“THE PARTY CLIMBED INTO THE BIG MACHINE.” “Dorothy’s Triumph.”“THE PARTY CLIMBED INTO THE BIG MACHINE.”“Dorothy’s Triumph.”
There was much good-natured badinage as the party climbed into the big machine. Molly and Aurora seemed to take to each other from the first, and Aunt Betty saw with no little satisfaction that the trip bade fair to be a happy one.
When the baskets were all under the seats, or placed in the great trunk-like compartment on the rear of the machine, along with several large tent flaps and a coil of rope, the party waved a cheery good-by to Chloe, Dinah and Metty, Gerald started the Ajax, and they went bowling off down the smooth road on the first stage of their journey.
Gerald occupied the driver’s seat with Dorothy beside him. In the big rear seat were Aunt Betty, Molly and Aurora, while the smaller seats at either side were occupied by Jim and Ephraim.
The city was just beginning to stir itself as the big car rolled through the main streets and out into the suburbs beyond.
Soon the city limits were passed, and the great country highway, so enticing to Baltimore automobilists, lay before them.
Straight toward the west Gerald drove the car, the miles being reeled off at a good rate of speed—all, in fact, that Aunt Betty would allow.
“I’m no speed maniac,” she told Gerald, in responseto his query as to whether she cared to ride as fast as a railroad train. “I’m well satisfied at the present pace. I feel that it is as fast as we can go in perfect safety, and I have no desire to endanger the lives of the young ladies under my charge. This is not a limited, anyway, but just a slow train through Maryland.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” the boy returned, smiling.
Some miles further on the country grew rolling and hilly. Patches of dense timber were penetrated, and finally the machine shot out onto a broad plain which stretched away for many leagues toward the west. The sun was well up now, but the party had hardly felt its warmth. The big automobile, moving along at a fair rate of speed, created enough breeze to keep the occupants at a comfortable temperature.
Dorothy and Molly, thoroughly awake now, and in no way missing the sleep they had lost, kept up an incessant chatter, Aurora and Aunt Betty occasionally chiming in.
“I’ve never thought to ask, but what sort of sleeping quarters are we to have at the camp?” asked Molly.
“Goodness me! I hadn’t thought of that,” saidAunt Betty. “Gerald, did you provide sleeping quarters for the lady guests?”
“Yes, ma’am; there are several portable tent tops packed in the rear compartment.”
“Tent tops! Indeed, it seems to me we’ll need some tentsides, too, if we are to sleep with any peace of mind.”
This caused a general laugh.
“I’ve provided for that, too,” said Gerald. “Don’t worry. It was impossible to carry poles and stakes, however, so Jim and I will show our woodcraft by cutting them in the mountains where we camp.”
“I imagine we’ll think of several things we’ve forgotten before we’ve been long at our destination,” said Aurora.
Dorothy uttered a startled exclamation.
“My goodness! How you startled me,” said Aunt Betty. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve forgotten something already.”
“Now our troubles begin.” Mrs. Calvert heaved a long sigh of resignation. “Well, what is it?”
“My curling irons.”
“Pouff! I might have known you were starting a joke. You’ll be lucky to have a comb and brush, young lady, let alone curling irons, and as for amirror, I’m blessed if I believe we thought to bring one.”
“I have one,” smiled Aurora. “It will do for all. We can take turns each morning combing our hair.”
“A fine idea,” said Jim. “Every morning, I’ll delegate myself as a sort of camp marshal to see that each of you has a turn at the mirror. So when you hear me call, ‘Hey, Molly; you’re next!’ you want to bestir yourself.”
Ephraim, who had been silent most of the time since the car left the city, now burst into a loud guffaw.
“Lordy, but I didn’t imagine dis was gwine tuh be sich er ceremonious occasion. I done lef’ mah curlin’ irons tuh home, but maybe yo’-all will take pity on er pooh colored gem’man en allow him tuh comb his curly locks in front ob yo’ solitary glass.”
“Of course, we will, Ephy,” said Aurora—“especially after all that fine language. You shall have your turn—I’ll see to that.”
It was eight o’clock when Gerald stopped the car in front of a small village inn. The community was just bestirring itself, and the inhabitants gazed long and curiously at the party.
Addressing a middle-aged man who sat on thefront steps of the hostelry, smoking a pipe, Gerald said:
“How about breakfast for seven?”
“Reckon we can accommodate you,” was the reply, in a low drawl—“that is, if you ain’t too particular what you eat.”
“Needn’t worry about that. We’re hungry—that’s all. Some fresh milk and eggs, some crisp slices of fried bacon, a cup of coffee, and a few things of a similar nature will be more than sufficient.”
“You’ve just hit off my bill o’ fare to a T,” the man responded, grinning. “Come in and make yourselves at home, while I go tell Martha there’s some extry mouths to feed.”
The members of the little camping party needed no urging, for the early morning ride had given them large appetites, which they were anxious to satiate.
Soon the Ajax was standing silent in front of the building, while its occupants were grouped in the little parlor of the hotel, waiting the welcome call to breakfast.
“There’s a picture of George Washington,” said Jim, as his glance roamed about the room. “Wonder if there’s a village hotel in any part of the originalthirteen states, which hasn’t a picture of our immortal ancestor?”
“Probably not,” smiled Gerald. “Thomas Jefferson seems also to be a favorite. See, there he is, peeking at you from behind the what-not.”
“And there’s Robert E. Lee, bless his heart,” cried Dorothy, to whom the southern hero’s name was the occasion for no little amount of reverence—thoughts that had been instilled in her mind by Aunt Betty, loyal southerner that she was.
The hotel proprietor appeared on the scene a few moments later with the cheery remark:
“You all can come into the dinin’-room now.”
He led the way through the hall and into a small, though comfortable, room, where the landlady had already begun to serve the breakfast.
Their appetites sharpened by the ride, everyone did ample justice to the things which were put before them. Even Aunt Betty, usually a light eater, consumed three eggs, two glasses of milk and a plate of fried bacon, topping them off with a cup of strong coffee.
“Whatever has come over you?” cried Dorothy in delight. “I never knew you to eat so much for breakfast, auntie, dear.”
“I just wanted it,” was Aunt Betty’s response,“and, wanting it, I see no reason why I should not have it. I have no intention of denying myself what sustenance I require.”
“Then never talk to me again about being an invalid!” cried the girl. “When I came back to Bellvieu I was led to believe that you were fast failing in health. But, as yet, I have seen no indication that you are not as hale and hearty as the best of us.”
“I feel some better—that I will freely admit.”
“And at the end of our camping trip you are going to feel better still. Who knows? You may take on ten or twelve pounds in weight.” This from Jim.
“Well, let us hope not. I am carrying now all the flesh I am able to put up with.”
Breakfast over at last, the party lost no time in re-embarking, and soon the big Ajax, given a new lease on life by reason of a sharp turn of the crank in front, was again speeding on its way.
The car proved itself an excellent traveler. The roads were rough in many places, yet not once during the day did any trouble arise either from mechanism or tires.
The machine proceeded at a steady gait until shortly after noon, when, in another village someforty odd miles from Baltimore, the party stopped for lunch.
Here the supply of gasoline was replenished, Gerald having already been forced to draw upon his reserve. This was necessitated by his having forgotten to fill his tank before leaving home.
“I don’t know how I came to neglect such an important matter,” he said to Jim. He seemed rather piqued.
“Mistakes will happen, no matter what you are doing or where you are,” was Jim’s reply, intended to be consoling. “Suppose we had run out of gasoline between towns, though?”
Gerald grinned at the thought.
“But we didn’t,” he said.
“Yes; but if we had?”
“Well, some of us would have taken a little journey, to the nearest available supply, and brought some back with us—that’s all. Fortunately, in these days of the automobile, an ample supply of gasoline may be found at any country store. There was a time when it was as hard as the mischief to get it.”
“How far can you run with one supply?”
“Seventy-five miles, without the reserve, which is good for another forty.”
“This machine seems complete in every particular, with its reserve tank, and store box behind.”
“Surely. While called a touring car, it has many of the features of a roadster.”
“A roadster?”
“Yes; a car built for traveling across country—one you can take long trips in—a car built to stand no end of wear and tear.”
“All right, boys!” Aurora called out at this moment. “We’re through lunch. Let’s be moving. You know we want to get as near the mountains as possible before putting up for the night.”
So on they went, the country spreading out before them in gentle undulations. The Ajax would climb a low hill to pass the pinnacle and go bowling down into some miniature valley, over foot-bridges and through grove after grove of pretty trees. It seemed that old Mother Nature had spread on the scenic touches with a master hand in this part of Maryland, and the occupants of the car thoroughly enjoyed themselves, particularly as the recent rains had soaked the dirt so thoroughly it had not yet had time to resolve itself again into dust.
Farmers stopped to watch them, often to wave hat or handkerchief as they went flying past. To these salutations the girls took delight in replying,greatly to the disgust and chagrin of Jim Barlow.
“Why, you don’t even know them!” he said to Dorothy in a sternly reproving tone, when she chided him gently about a reproof he had just administered to Molly, who had become quite enthusiastic in her efforts to attract the attention of a young farmer lad who was plowing in a nearby field.
“Neither do they know us,” the girl responded. “Besides, Molly is her own mistress, and you have no right to tell her she may or may not do as she pleases.”
“But I can express my opinion on the subject,” growled Jim. “This is a free country.”
“Ugh! He’s a regular bear to-day, girls,” said Aurora. “Let’s leave him alone until he can be civil.”
Which made Jim grate his teeth in rage. He gradually cooled off, however, when he found that no one was paying any attention to him, and by the middle of the afternoon was laughing and chatting as gayly as ever.
Villages appeared before their gaze every few miles, only to vanish behind them as they went down the main street, the hoarse-voiced horn sending out its warning to pedestrians. Their speedwas clearly within the limits of what was required by law, however, so they experienced no trouble from country constables, as is often the case when automobile parties go on tour.
Throughout the afternoon the big auto kept up its steady gait, reeling off mile after mile, until the sun had disappeared below the horizon. Just when dusk was ready to envelop the land they descried in the distance a good-sized town, and beyond it some miles the eastern spur of the South Mountains.
“There, children, is where we will be camping if all goes well to-morrow,” said Aunt Betty.
“Sounds mighty good to me,” said Gerald. “Here, Ephy, take hold of this steering wheel awhile. I’m going to stretch myself and gaze out over the country a bit.”
Ephraim, delighted at the confidence reposed in him by the boy, clambered into the front seat, while Gerald took one of the small seats in the rear compartment, facing Jim.
Sometime later Ephraim guided the car into the main street of the village, and, at Aunt Betty’s suggestion stopped before what seemed to be a hotel of the better class. Upon investigation accommodations were found to be so tempting, theparty decided to spend the night. Gerald registered for the crowd, while Ephraim, with a stable boy belonging at the hotel, took the Ajax around to the rear where shelter might be had from the elements.
Supper was served at seven-thirty in a large and commodious dining-room, and the campers sustained their reputations for ravenous eaters so well that the proprietor secretly wrung his hands in despair. Had these city folks come to eat him out of house and home? he wondered.
He was glad when the meal was over, and the visitors had departed down the street in search of amusement before turning in.
This amusement was found at the town hall, where a cheap theatrical company was offering the time-worn favorite, “Lady Audley’s Secret.” Even Aunt Betty enjoyed the old play which she had not seen for years, though she declared that the scene at the well gave her a fit of the “creeps.”
The company was a very mediocre one—in fact, an organization which made its living off of small town audiences, where the standard set is not so high, and a little less for the money does not seem to matter.
To bed at eleven and up at six was the story ofthe night, as recorded by the master of ceremonies, James Barlow, who was the first to awaken in the morning, and who aroused Ephraim and told him to wake the others.
The proprietor of the hotel, evidently fearing a repetition of the night before, was careful to put on the table only such food as he felt his guests should have, and when a second portion was asked for his solitary waiter was instructed to say that the concern was out of that particular dish.
While Jim and Molly were hardly satisfied at being limited to but one batch of pan-cakes each, they were too eager to be on their way to register a protest.
As soon as the sun had risen the South Mountains loomed up distinctly to the west, the purple haze which had enveloped them the night before being gone. Instead, the sun seemed to glint off the peaks like burnished gold. However, as Old Sol rose higher, this effect was gradually dissipated, and after a two hours’ ride, during which the progress was very slow on account of the condition of the roads, the party found themselves in the foothills, with the mountains looming close at hand.
A pretty sight lay before their eyes a short time later, when Gerald stopped the machine half wayup the side of one of the mountains, and they gazed out over the valley, through which a silvery stream of water flowed merrily toward the Potomac. Then, their eyes thoroughly satiated, they began to look for a suitable place in which to make their camp.
“Seems to me there’s a desirable spot over there on that plateau,” said Dorothy. “There are lots of fine shade trees, and we would have an excellent view of the valley. And then, if I am not mistaken, that path leading down the mountainside goes to yonder village, and it is just as well to be in close proximity to what supplies we may need.”
“That village is farther away than you think,” said Jim.
“Well, we’ll ride over and look at the plateau, anyway,” said Gerald.
“Getting there is the next thing,” said Molly.
The way did appear difficult. The road they were on wound up and around the mountain, and it was only after a most diligent search that Gerald and Jim discovered another road leading off in another direction and finally crossing the plateau.
They reached their destination some time later, and found the prospective camp-site even more satisfactory than they had expected. A vote of theparty was taken, and it was unanimously decided to stay on this spot.
“It will soon be noon,” said Aunt Betty, at once assuming charge of arrangements. “So let’s unload the things while the boys are fixing the tents. If we have good luck we shall have our lunch in good Camp Blank.”
“Oh, not Blank,” said Aurora, with becoming modesty. “Why not call it Camp Calvert?”
“I think Camp Blank sounds very nice,” Aunt Betty made reply.
“And I,” said Dorothy. “Let’s call it Camp Blank.”
“No,” said Gerald; “the Blanks have nothing to do with it. This is Dorothy’s party. It shall be called Camp Calvert.”
“I protest,” said Dorothy. “It’s no more my party than yours, Gerald Blank, even if it is given in honor of my home-coming.”
“It shall be Camp Calvert,” Gerald persisted.
“Well, we’ll submit it to arbitration. Jim, you have taken no part in the controversy. Shall we name it Camp Blank or Camp Calvert?”
“Neither,” said Jim.
“What!” cried Dorothy and Gerald in a breath.
“Oh, come now, Jim!” This from Aunt Betty.
“No,” said Jim, “we’ll call it neither. You’ve left the matter to me, so we’ll call it Camp Breckenridge after Molly, but we’ll make it Camp ‘Breck’ for short.”
“No, no,” said Molly. “I shan’t permit it.”
But Molly’s protests were quickly overridden, and with the discussion at an end, the members of the party went about the various tasks they had set themselves to do.
Getting a hand-ax from the tool box, Gerald took Jim and marched off into the woods, while Ephraim was delegated to stay behind and “tote” things for the ladies.
First, an imaginary plan was drawn of the camp—just where the tents would go; where the camp-fire should be to get the best draught; which direction the breeze was coming from, so the tent flaps might be left back at night for the comfort of the sleepers; and the many other little details which a woman and several girls will always think of.
By the time Gerald and Jim returned, bearing several tent poles and an armful of stakes, all matters had been definitely settled. The first tent was pitched between two huge oak trees, which threw their shade for yards around. The other, which was to house the boys and Ephraim, was placed ashort distance to the rear in a clump of smaller trees, but within a few steps of the rear of the ladies’ quarters.
Once the tents were up, Ephraim was instructed to kindle a fire, which he did very quickly, his camping experience having been of a wide and varied nature.
While the fire was blazing merrily as if to welcome the campers to the newly-organized Camp Breck, the mistress of Bellvieu bustled about in a nimble fashion for one of her years, directing the preparation of the meal.
Molly was set peeling potatoes, while Dorothy and Aurora spread the table cloth in a level spot on the soft grass, and began to distribute the tin plates, steel knives and forks and other utensils which had been purchased especially for the camp.
Soon affairs were moving merrily, and the party sat down to lunch shortly after one, half-famished but happy, little dreaming of the thrilling adventure which was to befall them ere another day had passed.
In the late afternoon, after the girls and Aunt Betty had taken their naps, Gerald suggested a jaunt down the mountainside toward the valley. The suggestion was eagerly accepted by Aurora, Dorothy, Molly and Jim. Aunt Betty agreed that she would stay with Ephraim to look after the camp, being unable to do the climbing which would be necessary on the return.
No Alpine stocks had been brought, but Gerald and Jim again sallied forth with the hand-ax, the result being that in a short while the entire party was equipped with walking sticks.
Telling Aunt Betty good-by, and warning Ephraim not to stray away from his mistress during their absence, they soon were off down the pathway leading toward the village in the valley.
“I’ll tell you, girls, there’s some class to this outing,” said Gerald, who, with Dorothy, led the way.
Molly and Aurora, with Jim as escort, were close behind.
“This is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen,” said Molly. “The picturesque grandeur of the Rockies is missing, to be sure, but there is something fascinating about these low, quiet mountains. It makes one feel as if one could stay here forever and ever.”
“Come—don’t get poetical, Molly,” warned Jim. “This is a very modern gathering, and blank verse is not appreciated.”
“Nothing was farther from my thoughts than blank verse, Jim Barlow, and you know it!”
“Sounded like blank verse to me,” and Jim grinned.
“You mustn’t blame me for being enthused over such sights as these. If you do not experience the same sensation, there is something sadly deficient in your make-up.”
“That’s right, Molly; rub it in,” Dorothy said, over her shoulder. “Jim is entirely too practical—too prosaic—for this old world of ours. We simply must have a little romance mixed in with our other amusements, and poetry is naturally included.”
“Hopelessly overruled,” murmured Jim. “Sosorry I spoke. Go ahead, Molly; sing about the rocks and rills, the crags and—and—”
“Pills?” suggested Aurora.
“Well, anything you wish; I’m no poet.”
“You’re no poet, and we all know it,” hummed Aurora.
“I dare you girls to go as far as the village!” cried Dorothy.
“How about the boys?” Gerald wanted to know.
“They are included in the dare, of course.”
“Well, I’ll have to take the dare,” said Molly. “That village is too far for me to-day.”
“Why, it’s only a short way down the valley,” Dorothy protested.
“It’s several miles, at least,” said Jim.
“Oh, come!”
“Why, yes; distances are very deceptive in this part of the country.”
Dorothy could not be convinced, so the others decided to keep on until the girl realized that she had misjudged the distance, and asked to turn back.
They did not know Dorothy Calvert.
The path led down the mountainside and into a broad road which followed the bank of a stream. Somehow, when this point was reached, the village seemed no nearer.
Dorothy uttered no protest, however. But the others exchanged glances, as if to say:
“Well, I wonder will she ever get enough?”
On they went till at last, at a great bend in the road, where lay a fallen log, Molly stopped for a rest.
“You folks can go on,” said she, seating herself on the fallen tree. “I’ll wait here and go back with you.”
“And I,” said Aurora, dropping down beside her.
“Guess those are my sentiments, too,” drawled Jim, as he languidly sat down beside the girls.
“Well,” said Gerald, “after our journey this morning, and the work I did in camp, I don’t believe I want any village in mine, either.”
And he, too, sat down.
Dorothy stood gazing at her friends, an amused expression on her face.
“I suppose if the majority vote is to be listened to, I lose,” she said. “I thought you all were mountain climbers, and great believers in exercise on a large scale. But I see I was mistaken. I yield to the rule of the majority; we will not go to the village to-day.”
Dorothy sat down. As she did so, the others burst into a roar of laughter.
“Well, I don’t see anything so funny,” she said. “But perhaps that is because I am lacking a sense of humor.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Gerald. “We are laughing to see how stubbornly you give up a little whim. Nobody wanted to go to the village but you, yet you insisted that everyone go.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that like you took it, at all, Gerald,” protested the girl, a slight flush creeping over her face.
“We felt that, hence, knowing it could give you no real pleasure to go farther, and tire yourself and ourselves completely out, so that we would have to hire a conveyance to get back to camp, we decided to rebel, and stay here.”
“I imagine the fishing is good in this neighborhood,” said Molly, who was looking out over the stream where the water ran gently between the rocks. It was as clear as glass, and the fish could be seen swimming about.
“They catch a great many trout in these mountains, I’ve heard,” said Jim. “Say we get some poles and try our luck before we go back, eh, Gerald?”
“Surely,” responded the person addressed. “I brought plenty of fishing tackle in the big chest onthe back of the machine. I have also four poles in sections, each fitted with a fine reel and silk line. I wouldn’t come on a camping trip like this without having a try at the fish, I assure you.”
When the party had rested sufficiently, the climb back to camp was begun, and even Dorothy was thankful that they had not gone to the village, realizing the truth of Gerald’s words, that they would have needed a conveyance to get them back to their starting point.
It was late afternoon when they reached the camp, to find that Aunt Betty and Ephraim had supper on the fire. And a fine supper it was, too—fine for camp life. When it was spread on the ground before them a short time later, they devoured it ravenously, which pleased Aunt Betty immensely, for she loved to see young folks eat.
The meal over and the things cleared away, the young folks and Aunt Betty gathered before the ladies’ tent where a fine view of the valley could be obtained, and for some little time were silent, as the wonderful glories of Mother Nature unfolded themselves. Before they realized it, almost, the day was gone—their first day in camp—and night was upon them. A gray light, mingling with the faint afterglow of twilight, showed clearly the outlinesof the distant mountains. The stars blinked down from their heavenly dome and the air was cool and comfortable, thanks to the altitude. To the silent watchers it seemed that no skies were ever so deep and clear as those which overspread Camp Breck.
“It would seem,” said Aunt Betty, breaking a long silence, “that in making the stars, nature was bent on atoning in the firmament for a lack of beauty and brilliancy on the earth.”
“How like the Gates of Wonderland I read about when a wee child are these hills on such a night,” said Dorothy reverently.
“Stop!” warned Molly. “If you don’t, Jim will soon be chiding you for becoming poetic.”
“No; this is different, somehow,” said the boy. “It has gotten into my blood. I feel much as Dorothy does—a sensation I’ve never experienced before, though I’ve traveled through the Catskills till I know them like a book. Even the Rockies did not appeal to me in this way.”
“It is not the environment, but the viewpoint, Jim,” Aunt Betty said. “The nights in the Catskills are just as beautiful as here; it happens that you have never thought of the wonders of nature in quite the same way in which you have had thembrought home to you to-night. I daresay you will never spend another night in any mountains, however, without thinking of the transcendent beauty of it all.”
“There is something in the air that makes me feel like singing,” said Gerald.
“Then by all means indulge yourself,” Dorothy advised.
“Let’s form a quartette,” said Molly. “I can sing a fair alto.”
“And I can’t sing anything—can’t even carry an air,” Aurora put in in a regretful voice. “But Gerald has a fine tenor voice, and perhaps Dorothy can take the soprano and Jim the bass.”
In this way it was arranged, Dorothy being appointed leader.
“First of all, what shall we sing?” she wanted to know.
“Oh, any old thing,” said Jim.
“No; not any old thing. It must be something with which we are all familiar.”
“Well, let’s make it a medley of old Southern songs,” suggested Gerald.
“An excellent idea,” said Aunt Betty, while Ephraim was so delighted at the suggestion that he clapped his hands in the wildest enthusiasm.
So Dorothy, carrying the air, started off into “The Old Folks At Home.”
Never, thought Aunt Betty, had the old tune sounded so beautiful, as, with those clear young voices ringing out on the still air of the summer’s night, and when the last words,
Way down upon the Suwanee River,Far from the old folks at home,
Way down upon the Suwanee River,Far from the old folks at home,
had died away, she was ready and eager for more. “Old Black Joe,” followed, then “Dixie,” and finally “Home, Sweet Home,” that classic whose luster time never has or never will dim, and which brought the tears to her eyes as it brought back recollections of childhood days.
Then, as if to mingle gayety with sadness, Ephraim was induced to execute a few of his choicest steps on a hard, bare spot of ground under one of the big oak trees, while Jim and Gerald whistled “Turkey in the Straw,” and kept time with their hands. The old negro’s agility was surprising, his legs and feet being as nimble, apparently, as when, years before as a young colored lad, he had gone through practically the same performance for Aunt Betty, then in the flower of her young womanhood.
After this the party sought the tents, where, on blankets spread on the ground, covered by sheets,and with rough pillows under their heads, each member of the party sought repose.
In one end of the tent occupied by Gerald and Jim slept old Ephraim, the watch-dog of the camp, who prided himself that no suspicious sound, however slight, could escape his keen ears in the night time.
The slumber of the party was undisturbed during the early hours of the night, as, with the tent flaps thrown back, to allow the clear passage of the cool breeze off the valley, the occupants of both tents slept soundly.
Sometime after midnight, however, the slumber of all was broken by a most startling incident. It was a cry of distress coming out of the night from farther down the mountainside—a cry so appealing in its pathos that Ephraim was on his feet, listening with open mouth, before the echoes had died away. Then, as he roused Gerald and Jim, the cry came again, reverberating over the mountain in trembling, piteous tones:
“Oh, help me! Help me! Won’t someone please help me? Oh, oh-h-h-h!”
The last exclamation, drawn out in a mournful wail sent a thrill of pity through the hearts of the old negro and the boys.
Dorothy heard the second cry, and she, too, felt the appeal of the voice, as she awakened the other inmates of the tent.
The cry came again at short intervals.
“What can it be?” someone asked.
“Sounds to me like someone’s lost their way,” said Jim, as he and Gerald stood listening outside their tent.
“Oh, Lordy! Maybe it’s er ghost!” wailed Ephraim, whose superstitious fears the passing years had failed to dislodge. “Dat suah sound tuh me like de cry ob er lost soul.”
“Nonsense!” cried Gerald. “There’s no such thing as a lost soul. And stop that sort of talk, Ephy. No matter what you think, there’s no use scaring the women.”
“What are you boys going to do?” asked Dorothy, peeking out from behind the flap of her tent.
“There’s only one thing to do, when a voice appeals to you like that—investigate,” said Jim.
“Yes; we must find out who it is,” Gerald readily agreed.
“But you boys mustn’t venture down the mountainside alone,” said Aurora. “No telling what will happen to you. No, no; you stay here andanswer the voice. Then maybe the person will be able to find his way to the camp.”
“I’m not so sure we want him in camp,” said Aunt Betty, grimly.
“Well, the least we can do is meet him half way,” was Jim’s final decision.
Dorothy, who knew the boy, felt that further argument would be useless, particularly as Gerald seemed to agree with everything Jim said.
“But you have no revolvers,” protested Aurora. “It is nothing short of suicide to venture off into the darkness unarmed.”
“That’s right; we didn’t think to bring any fire-arms with us,” Gerald said, turning to Jim. “But we’d have a hard time finding anything to shoot in the dark, so I reckon we may as well get a couple of stout clubs and see who that fellow is.”
Two poles that had been found too short for the purpose of erecting the tents lay near at hand, and searching these out, the boys bade Ephraim not to leave the women under any circumstances and started down the side of the mountain in the direction from whence the cries had come.
“Help, help!” came the voice again, like a person in mortal terror.
“Hello, hello!” Jim responded, in his deep bass voice which went echoing and re-echoing down the valley. “Where are you?”
“Here!” came the quick response. “Come to me! Hurry! Hurry!”
“Have patience and keep calling; we’re moving in your direction. We’ll find you,” replied Jim in an encouraging tone.
At short intervals the voice came floating up to them, getting louder and louder, until it seemed but a few yards away. The boys realized, however, that voices carry a great distance on a clear night, hence knew that they had not yet achieved the object of their search.
Grasping their clubs tightly, they worked their way through the underbrush. The trees were scattered in places, letting a few beams of moonlight seep through, though the dark shadows were deceptive and no objects could be distinguished beyond their bare outlines.
Soon, however, they were in close proximity to the voice, which appeared to be that of a young boy. Then, suddenly, as Jim called out again in an encouraging tone to know whom they were addressing, a form came staggering toward him out of the shadows, and someone grabbed him in frenziedmadness, while great heart-rending sobs shook his frame.
Startled at first, Jim realized that this was caused by fright, so instead of casting the person away as his instinct seemed to bid him, he threw his arms about the trembling form and tried to distinguish in the darkness who and what he was.
What he felt caused a great feeling of pity to surge over him; for his hands encountered the slight form of a young lad, not more than twelve years old. Jim was astonished, and readily perceived why one so young should be racked with terror at being alone on the mountainside in the dead of night.
“There, there,” he said; “don’t cry. It’s all right. You’re with friends.” He turned to Gerald: “It’s nothing but a boy. Scared most to death, I suppose.”
“What, a boy, and alone on the mountain at this hour?”
“Strange, but true.”
“I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I. I suppose he’s lost, or has run away from home. In either case, the best we can do is to get to camp with him as quickly as possible.”
Jim tried to draw the lad out—to get him to tell something of himself, but his only answer was more sobs, as the lad still quivered from fright.
“Well, are you alone?” Jim asked.
There was a hastily murmured:
“Yes.”
“Do you want to go with us?”
“Oh, yes, yes—don’t l-l-leave m-m-me alone again!”
“We’ll not leave you alone. We have a camp near here and you’re more than welcome.”
Gerald led the way back up the mountainside, Jim, his arm supporting the little fellow at his side, following as rapidly as the rough going would permit.
It was no easy matter, getting back to camp, as they quickly discovered. As a matter of caution, of course, those at the camp would not allow any lights, so the boys were forced to pick their way through the woods with only the stars and a partly-obscured moon to guide them.
The descent had been comparatively easy, but this was almost more than human endurance could stand. Several times great rocks impeded their progress and they were forced to go around them. They paused frequently to rest on accountof the young boy, who seemed all but exhausted. The frightened lad continued his sobbing at intervals, his body shaking like one with the ague. He refused to talk, however, save to respond to an occasional question in a monosyllable.
“Is that the camp, do you suppose?” Gerald inquired, suddenly, after they had climbed what seemed an interminable distance.
Jim, following the motion of his arm, saw a bright patch of light; but as he looked this resolved itself into sky. Concealing their disappointment, they continued the ascent.
At times they were almost tempted to cry out, but thoughts of the boy, and the fear that he had not been alone on the mountain, caused them to refrain.
Finally, they reached the road by which that morning they had come upon the mountain. Now, at least, they were able to get their bearings, for the mountain to the east, the first one they had ascended after leaving the foothills in the auto, loomed up sentinel-like, through the moonlight.
Forming their impressions by their distance from this mountain, the boys decided that they were nearly half a mile from camp.
“Just think of all the climb we wasted,” saidJim. “We might have been at camp twenty minutes ago had we been able to keep in the right direction.”
“Well, one thing is sure,” Gerald responded; “we’ll be able to find it now.”
They set off down the road, which, being composed of sand, was plainly visible in the moonlight, in spite of the deep shadows thrown by the trees on either side.
Some moments later they made out the tents. This time there was no mistake, for, as they listened, they heard the murmur of voices. The girls and Aunt Betty were no doubt discussing their protracted absence. Probably suspecting that some harm had come to the boys they were afraid to make their presence known, and were talking in low, guarded tones.
“Camp ahoy!” cried Gerald, suddenly.
Then everyone screamed, and there was a scramble to strike a light, as they all crowded around the boys with eager questions. Ephy struck a light and by its fitful glare the girls saw the pale face of the lad Jim and Gerald had found on the mountain.
“Here’s the result of our trip,” said Jim, as he led his burden forward.
“In heaven’s name!” cried Aunt Betty. “Who have you there, Jim Barlow?”
“Ask me something easy, Aunt Betty. We found him alone on the mountain, half scared to death. He won’t talk. He’s been hysterical all the way back. Perhaps after a good night’s rest he will be able to tell us who he is and where he came from.”
“You poor boy!” cried the sympathetic Dorothy.
Then, moved by a sudden impulse, she threw her arms about his neck and drew him to her—an action which the lad seemed in no way to resent.
The story of their adventure told, Gerald and Jim again sought their sleeping quarters, taking their newly-found friend with them.
Before they went to sleep they induced him to tell his name, which was Len Haley. When they pressed him to know how he came to be alone so far from home, he shook his head and his lip trembled. That, he said, he would tell them in the morning.
Fixing a comfortable place for him, the boys waited until he was sound asleep, before again closing their own eyes. Then, tired from the exertions of the day and night, they, too, dropped off to sleep, to the tune of old Ephraim’s snores.
While gathered about the breakfast table—if table, it could be called—the next morning, the campers heard the boy’s story. Len Haley had by this time thoroughly recovered from his fright, and he related in a timid, halting fashion how he had come to be alone on the mountain in the dead of night.
An orphan, living with his uncle, James Haley, near the little village of Armsdale in the valley, he had worked for years in a truck garden. Neither James Haley or his wife had experienced any affection for the lad, but seemed bent only upon making him carry on his young shoulders the burden of running their little farm.
Len, a willing worker, had accepted his lot as a matter of course. But when the hours grew longer, and he was forced to rise before daylight to milk the cows and feed the horses, and was not allowed to retire until the same services had been performed late at night, with hours of drudgery inthe field, during the intervening time, he had rebelled, only to be soundly beaten by his uncle, and told to return to his work under the penalty of being beaten till he was black and blue.
The boy had stood this as long as he could. Then he resolved to run away. He kept this purpose to himself, however, waiting for the proper opportunity to present itself.
The previous night James Haley had gone to the village about eight o’clock. Mrs. Haley was feeling badly, and it was necessary to fill a prescription at the drug store. Why Len was not selected for this mission he could not imagine, for usually his uncle took a keen delight in rousing him out of bed at all hours of the night.
It had seemed to the boy to be an omen in his favor. James Haley apparently believed him to be asleep at the time of his departure for the village. The boy had really gone to bed, but lay there thoroughly dressed. Soon after his uncle left the farm, the boy had crept softly down the stairs in his stocking feet, then out of the house. Putting on his shoes out by the barn he had immediately struck out for the mountains, not realizing what a terrible thing it was for a boy to be alone in the woods in the night time.
When finally this realization was brought home to him, he became frightened. But he gritted his teeth, resolved not to turn back. He knew full well that the beatings he had received in the past would be as nothing compared to what the future would hold in store, if James Haley ever laid hands on him again.
He wandered on up the mountainside as the hour grew late, until, driven almost into hysterics by the dreadful lonesomeness about him, he had cried out for help, hoping, he said, to attract the attention of some people he knew lived in this vicinity.
The first response to his cries had been Jim’s “Hello!” So overjoyed was Len at hearing a human voice again that he had come near fainting.
Now that the dreadful trip was a thing of the past, and the boy had an opportunity to think calmly over the matter, he feared that his cries had been heard in the valley, and it would be only the question of a few hours until his uncle would be searching the mountain.
The sympathies of the entire party, particularly those of Dorothy and Aunt Betty, were with the unfortunate boy, and what action was to be taken to keep him out of his uncle’s hands was to all a pertinent question.
“Don’t let them take me back there,” Len begged, while they were discussing the matter. “I’d rather die—honest to goodness, I would!”
“Oh, we just can’t let you go back,” was Aunt Betty’s rather grim resolve. “It’s against all the principles of human nature to stand by and see a young boy like you abused. You shall stay with us, Len; you shall be under our protection. We’ll find some way to circumvent your uncle and keep you out of his hands.”
Tears came into the boy’s eyes, and he flashed her a look of gratitude.
“We might take Len back to Baltimore with us and find him a position,” said Dorothy.
“There is enough work at Bellvieu alone to keep him busy for many months,” returned Aunt Betty. “Ephraim is getting old, and Metty is occupied with the care of the horses and cattle. Len shall be our yard boy for a while, if he desires.”
Len did desire, and did not hesitate to so express himself. He would work hard for Mrs. Calvert, he said, until he was old enough to strike out for himself.
This part of the matter was soon settled to the satisfaction of all. It was then decided that Len should remain in the seclusion of one of the tentsduring the day, so that he would be out of sight from anyone approaching Camp Breck from either direction. Aurora had brought a bundle of reading matter, including several illustrated papers, and these were placed at Len’s disposal. The boy had had several years of schooling previous to the death of his parents, and was a fair reader. Like most boys who have been restrained through one cause or another from reading all the books they desired, he was ready and anxious to devour anything that came his way.
Jim and Gerald put their heads together, and resolved to circumvent James Haley should he appear on the scene in search of Len.
“We’ll lead him away from the camp,” said Jim, “without telling him any deliberate untruths—send him off on a false scent. Aunt Betty is right, you know; we can’t let him go back to a life like that.”
“No,” said Gerald; “it would be a pity. If his uncle’s treatment was bad enough to make Len take to the mountains in the night time, it must have been at least a mild sort of an inquisition.”
The boys congratulated themselves later on planning matters out in advance, for the forenoon was barely half gone when two horsemen rode out ofthe woods to the south of the camp and turned their horses in the direction of the tents.
Jim was the first to see them.
“Don’t be startled, folks,” he said, “and please don’t turn and ‘rubber,’ for there are two men coming toward camp on horseback.”
“Oh!” gasped Molly. “Poor Len!”
“Poor Len, nothing!” Jim returned. “I know it is hard for a girl to refrain from doing something she’s been asked not to, but if you turn your head, Molly Breckenridge, or let on in any way that you’ve seen those horsemen, you need never call me your friend again. We must act like we haven’t seen them, until they hail us. Ephraim, you sneak into the tent, without looking to the right or the left. Then hide Len under the cots or somewhere where they won’t find him. Gerald and I will talk to the men when they arrive.”
The girls and Aunt Betty kept their presence of mind very well, considering the fact that they were laboring under no little excitement.
Ephraim went carelessly into the tent, as Jim had bade him, where he concealed the runaway lad in a very natural manner under a heavy quilt. It mattered not that the weather was excessively warm this time of day; the old negro figured that theexigencies of the case demanded desperate measures, and as for Len, he accepted his punishment without a whimper.
By the time the men had drawn rein before the tents, Ephraim was sitting calmly in a chair, an illustrated paper in his hand, puffing complacently at his pipe.
“Good morning,” greeted the larger of the two men.
“Good morning,” returned Jim, pleasantly. Then he and Gerald went forward to meet them.
One of the riders, a rather pompous-looking individual, with a long, drooping mustache, dismounted and threw the reins over his horse’s head.
“I’m Sheriff Dundon of this county, boys,” he said. “The gentleman with me is Mr. Haley. We’re searching for a boy named Len Haley—Mr. Haley’s nephew, in fact. He left his home down in the valley some time in the night. We thought perhaps you’d seen him.”
Jim and Gerald exchanged feigned glances of surprise, which was part of the plan they had mapped out to save Len.
“It must have been him we heard cry out in the night,” said Jim.
“Yes,” Gerald responded. “Too bad we didn’t know it was only a boy.”
“You heard someone cry out in the night, then?” the sheriff asked, while the man on the horse eyed them keenly, and flashed curious glances about the camp.
“Why, yes,” Jim returned; “Old Ephraim, our darkey, woke us up in the night to hear some mournful noises which he said came from somewhere down the mountainside. We listened and heard someone crying out at intervals for help. But having no fire-arms, and not knowing whether it was a drunken man or a lunatic, we were afraid to venture very far away from camp.”
“What time was this?”
“Must have been in the neighborhood of two o’clock.”
The sheriff shot a questioning glance at Mr. Haley.
“It was Len; no doubt about it,” said that worthy, nodding. “He’s only a kid and I s’pose he got scared when he found himself alone in the dark.”
“You don’t know which way he was going at that time?” asked the sheriff, turning again to the boys.
“It would be hard to say. At one time the cries seemed to be nearer, then got farther, and finally ceased altogether. We all heard them, including the ladies, and none of us went back to bed until everything was quiet.”
“Let’s see,” said the sheriff; “I didn’t quite catch your names.”
“Mine’s Jim Barlow. This is Gerald Blank. We’re members of a camping party from Baltimore. We arrived in the mountains yesterday morning for a two weeks’ stay.”
“Blank?” repeated the sheriff. “Blank? Any relation to Blank, the broker?”
“He’s my father,” said Gerald.
“That so? Then I’m right glad to meet you.” The sheriff extended a horny hand, which Gerald shook. “I knew him years ago. Didn’t realize he had a boy as old as you. Well, we must be getting on. Sorry you can’t give us a clue to the boy’s whereabouts.”