But what was this? She was sinking, going down, down, down. She was in the lake, sinking, sinking. But that did not appear to matter. She could breathe easily. The churn was still in her hands when she reached bottom.
Fishes came to stare at her and at the churn, friendly fishes they appeared to be. They stood away and stared.
But now they were gone, scooting away in great fright. A scaly monster with big staring eyes rushed at her. She screamed, made one wild rush—then suddenly awoke to find herself sitting up in bed. She had been dreaming.
But what bed was this—what place? For one full moment she could not tell. It was all so very strange! The ceiling was low. There were two other narrow beds in the room. A large black pipe ran through the center of the room. The place was cold. She shuddered, then drew the covers over her. Then, of a sudden, she remembered. She was in a fisherman’s cottage on Isle Royale in Lake Superior. She had come there by airplane with Sandy, who was to watch men trap wild moose.
Her real airplane ride was to be a long remembered adventure. To go sailing over miles and miles of dark blue waters, then to catch sight of something very white that really was an island but which, at a distance, looked like a white frosted cake resting on a dark blue tablecloth—oh, that had given her a real thrill.
“All that was no dream,” she assured herself, “for here are my two good friends, Vivian and Violet Carlson, sleeping close by me in their own beds. And that,” she decided, “is why I dreamed of an airplane.”
But was it? And what of the barrel-churn? The churn—ah, yes, she remembered now. Vivian had shown it to her in her curiosity shop. It was closed tight, all rusted shut, and it had been picked up from the bottom of the lake in a fisherman’s net.
“But it’s heavy,” she told herself. “I’d like to know what’s inside it, if anything at all. I’ll find out, too. You can make things unscrew, even if they’re terribly rusted, by putting kerosene on them. I’ve seen father do that. I’ll ask Vivian if I may try to do it, perhaps tomorrow.”
For a moment, lying there listening to the crackling of the fire in the stove below their room, she felt all comfortable and happy. She was in a strange little world, a fisherman’s world on Isle Royale. Everything was new and lovely. There were sleds and snowshoes, wild moose to trap, everything.
Then of a sudden her brow wrinkled. She had recalled the airplane in that dream. What did it mean? Then, as in a vision, she saw a circle, and inside the circle D.X.123.
“I saw it at the bottom of that little lost lake,” she told herself as a chill ran up her spine. “Anyway, I thought I saw it. And I must know!” She clenched her hands hard. “I must know for sure! I’ll justmakeVivian come there with me. I’ll tell her to look down there, ask her to tell me what she sees, then I’ll know for sure whether it is real or only a sort of day-dream.
“I must,” she whispered, “must—must—must—”
Once again she was lost to the world, this time to a land of dreamless sleep.
When she awoke, Vivian was sitting up in bed.
“Hello, there!” was Vivian’s cheery greeting. “Sleep well?”
“Fine!” Jeanne laughed. “Everything seems strange, but I love it.”
“Not quite like a city,” Vivian agreed, “but we all like it. We seem so secure. Father earns enough in summer to buy flour, sugar, hams, bacon and lots of canned stuff, so we won’t go hungry. The lake brings us some wood and the ridges give us plenty more. We won’t get cold. So—”
“So you’re safe as a meadow mouse in his hole!” Jeanne said happily.
A half hour later she was seated at a long table pouring syrup on steaming pancakes. A sturdy, bronze-faced young man sat at her side.
“Are you the moose-trapper?” she asked timidly.
“Why, yes.” The young man’s hearty laugh reassured her. “Yes, that’s what you might call me.
“Like to see one trapped?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes! Oh, yes, I’d love it!” Jeanne cried quickly.
“All right. You and Vivian come along with me after breakfast. We’ve baited the trap with some very tempting birch twigs. We’ll watch it from the ridge above. I shouldn’t wonder if we’d get one. Anyway, you’ll see the trap.”
Donning mackinaws and heavy sweaters a half hour later, they crept out into the frosty air of morning—Jeanne, Vivian, Sandy MacQueen, and the moose-trapper.
Snow lay thick everywhere. About the ends of ridges it had been blown clear, only to be found piled in drifts not far away. In quiet spots it was soft and deep. Only the use of snowshoes made travel possible. In silence they marched single file up the rise at the back of the house, then through a forest of spruce and birch to the barren rocky ridge above.
From this vantage point they could see far out over the dark endless waters of Lake Superior. But this did not interest them. Their eyes were focused on a narrow stretch of low growing timber almost directly beneath them.
“You can’t see the corral fence for the trees,” the moose-trapper explained in a whisper. “Only here and there you catch a glimpse of it. We built a four-foot fence of woven wire at first. But the moose,” he chuckled, “they didn’t know it was a fence, so they lifted their long legs and hopped over the top of it. After that we put poles above the wire. That worked better. We—”
“Listen!” Jeanne broke in. “What was that?” Her keen ears had caught some sound from behind.
“Might be a moose,” Vivian whispered. “Itisa moose. Look!”
“Oh!” Jeanne started back.
“He won’t harm you,” Vivian whispered.
The moose, not a stone’s throw away, was trying in vain to reach the lowest branch of a balsam tree.
“How huge he is! And such terrible antlers!” Jeanne crowded close to her companions.
“He’ll be losing those antlers soon,” Vivian whispered back. “They grow new ones every year. He—”
At that moment the moose, whose keen ear had apparently detected a sound, made a quick, silent move. Next instant he was gone.
“He—he vanished like magic!” Jeanne exclaimed. “And with never a sound.”
“Most silent creature in the world.” The moose-trapper’s voice was low. “And one of the most harmless. It seems strange that anyone should wish to kill such an attractive wild thing. And yet, thousands pay large prices for the privilege of shooting them! It’s up to the younger generations to be less cruel.”
“Girls don’t wish to kill wild things,” said Jeanne.
“That’s right. Most of them seem to have a high regard for the life of all creatures,” the moose-trapper agreed. “They have their part to do, though. They can teach the boys of their own neighborhood and especially their own brothers to be more humane. We—
“Look!” he exclaimed. The quality of his whisper changed. “Down there is the trap. See that large square made of boards that seem to hang in the air?”
“Yes, yes!” Jeanne replied eagerly.
“That’s the door to the trap. The moose springs the trap. You see there’s a narrow corral. It’s half full of birch and balsam boughs. The moose smells these. He is hungry. He goes through the door, munches away at the branches, at last pulls at one. This drags at a string and down goes the door. He’s a prisoner.
“But ahappyprisoner,” he hastened to add. “There are ten moose in the big corral. When we got them they were little more than skin and bones. Now they are getting fat. We feed them well.”
It is doubtful if Jeanne heard more than half that was said. Her eyes were upon a brown creature that moved slowly through the thin forest below. “He’s going toward the trap—our moose,” she was saying to herself. “Now he’s only fifty yards away. And now he walks still faster. He’s smelled the bait in the trap. He—
“What will happen to those who are trapped?” she asked quite suddenly.
“Probably be taken to a game sanctuary on the mainland where there’s plenty of moose feed,” the trapper said.
“Oh!” Jeanne whispered. “Then I hope we get him.”
“Looks as if we might.” The moose-trapper’s face shone with hope. “He’s the finest specimen we’ve seen yet.”
Moments passed, moments that were packed with suspense. Now the great brown creature stood sniffing at the entrance to the trap. Now he advanced a step or two. Now he thrust out his nose in a vain attempt to reach a branch that was inside. Jeanne laughed low. He surely cut a comical picture, long legs, extended neck, bulging eyes.
Another step, two, three, four, five.
“He—he’s inside!” Jeanne breathed.
Yes, the moose was inside. He was munching twigs and small branches, yet nothing happened. The suspense continued. Would he satisfy his hunger and leave without springing the trap? Jeanne studied the moose-trapper’s face. She read nothing there.
Of a sudden the moose, seeming to grow impatient of his small twigs, reached far out for a large balsam bough, and bang!—the trap was sprung.
Startled, the moose sprang forward. Next instant he was racing madly about the small enclosure. Almost at once an opening appeared and he dashed through it to disappear from sight. “He—he’s gone!” Jeanne exclaimed.
“Only into the larger corral.” The moose-trapper chuckled. “He’ll find a number of old friends there. They will tell him they’ve found a good boarding place. Soon he will be as happy as any of them. And say!” he cried, “What a grand big fellow he is! Jeanne, I believe you have brought good luck with you.”
“I—I hope so.” Jeanne beamed.
That bright winter’s day passed all too soon. At times Jeanne thought of asking Vivian to accompany her to the top of the ridge and down to the little lost lake, but always she was busy with household duties. Night found the request lingering unexpressed on her lips.
“Darkness fell on the wings of night.”
Lamps were lit, kerosene lamps that gave forth a steady yellow glow. Pulpwood logs, gathered from the shore where they were stranded, roared and crackled in the great stove.
Jeanne sat dreaming by the fire. Not all her dreams were happy ones. One thought haunted her: she must take Vivian to that little lost lake. What would she see? What would she?
Jeanne was asking herself this question when her thoughts were caught and held by a conversation between the young airplane pilot who had flown them to the island and Sandy MacQueen, the reporter.
“I’d think you could write a whole book about mystery planes,” the pilot suggested.
“Mystery planes?” Sandy sat up straight.
“Yes,” the pilot replied. “Planes that have flown away into the blue and just vanished. There have been several, you know.” His tone was earnest. “During the war there were aces of the air that vanished. What happened? Did they grow sick of the terror of war and just fly away?
“There have been several in recent years,” he went on. “One started for Central America, the X.Z.43. Nothing was ever heard of it. One headed for Japan, the B.L.92. And then there was the D.X.123. Queer about that!”
“The D.X.123!” Jeanne whispered the words. She wanted to scream them. She said nothing out loud, just sat there staring. D.X.123! Those were the letters and figures she had seen down at the bottom of the lost lake. Or,hadshe seen them? Had she just imagined them? Had she seen them in a paper and was this only an after-image?
She wanted to ask the pilot what happened to the D.X.123. She could not. At last she rose from her place.
“I—I’m going for a little walk,” she said. “All alone. I won’t get lost. I’ll watch the light from the house. It will guide me back.”
The crisp night air was like ice on a hot summer day to her burning cheeks. Her mind was full of wild thoughts. How strange life was!
Then she looked up at the heavens. The stars were there, had been there since earliest history of man, and long before that. Back of the stars was God. And God was from everlasting to everlasting.
“God guide me aright!” she prayed reverently.
So she wandered on and on over the trail that ran up the ridge and led to a view of the great Lake Superior. She wanted to see the moon as it shone upon the dark waters of night.
She was not destined to have her wish. Suddenly as she rounded that clump of spruce trees, she heard a groan that sent a chill of terror coursing up her spine.
Turning quickly about, she saw, not ten paces behind her, the most gigantic moose that had ever lived, or so it seemed to her. His antlers were like broad flat beams and his eyes, as she threw her flashlight’s glow upon them, shone like fire.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Go back! Go back!” But the giant moose came straight on.
June Travis felt her hand tremble as she took down the receiver to call Florence. “Whose hand would not tremble?” she asked herself. And indeed the events of the past few days had been exciting. Now Florence had left word to call her. “Something very important to talk about!” That was her message.
“Hello! Hello!” she heard. “Yes, this is Florence.
“Oh, June, the strangest things do happen!” she exclaimed. “You remember that little story I wrote about your lost father?”
“Yes. I—”
“Well, today while I was out, a little lady in gray called at the office. Frances Ward talked to her. And was she mysterious! Wanted to talk to me, no one else. After that, she said she would talk to you, or to both of us at once. Had something tremendously important to tell you. It—it’s about your father.”
“Oh!” June gasped.
“Of course—” the voice at the other end of the line dropped. “Of course, you must not expect too much. She said something about mind-reading, mental telepathy and all that. She may be just one more fortune teller. But somehow I can’t help but feel that she isn’t. She lives in quite an exclusive section of the city. Mrs. Ward says she wouldn’t be allowed to put out a sign in that section. And what’s a fortune teller without a sign? So—”
“Oh, I’m all excited!” June thrilled.
“Well, you mustn’t be—at least not too much. Tomorrow I’ve got to go after something else. Remember that gypsy fortune teller who stole four hundred dollars? I’ve got to find her.”
“But won’t that be terribly dangerous?” June’s voice wavered.
“Danger? What is danger?” Florence laughed. “Anyway, it’s part of my job. I really haven’t accomplished much yet. Been drawing my pay all the time. Perhaps this will be a scoop.”
As you shall see, it was a “scoop” in more ways than one.
If Florence was anticipating trouble, Jeanne, on far-away Isle Royale, was in the midst of it at that very moment.
Who can describe Jeanne’s fright as she turned about on the wintry trail to look into the gleaming eyes of a giant moose? She expected nothing less than a wild snorting charge from the monster.
And where should she go? To swing about and dash back over the trail was impossible. The way was too narrow. To go forward meant that she would come at last to the brink of a rocky precipice. At the foot of this precipice, piled up by an early winter storm, were great jagged masses of ice.
“Go back!” she screamed at the top of her voice. “Go back!”
But the moose did not go back. Instead he lowered his great antlers, took three steps forward, then after opening his great mouth and, allowing an apparently endless tongue to roll about, he let forth a most terrific roar.
To say that Jeanne was frightened would be not to express her feelings at all. She was fairly paralyzed with fear.
As if this were not enough, her startled eyes caught some further movement in the brush that grew to the right of the trail. As her trembling fingers directed the light of her torch there, a second smaller pair of eyes gleamed at her, then another and yet another.
“Wolves—bush wolves!” Her heart sank to the depths of despair.
She raced forward in a mad hope of finding foothold for descending the cliff that led down to the lake’s shore. She caught the magnificent picture of dark waters white with racing foam, a path of gold that was moonlight, and beyond that, limitless night. Then a strange thing happened. The giant moose, having given vent to a second roar, took one more step forward; then stumbling, fell upon his knees.
Strangest of all, he did not rise at once. Instead, as if the great weight of his towering antlers were too much for him to bear, he allowed his head to drop forward until his broad nose rested on the ground. For one full moment he remained thus.
As for Jeanne, she raced on to the edge of the precipice. Instantly she shrank back. Surely here was no way of escape. A sheer drop of fifty feet, and beneath that, up-ended fragments of ice standing like bayonets waiting for one who might drop. This was what met her gaze.
Strangely enough, in the midst of all this terror, the glorious scene—limitless water, golden moon and night, so gripped her that for the instant her mind was filled with it.
“The heavens declare the glory of God,” she murmured.
Perhaps it was just this consciousness of the nearness of God and the glory of His world that quieted her soul and gave her the power to see things as they truly were.
As she turned back from the precipice, she saw the moose struggling to regain his feet. “Until he is up again, he is harmless,” she assured herself. Having thrown her light full upon him, she cried out in surprise.
“Why! The poor fellow! He is like a walking skeleton! He must be starving!”
Like a flash all was changed. Fear gave way to pity and desire to aid. She recalled the moose-trapper’s words: “We think they are underfed—perhaps starving.” Here was one who had failed to find food. How could she help him?
For a moment she could not think. Then it came to her that the food in the moose-trap was branches of white birch, mountain-ash and balsam. Close to the moose, who still struggled vainly to rise, was a clump of birch trees.
“They are small, but the branches are too high for him,” she told herself. “If I cut down the one that leans toward him, it will almost touch him. If I do—”
She hesitated. At her belt hung a small axe in a sheath. Dared she use it? Could she take the dozen steps toward that moose and wield her axe upon that tree with a steady hand? Her heart pounded painfully. Then, as if whispered in her ear, there came to her, “He notes the sparrow’s fall.”
There was no further hesitation. Gripping her axe, she advanced boldly. As she did so, the moose gave vent to one more terrifying roar. But Jeanne scarcely heard. She had formed a purpose. It should be carried out.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Her axe sounded out in the silent night. Came a cracking sound. The small tree swayed, then went down. The top branches switched the great beast’s nose. He did not appear to mind, but, reaching out, began eating greedily.
“There!” Jeanne breathed. “Now we’ll do one more for good measure.”
A second tree tottered to a fall; then, still gripping her axe, Jeanne sped on the wings of the wind toward the cabin where the lamp still sent out its inviting gleam.
One sound gave speed to her swift feet. The blood-curdling howl of a bush wolf was answered by another and yet another.
“I’ll fix those wolves!” Mr. Carlson exclaimed as Jeanne, five minutes later, in excited words told her story. Taking down his rifle, he disappeared into the dark outside. Shortly after there came the short quick crack-crack-crack of a rifle. After that the night was silent.
“That moose,” said Violet, the quiet, studious sister of Vivian, who took an especial pleasure in watching all manner of wild creatures, “must have been Old Black Joe. We called him that,” she laughed, “because he was almost black, and because he was so old.
“How he does love apples!” She laughed again.
“Yes, and you fed him almost half a bushel!” said Vivian reprovingly. “As if there were apple trees on Isle Royale.
“We had to buy them,” she explained to Jeanne. “Brought them all the way from Houghton.”
“But think what I got out of it in the end!” Violet reminded her sister.
“Yes,” Vivian agreed.
“You see,” Violet explained enthusiastically, “Old Black Joe got so tame after I had fed him a peck of apples, one at a time, that he’d follow me about like a pet lamb. And oh, the noises he’d make way down in his throat asking for more apples!
“Then one day a man came here to get pictures of wild life. Old Black Joe and I put on a real show for him. I didn’t quite ride the old fellow’s back, but I did almost. The picture came out fine. When the man left he gave me a whole twenty dollar bill for our boat. Wasn’t that grand?”
“Depends on how good a boat it was,” said Jeanne.
“We haven’t the boat yet. We’re saving for it,” said Violet.
Jeanne looked puzzled. “I thought you sold him a boat for twenty dollars.”
“Oh, no!” Violet laughed merrily. “He gave that money to us so we could apply it on the boat we are going to buy. But of course,” Violet paused. “You wouldn’t understand. For quite a long time Vivian and I have been saving up to buy a boat, a smart little motor boat we can use for taking people on picnics, fishing trips and cruising parties. You saw the cabins at the foot of the hill. Tourists come to the island and rent them in summer. Vivian and I could help father out with the family expenses if we had a boat.”
“And next year we want to go to high school on the mainland,” Vivian put in.
“We’ve got nearly sixty dollars,” Violet concluded, “but of course that’s not nearly enough.”
For a moment there was silence in the room. Then Violet said, “If that really is Old Black Joe, we must manage to get him into the corral. There are a few apples left. I’ll just lead him right in.”
“Y-yes,” drawled the moose-trapper, “and after he’s in, you’ll have to feed him. He’s so old he’s almost sure to die on our hands. What we’re after is good live young moose that will stand shipping.”
“All right! All right, sir! We’ll feed him!” the girls agreed as with one voice. “And you’ll see. He’ll be the prize picture of the big show in the spring.”
Jeanne did not go over Greenstone Ridge and down to her Lost Lake next morning. It was a day of wild storm. The wind whistled and sang about the cabin. The spruce trees swayed and sighed. The wind, like a white sheet, rose and fell as it swept across the frozen surface of the harbor.
Despite all this, the three girls hunted up Old Black Joe. He had fallen asleep beneath a cluster of cedars. Had the girls not found him, this sleep might well have been his last. As it was, only by eager coaxing and reluctant flogging were they able at last to usher him into the trap that was in truth a haven.
“There!” Vivian exclaimed. “Now we have let ourselves in for a winter’s work. That moose-trapper does not like bringing in boughs any too well. He’ll surely hold us to our bargain.”
“But I’m sure poor Old Black Joe needs a friend,” said Jeanne.
“And he’ll pay us back, you’ll see!” said the sentimental Violet. “Don’t forget that line about casting your bread on the waters.”
“We’ll cast our brush on the snow,” Vivian laughed, “but it’s really all the same.”
When they were back at the cabin and well thawed out, Jeanne found herself thinking once more of the mysterious airplane, D.X.123, that had vanished, and the strange coincidence of her seeing those signs at the bottom of Lost Lake. Soon she found herself brooding over the possible discoveries she might make in the very near future.
“This won’t do!” she told herself stoutly. “Surely dread has spoiled many a fine life, and more often than not there is really nothing to be feared.”
To clear her mind of this dark shadow, she began searching about for some bright dream when, with a mental “I have it!” she sprang to her feet. She had thought of the ancient churn. “Another mystery,” she told herself, “and this will be a joyous one, I feel sure.”
She went in search of Vivian and, to her vast astonishment, found her cooped up in a tiny room heated by an oil stove. Over the girl’s head a pair of ear-phones were tightly clamped. By the expression on her face, Jeanne knew her to be so absorbed as to be completely lost to the world.
For a full five minutes Jeanne stood patiently waiting. Then, with a start, Vivian looked her way. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were there.”
“But what are you doing?” Jeanne asked. “There is a radio in the living room. Surely you don’t have to—”
“Coop myself up in here to listen?” Vivian put in. “No. But this is not just a receiving radio. It is a radio station; short wave. We are licensed to send messages free of charge. And wedosend them.” Her eyes shone with pride. “We are the only station on the island. We saved a boy’s life by calling a doctor from the mainland. We called for the coast guard when a hydroplane crashed on Rock Harbor. Oh, yes, and we’ve done much more. But now, I was about to get off a message telling of the moose trap. You see, we’re the radio news reporter for this corner of the world.”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you,” Jeanne apologized. “It must be fascinating.”
“But Vivian,” she changed the subject, “do you mind if I look at the things in your museum?”
“No. Here’s the key.”
“And Vivian—I—” Jeanne hesitated, “I’d like to try opening that old churn.”
“Whatever for?” Vivian exclaimed.
“Just a feeling about it.”
“All right. But you won’t break anything?”
“Not a thing.” Jeanne took the key and hurried away, little dreaming that the short wave station she had just seen was to have a large part in the mystery drama that was to be played by the inhabitants of Chippewa Harbor on Isle Royale, in the days that were to come.
Armed with a bottle of kerosene and a small knife, Jeanne slipped into the “museum” and closed the door. It was a wintry spot, that small room, but warmed by her enthusiasm, she began her task without one shiver. Soon she was scraping away at the corroded metal clasps, applying kerosene, scraping again.
For a long time there was not the least sign of success. She was all but ready to give up when, as her stout young hands turned at one screw it gave forth the faintest sort of squeak.
“Oh, you will!” she breathed exultantly. Then she redoubled her efforts.
At the end of another half hour that one clamp was entirely loose. Three others remained. Another half hour and, quite suddenly, as if resistance were no longer possible, two clamps loosened at once. “Oh!” she breathed. “Now I have you!”
This was true, for once three clamps were loosed, the cover could be removed. Here she paused. Though an only child, Jeanne had never been selfish. She had always shared her joys, whenever possible. She was about to open a thing that had been closed for half a century or more. What would she find? “A whiff of sour buttermilk,” as Vivian had prophesied? If more than this, what then?
“A laugh or a secret is always better when shared,” she told herself.
Opening the door, she called softly, “Girls! Come here!”
When Vivian and Violet had entered she closed the door. “See!” she said in the most mysterious of tones. “It’s done like this. You turn this screw, then that one. Now this one, now that one, and, presto! It’s open.”
It was true the churn smelled of sour buttermilk, and such a sourness as it was! This was not all, however. Wedged into the churn so it could not possibly be shaken about was some heavy object.
“It’s copper!” Vivian exclaimed. “A lump of pure native copper taken from the rocks here on the island. How strange!”
“Look!” Jeanne whispered. “Here, tucked away in a crevice of the copper, is a bit of paper.”
“A note! It’s written on!” Violet cried.
As Jeanne’s trembling fingers unfolded it, at the very center of a small page filled with writing, her eyes caught three words that stood out like mountain peaks. The words were:Some considerable treasure.
“Why can’t people take care of their money?” It was on that same afternoon that Florence found herself asking this question. There was a scowl on her brow as she journeyed slowly toward the home of Margaret DeLane, the widow who had been robbed by a gypsy fortune teller. “Some people are so stupid they don’t deserve any help,” she was thinking as she studied the faces about her on the street car. Stolid and stupid they surely appeared to be. “Not an attractive face among them all. They—”
She broke off to stifle a groan. The woman she sat next to was large. This had crowded her half into the aisle. A second woman, in passing, had stepped on her foot. Instead of appearing sorry about it, the woman grinned as if to say, “Ha! Ha! Big joke!”
“Big joke!” Florence thought grimly. “Life’s a big joke, and the joke’s always on me.” Life had not seemed so joyous since Jeanne had gone away. It is surprising that the absence of one person can mean so much to us.
The street car came to a jerking halt. “My street.” She was up and off the car.
Her street, and such a street as it was! Narrow and dirty, its sidewalks were lined with ugly, blank-faced, staring frame buildings that appeared to shout insults at her. She trudged on.
At last she came to the worst building of them all, and there on the front was her number.
Following instructions, she came at last to a side door. Having knocked, she was admitted at once by a dark-haired girl. This girl, who might have been twelve, wore an apron pinned about her neck. The apron touched the floor.
“Does Mrs. DeLane live here?” Florence asked.
“Yes, that’s my mother, and I am Jane,” said the girl. “No, she isn’t here. She’s out scrubbing. She’ll be back very soon. Won’t you sit down?”
The child was so polite, the place was so neat and clean, that Florence felt as though the sun had suddenly burst through a cloud.
Two younger children were playing at keeping house in a corner. How beautiful and bright they were! Their eyes, their hair, even their simple cotton garments fairly shone.
“And this,” thought Florence, swallowing hard, “is what Margaret DeLane lives for.”
Then suddenly her spirits rose. “Why, this is what we all live for, the little children!” she thought. “We all at times are foolish. Many of us break the law. Few of us who are older deserve a great deal of sympathy. It’s the children, poor little innocent ones, who are too young to do any wrong—they are the ones who suffer.
“And they must not!” she thought with sudden fierceness. “They must not. We must find that gypsy robber and get that money back!”
As if in answer to this fierce resolve, the door opened and in walked Margaret DeLane.
“It was that I wanted to do so much!” the woman all but sobbed as she told her story. “Mrs. Doyle, two doors away, asked a fortune teller how she should invest her money. She said, ‘Buy a house.’ Mrs. Doyle bought a house, one of the worst in the city. Someone wanted the land for what they called ‘slum clearance,’ and Mrs. Doyle doubled her money. So—”
“So you asked a gypsy woman what to do with your money, and she stole it?” Florence sighed. “Well, we’ve got to go and find that gypsy woman and get the money back. It will be difficult. It may be dangerous. Are you ready?”
“Ready?” The weary woman reached for her coat. “But you?” She held back. “Why should you—”
“Oh, that’s part of my job.” Florence forced a laugh. “It’s all in a day’s work. So—come on.”
They were away, but not until Florence had placed upon the walls of her memory a picture of three smiling children’s faces. “These,” she thought, “shall be my inspiration, come what may!”
Their search for the gypsy was rewarded with astonishing speed. Scarcely had they rounded a corner to enter noisy and crowded Maxwell Street than the widow DeLane gripped Florence’s arm to whisper, “There! There she is! That’s her.”
Florence found herself staring at a dark and evil face. The woman was powerfully built. There was about her a suggestion of crouching. “Like some great cat,” Florence thought as a chill ran up her spine.
That the woman resembled a cat in other ways was at once apparent. With feline instinct, she sensed danger without actually seeing it. Standing, with her eyes turned away, she gave a sudden start, wheeled half about, took one startled look, then glided, with all the agility of a cat, through the crowd.
Florence might not be as sly as the gypsy, but she was powerful, and she could stick to a purpose. With the widow close at her heels, she crowded between a thin man and a fat woman, pushed an astonished peddler of roasted chestnuts into the street, hurdled a low rack lined with cheap shoes, knocked over a table piled high with cheap jewelry, to at last arrive panting before a door that had just been closed by the gypsy.
“Locked!” She set her teeth tight. “What’s one lock more or less?” Her stout shoulder hit the door.
Quite taken by surprise by the suddenness of her success in breaking open the door, she lost her balance and tumbled into the room, landing flat on the floor.
She had tumbled before, many, many times. In fact, she could tumble more times per minute than anyone in her gym class. Locks and tumbles were not new to her. She was on her feet and ready for battle in ten split seconds.
The gypsy woman was not slow. The widow had followed Florence into the room. There came a glitter of steel as the gypsy sprang at her.
But not so fast! As the gypsy’s arm swung high, Florence caught it from behind, gave it a sudden wrench that brought forth a groan, then shook it as a dog shakes a rat, until the needle-pointed stiletto gripped in the murderous gypsy’s hand flew high and wide to sink into the heart of a gaudy dancing girl hanging in a frame on the wall.
Whirling about just in time to save herself from the grip of five girls in gypsy costumes who swarmed at her, Florence sprang towards them to scatter them as a turkey might scatter a bevy of pigeons.
Meanwhile the distracted widow had dashed from the room, screaming, “Police! Police!”
Deprived of her deadly weapon, the gypsy woman did what harm she could with tooth and nail. This lasted just long enough for Florence to receive two ugly scratches down her right cheek. Then the dark-faced one found herself lying flat upon her back with one hundred and sixty pounds of Florence seated on her chest.
“Now—now rest easy,” Florence breathed, “un—until the police come.”
“I didn’t take it!” the woman panted. “I didn’t take the money. I—I’ll give it back. Let me up. I’ll get it back for you. I—”
At that moment there was a stir at the door and there stood Officer Patrick Moriarity.
“Oh! So it’s you!” He grinned at Florence. “They told me someone was being killed. But if it’s you doin’ the killin’, it’s O. K. You wouldn’t kill nobody that didn’t need killin’.”
Patrick’s young sisters had attended Florence’s playground classes in the good days that were gone. More often than was really necessary, Patrick had looked in to see how they were getting on.
Now, with a grin, he said, “I’ll just be toddlin’ along.”
“You’ll not!” said Florence in sudden fright. “This woman stole four hundred dollars. You’ve got to do something about it.”
“Only four hundred?” Patrick whistled through his teeth. “Why bother her?
“But then,” he added as a sort of afterthought, “we might take her to the station. She’ll get four years. These gypsies like a nice soft spot in jail.”
The woman let out an unearthly wail, then struggled in vain to free herself.
“She told me,” Florence said quietly, “that if I’d let her up she’d give me the money.”
“She did?” Patrick studied the walls of the room. “Door and both windows right here in front,” he reflected. “I think we might try it out. Let her up, and we’ll see.”
Once on her feet, the woman was not slow in digging deep among the folds of her ample skirts and extracting a roll of bills.
“Let’s see!” Patrick took it from her. “Ten—twenty—forty—” he counted.
“But say!” he ended, “it’s four hundred and ten! How come?”
“The ten is mine,” the gypsy grumbled.
“Fair enough,” said Patrick. “Your man got a car?”
The woman nodded sulkily.
“All right. Now you take this ten and buy gas with it. Turn that old car south and keep it going until the gas is gone. And if I see your face again on Maxwell Street—” He made the sign of handcuffs. “Mostly honest people live on Maxwell Street. You don’t belong here. Scram!Scram!” He gave her a sturdy push.
The woman was gone before Florence could think twice.
Patrick turned to Florence. “And now, when do I sign you up as a lady cop?”
“Never! Oh, never!” Florence fingered her bleeding cheek. “Do—do you think she’s poisonous?”