Perhaps Peggy had old-fashioned ideas. There was a kind of simplicity about her which made her seem younger than she actually was. But she had gotten some of these ideas from her father, who had the old-time courtesy and respect for women, in spite of the fact that he belonged to the new generation. Peggy knew that he felt a man should never talk of a woman with other men in any way that would reflect upon her, however little he might respect or like the woman.
Just for a moment it flashed through Peggy’s mind to reflect how angry her father would be, if he ever learned that two young men had actually made a bet concerning her—and one through which her dignity and self-respect must suffer. Then she put the thought away from her as unworthy of consideration.
During the first part of their walk, Peggy made no reference to the reason she had had for having asked Ralph to come over to see her so soon after their farewell the evening before. Indeed, she had almost forgotten the reason herself, although always the consciousness of it was lurking at the back of her brain.
But she and Ralph enjoyed walking together. There never was a lovelier place than among these tall pine forests with the trails cut between the trees, and leading into unexpected and open vistas.
Ralph had a charming voice and, when he and Peggy were walking in single file and not talking, he sang for her amusement. He seemed to have been to every light opera that had been produced in the last five years, and knew at least one or two songs from each of them. As Peggy lived in the country and had heard but few, she was greatly entertained.
It was Ralph who finally suggested that they rest.
But it was Peggy who chose the somewhat extraordinary place.
There was a particularly large pine tree at the edge of an open space. It had long branches which swung out, like comfortable hammocks, not far above the ground.
Peggy climbed into one of them and sat with her feet curled up under her in an odd fashion, with her back resting against the trunk of the tree.
Ralph sat nearer the end so that his weight bore the branch down almost to the ground.
“Peggy, you look like a tree nymph, or an elf, or whatever wood spirit is supposed to inhabit a tree. I am not well up on tree-ology, or anything else,” Ralph said good humoredly. “But you are so dark and your eyes and hair and skin are so brown. Besides somehow you have an altogether, outdoor look about you.”
Peggy laughed. “Do you mean that for a compliment, Ralph? Because, of course, I understand that translated your speech simply means I am tanned until I look like an Indian, or something else not completely civilised.”
Then Peggy’s expression changed and she actually flushed scarlet.
“There is something I want to ask you, Ralph, though now that I have the chance I had much rather not. You see, I realize that it isn’t true, but I owe it to you to be able to tell Howard Brent so. You didn’t make a bet with Terry Benton about me, did you? You didn’t say you would win my friendship by being attentive to me, just for the sake of a wager? My friendship really isn’t valuable enough, and in any case you could have had it without taking that much trouble.”
Because Ralph did not answer at once, Peggy bent over toward him from her higher place.
“I’m sorry, Ralph; naturally you are angry with me; but I didn’t believe the story for a minute.”
Ralph returned the girl’s look steadily. The expression of his face had never been stronger. His old expression of laughing good nature and plastic content with himself and circumstances at least temporarily disappeared.
“It is true though, Peggy,” he answered, “although I would give a good deal to be able to tell you it was not.”
In spite of his reply, Peggy continued to look puzzled.
“But I can’t understand any reason,” she protested.
Ralph shook his head. “Of course you can’t, and there isn’t any. In an idiotic moment I simply said a very stupid thing to Terry Benton without realizing just how ugly and ill-mannered it was. Ever since I have been trying my best to forget I ever said it. You are the one person in the world whom I would rather not have brought into such a discussion, and to find that out is a part of my punishment. I wonder if you can believe, Peggy, how sorry and ashamed I am, and have been ever since I made a foolish wager which I regretted the moment after I had gotten into it. You are such a clean, straightforward person, Peggy, I don’t suppose you can even imagine how a human being can do an ugly thing and yet not be altogether horrid.”
Ralph was talking like a boy, forgetting that he was a number of years older than his companion.
But Peggy’s eyes had changed their expression and were no longer puzzled.
“I might, be willing to accept your point of view, Ralph, if, after you had made the wager in which I was to be a victim to your vanity, you had paid no attention to me. But I can’t forget that it was afterwards you began being agreeable to me, asking me to take walks and to dance with you. If you did not care about winning your wager, why did you not continue to politely ignore me, as you had always done? Well you were successful enough, because I did like you very much until now.”
Peggy’s cheeks were scarlet and yet she could be nothing but truthful.
“I have a dreadful temper and I am so angry with you now, I feel as if I never wish to see or speak to you again. Please let me go back to camp alone.”
Ralph shook his head.
“No, I won’t do that,” he answered quietly, “but I will not trouble you along the way—not even by asking your forgiveness. Some day, perhaps, I may be able to prove to you how truly sorry I am. Now I can’t even pretend that I have any more right to your friendship.”
A few days later the Camp Fire guardian drove over to the hotel nearby, accompanied only by Mr. Jefferson Simpson.
Bettina had offered to go with her, but she had announced that she preferred going alone.
This was curious because the one thing Mrs. Burton had made a point of, ever since the arrival of her Camp Fire party in Arizona, was that she be allowed to remain as inconspicuous as possible. And, if she wished nobody to find out who she was, she had certainly to remain in obscurity.
To appear at a fashionable hotel filled with Eastern tourists was to proclaim her identity, since the greater number of them would assuredly be familiar with her appearance, knowing her by reputation if not having actually seen her act.
But Mrs. Burton was too worried to consider small, personal annoyances. Then she had a fashion of acting suddenly, having no very great patience with the things that displeased her.
For the last few days the atmosphere of the Sunrise camp had not been an agreeable one. However, the trouble was not with the Camp Fire girls, they being only incidental; the difficulty was a family one, which is of all varieties the most trying. And Mrs. Burton had been away from her own family so much of the time that she had almost forgotten how wrought up one can become over comparatively small matters, when they affect one’s own people.
In the first place, for several days Peggy Webster had been entirely unlike herself, without giving the least reason for her sudden change from her natural buoyancy to a condition of gravity and depression.
More annoying, she insisted that she was not depressed. When Mrs. Burton and Bettina frankly told her that they did not believe her assertion; nevertheless she would take neither one of them into her confidence.
Afterwards when Mrs. Burton insisted that Peggy was not well and must have suffered from her fall and so should see a doctor, Peggy flatly declined to see one. However, Peggy’s refusal did not affect her aunt.
One of the errands which brought her to the hotel was to call upon the hotel physician and make an appointment with him to come over to their camp.
Personally, Mrs. Burton was hurt by Peggy’s behavior. She cared for Peggy more than for anybody in the world, except her husband and sister and perhaps her beloved girlhood friend, Betty Graham.
If anything troubled Peggy, either mentally or physically, her aunt did not understand why she would not confide in her. Ordinarily they understood each other perfectly, so that even when they disagreed and had small fallings out, their estrangements never lasted more than an hour or so.
But the expression in her niece’s face had recently troubled Polly Burton. She could not endure the thought of Peggy being ill or unhappy. If there was anything in the world that Peggy desired, which she could possibly obtain for her, she would have traveled to the end of the world to secure it. And this Peggy knew. Nevertheless she had been going about camp for the last few days doing her ordinary tasks, walking and driving with the other girls, but always with an expression that was not Peggy’s.
Instead of her usual, frank, clear look of happiness and good comradeship, she had a hurt, almost an abashed expression, as if life had somehow suddenly made her feel less sure of its justice and sincerity.
Yet, there was no trouble between Peggy and any one of the Camp Fire girls. Besides being more generally popular than any other member of the group, Bettina had made every effort to discover if a difficulty had arisen and could find no trace of one.
Over the other family matter which was disturbing both her mother and aunt, Peggy could not be worrying, because she had scolded and laughed at both of them, insisting that they were making too much of nothing.
Billy’s affairs were always involved in more or less mystery, and Billy adored mystery. The fact that he was disappearing every day and refusing to tell any one where he went, or what he was doing, did not make any particular impression upon his sister. Peggy really believed that Billy on most occasions behaved in this fashion in order to create an excitement of which he could be the center.
However, this time at least, his mother and aunt were under a different impression. Mrs. Webster was nearly sick with annoyance and anxiety over Billy’s obstinacy and what she considered his reckless behavior.
After being an invalid for several months and refusing to exert himself in order to regain his strength, he had suddenly announced that he was entirely well and able to do whatever he wished. At present this consisted on going away from Sunrise camp early each morning and often not returning until bedtime. When he did come in he was usually exhausted, but he must have recovered during the night, since he was able to start out again next day.
Nevertheless, Billy looked very frail and young, and whatever his mother may have felt, Mrs. Burton had wished a number of times lately that he was small enough to lock up in a dark bedroom, like a wilful small boy.
She did not happen to possess a dark bedroom at camp, but then facts never interfered with the sweep of Mrs. Burton’s imagination.
She had talked to Billy a number of times, begging and commanding him not to continue to worry his mother and at least to tell her where he was spending his time. But, although Billy was very sweet and apologetic, begging them both not to be uncomfortable over him, and saying that he would certainly tell what he was doing if he could, he did not take anybody into his confidence, nor did he cease to make daily disappearances.
Even Vera Lageloff was not told of his plans, and if she had any suspicion, she must have been pledged to silence, since she never mentioned it.
Today, as Mr. Simpson stopped her carriage in front of the great hotel, Mrs. Burton had about reached the conclusion that she was not so unhappy over having no children of her own, as she had always believed herself to be. However, if she was going to take her nephews and niece so seriously, after all what was she being spared?
So far as Peggy was concerned she was unhappy over her, but not angry. No one could be seriously angry for long with Peggy. But, with Billy, Mrs. Burton’s point of view was a totally different one. He was too young to be a law unto himself, if there was ever an age when one had the right to be. Personally she had no idea of enduring his obstinate attitude, or being responsible for what he might be doing.
There was one person whose authority Billy would be obliged to respect, and that was his father’s. Mrs. Burton had not mentioned her intention to her sister, but she was now on her way to telegraph him. Would he come to them, or was Billy to be sent home?
In spite of her absorption in family affairs she was annoyed, as she approached the hotel, to find the front veranda crowded with tourists.
If only she could make way through them without being observed!
Certainly Polly Burton appreciated the fact that she was neither a very beautiful or impressive person to behold, and that, except for her reputation as a celebrated actress, she would never be annoyed with undue observation. But one had to take into consideration the fact that one’s face had appeared on billboards in nearly every large city in the country and that people were not blind and also possessed memories. Moreover, although Mrs. Burton was not herself aware of it, the power of her personality and great gift were evident in her appearance. If one looked at her closely she would hold your interest and attention as no statuesquely beautiful person ever could.
Mrs. Burton was dressed quietly in a brown cloth suit, such as any traveler would have worn. Nevertheless she saw people staring and heard them whispering to one another as she walked up on the porch.
The next instant a young man came toward her. It was Ralph Marshall.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Burton?” he inquired.
Polly nodded emphatically.
“Yes; do get me out of this crowd and into a quiet place where I can attend to some things I have come here for, before anybody speaks to me,” she urged. “I have so much on my mind at present that if I am asked to behave like a distinguished character should, even for an instant, I am sure to disgrace myself and my profession.”
The next moment she and Ralph had found a small, deserted parlor toward the back of the hotel.
“Is there anything more I can do to be of service?” he inquired.
Mrs. Burton looked relieved.
“Why, yes, Ralph, there are several things, if you are not too busy to give me some of your time,” she returned.
Ralph shook his head. “No; I am not busy,” he answered, with an inflection the older woman did not notice.
“Then will you find the hotel physician for me. Peggy isn’t well and I wish him to come over to see her at the camp.”
For a moment Ralph Marshall hesitated and seemed about to say something, but instead turned and walked slowly out of the room. At the door, however, he paused.
“I’ll find out and be back in a few moments,” he returned.
He remained away longer, but Mrs. Burton was hardly aware of it. She was thinking too deeply. Now, that she had arrived at the door of her decision and was ready to open it, she had half an idea of turning back.
To telegraph her brother-in-law that Billy was being difficult to handle meant the end of Billy’s stay in the West. And, like a good many other persons with tempers, Mrs. Burton was ridiculously tender hearted.
Billy greatly needed the change of climate and the life outdoors he had been leading. He was too frail and was lately growing into a tall, delicate reed of a boy, as unlike the ordinary boy as it was possible for one of them to be.
But, with all his obstinacies and peculiarities Polly Burton knew that she was more interested in him than she was in Dan, who was more satisfactory in every way and never troublesome.
Then suddenly, sitting alone here in the small hotel parlor, she recalled a circumstance of her own life. For an entire year she had made a secret of her own acts, indeed of her own whereabouts, hiding the knowledge from her friends and from her family, excepting only her mother, in order that she might accomplish her desire without criticism.
She had wanted to learn to act and had felt that she could go through the discipline she needed with a better courage if she had neither assistance nor advice. And she had been right.
Now could it be possible that at the present time Billy was being obstinate and secretive for some reason which he felt was justifiable? In all probability he was mistaken; but, even so, had one not better allow him a little more liberty? Billy had done a number of extraordinary things in his life and also a number of wrong ones; but to explain them he always had some queer theory of his own which he had seriously worked out. He did not act impulsively and he was as clean and as spiritually gallant as a seraph.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Burton had not reached a decision when Ralph Marshall re-entered the room. For there was always her Sister Mollie’s peace of mind to be considered, and the danger that Billy with his absurd ideas might get himself into real trouble.
“The doctor will be here to speak to you in about five minutes, Mrs. Burton, if you can wait so long,” Ralph reported, taking a chair near her.
He looked so unlike his usual self that, for the first time since their meeting, his companion’s attention was arrested.
Ordinarily Ralph Marshall had a debonair air of self-satisfaction and happiness, as if he were pleased with himself and with the world’s pleasure in him—at least his own world, for few of us ever think far beyond it. He was not disagreeable or half so inane as this idea suggests. For the facts were that Ralph Marshall was handsome, charming, and extremely rich. He had always had everything he wished without making the least effort to obtain it. People had always seemed to like him, and girls and women had undeniably spoiled him. So it was not extraordinary that he had a fairly amiable opinion of himself.
However, today Ralph’s face wore another expression; instead of appearing pleased he looked extremely out of sorts with himself, and with everything and everybody.
“Is Peggy very ill?” he asked, endeavoring to speak with careless politeness, but finding himself coloring as he put the conventional question.
Mrs. Burton shook her head.
“No; Peggy says there is nothing the matter, and perhaps she is right. It is only that I am absurdly uneasy when there is the least change in her. Recently she has not looked very well and has not been so agreeable as she ordinarily is. There does not seem anything else I think of as an explanation, except that she is ill.”
Ralph did not flush a second time, but instead had an unexpected sense of well being. At least he had been right in his estimate of Peggy Webster. Whatever he might be himself she was the real thing. Evidently not a word of betrayal of him and his treatment of her had passed her lips. Peggy knew that he valued Mrs. Burton’s and her mother’s friendship, and that he would have been placed in an uncomfortable position with his own family, if they had ceased their friendly attitude toward him.
“What is the matter with you, Ralph?” Mrs. Burton inquired unexpectedly.
This was his opportunity, nevertheless Ralph evaded it.
“Oh, I have had a disagreeable letter from the governor,” he answered. “Every once and a while father gets down on me and writes that he will cast me off with the proverbial penny, if I don’t find out what kind of work I want to do and start at it. Sometimes it isn’t an easy job to be the only son of a self-made man. When a man thinks he has made himself he is apt to think he can make everybody else do his way.”
“Do you hate the thought of work so much, Ralph?” Mrs. Burton queried.
She did not speak in a disagreeable fashion, merely in a questioning one.
And Ralph Marshall found himself fascinated, watching the color and warmth in her face.
“Do you know I am awfully sorry for people who feel in that way. I don’t suppose you can realize this while you are young, but, as one grows older, doing one’s work is half the joy of living. Still, I don’t mean to preach. I believe the girls say, the fact that I don’t is my chief value as a Camp Fire guardian.”
“I wish you would preach to me,” Ralph answered, “or at least let me talk to you. Because a fellow does not say anything, you need not think he does not realize what a wonderful person you are! It must be great to be famous and to know you have done it all yourself. As for me, it isn’t that I hate work. I don’t know anything about it. The difficulty is getting down to finding out what I want to do.”
Polly Burton nodded, just as Polly O’Neill would have done, with a quick look of understanding.
“Sometimes it is hard luck being born rich, Ralph. But I wouldn’t let it be too much for me, if I were you. Start at anything that comes your way and afterwards you’ll find the right thing. Do you mind my quoting something to you? You see it is my business to repeat what other people write.”
Ralph did not seem to think acquiescence on his part necessary.
This was the first conversation he had ever held alone with Mrs. Burton and he was entirely under the spell of her personal charm. And yet it seemed extraordinary to him that so great a personage could be so simple and unaffected.
Mrs. Burton also took his agreement for granted, for she went on:
“I learned the verse for Billy’s and Dan’s delectation, but I am trying it first on you. I don’t suppose you have read an extraordinary but uncomfortable book called ‘The Spoon River Anthology?’”
Mrs. Burton naturally made no effort at recitation, which, under the circumstances, would have been ridiculous. She merely repeated the verse as any one else would have done, except that it was impossible for her to change the beautiful quality of her voice.
“My boy, wherever you are,Work for your soul’s sake,That all the clay of you, all the dross of you,May yield to the fire of you,Till the fire is nothing but light!Nothing but light!”
“My boy, wherever you are,
Work for your soul’s sake,
That all the clay of you, all the dross of you,
May yield to the fire of you,
Till the fire is nothing but light!
Nothing but light!”
To his amazement Ralph Marshall felt tears in his eyes.
“Mrs. Burton, I want to tell you something,” he announced as unexpectedly to himself as to her.
Then, without attempting in any way to exonerate himself, Ralph Marshall told the story of his wager and the effort he had made to win Peggy’s liking, in order to gratify his own vanity.
“It is a nice sensation to find you are a cad, Mrs. Burton, and that the girl you have more respect and more liking for than any other you have ever known thinks so too. Besides, I have recently been informed of the fact by Howard Brent and, as I happened to agree with his judgment of me, I couldn’t very well argue the question with him to my own satisfaction.”
“No,” Mrs. Burton replied, “you couldn’t well argue a fact.”
She was extremely angry with Ralph herself as he told his story.
She would have been scornful in any case, but that he should have chosen Peggy as his game was a little more than her spirit could endure.
But a few moments later she was really sorry for her companion.
Ralph attempted no apology, or excused himself by extenuating circumstances.
“Oh well, Ralph, you need not look as if you had committed all the crimes in the calendar. All of us fall from grace now and then; only, if I were you, I wouldn’t chose this kind again.”
Mrs. Burton had risen from her chair.
“I can’t wait for that tiresome doctor any longer. I think I want to send a telegram, although I am actually not yet sure.”
Her lips twitched with a slightly whimsical grimace at herself. But Ralph Marshall had scarcely noticed her words or her expression.
“Do you think there is anything I can do to make up in any way, Mrs. Burton?” he asked. “Of course, I don’t expect Peggy to have faith in me or care for my friendship again. But I would like to be of some service to one of you, principally for my own self-respect,” he added. “But, of course, there is nothing I can do. I am not much good because Peggy actually saved me from falling the other day, when it should have been the other way round.”
Mn. Burton was thinking quickly, as she usually did.
“There is a favor you can do for me, Ralph; I have just thought of it,” she answered. “I know I can trust you to keep what you find out a secret, and Peggy will appreciate it as well. Don’t allow yourself to think that, because you were capable of doing one ugly thing, you are capable of continuing to do them. That impression has ruined many a human being.
“My extremely trying nephew, Billy Webster, has lately turned himself into a mystery. I think his mother and I have the right to know where he goes each day and what he is doing. He refuses to tell us. If you will find out and not speak of it, except to me, I don’t think it will be playing unfair with Billy, and it may save us all a good deal. But I’ll try to have a talk with the young man tonight, to persuade him to confide in me. In any case will you come over to camp early in the morning, Ralph? I won’t telegraph—at least I won’t telegraph today. I’ll leave a message at the desk for the doctor.”
But, at this instant, the hotel physician entered the room.
Peggy Webster had her arms filled with pine branches when she met Ralph Marshall coming toward Sunrise camp the following day.
She had gone a short distance into the woods for some light twigs for the camp fire, as the supply had gotten low.
She was walking with her head thrown back to keep the pine needles from touching her face, although their fragrance always thrilled her. They were so spicy, so woodsy, so redolent of a fine sweetness that had no cloying element in it. Surely the pine was a wise choice for the Camp Fire emblem. If a girl can grow into a woman keeping the same kind of spiritual fragrance that the pine tree sheds as a physical one, she has no reason to fear that her value may ever fail.
Peggy had not seen Ralph since the afternoon of his uncomfortable confession and she had not made up her mind just how she should meet him. So now her eyes widened and her lips parted a little; she was already flushed from the exertion of her work and the weight of the burden she carried.
But Peggy spoke naturally enough, as she would have done to any acquaintance, although the past sensation of pleasure she had felt at any chance meeting with Ralph had gone.
Ralph came forward and quietly extended his hands for pine branches and, in spite of the fact that Peggy hesitated, he took the greater number of them from her. A few of the twigs broke and fell on the ground.
“I came over to camp this morning because Mrs. Burton asked me to come, Peggy; otherwise I would not have intruded upon you,” he declared.
The girl shook her head.
“I have not the faintest desire to keep you away from Sunrise camp, Ralph. Indeed, I would be sorry if you let me interfere with your actions in any way. The other girls like you a great deal and I am sure would miss seeing you.”
Ralph did not answer. He had noticed that Peggy had said “other girls,” but also that she had spoken without a pretense of wishing to impress him with the knowledge of her disfavor or her change of attitude toward him. She had spoken with perfectly unconscious sincerity and Ralph Marshall appreciated that, for once in his life at least, he had known a girl who said what she meant. Peggy’s expression “other girls” had really been a slip on her part, as she had not intended bringing herself into the situation in any way.
At camp they parted, Peggy going to announce to her aunt that Ralph wished to see her. And a few moments later Mrs. Burton appeared.
Ralph had been talking to Gerry and Sally, while he was forced to wait, and as they were determinedly planning an excursion in which he was to take part that afternoon, he had to be rescued by Mrs. Burton.
It was never possible to talk with any privacy in the immediate neighborhood of the camp. The girls were constantly going in and out of their tents, rebuilding the camp fire, or doing any one of a hundred things in connection with their work or entertainment. This morning Mrs. Webster was also sewing in front of the fire, with Dan coming back and forth to talk to her.
Ralph Marshall did not see Billy Webster, but, as he had rather a fashion of remaining alone, this did not mean that he had actually vanished from camp.
“Suppose we walk in the direction of the cliffs, Ralph,” Mrs. Burton suggested and then, almost as soon as they had started, she added:
“Yes, Billy has gone; he left before breakfast this morning so there could be no chance of a family argument. Dan says he slipped out of their tent without his knowing when he departed. And this, after I had expended an hour of precious eloquence upon the young man last night, sitting up with him when everybody else had gone to bed, and I was abominably sleepy.”
Mrs. Burton shrugged her shoulders, expressing amusement and chagrin, as well as anxiety.
“I am afraid I haven’t the slightest influence with him; but, then, no one else has—or perhaps I don’t know. I asked Vera if she thought she could influence him and she assured me she could not. She says my sister is mistaken in thinking that she influences Billy; he has always influenced her, although she is older and infinitely more sensible. But, Ralph, I only tell you this about Billy, because I want you to know something of the character of the boy you may have to deal with, if you succeed in doing what I ask of you. I know you have never noticed Billy particularly; few people do at first when Dan is around. Dan is so much better looking and more agreeable. But Billy is the stronger character of the two, strange as it seems to all of us. But whether for good or the other thing,” Mrs. Burton smiled a little ruefully, “I suppose if we live long enough we may find out. No gentleman could have been more courteous to me than my nephew was last night, or more utterly unmoved by my efforts at persuasion or command.
“There is just one thing we have to rely on in order to save Billy from what may turn into a real difficulty. Vera Lageloff has confided in me that she and Billy one afternoon discovered a group of objectionable men. I don’t know anything about them, except that they were on a strike or something of the kind, and that you and Peggy had met them by accident a short time before. But Billy has a passion for the unfortunate. He had only to hear that people are up in arms against something or some one and he is always in the midst of them.
“It was curious, but whenever the laborers on my brother-in-law’s place had any kind of grievance, they first put the matter up to Billy before taking it to his father. And you know Mr. Webster well enough to understand that he is the most just of men.”
Mrs. Burton had been walking slowly along but she now stopped and frowned, facing her companion.
“I don’t know why but I am frightened. I am afraid Billy is mixing himself up in some difficulty in which he has not the slightest concern, or the least reason for taking part in. And Vera is under the same impression, else she would never have told me what she did. She says Billy made her promise not to speak of their excursion, and she hated breaking her word to him. But she, too, is nervous about him and thinks we ought to find out what he is doing. Of course, we may both be on the wrong track. The boy may be off amusing himself somewhere in a perfectly simple fashion. But if you will only find out, Ralph, I shall be everlastingly grateful. I am pretty fond of Billy, though I don’t understand him and he certainly annoys me.”
Ralph smiled in an entirely efficient and satisfying manner.
“Oh, I expect you take the young man too seriously, Mrs. Burton. All boys have cranks of one kind or another, though I must confess Billy’s do not seem to be the ordinary kind. Don’t worry any more; I’ll find him for you and bring him home by the ear. Oh, I don’t mean literally; only from what you have told me I expect the youth takes himself too seriously. He has been ill so much he is probably more or less spoiled. I think the influence of an older fellow may do him good. I am accustomed to taking kinks out of the younger boys at college now and then, when they suffer from swell heads.”
Ralph spoke in a condescending, elderly brother tone which amused Mrs. Burton, although she showed no sign of it. Instead, she gave a little sigh of relief.
“But please be careful, won’t you, Ralph,” she added. “Billy isn’t like other people and he does have to be treated a little differently. Oh, I know you men don’t think this of each other, and Billy’s father will not consider the idea for a moment. But I think if he had talked to Billy more frankly, and asked him to wait a while before he decided so many questions for himself, the boy would not be so difficult.
“Let’s go back now, Ralph, as we have talked over the situation and said as much as there is to say. I don’t suppose you can do anything immediately; but, if, within the next few days you make any kind of discovery, suppose you let me know first. I really am worried over Billy’s realizing I have tried to spy upon him. I should have been dreadfully angry with any one who had done the same thing to me when I was his unreasonable age.”
“Oh, I don’t think Billy will have anything to complain of,” Ralph replied, as if Billy’s attitude held not the slightest interest for him. “And I don’t think I need be forever tracing the young person either—not if he has fallen in with the group Peggy and I met.
“Fortunately, I know where they can be found if they have not disappeared from their camping place. But what there can be in those fellows to interest a youngster, I can’t see.
“I wonder if your man will lend me a burro? I walked over from my hotel, and I think I’ll start out on the trail at once.”
Ralph was really interested in his quest. There was an agreeable element of mystery in it as well as knight errantry. Besides, an older fellow is seldom averse to making a younger one feel small, when he happens to think it good for him. Moreover, Ralph had been considerably out of sorts with himself for several days and it is always pleasanter to dwell on another’s shortcomings.
As soon as Mr. Simpson had allowed him the use of one of the camp ponies for the day, Ralph started off at a leisurely pace.
After all, it was rather good fun to have something definite to do, instead of idling all one’s time. And if one was accomplishing a favor for either Mrs. Burton or Peggy Webster, why all the more was the effort worth while. Billy Webster really played a very small part in Ralph Marshall’s thoughts.
Ralph Marshall’s pilgrimage was in vain. When he reached the place where the men had been in hiding, every trace of them had disappeared. He might have thought that he had made a mistake in the spot, except that there were marks on the ground where the camp fire had been, and he clearly remembered the circle of small hills.
After remaining in the neighborhood for half an hour or more and seeing no human being, Ralph knew that his task was not to be so easily accomplished. But he had no inclination to return and loiter about his hotel. Even failure was better than boredom, and the last few days had been intensely dull. Ralph was weary of sightseeing and seldom took an interest in viewing things alone. He was no longer friendly with Terry Benton and Howard Brent, whose expressed opinions of him had not been flattering. And, in spite of Peggy’s generosity, he felt himself cut off from the companionship of the Camp Fire girls.
Perhaps Ralph did not realize it, but the fact was that he did not care for the society of the other girls, now that Peggy’s was denied him.
Moreover, even if it were but slight, an ambition had been stirred in him by Mrs. Burton. Actually he wanted to succeed in what she had asked him to do. Rarely in his life had he been stirred by this emotion, except perhaps by the desire to win a game of tennis, or be elected to some special college fraternity.
Getting on his burro again, Ralph started off in another direction. He knew that he was traveling toward the line of railroad and supposed he would find more signs of life there. Certainly he could not discover less. It was also possible that he might run across some one who would have known of the dissatisfied men and might at least offer a suggestion as to what had become of them.
Of course, in finding the strikers one would not necessarily obtain information of Billy Webster’s proceedings. But, so long as one was under the impression that he might be spending his time in their society, they must first be hunted out. Afterwards, if Billy were not with them, then one could pursue some other idea.
After reaching the railroad line, Ralph jogged along on the road that ran alongside of it.
The road had been cut through somewhat more open country, nevertheless he met no one in passing. At present it was past noon, but, although Ralph was usually fond of his own comfort, it had not yet occurred to him that his prospect for food was a very poor one.
Then, half an hour later, when he was not in the least expecting to reach any such place, Ralph came upon a railroad station. There was a small frame building beside a platform and near it a typical western grocery store, which means that it held a great many other things beside groceries.
Ralph was feeling tired and a little hungry. If he was to continue riding about the country all day in this vague fashion, it would be as well to secure food for himself when he could. There was never yet a country store without cheese and crackers.
Ralph tied his pony to the hitching post and strolled up to the door of the store. The door was partly open and he could see a man inside who was probably a customer, as he did not appear to be the proprietor, and was talking with some one.
Ralph walked in and the man stopped talking. He was smoking a short pipe and looked curiously at the newcomer. Ralph’s appearance was a surprise. He looked so exactly like the old-fashioned western phrase which described the Eastern youth as a “tenderfoot.” Ralph’s riding costume was too new, too clean and too fashionable ever to have seen real service. But he knew how to make himself acceptable to most people.
He bowed a curt but friendly nod to the other man as he moved up toward the counter.
“I am a stranger in this part of the country,” he announced, “and I have been riding all morning. I wonder if you can let me eat a little something here?”
The grocery keeper was friendly enough and began shoving out the various supplies that the newcomer had asked for, conscious of the fact that he was a good customer.
Then Ralph climbed up on a stool and began eating his lunch and drinking ginger ale out of the glass bottle. He was enjoying himself a good deal more than he had at many a fashionable luncheon served at an expensive hotel.
By and by he turned to the other man who had not left the store.
“I wonder if you would have a bite with me?” he suggested. “I never did like having to eat alone.”
The man hesitated and then came forward.
“Don’t care if I do,” he answered in a somewhat surly fashion, but Ralph observed that he ate hungrily, and they had to have the supplies renewed a second time.
When they had finished they both strolled out of the store together and, without any discussion of the matter, sat down beside each other on the railroad platform. Each man looked as if he had no other interest or occupation in life except just to wait until a train passed by.