"I never did it."
"I'll show you," offered Sandy, good-naturedly.
"Say!" cried Russ, "why not put Sandy in the picture, too?"
"Good idea!" exclaimed Mr. Pertell. "Sandy, get a hoe!"
"What! Me in movin' pictures? Why, I never acted in my life."
"So much the better. You'll be all the more natural!" said the manager. "Get in the focus, Sandy!"
And the young farmer did. The scene seemed to be going very well, and Paul and Alice in the rôle of country sweethearts made an effective picture in the green cornfield.
In the background Mr. Bunn, Mr. Sneed and Sandy were industriously hoeing corn. Suddenly the "grouchy" actor dropped his hoe, and pulling up one foot so that he could hold it in his hands, he cried out:
"There! I knew something would happen! I cut my foot with that old hoe!"
"Cut that out, Russ!" called the manager, sharply. "We don't want that in the scene."
"I stopped the camera," answered the operator.
An examination disclosed the fact that Mr. Sneed was not hurt at all. His shoe had not even been cut by the hoe, which had slipped off a stone because of his clumsiness.
"Go on with the play," ordered Mr. Pertell. "And let's have no more nonsense."
Paul and Alice resumed their places. They assumed as nearly as possible the pose they had when the break occurred. Russ began to turn the handle of the camera. Sandy had to be excused for a time to look after some farm work.
Later, when the pictures would be developed and printed, enough of the film could be cut out so that the audience, looking at the screen, would know nothing of what had occurred.
There are many trick pictures made, and many times little accidents occur in filming a play. But by the judicious use of the knife, and the fitting together of the severed film, all pictures not wanted are eliminated.
In the case of trick pictures, or when some accident scene is shown, the camera takes viewsup to a certain point with real persons posing before it. Then the mechanism is stopped, "dummies" are substituted for real personages, and the taking of the film goes on. So the little "break" caused by Mr. Sneed could be covered up.
"But I knew something would happen," he said. "That hoodoo of coming out on track thirteen is still after us," and he limped along the row of corn.
The scene was almost over, when a movement was observed amid the waving stalks, back of where Paul and Alice were posing.
"Who's that!" cried Mr. Pertell, sharply, from his place beside Russ at the camera. "Keep back, whoever you are. Don't get into the picture—you'll spoil it."
An instant later there was a bellow, as of a score of automobile horns, and an immense black bull came rushing through the corn, heading directly for Paul and Alice.
"Oh!" screamed Alice, as Paul caught her in his arms.
"Russ! Daddy! Somebody save Alice!" cried Ruth, from her place near the young moving picture operator. "Can't someone do something?"
"Get a pitchfork!"
"Go at him with those hoes!"
"Throw stones at him!"
This was some of the advice from the others of the moving picture company, as they stood grouped back of the camera, where they had been watching the filming of the last scene in the little drama.
Meanwhile, of course, Russ had stopped the camera, for he did not want to include the bull in the picture, no provision having been made for the creature by the author who furnished the "scenario," or "screed."
The animal had "butted into" the scene in a most uncalled-for manner, and now was butting its massive head against the frail green stalks ofcorn, knocking them aside, pawing the dirt and shaking its head at the frightened players.
For a moment, after their first outcries, the players were silent. Alice, who had shown just the least inclination to faint, now stood upright again, and with a vivid blush, released herself from Paul's arms.
"I—I'm all right now," she said, softly, straightening out her shirtwaist.
"You won't be if that bull comes for us," he answered. "Here, get behind me. I'll see if I can scare him off."
"Oh, no! Don't!" she begged. "That might make him worse. See, he is quiet now."
And indeed the animal had not moved much beyond the spot where he had broken through the rows of corn to interrupt the moving pictures.
"Something's got to be done," said Mr. Pertell, in a quiet voice. "I think it will be best if none of you moves. Keep your places, and I'll see if I can't slide out back of Russ, and get help—or at least a weapon to drive the bull away. A fence rail would do. Russ, stand still. You make a good screen for me now, and the bull can't see me. He may make a jump if he sees any of us moving. Such creatures often do, I understand."
It seemed the best plan to follow, but there was no need of trying it, for at that instant SandyApgar, who had returned, and who had heard the cries, came bursting in on the scene.
For a moment, at seeing this new figure, and supposing, perhaps, that it was a more active enemy than the others, the bull made as if to leap forward, with lowered horns. But, fortunately, the young farmer had an effective weapon in a pitchfork. Its sharp tines Sandy held toward the bull, pricking the creature slightly. This was too much for the beast, and with a bellow of pain, instead of rage, as before, he turned, and with drooping tail crashed his way through the corn, as he had come.
"Pesky gritter!" exclaimed Mr. Switzer, in his strong German accent. "He nearly gafe me heart disease. Feel how he thumps inside my west," he appealed to Mr. Sneed.
"Ha! What do I care about your heart!" exclaimed the "grouch," inconsiderately. "My foot will be lame for a week where I hit it. This is getting worse and worse—I suppose you'll be turning wild tigers and lions loose on us next!" he cried in a highly aggrieved tone to Mr. Pertell.
"This wasn't my fault," said the manager. "I did not invite the bull here."
"No, I guess nobody did," laughed Sandy. "But I hope he didn't hurt any of you."
"No, he only scared us," said Ruth, who had gone to the side of her sister.
"I can't understand how he got out," went on the young farmer. "He's kept in a field with a strong fence, and th' gate is always locked. Th' hired man knows better than to let him out, too."
"It might be a good idea to see that he is put back in his enclosure," suggested Mr. DeVere. "I'm sure we'll all feel safer if we know he isn't roaming about the place when we pose for more pictures."
"Indeed we will," agreed Mr. Pertell. "I can see you all looking around nervously, instead of paying attention to the play, if that bull isn't locked up."
"I'll attend to it right away," promised Sandy. "He's dangerous enough, but he's afraid of this pitchfork. I can always manage him with that. I'll go see how he got out. I don't understand it."
"I'll go with you," volunteered Russ. "We'll have to make the last bit of this scene over," he went on, to Mr. Pertell.
"Yes, I suppose so," agreed the manager.
"And they'll want a little time to get over the scare so they can pose properly," went on Russ, nodding at Alice and Paul, who, as well as the others who filled in the background of the picture, were somewhat disturbed.
"Yes, it will be just as well to take a breathing space," said Mr. Pertell. "But don't run into danger, Russ. We've got lots of plays yet to film."
"I won't," laughed the young operator, and as he went off after Sandy, Ruth gazed after him with rather anxious eyes.
"I knew something like this would happen!" exclaimed Mr. Sneed, gloomily. "That track thirteen——"
"Say, if you don't drop that you can look for another place!" cried the manager, sharply. "Everything that happens you blame on that silly superstition."
"And things aren't done happening yet, either," went on the "grouchy" actor, but he took care not to let the manager hear him.
"To what low estate have I fallen!" soliloquized Wellington Bunn, wiping his heated brow. He was wearing a slouch hat, instead of his beloved silk one, and was attired in shabby garments, as befitted his character of a farmhand. "The idea of a man who has played the immortal Shakespearean characters falling so low as to consort with wild bulls. Ah, it is pitiful—pitiful!" he murmured.
"You didn't consort mit dat bull very much!" put in Mr. Switzer, with a cheerful laugh. "Isaw you trying to git behint a corn stalk, to consort mit 'im alretty yet!"
"Certainly, I did not wish to be trampled on," replied Mr. Bunn, with dignity—that is, with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. "Oh, to what low estate have I fallen! A mere country bumpkin—I, who once played Hamlet!"
The others were recovering their spirits, now that the danger was over. Sandy and Russ followed the trail of the bull through the corn, and soon they had him before the gate of his own enclosure.
"That gate is open!" exclaimed the young farmer. "I don't see how it happened. There is something wrong here."
The bull was driven in, and then an examination disclosed the fact that the lock of the gate had been broken; by a stone, evidently, for a shattered rock lay on the ground nearby.
"This is strange," murmured Sandy. "Someone has done this on purpose, I don't like it—after what happened the other night."
"What was that?" asked Russ.
"Why, Mr. Pertell and I saw a suspicious-looking man out in the road, and we chased him," and he told of the circumstance.
"And you think he broke this lock to let thebull out?" asked the moving picture operator.
"Well, he might have, but I can't think what his object would be, unless he wanted to spoil some of your moving pictures. Have you got any enemies?"
Russ thought of Simp Wolley and Bud Briskett, who had tried to get his invention, as told in the preceding volume, "The Moving Picture Girls," but they were in jail, as far as he knew. Clearly there was some mystery here, but it was not to be solved at once.
The gate was made as secure as possible, and Sandy said he would get a new lock that day.
"I reckon you folks don't want old Nero buttin' in on you again," he said to Russ.
"Indeed we don't!" answered the young operator. He was puzzled over Sandy's suggestion as to whether or not some enemy had loosed the dangerous animal.
A little later the end of the interrupted scene was filmed again, and then the actors and actresses were at liberty for the rest of the day.
"I declare, Laura!" exclaimed Miss Pennington, "I'm so nervous about that bull that I don't want any more farm plays."
"Me, either," returned her chum. "But really, the summer is a bad time to change. I think we'll have to stay with Mr. Pertell; but I can't bearthis company since those DeVere girls came in."
"Nor can I. They give themselves such airs!"
Which was manifestly unfair to Ruth and Alice, but neither Miss Pennington nor Miss Dixon was over-burdened with fairness.
At first Russ had an idea of speaking to Mr. DeVere about Sandy's theory concerning who might have let loose the bull; but, on second thoughts, he decided not to. The actor had not been so well of late, his voice troubling him considerably, though he managed to go through his parts with credit.
"I'd tell Ruth or Alice," reflected Russ, "only I don't like to bother them. They helped me save my patent, and they know how to do things in an emergency. But I guess I'll wait."
For the next day Mr. Pertell had planned a little drama which gave Mr. Bunn a chance to appear in his favorite roles—some Shakespearean characters. The plot, or at least the first part of it, had to do with Mr. Bunn coming up to the farmhouse in a frock coat, and his favorite tall hat. He was to assume the character of a theatrical man, who, after obtaining board at a country home, fell in love with the daughter of the house through teaching her some roles from Shakespeare's plays, several characters of which Mr. Bunn himself was to assume.
All was ready for the first part of the play, and Russ began filming the initial scene, where the actor comes up the gravel walk leading to the Apgar farmhouse. Mr. Bunn had given his silk hat an extra brushing, and it glistened bravely in the sun. To make the scene contain a little more life, Mr. Pertell had stationed Mr. Switzer at one of the front flower beds, with a garden hose to spray the blooms.
Up the walk came the actor, grave and dignified. Russ was grinding away at the handle of the moving picture camera.
Suddenly a dog wormed his way in under the hedge from the road, and, probably meaning no mischief, ran for Mr. Switzer, barking joyously, and leaping about.
"Hi dere! Look out, you! Don't you nip my legs!" cried the German. He sprang to one side, and, naturally, forgot all about the spurting hose he held.
In an instant the stream was directed full at Mr. Bunn, deluging him with water, which descended in a shower on his precious silk hat, the drops falling from the brim copiously.
"Here! What—what do you mean? You—you——" began the Shakespearean actor, and then his words were muffled, for the stream from the hose struck him full in the mouth!
"Quick, Russ! Get that!" cried Mr. Pertell, with a laugh. "Don't miss a single motion."
"Do you mean it?" cried the astonished operator. He had ceased, for a moment, to grind on the handle, for he supposed the scene was spoiled.
"Surely I mean it!" cried the manager. "I'll change this and make a comic film of it. Go on, Switzer. Soak him some more! Use that hose for all its worth!"
"Vot! You means dot I vet him all ofer?"
"Certainly I do. Wet him well!"
"I—I protest! I shall not permit——" began Wellington Bunn, but again he was silenced by the volume of water in his mouth. He waved his arms about wildly. He took off his silk hat, probably intending to protect it, but Mr. Switzer had now fully entered into the spirit of the affair, and sent a stream into the hat, filling it as he would a pail.
"Oh, this is awful! This is terrible! I must protest——"
Swish! went the water into his mouth again, and his protest was silenced.
"Go on!" encouraged Mr. Pertell. "This is great! This will make a fine comic film. Soak him thoroughly, Switzer."
"Oh, yah! Sure, I soak him goot!"
"And you, Mr. Bunn! Don't get so far over. You'll get out of range of the camera. Can you film him, Russ?"
"Surely. I'm getting every bit of it."
"That's right! We need every move. A little more life in it, Mr. Bunn! Act as though you didn't like to be soaked!"
"Like it! Of course I don't like it!" cried the actor. "I—hate it! And my hat—my silk hat——"
Again the relentless stream of water stopped him.
"I'll buy you a new hat!" promised Mr. Pertell, choking with laughter. "This is worth it! Lively, Mr. Bunn! Jump around a little. Switzer, don't miss him, but don't wet the camera. And that dog! Get him in it, too!"
"Vot! Maybe he bites my legs yet already!" objected the German. "I likes not dot beast! Und my legs——"
"Oh, I'll get a doctor if he bites you!" promised the manager. "See him get into the action! This will be a great picture. I'll have to get a story that it will fit in."
But at last even the enthusiastic manager was satisfied with the water scene, and he allowed the almost exhausted Mr. Bunn a rest.
"Look at me—look at me!" groaned the actor, as he gazed down at his suit, which dripped water at every point.
"Wait now; don't go away!" objected Mr. Pertell. "I want to get you in another scene now. Come around to the barn."
"What! Film me in this water-soaked suit!" protested Mr. Bunn.
"Certainly. I am going to make a whole reel of you."
"But my hat! Look at my hat! Ruined! Utterly ruined!"
"All the better. I want you in the character of a broken-down actor now, and you wouldn't look the part with a new and shiny tile. Put a couple of dents in it, Mr. Bunn!"
"Oh, you are heartless! Heartless!" cried the actor, as he completed the demolition of his cherished headpiece.
"Isn't it killing, Ruth?" asked Alice, who had come out with her sister to see the fun.
"Funny, yes. But I feel rather sorry for Mr. Bunn."
"Oh, he's getting paid for it. And it's so warm to-day that I almost wish Mr. Switzer would turn the hose on me!"
"Alice DeVere!"
"Well, I do! It is very warm. It must be terrible in the city. Come on out to the barn, and let's see what the next act will be."
The next scene, which Mr. Pertell had thought of on the spur of the moment, required Mr. Bunn to fall into the horse trough, and the actor, after strenuously objecting, finally yielded. He fell into the big hollowed-out log that served to hold the water for the farm animals, making a mighty splash as the camera clicked.
Then came other scenes that, later, would be added to and made into a short reel of "comics." Horse-play though it was, the manager knew that it would at least round out a program, and cause roars of delight from the children, who must be catered to as well as the grown-ups.
"Well, I think that will do for the time being," said Mr. Pertell at length. "You may go and get dry, Mr. Bunn, and, later, we will film the original play, where you come to the farmhouse and do the Shakespearean scenes."
"That will be a relief from this buffoonery,"remarked the actor. "But how am I to do it in—this?" and he held out the silk hat, now much the worse for what it had gone through.
"Oh, I'll supply a new hat. Trot along and get dried out. I guess you'll have to have your suit pressed. Possibly there is a tailor in the village."
Mr. Bunn went off by himself, rather sulkily. Mr. Switzer was in high good humor at the fun he had had with the hose.
"Good joke!" laughed Paul. Then he made his way to the side of Alice, and made an engagement to walk to the village with her that evening.
"This is the barn I intend to burn in one of our big rural plays," said Mr. Pertell to Mr. DeVere, who, with his daughters, had strolled out to the ancient structure.
"What sort of a scene will it be a part of?" asked the actor.
"A rescue. One of the young ladies—or possibly two of them—will be saved from the burning barn. The play is not completed yet, but I have that much of it worked out. Let us look at the interior and see how it is suited to our needs."
As the little party entered they heard, off in one corner, a noise as though someone was running across the sagging floor, which contained many loose boards.
"Who is there?" called Mr. Pertell, suddenly, while Ruth and Alice drew back, close to the side of their father.
There was no answer.
"I'm sure I heard someone," said Mr. Pertell.
"So did I," agreed Alice. "Perhaps it was a cow or a horse."
"No, the old barn is not in use," returned the manager. "I think we had better tell Sandy——"
"What is it you want to tell me?" asked the young farmer himself, as he appeared in the doorway.
"We heard someone in the barn," explained the manager. "We were looking at it, to get ready for our moving picture play, and we evidently surprised someone. Does anyone stay here?"
"No, and I've told the hired men to keep out, for I thought maybe they might disturb something, and spoil it for you."
"And no animals are in here; are they?" asked Mr. DeVere.
"No, not a one," replied Sandy.
"But I heard someone!" declared Mr. Pertell. "Hark! There is the sound again!" he cried, and they all heard a noise as of a heavy body falling.
"Over this way!" cried Mr. Pertell, making a leap toward a distant corner of the barn, which was in deep shadow. "The noise was over there."
"I think it was there," exclaimed Sandy, pointing toward the opposite corner.
"Come, girls, I think you had better go out," suggested Mr. DeVere to his daughters. "There may be trouble."
"I'd like to see it," said Alice, with a laugh.
"Oh, how can you?" exclaimed Ruth. "Come away, dear!"
"Well, I suppose I've got to," and Alice actually sighed. Her "bump of curiosity" was very well developed.
Following each his own belief as to where the noise had come from, Mr. Pertell went to one corner, and Sandy to the other. Mr. DeVere took his daughters outside, and bade them go on toward the house.
"But where are you going, Daddy?" asked Alice, as he turned back.
"They may need help," he replied.
"Oh, I wish we could go!" pleaded Alice. "At least let us stay here and watch!"
"Well, not too near," conceded her father.
But it seemed that the search for the cause of the mysterious noise was to be fruitless. Neither Mr. Pertell nor Sandy could find any person or creature, though they looked thoroughly. There were many nooks and crannies in the old structure, for in its day it had been the main barn on the farm. But it had fallen into decay and others had been built.
There were harness rooms, oat and feed bins, a small room where the former owner had done his "tinkering and odd jobs," and many other places where someone might have hidden. But no one could be found. No farm animal had made the noise, that was evident, for Sandy could account for all the larger stock on the place, and it must have been a body of considerable size the fall of which had startled them.
"Could it have been bats flying about?" asked Mr. DeVere.
"No bat was heavy enough to make that racket," said Sandy, "though there are bats in here. I don't know what it could have been."
"A tramp, perhaps," suggested Mr. Pertell.
"It might have been," admitted the young farmer, as he thought of the smashed lock on the bull's enclosure. "We sometimes have them fellers to bother us; but not so much in summer. They're afraid of bein' put to work."
The three men made a more thorough search of the barn, but could find nothing that looked suspicious.
"Whoever it was must either be here yet, in hiding, or else they got away while we were looking around," said Mr. Pertell. "Unless you believe in ghosts, Sandy."
"Nope. Not a ghost do I believe in. And I hope this won't spoil the barn for you folks to get your pictures from."
"Oh, no, it takes more than a noise to scare a theatrical troupe," laughed the manager. "Well, we'll have to give it up, I suppose."
There seemed to be nothing else to do, and the party returned to the house, the girls joining them on the way back.
"After all, it might have been some loose board, or plank, falling down. The place is nigh tumblin' t' pieces," declared Sandy. "But I'll keep a watch around. I don't want any tramps on this place."
"I might use one in a moving picture," saidMr. Pertell, musingly. What he could not use in a moving picture film was small indeed. "I believe that would make a good scene," he went on. "A tramp comes to beg at the farmhouse. He is told that he must saw a lot of wood, or do something like that. Then, let me see—yes, I'll have him eat first, and then refuse to saw the wood. He thinks the lady of the house is home alone. But he makes a mistake, for she proves to be one who has taken physical culture lessons, and she is a match for the tramp. She stands over him until he saws all the wood.
"That ought to go. I'll cast Mrs. Maguire for the strenuous lady, and Mr. Sneed can be the tramp. He has a sour enough face. That's what I'll do!"
"I can just imagine Mr. Sneed in that rôle," said Alice to Ruth, with a laugh. "He won't like that a bit!"
"I suppose not. Still, we have to do many things in this moving picture business that we don't like."
"I like every bit of it!" Alice declared. "I think it's all fun!"
"I wish I had your happy way of looking at things!" sighed Ruth. "It is a great help in getting through life."
"Why don't you practice it?" Alice asked."It's easy, once you start. There are so many funny things in this world."
"And so many sad ones!"
"Bosh!" laughed Alice. "Excuse my slang, sister mine, but you ought to read fewer of those romantic stories, and more joke books. Oh, there goes Paul, and with a fish pole, too. I'm going with him!"
"He hasn't asked you!"
"What of it? I know he'll be glad to have me. Oh, here comes Laura Dixon after him. I'm going to get there first. Paul! Paul!" Alice called, "can't I go fishing, too?"
"Of course!" he cried, his face lighting up with pleasure. "Come along. I've got an extra line and hooks in my pocket, and we can cut a pole along the stream. Come along."
He did not see Miss Dixon, who was behind him, but she saw Alice and heard what was said. For a minute she paused, and then, with a rather vindictive look on her face, turned back.
"Alice!" called Ruth, "I'm not sure father would want you to go. It is getting near supper time."
"Oh, you tell him I just had to go, Ruth dear!"
Mr. DeVere, with Sandy and Mr. Pertell, had gone on ahead.
Ruth shrugged her shoulders. There was littleshe could do with Alice, once the younger girl had set her mind on anything. And, really, there was no harm in going fishing with Paul. The favorite spot was not far from the farmhouse, and within view of it.
"It's fine of you to come!" said Paul, as he walked along over the meadow with the laughing, brown-eyed girl. "I'm sure we'll have good luck."
"I'm never very lucky at fishing," said Alice. "But I'll watch you."
"No, you've got to fish, too. I'll cut you a light pole."
"And will you bait my hook—I don't like to do that."
"Surely I will."
They walked on, chatting of many things, and as they reached the fishing hole—a deep eddy on the overhanging bank of which they could sit—they saw Russ Dalwood, with his camera, going along the opposite bank.
"What are you doing?" called Paul.
"Oh, just getting some odd scenes here and there of farm work. Mr. Pertell wants to work them into some of the plays. There are some men spraying a potato patch over in the next field, to get rid of the bugs. I'm going to make a scene of that."
"All right. Good luck!" called Alice, pleasantly. "And, if you like, you can take a fishing scene. Paul and I are going to catch some for supper."
"All right, I'll film you on the way back," laughed Russ.
It was a pleasant summer afternoon, and the bank where Alice and Paul took their places was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.
"The fish ought to bite well to-day," observed Paul, when he had "rigged up" an outfit for Alice.
"Why is to-day better than any other day?" she asked.
"Because the wind is right. 'When the wind's in the west, the fish bite best,' is an old saying. Sandy reminded me of it when I started out to-day."
They tossed in their hooks, and then waited. The water a little way below the eddy flowed over white stones, flecked here and there with green moss. The stream made a pleasant sound, and formed an accompaniment to the songs of the birds which flitted in and out of the willow trees that lined the stream.
At the foot of the bank, on which sat the two fishers, ran the deep eddy, silent, and whirling about in a circular motion, caused by the impact of the brook against the shore, the waters beingforced back on themselves. It was a quiet, and rather still pool, and was reputed to contain many fine, large fish.
"I—I think I have a nibble," whispered Alice.
"Be careful—don't jerk up too soon," warned Paul. "Yes, there is one after your bait. See your cork float bob up and down."
"Does that show he's sampling it?"
"Something of that sort, yes. Now, pull in!"
Alice was a bit slow about it, for she had not fished much. Paul, fearing the fish would get away, reached over toward her, and took hold of the pole himself.
As he did so he felt the part of the shelving bank on which they were sitting give away.
"Look out! Throw yourself back!" he cried to Alice. But it was too late, and the next instant they both found themselves sliding down in a little avalanche of earth and stones—into the deep eddy.
"Hold your breath!" Alice heard Paul cry as a last direction, and she obeyed.
The next instant she felt herself in the water, and it closed over her head.
Alice could swim, and, after the plunge into the stream, she did not lose her head. She knew she would come up in a second, even though hampered by her clothes. Her only fear was lest shebe entangled in the fish-line. And in another second she knew this was the case. She could feel her feet bound together. But her hands were free, and she had seen expert swimmers make their way through the water with their feet purposely bound.
She struck out with her hands, and found herself rising. Her lungs seemed ready to burst for want of air, for she had not had time to take a full breath.
Then her head shot up out of water, and she could breathe. She shook her head to get the water from her eyes, and saw Paul striking out toward her.
"I'll get you!" he cried, and then he uttered an exclamation of horror, for a log of wood, coming down stream, struck Alice on the head, and all grew black before her.
She felt herself sinking again, and tried to strike out to keep her head above the water, but it seemed impossible. Then she felt herself grasped in a strong arm, and she realized that Paul had come to her rescue.
At the same moment she dimly heard, in her returning consciousness, a voice crying something from the opposite shore.
Alice fought back with all her strength the inclination to faint, and forced her brain to compel her body to do its work. She did her best to aid Paul in the rescue, but he was having a hard struggle. For Alice was rather heavy, and her feet, entangled as they were with the fish line, were of no aid. Then, too, the blow on her head had not been a light one, though it developed later that her heavy hair had prevented the log from bruising her.
"I have you! Don't worry! I'll save you!" she could hear Paul murmuring in her ear. Then her head cleared, and she was able to recognize the voice and make out the words of someone on the opposite bank, toward which Paul was swimming with his burden.
For the voice was the voice of Russ Dalwood, and his words sounded strangely enough under the circumstances.
"That's it! Come right over here!" the youngmoving picture operator called. "I'm getting a dandy film! That's it, Paul, a little more to the left! That's the finest rescue scene I ever got! It's great acting!"
"Why—why you—you don't mean to say you'refilmingus!" cried Paul, for he was now in shallow water and could stand upright, holding Alice in his arms.
"Of course I'm filming you!" exclaimed Russ. "Do you think I'd let an act like this get past me? Not much!" and he continued to grind away at the crank of his machine, which he had hastily set up on the edge of the stream, where he commanded a good view of those in the water.
"But this isn't acting!" said Paul, ready to laugh, now that the danger was over. "This isreal!Alice fell in, and I went in after her. It's the real thing!"
"Great Scott!" cried Russ. "I thought you were rehearsing for some play, and as I came along I thought I might as well get the scene, even if it was only a rehearsal. For I had plenty of film left, and sometimes the rehearsal comes out better than the real thing. And so it was an accident?"
"Of course it was," answered Paul. "But as long as you've got it on the film I suppose there's no help for it."
"It's a fine scene, all right," went on Russ, "and Mr. Pertell can work it into some of his plays." He ceased operating the camera now, as Paul and Alice were too close.
"Are you much hurt?" asked the young rescuer, anxiously, as he looked for a grassy spot whereon to place his burden.
"No—no," returned Alice, "I was more frightened than hurt. Will you please cut that line?" she asked, pointing to the tangle of the fish cord around her feet.
In an instant Paul had out his knife, and cut the string.
"Well, you two are pretty wet," said Russ. "How did it happen?"
"The bank gave way with us," explained Paul. "It's too bad, Alice. That dress is spoiled, I'm afraid," he added, ruefully.
"It doesn't matter," she answered. She could laugh now, but she could not repress a shudder as she looked back at the deep water of the eddy. They were on the other side of the stream now.
"It was an old one, Paul," Alice went on, "and I can save it to do some more water-scenes with. For probably, after Mr. Pertell hears that Russ has the basis for a drama with someone in it being saved from drowning, he'll want therest, and we may have to do some more swimming."
"I wouldn't mind in the least," he said; "but next time I hope, for your own sake, you don't get entangled in a fish line."
"That was pretty risky," said Russ. "But you two had better be getting back to the farmhouse now, and into some dry things."
"Indeed, yes," agreed Alice. "I'm sure I must look like a fright. Papa will be so worried, and Ruth, too. I wish I could slip in the back way so they wouldn't see me until I had time to change."
"I'll manage it," spoke Russ. "I'll go on ahead, and if any of our folks are in the back I'll bring them around to the front and hold them there while you slip in. I guess, Paul, you don't care to be seen in that rig; do you?"
"I should say not! That water was certainly wet!"
He had taken off his coat and was wringing it out, while Alice managed to get some of the water from the lower part of her skirts.
"Then you aren't going to swim back?" asked Russ.
"I should say not!" exclaimed Paul, with energy. "Isn't there a bridge somewhere around here, where we can cross?"
"About half a mile down," answered Russ, "I came that way."
"Are you sure you're all right, and able to walk, Alice?" Paul inquired, anxiously. "If not, I could go for a carriage. That is, if you will wait."
"Of course I can walk," she answered, promptly, as she tried to arrange her hair in some sort of order.
"Don't worry about that," said Paul, quickly. "It looks nicer that way."
"As if I would believe that!" she challenged. "Well, if we're going, let's go. Don't forget, Russ, what you promised about getting us in the rear entrance. I wouldn't have Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon see me this way for anything—I'd never hear the last of it!"
"Does your head hurt?" asked Paul, coming closer to examine the spot where the floating log had hit Alice.
"Just a little," she admitted. "It's lucky, though, that my hair is so thick."
They set off, Paul and Alice following Russ, who went on ahead with his moving picture camera.
"I certainly have a fine film," he said, "but I don't believe I would have taken it if I had known it was the real thing in the way of arescue. I'd have jumped in and given a hand myself."
"It was very good of you, Paul," murmured Alice, but when he looked into her eyes she turned her own gaze away.
"I—I wouldn't have missed the opportunity of saving you for—for anything," he said, softly.
On the way to the farmhouse, over the bridge and along the country road, a few passing farmers turned to gaze curiously at the two dripping figures, and one grizzled man, seeing the camera Russ carried, and knowing moving picture actors were at Oak Farm, said, loudly enough to be heard:
"Wa'al, by hickory! Some folks is purtty hard put t' airn a livin' now-a-days! Jumpin' in th' water t' have pictures made of 'em. G'lang there!" and he drove on with his bony horse and ricketty wagon.
"You see, he thought the same thing that I did," laughed Russ.
The young moving picture operator was able to draw around to the front of the farmhouse those of the theatrical company who were near the rear, and he managed to keep them there until Paul and Alice had a chance to slip in the side door, and get to their rooms unnoticed. Ruth,however, saw Alice, just as she entered the apartment they shared.
"Oh, my dear girl—you're all wet!" Ruth exclaimed.
"You generally get that way when you fall into the water," remarked Alice, calmly. Then she told of the accident.
"Oh, what a narrow escape!" breathed Ruth, sinking into a chair. "You quite frighten me!"
"You need not be frightened—now—it's all over," and Alice was quite cool about it.
Nothing worse than a slight headache followed her experience in the brook, but as much fuss was made over her, and as many kind inquiries made, after the story became known, as though she had been seriously injured.
Mr. Pertell, after duly saying how sorry he was at the occurrence, expressed his satisfaction over the fact that Russ had made a film of the happening, and at once set to work to devise a plot and play in which it would fit. As Alice had guessed, he had to have other water scenes, and some in which a boat figured, and Paul and Alice were called on again to go through some "stunts," on the mill stream. Thus a pretty little play was made out of what had been an accident. And, more often than once is that really done in the moving picture world.
Rather quiet days followed at Oak Farm. A number of rural plays were acted and filmed, and word came back from New York, where the first films had been sent for development and printing, that the reels were most successful. The one where Mr. Bunn was wet with the hose was particularly good, so said Mr. Pertell's agent.
"But I'll never go through such a thing again," declared the Shakespearean actor.
The affairs of the Apgar family did not improve with time. Squire Blasdell paid several visits to the farm, and one day, seeing Sandy looking particularly gloomy, Ruth asked him what the trouble was.
"The squire is gettin' ready to sell off the farm," he replied. "He's goin' t' foreclose that mortgage. I've tried all the ways I know to raise that four thousand dollars; but I can't!"
"I wish we could help," said Ruth, sympathetically, as she thought of the days of their own poverty, when everything seemed so black.
"I don't reckon anyone can help us," said Sandy. "If only we could find Uncle Isaac's money, and get what belongs to us, we'd be all right; but I guess we can't."
Preparations were under way for a barn dance, which was to be part of a scene in one of the farm plays Mr. Pertell had planned. In order tomake it as natural as possible a number of the country folk living near Oak Farm had been asked to take part. Young and old were invited, and all were delighted to come and "have their pictures took." Thus the original theatrical company would be much augmented on this occasion.
The affair was to take place in the old barn, which, later, would be burned in the great drama. And this barn was selected as the dance was to take place at night. For this good illumination would be needed, and special magnesium lamps were sent out from New York, to be lighted inside the barn. In order to run no chances of burning one of the good farm buildings the old one, which now practically belonged to Mr. Pertell, was taken.
"That barn dance will be fun," said Alice to Ruth, the evening on which it was to take place. "There's going to be a country fiddler. Come on out and let's look at the decorations. Sandy has hung up long strings of unshelled ears of corn. It looks just like a real country barn now, for he's moved some of his machinery into it, and there's going to be a real cow there!"
"Mercy, I'm not going to take part, then!" cried Ruth, nervously. "I'm afraid of cows."
"Silly! This one will be tied. And you've got one of the principal parts. You're to dancewith the young son of the rich farmer, and fall in love with him, and I'm to be the jealous one, and all that sort of thing, you know."
"Yes, I know. Haven't I been studying my part for the last week? But I know I'll never do that Virginia Reel right. Since we learned the new dances I've forgotten all the old ones."
The two sisters went out to the old structure, but it seemed deserted. They looked in and saw how well Sandy had arranged it to make an effective picture for the camera.
"Come on," invited Alice, humming a tune.
Ruth advanced toward her sister, to take a dancing position, when a noise startled the girls. It was the same sort of noise they had heard before, when their father, Mr. Pertell and Sandy had made an unsuccessful attempt to learn the cause of it.
"What's that?" gasped Ruth.
"I—I don't know," whispered Alice. But she did know—it was that same strange sound, as of a heavy body falling. And this time there was a groan—the girls were sure of this.
Without another word they ran out of the barn, hand in hand toward the farmhouse, intending to give an alarm. And, as they got outside, they saw, running off in the dusk, across the fields, a man who limped as he sped onward.
"Look!" gasped Ruth.
"It was that man—hiding in the barn! Who can he be?" asked Alice, pausing a moment.
"Don't stop! Come on!" commanded Ruth, in fear.
"But we ought to see who it is," insisted the younger girl. "Or at least watch where he goes. Sandy ought to know."
"Well, we'll go tell him; but don't stand and watch that man. He might do you some harm."
"How could he—away off there; and he's running away, besides," spoke Alice. "I think I would know him again. I had one glimpse of his face, as he turned. It was a mean, cruel-looking face, too."
"It wasn't one of those men who tried to get Russ's patent; was it?" asked Ruth.
"No, neither one of them was lame. And they are both locked up, I think. This is someother man. There, he's gone—at least I can't see him any more."
Either a depression in the field over which he was running, or some hollow between hummocks, now hid the man from view. Then, too, night was falling, and the shadows were dusky.
"We had better go and give the alarm," said Ruth, pulling gently on her sister's arm, to urge her forward. Together they hastened to the house, where, pantingly, they told what they had seen and heard.
"Some tramp, likely," said Sandy, as catching up a club he ran toward the barn. Russ, Paul, and some of the other male members of the theatrical company followed. Alice wanted to go also, but Ruth would not let her.
Nothing came of the search, however, though it was carried far afield. The men came back soon.
"Some tramp, sure," reaffirmed Sandy. "This part of th' country is getting too thick with 'em. Something will have to be done. But I don't see where he could have hidden himself. You say the noise was just like the one you heard before?"
"The same," answered Alice, "and it sounded in the same place—just as if someone had fallen, and then came a groan."
"Maybe the man did fall and hurt himself," suggested Ruth. "And that, likely, was what made him limp."
"Well, I wish he'd limp away from here and stay away," complained Sandy. "I can't see, though, how he managed to hide himself in the barn. There's something strange about that place."
There was, but even Sandy had no suspicion of how very strange the matter was connected with the old structure.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Ruth, when the chase for the man was over, "I'll be afraid to go to that barn dance now."
"Nonsense!" said Alice. "We'll all be there—and so will Russ," she added with a sly laugh.
"As if that made any difference!" answered Ruth, quickly.
"Oh, itmight," and Alice seemed very innocent, but there was laughter in her eyes.
In spite of the fact that there were many men and boys at the barn dance, Ruth could not help looking around nervously now and then during the course of the little play, several scenes of which took place in the old building. But there was no further alarm, and no unbidden guests were discerned in the bright glare of the powerful lights.
The scenes went off very well, especially the dancing ones, but the "city folks," as the farmer lads and lassies spoke of the members of the theatrical company, were at rather a disadvantage when it came to doing some of the old-fashioned dances. They had not practiced them in years, particularly Miss Dixon and Miss Pennington.
"The idea of doing the old waltz and two-step," complained Miss Pennington. "It's like running a race."
"Indeed it is, my dear," agreed her chum. "Why can't he let us do the Boston Dip, at least; or the one-step glide. I hate the continuous waltz."
"So do I. Let's try it, when you and I dance together."
"We will!"
But Mr. Pertell, who was overseeing the carrying out of the barn dance, at once cried sharply:
"Hold on there with that camera, Russ! That won't do, Miss Pennington—Miss Dixon. We don't want the new dances here. Not that there is anything the matter with them," he hastened to add, as he saw the defiant looks on the faces of the two former vaudeville players; "but this is supposed to be an old-fashioned country dance,of the style of about twenty-five years ago, and it would look queer in the films to see the dip and one-step introduced.
"Now do that part over, and keep on with the Virginia Reel. Go ahead, Russ. And everybody get a little more life into this thing. Be lively! Hop about more! Shout and sing if you want to—it won't hurt the film. Go ahead, fiddler!"
Once more the violin wailed out its tune, and the play went on.
"I wonder what I'll have to do next?" complained Wellington Bunn. "This is getting worse and worse. I've had to dance with a big country girl, and every time I take a step she comes down on my foot. I'll be lame for a week."
"It's awful—this moving picture work," agreed Mr. Sneed, who seemed never to get over his "grouch." Then he went on: "It's dangerous, too. Suppose this barn should catch fire? What would happen to us?"
"Ve vould get out quick-like, alretty!" said Carl Switzer, as there came a lull in the dance. "Isn't dot der answer?"
"I wasn't asking a riddle," grunted Mr. Sneed. "But something will happen; you mark my words."
"Yah, I hope it happens dat ve haf chickenfor dinner on Sunday!" laughed the German, who always seemed good-natured.
Some other scenes for the play, in which the background of the barn was needed, were made, and then work was over for the evening.
Some of the young persons from neighboring farms asked to be allowed to stay and dance more, and this was allowed. Ruth and Alice, with Russ and Paul, also remained and had a jolly good time, making friends with some of the country girls and boys.
"I've got something new for you, Miss Alice," said the moving picture manager a day or so later, coming up to Ruth and her sister as they sat on the farmhouse porch. Mr. Pertell had some typewritten pages in his hand, and this generally meant that he was getting ready for a new play.
"What is it this time?" asked Alice. "Have I got to fall overboard out of any more boats?" for that had been one of her recent "stunts."
"No, there's no water-stuff in this," answered the manager with a smile. "But can you drive horses?"
"Mercy, no!" cried Alice.
"Oh, I don't mean city horses. I mean these gentle country ones about the farm."
"Oh, I've driven the team Sandy uses to takethe milk to the dairy," confessed Alice. "I could manage them, I suppose."
"Those are the ones I mean," went on the manager. "In this play you are supposed to be a country girl. Your father falls ill and can't cut the hay. It has to be cut and sold to pay a pressing debt, and no hired men can be had in a hurry. So you hitch up the horses to the mower and drive them to cut the grass. It's only for a little while. Think you can do it?"
"Well, I never drove a mowing machine; but I can try. I don't know about hitching up the horses, though."
"Better practice a little with Sandy, then," the manager advised. "He'll show you how."
He gave Alice some written instructions, and then went over Ruth's part in the play. Alice, resolving to learn how to hitch up a team, went out to find Sandy.
It was much easier than she had expected to find it, to attach the slow and patient horses to the mowing machine, and the young farmer took her for a turn with it about the barn yard, so she would be familiar with its operation.
"I think I can do it," said Alice, and two days later, the rehearsals were ended and all was in readiness for making the film of the new rural play.
Alice took her place on the seat of the machine, and began to guide the horses around the edge of the hay field. The mower has a long knife extending out from one side, and as the machine is driven along the wheels work the mechanism that sends this knife—or, rather a series of knives—vibrating back and forth inside a sort of toothed guard, thus cutting the hay or grain.
"All ready, now," called Mr. Pertell to Russ, who was at the camera.
"Go 'long!" cried Alice to the horses, and the animals began their slow walk. For a time all went well, and then a dog, coming from no one knew where, ran at the heels of the horses, barking and worrying them. In an instant one of the steeds leaped forward in fright and the other caught the alarm.
"Hold them in, Alice!" cried Russ. But it was too late, and the horses started to run away, dragging with them the frightened girl on the seat of the mowing machine.
For a moment those watching the making of the moving picture stood as if paralyzed. The horses, frightened out of their usual calmness by the barking dog, were rushing madly down the field, the mowing machine clicking viciously.
"Hold them in! Hold them in! Pull on the lines!" cried Sandy, who was the first to spring to action. He set off on a run toward the horses.
Russ, too, leaping aside from his camera, started off to the rescue, and the others followed. Mr. DeVere was not in this play, and had remained at the farmhouse.
Ruth, however, not being required in this particular scene, though she would come in the film later, had strolled down the meadow toward a little stream, to gather some flowers.
It was in her direction that the frightened horses were running, and as Ruth heard theshouts, and caught the sound made by the clicking machine, she looked up. Then she saw her sister's danger, and without a thought of her own stepped directly in the path of the oncoming animals, waving up and down, frantically, a bunch of flowers she had gathered.
"Don't do that! Jump to one side!" cried Sandy, who was now nearer the mowing machine. "Look out, Miss DeVere!"
"But I want to stop the horses!" Ruth cried. "I must save Alice!"
"You can't do it that way! They'll run you down, or if they don't the knives will cut you! Jump to one side—I'll try and catch them!"
Ruth had the good sense to obey. She did not really mean to make a grab for the horses, but to stand in their path as long as she could, hoping to make them slacken speed. But she had forgotten about the projecting knives, which, even in their sheath of steel, might seriously injure her.
Alice, white-faced, but still keeping her wits about her, tried to follow the shouted directions, and pull on the reins. But either the horses had the bits in their teeth, or her strength was not enough to bring them to a stop. On they raced, and, as the meadow was a large one, they had plenty of room. Alice might be able toguide them until they tired themselves out, but there was danger that they would turn into a fence, or that the machine would overturn and crush her under it.
She had half a notion to leap from the iron seat, and trust to falling on the soft earth. But she feared she might become entangled in the reins, or that she would slip, and fall under the flying feet of the horses, or even on the clattering set of knives. And of these last she well knew the danger, for Sandy had warned her of them. So she decided she would keep her seat as long as she could.
Sandy was racing up behind her. Above the thud of the horses' hoofs, and the shrill sound of the clicking knives, Alice could hear him coming on, trying to save her. And how she prayed that he would be in time.
The mowing machine was opposite Ruth now, who had stepped back out of the way of harm. And as Alice passed her sister in the machine the latter cried:
"Oh, Alice! If you should be hurt!" There was the sound of tears in her voice.
Alice did not answer. She had all she could do to look after the plunging horses.
Sandy was not at such a disadvantage in his race as at first it would seem. He was light onhis feet, and a good runner, though much tramping over plowed fields and rough hills had given him a rather clumsy gait in walking.
But the horses were not built for racing, either, and they were dragging a heavy machine on soft ground. The iron wheels of the reaper were made with projections, to enable them to bite deeper into the earth, and thus turn the gears that operated the knives. And these iron wheels were a heavy drag.
So it is not surprising that, after a comparatively short run, the horses slackened their pace.
"Sit down! I'm comin'!" cried Sandy, and now Alice could hear him panting behind her.
In another instant she felt a jar on the machine, and then someone reached over her shoulder, and took the reins from her hands.
"I'll pull 'em down!" cried Sandy, balancing himself on a part of the machine, back of the seat on which Alice was riding.
The young farmer sawed hard on the lines and this, added to the fact that they had had enough of the hard run, caused the animals to slacken speed. They slowed down to a trot, and then to a walk, finally coming to a halt. And just in time, too, for right in front of them was a big stone fence, into which they might have crashed.
"Oh! Oh dear!" gasped Alice. "I—I think I'm going to faint!"
"Don't! Please don't, Miss!" begged Sandy, more frightened at that prospect, evidently, than he had been at the runaway. "I—I don't know what to do when ladies faint. Really I don't I—I never saw one faint, Miss. Please don't!"
"All right—then I won't," laughed Alice, by an effort conquering her inclination. But she felt a great weakness, now that the strain was over, and she trembled as Sandy helped her down from the machine. In another moment Ruth and the others came up, and Ruth clasped her sister in her arms.
"You poor dear!" she whispered.
"Oh, I'm all right now," said Alice, bravely. "Perhaps there wasn't as much danger as I imagined."
"There was a plenty," spoke Sandy, grimly.
The dog, the cause of all the mischief, had disappeared. The horses were now quiet enough, though breathing hard, and soon they began to nibble at the grass.
"Well, my dear girl, I'm sorry this happened!" exclaimed Mr. Pertell, as he came running up. "I never would have let you go through that scene if I had dreamed of any danger."
"No one could foresee that this was goingto happen," returned Alice, who was almost herself again. "I'm all right now, and we'll finish the act, if you please."
"Oh, no!" cried Mr. Pertell. "I can't allow it. We'll substitute some other scene."
"No," insisted Alice. "I'm not afraid, really, and I think the picture will be a most effective one. Besides, it is almost finished. We can go on from the point where the horses started to run; can't we?" she asked Russ.
"Oh, yes," he agreed, with a look at the manager, "but——"
"Then I'm going to do it!" laughed Alice, gaily. "I'm not going to back out just because the horses got a little frisky. They will be quiet now; won't they, Sandy?" she asked.
"I think so, Miss—yes. That run took all the tucker out of 'em. They'll be quiet now," and he rather backed away from Alice, as though he feared she might, any moment, put into execution her threat to faint.
"Alice, I'm not sure you ought to go on with this," spoke Ruth in a low voice. "Papa might not like it."
"He wouldn't like me to begin a thing and not finish it," was the younger girl's answer. "I'm not afraid, and I do hate to spoil a film. Come, we'll try it over again," and she pluckilyinsisted on it until, finally, Mr. Pertell gave in.
The horses were driven back to the place from which they had bolted and Alice again took her place on the seat of the mowing machine, while Russ worked the camera. This time everything went well, but Sandy Apgar was near at hand, though out of sight of the camera, to be ready to jump on the instant, if the horses showed any signs of fright.
Paul Ardite, too, was on the watch, Ruth noticed. However, there was no need of these precautions. The horses acted as though they had never had any idea of bolting, and the film was finished.
Mr. DeVere looked grave when told of the accident, and after a moment or two of thought remarked:
"I wonder if I had better let you girls keep on with this moving picture work? It is much more dangerous than I supposed. I am worried about you."
"You needn't be, Daddy dear!" exclaimed Alice, slipping her arm about his neck. "Nothing has happened yet, and I'll be real careful. I should be heartbroken if we had to give it up now. I just love the work; don't you, Ruth?"
"Indeed I do; but twice lately, danger has come to you."
"Well, I'll have one more near-accident and then the 'hoodoo' will be broken, as Mr. Sneed would say. Three times and out, you know the old saying has it."
"Oh, Alice!" cried Ruth. "Do be sensible!"
"Can't, dear! I leave that to you. But, Daddy, you mustn't think of taking us out of moving pictures. Why, some of the best and most important of all the farm dramas are to come yet. There's the one with the burning barn—I wouldn't miss that for anything! Please, Daddy, let us stay. You want to; don't you, Ruth?"
"Oh, yes, of course. Only there seems to be so many dangers about a farm. I used to think a country life was calm and peaceful, but things happen here just as in a city."
"Indeed they do," laughed Alice, "only such different things. It's quite exciting, I think. Mayn't we stay, Daddy?"
"Oh, I suppose so," he consented, rather grudgingly. "But take no more chances."
"Oh, I didn't take the chances," laughed Alice. "The chances took me."
During the next few days several farm scenes were filmed by Russ, and a number of partly finished plays were completed, the reels being sent to New York for development. Word cameback that everything was a success, only a few minor errors being made, and these were easily corrected. A few scenes had to be done over.
"But I'm glad it wasn't the one with the hose," said Mr. Bunn, with a sigh. "Really I'd never go through that again."
"Ha! I vould like dot—if I vos on der right side of der hose!" exclaimed Mr. Switzer.
The day had been a busy one, filled with hard work for all before the moving picture camera. When evening came the players were glad of the chance to rest.
"Let's walk down the road," suggested Alice to Ruth. "It is so pretty and restful on the little white bridge, just before you come to the red schoolhouse."
They walked down, arm in arm, talking of many things, and soon were standing on the white bridge that spanned a little stream, which flowed between green banks, fragrant with mint. Here and there were patches of green rushes and beds of the spicy water cress.
"Oh, it's just lovely here!" sighed Ruth. "It is too beautiful. I wish we could share it with some one."
"Here comes someone now, to share it with—a man," spoke Alice, motioning down the road, which was shaded with many trees, throughwhich the moon was now shining, making patches of light and shadow.
"Perhaps it is some of our friends," murmured Ruth. "I believe Russ and Paul started out for a walk before we did."
"That's not two persons; it's only one," declared Alice as she continued to look at the advancing figure. "And see, Ruth, he—he limps!"
She caught her sister's arm as she spoke, and the two girls drew closer together. The same thought came to both.
Was this the man who had run out of the barn?
"I believe it's the same one," whispered Ruth.
"And I'm perfectly positive," answered Alice. "Oh, Ruth, now is our chance!"
"Chance! Chance for what?"
"I mean we can find out who he is, and perhaps solve the mystery."
"Alice DeVere! We're going to do no such thing! We're going to run back home—that man is coming straight toward us!" cried Ruth, and she began to drag Alice away from the bridge.
Meanwhile the limping figure continued to come along the road, going alternately from bright moonlight to shadow as he passed clumps of trees.