That pretty maiden took the teasing good-naturedly, then tongues and needles flew, until half an hour later when the boys returned. They were laughing merrily when they entered the room and bent over the burning log to warm their hands. The girls looked up from their sewing and Peggy asked eagerly: “Tell us the worst! Did Geraldine recognize us?”
“Yes, she did,” Bob declared. “She told Jack that she knew Peggy at once. She decided, however, that it had been a good lesson for her and she wished Jack to thank you all for having taught her that people may live in the country and not be backwoodsy or rubes.”
“Well, I’m glad she forgives us!” Bertha declared. Then, when the boys had again departed, she added: “But now, to return to the subject we were discussing when we were interrupted. Peggy, have you and Doris found a mystery yet for the Seven Sleuths to unravel?”
“Nary a mystery,” Doris confessed, “but it isn’t Saturday yet. You remember we were to have a week.”
“There might be some kind of a mystery connected with that old Welsley house out on the lake road. If ever a place looked haunted, that one surely does.”
“Righto, my dear little Betty, but ghosts and mysteries are two different things. Some unhappy old man shot himself in that dismal farmhouse and nobody ever wanted to live there after that; and so it has just fallen to pieces. But everybody knew the old man and just why he was so sad and discouraged, and so there isn’t any mystery to it at all, at all.”
“Where did the boys go?” Bertha looked up suspiciously. “Heavens, I hope they aren’t anywhere around. They might overhear us talking about mysteries and then our new name wouldn’t be secret any more.”
“They drove out of the yard; I saw them,” Betty, still near the window, remarked.
“Jack had a book. Probably that one of Conan Doyle. Perhaps they’re going to return it.”
Suddenly Bertha dropped her sewing and her eyes were bright “Say, girls, we’ve wondered a million times where the boys hold their secret meetings, but never once did we even suspect that itmightbe in that dreadful old Welsley place.”
“Bertha Angel, I believe you’re right. No one would ever interrupt themthere.” Peg shuddered.
“And what better meeting-place for a boys’ detective club than an old ruin haunted by a ghost that had committed suicide!” Doris commented.
“Well,” Merry sighed, “we’re not likely to find out, since our dear parents will not permit us to prowl around at night unless the boys are along to protect us.”
Then Peggy had an idea. “Girls,” she exclaimed, “we ought to have some kind of a party for Geraldine and Alfred. Let’s have a moonlight skating party and a sleigh ride combined, and when we’re out that way, let’s suggest visiting the old ruin. If the boys refuse, we will know that they don’t want us to see what they have in there. If they agree to the plan, then we will know that isnotwhere they hold their secret meetings.”
“Bright idea!”
“That will be a jolly lark!”
“Hope the haughty Geraldine knows how to skate.”
“Ssh! Here come the boys to take us home. We mustn’t let them suspect our deep-laid plans. We’re some sleuths all right, I’ll say.”
When the two boys entered the room they found the girls, except the hostess, warmly wrapped and ready to be taken to their homes.
“Isn’t the sunset going to be wonderful this evening?” Merry, in the open door, called over her shoulder. Then to the boys: “When is our next full moon? We girls thought we’d have our annual skating and sleigh ride party then, and invite the newcomers.”
“Great!” Jack cried. “It ought to be soon. What say, Bob?”
“Sure thing!” that ruddy-cheeked lad agreed. Then to the girl he was assisting into the sleigh, he said in a low voice: “Rosie, may I have the first skate and the last, and all in between?”
“No whispering allowed,” Merry warned as they climbed in, the girls sitting two and three deep.
The blizzard had disappeared as completely as though it never had been, but the high snowbanks that lined the road and reached to the window sills of the houses remained to testify that it had been “some storm,” as Bob said.
“Well, we sure have it to thank for a week of good times instead of school,” Merry declared. “I hope Miss Preen and Professor Lowsley enjoyed being snowed in together.”
Much laughter greeted this remark, but Gertrude said rebukingly: “I think it’s shabby of us to make fun of those two. Of course theyaresort of queer looking outside, but in their hearts and souls they may be just like the rest of us.”
“Trudie, dear, it wouldn’t take a detective to know thatyouare a minister’s daughter,” Merry remarked, then, as the sleigh was stopping in front of her home, she added: “Now, everybody decide what to take to the skating party. We’ll find out about the moon and make our final plans tomorrow. All of you come over to my house. Tra-la. Good night!”
Meanwhile Colonel Wainright was facing a new problem. While living alone he had needed very little waiting on, a faithful Chinese cook had provided his meals, and the wife of his hired man had come in daily from their quarters over the stables to clean the house, but the O’Haras had decided to return to Ireland. Geraldine, of course, was absolutely helpless and the Colonel decided that what he needed was a refined and somewhat elderly housekeeper, one who would be a good influence in the home. Just where to find such a person he could not think at first, but he happened to recall his old friend Mrs. Thompson, who had transformed her fine house on Hickory lane, not far from the girls’ seminary, into a home for old ladies. It wasn’t a charitable plan, exactly; it was a home for homeless old ladies of some means whose last days would be made far happier there than they could be elsewhere. Mrs. Thompson, herself, retained a large front room overlooking the beautiful grounds, and spent her summers there; winters she lived either in Europe or with her son in New York. But only that day he had seen in the paper that for some reason Mrs. Thompson was spending a few weeks at her country home, and the courtly old gentleman decided to visit her and ask her advice about how best to solve the problem with which he was confronted.
An hour later he was walking under the leafless hickory trees that formed a veritable grove surrounding a very large turreted wooden house, one of the oldest in the village. A pleasant-faced little old woman answered his ring, ushered him into the small reception room, and went to summon Mrs. Thompson. He had not long to wait, for his elderly friend, dressed in a simple black silk, as she had been all through the years since her husband had died, soon appeared and greeted him graciously. After explaining that her return had been because of a need for quiet and simpler fare than she could obtain easily in her son’s New York home, the old gentleman explained his mission, telling how he had unexpectedly acquired a family and so had need of a housekeeper. Before his story was finished, he knew by the brightening expression in the fine face of the old lady that she had someone in mind to suggest. Nor was he wrong.
“I believe Mrs. Gray is just the one for you,” she told him. “She admitted you just now.” Then before Mr. Wainright could reply, Mrs. Thompson continued: “Mrs. Gray came to us recently, during my absence. I know nothing at all about her past life; we ask no questions here. It is, as you know, merely a home boarding-house for gentlewomen. I asked Mrs. Gray this morning if she were happy with us, and she said, with a wistful expression on that unusually sweet face of hers, that she was afraid she never would be entirely contented without a home to keep, and she asked me if she might go down in the kitchen now and then and stir up a pudding or something. Now my theory is that she is a born housekeeper and just the one you need.”
Colonel Wainright agreed, and the little old lady who longed to putter about a kitchen was called and the proposition was made to her. The other two knew by the brightening of her softly wrinkled face that she was delighted to accept. The Colonel had told about the two Morrison “children,” as he called them, who had come to spend the winter with him, and by the tender light that glowed in her eyes he was assured that she loved young people and would have for them an understanding sympathy.
“Mrs. Gray,” he said, when the arrangements had been completed, “there is about you a haunting suggestion of someone whom I once knew. Ever since you admitted me an hour ago I have been trying to think who it is that you resemble, but I have given it up.”
The little old lady smiled pleasantly as she replied: “It does seem that everywhere I go, folks think I look like somebody they’ve known.”
“Well, that’s about all there is to it,” the old man acknowledged. “I have had the same thing happen to me. Judge Crow, up in Dorchester, and I are supposed to be doubles.” Then, holding out his hand, first to one and then another of the old ladies, he expressed his deep gratitude to them both, ending with a promise to send for Mrs. Gray and her baggage that very afternoon.
And so it happened that on the third day after the arrival of the young people, another member was added to their household. Colonel Wainright had welcomed the little old lady and had at once introduced her to Geraldine and Alfred, then he had walked to town, leaving them to their own devices.
It was quite evident that Geraldine’s good humor of the day before had departed, for she acknowledged the introduction with a barely perceptible nod and had risen at once to go to her own room. Never before had she beenintroducedto a housekeeper as though she were one of her own class. Colonel Wainright was certainly old-fashioned. Servants were servants, she considered, whatever they were called.
Alfred, who had promised to go skating with Jack and Bob, had welcomed the old lady in the friendliest manner, and she knew at once that she was going to love the boy, but the girl—that was quite a different matter.
The Colonel had shown the housekeeper to her pleasant room overlooking the orchard when her trunk and bags had been taken there; he had also introduced her to Ching Lee, the plump, smiling Chinaman in the kitchen. When she was quite alone, the old lady stood by a window in her room gazing out at a sparkling snow-covered scene, and her eyes were misty. How happy she had been when the Colonel had told her she was to make a home, a real home, for a boy and girl. One of the unfulfilled desires of her life was to have had grandchildren. She blinked a bit, then wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and smiled at the scene before her. “Well,” she comforted herself by thinking, “I’ll pretend these two are my grandchildren, and I’ll treat them just as lovingly as though they really were, and I’ll begin that game right now.”
Putting a clean white apron over her soft grey dress, she went down the wide upper hall toward the front room, which was Geraldine’s.
Meanwhile that rebellious girl was unpacking her trunk in a manner which showed that it was a most distasteful task. Never before had she lifted her finger to wait on herself. Susan, her maid, had always done everything for her. She had asked her father to permit her to bring Susan to Sunnyside with her, but he had said that he could not ask his old friend to take three people into his home. As she thought of this injustice, her anger mounted higher and higher, and she took things from her trunk and actually threw them over the bed, chairs and lounge. Every conceivable spot was littered when there came a tap on the door.
“Come in!” the girl said sullenly, supposing that it was her brother who wished to speak with her. Instead a smiling little old lady opened the door.
“Why, Geraldine, child,” she said kindly, “youarebusy, aren’t you? Unpacking and hanging things up is quite an undertaking, but I think folks like to do it themselves, then they know where things were put.”
The girl’s face reddened in very evident displeasure. “Well,Idon’t like it,” she said coldly, “and I don’t see why I should have to. I’vealwayshad a maid to wait on me, and I’ve simply got to have one. Now that you’ve come, I suppose you’ll make my bed and keep my room in order.”
The old lady had had a talk with the Colonel about this very matter, and he had definitely said that waiting on the girl wasnotone of her duties, explaining that Mr. Morrison had especially requested that she learn how to care for herself. Very quietly Mrs. Gray replied: “No, little girl, that isnotone of my duties.”
Then, as the front door bell was ringing, the housekeeper went to answer it. Geraldine, standing among the confusion and litter, watched the retreat with flashing eyes.
“Little girl, indeed! Our housekeeper always addressed me as Miss Geraldine. Country ways and country servants are certainly hard to understand.”
Her torrent of angry thoughts was interrupted by a sweet voice calling: “Geraldine, two girls are coming up to see you.”
Geraldine looked around the room wildly, but before she had time to decide what she could do to prevent the girls from entering, they were standing in the open door.
“Oh, good morning, Miss Drexel and Miss Lee,” the unwilling hostess exclaimed, with a quickly assumed graciousness which had been acquired at the young ladies’ select seminary. “Wait until I remove a few dresses from the chairs and I will ask you to be seated.”
Doris and Merry exchanged puzzled glances. They felt Geraldine’s true attitude of mind, and the former said: “Oh, Miss Morrison, we really ought not to have made so early a morning call, but we have decided to go to the Drexel Lodge on Little Bear Lake tomorrow, and there are so many things to talk about. We did try to telephone, but the line is out of order, but first do let us help you put away your things.”
To Geraldine’s amazement, the two girls removed their wraps, laughing and chatting the while in a most social fashion.
“I’m going to suggest that we drop formality,” Merry said, “and call each other by our first names; and now, Geraldine, I just know that you are ever so tired with unpacking, so you sit here and tell us where you want these dresses hung, and presto, we’ll have them up in a twinkling.”
“But I cannot permit you girls to wait upon me!” the hostess protested.
“Why not?” Doris inquired. “My mother says that the most beautiful thing that we can do is loving service for one another. Oh, what a darling dress this is! It glows like jewels, doesn’t it, Merry?”
The city girl was rather pleased to be showing off her elaborate wardrobe to these village girls, who were evidently quite impressed.
“Oh, that’s just one of my party gowns,” she said indifferently. “I have several.” Then she confessed: “I honestly don’t know how to go about hanging them up. I have just stepped out of my clothes and Susan, my maid, has put them away.”
“My, how I would hate to have anyone taggingmearound all the time like that,” Merry exclaimed, not any too tactfully. “It would get on my nerves.”
Geraldine drew herself up haughtily and bit her lip to keep from replying. Her two guests, with many exclamations of admiration for the dresses, hung them up in the long closet, and then, when that task was finished, Merry announced: “Now I will show you my latest accomplishment, of which I am real proud.”
Her chum laughed as she explained: “You see, Geraldine, my mother has a companion, who is also a trained nurse, and last week she taught Merry how to make a bed in hospital fashion, and the next day when I went over to the Lees’, Merry had made and unmade her bed seven times trying to get it perfect.”
“There’s quite a knack to it,” that maiden smilingly declared, as she stretched, smoothed and tucked in sheets and blankets. Then as she stood back proudly and surveyed her accomplishment, she said, “Mother thinks my bed-making is a work of art.”
Geraldine wanted to say that she did not consider menial labor of any kind an art, but she refrained from making the comment.
Merry sank down in an easy chair by the fireplace and looked around with a radiant smile. “Everything was cleared away like magic, wasn’t it?” she said sociably; then she added philosophically: “If one dreads a thing, that makes the doing of it doubly hard, but when one pretends that it is going to be great fun, it gets done much more quickly; don’t you think so, Geraldine?”
Poor Geraldine’s head was in a whirl. Somehow she could not adjust herself to the view of things held by these country girls.
The Colonel had told her that Mr. Lee was the wealthiest man in the countryside, and, of course, she knew the financial and social standing of the Drexel family, and yet these girls had been taught that it was a privilege to render loving service and that bed-making was an art.
“Now, we must tell you all of our grand and glorious plans for tomorrow’s lark,” Doris began as she drew her chair up cosily. Then they chattered about the sleigh ride and the skating party, and when at last the little clock on the mantle chimed the hour of twelve, Merry sprang up and looked out of the window. “Here come the boys!” she said. “I made them promise that they would call for us at noon. They’ve been down to the lake to clean off a space on the ice for our skating party.”
“I’m so glad, Geraldine, that you like to skate,” Doris exclaimed as she slipped on her fur coat. “You’ll want to wear your heaviest shoes and leggins on the sleigh-ride party and your oldest, warmest clothes. You won’t need to bring anything toward the picnic part. You and Alfred are to be our guests of honor tomorrow. Good-bye.”
That night the Colonel, finding Geraldine standing alone in front of the fireplace in the living-room, slipped a fatherly arm about her, saying: “Little girl, I know how hard it is going to be for you to get used to our country ways, and I was just thinking that perhaps you would like to go to Dorchester with me tomorrow and spend the day with your friends.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t, Uncle-Colonel!” was the unexpected reply, brightly given. “The girls and boys of Sunnyside are giving a welcome party for Alfred and me. It’s a sleigh ride out the lake road to the Drexel lodge; then there is to be skating, and a ride home in the moonlight. I never was so interested in anything before in all my life.”
“That’s good news!” the Colonel replied, deeply touched because the girl had, almost unconsciously, used the name which he had taught her when she was very small. “Well, some other time you may go with me to the city. I go there often to attend to business matters.”
That night after the young people had retired to their rooms, the Colonel and Mrs. Gray exchanged confidences and each felt hopeful that the unfortunate motherless girl was soon to have a change of heart.
The next morning when Colonel Wainright entered the cheery, sun-flooded breakfast-room, he saw a slender girl standing by the window looking out at the glistening white orchard. She turned with a truly radiant face.
“Oh, Colonel,” she exclaimed, “isn’t this the most wonderful, sparkling day? I will have to confess that I have never seen anything so beautiful in the city, for there, even in the parks, the snow becomes sooty almost as soon as it has fallen.”
The elderly gentleman was indeed pleased and he said heartily: “Well, little lady, I am glad that there is at least one thing that you like in our country village. Aha! Here is Alfred. Good morning, lad, I judge by your ruddy face that you have already been out-of-doors.”
“Indeed I have,” the boy replied as they took their places at the table. “I saw a chap shoveling and so I went out to help him. Who is he, Colonel? Sort of a surly boy, I thought. He only grunted when I asked if he didn’t think the snow was great.”
“He is Danny O’Neil,” the old gentleman replied. “His father is a tenant on one of my farms and he has had a great deal of trouble with the boy, he tells me. Danny is seventeen and has sort of taken the bit in his mouth. He doesn’t want to go to school nor help his father on the farm. Mr. O’Neil came to me yesterday and asked my advice about sending Danny to a reform school. I advised him not to do so unless he feared the boy might do something really criminal. Then I suggested that he send the lad over here to take the place of my man Patrick, who has gone to Ireland to visit his old parents. I thought, perhaps, if Danny were earning good wages, that might straighten him out. I wish you would talk with him, Alfred. I’m sure it would do him good.”
“I will, sir,” the boy replied. “There must be some reason that doesn’t show on the surface for Danny O’Neil’s rebelliousness. Perhaps his father doesn’t understand him.”
Mrs Gray smiled over the silver coffee urn at the boy and nodded encouragement. “That often leads to a lot of trouble and unhappiness, as I have reason to know,” she replied.
An hour later, true to his promise, Alfred tried to make friends with Danny O’Neil. Having procured another wooden shovel from the tool shed, he was tossing snow from the front walk which had not been entirely cleaned off since the blizzard. He did not wish his efforts to become acquainted with Danny to seem too pointed, and so he had taken this way to make them appear natural, but the other boy was taciturn, giving no information about himself or his plans, answering all direct questions with monosyllables. Discouraged, Alfred was about to give up when he heard the jolly jingling of sleigh bells, and to his surprise saw a two-seated cutter, drawn by a familiar big dapple mare and driven by Bob. Rose sat at his side, while Doris and Jack were on the back seat.
They sang out merry greetings as they approached and came to a halt near where the two boys were working. Jack leaped out and, after a wave of his hand toward the Morrison boy, he turned to the other with, “Hello, old Dan, how are you? I haven’t laid eyes on you in twenty moons. Why don’t you ever come around?” adding by way of explanation to Alfred: “Danny O’Neil and I were champion snowballers when we were kids. I always chose him to be on my side when I was captain of the Brick School gang.” Then to the still sullen-looking boy, who kept on shoveling: “I haven’t seen a thing of you since you stopped going to school. You made a mistake to drop out, Dan.” Fearing that he was embarrassing the still silent boy, Jack turned to explain their early visit. “We four are a committee on arrangement. Stopped by to tell you and your sister to be ready along about two. We’ll call for you.”
Doris, seeing Geraldine in the doorway, skipped up the front steps for a few words, and on her return, seeing that Danny was alone, she stopped and spoke to him in a low voice. “Danny O’Neil,” she said. “I’ve often wished I could see you to tell you how my heart aches for you since your mother died. Every week, when I drove out to your little farm to get fresh eggs for my mother, Mrs. O’Neil was so cheerful and brave, although we know now that she must have been suffering for a long time. She was always telling me that her one desire was to save enough money to send you up to the Dorchester Art School. She showed me things you drew, Danny. I’m sure you have talent. I hope you’ll carry out her wishes. Won’t you try, Danny, for her sake?”
The boy for a moment seemed to find it hard to speak, then he said in a tone gruff with emotion: “If I can get hold of any money, I will. It’s all that’s left, now Ma’s gone.”
“But, Dan, if you’re working for the Colonel, you can save that money, can’t you?”
“Not much I can’t! The old man gets it paid to him. That’s how muchI’llget it.” His voice expressed bitterness and hatred.
Rose was calling and so, with a pitying expression in her eyes, Doris said, “Good-bye, Danny,” and skipped away. After they were gone, Alfred tried once more to be friendly, but found the surly lad even less inclined to talk than before, and so he went indoors to prepare for the afternoon frolic.
Promptly at two, Geraldine and Alfred, well bundled in furs, were waiting in the hall when a joyous shouting, ringing of bells and blowing of horns announced that the merry sleigh-ride party was coming up the drive.
Alfred threw open the door and gave an answering halloo, then, turning, he assisted Geraldine down the icy steps.
“I wonder where Danny O’Neil is,” the Colonel exclaimed. “I told him to put ashes on the icy places, but he has not done so.”
The girls graciously welcomed Geraldine and made room for her on the deep, blanket-covered straw between Doris and Merry.
“This is for you to blow upon,” the former maiden said, producing from her coat pocket a small tassled horn.
For one moment Geraldine hesitated. Then, as the two big white horses raced along the snowy road with bells jingling, she soon caught the spirit of merriment and found herself tooting upon a horn as gayly as the rest of them. Never before had she had such a jolly time, and she was actually feeling a bit sorry for the city girls who had never been on a straw ride.
The sun was bright, and long before they reached their destination they could see the ice glistening on Little Bear Lake.
As they drew up at the Inn, to rest the horses a moment before turning up the seldom traveled East Lake Road, Mr. Wiggin, who lived in that lonely spot all the year round with only now and then an occasional guest for a week-end, came out to greet them.
Usually his face beamed when he saw these young people, but today he looked greatly troubled.
“What’s up, Mr. Wiggin?” Bob drew rein to inquire. “You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”
“Well, I came out to warn you young people you’d better turn back. Old Man Bartlett, who lives a mile up the wood road, was robbed an hour ago. He’d been to town to get five hundred dollars he had in the bank; got a queer notion that the bank was going to pieces. He had the money in an old bag. Someone must have seen him getting it out of the bank and followed him. Anyway, when he reached the wood road, he was held up and robbed.”
“Well, with all the unbroken snow there is about here, it will be easy enough to catch the thief,” Bob said.
“You’re wrong there!” Mr. Wiggin replied. “Several teams have been along the lake road since the blizzard, and he could walk in the ruts.”
“Was poor old Mr. Bartlett hurt?” Gertrude asked anxiously.
“No, not at all. He was blindfolded and tied to a tree, but he worked himself loose before long, but the robber was gone. The old man came right down here and we telephoned to the sheriff. He and his men will be along most any minute now. There may be some shooting, and so I’d advise you boys to take the girls right back to town.”
Jack looked anxiously at Merry, who was vigorously shaking her head. “We aren’t afraid, are we, girls?”
“Not with all these boys along to protect us,” Peg declared.
Then Doris explained: “We’re only going as far as our cabin. Mr. Wiggin; that’s not more than a mile from here. We’ll be all right.”
“That crook is probably headed for Dorchester by this time,” one of the boys put in. “We don’t want to miss our fun for him.”
The innkeeper watched the sleighload of young people until they had disappeared over a rise on the East Lake Road. Then he shook his head solemnly and, having entered the inn, he said to his wife: “That’s what I call a foolhardy risk. It might be all right for the young fellows if they were alone, but to take a parcel of girls into, nobody knows what, I call it downright foolishness and maybe worse. Why, if they cornered that highwayman, he would shoot, of course, and there’s no tellin’ who he would hit. Well, not being their guardeen, I couldn’t prevent their goin’, and so they’ll have to take their chance.”
Meanwhile the two big white horses were slowly ploughing their way along the east side of the lake. In some spots the road was quite bare where the wind had swept across the fields, but in other places the horses floundered through deep snow drifts. The road, which led close to the lake, was hilly and winding, and, as it neared the cabin, it entered a dense wood of snow-covered pines.
“Girls, why don’t you blow on your horns?” Bob called as he looked back. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. That highwayman would make straight for Dorchester, where he could lose himself in the crowd.”
Suddenly Merry called out excitedly: “Bob, stop a minute. Look there. That highwayman must have been riding on a horse. If he was, this is where he turned and cut through the pine woods to the old Dorchester road.”
Jack and several other boys leaped over the side of the sleigh and followed the tracks for some distance through the woods where there was little snow on the ground.
“Say, boys, I believe Merry’s got the right idea,” Jack said as he climbed back to his former place next to Geraldine.
“Glad we saw those tracks,” Alfred put in. “Now we know for sure that the highwayman won’t be lurking around the Drexel cabin.”
“Sure thing! Let’s proceed to forget about him and have a good time,” Bob called in his cheerful way. “Blow on your horns, girls. Make this silent pine wood ring.”
“Ohoo! Isn’t it silent, though, and dark, too? Hurry up, Bob. We’ll blow hard enough when we get out into the sunshine,” Betty Byrd said as she huddled close to Merry.
Peggy took occasion to say to Doris in a low aside that the boys of the “C. D. C.” probably thought they now had a mystery to solve, but they wanted the girls to think that they weren’t interested.
“That’s what I thought,” was the whispered reply. “Wouldn’t it be great if we solved the mystery first?”
“Say, cut out the secret stuff,” one boy across from them called; then, taking his companion’s horn, he blew a merry blast. The others did likewise and so noisily they emerged into the sunshine, but some of the girls glanced back at the silent, somber woods as though fearing that the robber had been there all of the time.
Just in front of them and built close to the lake was a picturesque log cabin.
“Hurray for the Drexel Lodge!” someone called.
“You girls stay in the sleigh,” Bob said, “while we boys see if the robber is hiding in the cabin.”
Five minutes later the lads reappeared. “He certainly isn’t here!” Jack declared. “The heavy wooden doors and blinds are all padlocked just as they were left last fall, and there is no other way of entering, so let’s forget the highwayman and have the good time we planned.”
“Jack is right,” Bertha said as she leaped from the sleigh. “Doris, you have the key. Let’s open the doors while the boys get wood from the shed. Isn’t the ice just great? I can hardly wait to get my skates on, can you, Geraldine?”
The young people were convinced that the highwayman was not in their neighborhood, and, with fear gone, they resumed their merrymaking. The blinds were opened, letting in a flood of sunlight. A big dry log was soon burning on the wide hearth and a fire was started in the kitchen stove.
“Now, girls,” Doris announced, “I want you all to go skating with the boys while I prepare our supper.”
“Why, won’t you be afraid to stay here alone?” Betty Byrd, the timorous, inquired. “I wouldn’t do it for worlds.”
“No, I’m not afraid,” Doris replied. “The house was locked, so why should I be?”
“Sure thing. You’re safe enough!” Bob declared. “But if you do get frightened, blow on your horn.”
Ten minutes later Doris was alone, or at least shethoughtshe was alone in the log cabin.
Doris sang softly to herself as she busily unpacked the lunch baskets and spread the long table in the living-room. The tea kettle was soon humming on the stove and bacon was sizzling in the frying pan.
“We’ll have an early supper,” she was thinking, “and I’m going to suggest that we start home early, too. Our parents will have heard about the holdup and they’ll be terribly worried. I do hope Mother, ill as she is, won’t hear of it, but of course she won’t. That’s the advantage of having a trained nurse with her all the time.” Then, she glanced at her skates lying near the door. “I suppose they’re disappointed not to get out on the ice. Well, so am I, but my ankle doesn’t feel as strong as I had hoped it would. I turned it a little getting into the sleigh, and I don’t want to sprain it again as I did last winter.” She opened a box which Bertha had brought.
“Yum! Yum!” she said aloud. “What delicious tarts!” Then she counted them. “Two apiece! I’m glad they’re big ones.”
Carrying them into the living-room, she placed them around on the long table, then, stopping to sniff, she darted back into the kitchen to turn the strips of sizzling bacon. A few minutes later she returned to the living-room with a huge plate of sandwiches. Suddenly she stood still and stared at the door of a small closet. She thought she had seen it move just ever so slightly. She knew that it had been locked, for Bob tried it just before he went out to skate.
The crack widened and Doris saw eyes peering out at her. Wildly she screamed, but the windows were closed and no one heard.
She started to run, when a familiar voice called, “Doris, don’t be frightened. I won’t hurt you. It’s Danny O’Neil.”
The girl turned in amazement toward the boy to whom she had been talking not six hours before.
“Danny,” the girl gasped, “what are you doing here?”
The boy looked around wildly: “I—I was the one who robbed old Mr. Bartlett,” he said rapidly. “I didn’t set out to do it, Doris! Honest, I didn’t! I was just a running away from home. Pa has been so hard on me ever since Ma died, and so I thought I’d clear out of it all, but I didn’t have any money. And then this morning, when you told me how Ma wanted me to get money and go to art school, well, I don’t know, Doris, what did happen to my brain, but I was just crazy mad to get money and get away from that man who calls himself my father. After you left I started walking to town. I didn’t even know I was doing it till I got to the bank. Then I saw Old Man Bartlett stuffing all that money in his handbag and I followed him, hiding behind trees, till he got to the wood road—then—I don’t know what I did—knocked him over, I guess. There was a long rope, one end tied to a tree, and I wound it about him, then I took his bag and ran.”
“But how did you get in here, Danny? The doors and windows were all locked and we didn’t see any tracks.”
“I know! I stepped on the places where the snow was blown away and I climbed to the roof and came down the chimney. Then I went in that closet and locked the door on the inside. But, Doris, I don’t want the money. All these long hours there in the dark I’ve been seeing Mom’s face looking at me so reproachful, and she kept saying, ‘Danny-boy, you promised me you’d go straight.’ If she’d a lived, Doris, I’d have been different, but ’tisn’t home without her.”
The lad drew his coat sleeve over his eyes, then he said gloomily: “The sheriff will be hunting for me and they’ll put me in jail, but anyhow, here’s the money. Take it back to Old Man Bartlett and tell him I didn’t really mean to rob him. I did it just sudden-like, without thinking.”
There were tears in the eyes of the girl and she held out her hand: “Danny,” she said, “I know how lonely you’ve been without your mother and I’ll help you. Quick, hide! Someone is coming.”
Danny darted back and locked himself in the closet. Doris hid the bag of gold and hurried toward the front door. Someone was pounding and she was sure it was the sheriff.
When Doris opened the heavy wooden door, she found that her surmise had been correct. Mr. Ross, the sheriff, stood without, and waiting near were several other men on horseback.
“Oh. Miss Drexel, it’s you, is it?” The sheriff was evidently much surprised. “We saw smoke coming from the chimney and believed that we had cornered our highwayman. Thought he might be hiding here. Of course it would be a daring thing to make a fire in a deserted cabin, but these criminals are a bold, hardened lot. Who else is with you, Miss Drexel? I guess I’ll step inside, if you don’t mind. No use holding the door open and letting the heat all out.”
The sheriff entered and closed the door, then he went to the fireplace and held his hands over the blaze.
Doris’s heart was filled with a new fear. What if Danny should make a sound of some sort and betray his hiding place? Hurriedly she said: “All of our crowd is here. Mr. Ross. There are seven boys and as many girls, but the rest of them are out on the ice skating. I remained in the cabin to prepare our supper.”
The sheriff straightened and leaned his back against the closet door as he said: “Miss Drexel, because of this robbery, I feel it my duty to tell you and your friends that you would better return to town as soon as you have had your lunch. It gets dark early these wintry days and there’s no telling what might happen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ross.” Doris said, “I will tell the boys when they come in.”
When the sheriff was gone, the girl closed and bolted the front door, then she tapped on the closet, saying softly: “Come out, Danny. I have a plan to suggest. Bob and the rest of them may be in at any minute.”
Then, when the lad appeared, she added: “I want you to take my skates, fling them over your shoulder, and go boldly out of the front door and up the lake road. Anyone, seeing you leave here, will think you are one of our party. Whistle and stride along as though you were out for fun. Half a mile above, as you know, the lake is narrow. Skate across and go back to your work at Colonel Wainright’s, but before you go, Danny, promise me that from now on you’ll be the kind of a boy your mother wanted you to be.”
The lad held out his hand and, with tears falling unheeded, he said huskily: “I give you my word, Doris. You’ve been my good angel and saved me from nobody knows what.”
Then he shouldered the skates and started down the snowy road with long strides, whistling fearlessly. A load had been lifted from his heart and he was sure that his mother had forgiven him.
Doris watched him until he disappeared beyond a bend in the road and then she breathed a sigh of relief. She heard a stamping without and the laughing young people swarmed into the kitchen.
“Ho, Doris, who was the chap that just went by?” Bob called—but before the girl could reply, something else happened to attract their attention. Bertha, in the kitchen, was crying in dismay: “Where is the cook? What has she been doing? We’ll have to discharge her. I’m thinking. The bacon is burned to a cinder.”
Doris, thankful indeed for this timely interruption, ran into the kitchen and declared remorsefully: “Oh, isn’t that too bad, and I suppose you are all hungry as bears, but luckily I brought an extra supply. Throw that out, Bertha, please, and I’ll get some more.” Then, as she searched in her basket, she added hurriedly: “I suppose I left it burn while the sheriff was here.”
“The sheriff!” was the surprised chorus.