests felt they couldn't endure this state of things much longer. Then had come the fright of little Grace, followed by that of the housemaid, whom no arguments could calm, and who rushed out of Miss Muriel's parlor as she rushed into it, departing that hour for good and all and to spread far and near ill reports of the great school. However, after that day nothing further happened. At a secret meeting of the faculty it was decided to take no outward notice of these disturbances, but to keep silent watch until such a time as the culprit, or culprits, should betray themselves. "He or she is bound to do so, after a time. There's always a hitch somewhere in such mischievous schemes and nothing worse than mortal hands has performed this 'witch work,'" said the Bishop calmly, though vexed that such foolishness could be found at his beloved Oak Knowe. Then for many days the disturbances ceased. Dorothy fell into the daily life of the school with all her heart, making friends with her mates in her own Form and even with some of the older girls. Best of all, she had lost all fear of the Lady Principal, whose heart she had won by her devotion to little Millikins. She even begged forgiveness for Winifred, against whom the teacher still felt some resentment; saying to Dolly: "It isn't what she did--in itself--so much as her broken trust. She has been with me so long, she has been taught so constantly, that I feel indignant at her deception. Anything but deception, Dorothy. Remember that a treacherous person is more to be feared than an openly wicked one." "But, dear Miss Muriel, Winifred will never cheat again. Never, I know. She won't go off bounds a step now, even though her 'restriction's' taken off. And she keeps away from me till she makes me feel dreadfully. Says she doesn't want to 'contaminate' and get me into trouble again. Please let her go nutting this afternoon with Miss Aldrich's class." "Very well. She may go." "One thing more, Miss Tross-Kingdon. When may I, may we, go to see Robin?" The lady smiled. A sudden memory of the scene upon which she had entered that rainy evening of her first visit to the cottage amused her, and she answered graciously: "Probably on Saturday, if you wish. Though I am still doubtful whether your guardians would approve." "I can answer for them, dear Miss Muriel. They are just the kind that would like me to go. Some of Aunt Betty's dearest friends are very poor. She finds them honester and more generous than the rich ones. As for darling Uncle Seth, he learned to be a regular blacksmith, just so he could live among them on 'even terms,' he said. Yet he's the wisest, best man in all the world." In the Lady Principal's private opinion he was also the most eccentric; but she did not dash Dorothy's enthusiasm further than to say: "To me it seems wisest to content one's self with the station in which one has been born. To step aside from the normal path in life--" Foreseeing a "lecture," Dorothy interrupted: "Beg pardon, Miss Muriel, but there's Win yonder this minute, walking with her head down as if she were worrying. She thought her father was coming home next week and he isn't, and she's so disappointed. She's reading his letter over again. She said, when I asked her why she was so blue, that it didn't seem like home here any longer with you offended, and he wasn't coming, and she had no real home anywhere. Oh! you needn't be afraid of darling Win doing anything crooked again. Do love her and take her back into your trust, and may I go now to tell her she can go nutting and about Saturday, and may I hurry up?" Without waiting an instant longer, Dorothy took permission for granted and ran out of the house. In reality, she had grieved far more over Winifred's punishment, by being kept on bounds and denied some other privileges, than that lively young person had herself. Winifred was ashamed, but she wasn't unhappy. Only now this letter of her father's, and the longing to see him, had sobered her greatly. Yet she was ready enough for the next amusement that might offer and looked up eagerly as Dorothy ran towards her across the lawn, crying: "Don't look so forlorn, Win! We can go--you can go--" "They can go!" finished the other, her mood quickly changing at sight of Dorothy's beaming face. "Where can they go, how can they go, when can they go, Teacher?" "Nutting, with Miss Aldrich's class. On their feet. With baskets and bags and the boot-boy with poles to thresh the trees and carry the nuts! and on Saturday to old John's cottage to hear the Robin sing!" "Oh! do you mean it? Do you? Then I know I'm all right with Miss Muriel again and I must go and thank her." Away hurried the impulsive girl and in the Lady Principal's room was presently an interview that was delightful to both. For in her heart, beneath a cold manner, Miss Tross-Kingdon kept a warm love for this wild pupil of hers; and was as ready to believe in Winifred's promises as the girl was to make them. The late autumn day was uncommonly fine. Not only Miss Aldrich, but most of the other teachers, were to take their classes to a distant forest on their annual nutting excursion, from which, this year, Winifred had felt she would be excluded. Miss Aldrich was not her own class director, but the girls in it were her especial friends and belonged to her gymnasium class. They were all "Commons," except Marjorie Lancaster, a gentle little "Peer," whom haughty Gwendolyn kept well reminded of her rank. "I don't like your being so chummy with those girls, and, worst of all, with that Dorothy Calvert. She's a pert sort of girl, with no manner at all. Why, Marjorie, I've seen her leaning against the Bishop just as if he were a post! _The Bishop_, mind you!" "Well, if he wanted her to, what harm, Gwen? Somebody said he knew her people over in the States and that's why she was sent away up here to his school. I like her ever so much. She's so full of fun and so willing to help a girl, any girl, with her lessons. She learns so easy and I'm so stupid!" protested Marjorie, who was, indeed, more noted for her failures than her successes at recitations. "But I don't like it. If you must have an intimate, why not choose her from 'our set'?" "The 'Commons' are lots jollier. They're not all the time thinking about their clothes, or who's higher ranked than another. I'm thankful I belong with the Aldrich ten. We have splendid times." Gwendolyn sighed. She found it very difficult to keep many of her "set" up to their duty as peers of the realm. "Class distinction" fell from her nimble tongue a dozen times a day in reprimands to other "Peers" who would hobnob with untitled schoolmates despite all she could do; and now to preserve Marjorie from mingling too much with the "Commons," she declared: "Well, if you won't come with us, I shall go with you. My director will let me. She always does let me do about as I like. She's lots more agreeable than the Lady Principal, who ought to appreciate what I try to do for the good of the school. When I told her how Florita Sheraton had complained she just couldn't get enough to eat here, she was cross as two sticks and said: 'Gwendolyn, if you are a real Honorable, you'll not descend to tale-bearing!' Hateful thing. And she comes of a titled family, too, somebody said. Yes, I'm sure my teacher will let me." "Even a worm will turn," and mild little Marjorie murmured under her breath: "I wish she wouldn't! But, of course, she will, 'cause it's the easiest way to get along. Yet you'll spoil sport--sure!" But the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard was already moving away to announce her intention to her greatly relieved director. For it was usually the case, that wherever this young aristocrat went, trouble followed; for, like the 'twelfth juryman,' she never could understand why the 'eleven contrary ones' didn't agree with _him_. Nobody stayed at Oak Knowe, that day, who was able to join this outing: and when nearly three hundred girls take the road, they are a goodly sight worth seeing. Each had been provided with her own little parcel of lunch packed in the small basket that was to be carried home full of nuts, and each carried a stout alpenstock, such as the experienced teachers had found a help on their pupils' long walks. "A walk that is less than five miles long is no walk at all for healthy girls," had been Dr. Winston's remark; adding, for the Lady Principal's ear alone: "That'll take the kinks out of them and they'll give you less trouble, skylarking. Teach them the art of walking and let them go!" To escape Gwendolyn, Marjorie had hurried to the fore of her "Ten" and slipped her arm into Winifred's, who had expected Dorothy instead. But she couldn't refuse Marjorie's pleading: "Don't look like you didn't want me, Winnie dear. Gwen is bound so to take care of me and I don't need her care. I don't see any difference between you 'Commons' and we 'Peers' except that you're nicer." "Why, of course, I want you, Marjorie. Can you see Dorothy Calvert anywhere behind? It's so narrow here and the hedge so thick I can't look back." From her outer place and lower height Marjorie could stoop and peer around the curve, and gleefully cried: "Of all things! The girls have paired off so as to leave Gwen and Dolly together at the very end! Another class is so close behind they can't change very well and I wonder what Gwendolyn will do!" "I'm sorry for Dolly, but she'll get on. Gwen has pretended not to see her so many times that Dorothy can hardly put up with it. Under all her good nature she has a hot temper. You'd ought to have seen her pitch into one of the scullery boys for tormenting a cat. And she said once that she'd make Gwendolyn like her yet or know the reason why. Now's her chance to try it! It's all that silly imagination of Gwen's that makes her act so. Made up her mind that Dolly is a 'charity' girl, when anybody with common sense would know better. There are some at Oak Knowe, course: we all know that, for it's one of the Bishop's notions he must give any girl an education who wants it and can't pay for it. But I don't know which ones are; do you?" "No, indeed! And if I did, I'd never let them know I knew." "Of course you wouldn't. No gentlewoman would, except that stuck-up Gwen. Her mother, Lady Jane's so different. She's almost as jolly and simple as her brother, Dr. Winston. But her Honorable young daughter just makes me tired! Peek again. What are they doing now?" "The 'Peer' is walking like a soldier on parade, stiff as can be, thumping her alpenstock up and down plumpety-plump, hard as nails. But Dorothy seems to be chattering away like a good one!" Winifred stooped and peered between the bobbing rows of girls and branches of trees and caught Dorothy's eye, to whom she beckoned: "Forward!" But Dorothy smilingly signaled "No!" "Well, _one_ of that pair is happy, but it isn't Lady Jane's daughter! I fancy we'd best leave them to 'fight it out on that line,'" decided Winifred, facing about again. "I know Queen Baltimore will down Honorable England at the end." Despite her own stiffness, Dorothy's continued chatter at last began to interest Gwendolyn, and the perfect good nature with which she accepted the marked coldness of the haughty girl to make her ashamed. Also, she was surprised to see how the girl from the States enjoyed the novelty of everything Canadian. The wild flowers especially interested her, and Gwendolyn was compelled to admire the stranger's love and knowledge of growing things. With more decency than she had hitherto shown, she finally asked: "However did you come to know so much botany, Miss Calvert?" "Why, my Uncle Seth, the Blacksmith, taught me; he lived in the woods and loved them to that degree--my heart! he would no sooner hurt a plant than a person! He was that way. Some people are, who make friends of little things. And he was so happy, always, in his smithy under the Great Tree, which people from all the countryside came to see, it was so monstrous big. Oh! I wish you could see dear Uncle Seth, sitting at the smithy door, reading or talking to the blacksmith inside at the anvil, a man who worked for him and adored him." The Honorable Gwendolyn stiffened again, and walked along in freezing silence. She would have joined some other girl ahead, but none invited her, and she was too proud to beg for a place beside those who should have felt it an honor to have her. Besides, pride kept her to her place in the rear. "Huh! I'll show this Yankee farrier's niece that I am above caring who is near me. But it's horrid to be forced into such a position and I wish I hadn't come. Goodness! how her tongue runs! And now what freak sets her 'Oh-ing!' and 'Ah-ing!' that style?" ran Gwendolyn's thoughts, and she showed her annoyance by asking: "Miss Calvert, will you oblige me by not screaming quite so loud? It's wretched form and gets on my nerves, for I'm not used to that sort of thing." "Neither am I!" laughed Dorothy; "but you see, I never saw anything so lovely as that glimpse before. I couldn't help crying out--we came upon it so suddenly. Do see yonder!" Her finger pointed westward, then was promptly drawn back, as she admitted: "Pointing is 'bad form,' too, I've been taught. But do look--do look! It's just like fairyland!" Gwendolyn did look, though rather against her will, and paused, as charmed as Dorothy, but in a quieter fashion. She was a considerable artist and her gift in painting her one great talent. Oddly enough, too, she cared less for the praise of others than for the delight of handling her brush. Beyond, a sudden break in the thick wood revealed a tumbling waterfall, descending from a cliff by almost regular steps into a sunlit pool below. Bordering it on both sides were trees of gorgeous coloring and mountain ashes laden with their brilliant berries; while a shimmering vapor rose from the pool beneath, half veiling the little cascade, foaming white upon the rocks. For a moment Gwendolyn regarded the scene in silence but with shining eyes and parted lips. Then she exclaimed: "The very spot we've searched for so often and never found! 'The Maiden's Bath,' it's called. I've heard about it so much. The story is that there was an Indian girl so lovely and pure that it was thought a mortal sin for mortal eyes to look upon her. She had devoted herself to the service of the Great Spirit and, to reward her, He formed this beautiful Bath for her use alone, hid it so deep in the heart of the forest that no one could find it but she. There was but one trail which led to it and--we've found it, we've found it! Hurry up! Come." Dorothy stared. Here seemed a new Gwendolyn, whose tongue ran quite as rapidly as her own had ever done, and whose haughty face was now transformed by eager delight. As the young artist ran forward toward the spot, Dolly noticed that no other girl was in sight. They two had turned a little aside from the smoother path which the rest had taken, Dorothy following the lure of some new wild flower and Gwendolyn stiffly following her. Only a minute before the chatter and laughter of many girls had filled the air; now, save for their own footsteps on the fallen leaves, there was no sound. "I wonder where the rest are! Did you see which way they went, Gwendolyn?" "No. I didn't notice. But they're just around the next turn, I fancy. Oh! to think I've found the Bath at last. I must make a little sketch of it and come back as soon as I can with my color box. How the studio girls will envy me! Every time we've been in these woods we've searched for it and now to come upon it all at once, never dreaming, makes me proud! But--_don't you tell_. I'd begun something else for next exhibition, but I shall drop that and do this. I'll get leave to do it in my recreation hours in some empty class room, and bring it out as a surprise. I wish I'd found it alone. I wish nobody knew it but me. It must be kept a secret--so don't you dare to tell. Come on." "Huh! I reckon if you'll stick to facts, it was I--not you--who found it. I don't see why I should keep it secret. It doesn't belong to either of us, it belongs to the whole world. I wish everybody who loves beauty could enjoy it," answered Dorothy, warmly. "Well, go tell then, tattle-tale! You might know a common girl like you would be hateful to her betters, if she got a chance!" retorted Gwendolyn, angrily. It rose to Dorothy's lips to respond: "Tattle-tale and mischief-maker is what all the girls know _you_ are!" but she kept the hard words back, "counting ten" vigorously, and also listening for some sound of her now invisible schoolmates. She wasn't a timid girl, but the silence of this deep forest startled her, nor looking around could she discover by what path they had come to this place. Then Gwendolyn was hurrying forward, carrying the pocket-pad and pencil without which she went nowhere, and careless of everything but to get her sketch. So Dorothy followed, forgetting her resentment in watching her companion. To see Gwen's head turning this way, then that, squinting her eyes and holding her pencil before them, measuring distance thus and seeking the "right light," interested the watcher for the time. Finally, the artist had secured a point which suited her and, seating herself, rapidly drew a picture of one view. She worked so deftly and confidently, that Dorothy's only feeling now was one of admiration. Then a new position was sought and another sketch made, but Gwen permitted no talk between them. "I can't work and talk, too; please be still, can't you?" she asked, looking up from her work. And again the real earnestness of the girl she disliked made Dorothy obedient, again rising to follow while Gwen chose another view still, high up near the top of the wonderful cascade. Her face had grown pink and animated and her eyes glowed with enthusiasm. "I shall paint that misty-veil with a glaze of ultramarine. There should be an underwash of madder, and maybe terre verte. Oh! if I can only make it look one atom as I see it! We must come here again and again, you and I, Miss Calvert, and you must--you simply _must_ keep the secret of our finding till after I've exhibited my picture." "All right. How long will it be before we can go find the others? you know we can't gather any nuts right here. I don't see a single nut tree." "I don't know how long I shall be, and why care about nuts while we can have--this?" returned Gwen, indifferently. "Very well, I guess I'll take a nap. Seems terrible close in this shut-in nook and my walk has made me sleepy. I reckon I'll take a nap. Wake me up when you get through." So saying, Dorothy curled down upon a mass of mighty ferns, laid her head on her arm and went to sleep. For how long she never knew, but her awakening was sudden and startling. She had been roused from a dream of Bellevieu, her Baltimore home, and of dear Aunt Betty feeding her pets, the Great Danes. Brushing the slumber from her eyes, she gazed about her, wondering for an instant, where she was. Then--that frantic shriek again: "Help! Help! I'm dr--" The cry died in a gurgle and Dorothy sprang to her feet in terror. She had warned Gwendolyn not to take that high seat so close to that slippery rock, from beneath which the cascade began its downward flow. "If you fall, it will be straight into the pool. Do be careful, Gwen, how you move." But the warning had been useless--Gwendolyn was already in the pool. CHAPTER VII ALL HALLOW EVE FESTIVITIES "I'm going to choose Queen Bess! I've made a lovely ruff, stands away up above my head. And Mrs. Archibald, the matron, has bought me four yards of chintz that might be brocade--if it was!" said Florita Sheraton, from the gymnasium floor, hugging her arms for warmth. "Four yards! That'll never go around you, Fatty!" declared Fanny Dimock, with playful frankness. "Well, it'll have to go as far as it may, then. It cost twenty cents. That left five only for the white and gilt paper for my ruff and crown." "Was Queen Elizabeth fat?" asked Dorothy, from her now favorite perch upon the high wooden horse. "What does that matter, whether she were or not? The plot is to act like a Queen when once you get her clothes on," observed Winifred, judicially. "I wonder if you can do that, Flo. Or if it needs another yard of cloth to make you real stately--she ought to have a train, oughtn't she--I might lend you another sixpence. If Miss Muriel would let me." "Don't ask for it, Win. You've done so splendidly ever since--" "That time I didn't! Well, I'd rather not ask for it. Twenty-five cents was the limit she set." "Wants to stimulate our ingenuity, maybe, to see how well we can dress on twenty-five cents a week!" laughed Ernesta Smith, who had no ingenuity at all. "If it weren't for Dolly here, I'd have to give it up, but she's fixed me a lovely, spooky rig that'll just make you all goose-fleshy." "What is it? Tell," begged the others, but Ernesta shook her head. "No, indeedy! It's the chance of my life to create an impression and I shan't spoil it beforehand. It'll be all the more stunning because I'm such a bean-pole. Dorothy says that Florrie and I must walk together in the parade." "Oh! I hope it will be a grand success!" cried Winifred, seizing Bessie Walters and going through a lively calisthenic exercise with her. "We've always wanted to have a Hallowe'en Party, but the faculty have never before said yes. It's all Dorothy's doings that we have it now." A shadow fell over Dolly's bright face. It was quite true that she had suggested this little festivity to the good Bishop. She had told him other things as well which hurt him to hear and made him the more willing to consent to any bit of gayety she might propose. She had said: "There is somebody in this school that doesn't like me. Yes, dear Bishop, it's true; though I don't know who and I've tried to be friendly to everybody. That is to all I know. The high-up Form girls don't appear to see me at all, though they're friendly enough with lots of the other younger ones. I heard Edna Ross-Ross saying to another that all the strange, horrid things that had happened at Oak Knowe this autumn began with my coming. She'd been told that I was a charity scholar, belonging to one of the servants. She didn't object to charity girls, so long as she knew they were of _good_ family, but she drew the line at _servants'_ families. She said that Gwendolyn had heard you, yourself, tell Miss Tross-Kingdon that I was mischievous and she must look out for me." "My dear, my dear! Surely no fair-minded girl could have so misunderstood me, even admitting that I did say that--which I fail to remember. As to that silly notion about the 'haunting' business, Betty Calvert's niece should be able to laugh at that. Absurd, absurd! Now tell me again what your fancy is about this Hallowe'en Party." "Why, sir, things can't be done without folks do them, can they?" "That's a poser; but I'll grant your premises. Proceed with the argument," answered the old gentleman, merrily. "Well, I thought, somehow, that if everybody was allowed to dress in character and wear some sort of a mask, the one who had played such pranks and frightened Grace and the maids might be found out. If anybody in this house owns such a mask as that horrid one and is mean enough to scare little girls, he or she wouldn't lose so good a chance of scaring a lot more. Don't you think so? And--and--there's something else I ought to tell, but am afraid. Miss Muriel gets so stern every time the thing is mentioned that I put it off and off. I can tell you though, if you wish." "Certainly, I wish you would." The gentleman's face had grown as serious now, and almost as stern, as the Lady Principal's at similar times; and Dorothy gave a sigh to bolster her own courage as she gravely announced: "When I took out my white shoes to wear them last evening, there was a skull and cross-bones on each one, done with red paint: and the tube of vermilion had been taken from my own oil color box. Now--what do you think of that?" Her listener pursed his lips in a silent whistle, which indicated great amazement in a man like him, but he said nothing. Only, for a moment he drew the girl to him and looked searchingly into her brown eyes. But they looked back at him with a clear, straightforward gaze that pleased him and made him exclaim: "Well, little Betty--whom you always seem to me--we're in a scrape worthy of old Bellevieu. We've got to get out of it, somehow. You try your scheme of playing masked detective first. If you fail in proving our innocence and some other youngster's roguery, I'll tackle the matter myself. For this nonsense is hurtful to Oak Knowe. That I am compelled to admit. 'Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth.' A miserable rumor started has wide-spread effect. I could preach you a sermon on that topic, but I won't. Run along back to your mates and try it. Just whisper 'Hallowe'en Party' to any one of them and see if every girl at Oak Knowe doesn't know beforehand that after chapel, to-night, the Lady Principal will announce this intended event. Now, good day, my dear 'Betty,' and for the present, to oblige me, just put those decorated shoes out of sight." This talk had been two days before: and with the Lady Principal's announcement of the affair had been coupled the decision: "Those of you young ladies that have no costume suitable may expend their week's allowance in material for one. Of course, this restricts the expense to utmost simplicity. No one may run in debt, nor borrow more than suggestions from her neighbors. Under these conditions I hope you will have the happy time you anticipate." So they were dismissed in gay spirits, to gather in groups everywhere to discuss costumes and the possibility of evolving a fetching one at the modest cost of a quarter dollar. By the afternoon following, most of the preparations had been made. Some of the maids had lent a hand to the sewing and the good-natured matron had planned and purchased and cut till her arms ached. But she had entered into the spirit of the occasion as heartily as any girl of them all; and the sixth and seventh Form students, who rather fancied themselves too grown-up for such frivolity, had willingly helped the preparations of the lower school pupils. Only one who might have enjoyed the fun was out of it. Gwendolyn was in the hospital, in the furthest west wing: for the time being a nervous and physical wreck from her experience at the Maiden's Bath. Even yet nobody dared speak to her of that terrible time, for it made her so hysterical; and for some reason she shrank from Dorothy's visits of inquiry and sympathy more than from any other's. But this seemed ungrateful to Lady Jane, her mother, now in residence at the school to care for and be near her daughter. She determined this "nonsense" must be overcome and had especially begged Dolly to come to the sick room, dressed for the party, and to relate in detail all that had happened on that dreadful day. So Dorothy had slipped away from her mates, to oblige Lady Jane, but dreading to meet the girl she had saved, yet who still seemed to dislike her. She wore her gipsy costume of scarlet, a little costume that she had worn at home at a similar party, and a dainty scarlet mask would be added later on. She looked so graceful and winsome, as she tapped at the door, that Lady Jane exclaimed as she admitted her: "Why, you darling! What a picture you have made of yourself! I must give you a good kiss--two of them! One for myself and Gwen and one for the Aunt Betty you love." Then the lady led her in to the low chair beside Gwen's bed, with a tenderness so motherly that Dorothy lost all feeling of awkwardness with the sick girl. "Now, my child, I must hear every detail of that afternoon. My darling daughter is really much better. I want her to get over this dread of what is past, and safely so. I'm sure your story of the matter will help her to think of it calmly." She waited for Dorothy to begin, and at last she did, making as light of the affair as of an ordinary playground happening. "Why, it wasn't anything. Really, it wasn't, except that Gwen took such a cold and grieved so because other folks had to find where the hidden cascade was. She just got so eager with her drawing that she didn't notice how close she got to the edge of the rock. If I had stayed awake, instead of going to sleep, I should have seen and caught her before she slipped. I can't forgive myself for that." The Lady Jane shook a protesting head. "That was no fault in you, Dorothy. Go on." "When I waked up, she was in the water, and she didn't understand how to get out. She couldn't swim, you know, but I can. So, course, I just jumped in and caught her. There was a big branch bent down low and I caught hold of that. She caught hold of me, but not both my arms, and so--so--I could pull us both out." Dorothy did not add that her arm had been so strained she could not yet use it without pain. "Oh! thank God for you, my dear!" cried the mother, laying her hand upon Gwendolyn's shoulder, who had turned toward the wall and lay with her face hidden. "And after that? Somebody said you stripped off your own jacket and wrapped it around her." "It wasn't as nice as hers, but you see she was cold, and I thought she wouldn't mind for once. I borrowed her bathrobe once and she didn't like it, and now she'd borrowed my jacket and didn't like that, I suppose." "Like it! Doubtless it helped to save her life, too, or her from pneumonia. Oh! if you hadn't been there! If--" sobbed the mother. "But there wasn't any 'if,' Lady Jane; 'cause if I hadn't seen the falls and made her see them, too, she wouldn't have been near hand. If she'd gone with the girl she wanted to, nothing at all would have happened. Some way it got mixed up so she had to walk with me and that's all. Only once we got out of the water onto the ground, I started yelling, and I must have done it terrible loud. Else Mr. Hugh wouldn't have heard me and followed my yells. He'd gone long past us, hunting with his gun, and he heard me and came hurrying to where the sound was. So he just put his coat around her and made her get up and walk. He had to speak to her real cross before she would, she was so dazed and mis'able. But she did at last, and he knew all those woods by heart. And the directions of them, which way was north, or south, or all ways. "It was a right smart road he took for roughness, so that sometimes we girls stumbled and fell, but he wouldn't stop. He kept telling us that, and saying: 'Only a little further now!' though it did seem to the end of the world. And by and by we came out of the woods to a level road, and after a time to a little farmhouse. Mr. Hugh made the farmer hitch up his horse mighty quick and wrap us in blankets and drove us home--fast as fast. And, that's all. I'm sorry Gwendolyn took such a cold and I hope when she gets well she'll forgive me for going to sleep that time. And, please, Lady Jane, may I go now? Some of the girls are waiting for me, 'cause they want me in the parade." "Surely, my dear: and thank you for telling me so long a story. I wanted it at first hands and I wanted Gwendolyn to hear it, too. Good night and a happy, happy evening. It's really your own party, I hear; begged by yourself from the Bishop for your schoolmates' pleasure. I trust the lion's share of that pleasure may be your own." As Dorothy left the room, with her graceful farewell curtsey, the girl on the bed turned back toward her mother and lifted a tear-wet face. "Why, Gwen, dearest, surely she didn't make you nervous again, did she? She described your accident so simply and in such a matter of course way. She seemed to blame the whole matter on herself; first her discovery of the waterfall, then her falling asleep. She is a brave, unselfish girl. Hoping you 'would forgive' her--for saving your life!" "Oh, mother, don't! You can't guess how that hurts me. 'Forgive her'! Can she ever in this world forgive me!" And again the invalid's face was hidden in the covers, while her body shook with sobs; that convinced Lady Jane that nobody, not even her anxious self, knew how seriously ill her daughter was. "My child, my child, don't grieve so! It is all past and gone. I made a mistake in forcing you to meet the companion of your disaster and hearing the story from her, but please do forget it for my sake. You are well--or soon will be; and the sooner you gain some strength, you'll be as happy as ever." "I shall never be happy again--never. I want to go away from here. I never want to see Oak Knowe again!" wailed Gwendolyn with fresh tears. "Go away? Why, darling, you have always been happier here than in any other place. At home you complain of your brothers, and you think my home rules harder than the Lady Principal's. Besides, I've just settled the boys at school and with you here, I felt free to make all my plans for a winter abroad. Don't be nonsensical. Don't spoil everything by foolishness concerning an accident that ended so well. I don't understand you, dearest, I certainly do not." Assembly Hall had been cleared for the entertainment. Most of the chairs had been removed, only a row of them being left around the walls for the benefit of the invited guests. These were the friends and patrons of the school from the near by city and from the country houses round about. Conspicuous among these was old John Gilpin in his Sunday suit, his long beard brushed till each hair hung smooth and separate, his bald head polished till it shone, and himself the most ill at ease of all the company. Beside him sat the little widow, Robin's mother; without whom, John had declared, he would "not stir hand nor hoof" toward any such frivolity, and the good Dame abetting him in the matter. She had said: "No, Mrs. Locke, no more he shall. I can't go, it's bread-settin' night, and with my being so unwieldy and awkward like--I'd ruther by far stay home. Robin will be all right. The dear lad's become the very apple of my eye and I e'enamost dread his gettin' well enough to go to work again. A bit of nonsense, like this of Dorothy's gettin'-up, 'll do you more good nor medicine. I've said my say and leave it said. If John could go in his clean smock, he'd be all right, even to face that Lady Principal that caught him cavortin' like a silly calf. But 'twould be an obligement to me if you'd go along and keep him in countenance." Of course, Mrs. Locke could do no less for a neighbor who had so befriended her and Robin: so here she was, looking as much the lady in her cheap black gown as any richer woman there. Also, so absorbed she was in keeping old John from trying to "cut and run," or doing anything else that would have mortified his wife. The Lady Principal had herself hesitated somewhat before the cottagers were invited, fearing their presence would be offensive to more aristocratic guests, but the good Bishop had heartily endorsed Dorothy's plea for them and she accepted his decision. In any case, she need not have feared. For suddenly there sounded from the distance the wailing of a violin, so weird and suggestive of uncanny things, that all talking ceased and all eyes turned toward the wide entrance doors, through which the masqueraders must come. Everything within the great room had been arranged with due attention to "effect." In its center a great "witches' caldron" hung suspended from three poles, and a lantern hung above it, where the bobbing for apples would take place. Dishes of salt, witch-cakes of meal, jack-o'-lanterns dimly lighted, odors of brimstone, daubs of phosphorus here and there--in fact, everything that the imaginations of the maskers could conceive, or reading suggest as fit for Hallowe'en, had been prepared. The doleful music drew nearer and nearer and as the lights in the Hall went out, leaving only the pale glimmer of the lanterns, even the most indifferent guests felt a little thrill run through their nerves. Then the doors slowly opened and there came through them a ghostly company that seemed endless. From head to foot each "ghost" was draped in white, even the extended hand which held a lighted taper was gloved in white, and the whole procession moved slowly to the dirge which the unseen musicians played. After a circuit of the great room, they began a curious dance which, in reality, was a calisthenic movement familiar to the everyday life of these young actors, but, as now performed, seemed weird and nerve-trying even to themselves. Its effect upon others was even more powerful and upon John Gilpin, to send him into a shivering fit that alarmed Mrs. Locke. "Why, Mr. Gilpin, what's the matter? Are you ill?" "Seems if--seems if--my last hour's come! Needn't tell me--them's--just--just plain schoolgirls! They--they're spooks right out the graveyard, sure as preachin' and I wish--I hadn't come! And there's no end of 'em! And it means--somethin' terr'ble! I wish--do you suppose--Ain't there a winder some'ers nigh? Is this Hall high up? Could I--could I climb out it?" The poor little widow was growing very nervous herself. Her companion's positive terror was infecting her and she felt that if this were her promised "fun" she'd had quite enough of it, and would be as glad as he to desert the gathering. Suddenly the movement changed. The slowly circling ghosts fell into step with the altered music, which, still a wailing minor, grew fast and faster, until with a crash its mad measure ended. At that instant, and before the lights were turned on, came another most peculiar sound. It was like the patter of small hoofs, the "ih-ih-ihing" of some terrified beast; and all ears were strained to listen while through those open doors came bounding and leaping, as if to escape its own self--What? From her perch on Dr. Winston's knees, Miss Millikins-Pillikins identified it as: "The debbil! The debbil!" Old John sprang to his feet and shrieked, while, as if attracted by his cry, the horrible object made straight for him and with one vicious thrust of its dreadful head knocked him down. CHAPTER VIII PEER AND COMMONER The lights flashed out. The ghostly wrappings fell from the figures which had been halted by the sudden apparition that had selected poor John Gilpin as its victim, though, in knocking him down it had knocked common sense back into his head. For as he lay sprawled on the floor the thrusts of that demoniac head continued and now, instead of frightening, angered him. For there was something familiar in the action of his assailant. Recovering his breath, he sat up and seized the horns that were prodding his Sunday suit, and yelled: "Quit that, Baal, you old rascal! Dressin' up like the Old Boy, be ye? Well, you never could ha' picked out a closer fit! But I'll strip ye bare--you cantankerous old goat, you Baal!" Away flew the mask of the evil spirit which some ingenious hand had fastened to the animal's head, and up rose such a shout of laughter as made the great room ring. The recent "ghosts" swarmed about the pair, still in masks and costumes, and a lively chase of Baal followed. The goat had broken away from the irate old man, as soon as might be, and John had risen stiffly to his feet. But his bashfulness was past. Also, his lameness was again forgotten, as one masquerader after another whirled about him, catching his coat skirts or his arm and laughingly daring him: "Guess who I am!" He didn't even try, but entered into the fun with as great zest as any youngster present, and it must be admitted, making a greater noise than any. Around and around the great hall sped the goat, somebody having mischievously closed the doors to prevent its escape; and across and about chased the merrymakers, tossing off their masks to see and careless now who guessed their identity. "Baal!" "Baal here!" "Who owns him? Where did he come from?" "What makes him so slippery? I wonder if he's been greased!" At last answered the farmer: "I guess I could tell you who owns him, but I'd better not. I don't want to get nobody into trouble, much as he deserves it." "'He?' Is it a 'he' then and not one of the girls?" demanded Winifred. But he did not inform her, merely asking when it would be time to bob for apples. "Because I know they're prime. They come out Dame's choisest bar'l. Grew on a tree she'll let nobody touch, not even me." "Apples! Apples! My turn first!" cried Florita Sheraton, stooping her fat body above the "caldron" into which some of the fruit had been tossed. But she failed, of course, her frantic efforts to plant her white teeth in any one of the apples resulting only in the wetting of her paper crown and ruff, as well as the ripping of her hastily made "robe." Then the others crowded around the great kettle, good naturedly pushing first comers aside while but a few succeeded in obtaining a prize. Old John was one of these; so gay and lively that the audience found him the most amusing feature of the entertainment. Till finally Mrs. Locke gained courage to cross to his side and whisper something in his ear; at which he looked, abashed and with a furtive glance in the direction of the Lady Principal, he murmured: "Right you be. I 'low I've forgot myself and I'm afraid she'd blush to see me so cuttin' up again. And too, I clean forgot that bag! I'll step-an'-fetch it right away." With his disappearance half the noise and nonsense ended, but more than satisfaction greeted his return, with Jack, the boot-boy, in close attendance. The latter bore in each hand a jug of freshly made sweet cider but his expression was not a happy one, and he kept a watchful eye upon the old man he followed. The latter carried two baskets; one heavy with well cracked nuts, the other as light with its heap of white popped corn. Bowing low to the Lady Principal he remarked: "With your permission, Ma'am;" then set the articles down beside the "caldron," clapping his hands to attract the schoolgirls' attention and bid them gather around his "treat" to enjoy it. Then, stumbling over a fallen mask, he sternly ordered Jack: "Get to work and clear these things up, and don't you forget to save Baal's, for, likely, 'twill be needed again." At which the boot-boy's face turned crimson, though that might have come from stooping. Nobody waited a second invitation to enjoy the good things that John's thoughtfulness had provided; but, sitting on the floor around his baskets, they made him act the host in dispensing fair portions to all, a maid having quickly brought plates, nutpicks and cups for their service. After the feast followed games and dances galore, till the hour grew late for schoolgirls, and the Bishop begged: "Before we part, my children, please give us a little music. A song from the Minims, a bit from the Sevenths on the piano, and a violin melody from our girl from the South. For it is she, really, who is responsible for this delightful party. Now she has coaxed us into trying it once, I propose that we make Hallowe'en an annual junketing affair, and--All in favor of so doing say 'Aye.'" After which the "Ayes" and hand claps were so deafening, that the good man bowed his head as if before a storm. Then the room quieted and the music followed; but when it came to Dorothy's turn she was nowhere to be seen. Girlish cries for "Queenie!" "Miss Dixie!" "Dolly! Dolly Doodles!" "Miss Calvert to the front!" failed to bring her. "Gone to 'step-an'-fetch' her fiddle--or Mr. Gilpin's, maybe!" suggested Winifred, with a mischievous glance at the old man who sat on the floor in the midst of the girls, gay now as any of them and still urging them to take "just a han'ful more" of the nuts he had been at such pains to crack for them. But neither Dorothy nor "fiddle" appeared; and the festivities came to a close without her. "Queer where Queenie went to!" said Florita, walking along the hall toward her dormitory, "and as queer, too, where that goat came from." "Seemed to be an old acquaintance of the farmer's, didn't it? He called it 'Baal,' as if that was its name; and wasn't it too funny for words? to see him chasing after it, catching it and letting it slip away so, till Jack caught it and led it away. From the way he acted I believe _he_ was the one who owns it and rigged it up so," said Ernesta, beside her. "Well, no matter. I'm so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open! But what a glorious time we've had; and what a mess Assembly Hall is in." "Who cares? We're had the fun and now Jack and the scullery boy will have to put it in order for us. Matron'll see to that. Good night." They parted, each entering her own cubicle and each wondering somewhat why Dorothy did not come to hers. Commonly she was the most prompt of all in retiring and this was long past the usual hour. Could they have seen her at that moment their surprise would have been even greater. Long before, while the feast was at its height, the girl had quietly slipped away. Despite the fun she had so heartily enjoyed, thoughts of the visit to Gwendolyn's sick room, which she had made just before it, kept coming into her mind: and her thoughts running thus: "Gwen was ill, she really was, although Lady Jane seemed to think her only whimsical. She looked so unhappy and maybe partly because she couldn't be in this first Hallowe'en party. It was too bad. I felt as if she must come and when I said so to Winnie she just laughed and answered: 'Serves her right. Gwendolyn has always felt herself the top of the heap, that nothing could go on just right if she didn't boss the job. Now she'll find out that a little "Commoner" like you can do what no "Peer" ever did. Don't go worrying over that girl, Queen Baltimore. A lesson or two like this will do her good. She'd be as nice as anybody if it wasn't for her wretched stuck-up-ness. Miss Muriel says it's no harm to be proud if it's pride of the right sort. But pride of rank--Huh! How can anybody help where they're born or who their parents are? Don't you be silly, too, Dorothy Calvert, and pity somebody who'd resent the pity. I never knew a girl like you. You make me provoked. Never have a really, truly good time because you happen to know of somebody else that isn't having it. I say again: If the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard feels bad because she isn't in this racket I'm downright glad of it. She has spoiled lots of good times for other girls and 'turn about's fair play.'" "Now, Winnie dear, your 'bark is worse than your bite' if I can quote maxims, too. In your heart, down deep, you're just as sorry for poor Gwen as I am. Only you won't admit it." "Well, if you think so, all right. You're a stubborn little thing and once you take a notion into your brain nobody can take it out. 'Where are you going, my pretty maid? I'm going a studying, sir, she said;'" and tossing an airy kiss in Dorothy's direction, ran swiftly away. Yet events proved that, as Winifred had argued, Dorothy's opinion did not alter. Neither could she be sorry for anyone without trying to help them in some way. The simple country treat of nuts, popped corn, and cider had proved enjoyable to other schoolmates--why shouldn't it to Gwendolyn? She'd try it, anyway. So, unnoticed by those around her, Dolly heaped her own plate with the good things, placing a tumbler of cider in the middle and hurried away, or rather glided away, so gently she moved until she reached the doorway. There she ran as swiftly down the long hall toward the west wing and Gwendolyn's room in it. Tapping at the door Lady Jane soon opened it, but with finger on lip requesting silence. But she smiled as she recognized who stood there and at the plate of goodies Dorothy had brought. Then she gently drew her in, nodding toward the cot where her daughter seemed asleep. She was not, however, but had been lying still, thinking of many things and among them her present visitor. She was not surprised to see her and this time was not pained. It seemed to the imaginative invalid that her own thoughts had compelled Dorothy to come, in response to them. "I'm awake, Mamma. You needn't keep so quiet." "Are you, dearest? Well, that's good; for here has come our little maid with something tempting for your appetite. A share of the Hallowe'en treat, is it, Dorothy?" "Yes, Lady Jane, and it's something different from what we often have. The farmer, Mr. Gilpin, brought it for us girls and I couldn't bear--I mean I thought Gwendolyn should have--might like, her share, even if--if _I_ brought it. I'm sorry the plate is a cracked one, but you see there were so many needed and the maids brought what they could find handiest, I suppose. But--the glass of cider is all right. That's from the regular table and--and it's really very sweet and nice." Now that she had come poor Dorothy wished that she hadn't. Lady Jane seemed pleased enough and had promptly turned on a stronger light which clearly showed the face of the girl on the bed. She could talk readily enough to the mother but whenever she glanced toward Gwendolyn her tongue faltered and hesitated woefully. It seemed as if the sick girl's eyes were still hard and forbidding and their steady stare made her uncomfortable. So she did not speak to the invalid and was promptly retreating when Gwendolyn suddenly asked, yet with apparent effort: "Mamma, will you please go away for a few minutes? I've--I've got to speak to Dorothy--alone." "Why, certainly, dearest, if you think you're strong enough. But wouldn't you better wait another day? Wouldn't I be able to talk for you?" "No, no. Oh! no, no. Nobody but I can--Please go--go quick!" "'Stand not upon the order of your going but go at once!'" quoted Lady Jane, jestingly. But she failed to make her daughter smile and went away, warning: "Don't talk of that accident again to-night, girls." "That's exactly what I must talk about, Mamma, but you mustn't care." Lady Jane's heart was anxious as she closed the door behind her and she would have been amazed had she heard Gwendolyn's exclamation: "I've been a wicked girl! Oh, Dorothy! I've been so mean to you! And all the time you show me kindness. Are you trying to 'heap coals' on my head?" "'Heap coals?'" echoed Dolly, at first not comprehending; then she laughed. "I couldn't do that. I have none to 'heap' and I'd be horrid if I tried. What do you mean?" "It began the night you came. I made up things about you in my mind and then told them to our 'set' for facts. I'd--I'd had trouble with the 'set' because they would not remember about--about keeping ourselves apart from those who hadn't titles. I felt we ought to remember; that if our England had made 'classes' we ought to help her, loyally. That was the first feeling, way down deep. Then--then I don't get liked as I want to be, because I can't help knowing things about other girls and if they break the rules I felt I ought to tell the teachers. Somehow, even they don't like that; for the Lady Principal about as plain as called me 'tale-bearer.' I hate--oh! I do hate to tell you all this! But I can't help it. Something inside me makes me, but I'm so miserable!" She looked the fact she stated and Dorothy's sympathy was won, so that she begged: "Don't do it, then. Just get well and--and carry no more tales and you'll be happy right away." "It's easy to talk--for you, maybe. For me, I'd almost rather die than own I've been at fault--if it wasn't for that horrid, sick sort of feeling inside me." In spite of herself the listener laughed, for Gwendolyn had laid her hands upon her stomach as if locating the seat of her misery. She asked merrily: "Is it there we keep our consciences? I never knew before and am glad to find out." But Gwendolyn didn't laugh. She was an odd sort of girl, and always desperately earnest in whatever she undertook. She had made up her mind she must confess to the "Commoner" the things she had done against her; she was sincerely sorry for them now, but she couldn't make that confession gracefully. She caught her breath as if before a plunge into cold water and then blurted out: "I told 'our set' that you were Dawkins's niece! I said you were a disgrace to the school and one of us would have to leave it. But Mamma wouldn't take _me_ and I couldn't make _you_ go. I got mad and jealous. Everybody liked you, except the girls I'd influenced. The Bishop petted you--he never notices me. Miss Tross-Kingdon treats you almost as lovingly as she does Millikins-Pillikins. All the servants smile on you and nobody is afraid of you as everybody is of me. Dawkins, and sometimes even Mamma, accuses me of a 'sharp tongue' that makes enemies. But, somehow, I can't help it. And the worst is--one can't get back the things one has said and done, no matter how she tries. Then you went and saved my life!" At this, the strange girl covered her face and began to cry, while Dorothy stared at her, too surprised to speak. Until the tears changed to sobs and Gwendolyn shook with the stress of her emotion. Then, fearing serious results, Dorothy forgot everything except that here was someone in distress which she must soothe. Down on her knees she went, flung her arms around the shaking shoulders, and pleaded: "Well, you poor dear, can't you be glad of that? Even if you can never like me isn't it good to be alive? Aren't you grateful that somebody who could swim, even poor I, was at the pool to help you out of it that day? Forget it, do forget it, and get well and happy right away. I'll keep away from you as far as I can and you must forgive me for coming here again just now." "Forgive you? Forgive you! Oh! Dorothy Calvert, can you, will you ever forgive me? After all my meanness to you, could you make yourself like me just a little?" Gwendolyn's own arms had now closed in eager entreaty about the girl she had injured. Her pride was humbled at last and completely. But there was no need of further speech between them. They clung together in their suddenly awakened affection, at peace and so happy that neither felt it possible they had ever been at odds. When, at last, Dorothy drew back and rose, Gwen still clung to her hand, and penitently said: "But that isn't all. There's a lot more to tell that, maybe, will make you despise me worse than ever. I've done--" "No matter what, dearest. You've talked quite enough for to-night and Dorothy should be in bed. Bid one another good night, my dears, and meet again to-morrow;" interrupted Lady Jane, who had quietly returned. So Dorothy departed, and with a happier heart than she had had since her coming to Oak Knowe; for now there was nobody there with whom she was at discord. But--was there not? Gayly tripping down the long corridor, humming a merry air and hoping that she hadn't yet broken the retiring-rule, she stopped short on the way. Something or somebody was far ahead of her, moving with utmost caution against noise, yet himself, or itself, making a peculiar rat-a-tat-tat upon the polished boards. Instantly Dorothy hushed her light song and slackened her steps. The passage was dimly lighted for it was rarely used, leading as it did to the distant servants' quarters and ending in a great drying-room above the laundry. Even this drying-room was almost given up to the storage of trunks and other things, the laundry itself being more convenient for all its requirements. Rumors came back to her of the burglaries which the kitchen-folk had declared had been frequent of late, none more serious than the loss of a dinner provided and the strange rifling of safes and cupboard. Such had happened weeks before, then apparently ceased; but they had begun again of late; with added rumors of strange noises heard at night, and in the quieter hours of the day. The faculty had tried to keep these fresh rumors from the pupils' ears, but they had leaked out. Yet no real investigation had been made. It was a busy household, both above and below stairs; and as is usual, what is "everybody's business is nobody's" and things were left to run their course. But now, was the burglar real? And had Dorothy come suddenly upon his track? If she only could find out! Without fear of consequences to herself and forgetful of that retiring-rule she tip-toed noiselessly in the wake of whatever was in advance, and so came at last to the door of the drying-room. It stood ajar and whatever had preceded her passed beyond it as the girl came to it. She also entered, curiosity setting every nerve a-tingle, yet she still unafraid. Stepping behind the open door she waited what next, and trying to accustom her eyes to the absolute darkness of the place. The long row of windows on the outer wall were covered by wooden shutters, as she had noticed from the ground, and with them closed the only light which could enter came through a small scuttle, or skylight in the center of the ceiling. From her retreat behind the door she listened breathlessly. The rat-a-tat-tat had died away in the distance, whither she now dared not follow because of the darkness; and presently she heard a noise like the slipping of boards in a cattle shed. Then footsteps returning, swiftly and softly, as of one in bare or stockinged feet. There was a rush past her, the door to which she clung was snatched from her and shut with a bang. This sound went through her with a thrill, and vividly there arose the memory of a night long past when she had been imprisoned in an empty barn, by the wild freak of an old acquaintance of the mountain, and half-witted Peter Piper for sole companion. Then swiftly she felt her way back along the door till her hand was on its lock--which she could not move. Here was a situation suitable, indeed, for any Hallowe'en! CHAPTER IX THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED It was long past the hour when, on ordinary nights, Oak Knowe would have been in darkness, relieved only by a glimmer here and there, at the head of some stairway, and in absolute stillness. But the Hallowe'en party had made everything give way and the servants were up late, putting the great Assembly Hall into the spotless order required for the routine of the next day. Nut shells and scattered pop corn, apple-skins that had been tossed over the merrymakers' shoulders to see what initial might be formed, broken masks that had been discarded, fragments of the flimsy costumes, splashes of spilled cider, scattered crumbs and misplaced furniture, made Dawkins and her aids lift hands in dismay as, armed with brooms and scrubbing brushes they came to "clear up." "Clear up, indeed! Never was such a mess as this since ever I set foot at Oak Knowe. After the sweepin' the scrubbin'; and after the scrubbin' the polishin', and the chair fetchin' and--my heart! 'Tis the dear bit lassie she is, but may I be further afore Dorothy Dixie gets up another Hallowe'en prank!" grumbled Dawkins, yet with a tender smile on her lips, remembering the thousand and one trifles which the willing girl had done for her. For Dawkins was growing old. Under her maid's cap the hair was thin and gray, and stooping to pick up things the girls had carelessly thrown down was no longer an easy task. The rules against carelessness were stringent enough and fairly well obeyed, yet among three hundred lively girls some rules were bound to be ignored. But from the first, as soon as she understood them, Dorothy had been obedient to all these rules; and it was Dawkins's pride, when showing visitors through the building to point to Dolly's cubicle as a model. Here was never an article left out of place; because not only school regulations but real affection for the maid, who had been her first friend at Oak Knowe, made Dorothy "take care." Then busy at their tasks, the workers talked of the evening's events and laughingly recalled the incident of the goat, which they had witnessed from the upper gallery; a place prepared for them by the good Bishop's orders, that nobody at his great school should be prohibited from enjoying a sight of the pupils' frequent entertainments. "But sure, 'tis that lad, Jack, which frets me as one not belongin' to Oak Knowe," said Dora, with conviction. "Not belonging? Why, woman alive, he's been here longer nor yourself. 'Twas his mother that's gone, was cook here before the _chef_ and pity for his orphaned state the reason he's stayed since. But I own ye, he's not been bettered by his summers off, when the school's not keepin' and him let work for any farmer round. I note he's a bit more prankish an' disobliging, every fall when he comes back. For some curious reason--I can't dream what--he's been terrible chummy with Miss Gwendolyn. Don't that beat all?" said Dawkins whirling her brush. "I don't know--I don't really know as 'tis. He's forever drawing pictures round of every created thing, and she's come across him doin' it. She's that crazy for drawing herself that she's likely took an int'rest in him. I heard her puttin' notions in his head, once, tellin' him how 't some the greatest painters ever lived had been born just peasants like him." "Huh! Was that what made him so top-lofty and up-steppin'? When I told him he didn't half clean the young ladies' shoes, tossin' his head like the simpleton he is, and saucin' back as how he wouldn't be a boot-boy all his life. I'd find out one these days whom I'd been tongue-lashin' so long and'd be ashamed to look him in the face. Huh!" added another maid. "Well, why bother with such as him, when we've all this to finish, and me to go yet to my dormitory to see if all's right with my young ladies," answered Dawkins and silence fell, till the task was done and the great room in the perfect order required for the morning. Then away to her task above hurried good Dawkins and coming to Dorothy's cubicle found its bed still untouched and its light brightly burning. The maid stared and gasped. What did this mean? Had harm befallen her favorite? Then she smiled at her own fears. Of course, Dorothy was in the room with little Grace, where the cot once prepared for her still remained because the child had so begged; in "hopes I'll be sick some more and Dolly'll come again." So Dawkins turned off the light and hurried to her reclining chair in the outer hall, where she usually spent the hours of her watch. But no sooner had she settled herself there than all her uneasiness returned. Twisting and turning on her cushions she fretted: "I don't see what's got into this chair, the night! Seems if I can't get a comfortable spot in it anywhere. Maybe, it's 'cause I'm extra tired. Hallowe'en pranks are fun for the time but there's a deal hard work goes along with 'em. Or any other company fixings, for that matter. I wonder was the little Grace scared again, by that ridic'lous goat? Is that why Dorothy went with her? Where'd the beast come from, anyway? And who invited it to the masquerade? Not the good Bishop, I'll be bound. Now, what does make me so uneasy! Sure there's nought wrong with dear little Dixie. How could there be under this safe roof?" But the longer Dawkins pondered the matter the more restless she grew; till, at last, she felt she must satisfy her mind, even at the cost of disturbing the Lady Principal; and a moment later tapped at her door, asking softly: "Are you awake, Miss Muriel? It's Dawkins." "Yes, Dawkins, come in. I've not been able to sleep yet. I suppose the evening's care and excitement has tired me too much. What is it you want? Anything wrong in the dormitory?" "Well, not to say wrong--or so I hope. I just stepped here to ask is Miss Dorothy Calvert staying the night?" "Staying with Grace? No, indeed, the child has been asleep for hours: perfectly satisfied now that I and so many others have seen the apparition she had, and so proved her the truthful little creature she'd always been." That seemed a very long answer to impatient Dawkins and she clipped it short by asking: "Then, Ma'am, where do you suppose she is?" "What? Do you mean that she isn't in her own place?" "No, Ma'am, nor sign of her; and it's terr'ble strange, 'pears to me. I don't like the look of it, Ma'am, I do not." "Pooh! don't make a mystery out of it, my good woman!" replied Miss Tross-Kingdon, yet with a curious flutter in her usually stern voice. Then she considered the matter for a moment, finally directing: "Go to the hospital wing and ask if she's there with Gwendolyn. She's been so sorry for the girl and I noticed her slipping out of Assembly with a plate full of the things Mr. Gilpin brought. I don't remember her coming back, but she was certainly absent when her violin was asked for. Doubtless, you'll find her there, but be careful not to rouse any of the young ladies. Then come back and report." Dawkins tip-toed away, glad that she had told her anxiety to her mistress. But she was back from her errand before it seemed possible she could be, her face white and her limbs trembling with fear of--she knew not what! "If it was any girl but her, Ma'am! That keeps the rules better nor any other here!" "Hush, good Dawkins. She's all right somewhere, as we shall soon discover. We'll go below and look in all the rooms, in case she might be ill, or locked in some of them." "Yes, yes, Ma'am, we'll look. Ill she might really be after all them nuts an' trash, but locked in she can't be, since never a lock is turned in this whole house. Sure the Bishop wouldn't so permit, seeing that if it fired any time them that was locked up could not so easy get out. And me the last one down, to leave all in the good order you like." "Step softly still, Dawkins. It would take very little to start a panic among our many girls should they hear that anything was amiss." Each took a candle from the rack in the hall and by the soft light of these began their search below, not daring to flash on the electric lights whose brilliance might possibly arouse the sleepers in the house. Dawkins observed that the Lady Principal, walking ahead, was shaking, either with cold or nervousness, and, as for herself, her teeth were fairly chattering. Of course their search proved useless. Nowhere in any of those first floor rooms was any trace of the missing girl. Even closets were examined while Dawkins peered behind the furniture and curtains, her heart growing heavier each moment. Neither mistress nor maid spoke now, though the former led the way upwards again and silently inspected the dormitories on each floor. Also, she looked into each private room of the older and wealthier pupils, but the result was the same--Dorothy had as completely disappeared as if she had been bodily swallowed up. Then the aid of the other maids and, even of a few teachers was secured, although that the school work might go on regularly the next day, not many of these latter were disturbed. At daybreak, when the servants began to gather in the great kitchen, each to begin his daily tasks, the Lady Principal surprised them by her appearance among them. In the briefest and quietest manner possible she told them what had happened and begged their help in the search. But she was unprepared for the result. A housemaid threw up her hands in wild excitement, crying: "'Tis ten long years I've served Oak Knowe but my day is past! Her that went some syne was the wise one. I'll not tarry longer to risk the health o' me soul in a house that's haunted by imps!" "Nor me! Him that's snatched off to his wicked place the sweet, purty gell, of the willin' word an' friendly smile, 'll no long spare such as me! A fine collectin' ground for the Evil One is so big a school as this. I'm leavin' the dustin' to such as can do it, but I'm off, Ma'am, and better times for ye, I'm sure!" cried another superstitious creature. This was plain mutiny. For a moment the lady's heart sank at the prospect before her, for the panic would spread if not instantly quelled, and there were three hundred hungry girls awaiting breakfast--and breakfast but one feature of the case. Should these servants leave, to spread their untrue tales, new ones would be almost impossible to obtain. Then, summoning her authority, she demanded: "Silence and attention from all of you. I shall telephone for the constabulary, and any person who leaves Oak Knowe before Miss Calvert is found will leave it for the lock-up. The housemaids are excused from ordinary duties and are to assist the _chef_ in preparing breakfast. The rest of you, who have retained your common sense, are to spread yourselves about the house and grounds, and through every outbuilding till some one of you shall find the girl you all have loved. Leave before then? I am ashamed of your hard hearts." With stately dignity the mistress left the kitchen and a much subdued force of helpers behind her. That threat of "the constabulary" was an argument not to be defied. "Worst of it is, she meant it. Lady Principal never says a thing she doesn't mean. So--Well, I suppose I'll have to stay, then, for who wants to get took up? But it's hard on a workin' woman 't she can't do as she likes," muttered the first deserter and set about her duties. Also, as did she so did the others. Meanwhile how had the night passed with the imprisoned Dorothy? At first with greater anger than fear; anger against the unknown person who had shut that door upon her. Then she thought: "But of course he didn't know, whoever it was. I'm sure it was a man or boy, afraid, maybe, to make a noise account of its being late. Yet what a fix I'm in! Nobody will know or come to let me out till Dawkins goes her rounds and that'll be very, very late, on account of her clearing up the mess we made down in Assembly. My! what a fine time we had! And how perfectly grand that Gwendolyn and I should be friends at last. She kissed me. Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard kissed me! It's worth even being shut up here alone, behind that spring-locked door, just to be friends. I'm so sleepy. I wish I could find something to put around me and I'd lie right down on this floor and take a nap till somebody lets me out." Then she remembered that once she had heard Dawkins telling another maid that there were "plenty more blankets in the old drying-room if her 'beds' needed 'em;" and maybe she could find some if she tried. "This is the very darkest place could ever be, seems if! ouch! that hurt!" said the prisoner aloud, to bolster her own courage, and as she stumbled against a trunk that bruised her ankle. "I'll take more care." So she did: reasoning that people generally piled things against a wall, that is, in such a place, for greater convenience. With outstretched hands she felt her way and at last was rewarded by finding the blankets she sought. Here, too, were folded several cots, that were needed at times, like Commencement, when many strangers were at Oak Knowe. But she didn't trouble to set up one of these, even if she could have done so in that gloom. But a blanket she could manage, and beside the cots she could feel a heap of them. In a very few minutes she had pulled down several of these and spread them on the floor; and a little later had wrapped them about her and was sound asleep--"as a bug in a rug, like Dawkins says," her last, untroubled thought. So, though a prisoner, for many hours she slumbered peacefully. Down in the breakfast-room matters went on as usual. Or if many of the girls and a few of the pupils seemed unduly sleepy, that was natural enough, considering the frivolities and late hours of the night before. Even the Lady Principal, sitting calmly in her accustomed place, looked very pale and tired; and Winifred, observing this, whispered to her neighbor: "I don't believe we'll get another party very soon. Just look at Miss Tross-Kingdon. She's as white as a ghost and so nervous she can hardly sit still. I never saw her that way before. The way she keeps glancing toward the doors, half-scared every time she hears a noise, is queer. I wonder if she's expecting somebody!" "Likely somebody's late and she's waiting to say: 'Miss'--whoever it is--'your excuse, please?' I wonder who 'twill be! and say, look at the Aldrich ten--can you see Dorothy?" Winifred glanced around and answered, with real surprise: "Why, she's absent! If it were I nobody'd be astonished, 'cause I always have the same excuse: 'Overslept.' But Dolly? Oh! I hope she isn't sick!" And immediately the meal was over, Winifred hurried to the Lady Principal and asked: "Please, Miss Muriel, can you tell me, is Dorothy Calvert ill?" "Excuse me, Winifred, I am extremely busy," returned Miss Tross-Kingdon, and hurried away as if she were afraid of being questioned further. Naturally, Winifred was surprised, for despite her sternness the Lady Principal was invariably courteous; and putting "two and two together" she decided that Dorothy was in trouble of some sort and began a systematic inquiry of all she met concerning her. But nobody had seen the girl or knew anything about her; yet the questioner's anxiety promptly influenced others and by the time school session was called there was a wide-spread belief that some dreadful thing had befallen the southerner, and small attention was paid to lessons. It was not until the middle of the morning that Jack-boot-boy appeared in the kitchen, from his room in an outside building, where the men servants slept. He was greeted by reproofs for his tardiness and the news of Dorothy's disappearance. "Lost? Lost, you say? How can she be right here in this house? Why, I saw her around all evening. It was her own party, wasn't it? or hers was the first notion of it. Huh! That's the queerest! S'pose the faculty'll offer a reward? Jiminy cricket! Wish they would! I bet I'd find her. Why, sir, I'd make a first rate detective, I would. I've been readin' up on that thing an' I don't know but it would pay me better'n paintin', even if I am a 'born artist,' as Miss Gwendolyn says." "Born nincompoop! That's what you are, and the all-conceitedest lazybones 't ever trod shoe leather! Dragging out of bed this time o' day, and not a shoe cleaned--in my dormitory, anyway!" retorted Dawkins, in disgust. "Huh! old woman, what's the matter with you? And why ain't you _in_ bed, 'stead of out of it? I thought all you night-owls went to bed when the rest of us got up. You need sleep, you do, for I never knowed you crosser'n you be now--which is sayin' consid'able!" Dawkins was cross, there was no denying that, for her nerves were sadly shaken by her fears for the girl she had learned to love so dearly. "You get about your business, boy, at once; without tarryin' to pass remarks upon your betters;" and she made a vicious dash toward him as if to strike him. He knew this was only pretence, and sidled toward her, mockingly, then, as she raised her hand again--this time with more decision--he cowered aside and made a rush out of the kitchen. "Well, that's odd! The first time I ever knew that boy to turn down his breakfast!" remarked the _chef_, pointing to a heaped up plate at the back of the range. "Well, I shan't keep it any longer. He'll have the better appetite for dinner, ha, ha!" Jack's unusual indifference to good food was due to a sound he had overheard. It came from somewhere above and passed unnoticed by all but him, but set him running to a distant stairway which led from "the old laundry" to the drying-loft above: and a sigh of satisfaction escaped him as he saw that the door of this was shut. "Lucky for me, that is! I was afraid they'd been looking here for that Calvert girl, but they haven't, 'cause the lock ain't broke and the key's in my pocket," said he, in a habit he had of talking to himself. The noise beyond the door increased, and worried him, and he hurriedly sought the key where he usually carried it. The door could be, and had been, closed by a spring, but it needed that key to open it, as he had boastingly remembered. Unhappy lad! In not one of his many and ragged pockets could that key now be found! While in the great room beyond the noise grew loud, and louder, with each passing second and surely would soon be heard by all the house. Under the circumstances nobody would hesitate to break that hateful lock to learn the racket's cause; yet what would happen to him when this was discovered? What, indeed! Yet, strangely enough, in all his trepidation there was no thought of Dorothy. CHAPTER X OPEN CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL A housemaid, passing through the disused "old laundry" on the ground floor, as a short-cut toward the newer one in a detached building, heard a strange noise in the drying-room overhead, and paused to listen. This was unusual. In ordinary the loft was never entered, nowadays, except by some slippered maid, or Michael with a trunk. Setting down her basket of soiled linen she put her hands on her hips and stood motionless, intently listening. Dorothy? Could it be Dorothy? Impossible! No living girl could make all that racket; yet--was that a scream? Was it laughter--terror--wild animal--or what? Away she sped; her nimble feet pausing not an instant on the way, no matter with whom she collided nor whom her excited face frightened, and still breathlessly running came into the great Assembly Hall. There Miss Tross-Kingdon had, by the advice of the Bishop, gathered the whole school; to tell them as quietly as she could of Dorothy's disappearance and to cross-examine them as to what anyone could remember about her on the evening before. For the sorrowful fact could no longer be hidden--Dorothy Calvert was gone and could not be found. On the faces of those three hundred girls was consternation and grief; in their young hearts a memory of the "spookish" things which had happened of late, but that had not before disturbed them; and now, at the excited entrance of the maid, a shiver ran over the whole company. Here was news! Nothing less could explain this unceremonious disturbance. Even Miss Muriel's face turned paler than it had been, could that have been possible and without a word she waited for the maid to speak. "Oh! Lady Principal! Let somebody come! The drying-loft! screams--boards dragging--or trunks--or murder doing--maybe! Let somebody go quick--Michael--a man--men--Somebody quick!" Exhausted by her own excitement, the maid sank upon the nearest chair, her hand on her heart, and herself unable to add another word. Miss Tross-Kingdon rose, trembling so that she could hardly walk, and made her way out of the room. In an instant every assembled schoolgirl was on her feet, speeding toward the far west wing and the great loft, dreading yet eager to see what would there be revealed. Still anxious on his own account, but from a far different cause, and still listening at the closed door with wonder at what seemed going on behind it, was Jack, the boot-boy. At the approach of the excited girls, he lifted his ear from the keyhole and looked behind him, to find himself trapped, as it were, at this end of the narrow passage by the multitude which swarmed about him, feverishly demanding: "Boy, what is it? What is it? Is Dorothy in there? Is Dorothy found?" "Is Dorothy--" Poor Jack! This was the worst yet! At full comprehension of what that question meant, even he turned pale and his lips stuttered: "I--I--dunno--I--Jiminy cricket!" He must get out of that! He must--he must! Before that door was opened he must escape! Frantically he tried to force his way backward through the crowd which penned him in, but could make little progress; even that being suddenly cut off by a strong hand laid on his shoulder and the _chef_ forcing into his hand a stout crowbar, and ordering: "Help to break her down!" at the same instant Michael, the porter, pressing to his side armed with an ax. "Now, all together!" cried he, and whether or no, Jack was compelled to aid in the work of breaking in. But it was short work, indeed, and the crowd surged through the opening in terror of what they might behold--only to have that terror changed into shouts of hilarious delight. For there was Dorothy! not one whit the worse for her brief imprisonment and happily unconscious of the anxiety which that had caused to others. And there was Baal, the goat! Careering about the place, dragging behind him a board to which he had been tied and was unable to dislodge. The room was fairly lighted now by the sun streaming through the skylight, and Baal had been having a glorious time chasing Dorothy about the great room, from spot to spot, gleefully trying to butt her with his horns, leaping over piles of empty trunks, and in general making such a ridiculous--if sometimes dangerous--spectacle of himself, that Dorothy, also, had had a merry time. "Oh! you darling, you darling!" "Dolly Doodles, how came you here!" "Why did you do it? You've scared us all almost to death!" "The Bishop has gone into town to start detectives on your track!" "The Lady Principal--Here she is now! you've made her positively ill, and as for Dawkins, they say she had completely collapsed and lies on her chair moaning all the time." "Oh, oh! How dreadful! And how sorry I am! I never dreamed; oh! dear Miss Muriel, do believe me--listen, listen!" The lady sat down on a trunk and drew the girl to her. Her only feeling now was one of intensest gratitude, but she remembered how all the others had shared her anxiety and bade her recovered pupil tell the story so that all might hear. It was very simple, as has been seen, and needs no repetition here, ending with the heartfelt declaration: "That cures me of playing detective ever again! I was so anxious to stop all that silly talk about evil spirits and after all the only such around Oak Knowe was Baal!" "But how Baal, and why? And most of all how came he here in the house?" demanded Miss Tross-Kingdon, looking from one to another; until her eye was arrested by the expression of Jack, the boot-boy's face. That was so funny she smiled, seeing it, and asked him: "Can't you explain this, Jack?" "Uh--er--Ah! Wull--wull, yes, Ma'am, I allow 't I might. I mean 't I can. Er--sho!--Course, I'll have to. Wull--wull--You see, Miss Lady Principal, how as last summer, after school was took in, I hired myself out to work for old John Gilpin an' he had a goat. Dame didn't hanker for it no great; said it et up things an' got into places where 'twarn't wanted and she adwised him, that is to say she told him, how 't he must get rid of it. He got rid of it onto me. I hadn't got nobody belongin' and we've been first rate friends, Baal and me." This was evidenced by the quietude of the animal, now lying at the boot-boy's feet in affectionate confidence, and refreshing itself with a nap, after its hilarious exercise. "Strange that we didn't know he was on our grounds, for I did not. Where have you kept him, Jack, and how?" The lad flushed and fidgetted but dared not refuse to reply. He had been too long under the authority of Miss Tross-Kingdon for that, to whose good offices his mother had left him when she died. "Wull--Wull--" "Kindly stop 'wulling' and reply. It is nearly lunch time and Dorothy has had no breakfast." "Yes, Miss Muriel, please but I have. When I waked up after I'd slept so long it was real light, so I went poking around to see if I could find another door that would open, or any way out; and I came to a queer place away yonder at the end; and I heard the funniest noise--'ih-ih-ih--Ah-umph!' something like that. Then I knew it was the goat, that I'd heard pat-pat-pattering along the hall last night and that I'd followed. And I guessed it was Jack, instead of a burglar, who'd rushed past me and locked me in. I was mighty glad to see anybody, even a goat, and I opened the gate to the place and Baal jumped out. He was tied to that board--he'd pulled it off the gate, and was as glad to see me as I was him. That little sort of cupboard, or cubby-hole, had lots of excelsior in it; I guess it had come around crockery or something, and that was where Baal slept. There was a tin box there, too, and I opened it. I was glad enough then! For it was half full of cakes and apples and a lemon pie, that you call a 'Christchurch' up here in Canada; and before I knew it Baal had his nose in the box, like he was used to eating out of it, and I had to slap his nose to make him let me have a share. So I'm not hungry and all I care is that I have made you all so worried." But already that was almost forgotten, though Miss Muriel's curiosity was not yet satisfied. "Jack, are you in the habit of keeping that animal here, in this room?" "Yes--yes, Ma'am; times I am. Other times he stays in the old shed down by the brook. Most of the men knew I had him; Michael did, anyhow. He never said nothing again' it;" answered the boy, defiantly, trying to shift responsibility to the old porter, the most trusted servant of the house. "No, I cannot imagine Michael meddling with you and your foolishness; and for a lad who's lived so long at a great school, I wonder to hear such bad grammar from your lips. How did you get Baal into this room without being detected in it?" "Why, Ma'am, that was easy as preachin'. That back end, outside steps, what leads up from the ground for carrying up wet clothes, it used to be. He comes up that way, for goats can climb any place. Leastwise, Baal can, and the door's never locked no more, 'cause I lost the key;" answered Jack, who was now the center of attention and proud of the fact. "Very well, Jack. That will do. Kindly see to it that Baal is permanently removed from Oak Knowe, and--" She paused for a moment, as if about to add more, then quietly moved away, with Dorothy beside her and all her now happy flock following. Never before had the laughter and chatter of her girls sounded so musical in her ears, nor her own heart been lighter than now, in its rebound from her recent anxiety. She wasn't pleased with Jack, the boot-boy; decidedly she was not pleased. She had not been since his return from his summer's work, for he had not improved either in industry or behavior. She had not liked the strange interest which Gwendolyn had taken in his slight gift for drawing, which that enthusiastic young artist called "remarkable," but which this more experienced instructor knew would never amount to anything. Yet that was a matter which could wait. Meanwhile, here was a broken day, with everybody still so excited that lessons would be merely wasted effort; so, after she had sent Dorothy to put on her ordinary school dress, she informed the various classes that no more work was required that day and that after lunch there would be half-holiday for all her pupils. "Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers for Dolly and may she soon get lost again!" shouted Winifred, and, for once, was not rebuked because of unladylike manners. Left to himself, Jack regarded his beloved Baal, in keen distress. "Said you'd got to go, did she? Well, if you go I do, too. Anyhow I'm sick to death of cleaning nasty girls', or nasty shoes o' a lot o' girls--ary way you put it. Boot-boy, Baal! Think o' that. If that ain't a re--restrick-erated life for a artist, like Miss Gwen says I am; or uther a dectective gentleman--I'd like to know. No, sir, Baal! We'll quit an' we'll do it to once. Maybe they won't feel sorry when they find me gone an' my place empty to the table! Maybe them girls that laughed when that old schoolmarm was a pitchin' into me afore all them giggling creatures, maybe they won't feel bad, a-lookin' at that hull row of shoes outside cubicle doors waiting to be cleaned and not one touched toward it! Huh! It'll do all them 'ristocratics good to have to clean 'em themselves. All but Miss Gwendolyn. She's the likeliest one of the hull three hundred. I hate--I kinder hate to leave her. 'Artists has kindred souls,' she said once when she was showin' me how to draw that skull. Who can tell? I might get to be more famouser'n her, smart as she is; an' I might grow up, and her too, and I might come to her house--or is it a turreted castle?--an' I might take my fa--famousness an' offer it to her to marry me! And then, when her folks couldn't hardly believe that I was I, and her old boot-boy, maybe they'd say 'Yes, take her, my son! I'm proud to welcome into our 'ristocraticy one that has riz from a boot-boy to our rank!' Many a story-book tells o' such doings, an' what's in them ought to be true. Good for 't I can buy 'em cheap. The Bishop caught me reading one once and preached me a reg'lar sermon about it. Said that such kind of literatoor had ruined many a simple fellow and would me if I kep' on. But even Bishops don't know everything, though I allow he's a grand old man. I kind of sorter hate to leave Oak Knowe on his account, he takes such an int'rest in me. But he'll get over it. He'll have to, for we're going, Baal an' me, out of this house where we're wastin' our sweetness on the desert air. My jiminy cricket! If a boy that can paint pictures and recite poetry like I can, can't rise above shoe-cleanin' and get on in this world--I'd like to know the reason why! Come, Baal! I'll strap my clothes in a bundle, shake the dust of old Oak Knowe offen me, and hie away to seek my fortune--and your'n." Nobody interfering, Jack proceeded to put this plan into action; but it was curious that, as he reached the limits of Oak Knowe grounds, he turned and looked back on the big, many-windowed house, and at the throngs of happy girls who were at "recreation" on the well-kept lawns. A sort of sob rose in his throat and there was a strange sinking in his stomach that made him most uncomfortable. He couldn't tell that this was "homesickness," and he tried to forget it in bitterness against those whom he was deserting. "They don't care, none of 'em! Not a single mite does anyone of them 'ristocratics care what becomes of--of poor Jack, the boot-boy! Come on, Baal! If we don't start our seekin' pretty quick--Why jiminy cricket I shall be snivellin'!" Saying this, the self-exiled lad gripped the goat's leading strap and set out at a furious pace down the long road toward the distant city. He had a dime novel in one pocket, an English sixpence in another--And what was this? "My soul! If there ain't the key to that old door they broke in to see what was racketing round so! I wonder if I ought to take it back? Baal, what say? That cubby of our'n wasn't so bad. You know, Baal, I wouldn't like to be a thief--not a reg'lar thief that'd steal a key. Course I wouldn't. Anyhow, I've left, I've quit. I'm seekin' my fortune--understand? Whew! The wind's risin'. I allow there's going to be a storm. I wish--Old Dawkins used to say: 'Better take two thoughts to a thing!' an' maybe, maybe, if I'd ha' waited a spell afore--I mean I wouldn't ha' started fortune-seekin' till to-morrow and the storm over. Anyhow, I've really started, though! And if things don't happen to my mind, I can show 'em what an honest boy I am by takin' back that key. Come on, Baal, do come on! What in creation makes you drag so on that strap and keep lookin' back? Come on, I say!" Then, both helping and hindering one another, the lad and his pet passed out of sight and for many a day were seen no more in that locality. Yet the strange events of that memorable day were not all over. At study hour, that evening, came another surprise--a visit to her mates of the invalid Gwendolyn. From some of them she received only a silent nod of welcome; but Laura, Marjorie, and Dorothy sprang to meet her with one accord, and Winifred followed Dorothy's example after a second's hesitation. "Oh, Gwen! How glad we are to have you back! Are you sure you're quite strong enough to come?" questioned Marjorie, while less judicious Laura exclaimed: "But you can't guess what you've missed! We've had the greatest scare ever was in this school! You'd ought to have come down sooner. What do you think it was that happened? Guess--quick--right away! Or I can't wait to tell! I'll tell anyhow! Dorothy was lost and everybody feared she had been killed! Yes, Gwen, lost all the long night through and had to sleep with the goat and--" Gwendolyn's face was pale from her confinement in the sick room but it grew paler now, and catching Dorothy's hand she cried out: "Oh! what if I had been too late!" Nobody understood her, not even Dorothy herself, who merely guessed that Gwen was referring to their interview of the night before; but she didn't know this proud girl fully, nor the peculiar nature of that pride which, once aroused, compelled her to do what she most shrank from. As Dorothy pushed a chair forward, Gwendolyn shook her head. "Thank you, but not yet. I've got something to say--that all of you must hear." Of course, everybody was astonished by this speech and every eye turned toward the young "Peer" who was about to prove herself of noble "rank" as never in all her life before. Dorothy began to suspect what might be coming and by a silent clasp of Gwendolyn's waist and a protesting shake of her head tried to prevent her saying more. But Gwendolyn as silently put aside the appealing arm and folding her own arms stood rigidly erect. It wouldn't have been the real Gwen if she hadn't assumed this rather dramatic pose, which she had mentally rehearsed many times that day. Also, she had chosen this quiet hour and place as the most effective for her purpose, and she had almost coerced Lady Jane into letting her come. "Schoolmates and friends, I want to confess to you the meanest things that ever were done at dear Oak Knowe. From the moment she came here I disliked Dorothy Calvert and was jealous of her. In less than a week she had won Miss Muriel's heart as well as that of almost everybody else. I thought I could drive her out of the school, if I made the rest of you hate her, too. I'd begun to teach the boot-boy to draw, having once seen him attempting it. I painted him a death's head for a copy, and gave him my pocket-money to buy a mask of the Evil One." "Oh! Gwendolyn how dared you? You horrid, wicked girl!" cried gentle Marjorie, moved from her gentleness for once. "Well, I'll say this much in justice to myself. That thing went further than I meant, which was only to have him put pictures of it around in different places. He'd told me about keeping a goat in the old drying-room, and of course he couldn't always keep it still. The kitchen folks put the pictures and the goat's noises together and declared the house was haunted. I told the maids that they might lay that all to the new scholar from the States, and a lot of them believed me." Even loyal Laura now shrank aside from her paragon, simply horrified. She had helped to spread the rumor that Dorothy was a niece of Dawkins, but she had done no worse than that. It had been left to Jack-boot-boy to finish the contemptible acts. He got phosphorus from the laboratory, paint from any convenient color box, and his first success as a terrifier had been in the case of Millikins-Pillikins, at whose bed he had appeared--with the results that have been told. He it had been who had frightened the maid into leaving, and had spread consternation in the kitchen. "And in all these things he did, I helped him. I planned some of them but he always went ahead and thought worse ones out. Yet nobody, except the simpletons below stairs, believed it was Dorothy who had 'bewitched' the house," concluded that part of Gwendolyn's confession. Yet still she stood there, firmly facing the contempt on the faces of her schoolmates, knowing that that was less hard to bear than her own self-reproach had been. And presently she went on: "Then came that affair at the Maiden's Bath. Dorothy Calvert, whom I still hated, saved my life--while she might have lost her own. What I have suffered since, knowing this and how bravely she had borne all my hatefulness and had sacrificed herself for me--You must guess that. I can't tell it. But last night I made myself beg her pardon in private as I now beg it before you all. May I yet have the chance to do to her as she has done to me! Dorothy Calvert--will you forgive me?" CHAPTER XI WHAT CAME WITH THE SNOW AND ICE After that memorable week of Hallowe'en, affairs at Oak Knowe settled into their ordinary smooth running. That week had brought to all the school a surfeit of excitement so that all were glad of quiet and peace. "The classes have never made such even, rapid progress before, in all the years I've been here;" said the Lady Principal to the good Bishop. "Things are almost ominously quiet and I almost dread to have Christmas time approach. All the young ladies get more interested then in gift-preparing and anticipations of vacations at home than in school routine. I hate to have that interrupted so soon again." The Bishop laughed. "My dear Miss Muriel, you take life too seriously. Upheavals are good for us. Our lives would grow stagnant without them." "Beg pardon, but I can't fancy affairs at Oak Knowe ever being stagnant! Nor do I see, as you seem to, any fine results from the happenings of Hallow week. One of the ill results is--I cannot find a competent boot-boy. That makes you smile again, but I assure you it is no trifle in a large establishment like this, with it the rule that every pupil must walk the muddy road each day. The maids will do the work, of course, but they grumble. I do wish the ground would freeze or some good boy offer his services." A rattling of the window panes and a sound of rising wind sent the Bishop to the window: "Well, Miss Tross-Kingdon, one of your wishes is already coming true. There's a blizzard coming--surely. Flakes are already falling and I'm glad the double sashes are in place on this north side the building, and that Michael has seen to having the toboggan slide put in order. I prophesy that within a few days all the young folks will be tobogganing at a glorious rate. That's one of the things I'm thankful for--having been born in Canada where I could slide with the best!" He turned about and the lady smiled at his boyish enthusiasm. He was a man who never felt old, despite his venerable white head, but as he moved again toward the fire and Dorothy entered the room a shadow crossed his face. He had sent for her because within his pocket lay a letter he knew she ought to have, yet greatly disliked to give her. All the mail matter coming to the Oak Knowe girls passed first through their instructors' hands, though it was a rare occasion when such was not promptly delivered. This letter the Bishop had read as usual, but it had not pleased him. It was signed by one James Barlow, evidently a very old friend of Dorothy's, and was written with a boyish assumption of authority that was most objectionable, the Bishop thought. It stated that Mr. Seth Winters was very ill and that Mrs. Calvert was breaking down from grief and anxiety concerning him; and that, in the writer's opinion, Dorothy's duty lay at home and not in getting an education away up there in Canada. "Anybody who really wishes to learn can do that anywhere," was the conclusion of this rather stilted epistle. Now when his favorite came in, happy and eager to greet him, he suddenly decided that he would keep that letter to himself for a time, until he had written to some other of the girl's friends and found out more about the matter. "Did you send for me, dear Bishop?" "Well, yes, little girl, I did. There was something I wanted to talk to you about, but I've changed my mind and decided to put it off for the present;" he answered with a kindly smile that was less bright than usual. So that the sensitive girl was alarmed and asked: "Is it something that I've done but ought not?" "Bless your bonny face, no, indeed. No, Miss Betty the second, I have no fault to find with you. Rather I am greatly delighted by all your reports. Just look out of window a minute--what do you see?" Dorothy still wondered why she had been summoned, but looked out as she had been bidden. "Why, it's snowing! My, how fast, and how all of a sudden! When we were out for exercise the sun was shining bright." "The sun is always shining, dear child, even though clouds of trouble often obscure it. Always remember that, little Dorothy, no matter what happens." Then he dropped what the schoolgirls called his "preachy manner" and asked: "How do you like tobogganing?" "Why--why, of course I don't know. I've never even seen a toboggan, except in pictures. They looked lovely." "Lovely? I should say, but the real thing far lovelier. Miss Tross-Kingdon, here, knows my opinion of tobogganing. The finest sport there is and one that you unfortunate southerners cannot enjoy in your native land. Up here we have everything delightful, ha, ha! But you'll have to be equipped for the fun right away. Will you see to it, Miss Muriel, that Dorothy has a toboggan rig provided? For Michael will have the slides ready, you may be sure. He was born a deal further north even than this and snow-and-ice is his native element. Why, the honest old fellow can show several prizes he won, in his younger days, for skating, ice-boating, tobogganing, and the like. I always feel safe when Michael is on hand at the slide to look after his 'young leddies.' "Now, I must go. I have a service in town, to-night, and if I don't hurry I'll be caught in this blizzard. You run along, 'Betty' and spread the news of the grand times coming." With a gentle pat of the little hand he held he thus dismissed her, and inspired by his talk of the--to her--novel sport, she ran happily away, forgetful already of anything more serious. "Oh! girls! the Bishop says we'll soon have tobogganing!" she cried, joining a group gathered about a great wood fire in the library. "Oh! goody! I was looking at my new suit this very morning. Mother's had such a pretty one made for me, a blanket suit of baby blue with everything to match--mittens and cap and all! I'm just wild to wear it!" answered Fanny Dimock, running to the window to peer out. "To-morrow's half-holiday. Let's all go help Michael to get the slides ready!" "Of course--if the storm will let us out! Oh glorious!" said Ernesta Smith flying to Fanny's side, and trying to see through the great flakes, fast packing against the pane and hiding the view without. But this only increased the gayety within. Electric lights flashed out, girl after girl ran to fetch her own coasting suit and to spread it before the eyes of her mates. "Oh! aren't they the sweetest things!" exclaimed the delighted Dorothy; "the very prettiest clothes I ever saw!" Indeed they did make a fine show of color, heaped here and there, their soft, thick texture assuring perfect protection from cold. Reds and greens, pinks and blues, and snowy white; some fresh from the makers' hands, some showing the hard wear of former winters; yet all made after the Oak Knowe pattern. A roomy pair of pantaloons, to draw over the ordinary clothing from the waist down, ended in stocking-shaped feet, fitted for warm wool overshoes. The tunic fell below the knees and ended above in a pointed hood, and mittens were made fast to the sleeves. "Lovely, but isn't it terribly clumsy?" asked Dorothy, more closely examining one costume. "Let's show her! Let's have an Indian dance! Hurry up, everybody, and dress!" In a jiffy every girl who owned a costume got into it and the place was transformed. For somebody flew to the piano and struck up a lively waltz, and away went the girls, catching one another for partner--no matter who--whirling and circling, twisting bodies about, arms overhead, as in a regular calisthenic figure--till Dorothy was amazed. For what looked so thick and clumsy was too soft and yielding to hinder grace. In the midst of the mirth, the portieres were lifted and Gwendolyn came in. It was unfortunate that just then the music ended with a crash and that the whirling circles paused. For it looked as if her coming had stopped the fun, though this was far from true. Ever since that day of her open confession her schoolmates had regarded her with greater respect than ever before. Most of them realized how hard that confession had been for so haughty a girl, and except for her own manner, many would have shown her marked affection. When she had ceased speaking on that day an awkward silence followed. If she had expected hand-claps or applause she failed to get either. The listeners were too surprised to know what to do, and there was just as much pride in the young "Peer's" bearing as of old. After a moment of waiting she had stalked away and all chance for applause was gone. But she had returned to her regular classes the next morning and mixed with the girls at recreation more familiarly than she had formerly done; yet still that stiffness remained. For half-minute, Gwendolyn hesitated just within the entrance, then forced herself to advance toward the fireplace and stand there warming herself. "It's getting very cold," she remarked by way of breaking the unpleasant silence. "Yes, isn't it!" returned Winifred; adding under her breath: "Inside this room, anyway." "We're warm enough, dressed up like this," said Marjorie, pleasantly. "Dorothy says that the Bishop thinks we'll have tobogganing in a day or two, if the snow holds. She's never seen a toboggan nor how we dress for the sport, and we brought in our togs to show her. She thinks they look too clumsy for words, so we've just been showing her that we can move as easily in them as without them. But--my! It's made us so warm!" Gwendolyn turned toward Dorothy with a smile intended to be cordial, and asked: "Is that so, indeed? Then I suppose you'll have to get a rig like ours if you want to try the slide." "Yes, I suppose so. The Bishop asked the Lady Principal to get me one, but I don't suppose she can right away. Nobody could go shopping in such weather, and I suppose they have to be bought in town." "The blankets are bought there, but usually the suits are made at home before we come; or else by the matron and some of the maids here. I--" A look of keener interest had come into her face, but she said nothing further and a moment later went out again. As the portieres fell together behind her, Winifred threw up her hands in comic despair. "Whatever is the matter with that girl? or with _me_--or _you_--or _you_!" pointing to one and another around her. "She wants to be friendly--and so do we! But there's something wrong and I don't know what." "I do," said a sweet-faced "Seventher," who had been quietly studying during all this noise. "Poor Gwendolyn is sorry but isn't one bit humble. She's absolutely just and has done what she believed right. But it hasn't helped her much. She's fully as proud as she ever was, and the only way we can help her is by loving her. We've _got_ to love her or she'll grow harder than ever." "You can't make love as you'd make a--a pin-cushion!" returned Florita Sheraton, holding up, to illustrate, a Christmas gift she was embroidering. Dorothy listened to this talk, her own heart upbraiding her for her failure to "love" Gwen. She liked her greatly and admired her courage more. "Win, let's you and me try and see if that is true, what Florita says. Maybe love can be 'made' after all;" she whispered to her friend. "Huh! That'll be a harder job than algebra! I shall fail in both." "I reckon I shall, too, but we can try--all the same. That won't hurt either one of us and I'm awfully sorry for her, she must be so lonesome." "'Pity is akin to love!' You've taken the first step in your climb toward Gwen's top-lofty heart!" quoted Winifred. "Climb away and I'll boost you as well as I can. I--" "Miss Dorothy Calvert, the Lady Principal would like to see you in her own parlor;" said a maid, appearing at the door. "What now? You seem to be greatly in demand, to-day, by the powers that be, I hope it isn't a lecture the Bishop passed on to her to deliver," said Florita as Dorothy rose to obey. But whatever fear Dolly felt of any such matter was banished by her first glance into her teacher's face. Miss Muriel had never looked kinder nor better pleased than then, as, holding up a pair of beautiful white blankets she said: "How will these do for the toboggan suit the Bishop wished me to get for you?" "Oh! Miss Muriel! Are those for me and so soon? Why, it's only an hour ago, or not much more, since he spoke of it, and how could anybody go to town and back in that little while, in such a storm?" "That wasn't necessary. These were in the house. Do you like them?" "Like them! They're the softest, thickest, prettiest things! I never saw any so fine, even at Aunt Betty's Bellevieu. Do you think I ought to have them? Wouldn't cheaper ones answer for messing around in the snow?" "The question of expense is all right, dear, and we're fortunate to have the material on hand. Mrs. Archibald will be here, directly, to take your measurements. Ah! here she is now." This was something delightfully different from any "lecture," and even Miss Muriel talked more and in higher spirits than usual; till Dorothy asked: "Do you love tobogganing, too, Miss Tross-Kingdon?" "No, my dear, I'm afraid of it. My heart is rather weak and the swift motion is bad for it. But I love to see others happy and some things have happened, to-day, which have greatly pleased me. But you must talk sliding with Mrs. Archibald. Dignified as she is, she'll show you what a true Canadian can do, give her a bit of ice and a hill." The matron laughed and nodded. "May the day be long before I tire of my nation's sport! I'm even worse than Michael, who's almost daft on the subject." Then she grew busy with her measurings and clippings, declaring: "It just makes me feel bad to put scissors into such splendid blankets as these. You'll be as proud as Punch, when I dress you out in the handsomest costume ever shot down Oak Knowe slide!" "Oh! I wish Aunt Betty could see it, too. She does so love nice things!" When Mrs. Archibald and her willing helpers had completed her task and Dolly was arrayed in her snow-suit she made, indeed, "the picture" which Dawkins called her. For the weather proved what the Bishop had foretold. The snow fell deep and heavy, "just right for packing," Michael said, on the great wooden slide whose further end rose to a dizzy height and from whose lower one a second timbered "hill" rose and descended. If the toboggan was in good working order, the momentum gained in the descent of the first would carry the toboggans up and over the second; and nothing could have been in finer condition than these on that next Saturday morning when the sport was to begin. The depression between the two slides was over a small lake, or pond, now solidly frozen and covered with snow; except in spots where the ice had been cut for filling the Oak Knowe ice-houses. Into one of these holes Michael and his force had plunged a long hose pipe, and a pump had been contrived to throw water upward over the slide. On the night before men had been stationed on the slide, at intervals, to distribute this water over the whole incline, the intense cold causing it to freeze the instant it fell; and so well they understood their business they had soon rendered it a perfectly smooth slide of ice from top to bottom. A little hand-railed stairway, for the ascent of the tobogganers, was built into the timbers of the toboggan, or incline, itself; and it was by this that they climbed back to the top after each descent, dragging their toboggans behind them. At the further side of the lake, close to its bank, great blazing fires were built, where the merry makers could warm themselves, or rest on the benches placed around. Large as some of the toboggans were they were also light and easily carried, some capable of holding a half-dozen girls--"packed close." Yet some sleds could seat but two, and these were the handsomest of all. They belonged to the girls who had grown proficient in the sport and able to take care of themselves; while some man of the household always acted as guide on the larger sleds and for the younger pupils. When Dorothy came out of the great building, that Saturday holiday, she thought the whole scene was truly fairyland. The evergreens were loaded to the ground with their burden of snow, the wide lawns were dazzlingly bright, and the sun shone brilliantly. "Who're you going to slide with, Dolly? On Michael's sled? I guess the Lady Principal will say so, because you're so new to it. Will you be afraid?" "Why should I be afraid? I used to slide down the mountain side when I lived at Skyrie. What makes you laugh, Winifred? This won't be very different, will it?" "Wait till you try it! It's perfectly glorious but it isn't just the same as sliding down a hill, where a body can stop and step off any time. You can't step off a toboggan, unless you want to get killed." Dorothy was frightened and surprised, and quickly asked: "How can anybody call that 'sport' which is as dangerous as that? What do you mean? I reckon I won't go. I'll just watch you." It was Winifred's turn to stare, but she was also disappointed. "Oh! you little 'Fraid-Cat,' I thought you were never afraid of anything. That's why I liked you. One why--and there are other whys--but don't you back out in this. Don't you dare. When you've got that be-a-u-tiful rig and a be-a-u-tiful toboggan to match. I'd hate to blush for you, Queen Baltimore!" "I have no toboggan, Winnie, dear. You know that. I was wondering who'd take me on theirs--if--if I try it at all." Winifred rushed to the other side of the porch and came flying back, carrying over her head a toboggan, so light and finely polished that it shone; also a lovely cushion of pink and white dragged from one hand. This fitted the flat bottom of the sled and was held in place, when used, by silver catches. The whole toboggan was of this one polished board, curving upward in front according to the most approved form, pink tassels floating from its corners that pink silk cords held in their place. Across this curving front was stenciled in pink: "Dorothy Calvert." "There, girlie, what do you say to that? Isn't it marked plainly enough? Didn't you know about it before? Why all we girls have been just wild with envy of you, ever since we saw it among the others." Dorothy almost caught her breath. It certainly was a beauty, that toboggan! But how came she to have it? "What do you mean, Winifred Christie? Do you suppose the Bishop has had it made, or bought it, for me? Looks as if it had cost a lot. And Aunt Betty has lost so much money she can't afford to pay for extra things--not very high ones--" "Quit borrowing trouble, Queenie! Who cares where it came from or how much it cost? Here it is with your own name on it and if you're too big a goose to use it, I shall just borrow it myself. So there you are. There isn't a girl here but wouldn't be glad to have first ride on it. Am I invited?" and Winifred poked a saucy face under her friend's hood. "Am I?" asked Florita Sheraton, coaxingly throwing her arms around Dolly. "Oh! get away, Flo! You're too big! You'd split the thing in two!" said Ernesta, pulling away her chum's arms. "Just look at me, Dolly Doodles! Just see how nice and thin I am! Why I'm a feather's weight to Flo, and I'm one of the best tobogganers at Oak Knowe. Sure. Ask Mrs. Archibald herself, for here she comes all ready for her share of the fun!" "Yes, yes, lassie, you're a fair one at the sport now and give some promise o' winning the cup yet!" answered the matron, joining the girls and looking as fit and full of life as any of them. "Hear! Hear! Hurrah for 'Nesta! Three cheers for the champion cup winner!" "And three times three for the girl Dolly chooses to share her first slide on the new toboggan!" cried somebody, while a dozen laughing faces were thrust forward and as many hands tapped on the breasts of the pleaders, signifying: "Choose me!" The Bishop was already on hand, looking almost a giant in his mufflers, and as full of glee as the youngest there. The lady Principal, in her furs, had also joined the group, for though she did not try the slides, she loved to watch the enjoyment of the others, from a warm seat beside the bonfire. While Dorothy hesitated in her choice, looking from one to another of the merry, pleading faces about her, Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard stood a little apart, watching with keen interest the little scene before her, while the elder members of the group also exchanged some interested glances. "Count us! Count us! That's fair! Begin: 'Intry, mintry, outry, corn; wire, brier, apple, thorn. Roly, poly, dimble-dee;--O--U--T spells Out goes SHE!'" Over and over, they laughingly repeated the nonsense-jingle, each girl whom the final "she" designated stepping meekly back with pretended chagrin, while the "counting out" went on without her. The game promised to be so long that the matron begged: "Do settle it soon, young ladies! We're wasting precious time." Dorothy laughed and still undecided, happened to glance toward Gwendolyn, who had made no appeal for preference, and called out: "Gwen, dear, will you give me my first lesson? I choose Gwendolyn!" It was good to see the flush of happiness steal into Gwen's face and to see the smile she flashed toward Dorothy. Stepping forward she said: "Thank you, dear. I do appreciate this in you, and you needn't be afraid. The Lady Principal knows I can manage a toboggan fairly well, and this of yours seems to be an exact copy of my own that I've used so long." Other cheers followed this and in a moment the whole party had spread over the white grounds leading to the great slide, the good Bishop following more slowly with the other "grown-ups," and softly clapping his mittened hands. "Good! Fine! I like that. Dorothy has ignorantly done the one right thing. If she could only guess the secret which lies under all how thankful she would be that she made this choice and no other." CHAPTER XII JOHN GILPIN JOINS THE SPORT Old Michael stood on the wide platform at the top of the slide, his face aglow with eagerness, and his whole manner altered to boyish gayety. His great toboggan was perched on the angle of the incline, like a bird poised for flight, while he was bidding his company to: "Get on, ladies! Get on and let's be off!" Behind and around him were the other men employees of Oak Knowe, and every one of them, except the _chef_, enthusiastic over the coming sport. But he, unhappy mortal, preferred the warmth of his kitchen fire to this shivery pastime and had only entered into it to escape the gibing tongues of the other servants. Yet in point of costume he could "hold his head up with the best"; and the fact that he could, in this respect even outshine his comrades was some compensation for his cold-pinched toes. The platform was crowded with toboggans and girls; the air rang with jest and laughter; with girlish squeals of pretended fear; and cries of: "Don't crowd!" or: "Sit close, sit close!" "Sit close" they did; the blanketed legs of each tobogganer pressed forward on either side of the girl in front, and all hands clasping the small rod that ran along the sides of the toboggan. The slide had been built wide enough for two of the sleds abreast, and one side was usually left to the smaller ones of the experienced girls, who could be trusted to safely manage their own light craft. To Michael and the matron was always accorded the honor of first slide on the right while the "best singles" coasted alongside on the left. That morning, by tacit consent, the new "Dorothy Calvert" was poised beside the big "Oak Knowe" and the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard was a proud and happy girl, indeed, as she took her place upon it as guide and protector of ignorant Dorothy. "She chose me of her own accord! I do believe she begins to really love me. Oh! it's so nice to be just free and happy with her as the others are!" thought Gwen, as she took her own place and directed her mate just how to sit and act. Adding a final: "Don't you be one bit afraid. I never had an accident sliding and I've always done it every winter since I can remember. We're off! Bow your head a little and--keep--your--mouth--shut!" There wasn't time! Dorothy felt a little quiver run through the thing on which she sat and a wild rush through icy air! That was all! They had reached the bottom of the first slide and began to fly upward over the other before she realized a thing. Gwen hadn't even finished her directions before they had "arrived!" The Southerner was too amazed, for a second, to even step off the toboggan, but Gwendolyn caught her up, gave her a hearty kiss and hug, and demanded: "Well! Here we are! How do you like it! We've beat! We've beat!" Dorothy rubbed her eyes. So they had, for at that instant the big Oak Knowe fetched up beside them, and its occupants stepped or tumbled off, throwing up their hands and cheering: "Three cheers for the Dorothy Calvert! Queen of the Slide for all This Year!" And liveliest among the cheerers was the once so dignified young "Peer," the Honorable Gwen. Dorothy looking into her beaming face and hearing her happy voice could scarce believe this to be the same girl she had hitherto known. But she had scant time to think for here they came, thick and fast, toboggan after toboggan, Seventh Form girls and Minims, teachers and pupils, the Bishop and the _chef_, maids and men-servants, the matron and old Michael--all in high spirits, all apparently talking at once and so many demanding of "Miss Dixie" how she liked it, that she could answer nobody. Then the Bishop pushed back her tasseled hood and smiled into her shining eyes: "Well little 'Betty the Second,' can you beat that down at old Baltimore? What do you think now? Isn't it fine--fine? Doesn't it make you feel you're a bird of the air? Ah! it's grand--grand. Just tell me you like it and I'll let you go." "I--Yes--I reckon I do! I hadn't time to think. We hadn't started, and we were here." "Up we go. Try her again!" cried one, and the climb back to the top promptly began, the men carrying the heavier sleds, the girls their lighter ones, Gwendolyn and Dorothy their own between them. Then the fun all over again; the jests at awkward starts, the cheers at skillful ones, the laughter and good will, till all felt the exhilaration of the moment and every care was forgotten. Many a slide was taken and now Dorothy could answer when asked did she like it: "It's just grand, as the Bishop said. At first I could hardly breathe and I was dizzy. Now I do as Gwen tells me and I love it! I should like to stay out here all day!" "Wait till dinner-time! Then you'll be ready enough to go in. Tobogganing is the hungriest work--or play--there can possibly be!" said Gwendolyn, pirouetting about on the ice as gracefully as on a waxed floor, the merriest, happiest girl in all that throng. Not only Dorothy but many another observed her with surprise. This was a new Gwen, not the stand-offish sort of creature who had once so haughtily scorned all their fun. She had always tobogganed, every year that she had been in that school, but she had never enjoyed it like this; and again as the Bishop regarded her, he nodded his head in satisfaction and said to the matron: "I told you so. I knew it. Do a kindness to somebody and it will return to yourself in happiness a thousand fold." "Thanks, dear Bishop! I'll try to remember," merrily answered she; noticing that Gwendolyn had drawn near enough to hear, and taking this little preachment to herself to prevent Gwendolyn's doing so. She was so pleased by sight of the girl's present happiness that she wished nothing to cloud it, and believing herself discussed would certainly offend proud, sensitive Gwen. Almost two hours had passed, and a few were beginning to tire of the really arduous sport, with its upward climb, so out of proportion to the swift descent; when suddenly fresh shouts of laughter rang out from the high platform and those ascending made haste to join the others at the top. There stood old John Gilpin and Robin, the latter's young bones now sound and strong again, and himself much the better for his sojourn at the cottage with his enforced rest and abundance of good food. "Well, well! How be ye all? Hearty, you look, and reg'lar circus pictures in them warm duds! Good day to your Reverence, Bishop, and I hope I see you in good health. My humble respects, your Reverence, and I thought as how I'd just step up and ask your Reverence might my lad here and me have a try on your slide. I thought--why, sir, the talk on't has spread way into town a'ready, sir, and there'll be more beggars nor me seekin' use on't, your Reverence--" The prelate's hearty laughter rang out on the frosty air, a sound delightful to hear, so full it was of genial humanity, and he grasped the hand of the old teamster as warmly as he would that of a far wealthier man. "Man to man, John, we're all in the same boat to-day. Drop the formality and welcome to the sport. But what sort of sled is this, man? Looks rather rough, doesn't it? Sure you could manage it on this steep incline?" John bridled and Robin looked disappointed. Expectations of the toboggan-slide's being made ready had filled his head, and he and the old man had toiled for hours to make the sled at which the Bishop looked so doubtfully. "Well, your Reverence--I mean--you without the Reverence--" here the Bishop smiled and Robin giggled, thereby causing his host to turn about with a frown. "You see, sir, Robin's always been hearin' about your toboggan up here to Oak Knowe and's been just plumb crazy--" At this point the shy lad pulled John's coat, silently begging him to leave him out of the talk; but the farmer had been annoyed by Robin's ill-timed giggle, and testily inquired: "Well, sir, ain't that so? Didn't you pester the life clean out o' me till I said I'd try? Hey?" "Y-yes," meekly assented the boy; then catching a glimpse of Dorothy and Winifred and their beckoning nods he slipped away to them. To him Dorothy proudly exhibited her beautiful toboggan, explaining its fine construction with a glibness that fitted an "old tobogganer" better than this beginner at the sport. Gwen's face beamed again, listening to her, as if she felt a more personal pride in the sled than even Dorothy herself. She even unbent so far from her pride of rank as to suggest: "If you'll let me borrow it and he'd like to go, I'll take Robin down once, to show him how smoothly it runs." Robin's eyes sparkled. He wasn't shy with girls, but only when he felt himself made too conspicuous by his host's talk. "Would you? Could she? May she?" he cried, teetering about on his ragged shoes in an ecstasy of delight. Dolly laughed and clapped her hands. "Verily, she should, would, can, and may! laddie boy. But where's your jacket? I mean your other one? It's so cold, you'll freeze in that thin one." By the color which came to the lad's cheek Dolly realized that she had asked a "leading question," but Robin's dismay lasted only an instant; then he laughed merrily at the "good joke," and answered: "Well, you see, Miss Dorothy, my 'other one' is at some tailor's shop in town. I haven't had a chance yet to choose one, let alone pay for it! But what matter? 'Tisn't winter all the year and who wears top-coats in summer? Did she really mean it?" Gwendolyn proved that she "really meant it" by pushing the "Dorothy Calvert" into position and nodding to him that she was ready. "All right! Let her go!" he responded to her silent invitation and away they went, as ill-matched a pair as might have been found. But he had a boy's fearlessness and love of adventure; and even on that swift descent his gay whistling floated back to those above. Meanwhile, John Gilpin was explaining with considerable pride, yet thankful that the Bishop was out of hearing on his own downward-speeding toboggan: "You see, lassie, how't Robin was dead set to come. Said he knew so good a man as his Reverence wouldn't say 'No' to us, and just kept teasin' at me till we stepped-an'-fetched a lot of staves come off a hogshead. So I fastened 'em together on the insides--See? And we've shaved an' shaved, an' glass-scraped 'em on t'other till they'll never hurt no slide 't ever was iced. The Bishop seemed terr'ble afraid I'd rough up his track with it, but it's a poor track that water won't freeze smooth again; so if we do happen to scratch it a mite, I'll step-an'-fetch a few buckets o' water and fix it up again. And say, girlie, where's that Jack, boot-boy? And Baal? I ain't seen hide nor hair of ary one this long spell, an' I allow I kind of sorter miss 'em. He used to give the dame the fidgets with his yarns of what he's goin to be an' do, time comes, but me an' him got on fairly well--fairly. As for that goat, he was the amusingest little creatur' 't ever jumped a fence, even if we did fight most of the time. Hah, hum! I've noticed more'n once that the folks or things you quarrel with are the ones you miss most, once they're gone." "We haven't seen Jack since that time he locked me in the drying-room. He ran away, I reckon, and took Baal with him. And it's just like you say: nobody liked him much, and he was always in disgrace with somebody, but I heard the Lady Principal say, only yesterday, that she actually believed she missed that worthless boot-boy more than any other servant who might have left." "Well, now, Dorothy, don't that beat all? That book-l'arned lady just agreein' with me! I often tell Dame 't I know more'n she thinks I do, but all she'll answer to that is: 'John, that'll do.' A rare silent woman is my Dame but a powerful thinker. Hello! Here they come back again. Robin! Robin! Look-a-here! You didn't bamboozle me into makin' our sled and climbin' this height just to leave me go for a passel o' silly girls! No, siree! You come and slide with me right to once. I set out to go a-tobogganin' an' I'm goin'. So none of your backslidin' now!" "All right, Mr. Gilpin, here am I! And I do hope it won't be any true _back_ sliding we shall do on this thing. You'd ought to have put a little handrail on the sides like I told you there always was; but--" "But that'll do, Robin. In my young days knee-high boys didn't know more'n their elders. That'll do!" The old farmer's imitation of his wife's manner seemed very funny to all the young folks, but his anxiety was evident, as he glanced from his own hand-made "toboggan" to the professional ones of the others. Upon his was not even the slight rod to hold on by and the least jar might send him off upon the ice. Peering down, it seemed to him that glazed descent was a straight road to a pit of perdition and his old heart sank within him. But--He had set out to go tobogganing and go he would, if he perished doing it. Dame had besought him with real tears not to risk his old bones in such a foolhardy sport, and he had loftily assured her that "what his Reverence can do I can do. Me and him was born in the same year, I've heard my mother tell, and it's a pity if I can't ekal him!" Moreover, there were all these youngsters makin' eyes at him, plumb ready to laugh, and thinkin' he'd back out. Back out? He? John Gilpin? Never! "Come on, Robin! Let's start!" Gwendolyn and Dorothy were also ready to "start" upon what they intended should be their last descent of that morning. Alas! it proved to be! Five seconds later such a scream of terror rent the air that the hearts of all who heard it chilled in horror. CHAPTER XIII A BAD DAY FOR JOHN GILPIN What had happened! Those who were sliding down that icy incline could not stop to see, and those who were on the ground below covered their eyes that they might not. Yet opened them again to stare helplessly at the dangling figure of a girl outside that terrible slide. For in a moment, when the clutching fingers must unclose, the poor child must drop to destruction. That was inevitable. Then they saw it was Dorothy, who hung thus, suspended between life and death. Dorothy in her white and pink, the daintiest darling of them all, who had so enjoyed her first--and last!--day at this sport. Fresh shudders ran through the onlookers as they realized this and the Lady Principal sank down in a faint. Then another groan escaped them--the merest possibility of hope. Behold! The girl did not fall! Another's small hand reached over the low side of the toboggan and clutched the blanket-covered shoulder of the imperiled child. Another hand! the other shoulder, and hope grew stronger. Someone had caught the falling Dorothy--she and her would-be-rescuer were now moving--moving--slowly downward along the very edge--one swaying perilously with the motion, the other wholly unseen save for those outstretched hands, with their death-fast grip upon the snowy wool. Down--down! And faster now! Till the hands of the tallest watchers could reach and clasp the feet, then the whole precious little body of "Miss Dixie," their favorite from the Southland. But even then, as strong arms drew her into their safe shelter, the small hands which had supported her to safety clung still so tight that only the Bishop's could loose their clasp. "Gwendolyn! You brave, sweet girl! Let go--let go. It's all right now--Dorothy did not fall--You saved her life. Look up, my daughter. Don't faint now when all is over. Look up, you noble child, and hear me tell you: Dorothy is safe and it is you who saved her life. At the risk of your own you saved her life." Clasped close in his fatherly arms, Gwendolyn shuddered but obeyed and looked up into the Bishop's face. "Say that again. Please. Say that again--very slow--if it's the--the truth." [Illustration: "SOMEONE HAD CAUGHT THE FALLING GIRL." _Dorothy at Oak Knowe._] "Gwendolyn, I tell you now, in the presence of God and these witnesses, it has been your precious privilege to save a human life, by your swift thought and determined action you have saved the life of Dorothy Calvert, and God bless you for it." "Then we are quits!" For another moment after she had said those words she still rested quietly where she was, then slowly rose and looked about her. Dorothy had been in the greater peril of the two, yet more unconscious of it. She had not seen how high above the ground she hung, nor how directly beneath was the lake with the thinly frozen spots whence the thicker ice had been cut for the ice-houses; nor how there were heaped up rocks bordering the water, left as nature had designed to beautify the scene. She was the quickest to recover her great fright and she was wholly unhurt. Her really greater wonder was that poor Miss Muriel should happen to faint away just then. "I'm glad she did, though, if it won't make her ill, 'cause then she didn't see me dangling, like I must have, and get scared for that. Likely she stayed out doors too long. She isn't very strong and it's mighty cold, I think." So they hurried her indoors, Gwendolyn with her, yet neither of them allowed to discuss the affair until they were both warmly dressed in ordinary clothes and set down to a cute little lunch table, "all for your two selves," Nora explained: "And to eat all these warm things and drink hot coffee--as much of it as you like. It was Miss Muriel herself who said that!" This was a treat indeed. Coffee at any meal was kept for a special treat, but to have unlimited portions of it was what Dolly called "a step beyond." Curious glances, but smiling and tender, came often their way, from other tables in the room, yet the sport, and happily ended hazard of the morning had given to every girl a fine appetite, so that, for once, knives and forks were more busily employed than tongues. Neither did the two heroines of the recent tragic episode feel much like speech. Now that it was all over and they could think about it more clearly their hearts were filled with the solemnity of what had happened; and Gwendolyn said all that was needed for both, when once laying her hand on Dorothy's she whispered: "You saved my life--the Bishop says that I saved yours. After that we're even and we must love each other all our lives." "Oh! we must, we must! And I do, I shall!" returned Dorothy, with tears rising. Then this festive little lunch dispatched, they were captured by their schoolmates and led triumphantly into the cheerful library, the scene of all their confabs, and Winifred demanded: "Now, in the name of all the Oak Knowe girls, I demand a detailed history of what happened. Begin at the beginning and don't either of you dare to skip a single moment of the time from where you started down the old toboggan alongside of John Gilpin and that boy. I fancy if the tale were properly told his ride would outdo that of his namesake of old times. Dorothy Calvert, begin." "Why, dear, I don't know what to say, except that, as you say, we started. My lovely toboggan went beautifully, as it had all the time, but theirs didn't act right. I believe that the old man was scared so that he couldn't do a thing except meddle with Robin, who doesn't know much more about sliding than I do, or did. He--" "I saw he was getting on the wrong side, right behind you two, as we shot past on ours," interrupted Serena Huntington, "and we both called out: 'steer! steer right!' but I suppose they didn't hear or understand. We were so far down then that I don't know." "Gwen, dear, you tell the rest," begged Dorothy, cuddling up to the girl she now so dearly loved. It wasn't often that Gwendolyn was called to the front like this, but she found it very pleasant; so readily took up the tale where Dorothy left it, "at the very beginning" as "Dixie" laughingly declared. "It seems as if there was nothing to tell--it was all so quick--it just happened! Half way down, it must have been, the farmer's sled hit ours. That scared me, too, and I called, just as Serena had, and as everybody on the slide was doing as they passed: 'Steer right!' I guess that only confused the poor old man, for he kept bobbing into us and that hindered our getting away from him ourselves. "Next I knew, Dolly was off the sled and over the edge of the slide, clinging to it for her life. I knew she couldn't hold on long and so I rolled off and grabbed her. Then we began to slide and I knew somebody was trying to help by pushing us downward toward the bottom. I don't know who that was. I don't know anything clearly. It was all like a flash--I guessed we would be killed--I shut my eyes and--that's all." To break the too suggestive silence which followed with its hint of a different, sorrowful ending, Florita Sheraton exclaimed: "I know who did that pushing! It was our little Robin Adair, or whatever his name is. Fact. That home-made toboggan of his came to grief. The old man has told me. He's out in the kitchen now warming up his bruises. You see, there wasn't anything to hang on by, on the sides. He had scorned Robin's advice to nail something on and he nearly ground his fingers off holding on by the flat bottom. It went so swift--his fingers ached so--he yanked them out from under--Robin screeched--they ran into you--they both tumbled off--Robin lodged against you but John Gilpin rode to the bottom--thus wise!" Florita illustrated by rolling one hand over and under the other; and thus, in fact, had John Gilpin taken his first toboggan slide. Laughter showed that the tension of excitement which had held these schoolgirls all that day had yielded to ordinary feelings, and now most of them went away for study or practicing, leaving Dorothy and Gwendolyn alone. After a moment, they also left the library, bound kitchenwards, to visit old John and see if Robin were still thereabouts. "I wish there were something I could do for that boy," said Gwen. "I feel so grateful to him for helping us and he looked so poor. Do you suppose, Dolly, if Mamma offered him money for that new coat he jested about, that he would be offended." "Of course, Gwen, I don't know about _him_. You never can tell about other folks, but Uncle Seth thinks it's a mighty safe rule 'to put yourself in his place'; and if I were in Robin's I'd be 'mad as a hatter' to have money offered me for doing a little thing like that. Wouldn't you?" "Why, yes, Dorothy, of course I would. The idea! But I'm rich, or my people are, which is the same thing. But he's poor. His feelings may not, cannot, be the same as our sort have." "Why can't they? I don't like to have you think that way. You ought not. Gwen you must not. For that will make us break friendship square off. I'm not poor Dawkins's niece, though I might be much worse off than that, but once I was 'poor' like Robin. I was a deserted baby, adopted by a poor letter carrier. Now, what do you think of that? Can't I have nice feelings same as you? And am I a bit better--in myself--because in reality I belonged to a rich old family, than I was when I washed dishes in Mother Martha's kitchen? Tell me that, before we go one step further." Dorothy had stopped short in the hall and faced about, anxiously studying the face of this "Peer," who had now become so dear to her. Gwendolyn's face was a puzzle; as, for a time, the old opinions and the new struggled within her. But the struggle was brief. Her pride, her justice, and now her love, won the victory. "No, you darling, brave little thing, you are not. Whatever you are you were born such, and I love you, I love you. If I'd only been born in the States I'd have had no silly notions." "Don't you believe that, Gwen. Aunt Betty says that human nature is the same all the world over. You'd have been just as much of a snob if you'd been 'raised in ol' Ferginny' as you are here. Oh! my! I didn't mean that. I meant--You must understand what I mean!" A flush of mortification at her too plain speaking made Dorothy hide her face, but her hands were swiftly pulled down and a kiss left in their place. "Don't you fret, Queenie! It's taken lots of Mamma's plain speaking to keep me half-way decent to others less rich than I, and I'm afraid it'll take lots of yours, too, to put the finishing touches to that lesson. Come on. We love each other now, and love puts everything right. Come on. Let's find that Robin and see what we can do for him without hurting his feelings." "Oh! yes, come, let's hurry! But first to the Lady Principal. Maybe we can help them both. Won't that be fine?" But they were not to help Robin just then. A groan from the servants' parlor, a pleasant room opening from the kitchen, arrested their attention and made them pause to listen. Punctuated by other sounds, a querulous voice was complaining: "Seems if there warn't a hull spot left on my old body that ain't bruised sore as a bile. Why, sir, when I fell off that blamed sled we'd tinkered up"--groan--"I didn't know anything. Just slid--an' slid--an' rolled over and over, never realizin' which side of me was topmost till I fetched up--kerwhack! to the very bottom. Seemed as if I'd fell out o' the sky into the bottomless pit. Oh! dear!" Dawkins's voice it was that answered him, both pitying and teasing him in the same breath: "I'm sure it's sorry I am, Mr. Gilpin, for what's befell; but for a man that's lived in a tobogganing country ever since he was born, you begun rather late in life to learn the sport. Why--" "Ain't no older'n the Bishop! Can't one man do same's t'other, I'd like to know, Mis' Dawkins?" "Seems not;" laughed the maid. "But, here, take this cup of hot spearmint tea. 'Twill warm your old bones and help 'em to mend; an' next time you start playin' children's game--why don't! And for goodness' sake, John, quit groanin'! Takin' on like that don't help any and I tell you fair and square I've had about all the strain put on my nerves, to-day, 't I can bear. What was your bit of a roll down that smooth ice compared to what our girls went through?" "Has you got any nuts in your pockets? Has you?" broke in Millikins-Pillikins, who had been a patient listener to the confab between the farmer and the nurse till she could wait no longer. Never had the old man come to Oak Knowe without some dainty for the little girl and she expected such now. "No, sissy, I haven't. I dunno as I've got a pocket left. I dunno nothing, except--except--What'll SHE say when I go home all lamed up like this! Oh! hum! Seems if I was possessed to ha' done it, and so she thought. But 'twas Robin's fault. If Robin hadn't beset me so I'd never thought of it. Leastwise, not to go the length I did. If I'd--But there! What's the use? But one thing's sure. I'll get shut of that boy, see if I don't. He's well now an' why should I go to harboring _reptiles_ in my buzzum? Tell me that if ye can! _Reptiles._ That's what he was, a-teasin' an' misleadin' a poor old man into destruction. Huh! I'll make it warm for him--trust John Gilpin for that!" Dawkins had long since departed, unable to bear the old man's lamentations, and leaving the cup, or pot, of hot tea on the table beside him. But little Grace couldn't tear herself away. She lingered, first hoping for the nuts she craved, and later in wonder about the "_reptile_" he said was in his bosom. There were big books full of pictures in the library, that Auntie Prin sometimes let her see. She loved to have them opened on the rug and lie down beside them to study them. She knew what "reptiles" were. That was the very one of all the Natural History books with the blue bindings that she liked best, it was so delightfully crawly and sent such funny little thrills all through her. If a picture could do that what might not the real thing do! "Show it to me, please, Mr. Gilpin. I never saw a reptile in all my whole life long! Never!" The farmer had paid scant attention to her chatter; indeed, he scarcely heard it, his mind being wholly engrossed now with what his dame would say to him, on his return home; and in his absent-mindedness he reached out for the drink good Dawkins had left him and put the pot to his lips taking a great draught. An instant later the pot flew out of his hand and he sprang to his feet, clutching frantically at his bosom and yelling as if he were stung. For the contents of the pot were boiling hot and he had scalded his throat most painfully. But wide-eyed little Grace did not understand his wild action, as, still clutching his shirt front, he hurled the pot far from him. Of course, the "reptile" was biting! That must be why he screeched so, and now all her desire for a personal acquaintance with such a creature vanished. She must get as far away from it as possible before it appeared on the surface of his smock and, darting doorward, was just in time to receive the pot and what was left in it upon her curly head. Down she dropped as if she had been shot, and Dorothy entering was just in time to see her fall. The scene apparently explained itself. The angry face of the old man, his arm still rigid, in the gesture of hurling, the fallen child and the broken pot--who could guess that it was horror at his uncalculated deed which kept him in that pose? Not Dorothy, who caught up little Grace and turned a furious face upon poor John, crying out in fierce contempt: "Oh! you horrible old man! First you tried to kill me and now you have killed her!" CHAPTER XIV EXPLANATIONS ARE IN ORDER Dorothy ran straight to the Lady Principal's room, too horrified by what she imagined was the case to pause on the way and too excited to feel the heavy burden she carried. Nobody met her to stop her or inquire what had happened. Gwendolyn had been called to join her mother and had seen nothing of the incident, and Dorothy burst into the pretty parlor--only to find it empty. Laying Millikins down on the couch she started to find help, but was promptly called back by the child herself. "Where you going, Dolly Doodles? What you carry me for, running so?" "Why--why--darling--can you _speak_? Are you _alive_? Oh! you dear--you dear! I thought you were killed!" cried the relieved girl kneeling beside the couch and hugging the astonished little one. "Why for can't I speak, Dorothy? Why for can't I be alive? The 'reptile' didn't bite me, it bited _him_. That's why he hollered so and flung things. See, Dolly, I'm all wet with smelly stuff like 'meddy' some kind, that Dawkins made him. And what you think? Soon's he started drinking it the 'reptile' must not have liked it and must have bited him to make him stop--'Ou-u-c-ch!' Just like that he said it, an' course I runned, an' the tea-pot flew, an' I fell down, and you come, grabbed me and said things, and--and--But the reptile didn't get Gracie, did it? No it didn't, 'cause I runned like anything, and 'cause you come, and--Say, Dolly! I guess I'd rather see 'em in the book. I guess I don't want to get acquainted with no live ones like I thought I did. No, sir!" "What in the world do you mean, Baby? Whatever are you talking about? Oh! you mischief, you gave poor Dolly such a fright when you fell down like that!" "Why, Dolly Doodles, how funny! I fall down lots of times. Some days I fall down two-ten-five times, and sometimes I'd cry, but Auntie Prin don't like that. She'll say right off: 'There, Millikins, I wouldn't bother to do that. You haven't hurt the floor any.' So course I stop. 'Cause if I had hurted the floor she'd let me cry a lot. She said so, once. Mr. Gilpin didn't have a single nut in his pockets. He said so. And he talked awful funny! Not as if to me at all, so must ha' been to the 'reptile' in his 'buzzum.' Do 'reptiles' buzz, Dolly, same as sting-bees do? And wouldn't you rather carry nuts in your pockets for such nice little girls as me, than crawly things inside your smock to bite you? I think a smock's the funniest kind of clothes, and Mr. Gilpin's the funniest kind of man inside 'em. Don't you?" "If either one can match you for funniness, you midget, I'll lose my guess. Seems if this had been the 'funniest' kind of day ever was. But I'll give you up till you get ready to explain your 'reptile' talk. Changing the subject, did you get a slide to-day?" "Yes, lots of them. What do think? I didn't have anybody give me a nice new toboggan with my name on it, like you had; so the Bishop he told Auntie Prin that he'd look out for me this year same's he did last year. I hadn't grown so much bigger, he thought. Course he's terrible big and I'm terrible little, so all he does is tuck me inside his great toboggan coat. Buttons it right around me--this way--so I never could slip out, could I? And I don't have to hold on at all he holds on for me and Auntie's not afraid, that way. Don't you think it was terrible nice for Gwendolyn to give you your things?" "What things, dear? Gwen has given me nothing that I know of. Is this another mystery of yours?" "It isn't not no mystery, I don't know what them are, except when girls like you get lost right in their own houses and don't get found again right soon. But I know 'secrets.' Secrets are what the one you have 'em about don't get told. That was a secret about your things, Gwen said. You didn't get told, did you?" "I have a suspicion that I'm being told now," answered Dorothy, soberly. "Suppose you finish the telling, dear, while we are airing the subject. What are the things you're talking about?" "Why, aren't you stupid, Dolly? About the be-a-u-tiful blankets were made into your suit. Auntie said they were the handsomest ever was. Lady Jane had bought 'em to have new things made for Gwen, 'cause Lady Jane's going far away across the ocean and she wanted to provide every single thing Gwen might want. In case anything happened to Gwen's old one. "So Gwen said, no, she didn't need 'em and you did. She guessed your folks hadn't much money, she'd overheard the Bishop say so. That's the way she knows everything is 'cause she always 'overhears.' I told Auntie Prin that I thought that was terrible nice, and I'd like to learn overhearing; and she sauced me back the funniest! My! she did! Said if she ever caught me overhearing I'd be put to bed with nothing but bread and water to eat, until I forgot the art. Just like that she said it! Seems if overhearing is badness. She does so want Gwendolyn to be really noble. Auntie Prin thinks it noble for Gwen to give up her blankets and to have that be-a-u-tiful toboggan bought for you with your name on it. You aren't real poor, are you, Dolly? Not like the beggar folks come 'tramping' by and has 'victuals' given to them? Bishop says all little girls must be good to the poor. That's when he wants me to put my pennies in my Mite Box for the little heathen. I don't so much care about the heathen and Hugh--" But Dorothy suddenly put the child down, knowing that once started upon the theme of "Brother Hugh" the little sister's talk was endless. And she was deeply troubled. She had altogether forgotten John Gilpin and the accusation she had hurled at him. Nothing now remained in her mind but thoughts of Gwendolyn's rich gifts and indignation against her. Why had she done it? As a sort of payment for Dorothy's assistance at the Maiden's Bath? Meeting Miss Muriel in the hall she cried: "Oh! my dear lady, I am in such trouble! May I talk to you a moment?" "Certainly, Dorothy. Come this way. Surely there can be nothing further have happened to you, to-day." Safe in the shelter and privacy of a small classroom, Dorothy told her story into wise and loving ears; and to be comforted at once. "You are all wrong, Dorothy. I am sure that there was no such thought as payment for any deed of yours in poor Gwendolyn's mind. You have been invariably kind to her in every way possible; and until this chance came she had found none in which to show you that she realized this and loved you for it. Why, my dear, if you could have seen her happiness when I told her it was a beautiful thing for her to do, you would certainly have understood her and been glad to give her the chance she was glad to take. It is often harder to accept favors than to bestow them. It takes more grace. Now, dear, let's call that 'ghost laid,' as Dawkins says. Hunt up Gwen, tell her how grateful you are to her for her rich, unselfish gifts, and--do it with a real Dorothy face; not with any hint of offended pride--which is not natural to it! And go at once, then drop the subject and forget it. We were all so thankful that you chose her this morning without knowing." Back came the smiles as Miss Muriel hoped to see them, and away sped Dorothy to put the good advice in practice; and five minutes later Gwendolyn was the happiest girl at Oak Knowe, because her gifts had been ascribed to real affection only. "Now, Gwen, that we've settled _that_, let's go and see what we can do for Robin. Heigho, Winifred! you're just in time to aid a worthy cause--Come on to Lady Principal!" "Exactly whither I was bound!" waving a letter overhead. "Going a-begging, my dears, if you please!" she returned, clasping Gwen's waist on one side to walk three abreast. A trivial action in itself but delightful to the "Peer," showing that this free-spoken "Commoner" no longer regarded her as "stand-offish" but "just one of the crowd." "Begging for what, Win?" "That's a secret!" "Pooh! You might as well tell. Secrets always get found out. I've just discovered one--by way of chattering Millikins-Pillikins. Guess it." "I couldn't, Dolly, I'm too full of my own. As for that child's talk--but half of it has sense." "So I thought, too, listening to her. But _half did_ have sense and that is--Who do you think gave me my beautiful toboggan things?" "Why, your Aunt Betty, I suppose, since she does everything else for you," answered Winifred promptly. "Anyhow, don't waste time on guesses--Tell!" Then she glanced up into Gwendolyn's face and saw how happy it was, and hastily added: "No, you needn't tell, after all, I know. It was Gwen, here, the big-hearted dear old thing! She's the only girl at Oak Knowe who's rich enough and generous enough to do such a splendid thing." "Good for you, Win, you guessed right at once!" answered Dolly trying to clap her hands but unable to loosen them from her comrades' clasp. "Now for yours!" "Wait till we get to the 'audience chamber'! Come on." But even yet they were hindered. In the distance, down at the end of the hall, Dorothy caught sight of Mr. Gilpin, evidently just departing from the house. A more dejected figure could scarcely be imagined, nor a more ludicrous one, as he limped toward the entrance, hands on hips and himself bent forward forlornly. Below his rough top-coat which he had discarded on his arrival, hung the tatters of his smock that had been worn to ribbons by his roll down the slide. Nobody knew what had become of his own old beaver hat, but a light colored derby, which the _chef_ had loaned him, sat rakishly over one ear, in size too small for the whole top of his bald head. "Looks as if he had two foreheads!" said Winifred, who couldn't help laughing at his comical appearance, with part of his baldness showing at front and back of the borrowed hat. Dorothy laughed, too, yet felt a guilty regret at the way she had spoken to him. She had accused him of "trying to kill her" as well as Gwen and little Grace; but he "kill anything"? Wicked, even to say that. "There goes John Gilpin, and, girls, I must speak to him. Come--I can't let him go that way!" As his "good foot" crossed the threshold Dorothy's hand was on his shoulder and her voice begging: "Oh! please, Mr. Gilpin! Do forgive that horrible thing I said! I didn't know, I didn't understand, I didn't mean it--I thought--it looked--Do come back just a minute and let me explain." The old fellow turned and gazed into her pleading eyes, but at first scarcely heard her. "Why, 'tis the little maid! hersel' that was cryin' that night on the big railway platform. The night that Robin lad was anigh kilt. Something's mixed up in me head. What's it, lassie, you want?" "I want your forgiveness, Mr. Gilpin. When I saw Gracie on the floor and the broken pot beside her I thought--you'd--you'd tried--and account of your sled hitting Gwen and me--Do come in and rest. You're worse hurt than anybody thought, I'm afraid. There, there, that's right. Come back and rest till the team goes into town for the Saturday night's supplies. It always goes you know, and Michael will get the driver to drop you at your own door. I'm sure he will." Obediently, he allowed her to lead him back into the hall and to seat him on the settle beside the radiator. The warmth of that and the comfort of three sympathetic girls soon restored his wandering wits and he was as ready to talk as they to listen. "You do forgive, don't you, dear old John?" "Sure, lassie, there's nought about forgiveness, uther side. It was a bit misunderstandin' was all. The wee woman a-pleadin' for treats out of pocket, and me thinkin' hard o' Robin, for coaxin' an old man to make a fool of hissel'. Me feeling that minute as if 'twas all his fault and thinking I'd cherished a snake, a reptile, in my buzzum, and sayin' it out loud, likes I have a bad habit of doing. "Silly I was, not remembering how't a child takes all things literal. Ha, ha, ha! To think it! When I scalded mysel' with the hot tea the bairnie should fancy I yelled at a sarpent's bite! Sure, I could split my sides a-laughin' but for the hurt I gave her. How is she doin', lass? I've waited this long spell for someone to pass by and give me the word, but nobody has. Leastwise, them that passes has no mind for old John in his dumps." "Why, Mr. Gilpin, she wasn't hurt at all; and it's just as you said. She thought you had a real snake in your clothes and it had bitten you. She's all right now, right as can be; and so will you be as soon as you get home and into your wife's good care. She--" "Ah, my Dorothy! 'Tis she I dread. Not a word'll she say, like enough, but the look she will give to my silly face--Hmm. She's a rare silent woman is my Dame, but she can do a power o' thinkin'." "Yes, she can, and the first thing she'll think is how glad she is to have her husband back again, safe and sound." "Aye, but Dorothy, hark ye! I'm safe, I'll grant ye that; but--sound? 'Tis different letters spells that word. Sound? I'll no' be that for weeks to come!" and the poor fellow, who certainly had been badly bruised and lucky to have escaped broken bones, sighed profoundly. Winifred had an inspiration. "Speaking of Robins, suppose we write her a round-robin letter? Right here and now, on the back of this letter of Father's? It's a grand good letter for me and we'll write so nicely of you, Mr. John, that it'll be a good one for her, too." "Will ye? A real letter explainin' about the accident, when the lassie's toboggan got in our way and we got that mixed 'twas nigh the death of the lot? Dame'd be proud enough to get that letter. Sure, I believe 'twould set her thinkin' of other things, and she'll be liker to overlook my foolishness." They all laughed at the crafty manner in which he shipped his responsibility for the accident from his shoulders to theirs; but Winifred plumped herself down on the settle beside him and, using it for a desk, concocted an amusing story of the whole day's happenings. The other girls had less of the gift of writing, but each added a few words and signed her name with a flourish. Altogether it was a wonderful document, so the farmer thought, as Winifred tore that half-sheet from her father's letter, folded it in a fantastic way and gave it him. Indeed, he was so pleased with it and so anxious to get it into his wife's hands that, after turning it over and about, in admiration of the "true lover's knot" into which Win had folded it, he rose to go away. All his stiffness was forgotten, he almost neglected to drag his lame foot, he firmly declined to stay for supper or any ride with the Oak Knowe team, so completely had the kindness of the three girls cured him. "A letter for the Dame! Sure she'll be the proud woman the night, and maybe she'll think I'd more sense after all. I don't mind she'd ary letter come before since we was married. Good night, young ladies. Tell the bit woman 't next time there'll be nuts in me pockets, all right, and no fear for her o' more snakes. Good-by." They watched him down the path, fairly strutting in his pride over the note which a mere whim on Winifred's part had suggested, and Dorothy exclaimed: "What a dear, simple old soul he is! That a tiny thing like that could make so happy. I believe he was more delighted with that half-sheet of your paper than you are with your father's other half." Winifred caught the others about the waist and whirled them indoors again, first gleefully kissing her father's bit of writing and asking: "Think so? Then he's the gladdest person in the world, to-night. Oh--ee!" "Well, Win, you can be glad without squeezing the breath out of a body, can't you? Heigho, Robin! Where'd you come from?" said Dolly, as the boy came suddenly upon them from a side hall. "Why, from the kitchen. The folks there made me eat a lot of good stuff and a woman--I guess it was the housekeeper--she made me put on some of the men's clothes while she took my knickers and mended them. I'd torn them all to flinders on that slide, or old botched up sled, and she said I was a sight. I was, too. She was awful kind. She made me tell all about Mother and my getting hurt and everything. But she said I ought to go right away and find Mr. Gilpin and get friends with him again. Isn't it funny? He blames _me_ for all that happened and for teasing him to make that wretched sled, yet, sir, if you'll believe me he was the one spoke of it first. True! Said he'd never had a toboggan ride in all his life, long as that was, because he hadn't anybody to go with him. But 'he'd admire' to have just one before he died--" "He had it, didn't he?" laughed Winifred. "He had a hard time getting Mrs. Gilpin's consent. She treats him as if he were a little boy, worse'n Mother does me, but he doesn't get mad at all. He thinks she's the most wonderful woman in the world, but I must find him and put myself right with him before we go home and tackle her. He'll need my help then more'n he did makin' that beastly sled! It was awful--really awful--the way he went rolling down that icy slide, but to save my life I can't help laughing when I think of it. Can you?" At the lad's absurd movements, as he now pictured John's remarkable "ride" they all laughed; but suddenly Dorothy demanded: "You sit right down yonder on that settle and wait for me. You can't find Mr. Gilpin, now, he's far on the road home. But there's something I must ask Miss Tross-Kingdon--" "No! You don't ask Miss Tross-Kingdon one single thing till I've had my ask first, Dorothy Calvert! Here I'm nearly crazy, trying to hold in my secret, and--" "I claim my chance too! I've a petition of my own if you please and let the first to arrive win!" shouted Gwendolyn, speeding after the other two toward the "audience chamber." Thus deserted, Robin laughed and curled up on the bench to wait; while the Lady Principal's sanctum was boisterously invaded by three petitioners, forgetful of the required decorum, and each trying to forestall the others, with her: "Oh! Miss Muriel, may I--?" "Please, Miss Tross-Kingdon, my father's--" "Hear me first, dear Lady Principal, before he gets away. Can--" But the Lady Principal merely clapped her hands over her ears and ordered: "One at a time. Count twenty." CHAPTER XV MRS. JARLEY ENTERTAINS "I've counted! And I beg pardon for rushing in here like that. But I was afraid the others had favors to ask and I wanted to get mine in first!" said Gwendolyn, after the brief pause Miss Tross-Kingdon had suggested. "Oh! you sweet, unselfish thing!" mocked Winifred, "your favor can't be half as fine as mine--" "Nor mine! Oh! do please let me speak first, for fear he gets away!" begged Dorothy, eagerly. "First come first served, Dolly, please!" coaxed Gwendolyn and the teacher nodded to her to speak. "Mine's for next Saturday. Mrs. Jarley's Wax Works are to be in town and Mamma says if you'll allow I may invite the whole school to go. She'll have big sleighs sent out for us and will let us have supper at the hotel where she stops. May we go?" "Wait a moment, Gwendolyn. Did you say the 'whole school'?" Each year Lady Jane had allowed her daughter to entertain her schoolmates in some such manner but the number had, heretofore, been limited to "Peers" only. Such a wholesale invitation as this required some explanation. Gwendolyn's eyes fell and her cheek flushed, while the other girls listened in wondering delight for her answer, which came after some hesitation. But came frankly at last in the girl's own manner. "I'm ashamed now of the silly notions I used to have. I wanted to do something which would prove that I am; so instead of picking out a few of what we called 'our set' I want every girl at Oak Knowe to join us. You'll understand, of course, that there will be no expense to anybody. It's Mamma's farewell treat to us girls, before she goes abroad. May she and I give it?" "Indeed, you may, Gwendolyn, if the Bishop approves. With the understanding that no lessons are neglected. The winter is about over. Spring exams are near, and 'Honors' or even 'Distinction' will not be won without hard work." "Thank you, Miss Muriel. May I go now and ask the Bishop, then tell the girls?" "Certainly," and there was an expression of greater pleasure on the lady's face than on that of Gwendolyn's even. Winifred executed what she called a "war dance" as Gwen disappeared, crying: "That's what I call a wholesale burying of the hatchet! That 'Honorable' young woman is distinguishing herself. Don't you think so, Miss Muriel?" "I am pleased. I am very pleased. Gwendolyn has surely dropped her foolishness and I'm proud of her. It's so much safer for anyone to be normal, without fads or fancies--" "Oh! come now, you dear Schoolma'am! Never mind the pretty talk just this minute, 'cause I can't wait to tell you--Father's coming--my Father is coming and a proper good time with him! If you'll only remember I wasn't saucy then--A girl you'd raised to hand, like me, couldn't really be saucy, could she? And--and please just wait a minute. Please let me talk first. Because _I_ can't ask _everybody_, but my darling Father means just as well as Lady Jane. His invite is only for a dozen--round baker's dozen, to take a trip in his car to Montreal and visit the Ice Palace! Think of that! The beautiful Ice Palace that I've never seen in all my life. If you'll say 'yes,' if you'll be the picker out of 'em, besides yourself and Miss Hexam and Dawkins--Oh! dear! You three grown-ups take off three from my dozen-thirteen! But there'll be ten left, any way, and please say yes and how many days we may be gone and--Oh! I love you, Miss Muriel, you know I do!" The lady Principal calmly loosened Winifred's clasping arms, and smilingly looked into the sparkling, pleading eyes before her. Who could be stern with the whimsical child she had cared for during so many years, and under whose apparently saucy manner, lay a deep love and respect? She did not enlighten the pleader on the fact that this was no new thing she had just heard; nor that there had been written communications passing between Mr. Christie and the Bishop with consent already won. But she put her answer off by saying: "We'll see about it, Winifred: and I'm glad there was nobody save Dorothy here to see you so misbehave! But if we go, and if the selection is left to me, I may not please you; for I should choose those whose record for good conduct is highest and whose preparation for exams is most complete." Winifred wrinkled her brows. Of course she, as hostess couldn't be counted either out or in, but she knew without telling that but few of her own class-ten would be allowed to go. They were the jolliest "ten" at Oak Knowe and oftener in disgrace about lessons than free from it. "Oh! dear! I do wish we'd dreamed this treat was coming! I'd have forced the 'Aldriches' to study as hard as they played--if--if I had to do it at the point of my mahl-stick. I guess it'll be a lesson to them." "I trust it will, dear, but Dorothy has waited all this time. Three little maids with three little wishes, regular fairy-tale like, and two of them granted already. What's yours, Dorothy?" Since listening to the others' requests, her own seemed very simple, almost foolish; but she answered promptly: "I want to get you a boot-boy." Winifred laughed. "Hey, Dolly! To switch off from a private-car-ice-palace-trip into a boot-boy's jacket is funny enough. Who's the candidate you're electioneering for?" Miss Muriel hushed Winifred's nonsense which had gone far enough and was due, she knew, to the girl's wild delight over her father's promised visit. "If you could find a good one for me, Dorothy, you would certainly be doing me a favor, not I one for you. Whom do you mean?" "Robin Locke, Miss Tross-Kingdon. He's so very poor." "Poverty isn't always a recommendation for usefulness. Is he old enough? Is it that lad who came with Mr. Gilpin?" "Yes, Miss Muriel. He's just the loveliest boy I've seen in Canada--" "The _only_ one, except Jack!" interrupted Winifred. "It was because of me and my carelessness he got hurt and broke himself. He was carrying my telegram that I ought to have sent long before and he was so starved he fell off his bicycle and always ever since I've wished I could help him some way and he'd have such a nice home here and he wouldn't bring in goats, and his mother could do things to help and I thought maybe he could do the shoes and other things would be easier than what he did and could be a golf-boy for the Bishop when the time comes and it's pretty near and--" "There, Dorothy, take your breath, and put a comma or two into your sentences. Then we'll talk about this project of yours. Where's Robin now?" "Right out on the settle this minute waiting--if he hasn't gone away--May I--" "Yes, honey, step-an'-fetch him!" laughed Winifred again, "he's used to that sort of talk." Away flashed Dorothy and now, at a really serious rebuke from the Lady Principal, Winifred sobered her lively spirits to be an interested witness of the coming interview, as Dorothy came speeding back, literally dragging the shy Robin behind her. But, as before, the presence of other young folks and Miss Muriel's first question put him at his ease. "Robin, are you willing to work rather hard, in a good home, for your mother and to provide one for her, too?" "Why, of course, Ma'am. That's what I was a-doin' when I fell off. Goody! Wouldn't I? Did you ever see my mother, lady?" "Yes, Robin, at our Hallowe'en Party," answered Miss Tross-Kingdon, smiling into the beautiful, animated face of this loyal son. "You'd like her, Ma'am, you couldn't help it. She's 'the sweetest thing in the garden,' Father used to say, and he knew. She feels bad now, thinking we've been so long at the farmer's 'cause she don't see how 't we ever can pay them. And the doctor, too. Oh! Ma'am, did you hear tell of such a place? Do you think I could get it?" "Yes, lad, I did hear of just such, for Dorothy told me. It's right here at Oak Knowe. The work is to pick up row after row of girls' shoes, standing over night outside their bedroom doors and to blacken them, or whiten them, as the case might be, and to have them punctually back in place, in time for their owners to put on. Cleaning boots isn't such a difficult task as it is a tedious one. The maids complain that it's more tiresome than scrubbing, and a boy I knew grew very careless about his work. If I asked you and your mother to come here to live, would you get tired? Or would she dislike to help care for the linen mending? Of course, you would be paid a fair wage as well as she. What do you think?" What Robin thought was evident: for away he ran to Dorothy's side and catching her hand kissed it over and over. "Oh! you dear, good girl! It was you who helped the doctor set my bones, it was you who let me slide on your new toboggan, and it's you who've 'spoke for me' to this lady. Oh! I do thank you. And now I'm not afraid to go back and see Mr. Gilpin. He was so vexed with me because he thought--May I go now, Ma'am? and when do you want us, Mother and me?" "To-morrow morning, at daybreak. Will you be here?" "Will I not? Oh! good-by. I must go quick! and tell my Mother that she needn't worry any more. Oh! how glad I am!" With a bow toward Miss Tross-Kingdon and a gay wave of his hand toward the girls, he vanished from the room, fairly running down the corridor and whistling as he went. The rules of Oak Knowe had yet all to be learned but it certainly was a cheerful "noise in halls" to which they listened now. "And that's another 'link' in life, such as Uncle Seth was always watching for. If I hadn't delayed that telegram and he hadn't fallen down and--everything else that happened--Robin would never have had such a lovely chance," said Dorothy proudly. "That's a dangerous doctrine, Dorothy. It's fine to see the 'links' you speak of, but not at all fine to do evil that good may come. I'd rather have you believe that this same good might have come to the lad without your own first mistake. But it's time for studying Sunday lessons and you must go." "Catch me studying 'links' for things, Dolly, if it gets a body lectured. Dear Lady Principal does so love to cap her kindnesses with 'a few remarks.' There's a soft side and a hard side to that woman, and a middle sort of schoolma'amy side between. She can't help it, poor thing, and mostly her soft side was in front just now. "Think of it! Wax Works and Ice Palaces all in one term! I do just hope Mrs. Jarley'll have a lot of real blood-curdling 'figgers' to look at and not all miminy-piminy ones. Well, good night, honey, I'm off to be as good as gold." Every pupil at Oak Knowe, in the week that followed, tried to be "as good as gold," for a pleasure such as Lady Jane proposed to give the school was as welcome to the highest Form as to the lowest Minims, and the result was that none was left out of the party--not one. It was all perfectly arranged, even the weather conspiring to further the good time, with a beautifully clear day and the air turned mild, with a promise of the coming spring. The snow was beginning to waste, yet the sleighing held fine and the city stables had been ransacked to obtain the most gorgeous outfits with the safest drivers. Thirty handsome sleighs with their floating plumes and luxurious robes, drawn by thirty spans of beautiful horses was the alluring procession which entered Oak Knowe grounds on the eventful Saturday; and three hundred happy girls, each in her best attire piled into them. Yes, and one small boy! For who could bear to leave behind that one last child of the great family? And a boy who in but a week's time had learned to clean shoes so well and promptly? So clad in his new suit, of the school's uniform, "Such as all we men folks wear"--as he had proudly explained to his mother when he first appeared in this before her--and with a warm top-coat and cap to match, the happy youngster rode in the leading sleigh in which sat Lady Jane herself. Of how those happy young folks took possession of the exhibition hall, that had been reserved for them; and smiled or shuddered over the lifelike images of famous men and women; and finally tore themselves away from the glib tongue of the exhibitor and his fascinating show--all this any schoolgirl reader can picture for herself. Then of the dinner at the great hotel, in a beautiful room also reserved that they might indulge their appetites as hunger craved without fear or observation of other guests: the slow drive about the city, and the swift drive home--with not one whit of the gayety dimmed by any untoward accident. "Oh! it's been a perfect success! Nothing has happened that should not, and I believe that I've been the happiest girl of all! But such a crowd of them. Better count your flock, Miss Tross-Kingdon, maybe, and see if any are missing;" said Lady Jane as she stepped down at the Oak Knowe door. "I don't see how there could be, under your care, my Lady, but I'll call a mental roll." So she did. But the roll was not perfect. Two were missing. Why? CHAPTER XVI A PERPLEXING PROBLEM OF LIFE Miss Tross-Kingdon entered Miss Hexam's room, looking so disturbed that the latter asked: "Why, Muriel, what is the matter?" They two were of kin and called each other by their first names. "Matter enough, Wilda. I'm worried and angry. And to think it should happen while the Bishop is away on that trip of his to the States!" "Tell me," urged the gentle little woman, pushing a chair forward into which the Lady Principal wearily dropped. "It's that Dorothy Calvert. She's lost herself again!" "She has a knack of doing that! But she'll be found." "Maybe. Worst is she's taken another with her. Robin, the new boot-boy." Miss Hexam laughed: "Well, I admit that is the greater loss just now! Girls are plentiful enough at Oak Knowe but boot-boys are scarce. And this Robin was a paragon, wasn't he? Also, I thought Dorothy was away up toward the 'good conduct medal,' as well as 'distinction' in music. I don't see why she should do so foolish a thing as you say and lessen her chances for the prize." "Wilda, you don't understand how serious it is. It was one thing to have it happen in this house but it's night now and she away in a strange city. I declare I almost wish she'd never come at all." For a moment Miss Hexam said no more. She knew that Miss Muriel loved the missing girl with sincere affection and was extremely proud of her great progress in her studies. All the school had readily conceded that in her own Form Dorothy stood highest, and would certainly win the "honors" of that Form. When the Principal had rested quietly a while longer she asked: "Now tell me all about it, Muriel." "Nobody missed her, but, she did not come home with the rest. I've 'phoned to the police to look for for her and the boy, but it's a disgrace to the school to have to do such a thing. Besides, Robin's mother is half wild about him and declares she must walk into town to seek him." "You're foolish, the pair of you. Stop and reason. Robin is thoroughly familiar with the city and suburbs, from his messenger-boy experience. Dorothy is blessed with a fair share of common sense. If they wandered away somewhere, they'll soon wander back again when they realize what they have done. I'm sorry you stirred up the police and they should be warned to keep the matter quiet." "Oh! they have been," answered the weary Lady Principal. "It does seem, lately, that every good time we allow the girls ends in disaster." "Never mind. You go to bed. You've done all you can till morning." Miss Muriel did go away but only to spend the night in watching along with Lady Jane in the library, the latter deeply regretting that she had ever suggested this outing and, like the Lady Principal, both sorry and angry over its ending. Dorothy had ridden to the exhibition in the very last sleigh of all, as Robin had in the first, and when they all left the hotel after dinner he had lingered beside her while she waited for the other teams to drive on and her own to come up. This took a long time, there was so much ado in settling so many girls to the satisfaction of all; and looking backward he saw that there would still be a delay of several moments. "I say, Dorothy, come on. I want to show you where we used to live before my father died. We'll be back in plenty time. It's the dearest little house, with only two rooms in it; but after we left it nobody lived there and it's all gone to pieces. Makes me feel bad but I'd like to show you. Just down that block and around a side street. Come on. What's the use standing here?" "Sure we can be back in time, Robin?" "Certain. Cross my heart. I'm telling you the truth. It's only a step or so." "Well, then, let's hurry." Hurry they did, he whistling as usual, until they came to a narrow alley that had used to be open but had now been closed by a great pile of lumber, impossible for them to climb. "Oh! pshaw! Somebody must be going to build here. But never mind. Our house was right yonder, we can go another way." His interest as well as hers in exploring "new places," made them forget everything else; and when, at last, they came to Robin's old home a full half-hour had passed. It was, indeed, a sorry place. Broken windows, hanging doors and shutters, chimney fallen, and doorstep gone. Nobody occupied it now except, possibly, a passing tramp or the street gamin who had destroyed it. "My! I'm glad my Mother can't see it now. She never has since we moved down to our cottage in the glen. It would break her dear heart, for my father built it when they were first married. That was the kitchen, that the bedroom--Hark! What's that?" "Sounded like a cat." "Didn't to me. Cats are squealier'n that was. I wonder if anybody or thing is in there now. If I had time I'd go and see." "Robin, wouldn't you be afraid?" "Afraid? Afraid to go into my own house, that was, that my father built with his own hands? Huh! What do you take me for? I'd as soon go in there as eat my din--Hello! There certainly--" They put their heads close to the paneless window and listened intently. That was a human groan. That was a curious patter of small hoofs--Dorothy had heard just such a sound before. That surely was a most familiar wail: "Oh, Baal! My jiminy cricket!" "Jiminy cricket yourself, Jack-boot-boy! What you doing in my house? I'm living in yours--I mean I'm boot-boy now. How are you?" cried Robin, through the window. "Who'm you? Have you got anything to eat? Quick! Have you?" The voice which put the question was surely Jack's but oddly weak and tremulous. Dorothy answered: "Not here, Jack, course. Are you hungry?" "Starvin'! Starvin'! I ain't touched food nor drink this two days. Oh! Have you?" Daylight was already fading and street lights flashing out but this by-way of the town had no such break to the darkness. Robin was over the rickety threshold in an instant and Dorothy quickly followed. Neither had now any thought save for the boy within and his suffering. They found him lying on a pile of old rags or pieces of discarded burlap which he had picked up on the streets, or that some former lodger in the room had gathered. Beside him was Baal, bleating piteously, as if he, too, were starving. The reason for this was evident when Robin stumbled over a rope by which the animal was fastened to the window sash; else he might have strolled abroad and foraged for himself. But if Robin fell he was up in a second and with the instincts of a city bred boy knew just what to do and how to do it. "Got any money, Dorothy?" "Yes. Twenty-five cents, my week's allowance." "I've got ten. Mother said I might keep that much out of my week's wages. Give it here. I'll be back in a minute." He was gone and Dorothy dropped down on the dusty floor beside Jack and asked his story. He told it readily enough, as far as willingness went, but his speech lagged for once and from sheer lack of strength. "I left--seeking my fortune. It warn't so easy as I thought it would be. I've hired for odd jobs, held horses, run arrants, helped 'round taverns, but didn't get no place for steady. Trouble was, folks don't take no great to Baal. They'd put with him a spell, treat him real decent till he'd up and butt somebody over--then his dough was cooked. The worse he was used the better I liked him, though I'd ha' sold him for money if I could, I've been hungry so much the time. And that right here, Dorothy, _in a town full o' victuals_! Just chock full. See 'em in the winders, see 'em in the markets, on wagons--and every created place, but not a speck for me. But I got along, I'd ha' made out, if I hadn't et somethin' made me dretful sick. It was somethin' in a can I picked up out a garbage pail, some sort o' fish I guess, and I've been terr'ble ever since. What'd he go for? Why don't he come back?" "I don't know. I reckon he went for food. How did you keep warm in here, if this is where you lived?" "Didn't keep warm. How could I? I ain't been warm, not real clean through, since the last night I slep' in my nice bed at Oak Knowe." "Why didn't you come back? Or go to the railway stations? They are always heated, I reckon." "Did. Turned me out. Lemme stay a spell but then turned me out. Said I better go to the poorhouse but--won't that boy never come!" "He's coming now, Jack," she answered and was almost as glad as he of the fact. Robin came whistling in, good cheer in the very sound. "Here you are neighbor! Candle and matches--two cents. Pint of milk--three. Drink it down while I light up!" Jack grabbed the milk bottle with both hands and drained it; then fell back again with a groan. "'T hurts my stummick! Hurts my stummick awful!" "Never mind. I'll turn Baal loose and let him find something outside. A likely supper of tin cans and old shoes'll set him up to a T. Scoot, Baal!" The goat was glad enough to go, apparently, yet in a moment came bleating back to his master. Dorothy thought that was pathetic but Robin declared it disgusting. "Clear out, you old heathen, and hunt your supper--" "Oh! don't be cruel to the loving creature, Robin! Suppose he should get lost?" begged Dorothy. "Lost? You can't lose Baal, don't you fret. Look-a-here, boy! here's a sandwich! Come from the best place in town. I know it. Give the biggest slice for the least money. Can't tell me anything about that, for I've been nigh starved myself too often in this same old town. What? You don't want it? Can't eat it? Then what do you want?" Provoked that his efforts to please Jack failed so fully, Robin whistled again, but not at all merrily this time; for he had at last begun to think of his own predicament and Dorothy's. Here they were stranded in town, Oak Knowe so far away, night fast falling and, doubtless, a stern reprimand due--should they ever reach that happy haven again. "Robin, I do believe he is sick. Real, terrible sick. It wasn't just starving ailed him. Do you s'pose we could get a doctor to him?" "To this shanty? No, I don't. But if he's sick, there's hospitals. Slathers of 'em. Hurray! There's the one that Dr. Winston is head of. There's an emergency ward there and free ones--and it's the very checker!" Jack had ceased moaning and lay very still. So still that they were both frightened and Dolly asked: "How can we get him there, if they would take him in? He's terrible heavy to carry." Even dimly seen by the light of the flickering candle struck on the floor, Dorothy thought the pose of superiority Robin now affected the funniest thing, and was not offended when he answered with lofty scorn: "Carry him? I should say not. We couldn't and we won't. I'll just step to the corner and ring up an ambulance. I know the name. You stay here. I'll meet it when it comes and don't get scared when the gong clangs to get out of the way." Dorothy's own life in a southern city returned to her now and she remembered some of its advantages which Robin had spoken of. So she was not at all frightened when she heard the ambulance come into the street beyond the alley, which was too narrow for it to enter, nor when two men in hospital uniforms appeared at the door of the room. They had lanterns and a stretcher and at once placed poor Jack upon it and hurried away. They needed not to ask questions for Robin had followed them and was glibly explaining all he knew of the "case" and the rest which he had guessed. "Ate spoiled fish out of a garbage can, did he? So you think it's ptomaine poisoning, do you Doctor Jack-o'-my-thumb? Well, I shouldn't be surprised if your diagnosis is correct. Steady now, mate, this is a--Hello! What's that?" "That" proved to be Baal, returned to inquire what was being done to his master by prodding the orderly's legs with his horns, so that the stretcher nearly fell out of his hand. Baal got his answer by way of a vicious kick which landed him out of reach and permitted the men to carry their burden quickly away. Left behind, the pair of young Samaritans stared for an instant at one another, dismayed at their own delay. It was Dorothy who came to a decision: "We've done as bad as we could and as good. Seems awful queer how it all happened. Now we must go home. Can we get a carriage anywhere and would it take us back without any money to pay it? Would Miss Tross-Kingdon pay it, do you think? The Bishop would but he's gone traveling." Leaving their candle still flickering on the floor they anxiously left the shanty; and it may be stated here, for the guidance of other careless ones that there was an item in the next morning's paper stating that a certain "old rookery had been burned down during the night; origin of fire unknown; a benefit to the city for it had long been infested by hoboes and tramps." To which of these classes poor Jack belonged it did not state; but either one was a far call to the "great artist" he had said he would become. There were cabs in plenty to be seen and, probably, to be hired; but they did not summon one. A vision of Miss Tross-Kingdon's face at its sternest rose before Dorothy and she dared not venture on the lady's generosity. Another thought came, a far happier one: "I'll tell you! Let's follow Jack. Maybe Dr. Winston would be there or somebody would know about us--if we told--and would telephone to Oak Knowe what trouble we're in. For it is trouble now, Robin Locke, and you needn't say it isn't. You're scared almost to death and so am I. I wish--I wish I'd never heard of a Wax Works, so there!" Robin stopped and turned her face up to the light of a street lamp they were passing and saw tears in her eyes. That was the oddest thing for her to cry--right here in this familiar city where were railway stations plenty in which they might wait till morning and somebody came. But, softened as her tears made him, he couldn't yet quite forget that he was the man of the party. "It's an awful long ways to that Hospital, and I've got five cents left. We can go in anywhere and I can 'phone for myself. No need to bother any doctors or nurses." Opposition to her wishes dried her tears. "Well, I am going to Dr. Winston's hospital. I'd like you to go with me and show me the way but if you won't the policemen I meet will do it. I'm going right now." That conquered this small Canadian gentleman, and he answered: "All right. I'll show you. Only don't you dare to be crying when you get there." She wasn't. It proved a long walk but help loomed at the end of it and the youngsters scarcely felt fatigue in the prospect of this. Also, the help proved to be just what they most desired. For there was Dr. Winston himself, making his night visit to a very ill patient and almost ready to depart in his car which stood waiting at the door. Dorothy remembered how little gentlewomen should conduct themselves when paying visits; so after inquiring of the white-clad orderly who admitted her if Dr. Winston was there, and being told that he was, she took her empty purse from her pocket and sent up her card. She would have written Robin's name below hers if she had had a pencil or--had thought about it. The tiny card was placed upon a little silver salver and borne away with all the dignity possible; but there was more amazement than dignity in the good doctor's reception of it. Another moment he was below, buttoning his top-coat as he came and demanding with a smile that was rather anxious: "To what am I indebted for the pleasure of this visit, Miss Dorothy Calvert?" But the tears were still too near the girl's eyes for her to meet jest with jest. She could only hold out her arms, like the lonely, frightened child she was and he promptly clasped her in his own. Then "tinkle, tinkle, tinkle," ran a little bell in the Oak Knowe library and over the telephone wire rang the doctor's hearty voice. "Be at rest, Miss Muriel. Your runaways are found and I'll motor them home in a jiffy!" This was so joyful a message that Lady Jane and the Lady Principal promptly fell upon one another's neck and wept a few womanly tears. Then Miss Tross-Kingdon released herself, exclaiming: "Oh! those dreadful police. Why did I violate the privacy of Oak Knowe by setting them to search? I must recall the order right away--if I can!" Self-blame doesn't tend toward anybody's good nature and the head of Oak Knowe School for Young Ladies had been sorely tried. Also, her offense had come from the very girl she trusted most and was, therefore, the more difficult to forgive. So clothing herself in all her dignity, she was simply the Lady Principal and nothing more, when for a second time the quiet of her domain was broken by the honk-honk of an automobile, the door opened and Dorothy and Robin walked in. The doctor had laughingly declared that he couldn't enter with them--he was afraid! But though it was really only lack of time that prevented him so doing, their own spirits were now so low that they caught the infection of his remark--if not his spirit--and visibly trembled. This was a sign of guilt and caught Miss Muriel's eye at once. "What is the explanation of this, Dorothy? Robin?" Dorothy had been pondering that explanation on the swift ride home. Dr. Winston had called them the Good Samaritans and seemed pleased with them. Maybe Miss Muriel would think so, too. "We stayed to see--we had to be what he said. Good little Samaritans--" "Humph! If that is some new game you have invented, please never to play it again. Your duty--" "Why, Lady Principal, you wouldn't have us 'pass by on the other side,' would you? To-morrow's lesson--" But there was no softening in Miss Muriel's eye, and indignant Robin flashed out: "Well--well--you needn't blame _her_. You needn't blame a _girl_--when it was all my fault! I coaxed her or she wouldn't ha' done it!" This was such a manly, loyal reversion of the old story of Adam and Eve that Lady Jane laughed and would have clapped her hands in pride of her small compatriot. But she refrained and chose the wiser course of slipping away unseen. "Robin! you forget yourself! I have given you a home here but I have not given you license to be insolent or disobedient. You have been both. Your mother is somewhere on the road to town, looking for you." But it happened she was not. Dr. Winston had espied a lone woman dragging herself citywards and had stopped to give her a lift. Then, learning who she was and her errand, had promptly turned about and conveyed her also home; so she was back in their own rooms almost as soon as her boy was and able to soothe his wrath as only mothers can. But upon poor Dorothy fell the full force of her teacher's indignation. "Dorothy, I would not have believed it possible for you so willfully to disappoint me. Go to your dormitory and to bed at once. You cannot go off bounds again till Easter holidays. Good night." Dorothy obeyed in silence. She could think of many things to say but she could not say them. Even to anxious Dawkins who would have welcomed her warmly and ministered loving comfort she could only say: "Good night. It's such a mixed up world. It was good to help Jack, the doctor said; and it was wrong, Miss Tross-Kingdon said; and--and--I'm so tired! Oh! if I could only see Aunt Betty!" With that last homesick cry, she laid her head on her pillow, and being a perfectly healthy girl--fell fast asleep. CHAPTER XVII COMMENCEMENT; AND CONCLUSION Dorothy in disgrace! That seemed an incredible thing to her schoolmates, who had hitherto believed "Dixie" to be the one great favorite of all. However, she could never speak of the matter to anybody, except the Bishop when he came home from his southern journey and the news he had to bring her was so far more important and saddening that a short confinement "on bounds" seemed actually trivial. For Uncle Seth was dead. The dear guardian and wise counselor would greet her no more. At first her grief seemed unbearable; but the good Bishop took her into his own home for a little time and she came back to Oak Knowe somewhat comforted for her loss. Besides she had had a little talk with Miss Tross-Kingdon, and there was again sweet peace and confidence between them. Miss Muriel now helped the girl in her work, inciting her ambition and keeping her so well employed that she had little time to sit and grieve. Indeed, the spirit of ambition was in everyone's heart. Easter holidays were past, spring exams proved fairly satisfactory with much yet to be accomplished before Commencement came. So the weeks fairly flew, the outdoor recreations changing with the seasons, and Dorothy learning the games of cricket and golf, which were new to her and which she described in her letters home as "adorably fascinating and English." Tennis and basket-ball were not so new. She had played these at the Rhinelander Academy, the first private school she had ever attended; but for even these familiar sports she spared little time. "It does seem as if the minutes weren't half as long as they were in the winter, Winifred! There's so much, so much I want to finish and the time so short. Why, it's the middle of June already, and Commencement on the twenty-first. Only six days for us to be together, dear!" cried Dorothy in the music room with her violin on her lap, and her friend whirling about on the piano stool. They were "programmed" for a duet, the most difficult they had ever undertaken, and were resting for the moment from their practicing while Dorothy's thoughts ran back over the year that was past. "Such a lot of things have happened. So many bad ones that have turned out good. Maybe, the best of all was Jack-boot-boy's running away and our finding him. It gave Robin and me a rather unhappy time, but it's turned out fine for him, because as he says: 'It's knocked the nonsense out of me.'" "The Dame will let no more creep in. Old John told me how it was. Soon as Dr. Winston told him where Jack was, at that hospital, he said to his wife: 'I'm going to see him.' Then that 'rare silent woman' spoke her mind. 'Husband, that'll do. I'll ride yon, on the cart, to fetch him home here to our cottage. The doctor says he's well enough to leave that place. I'll get him bound out to me till he's twenty-one. Then I'll let him go to 'seek' that 'fortune' he yearns for, with a new suit of clothes on his back and a hundred dollars in his pocket. That's the law and I've took him in hand." "So he's settled and done for, for a long time to come. It's just fine for him, they'll treat him like a son--Baal can live his days out in a pen--and Jack will grow up better fitted for his own station in life, as you Canadians say. Down in the States we believe that folks make their own 'stations'; don't find them hanging around their necks when they are born. Why I know a boy who was--" "There, Dolly Doodles! Don't get started on that subject. I know him by heart. One remarkable creature named James Barlow, who couldn't spell till you taught him and now has aspirations toward a college professorship. By the letters he writes, I should judge him to be a horrible prig. I wish I could see him once. I'd make him bow his lofty head; you'd find out!" Dorothy pulled a letter from her pocket and tossed it into her friend's hands. "You'll soon have a chance. Read that." "Oh! may I?" But the reading was brief and an expression of great disappointment came to Winifred's face. "Oh, Dorothy! How horrid!" "Yes, dear. I felt so, too, at first. Now all I feel is a wish to be through so I can hurry home to dear Aunt Betty who must need me dreadfully, or she'd never disappoint us like this." "It was such a beautiful plan. We should have had such a lovely time. Ah! here comes Gwen. Girl, what do you think? Mrs. Calvert isn't well enough to come to Canada, after all, and Dorothy has got to go home. When it's all fixed, too. Father's freed himself from business for three delightful months, and we three, with her were to go jaunting about all over the country in his private car, and Dorothy to learn that Canada beats the States all to pieces." Gwendolyn shared the disappointment. That trio had been dubbed by their mates as the "Inseparables" and the love between them all was now deep and sincere. "Read it aloud, Gwen. Maybe there's a chance yet, that I overlooked. I was so mad I couldn't half see that upstart's writing--not after the first few words. He doesn't mince matters, does he?" The letter ran thus: "DEAR DOROTHY: "Mrs. Calvert will not be able to come to Canada to meet you. She is not ill in bed but she needs you here. Dinah is taking care of her now, and Ephraim and I have decided that it is best for us two to come to Oak Knowe to fetch you home. Of course, you could come alone, as you went, but I'm at leisure now, and have laid aside enough from my year's earnings to pay the expenses of us all; and Ephraim wants to go for you. He says 'it ain' fitten fo' no young lady lak my li'l Miss to go trabbelin' erbout de country widout her own serbant-boy to take care ob her. Mah Miss Betty was clean bewitchted, erlowin' hit in de fust place, but she's laid up an' ole Eph, he ain' gwine hab no mo' such foolishness.' "Those are his own words and lately--Well, I don't like to go against that old man's wishes. So he and I will be on hand by the twenty-first of June and I expect can get put up somewhere, though I'm ignorant as to what they do with negroes in Canada. "Faithfully, "JIM." "Negroes! Negroes? Why, is that Ephraim a negro?" "Yes, indeed. As black as ink, almost, with the finest white head--of wool! Not quite so thick and curly as your 'barristers' wear, but handsome, I think. It represents so many, many years of faithful service. That dear old man has taken care of Aunt Betty ever since she was a child, and does so still. Nobody knows his real age, but it's one proof of his devotion to her that he'll take this long journey just because he remembers what's 'fitten,' even if she has grown careless about it. You see, it's Uncle Seth's death that must have changed her so," said Dorothy, musingly, with her eyes on the floor. The other two exchanged pitying glances, and it rose to Winifred's lips to say: "But she let you come alone in the fall and he wasn't dead then;" but she refrained. She knew, for Dolly had told her, that all that winter Dorothy's home letters had not seemed quite the same as they had used, during other separations from her aunt; and that many of them had been written for Mrs. Calvert by various friends of the old lady's, "just to oblige." Never before had the sprightly Mrs. Betty shrunk from writing her own letters; and, indeed, had done so often enough during the early winter to prevent Dorothy's suspicion of anything amiss. "Auntie dear, is so old, you know girls, that of course she does need me. Besides she's been all over the world and seen everything, so there's really 'nothing new under the sun' for her. That's why this junketing around we'd planned so finely, doesn't appeal to her as it does to us," said Dorothy, at last, lifting her violin to her shoulder and rising to her feet. "Shall we try it again, Win? And, Gwen, dear, have you finished your picture yet for the exhibition?" "Just finished, Dolly. And I forgot my errand here. Miss Muriel sent me to tell you girls that the dressmaker was in the sewing-room, giving last fittings to our frocks. She wants us to go there right after practice hour, for we must not lose our turn. I wanted to wear that beautiful one Mamma sent me from Paris but 'No' was the word. 'There will be no change in our custom. Each girl will wear a plain white lawn Commencement frock, untrimmed, and with no decoration except a sash of each Form's colors.' So there we are, same old six-pences, and dowds I think, every one of us." But when those few days intervening had passed and great Oak Knowe was alight with its hundreds of daintily robed girls, there was not a single "dowd" among them; nor one, whether unknown "charity" scholar or otherwise who felt envy of any difference between themselves or others. "What a glorious day! What crowds are here and coming. Assembly and all the rooms near it will be packed closer than ever! Oh! I'm so happy I can't keep still! No more lessons, no more early-to-bed-and-rise business for three delightful months! There's father! There he is--right in the front row of guests' seats. Right amongst the 'Peers,' where he belongs by right!" cried Winifred, turning Dorothy's head around that she might see the object of her own great excitement. "See, see! He's looking our way. He's discovered us! And he's awfully disappointed about you. He never forgave Miss Tross-Kingdon that she wouldn't let you take that Ice Palace trip with us, just because you'd broken a few rules. But never you mind, darling. Though this is the end of Oak Knowe for us together, it isn't the end of the world--nor time. Father shall bring me to you, he shall, indeed! Just think how it would help my education to visit the States! But, hark! The bugle is blowing--fall into line!" From their peep-hole in the hall Dorothy, also, could see the guests taking seats; and clutching Winifred's sleeve, whispered: "Look! Look! Away there at the back of Assembly, close to the door--that's Jim! That's Ephy! Oh! isn't it good to see them? For no matter now, I'm not without my own home folks any more than the rest of you. After banquet I'll introduce you if I get a chance." Then they fell into the line of white clad girls, and to the strains of a march played by the Seventh Form graduates, three hundred bright faced maidens--large and small--filed to their places in Assembly for their last appearance all together. It was a Commencement like multitudes of others; with the usual eager interest in guessing who'd be prize winners. The most highly valued prize of each year at Oak Knowe was the gold medal for improvement in conduct. Who would get it? Looking back the "Inseparables" could think of nobody who'd shown marked advance along that line; Winifred remarking, complacently: "I think we're all about as good as can be, anyway. 'Cause we're not allowed to be anything else." "I know who's improved most, though. I hope--Oh! I hope she'll get it!" And when the announcement was made she did! Said the Bishop, who conferred the diplomas and prizes: "The Improvement Gold Medal, the highest honor our faculty can bestow, is this year awarded to--" Here the speaker paused just long enough to whet the curiosity of those eager girls--"To the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard. Will she kindly advance and receive it?" Never was "honor girl" more deeply moved, surprised, and grateful than this once so haughty "Peer," now humble at heart as the meekest "Charity" present, and never such deafening cheers and hand-claps greeted the recipient of that coveted prize. Other lesser prizes followed: to Winifred's surprise, she had gained "Distinction" in physical culture; Florita in mathematics; and a new "Distinction" was announced for that year--"To Miss Dorothy Calvert for uniform courtesy," and one that she valued less: a gold star for advancement in music. "Two prizes, Dolly Doodles! You ought to should give poor Gracie one, you should. 'Tis not nice for one girl to have two, but my Auntie Prin, she couldn't help it. She told the Bishop you'd always been a beautiful behaver, an' she must. Now, it's all over, and I'm glad. I'm so tired and hungry. Come to banquet." After all it was the same as most Commencements the world over, with its joys and its anticipations. What of the latter's realization? In Dorothy's case at least the telling thereof is not for this time or place; but all is duly related in a new story and a new volume which tells of "Dorothy's Triumph." But there was that year one innovation at the banquet, that farewell feast of all the school together. For the company was but just seated when there stalked majestically into the great hall an old negro in livery. Pulling his forelock respectfully toward the Bishop, bowing and scraping his foot as his Miss Betty had long ago taught him, he marched straight to his Miss Dorothy's chair and took his stand behind it. He took no notice when turning her head she flashed a rather frightened smile in his direction, nor did either of them speak. But she glanced over to the head of the table and received an approving nod from her beloved Bishop; whose own heart felt a thrill of happy memory as he beheld this scene. So, away back in boyhood's days, in the dining-room at beautiful Bellevieu, had this same white-headed "boy" served those he had loved and lost. To him it was pathetic; to other observers, a novelty and curiosity; but to Dorothy and Ephraim themselves, after that first minute, a mere matter of course. Looking over that great table, the girl's face grew thoughtful. She had come among all these a stranger; she was leaving them a friend with everyone. The days that were coming might be happy, might be sorry; yet she was not alone. Old Ephraim stood behind her, faithful to the end; and out in the hall waited James Barlow, also faithful and full of the courage of young life and great ambition. No, she was not alone, whatever came or had come; and, after all, it was sweet to be going back to the familiar places and the familiar friends. So, the banquet at its end, by a nod from the Bishop, she drew her violin from under the table and rising in her place played sweetly and joyfully that forever well loved melody of "Home, Sweet Home." One by one, or in groups, the company melted away. Each to her new life of joy or sorrow or as general, both intermingled. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
34024	----	Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net [Illustration: SHE WAS UNCONSCIOUS WHEN THEY LIFTED HER OUT. Ruth Fielding at Lighthouse Point. Page 78] RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT OR NITA, THE GIRL CASTAWAY BY ALICE B. EMERSON Author of Ruth Fielding of The Red Mill, Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall etc. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS Books for Girls By ALICE B. EMERSON RUTH FIELDING SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL Or, Jasper Parloe's Secret. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL Or, Solving the Campus Mystery. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP Or, Lost in the Backwoods. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT Or, Nita, the Girl Castaway. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH Or, Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys. Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1913, by Cupples & Leon Company Ruth Fielding at Lighthouse Point Printed in U.S.A. CONTENTS Chapter Page I AN INITIATION 1 II THE FOX AT WORK 9 III ON LAKE OSAGO 16 IV TROUBLE AT THE RED MILL 24 V THE TINTACKER MINE 32 VI UNCLE JABEZ AT HIS WORST 42 VII THE SIGNAL GUN 49 VIII THE LIFEBOAT IS LAUNCHED 57 IX THE GIRL IN THE RIGGING 64 X THE DOUBLE CHARGE 72 XI THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAY 80 XII BUSY IZZY IN A NEW ASPECT 90 XIII CRAB PROVES TO BE OF THE HARDSHELL VARIETY 97 XIV THE TRAGIC INCIDENT IN A FISHING EXCURSION 103 XV TOM CAMERON TO THE RESCUE 114 XVI RUTH'S SECRET 120 XVII WHAT WAS IN THE NEWSPAPER 128 XVIII ANOTHER NIGHT ADVENTURE 137 XIX THE GOBLINS' GAMBOL 145 XX "WHAR'S MY JANE ANN?" 153 XXI CRAB MAKES HIS DEMAND 162 XXII THIMBLE ISLAND 171 XXIII MAROONED 179 XXIV PLUCKY MOTHER PURLING 187 XXV WHAT JANE ANN WANTED 196 RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT CHAPTER I AN INITIATION A brown dusk filled the long room, for although the windows were shrouded thickly and no lamp burned, some small ray of light percolated from without and made dimly visible the outlines of the company there gathered. The low, quavering notes of an organ sighed through the place. There was the rustle and movement of a crowd. To the neophyte, who had been brought into the hall with eyes bandaged, it all seemed very mysterious and awe-inspiring. Now she was set in a raised place and felt that before her was the company of masked and shrouded figures, in scarlet dominoes like those worn by the two guards who had brought her from the anteroom. The bandage was whisked from her eyes; but she could see nothing of her surroundings, nor of the company before which she stood. "Candidate!" spoke a hollow, mysterious voice somewhere in the gloom, yet sounding so close to her ear that she started. "Candidate! you stand before the membership body of the S. B.'s. You are as yet unknown to them and they unknown to you. If you enter the secret association of the S. B.'s you must throw off and despise forever all ties of a like character. Do you agree?" The candidate obeyed, in so far as she prodded her sharply in the ribs and a shrill voice whispered: "Say you do--gump!" The candidate obeyed, in so far as she proclaimed that she did, at least. "It is an oath," went on the sepulchral voice. "Remember!" In chorus the assembly immediately repeated, "Remember!" in solemn tones. "Candidate!" repeated the leading voice, "you have been taught the leading object of our existence as a society. What is it?" Without hesitation now, the candidate replied: "Helpfulness." "It is right. And now, what do our initials stand for?" "Sweetbriar," replied the shaking voice of the candidate. "True. That is what our initials stand for to the world at large--to those who are not initiated into the mysteries of the S. B.'s. But those letters may stand for many things and it is my privilege to explain to you now that they likewise are to remind us all of two virtues that each Sweetbriar is expected to practice--to be sincere and to befriend. Remember! Sincerity--Befriend. Remember!" Again the chorus of mysterious voices chanted: "Remember!" "And now let the light shine upon the face of the candidate, that the Shrouded Sisterhood may know her where'er they meet her. Once! Twice! Thrice! Light!" At the cry the ray of a spot-light flashed out of the gloom at the far end of the long room and played glaringly upon the face and figure of the candidate. She herself was more blinded by the glare than she had been by the bandage. There was a rustle and movement in the room, and the leading voice went on: "Sisters! the novice is now revealed to us all. She has now entered into the outer circle of the Sweetbriars. Let her know us, where'er she meets us, by our rallying cry. Once! Twice! Thrice! _Now!_" Instantly, and in unison, the members chanted the following "yell": "S. B.--Ah-h-h! S. B.--Ah-h-h! Sound our battle-cry Near and far! S. B.--All! Briarwood Hall! Sweetbriars, do or die-- This be our battle-cry-- Briarwood Hall! _That's All!_" With the final word the spot-light winked out and the other lights of the hall flashed on. The assembly of hooded and shrouded figures were revealed. And Helen Cameron, half smiling and half crying, found herself standing upon the platform before her schoolmates who had already joined the secret fraternity known as "The Sweetbriars." Beside her, and presiding over the meeting, she found her oldest and dearest friend at Briarwood Hall--Ruth Fielding. A small megaphone stood upon the table at Ruth's hand, and its use had precluded Helen's recognition of her chum's voice as the latter led in the ritual of the fraternity. Like their leader, the other Sweetbriars had thrown back their scarlet hoods, and Helen recognized almost all of the particular friends with whom she had become associated since she had come--with Ruth Fielding--the autumn before to Briarwood Hall. The turning on of the lights was the signal for general conversation and great merriment. It was the evening of the last day but one of the school year, and discipline at Briarwood Hall was relaxed to a degree. However, the fraternity of the Sweetbriars had grown in favor with Mrs. Grace Tellingham, the preceptress of the school, and with the teachers, since its inception. Now the fifty or more girls belonging to the society (fully a quarter of the school membership) paired off to march down to the dining hall, where a special collation was spread. Helen Cameron went down arm-in-arm with the president of the S. B.'s. "Oh, Ruthie!" the new member exclaimed, "I think it's ever so nice--much better than the initiation of the old Upedes. I can talk about them now," and she laughed, "because they are--as Tommy says--'busted all to flinders.' Haven't held a meeting for more than a month, and the last time--whisper! this is a secret, and I guess the last remaining secret of the Upedes--there were only The Fox and I there!" "I'm glad you're one of us at last, Helen," said Ruth Fielding, squeezing her chum as they went down the stairs. "And I ought to have been an original member along with you, Ruth," said Helen, thoughtfully. "The Up and Doing Club hadn't half the attractiveness that your society has----" "Don't call it _my_ society. We don't want any one-girl club. That was the trouble with the Up and Doings--just as 'too much faculty' is the objection to the Forward Club." "Oh, I detest the Fussy Curls just as much as ever," declared Helen, quickly, "although Madge Steele _is_ president." "Well, we 'Infants,' as they called us last fall when we entered Briarwood, are in control of the S. B.'s, and we can help each other," said Ruth, with satisfaction. "But you talk about the Upedes being a one-girl club. I know The Fox was all-in-all in that. But you're pretty near the whole thing in the S. B.'s, Ruthie," and Helen laughed, slily. "Why, they say you wrote all the ritual and planned everything." "Never mind," said Ruth, calmly; "we can't have a dictator in the S. B.'s without changing the constitution. The same girl can't be president for more than one year." "But you deserve to boss it all," said her chum, warmly. "And I for one wouldn't mind if you did." Helen was a very impulsive, enthusiastic girl. When she and Ruth Fielding had come to Briarwood Hall she had immediately taken up with a lively and thoughtless set of girls who had banded themselves into the Up and Doing Club, and whose leader was Mary Cox, called "The Fox," because of her shrewdness. Ruth had not cared for this particular society and, in time, she and most of the other new pupils formed the Sweetbriar Club. Helen Cameron, loyal to her first friends at the school, had not fallen away from Mary Cox and joined the Sweetbriars until this very evening, which was, as we have seen, the evening before the final day of the school year. Ruth Fielding took the head of the table when the girls sat down to supper and the other officers of the club sat beside her. Helen was therefore separated from her, and when the party broke up late in the evening (the curfew bell at nine o'clock was abolished for this one night) the chums started for their room in the West Dormitory at different times. Ruth went with Mercy Curtis, who was lame; outside the dining hall Helen chanced to meet Mary Cox, who had been calling on some party in the East Dormitory building. "Hello, Cameron!" exclaimed The Fox. "So you've finally been roped in by the 'Soft Babies' have you? I thought that chum of yours--Fielding--would manage to get you hobbled and tied before vacation." "You can't say I wasn't loyal to the Upedes as long as there was any society to be loyal to," said Helen, quickly, and with a flush. "Oh, well; you'll be going down to Heavy's seashore cottage with them now, I suppose?" said The Fox, still watching Helen curiously. "Why, of course! I intended to before," returned the younger girl. "We all agreed about that last winter when we were at Snow Camp." "Oh, you did, eh?" laughed the other. "Well, if you hadn't joined the Soft Babies you wouldn't have been 'axed,' when it came time to go. This is going to be an S. B. frolic. Your nice little Ruth Fielding says she won't go if Heavy invites any but her precious Sweetbriars to be of the party." "I don't believe it, Mary Cox!" cried Helen. "I mean, that _you_ must be misinformed. Somebody has maligned Ruth." "Humph! Maybe, but it doesn't look like it. Who is going to Lighthouse Point?" demanded The Fox, carelessly. "Madge Steele, for although she is president of the Fussy Curls, she is likewise honorary member of the S. B.'s." "That is so," admitted Helen. "Heavy, herself," pursued Mary Cox, "Belle and Lluella, who have all backslid from the Upedes, and yourself." "But you've been invited," said Helen, quickly. "Not much. I tell you, if you and Belle and Lluella had not joined her S. B.'s you wouldn't have been numbered among Heavy's house party. Don't fool yourself on that score," and with another unpleasant laugh, the older girl walked on and left Helen in a much perturbed state of mind. CHAPTER II THE FOX AT WORK Ruth Fielding, after the death of her parents, when she was quite a young girl, had come from Darrowtown to live with her mother's uncle at the Red Mill, on the Lumano River near Cheslow, as was related in the first volume of this series, entitled, "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill; Or, Jasper Parloe's Secret." Ruth had found Uncle Jabez very hard to get along with at first, for he was a miser, and his kinder nature seemed to have been crusted over by years of hoarding and selfishness. But through a happy turn of circumstances Ruth was enabled to get at the heart of her crotchety uncle, and when Ruth's very dear friend, Helen Cameron, planned to go to boarding school, Uncle Jabez was won over to sending Ruth with her. The fun and work of that first half at school are related in the second volume of the series, entitled "Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall; Or, Solving the Campus Mystery." In the third volume of the series, "Ruth Fielding at Snow Camp; Or, Lost in the Backwoods," Ruth and some of her school friends spend a part of the mid-winter vacation at Mr. Cameron's hunting lodge in the Big Woods, where they enjoy many winter sports and have adventures galore. Ruth and Helen occupied a "duo" room on the second floor of the West Dormitory; but when Mercy Curtis, the lame girl, had come to Briarwood in the middle of the first term, the chums had taken her in with them, the occupants of that particular study being known thereafter among the girls of Briarwood as the Triumvirate. Helen, when deserted by The Fox, who, from that first day at Briarwood Hall, had shown herself to be jealous of Ruth Fielding, for some reason, went slowly up to her room and found Ruth and Mercy there before her. There was likewise a stout, doll-faced, jolly girl with them, known to the other girls as "Heavy," but rightly owning the name of Jennie Stone. "Here she is now!" cried this latter, on Helen's appearance. "'The candidate will now advance and say her a-b-abs!' You looked scared to death when they shot you with the lime-light. I was chewing a caramel when they initiated me, and I swallowed it whole, and pretty near choked, when the spot-light was turned on." Mercy, who was a very sharp girl indeed, was looking at Helen slily. She saw that something had occasioned their friend annoyance. "What's happened to you since we came from the supper, Helen?" she asked. "Indigestion!" gasped Heavy. "I've some pepsin tablets in my room. Want one, Nell?" "No. I am all right," declared Helen. "Well, we were just waiting for you to come in," the stout girl said. "Maybe we'll all be so busy to-morrow that we won't have time to talk about it. So we must plan for the Lighthouse Point campaign now." "Oh!" said Helen, slowly. "So you can make up your party now?" "Of course! Why, we really made it up last winter; didn't we?" laughed Heavy. "But we didn't know whether we could go or not then," Ruth Fielding said. "You didn't know whether _I_ could go, I suppose you mean?" suggested Helen. "Why--not particularly," responded Ruth, in some wonder at her chum's tone. "I supposed you and Tom would go. Your father so seldom refuses you anything." "Oh!" "I didn't know how Uncle Jabez would look at it," pursued Ruth. "But I wrote him a while ago and told him you and Mercy were going to accept Jennie's invite, and he said I could go to Lighthouse Point, too." "Oh!" said Helen again. "You didn't wait until I joined the S. B.'s, then, to decide whether you would accept Heavy's invitation, or not?" "Of course not!" "How ridiculous!" cried Heavy. "Well, it's to be a Sweetbriar frolic; isn't it, Heavy?" asked Helen, calmly. "No. Madge and Bob Steele are going. And your brother Tom," chuckled the stout girl. "And perhaps that Isadore Phelps. You wouldn't call Busy Izzy a Sweetbriar; would you?" "I don't mean the boys," returned Helen, with some coolness. Suddenly Mercy Curtis, her head on one side and her thin little face twisted into a most knowing grimace, interrupted. "I know what this means!" she exclaimed. "What do _you_ mean, Goody Two-Sticks?" demanded Ruth, kindly. "Our Helen has a grouch." "Nonsense!" muttered Helen, flushing again. "I thought something didn't fit her when she came in," said Heavy, calmly. "But I thought it was indigestion." "What _is_ the matter, Helen?" asked Ruth Fielding in wonder. "'Fee, fi, fo fum! I see the negro run!'--into the woodpile!" ejaculated the lame girl, in her biting way. "I know what is the matter with Queen Helen of Troy. She's been with The Fox." Ruth and Heavy stared at Mercy in surprise; but Helen turned her head aside. "That's the answer!" chuckled the shrewd little creature. "I saw them walk off together after supper. And The Fox has been trying to make trouble--same as usual." "Mary Cox! Why, that's impossible," said Heavy, good-naturedly. "She wouldn't say anything to make Helen feel bad." Mercy darted an accusing fore-finger at Helen, and still kept her eyes screwed up. "I dare you to tell! I dare you to tell!" she cried in a singsong voice. Helen had to laugh at last. "Well, Mary Cox said you had decided to have none but Sweetbriars at the cottage on the beach, Heavy." "Lot she knows about it," grunted the stout girl. "Why, Heavy asked her to go; didn't she?" cried Ruth. "Well, that was last Winter. I didn't press her," admitted the stout girl. "But she's your roommate, like Belle and Lluella," said Ruth, in some heat. "Of course you've got to ask her." "Don't you do it. She's a spoil-sport," declared Mercy Curtis, in her sharp way. "The Fox will keep us all in hot water." "Do be still, Mercy!" cried Ruth. "This is Heavy's own affair. And Mary Cox has been her roommate ever since she's been at Briarwood." "I don't know that Belle and Lluella can go with us," said the stout girl, slowly. "The fright they got up in the woods last Winter scared their mothers. I guess they think I'm too reckless. Sort of wild, you know," and the stout girl's smile broadened. "But you intended inviting Mary Cox?" demanded Ruth, steadily. "Yes. I said something about it to her. But she wouldn't give me a decided answer then." "Ask her again." "Don't you do it!" exclaimed Mercy, sharply. "I mean it, Jennie," Ruth said. "I can't please both of you," said the good-natured stout girl. "Please me. Mercy doesn't mean what she says. If Mary Cox thinks that I am opposed to your having her at Lighthouse Point, I shall be offended if you do not immediately insist upon her being one of the party." "And that'll suit The Fox right down to the ground," exclaimed Mercy. "That is what she was fishing for when she got at Helen to-night." "Did _I_ say she said anything about Lighthouse Point?" quickly responded Helen. "You didn't have to," rejoined Mercy, sharply. "We knew." "At least," Ruth said to Heavy, quietly, yet with decision, "you will ask your old friend to go?" "Why--if you don't mind." "There seems to have been some truth in Mary's supposition, then," Ruth said, sadly. "She thinks I intended to keep her out of a good time. I never thought of such a thing. If Mary Cox does not accept your invitation, Heavy, I shall be greatly disappointed. Indeed, I shall be tempted to decline to go to the shore with you. Now, remember that, Jennie Stone." "Oh, shucks! you're making too much fuss about it," said the stout girl, rising lazily, and speaking in her usual drawling manner. "Of course I'll have her--if she'll go. Father's bungalow is big enough, goodness knows. And we'll have lots of fun there." She went her leisurely way to the door. Had she been brisker of movement, when she turned the knob she would have found Mary Cox with her ear at the keyhole, drinking in all that had been said in the room of the triumvirate. But The Fox was as swift of foot as she was shrewd and sly of mind. She was out of sight and hearing when Jennie Stone came out into the corridor. CHAPTER III ON LAKE OSAGO The final day of the school year was always a gala occasion at Briarwood Hall. Although Ruth Fielding and her chum, Helen Cameron, had finished only their first year, they both had important places in the exercises of graduation. Ruth sang in the special chorus, while Helen played the violin in the school orchestra. Twenty-four girls were in the graduating class. Briarwood Hall prepared for Wellesley, or any of the other female colleges, and when Mrs. Grace Tellingham, the preceptress, graduated a girl with a certificate it meant that the young lady was well grounded in all the branches that Briarwood taught. The campus was crowded with friends of the graduating class, and of the Seniors in particular. It was a very gay scene, for the June day was perfect and the company were brightly dressed. The girls, however, including the graduating class, were dressed in white only. Mrs. Tellingham had established that custom some years before, and the different classes were distinguished only by the color of their ribbons. Helen Cameron's twin brother, Tom, and Madge Steele's brother, Bob, attended the Seven Oaks Military Academy, not many miles from Briarwood. Their graduation exercises and "Breaking Up," as the boys called it, were one day later than the same exercises at Briarwood. So the girls did not start for home until the morning of the latter day. Old Dolliver, the stage driver, brought his lumbering stage to the end of the Cedar Walk at nine o'clock, to which point Tony Foyle, the man-of-all-work, had wheeled the girls' baggage. Ruth, and Helen, and Mercy Curtis had bidden their room good-bye and then made the round of the teachers before this hour. They gathered here to await the stage with Jennie Stone, Madge and Mary Cox. The latter had agreed to be one of the party at Lighthouse Point and was going home with Heavy to remain during the ensuing week, before the seashore party should be made up. The seven girls comfortably filled the stage, with their hand luggage, while the trunks and suitcases in the boot and roped upon the roof made the Ark seem top-heavy. There was a crowd of belated pupils, and those who lived in the neighborhood, to see them off, and the coach finally rolled away to the famous tune of "Uncle Noah, He Built an Ark," wherein Madge Steele put her head out of the window and "lined out" a new verse to the assembled "well-wishers": "And they didn't know where they were at, One wide river to cross! Till the Sweetbriars showed 'em that! One wide river to cross! One wide river! One wide river of Jordan-- One wide river! One wide river to cross!" For although Madge Steele was now president of the Forward Club, a much older school fraternity than the Sweetbriars, she was, like Mrs. Tellingham, and Miss Picolet, the French teacher, and others of the faculty, an honorary member of the society started by Ruth Fielding. The Sweetbriars, less than one school year old, was fast becoming the most popular organization at Briarwood Hall. Mary Cox did not join in the singing, nor did she have a word to say to Ruth during the ride to the Seven Oaks station. Tom and Bob, with lively, inquisitive, harum-scarum Isadore Phelps--"Busy Izzy," as his mates called him--were at the station to meet the party from Briarwood Hall. Tom was a dark-skinned, handsome lad, while Bob was big, and flaxen-haired, and bashful. Madge, his sister, called him "Sonny" and made believe he was at the pinafore stage of growth instead of being almost six feet tall and big in proportion. "Here's the dear little fellow!" she cried, jumping lightly out to be hugged by the big fellow. "Let Sister see how he's grown since New Year's. Why, we'd hardly have known our Bobbins; would we, Ruthie? Let me fix your tie--it's under your ear, of course. Now, that's a neat little boy. You can shake hands with Ruthie, and Helen, and Mary, and Jennie, and Mercy Curtis--and help Uncle Noah get off the trunks." The three boys, being all of the freshman class at Seven Oaks, had less interest in the final exercises of the term at the Academy than the girls had had at Briarwood; therefore the whole party took a train that brought them to the landing at Portageton, on Osago Lake, before noon. From that point the steamer _Lanawaxa_ would transport them the length of the lake to another railroad over which the young folks must travel to reach Cheslow. At this time of year the great lake was a beautiful sight. Several lines of steamers plied upon it; the summer resorts on the many islands which dotted it, and upon the shores of the mainland, were gay with flags and banners; the sail up the lake promised to be a most delightful one. And it would have been so--delightful for the whole party--had it not been for a single member. The Fox could not get over her unfriendly feeling, although Ruth Fielding gave her no cause at all. Ruth tried to talk to Mary, at first; but finding the older girl determined to be unpleasant, she let her alone. On the boat the three boys gathered camp-chairs for the party up forward, and their pocket money went for candy and other goodies with which to treat their sisters and the latter's friends. There were not many people aboard the _Lanawaxa_ on this trip and the young folks going home from school had the forward upper deck to themselves. There was a stiff breeze blowing that drove the other passengers into the inclosed cabins. But the girls and their escorts were in high spirits. As Madge Steele declared, "they had slipped the scholastic collar for ten long weeks." "And if we can't find a plenty of fun in that time it's our own fault," observed Heavy--having some trouble with her articulation because of the candy in her mouth. "Thanks be to goodness! no rising bell--no curfew--no getting anywhere at any particular time. Oh, I'm just going to lie in the sand all day, when we get to the Point----" "And have your meals brought to you, Heavy?" queried Ruth, slily. "Never you mind about the meals, Miss. Mammy Laura's going down with us to cook, and if there's one thing Mammy Laura loves to do, it's to cook messes for me--and bring them to me. She's always been afraid that my health was delicate and that I needed more nourishing food than the rest of the family. Such custards! Um! um!" "Do go down and see if there is anything left on the lunch counter, boys," begged Helen, anxiously. "Otherwise we won't get Heavy home alive." "I _am_ a little bit hungry, having had no dinner," admitted the stout girl, reflectively. The boys went off, laughing. "She's so feeble!" cried Mary Cox, pinching the stout girl. "We never should travel with her alone. There ought to be a trained nurse and a physician along. I'm worried to death about her----" "Ouch! stop your pinching!" commanded Jennie, and rose up rather suddenly, for her, to give chase to her tormentor. The Fox was as quick as a cat, and Heavy was lubberly in her movements. The lighter girl, laughing shrilly, ran forward and vaulted over the low rail that separated the awning-covered upper deck from the unrailed roof of the lower deck forward. "You'd better come back from there!" Ruth cried, instantly. "It's wet and slippery." The Fox turned on her instantly, her face flushed and her eyes snapping. "Mind your business, Miss!" she cried, stamping her foot. "I can look out----" Her foot slipped. Heavy thoughtlessly laughed. None of them really thought of danger save Ruth. But Mary Cox lost her foothold, slid toward the edge of the sloping deck, and the next instant, as the _Lanawaxa_ plunged a little sideways (for the sharp breeze had raised quite a little sea) The Fox shot over the brink of the deck and, with a scream, disappeared feet-first into the lake. It all happened so quickly that nobody but the group of girls on the forward deck had seen the accident. And Madge, Heavy and Helen were all helpless--so frightened that they could only cry out. "She can't swim!" gasped Helen. "She'll be drowned." "The paddle-wheel will hit her!" added Madge. "Oh! where are those useless boys?" demanded the stout girl. "They're never around when they could be of use." But Ruth said never a word. The emergency appealed to her quite as seriously as it did to her friends. But she knew that if Mary Cox was to be saved they must act at once. She flung off her cap and light outside coat. She wore only canvas shoes, and easily kicked them off and ran, in her stocking-feet, toward the paddle-box. Onto this she climbed by the short ladder and sprang out upon its top just as The Fox came up after her plunge. By great good fortune the imperiled girl had been carried beyond the paddles. But the _Lanawaxa_ was steaming swiftly past the girl in the water. Ruth knew very well that Mary Cox could not swim. She was one of the few girls at Briarwood who had been unable to learn that accomplishment, under the school instructor, in the gymnasium pool. Whereas Ruth herself had taken to the art "like a duck to water." Mary's face appeared but for a moment above the surface. Ruth saw it, pale and despairing; then a wave washed over it and the girl disappeared for a second time. CHAPTER IV TROUBLE AT THE RED MILL The screams of the other girls had brought several of the male passengers as well as some of the boat's crew to the forward deck. Mercy Curtis, who had lain down in a stateroom to rest, drew back the blind and saw Ruth poised on the wheel-box. "Don't you do that, Ruth Fielding!" cried the lame girl, who knew instinctively what her friend's intention was. But Ruth paid no more attention to her than she had to the other girls. She was wearing a heavy serge skirt, and she knew it would hamper her in the water. With nimble fingers she unfastened this and dropped it upon the deck. Then, without an instant's hesitation, she sprang far out from the steamer, her body shooting straight down, feet-first, to the water. Ruth was aware as she shot downward that Tom Cameron was at the rail over her head. The _Lanawaxa_ swept by and he, having run astern, leaned over and shouted to her. She had a glimpse of something swinging out from the rail, too, and dropping after her into the lake, and as the water closed over her head she realized that he had thrown one of the lifebuoys. But deep as the water was, Ruth had no fear for herself. She loved to swim and the instructor at Briarwood had praised her skill. The only anxiety she had as she sank beneath the surface was for Mary Cox, who had already gone down twice. She had leaped into the lake near where The Fox had disappeared. Once beneath the surface, Ruth opened her eyes and saw the shadow of somebody in the water ahead. Three strokes brought her within reach of it. She seized Mary Cox by the hair, and although her school fellow was still sinking, Ruth, with sturdy strokes, drew her up to the surface. What a blessing it was to obtain a draught of pure air! But The Fox was unconscious, and Ruth had to bear her weight up, while treading water, until she could dash the drops from her eyes. There was the lifebuoy not ten yards away. She struck out for it with one hand, while towing Mary with the other. Long before the steamer had been stopped and a boat lowered and manned, Ruth and her burden reached the great ring, and the girls were comparatively safe. Tom Cameron came in the boat, having forced himself in with the crew, and it was he who hauled Mary Cox over the gunwale, and then aided Ruth into the boat. "That's the second time you've saved that girl from drowning, Ruth," he gasped. "The first time was last Fall when you and I hauled her out of the hole in the ice on Triton Lake. And now she would have gone down and stayed down if you hadn't dived for her. Now! don't you ever do it again!" concluded the excited lad. Had Ruth not been so breathless she must have laughed at him; but there really was a serious side to the adventure. Mary Cox did not recover her senses until after they were aboard the steamer. Ruth was taken in hand by a stewardess, undressed and put between blankets, and her clothing dried and made presentable before the steamer docked at the head of the lake. As Tom Cameron had said, Mary Cox had fallen through the ice early in the previous Winter, and Ruth had aided in rescuing her; The Fox had never even thanked the girl from the Red Mill for such aid. And now Ruth shrank from meeting her and being thanked on this occasion. Ruth had to admit to herself that she looked forward with less pleasure to the visit to the seashore with Heavy because Mary Cox was to be of the party. She could not like The Fox, and she really had ample reason. The other girls ran into the room where Ruth was and reported when Mary became conscious, and how the doctor said that she would never have come up to the surface again, she had taken so much water into her lungs, had not Ruth grasped her. They had some difficulty in bringing The Fox to her senses. "And aren't you the brave one, Ruthie Fielding!" cried Heavy. "Why, Mary Cox owes her life to you--she actually does _this_ time. Before, when you and Tom Cameron helped her out of the water, she acted nasty about it----" "Hush, Jennie!" commanded Ruth. "Don't say another word about it. If I had not jumped into the lake after Mary, somebody else would." "Pshaw!" cried Heavy, "you can't get out of it that way. And I'm glad it happened. Now we _shall_ have a nice time at Lighthouse Point, for Mary can't be anything but fond of you, child!" Ruth, however, had her doubts. She remained in the stateroom as long as she could after the _Lanawaxa_ docked. When she was dressed and came out on the deck the train that took Heavy and The Fox and the Steeles and Busy Izzy home, had gone. The train to Cheslow started a few minutes later. "Come on, Miss Heroine!" said Tom, grinning at her as she came out on the deck. "You needn't be afraid now. Nobody will thank you. I didn't hear her say a grateful word myself--and I bet _you_ won't, either!" Helen said nothing at all about The Fox; but she looked grave. The former president of the Upedes had influenced Helen a great deal during this first year at boarding school. Had Ruth Fielding been a less patient and less faithful chum, Helen and she would have drifted apart. And perhaps an occasional sharp speech from Mercy was what had served more particularly to show Helen how she was drifting. Now the lame girl observed: "The next time you see Mary Cox fall overboard, Ruth, I hope you'll let her swallow the whole pond, and walk ashore without your help." "If your name _is_ 'Mercy' you show none to either your friends or enemies; do you?" returned Ruth, smiling. The girl from the Red Mill refused to discuss the matter further, and soon had them all talking upon a pleasanter theme. It was evening when they reached Cheslow and Mercy's father, of course, who was the station agent, and Mr. Cameron, were waiting for them. The big touring car belonging to the dry-goods merchant was waiting for the young folk, and after they had dropped Mercy Curtis at the little cottage on the by-street, the machine traveled swiftly across the railroad and out into the suburbs of the town. The Red Mill was five miles from the railroad station, while the Camerons' fine home, "Outlook," stood some distance beyond. Before they had gotten out of town, however, the car was held up in front of a big house set some distance back from the road, and before which, on either side of the arched gateway, was a green lamp. The lamps were already lighted and as the Cameron car came purring along the street, with Helen herself under the steering wheel (for she had begged the privilege of running it home) a tall figure came hurrying out of the gateway, signaling them to stop. "It's Doctor Davison himself!" cried Ruth, in some excitement. "And how are all the Sweetbriars?" demanded the good old physician, their staunch friend and confidant. "Ah, Tom, my fine fellow! have they drilled that stoop out of your shoulders?" "We're all right, Dr. Davison--and awfully glad to see you," cried Ruth, leaning out of the tonneau to shake hands with him. "Ah! here's the sunshine of the Red Mill--and they're needing sunshine there, just now, I believe," said the doctor. "Did you bring my Goody Two-Sticks home all right?" "She's all right, Doctor," Helen assured him. "And so are we--only Ruth's been in the lake." "In Lake Osago?" "Yes, sir--and it was wet," Tom told him, grinning. "I suppose she was trying to find that out," returned Dr. Davison. "Did you get anything else out of it, Ruthie Fielding?" "A girl," replied Ruth, rather tartly. "Oh-ho! Well, _that_ was something," began the doctor, when Ruth stopped him with an abrupt question: "Why do you say that they need me at home, sir?" "Why--honey--they're always glad to have you there, I reckon," said the doctor, slowly. "Uncle Jabez and Aunt Alviry will both be glad to see you----" "There's trouble, sir; what is it?" asked Ruth, gravely, leaning out of the car so as to speak into his ear. "There _is_ trouble; isn't there? What is it?" "I don't know that I can exactly tell you, Ruthie," he replied, with gravity. "But it's there. You'll see it." "Aunt Alviry----" "Is all right." "Then it's Uncle Jabez?" "Yes, my child. It is Uncle Jabez. What it is you will have to find out, I am afraid, for _I_ have not been able to," said the doctor, in a whisper. "Maybe it is given to you, my dear, to straighten out the tangles at the Red Mill." He invited them all down to sample Old Mammy's cakes and lemonade the first pleasant afternoon, and then the car sped on. But Ruth was silent. What she might find at the Red Mill troubled her. CHAPTER V THE TINTACKER MINE It was too late to more than see the outlines of the mill and connecting buildings as the car rushed down the hill toward the river road, between which and the river itself, and standing on a knoll, the Red Mill was. Ruth could imagine just how it looked--all in dull red paint and clean white trimmings. Miserly as Jabez Potter was about many things, he always kept his property in excellent shape, and the mill and farmhouse, with the adjoining outbuildings, were painted every Spring. A lamp burned in the kitchen; but all else was dark about the place. "Don't look very lively, Ruth," said Tom. "I don't believe they expect you." But even as he spoke the door opened, and a broad beam of yellow lamplight shot out across the porch and down the path. A little, bent figure was silhouetted in the glow. "There's Aunt Alviry!" cried Ruth, in delight. "I know _she's_ all right." "All excepting her back and her bones," whispered Helen. "Now, Ruthie! don't you let anything happen to veto our trip to Heavy's seaside cottage." "Oh! don't suggest such a thing!" cried her brother. But Ruth ran up the path after bidding them good-night, with her heart fast beating. Dr. Davison's warning had prepared her for almost any untoward happening. But Aunt Alvirah only looked delighted to see the girl as Ruth ran into her arms. Aunt Alvirah was a friendless old woman whose latter years would have been spent at the Cheslow Almshouse had not Jabez Potter taken her to keep house for him more than ten years before. Ill-natured people said that the miller had done this to save paying a housekeeper; but in Aunt Alvirah's opinion it was an instance of Mr. Potter's kindness of heart. "You pretty creetur!" cried Aunt Alvirah, hugging Ruth close to her. "And how you've growed! What a smart girl you are getting to be! Deary, deary me! how I have longed for you to git back, Ruthie. Come in! Come in! Oh, my back and oh, my bones!" she complained, under her breath, as she hobbled into the house. "How's the rheumatics, Aunty?" asked Ruth. "Just the same, deary. Up one day, and down the next. Allus will be so, I reckon. I'd be too proud to live if I didn't have my aches and pains--Oh, my back and oh, my bones!" as she lowered herself into her rocker. "Where's Uncle Jabez?" cried Ruth. "Sh!" admonished Aunt Alvirah. "Don't holler, child. You'll disturb him." "Not _sick?_" whispered Ruth, in amazement. "No--o. Not sick o' body, I reckon, child," returned Aunt Alvirah. "What _is_ it, Aunt Alviry? What's the matter with him?" pursued the girl, anxiously. "He's sick o' soul, I reckon," whispered the old woman. "Sumpin's gone wrong with him. You know how Jabez is. It's money matters." "Oh, has he been robbed again?" cried Ruth. "Sh! not jest like that. Not like what Jasper Parloe did to him. But it's jest as bad for Jabez, I reckon. Anyway, he takes it jest as hard as he did when his cash-box was lost that time. But you know how close-mouthed he is, Ruthie. He won't talk about it." "About _what?_" demanded Ruth, earnestly. Aunt Alvirah rose with difficulty from her chair and, with her usual murmured complaint of "Oh, my back and oh, my bones!" went to the door which led to the passage. Off this passage Uncle Jabez's room opened. She closed the door and hobbled back to her chair, but halted before sitting down. "I never thought to ask ye, deary," she said. "Ye must be very hungry. Ye ain't had no supper." "You sit right down there and keep still," said Ruth, smiling as she removed her coat. "I guess I can find something to eat." "Well, there's cocoa. You make you a warm drink. There's plenty of pie and cake--and there's eggs and ham if you want them." "Don't you fret about me," repeated Ruth. "What makes you so mussed up?" demanded Aunt Alvirah, the next moment. "Why, Ruth Fielding! have you been in the water?" "Yes, ma'am. But you know water doesn't hurt me." "Dear child! how reckless you are! Did you fall in the lake?" "No, Aunty. I jumped in," returned the girl, and then told her briefly about her adventure on the _Lanawaxa_. "Goodness me! Goodness me!" exclaimed Aunt Alvirah. "Whatever would your uncle say if he knew about it?" "And what is the matter with Uncle Jabez?" demanded Ruth, sitting down at the end of the table to eat her "bite." "You haven't told me that." "I 'lowed to do so," sighed the old woman. "But I don't want him to hear us a-gossipin' about it. You know how Jabez is. I dunno as he knows _I_ know what I know----" "That sounds just like a riddle, Aunt Alvirah!" laughed Ruth. "And I reckon it _is_ a riddle," she said. "I only know from piecin' this, that, and t'other together; but I reckon I fin'ly got it pretty straight about the Tintacker Mine--and your uncle's lost a power o' money by it, Ruthie." "What's the Tintacker Mine?" demanded Ruth, in wonder. "It's a silver mine. I dunno where it is, 'ceptin' it's fur out West and that your uncle put a lot of money into it and he can't git it out." "Why not?" "'Cause it's busted, I reckon." "The mine's 'busted'" repeated the puzzled Ruth. "Yes. Or so I s'pect. I'll tell ye how it come about. The feller come along here not long after you went to school last Fall, Ruthie." "What fellow?" asked Ruth, trying to get at the meat in the nut, for Aunt Alvirah was very discursive. "Now, you lemme tell it my own way, Ruthie," admonished the old woman. "You would better," and the girl laughed, and nodded. "It was one day when I was sweepin' the sittin' room--ye know, what Mercy Curtis had for her bedroom while she was out here last Summer." Ruth nodded again encouragingly, and the little old woman went on in her usual rambling way: "I was a-sweepin', as I say, and Jabez come by and put his head in at the winder. 'That's too hard for ye, Alviry,' says he. 'Let the dust be--it ain't eatin' nothin'.' Jest like a man, ye know! "'Well,' says I, 'if I didn't sweep onc't in a while, Jabez, we'd be wadin' to our boot-tops in dirt.' Like that, ye know, Ruthie. And he says, 'They hev things nowadays for suckin' up the dirt, instead of kickin' it up that-a-way,' and with that a voice says right in the yard, 'You're right there, Mister. An' I got one of 'em here to sell ye.' "There was a young feller in the yard with a funny lookin' rig-a-ma-jig in his hand, and his hat on the back of his head, and lookin' jest as busy as a toad that's swallered a hornet. My! you wouldn't think that feller had a minnit ter stay, the way he acted. Scurcely had time to sell Jabez one of them 'Vac-o-jacs,' as he called 'em." "A vacuum cleaner!" exclaimed Ruth. "That's something like it. Only it was like a carpet-sweeper, too. I seen pitchers of 'em in the back of a magazine onc't. I never b'lieved they was for more'n ornament; but that spry young feller come in and worked it for me, and he sucked up the dust out o' that ingrain carpet till ye couldn't beat a particle out o' it with an ox-goad! "But I didn't seem ter favor that Vac-o-jac none," continued Aunt Alvirah. "Ye know how close-grained yer Uncle is. I don't expect him ter buy no fancy fixin's for an ol' creetur like me. But at noon time he come in and set one o' the machines in the corner." "He bought it!" cried Ruth. "That's what he done. He says, 'Alviry, ef it's any good to ye, there it is! I calkerlate that's a smart young man. He got five dollars out o' me easier than _I_ ever got five dollars out of a man in all my days.' "I tell ye truthful, Ruthie! I can't use it by myself. It works too hard for anybody that's got my back and bones. But Ben, he comes in once in a while and works it for me. I reckon your uncle sends him." "But, Aunt Alviry!" cried Ruth. "What about the Tintacker Mine? You haven't told me a thing about _that_." "But I'm a-comin' to it," declared the old woman. "It's all of a piece--that and the Vac-o-jac. I seen the same young feller that sold Jabez the sweeper hangin' about the mill a good bit. And nights Jabez figgered up his accounts and counted his money till 'way long past midnight sometimes. Bimeby he says to me, one day: "'Alviry, that Vac-o-jac works all right; don't it?' "I didn't want to tell him it was hard to work, and it does take up the dirt, so I says 'Yes.' "'Then I reckon I'll give the boy the benefit of the doubt, and say he's honest,' says Jabez. "I didn't know what he meant, and I didn't ask. 'Twouldn't be _my_ place ter ask Jabez Potter his business--you know that, Ruthie. So I jest watched and in a day or two back come the young sweeper feller again, and we had him to dinner. This was long before Thanksgivin'. They sat at the table after dinner and I heard 'em talking about the mine." "Ah-ha!" exclaimed Ruth, with a smile. "Now we come to the mine, do we?" "I told you it was all of a piece," said Aunt Alvirah, complacently. "Well, it seemed that the boy's father--this agent warn't more than a boy, but maybe he was a sharper, jest the same--the boy's father and another man found the mine. Prospected for it, did they say?" "That is probably the word," agreed Ruth, much interested. "Well, anyhow, they found it and got out some silver. Then the boy's father bought out the other man. Then he stopped finding silver in it. And then he died, and left the mine to his folks. But the boy went out there and rummaged around the mine and found that there was still plenty of silver, only it had to be treated--or put through something--a pro--a prospect----" "Process?" suggested Ruth. "That's it, deary. Some process to refine the silver, or git it out of the ore, or something. It was all about chemicals and machinery, and all that. Your Uncle Jabez seemed to understand it, but it was all Dutch to me," declared Aunt Alvirah. "Well, what happened?" "Why," continued the old woman, "the Tintacker Mine, as the feller called it, couldn't be made to pay without machinery being bought, and all that. He had to take in a partner, he said. And I jedge your Uncle Jabez bought into the mine. Now, for all I kin hear, there ain't no mine, or no silver, or no nothin'. Leastwise, the young feller can't be heard from, and Jabez has lost his money--and a big sum it is, Ruthie. It's hurt him so that he's got smaller and smaller than ever. Begrudges the very vittles we have on the table, I believe. I'm afraid, deary, that unless there's a change he won't want you to keep on at that school you're going to, it's so expensive," and Aunt Alvirah gathered the startled girl into her arms and rocked her to and fro on her bosom. "That's what I was comin' to, deary," she sobbed. "I had ter tell ye; he told me I must. Ye can't go back to Briarwood, Ruthie, when it comes Fall." CHAPTER VI UNCLE JABEZ AT HIS WORST It was true that Mr. Potter had promised Ruth only one year at school. The miller considered he owed his grand-niece something for finding and restoring to him his cash-box which he had lost, and which contained considerable money and the stocks and bonds in which he had invested. Jabez Potter prided himself on being strictly honest. He was just according to his own notion. He owed Ruth something for what she had done--something more than her "board and keep"--and he had paid the debt. Or, so he considered. There had been a time when Uncle Jabez seemed to be less miserly. His hard old heart had warmed toward his niece--or, so Ruth believed. And he had taken a deep interest--for him--in Mercy Curtis, the lame girl. Ruth knew that Uncle Jabez and Dr. Davison together had made it possible for Mercy to attend Briarwood Hall. Of course, Uncle Jabez would cut off that charity as well, and the few tears Ruth cried that night after she went to bed were as much for Mercy's disappointment as for her own. "But maybe Dr. Davison will assume the entire cost of keeping Mercy at school," thought the girl of the Red Mill. "Or, perhaps, Mr. Curtis may have paid the debts he contracted while Mercy was so ill, and will be able to help pay her expenses at Briarwood." But about herself she could have no such hope. She knew that the cost of her schooling had been considerable. Nor had Uncle Jabez, been niggardly with her about expenditures. He had given her a ten-dollar bill for spending money at the beginning of each half; and twice during the school year had sent her an extra five-dollar bill. Her board and tuition for the year had cost over three hundred dollars; it would cost more the coming year. If Uncle Jabez had actually lost money in this Tintacker Mine Ruth could be sure that he meant what he had left to Aunt Alvirah to tell her. He would not pay for another school year. But Ruth was a persevering little body and she came of determined folk. She had continued at the district school when the circumstances were much against her. Now, having had a taste of Briarwood for one year, she was the more anxious to keep on for three years more. Besides, there was the vision of college beyond! She knew that if she remained at home, all she could look forward to was to take Aunt Alvirah's place as her uncle's housekeeper. She would have no chance to get ahead in life. Life at the Red Mill seemed a very narrow outlook indeed. Ruth meant to get an education. Somehow (there were ten long weeks of Summer vacation before her) she must think up a scheme for earning the money necessary to pay for her second year's tuition. Three hundred and fifty dollars! that was a great, great sum for a girl of Ruth Fielding's years to attempt to earn. How should she "begin to go about it"? It looked an impossible task. But Ruth possessed a fund of good sense. She was practical, if imaginative, and she was just sanguine enough to keep her temper sweet. Lying awake and worrying over it wasn't going to do her a bit of good; she knew that. Therefore she did not indulge herself long, but wiped away her tears, snuggled down into the pillow, and dropped asleep. In the morning she saw Uncle Jabez when she came down stairs. The stove smoked and he was growling about it. "Good morning, Uncle!" she cried and ran to him and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him--whether he would be kissed, or not! "There! there! so you're home; are you?" he growled. Ruth was glad to notice that he called it her _home_. She knew that he did not want a word to be said about what Aunt Alvirah had told her over night, and she set about smoothing matters over in her usual way. "You go on and 'tend to your outside chores, Uncle," she commanded. "I'll build this fire in a jiffy." "Huh! I reckon you've forgotten how to build a kitchen fire--livin' so long in a steam-heated room," he grunted. "Now, don't you believe that!" she assured him, and running out to the shed for a handful of fat-pine, or "lightwood," soon had the stove roaring comfortably. "What a comfort you be, my pretty creetur," sighed Aunt Alvirah, as she hobbled down stairs. "Oh, my back and oh, my bones! This is going to be a _creaky day_. I feel the dampness." "Don't you believe it, Aunty!" cried the girl. "The sun's going to come out and drive away every atom of this mist. Cheer up!" And she was that way all day; but deep down in her heart there was a very tender spot indeed, and in her mind the thought of giving up Briarwood rankled like a barbed arrow. She would _not_ give it up if she could help. But how ever could she earn three hundred and fifty dollars? The idea seemed preposterous. Aside from being with Aunt Alvirah, and helping her, Ruth's homecoming was not at all as she had hoped it would be. Uncle Jabez was more taciturn than ever, it seemed to the girl. She could not break through the crust of his manner. If she followed him to the mill, he was too busy to talk, or the grinding-stones made so much noise that talking was impossible. At night he did not even remain in the kitchen to count up the day's gains and to study his accounts. Instead, he retired with the cash-box and ledger to his own room. She found no opportunity of opening any discussion about Briarwood, or about the mysterious Tintacker Mine, upon which subject Aunt Alvirah had been so voluble. If the old man had lost money in the scheme, he was determined to give her no information at first hand about it. At first she was doubtful whether she should go to Lighthouse Point. Indeed, she was not sure that she _could_ go. She had no money. But before the week was out at dinner one day Uncle Jabez pushed a twenty-dollar bill across the table to her, and said: "I said ye should go down there to the seaside for a spell, Ruth. Make that money do ye," and before she could either thank him or refuse the money, Uncle Jabez stumped out of the house. In the afternoon Helen drove over in the pony carriage to take Ruth to town, so the latter could assure her chum that she would go to Lighthouse Point and be one of Jennie Stone's bungalow party. They called on Dr. Davison and the girl from the Red Mill managed to get a word in private with the first friend she had made on her arrival at Cheslow (barring Tom Cameron's mastiff, Reno) and told him of conditions as she had found them at home. "So, it looks as though I had got to make my own way through school, Doctor, and it troubles me a whole lot," Ruth said to the grave physician. "But what bothers me, too, is Mercy----" "Don't worry about Goody Two-Sticks," returned the doctor, quickly. "Your uncle served notice on me a week before you came home that he could not help to put her through Briarwood beyond this term that is closed. I told him he needn't bother. Sam Curtis is in better shape than he was, and we'll manage to find the money to put that sharp little girl of his where she can get all the education she can possibly soak in. But you, Ruth----" "I'm going to find a way, too," declared Ruth, independently, yet secretly feeling much less confidence than she appeared to have. Mercy was all ready for the seaside party when the girls called at the Curtis cottage. The lame girl was in her summer house, sewing and singing softly to herself. She no longer glared at the children as they ran by, or shook her fist at them as she used to, because they could dance and she could not. On Monday they would start for the shore, meeting Heavy and the others on the train, and spending a good part of the day riding to Lighthouse Point. Mr. Cameron had exercised his influence with certain railroad officials and obtained a private car for the young folk. The Cameron twins and Ruth and Mercy would get aboard the car at Cheslow, and Jennie Stone and her other guests would join them at Jennie's home town. Between that day and the time of her departure Ruth tried to get closer to Uncle Jabez; but the miller went about with lowering brow and scarcely spoke to either Ruth or Aunt Alvirah. "It's jest as well ye air goin' away again so quick, my pretty," said the old woman, sadly. "When Jabez gits one o' these moods on him there ain't nobody understands him so well as me. I don't mind if he don't speak. I talk right out loud what I have to say an' he can hear an' reply, or hear an' keep dumb, jest whichever he likes. They say 'hard words don't break no bones' an' sure enough bein' as dumb as an oyster ain't hurtin' none, either. You go 'long an' have your fun with your mates, Ruthie. Mebbe Jabez will be over his grouch when you come back." But Ruth was afraid that the miller would change but little unless there was first an emphatic betterment in the affairs of the Tintacker Mine. CHAPTER VII THE SIGNAL GUN The train did not slow down for Sandtown until after mid-afternoon, and when the party of young folk alighted from the private car there were still five miles of heavy roads between them and Lighthouse Point. It had been pleasant enough when Ruth Fielding and her companions left Cheslow, far up in New York State; but now to the south and east the heavens were masked by heavy, lead-colored clouds, and the wind came from the sea in wild, rain-burdened gusts. "My! how sharp it is!" cried Ruth. "And it's salt!" "The salt's in the air--especially when there is a storm at sea," explained Heavy. "And I guess we've landed just in time to see a gale. I hope it won't last long and spoil our good time." "Oh, but to see the ocean in a storm--that will be great!" cried Madge Steele. The Stones' house had been open for some days and there were two wagons in readiness for the party. The three boys and the baggage went in one, while the five girls crowded into the other and both wagons were driven promptly toward the shore. The girls were just as eager as they could be, and chattered like magpies. All but Mary Cox. She had been much unlike her usual self all day. When she had joined the party in the private car that morning, Ruth noticed that The Fox looked unhappy. Her eyes were swollen as though she had been weeping and she had very little to say. For one thing Ruth was really thankful. The Fox said nothing to her about the accident on the _Lanawaxa_. She may have been grateful for Ruth's timely assistance when she fell into Lake Osago; but she succeeded in effectually hiding her gratitude. Heavy, however, confided to Ruth that Mary had found sore trouble at home when she returned from Briarwood. Her father had died the year before and left his business affairs in a tangle. Mary's older brother, John, had left college and set about straightening out matters. And now something serious had happened to John. He had gone away on business and for weeks his mother had heard nothing from him. "I didn't know but Mary would give up coming with us--just as Lluella and Belle did," said the stout girl. "But there is nothing she can do at home, and I urged her to come. We must all try to make it particularly pleasant for her." Ruth was perfectly willing to do her share; but one can scarcely make it pleasant for a person who refuses to speak to one. And the girl from the Red Mill could not help feeling that The Fox had done her best to make _her_ withdraw from Jennie Stone's party. The sea was not in sight until the wagons had been driven more than half the distance to the Stone bungalow. Then, suddenly rounding a sandy hill, they saw the wide sweep of the ocean in the distance, and the small and quieter harbor on the inviting shore of which the bungalow was built. Out upon the far point of this nearer sandy ridge was built the white shaft of the Sokennet Light. Sokennet village lay upon the other side of the harbor. On this side a few summer homes had been erected, and beyond the lighthouse was a low, wind-swept building which Heavy told the girls was the life saving station. "We'll have lots of fun down there. Cap'n Abinadab Cope is just the nicest old man you ever saw!" declared Heavy. "And he can tell the most thrilling stories of wrecks along the coast. And there's the station 'day book' that records everything they do, from the number of pounds of coal and gallons of kerosene used each day, to how they save whole shiploads of people----" "Let's ask him to save a shipload for our especial benefit," laughed Madge. "I suppose there's only one wreck in fifteen or twenty years, hereabout." "Nothing of the kind! Sometimes there are a dozen in one winter. And lots of times the surfmen go off in a boat and save ships from being wrecked. In a fog, you know. Ships get lost in a fog sometimes, just as folks get lost in a forest----" "Or in a blizzard," cried Helen, with a lively remembrance of their last winter's experience at Snow Camp. "Nothing like that will happen here, you know," said Ruth, laughing. "Heavy promised that we shouldn't be lost in a snowstorm at Lighthouse Point." "But hear the sea roar!" murmured Mary Cox. "Oh! look at the waves!" They had now come to where they could see the surf breaking over a ledge, or reef, off the shore some half-mile. The breakers piled up as high--seemingly--as a tall house; and when they burst upon the rock they completely hid it for the time. "Did you ever see such a sight!" cried Madge. "'The sea in its might'!" The gusts of rain came more plentifully as they rode on, and so rough did the wind become, the girls were rather glad when the wagons drove in at the gateway of the Stone place. Immediately around the house the owner had coaxed some grass to grow--at an expense, so Jennie said, of about "a dollar a blade." But everywhere else was the sand--cream-colored, yellow, gray and drab, or slate where the water washed over it and left it glistening. The entrance was at the rear; the bungalow faced the cove, standing on a ridge which--as has been before said--continued far out to the lighthouse. "And a woman keeps the light. Her husband kept it for many, many years; but he died a year ago and the government has continued her as keeper. She's a nice old lady, is Mother Purling, and she can tell stories, too, that will make your hair curl!" "I'm going over there right away," declared Mary, who had begun to be her old self again. "Mine is as straight as an Indian's." "A woman alone in a lighthouse! isn't that great?" cried Helen. "She is alone sometimes; but there is an assistant keeper. His name is Crab--and that's what he is!" declared Heavy. "Oh, I can see right now that we're going to have great fun here," observed Madge. This final conversation was carried on after the girls had run into the house for shelter from a sharp gust of rain, and had been taken upstairs by their hostess to the two big rooms in the front of the bungalow which they were to sleep in. From the windows they could see across the cove to the village and note all the fishing and pleasure boats bobbing at their moorings. Right below them was a long dock built out from Mr. Stone's property, and behind it was moored a motor-launch, a catboat, and two rowboats--quite a little fleet. "You see, there isn't a sail in the harbor--nor outside. That shows that the storm now blowing up is bound to be a stiff one," explained Heavy. "For the fishermen of Sokennet are as daring as any on the coast, and I have often seen them run out to the banks into what looked to be the very teeth of a gale!" Meanwhile, the boys had been shown to a good-sized room at the back of the house, and they were already down again and outside, breasting the intermittent squalls from the sea. They had no curls and furbelows to arrange, and ran all about the place before dinner time. But ere that time arrived the night had shut down. The storm clouds hung low and threatened a heavy rainfall at any moment. Off on the horizon was a livid streak which seemed to divide the heavy ocean from the wind-thrashed clouds. The company that gathered about the dinner table was a lively one, even if the wind did shriek outside and the thunder of the surf kept up a continual accompaniment to their conversation--like the deeper notes of a mighty organ. Mr. Stone, himself, was not present; but one of Heavy's young aunts had come down to oversee the party, and she was no wet blanket upon the fun. Of course, the "goodies" on the table were many. Trust Heavy for that. The old black cook, who had been in the Stone family for a generation, doted on the stout girl and would cook all day to please her young mistress. They had come to the dessert course when suddenly Tom Cameron half started from his chair and held up a hand for silence. "What's the matter, Tommy?" demanded Busy Izzy, inquisitively. "What do you hear?" "Listen!" commanded Tom. The hilarity ceased suddenly, and all those at the table listened intently. The sudden hush made the noise of the elements seem greater. "What did you hear?" finally asked his sister. "A gun--there!" A distant, reverberating sound was repeated. They all heard it. Heavy and her aunt, Miss Kate, glanced at each other with sudden comprehension. "What is it?" Ruth cried. "It's a signal gun," Heavy said, rather weakly. "A ship in distress," explained Miss Kate, and her tone hushed their clamor. A third time the report sounded. The dining room door opened and the butler entered. "What is it, Maxwell?" asked Miss Kate. "A ship on the Second Reef, Miss," he said hurriedly. "She was sighted just before dark, driving in. But it was plain that she was helpless, and had gone broadside on to the rock. She'll break up before morning, the fishermen say. It will be an awful wreck, ma'am, for there is no chance of the sea going down." CHAPTER VIII THE LIFEBOAT IS LAUNCHED The announcement quelled all the jollity of the party on the instant. Heavy even lost interest in the sweetmeats before her. "Goodness me! what a terrible thing," cried Helen Cameron. "A ship on the rocks!" "Let's go see it!" Busy Izzy cried. "If we can," said Tom. "Is it possible, Miss Kate?" Heavy's aunt looked at the butler for information. He was one of those well-trained servants who make it their business to know everything. "I can have the ponies put into the long buckboard. The young ladies can drive to the station; the young gentlemen can walk. It is not raining very hard at present." Mercy elected to remain in the house with Miss Kate. The other girls were just as anxious to go to the beach as the boys. There were no timid ones in the party. But when they came down, dressed in rainy-weather garments, and saw the man standing at the ponies' heads, glistening in wet rubber, if one had withdrawn probably all would have given up the venture. The boys had already gone on ahead, and the ship's gun sounded mournfully through the wild night, at short intervals. They piled into the three seats of the buckboard, Ruth sitting beside the driver. The ponies dashed away along the sandy road. It was two miles to the life saving station. They passed the three boys when they were only half way to their destination. "Tell 'em not to save all the people from the wreck till we get there!" shouted Tom Cameron. None of the visitors to Lighthouse Point realized the seriousness of the happening as yet. They were yet to see for the first time a good ship battering her life out against the cruel rocks. Nor did the girls see the wreck at first, for a pall of darkness lay upon the sea. There were lights in the station and a huge fire of driftwood burned on the beach. Around this they saw figures moving, and Heavy said, as she alighted: "We'll go right down there. There are some women and children already--see? Sam will put the horses under the shed here." The five girls locked arms and ran around the station. When they came to the front of the building, a great door was wheeled back at one side and men in oilskins were seen moving about a boat in the shed. The lifeboat was on a truck and they were just getting ready to haul her down to the beach. "And the wreck must have struck nearly an hour ago!" cried Madge. "How slow they are." "No," said Heavy thoughtfully. "It is July now, and Uncle Sam doesn't believe there will be any wrecks along this coast until September. In the summer Cap'n Abinadab keeps the station alone. It took some time to-night to find a crew--and possibly some of these men are volunteers." But now that the life-savers had got on the ground, they went to work with a briskness and skill that impressed the onlookers. They tailed onto the drag rope and hauled the long, glistening white boat down to the very edge of the sea. The wind was directly onshore, and it was a fight to stand against it, let alone to haul such a heavy truck through the wet sand. Suddenly there was a glow at sea and the gun boomed out again. Then a pale signal light burned on the deck of the foundered vessel. As the light grew those ashore could see her lower rigging and the broken masts and spars. She lay over toward the shore and her deck seemed a snarl of lumber. Between the reef and the beach, too, the water was a-foul with wreckage and planks of all sizes. "Lumber-laden, boys--and her deck load's broke loose!" shouted one man. The surf roared in upon the sands, and then sucked out again with a whine which made Ruth shudder. The sea seemed like some huge, ravening beast eager for its prey. "How can they ever launch the boat into those waves?" Ruth asked of Heavy. "Oh, they know how," returned the stout girl. But the life-savers were in conference about their captain. He was a short, sturdy old man with a squarely trimmed "paint-brush" beard. The girls drew nearer to the group and heard one of the surfmen say: "We'll smash her, Cap, sure as you're born! Those planks are charging in like battering-rams." "We'll try it, Mason," returned Cap'n Abinadab. "I don't believe we can shoot a line to her against this gale. Ready!" The captain got in at the stern and the others took their places in the boat. Each man had a cork belt strapped around his body under his arms. There were a dozen other men to launch the lifeboat into the surf when the captain gave the word. He stood up and watched the breakers rolling in. As a huge one curved over and broke in a smother of foam and spray he shouted some command which the helpers understood. The boat started, truck and all, and immediately the men launching her were waist deep in the surging, hissing sea. The returning billow carried the boat off the truck, and the lifeboatmen plunged in their oars and pulled. Their short sharp strokes were in such unison that the men seemed moved by the same mind. The long boat shot away from the beach and mounted the incoming wave like a cork. The men ashore drew back the boat-truck out of the way. The lifeboat seemed to hang on that wave as though hesitating to take the plunge. Ruth thought that it would be cast back--a wreck itself--upon the beach. But suddenly it again sprang forward, and the curling surf hid boat and men for a full minute from the gaze of those on shore. The girls clung together and gazed eagerly out into the shifting shadows that overspread the riotous sea. "They've sunk!" gasped Helen. "No, no!" cried Heavy. "There! see them?" The boat's bow rose to meet the next wave. They saw the men pulling as steadily as though the sea were smooth. Old Cap'n Abinadab still stood upright in the stern, grasping the heavy steering oar. "I've read," said Ruth, more quietly, "that these lifeboats are unsinkable--unless they are completely wrecked. Water-tight compartments, you know." "That's right, Miss," said one of the men nearby. "She can't sink. But she can be smashed--Ah!" A shout came back to them from the sea. The wind whipped the cry past them in a most eerie fashion. "Cap'n Abinadab shouting to the men," explained Heavy, breathlessly. Suddenly another signal light was touched off upon the wreck. The growing light flickered over the entire expanse of lumber-littered sea between the reef and the beach. They could see the lifeboat more clearly. She rose and sank, rose and sank, upon wave after wave, all the time fighting her way out from the shore. Again and again they heard the awesome cry. The captain was warning his men how to pull to escape the charging timbers. The next breaker that rolled in brought with it several great planks that were dashed upon the beach with fearful force. The splinters flew into the air, the wind whipping them across the sands. The anxious spectators had to dodge. The timbers ground together as the sea sucked them back. Again and again they were rolled in the surf, splintering against each other savagely. "One of those would go through that boat like she was made of paper!" bawled one of the fishermen. At that moment they saw the lifeboat lifted upon another huge wave. She was a full cable's length from the shore, advancing very slowly. In the glare of the Coston light the anxious spectators saw her swerve to port to escape a huge timber which charged upon her. The girls screamed. The great stick struck the lifeboat a glancing blow. In an instant she swung broadside to the waves, and then rolled over and over in the trough of the sea. A chorus of shouts and groans went up from the crowd on shore. The lifeboat and her courageous crew had disappeared. CHAPTER IX THE GIRL IN THE RIGGING "Oh! isn't it awful!" cried Helen, clinging to Ruth Fielding. "I wish I hadn't come." "They're lost!" quavered Mary Cox. "They're drowned!" But Heavy was more practical. "They can't drown so easily--with those cork-vests on 'em. There! the boat's righted." It was a fact. Much nearer the shore, it was true, but the lifeboat was again right side up. They saw the men creep in over her sides and seize the oars which had been made fast to her so that they could not be lost. But the lifeboat was not so buoyant, and it was plain that she had been seriously injured. Cap'n Abinadab dared not go on to the wreck. "That timber mashed her in for'ard," declared a fisherman standing near the girls. "They've got to give it up this time." "Can't steer in such a clutter of wreckage," declared another. "Not with an oared boat. She ought to be a motor. Every other station on this coast, from Macklin to Cape Brender, has a lifeboat driven by a motor. Sokennet allus has to take other folks' leavin's." Helplessly the lifeboat drifted shoreward. The girls watched her, almost holding their breath with excitement. The three boys raced down to the beach now and joined them. "Crickey!" yelped little Isadore Phelps. "We're almost too late to see the fun!" "Hush!" commanded Ruth, sharply. "Your idea of fun, young man, is very much warped," Madge Steele added. "Haven't they got the wrecked people off?" demanded Tom, in wonder. At the moment an added Coston burned up on the wreck. Its uncertain glare revealed the shrouds and torn lower rigging. They saw several figures--outlined in the glaring light--lashed to the stays and broken spars. The craft was a schooner, lumber-laden, and the sea had now cast her so far over on her beam-ends that her deck was like a wall confronting the shore. Against this background the crew were visible, clinging desperately to hand-holds, or lashed to the rigging. And a great cry went suddenly up from the crowd ashore. "There's women aboard her--poor lost souls!" quavered one old dame who had seen many a terrifying wreck along the coast. Ruth Fielding's sharper eyes had discovered that one of the figures clinging to the wreck was too small for a grown person. "It's a child!" she murmured. "It's a girl. Oh, Helen! there's a girl--no older than we--on that wreck!" The words of the men standing about them proved Ruth's statement to be true. Others had descried the girl's figure in that perilous situation. There was a woman, too, and seven men. Seven men were ample to man a schooner of her size, and probably the other two were the captain's wife and daughter. But if escape to the shore depended upon the work of the lifeboat and her crew, the castaways were in peril indeed, for the boat was coming shoreward now with a rush. With her came the tossing, charging timbers washed from the deck load. The sea between the reef and the beach was now a seething mass of broken and splintering planks and beams. No craft could live in such a seaway. But Ruth and her friends were suddenly conscious of a peril nearer at hand. The broken lifeboat with its crew was being swept shoreward upon a great wave, and with the speed of an express train. The great, curling, foam-streaked breaker seemed to hurl the heavy boat through the air. "They'll be killed! Oh, they will!" shrieked Mary Cox. The long craft, half-smothered in foam, and accompanied by the plunging timbers from the wreck, darted shoreward with increasing velocity. One moment it was high above their heads, with the curling wave ready to break, and the sea sucking away beneath its keel--bared for half its length. Crash! Down the boat was dashed, with a blow that (so it seemed to the unaccustomed spectators) must tear it asunder. The crew were dashed from their places by the shock. The waiting longshoremen ran to seize the broken boat and drag it above high-water mark. One of the crew was sucked back with the undertow and disappeared for a full minute. But he came in, high on the next wave, and they caught and saved him. To the amazement of Ruth Fielding and her young companions, none of the seven men who had manned the boat seemed much the worse for their experience. They breathed heavily and their faces were grim. She could almost have sworn that the youngest of the crew--he had the figure "6" worked on the sleeve of his coat--had tears of disappointment in his eyes. "It's a desperate shame, lads!" croaked old Cap'n Abinadab. "We're bested. And the old boat's badly smashed. But there's one thing sure--no other boat, nor no other crew, couldn't do what we started to do. Ain't no kick comin' on that score." "And can't the poor creatures out there be helped? Must they drown?" whispered Helen in Ruth's ear. Ruth did not believe that these men would give up so easily. They were rough seamen; but the helplessness of the castaways appealed to them. "Come on, boys!" commanded the captain of the life saving crew. "Let's git out the wagon. I don't suppose there's any use, unless there comes a lull in this etarnal gale. But we'll try what gunpowder will do." "What are they going to attempt now?" Madge Steele asked. "The beach wagon," said somebody. "They've gone for the gear." This was no explanation to the girls until Tom Cameron came running back from the house and announced that the crew were going to try to reach the schooner with a line. "They'll try to save them with the breeches buoy," he said. "They've got a life-car here; but they never use that thing nowadays if they can help. Too many castaways have been near smothered in it, they say. If they can get a line over the wreck they'll haul the crew in, one at a time." "And that girl!" cried Ruth. "I hope they will send her ashore first. How frightened she must be." There was no more rain falling now, although the spray whipped from the crests of the waves was flung across the beach and wet the sightseers. But with the lightening of the clouds a pale glow seemed to spread itself upon the tumultuous sea. The wreck could be seen almost as vividly as when the signal lights were burned. The torn clouds were driven across the heavens as rapidly as the huge waves raced shoreward. And behind both cloud and wave was the seething gale. There seemed no prospect of the wind's falling. Ruth turned to see the crew which had failed to get the lifeboat to the wreck, trundling a heavy, odd-looking, two-wheeled wagon down upon the beach. They worked as though their fight with the sea had been but the first round of the battle. Their calmness and skillful handling of the breeches buoy gear inspired the onlookers with renewed hope. "Oh, Cap'n Abinadab and the boys will get 'em this time," declared Heavy. "You just watch." And Ruth Fielding and the others were not likely to miss any motion of the crew of the life saving station. The latter laid out the gear with quick, sure action. The cannon was placed in position and loaded. The iron bar to which the line was attached was slipped into the muzzle of the gun. The men stood back and the captain pulled the lanyard. Bang! The sharp bark of the line-gun echoed distressingly in their ears. It jumped back a pace, for the captain had charged it to the full limit allowed by the regulations. A heavier charge might burst the gun. The line-iron hurtled out over the sea in a long, graceful curve, the line whizzing after it. The line unwound so rapidly from the frame on which it was coiled that Ruth's gaze could not follow it. The sea was light enough for them to follow the course of the iron, however, and a groan broke from the lips of the onlookers when they saw that the missile fell far short of the wreck. To shoot the line into the very teeth of this gale, as Cap'n Abinadab had said, was futile. Yet he would not give up the attempt. This was the only way that was now left for them to aid the unfortunate crew of the lumber schooner. If they could not get the breeches buoy to her the sea would be the grave of the castaways. For already the waves, smashing down upon the grounded wreck, were tearing it apart. She would soon break in two, and then the remaining rigging and spars would go by the board and with them the crew and passengers. Yet Captain Abinadab Cope refused to give over his attempts to reach the wreck. "Haul in!" he commanded gruffly, when the line fell short. Ruth marveled at the skill of the man who rewound the wet line on the pegs of the frame that held it. In less than five minutes the life-savers were ready for another shot. "You take it when the regular crew are at practice, sometimes," whispered Heavy, to Ruth, "and they work like lightning. They'll shoot the line and get a man ashore in the breeches buoy in less than two minutes. But this is hard work for these volunteers--and it means so much!" Ruth felt as though a hand clutched at her heart. The unshed tears stung her eyes. If they should fail--if all this effort should go for naught! Suppose that unknown girl out there on the wreck should be washed ashore in the morning, pallid and dead. The thought almost overwhelmed the girl from the Red Mill. As the gun barked a second time and the shot and line hurtled seaward, Ruth Fielding's pale lips uttered a whispered prayer. CHAPTER X THE DOUBLE CHARGE But again the line fell short. "They'll never be able to make it," Tom Cameron said to the shivering girls. "Oh, I really wish we hadn't come down here," murmured his sister. "Oh, pshaw, Nell! don't be a baby," he growled. But he was either winking back the tears himself, or the salt spray had gotten into his eyes. How could anybody stand there on the beach and feel unmoved when nine human beings, in view now and then when the billows fell, were within an ace of awful death? Again and again the gun was shotted and the captain pulled the lanyard. He tried to catch the moment when there was a lull in the gale; but each time the shot fell short. It seemed to be merely a waste of human effort and gunpowder. "I've 'phoned to the Minot Cove station," the captain said, during one of the intervals while they were hauling in the line. "They've got a power boat there, and if they can put to sea with her they might get around to the other side of the reef and take 'em off." "She'll go to pieces before a boat can come from Minot Cove," declared one grizzled fisherman. "I fear so, Henry," replied the captain. "But we got to do what we can. They ain't give me no leeway with this gun. Orders is never to give her a bigger charge than what she's gettin' now. But, I swan----" He did not finish his sentence, but gravely measured out the next charge of powder. When he had loaded the gun he waved everybody back. "Git clean away, you lads. All of ye, now! She'll probably blow up, but there ain't no use in more'n one of us blowin' up with her." "What you done, Cap'n?" demanded one of his crew. "Never you mind, lad. Step back, I tell ye. She's slewed right now, I reckon." "What have you got in her?" demanded the man again. "I'm goin' to reach them folk if I can," returned Cap'n Abinadab. "I've double charged her. If she don't carry the line this time, she never will. And she may carry it over the wreck, even if she blows up. Look out!" "Don't ye do it!" cried the man, Mason, starting forward. "If you pull that lanyard ye'll be blowed sky-high." "Well, who should pull it if I don't?" demanded the old captain of the station, grimly. "Guess old 'Binadab Cope ain't goin' to step back for you young fellers yet a while. Come! git, I tell ye! Far back--afar back." "Oh! he'll be killed!" murmured Ruth. "You come back here, Ruth Fielding!" commanded Tom, clutching her arm. "If that gun blows up we want to be a good bit away." The whole party ran back. They saw the last of the crew leave the old captain. He stood firmly, at one side of the gun, his legs placed wide apart; they saw him pull the lanyard. Fire spat from the muzzle of the gun and with a shriek the shot-line was carried seaward, toward the wreck. The old gun, double charged, turned a somersault and buried its muzzle in the sand. The captain dodged, and went down--perhaps thrown by the force of the explosion. But the gun did not burst. However, he was upon his feet again in a moment, and all the crowd were shouting their congratulations. The flying line had carried squarely over the middle of the wreck. "Now, will they know what to do with it?" gasped Ruth. "Wait! see that man--that man in the middle? The line passed over his shoulder!" cried Heavy. "See! he's got it." "And he's hauling on it," cried Tom. "There goes the line with the board attached," said Madge Steele, exultantly. The girls had already examined this painted board. On it were plain, though brief, instructions in English, French, and Italian, to the wrecked crew as to what they should do to aid in their own rescue. But this schooner was probably from up Maine way, or the "blue-nose country" of Nova Scotia, and her crew would be familiar with the rigging of the breeches buoy. They saw, as another light was burned on the wreck, the man who had seized the line creep along to the single mast then standing. It was broken short off fifteen feet above the deck. He hauled out the shot-line, and then a mate came to his assistance and they rigged the larger line that followed and attached the block to the stump of the mast. Then on shore the crew of the life saving station and the fishermen--even the boys from the bungalow--hauled on the cable, and soon sent the gear across the tossing waves. They had erected a stout pair of wooden "shears" in the sand and over this the breeches buoy gear ran. It went out empty, but the moment it reached the staggering wreck the men there popped the woman into the sack and those ashore hauled in. Over and through the waves she came, and when they caught her at the edge of the surf and dragged the heavy buoy on to the dry land, she was all but breathless, and was crying. "Don't ye fear, Missus," said one rough but kindly boatman. "We'll have yer little gal ashore in a jiffy." "She--she isn't my child, poor thing," panted the woman. "I'm Captain Kirby's wife. Poor Jim! he won't leave till the last one----" "Of course he won't, ma'am--and you wouldn't want him to," broke in Cap'n Cope. "A skipper's got to stand by his ship till his crew an' passengers are safe. Now, you go right up to the station----" "Oh, no, no!" she cried. "I must see them all safe ashore." The huge buoy was already being hauled back to the wreck. There was no time to be lost, for the waves had torn away the after-deck and it was feared the forward deck and the mast would soon go. Ruth went to the woman and spoke to her softly. "Who is the little girl, please?" she asked. "She ain't little, Miss--no littler than you," returned Mrs. Kirby. "Her name is Nita." "Nita?" "That's what she calls herself." "Nita what?" asked Ruth. "I don't know, I'm sure. I believe she's run away from her folks. She won't tell much about herself. She only came aboard at Portland. In fact, I found her there on the dock, and she seemed hungry and neglected, and she told us first that she wanted to go to her folks in New York--and that's where the _Whipstitch_ was bound." "The _Whipstitch_ is the name of the schooner?" "Yes, Miss. And now Jim's lost her. But--thanks be!--she was insured," said the captain's wife. At that moment another hearty shout went up from the crowd on shore. The breeches buoy was at the wreck again. They saw the men there lift the girl into the buoy, which was rigged like a great pair of overalls. The passenger sat in this sack, with her legs thrust through the apertures below, and clung to the ring of the buoy, which was level with her shoulders. She started from the ship in this rude conveyance, and the girls gathered eagerly to greet her when she landed. But several waves washed completely over the breeches buoy and the girl was each time buried from sight. She was unconscious when they lifted her out. She was a black-haired girl of fourteen or thereabout, well built and strong. The captain's wife was too anxious about the crew to pay much attention to the waif, and Ruth and her friends bore Nita, the castaway, off to the station, where it was warm. The boys remained to see the last of the crew--Captain Kirby himself--brought ashore. And none too soon was this accomplished, for within the half hour the schooner had broken in two. Its wreckage and the lumber with which it had been loaded so covered the sea between the reef and the shore that the waves were beaten down, and had it been completely calm an active man could have traveled dry-shod over the flotsam to the reef. Meanwhile Nita had been brought to her senses. But there was nothing at the station for the girl from the wreck to put on while her own clothing was dried, and it was Heavy who came forward with a very sensible suggestion. "Let's take her home with us. Plenty of things there. Wrap her up good and warm and we'll take her on the buckboard. We can all crowd on--all but the boys." The boys had not seen enough yet, anyway, and were not ready to go; but the girls were eager to return to the bungalow--especially when they could take the castaway with them. "And there we'll get her to tell us all about it," whispered Helen to Ruth. "My! she must have an interesting story to tell." CHAPTER XI THE STORY OF THE CASTAWAY There was only the cook in the station and nobody to stop the girls from taking Nita away. She had recovered her senses, but scarcely appreciated as yet where she was; nor did she seem to care what became of her. Heavy called the man who had driven them over, and in ten minutes after she was ashore the castaway was on the buckboard with her new friends and the ponies were bearing them all at a spanking pace toward the Stone bungalow on Lighthouse Point. The fact that this strange girl had been no relation of the wife of the schooner's captain, and that Mrs. Kirby seemed, indeed, to know very little about her, mystified the stout girl and her friends exceedingly. They whispered a good deal among themselves about the castaway; but she sat between Ruth and Helen and they said little to her during the ride. She had been wrapped in a thick blanket at the station and was not likely to take cold; but Miss Kate and old Mammy Laura bustled about a good deal when Nita was brought into the bungalow; and very shortly she was tucked into one of the beds on the second floor--in the very room in which Ruth and Helen and Mercy were to sleep--and Miss Kate had insisted upon her swallowing a bowl of hot tea. Nita seemed to be a very self-controlled girl. She didn't weep, now that the excitement was past, as most girls would have done. But at first she was very silent, and watched her entertainers with snapping black eyes and--Ruth thought--in rather a sly, sharp way. She seemed to be studying each and every one of the girls--and Miss Kate and Mammy Laura as well. The boys came home after a time and announced that every soul aboard the _Whipstitch_ was safe and sound in the life saving station. And the captain's wife had sent over word that she and her husband would go back to Portland the next afternoon. If the girl they had picked up there on the dock wished to return, she must be ready to go with them. "What, go back to that town?" cried the castaway when Ruth told her this, sitting right up in bed. "Why, that's the _last_ place!" "Then you don't belong in Portland?" asked Ruth. "I should hope not!" "Nor in Maine?" asked Madge, for the other girls were grouped about the room. They were all anxious to hear the castaway's story. The girl was silent for a moment, her lips very tightly pressed together. Finally she said, with her sly look: "I guess I ain't obliged to tell you that; am I?" "Witness does not wish to incriminate herself," snapped Mercy, her eyes dancing. "Well, I don't know that I'm bound to tell you girls everything I know," said the strange girl, coolly. "Right-oh!" cried Heavy, cordially. "You're visiting me. I don't know as it is anybody's business how you came to go aboard the _Whipstitch_----" "Oh, I don't mind telling you that," said the girl, eagerly. "I was hungry." "Hungry!" chorused her listeners, and Heavy said: "Fancy being hungry, and having to go aboard a ship to get a meal!" "That was it exactly," said Nita, bluntly. "But Mrs. Kirby was real good to me. And the schooner was going to New York and that's where I wanted to go." "Because your folks live there?" shot in The Fox. "No, they don't, Miss Smartie!" snapped back the castaway. "You don't catch me so easy. I wasn't born yesterday, Miss! My folks don't live in New York. Maybe I haven't any folks. I came from clear way out West, anyway--so now! I thought 'way down East must be the finest place in the world. But it isn't." "Did you run away to come East?" asked Ruth, quietly. "Well--I came here, anyway. And I don't much like it, I can tell you." "Ah-ha!" cried Mercy Curtis, chuckling to herself. "I know. She thought Yankee Land was just flowing in milk and honey. Listen! here's what she said to herself before she ran away from home: "I wish I'd lived away Down East, Where codfish salt the sea, And where the folks have apple sass And punkin pie fer tea!" "That's the 'Western Girl's Lament,'" pursued Mercy. "So you found 'way down East nothing like what you thought it was?" The castaway scowled at the sharp-tongued lame girl for a moment. Then she nodded. "It's the folks," she said. "You're all so afraid of a stranger. Do I look like I'd _bite_?" "Maybe not ordinarily," said Helen, laughing softly. "But you do not look very pleasant just now." "Well, people haven't been nice to me," grumbled the Western girl. "I thought there were lots of rich men in the East, and that a girl could make friends 'most anywhere, and get into nice families----" "To _work?_" asked Ruth, curiously. "No, no! You know, you read a lot about rich folks taking up girls and doing everything for them--dressing them fine, and sending them to fancy schools, and all that." "I never read of any such thing in my life!" declared Mary Cox. "I guess you've been reading funny books." "Huh!" sniffed the castaway, who was evidently a runaway and was not made sorry for her escapade even by being wrecked at sea. "Huh! I like a story with some life in it, I do! Jib Pottoway had some dandy paper-covered novels in his locker and he let me read 'em----" "Who under the sun is Jib Pottoway?" gasped Helen. "That isn't a real name; is it?" "It's ugly enough to be real; isn't it?" retorted the strange girl, chuckling. "Yep. That's Jib's real name. 'Jibbeway Pottoway'--that's the whole of it." "Oh, oh!" cried Heavy, with her hand to her face. "It makes my jaw ache to even try to say it." "What is he?" asked Madge, curiously. "Injun," returned the Western girl, laconically. "Or, part Injun. He comes from 'way up Canada way. His folks had Jibbeway blood." "But _who_ is he?" queried Ruth, curiously. "Why, he's a puncher that works for----Well, he's a cow puncher. That's 'nuff. It don't matter where he works," added the girl, gruffly. "That might give away where you come from, eh?" put in Mercy. "It might," and Nita laughed. "But what is your name?" asked Ruth. "Nita, I tell you." "Nita what?" "Never mind. Just Nita. Mebbe I never had another name. Isn't one name at a time sufficient, Miss?" "I don't believe that is your really-truly name," said Ruth, gravely. "I bet you're right, Ruth Fielding!" cried Heavy, chuckling. "'Nita' and 'Jib Pottoway' don't seem to go together. 'Nita' is altogether too fancy." "It's a nice name!" exclaimed the strange girl, in some anger. "It was the name of the girl in the paper-covered novel--and it's good enough for me." "But what's your real name?" urged Ruth. "I'm not telling you that," replied the runaway, shortly. "Then you prefer to go under a false name--even among your friends?" asked the girl from the Red Mill. "How do I know you're my friends?" demanded Nita, promptly. "We can't very well be your enemies," said Helen, in some disgust. "I don't know. Anybody's my enemy who wants to send me back--well, anyone who wants to return me to the place I came from." "Was it an institution?" asked Mary Cox quickly. "What's that?" demanded Nita, puzzled. "What do you mean by an 'institution'?" "She means a sort of school," explained Ruth. "Yes!" exclaimed The Fox, sharply. "A reform school, or something of the kind. Maybe an almshouse." "Never heard of 'em," returned Nita, unruffled by the insinuation. "Guess they don't have 'em where I come from. Did _you_ go to one, Miss?" Heavy giggled, and Madge Steele rapped The Fox smartly on the shoulder. "There!" said the senior. "It serves you right, Mary Cox. You're answered." "Now, I tell you what it is!" cried the strange girl, sitting up in bed again and looking rather flushed, "if you girls are going to nag me, and bother me about who I am, and where I come from, and what my name is--though Nita's a good enough name for anybody----" "Anybody but Jib Pottoway," chuckled Heavy. "Well! and _he_ warn't so bad, if he _was_ half Injun," snapped the runaway. "Well, anyway, if you don't leave me alone I'll get out of bed right now and walk out of here. I guess you haven't any hold on me." "Better wait till your clothes are dry," suggested Madge. "Aunt Kate would never let you go," said Heavy. "I'll go to-morrow morning, then!" cried the runaway. "Why, we don't mean to nag you," interposed Ruth, soothingly. "But of course we're curious--and interested." "You're like all the other Eastern folk I've met," declared Nita. "And I don't like you much. I thought _you_ were different." "You've been expecting some rich man to adopt you, and dress you in lovely clothes, and all that, eh?" said Mercy Curtis. "Well! I guess there are not so many millionaires in the East as they said there was," grumbled Nita. "Or else they've already got girls of their own to look after," laughed Ruth. "Why, Helen here, has a father who is very rich. But you couldn't expect him to give up Helen and Tom and take you into his home instead, could you?" Nita glanced at the dry-goods merchant's daughter with more interest for a moment. "And Heavy's father is awfully rich, too," said Ruth. "But he's got Heavy to support----" "And that's some job," broke in Madge, laughing. "Two such daughters as Heavy would make poor dear Papa Stone a pauper!" "Well," said Nita, again, "I've talked enough. I won't tell you where I come from. And Nita _is_ my name--now!" "It is getting late," said Ruth, mildly. "Don't you all think it would be a good plan to go to bed? The wind's gone down some. I guess we can sleep." "Good advice," agreed Madge Steele. "The boys have been abed some time. To-morrow is another day." Heavy and she and Mary went off to their room. The others made ready for bed, and the runaway did not say another word to them, but turned her face to the wall and appeared, at least, to be soon asleep. Ruth crept in beside her so as not to disturb their strange guest. She was a new type of girl to Ruth--and to the others. Her independence of speech, her rough and ready ways, and her evident lack of the influence of companionship with refined girls were marked in this Nita's character. Ruth wondered much what manner of home she could have come from, why she had run away from it, and what Nita really proposed doing so far from home and friends. These queries kept the girl from the Red Mill awake for a long time--added to which was the excitement of the evening, which was not calculated to induce sleep. She would have dropped off some time after the other girls, however, had she not suddenly heard a door latch somewhere on this upper floor, and then the creep, creep, creeping of a rustling step in the hall. It continued so long that Ruth wondered if one of the girls in the other room was ill, and she softly arose and went to the door, which was ajar. And what she saw there in the hall startled her. CHAPTER XII BUSY IZZY IN A NEW ASPECT The stair-well was a wide and long opening and around it ran a broad balustrade. There was no stairway to the third floor of this big bungalow, only the servants' staircase in the rear reaching those rooms directly under the roof. So the hall on this second floor, out of which the family bedrooms opened, was an L-shaped room, with the balustrade on one hand. And upon that balustrade Ruth Fielding beheld a tottering figure in white, plainly visible in the soft glow of the single light burning below, yet rather ghostly after all. She might have been startled in good earnest had she not first of all recognized Isadore Phelps' face. He was balancing himself upon the balustrade and, as she came to the door, he walked gingerly along the narrow strip of moulding toward Ruth. "Izzy! whatever are you doing?" she hissed. The boy never said a word to her, but kept right on, balancing himself with difficulty. He was in his pajamas, his feet bare, and--she saw it at last--his eyes tight shut. "Oh! he's asleep," murmured Ruth. And that surely was Busy Izzy's state at that moment. Sound asleep and "tight-rope walking" on the balustrade. Ruth knew that it would be dangerous to awaken him suddenly--especially as it might cause him to fall down the stair-well. She crept back into her room and called Helen. The two girls in their wrappers and slippers went into the hall again. There was Busy Izzy tottering along in the other direction, having turned at the wall. Once they thought he would plunge down the stairway, and Helen grabbed at Ruth with a squeal of terror. "Sh!" whispered her chum. "Go tell Tom. Wake him up. The boys ought to tie Izzy in bed if he is in the habit of doing this." "My! isn't he a sight!" giggled Helen, as she ran past the gyrating youngster, who had again turned for a third perambulation of the railing. She whispered Tom's name at his open door and in a minute the girls heard him bound out of bed. He was with them--sleepy-eyed and hastily wrapping his robe about him--in a moment. "For the land's sake!" he gasped, when he saw his friend on the balustrade. "What are you----" "Sh!" commanded Ruth. "He's asleep." Tom took in the situation at a glance. Madge Steele peered out of her door at that moment. "Who is it--Bobbins?" she asked. "No. It's Izzy. He's walking in his sleep," said Ruth. "He's a regular somnambulist," exclaimed Helen. "Never mind. Don't call him names. He can't help it," said Madge. Helen giggled again. Tom had darted back to rouse his chum. Bob Steele appeared, more tousled and more sleepy-looking than Tom. "What's the matter with that fellow now?" he grumbled. "He's like a flea--you never know where he's going to be next! Ha! he'll fall off that and break his silly neck." And as Busy Izzy was just then nearest his end of the hall in his strange gyrations, Bob Steele stepped forward and grabbed him, lifting him bodily off the balustrade. Busy Izzy screeched, but Tom clapped a hand over his mouth. "Shut up! want to raise the whole neighborhood?" grunted Bobbins, dragging the lightly attired, struggling boy back into their room. "Ha! I'll fix you after this. I'll lash you to the bedpost every night we're here--now mark that, young man!" It seemed that the youngster often walked in his sleep, but the girls had not known it. Usually, at school, his roommates kept the dormitory door locked and the key hidden, so that he couldn't get out to do himself any damage running around with his eyes shut. The party all got to sleep again after that and there was no further disturbance before morning. They made a good deal of fun of Isadore at the breakfast table, but he took the joking philosophically. He was always playing pranks himself; but he had learned to take a joke, too. He declared that all he dreamed during the night was that he was wrecked in an iceboat on Second Reef and that the only way for him to get ashore was to walk on a cable stretched from the wreck to the beach. He had probably been walking that cable--in his mind--when Ruth had caught him balancing on the balustrade. The strange girl who persisted in calling herself "Nita" came down to the table in some of Heavy's garments, which were a world too large for her. Her own had been so shrunk and stained by the sea-water that they would never be fit to put on again. Aunt Kate was very kind to her, but she looked at the runaway oddly, too. Nita had been just as uncommunicative to her as she had been to the girls in the bedroom the night before. "If you don't like me, or don't like my name, I can go away," she declared to Miss Kate, coolly. "I haven't got to stay here, you know." "But where will you go? what will you do?" demanded that young lady, severely. "You say the captain of the schooner and his wife are nothing to you?" "I should say not!" exclaimed Nita. "They were nice and kind to me, though." "And you can't go away until you have something decent to wear," added Heavy's aunt. "That's the first thing to 'tend to." And although it was a bright and beautiful morning after the gale, and there were a dozen things the girls were all eager to see, they spent the forenoon in trying to make up an outfit for Nita so that she would be presentable. The boys went off with Mr. Stone's boatkeeper in the motor launch and Mary Cox was quite cross because the other girls would not leave Miss Kate to fix up Nita the best she could, so that they could all accompany the boys. But in the afternoon the buckboard was brought around and they drove to the lighthouse. Nita, even in her nondescript garments, was really a pretty girl. No awkwardness of apparel could hide the fact that she had nice features and that her body was strong and lithe. She moved about with a freedom that the other girls did not possess. Even Ruth was not so athletic as the strange girl. And yet she seemed to know nothing at all about the games and the exercises which were commonplace to the girls from Briarwood Hall. There was a patch of wind-blown, stunted trees and bushes covering several acres of the narrowing point, before the driving road along the ridge brought the visitors to Sokennet Light. While they were driving through this a man suddenly bobbed up beside the way and the driver hailed him. "Hullo, you Crab!" he said. "Found anything 'long shore from that wreck?" The man stood up straight and the girls thought him a very horrid-looking object. He had a great beard and his hair was dark and long. "He's a bad one for looks; ain't he, Miss?" asked the driver of Ruth, who sat beside him. "He isn't very attractive," she returned. "Ha! I guess not. And Crab's as bad as he looks, which is saying a good deal. He comes of the 'wreckers.' Before there was a light here, or life saving stations along this coast, there was folks lived along here that made their livin' out of poor sailors wrecked out there on the reefs. Some said they used to toll vessels onto the rocks with false lights. Anyhow, Crab's father, and his gran'ther, was wreckers. He's assistant lightkeeper; but he oughtn't to be. I don't see how Mother Purling can get along with him." "She isn't afraid of him; is she?" queried Ruth. "She isn't afraid of anything," said Heavy, quickly, from the rear seat. "You wait till you see her." The buckboard went heavily on toward the lighthouse; but the girls saw that the man stood for a long time--as long as they were in sight, at least--staring after them. "What do you suppose he looked at Nita so hard for?" whispered Helen in Ruth's ear. "I thought he was going to speak to her." But Ruth had not noticed this, nor did the runaway girl seem to have given the man any particular attention. CHAPTER XIII CRAB PROVES TO BE OF THE HARDSHELL VARIETY They came to the lighthouse. There was only a tiny, whitewashed cottage at the foot of the tall shaft. It seemed a long way to the brass-trimmed and glistening lantern at the top. Ruth wondered how the gaunt old woman who came to the door to welcome them could ever climb those many, many stairs to the narrow gallery at the top of the shaft. She certainly could not suffer as Aunt Alvirah did with _her_ back and bones. Sokennet Light was just a steady, bright light, sending its gleam far seaward. There was no mechanism for turning, such as marks the revolving lights in so many lighthouses. The simplicity of everything about Sokennet Light was what probably led the department officials to allow Mother Purling to remain after her husband died in harness. "Jack Crab has done his cleaning and gone about his business," said Mother Purling, to the girls. "Ye may all climb up to the lantern if ye wish; but touch nothing." Beside the shaft of the light was a huge fog bell. That was rung by clockwork. Mother Purling showed Ruth and her companions how it worked before the girls started up the stairs. Mercy remained in the little house with the good old woman, for she never could have hobbled up those spiral stairs. "It's too bad about that girl," said Nita, brusquely, to Ruth. "Has she always been lame?" Ruth warmed toward the runaway immediately when she found that Nita was touched by Mercy Curtis' affliction. She told Nita how the lame girl had once been much worse off than she was now, and all about her being operated on by the great physician. "She's so much better off now than she was!" cried Ruth. "And so much happier!" "But she's a great nuisance to have along," snapped Mary Cox, immediately behind them. "She had better stayed at home, I should think." Ruth flushed angrily, but before she could speak, Nita said, looking coolly at The Fox: "You're a might snappy, snarly sort of a girl; ain't you? And you think you are dreadfully smart. But somebody told you that. It ain't so. I've seen a whole lot smarter than you. You wouldn't last long among the boys where _I_ come from." "Thank you!" replied Mary, her head in the air. "I wouldn't care to be liked by the boys. It isn't ladylike to think of the boys all the time----" "These are grown men, I mean," said Nita, coolly. "The punchers that work for--well, just cow punchers. You call them cowboys. They know what's good and fine, jest as well as Eastern folks. And a girl that talks like you do about a cripple wouldn't go far with them." "I suppose your friend, the half-Indian, is a critic of deportment," said The Fox, with a laugh. "Well, Jib wouldn't say anything mean about a cripple," said Nita, in her slow way, and The Fox seemed to have no reply. But this little by-play drew Ruth Fielding closer to the queer girl who had selected her "hifaluting" name because it was the name of a girl in a paper-covered novel. Nita had lived out of doors, that was plain. Ruth believed, from what the runaway had said, that she came from the plains of the great West. She had lived on a ranch. Perhaps her folks owned a ranch, and they might even now be searching the land over for their daughter. The thought made the girl from the Red Mill very serious, and she determined to try and gain Nita's confidence and influence her, if she could, to tell the truth about herself and to go back to her home. She knew that she could get Mr. Cameron to advance Nita's fare to the West, if the girl would return. But up on the gallery in front of the shining lantern of the lighthouse there was no chance to talk seriously to the runaway. Heavy had to sit down when she reached this place, and she declared that she puffed like a steam engine. Then, when she had recovered her breath, she pointed out the places of interest to be seen from the tower--the smoke of Westhampton to the north; Fuller's Island, with its white sands and gleaming green lawns and clumps of wind-blown trees; the long strip of winding coast southward, like a ribbon laid down for the sea to wash, and far, far to the east, over the tumbling waves, still boisterous with the swell of last night's storm, the white riding sail of the lightship on No Man's Shoal. They came down after an hour, wind-blown, the taste of salt on their lips, and delighted with the view. They found the ugly, hairy man sitting on the doorstep, listening with a scowl and a grin to Mercy's sharp speeches. "I don't know what brought you back here to the light, Jack Crab, at this time of day," said Mother Purling. "You ain't wanted." "I likes to see comp'ny, too, _I_ do," growled the man. "Well, these girls ain't your company," returned the old woman. "Now! get up and be off. Get out of the way." Crab rose, surlily enough, but his sharp eyes sought Nita. He looked her all over, as though she were some strange object that he had never seen before. "So you air the gal they brought ashore off the lumber schooner last night?" he asked her. "Yes, I am," she returned, flatly. "You ain't got no folks around here; hev ye?" he continued. "No, I haven't." "What's your name?" "Puddin' Tame!" retorted Mercy, breaking in, in her shrill way. "And she lives in the lane, and her number's cucumber! There now! do you know all you want to know, Hardshell?" Crab growled something under his breath and went off in a hangdog way. "That's a bad man," said Mercy, with confidence. "And he's much interested in you, Miss Nita Anonymous. Do you know why?" "I'm sure I don't," replied Nita, laughing quite as sharply as before, but helping the lame girl to the buckboard with kindliness. "You look out for him, then," said Mercy, warningly. "He's a hardshell crab, all right. And either he thinks he knows you, or he's got something in his mind that don't mean good to you." But only Ruth heard this. The others were bidding Mother Purling good-bye. CHAPTER XIV THE TRAGIC INCIDENT IN A FISHING EXCURSION The boys had returned when the party drove back to the bungalow from the lighthouse. A lighthouse might be interesting, and it was fine to see twenty-odd miles to the No Man's Shoal, and Mother Purling might be a _dear_--but the girls hadn't done anything, and the boys had. They had fished for halibut and had caught a sixty-five-pound one. Bobbins had got it on his hook; but it took all three of them, with the boatkeeper's advice, to get the big, flapping fish over the side. They had part of that fish for supper. Heavy was enraptured, and the other girls had a saltwater appetite that made them enjoy the fish, too. It was decided to try for blackfish off the rocks beyond Sokennet the next morning. "We'll go over in the _Miraflame_"--(that was the name of the motor boat)--"and we'll take somebody with us to help Phineas," Heavy declared. Phineas was the boatman who had charge of Mr. Stone's little fleet. "Phin is a great cook and he'll get us up a regular fish dinner----" "Oh, dear, Jennie Stone! how _can_ you?" broke in Helen, with her hands clasped. "How can I _what_, Miss?" demanded the stout girl, scenting trouble. "How can you, when we are eating such a perfect dinner as this, be contemplating any other future occasion when we possibly shall be hungry?" The others laughed, but Heavy looked at her school friends with growing contempt. "You talk--you talk," she stammered, "well! you don't talk English--that I'm sure of! And you needn't put it all on me. You all eat with good appetites. And you'd better thank me, not quarrel with me. If I didn't think of getting nice things to eat, you'd miss a lot, now I tell you. You don't know how I went out in Mammy Laura's kitchen this very morning, before most of you had your hair out of curl-papers, and just _slaved_ to plan the meals for to-day." "Hear! hear!" chorused the boys, drumming with their knife handles on the table. "We're for Jennie! She's all right." "See!" flashed in Mercy, with a gesture. "Miss Stone has won the masculine portion of the community by the only unerring way--the only straight path to the heart of a boy is through his stomach." "I guess we can all thank Jennie," said Ruth, laughing quietly, "for her attention to our appetites. But I fear if she had expected to fast herself to-day she'd still be abed!" They were all lively at dinner, and they spent a lively evening, towards the end of which Bob Steele gravely went out of doors and brought in an old boat anchor, or kedge, weighing so many pounds that even he could scarcely carry it upstairs to the bed chamber which he shared with Tom and Isadore. "What are you going to do with that thing, Bobby Steele?" demanded his sister. "Going to anchor Busy Izzy to it with a rope. I bet he won't walk far in his sleep to-night," declared Bobbins. With the fishing trip in their minds, all were astir early the next morning. Miss Kate had agreed to go with them, for Mercy believed that she could stand the trip, as the sea was again calm. She could remain in the cabin of the motor boat while the others were fishing off the rocks for tautog and rock-bass. The boys all had poles; but the girls said they would be content to cast their lines from the rock and hope for nibbles from the elusive blackfish. The _Miraflame_ was a roomy craft and well furnished. When they started at nine o'clock the party numbered eleven, besides the boatman and his assistant. To the surprise of Ruth--and it was remarked in whispers by the other girls, too--Phineas, the boatkeeper, had chosen Jack Crab to assist him in the management of the motor boat. "Jack doesn't have to be at the light till dark. The old lady gets along all right alone," explained Phineas. "And it ain't many of these longshoremen who know how to handle a motor. Jack's used to machinery." He seemed to feel that it was necessary to excuse himself for hiring the hairy man. But Heavy only said: "Well, as long as he behaves himself I don't care. But I didn't suppose you liked the fellow, Phin." "I don't. It was Hobson's choice, Miss," returned the sailor. Phineas, the girls found, was a very pleasant and entertaining man. And he knew all about fishing. He had supplied the bait for tautog, and the girls and boys of the party, all having lived inland, learned many things that they hadn't known before. "Look at this!" cried Madge Steele, the first to discover a miracle. "He says this bait for tautog is scallops! Now, that quivering, jelly-like body is never a scallop. Why, a scallop is a firm, white lump----" "It's a mussel," said Heavy, laughing. "It's only the 'eye' of the scallop you eat, Miss," explained Phineas. "Now I know just as much as I did before," declared Madge. "So I eat a scallop's _eye_, do I? We had them for breakfast this very morning--with bacon." "So you did, Miss. I raked 'em up myself yesterday afternoon," explained Phineas. "You eat the 'eye,' but these are the bodies, and they are the reg'lar natural food of the tautog, or blackfish." "The edible part of the scallop is that muscle which adheres to the shell--just like the muscle that holds the clam to its shell," said Heavy, who, having spent several summers at the shore, was better informed than her friends. Phineas showed the girls how to bait their hooks with the soft bodies of the scallop, warning them to cover the point of the hooks well, and to pull quickly if they felt the least nibble. "The tautog is a small-mouthed fish--smaller, even, than the bass the boys are going to cast for. So, when he touches the hook at all, you want to grab him." "Does it _hurt_ the fish to be caught?" asked Helen, curiously. Phineas grinned. "I never axed 'em, ma'am," he said. The _Miraflame_ carried them swiftly down the cove, or harbor, of Sokennet and out past the light. The sea was comparatively calm, but the surf roared against the rocks which hedged in the sand dunes north of the harbor's mouth. It was in this direction that Phineas steered the launch, and for ten miles the craft spun along at a pace that delighted the whole party. "We're just skimming the water!" cried Tom Cameron. "Oh, Nell! I'm going to coax father till he buys one for us to use on the Lumano." "I'll help tease," agreed his twin, her eyes sparkling. Nita, the runaway, looked from brother to sister with sudden interest. "Does your father give you everything you ask him for?" she demanded. "Not much!" cried Tom. "But dear old dad is pretty easy with us and--Mrs. Murchiston says--gives in to us too much." "But, does he buy you such things as boats--right out--for you just to play with?" "Why, of course!" cried Tom. "And I couldn't even have a piano," muttered Nita, turning away with a shrug. "I told him he was a mean old hunks!" "Whom did you say that to?" asked Ruth, quietly. "Never you mind!" returned Nita, angrily. "But that's what he is." Ruth treasured these observations of the runaway. She was piecing them together, and although as yet it was a very patched bit of work, she was slowly getting a better idea of who Nita was and her home surroundings. Finally the _Miraflame_ ran in between a sheltering arm of rock and the mainland. The sea was very still in here, the heave and surge of the water only murmuring among the rocks. There was an old fishing dock at which the motor boat was moored. Then everybody went ashore and Phineas and Jack Crab pointed out the best fishing places along the rocks. These were very rugged ledges, and the water sucked in among them, and hissed, and chuckled, and made all sorts of gurgling sounds while the tide rose. There were small caves and little coves and all manner of odd hiding places in the rocks. But the girls and boys were too much interested in the proposed fishing to bother about anything else just then. Phineas placed Ruth on the side of a round-topped boulder, where she stood on a very narrow ledge, with a deep green pool at her feet. She was hidden from the other fishers--even from the boys, who clambered around to the tiny cape that sheltered the basin into which the motor boat had been run, and from the point of which they expected to cast for bass. "Now, Miss," said the boatkeeper, "down at the bottom of this still pool Mr. Tautog is feeding on the rocks. Drop your baited hook down gently to him. And if he nibbles, pull sharply at first, and then, with a stead, hand-over-hand motion, draw him in." Ruth was quite excited; but once she saw Nita and the man, Crab, walking farther along the rocks, and Ruth wondered that the fellow was so attentive to the runaway. But this was merely a passing thought. Her mind returned to the line she watched. She pulled it up after a long while; the hook was bare. Either Mr. Tautog had been very, very careful when he nibbled the bait, or the said bait had slipped off. It was not easy to make the jelly-like body of the scallop remain on the hook. But Ruth was as anxious to catch a fish as the other girls, and she had watched Phineas with sharp and eager eyes when he baited the hook. Ruth dropped it over the edge of the rock again after a minute. It sank down, down, down----Was that a nibble? She felt the faintest sort of a jerk on the line. Surely something was at the bait! Again the jerk. Ruth returned the compliment by giving the line a prompt tug. Instantly she knew that she had hooked him! "Oh! _oh!_ OH!" she gasped, in a rising scale of delight and excitement. She pulled in on the line. The fish was heavy, and he tried to pull his way, too. The blackfish is not much of a fighter, but he can sag back and do his obstinate best to remain in the water when the fisher is determined to get him out. This fellow weighed two pounds and a half and was well hooked. Ruth, her cheeks glowing, her eyes dancing, hauled in, and in, and in----There he came out of the water, a plump, glistening body, that flapped and floundered in the air, and on the ledge at her feet. She desired mightily to cry out; but Phineas had warned them all to be still while they fished. Their voices might scare all the fish away. She unhooked it beautifully, seizing it firmly in the gills. Phineas had shown her where to lay any she might catch in a little cradle in the rock behind her. It was a damp little hollow, and Mr. Tautog could not flop out into the sea again. Oh! it was fun to bait the hook once more with trembling fingers, and heave the weighted line over the edge of the narrow ledge on which she stood. There might be another--perhaps even a bigger one--waiting down there to seize upon the bait. And just then Mary Cox, her hair tousled and a distressfully discontented expression on her face, came around the corner of the big boulder. "Oh! Hullo!" she said, discourteously. "You here?" "Sh!" whispered Ruth, intent on the line and the pool of green water. "What's the matter with you?" snapped The Fox. "Don't say you've got a bite! I'm sick of hearing them say it over there----" "I've caught one," said Ruth, with pride, pointing to the glistening tautog lying on the rock. "Oh! Of course, 'twould be you who got it," snarled Mary. "I bet he gave you the best place." "_Please_ keep still!" begged Ruth. "I believe I've got another bite." "Have a dozen for all I care," returned Mary. "I want to get past you." "Wait! I feel a nibble----" But Mary pushed rudely by. She took the inside of the path, of course. The ledge was very narrow, and Ruth was stooping over the deep pool, breathlessly watching the line. With a half-stifled scream Ruth fell forward, flinging out both hands. Mary clutched at her--she _did_ try to save her. But she was not quick enough. Ruth dropped like a plummet and the green water closed over her with scarcely a splash. Mary did not cry out. She was speechless with fear, and stood with clasped hands, motionless, upon the path. "She can swim! she can swim!" was the thought that shuttled back and forth in The Fox's brain. But moment after moment passed and Ruth did not come to the surface. The pool was as calm as before, save for the vanishing rings that broke against the surrounding rocks. Mary held her breath. She began to feel as though it were a dream, and that her school companion had not really fallen into the pool. It must be an hallucination, for Ruth did not come to the surface again! CHAPTER XV TOM CAMERON TO THE RESCUE The three boys were on the other side of the narrow inlet where the _Miraflame_ lay. Phineas had told them that bass were more likely to be found upon the ocean side; therefore they were completely out of sight. The last Tom, Bob and Isadora saw of the girls, the fishermen were placing them along the rocky path, and Mercy was lying in a deck chair on the deck of the launch, fluttering a handkerchief at them as they went around the end of the reef. "I bet they don't get a fish," giggled Isadore. "And even Miss Kate's got a line! What do girls know about fishing?" "If there's any tautog over there, I bet Helen and Ruth get 'em. They're all right in any game," declared the loyal Tom. "Madge will squeal and want somebody to take the fish off her hook, if she does catch one," grinned Bob. "She puts on lots of airs because she's the oldest; but she's a regular 'scare-cat,' after all." "Helen and Ruth are good fellows," returned Tom, with emphasis. "They're quite as good fun as the ordinary boy--of course, not you, Bobbins, or Busy Izzy here; but they are all right." "What do you think of that Nita girl?" asked Busy Izzy, suddenly. "I believe there's something to her," declared Bob, with conviction. "She ain't afraid of a living thing, I bet!" "There is something queer about her," Tom added, thoughtfully. "Have you noticed how that Crab fellow looks at her?" "I see he hangs about her a good bit," said Isadore, quickly. "Why, do you suppose?" "That's what I'd like to know," returned Tom Cameron. They were now where Phineas had told them bass might be caught, and gave their attention to their tackle. All three boys had fished for perch, pike, and other gamey fresh-water fish; but this was their first casting with a rod into salt water. "A true disciple of Izaak Walton should be dumb," declared Tom, warningly eyeing Isadore. "Isn't he allowed any leeway at all--not even when he lands a fish?" demanded the irrepressible. "Not above a whisper," grunted Bob Steele, trying to bait his hook with his thumb instead of the bait provided by Phineas. "Jingo!" "Old Bobbins has got the first bite," chuckled Tom, under his breath, as he made his cast. The reel whirred and the hook fell with a light splash into a little eddy where the water seemed to swirl about a sunken rock. "You won't catch anything there," said Isadore. "I'll gag you if you don't shut up," promised Tom. Suddenly his line straightened out. The hook seemed to be sucked right down into a hole between the rocks, and the reel began to whir. It stopped and Tom tried it. "Pshaw! that ain't a bite," whispered Isadore. At Tom's first attempt to reel in, the fish that had seized his hook started--for Spain! At least, it shot seaward, and the boy knew that Spain was about the nearest dry land if the fish kept on in that direction. "A strike!" Tom gasped and let his reel sing for a moment or two. Then, when the drag of the line began to tell on the bass, he carefully wound in some of it. The fish turned and finally ran toward the rocks once more. Then Tom wound up as fast as he could, trying to keep the line taut. "He'll tangle you all up, Tommy," declared Bob, unable, like Isadore, to keep entirely still. Tom was flushed and excited, but said never a word. He played the big bass with coolness after all, and finally tired it out, keeping it clear of the tangles of weed down under the rock, and drew it forth--a plump, flopping, gasping victim. Bob and Isadore were then eager to do as well and began whipping the water about the rocks with more energy than skill. Tom, delighted with his first kill, ran over the rocks with the fish to show it to the girls. As he surmounted the ridge of the rocky cape he suddenly saw Nita, the runaway, and Jack Crab, in a little cove right below him. The girl and the fisherman had come around to this side of the inlet, away from Phineas and the other girls. They did not see Tom behind and above them. Nita was not fishing, and Crab had unfolded a paper and was showing it to her. At this distance the paper seemed like a page torn from some newspaper, and there were illustrations as well as reading text upon the sheet which Crab held before the strange girl's eyes. "There it is!" Tom heard the lighthouse keeper's assistant say, in an exultant tone. "You know what I could get if I wanted to show this to the right parties. _Now_, what d'ye think of it, Sissy?" What Nita thought, or what she said, Tom did not hear. Indeed, scarcely had the two come into his line of vision, and he heard these words, when something much farther away--across the inlet, in fact--caught the boy's attention. He could see his sister and some of the other girls fishing from the rocky path; but directly opposite where he stood was Ruth. He saw Mary Cox meet and speak with her, the slight struggle of the two girls for position on the narrow ledge, and Ruth's plunge into the water. "Oh, by George!" shouted Tom, as Ruth went under, and he dropped the flopping bass and went down the rocks at a pace which endangered both life and limb. His shout startled Nita and Jack Crab. But they had not seen Ruth fall, nor did they understand Tom's great excitement. The inlet was scarcely more than a hundred yards across; but it was a long way around to the spot where Ruth had fallen, or been pushed, from the rock. Tom never thought of going the long way to the place. He tore off his coat, kicked off his canvas shoes, and, reaching the edge of the water, dived in head first without a word of explanation to the man and girl beside him. He dived slantingly, and swam under water for a long way. When he came up he was a quarter of the distance across the inlet. He shook the water from his eyes, threw himself breast high out of the sea, and shouted: "Has she come up? I don't see her!" Nobody but Mary Cox knew what he meant. Helen and the other girls were screaming because they had seen Tom fling himself into the sea but they had not seen Ruth fall in. Nor did Mary Cox find voice enough to tell them when they ran along the ledge to try and see what Tom was swimming for. The Fox stood with glaring eyes, trying to see into the deep pool. But the pool remain unruffled and Ruth did not rise to the surface. "Has she come up?" again shouted Tom, rising as high as he could in the water, and swimming with an overhand stroke. There seemed nobody to answer him; they did not know what he meant. The boy shot through the water like a fish. Coming near the rock, he rose up with a sudden muscular effort, then dived deep. The green water closed over him and, when Helen and the others reached the spot where Mary Cox stood, wringing her hands and moaning, Tom had disappeared as utterly as Ruth herself. CHAPTER XVI RUTH'S SECRET "What has happened?" "Where's Ruth?" "Mary Cox! why don't you answer?" The Fox for once in her career was stunned. She could only shake her head and wring her hands. Helen was the first of the other girls to suspect the trouble, and she cried: "Ruth's overboard! That's the reason Tom has gone in. Oh, oh! why don't they come up again?" And almost immediately all the others saw the importance of that question. Ruth Fielding had been down fully a minute and a half now, and Tom had not come up once for air. Nita had set off running around the head of the inlet, and Crab shuffled along in her wake. The strange girl ran like a goat over the rocks. Phineas, who had been aboard the motor boat and busy with his famous culinary operations, now came lumbering up to the spot. He listened to a chorused explanation of the situation--tragic indeed in its appearance. Phineas looked up and down the rocky path, and across the inlet, and seemed to swiftly take a marine "observation." Then he snorted. "They're all right!" he exclaimed. "_What?_" shrieked Helen. "All right?" repeated Heavy. "Why, Phineas----" She broke off with a startled gurgle. Phineas turned quickly, too, and looked over the high boulder. There appeared the head of Ruth Fielding and, in a moment, the head of Tom Cameron beside it. "You both was swept through the tunnel into the pool behind, sir," said Phineas, wagging his head. "Oh, I was never so scared in my life," murmured Ruth, clambering down to the path, the water running from her clothing in little streams. "Me, too!" grunted Tom, panting. "The tide sets in through that hole awfully strong." "I might have told you about it," grunted Phineas; "but I didn't suppose airy one of ye was going for to jump into the sea right here." "We didn't--intentionally," declared Ruth. "How ever did it happen, Ruthie?" demanded Heavy. There was a moment's silence. Tom grew red in the face, but he kept his gaze turned from Mary Cox. Ruth answered calmly enough: "It was my own fault. Mary was just coming along to pass me. I had a bite. Between trying to let her by and 'tending my fish,' I fell in--and now I have lost fish, line, and all." "Be thankful you did not lose your life, Miss Fielding," said Aunt Kate. "Come right down to the boat and get those wet things off. You, too, Tom." At that moment Nita came to the spot. "Is she safe? Is she safe?" she cried. "Don't I look so?" returned Ruth, laughing gaily. "And here's the fish I _did_ catch. I mustn't lose him." Nita stepped close to the girl from the Red Mill and tugged at her wet sleeve. "What are you going to do to her?" she whispered. "Do to who?" "That girl." "What are you talking about?" demanded Ruth. "I saw her," said Nita. "I saw her push you. She ought to be thrown into the water herself." "Hush!" commanded Ruth. "You're mistaken. You didn't see straight, my dear." "Yes, I did," declared the Western girl, firmly. "She's been mean to you, right along. I've noticed it. She threw you in." "Don't say such a thing again!" commanded Ruth, warmly. "You have no right." "Huh!" said Nita, eyeing her strangely. "It's your own business, I suppose. But I am not blind." "I hope not," sad Ruth, calmly. "But I hope, too, you will not repeat what you just said--to anyone." "Why--if you really don't want me to," said Nita, slowly. "Truly, I don't wish you to," said Ruth, earnestly. "I don't even admit that you are right, mind----" "Oh, it's your secret," said Nita, shortly, and turned away. And Ruth had a word to say to Tom, too, as they hurried side by side to the boat, he carrying the fish. "Now, Tommy--remember!" she said. "I won't be easy in my mind, just the same, while that girl is here," growled Master Tom. "That's foolish. She never meant to do it." "Huh! She was scared, of course. But she's mean enough----" "Stop! somebody will hear you. And, anyway," Ruth added, remembering what Nita had said, "it's _my_ secret." "True enough; it is." "Then don't tell it, Tommy," she added, with a laugh. But it was hard to meet the sharp eye of Mercy Curtis and keep the secret. "And pray, Miss, why did you have to go into the water after the fish?" Mercy demanded. "I was afraid he would get away," laughed Ruth. "And who helped you do it?" snapped the lame girl. "Helped me do what?" "Helped you tumble in." "Now, do you suppose I needed help to do so silly a thing as that?" cried Ruth. "You needed help to do it the other day on the steamboat," returned Mercy, slily. "And I saw The Fox following you around that way." "Why, what nonsense you talk, Mercy Curtis!" But Ruth wondered if Mercy was to be so easily put off. The lame girl was so very sharp. However, Ruth was determined to keep her secret. Not a word had she said to Mary Cox. Indeed, she had not looked at her since she climbed out of the open pool behind the boulder and, well-nigh breathless, reached the rock after that perilous plunge. Tom she had sworn to silence, Nita she had warned to be still, and now Mercy's suspicions were to be routed. "Poor, poor girl!" muttered Ruth, with more sorrow than anger. "If she is not sorry and afraid yet, how will she feel when she awakes in the night and remembers what might have been?" Nevertheless, the girl from the Red Mill did not allow her secret to disturb her cheerfulness. She hid any feeling she might have had against The Fox. When they all met at dinner on the _Miraflame_, she merely laughed and joked about her accident, and passed around dainty bits of the baked tautog that Phineas had prepared especially for her. That fisherman's chowder was a marvel, and altogether he proved to be as good a cook as Heavy had declared. The boys had caught several bass, and they caught more after dinner. But those were saved to take home. The girls, however, had had enough fishing. Ruth's experience frightened them away from the slippery rocks. Mary Cox was certainly a very strange sort of a girl; but her present attitude did not surprise Ruth. Mary had, soon after Ruth entered Briarwood Hall, taken a dislike to the younger girl. Ruth's new club--the Sweetbriars--had drawn almost all the new girls in the school, as well as many of Mary's particular friends; while the Up and Doing Club, of which Mary was the leading spirit, was not alone frowned upon by Mrs. Tellingham and her assistants, but lost members until--as Helen Cameron had said--the last meeting of the Upedes consisted of The Fox and Helen herself. The former laid all this at Ruth Fielding's door. She saw Ruth's influence and her club increase, while her own friends fell away from her. Twice Ruth had helped to save Mary from drowning, and on neither occasion did the older girl seem in the least grateful. Now Ruth was saving her from the scorn of the other girls and--perhaps--a request from Heavy's Aunt Kate that Mary pack her bag and return home. Ruth hoped that Mary would find some opportunity of speaking to her alone before the day was over. But, even when the boys returned from the outer rocks with a splendid string of bass, and the bow of the _Miraflame_ was turned homeward, The Fox said never a word to her. Ruth crept away into the bows by herself, her mind much troubled. She feared that the fortnight at Lighthouse Point might become very unpleasant, if Mary continued to be so very disagreeable. Suddenly somebody tapped her on the arm. The motor boat was pushing toward the mouth of Sokennet Harbor and the sun was well down toward the horizon. The girls were in the cabin, singing, and Madge was trying to make her brother sing, too; but Bob's voice was changing and what he did to the notes of the familiar tunes was a caution. But it was Tom Cameron who had come to Ruth. "See here," said the boy, eagerly. "See what I picked up on the rocks over there." "Over where?" asked Ruth, looking curiously at the folded paper in Tom's hand. "Across from where you fell in, Ruth. Nita and that Crab fellow were standing there when I went down the rocks and dived in for you. And I saw them looking at this sheet of newspaper," and Tom began to slowly unfold it as he spoke. CHAPTER XVII WHAT WAS IN THE NEWSPAPER "Whatever have you got there, Tom?" asked Ruth, curiously. "Hush! I reckon Crab lost it when you fell in the water and stirred us all up so," returned the boy, with a grin. "Lost that paper?" "Yes. You see, it's a page torn from the Sunday edition of a New York daily. On this side is a story of some professor's discoveries in ancient Babylon." "Couldn't have interested Jack Crab much," remarked Ruth, smiling. "That's what I said myself," declared Tom, hastily. "Therefore, I turned it over. And _this_ is what Crab was showing that Nita girl, I am sure." Ruth looked at the illustrated sheet that Tom spread before her. There was a girl on a very spirited cow pony, swinging a lariat, the loop of which was about to settle over the broadly spreading horns of a Texas steer. The girl was dressed in a very fancy "cow-girl" costume, and the picture was most spirited indeed. In one corner, too, was a reproduction of a photograph of the girl described in the newspaper article. "Why! it doesn't look anything like Nita," gasped Ruth, understanding immediately why Tom had brought the paper to her. "Nope. You needn't expect it to. Those papers use any old photograph to make illustrations from. But read the story." It was all about the niece of a very rich cattle man in Montana who had run away from the ranch on which she had lived all her life. It was called Silver Ranch, and was a very noted cattle range in that part of the West. The girl's uncle raised both horses and cattle, was very wealthy, had given her what attention a single man could in such a situation, and was now having a countrywide search made for the runaway. "Jane Ann Hicks Has Run Away From a Fortune" was the way the paper put it in a big "scare head" across the top of the page; and the text went on to tell of rough Bill Hicks, of Bullhide, and how he had begun in the early cattle days as a puncher himself and had now risen to the sole proprietorship of Silver Ranch. "Bill's one possession besides his cattle and horses that he took any joy in was his younger brother's daughter, Jane Ann. She is an orphan and came to Bill and he has taken sole care of her (for a woman has never been at Silver Ranch, save Indian squaws and a Mexican cook woman) since she could creep. Jane Ann is certainly the apple of Old Bill's eye. "But, as Old Bill has told the Bullhide chief of police, who is sending the pictures and description of the lost girl all over the country, 'Jane Ann got some powerful hifalutin' notions.' She is now a well-grown girl, smart as a whip, pretty, afraid of nothing on four legs, and just as ignorant as a girl brought up in such an environment would be. Jane Ann has been reading novels, perhaps. As the Eastern youth used to fill up on cheap stories of the Far West, and start for that wild and woolly section with the intention of wiping from the face of Nature the last remnant of the Red Tribes, so it may be that Jane Ann Hicks has read of the Eastern millionaire and has started for the Atlantic seaboard for the purpose of lassoing one--or more--of those elusive creatures. "However, Old Bill wants Jane Ann to come home. Silver Ranch will be hers some day, when Old Bill passes over the Great Divide, and he believes that if she is to be Montana's coming Cattle Queen his niece would better not know too much about the effete East." And in this style the newspaper writer had spread before his readers a semi-humorous account (perhaps fictitious) of the daily life of the missing heiress of Silver Ranch, her rides over the prairies and hills on half-wild ponies, the round-ups, calf-brandings, horse-breakings, and all other activities supposed to be part and parcel of ranch life. "My goodness me!" gasped Ruth, when she had hastily scanned all this, "do you suppose that any sane girl would have run away from all that for just a foolish whim?" "Just what I say," returned Tom. "Cracky! wouldn't it be great to ride over that range, and help herd the cattle, and trail wild horses, and--and----" "Well, that's just what one girl got sick of, it seems," finished Ruth, her eyes dancing. "Now! whether this same girl is the one we know----" "I bet she is," declared Tom. "Betting isn't proof, you know," returned Ruth, demurely. "No. But Jane Ann Hicks is this young lady who wants to be called 'Nita'--Oh, glory! what a name!" "If it is so," Ruth rejoined, slowly, "I don't so much wonder that she wanted a fancy name. 'Jane Ann Hicks'! It sounds ugly; but an ugly name can stand for a truly beautiful character." "That fact doesn't appeal to this runaway girl, I guess," said Tom. "But the question is: What shall we do about it?" "I don't know as we can do anything about it," Ruth said, slowly. "Of course we don't know that this Hicks girl and Nita are the same." "What was Crab showing her the paper for?" "What can Crab have to do with it, anyway?" returned Ruth, although she had not forgotten the interest the assistant lighthouse keeper had shown in Nita from the first. "Don't know. But if he recognized her----" "From the picture?" asked Ruth. "Well! you look at it. That drawing of the girl on horseback looks more like her than the photographic half-tone," said Tom. "She looks just that wild and harum-scarum!" Ruth laughed. "There _is_ a resemblance," she admitted. "But I don't understand why Crab should have any interest in the girl, anyway." "Neither do I. Let's keep still about it. Of course, we'll tell Nell," said Tom. "But nobody else. If that old ranchman is her uncle he ought to be told where she is." "Maybe she was not happy with him, after all," said Ruth, thoughtfully. "My goodness!" Tom cried, preparing to go back to the other boys who were calling him. "I don't see how anybody could be unhappy under such conditions." "That's all very well for a boy," returned the girl, with a superior air. "But think! she had no girls to associate with, and the only women were squaws and a Mexican cook!" Ruth watched Nita, but did not see the assistant lighthouse keeper speak to the runaway during the passage home, and from the dock to the bungalow Ruth walked by Nita's side. She was tempted to show the page of the newspaper to the other girl, but hesitated. What if Nita really _was_ Jane Hicks? Ruth asked herself how _she_ would feel if she were burdened with that practical but unromantic name, and had to live on a lonely cattle ranch without a girl to speak to. "Maybe I'd run away myself," thought Ruth. "I was almost tempted to run away from Uncle Jabez when I first went to live at the Red Mill." She had come to pity the strange girl since reading about the one who had run away from Silver Ranch. Whether Nita had any connection with the newspaper article or not, Ruth had begun to see that there might be situations which a girl couldn't stand another hour, and from which she was fairly forced to flee. The fishing party arrived home in a very gay mood, despite the incident of Ruth's involuntary bath. Mary Cox kept away from the victim of the accident and when the others chaffed Ruth, and asked her how she came to topple over the rock, The Fox did not even change color. Tom scolded in secret to Ruth about Mary. "She ought to be sent home. I'll not feel that you're safe any time she is in your company. I've a mind to tell Miss Kate Stone," he said. "I'll be dreadfully angry if you do such a thing, Tom," Ruth assured him, and that promise was sufficient to keep the boy quiet. They were all tired and not even Helen objected when bed was proposed that night. In fact, Heavy went to sleep in her chair, and they had a dreadful time waking her up and keeping her awake long enough for her to undress, say her prayers, and get into bed. In the other girls' room Ruth and her companions spent little time in talking or frolicking. Nita had begged to sleep with Mercy, with whom she had spent considerable time that day and evening; and the lame girl and the runaway were apparently both asleep before Ruth and Helen got settled for the night. Then Helen dropped asleep between yawns and Ruth found herself lying wide-awake, staring at the faintly illuminated ceiling. Of a sudden, sleep had fled from her eyelids. The happenings of the day, the mystery of Nita, the meanness of Mary Cox, her own trouble at the mill, the impossibility of her going to Briarwood next term unless she found some way of raising money for her tuition and board, and many, many other thoughts, trooped through Ruth Fielding's mind for more than an hour. Mostly the troublesome thoughts were of her poverty and the seeming impossibility of her ever discovering any way to earn such a quantity of money as three hundred and fifty dollars. Her chum, lying asleep beside her, did not dream of this problem that continually troubled Ruth's mind. The clock down stairs tolled eleven solemn strokes. Ruth did not move. She might have been sound asleep, save for her open eyes, their gaze fixed upon the ceiling. Suddenly a beam of light flashed in at one window, swinging from right to left, like the blade of a phantom scythe, and back again. Ruth did not move, but the beam of light took her attention immediately from her former thoughts. Again and once again the flash of light was repeated. Then she suddenly realized what it was. Somebody was walking down the path toward the private dock, swinging a lantern. She would have given it no further thought had not a door latch clicked. Whether it was the latch of her room, or another of the bedrooms on this floor of the bungalow, Ruth could not tell. But in a moment she heard the balustrade of the stair creak. "It's Izzy again!" thought Ruth, sitting up in bed. "He's walking in his sleep. The boys did not tie him." She crept out of bed softly so as not to awaken Helen or the other girls and went to the door. When she opened it and peered out, there was no ghostly figure "tight-roping it" on the balustrade. But she heard a sound below--in the lower hall. Somebody was fumbling with the chain of the front door. "He's going out! I declare, he's going out!" thought Ruth and sped to the window. She heard the jar of the big front door as it was opened, and then pulled shut again. She heard no step on the porch, but a figure soon fluttered down the steps. It was not Isadore Phelps, however. Ruth knew that at first glance. Indeed, it was not a boy who started away from the house, running on the grass beside the graveled walk. Ruth turned back hastily and looked at the other bed--at Mercy's bed. The place beside the lame girl was empty. Nita had disappeared! CHAPTER XVIII ANOTHER NIGHT ADVENTURE Ruth was startled, to say the least, by the discovery that Nita was absent. And how softly the runaway girl must have crept out of bed and out of the room for Ruth--who had been awake--not to hear her! "She certainly is a sly little thing!" gasped Ruth. But as she turned back to see what had become of the figure running beside the path, the lantern light was flashed into her eyes. Again the beam was shot through the window and danced for a moment on the wall and ceiling. "It is a signal!" thought Ruth. "There's somebody outside besides Nita--somebody who wishes to communicate with her." Even as she realized this she saw the lantern flash from the dock. That was where it had been all the time. It was a dark-lantern, and its ray had been intentionally shot into the window of their room. The figure she had seen steal away from the bungalow had now disappeared. If it was Nita--as Ruth believed--the strange girl might be hiding in the shadow of the boathouse. However, the girl from the Red Mill did not stand idly at the window for long. It came to her that somebody ought to know what was going on. Her first thought was that Nita was bent on running away from her new friends--although, as as far as any restraint was put upon her, she might have walked away at any time. "But she ought not to go off like this," thought Ruth, hurrying into her own garments. By the faint light that came from outside she could see to dress; and she saw, too, that Nita's clothing had disappeared. "Why, the girl must have dressed," thought Ruth, in wonder. "How could she have done it with me lying here awake?" Meanwhile, her own fingers were busy and in two minutes from the time she had turned from the window, she opened the hall door again and tiptoed out. The house was perfectly still, save for the ticking of the big clock. She sped down the stairway, and as she passed the glimmering face of the time-keeper she glanced at it and saw that the minute hand was just eight minutes past the hour. In a closet under the stairs were the girls' outside garments, and hats. She found somebody's tam-o'-shanter and her own sweater-coat, and slipped both on in a hurry. When she opened the door the chill, salt air, with not a little fog in it, breathed into the close hall. She stepped out, pulled the door to and latched it, and crossed the porch. The harbor seemed deserted. Two or three night lights sparkled over on the village side. What vessels rode at anchor showed no lights at their moorings. But the great, steady, yellow light of the beacon on the point shone steadily--a wonderfully comforting sight, Ruth thought, at this hour of the night. There were no more flashes of lantern light from the dock. Nor did she hear a sound from that direction as she passed out through the trimly cut privet hedge and took the shell walk to the boathouse. She was in canvas shoes and her step made no sound. In a moment or two she was in the shadow again. Then she heard voices--soft, but earnest tones--and knew that two people were talking out there toward the end of the dock. One was a deep voice; the other might be Nita's--at least, it was a feminine voice. "Who under the sun can she have come here to meet?" wondered Ruth, anxiously. "Not one of the boys. This can't be merely a lark of some kind----" Something scraped and squeaked--a sound that shattered the silence of the late evening completely. A dog instantly barked back of the the bungalow, in the kennels. Other dogs on the far shore of the cove replied. A sleep-walking rooster began to crow clamorously, believing that it was already growing day. The creaking stopped in a minute, and Ruth heard a faint splash. The voices had ceased. "What can it mean?" thought the anxious girl. She could remain idle there behind the boathouse no longer. She crept forth upon the dock to reconnoiter. There seemed to be nobody there. And then, suddenly, she saw that the catboat belonging to Mr. Stone's little fleet--the "_Jennie S._" it was called, named for Heavy herself--was some distance from her moorings. The breeze was very light; but the sail was raised and had filled, and the catboat was drifting quite rapidly out beyond the end of the dock. It was so dark in the cockpit that Ruth could not distinguish whether there were one or two figures aboard, or who they were; but she realized that somebody was off on a midnight cruise. "And without saying a word about it!" gasped Ruth. "Could it be, after all, one of the boys and Nita? Are they doing this just for the fun of it?" Yet the heavy voice she had heard did not sound like that of either of the three boys at the bungalow. Not even Bob Steele, when his unfortunate voice was pitched in its very lowest key, could rumble like this voice. The girl of the Red Mill was both troubled and frightened. Suppose Nita and her companion should be wrecked in the catboat? She did not believe that the runaway girl knew anything about working a sailboat. And who was her companion on this midnight escapade? Was he one of the longshoremen? Suddenly she thought of Jack Crab. But Crab was supposed to be at the lighthouse at this hour; wasn't he? She could not remember what she had heard about the lighthouse keeper's assistant. Nor could Ruth decide at once whether to go back to the house and give the alarm, or not. Had she known where Phineas, the boatkeeper, lodged, she would certainly have tried to awaken him. He ought to be told that one of the boats was being used--and, of course, without permission. The sail of the catboat drifted out of sight while she stood there undecided. She could not pursue the _Jennie S._ Had she known where Phineas was, they might have gone after the catboat in the _Miraflame;_ but otherwise Ruth saw no possibility of tracking the two people who had borrowed the _Jennie S._ Nor was she sure that it was desirable to go in, awaken the household, and report the disappearance of Nita. The cruise by night might be a very innocent affair. "And then again," murmured Ruth, "there may be something in it deeper than I can see. We do not really know who this Nita is. That piece in the paper may not refer to her at all. Suppose, instead of having run away from a rich uncle and a big cattle ranch, Nita comes from bad people? Mrs. Kirby and the captain knew nothing about her. It may be that some of Nita's bad friends have followed her here, and they may mean to rob the Stones! "Goodness! that's a very bad thought," muttered Ruth, shaking her head. "I ought not to suspect the girl of anything like that. Although she is so secret, and so rough of speech, she doesn't seem to be a girl who has lived with really bad people." Ruth could not satisfy herself that it would be either right or wise to go in and awaken Miss Kate, or even the butler. But she could not bring herself to the point of going to bed, either, while Nita was out on the water. She couldn't think of sleep, anyway. Not until the catboat came back to the dock did she move out of the shadow of the boathouse. And it was long past one o'clock when this occurred. The breeze had freshened, and the _Jennie S._ had to tack several times before the boatman made the moorings. The starlight gave such slight illumination that Ruth could not see who was in the boat. The sail was dropped, the boat moored, and then, after a bit, she heard a heavy step upon the dock. Only one person came toward her. Ruth peered anxiously out of the shadow. A man slouched along the dock and reached the shell road. He turned east, moving away toward the lighthouse. It was Jack Crab. "And Nita is not with him!" gasped Ruth. "What has he done with her? Where has he taken her in the boat? What does it mean?" She dared not run after Crab and ask him. She was really afraid of the man. His secret communication with Nita was no matter to be blurted out to everybody, she was sure. Nita had gone to meet him of her own free will. She was not obliged to sail away with Crab in the catboat. Naturally, the supposition was that she had decided to remain away from the bungalow of her own intention, too. "It is not my secret," thought Ruth. "She was merely a visitor here. Miss Kate, even, had no command over her actions. She is not responsible for Nita--none of us is responsible. "I only hope she won't get into any trouble through that horrid Jack Crab. And it seems so ungrateful for Nita to walk out of the house without saying a word to Heavy and Miss Kate. "I'd best keep my own mouth shut, however, and let things take their course. Nita wanted to go away, or she would not have done so. She seemed to have no fear of Jack Crab; otherwise she would not have met him at night and gone away with him. "Ruth Fielding! you mind your own business," argued the girl of the Red Mill, finally going back toward the silent house. "At least, wait until we see what comes of this before you tell everything you know." And so deciding, she crept into the house, locked the door again, got into her room without disturbing any of the other girls, and so to bed and finally to sleep, being little the wiser for her midnight escapade. CHAPTER XIX THE GOBLINS' GAMBOL Helen awoke Ruth in the morning with the question that was bound to echo and re-echo through the bungalow for that, and subsequent days: "Where is Nita?" Ruth could truthfully answer: "I do not know." Nor did anybody else know, or suspect, or imagine. What had happened in the night was known only to Ruth and she had determined not to say a word concerning it unless she should be pointedly examined by Miss Kate, or somebody else in authority. Nobody else had heard or seen Nita leave the bungalow. Indeed, nobody had heard Ruth get up and go out, either. The catboat rocked at its moorings, and there was no trace of how Nita had departed. As to _why_ she had gone so secretly--well, that was another matter. They were all of the opinion that the runaway was a very strange girl. She had gone without thanking Miss Kate or Heavy for their entertainment. She was evidently an ungrateful girl. These opinions were expressed by the bulk of the party at the bungalow. But Ruth and Helen and the latter's brother had their own secret about the runaway. Helen had been shown the paper Tom had found. She and Tom were convinced that Nita was really Jane Ann Hicks and that she had been frightened away by Jack Crab. Crab maybe had threatened her. On this point Ruth could not agree. But she could not explain her reason for doubting it without telling more than she wished to tell; therefore she did not insist upon her own opinion. In secret she read over again the article in the newspaper about the lost Jane Ann Hicks. Something she had not noticed before now came under her eye. It was at the end of the article--at the bottom of the last column on the page: "Old Bill certainly means to find Jane Ann if he can. He has told Chief Penhampton, of Bullhide, to spare no expense. The old man says he'll give ten good steers--or five hundred dollars in hard money--for information leading to the apprehension and return of Jane Ann. And he thinks some of starting for the East himself to hunt her up if he doesn't hear soon." "That poor old man," thought Ruth, "really loves his niece. If I was sure Nita was the girl told of here, I'd be tempted to write to Mr. Hicks myself." But there was altogether too much to do at Lighthouse Point for the young folks to spend much time worrying about Nita. Phineas said that soft-shell crabs were to be found in abundance at the mouth of the creek at the head of the cove, and that morning the boys made nets for all hands--at least, they found the poles and fastened the hoops to them, while the girls made the bags of strong netting--and after dinner the whole party trooped away (Mercy excepted) to heckle the crabs under the stones and snags where Phineas declared they would be plentiful. The girls were a bit afraid of the creatures at first, when they were shaken out of the scoops; but they soon found that the poor things couldn't bite until the new shells hardened. The boys took off their shoes and stockings and waded in, whereupon Bob suddenly began to dance and bawl and splash the water all over himself and his companions. "What under the sun's the matter with you, Bobbins?" roared Tom, backing away from his friend to escape a shower-bath. "Oh! he's got a fit!" squealed Isadore. "It's cramps!" declared Heavy, from the shore, and in great commiseration. "For pity's sake, little boy!" cried Bob's sister, "what is the matter with you now? He's the greatest child! always getting into some mess." Bob continued to dance; but he got into shoal water after a bit and there it was seen that he was doing a sort of Highland fling on one foot. The other had attached to it a big hardshell crab; and no mortgage was ever clamped upon a poor man's farm any tighter than Mr. Crab was fastened upon Bob's great toe. "Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!" repeated the big fellow, whacking away at the crab with the handle of his net. Isadore tried to aid him, and instead of hitting the crab with _his_ stick, barked Bob's ankle bone nicely. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" yelled the youth in an entirely different key. The girls were convulsed with laughter; but Tom got the big crab and the big boy apart. Bob wasn't satisfied until he had placed the hardshell between two stones and wrecked it--smashed it flat as a pancake. "There! I know that fellow will never nip another inoffensive citizen," groaned Bob, and he sat on a stone and nursed his big toe and his bruised ankle until the others were ready to go home. They got a nice mess of crabs; but Bob refused to eat any. "Never want to see even crabs _a la_ Newburgh again," he grunted. "And I don't believe that even a fried soft-shell crab is dead enough so that it can't bite a fellow!" There was a splendid smooth bit of beach beyond the dock where they bathed, and even Mercy had taken a dip that morning; but when the girls went to their bedrooms at night each girl found pinned to her nightdress a slip of paper--evidently a carbon copy of a typewritten message. It read: "THE GOBLINS' GAMBOL--You are instructed to put on your bathing suit, take a wrap, and meet for a Goblins' Gambol on the beach at ten sharp. The tide will be just right, and there is a small moon. Do not fail." The girls giggled a good deal over this. They all declared they had not written the message, or caused it to be written. There was a typewriter downstairs, Heavy admitted; but she had never used it. Anyhow, the suggestion was too tempting to refuse. At ten the girls, shrouded in their cloaks and water proofs, crept down stairs and out of the house. The door was locked, and they could not imagine who had originated this lark. The boys did not seem to be astir at all. "If Aunt Kate hears of this I expect she'll say something," chuckled Heavy. "But we've been pretty good so far. Oh, it is just warm and nice. I bet the water will be fine." They trooped down to the beach, Mercy limping along with the rest. Ruth and Helen gave her aid when she reached the sand, for her crutches hampered her there. "Come on! the water's fine!" cried Madge, running straight into the smooth sea. They were soon sporting in it, and having a great time, but keeping near the shore because the boys were not there, when suddenly Helen began to squeal--and then Madge. Those two likewise instantly disappeared beneath the water, their cries ending in articulate gurgles. "Oh! Oh!" cried Heavy. "There's somebody here! Something's got me!" She was in shallow water, and she promptly sat down. Whatever had grabbed her vented a mighty grunt, for she pinioned it for half a minute under her weight. When she could scramble up she had to rescue what she had fallen on, and it proved to be Isadore--very limp and "done up." "It's the boys," squealed Helen, coming to the surface. "Tom swam under water and caught me." "And this is that horrid Bob!" cried Madge. "What have you got there, Heavy?" "I really don't know," giggled the stout girl. "What do you think it looks like?" "My--goodness--me!" panted Busy Izzy. "I thought--it--it was Ruth! Why--why don't you look where you're sitting, Jennie Stone?" But the laugh was on Isadore and he could not turn the tables. The boys had been out to the diving float watching the girls come in. And in a minute or two Miss Kate joined them, too. It was she who had planned the moonlight dip and for half an hour they ran races on the sand, and swam, and danced, and had all sorts of queer larks. Miss Kate was about to call them out and "shoo" the whole brood into the house again when they heard a horse, driven at high speed, coming over the creek bridge. "Hullo! here comes somebody in a hurry," said Tom. "That's right. He's driving this way, not toward the railroad station," rejoined Heavy. "It's somebody from Sokennet." "Who can it be this time of night?" was her aunt's question as they waited before the gateway as the carriage wheeled closer. "There's a telegraph office, you know, at Sokennet," said Heavy, thoughtfully. "And--yes!--that's Brickman's old horse. Hullo!" "Whoa! Hullo, Miss!" exclaimed a hoarse voice. "Glad I found you up. Here's a message for you." "For me?" cried Heavy, and dripping as she was, ran out to the carriage. "Sign on this place, Miss. Here's a pencil. Thank you, Miss; it's paid for. That's the message," and he put a telegraph envelope into her hand. On the outside of the envelope was written, "Stone, Lighthouse Point." Under the lamp on the porch Heavy broke the seal and drew out the message, while the whole party stood waiting. She read it once to herself, and was evidently immensely surprised. Then she read it out loud, and her friends were just as surprised as she was: "Stone, Lighthouse Point, Sokennet.--Hold onto her. I am coming right down. "W. HICKS." CHAPTER XX "WHAR'S MY JANE ANN?" Three of Heavy's listeners knew in an instant what the telegram meant--who it was from, and who was mentioned in it--Ruth, Helen and Tom. But how, or why the telegram had been sent was as great a mystery to them as to the others; therefore their surprise was quite as unfeigned as that of the remaining girls and boys. "Why, somebody's made a mistake," said Heavy. "Such a telegram couldn't be meant for me." "And addressed only to 'Stone,'" said her aunt. "It is, of course, a mistake." "And who are we to hold on to?" laughed Mary Cox, prepared to run into the house again. "Wait!" cried Mercy, who had come leaning upon Madge's arm from the shore. "Don't you see who that message refers to?" "No!" they chorused. "To that runaway girl, of course," said the cripple. "That's plain enough, I hope." "To Nita!" gasped Heavy. "But who is it that's coming here for her? And how did 'W. Hicks' know she was here?" demanded Ruth. "Maybe Captain and Mrs. Kirby told all about her when they got to Boston. News of her, and where she was staying, got to her friends," said Mercy Curtis. "That's the 'why and wherefore' of it--believe me!" "That sounds very reasonable," admitted Aunt Kate. "The Kirbys would only know our last name and would not know how to properly address either Jennie or me. Come, now! get in on the rubber mats in your rooms and rub down well. The suits will be collected and rinsed out and hung to dry before Mammy Laura goes to bed. If any of you feel the least chill, let me know." But it was so warm and delightful a night that there was no danger of colds. The girls were so excited by the telegram and had so much to say about the mystery of Nita, the castaway, that it was midnight before any of them were asleep. However, they had figured out that the writer of the telegram, leaving New York, from which it was sent at half after eight, would be able to take a train that would bring him to Sandtown very early in the morning; and so the excited young folks were all awake by five o'clock. It was a hazy morning, but there was a good breeze from the land. Tom declared he heard the train whistle for the Sandtown station, and everybody dressed in a hurry, believing that "W. Hicks" would soon be at the bungalow. There were no public carriages at the station to meet that early train, and Miss Kate had doubted about sending anybody to meet the person who had telegraphed. In something like an hour, however, they saw a tall man, all in black, striding along the sandy road toward the house. As he came nearer he was seen to be a big-boned man, with broad shoulders, long arms, and a huge reddish mustache, the ends of which drooped almost to his collar. Such a mustache none of them had ever seen before. His black clothes would have fitted a man who weighed a good fifty pounds more than he did, and so the garments hung baggily upon him. He wore a huge, black slouched hat, with immensely broad brim. He strode immediately to the back door--that being the nearest to the road by which he came--and the boys and girls in the breakfast room crowded to the windows to see him. He looked neither to right nor left, however, but walked right into the kitchen, where they at once heard a thunderous voice demand: "Whar's my Jane Ann? Whar's my Jane Ann, I say?" Mammy Laura evidently took his appearance and demand in no good part. She began to sputter, but his heavy voice rode over hers and quenched it: "Keep still, ol' woman! I want to see your betters. Whar's my Jane Ann?" "Lawsy massy! what kine ob a man is yo'?" squealed the fat old colored woman. "T' come combustucatin' inter a pusson's kitchen in disher way----" "Be still, ol' woman!" roared the visitor again. "Whar's my Jane Ann?" The butler appeared then and took the strange visitor in hand. "Come this way, sir. Miss Kate will see you," he said, and led the big man into the front of the house. "I don't want none o' your 'Miss Kates,'" growled the stranger. "I want my Jane Ann." Heavy's little Aunt looked very dainty indeed when she appeared before this gigantic Westerner. The moment he saw her, off came his big hat, displaying a red, freckled face, and a head as bald as an egg. He was a very ugly man, saving when he smiled; then innumerable humorous wrinkles appeared about his eyes and the pale blue eyes themselves twinkled confidingly. "Your sarvent, ma'am," he said. "Your name Stone?" "It is, sir. I presume you are 'W. Hicks'?" she said. "That's me--Bill Hicks. Bill Hicks, of Bullhide, Montanny." "I hope you have not come here, Mr. Hicks, to be disappointed. But I must tell you at the start," said Miss Kate, "that I never heard of you before _I_ received your very remarkable telegram." "Huh! that can well be, ma'am--that can well be. But they got your letter at the ranch, and Jib, he took it into Colonel Penhampton, and the Colonel telegraphed me to New York, where I'd come a-hunting her----" "Wait, wait, wait!" cried Miss Kate, eagerly. "I don't understand at all what you are talking about." "Why--why, I'm aimin' to talk about my Jane Ann," exclaimed the cattle man. "Jane Ann who?" she gasped. "Jane Ann Hicks. My little gal what you've got her and what you wrote about----" "You are misinformed, sir," declared Miss Kate. "I have never written to you--or to anybody else--about any person named Jane Ann Hicks." "Oh, mebbe you don't know her by that name. She had some hifalutin' idee before she vamoosed about not likin' her name--an' I give her that thar name myself!" added Bill Hicks, in an aggrieved tone. "Nor have I written about any other little girl, or by any other name," rejoined Miss Kate. "I have written no letter at all." "You didn't write to Silver Ranch to tell us that my little Jane Ann was found?" gasped the man. "No, sir." "Somebody else wrote, then?" "I do not know it, if they did," Miss Kate declared. "Then somebody's been a-stringin' of me?" he roared, punching his big hat with a clenched, freckled fist in a way that made Miss Kate jump. "Oh!" she cried. "Don't you be afeared, ma'am," said the big man, more gently. "But I'm mighty cast down--I sure am! Some miser'ble coyote has fooled me. That letter said as how my little niece was wrecked on a boat here and that a party named Stone had taken her into their house at Lighthouse Point----" "It's Nita!" cried Miss Kate. "What's that?" he demanded. "You're speaking of Nita, the castaway!" "I'm talkin' of my niece, Jane Ann Hicks," declared the rancher. "That's who I'm talking of." "But she called herself Nita, and would not tell us anything about herself." "It might be, ma'am. The little skeezicks!" chuckled the Westerner, his eyes twinkling suddenly. "That's a mighty fancy name--'Nita.' And so she _is_ here with you, after all?" "No." "Not here?" he exclaimed, his big, bony face reddening again. "No, sir. I believe she has been here--your niece." "And where'd she go? What you done with her?" he demanded, his overhanging reddish eyebrows coming together in a threatening scowl. "Hadn't you better sit down, Mr. Hicks, and let me tell you all about it?" suggested Miss Kate. "Say, Miss!" he ejaculated. "I'm anxious, I be. When Jane Ann first run away from Silver Ranch, I thought she was just a-playin' off some of her tricks on me. I never supposed she was in earnest 'bout it--no, ma'am! "I rid into Bullhide arter two days. And instead of findin' her knockin' around there, I finds her pony at the greaser's corral, and learns that she's took the train East. That did beat me. I didn't know she had any money, but she'd bought a ticket to Denver, and it took a right smart of money to do it. "I went to Colonel Penhampton, I did," went on Hicks, "and told him about it. He heated up the wires some 'twixt Bullhide and Denver; but she'd fell out o' sight there the minute she'd landed. Denver's some city, ma'am. I finds that out when I lit out arter Jane Ann and struck that place myself. "Wal! 'twould be teejious to you, ma'am, if I told whar I have chased arter that gal these endurin' two months. Had to let the ranch an' ev'rythin' else go to loose ends while I follered news of her all over. My gosh, ma'am! how many gals there is runs away from their homes! Ye wouldn't believe the number 'nless ye was huntin' for a pertic'lar one an' got yer rope on so many that warn't her!" "You have had many disappointments, sir?" said Miss Kate, beginning to feel a great sympathy for this uncouth man. He nodded his great, bald, shining head. "I hope you ain't going to tell me thar's another in store for me right yere," he said, in a much milder voice. "I cannot tell you where Nita--if she is your niece--is now," said Miss Kate, firmly. "She's left you?" "She went away some time during the night--night before last." "What for?" he asked, suspiciously. "I don't know. We none of us knew. We made her welcome and said nothing about sending her away, or looking for her friends. I did not wish to frighten her away, for she is a strangely independent girl----" "You bet she is!" declared Mr. Hicks, emphatically. "I hoped she would gradually become confiding, and then we could really do something for her. But when we got up yesterday morning she had stolen out of the house in the night and was gone." "And ye don't know whar Jane Ann went?" he said, with a sort of groan. Miss Kate shook her head; but suddenly a voice interrupted them. Ruth Fielding parted the curtains and came into the room. "I hope you will pardon me, Miss Kate," she said softly. "And this gentleman, too. I believe I can tell him how Nita went away--and perhaps through what I know he may be able to find her again." CHAPTER XXI CRAB MAKES HIS DEMAND Bill Hicks beckoned the girl from the Red Mill forward. "You come right here, Miss," he said, "and let's hear all about it. I'm a-honin' for my Jane Ann somethin' awful--ye don't know what a loss she is to me. And Silver Ranch don't seem the same no more since she went away." "Tell me," said Ruth, curiously, as she came forward, "was what the paper said about it all true?" "Why, Ruth, what paper is this? What do you know about this matter that I don't know?" cried Miss Kate. "I'm sorry, Miss Kate," said the girl; "but it wasn't my secret and I didn't feel I could tell you----" "I know what you mean, little Miss," Hicks interrupted. "That New York newspaper--with the picter of Jane Ann on a pony what looked like one o' these horsecar horses? Most ev'rythin' they said in that paper was true about her--and the ranch." "And she has had to live out there without any decent woman, and no girls to play with, and all that?" "Wal!" exclaimed Mr. Hicks. "That ain't sech a great crime; is it?" "I don't wonder so much she ran away," Ruth said, softly. "But I am sorry she did not stay here until you came, sir." "But where is she?" chorused both the ranchman and Miss Kate, and the latter added: "Tell what you know about her departure, Ruth." So Ruth repeated all that she had heard and seen on the night Nita disappeared from the Stone bungalow. "And this man, Crab, can be found down yonder at the lighthouse?" demanded the ranchman, rising at the end of Ruth's story. "He is there part of the time, sir," Miss Kate said. "He is a rather notorious character around here--a man of bad temper, I believe. Perhaps you had better go to the authorities first----" "What authorities?" demanded the Westerner in surprise. "The Sokennet police." Bill Hicks snorted. "I don't need police in this case, ma'am," he said. "I know what to do with this here Crab when I find him. And if harm's come to my Jane Ann, so much the worse for him." "Oh, I hope you will be patient, sir," said Miss Kate. "Nita was not a bit afraid of him, I am sure," Ruth hastened to add. "He would not hurt her." "No. I reckon he wants to make money out of me," grunted Bill Hicks, who did not lack shrewdness. "He sent the letter that told me she was here, and then he decoyed her away somewhere so's to hold her till I came and paid him the reward. Wal! let me git my Jane Ann back, safe and sound, and he's welcome to the five hundred dollars I offered for news of her." "But first, Mr. Hicks," said Miss Kate, rising briskly, "you'll come to breakfast. You have been traveling all night----" "That's right, ma'am. No chance for more than a peck at a railroad sandwich--tough critters, them!" "Ah! here is Tom Cameron," she said, having parted the portières and found Tom just passing through the hall. "Mr. Hicks, Tom. Nita's uncle." "Er--Mr. Bill Hicks, of the Silver Ranch!" ejaculated Tom. "So you've hearn tell of me, too, have you, younker?" quoth the ranchman, good-naturedly. "Well, my fame's spreadin'." "And it seems that _I_ am the only person here who did not know all about your niece," said Miss Kate Stone, drily. "Oh, no, ma'am!" cried Tom. "It was only Ruth and Helen and I who knew anything about it. And we only suspected. You see, we found the newspaper article which told about that bully ranch, and the fun that girl had----" "Jane Ann didn't think 'twas nice enough for her," grunted the ranchman. "She wanted high-heeled slippers--and shift--shift-on hats--and a pianner! Common things warn't good enough for Jane Ann." Ruth laughed, for she wasn't at all afraid of the big Westerner. "If chiffon hats and French heeled slippers would have kept Nita--I mean, Jane Ann--at home, wouldn't it have been cheaper for you to have bought 'em?" she asked. "It shore would!" declared the cattleman, emphatically. "But when the little girl threatened to run away I didn't think she meant it." Meanwhile Miss Kate had asked Tom to take the big man up stairs where he could remove the marks of travel. In half an hour he was at the table putting away a breakfast that made even Mammy Laura open her eyes in wonder. "I'm a heavy feeder, Miss," he said apologetically, to Ruth. "Since I been East I often have taken my breakfast in two restaurants, them air waiters stare so. I git it in relays, as ye might say. Them restaurant people ain't used to seeing a _man_ eat. And great cats! how they do charge for vittles!" But ugly as he was, and big and rude as he was, there was a simplicity and open-heartedness about Mr. Hicks that attracted more than Ruth Fielding. The boys, because Tom was enthusiastic about the old fellow, came in first. But the girls were not far behind, and by the time Mr. Hicks had finished breakfast the whole party was in the room, listening to his talk of his lost niece, and stories of Silver Ranch and the growing and wonderful West. Mercy Curtis, who had a sharp tongue and a sharper insight into character, knew just how to draw Bill Hicks out. And the ranchman, as soon as he understood that Mercy was a cripple, paid her the most gallant attentions. And he took the lame girl's sharp criticisms in good part, too. "So you thought you could bring up a girl baby from the time she could crawl till she was old enough to get married--eh?" demanded Mercy, in her whimsical way. "What a smart man you are, Mr. Bill Hicks!" "Ya-as--ain't I?" he groaned. "I see now I didn't know nothin'." "Not a living thing!" agreed Mercy. "Bringing up a girl among a lot of cow--cow--what do you call 'em?" "Punchers," he finished, wagging his head. "That's it. Nice society for a girl. Likely to make her ladylike and real happy, too." "Great cats!" ejaculated the ranchman, "I thought I was doin' the square thing by Jane Ann----" "And giving her a name like that, too!" broke in Mercy. "How dared you?" "Why--why----" stammered Mr. Hicks. "It was my grandmother's name--and she was as spry a woman as ever I see." "Your grandmother's name!" gasped Mercy. "Then, what right had you to give it to your niece? And when she way a helpless baby, too! Wasn't she good enough to have a name of her own--and one a little more modern?" "Miss, you stump me--you sure do!" declared Mr. Hicks, with a sigh. "I never thought a gal cared so much for them sort o' things. They're surprisin' different from boys; ain't they?" "Hope you haven't found it out too late, Mister Wild and Woolly," said Mercy, biting her speech off in her sharp way. "You had better take a fashion magazine and buy Nita--or whatever she wants to call herself--clothes and hats like other girls wear. Maybe you'll be able to keep her on a ranch, then." "Wal, Miss! I'm bound to believe you've got the rights of it. I ain't never had much knowledge of women-folks, and that's a fact----" He was interrupted by the maid coming to the door. "There's a boy here, Miss Kate," she said, "who is asking for the gentleman." "Asking for the gentleman?" repeated Miss Kate. "Yes, ma'am. The gentleman who has just came. The gentleman from the West." "Axing for _me?_" cried the ranchman, getting up quickly. "It must be for you, sir," said Aunt Kate. "Let the boy come in, Sally." In a minute a shuffling, tow-headed, bare-footed lad of ten years or so entered bashfully. He was a son of one of the fishermen living along the Sokennet shore. "You wanter see me, son?" demanded the Westerner. "Bill Hicks, of Bullhide?" "Dunno wot yer name is, Mister," said the boy. "But air you lookin' for a gal that was brought ashore from the wreck of that lumber schooner?" "That's me!" cried Mr. Hicks. "Then I got suthin' for ye," said the boy, and thrust a soiled envelope toward him. "Jack Crab give it to me last night. He said I was to come over this morning an' wait for you to come. Phin says you had come, w'en I got here. That's all." "Hold on!" cried Tom Cameron, as the boy started to go out, and Mr. Hicks ripped open the envelope. "Say, where is this Crab man?" "Dunno." "Where did he go after giving you the note?" "Dunno." Just then Mr. Hicks uttered an exclamation that drew all attention to him and the fisherman's boy slipped out. "Great cats!" roared Bill Hicks. "Listen to this, folks! What d'ye make of it? "'Now I got you right. Whoever you be, you are wanting to get hold of the girl. I know where she is. You won't never know unless I get that five hundred dols. The paper talked about. You leave it at the lighthouse. Mis Purling will take care of it and I reckon on getting it from her when I want it. When she has got the five hundred dols. I will let you know how to find the girl. So, no more at present, from "'J. Crab.' "Listen here to it, will ye? Why, if once I get my paws on this here Crab----" "You want to get the girl most; don't you?" interrupted Mercy, sharply. "Of course!" "Then you'd better see if paying the money to him--just as he says--won't bring her to you. You offered the reward, you know." "But maybe he doesn't really know anything about Nita!" cried Heavy. "And maybe he knows just where she is," said Ruth. "Wal! he seems like a mighty sharp feller," admitted the cattleman, seriously. "I want my Jane Ann back. I don't begredge no five hundred dollars. I'm a-goin' over to that lighthouse and see what this Missus Purling--you say she's the keeper?--knows about it. That's what I'm going to do!" finished Hicks with emphasis. CHAPTER XXII THIMBLE ISLAND Miss Kate said of course he could use the buckboard and ponies, and it was the ranchman's own choice that the young folks went, too. There was another wagon, and they could all crowd aboard one or the other vehicle--even Mercy Curtis went. "I don't believe that Crab man will show up at the light," Ruth said to Tom and Helen. "He's plainly made up his mind that he won't meet Nita's friends personally. And to think of his getting five hundred dollars so easy!" and she sighed. For the reward Mr. Hicks had offered for news of his niece, which would lead to her apprehension and return to his guardianship, would have entirely removed from Ruth Fielding's mind her anxiety about Briarwood. Let the Tintacker Mine, in which Uncle Jabez had invested, remain a deep and abiding mystery, if Ruth could earn that five hundred dollars. But if Jack Crab had placed Nita in good hands and was merely awaiting an opportunity to exchange her for the reward which the runaway's uncle had offered, then Ruth need not hope for any portion of the money. And certainly, Crab would make nothing by hiding the girl away and refusing to give her up to Mr. Hicks. "And if I took money for telling Mr. Hicks where Nita was, why--why it would be almost like taking blood money! Nita liked me, I believe; I think she ought to be with her uncle, and I am sure he is a nice man. But it would be playing the traitor to report her to Mr. Hicks--and that's a fact!" concluded Ruth, taking herself to task. "I could not think of earning money in such a contemptible way." Whether her conclusion was right, or not, it seemed right to Ruth, and she put the thought of the reward out of her mind from that instant. The ranchman had taken a liking to Ruth and when he climbed into the buckboard he beckoned the girl from the Red Mill to a seat beside him. He drove the ponies, but seemed to give those spirited little animals very little attention. Ruth knew that he must be used to handling horses beside which the ponies seemed like tame rabbits. "Now what do you think of my Jane Ann?" was the cattleman's question. "Ain't she pretty cute?" "I am not quite sure that I know what you mean by that, Mr. Hicks," Ruth answered, demurely. "But she isn't as smart as she ought to be, or she wouldn't have gone off with Jack Crab." "Huh!" grunted the other. "Mebbe you're right on that p'int. He didn't have no drop on her--that's so! But ye can't tell what sort of a yarn he give her." "She would better have had nothing to say to him," said Ruth, emphatically. "She should have confided in Miss Kate. Miss Kate and Jennie were treating her just as nicely as though she were an invited guest. Nita--or Jane, as you call her--may be smart, but she isn't grateful in the least." "Oh, come now, Miss----" "No. She isn't grateful," repeated Ruth. "She never even suggested going over to the life saving station and thanking Cap'n Abinadab and his men for bringing her ashore from the wreck of the _Whipstitch._" "Great cats! I been thinkin' of that," sighed the Westerner. "I want to see them and tell 'em what I think of 'em. I 'spect Jane Ann never thought of such a thing." "But I liked her, just the same," Ruth went on, slowly. "She was bold, and brave, and I guess she wouldn't ever do a really mean thing." "I reckon not, Miss!" agreed Mr. Hicks. "My Jane Ann is plumb square, she is. I can forgive her for running away from us. Mebbe thar was reason for her gittin' sick of Silver Ranch. I--I stand ready to give her 'bout ev'rything she wants--in reason--when I git her back thar." "Including a piano?" asked Ruth, curiously. "Great cats! that's what we had our last spat about," groaned Bill Hicks. "Jib, he's had advantages, he has. Went to this here Carlisle Injun school ye hear so much talk about. It purty nigh ruined him, but he _can_ break hosses. And thar he l'arned to play one o' them pianners. We was all in to Bullhide one time--we'd been shipping steers--and we piled into the Songbird Dancehall--had the place all to ourselves, for it was daytime--and Jib sot down and fingered them keys somethin' scand'lous. Bashful Ike--he's my foreman--says he never believed before that a sure 'nough man like Jibbeway Pottoway could ever be so ladylike! "Wal! My Jane Ann was jest enchanted by that thar pianner--yes, Miss! She was jest enchanted. And she didn't give me no peace from then on. Said she wanted one o' the critters at the ranch so Jib could give her lessons. And I jest thought it was foolishness--and it cost money--oh, well! I see now I was a pretty mean old hunks----" "That's what I heard her call you once," chuckled Ruth. "At least, I know now that she was speaking of you, sir." "She hit me off right," sighed Mr. Hicks. "I hadn't never been used to spending money. But, laws, child! I got enough. I been some waked up since I come East. Folks spend money here, that's a fact." They found Mother Purling's door opened at the foot of the lighthouse shaft, and the flutter of an apron on the balcony told them that the old lady had climbed to the lantern. "She doesn't often do that," said Heavy. "Crab does all the cleaning and polishing up there." "He's left her without any help, then," Ruth suggested. "That's what it means." And truly, that is what it did mean, as they found out when Ruth, the Cameron twins, and the Westerner climbed the spiral staircase to the gallery outside the lantern. "Yes; that Crab ain't been here this morning," Mother Purling admitted when Ruth explained that there was reason for Mr. Hicks wishing to see him. "He told me he was mebbe going off for a few days. 'Then you send me a substitute, Jack Crab,' I told him; but he only laughed and said he wasn't going to send a feller here to work into his job. He _is_ handy, I allow. But I'm too old to be left all stark alone at this light. I'm going to have another man when Jack's month is out, just as sure as eggs is eggs!" Mr. Hicks was just as polite to the old lady as he had been to Miss Kate; and he quickly explained his visit to the lighthouse, and showed her the two letters that Crab had written. "Well, ain't that the beatenest?" she cried. "Jack Crab is just as mean as they make 'em, I always did allow. But this is the capsheaf of all his didoes. And you say he run off with the little girl the other night in Mr. Stone's catboat? I dunno where he could have taken her. And that day he'd been traipsing off fishing with you folks on the motor launch; hadn't he? He's been leavin' me to do his work too much. This settles it. Me and Jack Crab parts company at the end of this month!" "But what is Mr. Hicks to do about his niece, Mother Purling?" cried Ruth. "Will he pay the five hundred dollars to you----?" "I just guess he won't!" cried the old lady, vigorously. "I ain't goin' to be collector for Crab in none of his risky dealin's--no, ma'am!" "Then he says he won't give Nita up," exclaimed Tom. "Can't help it. I'm a government employe. I can't afford to be mixed up in no such didoes." "Now, I say, Missus!" exclaimed the cattleman, "this is shore too bad! Ye might know somethin' about whar I kin find this yere reptile by the name of Crab--though I reckon a crab is a inseck, not a reptile," and the ranchman grinned ruefully. The young folks could scarcely control their laughter at this, and the idea that a crustacean might be an insect was never forgotten by the Cameron twins and Ruth Fielding. "I dunno where he is," said Mother Purling, shortly. "I can't keep track of the shiftless critter. Ha'f the time when he oughter be here he's out fishing in the dory, yonder--or over to Thimble Island." "Which is Thimble Island?" asked Tom, quickly. "Just yon," said the lighthouse keeper, pointing to a cone-shaped rock--perhaps an imaginative person would call it thimble-shaped--lying not far off shore. The lumber schooner had gone on the reef not far from it. "Ain't no likelihood of his being over thar now, Missus?" asked Mr. Hicks, quickly. "An' ye could purty nigh throw a stone to it!" scoffed the old woman. "Not likely. B'sides, I dunno as there's a landin' on the island 'ceptin' at low tide. I reckon if he's hidin', Jack Crab is farther away than the Thimble. But I don't know nothin' about him. And I can't accept no money for him--that's all there is to that." And really, that did seem to be all there was to it. Even such a go-ahead sort of a person as Mr. Hicks seemed balked by the lighthouse keeper's attitude. There seemed nothing further to do here. Ruth was rather interested in what Mother Purling had said about Thimble Island, and she lingered to look at the conical rock, with the sea foaming about it, when the others started down the stairway. Tom came back for her. "What are you dreaming about, Ruthie?" he demanded, nudging her. "I was wondering, Tommy," she said, "just why Jack Crab went so often to the Thimble, as she says he does. I'd like to see that island nearer to; wouldn't you?" "We'll borrow the catboat and sail out to it. I can handle the _Jennie S._ I bet Helen would like to go," said Tom, at once. "Oh, I don't suppose that Crab man is there. It's just a barren rock," said Ruth. "But I _would_ like to see the Thimble." "And you shall," promised Tom. But neither of them suspected to what strange result that promise tended. CHAPTER XXIII MAROONED It was after luncheon before the three friends got away from the Stone bungalow in the catboat. Tom owned a catrigged boat himself on the Lumano river, and Helen and Ruth, of course, were not afraid to trust themselves to his management of the _Jennie S._ The party was pretty well broken up that day, anyway. Mercy and Miss Kate remained at home and the others found amusement in different directions. Nobody asked to go in the _Jennie S._, for which Ruth was rather glad. Mr. Hicks had gone over to Sokennet with the avowed intention of interviewing every soul in the town for news of Jack Crab. Somebody, surely, must know where the assistant lighthouse keeper was, and the Westerner was not a man to be put off by any ordinary evasion. "My Jane Ann may be hiding over thar amongst them fishermen," he declared to Ruth before he went away. "He couldn't have sailed far with her that night, if he was back in 'twixt two and three hours. No, sir-ree!" And that was the thought in Ruth's mind. Unless Crab had sailed out and put Nita aboard a New York, or Boston, bound steamer, it seemed impossible that the girl could have gotten very far from Lighthouse Point. "Shall we take one of the rowboats in tow, Ruth?" queried Tom, before they left the Stone dock. "No, no!" returned the girl of the Red Mill, hastily. "We couldn't land on that island, anyway." "Only at low tide," rejoined Tom. "But it will be about low when we get outside the point." "You don't really suspect that Crab and Nita are out there, Ruth?" whispered Helen, in her chum's ear. "It's a crazy idea; isn't it?" laughed Ruth. Yet she was serious again in a moment. "I thought, when Mother Purling spoke of his going there so much, that maybe he had a reason--a particular reason." "Phineas told me that Jack Crab was the best pilot on this coast," remarked Tom. "He knows every channel, and shoal, and reef from Westhampton to Cape o' Winds. If there was a landing at Thimble Island, and any secret place upon it, Jack Crab would be likely to know of it." "Can you sail us around the Thimble?" asked Ruth. "That's all we want." "I asked Phin before we started. The sea is clear for half a mile and more all around the Thimble. We can circle it, all right, if the wind holds this way." "That's all I expect you to do, Tommy," responded Ruth, quickly. But they all three eyed the conical-shaped rock very sharply as the _Jennie S._ drew nearer. They ran between the lighthouse and the Thimble. The tide, in falling, left the green and slime-covered ledges bare. "A boat could get into bad quarters there, and easily enough," said Tom, as they ran past. But when he tacked and the catboat swung her head seaward, they began to observe the far side of the Thimble. It was almost circular, and probably all of a thousand yards in circumference. The waves now ran up the exposed ledges, hissing and gurgling among the cavities, and sometimes throwing up spume-like geysers between the boulders. "A bad rock for any vessel to stub her toe against trying to make Sokennet Harbor," quoth Tom Cameron. "They say that the wreckers used to have a false beacon here in the old times. They used to bring a sheep out here and tie a lantern to its neck. Then, at low tide, they'd drive the poor sheep over the rocks and the bobbing up and down of the lantern would look like a riding light on some boat at anchor. Then the lost vessel would dare run in for an anchorage, too, and she'd be wrecked. Jack Crab's grandfather was hanged for it. So Phineas told me." "How awful!" gasped Helen. But Ruth suddenly seized her hand, exclaiming: "See there! what is it fluttering on the rock? Look, Tom!" At the moment the boy could not do so, as he had his hands full with the tiller and sheet, and his eyes were engaged as well. When he turned to look again at the Thimble, what had startled Ruth had disappeared. "There was something white fluttering against the rock. It was down there, either below high-water mark, or just above. I can't imagine what it was." "A seabird, perhaps," suggested Helen. "Then where did it go to so suddenly? I did not see it fly away," Ruth returned. The catboat sailed slowly past the seaward side of the Thimble. There were fifty places in which a person might hide upon the rock--plenty of broken boulders and cracks in the base of the conical eminence that formed the peculiarly shaped island. The three watched the rugged shore very sharply as the catboat beat up the wind--the girls especially giving the Thimble their attention. A hundred pair of eyes might have watched them from the island, as far as they knew. But certainly neither Ruth nor Helen saw anything to feed their suspicion. "What shall we do now?" demanded Tom. "Where do you girls want to go?" "I don't care," Helen said. "Seen all you want to of that deserted island, Ruthie?" "Do you mind running back again, Tom?" Ruth asked. "I haven't any reason for asking it--no good reason, I mean." "Pshaw! if we waited for a reason for everything we did, some things would never be done," returned Tom, philosophically. "There isn't a thing there," declared Helen. "But I don't care in the least where you sail us, Tom." "Only not to Davy Jones' Locker, Tommy," laughed Ruth. "I'll run out a way, and then come back with the wind and cross in front of the island again," said Tom, and he performed this feat in a very seamanlike manner. "I declare! there's a landing we didn't see sailing from the other direction," cried Helen. "See it--between those two ledges?" "A regular dock; but you couldn't land there at high tide, or when there was any sea on," returned her brother. "That's the place!" exclaimed Ruth. "See that white thing fluttering again? That's no seagull." "Ruth is right," gasped Helen. "Oh, Tom! There's something fluttering there--a handkerchief, is it?" "Sing out! as loud as ever you can!" commanded the boy, eagerly. "Hail the rock." They all three raised their voices. There was no answer. But Tom was pointing the boat's nose directly for the opening between the sharp ledges. "If there is nobody on the Thimble now, there _has_ been somebody there recently," he declared. "I'm going to drop the sail and run in there. Stand by with the oars to fend off, girls. We don't want to scratch the catboat more than we can help." His sister and Ruth sprang to obey him. Each with an oar stood at either rail and the big sail came down on the run. But the _Jennie S._ had headway sufficient to bring her straight into the opening between the ledges. Tom ran forward, seized the rope in the bow, and leaped ashore, carrying the coil of the painter with him. Helen and Ruth succeeded in stopping the boat's headway with the oars, and the craft lay gently rocking in the natural dock, without having scraped her paint an atom. "A fine landing!" exclaimed Tom, taking a turn or two with the rope about a knob of rock. "Yes, indeed," returned Ruth. She gave a look around. "My, what a lonely spot!" "It is lonely," the youth answered. "Kind of a Robinson Crusoe place," and he gave a short laugh. "Listen!" cried Ruth, and held up her hand as a warning. "What did you hear, Ruth?" "I thought I heard somebody talking, or calling." "You did?" Tom listened intently. "I don't hear anything." He listened again. "Yes, I do! Where did it come from?" "I think it came from yonder," and the girl from the Red Mill pointed to a big, round rock ahead of them. "Maybe it did, Ruth. We'll--yes, you are right!" exclaimed the boy. As he spoke there was a scraping sound ahead of them and suddenly a tousled black head popped, up over the top of the boulder from which fluttered the bit of white linen that had first attracted Ruth's attention. "Gracious goodness!" gasped Helen. "It's Nita!" cried Ruth. "Oh, oh!" shrilled the lost girl, flying out of concealment and meeting Ruth as she leaped ashore. "Is it really you? Have you come for me? I--I thought I'd have to stay here alone forever. I'd given up all hope of any boat seeing me, or my signal. I--I'm 'most dead of fear, Ruth Fielding! Do, do take me back to land with you." The Western girl was clearly panic-stricken. The boldness and independence she had formerly exhibited were entirely gone. Being marooned on this barren islet had pretty well sapped the courage of Miss Jane Ann Hicks. CHAPTER XXIV PLUCKY MOTHER PURLING Tom Cameron audibly chuckled; but he made believe to be busy with the painter of the catboat and so did not look at the Western girl. The harum-scarum, independent, "rough and ready" runaway was actually on the verge of tears. But--really--it was not surprising. "How long have you been out here on this rock?" demanded Helen, in horror. "Ever since I left the bungalow." "Why didn't you wave your signal from the top of the rock, so that it could be seen on the point?" asked Ruth, wonderingly. "There's no way to get to the top of the rock--or around to the other side of it, either," declared the runaway. "Look at these clothes! They are nearly torn off. And see my hands!" "Oh, you poor, poor thing!" exclaimed Helen, seeing how the castaway's hands were torn. "I tried it. I've shouted myself hoarse. No boat paid any attention to me. They were all too far away, I suppose." "And did that awful man, Crab, bring you here?" cried Ruth. "Yes. It was dark when he landed and showed me this cave in the rock. There was food and water. Why, I've got plenty to eat and drink even now. But nobody has been here----" "Didn't he come back?" queried Tom, at last taking part in the conversation. "He rowed out here once. I told him I'd sink his boat with a rock if he tried to land. I was afraid of him," declared the girl. "But why did you come here with him that night?" demanded Ruth. "'Cause I was foolish. I didn't know he was so bad then. I thought he'd really help me. He told me Jennie's aunt had written to my uncle----" "Old Bill Hicks," remarked Tom, chuckling. "Yes. I'm Jane Hicks. I'm not Nita," said the girl, gulping down something like a sob. "We read all about you in the paper," said Helen, soothingly. "Don't you mind." "And your uncle's come, and he's just as anxious to see you as he can be," declared Ruth. "So they _did_ send for him?" cried Jane Ann. "No. Crab wrote a letter to Silver Ranch himself. He got you out here so as to be sure to collect five hundred dollars from your uncle before he gave you up," grunted Tom. "Nice mess of things you made by running off from us." "Oh, I'll go back with Uncle Bill--I will, indeed," said the girl. "I've been so lonely and scared out here. Seems to me every time the tide rose, I'd be drowned in that cave. The sea's horrid, I think! I never want to see it again." "Well," Tom observed, "I guess you won't have to worry about Crab any more. Get aboard the catboat. We'll slip ashore mighty easy now, and let him whistle for you--or the money. Mr. Hicks won't have to pay for getting you back." "I expect he's awful mad at me," sighed Jane Ann, _alias_ Nita. "I know that he is awfully anxious to get you back again, my dear," said Ruth. "He is altogether too good a man for you to run away from." "Don't you suppose I know that, Miss?" snapped the girl from the ranch. They embarked in the catboat and Tom showed his seamanship to good advantage when he got the _Jennie S._ out of that dock without rubbing her paint. But the wind was very light and they had to run down with it past the island and then beat up between the Thimble and the lighthouse, toward the entrance to Sokennet Harbor. Indeed, the breeze fell so at times that the catboat made no headway. In one of these calms Helen sighted a rowboat some distance away, but pulling toward them from among the little chain of islands beyond the reef on which the lumber schooner had been wrecked. "Here's a fisherman coming," she said. "Do you suppose he'd take us ashore in his boat, Tom? We could walk home from the light. It's growing late and Miss Kate will be worried." "Why, Sis, I can scull this old tub to the landing below the lighthouse yonder. We don't need to borrow a boat. Then Phineas can come around in the _Miraflame_ to-morrow morning and tow the catboat home." But Jane Ann had leaped up at once to eye the coming rowboat--and not with favor. "That looks like the boat that Crab came out to the Thimble in," she exclaimed. "Why! it _is_ him." "Jack Crab!" exclaimed Helen, in terror. "He's after you, then." "Well he won't get her," declared Tom, boldly. "What can we do against that man?" demanded Ruth, anxiously. "I'm afraid of him myself. Let's try to get ashore." "Yes, before he catches us," begged Helen. "Do, Tom!" There was no hope of the wind helping them, and the man in the rowboat was pulling strongly for the becalmed _Jennie S._ Tom instantly dropped her sail and seized one of the oars. He could scull pretty well, and he forced the heavy boat through the quiet sea directly for the lighthouse landing. The three girls were really much disturbed; Crab pulled his lighter boat much faster than Tom could drive the _Jennie S._ and it was a question if he would not overtake her before she reached the landing. "He sees me," said Jane Hicks, excitedly. "He'll get hold of me if he can. And maybe he'll hurt you folks." "He's got to catch us first," grunted Tom, straining at the oar. "We're going to beat him, Tommy!" cried Helen, encouragingly. "Don't give up!" Once Crab looked around and bawled some threat to them over his shoulder. But they did not reply. His voice inspired Tom with renewed strength--or seemed to. The boy strained at his single oar, and the _Jennie S._ moved landward at a good, stiff pace. "Stand ready with the painter, Ruth!" called Tom, at last. "We must fasten the boat before we run." "And where will we run to?" demanded Helen. "To the light, of course," returned her chum. "Give _me_ the hitch-rein!" cried Jane Ann Hicks, snatching the coil of line from Ruth's hand, and the next moment she leaped from the deck of the catboat to the wharf. The distance was seven or eight feet, but she cleared it and landed on the stringpiece. She threw the line around one of the piles and made a knot with a dexterity that would have surprised her companions at another time. But there was no opportunity then for Tom, Helen and Ruth to stop to notice it. All three got ashore the moment the catboat bumped, and they left her where she was and followed the flying Western girl up the wharf and over the stretches of sand towards the lightkeeper's cottage. Before their feet were off the planks of the wharf Jack Crab's boat collided with the _Jennie S._ and the man scrambled upon her deck, and across it to the wharf. He left his own dory to go ashore if it would, and set out to catch the girl who--he considered--was worth five hundred dollars to him. But Jane Ann and her friends whisked into the little white house at the foot of the light shaft, and slammed the door before Crab reached it. "For the Land of Goshen!" cried the old lady, who was sitting knitting in her tiny sitting-room. "What's the meaning of this?" "It's Crab! It's Jack Crab!" cried Helen, almost in hysterics. "He's after us!" Tom had bolted the door. Now Crab thundered upon it, with both feet and fists. "Let me in!" he roared from outside. "Mother Purling! you let me git that gal!" "What does this mean?" repeated the lighthouse keeper, sternly. "Ain't this the gal that big man was after this morning?" she demanded, pointing at Jane Ann. "Yes, Mrs. Purling--it is Jane Hicks. And this dreadful Crab man has kept her out on the Thimble all this time--alone!" cried Ruth. "Think of it! Now he has chased us in here----" "I'll fix that Jack Crab," declared the plucky old woman, advancing toward the door. "Hi, you, Jack! go away from there." "You open this door, Mother Purling, if you knows what's best for you," commanded the sailor. "You better git away from that door, if you knows what's best for _you_, Jack Crab!" retorted the old woman. "I don't fear ye." "I see that man here this morning. Did he leave aught for me?" cried Crab, after a moment. "If he left the five hundred dollars he promised to give for the gal, he can have her. Give me the money, and I'll go my ways." "I ain't no go-between for a scoundrel such as you, Jack Crab," declared the lighthouse keeper. "There's no money here for ye." "Then I'll have the gal if I tear the lighthouse down for it--stone by stone!" roared the fellow. "And it's your kind that always blows before they breeches," declared Mother Purling, referring to the habit of the whale, which spouts before it upends and dives out of sight. "Go away!" "I won't go away!" "Yes, ye will, an' quick, too!" "Old woman, ye don't know me!" stormed the unreasonable man. "I want that money, an' I'm bound to have it--one way or th' other!" "You'll get nuthin', Jack Crab, but a broken head if ye keep on in this fashion," returned the woman of the lighthouse, her honest wrath growing greater every moment. "We'll see about that!" howled the man. "Are ye goin' to let me in or not?" "No, I tell ye! Go away!" "Then I'll bust my way in, see ef I don't!" At that the fellow threw himself against the door, and the screws of one hinge began to tear out of the woodwork. Mother Purling saw it, and motioned the frightened girls and Tom toward the stairway which led to the gallery around the lantern. "Go up yon!" she commanded. "Shut and lock that door on ye. He'll not durst set foot on government property, and that's what the light is. Go up." She shooed them all into the stairway and slammed the door. There she stood with her back against it, while, at the next blow, Jack Crab forced the outer door of her cottage inward and fell sprawling across its wreck into the room. CHAPTER XXV WHAT JANE ANN WANTED Ruth and her companions could not see what went on in the cottage; but they did not mount the stairs. They could not leave the old woman--plucky as she was--to fight Jack Crab alone. But they need not have been so fearful for Mother Purling's safety. The instant the man fell into the main room of the cottage, Mother Purling darted to the stove, seized the heavy poker which lay upon the hearth, and sprang for the rascal. Jack Crab had got upon his knees, threatening her with dire vengeance. The old lighthouse keeper never said a word in reply, but brought the heavy poker down upon his head and shoulders with right good will, and Jack Crab's tune changed on the instant. Again and again Mother Purling struck him. He rolled upon the floor, trying to extricate himself from the wreck of her door, and so escape. But before he could do this, and before the old woman had ceased her attack, there was a shout outside, a horse was brought to an abrupt halt at the gate, and a huge figure in black flung itself from the saddle, and came running through the gate and up to the cottage. "What you got there, Missus?" roared the deep voice of Bill Hicks, of Bullhide, and at the sound of his voice Jane Ann burst open the door at the foot of the stairs and ran out to meet him. "This here's the man you want to meet, I guess," panted the old woman, desisting at length in her use of the poker. "Do ye want him now, Mister?" "Uncle Bill!" shrieked Jane Ann. "Great cats!" cried the cattleman. "Is it Jane Ann herself? Is she alive?" The girl flung herself into the big man's arms. "I'm all right, Uncle!" she cried, laughing and crying together. "And that man yonder didn't hurt me--only kep' me on a desert island till Ruth and Tom and Helen found me." "Then he kin go!" declared Bill Hicks, turning suddenly as Crab started through the door. "And here's what will help him!" The Westerner swung his heavy boot with the best intention in the world and caught Jack Crab just as he was going down the step. With a yell of pain the fellow sailed through the air, landing at least ten feet from the doorway. But he was up from his hands and knees and running hard in an instant, and he ran so hard, and to such good purpose, that he ran right out of this story then and there. Ruth Fielding and her friends never saw the treacherous fellow again. "But if he'd acted like he oughter," said Mr. Hicks, "and hadn't put my Jane Ann out on that thar lonesome rock, and treated her the way he done, I should have considered myself in his debt. I'd have paid him the five hundred dollars, sure enough. I'd have paid it over willingly if he'd left my gal with these nice people and only told me whar she was. But I wouldn't give him a cent now--not even if he was starvin'. For if I found him in that condition I'd see he got food and not money," and the big man chuckled. "So you haven't got to pay five hundred dollars for me, then, Uncle Bill?" said his niece, as they sat on the porch of the Stones' bungalow, talking things over. "No, I haven't. No fault of yours, though, you little rascal. I dunno but I ought to divide it 'twixt them three friends of yourn that found ye." "Not for us!" cried Tom and Helen. "Nor for me," said Ruth, earnestly. "It would not be right. I never should respect myself again if I thought I had tried to find Nita for money." "But if it hadn't been for Ruth we'd never have sailed over there to the Thimble," declared Tom. The Western girl had been thinking seriously; now she seized her uncle by the arm. "I tell you what I want, Uncle Bill!" she cried. "Something beside the pianner and the shift-on hat?" he grumbled, but his blue eyes twinkled. "Those things don't count," she declared earnestly. "But this five hundred dollars, Uncle Bill, you haven't got to pay that Crab man. So you just spend it by taking all these girls and boys that have been so nice to me out to Silver Ranch. They think it must be the finest place that ever happened--and I don't know but 'tis, Uncle, if you don't have too much of it," she added. "Great cats! that would shore be some doin's; wouldn't it?" exclaimed the cattleman, grinning broadly. "You bet it would! We'll take Ruth and Helen and Tom and Heavy an--why, every last one of 'em that'll go. We'll show 'em a right good time; is it a go, Uncle Bill?" And it certainly was "a go," for we shall meet Ruth and her friends next in a volume entitled, "Ruth Fielding at Silver Ranch; Or, Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys." Old Bill Hicks' hearty invitation could not be accepted, however, until the various young folks had written home to their parents and guardians about it. And the expectation of what fun they could have on Silver Ranch did not spoil the fun to be found closer at hand, at Lighthouse Point. The remainder of that fortnight at the bungalow would long be remembered by Ruth and her girl friends, especially. Mr. Hicks got board at Sokennet; but Jane Ann (although they all called her "Nita" save The Fox, who took some delight in teasing her about her ugly name) remained at the bungalow. The cattleman could not do too much for anybody who had been kind to his niece, and had the life saving men not refused absolutely to accept anything from him, he would have made them all a present because they had rescued Jane Ann from the wreck of the _Whipstitch_. Nevertheless, Mr. Hicks found out something that he _could_ do for the life-savers, and he presented the station with a fine library--something which all the surfmen, and Cap'n Abinadab as well, could enjoy during the long winter days and evenings. Nor did the ranchman forget Mother Purling at the lighthouse. Up from New York came the finest black silk dress and bonnet that the big man could buy for money in any shop, and no present could have so delighted the plucky old lighthouse keeper. She had longed, she said, for a black silk dress all her life. Before the young folks departed from Lighthouse Point, too, Miss Kate invited the life-savers, and Mother Purling, and Phineas and some of the other longshoremen and their wives to a "party" at the bungalow. And there were good things to eat (Heavy saw to _that_, of course) and a moving-picture entertainment brought down from the city for that evening, and a big display of fireworks afterward on the shore. This wound up Ruth Fielding's visit to Lighthouse Point. The fortnight of fun was ended all too soon. She and Helen and Tom, and the rest of the visitors, started for home, all promising, if their parents and guardians agreed, to meet Jane Ann Hicks and her uncle a week later, in Syracuse, ready for the long and delightful journey across the continent to Bullhide, Montana. "Well, we certainly did have some great times," was Tom's comment, after the last goodbyes had been spoken and the young folks were homeward bound. "Oh, it was lovely," answered his twin sister. "And think of how we helped Nita--I mean Jane Ann." "Most of the credit for that goes to Ruth," said Tom. "Oh, no!" cried the girl from the Red Mill. "Yes, we certainly had a grand time," she added. "I love the bounding sea, and the shifting sands, and the lighthouse, and all!" "Oh, I do hope we can go out to that ranch!" sighed Helen. "I have always wanted to visit such a place, to see the cattle and the cowboys, and the boundless prairies." "And I want to ride a broncho," put in her brother. "They say some of 'em can go like the wind. Ruth, you'll have to ride, too." "Take your last look at the sea!" came from Heavy. "Maybe we won't get another look at it for a long time." All turned to look at the rolling waves, glistening brightly in the Summer sun. "Isn't it lovely!" "Good-bye, Old Ocean, good-bye!" sang out Helen. Ruth threw a kiss to the waves. Then the ocean faded from their sight. And here we will leave Ruth Fielding and say good-bye. THE END THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON 12mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid Ruth Fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. Her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. Ruth Fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. 1. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL 2. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL 3. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP 4. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT 5. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH 6. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND 7. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM 8. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES 9. RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES 10. RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE 11. RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE 12. RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE 13. RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS 14. RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT 15. RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND 16. RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST 17. RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST 18. RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE 19. RUTH FIELDING TREASURE HUNTING 20. RUTH FIELDING IN THE FAR NORTH 21. RUTH FIELDING AT GOLDEN PASS 22. RUTH FIELDING IN ALASKA 23. RUTH FIELDING AND HER GREAT SCENARIO CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE BETTY GORDON SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid 1. BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM or The Mystery of a Nobody At twelve Betty is left an orphan. 2. BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON or Strange Adventures in a Great City Betty goes to the National Capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. 3. BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL or The Farm That Was Worth a Fortune From Washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. A splendid picture of the oil field operations of to-day. 4. BETTY GORDON AT BOARDING SCHOOL or The Treasure of Indian Chasm Seeking treasures of Indian Chasm makes interesting reading. 5. BETTY GORDON AT MOUNTAIN CAMP or The Mystery of Ida Bellethorne At Mountain Camp Betty found herself in the midst of a mystery involving a girl whom she had previously met in Washington. 6. BETTY GORDON AT OCEAN PARK or School Chums on the Boardwalk A glorious outing that Betty and her chums never forgot. 7. BETTY GORDON AND HER SCHOOL CHUMS or Bringing the Rebels to Terms Rebellious students, disliked teachers and mysterious robberies make a fascinating story. 8. BETTY GORDON AT RAINBOW RANCH or Cowboy Joe's Secret Betty and her chums have a grand time in the saddle. 9. BETTY GORDON IN MEXICAN WILDS or The Secret of the Mountains Betty receives a fake telegram and finds both Bob and herself held for ransom in a mountain cave. 10. BETTY GORDON AND THE LOST PEARL or A Mystery of the Seaside Betty and her chums go to the ocean shore for a vacation and there Betty becomes involved in the disappearance of a string of pearls worth a fortune. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE BARTON BOOKS FOR GIRLS By MAY HOLLIS BARTON 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid May Hollis Barton is a new writer for girls who is bound to win instant popularity. Her style is somewhat of a mixture of that of Louisa M. Alcott and Mrs. L. T. Meade, but thoroughly up-to-date in plot and action. Clean tales that all girls will enjoy reading. 1. THE GIRL FROM THE COUNTRY or Laura Mayford's City Experiences Laura was the oldest of five children and when daddy got sick she felt she must do something. She had a chance to try her luck in New York, and there the country girl fell in with many unusual experiences. 2. THREE GIRL CHUMS AT LAUREL HALL or The Mystery of the School by the Lake When the three chums arrived at the boarding school they found the other students in the grip of a most perplexing mystery. How this mystery was solved, and what good times the girls had, both in school and on the lake, go to make a story no girl would care to miss. 3. NELL GRAYSON'S RANCHING DAYS or A City Girl in the Great West Showing how Nell, when she had a ranch girl visit her in Boston, thought her chum very green, but when Nell visited the ranch in the great West she found herself confronting many conditions of which she was totally ignorant. A stirring outdoor story. 4. FOUR LITTLE WOMEN OF ROXBY or The Queer Old Lady Who Lost Her Way Four sisters are keeping house and having trouble to make both ends meet. One day there wanders in from a stalled express train an old lady who cannot remember her identity. The girls take the old lady in, and, later, are much astonished to learn who she really is. 5. PLAIN JANE AND PRETTY BETTY or The Girl Who Won Out The tale of two girls, one plain but sensible, the other pretty but vain. Unexpectedly both find they have to make their way in the world. Both have many trials and tribulations. A story of a country town and then a city. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE LINGER-NOT SERIES By AGNES MILLER 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid This new series of girls' books is in a new style of story writing. The interest is in knowing the girls and seeing them solve the problems that develop their character. Incidentally, a great deal of historical information is imparted. 1. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE MYSTERY HOUSE or The Story of Nine Adventurous Girls How the Linger-Not girls met and formed their club seems commonplace, but this writer makes it fascinating, and how they made their club serve a great purpose continues the interest to the end, and introduces a new type of girlhood. 2. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE VALLEY FEUD or The Great West Point Chain The Linger-Not girls had no thought of becoming mixed up with feuds or mysteries, but their habit of being useful soon entangled them in some surprising adventures that turned out happily for all, and made the valley better because of their visit. 3. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THEIR GOLDEN QUEST or The Log of the Ocean Monarch For a club of girls to become involved in a mystery leading back into the times of the California gold-rush, seems unnatural until the reader sees how it happened, and how the girls helped one of their friends to come into her rightful name and inheritance, forms a fine story. 4. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE WHISPERING CHARMS or The Secret from Old Alaska Whether engrossed in thrilling adventures in the Far North or occupied with quiet home duties, the Linger-Not girls could work unitedly to solve a colorful mystery in a way that interpreted American freedom to a sad young stranger, and brought happiness to her and to themselves. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE GIRL SCOUT SERIES By LILIAN GARIS 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid The highest ideals of girlhood as advocated by the foremost organizations of America form the background for these stories and while unobtrusive there is a message in every volume. 1. THE GIRL SCOUT PIONEERS or Winning the First B. C. A story of the True Tred Troop in a Pennsylvania town. Two runaway girls, who want to see the city, are reclaimed through troop influence. The story is correct in scout detail. 2. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT BELLAIRE or Maid Mary's Awakening The story of a timid little maid who is afraid to take part in other girls' activities, while working nobly alone for high ideals. How she was discovered by the Bellaire Troop and came into her own as "Maid Mary" makes a fascinating story. 3. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT SEA CREST or The Wig Wag Rescue Luna Land, a little island by the sea, is wrapt in a mysterious seclusion, and Kitty Scuttle, a grotesque figure, succeeds in keeping all others at bay until the Girl Scouts come. 4. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP COMALONG or Peg of Tamarack Hills The girls of Bobolink Troop spend their summer on the shores of Lake Hocomo. Their discovery of Peg, the mysterious rider, and the clearing up of her remarkable adventures afford a vigorous plot. 5. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT ROCKY LEDGE or Nora's Real Vacation Nora Blair is the pampered daughter of a frivolous mother. Her dislike for the rugged life of Girl Scouts is eventually changed to appreciation, when the rescue of little Lucia, a woodland waif, becomes a problem for the girls to solve. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York BILLIE BRADLEY SERIES By JANET D. WHEELER 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid 1. BILLIE BRADLEY AND HER INHERITANCE or The Queer Homestead at Cherry Corners Billie Bradley fell heir to an old homestead that was unoccupied and located far away in a lonely section of the country. How Billie went there, accompanied by some of her chums, and what queer things happened, go to make up a story no girl will want to miss. 2. BILLIE BRADLEY AT THREE-TOWERS HALL or Leading a Needed Rebellion Three-Towers Hall was a boarding school for girls. For a short time after Billie arrived there all went well. But then the head of the school had to go on a long journey and she left the girls in charge of two teachers, sisters, who believed in severe discipline and in very, very plain food and little of it--and then there was a row! The girls wired for the head to come back--and all ended happily. 3. BILLIE BRADLEY ON LIGHTHOUSE ISLAND or The Mystery of the Wreck One of Billie's friends owned a summer bungalow on Lighthouse Island, near the coast. The school girls made up a party and visited the Island. There was a storm and a wreck, and three little children were washed ashore. They could tell nothing of themselves, and Billie and her chums set to work to solve the mystery of their identity. 4. BILLIE BRADLEY AND HER CLASSMATES or The Secret of the Locked Tower Billie and her chums come to the rescue of several little children who have broken through the ice. There is the mystery of a lost invention, and also the dreaded mystery of the locked school tower. 5. BILLIE BRADLEY AT TWIN LAKES or Jolly Schoolgirls Afloat and Ashore A tale of outdoor adventure in which Billie and her chums have a great variety of adventures. They visit an artists' colony and there fall in with a strange girl living with an old boatman who abuses her constantly. Billie befriended Hulda and the mystery surrounding the girl was finally cleared up. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE CURLYTOPS SERIES By HOWARD R. GARIS Author of the famous Bedtime Animal Stories 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid 1. THE CURLYTOPS AT CHERRY FARM or Vacation Days in the Country A tale of happy vacation days on a farm. 2. THE CURLYTOPS ON STAR ISLAND or Camping out with Grandpa The Curlytops camp on Star Island. 3. THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN or Grand Fun with Skates and Sleds The Curlytops on lakes and hills. 4. THE CURLYTOPS AT UNCLE FRANK'S RANCH or Little Folks on Ponyback Out West on their uncle's ranch they have a wonderful time. 5. THE CURLYTOPS AT SILVER LAKE or On the Water with Uncle Ben The Curlytops camp out on the shores of a beautiful lake. 6. THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PETS or Uncle Toby's Strange Collection An old uncle leaves them to care for his collection of pets. 7. THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PLAYMATES or Jolly Times Through the Holidays They have great times with their uncle's collection of animals. 8. THE CURLYTOPS IN THE WOODS or Fun at the Lumber Camp Exciting times in the forest for Curlytops. 9. THE CURLYTOPS AT SUNSET BEACH or What Was Found in the Sand The Curlytops have a fine time at the seashore. 10. THE CURLYTOPS TOURING AROUND or The Missing Photograph Albums The Curlytops get in some moving pictures. 11. THE CURLYTOPS IN A SUMMER CAMP or Animal Joe's Menagerie There is great excitement as some mischievous monkeys break out of Animal Joe's Menagerie. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOM SERIES By MABEL C. HAWLEY 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid 1. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AT BROOKSIDE FARM Mother called them her Four Little Blossoms, but Daddy Blossom called them Bobby, Meg, and the twins. The twins, Twaddles and Dot, were a comical pair and always getting into mischief. The children had heaps of fun around the big farm. 2. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AT OAK HILL SCHOOL In the Fall, Bobby and Meg had to go to school. It was good fun, for Miss Mason was a kind teacher. Then the twins insisted on going to school, too, and their appearance quite upset the class. In school something very odd happened. 3. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AND THEIR WINTER FUN Winter came and with it lots of ice and snow, and oh! what fun the Blossoms had skating and sledding. And once Bobby and Meg went on an errand and got lost in a sudden snowstorm. 4. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS ON APPLE TREE ISLAND The Four Little Blossoms went to a beautiful island in the middle of a big lake and there had a grand time on the water and in the woods. And in a deserted cabin they found some letters which helped an old man to find his missing wife. 5. FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS THROUGH THE HOLIDAYS The story starts at Thanksgiving. They went skating and coasting, and they built a wonderful snowman, and one day Bobby and his chums visited a carpenter shop on the sly, and that night the shop burnt down, and there was trouble for the boys. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York THE DOROTHY DALE SERIES By MARGARET PENROSE Author of The Motor Girls Series, Radio Girls Series, & c. 12mo. Illustrated Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid Dorothy Dale is the daughter of an old Civil War veteran who is running a weekly newspaper in a small Eastern town. Her sunny disposition, her fun-loving ways and her trials and triumphs make clean, interesting and fascinating reading. The Dorothy Dale Series is one of the most popular series of books for girls ever published. DOROTHY DALE: A GIRL OF TO-DAY DOROTHY DALE AT GLEN WOOD SCHOOL DOROTHY DALE'S GREAT SECRET DOROTHY DALE AND HER CHUMS DOROTHY DALE'S QUEER HOLIDAYS DOROTHY DALE'S CAMPING DAYS DOROTHY DALE'S SCHOOL RIVALS DOROTHY DALE IN THE CITY DOROTHY DALE'S PROMISE DOROTHY DALE IN THE WEST DOROTHY DALE'S STRANGE DISCOVERY DOROTHY DALE'S ENGAGEMENT DOROTHY DALE TO THE RESCUE Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers--New York 
46404	----	Mimi at Sheridan School By Anne Pence Davis THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY CHICAGO ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright 1935 by THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY Chicago MADE IN U. S. A. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ For Kay and Diane Who still have all the fun of school ahead. A. P. D. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS I. HOME II. MISS JANE'S WEDDING III. "SHERIDAN, MY SHERIDAN" IV. FOLLOW THE LEADER V. TUMBLE INN VI. GREEN CAP WEEK VII. AN ACCIDENT VIII. MIMI GETS A BID IX. CLORISSA'S SECRET X. BETSY SPRINGS A SURPRISE XI. THE THANKSGIVING GAME XII. TEA FOR TWO XIII. DECK THE HALLS WITH BOUGHS OF HOLLY XIV. "THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE" XV. DADDY SENDS A CLUE XVI. THE LAKE FREEZES OVER XVII. SATURDAY ESCAPADE XVIII. THE HORSE SHOW XIX. TENNIS TOURNAMENT XX. ROOF GARDEN PARTY XXI. DEATH BELLS XXII. THE LAST OF PREP HALL XXIII. WHEN THE SMOKE CLEARED AWAY XXIV. WHO IS CHLOE? XXV. HOME AGAIN JIGGETY JIG ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Mimi at Sheridan School CHAPTER I HOME For the first time in ever so long Mimi was rude! She shoved, pushed, crowded, stepped on other passengers' toes, jabbed them with her elbows. She forgot that every other camper on the train was as eager to be at home as she. For long minutes, Mimi had been poking her red-head out the window and then pulling it in, to report. A lady Jack-in-the-box, Sue thought. "That was Bristow. The next stop is B. G."--"There's Howard's house on the hill--only two miles from there--I know, I've hiked it."--"Ooo-ooh we're crossing the river into town----" At the first soft p-s-s-s of escaping steam and applied brakes, Mimi leaped to her feet. This was the signal to stampede the vestibule. Because she had more "junk" to pick up, drop and pick up again, Mimi was not the first to rush down the aisle, but by some miracle of shoving and crowding and complete forgetfulness of manners, Mimi was at the head of the steps when the train pulled under the long shed and stopped. Only the restraining arm of the flagman kept her from diving off headlong before the train came to a dead stop. "Careful, Miss." But Mimi neither heard nor heeded. She was searching the faces of the crowd--Sue's mother, Margie's daddy, Miss Jane's Dick--but her own darling family, where were they? "Hello, Mimi--my child, you're freckled." "Be seein' you, Mimi"--"Goodbye"--"Bye." Mimi seemed rooted to one small spot under the shed and all the happiness in the world was passing around her and leaving her alone. What could be the matter? Something dreadful must have happened! Then she saw---- A black coupe swung down the drive and raced right up to her--as near as it could come for the tracks, and stopped under a big sign which read, "No Parking." The gravel was still flying from under the wheels and the dust was still making fitful little clouds when the door popped open and Daddy jumped out. Mimi remembered later that he did not even wait to open the door for Mother Dear and Junior but let them scramble out the best they could. Daddy came striding toward her and scooped her up into his arms, bundles and all. "I simply wouldn't have a doctor for a Daddy," he was saying. And Mother Dear, quite out of breath from dragging Junior at a rapid pace, was adding---- "We had to go by the Hospital and Daddy was detained----" But none of that mattered in the least now. They were here--the baggage was stowed away in the back of the coupe. Junior was stretched out on the shelf blocking any view out the back window--an ideal place to pull Mimi's hair or tickle her ear--and Mimi, Daddy and Mother Dear were scrouged up together as Daddy stepped on the starter. One long happy sigh escaped Mimi as she cuddled down, and not two minutes ago tears were, well, not quite in her eyes, but in her heart to say the least. Mimi's blue eyes were usually merry. "Psst, psst!" in her ear. Junior's warm breath against her ear. "Secret!" in a hoarse stage whisper. "James Sherwood Hammond, Junior," in Mother's sternest voice as she glared at Junior. A booming big laugh from Daddy who received the tail end of Mother's stern glance. He immediately swallowed the smile and began asking Mimi about camp. "Did Sue's ankle get all right?" Daddy wanted to know. "Were there any stomach aches after the big Sunday dinner we brought? What finally became of Pluto?" "Yes--No--No," Mimi was answering. "Oh it was too perfectly precious--all of it--and Daddy, Mother Dear--I am an honor camper! See!" She fished in her purse and held up the felt emblem. "And you are something else, too. Today you are----" But stop--Mother scowled at Daddy over Mimi's head and would have put her hand over his mouth if she could have reached it; wondering frantically if it were harder for big boys or small boys to keep a secret, she changed the subject swiftly. "Is Miss Jane very tired from having the responsibility of you wild young things?" "Not at all--she's grand--wonderful. Next to you Mother, I love her best of nearly any one--and oh, Mother! She is----" Then Mimi nearly told a secret. She stopped herself in time. Perhaps she would have gone on but Daddy was turning in the driveway. At the first sound of the car, Von, abandoning his watch on the porch and forgetting the restrained manners of German police pedigree, came bounding toward them. Mammy Cissy was standing in the door grinning. The striped runners of wandering jew falling over the edges of the hanging baskets brushed her hair as she ducked under and her swinging arm almost knocked a fern pot from its pedestal, for Mimi had jumped on to the porch neither from the porte-cochere nor the front steps. With Von barking boldly at her heels, she had cut across the lawn and leaped on to the porch to Mammy--Precious old Cissy, who this instant hugged her close, and the next was holding her at arm's length saying:-- "Lan's sakes alive, Miss Mimi, yo sho is brought home a good crop of freckles and this newfangled sun tan both!" Then Daddy calling from the drive, "Here, camper, help take your things in. What good is this old land lubber with a bulging sea bag?" Daddy made such fun of things. He was unusually entertaining today (Mother had told him to be). While he and Mimi carried the things upstairs to her room--her own room with its ivory furniture and crisp swiss curtains tied back with green taffeta bows--Mammy, Mother and yes, Junior too, had disappeared. Daddy knew they were in the kitchen, busy putting last touches here and there and lighting candles--lighting candles in the middle of the day! "There," Mimi said depositing the last load on the cedar chest under the double front window. "Can it be possible I smell food?" "Quite," answered Daddy catching her mood. "It could even be probable, honey, that the nose tickling, delectable odor assailing your nostrils is _fried chicken_!" Mimi ran for the stairs. Before Daddy caught up with her and took her arm, Mother's voice halted her rush for the kitchen. "Mimi, wash that train dirt off. You and Daddy both freshen up, for dinner is ready." There was an excited undertone in Mother's voice that should have told her something special was afoot but she didn't suspect a thing until she and Daddy went downstairs together and walked right into the blue velvet portieres! The dining room was shut off! Before Mimi could solve the puzzle Daddy pulled back the curtain and bowed very low. This was the cue for the music to begin. Mother, Junior and Cissy in three entirely different keys were grouped at the foot of the table facing her singing, "Happy Birthday to you!" Mimi was speechless---- There was a white cloth on the table. She was somehow aware of Mother's good plates stacked at Daddy's place, of the good silver which caught the candle light, and most of all of the big white cake in the middle of the table with fourteen yellow candles. Mimi knew without counting how many there were. It was her birthday. She was fourteen! How could she have forgotten? "I believe she really is surprised!" beamed Mother very pleased with it all. "We put something over on her once." "Sho she is," exclaimed Cissy ducking to the kitchen as soon as the song ended. "I nearly told," commented Junior slipping into his place and adding in the same breath--"Give me the drumstick, Daddy." There was a deep note of gratitude in Daddy's voice as he asked the simple blessing. He was thankful to have his small family all together again. It had been a long two weeks to Daddy without Mimi. There were not many more days to have them all four together at their own table. Daddy knew something Mimi was yet to find out. While Daddy served the plates, Mother helped; while Cissy hovered behind Daddy's chair with hot breads, while Junior clamored for both drumsticks now instead of one, Mimi made a discovery. She found a plain white envelope that was flat on the table, hidden under her napkin. She hadn't taken her napkin up immediately as Daddy finished the blessing the way she usually did. She was watching tiny streams of tallow run down the candles and hoping they would not spoil the cake icing; admiring the snowy white cloth and Mother's thin, etched glasses, so different from the bare tables at camp and the thick glasses and heavy china. Not that camp wasn't all right--No siree! But it was so grand to be home again. "A-hem" said Daddy. He had finished serving the plates and all eyes were focused on Mimi waiting for her to rip open the white envelope. "It's for me?" Mimi asked picking it up and turning it over. No name, no anything---- "Look and see." It was so thin and flat, it couldn't have much in it, Mimi thought as she tore the end open with scalloped little pinches. When she ran her finger in the envelope, it seemed empty. Then she shook it and out tumbled a check. It was for more money than Mimi dreamed existed. "For you, daughter," Daddy said (and when Daddy said "Daughter" she felt very grown-up and dignified if a slightly snubbed-nose person with unruly red hair and such merry blue eyes can ever be dignified). The check instead of being payable to Mimi was made out to Sheridan School for one year's room, board and tuition for Mimi--in full---- "But--?" said Mimi looking dazedly from Mother to Daddy. She wasn't old enough to go to college and she had heard Mother say she did not approve of Prep Schools when there were good High Schools at home. "Daughter, Daddy is going away a year," Dr. Hammond said--"taking a leave of absence from his practice and going to Leipzig, Germany, to specialize." "But what will we do without you?" "I was coming to that. You see, daughter, Mother is going along with me--" Daddy reached over and patted Mother's hand. "And Junior is too small to leave so we are taking him." "But me, Daddy--what about me?" Mimi's voice was getting thinner and higher. "You, daughter, are going to Sheridan School." For an awful moment Mimi was silent. No Mother or Daddy for a whole year? She wished she were too small to leave too. They wouldn't leave her; then without moving her lips she whispered "Sheridan School." The very words were healing magic. How often with great longing she had said them. "When I get big I'm going to Sheridan School." She wasn't big yet, but fourteen is quite a responsible age. She began to understand that the long looked forward to "someday" would be September. "Of course, of course," she burst out. Holding her head high and her chin firm, and without the least bit of quiver in her voice, she looked Daddy squarely in the eyes, "I am going to Sheridan School!" CHAPTER II MISS JANE'S WEDDING If Daddy's office nurse hadn't called and said that he had an emergency case there is no telling when the Birthday dinner party would have ended. Even as the telephone rang and Cissy drawled, "Doctah's residence," Daddy glanced guiltily at his wrist watch and stood up. "Tell Miss Gould I'm on my way, Cissy," and that quick Daddy was gone. Mimi was off too, but out the back door, not the front. She stopped at the buffet on the way out taking an apple out of the fruit bowl. "Surely, child, you can't eat anything else." "No ma'am, it's for King--I'm going out to see him." "King isn't here, Mimi--he's at the veterinarian's." "What for? Is he sick?" "Nothing at all. Dr. Kirby wants a friend to see him. Daddy will explain." "Dr. Kirby isn't trying to sell King, is he, Mother?" In the instant Mother hesitated, Mimi knew. "That's entirely up to you and Daddy." "Oh," said Mimi going on out the door toward the stable. She had no word for Von who trotted at her heels, only a pat on the head. Together they stood before the empty stall; Mimi leaning against the rail, Von pressing against her knees. No proud head nuzzling against her shoulder, no welcoming neigh, no pawing. Daddy wouldn't sell King without asking her; Mimi knew that, but King was a valuable horse and Daddy might need the money to go to Germany. He couldn't take the horse with him. She couldn't take him to Sheridan--or could she? Boarding horses out a whole winter was dreadfully expensive. They'd have to do something with King. Wrapped in her calculations and nibbling at the apple intended for her pet, she wandered back toward the house and upstairs to her room. There was very little breeze. The scent of honeysuckle was heavy. She was full and tired and had no inclination whatever to open her duffle bag and begin putting things in place. "No wonder, I'm sleepy. It's quiet hour by camp time." So saying she skinned her linen dress off over her head, kicked off her sandals, stretched out on her own bed and in two winks and no blinks was sound asleep. Two hours later when Mother opened the door, Mimi opened her eyes but she did not get up. She rolled over on her stomach, doubled her knees up and propped her head in her hands. "Could you stand another big surprise today?" Mother asked, handing Mimi the afternoon paper. The paper was turned inside out putting the Society Page on the outside. "There," Mother added, putting her finger on an item. Mimi was too sleepy to hurry. She had to shift her position to hold the paper and as she moved leisurely she said to her mother: "I suppose it says the charming and 'onliest' daughter of Dr. and Mrs. James Sherwood Hammond has returned from an extended vacation at Camp Mammoth Cave"--a big yawn--"and that her parents were tardy at the train?" "Hurry, Mimi. This is important." Mother, who usually had all the calmness and poise a doctor's wife soon acquires, was weaving her hands like Zasu Pitts before Mimi focused her blue eyes on the column. "Mrs. Josephine Herold announces the engagement and approaching marriage of her daughter, Alicia Jane, to Mr. Dick Donnell. The wedding will be an event of early autumn." "Umph! That's no surprise to me. I've known it all day long--for sure," said Mimi superiorly. "Why, we even planned Miss Jane's wedding for her on the train this morning coming home." "And what are her plans?" "Well, I don't know exactly," Mimi had to admit, "but we're going to be in the wedding--all five of us who were in Miss Jane's hut at camp, and Miss Millie, too. We told her we were." "And where will the wedding be?" "Oh, Mother," laughed Mimi, "you sound just like that silly old nursery rhyme about 'Mr. Frog went a courtin' and he did ride, umphum' saying 'where shall the wedding supper be?' and if I answer like the rhyme, 'way down yonder in a hollow tree,' that could be true for all I know. I don't care where it is just so I'm in it." "A church wedding would be frightfully expensive for Mrs. Herold, I fear; and since Mr. Herold passed away and Mrs. Herold had the house made into two apartments, their present living quarters are rather crowded. I wonder----" Mimi did not know what Mother wondered until they were dressed for the afternoon and had driven over to Miss Jane's. Mimi had wanted to go by the tennis court for two reasons; to show off her improved game and to see Honky and return his tennis racquet he had let her take to camp. The way things turned out she was glad she went with Mother Dear because now she was in on the ground floor of all the lovely plans. Mrs. Herold, Miss Jane, Mimi (who sat near the open door to wave hello in case any of her friends passed), and Mrs. Hammond were no sooner seated than Mrs. Hammond, with that charming directness of hers, came to the point. "Jane, my dear, Dr. Hammond and I are so grateful to you for the splendid care you took of Mimi at camp that I want you to let me do something for you. You see, your mother and Dr. Hammond's Aunt Gay were in Sheridan together and that almost makes us kin." Mother was laughing and being her most winsome. Mimi had turned from the open door and was watching her Mother and listening intently. "What I am trying to say, my dear, is, won't you and Dick marry at our house? It is so perfectly suited to a simple home wedding, the stairs, the living room, reception hall and dining room arranged as they are." "Why, Mrs. Hammond, I don't know what to say. I never heard of anything so wonderful! I love your house! I've been in and out there all my life and feel it's partly my home, too. What do you think, Mother?" she asked turning to Mrs. Herold. "Jane," little Mrs. Herold had tears of happiness in her eyes, "it's your wedding and have it as you please. It could be a beautiful wedding there--the white columns and the floor plan. It always has reminded me of the big house down on the plantation where your father and I were wed." Her voice had trailed away to a soft whisper. Jane rose from her chair and sat on the needle point stool at her Mother's feet and leaned her head against her Mother's knees. "I'll have to speak to Dick, Mrs. Hammond." "Only one thing I must add, Jane. We are closing our house the middle of September. The doctor has definitely decided to go to Leipzig. I have to get Mimi ready for Sheridan. If you could move the date up two or three weeks, say to the first week of September, we could manage beautifully." Everyone listening knew Mother Dear could do just that, manage beautifully. That is how it happened that when twilight, September the seventh, came, all the streets for three blocks around the Hammond house were blocked with cars. The driveway was kept open and cars were rolling up to the porte-cochere to deposit wedding guests, circling the back flower bed and moving out again. Well dressed ladies in dainty summer frocks, gay young things, well groomed gentlemen were strolling up the front walk and lingering in the cool shadows on the veranda until the music invited them in. Inside the house there was more commotion and excitement than on the outside--florist helpers, caterers, two dressmaker's helpers, who were serving as maids, were putting last touches here and there. No one was more important than Cissy. Even in the years to come when her own Mimi would be a regal bride trailing down the steps of this same old house where Mammy had already seen two generations of joy and sorrow, she would not be busier. There was, first of all, the caterer from Louisville who was "acting Frenchy and puttin' on airs" and "bein' an abomination" to Mammy's soul. Yellow Fanny, who had helped Mammy on special occasions before, was as nervous as a cat. The yard boy was dressed up in a fresh white coat opening car doors and the front screen door and at every possible chance slipping back to the kitchen window to tell those in the rear of the house what was going on out front. Fanny couldn't stay far from the window, and Mammy herself, as eager as any one not to miss anything, would listen intently and then declare she couldn't do anything with "so many distractions." But she had done a great deal. The furniture was pushed back in the dining room to make room for the guests. There was a pile of white napkins on the buffet, but every available inch in the kitchen was stacked with plates and there were rows and rows of tall thin glasses waiting to be filled. Tiny rolled sandwiches, what looked to Mimi like a tubful of chicken salad, beaten biscuits--and most wonderful of all, the wedding cake, tiers and tiers of cake with a miniature bride and groom on top. The caterer knew it was a work of art but it was Mammy in her new black uniform and crisp white organdy apron and cap who, after the ceremony, would carry it in with candles flickering, place it in the center of the table and hand Miss Jane the silver cake server. There was a green bank of luxurious ferns before the living room fireplace forming an altar. Even now, the florist's helper was lighting the tall cathedral candles on either side. The white satin stool for the bride and groom to kneel on was placed just so. There was a profusion of cut flowers everywhere. The delicately turned bannister was wound with southern smilax and a big white satin bow crowned the newel post. Downstairs all was in readiness. Upstairs there was an orderly confusion. Mother Dear seemed everywhere--keeping order where chaos might so easily reign. She was the puppeteer behind the scene pulling the central strings making the wedding party act. There had been so many things. Miss Jane had been ducky about having a rainbow wedding. Nothing else would satisfy her five little campers, who were now her junior (and only) bridesmaids. She had chosen palest yellow for her gown palest yellow highlighting the deep waves in her golden amber hair and striking little sparks of fire in her deep grey eyes. She had let her hair grow longer since camp and it curled softly to her face. Her gorgeous sheaf of sunburst roses added the perfect finishing touch to the picture of a beautiful bride. Miss Millie had been more fun at rehearsals than all the rest together. She always amused Mimi and since camp Mimi knew she would never be able to be around Miss Millie long without being happy and gay. Miss Millie was not pretty, but in her sweeping green dress she made a very dashing maid of honor. To Mother Dear's great relief she had arrived with Miss Jane fully gowned and been smuggled up the back way--one less to dress upstairs. The trouble lay with the five, and had from the beginning. Even before the color-of-dresses-difficulty arose, there was this matter of not being able to divide five into pairs, and bridesmaids must saunter down the stairs two and two. Mimi was positive any deviation would ruin the whole wedding! Perhaps because she was in the habit now of taking charge of the five, or maybe it was to keep unpleasantness out of anything connected with her wedding; at any rate, Miss Jane settled the first dispute most tactfully. "But Sue," she had said and Sue, flattered, had heeded, "Sue dear I wanted you to _play_ at my wedding--I must have a violin and I had pictured you in a blue bouffant organdy dress with your violin under your chin, playing and facing me as I came into the living room. My knees may be a bit wobbly by the time I get my long dress down the stairs--if I get that far without tripping--and I'll need to see you playing, 'Here comes the bride, here comes the bride!'" Who could resist Miss Jane? Not Sue---- Then Jean, who had been superior at camp because she-had-been-to-camp-before, was meek and agreeable because this was her first time to be in a wedding--the first time for them all--at least the first grown up time. Margie had been a flower girl once but she was such a baby then that didn't count. She and Jean had thrilled over pink for their frocks and they were to come down first. That coming down _first_ had been another matter. Dottie had to be convinced (she with the logical mind and the determined-to-do-or-die disposition) that she and Mimi should be second because they were taller--start with the short girls and work up to the tallest. If only Miss Jane were taller than Miss Millie it would be perfect, but she wasn't. At this point Mother Dear had mentioned orchid dresses and peace prevailed again. Now the dark days of running to the dressmakers for fittings, and trying to stand still and not to yell when a pin stuck, were over. Even the satin pumps, which, to be alike, had had to be bought white and dyed, had turned out successfully. Only getting the dresses on and the pumps on remained. At the moment Mimi's arms were stretched high over her head, her hair was caught on something or other, and she was wriggling and Mother was tugging trying to get the orchid dress over her head and down without messing up her hair. "There, we must hurry," said Mother giving the final jerk as Mimi's head popped in view again. "If I can balance on these heels and don't fall--why, oh why, didn't Mr. Zeigler finish them in time for me to practice wearing high heels--oh, Mother if----" And then she saw herself in the full length mirror of the closet door. "Oh," was all she could gasp at her radiant image. "Sue, ready for you," called Mrs. Herold gently--"Reverend McKenzie is here and we're about ready. You girls look so fresh and sweet." Mrs. Herold looked sweet herself. "Thank you," from all five. They had brought the ensemble idea home from camp--when one spoke all spoke. "Now, run along, Sue--careful----" Sue met the pianist and soloist in the upstairs hall and the three quietly moved downstairs. A--A--A--squeak, squeak, E--E--E--A--D--G--plink, plink. The four girls giggled as they heard Sue tuning her violin. Dottie put her fingers in her ears and grimaced. At the first strain of Cadman's "At Dawning" every trace of grin disappeared. A strange quiet pervaded the whole house. Voices hushed to a whisper, then died altogether. Fans ceased fluttering--"When the dawn flames in the sky, I love you--" The whole assembly had caught its breath in a lover's knot. The bridal party assembled in the hall--all but Miss Jane. Her door was still closed. The minister, Dick and his best man had remained downstairs They were to enter from the dining room and Dick would meet Miss Jane at the foot of the stairs and give her his arm. Mimi gripped Dot's arm. "Oh, my gosh, I forgot something," she gasped in a stage whisper. Leaving Dot to remark, "You would" to thin air, Mimi caught her full long skirt up around her and ran on tiptoes into her room. Bang went the cedar chest top against the window sill. Out came two boxes to be dumped in vain in the middle of the floor. Desperately Mimi grabbed up her camp count book and holding it by the backs shook the pages till they rustled against each other. "I must find it--I must!" she repeated. She was beginning to despair when a downy blue feather fell out. Clutching it firmly between her thumb and forefinger, Mimi headed for Miss Jane's door. "Miss Jane, Miss Jane," she whispered tensely, turning the door knob as she spoke--"I have something for you--you have to have it, please." "Come in," Miss Jane invited as Mimi slipped through the door--"What in the world?" Mimi held out the feather. "Here, Miss Jane. Stick this on you somewhere for luck. It's a blue bird feather I brought from camp." "Luck?" Miss Jane smiled as if Dick were the only luck she ever needed to be happy, but while Mimi explained she stuck the tiny feather under the ribbon of her corsage. "Yes. Every bride must wear: 'Something old, something new, Something borrowed, something blue.' And you see Miss Jane, that's all of them. Oh, there goes the music----" Before she finished talking, Jean and Margie had started. As soon as they turned the landing, Dottie and Mimi fell in to the measured step. Holding their bouquets tightly against them and counting, listening carefully for the accent of the music and--trying to go slowly--the bridesmaids descended to the living room. Their tiny high heels made prints on the soft satin laid over the carpet. Everything inside Mimi was singing with Sue's violin and the piano. Again her magic trail of beauty stretched out before her. When the final triumphant cords sounded and Miss Jane paused for one moment at the head of the stairs Mimi almost ceased to breathe. It was all too perfectly thrilling. Her Miss Jane could have stepped out of fairyland. The ceremony, the reception and going away were events of a dream to Mimi. She moved here and there and yet had no part in it. She kissed the groom. She shrieked with glee when she bit down on the ring in her piece of wedding cake. She hugged Miss Millie with the rest as Millie's long arms caught Miss Jane's bouquet which she tossed over the stairs when she ran up to put on her going away ensemble. She threw rice and rice and rice. Then all too soon it was over and the last car was disappearing down the driveway. Mother and Daddy stood on the steps waving. Mimi was between them a step below. She could not see the long look they gave each other over her head which meant that some day, not so very many years away, their own daughter would be going down the same driveway, a bride. CHAPTER III "SHERIDAN, MY SHERIDAN" A cannibal king With a big nose ring Once loved a Zulu maid; And every night When the moon was bright Across the canal he'd wade; To hug and kiss His dusky Miss While under the greenwood tree, And when they met They sang a duet That went like this to me: Sheridan, Sheridan, Green and white against the sky; Sheridan, Sheridan, We'll love Thee till we die! Afterwards, Mimi wondered how they ever lived through it all--cleaning up after the wedding, putting slip covers over the living room furniture, packing away blankets in moth proof containers, putting linens in the cedar chest--the frenzy of shopping and sewing--the packing. The nicest thing happened to Mimi during those busy days. Mother bought a small new light-weight trunk and gave Mimi her big wardrobe one. Mimi had always wanted a wardrobe trunk but she hadn't hoped to have one of her own until she was ready for college. In fact, she had already made up her mind to take the big metal trunk out in the garage and like it, but Mother was going to pack things in it that could go straight to Leipzig without being opened, except, of course, for the Customs. Mimi kept the wardrobe trunk open in her room with the hangers pulled out and every time another dress was finished and pressed she hung it up and admired it. It was fun to see it fill up. Mimi knew she was a lucky girl to have six dresses; the peacock blue jersey was new and so was the plaid wool. The orchid organdy was, practically. It was such a grown-up thing to pack. The long full skirt had to be looped over the hangers twice. Such care had to be taken so as not to crush the sash. The others were made-overs but they did look nice. No one at Sheridan would know them. "It seems foolish to put so much time on your clothes when you will have to wear navy blue uniforms like all the other girls in the Preparatory Department," Mother said. She was being sure that Mimi packed neatly. She was having a terrible time with her boots. "But there will be many times I can use them, Mother." "I know and I want you to have plenty to last you. I will be away, so far away, and so long--anything could happen----" The quaver in Mother's voice caused Mimi to look up quickly. For a poignant instant they looked at each other and then Mimi's arms went around her Mother's neck. Tightly they clung to each other and all the dread of parting, which each had been choking back, rushed around them. Again mother was holding her baby and, with all the self assurance her fourteenth birthday had brought melted away, a baby Mimi was clinging to her Mother. "There, there, child," Mother was saying in a steadier voice--Mother was so brave--"I must get the rest of your underclothes. You polish your tennis shoes so they will be dry enough to pack." Mother had gone quickly. That day the packing was finished and the trunk snapped shut and Mimi hung the key around her neck on a blue ribbon. That day, Mimi said goodbye to Von, to King, who was being sent to the pasture for the winter, to Honky, to the campers, to Cissy, and to her dear, dear family. She couldn't say goodbye to Miss Jane for she was still honeymooning. And the next day, Mimi arrived at Sheridan School. She was a day early, but Mother and Daddy wanted her safely there before they left and they were sailing soon now; consequently, she was the only Sheridan student on the train. She was one more than was expected apparently. "Heah you is, Miss," said the Red Cap, who bundled Mimi off the train--Daddy had given him fifty cents and told him to "see after the young lady." The porter looked up and down the empty platform and back at Mimi, "Shall I put you in a cab?" "Yes," Mimi answered the porter, trying not to appear nonplused by not being met. "To Sheridan School--Preparatory Hall," she said aloofly to the driver as if taking a cab was something she did every day. That was the last time she ever said Preparatory Hall. From then on it was Prep Hall. Though outwardly composed, Mimi was upset inside. She had always imagined arriving at school in the midst of a great hubbub, old girls rushing up to greet you, new girls making friendly approaches, chaperones taking your baggage checks. She knew Daddy had wired Mrs. Cole, the matron. Here she was alone in a taxi going no telling where! The taxi had skirted the business district and turned off the main thoroughfare. Mimi clutched her pocket book. Suppose--no she mustn't imagine such silly things, but the papers were full of taxi hold-ups--last week in Chicago--but this wasn't Chicago. It was a sleepy southern town--bump, bump, and just as Mimi was about to convince herself that she was being taken to a desolate wayside, the taxi turned right on to the Boulevard--bump, bump, right again on to a long winding gravel driveway. Leaning forward Mimi made a mental picture of Sheridan School, the size of the windshield. Between the winding rows of deep-set pin oaks and frost-kissed maples, Mimi saw the enormous red brick building with its three colonial porches set at intervals, dividing the building into sections called "halls." The center point of the horseshoe curve of the drive practically touched the concrete steps of the central porch. The taxi stopped here and the driver blew his horn. Although there were many signs of activity--windows open, mattresses airing, gardeners busy--it was several minutes before the door opened and a very flustered Mrs. Cole popped out. She was setting her hat aright and buttoning the coat of her blue suit as she came out. "Oh, dear, dear!" she was sputtering to the driver. "I must meet that one-forty train." All the time she was speaking she was hurrying toward the taxi. "But Ma'am----" Then she saw Mimi---- "Why--" And Mrs. Cole's eyebrows arched up like a cat's back and her whole face was one big question mark. "I am Mimi Hammond," Mimi announced calmly. She adored being very cool and collected when other people were confused. It gave her the most grown-up, fourteen year old feeling. "I was going to meet you, child! Dear, dear, what a day--everything upside down. I just this minute found your father's wire. Are you all right? Here driver, take the bags to the last entrance down. That is the Preparatory entrance. Come with me, Mickey--I mean--what did you say your name was?" "Mimi." She'll have to stop eventually to get her breath, Mimi thought. She bit her lips to keep from giggling. In that minute she did three things: she liked Mrs. Cole, felt sorry for her and knew by Mrs. Cole's apologetic manner that she had the upper hand of her. As she followed Mrs. Cole down the corridor to room 207, she was convinced that Mrs. Cole's job was too big for her. "She's not a bit like Miss Jane or our camp director. I bet they keep her because they hate to fire her," Mimi was thinking. "I'll put you in here for the time being--er--er--Mimi." She had the name at last. "Thank you." "You'll have to get along the best you can the rest of the afternoon. The supper bell will ring at six-thirty and you be there." Mrs. Cole didn't say where the dining room was; she didn't say a lot of other things that Mimi discovered for herself that sunny autumn afternoon. The campus paths, the friendly trees, the inscription on the corner stone: "SHERIDAN SCHOOL, DEDICATED TO CHRISTIAN PIETY AND FEMALE EDUCATION." All informed her. The lonely corridors rang with her echoing footsteps. Once she glanced around quickly, as if a dainty hand had patted her shoulder saying, "Don't be lonesome--we're here." She wondered which rooms they had lived in--great Aunt Patricia, Auntie Gay and Mother Dear. The great dining hall with only one of so many tables set for supper did not bewilder Mimi. The faculty members who had been arriving all afternoon did not awe her. They rather ignored her or looked bored as if to say, "Can't we have a last fling without a student butting in?" Mimi sat next to Mrs. Cole at the end of the table. Of all the faces about her, one in particular stood out. It was fresh and the voice was crisp and vigorous. From that supper time on, Mimi loved Miss Bassett, the physical education teacher who still remembered her school days at Sargeant and planned things the girls enjoyed. She had the knack of making fun out of work. "You needn't be afraid to stay in your room by yourself, Mimi. Several of us would hear you if you called out. I shall be up early myself. Run along now and write your parents." When all else slipped her mind, Mrs. Cole said, "Write your parents, dears." Mimi intended to. She located her fountain pen, dusted off the study table, but then she pulled the curtain back to let the breeze in and saw the harvest moon rising full and splendid from behind a dark bank of clouds and treetops. She rested her red head on her arms and gazed up at the moon as a seer would gaze into a golden crystal. What lay ahead of her here at Sheridan? Sometime later she picked up the pen, wrote a few feverish impressions into her new diary and, putting on her gayest new pajamas, went to bed. She was awakened next morning by hurrying feet, excited voices. Over night the corridors had come to life. Some Magic had peopled the cave-like halls and summer-musted rooms with an ever increasing number of chattering girls. Mimi had slept through breakfast, a thing she would not be permitted to do again unless she were ill, and the arrival of the station wagon which had met the first train. Which of those strangers would be Mimi's roommate? How she wished one of the campers could have come to Sheridan, too! "I do hope I get somebody peppy and cute!" Mimi wished aloud as she finished putting on the plaid wool dress and started to the office of the registrar. "Freshman?" one of the most attractive girls Mimi had ever seen asked as she entered the office. "No--Prep." "Sorry," the girl replied, and turned to another "lost sheep" and asked the same question. The new girl answered, "Yes." The attractive girl took her in charge immediately. Mimi looked after them. "That inimitable, incomparable creature of the inferior species," said a sassy voice over Mimi's shoulder, "is Elizabeth Lewiston, known to her fellow inmates of this particular prison as 'Dit.' She is a Senior in the College, Physical Ed major and assistant to Miss Bassett." Mimi already loved Miss Bassett and from afar she adored "Dit" the entire year. "What oracle do I thank for this information?" Mimi turned to her informer to size her up. "Ah! Charming! You understood--comprehended--savvied, in other words. I'd feared my comprehensive vocabulary was past your feeble comprehension and 'tis not!" By now Mimi was laughing, but the girl, whom Mimi never heard speak the entire year without making some one goggle-eyed at her vocabulary, continued: "You have the honor of addressing Olivia Pendleton, near-child prodigy, who this year with a straight A card, God wot, shall graduate from the Sheridan Prep. Yo--a--a Sheridan----" "I'm new," Mimi replied but she felt neither new nor strange as, arm in arm with Olivia, they went from hall to hall, room to room, visiting and getting acquainted. Olivia seemed welcome everywhere in spite of her bookwormish appearance and Mimi was welcome with her. In fact, many other new Preps took it for granted Mimi was an old girl; she seemed so at ease and was smiling and saying hello to every one. Friendliness was natural with Mimi, and her sunny disposition plus adaptability and independence developed by her camping experience made her popular immediately. That evening when all the girls new and old, college and preps alike, gathered in the spacious, historic old parlors for a get-acquainted rally, it was only natural that Mimi be in the center of the group of new preps. Mimi knew so many cute yells and songs and she plunged into the task of teaching her group a yell with characteristic enthusiasm. The old preps had centered around Betsy Buchanan. Betsy, till now, had been their undisputed leader. She was a striking looking girl of perhaps fifteen; her short brown hair was slicked back from her forehead making a peculiarity about her eyes more noticeable. She had one blue eye and one brown eye, and the thickest, curliest eyelashes imaginable. Mimi had admired her all afternoon but hadn't met her. She looked questioningly toward her now. Mimi could feel a crisis. There was always a shaky feeling in the pit of her stomach when something vital was about to happen. She felt that way now. Steadily she returned Betsy's look. Olivia pulled Betsy's sleeve, forcing her attention. "Let's give a locomotive for the new girls." Betsy repeated, "Locomotive for the new girls--One, two, three." The cheer went up. For answer Mimi drew the heads of the new girls closer to her and in a stage whisper had them repeat after her a long yack--yack--yack, ending in a sky rocket for the old girls. Twice they rehearsed it. "Pitch your voice low--make it snappy--now! One--two--three----" Another yell went up. As Mimi jumped up in the center of her group and flung her arms up wildly to end the sky rocket, she saw something she couldn't believe--a short plump girl with a weekend bag in one hand and a violin in the other was standing in the hall with Mrs. Cole. "Sue!" Mimi gasped. "Sue!" and dived through the crowd. As she ran she had shed her worries about a roommate. Here was Sue and what could be more perfect! She did not dream she was racing to a disappointment. She did not know that Betsy was glad she was gone. CHAPTER IV FOLLOW THE LEADER "You'll _love_ our room, Sue!" Mimi was saying as she relieved Sue of some of her luggage as they trailed Mrs. Cole's swishing serge skirt toward Prep Hall. Styles could come and styles could go but Mrs. Cole's dark gored skirts with tails and her white shirt waists would be at Sheridan forever. "Mrs. Cole wears a uniform, too," a last year's girl had already informed Mimi. "How did you manage to get here? Why didn't I know? How could you keep from telling me?' "Honest, Mimi--I didn't know--I'm pinching myself to see if it's I; that I'm actually here in the flesh. I'm scared to death I'll wake up and be back in B. G." "Tell me before I go mad and bite myself!" "The folks decided I'd do more with my music here. Mother isn't very well. My honorable male parent made some quick money in the stock market. I heard Mother telling him plenty about that, although they don't know I did. Oh boy, was it good? Mother said it was gambling of the worst kind. Father said she must listen to reason. Finally in desperation he offered her half of it and Mother took him up and scared him sure enough. 'All right, I'll take it--I'll take it and--and--send Sue to school!'" "What an inspiration!" "That's all it was, I'm sure. She had been talking to your Mother on the telephone, saying goodbye or something and talking about how happy you were going to be here. I know that just popped in Mother's head. But Father took her up on it. Whatever miracle it was, I'm here. My uniforms won't get here for a week." Handicapped by bundles, they hugged each other the best they could. Mrs. Cole turned and spoke to them. "Young ladies, don't make public displays of your emotions." The parrot-like way she said it, Mimi knew she had laid that law down a thousand times. She looked at Sue and said, "Br-r-r" and made motions of turning her collar up. Mimi slowed up at 207 but Mrs. Cole kept right on. "Excuse me, Mrs. Cole, but here is 207." "Well?" "I am in 207." "Yes, goodnight, Mimi. Er--er--Lou." "My name is Sue, Sue Hawkins." "Yes, yes, Sue dear. This way. I am putting you in 321. It is a single room and I hope you'll like it. Your reservation came in so late." "But Mrs. Cole--" Mimi had not stopped at 207. As soon as it dawned on her what was happening she hurried after them. "Mrs. Cole, please, Sue and I want to room together. I don't have a roommate. You see we are both from B. G., and we know each other. We were in camp together this summer." "Our parents would want us to be together," Sue took up Mimi's desperate appeal. "My dears, we have a policy here at Sheridan that new girls from the same town are not allowed to room together their first year. It breeds homesickness and cliques--we want neither. Next year if you still feel this way, we'll see. Besides, Mimi, you have a roommate. I have assigned Clorissa Madison to 207 since supper. The adjoining room is full now. You may come with us, if you wish, and help Lou--er, I mean, Sue, unpack." There was nothing further Mimi could do--not then. As soon as she and Sue closed the door of 321 behind Mrs. Cole, they put their heads together. Sue looked disgustedly at the narrow room. "Even if I can't room with you, I won't stay in this room. I'll go home first!" "Forget it for tonight. Fix up and go back down to the parlors and meet some of the girls. I want to get back to 207-209 and see who has moved in. I am in a suite, the only one in Prep Hall, and if I don't like the other three girls I may envy you this single room. Go on down and I'll join you later. In the meantime I hope to 'scum a scheme.'" Mimi was so absorbed that she absent mindedly turned in the open door of 209 and stumbled against a trunk in the dark. The hall light shown in through the open door on the name painted across the end in white letters--_Betsy Buchanan_. "Whew!" Mimi whistled between her teeth. "Now that's something!" She had wanted the cutest and the peppiest in her suite but this was more than she expected. Delighted as she was she felt strangely uneasy. Mimi backed away from the trunk and into the hall instead of cutting through the bathroom to 207. Here again she stumbled, another trunk tagged _Clorissa Madison_ blocked her way again. "Clorissa Madison," Mimi said aloud and the sound was pleasing to her. "I wonder which one of all that mob downstairs is you, Chloe?" She turned toward the parlor to find out. Even as she arrived Chloe faded into the background of her mind. The scene had changed since she left. The college girls, instead of being grouped by classes as they were when she left, were massed in one large group. The new preps who had clustered so eagerly around Mimi had joined the old preps. Betsy was standing in front of the whole group giving directions. Mimi watched from the edge of the crowd. Betsy, she knew, had what it took--pep, poise, and that innate gift of leadership. Between the end of the last yell and the singing of Alma Mater, Mimi was conscious of lowered voices behind her. Two faculty members strolling through the hall had paused to listen. "The Buchanan girl is a born leader," one of the voices said. "I am too," Mimi wanted to answer. Instead, she resolved to show them. "Actions," Cissy had told her so often, "speak louder than words." CHAPTER V TUMBLE INN Under ordinary circumstances Mimi would have liked Chloe. If Sue had not come she might even have chosen her from all the Prep students for her roommate. Chloe was exquisite to look at--shining black hair, wide dark eyes which were never looking squarely at you but beyond you; slim hands with shapely well cared for nails. She was sensitive and shy and lived way down inside of herself somewhere. It seemed strange to Mimi to have slept in the same bed with a girl, to run in and out of the same room a whole day and not exchange more than a dozen words with her. If Mimi couldn't be friendlier than this she shouldn't have been an honor camper. The two girls were dressing for supper, it was supper at Sheridan every night but Friday; then it was dinner with candle salad (pineapple with a banana standing in the hole topped with a flame colored cherry). Betsy was stirring around in the bathroom humming "Sheridan, My Sheridan." "Chloe," Mimi began. She couldn't stand the reticence any longer--"Do you want to change roommates? Don't you like me?" Mimi didn't get to finish then for Sue popped in. "Uniforms!" she gasped. "You look swell!" "We do at that, don't we?" Mimi answered pirouetting before the mirror. The plain dark-blue dress with the white collar and cuffs was flattering to Mimi and even more so to Chloe. White framed her delicately carved face--you forgot the rest. "I'll be glad when mine comes--I feel odd." "You get to wear them long enough," Betsy called out. "Come on in," Sue called. She was greatly impressed with Betsy. She moved out of the chair and flopped on the edge of the bed. But Betsy did not sit down; she stood in the door combing her curly hair. "The worst thing has happened to me. Laura Lou Mitchell--last year's most popular Prep--who reserved this room with me last June is not coming back. Mrs. Cole just told me. Gee! I was scared to death when she sent for me. I thought, Oh, my gosh! What have I done now? Believe me I was relieved when she told me about the wire from Laura Lou's dad. Of course, I'm terribly disappointed. The worst of it is I could have got Magdalene or Lida or anyone I wanted." Betsy did not say this conceitedly. She was attractive, popular, and she knew it but never, never, could she be called a snob or overbearing. "They're all signed up now. Mrs. Cole is so cranky about changes. Anyhow, they'd feel second choice now." Chloe fastened the safety catch on her brooch, gave her hair a final smoothing down and turned her eyes away quickly. She knew about second choices. "It's just as if Mimi knew about me," she was thinking for the hundredth time. "But she doesn't; none of them do--I've never told a soul." "Say!" Sue exclaimed grabbing her head as if it were hurting and rolling her eyes, "I've an idea!" "It must hurt terribly," Mimi laughed, "but do tell us." "Summoning all the nerve and courage I have, I shall plainly and simply state my case." "Simply," Betsy interrupted. "You sound like Olivia already and I loathe the sight of the dictionary." "'Scuse me for living," Sue murmured, "I just thought I had an idea." "Oh, come on," urged Mimi. "O. K.; here goes. Betsy, if you can't find anyone else to room with you"--Sue hesitated--"you might try me; you could do a whole lot worse." "Perfect!" Mimi clapped her hands. "Why, I'll have to speak to Mrs. Cole about it." Betsy was used to choosing and not to being chosen. When she saw Sue's round happy face darken, she added, "I hope she will let us; I believe we'd get on!" The supper bell rang and Betsy was gone. The minute Betsy turned her back, Mimi and Sue danced wildly around the study table in anticipation, then started down the hall. Chloe was left to turn off the light and close the doors. Half way down the stairs Mimi remembered. "Come on Chloe," she called back. "Please excuse us, but you don't know how badly I want Sue with us." "Yes, I do," Chloe answered quietly as the three girls moved toward the dining room. One-half minute before heads were bowed for the blessing Betsy stepped up behind Mimi. "Mrs. Cole says 'Yes.'" She had to stand by Mimi during the blessing and all but fly to her table to be seated with the others. During supper Mimi was absorbed with the moving plans. That "scheme" she had been "scumming"--Mimi had picked up many of her unique sayings from Cissy--was working on her again. Then, too, she was busy getting acquainted with girls all over again. They seemed so different in their uniforms. Since this was the last free night for some time, Betsy had so many callers she could not help move. Chloe had an art conference so it was Mimi who helped Sue throw her things together and shut her trunk. The janitor would bring it in the morning. They felt like intruders when they butted Betsy's half-opened door wide open--they had no hands to turn the knob. "Lazy Man's loads" Cissy would call them. "Landslide?" a caller asked Betsy. "No, my roommate." "But I thought Laura Lou?" "So did I, but she isn't, girls, this is Sue and you all know Mimi by now I imagine. Red-headed people always manage to be known." "Couldn't be a dirty dig?" Mimi flushed. "Compliment," Betsy replied. "Which end of the closet is mine?" Sue asked relieving the tension. When Betsy rose to show her and to help, the callers left. "As soon as Chloe comes home"--the suite was already home--"we must have a family conference." Mimi wanted to get them together to explain her scheme. "Sue, don't unpack yet," Mimi ordered. "I'm going after Chloe." She was gone leaving good-natured Sue who took orders alike from Betsy and Mimi. "207-209 is called a suite," Mimi was explaining to her suite mates when she had rounded up Chloe. "That's wrong. It's nothing but two bedrooms with a connecting bath. The only difference I see in it and the other second floor rooms is that we don't have to use the community baths. A real suite," Mimi assumed her fourteen-year-old manner of wisdom, "has a sitting room as well as a bedroom." "I know it." Betsy couldn't have them think she didn't know what a suite was. "When father and I were in Memphis at the----" "I suggest we make this a _real_ suite," Mimi was not to be interrupted. "Let's move both double beds in this room, it's larger, and both dressers and fix the tables and chairs in the other room. We can put pillows on the trunks--that is your trunks--mine is a wardrobe and I will leave it open flat against the wall and hang a cretonne curtain over it, they will be a sort of divan." "Grand!" from Sue. "I don't care" from Chloe. The opinion of second choices didn't matter. "Let's do it right now!" from Betsy. The next hour saw 207-209 transformed. Pictures, scrapbooks, pillows, Betsy's table lamp, Sue's violin and music cabinet made the sitting room quite livable. Photographs, quite a clutter of them. The best looking one was Jack, Betsy's grown brother. Mimi's tennis racquet and Betsy's tennis racquet were hung crosswise on the wall, the way Mimi had seen in pictures. The closet space was allotted, towel rods and tooth paste spaces designated, the beds made. Lots were drawn for bed fellows and Mimi and Chloe were still together. Then again, numbers 1 to 10 were guessed for the bed nearer the window. Betsy won. Sue was glad because she was a fresh-air fiend. "Isn't this much better?" Mimi asked proudly as the four tired girls relaxed in their bright pajamas in the living room. "It calls for a celebration," Betsy agreed. So saying she opened her dresser drawer and pulled out a large square tin box. "My treasure chest," she informed her suite mates. "Cake--a date cake--I've been saving for a very special occasion." "Precious! Too precious!" sighed Mimi happily. "Only one thing to make our plan perfect. A name for the suite. 207-209 sounds too ordinary for anything so grand." "Let's call it Tumble Inn," Sue suggested, licking her fingers. "I wanted to name our hut at camp that. I think it's cute." "Not ritzy enough," Betsy said, shrugging. "I like it," said Chloe, who had spoken only once or twice all evening. "Good!" Mimi said with an air of finality. "I like it too, because that's the way I came in last night--tumbled in--and that will be the way we will get in most of the time unless y'all are better housekeepers than I." "We got hut honors at camp _once_, Mimi," Sue remarked. "Yes, I know. Chloe, can't you make us a card for the living room door?" "I'll try," Chloe answered. The way she said it, Mimi knew it was as good as done--clever, neat. Mimi went to sleep with a smile on her face. Tumble Inn was a nice place to live. She would make Betsy like her. She would make Chloe like her. She would like them so much they couldn't help but return it. Sheridan was nice, too. It would take more than the hectic trials of Green Cap Week, which began tomorrow, to change her mind. CHAPTER VI GREEN CAP WEEK Even though Mimi heard the announcement in chapel that Green Cap Week began today, something had to happen to her before she realized its significance. She was hurrying down the hall to English. Classes were under way and she was having a time finding the different rooms and getting there on time. "Wait a minute," Olivia said, holding out her arms and blocking the door to the room. "Another girl whose hearing is deficient, whose eyesight faileth. Away, lowly one, and wash that powder off your face." "What?" Mimi stammered incredulously. "Go read the bulletin board. Ever hear of Green Cap Week?" Mimi couldn't be late to English. She didn't want to get a bad start so she ducked under Olivia's arm into the classroom, only to collide with Betsy. "Trouble?" she asked Olivia. "A mere trifle--Miss Hammond hasn't time to remove her make-up." "Yes, she has." "I'll be late," Mimi protested. She could feel her cheeks burning. Why hadn't she collided with anyone else in school but Betsy? "Be late, but when you do get here, your face will be so bright and shining Miss Lipscomb may mistake it for intelligence." Betsy's tone left no alternative. Mimi turned in her most dignified manner and walked toward the stairs. She did not run until she turned the landing and was out of sight. Only last night she had been sure she and Betsy would be friends and now---- In her confusion she opened the bathroom door with such violence she almost knocked Chloe down. Chloe was drying her face and Sue's roly-poly figure was doubled over the lavatory. She was still scrubbing. "What! Y'all too?" Then Mimi saw how funny it was. Going without make-up was no trial for her. She used very little anyhow. She only side-swiped her nose with a powder puff on special occasions. But Sue couldn't set her hair! Chloe couldn't put polish on her nails! No rouge, no powder, no lipstick, no mascara for a week. It would be much worse in College Hall than in Prep Hall. Green Cap Week had started in College Hall for the freshmen. In a year or so the Preps had taken up this light form of hazing and applied Green Cap Week regulations to all new girls regardless of class. Mrs. Cole was constantly on guard for fear they would overdo it. She heartily approved of one rule, however. No college freshman or new girl could leave the campus the entire week. Prep girls never could leave unchaperoned. Thinking over the rules, Mimi wondered if there'd ever be time to go to town. Even Chloe smiled broadly before they hustled back to their classes. About as well be a good sport. Mimi had recovered her poise when she dashed by Tumble Inn between dinner and class time. Betsy and two other old girls were there grouped around the treasure chest finishing the date cake. "'Scuse," Mimi apologized, "but I live here, too." "Glad you came." Betsy's tone made it evident they were waiting for her. "I didn't stop for my mail. Bring it up, please. They will let you have it. I have arranged with the girl." "I mustn't let her see she is getting under my skin--I mustn't--I mustn't," Mimi gritted her teeth together. "Be a pleasure. Going by anyway. So long." "Oh Mimi," one of the other girls called, "Since you're going that way, stop in 223 and pick up my laundry and take it down to the maid's entrance. It's all tied up and tagged." "223? Just love to," Mimi fibbed. They couldn't see her flushed face. They mustn't know she was teased. There were ruts and bumps on the trail now but Mimi would forge ahead. Once she determined to do something she kept at it doggedly. At camp she had resolved to find the beautiful in life, and where it was not, to create beauty. She had chosen as her watchword, "Hojoni," a Navajo word meaning "trail of beauty." In darkest moments she uttered it prayerfully. As she turned in 223 she whispered to herself, "Hojoni." Gingerly she picked up the soiled clothes tied up in a big bath towel and holding them at arm's length away from her averted nose, fled down the back stairs and left them. She reached the post office just in time to have the windows closed in her face--and there was a letter in her box! It could be for Chloe but again it could be from Mother Dear! All period she tried to concentrate on the fact that "a straight line is the shortest distance between two points," but who could focus her attention on geometry when she had been humiliated? When she might have her first news from home? The post office wouldn't be open again until three-thirty. How could she wait? Going to her first gym class helped, or she thought it would. Getting out of her uniform and putting on black shorts and a clean white shirt perked her up. Mimi loved the freedom of gym clothes. She liked to fling her arms, stretch her legs, to run and dance and play. The greatest disappointment she had had so far at Sheridan was the fact that there was no swimming pool. Plans for the completion of a modern swimming pool with lights beneath the water were under way but that didn't help Mimi this year. To make up for not having a pool, there were macadam tennis courts and an excellent hardwood basket ball floor. Today she would find out about them and from Miss Bassett! Dit might be there, too. Again Mimi was disappointed. Something besides play was happening in the gymnasium. Girls were huddled in the anteroom. Two doctors, two nurses and half a dozen college seniors--yes, Dit was one of them--majoring in Physical Education were busy. Miss Bassett was here and there. "In line alphabetically," she said as Mimi straggled in. "New girls in anteroom to the left, alphabetically, please." When Miss Bassett spoke, people acted. "What is it all about?" Chloe asked Mimi. There was something so appealing about her wide-eyed question, Mimi put her arm around her. Chloe looked so small and helpless in her gym clothes. Her legs and arms were paper-white in contrast to Mimi's ruddiness. "Physical examination," Mimi guessed, and she was right. "I took one to get my medical card for camp and it isn't bad," Mimi reassured Chloe. She was not half so composed as she sounded. Daddy had examined her for camp. Hastily he had run down the card, checking the contagious diseases she had had--measles, mumps, whooping cough--writing yes or no after questions about vaccination and serums. He had thumped her chest a time or two, pressed his ear above her heart. Laughing heartily he had said: "Go to it, camper! Swim, ride, row--shoot the works! Nothing the matter with _my_ girl." Daddy was so proud of his tomboy. Mimi sensed this examination would be different, and it was. First a senior ushered you into a dressing room where another senior was seated. The senior with the fountain pen and stack of cards looked up at Mimi---- "Last name first, please." "Hammond, Mimi." "Age?" "Fourteen." On and on the questions came. Mimi had to think hard to remember all the answers. When the senior handed her the card with instructions to take it to the nurse in the next room, Mimi was not at all sure she had answered truthfully. Here Mimi had a new experience. Suddenly the nurse struck a match quite close to Mimi's eye. She closed her eyes and flinched. "There. All over. Merely testing your reflexes." She hadn't known she had any. The nurse wrote on the card while the doctor listened to her heart, thumped both her chest and between her shoulder blades. Carefully he noted her posture. She was weighed, height measured and before it was over her footprints noted. Mimi had laughed about this. First, she had stepped in a basin of water and then made wet tracks like the ones she left in the hall when Cissy called her to the telephone from the bathtub. One more test and the examination was over. The last nurse wiped the tip of Mimi's finger with alcohol, stuck it so skillfully that it did not hurt, and squeezed a drop of blood on a small glass plate. Then wiping the finger again she sent Mimi to her room. Sue was there before her, crosswise of the bed, sobbing softly. Homesick, Mimi guessed. Then she remembered the letter in Box 207. She ran all the way downstairs and when she got it, it was for Chloe. She took the letter back upstairs and put it on Chloe's dresser. "Sue, honey, can I do anything about it?" Mimi asked gently. "No," Sue blubbered, "it's done. Miss Taylor cut my finger nails nearly to the quick so I wouldn't fray my violin strings and peck the keyboard and now that old nurse sticks my middle finger. I know my fingers will be so sore I can't practice for days. I hope I can't!" She dabbed at her eyes with her middy collar. "Whose letter?" "It is _not_ Betsy's. She didn't have any and I am glad! It's Chloe's. Say, we have to keep study hall tonight seven-thirty to nine. I thought we stayed in our rooms and studied that time like the college girls, but we don't. We have to sit at those desks in the chapel. I'll never live through it. Cheer up, Sue. If I can sit still an hour and a half _every_ night, you can surely stand your fingers a little bit sore. What a life!" What a life it was that week---- Since this was the last year Sheridan would have a preparatory department, the old girls greatly outnumbered the new; consequently, Mimi and Sue flunkied all week long. They made beds, shined shoes, swept rooms--thank goodness the maids swept the halls--carried towels to the floor showers and worst of all wore silly green felt caps all week. They dared not take them off until lights out. Sue's hair was stringy and Mimi's freckled nose shone. Chloe got off easier. She kept every rule. Her first waking thought was to put her green cap on. She obeyed so meekly and was so shy the old girls soon let her alone. They picked on Sue and hounded Mimi. It was more fun to tease girls who resented it and had to battle themselves to remain good sports. Mimi felt like a martyr but she gritted her teeth and bore the persecutions. This was a week Mimi never forgot. She completed her schedule, became acquainted with her teachers, tried out for soccer and tennis. Sue tried out for orchestra and was assigned second violin. Chloe began spending all her spare time in the library or better, the art studio. Betsy tried out for the same things Mimi did. She was good at them. Her chances for soccer looked better than Mimi's. Mimi admired her skill, her sense of fair play. Only once did her admiration waver. Mimi was stretched out on the window ledge in the gym when she heard two girls talking below her outside. She recognized Betsy's voice immediately. It was tense with repressed excitement. After becoming interested in their plot, Mimi peeped over the ledge and recognized Magdalene. "This has been the tamest green cap week I ever heard of," Betsy was saying. "It sure has and it ends tonight." "Wish we could stir up a little excitement. Don't you remember last year we rolled that trash can down the stairs, nonstop flight from third floor to basement, at midnight?" "Do I remember? I've never heard such a clatter in my life. It nearly scared me out of my wits. I wasn't in on it. I was one of the ones it awakened." "Oh boy! Did Mrs. Cole rave!" "I never shall forget how funny she looked with that outing kimona wrapped around her and her hair twisted up on kid curlers. She was a fright." "She never did find out who did it." "Betsy, surely you can hatch up something as good as that. Think hard." "I have thought of something better, only I can't think of anyone with nerve enough to do it." Magdalene's eyes gleamed. She was a nervous, high-strung girl. She adored Betsy and would run any risk to win favor in Betsy's eyes. Betsy knew this. "Dare me, why don't you?" "Why Magdalene--you'd be afraid!" Betsy certainly knows how to work her schemes, Mimi thought. "I would not! Name it and see!" Betsy lowered her voice until Mimi had to strain her ears to catch what she was saying. She did not get it all but she did hear "alarm bell," "basement," and "midnight." Because Mimi liked to play pranks herself, her first thought was, Will that be a riot? It won't scare me. I'll be listening. I'll tell Sue and Chloe and we'll stay up for the fun. Then she saw more clearly what the plot was and what its consequences might be. Evidently there was, somewhere about the building, an emergency alarm. Betsy wanted Magdalene to wait until the building was quiet and dark and then set it off. Mimi remembered all the stories of panic she had heard; how people jumped out windows, trampled each other, fainted from fright. Chloe might faint, and in spite of the resentment she had felt toward Chloe for being forced on her, she was beginning to love her. She loved her so much she didn't want her badly frightened. Poor Mrs. Cole. She had had a miserable week getting things organized and running. "What to do?" By the time Mimi had made up her mind that the alarm must not ring tonight, supper was over and she was seated in study hall. "I'll ask permission to speak to Betsy and tell her I know." No. She couldn't do that. She wouldn't have time to explain all her reasons and Betsy might think she was a sissy. Besides, she was afraid Betsy didn't like her much anyhow. Suppose she spoke to Magdalene? She didn't know her well enough to interfere. Suppose she told Mrs. Cole? That would only get the two would-be culprits in trouble. Mimi had already heard how you received long campus sentences for even small offenses. They might be sent home for this prank. Besides, she couldn't be a tattletale. Tick-tock-tick-tock---- The hands of the study hall clock were getting around too fast. Before she chose her course of action, study hall was over. Gathering up her books, which had been open before her but unread, she started after Betsy and Magdalene who were strolling down the hall together. Dit detained her. She came striding down from College corridor, one hand in the pocket of her big white sweater with the green letter, the other holding a list she was carefully scanning. "Mimi, you are on number one soccer squad and number one tennis club." Everything had a number. "That doesn't mean _team_ but it means a good chance. Report at two-twenty tomorrow." "Oh thanks, Dit. Thanks a lot." "Where's Betsy?" "Gone." She and Magdalene had disappeared. Mimi ran upstairs. She must find them. They were not in Tumble Inn. Sue, who was brushing her hair one hundred strokes every night paused long enough to say---- "Fifty-five--Betsy is spending the night with Madge--I guess Mrs. Cole gave her permission." Then she changed her hairbrush to her other hand and continued brushing--"fifty-six, fifty-seven." So that was it. Madge's room (Sue insisted on calling her that) was on the third floor at the head of the stairs. It would be easier to sneak down from there. Perhaps she should ask Sue what to do. But no, Mimi was a lot like the cat who walked by herself. She could figure this out and act alone. If she ran the risk of being caught out of her room after light bell, and if her plan did not succeed she might be caught and considered a plotter herself. Mimi tried to be natural as she undressed, cleaned her teeth, and said her prayers. Chloe almost sat on Mimi's flashlight she had sneaked under her pillow. "Chloe." Sue sounded so lonesome in the darkness. "Please, come sleep with me. I can't go to sleep by myself." "Move over and give me your warm place and I will." Mimi didn't stir until several minutes after she heard Chloe's bare feet patter across the floor. She could get up now without disturbing anyone. Carefully she eased up to a sitting position, then lifted herself noiselessly to her feet. The bed springs squeaked as she stood up and Mimi stood rigid listening. She slipped into her felt slippers and bathrobe and, inch at a time, opened the door. The hall was twilight dark--only dim lights above the bathroom entrances. Staying close to the wall she moved toward the stairs. She froze in her tracks, one foot on the first step, as she heard a door close softly and a whisper "sh-sh." Then acting without knowing why, Mimi hid in the bathroom and waited. Peeping out she saw Madge and Betsy creep by, casting goblin shadows against the wall. For a mad instant Mimi wanted to join them rather than foil their plans. Then she decided to have some fun of her own. She'd pay Miss Betsy back for some of the insults she had endured during Green Cap Week. Giving the girls a safe start she followed them down, down, down to the basement. At the foot of the stairs the two girls turned right and back. Mimi ran on tiptoe left and back to meet them under the stairs. She crouched down behind a large trash container and waited. Betsy's flashlight was playing against the wall. "There's the buzzer," she whispered. "Give me a minute to get back to the foot of the stairs so you can find me by the light and so we can run." The alarm buzzer was right over Mimi's head. She could reach up and touch it herself. But she had decided on her course. Better to scare one girl or two girls out of their wits, than turn the whole school inside out. "O. K." Betsy whispered tensely. "Let'er go and scram!" When Madge's thin white arm reached up, Mimi grabbed her wrist and with her other hand she threw her flashlight in her own face so that Madge would know instantly she would not be harmed. "Steady, steady," she whispered. Madge did not cry out. All sound died in her throat but Mimi could feel her trembling all over. Mimi was thinking fast now. She extinguished her light, and pulled Madge toward her. "What's wrong?" Betsy called in a low tone. "Tell her--nothing--bell out of order," Mimi hissed in Madge's ear. "Nothing--it won't r-r-ring--must be out of fix." She was still shaking. Mimi couldn't hear what Betsy said but she was shoving Madge toward the stairs. "Go to bed. Not a word about me." "Y--yes," Madge promised, running toward Betsy and light. Mimi followed them as soon as she dared. Her speed increased as she neared Tumble Inn. She was almost safe when Mrs. Cole's door popped open and a light snapped on. "Who is it?" Miss Cole asked coming toward Mimi. It was Mimi's turn to shake with fright and she did. "Mimi Hammond, Mrs. Cole--I----" "What are you doing out of your room at this hour?" "I am sick at the stomach, Mrs. Cole, and I started to go to the kitchen to see if I could find some soda but I got scared." Mimi hadn't known before she could fib so readily. Once she started there was no stopping. "Don't you know you shouldn't prowl around the building at night? Why didn't you call me?" "I'm not scared," another fib, "and I didn't want to disturb you." "Come in my room now." Mimi followed meekly. Anything to keep Mrs. Cole from going to Tumble Inn and finding Betsy out. She was sure all along Betsy did not have permission. She watched Mrs. Cole pry the top from a box of salts. "I'd rather have soda water, please." "This will do you more good," said Mrs. Cole, stirring vigorously. "Here, drink it." What else could Mimi do? While the bitter taste was in her mouth she wished she had let the alarm sound, that Mrs. Cole had been scared worst of all. But as she finally closed the door of Tumble Inn safely behind her, she knew that one dose of salts was better than two girls suspended, especially when one of them was Betsy. CHAPTER VII AN ACCIDENT Things were happening thick and fast these days. Classes and study hall were realities. Rainy weather cut the soccer season short. Mimi, to whom the game was new, stayed on first squad but did not make the team. She was flashy and fast but she was used to making goals with her hands and not her feet. Now when basket ball practice started--and it did this week--she would show them something. There had been a long letter from Mother Dear from New York mailed the day they sailed; a letter from Dottie with all the B. G. Hi news. Mimi had answered Dot with news that she was on the Prep tennis double team. She omitted soccer. Dot didn't play soccer anyhow. The literary clubs had started rushing, placards of the first artist concert were posted and six weeks' tests were beginning to bob up their ugly heads. Sue was gaining weight, Chloe growing most distant, and Betsy and Mimi continued to admire each other secretly but antagonize each other publicly. Something was bound to happen to break the growing tension. Two weeks later it did. When Mimi grew up and looked back at her school days, she knew that the scene of her most exciting moments was the gymnasium. Here she yelled her breath out, played her heart out, knew defeat as well as victory. Here she was her best or her worst. Basket ball meant more to her even than swimming. You swam by yourself but basket ball depended on the perfect timing and teamwork of your team mates to whom you felt closer than any other group of girls, ever. The first day the notice was up, Mimi reported for basket ball. Strangely enough she and Betsy both signed up for the forward berths. When Mimi saw Betsy's square, back-handed signature under her own, she had a bad moment. Perhaps she should have signed up for running center. She had played running guard but Sheridan kept strictly to girls' rules. As guard she could not score and, being a good shot, she wanted a position where she could prove her ability. Mimi never forgot those first skirmishes. How hard she tried to pass accurately, aim carefully, catch the ball firmly and be light, sure, fast. Miss Bassett was a splendid coach. She tried first one combination and then another. Betsy and Jennie forwards, Mimi and Jennie centers. Evelyn and Betsy centers. Matilda and Mimi guards. She had let the girls choose tryout positions but she wanted to be sure they were playing where they would give the team most. Then came the combination which clicked. Betsy and Mimi at forwards together. Mimi made what appeared impossibly long shots rather than pass to Betsy under the goal. Betsy called loudly to guards and centers for the ball and shot quickly from any angle she received it rather than pass to Mimi. They looped goal after goal. "How about that combination?" Miss Bassett asked Dit while the girls rested. Dit was calling the game and Miss Bassett had been studying the players from the side lines. "Best yet," Dit answered, tapping her forehead thoughtfully with her whistle, "if we can get that individual starring idea out of their heads and make them play for the team." "Signal practice will do that," Miss Bassett assured her. She had taken individuals before and welded them into a team that put, "team, team, team" above everything. "Give them ten more minutes of drill and dismiss them, please, Dit. I'm going to the office." "All right, girls," Dit said, and when she spoke they listened closely. "We are going to practice pivoting and shooting. Divide up quickly in two line, one on either side the basket and let the leaders be as far back as the first court line so that there will be room to run and pivot before you shoot. Here I'll show you." She didn't need to show Mimi. She knew. Nothing was more fun than catching a pass solidly as she ran forward. Usually Mimi leaped forward to meet the ball. Then with one foot rooted firmly, she knew how to pivot away from the guard and let the ball fly swiftly toward the goal. Mimi held her breath those times when the ball would loop around the edge of the hoop before it finally slipped through the knotted string basket. Happily she trotted to her place. Today she would show Dit how fast and accurate she really was. She would show up better than she ever had. Out of the corners of her merry blue eyes she saw Betsy in the opposite line with the same determined look on her face. The whistle blew. Thump, thump, thump went the ball against the slick floor as the first passer dribbled down the side line before throwing the ball. Thud--the ball hit the backboard. A girl rushed in to catch it before it hit the floor, ducking to keep from colliding with the girl who had just shot. Two girls more and it would be her time. Mimi was impatient--smack--she caught the ball--thump, thump, thump she was running beside it. Accurately timing the speed of Betsy who was coming in fast she passed, then as swiftly as her legs would carry her, she raced toward the goal. She forgot everything in the world except the fact that she must keep her eye on that ball and catch it before it hit the floor. Betsy was moving rapidly with the same idea, "keep your eye on the ball." Coaches have preached it year in and year out since there have been coaches. Thud--the ball against the backboard again. Mimi's arms up to catch it--Betsy rushing away, arms up from having shot--Whack! The two girls collide---- Betsy is knocked out. Mimi staggers back, her hands covering her face. When Betsy moans she drops her hands. The stunned feeling vanishes. Betsy is hurt, badly hurt Mimi fears. While Dit dismissed the girls, Mimi drops on her knees beside Betsy. Betsy's mischievous eyes are closed, the lids fluttering slightly. Her face, usually so rosy and animated, is white and still. Her short hair is stuck to her head with perspiration. More than anything in the world, Mimi wanted Betsy to open her eyes. "Dit, please, open both those windows," Mimi pleaded, choking back a sob. "Oh, Dit----" "There, there, Mimi. She'll come around soon. Here, bathe her face with this wet towel." Mimi lifted Betsy's head to her knees and holding it gently, she put the cold cloth on her forehead. A lump was rising on Betsy's temple. She flinched and opened her eyes as Mimi unwittingly touched it. "Oh," Betsy cried. "Take it easy, Betsy. You're all right now. A nasty bump. Here, Mimi, let's help her up and get her to her room. I've sent for Miss Bassett to meet us there." "I can get up," Betsy said weakly. Mimi lifted from one side and Dit tugged at the other. Mimi avoided Betsy's eyes. She hoped against hope Betsy wouldn't think she had done it on purpose. Miss Bassett was waiting in the door of Tumble Inn. Sue and Chloe were out. "Lie down, Betsy. There, now let me look you over." Miss Bassett bent her arms, arched her knees. "Nothing but a 'goose egg' on your head. Massage it with Mentholatum, Mimi. Better rest until supper." When Mimi leaned over Betsy to rub her forehead she felt a warm gush from her nose. "Why, Mimi!" Dit exclaimed. "Your blouse--blood--it's your nose." "Yes ma'am. It hurts!" Mimi sank down on the bed by Betsy. Miss Bassett was instantly alert. Light as her touch was, it hurt fearfully. The blood was dripping down her throat gagging her. Pains were shooting through her head. She could feel her nose swelling. What a sight she must look! "Fracture," Miss Bassett pronounced gravely. "Dit, go for Dr. Ansley. She left me a short time ago for the Infirmary. Don't be frightened, Mimi. It isn't serious. I don't believe you'll need splints but we'd better let Dr. Ansley take a look." "Will I have to go to the Infirmary? Please, please, let me stay here." "Please," Betsy added earnestly. "I'll take care of her and keep things quiet." Daddy never seemed so far away--Daddy with his sure, skilled hands and his make-you-feel-better manner. But Mimi was brave. She sat quietly in the straight chair by the window while Dr. Ansley worked on her. Betsy watched intently. She was smiling at Mimi, her eyes saying, "good sport, good sport, be brave." Returning the smile, Mimi swallowed the two capsules the doctor held out. The thing which hurt most was the slow realization that she was out of basket ball for the season. Some one else would play forward with Betsy. Betsy must have known her bitter thoughts, for after the Doctor, Miss Bassett, and Dit had gone she said: "I'd rather play forward with you than any one." Knowing what the admission must have cost, Mimi replied: "Me too, and now I can't play at all!" "It's my fault because I didn't watch where I was going." "I didn't either." "I am going to do something nice to make up for it." Mimi fell asleep wondering what it would be. Nothing could be as precious as what she had lost but Betsy had said it was nice and Betsy kept her word. CHAPTER VIII MIMI GETS A BID Mimi blotted the page and closed her diary quickly at the first knock on the door of Tumble Inn. She felt her eyes with the back of her hand to be sure there was no trace of tears. Never any time or privacy to do anything, be homesick, or tell all your troubles to your diary. The last few days since Mimi had been excused from gym because of her swollen nose, she had found time to get a few things done. She was up with all her notebooks; had clinched every word of her Spanish vocabulary, and today had written the following in her diary. (Mimi always considered her diary a person; a person to whom she told her secret joys and sorrows.) Oh, Diary, there's no one to tell but you how it hurts not to be forward on the basket ball team. If I wasn't such a good player it wouldn't be so bad but I _am_ good. I can dodge and pivot and shoot. Yes, I know what I've resolved to do. I am going to spend every spare minute of my free time in the gym at goal practice as soon as they'll let me. There's always room for a crack shot on any team. I'll be one. Do you know what I've discovered? I must be kin to Pollyanna. I have found several consoling things about having a "busted snoot." First place, I couldn't wear an "S" if I _had_ made the basket ball team; no Prep can. Those class numerals wouldn't mean so much--I'd always be explaining them after I got home. Betsy must like me, Diary Dear. That first night when I could not go to supper, she brought me her dessert (oh me! I shall probably die wondering if there is one "s" or two "sses" in dessert). Chloe has been sweet, too, but she acts so strange. Every time we are alone she acts like she wants to tell me something and can't. There is something queer about her--Oh here comes somebody--No, it wasn't; they passed by. I don't know why I don't want any one to know I keep you, Diary, unless it's because some one might try to find you and then I should die! It's no fun to have you if I can't tell you my very insidest thoughts. Sue is the only one who knows and she won't tell. Here's the most private thing I have to say today: I am getting popular! I know it. The Delphians and the Ruskins are both trying to get me to promise to join their society. I don't know what to do. I'm so thrilled to be asked but the Ruskins want Sue and the Delphians want Chloe and Betsy is already a Ruskin. I hate to see our suite family split up. Maybe I won't join either. They seem silly, in a way; the Ruskins bragging on themselves and slurring the Delphians and the Delphians slurring the Ruskins and bragging on themselves. But the pins are perfectly precious! Solid gold with tiny pearls. There really is some one coming-- "Anybody home?" Madge called at the door of two hundred and nine. "Just me," Mimi answered hastily hiding her diary in the top drawer of her wardrobe trunk. "I'm in the sitting room--Come on through." Mimi could tell Madge was upset. She was paler than usual and her hazel eyes were unnaturally bright. But she didn't seem happy. Mimi felt she was not up to hearing any bad news. "Are you keeping training?" Mimi asked. "No, I'm not that good. Oh, Mimi, since--the other night, I've decided I'm not good for anything." "Don't be foolish, Madge. Here try some peanut butter on a graham cracker and forget it. Another advantage of a swollen nose, I can eat and eat and eat!" "I don't want to forget it until I tell you something--then, if you please, let's both forget it. You see, Mimi, I came to thank you for keeping me out of a scrape. I didn't stop to think--I never do--and I can not take a dare; I simply can't." "I can't either," Mimi admitted. "I don't know why I ever butted in, an excitement-eater like me, but I did." "And I'm so glad, so glad." Madge pulled herself together for the final confession. "Mimi," she said levelly, "I am in school this year on borrowed money. I wouldn't have come at all if I were not going to graduate. Suppose I had rung the alarm and they had caught me and sent me home? I would hate myself the rest of my life." "I'm glad I butted in then. But let's forget. You--you make me feel like a heroine--and I'm _not_!" "Yes, you are--you're the grandest all around sport in school--you and Betsy." While she was in a confidential mood she continued: "Every one in Prep Hall is sorry you won't be on our team. Betsy is sorriest of all. She keeps going around saying it was all her fault but she is going to make up to you for it. She is--please, cross your heart not to tell a soul. She wants to surprise--" But before Mimi had time to promise, Sue dashed in to get her music, leave Mimi a candy bar and a letter from Jean. Before she left for her practice room, Chloe was home. She seemed quieter and more occupied with her own thoughts than usual. So beautiful, Mimi was thinking as she watched Chloe stare out the window, so perfectly beautiful like a Magnolia or a lily or a tube rose; something that darkens and withers if you touch it. Chloe's mother must have been beautiful, too--and what about her father? All the girls knew about Chloe's family was that her allowance came from her Aunt Marcia. Bad as they wanted to know, they did not ask. Maybe her parents were divorced. Her mother must have been so beautiful that men might have kept on falling in love with her. "Guess I'd better go," Madge said putting the top back on the peanut butter jar. She had been eating and hoping Chloe would leave as Sue had but Chloe seemed settled for the afternoon. "Please, don't mention anything I've told you." "Certainly not." Giving Mimi an impetuous hug she hurried out. "Isn't she queer?" Mimi said to Chloe. "Kind of. Almost as queer as I am," Chloe answered quietly. "You, queer?" "Don't pretend, Mimi. You know I am. Someday I'll tell you about it and maybe you'll understand. Oh gee, I am supposed to be at meeting in chapel this minute. All the Preps-- "No one told _me_ about a meeting." Chloe colored. "Maybe it's art students only. I'd keep quiet if I were you. Be a lady of leisure while you have a chance. If you were supposed to go and they call your name, I'll say you are excused." By the time Chloe finished talking she had closed the door and Mimi heard her join Olivia and Gretchen. "Aren't you lending your charming presence to the gathering?" she heard Olivia ask some girl who was evidently in a great hurry. "Certainly, I am. Who do you think called this meeting?" The breathless voice was Betsy's. So? Mimi figured. That "something nice" is going to happen today. What can it be? Class officers had already been elected. Since the Prep Department would end this year the seventy-five girls in it had chosen to organize as one class. The very first week of school they had done that and old girls had carried president, vice-president, secretary and treasurer with practically no competition. Maybe they were going to give her a fruit shower or a fudge feast. Whatever she guessed she was wrong. None of the guesses were thrilling enough. It was something she had been off and on unofficially but now she could be officially and wear a white uniform on special occasions. Although the meeting time seemed long to Mimi, her elephant's-child curiosity prickling her 'til she couldn't sit still, it was short. It took Betsy five minutes to have President Gretchen call the meeting to order, to present her motion, have it adopted by acclamation, and give a yell of victory. Standing by the open window, Mimi heard the echoes of the fifteen rahs coming up from the chapel ell. The ending blurred. What was it they were saying? Soon she knew for the same yell was repeated outside her door. She did not hear Betsy signal "one-two-three" but the rahs were so low and snappy and lusty Mimi knew Betsy was leading. Now she knew the ending. It was; "Mimi, Mimi, M-M-Mimi!" Mimi's merry blue eyes danced. "Shall we huff and puff and blow Tumble Inn down or will you open the door?" Gretchen called. Before Mimi could answer the girls threw the door open themselves and stormed in; all the Preps. They piled on the beds, propped against the window sills and the radiator. Olivia pompously mounted the stool to the vanity and rapped the wall for order. "Madam chairman," (this to Gretchen) "ladies and Mimi, with regret I announce Sheridan Prep has, for the season, lost a great forward. But even this dark cloud has a silver lining. By this loss she has gained a great cheer leader. Ladies, I give you Mimi Hammond, a red headed pepper pot who, henceforth, will direct your vociferations! Youzza!" Here Olivia paused for a deep breath and looked at Betsy. This was a signal to begin the song. To the clapping of hands and the stamping of feet the Preps sang to Mimi: "The peppiest girl I ever knew She never comes a pokin', If I were to tell you all the pep she had You'd think I was a jokin'. It's not the pep of the pepper pod Nor the pep of the pop corn popper, It's not the pep of the mustard jar Nor the pep of the vinegar stopper. It's the good old fashioned P-E-P The pep you cannot down, Sheridan pep _Mimi pep_ the peppiest pep around. Heh!" "Mimi, we realize you can't do your stuff in true Terpsichorean style with that cotton in one side of your nose, but do by some speech or symbol signify your acceptance." Mimi hopped up on the stool beside Olivia. She was grinning from ear to ear, wide mouth, bandage and a carrot top. "At a precious place like Sheridan, I'd rather be cheer leader than President! Thank you too much for this honor. Olivia is right. 'The spirit am willing but de flesh am weak' as my Mammy Cissy says but I _can count_ a feeble 'one-two-three' for y'all to give fifteen for Sheridan----" That fifteen was never finished. Mrs. Cole pushed her way in. "Girls!" Her voice drenched them with ice water. "There are music lessons, and office work and college classes going on around the building in spite of the fact that the Preparatory Department seems to be making a Roman holiday." That was enough. She turned sourly and walked out, the tails on her serge skirt flopping behind her at every prim step. The girls scattered after her. "Did anybody say 'kill-joy'?" Betsy laughed. "Not I!" Mimi declared. "Take more than a little thing like that to take me down when I'm so thrilled. Oh Betsy," Mimi moved toward her, "you did it, you did it every bit. You're a good sport!" "What about yourself?" Betsy answered smiling. For an instant Sue thought they were going to embrace. She was such a sentimental little piece she hated "scenes" unless she was in them. "I am going to write Dot this minute," Sue said, "and it will be all over B. G. Hi two days from now." Mimi wished the news would spread on to State University where Walter, sophomore camp life guard of the previous summer, could hear it. However, she didn't say so. She never mentioned Walter except to her diary unless she was showing the pictures in her camp count book. "At present, I have only one worry worth mentioning," Mimi sighed contentedly. "These bloomin' Society bids. Betsy, forget you're a Ruskin and tell me what to do? I am thrilled to death they want me, but to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I don't care a hang about joining either one of them." "Be a Ruskin," Sue interrupted. "Why a Ruskin? Why is it the one to join?" "I don't know, except--I've joined it." There it was out and she wasn't supposed to tell until Friday. "You have!" "Please be a Delphian, Mimi." Chloe spoke quietly, but she was pleading. "I've pledged Delphian." "'Divided we fall,'" Mimi quoted. "What does that make me? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I won't join either!" "Good for you," cried Betsy to their amazement. "You'll be the first Prep who ever had courage enough to refuse. I am proud to know you. Whatta' girl!" Then realizing she belonged herself she added, "Not a word of what I said goes outside this suite." "Not one word," agreed three voices. It was their first four-sided secret. For the first time they were close together. Mimi felt quite important and lady-of-the-worldish as she sat down and wrote two notes of refusal. Sue found her pen. Chloe took the stopper out of the ink bottle. Betsy offered two sheets and two envelopes of her special stationery with the Sheridan crest. "I'd better write it with a pencil first and then copy it," Mimi suggested. "Now just what does one say?" They went into a huddle. After much erasing and scratching out and rewording, Mimi made two copies of the following note. It sounded sophisticated and mysterious. She really did not know what mysterious was until later, when she found out about Chloe. But not stating any reason for declining the bids seemed very mysterious. Changing only the headings, Mimi copied. "Dear ----: "You were so kind to ask me to join your splendid club. For various reasons, it is impossible to accept. Believe me, that I am grateful and flattered that you ask me. Accept my regrets. "Sincerely, "Mimi Hammond." CHAPTER IX CLORISSA'S SECRET Clorissa's "someday" to tell Mimi her troublesome secret came sooner than either expected. The revelation came about unexpectedly Friday night. It was the surprise climax to an unplanned party. Study hall had not subdued the suite mates. They were still excited over Mimi's honor of being chosen cheer leader and over the campus discussion Mimi's notes would cause. Mimi tried to lie still so that Chloe could go to sleep. She could hear Sue and Betsy turning and whispering. Then Sue spoke aloud. "I am going to get up. I have a bad case of something, a cross between the heebie-jeebies and the jitters. I'm naturally wild on Friday nights and want to celebrate." "Believe I'll get up, too," Mimi whispered. "Let's all get up," Betsy said and they were all four out of bed and tiptoeing to the bathroom by the time she finished. Mimi with her hands in front of her, walked slowly and slipped her feet along. She mustn't run into a door facing with that nose. Betsy fumbled for a match, checked to see that the bathroom shade was down, and then lighted a candle. Keeping the flame shaded carefully with her hands, she dripped some tallow in the bottom of the bathtub and stuck the candle in the thickening puddle. "Success!" she breathed as she withdrew her hands and the candle stood alone. "What do we eat?" Sue asked. "I'm starving." "No!" Mimi teased and almost giggled out. "Sh-sh." Betsy warned. She had been to too many such after-lights-out parties. Keeping quiet was rule one. "Alas the cupboard is bare," Mimi wailed, as she stepped down from the side of the tub where she had climbed to search the high shelf. "The treasure chest is empty, too," Betsy lamented. "We do have some white sugar and some cocoa in the sitting room," Chloe remembered. "My kingdom, not for a horse, but for a cow! We need only butter and milk to have fudge." Sue had them all giggling now. "Let's make hot chocolate--sugar, cocoa, water--not rich, but I could drink ink with sugar in it." "Far be it from me to be a kill-joy, but, we have no canned heat." Betsy sounded hopeless. "Why did we ever bring up food at all? I was hungry but not ravenous until we talked about fudge. If we go to bed now, and there seems nothing left to do, I'll be delirious with visions of fudge and sugar plums dancing through my head. Oh me, oh my. My mother had such hungry children!" "Fudge? Did you ask for fudge, ladies? You shall have it. I finish everything I start," Sue's eyes were round with excitement. "Dit's roommate keeps canned heat all the time and I am going to borrow some." "Sue! You mean you'll go to college hall?" Betsy asked. That meant getting safely through the intervening corridor and stepping in to the lighted halls. The chances of being caught were great. "I'd walk a mile for--fudge." Sue concluded. "I'll go with you, then," Betsy said. "Now if we can get to the first floor-bath and luckily catch some one we know well enough, we can hide in a shower while she goes and borrows the canned heat." Betsy certainly knew her way around. "If you all get caught I'll die," Chloe whispered after them. "We won't," Betsy assured her. "Into the valley of death strode----" Betsy and Sue were out the door. "Gee! I've been thinking about Daddy and Mother so much since I got hurt," Mimi confided as she and Chloe huddled on the bathroom floor in the dim light. "You'd love my Mother and Daddy. They're keen! My Daddy is the best doctor in the world and Mother is a darling. When they visited me at camp this summer all the girls raved over them. Some of them who have cranky old 'stick-in-the-mud' parents, envied me." "I'd envy you any kind of mother and daddy--even old fogies." Chloe's whisper was pathetically small and lonely. Mimi didn't know what to say. She wanted to ask, "Where are your Mother and Daddy?" but somehow she couldn't. She reached over and squeezed Chloe's hand and continued staring ahead. Minutes passed and Mimi could not find her tongue. "I believe I hear them coming back," Chloe said. Both girls stiffened and sat up straight. The door to two hundred and nine opened almost noiselessly, then clicked to. Mimi and Chloe rushed to meet Betsy and Sue. "We have it!" Sue could hardly keep from shouting. "Not a whole can, but enough." "Sh--sh--" Betsy cautioned again. "We nearly got caught. Oh Gosh! Mrs. Cole, of all people, was over there. She stopped right outside the floor bath door and talked to Virginia, I thought she'd never go on. Whew!" Sigh of relief all around. "Now for the dirty work at the crossroads." Betsy said. "Chloe get the chafing dish. Sue, stuff towels against the bottom of the doors into the hall. Can't have this larupin' good smell oozing out. We'd have half of Prep Hall in here, not to mention Mrs. Cole. Mimi get to stirring, we'd better cook in the tub. The light won't show so plain." The whispered instructions were carried out silently and quickly. Five minutes after the daring visit to College Hall, sugar and water and cocoa fudge was boiling away in the chafing dish which stood in the bottom of the bathtub. Mimi was stirring away, foamy brown bubbles. She mustn't let it boil over, not waste a precious drop---- "Want a cup of water to test it?" Chloe asked. "Shoot no," Mimi answered. "I can tell by the way it boils when it's done. When it begins to boil heavy and the bubbles spit little balls, it's ready to beat. Can I wait or can I wait?" Betsy in the meantime had greased a platter with cold cream. "I really feel like I'm at boarding school now," Mimi murmured happily as she continued stirring. "You'll _know_ you are at boarding school if Mrs. Cole catches us and you get _campused_," Betsy warned. "What a divine smell!" "Look!" Chloe was pointing at the canned heat. Her face was tragic. "It's going out!" Slowly the blaze flickered, flared up, and while the anxious girls looked on, sputtered out. "There goes the old ball game," Mimi whispered. "Not for me, I'll eat it with a spoon." Sue declared. "Never say die," Betsy said. "It's nearly done, I know it is. Lift it up Mimi and we'll finish it over the candle. We mustn't let it stop boiling. Here." "Dit has an electric perculator," Sue volunteered. "She's made tomato soup in it. Why not fudge?" "Don't be silly," Chloe said. "No," agreed Mimi, "you'd better thank your lucky stars you made the last trip safely. Besides, the lights are out over there now." After ten slow passing minutes of feeble boiling over the candle, Mimi declared the candy finished. The candle was about gone, too. "Pour it up, please--" Sue urged. "Control yourself, Wimpy," Mimi teased Sue. After each girl beat and beat, the candy was poured up, setting as it fell, spreading in circles which heaped higher and higher to the center leaving a topknot. "Dubs on licking the pan." "Go to it, but no holes in the chafing dish please," Mimi cautioned, handing her the pan. "We might want it again, sometime." Betsy dried the nail file she had been scrubbing and while the fudge was still hot, she cut it with the file. Then spreading an oiled bread paper flat on the floor she turned the platter upside down. Slowly the fudge fell out. "Let's eat one piece apiece now and let the rest cool," Mimi suggested. "Since I licked the pan, maybe I can hold off," Sue agreed, turning on a slow stream of water and putting the pan to soak. "Knock on wood y'all, but we've had better luck with our first after-lights fudge party than my great Aunt Patricia and her crowd did." "What happened to them?" Chloe wanted to know. "You know, my great Aunt Patricia, Pattie to her chums, came here when Sheridan was a Seminary for young ladies, I mean ladies. Did they have it easy? Needle work, china painting, French and grammar. Penmanship was a heavy course. Imagine! I've heard Aunt Pattie tell what an enormous place Sheridan seemed to her when Uncle Mose and her father drove her up the drive in the family barouche. Prep Hall was all there was here then. The rest of the building has been added. She was being left all of twenty-two miles from home. Think where my Mother and Daddy are! Uncle Mose, the coachman begged his little Missie not to forget him while she was 'getting edicated' and her father kissed her solemnly on the forehead and gave her a Bible marked with daily readings." "But what about the fudge party?" Betsy interrupted. She knew all about the founding of Sheridan and its growth from a small private Seminary to a Preparatory School with college course added; how it was outgrowing finishing school requirements and, by abolishing the preparatory department all together next year, would be an A-1 accredited college for women. Not that Sheridan tradition bored her, but tonight her main interest was fudge. "It's cool enough for seconds," she added, as Mimi continued. "Aunt Pattie was full of fun. She didn't do anything bad or break any big rules, but she got plenty of demerits." "Don't we all?" interpolated Sue. "This night of the fudge party things were just getting in full swing, when there was a rap on the door. Some one snuffed the candle quickly. The window was open and they hoped the smell would go out. Each girl sat or stood as she had been, you know like slinging statutes--and hoped that the matron would go on. But she didn't! "Aunt Pattie had all the demerits she could have that term so she was scared stiff. In spite of all her hopes the door opened and there stood the matron holding an old timey oil lamp in front of her. The hall proctor was close behind her. Before either of them had time to make out any of the girls' faces, the suction sucked the light out. Aunt Pattie did some desperate thinking and then did a desperate thing. "Knowing that if the matron succeeded in lighting her lamp again they were all in for it, while the matron fumbled for a match, Aunt Pattie crept toward her on all fours. When her hair lightly brushed the matron's heavy skirt, she stopped. For one calculating second she checked her bearing, then swift as a shot and sure as a good marksman, she jumped up to her full height knocking the lamp out of the matron's hands! Wide flew the oil, the wick, the base. "In the panic which followed the girls fled to their rooms. Other than the girls who were hostesses to the party, only one girl was caught--" "Not Aunt Pattie?" from three distressed voices. "Yes, Aunt Pattie." "But how?" "When Aunt Patty went down to breakfast the matron was standing in the doorway supposedly saying good-morning to the girls but she was really playing detective, or better, bloodhound. She had been doing some desperate thinking, too, and had found an excellent clue. Carefully she looked down on each girl who entered. Not that one, nor that one. She was about to despair when Aunt Pattie came tripping in, in her flowered cashmere. "Pattie come to my office immediately after your meal." "Aunt Pattie pitifully murmured, 'yes, ma'am.' She was dumbfounded." "But how did she know it was Pattie?" "She had been sniffing each girl and when Aunt Pattie passed she simply reeked of kerosene. When she upset the lamp she had baptized herself in oil. Scrubbing had changed her appearance but the smell lingered. "What did they do to her?" "Sent her home I think. Aunt Pattie always avoided that part. She didn't want me to know any of my family had ever been kicked out." The candle was out and the fudge had disappeared miraculously. "We'd better get to bed, I expect," Sue suggested. Full and warm, she was ready to cuddle down. "I wish y'all weren't too sleepy to hear about _my_ family," Chloe said faintly. "You see, I've tried to tell you so many times and somehow couldn't. While it is so dark and nobody is running in and out, maybe I could tell you." "See that's it." Mimi hated herself for thinking. "She's ashamed of them!" but she was the first to say encouragingly--"Do tell us, Chloe. I'll admit I've wondered why you told about your Aunt Marcia, so much and never mentioned your Mother and Father." "I haven't any," Chloe said bluntly. There it was out. Mimi felt her quiver. They were all crowded together in a small circle, crossed legs touching. "Oh." Three soft Oh's again. What else could they say? "You mean, they're--dead?" Sue whispered. Her tender heartbreak was in her voice. "I--don't--know," Chloe replied. "Don't know if your own Mother and Father are dead?" Mimi prayed that wasn't rude. The question had popped out of its own accord. "No. I don't know. You see--" "Yes?" "I was--kidnapped." Chloe's whisper left them paralyzed. Their excited breathing rasped the silence. All the eager questions died unspoken. Now that the ice was broken Chloe was the calmest of the four. In her soft, lanquid voice louder than a whisper, but much lower than her usual speaking tone, Chloe lisped her heartbreaking story. Telling it helped. She spoke easier as she went along. When she had finished it was as if she had unclasped an iron necklace and left her throat free from choking bruises. "Aunt Marcia is not my aunt at all. She selected me at The Home and adopted me. There is only one incident I remember about my real family. "When I was very small, I couldn't have been more than three, I was playing under two big trees by a big white gate at the end of a drive. Two men slowed up in a touring car and watched me play, then drove on. Soon they came back. The big one with the tattooed arms jumped out of the car and grabbed me. As he slung me over his shoulder like a sack of cotton seed and ran for the car, I heard a shriek. My head was hanging down over his shoulder bumping up and down as the man, whom I later learned to call Fritzie, ran. I couldn't see very well, but I shall always remember the blurred picture I saw. A beautiful lady was running down the drive screaming frantically. As long as I could see she kept holding out her arms running after us and pleading. She must have been my Mother. She must have loved me very much." Chloe's voice died away. Not a soul moved. Even the raspy breathing was stilled. The whole night had paused to hear Chloe's touching story. Chloe's voice and girls breathed again. "The little man drove us miles and miles. Fritzie put coveralls on over my dress. Threw my little white shoes away and put sandals on me. The buckles pinched. Then Fritzie took some big scissors out of the car pocket and cut my hair off until I must have looked like a little boy. When the little man put Fritzie and me on the train he said, 'So long Sonny.' "Then there was a time, I have no idea how long, that I lived on a farm with Fritzie and a large slow moving woman called Freida. Callers seldom came but when they did I was hidden in the cellar. "After a time something happened. I don't know what but Fritzie and Freida packed up and left, leaving me at The Home. I stayed there 'til that happy day Aunt Marcia came." "But why didn't you tell the people at The Home you'd been kidnapped?" Mimi asked. "I tried to once and the nurse said I'd had a bad dream. Of course, I didn't know the word kidnapped and I remembered so little by then. I even had a new name and didn't know the old one. When I'd say--'two men grabbed me,' the nurse would say, 'there, there; no one is going to get you' and move on to the next child. You see there were so many of us in The Home. "Once I tried to tell Aunt Marcia. I could tell by her eyes she was scared but she turned it off as if I didn't know what I was talking about." "She's afraid some one would identify you and take you away from her." Mimi was shrewd. "I've thought of that. It's awfully nice to know somebody wants me, but I wonder all the time who I really am. Sometimes I wake up in the night and think I hear my real mother screaming." "You are just you, honey, and that's good enough for us." Mimi spoke for all three. "We swear we'll never breathe a word of your secret." How could Mimi ever concentrate on geometry again when she was living in the midst of an unsolved mystery? CHAPTER X BETSY SPRINGS A SURPRISE Mimi and Olivia sat back to back under one of the biggest trees on the campus. Each held an open Spanish Grammar on her drawn-up knees. Each had her nose between the pages. "I think I know the first five vocabularies now. Ask me, Olivia." "Spanish or English?" "You say English and I'll say Spanish and spell it." "O. K. Here goes--the table?" "La mesa. L-a--M-e-s-a." "Every day?" "Todos los dias--T-o-d-o-s l-o-s d-i (accent)-a-s." Olivia kept on down the list and could not catch Mimi on a single one. Then they changed and it was Mimi's turn to quiz. Olivia knew them all, too. "Guess we're pretty good, huh?" "Gee, we ought to be; it's all review but, oh, those verb forms! I hate to have to cram but I have to think about Dr. Barnes mailing my grades all the way to Germany and how terrible Daddy and Mother would feel if mine weren't good." "You needn't worry. You may not be an A or an A plus but you're an A minus or B plus easy." "Wish I could believe you." "But you can. With my excellent 'I. Q.', intelligent quotient if you don't follow me, I can classify people by their mentalities; predict such trivial matters as grades." "A-hem! All right, Miss Brainless Wonder tell me when I'll get an answer from a very important long letter I mailed my Daddy one week ago, to be exact." The thought of that letter made prickles of excitement up and down Mimi's spine. She'd love to talk to Olivia about it. She hoped she hadn't broken her promise to Chloe not to tell a soul, when she had written it to Daddy. No matter what you cross-your-heart-and-vow-not-to-tell you can always tell your parents. Mimi was sure of that when she had written Chloe's tragedy to Daddy. She had felt better ever since. Not that Daddy could do anything about it--he was too far away--but again he might when he came home. At least there was some one to whom she could unburden when she couldn't keep from talking about the mystery another minute. "Bad habit I have acquired--talking to myself. Mimi! Look at me. I've explained twice already about the answer to your letter and you haven't heard a word of it. Atten-shun, please! Now, for the third and last time, you will--" Before Olivia finished waving her arms around and succeeding in clouding her eyes as if she were going into a seance, Betsy came running toward them from the gym. She ran easily and lightly, arching her knees high. Her middy collar was streaming behind her. Her socks had flopped down over the tops of her gym shoes. "Guess what?" she panted. "Must be something grand the way your eyes are shining." Betsy's one blue eye and one brown eye with their frames of thick curly lashes always fascinated Mimi but when Betsy was thrilled as she was now, her eyes were the cutest things Mimi ever saw. "Hurry and tell before I die." "Yes, before she with the carrot top is devoured by her ravishing curiosity." "Jack, my big brother who graduated from Vanderbilt last June, is coming to take me to Nashville to the big Thanksgiving football game!" Mimi and Olivia jumped to their feet. Away went the text books and away almost went Olivia's shell rimmed glasses. By throwing her head back, she managed to balance them on the tip of her nose. While she and Mimi joined hands ring-around-the-rosie-fashion about Betsy, all three shrieked. "And that's not all!" Betsy gasped when the three had let off the first burst of steam. "I can invite a guest and I'm asking you, Mimi--can you possibly go?" "Can I? Can a duck swim?" "I mean, will Mrs. Cole let you without a written permission?" "She'll _have_ to. Oh Betsy, I'll be a wreck if she won't. Let's ask her _now_." Leaving Olivia to gather up the notebooks and Spanish grammars, Betsy and Mimi clasped hands and ran toward Prep Hall--up the steps two at a time--knock, knock on Mrs. Cole's door. "If she's not here!" wailed Mimi. Mimi despaired that the door would ever open and doubled up her fist to pound her impatience out on the door before they gave up and left. She drew back her fist. As it went forward it met thin air. The door opened back before the advancing fist and Mimi almost pummeled Mrs. Cole in the stomach! She tripped trying to balance herself. "Come in young ladies," Mrs. Cole invited. They had interrupted her tea. "Have seats." "Thank you, Mrs. Cole." Betsy found her voice first. "We're too thrilled to sit down. We came to ask permission to go to Nashville, Thanksgiving, to the football game." "Nashville?" Mrs. Cole humped her eyebrows as if she had never heard of the place before when every Thanksgiving for more years than she'd care to admit she had been besieged for permissions to go there to the game. "Yes, ma'am. My brother Jack will drive by on Wednesday afternoon and pick us up. We can get to Nashville early Wednesday night and come back Thursday night after the game." "With proper permission from your parents, Betsy, you, of course, may go but, Mimi, it is different with you. This school, in the absence of your parents, is fully responsible for you. I cannot think of giving you permission without consulting Dr. Barnes." Mimi was wilting under Mrs. Cole's droning. "You would have to take a chaperon, of course." "But my brother is going." "He is not Mimi's brother." Mrs. Cole bit off the words. "You may see if you can find a teacher to accompany you in case Dr. Barnes gives consent. Now run along." Run along they did. As fast as they could go they went to Miss Taylor's studio. They stopped outside and listened. Miss Taylor was giving a lesson. There was nothing to do but wait. They sat down in the corridor and leaned against the wall. "Concentrate, Betsy, concentrate. Say over and over to yourself, Miss Taylor go to Nashville, Miss Taylor go to Nashville." "O. K." For five minutes neither spoke. By then Mimi was so sure Miss Taylor would go to Nashville that she began to think of other things. "What are you going to wear?" "That tweed suit. Your plaid wool and camel's hair coat would be grand." "Are you sure? I want to look nice. I'll wash my pigskin gloves and get a new beret. Oh, but my nose! Does it look very bad to you, Betsy? Tell me the truth." "In another week we'll never know anything was ever the matter with it. The swelling is gone and the bruises are fading fast. You don't have a hump." "That was the good part about the fracture being a little to the side of the bridge and the wound on the inside. Oh, Betsy if she won't let me go--I'll--cable--Daddy!" "With what?" A voice asked. Sue had stepped out of the studio and had been listening, "What's up?" Disregarding Sue and knocking her violin case awry they grabbed Miss Taylor one on either side. "Thanksgiving? I'm sorry but I am going to Memphis for that whole weekend." Blam! That quickly a bubble bursts. One pin prick and a balloon is flat. Two dejected figures slink down the corridor to Tumble Inn. "Why not ask your beloved Dit? Seniors can chaperone." It was Sue's voice and she had been lagging near. She couldn't help but be interested in other people's business. "I couldn't bear to have her refuse me." "I'll go ask her by myself," Betsy volunteered. "I'll take Jack's picture and tell her she can ride in the front seat with him and--" While Betsy was gone Mimi rummaged in the closet for the plaid wool. Right now before another thing happened she'd take it to the office to be sent to the cleaners. Mimi had never learned that "haste makes waste." She grabbed up the hanger and as she swung out of Tumble Inn, a sickening sound stopped her. B-z-z-z-- She knew before she looked. She had torn the plaid dress! One of the pockets had caught on the door knob and besides the ripping, there was a tear. "I would," Mimi moaned. "Remove the scowl," Betsy called from the landing of the stairs. "Dit can go. We'll have to pay her hotel bill. Do you think you can manage?" "Sure. I haven't spent anything this month so far. I must have known something like this would happen. But, Betsy--look what this clumsy ox has done to the plaid wool dress!" Betsy examined it carefully. "Not so bad," she consoled--"gimme." "Where to?" "College Hall. Janice does sewing, mending and darning. You can get any thing done in College Hall; typing, hair set and, best right now, sewing. You needn't go. I'll drop it there on my way to the library. See you at supper. Cheerio." "Cheerio," Mimi echoed. She was not too cheerful at that. There was still Dr. Barnes' permission or refusal with which to reckon. Unconsciously she started to concentrate, "Dr. Barnes let me go, Dr. Barnes let me go"--I won't think that another silly time. It didn't work on Miss Taylor but I do wish to my soul, I had Mammy Cissy's rabbit foot. CHAPTER XI THE THANKSGIVING GAME "Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along. Merrily we roll along over the deep blue sea." "Not that way." Mimi interrupted Betsy's rollicking song. "This way--Notice I did _not_ say this A-way. I've learned one thing at Sheridan. 'Merrily we _ride_ along, _ride_ along, _ride_ along, Merrily we _ride_ along over the broad high_way_.'" "But highway doesn't rhyme with anything," Betsy protested. "Who cares! Hurrah--We're off--It could rhyme with gay; if you insist, 'cause that's how I feel. This whole back seat to ourselves and we're going places. Whoopee! I'm afraid to open my eyes too wide for fear I'll find out I'm sitting in study hall instead of zipping along this grand new road. I've held my breath for days, I've been so scared something would happen and we wouldn't get off." Waiting was the hardest thing Mimi ever did. When she wanted anything she wanted it badly and wanted it RIGHT THEN. The two days she waited before Dr. Barnes finally gave her permission to go on this wonderful spree were a month long to Mimi. From that happy minute when Dr. Barnes, through Mrs. Cole, had said "yes" Mimi had trod lightly lest she burst the shimmering bubble of their precious plans. Now it was all coming true. The weekend bags were packed and stacked at their feet. Dit was on the front seat with Jack evidently having a good time. Mimi could see how she kept turning her head toward Jack and smiling up at him and talking. Strangely Jack was even better looking than his picture. The photographer hadn't caught his friendly twinkle. When he took both Mimi's cold little hands and said, "So you're the kid Betsy keeps writing about. I need another little Sis." Without saying so, he was showing more than how nice he was. He was telling Mimi that Betsy liked her; liked her enough to write Jack about her, to invite her on this thrilling trip. She unfolded a fringed plaid blanket and spread it across Betsy's knees and tucked the other end over her own. She'd make Betsy glad she asked her instead of an older friend. "Isn't it all too precious?" she sighed contentedly as she nestled down. She stared down the rolling road which cut a straight black strip through the hills. Without opening her lips she said to herself, "Hojoni, Hojoni." No need to say it aloud. Betsy was probably feeling the same thing--beauty and happiness, but let her say it to herself her own way. Mimi liked to keep her magic word private unless some one was in real trouble and needed to find the way. "How long will it take us to get there, Jack?" Betsy had to ask twice before Jack heard or heeded. He was finding the trail happy, too. "In time for supper, I hope. I had the dickens of a time getting a reservation for you all. I finally got one room. I'm staying at the House." Mimi knew that he referred to his fraternity house. Betsy had told her how popular Jack had been at school. She had two of his old annuals and a picture of his chapter. "We can manage fine," Dit was saying, "can't we, girls? Sleeping is one of the best things we do at Sheridan--sometimes in classes. We aren't coming to Nashville to sleep." Mimi didn't care if she never slept again. She was so full of tingles and throbs she couldn't sleep if she had her own ivory bed from home. Forever afterward when she recounted her good times at Sheridan, one of the first things she remembered was this trip. The sun had sunk behind the hills and the bare trees made black outlines against the graying sky before they reached the suburbs. Traffic had increased surprisingly in the last five miles. Once Jack swerved so quickly to avoid a collision that the car had poised the fraction of a second on two wheels before he straightened it. Mimi and Betsy rolled from one side of the back seat and back to the other. Cars, cars, cars, two abreast, often three abreast going to the city. The pigstands were surrounded with carefree travelers making loud boasts about tomorrow's score. "Might be a good idea for us to eat supper out here, somewhere," Dit suggested. "I imagine every place in town is packed and jammed. What do you think, Jack?" "Depends on how hungry we are and what you want." Mimi wouldn't dare tell how famished she was. It wouldn't be polite. "I had thought we'd go on in, if you all can last another half hour, and eat at a waffle place I know. It is off of the main 'drag' and while it will likely be swamped too, they can take care of us and I believe you all would like it." "Shall we check in at the hotel and freshen up first?" Dit asked. "I think you look swell as you are. This is what I'd planned. Speak now, all three of you, or forever after hold your peace, if it doesn't suit." "O. K.," the three agreed. "I thought we'd go to the waffle house and eat just as we are. Then I'll get you all settled in your room. While I go out to the House to change, you all can rest, dress, do what you please. Then we'll put the kids in a good movie and we'll do the town." This last was to Dit. "Couldn't be better," was the verdict. That's how Mimi and Betsy found themselves jammed in the lobby of a movie waiting for the feature to be over so they could find a seat. "If Mrs. Cole could see us now," Betsy exclaimed, "no brother, no chaperon, no ball-and-chain of any description, she'd faint." Mimi felt like a bird out of a cage too, as they watched. The crowd came out. "Get set," Mimi kidded shoving her head between Betsy's shoulders. "Give me some interference and I'll lug the ball through." Mimi knew a lot about football. She had watched the kids at home play on the corner lot; had even played a time or two herself when there weren't enough without her. Honky had told her a lot about it, too. He played on B. G. Hi. "Signals," Betsy answered. "Seven-Eleven-Hike," Mimi answered shoving hard. By pushing and scrouging and holding to each other, they managed to plow down the aisle to two seats. The newsreel was on flashing pictures of a suspected kidnapper across the screen. "I'd like to spit on him," Mimi hissed to Betsy as she popped the folding seat down. All the hatred she felt for Fritzie with the tattoed arms, Freida, and the short man, who had cast a blight on Chloe's life, was in that sentence. "I'd like to scratch him and kick him," Betsy hissed back. She was thinking of Chloe too. "Wonder what Sue and Chloe are doing?" Mimi said. "Study hall," replied Betsy scornfully. Then realizing how rude it was to even whisper at a talkie they gradually became interested in the comedy. It was Popeye and he made Mimi shriek with delight but the tattoed anchors on his brawny forearms were an ugly reminder. They pricked the back of her mind and she was not quite happy. Before the feature was well begun and, as she was beginning to lose herself in it, a sudden commotion riveted her attention to the back of the theatre. There was a regular stampede. Mimi and Betsy turned to each other inquiringly. Each hated to admit she did not know what was going on. They were not in the dark long. Soon every one in the theatre knew what was up and, at least in spirit, joined in the celebration. The supporters and pep squad of the visiting team had crashed the show. They overran the lobby, the aisles, and the cheer leaders vaulted the orchestra pit to the stage. After five minutes of yelling and bedlam in general they left as suddenly as they had come. The heroine's voice sounded small indeed in the void they left behind them. What next, Mimi wondered, but nothing else happened until the girls were out of the show. They were only a block and a half from the hotel and Jack had given them explicit directions. He had even spoken to the clerk at the desk. In case they made the wrong turn en route they had only to look up and around to see the big neon sign of the hotel flashing welcome. "Let's window shop," Betsy suggested before they covered the half block. "Suits," Mimi replied. Up and down Church Street, up and down Fifth Avenue, hand in hand, the girls strolled exclaiming in front of this window and that. The jolly crowd jostled them but the girls elbowed along and laughed back. "I always imagined New Orleans was like this at Mardi Gras time," Betsy commented. "Wouldn't you love to go?" "If it were any more fun than this, I couldn't live," Mimi replied. "Let's get a sundae before we go up." "You think of the grandest things," Mimi answered following Betsy into the crowded drug store. There were no vacant tables so the girls sat on high stools at the fountain and dangled their legs. Two butterscotch sundaes appeared and disappeared. "Let's make a night of it while we have a chance," Mimi said twirling around on the stool and walking over to pay the check. "Anything you can think of?" "Candy! Doesn't this look grand? I'll get a dime's worth of bonbons and you get a dime's worth of caramels, that is unless you prefer some other kinds. Let's end the evening with candy." It is a wonder they were not ill the next day but they weren't. They felt fine. Mimi could hardly contain herself. They were so sound asleep when Dit had come in that she rolled them over to make room for herself without waking either. They slept soundly as tired babies. That is why they were so fresh this morn. "Wonder what time Dit came in?" Mimi whispered to Betsy in the bathroom. They had managed to get up without awakening her. "None of our business," Betsy replied. "Let's dress right quickly and go down to the coffee shop and eat breakfast and have Dit's sent up for a surprise." "Suits." Mimi had picked up this word at Sheridan and she found it an apt answer to many questions. The two felt very important walking on the thick carpet to the elevator. "I don't know if it's being away from Daddy and Mother Dear or being fourteen or what, but I am beginning to feel so grown up. After this hotel experience I feel I could go on most any trip and take care of myself." "You should never have any trouble, not you, with all the questions you can ask." "All right, Smartie, I'll ask you one. What do we eat and what shall we order for Dit?" Whatever they ordered they ate quickly so that they could get back to the room to waken Dit before her tray was sent. In spite of their hurry, someone else had wakened Dit. When the girls walked in, she was standing in the middle of the room in her negligee hugging a cardboard florist's box almost as tall as she. "Mums!" she cried, "Mums--It couldn't be anything else." Dit was right. When she had snapped the green tape, raised the lid and torn back the damp oiled paper there were six gorgeous big yellow chrysanthemums. Mimi and Betsy looked on with envy. Oh to be grown up and have beaux who sent flowers! Mimi was sure at that moment she could never love a man who forgot to send flowers. Dit's fingers trembled as she took out the card. For my three girl friends To wear to a Vandy Victory. Jack. Mimi's merry blue eyes shone. Betsy's cute eyes glowed with pride. After all he was _her_ brother. There was nothing in the room large enough to contain the flowers. They made the vases top heavy. After toppling the second one over, Mimi tried the metal waste paper basket and it leaked. As a last resort they thought of the bath tub. While they were filling it, Dit's breakfast came. "Another surprise," she cried. "What nice hostesses you girls are." Indeed it was a day of surprises and one of them was not so nice. Jack called for them in a taxi to go to the game. "This way we can go right to the entrance of our section. Otherwise, we'd have to park, no telling where or I'd have to drive you all up and go park the car and take a chance on finding you again. I don't want to lose you," he added to all three but he meant Dit. The taxi reminded Mimi of her gloomy arrival at Sheridan. However, this was fun. There was only room for three on the back seat of the cab so Mimi sat on a little seat that folded down from the side. Jack insisted on using it himself but Mimi really liked it. She clung to the strap as they bounced along, sure that nothing in the world could be more fun. She felt so dressed up with her new beret which she wore down over one eye as Millie had worn her sailor hat at camp. Mimi knew everyone they passed admired the big yellow _mum_ she had pinned so carefully to her lapel. She had to be careful when she turned her head that way. The cold yellow petals caressed her chin. When they piled out of the taxi Jack bought them something else--cute little footballs dangling on black and yellow satin ribbons! "Wait 'til Sue and Chloe see these!" she said to Betsy as they followed the usher down to their seats. "Be sure and save your program, too," she said to Betsy. "Watch me and if you see me chewing mine or tearing the corners off, slap my hands." But Mimi forgot even her own program when the team came out. The running, kicking, passing fascinated her. It wasn't the first time Mimi had wished she were a boy. Still if you were a boy you'd have to _send_ flowers, not _wear_ them. "Wish they'd hurry and start," Jack said. "It's our game if the rain holds off. The dope says Vandy will win by two touchdowns. But rain would make it anybody's game." "Let me be a kill-joy for just once," Betsy said to Mimi. "Look." Mimi's eyes followed Betsy's finger. "Do you see what I see?" "Ugh!--Uniforms--almost like ours." Betsy was pointing to the rows and rows of Ward-Belmont girls. "I can almost see Mrs. Cole! Betsy, you old meanie!" The rain held off until the show between halves was over. Mimi would be thankful for that always. This was her first big game and the show of the Pep Squad and the band was a brand new thrill. Marching feet, martial music, perfectly timed yells. Mimi could not keep her eyes from the cheer leaders. She watched their every move. When she got back to Sheridan she would try some of those antics herself. Forming of the great V and the singing of "Alma Mater" took Mimi's breath. She stood reverently and throbbed to every note. Before the last words were finished the rain which had been threatening since noon began. It came in torrents. This was the only unpleasant thing of the whole trip. "Shall we leave?" Jack asked. "No, no, a thousand times no," came three answers. Jack turned his coat wrong side out and turned his hat down. The girls buttoned up their coats. Mimi wished for her old felt hat so she could turn it down. A trickle from the beret was tickling her nose. She squinted her eyes. She was glad she didn't use make-up or her face would look streaked and ugly as some of the ladies who had looked so lovely in the sunshine. The game became a scramble. Mimi hated to see the jerseys of the players get muddy. Soon you could not tell one team from the other. Time and time again the referee called time out to dry the ball. It was a mess. Mimi didn't know the final score for sure until she asked Jack. She knew Vandy won and for that she was glad. "We won't be able to make any time driving back to Sheridan," Jack said when they were safe from the shower in a taxi. "That means we'd better start as soon as we can throw our things together," Dit said. "Couldn't stay over?" "No, I promised Mrs. Cole we'd be back tonight and also that I would not ask for extended permission. That's the usual thing and Dr. Barnes doesn't like it." "Who minds a little thing like rain?" Mimi asked. "Betsy and I don't. We'll be 'singing in the rain' all the way home." And they did. They sang until they were so hoarse they could hardly whisper by the time they arrived at Sheridan. Jack was afraid they had taken cold. "We aren't hoarse, Mrs. Cole," Betsy said later. "It's so late we are whispering and trying not to disturb." Mrs. Cole hustled them off giving them time for only the briefest thanks and goodbyes to Jack. When they turned on the light in Tumble Inn to waken Chloe and Sue, they found only two empty beds. "Well now that _is_ something!" Mimi declared. She was still clutching her weekend bag in one hand and a wilted flower, a wet program and a faded little football in the other. "You'll have to sleep with me," Betsy said. That made everything all right except Mimi felt she would pop if she had to wait until morning to tell about the marvelous time she had had. Telling it was going to be almost as much fun as having it had been. CHAPTER XII TEA FOR TWO Mimi was in front of the mirror in her green polka dot pajamas trying to do a back flip like a Vandy cheer leader when Sue and Chloe walked in. Betsy was still in bed. "Pardon me," Sue grinned. "I was looking for Tumble Inn and gracious me, my eyes must be going back on me. I've walked right into Barnum and Bailey's circus winter quarters." She winked at Chloe who could always manage to keep a straight face and they backed out. "Here," Mimi called so loud that she awakened Betsy. "Don't dare leave without coming in and telling us where you've been." "Oh--places." Chloe teased shrugging--"and you?" "You know good and well where we've been but oh boy! We had a perfectly precious time. Look," Mimi gushed pointing out her souvenirs. She had pinned the football up by the mirror near Jack's picture. The program was being pressed dry under the treasure chest. Before Sue had time to examine either or Chloe to admire the crushed mums in the window, Mimi was exclaiming, "Out with it. Where have you been?" "I don't care," Betsy said sleepily. "Don't tell us." "Aunt Marcia came to see me," Chloe said proudly. It was fine to have a family. "Where is she?" Mimi wanted to know. She'd like to see Aunt Marcia. She wished she had the nerve to ask her some questions. Was she a large, slow moving woman? If you called her Aunt Freida suddenly as if by mistake would she flinch? "Gone. We went out to dinner and a movie with her and spent the night at the hotel with her. She left on the early train and sent us home in a taxi." "That makes us even," Betsy said. "What are we going to do all day. This is only Friday and there's tomorrow, too." "So few of us are here, I imagine we can do what we please. I know," Mimi raised her voice, "let's ride horseback!" "Oh, let's." "We can rent horses out at the Riding Academy. The college girls go all the time and I've just been dying to. Betsy, would you ask Mrs. Cole?" "I will if no one else will but I asked her just the other day about Nashville. How about you, Sue? Did you or Chloe ask for your permission?" "Aunt Marcia asked for us," Chloe answered for Sue. "Sure, I'll ask," Sue spoke up. While Sue was gone the usual wail went up. "I intended to wash my hose, write letters, review my geometry, get up my book report----" All three had a list. "There's always tomorrow," Mimi quoted solemnly. "It's a perfect day to ride--crisp and clear." "We can go if we take Miss Bassett," Sue burst in with the news. "Grand," Betsy cried, "but you know what that means. We will have to pay for her horse. Gee! I'm nearly broke." "Don't spoil your pretty face with frowns and wrinkles, lovely," Chloe said quickly. "Aunt Marcia gave me $5.00, _five dollars_, can you hear?" She ran to her purse and reassured herself it was there. "We'll pay you back, Chloe." "Don't worry. It's all in the family." The girls were beginning to feel like a family, really. Their schedules had smoothed out, they were accustomed to each other's individuality, the ugly head of rivalry and jealousy which leered the first few days had withdrawn. They enjoyed each other and shared their food, spending money, and now for the first time they were wearing each other's clothes. Mimi, of course, had a beautifully tailored habit. She had taken good care of her patent leather boots. The other girls had jodphurs, so by exchanging blouses and sweaters a few times they managed to fit themselves out becomingly. Chloe had the worst time of all. Everything she had on but her jodphurs was borrowed. She had never been on a horse in her life. She wasn't too keen on the idea but tried not to show how she felt, Mimi guessed. "We'll take good care of you, Chloe. I can give you a few pointers that will help you. So can Miss Bassett. We'll all ride slowly and keep together. We'll have a grand time." They did have a grand time; although, Chloe and Sue both limped the next two or three days when no one was looking. When they returned they stopped in the Post Office. That was one place Mimi never passed without peeking in. Although, she knew exactly when the mail was put up she always had a hopeful feeling. Today she was not disappointed. There was a big fat letter from Mother Dear. Mimi dropped her hat and crop and ripped the letter open. "Wait 'till Olivia sees this stamp," she said. "She'll go wild." Mimi devoured every word of the letter. She trailed the other girls on up to Tumble Inn for the second reading which was usually aloud. Sue, particularly enjoyed news of Mimi's family. Mimi straddled a chair backwards, unfolded the letter and prepared to read---- "Where is Sue? This is getting queer. Has she an invisible cloak? Every time I've looked for her lately she has disappeared." "She had a notice in her box to come to the studio. Miss Taylor wanted to see her." "What are you saying about me, Chloe?" Sue asked poking her head around the door. "Eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves," Betsy quoted. "Come down to the studio with me, Mimi--'sprise." She need say no more--at the word "s'prise," Mimi was up and after her. "You can usher with me at Albert Spaulding's recital!" Mimi failed to catch Sue's enthusiasm. "Crazy--you will get to wear your long wedding dress and high heeled slippers--now--say something." "Swell! I begin to catch on. But how did you manage to get me in? I'm not a music student." "Simple enough. The college music students are going to receive and serve at the reception and the preps are to usher at the recital. There are so few of us this year that Miss Taylor thought we'd better get one or two outsiders. The minute I caught on I asked her if I could ask you. Here we are and Miss Taylor can tell us exactly what she wants us to do." The recital was the biggest event between Thanksgiving and Christmas. For Sue it was one of the high points of the year. Mimi tried to be as interested as Sue expected her to be. Dressing up in the long dress was fun. Thank goodness, Miss Jane had chosen a rainbow wedding. Her dress was orchid and Sue's was blue. Only one or two girls mentioned that they were made alike. Every time Mimi wore the high heeled pumps she handled herself better. Eventually she hoped to walk gracefully in them, to float along as Miss Jane had. Mimi even went so far as to pay a college girl fifteen cents to set her hair. Even though she was wearing it longer than she had at camp, the wave wouldn't make it "stay put." It wasn't that kind of hair. Betsy and Chloe had fussed over them no end, patting and preening. "Leave your hair alone, Mimi," Chloe despaired. Mimi tried to. All the time she was greeting people and marching sedately up and down the aisle, she carried her head a bit to one side so the wildest lock of hair would not fall in her eyes. However, she and Sue had not been through their duties and seated ten minutes before Mimi unconsciously tucked the lock behind her ear. Sue did not notice. She was entranced with the music. To her there were only two people there, herself and Albert Spaulding in that enchanted realm of music. His nimble fingers, supple wrist, the powerful singing tones brought tears to her eyes. She followed with understanding. She was aware of nothing but a violin laughing, crying. Mimi was moved by the music but she was much more aware of the artist himself. She was pleased that he was tall, that his shoulders were broad. She loved the way he stood with his feet wide apart. How grand to see an artist who was, withal, such a man. Mimi's mind kept hopping to tennis racquets and other sporting goods which had made his family famous. Then she would come back to the music. Several times she checked down the program to see how much longer it was. She knew exactly how to act at the reception which followed. Only the music students were presented to the artist and Mimi felt she shouldn't barge in on that. She had been very lucky to get to usher. She did, however, go down the receiving line and chatter with many of the college girls. She liked knowing them. She was fast growing into one herself. Nor did she pass up the punch and wafers. Not Mimi. Sue found her there. "Lead me upstairs, please," Sue plead in such a queer voice that for a moment, Mimi was frightened. Was Sue ill? Had she stood on her high heels too long? Was she going to faint? She was holding out her hand to Mimi. "What on earth? Why, you're trembling!" "Oh, Mimi!" Sue gasped, "I shook his wonderful, magic-making hand!" CHAPTER XIII DECK THE HALLS WITH BOUGHS OF HOLLY "What's the matter with Mimi?" Madge asked Sue. "Everytime any one mentions Christmas she flounces out of the room." "I hadn't noticed but I can guess. It's the first Christmas she was ever away from her folks and that must be it. She has the grandest family. I'll miss them, too. The Hammond's always have open house all through the holidays and our crowd almost lives over there." "I'm glad I asked you. I was beginning to think it was I. I am queer but I can't help it. I couldn't bear it if Mimi stopped liking me." "Don't be silly. Mimi likes everybody. She doesn't think you are queer. I don't either. I've heard her say you were a very interesting girl. So there." "Have you really, Sue? Cross your heart?" "Yeh." "Thanks. Thanks too much. I like Mimi better than any girl in school. I always have and since she turned down those bids to join the clubs, I've adored her. Gee! That took nerve. But you won't tell her, will you, Sue?" "No, I cross my heart again." "Thanks." Sue forgot Madge's sensitiveness right away. She had other things to consider in regard to Mimi. Why hadn't she thought sooner that Mimi had nowhere to go Christmas? Gee! It would be terrible if she had to stay here with everyone else home. Sue would write home for permission to invite Mimi to her house. No. That would take too long. Mimi was already dreading Christmas. Sue knew that every other year Mimi had considered Christmas the wish-come-true time of times. She'd ask her now and then write home. Sometimes she had to do things backwards. Her daddy called it taking the bull by the horns. "A--D--F A--B--F!" Sue thrilled as she walked faster and faster toward the gym. She was trying so hard to memorize Souvenir for the Christmas recital but she couldn't practice until she settled Mimi's Christmas arrangements. "E-e-e-prettee!" She shrieked the old camp call from the balcony of the gym. Mimi let the ball fly sidewise as she looked up. "Hey! Aw Sue, you made me miss." "Sorry. Getting good?" "Am I? Seven fouls out of ten. Not bad?" "Regular dead eye!" "What brings you here fiddle in hand? Are you going to play a balcony scene?" "No. I came to invite you to spend Christmas with me." Bowling Green--Cissy, King, Von, Miss Jane and Dick, Dottie, Margie, Jean, Honky--heaven! As near perfect a Christmas as could be without precious, precious Mother Dear and Junior so far, so very far away. The distance had been widening daily ever since Mimi had mailed their presents to Germany. She had wrapped her packages quietly and mailed them without telling, but she had known they were gone, known how lonely Christmas would be and Sue had guessed. Dear roly-poly Sue who was never lonesome herself. Mimi blinked and gasped. "Sue, do you really?" "No savvy Englesh?" "Why, Sue! I'd love to, only, do you think it will be all right with your Mother?" "You don't think I'd ask you if it wasn't, do you? Why--" Sue had to be convincing now. "Mother is writing Mrs. Cole--and Dr. Barnes both so that there can be no question about your permission!" Sue stopped triumphantly. When Mrs. Cole's and Dr. Barnes' names were mentioned, all was said that could be said. "Providing the permission comes through, I accept. Yes, a thousand times yes." "Good! See you at supper." Mimi watched Sue disappear. Sweet Sue. She put the basket ball back in the locker, without putting her sweater on, she jogged across the short cut from the back door of the gym to Prep Hall ell. So much to do! She hadn't been studying as much as she should of late. The lessons and notebooks had been piling up to be worked on during Christmas while her suite mates were gone. Now that she was going to celebrate too, she would have to make things fly. As soon as she changed clothes, she'd go to the library and get _Greene's Source Book_ and catch up on her outside reading in history. At study hall tonight she'd make every minute count. She would not look at the clock a single time, or get permission to speak to a soul, or to sharpen her pencil or to fill her pen unless it was an emergency. After study hall she would mend her hose, straighten her trunk, the dresser's drawers and if there was time before light bell, she'd check up on her allowance and see if she could squeeze out a new pair of gloves. While she was home she could get several things. Daddy had oked a charge account for her and had told her she could order things but so far she hadn't used it. She was trying to spend as little as possible because Daddy's expenses must be terrific. She knew he had not planned on spending so much on her until she was college age. Plans were racing through her head. "I'm going to Bowling Green, I'm going to Bowling Green." Her mind played an accompaniment to her marching feet. Thinking was so thrilling, before she realized it, those marching feet were detouring by Sue's practice room instead of keeping the straight trail to the library. She'd only stay a minute. She'd have to rave a while and calm down or she could never sit still in the library with the source book. Opening the big door to the practice rooms was like opening the door of a menagerie at feeding time. Standing in the hall from which the cell like rooms opened, Mimi's ears were assailed by squeaks, grunts, and ferociously thundering bass notes. Mimi bumped into the proctor who was looking through the glass windows in the doors to check and be sure that the music students were keeping their regular practice times and--that no one was playing jazz. She scowled at Mimi. "Could I speak to Sue a second?" "If you'll hurry and leave before I do. I am not supposed to leave any one here without special permission." Mimi ducked in Sue's cell. The watchful eye of the proctor cramped Mimi's style but she got in a few hurried expostulations. Who could say much with the feeling that some one was holding a stop watch over them? "Put your sweater on," motherly little Sue called after her. "Thanks a lot," Mimi said as she brushed past the proctor on the way out. Some hopeful soprano was singing, "Who Is Sylvia?" "Not Sylvia. Who is Chloe?" As if she didn't have enough on her mind without being haunted by that. Mimi had no sooner stored away the mystery about Chloe, the happy holidays ahead, and determinedly buried herself in the source book when some one stepped up behind her and covered her eyes with two cold hands. She started to cry out, then remembered where she was. Placards with "SILENCE" were in plain sight all around in case one was prone to forget. Silently she removed the fingers and twisted around. It was Chloe; her glowing dark eyes lighted up her whole beautiful face. Mimi had never seen her so radiant. "Meet me outside--quick," she whispered. Goodbye history reading. Mimi's insatiable curiosity had the best of her. She followed Chloe out as quickly as she could return the book to the desk. "Guess what?" Chloe exclaimed when they were safely out of the quiet zone. Mimi could only think of one thing. Chloe had a clue to her identity. "You have found out--?" She didn't know how to say what she was hoping. "Not that," Chloe replied quickly sobering up. "But maybe while we're there we can find out--" "While we're where?" "At Aunt Marcia's! I just received a letter and she says I may bring someone home for the holidays and, of course, I want you, Mimi. I'm asking you first." What could Mimi do? As much as she would love to go to Sue's she would miss all that fun for the chance to ferret out more about Chloe. She wanted to meet Aunt Marcia. She and Chloe would have a good time, too. "That's mighty nice of you, Chloe." As Mimi fumbled for words she could see Chloe's feathers fall. "It isn't that I don't want to. Please don't think that--but I've accepted Sue's invitation, but maybe----" "Oh, it's quite all right." Chloe's chin went up. "I understand perfectly." As they walked too silently toward Tumble Inn, Mimi was sure she didn't. However what happened next did help. Betsy was rushing to meet them. "Mimi, I've looked high and low for you. Where have you been?" "The library." "No!" "Yes, I have. Study has caught up with me. Before holidays begin I am going to know more than--" "Holidays? That's what I want to see you about. Mother says I may bring you home for the holidays. Of course, you'll come?" "Home-for-the-holidays." Mimi repeated slowly. "What is this a frame up or a song?" "A what?" "It is funny," Chloe was smiling now. "You see, Betsy, Sue asked her, you ask her, I ask her! Whew! Is she popular?" "Please--" Mimi was embarrassed. "You are all honeys to want me. I still think you're kidding!" "We are not," said Sue having arrived in time to hear the last of the discussion. "We want you. But remember, you've promised _me_." "What we should have," Mimi said suddenly inspired, "is a house party! Then we could all be together. A progressive house party. Oh, if Mother Dear were only home!" For several days the girls buzzed with ideas about a house party but as Mimi disgustedly phrased it they, "got no where fast." However, Sue's mother, as Mothers often do these days, had followed Sue's instructions to the letter. After calling Mimi on the carpet, not the magic carpet by any chance, and impressing upon her what a trying position the school would be in if anything should happen to her, Mimi received permission. Now on the day before departure she was stacking out her things to pack. "Sue, I can hardly contain myself." Mimi went into a rhapsody ending in a clog. She poised breathless, hands on hips, head to one side, face flushed. "I'm as thrilled as I was when we packed for camp. Far as I am concerned they might as well not meet classes today. All I want to do is 'Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa, la, la, la, la; la, la, la, la'." "Why are you holding your head, Mimi?" Chloe asked tumbling in from the hall over Sue's bag. "I'm kind of dizzy," Mimi replied sitting down on the side of the bed. "I'll be all right in a minute." She wasn't. When she came up to her room after lunch she was aching and shivering. Soda! That was what she needed, soda water--That would cure anything. Ca-chew! Yes, if this was a cold soda was the very thing. She'd go right down to the kitchen now and get some. If she went to the infirmary--Well, no use taking a chance. But she was all right. She had to be--Ca-chew! She remembered her last trip for soda and felt her face burning. Betsy and Madge and the alarm. Betsy still did not know why Madge failed. That was the only secret she had from Betsy now. Ca-chew! She sneezed once too often. Mrs. Cole passing and hearing poked her head in. "Who is that sneezing? Here let me feel your head. Child, you have fever. Come with me." Too amazed to resist, and aching and feeling much worse than she cared to admit, Mimi allowed Mrs. Cole to lead her to the Infirmary Wing. Nurse took one good look. "Flu," she said. "If we don't have some freezing weather soon, there will be an epidemic. Quarantine, for you, young lady." "I can't come up here. I'm leaving tomorrow." Mimi protested. "I'm all right, really I am, Nurse." "Fever one hundred and one-half; eyes red, nose dripping." "Sue's mother will fix--Ca-chew!--me up--" "Mrs. Cole have her roommate bring up her robe and pajamas and toilette articles. Mimi is staying with me." As Nurse tucked her in and put an ice bag on her hot head, Mimi raised to her elbows. "What now?" "The singing," Mimi said smiling sadly. "Hear." Into the open window floated the strains of "Noel, Noel." The Glee Club was practicing but the glad tidings sounded very faint and far away to Mimi. For once in her life Christmas would come too soon. CHAPTER XIV THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE Mimi ran her fingers up and down the crinkles of the blue and white striped bed cover. She made dents with her fists for lakes then smoothed them all out and began again. This time she made a deep curving gulley which was Green River flowing around Camp. The flat space over her stomach was the open space around the flag pole where the campers had gathered as soon after reveille as they could slide into their bathing suits. The small point she had pinched up with her fingers was the Lodge and the great bump her doubled up knees made was the Hotel far up on the hill above camp. Chimes rang out in the distance, suddenly her knees collapsed and she burrowed her flushed face in the pillow. A miniature earthquake had leveled her make-believe land. Now it was raining on her pillow. What a great god she was to build country and shake it down and wash away the debris with rain. After the deluge she was as alone as in the beginning. All of her best friends were gone. They had not been permitted in the ward to say goodbye. When Nurse relayed their farewells from the corridor to the patient some of the sadness melted away, but not all, not by any means. She had begun all the make-believe nonsense to keep from remembering it was Christmas and that she was sick-a-bed without her family, without her chums. But it was no use. Stubbornly she put her mind back to her "Child's Garden of Verse." She said "The Friendly Cow," "Singing in the Rain," "Sea Cups," and in spite of herself between each one she would revert to "When I was sick and lay abed----" The siege of flu had begun to look like an epidemic. There were six single beds in a row in the Infirmary and this Christmas morning each bed cradled a sick girl. Mimi, however, was the only one awake. Ding, dong--ding, dong. Mimi listened to the bells ring out. Perhaps they could do what trying-very-hard and poetry had failed to do. But she gave up. There was no use trying to forget it was Christmas for all day there would be reminders. She must hope that somewhere in Leipzig Junior was dumping the contents of a bulging stocking on his bed instead of racing with her and winning by sliding down the bannisters to their usual tree at home. She hoped the gifts she had sent arrived in time. If it took as long for things to go to Leipzig as it did for them to come from there to America, the gifts would be late. Mimi knew that Mother Dear had sent her something in plenty of time but so far no package had reached her. As soon as Nurse would let her get up she would go to the Post Office and ask them to send a tracer. She was that sure Mother and Daddy had not failed her. Gray morning was peeping around the cracks of the window shades. Mimi leaned over and eased her shade up the tiniest bit; at least that is what she intended to do but the shade slipped from her cold fingers and went whr-r-r--zip--all the way to the top. Mimi shut her eyes against the sound, and when she opened them and looked out, wonder of wonders a fairy world bade her good-morning. So softly the snow had fallen that no sleeper had heard. Nose against the pane, breath making fantastic wreaths on the glass, hands clutched as if praying, Mimi gasped in awe. Then because she could never be unhappy long and because it was Christmas inside her, a WHITE Christmas, she sang out: "Merry CHRISTMAS! Oh wake up, wake up, there is snow!" Weak hands rubbing swollen eyes. Tousled heads rearing from pillows. Necks craned toward nearest windows. "Merry Christmas yourself." "Snow." "Oh, SNOW!" "Merry Christmas!" Nurse's clear, crisp voice rose above the others. "What chance does an amateur Santa Claus have with all you girls already wide awake? I was outside in the hall hanging the last bangles on your tree when 'there arose such a clatter, I sprang to the DOOR to see what was the matter'!" "Our tree?" came the chorus. "Yes, your tree. You don't think I'm mean enough to make you stay in bed and feast on orange juice instead of plum pudding without doing something for you?" "May I come in?" It was Mrs. Cole in a fresh blouse and newly pressed skirt. She looked sweeter than Mimi had ever seen her. "Merry Christmas, girls. If you'll help me, Nurse, we'll roll the tree in." It was not a large tree; a living evergreen growing in a wooden tub and riding into the sick room on a rolling white hospital cart-table. Mimi had passed it by the steps many times scarcely noticing but today, decked so gayly and glittering so magnificently, it was as new as the snow. As they pushed the tree along the ornaments made an elfin jingle. Yesterday Mimi had wished her bed were at one end of the ward or the other so that she could lie on one side with her back to illness and forget it. Now she was glad that she was in the center of the room because the tree, placed in the middle of the room, was at the foot of her bed. If nurse had not made up the bed with tight square corners she could wriggle her toes free and touch it. "There!" Nurse and Mrs. Cole stood one to either side admiring their handiwork. "But no presents or mail until baths, temperatures taken all around, and breakfast." Mimi knew Nurse meant exactly what she said and that no amount of begging would change her orders. Now if it were Mrs. Cole in charge.... But she wasn't. Nurse's word was law and obeyed to the letter. So was Dr. Ansley's. Mimi tried not to show how impatient she was but eagerness danced in her merry blue eyes. The hour finally came and for once, Mimi had more surprises than she could stand. The last one was the biggest and it brought tears. First the mail was distributed. Nurse did not call out the names. She had it all sorted and handed each girl a neat stack. Otherwise, she would have read "Mimi Hammond" every other name for Mimi had as much mail as all the others put together. Now for the packages. The first one handed to Mimi made her heart leap. From Leipzig.--Careful not the tear the stamps, she ripped it open and lifted out three separate packages. She opened the lumpy one from Junior first. Not a guess what it was. It didn't rattle or move about. What could it be? A peasant doll! Braided hair, crisp white cap, full skirts held in place by a tight bodice. Precious! The doll would sit on top of Mimi's trunk in the living room so that all who opened the door of two hundred and seven could see and admire. And what could this one from Daddy be? Shake it. Feel it. No; guess again. Wrong both times. A Bohemian necklace with a crystal pendant to wear to Christmas parties. Daddy liked every one well and gay. He must realize, too, that she was growing up. This thin, flat package from Mother. Not as thick as a book but about that shape. Careful! Don't tear. A picture and what a sweet one! Mimi did not fully appreciate what she had until the letter came telling about the trip to the Dresden Gallery to see Coregio's, "The Holy Night," and the "Sistine Madonna." The print they sent Mimi was a Hanfstaengel called "The Cherubim," artistically copying the little angels who hover around the Virgin in the full picture of the Madonna. Beaming faces. Mimi loved them. What wonderful gifts from Leipzig! Then the small packages. Stationery from Chloe with Tumble Inn hand blocked in the upper left corner. Oh, these art students. Mimi's fingers felt thick and clumsy as she untied Betsy's package. It did not look neat but Mimi never judged inside by outside. An enviable black and white sport belt to wear with her riding habit. Two plain sport handkerchiefs from Madge with this verse printed on the card: "Some hankies for show, Some hankies for blow; You know which to do When you have flu." She hadn't realized how clever Madge was. Olivia had left sealing wax and a Sheridan signet. Dit's card was almost as good as a present. Under the greeting she had written, "To my Prep." At first glance Mimi had interpreted the back handed phrase as "To my Pup." She laughed aloud. She was reading the cards a second time. Surely that was all the packages but she was wrong. The too big surprise was coming up the steps now. Such a big box Mrs. Cole was having the janitor bring it up. Plop! He put it down beside Mimi's bed. "That's right." Mrs. Cole was directing behind him. "That's the girl." "Miss MIMI HAMMOND," the janitor read slowly. The only reason Mimi didn't guess was because, Christmas or any other time she wore an air of expecting-something-nice-to-happen. So often it did. "Thank you." This looked like a crate of oranges. She could make out from the express label that whatever it was, it came from Bowling Green. Grand! Then a wave of suspicion swept over her. This might be a prank. Not too many years ago when Sue played in her first recital, Mimi herself had thought up the joke of sending Sue a box of weeds. Sue, unsuspecting, had opened them before her friends and cried with embarrassment. Come to think of it, Sue had left no present. Maybe---- "I'll pry the lid off, Miss," the janitor was saying as he reached in his hip pocket for a hammer. The squeak of the first nail drawn commanded silence. Every one in the room who could be up out of bed hovered near. The others sat up and craned their necks. Mimi with one hand held her robe together at the throat and with the other was squeezing the end of the pillow behind her back into a tight ball. Hurry, janitor, hurry but don't get a splinter in your finger. When he pulled the top off, the first thing Mimi saw was oranges, a whole half crate of them. It was a joke after all. Anyone with any sense would know that after four days of flu she never wanted to see an orange again. But what was under the red tissue covering the other half? One hand to her head to guard against dizzying weakness, Mimi peeked under the red paper. Presents, a whole array of them daintily tied up in green cellophane with silver ribbons and stars; almost the green and white of Sheridan. Mimi's hands shook as she opened the note which lay unsealed atop the presents: "A gift a day keeps the blues away." The instructions followed. There was one package to be opened each day beginning now, Christmas, and every day thereafter until the holidays were over. The presents were labeled by days. She would find no cards as they had been bought by them all. The signatures which followed, Mimi kept and a year later they were the first page of the autograph book she prized so highly. Sue had planned the box, of course. She had rushed home breathless with the news that Mimi was quarantined. Dottie had taken charge (Mimi could picture her ordering the others around) and under Miss Jane's supervision the gifts had been assembled. Racing down the list of names Mimi's eyes clouded. A round tear splashed down and blurred the second name. She read, Miss Jane and Dick, Dottie, Jean, Margie, Sue, Miss Millie, and the last two surprised her most of all--Honky and Mammy Cissy. Bless their hearts! She had had none of Tiny Tim's spirit when she awakened, but now she was so touched by the thoughtfulness of her friends that she wanted to say aloud. "God bless you everyone. Bless Mother and Daddy and Sonny," she tagged on at the end as if it were her bedtime prayer. Dottie had rounded them up to make the days come out correctly. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight--eight days and Sue would be back knowing a thousand things Mimi was eager to find out. How the days ever would have gone by without a daily surprise Mimi did not know. That certainly helped. She had been like old King Cole calling for his pipe and calling for his bowl. The difference was Mimi called for a "'sprise" and Nurse brought one. Now that she was better, writing letters of thanks filled much of her time. She used Tumble Inn stationery and sealed the envelopes with green wax imprinted with an old English "S." Something else happened that helped more than that. Miss Millie paid her a "pop call"! That capped the climax. Mimi had been sitting in a big chair all wrapped up in her bathrobe studying. Yes, studying. But alas that Source Book. Every time she settled down to outside reading something happened. "Pahdon Mah southe'n accent but is you all studyin'?" Head around the door one second asking, the next entering and hugging Mimi, flu and all. That was Miss Millie, next-to-Miss-Jane-the-best-counsellor-in-the-world. Blam! Source Book to the floor-- "Millie--Oh--Millie! Am I seeing things?" "No, 'tis I, Millie, former skipper of the Cuckoo's Nest on Green River and now the most dignified member of the faculty 'way down yonder where I teach." It wouldn't be Miss Millie if she wasn't clowning. "I hardly recognize you without your silly sailor hat but oh, Millie! Tell me the news. Where have you been? Where are you going? And that rudest question of all, how long can you stay?" "Large order but I'll try. I have been in Bowling Green for Christmas, am en route to the high school where I earn my daily bread, can stay here fifteen minutes. There is a taxi waiting at your door now. He promised to get me to the train in plenty of time. If I stay a second past my allotted fifteen minutes he is to begin blowing and not stop until I appear. One way for a homely girl to cause a panic." "Millie, you're not homely. You look wonderful to me. I never was so glad to see any one! Don't waste a minute. Tell me everything. How is Miss Jane?" "You should see her apartment. The McIntosh's moved out of Mrs. Herold's house so Jane has her own apartment but she still lives at home. She has everything Early American. Maple beds pegged together instead of screwed or nailed. An elegant Chintz chaise longue with soft pillows. You just sink down to heaven in it. I had tea with Jane and sat on it. She says that after supper she and Dick scramble for it but usually end up by _both_ of them sitting on it. She looks prettier than she ever did in her life--rested, fresh and has more pep! She's been making curtains, made a tufted candlewick bed spread, and now is hooking a rug--whatta' gal!" "Isn't she though?" One by one Mimi went down the list. How was each? Who gave parties? What was served? What was worn? When Millie sprang up and jerked her hat forward at the first honk of the taxi, there were still things left unsaid. "Muchas gracias--er-r-r--for the presents," Mimi added in English--"and adios." She was grateful for the presents and she hated to say goodbye. But it had been an interesting visit. Next to the excitement of opening all the presents, Millie's "pop call" was the high light of the holidays. One can weary even of holidays but they would soon be over now. Nurse had promised Mimi she could meet the trains and she could hardly wait. "Imagine me, me of all people, anxious for holidays to end, but I am, Nursie, I sincerely am." CHAPTER XV DADDY SENDS A CLUE "Did you have a good time with Aunt Marcia, Chloe?" "Er-r--certainly, Mimi. Why do you ask?" "Nothing." Mimi blushed. She could not fib with a straight face. She edged around keeping her back away from Chloe as she was clutching behind her a letter which had just come from Daddy. Perhaps it was the effect of the letter but it seemed to Mimi, Chloe had looked disturbed and paler since the holidays. In contrast to her wistful dark eyes, her skin seemed ivory white. The other girls had come back sparkling and glowing, telling and re-telling good times they experienced at home. Betsy was radiant. Sue was voluble. The first night she was back Mrs. Cole had had to rap sharply on the door of Tumble Inn to stop the talking after light-bell. They hadn't given Chloe a chance to get a word in edge ways had she wanted it. Mimi had waited hopefully for the slightest word from her but none had come. She had to pull to get much out of Chloe. "You didn't have an opportunity to ask Aunt Marcia--anything--important?" "What could I ask, Mimi?" Chloe countered. "The once or twice I have broached the topic Aunt Marcia has hedged or changed the subject. She was so kind Christmas and seemed so happy to have me with her. She must be awfully lonely, too, or she never would have adopted me. She tried to plan things I'd like but right in the middle of whatever we'd be doing I'd think--you're not my Aunt, you're not even kin to me! Who are you?"--Chloe was choking--"Who am _I_?" Mimi hugged Chloe close. Chloe did not shrink. She laid her beautiful, tired head against Mimi and sobbed. "You are somebody beautiful and sweet and lovely. We all love you, no matter who your Mother and Father were." "I know they were fine, too, Mimi. But it's this awful suspense of not knowing. I might have brothers and sisters and pass right by them any day and not know them. My mother must be tortured imagining horrible things have happened to me. I'd--I'd rather--believe--she is dead than that she has worried about me all these years." The letter which Mimi had quickly thrust in her belt when she took Chloe in her arms, crackled as the two girls sat down on the bed. Both the chairs and the vanity stool were piled up. Everything was topsy-turvy in term-end confusion. Mimi was more upset than anything around her. The letter had brought her a spark of hope, so dim, so faint she dared not tell. Yet Chloe needed to know so badly; which would be worse, to give her a ray of hope that in all probability would be shattered or leave her as she was without anything to cling to? If she should tell Chloe she had told Daddy, Chloe might not like it. She might not feel as Mimi did, that any great secret could be shared with your parents without breaking your promise. Mimi could keep secrets. She had struggled hard and won to keep from telling Millie. She had never told Betsy about Madge and the alarm bell. But Chloe was again sobbing softly against her. She trembled delicately as Pluto, the crow, had trembled in Mimi's hands while Daddy patched his broken wing. Poor Chloe! A wounded dark bird snatched from her nest before she could fly. "Would you know Fritzie if you saw him or saw a picture of him, Chloe?" She needed a more tangible clue. Something she could tell Daddy definitely yes and no about. "I've often wondered. You see, it's been so very long ago. I was so tiny. I remember how I laughed at the pictures tattooed on his arms--a lady on one and a sailor on the other. He'd hold them together and we'd play they were dancing. He cackled instead of laughing. When I think back the only picture I have is that blurred one of my mother--hear her frantic screams. Voices--I'd KNOW HIS VOICE, Mimi. I know I would." Encouraged by her decision Chloe continued. "When I get in college, I'm going to take psychology. I read it in the library every chance I get now. When I am old enough to travel by myself I'm going everywhere hunting places and faces that seem familiar. Oh, Mimi, I've thought about it so much! Maybe, some day, when I'm sure Fritzie and the short man and big old Freida are dead and can't hurt us any more, I may write my story and have my picture made and published." "When Fritzie is dead." Mimi repeated slowly. The words in Daddy's letter danced before her eyes. Should she tell? Daddy had written at great length about Chloe's story. "Chloe, would you care if you knew that I had written my Daddy ALL about you?" She didn't wait for a reply. "You see, I have, and I hope you won't think I've broken my word. I haven't told another living soul and shan't. But Daddy is interested in your case and says he will help. The night you told us your story, I swore never to quit until we knew who you really were but I didn't know where to start. That same night I wrote Daddy. He can do anything. Already he is planning what to do and how to do it." But Mimi quit there and kept the contents of the letter secret. After asking Chloe several pointed questions, the answers to which were not satisfactory, she talked slowly toward the library to write Daddy in the quiet where she could think clearly. As she passed College Hall the smell of black coffee came floating out. Cram week was causing a panic Ghostly figures with notebooks, unfinished themes, and reference books had been slipping through the corridors after lights out. Laggards were drinking strong coffee now trying to keep awake long enough to learn a few more answers. The gym was deserted except at class periods. Sue had cut practice hours twice in a row. Betsy was "boning" as she had never done before but the College girls were the busier. Let them slave Mimi thought. Thank goodness she had caught up with lessons while she was quarantined. She ignored the librarian as she entered. With a grand disregard for the cramming going on all about her, Mimi unscrewed the top of her fountain pen. This letter to Daddy is far more important. It is the most important document I've ever written. I must think straight. I must tell every little detail that might help, the tattooed figures, the cackling laugh. But first I must answer his questions. Unfolding the fat letter and rearranging the pages carefully so that the questions were on top, Mimi shook her pen twice and began to write feverishly. CHAPTER XVI THE LAKE FREEZES OVER When the rising bell rang, Sue counted three, then kicked off the covers. She sprang out of bed to pull down the window leaving Betsy shivering. "Cruel world." Betsy groaned wriggling further down in bed and reaching for the covers. "Cruel nothing," Sue retorted. "You fresh air fiends will be the death of me yet. Pick the coldest night of the year to throw the window to the top." For two reasons Betsy could hardly hear the last of Sue's tirade. She had covered up head, ears and all. Sue had run in the bathroom to dress where it was warmer and had closed the door. "What's all the commotion?" Mimi asked. The bell had awakened her but she had not stirred. If she moved out of her warm place she touched cold sheets. "The greatest disaster in contemporary history," came Betsy's muffled voice from the adjoining bed. "On this, perhaps the only _Friday_ morning of the year when we could miss breakfast and stay in bed our energetic friend, Sue, has to sound a triple alarm and fire a nineteen gun salute! Sue," she yelled poking her head out, "I hope you're freezing." "What's this rot about not getting up?" Sue, fully dressed opened the bathroom door and entered, a glass of cold water in her hand. "We're not getting up! Don't tell me the fact that one may cut breakfast and enjoy a little free time today because of term-end failed to penetrate your skull?" Betsy was wide awake and chattering away just because she wished she were sleepy. All eyes fixed with dread on the glass of water; she, Mimi, and Chloe watched Sue's expression sag. "Woe is me! I did forget. Move over Betsy I'm coming back to bed clothes and all." Sue set the glass on the floor took one jump and landed in bed. Betsy swirled and spiraled and succeeded in wrapping all the covers around her. Sue pulled and jerked without success. "All right, I'll get in with Chloe and Mimi. They're not old meanies." But they were. They held tightly to their covers. Sue went to the foot of the bed, loosened the covers and started reaching for their feet. The fight was on. Zip-whizz! Betsy threw a pillow barely missing Sue's bobbing head. The five minute bell rang. Sue gave up. "Three against one is no fair. I'm going to breakfast and I hope we have waffles and country sausage and maple syrup and pineapple juice and----" Blam! Mimi's pillow struck Sue's retreating figure. "Go eat grits! Scram!" But Sue had roused Mimi. She jumped up. "Come on let's go to breakfast. I could dress for my wedding in five minutes." When the last bell rang the three were within a half dozen steps of the dining room door. Betsy was pulling the comb through her hair. Chloe was straightening her tie and Mimi was tugging at her stocking but they got in before the door closed. "Gee! I'm glad we came," Mimi sighed. She was so full she could hardly speak. More than half the girls were taking advantage of their term-end privilege and had stayed away so there were seconds and thirds! Of course, the menu wasn't all Sue had pictured but they did have pineapple juice for a change and Mimi had two servings. While she was too full to do much talking, Mimi could sit back and listen. She wouldn't have missed Miss Bassett's announcement for anything. "May I have your attention, please?" The girls turned toward Miss Bassett, anticipation in their faces. Her announcements were always good news--game schedules, pep squad meetings, hikes or something enjoyable. The one she made today was one she had not made for four years! She might not get to make it for four more or longer because the winters were not as severe as they used to be. "The manager of Wildwood Park has telephoned that the lake is frozen solid. The temperature is dropping steadily and the forecast for tomorrow is continued fair and colder. _If_ there is six or more inches of good ice on the lake, we will have a skating party tomorrow." Clap! Clap! Clap! Cries of approval. Mimi clapped loudest. "I am going out to Wildwood today to see for myself how the ice looks. In the meantime all girls interested in ice skating sign the sheet on the bulletin board. Only those girls who are well and warmly dressed will be permitted to go. This is not a definite promise but know this. I want to go as badly as you do, maybe more." Mimi never doubted the weather man an instant. She felt sure, too, that Miss Bassett would not have mentioned the party at all unless she was practically sure the ice would hold. Mimi's worry was not the temperature, it was getting some ice skates. Here at last was a chance to learn how to do something she had always wanted to know how to do. She realized that there would be only a limited number of skates available and she would have to think fast. That she could borrow a pair was unlikely. Any girl who liked skating enough to own a pair and lug them around with her when there was so little chance of skating in this climate, would be using her own. There was but one thing to do, buy a pair and buy them now before the hardware and sporting goods stores sold out. She had not done one extravagant thing since Daddy and Mother had been gone but she was going to spend practically her whole month's allowance at one crack. All this had flashed quickly through her mind. Breakfast was over and in another few minutes the girls would start a mad search for skates. Somehow she must get the jump on them. The college girls could go right on to town without permission. Oh, dear! There seemed but one thing to do and Mimi did it immediately and successfully. Slapping her napkin quickly to her mouth as if to suppress a hiccough she jerked her head and stood up. Making signs to the hostess she excused herself. As she passed Mrs. Cole's table, still pressing the napkin to her lips, she hiccoughed out loud. As soon as she passed out the double glass doors she dropped the napkin and ran. She went as straight to the office as she could. "Please, please," she pleaded breathlessly to the girl at the desk, "phone Sweirs for me. Here I'll find the number." Her fingers flew-P-Q-R-S-Sa-Se-Sw--Sweirs--She could hear the girls now coming down the hall as she gave the number. "Please ask if they have any ice skates to fit a size five boot." The girl was so impressed by Mimi's excitement, it never occurred to her she did not have permission to telephone. But Mimi knew she did not have; that was why she was having the girl call for her. Hurry! Hurry! How long did it take Sweirs to answer? They must be terribly busy--probably selling all their skates. "Sweirs are sorry. They have no ice skates." Mimi groaned. "Then we'll call the hardware stores." She was fumbling through the directory again. "Look in the classified section in the back," the girl suggested. H-Hardware. There. She had another number. "Yes, size five please," the girl was saying. "Just a moment." Putting her hand over the transmitter she turned to Mimi. "He has some. What shall I say?" "Have him send them out collect--and special delivery." Ten or twenty-five cents more wouldn't matter. Mimi couldn't wait. "Bring your money to the office now so that I can pay the boy." "Thank you. Thank you so much." The money. Mimi was down to earth again. She was taking one problem at a time and doing splendidly but she was up against something now. She had only one dollar and seventy-five cents in her purse and that was not enough. She had forgotten about buying three cans of heat, the brown sugar and the movie magazines. Knowing full well that no girl in school is as despised as one who borrows, she risked her popularity to raise the money. Everywhere it was the same. Term end was a time of celebration and each girl Mimi asked needed all she had and more. There was but one thing left to do. She went back to Tumble Inn and taking the key from around her neck she unlocked the secret drawer of her trunk where she kept her diary. She took out one of the blank checks Daddy had left her for emergencies. It would be the first one she had used and she was spending it on something frivolous but after all, Daddy wanted her to have a good time. He'd be the first person to say, "Go ahead and get them, Honey." She felt very important as she made out the check in the office. In her best writing she signed Dr. J. S. Hammond by Mimi. Her name ran sideways off the bottom of the check. The thirty minutes she loafed around where she could see the office entrance and pounce upon the messenger and grab her skates, she had time to think. She had been very selfish. She had thought only of getting skates for herself. What about her suite mates? She could have ordered theirs at the same time. One special delivery fee would have brought them all. Sorry that she had been so thoughtless she raced upstairs to make amends and was not in the office when the skates were delivered. "Did you ever hear of anything grander?" Betsy asked as she dangled a pair of rusty skates. "Jill says if I'll clean them, I can use them. She is going on that sketching party Chloe is going on." "You mean you're not going skating, Chloe." "Is that so strange? I'm going hiking all right and will be in on the food but while you all skate, some of us are going to sketch, if our fingers aren't too numb. You might be posing for me for all you know." "I'm not going skating either," Sue declared. "Olivia had already invited me to the matinee and had gotten special permission. She is giving a movie party. Five of us are going and--without a chaperon!" "Well blow me down!" Mimi declared. "Imagine doing anything else when one could ice skate, especially an ordinary thing like seeing a movie." She slapped her hands together in front of her. "Betsy, outside quick--idea!" They whispered together, then dashed off. "Oh, if only Miss Bassett hasn't left yet!" Mimi cried. Miss Bassett was still in her room and she listened to their plan with interest. Mimi's enthusiasm was always contagious. To hear her talking with Miss Bassett, her suggested menu of bean hole beans for the skaters tomorrow would be the most sumptuous feast mortals ever ate. Here was the plan she and Betsy had hatched up. It was Friday morning now. The skating party was slated for midday tomorrow. Mimi and Betsy posted a notice of a surprise dinner--price fifteen cents a skater. They delegated Madge and Janice to collect. Miss Bassett advanced money for purchase of supplies. She postponed her trip to Wildwood until the girls could buy the beans and put them to soak. Then armed with hand axe, shovel, matches and a hand full of kindling to make sure, they drove out to Wildwood to dig the bean hole. "Gee! It's grand riding. I haven't been in a car since Thanksgiving," Mimi avowed. "Hadn't ridden in one then since September. Can you imagine?" "I'm glad you're enjoying it. But about the beans. Mimi, you know that if they are not good the whole party will be spoiled and I should hate that." "You go ahead and talk to the man, Miss Bassett. Leave the beans to us. They'll be good, I can promise." The way Mimi declared herself Miss Bassett knew she could depend on her. Dumping the girls and their "field artillery" as they called it, she went on her own errand. Mimi was in her glory. She had on her boots and old breeches and three sweaters and was giving Betsy orders right and left. She was working hard herself. While Betsy gathered wood and searched for flat stones, Mimi dug the hole. She selected an open place where there would be no danger of damaging a tree or starting a fire. After a half hour of digging in the frozen ground she had finished a hole the size of a card table. It was deeper than the ten gallon kettle the beans were soaking in and it was deeper in the center. While she rested, Betsy lined the center of the hole with flat stones. On top of these Betsy built a fire. "Stack it loosely so it can get plenty of air to burn. Light it on the windward side." Mimi had to let Betsy know how much she knew about fire lore. She hoped, however, she did not act like Jean and wear a show-off, I-have-been-to-camp-before manner. "Why the windy side?" "The wind will blow the fire under and it will catch all through. There. See? Now put on plenty of big wood so that we will have lots of good live coals when we get back. We'll ask the man to watch it while we are gone." "Isn't that some fire?" "Perfect. I just love fire." She meant this kind you could warm by and cook over; not the destructive, terrifying kind she was to know soon. Mimi stretched out her hands to it. "I never see it without repeating to myself, 'The Ode to Fire.' I was saying it as you kneeled to light this one." "I love that too." "There comes Miss Bassett. Let's go meet her so she won't have to get off the drive. These frozen ruts are rough." All the way to town Mimi kept wondering if the beans were softening. She preferred to soak them all night but as Cissy so often said, circumstances alter cases. She had left them in warm, soft water. That would help. It would be better to soak them less and cook them longer rather than take a chance on cooking them in the morning and hoping they'd be done by noon. Long slow cooking was best. Back at Sheridan and in the kitchen, Mimi took charge again. First she drained the water off of the beans. Then she poured part of them into a crock. She sliced the salt pork in thin chunks and laid it in carefully. Then she sprinkled a layer of brown sugar, ripe tomato ketchup and salt. More beans--meat, sugar, salt, ketchup. On and on until the great kettle was half full and the crock was empty. Then she poured in hot water until the kettle was full. The beans had not softened much. Mimi was worried; she had given Miss Bassett her word. "I'll tell you what we'll do; leave them on the stove to simmer until Miss Bassett blows for us. That way they'll be hot through and through and will get a good start." "Do you suppose any one has caught on?" "I hope not." No one found out, although several wondered what Betsy and Mimi were doing, going out with Miss Bassett for the second time. What could be in that huge kettle which was so heavy one of the kitchen negroes had to lift it on the running board? Miss Bassett drove slowly but Mimi held her breath. Mustn't "spill the beans" she cautioned. She had the window rolled down and was holding on to the handle. Once or twice on curves the pot pulled and swung out dangerously near slipping off but eventually they managed to deposit the kettle near the bean hole. The fire had died to glowing embers. Mimi must be careful. She shoveled them out of the hole and piled them to one side. Then handing Betsy a thick pad, she took one herself and together they settled the pot on the hot stones. Making sure the lid was clamped down tight, Mimi covered the pot with a wet grass sack. Then she shoveled the hot coals on top of the sack and over them, threw the loose dirt. "Looks like a new grave," Betsy teased. "Why Betsy! You should be ashamed! Besides, you never saw a grave with little wisps of smoke curling out." "Ready, girls? You know it's Friday and we dress for dinner." Mimi paid little attention to her toilette that evening. Of course, it was always a relief to get out of her uniform but she had put on her boots to try on her skates. She volunteered to be last in the bathroom and spent her time trying to balance herself on them until the last minute. When she finally started to dress her suite mates had dressed and gone. There was no one to pull her boots off. She tugged and tugged. For the second time that day she entered the dining room just as the doors were being closed. After dinner she went to the sing song but only her body was there. All her interest was simmering in a bean hole at Wildwood. She did do one thing that was fun. After the sing song she linked arms with Betsy and they strolled up and down the hall passing and repassing the open double doors into the parlors. They were looking in on the Friday night "dates." "Even if I could and some boy wanted to come, I wouldn't have a date like that for anything." "You won't have one because you don't like boys." "Yes, I do," Mimi declared. "Better than girls in lots of ways, but if you mean I'm not boy crazy, thanks. I'm not and hope I never am." "Well, I'd have at date, even like that, if some one would ask me," Betsy concluded as they went up to Tumble Inn. Mimi retired early so that tomorrow would come more quickly. Morning came almost too soon, for Mimi awakened much earlier than usual and thought the rising bell would never sound. In the still hour of dawn, as in moments when she wakened in the night, she wondered about Chloe and prayed brief, but tenderly sincere prayers. Up and dressed she paced up, down, and around from the time breakfast was over until the party was off. She made at least six trips up and down the steps. She turned in money to Miss Bassett. She lost and found her skate key. But at last, at eleven o'clock, she arrived with the party at Wildwood Park. Even now she was afraid something would happen to interfere with the skating. She watched Miss Bassett strap on her skates and with the man beside her glide across the ice stopping here and there and tapping with a heavy stick. Contrary to the forecast, it was not as cold as it had been yesterday and the sun had been bright all morning. Miss Bassett looked a bit worried when they returned to the bonfire and although the manager insisted the whole lake was safe, Miss Bassett drew a dead line. "Not doubting your word at all, but I can keep up with half a lake full of girls better than a whole lakeful." "Just as you say. I'll stretch ropes." Mimi was the first to get her skates on, but having them on she sat helpless on a log. One by one the girls put their skates on and hobbled past. No one dreamed Mimi could not skate. She could do everything else athletic outdoors and indoors, too, it seemed. She watched miserably. Finally Madge saw her. Frail little Madge was swooping and dipping and swirling like a brown bird. She beckoned to Mimi. "Come on." "I don't know how." "Come on. I'll help you." After two bad starts Mimi hip-hopped over to the lake's edge and held out her hands to Madge. "Steady." "I hope I don't pull you down." "You won't." "I can skate well on roller skates and if you hold me till I get the hang of it, I'll be all right." "Sure you will. Now--Skim, don't push." Under Madge's patient direction, she was gaining poise and balance. But the first venture she made alone was disastrous. They had tried to keep to the edge of the crowd and were so absorbed in Mimi's strokes, that by the time Mimi was ready to let go Madge's steadying hands, they were within a few feet of the rope. "Now see if you can go by yourself," Madge said giving Mimi a good shove to start her. Mimi took four uncertain strokes, crashed into the rope and fell hard. She slipped several feet beyond where she had hit the ice so hard. Speeding behind to assist her, Madge caught her toe in the crack where Mimi had hit. At the second impact the ice gave way. Madge did not fall all the way through. Mimi could tell that from where she was sprawled. Raising quickly, she tore off her skates and started running toward Madge. She took two steps and halted. If the ice were thin it would crack more under her added and greater weight. Madge, who was in no immediate danger, had not cried out. She was wedged in a hole, one leg through the ice, her head and body above. "Help," Mimi screamed. "Help. Bring a plank." Instead of getting a board, most of the skaters darted toward Madge. Quickly, Mimi ran a wide circle around her and headed them off. This accident so far was not bad but unless they were cautious it could be. Madge was sobbing now. "My leg is freezing." "We'll have you out in a minute," Mimi called reassuringly. "Be as still as you can, so you won't make any more cracks. Stop, girls! Miss Bassett, please keep them back," Mimi pleaded. "Here comes Dit with a plank and we'll have her out in a jiffy." Mimi helped Dit slip the board along the ice until Madge could clutch it with her numb little hands. "Can you pull out or shall I ease out and help?" "I-can-make it--I think--" Madge was pulling hard but her heavy clothes made her clumsy. Mimi stretched out on her stomach and inched closer. She held out one hand to Madge and clung to the board with the other. Dit was holding the board. Miss Bassett had sent for her car and was watching the rescue tensely. At the slightest misstep she would interfere. "I've got you, Madge. Steady. You pull and I'll pull." As Madge's leg finally came up, there was a sickening rip and cracking; the ice around her had given way. Girls screamed as the dark water became visible through the rapidly widening cracks. Madge was submerged to the neck but she held desperately to the board and Mimi had her firmly by the wrist. Calling directions to Dit about the board, Mimi lifted with all her might as Dit jerked the board. Out came Madge skidding across the crackled ice toward them, leaving a trail of slush behind. Her brown suede jacket, her brown pants and boots soaked, she looked like a baby seal. She was more helpless. Quickly Miss Bassett rolled her in a blanket and lifting this frailest of the Preps in her arms she carried her to the car. The engine was running. Mimi and Dit followed panting. "We can take care of her, Miss Bassett. Let me drive her in. Mimi can help. You stay and see to the others." "Thank you, Dit. Will that be all right, Madge?" "Sure. I'm not hurt. I'm just c-c-cold and wet." "Betsy can serve the beans," Mimi called back as an after thought. Beans seemed as far away as Germany. She was pulling off Madge's wet boots and rubbing her numb foot and leg. "Thawing up?" "Little bit." "I feel like a clumsy ox! Making you fa' down and go boom!" "I should have been watching." "I'd have died if anything had have happened to you," Mimi shuddered. "Don't say anything about death," Madge gasped. She was so white around the mouth, Mimi feared she might faint. It was different from the purple splotches from being cold. There was a haunted look in her eyes. She lowered her voice so Dit couldn't hear. "I knew something awful was going to happen today," she confided. "How did you know?" Mimi was thinking of Cissy and her spooky premonitions. The very thoughts of them made goose bumps on Mimi. "Ever since last night when I hear those"--her voice sank to a stricken whisper--"death bells!" There was horror and conviction in her voice. "What on earth are death bells?" "Sh-sh-sh--I'll tell you some time--maybe." Was Sheridan a boarding school or a lunatic asylum, Mimi wondered as they neared the winter stripped campus and stopped before Prep Hall. CHAPTER XVII SATURDAY ESCAPADE For Mimi, the next few days rolled slowly into a week. There was constant fear that Madge would yet develop flu or pneumonia. Frail appearing people were not always delicate, Mimi concluded when a week passed and Madge had not so much as sneezed. Mimi, in her concern, had hovered near for days. Just like an old hen with one chicken, Mimi told herself. She could better understand how Mother Dear fussed and fumed over her when she had "been exposed." All week, too, she had her eyes peeled for a letter postmarked in Germany. It was too soon to hear from Daddy but she couldn't keep from watching and hoping. The second semester was well under way and the routine of a new schedule was becoming habit. "Betsy," Mimi exclaimed the third Saturday after the skating party, "I have to do something exciting or bust!" "I feel a fit coming on, too," Betsy agreed sprawling on the bed in a grotesque pose. "Let's do something about it," Mimi laughed. "Name it. 'Barkus is willing.'" "Yes. Name it. What is there to do within these four walls that we have not tried? We have raided the kitchen at all hours, cooked after light bell, invaded College Hall, used the telephone without permission, cut assembly--all of it." "None of that is very devilish. I want to do something wild and woolly." "Like slip away from the campus!" Once the words were out Mimi clapped her hand over her mouth. It was too late. She had said the very thing both of them were thinking. "Would we dare?" Betsy breathed. Her blue eye was glittering, her brown eye clouded with fear. "Dare? Madam! Is that a challenge? Did I ever take a dare?" "Not since I've known you." "This will not be an exception. Let the 'ways and means committee' meet at once." "Uh--Oh! What's up?" Sue cried as she and Chloe came in. Sue slung her books at the table. Chloe put hers in a neat stack. "Dirty work afoot at the cross roads. I can tell by the smooth and oily waves," she made rippling motions with her arms and hands, "that a storm is brewing. Why are your heads so close together, amigas mias? Confess." Betsy and Mimi flushed guiltily. "We'd better tell them so that if anything happens----" Her pert face a question mark, Mimi was looking at Betsy. "Yes, we'd better," Betsy agreed. "We are breaking jail," Mimi said tersely. "When?" from Sue. "How?" from Chloe. "Right after lunch." from Betsy. "Disguised and out the servant's entrance." from Mimi. "Well blow us down!" from Sue and Chloe. "Don't stand there paralyzed," Mimi ordered. Now that the decision was made she was eager for action. "Y'all will have to help us borrow our disguises but first, cross your hearts and promise not to tell a soul." The promise was given. They wished they had courage to join in but they were ruled out at the first suggestion. Four people would be too conspicuous. Two might prove too many. Mimi could hardly swallow her lunch. The fated hour of two o'clock would never come. This was the hour washwomen waited for girls to claim laundry and to pay. As soon as the bread pudding dishes were empty and every possible taste of chocolate sauce scraped up, the four occupants of Tumble Inn hastened to their suite and closed the door. "Shall we lock it?" Chloe asked. "No," Betsy answered promptly. "Pile things against it so that it would take a minute or two to get in but don't lock it. If Mrs. Cole tried it and it didn't open she'd 'smell a mouse' sure enough." Mimi laughed aloud as she had a mental picture of Mrs. Cole wrinkling up her nose and sniffing. Any kind of conspiracy intrigued her and she set about changing her appearance in high glee. From girls larger than they, they had borrowed skirts and long coats. Even their shoes were so large and run over, Mimi's feet flapped like Charlie Chaplin's as she moved nearer the mirror. "My own Mother wouldn't know me," she commented. "No, but Mrs. Cole will unless you do something about that unruly mop of red hair," Sue contradicted. Here was a problem. A beret would expose her features. The hair was not long enough to tuck under a hat with a brim and stay up. Regardless of the number of bobby pins put in, drake tails kept slipping down around Mimi's neck. Then Chloe had an inspiration. "Wear a veil. Lots of the colored people do." There was a fifteen minute search for a veil. At that, a makeshift was used. Chloe draped a piece of black georgette around the crown of the hat and let it hang over where the red hair shone the brightest. By the time Mimi was ready, Betsy was practically losing her skirt. When she moved toward the door it fell at her feet. Another five minute search. Sue dashing about borrowing safety pins. Now Betsy switched her hips rapidly like a Spanish dancer but the skirt stayed in place. Looking more like caricatures or comic valentines than bona fide servants, the two girls ventured forth. Mimi trembled and held her breath while Sue opened the door and peered down the hall. Getting safely from Tumble Inn to the service entrance was the most hazardous part of the whole journey. Once they reached the entrance they could run--oh how they could run--if there was danger of being recognized. "The coast is clear," Sue announced. Looking squarely into each other's eyes, the two silently pledged loyalty and secrecy. Mimi understood as clearly as if Betsy had said aloud, "No matter what happens, we are in this together." Not taking any one's word, Mimi looked both up and down the hall herself. Then grabbing Betsy's hand she jerked her over the threshold of Tumble Inn to the middle of the corridor. They walked by the second door of their suite as if they had never seen it before. When they were halfway to the turn, they heard Chloe and Sue giggling behind them. "Go back, meanies," Betsy hissed. "Do you want to get us caught?" "Yes," Sue hissed back. "If you're caught before you get out we could say we were playing. Afterwards, well--it's your funeral, but don't say we didn't warn you." Mimi wavered but Betsy walked determinedly ahead and Mimi was soon in step with her again. If they could get downstairs without being seen, they were temporarily safe. At least Mimi could breathe deeply then. She had to hold to the rail to keep from stumbling in her floppy shoes and heavy skirts. This was harder than high heels and a junior bridesmaid's dress, only then she couldn't hold to the bannister. Betsy clutched her arm. She dared not speak. Someone was coming up stairs. They would meet on the landing. It was too late to flee. "Don't let it be Mrs. Cole. Don't let it be Mrs. Cole." Mimi was concentrating again. The girls separated to single file, Mimi two or three steps ahead. She held her head down and as far to one side as she dared, but she was rolling her eyes frantically to see who was coming up. It wasn't Mrs. Cole. She was sure of that now, but it was someone she knew. It was Olivia! Mimi's first thought was to stop her and confess and pledge her to secrecy. Her second thought was better. She would test her disguise. Slow feet stepping down, down, down. Hurried feet stepping up, up, up. They met. Olivia brushed past and did not recognize either of the girls. Mimi breathed easier. However, it wasn't a fair test, for Olivia was mumbling: "The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, and over it a charger sprang, bearing the maiden knight, Sir Launfal." Mimi should be studying too. She had memory work piling up again. "Olivia didn't know us," Betsy was whispering with a sigh of relief. "You go on out and walk slowly and I'll catch up with you before you get out the drive." Her pulse pounding, her whole body smothered with excitement and borrowed clothes, Mimi edged her way through the half dozen or more servants and opened the door. True, they eyed her queerly and one large negress snickered out, but if they knew anything was amiss, they did not tell. They had seen stranger "goin' ons" than this in the years they had worked for the school girls. As badly as she wanted to run, Mimi shuffled along slowly until Betsy was beside her. Then quickening their gaits, they left the campus behind and turned down College Avenue toward town. "We did it!" Mimi exclaimed. "Don't crow yet." Betsy cautioned. "Let's get off this main street. The chemistry prof lives two blocks down." Silently they turned down a side street; Mimi recognized it immediately. This was the way the taxi driver had brought her to Sheridan. That day seemed so far away now. It was as if all her life had been lived on a Sheridan schedule. "Now, whew!" Betsy relaxed. "Omigosh! That's the longest short distance I ever traveled." "Now that we are out, what are we going to do?" "Go to the picture show and sit in the balcony." When Mimi said, "O. K." she did not realize that they were going to the one place they would be most likely to be caught. When she realized it later, she shuddered. The girl at the ticket window stared at them with open curiosity, but since neither betrayed the slightest facial emotion, the girl did not comment. In the semi-darkness of the lobby, Mimi felt safe for the first time since leaving Tumble Inn. Groping up the steps to the balcony, they giggled and giggled. When they were seated and when their eyes were adjusted to the light, Betsy punched Mimi and pointed. Two rows in front of them were five Preps and a _faculty chaperon_! The culprits slid down in their seats. Suppose? No, don't! Nothing to do but watch, and when the other Preps left, pull hats down and duck heads. Keeping one eye on everyone who went out was very distracting. This was one show Mimi could not tell about afterwards. They had stayed through practically all of it before the other Preps left, and the faculty member, to their immense relief, passed without seeing them. When the great Garbo posed in the open window and let her hair fall forward half hiding her face, Mimi punched Betsy. "This is where we came in." "Sh-sh-sh." Betsy cautioned. Then Mimi heard the familiar voices too. From the rear, her hat was knocked over on her nose. Sheridan girls chaperoned by Mrs. Cole were filling the row behind them. Mrs. Cole was sputtering and giving orders regardless of the fact that she was disturbing the entire balcony. Mimi and Betsy froze to their seats. No matter what happened, they could not leave now. Without speaking to each other, they agreed to stay still until these girls saw the show and left. Mimi never knew how long a show could be until she sat through this one the second time. Betsy despaired and went to sleep! How could she? Every nerve in Mimi's body was taut. Suppose? No, don't. Why had she ever come? Why didn't she think how heartbroken Mother and Daddy would be if she were suspended? If she did get back to Sheridan and slip in without being caught she would never, never be so foolish again. _Never!_ What time was it now? It must be late. Two o'clock plus two whole shows. Omigosh! Suppose they were absent from supper? But if Mrs. Cole and her girls were there, Mimi and Betsy would be too. Giving them only a two-minute start, the culprits flung caution to the wind and ran for the side street. It was almost dark. "Let's phone Chloe and Sue to meet us at the back of the campus with our uniforms." "Never," Betsy snapped. "Don't you know we couldn't talk to them without giving our life history first. Then someone would likely listen in. There is always the chance that one is phoning for a boy and making a date. No," Betsy decided, "the only way back in is the way we came out. Let's cut across." Every minute counted. Provided they got back in, they had to change clothes before they could go to supper. When they reached the edge of the campus, Sue and Chloe rushed up. They were all but hysterical. "Thank heavens, you're back. We've been worried to death." "Out of our way. We never saw you before," Betsy said without slowing up. "Run lay our uniforms out so we can get dressed." "You have six minutes," Chloe said as she and Sue sped to Tumble Inn. Anything to help. "Please let me get in safely," Mimi prayed under her breath. "I'll never slip out again. I'll study the----" Before she finished praying she was safely through the door and running down the hall. If she met anyone, she did not remember. She was inside again. She had not been caught. Study hall that night was a haven. Relieved and safe again, Mimi pored over her books. For several days to come, she had perfect recitations. CHAPTER XVIII THE HORSE SHOW What proved to be one of the happiest weeks Mimi spent at Sheridan had a fearful beginning. When she dashed in the post office between classes to see if she had a letter from Germany, the disappointment of not finding one was enough. On top of that, there was a note asking Mimi to come to Dr. Barnes' office at one o'clock! Mimi crushed the notice. After all, they had not slipped in Saturday unobserved. Perspiration popped out on her forehead and around her mouth. Mimi, who usually danced through life on her tiptoes expecting "sprises," had her head bowed in misery. There was no time to wail. She was late to geometry now. After a miserably forty-five-minute class period during which she broke her recent perfect recitation record, Mimi fled to College Hall and confided in Dit. "We didn't intend anything terrible, Dit; honest we didn't. We just wanted to slip out to see if it could be done." "Don't look so woebegone, Mimi. Your guilty conscience is torturing you. Dr. Barnes may want something entirely different. I shouldn't mention the summons to anyone if I were you until I found out what it was. In case it is a punishment, don't worry. Don't cry. Just look out the window and watch the green grass grow." "Watch the green grass grow." So that's what the college girls meant. Mimi had heard the expression a dozen times. "After all Dr. Barnes won't put you in stocks or tickle your feet or cut off your ears. Let him fume until he gets tired and then he'll let you go." Bolstered by Dit's encouragement, at one o'clock, Mimi knocked timidly on the door of Dr. Barnes' private office. He had not come back from lunch so his secretary asked Mimi to wait. Mimi wanted to ask her why she was summoned, but her tongue stuck tightly to the roof of her mouth each time she tried to speak. Mimi teetered on the edge of the chair. She couldn't be still yet. She never touched the chair back. With great effort she tore her mind from prospective punishment. She tried to think of rainbows or balloons, but there was no beauty for her now. For the first time, thinking "Hojoni" failed. While she sat here, Chloe, with special permission to miss English and gym, was being photographed for the beauty section of the Annual. While many envied, no one questioned her place. She really was the most beautiful Prep. Already Sue had had her picture taken with both the orchestra and the glee club. Betsy's would be with the soccer, as well as the basket ball, team. Oh dear! Mimi's woes were increasing with every thought. Why had she broken her nose when she knew she could have been on the basket ball team? There was still tennis, but the tournament was three weeks off and the pictures for the Annual were being made now! "Thank you for coming promptly, Miss Mimi," Dr. Barnes said as he entered briskly and hung his hat on the stand in the corner behind his desk. "I have three things to speak to you about and I do not want you to be late for your one-thirty class." Three things! Mimi swallowed hard. She hadn't been that naughty! "First," Dr. Barnes was saying, "you will be glad to know that I recently had a most interesting letter from your father. He asked me to tell you that I was sending him a copy of our complete record of Clorissa. Being a close friend of Chloe's Aunt Marcia, I was able to send him much information not on our records. All of this is strictly without precedent and must not be mentioned outside this office. Do not tell even Clorissa." Dear Dr. Barnes. He was helping, too. Why had she been so afraid? If he were a close friend of Aunt Marcia's, then she could not possibly, by any stretch of imagination be Freida; that was out. "There are _two_ more things yet," her guilty conscience whispered, but Mimi wouldn't listen. How nice to talk to someone about Daddy, and about Chloe, the problem nearest her heart. "What time is your last class?" "I have gym from two-forty-five to three-thirty, sir." "You are excused from it this afternoon. You may receive a caller in the south parlor at three o'clock." "Dr. Barnes!" Dr. Barnes twinkled behind his glasses and funny little wrinkles of fat made rolls above his ears and below his bald spot. He had been asked not to tell who the visitor was and Mimi could not worm the name out of him. Only the importance of the third thing he was telling now could have saved Mimi from her elephant-child's curiosity. "I have been finding out things about you, Miss Mimi." It was coming now--why had her feet ever strayed from Hojoni----. But Dr. Barnes looked proud and not aggrieved. "Rumors have been coming to me of what an excellent horsewoman you are. The Bridle Club here----" Mimi put up her hand. Stop, Dr. Barnes. Are my ears deceiving me? Wait until this much soaks in. Dr. Barnes mistook her flushed face and raised hand as a gesture of modesty and embarrassment. "Don't be too modest. We are glad to know Sheridan has someone who can represent us worthily in the annual Spring Show of the Bridle Club. I have arranged for you and four other Sheridan students to be entered. There are several good mounts available. Beginning tomorrow and at three-thirty every afternoon the rest of the week you will go to the Club stables and be coached for the events you are to enter. Some faculty member will chaperon you." "Let Miss Bassett," Mimi interrupted. Why had she ever quaked in her boots when Dr. Barnes' name was mentioned? He was kindly and human as could be, not an ogre at all. "Do you like my plans, Miss Mimi?" "They're precious, perfectly precious!" That was the most Mimi could say for anything. She must get out of this office quickly and whistle between her teeth, or clog or jump up and crack her heels together twice before landing or she would explode right before Dr. Barnes. She forgot about her visitor until she was seated in Spanish class. No chance to tell any of her news. She stood it as long as she could, then scrawled headlines and held up her notebook so that Sue could read three rows away: AM RIDING FOR "S" IN HORSE SHOW COMPANY AT THREE. HOTCHA! Sue grabbed a pencil. WHO? La profesora was looking, so Mimi shook her head. Besides, what could she say? She didn't know herself who was coming. Whoever it would be, they would find her looking her best. When the two-forty bell rang, Mimi dashed up to Tumble Inn and put on a clean uniform. Then she cleaned her nails and put some lotion on her hands. Now for her hair. A pat here and a pat there. At three o'clock sharp, looking like a typical Sheridan girl, Mimi entered the south parlor. A youth was standing facing the fire, his back to the door. In spite of the fact that he had grown since last summer, and regardless of what angle she glimpsed him--back, front or side--Mimi would recognize him. "Honky!" she cried. "You're the last person I ever expected to crash this gate!" "Mimi, hello!" She extended both her hands to him as they met in the center of the room. It was the way she had seen Miss Jane greet Dick. "It's great to see you and not nice to ask questions but I have to know this minute _why_ you're here." "Well, Dad had business in Nashville and I egged him on to bringing me. This morning, as I had hoped, he saw he'd have to stay overnight, so I asked him for the car and drove on over here. We were afraid I couldn't see you so Dad phoned Dr. Barnes long distance and he said I could come ahead." "How is the gang? Gee! I missed you all Christmas! When have you seen Cissy? Von? Has King been ridden any this winter? Oh, Honky! I'm going to ride in a horse show Saturday!" "Not so fast, lady, not so fast." Mimi chattered away and Honky followed as best he could. She remembered to thank him politely for helping fix her Christmas box. Once again when she was on the verge of telling the great mystery about Chloe, she was saved. Sue, Chloe, and Betsy came in, arm-in-arm. Sue broke loose to shake hands with Honky and to introduce the suite mates. Then her questions began. Before they had half finished "pumping" Honky, or before near as many girls as wanted to had passed the open doors and looked in, Mrs. Cole sailed in erect in her stiff skirt tails and suggested that Honky call again sometime. "In other words, here's your hat; now what's your rush?" Mimi giggled when Mrs. Cole sailed on by. "Can't you walk out to the car with me, Mimi?" "Why, yes, I will anyway." Was she glad she went! She came back in with an arm load. Honky gave her a big box of candy--not chocolates in a fancy box--but a whole carton of assorted five-cent candy bars. He knew Mimi liked them better and that they would last longer. The suit box was from Cissy. Honky had been thoughtful enough to phone the day before he left and when he blew his car horn on his way out, Cissy had had the box ready. Sue had a hunch something like this might happen so the three suite mates had waited at the door for Mimi. As Honky drove off Mimi waved from the steps and the three yelled from the door. "Scram, Honky," Betsy called, but not loud enough for him to hear, "you are keeping me from my food!" "_Your_ food," Mimi teased. "I'm going to eat it all myself--string, box, paper, food!" "Don't ever _say_ that," the girls yelled. "Sure 'nough, let's sneak up to Tumble Inn before we open it or there won't be a greasy spot around." "Food!" Olivia cried, meeting them in the hall. "I, the great gourmand, detect the presence of delicately browned viands!" "Aw boloney!" Betsy fibbed. "Don't you know clean clothes come in suit boxes." It wasn't an outright story, but it discouraged Olivia. When they opened the box and saw what a real feast Mammy had prepared, they were gladder than ever she had not followed. Six rolls of sandwiches--three tuna fish and three pimiento cheese--a loaf of orange bread, a date loaf, a quart jar of peach pickles, and a drained carton of mixed pickles Mimi liked better. Mimi was so happy and grateful. She intended to write Cissy that very night but she was too excited about the Horse Show. She wished she could have her own King to ride. She could even hurdle on him. There were several points she intended to ask Honky about changing gaits in the ring, but the time was too short. At least she had sent Cissy a world of thanks by him. That eased her mind when she delayed writing. Until it was over, the Show was first and foremost. Mimi knew that appearance counted much with the people in the grand stand and that often judges were influenced by applause. Therefore, she gave careful attention to her habit. Her best outfit was black and white. She hoped for a sunny day so that her white gaberdine pants would not seem too out-of-season. Her black patent leather boots shone. She punched another hole in the belt Betsy gave her Christmas. She brushed and brushed her derby and finally fastened a chin strap to it. She would need her hands for something besides grabbing for her hat. To break the monotony of black and white and to identify her further, she sewed a Sheridan green satin arm band on her sleeve. She fastened her white entry number to the green satin band. She rode hard and heeded carefully every instruction the groom gave. The horses were pedigreed thoroughbreds and accustomed to the show ring. Mimi, at home in the small English saddles, gained skill and confidence each afternoon. She was not particularly surprised when the day of the Show she, the youngest of the entrants, won the coveted Good Hands Cup class. Putting Morning Star through the customary walk, trot and canter was a cinch. Mimi felt sure that if given a chance, he could go through them by himself. When the ten contestants were thinned to five and Mimi with the four remaining in the ring was asked to change mounts, she was not disturbed. Easily she flung herself off Morning Star and one foot in the stirrup, one hand on the pommel, with one swing she was astride Blue Boy. Walk, trot, canter. What a stance Blue Boy made before the stand. Fore feet forward until he nearly bowed. Neck arched, head high. "Steady, Blue Boy, Steady-O," Mimi fondled. She was erect in the saddle but her voice was easy and lazy. Blue Boy walled his eyes at the judges as they walked around him but he did not flinch. After a brief conference in which the judges compared notes, the head field judge stepped up to Mimi on Blue Boy. With all the grace in the world Mimi accepted the cup and the blue ribbon. With the latter between her teeth, the cup held high in one hand, Mimi cantered past the grand stand and out of the ring. The cheers of the Sheridan rooters followed her. This was the highest award a Sheridan girl had ever won in a Bridle Club show. For this, Mimi would have--not a picture smothered in a club or team or an orchestra--but a whole page picture mounted on Blue Boy in the Annual. She hoped it would be opposite Chloe's. Since they had lived together all year it would be dandy to have their pictures next each other's. CHAPTER XIX THE TENNIS TOURNAMENT When Mimi pranced into Tumble Inn and did a fan dance using her tennis racquet for a fan, Chloe jerked something off the table and stuck it in her portfolio. Betsy and Sue stepped between Chloe and Mimi, making a screen. "Wouldn't keep anything from me, would you, pals?" Mimi zipped her finger across her neck making a cutthroat gesture. Chloe paled but Sue giggled. Betsy told. "We were having a private art exhibit." "But why can't I see it?" "You might not appreciate it as much as we." The elephant-child's curiosity was on a rampage now. Mimi, and the other girls too, knew that there would be no peace until Mimi saw. Hesitantly Chloe slipped the paper from its hiding place and handed it to Mimi. A tense pause, then Mimi laughed. She doubled up and rolled over on the bed. "You've got me exactly, Chloe. I didn't know you were that good." On the paper was a charcoal sketch of Mimi awkwardly sprawled out on the icy lake at Wildwood. Chloe had caught the humor amazingly well. "Why did you hide it? That's the first time I ever posed for an artist and I'm pleased." "We didn't intend for you to see it." "What were you going to do with it?" No one answered. "What were you going to do with it?" Mimi shouted. Still silence prevailed. Knowing all the vulnerable points, Mimi made for roly-poly Sue and began to tickle her. "We--were--wrapping it--to--please, Mimi, please, I'll tell--to mail to Honky." "You're worse than traitors," Mimi cried. "Hold her, Sue," Betsy called. Snatching up the picture, she and Chloe fled. As soon as Mimi wrenched herself free, she hunted high and low and could not find them. They had succeeded in making a getaway. For thirty minutes Mimi stood guard in the post office. Then she gave up. She had something else to look for besides two silly girls. She had lost two of Dit's good tennis balls practicing, and if she didn't find them, it would take the rest of her week's allowance to buy new ones. Forty-five cents apiece. Two times forty-five was ninety cents! Mimi ran toward the tennis courts. She had lost the first one on a hard serve. That was all right, but losing the second had been unnecessary. Taking Jill's advice she had sent the second ball after the first. That meant she had stood in the same place and served the second ball as nearly like the first as possible. It had gone wild, too, and disappeared before her very eyes. She'd be glad when her serve was under control, when she could serve both balls hard the way Dit did. The way Mimi served now, she batted the first one as hard as she could, but in case it did not go in the proper court, which was more than half the time, she eased up on the second. She could drop an easy serve anywhere in the court she pleased. Her game was improving. She was hopeful of getting at least to quarter-finals in the tournament unless she drew a crack player for her first sets. There were not enough Preps interested in tennis for them to have a separate tournament. Those desiring to enter must take their chances against the college girls, too. Mimi turned over her chances in her mind as she went around behind the backstops and burrowed in the leaves for the balls. She could not find them. Goodbye ninety cents. She gave up and hurried in for her shower bath. On the way, she poked her head in the office and asked the girl on duty to order two Wright and Ditson balls from Sweirs. "Come in, Mimi. We've been wanting to see you. The girls have been talking so much about those grand bean-hole beans you cooked and didn't get to eat, that I want the recipe." "I'm glad you liked them." "Glad _I_ liked them! The whole school has been raving about them. Don't tell me you didn't know? I've decided that if you will write down the recipe and the full instructions for digging the hole, etc., that I'll mimeograph it and give the girls copies." "Keen!" Mimi was delighted. Heedless of the fact that supper time was near, she plopped down in a swivel chair and demanded paper and pencil. No time like the present to get a job done. After supper the girls went to Miss Bassett's office and drew for their places in the tournament. Mimi was lucky. She drew a bye. The matches were still three days off and Mimi would have four days. She was spending all her spare time on the courts. She watched the college girls play. She studied the lazy, relaxed manner Dit had when she addressed the ball; how careful she was not to "foot fault"--step inside the base line when she served. More and more she was understanding that points were won by thinking the ball out of the opponent's reach rather than by "main strength and awkwardness" as the adage goes. She was developing an effective base line drive and Dottie would never recognize her serve. Wait 'til she got back to B.G. She'd make them sit up and take notice. The first day of the tournament, Mimi led small groups on the side lines in cheers. The preliminaries were not very interesting as the competition was not keen. Dit mowed her opponent down without getting up a sweat. A free-for-all tournament had to get well under way before the players were fairly matched. Mimi and her group moved from court to court where the matches were the hottest. Not playing that first day, Mimi kept her eyes open and learned tournament etiquette. She also had time to stir in her trunk and get out her white linen shorts with the red pin stripe which she had worn for "bests" at camp. She cut the sleeves out of a shirt and faced the arm holes. When she appeared on the courts for her first match, she could hear girls complimenting her costume. Then before them all, she pulled a navy bandana from her pocket and tied her hair back. She thought of Dottie's beloved red bandana at camp and smiled. She wished Dottie and the other campers were here to root for her. However, she had a group of supporters--Madge, Olivia, Chloe, Sue and enough others to make considerable noise were huddled on the side lines of the number two court where she played and won her first match. She won again next day and for three straight days, she moved up a bracket. This landed her in the quarter-finals. She couldn't wait any longer to tell how well she was doing so she wrote Honky and Dottie both. If she had not written before the quarter-final match, she would not have written at all, for she was defeated. At least Mimi did not cry like Jill did when she was defeated. Nor did she accuse her opponent of cheating. She was defeated fairly and squarely and went down smiling. She was pitted against a college girl who played rings around her. Mimi was licked before the set was called. The girl across the net from her was taller, stronger and a far more experienced player. In the face of such odds, Mimi battled spunkily. The few times she did score--oftener by her opponent's poor playing rather than her own good playing--Olivia and the other rooters whooped loud and long. Mimi hated to lose at anything but when Sue put a sweater around her at the end of the match, she knew she had done her best. "Nice match, girls," Miss Bassett said in passing. That helped but something else helped more. The day Mimi lost out, Dit moved up to semi-finals. The next day she advanced another bracket and the day she played in the finals the whole school, faculty and all, turned out. Mimi had far more than half of them marshalled in her section to cheer for Dit. Sometimes she was so enraptured watching Dit serve and volley and chop that she forgot to yell. Someday she would be able to play like Dit. Dit was no happier than Mimi when after three grueling sets she was declared winner. Mimi rushed up with her white sweater and threw it around Dit's shoulders, shouting her congratulations. She took Dit's racquet from her perspiring hands and put it in the brace. Then she retrieved the balls and put them in the box before joining the procession which trailed Dit in to the showers. The morning the trophies were awarded in assembly, Mimi scrambled for a front seat. She didn't want to miss a word. She knew she would be able to hear Dr. Barnes and Miss Bassett no matter where she sat, but she wanted to hear what Dit mumbled. Some day she would be winning a tournament and she wanted to know how to accept it. When Dit said, "thank you," and reached out her hand for the trophy, Mimi tingled to the tips of her toes. She was even happier weeks later when the Annual was out to make another discovery. Instead of her picture on Blue Boy being in the beauty section by Chloe's, it was in the sports section opposite Dit's. That was even better. CHAPTER XX ROOF GARDEN PARTY The roof garden party was not begun as the social affair it turned out to be. In the beginning it was strictly a business proposition. The party was an outgrowth of a "Be Beautiful" campaign Mimi herself started. If Mimi had known the series of exciting events which hinged on the innocent purchase of a bottle of mange cure, she might never have bought it. She might have let dandruff stay in her hair and freckles continue to splotch the bridge of her nose. What to wear at the growing-closer-every-day Commencement affairs turned Mimi's thoughts from her term themes, two highly important letters from Daddy and Mother Dear, and a reprimand from Mrs. Cole for disturbing study hall. "I can't wear white for Commencement and look decent with freckles. I don't look nice in white." "Who cares?" Sue teased. "To hear you rave, one would think you were going to graduate, or something." "Well, I _am_ going to improve my looks. Miss Bassett was talking to us today about our hair and nails. She said my posture had improved this year. Beginning tonight, I am going to brush my hair one hundred strokes every night before I retire." "Yeh, I did that once myself--once was about all." "Dog mange cure is grand for your scalp," Madge volunteered as the discussion became general. "Is it?" Mimi asked turning to Madge. She had never given much thought to her personal appearance other than cleanliness. She was always too busy doing something. The silliest thing she ever watched was a girl standing near the highest window, mirror in one hand, tweezers in the other, plucking her eyebrows. She didn't plan to go in for that sort of beauty; something, say, which would improve her hair--Mother Dear hadn't made any suggestions about it in so long. It was getting more unruly. She'd tried changing the part from the right side to the left and that had only made it worse. She was thinking of letting it grow long enough to braid so that she could wear it like Dit's, but the thoughts of shedding hairpins and never finding a hat big enough kept her from it. "What does it do to your hair, Madge?" "Oh, makes it shiny and fluffy and thick and long. I saw a picture on a box of a woman whose hair fell from her shoulders to her knees. I had a cousin who put mange cure on her hair and----" "Stop!" Sue cried. "Waste no more words. You've already sold her the idea. I can tell by the smooth and oily waves"--she made rippling motions with her hands and arms mimicking a favorite gesture of Mimi's--"that the fragrance of mange cure will soon permeate the hithertofore wholesome air of Tumble Inn. I wouldn't put that awful smelling stuff on my hair for--for----" She gave up trying to find a word bad enough to describe it. "But you only leave it on one night. Besides it washes off, and furthermore, I don't mind the odor. It's a good clean smell like tar." "Rave on," Sue encouraged disdainfully. "Pretty soon you'll have it sweet scented as dew hung jasmine in the rosy dawn. Blah! You'll have Mimi believing she can pose for the pictures in the hair tonic ads after two trial bottles. Double blah!" Two weeks passed before Mimi had an opportunity to buy the dog mange cure. With Commencement so near, every afternoon now some teacher chaperoned a group of shoppers to town. Mimi joined the first group. In order to make her purchase before the others were ready to leave, she left a few sups in the bottom of her chocolate malted milk glass. Anyhow she never could get every drop without making that vulgar zooping, sucking sound on account of the whipped cream settling to the bottom. She didn't want to "strike bottom" before a chaperon. She had done well to juggle the cherry on two straws safely to her mouth. The chaperon watched her closely while she was at the counter. Sometimes girls slipped notes to the soda skeets. You can save your eyesight on me, Mimi thought. Bumpy faced upstarts. She had no note or no time for them. Some girls were so silly! Even after the bottle was stowed away on the top shelf of the bathroom, school was nearly over for the year before Mimi, Madge and several others, who had been begged into the "Beauty School," found time to put it on when they were sure they would have time to shampoo it out the following morning. In the intervening time, however, Mimi had been using freckle cream and brushing her hair religiously, a hundred strokes a night. "If we don't put it on tonight, there's no use," Mimi urged. She had cornered several of the girls after supper before they left the dining hall. The final rush was on and rounding them up had been difficult. "This is Friday--Sunday is Baccalaureate--Monday--too late." "Tonight suits me," Madge said. "I was planning to get up early anyhow." "Me, too." Jill agreed. All together there were six who came to Tumble Inn for the scalp beauty treatment. Madge was more or less in charge because she had known people who had done this. However, Mimi had read the directions carefully and had to get in a few words. She could no more stay in the background than a peacock. Center stage-front, was where she belonged and, no matter where she began, she usually wound up there. "Why pick on Tumble Inn, Mimi, when you are the only one who is sap enough to smell like a polecat?" "I didn't think of that, Sue. I'm sorry. Just seems like that most things that happen, take place here." "You're right. Things do happen here. Stick 'em up, every one of you girls! Dimes and quarters or what have you! All donations kindly received and accepted. While you 'Vanities' stars sing your 'Stay Young and Beautiful' theme song I am going to prepare a feast. Everybody who wants to eat, kick in." "Swell idea, Sue. Get plenty of dill pickles." Mimi was the first one to pay. She dropped a quarter in Sue's beret, then settled down to business. "Let's be careful and only rub it in the parts," she cautioned, running a comb through Jill's sleek hair. They went about their work seriously. They parted and patted and massaged. As soon as they took the stopper out of the bottle and before they had well begun, Chloe and Sue grabbed their noses and ran out. Betsy weakened. She couldn't stay out of anything that was causing such a stir. "Next," Mimi called, shooing Madge out and beckoning Betsy. She put her in the chair as a barber would and pinned a towel around her neck. "Do a good job on me and then I'll really fix you up." "O. K." The agreement was carried out. To hear Sue and Chloe and other roommates carry on, they were all "fixed up." Sue passed judgment. "You can't sleep in Tumble Inn, stinking like that." "Aw, Sue. What will we do?" "Take your mattress to the roof for all I care." Sue wasn't serious but Mimi jumped at the idea. "Sue, you angel!" She hugged her and turned her around a time or two. "You think of the grandest things! That's exactly what we will do and we'll have a midnight feast--a roof garden party!" There! The plans had been made that quickly. Sue had no difficulty buying and preparing the food. On the promise of three sandwiches, a college freshman went to the grocery for her. The rest had been easy. The girls who would have to sleep out were the ones who had trouble. They couldn't sleep on the bare tin roof, but how could they get the mattresses out? They figured and planned. Finally, Mimi worked it out. There were only seven to sleep out. All right, they would sleep crosswise; four on one mattress, three on the other. They would take the two mattresses out of Tumble Inn and get them out the sitting room window onto the porch roof. Sue and Chloe objected loudly until they heard the arrangements made for them. Chloe was to sleep with Madge's roommate and Sue with Jill's. The whole plan must be kept secret. That was hard, almost as hard as tugging and rolling and pushing the mattresses out. They had to wait until dark, and from the time they were out, until she saw Mrs. Cole's light go out, Mimi worried for fear Mrs. Cole would find Tumble Inn vacant and the beds torn up. That would be too bad! There was, also, a threat of rain. If it would just hold off until the feast was over, surely the roommates of the beauty cult could not be so cruel as to leave them shivering and wet. But long before the weather changed, and for an entirely different reason, the girls were taken from the roof, but not before they had had a feast. Sue had done well. It was quite the swankiest spread of the year--paper napkins if you please and as a big special surprise, ice cream suckers. The man had packed them in dry ice and sealed them in a carton. They were still frozen hard when Sue proudly passed them around. Mimi ate and ate. "If my pajamas had a belt, I'd surely untie it," she said. "If you hear a sudden noise, you'll know what it is--Mimi exploded! There'd be nothing but giblets left." "Oh me," groaned Sue. Even in pain she was happy. After the food, there were stunts; things that could be done without noise. Walking like Dr. Ansley. Looking over spectacles as Dr. Barnes. Mimi and Sue "made an elephant." After convulsing the girls with laughter--none of the stunts would have seemed half so funny if they could have shrieked out--Madge succeeded in patting her stomach and rubbing her head at the same time. Jill, after several trials, got her foot behind her head. They were getting too noisy. Betsy was afraid, that any minute now, they'd be discovered and called down. She suggested that they see who could go the longest without laughing. Faces began to puff up. A snort here. A titter there. Was there ever such fun? After they had worn themselves out they talked and talked. All the good times of the year were reviewed. But by now, here and there a sleepy girl was crawling to an outer edge of a mattress and going to sleep. Mimi was as wide awake as the owls she had heard at camp. "I bet I can stay awake longer than any of you," she wagered. As it turned out she did, but when she was speaking, she little knew the excitement she would live through before the sun rose again. She became so drowsy she had to stretch out. She wouldn't go to sleep but it would be more comfortable lying. Just as she crossed that hazy land which lies between wakefulness and slumber, Madge reached over and clutched her arm. "Oh, Mimi," she said tensely. "I--hear--them again!" "Hear what?" Mimi was too far gone to realize why Madge was frightened. "D--d--death bells!" she sobbed, her teeth chattering with fright. Mimi sat bolt upright. CHAPTER XXI DEATH BELLS "Madge?" Mimi said, putting her arm around her. She was wide awake now. "You're shaking like a leaf." "I--know--it but I can't stop. Every time I close my eyes I hear them--thump--thump--thump. Oh Mimi it's awful! You don't know unless you've heard them." "What's up?" Betsy whispered. She scrawled over Jill and poked her head between theirs. "Am I missing something?" "Sh--sh--" Mimi said to Betsy, but she had her arm around Madge, patting her shoulder. "Madge--er, Madge doesn't feel well." "Sumpthin' she et?" Betsy asked with small boy impudence. "I wouldn't make fun of you! I'd b-b--be ashamed!" She was sobbing in earnest now. "I'm sorry, Madge. I was just joking. If there's really something the matter I want to help." "I wish you'd go back to sleep. I was about to tell Mimi something. I won't tell you, because you'd laugh." There was a thin crescent moon tonight; the stars were shedding more light than it. The dim light made the figures of the tired girls look like discarded rag dolls that had been thrown helter-skelter on the junk pile. Arms and legs tangled. A patchwork of pajamas. Mimi took it all in at one glance. The pale moon seemed to be casting a ghostly spotlight on Madge. She was pale as the young moon and her eyes were unnaturally bright. Mimi wondered why Madge had to be so different from those healthy, sound sleepers; why she was so tortured with her strange superstition? Mimi had never heard of anything like it before. She wouldn't hear now unless Madge volunteered. She wouldn't ask or beg her to tell. Death bells? The very name made goose bumps up her spine. "Please, don't you all think I'm queer, but it runs in my family. My grandmother always heard them when someone in our family died--I heard them when _she_ died!" Suddenly Madge put her hands to her ears and buried her head in Mimi's lap. "This doesn't make sense to me," Betsy said. "To me either. But maybe it will." They were whispering over Madge. Mimi felt Madge's body grow rigid; heard her voice, hoarse and half choked. "Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty----" "If she thinks she hears a bell ringing, she's goofy," Betsy whispered. She tapped her forehead as she finished and made a spinning gesture with her hands. Madge sat up as suddenly as she had flopped down. She clutched Mimi's wrist on one side and Betsy's on the other. "They've stopped!" she announced dramatically, but in the same breath added piteously, "but they'll come back. They always do. Once they start, I always hear them--until somebody dies." Betsy was dumbfounded. Mimi was speechless. "What do they sound like?" Betsy asked, moving closer to Madge. She wriggled around in front of her and the disturbed look on Madge's face convinced her that whatever death bells were, Madge believed in them heart and soul. "They don't ring. I don't know why they're called bells at all unless they started calling them that way back when people used to toll the bell on the tower of the church when someone died. They're mournful like that but more like a dull thud. When I first used to hear them, before Granny and Mama told me what they were, I thought someone was under the floor thumping with the end of a broomstick or tapping with a hammer which had a piece of cloth tied over the hammer head. They go thump, thump, thump, just as regular as that." Neither Mimi nor Betsy could utter a word by now. Mimi felt that if she moved as much as an inch things would crack and pop or icy hands would seize her from behind. She tried to tell herself this was tommyrot, but look at Madge. She was holding her head and counting again. "Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three----" Then for a terrible minute there was silence; Mimi's heart was thumping loud enough to be mistaken for death bells. "I'll never forget the first time I heard them. We were at Granny's because Grandpa was sick. Mother and I were sleeping upstairs in the room Mother had when she was a girl. We were so tired I couldn't go to sleep. I tried counting sheep but it didn't help. Soon I heard this dull tapping, so I began to count just for something to do. After I counted seventy-nine, they ceased. Not another one sounded. Next morning Grandpa was dead and he was _seventy-nine years old_!" "Two years ago at school, I had a headache, so I leaned my head over on my desk. I had no more than settled down when a thump-thump-thumping began. I shook my head but I could still hear it. They were the clearest I ever heard. Sounded like someone was tapping on your desk with a ruler. I counted forty-three. That afternoon we had a telegram that my uncle had been killed in an automobile wreck and he was _forty-three years old_." "Don't ever count fourteen!" Mimi giggled. She was so scared she was getting silly. Ridiculous, all of it, she kept telling herself, but every time she said ridiculous she believed Madge's story truer and truer. "I'd be afraid to make fun of it," Betsy said so seriously Mimi knew she believed Madge, too. "I used to not hear them for anyone but my family, but I get more and more of them all the time. In the last year I have counted them three different times and the next day found in the paper that a person as old as I had counted, was dead. Gee! My head aches." Mimi's common sense was returning by degrees. "I'll get you an aspirin and then we'll go to sleep." She hoped she would. Right now she was more wide awake than ever she had been since the wild cat screamed at camp. It took a great deal of nerve for her to tiptoe across the tin roof, climb in the window, and feel her way across the sitting room to the bathroom. She did not dare turn on a light until she reached the bathroom. Click! The light was on and, in some miraculous way, fear fled with the darkness. Mimi was almost herself when she reappeared on the roof, aspirin in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Madge's head was in Betsy's lap. She was stroking her forehead with her finger tips. "She counted to twenty-nine while you were gone." Betsy was weak with fright. Mimi lifted Madge's weary head and gave her the aspirin. "Now we're going to sleep. Betsy, get over there where you belong. Now Madge, honey, close your eyes and rest." Mimi began humming softly as Mammy Cissy would. Poor little Madge! Thank goodness Mother Dear never let her believe a lot of old wives' tales. Madge was relaxing. Finally all on the roof but Mimi were quiet. She could not get comfortable. She could not turn to cuddle down for fear of waking Madge who had dozed off against her. Mimi began to cramp from being so long in such an uncomfortable position. She sat up to ease Madge over. There was a queer light now. Had the party lasted all night? The town clock answered. It boomed out two o'clock. No, it wasn't dawn. What could the light be? Standing up slowly, Mimi tiptoed to the edge of the porch roof. The tin roof crackled under her bare feet but she went on toward the increasing brightness. Climbing on the rail and leaning over, she saw. The kitchen roof was on fire! CHAPTER XXII THE LAST OF PREP HALL Sheridan School's main building was shaped like a "U." Beginning as a three story brick building it had grown, rather like Topsy. Wings had been added as the school grew. The original building which had been the old Seminary for young ladies was now only one long side of the "U." Mimi knew it as Prep Hall. The back end of the original first floor was the dining hall. The one story kitchen had been tagged on later. She knew, too, that the whole ell of Prep Hall was so old it was a regular fire trap. Since this was the last year for preparatory students there had already been talk of tearing this old ell down. Plans for remodeling had been submitted to Dr. Barnes. As soon as the swimming pool was finished, modernizing Prep Hall was the next thing on the building program. For one terrifying moment Mimi stood transfixed, holding tight to the colonial railing of the roof. She strained forward. The smoke was rolling now. She did not want to broadcast a false alarm. She must be sure. When she first glimpsed the smoke she thought the cooks might be starting breakfast fires in the old coal ranges. Any doubt she might have had, fled now. A blaze leaped skyward and Mimi acted. As a complete picture of his past life runs through the mind of a drowning person, so in that frantic moment of hesitation a complete plan of what she must do electrified Mimi into action. Without grabbing her terry cloth robe or without awakening the girls on the roof whom she knew were safe for the time being, she leaped through the window. Two things she must do and every second's delay could mean the loss of life and property. First she must reach the office! Through the window, out the door of Tumble Inn, patter, patter down the hall to the first stairs. So far so good. She knew every inch of the way. Taking two steps at a time she reached the landing safely. But here she stumbled. Overstepping the first step of the next flight, she fell bumpety-bumpety-bump all the way to the bottom, like the garbage cans in Green Cap Week. When she was smaller she had got spankings for playing on the stairs and bumping from top to bottom very much like her present sitting down manner. The instant she touched the first floor, she fled to the office. No time to count bruises now. As she feared, the office was locked. There was only one thing to do and Mimi did it. She had to get to the telephone. She could not waste time fumbling in the semi-darkness for a hatchet or club. Doubling up her first as hard as she could, she swung with all her might and main and smashed the glass window. The sound of shattering glass should have awakened every sleeper but it only echoed dully through the deserted first floor. Disregarding her smarting and stinging hand she clutched the telephone. She did not know the number of the fire department! She knew the fire drill formation perfectly. She could have gone out of the building from the study hall or from Tumble Inn blindfolded. She had enjoyed the fire drills all year. They broke into the dreary routine. Knowing how important they were, she had heeded and learned, every instruction; but here was something the instructor had overlooked--the fire station telephone number. Mimi was only stumped for a second, however. She had had other and fuller instructions on what to do in case of fire. She dialed the operator, and, with great effort, kept her voice clear so there could be no misunderstanding. "Operator, operator," Mimi said. She must keep cool and say distinctly _where_ the fire was, instead of merely yelling "Fire, Fire" as most people did when the operator answered. "Please report a fire. Sheridan School. Prep Hall." "Fire--Sheridan School--Prep Hall--" the operator repeated tersely. The drowsiness left her voice on the first word. "Right," Mimi affirmed; then without waiting to hang up the receiver, she flung the telephone from her and was off on her second and more important task. Any person, neighbor or someone out in the country, might see the blaze and turn in the fire alarm but she, Mimi, was the only person awake and she was the one who must arouse the whole dormitory. She had known this before she left the roof. She had not wasted a step or a second. From the broken office window she ran as fast as she could and pounded loudly on Mrs. Cole's door. "Mrs. Cole! Mrs. Cole," she called loudly. "Fire! Fire!" The instant Mrs. Cole answered she was on her way again. With all speed, she must reach the basement--and set off the alarm bell! The corridors were long and dark like some of the passages in Mammoth Cave. On she ran and then down, down, down the back flight of stairs to the basement. With a steady hand she threw the alarm switch. Not until after the fire was over did Mimi understand the risk she ran. The janitor's part of the basement where all the bells were was _under the kitchen_! But none of this now; she had still another task. She must rouse the girls. She knew how soundly some of them slept. She had seen Betsy sprawl across the bed after a soccer game and sleep through noise which Cissy would say was "loud enough to wake the dead." No one must be left asleep now. No one! As she came up the steps out of the basement she could smell smoke. Soon the crackling and popping could be heard. Amid all the confusion which followed Mimi coolly and systematically raced up one corridor and down the other, opening doors, shouting names, and making sure all beds were empty. She did not pass up a Prep door. Lights were appearing. Girls were clinging to each other crying. Some grabbed armfuls of clothes as they fled; others carried dresser drawers, or weekend bags and were spilling things leaving a trail of lingerie and toiletries behind. Once Mimi stumbled in a pile of clothes which had been dropped. They tangled her feet but she shook them free. She must go on--and on! All was chaos. Not a single instruction which had been given during fire drills was carried out by the frightened girls. Startled out of their sleep by the most dreaded cry of all--"Fire, fire!"--they were panic stricken. To get out quickly was their only thought. Some jumped. A few used the rickety old fire escapes but most of them followed blindly after the first two who had run for the stairs. Mimi had begun her room search on the third floor and was working down. By the time she had reached the third floor from the basement her heart had been pounding wildly but she did not check her speed. The smoke was thick as fog. It burned her eyes and gagged her. "Gretchen, are you out?" She saw the empty bed. "Caroline, fire!" Mentally she checked off another empty bed. She was tottering now but she was nearly through. Two more rooms and she would run outside herself. Could she make it? Crash! Crack! Screams! Sirens! Unaware that she was the object of a frantic search by the firemen who had glimpsed her pajama-clad little figure racing wildly from room to room, she finished her task. But where was the door? A great gust of smoke enveloped her. She put her hands in front of her and felt along blindly, but her hands met solid walls. "I am trapped," she cried frantically. "Help, help!" Her breathing was becoming more and more difficult. When panic hit her, she became tired all over. Her legs wobbled. The arms which had flung open fifty doors and the hands which had turned on the alarm bell were useless now. They could not find an exit. Her eyes were red and running and she had squinted them to keep out the smoke until she could not open them wide. She, who had never fainted in her life, felt consciousness slipping away. There must be air at the floor. "I'll lie down till I get some oxygen in my lungs. But suppose I can't get up? I'd be trampled to death. Oh--oh--please God--I must find a way out!" As the great blackness bore down on her to crush her to the floor, it was rent by a stream of water. Firemen were bringing their hose to play on this part of the building and a saving stream of water came in through the open door and sprayed Mimi's face. There! There! A door---- Right by it all the time and couldn't find it. "I--can--get--out!" Wet pajamas clinging to her exhausted little body, the knuckles of her right hand bleeding, smoked and smeared almost past recognition, Mimi staggered from the crumbling building. Somewhat revived by the hose bath--she had followed the hose stream to get out--the rush of outside air, fresh and free from smoke, cleared Mimi's mind. The girls on the roof! How could she have forgotten them! She had turned to re-enter the toppling building when she was grabbed from behind. "Take it easy, kiddie." The fireman's voice was kind and soothing but Mimi pulled and jerked. Feeling her resist and believing she was out of her head from fright, he lifted her in his arms. Mimi kicked her legs and screamed. All eyes centered on the struggle. Mrs. Cole rushed over and hugged Mimi, fireman and all! She was crying. "I'm going back, I tell you!" Mimi screamed, shoving Mrs. Cole away. "Mrs. Cole! Betsy! Madge! Jill!--the girls on the roof!" With difficulty she sputtered out the story of the roof garden party. "They're safe, every one of them--they jumped----" Mrs. Cole wasn't a bit ashamed of the tears that were streaming down her pasty white face. "You--you Mickey--M--Mimi--You are the only one we could not find!" "Me?" She had to try hard to keep from laughing hysterically. "I knew about the fire first. I turned in the alarm!" Mimi cuddled against the fireman, and relaxed. She was tired, so tired. Her support gave way with her. At a sudden crash, and cries from the rear of the building, the fireman dropped her like a hot potato. She was safe and he was needed elsewhere. Mrs. Cole took Mimi's arm and led her over to where the rest of the girls huddled in the graying dawn. Many of them hugged Mimi. Sue and Chloe cried, but Betsy said: "I knew you were all right but I couldn't make them believe me. I tried to make Sue be a hound and ferret you out by smell. She's so keen on that mange cure she could have smelled it above smoke or----" "Betsy, please, I can't k-k-kid now--I'm too----" Mimi herself was crying now. Silently the girls and resident faculty members stood on the front lawn and watched the flames gut the old wing of the building. Their clothes, books, and their personal valuables were going up in flames and they were helpless. They were glad to escape with their lives. Only Mimi's prompt, clear-headed action had made that possible. They did not know that yet, but when they did, they were deeply grateful. Tall flames, mountains of smoke, smashing glass, trucks pumping, great streams of water battering the walls. A fearsome, awful spectacle. Now all heads turned the way the fireman had run who had held Mimi. He was returning now at a run, shouting orders to the waiting ambulance unit. Some one was hurt. Who could it be? the girls and townspeople who had gathered in great numbers asked each other. Every one connected with Sheridan was safe and accounted for, even the cooks and janitor. The ambulance men were bringing some one on a stretcher. Police fought back the crowd and cleared the way. "Get back, you idiots. Make room! Make room!" Mimi could hardly keep from screaming. Daddy had taught her long ago _never_ to add to the crowd and confusion of an accident. To help, one must go away from it rather than toward it, if help had already arrived. It was selfish and cruel to rush in merely to find out what was going on, when a life was at stake. Mimi could not see the details and she did not move closer to find out. Nor did she find out until the next morning that it was other than a fireman hurt. Breakfast, which consisted of fruit, cereal and milk served cafeteria style, because this morning Sheridan had neither kitchen nor dining room, was in progress when Madge edged up to Mimi. The girls were standing in groups eating. It was hard to recognize them in their borrowed clothes. Things the college girls let them have swallowed most of them. "You didn't believe me last night, did you?" "No, and I don't now. There couldn't be such a thing as death bells." "That fireman who got hurt last night was twenty-nine years old. The morning _Dispatch_ says so!" "But he's not dead, only hurt." "No but he's in the hospital and he may die!" Mimi wavered. No, she wouldn't believe that, but no use to argue. Let it go. She couldn't change Madge and she had rather not talk about death bells. The most horrible night of her life was over and she would rather forget. CHAPTER XXIII WHEN THE SMOKE CLEARED AWAY Regardless of the fact that Mimi would rather forget the fire and all the horror that went with it, naturally the fire was the main discussion everywhere she turned. Disaster and confusion all about. The beautiful lawn ruined. Girls were buzzing. They had been ordered to stay away from the ruins. It would not be safe to search for things yet. That whole side of the building was roped off. Faculty members, grieved and busy, tried to evolve plans which would handle the situation for three more days. This was Saturday; on Monday, school would be out for the year. Mimi herself was in a turmoil. She had not washed her teeth this morning. That was the most pressing problem. "I believe I'll chew a sassafras twig like our great-grandmothers did," she said to Sue. "Cut me one, too, while you're in the woods," Sue laughed. Mimi laughed back but not about the sassafras twig. Sue was a sight on earth! She had on a sweater that hung below her hips and a skirt that touched her ankle bones and a pair of cast-off tennis shoes. "You look as tacky as I did the day Betsy and I slipped off." "You don't look so beautiful yourself," Sue retorted. "At least I don't smell!" Mimi had forgotten about the mange cure. It was like eating onions or food seasoned with garlic. You didn't smell it on yourself. Those near you were the ones who were offended. The clothes? They probably did make her look comical. She hadn't thought of that; she had been too happy over the fact that they were _Dit's_. Last night, or this morning rather, for it was daylight before the fire chief permitted them to re-enter College Hall, the Preps had been housed with the college girls. To Mimi's great joy, she was assigned to Dit's room. Any other time she would have been so thrilled she would have entered turning cartwheels but not last night. That was the closest call Mimi had ever had to real tragedy. Dit had been darling to her. She had stood right by her and held one hand while Dr. Ansley bandaged the bleeding one. Then she had tucked her in bed. "Guess I'd better ask permission right now to go for a shampoo." "What will you wear?" "What's the matter with this outfit, really now, Sue?" "Nothing. Say! What's Mrs. Cole announcing?" "We can go to town and stay for lunch!" Betsy reported coming up to them. "All we have to do is go in pairs and sign out and sign in just like the college girls. I was scared to death we'd have to make out lists of what we needed and I knew I'd never think of it all. When I see things I need I remember. Hurry, let's get ready. By the time we get back maybe they will let us claim our things which were salvaged." "I can't bear to think I lost my diary, my tennis racket, my boots, the cards off my Christmas packages, and the Hanfstaengel print just when I was beginning to love the cherubs and enjoy living with them." "Don't speak of losses----" Sue choked up. Mimi knew she was worrying about her violin, a mellow toned old instrument which had been in the family five generations. There was something which could not be replaced. Her own losses seemed trivial in comparison. "I want to go to town, too," some one called as they signed up and turned to leave. "Write my name, please." If she had not spoken they would not have known what name to write. At first glance, Chloe looked like the little brother, Worry Wart, in the cartoon, "Born Thirty Years Too Soon." Yet as she walked toward them, rapidly but not rushed, there was something regal in her step and proud carriage that funny-paper clothes did not hide. Suppose she should turn out to be a princess! The town was ready for the girls when they arrived. The aisles in the five-and-ten-cent stores were as jammed as they are at Christmas shopping season. The drug stores were overrun. Dresses in sizes 12-14-16 were selling like hot cakes. Two of the thriftier merchants displayed signs that the four o'clock express was bringing fresh shipments of ready-to-wear, ordered by telephone that morning. "Good as circus day," Mimi said as they joined hands to try to "crash" Woolworth's. "Let's only buy ten cent sizes of everything," Sue suggested. "They'll be plenty to last three days." "Two and a half days," Betsy corrected. The thoughts of going home made them all tingle with joy. "Here's an even better idea," said Mimi harking back to the business in hand. "Of course, we'll each have to buy a tooth brush, a comb, and a wash cloth, but outside of those, let's each put in a dime and buy one tube of tooth paste, one cake of soap, one nail file and one box of powder." "What! The founder of a beauty cult leave powder till last?" Sue teased. "But that is a good idea. Let's." "I don't think we should buy any clothes until we know what was salvaged." "Don't worry. I can't without permission from Aunt Marcia." After a grand time in the ten cent store, pushing and scrouging and getting lost from each other, the girls separated. Betsy and Mimi went to the beauty salon. Sue and Chloe beat them back to school by an hour. Sue was still ready to tease about their hair when she came out to meet them. Mimi never could stand to see girls who had just had their hair set going about with it pasted flat to their heads. She had laughed at many a one. Here she was looking that way herself. She felt as if her ears were sticking out a mile. "More things have happened!" Sue called from the drive. "They must have," Mimi said to Betsy. "Sue has Chloe in a _run_." She was dragging Chloe along at a trot. "They saved my violin! I knew that I had left it in Miss Taylor's studio for her to set a new bridge before Baccalaureate music tomorrow, but the studio was so water-soaked, I knew every instrument in there would be ruined. It seems Miss Taylor sent a man in through the window for her own violin. He grabbed all four of the ones in there and mine was one of them!" "Aunt Marcia is coming!" Chloe had news, too. "More parents have wired and telephoned and many of them are arriving or have sent word they were leaving soon. All the rooms at the hotel are taken." "Flash!" Betsy took her turn. "Let me give you a headline that seems to have been entirely overlooked about this fire. All the uniforms burned up. So help me, I never in all my life intend to put on another." Betsy hated uniforms worse than Mimi. She had worn them a longer time. "Omigosh!" Sue gasped. "I nearly forgot! They saved your trunk, Mimi--lock, stock, and barrel----" "Why Sue! If you're kidding, I'll never speak to you again!" Why that would be too wonderful! Of course the cherubs weren't in it, or her racket; but her diary was. She'd had plenty of "undies" and hose and a dress or two and goodness knows what else. The strangest things get in the funniest places, especially in trunks. "Honest and truly. Don't you remember? We had to move it when we put the mattresses through the window. You rolled it together and locked it yourself. It seems the firemen and men who helped threw out things like that. Gee! You lucky girl." Sue and Chloe had taken part of the packages and they were all walking up the driveway. "Doesn't it seem queer to be using the College entrance?" Chloe asked. Before any one answered, Jill shrieked from a second floor window. "Mimi! Go to the office. You have a cablegram!" CHAPTER XXIV WHO IS CHLOE? Cablegram! Mimi dropped her packages and ran for the office. She almost fell over a workman who was busy replacing the glass she had shattered last night. "You have a cablegram for me?" she asked Dr. Barnes' secretary. "One has come for you, but Dr. Barnes has it. He is out now. He said tell you no one was ill and for you not to be frightened. That it was about a matter you and he had discussed privately. That is why he wished to deliver the message; he wants to talk to you." "Shall I wait?" "I wouldn't. Dr. Barnes is with the college seniors. In spite of all that has happened, we hope to carry through our Commencement as planned. He is in the chapel watching the rehearsal for Baccalaureate tomorrow. Come back by." "How long?" "I'd say thirty minutes, but your guess is as good as mine." Thirty minutes was an eternity! No use to try to do anything else. Might as well sit here. "Coming back next year?" the secretary asked Mimi. She had completed reservations for three girls since Mimi had been waiting. "Not next year. I can't. I don't graduate. I'm just a second year Prep." Not because she wanted to be impudent but because she was on the verge of exploding she added: "If Dr. Barnes doesn't come in pretty soon I won't be in _any_ school. I'll be 'dead and buried behind the old church door.'" "Don't you have something you could be doing?" "No ma'am." That wasn't quite true but near enough. "Here, then, fold these programs. That's right. Like this one on top that I folded." Being busy helped but at every footstep in the hall she jerked upright and craned her neck. She folded feverishly and had done a pile as high as the big dictionary on the library desk when Dr. Barnes arrived. "Well, well. How are you, Miss Mimi? I was distressed for fear you would be ill after so much excitement last night, or I should say this morning early." "I am fine, thank you, sir." Please, Dr. Barnes. PLEASE! Hurry! "You were a brave girl, Miss Mimi. Now I hope that this news will not prove too much excitement for you, coming as it does right on top of the fire." He had the message in his hand. If he didn't read it or let her have it at once, she would _have_ to jerk it from him. Slower than a snail, a sloth, molasses in January--slower than all the slow things in the world put together, Dr. Barnes adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "The message is from your father in Leipzig. But here--you may read it for yourself." Her breath bated, her eyes dancing, Mimi took the paper. "PATIENT PROVED TO BE YOUR FRITZ. FULL DEATH-BED CONFESSION. I KNOW WHO CHLOE IS. FINE FAMILY NOW DECEASED. KEEP SECRET. MOTHER AND JUNIOR DOCK JUNE FIFTH. LOVE DADDY." Chloe was somebody! As if she hadn't known! "Mother and Junior are coming home! Oh, D-d-doctor Barnes!" "There, there, child," He rose from his desk and came around and patted her head. What a dear he was! "I was afraid it would be too much for one little girl to save her schoolmates from fire and to solve a mystery all in one short day's span." "That smoke nearly p-p-put my eyes out--I'm all right." "You certainly are. You are one of our finest girls. Shall we send for Chloe and let her hear the things I have to say?" "Please, sir." Dr. Barnes picked up his telephone and asked that Chloe be sent down. "Dr. Barnes, Betsy and Sue know that Chloe is adopted and that she was kidnaped. They are the only other girls in school who do. They will be so happy to know who Chloe is, could we send for them, too? I'd rather they knew it all now and get it correctly than have to tell them later--because I would tell them--and maybe, get it twisted. Chloe wouldn't care." "Perhaps you are right, Mimi." He lifted the receiver again. As it clicked back in place, his secretary entered. "Excuse me, Dr. Barnes. Miss Marcia Madison is here and I thought you would wish to see her at once." "By all means. Invite her in." He moved toward the door to welcome her. Mimi's eyes followed his every move. Mimi had not pictured her like this. The few snapshots Chloe had showed her were very misleading. Aunt Marcia was attractive! She was tall, erect, stately. Mimi liked her tailored sheer navy blue ensemble. She wore her clothes with that air of assurance well-groomed people have. She was so much more alive and animated than Mimi had expected. Her voice, as she talked to Dr. Barnes, was low and refined. Only her face showed that she had known great sorrow and loneliness. "George! It's lovely to see you! You look quite fit I was afraid this terrible fire would have you dreadfully upset and you'd have no time for visitors." "You look charming yourself, Marcia. You timed your arrival perfectly. I have sent for your niece. She will be here any moment." It's like a play Mimi thought. All the characters rushing on for the finale. "Since I wrote asking your permission to send Dr. Hammond certain information, many things have developed. If you will read this,"--he held out the cablegram--"you will be prepared for what is coming." She had barely skimmed it when Chloe, Sue and Betsy entered. "You funny little tramps!" Aunt Marcia was laughing at their borrowed clothes. She kissed her own little tramp and hugged the others in turn, Sue first because she knew her. Mimi, who had risen from her chair and stood quietly by it ever since Aunt Marcia entered, went over for her hug, too. Gee! Aunt Marcia smelled sweet! She was sweet Mimi knew for sure before the conference ended. "Chloe!" Mimi burst out. "Daddy did it! He has found out who you are! He found the kidnaper!" "Who--am--I?" Chloe's dark eyes burned with questions. Her face went white with fear, then flushed red with hope. A Mother? A Daddy like the other girls! "Your mother and father are dead, and as far as we know you have no brothers or sisters; but Daddy says you are from a fine old family!--And girls! My very own Mother Dear and Junior _are coming home_! They'll dock June fifth." Strange, how even grown people stood back and let Mimi do all the talking. But she put her whole heart and soul into every word she spoke and that made people like to hear her. "My--parents--dead! Then I've waited too long to find them? Oh, Mimi--oh, Aunt Marcia----!" "You still have me, dear!" Aunt Marcia crushed the forlorn little girl in her arms--this beautiful girl who this morning in her ill-fitting clothes looked much more like a neglected little orphan than that day when Aunt Marcia had taken her from the Home. Aunt Marcia's white kid gloves, the white gardenias, her white purse, none of the fresh white accessories which set off her navy ensemble, mattered. She held Chloe tightly. She would never let her go. Next year she would not even let her go away to school. They would be great chums. She had never realized before that this beautiful girl was as love starved and lonely as she herself. She would make up to her for all the happy family life each had missed. Every one in the room felt what Aunt Marcia was thinking. Betsy and Sue had their eyes fixed on their toes. Dr. Barnes lifted his gentle eyes as if he were praying. A tear rolled from beneath his glasses and he made no move to wipe it away. Mimi had no words left. She felt the way she did at church during Communion service, small and helpless as a mere speck of a speck and yet large as the great universal spirit of love. Such moments caught and held her. From them, each time, the magic trail of beauty unfolded anew and led into a happier world. Her own Daddy had brought about this never-to-be-forgotten moment. She took no thought of the part she had played in the solution of the crime. Her Daddy! And with the next thought the tension broke. Mother and Junior coming home when she hadn't had the faintest idea they'd be back before fall. Here came the tears! The spell was broken. "Why do I cry--w-when I'm so happy?" she blurted out. "We all do that, Mimi. Tears are our safety valve." Mimi turned to him as he spoke and saw Dr. Barnes take the white handkerchief from his coat pocket and wipe under his glasses. "Shall we sit down? We still have much to say to each other." Sue and Betsy squeezed into one chair. Aunt Marcia sat across the desk from Dr. Barnes and, although Aunt Marcia knew "young ladies" instructed by Mrs. Cole did not sit on the arms of chairs, she pulled Chloe down on the arm of hers. After Dr. Barnes decided that Mimi intended to remain standing, he seated himself. Sit down? Not to save her life. "Shall I begin with my first letter to Daddy?" Mimi asked Dr. Barnes. "No--contrary to my first idea, I think I shall begin this story. I forget that you girls, and Chloe herself, do not know many things I do." All eyes focused on Dr. Barnes. "More years ago than I care to count, but it was a year or two before most of you girls were born, I did the hardest thing I have had to do in my entire life. My superior officer, Captain Bill Harrison, who was my friend as well as commander, lay mortally wounded in a shell hole in no man's land--Marcia, please excuse me if this is difficult for you but I want these girls to know you as I do--I had dragged him there during a lull in the bombing. Both of us were wounded; I slightly, Bill fatally. 'I'm going on--old man,' he gasped. From the light of a rocket which flared above us I could see his agony and knew that he was telling the truth. He was trying to take something out of his pocket but he was too weak. I unbuttoned his stained uniform and drew out a picture of Marcia." Dr. Barnes reached across the desk and patted Aunt Marcia's gloved hand. She had a far away look in her eyes but she was erect and smiling faintly. "I held it up before his clouded eyes--'Darling--See her Barney--and tell--her--I love----' But he had gone on before he finished. A year later I brought his effects and message home to a gallant lady." Dr. Barnes had to wait for his throat to relax before he continued. "Another year passed swiftly and that same lady, still gallant and smiling, came to me for advice. She was lonely she said. Knowing that she would never marry because all of that kind of love she had to give was buried in Flanders, she discussed with me her idea of adopting a daughter. "I was with Marcia when she selected Clorissa from the fifty children subject to adoption. You were a lovely little thing, Chloe, and that was not your name at all. Your Aunt Marcia renamed you and gave you her own last name of Madison. You held out your tiny arms and ran out from the line of children as if you were expecting a beautiful lady to take you in her arms. When you were nearer, however, you stopped and hung your head, but you had touched Marcia's heart. She wanted none of the children so much as you. The record showed that you had been left inside of the wall of the home and, when found by a nurse, you were leaning against a tree sobbing. There was a note tied to your wrist stating that your father had been deported and that your Aunt would come someday from the old country to claim you. This story was credited and recorded, but two years had passed and no word had come so you were placed on the list for adoption. These are the things I wrote your father, Mimi." Not even Mimi spoke. Dr. Barnes had woven a spell over his hearers. Chloe, although she strained forward and clenched her hand on Aunt Marcia's arm tighter, uttered no word. It was as if she were listening to a gripping story about some one else. "Shall _I_ begin now?" "Yes, Mimi, but I wanted you girls to know as much as possible. There is still much to unravel." "My story will be brief," Mimi began. "I wrote my Daddy the little Chloe had told me. Daddy answered sympathetically but figured there was nothing he could do. Then a most peculiar thing occurred. Daddy was called to see a sick man in the slums of Leipzig. At first he was merely another patient, a big fellow who was slowly dying of an incurable malady. The second time Daddy was called the man was delirious--he muttered and cursed some one called Freida. At the name Freida something inside Daddy clicked. He knew the man had lived in the United States. When he rolled up the man's ragged sleeves to give him a hypodermic to quiet his raving, he saw the man's arms were _tattooed_! That in itself was not unusual but it dovetailed perfectly with what Chloe had told me. Daddy asked the man's friends a few questions. When he got home he wrote me for more details. In the meantime Chloe described the tattooed pictures. One day Daddy dropped by to see the man and he was gone. When my letter arrived, he searched high and low for him and could not find him. The name had been fictitious. "The next time Daddy was called the man whom we now know was Fritz must have been dying. By reading the cablegram, we know Daddy somehow managed to use the little knowledge he had, plus his hunch that the man was guilty, and by playing the great American game of bluff, pulled a confession from him." "You told me your Daddy was the best _doctor_ in the world, not the greatest _detective_," Betsy said. "He's _both_!" "He's made me very happy," Chloe declared softly. Her head had dropped to Aunt Marcia's shoulder. "No happier than I," Aunt Marcia added. "Regardless of who your parents were, you are my girl and I love you. Now--no one can take you away from me." Aunt Marcia has suffered fears, too. CHAPTER XXV HOME AGAIN JIGGETY JIG Sunday was a full day, but Mimi was glad when it was over. She shook hands and made curtsies off and on all day. Meeting other girls' parents and sisters and brothers was fun but it was tiring. Then, too, it made her too impatient to see her own. Sunday afternoon she slipped away quietly to say goodbye to her favorite places. She lingered under the big maple tree where she had studied on sunny days. She inspected the partially completed swimming pool as carefully as a contractor. Not next year, but some year, she would take swimming instructions here and she wanted it just so. She hoped Miss Bassett would be teaching advanced swimming when she returned. She must take another last look at the gym. To her delight the door was unlocked and she could enter. No doubt some faculty member had been showing it to visitors. The big empty gymnasium was not lonely to Mimi. She loved it. Here she had known sorrow; but here, too, she had been happiest. Suppose she added all the hours of free time she had spent here practicing goals? Suppose she had fastened a pedometer on her ankle to record the miles she had dribbled down the floor? Am I queer that I miss places as much or more than people, she wondered? She remembered how it hurt to say goodbye to the friendly trees at camp, the Lodge, the river, the hills. When she thought back about camp, it was these things she longed for. She'd be the same way about Sheridan. In the long summer days ahead she would miss the window ledge in the gym where she had perched to rest, the atmosphere of Tumble Inn; and now since it had been the scene of such violent emotions, Dr. Barnes' office was endeared to her. Because of the fire the Baccalaureate service had been changed from morning to evening. True some of the Prep graduates were not as well dressed as they had planned to be, but, taken as a whole, the rows and rows of girls in white made an inspiring picture. The Commencement program proper, at which sheepskins were awarded to the college girls taking degrees, and highly embossed parchment diplomas were given to the graduating Preps, was Monday morning at eleven o'clock. Since this was the last year of its long existence, the Preparatory students were given the special privilege of carrying the daisy chain. Instead of the seniors filing in a single line carrying the great rope of plaited flowers to pass down to the undergraduates as had been the custom, the order was reversed. The seventy-five girls of the Prep department carried the daisy chain and passed it to the college freshmen. This year the significance was that the fine old traditions on which Sheridan Seminary had been founded must not die. They must be the foundation of Sheridan's continued growth now that she was to be a fully accredited college. Mimi felt very solemn marching along balancing the flower rope on her erect shoulder. True to her word, Olivia the "near-child-prodigy" took first honors with the highest average ever made by a Prep. Sue played in the orchestra. Betsy and Mimi sat side by side. Imagine Mimi's astonishment when Dr. Barnes, contrary to his time-honored policy of never singling out girls for special attention, publicly commended her for her cool-headed bravery the night of the fire. She was pleased but Betsy was ecstatic! Things were whirling around Mimi, but not touching her deeply. She was absorbed in a mystery solved and a home-coming. "Free night" before departure, when all restrictions were off, was fun; but Mimi was impatient. Had she been going south instead of north she could have left Monday evening. She was all packed. Many things she had treasured were left in ruins. She could hardly wait the coming of daylight which heralded the arrival of the station wagon, the rickety old bus which would rattle up and take a load of eager girls jiggety jig to the north-bound train. She _must_ get home to help Cissy get the house aired and ready for Mother Dear and Junior and _summer visitors_. She had already asked both Chloe and Betsy and they had accepted "if." Mimi, who was never stumped by "ifs" knew that they would come and that there was a happy summer ahead. This took the bitter out of the goodbyes. Only once when Mimi turned away from the fluttering hands and chorus of farewells and glanced toward the ashes of Prep Hall, were there tears in her eyes. She wiped them away with her bandaged hand. After all, Sheridan was her Sheridan now and she was coming back some day. THE END