proofreading team ruth fielding in moving pictures or helping the dormitory fund by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding on cliff island," etc. _illustrated_ new york cupples & leon company publishers books for girls by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. ruth fielding of the red mill or, jasper parloe's secret. ruth fielding at briarwood hall or, solving the campus mystery. ruth fielding at snow camp or, lost in the backwoods. ruth fielding at lighthouse point or, nita, the girl castaway. ruth fielding at silver ranch or, schoolgirls among the cowboys. ruth fielding on cliff island or, the old hunter's treasure box. ruth fielding at sunrise farm or, what became of the baby orphans. ruth fielding and the gypsies or, the missing pearl necklace. ruth fielding in moving pictures or, helping the dormitory fund ruth fielding down in dixie or, great times in the land of cotton. * * * * * cupples & leon co., publishers. new york. copyright, , by cupples & leon company * * * * * ruth fielding in moving pictures printed in u.s.a. * * * * * [illustration: in the italian garden scenes, the seniors and juniors were used ruth fielding in moving pictures] contents chapter page i. not in the scenario ii. the film heroine iii. at the red mill iv. a time of change v. "that's a promise" vi. what is ahead? vii. "sweetbriars all" viii. a new star ix. the devouring element x. gaunt ruins xi. one thing the old doctor did xii. "great oaks from little acorns grow" xiii. the idea is born xiv. at mrs. sadoc smith's xv. a dawning possibility xvi. the cat out of the bag xvii. another of curly's tricks xviii. the five-reel drama xix. great times xx. a cloud arises xxi. hunting for amy xxii. disaster threatens xxiii. putting one's best foot forward xxiv. "seeing ourselves as others see us" xxv. aunt alvirah at briarwood hall ruth fielding in moving pictures chapter i not in the scenario "what in the world are those people up to?" ruth fielding's clear voice asked the question of her chum, helen cameron, and her chum's twin-brother, tom. she turned from the barberry bush she had just cleared of fruit and, standing on the high bank by the roadside, gazed across the rolling fields to the lumano river. "what people?" asked helen, turning deliberately in the automobile seat to look in the direction indicated by ruth. "where? people?" joined in tom, who was tinkering with the mechanism of the automobile and had a smudge of grease across his face. "right over the fields yonder," ruth explained, carefully balancing the pail of berries. "can't you see them, helen?" "no-o," confessed her chum, who was not looking at all where ruth pointed. "where are your eyes?" ruth cried sharply. "nell is too lazy to stand up and look," laughed tom. "i see them. why! there's quite a bunch--and they're running." "where? where?" helen now demanded, rising to look. "oh, goosy!" laughed ruth, in some vexation. "right ahead. surely you can see them now?" "oh," drawled tom, "sis wouldn't see a meteor if it fell into her lap." "i guess that's right, tommy," responded his twin, in some scorn. "neither would you. your knowledge of the heavenly bodies is very small indeed, i fear. what do they teach you at seven oaks?" "not much about anything celestial, i guarantee," said ruth, slyly. "oh! there those folks go again." "goodness me!" gasped helen. "where _are_ these wonderful persons? oh! i see them now." "whom do you suppose they are chasing?" demanded tom cameron. "or, who is chasing _them_?" "that's it, tommy," scoffed his sister. "i understand you have taken up navigation with the other branches of higher mathematics at seven oaks; and now you want to trouble ruth and me with conundrums. "are we soothsayers, that we should be able to explain, off-hand," pursued helen, "the actions of such a crazy crowd of people as those----do look there! that woman jumped right down that sandbank. did you ever?" "and there goes another!" ruth exclaimed. "likewise a third," came from tom, who was quite as much puzzled as were the girls. "one after the other--just like brown's cows," giggled helen. "isn't that funny?" "it's like one of those chases in the moving pictures," suggested tom. "why, of course!" ruth cried, relieved at once. "that's exactly what it is," and she scrambled down the bank with the pail of barberries. "what is _what_?" asked her chum. "moving pictures," ruth said confidently. "that is, it will be a film in time. they are making a picture over yonder. i can see the camera-man off at one side, turning the crank." "cracky!" exclaimed tom, grinning, "i thought that was a fellow with a hand-organ, and i was looking for the monkey." "monkey, yourself," cried his sister, gaily. "didn't know but that he was playing for those 'crazy creeters'--as your aunt alvirah would call them, ruthie--to dance by," went on tom. "come on! i've got this thing fixed up so it will hobble along a little farther. let's take the lane there and go down by the river road, and see what it's all about." "good idea, tommy-boy," agreed ruth, as she got into the tonneau and sat down beside helen. "fancy! taking moving pictures out in the open in mid-winter," helen remarked. "although this is a warm day." "and no snow on the ground," chimed in ruth. "uncle jabez was saying last evening that he doesn't remember another such open winter along the lumano." "say, ruthie, how does your uncle jabez treat you, now that you are a bloated capitalist?" asked helen, pinching her chum's arm. "oh, helen! don't," objected ruth. "i don't feel puffed up at all--only vastly satisfied and content." "hear her! who wouldn't?" demanded tom. "five thousand dollars in bank--and all you did was to use your wits to get it. we had just as good a chance as you did to discover that necklace and cause the arrest of the old gypsy," and the young fellow laughed, his black eyes twinkling. "i never shall feel as though the reward should all have been mine," ruth said, as tom prepared to start the car. "pooh! i'd never worry over the possession of so much money," said helen. "not i! what does it matter how you got it? but you don't tell us what your uncle jabez thinks about it." "i can't," responded ruth, demurely. "why not?" "because uncle jabez has expressed no opinion--beyond his usual grunt. it doesn't really matter how the dear man feels," pursued ruth fielding, earnestly. "i know how _i_ feel about it. i am no longer a 'charity child'----" "oh, ruthie! you never were _that_," helen hastened to say. "oh, yes i was. when i first came to the red mill you know uncle jabez only took me in because i was a relative and he felt that he _had_ to." "but you helped save him a lot of money," cried helen. "and there was that tintacker mine business. if you hadn't chanced to find the fox's brother out there in the wilds of montana, and nursed him back to health, your uncle would never have made a penny in _that_ investment." helen might have gone on with continued vehemence, had not ruth stopped her by saying: "that makes no difference in my feelings, my dear. each quarter uncle jabez has had to pay out a lot of money to mrs. tellingham for my tuition. and he has clothed me, and let me spend money going about with you 'richer folks,'" and ruth laughed rather ruefully. "i feel that i should not have allowed him to do it. i should have remained at the red mill and helped aunt alvirah----" "pooh! nonsense!" ejaculated tom, as the spark ignited and the engine began to rumble. "you shouldn't be so popular, ruth fielding of the red mill," chanted helen, leaning over to kiss her chum's flushed cheek. "look out for the barberries!" cried ruth. "i reckon you don't want to spill them, after working so hard to get them," tom said, as the automobile lurched forward. "i certainly do not," ruth admitted. "i scratched my hands all up getting the bucket full. just fancy finding barberries still clinging to the bushes in such quantities this time of the year." "what good are they?" queried helen, selecting one gingerly and putting it into her mouth. "oh! aunt alvirah makes the loveliest pies of them--with huckleberries, you know. half and half." "where'll you find huckleberries this time of year?" scoffed tom. "on the bushes too?" "in glass jars down cellar, sir," replied ruth, smartly. "i did help pick those and put them up last summer, in spite of all the running around we did." "beg pardon, miss fielding," said tom. "go on. tell us some more recipes. makes my mouth water." "o-o-oh! so will these barberries!" exclaimed helen, making a wry face. "just taste one, tommy." "many, many thanks! _good_-night!" ejaculated her brother, "i know better. but those barberries properly prepared with sugar make a mighty nice drink in summer. our babette makes barberry syrup, you know." "ugh! it doesn't taste like these," complained his sister. "oh, folks! there are those foolish actors again." "_now_ what are they about?" demanded ruth. "look out that you don't bring the car into the focus of the camera, tom," his sister warned him. "it will make them awfully mad." "don't fret. i have no desire to appear in a movie," laughed tom. "but i think _i_ would like to," said his sister. "wouldn't you, ruth?" "i--i don't know. it must be awfully interesting----" "pooh!" scoffed tom. "what will you girls get into your heads next? and they don't let girls like you play in movies, anyway." "oh, yes, they do!" cried his sister. "some of the greatest stars in the film firmament are nothing more than schoolgirls. they have what they call 'film charm.'" "think you've got any of that commodity?" demanded tom, with cheerful impudence. "i don't know----oh, ruth, look at that girl! now, tommy, see there! that girl isn't a day older than we." "too far away to make sure," said tom, slowly. then, the next moment, he ejaculated: "what under the sun is she doing? why! she'll fall off that tree-trunk, the silly thing!" the slender girl who had attracted their attention had, at the command of the director of the picture, scrambled up a leaning sycamore tree which overhung the stream at a sharp angle. the girl swayed upon the bare trunk, balancing herself prettily, and glanced back over her shoulder. tom had brought the car to a stop. when the engine was shut off they could hear the director's commands: "that's it, hazel. keep that pose. got your focus, carroll?" he called to the camera man. "now--ready! register fear, miss hazel. say! act as though you _meant_ it! register fear, i say--just as though you expected to fall into the water the next moment. oh, piffle! not at all like it! not at _all_ like it!" he was a dreadfully noisy, pugnacious man. finally the girl said: "if you think i am not scared, mr. grimes, you are very much mistaken. i _am_. i expect to slip off here any moment----oh!" the last was a shriek of alarm. what she was afraid would happen came to pass like a flash. her foot slipped, she lost her balance, and the next instant was precipitated into the river! chapter ii the film heroine when the motion picture girl fell from the sycamore tree into the water, some of the members of the company, who sat or stood near by panting after their hard chase cross-lots, actually laughed at their unfortunate comrade's predicament. but that was because they had no idea of the strength and treacherous nature of the lumano. at this point the eddies and cross-currents made the stream more perilous than any similar stretch of water in the state. "oh, that silly girl!" shouted mr. grimes, the director. "there! she's spoiled the scene again. i don't know what hammond was thinking of to send her up here to work with us. "hey, one of you fellows! go and fish her out. and that spoils our chance of getting the picture to-day. miss gray will have to be mollycoddled, and grandmothered, and what-not. huh!" while he scolded, the director scarcely gave a glance to the struggling girl. the latter had struck out pluckily for the shore when she came up from her involuntary plunge. after the cry she had uttered as she fell, she had not made a sound. to swim with one's clothing all on is not an easy matter at the best of times. to do this in mid-winter, when the water is icy, is well nigh an impossibility. several of the men of the company, more humane than the director, had sprung to assist the unfortunate girl; but suddenly the current caught her and she was swerved from the bank. she was out of reach. "and not a skiff in sight!" exclaimed tom. "oh, dear! the poor thing!" cried his sister. "she's being carried right down the river. they'll never get her." "oh, tom!" implored ruth. "hurry and start. _we must get that girl_!" "sure we will!" cried tom cameron. he was already out of the car and madly turning the crank. in a moment the engine was throbbing. tom leaped back behind the wheel and the automobile darted ahead. the rough road led directly along the verge of the river bank. the picture-play actors scattered as he bore down upon them. it gave tom, as well as the girls, considerable satisfaction to see the director, grimes, jump out of the way of the rapidly moving car. the friends in the car saw the actress, whom grimes had called both "hazel" and "miss gray," swirled far out from the shore; but they knew the current or an eddy would bring her back. she sank once; but she came up again and fought the current like the plucky girl she was. "oh, helen! she's wonderful!" gasped ruth, with clasped hands, as she watched this fight for life which was more thrilling than anything she had ever seen reproduced on the screen. helen was too frightened to reply; but ruth fielding often before had shown remarkable courage and self-possession in times of emergency. no more than the excited tom did she lose her head on this occasion. as has been previously told, ruth had come to the banks of the lumano river and to her uncle jabez potter's red mill some years before, when she was a small girl. she was an orphan, and the crabbed and miserly miller was her single living relative. the first volume of the series, entitled "ruth fielding of the red mill," tells of the incidents which follow ruth's coming to reside with her uncle, and with aunt alvirah boggs, who was "everybody's aunt" but nobody's relative. the first and closest friends of her own age that ruth made in her new home were helen and tom cameron, twin children of a wealthy merchant whose all-year home was not far from the red mill. with helen and mercy curtis, a lame girl, ruth is sent to briarwood hall, a delightfully situated boarding school at some distance from the girls' homes, and there, in the second volume of the series, ruth is introduced to new scenes, some new friends and a few enemies; but altogether has a delightful time. ensuing volumes tell of ruth and her chums' adventures at snow camp; at lighthouse point; on silver ranch, in montana; on cliff island, where occur a number of remarkable winter incidents; at sunset farm during the previous summer; and finally, in the eighth volume, the one immediately preceding this present story, ruth achieves something that she has long, long desired. this last volume, called "ruth fielding and the gypsies; or, the missing pearl necklace," tells of an automobile trip which ruth and her present companions, helen and tom cameron, took through the hills some distance beyond the red mill and cheslow, their home town. they fall into the hands of gypsies and the two girls are actually held captive by the old and vindictive gypsy queen. through ruth's bravery helen escapes and takes the news of the capture back to tom. later the grandson of the old gypsy queen releases ruth. while at the camp ruth sees a wonderful pearl necklace in the hands of the covetous old queen zelaya. later, when the girls return to briarwood, they learn that an aunt of one of their friends, nettie parsons, has been robbed of just such a necklace. ruth, through mr. cameron, puts the police on the trail of the gypsies. the gypsy boy, roberto, is rescued and in time becomes a protégé of mr. cameron, while the stolen necklace is recovered from the gypsy queen, who is deported by the washington authorities. in the end, the five thousand dollars reward offered by nettie's aunt comes to ruth. she is enriched beyond her wildest dreams, and above all, is made independent of the niggardly charity of her uncle jabez who seems to love his money more than he does his niece. unselfishness was ruth's chief virtue, though she had many. she could never refuse a helping hand to the needy; nor did she fear to risk her own convenience, sometimes even her own safety, to relieve or rescue another. in the present case, none knew better than ruth the treacherous currents of the lumano. it had not been so many months since she and her uncle, jabez potter, out upon the lumano in a boat, had nearly lost their lives. this present accident, that to the young moving-picture actress, was at a point some distance above the red mill. "if she is carried down two hundred yards farther, tom, she will be swept out into mid-stream," declared ruth, still master of herself, though her voice was shaking. "and then--good-night!" answered tom. "i know what you mean, ruth." "she will sink for the last time before the current sweeps her in near the shore again," ruth added. "oh, don't!" groaned helen. "the poor girl." tom had driven the automobile until it was ahead of the struggling hazel gray. an eddy clutched her and drew her swiftly in toward the bank. immediately tom shut off the power and he and ruth both leaped out of the car. a long branch from an adjacent tree had been torn off by the wind and lay beside the road. tom seized this and ran with ruth to the edge of the water; but he knew the branch was a poor substitute for a rope. "if she can cling to this, i'll get something better in a moment, ruth!" he exclaimed. swinging the small and bushy end of the branch outward, tom dropped it into the water just ahead of the imperiled girl. ruth seized the butt with her strong and capable hands. "cut off a length of that fence wire, tommy," she ordered. "you have wire-cutters in your auto kit, haven't you?" "sure!" cried tom. "never travel without 'em since we were at silver ranch, you know. there! she's got it." hazel gray had seized upon the branch. she was too exhausted to reach the bank of the river without help, and just here the eddy began to swing her around again, away from the shore. the men of the company came running now, giving lusty shouts of encouragement, but--that was all! the director had allowed the girl to get into a perilous position on the leaning tree without having a boat and crew in readiness to pick her up if she fell into the river. it was an unpardonable piece of neglect, and there might still serious consequences arise from it. for the girl in the water was so exhausted that she could not long cling to the limb. it was but a frail support between her and drowning. when the men arrived ruth feared to have them even touch the branch she held, and she motioned them back. she knew that the girl in the stream was almost exhausted and that a very little would cause her to lose her hold upon the branch altogether. "don't touch it! i beg of you, don't touch it!" cried ruth, as one excited man undertook to take the butt of the branch. "you can't hold it, miss! you'll be pulled into the water." "never fear for me," the girl from the red mill returned. "i know what i am about----oh, goody! here comes tom!" she depended on tom--she knew that he would do something if anybody could. she gazed upon the wet, white face of the girl in the water and knew that whatever tom did must be done at once. hazel gray was loosing her hold. "oh! oh! oh!" screamed helen, standing in the automobile with clasped hands. "don't let her drown, tommy! don't let her go down again--_don't_!" tom came, with grimly set lips, dragging about twenty feet of fence wire behind him. luckily it was smooth wire--not barbed. he quickly made a loop in one end of it and wriggled the other end toward ruth and the excited men. "catch hold here!" he ordered. "make a loop as i have, and don't let it slip through your hands." "oh, tom! you're never going into that cold water?" ruth gasped, suddenly stricken with fear for her friend's safety. but that was exactly what tom intended to do. there was no other way. he had seen, too, the exhaustion of the girl in the water and knew that if her hands slipped from the tree branch, she could never get a grip on the wire. without removing an article of clothing the boy leaped into the stream. it was over his head right here below the bank, and the chill of the water was tremendous. as tom said afterward, he felt it "clear to the marrow of his bones!" but he came up and struck out strongly for the face of the girl, which was all that could be seen above the surface. hazel gray's hold was slipping from the branch. she was blue about the lips and her eyes were almost closed. the current was tugging at her strongly; she was losing consciousness. if she was carried away by the suction of the stream, now dragging so strongly at her limbs, tom cameron would be obliged to loose his own hold upon the wire and swim after her. and the young fellow was not at all sure that he could save either her or himself if this occurred. yet, perilous as his own situation was, tom thought only of that of the actress. chapter iii at the red mill helen, greatly excited, stood on the seat of the tonneau and cheered her brother on at the top of her voice. that, in her excitement, she thought she was "rooting" at a basket-ball game at briarwood, was not to be wondered at. ruth heard her chum screaming: "s.b.--ah-h-h! s.b.--ah-h-h sound our battle-cry near and far! s.b.--all! briarwood hall! sweetbriars, do or die---- this be our battle-cry---- briarwood hall! _that's all!_" at the very moment the excited helen brought out the "snapper" of the rallying cry of their own particular briarwood sorority, ruth let the limb go, for tom had seized the sinking actress by the shoulder. "he's got her!" the men shouted in chorus. "and that's all those fellows were," ruth said afterwards, in some contempt. "just a _chorus_! they were a lot of tabby-cats--afraid to wet their precious feet. if it hadn't been for tom, miss gray would have been drowned before the eyes of that mean director and those other imitation men. ugh! i de-_test_ a coward!" this was said later, however. until they drew tom and his fainting burden ashore, neither ruth nor helen had time for criticism. then they bundled hazel gray in the automobile rugs, while tom struggled into an overcoat and cranked up the machine. the director came to inquire: "what are you going to do with that girl?" "take her to the red mill," snapped ruth. "that's down the river, opposite the road to cheslow. and don't try to see her before to-morrow. no thanks to _you_ that she isn't drowned." "you are a very impudent young lady," growled the director. "i may be a plain spoken one," said ruth, not at all alarmed by the man's manner. "i don't know how you would have felt had miss gray been drowned. i should think you would think of _that_!" but the man seemed more disturbed about the delay to the picture that was being taken. "i shall expect you to be ready bright and early in the morning, miss gray!" he shouted as the automobile moved off. the young actress, half fainting in the tonneau between the briarwood hall girls, did not hear him. it was several miles to the red mill, and ruth, worried, said: "i'm afraid tom will catch cold, helen." "and--and this po--poor girl, too," stammered tom's sister, as the car jounced over a particularly rough piece of road. hazel gray opened her eyes languidly, murmuring: "i shall be all right, thank you! just drive to the hotel----" "what hotel?" asked ruth, laughing. "in cheslow. i don't know the name of it," whispered hazel gray. "is there more than one?" "there is; but you'll not go all the way to cheslow in your condition," declared ruth. "we're taking you to the red mill. now! no objections, please. hurry up, tommy." "but i am all wet," protested the girl. "i should say you were," gasped helen. "nobody knows better than i," said ruth, "that the water of the lumano river is at least _damp_, at all seasons." "i will make you a lot of trouble," objected miss gray. "no, you won't," the girl of the red mill repeated. "aunt alvirah will snuggle you down between soft, fluffy blankets, and give you hot boneset tea, or 'composition,' and otherwise coddle you. to-morrow morning you will feel like a new girl." "oh, dear!" groaned miss gray. "i wish i _were_ a new girl." a very few minutes later they came in sight of the red mill, with the rambling, old, story-and-a-half dwelling beside it, in which jabez potter's grandfather had been born. although the leaves had long since fallen from the trees, and the lawn was brown, the sloping front yard of the potter house was very attractive. the walks were swept, the last dead leaf removed, and the big stones at the main gateway were dazzlingly white-washed. the jar and rumble of the grist-mill, and the trickle of the water on the wheel, made a murmurous accompaniment to all the other sounds of life about the place. from the rear of the old house fowls cackled, a mule sent his clarion call across the fields, and hungry pigs squealed their prayer for supper. a cow lowed impatiently at the pasture bars in answer to the querulous blatting of her calf. tom was going on home to change his clothes; but when ruth saw the fringe of icicles around the bottoms of his trouser legs, she would not hear to it. "you come right in with us, tom. helen will drive the car home and get you a change of clothing. meanwhile you can put on some of uncle jabez's old clothes. hurry on, now, children!" and she laughingly drove tom and hazel gray before her to the porch of the old house, where aunt alvirah, having heard the automobile, met them in amazement. "what forever has happened, my pretty?" cried the little old lady, whose bent back and rheumatic limbs made her seem even smaller than she naturally was. "in the river? do come in! bring the young lady right into the best room, ruthie. you strip off right before the kitchen fire, master tom. i'll bring you some things to put on. there's a huck towel on the nail yonder. oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" thus talking, aunt alvirah hobbled ahead into the sitting room. the girl who had fallen into the river was now shivering. ruth and the old lady undressed her as quickly as possible, and aunt alvirah made ready the bed with the "fluffy" blankets in the chamber right off the sitting room. "do get one of your nighties for her, my pretty," directed aunt alvirah. "she wouldn't feel right sleepin' in one o' _my_ old things, i know." ruth was excited. in the first place, as to most girls of her age, a "real live actress" was as much of a wonder as a great auk would have been; only, of course, hazel gray was much more charming than the garfowl! ruth fielding was interested in moving pictures--and for a particular reason. long before she had gained the reward for the return of the pearl necklace to nettie parsons' aunt, ruth had thought of writing a scenario. this was not a very original thought, for many, many thousand other people have thought the same thing. occasionally, when she had been to a film show, ruth had wondered why she could not write a playlet quite as good as many she saw, and get money for it. but it had been only a thought; she knew nothing about the technique of the scenario, or how to go about getting an opinion upon her work if she should write one. here chance had thrown her into the company of a girl who was working for the films, and evidently was of some importance in the moving picture companies, despite the treatment she had received from the unpleasant director, mr. grimes. ruth remembered now of having seen hazel gray upon the screen more than once within the year. she was regarded as a coming star, although she had not achieved the fame of many actresses for the silent drama who were no older. so ruth, feeling the importance of the occasion, selected from her store the very prettiest night gown that she owned--one she had never even worn herself--and brought it down stairs to the girl who had been in the river. a little later hazel gray was between aunt alvirah's blankets, and was sipping her hot tea. "my dear! you are very, very good to me," she said, clinging to ruth's hand. you and the dear little old lady. are you as good to every stranger who comes your way?" "aunt alvirah is, i'm sure," replied ruth, laughing and blushing. somehow, despite the fact that the young actress was only two or three years older than herself, the girl of the red mill felt much more immature than miss gray. "you belittle your own kindness, i am sure," said hazel. "and that _dear_ boy who got me out of the river--where is he?" "unseeable at present," laughed ruth. "he is dressed in some of uncle jabez's clothing, a world too big for him. but tom _is_ one of the dearest fellows who ever lived." "you think a great deal of him, i fancy?" "oh, yes, indeed!" cried ruth, innocently. "his sister is my very dearest friend. we go to briarwood hall together." "briarwood hall? i have heard of that. we go there soon, i understand. mr. hammond is to take some pictures in and around lumberton." "oh!" exclaimed ruth. 'that will be nice! i hope we shall see you up there, miss gray, for helen and i go back to school in a week." "whether i see you there or not," said the young actress with a sigh, "i hope that i shall be able some time to repay you for what you do for me now. you are entirely too kind." "perhaps you can pay me more easily than you think," said ruth, bashfully, but with dancing eyes. "how? tell me at once," said miss gray. "i'm just _mad_ to try writing a scenario for a moving picture," confessed ruth. "but i don't know how to go about getting it read." miss gray smiled, but made no comment upon ruth's desire. she merely said, pleasantly: "if you write your scenario, my dear, i will get our manager to read it." "that awful mr. grimes?" cried ruth. "oh! i shouldn't want _him_ to read it." hazel gray laughed heartily at that. "don't judge, the taste of a baked porcupine by his quills," she said. "grimes is a very rough and unpleasant man; but he gets there. he is one of the most successful directors mr. hammond has working for him." "you have mentioned mr. hammond before?" said ruth, questioningly. "he is the man i will show your scenario to." then she added: "if i am still working for him. mr. hammond is a very nice man; but grimes does not like me," and again the girl sighed, and a cloud came over her pretty face. "i would not work under such a mean man as that grimes!" declared ruth. "you might have been drowned because of his carelessness." "it is my misfortune--being an actress--often to work under unpleasant conditions. i want to get ahead, and i would like to please grimes; he puts over his pictures, and he has made several film actresses quite famous. of course, although my first consideration must necessarily be my bread and butter, i hope for a little fame on the side, too." "oh! you have achieved that, have you not?" said ruth, timidly. "i thought you had already made a name for yourself." "not as great a name as i hope to gain some day," declared hazel gray. "but thank you for the compliment. i was carried on to the stage when i was a baby in arms by my dear mother, who was an actress of some ability. my father was an actor. he died of a fever in the south before i can remember, and when i was seven my mother died. "kind people trained me for the stage; they were kind enough to say i had talent. and now i have tried to do my best in the movies. mr. hammond thinks i am a good pantomimist; but grimes declares i have no 'film charm,'" and miss gray sighed again. "he has another girl he wants to push forward, and is angry that mr. hammond did not send her to head this company." "then this mr. hammond is quite an important man?" asked ruth. "head of the alectrion film corporation. he is immensely wealthy and a really _good_ man. of course," went on miss gray, "he is in the business of making films for money; just the same, he makes a great many pictures purely for art's sake, or for educational reasons. you would like mr. hammond, i am sure," and the girl in bed sighed again. ruth saw that talking troubled miss gray and kept her mind upon her quarrel with the moving picture director; so it did not need aunt alvirah's warning to make the girl of the red mill steal away and leave the patient to such repose as she might get. chapter iv a time of change tom cameron looked funny enough in some of the miller's garments; but he was none the worse for his bath in the river. he, too, had been dosed with hot tea by aunt alvirah, though he made a wry face over it. "never you mind, boy," ruth told him, laughing. "it is better to have a bad taste in your mouth for a little while than a sore throat for a week." "hear! hear the philosopher!" cried tom. "you'd think i was a tender little blossom." "you know, you _might_ have the croup," suggested ruth, wickedly. "croup! what am i--a kid?" demanded tom, half angry at this suggestion. he had begun to notice that his sister and ruth were inclined to set him down as a "small boy" nowadays. "how is it," tom asked his father one day, "that helen is all grown up of a sudden? _i'm_ not! everybody treats me just as they always have; but even colonel post takes off his hat to our helen on the street with overpowering politeness, and the other men speak to her as though she were as old as mrs. murchiston. it gets _me_!" mr. cameron laughed; but he sighed thereafter, too. "our little helen _is_ growing up, i expect. she's taken a long stride ahead of you, tommy, while you've been asleep." "huh! i'm just as old as she is," growled tom. "but _i_ don't feel grown up." and here was ruth fielding holding the same attitude toward him that his twin did! tom did not like it a bit. he was a manly fellow and had always observed a protective air with ruth and his sister. and, all of a sudden, they had become young ladies while he was still a boy. "i wish nell would come back with my duds," he grumbled. "i have a good mind to walk home in these things of the miller's." "and be taken for an animated scarecrow on the way?" laughed ruth. "better 'bide a wee,' tommy. sister will get here with your rompers pretty soon. have patience." "now you talk just like bobbins' sister. behave, will you?" complained tom. ruth tripped out of the room to peep at the guest, and aunt alvirah hobbled in and, letting herself down into her low chair, with a groan of "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" smiled indulgently at tom's gloomy face. "what is the matter, mister tom?" she asked. "truly, you look as colicky as amos dodge--an' they do say he lived on sour apples!" tom had to laugh at this; but it was rather a rueful laugh. "i don't know what is coming over these girls--ruth and my sister," he said, "they're beginning to put on airs like grown ladies. cracky! they used to be some fun." "growin' up, mister tom--growin' up. so's my pretty. i hate to see it, but ye can't fool natur'--no, sir! natur' says to these young things: 'advance!' an' they've jest got to march, i reckon," and aunt alvirah sighed, too. then her little, bird-like eyes twinkled suddenly and she chuckled. "jest the same," she added, in a whisper, "ruth got out all her doll-babies the other day and played with 'em jest like she was ten years old." "ho, ho!" cried tom, his face clearing up. "i guess she's only making believe to be grown up, after all!" helen came finally and they left tom alone in the kitchen to change his clothes. then the camerons hurried away, for it was close to supper time. both helen and tom were greatly interested in the moving picture actress; but she had fallen into a doze and they could not bid her good-bye. "but i'm going to run down in the morning to see how she is," tom announced. "i'll see her before she goes away. she's a plucky one, all right!" "humph!" thought ruth, when the automobile had gone, "tom seems to have been wonderfully taken with that miss gray's appearance." when jabez potter came in from the mill and found the strange girl in the best bed he was inclined to criticize. he was a tall, dusty, old man, for whom it seemed a hard task ever to speak pleasantly. aunt alvirah, when she was much put out with him, said he "croaked like a raven!" "gals, gals, gals!" he grumbled. "this house seems to be nigh full of 'em when you air to home, niece ruth." "and empty enough of young life, for a fac', when my pretty is away," put in aunt alvirah. ruth, not minding her uncle jabez's strictures, went about setting the supper table with puckered lips, whistling softly. this last was an accomplishment she had picked up from tom long ago. "and whistling gals is the wust of all!" snarled jabez potter, from the sink, where he had just taken his face out of the soapsuds bath he always gave it before sitting down to table. "i reckon ye ain't forgot what i told ye: "'whistlin' gals an' crowin' hens always come to some bad ends!'" "now, jabez!" remonstrated aunt alvirah. but ruth only laughed. "you've got it wrong, uncle jabez," she declared. "there is another version of that old doggerel. it is: "'whistling girls and blatting sheep are the two best things a farmer can keep!'" then she went straight to him and, as his irritated face came out of the huck towel, she put both arms around his neck and kissed him on his grizzled cheek. this sort of treatment always closed her uncle jabez's lips for a time. there seemed no answer to be made to such an argument--and ruth _did_ love the crusty old man and was grateful to him. when the miller had retired to his own chamber to count and recount the profits of the day, as he always did every evening, aunt alvirah complained more than usual of the old man's niggardly ways. "it's gittin' awful, ruthie, when you ain't to home. he's ashamed to have me set so mean a table when you air here. for he _does_ kinder care about what you think of him, my pretty, after all." "oh, aunt alvirah! i thought he was cured of _little_ 'stingies.'" "no, he ain't! no, he ain't!" cried the old lady, sitting down with a groan. "oh, my back! and oh, my bones! i tell ye, my pretty, i have to steal out things a'tween meals to ben sometimes, or that boy wouldn't have half enough to eat. jabez has had a new padlock put on the meat-house door, and i can't git a slice of bacon without his knowin' on it." "that is ridiculous!" exclaimed ruth, who had less patience now than she once had for her great uncle's penuriousness. she was positive that it was not necessary. "ree-dic'lous or not; it's _so_," aunt alvirah asserted. "sometimes i feel like i was a burden on him myself." "_you_ a burden, dear aunt alvirah!" cried ruth, with tears in her eyes. "you would be a blessing, not a burden, in anybody's house. uncle jabez was very fortunate indeed to get you to come here to the red mill." "i dunno--i dunno," groaned the old lady. "oh, my back! and oh, my bones! i'm a poor, rheumaticky creeter--and nobody but jabez would have taken me out o' the poorhouse an' done for me as he has." "you mean, you have done for him!" cried ruth, in some passion. "you have kept his house for him, and mended for him, and made a home for him, for years. and i doubt if he has ever thanked you--not _once_!" "but i have thanked him, deary," said aunt alvirah, sweetly. "and i do thank him, same as i do our father in heaven, ev'ry day of my life, for takin' me away from that poorfarm an' makin' an independent woman of me a'gin. oh, jabez ain't all bad. fur from it, my pretty--fur from it! "now that you ain't no more beholden to him for your eddication, an' all, he is more pennyurious than ever--yes he is! for jabez's sake, i could almost wish you hadn't got all that money you did, for gittin' back the lady's necklace. spendin' money breeds the itch for spendin' more. since you wrote him that you was goin' to pay all your school bills, jabez potter is cured of the little itch of _that_ kind he ever had." "oh, aunt alvirah! think of me--i am glad to be independent, too." "i know--i know," admitted aunt alvirah. "but it's hard on jabez. he was givin' you the best eddication he could----" "grumblingly enough, i am sure!" interposed ruth, with a pout. she could speak plainly to the little old woman, for aunt alvirah _knew_. "surely--surely," agreed the old lady. "but it did him good, jest the same. even if he only spent money on ye for fear of what the neighbors would say. opening his pocket for _your_ needs, my pretty, was makin' a new man of jabez." "dear me!" exclaimed ruth, thinking it rather hard. "you want me to be poor again, aunt alvirah." "only for your uncle's sake--only for his sake," she reiterated. "but he can do more for mercy curtis," said ruth. "he has helped her quite a little. he likes mercy--better than he does me, i think." "but he don't have to help mercy no more," put in aunt alvirah, quickly. "haven't you heard? mercy's mother has got a legacy from some distant relative and now there ain't a soul on whom jabez potter thinks he's _got_ to spend money. it's a terrible thing for jabez--meed an' it is, my pretty. "changes--changes, all the time! we were going on quite smooth and pleasant for a fac'. and _now_----oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" and thus groaningly aunt alvirah finished her quite unusual complaint, for with all her aches and pains she was naturally a cheerful body. chapter v "that's a promise" the family at the red mill were early risers when the red, red sun threw his first rays across the frosty waters of the lumano, ruth fielding's casement was wide open and she was busily tripping about the kitchen where her uncle jabez had built the fire in the range before going to the mill. ben, the hired man, was out doing the chores and soon brought two brimming pails of milk into the milk-room. "aunt alviry will miss ye, ruthie, when ye air gone back to school," ben said bashfully, when ruth, with capable air, began to strain the milk and pour it into the pans. "poor aunt alvirah!" sighed ruth. "i hope you help her all you can when i'm not here, ben?" "i jest _do_!" said the big fellow, heartily. "t'tell the truth, ruthie, sometimes i kin scarce a-bear jabe potter. i wouldn't work for him another month, i vow! if 'twasn't for the old woman--and--and _you_." "oh, thank you, ben, for that compliment," cried ruth, dimpling and running into the kitchen to set back the coffee-pot in which the coffee was threatening to boil over. the breakfast dishes were not dried when the raucous "honk! honk! honk!" of an automobile horn sounded without. the machine stopped at the gate of the potter house. "my mercy! who kin that be?" demanded aunt alvirah, jerkily, and then settled back into her chair again by the window with a murmured, "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" "it can't be tom, can it?" gasped ruth, running to the door. "so early--and to see miss gray?" for the thought that tom cameron was interested in the actress still stuck in ruth's mind. "it doesn't sound like tom's horn," she added, as she struggled with the outer door. "oh, dear! i _do_ wish uncle jabez would fix this lock. there!" the door flew open, and swung out, its weight carrying ruth with it plump into the arms of a big man in a big fur coat which he had thrown open as he ascended the steps of the porch. ruth was almost smothered in the coat. and she would have slipped and fallen had not the stranger held her up, finally setting her squarely on her feet at arm's length, steadying her there and laughing the while. "i declare, young lady," he said in a pleasant voice, "i did not expect to be met with such cordiality. is this the way you always meet visitors at this beautiful, picturesque old place?" "oh, oh, oh! i--i--i----" ruth could only gasp at first, her cheeks ruddy with blushes, her eyes timid. her tongue actually refused to speak two consecutive, sensible words. "i must say, my dear," said the gentleman who, ruth now saw, was a man as old as mr. cameron, "that you are as charming as the red mill itself. for, of course, this _is_ the red mill? i was directed here from cheslow." "oh, yes!" stammered ruth. "this is the red mill. did--did you wish to see uncle jabez?" "perhaps. but that was not my particular reason for coming here," said the stranger, laughing openly at her now. "i find his niece pleasanter to look at, i have no doubt; though uncle jabez may be a very estimable man." ruth was puzzled. she glanced past him to the big maroon automobile at the gate. therein she saw the squat, pugnacious looking mr. grimes, and she jumped to a correct conclusion. "oh!" she cried faintly. "_you_ are mr. hammond!" "perfectly correct, my dear. and who are you, may i ask?" "ruth fielding. i live here, sir. we have miss gray with us." "quite so," said mr. hammond, nodding. "i have come to see miss gray--and to take her away if she is well enough to be moved." "oh, she is all right, mr. hammond. only she is still lying in bed. aunt alvirah prevailed upon her to stay quiet for a while longer." "and your aunt alvirah is probably right. but--may i come in? i'd like to ask you a few questions, even if hazel is not to be seen as yet." "oh, certainly, sir!" cried ruth, thus reminded of her negligence. "do come in. here, into the sitting room, please. it is warm in here, for uncle jabez kept a fire all night, and i just put in a good-sized chunk myself." "ah! an old-fashioned wood-heater, is it?" asked mr. hammond, following ruth into the sitting room. "that looks like comfort. i remember stoking a stove like that when i was a boy." ruth liked this jolly, hearty, big man from the start. he was inclined to joke and tease, she thought; but with it all he had the kindliest manner and most humorous mouth in the world. he turned to ruth when the door was shut, and asked seriously: "my dear, is miss gray where she can hear us talk?" "why, no, sir," replied ruth, surprised. "the door is shut--and it is a soundproof door, i am certain." "very well. i have heard grimes' edition of the affair yesterday. will you please give me _your_ version of the accident? of course, it _was_ an accident?" "oh, yes, sir! although that man ought not to have made her climb that tree----" mr. hammond put up a warning hand, and smiled again. "i do not ask you for an opinion. just for an account of what actually happened." "but you intimated that perhaps mr. grimes was more at fault than he actually _was_," said ruth, boldly. "surely he did not push her off that tree!" "no," said mr. hammond, drily. "did she jump?" "jump! goodness! do you think she is crazy?" demanded ruth, so shocked that she quite forgot to be polite. "then she did not jump," the manager of the alectrion film corporation said, quite placidly. "very well. tell me what you saw. for, i suppose, you were on the spot?" "yes, sir," said ruth, not quite sure just then that the gentleman was altogether fair-minded. later she understood that mr. hammond merely desired to get the stories of the accident from the observers with neither partiality nor prejudice. ruth repeated just what happened from the time she and her friends arrived in the cameron car on the scene, till they reached the red mill and miss gray had been put to bed. "very clear and convincing. you are a good witness," declared mr. hammond, lightly; but she saw that the story had left an unpleasant impression on his mind. she did not see how he could blame the motion picture actress; but she feared that he did. when ruth tried to probe into that question, however, mr. hammond skilfully turned the subject to the picturesqueness of the red mill and its surroundings. "this would make a splendid background for a film," he said, with enthusiasm. "we ought to have a story written around this beautiful old place, with all the romance and human interest that must be connected with the history of the house. "do you mind if we go out and look around a little? i would not disturb miss gray until she is perfectly rested and feels like rising." "surely i will show you around, sir!" cried ruth. "let me get my coat and hat." she ran for her sweater and tam-o'-shanter, and joined mr. hammond on the porch. mr. hammond said nothing to grimes, but allowed him to remain in the limousine. ruth took the moving picture magnate down to the shore of the river and showed him the wheel and the mill-side. the old stone bridge over the creek, too, was an object of interest. in fact, ruth had thought so much about the situation of the red mill as a picture herself, that she knew just what would attract the gentleman's interest the most. "i declare! i declare!" he murmured, over and over again. "it is better than i thought. a variety of scene, already for the action to be put into it! splendid!" "and i am sure," ruth told him, "uncle jabez would not object to your filming the old place. i could fix it for you. he is not so difficult when once you know how to take him." "i may ask your good offices in that matter," said mr. hammond. "but not now. of course, grimes could work up something in short order to fit these scenes here. he's excellent at that. but i think the subject is worthy of better treatment. i'd like a really big story, treated artistically, and one that would fit perfectly into the background of the red mill--nothing slapdash and carelessly written, or invented on the spur of the moment by a busy director----" "oh, mr. hammond!" cried ruth, so excited now that she could no longer keep silent. "i'd dearly love to write a moving picture scenario about the old mill. and i've thought about it so much that i believe i could do it." "indeed?" said mr. hammond, with one of his queer smiles. "did you ever write a scenario?" "no, sir! but then, you know," said ruth, naively, "one must always do a thing for the first time." "quite true--quite true. so eve said when she bit into the apple," and mr. hammond chuckled. "i would just _love_ to try it," the girl continued, taking her courage in both hands. "i have a splendid plot--or, so i believe; and it is all about the red mill. the pictures would _have_ to be taken here." "not in the winter, i fancy?" said mr. hammond. "no, sir. when it is all green and leafy and beautiful," said ruth, eagerly. "then," said mr. hammond, more seriously, "i'd try my 'prentice hand, if i were you, on something else. don't write the red mill scenario now. write some thrilling but simple story, and let me read it first----" "oh, mr. hammond!" gasped ruth, with clasped hands. "will you really _read_ it?" "of course i will," laughed the gentleman. "no matter how bad it is. that's a promise. here is my card with my private address upon it. you send it directly to me, and the first time i am at home i will get it and give it my best attention. that's a promise," he repeated. "oh, thank you, sir!" murmured ruth delightedly, smiling and dimpling. he pinched her cheek and his eyes grew serious for a moment. "i once knew a girl much like you, miss ruth," he said. "just as full of life and enthusiasm. you are a tonic for old fogies like me." "old fogy!" repeated ruth. "why, i'm sure you are not old, mr. hammond." "never mind flattering me," he broke in, with assumed sternness. "haven't i already promised to read your scenario?" "yes, sir," said ruth, demurely. "but you haven't promised to produce it." "quite so," and he laughed. "but _that_ only goes by worth. we will see what a schoolgirl like you can do in writing a scenario. it will give you practice so that you may be able to handle something really big about this beautiful old place. you know, now that the most popular writers of the day are turning their hands to movies, the amateur production has to be pretty good to 'get by,' as the saying is." "oh! now you are trying to discourage me." "no. only warning you," mr. hammond said, with another laugh. "i'll send you a little pamphlet on scenario preparation--it may help. and i hope to read your first attempt before long." "thank you, sir," ruth responded. "and if ever i write my red mill scenario, i am going to write miss gray into it. she is just the one to play the lead." "and she is a good little actress i believe," said mr. hammond. "i knew that grimes had a girl that he wanted to push forward as the lead in this company he has up here. i never like to interfere with my directors if i can help it. but i will see that miss gray gets a square deal. she has had good training in the legitimate drama, she is pretty, and she has pluck and good breeding." "that mr. grimes was horrid to her," repeated ruth, casting a glance of dislike at the man in the limousine. "oh, well, my dear, we cannot make people over in this world. that is impossible. but i will take care that hazel gray gets a square deal. _that's_ a promise, too, ruth fielding," and the gentleman laughed again. chapter vi what is ahead? while ruth and mr. hammond had been walking about, the camerons had come. tom's automobile was parked just beyond the moving picture magnate's handsome limousine; and tom had given more than one covetous glance at the big car before going into the house. when ruth returned and entered the big and friendly kitchen after ushering mr. hammond into the sitting room again, she found the twins eagerly listening to and talking to miss hazel gray, who was leisurely eating a late breakfast at the long table. "good morning, ruth fielding!" cried the guest, drawing her down to kiss her cheek. "you are a _dear_. i've been telling your friends so. i fancy one of them at least thoroughly agrees with me," and she cast a roguish glance at tom. tom blushed and helen giggled. ruth turned kind eyes away from tom cameron and smiled upon helen. "yes," she said, demurely, "i am sure that helen has been singing my praises. the girls are beginning to call her 'mr. boswell' at school. but i have heard complimentary words of you this morning, miss gray." "oh!" cried the young actress. "from mr. hammond?" "yes." "he is a lovely man," declared hazel gray, enthusiastically. "i have always said so. if he would only make grimes give me a square deal----" "those are the very words he used," interrupted ruth, while tom recovered from his confusion and helen from her enjoyment of her twin's embarrassment. "he says you shall have a square deal." while the young actress ate--and aunt alvirah heaped her plate, "killing me with kindness!" hazel gray declared--the young folk chattered. ruth saw that tom could scarcely keep his eyes off miss gray, and it puzzled the girl of the red mill. afterward, when miss gray had gone out with mr. hammond, and tom was out of sight, helen began to laugh. "aren't boys funny?" she said to ruth. "tom is terribly smitten with that lovely hazel gray." "smitten?" murmured ruth. "of course. don't say you didn't notice it. he hasn't had a 'crush' on any girl before that i know of. but it's a sure-enough case of 'measles' _this_ time. busy izzy tells me that most of the fellows in their class at seven oaks have a 'crush' on some moving picture girl; and now tom, i suppose, will be cutting out of the papers every picture of hazel gray that he sees, and sticking them up about his room. and she has promised to send him a real cabinet photograph of herself in character in the bargain," and helen laughed again. but ruth could not be amused about this. she was disturbed. "i didn't think tom would be so silly," she finally said. "pooh! it's nothing. bobbins and tom are getting old enough to cast sheep's eyes at the girls. heretofore, tommy has been crazy about the slapstick comedians of the movies; but i rather admire his taste if he likes this hazel gray. i really think she's lovely." "so she is," ruth said quite placidly. "but she is so much older than your brother----" "pooh! only two or three years. but, of course, ruth, it's nothing serious," said the more worldly-wise helen. "and boys usually are smitten with girls some years older than themselves--at first." "dear me!" gasped ruth. "how much you seem to know about such things, helen. _how did you find out?_" at that helen burst into laughter again. "you dear little innocent!" she exclaimed. "you're so blind--blind as a bat! you never see the boys at all. you look on tom to-day just as though he were the same tom that you helped find the time he fell off his bicycle and was hurt by the roadside. you remember? ages and ages ago!" but did ruth look upon tom cameron in just that way? she said nothing in reply to tom's sister. they came out of the house together and joined mr. hammond and miss gray just as they were about to step into the limousine. aunt alvirah waved her hand from the window. "she's just lovely!" declared miss gray. "you should have met her, mr. hammond." "that pleasure is in reserve," said the gentleman, smiling. "i hope to see the red mill again." tom came hurrying down to shake hands with miss gray. ruth watched them with some puzzlement of mind. tom was undoubtedly embarrassed; but the moving picture girl was too used to making an impression upon susceptible minds to be much disturbed by tom cameron's worship. mr. hammond looked out of the door of the limousine before he closed it. "remember, ruth fielding, i shall be on the lookout for what you promised me." "oh, yes, sir!" ruth cried, all in a flutter, for the moment having forgotten the scenario she proposed to write. "that's a promise!" he said again gaily, and closed the door. the big car rolled away and left the three friends at the gateway. "_what's_ a promise, ruth fielding?" demanded her chum, with immense curiosity. ruth blushed and showed some confusion. "it's--it's a secret," she stammered. "a secret from _me_?" cried helen, in amazement. "i--i couldn't tell even you, dearie, just now," ruth said, with sudden seriousness. "but you shall know about it before anybody else." "that mr. hammond is in it." "yes," admitted her chum. "that is just it. i don't feel that i can speak to anybody about it yet." "oh! then it's _his_ secret?" "partly," ruth said, her eyes dancing, for there and then, right at that very moment, she fell upon the subject for the first scenario she intended to submit to mr. hammond. it was "curiosity"--a new version of pandora's box. helen was such a sweet-tempered girl that her chum's little mystery did not cause her more than momentary vexation. besides, their vacation time was now very short. many things had to be discussed about the coming semester. at its end, in june, ruth and helen hoped to graduate from briarwood hall. the thought of graduating from the school they loved so much was one of mingled pleasure and pain. old briarwood! where they had had so much fun--so many girlish sorrows--friends, enemies, struggles, triumphs, failures and successes! neither chum could contemplate graduation lightly. "if we go to college together, it will never seem like briarwood hall," helen sighed. "college will be so _big_. we shall be lost among so many girls--some of them grown women!" "goodness!" laughed ruth, suddenly, "we'll be almost 'grown women' ourselves before we get through college." "oh, don't!" exclaimed helen. "i don't want to think of _that_." what was ahead of the chums did trouble them. their future school life was a mystery. there was no prophet to tell them of the exciting and really wonderful things that were to happen to them at briarwood during the coming term. chapter vii "sweetbriars all" "oh, dear me!" complained nettie parsons, "i never can do it." "'in the bright lexicon of youth, there is no such word as "fail,"'" quoted mercy curtis, grandiloquently. "that must be a pretty poor reference book to have in one's library, then," said helen, making fun of the old saying which the lame girl had repeated. "how do we know--perhaps there are other important words left out--_a bas le_ lexicon of youth!" "perseverence is the winning game, nettie," ruth said to the southern girl, cheerfully. "stick to it." "and if _then_ you can't make the sum come right, come to aunt ruthie and _ask_. that's what _i_ do," confessed ann hicks, the ranch girl. "perseverence wins," quoth helen. "oh, it does, does it?" cried jennie stone, called by the girls "heavy," in a smothered tone, for her mouth was full of caramels. "let me tell you that old 'saw' is a joke. my little kid cousin proved that the other day. she came to grandfather--who is just as full of maxims and bits of wisdom as helen seems to be to-day, and the kid said: "'grandpa, that's a joke about "if at first you don't succeed," isn't it?' "and her grandfather answered, 'certainly not. "try, try again." that's right.' "'huh!' said the kid, who is one of these cynthia-of-the-minute' youngsters, 'you're wrong, grandpa. i've been working for an hour blowing soapbubbles and trying to pin them on a clothes line in the nursery to dry!' perseverence didn't cut much of a figure in her case, did it?" finished heavy, with a chuckle. the crowd of girls was in the big "quartette" room in the west dormitory of briarwood hall. the school had reopened only a week before, but all the friends were hard at work. all but ann hicks and nettie parsons hoped to graduate the coming june. in the group, besides ruth and helen, were their room-mates, mercy curtis and ann hicks; jennie stone; mary cox, the red-haired girl usually called "the fox;" and nettie parsons, "the sugar king's daughter," as she was known to the school. she was the one really rich girl at briarwood--and one of the simplest in both manner and dress. nettie was backward in her studies, as was ann hicks. nettie was a lovable, sweet-tempered girl, who had several reasons for being very fond of ruth fielding. indeed, if the truth were told, not a girl in the quartette that afternoon but had some particular reason for loving ruth. ruth's life at the school had been a very active one; yet she had never thrust herself forward. although she had been the originator of the most popular--now the only sorority in the school, the sweetbriars, she had refused to be its president for more than one term. all the older girls were "sweetbriars" now. mercy curtis, who had a sweet voice, now commenced to sing the marching song of the school, which had been adopted by the sweetbriars and made over into a special sorority song. sitting on her bed, with her arms clasped around her knees, the lame girl weaved back and forth as she sang: "'at briarwood hall we have many a lark-- but one wide river to cross! the river of knowledge--its current dark-- is the one wide river to cross! sweetbriars all-l! one wide river of knowledge! sweetbriars all-l! one wide river to cross! "'sweetbriars come here, one by one-- but one wide river to cross! there's lots of work, but plenty of fun, with one wide river to cross!'" "altogether!" cried heavy. "all join in!" "the dear old chant!" said helen, with a happy sigh. ruth had already taken up the chorus again, and her rich, full-throated tones filled the room: "'sweetbriars all-l! one wide river of knowledge! sweetbriars all-l! one wide river to cross!'" "once more!" exclaimed the girl from montana, who could not herself sing a note in harmony, but liked to hear the others. the chant continued: "'sweetbriars joining, two by two-- there's one wide river to cross! some so scared they daren't say 'booh!' to the one wide river to cross!" "that was _us_, ruthie!" broke off helen, laughing. "remember how scared we were when we walked up the old cedar walk with the fox, here, and didn't know whether we were going to be met with a brass band or a ticket to the guillotine?" the fox, otherwise mary cox, suddenly turned red. ruth hastened to smooth over her chum's rather tactless speech, for mary had been a different girl at that time from what she was now, and the memory of the hazing she had visited on ruth and helen annoyed her. "and what did meet us?" cried ruth, dramatically. "why, a poor, emaciated creature standing at the steps of this old west dormitory, complaining that she would starve before supper if the bell did not sound soon. you remember, heavy?" "and i feel that way now," said jennie stone in a hollow tone. "i don't know what makes me so, but i am continually hungry at least three times a day--and at regular intervals. i must see a physician about it." "aren't you afraid of the effect of eating so much, jennie?" asked helen, gently. "what's that? is there a new disease?" asked the fleshy girl, trying to express fear--which she never could do successfully in any such case. jennie had probably never been ill in her life save as the immediate result of over-indulgence in eating. "no, my dear," said ruth fielding's chum. "but they do tell me that eating _too_ much may make one _fat_." "horrors!" ejaculated jennie. "i can't believe you. then that is what is the matter with me! i thought i looked funny in the mirror. i must be getting a wee bit plump." "plump!" "hear her!" "she's the girl who went up in the balloon and came down 'plump!'" the shouts that greeted heavy's seriously put remark did not disturb the fleshy girl at all. "that is exactly the trouble," she went on, quite placidly. "and it cost me half a dollar yesterday." "what's that?" asked somebody, curiously. "where?" asked another girl. "in chapel. didn't you see me trying to crawl through between the two rows of seats? and i got stuck!" "did you have to pay foyle the fifty cents to pry you out, heavy?" demanded ann hicks. "no. i dropped the half dollar and tried to find it. i looked for it; that's all i _could_ do. i was too fat to find it." "did you look good, jennie?" asked ruth, sympathetically. "did i look good?" repeated the fleshy girl, with scorn. "i looked as good as a fat girl crawling around on all fours, ever _does_ look. what do you think?" the laugh at jennie stone's sally really cleared the room, for the warning bell for supper sounded almost immediately. heavy and nettie, and all who did not belong in the quartette room, departed. then mercy went tap, tap, tapping down the corridor with her canes--"just like a silly woodpecker!" as she often said herself; and ann strode away, trying to hum the marching song, but ignominiously falling into the doleful strains of the "cowboy's lament" before she reached the head of the stairway. "i really would like to know what that thing is you've been writing, ruth," remarked helen, when they were alone. "all those sheets of paper--goodness! it's no composition. i believe you've been writing your valedictory this early." "don't be silly," laughed ruth. "i shall never write the valedictory of this class. mercy will do that." "i don't care! mrs. tellingham considers you the captain of the graduating class. so now!" cried loyal helen. "that may be; but mercy is our brilliant girl--you know that." "yes--the poor dear! but how could she ever stand up before them all and give an oration?" "she _shall_!" cried ruth, with emphasis. "she shall _not_ be cheated out of all the glory she wins--or of an atom of that glory. if she is our first scholar, she must, somehow, have all the honors that go with the position." "oh, ruthie! how can you overcome her natural dislike of 'making an exhibition of herself,' as she calls it, and the fact that, really, a girl as lame as she is, poor creature, could never make a pleasant appearance upon the platform?" "i do not know," ruth said seriously. "not now. but i shall think it out, if nobody else _can_. mercy shall graduate with flying colors from briarwood hall, whether i do myself, or not!" "never mind," said helen, laughing at her chum's emphasis. "at least the valedictorian will hail from this dear old quartette room." "yes," agreed ruth, looking around the loved chamber with a tender smile. "what will we do when we see it no longer, helen?" "oh, don't talk about it!" cried helen, who had forgotten by this time what she had started to question ruth about. "come on! we'll be late for supper." when her chum's back was turned, ruth slipped out of her table drawer the very packet of papers helen had spoken about. the sheets had been typewritten and were now sealed in a manila envelope, which was addressed and stamped. she hesitated all day about dropping the packet in the mailbag; but now she took her courage in both hands and determined to send it to its destination. chapter viii a new star ruth had actually been trying her "prentice hand," as mr. hammond had called it, at the production of a moving picture scenario. it was the first literary work she had ever achieved, although her taste in that direction had been noted by mrs. tellingham and the under-instructors of the school. oh! she would not have had any of them know what she had done in secret since arriving at the hall at the beginning of this term. she would not let even helen know about it. "if it is a success--if mr. hammond produces it--_then_ i'll tell them," ruth said to herself. "but if he tells me it is no good, then nobody shall ever know that i was so foolish as to attempt such a thing." even after she had it all ready she hesitated some hours as to whether or not she should send it to the address mr. hammond had given her. the pamphlet he had promised to send her had not arrived, and ruth had little idea as to how a scenario should be prepared she had written much more explanatory matter than was necessary; but she had achieved one thing at least--she had been direct in the composition of her scenario and she had the faculty of saying just what she meant, and that briefly. this concise style was of immense value to her, as ruth was later to learn. ruth managed to slip the big envelope addressed to mr. hammond into the mailbag in the hall without spurring helen's curiosity again. she had to chuckle to herself over it, for it really was a good joke on her chum. unconsciously, helen had given her the idea for this little allegorical comedy which she had written. and how her friend would laugh if the picture of "curiosity" should be produced and they should see it on the screen. the girls crowded into the big dining room in an orderly manner, but with some suppressed whispering and laughter on the part of the more giggling kind. there were always some of the girls so full of spirits that they could not be entirely repressed. the long tables quickly filled up. there were few beginners at this time of year, for most of the new scholars came to briarwood hall at the commencement of the autumn semester. there was one new girl at the table where ruth and her particular friends sat, over which miss picolet the little teacher of french, had nominal charge. nowadays, miss picolet's life was an easy one. she had little trouble with even the more boisterous girls of the west dormitory, thanks to the sweetbriars. the new pupil beside the french teacher was amy gregg. she was a colorless, flaxen-haired girl, with such light eyebrows and lashes that helen said her face looked like a blank wall. she was a nervous girl, too; she pouted a good deal and seemed dissatisfied. of course, being a stranger, she was lonely as yet; but under the rules of the sweetbriars she was not hazed. the s.b.'s word had become law in all such matters at briarwood hall. after they were seated, heavy stone whispered to ruth: "isn't that gregg girl the most discontented looking thing you ever saw? her face would sour cream right now! i hope she doesn't overlook my supper and give me indigestion." "behave!" was ruth's only comment. there was supposed to be silence until all were served and the teachers began eating. the waitresses bustled about, light-footed and demure. mrs. tellingham, who was present on this evening, overlooked all from the small guest table, as it was called, placed at the head of the room on a slightly raised platform. mrs. tellingham, ruth thought, was the loveliest lady in the world. the girl of the red mill had never lost the first impression the preceptress had made upon her childish mind and heart when she had come to briarwood hall. at last--just in time to save heavy's life, it would seem--miss picolet lifted her fork and the girls began to eat. a pleasant interchange of conversation broke out: "did you hear what that funny little pease girl said to miss brokaw in physiology class yesterday?" asked lluella fairfax, who was across the table from ruth. "no. what has the child said now? she's a queer little thing," helen said, before her chum could answer. "she's rather dense, don't you know," put in lluella's chum, belle tingley. "i'm not so sure of _that_," laughed lluella. "miss brokaw became impatient with little pease and said: "'it seems you are never able to answer a question, mary; why is it?' "'if i knew all the things you ask me, miss brokaw,' said pease, 'my mother wouldn't take the trouble to send me here.'" "i'm sure _that_ doesn't prove the poor little kiddie a dunce," laughed ruth. "say! we have a dense one at this very table," hissed heavy, a hand beside her mouth so that the sound of her whisper would not travel to the head of the table where miss picolet and the sullen looking new girl sat. "what do you mean?" asked belle, curiously. "_whom_ do you mean?" added helen. "that infant yonder," hissed the fleshy girl. "what about her?" ruth asked. "i'm rather sorry for that little gregg. she doesn't look happy." "say!" chuckled heavy. "she tried for an hour yesterday to coax electricity into the bulb over her table, and then went to miss scrimp and asked for a candle. she got the candle, and burned it until one of the other girls looked in (you know she's not 'chummed' with anybody yet) and showed her where the push-button was in the wall. and at that," finished heavy, grinning broadly, "i'm not sure that she understood how the 'juice' was turned on. she must have come from the backwoods." "hush!" begged ruth. "don't let her think we're laughing at her." "miss scrimp's very strict about candles and oil lamps," said nettie. "we use them a lot in the south." "that old house of yours in 'so'th ca'lina' must be a funny old place, nettie," said heavy. "it isn't ours," nettie said. "the cotton plantation belongs to aunt rachel. she was born on it--the merredith place. we usually go there for the early summer, and then either come no'th, or into the mountains of virginia until cool weather. my own dear old louisiana home isn't considered healthy for us during the extreme hot weather. it is too damp and marshy." "'way down souf in de land ob cotton-- cinnamon seed an' sandy bottom!'" hummed heavy. "oh! i wish i was in dixie--right now." "wait till my aunt rachel comes up here," nettie promised. "i'm going to beg an invitation for you girls to visit merredith." "but it will be hot weather, then," said heavy; "and i don't want to miss light-house point." "and i'm just about crazy to get back to silver ranch," said ann hicks. "me for cliff island," cried belle tingley. "no land of cotton for mine, this summer." "when is your aunt coming, nettie?" asked ruth. "to see you graduate, my dear," replied the southern girl, smiling. "and wait till she meets you, ruthie fielding! she'll near about love you to death!" "oh, everybody loves ruth. why shouldn't they?" cried belle. "but everybody doesn't give her a fortune, as nettie's aunt rachel did," laughed heavy. ruth wished they would not talk so much about that money; but, of course, she could not stop them. she made no rejoinder, but looked across the room and out at the upper pane of one of the long windows. it was deep dusk now without. the evening was clear, with a rising wind moaning through the trees on the campus. tony foyle, the old gardener and general handy man, was only now lighting the lamps along the walks. "there's a funny red star," ruth said to helen. "it can't be that mars is rising _there_." "where?" queried her chum, lazily, scarcely raising her eyes to look. helen was not interested in astronomy. nobody else was attracted by the red spark ruth saw. against the dusky sky it grew swiftly a new star---- "it is fire!" gasped ruth, softly, rising on trembling limbs. "_and it is in the west dormitory_!" chapter ix the devouring element not even helen heard ruth's whispered words. she went on calmly with her supper when her chum arose from her seat. ruth quickly controlled herself. the word "fire" would start a panic on the instant, although both dormitories were across the campus from the main hall. the girl of the red mill erased from her countenance all expression of the fear which gripped her; but about her heart she felt a pressure like that of a tight band. her knees actually knocked together; she was thankful they were invisible just then. when she started up the room toward mrs. tellingham's table ruth walked steadily enough. some of the girls looked after her in surprise; but it was not an uncommon thing for a girl to leave her seat and approach the preceptress. mrs. tellingham looked up with a smile when she saw ruth coming. she always had a smile for the girl of the red mill. the preceptress, however, was a sharp reader of faces. her own expression of countenance did not change, for other girls were looking; but she saw that something serious had occurred. "what is it, ruth?" she asked, the instant her low whisper could reach ruth's ear. the girl, looking straight at her, made the letters "f-i-r-e" with her lips. but she uttered no sound. mrs. tellingham understood, however, and demanded: "where?" "west dormitory, mrs. tellingham," said ruth, coming closer. "are you positive?" "i can see it from my seat. on the second floor. in one of the duo rooms at this side." ruth spoke these sentences in staccato; but her voice was low and she preserved an air of calmness. "good girl!" murmured mrs. tellingham. "go out quietly and then run and tell tony. do you know where he is?" "lighting the lamps," whispered ruth. "good. tell him to go right up there and see what can be done. warn miss scrimp. i will telephone to town, and miss brokaw will take charge and march the pupils to the big hall to call the roll. i hope nobody is in the dormitories." mrs. tellingham had pushed back her chair and dropped her napkin; but her movements, though swift, were not alarming. she passed out by a rear door which led to the kitchens, while ruth walked composedly down the room to the main exit. "hey! what's the matter, ruthie?" called heavy, in a low tone. "whose old cat's in the well?" ruth appeared not to hear her. miss brokaw, a very capable woman, came into the dining hall as ruth passed out. miss brokaw stepped to the monitor's desk at one side and tapped on the bell. "oh, mercy!" gasped heavy, the incorrigible. "she's shut us off again. and i haven't had half enough to eat." "rise!" said miss brokaw, after a moment of waiting. "immediately, girls. miss stone, you will come, too." a murmur of laughter rose at jennie stone's evident intention to linger; but heavy always took admonition in good part, and she arose smiling. "monitors to their places," commanded miss brokaw. "you will march to the big hall. it is mrs. tellingham's request. she will have something of importance to say to you." the big hall was on the other side of the building, and from its windows nothing could be seen of either dormitory. meanwhile, ruth, once alone in the hall, had bounded to the chief entrance of the building and opened one leaf of the heavy door. it was a crisp night and the frost bit keenly. the wind fluttered her skirt about her legs. she stopped for no outer apparel, however, but dashed out upon the stone portico, drawing the door shut behind her. that act alone saved the school from panic; for it she had left the door ajar, when the girls filed out into the entrance hall from the dining room some of them would have been sure to see the growing red glow on the second floor of the west dormitory. to ruth the fire seemed to be filling the room in which it had apparently started. there was no smoke as yet; but the flames leaped higher and higher, while the illumination grew frightfully. a spark of light coming into being at the far end of the campus near the east dormitory, showed ruth where tony foyle then was. he was not likely to see the fire as yet, for in lighting the campus lamps he followed a route that kept his back to the west dormitory until he turned to come back. like an arrow from the bow the young girl ran toward the distant gardener. she took the steps of the little italian garden in the center of the campus in two flying leaps, passed the marble maiden at the fountain, and bounded up to the level of the campus path again without stopping. "tony! oh, tony!" she called breathlessly. "shure now, phat's the matter widyer?" returned the old irishman, querulously. "phy! 'tis miss ruth, so ut is. phativer do be the trouble, me darlin'?" he was very fond of ruth and would have done anything in his power for her. so at once tony was exercised by her appearance. "phativer is the matter?" he repeated. "fire!" blurted out ruth, able at last to speak. the keen night air had seemed for the moment fairly to congest her lungs and render her speechless and breathless. "that's _that_?" cried tony. "'fire,' says you? an' where is there fire save in the furnaces and the big range in the kitchen----" he had turned, and the red glare from the room on the second floor of the west dormitory came into his view. "there it is!" gasped ruth, and just then the tinkle of breaking glass betrayed the fact that the heat of the flames was bursting the panes of the window. "fur the love of----begorra! i'll git the hose-cart, an' rouse herself an' the gals in the kitchen----" poor tony, so wildly excited that he dropped the little "dhudeen" he was smoking and did not notice that he stepped on it, galloped away on rheumatic legs. at this hour there was no man on the premises but the little old irishman, who cared for the furnaces until the fireman and engineer came on duty at seven in the morning. ruth was quite sure that neither tony nor "herself" (by this name he meant mrs. foyle, the cook) or any of the kitchen girls, could do a thing towards extinguishing the fire. but she remembered that miss scrimp, the matron, must be in the threatened building, and the girl dashed across the intervening space and in at the door. there was not a sound from upstairs--no crackling of flames. ruth would never have believed the dormitory was afire had she not seen the fire outside. the girl ran down the corridor to miss scrimp's room, and burst in the door like a young hurricane. the matron was at tea, and she leaped up in utter amazement when she saw ruth. "for the good land's sake, ruthie fielding!" she ejaculated. "whatever is the matter with you?" "fire!" cried ruth. "one of the rooms on the next floor--front--is all afire! i saw it from the dining hall! mrs. tellingham has telephoned for the department at lumberton----" with a shriek of alarm, miss scrimp picked up the little old "brown betty" teapot off the hearth of her small stove, and started out of the room with it--whether with the expectation of putting out the fire with the contents of the pot, or not, ruth never learned. but when the lady was half way up the first flight of stairs the flames suddenly burst through the doorframe, and miss scrimp stopped. "that candle!" she shrieked. "i knew i had no business to give that girl that candle." "who?" asked ruth. "that infant--amy gregg her name is. i'll tell mrs. tellingham----" "but please don't tell anybody else, miss scrimp," begged ruth. "it will be awful for amy if it becomes generally known that she is at fault." "well, now," said the matron more calmly, coming down the stairs again. "you are right, ruthie--you thoughtful child. we can't do a thing up there," she added, as she reached the lower floor again. "all we can do is to take such things out as we can off this floor," and she promptly marched out with the little tea-pot and deposited it carefully on the grassplot right where somebody would be sure to step on it when the firemen arrived. miss scrimp prided herself upon having great presence of mind in an emergency like this. a little later ruth saw the good woman open her window and toss out her best mirror upon the cement walk. miss picolet came flying toward the burning building, chattering about her treasures she had brought from france. "le bon dieu will not let to burn up my mothair's picture--my harp--my confirmation veil--all, all i have of my youth left!" chattered the excited little frenchwoman, and because of her distress and her weakness, ruth helped remove the harp and likewise the featherbed on which the french teacher always slept and which had come with her from france years before. by the time these treasures were out of the house a crowd came running from the main building--mrs. foyle, some of the kitchen girls and waitresses, tony dragging the hose cart, and last of all dr. tellingham himself. the good old doctor was the most absent minded man in the world, and the least useful in a practical way in any emergency. he never had anything of importance to do with the government of the school; but he sometimes gave the girls wonderfully interesting lectures on historical subjects. he wrote histories that were seldom printed save in private editions; but most of the girls thought the odd old gentleman a really wonderful scholar. he was in dishabille just now. he had run out in his dressing-gown and carpet slippers, and without his wig. that wig was always awry when he was at work, and it was a different color from his little remaining hair, anyway. but without the toupé at all he certainly looked naked. "go back, that's a dear man!" gasped mrs. foyle, turning the doctor about and heading him in the right direction. "shure, ye air not dacently dressed. go back, oi say. phat will the young ladies be thinkin' of yez? ye kin do no good here, dear dochter." this was quite true. he could do no good. and, as it turned out later, the unfortunate, forgetful, short-sighted old gentleman had already done a great deal of harm. chapter x gaunt ruins ruth fielding felt a strong desire to return to the threatened building, and to make her way upstairs to that old quartette room she and her chums had occupied for so long. there were so many things she desired to save. not alone were there treasures of her own, but ruth knew of articles belonging to her chums that they prized highly. it seemed actually wicked to stand idle while the hot flames spread, creating a havoc that nobody could stay. why! if the firemen did not soon appear, the whole west dormitory would be destroyed. the burst of smoke and flame into the corridor at the top of the front flight of stairs shut off any attempt to reach the upper stories from this direction. and although the back door of the building was locked, ruth knew she could run down the hall, past miss scrimp's already gutted room, and up the rear stairway. but when she started into the building again, miss scrimp screamed to her: "come out of that, you reckless girl! don't dare go back for anything more of mine or miss picolet's. if we lose them, we lose them; that's all." "but i might get some things of my own--and some belonging to the other girls." "don't _dare_ go into the building again," commanded miss scrimp. "if you do, ruthie fielding, i'll report you to mrs. tellingham." "shure, she won't go in and risk her swate life," said mrs. foyle. "come back, now, darlin'. 'tis a happy chance that none o' the young leddies bes up there in thim burnin' rooms, so ut is." "oh, dear me! oh, dear me!" gasped miss picolet. "i presume it is _posi-tive_ that there is nobody up there? were all the mesdemoiselles at supper this evening?" "yes, yes," said mrs. tellingham's own voice. "miss brokaw has called the roll and there is none missing but our ruthie. and now _you_ would better run back, my dear," she added to ruth. "you have no wrap or hat. i fear you will take cold." "i never noticed it," confessed ruth. "i guess the excitement kept me warm. but oh! how awful it is to see the old dormitory burn--and all our things in it." "we cannot help it," sighed the principal. "go up to the hall with the other girls, my dear. here come the firemen. you may be hurt here." the galloping of horses, blowing of horns, and shouting of excited men, now became audible. the glare of the fire could probably be seen by this time clear to lumberton, and half the population of the suburbs on this side of the town would soon be on the scene. not until the firemen actually arrived did the girls in the big hall know what had happened. there had been singing and music and a funny recitation by one girl, to while away the time until mrs. tellingham appeared. just as ruth came in, her chum had her violin under her chin and was drawing sweet sounds from the strings, holding the other girls breathless. but the violin music broke off suddenly and several girls uttered startled cries as the first of the fire trucks thundered past the windows. "oh!" shrieked somebody, "there is a fire!" "quite true, young ladies!" exclaimed miss brokaw, tartly. "and it is not the first fire since the world began. ruth has just come from it. she will tell you what it is all about." "oh, ruth!" cried helen. "is it the dormitory?" "give her time to speak," commanded the teacher. "which dormitory?" cried heavy stone. "now, be quiet--do," begged ruth, stepping upon the platform, and controlling herself admirably. "don't scream. none of us can do a thing. the firemen will do all that can be done" "they'll about save the cellar. they always do," groaned the irrepressible heavy. "it is our own old west dormitory," said ruth, her voice shaking. "nothing can be taken from the rooms upstairs. only some of miss scrimp's and miss picolet's things were saved." "oh, dear me!" cried helen. "we're orphans then. i'm glad i had my violin over here!" "is everything going to be really burned up?" demanded heavy. "you don't mean _that_, ruth fielding?" "i hope not. but the fire has made great head-way." "oh! oh! oh!" were the murmured exclamations. "won't our dormitory burn, too?" demanded one of the east dormitory girls. but there was no danger of that. the wisdom of erecting the two dormitories so far apart, and so far separated from the other buildings, was now apparent. despite the high wind that prevailed upon this evening, there was no danger of any other building around the campus being ignited. miss brokaw had some difficulty in restoring order. several of the girls were in tears; their most valued possessions were even then, as heavy said, "going up in smoke." very soon practical arrangements for the night were under way. unable to do anything to help save the burning structure, mrs. tellingham had returned to the main building, and the maids from the kitchen were soon bringing in cots and spare mattresses and arranging them about the big hall for the use of the girls. the east dormitory girls were asked to sit forward. ("the goats were divided from the sheep," helen said.) then the houseless girls were allowed to "pitch camp," as it were. "it _is_ just like camping out," cried belle tingley. "only there's no scratchy and smelly balsam for beds, and our clothes won't get all stuck up with chewing gum," said lluella fairfax. "chewing gum! hear the girl," scoffed ann hicks. "you mean spruce gum." "isn't that about the same?" demanded lluella, with some spirit. "you chew it, don't you?" "i don't know. i wouldn't chew spruce gum unless it was first properly prepared. i tried it once," replied ann, "and got my jaws so gummed up that i might as well have had the lockjaw." "it is according to what season you get the gum," explained helen. "now, see here, girls: we ought to have a name for this camp." "oh, oh!" "quite so!" "'why not?" were some of the responses to this suggestion. "let's call it 'sweet dreams,'" said one girl. "that's an awfully pretty name for a camp, i think. we called ours that, last summer on the banks of the vingie river." "ya-as," drawled heavy. "over across from the soap factory. i know the place. 'sweet dreams,' indeed! ought to have called it 'sweet smells,'" "i think 'camp loquacity' will fit _this_ camp better," ruth said bluntly. "we all talk at once. goodness! how does _one_ person ever get a sheet smooth on a bed?" helen came to help her, and just then mrs. tellingham herself appeared in the hall. "i am glad to announce, girls," she said, with some cheerfulness, "that the fire is under control." "oh, goody!" cried heavy. "can we go over there to sleep to-night?" "no. nor for many other nights, if at all," the preceptress said firmly. "the west dormitory is badly damaged. of course, no girl need expect to find much that belongs to her intact. i am sorry. what i can replace, i will. we must be cheerful and thankful that no life was lost." "what did i tell you?" muttered the fleshy girl. "those firemen from lumberton always save the cellar." "now," said mrs. tellingham, "the girls belonging in the east dormitory will form and march to their rooms. it is late enough. we must all get quiet for the night. the ruins will wait until morning to be looked at, so i must request you to go directly to bed." somebody started singing--and of course it was their favorite, "one wide river," that they sang, beginning with the very first verse. the words of the last stanza floated back to the west dormitory girls as the others marched across the campus: "'sweetbriars enter, ten by ten---- that river of knowledge to cross! they never know what happens then, with one wide river to cross! one wide river! one wide river of knowledge! one wide river! one wide river to cross.'" "but just the same it's no singing matter for us," grumbled belle. "turned out of our beds to sleep this way! and all we've lost!" she began to weep. it was difficult for even heavy to coax up a smile or to bring forth a new joke. ruth and her chums secured a corner of the great room, and they insisted that mercy curtis have the single cot that had been secured. "i don't mind it much," ann hicks declared. "i've camped out so many times on the plains without half the comforts of this camp. oh! i could tell you a lot about camping out that you easterners have no idea of." "postpone it till to-morrow, please, miss hicks," said miss brokaw, dryly. "it is time for you all to undress." after they were between the sheets helen crept over to ruth and hid her face upon her chum's shoulder, where she cried a few tears. "all my pretty frocks that mrs. murchiston allowed me to pick out! and my books! and--and----" the tragic voice of jennie stone reached their ears: "oh, girls! i've lost in the dreadful fire the only belt i could wear. it's a forty-two." there was little laughter in the morning, however, when the girls went out-of-doors and saw the gaunt ruins of the dear old west dormitory. the roof had fallen in. almost every pane of glass was broken. the walls had crumbled in places, and over all was a sheet of ice where the cascades from the firemen's hose had blanketed the ruins. it needed only a glance to show that to repair the building was out of the question. the west dormitory must be constructed as an entirely new edifice. chapter xi one thing the old doctor did every girl in briarwood hall was much troubled by the result of the fire. the old rivalry between the east and the west dormitories, that had been quite fierce at times and in years before, had died out under ruth fielding's influence. indeed, since the inception of the sweetbriars a better spirit had come over the entire school. mrs. tellingham in secret spoke of this as the direct result of ruth's character and influence; for although ruth fielding was not namby-pamby, she was opposed to every form of rude behavior, or to the breaking of rules which everyone knew to be important. the old forms of hazing--even the "masque of the marble harp," as it was called--were now no longer honored, save in the breach. the initiations of the sweetbriars were novel inventions--usually of ruth's active brain; but they never put the candidate to unpleasant or risky tasks. there certainly were rivalries and individual quarrels and sometimes clique was arrayed against clique in the school. this was a school of upwards of two hundred girls--not angels. nevertheless, mrs. tellingham and the instructors noted with satisfaction how few disturbances they had to settle and quarrels to take under advisement. this class of girls whom they hoped to graduate in june were the most helpful girls that had ever attended briarwood hall. "the influence of ruth and some of her friends has extended to our next class as well," mrs. tellingham had said. "nettie parsons and ann hicks will be of assistance, too, for another year. i wish, however, that ruth fielding's example and influence might continue through _my_ time----i certainly do." the girls of the east dormitory held a meeting before breakfast and passed resolutions requesting mrs. tellingham to rearrange their duo and quartette rooms so that as many as possible of the west dormitory girls could be housed with them. "we're all willing to double up," said sarah fish, who had become leader of the east dormitory. "i'm perfectly willing to divide my bureau drawers, book-shelves, table and bed with any of you orphans. poor things! it must be awful to be burned out." "some of us haven't much to put in bureau drawers or on bookshelves," said helen, inclined to be lugubrious. "i--i haven't a decent thing to wear but what i have on right now. i unpacked my trunk clear to the very bottom layer." however, as a rule, selfish considerations did not enter into the girls' discussion of the fire. when they looked at the ruined building, they saw mainly the loss to the school. a loyalty is bred in the pupils of such an institution as briarwood hall, which is only less strong than love of home and country. a new structure to house a hundred girls would cost a deal of money. there was no studying done before breakfast the morning after the fire; and at the tables the girls' tongues ran until miss brokaw declared the room sounded like a great rookery she had once disturbed near an old english rectory. "i positively cannot stand it, young ladies," declared the nervous teacher, who had been up most of the night. "such continuous chatter is enough to crack one's eardrums." the girls really were too excited to be very considerate, although they did not mean to offend miss brokaw. if the window or an outer door was opened, the very tang of sour smoke on the air set their tongues off again about the fire. once in chapel, however, a rather solemn feeling fell upon them. the teacher whose turn it was to read, selected a psalm of gratitude that seemed to breathe just what was in all their hearts. it gave thanks for deliverance from the terrors of the night and those of the noonday, for the power that encircles poor humanity and shelters it from harm. "we, too, have been sheltered," thought ruth and her friends. "we have been guarded from the evil that flyeth by night and from the terror that stalketh at noonday. surely god is our keeper and strength. we will not be afraid." when helen played one of the old, old hymns of the church she brought such sweet tones from the strings of the violin that miss picolet hushed her accompaniment, surprised and delighted. and when they sang, ruth fielding's rich and mellow voice carried the air in perfect harmony. when the hymn was finished the girls turned glowing faces upon mrs. tellingham who, despite a sleepless night, looked fresh and sweet. "for the first time in the history of briarwood hall as a school," she said, speaking so that all could hear her, "a really serious calamity has fallen." "we are all determined upon one thing, i am sure," pursued mrs. tellingham. "we will not worry about what is already done. water that has run by the mill will never drive the wheel, you know. we will look forward to the rebuilding of the west dormitory, and that as soon as it can possibly be done." "hoo-ray!" cried jennie stone, leading a hearty cheer. "we will have the ruin of the old structure torn away at once." the murmur of appreciation rose again from the girls assembled. "i do not recall at this moment just how much insurance was on the west dormitory; i leave those details to doctor tellingham, and he is now looking up the papers in the office. but i am sure there is ample to rebuild, and if all goes well, a new west dormitory will rise in the place of these smoking ruins before our patrons and our friends come to our graduation exercises in june." "oh, bully!" cried ann hicks, under her breath. "i want uncle bill to see briarwood at its very best." "but the dear old ivy never can be replaced," mercy curtis murmured to ruth. "we shall endeavor," went on mrs. tellingham, smiling, "to repeat in the new building all the advantages of the old. we shall have everything replaced, if possible, exactly as it was before the fire." "there was a big inkspot on my rug," muttered jennie stone. "bet they can't get _that_ just in the same place again." "you homeless girls must, in the meanwhile, possess your souls with patience. the younger girls who had quarters in the west dormitory will be made comfortable in the east. but you older girls must be cared for in a different way. "some few i shall take into my own apartments, or otherwise find room for in the main building here. some, however, will have to occupy quarters outside the school premises until the new building is constructed and ready for occupancy. arrangements for these quarters i have already made. and now we can separate for our usual classes and work, with the feeling that all will come out right and that the new dormitory will be built within reasonable time." she ceased speaking. the door near the platform suddenly opened and "the old doctor" as the girls called the absent-minded husband of their preceptress, hastily entered. he stumbled up to the platform, waving a number of papers in his hand. he stammered so that he could hardly speak at first, and he gave no attention to the amazed girls in the audience. "mrs. tellingham! mrs. tellingham!" he ejaculated. "i have made a great mistake--an unpardonable error! in renewing the insurance for the various buildings i overlooked that for the west dormitory and its contents. the insurance on that ran out a week ago. there was not a dollar on it when it burned last night!" chapter xii "great oaks from little acorns grow" mercy curtis was one of the older girls quartered in mrs. tellingham's suite. she told her close friends how doctor tellingham walked the floor of the inner office and bemoaned his absent-mindedness that had brought disaster upon mrs. tellingham and the whole school. "i know that mrs. tellingham is becoming more worried about the doctor than about the lapsed insurance," said mercy. "of course, he's a foolish old man without any more head than a pin! but why did she leave the business of renewing the insurance in his charge, in the first place?" "oh, mercy!" protested ruth. "no more head than a pin!" repeated nettie parsons, in horror. "why! who ever heard the like? he writes histories! he must be a very brainy man." "who ever _reads_ them?" grumbled mercy. "they look awfully solid," confessed lluella fairfax. "did you ever look at the whole row of them in the office bookcase?" jennie stone began to giggle. "i don't care," she said, "the doctor may be a great historian; but his memory is just as short as it can be. do you know what happened only last half when he and mrs. tellingham were invited to the lumberton association ball?" "what was it?" asked helen. "i suppose it is something perfectly ridiculous, or heavy wouldn't have remembered it," ruth suggested. "thank you!" returned the plump girl, making a face. "i have a better memory than dr. tellingham, i should hope." "come on! tell the joke, heavy," urged mary cox. "why, when he came into the office ready to escort mrs. tellingham to the ball, mrs. t. criticised his tie. 'do go back, doctor, and put on a black tie,' she said. you know, he's the best natured old dear in the world," jennie pursued, "and he went right back into his bedroom to make the change. they waited, and they waited, and then they waited some more," chuckled jennie. "the doctor did not reappear. so mrs. tellingham finally went to his bedroom and opened the door. she saw that the old doctor, having removed the tie she didn't like, had continued the process of undressing, and just as mrs. tellingham looked in, he climbed placidly into bed." "i can believe that," said ann hicks, when the laughter had subsided. "and i can believe that both he and mrs. tellingham are just as worried about the destruction of the dormitory as they can be," nettie added. "all their money is invested in the school, is it not?" "except that invested in the doctor's useless histories," said mercy, who was inclined to be most unmerciful of speech on occasion. "is there nobody to help them rebuild?" asked ann, tentatively. "not a soul," declared ruth. "i believe i'll write to uncle bill hicks. he'll help, i know," said ann. "next to heavy's aunt kate, uncle bill thinks that the finest woman on this footstool is mrs. tellingham." "and i'll ask papa for some money," nettie said quickly. "i had that in mind from the first." "my father will give some," helen said. "we'll write to madge steele," said belle. "her father might help, too." "i guess all our folks will be willing to help," lluella fairfax added. "and," said jennie, "here's ruth, with a fortune in her own right." but ruth did not make any rejoinder to jennie's remark and that surprised them all; for they knew ruth fielding was not stingy. "we are going about this thing in the wrong way, girls," she said quietly. "at least, i think we are." "how are we?" demanded helen. "surely, we all want to help mrs. tellingham." "and old briarwood," cried belle tingley. "and all the students of our alma mater will want to join in," maintained lluella. "now you've said it!" cried ruth, with a sudden smile. "every girl who is now attending the dear old hall will want to help rebuild the west dormitory." "all can give their mites, can't they?" demanded jennie. "and the rich can give of their plenty." "that is just it," ruth went on, still seriously. "nettie's father will give a good sum; so will helen's; so will mr. william hicks, who is one of the most liberal men in the world. therefore, the little gifts of the other girls' parents will look terribly small." "oh, ruth! don't say that our folks can't give," cried jennie, whose father likewise was rich. "it is not in my province to say who shall, or who shall not give," declared ruth, hastily. "i only want to point out to you girls that if the rich give a great deal the poorer will almost be ashamed to give what they can." "that's right," said mary cox, suddenly. "we haven't much; so we couldn't give much." the girls looked rather troubled; but ruth had not finished. "there is another thing," she said. "if all your fathers give to the dormitory fund, what will you girls personally give?" "oh! how's that, ruth?" cried helen. "say," drawled jennie stone, the plump girl, "we're not all fixed like you, ruth--with a bank account to draw on." ruth blushed; but she did not lose her temper. "you don't understand what i mean yet," she said. "either i am particularly muddy in my suggestions, or you girls are awfully dense to-day." "how polite! how polite!" murmured jennie. "what i am trying to get at," ruth continued earnestly, "is the fact that the rebuilding of the west dormitory should interest us girls more than anybody else in the world, save mrs. tellingham." "well--doesn't it?" demanded mary cox, rather sharply. "does it interest us all enough for each girl to be willing to do something personally, or sacrifice something, toward the new building?" asked ruth. "i getcha, steve!" exclaimed the slangy jennie. "oh, dear me, ruthie! we _are_ dense," said nettie. "of course! every girl should be able to do as much as the next one. otherwise there may be hard feelings." "secret heartburnings," added helen. "of course," mercy said, "ruth would see _that_ side of it. i don't expect my folks could give ten dollars toward the fund; but i should want to do as much as any girl here. nobody loves briarwood hall more than i do," added the lame girl, fiercely. "i believe you, dear," ruth said. "and what we want to do is to invent some way of earning money in which every girl will have her part, and do her part, and feel that she has done her full share in rebuilding the west dormitory." "hurrah!" cried jennie. "that's the talk! i tell you, ruth, you are the only bright girl in this school!" "thank you," said ruth. "you cannot flatter me into believing that." "but what's the idea, dear?" demanded helen, eagerly. "you have some nice invention, i am sure. you always do have." "another base flatterer!" cried ruth, laughing gaily. "i believe you girls say such things just to jolly me along, and so that you will not have to exercise any gray matter yourselves." "oh! oh!" groaned jennie. "how ungrateful." "of course you have something to suggest?" nettie said. "no, not a thing. my idea is, merely, that we start something that every girl in the school can have her share in. of course, that does not cut out contributions from those who have money to spare; but the new building must be erected by the efforts of the girls of briarwood hall as----" "as a bunch of briars," chuckled jennie. "isn't that a sharp one?" "just as sharp as you are, my dear," said helen. "you know what that means, heavy," said mary cox. "you're all curves." "oh! ouch! i know that hurt me," declared the plump girl, altogether too good-natured to be offended by anything her mates said to her. "so that's how it is," ruth finished "call the girls together. put the idea before them. let's hear from everybody, and see which girl has the best thought along this line. we want a way of making money in which everyone can join." "i--don't--see," complained nettie, "how you are going to do it." "never mind. don't worry," said mercy. "'great oaks from little acorns grow,' and a fine idea will sprout from the germ of ruth's suggestion, i have no doubt." it did; but not at all in the way any of them expected. the whole school was called together after recitations on this afternoon, which was several days following the fire. the teachers had no part in the assembly, least of all mrs. tellingham. but the older girls--all of them s.b.'s--were very much in earnest; and from them the younger pupils, of course, took their cue. the west dormitory must be built--and within the time originally specified by mrs. tellingham when she had thought the insurance would fully pay for the work of reconstruction. many girls, it seemed, had already written home begging contributions to the fund which they expected would be raised for the new building. some even were ready to offer money of their very own toward the amount necessary to start the work. even ruth agreed to this first effort to get money. she pledged a hundred dollars herself and nettie parsons quietly put down the same sum as her own personal offering. "oh, gracious, goodness, me, girls!" gasped jennie stone, who had been figuring desperately upon a sheet of paper. "wait till i get this sum done; then i can tell you what i will give. there! can it be possible?" "what is it, jennie?" asked belle tingley, looking over her shoulder. "why! look at all those figures. are you weighing the sun or counting the hairs of the sun-dogs?" "don't laugh," begged the plump girl. "this is a serious matter. i've been figuring up what i should probably have spent for candy from now till june if i'd been left to my own will." "what is it, heavy?" asked somebody. "i wager it would pay for erecting the new dormitory without the rest of us putting up a cent." "no," said the plump girl, gravely. "but it figures up to a good round sum. i never would have believed it! girls, i'll give fifty dollars." "oh, heavy! you _never_ could eat so much sweets before graduation," gasped one. "i could; but i sha'n't," declared miss stone, with continued gravity. "i'll practise self-denial." with all the fun and joking, the girls of briarwood hall were very much in earnest. they elected a committee of five--ruth, nettie, lluella, sarah fish and mary cox--to have charge of the collection of the fund, and to go immediately to mrs. tellingham and show her what money was already promised and how much more could be expected within ten days. there was enough, they knew, to warrant the preceptress in having the work of tearing away the ruins begun. meanwhile, the girls were each urged to think up some new way of earning money, and as a committee of the whole to try to invent a novel scheme of including the whole school in a plan whereby much money might be raised. "how we're to do it, nobody knows," said helen gloomily, walking along beside ruth after the meeting. "i expected _you_ would have just the thing to suggest." "i wish i had," her chum returned thoughtfully. "mercy says, 'great oaks from little acorns grow'----" they turned into the hall and saw that the mail had been distributed. ruth was handed a letter with mr. hammond's name upon it. she had almost forgotten the moving picture man and her own scenario, in these three or four very busy days. ruth eagerly tore the envelope open. a green slip of paper fluttered out. it was a check for twenty-five dollars from the alectrion film corporation. with it was a note highly praising ruth's first effort at scenario writing for moving pictures. "what is it?" demanded helen. "you look so funny. there's no--nobody dead?" "do i look like that?" asked ruth. "far from it! just look at these, dear," and she thrust both the note and the check into helen's hands. "i believe i've struck it!" "struck what?" demanded her puzzled chum. "'great oaks from little acorns grow' sure enough! eureka! i have it," ruth cried. "i believe i know how we all--every girl in briarwood--can help earn the money to rebuild the west dormitory." chapter xiii the idea is born "what? what? _what_?" helen cried, as she gazed, wide-eyed, at the check and at mr. hammond's letter. the check for twenty-five dollars there could be no mistake about; and she scanned the moving picture man's enthusiastic letter shortly, for it was brief. but helen quite misunderstood the well-spring of ruth's sudden joy. "oh, ruthie fielding!" she gasped. "what have you done now?" and she hugged her chum delightedly. "how wonderful! _that_ was the secret between you and that mr. hammond, was it?" "yes," admitted ruth. "and you've written a _real_ moving picture?" "that is it--exactly. a _one_ reel picture," and ruth laughed. "and he says he will produce it at once," sighed helen. "so mr. hammond says. it's very nice of him." "oh, ruth!" cried helen, hugging her again. "oh, helen!" responded ruth, in sheer delight. "you're famous--really famous!" said ruth's chum, with sudden solemnity. ruth's clear laughter rang out spontaneously. "well, you are!" "not yet." "but you've earned twenty-five dollars writing that play. only think of that! and you can give it to the dormitory fund. is that what you are so pleased about? mercy, ruth! you don't expect us all to set about writing picture plays and selling them to mr. hammond?" "no," said ruth, more seriously. "i guess that wouldn't do." "then what do you mean about every girl at briarwood helping in this way toward the fund?" helen asked, puzzled. "at any rate, twenty-five dollars will help." "but i sha'n't do that!" cried ruth. "sha'n't do what?" "i shall not give this precious twenty-five dollars to any dormitory fund--no, indeed!" and ruth clasped the check to her bosom. "the first money i ever earned with my pen? i guess not! that twenty-five dollars goes into the bank, my dear." "goodness! you needn't be so emphatic about it," protested helen. "i am going to open a special account," said ruth, proudly. "this will be credited to the fact that r.f. can actually make something _with her brains_, my lady. what do you think?" "but how is it going to help the dormitory fund, then?" demanded her chum. "not by adding my poor little twenty-five dollars to it. we want hundreds--_thousands_! don't you understand, helen, that my check would only be a drop in the bucket? and, anyway, i would come near to starving before i would use this check." "we--ell! i don't know that i blame you," sighed her friend. "i'd be as pleased as punch if it were mine. just think of your writing a real moving picture!" she repeated. "won't the girls be surprised? and suppose it comes to lumberton and we can all go and see it? you _will_ be famous, ruth." "i don't know about that, dear," ruth returned happily. "there is something about it all that you don't see yet." "what's that?" "this success of mine, i tell you, has given me a great, big idea." "about what?" "for the dormitory fund," ruth said. "mercy is right. great oaks _do_ grow from little acorns." "who's denying it?" demanded helen. "go on." "out of this little idea of mine which i have sold to mr. hammond, comes a thought, dear," said ruth, solemnly, "that may get us all the money we need to rebuild the west dormitory." "i--don't--just--see----" "but you will," cried ruth. "let me explain. if i can write a one-reel picture play, why not a long one--a real play--a five-reel drama? i have just the idea for it--oh, a grand idea!" "oh, ruth!" murmured helen, clasping her hands. "i will write the play, we will all act in it, and mr. hammond shall produce it. it can be shown around in every city and town from which we girls come--our home towns, you know. folks will want to see us briarwood girls acting for the movies--won't they?" "i should say they would! fancy our doing that?" "we can do it. of course we can! and we'll get a royalty from the film and that will all go into the dormitory fund," went on the enthusiastic ruth. "oh, my dear!" gasped helen. "would mr. hammond take such a play if you wrote it?" "of course i don't know. if not he, then some other producer. i _know_ i have a novel idea," asserted ruth. "what is it?" asked the curious helen. "a schoolgirl picture, just as i say. of course, there will have to be some _real_ actors in it; we girls couldn't be funny enough, or serious enough, perhaps, to take the most important parts. we could act out some real scenes of boarding school life, just the same." "i should say we could!" cried helen. "who better? stage one of our old midnight sprees, and show heavy gobbling everything in sight. that would make 'em laugh." "but we want more than a comedy," ruth said seriously. "i have the germ of an idea in my mind. i'll write mr. hammond about it first of all. and we must have miss gray in it." "he says here," said helen, glancing through the moving picture man's letter again, "that he wants you to try another. oh! and he says that in a few days he is coming to lumberton with a company to take some films." "so he does! oh, goody!" cried ruth. "i'll see him, then, and talk right to him. he is an awfully rich man--so hazel gray told me. we'll get him interested in the dormitory fund, anyway, and then, whether i can write a five-reel drama well enough or not, maybe he can find somebody who will put it into shape," ruth added. "why, my dear!" exclaimed her chum, with scorn. "if you have written _one_ moving picture, of course you can another." which did not follow at all, ruth was sure. "we'll have to ask mrs. tellingham," said helen, with sudden doubt. "maybe she will not approve." "oh! i hope she will," cried ruth. "but we must put it up to the girls themselves, first of all. they must all be in it. all must have an interest--all must take part. otherwise it will not accomplish the end we are after." "oh, oh, oh!" cried helen, finally waking up. "of course! this is the very thing you wanted, ruthie--to give every girl something to do that is important toward earning the money for the building of the new dormitory." "that's it, my dear. we all must appear, and do our part. school scenes, recreation scenes, athletic scenes in the gym; marching in our graduation procession; initiating candidates into the s.b. sorority; old noah's ark with the infants arriving at the beginning of the year; the dance we always have in the big hall at holiday time--just a great, big picture of what boarding school girls do, and how they live, breathe and have their being!" "oh, jolly!" gasped helen, taking fire from her friend's enthusiasm. "say! the girls are going to be just about crazy over this, ruth. you will be the most popular girl in the school." "i hope not!" gasped ruth, in real panic. "i'm not doing this for any such purpose. don't be singing my praises all the time, helen. the girls will get sick and tired to death of hearing about 'wonderful me.' we all want to do something to help mrs. tellingham and the school. that's all there is to it. now, _do_ be sensible." they were not long in taking the girls at large into their confidence. when it was known that ruth fielding had actually written one scenario for a film, which had been accepted, paid for, and would be produced, naturally the enthusiasm over the idea of having a reproduction of school life at briarwood filmed, became much greater than it might otherwise have been. as a whole, the girls of briarwood hall were in a mood to work together for the fund. "no misunderstandings," said jennie stone, firmly. "we don't want to make the sort of mistake the rural constable did when he came along by the riverside and saw a face floating on the water. 'come out o' that!' he says. 'you know there ain't no bathing allowed around here.' and the face in the water answered: 'excuse me, officer; i'm not bathing--i'm only drowning!' "we've all got to pull together," the plump girl continued, very much in earnest. "no hanging back--no squabbling over little things. if ruth fielding can write a picture play we must all do our prettiest in acting in it. why! i'd play understudy to a baby elephant in a circus for the sake of helping build the new dormitory." already mrs. tellingham and the doctor had been informed by the girls' executive committee of the sums both actually raised by the girls, and promised, toward the dormitory fund. it had warranted the good lady's signing contracts for the removal of the wreckage of the burned building, at least. the way would soon be cleared for beginning work on a new structure. offers of money came pouring in from the parents interested in the success of briarwood hall; and some of the checks already received by mrs. tellingham were for substantial sums. but this proposal of ruth's for all the girls to help in the increase of the fund, pleased mrs. tellingham more than anything else. she read ruth's brief sketch of the plot she had originated for the school play, and approved it. "the heart of a schoolgirl" was forthwith put into shape to show mr. hammond when he came to lumberton, that event being expected daily. about this time the girls of briarwood hall were so excited and interested over the moving picture idea that they scarcely had time for their studies and usual work. chapter xiv at mrs. sadoc smith's mrs tellingham, wise in the ways of girls, had foreseen the excitement and disturbance in the placid current of briarwood life, and made plans following the fire to counteract the evil influences of just this disturbance. the girls who hoped to graduate from the school in the coming june must have more quiet--must have time to study and to think. the younger girls, if they fell behind in their work, could make it up in the coming terms. not so ruth fielding and her friends, so the wise school principal had distributed them, after the destruction of the west dormitory, in such manner that they would be free from the hurly-burly of the general school life. a few, like mercy curtis (who could not easily walk back and forth from any outside lodging), mrs. tellingham kept in her own apartment. but the greater number of the graduating class was distributed among neighbors who--in most cases--were not averse to accepting good pay for rooms which could only be let to summer boarders and were, at this time of year, never occupied. the briarwood hall preceptress allowed her girls to go only where she could trust the land-ladies to have some oversight over their lodgers. and the girls themselves were bound in honor to obey the rules of the school, whether on the briarwood premises or not. visiting among the outside scholars was forbidden, and the girls studying for graduation had their hours more to themselves than they would have had in the school. special chums were able to keep together in most instances. ruth, helen and ann hicks went to live at mrs. sadoc smith's; and there was room in the huge front room on the second floor of her rambling old house, for mercy, too, had it been wise for the lame girl to lodge so far from the school. mrs. smith got the girls up in season in the morning to reach the dining hall at briarwood by breakfast-time; and she saw to it, likewise, that their light went out at ten o'clock in the evening. these were her instructions from mrs. tellingham, and mrs. sadoc smith was rather a grim person, who did her duty and obeyed the law. there being an extra couch, ruth persuaded her friends to agree to the coming of a fourth girl into the lodging. and this fourth girl, oddly enough, was not one of the graduating class, or even one of the girls whom they had chummed with before. it was the new girl, amy gregg! amy gregg, whom nobody seemed to want, and who seemed to be the loneliest figure and the most sullen girl who had ever come to briarwood hall! "of course, you'd pick up some sore-eyed kitten," complained ann hicks. "that child has a fully-developed grouch against the whole world, i verily believe. what do you want her for, ruthie?" "i don't want her," said ruth promptly. "well! of all the girls!" gasped helen. "then _why_ ask mrs. tellingham to let her come here?" "because she ought to be with somebody who will look out for her," ruth said. she did not tell her mates about it, but ruth had heard some whispers regarding the origin of the fire that had burned down the west dormitory, and she was afraid amy would be suspected. the older girl had reason to know that mrs. tellingham had questioned amy regarding the candle she had obtained from miss scrimp's store. the girl had emphatically denied having left the candle burning on leaving her room to go to supper on the fatal evening. the girls had begun, after a time, to ask questions about the origin of the fire. they knew it had started on the side of the corridor where amy gregg had roomed. they might soon suspect the truth. "if they do, good-bye to all little gregg's peace of mind!" ruth thought, for she knew just how cruel girls can be, and amy did not readily make friends. although ruth and her room-mates tried to make the flaxen-haired girl feel at home at mrs. sadoc smith's, amy remained sullen, and seemed afraid of the older girls. she was particularly unpopular, too, because she was the only girl who had refused to write home to tell of the fire and ask for a contribution to the dormitory fund. amy gregg seemed to be afraid to talk of the fire and refused to give even a dollar toward the rebuilding of the dormitory. "it isn't _my_ fault that the old thing burned down. i lost all my clothes and books," she announced. "i think the school ought to pay _me_ some money, instead." after saying this before her room-mates at mrs. smith's, all but ruth dropped her. "sullen little thing," said helen, with disgust. "not worth bothering with," rejoined ann. the only person to whom amy gregg seemed to take a fancy was mrs. smith's scapegrace grandson, henry. henry was the wildest boy there was anywhere about briarwood hall. he was always getting into trouble, and his grandmother was forever chastising him in one way or another. nobody in the neighborhood knew him as "henry." he was called "that smith boy" by the grown folk; by his mates he was known as "curly." ruth felt that curly never would have developed into such a mischievous and wayward youth had it not been for his grandmother. when a little boy henry had come to live with mrs. sadoc smith. mrs. smith did not like boys and she kept henry in kilts until he was of an age when most lads are looking forward to long trousers. she made him wear fauntleroy suits and kept his hair in curls down his back--molasses colored curls that disgusted the boy mightily. finally he hired another boy for ten cents and a glass agate to cut the curls off close to his head, and he stole a pair of long trousers, a world too wide for him, from a neighbor's line. he then set out on his travels, going in an empty freight car from the lumberton railroad yards. but he was caught and brought back, literally "by the scruff of his neck;" and his grandmother was never ending in her talk about the escapade. the curls remained short, however. if she refused to give curly twenty cents occasionally to have his hair cut, he would stick burrs or molasses taffy in the hair so that it had to be kept short. there seemed an affinity between this scapegrace lad and amy gregg. not that she possessed any abundance of spirit; but she would listen to curly romance about his adventures by the hour, and he could safely confide all his secrets to amy gregg. wild horses would not have drawn a word from her as to his intentions, or what mischief he had already done. curly was a tall, thin boy of fifteen, wiry and strong, and with a face as smooth and pink-and-white as a girl's. that he was so girlish looking was a sore subject with the boy, and whenever any unwise boy called him "girly" instead of "curly" it started a fight, there and then. henry was forbidden by his grandmother to bother the girls from briarwood hall in any way, and to make sure that he played no tricks upon them, when ruth and her mates came to the house to lodge, mrs. smith housed curly in a little, steep-roofed room over the summer kitchen. it was a cold and uncomfortable place, he told amy gregg. ruth heard him tell her so, but judged that it would not be wise to beg mrs. smith for other quarters for her grandson. she was not a woman to whom one could easily give advice--especially one of ruth's age and inexperience. mrs. smith was a very grim looking woman with a false front of little, corkscrew curls, the color of which did not at all match the iron-gray of her hair. that the curls were made of mrs. smith's own hair, cropped from her head many years before, there could be no doubt. it nature had erred in turning her actual hair to iron-gray in these, her later years, that was nature's fault, not mrs. smith's! she grimly ignored the parti-colored hair as she did the natural exuberance of her grandson's spirit. if nature had given him an unquenchable amount of mirth and jollity, that, too, was nature's fault. still, mrs. sadoc smith proposed to quell that mirth and suppress the joy of curly's nature if possible. the only question was: in the process of making curly over to fit her ideas of what a boy should be, was not mrs. smith running a grave chance of ruining the boy entirely? and what boy, living in a house with four girls, could keep from trying to play tricks upon them? if the shed-chamber had been a mile away over the roofs of the smith house, curly would have been tempted to creep over the shingles to one of the windows of the big front room, and---- nine o'clock at night. all four of the girls quartered with mrs. smith were busy with their books--even flaxen-haired amy gregg. the rustle of turning leaves and a sigh of weariness now and then was all that had broken the silence for half an hour. outside, the wind moaned in the trees. it was cold and the sky was overcast with the promise of a stormy morrow. suddenly helen started and glanced hastily at the window behind her, where the shade was drawn. "what's that?" she whispered. "huh?" said ann. "i didn't hear anything," ruth added. not a word from amy gregg, who likewise appeared to be deeply immersed in her book. another silence; then both ruth and helen jumped. "i declare! is that a bird or a beast?" helen demanded. "what is it?" cried ann, starting up. "somebody rapping on that window," ruth declared. "this far up from the ground? nonsense!" exclaimed the bold ann, and marched to the casement and ran up the shade. they could see nothing. there was no light in the roadway before the house. ann opened the window and leaned out. "nobody down there throwing up gravel, that's sure," she declared, drawing in her head again, and shutting the window. just as they returned to their books the scratching, squeaking noise broke out again. this time ruth ran to see. "nothing!" she confessed. "what do you suppose it can be?" asked helen nervously. "i declare, i can't study any more. that gets on my nerves." mrs. smith put in her head at that moment. "of course you haven't seen that boy, any of you?" she asked sharply. the three older girls looked at each other; amy gregg continued to pore over her book. no; ruth, helen and ann could honestly tell mrs. smith that they had not seen curly. "well, the young rascal has slipped out. i went up to his door to take him some clothes i had mended, and he didn't answer. so i opened the door, and his bed hasn't been touched, and he went up an hour ago. he's slipped out over the shed roof, for his window's open; though i don't see how he dared drop to the ground. it's twenty feet if it's an inch," mrs. smith said sternly. "i shall wait up for him and catch him when he comes back. i'll learn him to go out nights without me knowin' of it." she went away, stepping wrathfully. "goodness! i'm sorry for that boy," said ann, beginning leisurely to prepare for bed. but ruth watched amy gregg curiously. she saw the smaller girl flush and pale and glance now and then toward the window. ruth jumped to a sudden conclusion. curly was somewhere outside that window on the roof! chapter xv a dawning possibility "well, the evening's spoiled anyway," yawned helen, seeing ann braiding her hair. "i might as well stop, too," and she closed her books with relief. "it's time small girls were on their way to the land of nod," said the western girl, taking the book from the resisting hand of amy gregg. "hullo! it's time _you_ were in bed, girlie, sure enough. holding the book upside down, no less! what do you know about that, ladies?" "certainly she should go to bed," helen said sharply. "we're all sleepy. do hurry, child." "speak for yourself, helen," snapped amy. "i don't have to mind _you_, i hope." "you do if you want to get anywhere in this school--and mind every other senior who is kind enough to notice you," said ann. "you've not learned that lesson yet." "and i don't believe _you_ can teach me," responded the younger girl, ready to quarrel with anybody. "give me back my book!" ruth went to her and put her arm around amy's neck. "don't, dear, be so fractious," she begged. "we had all to go through a process of 'fagging' when we first came to briarwood. it is good for us--part of the discipline. i asked mrs. tellingham to let you come over here with us so that you really would not be put upon----" "i don't thank you!" snapped amy, ungratefully. "i can look out for myself, i guess. i always have." "you're like the self-made man," drawled ann. "you've made an awfully poor job of it! you need a little discipline, my dear." "not from you!" cried the other girl, her eyes flashing. it took ruth several minutes to quiet this sea of trouble. it was half an hour before amy cried herself to sleep on her couch. the other girls had both crept into bed and called to ruth sleepily to put out the light. ruth was not undressed; but she did as they requested. then she went to the window and opened it. nothing had been heard from above since mrs. smith had looked in at the chamber door. but ruth was sure the grim old woman was waiting at her grandson's window, in the cold shed bedroom, ready for curly when he came in. and ruth was sure, too, that the boy had not dropped to the ground. _he was still on the roof_. "that was a tictac," ruth told herself. she had heard tom cameron's too many times to mistake the sound. "and amy was expecting it. curly had told her what he was going to do. and now what will that reckless boy do, with his grandmother waiting for him and every other window in the house locked?" "what are you doing there, ruthie?" grumbled ann. "o-o-oh! it's cold," and she drew her comforter up around her shoulders and the next moment she was asleep. helen never lay awake after her head touched the pillow, so ruth did not look for any questioning on her chum's part. and amy had already wept herself unhappily into dreamland. "poor kiddie!" thought ruth, casting a commiserating glance again at amy. "and now for this silly boy. if the girls knew what i was going to do they'd have a spasm, i expect," and she chuckled. she leaned far out of the open window again, and, sitting on the window-sill, turned her body so as to look up the slant of the steep roof. "curly!" she called softly. no answer. "curly smith!" she raised her voice decisively. "if you don't come here i'll call your grandmother." a figure appeared slowly from behind a chimney. even at that distance ruth could see the figure shiver. "wha--what do you want?" asked the boy, shakingly. "come here, you silly boy!" commanded ruth. "do you want to get your death of cold?" "i--i----" "come down here at once! and don't fall, for pity's sake," was ruth's warning, as the boy's foot slipped. "my goodness! you haven't any shoes on--and no cap--and just that thin coat. curly smith! you'll be down sick after this." "i'll be sick if gran' catches me," admitted the boy. "she's layin' for me at my window." "i know," said ruth, as the boy crept closer. "you telltale girls told her, of course," growled the boy. "we did not. ann and helen don't know. amy is scared, but she's gone to sleep. _she_ wouldn't tell." "how did gran' know, then?" demanded curly, coming closer. ruth told him. the boy was both ashamed of his predicament and frightened. "how can i get in, ruth? i'd like to sneak downstairs into the sitting room and lie down by the sitting room fire and get warm." "you shall. come in this way," commanded ruth. "but, for pity's sake, don't fall!" "she'll find it out and lick me worse," said curly, doubtfully. "she won't. the girls are asleep, i tell you." "well, _you_ know it, don't you?" demanded curly, with desperation. "curly smith! if you think i'd tell on you, you deserve to stay out here on this roof and freeze," declared ruth, in anger. "oh, say! don't get mad," said curly, fearing that she would leave him as she intimated. "come on, then--and whisper. not a sound when you get in the room. and for pity's sake, curly smith--don't fall!" "not going to," growled the boy. "look out and let me swing down to that window-sill. ugh! i 'most slipped then. look out!" ruth wriggled back into the room and almost immediately curly's unshod feet appeared on the sill. she grasped his ankles firmly. "come in!" she whispered. "that's the boy! quick, now!" all this in low whispers. the girls did not stir, and ruth had no light. she could barely see the figure of the boy between her and the gray light out-of-doors. curly dropped softly into the room. ruth led him by the hand to the door, which she opened softly. the hall was pitch dark, too. "you're all right, ruthie fielding!" he muttered, as he passed her and stepped into the hall. "i won't forget this." ruth thought it might be a warning to him. in the morning his grandmother admitted having found the boy curled up in a rug and asleep before the sitting-room fire. "an' i thought he was out o' doors all the time," she said. "i ought to punish him, anyway, i s'pose, for scaring me so." ruth fielding spent all her spare time (and that was not much, for her studies were just then very engrossing) in planning and sketching out the five-reel drama in which she hoped to interest mr. hammond, head of the alectrion film corporation. she called up the lumberton hotel every day to learn if the film company had arrived. at length the clerk told her mr. hammond himself had come, and expected his company the next day. mr. hammond was near and was soon speaking to the girl of the red mill over the telephone. "is this the famous authoress of 'curiosity?'" asked mr. hammond, laughing. "i have received your signed contract and acceptance, and the scenario is already in rehearsal. i hope everything is perfectly satisfactory, miss fielding?" "oh, mr. hammond! i'm not joking. i want to see you very, very much." "about 'curiosity?'" "oh, no, sir! i'm very grateful to you for taking that and paying me for it, as i told you," ruth said. "but this is something different--and much more important. _when_ can i see you?" "any time after breakfast and before bedtime, my dear," mr. hammond assured her. "do you want to come to town, or shall i come to briarwood hall?" "if you would come here you could see mrs. tellingham, too, and that would be lots better," ruth assured him. "the principal of your school?" he asked, in surprise. "yes, mr. hammond. one of our buildings has burned down----" "oh! i saw that in the paper," interposed the gentleman. "it is too bad." "it is tragic!" declared ruth, earnestly. "there was no insurance, and all us girls want to help build a new dormitory. i have a plan--and _you_ can help----" "we--ell," said mr. hammond, doubtfully. "how much does this mean?" "i don't know. if the idea is as good as i think it is, mr. hammond," ruth told him, placidly, "you will make a lot of money, and so will briarwood hall." "hullo!" ejaculated the gentleman. "you expect to show me how to make some money? i thought you wanted a contribution." "no. it is a bona fide scheme for making money," laughed ruth. "do run out sometime to-day and let me talk you into it. you shall meet mrs. tellingham, too." the gentleman promised, and kept the promise promptly. he heard ruth's idea, approved of it with enthusiasm, and went over with her the briefly outlined sketch for "the heart of a schoolgirl." he was able to suggest a number of important changes in ruth's plan, and his ideas were all helpful and put with tact. mr. hammond and mrs. tellingham came to an understanding and made a written agreement, too. many of the pictures were to be taken at briarwood hall. mrs. tellingham, on behalf of the dormitory fund, was to have a certain interest in the profits of the production. these legal and technical matters ruth had nothing to do with. she was able, with an untrammeled mind, to go on with the actual work of writing the scenario. chapter xvi the cat out of the bag those were really strenuous days indeed for ruth fielding and her friends at briarwood hall. the class that looked forward to graduating in june was exceedingly busy. had mrs. tellingham not made an equitable arrangement in regard to ruth's english studies, allowing her credits on her writing, the girl of the red mill would never have found time for the writing of the scenario which all hoped would ultimately bring a large sum into the dormitory fund. with faith in her pupil's ability as a writer for the screen, mrs. tellingham had gone on with the work of clearing away the ruins of the burned building, and had given out contracts for the construction of the new dormitory on the site of the old one. the sums already gathered from voluntary contributions paid the bills as the work went along; but in "the heart of a schoolgirl" must lie the earning power to carry the work to completion. as each girl of the senior class had special work in english of an original nature, mrs. tellingham announced that ruth's scenario should count as her special thesis. "we will let mr. hammond judge it, my dear," the principal said to ruth. she was already proud of the girl's achievement in writing "curiosity," for she had now read that first scenario. "if mr. hammond declares that your drama is worthy of production, you shall be marked 'perfect' in your original english work. that, i am sure, is fair." in spite of all the studying she had to do, and her work on the scenario of the five-reel drama, ruth found time to look after amy gregg. not that the latter thanked her--far from it! ruth, however, did what she thought to be her duty toward the younger girl. once jennie stone hinted that she suspected amy of starting the dormitory fire, but ruth stopped her with: "be careful what you say, jennie stone. i am sure you would not want to set the other girls against little gregg. she's apt to have a hard time enough here at briarwood, at best." "her own fault," declared the plump girl. "her unfortunate nature, i grant you," said ruth, shaking her head. "but don't say anything to make it worse. you'd be sorry, you know." "huh! if she deserves to have it known that the fire started in her room----" "but you don't know that!" again interrupted ruth. "and if it chanced to be so, that's all the more reason why you should not suggest it to the other girls." "goodness, ruth! you are so funny." "then laugh at me," responded ruth, smiling. "i don't mind." "pshaw!" said jennie. "there's no getting ahead of you. you're just like the little kid i heard of who was entertaining some other little girls at a nursery tea. 'my little sister is only five months old,' says one little girl, 'and she has two teeth.' "'my little sister is only six months old,' spoke up another guest, 'and she's got three teeth.' "the other kiddie was silent for a moment; she wanted to be polite, but she couldn't let the others put it over her like that! so finally she bursts out with: "'well, my little sister hasn't any teef yet; but when she _does_ have some, they're goin' to be gold ones!' couldn't get ahead of her--and nobody can get the best of _you_, ruthie fielding! you've always an answer ready." at mrs. sadoc smith's, amy gregg had just as little to do with the three older girls as she possibly could; but she remained friends with curly. she was his confidant, and although curly considered ruth about the finest girl "who ever walked down the pike," as he expressed it, he felt in no awe of amy gregg and treated her more as he would another boy. all was not plain sailing for ruth in either her studies or in the writing of the scenario for "the heart of a schoolgirl." the coming examinations in all branches would be difficult, and unless she obtained a certain average in all, ruth could not expect a diploma. a diploma from briarwood hall was an entrance certificate to the college in which she and helen hoped to continue their education the following autumn. and ruth did not want to spend her summer in making up conditions. she wished to graduate in her class with a high grade. it was a foregone conclusion in her mind that mercy curtis was to bear off the highest honor. nor had she forgotten that she must invent (if nobody else could) a way for mercy to speak the principal oration on graduation day. her powers of invention, however, were taxed to their utmost just now as she wrote the scenario of the picture drama. before mr. hammond and the alectrion company left lumberton, ruth was able to get into town with the draft of the first part of the play, and read it to mr. hammond. miss hazel gray was present at the reading, and ruth had given that pretty young girl a very good part indeed in the new film. "you _dear_!" whispered hazel, her arms around ruth, and speaking to her softly, "i believe i have you to thank for much further consideration from mr. hammond. and you have given me a delightful part in this play you are writing. what a really wonderful child you are ruth fielding!" ruth thought that she was scarcely a child. but she only said: "i am glad you like the part. i meant it for you." "i know. mr. hammond told me that you insisted on my playing the part of eve adair. and, oh! what about that nice boy, thomas cameron? are he and his sister well? i received a lovely box of sweets from thomas after i went back to the city that time." "he is well, i believe," said ruth, gravely. "he is not far from here, you know; he attends the seven oaks military academy." "oh! so he does. maybe we shall go that way," said hazel gray, carelessly. "it would be lots of fun to see him again. give my love to his sister." "yes, miss gray," ruth returned seriously. "i will tell helen." she really liked hazel gray, and wished to see her get ahead. and it was through her acquaintanceship with hazel that ruth had made a friend of mr. hammond. but it annoyed ruth that the actress should continue to be so friendly with tom cameron. she thought no good could come of it tom cameron had always seemed such a seriously inclined boy, in spite of his ready fun and cheerfulness. to have him show such partiality for a girl so much older than himself, really a grown woman, as hazel gray was, disturbed ruth. she said nothing to her chum about it. if helen was not worried about her twin's predilection for the moving picture actress, it did not become ruth to worry. ruth went back to briarwood, encouraged to go on with the writing of the drama. from mr. hammond's fertile mind had come several helpful suggestions. the plot of the play was very intimately connected with the history of briarwood. there was included in its scenes a "masque of the marble harp," in which the whole school was to be grouped about the fountain in the sunken garden. the marble figure of harmony, or poesy, or whatever it was supposed to represent, was to come to life in the picture and strum the strings of the lyre which it held. this was a trick picture and mr. hammond had explained to ruth just how it was to be made. the legend of the marble harp, which had been kept alive by succeeding classes of briarwood girls for the purpose of hazing "infants," came in very nicely now in ruth's story. and the arrangement of this trick picture suggested another thing to ruth fielding, something which she had been racking her brains about for some time. this idea had nothing to do with the present play; it had to do, instead, with mercy curtis and the graduation exercises. one idea bred another in ruth fielding's teeming brain. her dramatic faculties, were being sharpened. with all their regular studies and recitations, the seniors had to take their usual turns as monitors, and ruth could not escape this duty. besides, it was an honor not to be scorned, to be chosen to preside over the "primes," or to take the head of a table at dinner. a teacher was ill on one day and miss brokaw asked ruth to take certain classes of the primary grade. the recitations were on subjects quite familiar to ruth and she felt no hesitancy in accepting the responsibility; but there was more ahead of her than she supposed when she entered on the task. as it chanced, the flaxen-haired amy gregg was in the class of which ruth was sent to take charge. amy scowled at the senior when the latter took the desk; but most of the other girls were glad to see ruth fielding. a little wrangle seemed to have begun before ruth arrived, and the senior thought to settle the difficulty and start the day with "clear decks," by getting at the seat of the trouble. "what is the matter, mary pease?" she asked a flushed and indignant girl who was angrily glaring at another. "calm down, honey. don't let your anger rise." "if amy gregg says again that i took her gold pen, i'll tell something about _her_ she won't like, now i warn her!" threatened mary. "well, it's gone!" stormed amy, "and you're the nearest. i'd like to know who took it if you didn't?" "well! of all the nerve! i want you to understand that i don't have to steal pens." "hold on, girls," put in ruth. "this must not go on. you know, i shall be obliged to report you both." "of course!" snarled amy. "you big girls are always telling on us." "oh!" and "shame!" was the general murmur about the classroom; for most of the girls loved ruth. "why, you nasty thing!" cried mary pease, glaring at amy. "you ought to be ashamed. i'll tell what i know about _you_!" "mary!" exclaimed ruth, with sudden fright. "be still." "i guess you don't know what i know about gregg, ruth fielding," cried the excited mary. "we do not want to know," ruth said hastily. "let us stop this wrangling and turn to our work. suppose miss brokaw should come in?" "and i guess miss brokaw or anybody would want to know what i saw that night of the fire," declared mary pease, wildly. "_i_ know whose room the fire started in, and _how_ it started." "mary!" cried ruth, rising from her seat, while the girls of the class uttered wondering exclamations. but mary was hysterical now. "i saw a light in _her_ room!" she cried, pointing an accusing finger at the white-faced and shaking amy. "i peeped through the keyhole, and it was a candle burning on her table. she said she didn't have a candle. bah!" "be still, mary!" commanded ruth again. amy gregg was terror-stricken and shrank away from her accuser; but the latter was too excited to heed ruth. "i know all about it. so does miss scrimp. i told her. that amy gregg left the candle burning when she went to supper and it fell off her table into the waste basket. "and that," concluded mary pease, "was how the fire started that burned down the west dormitory, and i don't care who knows it, so there!" chapter xvii another of curly's tricks miss scrimp, the matron of the old west dormitory, had bound mary pease to secrecy. but, as jennie put it, "the binding did not hold and _pease_ spilled the _beans_." the story flew over the school like wildfire. miss scrimp, actually in tears, was inclined to blame ruth fielding for the outbreak of the story. "you ought to have taken mary pease and run her right into a closet!" declared the matron. "such behavior!" ruth was a good deal chagrined that the story should have come out while she was monitor; but she really did not see how she could have helped it. the quarrel between amy gregg and mary pease had commenced before ruth had gone into the classroom. "and how could you help it?" cried the faithful jennie. "i expect little pease has been aching to tell all these weeks. she should have been quarantined, in the first place." but there was nothing to do about it now, save "to pick up the pieces." and that was no light task. feeling ran high in briarwood hall against amy gregg. some of the girls of her own age would not speak to her. many of the older girls made her feel by every glance and word they gave her that she was taboo. and it was whispered on the campus that amy would be sent home by mrs. tellingham, if she could not be made to pay, or her folks be made to pay, something toward the damage her carelessness had brought about. ruth sheltered the unfortunate amy all she could. she even influenced her closest friends to be kind to the child. at mrs. sadoc smith's helen and ann did not speak of the discovery of the origin of the fire, and, of course, good-natured jennie stone did just as ruth asked, while even mercy curtis kept her lips closed. amy, however, not being an utterly callous girl, felt the condemnation of the whole school. there was no escaping that. amy had denied having a candle on the night of the fire, and it shocked and grieved mrs. tellingham very much to learn that one of her girls was not to be trusted to speak the truth at all times. not because of the fire did the preceptress consider sending amy gregg home, for the origin of the fire was plainly an accident, though bred in carelessness. for prevarication, however, mrs. tellingham was tempted to expel amy gregg. the girl had denied the fact that she had left a candle burning in her room when she went to supper. mary pease had seen it, and both miss scrimp and ruth fielding knew that the fire started in that particular room. why the girl had left the candle burning was another mystery. recklessly denying the main fact, of course amy would not explain the secondary mystery. nagged and heckled by some of the sophomores and juniors, amy declared she wished the whole school had burned down and then she would not have had to stay at briarwood another day! ruth and helen one day rescued the girl from the midst of a mob of larger girls who were driving amy gregg almost mad by taunting her with being a "fire bug." "what are you wild animals doing?" demanded helen, who was much sharper with the evil doers among the under classes than was ruth. "so she's a 'fire-bug?' oh, girls! what better are you than poor little gregg, i'd like to know? every soul of you has done worse things than she has done--only your acts did not have such appalling results. behave yourselves!" ruth could not have talked that way to the girls; but many of them slunk away under helen's reprimand. ruth took the crying amy away--but neither she nor helen was thanked. "i wish you girls would mind your own business and let me alone," sobbed the foolish child, hysterically. "i can fight my own battles, i'll tear their hair out! i'll scratch their faces for them!" "oh, dear me, amy!" sighed ruth. "do you think that would be any real satisfaction to you? would it change things for the better, or in the least?" what made the girls so unfeeling toward amy was the fact that from the beginning she had expressed no sorrow over the destruction of the dormitory, and that she had refused to write home to ask for a contribution to the fund being raised for the new building. when every other girl at briarwood hall was doing her best to get money to help mrs. tellingham, amy gregg's callousness regarding the fire and its results showed up, said jennie, "just like a stubbed toe on a bare-footed boy!" really, ruth began to think she would have to act as guard for amy gregg to and from the school. the girl was not allowed to play with the other girls of her age. wherever she went a small riot started. it had become general knowledge that amy gregg's father was a wealthy man, and that the family lived very sumptuously. amy had a stepmother and several half brothers and sisters; but she did not get along well with them and, therefore, her father had sent her to briarwood hall. "i guess she was too mean at home for them to stand her," said mary pease, who was the most vindictive of amy's class, "and they sent her here to trouble _us_. and see what she's done!" there was no stopping the younger girls from nagging. the fact that so much was being done by others to help the dormitory fund kept the feud against amy gregg alive. her one partisan at this time (for ruth could not be called that, no matter how sorry she was for her) was curly smith. once or twice amy slipped away before ruth was ready to go back to mrs. smith's house for the evening, and started alone for the lodgings. the cedar walk was the nearest way, and there were many hiding places along the cedar walk. mary pease and her chums lay in wait for the unfortunate amy on two occasions, and chased her all the way to mrs. sadoc smith's. what they intended doing to the much disliked girl if they had caught her, nobody seemed to know. they just seemed determined to plague her. ruth did not want to report the culprits; but warning them did not seem to do any good. on a third occasion amy started home ahead, and ruth and helen hurried after her to make sure that none of the other girls troubled the victim. half way down the walk, helen exclaimed: "see there, ruth! amy isn't alone, after all." "who's with her?" asked ruth. "i can't see--why! it can't be ann?" "no. but she's tall like ann." "and that girl walks queerly. did you ever see the like? strides along just like a boy--oh!" out of a cedar clump appeared a crowd of shrieking girls, who began to dance around amy and her companion, shouting scornful phrases which were bound to make amy gregg angry. but mary and her friends this time received a surprise. amy ran. not so the "girl" with her. this strange individual ran among amy's tormentors, tripped two or three of them up, tore down the hair of several, taking the ribbons as trophies, and sent the whole crowd shrieking away, much alarmed and not a little punished. "it isn't a girl!" gasped helen. "it's curly smith. and as sure as you live he's got on some of ann's clothes. _won't_ our western friend be furious at that?" but ann hicks was not troubled at all. she had lent curly the frock and hat, and when he behaved himself and walked properly he certainly made a very pretty girl. he gave amy's enemies a good fright, and they let her alone after that. "but, goodness me! what is briarwood hall coming to?" demanded ruth, in discussing this incident with her room-mates. "we are leaving a tribe of young indians here for mrs. tellingham to control. helen! you know we never acted this way when we were in the lower grades." "well, we were pretty bad sometimes," helen said slowly. "we did not engage in free fights, however." "they all ought to have a good spanking," declared ann, with conviction. "and i suppose you seniors ought to do it?" sneered amy, who could not be gentle even with her own friends. "i'm not convinced that i sha'n't begin with you, my lady," said the western girl, sharply. "i lent those old duds of mine to curly to help you out, and you are about as grateful as a poison snake! i never saw such a girl in my life before." chapter xviii the five-reel drama there was a spark of romance in old mrs. sadoc smith, after all. ruth read to her the first part of "the heart of a schoolgirl" and to further the continuation and ultimate successful completion of that scenario, the old lady would have done much. curly looked upon ruth with awe. he was a devotee of the moving pictures, and every nickel he could spare went into the coffers of one or the other of the "picture palaces" in lumberton. lumberton was a thriving city, with both water-freight and railroad facilities besides its mills and lumber interests; so it could well support several of the modern houses of entertainment that have sprung up in such mushroom growth all over the land. mr. hammond's films taken at lumberton were of an educational nature and the board of trade of the city expected much advertising of the industries of the place when the films were released. however, to get back to mrs. sadoc smith--her instructions from mrs. tellingham included the putting out of the lamp in the big room the four briarwood girls occupied by ten o'clock every night; but mrs. smith allowed ruth to come downstairs after the other girls were in bed and write under the radiance of the reading lamp on her sitting-room table. it was quiet there, for mrs. sadoc smith either sent curly to bed, or made him keep as still as a mouse. and there was nobody else to disturb the young author as she wrote, save the cat that delighted to jump up into her lap and lie there purring, while the scenario was being written. ruth did not avail herself of this privilege often; but she was desirous for the scenario to be finished and in mr. hammond's hands. so sure had that gentleman been of her success, and so pleased was he with the plan of the entire play, that he had taken a copy of the first part with him when he left lumberton and now wrote that mr. grimes was already making a few of the studio scenes. the young author rather shrank from letting the pugnacious mr. grimes have anything to do with her story; but she knew that both mr. hammond and hazel gray thought highly of the man's ability. nor was she in a position to insist upon any other director. she was working for briarwood, not for her own advantage. "if grimes takes hold of it with his usual vigor, it will be a success," mr. hammond assured ruth in his letter. "hurry along the rest of the play. spring is upon us, and we shall have some good open weather soon in which to take the pictures at briarwood hall." ruth hurried. indeed, the story was finished so rapidly that the girl scarcely realized what she had done. there was no time for her to go over the scenario carefully for revision and polishing. the last scenes she read to nobody; she scarcely knew herself how they sounded. ruth fielding had written an ingenious and very original scenario. its crudities were many and manifest; nevertheless, the true gold was there. mr. hammond had recognized the originality of the girl's ideas in the first part of the play. he was not going into the scheme, and risking his money and reputation as a film producer, from any feeling of sentiment. it was a business proposition, pure and simple, with him. in the first place, nobody had ever thought of just this kind of moving picture. the producer would be in the field with a new idea. in addition, the drama would be looked for all over the country by the friends of the pupils, past and present, of briarwood hall. the girls themselves appearing in some of the scenes would add to the interest their parents, friends, and the graduates of the hall, were bound to take in the production. to ruth, nervous and overworked after the finishing of the scenario, the days of waiting until mr. hammond read and pronounced judgment on the play, were hard indeed to endure. no matter how much confidence her friends--even mrs. tellingham--had in her ability to succeed, ruth was not at all sure she had written up to the mark. try as she might she began to fall behind in her recitation marks during these days of waiting. her nervousness was enhanced by the doubts she felt regarding her general standing in her classes. mrs. tellingham talked cheerfully in chapel about "our graduating class;" but some of the girls who were working with a view to receiving their diplomas in june would never be able to reach the high mark necessary for mrs. tellingham to allow them those certificates. there would be a fringe of girls standing at the back of the class who, although never appearing at briarwood hall another term, could not win the roll of parchment which would enter them in good standing in any of the women's colleges. ruth did not want to be among those who failed. she worried about this a good deal; she could not sleep at night; and her cheeks grew pale. she worked hard, and yet sometimes when she reached the classroom she felt as though her head were a hollow drum in which the thoughts beat to and fro without either rhyme or reason. ruth fielding was a perfectly healthy girl, as well as an athletic one. but in a time of stress like this the very healthiest person can easily and quickly break down. "i feel as though i should fly!" is an expression often heard from nervous and overwrought schoolgirls. ruth wished that she might fly--away from school and study and scenarios and sullen girls like amy gregg. one evening when she came back to mrs. sadoc smith's with a strapful of books to study before bedtime, ruth saw curly smith by the shed door busy with some fishing tackle. ruth's pulses leaped. fishing! she had not thrown a hook into the water for months and months! "going fishing, curly?" she said wistfully. "yep." "where are they biting now?" "there's carp and bream under the old mill-dam up in norman's woods. i saw 'em jumping there to-day." "oh! when are you going?" gasped the girl, hungry for outdoor sport and adventure. "in the morning--before _you're_ up," said the boy, rather sullenly. "i wager i'll be awake," said ruth, sitting down beside him. "i wake up--oh, just awfully early! and lie and think." curly looked at her. "that don't get you nothin'," he said. "but i can't help it." "gran says you're overworked," curly said. "why don't you run away from school if they make you work so hard? _i_ would. our teacher's sick so there isn't any session at the district school to-morrow." "oh, curly! play hooky?" gasped ruth, clasping her hands. "yep. only you girls haven't any pluck." "if i played hooky would you let me go fishing with you to-morrow?" asked ruth, her eyes dancing. "you haven't the sand," scoffed curly. "but can i go if i _dare_ run away?" urged ruth. "yep," said the boy, but with rather a sour grin. "what time are you going to start?" "four." "if i'm not down in the kitchen by that time, throw some gravel up to the window," commanded ruth. "but don't break the window." "oh, shucks! you won't go when you see how dark and damp it is," declared curly. when, just after four o'clock in the morning, curly crept downstairs from his shed chamber, knuckling his eyes to get the sleep out, there was a light in the kitchen and ruth was just pouring out two fragrant cups of coffee which flanked a heaping plate of doughnuts. "old scratch!" gasped curly. "gran will have our hides and hair! you're not _going_, ruth fielding?" "if you will let me," said ruth, meekly. "well--if you want. but you'll get wet and dirty and mussy----" then he stopped. he saw that ruth had on an old gymnasium suit, her rubber boots lay on the chair, and a warm polo coat was at hand. she already wore her tam-o-shanter. "huh! i see you're ready," curly said. "you might as well go. but remember, if you want to come home before afternoon, you'll have to find your way back alone. i'm not going to be bothered by a girl's fantods." "all right, curly," said ruth, cheerfully. curly put his face under the spigot, brushed his hair before the little mirror in the corner, and was ready to sample ruth's coffee. "we want to hurry," he said, filling his pockets with the doughnuts, "it'll be broad daylight before we know it, and then everybody we see will want to come along. the other fellows aren't on to the old dam yet this season. the fish are running early." he brought forth a basket with tackle and bait, dug over night. ruth burdened herself with a big, square box, neatly wrapped and tied. curly eyed this askance. "i s'pose you expect to tear your clo'es and want something to wear back to town that's decent," he growled. "well, i want to look half way respectable," laughed ruth, as they set forth. the damp smell of thawing earth greeted their nostrils as they left the house. no plowing had been done, save in very warm corners; but the lush buds on the trees and bushes, and the crocuses by the corner of the old house, promised spring. a clape called at them raucously as he rapped out his warning on a dead limb beside the road. a rabbit rose from its form and shot away into the dripping woods. the sun poked a jolly red face above the wooded ridge before the two runaways left the beaten track and took a narrow woodpath that would cut off about a mile of their walk. it was a rough way and the pace curly set was made to force ruth to beg for time. but the girl gritted her teeth, minded not the pain in her side, and sturdily followed him. by and by the pain stopped, she got her second wind, and then she began to tread close on curly's heels. "huh!" he grunted at last, "you needn't be in such a hurry. the dam will stay there--and so will the fish." "all right," responded ruth, still meekly, but with dancing eyes. the fishing place was reached and while yet the early rays of the sun fell aslant the dimpling pools under the dam, the two threw in their baited hooks. curly evidently expected to see the girl balk at the bait, but ruth seized firmly the fat, squirmy worm and impaled it scientifically upon her hook. she caught the first fish, too! in fact, as the morning drew leisurely along, ruth's string splashing in the cool water grew much faster than curly's. "i never saw the beat of your luck!" declared the boy. "you must have been fishing before, ruth fielding." "lots of times." "where?" ruth told him of the red mill on the bank of the lumano, of her fishing trips with tom cameron, and of all the fun that they had about cheslow, and up the river above the mill. mid-forenoon came and curly produced some crackers and a piece of bologna. the doughnuts he had pocketed were gone long ago. "have a bite, ruth?" he said generously. "i wish it was better, but i didn't have much money, and gran won't ever let me carry any lunch. she says the proper place for a boy to eat is at his own table. it's there for me, and if i don't get home to get it, then i can do without." ruth accepted a piece of the bologna and the crackers gravely. she baited her hook with a piece of the bologna and caught a big, struggling carp. "what do you know about that?" cried curly, in disgust. "you could bait your hook with a marble and catch a whopper, i believe!" meanwhile, ruth was having a most delightful time. the roses had come back into her cheeks at the first. her eyes sparkled, and she "wriggled all over," as she expressed it, "with just the _feel_ of spring." she did not spend all her time fishing, but ran about and examined the early plants and sprouting bushes, and woke up the first violets and searched for may flowers, which, of course, she did not find. squirrels chattered at them, and a blue jay hung about, squalling, evidently hoping for crumbs from their lunch. only there were no crumbs of curly's frugal bologna and crackers left. when the sun was in mid-heaven the boy confessed to being as hungry as ever, and tightened his belt. "crackers don't stick to your ribs much," he grumbled. ruth calmly began opening her box. curly looked at her askance. "you aren't figgering on going home _now_, are you?" he asked. "oh, no. i sha'n't go home till you do." then she produced from the box sandwiches, deviled eggs, a jelly roll, a jar of peanut butter, crackers, olives, and some more of mrs. smith's good doughnuts. "old scratch!" curly ejaculated. "you're the best fellow to go fishing with, ruth fielding, that i ever saw. you can come to _my_ parties any time you like." they spent the whole day delightfully and, tired, scratched, and not a little wind-burned, ruth tramped home behind curly in good season for supper at mrs. sadoc smith's. she did not tell the boy that the whole outing had been arranged the night before with his grandmother before ruth herself went to bed. curly expected to be "called down," as he expressed it, by his grandmother when they arrived home. to his amazement they were met cheerfully and ushered in to a bounteous supper on which mrs. smith had expended no little thought and time. curly was stricken almost dumb by his grandmother's generosity and good-nature. after supper he whispered to ruth: "say! you're a wonder, you are, ruth fielding. never anybody got around gran the way you do, before. you're a wonder!" helen and ann met ruth in great excitement. "where under the sun have you been--and in that ragged old gym suit?" gasped helen. "you look as though your face was burnt. i believe you've been playing hooky, ruth fielding!" cried ann. "right the first time," sighed ruth, happily. "oh, i feel _so_ much better. and i know i shall sleep like a brick." "you mean, a railroad tie, don't you?" demanded ann. "_that's_ a sleeper!" "of course we found your note, and we told miss brokaw. but she's got it in for you just the same," said helen, slangily. "and only guess!" "yes! guess! ruth! fielding!" and ann seized her and danced her about the room. "you missed it by being absent to-day." "oh, don't! never mind all this! i'm tired enough. i've walked _miles_," groaned ruth. "what have i missed?" "mr. hammond is in lumberton. he came to see you about the scenario," helen eagerly said. ruth sat down and clasped her hands, while her cheeks paled. "it's a failure!" she whispered. chapter xix great times that was not so, however, and helen and ann soon blurted out the good news: "it's a great success!" "he's going to bring up the company next week and make the pictures at the hall!" "he's been with mrs. tellingham all the afternoon planning when the pictures shall be taken, and how they shall be taken," helen said. "i guess it's _not_ a failure!" "i should say not!" joined in ann hicks. "oh, girls!" if it had not been for ruth's long day in the open and the fact that her nerves had become much quieter, she could never have forced back the tears of relief that answered so quickly these reassuring words. then a great flood of thankfulness welled up in her heart. she had accomplished something really worth while! later, when she saw, on the screen, the story she had written, she was to feel this gratitude and joy again. she went to bed that night and slept, as she had promised, until mrs. sadoc smith knocked on the door for them all to rise. she got up with all the oppression lifted from her mind, and wanted to race the other girls to the hall before breakfast. "it won't do for you, young lady, to go gallavanting into the woods with curly another day," said helen, holding on to ruth. "you're neither to hold nor to bind after such an expedition. i say, girls, let's all go with curly next time." amy had been very sullen ever since the evening before. now she snapped: "i guess curly didn't want her--or any of us. ruth just forced herself upon him. he doesn't like girls." "bless the infant!" said ann. "what's got her _now_?" "jealous of our ruth, i declare!" laughed helen. amy burst out crying and ran ahead, nor did the older girls see her at the breakfast table. ruth was sorry about this. she had only then begun to win amy gregg's confidence, and now she feared that the girl would be angry with her. that day, however, ruth was too happy to think much about amy gregg. recitations went with a rush. miss brokaw even was disarmed, for all ruth's quickness and coolness seemed to have returned to her. she did not fail once and the strict teacher praised her. besides, there was a long conference with mrs. tellingham and mr. hammond. the scenario of "the heart of a schoolgirl" was to be filmed at once. "we will do our best to release it for first presentation in six weeks," the producer said. "and i assure you that means some quick work. you girls," he added, to ruth, "must do your prettiest when we take the pictures here. your physical culture instructor will drill you in marching, and forming the tableaux we require. your exposition of the legend of the marble harp is a clever bit of invention, ruth, and in the picture will make a hit, i am sure." of course ruth was proud; why should she not be? but her head was not turned by all the flattering things that were said to her. the girls adored her. the fact that they were all working in unison toward the rebuilding of the dormitory, removed from the daily life and intercourse of the big boarding school one of its more unpleasant features. it was only natural that there should be cliques among two hundred girls. but now rivalries were put aside. all were striving for the same end. some of the girls interested various societies in their home towns to hold fairs and bazaars for the benefit of briarwood hall. personal appeals were made directly to every girl on the alumni list--and some of those "girls" now had girls of their own almost old enough to attend briarwood. by these methods the dormitory fund was swelled. in the results from the moving picture drama, however, was the possibility for the greatest help. mrs. tellingham risked rebuilding the dormitory on the same scale as the burned structure, because of mr. hammond's enthusiasm over ruth's achievement. the days of early spring passed in swift procession now. it seemed that the longer the days grew, the faster they seemed to go. there were not hours enough in which to accomplish all that the girls, who looked toward graduation in june, wished. even jennie stone worked harder and took her school tasks more seriously than ever before. "but, see here!" she said to her mates one day, "here's some 'hot ones' miss brokaw has been handing the primes, and i believe they'd puzzle some of us big girls. listen! 'what is longitude?' sue mellen came to me, puzzled, about _that_," chuckled jennie, "and i told her longitude is those lengthwise stripes on a watermelon." "oh, heavy!" gasped lluella. "how could you?" "didn't hurt me at all," proclaimed jennie, calmly. "and i told her that a 'ski' is what a russian has on the end of his name. that quite satisfiedski miss mellenski, whether it does miss brokawski or not!" mrs. tellingham gave the school a serious talk the day before the film company arrived to take the first pictures for ruth's play. she read and explained that part of the scenario in which the briarwood girls would appear, and begged their serious co-operation with the director who would have the making of the film in charge. ruth still shrank from seeing mr. grimes again; but she found that, while engaged in the work of making these pictures, he behaved quite differently from the way he had acted the day she had first seen him on the bank of the lumano river. he was patient, but insistent. he knew just what effect he wanted and always got it in the end. and ruth and helen told each other that, ugly as he could be, mr. grimes was really a most wonderful director. they did not wonder that hazel gray expressed her desire to work under mr. grimes, harsh as he had been to her. it was difficult for the girls--even for ruth who had written the scenario--to follow the trend of the story of "the heart of a schoolgirl" by closely watching the taking of these scenes in and about briarwood hall; for they were not taken in proper rotation. mr. grimes had his schedule before him and he skipped from one part of the story's action to another in a most bewildering way, getting the scenes about the school filmed in each "setting" in succession, rather than following the thread of the story. nor could ruth judge the effect of the several pictures. she was too close to them. there was no perspective. sometimes when mr. grimes seemed the most satisfied, ruth could see nothing in that scene at all. again he would make the participants go over and over a scene that seemed perfectly clear the first time. hazel gray and several other professional performers were at briarwood and had their parts in the scenes with the schoolgirls. hazel played the heroine of ruth's drama, but mr. hammond had insisted upon ruth herself acting the part of the heroine's chum--a not unimportant role. ruth did not feel that she had histrionic ability; but she was so anxious for the moving picture to be a success, that she would have tried her very best to suit mr. grimes in any role. she was surprised, however, when he warmly praised her work in her one scene which was at all emotional. "you naturally feel your part in this scene, miss fielding," he said. "not everybody could get the action before the camera so well." "'praise from sir hubert!'" whispered hazel gray, smiling at her young friend. "you should be proud." ruth was not quite sure whether she was proud of this unsuspected talent or not. she had written to aunt alvirah about her acting in the play, and the good woman had warned her seriously against the folly of vanity and the sin of frivolity. aunt alvirah had been brought up to doubt very much the morality of those who performed upon the stage for the amusement of the public. what mr. jabez potter thought of his niece's acting for the screen, even his opinion of her writing a play, was a sealed matter to ruth; for the old miller, as aunt alvirah informed her, grew grumpier and more morose all the time. "he is a caution to get along with," wrote aunt alvirah boggs in her cramped handwriting. "i don't know what's going to become of him. you'd think he was weaned on wormwood and drunk nothing but boneset tea all his life long." however, it must be confessed that ruth fielding's thoughts were not much upon her uncle jabez or the red mill these days. the work of making the pictures occupied all her thought that was not taken up with study. jennie stone, sarah fish, helen, lluella and belle, all appeared prominently in the "close up" scenes mr. grimes took. in the classroom, dining hall, the graduation march, and in the italian garden scenes, most of the seniors and juniors were used. a splendid gymnasium scene pleased the girls, and views of the hand-ball, captain's-ball, tennis and basket-ball courts, with the girls in action, were bound to be spectacular, too. these typical boarding school scenes closely followed the text of ruth's play. hazel and ruth were in them all; and on the tennis court hazel and ruth played helen and sarah fish a fast game, the former couple winning by sheer skill and pluck. ruth naturally had to neglect some duties. discipline was more or less relaxed, and she lost sight of amy gregg. one evening the smaller girl did not appear at mrs. sadoc smith's after supper. of late the other girls had let amy gregg alone and ruth had ceased to watch her so carefully. but when darkness fell and amy did not appear, ruth telephoned to the school. miss scrimp, who answered the call, had not seen her. it was learned, too, that amy had not been at the supper table. nobody had seen her depart, but it was a fact that she had disappeared from briarwood hall sometime during the afternoon. nor had she been near mrs. sadoc smith's since early morning. chapter xx a cloud arises while mrs. smith and helen and ann hicks were "running around in circles," as ann put it, wondering what had become of amy gregg, ruth did the only practical thing she could think of. she hunted up curly. "old scratch!" ejaculated the boy. "i haven't seen amy to-day. sure i haven't! no, ma'am!" "not at _all_?" asked ruth. "and don't you know where to look for her?" "oh, she'll take care of herself," said the boy, carelessly. "she isn't as soft as most girls." "but mrs. tellingham will be awfully angry with me," ruth cried. "i was supposed to look out for her when she came over here." "shucks!" exclaimed curly. "amy didn't want to be looked out for." "that doesn't absolve me from my duty," sighed ruth. "haven't you the least idea where she's gone?" "no, ruth, i haven't," the boy declared earnestly. "if i had i'd tell you." "i believe you, curly." "she and i haven't been so friendly," admitted the boy, in some embarrassment, "since you went fishing with me that time." "goodness me! she's not jealous?" cried ruth. "i don't know what you call it," said curly, hanging his head. "it's some foolish girl stuff. boys don't act that way. i told her i'd take her fishing, too--if she'd get up early enough." here curly began to laugh. "you can bet, ruth, that wherever she is, she got there before dark and won't come back until daylight." "what do you mean?" asked ruth, sharply. "i know she's afraid as she can be of the dark. she's a regular baby about that. of course, she won't own up to it." "why! i never knew it," ruth exclaimed. "she wouldn't go fishing because i start so early--while it's still dark. catch _her_ out of the house before sun-up!" "oh, curly! i blame myself," gasped ruth. "i never knew that about her. are you sure?" "'course i am. she's scared of the dark. i can make her mad any time by just hinting at it. so that proves it, don't it?" responded this young philosopher. "maybe she has gone somewhere and is afraid to come back till morning," repeated ruth. "she's been after me to take her up to that dam where we caught the fish, in the afternoon; but i told her we couldn't get home before pitch dark. i ought to have taken her along, i guess, and said nothing," curly added reflectively. "last night she was talking about it. she said i should take her because i took you there." "you don't suppose she's gone clear over there by herself, do you?" ruth cried, in alarm. "i don't believe she knows how to start, even," curly said easily. "and i told her last night she'd better not go anywhere till she got rid of that sore throat." "sore throat!" repeated ruth, with added worriment. "i never knew her throat was sore." "she told me, she did," curly said. "it was pretty bad, i guess, too. i guess maybe she was afraid to say anything about it. i don't like to tell gran when there's anything the matter with me. she mixes up such nasty messes for me to take!" "the poor child!" murmured ruth, thinking only of amy gregg. "what _shall_ we do?" "i'll get a lantern and we'll go hunt around for her," suggested curly, ripe for any adventure. "but where will we hunt?" "maybe she's gone with some other girl somewhere." "you know that can't be so," ruth said. "there isn't a girl friendly enough with her for her to say ten pleasant words to. the poor little mite! i'm just as sorry as i can be for her, curly." "well!" returned curly, "what did she want to tell a story for? i know what she did. she left the candle burning in her room because she was afraid to come back to it in the dark after supper. i made her own up to that." "oh! the poor child!" cried ruth. "and she didn't understand the electric light. they don't have electricity in the town where she comes from; natural gas, instead. so that's the _why_ of the fire," curly said. "i picked that out of her long ago." "and she was so close-mouthed with us!" exclaimed ruth. "she doesn't like it at briarwood. she doesn't like the girls. she doesn't like the teachers. old scratch!" exclaimed the boy, "i don't blame her--and i guess i'd run away myself." "you don't suppose she _has_ run away, curly smith? not for _keeps_?" "i don't know," answered the boy. "her folks don't treat her right, i guess. they sent her to briarwood to get her out the way. so she says. and she's afraid of what her father will do to her if he ever hears about that candle and about how the dormitory got afire." "that's why she wouldn't write to him for a contribution to the rebuilding fund," cried ruth. "i guess so," said curly. "she never said much to me about it. i just wormed it out of her, as you might say. she isn't so awful happy here, you bet." "oh, curly! i blame myself," groaned ruth. "what for?" "because i ought to have learned more about her--got closer to her." "you might's well try to get close to a prickly porcupine," laughed the boy. "she'd made up her mind to hate the rest of you girls and she's going to keep on hating you till the end of time. that's the sort of a girl amy is." "and nothing to be proud about," declared ruth, with some vexation. "don't you think it, curly?" "huh! i don't. you're silly, ruth--but i like you a whole lot more than i do amy." "goodness! what a polite boy," cried ruth. "there's the telephone!" she ran back upstairs, hoping the message would be that amy gregg was found. but that was not it. over the wire mrs. tellingham herself was speaking to ann. "no, ma'am. we don't know where to look for her," ann said. "we haven't any idea." "yes, ma'am; helen and i have looked. she hasn't taken any of her clothes." "oh, goodness! you don't really suppose she's run away?" "do come here, ruth, and hear what mrs. tellingham says!" ruth went to the telephone and heard the principal of briarwood hall talking. what mrs. tellingham said was certainly startling. it seemed that amy gregg had received a letter that afternoon. it was from her father, and, of course, was not opened by the principal. but afterward--after the child had disappeared from the premises, of course--the letter came into mrs. tellingham's hands. it was found by tony foyle down by the marble statue in the sunken garden. evidently amy had run there, where she would be out of the way, to read it. it was a very stern letter and accused amy of some past offense before she had left home. it likewise said that mr. gregg had received an anonymous letter from some girl at briarwood, telling about the fire, and about amy's supposed part in starting the blaze, and complaining that amy would not ask for a contribution to the dormitory fund. mr. gregg was extremely angry, and he told his daughter that he would come to briarwood in a few days and investigate the whole matter. why amy gregg should run away was now clear. she was afraid to meet her father. "make sure that the poor child is nowhere about mrs. smith's, ruth," mrs. tellingham begged her over the wire. "i am sure i should not know what to say to mr. gregg if he comes and finds that his daughter has disappeared. the poor child! i shall not sleep to-night, ruth fielding. amy must be found." ruth felt just that way herself. no matter what her friends said in contradiction, ruth felt that she was partly to blame. she should have kept a close watch over amy gregg. "i let that picture-making get in between us," she wailed. "i'm glad it's all done and out of the way. i'd rather not have written the scenario at all, than have anything happen to amy." "you're a goose, ruthie," declared her chum. "you're not to blame. her father's harshness with her has made the child run away. _if_ she has." "her own unhappy disposition has caused all the trouble," said ann, bitterly. "oh! don't speak so," begged ruth. "suppose something has happened to her." "nothing ever happens to kids like her," said ann, bruskly. but that was not so. something already had happened to amy gregg. she was lost! chapter xxi hunting for amy in spite of her seemingly heartless words, it was ann hicks who agreed to go with ruth to hunt for the lost girl. helen frankly acknowledged that she was afraid to tramp about the woods and fields at night, with only a boy and a lantern for company. "come along, ruthie. i have helped find stray cattle on the range more times than you could shake a stick at," declared good-natured ann hicks. "rouse out that lazy boy of grandma smith's." mrs. sadoc smith had to give just so much advice, and see that the expedition was properly equipped. a thermos bottle filled with coffee went into ruth's bag, while curly was laden with a substantial lunch, a roll of bandages, a bottle of arnica and some smelling-salts, beside the lantern. "huh!" protested the boy to ann, "if she was sending us out to find a lost _boy_ all she'd send would be that cat-o'-nine-tails of hers that hangs in the woodshed. i know gran!" "and the cat-o'-nine-tails, too, eh?" chuckled the western girl. "you bet!" agreed curly, feelingly. they set forth with just one idea about the search. amy gregg, as far as curly could remember, had expressed a wish to go to but one place. that was the old dam up in norman's woods, where he and ruth had gone fishing. they were quite sure that it would be useless to hunt for the girl in any neighbor's house. and mrs. sadoc smith's premises had already been searched. they had shouted for amy till their throats were sore before the news had come from briarwood hall. the fact that amy had been suffering from a physical ailment, as well as one of the mind, troubled ruth exceedingly. "maybe she was just 'sickening for some disease,' as aunt alvirah says," the girl of the red mill told ann hicks, as they went along. "a sore throat is the forerunner of so many fevers and serious troubles. she might be coming down with scarlet fever." "goodness gracious! don't say _that_" begged ann. ruth feared it, nevertheless. the two girls followed curly through the narrow path, the dripping bushes wetting their skirts, and briers at times scratching them. ann was a good walker and could keep up quite as well as ruth. beside, curly was not setting a pace on this occasion, but stumbled on with the lantern, rather blindly. "tell you what," he grumbled. "i don't fancy this job a mite." "you're not 'afraid to go home in the dark,' are you, curly?" asked ann, with scorn. "not going home just now," responded the boy, grinning. "but the woods aren't any place to be out in this time of night--unless you've got a dog and a gun. there! see that?" "a cat, that's all," declared ruth, who had seen the little black and white animal run across their track in the flickering and uncertain light of the lantern. "here, kitty! kitty! puss! puss! puss!" "hold on!" cried the excited curly. "you needn't be so particular about calling that cat." "why not? it must be somebody's cat that's strayed," said ruth. "ya-as. i guess it is. it's a pole-cat," growled curly. "and if it came when you called it, you wouldn't like it so much, i guess." "oh, goodness!" gasped ann. "don't be so friendly with every strange animal you see, ruth fielding. a pole-cat!" "wish i had a gun!" exclaimed curly. "i'd shoot that skunk." "glad you didn't then," said ruth, promptly. "poor little thing." "ya-as," drawled the boy. "'poor little thing.' it was just aiming for somebody's hencoop. one of 'em 'll eat chickens faster than gran's hens can hatch 'em out." pushing on through the woods at this slow pace brought them to the ruined grist mill and the old dam not before ten o'clock. there was a pale and watery moon, the shine of which glistened on the falling water over the old logs of the dam, but gave the searchers little light. the moon's rays merely aided in making the surroundings of the mill more ghostly. nobody lived within a mile of the mill site, curly assured the girls, and if amy had found this place it was not likely that she had likewise found the nearest human habitation, for that was beyond the mill and directly opposite to briarwood and the town of lumberton. they shouted for amy, and then searched the ghostly premises of the ruined mill. years before the roof had been burned away and some of the walls fallen in. owls made their nests in the upper part of the building, as the party found, much to the girls' excitement when a huge, spread-winged creature dived out of a window and went "whish! whish! whish!" off through the long grass, to hunt for mice or other small, night-prowling creatures. "goodness! that owl is as big as a turkey!" gasped ruth, clinging to ann in her fright. "bigger," announced curly. "old scratch! i'd like to shoot him and have him stuffed." "i'd rather have some of the turkey stuffing," chuckled ann hicks. "owl would be rather tough, i reckon." "oh, not to eat!" scoffed curly. "i'd put him in gran's parlor. and that reminds me of an owl story----" "don't tell us any old stories; tell us new ones, if you must tell any," ann interrupted. "how do you know whether this is old or young till i've told it?" demanded curly, as they all three sat on the ruined doorstep of the mill to rest. "quite right, curly," sighed ruth. "go ahead. make us laugh. i feel like crying." "then you can cry over it," retorted the boy. "there was a butcher who had a stuffed owl in his shop and an old irishman came in and asked him: 'how mooch for the broad-faced bur-r-rd?' "'it's an owl,' said the butcher. "the old man repeated his question--'how mooch for the broad-faced bur-r-rd?' "'it's an owl, i tell you!' exclaimed the butcher. "'i know it's _ould_,' says the irishman. 'but what d'ye want for it? it'll make soup for me boar-r-rders!'" "that's a good story," admitted ruth, "but try to think up some way of finding poor little amy, instead of telling funny tales." "oh, how can i help----" curly stopped. ann, who was sitting in the middle, grabbed both him and ruth. "listen to that!" she whispered. "_that_ isn't another owl, is it?" "what is it?" gasped ruth. somewhere in the ruin of the mill there was a noise. it might have been the voice of an animal or of a bird, but it sounded near enough like a human being to scare all three of the young people on the doorstep. "sa-ay," quavered curly. "you don't suppose there are such things as ghosts, do you, girls?" "no, i don't!" snapped ruth. "don't try to scare us either, curly." "honest, i'm not. i'm right here," cried the boy. "you know i never made that noise----" "there it is again!" exclaimed ann. the sound was like the cry of something in distress. ruth got up suddenly and tried to put on a brave front. "i can't sit here and listen to that," she said. "let's go," urged ann. "i'm ready." "oh, say----" began curly, when ruth interrupted him by seizing the lantern. "don't fret, curly smith," she said. "we're not going without finding out what that sound means." "maybe it's young owls, and the old one will come back and pick our eyes out," suggested ann. "get a club, curly," commanded ruth. "we'll be ready, then, for man or beast." this order gave curly confidence, and made him pluck up his own waning courage. these girls depended upon him, and he was not the boy to back down before even a ghostly unknown. he found a club and went side by side with ruth into the mill. the sound that had disturbed them was repeated. ruth was sure, now, that it was somebody sobbing. "amy! amy gregg!" she called again. "pshaw!" murmured ann. "it isn't amy. she'd have been out of here in a hurry when we shouted for her before." ruth was not so sure of that. they came to a break in the flooring. once there had been steps here leading down into the cellar of the mill, but the steps had rotted away. "amy!" called ruth again. she knelt and held the lantern as far down the well as she could reach. the sound of sobbing had ceased. "amy, _dear_!" cried ruth. "it's ruth and ann, and curly is with us. do answer if you hear me!" there was a murmur from below. ann cried out in alarm, but curly exclaimed: "i believe that's amy, ruth! she must be hurt--the silly thing. she's tumbled down this old well." "how will we get to her?" cried ruth. "amy! how did you get down there? are you hurt, amy?" "go away!" said a faint voice from below. "old scratch! isn't that just like her?" groaned curly. "she was hiding from us." "here," said ruth, drawing up the lantern and setting it on the floor. "it can't be very deep. i'm going to drop down there, curly, and then you pass down the lantern to me." "you'll break your neck, ruth!" cried ann. "no. i'm not going to risk my neck at all," ruth calmly affirmed. she set the lantern on the broken floor and swung herself down into the black hole. she hung by her hands and her feet did not touch the bottom. suddenly she felt a qualm of terror. perhaps the cellar was a good deal deeper than she had supposed! she could not raise herself up again, and she almost feared to drop. "let down the light, curly!" she whispered. chapter xxii disaster threatens before curly could comply with ruth's whispered request, her fingers slipped on the edge of the flooring. "oh!" she cried out, and--dropped as much as three inches! "goodness me, ruth!" gasped ann hicks. "are you killed?" "no--o. but i might as well have been as to be scared to death," declared the girl of the red mill. "i never thought the cellar was so shallow." there was a rustling near by. ruth thought of rats and almost screamed aloud. "give me the lantern--quick!" she called up to curly smith. "here you are," said that youth. "and if amy is down there she ought to be ashamed of herself--making us so much trouble." amy was there, as ruth saw almost immediately when she could throw the radiance of the lantern about her. but ruth did not feel like scolding the younger girl. amy had crept away into a corner. her movements made the rustling ruth had heard. she hid her face against her arm and sobbed with abandonment. her dress was torn and muddy, her shoes showed that she had waded in mire. she had lost her hat and her flaxen hair was a tangle of briers and green burrs. "my _dear_!" cried ruth, kneeling down beside her. "what does it mean? why did you come here? oh, you're sick!" a single glance at the flushed face and neck of the smaller girl, and a tentative touch upon her wrist, assured ruth of that last fact. amy seemed burning up with fever. ruth had never seen a case of scarlet fever, but she feared that might be amy's trouble. "how long have you been here?" she asked amy. "si--since--since it got dark," choked the girl. "is your throat sore?" asked ruth, anxiously. "yes, it is; aw--awful sore." "and you're feverish," said ruth. "i--i'm aw--all shivery, too," wept amy gregg, quite given up to misery now. ruth was confident that the smaller girl had developed the fever that she feared. chill, fever, sore throat, and all, made the diagnosis seem quite reasonable. "how did you get into this cellar?" she asked amy. "there's a hole in the underpinning over yonder," said the culprit. "come on, then; we'll get out that way. can you walk?" "oh--oh--yes," choked amy. she proved this by immediately starting out of the cellar. ruth lit the way with the lantern. "hi!" shouted curly smith, "where are you going with that light?" "come back to the door," commanded ruth's muffled voice in the cellar. "you can find your way all right." "what do you know about that?" demanded ann. "leaves us in the lurch for that miserable child, who ought to be walloped." "oh, ann, don't say that!" cried ruth, as she and the sick girl appeared at the mill door. "no! don't come near us. i'll carry the lantern myself and lead amy. she's not feeling well, but she can walk. we must get her to mrs. smith's just as soon as possible and call a doctor." "what's the matter with her?" demanded curly, curiously. "she feels bad. that's enough," said ruth, shortly. "come on, amy." for once amy gregg was glad to accept ruth fielding's help. she had no idea what ruth thought was the matter with her, and she stumbled on beside the older girl, sleepy and ill, given up to utter misery. curly and ann began to be suspicious when ruth forbade them to approach amy and herself. "old scratch!" whispered the boy to the western girl. "i bet amy's got small-pox or something. ruth fielding will catch it, too." "hush!" exclaimed ann, fiercely. "it's not as bad as that." it was a long walk to mrs. sadoc smith's. at the last, ruth almost carried amy, who was not a particularly small girl. curly grabbed the lantern and insisted upon walking close to them. "no matter if i _do_ catch the epizootic; guess i'll get over it," said the boy. they finally came to the smith house. helen and mrs. sadoc smith came out on the porch when the dog barked. ruth made ann and curly go ahead and held back with the sick girl. "you go right upstairs with helen, ann," commanded ruth. "i want to talk to mrs. smith about amy. she must be put in a warm room downstairs." mrs. sadoc smith agreed to this proposal the instant she saw amy's flushed face and heard her muttering. "you telephone for doctor lambert, henry," commanded mrs. smith. "we'll have him give a look at her--though i could dose her myself, i reckon, and bring her out all right." ruth feared the worst. she secretly stuck to her first diagnosis that amy had scarlet fever, but she did not say this to mrs. smith. they put amy to bed between blankets, and mrs. smith succeeded in getting the girl to drink a dose of hot tea. "that'll start her perspiring, which won't do a bit of harm," she said to ruth. "but i never saw anybody's face so red before--and her hands and arms, too. she's breaking all out, i do declare." ruth was thinking: "if they have to quarantine amy, i'll be quarantined with her. i'll have to nurse her instead of going to school. poor little thing! she will require somebody's constant attention. "but, oh dear!" added the girl of the red mill, "what will become of my school work? i'll never be able to graduate in the world. lucky those moving pictures are taken--i won't be needed any more in those. oh, dear!" ruth did not allow a murmur to escape her lips, however. she insisted on remaining by the patient all night, too. mrs. smith was not able to quiet the sick girl as well as ruth did when the delirium amy developed became wilder. it was almost daylight before dr. lambert came. he had been out of town on a case, but came at once when he returned to lumberton and found the call from mrs. sadoc smith's. "what is it, doctor?" asked the old lady. "she's as red as a lobster. is it anything catching? this girl ought not to be here, if it is." "this girl had better remain here till we find out just what is the matter," the doctor returned, scowling in a puzzled way at the patient. he had seen at once that ruth could control amy. "but what is it?" "fever. delirium. you can see for yourself. what its name is, i'll tell you when i come again. keep on just as you are doing, and give her this soothing medicine, and plenty of cracked ice--on her tongue, at least. that is what is the matter; she is consumed with thirst. i'll have to see that eruption again before i can say for sure what the matter is." he went, and left the house in a turmoil of excitement. helen and ann did not wish to go to briarwood and leave ruth; but mrs. tellingham commanded them to. much to his delight, curly was kept out of his school to run errands. ruth got a nap on the lounge in the sitting room, and felt better. the doctor returned at nine o'clock in the forenoon and by that time the sick girl's face was so swollen that she could scarcely see out of her eyes. her hands and wrists were puffed badly, too. "where has she been?" demanded dr. lambert. ruth told him what they supposed had happened to amy the day before and where she had been found late at night. "humph!" grunted the medical practitioner. "that's what i thought. effect of the _rhus toxicodendron_. bad case." this sounded very terrible to ruth until she suddenly remembered something she had read in her botany. a great feeling of relief came over her. "oh! poison-ash!" she cried. "good land! nothin' but poison ivy?" demanded mrs. sadoc smith. "poison oak, or poison sumac--whatever you have a mind to call it. but a bad case of it, i assure you. i'll leave more of the cooling draught; and i'll send up a salve to put on her face and hands. don't let it get into the poor child's eyes--and don't let her tear off the mask which she will have to wear." "then there is no danger of scarlet fever," whispered ruth, feeling relieved. chapter xxiii putting one's best foot forward amy gregg's escapade created a lot of excitement at briarwood hall. inasmuch as it affected ruth, the whole school was in a flutter about it. helen and ann had come to the hall, late for breakfast, and spread the news in the dining hall. they were both sure, by ruth's actions and the doctor's first noncommittal report, that amy had some contagious disease. curly had made a deal of the sore throat amy had confessed to. "and if that's so," helen said, almost in tears, "poor ruth will be quarantined for weeks." "why, helen, how will she graduate?" gasped lluella. "she won't! she can't!" declared ruth's chum. "it will be dreadful!" "i say!" cried jennie, thoroughly alarmed. "we musn't let her stay there and nurse that young one. why! what ever would we do if ruthie fielding didn't graduate?" "the class would be without a head," declared mercy. "it would be without a heart, at least--and a great, big one overflowing with love and tenderness," cried nettie parsons, wiping her eyes. "i don't want any more breakfast," said jennie, pushing her plate away. "don't talk like that, nettie. you'll get me to crying too. and that always spoils my digestion." "if ruth isn't with us when we get our diplomas, i'm sure i don't want any!" exclaimed mary cox. and she meant it, too. mary cox believed that she owed her brother's life to ruth fielding, and although she was not naturally a demonstrative girl, there was nobody at briarwood hall who admired the girl of the red mill more than mary. in fact, the threat of disaster to ruth's graduation plans cast a pall of gloom over the school. the moving pictures were forgotten; amy gregg's part in the destruction of the west dormitory ceased to be a topic of conversation. was ruth fielding going to be held in quarantine? grew to be a more momentous question than any other. ruth, however, was only absent from her accustomed haunts for two days. the second day she remained to attend the patient because amy begged so hard to have her stay. in her weakness and pain the sullen, secretive girl had turned instinctively to the one person who had been uniformly gentle and kind to her throughout all her trouble. nothing that amy had done or said, had turned ruth from her; and the barriers of girl's nature and of her evil passions were broken down. it was not, perhaps, wholly amy gregg's fault that her disposition was so warped. she had received bad advice from some aunts, who had likewise set the child a bad example in their treatment of mr. gregg's second wife, when he had brought her home to be a mother to amy. the poor child suffered so much from the effect of the poison ivy that the other girls, and not alone those of her own grade, "just _had_ to be sorry for amy," as mary pease said. "to think!" said that excitable young girl. "she might even lose her eyesight if she's not careful. my! it must be dreadful to get poisoned with that nasty ivy. i'll be afraid to go into the woods the whole summer." of course, it took time for these sentiments to circulate through the school, and for a better feeling for amy gregg to come to the surface; but the poor girl was laid up for two weeks in mrs. sadoc smith's best bedroom, and a fortnight is a long time in a girls' boarding school. at least, it sometimes seems so to the pupils. what helped change the girls' opinion of amy, too, was the fact that mrs. tellingham announced in chapel one morning that mr. gregg had sent his check for five hundred dollars toward the rebuilding of the dormitory, the walls of which now were completed, and the roof on. she spoke, too, of the reason amy had left her candle burning in her lonely room in the old west dormitory that fatal evening. "we failed in our duty, both as teachers and fellow-pupils," mrs. tellingham said. "i hope that no other girl who enters briarwood hall will ever be neglected and left alone as amy gregg was, no matter what the new comer's disposition or attitude toward us may be." to hear the principal take herself to task for lack of foresight and kindness to a new pupil, made a deep impression upon the school at large, and when amy gregg appeared on the campus again she was welcomed with gentleness by the other girls. although amy gregg still doubted and shrank from them for some time, before the end of the term she had her chums, and was one of a set whose bright, particular star was her one-time enemy, mary pease. meanwhile, the older girls--the seniors who were to graduate--had a new problem. the films for "the heart of a schoolgirl" were reported almost ready. mr. hammond was to release them as soon as he could, in order to bring all the aid to the dormitory fund possible before the end of the semester. now the query was, "how is the picture to be advertised?" merely the ordinary billing in front of the picture playhouses and on the display boards, was not enough. an interest must be stirred of a deeper and broader nature than that which such a casual manner of advertising could be expected to engender. "how'll we do it?" demanded jennie, with as much solemnity as it was possible for her rosy, round face to express. "we should invent some catch-phrase to introduce the great film--something as effective as 'good evening! have you used higgin's toothpaste?' or, 'you-must-have-a pound-cake.' you know, something catchy that will stick in people's minds." "it has taken years and years to make some of those catchy trademarks universal," objected ruth, seriously. "our advertising must be done in a hurry." "well, we've got to put our best foot forward, somehow," declared helen. "everybody must be made to know that the briarwood girls have a show of their own--a five-reel film that is a corker----" "hear! hear!" cried belle. "wait till the censor gets hold of _that_ word." "quite right," agreed ruth. "let us be lady-like, though the heavens fall!" "and still be natural?" chuckled jennie. "impossible!" "her best foot forward--one's best foot forward." mary cox kept repeating helen's remark while the other girls chattered. mary had a talent for drawing. "say!" she suddenly exclaimed. "i could make a dandy poster with that for a text." "with what for a text?" somebody asked. "'putting one's best foot forward,'" declared mary cox, and suddenly seizing charcoal and paper, she sketched the idea quickly--a smartly dressed up-to-date briarwood girl with her right foot advanced--and that foot, as in a foreshortened photograph--of enormous size. the poster took with the girls immensely. there was something chic about the figure, and the face, while looking like nobody in particular, was a composite of several of the girls. at least, it was an inspiration on the part of mary cox, and when mrs. tellingham saw it, she approved. "we'll just send this 'big foot girl' broadcast," cried helen, who was proud that her spoken word had been the inspiration for mary's clever cartoon. "come on! we'll have it stamped on our stationery, and write to everyone we know bespeaking their best attention when they see the poster in their vicinity." "and we'll have new postcards made of briarwood hall, with mary's figure printed on the reverse," sarah fish said. they sent a proof of the poster to mr. hammond, and to his billing of "the heart of a schoolgirl" he immediately added "the briarwood girl with her best foot forward." locally, during the next few weeks, this poster became immensely popular. the campaign of advertising did not end with mary's poster--no, indeed! in every way they could think of the girls of briarwood hall spread the tidings of the forthcoming release of the school play. lumberton's advertising space was plastered with the briarwood girl and with other billing weeks before the film could be seen. as every moving picture theatre in the place clamored for the film, mr. hammond had refused to book it with any. the opera house was engaged for three days and nights, a high price for tickets asked, and it was expected that a goodly sum would be raised for the dormitory right at home. however, before the picture of "the heart of a schoolgirl" came to town, something else happened in the career of ruth fielding of the red mill which greatly influenced her future. chapter xxiv "seeing ourselves as others see us" "i want to tell you girls one thing," said jennie stone, solemnly. "if i get through these examinations without having so low a mark that miss brokaw sends me down into the primary grade, i promise to be good for--for--well, for the rest of my life--at briarwood!" "of course," helen said. "heavy would limit that vow to something easy." "perhaps she had the same grave doubt about being able to be good that the little boy felt who was saying his prayers," belle said. "he prayed: 'dear god, please make me a good boy--and if you don't at first succeed, try, try again!'" "but oh! some of the problems _are_ so hard," sighed lluella. "'the mournful sisters' will now give their famous sketch," laughed ruth, as announcer. "come, now! altogether, girls!" "'knock, knock, knock! the girls are knocking----bring the hammers all this way!'" "never mind, ruthie fielding," complained lluella. "we don't all of us have the luck you do. all your english made up for you in that scenario----" "and who is _this_ made up, i'd be glad to have somebody tell me?" interposed jennie. "oh, girls! tell me. do you all see the same thing i do?" the crowd were strolling slowly down the cedar walk and the individual the plump girl had spied had just come into view, walking toward them. he was a tall, lean man, "as narrow as a happy thought," jennie muttered, and dressed in a peculiar manner. few visitors came to briarwood save parents or friends of the girls. this man did not even look like a pedler. at least, he carried no sample case, and he was not walking from the direction of lumberton. his black suit was very dusty and his yellow shoes proved by the dust they bore, too, that he had walked a long way. "he wears a rolling collar and a flowing tie," muttered the irrepressible jennie. "goodness! it almost makes me seasick to look at them. _what_ can he be? a chaplain in the navy? an actor?" "actor is right," thought ruth, as the man strutted up the walk. the girls, who were attending ruth and ann and amy gregg a part of the way to mrs. sadoc smith's, gave the strange man plenty of room on the gravel walk, but when he came near them he stopped and stared. and he stared at ruth. "pardon me, young lady," he said, in a full, sonorous tone. "are you miss fielding?" the other girls drifted away and left ruth to face the odd looking person. "i am ruth fielding," ruth said, much puzzled. "ah! you do not know me?" queried the man. "no, sir." "my card!" said the man, with a flourish. jennie whispered to the others: "look at him! he draws and presents that card as though it were a sword at his enemy's throat! i hope he won't impale her upon it." ruth, much bewildered, and not a little troubled, accepted the card. on it was printed: amasa farrington criterion films "goodness!" thought ruth. "more moving picture people?" "i had the happiness," stated mr. farrington, "of being present when the censors saw the first run of your eminently successful picture, 'the heart of a schoolgirl,' miss fielding, and through a mutual friend i learned where you were to be found. i may say that from your appearance on the screen i was enabled to recognize you just now." ruth said nothing, but waited for him to explain. there really did not seem to be anything she could say. "i see in that film, miss fielding," pursued mr. farrington, "the promise of better work--in time, of course, in time. you are young yet. i believe you attend this boarding school?" "yes," said ruth, simply. "from the maturity of your treatment of the scenario i fancied you might be a teacher here at briarwood," pursued the man, smirking. "but i find you a young person--extremely young, if i may be allowed the observation, to have written a scenario of the character of 'the heart of a schoolgirl.'" "i wrote it," said ruth, for she thought the remark was a question. "i had written one before." "yes, yes, yes!" exclaimed mr. farrington. "so i understand. in fact, i have seen your 'curiosity.' a very ingeniously thought out reel. and well acted by the alectrion company. rather good acting, indeed, for _them_." "i have not seen it myself," ruth said, not knowing what the man wanted or how she ought to speak to him. "did you wish to talk to me on any matter of importance?" "i may say, yes, very important--to yourself, miss fielding," he said, with a wide smile. "this is a most important matter. it affects your entire career as--- i may say--one of our most ingenious young writers for the screen." ruth stared at him in amazement. just because she had written two moving picture scenarios she was quite sure that she was neither famous nor a genius. mr. amasa farrington's enthusiasm was more amazing than his appearance. "i am sure i do not understand you," ruth confessed. "is it something that you would better talk to mrs. tellingham about? i will introduce you to her----" "no, no!" said mr. farrington, waving a black-gloved hand with the gesture _hamlet_ might have used in waving to his father's ghost. "the lady preceptress of your school has naught to do with this matter. it is personal with you." "but what _is_ it?" queried ruth, rather exasperated now. "be not hasty--be not hasty, i beg," said amasa farrington. "i know i may surprise you. i, too, was unknown at one time, and never expected to be anything more than a traveling indian bitters pedler. my latent talent was developed and fostered by a kindly soul, and i come to you now, miss fielding, in the remembrance of my own youth and inexperience----" "for mercy's sake!" gasped ruth, finally. "what do you wish? i am not in need of any indian bitters." "you mistake me--you mistake me," said the man, stiffly. "amasa farrington has long since graduated from the ranks of such sordid toilers. see my card." "i _do_ see your card," the impatient ruth said, again glancing at the bit of pasteboard. "i see that you represent something called the 'criterion films.' what are they?" "ah! now you ask a pointed question, young lady," declared mr. farrington. "rather you should ask, 'what will they be?' they will be the most widely advertised films ever released for the entertainment of the public. they will be written by the most famous writers of scenarios. they will be produced by the greatest directors in the business. they will be acted by our foremost thespians." "i--i hope you will be successful, mr. farrington," said ruth, faintly, not knowing what else to say. "we shall be--we must be--i may say that we have _got_ to be!" ejaculated the ex-indian bitters pedler. "and i come to you, miss fielding, for your co-operation." "mine?" gasped ruth. "yes, miss fielding. you are a coming writer of scenarios of a high character. we geniuses must help each other--we must keep together and refuse to further the ends of the sordid producers who would bleed us of our best work." this was rather wild talk, and ruth did not understand it. she said, frankly: "just what do you mean, mr. farrington? what do you want me to do?" "ah! practical! i like to see you so," said the man, with a flourish, drawing forth a document of several typewritten pages. "i want you to read and sign this, miss fielding. it is a contract with the criterion films--a most liberal contract, i might say--in which you bind yourself to turn over to us your scenarios for a term of years, we, meanwhile, agreeing to push your work and make you known to the public." "oh, dear me!" gasped ruth. "i'm not sure i want to be so publicly known." "nonsense!" cried the man, in amazement. "why! in publicity is the breath of life. without it, we faint--we die--we, worse--we _vegetate_!" "i--i guess i don't mind vegetating--a--a little," stammered ruth, weakly. at that moment mary pease came racing down the walk. she waved a letter in her hand and was calling ruth's name. "oh, ruthie fielding!" she called, when she saw ruth with the man. "here's a letter mrs. tellingham forgot to give you. she says it came enclosed in one from mr. hammond to her." the excited girl stopped by ruth, handed her the letter, and stared frankly at mr. amasa farrington. that person's face began to redden as ruth idly opened the unsealed missive. again a green slip fell out. mary darted toward it and picked it up. she read the check loudly--excitedly--almost in a shriek! "goodness, gracious me, ruthie fielding! is mr. hammond giving you this money--_all_ this money--for your very own?" but ruth did not reply. she was scanning the letter from the president of the alectrion film corporation. mr. farrington was plainly nervous. "come, miss fielding, i am waiting for your answer," he said stiffly. "if you join the criterion films, your success is assured. you are famous from the start----" ruth was just reading a clause in mr. hammond's kind and friendly letter: "don't let your head be turned by success, little girl. and i don't think it will be. you have succeeded in inventing two very original scenarios. we will hope you can do better work in time. but don't force yourself. above all have nothing to do with agents of film people who may want you to write something that they may rush into the market for the benefit of the advertising your school play will give you." "no, mr. farrington," said ruth, kindly. "i do not want to join your forces. i am not even sure that i shall ever be able to write another scenario. circumstances seemed really to force me to write 'the heart of a schoolgirl.' i am glad you think well of it. good afternoon." "can you beat her?" demanded jennie, a minute later, when the long-legged mr. farrington had strutted angrily away. "ruthie is as calm as a summer lake. she can turn an offer of fame and fortune down with the greatest ease. let's see that check, you miserable infant," she went on, grabbing the slip of paper out of mary's hand. "oh, girls, it's really so!" ruth was reading another paragraph in mr. hammond's letter. he said: "the check enclosed is for you, yourself. it has nothing to do with the profits of the films we now release. it is a bribe. i want to see whatever scenarios you may write during the next two years. i want to see them first. that is all. we do not need a contract, but if you keep the check i shall know that i am to have first choice of anything you may write in this line." the check went into ruth's bank account. that very week "the heart of a schoolgirl" was to be shown at the local opera house. mrs. tellingham gave a half holiday and engaged enough stages besides noah's old ark, to take all the girls to the play. they went to the matineé, and the center of enthusiasm was in the seats in the body of the house reserved for the briarwood girls. the house was well filled at this first showing of the picture in lumberton, and more than the girls themselves were enthusiastic over it. to ruth's surprise the manager of the house showed "curiosity" first, and when she saw her name emblazoned under the title of the one-reel film, ruth fielding had a distinct shock. it was a joyful feeling that shook her, however. as never before she realized that she had really accomplished something in the world. she had earned money with her brains! and she had written something really worth while, too. when the five-reel drama came on, she was as much absorbed in the story as though she had not written it and acted in it. it gave her a strange feeling indeed when she saw herself come on to the screen, and knew just what she was saying in the picture by the movement of her lips--whether she remembered the words spoken when the film was made or not. everything went off smoothly. the girls cheered the picture to the echo, and at the end went marching out, shouting: "s.b.--ah-h-h! s.b.--ah-h-h! sound our battle-cry near and far! s.b.--all! briarwood hall! sweetbriars, do or die-- this be our battle-cry-- briarwood hall! _that's all!_" chapter xxv aunt alvirah at briarwood hall mr. cameron, helen's father, and mrs. murchiston, who had acted as governess for the twins until they were old enough to go to boarding school, were motoring to briarwood hall for the graduation exercises. they proposed to pick tom up at seven oaks military academy, for he would spend another year at that school, not graduating until the following june. they also had another guest in the big automobile who took up a deal of the attention of the drygoods merchant and mrs. murchiston. a two-days' trip was made of it, the party staying at a hotel for the night. aunt alvirah was going farther from the red mill and the town of cheslow than she had ever been in her life before. first she said she could not possibly do it! what ever would jabez do without her? and he would not hear to it, anyway. and then--there was "her back and her bones." "best place for old folks like me is in the chimbly corner," declared aunt alvirah. "much as i would love to see my pretty graduate with all them other gals, i don't see how i can do it. it's like uprooting a tree that's growed all its life in one spot. i'm deep-rooted at the red mill." but mr. cameron knew it was the wish of the old woman's heart to see "her pretty" graduate from briarwood hall. it had been aunt alvirah's word that had made possible ruth's first going to school with helen cameron. it was she who had urged mr. jabez potter on, term after term, to give the girl the education she so craved. indeed, aunt alvirah had been the good angel of ruth's existence at the red mill. nobody in the world had so deep an interest in the young girl as the little old woman who hobbled around the red mill kitchen. therefore mr. cameron was determined that she should go to briarwood. he fairly shamed mr. potter into hiring a woman to come in to do for ben and himself while aunt alvirah was gone. "you ought to shut up your mill altogether and go yourself, potter," declared mr. cameron. "think what your girl has done. i'm proud of my daughter. you should be doubly proud of your niece." "well, who says i'm not?" snarled jabez potter. "but i can't afford to leave my work to run about to such didoes." "you'll be sorry some day," suggested mr. cameron. "but, at any rate, aunt alvirah shall go." and the trip was one of wonder to aunt alvirah boggs. first she was alarmed, for she confessed to a fear of automobiles. but when she felt the huge machine which carried them so swiftly over the roads running so smoothly, aunt alvirah became a convert to the new method of locomotion. at the hotel where they halted for the night, there were more wonders. aunt alvirah's knowledge of modern conveniences was from reading only. she had never before been nearer to a telephone than to look up at the wires that were strung from post to post before the red mill. modern plumbing, an elevator, heating by steam, and many other improvements, were like a sealed book to her. she disliked to be waited upon and whispered to mrs. murchiston: "that air black man a-standin' behind my chair at dinner sort o' makes me narvous. i'm expectin' of him to grab my plate away before i'm done eatin'." the day set for the graduation exercises at briarwood hall was as lovely a june day as was ever seen. the cameron automobile rolled into the grounds and was parked with several dozen machines, just as the girls were marching into chapel. the fresh young voices chanting "one wide river to cross" floated across to the ears of the party from the red mill, and aunt alvirah began to hum the song in her cracked, sweet treble. the automobile party followed the smaller girls along the wide walk of the campus. there was the new west dormitory, quite completed on the outside, and sufficiently so inside for the seniors to occupy rooms. not the old quartettes and duos of times past; but very beautiful rooms nevertheless, in which they could later entertain their friends who had come to the graduation exercises. the organist began to play softly on the great organ in the chapel, and played until every girl was seated--the graduating class upon the platform. then the school orchestra played and helen--very pretty in white with cherry ribbons--stood forth with her violin and played a solo. mrs. tellingham welcomed the visitors in a short speech. then there was a little silence before the strains of an old, old song quivered through the big chapel. helen was playing again, with the soft tones of the organ as a background. and, in a moment ruth stood up, stepped forward, and began to sing. the cheslow party had all heard her before. she was almost always singing about the old red mill when she was at home. but into this ballad she seemed to put more feeling than ever before. the tears ran down aunt alvirah's withered cheeks. ruth did not know the dear old woman was present, for it was to be a surprise to her; but she might have been singing just for aunt alvirah alone. "this pays me for coming, miz' murchiston, if nothin' else would," whispered aunt alvirah. "i can see my pretty often and often, i hope. but i'll never hear her sing again like this." the exercises went smoothly. a learned man made a helpful speech. then, while there was more music, a curtain fell between the graduating class and the audience. when it rose again the girls were grouped about a light throne, trimmed with flowers, on which sat the girl who had proved herself to be the best scholar of them all--the lame girl, mercy curtis. she was flushed, she was excited and, if never before, mercy curtis looked actually pretty. laughing and singing, her mates rolled the throne down to the edge of the platform, and there, still sitting in her pretty, flowing white robes, mercy gave them the valedictory oration. it was ruth's idea, filched from the transformation scene in her moving picture scenario. afterward the other girls had their turns. ruth's own paper upon "the force of character" and jennie's funny "history of a bunch of briers" received the most applause. mrs. tellingham came last. as was her custom she spoke briefly of the work of the past year and her hopes for the next one; but mainly she lingered upon the story of the rebuilding of the west dormitory and the loyalty the girls had shown in making the new building a possibility. there was a debt upon it yet; but the royalties from the picture play were coming in most satisfactorily. the preceptress urged all her guests to do what they could to advertise the film of "the heart of a schoolgirl" in their home towns, and especially urged them to see it. "you will be well repaid. not alone because it is a true picture of our boarding school life, but because the writer of the scenario has produced a good and helpful story, and mr. hammond has put it on the screen with taste and judgment." these were mrs. tellingham's words, and they made ruth fielding very proud. the diplomas were given out after a touching address by the local clergyman. the girls received the parchments with happy hearts. their faces shone and their eyes were bright. the graduating class held a sort of reception on the platform; but after a time helen urged ruth away from the crowd. "come on!" she said. "let's go up into the new-old-room. we'll not have many chances of being in it now." "that's right. only to-night," sighed ruth. "away to-morrow for the red mill. and next week we start for dixie. i wonder if we shall have a good time, helen. do you think we ought to have promised nettie and her aunt that we would come?" "surely! why, we'll have a dandy time," declared helen, "just us girls alone." this belief proved true in the end, as may be learned in the next volume of this series, to be entitled "ruth fielding down in dixie; or, great days in the land of cotton." "i didn't see your father or tom or mrs. murchiston," ruth said, as she and helen walked across the campus. "they are here, just the same," said helen, laughing. "where?" "i shouldn't be surprised if we found them up in our old quartette. ann is with her uncle bill hicks, and mercy is with her father and mother. we shall have the room to ourselves. we'll get out my new tea set and give them tea. come on!" helen raced up the stairs, opened the door of the big room, and then got behind it so that ruth, coming hurriedly in, should first see the little, quivering, eager figure which had risen out of the low chair by the window. "my pretty! my pretty!" gasped aunt alvirah. "i seen you graduate, and i heard you sing, and i listened to your fine readin'. but, oh, my pretty, how hungry my arms are for ye!" she hobbled across the floor to meet ruth and, for once, forgot her usually intoned complaint: "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" ruth caught her in her strong young arms. helen slipped out and joined her family in the hall. in a little while tom thundered on the door, and shouted: "hey! we're dying for that cup of tea helen promised us, ruthie fielding. aren't you ever going to let us in?" ruth's smiling face immediately appeared. her eyes were still wet and her lips trembled as she said: "come in, all of you, do! we are sure to have a nice cup of tea. aunt alvirah is making it herself." the end proofreading team ruth fielding on cliff island or the old hunter's treasure box by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding at silver ranch," etc. _illustrated_ new york cupples & leon company publishers =books for girls= by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. ruth fielding of the red mill or, jasper parloe's secret. ruth fielding at briarwood hall or, solving the campus mystery. ruth fielding at snow camp or, lost in the backwoods. ruth fielding at lighthouse point or, nita, the girl castaway. ruth fielding at silver ranch or, schoolgirls among the cowboys. ruth fielding on cliff island or, the old hunter's treasure box. ruth fielding at sunrise farm or, what became of the raby orphans. ruth fielding and the gypsies or, the missing pearl necklace. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york. copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding on cliff island [illustration: she shot over the yawning edge of the chasm and disappeared] contents chapter i. the wreck at applegate crossing ii. the panther at large iii. uncle jabez has two opinions iv. on the way to briarwood v. a long look ahead vi. picking up the threads vii. "a hard row to hoe" viii. jerry sheming again ix. ruth's little plot x. an exciting finish xi. a number of things xii. rufus blent's little ways xiii. fighting fire with fire xiv. the hue and cry xv. over the precipice xvi. hide and seek xvii. christmas morning xviii. fun on the ice xix. blent is master xx. the fishing party xxi. jerry's cave xxii. snowed in xxiii. "a blow for liberty" xxiv. a midnight marauder xxv. the treasure box ruth fielding on cliff island chapter i the wreck at applegate crossing a september morning has dawned, with only a vague tang of autumn in the air. in the green old dooryard at the red mill, under the spreading shade trees, two girls are shelling a great basket of dried lima beans for the winter's store. the smaller, black-haired girl begins the conversation. "suppose jane ann doesn't come, ruth?" "you mean on this morning train?" responded the plumper and more mature-looking girl, whose frank face was particularly attractive. "yes." "then tom said he would go back to meet the evening train--and we'll go with him," said ruth fielding, with a smile. "but i could not go this morning and leave poor aunt alvirah all these beans to shell." "of course not," agreed her friend, promptly. "and jane ann won't feel offended by our not meeting her at cheslow, i know." "no, indeed, helen," laughed ruth. "jane ann hicks is altogether too sensible a girl." "sensible about everything but her name," commented helen cameron, making a little face. "and one can scarcely blame her. it _is_ ugly," ruth responded, with a sigh. "jane ann hicks! dear, dear! how could her uncle bill be so thoughtless as to name her that, when she was left, helpless, to his care?" "he didn't realize that fashions in names change--like everything else," observed helen, briskly. "i wonder what the girls at briarwood will say to that name," ruth pondered. "why the fox and heavy will help us make the other girls toe the mark. and madge steele! she's a regiment in herself," declared helen. "we all had such a fine time at silver ranch that the least we can do is to see that jane ann is not hazed like the other infants." "i expect we all have to stand our share of hazing when we go into fresh company," said ruth, reflectively. "but there will not be the same crowd to meet her that met us, dear." "and the sweetbriars will be on hand to preserve order," laughed her chum. "thanks to _you_, ruthie. why--oh! see tom!" she jumped up, dropping a lapful of pods, and pointed up the cheslow road, which here branched from the river road almost opposite the red mill. "what is the matter?" demanded ruth, also scrambling to her feet. a big touring car was approaching at top speed. they could see that the only person in it was a black-haired boy, who sat at the steering wheel. he brought the machine to an abrupt stop before the gate, and leaped out. tearing off his goggles as he ran, he approached the two girls in such a state of excitement that he could scarce speak coherently. "oh, tom! what is it?" gasped helen, seizing his arm with both hands. it took but a single glance to discover the relationship between them. twins never looked more alike--only tom's features lacked the delicacy of outline which belonged to his sister. "tom!" cried ruth, on the other side of the excited youth, "don't keep us on tenter-hooks. surely nothing has happened to jane ann?" "i don't know! they won't tell us much about it at the station," exclaimed the boy. "there hasn't been a wreck?" demanded ruth. "yes. at applegate crossing. and it is the train from the west that is in trouble with a freight. a rear-end collision, i understand." "suppose something has happened to the poor girl!" wailed helen. "we must go and see," declared ruth, quick to decide in an emergency. "you must drive us, tom." "that's what i came back for," replied tom cameron, mopping his brow. "i couldn't get anything out of mercy's father----" "of course not," helen said, briskly, as ruth ran to the house. "the railroad employes are forbidden to talk when there is an accident. mr. curtis might lose his job as station agent at cheslow if he answered all queries." ruth came flying back from the house. she had merely called into the kitchen to aunt alvirah that they were off--and their destination. while tom sprang in and manipulated the self-starter, his sister and the girl of the red mill took their seats in the tonneau. by the time old aunt alvirah had hobbled to the porch, the automobile was being turned, and backed, and then it was off, up the river road. uncle jabez, in his dusty garments, appeared for a moment at the door of the mill as they flashed past in the big motor car. evidently he was amazed to see the three--the girls hatless--starting off at such a pace in the camerons' car. tom threw in the clutch at high speed and the car bounded over the road, gradually increasing its pace until the hum of the engine almost drowned out all speech. the girls asked no questions. they knew that, by following the river road along the placid lumano for some distance, they could take a fork toward the railway and reach applegate crossing much quicker than by going through cheslow. once tom flung back a word or two over his shoulder. no relief train had gone from their home station to the scene of the wreck. it was understood that a wrecking gang, and doctors, and nurses, had started from the distant city before ever the cheslow people learned of the trouble. "oh! if jane ann should be hurt!" murmured helen for the twentieth time. "uncle bill hicks would be heartbroken," agreed ruth. although the crossroad, when they struck into it at the forks, was not so smooth and well-built as the river highway, tom did not reduce speed. mile after mile rolled away behind them. from a low ridge they caught a glimpse of the cut where the two trains had come together. it was the old story of a freight being dilatory in getting out of a block that had been opened for the passage of an express. the express had run her nose into the caboose of the freight, and more harm was done to the freight than to the passenger cars. a great crowd, however, had gathered about. tom ran the car into an open lot beside the tracks, where part of the railroad fence had been torn away. two passenger cars were on their sides, and one or two of the box cars had burst open. "look at that!" gasped the boy, whose bright eyes took in much that the girls missed, for _they_ were looking for jane ann hicks. "that's a menagerie car--and it's all smashed. see! 'rival's circus & menagerie.' crickey! suppose some of the savage animals are loose!" "oh! don't suggest such a thing," begged his sister. tom saw an excited crowd of men near the broken cage cars of the traveling menagerie. down in the gully that was here crossed by the narrow span of the railroad trestle, there was a thick jungle of saplings and brush out of which a few taller trees rose, their spreading limbs almost touching the sides of the ravine. it must be confessed that the boy was drawn more toward this point of interest than toward the passenger train where jane ann might possibly be lying injured. but ruth and helen ran toward this latter spot, where the crowd of passengers was thickest. suddenly the crowd parted and the girls saw a figure lying on the ground, with a girl about their own age bending over it. ruth screamed, "jinny!" and at the sound of the pet name her uncle's cow punchers had given her, the girl from silver ranch responded with an echoing cry. "oh, ruth! and helen! i'm not hurt--only scratched. but this poor fellow----" "who is he?" demanded helen cameron, as she and ruth arrived beside their friend. the figure on the ground was a very young man--a boy, in fact. he was roughly dressed, and sturdily built. his eyes were closed and he was very pale. "he got me out of the window when the car turned over," gasped jane ann. "then he fell with me and has either broken his leg, or twisted it----" "only strained, miss," spoke the victim of the accident, opening his eyes suddenly. ruth saw that they were kind, brown eyes, with a deal of patience in their glance. he was not the sort of chap to make much of a trifle. "but you can't walk on it," exclaimed jane ann, who was a large-framed girl with even blacker hair than helen's--straight as an indian's--and with flashing eyes. she was expensively dressed, although her torn frock and coat were not in very good taste. she showed plainly a lack of that motherly oversight all girls need. "they'll come and fix me up after a time," said the strange youth, patiently. "that won't do," declared ruth, quickly. "i suppose the doctors are busy up there with other passengers?" "oh, yes," admitted jane ann. "lots of people were hurt in the cars a good deal worse than mr.--mr.----?" "my name's jerry sheming, miss," said the youth. "don't you worry about me." "here's tom!" cried helen. "can't we lift him into the car? we'll run to cheslow and let dr. davison look at his leg," she added. tom, understanding the difficulty at a glance, agreed. between the four young folk they managed to carry jerry sheming to the car. they had scarcely got him into the tonneau when a series of yells arose from the crowd down near the derailed freight train. "look out! take care of that panther! i told you she was out!" shouted one voice above the general uproar. ruth fielding and her friends, startled indeed, ran to the brow of the hill. one of the wide-branched trees rose from the bottom of the ravine right below them. along one of the branches lay a long, cat-like body. "a black panther!" gasped tom. chapter ii the panther at large "say! let's get out of here!" exclaimed the girl from the west. "i don't want to be eaten up by that cat--and uncle bill would make an awful row over it. come on!" she seized ruth's hand and, leaving tom to drag his sister with him, set off at full speed for the motor car, wherein jerry sheming, the stranger, still lay helpless. helen was breathless from laughter when she reached the car. jane ann's desire not to be eaten up by the panther because of what mr. bill hicks, of bullhide, montana, would say, was so amusing that tom's twin forgot her fright. "stop your fooling and get in there--quick!" commanded the anxious boy, pushing his sister into the tonneau. with the injured jerry, the back of the car was well filled. tom leaped into the front seat and tried to start the car. "quick, tom!" begged ruth fielding. "there's the panther." "panther! what panther?" demanded jerry, starting up in his seat. the lithe, black beast appeared just then over the brow of the hill. the men who had started after the beast were below in the ravine, yelling, and driving the creature toward them. the motor car was the nearest object to attract the great cat's wrath, and there is no wild beast more savage and treacherous. tom was having trouble in starting the car. besides, it was headed directly for the huge cat, and the latter undoubtedly had fastened its cruel gaze upon the big car and its frightened occupants. ruth fielding and her friends had been in serious difficulties before. they had even (in the woods of the northern adirondacks and in the foothills of the montana rockies) met peril in a somewhat similar form. but here, with the panther creeping toward them, foot by foot, the young friends had no weapon of defense. ruth had often proved herself both a courageous and a sensible girl. coming from her old home where her parents had died, a year and a half before, she had received shelter at the red mill, belonging to her great uncle, jabez potter, at first as an object of charity, for uncle jabez was a miserly and ill-tempered old fellow. the adventures of the first book of this series, entitled "ruth fielding of the red mill; or, jasper parloe's secret," narrate how ruth won her way--in a measure, at least--to her uncle's heart. ruth made friends quickly with helen and tom cameron, and when, the year previous, helen had gone to briarwood hall to school, ruth had gone with her, and the fun, friendships, rivalries, and adventures of their first term at boarding school are related in "ruth fielding at briarwood hall; or, solving the campus mystery." in "ruth fielding at snow camp; or, lost in the backwoods," the third volume of the series, are told the mid-winter sports of our heroine and her friends; and later, after the school year is concluded, we find them all at the seaside home of one of the briarwood girls, and follow them through the excitement and incidents of "ruth fielding at lighthouse point; or, nita, the girl castaway." when our present story opens ruth and the camerons have just returned from the west, where they had spent a part of the summer vacation with jane ann hicks, and their many adventures are fully related in the fifth volume of the series, entitled "ruth fielding at silver ranch; or, schoolgirls among the cowboys." few perils they had faced, however, equalled this present incident. the black panther, its gleaming eyes fixed upon the stalled motor car and the young folk in it, crouched for only a moment, with lashing tail and bared fangs. uttering another half-stifled snarl, the beast bounded into the air. the distance was too great for the brute to pass immediately to the car; but it was plain that one more leap would bring her aboard. "start it! quick, tom!" gasped helen. "i--i can't!" groaned her brother. "then we must run----" "sit still!" commanded jane ann, with fire in her eye. "i'm not going to run from that cat. i hate 'em, anyway----" "we can't leave mr. sheming," said ruth, decidedly. "try again, tommy." "oh, don't bother about me," groaned the young man, who was still a stranger to them. "don't be caught here on my account." "it will not do us any good to run," cried ruth, sensibly. "oh, tommy!" and then the engine started. the electric starter had worked at last. tom threw in his clutch and the car lunged ahead just as the snarling cat sprang into the air again. the cat and the car were approaching each other, head on. the creature could not change its course; nor could tom cameron veer the car very well on this rough ground. he had meant to turn the car in a big circle and make for the road again. but that flashing black body darting through the air was enough to shake the nerve of anybody. the car "wabbled." it shot towards the tracks, and then back again. perhaps that was a happy circumstance, after all. for as the car swerved, there was a splintering crash, and the windshield was shivered. the body of the panther shot to one side and the motor car escaped the full shock of the charge. over and over upon the ground the panther rolled; and off toward the road, in a long, sweeping curve, darted the automobile. "lucky escape!" tom shouted, turning his blazing face once to look back at the party in his car. "oh! more than luck, tommy!" returned ruth, earnestly. "it was providential," declared helen, shrinking into her seat again and beginning to tremble, now that the danger was past. "good hunting!" exclaimed the girl from the ranch. "think of charging a wildcat with one of these smoke wagons! my! wouldn't it make bashful ike's eyes bulge out? i reckon he wouldn't believe we had such hunting here in the east--eh?" and her laugh broke the spell of fear that had clutched them all. "that critter beats the biggest bobcat i ever heard of," remarked jerry sheming. "why! a catamount isn't in it with that black beast." "where'd it go?" asked tom, quite taken up with the running of the car. "back to the ravine," said ruth. "oh! i hope it will do no damage before it is caught." just now the four young friends had something more immediate to think about. this jerry sheming had been "playing 'possum." suddenly they found that he lay back in the tonneau, quite insensible. "oh, oh!" gasped helen. "what shall we do? he is--oh, ruth! he isn't _dead_?" "of a strained leg?" demanded jane ann, in some disgust. "but he looks so white," said helen, plaintively. "he's just knocked out. it's hurt him lots more than he let on," declared the girl from silver ranch, who had seen many a man suffer in silence until he lost the grip on himself--as this youth had. in half an hour the car stopped before dr. davison's gate--the gate with the green lamps. jerry sheming had come to his senses long since and seemed more troubled by the fact that he had fainted than by the injury to his leg. ruth, by a few searching questions, had learned something of his story, too. he had not been a passenger on the train in which jane ann was riding when the wreck occurred. indeed, he hadn't owned carfare between stations, as he expressed it. "i was hoofin' it from cheslow to grading. i heard of a job up at grading--and i needed that job," jerry had observed, drily. this was enough to tell ruth fielding what was needed. when dr. davison asked where the young fellow belonged, ruth broke in with: "he's going to the mill with me. you come after us, doctor, if you think he ought to go to bed before his leg is treated." "what do you reckon your folks will say, miss?" groaned the injured youth. and even helen and tom looked surprised. "aunt alvirah will nurse you," laughed ruth. "as for uncle jabez----" "it will do uncle jabez good," put in dr. davison, confidently. "that's right, ruthie. you take him along to your house. i'll come right out behind you and will be there almost before tom, here, and your uncle's ben can get our patient to bed." it had already been arranged that jane ann should go on to outlook, the camerons' home. she would remain there with the twins for the few days intervening before the young folk went back to school--the girls to briarwood, and tom to seven oaks, the military academy he had entered when his sister and ruth went to their boarding school. "how you will ever get your baggage--and in what shape--we can only guess," tom said to the western girl, grinning over his shoulder as the car flew on toward the red mill. "guess you'll have to bid a fond farewell to all the glad rags you brought with you, and put on some of ruth's, or helen's." "i'd look nice; wouldn't i?" she scoffed, tossing her head. "if i don't get my trunks i'll sue the railroad company." the car arrived before the gate of the cottage. there was the basket of beans just where ruth and helen had left them. and aunt alvirah came hobbling to the door again, murmuring, "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" and quite amazed when she saw ben come running to help tom cameron into the house with the youth from the railroad wreck. "though, landy's sake! i don't know what your uncle jabez will say when he comes back from town and finds this boy in the best bed," grumbled aunt alvirah, after a bit, when she and ruth were left alone with jerry sheming, and the others had gone on in the car, hurrying so as not to be late for luncheon at outlook. chapter iii uncle jabez has two opinions dr. davison came, found that jerry's leg was not broken, left liniment, some quieting medicine to use if the patient could not sleep, and went away. still uncle jabez had not returned from town. dinner had been a farce. ben, the hired man, was fed as usual; but ruth and aunt alvirah did not feel like eating; and, considering his fever, it was just as well, the doctor said, if the patient did not eat until later. jerry sheming was a fellow of infinite pluck. the pain he had endured during his rough ride in the automobile must have been terrific. yet he was only ashamed, now, that he had fainted. "first time i ever heard of a sheming fainting--or yet a tilton, miss," he told ruth. "i don't believe you belong near here?" suggested ruth, who sat beside him, for he seemed restless. "i don't remember hearing either of those names around the red mill." "no. i--i lived away west of here," replied jerry, slowly. "oh, a long ways." "not as far as montana? that is where jane ann comes from." "the girl i helped through the car window?" he asked, quickly. "yes. miss hicks." "i did not mean really west," he said. "but it's quite some miles. i had been walking two days--and i'm some walker," he added, with a smile. "looking for work, you said?" questioned ruth, diffident about showing her interest in the young fellow, yet deeply curious. "yes. i've got to support myself some way." "haven't you any folks at all, mr. jerry?" "i ain't a 'mister,'" said the youth. "i'm not so much older than you and your friends." "you seem a lot older," laughed ruth, tossing back her hair. "that's because i have been working most of my life--and i guess livin' in the woods all the time makes a chap seem old." "and you've lived in the woods?" "with my uncle. i can't remember anybody else belongin' to me--not very well. pete tilton is _his_ name. he's been a guide and hunter all his life. and of late years he got so queer--before they took him away----" "took him away?" interrupted ruth, "what do you mean by that?" "why, i'll tell you," said jerry, slowly. "he got wild towards the last. it was something about his money and papers that he lost. he kep' 'em in a box somewhere. there was a landslide at the west end of the island." "the island? what island?" "cliff island. that's where we lived. uncle pete said he owned half the island, but rufe blent cheated him out of it. that's what made him so savage with blent, and he come pretty near killin' him. at least, blent told it that way. "so they took poor uncle pete into court, and they said he wasn't safe to be at large, and sent him to the county asylum. then--well, there wasn't no manner o' use my stayin' around there. rufe blent warned me off the island. so i started out to hunt a job." the details were rather vague, but ruth felt a little diffident about asking for further particulars. besides, it was not long before uncle jabez came home. "what do ye reckon your aunt alvirah keeps that spare room for?" demanded the old miller, with his usual growl, when ruth explained about jerry. "for to put up tramps?" "oh, uncle! he isn't just a _tramp_!" "i'd like to know what ye call it, niece ruth?" grumbled uncle jabez. "think how he saved jane ann! that car was rolling right down the embankment. he pulled her through the window and almost the next moment the car slid the rest of the way to the bottom, and lots of people--people in the chairs next to her--were badly hurt. oh, uncle! he saved her life, perhaps." "that ain't makin' it any dif'rent," declared uncle jabez. "he's a tramp and nobody knows anything about him. why didn't davison send him to the hospital? the doc's allus mixin' us up with waifs an' strays. he's got more cheek than a houn' pup----" "now, jabez!" cried the little old lady, who had been bending over the stove. "don't ye make yourself out wuss nor you be. that poor boy ain't doin' no harm to the bed." "makin' you more work, alviry." "what am i good for if it ain't to work?" she demanded, quite fiercely. "when i can't work i want ye sh'd take me back to the poor farm where ye got me--an' where i'd been these last 'leven years if it hadn't been for your charity that you're so 'fraid folks will suspect----" "charity!" broke in uncle jabez. "ha! yes! a fat lot of charity i've showed you, alviry boggs. i reckon i've got my money's wuth out o' you back an' bones." the old woman stood as straight as she could and looked at the grim miller with shining eyes. ruth thought her face really beautiful as she smiled and said, wagging her head at the gray-faced man: "oh, jabez potter! jabez potter! nobody'll know till you're in your coffin jest how much good you've done in this world'--on the sly! an' you'll let this pore boy rest an' git well here before he has to go out an' hunt a job for hisself. for my pretty, here, tells me he ain't got no home nor no friends." "uh-huh!" grunted uncle jabez, and stumped away to the mill, fairly beaten for the time. "he grumbles and grunts," observed aunt alvirah, shaking her head as she turned to her work again. "but out o' sight he's re'lly gettin' tender-hearted, ruthie. an' i b'lieve you showed him how a lot. oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" before supper time a man on horseback came to the mill and cried a warning to the miller and his family: "look out for your stables and pigpens. there's three beasts loose from those wrecked menagerie cars at the crossing, jabez." "mercy on us! they ain't bound this way, are they?" demanded uncle jabez, with more anxiety than he usually showed. "nobody knows. you know, the piece of woods yonder is thick. the menagerie men lost them an hour ago. a big black panther--an ugly brute--and a lion and lioness. them last two they say is as tame as kittens. but excuse me! i'd ruther trust the kittens," said the neighbor. then he dug his heels in the sides of his horse and started off to bear the news to other residents along the road that followed this bank of the lumano river. jabez shouted for ben to hurry through his supper, and they closed the mill tight while the womenfolk tried to close all the shutters on the first floor of the cottage. but the "blinds" had not been closed on the east side of the house since they were painted the previous spring. aunt alviry was the kind of housekeeper who favored the morning sun and it always streamed into the windows of the guest room. when they tried to close the outside shutters of those windows, one had a broken hinge that the painters had said nothing about. the heavy blind fell to the ground. "goodness me!" exclaimed ruth, running back into the house. "that old panther could jump right into that room where jerry is. but if we keep a bright light in there all night, i guess he won't--if he comes this way at all." it was foolish, of course, to fear the coming of the marauding animal from the shattered circus car. probably, ruth told herself before the evening was half over, "rival's circus and menagerie" had moved on with all its beasts. uncle jabez, however, got down the double-barreled shotgun, cleaned and oiled it, and slipped in two cartridges loaded with big shot. "i ain't aimin' to lose my pigs if i can help it," he said. as the evening dragged by, they all forgot the panther scare. jerry had fallen asleep after supper without recourse to the medicine dr. davison had left. as usual, uncle jabez was poring over his daybook and counting the cash in the japanned money box. ruth was deep in her text books. one does forget so much between june and september! aunt alvirah was busily sewing some ruffled garment for "her pretty." suddenly a quick, stern voice spoke out of the guest room down the hall. "quick! bring that gun!" "hul-_lo_!" murmured uncle jabez, looking up. "that poor boy's delirious," declared aunt alvirah. but ruth jumped up and ran lightly to the room where jerry sheming lay. "what _is_ it?" she gasped, peering at the flushed face that was raised from the pillow. "that cat!" muttered jerry. "oh, you're dreaming!" declared ruth, trying to laugh. "i ain't lived in the woods for nothin'," snapped the young fellow. "i never see that black panther in her native wilds, o' course; but i've tracked other kinds o' cats. and one of the tribe is 'round here----there! hear that?" one of the horses in the stable squealed suddenly--a scream of fear. then a cow bellowed. uncle jabez came with a rush, in his stocking feet, with the heavy shotgun in his hand. "what's up?" he demanded, hoarsely. "i am!" exclaimed jerry, swinging his legs out of bed, despite the pain it caused him. "put out that light, miss ruth." aunt alvirah hobbled in, groaning, "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" uncle jabez softly raised the sash where the blind was missing. "i saw her eyes," gasped jerry, much excited. he reached out a grasping hand. "gimme that gun, sir, unless you are a good shot. i don't often miss." "you take it," muttered uncle jabez, thrusting the gun into the young fellow's hand. "my--my eyes ain't what they once was." "send the women folk back. if she leaps in at the winder----" suddenly he raised the gun to his shoulder. it was so dark in the room they all saw the crouching creature on the lawn outside. it was headed for the open window, and its eyes gleamed like yellow coals. in a moment the gun spoke--one long tongue of flame, followed by the other, flashed into the night. there was a yowl, a struggle on the grass outside, and then---- "you're something of a shot, you be, young feller!" boomed out jabez potter's rough voice. "i was some mistaken in you. ah! it hurt ye, eh?" and he proceeded to lift the suffering jerry back into bed as tenderly as he would have handled ruth herself. they did not go out to see the dead panther until daybreak. then they learned that the pair of lions had already been caught by their owners. chapter iv on the way to briarwood if anything had been needed to interest ruth fielding deeply in the young fellow who had been injured at the scene of the railroad wreck, the occurrence that evening at the red mill would have provided it. it was not enough for her to make a veritable hero of him to helen, and jane ann, and tom, when they came over from outlook the following morning. when the girl of the red mill was really interested in anything or anybody, she gave her whole-souled attention to it. she could not be satisfied with jerry sheming's brief account of his life with his half-crazed uncle on some distant place called cliff island, and the domestic tragedy that seemed to be the cause of the old man's final incarceration in a madhouse. "tell me all about yourself--do," she pleaded with jerry, who was to remain in bed for several days (uncle jabez insisted on it himself, too!), for the injured leg must be rested. "didn't you live anywhere else but in the woods?" "that's right, miss," he said, slowly. "i got a little schooling on the mainland; but it warn't much. uncle pete used to guide around parties of city men who wanted to fish and hunt. at the last i did most of the guidin'. he said he could trust me, for i hated liquor as bad as him. _my_ dad was killed by it. "uncle pete was a mite cracked over it, maybe. but he was good enough to me until rufus blent came rummagin' round. somehow he got uncle pete to ragin'." "who is this rufus blent?" asked ruth, curiously. "he's a real estate man. he lives at logwood. that's the landin' at the east end o' the lake." "what lake?" "tallahaska. you've heard tell on't?" he asked. "yes. but i was never there, of course." "well, miss, cliff island is just the purtiest place! and uncle pete must have had some title to it, for he's lived there all his life--and he's old. fifty-odd year he was there, i know. he was more than a squatter. "i reckon he was a bit of a miser. he had some money, and he didn't trust to banks. so he kept it hid on the island, of course. "then the landslide come, and he talked as though it had covered his treasure box--and in it was papers he talked about. if he could ha' got those papers he could ha' beat rufus blent off. "that's the understandin' i got of him. of course, he talked right ragin' and foolish; but some things he said was onderstandable. but he couldn't make the judge see it--nor could i. they let rufus blent have his way, and uncle pete went to the 'sylum. "then they ordered me off the island. i believe blent wanted to s'arch it himself for the treasure box. he's a sneakin' man--i allus hated him," said jerry, clenching his fist angrily. "but they could ha' put me in the jug if i'd tried to fight him. so i come away. don't 'spect i'll ever see tallahaska--or cliff island--again," and the young fellow's voice broke and he turned his face away. when jane ann hicks heard something of this, through ruth, she was eager to help jerry to be revenged upon the man whom he thought had cheated his uncle. "let me write to bill hicks about it," she cried, eagerly. "he'll come on here and get after this thieving real estate fellow--you bet!" "i have no doubt that he would," laughed helen, pinching her. "you'd make him leave his ranch and everything else and come here just to do that. don't be rash, young lady. jerry certainly did you a favor, but you needn't take everything he says for the gospel truth." "i believe myself he's honest," added ruth, quietly. "and i don't doubt him either," helen cameron said. "but we'd better hear both sides of it. and a missing treasure box, and papers to prove that an old hunter is owner of an island in tallahaska, sounds--well, unusual, to say the least." ruth laughed. "helen has suddenly developed caution," she said. "what do you say, tom?" "i'll get father to write to somebody at logwood, and find out about it," returned the boy, promptly. that is the way the matter was left for the time being. the next day they were to start for school--the girls for briarwood and tom for seven oaks. it was arranged that jerry should remain at the red mill for a time. uncle jabez's second opinion of him was so favorable that the miller might employ him for a time as the harvesting and other fall work came on. and jane ann left a goodly sum in the miller's hands for young sheming's use. "he's that independent that he wouldn't take nothing from me but a pair of cuff links," declared jane ann, wiping her eyes, for she was a tender-hearted girl under her rough exterior. "says they will do for him to remember me by. he's a nice chap." "jinny's getting sentimental," gibed tom, slily. "i'm not over you, mister tom!" she flared up instantly. "you're too 'advanced' a dresser." "and you were the girl who once ran away from silver ranch and the boys out there, because everything was so 'common,'" chuckled tom. ruth shut him off at that. she knew that the western girl could not stand much teasing. they were all nervous, anyway; at least, the girls were. ruth and helen approached their second year at briarwood with some anxiety. how would they be treated? how would the studies be arranged for the coming months of hard work? how were they going to stand with the teachers? when the two chums first went to briarwood they occupied a double room; but later they had taken in mercy curtis, a lame girl. now that "triumvirate" could not continue, for jane ann had begged to room with ruth and helen. the western girl, who was afraid of scarcely anything "on four legs or two" in her own environment, was really nervous as she approached boarding school. she had seen enough of these eastern girls to know that they were entirely different from herself. she was "out of their class," she told herself, and if she had not been with ruth and helen these few last days before the opening of the school term, she would have run away. ruth was going back to school this term with a delightful sense of having gained uncle jabez's special approval. he admitted that schooling such as she gained at briarwood was of some use. and he made her a nice present of pocket-money when she started. the cameron auto stopped for her at the red mill before mid-forenoon, and ruth bade the miller and aunt alvirah and ben--not forgetting jerry sheming, her new friend--good-bye. "do--_do_ take care o' yourself, my pretty," crooned aunt alvirah over her, at the last. "jest remember we're a-honin' for you here at the ol' mill." "take care of uncle jabez," whispered ruth. she dared kiss the grim old man only upon his dusty cheek. then she shook hands with bashful ben and ran out to her waiting friends. "come on, or we'll lose the train," cried helen. they were off the moment ruth stepped into the tonneau. but she stood up and waved her hand to the little figure of aunt alvirah in the cottage doorway as long as she could be seen on the cheslow road. and she had a fancy that uncle jabez himself was lurking in the dark opening to the grist-floor of the mill, and watching the retreating motor car. there was a quick, alert-looking girl hobbling on two canes up and down the platform at cheslow station. this was mercy curtis, the station agent's crippled daughter. "here you are at last!" she cried, shrilly. "and the train already hooting for the station. five minutes more and you would have been too late. did you think i could go to briarwood without you?" ruth ran up and kissed her heartily. she knew that mercy's "bark was worse than her bite." "you come and see jane ann--and be nice to her. she doesn't look it, but she's just as scared as she can be." "of course you'd have some poor, unfortunate pup, or kitten, to mother, ruth fielding," snapped the lame girl. she was very nice, however, to the girl from silver ranch, sat beside her in the chair car, and soon had jane ann laughing. for mercy curtis, with her sarcastic tongue, could be good fun if she wished to be. here and there, along the route to osago lake, other briarwood girls joined them. at one point appeared madge steele and her brother, bob, a slow, smiling young giant, called "bobbins" by the other boys, who was always being "looked after" in a most distressing fashion by his sister. "come, bobby, boy, don't fall up the steps and get your nice new clothes dirty," adjured madge, as her brother made a false step in getting aboard the train. "will you look out for him, mr. cameron, if i leave him in your care?" "sure!" said tom, laughing. "i'll see that he doesn't spoil his pinafore or mess up his curls." "say! i'd shake a sister like that if i had one," grunted "busy izzy" phelps, disgustedly. "aw, what's the odds?" drawled good-natured bobbins. the hilarious crowd boarded the _lanawaxa_ at the landing, and after crossing the lake they again took a train, disembarking at seven oaks, where the boys' school was situated. from here the girls were to journey by stage to briarwood. there was dust-coated, grinning, bewhiskered "old noah dolliver" and his "ark," waiting for them. there was a horde of uniformed academy boys about to greet tom and his chums, and to eye the girls who had come thus far in their company. but ruth and her friends were not so bashful as they had been the year before. they formed in line, two by two, and slowly paraded the length of the platform, chanting in unison the favorite "welcome to the infants" used at the beginning of each half at briarwood: "uncle noah, he drove an ark-- one wide river to cross! he's aiming to land at briarwood park-- one wide river to cross! one wide river! one wide river of jordan! one wide river! one wide river to cross!" the boys cheered them enthusiastically. the girls piled into the coach with much laughter. even mercy had taken part in this fun, for the procession had marched at an easy pace for her benefit. old dolliver cracked his whip. tom ran along in the dust on one side and bobbins on the other, each to bid a last good-bye to his sister. then the coach rolled into the shadow of the cool wood road, and ruth and her friends were really upon the last lap of their journey to the hall. chapter v a long look ahead "hurrah! first glimpse of the old place!" helen cried this, with her head out of the ark. the dust rolled up in a cloud behind them as they topped the hill. here mary cox had met ruth and helen that first day, a year ago, when they approached the hall. there was no infant in the coach now save jane ann. and the chums were determined to save the western girl from that strange and lonely feeling they had themselves experienced. there was nobody in view on the pastured hill. down the slope the ark coasted and bye and bye cedar walk came into view. "shall we get out here, girls?" called madge steele, with a glance at mercy. "of course we shall," cried that sprightly person, shaking her fist at the big senior. "don't you dare try to spare _me_, miss! i am getting so strong and healthy i am ashamed of myself. don't you dare!" madge kissed her warmly, as ruth had. _that_ was the best way to treat mercy curtis whenever she "exploded." suddenly helen leaned out of the open half of the door on her side and began to call a welcome to four girls who were walking briskly down the winding pathway. instantly they began to run, shouting joyfully in return. "here we be, young ladies," croaked old dolliver, bringing his tired horses to a halt. they struggled forth, jane ann coming last to help the lame girl--just a mite. then the two parties of school friends came together like the mingling of waters. one was a very plump girl with a smiling, rosy face; one was red-haired and very sharp-looking, and the other two balanced each other evenly, both being more than a little pretty, very well dressed, and one dark while the other was light. the light girl was belle tingley, and the dark one lluella fairfax; of course, the red-haired one was mary cox, "the fox," while the stout girl could be no other than "heavy" jennie stone. the fox came forward quickly and seized both of ruth's hands. "dear ruth," she whispered. "i arrived just this morning myself. you know that my brother is all right again?" and she kissed the girl of the red mill warmly. belle and lluella looked a bit surprised at mary cox's manifestation of friendship for ruth; but they did not yet know all the particulars of their schoolmates' adventures at silver ranch. heavy was hurrying about, kissing everybody indiscriminately, and of course performing this rite with ruth at least twice. "i'm so tickled to see you all, i can't tell!" she laughed. "and you're all looking fine, too. but it does seem a month, instead of a week, since i saw you." "my! but you are looking bad yourself, heavy," gibed helen cameron, shaking her head and staring at the other girl. "you're just fading away to a shadow." "pretty near," admitted heavy. "but the doctor says i shall get my appetite back after a time. i was allowed to drink the water two eggs were boiled in for lunch, and to-night i can eat the holes out of a dozen doughnuts. oh! i'm convalescing nicely, thank you." the girls who had reached the school first welcomed jane ann quite as warmly as they did the others. there was an air about them all that seemed protecting to the strange girl. other girls were walking up and down the cedar walk, and sometimes they cast more than glances at the eight juniors who were already such friends. madge had immediately been swallowed up by a crowd of seniors. "say, foxy! got an infant there?" demanded one girl. "i suppose fielding has made her a sweetbriar already--eh?" suggested another. "the sweetbriars do not have to fish for members," declared helen, tossing her head. "oh, my! see what a long tail our cat's got!" responded one of the other crowd, tauntingly. "the double quartette! there's just eight of them," crowed another. "there certainly will be something doing at briarwood hall with those two roomsful." "say! that's right!" cried heavy, eagerly, to ruth. "you, and helen, and mercy, and jinny, take that quartette room on our other side. we'll just about boss that dormitory. what do you say?" "if mrs. tellingham will agree," said ruth. "i'll ask her." "but you girls will be 'way ahead of me in your books," broke in jane ann. "we needn't be ahead of you in sleeping, and in fun," laughed heavy, pinching her. "don't be offish, miss jinny," said helen, calling her by the title that the cowboys did. "and my name--my dreadful, dreadful name!" groaned the western girl. "i tell you!" exclaimed ruth, "we're all friends. let's agree how we shall introduce miss hicks to the bunch. she must choose a name----" "why, call yourself 'nita,' if you want to, dear," said helen, patting the western girl's arm. "that's the name you ran away with." "but i'm ashamed of that. i know it is silly--and i chose it for a silly reason. but you know what all these girls will do to 'jane ann,'" and she shook her head, more than a little troubled. "what's the matter with ann?" demanded mercy curtis, sharply. "isn't 'ann hicks' sensible-sounding enough? for sure, it's not _pretty_; but we can't all have both pretty names and pretty features," and she laughed. "and it's mighty tough when you haven't got either," grumbled the new girl. "'ann hicks,'" quoth ruth, softly. "i like it. i believe it sounds nice, too--when you get used to it. 'ann hicks.' something dignified and fine about it--just as though you had been named after some really great woman--some leader." the others laughed; and yet they looked appreciation of ruth fielding's fantasy. "bully for you, ruthie!" cried helen, hugging her. "if ann hicks agrees." "it doesn't sound so bad without the 'jane,'" admitted the western girl with a sigh. "and ruth says it so nicely." "we'll all say it nicely," declared the fox, who was a much different "fox" from what she had been the year before. "'ann hicks,' i bet you've got a daguerreotype at home of the gentle old soul for whom you are named. you know--silver-gray gown, pearls, pink cheeks, and a real ostrich feather fan." "my goodness me!" ejaculated the newly christened ann hicks, "you have already arranged a very fanciful family tree for me. can i ever live up to such an ancestress as _that_?" "certainly you can," declared ruth, firmly. "you've just _got_ to. think of the original ann--as mary described her--whenever you feel like exploding. her picture ought to bring you up short. a lady like that _couldn't_ explode." "tough lines," grumbled the western girl. "right from what you girls call the 'wild and woolly,' and to have to live up to silver-gray silk and pearls--m-m-m-m!" "now, say! say!" cried belle tingley, suddenly, and seizing upon ruth, about whom she had been hovering ever since they had met. "_i_ want to talk a little. there aren't any more infants to christen, i hope?" "go on!" laughed ruth, squeezing her. "what is the matter, _bella mia_?" "and don't talk italian," said belle, shrugging her shoulders. "listen! i promised to ask you the minute you arrived, ruthie, and now you've been here ten at least." "it is something splendid," laughed lluella, clapping her hands, evidently being already a sharer in belle's secret. "i'll tell you--if they'll let me," panted belle, shaking ruth a little. "father's bought cliff island. it's a splendid place. we were there for part of the summer. and there will be a great lodge built by christmas time and he has told me i might invite you all to come to the house-warming. now, ruth! it remains with you. if you'll go, the others will, i know. and it's a splendid place." "cliff island?" gasped ruth. "yes. in lake tallahaska." "and your father has just bought it?" "yes. he had some trouble getting a clear title; but it's all right now. they had to evict an old squatter. i want you all to come with me for the mid-winter holiday. what do you say, ruthie?" asked belle, eagerly. "i say it's a long look ahead," responded ruth, slowly. "it's very kind of you, belle. but i'll have to write home first, of course. i'd like to go, though--to cliff island--yes, indeed!" chapter vi picking up the threads ann hicks must see the preceptress at once. that came first, and ruth would not go into the old dormitory until the introduction of the western girl was accomplished. there was a whole bevy of girls on the steps of the main building, in which mrs. grace tellingham and dr. tellingham lived. nobody ever thought of putting the queer old doctor first, although all the briarwoods respected the historian immensely. he was considered very, very scholarly, although it would have been hard to find any of his histories in any library save that of briarwood itself. it was understood that just now he was engaged upon a treatise relating to the possible existence of a race before the mound builders in the middle west, and he was not to be disturbed, of course, at his work. but when ruth and ann hicks entered the big office room, there he was, bent over huge tomes upon the work table, his spectacles awry, and his wig pushed so far back upon his head that two hands' breadth of glistening crown was exposed. the fiction that dr. tellingham was not bald might have been kept up very well indeed, did not the gentleman get so excited while he worked. as soon as he became interested in his books, he proceeded to bare his high brow to all beholders, and the wig slid toward the back of his neck. the truth was, as heavy stone said, dr. tellingham had to remove his collar to brush his hair--there really was so little of it. "dear, dear!" sputtered the historian, peering at the two girls over his reading glasses. "you don't want me, of course?" "oh, no, dr. tellingham. this is a new girl. we wished to see mrs. tellingham," ruth assured him. "quite so," he said, briskly. "she is--ah! she comes! my dear! two of the young ladies to see you," and instantly he was buried in his books again--that is, buried all but his shining crown. mrs. tellingham was a graceful, gray-haired lady, with a charming smile. she trailed her black robe across the carpet and stooped to kiss ruth warmly, for she not only respected the junior, but had learned to love her. "welcome, miss fielding!" she said, kindly. "i am glad to see you back. and this is the girl i have been getting letters about--miss hicks?" "ann hicks," responded ruth, firmly. "that is the name she wishes to be known by, dear mrs. tellingham." "i don't know who could be writing you but uncle bill," said ann hicks, blunderingly. "and i expect he's told you a-plenty." "i think 'uncle bill' must be the most recklessly generous man in the world, my dear," observed mrs. tellingham, taking and holding one of ann's brown hands, and looking closely at the western girl. for a moment the new girl blushed and her own eyes shone. "you bet he is! i--i beg pardon," she stammered. "uncle bill is all right." "and jennie stone's aunt kate has been writing me about you, too. it seems she was much interested in you when you visited their place at lighthouse point." "she's very kind," murmured the new girl. "and mrs. murchiston, helen's governess, has spoken a good word for you," added the preceptress. "why--why i didn't know so many people _cared_," stammered ann. "you see, you have a way of making friends unconsciously. i can see that," mrs. tellingham said, kindly. "now, do not be discouraged. you will make friends among the girls in just the same way. don't mind their banter for a while. the rough edges will soon rub off----" "but there _are_ rough edges," admitted the western girl, hanging her head. "don't mind. there are such in most girls' characters and they show up when first they come to school. keep cheerful. come to me if you are in real trouble--and stick close to miss fielding, here. i can't give you any better advice than that," added mrs. tellingham, with a laugh. then she was ready to listen to ruth's plea that the room next to the fox and her chums be given up to ruth, helen, mercy and the new girl. "we love our little room; but it was crowded with mercy last half; and we could all get along splendidly in a quartette room," said ruth. "all right," agreed the principal. "i'll telephone to miss scrimp and miss picolet. now, go and see about getting settled, young ladies. i expect much of you this half, ruth fielding. as for ann, i shall take her in hand myself on monday and see what classes she would best enter." "she's fine," declared ann hicks, when they were outside again. "i can get along with her. but how about the girls?" "they'll be nice to you, too--after a bit. of course, everybody new has to expect some hazing. thank your stars that you won't have to be put through the initiation of the marble harp," and she pointed to a marble figure in the tiny italian garden in the middle of the campus. when ann wanted to know what _that_ meant, ruth repeated the legend as all new girls at briarwood must learn it. but ruth and her friends had long since agreed that no other nervous or high-strung girl was to be hazed, as she and helen had been, when they first came to the hall. so the ceremony of the marble harp was abolished. it has been described in the former volume of this series, "ruth fielding at briarwood hall." the two went back to the dormitory that had become like home to ruth. miss picolet, the little french teacher, beckoned them into her study. "i must be the good friend of your good friend, too, miss fielding," she said, and shook hands warmly with ann. the matron of the house had already opened and aired the large room next to that which had been so long occupied by the fox and her chums. the eight girls made the corridor ring with laughter and shouts while they were getting settled. the trunks had arrived from lumberton and helen and ruth were busy decorating the big room which they were to share in the future with the lame girl and ann hicks. there were two wide beds in it; but each girl had her own dressing case and her locker and closet there were four windows and two study tables. it was a delightful place, they all agreed. "hush! tell it not in gath; whisper it not in ascalon!" hissed the fox, peering into the room. "you girls have the best there is. it's lots bigger than our quartette----" "oh, i don't think so. only a 'teeny' bit larger," responded ruth, quickly. "then it's heavy that takes up so much space in our room. she dwarfs everything. however," said the red-haired girl, "you can have lots more fun in here. shove back everything against one wall, roll up the rugs, and then we can dance." "and have picolet after us in a hurry," observed helen, laughing. "barefoot dancing is still in vogue," retorted the fox. "helen can play her violin." "after retiring bell? no, thanks!" exclaimed ruth's chum. "i am to stand better in my classes this half than last spring or monsieur pa-_pa_ will have something to say to me. he doesn't often preach; but that black-haired brother of mine did better last term than i did. can't have that." "they're awfully strict with the boys over at seven oaks," sighed heavy, who was chewing industriously as she talked, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "what are you eating, heavy?" demanded belle, suddenly. "some of those doughnut holes, i bet!" giggled lluella. "they must be awful filling, heavy." "nothing _is_ filling," replied the stout girl. "just think, almost the whole universe is filled with just atmosphere--and your head, lluella." "that's not pretty, dear," remarked the fox, pinching heavy. "don't be nasty to your playmates." "well, i've got to eat," groaned heavy. "if you knew how long it seemed from luncheon to supper time----" despite all ruth fielding could do, the girl from silver ranch felt herself a good deal out of this nonsense and joviality. ann could not talk the way these girls did. she felt serious when she contemplated her future in the school. "i'd--i'd run away if it wasn't for uncle bill," she whispered to herself, looking out of the window at the hundreds of girls parading the walks about the campus. almost every two girls seemed chums. they walked with their arms about each other's waists, and chattered like magpies. ann hicks wanted to run and hide somewhere, for she was more lonely now than she had ever been when wandering about the far-reaching range on the montana ranch! chapter vii "a hard row to hoe" since ruth fielding had organized the s.b.'s, or sweetbriars, there had been little hazing at briarwood hall. of course, this was the first real opening of the school year since that auspicious occasion; but the effect of the new society and its teachings upon the whole school was marked. rivalries had ceased to a degree. the old upedes, of which the fox had been the head, no longer played their tricks. the fox had grown much older in appearance, if not in years. she had had her lesson. belle and lluella and heavy were not so reckless, either. and as the s.b.'s stood for friendship, kindness, helpfulness, and all its members wore the pretty badge, it was likely to be much easier for those "infants" who joined the school now. ann hicks was bound to receive some hard knocks, even as mrs. tellingham had suggested. but "roughing it" a little is sometimes good for girls as well as boys. in her own western home ann could have held her own with anybody. she was so much out of her usual element here at briarwood that she was like a startled hare. she scented danger on all sides. her roommates could not always defend her, although even mercy, the unmerciful, tried. ann hicks was so big, and blundering. she was taller than most girls of her age, and "raw-boned" like her uncle. some time she might really be handsome; but there was little promise of it as yet. when the principal started her in her studies, it was soon discovered that ann, big girl though she was, had to take some of the lessons belonging to the primary grade. and she made a sorry appearance in recitation, at best. there were plenty of girls to laugh at her. there is nothing so cruel as a schoolgirl's tongue when it is unbridled. and unless the victim is blessed with either a large sense of humor, or an apt brain for repartee, it goes hard with her. poor ann had neither--she was merely confused and miserable. she saw the other girls of her room--and their close friends in the neighboring quartette--going cheerfully about the term's work. they had interests that the girl from the west, with her impoverished mind, could not even appreciate. she had to study so hard--even some of the simplest lessons--that she had little time to learn games. she did not care for gymnasium work, although there were probably few girls at the school as muscular as herself. tennis seemed silly to her. nobody rode at the hall, and she longed to bestride a pony and dash off for a twenty-mile canter. nothing that she was used to doing on the ranch would appeal to these girls here--ann was quite sure of that. ruth and the others who had been with them for that all-too-short month at silver ranch seemed to have forgotten the riding, and the roping, and all. then, helen had her violin--and loved it. ruth was practicing singing all the time she could spare, for she was already a prominent member of the glee club. when the girl of the red mill sang, ann hicks felt her heart throb and the tears rise in her eyes. she loved ruth's kind of music; yet she, herself, could not carry a tune. mercy was strictly attentive to her own books. mercy was a bookworm--nor did she like being asked questions about her studies. those first few weeks ann hicks's recitations did not receive very high marks. often some of the girls who did not know her very well laughed because she carried books belonging to the primary grade. ann hicks had many studies to make up that her mates had been drilled in while they were in the lower classes. one day at mail time (and in a boarding school that is a most important hour) ann received a very tempting-looking box by parcel post. she had been initiated into the meaning of "boxes from home." even aunt alvirah had sent a box to ruth, filled with choicest homemade dainties. ann expected nothing like that. uncle bill would never think of it--and he wouldn't know what to buy, anyway. the box fairly startled the girl from silver ranch. "what is it? something good to eat, i bet," cried heavy, who was on hand, of course. "open it, ann--do." "come on! let's see what the goodies are," urged another girl, but who smiled behind her hand. "i don't know who would send _me_ anything," said ann, slowly. "never mind the address. open it!" cried a third speaker, and had ann noted it, she would have realized that some of the most trying girls in the school had suddenly surrounded her. with trembling fingers she tore off the outside wrapper without seeing that the box had been mailed at the local post office--lumberton! a very decorative box was enclosed. "h-m-m!" gasped heavy. "nothing less than fancy nougatines in _that_." she was aiding the heartless throng, but did not know it. it would have never entered heavy's mind to do a really mean thing. ann untied the narrow red ribbon. she raised the cover. tissue paper covered something very choice----? _a dunce cap._ for a moment ann was stricken motionless. the girls about her shouted. one coarse, thoughtless girl seized the cap, pulled it from the box, and clapped it on ann hicks's black hair. the delighted crowd shouted more shrilly. heavy was thunderstruck. then she sputtered: "well! i never would have believed there was anybody so mean as that in the whole of briarwood school." but ann, who had held in her temper as she governed a half-wild pony on the range, until this point, suddenly "let go all holts," as bill hicks would have expressed it. she tore the cap from her head and stamped upon it and the fancy box it had come in. she struck right and left at the laughing, scornful faces of the girls who had so baited her. had it not been disgraceful, one might have been delighted with the change in the expression of those faces--and in the rapidity with which the change came about. more than one blow landed fairly. the print of ann's fingers was impressed in red upon the cheeks of those nearest to her. they ran screaming--some laughing, some angry. heavy's weight (for the fleshy girl had seized ann about the waist) was all that made the enraged girl give over her pursuit of her tormentors. fortunately, ruth herself came running to the spot. she got ann away and sat by her all the afternoon in their room, making up her own delinquent lessons afterward. but the affair could not be passed over without comment. some of the girls had reported ann's actions. of course, such a disgraceful thing as a girl slapping another was seldom heard of in briarwood. mrs. tellingham, who knew very well where the blame lay, dared not let the matter go without punishing ann, however. "i am grieved that one of our girls--a young lady in the junior grade--should so forget herself," said the principal. "whatever may have been the temptation, such an exhibition of temper cannot be allowed. i am sure she will not yield to it again; nor shall i pass leniently over the person who may again be the cause of ann hicks losing her temper." this seemed to ann to be "the last straw." "she might have better put me in the primary grade in the beginning," the ranch girl said, spitefully. "then i wouldn't have been among those who despise me. i hate them all! i'll just get away from here----" but the thought of running away a second time rather troubled her. she had worried her uncle greatly the first time she had done so. now he was sure she was in such good hands that she wouldn't wish to run away. ann knew that she could not blame ruth fielding, and the other girls who were always kind to her. she merely shrank from being with them, when they knew so much more than she did. it was her pride that was hurt. had she taken the teasing of the meaner girls in a wiser spirit, she knew they would not have sent her the dunce cap. they continued to tease her because they knew they could hurt her. "i--i wish i could show them i could do things that they never dreamed of doing!" muttered ann, angrily, yet wistfully, too. "i'd like to fling a rope, or manage a bad bronc', or something they never saw a girl do before. "book learning isn't everything. oh! i have half a mind to give up and go back to the ranch. nobody made fun of me out there--they didn't dare! and our folks are too kind to tease that way, anyhow," thought the western girl. "uncle bill is just paying out his good money for nothing. he said ruth was a little lady--and helen, too. i knew he wanted me to be the same, after he got acquainted with them and saw how fine they were. "but you sure 'can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.' that's as certain as shootin'! if i stay here i've got a mighty hard row to hoe--and--and i don't believe i've got the pluck to hoe it." ann groaned, and shook her tousled black head. chapter viii jerry sheming again ruth, with all the fun and study of the opening of the fall term at briarwood, could not entirely forget jerry sheming. more particularly did she think of him because of the invitation belle tingley had extended to her the day of their arrival. it was a coincidence that none of the other girls appreciated, for none of them had talked much with the young fellow who had saved ann hicks from the wrecked car at applegate crossing. even ann herself had not become as friendly with the boy as had ruth. the fact that he had lived a good share of his life on the very island belle said her father had bought for a hunting camp, served to spur ruth's interest in both the youth and the island itself. then, what jerry had told her about his uncle's lost treasure box added to the zest of the affair. somewhere on the island peter tilton had lost a box containing money and private papers. jerry believed it to have been buried by a landslide that had occurred months before. there must be something in this story, or why should "uncle pete," as jerry called him, have lost his mind over the catastrophe? uncle pete must be really mad or they would not have shut him up in the county asylum. the loss of the papers supposed to be in the box made it possible for some man named blent to cheat the old hunter out of his holdings on cliff island. not for a moment did ruth suppose that mr. tingley, belle's father, was a party to any scheme for cheating the old hunter. it was the work of the man blent--if true. ruth was very curious--and very much interested. few letters ever passed between her and the red mill. aunt alvirah's gnarled and twisted fingers did not take kindly to the pen; and uncle jabez loved better to add up his earnings than to spend an evening retailing the gossip of the mill for his grandniece to peruse. ruth knew that jerry had soon recovered from his accident and that for several weeks, at least, had worked for uncle jabez. the latter grudgingly admitted that jerry was the best man he had ever hired in the cornfield, both in cutting fodder and shucking corn. just before thanksgiving there came a letter saying that jerry had gone on. of course, ruth knew that her uncle would not keep the young fellow longer than he could make use of him; but she was sorry he had gone before she had communicated with him. the girl of the red mill felt that she wished to know jerry better. she had been deeply interested in his story. she had hoped to learn more about him. "if you are really going to cliff island for the holidays, belle," she told the latter, "i hope i can go." "bully!" exclaimed belle, joyfully. "we'll have a dandy time there--better than we had at helen's father's camp, last winter. i refuse to be lost in the snow again." "same here," drawled heavy. "but i wish that lake you talk about, belle, wouldn't freeze over. i don't like ice," with a shiver. "who ever heard of water that wouldn't freeze?" demanded belle, scornfully. "i have," said heavy, promptly. "what kind of water, i'd like to know, miss?" "hot water," responded heavy, chuckling. helen, and most of the other girls who were invited to cliff island for christmas, had already accepted the invitation. ruth wrote to her uncle with some little doubt. she did not know how he would take the suggestion. she had been at the mill so little since first she began attending boarding school. this thanksgiving she did not expect to go home. few of the girls did so, for the recess was only over the week-end and lessons began again on monday. only those girls who lived very near to briarwood made a real vacation of the first winter holiday. a good many used the time to make up lessons and work off "conditions." thanksgiving day itself was made somewhat special by a trip to buchane falls, where there was a large dam. dinner was to be served at five in the evening, and more than half the school went off to the falls (which was ten miles away) in several big party wagons, before ten o'clock in the morning. "bring your appetites back with you, girls," mrs. tellingham told them at chapel, and heavy, at least, had promised to do so and meant to keep her word. yet even heavy did justice to the cold luncheon that was served to all of them at the falls. it was crisp autumn weather. early in the morning there had been a skim of ice along the edge of the water; but there had not yet been frost enough to chain the current of the buchane creek. indeed, it would not freeze over in the middle until mid-winter, if then. the picnic ground was above the falls and on the verge of the big millpond. there were swings, and a bowling alley, and boats, and other amusements. ruth had fairly dragged ann hicks into the party. the girls who had been meanest to the westerner were present. ann would have had a woefully bad time of it had not some of the smaller girls needed somebody to look out for them. ann hated the little girls at briarwood less than she did the big ones. in fact, the "primes," as they were called, rather took to the big girl from the west. one of the swings was not secure, and ann started to fix it. she could climb like any boy, and there did not happen to be a teacher near to forbid her. therefore, up she went, unfastened the rope from the beam, and proceeded to splice the place where it had become frayed. it was not a new rope, but was strong save in that one spot. ann coiled it, and although it did not have the "feel" of the fine hemp, or the good hair rope that is part of the cowman's equipment, her hands and arm tingled to lassoo some active, running object. she coiled it once more and then flung the rope at a bush. the little girls shouted their appreciation. ann did not mind, for there seemed to be no juniors or seniors there to see. most of the older girls were down by the water. indeed, some of the seniors were trying to interest the bigger girls in rowing. briarwood owned a small lake, and they might have canoes and racing shells upon it, if the girls as a whole would become interested. but many of the big girls did not even know how to row. there was one big punt into which almost a dozen of them crowded. heavy sat in the stern and declared that she had to have a big crowd in the bow of the boat, to balance it and keep her end from going down. therefore one girl after another jumped in, and when it was really too full for safety it was pushed out from the landing. just about the time the current which set toward the middle of the pond seized the punt, it was discovered that nobody had thought of oars. "how under the sun did you suppose a thing like this was going to be propelled?" heavy demanded. "i never did see such a fellow as you are, mandy mitchell!" "you needn't scold me," declared the mitchell girl. "you invited me into the boat." "did i? why! i must have been crazy, then!" declared heavy. "and didn't any of you think how we were going to get back to shore?" "nor we don't know now," cried another girl. "oh-o!" gasped one of the others, darting a frightened look ahead. "we're aiming right for the dam." "you wouldn't expect the boat to drift against the current, would you?" snapped heavy. "let's scream!" cried another--and they could all do that to perfection. in a very few minutes it was apparent to everybody within the circle of half a mile or more that a bunch of girls was in trouble--or thought so! "sit down!" gasped heavy. "don't rock the boat. if that yelling doesn't bring anybody, we're due to reach a watery grave, sure enough." "oh, don't, heavy!" wailed one of the weaker ones. "how can you?" heavy was privately as frightened as any of them, but she tried to keep the others cheerful, and would have kept on joking till the end. but several small boats came racing down the pond after them, and along the bank came a man--or a boy--running and shouting. how either the girls in the boats or the youth on the shore could help them, was a mystery; but both comforted the imperiled party immensely. the current swung the heavy punt in toward the shore. right at that end of the dam the water was running a foot deep--or more--over the flash-board. if the punt struck, it would turn broadside, and probably tip all hands over the dam. this was a serious predicament, indeed, and the spectators realized it even more keenly than did the girls in the punt. the youth who had been called to the spot by their screams threw off his coat and cap, and they saw him stoop to unlace his shoes. a plunge into this cold water was not attractive, and it was doubtful if he could help them much if he reached the punt. down the hill from the picnic grounds came a group of girls, ann hicks in the lead. most of her companions were too small to do any good in any event. the girl from the ranch carried a neat coil of rope in one hand and she shouted to heavy to "hold on!" "you tell me what to hold on to, and you'll see me do it!" replied the plump girl. "all i can take hold of just now is thin air." "hold on!" said ann again, and stopped, having reached the right spot. then she swung the rope in the air, let it uncoil suddenly, and the loose end dropped fairly across jennie stone's lap. "hold on!" yelled everybody, then, and heavy obeyed. but the young fellow sprang to ann's aid, and wrapped the slack of the rope around a stout sapling on the edge of the pond. "easy! easy!" he admonished. "we don't want to pull them out of the boat. you _can_ fling a rope; can't you, miss?" "i'd ought to," grunted ann. "i've roped enough steers--why! you're jerry sheming," she declared, suddenly looking into his face. "ruth fielding wants to see you. don't you run away before she talks with you." then the rope became taut, and the punt began to swing shoreward slowly, taking in some water and setting the girls to screaming again. chapter ix ruth's little plot the punt was in shallow water and the girls who had ventured into it without oars were perfectly safe before any of the teachers arrived. with them came ruth and helen, and some of the other juniors and seniors. heavy took the stump. "now! you see what she did?" cried the stout girl, seizing ann in her arms the moment she could get ashore. "if she hadn't known how to fling a lasso, and rope a steer, she'd never have been able to send that rope to us. "three cheers for ann hicks, the girl from the ranch, who knows what to do when folks are drowning in buchane pond! one--two--three----" the cheers were given with a will. several of the girls who had treated the western girl so meanly about the dunce cap had been in the boat, and they asked ann to shake hands. they were truly repentant, and ann could not refuse their advances. but the western girl was still doubtful of her standing with her mates, and went back to play with the little ones. meanwhile she showed ruth where jerry sheming stood at one side, and the girl from the red mill ran to him eagerly. "i am delighted to see you!" she exclaimed, shaking jerry's rough hand. "i was afraid i wouldn't be able to find you after you left the mill. and i wanted to." "i'm glad of your interest in me, miss ruth," he said, "but i ain't got no call to expect it. mr. potter was pretty kind to me, and he kept me as long as there was work there." "but you haven't got to tramp it, now?" "only to look for a steady job. i--i come over this way hopin' i'd hit it at lumberton. but they're discharging men at the mills instead of hiring new ones." "and i expect you'd rather work in the woods than anywhere else?" suggested ruth. "why--yes, miss. i love the woods. and i got a good rifle and shotgun, and i'm a good camp cook. i can't get a guide's license, but i could go as assistant--if anybody would take me around tallahaska." "suppose i could get you a job working right where you've always lived--at cliff island?" she asked, eagerly. "what d'ye mean--cliff island?" he demanded, flushing deeply. "i wouldn't work for that rufus blent--nor he wouldn't have me." "i don't know anything about the man," said ruth, smiling. "but one of my chums has invited me to go to cliff island for the christmas holidays. her father has bought the place and is building a lodge there." "good lands!" ejaculated jerry. "isn't that a coincidence?" ruth commented. "now, you wouldn't refuse a job with mr. tingley; would you?" "tingley--is that the name?" "yes. perhaps i can get him, through belle, to hire you. i'll try. would you go back?" "in a minute!" exclaimed jerry. "then i'll try. you see, in four or five weeks, we'll be going there ourselves. i think it would just be jolly to have you around, for you know all about the island and everything." "yes, indeed, ma'am," agreed jerry. "i'd like the job." "so you must write me every few days and let me know where you are. mrs. tellingham won't mind--i'll explain to her," ruth said, earnestly. "i am not quite sure that i can go myself, yet. but i'll know for sure in a few days. and i'll see if belle won't ask her father to give you work at cliff island. then, in your off time, you can look for that box your uncle lost. don't you see?" "oh, miss! i guess that's gone for good. near as i could make out o' uncle pete, the landslide at the west end of the island buried his treasure box a mile deep! it was in one o' the little caves, i s'pose." "caves? are there caves on the island?" "lots of 'em. big ones as well as small. if uncle pete wasn't plumb crazy, he had his money and papers in a hide-out that i'd never found." "i see miss picolet coming this way. she won't approve of my talking with 'a strange young man' so long," laughed ruth. "you let me know every few days where you are, jerry?" "yes, ma'am, i will. and thank you kindly." "you aren't out of funds? you have money?" "i've got quite a little store," said jerry, smiling. "thanks to that nice black-eyed girl that i helped out of the car window." "oh! ann hicks. and she's being made much of, now, by the girls, because she knew how to fling a rope," cried ruth, looking across the picnic ground to where her schoolmates were grouped. "she's all right," said jerry, enthusiastically. "they ought to be proud of her--them that was in that boat." "it will break the ice for ann," declared ruth. "i am so glad. now, i must run. don't forget to write, jerry. good bye." she gave him her hand and ran back to join her school friends. ann had gone about putting up the children's swing and at first had paid little attention to the enthusiasm of the girls who had been saved from going over the dam. but she could not ignore them altogether. "you're just the smartest girl i ever saw," heavy declaimed. "we'd all be in the water, sure enough, if you hadn't got that rope to us. come on, ann! be a sport. _do_ wear your laurels kindly." "i'm just as 'dumb' about books as ever. flinging that rope didn't make any difference," growled the western girl. "i don't care if you don't know your 'a.b., abs,'" cried one of the girls who had taken a prominent part in the dunce cap trick. "you make me awfully ashamed of myself for being so mean to you. please forgive us all, ann--that's a good girl." ann was awkward about accepting their apologies; and yet she was not naturally a bad-tempered girl. she was just different from them all--and felt the difference so keenly! this sudden reversal of feeling, and their evident offer of friendliness, made her feel more awkward than ever. she remained very glum while at the picnic grounds. but, as ruth had said, the incident served to break the ice. ann had gotten her start. somebody beside the "primes" gave her "the glad hand and the smiling eye." briarwood began to be a different sort of place for the ranch girl. there were plenty of the juniors who looked down on her still; but she had "shown them" once that she could do something the ordinary eastern girl could not do and ann was on the _qui vive_ for another chance to "make good" along her own particular line. she grew brighter and more self-possessed as the term advanced. her lessons, too, she attacked with more assurance. a few days after thanksgiving ruth received a letter in aunt alvirah's cramped hand-writing which assured her that uncle jabez would make no objection to her accepting the invitation to go to cliff island for the holidays. "and i'll remind him of it in time so't he can send you a christmas goldpiece, if the sperit so moves him," wrote aunt alvirah, in her old-fashioned way. "but do take care of yourself, my pretty, in the middle of that lake." in telling belle how happy she was to accept the invitation for the frolic, ruth diffidently put forward her request that mr. tingley give jerry sheming a job. "i am quite sure he is a good boy," she told belle. "he has worked for my uncle, and uncle jabez praised him. now, uncle jabez doesn't praise for nothing." "i'll tell father about this jerry--sure," laughed belle. "you're an odd girl, ruth. you're always trying to do something for somebody." "trying to do somebody for somebody, maybe," interposed mercy, in her sharp way. "ruth uses her friends for her own ends." but ruth's little plot worked. a fortnight after thanksgiving she was able to write to jerry, who had found a few days' work near the school, that he could go back to cliff island and present himself to mr. tingley's foreman. a good job was waiting for him on the island where he had lived so long with his uncle, the old hunter. chapter x an exciting finish affairs at briarwood went at high speed toward the end of the term. everybody was busy. a girl who did not work, or who had no interest in her studies, fell behind very quickly. ann hicks was spurred to do her best by the activities of her mates. she did not like any of them well enough--save those in the two neighboring quartette rooms in her dormitory building--to accept defeat from them. she began to make a better appearance in recitations, and her marks became better. they all had extra interests save ann herself. helen cameron was in the school orchestra and played first violin with a hope of getting solo parts in time. she loved the instrument, and in the evening, before the electricity was turned on, she often played in the room, delighting the music-loving ann. sometimes ruth sang to her chum's accompaniment. ruth's voice was so sweet, so true and tender, and she sang ballads with such feeling, that ann often was glad it was dark in the room. the western girl considered it "soft" to weep, but ruth's singing brought the tears to her eyes. mercy curtis even gave up her beloved books during the hour of these informal concerts. other times she would have railed because she could not study. mercy was as hungry for lessons as heavy stone was for layer-cake and macaroons. "that's all that's left me," croaked the lame girl, when she was in one of her most difficult moods. "i'll learn all there is to be learned. i'll stuff my head full. then, when other girls laugh at my crooked back and weak legs, i'll shame 'em by knowing more out of books." "oh, what a mean way to put it!" gasped helen. "i don't care, miss! you never had your back ache you and your legs go wabbly--no person with a bad back and such aches and pains as i have, was ever good-natured!" "think of aunt alvirah," murmured ruth, gently. "oh, well--she isn't just human!" gasped the lame girl. "she is very human, i think," ruth returned. "no. she's an angel. and no angel was ever called 'curtis,'" declared the other, her eyes snapping. "but i believe there must be an angel somewhere named 'mercy,'" ruth responded, still softly. however, it was understood that mercy was aiming to be the crack scholar of her class. there was a scholarship to be won, and mercy hoped to get it and to go to college two years later. even jennie stone declared she was going in for "extras." "what, pray?" scoffed the fox. "all your spare time is taken up in eating now, miss." "all right. i'll go in for the heavyweight championship at table," declared the plump girl, good-naturedly. "at least, the result will doubtless be visible." ann began to wonder what she was studying for. all these other girls seemed to have some particular object. was she going to school without any real reason for it? uncle bill would be proud of her, of course. she practised assiduously to perfect her piano playing. that was something that would show out in bullhide and on the ranch. uncle bill would crow over her playing just as he did over her bareback riding. but ann was not entirely satisfied with these thoughts. nor was she contented with the fact that she had begun to make her mates respect her. there was something lacking. she had half a mind to refuse belle tingley's invitation to cliff island. in her heart ann believed she was included in the party because belle would have been ashamed to ignore her, and ruth would not have gone had ann not been asked. to tell the truth ann was hungry for the girls to like her for herself--for some attribute of character which she honestly possessed. she had never had to think of such things before. in her western home it had never crossed her mind whether people liked her, or not. everybody about silver ranch had been uniformly kind to her. belle's holiday party was to be made up of the eight girls in the two quartette rooms, with madge steele, the senior; madge's brother, bobbins, tom cameron, little busy izzy phelps, and belle's own brothers. "of course, we've got to have the boys," declared helen. "no fun without them." mercy had tried to beg off at first; then she had agreed to go, if she could take half a trunkful of books with her. briarwood girls were as busy as bees in june during these last few days of the first half. the second half was broken by the easter vacation and most of the real hard work in study came before christmas. there was going to be a school play after christmas, and the parts were given out before the holidays. helen was going to play and ruth to sing. it did seem to ann as though every girl was happy and busy but herself. the last day of the term was in sight. there was to be the usual entertainment and a dance at night. the hall had to be trimmed with greens and those girls--of the junior and senior classes--who could, were appointed to help gather the decorations. "i don't want to go," objected ann. "goosie!" cried helen. "of course you do. it will be fun." "not for me," returned the ranch girl, grimly. "do you see who is going to head the party? that mitchell girl. she's always nasty to me." "be nasty to her!" snapped mercy, from her corner. "now, mercy!" begged ruth, shaking a finger at the lame girl. "i wouldn't mind what mitchell says or does," sniffed the fox. "fibber!" exclaimed mercy. "i never tell lies, miss," said mary cox, tossing her head. "humph!" ejaculated the somewhat spiteful mercy, "do you call yourself a female george washington?" "no. marthy washington," laughed heavy. "only her husband couldn't lie," declared mercy. "and at that, they say that somebody wished to change the epitaph on his tomb to read: 'here lies george washington--for the first time!'" "everybody is tempted to tell a fib some time," sighed helen. "and falls, too," exclaimed mercy. "i must say i don't believe there ever was anybody but washington that didn't tell a lie. it's awfully hard to be exactly truthful always," said lluella. "you remember that time in the primary grade, just after we'd come here to briarwood, belle?" "do i?" laughed belle tingley. "you fibbed all right then, miss." "it wasn't very bad--and i did _want_ to see the whole school so much. so--so i took one of my pencils to our teacher and asked her if she would ask the other scholars if it was theirs. "of course, all the other girls in our room said it wasn't," proceeded lluella. "then teacher said just what i wanted her to say: 'you may inquire in the other classes.' so i went around and saw all the other classes and had a real nice time. "but when i got back with the pencil in my hand still, belle come near getting me into trouble." "uh-huh!" admitted belle, nodding. "how?" asked somebody. "she just whispered--right out loud, 'lluella, that is your pencil and you know it!' and i had to say--right off, 'it isn't, and i didn't!' now, what could i have said else? but it was an awful fib, i s'pose." the assembled girls laughed. but ann hicks was still seriously inclined not to go into the woods, although she had no idea of telling a fib about it. and because she was too proud to say to the teacher in charge that she feared miss mitchell's tongue, the western girl joined the greens-gathering party at the very last minute. there were two four-seated sleighs, for there was a hard-packed white track into the woods toward triton lake. old dolliver drove one, and his helper manned the other. the english teacher was in charge. she hoped to find bushels of holly berries and cedar buds as well as the materials for wreaths. one pair of the horses was western--high-spirited, hard-bitted mustangs. ann hicks recognized them before she got into the sleigh. how they pulled and danced, and tossed the froth from their bits! "i feel just as they do," thought the girl. "i'd love to break out, and kick, and bite, and act the very old boy! poor things! how they must miss the plains and the free range." the other girls wondered what made her so silent. the tang of the frosty air, and the ring of the ponies' hoofs, and the jingle of the bells put plenty of life and fun into her mates; but ann remained morose. they reached the edge of the swamp and the girls alighted with merry shout and song. they were all armed with big shears or sharp knives, but the berries grew high, and old dolliver's boy had to climb for them. then the accident occurred--a totally unexpected and unlooked for accident. in stepping out on a high branch, the boy slipped, fell, and came down to the ground, hitting each intervening limb, and so saving his life, but dashing every bit of breath from his lungs, it seemed! the girls ran together, screaming. the teacher almost fainted. old dolliver stooped over the fallen boy and wiped the blood from his lips. "don't tech him!" he croaked. "he's broke ev'ry bone in his body, i make no doubt. an' he'd oughter have a doctor----" "i'll get one," said ann hicks, briskly, in the old man's ear. "where's the nearest--and the best?" "doc haverly at lumberton." "i'll get him." "it's six miles, miss. you'd never walk it. i'll take one of the teams----" "you stay with him," jerked out ann. "i can ride." "ride? them ain't ridin' hosses, miss," declared old dolliver. "if a horse has got four legs he can be ridden," declared the girl from the ranch, succinctly. "take the off one on my team, then----" "that old plug? i guess not!" exclaimed ann, and was off. she unharnessed one of the pitching, snapping mustangs. "whoa--easy! you wouldn't bite me, you know," she crooned, and the mustang thrust forward his ears and listened. she dropped off the heavy harness. the bridle she allowed to remain, but there was no saddle. the english teacher came to her senses, suddenly. "that creature will kill you!" she cried, seeing what ann was about. "then he'll be the first horse that ever did it," drawled ann. "hi, yi, yi! we're off!" to the horror of the teacher, to the surprise of old dolliver, and to the delight of the other girls, ann hicks swung herself astride of the dancing pony, dug her heels into his ribs, and the next moment had darted out of sight down the wood road. chapter xi a number of things there may have been good reason for the teacher to be horrified, but how else was the mustang to be ridden? ann was a big girl to go tearing through the roads and 'way into lumberton astride a horse. without a saddle and curb, however, she could not otherwise have clung to him. just now haste was imperative. she had a picture in her mind, all the way, of that boy lying in the snow, his face so pallid and the bloody foam upon his lips. in twenty-five minutes she was at the physician's gate. she flung herself off the horse, and as she shouted her news to the doctor through the open office window, she unbuckled the bridle-rein and made a leading strap of it. so, when the doctor drove out of the yard in his sleigh, she hopped in beside him and led the heaving mustang back into the woods. of course she did not look ladylike at all, and not another girl at briarwood would have done it. but even the english teacher--who was a prude--never scolded her for it. indeed, the doctor made a heroine of ann, old dolliver said he never saw her beat, and the boy, who was so sadly hurt (but who pulled through all right in the end) almost worshipped the girl from silver ranch. "and how she can ride!" the very girl who had treated ann the meanest said of her. "what does it matter if she isn't quite up to the average yet in recitations? she _will_ be." this was after the holidays, however. there was too short a time before belle tingley and her friends started for cliff island for ann to particularly note the different manner in which the girls in general treated her. the party went on the night train. mr. tingley, who had some influence with the railroad, had a special sleeper side-tracked at lumberton for their accommodation. this sleeper was to be attached to the train that went through lumberton at midnight. therefore they did not have to skip all the fun of the dance. this was one of the occasions when the boys from the seven oaks military academy were allowed to mix freely with the girls of briarwood. and both parties enjoyed it. belle's mother had arrived in good season, for she was to chaperone the party bound for logwood, at the head of tallahaska lake. she passed the word at ten o'clock, and the girls got their hand-baggage and ran down to the road, where old dolliver waited for them with his big sleigh. the boys walked into town, so the girls were nicely settled in the car when tom cameron and his chums reached the siding. belle tingley's two brothers were not too old to be companions for tom, bob, and isadore phelps. and they were all as eager for fun and prank-playing as they could be. mrs. tingley had already retired and most of the girls were in their dressing gowns when the boys arrived. the porter was making up the boys' berths as the latter tramped in, bringing on their clothing the first flakes of the storm that had been threatening all the evening. "let the porter brush you, little boy," urged madge, peering out between the curtains of her section and admonishing her big brother. "if you get cold and catch the croup i don't know what sister _will_ do! now, be a good child!" "huh!" grunted isadore phelps, trying to collect enough of the snow to make a ball to throw at her. "i wonder at you, bobbins. why don't you make her behave? treatin' you like an over-grown kid." "i'd never treat _you_ that way, master isadore," said madge, sweetly. "for you very well know that you're not grown at all!" at that isadore _did_ gather snow--by running out for it. he brought back a dozen snowballs and the first thing the girls knew the missiles were dropping over the top of the curtains into the sheltered spaces devoted to the berths. there _was_ a great squealing then, for some of the victims were quite ready for bed, and the snow was cold and wet. mrs. tingley interfered little with the pranks of the young folk, and izzy was careful not to throw any snow into _her_ compartment. but the tease did not know when to stop. he was usually that way--as madge said, izzy would drive a willing horse to death. it was heavy and ann, however, who paid him back in some of his own coin. the boys finally made their preparations for bed. izzy paraded the length of the car in his big robe and bed slippers, for a drink of ice water. before he could return, heavy and ann bounced out in their woolen kimonas and seized him. by this time the train had come in, the engine had switched to the siding, picked up their sleeper, and was now backing down to couple on to the train again. the two girls ran izzy out into the vestibule, heavy's hand over his mouth so that he could not shout to his friends for help. the door of the vestibule on the off side was unlocked. ann pushed it open. the snow was falling heavily--it was impossible to see even the fence that bounded the railroad line on this side. the cars came together with a slight shock and the three were thrown into a giggling, struggling heap on the platform. "lemme go!" gasped izzy. "sure we will!" giggled heavy, and with a final push she sent him flying down the steps. then she shut the door. she did not know that every other door on that side of the long train was locked. almost immediately the train began to move forward. it swept away from the lumberton platform, and it was fully a minute before heavy and ann realized what they had done. "oh, oh, oh!" shrieked the plump girl, running down the aisle. "busy izzy is left behind." "stop your joking," exclaimed tom, peering out of his berth, which was an upper. "he's nothing of the kind." "he is! he is!" "why, he's all ready for bed," declared one of the tingley boys. "he wouldn't dare----" "we threw him out!" wailed heavy. "we didn't know the train was to start so quickly." "threw him off the train?" cried mrs. tingley, appearing in her boudoir cap and gown. "what kind of a menagerie am i supposed to preserve order in----?" "you can make bully good preserved ginger, ma," said one of her sons, "but you fall short when it comes to preserving _order_." most of the crowd were troubled over isadore's absence. some suggested pulling the emergency cord and stopping the train; others were for telegraphing back from the next station. all were talking at once, indeed, when the rear door opened and in came the conductor, escorting the shivering isadore. "does this--this _tyke_ belong in here?" demanded the man of brass buttons, with much emphasis. they welcomed him loudly. the conductor shook his head. the flagman on the end of the train had helped the boy aboard the last car as the train started to move. "keep him here!" commanded the conductor. "and i've a mind to have both doors of the car locked until we reach logwood. don't let me hear anything more from you boys and girls on this journey." he went away laughing, however, and bye and bye they quieted down. madge insisted upon making some hot composition, very strong, and dosing isadore with it. the drink probably warded off a cold. izzy admitted to bobbins that a sister wasn't so bad to "have around" after all. while they slept, the car was shunted to the sidetrack at logwood and the western-bound train went hooting away through the forest. it was still snowing heavily, there were not many trains passing through the logwood yard, and no switching during the early part of the day. the snow smothered other sounds. therefore, the party that had come to the lake for a vacation was not astir until late. it was hunger that roused them to the realities of life in the end. they had to dress and go to the one hotel of which the settlement boasted for breakfast. "can't cross to the island on the ice, they say," ralph tingley ran in to tell his mother. "weight of the snow has broken it up. one of the men says he'll get a punt and pole us over to cliff island if the snow stops so that he can see his way." "my! won't that be fun!" gasped ann hicks, who had overheard him. she had begun to enjoy herself the minute she felt that they were in rough country. some of the girls wished they hadn't come. ruth and helen were already outside, snowballing with the boys. when mrs. tingley descended the car steps, ready to go to breakfast, her other son appeared--a second mercury. "mother, mr. preston is here. says he'd like to see you." mr. preston was the foreman to whom jerry sheming had been sent for a job. ruth, who overheard, remembered the man's name. then she saw a man dressed in canadian knit cap, tall boots, and mackinaw, and carrying a huge umbrella, with which he hurried forward to hold protectingly over mrs. tingley's head. "glad to see you, ma'am," said the foreman. ruth was passing them on her way to the hotel when she heard something that stayed her progress. "sorry to trouble you. mr. tingley ain't coming up to-day?" "not until christmas morning," replied the lady. "he cannot get away before." "well, i'll have to discharge that jerry sheming. too bad, too. he's a worker, and well able to guide the boys and girls around the island--knows it like a book." "why let him go, then?" asked the lady. "blent says he's dishonest. an' i seen him snooping around rather funny, myself. guess i'll have to fire him, mis' tingley." chapter xii rufus blent's little ways the crowd waded through the soft snow to the inn. it was a small place, patronized mainly by fishermen and hunters in the season. it was plain, from the breakfast they served to the tingley party, that if the unexpected guests had to remain long, they would be starved to death. "and all the 'big eats' over on the island," wailed heavy. "i could swim there, i believe." "i am afraid i could not allow you to do that," said mrs. tingley, shaking her head. "it would be too absurd. we'd better take the train home again." "never!" chorused belle and her brothers. "we must get to cliff island in some way--by hook or by crook," added the girl, who had set her heart upon this outing. ruth was rather serious this morning. she waited for a chance to speak with mrs. tingley alone, and when it came, she blurted out what she wished to say: "oh, mrs. tingley! i couldn't help hearing what that man said to you. must he discharge jerry because rufus blent says so?" "why, my dear! oh! i remember. you were the girl who befriended the boy in the first place?" "yes, i did, mrs. tingley. and i hope you won't let your foreman turn him off for nothing----" "oh! i can't interfere. it is my husband's business, of course." "but let me tell you!" urged ruth, and then she related all she knew about jerry sheming, and all about the story of the old hunter who had lived so many years on cliff island. "mr. tingley had a good deal of trouble over that squatter," said belle's mother, slowly. "he was crazy." "that might be. but jerry isn't crazy." "but they made some claim to owning a part of the island." "and after the old man had lived there for fifty years, perhaps he thought he had a right to it." "why, my child, that sounds reasonable. but of course he didn't." "just the same," said ruth, "he maybe had the box of money and papers hidden on the island, as he said. that is what jerry has been looking for. and i wager that man blent is afraid he will find it." "how romantic!" laughed mrs. tingley. "but, do wait till mr. tingley comes and let him decide," begged ruth. "surely. and i will tell mr. preston to refuse any of blent's demands. he is a queer old fellow, i know. and, come to think of it, he told us he wanted to make some investigations regarding the caves at the west end of the island. he wouldn't sell us the place without reserving in the deed the rights to all mineral deposits and to treasure trove." "what's 'treasure trove,' mrs. tingley?" asked ruth, quickly. "why--that would mean anything valuable found upon the land which is not naturally a part of it." "like a box of money, or papers?" "yes! i see. i declare, child, maybe the boy, jerry, has told you the truth!" "i am sure he has. he seemed like a perfectly honest boy," declared ruth, anxiously. "i will see mr. preston again," spoke mrs. tingley, decisively. the storm continued through the forenoon. but the boys and girls waiting for transportation to cliff island had plenty of fun. behind the inn was an open field, and there they built a fort, the party being divided into opposing armies. tom cameron led one and ann hicks was chosen to head the other. mercy could look at them from the windows, and urge the girls on in the fray. the boys might throw straighter, but numbers told. the girls could divide and attack the boy defenders of the fortress on both flanks. they came in rosy and breathless at noon--to sit down to a most heart-breaking luncheon. "such an expanse of table and so little on it i never saw before," grumbled heavy, in a glum aside. "how long do you suppose we would exist on these rations?" "we're not dead yet," said ruth, cheerfully, "so you needn't become a 'gloom.'" "jen ought to live on past meals--like a camel existing on its hump," declared madge. "i'm no camel," retorted the plump one, instantly. "and a meal to me--after it has been digested--is nothing more than a beautiful dream; and you can bet that i never gained my avoirdupois by dreaming!" mrs. tingley beckoned to ruth after dinner. together they went into the general room, where there was a huge fire of logs. mr. preston, the foreman, was there. "i have been making inquiries," the lady explained to ruth, "and i find that this rufus blent has not a very enviable reputation. at least, he is considered, locally, a sharper." "is this the girl who is interested in jerry?" asked the foreman. "well! he ought to be all right if she sticks up for him." "i believe his story is true," ruth said, shaking her head. "and if that's so, then the boss hasn't got a clear title to cliff island--eh?" returned the big foreman, smiling at her quizzically. "that isn't mr. tingley's fault," cried ruth, quickly. "he'd be the one to suffer, however, if it should be proved that old pete tilton had any vested right in the island," said preston. "you can bet blent is sharp enough to have covered his tracks if he has done anything foxy. he was never caught yet in any legal tangle." "oh, i hope mr. tingley won't have trouble up here," declared mrs. tingley, quite disturbed. ruth felt rather embarrassed. as much as she was interested in jerry sheming, she did not like to think she was stirring up trouble for her school-mate's father. just then the outer door of the inn opened and a man entered, stamping the snow from his boots upon the wire mat. "s-s-t!" said preston, his eyes twinkling. "here's rufus blent himself." it seemed that mrs. tingley had never seen the real estate man and she was quite as much interested as ruth in making his acquaintance. they both eyed him with growing disapproval as the old man finished freeing his feet of the clinging snow and then charged at preston from across the big room. "i say! i say, you, preston!" he snarled. "have you done what i tol' you? have you got that jerry sheming off the island? he'd never oughter been let to git on there ag'in. i've been away, or i'd heard of it before. is he off?" "not yet," replied preston, smiling secretly. "i wanter know why not? i won't have him snoopin' around there. it was understood when i sold tingley that island that i reserved sartain rights----" "this here is mis' tingley," interposed preston, turning the old man's attention to the lady. he was a brown, wrinkled old man, with sparse pepper-and-salt whiskers and a parrot-like nose. "sharper" was written all over his hatchet features; but probably his provincialism and lack of book education had kept him from being a very dangerous villain. "i wanter know!" exclaimed rufus. "so you're tingley's lady? wal! do you take charge here?" "oh, no," laughed mrs. tingley. "my husband will be up here christmas morning." "goin' to have preston send that boy back to the mainland?" "oh, no, i shall not interfere. mr. tingley will attend to it when he comes. i think that would be best." "nothin' of the kind!" cried blent, his little eyes snapping. "that boy's got no business over there--snooping round." "what are you afraid of, rufus? what do you think he'll find?" queried preston, who was evidently not above aggravating the old fellow. "never you mind! never you mind!" croaked blent. "if you folks won't discharge him and put him off the island, i'll do it, myself." "how can you, mr. blent?" asked mrs. tingley, feeling some disposition to cross swords with him. "never you mind. i'll do it. goin' back to-day, of course, preston; ain't you?" "i'm hoping to get this crowd of young folk--and mrs. tingley--across to the island. and i think the snow is going to stop soon." "i'll go with you," declared blent, promptly. "don't you go till i see you again, preston. i gotter ketch 'squire keller fust." he hurried out of the inn. mrs. tingley and ruth looked at the foreman questioningly. the girl cried: "oh! what will he do?" "he's going to get a warrant for the boy," answered preston, scowling. "how can he? what has jerry done?" "that don't make no difference," said the woodsman. "old rufus just about runs the politics of this town. keller will do what he says. rufus will get the boy off the island by foul means if he can't by fair." chapter xiii fighting fire with fire ruth felt her heart swell in anger against rufus blent, the logwood real estate man. if she had not been determined before to aid jerry sheming in every way possible, she was now. if there was a box of money and papers hidden on cliff island, once belonging to pete tilton, the old hunter, ruth desired to keep blent from finding it. she believed jerry's story--about the treasure box and all. rufus blent's actions now seemed to prove the existence of such a box. he wanted to find it. but if the money and papers in the box had belonged to old pete tilton, surely jerry, as his single living relative, should have the best right to the "treasure trove." how to thwart blent was the question disturbing ruth fielding's mind. of course, nobody but jerry had as strong a desire as she to outwit the old real estate man. the other girls and boys--even mrs. tingley--would not feel as ruth did about it. she knew that well enough. if anything was to be done to save jerry from being arrested on a false charge and dragged from cliff island by blent, _she_ must bring it about. ruth watched the last flakes of the snow falling with a very serious feeling. the other young folk were delighted with the breaking of the weather. now they could observe logwood better, and its surroundings. the roughly built "shanty-town" was dropped down on the edge of the lake, in a clearing. much of the stumpage around the place was still raw. the only roads were timber roads and they were now knee-deep in fresh snow. there was a dock with a good-sized steamer tied up at it, but there was too much ice for it to be got out into the lake. the railroad came out of the woods on one side and disappeared into just as thick a forest on the other. the interest of the young people, however, lay in the bit of land that loomed up some five miles away. cliff island contained several hundred acres of forest and meadow--all now covered with glittering white. at the nearer end was the new hunting lodge of the tingleys, with the neighboring outbuildings. at the far end the island rose to a rugged promontory perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high, with a single tall pine tree at the apex. that western end of the island seemed to be built of huge boulders for the most part. here and there the rocks were so steep that the snow did not cling to them, and they looked black and raw against the background of dazzling white. the face of the real cliff--because of which the island had received its name--was scarcely visible from logwood. jerry had told ruth it was a very wild and desolate place, and the girl of the red hill could easily believe it. the crowd had left the inn as soon as the clouds began to break and a ray or two of sunshine shone forth. two ox teams were breaking the paths through the town. the boys and girls went down to the dock, singing and shouting. mrs. tingley and the foreman came behind. three other men were making ready a huge punt in which the entire party might be transported to the island. later the punt would return for the extra baggage. this vehicle for water-travel was a shallow, skiff-like boat, almost as broad as it was long, and with a square bow and stern. there was a place for a short mast to be stepped, but, with the lake covered with drifting ice cakes, it was judged safer to depend upon huge sweeps for motive power. with these sweeps, not only could the punt be urged forward at a speed of perhaps two miles an hour, but the ice-cakes could be pushed aside and a channel opened through the drifting mass for the passage of the awkward boat. mr. preston had explained all this to mrs. tingley, who was used to neither the woods nor the lake, and she had agreed that this means of transportation to cliff island was sufficiently safe, though extraordinary. "let's pile in and make a start," urged ralph tingley, eagerly. "why! we won't get there by dark if we don't hurry." "and goodness knows we need to get somewhere to eat before long," cried jennie stone. "i am willing to help propel the boat myself, if they'll show me how." "you might get out and swim, and drag us behind you, heavy," suggested one of the girls. "you're so anxious to get over to the island." they all were desirous of gaining their destination--there could be no doubt of that. as they were getting aboard, however, there came a hail from up the main street of logwood. "hi, yi! don't you folks go without me! hi, preston!" "here comes that blent man," said mrs. tingley, with some disgust. "i suppose we must take him?" "well, i wouldn't advise ye to turn him down, mis' tingley," urged the foreman. "no use making him your enemy. i tell you he's got a big political pull in these parts." "is there room for him?" "yes. and for the fellow with him. that's lem daggett, the constable. oh, rufe is going over with all the legal right on his side. he'll bring jerry back here and shut him up for a few days, i suppose." "but on what charge?" mrs. tingley asked, in some distress. "that won't matter. some trumped-up charge. easy enough to do it when you have a feller like 'squire keller to deal with. oh," said preston, shaking his head, "rufe blent knows what he's about, you may believe!" "who's the old gee-gee with the whiskers?" asked the disrespectful isadore, when the real estate man came down to the dock, with the constable slouching behind him. "hurry up, grandpop!" shouted one of the tingley boys. "this expedition is about to start." blent scowled at the hilarious crowd. it was plain to be seen that any supply of milk of human kindness he may have had was long since soured. ruth caught tom cameron's eye and nodded to him. helen's twin was a very good friend of the girl from the red mill and he quickly grasped her wish to speak with him alone. in a minute he maneuvered so as to get into the stern with his sister's chum, and there ruth whispered to him her fears and desires regarding blent and jerry sheming. "say! we ought to help that fellow. see what he did for jane ann," said tom. "and that old fellow looks so sour he sets my teeth on edge, anyway." "he is going to do a very mean thing," declared ruth, decidedly. "jerry has done nothing wrong, i am sure." "we must beat the old fellow." "but how, tom? they say he is all-powerful here at logwood." "let me think. i'll be back again," replied tom, as the boys called him to come up front. the punt was already under way. preston and his three men worked the craft out slowly into the drifting ice. the grinding of the cakes against the sides of the boat did not frighten any of the passengers--unless perhaps mrs. tingley herself. she felt responsible for the safety of this whole party of her daughter's school friends. the wind was not strong and the drift of the broken ice was slow. therefore there was really no danger to be apprehended. the punt was worked along its course with considerable ease. the boys had to take their turns at the sweeps; but tom found time to slip back to ruth before they were half-way across to the island. "too bad the old fellow doesn't fall overboard," he growled in ruth's ear. "isn't he a snarly old customer?" "but i suppose the constable has the warrant," ruth returned, smiling. "so mr. blent's elimination from the scene would not help jerry much." "i tell you what--you've got to fight fire with fire," observed tom, after a moment of deep reflection. "well? what meanest thou, sir oracle?" "why, they haven't any business to arrest jerry." "agreed." "then let's tip him off so that he can run." "where will he run to?" demanded ruth, eagerly. "say! that's a big island. and i bet he knows his way all over it." "oh! the caves!" exclaimed ruth. "what's that?" "he told me there were caves in it. he can hide in one. and we can get food to him. great, tom--great!" "sure it's great. when your uncle dudley----" "but how are we going to warn jerry to run before this constable catches him?" interposed ruth, with less confidence. "how? you leave that to me," tom returned, mysteriously. chapter xiv the hue and cry ruth and tom cameron had no further opportunity of speaking together until the punt came very close to the island. here the current ran more swiftly and the ice-blocks seemed to have been cleared away. there was a new stone dock, and up the slight rise from it, about a hundred yards back from the shore, was the heavily-framed lodge. it consisted of two stories, the upper one extending over the lower. big beams crossed at the corners of this upper story and the outer walls were of roughly hewn logs. the great veranda was arranged for screening, in the summer, but now the west side was enclosed with glass. it was an expensive and comfortable looking camp. there were several men on the dock as the punt came in, but jerry sheming was not in sight. tom had, from time to time, been seen whispering with the boys. they all now gathered in the bow of the slowly moving punt, ready to leap ashore the moment she bumped into the dock. "do be careful, boys," begged mrs. tingley. "don't fall into the water, or get hurt. i certainly shall be glad when mr. tingley comes up for christmas and takes all this responsibility off my hands." "don't have any fear for us, mrs. tingley, i beg," said tom. "we're only going to scramble ashore, and the first fellow who reaches the house is the best man. now, fellows!" the punt bumped. such a scrambling as there was! ann hicks showed her suppleness by being one of the first to land and beating some of the boys; but she did not run with them. "they might have stayed and helped us girls--and mrs. tingley--to land," complained helen. "i don't see what tom was thinking of." but all of a sudden ruth had an idea that she understood tom's lack of gallantry. jerry sheming, not being at the dock to meet the newcomers, must be at the house. the boys, it proved later, had agreed to help "tip" jerry. the first fellow to see him was to tell him of the approach of blent and the constable. therefore, when rufus blent and lem daggett reached the lodge, nobody seemed to know anything about jerry. tom winked knowingly at ruth. "i tell ye, preston, i gotter take that boy back to logwood with me," shouted blent, who seemed greatly excited. "where are you hidin' the rascal?" "you know very well i came over with you in the boat and walked up here with you, blent," growled the foreman, in some anger. "how could i hide him?" "but the cook, nor nobody, knows what's become of him. he was here peelin' 'taters for supper, cookie says, jest b'fore we landed. now he's sloped." "he saw you comin', it's likely," rejoined preston. "he suspected what you was after." "well, i'm goin' to leave daggett. and, lem!" "yes, sir?" said that slouching person. "you got to get him. now mind that. the boy's to 'pear in 'squire keller's court to-morrow--or something will happen," threatened the real estate man. "and if he don't appear, what then?" drawled preston, who was more amused by the old man than afraid of him. "you'd better not interfere with the course of the law, preston," declared blent, shaking his head. "you bet i won't. especially the brand of law that's handed a feller by your man, keller. but i don't know nothing about the boy nor where he's gone. i don't wanter know, either. "and none of they rest o' you wanter harbor that thief," snarled blent, viciously, looking around at the gaping hired men and the boys who had come to visit cliff island. "the law's got a long arm. 'member that!" "will we be breaking the law if we don't report this poor fellow to the constable here, if we see him?" asked tom cameron, boldly. "you bet you will. and i'll see that you're punished if ye harbor or help the rascal. don't think because tingley's a rich man, and your fathers have probably more money than is good for them, that you will escape," said blent. "i don't believe he's so powerful as he makes out to be," grumbled tom, later, to ruth. "_i_ was the one who caught jerry and whispered for him to get out. i didn't have to say much to him. he was wise about blent." "where did he go?" asked the eager ruth, quickly. "i don't know. i didn't want to know--and you don't, either." "but suppose something happens to him?" objected the girl, fearfully. "why, he knows all about this island. you said so yourself. i just told him we'd get some grub to him to-morrow." "how?" "told him we'd leave it at the foot of that tall pine at the far end of the island. then he slipped out of the kitchen and disappeared." but blent was a crafty old party and did not easily give up the pursuit of the young fellow he had come to the island to nab. the coat of fresh snow over everything made tracking the fugitive an easy task. after a few minutes of sputtering anger, the real estate man organized a pursuit of jerry. he made sure that the forest youth had run out of the kitchen at about the time the visitors came up from the dock. "he ain't got a long start," said blent to his satellite, the constable. "let's see if he didn't leave tracks." he had. there was still an hour of daylight, although the winter evening was closing in rapidly. jerry had left by the back door of the lodge and had gone straight across the yard, through the unbroken snow, to the bunkhouse used by the male help. there he had stopped for his rifle and shotgun, and ammunition. indeed, he had taken everything that belonged to him, and, loaded down with this loot, had gone right up the hill, keeping in the scrub so as to be hidden from the big house, and had so passed over the rising ground toward the middle of the island. "the track is plain enough," blent said. "ain't ye got a dog, preston? we could foller him all night." "not with our dogs," declared the foreman. "why not?" "don't think the boss would like it. we don't keep dogs to hunt men with." "you better take care how you try to block the law," threatened the old man. "that boy's goin' to be caught." "not with these dogs," grunted preston. "you can put _that_ in your pipe and smoke it." blent and the constable went off over the ridge. ruth was so much interested that she stole out to follow them, and ann hicks overtook her before she had gotten far up the track. "ruth fielding! whatever are you doing?" demanded the girl from the montana ranch. "don't you know it will soon be night? mrs. tingley says for you to come back." "do you suppose those horrid men will find jerry?" "no, i don't," replied ann, shortly. "and if they do----" "oh! you're not as interested in him as i am," sighed ruth. "i am sure he is honest and that mr. blent is telling lies about him. i--i want to see that they don't abuse him if they catch him." "abuse him! and he a backwoods boy, with two guns?" snorted ann. "why, he wouldn't even let them arrest him, i don't suppose. _i_ wouldn't if i were jerry." "but that would be dreadful," sighed ruth. "let's go a little farther, ann." dusk was falling, however, and when they got down the far side of the ridge they came to a swift, open water-course. blent and the constable were evidently "stumped." blent was snarling at their ill-luck. "he's took to the water--that's all _i_ know," drawled lem daggett, the constable. "ye see, there ain't a mark in the snow on 'tother side." "him wadin' in that ice-cold stream in mid-winter," grunted blent. "ain't he a scoundrel?" "can't do nothin' more to-night," announced the constable, who didn't like the job any too well, it was evident. "and dorgs wouldn't do us no good." "ha! ye know what ye gotter do," threatened blent. "i'm goin' back to town when the punt goes this evenin'. but you stay here, an' you git the hue an' cry out after him to-morrer bright and early. "i don't want him rummagin' around this island at all. you understand? not at all! it's up to you to git him, lem daggett." daggett grunted and followed his master back to the lodge. the girls went on before and ruth was delighted that, for a time, at least, jerry was to have his freedom. "if it froze over solid in the night he could get to the mainland from the other end of the island, and then they'd never find him," she confided to tom. but when morning came the surface of the lake was still a mass of loose and shifting ice. lem demanded of mrs. tingley the help of all the men at the camp, and they started right away after breakfast to "comb" the island in a thorough manner. there wasn't a trace near the running stream to show in which direction the fugitive had gone. had jerry gone up stream he could have reached the very heart of the rough end of the island without leaving the water-trail. a party of the boys, with ruth, helen, and ann hicks, stole out of the lodge after the main searching party, and struck off for the high point where the lone pine tree grew. "i'd hate to think we'd draw that constable over there and help him to catch jerry," said bobbins. "we won't," tom replied. "we are just going to leave the tin box of grub for him. he probably won't come out of hiding and try to get the food until this foolish constable has given up the chase. and i put the food in the tin box so that no prowling animal would get it instead of jerry." it was hard traveling in the snow, for the party of young folk had not thought to obtain snowshoes. "we'll string some when we go back," tom promised. "i know there are some frames all ready." "but no more such tobogganing as we had last winter up at snow camp," declared busy izzy, with deep feeling. "remember the spill i had with ruth and that heavy girl? gee! that was some spill." "the land here is too rough for good sliding," said tom. "but i wish the lake would freeze hard again. ralph says there are a couple of good scooters, and we all have our skates." "and the fishing!" exclaimed helen, eagerly. "i _do_ so want to fish through the ice again." "oh! we're bound to have a bully good time," declared bobbins. "but we'll do this jerry sheming a good turn, too, if we can." chapter xv over the precipice under the soft snow that had fallen the day before was a hard-packed layer that had come earlier in the season and made a firm footing for the explorers. ruth and her chum, with ann hicks, were quite as good walkers as the boys. at any rate, the three girls determined not to be at the end of the procession. the constable and his unwilling helpers (for none of the men about the tingley camp cared to see jerry sheming in trouble) were hunting the banks of the stream higher up for traces of the trail the boy had taken when he ran away from rufus blent the previous afternoon. therefore the girls and boys who had started for the rendezvous at the lone pine, were able to put the wooded ridge between them and the constable's party, and so make their way unobserved toward the western end of cliff island. "they may come back and follow us," growled tom. "but they'll be some way behind, and we'll hurry. i have a note in this tin box warning jerry what he must look out for. as long as that lem daggett is on the island, i suppose he will be in danger of arrest." "it is just as mean as it can be!" gasped helen, plodding on. "the boys wouldn't leave much o' that constable if they caught him playin' tag for such a man as blent, at bullhide," ann hicks declared, with warmth. "this blent," said bobbins, seriously, "seems to have everybody about logwood buffaloed. what do you suppose your father will say to the constable taking the men with him this morning to hunt jerry down?" this question he put to ralph tingley and the latter flushed angrily. "you wait!" he exclaimed. "father will be angry, i bet. i told mother not to let the men have anything to do with the hunt, but you know how women are. she was afraid. she said that if blent and the constable were within their legal rights----" "all bosh!" snapped isadore phelps. "i do not think mrs. tingley would have let them go with daggett if she'd had the least idea they would be able to find jerry," observed helen, sagely. "and they won't," put in ruth, with assurance. "i know he can hide away on this island like a fox in a burrow." "but he'll find it mighty cold sleeping out, this weather," remarked bobbins. "he sure will!" agreed tom. the party went ahead as rapidly as possible, but even the stronger of the boys found it hard to climb the steeper ascents through the deep snow. "crackey!" exclaimed isadore. "i know i'm slipping back two steps to every one i get ahead." "nonsense, izzy," returned helen. "for if you did _that_, you had better turn around and travel the other way; then you'd back up the hill!" they had to wait and rest every few yards. the rocks were so huge that they often had to go out of the way for some distance to get around them. although it could not be more than five miles, as the crow flies, from the lodge to the lone pine, in two hours they still had the hardest part of the journey before them. "i had no idea we should be so long at it," tom confessed. "it's lucky heavy didn't come with us," chuckled helen. "why?" "she would have been starved to death before this, and the idea of going the rest of the distance before turning back for home and luncheon would have destroyed her reason, i am sure." "then," said ruth, amused by this extravagant language, "poor heavy would have been first dead and then crazy! consider an insane corpse!" they came out at last upon the foot of the last ascent. the eminence seemed to be a smooth, cone-shaped hill. on it grew a number of trees, but the enormous old pine, lightning-riven and dead at the top, stood much taller than any of the other trees. here and there they caught glimpses of chasms and steep ravines that seemed to split the rocky island to the edge of the water. when the snow did not cover the ground there might be paths to follow, but at this time the young explorers had to use their judgment in climbing the heights as best they might. the boys had to help the girls up the steeper places, with all their independence, and even ann admitted that their male comrades were "rather handy to have about." the old pine tree sprang out of a little hollow in the hill. behind it was the peak of the island, and from this highest spot the party obtained an unobstructed view of the whole western end of tallahaska. "it's one big old lake," sighed isadore phelps. "if it would only just freeze over, boys, and give us a chance to try out the iceboats!" "if it keeps on being as cold as it was this morning, and the wind dies down, there'll be all the ice you want to see to-morrow," declared ralph tingley. "goodness! let's get down from this exposed place. i'm 'most frozen." "shall we stop and make a fire here, girls, and warm up before we return?" asked tom cameron. "and draw that constable right to this place where you want to leave jerry's tin box?" cried his sister. "no, indeed!" "we'd better keep moving, anyway," ruth urged. "less danger of frost-bite. the wind _is_ keen." tom had already placed the box of food in a sheltered spot. "the meat will be frozen as solid as a rock, i s'pose," he grumbled. "i hope that poor fellow has some way of making a fire in his hide-out." they began to retrace their steps. instead of following exactly the same path they had used in climbing to the summit, tom struck off at an angle, believing he saw an easier way. his companions followed him in single file. ruth happened to be the last of all to come down the smooth slope. the seven ahead of her managed to tramp quite a smooth track through the snow, and once or twice she slipped in stepping in their footprints. "look out back there, ruthie!" called tom, from the lead. "the snow must have got balled on your boots. knock it off----" his speech was halted by a startled cry from ruth. she felt herself going and threw out both hands to say her sudden slide. but there was nothing for her hands to seize save the unstable snow itself. she fell on her side, and shot out from the narrow track her companions had trod. "ruth!" shrieked helen, in the wildest kind of dismay. but the girl of the red mill was already out of reach. the drifting snow had curled out over the brink of the tall rock across the brow of which tom had unwisely led the way. they had not realized they were so near the verge of the precipice. ruth's body was solid, and when she fell in the snow the undercrust broke like an eggshell. amid a cloud of snow-dust she shot over the yawning edge of the chasm and disappeared. several square yards of the snow-drift had broken away. at their very feet fell the unexpected precipice. the boys and girls shrank back from the peril with terrified cries, clinging to each other. "she is killed!" moaned helen, and covered her face with her mittened hands. "ruth! ruth!" called tom, charging back toward the broken snow-drift. but bobbins caught and held him. "don't make a fool of yourself, old man!" commanded the big fellow. "you can't help her by falling over the cliff yourself." "oh! how deep can that place be?" gasped ralph tingley. "what will mother say?" cried his brother. "ruth! ruth!" shouted ann hicks, and dropped on her knees to crawl to the edge. "you'll be down there yourself, ann!" exclaimed helen, sobbing. "a couple of you useless boys grab me by the ankles," commanded the western girl. "come! take a good hold. now let me see----" she hung half over the verge of the rock. the fall was sheer for fifty feet at least. it was a narrow cut in the hill, with apparently unscalable sides and open only toward the lake. "i--i don't see a thing," panted the girl. "shout again," urged helen. "let's all shout together!" cried isadore. "now!" they raised their voices in a long, lingering yell. again and again they repeated it. they thought nothing now of the possibility of attracting the constable and his companions to the scene. meanwhile nothing but the echoes replied to their hail. down there in the chasm ann hicks saw no sign of the lost girl. the bottom of the place seemed heaped high with snow. "she plunged right into the drift, and perhaps she's smothered down there," gasped ann. "oh! what shall we do?" "if it's a deep drift ruth may not be hurt at all," cried tom. "do let me look, ann. that's a good girl." the western girl was drawn back and the boy took her place. bobbins and ralph tingley let tom slide farther over the verge of the precipice than they had ann. "she went down feet first," panted tom. "there isn't an obstruction she could have hit. she must have dropped right into the snowbank in the bottom--ruth! ruth fielding!" but even his sharp eyes could discover no mark in the snow. nothing of the lost girl appeared above the drift at the foot of this sheer cliff. she might have been smothered under the snow, as ann suggested. and yet, that scarcely seemed probable. surely the fall into the soft drift could not have injured ruth fatally. she must have had strength enough to struggle to the surface of the snow. her disappearance was a most mysterious thing. when tom crept back from the brink of the precipice and stood on his feet again, they all stared at one another in growing wonder. "what could have happened to her down there?" groaned helen, her own amazement stifling her sobs. chapter xvi hide and seek ruth had fallen with but a single shriek. from top to bottom of the precipice had been such a swift descent that she could not cry out a second time. and the great bank of snow into which she had plunged did--as ann suggested--smother her. the shock of dropping fifty feet through the air, and landing without experiencing anything more dangerous than a greatly accelerated heart-action was enough, of itself, to make the girl of the red mill dumb for the moment. she heard faintly the frightened cries of her companions, and she struggled to get to the surface of the great, soft heap of snow that had saved her from instant death. then she heard a voice pronounce her name, and a hand was thrust into the snow bank and seized her shoulder. "ruth fielding! miss ruth! that come nigh to being your last jump, that did!" "jerry sheming!" gasped the girl, as he drew her out of the snow. "in here--quick! are they after me?" ruth shook the snow from her eyes. she was like a half-drowned person suddenly coming to the surface. "where--where are we?" she whispered. "all right! this is one of my hide-outs. is that old blent up yonder?" "oh, jerry! he's not on the island to-day. he's left the constable----" "lem daggett?" "yes. they are searching for you. but i was with tom and helen and the others. we brought you some food----" he led her along a narrow shelf, which had been swept quite free of snow. now a hollow in the rock-wall opened before them, and there a little fire of sticks burned, an old buffalo robe lay nearby, and there were other evidences of the fugitive's camp. ruth was shaking now, but not from the cold. the shock of her fall had begun to awaken the nervous terror which is the afterclap of such an adventure. so near she had been to death! "you are sick, miss ruth?" exclaimed jerry. "oh, no! oh, no!" repeated the girl of the red mill. "but so--so frightened." "nothin' to be frightened over now," he returned, smiling broadly. "but you _did_ miss it close. if that pile of snow hadn't sifted down there yesterday----" "i know!" burst out ruth. "it was providential." "you girls and boys want to be careful climbing around these rocks," said jerry sheming, gravely. at that moment the chorus of shouts from above reached their ears. ruth turned about and her lips opened. she would have replied, but the backwoods boy leaped across the fire and seized her arm. "don't make a sound!" he exclaimed. "oh! jerry----" "if that constable hears----" "he isn't with us, i tell you," said ruth. "but wait. he might hear. i don't want him to find this place," spoke the boy, eagerly. "he may be within hearing." "no. i think not," ruth explained. then she told jerry of the morning's hunt for him and the course followed by both parties. he shook his head for a moment, and then ran to a shelf at the other side of the little cavern. "i'll communicate with your friends. i'll make them understand. but we mustn't shout. lem daggett may be within hearing." "but i can't stay with you here, jerry," objected the girl. "of course you can't, miss. i will get you out--another way. you'll see. but we'll explain to your friends above and they will stop yelling then. if they keep on that way they'll draw lem daggett here, if he isn't already snooping around." meanwhile jerry had found a scrap of paper and a pencil. he hurriedly wrote a few lines upon the paper. then he produced a heavy bow and a long arrow. the message he tied around the shank of the arrow. "oh! can you shoot with that?" cried ruth, much interested. "reckon so," grinned jerry. "uncle pete wouldn't give me much powder and shot when i was a kid. and finally i could bring home a bigger bag of wild turkeys than he could, and all i had to get 'em with was this bow'n'arrer." he strung the bow, and ruth saw that it took all his strength to do it. the boys and girls were still shouting for her in a desultory fashion. jerry laid his finger on his lips, nodded at his visitor, and stepped swiftly out of sight along the cleared shelf of rock. ruth left the fire to peer after him. she saw him bend the bow and saw the swift flight of the arrow as it shot out of the chasm and curved out of sight beyond the broken edge of the snow-wreath which masked the summit of the cliff. she heard the clamor of her friends' voices as they saw the arrow shoot over their heads. then they were silent. jerry ran back to her and unstrung the bow, putting it away in its niche. but from the same place he produced a blue-barrelled rifle. "i know you won't tell blent, or any of them, how to reach me, miss ruth," he said, looking at her with a smile. "i guess not!" exclaimed the girl. "i am going to show you the way out--to the other end. i wish you were wearing rubber boots like me." "why?" "so you could wade in the stream when we come to it. that's how i threw them off the track," explained jerry, laughing. "why, i know this old island better than uncle pete himself knowed it." "and yet you haven't found the box you say your uncle hid?" asked ruth, curiously. "no. i never knowed anything about it until blent came to drive us off and swore that uncle pete had never had nothin' but 'squatter rights.' but i'm not sure that i couldn't find that place where uncle pete hid his treasure box--if i had time to hunt for it," added jerry, gravely. "that's what mr. blent is afraid of," declared ruth, with conviction. "that's why he is afraid of your being here on the island." "you bet it is, miss." "and we boys and girls will do everything we can to help you, jerry," ruth assured him, warmly. "if you think you can find the place where your uncle hid his papers----" "but suppose i find them and the papers show that this mr. tingley hasn't a clear title to the island?" demanded the backwoods boy, looking at the girl of the red mill sharply. "why should _that_ make a difference?" asked ruth, coolly. "well--you know how some of these rich folks be," returned the boy, dropping his gaze. "when it comes to hittin' their pocketbooks----" "that has nothing to do with it. right is right." "uh-huh!" grunted jerry. "but sometimes they don't want to lose money any quicker than a poor man. if he's paid for the island----" "i don't see how he can lose," declared ruth, quickly. "if blent has claimed a title that cannot be proved, blent will have to lose." "i bet mr. tingley didn't buy without having the title searched," observed jerry. "blent's covered his tracks. he'll declare he was within his rights, probably having bought uncle pete's share of the island through some dummy. you know, when deeds aren't recorded, it's mighty hard to establish them as valid. i know. i axed our town clerk. and he is one man that ain't under blent's thumb." "i don't believe mr. tingley is a man who would stand idle and see you cheated even if he lost money through defending you," said ruth, firmly. "do you know him?" "no. i have never met him," ruth admitted. "but his wife is a very nice lady. and belle and the boys----" "business is business," interrupted jerry, shaking his head. "i don't want tingley to know where i be--yet awhile, anyway." "but may i talk with him about you?" "why--if you care enough to, miss ruth." "of course i do," cried the girl. "didn't i tell you we all want to help you?" and she stamped her foot upon the warm rock. "we'll bring you food, too. we'll see that the constable doesn't get you." "well, it's mighty nice of you," admitted the suspicious young woodsman. "now, come on. i'll take you through my hide-out to the creek. i told your friends you'd meet 'em there, and we want to get there by the time they arrive." "oh, jerry! that's a long way off," cried ruth. "not so very long by the way we'll travel," he returned, with a laugh. and this proved to be true. jerry lighted a battered oil lantern and with his rifle in the other hand led the way. a narrow passage opened out of the back of this almost circular cave. part of the time they traveled through a veritable tunnel. at other times ruth saw the clear sky far above them as they passed along deep cuts in the hills. the descent was continuous, but gradual. such a path wild animals might have traveled in times past. originally it was probably a water-course. the action of the water had eaten out the softer rock until almost a direct passage had been made from the bottom of the cliff where ruth had fallen to the edge of the swift stream that ran through the middle of the island. they came out behind a screen of thick brush through which ruth could see the far bank of the brook, but through which nobody outside could see. jerry set down the lantern, and later leaned the rifle against the wall when he had made sure that nobody was in sight. "i am going to carry you a ways, miss ruth," he said, "if you don't mind. you see, i must walk in the stream or they will find this entrance to my hide-out." "but--can you carry me?" "i bet you! if you only wore rubber boots i'd let you walk. come on, please." "oh! i am not afraid," she told him, quietly, and allowed him to take her into his arms after he had stepped down into the shallow, swiftly lowing current. "this water-trail confuses men and dogs completely," said jerry, with a laugh. "that is--such men as lem daggett. if _i_ was hunting a fellow who took to the stream, with the water so shallow, i'd find which way he went in a jiffy." "how would you?" demanded ruth, feeling perfectly secure in the strong arms of the young fellow. "that's telling," chuckled jerry. "mebbe--some time--i'll tell you. i hoped i'd get the chance of showing you and your friends around this island. but i guess i won't." "perhaps you will. and if there is anything we can do to help you----" "just one thing you might do," remarked jerry, finally setting her upright upon a flat rock on the side of the stream nearest the hunting camp, and some distance away from the secret entrance to his hide-out. "oh! what is that?" cried ruth, eagerly. "find me a pickax, or a mattock, and put it right here on this rock. do it at night, so no one will see you. good bye, miss!" he exclaimed, and hurried away. in another minute he had disappeared behind the screen of bushes, and ruth heard the glad shouts of her friends as they came over the ridge and saw her standing safe and sound beside the stream. chapter xvii christmas morning "how under the sun did you get here, ruth?" helen shouted the moment she saw her chum. "did that jerry sheming bring you?" demanded ann. the other members of the party were quite as anxious to learn the particulars of her adventure, and when they had crossed on the stepping stones, they gathered about her eagerly. ruth would tell just so much and no more. she explained how she had fallen into the snow-drift at the foot of the cliff, how jerry had heard her scream and pulled her out. but beyond that she only said he had left her here to wait their coming. "you needn't be so mysterious, miss!" ejaculated helen, rather piqued. "i guess she doesn't want to say anything about his hide-out that might lead to his being hunted out by lem daggett," observed the wise tom. "but jerry signed his name to the note he tied on the arrow." "and we sure were surprised when we saw that arrow shoot up from the depths," said isadore. "what do you suppose mother will say?" cried one of the tingley boys. "don't let's tell her," suggested ruth, quickly. "there's no need. it will only add to her worries and she will be troubled enough by us as it is." "but----" "you see, i'm not a bit hurt," insisted ruth. "and the less we talk about the matter the less likely we shall be to drop something that may lead to the discovery of jerry sheming's hiding place." "oh, well, if you put it that way," agreed ralph. "i suppose mother will have all the trouble she wants. and maybe if she knew, she'd keep you girls away from this end of the island." they tramped home to a late luncheon. it was so very cold that afternoon and evening that they were only too glad to remain in the house and "hug the fire." the inclement weather drove lem daggett and the men indoors, too. the constable had to go back to logwood without his prisoner, and he evidently feared the anger of rufus blent. "i want to warn ye, mis' tingley," he said to the lady of the lodge, shaking his head, "that when blent sets out ter do a thing, he does it. that boy's got to be found, and he's got to be kep' off this island." "i will see what my husband says when he comes," replied mrs. tingley, firmly. "i will not allow our men to chase the poor fellow further." "you'd better ketch him and signal us at logwood. run up that flag on the pole outside. i'll know what you mean." "mr. tingley will decide when he comes," was all the satisfaction the lady gave the constable. after he had gone, mrs. tingley told ruth she hoped no harm would come to the poor boy, "sleeping out in the cold alone." "oh, mrs. tingley! i know he has a warm, dry place to sleep, and plenty of firewood--heaps and heaps of it." "you seem to know a good deal about him," the lady commented. "yes, i do," admitted ruth, honestly. "more about him and where he is hiding than he would care to have me tell you." so mrs. tingley did not catechise the girl further upon the subject of the fugitive. just because they were shut in was no reason why the house party on cliff island should not have an extraordinarily good time. they played games and had charades that evening. they had a candy pull, too, but unlike that famous one at snow camp the winter before, busy izzy phelps did not get a chance to put the walnut shells into the taffy instead of the kernels. the wind died down and it grew desperately cold during the night. the mercury soon left the zero point so far above that it threatened to be lost for the rest of the winter. they awoke the next morning to find the island chained fast to the mainland by old jack frost's fetters. a sheet of new ice extended for some hundreds of yards all around cliff island. farther out the ice was of rougher texture, but that near at hand was clear and black. out came the skates soon after breakfast, and everybody but mercy went down to the lake. later the boys made the lame girl and mrs. tingley come, too, and they arranged chairs in which the two non-skaters could be pushed over the smooth surface. hockey was the game for the afternoon, and two "sides" were chosen to oppose each other, one of the boys and another of the girls. although ann hicks had never had a hockey stick in her hand before, she quickly got into the game, and they all had a very merry time. the day before ruth had not been able to find the implement that jerry sheming had spoken about, nor could she find a mattock, or pickax, on this second day. if she went to the toolshed and hunted for the thing herself she was afraid her quest would be observed by some of the men. she located the place where the tools were kept, but the shed was locked. however, there was a window, and that window could be easily slid back. ruth shrank from attempting to creep in by it. "just the same, i told him i'd get it--at least, i told myself i'd get it for him," thought the girl of the red mill. "and i will." of course, mrs. tingley would have allowed her to borrow the tool, but it would have aroused comment had it become known that jerry wanted it. "it must be that he really thinks now he knows where his uncle hid the treasure box. he wants to dig for it," was ruth's thought. yet she remembered that jerry had said all along the old man had seemingly gone mad because his treasure box was buried under a landslide. she asked mr. preston, the foreman of the camp, where the landslide had occurred. "why, right over yonder, little lady," explained the woodsman. "if the snow wasn't on the ground, you could easy see the scar of it down that hillside," and he pointed to a spot just beyond the secret opening of jerry's cave. "the dirt and rock was heaped up so at the foot of the slide that the course of the brook was changed. that slide covered a monster lot of little caves in the rock," pursued the man. "but i expect there's others of 'em left and that jerry's hidin' out in one now," he added, looking at ruth with shrewd gaze. ruth took him no further into her confidence. she felt that she must have somebody to help her, however, and naturally enough she chose tom. helen's twin thought a great deal of ruth fielding, and was never ashamed of showing this feeling before the other boys. on her side, ruth felt that tom cameron was just about right. nor was she mistaken in him when she placed her difficulty before the lad. help her? of course he would! they agreed to make the raid upon the toolshed that evening when the others were busily filling stockings and trimming the huge christmas tree set up in the main hall of the hunting lodge. ruth beckoned to her fellow-conspirator and tom slipped out of the hall by one door while she made the outer air by another. the kitchen girls and the men hired about the camp were all in the big hall watching the fun, or aiding in decorating the lodge. nobody saw ruth and tom. it was a very cold evening. there was a hazy moon and brilliant stars, but they did not think anybody would see their efforts to aid jerry sheming. nevertheless, ruth and tom were very circumspect. they crept behind the toolshed and looked all about to make sure that nobody was watching. there was no light in the bunkhouse or in the cook's cabin. although the toolshed was so carefully locked, ruth knew that the window could be opened. tom quickly slipped back the sash, and then dived into the dark interior of the place, head first. the moment he was on his feet, however, he drew from his pocket the electric spotlight he had supplied himself with, and flashed the ray about the shed. "good! here's either one you want--pickax or mattock," were the words he whispered to ruth. "which do you suppose he would like best?" "a mattock is more practical, i believe," said tom. "'maddox,' they call it. we had a fellow working for us once who called it a 'mad-ax.' it has a broad blade and can be used to chop as well as dig." "never mind giving a lecture on it," laughed ruth, very softly, "hand it out." tom chuckled and did as he was bid. in a minute he was with her and picked up the heavy implement. "i hope they don't come hunting for us," said the girl of the red mill, breathlessly. "we must take that risk. come on, ruth. or do you want me to take it down to the brookside alone?" "i want to go along, too. oh, dear! i do hope he will find it." "i have another cracker box full of food for him," said tom. "i reckon he will be on the lookout for the pick, so he'll find the food, too." after a good deal of climbing, they reached the flat rock by the brookside where jerry sheming had requested ruth to leave the mattock. there was no sign of the fugitive about. ruth did not tell tom where the mouth of the secret tunnel lay--nor did tom ask for information. as they hurried back, mounting the ridge that separated the lodge and its outbuildings from the middle of the island, ruth, looking back, suddenly grabbed tom's hand. "see! see there!" she cried. tom looked in the direction to which she pointed. the stars gave light enough for them to see miles across the ice. several black figures were hurrying toward the western end of the island from the direction of the mainland--the southern shore of the lake. "who do you suppose those men are?" asked ruth, faintly. tom shook his head slowly. "i expect it's lem daggett, the constable, and others to hunt for poor jerry. i feel almost sure that the man in the lead is daggett." "isn't that mean?" exclaimed ruth, her voice shaking. "it is. but i don't believe they will find jerry very easily." just the same, ruth was not to be comforted. she was very quiet all the rest of the evening. her absence, and tom's, had not been noticed. the crowd went to bed before eleven, having spent a most delightful christmas eve. ruth sat at a window that overlooked a part of the island. once she saw the men who had crossed from the mainland climbing the hill toward the lone pine. "i hope they won't find a trace of him!" she murmured as she popped into bed. ruth slept as soundly as any of her mates. a clanging bell at six o'clock aroused the whole household. the sun was not yet up, but there was a streak of gold across the eastern sky. it was christmas morning. ruth ran again to the west window. a pillar of smoke rose straight from a hollow on the higher part of the island. the searching party was still there. there was no time now to think of jerry sheming and his affairs. the girls raced to see who should dress first. downstairs there were "loads" of presents waiting for them, so belle declared. "come on!" cried heavy, leading the way. "ready all? march!" the nine girls started through the hall and down the broad stairway in single file. heavy began to cheer and the others chimed in: "'s.b.--ah-h-h! s.b.--ah-h-h! sound our battle-cry near and far! s.b.--all! briarwood hall! sweetbriars, do or die-- this be our battle-cry-- briarwood hall! _that's all_!'" so sounding the sweetbriars' challenge, they met the grinning boys at the foot of the flight, before the huge, sparkling tree. "gee!" exclaimed tom. "i'm mighty glad i suggested that name for your secret society, ruth. 'sweetbriars'--it just fits you." chapter xviii fun on the ice of course, the girls had prepared one another's presents long before. each had been tied in a queer bundle so, in trimming the tree, the nature of the contents could not be guessed. the oddest shaped things hung from the branches of the christmas tree, and the boys had excelled in making up these "surprise packages." mrs. tingley handed the presents out, while the boys lifted them down for her. a long, tightly rolled parcel, which looked as though it ought to contain an umbrella, and was marked "to helen from tom," finally proved to contain a jeweler's box, in which nestled a pretty ring, which delighted his twin. a large, flat package, big enough to hold a large kite, was carefully opened by belle, who finally found in it, among the many tissue wrappings, a pretty set of hair combs set with stones. in a roughly-done-up parcel was a most disreputable old shoe addressed to lluella. she was going to throw it out, but the boys advised her so strongly not to that she finally burrowed to the toe and found, to her amazement, a gold bracelet. there was a good-sized box for ann hicks--just as it had come from the express office at lumberton a week before. having been addressed in mrs. tellingham's care, the western girl had known nothing about it. now it was opened last. it had come all the way from silver ranch, of course. such a set of furs no girl at briarwood possessed. there were a number of other presents from the cowboys, from mrs. sally, and from bashful ike himself. ann was so pleased and touched that she ran away to hide her tears. there were presents for each of the girls and boys who had been at bullhide the previous summer. bill hicks had forgotten nobody, and, as mrs. tellingham had once said, the ranchman certainly was a generous man. no member of the house party was overlooked on this bright christmas morning. mercy's presents were as costly and numerous as those of any other girl. besides, the lame girl had been able to give her mates beautiful little keepsakes that expressed her love for them quite as much as would have articles that cost more money. her presents to the boys were funny, including a jumping jack on a stick to isadore, the face of which mercy had whittled out and painted to look a good deal like the features of that active youth. for two hours the young folk reveled in their presents. then suddenly heavy smelled the breakfast coffee and she led the charge to the long dining room. they were in the midst of the meal when mr. tingley himself arrived, having reached logwood on the early train and driven across the ice in a sleigh. the tingley young people met him hilariously. he was a big, bewhiskered man, with a jolly laugh and amiable manner. his eye could flash, too, if need be, ruth judged. and almost at once she had an opportunity of seeing him stern. "what crowd is that over at the west end of the island?" he asked his wife. "i see they have a fire. there must be four or five men there. is it some of blent's doings?" "oh, dad!" cried ralph tingley, eagerly. "you ought to stop that. those fellows are hunting jerry sheming." "who is jerry sheming?" he asked, quickly. mrs. tingley explained briefly. "i remember now," said her husband. "and this is the young lady who spoke a good word for the boy in the first place?" and he beckoned the eager ruth to them. "what have you to say for your protégé now, miss?" "everything that is good," declared the girl of the red mill, quickly. "i am sure he is not at all the sort of boy this man blent would have you believe. and perhaps, mr. tingley, his old uncle _may_ have had some title to a part of this island." "that puts _me_ in bad, then--eh?" chuckled mr. tingley. "unless mr. blent has cheated you, sir," suggested ruth, hesitatingly. "he's a foxy old fellow. but i believe i have safeguarded myself. this trouble about something being buried on the island--well! i don't know about that." "i believe jerry really has some idea now where his uncle put the box. even if the old hunter _was_ crazy, he might have had some valuables. and surely jerry has a better right to the box than blent," ruth said, indignantly. "i'll see about that. just as soon as i have had breakfast, i'll take preston and go over and interview this gang of blent's henchmen. i am not at all sure that he has any right to hunt the boy down, warrant or no warrant!" that was when he looked grim and his eyes flashed. ruth felt that her friend's father was just the man to give jerry sheming a fair deal if he had the chance. when the boys proposed getting out the two iceboats and giving the girls a sail (for the wind was fresh), ruth was as eager as the others to join in the sport. not all the girls would trust themselves to the scooters, but there were enough who went down to the ice to make an exceedingly hilarious party. ralph tingley and tom cameron were the best pilots. the small iceboats were built so that two passengers could ride beside the steersman and sheet tender. so the girls took turns in racing up and down the smooth ice on the south side of the island. ruth and helen liked to go together with tom, who had busy izzy to tend sheet. it was "no fair" if one party traveled farther than from the dock to the mouth of the creek and back again. the four friends--ruth and her chum, and tom and busy izzy--were making their second trip over the smooth course. bobbins, with his sister and the fox, and ralph tingley, manned the other boat. the two swift craft had a splendid race to the mouth of that brook which, because of its swiftness, still remained unshackled by the frost. the shallow stream of water poured down over the rocks into the lake, but there was only a small open place at the point where the brook emptied into its waters into the larger and more placid body. when the two iceboats swung about, the one bobbins manned got away at once and swiftly passed down the lake. the sheet fouled in tom's boat. busy izzy had to drop the sail and the boat was brought to a halt. "there are mr. tingley and preston going over to talk to the constable and his crowd," remarked isadore. "see yonder?" "i hope he sends those men off the island. i don't see what right they have here, anyway," helen exclaimed. "if only jerry knows enough to keep under cover while they are here," said tom, looking meaningly at ruth. they both wondered if the fugitive had ventured out of his cave to find the mattock and box of food they had left for him the evening before. the craft was under way again in a minute or two, and they swept down the course in the wake of the other boat. suddenly the sharp crack of a rifle echoed across the island. helen screamed. ruth risked the boom and sat up to look behind. "there's a fight!" yelled busy izzy. "i believe they're after jerry." they saw mr. tingley and preston hastening their steps toward the brook. as the iceboat swept out farther from the shore, the four friends aboard her could see several men running in the same direction. one bore a smoking gun in his hand. "right towards that rock, ruthie!" gasped tom, venturing a glance behind him. "what rock do you mean?" demanded his sister. "the rock where you folks found me the other day. it's near the opening to jerry's cave. i see them!" "'ware boom!" yelled tom, and shifted his helm. the great sail went slowly over; the iceboat swooped around like a great bird skimming the ice. then, in a minute, it was headed back up the lake toward the scene of the trouble. another rifle shot echoed across the ice. chapter xix blent is master ruth was truly frightened, and so was her chum. could it be possible that those rough men dared fire their guns at jerry sheming? or was the poor boy foolish enough to try to frighten his pursuers off with the weapons which ruth very well knew he had in the cave with him? "oh, i'm glad mr. tingley's here to-day," cried busy izzy. "he'll give that lem daggett what's coming to him--that's what _he'll_ do!" "hope so," agreed tom, grimly. the latter brought the iceboat into the wind near the shore, and isadore dropped the sail again. they all tumbled out and ran up the bank. a little climb brought them to the plateau where they could see all that was going on near the rock on which ruth and tom had left the mattock the evening before. lem daggett had four men with him--all rough-looking fellows, and armed with rifles. jerry sheming was standing half-leg deep in the running stream, his hands over his head, and the men were holding him under the muzzles of their guns. "why! it beats the 'wild and woolly'!" gasped tom cameron. "silver ranch and bullhide weren't as bad as this. the scoundrels!" "come out o' that brook, jerry, or it'll be the wuss for ye." lem daggett drawled, standing on the flat rock and grinning at his captive. "what do you want of me?" demanded the fugitive, sullenly. "you know well enough. oh, i got a warrant for ye, all right. ev'rything's all right an' proper. ye know rufe blent don't make no mistakes. he's got ye." "an' here he comes now!" ejaculated another of the rough men, looking toward the east end of the island. the four hurrying young folk looked back. driving hastily from the lodge, and behind mr. tingley and preston, came a heavy sleigh drawn by a pair of horses. rufus blent and a driver were in it. but mr. tingley approached first, and it was plain by a single glance at his face that he was angry. "what's all this shooting about?" he demanded. "don't you men know that cliff island is private property? you are trespassing upon it." "oh, i guess we're within our rights, boss," said lem daggett, laughing. "i'm the constable. and these here are helpers o' mine. we was arter a bird, and we got him." "a warrant from a justice of the peace does not allow you to go out with guns and rifles and shoot over private property," declared mr. tingley, angrily. "be off with you--and don't you dare come to this island again without permission." "hold on, thar!" yelled rufus blent, leaping from the sleigh with more agility than one would have given him credit for. "you air oversteppin' the line, mr. tingley. that officer's in the right." "no, he's not in the right. he'd never be in the right--hunting a boy with an armed posse. i should think you and these other men would be ashamed of yourselves." "you look out, mr. tingley," warned blent, hotly. "you're a stranger in these parts. you try to balk me and you'll be sorry." "why?" demanded the city man, quite as angrily. "are you the law and the prophets here, mr. blent?" "i know my rights. and if you want to live in peace here, keep out o' my way!" snarled the real estate man. "you old scoundrel!" exclaimed mr. tingley, stepping swiftly toward him. "get off cliff island--and get off quick. i'd spend a thousand dollars to get a penny's worth of damages from you. i'll sue you in the civil courts for trespass if you don't go--and go quick! "don't think i went blindly into the transaction that gave me title to this island. i know all about your withholding the right to 'treasure trove,' and all that. but it doesn't give you the right to trespass here. get out--and take your gang with you--or i'll have suit begun against you at once." old blent was troubled, but he had one good hold and he knew it. he shouted to lem daggett: "serve that warrant, lem, and come along. bring that young rascal. i'll fix him." "let me read that warrant!" exclaimed mr. tingley, suddenly. "no, ye don't!" yelled blent. "don't let him take it into his hand. read it aloud to him. but make that pesky young sheming come ashore first. before ye know it, he'll be runnin' away ag'in." the men who "covered" jerry motioned him to step up to the bank. they looked so threatening that he obeyed. daggett produced a legal looking paper. he read this aloud, blunderingly, for he was an illiterate man. its contents were easily gathered, however. squire keller had signed the warrant on complaint of rufus blent. jerry was accused of having stolen several boxes of ammunition and a revolver. the property had been found in an old shed at logwood where the boy had slept for a few nights after he had first been driven from cliff island. "why, this is an old story, blent," ejaculated mr. tingley, angrily. "the boy left that shed months ago. he came directly to the island, when i hired him, from the neighborhood of lumberton, and preston assures me he hasn't been to logwood since arriving." "you can tell all that in court," snarled blent, waving his hand. "if he's got witnesses to clear him, i guess they'll be given a chance to testify." "you're a villain!" declared the city man. "lemme tell you something, mr. tingley. there's a law to punish callin' folks out o' their names! i know the law, an' don't you forgit it. come here, you, jerry sheming! git in this sleigh. and you, too, lem. you other fellers can come back to logwood and i'll pay ye as i agreed." ruth had, meanwhile, met jerry when he came ashore. she seized his hand and, almost in tears, told him how sorry she was he was captured. "don't you mind, miss ruth. he's bound to git me out of the way if he can," whispered jerry. "rufe blent is _all_ the law there is in logwood, i guess." "but mr. tingley will help you." "maybe. but if blent can't prove this hatched up business against me, he'll keep right on persecuting me, if i don't light out. an' i believe i found something, miss ruth." "your uncle's money?" "i wouldn't say that. but i was goin' to break into another little cave if i'd got hold of that mattock. the mouth is under the debris that fell with the landslide. it was about where uncle pete said he hid his treasure box. poor uncle pete! losin' that box was what sent him off his head complete, like." this had been said too low for the others to hear. but now daggett came forward and clamped his big paw on jerry's shoulder. "come along, you!" commanded the constable, jerking his prisoner toward the sledge. "oh, isn't it a mean, mean shame?" cried helen cameron. "wish that old blent was my size," grumbled busy izzy, clenching his fists and glaring at the real estate man. "i wish i could do something at the present moment to help you, sheming," said mr. tingley, his expression very angry. "but don't be afraid. you have friends. i shall come right over to keller's court, and i shall hire a lawyer to defend you." "you kin do all ye like," sneered blent, as the sledge started with the prisoner. "but i'll beat ye. and ye'll pay for tryin' to balk me, too." "don't you be too loose with your threats, rufe," sang out preston, the foreman. "if anything happens over here on the island--any of mr. tingley's property is destroyed--we'll know who to look to for damages." "yah!" snarled blent, and drove away. the fact remained, however, that, for the time being at least, rufus blent was master of the situation. chapter xx the fishing party ruth felt so unhappy she wept openly. it seemed too bad that jerry sheming should be taken away to the mainland a prisoner. "they'll find some way of driving him out of this country again," remarked preston, the foreman. "you don't know blent, mr. tingley, as well as the rest of us do. other city men have come up here and bucked against him in times past--and they were sorry before they got through." "what do you mean?" demanded the angry owner of cliff island. "blent can hire those fellows from the lumber camps, and some of the guides, to do his dirty work. that's all i've got to say. hunting camps have burned down in these woods before now," observed the foreman, significantly. "why! the scoundrel sold me this island himself!" "and he's sold other outsiders camp sites. but they have had to leave if they angered blent." "he is a dangerous man, then?" "well--things just happen," returned preston, shaking his head. "i'd keep watch if i were you." "i will. i'll hire guards--and arm 'em, if need be," declared mr. tingley, emphatically. "but take it from me--i am going to see that that boy jerry is treated right in these backwoods courts. that's the way i feel about it." ruth was glad to hear him say this. as she had decided when she first saw him, mr. tingley could be very firm if he wished to be. at once he went back to the house, had a team hitched to a sleigh, and drove over to the mainland so as to be sure that blent did not get ahead of him and have court convened before the proper hour. the day was spoiled for ruth and for some of the other young folk who had taken such a deep interest in jerry. the boy had been caught because he tried to get the mattock ruth and tom had put out for him. ruth wished now that she and tom had not gone down to the brook. there was too much going on at cliff island for even ruth to mope long. mr. tingley came back at dark and said he had succeeded in getting jerry's case put over until a lawyer could familiarize himself with the details. meanwhile keller, blent's man, had refused to accept bail. jerry would have to remain in jail for a time. a man came across from the town that evening and brought a telegram for mr. tingley. that gentleman had without doubt shown his interest in jerry sheming. fearing that the local legal lights might be somewhat backward about opposing rufus blent, he had telegraphed to his own firm of lawyers in new york and they were sending him a reputable attorney from an up-state city who would be at logwood the next day. "let's all go over to court to-morrow and see that lawyer get jerry free," suggested belle tingley, and the others agreed with enthusiasm. it would be as much fun as snow-shoeing; more fun for those who had not already learned that art. the day after christmas, in the morning, the boys insisted that everybody but mercy curtis should get out and try the shoes. those who had been at snow camp the year before were able to set out quite briskly--for it is an art that, like swimming and skating, is not easily forgotten. there were some very funny spills and by luncheon they were all in a glow. later the big sledge was brought around and behind that the boys strung a couple of bobs. the horses drew them down to the ice and there it was easy for the team to pull the whole crowd across to logwood. the town seemed to have turned out to meet the party from cliff island. ruth and her friends noted the fact that many of the half-grown boys and young men--those of the rougher class--seemed greatly amused by the appearance of the city folk. "but what can you expect from a lot of rubes?" demanded tom, rather angrily. "see 'em snickering and grinning? what d'ye s'pose is the matter with them?" "whatever the joke is, it's on us and we don't know it," remarked heavy, who was easily angered by ridicule, too. "there! mr. tingley has gone off with the lawyer. i guess we'll know what it's all about pretty soon." and _that_ was true, sure enough. it came out that there would be no case to try. justice keller announced that the accusation against jerry sheming had been withdrawn. mr. blent had "considered mr. tingley's plea for mercy," the old fox said, and there was nothing the justice could do but to turn the prisoner loose. "but what's become of him?" mr. tingley wanted to know. "oh, that does not enter into my jurisdiction," replied keller, blandly. "i am not his keeper. he was let out of jail early this morning. after that i cannot say what became of him." blent was not even at the court. it was learned that he had gone out of town. blent could always find somebody to handle pitch for him. it was later discovered that when lem daggett had opened the jail to jerry, several of blent's ruffians had rushed the boy to the railroad yard, put him aboard a moving freight, given a brakeman a two-dollar bill as per instructions from the real estate man, and jerry wasn't likely to get off the train, unless he jumped while it was moving, until it was fifty miles farther west. but, of course, this story did not come out right away. the whole town was laughing at mr. tingley. nobody cared enough about the city man, or knew him well enough, to explain the details of jerry's disappearance at that time. mr. tingley looked very serious when he rejoined the young folk and he had little to say on the way home, save to ruth, whom he beckoned to the seat beside him. "i am very sorry that the old fox got the best of us, miss fielding. as preston says, i must look out for him. he is sly, wicked, and powerful. my albany lawyer tells me that blent is notorious in this part of the state, and that he has great political influence, illiterate as he is. "but i am going to fight. i have bought cliff island, and paid a good price for it. i have spent a good many thousand dollars in improvements already. i'll protect myself and my investment if i can--and meanwhile i'll do what i can for your friend, jerry sheming, too. "they've got the boy away from the vicinity for the time being, but i reckon he'll find his way back. you think so, too, miss fielding?" "if he understands that we are trying to help him. and--yes!--i believe he will come back anyway, for he is very anxious to find that treasure box his uncle peter lost." "oh--as to that--well, there may be something in it. but pete tilton was really insane. i saw him myself. the asylum is the place for him, poor man," concluded mr. tingley. ruth felt in secret very much worried over jerry's disappearance. when she once became interested in anybody, as helen said, "she was interested all the way through." the others could laugh a little about how the crafty real estate agent had fooled mr. tingley and gotten jerry out of the way, but not ruth. she could scarcely sleep that night for thinking of what might have happened to the ill-used youth. but she tried to hide her anxiety from her companions the next morning when plans were made for a fishing trip. all but mercy joined in this outing. they went on snowshoes to the far end of the island, keeping on the beach under the huge cliffs, to a little cove where they would be sheltered and where the fishing was supposed to be good. preston, the foreman, went with them. he and the boys dragged a bobsled well laden with the paraphernalia considered necessary for fishing through the ice. first the holes were cut--thirteen of them. then, near each hole, and on the windward side, two stakes were set about four feet apart and a square of canvas lashed between them for a wind-break. a folding campstool had been brought for each fisherman and "fishergirl," and there were a lot of old sacks for the latter, especially, to put under their feet as they watched the "bobbers" in the little pool of water before which they sat. after preston saw them well started, he went back to the house. the crowd intended to remain until evening, and planned to make their dinner on the shore of the cove, frying some of the fish they expected to catch, and making coffee in a battered camp pot that had been brought along. the fish were there, as the foreman had assured them. each member of the party watched and baited two lines. at first some of the girls had considerable trouble with the bait, and the boys had to show them how to put it on the hook; but it was fun, and soon all were interested in pulling out the flopping fish, vying with each other in the catch, calling back and forth about their luck, and having a splendid time. it was so cold that the fish froze almost as soon as they were thrown upon the ice. had they been catching for shipment, the fish could have been boxed and sent some distance by express without being iced. but the young folk did not mind the cold much, nor the fact that the sun did not shine and the clouds grew thicker as the day advanced. "i'm going to beat you all!" declared the fox, after a great run of luck, in which she could scarcely bait rapidly enough to satisfy the ravenous fish. "might as well award me the laurel wreath right now." "don't you be too sure," drawled heavy. "you know, 'he laughs best who laughs last.'" "wrong!" returned mary cox. "the true quotation should be, 'he laughs best whose laugh lasts.' and mine is going to last--oh-he! here comes another!" tom and ruth got the dinner. there was plenty of dry wood under the fir trees. tom cleaned the fish and ruth fried them to a delicious brownness and crispness. with the other viands brought from home and cups of good, hot coffee, the thirteen friends made a hearty and hilarious meal. they were sheltered by the high cliff at their backs and did not notice when the snow began to fall. but, after a time, they suddenly discovered that the flakes were coming so thick and fast that it was all but impossible to see the farthest fishing shelters. "oh, dear me! we don't want to go back yet," wailed the fox. "and we were catching them so fast. do, do let's wait a while longer." "not much fun if it keeps on snowing this way," objected bobbins. "don't begin croaking, little boy," advised his sister. "a few flakes of snow won't hurt us." nevertheless, the storm did not hold up. it was more than a "flurry" and some of the others, as well as bob steele, began to feel anxious. chapter xxi jerry's cave for a while they tried to shelter themselves with the canvas, and shouted back and forth through the falling snow that they were having a "scrumptious" time. but some of the girls, as isadore said, "began to weaken." "we don't want to be lost in the snow as we were the time we went for balsam at snow camp," said helen. "how can you get lost--with us fellows along?" demanded busy izzy, in vast disgust. "can't a boy be lost?" demanded ann hicks, laughing. "not on your life!" declared the irrepressible isadore. but just then madge steele got up and declared she had had enough. "this hole in the ice is filling up with snow. we'll lose the fish we've already caught if we don't look out. come on, bobby, and get mine." so it was agreed to cut the fishing short for that day, although the fox declared she could have beaten them all in another hour. however, they had a great load of the frozen fish. besides what they had eaten for dinner, there were at least a hundred handsome fellows, and the boys had strung each fisher's catch on a birch twig which they had cut and trimmed while coming down to the lake that morning. tom and ruth, left at the campfire to clean up after the mid-day meal, were shouting for them to come in. the girls left the boys to wind up the fishlines and "strike camp," as ralph called taking down the pieces of canvas, and all hustled for the shore. they crowded around the fire, threw on more fuel, danced to get their feet warm, and called to the boys to hurry. the five boys had their hands full in retrieving all the chairs, and canvas sheets, and fish lines, and sacks. when they got them all in and packed upon the bobsled for transportation, the snow was a foot deep on the ice and it was snowing so fast that one could not see ten feet into the swirling heart of the storm. "i declare! it looks as though we were in a mess, with all this snow," complained tom cameron. "and with all these girls," growled ralph tingley. "wish we'd started an hour ago." "i don't know about starting _at all_," observed bobbins. "don't you see that the girls will give out before we're half-way there? we can't use snowshoes with the snow coming down like this. they clog too fast." "oh, they'll have to wade the same as we do," said isadore. "yah! wade! and us pulling this sled, too? i wish preston had stayed with us. don't you, ralph?" asked his brother. "hush! don't let the girls hear you," was the whispered reply. already the girls were comparing notes in a group around the fire. now madge turned and shouted for them: "come here, boys! don't be mumbling together there. we have an idea." "if it's any good, let's have it," answered tom, cheerfully. "it is good. it was born of experience. some of us got all the tramping in a blinding snowstorm that we wanted a year ago. never again! eh, girls?" "quite right, madge," said ralph. "it is foolish to run into danger. we are all right here----" "why, the snow will drown out your fire in half an hour," scoffed isadore. "and there isn't so much dry fuel." "i know where there is plenty of wood--and shelter, too!" cried ruth, suddenly. "so do i. at the lodge," scoffed belle. "no. nearby. tom and i were just talking about it. up that ravine yonder is the place where i fell over the cliff. and jerry's cave is right there--one end of it." "a cave!" ejaculated helen. "that would be bully." "if only we could have a good fire and get dry and warm again," quoth lluella, her teeth already chattering. "i believe that would be best," admitted madge steele. "we never could get back to the lodge through this snow. the shore is so rough." "we can travel on the ice," ventured ann hicks, doubtfully. "and get turned around," put in tom. "easiest thing in the world to get lost out there on that ice without a compass and in such a whirlwind of snow. ruth's right. let's try to find the cave." "i'm game!" exclaimed heavy. "why, with all this fish we could live a week in a cave. it would be bully." "'charming' is the better word, miss stone," suggested the fox. "don't correct me when i'm on a vacation," exclaimed the plump girl. "i won't stand for it----" just then she slipped and sat down hard and they all laughed. "lucky you weren't on the ice. you'd gone right through that time, jennie," declared the fox. "now, let's come on to the cave if we're all agreed. i guess ruth has the right idea." "we'll drag the sled and break a path for you girls," announced tom. "all ready, now! bring your snowshoes. if it stops snowing, we can get home on them to-night." "oh, dear, me! i hope so," cried belle tingley. "what will mother and father say if we're not home by dark?" "they'll be pretty sure we wouldn't travel far in this storm. preston and the other men will find us, anyway." "i expect that is so," admitted ruth, thoughtfully, "and they'll find jerry's cave. i hope he won't be mad at me for taking you all there." however that might be, it seemed to the girl of the red mill, as well as to tom cameron, that it was wisdom to seek the nearest shelter. the ravine was steep, but it was sheltered. there were not many big drifts until they reached that great one at the head of it, into which ruth had fallen when she slipped over the brink of the precipice. nevertheless, they were half an hour beating their way up the gully and out upon that ledge which led to the mouth of jerry's cave. the boys found the laden sled a good deal of a load and the girls had all they could do to follow in the track the sled made. "we never _could_ have reached home safely through this storm," declared madge. "how clever of you to remember the cave, ruthie." "ruth is always doing something clever," said helen, loyally. "why, she even falls over a cliff, so as to find a cave that, later, shelters us all from the inclement elements." "wow, wow, wow!" jeered isadore. "you girls think a lot of each other; don't you? better thank that jerry boy for finding the cave in the first place." they were all crowding into the place by this time. it was not very light in the cave, for the snow had already veiled the entrance. but there was a great store of wood piled up along one side, and the boys soon had a fresh fire built. the girls and boys stamped off the clinging snow and began to feel more comfortable. the flames danced among the sticks, and soon an appreciable sense of warmth stole through the cave. the crowd began to laugh and chatter. the girls brushed out the cave and the boys rolled forward loose stones for seats. isadore found jerry's shotgun, ammunition, bow and arrow, and other possessions. "he must have taken the rifle with him when he went to the other end of the tunnel," ruth said. "say!" exclaimed ralph tingley. "you could find the way through the hill to where you came out of the cave with jerry; couldn't you, ruth?" "oh! i believe so," cried ruth. "then we needn't worry," said the boy. "we can go home that way. even if the storm doesn't stop to-night, we ought to be able to find the lodge from _that_ end of the cave." "we've nothing to worry about, then," said madge, cheerfully. "we're supplied with all the comforts of home----" "and plenty to eat," sighed heavy, with satisfaction. chapter xxii snowed in naturally, thirteen young folk in a cave could not be content to sit before the fire inactive. they played games, they sang songs, they made up verses, and finally madge produced a pencil and a notebook and they wrote a burlesque history of "george washington and the cherry tree." the first author wrote a page of the history and two lines on the second page. then the second read those last two lines and went on with the story, leaving another two lines at the top of the next page, and so on. it was a wonderful piece of literary work when it was finished, and madge kept it to read to the s.b.'s when they got back to briarwood hall. "for, of course," she said, "we're not going to be forever shut up in this cave. i don't want to turn into a 'cave man'--nor yet a 'cave woman'!" "see if the snow has stopped--that's a good boy, tommy," urged helen. "of course it hasn't. don't you see how dark it is, sis?" returned her twin. but he started toward the mouth of the cavern. just then bob looked at his watch in the firelight, and exclaimed: "no wonder it seems dark--do you know it's half after four right now?" "wow! mother will be scared," said ralph tingley. just then there came a cry from tom. then followed a heavy, smothered thud. the boys dashed to the entrance. it was pitch dark. a great mass of hard packed snow filled the opening, and was being forced into the cave itself. in this heap of snow struggled tom, fairly smothered. they laid hold upon him--by a leg and an arm--and dragged him out. he could not speak for a moment and he had lost his cap. "how did you do that?" demanded bob. "what does it mean?" "think--think i did it on purpose?" demanded the overwhelmed youth. "i'm no samson to pull down the pillars on top of me. gee! that snow came sudden." "where--where did it all come from?" demanded his sister. "from the top of the cliff, of course. it must have made a big drift there and tumbled down--regular avalanche, you know--just as i tried to look out. why! the place out there is filled up yards deep! we'd never be able to dig out in a week." "oh, dear me! what shall we do?" groaned belle, who was beginning to get nervous. "have supper," suggested heavy, calmly. "no matter what we have to face, we can do it better after eating." they laughed, but took her advice. nobody failed to produce an appetite at the proper time. "dear me!" exclaimed belle, "if only mother knew we were safe i'd be content to stay all night. it's fun." "and if we had some salt," complained lluella. "i don't like fish without salt--not much." "you're a fine female robinson crusoe," laughed tom. "this is real 'roughing it.' i expect all you girls will weaken by morning." "oh, oh!" cried his sister, "you talk as though you thought we would be obliged to stay here, tom." "i don't just see how we're to get out to-night," tom returned, grimly. "not from this end of the cave, at any rate. i tell you, tons and _tons_ of snow fell into its mouth." "but you know the other way out, ruthie?" urged lluella, half inclined to cry. "i think so," returned the girl of the red mill. "then just hunt for the way," said belle, firmly. "if it has stopped snowing i want to go home." "don't be a baby, belle," advised her brother ralph. "nothing is going to hurt us here." "especially as we have plenty of fuel and grub," added bobbins, thoughtfully. but ruth saw that it would be wiser to try to get through the tunnel to the brookside. nobody could dig them out at this end, that was sure. so she agreed with tom and ralph tingley to try to follow the same passages that jerry sheming had taken her through upon the occasion of her first visit. "how shall we find our way, though, if it's dark?" questioned ralph, suddenly. "_i_ can't see in the dark." "neither can the rest of us, i guess," said tom. "do you suppose we could find torchwood in that pile yonder?" "not much," bobbins told them. "and a torch is a smoky thing, anyway." ruth was hunting the dark corners of the big cavern in which they had camped. although jerry had been at the far end of the tunnel when he was captured by the constable and his helpers--outside that end of the tunnel, in fact--she hoped that he had left his lantern at this end. as it proved, she was not mistaken. here it was, all filled and cleaned, hidden on a shelf with a half-gallon can of kerosene. jerry had been in the habit of coming to the cave frequently in the old days when his uncle and he lived alone on the island. so tom lit the lantern and the trio started. the opening of the tunnel through the hill could not be missed; but farther along ruth had a dim recollection of passing cross galleries and passages. should she know the direct tunnel then? she put that anxiety aside for the present. at first it was all plain traveling, and tom with the lantern went ahead to illuminate the path. they came out into one of the narrow open cuts, but there was little snow in it. however, a flake or two floated down to them, and they knew that the storm still continued to rage. the moaning of the wind in the tree tops far up on the hill reached their ears. "some storm, this," observed tom. "i should say it was! you don't suppose the folks will be foolish enough to start out hunting for us till it's over; do you?" ralph asked, anxiously. "they would better not. we're safe. they ought to know that. preston will tell them about the caves in this end of the island and they ought to know we'd find one of 'em." "it's a wild spot, just the same," remarked ralph. "and i suppose mother will be worried." "ruth isn't afraid--nor helen--nor the other girls," said tom. "i think these briarwood girls are pretty plucky, anyway. don't _you_ get to grouching, rafe." they pursued their way, tom ahead with the lantern, for some rods further. suddenly the leader stopped. "now what, ruthie?" he demanded. "which way do we go?" the passage forked. ruth was uncertain. she could not for the life of her remember having seen this spot before. but, then, she and jerry must have passed it. she had not given her attention to the direction at that time, for she had been talking with the backwoods boy. she took the lantern from tom now, and walked a little way into first the left-hand passage and then the right-hand one. it seemed to her as though there were places in the sand on the floor of this latter tunnel which had been disturbed by human feet. "_this_ is the path, i guess," she said, laughing and so hiding her own anxiety. "but let's take a good look at the place so we can find our way back to it if we have to return." "huh!" grumbled ralph tingley. "you're not so awfully sure; are you?" "that's all right. ruth was only through here once," tom spoke up, loyally. "and we can't get really lost." in five minutes they came into a little circular room out of which no less than four passages opened. ruth was confident now that she was "turned around." she had to admit it to her companions. "well! what do you know about that?" cried ralph. "i thought you said you could find the way?" "i guess i can," said ruth, cheerfully. "but we'll have to try each one of these openings. i can't be sure which is the right one." ralph sniffed, but tom was unshaken in his confidence in his girl friend. "let me have the lantern, tom, and you boys stay here," ruth said, quickly. "i'll try them myself." "say! don't you get lost," cried tom. "and don't you leave us long in the dark," complained ralph. "i don't believe we ought to let her take that lantern, tom----" "aw, stop croaking!" commanded young cameron. "you're worse than any girl yourself, tingley." ruth hated to hear them quarrel, but she would not give up and admit that she was beaten. she took the lantern and ventured into the first tunnel. her carriage was firmer than her mind, and before she had gone a dozen steps she was nervously sobbing, but smothered the sounds with her handkerchief. chapter xxiii "a blow for liberty" ruth was a healthy girl and particularly free from "nerves"; but she _was_ frightened. she was so proud that she determined not to admit to her companions that she was lost in the caves. indeed, she was not entirely sure that she _was_ lost. perhaps this was the way she had come with jerry. only, she did not remember passing the little room with the four tunnels opening out of it. this first passage into which she had ventured with so much apparent boldness proved to be the wrong one within a very few moments. she came to the end of it--against an unbroken wall. there she remained until she had conquered her nervous sobbing and removed as well as she could the traces of tears from her face. when she returned to tom and ralph she held the lantern well down, so that the shadow was cast upon her face. "how about it, ruth?" demanded tom, cheerfully, when she reappeared. "that's not the one. it is just a pocket," declared ruth. "wait till i try another." "well, don't be all night about it," growled tingley, ungraciously. "we're wasting a lot of time here." ruth did not reply, but took the next tunnel. she followed this for even a shorter distance before finding it closed. "only two more. that's all right!" exclaimed tom. "narrows the choice down, and we'll be surer of hitting the right one--eh, ruthie?" she knew that he was talking thus to keep her courage up. dear old tom! he was always to be depended upon. she gathered confidence herself, however, when she had gone some distance into the third passage. there was a place where she had to climb upon a shelf to get along, because the floor was covered with big stones, and she remembered this place clearly. so she turned and swung her tight, calling to the boys. her voice went echoing through the tunnel and soon brought a reply and the sound of scrambling feet. "hold up that lantern!" yelled ralph, rather crossly. "how do you expect us to see?" young tingley's nerves were "on edge," and like a good many other people when they get that way, he was short-tempered. "now we're all right, are we, ruth?" cried tom. "i remember this place," the girl of the red mill replied. "i couldn't be mistaken. now you take the lantern, tom, and lead on." they pursued the tunnel to its very end. there it branched again and ruth boldly took the right hand passage. whether it was right, or no, she proposed to attack it firmly. after a time tom exclaimed: "hullo, ruthie! do you really think this is right?" "what do you mean?" he held up the lantern in silence. ruth and ralph crowded forward to look over his shoulders. there was a heap of rubbish and earth half-filling the tunnel. it had not fallen from the roof, although neither that nor the sides of the tunnel were of solid rock. "you never came through this place, ruth!" exclaimed ralph, in that "i-told-you-so" tone that is so hard to bear. "i--i didn't see this place--no," admitted ruth. "of course you didn't!" declared ralph, crossly. "why! it's right up against the end of the tunnel." "it _does_ look as though we were blocked, ruthie," said tom, with less confidence. "then we'll have to go back and try the other passage," returned the girl, choking a little. "see here!" cried tom, suddenly. "somebody's been digging here. that's where all this stuff comes from, underfoot." "where?" asked the others, crowding forward to look closer. tom set down the lantern and picked up a broken spade. there was a cavity in the wall of this pocket-like passage. with a flourish tom dug the broken blade of the spade into the gritty earth. "this is what jerry wanted that mattock for, i bet!" he exclaimed. "oh, dear, me! do you believe so?" cried ruth. "then, right here, is where he thought he might find his uncle's treasure box." "ho, ho!" ejaculated ralph. "that old hunter was just as crazy as he could be--father says so." "well, that wouldn't keep him from having money; would it?--and might be a very good reason for his burying it." "and the papers he declared would prove his title to a part of this island," ruth hastened to add. that didn't please ralph any too well. "my father owns the island, and don't you forget it!" he declared. "well, we don't have to quarrel about it," snapped tom, rather disgusted with the way ralph was behaving. "come on! we might as well go back. but here's one blow for liberty!" and he laughed and flung the spade forward with all his strength. jerry sheming had never suspected it, or he would not have left the excavation just as he had. there was but a thin shell beyond where he had been digging, and the spade in tom's hand went clear through. "for the goodness gracious grannies!" gasped tom, scrambling off his knees. "i--i came near losing that spade altogether." there was a fall of earth beyond the hole. they heard it rolling and tumbling down a sharp descent. "hold the lantern here, ruth!" cried tom, trying to peer into the opening. ruth did so. the rays revealed a hole, big enough for a man to creep through. it gave entrance, it seemed, to another cavern--and one of good size. "oh, my dear!" exclaimed ruth, seizing tom's arm. "i just know what this means." "you may. _i_ don't," laughed tom cameron. "why, this other cavern is the one that was buried under the landslide. jerry said he knew about where it was, and he's been trying to dig into it." "oh, yes; there was a landslide on this side of the cliff just about the time father was negotiating for the purchase of the island last summer," said ralph. "we all came up here to look at the place a while afterward. we camped in a tent about where the lodge now stands. that old crazy hunter had just been taken away from here. they say he tried to kill blent." "and maybe he had good reason," said tom. "blent is without a doubt a pretty mean proposition." "just the same, the island is my father's," declared ralph, with confidence. "he bought it, right enough." "all right. but you think, ruth, that perhaps it was in this buried cave that old mr. tilton hid his money box?" "so jerry said. it looks as though jerry had been digging here----" "let's have another crack at it!" cried tom, and went to work with the spade again. in ten minutes he had scattered considerable earth and made the hole much larger. they held the lantern inside and saw that the floor of the other cavity was about on a level with the one in which they stood. tom slid the old spade through the hole, and then went through himself. "come on! let's take a look," he said, reaching up for ruth and the lantern. "but this isn't finding a way out," complained ralph. "what will the other folks say?" "we'll find the opening later. we couldn't venture outside now, anyway. it is still storming, you can bet," declared the eager tom. ruth's sharp eyes were peering here and there. the cavern they had entered was almost circular and had a dome-shaped roof. there were shelves all around several feet above the floor. some of these ledges slanted inward toward the rock, and one could not see much of them. "lift me up here, tom!" commanded the girl. "i want to scramble up on the ledge." "you'll hurt yourself." "nonsense! can't i climb a tree almost as well as ann hicks?" he gave her a lift and ruth scrambled over the edge with a little squeal. "oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "here's something." "must be," grunted tom, trying to climb up himself. "why, i declare, ruthie! that's a box." "it's a little chest. it's ironbound, too. my! how heavy. i can't lift it." "tumble it down and let's see," commanded ralph, holding the lantern. ruth sat down suddenly and looked at the boys. "i don't know," she said. "i don't know that we've got any right to touch it. it's padlocked. maybe it is old mr. tilton's treasure-box." "that would be great!" cried tom. "but i don't know," continued ruth, reflectively. "we would better not touch it. i wouldn't undertake to advise jerry what to do if _he_ found it. but this is what they call 'treasure trove,' i guess. at least, it was what that rufus blent had in mind, all right, when he sold mr. tingley the island with the peculiar reservation clause in the deed." chapter xxiv a midnight marauder meanwhile the boys and girls left behind in jerry sheming's old camp began to find the absence of ruth and her two companions rather trying. the time which had elapsed since the three explorers started to find the eastern outlet of the cave seemed much longer to those around the campfire than to the trio themselves. before the searching party could have reached the brookside, had the tunnel been perfectly straight, the nervous belle tingley wanted to send out a relief expedition. "we never should have allowed ruthie to go," she wailed. "we all should have kept together. how do we know but they'll find the cave a regular labyrinth, and get lost in it, and wander around and around, and never find their way out, or back, and----" "oh, for the goodness sake!" ejaculated mary cox, "don't be such a weeping, wailing sister of misery, belle! you not only cross bridges before you come to them, but, i declare, you build new ones!" "she's old man trouble's favorite daughter," said heavy. "didn't you know _that_? now, miss fuss-budget, stop croaking. nothing's going to happen to ruthie." "not with tom on hand, you can wager," added helen, with every confidence in her twin brother. but at last the watches of the party could not be doubted. two hours had crept by and it was getting very late in the evening. some of the party were, as ann said, "yawning their heads off." lluella and heavy had camped down upon the old buffalo-robe before the fire and were already more than half asleep. "i do wish they'd come back," muttered bob steele to isadore phelps. "we can't tell in here whether the storm has stopped, or not. i don't just fancy staying in this cave all night if there's any possible chance of getting to mr. tingley's house." "don't know what can be keeping those folks. i believe i could have crept on my hands and knees through the whole hill, and back again, before this time," returned busy izzy, in a very sleepy voice. "now, you can talk as you please," said ann hicks, with sudden decision, "but i'm going a short distance along that tunnel and see if the lantern is in sight." "i'm with you!" exclaimed bob. "me, too," joined in helen, jumping up with alacrity. "now, some more of you will go off and get lost," cried belle. "i--i wish we were all home. i'm--i'm sorry we came to this old island." "baby!" ejaculated her brother, poking her. "do be still. ralph isn't going to get lost--what d'ye think he is?" "how'll we see our way?" helen asked bob and ann. "feel it. we'll go in the dark. then we can see their lantern the quicker." "there's no wood here fit for torches," bob admitted. "and i have plenty of matches. come on! we sha'n't get lost." "what do you really suppose has happened to them?" demanded helen of bob, as soon as they were out of hearing of the camp. "give it up. something extraordinary--that's positive," declared the big fellow. they crept through the tunnel, bob lighting a match occasionally, until they reached the first crack in the roof, open to the sky. it was not snowing very hard. "of course they wouldn't have tried climbing up here to get out," queried helen. "of course not!" exclaimed ann. "what for?" "no," said bobbins. "they kept straight ahead--and so will we." in five minutes, however, when they stopped, whispering, in a little chamber, ann suddenly seized her companions and commanded them to hold their breath! "i hear something," she whispered. the others strained their ears to hear, too. in a moment a stone rattled. then there sounded an unmistakable footstep upon the rock. somebody was approaching. "they're coming back?" asked helen, doubtfully. "hush!" commanded ann again. "whoever it is, he has no light. it can't be ruth." much heavier boots than those the girl of the red mill wore now rattled over the loose stones. ann pulled the other two down beside her where she crouched in the corner. "wait!" she breathed. "can it be some wild animal?" asked helen. "with boots on? i bet!" scoffed bob. it was pitch dark. the three crouching together in the corner of the little chamber were not likely to attract the attention of this marauder, if all went well. but their hearts beat fast as the rustle of the approaching footsteps grew louder. there loomed up a man's figure. it looked too big to be either tom or ralph, and it passed on with an assured step. he needed no lamp to find a path that seemed well known. "who--what----" "hush, helen!" commanded ann. "but he's going right to the cave--and he carried a gun." "i didn't see the gun," whispered ann. "i did," agreed bob, squeezing helen's arm. "it was a rifle. do you suppose there is any danger?" "it couldn't be anybody hunting us, do you suppose?" queried helen, in a shaken voice. "anybody from the house?" "preston!" exclaimed ann. "how would he know the way to get into this tunnel?" returned bob. "come on! let's spy on him. i'm worried now about tom and the others." "you don't suppose anything has happened to ruthie?" whispered helen. "oh! you don't believe _that_, bobbins?" "come on!" grunted the big fellow, and took the advance. they were careful of their own footsteps over the loose stones. the person ahead acted as though he had an idea he was alone. nor did they overtake him until they had passed the open crack in the roof of the tunnel. somebody laughed in the cavern ahead--then the girls all shouted. the marauder stopped, uttering an astonished ejaculation. bob and the two girls halted, too, but in a moment the person ahead turned, and came striding toward them, evidently fleeing from the sound of the voices. ann and helen were really frightened, and with faint cries, shrank back. bob _had_ to be brave. he leaped forward to meet the person with the rifle, crying: "hold on, there!" "ha!" exclaimed the other and advanced the rifle until the muzzle touched bob steele's breast. the boy was naturally frightened--how could he help being? but he showed pluck. he did not move. "what do you want in here? who are you?" asked bob, quietly. "goodness me!" gasped the other, and dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground. "you sure did startle me. you're one of those boys staying with the tingleys?" "yes." "and here's a couple of the girls. not ruth fielding?" "oh, jerry sheming!" cried ann, running forward. "you might have shot him with that gun." "not unless i'd loaded it first," replied jerry, with a quiet chuckle. "but you folks scared me quite as much as i did you--why, it's miss hicks and miss cameron." "where is ruth?" demanded ann, anxiously. "and tom?" joined in helen. "and how did you get back here to cliff island?" asked bob. "we understood that you'd been railroaded out of the country." "hold on! hold on!" exclaimed jerry. "let's hear first about miss fielding. where's she gone? how came you folks in this cave?" helen was the one who told him. she related all the circumstances very briefly, but in a way to give jerry a clear understanding of the situation. "they've wandered off to the right. i know where they must be," said jerry, decidedly. "i'll go find them. and then i'll get you all out of here. it has almost stopped snowing now." "but how did you find your way back here to the island?" bob demanded again. "i ain't going to be beat by blent," declared jerry sheming, doggedly. "i am going to have another look through the caves before i leave for good, and don't you forget it. "the engine on that train yesterday morning broke a piston rod and had to stop down the lake shore. i hopped off and hid on the far bank, watching the island. if you folks hadn't come over this way to fish this morning, i'd been across before the storm began. "i was pretty well turned around in the storm, and have been traveling a long time. but i got to the brook at last, and then worked my way up it and into the other end of this cave. i was going up there after my lantern----" "ruth and the others have it," explained helen, quickly. "then i'll go find them at once. i know my way around pretty well in the dark. i couldn't get really lost in this cave," and jerry laughed, shortly. "i've got matches if you want them," said bob. "got a plenty, thanks. you folks go back to your friends, and i'll hunt out miss fielding in a jiffy." jerry turned away at once, and soon passed out of their sight in the gloom. as helen and the others hurried back to the anxious party at the campfire, jerry went straightway to the most satisfactory discovery of all his life. chapter xxv the treasure box when jerry met ruth and her companions coming slowly from the little cave, the boys bearing the heavy, ironbound box between them, he knew instantly what it was--his uncle's chest in which he had kept his money and papers. "it's yours to hide again if you want to, jerry," ruth told him, when the excitement of the meeting had passed, and explanations were over. "it was what both you and rufus blent have been looking for, and i believe you have the best right to it" "it belongs to uncle pete. and uncle pete shall have it," declared the backwoods boy. "why, do you know, i believe if uncle pete once had this box in his possession again that he might recover his mind?" "oh, i hope so!" ruth cried. first, however, the crowd of young folk had to be led through the long tunnel and out into the open air. it was agreed that nothing was to be said to anybody but mr. tingley about the treasure box. and the boys and girls, too, agreed to say nothing at the house about jerry's having returned to his cave. when they reached the brook, there were lights about the island, and guns being fired. the entire household of tingley lodge was out on the hunt for the lost ones. the boys and girls were home and in bed in another hour, and mrs. tingley was vastly relieved. "never again will i take the responsibility of such a crowd!" declared the harassed lady. "my own children are enough; a dozen and a half active young ones like these would send me to the madhouse in another week!" but the girls from briarwood and their boy friends continued to have a delightful time during the remainder of their stay at cliff island, although their adventures were less strenuous than those that have been related. they went away, in the end, to take up their school duties, pronouncing their vacation on the island one of the most enjoyable they had ever experienced. "something to keep up our hearts for the rest of the school year," declared heavy. "and you'll like us better, too, when we're gone, mrs. tingley. we _all_--even the fox, here--have a good side to our characters." even ann hicks went back to briarwood with pleasant expectations. she had learned to understand her mates better during this holiday, and all the girls at briarwood were prepared to welcome the western girl now with more kindness than before. we may believe that ruth and her girl friends were all busy and happy during that next half-year at briarwood, and we may meet them again in the midst of their work and fun in the next volume of the series, entitled "ruth fielding at sunrise farm; or, what became of the raby orphans." ruth fielding, however, did not leave cliff island before being assured that the affairs of jerry sheming and his uncle would be set right. as it chanced, the very day the crowd had gone fishing mr. tingley had received a letter from the head doctor of the hospital, to whom the gentleman had written inquiring about old peter tilton. the patient had improved immensely. that he was eccentric was true, but he had probably always been so, the doctor said. the old man was worrying over the loss of what he called his treasure box, and when ruth confided to mr. tingley the truth about jerry's return and the discovery of the ironbound box, mr. tingley determined to take matters into his own hands. he first went to the cave and had a long talk with jerry. then he had his team of horses put to the sledge, and he and jerry and the box drove the entire length of lake tallahaska, struck into a main road to the county asylum, and made an unexpected call upon the poor old hunter, who had been so long confined in that institution. "it was jest what uncle pete needed to wake him up," jerry declared to ruth, when he saw her some weeks later. "he knowed the box and had always carried the key of it about his neck on a string. they didn't know what it was at the 'sylum, but they let him keep the key. "and when he opened it, sure enough there was lots of papers and a couple of bags of money. i don't know how much, but mr. tingley got uncle pete to trust a bank with the money, and it'll be mine some day. uncle pete's going to pay my way through school with some of it, he says." "but the title to the island?" demanded the excited girl of the red mill. "how did that come out? did your uncle have any deed to it? what of that mean old rufus blent?" "jest you hold your hosses, miss ruth," laughed jerry. "i'm comin' to that." "but you are coming to it awfully slow, jerry," complained the eager girl. "no. i'll tell you quick's i can," he declared. "uncle pete had papers. he had been buying a part of the island from blent on installments, and had paid the old rascal a good part of the price. but when blent found out that uncle's papers were buried under the landslide he thought he could play a sharp trick and resell to mr. tingley. you see, the installment deeds were not recorded. "however, mr. tingley's lawyers made old blent get right down and howl for mercy--yes, they did! there was a strong case of conspiracy against him. that's still hanging fire. "but mr. tingley says he will not push that, considering rufus did all he was told to about the title money. he gave uncle pete back every cent he had paid in on the cliff island property, with interest compounded, and a good lump sum of money beside as a bonus. "then uncle pete made mr. tingley's title good, and we're going to live at the lodge during the closed season, as caretakers. that pleases uncle pete, for he couldn't be very well content anywhere else but on cliff island." "oh, jerry! i am so glad it has come out all right for you," cried the girl of the red mill. "and so will all the other girls be when i tell them. and uncle jabez and aunt alvirah--for _they_ are interested in your welfare, too." "you're mighty kind, miss ruth," said the backwoods boy, bashfully. "i--i'm thinking i've got a lot more to thank _you_ for than i ever can express right proper." "oh, no! no more to me than to other folks," cried ruth fielding, earnestly, for it had always been her natural instinct to help people, and she did not wish to be thanked for it. that being the case, neither jerry nor the writer must say anything more about the matter. the end ruth fielding at college or the missing examination papers by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding on cliff island," etc. _illustrated_ new york cupples & leon company publishers copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding at college printed in u. s. a. [illustration: "ashore! put us ashore!" ruth gasped.] contents i. looking collegeward ii. maggie iii. expectations iv. first impressions v. getting settled vi. miss cullam's trouble vii. fame is not always an asset viii. the stone face ix. getting on x. a tempest in a teapot xi. the one rebel xii. ruth is not satisfied xiii. the girl in the storm xiv. "oft in the stilly night" xv. an odd adventure xvi. what was in rebecca's trunk xvii. what was in rebecca's heart xviii. bearding the lions xix. a deep, dark plot xx. two surprises xxi. many things happen xxii. can it be a clue? xxiii. the squall xxiv. treasure hunting xxv. the end of a perfect year ruth fielding at college chapter i looking collegeward "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" by no possibility could aunt alvirah boggs have risen from her low rocking chair in the red mill kitchen without murmuring this complaint. she was a little, hoop-backed woman, with crippled limbs; but she possessed a countenance that was very much alive, nut-brown and innumerably wrinkled though it was. she had been mr. jabez potter's housekeeper at the red mill for more than fifteen years, and if anybody knew the "moods and tenses" of the miserly miller, it must have been aunt alvirah. she even professed to know the miller's feelings toward his grand-niece, ruth fielding, better than ruth knew them herself. the little old woman was expecting the return of ruth now, and she went to the porch to see if she could spy her down the road, and thus be warned in time to set the tea to draw. ruth and her friends, who had gone for a tramp in the september woods, would come in ravenous for tea and cakes and bread-and-butter sandwiches. aunt alvirah looked out upon a very beautiful autumn landscape when she opened the farmhouse door. the valley of the lumano was attractive at all times--in storm or sunshine. now it was a riot of color, from the deep crimson of the sumac to the pale amber of certain maple leaves which fell in showers whenever the wanton breeze shook the boughs. "here they come!" murmured aunt alvirah. "here's my pretty!" she identified the trio striding up the roadway, distant as they were. ruth, her cheeks rosy, her hair flying, came on ahead, while the black-haired and black-eyed twins, helen and tom cameron, walked hand-in-hand behind her. this was their final outing together in the vicinity of the red mill for many months. helen and tom were always very close companions, and although they had already been separated during school terms, tom had run over from seven oaks to see his sister at briarwood for almost every week-end. "no more of 'sich doin's now, old man," helen said to him, smiling rather tremulously. "and even when you get to harvard next year, you will not be allowed often at ardmore. they say there is a sign 'no boys allowed' stuck up beside every 'keep off the grass' sign on the ardmore lawns." "nonsense!" laughed tom. "oh, i only repeat what i've been told." "well, sis, you won't be entirely alone," tom said kindly. "ruth will be with you. you and she will have your usual good times." "of course. but _you'll_ be awfully lonely, tommy." "true enough," agreed tom. then ruth's gay voice hailed them from the porch upon which she had mounted yards ahead of them. "come on, slow-pokes. aunt alvirah has put on the tea. i smell it!" ruth fielding did not possess her chum's measure of beauty. helen was a dainty, compelling brunette with flashing eyes--eyes she had already learned to use to the undoing of what ruth called "the youthful male of the species." as for ruth herself, she considered boys no mystery. she was fond of tom, for he was the first friend she had made in that long-ago time when she arrived, a little girl and a stranger, at the red mill. other boys did not interest ruth in the least. without helen's beauty, she was, nevertheless, a decidedly attractive girl. her figure was well rounded, her eyes shone, her hair was just wavy enough to be pretty, and she was very, very much alive. if ruth fielding took an interest in anything that thing, tom declared, "went with a bang!" she was positive, energetic, and usually finished anything that she began. she had already done some things that few girls of her age could have accomplished. the trio of friends trooped into aunt alvirah's clean and shining kitchen. "dear me! dear me!" murmured the little old woman, "i sha'n't have the pleasure of your company for long. i'll miss my pretty," and she smiled fondly at ruth. "that's the only drawback about coming home from school," grumbled tom, looking really forlorn, even with his mouth full of aunt alvirah's pound cake. "what's the drawback?" demanded his twin. "going away again. just think! we sha'n't see each other for so long." he was staring at ruth, and helen, with a roguish twinkle in her eye, passed him her pocket-handkerchief--a wee and useless bit of lace--saying: "weep, if you must, tommy; but get it over with. ruth and i are not gnashing _our_ teeth about going away. just to think! ardmore!" nothing but capital letters would fully express the delight she put into the name of the college she and ruth were to attend. "huh!" grunted tom. aunt alvirah said: "it wouldn't matter, deary, if you was both goin' off to be queens of sheby; it's the goin' away that hurts." ruth had her arms about the little old woman and her own voice was caressing if not lachrymose. "don't take it so to heart, aunt alvirah. we shall not forget you. you shall send us a box of goodies once in a while as you always do; and i will write to you and to uncle jabez. keep up your heart, dear." "easy said, my pretty," sighed the old woman. "not so easy follered out. an' jabe potter is dreadful tryin' when you ain't here." "poor uncle jabez," murmured ruth. "poor aunt alvirah, you'd better say!" exclaimed helen, sharply, for she had not the patience with the miserly miller that his niece possessed. at the moment the back door was pushed open. helen jumped. she feared that uncle jabez had overheard her criticism. but it was only ben, the hired man, who thrust his face bashfully around the edge of the door. the young people hailed him gaily, and ruth offered him a piece of cake. "thank'e, miss ruth," ben said. "i can't come in. jest came to the shed for the oars." "is uncle going across the river in the punt?" asked ruth. "no, miss ruth. there's a boat adrift on the river." "what kind of boat?" asked tom, jumping up. "what d'you mean?" "she's gone adrift, mr. tom," said ben. "looks like she come from one o' them camps upstream." "oh! let's go and see!" cried helen, likewise eager for something new. neither of the cameron twins ever remained in one position or were interested solely in one thing for long. the young folk trooped out after ben through the long, covered passage to the rear door of the red mill. the water-wheel was turning and the jar of the stones set every beam and plank in the structure to trembling. the air was a haze of fine white particles. uncle jabez came forward, as dusty and crusty an old miller as one might ever expect to see. he was a tall, crabbed looking man, the dust of the mill seemingly so ground into the lines of his face that it was grey all over and one wondered if it could ever be washed clean again. he only nodded to his niece and her friends, seizing the oars ben had brought with the observation: "go 'tend to gil martin, ben. he's waitin' for his flour. where ye been all this time? that boat'll drift by." ben knew better than to reply as he hastened to the shipping door where mr. martin waited with his wagon for the sacks of flour. the miller went to the platform on the riverside, ruth and her friends following him. "i see it!" cried tom. "can't be anybody in it for it's sailing broadside." uncle jabez put the oars in the punt and began to untie the painter. "all the more reason we should get it," he said drily. "salvage, ye know." "you mustn't go alone, uncle jabez," ruth said mildly. "huh! why not?" snarled the old miller. "something might happen. if ben can't go, i will take an oar." he knew she was quite capable of handling the punt, even in the rapids, so he merely growled his acquiescence. at that moment ruth discovered something. "why! the boat isn't empty!" she cried. "you're right, ruth! i see something in it," said tom. uncle jabez straightened up, holding the painter doubtfully. "aw, well," he grunted. "if there's somebody in it----" he saw no reason for going after the drifting boat if it were manned. he could not claim the boat or claim salvage for it under such circumstances. but the strange boat was drifting toward the rapids of the lumano that began just below the mill. in the present state of the river this "white water," as lumbermen call it, was dangerous. "why, how foolish!" helen cried. "whoever is in that boat is lying in the bottom of it." "and drifting right toward the middle of the river!" added her twin. "hurry up, uncle jabez!" urged ruth. "we must go out there." "what fur, i'd like to know?" demanded the miller sharply. "we ain't hired ter go out an' wake up every reckless fule that goes driftin' by." "of course not. but maybe he's not asleep," ruth said quickly. "maybe he's hurt. maybe he has fainted. why, a dozen things might have happened!" "an' a dozen things might _not_ have happened," said old jabez potter, coolly retying the painter. "uncle! we mustn't do that!" cried his niece. "we must go out in the punt and make sure all is right with that boat." "who says so?" demanded the miller. "of course we must. i'll go with you. come, do! there is somebody in danger." ruth fielding, as she spoke, leaped into the punt. tom would have been glad to go with her, but she had motioned him back before he could speak. she was ashamed to have the miller so display the mean side of his nature before her friends. grumblingly he climbed into the heavy boat after her. tom cast off and ruth pushed the boat's nose upstream, then settled herself to one of the oars while uncle jabez took the other. "huh! they ain't anything in it for us," grumbled mr. potter as the punt slanted toward mid-stream. chapter ii maggie ruth fielding knew very well the treacherous current of the lumano. she saw that the drifting boat with its single occupant was very near to the point where the fierce pull of the mid-stream current would seize it. so she rowed her best and having the stroke oar, uncle jabez was obliged to pull _his_ best to keep up with her. "huh!" he snorted, "it ain't so pertic'lar, is it, niece ruth? that feller----" she made no reply, but in a few minutes they were near enough to the drifting boat for ruth to glance over her shoulder and see into it. at once she uttered a little cry of pity. "what now?" gruffly demanded uncle jabez. "oh, uncle! it's a girl!" ruth gasped. "a gal! _another gal?_" exclaimed the old miller. "i swanny! the red mill is allus littered up with gals when you're to hum." this was a favorite complaint of his; but he pulled more vigorously, nevertheless, and the punt was quickly beside the drifting boat. a girl in very commonplace garments--although she was not at all a commonplace looking girl--lay in the bottom of the boat. her eyes were closed and she was very pale. "she's fainted," ruth whispered. "who in 'tarnation let a gal like that go out in a boat alone, and without airy oar?" demanded uncle jabez, crossly. "here! hold steady. i'll take that painter and 'tach it to the boat. we'll tow her in. but lemme tell ye," added uncle jabez, decidedly, "somebody's got ter pay me fur my time, or else they don't git the boat back. she seems to be all right." "why, she isn't conscious!" cried ruth. "huh!" grunted uncle jabez, "i mean the boat, not the gal." ruth always suspected that uncle jabez potter made a pretense of being really worse than he was. when a little girl she had been almost afraid of her cross-grained relative--the only relative she had in the world. but there were times when the ugly crust of the old man's character was rubbed off and his niece believed she saw the true gold beneath. she was frequently afraid that others would hear and not understand him. now that she was financially independent of uncle jabez ruth was not so sensitive for herself. they towed the boat back to the mill landing. tom and ben carried the strange girl, still unconscious into the red mill farmhouse, and bustling little aunt alvirah had her put at once to bed. "shall i hustle right over to cheslow for the doctor?" tom asked. "who's goin' to pay him?" growled uncle jabez, who heard this. "don't let that worry you, mr. potter," said the youth, his black eyes flashing. "if i hire a doctor i always pay him." "it's a good thing to have that repertation," uncle jabez said drily. "one should pay the debts he contracts." but aunt alvirah scoffed at the need of a doctor. "the gal's only fainted. scare't it's likely, findin' herself adrift in that boat. you needn't trouble yourself about it, jabez." thus reassured the miller went back to examine the boat. although it was somewhat marred, it was not damaged, and uncle jabez was satisfied that if nobody claimed the boat he would be amply repaid for his trouble. naturally, the two girls fluttered about the stranger a good deal when aunt alvirah had brought her out of her faint. ruth was particularly attracted by "maggie" as the stranger announced her name to be. "i was working at one of those summer-folks' camps up the river. mr. bender's, it was," she explained to ruth, later. "but all the folks went last night, and this morning i was going across the river with my bag--oh, did you find my bag, miss?" "surely," ruth laughed. "it is here, beside your bed." "oh, thank you," said the girl. "mr. bender paid me last night. one of the men was to take me across the river, and i sat down and waited, and nobody came, and by and by i fell into a nap and when i woke up i was out in the river, all alone. my! i was frightened." "then you have no reason for going back to the camp?" asked ruth, thoughtfully. "no--miss. i'm through up there for the season. i'll look for another situation--i--i mean job," she added stammeringly. "we will telephone up the river and tell them you are all right," ruth said. "oh, thank you--miss." ruth asked her several other questions, and although maggie was reserved, her answers were satisfactory. "but what's goin' to become of the gal?" uncle jabez asked that evening after supper, when he and his niece were in the farmhouse kitchen alone. aunt alvirah had carried tea and toast in to the patient and was sitting by her. the girl of the red mill thought maggie did not seem like the usual "hired help" whom she had seen. she seemed much more refined than one might expect a girl to be of the class to which she claimed to belong. ruth looked across the table at her cross-grained old relative and made no direct reply to his question. she was very sure that, after all, he would be kind to the strange girl if maggie actually needed to be helped. but ruth had an idea that maggie was quite capable of helping herself. "uncle jabez," the girl of the red mill said to the old man, softly, "do you know something?" "huh?" grunted uncle jabez. "i know a hull lot more than you young sprigs gimme credit for knowin'." "oh! i didn't mean it that way," and ruth laughed cheerily at him. "i mean that i have discovered something, and i wondered if you had discovered the same thing?" "out with it, niece ruth," he ordered, eyeing her curiously. "i'll tell ye if it's anything i already know." "well, aunt alvirah is growing old." "ye don't say!" snapped the miller. "and who ain't, i'd like to know?" "her rheumatism is much worse, and it will soon be winter." "say! what air ye tryin' to do?" he demanded. "tellin' me these here puffictly obvious things! of course she's gittin' older; and of course her rheumatiz is bound to grow wuss. doctors ain't never yet found nothin' to cure rheumatiz. and winter us'ally follers fall--even in this here tarnation climate." "well, but the combination is going to be very bad for aunt alvirah," ruth said gently, determined to pursue her idea to the finish, no matter how cross he appeared to be. "wal, is it _my_ fault?" asked uncle jabez. "it's nobody's fault," ruth told him, shaking her head, and very serious. "but it's aunt alvirah's misfortune." "huh!" "and we must do something about it." "huh! must we? what, i'd like to have ye tell me?" said the old miller, eyeing ruth much as one strange dog might another that he suspected was after his best marrow bone. "we must get somebody to help her do the work while i am at college," ruth said firmly. the dull red flooded into uncle jabez's cheeks, and for once gave him a little color. his narrow eyes sparkled, too. "there's one thing i've allus said, niece ruth," he declared hotly. "ye air a great one for spending other folks' money." it was ruth's turn to flush now, and although she might not possess what aunt alvirah called "the potter economical streak," she did own to a spark of the potter temper. ruth fielding was not namby-pamby, although she was far from quarrelsome. "uncle jabez," she returned rather tartly, "have i been spending much of _your_ money lately?" "no," he growled. "but ye ain't l'arnt how to take proper keer of yer own--trapsin' 'round the country the way you do." she laughed then. "i'm getting knowledge. some of it comes high, i have found; but it will all help me _live_." "huh! i've lived without that brand of l'arnin'," grunted uncle jabez. ruth looked at him amusedly. she was tempted to tell him that he had not lived, only existed. but she was not impudent, and merely went on to say: "aunt alvirah is getting too old to do all the work here----" "i send ben in to help her some when she's alone," said the miller. "and by so doing put extra work on poor ben," ruth told him, decidedly. "no, aunt alvirah must have another woman around, or a girl." "where ye goin' to find the gal?" snapped the miller. "work gals don't like to stay in the country." "she's found, i believe," ruth told him. "huh?" "this maggie we just got out of the river. she has no job, she says, and she wants one. i believe she'll stay." "who's goin' to pay her wages?" demanded uncle jabez, getting back to "first principles" again. "i'll pay the girl's wages, uncle jabez," ruth said seriously. "but you must feed her. and she must be fed well, too. i can see that part of her trouble is malnutrition." "huh? has she got some ketchin' disease?" uncle jabez demanded. "it isn't contagious," ruth replied drily. "but unless she is well fed she cannot be cured of it." "wal, there's plenty of milk and eggs," the miller said. "but you must not hide the key of the meat-house, uncle," and now ruth laughed outright at him. "four people at table means a depletion of your smoked meat and a dipping occasionally into the corned-beef barrel." "wal----" "now, if i pay the girl's wages, you must supply the food," his niece said, firmly, "otherwise, aunt alvirah will go without help, and then she will break down, and _then_----" "huh!" grunted the miller. "i couldn't let her go back to the poorfarm, i s'pose?" he actually made it a question; but ruth could not see his face, for he had turned aside. "no. she could not return to the poorhouse--after fifteen years!" exclaimed the girl. "do you know what _i_ should do?" and she asked the question warmly. "somethin' fullish, i allow." "i should take her to ardmore with me, and find a tiny cottage for her, and maybe she would keep house for helen and me." "that'd be jest like ye, niece ruth," he responded coolly. "you think you have all the money in the world. that's because ye didn't aim what ye got--it was give to ye." the statement was in large part true, and for the moment ruth's lips were closed. tears stood in her eyes, too. she realized that she could not be independent of the old miller had not chance and kind-hearted and grateful mrs. rachel parsons given her the bulk of the amount now deposited in her name in the bank. ruth fielding's circumstances had been very different when she had first come to cheslow and the red mill. then she was a little, homeless, orphan girl who was "taken in out of charity" by uncle jabez. and very keenly and bitterly had she been made to feel during those first few months her dependence upon the crabbed old miller. the introductory volume of this series, "ruth fielding of the red mill, or, jacob parloe's secret," details in full the little girl's trials and triumphs under these unfortunate conditions--how she makes friends, smooths over difficulties, and in a measure wins old uncle jabez's approval. the miller was a very honest man and always paid his debts. because of something ruth did for him he felt it to be his duty to pay her first year's tuition at boarding school, where she went with her new friend, helen cameron. in "ruth fielding at briarwood hall," the red mill girl really begins her school career, and begins, too, to satisfy that inbred longing for independence which was so strong a part of her character. in succeeding volumes of the "ruth fielding series," we follow ruth's adventures in snow camp, a winter lodge in the adirondack wilderness; at lighthouse point, the summer home of a girl friend on the atlantic coast; at silver ranch, in montana; at cliff island; at sunrise farm; with the gypsies, which was a very important adventure, indeed, for ruth fielding. in this eighth story ruth was able to recover for mrs. rachel parsons, an aunt of one of her school friends, a very valuable pearl necklace, and as a reward of five thousand dollars had been offered for the recovery of the necklace, the entire sum came to ruth. this money made ruth financially independent of uncle jabez. the ninth volume of the series, entitled, "ruth fielding in moving pictures; or, helping the dormitory fund," shows ruth and her chums engaged in film production. ruth discovered that she could write a good scenario--a very good scenario, indeed. mr. hammond, president of the alectrion film corporation, encouraged her to write others. when the west dormitory of briarwood hall was burned and it was discovered that there had been no insurance on the building, the girls determined to do all in their power to rebuild the structure. ruth was inspired to write a scenario, a five-reel drama of schoolgirl life, and mr. hammond produced it, ruth's share of the profits going toward the building fund. "the heart of a schoolgirl" was not only locally famous, but was shown all over the country and was even now, after six months, paying the final construction bills of the west dormitory, at briarwood. in this ninth volume of the series, ruth and helen and many of their chums graduated from briarwood hall. immediately after the graduation the girl of the red mill and helen cameron were taken south by nettie parsons and her aunt rachel to visit the merredith plantation in south carolina. their adventures were fully related in the story immediately preceding the present narrative, the tenth of the "ruth fielding series," entitled, "ruth fielding down in dixie; or, great times in the land of cotton." home again, after that delightful journey, ruth had spent most of the remaining weeks of her vacation quietly at the red mill. she was engaged upon another scenario for mr. hammond, in which the beautiful old mill on the lumano would figure largely. she also had had many preparations to make for her freshman year at ardmore. ruth and helen were quite "young ladies" now, so tom scoffingly said. and going to college was quite another thing from looking forward to a term at a preparatory school. nevertheless, ruth had found plenty of time to help aunt alvirah during the past few weeks. she had noted how much feebler the old woman was becoming. therefore, she was determined to win uncle jabez to her plan of securing help in the red mill kitchen. the coming of the girl, maggie, though a strange coincidence, ruth looked upon as providential. she urged uncle jabez to agree to her proposal, and the very next morning she sounded maggie upon the subject. the strange girl was sitting up, but aunt alvirah would not hear to her doing anything as yet. ruth found maggie in the sitting-room, engaged in looking at the ardmore year book which ruth had left upon the sitting-room table. "pretty landscapes about the college, aren't they?" ruth suggested. "oh yes--miss. very pretty," agreed maggie. "that is where i am going to college," ruth explained. "i enter as a freshman next week." "is that so--miss?" hesitated maggie. her heretofore colorless face flushed warmly. "i've heard of that--that place," she added. "indeed, have you?" maggie was looking at the photograph of lake remona, with a part of bliss island at one side. she continued to stare at the picture while ruth put before her the suggestion of work at the red mill. "oh, of course, miss fielding, i'd be glad of the work. and you're very liberal. but you don't know anything about me." "no. and i shouldn't know much more about you if you brought a dozen recommendations," laughed ruth. "i suppose not--miss." it seemed hard for the girl to get out that "miss," and ruth, who was keenly observant, wondered if she really had been accustomed to using it. they talked it over and finally reached an agreement. aunt alvirah was sweetly grateful to ruth, knowing full well that there must have been a "battle royal" between the miller and his niece before the former had agreed to the new arrangement. ruth was quite sure that maggie was a nice girl, even if she was queer. at least, she gave deference to the quaint little old housekeeper, and seemed to like aunt alvirah very much. and who would not love the woman, who was everybody's aunt but nobody's relative? once or twice ruth found maggie poring over the year book of ardmore college, rather an odd interest for a girl of her class. but maggie was rather an odd girl anyway, and ruth forgot the matter in her final preparations for departure. chapter iii expectations "i expect she'll be a haughty, stuck-up thing," declared edith phelps, with vigor. "'just like _that_,'" drawled may macgreggor. "we should worry about the famous authoress of canned drama! a budding lady hack writer, i fancy." "oh, dear me, no!" cried edith. "didn't you see 'the heart of a schoolgirl' she wrote? why, it was a good photo-play, i assure you." "and put out by the alectrion film corporation," joined in another of the group of girls standing upon the wide porch of dare hall, one of the four large dormitories of ardmore college. the college buildings were set most artistically upon the slope of college hill, each building facing sparkling lake remona. save the boathouse and the bathing pavilions, dare and dorrance halls at the east side of the grounds, and hoskin and hemmingway halls at the west side, were the structures nearest to the lake. farther to the east an open grove intervened between the dormitories and the meadows along the remona river where bog hay was cut, and which were sometimes flooded in the freshet season. to the west the lake extended as far as the girls on the porch could see, a part of its sparkling surface being hidden by the green and hilly bulk of bliss island. the shaded green lawns of the campus between dare and hoskin halls were crossed by winding paths. a fleshy girl who was near the group but not of it, had been viewing this lovely landscape with pleasure. now she frankly listened to the chatter of the "inquisitors." "well," edith phelps insisted, "this ruth fielding was so petted at that backwoods' school where she has been that i suppose there will be no living in the same house with her." edith was one of the older sophomores--quite old, indeed, to the eyes of the plump girl who was listening. but the latter smiled quietly, nevertheless, as she listened to the sophomore's speech. "we shall have to take her down a peg or two, of course. it's bad enough to have the place littered up with a lot of freshies----" "just as we littered it up last year at this time, edie," suggested may, with a chuckle. "well," edith said, laughing, "if i don't put this ruth fielding, the authoress, in her place in a hurry, it won't be because i sha'n't try." "have a care, dearie," admonished one quiet girl who had not spoken before. "remember the warning we had at commencement." "about what?" demanded two or three. "about that rolff girl, you know," said the thoughtful girl. "oh! i know what you mean," edith said. "but that was a warning to the sororities." "to everybody," put in may. "at any rate," dora parton said, "dr. milroth forbade anything in the line of hazing." "pooh!" said edith. "who mentioned hazing? that's old-fashioned. we're too ladylike at ardmore, i should hope, to _haze_--my!" "'my heye, blokey!'" drawled may. "you are positively coarse, miss macgreggor," dora said, severely. "and edie is so awfully emphatic," laughed the scotch girl. "but she will have to take it out in threatenings, i fear. we can't haze this fielding chit, and that's all there is to it." "positively," said the quiet girl, "that was a terrible thing they did to margaret rolff. she was a nervous girl, anyway. do you remember her, may?" "of course. and i remember being jealous because she was chosen by the kappa alpha as a candidate. glad _i_ wasn't one if they put all their new members through the same rigmarole." "that is irreverent!" gasped edith. "the kappa alpha!" "i see dr. milroth took them down all right, all right!" remarked another of the group. "and now none of the sororities can solicit members among either the sophs or the freshies." "and it's a shame!" cried edith. "the sorority girls have such fun." "half murdering innocents--yes," drawled may. "that margaret rolff was just about scared out of her wits, they say. they found her wandering about bliss island----" "sh! we're not to talk of it," advised edith, with a glance at the fat girl in the background who, although taking no part in the discussion, was very much amused, especially every time ruth fielding's name was brought up. "well, i don't know why we shouldn't speak of it," said dora parton, who was likewise a sophomore. "the whole college knew it at the time. when margaret rolff left they discovered that the beautiful silver vase was gone, too, from the library----" "oh, hush!" exclaimed may macgreggor, sharply. "won't hush--so now!" said the other girl, smartly, making a face at the scotch lassie. "didn't miss cullam go wailing all over the college about it?" "that's so," edith agreed. "you'd have thought it was her vase that had been stolen." "i don't believe the vase was stolen at all," may said. "it was mixed up in that initiation and lost. i know that the kappa alpha girls are raising a fund to pay for it." "pay for it!" scoffed some one. "why, they couldn't do that in a thousand years. that was an egyptian curio--very old and very valuable. pay for it, indeed! those kappa alphas, as well as the other sororities, are paying for their fun in another way." "but, anyway," said the quiet girl, "it was a terrible experience for miss rolff." "unless she 'put it on' and got away with the loot herself," said edith. "oh, scissors! _now_ who's coarse?" demanded may macgreggor. but the conversation came back to the expected ruth fielding. these girls had all arrived at ardmore several days in advance of the opening of the semester. indeed, it is always advisable for freshmen, especially, to be on hand at least two days before the opening, for there is much preparation for newcomers. the fleshy girl who had thus far taken no part in the conversation recorded, save to be amused by it, had already been on the ground long enough to know her way about. but she was not yet acquainted with any of her classmates or with the sophomores. if she knew ruth fielding, she said nothing about it when edith phelps began to discuss the girl of the red mill again. "miss cullam spoke to me about this fielding. it seems she has an acquaintance who teaches at that backwoods' school the child went to----" "briarwood a backwoods' school!" said may. "not much!" "well, it's somewhere up in new york state among the yaps," declared edith. "and cullam's friend wrote her that fielding is a wonder. dear me! how i _do_ abominate wonders." "perhaps we are maligning the girl," said dora. "perhaps ruth fielding is quite modest." "what? after writing a moving picture drama? is there anything modest about the motion picture business in _any_ of its branches?" "oh, dear me, edie!" cried one of her listeners, "you're dreadful." "i presume this canned drama authoress," pursued edith, "will have ink-stains on her fingers and her hair will be eternally flying about her careworn features. well! and what are _you_ laughing at?" she suddenly and tartly demanded of the plump girl in the background. "at you," chuckled the stranger. "am i so funny to look at?" "no. but you are the funniest-talking girl i ever listened to. let me laugh, won't you?" before this observation could be more particularly inquired into, some one shouted: "oh, look who's here! and in style, bless us!" "and see the freight! excess baggage, for a fact," may macgreggor said, under her breath. "who _can_ she be?" "the queen of sheba in all her glory had nothing on this lady," cried edith with conviction. it was not often that any of the ardmore girls, and especially a freshman, arrived during the opening week of the term in a private equipage. this car that came chugging down the hill to the entrance of dare hall was a very fine touring automobile. the girl in the tonneau, barricaded with a huge trunk and several bags, besides a huge leather hat-box perched beside the chauffeur, was very gaily appareled as well. "goodness! look at the labels on that trunk," whispered dora parton. "why, that girl must have been all over europe." "the trunk has, at any rate," chuckled may. "hist!" now came from the excited edith phelps. "see the initials, 'r. f.' what did i tell you? it is that fielding girl!" "oh, my aunt!" groaned the plump girl in the background, and she actually had to stuff her handkerchief in her mouth to keep from laughing outright again. the car had halted and the chauffeur got down promptly, for he had to remove some of the "excess baggage" before the girl in the tonneau could alight. "i guess she must think she belongs here," whispered dora. "more likely she thinks she owns the whole place," snapped edith, who had evidently made up her mind not to like the new girl whose baggage was marked "r. f." the girl got out and shook out her draperies. a close inspection would have revealed the fact that, although dressed in the very height of fashion (whatever _that_ may mean), the materials of which the stranger's costume were made were rather cheap. "this is dare hall, isn't it?" she asked the group of girls above her on the porch. "i suppose there is a porter to help--er--the man with my baggage?" "it is a rule of the college," said edith, promptly, "that each girl shall carry her own baggage to her room. no male person is allowed within the dormitory building." there was a chorused, if whispered, "oh!" from the other girls, and the newcomer looked at edith, suspiciously. "i guess you are spoofing me, aren't you?" she inquired. "help! help!" murmured may macgreggor. "that's the very latest english slang." "she's brought it direct from 'dear ol' lunnon'," gasped one of the other sophomores. "dear me!" said edith, addressing her friends, "wouldn't it be nice to have a 'close up' taken of that heap of luggage? it really needs a camera man and a director to make this arrival a success." the girl who had just come looked very much puzzled. the chauffeur seemed eager to be gone. "if i can't help take in the boxes, miss, i might as well be going," he said to the new arrival. "very well," she rejoined, stiffly, and opening her purse gave him a bill. he lifted his cap, entered the car, touched the starter and in a moment the car whisked away. "i declare!" said may macgreggor, "she looks just like a castaway on the shore of a desert island, with all the salvage she has been able to recover from the wreck." and perhaps the mysterious r. f. felt a good deal that way. chapter iv first impressions greenburg was the station on the n. y. f. & b. railroad nearest to ardmore college. it was a small city of some thirty or forty thousand inhabitants. the people, not alone in the city but in the surrounding country, were a rather wealthy class. ardmore was a mile from the outskirts of the town. ruth fielding and helen cameron, her chum, had arrived with other girls bound for the college on the noon train. of course, the chums knew none of their fellow pupils by name, but it was easily seen which of those alighting from the train were bound for ardmore. there were two large auto-stages in waiting, and ruth and helen followed the crowd of girls briskly getting aboard the buses. as they saw other girls do, the two chums from cheslow gave their trunk checks to a man on the platform, but they clung to their hand-baggage. "such a nice looking lot of girls," murmured helen in ruth's ear. "it's fine! i'm sure we shall have a delightful time at college, ruthie." "and some hard work," observed ruth, laughing, "if we expect to keep up with them. there are no dunces in this crowd, my dear." "goodness, no!" agreed her friend. "they all look as sharp as needles." there were girls of all the classes at the station, as was easily seen. ruth and helen chanced to get into a seat with two of the seniors, who seemed most awfully sophisticated to the recent graduates of briarwood hall. "you are just entering, are you not--you and your friend?" asked the nearest senior of ruth. "yes," admitted the girl of the red mill, feeling and looking very shy. the young women smiled quietly, saying: "i am miss dexter, and am beginning my senior year. i am glad to be the first to welcome you to ardmore." "thank you so much!" ruth said, recovering her self-possession. then she told miss dexter her own name and introduced helen. "you girls have drawn your room numbers, i presume?" "they were drawn for us," ruth said. "we are to be in dare hall and hope to have adjoining rooms." "that is nice," said miss dexter. "it is so much pleasanter when two friends enter together. i am at hoskin hall myself. i shall be glad to have you two freshmen look me up when you are once settled." "thank you," ruth said again, and helen found her voice to ask: "are all the seniors in hoskin hall, and all the freshmen at dare hall?" "oh, no. there are members of each class in all four of the dormitories," miss dexter explained. "i suppose there will be much for us to learn," sighed ruth. "it is different from a boarding school." "do you both come from a boarding school?" asked their new acquaintance. "we are graduates of briarwood hall," helen said, with pride. "oh, indeed?" miss dexter looked sharply at ruth again. "did you say your name was ruth fielding?" "yes, miss dexter." "why, you must be the girl who wrote a picture play to help build a dormitory for your school!" exclaimed the senior. "really, how nice." "there, ruth!" said helen, teasingly, "see what it is to be famous." "i--i hope my reputation will not be held against me," ruth said, laughing. "let me tell you, miss dexter, we all at briarwood helped to swell that dormitory fund." "i fancy so," said the senior. "but all of your schoolmates could not have written a scenario which would have been approved by the alectrion film corporation." "i should say not!" cried helen, warmly. "and it was a great picture, too." "it was clever, indeed," agreed miss dexter. "i saw it on the screen." miss dexter introduced the girl at the other end of the seat--another senior, miss purvis. the two entering freshmen felt flattered--how could they help it? they had expected, as freshmen, to be quite haughtily ignored by the seniors and juniors. but there were other matters to interest ruth and helen as the auto-bus rolled out of the city. the way was very pleasant; there were beautiful homes in the suburbs of greenburg. and after they were passed, there were lovely fields and groves on either hand. the chums thought they had seldom seen more attractive country, although they had traveled more than most girls of their age. the road over which the auto-bus rolled was wide and well oiled--a splendid automobile track. but only one private equipage passed them on the ride to ardmore. that car came along, going the same way as themselves, just as they reached the first of the row of faculty dwellings. there was but one passenger in the car--a girl; and she was packed around with baggage in a most surprising way. "oh!" gasped helen, in ruth's ear, "i guess there goes one of the real fancy girls--the kind that sets the pace at college." ruth noticed that miss dexter and miss purvis craned their necks to see the car and the girl, and she ventured to ask who she was. "i can't tell you," miss dexter said briskly. "i never saw her before." "oh! perhaps, then, she isn't going to the college." "yes; she must be. this road goes nowhere else. but she is a freshman, of course." "an eccentric, i fancy," drawled miss purvis. "you must know that each freshman class is bound to have numbered with it some most surprising individuals. _rarae aves_, as it were." miss dexter laughed. "but the corners are soon rubbed off and their peculiarities fade into the background. when i was a freshman, there entered a woman over fifty, with perfectly white hair. she was a _dear_; but, of course, she was an anomaly at college." "my!" exclaimed helen. "what did she want to go to college for?" "the poor thing had always wanted to go to college. when she was young there were few women's colleges. and she had a big family to help, and finally a bedridden sister to care for. so she remained faithful to her home duties, but each year kept up with the graduating class of a local preparatory school. she was really a very well educated and bright woman; only peculiar." "and what happened when she came to ardmore?" asked ruth, interested, "is she still here?" "oh, no. she remained only a short time. she found, she said, that her mind was not nimble enough, at her age, to keep up with the classes. which was very probably true, you know. unless one is constantly engaged in hard mental labor, one's mind must get into ruts by the time one is fifty. but she was very lovely, and quite popular--while she lasted." helen was more interested just then in the row of cottages occupied by the members of the faculty, and here strung along the left side of the highway. they were pretty houses, set in pretty grounds. "oh, look, helen!" cried ruth, suddenly. "the lake!" responded helen. the dancing blue waters of lake remona were visible for a minute between two of the houses. ruth, too, caught a glimpse of the small island which raised its hilly head in the middle of the lake. "is that bliss island?" she inquired of miss dexter. "yes. you can see it from here. that doesn't belong to the college." "no?" said ruth, in surprise: "but, of course, the girls can go there?" "it is 'no man's land,' i believe. belongs to none of the estates surrounding the lake. we go there--yes," miss dexter told her. "the stone face is there." "what is that, please?" asked ruth, interested. "what is the stone face?" "a landmark, miss fielding. that stone face was quite an important spot last may--wasn't it, purvis?" the senior asked the other girl. "oh, goodness me, yes!" said miss purvis. "don't mention it. think what it has done to our kappa alpha." "what do you suppose ever became of that girl?" murmured miss dexter, thoughtfully. "i can't imagine. it was a sorry time, take it all in all. let's not talk of it, merry. our sorority has a setback from which it will never recover." all this was literally greek to ruth, of course. nor did she listen with any attention. there were other things for her and helen to be interested in, for the main building of the college had come into view. they had been gradually climbing the easy slope of college hill from the east. the main edifice of ardmore did not stand upon the summit of the eminence. behind and above the big, winged building the hill rose to a wooded, rounding summit, sheltering the whole estate from the north winds. just upon the edge of the forest at the top was an octagon-shaped observatory. ruth had read about it in the year book. from the balcony of this observatory one could see, on a clear day, to the extreme west end of lake remona--quite twenty-five miles away. the newcomers, however, were more interested at present in the big building which faced the lake, half-way down the southern slope of college hill, and which contained the hall and classrooms, as well as the principal offices. the beautiful campus was in front of this building. "all off for dare and dorrance," shouted the stage driver, stopping his vehicle. the driveway here split, one branch descending the hill, while the main thread wound on past the front of the main building. ruth and helen scrambled down with their bags. "good-bye," said miss dexter smiling on them. "perhaps i shall see you when you come over to the registrar's office. we seniors have to do the honors for you freshies." miss purvis, too, bade them a pleasant good-bye. the chums set off down the driveway. on their left was the great, sandstone, glass-roofed bulk of the gymnasium, and they caught a glimpse of the fenced athletic field behind it. ahead were the two big dormitories upon this side of the campus--dare and dorrance halls. the driveway curved around to the front of these buildings, and now the private touring car the girls had before noticed, came shooting around from the lake side of the dormitories, passing ruth and helen, empty save for the chauffeur. "goodness!" exclaimed helen. "i wonder if that dressy girl with all the goods and chattels is bunked in _our_ dormitory?" "'our' dormitory, no less!" laughed ruth. "do you feel as much at home already as _that_?" "goodness! no. i'm only trying to make myself believe it. ruth, what an e-_nor_-mous place this is! i feel just as small as--as a little mouse in an elephant's stall." ruth laughed, but before she could reply they rounded the corner of the building nearest to the campus and saw the group of girls upon its broad porch, the stranger at the foot of the steps, and the heap of baggage piled where the chauffeur had left it. "hello!" may macgreggor said, aloud, "here are a couple more kittens. look at the pretty girl with the brown eyes and hair. and the smart-looking, black-eyed one. now! _here_ are freshies after my own heart." edith phelps refused to be called off from the girl and the baggage, however. she said coolly: "i really don't know what you will do with all that truck, miss fielding. the rooms at dare are rather small. you could not possibly get all those bags and the trunk--and certainly not that hat-box--into one of these rooms." "my name isn't fielding," said the strange girl, paling now, but whether from anger or as a forerunner to tears it would have been hard to tell. her face was not one to be easily read. "your name isn't _fielding_?" gasped edie phelps, while the latter's friends burst into laughter. "'r. f.'! what does that stand for, pray?" at this moment the fleshy girl who had been all this time in the background on the porch, flung herself forward, burst through the group, and ran down the steps. she had spied ruth and helen approaching. "ruthie! helen! _ruth fielding!_ isn't this delightsome?" the fleshy girl tried to hug both the chums from cheslow at once. edie phelps and the rest of the girls on the porch gazed and listened in amazement. edie turned upon the girl with the heap of baggage, accusingly. "you're a good one! what do you mean by coming here and fooling us all in this way? what's your name?" "rebecca frayne--if you think you have a right to ask," said the new girl, sharply. "and you're not the canned drama authoress?" "i don't know what you mean, i'm sure," said rebecca frayne. "but i _would_ like to know what i'm to do with this baggage." ruth had come to the foot of the steps now with helen and the fleshy girl, whom the chums had hailed gladly as "jennie stone." the girl of the red mill heard the speech of the stranger and noted her woebegone accent. she turned with a smile to rebecca frayne. "oh! i know about that," she said. "just leave your trunk and bags here and put your card and the number of your room on them. the men will be along very soon to carry them up for you. i read that in the year book." "thank you," said rebecca frayne. the group of sophomores and freshmen on the porch opened a way for the briarwood trio to enter the house, and said never a word. jennie stone was, as she confessed, grinning broadly. chapter v getting settled "what does this mean, heavy jennie?" demanded helen, pinching the very comfortable arm of their fleshy friend. "what does that mean? ouch, helen! you know you're pinching something when you pinch _me_." "that's why i like to. no fun in trying to make an impression on bones, you know." "but it doesn't hurt bones so much," grumbled jennie. "remember what the fruit-stand man printed on his sign: 'if you musta pincha da fruit, pincha da cocoanut.' you can't so easy bruise bony folk, helen." "you are dodging the issue, heavy," declared helen. "what does this mean?" "what does what mean?" demanded the fleshy girl, grinning widely again. "how came you here, of course?" ruth put in, smiling upon their gay and usually thoughtless friend. "you said you did not think you could come to ardmore." "and you had conditions to make up if you did come," declared helen. "i made 'em up," said jennie, laughing. "and you're here ahead of us! oh, heavy, what sport!" cried helen, undertaking to pinch the plump girl again. "now, that's enough of that," said jennie stone. "i have feelings, as well as other folk, helen cameron, despite my name. have a heart!" "we are so glad to see you, heavy," said ruth. "you mustn't mind helen's exuberance." "and you never said a word about coming here when you wrote to us down south," helen said, eyeing the fleshy girl curiously. "i didn't know what to do," confessed jennie stone. "i talked it over with aunt kate. she agreed with me that, if i had finished school, i'd put on about five pounds a month, and that's all i _would_ do." "goodness!" gasped ruth and helen, together. "yes," said heavy, nodding with emphasis. "that's what i did the first month. nothing to do, you see, but eat and sleep. if i'd had to go to work----" "but couldn't you find something to do?" demanded the energetic ruth. "at lighthouse point? you know just how lazy a spot that is. and in winter in the city it would be worse. so i determined to come here." "to keep from getting fatter!" cried helen. "a new reason for coming to college." "well," said jennie, seriously, "i missed the gym work and i missed being uncomfortable." "uncomfortable?" gasped ruth and helen. "yes. you know, my father's a big man, and so are my older brothers big. everything in our house is big and well stuffed and comfortable--chairs and beds and all. i never was comfortable in my bed at briarwood." "horrible!" cried helen, while ruth laughed heartily. "and _here_!" went on heavy, lugubriously. "wait till you see. do you know, all they give us here is _cots_ to sleep on? _cots_, mind! goodness! when i try to turn over i roll right out on the floor. you ought to see my sides already, how black-and-blue they are. i've been here two nights." "why did you come so early?" "so as to try to get used to the food and the beds," groaned heavy. "but i never will. one teacher already has advised me about my diet. she says vegetables are best for me. i ate a peck of string beans this noon for lunch--strings and all--and i expect you can pick basting threads out of me almost anywhere!" "the teacher didn't advise you to eat _all_ the vegetables there were, did she?" asked ruth, as they climbed the stairs. "she did not signify the amount. i just ate till i couldn't get down another one. i sha'n't want to see another string bean for some time." ruth and helen easily found the rooms that had been drawn for them the june previous. of course, they were not the best rooms in the hall, for the seniors had first choice, and then the juniors and sophomores had their innings before the freshmen had a chance. but there was a door between ruth's and helen's rooms, as they had hoped, and jennie's room was just across the corridor. "we sweetbriars will stick together, all right," said the fleshy girl. "for defence and offence, if necessary." "you evidently expect to have a strenuous time here, heavy," laughed ruth. "no telling," returned jennie stone, wagging her head. "i fancy there are some 'cut-ups' among the sophs who will try to make our sweet young lives miserable. that edie phelps, for instance." she told them how the sophomores had met the new girl, rebecca frayne, and why. "oh, dear!" said ruth. "but that was all on _my_ account. we shall have to be particularly nice to miss frayne. i hope she's on our corridor." "do you suppose they will haze you, ruth, just because you wrote that scenario?" asked helen, somewhat troubled. "there's no hazing at ardmore," laughed ruth. "they can't bother me. 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me!'" she singsonged. "just the same," jennie said, morosely, "that edie phelps has a sharp tongue." "we, too, have tongues," proclaimed helen, who had no intention of being put upon. "now, girls, we want to take just what is handed us good-naturedly," ruth advised. "we are freshmen. next year we will be sophomores, and can take it out on the new girls then," and she laughed. "you know, we've all been through it at briarwood." "goodness, yes!" agreed helen. "it can't be as bad at college as it was during our first term at briarwood hall." "this edie phelps can't be as mean as the fox 'useter was,' i suppose," added jennie stone. "besides, i fancy the sophs need us freshmen--our good will and help, i mean. the two lower classes here have to line up against the juniors and seniors." "oh, dear, me," sighed ruth. "i hoped we had come here to study, not to fight." "pooh!" said the fleshy girl, "where do you go in this world that you don't have to fight for your rights? you never get something for nothing." however, the possibility of trouble disturbed their minds but slightly. for the rest of the day the trio were very busy. at least, ruth and helen were busy arranging their rooms and unpacking, and jennie stone was busy watching them. they went to the registrar's office that day, as this was required. otherwise, they were in their rooms, after their baggage was delivered, occupied until almost dinner time. heavy had been on the ground long enough, as she said, to know most of the ropes. they were supposed to dress rather formally for dinner, although not more than two-thirds of the girls had arrived. there were in dare hall alone as many pupils as had attended briarwood altogether. this was, indeed, a much larger school life on which they were entering. so many of the girls they saw were older than themselves--and the trio of girls had been among the oldest girls at briarwood during their last semester. "why, we're only _kids_," sighed helen. "there's a girl on this corridor--at the other end, thank goodness!--who looks old enough to be a teacher." "miss comstock," said heavy. "i know. she's a senior. there are no teachers rooming at dare. only the housekeeper downstairs. but you'll find a senior at the head of each table--and miss comstock looks awfully stern." ruth and helen found the rooms they were to occupy rather different from those they had chummed in at briarwood. in the first place, these rooms were smaller, and the furniture was very plain. as jennie had warned them, there were only cots to sleep upon--very nice cots, it was true, and there was a heavy coverlet for each, to turn the cots into divans in the daytime. "i tell you what we can do," ruth suggested at the start. "let's make one room the study, and both sleep in the other." "bully idea," agreed helen. they proceeded to do this, the result being a very plain sleeping room, indeed, but a well-furnished study. they had brought with them all the pennants and other keepsakes from briarwood, and sofa pillows and cushions for the chairs, and innumerable pictures. before night the study looked as homelike as the old room had at the preparatory school. they had rugs, too, and one big lounging chair, purchased second-hand, that heavy had, of course, occupied most of the afternoon. "well! i hope you've finished at last," sighed the fleshy girl when the warning bell for dinner rang. "i'm about tired out." "you should be," agreed ruth, commiseratingly. "you've helped so much." "advising is harder than moving furniture and tacking up pictures," proclaimed jennie. "brain-fag is the trouble with me and hunger." "we admit the final symptom," said helen. "but if your brain is ever fagged, heavy, it will only be from thinking up new and touching menus. come on, now, we're going to scramble into some fresh frocks. you go and do the same, miss lazybones." chapter vi miss cullam's trouble ruth and helen were much more amply supplied with frocks of a somewhat dressy order than when they began a semester at briarwood hall. their wardrobes here were well filled, and of course there was no supervision of what they wore as there had been at the preparatory school. when they went downstairs to the dining-room with jennie stone, they found they had made no mistake in "putting their best foot forward," as helen called it. "my! i feel quite as though i were going to a party," ruth confessed. the girls rustled through the corridors and down the wide stairways, laughing and talking, many of the freshmen, it was evident, already having made friends. "there's that girl," whispered jennie stone, suddenly. "what girl?" asked helen. "oh! the girl with all the luggage," laughed ruth. "yes," said the fleshy girl. "what was her name?" "rebecca frayne," said ruth, who had a good memory. she bowed to the rather over-dressed freshman. she saw that nobody was walking with rebecca frayne. "i hope she sits at our table," ruth added. "of course," helen rejoined, with a smile, "ruth has already spied somebody to be good to." "shucks!" said jennie. "i don't think she'd make a particularly pleasant addition to our party." "what does _that_ matter?" demanded helen, roguishly. "ruth is always picking up the sore-eyed kittens." "i think that is unkind," returned ruth, shaking her head. "maybe miss frayne is a very nice girl." "i wonder what she's got in all those bags and the big trunk?" said jennie. "i see she's wearing the same dress she traveled in." "i wager she misses her maid," sighed helen. "can't dress without one, i s'pose." but there were too many other girls to watch and to comment on for the trio to give much attention to rebecca frayne. ruth, however, said, with a little laugh: "i must feel some interest in her. her initials are the same as mine." "and her arrival certainly took the curse off yours, my dear," jennie agreed. "edie phelps and her crowd were laying for you and no mistake." "i wonder if we shouldn't eschew all slang now that we have come to ardmore?" helen suggested demurely. "you set the example then, my lady!" cried heavy. miss comstock, the very severe looking senior, sat at the table at which the briarwood trio of freshmen found their numbers; but miss frayne was at the housekeeper's table. there were ten or twelve girls at each table and throughout the meal a pleasant hum of voices filled the room. ruth and helen, not to mention their fleshy chum, were soon at their ease with their neighbors; nor did miss comstock prove such a bugaboo as they feared. although the senior was a particularly silent girl, she had a pleasant smile and was no wet blanket upon the enjoyment of the dinner. at least, she did not serve as a wet blanket upon jennie stone. the fleshy girl's appetite betrayed the fact that she had been stinted at noon, and that a diet of string beans was scarcely a satisfactory one. as they left the dining-room and came out into the wide, well-lighted entrance hall of the house, a lady just entering bowed to jennie stone. "there she is!" groaned the fleshy girl. "caught in the act!" "who is she, heavy?" demanded helen, in an undertone. "she looks nice," observed ruth. "miss cullam. she's the one that advised the string beans," declared jennie out of the corner of her mouth. then she added, most cordially: "oh! how do you do! these are my two chums from briarwood--ruth fielding and helen cameron. miss cullam, girls." the teacher, who was rather elderly, but very brisk and neat, if not wholly attractive, approached smiling. "you will meet me in mathematics, young ladies," she said, shaking hands with the two introduced freshmen. "and how are you to-night, miss stone? have you stuck to your vegetable diet, as i advised?" heavy made her jolly, round face seem as long as possible, and groaned hollowly. "oh, miss cullam!" she said, "i believe i could have stuck to the diet, if----" "well, if what?" demanded the teacher. "if the diet would only stick to _me_. but it doesn't. i ate _pecks_ of string beans for lunch, and by the middle of the afternoon i felt like a castaway after two weeks upon a desert island." "nonsense, miss stone!" exclaimed the teacher, yet laughing too. heavy was so ridiculous that it was impossible not to be amused. "you should practise abstinence. really, you are the very fattest girl at ardmore, i do believe." "that sounds horrid!" declared jennie with sudden vigor, and she did not look pleased. "you may as well face the truth, my dear," said the mathematics teacher, eyeing the distressing curves of the fleshy girl without prejudice. "here are upwards of a thousand girls--or will be when all have arrived and registered. and you will be locally famous." "oh, don't!" groaned ruth. "poor heavy!" gasped helen. miss cullam uttered a short laugh. "your friends evidently love you, my dear," she said, patting the fleshy girl's plump cheek. "but you want to make new friends--you wish to be admired, i know. it will not be pleasant to gain the reputation of being ardmore's heavyweight, will it?" "it sounds pretty bad," admitted heavy, coming out of her momentary slough of despond. "but we all have our little troubles, don't we, miss cullam?" somehow this question seemed to quench the teacher of mathematics' good spirits. a cloud settled upon her countenance, and she nodded seriously. "we all have; true enough, miss stone," she said. "and i hope you, as pupils at ardmore, will never suffer such disturbance of mind as i, a teacher, sometimes do." ruth, who had started up the stairway next to the teacher, put a friendly hand upon miss cullam's arm. "i hope we three will never add to your burdens, my dear miss cullam," she whispered. the instructor flashed a rather wondering look at the girl of the red mill; then she smiled. it was a grouty person, indeed, who could look into ruth fielding's frank countenance and not return her smile. "bless you! i have heard of you already, ruth fielding. i have no idea i shall be troubled by you or your friends." they had fallen behind the others a few steps. "but we never can tell. since last term--well!" much, evidently, was on miss cullam's mind; yet she kept step with ruth when they came to the corridor on which the rooms of the three briarwoods opened. ruth could always find something pleasant to say. this woman with the care-graved countenance smiled whimsically as she listened, keeping at the girl's shoulder. evidently somewhat oppressed by the attentions of the instructor, helen and heavy had disappeared into the fleshy girl's room. "do come in and see how nicely we have fixed our sitting-room--study, i mean, of course," and ruth laughed, opening the door. "looks homelike," confessed miss cullam. then, with a startled glance around the room, she murmured: "why, it's the very room!" "what is that you say?" asked ruth, curiously. "do you know who had this room last year?" "of course i haven't the first idea," returned the girl of the red mill. "miss rolff." "do i know her?" asked ruth, somewhat puzzled. "she left before the end of the term. i--i am not sure just what the matter was with her. but she is connected in my mind with a great misfortune." "indeed, miss cullam?" said the sympathetic ruth. it was, perhaps, the sympathy in her tone that urged the instructor to confide her trouble to a strange girl--a freshman, at that! "i hope i shall never have the same fears and doubts regarding you and your friends, miss fielding, that i have felt about some of these girls who are now sophomores--and some of the juniors, too." "oh, miss cullam! what do you mean?" "well, i'll tell you, my dear," the teacher said, taking the comfortable chair at ruth's gestured recommendation, as the girl switched on the electricity. "you seem like an above-the-average sensible girl----" ruth laughed at that, but she dimpled, too, and miss cullam joined in the laughter. "some of these girls were mere flyaways," she said. "but not many, after all. girls who come as far as college, even to the freshman course in college, usually have something in their pretty noddles besides ideas for dressing their hair. "well, i will confide in you, as i say, because i have a fancy to. i like you. listen to the troubles of a poor mathematics instructor." "yes, miss cullam," said ruth, demurely. "you see, my dear," said miss cullam, who had a whimsical way about her that ruth had begun to delight in, "after all, we college instructors are all necessarily of the race of watch dogs." "oh, miss cullam!" "our girls are put upon their honor and are in the main worthy of our confidence. but we have experiences that show us how frail human virtue is. "for instance, there are examinations. a most trying necessity are examinations. they come mainly toward the close of the college year, and a few of our girls are not prepared to pass. "last year i felt that some of my freshmen and sophomores could not possibly comply with the mathematical requirements. when i received from the printers my copies of the questions to be proposed to the classes i really felt that a few of my girls were going to have a hard time," and she smiled again, yet there was still trouble in her eyes. "i chanced to be in the library when i received the papers. you have not seen our library yet, have you, miss fielding?" "no, miss cullam. you know, helen and i arrived only this afternoon at ardmore." "that is so. well, the library is a very beautifully furnished building. it was a gift from certain alumni. i was alone in the reception-room when i examined the papers, and being called suddenly to a duty and not wishing to take the papers with me, i rolled them up and thrust them into a vase standing upon the table. when i returned in a few minutes, still hurried by a task before me, i found that i had thrust the papers so far into the small-mouthed vase that i could not reach them. quite a ridiculous situation, was it not? "but now the plot thickens," went on the teacher, with a sigh. "the papers were safe enough there, of course. the vase was a very beautiful and valuable silver one, and had its place of honor on that table. i could not stop to retrieve the question papers with a pair of tongs--as i might, had i not been hurried. when i returned armed with the tongs in the morning----" "yes, miss cullam?" rejoined ruth, interestedly, as the teacher paused in her story. "the vase--and, of course, the question papers--was gone," said the lady, in a sepulchral tone. "oh!" "and almost all the girls i had marked for failure in mathematics went through the examination with colors flying!" "oh!" exclaimed ruth again, and quite blankly. "do you see the terrible suspicion that has been eating at my mind ever since? there happened to be other unfortunate matters connected with the disappearance of the vase, too. _it_ has never been found. one of the very freshmen who i feared would fail in the examination left the college under a cloud." "oh, miss cullam!" gasped ruth. "is she suspected of stealing the vase--and the examination papers?" "i scarcely know what to say in answer to that," said miss cullam, gravely. "it seems that one of the sororities was initiating candidates on that night. one of the--er--'stunts,' as they call their ridiculous ceremonies, included the filching of this vase after dark and its burial somewhere on bliss island. so dr. milroth later informed me. "the girl chosen for this ridiculous performance, miss rolff, who occupied this very room, was found at daybreak wandering alone upon the island in a hysterical condition. she insisted upon leaving the college immediately, before i had discovered the absence of the vase and the missing papers. "i felt that i could not arouse suspicion in dr. milroth's mind by mentioning the papers. i secured copies from the printer. of course, it is all ancient history now, my dear," ended the mathematics teacher, with a sigh. "but you see, suspicion once fastened upon my mind, it still troubles me." "but what became of the poor girl?" asked ruth, sympathetically. "that i cannot tell you," miss cullam said, rising. "she has not returned this year, and i understand that dr. milroth lost trace of her." chapter vii fame is not always an asset just why the teacher of mathematics had taken ruth fielding into her confidence upon this rather curious event, it would be hard to say. teachers are human like other people, and perhaps sometimes prone to gossip. however, ruth felt that it was a confidence, and she did not mention the matter of the missing examination papers to her chum or to jennie stone. the other briarwood girls were the only members of the freshman class ruth was likely to be intimate with for some days. friendships are not made so quickly at college as at smaller schools. there were so many girls that it took some time for the trio to adjust themselves and to become acquainted with their mates. in the morning they went again to the registrar's office, and there they met miss dexter, who was appointed to escort them about, show them the college offices, the bookstore, and introduce them to such of the instructors as came in the path of the new girls. of course, their tuition fees--one hundred and seventy-five dollars each--for the year had been already paid. their board would be nine dollars weekly, and all books, stationery, gymnastic suits and supplies, as well as medical and hospital fees (if they chanced to be ill) would be extra. there were only a few simple rules of behavior to note. if a girl is not well trained in ladylike demeanor before arriving at the college age she is, of course, hopeless. the faculty have other things to do besides watching the manners as well as the mental attributes, of the students. ruth and her friends learned that they were not to leave the college grounds before six in the morning. "and who'd want to?" demanded heavy. "that's the best time to sleep." however, the fleshy girl soon learned that if she was to have a reasonable time for breakfast she must be up betimes. the meal was served from seven to a quarter to eight. chapel was at eight-thirty, but not compulsory. recitations began at nine and lunch was at twelve. recitations and lectures (these latter did not interest our freshmen, for they had no lectures the first year) ended at three-thirty, when, all the girls were supposed to take gymnastics of some kind. otherwise, their time was their own until dinner at six o'clock. the girls had the time free from seven till seven-thirty. the following two hours were those devoted to quiet study (or should be) in their own rooms, or in the reference department of the library. at ten all were supposed to retire. the students might leave the grounds at any time during the day, but never in the evening without a chaperon. these rules and requirements seemed easy enough to the trio from briarwood hall, used as they were to the far stricter oversight of the teachers in the preparatory institution. more girls appeared at ardmore that day, and the one following would see the opening of the semester and, as jennie stone said, "the buckling down to real work." a notice was posted on the bulletin boards already commanding all freshmen to meet at hoskin hall after dinner that evening, signed by the president of the sophomore class. "what's _she_ got to do with _us_?" helen demanded, with a sniff. "aren't we allowed to run our own class affairs here?" heavy asked. "i fancy not," ruth rejoined. "miss dexter told me that the sophs and freshies were usually lined up against the two older classes. the sophs need us, and we need them." "i have an idea," said heavy, with a warning shake of her head, "that some of the sophs don't care so much for us." the trio were returning from the college hall as they chatted. helen suddenly exclaimed: "girls! did you ever see so many tam-o'-shanters in your little lives? and such a wealth of colors?" it was true that every girl in sight (and there were "just hundreds!" to quote heavy again), unless she were bareheaded, wore a tam-o'-shanter. "the most popular thing in head covering at ardmore this year, that is sure," said ruth. "oh! will you look at the one that frayne girl is wearing?" helen gasped. "goodness!" said heavy. "looks like an italian sunset." "or a badly scrambled egg," put in helen. "there! i believe that girl would look a fright whatever she put on." "she can't help her taste, poor girl," ruth said. "my!" sighed heavy. "i like to hear you talk, ruth. you're as full of excuses for everybody criticised as a chestnut is of meat," and she nibbled one of the nuts in question as she spoke. then: "wow! oh, the nasty thing!" helen laughed uproariously. "something besides meat in that chestnut, heavy. did it squirm much?" "don't ask me," said the fleshy girl, gloomily. "of such is life! 'i never owned a gay gazelle----'" "cut it out. you never owned a gazelle of any kind," said helen. "you know you never did." it was just here that the trio came upon a group of girls of whom edith phelps was evidently the leader. it was opposite the gymnasium, under the wide-spreading oaks that gave shade to that quarter of the campus. the briarwood girls had been about to enter the gymnasium building to look around. edith and her friends were mostly in gymnasium costumes. they had been tossing the medicine ball; but it was plain that they had gathered here near the path the three freshmen friends followed, for a purpose. "oh, here comes the leading lady!" cried edith phelps, in a high and affected voice. "get set! camera!" the girls, or most of them, struck most ridiculous attitudes at edie's word, while an oblong, black box suddenly appeared, affixed upon a tripod, and may macgreggor, who was out for fun as much as any of the sophomores, began to turn a tiny crank on one side of the box. "hi! what are you trying to do--you fat person there?" demanded edie, excitedly, imitating a movie director, and waving back the amazed and somewhat angry jennie stone. "want to crab the film?" "oh, the mean things!" gasped helen, growing as red as though the joke were aimed directly at herself. "cracky!" murmured the fleshy girl, who couldn't help seeing the ridiculous side of it. "isn't that funny?" at the moment, too, a thin little tune began to wander from the black box, none other than "the wearing of the green." inside the box was one of those little, old-fashioned swiss music boxes, and may was industriously turning the crank. "register fear, miss fielding!" shouted edith, energetically. "fear, i say! don't you realize that you are about to be flung over a cliff and that a mad bull is waiting bel-o-o-w to catch you on his horns? close up of the bull, please!" ruth had been first surprised, then not a little displeased; but she knew instinctively if she showed that this buffoonry offended and troubled her it would only be repeated again and again. much better able than her chum, helen cameron, to control her features, she began now to smile broadly. "girls!" she said aloud to her two friends, "it must be that that girl knows mr. grimes personally or has seen him at work. you remember mr. grimes, the alectrion director who filmed our play at briarwood?" "and was so nasty to hazel gray? i should say!" exclaimed jennie, instantly falling in with ruth's attempt to pass the incident off as a joke. "i think _she's_ nasty-mean," muttered helen, her black eyes snapping. "if you played that tune while making a film for me, miss macgreggor, i should want to jig," heavy cried, and started to do a few ridiculous steps in front of the black box. ruth continued to smile, too, saying to edith phelps: "you might have warned us of this. i'd have liked to primp a little before posing for the camera." the other girls laughed. it did not take much to make them laugh, and it is possible that they laughed as much at edie as with her. but as the trio of freshmen went on toward dare hall, ruth shook her head doubtfully. "what's the matter, ruthie?" asked helen, squeezing her arm. "the mean things!" "i wonder," murmured ruth. "you wonder what?" demanded helen. ruth sighed. "i guess fame isn't always an asset," she said. chapter viii the stone face ruth knew better than to show anger over any such silly joke. if she was to be made the laughing stock of her class by the sophomores, she might as well face it and bear the cross good-naturedly. ruth was as sensitive as any refined girl. it hurt her to be ridiculed. but she had not spent years at boarding school without learning that the best way--indeed, the only way--to bear successfully such indignity is to ignore it. that is, to ignore the fun poked at one as far as possible. to bear the jokes with a smile. so she would not allow her friends to comment much upon this scene before the gymnasium building. she had never given herself airs because of her success in writing scenarios. another girl might have done so. but ruth was naturally modest, and had never really ceased to be surprised at her own success. the new scenario she was at work upon, the scenes of which were laid at the red mill, was born of an idea she had evolved when her attention had first been turned to motion-picture writing. mr. hammond, her kind friend and the president of the alectrion film corporation, had advised her to postpone the use of this idea until she had tried her apprentice hand on other and simpler scenarios. the time seemed ripe now, however, for the writing of "crossed wires," and he had encouraged her to go ahead. all the visible effect edith phelps' joke had upon ruth was to send her to the unfinished scenario. after returning from the college offices on this occasion she worked on her play until lunch time. "there's too much new to see and to do for you to pore over letter writing, ruth," helen declared, misunderstanding her friend's occupation. "we want to see ardmore. we want to go out on the lake if we can get a boat. we've got to see the gym and the library. and to-night we must turn up at this meeting, it seems, and see what miss dunstan, the soph president, has to say to us freshies." "oh, i want to go out on the lake!" cried ruth, agreeing. "and i want to explore that island." "what island?" demanded jennie, coming into the chums' study. "bliss island." "'tisn't part of the college grounds," said the fleshy girl. "don't care. want to see it," declared ruth. "i hope we can get a boat. i didn't see many in use this morning." "some of the girls own their own. especially canoes," said jennie stone. "but it's _the_ thing to make the 'eight.' let me tell you, us ardmores are supposed to be some rowists! our first eight beat the gillings college first eight last june." "we'll all try for the eight then," helen said. "and _you_, jennie?" asked ruth, mildly. "oh, _me_!" "string beans for yours, heavy," helen cried, clapping her hands. "you'll have to diet on them until you have reduced to little more than a string yourself if you expect to make the eight." "bet i could do it," grumbled heavy. "a bet's a bet!" cried helen. "i take you." "don't be rude, girls," advised ruth. "you sound like regular, sure-enough gamblers. and, anyway, heavy will never be able to make the eight. she might as well pay her wager now." "oh! oh! oh!" laughed helen. "a palpable hit!" "you just see!" said heavy, firmly. "i'll show you." "my dear," ruth said, "if you show us a sylph-like form in time to make the freshman eight----" "it will be the eighth wonder of the world," finished helen. jennie tossed her head. "i don't know about the sylph-like form, but at least i mean to possess a slender figure when i have followed miss cullam's advice on diet. you'll see!" "poor heavy!" groaned helen. "she is letting herself in for a most awful time, and no mistake." after luncheon the three girls set forth to explore the place. "if i keep this up i'll need nothing else to get me thin. we have tramped miles," the fleshy girl announced at length. "oh! my poor, poor feet!" "wear sensible shoes, then," said helen, who was the very last person to follow her own advice on this point. "easy enough to say," groaned jennie. "there ain't any such an animal! you know that in this day and generation shoe makers have ceased to make sensible shoes. i look at 'em in the shop windows," pursued the aching girl, "and i wonder what sort of foot the human pedal extremity will become in a generation or two. those pointed toes! "why," declared the suddenly warmed up jennie stone, "they tell us about a two-toed sloth living in central and south america. believe _me_! the present-day shoemaker seems to have secured a last to fit a _one_-toed sloth." "i don't know about the number of their toes," ruth said, laughing; "but many of those who wear the fancy shoes are _sloths_, all right." they had looked over the library before this, and walked down past hoskin and hemmingway halls on the west side of the campus, and so reached the lake. there were some girls at the boathouse, and a few craft were out. it was possible for the three friends to get a boat and ruth and helen rowed, with heavy lazily reclining in the stern. "beginning that strenuous life that is to reduce your weight, heavy?" questioned helen. "i am practising deep breathing," jennie said. "they say that helps a lot." they headed the light skiff directly for bliss island. it was not more than a mile off shore, and was a beautiful place. at the landing they saw several girls whom they knew were sophomores, for among them was may macgreggor. "here are some more of cook's trippers," said the scotch girl, gaily. "seeing the sights, _mes infantes_?" "trying to," jennie announced. "but you're really not so bad looking, miss macgreggor. i wouldn't call you a 'sight.'" "now, that will be all of that, miss stone!" exclaimed the sophomore, but her brown eyes danced as the other girls laughed. "i believe you three girls are briarwoods, are you not?" "yes," helen said. "i can believe it," said may. "i have felt the briers. now, let us call a truce." "with all my heart, miss macgreggor," ruth said quickly. "you're a good little thing!" returned the scotch girl. "i know your heart is big enough. and we sophs really shouldn't nag you freshies, you know, for we must pull together against the seniors and juniors. but you'll hear about that to-night." "thank you, miss macgreggor," ruth said. "and now that we are at this island, would you mind telling us where the stone face is situated?" "ah! one of the wonders of the place," said may. "and who told you about the stone face, freshie?" "i have heard it is well worth seeing," said ruth, demurely. "i will be your escort," said may. they found the scotch girl very companionable. she led them up a rugged path through the trees and around the rocks. "and did that girl have to come up here--_and in the dark_?" murmured ruth at last. "what girl?" helen asked. "who are you talking about, miss fielding?" asked the sophomore. "that girl--miss rolff." "oh! don't mention her name!" groaned may macgreggor. "if it hadn't been for _her_, you-uns and we-uns wouldn't be cut out of the sororities. a wicked shame!" "oh, i've heard about that," said jennie, puffing because of the hard climb. "did she really have to come here, and _alone_, when she was initiated?" "she started for here," said may, gloomily. "with a flashlight, i believe. but she lost her nerve---- "there! there's the rock you're looking for." it was a huge boulder in an open field. at the angle from which they viewed it, the face of the rock really bore some semblance to a human countenance--the features of an old, old woman. "ugly old hag!" was may macgreggor's comment upon the odd boulder. chapter ix getting on the three freshmen friends from briarwood learned a good deal more that evening than the year book would ever have taught them. the girls began to crowd into the hoskin hall dining-room right after dinner. the seniors and the juniors disappeared, but there were a large number of sophomores present, besides the president of that class who addressed the freshmen. the latter learned that in athletics especially the rivalry between the two lower and the two upper classes was intense. it was hardly possible, of course, for any of the freshmen, and for few of the sophomores to gain positions on any of the first college teams in basket ball, rowing, tennis, archery, or other important activities of a physical nature. all athletic sports, which included, as well as those named above, running and jumping and other track work, were under the direct supervision of the college athletic association. all the girls could belong to that. indeed, they were expected to, and the fees were small. but for a freshman to show sufficient athletic training to make any of the first teams, would almost seem impossible. they could get on the scrubs and possess their souls with patience, hoping to win places on the first teams perhaps in their sophomore year. however, there had once been a girl in a freshman class at ardmore who succeeded in throwing the hammer a record-making distance; and once a freshman had been bow oar in the first eight. these were targets to aim for, miss dunstan, the sophomore president, told the new girls. she was, of course, a member of the athletic committee, and having told the new girls all about the sports she proceeded to advise them about organizing their class and electing officers. this should be done by the end of the first fortnight. meanwhile, the freshman should get together, become acquainted, and electioneer for the election of officers. class politics at ardmore meant something. there were already groups and cliques forming among the freshmen. it was an honor to hold office in the class, and those who were ambitious, or who wished to control the policy of the class, were already at work. ruth and her friends were so ambitious in quite another direction--in two, in fact--that they rather overlooked these class activities. the following day actually opened the work of the semester, and as they already had their books the trio settled immediately to their lessons. they were taking the classical course, a four-years' course. during this first year their studies would be english, a language (their choice of french or german) besides the never-to-be-escaped latin; mathematics, including geometry, trigonometry and higher algebra. they had not yet decided whether to take botany or chemistry as the additional study. "we want to keep together as much as possible, in classes as well as out," helen said. "let's take the same specials, too." "i vote for botany," ruth suggested. "that will take us into the woods and fields more." "you mean, it will give us an excuse for going into the woods and fields," jennie said. "i'm with you. and if i have to walk much to cut down weight, it will help." "my goodness!" exclaimed helen. "heavy really _has_ come to college to get rid of her superabundance of fat." "surest thing you know," agreed the fleshy girl. the freshmen learned that they would have from fifteen to eighteen recitation periods weekly, of forty-five minutes each. the recitation periods occurred between nine and twelve in the forenoon and one and three-thirty in the afternoon. it took several days to get all these things arranged rightly; the three friends managed to get together in all classes. the classes numbered from twenty to forty students and the girls began to get acquainted with the teachers very quickly. trust youth for judging middle-age almost immediately. "i like dr. mccurdy," helen said, speaking of their english instructor, who was a man. "he knows what he's about and goes right at it. no fooling with him. none of this, 'now young ladies, i hope you are pleasantly situated and that we are going to be good friends.' pah!" ruth laughed. "the dear old things!" she said gaily. "they mean well--even that miss mara, whom you are imitating. and she _does_ have a beautiful french accent, if she _is_ irish." they liked dr. frances milroth. her talk in chapel was an inspiration, and that first morning some of the girls came out into the sunshine with wet eyelashes. they began to realize that they were here at college for something besides either play or ordinary study. they were at ardmore to learn to get a grip on life. instrumental and vocal music could be taken at any time which did not interfere with the regular recitations, and of course ruth took the latter as a special, while helen did not neglect her violin. "i guess i'll take up the study of the oboe," grumbled jennie stone. "i don't seem to know just what to do with myself while you girls are making sweet sounds." "why don't you roll, heavy?" demanded helen. "roll _what_? roll a hoop?" asked the fleshy girl. "no. roll a barrel, i should say would be nearer to it," helen responded, eyeing jennie's plump waistline reflectively. "get down and roll. move back the furniture, give yourself plenty of room, and _roll_. they say that will reduce one's curves." "wow! and what would the girl say downstairs under me?" asked jennie stone. "i'd begin by being the most unpopular girl in this freshman class." these first few days were busy ones; but the girls of the freshman class were fast learning just where they stood. then happened something that awoke most of the class to the fact that they needed to get together, that they must, after all, take up cudgels for themselves. "just like a flock of silly sheep, running together when they see a dog," helen at first said. "i guess there is a good reason in nature for sheep to do that," ruth said, on reflection. "sheep fear wolves more than any other animal, and a dog is a wolf, after all, only domesticated." "huh!" grunted jennie. "then we are sheep and the seniors are wolves, are they? i could eat up most of these seniors i've seen, myself. i will be a savage sheep--woof! woof!" the matter that had made the disturbance, however, was not to be ignored. chapter x a tempest in a teapot arrangements for the organization of the freshman class had lagged. this fact may have been behind the notice put upon the bulletin boards all over the ardmore grounds some time after bedtime one evening and before the rising bell rang the next morning. it intimated a bit of hazing, but hazing of a quality that the faculty could only wink at. the notice was as follows: freshmen _it is the command of the senior class of ardmore that no freshman shall appear within the college grounds wearing a tam-o'-shanter of any other hue save the herewith designated color, to wit: baby blue. this order is for the mental and spiritual good of the incoming class of freshmen. any member of said class refusing to obey this order will be summarily dealt with by the upper classes of ardmore._ groups gathered immediately after breakfast about the bulletin boards. of course, the seniors and juniors passed by with dignified bearing, and without comment. the sophomores remained upon the outskirts of the groups of excited freshmen to laugh and jeer. "a disturbed bumblebees' nest could have hummed no louder," helen declared, as the three friends walked up to chapel, which they made a point of attending. "why! to think of the _cheek_ of those seniors!" ejaculated jennie. "and the juniors are just as bad!" "what are you going to do about that tam of yours, heavy?" asked ruth, slily. "it's a gay thing--nothing like baby blue." "oh well," growled the fleshy girl, "baby blue is one of my favorite colors." "mine, too," said ruth, drily. "oh, girls! are you going to give right in--_so_ easy?" gasped helen. "i don't feel like making myself conspicuous," ruth said. "you can wager that most of our class will hustle right off and get the proper hue in tams." "then we'd better go to town this very afternoon," jennie cried, in haste, "and see if we can find three of baby blue shade. the stores will be drained of them by to-morrow." "but to give--right--in!" wailed helen, who dearly loved a fight. "no. it isn't that. but, as the advertisements say: 'eventually, so why not now?' we'll have to come to it. let's get our tams while the tamming's good." helen could not see the reason for obeying the senior order; but she could see no reason, either, for not following her chum's lead. the three girls telephoned for a taxicab, which came to dare hall for them at half past three. they were not the only girls going to town; but some of the freshmen, like helen, wished to display their independence and refused--as yet--to obey the senior command. a line at the bottom of the notice announced that three days were allowed the freshmen to obtain their proper tam-o'-shanters. "three days!" gasped heavy, as they started off in the little car. "why, it will take the stores in greenburg two weeks to supply sufficient tams of the proper color." "then if we don't get ours," laughed ruth, "we'd better go bareheaded until the new tams can be sent us from home." "i won't do that!" cried the annoyed helen. "oh! oh!" she exclaimed, the next moment, and before they were out of the grounds. "see miss frayne! she has her scrambled-egg tam on." "don't you suppose she has read the notice?" worried ruth. "why hasn't she?" "well, she seems to flock together with herself so much. nobody seems to be chummy with her--yet," ruth explained. "now, old mother worry!" exclaimed helen, "bother about _her_, will you?" "yes, ma'am," said ruth, demurely. "i shall, i suppose." "goodness, ruth!" cried jennie. they discovered a rather strange thing when they arrived in greenburg and entered the first store that dealt in ladies' apparel. oh, yes, indeed! the proprietor had tam-o'-shanters of just the required shade, baby blue. the friends bought immediately for fear some of the other girls who had come to town would find these and buy the proprietor out. and then, prone to the usual feminine frailty, they went "window shopping." and in every store seeking trade from the college girls they found the baby blue tam-o'-shanters. "it's the most astonishing thing!" gasped helen. "what do you suppose it means? did you ever see so many caps of one kind and color in all your life?" "it is amazing," agreed ruth. yet she was reflective. jennie began to laugh. "wonder if the seniors are just helping out their friends among the tradespeople? it looks as though the storekeepers had bought a superabundance of baby blue caps and the seniors were putting it up to us to save the stores from bankruptcy." ruth, however, thought it must be something other than that. was it that the storekeepers had been notified by the senior "powers that be" to be ready to supply a sudden large demand for tam-o'-shanters of that particular hue? at least, one little hebrew asked the three friends if they had already bought their tam-o'-shanters. "for vy, i haf a whole case of your class colors, ladies, that my poy iss opening." "what class color?" demanded helen, grumpily enough. "oh, mees! a peau-ti-ful plue!" "they're all doing it! they're all doing it!" murmured jennie, staggering out of the "emporium." "this is going to affect my brain, girls. _did_ the seniors know the storekeepers had the tams in stock, or have the storekeepers been put wise by our elder sisters at ardmore?" "what's the odds?" finally laughed helen, as they got into the waiting car. "we've got _our_ tams. i only hope there are enough to go around." the appearance of more than a score of baby-blue caps on the campus before evening showed that our trio of freshmen were not the only members of their class who considered it wise to obey the mandate of the lordly seniors, and without question. the tempest in the teapot, however, continued to rage. many girls declared they had not come to ardmore to "be made monkeys of." "no," may macgreggor was heard to say. "some of you were already assisted by nature. but get together, freshies! can't you read the handwriting on the wall?" "we can read the typewriting on the billboards," sniffed helen cameron. "don't ask us to strain our eyesight farther." perhaps this was really the intention behind the senior order--that the entering girls should become more quickly riveted into a compact body. how the rooms occupied by the more popular freshmen buzzed during the next few days! our trio of friends, ruth, helen and jennie, had been in danger of establishing a clique of three, if they had but known it. now they were forced to extend their borders of acquaintanceship. as they were three, and were usually seen about the study-room ruth and helen had established, it was natural that other girls of their class on that corridor of dale hall should flock to them. they thus became the nucleus at this side of the campus of the freshman class. from discussing the rule of the haughty seniors, the freshmen began to talk of their own organization and the approaching election. had ruth allowed her friends to do so, there would have been started a boom by helen and jennie stone for the girl of the red mill for president of the freshman class. this honor ruth did not desire. there were several girls whom she had noted already among her mates, older than she, and who evidently possessed qualities for the position. besides, ruth fielding felt that if she became unduly prominent at first at ardmore, girls like edith phelps would consider her a particularly bright target. she told herself again, but this time in private, that fame was not always an asset. chapter xi the one rebel however much the natural independence of the freshmen balked at the mandate promulgated by the seniors, baby-blue tam-o'-shanters grew more numerous every hour on the ardmore campus. the sophomores were evidently filled with glee; the juniors and seniors smiled significantly, but said nothing. the freshmen had been put in their place at once, it was considered. but the attack upon them had made the newcomers eager for an organization of their own. "if we are going to be bossed this way--and it is disgraceful!--we must be prepared to withstand imposition," helen announced. so they began busily settling the matter of the organization of the class and the choosing of its officers. before these matters were arranged completely, however, there was an incident of note. the freshmen, as a body, were invited to attend a sophomore "roar." it was to be the first out-of-door "roar" of the year and occurred right after classes and lectures one afternoon. the two lower classes scamped their gymnasium work to make it a success. now, a "roar" at ardmore was much nicer than it sounds. it was merely an open-air singing festival, and this one was for the purpose of making the freshmen familiar with the popular songs of the college. professor leidenburg, the musical director, himself led the outdoor concert. the sophomores stood in a compact body before the main entrance to the college hall. massed in the background, and in a half circle, were the freshmen. the weather had become cool and all the girls wore their tam-o'-shanters. for the first time it was noticeable how pretty the pale blue caps on the freshmen's heads looked. and the new girls likewise noted that most of the tam-o'-shanters worn-by their sophomore hostesses were pale yellow. it was whispered then (and strange none of the freshmen had discovered it before) that the class preceding theirs at ardmore--the present sophomores--had been forced to wear caps of a distinctive color, too. these pale yellow ones were their old caps, left over from the previous winter. the open-air assemblages of the college were made more attractive by this scheme of a particular class color in head-wear. there was a blot in the assembly of the freshmen on this occasion. it was not discovered in the beginning. soon, however, there was much whispering, and looking about and pointing. "do you see _that_?" gasped jennie, who had been straining her neck and hopping up and down on her toes to see what the other girls were looking at. "what _are_ you rubbering at, heavy?" demanded helen, inelegantly. "yes; what's all the disturbance?" asked ruth. "that girl!" ejaculated the fleshy one. "what girl now? any particular girl?" "she's not very particular, i guess," returned jennie, "or she wouldn't do it." "jennie!" demanded helen. "_who_ do _what_?" "that frayne girl," explained her plump friend. rebecca frayne stood well back in the lines of freshmen. it could not be said that she thrust herself forward, or sought to gain the attention of the crowd. nevertheless, among the mass of pale blue tam-o'-shanters, her parti-colored one was very prominent. "goodness!" gasped ruth. "doesn't she know better?" "do you suppose she is one of those stubborn girls who just 'won't be driv'?" giggled helen. it was no laughing matter. the three days of grace written upon the seniors' order regarding the caps had now passed. there seemed no good reason for one member of the freshman class to refuse to obey the command. indeed, they had all tacitly agreed to do as they were told--upon this single point, at least. "there certainly are enough of them left in town so that she can buy one," jennie stone said. "goodness!" snapped helen. "if _my_ complexion can stand such a silly color, _hers_ certainly can." before the out-of-doors concert was over, news of this rebellion on the part of a single freshman had run through the crowd like a breath of wind over ripe wheat. it almost broke up the "roar." as the last verse of the last song was ended and the company began to disperse, the freshmen themselves, and the sophomores as well, stared at rebecca frayne in open wonder. she started for her room, which was in dare hall on the same corridor as that of the three girls from briarwood, and ruth and helen and jennie were right behind her. "that certainly is an awful tam," groaned jennie. "what do you suppose makes her wear it, anyway? let alone the trouble----" she broke off. miss dexter, the first senior who had spoken to ruth and helen coming over from the railway station on the auto-bus, stopped the strange girl whose initials were the same as those of the girl of the red mill. "will you tell me, please, why you are wearing that tam-o'-shanter?" asked miss dexter. rebecca frayne's head came up and a spot of vivid red appeared in either of her sallow cheeks. "is that _your_ business?" she demanded, slowly. "do you know that i am a senior?" asked miss dexter, levelly. "i don't care if you are two seniors," returned rebecca frayne, saucily. miss dexter turned her back upon the freshman and walked promptly away. the listeners were appalled. none of them cared to go forward and speak to rebecca frayne. "cracky!" gasped helen. "she's an awful spitfire." "she's an awful chump!" groaned jennie. "the seniors won't do a thing to her!" but nothing came at once of rebecca's refusal to obey the seniors' command regarding tam-o'-shanters. it was known, however, that the executive committees of both the senior and junior classes met that next night and supposedly took the matter up. "oh, no! they don't haze any more at ardmore," said jennie, shaking her head. "but just wait!" chapter xii ruth is not satisfied ruth fielding was not at all satisfied. not that her experiences in these first few weeks of college were not wholly "up to sample," as the slangy jennie stone remarked. ruth was getting personally all out of college life that she could expect. the mere fact that a little handful of the girls looked at her somewhat askance because of her success as a motion picture writer, did not greatly trouble the girl of the red mill. she could wait for them to forget her small "fame" or for them to learn that she was quite as simple and unaffected as any other girl of her age. it was about rebecca frayne that ruth was disturbed in her mind. here was the case of a student who, ruth believed, was much misunderstood. she could not imagine a girl deliberately making trouble for herself. rebecca frayne by the expenditure of a couple of dollars in the purchase of a new tam-o'-shanter might have easily overcome this dislike that had been bred not alone in the minds of the girls of the two upper classes, but among the sophomores and her own classmates as well. the sophomores thought her ridiculous; the freshmen themselves felt that she was bringing upon the whole class unmerited criticism. ruth looked deeper. she saw the strange girl walk past her mates unnoticed, scarcely spoken to, indeed, by the freshmen and ignored completely by members of the other classes. and yet, to ruth's mind, there seemed to be an air about rebecca frayne--a look in her eyes, perhaps--that seemed to beg for sympathy. it was no hardship for ruth to speak to the girl and try to be friendly with her. but opportunities for this were not frequent. in the first place ruth's own time was much occupied with her studies, her own personal friends, helen and jennie, and the new scenario on which she worked during every odd hour. several times ruth went to the door of rebecca's room and knocked. she positively knew the girl was at home, but there had been no answer to her summons and the door was locked. the situation troubled ruth. when she was among her classmates, rebecca seemed nervously anxious to please and eager to be spoken to, although she had little to say. here, on the other hand, once alone in her room, she deliberately shut herself away from all society. soon after the outdoor song festival that had been so successful, and immediately following the organization of the freshman class and its election of officers, ruth and helen went over to the library one evening to consult some reference books. the reference room was well filled with busy girls of all classes, who came bustling in, got down the books they required, dipped into them for a minute and then departed to their own studies, or else settled down to work on their topics for a more extended period. it was a cold evening, and whenever a girl entered from the hall a breath of frosty air came with her, and most of those gathered in the room were likely to look up and shiver. few of those assembled failed to notice rebecca frayne when she came in. "goodness! see who has came," whispered helen. "oh, rebecca!" murmured ruth, looking up as the girl in question crossed the room. "hasn't she the cheek of all cheeks to breeze in here this way?" helen went on to say with more force than elegance. "that awful tam again." one could not fail to see the tam-o'-shanter very well. it was noticeable in any assembly. perhaps half of the girls in the reference room were seniors and juniors. several of the members of the younger classes nodded to the newcomer, though not many noticed her in this way. there was, however, almost immediately a general movement by the girls belonging to the senior and junior classes. they got up grimly, put away the books they were at work upon, and filed out, one by one, and without saying a word. helen stared after them, and nudged ruth. "what is it?" asked her chum, who had been too busy to notice. "did you see that?" asked helen. "did i see what?" "there isn't a senior or a jun left in the room. that--that's something more than a coincidence." ruth was puzzled. "i really wish you would explain," she said. helen was not the only girl remaining who had noticed the immediate departure of the members of the two older classes. some of the sophomores were whispering together. rebecca's fellow-classmen glanced at her sharply to see if she had noticed what had occurred. "i can't believe it," ruth said worriedly, after helen explained. "they would not go out because she came in." the next day, however, the matter was more marked. rebecca could sing; she evidently loved singing. in the classes for vocal music there was often a mixture of all grades, some of the seniors and juniors attending with the sophomores and freshmen. ruth fielding, of course, never missed these classes. she hoped to be noticed and have her voice tried out for the glee club. professor leidenburg was to give a little talk on this day that would be helpful, and the class was well attended. but when rebecca frayne came into the small hall just before the professor himself appeared, there was a stir throughout the audience. the girls, of course, were hatless here; but that morning rebecca had been seen wearing the "scrambled-egg tam," as helen insisted upon calling it. there was an intake of breath all over the room. rebecca walked down the aisle in search of an empty seat. and suddenly half the seats were empty. she could have her choice--and a large one. "goodness!" helen gasped. every senior and junior in the room had arisen and had left her seat. not a word had been spoken, nor had they glanced at rebecca frayne, who at first was unaware of what it portended. the older girls filed out silently. professor leidenburg entered by the door beside the organ just in time to see the last of them disappear. he looked a bit surprised, but said nothing and took up the matter at hand with but half an audience. rebecca frayne had seen and understood at last. she sat still in her seat, and ruth saw that she did not open her lips when, later, the choruses were sung. her face was very pale. nobody spoke to her when the class was dismissed. this was not an intentional slight on the part of her mates; simply, the girls did not know what to say. the seniors and juniors were showing rebecca that she was taboo. their attitude could not be mistaken. and so great was the influence of these older girls of ardmore upon the whole college that rebecca walked entirely alone. ruth and helen walked down the hill behind rebecca that afternoon. ruth was very silent, while helen buzzed about a dozen things. "i--i wonder how that poor girl feels?" murmured the girl of the red mill after a while. "cold, i imagine!" declared her chum, vigorously. "i'm half frozen myself, ruth. there's going to be a big frost to-night and the lake is already skimmed over. say, ruth!" "well?" asked her friend, absently. "let's take our skates first thing in the morning down to that man who sharpens things at the boathouse; will you?" chapter xiii the girl in the storm ruth fielding was quite as eager for fun between lessons as either helen or jennie, and the prospect of skating on such a large lake as remona delighted her. the second day following the incident in the chorus class, the ice which had bound lake remona was officially pronounced safe. gymnasium athletics lost their charm for those girls who were truly active and could skate. there were luxurious damsels who preferred to be pushed about in ice-chairs by more active girls or by hired attendants; but our trio of friends did not look upon that as enjoyment. even jennie stone was a vigorous skater. after a day or two on the ice, when their ankles had become strong enough, the three made a circuit of bliss island--and that was "some skate," to quote jennie. the island was more than a mile from the boathouse, and it was five or six miles in circumference. therefore, the task was quite all of an eight-mile jaunt. "but 'do or die' is our motto," remarked helen, as they set forth on this determined journey. "let's show these pussy girls what it means to have trained at briarwood." "that's all right! that's all right!" grumbled jennie. "but your motto is altogether too grim and significant. let's limit it. i want to _do_ if i can; but mercy me! i don't want to _die_ yet. you girls have got to stop and rest when i say so, or i won't go at all." ruth and helen agreed. that is why it took them until almost dinner-time to encircle the island. jennie stone was determined to rest upon the least provocation. "we'll be starved to death before we get back," helen began to complain while they were upon the south side of the island. "i should think you would feel the pinch of privation, heavy." "i do," admitted the other hollowly. "well, why didn't you escape it by refusing to come, or else by bringing a lunch?" demanded the black-eyed girl. "no. this is a part of the system," groaned jennie. "what system, i'd like to know?" ruth asked, in surprise. "system of martyrdom, i guess," sniffed helen. "you've said it," agreed the plump girl. "that is the truest word yet spoken. martyrdom! that is what it means for me." "what means to you?" snapped helen, exasperated because she could not understand. "this dieting and exercising," jennie said more cheerfully. "i deliberately came so far and without food to see if i couldn't really lose some weight. do you know, girls, i am so hollow and so tired right now, that i believe i must have lost a few ounces, anyway." "you ridiculous thing!" laughed helen, recovering her good nature. "should we sacrifice ourselves for your benefit, do you think, jennie?" ruth asked. "why not? 'love thy neighbor as thyself,' only more so. i need the inspiration of you girls to help me," jennie declared. "do you know, sometimes i am almost discouraged?" "about what?" asked helen. "about my weight. i watch the bathroom scales with eagle eye. but instead of coming down by pounds, i only fall by ounces. it is awfully discouraging. and then," added the fleshy girl, "the other day when we had such a scrumptuous dinner--was it columbus day? i believe so--i was tempted to eat one of my old-time 'full and plenty' meals, and what do you think?" "you had the nightmare," said helen. "not a chance! but i went up _two pounds and a half_--or else the scales were crazy!" "girls!" exclaimed ruth, suddenly. "do you know it is snowing?" "my! i never expected that," cried helen, as a feathery flake lit upon the very point of her pretty nose. "ow!" "well, we'd better go on, i guess," ruth observed. "put your best foot forward, please, miss jennie." "i don't know which is my best foot now," complained the heavy girl. "they are both getting lame." "we'll just have to make you sit down on the ice while we drag you," announced helen, increasing the length of her stroke. "not much you won't!" exclaimed jennie stone, "i'm cold enough as it is." "shall we take off our skates and walk over the island, girls?" suggested ruth. "that will save some time and more than a little work for heavy." "don't worry about me," put in jennie. "i need the exercise. and walking would be worse than skating, i do believe." it was snowing quite thickly now; but the shore of the island was not far away. the trio hugged it closely in encircling the wooded and hilly piece of land. "say!" helen cried, "we're not the only girls out here to-day." "huh?" grunted jennie, head down and skating doggedly. "see there, ruth!" called the black-eyed girl. ruth turned her face to one side and looked under the shade of her hand, which she held above her eyes. there was a figure moving along the shore of bliss island just abreast of them. "it's a girl," she said. "but she's not skating." "who is it? a freshie?" asked jennie, but little interested. ruth did not reply. she seemed wonderfully interested by the appearance of the girl on shore. she fell behind her mates while she watched the figure. the snow was increasing; and that with the abruptly rising island, furnished a background for the strange girl which threw her into relief. at first ruth was attracted only by her figure. she could not see her face. "who can she be? not one of the girls at dare hall----" this idea spun to nothingness very quickly. no! the figure ashore reminded ruth fielding of nobody whom she had seen recently. the feeling, however, that she knew the person grew. the snow blew sharply into the faces of the skating girls; but she on shore was somewhat sheltered from the gale. the wind was out of the north and west and the highland of the island broke the zest of the gale for the strange girl. "and yet she isn't strange--i _know_ she isn't," murmured ruth fielding, casting another glance back at the figure on the shore. "come on, ruth! _do_ hurry!" cried helen, looking back. "even heavy is beating you." ruth quickened her efforts. the strange girl disappeared, mounting a path it seemed toward the center of the island. ruth, head bent and lips tightly closed, skated on intent upon her mystifying thoughts. the trio rounded the island at last. they got the wind somewhat at their backs and on a long slant made for the boathouse landing. it was growing dusk, but there was a fire at the landing that beckoned them on. "glad it isn't any farther," helen panted. "this snow is gathering so fast it clogs one's skates." "oh, i must be losing pounds!" puffed jennie stone. "i bet none of my clothes will fit me to-morrow. i shall have to throw them all away." "oh, heavy!" giggled helen. "that lovely new silk?" "oh--well--i shall take _that_ in!" drawled jennie. "i've got it!" exclaimed ruth, in a most startling way. "goodness me! are you hurt?" demanded helen. "what you got? a cramp?" asked jennie, quite as solicitous. "i know now who that girl looked like," declared ruth. "what girl?" rejoined helen cameron. "the one over yonder, on the other side of the island?" "yes. she looks just like that maggie who came to the mill, helen. you remember, don't you? the girl i left to help aunt alvirah when i came to college." "well, for the land's sake!" said jennie stone. "if she's up there at the red mill, how can she possibly be down here, too? you're talking out of order, miss fielding. sit down!" chapter xiv "oft in the stilly night" ruth fielding could not get that surprising, that almost unbelievable, discovery out of her mind. it seemed ridiculous to think that girl could be maggie, "the waif," she had seen on bliss island. aunt alvirah had written ruth a letter only a few days before and in it she said that maggie was very helpful and seemed wholly content. "only," the little old housekeeper at the red mill wrote, "i don't know a mite more about the child now than i did when mr. tom cameron and our ben brought her in, all white and fainty-like." the girls had to hurry on or be late to dinner. but the very first thing ruth did when she reached their rooms in dare hall was to look up aunt alvirah's letter and see when it was dated and mailed. "it's obvious," ruth told herself, "that maggie could have reached here almost as soon as the letter if she had wished to. but why come at all? if it was maggie over on that island, why was she there?" of course, these ruminations were all in private. ruth knew better than to take her two close friends into her confidence. if she did the mystery would have been the chief topic of conversation after dinner, instead of the studies slated for that evening. an incident occurred, however, at dinner which served to take ruth's mind, too, from the mystery. there were a number of seniors and juniors quartered at dare hall. nor were all the seniors table-captains at dinner. this evening the dining hall had filled early. perhaps the brisk air and their outdoor exercise had given the girls sharper appetites than usual. it had the three girls from briarwood. they were wearied after their long skate around the island and as ravenous as wolves. they could scarcely wait for miss comstock, at the head of their particular table, to begin eating so they might do so, too. and just at this moment, as the pleasant bustle of dinner began, and the lightly tripping waitresses were stepping hither and yon with their trays, the door opened and a single belated girl entered the dining hall. as though the entrance of this girl were expected, a hush fell over the room. everybody but jennie looked up, their soup spoons poised as they watched rebecca frayne walk down the long room to her place at the housekeeper's table. "sh!" hissed helen, admonishing jennie stone. "what's the matter?" demanded the fleshy girl in surprise. "is my soup noisy? i'll have to train it better." but nobody laughed. all eyes were fastened on the girl who had made herself so obnoxious to the seniors and the juniors of ardmore. she sat down and a waitress put her soup before her. before poor rebecca could lift her spoon there was a stir all over the room. every senior and junior (and there were more than half a hundred in the dining hall) arose, save those acting as table-captains or monitors. the rustle of their rising was subdued; they murmured their excuses to the heads of their several tables in a perfectly polite manner; and not a glance from their eyes turned toward rebecca frayne. but as they walked out of the dining hall, their dinners scarcely tasted, the slight put upon the freshman who would not obey was too direct and obvious to be mistaken. even jennie stone was at length aroused from her enjoyment of the very good soup. "what do you know about _that_?" she demanded of ruth and helen. ruth said not a word. to tell the truth she felt so sorry for rebecca frayne that she lost taste for her own meal, hungry though she had been when she sat down. how rebecca herself felt could only be imagined. she had already shown herself to be a painful mixture of sensitiveness and carelessness of criticism that made ruth fielding, at least, wonder greatly. now she ate her dinner without seeming to observe the attitude the members of the older classes had taken. "cracky!" murmured jennie, in the middle of dinner. "she's got all the best of it--believe me! the seniors and the juns go hungry." "for a principle," snapped the girl beside her, who chanced to be a sophomore. "well," said jennie, smiling, "principles are far from filling. they're a good deal like the only part of the doughnut that agreed with the dyspeptic--the hole. please pass the bread, dear. somebody must have eaten mine--and it was nicely buttered, too." "goodness! nothing disturbs your calm, does it, miss stone?" cried another girl. few of the girls in the dining hall, however, could keep their minds or their gaze off rebecca frayne. in whispers all through the meal she was discussed by her close neighbors. girls at tables farther away talked of the situation frankly. and the consensus of opinion was against her. it was the general feeling that she was entirely in the wrong. the very law which she had essayed to flaunt was that which had brought the freshmen together as a class, and was welding them into a homogeneous whole. "she's a goose!" exclaimed helen cameron. and perhaps this was true. it did look foolish. yet ruth felt that there must be some misunderstanding back of it all. it should be explained. the girl could not go on in this way. "first we know she'll be packing up and leaving ardmore," ruth said worriedly. "she'll leave nobody in tears, i guess," declared one girl within hearing. "but she's one of us--she's a freshman!" ruth murmured. "she doesn't seem to desire our company or friendship," said another and more thoughtful girl. "and she won't pack up in a hurry," drawled jennie, still eating. "remember all those bags and that enormous trunk she brought?" "but, say," began helen, slowly, "where are all the frocks and things she was supposed to bring with her? we supposed she'd be the peacock of the class, and i don't believe i've seen her in more than three different dresses and only two hats, including that indescribably brilliant tam." ruth said nothing. she was thinking. she planned to get out of the dining hall at the same time rebecca did, but just as the dessert was being passed the odd girl rose quickly, bowed her excuses to the housekeeper, and almost ran out of the hall. "she was crying!" gasped ruth, feeling both helpless and sympathetic. "i wager she bit her tongue, then," remarked jennie. ruth hurried through her dessert and left the dining hall ahead of most of the girls. she glanced through the long windows and saw that it was still snowing. "i wonder if that girl is over on the island yet?" she reflected as she ran upstairs. her first thought just then was of an entirely different girl. she went to rebecca's door and knocked. she knocked twice, then again. but no answer was returned. no light came through the keyhole, or from under the door; yet ruth felt sure that rebecca frayne was in the room, and weeping. it was a situation in which ruth fielding longed to help, yet there seemed positively nothing she could do as long as the stubborn girl would not meet her half way. with a sigh she went to the study she and helen jointly occupied. before switching on the light she went to one of the windows that looked out on the lake. bliss island was easily visible from this point. the snow was still falling, but not heavily enough to obstruct her vision much. the white bulk of the island rose in the midst of the field of snow-covered ice. it seemed nearer than it ordinarily appeared. as ruth gazed she saw a spark of light on the island, high up from the shore, but evidently among the trees, for it was intermittent. now it was visible and again only a red glow showed there. she was still gazing upon this puzzling light when helen opened the door. "hello, ruthie!" she cried. "all in the dark? oh! isn't the outside world beautiful to-night?" she came to the window and put her arm about ruth's waist. "see how solemnly the snow is falling--and the whole world is white," murmured the black-eyed girl. "'oft in the stilly night'----or is it 'oft in the silly night'?" and she laughed, for it was not often nor for long that the sentiment that lay deep in helen's heart rose to the surface. "oh! what's that light over there, ruth?" she added, with quick apprehension. "that is what i have been looking at," ruth said. "but you don't tell me what it is!" cried helen. "because i don't know. but i suspect." "suspect what?" "that it is a campfire," said ruth. "yes. it seems to be in one spot. only the wind makes the flames leap, and at one time they are plainly visible while again they are partly obscured." "who ever would camp over on bliss island on a night like this?" gasped helen. "i don't see why you put such mysteries up to me," returned ruth, with a shrug. "i'm no prophet. but----" "but what?" "do you remember that girl we saw on the island this afternoon?" "goodness! yes." "well, mightn't it be she, or a party she may be with?" "campers on the island in a snow storm? no girls from this college would be so silly," helen declared. "i'm not at all sure she was an ardmore girl," said ruth, reflectively. "who under the sun could she be, then?" "almost anybody else," laughed ruth. "it is going to stop snowing altogether soon, helen. see! the moon is breaking through the clouds." "it will be lovely out," sighed helen. "but hard walking." ruth gestured towards their two pairs of snowshoes crossed upon the wall. "not on those," she said. "oh, ruthie! would you?" "all we have to do is to tighten them and sally forth." "gracious! i'd be willing to be sally fifth for a spark of fun," declared helen, eagerly. "how about heavy?" asked ruth, as helen hastened to take down the snowshoes which both girls had learned to use years before at snow camp, in the adirondacks. "dead to the world already, i imagine," laughed helen. "i saw her to her room, and i believe she was so tired and so full of dinner that she tumbled into bed almost before she got her clothes off. you'd never get her out on such a crazy venture!" helen was as happy as a lark over the chance of "fun." the two girls skilfully tightened the stringing of the shoes, and then, having put on coats, mittens, and drawn the tam-o'-shanters down over their ears, they crept out of their rooms and hastened downstairs and out of the dormitory building. there was not a moving object in sight upon the campus or the sloping white lawns to the level of the frozen lake. the two chums thrust their toes into the straps of their snowshoes and set forth. chapter xv an odd adventure six inches or more of snow had fallen. it was feathery and packed well under the snowshoes. the girls sank about two inches into the fleecy mass and there the shoes made a complete bed for themselves and the weight of their wearers. "you know what i'd love to do this winter?" said helen, as they trudged on. "what, my dear?" asked ruth, who seemed much distraught. "i'd like to try skiing. the slope of college hill would be just splendiferous for _that_! away from the observatory to the lake--and then some!" "we'll start a skiing club among the freshies," ruth said, warmly accepting the idea. "wonder nobody has thought of it before." "ardmore hasn't waked up yet to all its possibilities," said helen, demurely. "but this umpty-umph class of freshmen will show the college a thing or two before we pass from out its scholastic halls." "question!" cried ruth, laughing. then: "there! you can see that light again." "goodness! you're never going over to that island?" cried helen. "what did we come out for?" asked ruth. "and scamp our study hour?" "goodness!" cried helen, again, "just for _fun_." "well, it may be fun to find out just who built that fire and what for," said ruth. "and then again," objected her chum, "it may be no fun at all, but _serious_." "i have a serious reason for finding out--if i can," ruth declared. "what is it, dear?" "i'll tell you later," said ruth. "follow me now." "if i do i'll not wear diamonds, and i may get into trouble," objected helen. "you've never got into very serious trouble yet by following my leadership," laughed ruth. "come on, fraid-cat." "ain't! but we don't know who is over there. just to think! a camp in the snow!" "well, we have camped in the snow ourselves," laughed ruth, harking back to an adventure at snow camp that neither of them would ever be likely to forget. they scuffed along on the snowshoes, soon reaching the edge of the lake. nobody was about the boathouse, for the ice would have to be swept and scraped by the horse-drawn machines before the girls could go skating again. the moon was pushing through the scurrying clouds, and the snow had ceased falling. "look back!" crowed helen. "looks as though two enormous animals had come down the hillside, doesn't it?" "the girls will wake up and view our tracks with wonder in the morning," said ruth, with a smile. "perhaps they'll think that some curious monsters have visited ardmore." "that would cause more wonderment than the case of rebecca frayne. what do you suppose is finally going to happen to that foolish girl?" "i really cannot guess," ruth returned, shaking her head sadly. "poor thing!" "why! she can't be _poor_," gasped helen. "look at all those trunks she brought with her to ardmore. and her dresses are tremendously fancy--although we've not seen many of them yet." ruth stared at her chum for a moment without replying. it was right there and then that she came near to guessing the secret of rebecca frayne's trouble. but she forbore to say anything about it at the time, and went on beside her chum toward the white island, much disturbed in her mind. now and then they caught sight of the dancing flames of the campfire. but when they were nearer the island, the hill was so steep that they lost sight completely of the light. "suppose it's a _man_?" breathed helen, suddenly, as they began to climb the shore of bliss island. "he won't eat us," returned ruth. "no. they don't often. only cannibals, and they are not prevalent in this locality," giggled helen. "but if it _is_ a man----" "then we'll turn around and go back," said ruth, coolly. "i haven't come out here to get acquainted with any male person." "bluie! suppose he's a real nice boy?" "there's no such an animal," laughed ruth. "that is, not around here at the present moment." "oh yes. i see," helen rejoined drily. "the nearest _nice_ one is at the seven oaks military academy." "so you say," ruth said demurely. "but if it were tom?" "dear old tom and some of his chums!" cried helen. "wouldn't it be great? this adamless eden is rather palling on me, chum. the other girls have visitors, but our friends are too far away." "hush!" advised ruth. "whoever it is up there will hear you." helen was evidently not at all enamored of this adventure. she lagged behind a little. yet she would not allow ruth to go on alone to interview the mysterious camper. "i tell you what," the black-eyed girl said, after a moment and in a whisper. "i believe that fire is up near the big boulder we looked at--you remember? the stone face, do they call it?" "quite possibly," ruth rejoined briskly. "come on if you're coming. i'm sure the stone face won't hurt us." "not unless it falls on us," giggled helen. the grove of big trees that covered this part of the hillside was open, and the chums very easily made their way toward the fire, even on snowshoes. but the shoes naturally made some noise as they scuffed over the snow, and in a minute ruth stopped and slipped her feet out of the straps, motioning helen to do the same. they wore overshoes so there was no danger of their getting their feet wet in the snow. hand in hand, ruth and helen crept forward. they saw the fire flickering just before them. there was a single figure between the fire and the very boulder of which helen had spoken. reaching the edge of the grove the girls gazed without discovery at the camp in the snow. the boulder stood in a small open space, and it was so high and bulky that it sheltered the fire and the camper quite comfortably. as ruth had suspected, the latter was the girl she had seen walking upon the southern shore of bliss island. she knew her by her figure, if not by her face, which was at the moment hidden. "she's alone," whispered helen, making the words with her lips more than with her voice. "what _can_ she be doing out here?" was the black-eyed girl's next demand. her chum put out a hand in a gesture of warning and at once walked out of the shelter of the trees and approached the fire. helen lingered behind. after all, it was so strange a situation that she did not feel very courageous. the moon had quite broken through the clouds now and as ruth drew nearer to the fire and the girl, her shadow was projected before her upon the snow. the girl who looked like maggie suddenly espied this shadow, raised her head, and leaped up with a cry. "don't be frightened, maggie," said ruth. "it's only us two girls." "my--my name is--isn't maggie," stammered the strange girl. and sure enough, having once seen her closely, ruth fielding saw that she was quite wrong in her identification. this was not the girl who had drifted down the lumano river to the red mill and taken refuge with aunt alvirah. this was a much more assertive person than maggie--a girl with plenty of health, both of body and mind. maggie impressed one as being mentally or nervously deficient. not so this girl who was camping here in the snow on bliss island. yet there was a resemblance to maggie in the figure of the stranger, and ruth noted a resemblance in her features, too. "my goodness me!" she said, laughing pleasantly. "if you're not our maggie you look near enough like her to be her sister." "well, i haven't any sister in that college," said the strange girl, shortly. "you're from ardmore, aren't you?" "yes," ruth said, helen now having joined them. "and we saw your light----" "my _what_?" demanded the camping girl, who was warmly, though plainly dressed. "your campfire. you see," explained ruth, finding it rather difficult after all to talk to this very self-possessed girl, "we skated around the island to-day----" "i saw you," said the stranger gruffly. "there were three of you." "yes. and i thought you looked like maggie, then." "isn't this maggie one of you?" sharply demanded the stranger. "she's a girl whom--whom i know," ruth said quickly. "a really nice girl. and you do look like her. doesn't she, helen?" "why--yes--something like," drawled helen. "and did you have to come out here to see if i were your friend?" asked the other girl. "when i saw the campfire--yes," ruth admitted. "it seemed so strange, you know." "what seemed strange?" demanded the girl, very tartly. it was plain that she considered their visit an intrusion. "why, think of it yourself," ruth cried, while helen sniffed audibly. "a girl camping alone on this island--and in a snowstorm." "it isn't snowing now," said the girl, smiling grimly. "but it was when we saw the fire at first," ruth hastened to say. "you know yourself you would be interested." "not enough to come clear out here--must be over a mile!--to see about it," was the rejoinder. "i usually mind my own business." "so do we, you may be sure!" spoke up helen, quick to take offence. "come away, ruth." but the girl of the red mill was not at all satisfied. she said, frankly: "i do wish that you would tell us why you are here? surely, you won't remain all night in this lonely place? there is nobody else on the island, is there?" "i should hope not!" exclaimed the girl. "only you two busybodies." "but, really, we came because we were interested in what went on here. it seems so strange for a girl, alone----" "you've said that before," was the dry reply. "i am a girl alone. i am here on my own business. and _that_ isn't yours." "oh!" ejaculated helen, angrily. "well, if you don't like being spoken to plainly, you needn't stay," the strange girl flung at her. "i see that very well," returned helen, tossing her head. "_do_ come away, ruth." "ha!" exclaimed the strange girl, suddenly looking at ruth more intently. "are you called ruth?" "yes. ruth fielding is my name." "oh!" and the girl's face changed in its expression and a little flush came into her cheeks. "i've--i've heard of you." "indeed! how?" cried ruth, eagerly. she felt that this girl must really have some connection with maggie at the mill, she looked so much like the waif. "oh," said the other girl slowly, looking away, "i heard you wrote picture plays. i saw one of them. that's all." ruth was silent for a moment. helen kept tugging at her arm and urging her to go. "we--we can do nothing for you?" queried the girl of the red mill at last. "you can get off the island--that's as much as i care," said the strange girl, with a harsh laugh. "you're only intruding where you're not wanted." "well, i do declare!" burst out helen again. "she is the most impolite thing. _do_ come away, ruthie." "we really came with the best intentions," ruth added, as she turned away with her chum. "it--it doesn't look right for a girl to be alone at a campfire on this island--and at night, too." "i sha'n't stay here all night," the girl said shortly. "you needn't fret. if you want to know, i just built the fire to get warm by before i started back." "back where?" ruth could not help asking. "_that_ you don't know--and you won't know," returned the strange girl, and turned her back upon them. chapter xvi what was in rebecca's trunk the two chums did not speak a word to each other until they had recovered their snowshoes and set out down the rough side of bliss island for the ice. then helen sputtered: "people like _that_! did you ever see such a person? i never was so insulted----" "pshaw! she was right--in a way," ruth said coolly. "we had no real business to pry into her affairs." "well!" "i got you into it. i'm sorry," the girl of the red mill said. "i thought it really was maggie, or i wouldn't have come over here." "she's something like that maggie girl," proclaimed helen. "_she_ was nice, i thought." "maybe this girl is nice, taken under other circumstances," laughed ruth. "i really would like to know what she is over here for." "no good, i'll be bound," said the pessimistic helen. "and another thing," ruth went on to say, as she and her chum reached the level of the frozen lake, "did you notice that pick handle?" "that what?" demanded helen, in amazement. "pickaxe handle--i believe it was," ruth said thoughtfully. "it was thrust out of the snow pile she had scraped away from the boulder. and, moreover, the ground looked as though it had been dug into." "why, the ground is as hard as the rock itself," helen cried. "there are six or eight inches of frost right now." "i guess that's so," agreed ruth. "perhaps that's why she built such a big fire." "what _do_ you mean, ruth fielding?" cried her chum. "i think she wanted to dig there for something," ruth replied reflectively. "i wonder what for?" when they had returned to dare hall and had got their things off and were warm again, they looked out of the window. the campfire on the island had died out. "she's gone away, of course," sighed ruth. "but i would like to know what she was there for." "one of the mysteries of life," said helen, as she made ready for bed. "dear me, but i'm tired!" she was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. not so ruth. the latter lay awake some time wondering about the odd girl on the island and her errand there. ruth fielding had another girl's troubles on her mind, however--and a girl much closer to her. the girl on the island merely teased her imagination. rebecca frayne's difficulties seemed much more important to ruth. of course, there was no real reason for ruth to take up cudgels for her odd classmate. indeed, she did not feel that she could do that, for she was quite convinced that rebecca frayne was wrong. nevertheless, she was very sorry for the girl. the trouble over the tam-o'-shanter had become the most talked-of incident of the school term. for the several following days rebecca was scarcely seen outside her room, save in going to and from her classes. she did not again appear in the dining hall. how she arranged about meals ruth and her friends could not imagine. then the housekeeper admitted to ruth that she had allowed the lonely girl to get her own little meals in her room, as she had cooking utensils and an alcohol lamp. "it is not usually allowed, i know. but miss frayne seems to have come to college prepared to live in just that way. she is a small eater, anyway. and--well, anything to avoid friction." "of course," ruth said to helen and jennie stone, "lots of girls live in furnished rooms and get their own meals--working girls and students. but it is not a system generally allowed at college, and at ardmore especially. we shall hear from the faculty about it before the matter is done with." "well, we're not doing it," scoffed jennie. "and that rebecca frayne is behaving like a chump." "but how she does stick to that awful tam!" groaned helen. "stubborn as a mule," agreed jennie. "i saw her with another hat on to-day," said ruth, reflectively. "that's so! it was the one she wore the day she arrived," helen said quickly. "a summer hat. i wonder what she did bring in that trunk, anyway? she has displayed no such charming array of finery as i expected." ruth did not discuss this point. she was more interested in the state of rebecca's mind, though, of course, there was not much time for her to give to anything but her studies and regular duties now, for as the term advanced the freshmen found their hours pretty well filled. scrub teams for certain indoor sports had been made up, and even jennie stone took up the playing of basketball with vigor. she was really losing flesh. she kept a card tacked upon her door on which she set down the fluctuations of her bodily changes daily. when she lost a whole pound in weight she wrote it down in red ink. their activities kept the three friends well occupied, both physically and mentally. yet ruth fielding could not feel wholly satisfied or content when she knew that one of her mates was in trouble. she had taken an interest in rebecca frayne at the beginning of the semester; yet of all the freshmen rebecca was the one whom she knew the least. "and that poor girl needs somebody for a friend--i feel it!" ruth told herself. "of course, she is to blame for the situation in which she now is. but for that very reason she ought to have somebody with whom to talk it over." ruth determined to be that confidant of the girl who seemed to wish no associate and no confidant. she began to loiter in the corridors between recitation hours and at odd times. whenever she knocked on rebecca's door there was no reply. other girls who had tried it quickly gave up their sympathetic attentions. if the foolish girl wished for no friends, let her go her own way. that became the attitude of the freshman class. of course, the sophomores followed the lead of the seniors and the juniors, having as little to do with the unfortunate girl as possible. but the day and hour came at last when ruth chanced to be right at hand when rebecca frayne came in and unlocked her room door. her arms were full of small packages. ruth knew that she had walked all the way to the grocery store on the edge of greenburg, which the college girls often patronized. it had been a long, cold walk, and rebecca's fingers were numb. she dropped a paper bag--and it contained eggs! now, it is quite impossible to hide the fact of a dropped egg. at another time ruth might have laughed; but now she soberly retrieved the paper bag before the broken eggs could do much damage, and stepped into the room after the nervous rebecca. "oh, thank you!" gasped the girl. "put--put them down anywhere. thank you!" "my goodness!" said ruth, laughing, "you can't put broken eggs down _anywhere_. don't you see they are runny?" "never mind, miss fielding----" "oh! you've a regular kitchenette here, haven't you?" said ruth, emboldened to look behind a curtain. "how cunning. i'll put these eggs in this clean dish. mercy, but they are scrambled!" "don't trouble, miss fielding. you are very kind." "but scrambled eggs are pretty good, at that," ruth went on, unheeding the other girl's nervousness. "if you can only get the broken shells out of them," and she began coolly to do this with a fork. "i should think you would not like eating alone, rebecca." the other girl stared at her. "how can i help it?" she asked harshly. "just by getting a proper tam and stop being stubborn," ruth told her. "miss fielding!" cried rebecca, her face flushing. "do you think i do this for--for fun?" "you must. it isn't a disease, is it?" and ruth laughed aloud, determined to refuse to take the other's tragic words seriously. "you--you are unbearable!" gasped rebecca. "no, i'm not. i want to be your friend," ruth declared boldly. "i want you to have other friends, too. no use flocking by one's self at college. why, my dear girl! you are missing all that is best in college life." "i'd like to know what _is_ best in college life!" burst out rebecca frayne, sullenly. "friendship. companionship. the rubbing of one mind against another," ruth said promptly. "pooh!" returned the startled rebecca. "i wouldn't want to rub my mind against some of these girls' minds. all i ever hear them talk about is dress or amusements." "i don't think you know many of the other girls well enough to judge the calibre of their minds," said ruth, gently. "and why don't i?" demanded rebecca, still with a sort of suppressed fury. "we all judge more or less by appearances," ruth admitted slowly. "i presume _you_, too, were judged that way." "what do you mean, miss fielding?" asked rebecca, more mildly. "when you came here to ardmore you made a first impression. we all do," ruth said. "yes," rebecca admitted, with a slight curl of her lip. she was naturally a proud-looking girl, and she seemed actually haughty now. "i was mistaken for _you_, i believe." ruth laughed heartily at that. "i should be a good friend of yours," she said. "it was a great sell on those sophomores. they had determined to make poor little me suffer for some small notoriety i had gained at boarding school." "i never went to boarding school," snapped rebecca. "i never was _anywhere_ till i came to college. just to our local schools. i worked hard, let me tell you, to pass the examinations to get in here." "and why don't you let your mind broaden and get the best there is to be had at ardmore?" ruth demanded, quickly. "the girls misunderstand you. i can see that. we freshmen have got to bow our heads to the will of the upper classes. it doesn't hurt--much," and she laughed again. "do you think i am wearing this old tam because i am stubborn?" demanded the other girl, again with that fierceness that seemed so strange in one so young. "why--aren't you?" "no." "why do you wear it, then?" asked ruth, wonderingly. "_because i cannot afford to buy another!_" rebecca frayne said this in so tense a voice that ruth was fairly staggered. the girl of the red mill gazed upon the other's flaming face for a full minute without making any reply. then, faintly, she said: "i--i didn't understand, rebecca. we none of us do, i guess. you came here in such style! that heavy trunk and those bags----" "all out of our attic," said the other, sharply. "did you think them filled with frocks and furbelows? see here!" ruth had already noticed the packages of papers piled along one wall of the room. rebecca pointed to them. "out of our attic, too," she said, with a scornful laugh that was really no laugh at all. "old papers that have lain there since the civil war." "but, rebecca----" "why did i do it?" put in the other, in the same hard voice. "because i was a little fool. because i did not understand. "i didn't know just what college was like. i never talked with a girl from college in my life. i thought this was a place where only rich girls were welcome." "oh, rebecca!" cried ruth. "that isn't so." "i see it now," agreed the other girl, shortly. "but we always have had to make a bluff at our house. since _i_ can remember, at least. grandfather was wealthy; but our generation is as poor as job's turkey. "i didn't want to appear poor when i arrived here; so i got out the old bags and the big trunk, filled them with papers, and brought them along. a friend lent me that car i arrived in. i--i thought i'd make a splurge right at first, and then my social standing would not be questioned." "oh, rebecca! how foolish," murmured ruth. "don't say that!" stormed the girl. "i see that i started all wrong. but i can't help it now," and suddenly she burst into a passion of weeping. chapter xvii what was in rebecca's heart it was some time before ruth could quiet the almost hysterical girl. rebecca frayne had held herself in check so long, and the bitterness of her position had so festered in her mind, that now the barriers were burst she could not control herself. but ruth fielding was sympathetic. and her heart went out to this lonely and foolish girl as it seldom had to any person in distress. she felt, too, did ruth, as though it was partly her fault and the fault of the other freshmen that rebecca was in this state of mind. she was fearful that having actually forced herself upon rebecca that the girl might, when she came to herself, turn against her. but at present rebecca's heart was so full that it spilled over, once having found a confidant. in ruth fielding's arms the unfortunate girl told a story that, if supremely silly from one standpoint, was a perfectly natural and not uncommon story. she was a girl, born and brought up in a quiet, small town, living in the biggest and finest house in that town, yet having suffered actual privations all her life for the sake of keeping up appearances. the frayne family was supposed to be wealthy. not as wealthy as a generation or so before; still, the fraynes were looked upon as the leaders in local society. there was now only an aunt, rebecca, a younger sister, and a brother who was in new york struggling upward in a commission house. "and if it were not for the little fred can spare me and sends me twice a month, i couldn't stay here," rebecca confessed during this long talk with ruth. "he's the best boy who ever lived." "he must be," ruth agreed. "i'd be glad to have a brother like that." rebecca had been hungry for books. she had always hoped to take a college course. "but i was ignorant of everything," she sighed. ruth gathered, too, that the aunt, who was at the nominal head of the frayne household, was also ignorant. this aunt emmy seemed to be an empty-headed creature who thought that the most essential thing for a girl in life was to be fancifully dressed, and to attain a position in society. aunt emmy had evidently filled rebecca's head with such notions. the girl had come to ardmore with a totally wrong idea of what it meant to be in college. "why! some of these girls act as waitresses," said rebecca. "i couldn't do _that_ even to obtain the education i want so much. oh! aunt emmy would never hear to it." "it's a perfectly legitimate way of helping earn one's tuition," ruth said. "the fraynes have never done such things," the other girl said haughtily. and right there and then ruth decided that rebecca frayne was going to have a very hard time, indeed, at ardmore unless she learned to look upon life quite differently from the way she had been taught at home. already ruth fielding had seen enough at ardmore to know that many of the very girls whose duties rebecca scorned, were getting more out of their college life than rebecca frayne could possibly get unless she took a radically different view of life and its comparative values from that her present standards gave her. the girls who were waitresses, and did other work to help pay for their tuition or for their board were busy and happy and were respected by their mates. in addition, they were often the best scholars in the classes. rebecca was wrong in scorning those who combined domestic service with an attempt to obtain an education. but ruth was wise enough to see that this feeling was inbred in rebecca. it was useless to try to change her opinion upon it. if rebecca were poverty-stricken, her purse could not be replenished by any such means as these other girls found to help them over the hard places. in this matter of the tam-o'-shanter, for instance, it would be very difficult to help the girl. ruth knew better than to offer to pay for the new tam-o'-shanter the freshman could not afford to buy. to make such an offer would immediately close the door of the strange girl's friendship to ruth. so she did not hint at such a thing. she talked on, beginning to laugh and joke with rebecca, and finally brought her out of her tears. "cheer up," ruth said. "you are making the worst possible use of your time here--keeping to yourself and being so afraid of making friends. we're not all rich girls, i assure you. and the girls on this corridor are particularly nice." "i suppose that may be. but if everywhere i go they show so plainly they don't want me----" "that will stop!" cried ruth, vigorously. "if i have to go to dr. milroth myself, it shall be stopped. it is hazing of the crudest kind. oh! what a prettily crocheted table-mat. it's old-fashioned, but pretty." "aunty does that, almost all the time," rebecca said, with a little laugh. "fred once said--in confidence, of course--that half the family income goes for aunt emmy's wool." "do _you_ do it, too?" ruth asked suspiciously. "oh yes. i can." "say! could you crochet one of these tams?" cried ruth, eagerly. "why--i suppose so," admitted the other girl. "then, why not? do it to please the seniors and juniors. it won't hurt to bow to a custom, will it? and you only need buy a few hanks of wool at a time." rebecca's face flamed again; but she took the suggestion, after all, with some meekness. "i _might_ do that," she admitted. "all right. then you'll be doing your part. and talk to the girls. let them talk to you. come down to the dining-room for your meals again. you know, the housekeeper, mrs. ebbets, will soon be getting into trouble about you. somebody will talk to dr. milroth or to some other member of the upper faculty." "i suppose so," groaned rebecca. "they won't let poor little me alone." "oh, you can't expect to have your own way at school," cried ruth, laughing. "oh, and say!" "well, miss fielding?" "_do_ call me ruth," begged the girl of the red mill. "it won't cost you a cent more," but she said it so good-naturedly that rebecca had to laugh. "i will," said the other girl, vehemently. "you are the very nicest little thing!" "well, now that's settled," laughed ruth, "do something for me, will you?" "any--anything i can," agreed rebecca, with some doubt. "you know we girls on this corridor are going to have a sitting-room all to ourselves. that corner room that is empty. everybody is going to buy--is going to give something to help furnish the room." "oh, ruth! i can't----" "yes you can," interrupted ruth, quickly. "when you stop this foolish eating by yourself, you can bring over your alcohol lamp. it's just what we want to make tea on. now, say you will, rebecca!" "i--i will. why, yes, i can do that," rebecca agreed. "goody! i'll tell the girls. and you'll be as welcome as the flowers in may, lamp or no lamp," she cried, kissing rebecca again and bustling out of the room. chapter xviii bearding the lions ruth had shown a very cheerful face before rebecca frayne, but when she was once out of the room the girl of the red mill did not show such a superabundance of cheerfulness. she knew well enough that rebecca had become so unpopular that public opinion could not be changed regarding her in a moment. besides, there were the two upper classes to be considered. their order regarding the freshmen's head-covering had been flagrantly disobeyed, and would have to be disobeyed for some time to come. a girl cannot crochet a tam-o'-shanter in a minute. having undertaken to straighten out rebecca frayne's troubles, however, ruth did not publicly shrink from the task. she was one who made up her mind quickly, and having made it up, set to work immediately to carry the matter through. merry dexter, the first senior she had met upon coming to ardmore, was kindly disposed toward her, and ruth knew that miss dexter was an influential member of her class. therefore, ruth took her trouble--and rebecca's--directly to miss dexter. yet, she did not feel that she had a right to explain, even to this one senior, all that rebecca frayne had confided to her. she realized that the girl, with her false standards of respectability and social standing, would never be able to hold up her head at college if her real financial situation were known to the girls in general. ruth was bound, however, to take miss dexter somewhat into her confidence to obtain a hearing. she put the matter before the senior as nicely as possible, saying in conclusion: "and she will knit herself a tam of the proper color just as soon as possible. no girl, you know, miss dexter, likes to admit that she is poor. it is dreadfully embarrassing. so i hope that this matter will be adjusted without her situation being discussed." "goodness! _i_ can't change things," the senior declared. "not unless that girl agrees to do as she is told--like the rest of you freshies." "then my opinion of your class, miss dexter," ruth said firmly, "must be entirely wrong. i did not believe that they ordered us to wear baby blue tams just out of an arbitrary desire to make us obey. had i believed _that_ i would not have bought a new tam myself!" "you wouldn't?" "no, miss dexter. nor would a great many of us freshmen. we believed the order had a deeper significance--and it _had_. it helped our class get together. we are combined now, we are a social body. and i believe that if i took this matter up with rebecca's class, and explained just her situation to them (which, of course, i do not want to do), the freshmen as a whole would back me in a revolt against the upper classes." "you're pretty sure of that, ruth fielding, are you?" demanded the senior. "yes, i am. we'd all refuse to wear the new tams. you seniors and juniors would have a nice time sending us all to coventry, wouldn't you? if you didn't want to eat with us, you'd all go hungry for a long time before the freshmen would do as rebecca foolishly did." miss dexter laughed at that. and then she hugged ruth. "i believe you are a dear girl, with a lot of good sense in your head," she said. "but you must come before our executive committee and talk to them." "oh, dear! beard the lions in their den?" cried ruth. "yes, my dear. i cannot be your spokesman." ruth found this a harder task than she had bargained for; but she went that same evening to a hastily called meeting of the senior committee. perhaps miss dexter had done more for her than she agreed, however, for ruth found these older girls very kind and she seemingly made them easily understand rebecca's situation without being obliged to say in just so many words that the girl was actually poverty-stricken. and it was probable, too, that ruth fielding helped herself in this incident as much as she did her classmate. the members of the older classes thereafter gave the girl of the red mill considerably more attention than she had previously received. ruth began to feel surprised that she had so many warm friends and pleasant acquaintances in the college, even among the sophomores of edith phelps' stamp. edith phelps found her tart jokes about the "canned-drama authoress" falling rather flat, so she dropped the matter. older girls stopped on the walks to talk to ruth. they sat beside her in chapel and at other assemblies, and seemed to like to talk with her. although ruth did not hold an office in her own class organization, yet she bade fair to become soon the most popular freshman at ardmore. ruth was perfectly unconscious of this fact, for she had not a spark of vanity in her make-up. her mind was so filled with other and more important things that her social conquests impressed her but little. she did, however, think a good bit about poor rebecca frayne's situation. she warned her personal friends among the freshmen, especially those at dare hall, to say nothing to rebecca about the unfortunate affair. rebecca came into the dining-room again. ruth knew that she had actually begun to crochet a baby blue tam-o'-shanter. but it was a question in ruth's mind if the odd girl would be able to "keep up appearances" on the little money she had left and that which her brother could send her from time to time. it was quite tragic, after all. rebecca was sure of good and sufficient food as long as she could pay her board; but the girl undoubtedly needed other things which she could not purchase. naturally, youth cannot give its entire attention to even so tragic a matter as this. ruth's gay friends acted as counterweights in her mind to rebecca's troubles. the girls were out on the lake very frequently as the cold weather continued; but ruth never saw again the strange girl whom she and helen had interviewed at night on bliss island. hearing from aunt alvirah as she did with more or less frequency, the girl of the red mill was assured that maggie seemed content and was proving a great help to the crippled old housekeeper. maggie seemed quite settled in her situation. "just because that queer girl looked like maggie doesn't prove that maggie knows her," ruth told herself. "still--it's odd." stormy weather kept the college girls indoors a good deal; and the general sitting-room on ruth's corridor became the most social spot in the whole college. the girls whose dormitory rooms were there, irrespective of class, all shared in the furnishing of the sitting-room. second-hand furniture is always to be had of dealers near an institution like ardmore. besides, the girls all owned little things they could spare for the general comfort, like rebecca frayne's alcohol lamp. helen had a tea set; somebody else furnished trays. in fact, all the "comforts of home" were supplied to that sitting-room; and the girls were considered very fortunate by their mates in other parts of the hall, and, indeed, in the other three dormitory buildings. but during the holiday recess something happened that bade fair to deprive ruth and her friends of their special perquisite. dr. mccurdy's wife's sister came to ardmore. the mccurdys did not keep house, preferring to board. they could find no room for mrs. jaynes, until it was remembered that there was an unassigned dormitory room at dare hall. many of the girls had gone home over the brief holidays; but our three friends from briarwood had remained at ardmore. so ruth and helen and jennie stone chanced to be among the girls present when the housekeeper of dare hall came into the sitting-room and, to quote jennie, informed them that they must "vamoose the ranch." "that is what ann hicks would call it," jennie said, defending her language when taken to task for it. "we've just got to get out--and it's a mean shame." dr. mccurdy was one of the important members of the faculty. of course, the girls on that corridor had no real right to the extra room. all they could do was to voice their disappointment--and they did that, one may be sure, with vociferation. "and just when we had come to be so comfortably fixed here," groaned one, when the housekeeper had departed. "i know i shall dis-_like_ that mrs. jaynes extremely." "we won't speak to her!" cried helen, in a somewhat vixenish tone. "maybe she won't care if we don't," laughed ruth. but it was no laughing matter, as they all felt. they made a gloomy party in the pretty sitting-room that last evening of its occupancy as a community resort. "there's clara mayberry in her rocker again on that squeaky board," rebecca frayne remarked. "i hope she rocks on that board every evening over this woman's head who has turned us out." "let's all hope so," murmured helen. jennie stone suddenly sat upright in the rocker she was occupying, but continued to glare at the ceiling. a board in the floor of the room above had frequently annoyed them before. clara mayberry sometimes forgot and placed her rocker on that particular spot. "if--if she had to listen to that long," gasped jennie suddenly, "she would go crazy. she's just that kind of nervous female. i saw her at chapel this morning." "but even clara couldn't stand the squeak of that board long," ruth observed, smiling. without another word jennie left the room. she came back later, so full of mystery, as helen declared, that she seemed on the verge of bursting. however, jennie refused to explain herself in any particular; but the board in clara mayberry's room did not squeak again that evening. chapter xix a deep, dark plot "heavy is actually losing flesh," helen declared to ruth. "i can see it." "you mean you _can't_ see it," laughed her chum. "that is, you can't see so much of it as there used to be. if she keeps on with the rowing machine work in the gym and the basket ball practise and dancing, she will soon be the thinnest girl who ever came to ardmore." "oh, never!" cried helen. "i don't believe i should like heavy so much if she wasn't a _little_ fat." people who had not seen jennie stone for some time observed the change in her appearance more particularly than did her two close friends. this was proved when mr. cameron and tom arrived. for, as the girls did not go home for just a few days, helen's father and her twin unexpectedly appeared at college on christmas eve, and their company delighted the chums immensely. on friday evenings the girls could have company, and on all saturday afternoons, even during the college term. also a girl could have a young man call on her sunday evening, provided he took her to service at chapel. the three briarwood friends had had no such company heretofore. they made the most of mr. cameron and tom, therefore, during christmas week. there was splendid sleighing, and the skating on the lake was at its very best. ruth insisted upon including rebecca frayne in some of their parties, and rebecca proved to be good fun. tom stared at jennie stone, round-eyed, when first he saw her. "what's the matter with you, tom cameron?" the fleshy girl asked, rather tartly. "didn't you ever see a good-looking girl before?" "but say, jennie!" he cried, "are you going into a decline?" "i decline to answer," she responded. but she dimpled when she said it, and evidently considered tom's rather blunt remark a compliment. the christmas holidays were over all too soon, it seemed to the girls. yet they took up the class work again with vigor. their acquaintanceship was broadening daily, both in the student body and among the instructors. most of the strangeness of this new college world had worn off. ruth and helen and jennie were full-fledged "ardmores" now, quite as devoted to the college as they had been to dear old briarwood. after new year's there was a raw and rainy spell that spoiled many of the outdoor sports. practice in the gymnasium increased, and helen said that jennie stone was bound to work herself down to a veritable shadow if the bad weather continued long. ruth was in rebecca's room one dingy, rainy afternoon, having skipped gymnasium work of all kind for the day. the proprietor of the room had finished her baby blue cap and had worn it the first time that week. "i feel that they are not all staring at me now," she confessed to ruth. ruth was at the piles of old papers which rebecca had hidden under a half-worn portierre she had brought from home. "do you know," the girl of the red mill said reflectively, "these old things are awfully interesting, becky?" "what old things?" "these papers. i've opened one bundle. they were all printed in richmond during the civil war. why, paper must have been awfully scarce then. some of these are actually printed on wrapping paper--you can scarcely read the print." "ought to look at those charleston papers," said rebecca, carelessly. "there are full files of those, too, i believe. why, some of them are printed on wall paper." "no!" "yes they are. ridiculous, wasn't it?" ruth sat silent for a while. finally she asked: "are you sure, becky, that you have quite complete files here of this richmond paper? for all the war time, i mean?" "yes. and of the south carolina paper, too. father collected them during and immediately following the war. he was down there for years, you see." "i see," ruth said quietly, and for a long time said nothing more. but that evening she wrote several letters which she did not show helen, and took them herself to the mailbag in the lower hall. before this, mrs. jaynes, dr. mccurdy's sister-in-law, was settled in the room which had formerly been used by the girls as their own particular sitting-room. she was not an attractive woman at all; so it was not hard for her youthful associates on that corridor of dare hall to declare war upon mrs. jaynes. indeed, without having been introduced to a single girl there, mrs. jaynes eyed them all as though she suspected they belonged to a tribe of bushmen. naturally, during hours of relaxation, and occasionally at other times, the girls joked and laughed and raced through the halls and sang and otherwise acted as a crowd of young people usually act. mrs. jaynes was plainly of that sort that believes that all youthfulness and ebullition of spirits should be suppressed. luckily, she met the girls but seldom--only when she was going to and from her room. on stormy days she remained shut up in her apartment most of the time, and mrs. ebbetts sent a maid up with her tray at meal time. she never ate in the dare hall dining-room. meantime, jennie stone had several mysterious sessions with certain of the girls who felt quite as she did regarding the usurpation of dr. mccurdy's sister-in-law of the spare room. had ruth not been so busy in other directions she would have realized that a plot of some kind was in process of formation, for helen was in it, as well. jennie stone had made a friend of clara mayberry on the floor above. in fact, a number of the girls on the lower corridor affected by the presence of mrs. jaynes, were in and out of clara's room all day long. none of these girls remained long at a time--not more than half an hour; but another visitor always appeared before the first left, right through the day, from breakfast call till "lights out." and after retiring hour there began to be seen figures stealing through the corridors and on the stairway between the two floors. that is, there would have been seen such ghostly marauders had there been anybody to watch. mrs. jaynes crossly complained to mrs. ebbetts that she was kept awake all night long--and all day, for that matter! but as she never put her head out of her room after the lights were lowered in the corridors, she did not discover the soft-footed spectres of the night. "but," she complained to mrs. ebbetts, "it is the noisiest room i ever was in. such a squeaking you never heard! and all the time, day and night." "i do not understand that at all," said the puzzled housekeeper. "i'd like to know how the girl who had that room before i took it, stood that awful squeaking noise," said the visitor. "why, mrs. jaynes," said the housekeeper, "no girl slept there. it was a sitting-room." "even so, i cannot understand how anybody could endure the noise. if i believed in such things i should declare the room was haunted." "indeed, madam!" gasped the housekeeper. "i do not understand it." "well, i cannot endure it. i shall tell my sister that i cannot remain here at ardmore unless she finds me other lodgings. that awful _squeak, squeak, squeak_ continues day and night. it is unbearable." in the end, dr. mccurdy found lodgings for his sister-in-law in greenburg. the girls of ruth's corridor were delighted, and that night held a regular orgy in the recovered sitting-room. "thank goodness!" sighed jennie stone, "no more up and down all night for us, either. we may sleep in peace, as well as occupy the room in peace." "what _do_ you mean, heavy?" demanded ruth. "oh, ruthie! that's one time we put one over on you, dear," said the fleshy girl sweetly. "you were not asked to join in the conspiracy. we feared your known sympathetic nature would revolt." "but explain!" "why, clara let us use her rocking chair," jennie said demurely. "it's a very nice chair. we all rocked in it, one after another, half-hour watches being assigned----" "not at night?" cried the horror-stricken ruth. "oh, yes. all day and all night. every little minute that rocker was going upon the squeaky board. it's a wonder the board is not worn out," chuckled the wicked jennie. "well, i never!" proclaimed ruth, aghast. "what won't you think of next, jennie stone?" "i don't know. i know i'm awfully smart," sighed jennie. "i did so much of the rocking myself, however, that i don't much care if i never see a rocking-chair again." chapter xx two surprises ruth fielding knew that rebecca frayne was painfully embarrassed for money. she managed to find the wherewithal for her board, and her textbooks of course had been paid for at the beginning of the college year. but there are always incidentals and unforeseen small expenses, which crop up in a most unexpected manner and clamor for payment. rebecca never opened her lips about these troubles, despite the fact that she loved ruth and was much with the girl of the red mill. but ruth was keen-eyed. she knew that rebecca suffered for articles of clothing. she saw that her raiment was becoming very, very shabby. the girl in this trouble was foolish, of course. but foolishness is a disease not so easily cured. there was not the slightest chance of giving rebecca anything that she needed; ruth knew that quite well. her finery--and cheap enough it was--the girl would flaunt to the bitter end. deep down she was a good girl in every respect; but she did put on airs and ape the wealthy girls she saw. what garments she owned had been ultra-fashionable in cut, if poor in texture, when she had come to college. but fashions change so frequently nowadays that already poor rebecca frayne was behind the styles--and she knew it and grieved bitterly. most of her mates at dare hall, the freshmen especially, usually dressed in short cloth skirts and middy blouses, with a warm coat over all in cold weather. would rebecca be caught going to classes in such an outfit? not much! that was why her better clothes wore out so quickly and now looked so shabby. jennie stone said, with disgust, and with more than a little truth, perhaps: "that girl primps to go to recitations just as though she were bound for a party. i don't see how she finds time for study." ruth realized that rebecca was made that way, and that was all there was to it. she wasted no strength, nor did she run the risk of being bad friends with the unwise girl, by criticising these silly things. ruth believed in being helpful, or else keeping still. rebecca could never be induced to try to do the things that other poor girls did at college to help pay their expenses. perhaps she was not really fitted for such services, and would only have failed. other girls acted as waitresses, did sewing, one looked after the linen for one of the dormitories, another darned hose and repaired lingerie. dr. frances milroth's own personal secretary was a junior who was working her way through ardmore and was taking a high mark, too, in her studies. one girl helped mrs. leidenburg with her children during several hours of each day. some girls were agents for articles which their college mates were glad to secure easily and quickly. indeed, the field of endeavor seemed rather well covered, and it would have been hard to discover anything new for rebecca frayne to do, had the girl even been willing to "go into trade," a thing rebecca had told ruth a frayne had never done. this attitude of the frayne family seemed quite ridiculous to ruth, but she knew it was absolutely useless to scold rebecca. indeed, it was not ruth fielding's way to be a scold. if she could not be helpful she preferred to ignore that which she saw was wrong. and in rebecca frayne's case she was determined to be helpful if she could. rebecca was a bright scholar. after all, she would shine in her class before all was said and done. they could not afford to lose such a really bright girl from among the freshmen. often on stormy days ruth spent the time between recitations and dinner in rebecca's room. "i never saw anybody so fond of old papers as you are, ruthie," rebecca said. "do take 'em all if you like. of course, i'll never be silly enough to carry them back home with me. they are only useful to help build the fire." "don't dare destroy one of them, rebecca frayne!" ruth had warned her--and actually made her promise that she would not do so. then the replies to ruth's letters came. she had gone all through the bundles of papers by this time, arranged them according to their dates of issue, and wrapped the different years' issues in strong paper. rebecca could not see for the life of her, she said, what ruth was about. "surely they can't be worth much as old paper, ruthie. i know you are a regular little business woman; but junk men aren't allowed on the college grounds." "expressmen are, my dear," laughed ruth. "what do you mean? what _are_ you going to do with those papers?" "you said you didn't care----" "and i don't. they are yours to do with as you please," said the generous rebecca frayne. "to punish you," ruth said seriously, "i ought really to take you at your word," and she shook her head. "what meanest thou, my fair young lady?" asked rebecca, laughing. "read this," commanded ruth, handing her, with the air of the stage hero "producing the papers," one of the letters she had received. "cast your glance over this, miss frayne." the other received the letter curiously, and read it with dawning surprise. she read it twice and then gazed at ruth with almost speechless amazement. "well! what do you think of your aunt ruth _now_?" demanded the girl of the red mill, laughing. "it--it can't be _so_, ruthie!" murmured rebecca frayne, the hand which held the letter fairly shaking. "it's just as _so_ as it can be," and ruth continued to laugh. the tears suddenly flooded into rebecca's eyes. she could not turn quickly enough to hide them from ruth's keen vision. but all she said was: "well, ruthie! i congratulate you. think of it! two hundred dollars offered for each set of those old papers. well!" "you see, it would scarcely have been wise to have built the fire with them," ruth said drily. "i--i should say not. and--and they have lain in our attic for years." "and you brought them to college as waste paper," ruth added. rebecca was silent. ruth, smiling roguishly, stole up behind her. suddenly she put both arms around rebecca frayne and hugged her tight. "becky! don't you understand?" she cried. "understand what?" rebecca asked gruffly, trying to dash away her few tears. "why, honey, i did it for _you_. i believed the papers must be worth something. i had heard of a set of new york illustrated papers for the years of the civil war selling for a big price. these, i believed, must be even more interesting to collectors of such things. "so i wrote to mr. cameron, and he sent me the names of old book dealers, and _they_ sent me the addresses of several collectors. this mr. radley has a regular museum of such things, and he offers the best price--four hundred dollars for the lot if they prove to be as perfect as i said they were. and they _are_." "yes--but----" "and, of course, the money is yours, rebecca," said ruth, promptly. "you don't for a moment suppose that i would take your valuable papers and cheat you out of the reward just because i happened to know more about their worth than you did? what do you take me for?" "oh--oh, ruthie!" "what do you take me for?" again demanded ruth fielding, quite as though she were offended. "for the best and dearest girl who ever lived!" cried rebecca frayne, and cast herself upon ruth's breast, holding her tightly while she sobbed there. this was one surprise. but there was another later, and this was a surprise for ruth herself. she was very glad to have been the means of finding rebecca such a nice little fortune as this that came to her for the old periodicals. with what the girl's brother could send her, rebecca would be pretty sure of sufficient money to carry her through her freshman year and pay for her second year's tuition at ardmore. "something may be found then for rebecca to do," thought ruth, "that will not so greatly shock her notions of gentility. dear me! she's as nice a girl as ever lived; but she is a problem." ruth had other problems, however, on her mind. one of these brought about the personal surprise mentioned above. she had found time finally to complete the scenario of "crossed wires," and after some changes had been made in it, mr. hammond had informed her that it would be put in the hands of a director for production. it called for so many outdoor scenes, however, that the new film would not be made until spring. spring was now fast approaching, and ruth determined to be at the red mill on a visit when the first scenes were taken for her photo-drama. of course, if she went, helen must go. they stood excellently well in all their classes, and it was not hard to persuade dr. milroth, who had good reports of both freshmen, to let them go to cheslow. ruth's coming home was in the nature of a surprise to uncle jabez and aunt alvirah. the old housekeeper was outspoken in her joy at seeing "her pretty" once more. uncle jabez was startled into perhaps a warmer greeting of his niece than he ordinarily considered advisable. "i declare for't, ruth! ain't nothin' the matter, is there?" he asked, holding her hand and staring into her face with serious intent. "oh, no, uncle. nothing at all the matter. just ran home to see how you all were, and to watch them take the pictures of the old mill." "ain't lost any of that money, have ye?" persisted the miller. "not a penny. and mr. hammond sent me a nice check on account of royalties, too," and she dimpled and laughed at him. "all right," grunted uncle jabez. "ye wanter watch out for that there money. business is onsartain. ain't no knowin' when everything'll go to pot _here_. i never see the times so hard." but ruth was not much disturbed by such talk. uncle jabez had been prophesying disaster ever since she had known him. maggie welcomed ruth cordially, as well as ben. maggie was still the puzzling combination of characteristics that she had seemed to ruth from the first. she was willing to work, and was kind to aunt alvirah; but she always withdrew into herself if anybody tried to talk much to her. the others at the red mill had become used to the girl's reticence; but to ruth it remained just as tantalizing. she had the feeling that maggie was by no means in her right environment. "doesn't she ever write letters?" ruth asked aunt alvirah. "doesn't she ever have a visitor?" "why, bless ye, my pretty! i don't know as she writes much," aunt alvirah said, as she moved about the kitchen in her old slow fashion. "oh, my back! and oh, my bones! well ruthie, she reads a lot. she's all for books, i guess, like you be. but she don't never talk much. and a visitor? why, come to think on't, she did have one visitor." "is that so?" cried the curious ruth. "let's hear about it. i feel gossipy, aunt alvirah," and she laughed. she knew that maggie was away from the house, and they were alone. she could trust aunt alvirah to say nothing to the girl regarding her queries. "yes, my pretty," the old woman said, "she did have one visitor. another gal come to see her the very week you went away to college, ruthie." "is that so? who was she?" "maggie didn't say. i didn't ask her. ye see, she ain't one ter confide in a body," explained aunt alvirah, shaking her head and lowering herself into her rocking chair. "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" "but didn't you see this visitor?" "why, yes, ruthie. i seen her. it was funny, too," aunt alvirah said, shaking her head. "i meant to write to you about it; then i forgot. "i hears somebody knock on the door one day, and i opened the door and there i declare stood maggie herself. or, i thought 'twas her." "what?" gasped ruth, very much interested. "she looked a sight like her," said aunt alvirah, laughing to herself at the remembrance. "yet i knowed maggie had gone upstairs to make the beds, and this here girl who had knocked on the door was all dressed up." "'why, maggie!' says i. and she says, kinder tart-like: "'i ain't maggie. but i want to see her.' "so i axed her in; but she wouldn't come. i seen then maybe she was a little younger than maggie is. howsomever i called to maggie, and she went out, and the two of 'em walked up and down the road for an hour. the other gal never come in. and i seen her start back toward cheslow. maggie never said no word about her from that day to this. "do you know what i think about it, ruthie?" concluded aunt alvirah. "no, aunt alvirah," said the girl of the red mill, reflectively. "i think that was maggie's sister. maybe she works out for somebody in cheslow." ruth merely nodded. she did not think much of that phase of the matter. what she was really puzzling over was her memory of the girl she and helen had interviewed on the island in lake remona before the christmas holidays. that girl had looked very much like maggie, too! chapter xxi many things happen it was, of course, hard to tell by merely seeing them taken what the pictures about the old red mill would be like; but ruth and helen both acted in them as "extras" and were greatly excited over the film, one may be sure. the director, not the cross mr. grimes this time, assured ruth that he was confident "crossed wires" would make good on the screen. hazel gray played the lead in the picture, as she had in "the heart of a school girl," and ruth and helen were glad to meet the bright little screen actress again. miss gray seemed to have forgotten all about tom cameron and ruth, for some reason, felt glad. she ventured to ask helen if her twin was still as enamored of the young actress as he had seemed to be the year before. "why, no," helen said thoughtfully. "you know how it is with boys; they have one craze after another, ruthie." "no. do they?" asked the other. "yes. tom made a collection of the photographs of a slap-stick comedian at first. then he decorated his room at seven oaks with all the pictures he could find of miss gray. now, when i was over there with father the other day, what do you suppose is his chief decoration on his room walls?" "i haven't the least idea," ruth confessed. "great, ugly, brutal boxers! prize-fighters! awful pictures, ruth! i suppose next he will make a collection of the photographs of burglars!" and helen laughed. the chums were whisked back to ardmore, having been absent five days. they were so well prepared in their recitations, however, that they did not fall behind in any particular. indeed, these two bright-minded girls found it not difficult to keep up with their classes. even jennie stone, leisure loving as she naturally was, had no real difficulty in being well to the front in her studies. and she had become one of the most faithful of devotees of gymnastic practice. ardmore's second basket ball five pushed the first team hard; and jennie stone was on the second five. as the spring training for the boats opened she, as well as ruth and helen, tried for the freshmen eight-oared shell. all three won places in that crew. jennie was still somewhat over-weight. but the instructor put her at bow and her weight counted there. ruth was stroke and helen number . as practice went on it was proved that the freshman crew was a very well balanced one. they more than once "bumped" the sophomore shell in trial races, and once came very near to catching the junior eight. the seniors and juniors began now to pay more attention to the freshman class; especially to those members who showed well in athletics. because of their characters and their class standing, several of the instructors besides miss cullam, the mathematics teacher, were the friends of the briarwoods. miss cullam had shown a warm appreciation of ruth fielding's character all through the year. not that ruth was a prize pupil in miss cullam's study, for she was not. mathematics was the one study it was hard for ruth to interest herself in. but when the girl of the red mill had a hard thing to do, she always put her whole mind to it; and, therefore, she made a good mark in mathematics in spite of her distaste for the study. "you are doing well, miss fielding," miss cullam declared. "better than i expected. i have no doubt that you will pass well in the year's examinations." "and you won't be afraid that i'll crib the answers, miss cullam?" ruth asked, laughing. "hush! don't repeat gossip," miss cullam said smiling, however, rather ruefully. "even when the gossip emanates from an old cross-patch of a teacher who gets nervous and worries about improbabilities. no. i do not believe any of my girls would take advantage of the examination papers. yet, i would give a good deal to know just where those papers and that vase went." "has nothing ever been heard from miss rolff since she left ardmore?" ruth asked. "no. not a word. and it is hard on the sororities, too. heretofore, the girls have enjoyed the benefits of the associations for three years. _you_, i am sure, ruth, would have been invited by this time to join one of the sororities." "and i should dearly love to," sighed ruth. "the kappa alpha. it looks good to me. but there are other things in college--and out of it, too. oh see, miss cullam! here is what i wanted to show you," and the girl of the red mill brought forth a large envelope from her handbag. they were talking together in the library on this occasion, it being a saturday afternoon when there was nothing particular to take up either the teacher's time or the pupil's. ruth emptied the envelope on the table. "see these photographs? they are stills taken in connection with my new scenario. i want you to see just how lovely a place the old red mill, where i live, is." miss cullam adjusted her eyeglasses with a smile, and picked up the topmost picture which mr. hammond had sent to ruth. "that's dear old aunt alvirah herself feeding the chickens. she doesn't know that we took that picture of her. if i had said 'photograph' to the dear old creature, she would have been determined to put on her best bib and tucker!" "that's the back yard. isn't it, dear? who is that on the porch?" asked miss cullam. "on the porch? why, _is_ anybody on the porch? i don't remember that." ruth stooped to peer closer at the unmounted photograph in the teacher's hand. "why! there _is_ somebody standing there," she murmured. "you can see the head and shoulders just as plain----" "and the face," said miss cullam, with strange eagerness. "oh, i know!" cried ruth, and she laughed heartily. "of course. that's maggie." "maggie?" "yes. the girl who helps aunt alvirah. and she's quite an interesting character, miss cullam. i'll tell you about her some day." "yes?" said miss cullam, reflectively. "now, here is the front of the old house----" "allow me to keep this picture for a little while, will you, miss fielding?" broke in the teacher, still staring at the clearly exposed face of maggie on the porch. "why, yes, certainly," responded the girl, curiously. "i wish to show this girl's face to somebody else. she seems very familiar to me," the mathematics teacher said. chapter xxii can it be a clue? ruth gave the matter of maggie's photograph very little thought. not at that time, at least. she merely handed the print over to miss cullam and forgot all about it. these were busy days, both in the classroom and out of it. the warmth of late spring was in the air; every girl who felt at all the blood coursing in her veins, tried to be out of doors. the whole college was eager regarding the coming boat races. ardmore was to try out her first eight-oared crew with three of several colleges, and two of the trials would be held upon lake remona. there were local races between the class crews every saturday afternoon. jennie stone had to choose between basket ball and rowing, for there were saturdays when both sports were in ascendency. "no use. i can't be in two places at once," declared jennie, regretfully resigning from the basketball team. "no, honey," said helen. "you're not big enough for that now. a few months ago you might have played basket ball and sent your shadow to pull an oar with us. see what it means to get thin." "my! i feel like another girl," said the fleshy one ecstatically. "what do you suppose my father will say to me in june?" "he'll say," suggested helen, giggling, "'you took so much away, why do you bring so little back from college?'" it was several days before miss cullam returned to ruth the picture she had borrowed; and when she did she made a statement regarding it that very much astonished the girl of the red mill. "i will tell you now, my dear; why i wished to keep the photograph," the teacher said. "i showed it to dr. milroth and to several of the other members of the faculty." "indeed?" responded ruth, quite puzzled. "some of them agree with me. dr. milroth does not. nevertheless, i wish you would tell me all about this maggie who works for your aunt----" "maggie!" gasped ruth. "what do you mean, miss cullam? was it because her face is in the picture that you borrowed it?" "yes, my dear. i think, as do some of the other instructors, that maggie looks very much like the miss rolff who last year occupied the room you have and who left us so strangely before the close of the semester." "oh, miss cullam!" "foolish, am i?" laughed the teacher. "well, i suppose so. you know all about maggie, do you?" "no!" gasped ruth. eagerly she explained to the mathematics teacher how the strange girl had appeared at the red mill and why she had remained there. miss cullam was no less excited than ruth when she heard these particulars. "i must tell dr. milroth this," miss cullam declared. "say nothing about it, ruth fielding. and she says her name is 'maggie'? of course! margaret rolff. i believe that is who she is." "but to go out to housework," ruth said doubtfully. "that doesn't matter. we must learn more about this maggie. say nothing until i have spoken to dr. milroth again." but if this was a clue to the identity and where-abouts of the girl who had left ardmore so abruptly the year before, ruth learned something the very next day that, unfortunately, put it quite beyond her ability to discover further details in the matter. a letter arrived from aunt alvirah and after reading it once through ruth hurried away to miss cullam with the surprising news it contained. maggie had left the red mill. without any explanation save that she had been sent for and must go, the strange girl had left aunt alvirah and uncle jabez, and they did not know her destination. ben, the hired man, had driven her to the cheslow railway station and she had taken an eastbound train. otherwise, nothing was known of the strange girl's movements. "oh, my dear!" cried miss cullam. "i am certain, then, that she is margaret rolff. even dr. milroth has come to agree that it may be that strange girl. i hoped there was a chance of learning what really became of those missing examination papers--and, of course, the vase. but how can we discover what became of them if the girl has disappeared again?" "well, it's a very strange thing, i am sure," ruth admitted. "of course, i'll write the folks at the red mill that if maggie--or whatever her real name is--ever turns up there again, they must let me know at once." "yes, do," begged the teacher. "now that the subject has come up again i feel more disturbed than ever over those papers. _were_ they lost, or weren't they? my dear ruth! you don't know how i feel about that mystery. all these girls whom i think so highly of, are still under suspicion." "i hope nothing like that will happen this year, dear miss cullam," ruth said warmly. "i feel that we freshmen all want to pass our examinations honestly--or not at all." "that is exactly what i believe about the other girls," groaned the teacher. "but the sorority members admit that margaret rolff was instructed to remove the egyptian vase from the library as a part of the stunt she was expected to do during the initiation ceremonies. "and in that vase were my papers. of course, the girls did not know the examination papers were there before the vase was taken. _but what became of them afterward?_" "why, miss cullam," ruth said thoughtfully, "of course they must still be in the vase." "perhaps. then, perhaps not," murmured the teacher. "who knows?" chapter xxiii the squall the first college eight went off to gillings, and, as it was only a few miles by rail, half the student body, at least, went to root for the crew. the ardmore boat was beaten. "oh, dear! to come home plucked in such a disgusting way," groaned helen, who, with jennie, as well as ruth, was among the disgruntled and disappointed girls who had gone to see the race. "it is awful." "it's taught them a lesson, i wager," ruth said practically. "we have all been rowing in still water. the river at gillings is rough, and the local eight was used to it. i say, girls!" "say it," said jennie, gruffly. "it can't be anything that will hurt us after what we've seen to-day. three whole boatlengths ahead!" "never mind," broke in helen. "the races with hampton and beardsley will be on our own lake." "and if there is a flutter of wind, our first eight will be beaten again," from jennie stone. "no, no, girls!" ruth cried. "i heard the coach tell them that hereafter she was going to make them row if there was a hurricane. and that's what _we_ must do." "_who_ must do, ruthie? what do you mean?" asked helen. "the freshman eight." "e-lu-ci-date," drawled jennie. "we must learn to handle our shell in rough water. if there is a breath of wind stirring we mustn't beat it to land," said ruth, vigorously. "let's learn to handle our shell in really rough water." "sounds reasonable," admitted jennie. "shall we all take out accident policies?" "no. all learn to swim. that's the wisest course," laughed ruth. "ain't it the _trewth_?" agreed jennie, making a face. "i'm not much of a swimmest in fresh water. but i never could sink." the freshmen with the chums in the eight-oared shell proved to be all fair swimmers. and that crew was not the only one that redoubled its practice after the disastrous race at gillings college. each class crew did its very best. the coaches were extremely stern with the girls. ardmore had a reputation for turning out champion crews, and the year before, on their own water, the ardmore eight had beaten gillings emphatically. "but if we can win races only on our own course," _the jasper_, the ardmore college paper declared, "what is the use of supporting an athletic association and four perfectly useless crews?" they had all been so sure of victory over gillings--both the student body and the faculty--that the disgrace of their beating cut all the deeper. "it is fortunate," said the same stern commenter, "that our races with hampton, and again with beardsley, will be on lake remona. at least, our crew knows the water here--on a perfectly calm day, at any rate." "i see merry dexter's fine italian hand in _that_," ruth declared, when she and her chums read the criticism of the chief college eight. "and if it is true of the senior shell, how much more so of our own? we must be ready to risk a little something for the sake of pulling a good race." "goodness!" murmured helen. "when we're away off there in the middle of the course between the landing and bliss island, for instance, and a squall threatens, it is going to take pluck, my dear, to keep us all steady." "i tell you what!" exclaimed jennie stone. "tell it, if you're sure it won't hurt us," laughed helen. "let's get the coach to have us circle the island when we're out in practice. it's always a little rough off both ends of bliss island, and we should get used to rough water before our final home races." for, before the season was over, the four ardmore eights would compete, and that race was the one which the three under-classes particularly trained for. jennie's suggestion sounded practical to her chums; so there were three already agreed when it was broached to the freshmen eight. the coach thought well of it, too; for there was always a motor boat supposed to be in sight of the shells when they were out at practice. this was in april, and, in ardmore's latitude, a very uncertain month april is--a time of showers and smiles, calms and uncertain gales. nevertheless, so thoroughly were the freshmen eight devoted to practice that it had to be a pretty black looking afternoon, indeed, that kept them from stepping into their boat. the boatkeeper was a weather-wise old man, who had guarded the ardmore girls against disaster on the lake for a decade. being so well used to reading the signs he never let the boats out when he considered the weather threatening in any measure. one afternoon, when there had been a call passed for the freshmen eight to gather at the boathouse immediately after recitations, johnnie, as the boatman was called, had been called away from his post. only a green assistant was there to look after the boats, and he was much too bashful to "look after the girls," as jennie, giggling, observed. "i don't see why they don't put blinders on that young man," she said. "whenever he has to look at one of us girls his freckles light up as though there was an electric bulb behind each individual one." "oh, heavy! behave!" murmured helen, yet amused, too, by the bashfulness of the assistant. "we _are_ a sight, i admit," went on jennie. "everything in the shell, girls? now! up with it. come on, little trix," she added to the coxswain. "don't get your tiller-lines snarled, and bring your 'nose-warmer'"--by which inelegant term she referred to the megaphone which, when they were really trying for speed was strapped to the coxswain's head. the eight oarswomen picked the light shell up, shoulder high, and marched down the platform to the float. taking their cue from the tam-o'-shanters the seniors had made them wear early in their college experience, the freshmen eight wore light blue bandannas wound around their heads, with the corners sticking up like rabbit-ears, blue blouses, short skirts over bloomers, and blue stockings with white shoes. their appearance was exceedingly natty. "if we don't win in the races, we'll be worth looking at," helen once said pridefully. the assistant boatkeeper remained at a distance and said not a word to them, although there was a bank of black cloud upon the western horizon into which the sun would plunge after a time. "we're the first out," cried one of the girls. "there isn't another boat on the lake." "wrong, sally," ruth fielding said. "i just saw a boat disappear behind bliss island." "not one of _ours_?" cried jennie, looking about as they lowered the shell into the water. "no. it was a skiff. came from the other side, i guess. or perhaps it came up the river from the railroad bridge." "now," said trix davenport, the coxswain, "are we going to ask that boy to get out the launch and follow us?" "oh, goodness me! no," said helen, with assurance. "we don't want him tagging us. do we, girls?" "perhaps it might be better," ruth said slowly. but the chorus of the other girls cried her down. besides, she did not believe there was any danger. of course, a rowing shell is an uncertain thing; but she had never yet seen an accident on the lake. all stepped in, adjusted their oars, and the coxswain pushed off. having adjusted the rudder-lines, trix affixed the megaphone, and lifted her hand. the eight strained forward, and the coxswain began to beat time. ruth set the pace in a long, swinging stroke, and the other seven fell into time. the shell shot out from the landing just as the coach appeared around the corner of dare hall, on her way down from the gymnasium. she gave one glance at the sky, and then started to run. "those foolish girls!" she exclaimed. "where's johnny?" the freshman eight was far out upon the lake when she reached the boathouse, and she quickly saw that the old boatkeeper was not in sight. she tried to signal the crew of the shell to return; but the girls in the frail craft were too interested in their practice to look back toward the shore. indeed, in a very few minutes, they swept through the slightly rough water at the eastern end of the island and disappeared behind it. the coach, miss mallory, beckoned the assistant boatman and ordered out the launch. but there was something wrong with the engine, and he lost some time before getting the craft started. meanwhile, the cloudbank was rolling up from the west. the sun suddenly was quenched. a breath of cold wind swept down the lake and fretted the tiny waves. they sprang up in retaliation and slapped the bow of the launch, which finally got under its sputtering way. then a squall of wind swooped down and miss mallory was almost swept off her feet. the boatman steered carefully, but the engine was not yet working in good fashion. the coach made a mistake, too, in directing the launch. instead of starting directly up the lake, and rounding the head of the island to meet the freshman shell, she ordered the boatman to trail the boat that had disappeared. the launch was some time in beating around the lower end of the island. chapter xxiv treasure hunting the freshmen shell was well around the end of bliss island and behind it, before the squall broke. pulling into the rising gale as they were and the water being always a little rough here, at first none of ruth fielding's associates in the craft realized that there was the least danger. they were well off shore, for near the island the water was shallow and there were rocks. these rowing shells are made so lightly that a mere scraping of the keel over a sunken boulder would probably completely wreck the craft, and well the girls knew this. trix davenport steered well out from the dangerous shallows. "pull away, girls!" she shouted through her megaphone. "it's going to blow." and just then the real squall swept down upon them. ruth, although setting a good, long stroke, found of a sudden that the shell was scarcely moving ahead. the wind was so strong that they were only holding their own against it. "pull!" shouted the coxswain again. ruth bent forward, braced her feet firmly and drove the long oar-blade deep into the jumping little waves. those waves quickly became larger and "jumpier." a white wreath formed upon their crests. the shell in a very few seconds was in the midst of white water. once with uncle jabez, and in a heavy punt, the girl of the red mill had been caught in the rapids of the lumano below the mill, and had fought with skill and courage to help save the boat. this effort was soon to be as great--and she realized it. she set a pace that drove the shell on in the teeth of the squall; but the boat shivered with every stroke. it was as though they were trying to push the narrow, frail little shell into a solid wall. in pulling her oar ruth scarcely ever raised her eyes to a level with the coxswain's face; but when she chanced to, she saw that trix was pallid and her eyes were clouded with fear. ruth hoped none of the other girls saw that mask of dread which the situation had forced upon their little coxswain. she wanted to cry out to trix--to warn her to hide her emotion. but she had no breath to spare for this. every ounce of breath and of muscle she owned, ruth put into her stroke. she felt the rhythmic spring of the craft, and knew that her mates were keeping well up with her. they were doing their part bravely, even though they might be frightened. and then, suddenly and fortunately, the freshman craft found a sheltered bit of water. a high shoulder of the hilly island broke the force of the wind. "ashore! put us ashore!" ruth managed to gasp so that trix heard her. "we--we'll wreck the shell!" complained trix. "it's so shallow." "we'll not drown in shallow water," ejaculated ruth, expelling the words between strokes. the coxswain shot them shoreward. she caught a glimpse of another boat pulled up on the beach--the skiff they had earlier seen rounding the point of the island. in thirty seconds they were safe. the rain began to pour down upon them in a brisk torrent. but that did not matter. "rather be half drowned in the rain than wholly drowned in the lake!" jennie stone declared, as they scrambled out into the shallow water, more than ankle deep, and lifted the treacherous shell out of the lake. "goodness! what a near one that was!" helen declared. ruth looked at the skiff drawn up on the shore, and then up into the grove of trees. "i wonder where the girl is who was in that boat?" she said. "was it a girl?" asked helen, with interest. "yes. she must have found shelter somewhere from this rain. come on! we may be able to keep reasonably dry up there in the woods." the other girls followed ruth, for she was naturally their leader. the rain continued to beat down upon them; but before they reached the opening in which was situated the stone face, ruth spied an evergreen, the drooping branches of which offered them reasonable shelter. "come on into the green tent, girls!" shouted jennie stone, plunging into the dimly lighted circle under the tree. "oh! goodness! what's that?" "a dog!" "a cow! and i'm afraid of co-o-ows!" wailed sally blanchard, seizing upon ruth as the nearest savior. "don't be silly, child," vouchsafed helen, who had followed jennie. "how would a cow come upon this island--a mile from shore?" "or a dog?" laughed ruth. "what _did_ you see, jennie stone?" "she just tried to fool us," helen declared. "didn't either," the stout girl said warmly. "something ran out at the far side as i came in." "an animal?" gasped trix davenport. "well," returned jennie stone, "it certainly wasn't a vegetable. at least, i never saw a vegetable run as fast as that thing did." "you needn't try to scare us to death, heavy," complained helen. "of course it must have been the girl ruth said came ashore in that skiff." "well, i didn't think of her," admitted jennie. "but she ran like a ferret. i'd like to know who she is." "remember the girl we found over here that night in the snowstorm?" whispered helen to ruth. "the girl who looked like that maggie?" "oh, don't i!" exclaimed ruth, shaking her head. "what do you suppose _she_ was after--and what is this one over here on the island for?" pursued helen, languidly. ruth made no reply, but her cheeks flushed and her eyes grew brighter. she stooped and peered out at the decreasing rainfall. there was a path leading straight toward the stone face. had this girl whom jennie had seen gone in that direction? the other members of the freshman crew were so inordinately busy chattering and laughing and telling jokes and stories that nobody for the moment noticed ruth fielding, who stole out from the covert through the fast slackening rainfall without saying a word. lightly running over the crest of the hill, she came in sight of the huge boulder at which she and helen had experienced their never-to-be-forgotten adventure the winter before. she saw nobody at the foot of the boulder, but she pressed on to the edge of the grove to make sure. and then she saw that somebody had certainly and very recently been at work near the boulder. there was a pickaxe--perhaps the very one she had seen there in the winter--and a shovel. some attempt had been made to dig over the gravelly soil for some yards from the foot of the boulder. "goodness me! what can this mean?" thought the girl of the red mill. "something must be buried here! treasure hunters! fancy!" and she laughed a little uncertainly. "can somebody believe that this is one of the hiding places of captain kidd's gold? who ever heard the like?" the rain ceased falling. there was a tooting of a horn down behind the island. the launch had come in sight of the shell and miss mallory was trying to signal the girls to return to the shore. but ruth did not go back. she heard the girls shout for her, but instead of complying she went straight across to the stone face and picked up the heavy pickaxe. "i don't believe whoever has been digging has found anything yet," she told herself. "no. she's been here before--for, of course, it is that girl. she couldn't have dug all this over in a few minutes. no. she has been here and dug unsuccessfully. then she has come back to-day for another attempt at--at the treasure, shall we call it? well!" there was already an excavation more than a foot in depth and several yards in circumference. whatever it was the strange girl had been after she was not quite sure of its burial place. in the winter when she had essayed to dig for the hidden thing there had been too much frost in the ground. besides, doubtless ruth and helen's inquisitiveness had frightened the strange girl away. now she was back again--somewhere now on bliss island. she had not accomplished her purpose as yet. ruth smote the hard ground at her feet with all her strength. the pick sunk to its helve in the earth, now softened by the spring rain. "oh! i hit something!" she gasped. in all probability she would not have continued to dig had this success not met her at the beginning. really, her swinging of the pickaxe had been idly done. but the steel rang sharply on something. she raised the pick and used it thereafter more cautiously. there certainly was something below the surface--not very far down---- dropping the pickaxe, ruth gained possession of the shovel and threw aside the loose earth. yes! there was some object hidden there--some "treasure" which she desired to see. in a few moments, becoming impatient of the shovel, she cast it aside and stooping, with her feet planted firmly in the muddy earth, she groped in the hole with both hands. before she dragged the object into sight ruth fielding was positive by its shape and the feel of it, of the nature of the object. as she rose up at last, firmly grasping the object, a sharp voice said behind her: "well, now that you've interfered and found it, suppose you hand it over to me. you haven't any business with that vase, you know!" chapter xxv the end of a perfect year helen cameron came running over the hill and down the sloppy path through the grove. when she reached the stone face where ruth and the strange girl were standing, she cried: "what _is_ the matter with you, ruthie fielding? come on over to the boat. miss mallory sent me after you.... why! who's this?" "don't you remember this girl, helen?" asked ruth, seriously. "why! it's the girl who was camping in the snow, isn't it?" said helen, curiously eyeing the stranger. "how-do?" but the other was not pleased to allow the situation to develop into merely a well-bred meeting of three former acquaintances. she did not vouchsafe helen a glance, but said, directing her words toward ruth: "i want that vase. it doesn't belong to you." "goodness, ruthie!" put in her chum, for the first time seeing the object in ruth's hands. "what is that thing?" "i just dug it up here. it is the egyptian vase taken from the ardmore library last year i believe." "it doesn't matter where it came from. i want it," cried the strange girl, and she stepped forward quickly as though to seize the muddy vase. but helen sprang forward and pushed her back. "hold on! i guess if ruth's got it, you'll have to wait and prove property," said helen. "how about it, ruth?" "she must tell us all about it," said ruth, firmly. "perhaps i may let her have it--if she tells us the truth." "the truth!" exclaimed helen. "i won't tell you a thing!" cried the strange girl. "you haven't any right to that vase." "nor have you," ruth told her. "well----" "nor has margaret rolff," went on ruth, coolly. "i take it you are acting for her, aren't you?" "why," cried helen, beginning to understand. "that is the girl who left ardmore last year?" "and came to the red mill after spending the summer at a camp on the lumano and helped aunt alvirah," ruth added, with a smile. "well, i never! not maggie?" demanded helen. "i think i am right," ruth said quietly. "am i not?" to the other girl. "our maggie is margaret rolff, and _you_ must be her sister. at least, you look enough like her to be some relative." the other made a gesture of resignation and dropped her hands. "i might as well confess it," she admitted. "you are ruth fielding, and margy told me long ago you might be trusted." "and this is my particular friend, helen cameron," ruth said, "who is to be fully trusted, too." "i suppose so," said the girl. "my name is betty. i'm margy's younger sister. poor margy. she never was very strong. i mean that she was always giving in to other people--was easily confused. "she's bright enough, you know," pursued the other girl, warmly; "but she is nervous and easily put out. what those girls did to her last year at this college was a shame!" another hail from behind the hill warned ruth that she must attend miss mallory's command or there would be trouble. "we cannot wait to hear it all, miss--betty, did you say your name was? where are you staying?" "i have been working in greenburg all winter. we're poor girls and have no parents. margy is with me now," said the girl. "and i want that vase. i want it for margy. she will never be satisfied until she can give it back to the dean of the college herself and explain how she came to hide it, and then forgot where she hid the vase." "tell me where to find you in greenburg," said ruth, hastily. "no! i'll not let you have the vase now. i will not show it to anybody else, however, and we'll come over to town this evening and bring it with us, and talk with maggie." "oh, miss fielding----" "that must satisfy you," said ruth, firmly; and betty rolff had to be satisfied with this promise. she told the chums where she and margaret were staying and then ruth and helen ran back to their friends, ruth concealing the hastily wiped silver vase under the loose front of her blouse. "goodness!" she said to helen, "i hope nobody will see it. do i bulge _much_?" there was so much excitement among the crew of the freshman eight, however, that ruth's treasure-trove was not discovered. under miss mallory's direction they launched the shell again, climbed aboard, and made a safe passage to the dock. a notice was put up that very evening, however, to the effect that none of the racing shells were to be taken out unless the launch was manned and went with the frailer craft. the students of ardmore were allowed to leave the college grounds in the evening if they were properly chaperoned. and when ruth went to miss cullam and explained a little of what was afoot, the mathematics instructor was only too glad to act in the capacity of chaperon. helen had telephoned for a car, and the three rode down to greenburg immediately after dinner. ruth carried the recovered vase, just as she had dug it out of the hole by the stone face on bliss island, wrapped in a paper. she had not had time either to clean it or to examine it more thoroughly. they easily found the boarding house, the address of which betty rolff had given to ruth. it was a respectable place, but was far from sumptuous. it was evident, as ruth had been previously informed, that the rolff girls were not very well off in this world's goods. when the visitors climbed to the second floor bedroom where the sisters were lodged, miss cullam took the lead, walked straight in, seized margaret rolff in her arms and implanted a kiss upon the pale cheek of the girl who had for so many months been aunt alvirah's assistant at the red mill. "you poor girl!" said the mathematics teacher. "what you must have been through! now, i am delighted to see you again, and you must tell me all about it--how you came to take the vase, and bury it, and all." there was a good deal of talk on both sides before all this that miss cullam asked was explained. but the facts were made clear at last. in the first place, margaret rolff had always been very much afraid of the dark and of being alone at night. but she wanted so much to become a member of the kappa alpha that she did not try to cry off when she received her instructions as a candidate for membership in that sorority. the first part of her initiation test was easy enough. she secured the egyptian vase from the reception room of the library without being apprehended. then she was rowed across the lake to the island by several black-robed and hooded figures whom she did not know. left with a flashlight and a spade to bury the stolen vase within a short distance of the stone face, margaret had tried her best to control her nerves and do as she was commanded. but she could never really remember whether she had buried the vase or not. the idea had been for her to bury it, and then another candidate would be made to search for it the next night. everything about the initiation went wrong, however, because margaret lost her nerve. the members of the sorority could not find the place where the candidate had really dug her hole and buried the vase. and margaret had fled in a panic from the college before further inquiry could be made. "all this time," explained the practical sister, betty, "margy has wanted to know if she did bury the vase or not. she felt she had stolen from the college and could be punished for it. i think those girls that set her the task should be punished." "they have been," said miss cullam, grimly. "yet, it was really a misunderstanding all around. now, let me see that vase, ruth fielding." the latter was glad to do this. the teacher opened the package and immediately turned the vase upside down and shook it. there was evidently something inside, and after some work with the handiest of all feminine tools, a hatpin, a soggy mass of paper was dislodged from the egyptian vase. "the missing examination papers, girls!" sighed miss cullam, with much satisfaction. "there, margaret! you may have the vase and return it to dr. milroth to-morrow if you like. and i hope you will return to the college and be with us next year. "i have what _i_ am after and feel more contented in my mind than i have for some months. dear me, girls! you don't at all understand what a number of trials and perplexities are heaped upon the minds of us poor teachers." * * * * * there were many other incidents occurring at ardmore before the end of what helen cameron declared was a "perfect year." but nothing created more interest than the recovery of the egyptian vase with the missing examination papers, unless it was the boat races. though to a few, perhaps, certain plans for the coming summer overtopped even these in importance. these were such a very great secret that the chums scarcely dared discuss them. but those readers who may so desire will read about the happenings that developed from these plans of ruth and her friends in the subsequent volume of the series, entitled, "ruth fielding in the saddle; or, college girls in the land of gold." first of the races was that with the first eight of beardsley; and the crew of ardmore won. then came the trial between ardmore and hampton college, and the former won that as well. ardmore was in high fettle at that. _the jasper_ was quite as enthusiastically complimentary now as it had been critical after the race with gillings, for in winning the race against hampton college, the ardmore crew had been forced to row through very rough water. commencement came in june, and two days before the graduation exercises of the senior class, the local aquatic sports were held. the main incident of this carnival was the race between the class eights. the shells were started at twenty-yard intervals, and in the order of the classes. the freshman eight, in which rowed ruth, helen and jennie, had practised vigorously all these weeks and now they displayed the value of their exertions. within the first quarter they "bumped" the sophomore eight. this crew dropped out of the race immediately and the freshmen spun ahead, ruth setting a wonderfully effective stroke, and little trix davenport swaying her body in time with the motion of the boat and shouting encouragement through her megaphone. on and on crept the freshman eight until there was barely a hand's breadth between the nose of their shell and the stern of the junior craft. the crowd along shore cheered the younger girls vociferously, and although they did not quite "bump" the juniors before crossing the mile line---- "we came so near it there was no fun in it!" declared jennie stone, delightedly. "oh, girls! some of us are going to be great rowists after a few more years at ardmore." "dear me," panted helen, making the last pun of the term. "it should be called _hard_-more. i never worked so hard in my life as i have this first year at college." "but it will never hurt us," laughed ruth, later. "we have got on famously." "_you_ have, my dear," interposed helen. "you stand a, number one in classes. and look at that new play of yours--a big success! money is rolling in on you----" "think a little of yourself," proposed ruth. "don't you consider your time well spent here, my dear chum?" "sure! it _is_ the end of a perfect year," agreed helen. "and think of me--_little_ me!" cried jennie stone, bursting into the chums' study at that moment, and in time to hear the last of the conversation. "do you know what's happened, girls?" "no! what?" demanded the curious helen. "i have lost another pound," said the ex-fat girl, in a sepulchral voice. the end the ruth fielding series by alice b. emerson [illustration] _ mo. illustrated. jacket in full colors. price cents per volume. postage cents additional_. ruth fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. ruth fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. . ruth fielding of the red mill . ruth fielding at briarwood hall . ruth fielding at snow camp . ruth fielding at lighthouse point . ruth fielding at silver ranch . ruth fielding on cliff island . ruth fielding at sunrise farm . ruth fielding and the gypsies . ruth fielding in moving pictures . ruth fielding down in dixie . ruth fielding at college . ruth fielding in the saddle . ruth fielding in the red cross . ruth fielding at the war front . ruth fielding homeward bound . ruth fielding down east . ruth fielding in the great northwest . ruth fielding on the st. lawrence . ruth fielding treasure hunting . ruth fielding in the far north . ruth fielding at golden pass . ruth fielding in alaska . ruth fielding and her great scenario . ruth fielding at cameron hall . ruth fielding clearing her name . ruth fielding in talking pictures . ruth fielding and baby june . ruth fielding and her double . ruth fielding and her greatest triumph . ruth fielding and her crowning victory these books may be purchased wherever books are sold _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the barton books for girls by may hollis barton [illustration] _ mo. cloth. illustrated. with colored jacket._ _price cents per volume. postage cents additional._ _may hollis barton is a new writer for girls who is bound to win instant popularity. her style is somewhat of a reminder of that of louisa m. alcott, but thoroughly up-to-date in plot and action. clean tales that all the girls will enjoy reading._ . the girl from the country . three girl chums at laurel hall . nell grayson's ranching days . four little women of roxby . plain jane and pretty betty . little miss sunshine . hazel hood's strange discovery . two girls and a mystery . the girls of lighthouse island . kate martin's problem . the girl in the top flat . the search for peggy ann . sallie's test of skill . charlotte cross and aunt deb . virginia's venture _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the betty gordon series by alice b. emerson [illustration] author of the "ruth fielding series" _ mo. illustrated. jacket in full colors. price cents per volume. postage cents additional._ _a new series of stories bound to make this writer more popular than ever with her host of girl readers. every one will want to know betty gordon, and every one will be sure to love her._ . betty gordon at bramble farm . betty gordon in washington . betty gordon in the land of oil . betty gordon at boarding school . betty gordon at mountain camp . betty gordon at ocean park . betty gordon and her school chums . betty gordon at rainbow ranch . betty gordon in mexican wilds . betty gordon and the lost pearls . betty gordon on the campus . betty gordon and the hale twins . betty gordon at mystery farm . betty gordon on no-trail island . betty gordon and the mystery girl _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york books for girls by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. ruth fielding of the red mill or, jasper parloe's secret. ruth fielding at briarwood hall or, solving the campus mystery. ruth fielding at snow camp or, lost in the backwoods. ruth fielding at lighthouse point or, nita, the girl castaway. ruth fielding at silver ranch or, schoolgirls among the cowboys. ruth fielding on cliff island or, the old hunter's treasure box. ruth fielding at sunrise farm or, what became of the raby orphans. ruth fielding and the gypsies or, the missing pearl necklace. ruth fielding in moving pictures or, helping the dormitory fund. ruth fielding down in dixie or, great times in the land of cotton. ruth fielding at college or, the missing examination papers. ruth fielding in the saddle or, college girls in the land of gold. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york. [illustration: "halt!" was the sudden command.] ruth fielding at the war front or the hunt for the lost soldier by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding in the saddle," etc. _illustrated_ new york cupples & leon company publishers copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding at the war front contents chapter i. to get acquainted ii. at the chateau iii. a perilous project iv. under fire v. mother gervaise vi. the mystery vii. where is tom cameron? viii. the chocolate peddler ix. cot --hut h x. devouring suspicion xi. the flying man xii. aunt abelard xiii. an unexpected meeting xiv. more sacrifices than one xv. bubu xvi. the hollow tooth xvii. the worst is told xviii. bearing the burden xix. adventure xx. on the raw edge of no man's land xxi. a night to be remembered xxii. through the german lines xxiii. the gardener's cot xxiv. capt. von brenner's sister xxv. back again ruth fielding at the war front chapter i to get acquainted it was a midwinter day, yet the air was balmy. the trees were bare-limbed but with a haze clothing them in the distance that seemed almost that of returning verdure. the grass, even in mid-winter, showed green. a bird sang lustily in the hedge. up the grassy lane walked a girl in the costume of the active red cross worker--an intelligent looking girl with a face that, although perhaps not perfect in form, was possessed of an expression that was alluring. neither observant man nor woman would have passed her, even in a crowd, without a second glance. there was a cheerful light in her eye and a humorous curve to her not too-full lips that promised an uplifting spirit within her even in serious mood. it seemed as though this day--and its apparent peace--must breed happiness, although it was but a respite in the middle of winter. the balmy air, the chirrup of the bird, the far-flung reaches of the valley which she could see from this mounting lane, all delighted the senses and soothed the spirit. suddenly, with an unexpectedness that was shocking, there was a tremor in the air and the echo of a rumbling sound beneath the girl's feet. the crack of a distant explosion followed. then another, and another, until the sound became a continual grumble of angry explosions, resonant and threatening. the girl did not stop, but the expression of her face lost its cheerfulness. the song of the bird was cut off sharply. it seemed as though the sun itself began drawing a veil over his face. the peaceful mood of nature was shattered. the girl kept on her way, but she no longer stepped lightly and springily. those muttering guns had brought a somber cloak for her feelings--to her very soul. somewhere a motor began to hum. the sound came nearer with great rapidity. it was a powerful engine. it was several seconds before the girl looked up instead of along the road in search of the seat of this whirring sound. there shot into view overhead, and flying low, an aeroplane that looked like a huge flying insect--an enormous armored grasshopper. only its head was somewhat pointed and there, fixed in the front, was the ugly muzzle of a machine gun. the airplane flew so low that she could see the details. there were two masked men in it, one at the wheel, the other at the machine gun. the aeroplane swooped just above her head, descending almost to the treetops, the roaring of it deafening the girl in the red cross uniform. there was the red, white and blue shield of the united states painted upon the underside of the car. then it was gone, mounting higher and higher, until, as she stood to watch it, it became a painted speck against the sky. that is the lure of the flying machine. the wonder of it--and the terror--attracts the eye and shakes the spirit of the beholder. with a sigh the girl went on up the lane, mounting the hill steadily, on the apex of which, among giant forest trees, loomed the turrets and towers of a large chateau. again the buzzing of a motor broke the near-by stillness, while the great guns boomed in the distance. the sudden activity on the front must portend some important movement, or why should so many flying machines be drawn toward this sector? but in a minute she realized that this was not an aeroplane she heard. debouching into sight from the fringing thickets came a powerful motor car, its forefront armored. she could barely see the head and shoulders of the man behind the steering wheel. down the hill plunged the car, and the girl quickly stepped to the side of the lane and waited for it to pass. the roar of its muffler was deafening. in a moment she saw that the tonneau of the gray car was filled with uniformed men. they were officers in khaki, the insignia of their several grades scarcely distinguishable against the dull color of their clothing. how different from the gay uniforms of the french army corps, which, until of late, the girl of the red cross had been used to seeing in this locality. their faces were different, too. gray, lean, hard-bitten faces, their eyebrows so light and sparse that it seemed their eyes were hard stones which never seemed to shift their straight-ahead gaze. yet each man in the tonneau and the orderly beside the driver on the front seat saluted the red cross girl as she stood by the laneside. in another half-minute the car had turned at the bottom of the hill and was out of sight. she sighed again as she plodded on. now, indeed, was the spring gone from her limbs and her expression was weary with a sadness that, although not personal, was heavy upon her. her thought was with the aeroplane and the motor car and with the thundering guns at the battle front, not many miles away. yet she hastened her steps up this grassy lane toward the chateau, in quite the opposite direction. the sudden stir of the military life of this sector portended something unusual. an advance of the enemy or an attempt to make a drive upon the allies' works. in any case, down in the little, low-lying town behind her, there might be increased need of hospital workers. she must, before long, be once more at the hospital to meet the first ambulances rolling in from the field hospitals or from the dressing stations at the very front. she reached the summit of the ridge, over which the lane passed to the valley on the west side of the hill. the high arch of the gateway of the chateau was in sight. coming from that direction, walking easily, yet quickly, was the lean military figure of a young man who switched the roadside weed stalks with a light cane. he looked up quickly as the girl approached, and his rather somber face lighted as though the sight of her gave him pleasure. yet his gaze was respectful. he was handsome, keenly intelligent looking and not typically french, although he was dressed in the uniform of a branch of the french service, wearing a major's chevrons. as the red cross girl came nearer, he put his heels together smartly, removed his kepi, and bowed stiffly from the waist. it was not a frenchman's bow. the girl responded with a quiet bend of her head, but she passed him by without giving him any chance to speak. he followed her only with his eyes--and that but for a moment; then he went on down the lane, his stride growing momentarily longer until he passed from view. a cry from the direction of the broad gateway ahead next aroused the attention of the girl in the red cross uniform. she looked up to see another girl running to meet her. this was a short, rather plump french girl, whose eyes shone with excitement, and who ran with hands outstretched to meet those of the red cross girl. the latter was some years the older. "oh, mademoiselle ruth! mademoiselle ruth fielding!" cried the french girl eagerly. "did you meet him? ah-h!" ruth fielding laughed as she watched the mobile face of her friend. the latter's cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes rolled. she was all aquiver with the emotion that possessed her. "did you see him?" she repeated, as their hands met and ruth stooped to press her lips to the full ones of her friend. "did i see whom, you funny henriette?" asked ruth. "am i fon-nay?" demanded henriette dupay, in an english which she evidently struggled to make clear. "then am i not nice?" "you are both funny and nice," declared ruth fielding, hugging the girl's plump body close to her own, as they walked on slowly to the chateau gate. "tell me. who was i supposed to see? a motor full of officers passed me, and an aeroplane over my head----" "oh, non! non!" cried henriette. then, in awe: "major marchand." "oh! is that major marchand?" "but yes, mademoiselle ruth. ah-h! such a man--such a figure! he is madame the countess' younger son." "so i understand," ruth said. "he is safely engaged in paris, is he not?" and her tone implied much. "ye-es. so it is said. he--he must be a ve-ry important man, mademoiselle, or his duty would not keep him there." "unless the boches succeed in raiding paris from the air he is not likely to get hurt at all--this major marchand?" "oh!" pouted henriette. "you are so critical. but he is--what you say?--so-o beautiful!" "not in my eyes," said ruth grimly. "i don't like dolly soldiers." "oh, mademoiselle ruth!" murmured the french girl. "do not let madame the countess suspect your feelings toward her younger son. he is all she has now, you know." "indeed? has the older son fallen in battle?" "the young count has disappeared," whispered henriette, her lips close to ruth's ear. "we heard of it only lately. but it seems he disappeared some months ago. nobody knows what has become of him." "he, at least, was on the battle front?" asked the american girl. "he is missing? probably a prisoner of the germans?" "no-o. he was not at the front," confessed the other girl. "he, too, was engaged in paris, it is understood. but hush! we are at the gate. i will ring. don't, mademoiselle ruth, let the dear countess suspect that you do not highly approve of her remaining son." the red cross girl smiled rather grimly, but she gave the promise. chapter ii at the chateau the two girls, arm in arm, approached the postern gate beside the wide iron grille that was never opened save for the passage of horses or a motor car. there was a little round shutter in the postern at the height of a man's head; for aforetime the main gateway had been of massive oak, bolt-studded and impervious to anything less than cannon shot. the wall of masonry that surrounded the chateau was both high and thick, built four hundred years or so before for defence. an old-fashioned rope-pull hung beside the postern. henriette dragged on this sharply, but the girls could not hear the tongue of the bell, for it struck far back in the so-called offices of the chateau, where the serving people had had their quarters before these war times had come upon the earth. now there were but few servants remaining at the chateau. for the most part the elderly countess marchand lived alone and used but few of the rooms. as the girls waited an answer to their summons, henriette said, in reference to what had already passed in conversation between them: "it hurts me, dear friend, that anybody should doubt the loyalty of our countess whom _we_ know to be so good. why! there are people even wicked enough to connect her with that--that awful thing we know of," and the girl dropped her voice and looked suddenly around her, as though she feared an unseen presence. "as though she were a werwolf," she added, with a shudder. "pooh!" and ruth fielding laughed. "nobody in their senses would connect madame la countess with such tales, having once seen her." she thought now, as they waited, of her first visit to the chateau, and of the appearance of the countess marchand in her bare library. whatever her sons might be--the young count who was missing, or this major whom she had just met in the grassy lane--ruth fielding was confident that the lady of the chateau was a loyal subject of france, and that she was trusted by the government. ruth had called here herself on that occasion with a secret agent, monsieur lafrane, to clear up the mystery of a trio of criminals who had come from america to prey upon the red cross. these crooks had succeeded in robbing the supply department of the red cross, in which ruth herself was engaged. but in the end they had fallen into the toils of the french secret service and ruth had aided in their overthrow. all this is told in the volume of this series immediately preceding our present story, entitled: "ruth fielding in the red cross; or, doing her best for uncle sam." this was the thirteenth volume of the ruth fielding series. of the twelve books that have gone before that only a brief mention can be made while ruth and the young french girl are waiting for an answer to the bell. at first we meet ruth fielding as she approaches cheslow and the red mill beside the lumano river, where uncle jabez, the miserly miller, awaits her coming in no pleasant frame of mind. he is her only living relative and he considers little ruth fielding a "charity child." she is made to feel this by his treatment and by the way in which the girls in the district school talk of her. ruth makes three friends from the start, however, who, in their several ways, help her to endure her troubles. one is aunt alvirah boggs, who is nobody's relation but everybody's aunt, and whom jabez potter, the miller, has taken from the poorhouse to keep his home tidy and comfortable. aunt alvirah sees the good underlying miserly uncle jabez's character when nobody else can. she lavishes upon the little orphan girl all the love and affection that she would have given to her own children had she been blessed with any. ruth's other two close friends were the cameron twins, helen and tom, the children of a wealthy storekeeper who lived not far from the red mill. the early adventures of these three are all related in the first book of the series, "ruth fielding of the red mill." one virtue of uncle jabez's, which shines as brightly in his rather gloomy character as a candle in the dark, is that he always pays his debts. if he considers he owes anybody anything he is not satisfied until he pays it. therefore, when ruth recovers some money which had been stolen from him, he is convinced that it is only right for him to pay her tuition for at least a year at briarwood hall, where she goes to school with helen cameron, while tom goes to a boy's boarding school called seven oaks. the girls and tom and his friends often got together for good times during their school years, and, in successive volumes, we meet them in winter adventures in the northern woods at snow camp; in the summer at lighthouse point; in wyoming at silver ranch; in lakeside and woodsy adventures on cliff island; enjoying most exciting weeks at sunrise farm, where ruth wins a reward of five thousand dollars in aiding in the recovery of a pearl necklace stolen by the gypsies. there are volumes, too, telling of the serious loss by fire of a dormitory building at briarwood and how ruth fielding rebuilt it by the production of a moving picture; of her vacation down in dixie; of her first year at ardmore college, which she and helen and several of her briarwood chums entered; then of ruth fielding in the saddle when she went west again, this time for the production of a great picture entitled: "the forty-niners." with the entrance into the war of the united states, tom cameron enlisted and went to france as a second lieutenant with the first expeditionary force. ruth and helen went into red cross work, leaving college before the end of their sophomore year for that purpose. ruth could not go as a nurse, but in the supply department she gained commendation and when a supply unit of the red cross was sent to france she went with it, while helen went over with her father, who was on a commission to the front. once there, the black-eyed girl found work to do in paris while ruth was enabled to be of use much nearer the front. indeed, at the opening of the present story the girl of the red mill is at work in the evacuation hospital at clair, right behind a sector of the battle line that had been taken over by general pershing's forces. tom cameron is with his regiment not many miles away. indeed, his company might be engaged in this very activity that had suddenly broken out within sound, if not in sight, of clair and the chateau marchand. there was reason for ruth fielding's gravity of countenance--and grave it was, despite its natural cheerfulness of expression--for her interest in tom cameron and his interest in her had long been marked by their friends. tom was in peril daily--hourly. it was no wonder that she revealed the ravages of war upon her mind. "sh!" whispered henriette. "here comes dolge, the gardener. now that bessie is gone he is the oldest person madame la countess has in her employ." "i wonder what became of bessie. monsieur lafrane told me she was not apprehended with those men who helped her get away from the chateau." "it is a mystery. she had served madame so many years. and then--at the last--they say she was a spy for _les boches_!" dolge appeared, with his toothless grin, at the round opening in the postern. "the little hetty and _mademoiselle l'americaine_," he mumbled. "madame la countess expects you." he unchained the door and let them pass through. then he shut and chained the door again just as though the chateau was besieged. the girls did not wait for him. they walked up the curved avenue to the wide entrance to the great pile of masonry. the chateau was as large as a good-sized hotel. before the war there had been many comforts, ruth understood, that now the countess was doing without. for instance, electric lights and some kind of expensive heating arrangement. now the lady of the chateau burned oil, or candles, like the peasants, and the chateau doors were wide open that the sun and air of this grateful day might help dry the tomb-like atmosphere of the reception hall. "_ma foi_!" said henriette, commenting on this in a low voice, "even the beautiful old armor--the suits of mail that the ancient marchands wore in the times of the crusades--is rusty. see you! madame has not servants enough now to _begin_ to care for the place." "i suppose she has stored away the rugs and the books from the library shelves," began ruth; but henriette quickly said: "_non_! _non_! you do not understand, mademoiselle, what our good lady has done. the wonderful rugs she has sold--that off the library floor, which, they say, the old count himself brought from bagdad. and the books--all her library--have gone to the convalescent hospitals, or to the poilus in the trenches. for they, poor men, need the distraction of reading." "and some of your neighbors suspect her," repeated ruth thoughtfully. "it is because of that awful thing--the werwolf!" hissed henriette. then there was time for no further speech. a middle-aged woman appeared, asked the girls in, and led the way to the library. a table was set near the huge open fireplace in which a cheerful fire crackled. on the table was a silver tea service and some delicate porcelain cups and saucers. the kettle bubbled on the hob. chairs were drawn close before the blaze, for, despite the "springiness" in the air without, the atmosphere in the vast library of the chateau was damp and chill. as the girls waited before the fire a curtain at the end of the room swayed, parted, and the tall and plainly robed figure of the countess entered. she had the air of a woman who had been strikingly beautiful in her younger days. indeed, she was beautiful still. her snowy hair was dressed becomingly; her checks were naturally pink and quite smooth, despite the countless wrinkles that netted her throat. the old lace at the neck of her gown softened her ivory-hued skin and made its texture less noticeable. her gown was perfectly plain, cut in long, sweeping lines. nor did she wear a single jewel. she swept forward, smiling, and holding out her hand to ruth. "here is our little hetty," she said, nodding to the french girl, who blushed and bridled. "and mademoiselle fielding!" giving the latter a warm handclasp and then patting henriette's cheek. "welcome!" she put them at their ease at once. the few family portraits on the walls were all the decorations of the room. the book cases themselves were empty. madame la countess made the tea. on the table were thin slices of war bread. there was no butter, no sugar, and no milk. "we are learning much these days," laughed the countess. "i am even learning to like my chocolate without milk or cream." "oh!" and henriette whipped from the pocket of her underskirt something that had been making her dress sag on that side. when she removed the wrappings she produced a small jar of thick yellow cream. "my child! it is a luxury!" cried the countess. "i shall feel wicked." "perhaps it will be nice to feel wicked for once," ruth said, feeling a little choke in her throat. she drew from concealment her own contribution to the "feast"--several lumps of sugar. "do not fear," she added, smiling. "none of the poor poilus are deprived. this is from my own private store. i wish there was more of it, but i can't resist giving a lump now and then to the village children. they are so hungry for it. they call me 'mam'zelle sucre'." "and i would bring you cream often, madame," henriette hastened to add, "but our good old lally died, you know, and the little cow does not give much milk as yet, and it is not as rich. oh! if that werwolf had not appeared to us! you remember, mademoiselle ruth? then old lally died at once," and the french girl nodded her head vigorously, being fully convinced of the truth of the old superstition. the countess flushed and then paled, but nobody but ruth noticed this. the american girl watched her hostess covertly. the bare mention of a superstition that had the whole countryside by the throat, disturbed much the countess' self-control. the next moment there was a step in the hall and then the door opened to admit the same young officer ruth fielding had met in the lane--major henri marchand. "pardon, maman," he said, bowing, and speaking to his mother quite like a little boy. "do i offend?" "do come in and have a cup of tea, henri. there is sugar and real cream--thanks to our two young friends here. you remember our petite hetty, of course? and this is our very brave mademoiselle ruth fielding, of the american red cross. my younger son, monsieur henri," the countess said easily. major marchand advanced into the room promptly. to henriette he bowed with a smile. ruth put out her hand impulsively, and he bowed low above it and touched his lips to her fingers. the girl started a little and glowed. the manner of his address rather shocked her, for she was unused to the european form of greeting. henri's deep, purple eyes looked long into her own brown ones as he lingeringly released her hand. "mademoiselle!" he murmured. "i am charmed." ruth did not know whether she was altogether charmed or not! she felt that there was something rather overpowering in such a greeting, and she rather doubted the sincerity of it. she could understand, however, little henriette's sentimental worship of the young major. henri marchand was the type of man to hold the interest of most girls. his eyes were wonderful; his cheek as clear and almost as soft as a woman's; he wore his uniform with an air scarcely to be expressed in ordinary words. henriette immediately became tongue-tied. ruth's experience had, however, given her ease in any company. the wonderful major marchand made little impression upon her. it was plain that he wished to interest the americaine mademoiselle. the little tea party was interrupted by the appearance of dolge at the library door. "a young american in an ambulance inquires for mademoiselle fielding at the gate," said dolge, cap in hand. "she is needed in haste, below there at the hospital." chapter iii a perilous project "that can be no other than charlie bragg," announced ruth, getting up in haste, and naming a young friend of hers from the states who had been an ambulance driver for some months. "something must have happened." "i fear something is happening," major marchand said softly. "the sudden activity along this front must be significant, don't you think, mademoiselle fielding?" ruth's lips were pressed together for a moment in thought, and she eyed the major shrewdly. "i really could not say," she observed coldly. then she turned from him to take the hand of the countess. "i'm sorry our little tea must be broken in upon," the american girl said. she could not help loving the countess, no matter what some of the neighbors believed regarding her. but ruth had her doubts about this son who was always in paris and never at the front. henriette was too bashful to remain longer than ruth, so she rose to go as well. the countess kissed her little neighbor and sent her favor to the girl's father and mother. major marchand accompanied the two visitors out of the chateau and toward the entrance gate, which dolge had not opened. "i sincerely hope we may meet again, mademoiselle fielding," the major said softly. "that is not likely," she responded with soberness. "no? do you expect to leave clair soon?" "no," she said, and there was sharpness in her voice. "but i am much engaged in our hospital work--and you are not likely to be brought there, are you?" evidently he felt the bite in her question. he flushed and dropped his gaze. her intimation was not to be mistaken. he seemed unlikely to be brought wounded to the hospital. before he could recover himself they were at the gate. dolge opened the postern and the two girls stepped through, followed by the french officer. the young fellow in the american ambulance immediately hailed ruth. "oh, i say, miss ruth!" he cried, "sorry to hunt you out this way, but you are needed down at the hospital." "so i presume, or you would not have come for me, charlie," she told him, smiling. "what is it?" "supplies needed for one of the field hospitals," he said. "and i tell you straight, miss ruth, they're in bad shape there. not half enough help. the supply room of that station is all shot away--terrible thing." "oh, dear!" gasped ruth. "do you mean that the germans have bombed it?" "it wasn't an air raid. yet it must have been done deliberately. they dropped a jack johnson right on that end of the hospital. two orderlies hurt and the girl who ran the supply room killed. they want somebody to come right up there and arrange a new room and new stock." "oh! you won't go, mademoiselle ruth?" shrieked henriette. "it would be extremely dangerous," major marchand said. "another shell might drop in the same place." "oh, we settled that battery. they tell me it's torn all to pieces. when our doughboys heard the red cross girl was killed they were wild. the gunners smashed the german position to smithereens. but it was awful for her, poor thing. "the station needs supplies dreadfully, just the same," added charlie bragg. "and somebody who knows about 'em. i told the _médicin-chef_ i'd speak to you myself, miss ruth----" "i'll go with you. they can get along at clair without me for a few days, i am sure." "good," returned charlie, and moved over a little to make room on the seat for her. major marchand said: "there must be something big going on over there. is it a general advance, monsieur?" ruth flashed him a look and laid her fingers gently on charlie bragg's arm. the ambulance driver was by no means dull. "i can't say what is on foot," he said to the french officer. "i should think you might know more about it than i do," he added. his engine began to rattle the somewhat infirm car. charlie winked openly at henriette, who laughed at him. the car began to move. major marchand stood beside the road and bowed profoundly again to ruth--that bow from the hips. it was german, that bow; it proved that his military education had not been wholly gained in france. she could not help doubting the loyalty of major henri marchand as well as that of his older brother, the present count. their mother might be the loveliest lady in the world, but there was something wrong with her sons. here the younger one was idling away his time about the chateau, or in paris, so it was said, while the count had suddenly disappeared and was not to be found at all! neither had been engaged in any dangerous work on the battle front. it was all very strange. the bouncing ambulance was swiftly out of sight of the chateau gate. ruth sighed. "say! isn't there anybody at all who can go with those supplies they're in need of but you, miss ruth?" inquired charlie bragg, looking sideways at her. "no. i am alone at clair, you know quite well, charlie. the supplies are entirely under my care. i can teach somebody else over there at the bombed hospital in a short time how to handle the things. meanwhile, the matron--or somebody else--can do my work here. it would not do to send a greenhorn to such a busy hospital as this must be to which you are taking me." "busy! you said it!" observed the driver. "you'll see a lot of rough stuff, miss ruth; and you haven't been used to that. what'll tom cameron say?" and he grinned suddenly. ruth laughed a little. "every tub must stand on its own bottom, aunt alvirah says. i must do my duty." "it'll be a mighty dangerous trip. i'm not fooling you. there are places on the road---- well! the boches are all stirred up and they are likely to drop a shell or two almost anywhere, you know." "you came through it, didn't you?" she demanded pluckily. "by the skin of my teeth," he returned. "you're trying to scare me." "honest to goodness i'm not. they sent me over for the supplies and somebody to attend to them." "well?" she said inquiringly, as charlie ceased to speak. "but i didn't think you'd have to make the trip. isn't there anybody else, miss ruth?" and the young fellow was quite earnest now. "nobody," she said firmly. "no use telling me anything more, charlie. for the very reason the trip is dangerous, you wouldn't want me to put it off on somebody else, would you?" he said no more. the car rattled down into the little town, with its crooked, paved streets and its countless smells. clair was the center of a farming community, and, in some cases, the human inhabitants and the dumb beasts lived very close together. the hospital sprawled over considerable ground. it was but two stories in height, save at the back, where a third story was run up for the "cells" of the nurses and the other women engaged in the work. ruth ran up at once to her own tiny room to pack her handbag before she did anything else. the matron met her at the supply-room door when she came down. she was a voluble, if not volatile, frenchwoman of certain age. "i dread having you go, mademoiselle ruth," she said, with her arm about the girl. "i feel as though you were particularly in my care. if anything should happen to you----" "you surely would not be blamed," said ruth, smiling. "somebody must go and why not i? please send two orderlies to carry out these boxes. this list calls for a lot of supplies. surely the ambulance will be filled." which was, indeed, the case. when she finally went downstairs, turning the key of her store-room over to the matron, the ambulance body was crowded with cases. the stretchers had been taken out before charlie bragg drove in. ruth must occupy the seat beside him in front. she did not keep him waiting, but ran down with her bag and crept in under the torn hood beside him. several of the nurses stood in the door to call good-bye after her. the sentinel in the courtyard stood at attention as the car rolled out of the gate. "well," remarked charlie bragg, "i hope to thunder nothing busts, that's all. you've never been to the front, have you?" "no nearer than this," she confessed. "humph! you don't know anything about it." "but is the hospital you are taking me to exactly at the front?" "about five miles behind the first dressing station in this sector. it's under the protection of a hill and is well camouflaged. but almost any time the boches may get its range, and then--good-night!" with which remark he became silent, giving his strict attention to the car and the road. chapter iv under fire the day was fading into evening as the car went over the first ridge and dropped out of sight of clair and the sprawling hospital in which ruth fielding had worked so many weeks. she felt that she had grown old--and grown old rapidly--since coming to her present work in france. she was the only american in that hospital, for the united states expeditionary forces had only of late taken over this sector of the battle line and no changes had been made in the unity of the workers at clair. they all loved ruth there, from the matron and the surgeon-in-chief down to the last orderly and porter. although her work was supposed to be entirely in the supply department, she gave much of her time to the patients themselves. those who could not write, or could not read, were aided by the american girl. if there was extra work in the wards (and that happened whenever the opposing forces on the front became active) ruth was called on to help the nurses. thus far no american wounded had been brought into the clair hospital--a fact easily understood, as the entire force save ruth was french. it would not be long, however, before the american red cross would take over that hospital and the french wounded would be sent to the base hospital at lyse, where ruth had first worked on coming to france. up to this very moment--and not an unexciting moment it was--ruth fielding had never been so far away from clair in this direction. in the distance, as they mounted another ridge, she saw the flaring lights which she had long since learned marked the battle front. the guns still muttered. now and again they passed cavities where the great shells had burst. but most of these were ancient marmite holes and the grass was again growing in them, or water stood slimy and knee-deep, and, on the edges of these pools, frogs croaked their evensong. there were not many farmhouses in this direction. indeed, this part of france was "old-fashioned" in that the agricultural people lived in little villages for the most part and went daily to their fields to work, gathering at night for self-protection as they had done since feudal times. now and again the ambulance passed within sight of a ruined chateau. the germans had left none intact when they had advanced first into this part of the country. they rolled through two tiny villages which remained merely battered heaps of ruins. orchards were razed; even the shade trees beside the pleasant roads had been scored with the ax and now stood gaunt and dead. some were splintered freshly by german shells. as the light faded and the road grew dim, ruth fielding saw many ugly objects which marked the "frightfulness" of the usurpers. it all had a depressing effect on the girl's spirits. "are you hungry, miss ruth?" charlie bragg asked her at last. "i expect i shall be, charlie," she replied. "our tea at the chateau was almost a fantom tea." "gosh! isn't it so?" he said slangily. "what these french folks live on would starve me to death. mighty glad to have regular yankee rations. but," he added, "we'll be too late to get chow when we come to the hospital, i am afraid. we'll try mother gervaise." "who is mother gervaise?" asked ruth, glad to have some topic of conversation with the ambulance driver. "she's an old woman who used to be cook at one of these chateaux here, they say. she'll feed us well for four francs each." "four francs!" "sure. price has gone up," said charlie dryly. "these french folk are bound to think that every american is a millionaire. and i don't know but it is worth it," and he grinned. "think of being looked on as a john d. rockefeller everywhere you go! i'd never rise to such a height in the states." "no, i presume not," ruth admitted with a laugh. "but how is it that this mother gervaise, as you call her, is not afraid to stay here?" "she stays to watch the gold grow in her stocking," charlie replied, shrugging his shoulders almost as significantly as a frenchman. "oh! is she that much of a miser?" "you've said it. she stayed when the germans first came and fed them. when they retreated she stayed and met the advancing british (the french did not come first) with hot soup, and changed her price from pfennigs to shillings. get her to tell you about it. it is worth listening to--her experience." charlie bragg stopped the car suddenly and got out. ruth looked ahead with curiosity. the road seemed rather smooth and quite unoccupied. there was a group of trees, tortured by gunfire, which hid a turn in the track and what lay beyond. charlie was tinkering with the engine of the machine. "what is the matter?" ruth ventured to ask. "nothing--yet," he returned. "but we've got to get around that next turn in a hurry." "why?" "it's a wicked corner," said charlie. "i might as well tell you--then you won't squeal if anything happens." "oh! do you think i am a squealer?" she demanded rather tartly. "i don't know," and he grinned again. he was an imp of mischief, this charlie bragg, and she did not know how to take him. "you're not 'spoofing me,' as our british brothers put it?" "it's an honest-to-goodness bad corner--especially at night," charlie returned quite seriously now. "boches know we fellows have to use it----" "you mean the ambulances?" "yep. they spot us. we run without lights, you know; but every once in a while they drop a shell there. they have the range perfectly. they caught one of my bunkies there only a week ago." "oh, charlie! an american?" "no. scotch. only scotty in this section, and a mighty nice fellow. well, he'll never drive that boat again." "oh!" gasped ruth. "was he killed?" "shucks! no!" scoffed charlie. "but his ambulance was smashed to bits. luckily he hadn't any load with him at the time. but it would have been all one to the boches." bragg got in beside the girl again, tried out his levers, and suddenly shot the car ahead. "hang on!" cried charlie bragg under his breath. the ambulance shot down to the corner. it was all black shadow there, and, as charlie intimated, he dared use no lights. if there was an obstruction they would crash into it! the dusk had fallen suddenly. the sky was overcast, so not a star flecked the firmament. through the gloom the ambulance raced, the young fellow stooping low over the steering wheel, trying to peer ahead. how many hundreds of times had he made similar runs? ruth had never before appreciated just what it meant to be driving an ambulance through these roads so near the battle front. for five minutes a heavy gun had not spoken. suddenly the horizon ahead lit up with a broad white flare. there came the resonant report of a huge gun--so distant that ruth knew it could be nothing but a german bertha. almost instantly the whine of a shell was audible--coming nearer and nearer! ruth fielding, cowering on the seat of the automobile, felt as though the awful missile must be aimed directly at her! the car shot around the curve where the broken trees stood. with a yell like that of a lost soul--a demon from the pit--the shell went over their heads and exploded in the grove. the ambulance was spattered with a hail that might have been shrapnel, or stones and gravel--ruth did not know. the hood sheltered her. she was on the far side of the seat, anyway. and then, with a shout of warning, charlie shut down and tried to stop the car within its own length. ruth saw a hole yawning before them--a pit in the very middle of the road. "they've dropped one here since i came along!" yelled the young man, just as the ambulance pitched, nose first, into the cavity. they were stalled. suppose the boches sent another shell hurtling to this spot? they were likely to be wiped out in a breath. chapter v mother gervaise neither ruth nor the driver was thrown out of the stalled ambulance. but charlie jumped out in a hurry and held out his hand to the girl. "you got to beat it away from here, miss ruth," he urged. "another of those shells is likely to drop any minute. hurry!" ruth had no desire to stay at that perilous corner of the road; but when she started away from the stalled car she found that she was alone. "aren't you coming, charlie bragg?" she demanded, turning back. "go on! go on!" he urged her. "i've got to get this old flivver out of the mud. keep right on to a little house you'll see on the left under the bank. don't go past it in the dark. that's mother gervaise's cottage. it's out of reach of the boches' shells." "but you'll be killed, charlie bragg!" wailed the girl, suddenly realizing all the peril of their situation. "haven't ever been killed yet," he returned. "i tell you i've got to get this flivver out of the hole. these supplies have got to be taken to that field hospital. they're needed. i can't leave 'em here and run." "but you expect me to run!" burst out ruth, in sudden indignation. "you can't help here. no use your taking a chance. you'll be in enough danger later. now, you go on, miss ruth. scoot! here comes another!" they heard the whine of the flying shell almost on top of the thud of the distant gun. charlie seized her hand and they ran up the road for several yards. then he stopped short, as the shell burst--this time far to the left of the stalled ambulance. "gosh!" he exclaimed. "you've got me rattled, too. here! i'll go along to mother gervaise with you. some of the fellows may be there and i can get help. come on." "oh, charlie!" murmured the girl. "i'm afraid for you." "trying to make me a quitter, are you?" he demanded. "don't you know that if the boches get you, they get you, and that's all there is to it? and one way or another that fliver's got to be got out of that hole." ruth was silenced. this young fellow--"boy" he called him in her own mind--had a quality of courage that shamed her. it was just the kind of bravery needed for the work he was doing in the war--a measure of recklessness that keeps one from counting the cost too exactly. charlie bragg had a philosophy of his own that kept him cheerful in the face of peril and was eminently practical at just this time. he hurried her along the road, his hand under her elbow, seemingly able to see in the dark like a cat. but it was all black before ruth's eyes, and she stumbled more than once. her knees felt weak. "i--i _am_ scared, charlie," she confessed, almost in a whisper. "yep. so was i, at first. but you know a fellow can't give in to it. if he does he'll never get to be a first-class ambulance driver. i bet some of the boys will be here at mother gervaise's and i can get help." another moment, and they seemed to turn a corner in the road and ruth saw a small patch of light at the left of the roadway. she made it out to be an open window--the swinging shutter flung back against the wall. there was no glass in the opening. "there it is," charlie said. "you might have passed it right by, alone. you see, the house is close up against the high bank, and the hill is between us and the front. the boches can't drop a shell here. it's a regular wayfarer's rest. there's a car--and another. we'll be all right now." ruth saw the outlines of the two cars parked beside the road. the young fellow led her directly toward the patch of yellow lamplight. she saw finally a broad, thatched cottage, the eaves of the high-peaked roof almost within reach as they came to the door. charlie bragg knocked, then, without waiting for a summons to enter, lifted the wooden latch and shoved the sagging door open. "hello, folks!" he said. "got shelter for a couple of babes in the woods? i got stalled down there at the devil's corner, and---- let me introduce miss fielding. she's real folks like ourselves." he had pushed ruth in and entered behind her. two young men--plainly americans--rose from the table where they were eating. a squarely built woman bent over the fire at the end of the room. she did not look around from her culinary task. "hello, bragg!" was the response from the other ambulance drivers. "cub holdness and mr. francis dwyer," said charlie, introducing the two. "i've got stalled, fellows." he swiftly told of the accident and the two young men left the table. the frenchwoman turned and waddled toward the table, stirring spoon in hand and volubly objecting. "_non, non_!" she cried. "you would spoil the so-good ragout. if you do not eat it while it is hot----" "the ragout can be heated over," put in charlie. "but if the boches get my car with a shell--good-night! come on, fellows. and bring a rope. i believe we three can pull the old girl out." the boys tramped out of the cottage. mother gervaise turned to ruth and stared at her with very bright, black eyes. she was a broad-faced woman, brown and hearty-looking, and with a more intelligent appearance than many of the peasants ruth had seen. she wore sabots with her skirt tucked up to clear her bare ankles. her teeth were broad and strong and white, and she showed them well as she smiled. "the mademoiselle is _americaine_?" she said. "like these _ambulanciers_? ah! brave boys, these. and mademoiselle is of the _croix rouge_, is it not?" "i am working in the hospital at clair," ruth told her. "i am on my way with supplies to a station nearer the front." "_ma foi_!" exclaimed mother gervaise. "this has been a bad business. you will sup, mademoiselle, yes?" "i will, indeed. the accident has not taken away my appetite." "isn't it so? we must eat, no matter what next happens," said the woman. "me, now! i am alone. my whole family have been destroyed. my husband and his brother--both have been killed. i had no children. now i think it is as well, for children are not going to have much chance in france for years to come. all my neighbors have scattered, too." "then you have always lived here? even before the war?" ruth asked. "_oui, mademoiselle_. always. i was born right in that corner yonder, on a straw pallet. the best bed my mother had. we have grown rich since those days," and she shrugged her shoulders. "i was an only child and the farm and cot came to me. of course, i had plenty of the young men come to make love to me and my farm. i would have none of that kind. some said i went through the wood and picked up a crooked stick after all. but pierre and me--_ma foi_! we were happy, even if the old father and pierre's brother must come here to live, too. "the old father he die before the germans come. i thank _le bon dieu_ for that. pierre and his brother were mobilized and gone before the horde of _les boches_ come along this road. i am here alone, then. i begin making coffee and soup for them. well, yes! they are men, too, and become hungry and exhausted. i please them and they treat me well. i learn what it means to make money--cash-money; and so i stay. money is good, mademoiselle. "i might have wished poison into their soup; but that would not have killed them. and had i doctored it myself i would have been hung, and been no better off. so i made friends," and she smiled grimly. "but i learned how boastful men could be--especially germans. one--he was a major and one of the nobility--stayed here overnight. he promised to take me back to germany when the war was over--which would be in a few weeks. they were to be in paris in a few days then. "he promised i would be proud when i became all german. france, he said, would never be a separate country again. for most of the people--my people--he said, were weaklings. they would emigrate to america and the remaining would intermarry with germans. so all france would become germany. "when he was awake, he was full of bombast, that major! when he was asleep he snored outrageously. ugh! for the first time in my life i hate anybody," declared mother gervaise, shuddering. "but he paid me well for his lodging. and his men paid me for the soup. they marched past steadily for two days. then they were gone and the country all about was peaceful for a week. at the end of that time they come back." here mother gervaise smiled, but it was a victorious smile. her face lighted up and her eyes shone again. "pellmell back they came," she repeated. "it was a retreat. many had lost their guns and their packs. i had no soup for them. i said i had lost my poulets and all. but it was not so. i had them hidden. "the orderly of my major came in here, threw up his hands, and shouted: 'no paris! no paris!' and then he tramped on with his fellows. they chopped the trees and blew up many houses. but mine was marked, as the boches did in those first days: 'these are good people. let them be.' so i was not molested," finished mother gervaise. "now, sit you down, mademoiselle, at the table. here where i have spread a napkin. the ragout---- "bless us and save us!" she added, as a sudden roar of voices sounded outside the cot and the throaty rattle of a motor engine. "whom have we here?" she went to the door and flung it open. ruth hesitated at the chair in which she had been about to be seated. outside she saw bunched several uniformed men. they were hilariously pushing into the cottage, thrusting the excited mother gervaise aside. chapter vi the mystery ruth fielding's rising fear was quenched when she saw the faces of the newcomers more clearly. they were those of young men belonging to the american expeditionary forces, as their uniforms betrayed. and they were teasing mother gervaise in the free and easy way of american youth. nor was she anywhere near as angry as she assumed. they pushed her into the cottage and crowded in themselves before they saw ruth standing at the end of the long table. then, quite suddenly, their voices fell. not so mother gervaise. she fetched one of her tormentors a sharp smack with the palm of her hand. "_un vaurien_!" she cried, meaning, in the slang of the day, "good-for-nothing." "you would take my house by storm! do you think it is a boche dugout you charge when you come to mother gervaise?" the silence of the rough and careless fellows was becoming marked. already the frenchwoman was noticing it. she turned, saw their eyes fixed upon ruth, and remarked: "ha! it's well they respect the mademoiselle. come in, wicked ones, and shut the door." ruth, relieved, saw that all were young commissioned officers--a very, very young captain, two first lieutenants, and several subalterns. they bowed rather bashfully to ruth, and could not take their eyes off her. one finally said: "you must be the lady at the clair hospital--miss fielding? you're the only american girl at that station." "i am miss fielding," ruth returned. her eyes shone, her tone grew softer. she saw that he belonged to tom cameron's regiment. "i have a friend in your regiment--mr. cameron. lieutenant thomas cameron. is he on duty with you?" their respectful silence when they tumbled in and saw her was marked. but the utter dumbness that followed this question was so impressive that ruth could almost hear her own heart beat. "what---- he is not _hurt_?" she cried, looking from one to the other. "i believe not, miss fielding," the captain said. "he is not on duty with us. i can tell you nothing about lieutenant cameron." the decision with which he spoke and the expression upon the faces of the others, appalled the girl. she could not find breath to ask another question. mother gervaise bustled forward to set upon the napkin she had spread a plate of the ragout for ruth. the latter sank into the chair. the young officers gathered upon the other side of the hearth. they were hopelessly dumb. there was a noise outside--the chugging of a car. it was a welcome relief. the door opened again and charlie bragg and the other two boys entered. "well, the boches didn't get us that time," said charlie, with satisfaction. "nor the old fliver, either. hello! here's general haig and all his staff. or is it general disorder? hurry up with the mulligan, mother gervaise--we've got to gobble and go." he slipped into the seat next to ruth, smiling at her. he was just a hungry, slangy boy. but those others---- ruth could scarcely force the food down; but she determined to make a meal for her body's sake. she did not know what was before her--how much work, or how hard it would be, before she obtained another meal. she managed to ask: "is the car all right again, charlie?" "you can't bust it!" he declared enthusiastically. "the britishers make all manner of fun of 'em. call 'em 'mechanical fleas' and all that. but with a hammer, a monkey-wrench, and some bale-wire, a fellow can perform major and minor operations on a fliver in the middle of a garageless wilderness and come through all right when better cars are left for the junk department to gather up and salvage." the other two ambulance drivers to whom ruth had been introduced came to the table and finished their suppers, mother gervaise grumblingly dishing up more hot stew for them. "it is for you and such as you i slave and slave," she said. "and what thanks do i get?" "for _la zozotte_ do you work, mother," said one, laughing. "and who would want better thanks than money?" but ruth kissed the woman when she rose to depart. she believed mother gervaise was "tender under her rough skin," as is the saying. the young officers had not come to the table while ruth remained; nor did charlie pay much attention to them. at least, he did not try to introduce them, and ruth was glad of that. there was something wrong. there was a mystery. why should tom cameron's own associates act so oddly when his name was mentioned? she merely bowed to the officers, but shook hands with charlie's brother _ambulanciers_. there seemed to her something very wholesome and fine about these youths who drove the ambulances. they had--most of them--come to france and enlisted in their present employment before the united states got into the war at all. she suspected that many of them were of that class known about their home neighborhoods as "that boy of jones'," or "that jackson kid." in other words, their overflow of animal spirits, or ambition, or whatever it was, had probably made them something of a trial to their neighbors, if not to their families. ruth began to see them in a sort of golden glow of heroism. they were the truer heroes because they denied this designation. charlie grew red and gruff if she as much as suggested that he was doing anything out of the ordinary. yet she knew he had written a book about his first year's experiences and his brother had found a publisher for it in new york. his share of the proceeds from that book was going to the red cross. into the ambulance they climbed, and again they were rolling over the dark and rough road. ruth gathered together all her courage and asked: "do you know anything about tom cameron?" "tom cameron?" "yes," she said. "i want to know what's happened to him, charlie." "for the love of pete!" gasped the young fellow. "i didn't know anything had happened to him--again." "i must know," ruth told him, her voice quivering. "some of those officers belonged to his battalion. _all_ were of his regiment. but when i asked about him they refused to answer." "you don't mean it!" plainly charlie bragg was nonplussed. "i thought they acted funny," he said, with a sudden grin, which she sensed rather than saw. "but i thought it was girlitis. it has a terrible effect upon these fellows that haven't seen a real american girl for so long." "i am serious, charlie," she told him. "something has happened to tom--or about him. it seems to me that those officers were afraid to speak of it. as though there was something--something disgraceful about it!" "oh, say!" murmured charlie. "that's not sense, you know." "of course tom could do nothing disgraceful. but why should those men be afraid to speak of him?" cried the shaken girl. "he can't be wounded again. that can't be it. haven't you heard a word?" she suddenly realized that her companion had grown silent. he made no comment now upon her speech. she waited a full minute before bursting out again: "you _have_ heard something, charlie! something about tom!" "i--i don't know," he muttered. "i didn't know it was tom." "what is it?" she demanded with rising eagerness. "i don't know that it's about cameron _now_," he muttered. "i should hope not." "charlie bragg! do you want to drive me wild?" she demanded, clutching at his arm. "hold on! you'll have us in the ditch," he warned her. "you answer me--at once!" she commanded. "oh---- but what can i say? i don't know anything. i don't believe tom cameron would be tricky--not a bit. and as for selling out to the boches----" "what _do_ you mean?" almost shrieked the girl. "are you crazy, charlie bragg?" "there you go," he grumbled. "i told you i didn't know anything--for sure. but i heard some gossip." "about tom?" "i didn't know it was about tom. and i don't know now. but what you say about how funny those chaps acted----" "_do_ explain!" begged ruth. "come right out with it, charlie." "why, i heard a chap had been accused of giving information to the enemy. yes. one of our own chaps--an american. it's said he met a boche spy on listening post--right out there between the lines. he was seen twice." "not tom?" "no name told when i heard it. first a fellow saw him talking to a figure that stole away toward the german line. this fellow told his top sergeant, and toppy told his captain. they waited and watched. three men saw the same thing happen. they were going to have the blamed traitor up before the brass hats when all of a sudden he disappeared." "who disappeared?" gasped ruth fielding. "this chap they suspect gave information to the boches. he's gone--like that!" "captured?" questioned ruth breathlessly. "or gone over to them," returned charlie, with evident unwillingness. ruth sighed. "but that never could be tom cameron!" "you wouldn't think so," was the reply. "but that's all i can guess that those fellows had in mind when they would not answer you--good gracious, look at that!" he braked madly. the ambulance rocked and came to an abrupt standstill. across the track, scarcely two yards before the nose of the car, had dashed a white object, which, soundlessly, was gone in half a minute--swallowed up in the shadowy field beside the road. "we see it again, ruth," said charlie bragg, with a strange solemnity. "what do you mean?" she demanded, but her voice, too, shook. "the werwolf. that dog--whatever it is. ghost or despatch-bearer, whatever you call it. i got a good sight of it again, miss ruth. didn't _you_?" chapter vii where is tom cameron? that the peasants of the surrounding territory should believe in that old and wicked legend of the werwolf was not to be considered strange. there is not a country in europe where the tale of the human being who can change his form at will to that of a wolf, is not repeated. ruth fielding had come across the superstition--and for the first time in the company of charlie bragg--as she had approached the town of clair to begin her work in that hospital some months before. this same white figure which they had both now glimpsed had crossed the road, flying as it was now toward the trenches. the werwolf, as the superstitious french peasants declared it to be, crossed both to and from the battle line; for it was frequently seen. it was of this mystery henriette dupay had spoken in the library of the chateau that very afternoon. the dupays believed absolutely in the reality of the werwolf. only, they were not of those who connected the "thing" with the lady of the chateau. although ruth fielding had reason to believe that the police authorities trusted the countess marchand and were sure of her loyalty, many of the peasants about the chateau believed that the werwolf was the unfortunate countess herself in diabolical form. and even ruth could not help feeling a qualm, as she saw the fast-disappearing creature--ghost or what-not--that fled into the darkness. "gosh!" murmured the slangy charlie bragg. "enough to give a fellow heart-disease. i thought i was going to run it down." "i wonder," said ruth slowly, as he again started the car, "if it would not have been a good thing if you had run it down." "can't bust up a ghost that way, miss ruth," he returned, beginning to chuckle again. "talk sense, charlie," she urged, forgetting for the moment the subject of the suspicion resting upon tom cameron and giving her mind to this other mystery. "you know, i've an idea this foolishness about a white wolf can be easily explained." "go ahead and explain," he returned. "i'm free to confess it's got me guessing." "i believe it is the big greyhound, bubu, that belongs to the chateau marchand. it is sent on errands to and from the frontier." "canine spy?" chuckled charlie. "i don't know just what he does. but i did think that the old serving woman, bessie, that the countess brought with her from mexico so many years ago, knew all about bubu's escapades. but bessie is not at the chateau now." "oh," said charlie, "she was the woman who went off with those two crooks who helped your friend, mrs. rose mantel, rob the red cross supply department." "not _my_ friend, i should hope!" ruth said sharply, for the matter charlie touched upon was still a tender subject with the girl. her mind dwelt for a moment upon the presence of major henri marchand at the chateau. he was there, and the greyhound, bubu, was running at large again at night. was there not something significant in the two facts? but she said nothing regarding this suspicion to the ambulance driver. instead, she came back to the subject which had occupied their minds previous to the appearance of the white object that had crossed the road. "of course, it is quite ridiculous," she said, "to think of tommy cameron doing anything at all treacherous. i can imagine his doing almost anything reckless, but always on the right side." "some little hero, is he?" chuckled charlie bragg. "i think he is the stuff of which heroes are made--just like yourself, charlie bragg." "oh! i say!" he objected. "now you are getting personal." "then don't try to be funny with me," declared ruth earnestly. "i have too good an opinion of all our well-brought-up american boys--to which class both tom and you belong--to believe that any of them could be made under any conditions to betray their fellows." "oh, as to that!" he admitted. "nor any of our roughnecks, either. we've got a mighty fine army over here, rank and file. deliberately, i doubt if any of them would give information to the heinies. but they do say that when the huns capture a man, if they want information, they don't care what they do to him to get it. the old police third degree isn't a patch on what these boches do." "i am not afraid that even torture would make tom do anything mean," she said, with a little sob. "but these officers back there at that cottage must actually believe that he has gone over to the enemy." "if cameron is the fellow i heard about this morning," charlie said gloomily enough, "it is generally believed that he has been two days beyond the lines--and he didn't _have_ to go." "oh! impossible!" "i'm repeating what i heard. this flurry during the afternoon is an outcome of his disappearance. the german guns caught a train of ammunition camions and smashed things up pretty badly. many tricks like that pulled off will make us mighty short of ammunition in this sector. then heinie can come over the top and do with us just as he pleases. naturally, if the boys believe cameron is at fault, they are going to be as sore on him as a boil." "it would be utterly impossible for tom to do such a thing!" the girl declared with finality. her assurance made the matter no less terrible. ruth had no belief at all in tom's willingly giving himself up to the enemy. had there been a hundred witnesses to see him go, she would have denied the possibility of his being a traitor. but she was very silent during the rest of that wild ride. now and then they were stopped by sentinels and had to show their papers. at least, the red cross girl had to show hers. charlie was pretty well known by everybody in this part of the war zone. they would come to a dugout in the hillside, or a half-hidden hut, and be challenged by a sentinel, or by one of the military police. a pocket lamp would play upon ruth's face, then upon her passport, and the sentinel would grunt, salute, and the car would plunge on again. it seemed to ruth as though this went on for hours. all the time her brain was active with the possibilities surrounding tom cameron's disappearance. what could really have happened to him? should she write to helen in paris, or to his father in america, of the mystery? indeed, would the censor let such news pass? once she had believed tom seriously wounded, and for several days had hunted for him, expecting to find him mutilated. fortunately her expectations at that time had been unfounded. it seemed now, however, as though there could be no doubt but something very dreadful had happened to her friend. added to his peril, too, was this awful suspicion that others seemed to hold regarding tom's faithfulness. it was going to be very hard, indeed, for ruth fielding to keep her mind on her work in the red cross while this uncertainty regarding lieutenant cameron remained. chapter viii the chocolate peddler there was the flash of a lamp ahead. "here we are!" cried charlie bragg, in a tone of relief, bringing the car to a rocking stop. ruth fielding could see but little as she looked out from under the hood of the ambulance. yet she imagined there was a ridge of land behind the compound at the entrance to which they had halted. charlie got out and helped her down. a second man appeared in the gateway of the stockade beside the sentinel. the girl approached with the ambulance driver, who said: "here she is, doc. and a load of stuff she says you'll need. this is miss fielding--and she's a regular good fellow. doctor monteith, miss fielding." "i am glad to see you," the surgeon said warmly, taking the bag from ruth and seizing her cold hand in his warm clasp. "we are very busy here and very short of supplies. our stores were utterly destroyed when----" he did not finish his statement, but ushered her into the compound. there were a few twinkling lights. she saw that there were a number of huts within this enclosure, each being, of course, a ward. they left charlie bragg and an orderly to remove the supplies from the ambulance while the surgeon took ruth to the hut that was to be her own. on the way they passed a crushed and shapeless mass that might once, the girl thought, have been another hut. "is that----?" she asked, pointing. "yes. the shell dropped squarely on it. we got her out from under the wreckage after putting out the fire. she was killed instantly," said the surgeon. "you are not frightened, miss fielding?" "why--yes," she said gravely. "i have, however, been frightened before. we have had night air raids at clair. but, as charlie bragg says, 'i have not been killed yet.'" "that is the way to look at it," he said cheerfully. "it's the only way. back in all our minds is the expectation of sudden death, i suppose. only--if it _is_ sudden! that is what we pray for--if it is to come." "i know," ruth said softly. "but let us keep from thinking of it. who is this lady?" she asked a moment later. "ah!" said the gentlemanly surgeon, seeing the figure in the doorway of the new supply hut. "it is our matron, mrs. strang. a lovely lady. i will leave you to her kindness." he introduced the girl to the elderly woman, who examined ruth with frank curiosity as she entered the hut. "you are a real american, i presume," the woman said, smiling. "i hope so." "not to be frightened by what has happened here already?" "we expect such sad happenings, do we not?" "yes. we must. but this was a terrible thing. they say," the matron observed, "that it was the result of treachery." "oh! you do not mean----?" "they say a man has sold a map of this whole sector to the boches. a _man_--faugh! there are such creatures in all armies. perhaps there are more among our forces than we know of. they say many of foreign blood among the expeditionary force are secretly against the war and are friends of the enemy." "i cannot believe that!" cried ruth. "we are becoming tainted with the fears of the french. because they have found so many spies!" "we will find just as many, perhaps," said mrs. strang, bitterly. "france is a republic and the united states is a republic. does freedom breed traitors, i wonder?" "i guess," ruth said gently, "that we may have been too kind to certain classes of immigrants to the united states. unused to liberty they spell it l-i-c-e-n-s-e." "there are people other than ignorant foreigners who must be watched in these awful times," the matron said bitterly. "there are teachers in our colleges who sneer at patriotism just as they sneer at religion. whisper, miss fielding! i am told that the very man they suspect in this dreadful thing--the american who has sold a map of this sector to the germans--came from one of our foremost colleges, and is an american bred and born." ruth could not speak in answer to this. her heart throbbed painfully in her throat. to so accuse tom cameron of heartless and dastardly treachery! she could not defend him. to defend was to accuse! if everybody believed this awful thing---- ruth was just as sure of tom cameron's guiltlessness as she was of her own faithfulness. but how damning the circumstantial evidence must be against him! she was thankful she heard nothing more of this thing that night. charlie and other men brought in the supplies. she could not arrange them then, for she was exhausted. she only waited to lock the door when all the supplies were placed, and then found the hut where the women of the red cross slept. she had here a narrow cot, a locker and chair, and the privacy of a movable screen. nothing else. this was real "soldiering," as she soon found. her experiences at lyse and at clair had been nothing like this. in one town she had lived at a pension, while at the latter hospital she had had her own little cell in the annex. however, the girl of the red mill never thought of complaining. if these other earnest girls and women could stand such rough experiences why not she? she slept and dreamed of home--of the red mill and uncle jabez and aunt alvirah boggs, with her murmured, "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" she was again a child and roamed the woods and fields along the lumano river with tom cameron and helen. "i wish i were at home! i wish i were at home!" was her waking thought. it was the first time she had whispered that wish since leaving the states. but never before had her heart been so sore and her spirit so depressed. when, some weeks before, she had believed tom cameron seriously wounded, she had been frightened and anxious only. now the whole world seemed to have gone wrong. there was nobody with whom she could confer about this awful trouble. she arose, and, after making her toilet and before breakfast, went out of the hut. she beheld an entirely different looking landscape from that which she was used to about clair. through the gateway of the compound she saw a rutted road, with dun fields beyond. behind, the ridge rose abruptly between the hospital and the battle front. a red-headed young irishman in khaki stood at the gateway, or tramped up and down with his rifle on his shoulder. he could not look at the girl without grinning, and ruth smiled in return. "'tis a broth of a mornin', miss," he whispered, as she drew near. "be you the new lady charlie bra-a-agg brought over last night?" "yes. i am to take the place of the girl who--who----" she faltered and could not go on. the irish lad nodded and blinked rapidly. "bedad!" he muttered. "we'll make the boches pay for that when we go over the top. never fear." he halted abruptly, became preternaturally grave, and presented arms. the young surgeon, dr. monteith, who had met ruth the night before, tramped in from a morning walk. "good morning, miss fielding. did you sleep?" she confessed that she did. he smiled, but there was a deep crease between his eyes. "i am glad you are up betimes. we need some of your supplies. can i send the orderlies with the schedule soon?" "oh, yes! i will try to be ready in half an hour," she cried, turning quickly toward the hut, of which she carried the key. "wait! wait!" he called. "no such hurry as all that. you have not breakfasted, i imagine? well, never neglect your food. it is vital. i shall not send to you until half-past eight." he saluted and went on. ruth went to the hut in which the nurses messed. the night shift had just come in and she found them a pleasant, if serious, lot of women. and of all nationalities by blood--truly american! there was an air about the nurses in the field hospital different from those she had met in institutions farther back from the battle line. there were serious girls there, but there was always a spatter of irresponsibles as well. here the nurses were like soldiers--and soldiers in active and dangerous service. there was a marked reserve about them and an expression of countenance that reminded ruth of some of the nuns she had seen at home--a serenity that seemed to announce that they had given over worldly thoughts and that their minds were fixed upon higher things. there was a hushed way of speaking, too, that impressed ruth. it was as though they listened all the time for something. was it for the whine of the shells that sometimes came over the ridge and dropped perilously near the hospital? as the day went on, however, the girl found that there was considerably more cheerfulness and light-heartedness in and about the hospital than she supposed would be found here. having straightened out her own hut and supplied the various wards with what they needed for the day, she went about, getting acquainted. it was a large hospital and there were many huts. in each of these shelters were from two dozen to forty patients. a nurse and an orderly took care of each hut, with a night attendant. everybody was busy. there were many visitors, too--visitors of all kinds and for all imaginary reasons. people came in automobiles; these had passes from military authorities to see and bring comforts to the wounded. and there were more modest visitors who came on foot and brought baskets of jams and jellies and cakes and home-made luxuries that were eagerly welcomed by the wounded. for soldiers everywhere--whether well or ill--develop a sweet tooth. into the compound about midafternoon ruth saw a tall figure slouch with a basket on his arm. it had begun to drizzle, as it so often does during the winter in northern france, and this man wore a bedrabbled cloak--a brigandish-looking cloak--over his blue smock. she had never seen such a figure before; and yet, there was something about the man that seemed familiar to the keen-eyed girl. "who is he?" she asked a nurse standing with her at the door of a ward, and pointing to the man slouching along with his basket across the open way. "oh, that? it is nicko, the chocolate peddler," said the nurse carelessly. "a harmless fellow. not quite right--here," and she tapped her own forehead significantly. "you understand? they say he lived here when first the boches used their nasty gas, and he was caught in a cellar where a gas bomb exploded, and it affected his brain. it does that sometimes, you know," she added sadly. ruth's eyes had followed the chocolate seller intently. around a corner of a hut swung the surgeon, who was already the girl's friend. he all but ran against the slouching figure, and he spoke sharply to the man. for an instant the chocolate peddler straightened. he stood, indeed, in a very soldierly fashion. then, as the quick-tempered surgeon strode on, nicko bowed. he bowed from the hips--and ruth gasped as she saw the obeisance. only yesterday she had seen a man bow in that same way! chapter ix cot --hut h the guns on the battle front had been silent for twenty-four hours; but there were whispers of the yankees "getting back" at the heinies in return for the outbreak of german gunfire which had startled ruth fielding the afternoon she had taken tea at the chateau marchand. the outbreak of the new attack--this time from the american side--began about nine o'clock at night. a barrage was laid down, behind which, ruth learned, several raiding parties would go over. just the method of this advance across no man's land ruth did not understand. but all the time the guns were roaring back and forth (for, of course, the germans quickly replied) she knew the american boys were in peril all along that sector. that was a bad night for ruth. she lay in her cot awake, but with her eyes closed, breathing deeply and regularly so that those about her thought she was asleep. in the morning the matron said: "you are really quite wonderful, miss fielding, to sleep through all that. i wish i could do the same." and all night long ruth had been praying--praying for the safety of the boys that had gone over the top, not for herself. that she was in danger did not greatly trouble her. she thought of the soldiers. she thought particularly of tom cameron--wherever he might be! the flurry of gunfire was over by dawn. after breakfast ruth went down to the gate. she had heard the ambulances rolling in for hours, and now she saw the stretcher-bearers stumbling into the receiving ward with the broken men. here they were operated upon, when necessary, and sorted out--the _grands blessés_ sent to the more difficult wards, the less seriously wounded to others. curiosity did not bring ruth to the gate. it was in the hope of seeing charlie bragg that she went there. nor was she disappointed. his shaky old car rolled up with three men under the canvas and one with a bandaged arm sitting on the seat beside him. charlie was pale and haggard. half the top of the ambulance had been shot away since she had ridden in it, and the boy had roughly repaired the damage with a blanket. but he nodded to ruth with his old cheerful grin. nothing could entirely quench charlie bragg. "got tipped over and holed up in a marmite cave for a couple of hours during the worst of it last night," he told ruth. "never mind. it gave me another chapter for my new book. surely! i'm going to write a second one. they all do, you know. you rather get the habit." "but, charlie! is--is there any news?" she asked him, with shaking voice and eyes that told much of her anxiety. he knew well what she meant, and he looked grim enough for a minute, and nodded. "yes. a little." "oh, charlie! they--they haven't found him?" "no. maybe they'd better _not_," breathed the boy, shaking his head. "i don't think there's any hope, miss ruth." "oh, charlie! he's not _dead_?" "better be," muttered the boy. "i wouldn't ask if i were you. it looks bad for him--everybody says so." "you know him, charlie bragg!" she burst out angrily. "can _you_ believe tom cameron would do such a wicked thing as this they accuse him of?" "we-ell. i don't want to believe it," he agreed. "but, look here!" and in desperation he pulled something from his pocket. "you know that, don't you?" "why! tom's matchbox!" cried the girl, taking the silver box and seeing the initials of the lost soldier on the case. she had had it engraved herself--and helen had paid for the box. they had given it to tom when he went to harvard for his freshman course. "of course. i've seen him use it, too," charlie bragg hurried to say. "i knew it and begged it of the fellow who found it." "where did he find it?" "you know, some of our boys went across and visited the heinies last night," charlie said gently. "they got right into the german trenches and drove out the heinies. and in a german dugout--before they blew it up with bombs--this chap i talked with picked up that box." "oh, charlie!" gasped the girl. "yes. he didn't see the significance of the monogram. he didn't know mr. cameron personally, i think. he was slightly wounded and i helped him with first aid. he gave the box to me as a german souvenir," and the driver of the ambulance looked grim. "then they surely have got poor tom!" whispered ruth. "at least, it looks as though he went over that way," agreed the boy sadly. "don't speak so, charlie!" she cried. "i tell you he has been taken prisoner." "we-ell," drawled her friend again, "we can't know about that." "but we _will_ know!" she said, with added vehemence. "it will all come out in time. only--it will be too late to help poor tom, then." "gosh!" groaned charlie bragg. "it's too late to help him now--if you should ask me!" ruth had nobody to talk to about tom cameron save the young ambulance driver. and him she could see but seldom. for fear of having to explain to her chum, she could not write to helen cameron, who was in paris. just now, too, she was too busy for letter writing. mrs. strang found a girl to help ruth in the supply hut, one who was willing and able to learn all about the merchandise under ruth's care. the latter was not asked to remain at this hospital outpost for long. her place was at clair, and, until the red cross directors deliberately changed her, ruth must give her first thought to the clair supply headquarters. she saw, however, that she would be several days at this field hospital. she had been glad to come in hope of learning something about tom. now she saw that she was doomed to disappointment. this locality was the last place in which to search for news of the lost lieutenant. everybody here (everybody who spoke of the matter at all) believed that tom cameron had played the traitor and, for money or some other unexplained reason, had gone over to the enemy. "as though poor tom could even dream of such a thing!" she thought. she must keep her opinion to herself. she was too wise to start any argument on the affair. it might be, if she kept still, that she would learn something of significance that would lead to an explanation of the terrible event. what she personally could do to save tom's reputation she did not even imagine at the time. nevertheless, there might be some chance of doing him a good turn. as for his personal safety, she had lost all hope of that. she believed he had been captured by the germans, and she had heard too many stories of their treatment of prisoners to hope that he would escape injury and actual torture. it was said that the enemy would treat the first americans captured with particular harshness, in hope of "frightening the yankees." she knew that the advancing canadians had found their captured brothers crucified on barn doors in the early months of the war. why should the yankees expect better treatment from the huns? with this load of anxiety and fear upon her heart, ruth still found time for interest in what went on about her. she was an observant girl. and, as ever, her sympathies were touched in behalf of the wounded. although the american red cross had taken over this field hospital, most of the wounded were frenchmen. she was glad to see so many visitors daily bringing comforts for the men; but of all those who came she noted particularly the peculiar-looking nicko, the chocolate vender. daily he came, and ruth always observed both his comings and goings. never did he fail to go into a particular ward--one of those in which the more seriously wounded patients lay--hut h. she sometimes saw him going through the aisles at his funny, wabbling gait, offering his wares to the soldiers. the latter jeered at him, or joked with him, as their mood was. he wore an old battered hat, the brim of which flopped over his face and half masked his features. one afternoon ruth met the strange fellow at the door of hut h. she was going out as he was coming in. the man backed away from her, mumbling. she threw a coin into his basket and took a small package of chocolate. "_bien obligé, mademoiselle_!" he was startled into saying, and bowed to her. it was not the stiff, martial bow she had before noted, but the sweeping, ingratiating bow of the frenchman. ruth walked on, but she was startled. finally she turned swiftly and went back to the door of hut h. the nurse on duty had just come from the end of the ward. over her shoulder ruth saw nicko halt beside one of the cots far down the line. "who is that nicko converses with?" ruth asked idly. "oh, his friend, the boche. didn't you know we had a german officer with us? cot . not a bad fellow at all. yes, nicko never fails to sell our boche friend chocolate. he is a regular customer." "cot --hut h," ruth repeated in her own mind. she would not forget that. and yet--did it mean anything? was there something wrong with nicko, the chocolate peddler? chapter x devouring suspicion she had been at the field hospital for a week. it seemed to ruth fielding at last as though she could not remain "holed up" like a rabbit any longer. at clair she had been used to going out of the hospital when she liked and going anywhere she pleased. here she found it was necessary to have a pass even to step out of the hospital compound. "and be careful where you walk, miss fielding," said dr. monteith, as he signed her pass. "do not go toward the battle front. if you do you may be halted." "halted!" repeated ruth, not quite understanding. "and perhaps suspected," he said, nodding gravely. "even your red cross will not save you." "oh, dear me!" exclaimed the girl. "is everybody suspected of spying? i think it has become a craze." "we do not know whom to suspect," he said. "our closest friends may be enemies. we cannot tell." "but, doctor monteith, who are in this district save our soldiers and the french inhabitants?" asked ruth. "true. but there may be a traitor among us. indeed, it is believed that there has been," and ruth winced and looked away from him. "as for our allies here--well, all of them may not be above earning german gold. and they would think it was not as though they were betraying their own countrymen. there are only united states soldiers in this sector now, as you say, miss fielding." "i cannot imagine people being so wicked," sighed the girl. "no matter how it is done, or who does it, the enemy is getting information about our troops and condition, as the last two attacks have proved. so take care where you go, miss fielding, and what you do," he added earnestly. she promised, and went away with her pass. it was late afternoon and her duties were over for the day. she would not be needed at the supply hut until morning. and, indeed, the girl she was breaking in was already mastering the details of the work. ruth could soon go back to her own work at clair. she walked nimbly out of the compound gate, making sure that she was following a road that led away from the front. nobody halted her. indeed, she was soon passing through a little valley that seemed as peaceful and quiet as though there was no such thing as war in the world. the path she followed was plainly but a farm track. it wound between narrow fields that had not been plowed the season before--not even by cannon-shot. somehow the big shells had flown over this little valley. the sun was setting, and the strip of western sky above the hills was tinged with his golden glories. already pale twilight lay in the valley. but in this latitude the twilight would long remain. she did not hasten her steps, nor did she soon turn back toward the field hospital. she saw a cottage half hidden behind a hedge of evergreens. it stood in a small square of muddy garden. there was a figure at work in this patch--the tall, stoop-shouldered figure of a man. he was digging parsnips that had been left out for the frost to sweeten. he used the mattock slowly and methodically. with the cottage as a background, and the muddy bit of garden, the picture he made was typical of the country and the people who inhabited it. suddenly she realized that she recognized the ragged blue smock and the old droop-brimmed hat he wore. it was nicko, the chocolate vender. this must be his place of abode. ruth hesitated. she had felt some shrinking from the man before; now she realized she was afraid of him. he had not seen her and she stood back and watched him. of a sudden another man appeared from around the corner of the cottage. ruth was more than glad, then, that she had not shown herself. she turned to retrace her steps. then she looked again at this new figure in the picture. she almost spoke aloud in her amazement. the newcomer was dressed exactly as nicko was dressed--the same blue and ragged smock, shapeless trousers, wooden shoes, and with a hat the twin of the one the first nicko wore. indeed, it was a second nicko who stood there in the bit of garden before the laborer's cot. but amazement and suspicion did not hold her to the spot for long. she did not wish to be discovered by the pair. she was confident now that there was something altogether wrong with nicko the chocolate peddler--and his double! out of view of the cottage she hurried her steps. through the gloaming she sped up the path in the valley toward the high-road on which faced the hospital stockade. her thoughts were in a tangle of doubt. yet one clear thread of determination she held. she must give her confidence to somebody--she must relate her suspicions to some person who was in authority. not the medical chief of staff at this field hospital. nor did she wish to go to the commanding officer of this sector, whoever he might be. indeed, she almost feared to talk with any american officer, for tom cameron seemed to be entangled in this web of deceit and treachery into which she believed she had gained a look. there was a man whom she could trust, however; one who would know exactly what to do, she felt sure. and it would be his business to examine into the mystery. the moment she returned to clair ruth would get into communication with this individual. thus thinking, she hurried on and had almost reached the highway when something made her look back. not a sound; for even the sleepy birds had stopped twittering and there was no rustle of night wind in the bare shrubbery about her. but mysteriously she was forced to turn her head. she looked down the path over which her feet had sped from the laborer's cot. there was something behind her! ruth did not scream. a form came up the track swiftly and at first she saw it so indistinctly that she had no idea what it really was. had she been spied by the men in the garden, and was one of them following her? she trembled so that she could not walk. she crouched back against the hedge, watching fearfully the on-rush of the phantom-like apparition coming so swiftly up the path. chapter xi the flying man while yet the silent figure was some rods away ruth fielding realized that it was no human being. it was not one of the men she had seen in the garden of nicko's cottage. this creature came too swiftly up the path and skimmed the ground too closely. a light-colored object--swift, silent and threatening of aspect. the girl shrank against the hedge, and the next instant--with a rush of passage that stirred the air all about her--the thing was gone! it was again that strange and incomprehensible apparition of the werwolf! if it was bubu, the greyhound she had seen at the chateau marchand, he was much lighter in color than when he appeared pacing beside his mistress on the chateau lawns. the phantom had dashed past so rapidly that, in the gathering dusk, ruth could make out little of its real appearance. headed toward the battle lines, it had disappeared within seconds. the girl, her limbs still trembling, followed in haste to the highway. already the creature had been swallowed up in the shadows. she went on toward the hospital gateway and had scarcely recovered her self-control when she arrived there. altogether, her evening's experience had been most disconcerting. the two men, dressed alike and apparently of the same height and shambling manner, whom she had seen in nicko's garden, worried her quite as much--indeed, worried her even more than the sight of the mysterious creature the peasants called the werwolf. more than ever was she determined to take into her confidence somebody who would be able to explain the mystery of it all. at least, he would be able to judge if what made her so anxious was of moment. and tom cameron's disappearance, too! ruth's worry of mind regarding her old friend propped her eyes open that night. in the morning she went over the stock shelves again with the girl she had trained, and finally announced to mrs. strang that she felt she must return to clair. after all, she had been assigned to the job there and must not desert it. an ambulance was going down to clair with its burden of wounded men, and ruth was assigned to the seat beside the driver. he chanced to be "cub" holdness, one of the ambulance drivers to whom ruth had been introduced by charlie bragg at mother gervaise's cottage the night of her trip up to the field hospital. holdness was plainly delighted to have the girl with him for the drive to clair. he was a philadelphia boy, and he confessed to having had no chance to drive a girl--even in an ambulance--since coming over. "i had one of those 'reckless roadsters' back home," he sighed. "dad said every time his telephone rang he expected it was me calling from some outlying police station for him to come and bail me out for overspeeding. "and there was a bunch of girls i knew who were just crazy to have me take 'em for a spin out around fairmount park and along the speedways. just think, miss fielding, of the difference between those times and these," and he nodded solemnly. "i should say there was a difference," laughed ruth, trying to appear in good spirits. "don't you get dreadfully tired of all these awful sights and sounds?" "no. excitement keeps us keyed up, i guess," he replied. "you know, there is almost always something doing." "i should say there was!" she saw that while he talked he did not for a moment forget that he was driving three sorely wounded men. he eased the ambulance over the rough parts of the road and around the sharp turns with infinite skill. it was actually wonderful how smoothly the ambulance ran. occasionally they were caught in a tight corner and the machine jounced so that moans of agony were wrung from the lips of the wounded behind them on the stretchers. this, however, occurred but seldom. once one of the men begged for water--water to drink and its coolness on his head. they were passing a trickling stream that looked clear and refreshing. "let me get out a moment and get him some," begged ruth. "can't do it. against orders. we're commanded not to taste water from any stream, spring, or well in this sector--let alone give it to the wounded. nobody knows when the water is poisoned." "but the germans have been gone from this district so long now!" she cried. "they may have their spies here. in fact," grumbled holdness, "we are sure they do have friends in the sector." "oh!" "you know that devil corner charlie bragg drove you past the other night? the shells have torn that all to pieces. we have to go fully two miles around by another road to get to clair. we don't pass mother gervaise's place any more." ruth looked at him sadly but questioningly. "do you believe that story they tell about one of our young officers having gone over to the enemy?" she asked. holdness flushed vividly. "i didn't know him. i've got no opinion on the matter, miss fielding," he said. "but somebody has mapped out the whole sector for the huns--and it has cost lives, and ammunition. you can't blame folks for being suspicious." the answer quenched her conversation. ruth scarcely spoke again during the remainder of the journey. they welcomed her in most friendly fashion at the clair hospital. but the first thing she did after depositing her bag in her cell was to go to the telegraph office and put before the military censor the following message addressed to the prefect of police at lyse, "will you please communicate with m. lafrane. i have something of importance to tell him." she signed her name and occupation in full to this, and was finally assured that it would be sent. m. lafrane was of the secret police, and ruth fielding had been in communication with him on a previous occasion. several days passed with no reply from her communication to the police. nor did any news reach her from the field hospital where she had been engaged, nor from her friends at the front. indeed, those working near the battle lines really know less of what is being done in this war than civilians in america, for instance. almost every night the guns thundered, and it was reported that the americans were making sorties into the german lines and bearing back both prisoners and plunder. but just what was being accomplished ruth fielding had no means of knowing. not having seen or heard from henriette dupay since her return, early in the following week ruth started out to walk briskly to the dupay farm one afternoon. of late the aeroplanes had become very numerous over this sector. they were, for the most part, american machines. but this afternoon she chanced to see one of the french nieuports at close quarters. these are the scouting, or battle planes, and carry but two men and a machine gun. she heard the motor some moments before seeing the aeroplane rise over the tree tops. she knew it must have leaped from a large field on this side of the dupay farm and not far below the gateway of the chateau marchand. ruth stopped to gaze upward at the soaring airplane. her figure stood out plainly in the country road and the two men aboard the nieuport must have immediately spied her. the machine dipped and scaled downward until she could have thrown a stone upward and hit it. one of the men--masked and helmeted as the flying men always are--leaned from his seat, and she saw him looking down upon her through the tangle of stay-wires. then he dropped a small white object that fell like a plummet at her feet! "what in the world can that be?" murmured the girl to herself. for a breath she was frightened. although the aeroplane carried the french insignia it might be an enemy machine. she, too, was obsessed with the fear of spies! but the object that fell was not an explosive bomb. it was a weighted ball of oiled silk. as the machine soared again and rapidly rose to the upper air levels, the girl picked up the strange object and burst it open. the lead pellets that weighted the globe were scattered on the ground. within there was nothing else but a strip of heavy document paper. on this was traced in a handwriting she knew well, this unsigned message: "don't believe everything you hear." it was tom cameron's handwriting--and ruth knew that the message was meant for her eye and her eye only! chapter xii aunt abelard of course nothing just like this ever happened save in a fairy story--or in real life. the paper without address, but meant only for ruth fielding, had fallen from the aeroplane. she had seen it fall at her feet and could not be mistaken. who the two men in the french nieuport were she could not know. masked and hooded as they were, she could distinguish the features of neither the pilot nor the man who had dropped the paper bomb. but--she was sure of this--they were somehow in communication with tom cameron. and tom cameron was supposed to have gone across the lines to the germans, or--as ruth believed--had been captured by them. yet, if he was a captive, how had he been able to send her this message? again, how did he know she was worried about him? he must have reason to suspect that a story was being circulated regarding his unfaithfulness. who were those two flying men? were they german spies? had tom been a prisoner in the hands of the huns, would spies have brought this word from him to her? and how--and how--and how----? her queries and surmises were utterly unanswerable. she turned the bit of paper over and over in her fingers. she could not be mistaken about tom's handwriting. he had penciled those words. it was true, any friend of tom's who knew his handwriting and might have picked up the loaded paper bomb, would have considered the written line a personal message. "don't believe everything you hear." but, then, what friends had tom in this sector of the battle front save his military associates and ruth fielding? the girl never for one moment considered that the written line might have been meant for anybody but herself. and she did with it the very wisest thing she could have done. she tore the paper into the tiniest of bits, and, as she continued her walk to the dupay farm, she dribbled the scraps along the grassy road. she began to have a faint and misty idea of what it all meant--tom's disappearance, the general belief among his comrades that he was a traitor, and this communication which had reached her hands in seemingly so wonderful a manner. tom cameron had been selected for some dangerous and secret mission. it might have occasioned his entrance through the enemy's lines. he was on secret service beyond the great bombarding german guns! if this was so he was in extreme peril! but he was doing his duty! ruth's heart throbbed to the thought--to _both_ thoughts! his dangerous work was not done yet. but it was very evident that he had means of knowing what went on upon this side of the line of battle. the men recently flying over her head in the french air machine must be comrades of tom's in the secret mission which had carried that young fellow into the enemy's country. the message she had received might be only one of several the flying men had dropped about clair, and at the request of tom cameron, the latter hoping that at least one of them would reach ruth's hands. the girl knew that american and french flying men often carried communications addressed to the german people into germany, and dropped them in similar "bombs." one of the president's addresses had been circulated through a part of germany and austria by this means. she had a feeling, too, that the man who had thrown the message to her knew her. but ruth could not imagine who he was. she might have believed it to be tom cameron himself; only she knew very well that tom had not joined the air service. the incident, however, heartened her. whatever tom was doing--no matter how perilous his situation--he had thought of her. she had an idea that the message had been written within a few hours. she went on more cheerfully toward the dupay farm. she arrived amidst a clamor of children and fowls, to find the adult members of the family gathered in the big living-room of the farmhouse instead of occupied, as usual, about the indoor and outdoor work. for the dupays were no sluggards. "oh, mademoiselle ruth!" cried henriette, and ran to meet her. the french girl's plump cheeks were tear-streaked and ruth instantly saw that not only the girl but the whole family was much disturbed. "what has happened?" the american girl asked. in these days of war almost any imaginable thing might happen. "it is poor old aunt abelard!" henriette exclaimed in her own tongue. "she must remove from her old home at nacon." ruth knew that the place was a little village (and villages can be small, indeed, in france) between clair and the field hospital where she had herself been for a week, but on another road than that by which she had traveled. "it is too near the battle line," she said to henriette. "don't you think she should have moved long ago?" "but the germans left it intact," henriette declared. "she is very comfortable there. she does not wish to leave. oh, mademoiselle ruth! could you not speak to some of your gr-r-reat, gr-r-reat, brave american officers and have it stopped?" "have _what_ stopped?" cried ruth in amazement. "aunt abelard's removal." "are the americans making her leave her home?" "it is so!" henriette declared. "it is undoubtedly necessary then," returned ruth gently. "it is not understood. if she could remain there throughout the german invasion, and was undisturbed by our own army, why should these americans plague her?" henriette spoke with some heat, and ruth saw that her mother and the grandmother were listening. their faces did not express their usual cheerful welcome with which ruth had become familiar. aunt abelard's trouble made a difference in their feeling toward the americans, that was plain. nor was this to be wondered at. the french farmer is as deeply rooted in his soil as the great trees of the french forests. that is why their treatment by the german invader and the ruin of their farms have been so great a cross for them to shoulder. ruth learned that aunt abelard--an aunt of farmer dupay, and a widow--had lived upon her little place since her marriage over half a century before. without her little garden and her small fields, and her cow and pig and chickens, she would scarcely know how to live. and to be uprooted and carried to some other place! it was unthinkable! "it is fierce!" said henriette in good american, having learned that much from charlie bragg. "i am sure there must be good reason for it," ruth said. "i will inquire. if there is any possibility of her remaining without being in danger----" "what danger?" demanded madame dupay, clicking her tongue. "do these countrymen of yours intend to let the boches overrun our country again? _our_ poilus drove them back and kept them back." ruth saw she could say nothing to appease the rising wrath of the family. she was rather sorry she had chanced to come upon this day of ill-tidings. "of course she will come here?" she asked henriette. "where else can she go?" "will your father go after her in the automobile?" "what?" gasped henriette. "that is of the devil's concoction, so thinks poor aunt abelard. she will not ride in it. and my father is busy. let the yankees bring her--and her goods--if they desire to remove her from her own abode." ruth could say nothing to soothe either her little friend nor the other members of the family. they could not understand why aunt abelard must be removed from her place; nor did ruth understand. she was convinced, however, that there must be something of importance afoot in this sector, and that aunt abelard's removal from her little cottage was a necessity. the american troops in france were not deliberately making enemies among the farming people. henriette walked for some distance toward the hospital when ruth went back; but the french girl was gloomy and had little to say to her american friend. when ruth reached the hospital and was ascending to her cell at the back, the matron came hurrying through the corridor to meet her. she was plainly excited. "mademoiselle fielding!" she cried. "you have a visitor. in the office. go to him at once, my dear. it is monsieur lafrane." chapter xiii an unexpected meeting monsieur lafrane ruth could count as one of her friends. not many months before she had enabled the secret service man to solve a criminal problem and arrest several of the criminals engaged in a conspiracy against the red cross. she had not been sure that he would so quickly respond to her telegram to the elderly prefect of police at lyse, who was likewise her friend and respectful admirer. this secret agent was a lean man of dark complexion. his manner was cordial when he rose to greet her. she knew that he was a very busy man and that he had responded personally to her appeal because he took a deeper interest in her than in most people aside from those whose acts it was his duty to investigate. they were alone in the small office of the hospital. he said crisply and in excellent english: "mademoiselle has need of me?" "i have something to tell you, monsieur--something that i think may be of importance. yet, as we americans say, i may be merely stirring up a mare's nest." "ah, i understand the reference," he said, smiling. "let me be the judge of the value of what you tell me, mademoiselle. proceed." swiftly she told him of her visit to the field hospital so much nearer the battle line than this quiet institution at clair, and, in addition, told him of nicko, the chocolate peddler, and his dual appearance. "there are two of the men. they dress exactly alike. i was suspicious of the peddler the very first time i saw him. no frenchman--not even a french soldier--bows as i saw him bow." "ha!" ejaculated the secret agent. "he bows from the hips--the bow of a german military man. i--i have seen them bow before," ruth hesitated, remembering major henri marchand. "you understand?" "but, yes, mademoiselle," said the frenchman, his eyes flashing. "then," she went on, "i saw the man--or supposedly the same man--a second time. he bowed very differently--just as an ordinary humble french peasant might bow." "could it not be that he forgot the second time you saw him?" queried m. lafrane. "i doubt it. there is something quite distinct in the air of the two men. but i understand that whichever comes to the hospital with the basket of sweets always has a word with the german officer in hut h, cot twenty-four. you can easily find out about him." "true," murmured the secret agent eagerly. then she told him of her walk in the gloaming and what she had seen in the garden of the peasant's cot--the two men dressed exactly alike. one must be the half-foolish nicko; the other must be the spy. m. lafrane nodded eagerly again, pursing his lips. "mademoiselle," he said quietly, "i will ask the good madame if you may be relieved for the day. i have a car outside--a swift car. can you show me that cottage--nicko's dwelling? i will bring you back immediately." "of a surety," she told him in his own tongue, as he had spoken. "wait. i will get my hat and coat. i may not know the nearest way to the place. but----" "i am familiar with this territory," he said dryly. "we can strike it, i have no doubt, mademoiselle. but i need you to verify the place and--perhaps--to identify the man." "not the spy?" she gasped. "nicko, the peddler." "i see. i will be with you in the courtyard at once, monsieur." when she came out he was ready to step into a two-seated roadster, hung low and painted a battleship gray. a man in uniform on the front seat drove. ruth got in, was followed by the secret agent, and they started. she had much more in her heart and mind; but she doubted the advisability of telling m. lafrane. there was what she suspected about major henri marchand. could she turn suspicion toward the son of her good friend, the countess? and his brother who, it was said, had run away? ruth felt that she had already told much that might cause the major trouble. she did not know. she only suspected. as for tom cameron's trouble--and the mystery surrounding him--she did not feel that she could speak to the secret agent about that. tom's affairs could have nothing to do with the work of this french criminal investigator. no. she hugged to her heart all her anxiety regarding tom. as soon as they left the hospital courtyard ruth found that she was traveling with a chauffeur beside whom charlie bragg's reckless driving was tame indeed. besides, charlie's lame car could not arrive at such speed as this racing type of automobile was capable of. by looking over the back of the front seat she obtained a glimpse of the speedometer, and saw the indicator traveling from sixty to seventy. after that she did not wish to look again. she did not want to know if they traveled faster. the road over which they went was strange to ruth fielding. it was by a much shorter way charlie bragg had taken her to the field hospital, and over which she had returned. they began before long to meet farmers' wagons, piled high with household goods, on which sat the strange, sad-eyed children of the war zone, or decrepit old people, often surrounded by their fowls. for even the poorest and most destitute of the french peasants manage to have "poulets." the processions of moving people amazed ruth. she remembered what the dupays had said about aunt abelard, and she began to see that there was a general exodus being forced from the country nearer the front in this sector. it was a fact that the people did not look happy. now and then one of the american military police walked beside a wagon, as though he had been sent on with the movers to make sure that they kept moving. the girl asked m. lafrane nothing about this exodus. perhaps he knew no more the reason for it than ruth did. they came to a little dale between hills at last, and in this place stood a cottage and barns--a tiny homestead, but very neat, and one that had been unmarred by the enemy. there were even fruit trees standing. there was a huge wagon before the door, and into it must go the household goods and the family as well--if there was a family. it seemed that the wagon had just arrived, and the american soldiers with it scarcely knew what to do in this case. there was nothing packed, ready for removal, and an old woman--the only person about the farmstead--was busy feeding her flock of chickens. "you must come, _vite_, tante," ruth heard the corporal in charge of the squad say to the old woman. the automobile had stopped, for the road was too narrow for it to pass the wagon. the old woman seemed to understand the american's mixture of english and french. she shook her head with emphasis. "but i cannot leave my pullets," she said, aghast. "they will starve. you will go along, you americans, and leave me alone." "you must come; tante," repeated the corporal, inflexibly. "you should have prepared for this. you were warned in time." then to his men: "go in, boys, and bring out her goods. careful, now. don't mess anything up." "you cannot take my things. your cart is already full," shrilled the old woman. "and my pullets!" the american soldiers entered the cottage. between her anger at them and her fear for the safety of her chickens, the old woman was in a pitiful state, indeed. ruth looked at m. lafrane. "oh, can we not do anything for her?" she asked. "military law knows no change--the laws of the medes and persians," he said grimly. "she must go, of course----" suddenly he sat up more stiffly beside the american girl and his hand went to his cap in salute. he even rose, and, before ruth looked around and spied the occasion for this, she knew it must foretell the approach of an officer of importance. coming along the road (he had been sheltered from her gaze before by the laden wagon) was a french officer in a very brilliant uniform. ruth gasped aloud; she knew him at a glance. it was major henri marchand, in the full panoply of a dress uniform, although he was on foot. he acknowledged m. lafrane's salute carelessly and did not see the girl at all. he walked directly into the yard surrounding the cottage. the corporal of the american squad was saying: "i am sorry for you, _ma mère_. but we cannot wait now. you should have been ready for us. you have had forty-eight hours' notice." the old countrywoman was quite enraged. she began to vilify the americans most abominably. ruth suddenly heard her say that the abelards had been rooted here for generations. she refused to go for all the soldiers in the world! then she shrieked again as she saw the men bringing out her best bed. major marchand took a hand in the matter. "_tante_," he said quietly, "i am sorry for you. but these men are in the right. the high authorities have said you must go. all your neighbors are going. it is for _la patrie_. these are bitter times and we must all make sacrifices. come, now, you must depart." ruth wondered at his quiet, yet forceful, manner. the corporal stood back, thankful to have the disagreeable duty taken out of his hands. and the american girl wondered, too, at the respect monsieur lafrane had shown this french officer. had he saluted the uniform, or was major marchand a very important personage? her brain was in a whirl of doubt. chapter xiv more sacrifices than one monsieur lafrane had stepped out of the automobile, although the wagon had now been backed so that the car could have easily passed. its engine was still throbbing. ruth fielding was giving her full attention to the little scene at the hencoop. the tall, handsome major in his beautiful uniform made little impression upon the old woman. she backed away from him, pressing closer to the lathe coop. "no, no! i will not come. my pullets--they will starve," she reiterated endlessly. "but the germans may be coming," the major said patiently. "they will kill your pullets and eat them." "they did not do so before when they came," she shrieked. "i do not believe they are coming. these wicked americans want my pullets. _that_ is what it is! i will not!" "tante----" the major interposed gently. "i will not, i tell you!" she interrupted. she had backed up against the gate of the coop and had been fiddling behind her at its fastenings. now, quick as a wink, she snatched the gate open and, with wonderful celerity for one of her age, plunged into the hencoop and slammed to the door. there was a tumultuous flapping and cackling of the bewildered poultry, and the air inside the coop was immediately filled with dust and feathers. then the chaos subsided and the old woman looked out defiantly at the major and at the half-amused, half-pitying soldier boys. the major's shrug was characteristic. he turned to look at the spectators, and ruth saw that his eyes were moist. his pity for the unfortunate old woman and his kindness to her had its effect upon the american girl. she wondered what manner of man, after all, this frenchman could be. major marchand said something in a low voice to the american corporal. the latter gave an order to his men. they surrounded the coop, and suddenly, at the word, the corners were torn apart and the walls of the enclosure thrown down. aunt abelard shrieked--and so did the pullets. many of the latter were caught on the wing by the soldiers. the major put his arm about the old woman's shoulders. she was shrieking insanely, but he led her into the house and there remained while most of the pullets were decapitated swiftly and thrown aside, to be later carried to the field kitchens. but when the tearful old woman was brought out with the last of her possessions and bundled into the rear of the now loaded wagon, the american corporal came with a pair of the nicest pullets, their legs tied together, and placed them in the old woman's lap along with the bird-cage one of the boys lifted up to her. ruth, watching closely, saw major marchand draw the corporal aside and place a couple of twenty-franc notes in his hand, nodding toward the old woman. it was to recompense her for the pullets, over whose untimely fate she was still moaning. the mystery of the major--or his character and what and who he really was--disturbed ruth. she was excited. should she tell monsieur lafrane of her suspicion that this officer of the french army was the man whom she thought was nicko's double? for it was major henri marchand ruth believed she had seen enter nicko's garden and talk with him the evening before she left the field hospital to return to clair. the major walked quietly away without even seeing ruth. the chauffeur of their car, after a nod from lafrane, started again. they passed the wagon, which was already trundling down the road. this cot was the last one at which ruth saw anybody during that ride. for when they reached the hut of nicko, the chocolate peddler, his place was likewise deserted. there were no neighboring houses. lafrane got out at nicko's cottage and searched the premises. his face was grave when he came back to the car and told the chauffeur to hurry on to the hospital. here ruth was amazed to see many american soldiers at work. they were piling sandbags about the various huts and over their roofs. she understood now why the people were being entirely cleared out of this sector. a great bombardment was expected. ruth did not get out of the car. m. lafrane ran in, and, through the open gateway, she saw that he entered hut h. he had gone to take a look at the occupant of cot --the german officer. he was occupied within some time and when he appeared at the door of the hut dr. monteith was with him. the two stood talking for a while before the secret agent returned to the gate. he got into the car again with just a word to his chauffeur. "mademoiselle," said m. lafrane, his face serious, indeed, "there are many disappointments in life, as well as many sacrifices. we saw the old woman torn from her home--and from her pullets--just now. the pattern of life is complex for us all. "i have come from paris because you called me." ruth started and looked at him closely. "i hoped that you might have something of moment to tell me. i shall always trust in your good sense." ruth felt a sinking of the heart. "but, monsieur! have i brought you here for nothing? i warned you it might be a mare's nest." "_non, non_!" he replied eagerly. "it is not your fault. i believe you did hand me a thread of a clue that might--under more fortunate circumstances--have led to the disclosure of something momentous." "but that in reality leads nowhere, monsieur. is that what you mean?" "mademoiselle, fate tricks us! this nicko is one of those thrust out of this sector in haste because of military reasons. and the german hauptman, who lay so long ill in that hut h--well, mademoiselle, he has died!" ruth was amazed, and for a time dumb. should she bring major henri marchand into the matter? the secret agent knew him and respected him. ruth shrank from putting suspicion upon a possibly innocent person. and yet, his height, his manner of bowing, an indefinite air about him, had convinced ruth that nicko's double was henri marchand. who else could it be? could there be some person who so resembled the countess' younger son? the thought roweled her mind. there was something in it to be considered. who else could the mysterious man be? and then, of a sudden, it flashed into ruth's mind. the older son of the countess marchand was probably in appearance like his brother. count allaire marchand! and where was count allaire now? the story was that the young count had disappeared from paris. he was believed to be in the pay of the germans. he, like henri, had been educated in the prussian military schools. no matter what the secret agents thought of the countess the loyalty of her sons was questioned by the peasants living about the chateau. a determination grew in ruth fielding's mind. she would go to the chateau and see if there was a picture of count allaire in his old home. she wished to determine if he looked like major henri marchand. meanwhile they rode swiftly over another road toward clair. it was the road beside which the little inn of mother gervaise was situated. even that had been stripped of the widow's possessions and she was gone. like every other cot in all this sector, and back for ten miles from the battle front, the place was deserted. chapter xv bubu ruth arrived at clair again late in the evening and bade monsieur lafrane good-night at the hospital entrance. on the following day the girl of the red mill was permitted to go to the chateau marchand to call. the secret agent had made it plain to ruth that he held her in no fault for the seeming fiasco of their journey to the field hospital and its vicinity. the sudden death of the german officer in hut h had been an act beyond human control. the disappearance of nicko, the chocolate peddler, was an act of the military authorities. on her own part ruth was so confused regarding major henri marchand that she dared not mention his name to monsieur lafrane. matters must take their natural course--for a time, at least. nevertheless, the american girl had a particular object in mind when she set forth briskly for the chateau on this afternoon. she was free until bedtime, and during this contemplated call on the countess she was determined to learn what the young count marchand looked like. on the edge of the town she spied an automobile approaching, and soon recognized henriette dupay behind the windshield. ruth stopped and waved her hand. for a moment she thought the french girl was disinclined to stop at all. however, ruth did not propose to give henriette an opportunity to show any unfriendliness. she liked the girl and she understood that the whole matter would be smoothed over in time. the reason for aunt abelard's uprooting would become apparent to the french people, and their momentary feeling against the americans would change. henriette's face was quite flushed, however, when she stopped her car and returned briefly ruth's greeting. "how is aunt abelard?" the latter asked. she told henriette how she had chanced to be present when the old woman was forced to leave her homestead. "ah, mademoiselle, she is heart-broken!" declared henriette, quite eschewing english now. "yes, heart-broken! she arrived at our house with only two pullets. all the others were stolen by the americans," and the girl tossed her head angrily. "how about the forty francs she was given in lieu of the pullets?" ruth asked, laughing. "did she tell you about that?" "but yes," returned the french girl, rather taken aback. "but that was given to her by major henri marchand. he is so good!" "true. but it is probable that she will make application to the american officers and will be reimbursed a second time," ruth said dryly. "as far as the pullets go, henriette, i believe they are a small loss to aunt abelard." "but her house! her home!" ejaculated the french girl. "of what use would that be to her had she remained and there should come the bombardment that everybody says is coming? the german shells may tear her cottage to bits." henriette shrugged her truly french shoulders. she evidently did not believe in the threatened bombardment. the guns of the front had been quiet for two days. so she nodded to ruth rather coldly and drove on into town. but ruth went away smiling. she was quite convinced that henriette and her family would soon find out their mistake, and then they would be on friendly terms with her again. the latin nature is easily offended; but it is usually just. she saw nobody else in her walk to the chateau. there she had to wait for some minutes at the gate for dolge to answer her summons. "the mademoiselle fielding," he said, bowing. "i am sure the countess will approve my asking you in at once. she is fond of you, mademoiselle." "i am glad, dolge. i like to have people approve of me," smiled ruth. "ah, yes, mademoiselle. and the major--our henri, our cadet! i am sure _he_ approves of you, mademoiselle." the american girl flushed warmly, but managed to hide her disturbed countenance from the old serving man. "he is not at home, is he, dolge?" she quietly asked. "but, no, mademoiselle. he went hurriedly yesterday. and would you believe it?" "believe what?" "he went in one of those flying machines. _oui_! _oui_! right up into the sky, mademoiselle," went on the old man excitedly. "yonder he mounted it beyond the gates. ah, these times! it is so that soon one will take an aeroplane as one takes a taxicab in the city. is it not?" ruth listened and marveled. major marchand flying into the air from the chateau here on yesterday, when it was only yesterday that she met him, in his brave uniform, taking pity on a poor old woman who was driven out of the battle zone? suddenly her mind caught the point. the cogs slipped into juxtaposition, as it were, and everything unrolled in its proper sequence before her. it was on yesterday, as she went toward the dupay farm, that she had seen the rising aeroplane, from which had been dropped the paper bomb, wherein ruth had found the message from tom cameron. it was from just beyond the gates that dolge said the machine rose that had borne away major marchand from the chateau. "the time, dolge?" she demanded, stopping short in the walk and looking at the surprised old servant. "the time that major henri flew away?" "oh, la! it was around one of the clock. not later." that was the hour! ruth was confident she was making no mistake now. it was either the major, or the pilot of the plane, that had dropped the message to her. two hours and a half later she had seen the major at the cot of aunt abelard. he might easily have flown clear beyond the german lines and back again by that time. and he might easily have worn his major's uniform beneath his other garments. but tom's message. that was the point that puzzled her. if dropped by major marchand, how had he obtained it? what did the french officer, whose loyalty she doubted, have to do with tom cameron, whose loyalty she never for a moment doubted? ruth went on ahead of the wondering dolge, vastly troubled. at every turn she was meeting incidents or surprising discoveries that entangled her mind more and more deeply in a web of doubt and mystery. where was tom? where did the major fly to? where was he coming from when she had seen him walking down that country road where aunt abelard was having her unfortunate argument with the american soldiers? the twists and turns of this mystery were enough to drive the girl distracted. and each incident which rose seemed to be dovetailed to some other part of the mystery. now she was suddenly sorry that she had not opened her heart entirely to monsieur lafrane. she wished she had told him about tom cameron, and the fears she felt for him, and what was said about him by his comrades. he might at least have been able to advise her. she came to the chateau, therefore, in a most uncertain frame of mind. she was really in no mood for a social call. but there was the countess walking on the paved court before the main door of the chateau. it was a fine day, and she walked up and down, with a shawl about her shoulders, humming a cheerful little song. "dear mademoiselle ruth!" she said, giving the girl her hands--soft and white, with a network of blue veins on their backs. "i am charmed. if it were not for you and our little hetty i should scarcely feel i had a social life at all." she spoke to dolge as he hobbled away. "tell them to make tea," she said. "yes, madame la countess," he mumbled. she took the arm of the strong young girl and walked with her up and down the portico. "henri will be disappointed in not seeing you, mademoiselle. he went yesterday--called back to his duties." "and by aeroplane, they tell me," answered the girl. "think!" exclaimed the countess, shrugging her shoulders. "a few months ago the thought of one of my boys mounting into the air would have kept me awake all of the night. and i slept like a child!" "we grow used to almost everything, do we not?" ruth said. "war changes our outlook on life. of course, i am not assured that he safely landed yesterday----" "i can assure you of that, madame, myself," said ruth, without thinking far ahead when she said it. "_you_, mademoiselle?" "yes. i saw him--on the ground. he was all right," the girl added, dryly. "you saw him after he left here!" exclaimed the countess. "i do not understand." the girl saw she would have to go into particulars. but she did not tell the countess she had taken her trip to the field hospital with the secret agent, m. lafrane. "dear me! that was so like him," the countess observed when she had heard the story of aunt abelard and her pullets. "his brother, too----" "is count allaire like his brother?" ruth asked quietly. "yes. in many ways." "i have never seen a picture of the count, have i?" the american girl pursued. "but, yes! you have but to look at henri," laughed the countess. "a little older. perhaps a little more serious of expression. but the same tall, slim, graceful figure, both. pardon my pride in my sons, mademoiselle. they are my all now. and they are both like me, i believe," she added softly. ruth looked at her with luminous eyes. "like you in every way, madame? given so entirely to the service of their country?" "but yes! too recklessly patriotic, i fear," said the countess. then, with a start, she exclaimed: "what is this? do my eyes deceive me? is it that wicked bubu, running wild and free again?" ruth turned quickly. crossing the wide lawns she saw the greyhound pass swiftly. he was without his blanket, and it seemed to ruth as though the barrel of his body was much lighter of color than his chest and legs. like a flash he was behind the chateau. "_ma foi_!" gasped the countess. "what is---- something----" she started to follow the dog. as she still clung to ruth's arm the girl must perforce go with her. through ruth's mind was swirling a multitude of suspicious thoughts. chapter xvi the hollow tooth bubu had been running at large--and in the daytime. he had come from the north. ruth believed the dog had crossed the lines and just now had arrived at the chateau after his long and perilous journey. yet for a greyhound the fifteen or twenty kilometers between the chateau and the battle front was a mere nothing. at the rate the girl had seen the "werwolf" flying over the fields, he must have covered that distance faster than an automobile. and, too, he would take a route much more direct. the countess seemed to have forgotten ruth's presence; but the girl could not well draw her arm away and remain behind. besides, she was desperately eager to know what would be done to bubu, or with him, now that he had returned to the chateau. it was not unwillingly that the girl accompanied the countess. it was some distance around the great building to the rear. they came upon the excited dolge and the big dog, the latter lapping water out of a pan near the well house. "_non_! _non_!" cried the countess warningly. "not that, dolge. he must not be allowed too much cold water after his so-exciting run. it is not good for him." the gardener stooped to take the pan away, and the greyhound growled. "oh, la, la!" mumbled dolge. "name of a mouse! would you butcher me, you of bloody mind?" ruth noticed that the barrel of the greyhound was almost white, which assisted in giving him that ghostly appearance at night. the countess left ruth and hurried forward. she did not stoop, but with her foot she straightway overturned the pan, sending the water out on the stones. the dog looked up at her, wide-mouthed and with tongue hanging. but he did not offer to molest her. he only dropped his head again, and with his pink tongue sought to lap up the moisture from the stones. "the collar, dolge," commanded madame la countess. the old man hobbled forward with the wide leather strap attached to the chain. the strap was decorated with big brass rivet heads. she buckled it around the neck of the panting dog. he lapped her hands. "ah, naughty one," she murmured, "would you run the fields like a wild dog? the blanket, dolge. he may take cold." already the gardener was bringing the covering. they fastened it about bubu, who finally shook himself and would have lain down had not the countess said sharply: "nay, nay! all is not yet finished, bubu. open thy mouth--so!" she forced open the big dog's jaws. rather, at a touch he allowed her to hold his dripping jaws apart. "dolge!" she demanded decisively, "can you see?" "_oui, oui, madame_!" the old man chattered, shaking his head vigorously. "but not for me will he keep his jaws apart. i am not to be made into sausage-meat, i hope?" the countess laughed at him. "hold his mouth open, then. he would not desire to bite; but----" ruth, amazed, saw her white fingers fumble inside the dog's open maw. she pulled what seemed to be a white rubber cap from one of his grinders. quickly and skilfully, with a fine knitting needle, the countess ripped from this rubber casing what the girl thought looked like a twist of oiled paper. "all right, my good dolge. you may let him go," she said, hiding the twist of paper in her palm. "let him rest--poor fellow!" she patted the greyhound with the sole of her slipper and the big dog yawned; then laid his head upon his paws. he was still panting, his sides heaving heavily. his legs and feet were bedaubed with mud. "he has come a long way," the countess said coolly to ruth. "let us go in, mademoiselle. it must be that our tea is ready." she seemed to consider ruth quite worthy of her confidence. the american girl knew that she was on the verge of an important discovery. it could not be that bubu carried messages to germany to give aid and comfort to the enemy! that suspicion was put to rest. bubu was being used to bring news from french spies across the battle lines. otherwise the countess would never have allowed ruth to discover this mystery of the "werwolf." and how shrewd was the method followed in the use of the obedient dog! a hollow tooth, which would be overlooked even if the enemy shot and examined the animal. ruth wanted to ask a hundred questions; but she did not open her lips it might be that the countess supposed she was already aware of the use made of bubu, and how he was used. the american girl had been brought to the chateau by monsieur lafrane, the agent of the french secret service bureau. and the countess knew, of course, his business. as soon as they were in the library, where the tea things were laid, the countess proceeded to smooth out the bit of paper and examine it under a strong reading glass. "ah!" she cried, in a moment, her smooth cheeks flushing and her eyes brightening. "he is well! my dear boy!" her joy urged ruth to question her, yet the girl hesitated. her eyes, however, revealed to the countess her consuming curiosity. "mademoiselle!" exclaimed the old lady, "do you not _know_?" "i--i don't know what you mean, madame," stammered ruth. "it is from the count--my allaire!" "the message is from count marchand?" cried the girl, in utter amazement. "but yes. he does not forget his old mother. when able, he always sends me word of cheer. of course," she added, looking at the american girl curiously now, "there is something else upon the paper. his message to his mother is not a line. you understand, do you not? monsieur lafrane, of course----" "monsieur lafrane has never told me a word," ruth hastened to say. "i only suspected before to-day that bubu carried messages back and forth across the lines." "ah, but you are to be trusted," the countess said cheerfully. "we do what the anglais call--how is it?--'our little bit'? bubu and i. he, too, is french!" and she said it proudly. "and for years, mademoiselle, we have established this couriership of bubu's." she laughed. "do you know what the farmers say of our so-good dog?" ruth nodded. "i have heard the story of the werwolf. and, really, madame, the look of him as he runs at night would frighten anybody. he is ghostly." the countess nodded. "in that's his safety--and has been since before the war. for, know you, mademoiselle, _all_ france was not asleep during those pre-war years when the hateful hun was preparing and preparing. "my husband, mademoiselle fielding, was a loyal and a far-sighted man. he did not play politics, and seek to foment trouble for the republic as so many of our old and noble families did. now, thank heaven, they are among our most faithful workers for la patrie. "but, see you, count marchand owned a small estate near merz, which is just over the border in germany. sometimes he would go there--sometimes to drink the waters, for there are springs of note, perhaps for the hunting, for there is a great forest near. he would always take bubu with him. "and so we taught bubu to run back and forth between here and there. he carried messages around his neck in those times. quite simple and plain messages, had he been caught at the frontier and examined. "it was our henri who resorted to the hollow tooth, and that since the war began. bubu had one big tooth with a spot on it. henri knew an american dentist in paris. ah, what cannot these americans do!" and the countess laughed. "we took bubu to paris and had the decayed spot drilled out. the tooth is sound at the root. the dentist made the hole as large as possible and then we moulded the rubber caps to close it. you see how the messages are sent?" "remarkable, madame!" murmured ruth. "but?" "ah? who sends the messages from beyond the german lines? now it is count allaire himself," she hastened to explain. "in disguise he went through the lines some weeks ago. the agent who was there came under suspicion of the germans." "and he lives at the castle over there in germany--openly?" gasped ruth. "nay, nay! it is no castle at best," and the countess laughed. "it is by no means as great a place as this. it was a modest little house and is now the comfortable quarters of a fat old prussian general. "but upon the estate is the cottage of a loyal frenchman. he was gardener there in my husband's time. but as he bears a german name and his wife is german, they have never suspected him. "it is with this old gardener, brodart, my son communicates; and it is to him our good bubu goes." "but how can the dog get across no man's land?" cried ruth. "i do not understand that at all!" "there are bare and bleak places between the lines which we know nothing about," the countess said, shaking her head. "not in all places are the two armies facing each other at a distance of a few hundred yards. there is the lake and swampland of savoie, for instance. a great space divides the trenches there--all of two miles. patrols are continually passing to and fro by night there, and from both sides. a man can easily get through, let alone a dog. "hush!" she added, lowering her voice. "of course, i fear nobody here now. poor bessie--who was faithful to me for so many years--was contaminated by german gold. but she was half german at best. it was well the poor soul escaped as she did. "however, my remaining servants i can trust. yet there are things one does not speak of, mademoiselle. you understand? there are many good men and true who take their lives in their hands and go back and forth between the enemy's lines and our own. they offer their lives upon the altar of their country's need." chapter xvii the worst is told "but, major marchand? what of him?" ruth asked, deeply interested in what the countess had said. "he, too, is in the secret work," responded the countess, smiling faintly. "my older son claimed the right of undertaking the more perilous task. likewise he was the more familiar with the vicinity of our summer estate at merz, having been there often with his father." "but major henri goes back and forth, along the front, both by flying machine and in other ways?" ruth asked. "i am sure i have seen him----" she wanted to tell the countess how she had misjudged the major. but she hesitated. there was the matter of nicko, the chocolate peddler, and the man who looked like him! could that disguised man have been the major? and if so, what was his interest in the german officer who had so suddenly died in the field hospital--the occupant of cot , hut h? the girl's mind was still in a whirl. had she called lafrane to the front for nothing at all? had she really been stirring up a mare's nest? she listened, however, to the countess' further observations: "but yes, mademoiselle, we all do what we may. my sons are hard at work for la patrie--and brave bubu!" and she laughed. "of course your american soldiers cannot be expected to take over the scouting on this front, not altogether, for they do not know the country as do we french. yet some of your young men, henri tells me, show marvelous adaptability in the work. is it the red indian blood in them, think you, that makes them so proficient in scouting?" she added innocently. but ruth did not laugh. indeed, she felt very serious, for she was thinking of tom cameron. major henri marchand must know about tom--where he was and what he was doing. that is, if it had been the major who had dropped the message from tom at her feet the day before. she could not discuss this matter with the countess. and yet the girl was so troubled regarding tom's affairs that she felt equal to almost any reckless attempt to gain information about him. before the girl could decide to speak, however, there was a step upon the bare floor of the great entrance hall of the chateau. the ringing step came nearer, and the countess raised her head. "henri! come in! come in!" she cried as the door opened. major marchand marched into the room breezily, still in the dress uniform ruth had seen at aunt abelard's cottage. "ah, mademoiselle!" he cried, having kissed his mother's hand and suddenly beholding the girl who had shyly retired to the other side of the hearth. "may i greet you?" he came around the tea table and took her hand. she did not withdraw it abruptly this time as he pressed his lips respectfully to her fingers. but she did blush under his admiring glance. "see, henri!" his mother cried. "it is the good bubu who has brought it. in code. can you read it?" she thrust the whisp of paper, taken from the dog's hollow tooth, under his eyes before pouring his cup of tea. henri, begging ruth's indulgence with a look, sat down before the table, his sword clanking. he smoothed the paper out upon the board and drew the reading glass to him. "wait!" countess marchand said. "you have had no luncheon! you are hungry, my dear boy?" she hurried out of the room intent upon her son's comfort. ruth watched the countenance of the major as he read the code message. she saw his expression become both serious and troubled. suddenly he turned in his chair and looked at the american girl. his gaze seemed significant, and ruth began to tremble. "mademoiselle?" "yes, monsieur?" "you have questions to ask me, _hein_?" "it is true, major marchand," she murmured, struggling for self-control. "i am eaten up by curiosity." "is it only curiosity that troubles you, mademoiselle?" he said dryly. "no! no! i am seriously alarmed. i am anxious--for a friend." her voice was tense. "you received a certain message?" he asked. "oh, yes, major marchand! and that excites me," she replied, more calmly now. "was it really you who dropped the paper bomb at my feet?" his eyes danced for a moment. "that was entirely--what you call--by chance. mademoiselle, i spied you, and having the written message of your friend i inserted it in the bomb, twisted the neck of it, and let it fall at your feet. you are, of course, acquainted with lieutenant cameron?" "he is the twin brother of my dearest friend," ruth replied. "helen is in paris--helping make soup for french orphans," and she smiled. "something that i have heard has worried me vastly about tom." her smile disappeared and her gaze at the french major was pleading. his own countenance again fell into serious lines, and he tapped the table thoughtfully. ruth clasped her hands as she waited. she felt that something untoward was about to be made known to her. there was something about tom which would shock her. "i am sorry, mademoiselle," murmured the major. "here is something said about lieutenant cameron." "in that message bubu brought?" she asked slowly. "yes. it is from my brother. did you know that lieutenant cameron was working with the count marchand in germany?" "oh, i did not know it until--until lately! there are such stories afloat!" "ah!" he smiled and nodded understandingly. "do not let those idle tales annoy you. lieutenant cameron is a very able and a very honorable young man. he volunteered for the dangerous service. of course, his comrades could not be told the truth. and it chanced he was observed speaking to one of our agents who came from the german side. "at once it was decided that he would do well in the area of merz, where count marchand is in command. you understand? lieutenant cameron's comrades were given the wrong impression. otherwise, knowledge that he was a scout might have been easily discovered by german spies in this sector. your friend speaks perfect german." "oh, yes," ruth said. "he began to prattle to babette, his german-swiss nurse when he was a child." "so he has been of much help to us near merz. but my brother informs me now that a serious difficulty has arisen." "what is it, major marchand?" asked the girl, with tightening lips. "lieutenant cameron has been arrested. he is suspected by the germans at merz. he was furnished the papers and uniform of a bavarian captain. the authorities are making an investigation. it may--i am desolated to say it, mademoiselle!--become fatal for lieutenant cameron." chapter xviii bearing the burden it was dusk before ruth fielding arrived at the clair hospital after her exciting call at the chateau marchand. she had refused to allow major marchand to accompany her to the village, for she learned he must be off for the front lines later in the evening, and would in any case have but a few hours with his mother. ruth had conceived a plan. she had been in serious conference with major marchand and the countess. neither, of course, knew the particulars of tom cameron's arrest at merz, beyond the german lines. however, they sympathized with her and applauded her desire to help tom. for there was a chance for ruth to aid the young american lieutenant. the major admitted it, and the countess admired ruth's courage in suggesting it. the brief announcement of tom's arrest sent by count marchand by bubu, the greyhound, together with facts that the major knew, aided ruth in gaining a pretty clear understanding of tom cameron's situation. he had volunteered for this dangerous service and had been assigned to work with the french secret agents on both sides of the battle line. after his own comrades' suspicion was fixed on him, it was decided, tom agreeing, that he would be able to do better work in germany. major marchand had himself guided the american lieutenant to merz, and introduced him to count allaire marchand. "and we both consider him, mademoiselle," said the major generously, "a most promising recruit. we arranged for him to enter merz in the guise of a wealthy bavarian hauptman on leave. merz, you must understand, was quite a famous health resort before the war. many foreigners, as well as germans, went there to drink the waters. that is why we had a summer estate on the outskirts of merz." in addition, the major told of tom's early successes in getting acquainted with the chief men of the town--particularly with the gouty old prussian general, who was the military governor of the district. information which tom had gained, the major whispered, had spurred the american authorities in this sector to remove the civilian population for several miles back of the trenches. there was soon to be a "surprise" attack upon the americans, and the huge guns being brought up for the bombardment before the infantry advance might utterly wreck the open country immediately back of the american trenches. tom cameron, posing as captain von brenner, was apparently awaiting at merz's best hotel the appearance of his sister, who, he declared, would join him before the conclusion of his furlough. at first the old general and the other authorities had accepted the american at his face value. somehow, suspicion must have been aroused within the last twenty-four hours. the message that had come by bubu stated that tom was under arrest as a suspicious person, but that he was detained only in the general's quarters. it was something that might blow over. finesse was required. ruth had suggested a plan, which, although applauded by the major and his mother, they could not advise her to carry out. for, if it failed, her own peril would be as great as tom cameron's. in fact, the result of failure would be that both of them would be shot! but the american girl was inspired for the task. so, urged by the countess, her son had agreed to assist ruth in an attempt which he could but approve. had count allaire marchand, or any of his french operatives in and near merz, attempted to assist in tom cameron's escape out of germany, they would merely lay themselves open to suspicion, and possibly to arrest. ruth saw a code message written to the count, who was hiding on what had been the marchand estate before the war, and then saw bubu called into the library and the twist of oiled paper secreted in the dog's mouth. when the greyhound was released for his return journey to merz, ruth, likewise, left the chateau. a short time later, as has been said, she arrived safely at the hospital in the village. just as she was about to enter the gateway, a heavy touring car rumbled up the road from the south. it stopped before the hospital gate. there was a uniformed officer on the seat beside the chauffeur; but the only occupants of the tonneau were two women. "we wish to see miss fielding," said one of these women, rising and speaking hastily to the sentinel who had presented arms before the gateway. "i shall have to call somebody from inside, mademoiselle," said the old territorial who was on guard duty. "there is such a name here, i believe." "never mind calling anybody!" ruth suddenly exclaimed, springing forward. "miss fielding is here to answer the call. will you girls tell me what under the sun you have come here for? i thought you would know enough to remain safely in paris!" "ruthie!" shrieked helen cameron, fairly throwing herself from the automobile into ruth's arms. "it is she! it is her! it is her owniest, owniest self!" "hold on," said the second occupant of the automobile tonneau, alighting more heavily. "leave a bit for me to fall on, nell." "don't you dare, heavy stone!" cried ruth. "if you fell upon my frailness----" "hush! tell it not in gath," cried jennie sepulchrally. "i have lost flesh--positively." "yes," agreed helen, quite dramatically. "she barked her knuckle. every little bit counts with heavy, you know." ruth welcomed the plump girl quite as warmly as she did her own particular chum. immediately the military automobile rolled away. the visitors both carried handbags. "how did you come to get here--and where under the sun will you stay?" ruth demanded again. "now, never mind worrying about us, martha," jennie stone returned. "we will get along very well. isn't there a hotel?" "a hotel? in clair?" gasped the girl of the red mill. "i--should--say--not!" "very well, dear; we'll put up wherever you say," said helen airily. "we know you are always a favorite wherever you go, and you must have loads of friends here by this time." "the unqualified nerve of you!" gasped ruth. "but come in. i'll speak to _madame la directrice_ and see what can be done. but how did you ever get permission to come here?" she repeated. "it is our furlough. we have earned it. haven't _you_ earned a furlough yet?" helen demanded, making big eyes at her chum. "it never crossed my mind to ask for one," admitted the girl of the red mill. "but merely your having a furlough would not have won you a visit so near the front." "really?" asked jennie. "do you mean to say this _is_ near the battle line?" "you'd think so at times," returned ruth. "but answer me! how did you get your passports viséed for such a distance from paris?" "forget not," said jennie, "that mr. cameron was over here on government business. helen can do almost anything she likes with these french officials." "humph!" was all that came from ruth in answer to this. "you don't seem glad to see us at all, ruthie fielding!" cried helen, as they crossed the courtyard and mounted the steps to the hospital. but ruth was frankly considering how she could make the best use of her two college chums, now that they were here. in less than twenty-four hours she expected to leave clair for an extended absence. she had been troubled regarding her duty to the red cross. circumstances had played into her hands. she could trust helen and jennie to do her work here at the clair hospital while she was absent. she found the matron and took her aside before introducing her to the newcomers. she did not explain her reason for wishing to absent herself from duty for some days, nor did the tactful frenchwoman ask after she was told that the countess marchand approved. but she told the matron about her two girl friends who had arrived so unexpectedly. "they are good girls, and capable girls, and i can show them very briefly my ordinary duties, madame." "it is well, mademoiselle fielding," the woman said with cordiality. "let me now greet your friends." so helen and jennie were introduced, and the matron said she would find two rooms in the nurses' quarters for the visitors. but first the three girls must go to ruth's little cell and have tea while they talked. "first of all," helen began. "how is tommy-boy?" "he is perfectly well as far as i know," ruth said gravely. "goodness! you are not _mad_ with him?" "of course not. how silly," her chum returned. "well, but don't you see him every day or two?" ruth fielding stared at her chum, not alone with gravity, but with scorn. "i think it is well you have come up here to visit," she said. "don't you know yet that we are in this war, helen cameron?" "i don't know what you mean," returned helen, pouting. "if we were not at war with germany, do you think i would be away from ardmore college at this time of year?" "tom is on active service," ruth said quietly. "i am rather busily engaged myself. i have seen him just twice since i have been at clair. but i happened to learn to-day that--beyond peradventure--he is in health." "that's good enough!" exclaimed helen. "and i suppose you can get word to him so he'll know jennie and i are here?" "i will try to get word to him," agreed ruth soberly. "he can ask off and come to see us, can't he?" "not being in military charge of this sector, i cannot tell you," the girl of the red mill said dryly. "but if you remain here long enough i hope tom will come to see you, my dear." she could tell them no more. indeed, to-night she did not even wish the girls to know that she proposed absenting herself from the hospital for a time and expected helen and jennie to do her work. she had a burden to shoulder that she could not share with her friends. she sent them to their beds a little later to sleep confidently and happily after their long journey from paris. as for ruth fielding, she scarcely closed her eyes that night. chapter xix adventure in the dawn of the next morning ruth arose and rearranged all her stock of supplies and corrected the schedule of goods on hand. despite her recent activities she had kept her accounts up to date and every record was properly audited. before helen cameron and jennie stone even knew how ruth proposed making use of them, the girl of the red mill had explained her plan fully to the matron. that the americaine mademoiselle was so friendly with the grand folk at the chateau rather awed the frenchwoman. she could find no fault with anything ruth did. but there was a great outcry when, at breakfast, ruth explained to helen and jennie that she was called away from the hospital on private and important business, and for several days. "she's running away to be married!" gasped jennie stone. "treason!" "your romantic imagination is ever on tap, isn't it, heavy?" responded ruth with scorn. "that's all right," returned the plump girl sharply. "you look out for your brother tom, helen cameron." "but it may be one of these french officers," helen said, with more mildness. "some of them are awfully nice." "don't be ridiculous, girls!" ruth observed. "really it isn't at all nice of you, my dear," her chum said. "i'm not doing this because it is nice," flared ruth, whose nerves were a little raw by now. "it is something i _have_ to do." "what, then?" demanded jennie. "i can't tell you! it is not my secret! if it were, don't you suppose i would take you both into my confidence?" "i don't know about that," grumbled jennie stone. "i had made arrangements to do this before you came," the girl of the red mill said, rather provoked. "you must take me at my word. i cannot do differently. i never told you girls a falsehood in my life." "goodness, ruthie!" exclaimed helen, with sudden good sense. "say no more about it. of course we know you would not desert us if it could be helped. if tom would only come while you are gone----" "i may be able to communicate with him," ruth said, turning her head quickly so that her chum should not see her expression of countenance. "and there is something you girls can do for me while i am gone." "i warrant!" groaned jennie. "no rest for the wicked. don't try to think up anything in the line of cooking for _me_, ruthie fielding, for i won't do it! i have come here to get away from cooking." "will you fast then, while you remain at clair?" asked ruth rather wickedly. "ow-wow!" shrieked the plump girl. "how you can twist a fellow's meaning around! no! i merely will _not_ cook!" "but she still hopes to eat," said helen. "what is it you want of your poor slaves, lady ruth?" "do my work here while i'm gone. look out for the supplies. i can break you both in this morning. i do not know just when i shall be called for----" "by whom, pray?" put in the saucy jennie drawlingly. ruth ignored the question. "you will not find this work difficult. and, as jennie suggests, it will be a change." "good-_night_!" groaned jennie. "don't lose heart, sister," said helen cheerfully. "i understand that ruth often goes into the wards and writes letters for the poor poilus, and feeds them canned peaches and soft puddings. isn't that what you do, ruthie?" "better not let me do that," grumbled jennie. "i might be tempted to eat the goodies myself. i'll write the letters." "heaven help the home folks of the poor poilus, my dear," helen responded. "nobody--not even madame picolet--could ever read your written french." "well! i do declare!" exclaimed the fleshy girl, tossing her head. "i suppose the duty will devolve upon me to eat all the _blessés'_ fancy food for them. dear me, ruthie fielding! don't stay long. for if you do i shall utterly ruin my figure." it was very kind of the girls to agree to ruth's suggestion, and she appreciated it. but she could not tell them anything about what she was to do while she was absent from the hospital. indeed, she barely knew herself what she would do--in detail, that is. she had put herself in the hands of major marchand and must wait to hear from him. she dared not breathe to helen a word of tom's trouble. nobody must know that she, ruth, hoped in some way to aid him to escape from beyond the german lines. it seemed almost impossible for a girl--any girl--to pass from one side of the battle front to the other. from the sea on the belgian coast to the alps the trenches ran in continuous lines. division after division of belgians, british and their colonial troops, french, and americans held the trenches on this side, facing a great horde of germans. in places the huge guns stood so close together they all but touched. beyond these were the front trenches, in which the sharpshooters and the machine-gun men watched the enemy. and beyond again were the listening posts and the wire entanglements. how could a girl ever get through the jungle of barbed wire? and in places the huns had strung live wires, carrying voltages strong enough to kill a man, just as they did along the borderland of holland. when ruth thought of these things she lost hope. but she tried not to think at all. major marchand had bade her be of good hope. she kept her mind occupied in showing the two girls their duties and in introducing them to such of the nurses and other workers as ruth herself knew well. it was rather late in the afternoon, and she had heard no word of the major, when ruth and her two friends came out of a lower ward to the main entrance of the hospital just as an ambulance rolled in. two of the _brancardiers_ came out of the hospital and drew forth one stretcher on which a convalescent patient lay. "oh, the poor man!" murmured helen. "what do they do with him now?" "he has come in from a field hospital," began ruth. and then she saw the face of the ambulance driver. "oh, charlie bragg!" she called. "what did i tell you?" said jennie solemnly. "she knows 'em all. they grow on bushes around here, i warrant." "they don't grow 'em like charlie on bushes, i assure you," declared ruth, laughing, and she ran down the steps to speak to the ambulance driver, for she saw that he wanted to say something to her. "miss ruth, i was told to whisper something in your private ear, and when i have said it, you are to do it, instantly." "goodness! what do you mean, charlie bragg?" she gasped. "listen. those two _brancardiers_ are coming for the second man. when they start up the steps with him, you pop into the back of the ambulance." "why, charlie!" she murmured in utter amazement. "are you going to do as you are told?" he demanded with much apparent fierceness. "but the third man? you have another wounded man inside." the stretcher-bearers slid the second convalescent out of the ambulance. "now!" whispered charlie. "do as you are told." half understanding, yet still much puzzled, the girl went around to the rear of the ambulance. it was half dark within, but she saw the man lying on the third stretcher, the one overhead, put out a hand and beckon her. she could see nothing of his face, his head was so much bandaged. one arm seemed strapped to his side, too. the engine of the car began to purr. charlie clashed the clutch. ruth jumped upon the step, and then crept into the covered vehicle. the car leaped ahead. she heard jennie stone exclaim in utter amazement: "well, what _do_ you think of that? what did i tell you, helen? she is actually running away." in half a minute the ambulance was out of the courtyard and the dust of the village street wan rising behind it, as charlie bragg swung the car into high gear. this was adventure, indeed! chapter xx on the raw edge of no man's land "sit down, mademoiselle," said a low voice. "there is a cushion yonder. make no sound--at least, not until we are out of the village." ruth could only gasp. there was light enough under the ambulance roof for her to see the speaker creep down from the swinging stretcher. he moved very carefully, but his bandages were evidently camouflage. the jouncing of the automobile made her uncomfortable. charlie bragg was driving at his usual reckless pace. ruth did not even laugh over the surprise of helen and jennie at her departure. she was too deeply interested in the actions of the man with her in the ambulance. he was unwinding the bandage that strapped his left arm to his side and, with gravity, removed the splints that had evidently been put in place by a professional hand. his arm, however, was as well and strong as ruth's own. she saw that he wore a familiar, patched, blue smock, baggy trousers, and wooden shoes. he began to look like the mysterious nicko, the chocolate vender! then he unwrapped his head. there were yards of the gauze and padding. to believe his first appearance once might have thought that his jaw had been shot away. but at last ruth saw his unmarred face so clearly that she could no longer doubt his identity. it was major marchand. and yet, it was nicko! "pardon, mademoiselle," said the officer softly. "it is necessary that i go disguised at times. my poor friend, nicko (perhaps you saw him at the field hospital to which you were assigned for a week?), allows me to dress like him and did, indeed, allow me to live in his house at times. now he has been removed from his home and fields with the rest." "i think i understand, major marchand," she answered. "i was much interested in a wounded uhlan captain who was in that hospital. he began by trying to bribe our poor nicko, thinking the chocolate peddler too weak-minded to be patriotic. he was mistaken," and the major nodded. "had the uhlan not died of his wounds i believe i should have got something of moment from him." ruth shook her head and asked: "where are you taking me? oh! i thought charlie would have us over then!" the major smiled. "our friend, monsieur bragg, is faithful and wise; but he drives like jehu. i have engaged him to transport us a part of the way." "part of the way to where?" "to where we are going," major marchand replied dryly enough. "but i was not exactly prepared, major marchand," ruth said. "i am not properly clothed. i wear slippers and i have no hat." "trouble not regarding that," he told her. "it would be impossible for you to take a wardrobe across no man's land. an outfit of proper clothing must be secured for you upon the other side." "will that be possible?" "german women still dress in the mode, mademoiselle. and the garments you wear at merz must bear the labels of berlin tradesmen." "goodness! i never thought of that," admitted ruth. "somebody must think of all the details," he said gently. "my brother will attend to it all." "count allaire?" "yes. he is a master of detail," and the major smiled and nodded. "you speak as though i were sure of getting across," ruth whispered. "have no doubt, mademoiselle. we _must_ get over. doubt never won in a contest yet. have courage." after another minute of jouncing about in the furiously driven ambulance, the girl continued her questioning: "what am i to do first?" "do as you are told," he smiled. "we are going toward the front now? yes? and at what part of the line can we cross?" "there is but one place where it is possible for you to get over. it is at the savoie swamps. it is a wild and deserted place--has always been. there is a little lake much sought by fishermen in the summers before the war started. the shores immediately about it are always marshy. at this season they are inundated." "then, how am i to get through?" "that you will be able to understand better when you are there," said the officer noncommittally. "is it open country?" she asked wonderingly. "shall we be quite exposed?" "not at night," he returned grimly. "and it is partly forest covered, that morass. the guns have shattered the forest in places. but most of the huge shells which drop into the swamp never explode." "oh!" "yes. they are very, very dangerous--those duds. but they will not be our only peril in crossing. have you a brave heart, mademoiselle?" "i am going to help tom cameron escape," she said firmly. he bowed and said nothing more until she again spoke. "i can see that it may be possible for a man to get through that swamp--or across the lake by boat. but how about me? my dress----" "i am afraid we shall have to disguise you, mademoiselle," major marchand said with one of his flashing smiles. "but do not take thought of it. all will be arranged." this was comforting, but only to a slight degree. ruth fielding was not a person given to allowing things to take their course. she usually planned far ahead and "made things come her way." she stared out rather stonily upon the landscape. charlie was still driving at his maddest gait. they passed few houses, and those they did pass were deserted. "your americans, mademoiselle," said the major, "have prepared for the expected german advance with a completeness--yes! they have my admiration." "but will the attack come?" she asked doubtfully. "surely. as i told you, mademoiselle, we can thank your young friend, lieutenant cameron, for the warning. through his advantage with general stultz he gained such information. the high command of the german armies has planned this attack upon the first american-held trenches." "oh, what will they do to poor tom if they are sure he is a spy?" murmured ruth, for the moment breaking down. "we will get there first," was the assurance given her. "but his sister--helen---- think of it, major marchand! she has just arrived at clair and awaits him there at the hospital. i have not dared tell her that tom has been caught by the germans." "fear not," he urged her. "there is yet hope." but every now and then ruth felt her courage melting. it seemed so impossible for her to do this great thing she had set out to do. she felt her limitations. yet it was not personal fear that troubled her. she would have pressed forward, even had she been obliged to essay the crossing of no man's land alone. at last the jouncing ambulance came to a rocking halt. "as far as i can take you folks in this old fliver, i guess," drawled charlie bragg. "an unhealthy looking place for a picnic." he twisted around in his seat to look at ruth. she smiled wanly at him, while the major got down quickly and offered her his hand. "is it all right, ruth?" charlie whispered. "i don't _know_ this french chap." "don't fear for me, charlie dear," she returned. "he is major henri marchand. i fancy he is high in the french army. and i know his mother--a very lovely lady." "oh, all right," responded the boy shortly. "one of the family, as you might say? take care of yourself. haven't heard from cameron, have you?" "that is what i am here for," whispered ruth. "i hope i shall hear of him soon." "well, best o' luck!" said charlie bragg, as ruth followed the major out of the rear of the ambulance. the evening was falling. they stood at the mouth of a wide gully up which the car could not have traveled. the latter turned in a swirl of dust and pounded back toward the rear. when it was out of sight and the noise of it had died away, there did not seem to be any other sound about them. "where are we?" asked ruth. "let us see," returned major marchand cheerfully. "i think we shall find somebody up this way." they walked up the gully some hundreds of yards until they finally came out upon a narrow plain at the top. on this mesa was a ruined dwelling of two stories and some shattered farm buildings. "halt!" was the sudden command. a man in khaki appeared from a clump of trees near the house, advancing his rifle. "friends," said the major quietly. "advance one friend with the countersign." major marchand stepped ahead of ruth and whispered something to the sentinel. "guess it's all right, boss," said the sentinel, who evidently had no french. "but you can't proceed in this direction." "why not, _mon ami_?" "new orders. something doing up front. wait till my relief comes on in half an hour. top-sergeant will tell you." "but we _must_ go forward," urged the major, rather vexed. "don't worry," advised the american. "general orders takes the 'must' out of mustard even, and don't you forget it. if you were a soldier, you'd learn _that_," and he chuckled. "come on over to the dyke and sit down--you and the lady," and he favored ruth with an admiring glance. the american girl did not speak, and it was evident that the sentinel thought her french like her companion. the three strolled along to the grassy bank behind the trees and directly before the half-ruined house. shell fire had destroyed one end of it. but the other end wall was complete. on the second floor was a window. the lower sash was removed, but in the upper sash there were several small, unbroken panes of glass. there was the smell of smoke in the air, and the two newcomers spied a little handful of fire blazing on a rock under the dyke. here the sentinel had made his little camp, and it was evident that he had boiled coffee and toasted meat within the hour. "great housekeeping," he said, grinning. "when i get back home i guess my mother'll make me do all the kitchen work. ain't war what general sherman said it was--and then some?" "but we wish to hurry on, monsieur," said the major quietly. "nothing doing!" responded the sentinel. "i got particular orders not to let anybody pass--not even with the word. just stick around a little while, you and the lady. toppy'll be along soon." ruth wondered that the french officer did not reveal his identity. but she remained silent herself, knowing that major marchand must have good reason for not wishing his rank known. "we got to watch this old ranch," continued the talkative sentinel, nodding toward the half-ruined dwelling. "somebody thinks there's something besides cooties in it. yep," as the major started and looked at him questioningly. "spies. those dutchmen are mighty smart, they do say. i'm told they flash signals from that window up yonder clear across the swamps to the german lines. now, when it gets dark----" he nodded and pursed his lips. the major nodded in return. ruth remained silent, but she was becoming nervous. while they were in action and going forward the suspense was not so hard to bear. but now she began to wonder how she was ever going to cross that morass the major had told her about. and half a hundred other difficulties paraded through her troubled mind. they sat upon the bank, and waited. the sentinel continued to march up and down just the other side of the fire, occasionally throwing a remark at the major, but usually with his face turned toward the house, which was distant about five furlongs. suddenly ruth observed that major marchand had in his palm a little round mirror. he seemed to be manipulating it to catch the firelight. ruth saw in a moment what he was about. the sentinel stopped in his beat with a smothered exclamation. his back was to them and he was staring up at the open window of the house. there came a flash of light from the window--another! like lightning the sentinel raised his rifle and fired pointblank into the opening on the second floor. then, with a shout, he dashed across the intervening space and disappeared within the house. major marchand seized ruth's hand and rose to his feet. chapter xxi a night to be remembered "come!" the french officer whispered. "now is our chance." "oh!" ruth murmured, scarcely understanding. "haste! he will be back in a minute," the officer said. he helped her over the dyke, and, stooping, they ran away from the abandoned house from which the puzzled american sentinel thought he had seen a spy flashing a light signal to the enemy lines. "fortunately, i had a little mirror," murmured major marchand, as he and the girl hurried on through the dusk. "with it, you see, i flashed a reflection of the firelight upon the broken panes of that upper window. our brave young american will discover his mistake before his relief comes. we could not wait for that. nor could we easily explain to his top-sergeant why we wished to go forward." "oh!" murmured ruth again. "in your work, monsieur, i see you have to take chances with both sides." "it is true. our own friends must not suspect too much about us. the best spy, mademoiselle, plays a lone hand. come! this way. we must dodge these other sentinels." it was evident that he knew the vicinity well. beyond the mesa they descended through a grove of big trees, whose tops had been shot off by the german guns. they traveled through the lowland swiftly but cautiously. ruth could not see the way, and clung to major marchand's hand. but she tried to make no sound. once he drew her aside into a jungle of brush and they crouched there, completely hidden, while a file of soldiers marched by, their file leader flashing an electric torch to show the way. "the relief," whispered major marchand, when they had gone. "they may be swarming down this hill after us in a few minutes." the two hurried on. the keen feeling of peril and adventure gripped ruth fielding's soul. it was not with fear that she trembled now. at length they halted in a pitch-black place, which might have been almost anything but the sheepfold major marchand told ruth it was. he produced an officer's trench whistle and blew a long and peculiar blast on it. "now, hush!" he whispered. "it is against usage to use these whistles for anything but the command to go over the top at 'zero.' necessity, however, mademoiselle, knows no law." they waited. not a sound answered. there was no stir on any side of them. ruth's fears seemed quenched entirely. now a feeling of exultation gripped her. she was fairly into this adventure. it was too late to go back. the major blew the whistle a second time and in the same way. suddenly a dark figure loomed before them. there was a word in french spoken out of the darkness. it was not the password the major had given the american sentinel. "come, mademoiselle," said the major. "give me your hand again." ruth's warm hand slipped confidently into his enclosing palm. the frenchman's courtesy and unfailing gentleness had assured her that she was perfectly safe in his care. they left the sheepfold, the second man, whoever he was, moving ahead to guide them. even in the open it was now very dark. there was no moon, and the stars were faint and seemed very far away. finally ruth saw that a ridge of land confronted them; but they did not climb its face. instead, they followed a winding path along its foot, which soon, to the girl's amazement, became a tunnel. it was dimly lit with an electric bulb here and there along its winding length. "where are we?" she whispered to the major. "this is the first approach-trench," he returned. "but silence, mademoiselle. your voice is not--well, it is not masculine." she understood that she was not to attract attention. a woman in the trenches would, indeed, create both curiosity and remark. the guide stopped within a few yards and sought out trench helmets that they all put on. when the strap was fastened under her chin ruth almost laughed aloud. what would helen and jennie say if they could see her in this brand of millinery? she controlled her laughter, however. here, at the first cross-trench, stood a sentry who let them by when the ghostly leader of the trio, whose face she could not see at all, had whispered the password. ruth walked between her two companions, and her dress was not noticed in the dark. soon they were out of the tunnels through the ridge. later she learned that the ridge was honeycombed with them. the trench they entered was broader and open to the sky. and muddy! she stepped once off the "duckboards" laid down in the middle of the passway and dipped half-way to her knee in the mire. she felt that if the major had not pulled her up quickly she might have sunk completely out of sight. but she did not utter a sound. he whispered in her ear: "i admire your courage, mademoiselle. just a short distance farther. do not lose heart." "i am just beginning to feel brave," she whispered in return. presently the leader stopped. they waited a moment while he fumbled along the boarded side of the trench. then a plank slid back. it was the door of a dugout. "this way, major," the man said in french. the major pushed ruth through the narrow opening. the plank door was closed. it was a vile-smelling place. a match was scratched, a tiny flame sprang up, and then there flared a candle--one of those trench candles made of rolled newspapers and paraffin. it illumined the dugout faintly. there were bunks along the walls, and in the middle of the planked cave was a rustic table and two benches. evidently the men who sometimes occupied this trench had spent their idle hours here. but to ruth fielding it seemed a fearful place in which to sleep, and eat, and loaf away the long hours of trench duty. "all ready for us, tremp?" asked major marchand of the man who had led them to this spot. the american girl now saw that the man was a squat frenchman in the horizon blue uniform of the infantry and with the bars of a sergeant. he was evidently one of the french officers assigned to teach the americans in the trenches. in his own tongue the man replied to his superior. he drew from one of the empty bunks two bulky bundles. the major shook them out and they proved to be two suits of rubber over-alls and boots together--a garment to be drawn on from the feet and fastened with buckled straps over the shoulders. they enclosed the whole body to the armpits in a waterproof garment. "a complete disguise for you, mademoiselle--with the helmet," major marchand suggested. "and a protection from the water." "the water?" gasped ruth. "we have half a mile of morass to cross after we get out of the trenches," was the reply. "i am unable to carry you over that, pickaback. you will have to wade, mademoiselle." chapter xxii through the german lines perhaps this was the moment most trying for ruth fielding in all that long-to-be-remembered night. and the frenchmen realized it. having come so far and already having endured so much, however, the girl of the red mill was of no mind to break down. but the thought introduced into her brain by major marchand's last words was troubling her. as for roughing it in such an admirable garment as this rubber suit, ruth was not at all distressed. she had camped out in the wilderness, ridden half-broken cow ponies on a wyoming ranch, and gone fishing in an open boat. it was not the mannish dress that fretted her. it was the suggestion of the long and arduous passage between the american trenches and the german trenches. what lay for her in that no man's land of which she had heard so much? "i am ready," she said at length, and calmly. "am i to remove my skirts?" "quite unnecessary, mademoiselle," replied the major respectfully. "see! the garment is roomy. it was made, you may be sure, for a man of some size. your skirts will ruffle up around you and help to keep you warm. at this time in the year the swamp water is as cold as the grave." without further question the girl stepped into the rubber suit. sergeant tremp helped to draw it up to her armpits, and then buckled it over her shoulders. he showed her, too, how to pull in the belt. she immediately felt that she would be dry and warm in the suit. and, although the boots seemed loaded, she could walk quite well in them. major marchand gave her a pair of warm gloves, which she drew on, after tucking her hair up under her helmet all around. the major thrust two automatic pistols into his belt. but he gave her a small electric torch to carry, warning her not to use it. "then why give it to me?" she asked. "ah, mademoiselle! we _might_ need it. now--_allons_!" tremp slid the plank back, and they filed out into the trench after he had looked both ways to make sure that the coast was clear. ruth wondered what would happen to them if they were caught by an american patrol? perhaps be apprehended for the spies they were--only the americans would think them spying for the huns! the major's hands were full. before the candle had been put out ruth had seen him pick up two gas-masks, and he carried these as they stumbled along the duckboards toward the next cross trench. "halt!" a sibilant whisper. sergeant tremp muttered something in reply. the trio turned the corner and immediately it seemed they were at the back of the firing shelf where--every so far apart--the figures of riflemen stood waiting for any possible german attack. the men in the trenches at night are ever on the alert. nobody molested the girl and her companions. indeed, it was too dark to see much in the trench. but the sergeant seemed to know his way about perfectly. little wonder in that. the french had dug these trenches and sergeant tremp knew them as he did the paths in the environs of his native village. at a dark corner he clucked with his tongue and brought them to a halt. "this is it, major," he whispered, after peering about. "good!" ejaculated the officer softly. "let me step ahead, mademoiselle. cling to my belt behind. try to walk in my footsteps." "yes," she breathed. tremp seemed to melt into the darkness. major marchand turned at an abrupt angle and ruth followed him as he had desired. she knew they were passing through a very narrow passage. the earth was scraped from the walls by their elbows and rattled down upon their feet. the passage rose slightly. the bottom of the trench they had just left--the very front line--was all of thirty feet in depth at this point. this narrow tunnel was thrust out into no man's land and led to a listening post. at least, so she supposed, and she was not mistaken. nor was she mistaken in her supposition that tremp was no longer with them. he was not prepared to cross the savoie morass. a breath of sweeter air blew upon ruth's cheek. "down!" whispered the major. they almost crawled the final few yards. there was a quick word spoken ahead and the clatter of arms. major marchand shrilled a whisper in reply. "come, my boy," he said aloud, turning to ruth. "we must step out lively. it is nearing ten o'clock." "so you take a friend to-night, do you, major?" asked a good american voice--that of the officer in command of the listening post. "aye," was the reply. "a boy to help me bring home the fish i may catch." there was a little laugh. ruth felt herself in a tremor. she knew instinctively that it would never do for her sex to be discovered. she was not discovered, however. they stood upon the surface. major marchand took her hand and led her quietly away. the earth about them looked gray; but the blackness of night wrapped them around. there was not a light to be seen. she realized more by the sense of locality she possessed than by aught else that they were on the lowland far beyond that ridge through which they had first tunneled after sergeant tremp had joined them. her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness as they stumbled on. below them and ahead, she occasionally caught the glint of water. it was a pool of considerable size. she believed it must be the small lake major marchand had spoken of. suddenly ruth seized her companion's arm. "there!" she whispered. "what is it?" he asked in the same low tone. "there are men. see them?" "no, no, mademoiselle," he told her with a small chuckle. "there are no men standing so boldly there. they are posts--posts to which our barbed-wire entanglements are fixed." "oh!" she breathed with relief. "be not alarmed----" he seized her shoulder as he spoke and so great was his sudden pressure on it that he carried her with him to the ground. a shower of flare rockets had erupted from the german trenches. they sailed up over no man's land and burst, flooding acres of the rough ground with a white glare. the major and ruth lay flat upon the ground, and the girl knew enough not to move. nor did she cry out. for five minutes the eruption lasted. then all died down and there was no reply from the american side. major marchand chuckled. "that was most unexpected, was it not, mademoiselle? but have no fear. the first patrol has already been across here to the german wire entanglements to-night, and found nothing stirring. it is not yet that we shall run into germans." they arose, and the major led straight on again, slowly descending the easy slope of this hillside. finally they reached a gaping hole. ruth knew it must have been made by a shell. it was thirty feet or more across, and when they descended into it she found it to be fully twenty feet deep. "now you may show a flash of your light, mademoiselle," the frenchman advised her. "thank you. remove that casque you wear. these would attract much attention upon the german side. here is a german helmet to take the place of the other. i cached them on a former trip. so! now, over this way. on hands and knees, mademoiselle." she followed him, obeying his word. so they crept out of the marmite hole and up under the entanglement of wire. it was plain that this path had been used before. once clear of the barrier, they descended the last few steps to the shore of the lake. there was thick shrubbery here, but major marchand led through this to the narrow beach. "can it not be crossed by boat?" she whispered. "this water can be seen from watchers of both armies. its least disturbance--even that occasioned by a swimmer--would draw volleys of shots from americans and germans alike. "now, we follow along this narrow beach. step in my track, if possible, mademoiselle fielding. and keep within touch of me." they walked on steadily. soon the track became soft and sticky. she sank ankle deep in mire. then gradually the morass grew deeper and she was in mud and water up to her knees. later she was plodding half-leg deep, panting deeply. the frenchman wished to get to a certain place before they halted. the girl was almost exhausted when the major leaped out upon a log and offered her his hand. "come up here, mademoiselle," he whispered. "we shall be dry here--and we can rest." she could not speak; but her breathing soon grew calmer. major marchand said, suddenly speaking in german: "forget your french, fraulein--from this point on. the german tongue only for us." "oh! are we near?" she asked, obeying him. "yes. can you go on again?" "at once," she declared with confidence. they walked to the end of the long log. stepping down, she found that the quagmire was not so deep. but for some minutes they continued to plow through it, but walking as softly as possible. ahead there was a flash of light. ruth thought it might be another flare, and prepared to drop down in the mud. but it was merely an electric torch. there were voices--rougher voices than those to which ruth had been used. she caught german words. major marchand drew her behind the huge trunk of a tree. there splashed past through the mud a file of bulky figures. when they had gone, her companion whispered to the girl: "fraulein, it is a patrol. we are in good season. soon we shall be there." she was soon able to walk beside him on higher ground. she saved her breath for continued exertion. they came to a wire entanglement somewhat similar to that on the american side of the morass. but here a narrow path had been opened for the patrol. "halt! who goes there?" croaked the sentinel. "_ein freund_!" the major gave the reply in a guttural tone. he stepped forward and whispered to the sentinel. evidently he had the password of the germans, as he had had that of the americans! ruth followed on through the wires. they crossed a narrow field and were again challenged. here a sergeant was brought to confer with the disguised frenchman. but it was all right. he and his companion were passed, and they were led on by the sergeant. they went over several bridges which spanned the front trenches and then their escort left them. major marchand seized ruth's hand and held it for a moment. "rejoice, fraulein!" he whispered. "we are through the lines." chapter xxiii the gardener's cot ruth fielding thought afterward that major marchand must possess the eyes of a cat. and his sense of locality was as highly developed as that of a feline as well. in the midst of the wood into which they had come out from the german trenches he discovered a path leading to a tiny hut, which seemed entirely surrounded by thick brush. he left her waiting for a moment while he ventured within. then he came to the door and touched ruth's sleeve. "i can never know who is waiting for me here," he whispered. "your brother?" "no, no! some day they will suspect--these boches--and they will find my little lodge. you know, fraulein, the pitcher that too often goes to the well is at last broken." she understood his meaning. at last he would be caught. it was the fate of most spies. he lit a smoky lamp; but it gave light enough for her to see that the hut was all but empty. it must have been a swineherd's cot at a pre-war date. there was a table, a sawed-off log for a chair, a cupboard hanging against the wall, and a heap of straw in a corner for a bed. this he pushed aside until he revealed beneath it a box like a coffin, buried in the dirt floor. its cover was hinged. from this hidden receptacle he drew forth the complete uniform of a uhlan lieutenant. "turn your back for a little, fraulein," he said softly. "i must make a small change in my toilet." he removed the muddy rubber suit and the helmet. likewise, the smock, and baggy trousers, like those worn by nicko the chocolate peddler. in a trice he clothed himself from top to toe as a uhlan full lieutenant. he stood before the small glass tacked in the corner and twirled and stiffened his mustache with pomatum. when he turned and strode before ruth again he was the typical haughty martinet who demanded of the rank and file the goose-step and "right face salute" of the german army. "for your protection, fraulein," he said, stooping at the box again, "we must make a subaltern of you." "oh! i could never look like a boy," ruth objected, shrinking as she saw the second uniform brought to light. "for your protection," he said again. "a girl like you, fraulein, would not have the chance of a rabbit among these huns. they are not french," he added dryly. "i will step outside. make haste, please." he practically commanded her to don the uniform he laid out. ruth let fall the heavy rubber garment she had worn through the swamp. then she removed her outer clothing and got into the uniform and into the long, polished boots quickly. there was even the swagger cane that young prussian officers carry. she viewed herself as well as she could in the piece of mirror in the corner. she might have the appearance of a "stage" soldier; but nobody would ever, for a moment, take her for a man! she strode up and down the hut for several moments, trying to tune her gait to her new character--no easy matter. finally she went to the door. the lamplight showed her figure boldly in the frame of the doorway. she saw the waiting major start, and he muttered something under his breath. "am i not all right?" she asked with some trepidation. for once major marchand forgot himself. he bowed his stiff, military bow with a gesture as though he would kiss her finger tips. "assuredly, mademoiselle!" she drew back for him to enter the hut again. he withdrew from the box under the straw a long, military cloak, which he fastened upon ruth's shoulders. "it will cover the figure, fraulein. and now, a bit of camouflage." from his pocket he drew a leather roll, which, when opened, proved to contain shaving materials and certain toilet requisites. with a camel's hair brush dipped in grease paint he darkened her lip and her cheekbones just before her ears--as though the down of immature manhood were sprouting. she again looked at herself in the glass. "i _am_ a boy now!" she cried. major marchand chuckled as he tumbled the rubber suits and all the other articles into the box, shut the cover and covered it with the straw. he looked carefully about the hut before they departed to make sure that no signs of their occupancy of it were left. he even rubbed out faint imprints of ruth's slippers upon the damp earthen floor of the hut. putting out the smoky lamp, they left the place. the frenchman seemed to know the vicinity perfectly. they followed yet another path out of the wood and came to what was evidently a small inn. there was a noisy party within, caparisoned horses held by orderlies in the yard, and several automobiles under the sheds. "some of the crown prince's wild friends," whispered major marchand to ruth. "we must keep out of their sight but appear to be members of the party. remember, you are sub-leutnant louden. i am your superior, leutnant gilder. do not speak if you can help it, fraulein--and then of the briefest." she nodded, quite understanding his warning. she was alive to the peril she faced, but she felt no panic of fright now that she was in the midst of the adventure. the major found somebody in authority. an auto-car for hire? surely! a price asked for it and a driver to merz, which staggered ruth. but her companion agreed with a nod. to be a prussian lieutenant of the crown prince's suite one must throw money around! in ten minutes they were under way--as easily as that was it accomplished. huddled down in her corner of the tonneau, with the cloak wrapped around her, ruth dozed. it was growing very late, and after her struggle across the swampland between the lines she was exhausted in body if not in mind. she awoke suddenly. the car was stopping at a wide gateway and two sentries were approaching to examine their papers. the frenchman seemed prepared for everything. he had papers for himself and for "sub-leutnant louden." "correct, herr leutnant. pass on." the car entered the private estate, but swiftly sped off into a side road instead of going up to the big house in the upper windows of which ruth saw lights, although it was now nearly morning. "our quarters are in the gardener's cottage," said the major, loudly, evidently intending the information for the automobile driver's ear. they came to a roomy old cottage. its windows were dark. the chauffeur stopped before it and the major sprang out. "have a care how you step," he whispered to ruth, and she made ready to get out of the car without a tumble. the high boots did feel queer on her legs. her companion was hammering on the door of the cottage with the hilt of his sword. a window opened above. "leutnant gilder and sub-leutnant louden billeted here. make haste and come down," he commanded in his gruffest voice as the automobile wheeled around in the drive and started back for the gate. in three minutes the door was opened; but it was dark inside. "is it thou, my henri?" whispered a voice. "allaire!" ruth knew that it was the young count himself. major marchand drew her into the tiny hall. there was not much light, but she saw the two tall men greet each other warmly--in true french fashion--with a kiss upon either cheek. chapter xxiv captain von brenner's sister the major turned immediately to ruth, drawing his brother forward. "mademoiselle ruth fielding, allaire. the count marchand," he whispered formally. "you understand, from my message by bubu, allaire, for what reason the lady has taken this arduous journey, do you not?" "but yes," rejoined his brother. "bubu safely arrived. i have not yet sent him back." "but tom--lieutenant cameron? what of him?" ruth asked anxiously. "have no present fear, fraulein," said the count in german. "he has not yet been allowed to return to his rooms at the hotel in merz. that is all." "he is a prisoner at the house up yonder, yes?" the major asked, with a shrug. "not a prisoner. a guest," replied the count. "general stultz is still friendly. the hauptman von brenner," and he smiled, "is teaching the general some american card game, i believe. the whole staff is card-crazy. they have little else to do but play." "and what plans have you already made for fraulein ruth?" queried major marchand. "while she remains under this roof she will pass as frau krause's niece. but in the morning she will be furnished an outfit i have secured, and she shall enter merz as a very different person." "oh, dear!" murmured ruth. "another disguise?" "you could scarcely continue in your present dress and escape discovery--by daylight," the count said dryly. this fact was, of course, patent. ruth was only too glad that the voluminous cloak covered her completely. the count led her up two flights of stairs to a tiny, neat chamber under the roof. it was evidently a domestic's bedroom. "put the uniform outside the door, fraulein, when you remove it. it must be hidden," whispered the count. "you will find night apparel on the chair. the good frau krause has thought of everything." this, indeed, seemed to be the fact when ruth awoke from her sound sleep at mid-forenoon. she might not have aroused then had there not been an insistent tapping on the door. "_ja_? _herein_!" exclaimed ruth, not too sleepy to remember her german. a broad face surmounted by a cap, then the woman--quite a motherly looking person--appeared. "i am to help the fraulein dress," announced frau krause, smiling. "if you will be so kind," the girl agreed. what she had not noticed when she went to bed was an open trunk heaped with clothing--both for under and outer wear. the rich and "stuffy" gown was typically german, and so was the plumed hat. ruth was sitting, with her hat on, in the little dining-room of the cottage over her pot of substitute coffee, rye bread and schmierkäse, when a private and almost noiseless auto-car rolled up to the door. she went out and entered it quite alone, and they were out of the marchand estate by a rear exit and on the highway to merz before ruth discovered that the capped and goggled chauffeur was none other than count allaire marchand himself. in a stretch of the road where there was no traffic and few houses in sight, he half turned in his seat and told ruth in brisk, illuminating sentences what she was to do. it sounded easy, providing she aroused no suspicion in the breasts of those whom she met. the supposed character of captain von brenner's sister would enable her to treat everybody in a distant and haughty manner. "but be careful of your german, fraulein," urged the count. "make no error in your speech. deny yourself to everybody until your brother appears. after your first outburst of anger and alarm, when you arrive at the hotel, retire to the rooms he engaged for you, and refuse to discuss the matter with anybody. "it is, as you americans say, one grand game of bluff. it can be carried through by no other means. remember what i have told you to tell your brother. to-night at nine, or to-morrow night at nine, i will be in waiting with the car. this is absolutely all my brother and i can do for you." in a few minutes the car rolled into the principal street of merz. just beyond the great, glass-roofed building, wherein in happier times the visitors went daily to drink the medicated waters, was the hotel. a rheumatic old woman with a sash, who acted as carriage opener, with a young boy for porter, met "captain von brenner's sister." in the hall the corpulent host bowed before her. "captain von brenner?" queried ruth. "i am his sister." mine host paled. his eyes grew round with wonder. "what it the matter with you?" asked the girl impatiently. "are you dumb?" "he is not here, mein fraulein," chattered the man. "send for him, then. and show me to the suite he engaged for me." "fraulein! pardon!" gasped the innkeeper. "we did not understand. that is--it was---- we thought he would not return." "what?" "and that--that the _gnädiges fraulein_ would not come." "idiot!" exclaimed ruth, revealing an excellent semblance of rage. "you have relet my rooms?" "but you may occupy the herr hauptman's," burst out the browbeaten innkeeper. "and where is captain von brenner?" it all came out at one gush of chattering information. the captain had been sent for by the herr general stultz. he had already been away three days. it was whispered he was arrested. after her first show of annoyance ruth seemed to recover her self-possession. she listened more quietly to the explanation of the excited hotel man. then she demanded to be shown to her "brother's" rooms. there she sat down and wrote quite a long letter to tom cameron in the character of his sister, "mina von brenner." she was sure tom would recognize her handwriting and understand at once that she was at merz in an attempt to aid him. "fear not for me, brother," she wrote in conclusion. "but hasten to assure your mina that you are perfectly safe. is it not possible for you to return to the hotel by dinner time? i am distraught for your safety." she sent this letter, with gold, by the hotel keeper, who said he could find a messenger to go to the marchand estate. ruth knew, of course, that her letter would be read there before it was given to tom. even if they questioned him about his sister before giving him the letter tom would make no mistake. "mina von brenner" was already a character and name chosen by count allaire and tom when the latter took up his difficult and dangerous work in the guise of an uhlan captain. that was one of the longest days ruth fielding had ever spent. as the hours dragged by she sat and pondered in the rooms tom had occupied, one moment in despair of his coming, the next fearing that every step in the corridor outside her door was that of a guard come to arrest her. yet her own safety scarcely mattered. she felt that if she could not compass tom's escape, she did not care to go back across the lines, were that even possible! ruth fielding learned much about her own heart during that long wait--much that she would not have acknowledged to any other soul in the world. it finally grew dark. she would allow the servant to light but a single candle. this stood upon her table beside which she sat with her forehead resting in her hand, her elbow on the table. suddenly there sounded a quick step in the corridor. ruth had been mistaken so many times that she did not raise her head or look up. a rap on the door, and before she could say "_herein_!" the knob turned. a figure dashed in--a brave figure in a uniform somewhat similar to the one ruth herself had worn the night before. "mina!" cried a welcome and familiar voice. "my dear sister!" tom rushed across the room. ruth saw, as she rose, that there were two officers with him, but they remained outside. they saw tom take her in his arms in a most affectionate and brotherly manner. then they closed the door, evidently satisfied. "no need of tearing my hair down and breaking my ribs, tom," ruth whispered. "please remember that i am _not_ helen, after all." "no," he returned softly. then, holding her off to look more closely at her, he went on more lightly: "you are mina von brenner. great heavens, my dear! how did you get here?" chapter xxv back again it was ruth who finally remembered to order dinner sent up. her letter, read, of course, by the mildly suspicious old general, had served to release tom from present espionage. there was not even a guard in the corridor when, just before nine, the "brother and sister" left the rooms and strolled out of the hotel into the streets. they walked several blocks until tom was assured they were not spied upon. then quickly, through several short but crooked side streets, he led ruth to a garage in an alley. he tapped a signal on the door. the latter slid back. the purring of a motor was heard. a man silently got into the driver's seat. tom helped ruth into the tonneau and got in himself. "you have your papers, captain?" asked the count softly. "yes. they did not take them from me." "and the lady's?" said the other. "if we are halted you know what to say?" "quite," returned tom in german. the car rolled out of the garage, the door of which closed as silently behind them as it had opened. ruth made up her mind that merz was quite as infested with french spies as the towns behind the french lines were infested with those of the germans. the car left the town quickly. she remembered the road over which she had traveled that morning. they entered the marchand estate by the same rear gate where only one sleepy guard hailed them and did not even look at the papers when he observed tom's uniform. "farewell," whispered the count as they approached the gardener's cottage. "i may not see you soon again, captain. nor the fraulein. best of luck!" they alighted. the car wheeled and was gone. good frau krause met ruth at the door, hurried her up to the small room and there helped her into the uniform of the sub-lieutenant of uhlans. when ruth came down into the parlor of the cottage she found two other officers of apparently her own regiment awaiting her. tom rushed to her. but she only gave him her hand. "manifestly this is no place for renewed protestations of brotherly regard, tommy," she said demurely. "i presume we have to go through all the difficulties we did last night, major?" "and quickly," muttered major henri marchand, looking away from them. "there is something on foot. i should not be surprised if the promised attack and advance under barrage fire is to begin before morning." "i am ready," the girl said simply. "here is the car i sent for," the frenchman said, raising his hand as he heard the automobile without. "you ahead, captain. remember, you are our superior officer." they filed out. the car which the major and ruth had used in reaching the gardener's cottage from the german front stood panting on the drive. the three got in. they wheeled around, boldly passing the front of the marchand house where the general and his staff lived and where tom had been an unwilling guest for three days, and so reached the main entrance of the estate. here their papers were scrutinized, but superficially. captain von brenner's name was already known. leutnant gilder and sub-leutnant louden were remembered from the previous evening. the car started again. it slipped between the massive stone posts of the gateway. it sped toward the front. but all the peril was yet ahead. "how can we get through the german trenches if they are already filled with the shock troops that will be sent over following the barrage?" asked tom. "we must beat them to it, as you americans say," chuckled the major, whose spirits seemed to rise as the peril increased. and he prophesied well in this matter. they were, indeed, in the trenches before the reserves were brought up for the planned attack upon the american lines. the trio of fugitives left the car at the wayside inn. they found the hidden hut and made their changes into rubber suits, an outfit being produced for tom by the indefatigable major marchand. through the shrouding darkness they went in single file to the wood directly behind the trenches. as on the previous night the french spy had secured the password. three men with an evident objective "up front" were allowed to pass without question. once "over the top" they lay in the field until a patrol went out through the wire entanglements to spy about no man's land. the three joined this party, but quite unknown to its leader. once on the black waste at the edge of the morass, the three fugitives separated from the german patrol and slipped down into the low ground. major marchand found the path, and, for a second time, there began for ruth that wearisome and exhausting journey through the swamp. this time, what with her failing strength and the excitement of the venture, ruth was utterly played out when they reached the log whereon she and the major had rested the night before. "we'll carry her between us--chair fashion," suggested tom cameron. "that is the way, major. interlock your hands with mine. lean back, ruthie. we'll get you out of this all right." it was a three-hour trip to the american trenches, however, and, after a while, ruth insisted upon being set down. she did not want to overburden her two companions. at the listening post an officer was sent for who recognized major marchand and who took tom and ruth "on trust." the major, too, sent the word up and down the trenches by telephone that the expected advance of the germans was about to occur. as the three passed through the american lines, after removing the rubber suits in the dugout, they passed company after company of american troops marching into the trenches. tom left ruth and the major at a certain place to report to his commander. but he promised to be in clair the next morning to satisfy helen of his safety. it was almost morning before the major and ruth secured transportation, the one to the clair hospital, the other to the chateau on the hill behind the village. but it was an officer's car they used, and it covered the distance less bumpily than had charlie bragg's ambulance. "mademoiselle," said major henri marchand in his most punctilious way, "it is in my heart to say much to you. i approve of you--i admire you. your courage is sublime--and your modesty and goodness equally so. "forgive the warm expressions of a frenchman who appreciates your attributes of character, as well as your graces of person. believe me your friend forever--your devoted and humble friend. and i trust your future will be as bright as you deserve." the day was just breaking as he thus bade her good-bye and ruth fielding alighted from the machine at the gateway of the hospital. she stood for a minute and watched the car disappear in the semi-darkness with this faithful soldier of france sitting so upright upon the rear seat. and she had once suspected him of disloyalty! the sentinel presented arms as she went in. she climbed wearily to her own little white cell that looked out toward the battle front. already the guns had begun--the big german guns, heralding an attack for which the americans were prepared, thanks to tom cameron! the thundering echoes awoke helen and jennie. they scurried into ruth's little room to find her sitting on the side of her cot sipping hot tea which she had made over her alcohol lamp. "where _have_ you been?" cried helen. and jennie chimed in with: "two whole nights and a day! it is disgraceful! oh, ruthie! are you really wedded?" "i am wedded to my work," replied the girl of the red mill quietly. "dear, dear! how original!" drawled jennie. "what are those guns?" demanded helen. "aren't they going to stop pretty soon?" "they have merely begun. you are here in time to witness--from a perfectly safe distance--a german drive. this sector will be plowed by huge shells, and our brave boys in khaki will hold the german horde back. it will be one of the hottest contested battles our boys have experienced." "pooh! how do you know?" scoffed helen. "i warrant it will all be over in an hour," added jennie. "what do you know about it, ruth fielding? you haven't been over there to find out what is in the mind of the hun." "_haven't i_?" ruth fielding hesitated. should she tell them? what would these, her two closest girl friends, say or think, if they knew what she had been through during the past thirty-six hours? suppose she should picture her adventure to them--just as it had happened? suppose she told them of her long journey with the french major across no man's land? "where is tom? did you get word to him?" helen asked. "he will be here this morning to see you," ruth said, and then went back to her thoughts of her adventure. "goody! dear old tom will take us around and show us the big shell holes--and all," helen declared. shell holes! ruth remembered the shell hole in which they had changed steel helmets before and after crossing the swamp. how she must have looked in that shapeless rubber garment and steel hat! "what under the sun are you laughing at, ruth fielding?" demanded helen. "yes. do tell us the joke," drawled heavy stone. "i--i was ju-just thinking of how fun-funny i must ha-have looked in a hat i had on since i saw you girls!" ruth was hysterical. "well! i never!" gasped jennie. "dear me, ruth," helen said, admonishingly. "i wonder you are so light-minded at such a time as this. you are laughing when those horrid guns may be throwing shells right among our poor boys. dear, dear! i wish they would stop." ruth gazed at helen with a far-away look in her eyes. "i'm not laughing," she said slowly. "far from it!" "yes, but you did laugh!" burst out jennie. "if i did, i didn't know it," answered ruth. "i was thinking of something else. oh, girls, not now--to-morrow, perhaps--you may know about it. now i'm tired, so tired!" the two girls, at last realizing that something out of the ordinary had occurred and seeing how near the end of her strength ruth really was, petted her, made her as comfortable as possible, and finally left her to rest, telling her they would still take charge of the supply room, so that the girl of the red mill need not take up at once her duties in the hospital. the end [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: "it's a beautiful old place, helen," sighed ruth.] ruth fielding at briarwood hall or solving the campus mystery by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding at lighthouse point," etc. _illustrated_ new york cupples & leon company publishers books for girls by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series l mo cloth. illustrated. ruth fielding of the red mill or, jasper parloe's secret. ruth fielding at briarwood hall or, solving the campus mystery. ruth fielding at snow lodge or, lost in the backwoods. ruth fielding at lighthouse point or, nita, the girl castaway. ruth fielding at silver ranch or, schoolgirls among the cowboys. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york. copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding at briarwood hall contents chapter i. the exodus ii. the man with the harp iii. approaching the promised land iv. the rivalry of the upedes and the fussy curls v. the duet vi. the entering wedge vii. the upedes viii. the marble harp ix. the ghostly tribunal x. something more than ghosts xi. the voice of the harp xii. the mystery deepens xiii. beginnings xiv. the sweetbriars xv. the night of harpocrates xvi. the hawk among the chickens xvii. goody two-sticks xviii. the mystery again xix. the triumvirate xx. at triton lake xxi. on the ice xxii. the harpist once more xxiii. the secret xxiv. who is the "tattle-tale?" xxv. getting on ruth fielding at briarwood hall chapter i the exodus the sun was a regular lie-abed on this autumn morning, banked about by soft clouds and draperies of mist; but they glowed pink along the horizon--perhaps blushing for old sol's delinquency. the mist hung tenderly over the river, too--indeed, it masked the entire valley of the lumano--lying thick and dank upon the marshes and the low meadows, but wreathed more lightly about the farmhouses and their outbuildings, and the fodder and haystacks upon the higher ground. but suddenly the sun flung off the bedclothes and leaped right into the sky. that long, low bank of cloud that had been masking him, melted away and the shreds of mist were burned up in a hurry as his warm rays spread abroad, taking the entire valley in their arms. farmhouses, where the kitchen chimney smoke had been rising straightly into the air, immediately put on a new bustle. doors opened and shut. there was the stamping of horses in the stables as they crunched their corn; cows lowed as the milk-pails rattled; sheep baa-a-ed in their folds, and the swine, fearing that some other of the farm stock would get _their_ share of the breakfast, squealed in eager anticipation. on a knoll by the river side stood the rambling buildings belonging to jabez potter, who kept the red mill. the great wheel beside the mill end of the main structure had not yet begun to turn, but there was plenty of bustle about the pleasant house. the sun had scarcely popped up when a very pretty, bright-looking girl ran out upon the porch and gazed earnestly along the road that followed the lumano toward osago lake. she looked out from under a shielding hand, for the sun was in her eyes. around the corner of the house came a tall, dark-faced man whose long jaws were cleanly shaven and deeply lined. his clothing was full of milldust and it seemed to have been ground into his face for so many years that it was now a part of the grain and texture of his skin. he did not smile at the girl as he said: "you ain't looking for them yet; air you, ruth? it's much too early. help your aunt alviry put breakfast on the table. she'll hev it all to do when you're gone." the tone was stern, but the girl seemed to be used to it, for her face did not cloud over, and the smiles rippled about her mouth as she replied: "i'm so full of happiness, uncle jabez, that you mustn't mind if i'm looking for helen and tom ahead of time. it doesn't seem possible that i am actually going with them." "it seems real enough to me," grumbled jabez potter. "i hope you'll get enough out of it to pay us for all the trouble and cost of your going--that i do." but even this seemingly unkind speech did not ruffle the girl's temper. "you wait and see, uncle jabez--you just wait and see," she said, nodding to him. "i'll prove it the best investment you ever made." he didn't smile--jabez potter was not one of the smiling kind; but his face relaxed and his eyes twinkled a little. "i sha'n't look for cent. per cent. interest on my money, niece ruth," he said, and stumped into the house in his heavy boots. ruth fielding, who had come to the red mill only a few months before, having lost all other relatives but her great-uncle, who owned the mill, ran into the kitchen, too, where a little old woman, with bent back and very bright eyes, was hovering over the stove. the breakfast was ready to be served and this little woman was pottering about, muttering to herself a continual complaining phrase: "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" aunt alvirah boggs (who was everybody's aunt alvirah, but no blood relation to either ruth or her uncle) was not a morose person, however, despite her rheumatic troubles. she smiled on ruth and patted her hand as the girl sat down beside her at the table. "seems like we'd be lost without our pretty leetle creetur about," said aunt alvirah. "i don't see what the old house will do without her." "i'll be home at thanksgiving--if uncle will let me," said ruth, quickly, and glancing at the old man; "and again at christmas, and at easter. why, the intervals will go like _that_," and she snapped her fingers. "all this junketing up and down the country will cost money, niece ruth," admonished uncle jabez. he was, by nature, a very close and careful man with money--a reputed miser, in fact. and that he did hoard up money, and loved it for itself, must be confessed. when he had lost a cash-box he kept in the mill, containing money and other valuables, it had been a great trouble to uncle jabez. but through a fortuitous train of circumstances ruth fielding had recovered the cash-box for him, with its contents untouched. it was really because he considered himself in her debt for this act, and that he prided himself upon paying his debts, that jabez potter had come to agree that ruth should go away to school. he had not done the thing in a niggardly way, when once he gave his consent. ruth's new trunk was at the cheslow railroad station and in it was an adequate supply of such frocks and necessities as a girl of her age would need in the school to which she was bound. her ticket was bought, too, and in her purse was a crisp ten-dollar note--both purse and money being a special present from uncle jabez. ruth had learned that the miller was by no means as grim as he looked, and she likewise knew that now he was kindly disposed toward her and really was doing a great deal for her. she was determined to never be ungrateful to uncle jabez for satisfying the greatest longing she had ever had--to go to briarwood hall, a boarding school. suddenly a young man put his head in at the kitchen door, grinned, and said: "they're a-comin', miss ruthie. i see 'em up the road." ruth jumped up at once and ran for her coat and hat. "there, child!" cried aunt alvirah, "ye haven't eaten enough breakfast to keep a fly alive. lucky i've got a good basket of lunch put up for ye. it'll be a long journey--by train, boat, and stage coach. you'll be hungry enough before ye git there---- oh, my back and oh, my bones!" she added, as she hobbled to the dresser for the luncheon box. ruth flashed back into the room and cried to the youth on the porch: "is the car really in sight, ben?" "it's almost here, miss." indeed, they could hear the purring of a motor-car coming up the river road. ruth flung her arms about uncle jabez's neck, although he did not rise from the table where he was methodically putting his breakfast away as though nothing unusual was happening. "you've been a dear, good uncle to me," she whispered, "and i love you for it. i'll be careful of the money, and i'll get all the learning i can for the money you pay out--now just you see if i don't!" "i ain't sure that it'll do either of us much good," grumbled uncle jabez, and he did not even follow her to the door as she ran out. but aunt alvirah hobbled after her, and pressed her close before she would let the girl run down the walk. "blessin's on ye, ye pretty creetur," she crooned over ruth. "i'll think of ye ev'ry moment ye air away. this is your home, ruthie; ye ain't got nary 'nother--don't fergit that. and yer old a'nt alviry'll be waitin' for ye here, an' jest longin' for the time when ye come home." ruth kissed her again and again. two excited young voices called to her from the automobile. "come on! come on, ruth. do come away!" she kissed aunt alvirah once more, waved her hand to bashful ben, who was uncle jabez's man-of-all-work, and ran down to the waiting car. in the seat beside the chauffeur was a bright-looking, black-haired boy in a military uniform of blue, who seized her lunch basket and handbag and put them both in a safe place. in the tonneau was a plainly dressed lady and a brilliantly pretty girl perhaps a year older than ruth. this young lady received the girl from the red mill rapturously when she sprang into the tonneau, and hugged her tightly as the car started on. she was ruth's dearest friend, helen cameron. it was her brother tom in front, and the lady was mrs. murchiston, who had been the governess of the cameron twins since their babyhood, and was now to remain in the great house--"outlook"--mr. macy cameron's home, as housekeeper, while his son and daughter were away at school. for tom was bound for seven oaks military academy, and that was only ten miles, or so, this side of lumberton, near which was situated briarwood hall, the boarding school which was the girls' destination. tom had attended cheslow high school for a year; but ruth and helen were about equally advanced in their studies and expected to be both roommates and classmates at the hall. ruth stood up in the car as it rolled up the hill toward cheslow and looked back at the red mill. she fluttered her handkerchief as long as she could see the little figure of aunt alvirah on the porch. uncle jabez came out and strode down the path to the mill. then the car shot around a curve in the road and the scene was blotted out. how much was to happen to her before she saw the red mill again! chapter ii the man who played the harp in the first volume of this series, entitled, "ruth fielding of the red mill; or, jasper parloe's secret," is related how ruth and helen and tom came to be such close friends. the camerons had been with ruth when the lost cash-box belonging to uncle jabez potter was found, and out of which incident ruth's presence in the camerons' automobile on this beautiful september morning, and the fact that she was accompanying helen to school, arose. mr. macy cameron, a wealthy dry-goods merchant, and a widower, had selected the best school for his daughter to attend of which he could learn. briarwood hall, of which the preceptress was mrs. grace tellingham, was a large school (there being more than two hundred scholars in attendance for the coming term), but it remained "select" in the truest sense of the word. it was not an institution particularly for the daughters of wealthy people, nor a school to which disheartened parents could send either unruly girls, or dunces. without mrs. murchiston's recommendation helen cameron could not have gained entrance to briarwood; without the attested examination papers of miss cramp, teacher of the district school, who had prepared ruth for entering cheslow high school before it was supposed that she could go to briarwood, the girl from the red mill would not have been starting on this journey. "my goodness me!" exclaimed helen, when ruth had sat down and cheslow was coming into view before them. "i'm just as excited as i can be. aren't you afraid of meeting mrs. tellingham? she's got an a. b. after her name. and her husband is a doctor of almost everything you can think!" mrs. murchiston smiled, but said with some sternness; "i really hope, helen, that briarwood will quell your too exuberant spirits to a degree. but you need not be afraid of dr. tellingham. he is the mildest old gentleman one ever saw. he is doubtless engaged upon a history of the mound builders of peoria county, illinois; or upon a pamphlet suggested by the finding of a fossilized man in the caves of arizona." "is he a great writer, mrs. murchiston?" asked ruth, wonderingly. "he has written a great many histories--if that constitutes being a great writer," replied the governess, with a quiet smile. "but if it was not for mrs. tellingham i fear that briarwood hall could not exist. however, the doctor is a perfectly harmless person." from this ruth drew the conclusion (for she was a thoughtful girl--thoughtful beyond her years, as well as imaginative) that mrs. grace tellingham was a rather strong-minded lady and that the doctor would prove to be both mild and "hen-pecked." the car sped along the beautifully shaded road leading into cheslow; but there was still ample time for the travelers to catch the train. on the right hand, as they advanced, appeared a gloomy-looking house with huge pillars upholding the portico roof, which was set some distance back from the road. on two posts, one either side of the arched gateway, were set green lanterns. a tall, stoop-shouldered old gentleman, with a sweeping mustache and hair that touched his coat collar, and a pair of keen, dark eyes, came striding down the walk to the street as the motor-car drew near. "doctor davison!" cried helen and ruth together. the chauffeur slowed down and stopped as the doctor waved his hand. "i must bid you girls good-bye here," he said, coming to the automobile to shake hands. "i have a call and cannot be at the station. and i expect all of you to do your best in your studies. but look out for your health, too. take plenty of gym work, girls. tom, you rascal! i want to hear of you standing just as well in athletics as you do in your books. ah! if mercy was going with you, i'd think the party quite complete." "what do you hear from her, doctor?" questioned ruth, eagerly. "my little goody two-sticks is hopping around pretty lively. she will come home in a few days. too bad she cannot see you before you go. but then--perhaps you'll see her, after all." "what do you mean?" demanded helen, looking sharply at the physician. "you're hiding something. i can see it! you've got something up your sleeve, doctor!" "quite so--my wrist!" declared the physician, and now, having shaken hands all around, he hurried away, looking vastly mysterious. "now, what do you suppose he meant by that?" demanded helen. "i'm suspicious of him. he's always bringing unexpected things about. and poor mercy curtis----" "if she could only go to briarwood with us," sighed ruth. "she would make you and helen hustle in your work, all right," declared tom, looking over the back of his seat. "she's the smartest little thing that i ever saw." "that's what dr. davison says," ruth observed. "if the surgeons have enabled her to walk again, and dispense with the wheel chair, why couldn't she come to briarwood?" "i don't think sam curtis is any too well fixed," said tom, shaking his head. "and mercy's long illness has been a great expense to them. hello! here we are at the station, with plenty of time to spare." mrs. murchiston was not going with them; the trio of young folk were to travel alone, so tom took the tickets, got the trunk checks, and otherwise played escort to the two girls. there were several friends at the station to bid the camerons good-bye; but there was nobody but the stationmaster to say a word to ruth fielding. it was his lame daughter whom they had been discussing with dr. davison--an unfortunate girl who had taken a strong liking for ruth, and for whom the girl from the red mill, with her cheerful spirit and pleasant face, had done a world of good. the train was made up and they got aboard. just below cheslow was the y where this train branched off the main line, and took its way by a single-track, winding branch, through the hills to the shore of lake osago. but the young folks did not have to trouble about their baggage after leaving cheslow, for that was checked through--tom's grip and box to seven oaks, and the girls' over another road, after crossing lake osago, to lumberton, on triton lake. lake osago was a beautiful body of water, some thirty miles long, and wide in proportion; island-dotted and bordered by a rolling country. there were several large towns upon its shores, and, in one place, a great summer camp of an educational society. steamboats plied the lake, and up and down the rivers which either emptied into the osago, or flowed out of it, as far as the dams. the trio of school-bound young folk left the train very demurely and walked down the long wharf to the puffy little steamboat that was to take them the length of the lake to portageton. tom had been adjured by his father to take good care of his sister and ruth, and he felt the burden of this responsibility. helen declared, in a whisper to ruth, that she had never known her twin brother to be so overpoweringly polite and thoughtful. nevertheless, the fact that they were for the very first time traveling alone (at least, the camerons had never traveled alone before) did not spoil their enjoyment of the journey. the trip down the lake on the little side-wheel steamer was very interesting to all three. first the camerons and ruth fielding went about to see if they could find any other girl or boy who appeared to be bound to school like themselves. but tom said he was alone in that intention among the few boys aboard; and there were no girls upon the _lanawaxa_, as the little steamboat was named, save ruth and helen. tom did not neglect the comfort of the girls, but he really could not keep away from the engine-room of the _lanawaxa_. tom was mightily interested in all things mechanical, and in engines especially. so the girls were left to themselves for a while upon the upper deck of the steamboat. they were very comfortable under the awning, and had books, and their luncheon, and a box of candy that tom had bought and given to ruth, and altogether they enjoyed the trip quite as much as anybody. the breeze was quite fresh and there were not many passengers on the forward deck where the girls were seated. but one lady sitting near attracted their attention almost at first. she was such a little, doll-like lady; so very plainly and neatly dressed, yet with a style about her that carried the plain frock she wore, and the little hat, as though they were both of the richest materials. she was dark, had brilliant eyes, and her figure was youthful. yet, when she chanced to raise her veil, ruth noted that her face was marred by innumerable fine wrinkles--just like cracks in the face of a wax doll that had been exposed to frost. "isn't she a cunning little thing?" whispered helen, seeing how much ruth was attracted by the little lady. "she's not a dwarf. there's nothing wrong with her," said ruth. "she's just a lady in miniature; isn't she? why, helen, she's no taller than you are." "she's dainty," repeated her chum. "but she looks odd." below, on the other deck, the music of a little orchestra had been tinkling pleasantly. now a man with the harp, another with a violin, and a third with a huge guitar, came up the companionway and grouped themselves to play upon the upper deck. the three musicians were all foreigners--french or italian. the man who played the harp was a huge, fleshy man, with a red waistcoat and long, black mustache. the waistcoat and mustache were the two most noticeable things about him. he sat on a little campstool while he played. the musicians struck into some rollicking ditty that pleased the ear. the two girls enjoyed the music, and helen searched her purse for a coin to give whichever of the musicians came around for the collection at the end of the concert. there was but one person on the forward deck who did not seem to care for the music. the little lady, whose back was to the orchestra, did not even look around. all the time he was playing the huge man who thrummed the harp seemed to have his eyes fixed upon the little lady. this both ruth and helen noted. he was so big and she was so fairy-like, that the girls could not help becoming interested in the fact that the harpist was so deeply "smitten." "isn't he funny?" whispered helen to ruth. "he's so big and she's so little. and he pays more attention to her than he does to playing the tune." just then the orchestra of three pieces finished its third tune. that was all it ever jingled forth before making a collection. the man who played the guitar slipped the broad strap over his shoulders and stood up as though to pass his cap. but instantly the huge harpist arose and muttered something to him in a guttural tone. the other sat down and the big man seized the cap and began to move about the deck to make such collection as the audience was disposed to give for the music. although he had stared so at the unconscious lady's back, the big man did not go in her direction at first, as the two girls quite expected him to do. he went around to the other side of the deck after taking helen's toll, and so manoeuvred as to come to the end of the lady's bench and suddenly face her. "see him watch her, ruth?" whispered helen again. "i believe he knows her." there was such a sly smile on the fat man's face that he seemed to be having a joke all to himself; yet his eyebrows were drawn down over his nose in a scowl. it was not a pleasant expression that he carried on his countenance to the little lady, before whom he appeared with a suddenness that would have startled almost anybody. he wheeled around the end of the settee on which she sat and hissed some word or phrase in her ear, leaning over to do so. the little woman sprang up with a smothered shriek. the girls heard her chatter something, in which the word "_merci_" was plain. she shrank from the big man; but he was only bowing very low before her, with the cap held out for a contribution, and his grinning face aside. "she is french," whispered helen, excitedly, in ruth's ear. "and he spoke in the same language. how frightened she is!" indeed, the little lady fumbled in her handbag for something which she dropped into the insistent cap of the harpist. then, almost running along the deck, she whisked into the cabin. she had pulled the veil over her face again, but as she passed the girls they felt quite sure that she was sobbing. the big harpist, with the same unpleasant leer upon his face, rolled down the deck in her wake, carelessly humming a fragment of the tune he had just been playing. he had collected all the contributions in his big hand--a pitiful little collection of nickels and dimes--and he tossed them into the air and caught them expertly as he joined the other players. then all three went aft to repeat their concert. an hour later the _lanawaxa_ docked at portageton. when our young friends went ashore and walked up the freight-littered wharf, ruth suddenly pulled helen's sleeve. "look there! there--behind the bales of rags going to the paper-mill. do you see them?" whispered ruth. "i declare!" returned her chum. "isn't that mysterious? it's the little foreign lady and the big man who played the harp--and how earnestly they are talking." "you see, she knew him after all," said ruth. "but what a wicked-looking man he is! and she _was_ frightened when he spoke to her." "he looks villainous enough to be a brigand," returned her chum, laughing. "yet, whoever heard of a _fat_ brigand? that would take the romance all out of the profession; wouldn't it?" "and fat villains are not so common; are they?" returned ruth, echoing the laugh. chapter iii approaching the promised land tom had tried to remove the smut of the steamboat engine-room from his face with his handkerchief; but as his sister told him, his martial appearance in the uniform of the seven oaks cadets was rather spoiled by "a smootchy face." there wasn't time then, however, to make any toilet before the train left. they were off on the short run to seven oaks in a very few minutes after leaving the _lanawaxa_. tom was very much excited now. he craned his head out of the car window to catch the first glimpse of the red brick barracks and dome of the gymnasium, which were the two most prominent buildings belonging to the academy. finally the hill on which the school buildings stood flashed into view. they occupied the summit of the knoll, while the seven great oaks, standing in a sort of druidical circle, dotted the smooth, sloping lawn that descended to the railroad cut. "oh, how ugly!" cried helen, who had never seen the place before. "i do hope that briarwood hall will be prettier than _that_, or i shall want to run back home the very first week." her brother smiled in a most superior way. "that's just like a girl," he said. "wanting a school to look pretty! pshaw! i want to see a jolly crowd of fellows, that's what i want. i hope i'll get in with a good crowd. i know gil wentworth, who came here last year, and he says he'll put me in with a nice bunch. that's what i'm looking forward to." the train was slowing down. there was a handsome brick station and a long platform. this was crowded with boys, all in military garb like tom's own. they looked so very trim and handsome that helen and ruth were quite excited. there were boys ranging from little fellows of ten, in knickerbockers, to big chaps whose mustaches were sprouting on their upper lips. "oh, dear me!" gasped ruth. "see what a crowd we have got to go through. all those boys!" "that's all right," tom said, gruffly. "i'll see you to the stage. there it stands yonder--and a jolly old scarecrow of a carriage it is, too!" he was evidently feeling somewhat flurried himself. he was going to meet more than half the great school informally right there at the station. they had gathered to meet and greet "freshmen." but the car in which our friends rode stopped well along the platform and very near the spot where the old, brown, battered, and dust-covered stage coach, drawn by two great, bony horses, stood in the fall sunshine. most of the academy boys were at the other end of the platform. gil wentworth, tom's friend, had given young cameron several pointers as to his attitude on arrival at the seven oaks station. he had been advised to wear the school uniform (he had passed the entrance examinations two months before) so as to be less noticeable in the crowd. very soon a slow and dirge-like chant arose from the cadets gathered on the station platform. from the rear cars of the train had stepped several boys in citizen's garb, some with parents or guardians and some alone, and all burdened with more or less baggage and a doubtful air that proclaimed them immediately "new boys." the hymn of greeting rose in mournful cadence: "freshie! freshie! how-de-do! we're all waiting here for you. hold your head up! square each shoulder! thrust your chest out! _do_ look bolder! mamma's precious--papa's man-- keep the tears back if you can. sob! sob! sob! it's an awful job-- freshie's leaving home and mo-o-ther!" the mournful wailing of that last word cannot be expressed by mere type. there were other verses, too, and as the new boys filed off into the path leading up to the academy with their bags and other encumbrances, the uniformed boys, _en masse_, got into step behind them and tramped up the hill, singing this dreadful dirge. the unfortunate new arrivals had to listen to the chant all the way up the hill. if they ran to get away from the crowd, it only made them look the more ridiculous; the only sensible way was to endure it with a grin. tom grinned widely himself, for he had certainly been overlooked. or, he thought so until he had placed the two girls safely in the big omnibus, had kissed helen good-bye, and shaken hands with ruth. but the girls, looking out of the open door of the coach, saw him descend from the step into the midst of a group of solemn-faced boys who had only held back out of politeness to the girls whom tom escorted. helen and ruth, stifling their amusement, heard and saw poor tom put through a much more severe examination than the other boys, for the very reason that he had come dressed in his uniform. he was forced to endure a searching inquiry regarding his upbringing and private affairs, right within the delighted hearing of the wickedly giggling girls. and then a tall fellow started to put him through the manual of arms. poor tom was all at sea in that, and the youth, with gravity, declared that he was insulting the uniform by his ignorance and caused him to remove his coat and turn it inside out; and so helen and ruth saw him marched away with his stern escort, in a most ridiculous red flannel garment (the lining of the coat) which made him conspicuous from every barrack window and, indeed, from every part of the academy hill. "oh, dear me!" sighed helen, wiping her eyes and almost sobbing after her laughter. "and tommy thought he would escape any form of hazing! he wasn't so cute as he thought he was." but ruth suddenly became serious. "suppose we are greeted in any such way at briarwood?" she exclaimed. "i believe some girls are horrid. they have hazing in some girls' schools, i've read. of course, it won't hurt us, helen----" "it'll be just fun, i think!" cried the enthusiastic helen and then she stopped with an explosive "oh!" there was being helped into the coach by the roughly dressed and bewhiskered driver, the little, doll-like, foreign woman whom they thought had been left behind at portageton. "there ye air, ma'mzell!" this old fellow said. "an' here's yer bag--an' yer umbrella--an' yer parcel. all there, be ye? wal, wal, wal! so i got two more gals fer briarwood; hev i?" he was a jovial, rough old fellow, with a wind-blown face and beard and hair enough to make his head look to be as big as a bushel basket. he was dressed in a long, faded "duster" over his other nondescript garments, and his battered hat was after the shape of those worn by grand army men. he limped, too, and was slow in his movements and deliberate in his speech. "i s'pose ye _be_ goin' ter briarwood, gals?" he added, curiously. "yes," replied ruth. "where's yer baggage?" he asked. "we only have our bags. our trunks have gone by the way of lumberton," explained ruth. "ah! well! all right!" grunted the driver, and started to shut the door. then he glanced from ruth and helen to the little foreign lady. "i leave ye in good hands," he said, with a hoarse chuckle. "this here lady is one o' yer teachers, ma'mzell picolet." he pronounced the little lady's name quite as outlandishly as he did "mademoiselle." it sounded like "pickle-yet" on his tongue. "that will do, m'sieur dolliver," said the little lady, rather tartly. "i may venture to introduce myself--is it not?" she did not raise her veil. she spoke english with scarcely any accent. occasionally she arranged her phrases in an oddly foreign way; but her pronunciation could not be criticised. old dolliver, the stage driver, grinned broadly as he closed the door. "ye allus make me feel like a frenchman myself, when ye say 'moosher,' ma'mzell," he chuckled. "you are going to briarwood hall, then, my young ladies?" said miss picolet. "yes, ma'am," said ruth, shyly. "i shall be your teacher in the french language--perhaps in deportment and the graces of life," the little lady said, pleasantly. "you will both enter into advanced classes, i hope?" helen, after all, was more shy than ruth with strangers. when she became acquainted she gained confidence rapidly. but now ruth answered again for both: "i was ready to enter the cheslow high school; helen is as far advanced as i am in all studies, miss picolet." "good!" returned the teacher. "we shall get on famously with such bright girls," and she nodded several times. but she was not really companionable. she never raised her veil. and she only talked with the girls by fits and starts. there were long spaces of time when she sat huddled in the corner of her seat, with her face turned from them, and never said a word. but the nearer the rumbling old stagecoach approached the promised land of briarwood hall the more excited ruth and helen became. they gazed out of the open windows of the coach doors and thought the country through which they traveled ever so pretty. occasionally old dolliver would lean out from his seat, twist himself around in a most impossible attitude so as to see into the coach, and bawl out to the two girls some announcement of the historical or other interest of the localities they passed. suddenly, as they surmounted a long ridge and came out upon the more open summit, they espied a bridle path making down the slope, through an open grove and across uncultivated fields beyond--a vast blueberry pasture. up this path a girl was coming. she swung her hat by its strings in her hand and commenced to run up the hill when she spied the coach. she was a thin, wiry, long-limbed girl. she swung her hat excitedly and although the girls in the coach could not hear her, they knew that she shouted to old dolliver. he pulled up, braking the lumbering wheels grumblingly. the newcomer's sharp, freckled face grew plainer to the interested gaze of ruth and helen as she came out of the shadow of the trees into the sunlight of the dusty highway. "got any infants, dolliver?" the girl asked, breathlessly. "two on 'em, miss cox," replied the stage driver. "then i'm in time. of course, nobody's met 'em?" "hist! ma'mzell's in there," whispered dolliver, hoarsely. "oh! she!" exclaimed miss cox, with plain scorn of the french teacher. "that's all right, dolliver. i'll get in. ten cents, mind you, from here to briarwood. that's enough." "all right, miss cox. ye allus was a sharp one," chuckled dolliver, as the sharp-faced girl jerked open the nearest door of the coach and stared in, blinking, out of the sunlight. chapter iv the rivalry of the upedes and the fussy curls the passengers in the seven oaks and lumberton stage sat facing one another on the two broad seats. mademoiselle picolet had established herself in one corner of the forward seat, riding with her back to the driver. ruth and helen were side by side upon the other seat, and this newcomer slid quickly in beside them and smiled a very broad and friendly smile at the two chums. "when you've been a little while at briarwood hall," she said, in her quick, pert way, "you'll learn that that's the only way to do with old dolliver. make your bargain before you get into the ark--that's what we call this stage--or he surely will overcharge you. oh! how-do, miss picolet!" she spoke to the french teacher so carelessly--indeed, in so scornful a tone--that ruth was startled. miss picolet bowed gravely and said something in return in her own language which made miss cox flush, and her eyes sparkle. it was doubtless of an admonishing nature, but ruth and helen did not understand it. "of course, you are the two girls whom we ex--that is, who were expected to-day?" the girl asked the chums, quickly. "we are going to briarwood hall," said ruth, timidly. "well, i'm glad i happened to be out walking and overtook the stage," their new acquaintance said, with apparent frankness and cordiality. "i'm mary cox. i'm a junior. the school is divided into primary, junior and senior. of course, there are many younger girls than either of you at briarwood, but all newcomers are called infants. probably, however, you two will soon be in the junior grade, if you do not at once enter it." "i am afraid we shall both feel very green and new," ruth said. "you see, neither helen nor i have ever been to a school like this before. my friend is helen cameron and my name is ruth fielding." "ah! you're going to room together. you have a nice room assigned to you, too. it's on my corridor--one of the small rooms. most of us are in quartettes; but yours is a duet room. that's nice, too, when you are already friends." she seemed to have informed herself regarding these particular newcomers, even if she _had_ met them quite by accident. helen, who evidently quite admired mary cox, now ventured to say that she presumed most of the girls were already gathered for the autumn term. "there are a good many on hand. some have been here a week and more. but classes won't begin until saturday, and then the work will only be planned for the real opening of the term on monday. but we're all supposed to arrive in time to attend service sunday morning. mrs. tellingham is very strict about that. those who arrive after that have a demerit to work off at the start." mary cox explained the system under which briarwood was carried on, too, with much good nature; but all the time she never addressed the french teacher, nor did she pay the least attention to her. the cool way in which she conducted the conversation, commenting upon the school system, the teachers, and all other matters discussed, without the least reference to miss picolet, made ruth, at least, feel unhappy. it was so plain that mary cox ignored and slighted the little foreign lady by intention. "i tell you what we will do," said mary cox, finally. "we'll slip out of the stage at the end of cedar walk. it's farther to the dormitories that way, but i fancy there'll be few of the girls there. the stage, you see, goes much nearer to briarwood; but i fancy you girls would just as lief escape the warm greeting we usually give to the arriving infants," and she laughed. ruth and helen, with a vivid remembrance of what they had seen at seven oaks, coincided with this suggestion. it seemed very kind of a junior to put herself out for them, and the chums told her so. "don't bother," said mary cox. "lots of the girls--especially girls of our age, coming to briarwood for the first time--get in with the wrong crowd. you don't want to do that, you know." now, the chums could not help being a little flattered by this statement. mary cox was older than ruth and helen, and the latter were at an age when a year seemed to be a long time indeed. besides, miss cox was an assured junior, and knew all about what was still a closed book to ruth fielding and helen cameron. "i should suppose in a school like briarwood," ruth said, hesitatingly, "that all the girls are pretty nice." "oh! they are, to a degree. oh, yes!" cried mary cox. "briarwood is very select and mrs. tellingham is very careful. you must know _that_, miss cameron," she added, point-blank to helen, "or your father would not have sent _you_ here." helen flushed at this boldly implied compliment. ruth thought to herself again that mary cox must have taken pains to learn all about them before they arrived, and she wondered why the junior had done so. "you see, a duo-room costs some money at briarwood," explained miss cox. "most of us are glad, when we get to be juniors, to get into a quarto--a quartette, you understand. the primary girls are in big dormitories, anyway. of course, we all know who your father is, miss cameron, and there will be plenty of the girls fishing for your friendship. and there's a good deal of rivalry--at the beginning of each year, especially." "rivalry over what?" queried ruth. "why, the clubs," said mary cox. helen became wonderfully interested at once. everything pertaining to the life before her at briarwood was bound to interest helen. and the suggestion of society in the way of clubs and associations appealed to her. "what clubs are there?" she demanded of the junior. "why, there are several associations in the school. the basket ball association is popular; but that's athletic, not social. anybody can belong to that who wishes to play. and we have a good school team which often plays teams from other schools. it's made up mostly of seniors, however." "but the other clubs?" urged helen. "why, the principal clubs of briarwood are the upedes and the fussy curls," said their new friend. "what ridiculous names!" cried helen. "i suppose they _mean_ something, though?" "that's just our way of speaking of them. the upedes are the up and doing club. the fussy curls are the f. c.'s." "the f. c.'s?" questioned ruth. "what do the letters really stand for?" "forward club, i believe. i don't know much about the fussy curls," mary said, with the same tone and air that she used in addressing the little french teacher. "you're a upede!" cried helen, quickly. "yes," said mary cox, nodding, and seemed to have finished with that subject. but helen was interested; she had begun to like this cox girl, and kept to the subject. "what are the upedes and the f. c.'s rivals about?" "both clubs are anxious to get members," mary cox said. "both are putting out considerable effort to gain new members--especially among these who enter briarwood at the beginning of the year." "what are the objects of the rival clubs?" put in ruth, quietly. "i couldn't tell you much about the fussy curls," said mary, carelessly. "not being one of them i couldn't be expected to take much interest in their objects. but _our_ name tells our object at once. 'up and doing'! no slow-coaches about the upedes. we're all alive and wide awake." "i hope we will get in with a lively set of girls," said helen, with a sigh. "it will be your own fault if you don't," said mary cox. oddly enough, she did not show any desire to urge the newcomers to join the upedes. helen was quite piqued by this. but before the discussion could be carried farther, mary put her head out of the window and called to the driver. "stop at the cedar walk, dolliver. we want to get out there. here's your ten cents." meanwhile the little foreign lady had scarcely moved. she had turned her face toward the open window all the time, and being veiled, the girls could not see whether she was asleep, or awake. she made no move to get out at this point, nor did she seem to notice the girls when mary flung open the door on the other side of the coach, and ruth and helen picked up their bags to follow her. the chums saw that the stage had halted where a shady, winding path seemed to lead up a slight rise through a plantation of cedars. but the spot was not lonely. several girls were waiting here for the coach, and they greeted mary cox when she jumped down, vociferously. "well, mary cox! i guess we know what you've been up to," exclaimed one who seemed older than the other girls in waiting. "did you rope any infants, mary?" cried somebody else. "'the fox' never took all that long walk for nothing," declared another. but mary cox paid her respects to the first speaker only, by saying: "if you want to get ahead of the upedes, madge steele, you fussy curls had better set your alarm clocks a little earlier." ruth and helen were climbing out of the old coach now, and the girl named madge steele looked them over sharply. "pledged, are they?" she said to mary cox, in a low tone. "well! i've been riding in the ark with them for the last three miles. do you suppose i have been asleep?" returned miss cox, with a malicious smile. ruth and helen did not distinctly hear this interchange of words between their new friend and madge steele; but ruth saw that the latter was a very well dressed and quiet looking girl--that she was really very pretty and ladylike. ruth liked her appearance much more than she did that of mary cox. but the latter started at once into the cedar plantation, up a serpentine walk, and helen and ruth, perforce, went with her. the other girls stood aside--some of them whispering together and smiling at the newcomers. the chums could not help but feel strange and nervous, and mary cox's friendship seemed of value to them just then. ruth, however, looked back at the tall girl whose appearance had so impressed her. the coach had not started on at once. old dolliver did everything slowly. but ruth fielding saw a hand beckoning at the coach window. it was the hand of miss picolet, the french teacher, and it beckoned madge steele. the latter young lady ran to the coach as it lurched forward on its way. miss picolet's face appeared at the window for an instant, and she seemed to say something of importance to madge steele. ruth saw the pretty girl pull open the stage-coach door again, and hop inside. then the ark lumbered out of view, and ruth turned to follow her chum and mary cox up the winding cedar walk. chapter v "the duet" helen, by this time, having recovered her usual self-possession, was talking "nineteen to the dozen" to their new friend. ruth was not in the least suspicious; but mary cox's countenance was altogether too sharp, her gray eyes were too sly, her manner to the french teacher had been too unkind, for ruth to become greatly enamored of the junior. it did really seem very kind of her, however, to put herself out in this way for two "infants." "how many teachers are there?" helen was asking. "and are they all as little as that miss picolet?" "oh, _she_!" ejaculated mary cox, with scorn. "nobody pays any attention to her. she's not liked, i can tell you." "why, she seemed nice enough to us--only not very friendly," said helen, slowly, for helen was naturally a kind-hearted girl. "she's a poverty-stricken little foreigner. she scarcely ever wears a decent dress. i don't really see why mrs. tellingham has her at the school at all. she has no friends, or relatives, or anybody that knows her----" "oh, yes she has," said helen, laughing. "what do you mean?" inquired mary cox, suspiciously. "we saw somebody on the boat coming over to portageton that knew miss picolet." "oh, helen!" ejaculated ruth, warningly. but it was too late, mary cox wanted to know what helen meant, and the story of the fat man who had played the harp in the boat orchestra, and who had frightened the french teacher, and had afterward talked so earnestly with her on the dock, all came out in explanation. the junior listened with a quiet but unpleasant smile upon her face. "that's just what we've always thought about miss picolet," she said. "her people must be dreadfully common. friends with a ruffian who plays a harp on a steamboat for his living! well!" "perhaps he is no relative or friend of hers," suggested ruth, timidly. "indeed, she seemed to be afraid of him." "he's mixed up in her private affairs, at least," said mary, significantly. "i never could bear miss picolet!" ruth was very sorry that helen had happened upon this unfortunate subject. but her chum failed to see the significance of it, and the girl from the red mill had no opportunity of warning helen. mary cox, too, was most friendly, and it seemed ungrateful to be anything but frank and pleasant with her. not many big girls (so thought both ruth and helen) would have put themselves out to walk up to briarwood hall with two infants and their baggage. through breaks in the cedar grove the girls began to catch glimpses of the brown old buildings of briarwood hall. ivy masked the entire end of one of the buildings, and even ran up the chimneys. it had been cut away from the windows, and they showed brilliantly now with the descending sun shining redly upon them. "it's a beautiful old place, helen," sighed ruth. "i believe you!" agreed her chum, enthusiastically. "it was originally a great manor house. that was the first building where the tower is," said mary cox, as they came out at last upon the more open lawn that gave approach to this side of the collection of buildings, which had been more recently built than the main house. they were built around a rectangular piece of turf called the campus. this, however, the newcomers discovered later, for they came up in the rear of the particular dormitory building in which mary declared their room was situated. "you can go to the office afterwards," she explained, kindly. "you'll want to wash and fix up a little after traveling so far. it always makes one so dirty." "this is a whole lot better than the way poor tom was received at his school; isn't it?" whispered helen, tucking her arm in ruth's as they came to the steps of the building. ruth nodded. but there were so many new things to see that ruth had few words to spare. there were plenty of girls in sight now. it seemed to the girl from the red mill as though there were hundreds of them. short girls, tall girls, thin girls, plump girls--and the very plumpest girl of her age that ruth had ever seen, stood right at the top of the steps. she had a pretty, pink, doll-like face which was perpetually a-smile. whereas some of the girls--especially the older ones--stared rather haughtily at the two infants, this fat girl welcomed them with a broadening smile. "hello, heavy," said mary cox, laughing. "it must be close to supper bell, for you're all ready, i see." "no," said the stout girl. "there's an hour yet. are these the two?" she added, nodding at ruth and helen. "i always get what i go after," ruth heard mary say, as they whisked in at the door. in the hall a quiet, pleasant-faced woman in cap and apron met them. "this is helen cameron and ruth fielding, miss scrimp," said mary. "miss scrimp is matron of our dormitory, girls. i am going up, miss scrimp, and i'll show them to their duet." "very well, miss cox," said the woman, producing two keys, one of which she handed to each of the chums. "be ready for the bell, girls. you can see mrs. tellingham after supper." ruth stopped to thank her, but mary swept helen on with her up the broad stairway. the room the chums were to occupy (mr. cameron had made this arrangement for them) was up this first flight only, but was at the other end of the building, overlooking the campus. it seemed a long walk down the corridor. some of the doors stood open, and more girls looked out at them curiously as they pursued their way. mary was talking in a low voice to helen now, and ruth could not hear what she said. but when they stopped at the end of the corridor, and helen fitted her key into the lock of the door, she said: "we'd be delighted, miss cox. oh, yes! ruth and i will both come." mary went away whistling and they heard her laughing and talking with other girls who had come out into the corridor before the chums were well in their own room. and what a delightful place it seemed to the two girls, when they entered! not so small, either. there were two single beds, two dressing tables, running water in a bowl, two closets and two chairs--all this at one end of the room. at the other end was a good-sized table to work at, chairs, a couch, and two sets of shelves for their books. there were two broad windows with wide seats under them, too. "isn't it just scrumptious?" cried helen, hugging ruth in her delight. "and just think--it's our very own! oh, ruthie! won't we just have good times here?" ruth was quite as delighted, if she was not so volubly enthusiastic as helen. it was a much nicer room, of course, than the girl from the red mill had ever had before. her tiny little chamber at the red mill was nothing like this. the girls removed such marks of travel as they could and freshened their dress as well as possible. their trunks would not arrive at the school until morning, they knew; but they had brought their toilet articles in their bags. these made some display--on helen's dresser, at least. but when their little possessions came they could make the room look more "homey." barely had they arranged their hair when a gentle rap sounded at the door. "perhaps that's miss cox again," said helen. "isn't she nice, ruth?" her friend had no time to reply before opening the door to the visitor. it was not miss cox, but ruth immediately recognized the tall girl whom mary cox had addressed as madge steele. she came in with a frank smile and her hand held out. "i didn't know you were going to come to my corridor," she said, frankly. "which of you is miss fielding, and which is miss cameron?" it made the chums feel really grown up to be called "miss," and they liked this pretty girl at once. ruth explained their identity as she shook hands. helen was quite as warmly greeted. "you will like briarwood," said madge steele. "i know you will. i understand you will enter the junior classes. i have just entered the senior grade this year. there are lots of nice girls on this corridor. i'll be glad to introduce you after supper." "we have not been to the office yet," said ruth. "i believe that is customary?" "oh, you must see the preceptress. she's just as nice as she can be, is mrs. tellingham. you'll see her right after supper?" "i presume so," ruth said. "then, i tell you what," said madge. "i'll wait for you and take you to the forward club afterwards. we have an open meeting this evening. mrs. tellingham will be there--she is a member, you know--so are the other teachers. we try to make all the new girls feel at home." she nodded to them both brightly and went out. ruth turned to her chum with a smile. "isn't that nice of her, helen?" she said. "we are getting on famously---- why, helen! what's the matter?" she cried. helen's countenance was clouded indeed. she shook her head obstinately. "we can't go with her, ruth," she declared. "can't go with her?" "no." "why not, pray?" asked ruth, much puzzled. "we can't go to that forward club," said helen, more emphatically. "why, my dear!" exclaimed ruth. "of course we must. we haven't got to join it. maybe they wouldn't ask us to join it, anyway. you see, it's patronized by the teachers and the preceptress herself. we'll be sure to meet the very nicest girls." "that doesn't follow," said helen, somewhat stubbornly. "anyway, we can't go, ruth." "but i don't understand, dear," said the puzzled ruth. "why, don't you see?" exclaimed helen, with some exasperation. "i told miss cox we'd go with her." "go where?" "to _her_ club. _they_ hold a meeting this evening, too. you know, she said there was rivalry between the two big school clubs. hers is the upedes." "oh! the up and doings," laughed ruth. "i remember." "she said she would wait for us after we get through with mrs. tellingham and introduce us to _her_ friends." "well!" gasped ruth, with a sigh. "we most certainly cannot go to both. what shall we do?" chapter vi the entering wedge since ruth fielding had first met helen cameron--and that was on the very day the former had come to the red mill--the two girls had never had a cross word or really differed much on any subject. ruth was the more yielding of the two, perhaps, and it might be that that was why helen seemed so to expect her to yield now. "of course, ruthie, we can't disappoint miss cox," she said, with finality. "and after she was so kind to us, too." "are you sure she did all that out of simple kindness, helen?" asked the girl from the red mill, slowly. "why! what do you mean?" "aunt alviry says one should never look a gift-horse in the mouth," laughed ruth. "what _do_ you mean?" demanded her chum. "why, helen, doesn't it seem to you that mary cox came out deliberately to meet us, and for the purpose of making us feel under obligation to her?" "for pity's sake, what for?" "so that we would feel just as _you_ do--that we ought if possible to attend the meeting of her society?" "i declare, ruth fielding! how suspicious you have become all of a sudden." ruth still laughed. but she said, too: "that is the way it has struck me, helen. and i wondered if you did not see her attention in the same light, also." "why, she hasn't asked us to join the upedes," said helen. "i know. and neither has miss steele----" "you seem to have taken a great fancy to that madge steele," interrupted helen, sharply. "i think she is nice looking--and she was very polite," said ruth, quietly. "well, i don't care," cried helen. "miss cox has shown us much more kindness. and i promised for us, ruth. i said we'd attend her club this evening." "well," said her chum, slowly. "it _does_ look as though we would have to go with miss cox, then. we'll tell miss steele----" "i believe your head has been turned by that madge steele because she's a senior," declared helen, laughing, yet not at all pleased with her friend. "and the f. c.'s are probably a fussy crowd. all the teachers belonging to the club too. i'd rather belong to the upedes--a real girls' club without any of the teachers to boss it." ruth laughed again; but there was no sting in what she said: "i guess you have made up your mind already that the up and doing club is the one helen cameron wants to join." "and the one ruth fielding must join, too!" declared helen, in her old winning way, slipping her arm through ruth's arm. "we mustn't go separate ways, ruthie." "oh, helen!" cried ruth. "don't talk like that. of course we will not. but let us be careful about our friendships here." "what do you mean?" "i mean," said ruth, smiling, "that we must be careful about joining any crowd of girls until we know just how things are." "well," said helen, dropping her arm and walking to the other end of the room for no reason whatsoever, for she walked back again, in a moment, "i don't see why you are so suspicious of mary cox." "i don't know that i am," laughed ruth. "but we have no means of comparison yet----" a mellow bell began to ring from some other building--probably in the tower of the main building of briarwood hall. "there!" ejaculated helen, in some relief. "that must be to announce supper." "are you ready, helen?" asked ruth. "yes." "then let us go." there was a card on which were printed several simple rules of conduct tacked to the door. the chums had read them. one was that rooms should be left unlocked in the absence of the occupants, and ruth and helen went out into the corridor, leaving their door open. there were other girls in the passage then, all moving toward the stairway. some of them nodded kindly to the infants. others only stared. ruth saw miss steele in advance, and whispered to helen: "come, dear; let us speak to her and tell her we cannot accept her invitation for this evening." but helen held back. "you can tell her if you like," she said, rather sullenly. "but, let us be nice about it," urged ruth. "i'll tell her we overlooked the fact that we were already engaged for the meeting of the up and doing club. i'll explain." helen suddenly seized her chum's arm more tightly. "you _are_ a good little thing, ruthie," she declared. "come on." they hurried after the senior and caught up with her at the foot of the stairs. she was not alone, but ruth touched her arm and asked to speak with her. "what's the matter, infants?" demanded the senior, but smiling at them. helen flushed at the expression, but ruth was too earnest in her intention to smooth over the difficulty to notice so small a thing. "oh, miss steele," she said, "i am sorry to beg off from the kind invitation you gave us. we cannot go with you this evening. it seems that it was already understood with miss cox that we should go with her." "oh!" exclaimed madge steele, a little stiffly, "you are already pledged, then?" "yes, we are pledged to attend the meeting of the up and doing club this evening. it was very kind of miss cox to invite us," said ruth, calmly. "and it was kind of you to invite us to the f. c.'s, too. but we cannot attend both meetings--not in one evening." madge steele was looking at her earnestly and found that ruth neither dropped her gaze nor appeared confused by her scrutiny. helen was the one who seemed confused. "it is not our usage to interfere with those who are pledged to other school clubs," said miss steele, speaking distinctly. "i understand, then, that you are _not_ pledged?" "only to attend this meeting as visitors of miss cox," said ruth, simply. "very well, then," said madge steele, her pleasant face breaking into a smile again, "i shall hope to see you at some future meeting of the forward club. here we are on the campus. it is cool and shady here, even in the hottest weather. we think it is a decidedly pleasant place." she walked beside them, conversing pleasantly. helen recovered her good temper and ventured a remark about the fountain which graced the center of the campus. it was a huge marble figure of a sitting female, in graceful draperies and with a harp, or lyre, on the figure's knee. the clear water bubbled out all around the pedestal, and the statue and bowl were sunk a little below the level of the greensward, like a small italian garden. "what is the figure supposed to represent, miss steele?" asked helen. "you are allowed three guesses--and then you won't know," laughed the senior. "you can see by the stains and moss on it that the fountain has been there a great many years. long before briarwood hall was a school. but it is supposed to represent either _poesy_, or _harmony_. nobody knows--not even mrs. tellingham." the bell stopped tolling with three, sharp, jerky taps. madge steele quickened her pace along the path and the newcomers followed her. other girls were pouring into the building nearest to the main structure of briarwood. a broad stairway led up to assembly rooms; but out of the lower hall opened a large dining room, in which were ten or twelve long tables, and at which the girls were already being seated by some sort of system. "i don't know where you will be seated," said madge steele, hastily. "i am at the second senior table. here comes miss picolet. she will attend to you infants." "oh, it's the little french teacher," said helen. ruth met the little lady with a smile. miss picolet nodded to them both and put out her tiny hand. she really was no taller than helen. "i am glad, young ladies, to see you in such good company. miss steele is well worth cultivating," she said. "come this way. you will be seated in the junior division. it is probable that you will be placed in that grade permanently. mrs. tellingham will see you in her office in the next building immediately after supper." ruth and helen followed the doll-like teacher to their seats. the girl whom mary cox had called "heavy" (and, indeed, it was a most appropriate name) was already seated, and was right at ruth's elbow. "oh, i hope they'll be seated soon," ruth heard this over-plump girl murmur. "this is cup-custard night, and i'm so-o hungry." the tables were laid nicely. there were several waitresses, and besides miss picolet, there were at least four other ladies whom ruth knew must be teachers. the hall was by no means filled. there were not more than a hundred and fifty girls present. the door at the far end opened and a handsome, white-haired, pink-cheeked lady entered. she mounted a slightly raised platform and stood for a moment overlooking the room. "it's mrs. tellingham," whispered the fat girl to ruth, seeing the question in the latter's face. the preceptress was a really handsome lady--perhaps forty-five, perhaps ten years older. her perfectly white hair, thick and well arranged, seemed to have been the result of something besides age. here face was quite free from any age-marks. there was a kind look in her eyes; a humorous expression about her mouth. helen leaned toward ruth and whispered: "i know i shall just love her, ruth--don't you?" "and you won't be alone in that, infant," said the girl on helen's other hand. "now!" mrs. tellingham raised her hand. the school arose and stood quietly while she said grace. another motion of the hand, and they sat down again. the bustle of supper then began, with the girls talking and laughing, the waitresses serving a plain, hot meal, and everybody in apparent good-nature, and happy. ruth could scarcely pay attention to the food, however, she was so much more interested in these who were to be her school-fellows. chapter vii the upedes it was all so new and strange to helen and ruth that neither had considered the possibility of homesickness. indeed, how could they be homesick? there was too much going on at briarwood hall for the newcomers to think much of themselves. the plump girl next to ruth seemed of a friendly disposition, for when she had satisfied the first cravings of her appetite--oh, long before she came to the cup-custard!--she said: "which are you--cameron, or fielding? i'm stone--jennie stone." ruth told her their names and asked in return: "are you on our corridor, too? i know you are rooming in the same building as helen and i." "yes," said the fat girl. "i'm in a quartette with mary cox, lluella fairfax and belle tingley. oh, you'll see plenty of us," said heavy. "and i say! you're going to the upede meeting to-night; aren't you?" "why--yes. do you all belong?" "our quartette? sure," said the plump girl in her off-hand way. "we'll show you some fun. and i say!" "well?" asked ruth. "how often are they going to send you boxes from home?" "boxes from home?" repeated the girl from the red mill. "yes. you know, you can have 'em sent often if you keep up with your classes and don't get too many demerits in deportment. i missed two boxes last half because of black marks. and in french and deportment, too. _that_ was picolet's doing--mean thing!" "i had no idea that one would be allowed to receive goodies," said ruth, who of course expected nothing of the kind from home, but did not wish to say so. "well, you want to write your folks that you can receive 'em right away. a girl who gets things from home can be very popular if she wants to be. ah! here's the custard." ruth had difficulty in keeping from laughing outright. she saw plainly that the nearest way to miss jennie stone's heart lay through her stomach. meanwhile helen had become acquainted with the girl on the other side who had called them "infants." but she was a good-natured girl, too, and now helen introduced her to her chum as miss polk. she was a dark-haired, plain-faced girl and wore eye-glasses. she was a junior and already helen had found she belonged to the f. c.'s. "i guess most of the stiff and starched ones belong to that forward club," whispered helen to her chum. "but the jolly ones are upedes." "we'll wait and see," advised ruth. supper was over then and the girls all rose and strolled out of the room in parties. ruth and helen made their way quietly to the exit and looked for the office of the preceptress. the large building with the tower--the original briarwood hall--was partly given up to recitations and lecture rooms and partly to the uses of the tellinghams and the teachers. besides this great building there were two dormitory buildings, the gymnasium, the library building, and a chapel which had been built only the year before by subscriptions of the graduates of the school and of the parents of the scholars then attending. but it was growing dusk now and the two friends could not see much of the buildings around the campus. mrs. grace tellingham and her husband (the doctor never by any chance came first in anybody's mind!) had started the school some years before in a small way; but it had grown rapidly and was, as we have seen, very popular. many girls were graduated from the institution to the big girls' colleges, for it was, in fact, a preparatory school. the chums went in at the broad door and saw a library at the right hand into which a tidy maid motioned them, with a smile. it was a large room, the walls masked by bookshelves, all filled so tightly that it did seem as though room for another book could not be found. but mrs. tellingham was not there. bending over the table, however, (and it was a large, leather-covered table with a great student lamp in the center, the shade of which threw a soft glow of light in a circle upon it) was a gentleman whose shoulders were very round and who seemed to be so near-sighted that his nose must have been within an inch or so of the book which he read. he was totally unconscious of the girls' presence, and he read in a half whisper to himself, like a child conning a lesson. ruth and helen looked at each other, each thinking the same question. could this be doctor tellingham, the great historian? they glanced again at the hoop-shouldered man and wondered what his countenance was like, for they could not see a feature of it as he read. but ruth _did_ notice one most surprising fact. the stooping gentleman wore a wig. it was a brown, rather curly wig, while the fringe of natural hair all around his head was quite white--of that yellowish-white that proclaims the fact that the hair was once light brown, or sandy in color. the brown wig matched the hair at one time, without doubt; but it now looked as though two gentlemen's heads had been merged in one--the younger gentleman's being the upper half of the present apparition. for several minutes the chums stood timidly in the room and the old gentleman went on whispering to himself, and occasionally nodding his head. but at length he looked up, and in doing this he saw the girls and revealed his own countenance. "ah-ha!" he ejaculated, and stood upright. he was not a small man, but he was very bony. he had a big, long, smoothly-shaven face, on which his beard had sprouted in patches only, and these shaven patches were gray, whereas the rest of his face was smooth and dead-white. indeed he had so much face, and it was so bald, that if the brown wig had chanced to tumble off ruth thought that his appearance would have been actually terrifying. "ah-ha!" he said again, and smiled not unkindly. the thick spectacles he wore hid his eyes, however, and to look into his big face was like looking at the white wall of a house with the windows all shuttered. "you want something!" he said it as though he had made a most profound discovery. indeed, they found afterward that doctor tellingham always spoke as though he were pronouncing a valedictory oration, or something quite as important as that. the doctor never could say anything lightly. his mind was given up entirely to deep subjects, and it seldom strayed from his work. "you want something," he repeated. "stop! never mind explaining. i shouldn't be able to aid you. mrs. tellingham--my wife, my dears--will be here anon." he at once bobbed down his head, revealing nothing to the eyes of the two girls but the brown wig and the hair that didn't match, and went on whispering to himself. helen and ruth exchanged glances and helen had difficulty in keeping from laughing outright. in a moment more mrs. tellingham came into the room. at close view ruth saw that she was even more attractive than she had seemed at a distance. her countenance was firm without being stern--the humor about the mouth relieved its set expression. "my dear! my dear!" ejaculated the doctor, raising his head so that the long, bald expanse of his face came into view again for a moment, "somebody to see you--somebody wants something." mrs. tellingham approached helen first and took her hand. her handclasp was firm, her manner one to put the girl at her ease. "you are mr. macy cameron's daughter?" she questioned. "we are glad to see you here. you have found your room?" "yes, mrs. tellingham," replied helen. the preceptress turned to ruth and shook hands with her. "and you are ruth fielding? do as well this first half as your last teacher tells me you did, and we shall be good friends. now, girls, sit down. let us talk a bit." she had a quick, bright way of speaking; yet her words were not wasted--nor her time. she did not talk idly. nor did the two chums have much to say but "yes" and "no." in the course of her remarks she said: "this is your first experience, i understand, away from home and in a school of this character? yes? ah, then, many things will be new and strange to you, as well as hard to bear at first. among two hundred girls there are bound to be girls of a good many different kinds," and she smiled. "you will find some thoughtless and careless--forgetting what they have been sent to the school for. avoid that class. they will not aid you in your own intention to stand well in the classes. "keep before you the fact that your friends have sent you here for improvement--not to kill time. all girls like fun; i hope you will find plenty of innocent amusement here. i want all my girls happy and content. use the advantages of our gym; join the walking club; we make a point of having one of the best basketball teams in this part of the state. tennis is a splendid exercise for girls, and we have an indoor as well as outdoor courts. yes, do not neglect the good times. but remember, too, that amusement isn't the main issue of life at briarwood hall. let nothing interfere with the study hour. keep the rules--we strive to have as few as possible, so that there may be less temptation to break them," and the preceptress smiled her quick, understanding smile again. "by the way, there are social clubs in the school. to-night--have you been invited to any gathering?" "both the forward club and the up and doings have invited us to attend their meetings," said ruth, quietly. "ah!" "we are going to the up and doings, mrs. tellingham," said helen. "ah!" was again the lady's comment, and they learned nothing from her countenance. nevertheless, ruth thought it better to explain: "we were very kindly received by miss cox, and shown our room by her, and she invited us to her club first of all." "indeed! we shall be glad to have you come to our club, too, before you make up your minds to join any," said mrs. tellingham, with an accent on one word that made both ruth and helen mark it well. the f. c.'s were plainly approved by the preceptress. "there!" she continued, nodding smilingly at the chums. "i am sure we shall get on together. you will become acquainted with both your school-fellows and your instructors in course of time. there are not so many at briarwood hall but that we are still one great family. one thing girls come away from home for, to an institution like this, is to learn self-control and self-government. if you need help do not be afraid to go to your instructors, or come to me. confide in us. but, on the other hand, you must learn to judge for yourself. we do not punish an act of wrong judgment, here at briarwood." and so the preceptress bade them good-evening. "isn't she nice?" whispered ruth, as she and helen made their exit from the room. "ye-es," admitted her chum. "but you can see she is dreadfully 'bossy.'" at that ruth laughed heartily. "you foolish child!" she said, shaking her chum a little. "isn't she here to 'boss'? my goodness! you didn't expect to do just as _you_ pleased here at briarwood; did you?" helen cameron had been used to having her own way a good deal. being naturally a sweet-tempered girl, she was not much spoiled. but mrs. murchiston had been unable to be very strict with the twins when mr. cameron was so indulgent himself. mary cox and "heavy" stone were waiting on the steps for the friends as they came out. there was another group of girls on the path, too, who eyed ruth and helen interestedly as the latter came down the steps with the two juniors. "'the fox' has been in the poultry yard again, and has caught two chickabiddies," laughed one of these idle girls. ruth flushed, but helen did not hear the gibe, being much interested in what mary cox was saying to her. ruth walked beside the good-natured jennie stone. "my, my!" chuckled that damsel, "aren't those fussy curls jealous? they had to take the teachers into their old club so as to be more numerous than the upedes. but i guess mary cox will show 'em! she _is_ a fox, and i guess she always will be!" "is that what they call miss cox?" asked ruth, not a little troubled. "oh, she's foxy, all right," said this rather slangy young lady. "she will beat the fussy curls every time. she's president of the upedes, you know." ruth was still troubled, and she hastened to say: "you know, we haven't been asked to join the club, miss stone. and my chum and i are not sure that we wish to join any of the school clubs at first. we--we want to look around us, you know." "that's all right," said jennie stone, cordially. "you'll be put up for membership when you want to be. but we'll show you some fun. no use getting in with those poky f. c.'s. you'll never have a bit of fun if you train with them." they went back to the building in which they had supped and upstairs to one of the assembly rooms. the stairway and hall were well filled with girls now, and several of them nodded smilingly to ruth and helen; but their escorts did not let the chums stop at all, ushering them at once into the room where the up and doing clan was gathering. mary cox left heavy to introduce the newcomers while she went at once to the rostrum and with two or three of the other girls--who were evidently officers of the club, likewise--held a short executive session in secret. by and by mary rapped on the desk for order, and the girls all took seats. ruth, who was watchful, saw that the company numbered scarcely a score. if these were all the members of the club, she wondered how many of the briarwood girls belonged to the rival association. the meeting, as far as the business went, was conducted briskly and to the point. then it was "thrown open" and everybody--but the visitors--talked just as they pleased. helen and ruth were made to feel at home, and the girls were most lively and good-natured. they heard that the upedes were to have a picnic at a grove upon the shore of lake triton on the saturday week, and that old dolliver and his ramshackle stage, and another vehicle of the same caliber, were engaged for the trip. "but beware of black marks, girls," warned mary cox. "picolet will be watching us; and you know that, this early in the term, two black marks will mean an order to remain on the school premises. that old cat will catch us if she can." "mean little thing!" said heavy, wheezily. "i wish anybody but miss picolet lived in our house." from this ruth judged that most of these up and doings were in the dormitory in which she and helen were billeted. "i don't see what mrs. tellingham keeps picolet for," complained another girl. "for a spy," snapped mary cox. "but we'll get the best of her yet. she isn't fit to be a teacher in this school, anyway." "oh, she's a good french teacher--of course. it's her native tongue," said one of the other girls, who was called belle tingley. "that's all very well," snapped mary. "but there's something secret and underhand about her. she claims to have nobody related to her in this country; but if the truth were known, i guess, she has reason to be ashamed of her family and friends. i've heard something----" she stopped and looked knowingly at ruth and helen. the former flushed as she remembered the man in the red waistcoat who played the harp aboard the steamboat. but helen seemed to have forgotten the incident, for she paid no attention to mary's unfinished suggestion. it worried ruth, however. she heartily wished that her chum had said nothing to the cox girl about the man who played the harp and his connection with the little french teacher. chapter viii the marble harp the social meeting of the up and doing club lasted less than an hour. it was quite evident that it had been mainly held for the introduction of ruth fielding and her chum into the society of the briarwood girls. those gathered in the assembly room did not number any seniors, but were all of the junior grade, and all older than ruth and helen. "primes" were not allowed by mrs. tellingham to join any of the class-governed societies. in spite of the fact that ruth suspected mary cox of deliberately throwing herself in the way of helen and she on their arrival at the school, with the sole object of getting them pledged to this society, the girl from the red mill could not fail to appreciate the good-natured attempts of the upedes to make them both feel at home in their new surroundings. they _must_ be grateful for that. nor were they urged at this time to join the club. at least, nobody said more to ruth about joining than had the stout girl, jennie stone, on their way to this meeting. the party broke up in such good season, that it was scarcely dark when the chums left the room in the dining hall and strolled back to their dormitory with their new friends. the lamps around the campus were being lighted by a little old irishman, who wore a wreath of short, gray whiskers and hair about his face--a regular frame. his long upper lip and his chin were shaven, and this arrangement gave him a most comical appearance. "you're late again to-night, tony," jennie stone remarked, as she and ruth came down the steps of the dining hall together. the little irishman backed down the short flight of steps he carried, with a groan. he had just lighted the final lamp of the series that surrounded the campus. "and well i might be--well i might be," grumbled the man. "'tis me needs fower pair of hands, instead of wan pair, and as many legs as a cinterpig." tony evidently meant _centipede_. "'tis 'tony, here!' and 'tony, there!' iv'ry blissid minute av th' day. an' 'tis movin' trunks an' boxes, and the like--mis' grace should hire a nelephant at this time of the year, an' so i tell her. an' what with these here foreigners too--bad 'cess to them! i have to chase ev'ry rag tag and bobtail on the place, so i do----" "not tramps again, tony?" cried jennie stone. "'tis worse. musickle bodies, they be. playin' harps an' fiddles, an' the loikes. sure, 'twill be hand-organs an' moonkeys to-morrer, belike. ah, yes!" "maybe some of these traveling musicians can play the marble harp yonder," said heavy, with a chuckle, pointing to the now half-shrouded figure in the center of the campus. "oh, wirra, wirra! don't be sayin' it," grumbled the old man. "there's bad luck in speakin' of _thim_ folks." jennie stone squeezed ruth's arm, still laughing, as they went on and left the old irishman. "he's just as superstitious as he can be," she whispered. "he really believes the old story about the harp." "he ought to believe in a harp," laughed ruth, in return, "he being irish. tell me, who is he?" "anthony foyle. he's the only workman about the place who sleeps on the premises. his wife's our cook. they're a comical old couple--and she _does_ make the nicest tarts! they'd melt in your mouth if you could only make up your mind to hold them long enough on your tongue," sighed heavy, rapturously. "but what's the story about the marble harp?" queried ruth, as they came to the dormitory and joined the other girls. "you mean the harp held by that figure at the fountain?" "hello!" cried belle tingley. "heavy's trying to scare the infant with the campus ghost story." "oh! a real ghost story!" cried helen. "do let's hear it." "come into our room, cameron," said lluella fairfax, lazily, "and i will tell the tale and harrow up thy young soul----" "and make thy hair stand on end like quills upon the fretful 'porkypine,'" finished mary cox. "yes! let lluella tell it. it is well for infants to learn the legends as well as the rules of briarwood hall." helen was used to being called "infant" by now and didn't mind so much. she was so much taken with their new friends and the upedes in general that she went right into the room occupied by mary cox and her chums, without a word to ruth, and the latter followed with heavy, perforce. the windows of the "quartette" looked out upon the campus. the lights in the other dormitory shone brightly and the lamps around the open space, which the buildings of briarwood surrounded, glimmered in the dark. voices came up to them from the walks; but soon these ceased, for the girls were all indoors. the campus was deserted. "don't let's light the lamp," said lluella. "i can tell stories better in the dark." "and ghost stories, too," laughed helen. "not so much of a ghost story--at least, there's nothing really terrible about it," returned miss fairfax, slowly. "i suppose there are not many people who talk about it, outside of our own selves here at briarwood. but once--before the school came here--the marble statue down there was the talk of the whole countryside. i believe mrs. tellingham doesn't like the story to be repeated," added miss fairfax. "she thinks such superstitions aren't good for the minds of the primes and infants," and the story-teller laughed. "however, it is a fact that the original owner of briarwood hall had a beautiful daughter. she was the apple of his eye--all beautiful daughters are apples of their fathers' eyes," said lluella, laughing. "jennie is _her_ father's apple----" "adam's apple," suggested mary cox. "such a size for an adam's apple would choke a giant," murmured belle tingley, for the three were always joking poor heavy because of her over-plumpness. "don't you bother about my father," said jennie, calmly. "he gives me a dollar every month for chocolate creams, and you girls help eat them, i notice." "hurrah for the stone _pere_!" cried mary cox. "go on, lluella." "you sound as though you cheered for a sea-wall of masonry, or some such maritime structure," complained jennie. "'stone _pere_,' indeed!" "she sha'n't have any of the next box of creams, heavy," said lluella, soothingly. "and i'm not sure that _you_ will, either," replied the fat girl. "_do_ tell your story, miss!" and heavy yawned monstrously. "how _dare_ you yawn before 'taps'?" cried belle. "i'll douse the water-pitcher over you, jennie." at this threat the fat girl sat up promptly and again urged lluella to continue her tale. so miss fairfax continued: "this rich old gentleman with the apple in his eye--in other words, a beautiful daughter--had a great deal more money than sense, i think. he engaged a sculptor to design a fountain for his lawn, and the draped figure you have seen upon that pedestal down yonder, is supposed to be the portrait of the beautiful daughter cut into enduring marble by the man who _sculped_. but, unfortunately for the old gentleman's peace of mind while he _sculped_ the marble the artist likewise made love to the young lady and they ran away and were married, leaving the old gentleman nothing but the cold marble statue playing the marble harp, in place of a daughter. "the father's heart at once became as adamant as the marble itself, and he refused to support the sculptor and his wife. now, either the runaway couple died miserably of starvation in a garret, or were drowned at sea, or were wrecked in a railroad accident, or some other dreadful catastrophe happened to them--i'm not sure which; for after a time there began to be something strange about the fountain. the old man lived here alone with his servants for a number of years; but the servants would not remain long with him, for they said the place was haunted." "oh my!" exclaimed helen. "that's right, miss cameron. please show the proper amount of thrilling interest. they said the fountain was queer. the water never poisoned anybody; but sometimes the marble strings of the marble harp in the marble hand or the marble daughter would be heard to twang in the night. weird music came from the fountain at ghostly hours. of course, the little harp the statue holds is in the form of a lyre; and what the people were who told these stories about the ghostly twanging of the instrument--you may draw your own conclusions," laughed lluella fairfax. "however, the old gentleman at last broke up his household, or died, or moved to town, or something, and briarwood was put up for sale and the school came here. that was a good many years ago. dr. tellingham's wig matched his fringe of hair when the school first began here, so that must have been a good while ago. the twanging of the marble harp has been heard down through the school ages, so it is said--particularly at queer times----" "queer times?" asked ruth. "why, when something out of the common was about to happen. they say it twanged the night before our team beat the basket-ball team from varden preparatory. there was a girl here once who ran away because her folks went to europe and left her behind at school. she was determined to follow them, and she got as far as new york and stole aboard a great steamer so as to follow her parents; only the steamship she boarded had just come in instead of just going out. they say the marble harp twanged _then_." "and when heavy failed to oversleep one morning last half the marble harp must have twanged _that_ time," declared mary cox. a gentle snore answered from the window seat, where jennie stone had actually gone to sleep. "wasted humor," said mary, laughing. "heavy is in the land of nod. it's been a hard day for her. at supper she had to eat her own and miss fielding's share of the cup-custards." ruth and helen had already risen to go. "you'll remember, infants," said lluella, "when you hear the twang of the ghostly harp, that something momentous is bound to happen at briarwood hall." "but more important still," warned mary, "be sure that your lights are out within twenty minutes after retiring bell sounds. otherwise you will have that cat, picolet, poking into your room to learn what is the matter." chapter ix the ghostly tribunal "aren't they just fine? isn't it just fun?" these were the enthusiastic questions that helen cameron hurled at ruth when they returned to their own room. the girl from the red mill was glad that their school life had opened so pleasantly; but she was by no means blinded--as helen seemed to be--to the faults of their neighbors in the room they had just left. "they have been very friendly and we have no complaint to make, that is sure, helen," she said. "how exasperating you are at times!" exclaimed her chum. "just the same, i am glad we didn't go with those poky fussy curls to _their_ meeting." ruth made no reply to this. the bell in the tower had tolled nine, and they knew that there were twenty minutes only in which to get ready for retiring. those girls who had lights after twenty minutes past nine were likely to be questioned, and any who burned a lamp after half after nine would find a demerit against their names in the morning. the chums hurried, then, to get ready for sleep. "don't you hope we'll dream something very nice?" whispered helen as she plunged into bed first. "i hope we will," returned ruth, waiting to see her comfortable before she turned out the light and bent over her chum to kiss her. "good-night, helen. i hope we'll be just as good friends here, dear, as we have been since we met." "of course we will, ruthie!" declared helen, quite as warmly. "we will let nobody, or nothing, come between us?" said ruth, a little wistfully in the dark. "of course not!" declared helen, with added emphasis. then ruth crept into her own bed and lay looking at the whiter patch of the nearest window long after helen's gentle, regular breathing announced her chum asleep. there were few other sounds about the dormitory. a door shut softly in the distance. somewhere a dog barked once. ruth was not sleepy at all. the day's doings passed in a not unpleasant procession through her mind. it seemed a week--yes! a month--since she had left the red mill that morning. she again went over the pleasant road with the camerons and mrs. murchiston to cheslow. she remembered their conversation with good dr. davison, and wondered if by any possibility the time would come when poor mercy curtis could go to school--perhaps come to this very briarwood hall. the long ride on the train to lake osago was likewise repeated in ruth's mind; then the trip by boat to portageton. she could not fail to recount the mysterious behavior of the big man who played the harp in the boat orchestra, and mademoiselle picolet. and while these thoughts were following in slow procession through her mind she suddenly became aware of a sound without. the nearest window was open--the lower sash raised to its full height. it was a warm and windless night. the sound was repeated. ruth raised her head from the pillow. it was a faint scratching--at the door, or at the window? she could not tell. ruth lay down again; then she sat upright in her bed as the sound continued. every other noise about the house now seemed stilled. the dog did not bark. there was no rustle in the trees that shaded the campus. where was that sound? at the door? ruth was not afraid--only curious. if somebody was trying to attract her attention--if somebody wished to communicate with her, to get into the room---- she hopped out of bed. helen still slept as calmly as though she was in her own bed at home. ruth went softly to the door. she had latched it when they came in. now she pushed the bolt back softly. was there a rustle and a soft whisper behind the panels? suddenly, as the fastening was removed, the door was pushed inward. ruth stepped back. had she been of a very nervous disposition, she would have cried aloud in fright, for two figures all in white stood at the door. "hush!" commanded the taller of the two shrouded figures. "not a word." thus commanded, and half frightened, as well as wholly amazed, ruth remained passive. the two white figures entered; two more followed; two more followed in turn, until there were eight couples--girls and all shrouded in sheets, with pillow-case hoods over their heads, in which were cut small "eyes"--within the duet room. somebody closed the door. somebody else motioned ruth to awaken helen. ruth hesitated. she at once supposed that some of their school-fellows meant to haze them; but she did not know how her chum would take such a startling awakening from sound sleep. she knew that, had she been asleep herself and opened her eyes to see these shrouded figures gathered about her bed, she would have been frightened beyond expression. "don't let her see you first!" gasped ruth, affrightedly. instantly two of the girls seized her and, as she involuntarily opened her lips to scream, one thrust a ball of clean rags into her mouth, thrusting it in so far that it effectually gagged her, nor could she expel the ball from her mouth. it was not a cruel act, but it was awfully uncomfortable, and being held firmly by her two assailants, ruth could do nothing, either in her own behalf, or for helen. but she was determined not to cry. these big girls called them "infants," and ruth fielding determined not to deserve the name. she had no idea that the hazing party would really hurt them; they would have for their principal object the frightening of the new-comers to briarwood hall; and, secondarily, they would try to make ruth and helen appear just as ridiculous as possible. ruth was sorry in a moment that she had breathed a syllable aloud; for she was not allowed to awaken helen. instead, a girl went to either side of the bed and leaned over ruth's sleeping chum. the tall, peaked caps made of the pillow-cases looked awful enough, and ruth was in a really unhappy state of mind. all for helen's sake, too. she had opened the door to these thoughtless girls. if she only had not done it! suddenly helen started upright in bed. her black eyes glared for a moment as she beheld the row of sheeted figures. but her lips only opened to emit a single "oh!" "silence!" commanded one of the figures leaning over the bed, and ruth, whose ears were sharpened now, believed that she recognized mary cox's voice. she immediately decided that these girls who had come to haze them were the very juniors who had been so nice to them that evening--"the fox" and her fellow-members of the upedes. but ruth was more interested just then in the manner in which helen was going to take her sudden awakening. fortunately her chum seemed quite prepared for the visitation. after her first involuntary cry, she remained silent, and she even smiled across the footboard at ruth, who, gagged and held captive, was certainly in no pleasant situation. the thought flashed into ruth's mind: "did helen have reason for expecting this visit, and not warn _me_?" "up!" commanded the previous speaker among the white-robed company. "your doom awaits you." helen put her bare feet out of bed, but was allowed to put her slippers on. the chums were in their night apparel only. fortunately the air breathed in at the open window was warm. so there was no danger of their getting cold. the two new girls were placed side by side. helen was not gagged as ruth was; but, of course, she had uttered only that single startled cry when she awoke. there was great solemnity among the shrouded figures as the chums stood in their midst. the girl who had previously spoken (and whom ruth was quite positive was mary cox--for she seemed to be the leader and prime mover in this event) swept everything off the table and mounted upon it, where she sat cross-legged--like a tailor, or a turk. "bring the culprits before the throne!" she commanded, in a sepulchral voice. helen actually giggled. but ruth did not feel much like laughing. the ball of rags in her mouth had begun to hurt her, and she was held tightly by her two guards so that she could not have an instant's freedom. she was not, in addition, quite sure that these girls would not attempt to haze their prisoners in some unbecoming, or dangerous, way. therefore, she was not undisturbed in her mind as she stood in the midst of the shrouded company of her school-fellows. chapter x something more than ghosts helen pinched ruth's arm. it was plain that her guards did not hold helen as tightly as they did ruth. and why was _that_? ruth thought. could it be possible that her chum had had warning of this midnight visitation? not that ruth felt very much fear of the outcome of the exercises; but the possibility that her old friend had kept any secret knowledge of the raid from her troubled ruth immensely. since they had come among the girls of briarwood hall--and that so few hours before--ruth felt that she and helen were not so close together. there was danger of their drifting apart, and the possibility troubled ruth fielding exceedingly. the thought of it now, however, was but momentary. naturally she was vitally interested in what was about to be done to her by the party of hazers. "i am pained," said the girl sitting on the table, "that one of the neophytes comes before us with a bigger mouthful than she can swallow. if she understands fully that a single word above a whisper--or any word at all unless she is addressed by the sisters--will be punished by her being instantly corked up again, the gag may be removed. do you understand, neophyte? nod once!" ruth, glad to get rid of the unpleasant mouthful on any terms, nodded vigorously. immediately her captors let go of her arms and one of them pulled the "stopper" out of her mouth. "now, remember!" uttered the girl on the table, warningly. "a word aloud and the plug goes back." helen giggled again, but ruth didn't feel like laughing herself. "now, culprits!" continued the leader of the hazing party, "you must be judged for your temerity. how _dared_ you come to briarwood hall, infants?" "please, ma'am," whispered helen, who seemed to think the whole affair a great lark, "our guardians sent us here. we are not responsible." "you may not so easily escape responsibility for your acts," hissed the girl on the table. "those who enter briarwood hall must show themselves worthy of the high honor. it takes courage to come under the eye of mrs. tellingham; it takes supernatural courage to come under the eye of picolet!" "if she wasn't out of the house to-night you may believe we wouldn't be out of bed," murmured another of the midnight visitors, whom ruth was quite sure was belle tingley. "and i hope you made no mistake about _that_, miss!" snapped the girl on the table. "_you_ went to her door." "and knocked, and asked for toothache drops," giggled another of the shrouded figures. "and she wasn't there. i pushed the door open," muttered the other girl. "i know she went out. i heard the door open and shut half an hour before." "she's a sly one, she is," declared the girl on the table. "but, enough of picolet. it is these small infants we have to judge; not that old cat. we say they have shown temerity in coming to briarwood--is it not so, friends and fellow members--ahem! is it not so?" there was a responsive giggle from the shrouded figures about the room. "then punishment must be the portion of these infants," declared the foremost hazer. "they claim that they were sent here against their will and that it was not reckless bravery that brought them to these scholastic halls. let them prove their courage then--what say the sisters?" the sisters giggled a good deal, but the majority seemed to be of the opinion that proof of the infants' courage should be exacted. "then let the golden goblet be brought," commanded the leader, her voice still carefully lowered, for even if miss picolet was out of the dormitory, miss scrimp, the matron, was asleep in her own room, likewise on the lower floor of the building. somebody produced a vase which had evidently been covered with bright gold-foil for the occasion. "here," said the leader, holding the vase out to helen. "take this golden goblet and fill it at the fountain on the campus. you will be taken down to the door by the guards, who will await your return and will bring you back again. and remember! silence!" the lights all around the campus had gone out ere this. there was no moon, and although it was a clear night, with countless stars in the heavens, it seemed dark and lonely indeed down there under the trees between the school buildings. "do not hesitate, infant!" commanded the leader of the hazing party. "nor shall you think to befool us, miss! take the golden goblet, and fill and drink at the fountain. but leave the goblet there, that we may know you have accomplished the task set you!" this was said most solemnly; but the solemnity would not have bothered helen cameron at all, had the task been given to somebody else! the thought of venturing out there in the dark on the campus rather quelled her propensity for giggling. but there seemed to be no way of begging off from the trial. helen cast a look of pleading at her chum; but what could ruth do? she was surprised that the task had not been given to her instead; she believed that these girls were really more friendly in feeling toward helen than toward herself. at least, it was mary cox on the table, and mary cox had shown helen much more attention than she had ruth. two of the sheeted visitors seized helen again and led her softly out of the room. a sentinel had been left in the corridor, and the word was whispered that all was silent in the house; miss scrimp was known to be a heavy sleeper, and the french teacher was certainly absent from her room. the girls led helen downstairs and to the outer door. this opened with a spring lock. the guards whispered that they would remain to await her return, and the new girl was pushed out of doors, with nothing over her nightgown but a wrapper, and only slippers on her feet. although there was little breeze now, it was not cold. but it was dark under the trees. ruth, who could look out of the windows above, wondered how her chum was getting on. to go clear to the center of the campus with that vase, and leave it at the foot of the figure surmounting the fountain, was no pleasant experience, ruth felt. the minutes passed slowly, the girls in their shrouds whispering among themselves. suddenly there came a sound from outside--a pattering of running feet on the cement walk. ruth sprang to the nearest window in spite of the commands of the hazing party. helen was running toward the house at a speed which betrayed her agitation. besides, ruth could hear her sobbing under her breath: "oh, oh, oh!" "you've scared her half to death!" exclaimed ruth, angrily, as the girls seized her. "put in the stopper!" commanded the girl who had seated herself on the table, and instantly the ball of rags was driven into ruth's mouth again and she was held, in spite of her struggles, by her captors. ruth was angry now. helen had been tricked into going to the fountain, and by some means the hazers had frightened her on her journey. but it was a couple of minutes before her chum was brought back to the room. helen was shivering and sobbing between the guards--indeed they held her up, for she would have fallen. "what's the matter with the great booby?" demanded the girl on the table. "she--she says she heard something, or saw something, at the fountain," said one of the other girls, in a quavering voice. "of course she did--they always do," declared the leader. "isn't the fountain haunted? we know it is so." this was all said for effect, and to impress _her_, ruth knew. but she tried to go to helen. they held her back, however, and she could not speak. "did the neophyte go to the fountain?" demanded the leader, sternly. helen, in spite of her tears, nodded vigorously. "did she drink of the water there?" "i--i was drinking it when i--i heard somebody----" "the ghost of the very beautiful woman whose statue adorns the fountain," declared mary cox, if it were she, in a sepulchral voice. ruth knew now why the story of the fountain had been told them earlier in the evening, but personally she had not been much impressed by it then, nor was she frightened now. she was only indignant that helen and she should be treated so--and by these very girls for whom her chum had conceived such a fancy. helen was still trembling. they let her sit down upon her bed, and ruth wanted to go to her more than ever, and comfort her. but the girl on the table brought her up short. "now, miss!" she exclaimed. "you are the next. the first infant has left the golden goblet at the fountain--you _did_ leave it there; didn't you, you 'fraid-cat?" she demanded sharply, of helen. helen bobbed her head and sobbed. "then," said the leader of the hazing party, "you go and bring it here." ruth stared at her in surprise. she did not move. "take out her gag. lead her to the door. if she does not come back with the golden goblet, lock her out and let her cool her temper till morning on the grass," said the girl on the table, cruelly. "and if she stirs up trouble, she'll wish she had never come to briarwood!" chapter xi the voice of the harp "among two hundred girls there are bound to be girls of a good many different kinds." so had said mrs. tellingham when ruth fielding and her chum presented themselves before the preceptress not many hours before. and ruth saw plainly that some of these shrouded and masked figures, at least, were of the kind against whom mrs. tellingham had quietly warned them. these were not alone careless and thoughtless, however; but the girl whom ruth believed to be mary cox, their whilom friend and guide, was cruel likewise. ruth fielding was no coward. she believed these girls had arranged to terrify their victims by some manifestation at the fountain--why, otherwise, had they sent helen there and now were determined to make ruth repeat the experience? nor was it necessary for the leader of the crew of hazers to remind the girl from the red mill how unpleasant they could make it for her if the dared report them to the teachers. "now, first neophyte!" exclaimed the leader of their visitors. "where did you leave the golden goblet?" "on the pedestal, right between the feet of the figure," sobbed helen. "you hear?" repeated the other, turning her shrouded face to ruth. "then go, drink likewise of the fountain, and bring back the goblet. failure to perform this task will be punished not only in the present, but in the future. take her away--and remember your orders, guards." the door was opened ever so quietly and the sentinel outside assured them that nobody had stirred. all had been so far conducted so carefully that even the other girls not in the plot were not awakened. as ruth was led past the door of the larger room, which she knew mary cox and her three chums occupied, she heard the unmistakable snoring of a sound sleeper within. it made her doubt if, after all, those four who had appeared so friendly to helen and herself that evening, were among the hazers; and she heard one of her guards whisper: "miss picolet never has to look into _that_ room to learn if they're asleep. listen to heavy, will you?" but this puzzlement did not stick in ruth's mind for long; the guards hustled her down the stairs and the outer door was opened. "if the cat should suddenly come back, wouldn't we just _catch_ it?" whispered one girl to the other. "now, don't you be forever and ever going to that fountain," said the other to ruth. "for if you are long, we'll just shut the door on you and run back." as she spoke she let go of ruth's arm and jerked the gag out of her mouth. then the two pushed the new girl out of the door and closed it softly. ruth could hear them whispering together behind the panels. like helen, she had been given her bath-gown. she was not cold. but it was truth that the memory of her chum's state of mind when she had come back from the visit to the fountain, gave ruth fielding an actual chill. helen had set out upon _her_ venture without much worriment of mind; but she had been badly frightened. ruth believed this fright had been wickedly planned by the hazing crew of girls; nevertheless she could not help being troubled in her own mind as she looked out into the dimness of the campus. not a sound rose from this court between the buildings. a few dim night-lights were visible in the windows about the campus; but the lamps that illumined the walks and the park itself were burned out. the breeze was so faint that it did not rustle the smallest branches of the trees. there was not a sound from anywhere upon the campus. remembering the promise of the two girls who had thrust her out of the house, ruth thought it best for her to get the unpleasant business over as quickly as possible. although she could not see the sunken fountain from the steps of the dormitory where she stood, she knew which path to take to get to it the quickest. she started along this path at once, walking until she was surely out of view of the girls in the windows above, and then running to the fountain. she had some objection to giving her new schoolmates the satisfaction of seeing that she was at all frightened by this midnight jaunt. she sped along the path and there was the statue looming right before her. the trickle of the water, spouting into the basin, made a low and pleasant sound. nothing moved about the fountain. "perhaps, after all, helen only _imagined_ there was somebody here," thought ruth, and she pattered down the steps in her slippers, and so climbed upon the marble ledge from which she could reach the gilded goblet which was, as helen had declared, placed between the feet of the marble statue. and then, suddenly, there was a rustle near at hand. was that a whisper--a sharp, muffled gasp? ruth was startled, indeed, and shuddered so that the "goose-flesh" seemed to start all over her. nevertheless, she clutched the goblet firmly and held it beneath one of the spouts of the fountain. she was convinced that if there was anybody behind the figure of marble, he was there for the express purpose of frightening her--and she was determined not to be frightened. the goblet was quickly filled and ruth held it to her lips. she might be watched, and she was determined to obey the mandate of the masked leader of the hazing party. she would not give them the right to say that _she_ was panic-stricken. and then, with an unexpectedness that held her for an instant spellbound, she heard a hasty hand sweep the taut strings of a harp! she was directly below the figure and--if the truth must be told--she looked up in horror, expecting to see the marble representation of a harp vibrating under that sudden stroke! there was no movement, of course, in the marble. there was no further sound about the fountain. but the echo of that crash of music vibrated across the campus and died away hollowly between the buildings. it had been no sound called up by her imagination; the harp had been sounded with a sure and heavy hand. ruth fielding confessed her terror now on the instant. when power of movement returned to her, she leaped from the basin's edge, scurried up the steps to the path, and dashed at top speed for the dormitory, bearing the goblet in one hand and catching up the draperies of her long garment so as not to ensnare her feet. she reached the building and dashed up the steps. the door was ajar, but the shrouded guards were nowhere visible. she burst into the hall, banged the door after her, and ran up the stairs in blind terror, with no care for anybody, or anything else! into the room at the end of the corridor she hurried, and found it---- deserted, save for her chum, helen cameron, cowering in her bed. the masked and shrouded figures were gone, and ruth found herself standing, panting and gasping, in the middle of the room, with the half-filled goblet in her hand, her heart beating as though it would burst. chapter xii the mystery deepens there was some movement downstairs now. ruth fielding heard a door open and a voice speak in the lower corridor. perhaps it was miss scrimp, the matron. but every one of the skylarkers had cut to bed, and the dormitories were as still as need be. "oh, ruth!" gasped helen, from her muffling bed clothes. "did you hear it?" "did i hear what?" panted ruth. "oh! i was so frightened. there is something _dreadful_ about that fountain. i heard whisperings and rustlings there; but the harp----" "they did it to scare us," declared ruth, in both anger and relief. she _had_ been badly frightened, but she was getting control of herself now. "then they frightened themselves," declared helen, sitting up in bed. "you heard the harp?" "i should say so!" "we were all at the window listening to hear if you would be frightened and run," whispered helen. "oh, ruthie!" "what's the matter, now?" demanded her chum. "i--i tried to help them. it was mean. i knew they were trying to scare you, and i helped them. i wasn't so scared myself as i appeared when i came in." "what?" "i don't know what's made me act so mean to you this evening," sobbed helen. "i'm sure i love you, ruth. and i know you wouldn't have treated me so. but they said they were just going to have some fun with you----" "_who_ said?" demanded ruth. "mary cox--and--and the others." "they told you they were coming to haze us?" "the upedes--ye-es," admitted helen. "and of course, it wouldn't have amounted to anything if that---- oh, ruth! was it truly the harp that sounded?" "how could that marble harp make any sound?" demanded ruth, sharply. "but i know the girls were scared--just as scared as i was. they expected nothing of the kind. and the twang of the strings sounded just as loud as--as--well, as loud as that fat man's playing on the boat sounded. do you remember?" ruth remembered. and suddenly the thought suggested by her frightened chum entered her mind and swelled in it to vast proportions. she could, in fact, think of little else than this new idea. she hushed helen as best she could. she told her she forgave her--but she said it unfeelingly and more to hush her chum than aught else. she wanted to think out this new train of thought to its logical conclusion. "hush and go to sleep, helen," she advised. "we shall neither of us be fit to get up at rising bell. it is very late. i--i wish those girls had remained in their own rooms, that i do!" "but there is one thing about it," said helen, with half a sob and half a chuckle. "they were more frightened than we were when they scuttled out of this room before you returned. oh! you should have seen them." ruth would say no more to her. there had been no light lit in all this time, and now she snuggled down into her own bed. the excitement of the recent happenings did not long keep helen awake; but her friend and room-mate lay for some time studying out the mystery of the campus. miss picolet was out of her room. the old irishman, tony foyle, had mentioned chasing itinerant musicians off the grounds that very evening--among them a harpist. the evil-looking man who played the harp on board the steamship, and who had so frightened little miss picolet, had followed the french teacher ashore. had he followed her to briarwood hall? was he an enemy who plagued the little french teacher--perhaps blackmailed her? these were the various ideas revolving in ruth fielding's head. and they revolved until the girl fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and they troubled her sleep all through the remainder of the night. for that the man with the harp and miss picolet had a rendezvous behind the marble figure on the campus fountain was the sum and substance of the conclusion which ruth had come to. in the morning ruth only mentioned these suppositions to helen, but discussed them not at all with the other girls, her new school-fellows. indeed, those girls who had set out to haze the two infants, and had been frightened by the manifestation of the sounding harp upon the campus, were not likely to broach the subject to ruth or helen, either. for they had intended to surround their raid upon the new-comers' peace of mind with more or less secrecy. however, sixteen frightened girls (without counting ruth and helen) could not be expected to keep such a mystery as this a secret among themselves. that the marble harp had been sounded--that the ghost of the campus had returned to haunt the school--was known among the students of briarwood hall before breakfast time. jennie stone was quite full of it, although ruth knew from the unimpeachable testimony of jennie's nose that _she_ was not among the hazers; and the sounding of the mysterious harp-strings in the middle of the night really endangered heavy's appetite for breakfast. the members of the upedes who had been so pleasant with them at the evening meeting seemed rather chary of speaking to ruth and helen how; and, anyway, the chums had enough to do to get their boxes unpacked and their keepsakes set about the room, and to complete various housekeeping arrangements. they enjoyed setting up their "goods and chattels" quite as much as they expected to; and really their school life began quite pleasantly despite the excitement and misunderstanding on the first night of their arrival. if the crowd that ruth was so sure had hazed them were slow about attending on the two infants in the west dormitory (as their building was called) there were plenty of other nice girls who looked into the duet in a friendly way, or who spoke to ruth and helen on the campus, or in the dining room. miss polk and madge steele were not the only seniors who showed the chums some attention, either; and ruth and helen began secretly to count the little buttons marked "f. c." which they saw, as compared with the few stars bearing the intertwined "u" and "d" of the upedes. just the same, helen cameron's leaning toward the lively group or girls in their house who had (it seemed) formed their club in protest against the forward club, was still marked. the friends heard that the last named association was governed by the preceptress and teachers almost entirely. that it was "poky" and "stuffy." that some girls (not altogether those who formed the membership of the upedes) considered it "toadying" to join the forward club. and on this second day ruth and helen saw that the rivalry for membership between the clubs was very keen indeed. a girl couldn't have friends among the members of both the f. c.'s and the upedes--that was plain. many new girls arrived on this day--mostly from the lumberton direction. that was another reason, perhaps, why ruth and helen were shown so little attention by the quartette of girls next door o them. they were all busy--even heavy herself--in herding the new girls whom they had entangled in the tentacles of the upedes. the chums found themselves untroubled by the f. c.'s; it seemed to be a settled fact among the girls that ruth and helen were pledged to the upedes. "but we are _not_," ruth fielding said, to her friend. "i don't like this way of doing business at all, helen--do you?" "well--but what does it matter?" queried helen, pouting. "we want to get in with a lively set; don't we? i'm sure the upedes are nice girls." "i don't like the leadership of them," said ruth, frankly. "miss cox?" "miss cox--exactly," said the girl from the red mill. "oh--well--she isn't everything," cried helen. "she comes pretty near being the boss of that club--you can see that. now, the question is, do we want to be bossed by a girl like her?" "then, do you want to be under the noses of the teachers, and toadying to them all the time?" cried helen. "if that is what is meant by belonging to the forward club, i certainly do not," admitted ruth. "then i don't see but you will have to start a secret society of your own," declared helen, laughing somewhat ruefully. "and perhaps _that_ wouldn't be such a bad idea," returned ruth, slowly. "i understand that there are nearly thirty new girls coming to briarwood this half who will enter the junior classes. of course, the primary pupils don't count. i talked with a couple of them at dinner. they feel just as i do about it--there is too much pulling and hauling about these societies. they are not sure that they wish to belong to either the upedes or the f. c.'s." "but just think!" wailed helen. "how much fun we would be cut out of! we wouldn't have any friends----" "that's nonsense. at least, if the whole of us thirty infants, as they call us, flocked together by ourselves, why wouldn't we have plenty of society? i'm not so sure that it wouldn't be a good idea to suggest it to the others." "oh, my! would you dare?" gasped helen. "and we've only just arrived ourselves?" "self-protection is the first selfish law of nature," paraphrased ruth, smiling; "and i'm not sure that it's a bad idea to be selfish on such an occasion." "you'd just make yourself ridiculous," scoffed helen. "to think of a crowd of freshies getting up an order--a secret society." "in self-protection," laughed ruth. "i guess mrs. tellingham would have something to say about it, too," declared helen. it was not the subject of school clubs that was the burden of ruth fielding's thought for most of that day, however. nor did the arrival of so many new scholars put the main idea in her mind aside. this troubling thought was of miss picolet and the sound of the harp on the campus at midnight. the absence of the french teacher from the dormitory, the connection of the little lady with the obese foreigner who played the harp on the _lanawaxa_, and the sounding of harp-strings on the campus in the middle of the night, were all dovetailed together in ruth fielding's mind. she wondered what the mystery meant. she saw tony foyle cleaning the campus lanterns during the day, and she stopped and spoke to him. "i heard you tell jennie stone last night that you had to drive street musicians away from the school grounds, sir?" said ruth, quietly. "was there a man with a harp among them?" "sure an' there was," declared tony, nodding. "and he was a sassy dago, at that! 'tis well i'm a mon who kapes his temper, or 'twould ha' gone har-r-rd wid him." "a big man, was he, mr. foyle?" asked ruth. "what had that to do wid it?" demanded the old man, belligerently. "when the foyles' dander is riz it ain't size that's goin' to stop wan o' that name from pitchin' into an' wallopin' the biggest felly that iver stepped. he was big," he added; "but i've seen bigger. him an' his red vest--and jabberin' like the foreign monkey he was. i'll show him!" ruth left tony shaking his head and muttering angrily as he pursued his occupation. ruth found herself deeply interested in the mystery of the campus; but if she had actually solved the problem of the sounding of the harp at midnight, the reason for the happening, and what really brought that remarkable manifestation about, was as deep a puzzle to her as before. chapter xiii beginnings youth adapts itself easily and naturally to all change. ruth fielding and her chum, before that second evening at briarwood hall drew in, felt as though they had known the place for months and some of the girls all their lives. it was thus the most natural thing in the world to assemble at meals when the school-bell tapped its summons, to stand while the grace was being said, to chatter and laugh with those at the table at which they sat, to speak and laugh with the waitresses, and with old tony foyle, and with miss scrimp, the matron of their house, and to bow respectfully to miss picolet, miss kennedy, the english teacher; miss o'hara, before whom ruth and helen would come in mathematics, and the other teachers as they learned their names. dr. tellingham, although affording some little amusement for the pupils because of his personal peculiarities, was really considered by the girls in general a deeply learned man, and when he chanced to trot by a group of the students on the campus, in his stoop-shouldered, purblind way, their voices became hushed and they looked after him as though he really was all he pretended to be--or all he thought he was. he delved in histories--ate, slept, and seemed to draw the breath of his nostrils from histories. that the pamphlets and books he wrote were of trivial importance, and seldom if ever saw the light of print, was not made manifest to the briarwood girls in general. ruth and helen were not unpopular from the start. helen was so pretty and so vivacious, that she was bound to gather around her almost at once those girls who were the more easily attracted by such a nature; while for ruth's part, the little primes found that she was both kind and loving. she did not snub the smaller girls who came to her for any help, and before this day was over (which was friday) they began to steal into the chums' duet, in twos and threes, to talk with ruth fielding. it had been so at the school near the red mill, and ruth was glad the little folk took to her. late in the afternoon the two friends from cheslow went out to the main entrance of the grounds to meet old dolliver's stage from seven oaks. it had been noised abroad that a whole _nursery_ of infants was expected by that conveyance, and mary cox and madge steele, each with her respective committee, were in waiting to greet the new-comers on behalf of their separate societies. "and we'll welcome them as fellow-infants," whispered ruth to helen. "let's hold a reception in our room this evening to all the newcomers. what say, helen?" her chum was a little doubtful as to the wisdom of this course. she did not like to offend their friends in the upedes. yet the suggestion attracted helen, too. "i suppose if we freshmen stick together we'll have a better time, after all," she agreed. as the time for the appearance of the stage drew near, approximately half the school was gathered to see the infants disembark from old dolliver's ark. mary cox arranged her upedes on one side of the path and they began to sing: "uncle noah, he drove an ark-- one wide river to cross! he made a landing at briarwood park-- one wide river to cross! one wide river! one wide river of jordan! one wide river! one wide river to cross!" old dolliver, all one wide grin and flapping duster, drove his bony horses to the stopping place with a flourish. "here we be!" he croaked. "the old craft is jest a-bulgin' over with infants." mary cox pulled open the door and the first newcomer popped out as though she had been clinging to the handle when the fox made the movement. "the infants got out, one by one-- one wide river to cross! first infant bumps into a great big stone-- one wide river to cross!" and there really was heavy to receive the newcomer with open arms, who said, while the others chanted the refrain: "my name's jennie stone, and you're very welcome to briarwood, and what's your name, infant?" the girls in the stage-coach had been forewarned by old dolliver as to their probable greeting, and they took this all in good part. they disembarked with their bags and parcels, while tony foyle appeared to help old dolliver down with the heavier luggage that was strapped upon the roof and in the boot behind. mary cox continued to line out the doggerel, inventing some telling hits as she went along, while the upedes came in strongly on the refrain. there was much laughter and confusion; but the arriving infants were lined up two by two between the long rows of briarwood girls and were forced to march toward the hall by this narrow path. "come! we are infants, too," exclaimed ruth, pulling helen by the sleeve. "we will lead the march." she drew her chum away with her, and they introduced themselves to the girls at the head of the column of freshies. "we are helen cameron and ruth fielding," said ruth, cordially. "we only got here yesterday, so we are infants, too. we will take you to the office of the preceptress." so the chums bore their share of the indignity of being marched up through the grounds like culprits, and halted the file at the steps of the main building. "we have duet number in the west dormitory," said ruth, boldly, to the new-comers. "when you have found your rooms and got settled--after supper, that will be,--you are all invited to come to our room and get acquainted with the other infants. we're going to get as many together this evening as we can. now, _do_ come!" "oh, ruth!" whispered helen, when they were out of ear-shot of the others. "what will the upedes say?" "we're not interfering with either of the school clubs," declared her chum, emphatically. "but i guess it won't hurt us to become acquainted with those who are as new here as ourselves. the old girls don't feel strange, or lost; it is these new ones that need to be made to feel at home." timid for herself, ruth had begun to develop that side of her character which urged her to be bold for the general good. she appreciated keenly how awkward she had felt when she arrived at briarwood the day before. helen, although not lacking in kindliness, was less thoughtful than her chum; and she was actually less bold than her chum, too. ruth made it a point to see and speak with all the new scholars whom she could find, repeating her invitation for a meeting in her room. whether helen helped in this matter she did not know. her chum was _not_ enthusiastic in the task, that was certain. and indeed, when the hour came, after supper, helen was closeted with mary cox in the quartette room next door to the chamber and study which she and ruth fielding shared together. that ruth felt more than a little hurt, it is unnecessary to say. she had felt the entering wedge between them within a few hours of their coming to the school. the upedes were much more friendly to helen than to herself, and helen was vastly interested in mary cox, belle tingley, lluella fairfax, and some of the other livelier members of the up and doing club. but, after a while helen strolled into her own room and mingled with the infants who had there assembled. they had come almost to their full strength. there were no sessions of either the f. c.'s or the upedes on this evening, and miss picolet, to whom ruth had spoken about the little reception to be held in her room, approved of it. helen was bound to be popular among any crowd of girls, for she was so gay and good-tempered. but when somebody broached the subject of school clubs, ruth was surprised that helen should at once talk boldly for the upedes. she really urged their cause as though she was already a member. "i am not at all sure that i wish to join either the forwards or the up and doings," said ruth, quietly, when one of the other infants asked her what she intended doing. "but you'll have no friends here--not among the juniors and seniors, at least--if you don't join some club!" helen exclaimed. "there are enough of us right here to found a society, i should say," laughed ruth. "and we're all in the same boat, too." "yes!" agreed sarah fish, one of the infants just arrived. "and what do these older girls really care about us? very little, i am sure, except to strengthen their own clubs. i can see that," she continued, being a very practical, sensible girl, and downright in speech and manner. "two of them came into our room at once--the girl they call the fox, and miss steele. one argued for the forwards and the other for the up and doings. i don't want either." "i don't want to join either," broke in another girl, by name phyllis short. "i think it would be nicer for us infants, as they call us, to keep together. and we're no younger than a good many of the juniors!" ruth laughed. "we expect to take all _that_ good-naturedly. but i don't like the idea of being driven into one society, or the other. and i don't mean to be," she said, emphatically. "hear! hear!" cried miss fish. "well, i don't think it will be nice at all," said helen, in some heat, "to refuse to associate with the older girls here. i, for one, want to get into the real school society----" "but suppose we start a club of our own?" interrupted the practical sarah. "why, what could just a handful of new girls do in a society? it would look silly," cried helen. "we won't keep the older girls out of it, if they want to join," laughed sarah. "and there has to be a beginning to everything," rejoined phyllis short. "i don't believe those upedes have many more members than are right in this room to-night," said ruth, quietly. "how many do we number here--twenty-six?" "twenty-six, counting your room-mate," said sarah. "well, you can count her room-mate out," declared helen, sharply. "i am not going to make myself a laughing-stock of the school by joining any baby society." "well," said phyllis short, calmly. "it's always nicer, _i_ think, to be a big frog in a little puddle than to be an unrecognised croaker in a great, big pool." most of the girls laughed at that. and the suggestion of a separate club for the infants seemed to be well received. ruth, however, was very much troubled by helen's attitude, and she would say no more beyond this: "we will think of it. there is plenty of time. only, those who feel as we do----" "as _you_ do!" snapped helen. "as _i_ do, then, if you insist," said ruth, bravely, "would better not pledge themselves to either the f. c.'s or the upedes until we have talked this new idea over." and with that the company broke up and the new girls went away to their rooms. but helen and ruth found a barrier raised between them that evening, and the latter sprinkled her pillow with a few quiet tears before she went to sleep. chapter xiv the sweetbriars mail time! until saturday morning ruth and helen had not realized how vital that hour was when the mail-bag came out from the lumberton post office and the mail was distributed by one of the teachers into a series of pigeonholes in a tiny "office" built into the corridor at the dining-room door. the mail arrived during the breakfast hour. one could get her letters when she came out of the dining-room, and on this saturday both ruth and helen had letters. miss cramp, her old teacher, had written to ruth very kindly. there was a letter, too, from aunt alvirah, addressed in her old-fashioned hand, and its contents shaky both as to spelling and grammar, but full of love for the girl who was so greatly missed at the red mill. uncle jabez had even declared the first night that it seemed as though there had been a death in the house, with ruth gone. helen had several letters, but the one that delighted her most was from her twin brother. "although," she declared, in her usual sweet-tempered manner, "tom's written it to both of us. listen here, ruthie!" the new cadet at seven oaks began his letter: "dead [transcriber's note: dear?] sweetbriars," including ruth as well as helen in his friendly and brotherly effusion. he had been hazed with a vengeance on the first night of his arrival at the academy; he had been chummed on a fellow who had already been half a year at the school and whose sister was a senior at briarwood; he had learned that lots of the older students at seven oaks were acquainted with the seniors at briarwood, and that there were certain times when the two schools intermingled socially. "dear old tom!" exclaimed helen. "nice of him to call us 'sweetbriars'; isn't it? i guess there's a good many thorns on _this_ 'sweetbriar'; 'eh, ruthie?" and she hugged and kissed her chum with sudden fierceness. "and tom says he can get permission to come over and see me some saturday afternoon if mrs. tellingham will allow it. i'll have to get her to write to major paradell, who commands at seven oaks. my! it sounds just as though poor old tom was in the army; doesn't it?" cried helen. "it will be nice to have him over," said ruth, agreeing. "but i suppose we'll have to meet him in the office? or can we walk out with our 'brother'?" and she laughed. "we'll go to triton lake; tom will take us," said helen, decidedly. "i guess mrs. tellingham will have something to say about that, my dear." helen seemed to have forgotten the little difficulty that had troubled her chum and herself the night before, and ruth said nothing further about the infants forming a society of their own. at least, she said nothing about it to helen. but sarah fish and phyllis short, and some of the other infants, seemed determined to keep the idea alive, and they all considered ruth fielding a prime mover in the conspiracy. it was noised abroad that neither the f. c.'s nor the upedes were getting many new names enrolled for membership. saturday morning the remainder of the expected new girls arrived at briarwood, and with then came the last of the older scholars, too. there was an assembly called for two o'clock which mrs. tellingham addressed. she welcomed the new-comers, greeted the returning pupils, and briefly sketched the plans for the school year then beginning. she was a quick, briskly-speaking woman, who impressed the most rattle-pated girl before her that she meant to be obeyed and that no wild prank would go unpunished. "proper amusement will be supplied in due time, young ladies. for the present we shall all have enough to do getting settled into our places. i have heard something regarding picnics and outings for the near future. postpone all such junketing until we are pulling well together. and beware of demerits. remember that ten of them, for whatever cause, will send a girl home from briarwood immediately." this about the picnics hit the upedes. ruth and helen knew that they were planning just such amusements. helen took this interference on mrs. tellingham's part quite to heart. "isn't it mean of her?" she asked of ruth. "if it had been the fussy curls who wanted to go to triton lake, it would have been another matter. and--besides--i was going to write to tom and see if he couldn't meet us there." "why, helen; without asking mrs. tellingham?" cried ruth. "i suppose tom and some of his chums could _happen_ to go to triton lake the same day we went; couldn't they?" helen asked, laughing. "dear me, ruthie! don't you begin to act the miss prim--please! we'll have no fun at all if you do." "but we don't want to make the bad beginning of getting mrs. tellingham and the teachers down on us right at the start," said ruth, in a worried manner. "i don't know but that you _are_ a miss prim!" ejaculated helen. ruth thought, probably, from her tone of voice, that helen had heard some of her friends among the upedes already apply that term to her, ruth. but she said nothing--only shook her head. however, the girl from the red mill did her best to dodge any subject in the future that she thought might cause helen to compare her unfavorably with the girls next door. for ruth loved her chum dearly--and loved her unselfishly, too. helen and tom had been so kind to her in the past--all through those miserable first weeks of her life at the red mill--that ruth felt she could never be really angry with helen. it only made her sorrowful to think that perhaps helen, in this new and wider school life, might drift away from her. the regular program of the working days of the school included prayers in the chapel before the girls separated for their various classes. these were held at nine o'clock. but on sunday ruth found that breakfast was an hour later than usual and that at ten o'clock several wagonettes, besides old dolliver's ark, were in waiting to take those girls who wished to ride to the churches of the several denominations located in lumberton. a teacher, or a matron, went in each vehicle, and if any of the girls preferred to walk in pleasant weather there was always a teacher to walk with them--for the distance was only a mile. dinner was at half-past one, and at three there was a sabbath school, conducted by mrs. tellingham herself, assisted by most of the teachers, in the large assembly hall. at night there was a service of music and a lecture in the chapel, too. the teacher of music played the organ, and there was a small string orchestra made up of the girls themselves, and a chorus to lead the singing. this service ruth found delightful, for she had always loved music and never before had she had the opportunity of studying it under any teacher. her voice was sweet and strong, however; and she had a true ear. at the end of the service miss maconahay, the organist, came and spoke to her and advised her that, providing she would give some time to it, there was a chance for her to become a member of the chorus and, if she showed improvement, she might even join the glee club. on monday school began in earnest. ruth and helen were side by side in every class. what study one took up, the other voted for. the fact that they had to work hard--especially at first--kept ruth and helen together, and during the first week neither had much time for any society at all. between supper and bedtime each evening they faithfully worked at their lessons for the ensuing day and every hour of daylight brought its separate duty. there seemed to be little opportunity for idle hands to find mischief at briarwood hall. mrs. tellingham, however, did not propose that the girls should be so closely confined by their studies that their physical health would be neglected. those girls who stood well in their classes found at least two hours each day for outdoor play or gym work. the tennis courts at briarwood were in splendid shape. helen already was a fair player; but ruth had never held a racket in her hand until she was introduced to the game by her chum during this first week at school. the girl from the red mill was quick and active. she learned the rules of play and proved that her eye was good and that she had judgment before they had played an hour. she knew how to leap and run, too, having been country bred and used to an active life. "oh, dear me!" gasped helen, out of breath. "you are tireless, ruth. why, you'll be an athlete here." "this is great fun, helen," declared her chum, "i believe i can learn to play _this_ game." "learn to play!" gasped helen. "why, all you want is practice to beat tom himself, i believe. you'll be a crack player, ruthie," prophesied her friend. it was while they were loitering on the tennis courts after the game that sarah fish and phyllis short, with a number of the other infants, joined them. sarah came out bluntly with: "when are we going to form our club, ruth fielding? i think we should do it at once. i've told both the forwards and the upedes that i am not in the market. i guess they'll let me alone now." "i think they will," said helen, sharply. "at least, the upedes don't want you, miss." "you seem to knew exactly what they _do_ want," said sarah, good-naturedly. "have you joined them?" "i intend to," declared helen. "oh, helen!" ejaculated ruth. "yes, i am," said miss cameron. "and i am not going to join any baby society," and so walked off in evident ill-humor. therefore the new club was not formed in the number duet room in the west dormitory. the infants considered ruth the prime mover in the club, however, and that evening she was put in the chair to preside at the informal session held in the quartette in the east dormitory occupied by sarah fish and three other infants. she was made, too, a member of the committee on organization which was elected to draw up a constitution and by-laws, and was likewise one of three to wait on mrs. tellingham and gain permission to use one of the small assembly rooms for meetings. and then came up the subject of a name for the society. it was not intended that the club should be only for new scholars; for the new scholars would in time be old scholars. and the company of girls who had gathered in sarah's room had no great or important motive in their minds regarding the association. its object was social and for self-improvement simply. "and so let's find a name that doesn't sound bigger than we are," said sarah. "the forward club sounds very solid and is quite literary, i understand. what those upedes stand for except raising particular sam hill, as my grandmother would say, i don't know. what do _you_ say, ruth fielding? it's your idea, and you ought to christen it." "i don't know that i ought," ruth returned. "i don't believe in one person doing too much in any society." "give us a name. it won't hurt you if we vote it down," urged sarah. now ruth had been thinking of a certain name for the new society for some days. it had been suggested by tom cameron's letter to helen. she was almost afraid to offer it, but she did. "sweetbriars," she said, blushing deeply. "dandy!" exclaimed phyllis short. "goody-good!" cried somebody else. "we're at briarwood hall, and why _not_ sweetbriars?" "good name for initials, too," declared the practical sarah fish. "make two words of it--sweet and briars. the 's. b.'s '--not bad that, eh? what say?" it was unanimous. and so the sweetbriars were christened. chapter xv the night of the harpocrates it was from heavy stone that ruth first learned of an approaching festival, although her own room-mate was the prime mover in the fete. but of late she and helen had had little in common outside of study hours and the classes which they both attended. since the launching of the sweetbriars helen had deliberately sought society among the upedes, and especially among the quartette who dwelt next door to the chums. "and she is going to have almond cakes. she says she has an old nurse named babette who makes the most de-lic-i-ous almond cakes--is that so, ruth fielding?" heavy had been enthusiastically discussing this subject with her nearest neighbor on the other side from ruth, at the dining table. but ruth had caught the name of "babette" and knew that heavy spoke of helen cameron. "is what so?" she asked the plump girl. "why, it's about your spoon's box from home. i told _you_, you know, to be sure and have the folks send you one; but helen cameron's got ahead of you. and whisper!" pursued jennie stone, in a lowered tone, "tell her not to invite too many girls to the night of harpocrates. remember!" ruth was a bit puzzled at first. then she remembered that harpocrates was the egyptian god of silence, and that his sign was a rose. the expression "sub-rosa" comes from that root, or "under the rose." it was evident that there were to be "midnight orgies" when helen's goodies came from home. one of the quartettes on their corridor had indulged in a fudge party after hours already, and ruth had been invited to be present. but she found that helen was not going, so she refused. besides, she was very doubtful about the propriety of joining in these forbidden pleasures. all the girls broke that retiring rule more or less--or so it seemed. but miss picolet could give such offenders black marks if she wished, and ruth craved a clean sheet in deportment at the end of the half. she wondered how and when helen proposed to hold the "supper sub-rosa"; but she would not ask. not even when the great hamper arrived (being brought up from lumberton by old dolliver, who only drove his stage every other day to seven oaks at this time of year) did she ask helen a single question. tony foyle brought the hamper up to duet two in the west dormitory and it just fitted into the bottom of helen's closet. heavy could not keep away from the door of the room; whenever the door was opened and ruth raised her eyes from the table where she was at work, there was the broad, pink and white face of the fat girl, her eyes rolling in anticipation of the good things--mary cox declared heavy fairly "drooled at the mouth!" the arrival of the hamper was not unnoticed by the sharp eyes of miss picolet; but advised by the wily miss cox, helen unpacked a certain portion of the good things and, during the afternoon, asked permission of miss scrimp to make tea and invite some of the girls to the duet to sample her goodies. the french teacher was propitiated by the gift of a particular almond cake, frosted, which helen carried down to her room and begged her to accept. helen could be very nice indeed, if she wished to be; indeed, she had no reason to be otherwise to miss picolet. and the teacher had reason for liking helen, as she had shown much aptitude for the particular branch of study which miss picolet taught. but although most of the girls in the west dormitory, and some others, were asked to helen's tea (at which ruth likewise did the honors, and "helped pour") there was an undercurrent of joking and innuendo among certain of the visitors that showed they had knowledge of further hidden goodies which would, at fit and proper season, be divulged. jennie stone, gobbling almond cakes and chocolate, said to ruth: "if this is a fair sample of what is to be divulged upon the night of harpocrates, i shall fast on that day--now mind!" when the girls had gone ruth asked her chum, point-blank, if she proposed to have a midnight supper. "a regular debauch!" declared helen, laughing. "now, don't be prim and prudish about it, ruthie. i won't have it in here if you don't want----" "why not?" demanded ruth, quickly. "don't think of going to any other room." "well--i didn't know," stammered her chum. "you being such a stickler for the rules, ruth. you know, if we _should_ get into trouble----" "do you think that _i_ would complain?" asked ruth, proudly. "don't you trust me any more, helen?" "oh, ruthie! what nonsense!" cried her chum, throwing her arms about ruth fielding's neck. "i know you'd be as true as steel." "i did not think the suggestion could have come from your own heart, helen," declared ruth. so the second night thereafter was set for the "sub-rosa supper." slily the chums borrowed such plates and cups as the other girls had hidden away. not a few quartette rooms possessed tea-sets, they being the joint possession of the occupants of that particular study. at retiring bell on this eventful night all things were ready, including a spirit lamp on which to make chocolate, hidden away in helen cameron's shirt-waist box. ruth and helen went to bed after removing their frocks and shoes only and waited to hear the "cheep, cheep" of miss scrimp's squeaky shoes as she passed up through the house, turning down the hall lights, and then went down again. the hour for the girls to gather was set for half-past ten. first of all, however, the fox was to go down and listen at miss picolet's door to make sure that she had gone to bed. then miss cox was to tap softly but distinctly at the door of each invited guest as she came back to their corridor. meanwhile helen and ruth popped out of bed (it had been hard to lie there for more than an hour, waiting) and began to lay out the things. the bedspreads were laid back over the foot of each bed and the feast was laid out upon the bed-clothes. mary cox warned them to have the spreads ready to smooth up over the contraband goodies, should the french teacher get wind of the orgy. "forewarned is forearmed," urged mary cox. "we know what old picolet _is_!" "but 'four-armed' doesn't always mean 'fore-handed'," chuckled jennie stone. "nor quadrumanous!" snapped the fox. "if _you_ had four hands, heavy, there would be little chance for any of the rest of us at helen's party. my goodness me! how you _would_ mow the good things away if you had four hands instead of two." "it isn't that i'm really piggish," complained miss stone. "it's because i need more nourishment; there is so much of me, you know, mary." "and if you hadn't been stuffing yourself like a strasburg goose all your life, there wouldn't be so much of you. ha! it's the old story of the hen and the egg--which was here first? if you didn't eat so much you wouldn't be so big, and if you weren't so big you wouldn't eat so much." all this, however, was said after the girls had begun to gather in number duet, and belle tingley, who had drawn the unlucky short toothpick, was banished to the corridor to keep watch--but with a great plateful of goodies and the "golden goblet" used in the hazing exercises, filled to the brim with hot chocolate. "though, if miss picolet is awake she'll smell the brew and will be up here instanter," declared the fox, crossly, as belle insisted in having her share of the drinkables as well as eatables. miss picolet was forgotten in the fun and the feasting, however. there were twenty girls in the room, and they had to sit on the floor in two rows while ruth and helen passed out the good things. and my! they were good! lovely chicken salad mayonnaise, served on a fresh lettuce leaf (the lettuce being smuggled in that very day in the chums' wash basket)--a little dab to each girl. there were little pieces of gherkins and capers in the mayonnaise, and heavy reveled in this dish. the most delicious slices of pink ham between soft crackers--and other sandwiches of anchovy paste and minced sardines. _these_ were the "solids." cakes, sweet crackers, babette's cookies and lady-fingers were heaped on other plates, ready to serve. "my!" exclaimed lluella fairfax, "isn't that lay-out enough to punish our poor digestive organs for a month? the last time we were caught and brought up before mrs. tellingham she warned us that sweetcake and pickles were as immoral as yellow-covered novels!" "and she proved it, too," laughed the fox. "she declared that a girl, or woman without a good digestion could not really fill her rightful place in the world and accomplish that which we are each supposed to do. oh, the madam always proves her point." "and i _was_ sick for a week afterward," sighed lluella. "and had to take _such_ a dose!" at that moment, without the least forewarning, there came a smart rap on the door. the sound smote the company of whispering, laughing girls into a company of frightened, trembling culprits. they hardly dared breathe, and when the commanding rap came for a second time neither ruth nor helen had strength enough in their limbs to go to the door. chapter xvi the hawk among the chickens lluella and the fox, more used to these orgies than some of the other girls, had retained some presence of mind. their first thought--if this should prove to be the teacher or the matron--was to try and save such of the feast as could be hidden. each girl flung up a spread to the pillows, and so hid the viands on the two beds. then mary cox went quickly to the door. the cowering girls clung to each other and waited breathlessly. mary opened the door. there stood the abashed belle tingley, her plate in one hand, the gilded vase in the other, and beside her was the tiny figure of mademoiselle picolet, who looked very stern indeed at the fox. "i might have expected _you_ to be a ringleader in such an escapade as this, miss cox," she said, sharply, but in a low voice. "i very well knew, miss cox, when the new girls came this fall that _you_ were determined to contaminate them if you could. every girl here will remain in her seat after prayers in the chapel to-morrow morning. remember!" she whipped out a notebook and pencil and evidently wrote mary cox's name at the head of her list. the fox was furiously red and furiously angry. "i might have known you would be spying on us, miss picolet," she said, bitingly. "suppose some of us should play the spy on _you_, miss picolet, and should run to mrs. tellingham with what we might discover?" "go to your room instantly!" exclaimed the french teacher, with indignation. "you shall have an extra demerit for _that_, miss!" yet ruth, who had been watching the teacher's face intently, saw that she became actually pallid, that her lips seemed to be suddenly blue, and the countless little wrinkles that covered her cheeks were more prominent than ever before. mary cox flounced out and disappeared. the teacher pointed to the chums' waste-basket and said to bell, the unfaithful sentinel: "empty your plate in that receptacle, miss tingley. spill the contents of that vase in the bowl. now, miss, to your room." belle obeyed. so she made each girl, as she called her name and wrote it in her book, throw away the remains of her feast, and pour out the chocolate. one by one they were obliged to do this and then walk sedately to their rooms. jennie stone was caught on the way out with a most suggestive bulge in her loose blouse, and was made to disgorge a chocolate layer cake which she had sought to "save" when the unexpected attack of the enemy occurred. "fie, for shame, miss stone!" exclaimed the french teacher. "that a young lady of briarwood hall should be so piggish! fie!" but it was after all the other girls had gone and ruth and helen were left alone with her, that the little french teacher seemed to really show her disappointment over the infraction of the rules by the pupils under her immediate charge. "i hoped for better things of you two young ladies," she said, sorrowfully. "i feared for the influence over you of certain minds among the older scholars; but i believed you, ruth fielding, and you, helen cameron, to be too independent in character to be so easily led by girls of really much weaker wills. for one may _will_ to do evil, or to do good, if one chooses. one need not _drift_. "miss fielding! take that basket of broken food and go down to the basement and empty it in the bin. miss cameron, _you_ may go to bed again. i will wait and see you so disposed. _alons_!" but before ruth could get out of the room, and while helen was hastily preparing for bed, miss picolet noticed something "bunchy" under ruth's spread. she walked to the bedside and snatched back the coverlet. the still untasted viands were revealed. "ah-ha!" exclaimed the french teacher. "at once! into the basket with these, if you will be so kind, miss fielding." had heavy seen those heaps of goodies thus disposed of she must have groaned in actual misery of spirit! but helen, being quick in her preparations for bed, hopped into her own couch before miss picolet turned around to view that corner of the room, and with helen under the bedclothes the hidden dainties (though she _did_ mash some of them) were not revealed to the eye of the teacher, who stood grimly by the door as ruth marched gravely forth with the basket of broken food. for a minute or two helen was as silent as miss picolet; then she ventured in a very small voice: "miss picolet--if you please?" "well, mademoiselle?" snapped the little lady. "may i tell you that my chum ruth had nothing to do with this infringement of the school rules? that the feast was all mine; that she merely partook of it because we roomed together? that she had nothing to do with the planning of the frolic?" "well?" "i thought perhaps that you might believe otherwise," said helen, softly, "as you made ruth remove the--the provisions," said helen. "and really, she isn't at all to blame." "she cannot be without blame," declared miss picolet, yet less harshly than she had spoken before. "an objection from her would have stopped the feast before it began--is it not, miss cameron?" "but she is not so _much_ to blame, miss picolet," repeated helen. "of that we shall see," returned the little lady, and waited by the door until ruth returned from the basement. "now to bed!" ejaculated miss picolet. "wait in chapel after prayers. i really hoped the girls of my dormitory would not force me to call the attention of the preceptress to them because of demerits this half--and i did not believe the trouble would start with two young ladies who had just arrived." so saying, she departed. but helen whispered ruth, before she got in bed, to help remove the remaining goodies to the box in the closet. "at least, we have saved this much from the wreck," chuckled helen. ruth, however, was scarcely willing to admit that that the salvage would repay them for the black marks both surely had earned. chapter xvii goody two-sticks to tell the truth the young ladies of the west dormitory who attended helen's sub-rosa supper looked pretty blue when the rest of the school filed out of chapel and left them sticking, like limpets, to their seats. mrs. tellingham looked just as stern as helen imagined she could look, when she ended a whispered conference with miss picolet, and stood before the culprits. "being out of bed at all hours, and stuffing one's self with all manner of indigestible viands, is more than a crime against the school rules, young ladies," she began. "it is a crime against common sense. besides, i take a pride in the fact that briarwood hall supplies a sufficient and a well-served table. fruit at times between meals is all very well. but a sour pickle and a piece of angel cake at eleven or twelve o'clock at night would soon break down the digestive faculties of a second samson. "however," she added grimly, "that will bring its own punishment. i need not trouble myself about this phase of the matter. but that distinct rules of the school have been broken cannot be ignored. each of you who were visitors at the study of misses fielding and cameron last evening after hours will have one demerit to work off by extra exercises in latin and french. "miss cox!" she spoke so sharply that the fox hopped up quickly, knowing that she was especially addressed. "it is reported to me by miss picolet that you spoke to her in a most unladylike manner. you have two demerits to work off, instead of one." mary cox ruffled up instantly. she flounced into her seat and threw her book aside. "miss cox," repeated the preceptress, sharply, "i do not like your manner. most of these girls are younger than you, and you are their leader. i believe you are all members of the up and doing club. have a care. let your club stand for something besides infractions of the rules, i beg. and, when you deliberately insult the teacher who has charge of your dormitory, you insult _me_." "i suppose i'm to be given no opportunity of answering miss picolet's report, or accusation?" cried mary fox. "i don't call it fair----" "silence!" exclaimed the preceptress. "you may come to me after session this afternoon. miss cameron may work off a full demerit, and before the christmas holidays, for being the prime mover in this orgy, i am told about," said mrs. tellingham, bitingly. "i understand there are some extenuating circumstances in the case of ruth fielding. she will have one-half mark against her record--to be worked off, of course. and, young ladies, i hope this will be the last time i shall see you before me for such a matter. you are relieved for classes." two unexpected things happened to ruth fielding that morning. as they came out from breakfast she came face to face with mary cox, and the older girl "cut" her plainly. she swept by ruth with her head in the air and without returning the latter's nod, and although ruth did not care much about mary cox, the unkindness troubled her. the fox had such an influence over helen! the second surprising happening was the receipt of a letter from mercy curtis, the lame girl. dr. davison's protege wrote: "dear ruth: "mrs. kimmons, next door, is trundling her twin babies--awfully homely little mites--up and down her long piazza in my wheel-chair. to what base uses have the mighty fallen! do you know what your uncle jabez--dusty miller--has done? he had waiting for me when i got home from the sanitarium a pair of the loveliest ebony crutches you ever saw--with silver ferrules! i use 'em when i go out for a walk. fancy old miserable, withered, crippled me going out for a walk! of course, it's really a hobble yet--i hobble-gobble like a rheumatic goblin; but i may do better some day. the doctors all say so. "and now i'm going to surprise you, ruth fielding. i'm coming to see you--not for a mere 'how-de-do-good-bye' visit; but to stay at briarwood hall a while. dr. cranfew (he's the surgeon who helped me so much) is at lumberton and he says i can try school again. public school he doesn't approve of for me. i don't know how they are going to 'rig' it for me, ruth--such wonderful things happen to me all the time! but dr. davison says i am coming, and when he says a thing is going to happen, it happens. like my going to the red mill that time. "and isn't old dusty miller good to me, too? he stops to see me every saturday when he is in town. they miss you a lot at the red mill, ruthie. i have been out once behind dr. davison's red and white mare, to see aunt alviry. we just gabbled about you all the time. your pullets are laying. tell helen 'hullo!' for me. i expect to see you soon, though--that is, if arrangements can be made to billet me with somebody who doesn't mind having a goody two-sticks around. "now, good-bye, ruthie, "from your fidgetty friend, "mercy curtis." this letter delighted ruth, and she went in search of helen to show it to her. the chums were due at their first recitation in a very few moments. ruth found helen talking with mary cox and belle tingley on the steps of the building in a recitation room in which ruth and helen were soon to recite. ruth heard belle say, earnestly: "i believe it, too. miss picolet wasn't downstairs in her room at all. when she caught me she came from upstairs, and that's how i didn't give any warning. i didn't expect her from that direction and i was looking downstairs." "she had been warned, all right," said the fox, sharply. "it's plain enough who played the traitor. nasty little cat!" "i believe you," said belle. "and she only got half a demerit. they favored her, of course." "but why any demerit at all, if she was a spy for miss picolet?" demanded helen, in a worried tone. "pshaw! that's all for a blind," declared the fox. and then all three saw ruth at the bottom of the steps. the fox and belle tingley turned away without giving ruth a second glance, and went into the building. but helen smiled frankly on ruth as her chum approached, and slipped an arm within her own: "what have you got there, ruthie?" she demanded, seeing the open letter. "it's from mercy. read it when you get a chance," ruth whispered, thrusting it into her chum's hand as they went in. "it's just as you said--dr. davison is going to bring it about. mercy curtis is coming to briarwood, too." helen said nothing at all about the fox and her room-mate. but ruth saw that the upedes--especially those who had been caught in the french teacher's raid on duet number --whispered a good deal among themselves, and when they looked at ruth they did not look kindly. after recitation, and before dinner, several of the girls deliberately cut her as mary cox had. but helen said nothing, nor would ruth speak first. she saw plainly that the fox had started the cabal against her. it made ruth feel very unhappy, but there was nothing she could do to defend herself. chapter xviii the mystery again the organization of the sweetbriars had gone on apace. two general meetings had been held. every new-comer to the school, who had entered the junior classes, saving helen cameron, had joined the new society. the committee on constitution and by-laws was now ready to report and this very afternoon ruth and two other girls waited on mrs. tellingham to ask permission to hold social meetings in one of the assembly rooms on stated occasions, as the other school societies did. the trio of sweetbriars had to wait a little while in the hall outside the library door, for mrs. tellingham was engaged. mary cox came out first and as she passed ruth she tossed her head and said: "well, are you here to tattle about somebody else?" ruth was stricken speechless, and the girls with her asked wonderingly what the older girl had meant. "i--i do not know just what she means," gasped ruth, "only that she means to hurt me if she can." "she's mad with you," said one, "because you started the s. b.'s and wouldn't join her old upede club. "that's it," said the other. "don't you mind, miss fielding." then the maid told them they could go into the library. mrs. tellingham looked very grave, and sat at her desk tapping the lid thoughtfully with a pencil. this was one occasion when dr. tellingham was not present. the countenance of the preceptress did not lighten at all when she saw ruth come in. "what is it, miss fielding?" she asked in her brusque way. ruth stated the desire of the new society briefly, and she was positive before mrs. tellingham replied at all that the mention of the sweetbriars did not please the lady. "you girls will fill your time so full, with societies and leagues, and what all, that there will be little space for studies. i am half sorry now that i ever allowed any secret, or social clubs, to be formed at briarwood. but while we have the forward club, i cannot well deny the right of other girls to form similar societies. "but i am not pleased with the up and doing club. i understand that every girl but one reported out of her room after retiring bell last evening, in the west dormitory, was a member of the up and doings--and the other girl was you, miss fielding!" she added sternly. "and you are a member of this new organization-- what do you call it? the 's. b.'s,' is it?" "the sweetbriars," said ruth bravely. "and i am sorry i did anything to bring any cloud upon the name of the new club. i promise you, mrs. tellingham, that i will do nothing in the future to make you sorry that you sanctioned the formation of _our_ society." "very well! very well!" said the preceptress, hastily. "you may have the same rights, and under the same conditions, that the older clubs have. and now, miss fielding, stop here a moment, i have another matter to speak to you about." the other girls went away and ruth, somewhat troubled by the manner of mrs. tellingham, waited her pleasure. the preceptress took up a letter from her desk and read it through again. "dr. davison you know, ruth," she said, quietly. "he and your uncle, mr. jabez potter, have arranged to send here to school a lame girl named curtis------" "my uncle!" gasped ruth. "o, i beg your pardon, mrs. tellingham. but are you sure it is my uncle who is sending mercy curtis?" "with dr. davison--yes," the preceptress said, in some surprise. "they have equally charged themselves with her expenses at briarwood--if she can remain here. you know her, of course?" "helen and i have talked of her almost every day, mrs. tellingham," said ruth warmly. "she is very quick and sharp. and she is much improved in disposition from what she used to be." "i hear you speak of her so kindly, with pleasure, miss fielding," said the head of the school. "for it opens the way to a suggestion that dr. davison makes. he wishes mercy curtis to room with you." "with helen and me!" cried ruth, in delight. "of course, i slept in mercy's room all the time she was at the red mill last summer, and we got on nicely together." "but you do not know how miss cameron will receive the suggestion of having a third girl in your small room?" "oh, helen is so kind!" ruth cried. "i do not believe she will object. and she is sorry for mercy." "i know you have been helen's constant companion. do you think you have been as good friends as you were when you came to briarwood, ruth?" asked mrs. tellingham, with sharpness. "helen! oh, i hope so, mrs. tellingham!" cried ruth, in great distress. "i am sure i love her just the same--and always shall." "but she evidently finds her friends among the upedes. why did she not join this new society that you have started?" "i--i did not mean to start it without her," stammered ruth. "it was really only my suggestion. the other infants took it up----" "but you named it?" "i _did_ suggest the name," admitted ruth. "and you did not join the up and doing club with your chum." "no, mrs. tellingham. nor did i join the f. c.'s. i did not like the manner in which both societies went about making converts. i didn't like it the very first day we came." "miss picolet, your french teacher, told me something about mary cox meeting the stage and getting hold of you two girls before you had reached briarwood at all." "yes, ma'am." "by the way," said the preceptress, her brow clouding again and the stern look coming back into her face that had rested on it when ruth had first entered the room, "you had met miss picolet before you arrived at the school?" "she spoke to us in the stage--yes, ma'am." "but before that--you had seen her?" "ye-es, ma'am," said ruth, slowly, beginning to suspect that mrs. tellingham's curiosity was no idle matter. "where?" "on the _lanawaxa_--the boat coming down the lake, mrs. tellingham." "miss picolet was alone aboard the boat?" ruth signified that she was. "did you see her speaking with anybody?" "we saw a man speak to her. he was one of the musicians. he frightened miss picolet. afterward we saw that he had followed her out upon the wharf. he was a big man who played a harp." "and you told this to your school-fellows after you became acquainted here?" mrs. tellingham spoke very sternly indeed, and her gaze never left ruth's face. the girl from the red mill hesitated but an instant. _she_ had never spoken of the man and miss picolet to anybody save helen; but she knew that her chum must have told all the particulars to mary cox. "i--i believe we _did_ mention it to some of the girls. it impressed us as peculiar--especially as we did not know who miss picolet was until after we were in the stage-coach with her." "then you are sure you have not been one who has circulated stories among the girls about miss picolet--derogatory to her, i mean?" "oh, mrs. tellingham! never!" cried ruth, earnestly. "do you know anything about this silly story i hear whispered that the marble harp out there on the fountain was heard to play the night you and miss cameron arrived here?" "oh!" ejaculated ruth. "i see you know about it. did you hear the sound?" "ye-es, ma'am," admitted ruth. "i will not ask you under what circumstances you heard it; but i _do_ ask if you have any knowledge of any fact that might explain the mystery?" ruth was silent for several moments. she was greatly worried; yet she could understand how this whole matter had come to mrs. tellingham's knowledge. mary cox, angry at miss picolet, had tried to defame her in the mind of the preceptress. now, what ruth _knew_ was very little indeed. what she _suspected_ regarding a meeting between the french teacher and the man with the harp, at the campus fountain, was an entirely different matter. but mrs. tellingham had put her question so that ruth did not have to tell her suspicions. "i really know nothing about it, mrs. tellingham," she said, finally. "that is all. i do not believe you--or miss cameron--would willingly malign an innocent person. i have known miss picolet some time, and i respect her. if she has a secret sorrow, i respect _it_. i do not think it is nice to make miss picolet's private affairs a subject for remark by the school. "now, we will leave that. sound miss cameron about this mercy curtis. if you girls will take her in, she shall come on trial. it lies with you, and your roommate, miss fielding. come to me after chapel to-morrow and tell me what you have decided." and so ruth was dismissed. chapter xix the triumvirate mercy curtis came in a week. for helen of course was only too delighted to fall in with mrs. tellingham's suggestion. duet number , west dormitory, was amply large enough for three, and ruth gave up her bed to the cripple and slept on a couch. helen herself could not do too much for the comfort of the newcomer. dr. davidson and dr. cranfew came with her; but really the lame girl bore the journey remarkably well. and how different she looked from the thin, peaked girl that ruth and helen remembered! "oh, you didn't expect to see so much flesh on my bones; did you?" said mercy, noting their surprise, and being just as sharp and choppy in her observations as ever. "but i'm getting wickedly and scandalously fat. and i don't often have to repeat aunt alviry's song of 'oh, my back and oh, my bones!'" mercy went to bed on her arrival. but the next day she got about in the room very nicely with the aid of two canes. the handsome ebony crutches she saved for "sunday-best." ruth arranged a meeting of the sweetbriars to welcome the cripple, and mercy seemed really to enjoy having so many girls of her own age about her. helen did not bring in many members of the upedes; indeed, just then they all seemed to keep away from duet two, and none of them spoke to ruth. that is, none save jennie stone. the fat girl was altogether too good-natured--and really too kind at heart--to treat ruth fielding as jennie's roommates did. "they say you went and told picolet we were going to have the party in your room," heavy said to ruth, frankly, "and that's how you got out of it so easily. but i tell them that's all nonsense, you know. if you'd wanted to make us trouble, you would have let helen have the party in our room, as she wanted to, and so you could have stayed home and not been in it at all." "as she wanted to?" repeated ruth, slowly. "did helen first plan to have the supper in your quartette?" "of course she did. it was strictly a upede affair--or would have been if you hadn't been in it. but you're a good little thing, ruth fielding, and i tell them you never in this world told picolet." "i did not indeed, jennie," said ruth, sadly. "well, you couldn't make the fox believe that. she's sure about it, you see," the stout girl said. "when mary cox wants to be mean, she can be, now i tell you!" indeed, heavy was not like the other three girls in the next room. mary, belle and lluella never looked at ruth if they could help it, and never spoke to her. ruth was not so much hurt over losing such girls for friends, for she could not honestly say she had liked them at the start; but that they should so misjudge and injure her was another matter. she said nothing to helen about all this; and helen was as firmly convinced that mary cox and the other upedes were jolly girls, as ever. indeed, they were jolly enough; most of their larks were innocent fun, too. but it was a fact that most of those girls who received extra tasks during those first few weeks of the half belonged to the up and doing club. that helen escaped punishment was more by good fortune than anything else. in the study, however, she and ruth and mercy had many merry times. mercy kept both the other girls up to their school tasks, for all lessons seemed to come easy to the lame girl and she helped her two friends not a little in the preparation of their own. "the triumvirate" the other girls in the dormitory building called the three girls from cheslow. before thanksgiving, ruth, helen, and mercy began to stand high in their several classes. and ruth was booked for the glee club, too. she sang every sunday in the chorus, while helen played second violin in the orchestra, having taken some lessons on that instrument before coming to briarwood. dr. cranfew came often at first to see mercy; but he declared at last that he only came socially--there was no need of medical attendance. the cripple could not go to recitations without her crutches, but sometimes in the room she walked with only ruth's strong arm for support. she was getting rosy, too, and began to take exercise in the gymnasium. "i'll develop my biceps, if my back is crooked and my legs queer," she declared. "then, when any of those _miss nancy_ seniors make fun of me behind my back, i can punch 'em!" for there were times when mercy's old, cross-grained moods came upon her, and she was not so easily borne with. perhaps this fact was one of the things that drove the wedge deeper between ruth and helen. ruth would never neglect the crippled girl. she seldom left her in the room alone. mercy had early joined the sweetbriars, and ruth and she went to the frequent meetings of that society together, while helen retained her membership in the up and doing club and spent a deal of her time in the quartette room next door. few of the girls went home for thanksgiving, and as mercy was not to return to cheslow then, the journey being considered too arduous for her, ruth decided not to go either. there was quite a feast made by the school on thanksgiving, and frost having set in a week before, skating on triton lake was in prospect. there was a small pond attached to the briarwood property and ruth tried helen's skates there. she had been on the ice before, but not much; however, she found that the art came easily to her--as easily as tennis, in which, by this time, she was very proficient. for the day following thanksgiving there was a trip to triton lake planned, for that great sheet of water was ice-bound, too, and a small steamer had been caught 'way out in the middle of the lake, and was frozen in. the project to drive to the lake and skate out to the steamer (the ice was thick enough to hold up a team of horses, and plenty of provisions had been carried out to the crew) and to have a hot lunch on the boat originated in the fertile brain of mary cox; but as it was not a picnic patronized only by the upedes, mrs. tellingham made no objection to it. besides, it was vacation week, and the preceptress was much more lenient. of course, helen was going; but ruth had her doubts. mercy could not go, and the girl of the red mill hated to leave her poor little crippled friend alone. but mercy was as sharp of perception as she was of tongue. when helen blurted out the story of the skating frolic, ruth said "she would see" about going; she said she wasn't sure that she would care to go. "i'm such a new skater, you know," she laughed. "maybe i'd break down skating out to the steamboat, and wouldn't get there, and while all you folks were eating that nice hot lunch i'd be freezing to death--poor little me!--'way out there on the ice." but mercy, with her head on one side and her sharp blue eyes looking from helen to ruth, shot out: "now, don't you think you're smart, ruth fielding? why, i can see right through you--just as though you were a rag of torn mosquito netting! you won't go because i'll be left alone." "no," said ruth, but flushing. "yes," shot back mercy. "and _i_ don't have to turn red about it, either. oh, ruthie, ruthie! you can't even tell a _white one_ without blushing about it." "i--don't--know----" "i do know!" declared mercy. "you're going. i've got plenty to do. you girls can go on and freeze your noses and your toeses, if you like. me for the steam-heated room and a box of bonbons. but i hope the girls who go will be nicer to you than some of those upedes have been lately, ruthie." helen blushed now; but ruth hastened to say: "oh, don't you fuss about me, mercy. some of the sweetbriars mean to go. this isn't confined to one club in particular. madge steele is going, too, and miss polk. and miss reynolds, mrs. tellingham's first assistant, is going with the party. i heard all about it at supper. poor heavy was full of it; but she says she can't go because she never could skate so far. and then--the ice might break under _her_." "whisper!" added helen, her eyes dancing. "i'll tell you something else--and this i know you don't know!" "what is it?" "maybe tom will be there. good old tom! just think--i haven't seen him since we left home. won't it be just scrumptious to see old tom again?" and ruth fielding really thought it would be. chapter xx at triton lake so on the morning following the feast-day there were two wagonettes waiting at the entrance to the briarwood grounds to take the girls two miles by road to a certain boathouse on triton lake. when ruth and helen came out of their room, leaving mercy cozily ensconced in the window-seat with her books and the box of bonbons, the door of the quartette was open and a faint groan sounded from within. helen's eyes twinkled, as she said: "the others have gone, but jennie's up in dry-dock for repairs. no wonder she wouldn't promise to be one of the skating party. the pleasures of the table must be paid for---- how do you feel now, heavy?" she added, putting her head in at the door. "no better. oh!" came back the complaining voice. "i _do_ have such dreadful ill-fortune. i can't eat _just a little bit_ without its distressing me abominably!" the chums ran down to the wagonettes and found most of the girls who were going already there. ruth, seeing that there was more room in the second carriage, whisked into it, and helen was following her when mary cox came up. "going to get in here, cameron?" she said. "well, i'll get in with you--no, i won't!" she suddenly exclaimed, seeing ruth peering out. "come on to the other wagonette; belle and lluella are there." for a moment helen hesitated. then mary said, jerking at her sleeve: "come on! we want to start in a minute. i've heard from the boys and i want to tell you. they've sent a whole sleighload of things out to the _minnetonka_--the boat that's frozen in, you know--and music, and we'll have great fun. sh! miss reynolds don't know. she's such a fuss-budget! if she knew the boys were coming--well!" "oh, tom, too!" gasped helen, delighted. then she turned and said, in a whisper: "ruth!" "come on and let that tattle-tale alone!" exclaimed mary cox. "tell her, and she'll run to miss reynolds with it." helen went with her. had ruth fielding possessed the power of movement just then, she would have gotten out of the wagon and run away to the dormitory. but she was stricken motionless as well as speechless by her chum's defection, and before she could recover her poise the wagons had begun to move, rattling over the frozen road toward triton lake. ah! how it hurt! for weeks ruth had endured slights, and haughty looks, and innuendoes from mary cox and her upedes--and the girl from the red mill had accepted all uncomplainingly. she had heretofore believed helen only thoughtless. but this was more than ruth fielding could bear. she was the last girl to get into the wagonette, and she turned her head away, that her companions might not see her tears. the other girls chattered, and laughed, and sang, and enjoyed themselves. ruth fielding passed the few minutes which elapsed during the drive to the boathouse in trying to stifle her sobs and remove the traces of her emotion. she was tempted to remain in the wagonette and go back to the school at once--for the carriages would return to town, coming out again for the party of briarwood students late in the afternoon. this thought was her first intention; but as her sobs subsided she felt more the hurt of the treatment she had received. and this hurt stirred within her a self-assertion that was becoming a more prominent characteristic of ruth every day. why should she relapse into tears because her chum had done a cruel thing? hurt as she was, why should she give the fox the satisfaction of _knowing_ she felt the slight? ruth began to take herself to task for her "softness." let helen go with the upedes if she wished. here were nice girls all about her, and all the sweetbriars particularly thought a great deal of her, ruth knew. she need not mope and weep just because helen cameron, her oldest friend, had neglected her. the other girls stood ready to be her friends. they had not noticed ruth's silence and abstraction--much less her tears. she wiped her eyes hard, gulped down her sobs, and determined to have a good time in spite of either the upedes or helen's hardness of heart. the first wagonette reached the shore of the lake some time ahead of the second. and perhaps this fact, as well as the placing of miss reynolds in the latter, had been arranged by the wily miss cox. "oh, mary cox!" cried helen, looking out, "there's a whole lot of folks here--boys!" but when one of the boys came running to help her down the steps, helen shouted with delight. she came "flopping" down into tom cameron's arms. "how scrumptious you look, nell!" cried her brother, kissing her frankly. "here is bob steele--i want you to know him. he's my bunkie at seven oaks. isn't his sister with you--madge steele?" "yes. miss steele's here," gasped helen. "but where's ruth?" demanded the excited tom. "come on and get her. we want to get our skates on and make for the steamer. the ice is like glass." "why--ruth's in the other wagonette," said helen. "she's not with you?" exclaimed tom, rather chagrined. "why, how's that?" "we--we happened to get into different ones," said his sister. to tell the truth, she had not thought of ruth since leaving the school. "is that the other one coming--'way back on the road there?" "yes," said helen. "here's miss cox, tom. mary, this is my brother." bob steele, who was a tall, blond fellow, was at hand to be introduced, too. his sister jumped out of the wagon and said: "hullo, bobbie! how's your poor croup?" madge was a year and a half older than her brother and always treated him as though he were a very small boy in knickerbockers--if not actually in pinafores. the girls giggled over this, and bob steele blushed. but he took his sister's chaffing good-naturedly. tom cameron, however, was very much disturbed over the absence of ruth fielding. "we'd better hurry out on the ice. we've got an awful strict teacher with us," said mary cox, hastily. "you take care of my sister, too; will you, bob?" said tom, bluntly. "i shall wait and bring miss fielding down." "oh, she'll look out for herself," said mary cox, slightingly. "we must hurry if we want any fun." "helen and i wouldn't have much fun if ruth were left behind," declared master tom, firmly. "go on, bob; we'll catch up with you." "hadn't you better come, too, tom?" whispered helen, doubtfully. "why, we want ruth with us; don't we?" demanded the puzzled tom, looking at her in wonder. "go on, nell. we'll be with you shortly." "why, i want to introduce you to the other girls," said helen, pouting. "and i haven't seen you myself for so long." "it's too bad you got separated from your spoon, nell," said her brother, calmly. "but i shall wait and bring her." the others--even madge steele--were already trooping down to the landing, where there were settees for the girls to sit on while their skates were being adjusted. helen had to run after them, and tom waited alone the arrival of the second wagonette from briarwood hall. chapter xxi on the ice if ruth fielding's eyes were a bit red when the wagonette finally came to the landing, nobody would have suspected her of crying. least of all tom cameron, for she jumped down with a glad cry when she saw him, and dropped her skates and shook both his hands in a most cordial greeting. "helen hinted that you might be here, tom, but i could hardly believe it," she said. "we want to hurry and catch up with them," he said. some of the girls were already on the ice. "we'd better go." but the other girls had alighted, and following them came miss reynolds. now, ruth liked miss reynolds very much, but the teacher came towards them, looking rather grave. "this is helen cameron's brother tom, miss reynolds," said ruth. "he attends the seven oaks military academy." "i see," said the teacher, quietly. "and where is miss cameron?" "she has gone on with bob steele and his sister," explained tom, seeing instantly that all was not right. "you see, some of us fellows got permission to come over here to triton lake to-day. mr. hargreaves, one of our tutors, is with us." "i know mr. hargreaves," said miss reynolds. "but i had no warning--nor had mrs. tellingham, i believe--that any of the young gentlemen from major parradel's school were to be here." "well, it will make it all the nicer, i am sure," tom suggested, with his winning smile. "we'll all--all us fellows, i mean--try to behave our prettiest, miss reynolds." "undoubtedly you will be on your good behavior," said the teacher, drily. but tom and ruth could not hurry on ahead now. miss reynolds walked sedately with them down to the landing. by that time mary cox and most of the upedes were on the ice--and they were joined by all the boys but tom. the fox had laid her plans well. mr. hargreaves skated back to shake hands with miss reynolds. "this is a surprise," he said. "i am sure i did not expect to find you and your young ladies here, miss reynolds." "are you sure that the meeting is _quite_ unexpected by both parties?" she returned, with a grave smile. "if we are surprised, mr. hargreaves, i fancy that our young charges may have been rather better informed in advance than we were." the gentleman shrugged his shoulders. "i give that up!" he said. "it may be. i see you have your hands full here. shall i take my--er--my remaining young man away with me?" he asked, looking aside at tom, who was already fastening ruth's skates. "oh, no," said miss reynolds, grimly. "i'll make use of him!" and she most certainly did. tom was anxious to get ruth away at once so that they could catch up with the foremost skaters; but he could not refuse to aid her teacher. and then there were others of the girls to help. they were all on the ice before master tom could get his own skates on. then there was a basket to carry, and of course tom could not see the teacher or one of the girls carry it. he took it manfully. then miss reynolds gave ruth her hand and skated with her, and master tom was fain to skate upon ruth's other hand. and so they went on slowly, while the lively crowd ahead drew farther and farther away. it was not an unpleasant journey out across the smooth lake, however, and perhaps the party who had but one boy for escort had just as pleasant a time in many respects as those in advance. ruth made her friend acquainted with all the sweetbriars who were present and whispered to him how he had really named the new briarwood society. that vastly tickled tom and he made himself just as agreeable to the girls as he knew how. miss reynolds was no wet blanket on the fun, either, and she was as good a skater as tom himself. ruth had improved greatly, and before they reached the frost-bound _minnetonka_ the teacher relieved tom of his basket and told him to give the girl from the red mill a lesson in skating with a partner--practice which she sorely needed. it was spirited indeed to fly over the ice, guided by tom's sure foot and hand. they described a great curve and came back to miss reynolds and the other girls, who progressed more sedately. then tom gave his hands to two of the older girls and with their arms stretched at full length the trio went careening over the ice on the "long roll" in a way that made ruth, looking on with shining eyes, fairly hold her breath. "it's wonderful!" she cried, when the three came back, glowing with the exercise. "do you suppose i can ever learn that, tom?" "why, ruthie, you're so sure of yourself on the skates that i believe i could teach you to roll very easily. if miss reynolds will allow me?" "go on, master tom," the teacher said, laughing. "but don't go too far away. we are nearing the boat now." the first party that had struck out from the shore had all arrived at the ice-bound _minnetonka_ now, and many of them were skating in couples thereabout. at the stern of the steamboat was an open place in the ice, for ruth and tom could see the water sparkling. there was little wind, but it was keen; the sun was quite warm and the exercise kept the skaters from feeling the cold. "hullo!" exclaimed tom to ruth, as they began to get into good stroke--for the girl was an apt pupil--"who is that old bobbins has got under his wing?" "who is bobbins?" asked ruth, with a laugh. "my bunkie--that's what we call our chums at seven oaks. bob steele." "madge steele's brother?" "yes. and no end of a good fellow," declared tom. "but, my aunt! don't his sister rig him, though? asked old bobbins if he had the croup?" and tom went off into a burst of laughter. "do you mean the tall, light-haired boy?" ruth queried. "yes. they're skating back toward the steamboat now--see, towards the stern." "that is mary cox with your friend," said ruth, a little gravely. "hullo!" ejaculated tom, again. he started ahead at full clip, bearing ruth on with him. something had happened to the couple tom and ruth had noticed. they swerved to one side and suddenly bob steele went down. "his skate's broke!" erred tom. "hope old bobbins isn't hurt. great scott! the girl's with him!" mary cox had indeed fallen. for a moment the two figures, flung by the momentum of their pace, slid over the ice. there came a wild shout from those nearer the boat--then a splash! "they're in the water!" cried ruth, in horror. she retarded tom very little, but dashed forward, keeping in stroke with him. she heard tom whisper: "poor old bobbins! he'll be drowned!" "no, no, tom! we can get to them," gasped ruth. indeed, she and her escort were the nearest to the open place in the lake into which bob steele and mary cox had fallen. if anybody in sight could help the victims of the accident tom and ruth could! chapter xxii the harpist once more over all, ruth wore a woolen sweater--one of those stretchy, clinging coats with great pearl buttons that was just the thing for a skating frolic. it had been her one reckless purchase since being at briarwood, she and helen having gone down into lumberton on saturday and purchased coats. while ruth and tom were yet some yards from the open water the girl began to unbutton this. "careful, tom!" she gasped. "not too near--wait!" "it's thick 'way to the edge," he returned, pantingly. "no, it isn't. that's why mary cox went in. i saw the ice break under her when she tried to turn and escape." thus warned, tom dug the heel of his right skate into the ice as a brake, and they slowed down. ruth let go of his hand and wriggled out of her coat in a moment. then she dropped to her knees and slid along the ice, while tom flung himself forward and traveled just as though he were sliding down hill. "take this, tom!" cried ruth, and tossed the coat to him. "we'll make a chain--i'll hold your feet. not too near!" "hold on, bobbins!" yelled young cameron. "we'll have you out in a minute!" mary cox had screamed very loudly at first; and she struggled with her fellow victim, too. bob steele was trying to hold her up, but finally he was obliged to let her go, and she went under water with a gurgling cry. "grab her again, bobbins!" called tom, flinging ruth's coat ahead of him, but holding firmly to it himself by the two sleeves. "i've got her!" gasped bob steele, his teeth chattering, and up the fox came again, her hair all dripping, and her face very pale. "good!" said tom. "she's swallowed enough water to keep her still for a while--what? come on, now, old boy! don't wait! catch hold!" as ruth had warned him, the edge of the ice was fragile. he dared not push himself out too far with the sharp toes of his skates. he dug them into the ice now hard, and made another cast with the coat. his chum caught it. tom drew them slowly toward the edge of the ice. ruth pulled back as hard as she could, and together they managed to work their bodies at least two yards farther from the open water. the ice stopped cracking under tom's breast. there was the ring of skates and shouting of voices in their ears, and ruth, raising herself slightly, looked around and screamed to the crowd to keep back. indeed, the first of tom's school friends would have skated right down upon them had they not thus been warned. "keep back!" ruth cried. "we can get them out. don't come nearer!" tom seconded her warning, too. but mainly he gave himself up to the work of aiding the two in the water. bob steele lifted the girl up--he was a strong swimmer even in that icy bath--and did it with one hand, too, for he clung to ruth's coat with the other. mary cox began to struggle again. fortunately bob had her half upon the ice. tom reached forward and seized her shoulder. he dragged back with all his strength. the ice crashed in again; but mary did not fall back, for tom jerked her heavily forward. "now we've got her!" called tom. and they really had. mary cox was drawn completely out of the water. mr. hargreaves, meanwhile, had flown to the rescue with two of the bigger boys. they got down on the ice, forming a second living chain, and hitching forward, the tutor seized the half-conscious girl's hand. the others drew back and dragged mr. hargreaves, with the girl, to firm ice. meanwhile tom, with ruth to help him, struggled manfully to get bob steele out. that youngster was by no means helpless, and they accomplished the rescue smartly. "and that's thanks to you, ruthie!" declared tom, when the tutor and miss reynolds had hurried the half-drowned girl and young steele off to the _minnetonka_. "i'd never have gotten him but for you--and look at your coat!" "it will dry," laughed the girl from the red mill. "let's hurry after them, tom. you're wet a good deal, too--and i shall miss my coat, being so heated. come on!" but she could not escape the congratulations of the girls and boys when they reached the steamboat. even mary cox's closest friends gathered around ruth to thank her. nobody could gainsay the fact that ruth had been of great help in the recovery of mary and bob from the lake. but helen! had the other girls--and miss reynolds--not been in the little cabin of the boat which had been given up to the feminine members of the party, she would have broken down and cried on ruth's shoulder. to think that she had been guilty of neglecting her chum! "i believe i have been bewitched, ruthie," she whispered. "tom, i know, is on the verge of scolding me. what did you say to him?" "nothing that need trouble you in the least, you may be sure, helen," said ruth. "but, my dear, if it has taken such a thing as _this_--which is not a thing to go into heroics over--to remind you that i might possibly be hurt by your treatment, i am very sorry indeed." "why, ruth!" helen gasped. "you don't forgive me?" "i am not at all sure, helen, that you either need or want my forgiveness," returned ruth. "you have done nothing yourself for which you need to ask it--er, at least, very little; but your friends have insulted and been unkind to me. i do not think that i could have called girls _my_ friends who had treated you so, helen." miss cox had retired to a small stateroom belonging to one of the officers of the boat, while her clothing was dried by the colored stewardess. bob steele, however, borrowed some old clothes of some of the crew, and appeared when the lunch was ready in those nondescript garments, greatly adding to the enjoyment of the occasion. "well, sonny, your croup _will_ bother you sure enough, after that dip," declared his sister. "come! let sister tuck your bib in like a nice boy. and _don't_ gobble!" bob was such a big fellow--his face was so pink, and his hair so yellow--that madge's way of talking to him made him seem highly comic. the fellows from seven oaks shouted with laughter, and the girls giggled. mr. hargreaves and miss reynolds, both relieved beyond expression by the happy conclusion of what might have been a very serious accident, did not quell the fun; and fifty or sixty young people never had such a good time before in the saloon of the lake steamer, _minnetonka_. suddenly music began somewhere about the boat and the young folk began to get restive. some ran for their skates again, for the idea was to remain near the steamer for a while and listen to the music before going back to shore. the music was a piano, guitar, violin, and harp, and when ruth heard it and recognized the latter instrument she was suddenly reminded of miss picolet and the strange harpist who (she firmly believed) had caused the startling sound at the fountain. "let's go and see who's playing," she whispered to helen, who had clung close to her ever since they had come aboard the steamboat. and as tom was on the other side of his sister, he went with them into the forward part of the boat. "well, what do you know about _that_?" demanded tom, almost before the girls were in the forward cabin. "isn't that the big man with the red waistcoat that frightened that little woman on the _lanawaxa_? you know, you pointed them out to me on the dock at portageton, helen? isn't that him at the harp?" "oh! it is, indeed!" ejaculated his sister. "what a horrid man he is! let's come away." but ruth was deeply interested in the harpist. she wondered what knowledge of, or what connection he had with, the little french teacher, miss picolet. and she wondered, too, if her suspicions regarding the mystery of the campus--the sounding of the harpstring in the dead of night--were borne out by the facts? had this coarse fellow, with his pudgy hands, his corpulency, his drooping black mustache, some hold upon miss picolet? had he followed her to briarwood hall, and had he made her meet him behind the fountain just at that hour when the upedes were engaged in hazing helen and herself? these thoughts arose in her mind again as ruth gazed apprehensively at the ugly-looking harpist. helen pulled her sleeve and ruth was turning away when she saw that the little, piglike eyes of the harpist were turned upon them. he smiled in his sly way and actually nodded at them. "sh! he remembers us," whispered helen. "oh, do come away, ruth!" "he isn't any handsome object, that's a fact," muttered tom. "and the cheek of him--nodding to you two girls!" after the excitement of the accident on the lake our friends did not feel much like skating until it came time to go back to the landing. mr. hargreaves was out on the ice with those students of the two schools who preferred to skate; but miss reynolds remained in the cabin. mary cox had had her lunch in the little stateroom, wrapped in blankets and in the company of an oil-stove, for heat's sake. now she came out, re-dressed in her own clothes, which were somewhat mussed and shrunken in appearance. helen ran to her at once to congratulate mary on her escape. "and wasn't it lucky tom and ruth were so near you?" she cried. "and dear old ruthie! she's quite a heroine; isn't she? and you must meet tom." "i shall be glad to meet and thank your brother, helen," said the fox, rather crossly. "but i don't see what need there is to make a fuss over fielding. your brother and mr. hargreaves pulled mr. steele and me out or the lake." helen stepped back and her pretty face flushed. she had begun to see mary cox in her true light. certainly she was in no mood just then to hear her chum disparaged. she looked around for tom and ruth; the former was talking quietly with miss reynolds, but ruth had slipped away when the fox came into the cabin. mary cox walked unperturbed to the teacher and tom and put out her hand to the youth, thanking him very nicely for what he had done. "oh, you mustn't thank me more than the rest of them," urged tom. "at least, i did no more than ruthie. by the way, where _is_ ruthie?" but ruth fielding had disappeared, and they did not see her again until the call was given for the start home. then she appeared from the forward part of the boat, very pale and silent, and all the way to the shore, skating between tom and helen, she had scarcely a word to say. chapter xxiii the secret for there was the burden of a secret on ruth fielding's mind and heart. she had slipped away when she saw the fox appear in the outer cabin and, walking forward, had been stopped suddenly in a cross gallery by a firm touch upon her arm. "sh! mademoiselle!" before she looked into the shadowy place she realized that it was the harpist. his very presence so near her made ruth shrink and tremble for an instant. but then she recovered her self-possession and asked, unshakenly: "what do you want of me?" "ah, mademoiselle! kind mademoiselle!" purred the great creature--and ruth knew well what his villainous smile must look like, although she could not see it. "may the unfortunate vagabond musician speak a single word into mademoiselle's ear?" "you have spoken several words into it already, sir," said ruth, sharply. "what do you want?" "ah! the mademoiselle is so practical," murmured the harpist again. "be quick," commanded ruth, for although she had a strong repugnance for the fellow there was no reason why she should fear him, with so many people within call. "state your reason for stopping me, sir." "the mademoiselle is from the school--the institute where learning is taught the lo-fe-ly misses?" he thus made three syllables of "lovely" and ruth knew that he leered like a billiken in the dark. "i am at briarwood hall--yes," she said. "i have seen the kind mademoiselle before," said the man. "on the boat on that other so-beeg lake--osago, is it?" "on the _lanawaxa_--yes," admitted ruth. "ah! i am proud. the mademoiselle remember me," he exclaimed, bowing in the dark alley. "go on," urged ruth, impatiently. "it is of the leetle lady--mademoiselle picolet--i would speak," he said, more quickly. "our french teacher--yes." "then, knowing her, will the mademoiselle take a small note from the poor musician to the good picolet? 'tis a small matter--no?" "you want me to do this without telling anybody about it?" questioned ruth, bluntly. "_oui, oui_, mademoiselle! you have the discernment beyond your years. indeed!" "i knew it must be something underhanded you wanted," declared ruth, boldly. he laughed and ruth saw a small envelope thrust toward her in the dusk of the passage. "you will take it?" he said. "i will take it--providing you do not come there again," exclaimed ruth. "come where?" he demanded. "to the school. to the campus where the fountain is." "ha! you know _that_, my pretty bird?" he returned. "well! this will perhaps relieve the good picolet of my presence--who knows?" "then i will take it," ruth said, hastily, her hand closing on the billet. "_comme il faut_," he said, and went away down the passage, humming in his bassoon voice. and so, as she sped shoreward between her two friends, ruth had the little letter tucked away in the bosom of her frock. the secret troubled her. she was really glad to say good bye to tom at the landing, and all the way back in the wagonette, although helen sat close to her and tried to show her how sorry she was for her past neglect, ruth was very silent. for she was much disturbed by this secret. she feared she was doing wrong in carrying the note to miss picolet. yet, under different circumstances, she might have thought little of it. but after her talk with mrs. tellingham about the mystery of the campus, she was troubled to think that she was taking any part in the french teacher's private affairs. helen was so filled with the excitement of the day, and of her long talk with her twin brother, that she did not observe ruth's distraught manner. "and we'll have such fun!" ruth finally awoke to hear her chum declare in a whisper. "father's always promised to get a place in the woods, and snow camp is a delightful spot." "what are you talking about, helen?" demanded ruth, suddenly. "i don't believe you've heard a thing i've been saying," cried her chum. "i haven't heard everything," admitted ruth. "but tell me now; i'll listen." "it's about the christmas holidays. you shall go with us. we're going 'way up in the woods--to a hunting camp that father has bought. we were there for a week-end once when mr. parrish owned it. snow camp is the most delightful place." "i am sure you will have a fine time," ruth said, generously. "and so you will, too," declared helen, "for you're going." "my _dear_! i am going home to the red mill at christmas." "and we'll go home for christmas, too; but there are three weeks' holidays, and two of them we will spend at snow camp. oh, yes we will!" helen cried. "i'd cry my eyes out if you didn't go, ruth." "but uncle jabez----" "we'll just tease him until he lets you go. he'll not object much, i'm sure. i should just cry my eyes out if you didn't go with us, ruthie," she repeated. the plan for the winter holidays sank into insignificance in ruth's mind, however, when they left the carriages and ran over to the west dormitory just as evening was falling. mercy waved a white hand to them from her window as they crossed the campus; but ruth allowed helen to run ahead while she halted in the lower corridor and asked miss scrimp if the french teacher was in her room. "oh, yes, miss ruthie," said the matron. "miss picolet is in. you can knock." as ruth asked this question and received its answer she saw mary cox come in alone at the hall door. the fox had not spoken to ruth since the accident on the ice. now she cast no pleasant glance in ruth's direction. yet, seeing the younger girl approaching miss picolet's door, mary smiled one of her very queerest smiles, nodded her head with secret satisfaction, and marched on upstairs to her own study. "enter!" said miss picolet's soft voice in answer to ruth's timid rap on the panel of the door. the girl entered and found the little french teacher sewing by the window. miss picolet looked up, saw who it was, and welcomed ruth with a smile. "i hope you have had a joyful day, miss ruth," she said. "come to the radiator--you are cold." "i am going to run upstairs in a moment, mademoiselle," said ruth, hesitatingly. "but i have a message for you." "a message for me?" said the lady, in surprise. "yes, ma'am." "from the preceptress, ruth?" "no, miss picolet. it--it is a letter that has been given me to be handed to you--secretly." the little teacher's withered cheek flushed and her bright little eyes clouded. by the way one of her hands fluttered over her heart, too, ruth knew that miss picolet was easily frightened. "a letter for me?" she whispered. ruth was unbuttoning her coat and frock to get at the letter. she said: "there was an orchestra on that boat that was frozen into the ice, miss picolet. one of the musicians spoke to me. he knew you--or said he did----" the girl hated to go on, miss picolet turned so pale and looked so frightened. but it had to be done, and ruth pursued her story: "i had seen the man before--the day we came to school here, helen and i. he played the harp on the _lanawaxa_." "ah!" gasped the french woman, holding out her hand. "no more, my dear! i understand. let me have it." but now ruth hesitated and stammered, and felt in the bosom of her dress with growing fear. she looked at miss picolet, her own face paling. "oh, miss picolet!" she suddenly burst out. "what will you think? what can i say?" "what--what is the matter?" gasped the french teacher. "i--i haven't got it--it is gone!" "what do you mean, ruth fielding?" cried miss picolet, springing to her feet. "it's gone--i've lost it! oh, my dear miss picolet! i didn't mean to. i tried to be so careful. but i have lost the letter he gave me addressed to you!" chapter xxiv "who is the tattle-tale?" the next day the whole school were at their books again--the short thanksgiving recess was ended. it had been just a breathing space for the girls who really were anxious to stand well in their classes at briarwood hall. those who--like some of the upedes--desired nothing so much as "fun," complained because the vacation had been so short, and dawdled over their books again. but there was no dawdling in duet two, west dormitory. had helen been inclined to lapse occasionally, or ruth sunk under the worriment of mind which had borne her down since the day of the skating party on triton lake, mercy curtis kept the two chums to the mark. "no shirking, you young ones!" commanded the crippled girl, in her sharp way. "remember the hare would have won the race easily if he hadn't laid down to nap beside the course. come! some tortoise will beat you in french and latin yet, helen, if you don't keep to work. and go to work at that english composition, ruthie remissness! you'd both be as lazy as ludlum's dog if it wasn't for me." and so she kept them up to the work, and kept herself up, too. there wasn't much time for larking now, if one wished to stand well at the end of the term. the teachers watched for shirkers more closely, too. even mary cox and her friends next door showed some signs of industry. "although it does seem as though we were always being worked to death," groaned heavy, one day, to ruth. "i feel as though my constitution was actually breaking down under the strain. i've written to my father that if he wants to see even a shadow of my former self at christmas, he had better tell mrs. tellingham not to force me so!" she sighed breezily and looked so hard at the piece of cocoanut pie beside ruth's plate (having eaten her own piece already) that ruth laughed and pushed it toward her. "have it if you like, heavy," she said. "i am not very hungry." "well, there isn't quite so much of you to nourish, my dear," declared jennie stone, more briskly. "i really _do_ feel the need of an extra piece. thank you, ruth! you're a good little thing." "miss picolet will see you, ruth," whispered helen, on her other side. "she is disgusted with heavy's piggishness. but miss picolet, after all, won't say anything to you. you are her pet." "don't say that, helen," replied ruth, with some sadness. "i am sorry for miss picolet." "i don't see why you need be. she seems to get along very well," returned her chum. but ruth could not forget how the little french teacher had looked--how frightened she was and how tearful--the afternoon when ruth had told her of the incident aboard the _minnetonka_, and of her loss of the mysterious letter sent by the harpist. the little french woman had begged her not to blame herself for the loss of the letter; she had only begged her to say nothing to a soul about either the man or the letter. and ruth had kept the secret. nearly a fortnight had passed since the occurrence, and it lacked not many days to the close of the term, when one evening, after a meeting of the s. b.'s in their usual room over the dining hall, ruth had been delayed a bit and was hurrying out alone so as not to be caught out of the dormitory after warning bell, when old tony foyle hailed her. "i was a-goin' to the west dormitory to ax miss scrimp for to call ye, miss ruthie," said the old irishman, who--like most of the help about the school--was fond of the girl from the red mill. "ye're wanted, miss." "wanted?" asked ruth, in surprise. "who by?" "the missus wants ye--missus tellingham. ye're ter go straight to her study, so ye are." much disturbed--for she feared there might be bad news from home--ruth ran to the main building and knocked on mrs. tellingham's door. at her pleasantly spoken "come in!" the girl entered and found the preceptress at her desk, while the old doctor, quite as blind and deaf to everything but his own work as usual, was bent over his papers at the end of the long table. but at this hour, and in the privacy of the place, he had cocked the brown wig over one ear in the most comical way, displaying a perfectly bald, shiny patch of pate which made his naturally high forehead look fairly enormous. "nothing to be frightened about, miss fielding," said mrs. tellingham, instantly reading aright what she saw in ruth's countenance. "you need not be disturbed. for i really do not believe you are at fault in this matter which has been brought to my notice." "no, mrs. tellingham?" asked ruth, curiously. "i have only a question to ask you. have you lost something--something that might have been entrusted to you for another person? some letter, for instance?" the color flashed into ruth's face. she was always thinking about the note the harpist had given to her on the steamboat to take to miss picolet. she could not hide her trouble from the sharp eyes of mrs. tellingham. "you _have_ lost something?" "i don't know whether i should tell you. i don't know that i have a right to tell you," ruth stammered. mrs. tellingham looked at her sharply for a minute or so, and then nodded. then she said: "i understand. you have been put on your honor not to tell?" "yes, mrs. tellingham. it is not my secret." "but there is a letter to be recovered?" "ye-es." "is this it?" asked mrs. tellingham, suddenly thrusting under ruth's eye a very much soiled and crumpled envelope. and it had been unsealed, ruth could see. the superscription was to "mademoiselle picolet." "it--it looks like it," ruth whispered. "but it was sealed when i had it." "i do not doubt it," said mrs. tellingham, with a shake of her head. "but the letter was given to me first, and then the envelope. the--the person who claims to have found it when you dropped it, declared it to be open then." "oh, i do not think so!" cried ruth. "well. enough that i know its contents. you do not?" "indeed, no, mrs. tellingham. i may have done wrong to agree to deliver the letter. but i--i was so sorry for her----" "i understand. i do not blame you in the least, child," said mrs. tellingham, shortly. "this letter states that the writer expects more money from our miss picolet--poor thing! it states that if the money is not forthcoming to an address he gives her before to-day--to-day, mind you, is the date--he will come here for it. it is, in short, a threat to make trouble for miss picolet. and the person finding this letter when you dropped it has deliberately, i believe, retained it until to-day before bringing it to me, for the express purpose of letting the scoundrel come here and disturb miss picolet's peace of mind." "oh, how mean!" gasped ruth, involuntarily. "mean indeed, ruth," said the preceptress, gravely. "and you have yourself experienced some ill-usage from the person who has played spy and informer in this matter, since you have come to briarwood hall. i understand--you know that little can go on about the school that does not reach my ears in one way or another--that this same person has called you a 'tattle-tale' and tried to make your friends among the girls believe that you played traitor to them on a certain occasion. i have told miss cox exactly what i think of her action in this case," and she tapped the letter before her. "she has shown plainly," said mrs. tellingham, with sternness, "that she is a most sly and mean-spirited girl. i am sorry that one of the young ladies of briarwood hall is possessed of so contemptible a disposition." chapter xxv getting on it was a frosty night and snow lay smoothly upon the campus. only the walks and the cemented place about the fountain were cleaned. tony foyle had made his last rounds and put out the lights; but although there was no moon the starlight on the snow made the campus silvery in spots. but the leafless trees, and the buildings about the open space, cast deep shadows. there was a light shining in a study window of the west dormitory and that light was in the room occupied by the triumvirate--ruth fielding, helen cameron and mercy curtis. the two latter were abed, but awake and wondering why ruth had not returned, and what miss scrimp had meant by coming to the door and telling them to leave the light burning. the clocks had long since struck eleven and it was close to midnight. the night was still, for there was no wind. it was possible that very few of either the scholars, teachers, or servants at briarwood were awake. but almost directly under the light in the triumvirate's room another light burned--in the study of the french teacher. she seldom retired early; that is one reason why those girls who considered miss picolet their enemy believed she was always on the watch. three figures came out of the basement door under the tower of briarwood hall--a lady much bundled up, a girl ditto, and the old irishman, tony foyle. "sure, ma'am, jest as i told ye this afternoon, the big felly that sassed me last fall, tryin' ter git in ter play his harp, and with his other vagabonds, was hanging around again to-day. i hear him an' his rapscallion companions is in lumberton. they've been playing about here and there, for a month back. and now i see him comin' along with his harp on his back--bad 'cess to him! p'raps they're walkin' across to sivin oaks, an' are takin' in briarwood as a 'cross-cut'." "hush!" whispered the preceptress. "isn't that somebody over yonder--by the fountain?" they were all three silent, keeping close in the shadow. some object _did_ seem to be moving in the shadow of the fountain. suddenly there sounded on the still night air the reverberating note of a harp--a crash of sound following the flourish of a practised hand across the wires. "bless us and save us!" muttered tony. "'tis the marble harp. 'tis a banshee playin'." "be still!" commanded mrs. tellingham. "it is nothing of the kind, you very well know, tony. ah!" she had looked instantly toward the illuminated window of the french teacher's study at the other side of the campus. the shade had snapped up to the top of the casement, and the shadow of miss picolet appeared. the french teacher had heard the voice of the harp. "oh, poor little thing," murmured mrs. tellingham. "this seems like spying and eavesdropping, ruth fielding; but i mean to stop this thing right here and now. she shall not be frightened out of her wits by this villain." they heard no further sound from the harp at the fountain. but the door of the west dormitory opened and the little figure of miss picolet appeared, wrapped in some long, loose garment, and she sped down toward the fountain. soon she was out of sight behind the marble statue. "come!" breathed the preceptress. they heard miss picolet and the man chattering in their own language--the man threatening, the woman pleading--when the trio got to the fountain. ruth was a poor french scholar, but of course mrs. tellingham understood what they said. and the preceptress glided around the fountain and confronted the harpist with a suddenness that quite startled him. "you, sir!" exclaimed the lady, coldly. "i have heard enough of this. don't be frightened, miss picolet. i only blame you for not coming to me. i have long known your circumstances, and the fact that you are poor, and that you have an imbecile sister to support, and that this man is your disreputable half-brother. and that he threatens to hang about here and make you lose your position unless you pay him to be good, is well known to me, too. "we will have no more of this fellow's threats," continued mrs. tellingham, sternly. "you will give him none of your hard-earned money, miss picolet. tony, here, shall see him off the grounds, and if he ever appears here again, or troubles you, let me know and i shall send him to jail for trespass. now, remember--you jean picolet! i have your record and the police at lumberton shall have it, too, if you ever trouble your sister again." "ah-ha!" snarled the big man, looking evilly at ruth. "so the little mademoiselle betrayed me; did she?" "she has had nothing to do with it--save to have had the misfortune of losing the letter you gave her to deliver to miss picolet," mrs. tellingham said, briefly. "i had her here to identify you, had miss picolet not come out to meet you. now, tony!" and big as the harpist was, and little as the old irishman seemed, there was that in tony foyle's eye that made the man pick up his harp in a hurry and make his way from the campus. "child! go in to bed," said mrs. tellingham. "not a word of this, remember. thank goodness, _you_ are one girl who can keep a secret. miss picolet, i want to see you in my study. i hope that, hereafter, you will give me your confidence. for you need fear no dismissal from the school over such a misfortune as is visited upon you." she took the sobbing, trembling french teacher away with her while ruth ran up to duet two in the west dormitory, in a much excited state of mind. fortunately both helen and mercy had dropped to sleep and none of the other girls seemed to have heard the harp at midnight. so there was no talk this time about the ghost of the campus. to the other girls at briarwood, the mystery remained unsolved, and the legend of the marble harp was told again and again to the infants who came to the school, with the added point that, on the night ruth fielding and helen cameron had come to the hall, the marble harp was again heard to sound its ghostly note. no thought of such foolish, old-wives' fables troubled ruth fielding's dreams as she lay down on this night which had seen the complete exposure of the campus mystery and the laying of the campus ghost. she dreamed, instead, of completing her first term at briarwood with satisfaction to herself and her teachers--which she did! she dreamed of returning to the old red mill and being joyfully received by aunt alviry and uncle jabez--which she did! she dreamed, too, of joining helen cameron and her mid-winter party at snow camp and enjoying quantities of fun and frolic in the wintry woods; which, likewise, came true, and which adventures will be related in good time in the next volume of this series: "ruth fielding at snow camp; or, lost in the backwoods." "i am so glad it is over!" said ruth to herself, as she retired. "i hope there is no more trouble." and here let us for the time being say good bye to ruth fielding and her chums of briarwood hall. the end peggy lee series by anna andrews a charming series of stories of a young american girl, peggy lee, living with her family (including many unusual pets) on a large coffee plantation in central america, and her many adventures there and in new york. the action is rapid, full of fun, and takes the reader not only to many interesting places in central america, but in the country as well, where peggy attends a school for girls. the incidents are cleverly brought out, and peggy in her wistful way, proves in her many adventures to be a brave girl and an endearing heroine to her friends and readers. . peggy and michael of the coffee plantation . peggy lee of the golden thistle plantation . peggy lee and the mysterious islands (other volumes in preparation) cupples & leon company, publishers, new york [illustration: he pushed ruth roughly back into her seat. page ] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ruth fielding and the gypsies or the missing pearl necklace by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding at silver ranch," etc. illustrated new york cupples & leon company publishers ----------------------------------------------------------------------- books for girls by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. ruth fielding of the red mill or, jasper parloe's secret. ruth fielding at briarwood hall or, solving the campus mystery. ruth fielding at snow camp or, lost in the backwoods. ruth fielding at lighthouse point or, nita, the girl castaway. ruth fielding at silver ranch or, schoolgirls among the cowboys. ruth fielding on cliff island or, the old hunter's treasure box. ruth fielding at sunrise farm or, what became of the raby orphans. ruth fielding and the gypsies or, the missing pearl necklace. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york. copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding and the gypsies. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- contents chapter page i. on the lumano river ii. roberto, the gypsy iii. evening at the red mill iv. the auto tour v. a prophecy fulfilled vi. a transaction in mutton vii. fellow travelers viii. what was it all about? ix. queen zelaya x. in the gypsy camp xi. tom on the trail xii. a break for liberty xiii. ruth in the toils xiv. roberto again xv. helen's escape xvi. through the night and the storm xvii. off for school again xviii. getting into harness xix. can it be possible? xx. he cannot talk xxi. ruth intercedes xxii. a great temptation xxiii. nettie parsons' feast xxiv. roberto finds his voice xxv. five thousand dollars ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ruth fielding and the gypsies chapter i on the lumano river the steady turning of the grinding-stones set the old red mill a-quiver in every board and beam. the air within was full of dust--dust of the grain, and fine, fine dust from the stones themselves. uncle jabez potter, the miller, came to the door and looked across the grassy yard that separated the mill and the farmhouse attached from the highroad. under a broad-spreading tree sat two girls, busy with their needles. one, a sharp-faced, light-haired girl, who somehow carried a look of endured pain in her eyes in spite of the smile she flung at the old man, cried: "hello, dusty miller! come out and fly about a little. it will do you good." the grim face of the miller lightened perceptibly. "how do you reckon a man like me kin fly, mercy child?" he croaked. "i'll lend you my aeroplanes, if you like," she returned, gaily, and held up the two ebony canes which had been hidden by the tall grass. _they_ told the story of mercy curtis' look of pain, but once she had had to hobble on crutches and, as she pluckily declared, canes were "miles better than crutches." "i ain't got no time, gals, an' that's a fac'," said the miller, his face clouding suddenly. "ain't ye seen hide nor hair of ben an' them mules?" "why, uncle," said the second girl, quietly, "you know how many errands ben had to do in town. he couldn't do them all and get back in so short a time." "i dunno about that, niece ruth--i dunno about that," said the old man, sharply. "seems ter me i could ha' gone an' been back by now. an' hi guy! there's four sacks o' flour to take acrost the river to tim lakeby--an' i kyan't do it by meself--ben knows that. takes two' on us ter handle thet punt 'ith the river runnin' like she is right now." the girl who had last spoken folded the work in her lap and got up agilely. her movements were followed--perhaps a little enviously--by the gaze of the lame girl. "how quick you are, ruthie," she said. when ruth fielding looked down upon mercy curtis, her smile started an answering one upon the lame girl's thin face. "quick on my feet, dearie," said ruth. "but you have so much quicker a mind." "flatterer!" returned the other, yet the smile lingered upon the thin face and made it the sweeter. the miller was turning, grumblingly, back into the shadowy interior of the mill, when ruth hailed him. "oh, uncle!" she cried. "let me help you." "what's that?" he demanded, wheeling again to look at her from under his shaggy eyebrows. now, ruth fielding was worth looking at. she was plump, but not too plump; and she was quick in her movements, while her lithe and graceful figure showed that she possessed not only health, but great vitality. her hair was of a beautiful bright brown color, was thick, and curled just a little. in her tanned cheeks the blood flowed richly--the color came and went with every breath she drew, it seemed, at times. that was when she was excited. but ordinarily she was of a placid temperament, and her brown eyes were as deep as wells. she possessed the power of looking searchingly and calmly at one without making her glance either impertinent or bold. in her dark skirt, middy blouse, and black stockings and low shoes, she made a pretty picture as she stood under the tree, although her features were none of them perfect. her cheeks were perhaps a little too round; her nose--well, it was not a dignified nose at all! and her mouth was generously large, but the teeth gleaming behind her red lips were even and white, and her smile lit up her whole face in a most engaging manner. "do let me help you, uncle. i know i can," she repeated, as the old miller scowled at her. "what's that?" he said again. "go with me in that punt to tim lakeby's?" "why not?" "'tain't no job for a gal, niece ruth," grumbled the miller. "any job is all right for a girl--if she can do it," said ruth, happily. "and i can row, uncle--you know i can." "ha! rowing one o' them paper-shell skiffs of cameron's _one_ thing; the ash oars to my punt ain't for baby's han's," growled the miller. "do let me try, uncle jabez," said ruth again, when the lame girl broke in with: "you are an awfully obstinate old dusty miller! why don't you own up that ruthie's more good to you than a dozen boys would be?" "she ain't!" snarled the old man. at that moment there appeared upon the farmhouse porch a little, bent old woman who hailed them in a shrill, sweet voice: "what's the matter, gals? what's the matter, jabez? ain't nothin' broke down, hez there?" "no, aunt alvirah," laughed ruth. "i just want uncle jabez to let me help him----" the old woman had started down the steps, her hand upon her back as she came, and intoning in a low voice: "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" she caught up the miller's remark, as he turned away again, very sharply, for he muttered something about "silly gals' foolish idees." "what d'ye mean by that, jabez potter?" she demanded. "if ruth says she kin help ye, she _kin_. you oughter know that by this time." "help me row that punt across the river?" snarled the old man, wrathfully. "what nonsense!" "i dunno," said the old woman, slowly. "i see tim's flag a-flyin'. i guess he wants his flour bad." "and i can pull an oar as good as _you_ can, uncle jabez," added ruth. "oh, all right! come on, then. i see i shell hev no peace till i let ye try it. ef we don't git back fer supper, don't blame _me_, alviry." the miller disappeared in the gathering gloom of the mill. soon the jarring of the structure and the hum of the stones grew slower--slower--slower, and finally the machinery was altogether still. ruth had run for her hat. then, waving her hand to mercy and aunt alvirah, she ran around to the landing. the lumano river was a wide stream, but at this season of the year it was pretty shallow. there was little navigation from lake osago at any time, but now the channel was dotted with dangerous rocks, and there were even more perilous reefs just under the surface. uncle jabez's boat was not really a "punt." it was a heavy rowboat, so stained and waterlogged in appearance that it might have been taken for a bit of drift-stuff that had been brought in to the red mill landing by the current. and truly, that is probably the means by which the miller had originally obtained the boat. he was of a miserly nature, was uncle jabez potter, and the old boat--which its first owner had never considered worth coming after, following some spring freshet--served the miller well enough to transport his goods across the river. tim lakeby's store, on the north shore of the river, was in sight of the red mill. there were four sacks of flour to be transported, and already uncle jabez had placed two of them in the bottom of the boat, upon a clean tarpaulin. "ef we go down the river an' swamp, i shell lose this flour," grumbled uncle jabez. "drat that ben! i tell ye, he'd ought to be hum by now." ben was the hired man, and if the miller had not really been kindlier underneath than he appeared on the surface, ben would never have remained as long with him as he had! uncle jabez balanced the weight in the boat with judgment. although there seemed to be no real danger, he knew very well the nature of the treacherous current. ruth slipped into the bow seat with her oar, and uncle jabez took stroke. the girl unknotted the painter, and the boat drifted out from the landing. "now, set yer feet square, an' _pull_!" ejaculated her uncle, thrusting the blade of his own oar beneath the rippling surface. they were heavy ash oars--one was all the girl really could manage. but she was not afraid of a little hard work, her muscles were supple, and she had rowed one season in the first eight at briarwood hall, and so considered herself something of an oarswoman. the miller, by stretching to see over his shoulder, got the boat pointed in the right direction. "pull, now!" he commanded, and set a long, forceful stroke for the girl to match. with the water slapping against the high side of the craft, sometimes sprinkling them with spray, they drove her forward for some minutes in silence. the boat lumbered heavily, and it was true that ruth had all she could do to manage the oars. in some places, where the eddies tugged at the blade, it seemed as though a submerged giant seized it and tried to twist it from her grasp! "i guess you air gittin' yer fill-up of it, niece ruth," growled the miller, with a sound in his throat that might have been a chuckle. "look out, now! ye'll hev us over." ruth knew very well she had done nothing to give the boat that sudden jerk. it was the current; but she had no breath with which to argue the matter. on and on they pulled, while the sinking sun gilded the little wavelets, and bathed both river and the shores in golden glory. a homing bird shrieked a shrill "good-night," as it passed above them, flying from shore to shore. now the northern shore was nearer than the landing they had left. only occasionally ruth turned her head, for she needed her full attention upon the oar which she managed with such difficulty. "we gotter p'int up-stream," growled uncle jabez, after wringing his neck around again to spy out the landing near lakeby's store. "pesky current's kerried us too fur down." he gave a mighty pull to his own oar to rehead the boat. it was a perilous move, and in a perilous place. here the water ran, troubled and white-capped, over a hidden reef. "oh! do be careful, uncle!" cried ruth. "pull!" yelled the old man, in return. by chance he sunk his own oar-blade so deeply, that it rubbed against the reef. it lifted uncle jabez from his seat, and unbalanced the boat. like a flash the heavy oar flew out of its socket, and the old man sprawled on his back in the bottom of the boat. the latter whirled around in the current, and before ruth could scream, even, it crashed broadside upon the rock! the rotting planks of the boat could not stand such a blow. ruth saw the plank cave in, and the water followed. down the boat settled upon the submerged part of the rock--a hopeless wreck! this was not the worst of the accident. in seeking to recover his seat, uncle jabez went overboard, as the old boat tipped. he dove into the shallow water, and struck his head heavily on the reef. blood-stained bubbles rose to the surface, and the old man struggled only feebly to rise. "he is hurt! he will be drowned!" gasped ruth, and seeing him so helpless, she sprang nimbly over the canted side of the boat and sought to draw her uncle's head out of the water. although she was a good swimmer, and was not afraid of the water, the current was so swift, and her own footing so unstable, it was doubtful if ruth fielding could save both the miller and herself from the peril that menaced them. chapter ii roberto, the gypsy ruth fielding, following the death of her parents and while she was still a small girl, had left darrowtown and miss true pettis, and all her other old friends and acquaintances, to live with her mother's uncle, at the red mill. her coming to the mill and her early adventures in and about that charming place were related in the first volume of this series, entitled "ruth fielding of the red mill." ruth made many friends in her new home, among them helen and tom cameron, the twin, motherless children of a wealthy dry-goods merchant who had a beautiful home, called "the outlook," near the mill, and mercy curtis, the daughter of the railroad station agent at cheslow, the nearest important town to ruth's new home. ruth, helen, and mercy all went to briarwood hall, a girls' school some distance from cheslow, while master tom attended a military academy at seven oaks, near the girls' institution of learning. the incidents of their first term at school are related in the second volume of the series, while in the mid-winter vacation ruth and her friends go to snow camp in the adirondacks. later, our friends spent part of a summer vacation at lighthouse point on the atlantic coast, after which they visited silver ranch in montana. the sixth volume tells of another mid-winter camping adventure on cliff island, while the volume previous to our present story--number seven, in fact--was entitled "ruth fielding at sunrise farm." this story narrated ruth's particular interest in sadie raby, a strange, wild girl who ran away from cruel people who had taken her "to raise." her reunion with her twin brothers, willie and dickie, and how they all three became the special care of mr. steele, the wealthy owner of sunrise farm, is told. it is through ruth's efforts that the rabys are settled in life and win friends. now ruth and her schoolmates had returned to the red mill and cheslow, and but a brief space would elapse before the girls would begin their third year at briarwood hall; they were all looking toward the beginning of the fall term with great eagerness. had ruth fielding been able to think at this moment of the boat's overturn, or of anything but her uncle's peril, she might have considered that the possibility of her ever seeing briarwood hall again was somewhat doubtful! the hurrying water tugged at her as though a hundred hands had laid hold of her person. she was nearly arm-pit deep in the flood, and her uncle's body was so heavy that she had all she could do to hold his head above the surface. she could not get him back into the boat, even, and perhaps that would not have been a wise move. for the old skiff, shaking and rocking, was likely to be torn free by the battling current. if it should swing into deep water, it must sink almost at once, for the water was pouring in through the hole that had been battered in its side. the flour was fast becoming saturated with the river-water, and its increased weight would bear the boat to the bottom, if it slipped from the reef. unable to see any good of boarding the boat again, ruth tried to work her way along the reef until she stood upon a higher part of it. uncle jabez was unconscious, blood flowed from a deep cut on his head, and he lay a dead weight in her arms. never had ruth fielding been in greater peril. she was frightened, but mostly for the old man who seemed so seriously hurt. tossing her loosened hair out of her eyes, she stared longingly at the landing near lakeby's store. it was some distance up-stream, and not a person was in sight. she feared, too, that it was too far away for her voice to carry. yet she must scream for help. she shouted again and again, endeavoring to put all the strength of her voice into the cries. was that an answer? the girl held her uncle high in her arms and looked all about. nobody was at the store landing. nobody was behind on the other shore of the river--and she was glad that aunt alvirah and mercy had not seen the accident, for neither of them could have helped in this predicament. yes! there was the repeated shout--and nearer. ruth's eyes turned to the north shore of the lumano again. there was somebody running down the bank--not near the store kept by timothy lakeby, but directly opposite the rock on which the old boat had stranded. "oh! oh! help! help!" shrieked the girl of the red mill. "hold on! i'm coming!" the voice came to her more strongly than before. she could not see who the person was, but she knew he was alone. she could not imagine how he was to aid them. why did he not run to the store and bring other men to help? there! he seemed to have leaped right into the river! "oh, dear me! the strongest swimmer could not reach us, let alone help uncle jabez ashore," was ruth's thought. but up came the figure into sight again. dripping, of course, now he stood firmly on a peak of rock that was thrust above the tide, and shook back the long black hair from his eyes. he was a wild looking person. his feet were bare and his ragged trousers were rolled to his knees. he wore neither vest nor coat, and his shirt was open at his throat. to ruth he seemed very bronzed and rough looking. but whoever, or whatever, he might be, the girl prayed that he would prove able to rescue uncle jabez. she felt that she could save herself, but she was having all she could do to bear up the unconscious miller. "hold on!" shouted the rescuer again. once more he plunged forward. he disappeared off the rock. was he swimming again? the half-overturned boat hid him from ruth's gaze. suddenly he shouted close at hand. up he bobbed on the higher point of rock just beyond the boat. "what's the matter, missy?" he demanded. "is the old man hurt?" "he hit his head. see! he is unconscious," explained ruth. "i'll get him! look out, now; i've got to push off this old boat, missy. she ain't no good, anyway." ruth saw that he was a big, black-haired, strong looking boy. his complexion was very dark and his eyes sparkling--like cut jet beads. he might have been seventeen or eighteen years old, but he was fully as tall, and apparently as strong, as an ordinary man. his long hair curled and was tangled like a wild man's. his beard had begun to grow on his lip and chin. in his ears ruth saw small gold rings and his wrists and forearms--which were bared--were covered with an intricate pattern of tattooing in red and blue ink. altogether, she had never seen so strange a boy in all her life--and certainly none so strong. he leaped into the broken boat, seized ruth's oar that had not been lost in the overset, and bracing it against the rock, pushed the trembling boat free in a moment. ruth could not repress a scream. it looked as though he, too, must be thrown into the river, as the boat was caught by the current and jerked free. but the wild boy laughed and leaped upon the higher part of the rock. as the miller's old boat drifted down stream, he sprang into the water again and reached the girl and her burden. "give him to me!" commanded the boy. "i can bear him up better than you, missy. we'll get him ashore--and you can't be any wetter than you are now." "oh, never mind me!" cried ruth. "i am not afraid of a ducking. and i can swim." "you don't want to try swimming in _this_ place, missy," he returned. "you follow right behind me--so." he turned, carrying the heavy figure of the miller in his arms as though he weighed but a hundred pounds instead of nearer two, and set off toward the shore along the ledge of rock by which he had come. ruth saw, now, that beyond where the boat had been wrecked, the rock joined the shore, with only here and there a place where it was deep under water. she saw, too, that the boat was now sinking. it had not sailed ten yards in the fierce current before its gunwales disappeared. it sank in a deeper channel below--flour and all! ruth realized that uncle jabez would be sorely troubled over the loss of those bags of flour. ruth paddled to the shore behind the strong boy, but before they really reached terra firma, she knew that uncle jabez was struggling back to consciousness. the boy lowered the miller easily to the ground. "he's coming 'round, missy," he said. his smile was broad, and the little gold rings twinkled in his ears. ruth, wet and bedrabbled as she was, did not think of her own discomfort. she knelt beside uncle jabez and spoke to him. for some seconds he was so dazed that he did not seem to recognize her. then he stammered: "ha--ha----i knowed we couldn't do it. no--no gal kin do a man's work. ha!" this seemed rather hard on ruth, after she had done her best, and it had not been her fault that the boat was wrecked, but she was too excited just then to trouble about the miller's grumbling. "oh, uncle! you're not badly hurt, are you?" "ha--hum! i dunno," stuttered the miller, and sat up. he rubbed his forehead and brought his hand, with a little blood upon it, back to the level of his eyes. "i vum!" he ejaculated, with more interest than before. "i must ha' cracked my head some. why was it i didn't drown?" "this little missy, here," said the black-eyed youth, quickly. "_she_ saved you, mister. she held your head above water till i come." "why--why----niece ruth! you did _that_?" "oh, it was nothing, uncle jabez! i am so glad you are not hurt worse. this boy really saved you. he brought you ashore." "who be ye, young man?" asked the miller. "i'm obleeged to ye--if what my niece says is true." "oh, i am named roberto. you need not to thank--no!" exclaimed the stranger, suddenly getting up and looking all about. "but it was very brave of him," declared ruth, and she seized the boy's hand. "i--i am so glad you were near." "here's tim and joe bascom coming," said uncle jabez, who was facing the store. instantly roberto, as he called himself, jerked his hand from ruth's grasp. he had seen the men coming, too, and without a word he turned and fled back into the woods. "why--why----" began ruth, in utter surprise. "what's the matter with that feller?" demanded uncle jabez, just as the storekeeper and farmer bascom arrived. "i seen the feller, jabe," said the latter, eagerly. "he's one o' them blamed gypsies. i run him out o' my orchard only yisterday." chapter iii evening at the red mill about this time uncle jabez began to wake up to the fact that his boat and the flour were gone. "it's a dumbed shame, jabez! an' i needed that flour like tunket," said timothy lakeby, the storekeeper. "huh!" grunted the miller. "'tain't nothin' out o' your pocket, tim." "but my customers air wantin' it." "you lemme hev your boat, an' a boy to bring it back, an' we'll go right hum an' load ye up some more flour," groaned the miller. "that dratted ben will be back by thet time, i fancy. ef he'd been ter the mill i wouldn't hev been dependent upon my niece ter help row that old boat." "too heavy for her--too heavy for her, jabe," declared joe bascom. "huh! is thet so?" snapped the miller. he could grumble to ruth himself, but he would not stand for any other person's criticism of her. "lemme tell ye, she worked her passage all right. an' i vum! i b'lieve thet 'twas me, myself, thet run the old tub on the rock." "aside from the flour, jabez," said the storekeeper, "'tain't much of a loss. but you an' ruthie might ha' both been drowned." "i would, if it hadn't been for her," declared the miller, with more enthusiasm than he usually showed. "she held my head up when i was knocked out--kinder. ye see this cut in my head?" "ye got out of it lucky arter all, then," said bascom. "ya-as," drawled the miller. "but i ain't feelin' so pert erbout losin' thet boat an' the flour." "but see how much worse it might have been, uncle," suggested ruth, timidly. "if it hadn't been for that boy----" "what did he say his name was?" interrupted timothy. "roberto." "yah!" said bascom. "thet's a gypsy name, all right! i'd like ter got holt on him." "i wish i could have thanked him," sighed ruth. "if you see him ag'in, joe," said the miller, "don't you bother about a peck o' summer apples. i'll pay for them," he added, with a sudden burst of generosity. "of course--in trade," he added. he could move about now, and the gash in his head had ceased bleeding. it was a warm evening, and neither ruth nor her uncle were likely to take cold from their ducking. but her clothing clung to her in an uncomfortable manner, and the girl was anxious to get back to the mill. timothy lakeby routed out a clerk and sent him with them in the lighter boat that was moored at the store landing. ruth begged to pull an oar again, and her uncle did not forbid her. perhaps he still felt a little weak and dazed. he kept speaking of roberto, the gypsy boy. "strong as an ox, that feller," he said. "wisht i had a man like him at the mill. ben ain't wuth his salt." "oh, i'm sure, uncle jabez, ben is very faithful and good," urged ruth. "wal, a feller that could carry me like that young man done--he's jest another sandow, _he_ is," said uncle jabez. they easily got across the river in the storekeeper's lighter boat, and ruth displayed her oarsmanship to better advantage, for the oars were lighter. the miller noted her work and grunted his approval. "i vum! they _did_ teach ye suthin' at thet school 'sides folderrols, didn't they?" he said. ruth asked the store clerk if he knew anything about the gypsies. "why, yes, miss. i hear they are camping 'way up the river--up near the lakes, beyond minturn's dam. you know that's a wild country up there." ruth remembered. she had been a little way in that direction with her friends, tom and helen cameron, in their auto. minturn dam had burst two years before, and done much damage, but was now repaired. "that is a long way from here," she suggested to the clerk. "yes'm. but romany folks is gret roamers--thet's why they're called 'romany,' mebbe," was the reply. "and i guess that black-eyed rascal is a wild one." "never mind. he got me out o' the river," mumbled uncle jabez. they brought the boat to the mill landing in safety, and ben appeared, having returned from town and put up the mules. he gazed in blank amazement at the condition of his employer and ruth. "for the good land!" exclaimed ben; but he got no farther. he was not a talkative young man, and it took considerable to wake him up to as exciting an expression as the above. "you kin talk!" snarled uncle jabez. "if you'd been here to help me, i wouldn't ha' lost our boat and the flour." the miller fairly _ached_ when he thought of his losses, and he had to lay the blame on somebody. "now you help me git four more sacks over to tim lakeby's----" ruth would not hear of his going back before he changed his clothing and had something put upon the cut in his head. after a little arguing, it was agreed that ben and the clerk should ferry the flour across to the store, and then the clerk would bring ben back. "goodness sakes alive!" shrieked aunt alvirah, when she saw them come onto the porch, still dripping. "what you been doing to my pretty, jabez potter?" "huh!" sniffed the miller. "mebbe it's what she's been doing to _me_?" and he wreathed his thin lips into a wry grin. aunt alvirah and mercy must hear it all. the lame girl was delighted. she pointed her finger at the old man, who had now gotten into his sunday suit and had a bandage on his head. "now, tell me, dusty miller, what do you think about girls being of some use? isn't ruth as good as any boy?" "she sartainly kep' me from drownin' as good as any boy goin'," admitted the old man. "but that was only chancey, as ye might say. when it comes to bein' of main use in the world----wal, it ain't gals thet makes the wheels go 'round!' "and don't you really think, uncle, that girls are any use in the world?" asked ruth, quietly. she had come out upon the dimly lit porch (this was after their supper) in season to hear the miller's final observation. "ha!" ejaculated jabez. perhaps he had not intended ruth to hear just that. "they're like flowers, i reckon--mighty purty an' ornamental; but they ain't no manner o' re'l use!" mercy fairly snorted, but she was too wise to say anything farther. ruth, however, continued: "that seems very unfair, uncle. many girls are 'worth their salt,' as you call it, to their families. why can't _i_ be of use to you--in time, of course?" "ha! everyone to his job," said uncle jabez, brusquely. "you kin be of gre't help to your aunt alviry, no doubt. but ye can't take a sack of flour on your shoulders an' throw it inter a waggin--like ben there. or like that roberto thet lugged me ashore to-night. an' i'm some weight, i be." "and is that all the kind of help you think you'll ever need, uncle?" demanded ruth, with rising emotion. "i ain't expectin' ter be helpless an' want nussin' by no gal--not yet awhile," said uncle jabez, with a chuckle. "gals is a gre't expense--a gre't expense." "now, jabez! ye don't mean thet air," exclaimed the little old woman, coming from the kitchen. she lowered herself into the little rocker nearby, with her usual moan of, "oh, my back! an' oh, my bones! ye don't mean ter hurt my pretty's feelin's, i know." "she axed me!" exclaimed the miller, angrily. "i vum! ain't i spendin' a fortun' on her schoolin' at that briarwood hall?" "and didn't she save ye a tidy fortun' when she straightened out that tintacker mine trouble for ye, jabez potter?" demanded the old woman, vigorously. "an' the good lord knows she's been a comfort an' help to ye, right an' left, in season an' out, ever since she fust stepped foot inter this red mill----what's she done for ye this very day, jabez, as ye said yourself?" aunt alvirah was one of the very few people who dared to talk plainly to the miller, when he was in one of his tempers. now he growled out some rough reply, and strode into the house. "you've driven him away, auntie!" cried ruth, under her breath. "he'd oughter be driv' away," said the old woman, "when he's in thet mind." "but what he says is true. i _am_ a great expense to him. i--i wish i could earn my own way through school." "don't ye worry, my pretty. jabez potter's bark is wuss than his bite." "but the bark hurts, just the same." "he ought to be whipped!" hissed mercy, in her most unmerciful tone. "i'd like to whip him, till all the dust flew out of his dusty miller clothes--so i would!" "sh!" commanded ruth, recovering her self-command again and fighting back the tears. "just as aunt alvirah observes, he doesn't mean half of what he says." "it hurts just the same--you said it yourself," declared the lame girl, with a snap. "i want to be independent, anyway," said ruth, with some excitement. "i want an education so i can _do_ something. i'd like to cultivate my voice--the teacher says it has possibilities. mr. cameron is going to let helen go as far as she likes with the violin, and she doesn't _have_ to think about making her way in the world." "gals ain't content now to sit down after gittin' some schoolin'--i kin see thet," sighed aunt alvirah. "it warn't so in my day. i never see the beat of 'em for wantin' ter go out inter the worl' an' make a livin'--jes' like men." chapter iv the auto tour "hi, ruth!" "hey, ruth!" "straw, ruth!--why don't you say?" cried the owner of the name, running to the porch and smiling out upon the cameron twins, who had stopped their automobile at the red mill gate on a morning soon following that day on which uncle jabez and ruth had undergone their involuntary ducking in the lumano. "aren't you ready, ruthie?" cried helen from the back seat of the car. "do hurry up, ruth--the horses don't want to stand," laughed tom, who was slim and black haired and black eyed, like his twin. indeed, the two were so much alike that, dressed in each other's clothing, it is doubtful if they could have been suspected in such disguise. "but my bag isn't packed yet," cried ruth. "i didn't know you'd be here so soon." "take your toothbrush and powder puff--that's all you girls really need," declared the irrepressible tom. "i like that! and on a two days' trip into the hills," said his sister, beating him soundly with an energetic fist. "give him one or two good ones for me, helen," said ruth, and ran in to finish her preparations for the journey she was to take with her friends. "pshaw!" grumbled the impatient tom, "going to uncle ike's isn't like going to a fancy hotel. and we'll stop over to-night with fred larkin's folks--the girls there would lend you and ruth all you need." "hold on!" exclaimed his sister. "just what have you in _your_ bag? i know it's heavy. you have all you want----" "sure. pair of socks, two collars, fishing tackle, some books i borrowed of fred last year, my bicycle wrench--you never know when you are going to need it,--a string of wampum i promised to take to nealy larkin--she's a campfire girl, you know--and an indian tomahawk for fred----" "but, clothes! clothes!" gasped helen. "where are your shirts?" "oh, i'll borrow a shirt, if i need one," declared master tom, grinning. "uncle ike's benjy is about my size, you know. what's the use of carting around so much stuff?" "i notice you have your bag full of trash," sniffed helen. "it can plainly be seen that mrs. murchiston was called away so suddenly that she could not oversee our packing." "come on, ruth!" shouted tom again, turning toward the farmhouse. "now, don't get her in a flurry," admonished helen. "she hasn't had but two hours' notice to get ready for this two days' trip. it's a wonder uncle jabez would let her go with us at all." "oh, uncle jabe isn't such a bad old fellow after all," said tom. "he's been just as cross and cranky as he can be, ever since he lost his boat in the river the other evening--you know that. and they say he would have been drowned, too, if it hadn't been for ruthie. what a brave girl she is, tom!" "bravest in seven states!" acknowledged master tom, promptly. he had always thought there was nobody just like ruth, and his sister smiled upon him approvingly. "i guess she is!" she agreed. "there isn't a girl at briarwood hall that will be her match in anything--now that madge steele has gotten through. ruth is going to be head of the senior class before we graduate--you see." "she'll have to hustle some to beat little mercy curtis," grinned tom. "_there's_ a sharp suffragette for you!" helen laughed. "that's right. but, unfortunately for mercy, mrs. tellingham considers other work beside our books in grading us. oh, tommy! we're going to have a dandy time this coming year at school." "you have my best wishes," returned her brother, with a slightly clouded face. "bobbins and busy izzy and i expect to be drilled like everything, when we get back to seven oaks. professor darly is a terror." ruth came out with her bag then, and in the doorway behind her appeared the little, stooped figure of aunt alvirah. the camerons waved their hands and shouted greetings to her. "take good keer of my pretty, master tom," shrilled the old lady, hobbling out into the yard. "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" "we'll handle her as if she were made of glass," declared tom, laughing. "hop in, ruthie!" "good-bye, aunt alvirah!" cried the girl of the red mill, clasping the little old lady around the neck and kissing her. then she waved her hand to uncle jabez, who appeared in the mill doorway, and he nodded grimly, as the car started. ben appeared at a window and bashfully nodded to the departing pleasure party. the car quickly passed the end of the cheslow road and sped up the riverside. these lowlands beyond the red mill had once been covered by a great flood, and the three friends would never forget their race with the freshet from culm falls, at the time the minturn dam burst. "but we're bound far, far above the dam this time," said tom. "fred larkin lives farther than that--beyond the gorge between the hills, and at the foot of the first pond. we'll get there long before dark unless something happens to this old mill i'm driving." "there! tommy's harping on his pet trouble," laughed helen. "father won't let us use the new car to go scooting about the country alone in, and tommy thinks he is abused." "well! that 'six' is just eating its head off in the garage," grumbled the boy. "just as though it were a horse!" chuckled ruth. "you wait! i bet something happens on this trip, because of this old heap of scrap iron that pa calls a car." "goodness me!" exclaimed helen, with some exasperation. "don't you dare have a breakdown in the hills, tom! i should be frightened. it's so wild up there beyond loon lake." "you needn't blame me," returned her twin. "i shall do my best." "and so will the auto--i have no doubt," added ruth, laughingly. "cheer up, helen, dear----" "i know the rest of it!" interrupted her chum. "'the worst is yet to come!' i--hope--not!" ruth fielding would allow no worrying or criticism in this event. they were out for a good time, and she at once proceeded to cheer up the twins, and laugh at their fears, and interest them in other things. they crossed the river at culm falls--a beautiful spot--and it was beyond the bridge, as the car was mounting the first long rise, that the party of adventurers found their first incident of moment. here and there were clearings in the forest upon the right side of the road (on the other side the hill fell abruptly to the river), and little farms. as the party came in sight of one of these farms, a great cry arose from the dooryard. the poultry was soundly disturbed--squawking, cackling, shrieking their protests noisily--while the deep baying of a dog rose savagely above the general turmoil. "something doing there!" quoth tom cameron, slowing down. "a chicken hawk, perhaps?" suggested ruth. a woman was screaming admonition or advice; occasionally the gruffer voice of a man added to the turmoil. but the dog's barking was the loudest sound. suddenly, from around the corner of the barn, appeared a figure wildly running. it was neither the farmer, nor his wife--that was sure. "tramp!" exclaimed tom, reaching for the starting lever again. at that moment helen shrieked. after the running man appeared a hound. he had broken his leash, and a more savage brute it would be difficult to imagine. he was following the runner with great leaps, and when the fugitive vaulted the roadside fence, the dog crashed through the rails, tearing down a length of them, and scrambling in the dusty road in an endeavor to get on the trail of the man again. only, it was not a man; it was a boy! he was big and strong looking, but his face was boyish. ruth fielding stood up suddenly in the car and shrieked to him: "come here! this way! roberto!" "my goodness! is he a friend of yours, ruthie?" gasped tom cameron. "he's the gypsy boy that saved uncle jabez," returned ruth, in a breath. "take him aboard--_do_!" urged helen. "that awful dog----" roberto had heard and leaped for the running-board of the car. tom switched on the power. just as the huge hound leaped, and his fore-paws touched the step, the car darted away and the brute was left sprawling. the car was a left-hand drive, and tom motioned the panting youth to get in beside him. the dark-faced fellow did so. at first he was too breathless to speak, but his black eyes snapped like beads, and his lips smiled. he seemed to have enjoyed the race with the savage dog, instead of having been frightened by it. "you save me, missy, like i save your old man--eh?" he panted, at last, turning his brilliant smile upon ruth. "me! that dog mos' have me, eh?" "what was the matter? how came you to start all that riot?" demanded tom, looking at the gypsy youth askance. roberto's grin became expansive. the little gold rings in his ears twinkled as well as his eyes. "i did them no wrong. i slept in the man's haymow. he found me a little while ago. he say i haf to _pay_ for my sleep--eh? how poor gypsy pay?" and he opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders to show that his pockets were empty. "me, no money have got. can i work? of course i work--only the farmers do not trust me. they call all gypsies thieves. isn't it so, missy?" and he flashed a glance at ruth. "i know, mr. joe bascom drove you out of his orchard," agreed the girl of the red mill. "but you should have come across the river to _us_. uncle jabez is really grateful to you." "oh, _that_?" and the boy shrugged his shoulders again. "i do not want pay for what i do--no. i want no money. i would not work a day for all my grandmother's wealth--and she is a miser," and roberto laughed again, showing all his white, strong teeth. "but these people back here--this man and his woman--they want me to churn. it is a dog's work--no? i see where the dog haf to churn, but that dog die and they get this new, savage one--and it will not. me, i think this dog very wise!" and roberto's merriment broke out again, and he shook with it. "so i tell them i will not do dog's work, and then he, the man, chases me with his pitchfork, and the woman unloose the dog. oh, yes! i make a great noise in the henyard. that dog chase me hard. so--i got away as you see," he concluded. "say! you're a cool one," declared tom, with growing admiration. "but you ought not to be loafing about, sleeping anywhere, and without employment," said helen, primly. roberto's black eyes sparkled. "why does the little missy say i should work?" he demanded. "there is no need. i return to my people, perhaps. there i curry horses and fill the water pails for the women, and go with my uncle to the horse-fairs where he trades, or be under my grandmother's beck and call--the grandmother whom i tell you is a miser. but i never have money with them, and why should i work for it elsewhere?" "to get good clothes, and good food, and pay your way everywhere," suggested tom. roberto laughed again. he spread out his strong hands. "these keep me from day to day," he said. "but money burns a hole in my pocket. or, would you have me like my grandmother? she hoards every penny-piece, and then gloats over her money-box, by the firelight, when the rest of the camp is asleep. oh, i see her!" chapter v a prophecy fulfilled this queer youth interested ruth fielding and her friends, the cameron twins, very much. roberto was not naturally talkative, it seemed, for he soon dropped into silence and it was hard to get aught out of him but "yes" and "no." at first, however, he had been excited, and he told them a great deal of his life with the tribe and along the pleasant country roads. the cities roberto could not bear. "there is no breath left in them--it is used up by so many," he explained. he did not eschew work because he was lazy, it seemed; but he saw no use in it. clothing? money? rich food? other things that people strive for in the main? they were nothing to roberto. he could sleep under a haystack, crunch a crust of bread, and wear his garments until they fell off him in rags. but he knew the woods and fields as nobody but a wild boy could. every whistle and note of every bird was as familiar to him as his own tzigane speech; and he could imitate them with exactness. he delighted his new friends, as the car rumbled along. he soon stopped talking much, as i have said, but he answered their multitude of questions, and did not seem to mind being cross-questioned about the life of the gypsies. the auto party stopped soon after noon to lunch. it was roberto who pointed out the spring of clear, cold water for which they searched. he had been over this road before and, it seemed, once along a trail was enough for the young gypsy. he never forgot. he went away down the little stream, and made himself very clean before appearing for his share of the food. to the surprise of ruth and helen he ate daintily and showed breeding of a kind. nor was he enamored of the cakes and other dainties that babette, the camerons' cook, had put into the lunch hamper, but enjoyed, instead, the more simple viands. roberto grew restless of riding in the car soon after luncheon. he thanked them for giving him the lift, but explained that there were paths through the woods leading to the present camp of his tribe that he preferred to follow. "it is a mark of kindness for you to have brought me this way," he said, softly, bending over ruth's hand, for he insisted upon considering her his hostess. he realized that, had it not been for her, the camerons would have been chary of taking him aboard. "if you are ever near the red mill again," ruth told him, "be sure to come and speak with uncle jabez. he will not forget you, i am sure." "of that--pooh!" exclaimed the gypsy. "i do not want pay for such an act. do you?" and that set ruth fielding to thinking a bit. perhaps she _had_ expected payment--of a kind--for her action in helping uncle jabez in the river. she had hoped he would more freely respond to her affection than he did. ah! it is hard to do a good act and not secretly hope for some small return. "virtue is its own reward" is a moral hard to understand! after roberto had left them, the trio of friends were occupied in exchanging views regarding the gypsy boy, and in discussing their several opinions as to what kind of people his folk really were. "it must be loads of fun to jog along the roads in those caravans, and camp where you please, and all that," said helen, reflectively. "i believe i'd like it." "about twenty miles on a fast day, eh?" chuckled tom, with scorn. "not for me! when gypsies get to riding in autos--and six-cylinder, up-to-date ones, too--i'll join the first tribe that comes along." "i declare, tommy!" laughed his sister, "you are getting to be a 'speed fiend.' ruth and i will be scared to drive with you." "it's great to go fast," exclaimed master tom. "here's a straight piece of road ahead, girls. hold on!" as he spoke, he manipulated the levers and the car leaped ahead. ruth's startled "oh!" was left a quarter of a mile behind. the girls clung to the hand-holds, and tom crouched behind the windshield and "let her out." it was a straight piece of road, as he had said. but before they reached the first turn there was another house beside the road--a small farmhouse. beyond it was a field, with a stone wall, and it chanced that just as the camerons' car roared down the road, clearing at least thirty miles an hour, the leader of a flock of sheep in that pasture, butted through a place in the stone-fence and started to cross the highway. one sheep would not have made much trouble; it would have been easy to dodge just one object. but here came a string of the woolly creatures--and greater fools than sheep have not been discovered in the animal world! the old black-faced ram trotted across the road and through a gap in a fence on the river side. after him crowded the ewes and youngsters. the roaring auto frightened the creatures, but they would not give way before it. they knew no better than to follow that old ram through the gap, one after the other. tom had shut off the engine and applied the brakes, as the girls shrieked. but he had been going too fast to stop short of the place where the sheep were passing. at the end of the flock came a lamb, bleating and trying to keep up with its mother. "oh, the lamb!" shrieked helen. "look out, tom!" added ruth. the lamb did not get across the road. the car struck it, and with a pitiful "baa-a-a!" it was knocked a dozen feet. in a moment the car stopped. it had scarcely run its entire length past the spot where the lamb was struck. the poor creature lay panting, "baa-aing" feebly, beside the road. ruth was out of the tonneau and kneeling beside the creature almost before the wheels ceased to roll. the mother ewe had crowded through the fence. now she put her foolish face out, and called to the lamb to follow. "he can't!" almost sobbed ruth. "he has a broken leg. oh! what a foolish mother you were to lead him right into danger." tom was silent and looked pretty solemn, while helen was scolding him nervously--although she knew that he was not really at fault. "if you hadn't been speeding, this wouldn't have happened, tom cameron!" she said. "i told you so." "oh, all right. you're a fine prophetess," grunted her brother. "keep on rubbing it in." the lamb had tried to scramble up, but one of its forelegs certainly was broken. it tumbled over on its side again, and ruth held it down tenderly and tried to soothe its fear. "oh, dear! whatever shall we do?" she murmured. "the poor, poor little thing." "guess we'll know pretty soon what we'll do," quoth master tom, standing beside the machine and looking back along the road. "here comes the man that owns him." "oh, dear me!" whispered helen. "doesn't he look savage?" "worse than the old ram there," agreed her brother, for the black-faced leader of the flock was eyeing them through the fence. chapter vi a transaction in mutton the man who approached was a fierce, red-faced individual, with long legs encased to the knees in cowhide boots, overalls, a checked shirt, and a whisp of yellow whisker under his chin that parted and waved, as he strode toward the auto party. his pale blue eyes were ablaze, and he had worked himself up into a towering rage. like many farmers (and sometimes for cause), he had evidently sworn eternal feud against all automobilists! "what d'ye mean, runnin' inter my sheep?" he bawled. "i'll have the law on ye! i'll make ye pay for ev'ry sheep ye killed! i'll attach yer machine, by glory! i'll put ye all in jail! i'll----" "you're going to have your hands full with all _that_, mister," interrupted tom cameron. "and you're excited more than is necessary. i'll pay for all the damage i've done--although there would have been none at all, had your sheep remained in their pasture. this is a county road, i take it." "by glory!" exclaimed the farmer, arriving at the spot at last. "this road was built for folks ter drive over decent. nobody reckoned on locomotives, an' sich comin' this way, when 'twas built--no, sir-ree!" "i'm sorry," began tom, but the man broke in: "thet don't pay me none for havin' all my sheep made into mutton b'fore their time. by glory! i got an attic home full o' 'sorries.' ye can't git out o' it thet way." "i am not trying to. i'll pay for any sheep i have hurt or killed," tom said, unable to keep from grinning at the excited farmer. "and don't ye git sassy none, neither!" commanded the man. "i'm one o' the school trustees in this deestrict, an' the church clerk. i got some influence. i guess if i arrested ye right naow--an' these gals, too--the jestice of the peace would consider i done jest right." "oh!" murmured helen, clinging to ruth's hand. "he can't do it," whispered the latter. "i feel sure, sir," said tom, politely, "that it will be unnecessary for you to go to such lengths. i will pay satisfactory damages. there is the lamb we struck--and the only beast that is hurt." the man had given but one glance to the lamb that lay on the grass beside the girls. he did not look to be any too tender-hearted, and the little creature's accident did not touch him at all--save in the region of his pocketbook. he stepped to the gap in the fence, kicked the bleating ewe out of the way in a most brutal manner, and proceeded to count his flock. he had to do this twice before he was assured that none but the lamb was missing. "you see," tom said, quietly, "i have turned only one of your sheep into mutton--for i suppose this lamb must be killed." "oh, no, tom!" cried ruth, who was bending over the little creature again. "i am sure its leg will mend." the farmer snorted. "don't want no crippled critters erbout. ye'll hafter pay me full price for that lamb, boy--then i'll give it to the dogs. 'tain't no good the way it is." ruth had tied the leg firmly with her own handkerchief--which was of practical size. "if we could put it in splints, and keep the lamb still, it would mend," she declared to helen. "what do you consider the thing worth, sir?" asked tom. "four dollars," declared the farmer, promptly. it was not worth two, even at the present price of lamb, for the creature was neither big nor fat. "here you are," said tom, and thrust four one-dollar notes into his hand. the man stared at them, and from them to tom. he really seemed disappointed. perhaps he wished he had said more, when tom did not haggle over the price. "wal, i'll take it along to the house then," said the farmer. "an' when ye come this road ag'in, young man, ye better go a leetle slow--yaas, a leetle slow!" "i certainly shall--as long as you have gaps in your sheep pasture fence," returned tom, promptly. "git out'n the way, leetle gal," said the man, brushing ruth aside. "i'll take him----" the lamb struggled to get on its feet. the sudden appearance of the man frightened the animal. "stop that!" cried ruth. "you'll hurt the poor thing." "i'll knock him in the head, when i git to the chopping block," said the farmer, roughly. "shucks! it's only a lamb." "don't you dare!" ruth cried, standing in front of the quivering creature. "you are cruel." "hoity-toity!" cried the farmer. "i guess i kin do as i please with my own." helen clung to ruth's hand and tried to draw her away from the rough man. even tom hesitated to arouse the farmer's wrath further. but the girl from the red mill stamped her foot and refused to move. "don't you dare touch it!" she exclaimed. "it isn't your lamb." "what's that?" he demanded, and then broke into a hoarse laugh. "thet thar's a good one! i raised thet lamb----" "and we have just bought it--paid you your own price for it," cried ruth. "crickey! that's so, ruthie," tom cameron interposed. "of course he doesn't own it. if you want the poor thing, we'll take it along to fred larkin's place." "say!" exclaimed the farmer. "what does this mean? i didn't sell ye the carcass of thet thar lamb; i only got damages----" "you sold it. you know you did," ruth declared, firmly. "i dare you to touch the poor little thing. it is ours--and i know its life can be saved." "pick it right up, girls, and come on," advised tom, starting his engine. "we have the rights of it, and if he interferes, we'll just run on to the next town and bring a constable back with us. i guess we can call upon the authorities, too. what's sauce for the goose, ought to be sauce for the gander." the man was stammering some very impolite words, and tom was anxious to get his sister and ruth away. the girls lifted the lamb in upon the back seat and laid it tenderly upon some wraps. then the boy leaped into the front seat and prepared to start. "i tell ye what it is!" exclaimed the farmer, coming close to the car. "this ain't no better than highway robbery. i never expected ter have ye take the carcass away, when i told ye sich a low price----" "i have paid its full value, and you don't own a thread of its wool, mister," said tom, feeling the engine throb under him now. "i'm going to start----" "you wait! i ain't got through with you----" just then the car started. the man had been holding to the end of the seat. he foolishly tried to continue his hold. the car sprang ahead suddenly, the farmer was swung around like a top, and the last they saw of him he was sitting in the middle of the dusty road, shaking both fists after the car, and yelling at the top of his voice. just what he said, it was perhaps better that they did not hear! "wasn't he a mean old thing?" cried tom, when the car was purring along steadily. "and wasn't ruth smart to see that he had no right to this poor little sheep?" said helen, admiringly. "what you going to do with it, ruthie?" demanded tom, glancing back at the lamb. "going to sell it to a butcher in littletop? that's where fred larkin's folk live, you know." "sell it to a butcher!" exclaimed ruth, in scorn. "that's what the farmer would have done--butchered it." "it is the fate of most sheep to be turned into mutton," returned tom, his eyes twinkling. "and then the mutton is turned into boys and girls," laughed ruth. "but if i have my way, this little fellow will never become either a cameron, or a fielding." "oh! i wouldn't want to eat him--after seeing him hurt," cried helen. "isn't he cunning? see! he knows we are going to be good to him." "i hope he knows it," her chum replied. "after all, it doesn't take much to assure domestic animals of our good intentions toward them." "well," said tom, grinning, "i promise not to eat this lamb, if you make a point of it, but if i don't get something to eat pretty soon, i assure you he'll be in grave danger!" they made littletop and the larkins' residence before tom became too ravenous, however; and the younger members of the larkin family welcomed the adventurers--including the lamb--with enthusiasm. fred larkin had some little aptitude for medicine and surgery--so they all said, at least--and he set the broken leg and put splints upon it. then they put the little creature in one of the calf pens, fed it liberally, and fred declared that in ten days it would be well enough to hop around. the little larkin folk were delighted with the lamb for a pet, so ruth knew that she could safely trust her protégé to them. there was great fun that night, for the neighboring young folk were invited to meet the trio from cheslow and the red mill, and it was midnight before the girls and boys were still. therefore, there was no early start made for the second day's run. breakfast was late, and it was half-past nine before tom started the car, and they left littletop amid the cheers and good wishes of their friends. "we must hustle, if we want to get to uncle ike's before dark," tom declared. "so you will have to stand for some scorching, girls." "see that you don't kill anything--or even maim it," advised his sister. "you are out four dollars for damages already." "never you mind. i reckon you girls won't care to be marooned along some of these wild roads all night." "nor to travel over them by night, either," advised ruth. "my! we haven't seen a house for ten miles." "it's somewhere up this way that those gypsy friends of roberto are encamped--as near as i could make out," tom remarked. "my! i wouldn't like to meet them," his sister said. "they wouldn't hurt us--at least, roberto didn't," laughed ruth. "that's all right. but gypsies _do_ carry off people----" "and eat them?" scoffed tom. "how silly, nell!" "well, mr. smartie! they might hold us for ransom." "like regular brigands, eh?" returned tom, lightly. "that _would_ be an adventure worth chronicling." "you can laugh----oh!" as she was speaking, helen saw a head thrust out of the bushes not far along the road they traveled. "what's the matter?" demanded ruth, seizing her arm. "look there!" but the car was past the spot in a moment. "somebody was watching us, and dodged back," declared helen, anxiously. "oh, nonsense!" laughed her brother. but before they took the next turn they looked back and saw two men standing in the road, talking. they were rough-looking fellows. "gypsies!" cried helen. however, they saw nobody else for a few miles. now they were skirting one of the lakes in the upper chain, some miles above the gorge where the dam was built, and the scenery was both beautiful and rugged. there were few farms. on a rising stretch of road, the engine began to miss, and something rattled painfully in the "internal arrangements" of the car. tom looked serious, stopped several times, and just coaxed her slowly to the summit of the hill. "now don't tell us that we're going to have a breakdown!" cried helen. "do you think those are thunder-heads hanging over the mountain?" asked ruth, seriously. "sure of it!" responded helen. "you are a regular 'calamity howler'!" exclaimed tom. "by jove! this old mill _is_ going to kick up rusty." "there's a house!" cried ruth, gaily, standing up in the back to look ahead. "now we're all right if the machine has to be repaired, or a storm bursts upon us." but when the car limped up and stopped in the sandy road before the sagging gate, the trio saw that their refuge was a windowless and abandoned structure that looked as gaunt and ghostly as a lightning-riven tree! chapter vii fellow travelers "well! this is a pretty pickle!" groaned tom, at last as much disturbed as helen had been. "it's no use, girls. we'll have to stop here till the storm is over. it is coming." "well, that will be fun!" cried ruth, cheerfully. "of course we ought to be storm-bound in a deserted house. that is according to all romantic precedent." "humph! you and your precedent!" grumbled her chum. "i'd rather it was a nice roadside hotel, or tearoom. that would be something like." "come on! we'll take in the hamper, and make tea on the deserted hearthstone," said ruth. "tom can stay out here and repair his old auto." "tom will find a shelter for the machine first, i reckon. there! hear the thunder? we are going to get it, and i must raise the hood of the tonneau, too," proclaimed the lad. "go on with your hamper and wraps. i see sheds back there, and i'll try to coax the old juggernaut into that lane and so to the sheds." he did as he proposed during the next few minutes, while the girls approached the deserted dwelling, with the hamper. the lower front windows were boarded, and the door closed. but the door giving entrance from the side porch was ajar. "'leave all hope behind, ye who enter here,'" quoted helen, peering into the dusky interior. "it looks powerful ghostly, ruthie." "there are plenty of windows out, so we'll have light enough," returned the girl of the red mill. "don't be a 'fraid cat,' helen." "that's all right," grumbled her chum. "you're only making a bluff yourself." ruth laughed. she was not bothered by fears of the supernatural, no matter what the old house was, or had been. now, a good-sized rat might have made her shriek and run! into the house stepped ruth fielding, in her very bravest manner. the hall was dark, but the door into a room at the left--toward the back of the house--was open and through this doorway she ventured, the old, rough boards of the floor creaking beneath her feet. this apartment must have been the dining-room. there was a high, ornate, altogether ugly mantle and open fireplace at one end of the room. at the other, there stood, fastened to the wall, or built into it, a china closet, the doors of which had been removed. these ugly, shallow caverns gaped at them and promised refuge to spiders and mice. on the hearth was a heap of crusted gray ashes. "what a lonesome, eerie sort of a place," shivered helen. "wish the old car had kept running----" "through the rain?" suggested ruth, pointing outside, where the air was already gray with approaching moisture. down from the higher hills the storm was sweeping. they could smell it, for the wind leaped in at the broken windows and rustled the shreds of paper still clinging to the walls of the dining-room. "this isn't a fit place to eat in," grumbled helen. "let's go above stairs. carry that alcohol stove carefully, dear. we'll have a nice cup of tea, even if it does----" "oh!" shrieked helen, as a long streak of lightning flew across their line of vision. "yes. even in spite of _that_," repeated ruth, smiling, and raising her voice that she might be heard above the cannonade of thunder. "i don't like it, i tell you!" declared her chum. "i can't say that i do myself, but i do not see how we are to help it." "i wish tom was inside here, too." ruth had glanced through the window and seen that master tom had managed to get the auto under a shed at the back. he was industriously putting up the curtains to the car, and making all snug against the rain, before he began to tinker with the machinery. there was a faint drumming in the air--the sound of rain coming down the mountain side, beating its "charge" upon the leaves as it came. there were no other sounds, for the birds and insects had sought shelter before the wrathful face of the storm. yes! there was one other. the girls had not heard it until they began climbing the stairs out of the side entry. helen clutched ruth suddenly by the skirt. "hear that!" she whispered. "say it out loud, dear, do!" exclaimed the girl of the red mill. "there is never anything so nerve-shaking as a stage whisper." "there! you heard it?" "the wind rustling something," said ruth, attempting to go on. "no." "something squeaks--mice, i do believe." "mice would starve to death here," declared helen. "how smart of you! that is right," agreed ruth. "come on. let us see what it is--if it's upstairs." helen clung close to her and trembled. there was the rustling, squeaking sound again. ruth pushed on (secretly feeling rather staggered by the strange noise), and they entered one of the larger upper chambers. immediately she saw an open stovepipe hole in the chimney. "the noise comes from that," she declared, setting down the basket and pointing. "but what is it?" wailed her frightened chum. "the wind?" "never!" the lightning flashed again, and the thunder rolled nearer. helen screamed, crouched down upon the floor, and covered her ears, squeezing her eyelids tight shut too. "dreadful! dreadful!" she gasped. still the silence outside between the reports of thunder; but the rustling in the chimney continued. ruth looked around, found a piece of broken window-sash on the floor, and approached the open pipe-hole. "here's for stirring up mr. ghost," she said, in a much braver tone than she secretly felt. she always felt her responsibility with helen. the latter was of a nervous, imaginary temperament, and it was never well for her to get herself worked up in this way. "oh, ruth! don't! suppose it bites you!" gasped helen. at that ruth _did_ laugh. "whoever heard of a ghost with teeth?" she demanded, and instantly thrust the stick into the gaping hole. there was a stir--a flutter--a squeaking--and out flopped a brown object about the size of a mouse. helen shrieked again, and even ruth darted back. "a mouse!" cried helen. "right--_a flittermouse_!" agreed ruth, suddenly bursting into a laugh. "the chimney's full of them." "oh, let's get out!" "in this rain?" and ruth pointed to the window, where now the drops were falling, big and fast--the vanguard of the storm. "but if a bat gets into your hair!" moaned helen, rocking herself on her knees. ruth opened the big hamper, seized a newspaper, and swooped down upon the blind, fluttering brown bat. seizing it as she would a spider, she ran to the window and flung it out, just as the water burst into the room in a flood. then she ran to the pipe-hole and thrust the paper into it, making a "stopper" which would not easily fall out. she dragged helen to the other side of the room, where the floor was dry and they were out of the draught. there the two girls cowered for some moments, hugged close together, helen hiding her eyes from the intermittent lightning against ruth's jacket. the thunder roared overhead, and the rain dashed down in torrents. for ten minutes it was as hard a storm as the girl of the red mill ever remembered seeing. such tempests in the hills are not infrequent. when the thunder began to roll away into the distance, and the lightning was less brilliant, the girls could take some notice of what else went on. the fierce drumming of the rain continued, but there seemed to be a noise in the lower part of the building. "tom has come in," said helen, with satisfaction. "he must have gotten awfully wet, then, getting here from that shed," ruth returned. "hush!" somebody sneezed heavily. helen opened her mouth to cry out, but ruth put her palm upon her lips, effectually smothing the cry. "sh!" the girl of the red mill admonished. "let him find us." "oh! that will be fun," agreed helen. ruth did not look at her. she listened intently. there was a heavy, scraping foot upon the floor below. to _her_ mind, it did not sound like tom at all. she held helen warningly by the wrist and they continued to strain their ears for some minutes. then an odor reached them which ruth was sure did not denote tom's presence in the room below. it was the smell of strong tobacco smoked in an ancient pipe! "what's that?" sniffed helen, whisperingly. uncle jabez smoked a strong pipe and ruth could not be mistaken as to the nature of this one. she remembered the two men who had hidden in the bushes as the car rolled by, not many miles back on this road. "let's shout for tom and bring him in here," helen suggested. "perhaps get him into trouble? let's try and find out, first, what sort of people they are," objected ruth, for they now heard talking and knew that there were at least two visitors below. rising quietly, ruth crept on tiptoe to the head of the stair. the drumming rain helped smother any sound she might have made. slowly, stair by stair, ruth fielding let herself down until she could see into the open doorway of the dining room. two men were squatting on the hearth, both smoking assiduously. they were rough looking, unlovely fellows, and the growl of their voices did not impress ruth as being of a quality to inspire confidence. chapter viii what was it all about? the two men were mumbling together--ruth could not catch the words at first. when she did, they meant nothing to her, and she was puzzled. but suddenly one said in clear, if peculiar, english: "the old hag bags the best of the loot--always, my carlo." the other replied, still gruffly, yet in a musical language that ruth could not identify; yet somehow she was reminded of roberto. he, the gypsy lad, had formed his english sentences much as this ruffian had formed his phrase. were these two of roberto's tribesmen? "i like it not--i like it not!" the other burst out again, in anger. "why should she govern? it is an iron rod in a trembling hand." "psst!" snapped the other. "you respect neither age nor wisdom." he now spoke in english, but later he relapsed into the tzigane tongue. helen crept down to ruth's side and listened, too; but it was little the girls understood. the angry ruffian--the complaining one--dropped more words in english now and then, like: "we risk all--she nothing." "there were the pearls, my carlo--ah! beautiful! beautiful! does she not seize them as her own?" "i put my neck in a noose no longer for any man but myself--surely not for a woman!" then it was that the man carlo burst into a tirade in his native speech, and under cover of his loud talk ruth motioned her chum to creep back up the stairway, and she followed. a sudden disquieting thought came to her. the rain was growing less. suppose tom should come abruptly into the house? he might get into trouble with these ruffians. she whispered this thought to helen, and her friend was panic-stricken again. "we must warn tom--oh, we _must_ warn him somehow!" she gasped. "surely we will," declared the girl from the red mill. "now, careful how you step. a creaking board might give us away." they crept across the upper chamber to the rear of the house. through another room they went, until they could look out of a broken window upon the sheds. there was master tom standing before the shed (the machine was hidden), wiping his hands upon a piece of waste, and looking out upon the falling rain. he saw the girls almost instantly, and opened his mouth to shout to them, but ruth clapped her own hand to her lips and motioned with the other for him to be silent. tom understood. he looked more than surprised--not a little startled, in fact. "what will he think?" murmured helen. "he's so reckless!" "leave it to me," declared ruth, leaning out of the window into the still falling rain. she caught the boy's eye. he watched her motions. there was built at this end of the house an outside stairway, and although it was in bad repair, she saw that an agile fellow like tom could mount the steps without any difficulty. pointing to this flight, she motioned him to come by that means to their level, still warning him by gesture to make no sound. the boy understood and immediately darted across the intervening space to the house. ruth knew there was no dining-room window from which the ruffians downstairs could see him. and they had made no move as far as she had heard. she left helen to meet tom when he came in through the sagging door at the top of the outside flight of stairs, and tiptoed back into that room where they had been frightened by the bat. it was directly over the dining-room. the same chimney was built into each room. this thought gave ruth's active mind food for further reflection. the rumble of the men's voices continued from below. tom and helen followed her so softly into the room that ruth did not hear them until they stood beside her. tom touched her arm and pointed downward: "tramps?" he asked. "those gypsies, i believe," whispered ruth, in return. helen was just as scared as she could be, and clung tightly to tom's hand. "wish we could scare them away," suggested the boy, with knitted brow. "perhaps we can!" uttered ruth, suddenly eager, and her brown eyes dancing. "sh! wait! let me try." she went to the paper-stuffed stovepipe hole, out of which the bat had fallen. helen would have exclaimed aloud, had not tom seen her lips open and squeezed her hand warningly. "what is it?" he hissed. "don't! don't!" begged helen. "you'll let those bats all out here----" "bats?" queried tom, in wonder. "in the chimney," whispered ruth. "listen!" the stir and squeaking of the bats were audible. enough rain had come in at the top of the broken chimney to disturb the nocturnal creatures. "just the thing!" giggled tom, seeing what ruth would do. "frighten them to pieces!" the girl of the red mill had secured the stick she used before. she pulled aside the "stopper" of newspaper and thrust in the stick. at once the rustling and squeaking increased. she worked the stick up and down insistently. scale from the inside of the chimney began to rattle down to the hearth below. the voices ceased. then the men were heard to scramble up. the bats were dislodged--perhaps many of them! there was a scuffling and scratching inside the flue. below, the men broke out into loud cries. they shouted their alarm in the strange language the girls had heard before. then their feet stamped over the floor. tom ran lightly to the window. he saw a bat wheel out of the window below, and disappear. the rain had almost stopped. it was evident that many of the creatures were flapping about that deserted dining-room. the two ruffians scrambled to the door, through the entry, and out upon the porch. the sound of their feet did not hold upon the porch. they leaped down the steps, and tom beckoned the girls eagerly to join him at the window. the two men were racing down the lane toward the muddy highroad, paying little attention to their steps or to the last of the rainstorm. "panic-stricken, sure enough! smart girl, ruthie," was master tom's comment. "now tell a fellow all about it." the girls did so, while ruth lit the alcohol lamp and made the tea. tom was ravenous--nothing could spoil that boy's appetite. "gyps., sure enough," was his comment. "but what you heard them say wasn't much." "they'd been robbing somebody--or were going to rob," said helen, shaking her head. "what frightful men they are!" "pooh! they've gone now, and the old machine is fixed. we'll plow on through the mud as soon as you like." "i shall be glad, when we get to civilization again," said his sister. "and i'd like very much to understand what those men were talking about," ruth observed. "do you suppose roberto knows about it? pearls--beautiful pearls, that fellow spoke of." "i tell you they are thieves!" declared helen. "we'll probably never know," tom said, confidently. "so let's not worry!" master tom did not prove a good prophet on this point, although he had foreseen the breaking down of the automobile before they started from the red mill. they went back to the car and started from the old house in a much more cheerful mood, neither of the girls supposing that they were likely to run across the gypsy men again. "we must hustle to make uncle ike's to-night, sure enough," tom said, as the car rolled out into the muddy highway. "is it very far yet?" asked ruth. "more than sixty miles, and a bad road, and it is now half-past five," replied the boy. "oh, my! i hope we'll not be delayed after dark," said his sister. "i never knew you to be such a 'fraid-cat before, helen," laughed ruth. "everything's gone wrong to-day. and those awful men scared me. let's stop at the hotel at boisé landing, if it grows dark. uncle ike's is a long way beyond the town, tom." "sure--if you say so," agreed her brother, cheerfully. "i can send word up to the folks that we are all right. of course, they will be expecting us this evening. i telegraphed them this morning that we were on the way." the car plowed on through the mud. these roads were in very bad shape, and even while it had been dry, the traveling was bad enough. now the wheels skidded and slipped, and the engine panted as though it were tired. it missed explosions frequently, too, and tom sat under the wheel with a very serious face indeed. it was not far to a small settlement called, on the map, severn corners. tom knew he could get gas there, if he needed it, but he was not sure that there was a repair shop at the place. if the old machine played a trick on them again---- and it did! right at the foot of a hill, and not far from the shore of long lake, the engine "died." "whatever shall we do?" cried helen. "no use wrangling about it," said ruth, with a laugh. "will we have to walk?" "walk! and carry the ropes and everything else of value?" demanded helen. "we can't leave the machine unprotected," said tom, seriously. "no knowing what would happen to it. but it's not far to severn corners. only two miles, or so." "now, i tell you," said ruth, briskly. "you walk on, tom, and get help. bring back a team to drag the auto into town. perhaps you'll find a farm before you go far. we'll remain here till you come back." "that's what you'll have to do, tommy," agreed his sister, as the boy hesitated. "of course, i'm only fooling. i won't be afraid." "i'll do my best, girls," tom assured them. "i am sure you'll be perfectly safe," and master tom started off along the road at a quick trot. chapter ix queen zelaya ruth and her chum were both a little troubled by tom cameron's departure, but even helen had braced up and was determined not to show her fear. the situation of the girls in the auto on this lonely road was enough to trouble the mind of any person unfamiliar with the wilderness. the shore of long lake (which they could see from their seats in the car) was as wild as any stretch of country through which they had traveled during the two days of the tour. the stalled auto was on the main-traveled road, however, and there was a chance of somebody coming along. ruth and helen hoped that if this happened, it would be somebody who would remain with them until tom's return. both kept this wish a secret, for each tried to cheer the other. perhaps, had it not been for that adventure at the old house shortly before, neither girl would have felt so nervous. the outlook from the stalled auto was very attractive, if wild. they could overlook a considerable part of long lake, a stretch of its distant southern shore, and several islands. the edge of the water was perhaps half a mile away, and the ground sloped abruptly from this road toward the lake. following the very edge of the water was another road, but one which the girls knew nothing about and could scarcely see from the auto. it was merely a brown ribbon of cart-path through the second-growth timber, and it wound along the hillside, sometimes approaching very close to the main highway. before the county had built the better road, this path had been the trail to boisé landing. had the girls been looking that way, they might have seen, through a small break in the trees, some minutes after tom left them, a string of odd-looking wagons moving slowly along this lower trail. first two men walked ahead, smoking their pipes and plowing through the mud and water without regard to where they stepped. then followed three freshly painted green wagons--vehicles something like old-fashioned omnibuses, but with windows in the sides and front, and a door and steps behind. through the roof of one a stovepipe was thrust. behind followed a troop of horses, with two bare-legged, wild-looking youngsters astride each a barebacked steed, and holding the others with leading-reins. these horses, as well as those drawing the wagons, were sleek and well curried. a multitude of dogs ran in the mud and water, too, but there were no women and children about, save upon the front seats of each van with the drivers. sounds from within the green vehicles, however, proclaimed the presence of a number of others. they were a strange-looking people--all swarthy, dark-haired, red-lipped, men and women alike having their ears pierced. the rings in the lobes of the women's ears were much larger than the ornaments in those of the men. at a certain opening in the shrubbery, the men ahead, looking upward, beheld the stalled auto and the two girls in it. one man held up his hand and the first wagon stopped. so did the remainder of the caravan. the two spoke together, and then strode back to the first green van. the window behind the driver's seat was already open and a strange face appeared at it. the man driving this van was young and rather handsome--in the same wild way that roberto was handsome. beside him sat a comely young woman, buxom of figure, with a child in her lap. her head was encircled with a yellow silk kerchief, she wore a green, tight-fitting bodice, and her short skirt was of a peculiar purple. she wore black stockings and neat black pumps on her feet. between these two on the seat, from the open window, was thrust the wicked, haggard head of a woman who might have been a hundred from the network of wrinkles in her face, and her generally aged appearance. but her eyes--black as sloes--were as sharp as a bird's. her lips were gray, thin, and drew back when she spoke, displaying several strong, yellow fangs rather than teeth! when she spoke, it was with a hissing sound. she used the speech of the gypsy folk, and the others--even the rough men in the road--were very respectful to her. they explained the stoppage of the caravan, and pointed out the auto and the girls above. it was evident that one of the men had suggested something which pleased the hag, in regard to the strangers in the motor-car. she grinned suddenly, displaying gums and fangs in a most horrible grimace. nodding vigorously, she gave them some commands, and then spoke to the comely woman beside the driver. the latter passed the sleeping infant back to the old woman, who disappeared into the interior of the van. the younger woman leaped down into the road, and waiting beside the two rough men, allowed the entire caravan to pass on, leaving them behind. it was fast growing dark. the sun had disappeared behind the hills in the west, and long shadows were stretching their gaunt hands out for the girls in the auto. the chill wind which came after the tempest made them shiver, although they were somewhat sheltered by the curtains which tom had arranged. "i suppose we _could_ snuggle down here with the robes, in the tonneau, and spend the night in some comfort," suggested ruth fielding. "oh! don't mention it!" exclaimed her friend. "if tom doesn't come back with a team, or with another auto, i'll never forgive him." "of course he will return. but he may be delayed, helen." "this auto-touring isn't as much fun as i thought it would be," groaned helen cameron. "oh! what's that?" she peered out of the automobile. there was a handsome, smiling, dark young woman standing in the road beside the car. "young ladies," said the stranger, in a pleasant voice, "are you in trouble? can i help you at all?" "my goodness me! do you live near here? can we go home with you?" cried helen, in excitement. "wait!" breathed ruth, seizing her chum's arm, but helen was too anxious to escape from her present situation to listen to ruth. "for if you'll take us in till my brother gets back from severn corners----" "we are going to severn corners--my husband and i," said the woman, smiling. "oh! then you do not live near here?" cried helen, in disappointment. "nobody lives near here, little lady," explained the stranger. "nobody lives nearer than severn corners. but it is lonesome here. we will take you both on in our wagon--nobody shall hurt you. there is only my husband and baby and the old grandmother." "where is your wagon?" demanded ruth, suddenly hopping out into the road and looking all about. "down yonder," said the woman, pointing below. "we follow the lower road. just there. you can see the top of it." "oh! a bus! it's like uncle noah's," declared helen, referring to the ancient vehicle much patronized by the girls at briarwood hall. "who are you?" demanded ruth, again, with keen suspicion. "we are pedlars. we are good folks," laughed the woman. she did, indeed, seem very pleasant, and even ruth's suspicions were allayed. besides, it was fast growing dark, and there was no sign of tom on the hilltop ahead. "let's go on with them," begged helen, seizing her chum's hand. "i am afraid to stay here any longer." "but tom will not know where we have gone," objected ruth, feebly. "i'll write him a note and leave it pinned to the seat." she proceeded to do this, while ruth lit the auto lamps so that neither tom, on his return, or anybody else, would run into the car in the dark. then they were ready to go with the woman, removing only their personal wraps and bags. they would have to risk having the touring car stripped by thieves before tom cameron came back. "i don't believe there are any thieves around here," whispered helen. "they would be scared to death in such a lonesome place!" she added, with a giggle. ruth felt some doubt about going with the woman. she was so dark and foreign looking. yet she seemed desirous of doing the girls a service. and even she, ruth, did not wish to stay longer on the lonely road. something surely had happened to detain tom. in the south, too, "heat lightning" played sharply--and almost continuously. ruth knew that this meant the tempest was raging at a distance and that it might return to this side of the lake. the thought of being marooned on this mountain road, at night, in such a storm as that which they had experienced two or three hours before, was more than ruth fielding could endure with calmness. so she agreed to go with the woman. tom would know where they had gone when he returned, for he could not miss the note his sister had left. at least, that is what both girls believed. only, they were scarcely out of sight of the car with the woman, when one of the rough-looking men, who had walked ahead of the gypsy caravan, appeared from the bushes, stepped into the auto, tore the note from where it had been pinned, and at once slipped back into the shadows, with the crumpled paper in his pocket! now the girls and their guide were down on the lower road. there was a twinkling light that showed the green van, horses, and the handsome driver--and the man looked like roberto. "they are gypsies, i believe," whispered ruth. "oh! you have gypsies on the brain," flung back her chum. "at least, we shall be dry in that bus, if it rains. and we can find somebody at severn corners to put us up, even if there is no hotel." ruth sighed, and agreed. the woman had been speaking to the man on the seat. now she took the lantern and went around to the back of the van. "this way, little ladies," she said, in her most winning tone. "you may rest in comfort inside here. nobody but the good old grandmother and my bébé." "come on!" said helen to ruth, leading the way. there was a light in the interior and it dazzled the girls' eyes, as they climbed in. the door snapped to behind them, and the horses started along the road before either ruth or helen were able to see much of their surroundings. and strange enough their surroundings were; berths on either side of the strange cart, made up for sleeping and covered with gay quilts. there were chests and boxes, some of them padlocked, and all with cushions on them for seats. there was a table, and a hanging lamp, and a stove. a child was asleep in one of the bunks; a white-haired poodle lay crouched at the child's feet, and showed its teeth and snarled at the two visitors. but the appearance that amazed--and really startled--the girls most was the figure that sat facing them, as they entered the van. it was that of an old, old crone, sitting on a stool, bent forward with her sharp chin resting on her clenched fists, and her elbows on her knees, while iron-gray elf-locks hung about her wrinkled, nut-brown face, half screening it. her bead-like eyes held the girls entranced from the first. ruth and helen looked at each other, startled and amazed, but they could not speak. nor could they keep their gaze for long off the strange old woman. "who are you, little ladies?" croaked the hag at last. ruth became the spokesman. "we are two girls who have been motoring over the hills. our motor-car broke down, and we were left alone while my friend's brother went for help. we grew fearful when it became dark----" the gray lips opened again: "you own the motor-car, little ladies?" "my friend's father owns it," said ruth. "then your parents are wealthy," and the fangs suddenly displayed themselves in a dreadful smile. "it is fine to be rich. the poor gypsy scarcely knows where to lay her head, but you little ladies have great houses and much money--eh?" "gypsy!" gasped helen, seizing ruth's hand. ruth felt a sinking at her own heart. all the stories she had ever heard of these strange, wandering tribes rushed in upon her mind again. she had not been afraid of roberto, and the woman who had brought them to the van seemed kind enough. but this old hag----! "do not shrink from the old romany woman," advised the hag, her eyes sparkling again. "she would not hurt the little ladies. she is a queen among her people--what she says is law to them. do not fear." "oh, i see no reason why we should be afraid of you," ruth said, trying to speak in an unshaken voice. "i think you all mean us kindly, and we are thankful for this lift to severn corners." something like a cackle broke from the hag's throat. "queen zelaya will let nothing befall you, little ladies," she declared. "fear not. her word is law among the romany folk, poor as she may be. and now tell me, my little birds,--tell me of your riches, and your great houses, and all the wealth your parents have. i love to hear of such things--even i, poor zelaya, who have nothing after a long, long life of toil." chapter x in the gypsy camp ruth remembered what roberto had said about his miserly grandmother. she believed these people who had offered her and helen a ride were of the same tribe as roberto, and the way queen zelaya spoke, caused the girl to believe that this old woman and roberto's grandmother were one and the same person. she could say nothing to helen at the moment. personally she felt more afraid of this gypsy queen than she had of the two rough men in the abandoned house that afternoon! "come!" repeated zelaya. "tell me of all the riches and jewels--the gold and silver-plates you eat from, the jewelry you have to wear, the rich silks--all of it! i love to hear of such things," exclaimed the woman, grinning again in her terrible way. helen opened her lips to speak, but ruth pinched her. "tell her nothing," the girl of the red mill whispered. "i am afraid we have said too much already." "why?" queried helen, wonderingly. "pshaw! this old woman can't hurt us. isn't she funny?" "speak up, my little ladies!" commanded queen zelaya. "my will is law here. do not forget that." "i guess your will isn't much law to _us_," replied helen, laughing and tossing her head. "you see, we do not know you----" "you shall!" hissed the horrible old creature, suddenly stretching forth one of her claw-like hands. "come here!" ruth seized her friend tightly. helen was laughing, but suddenly she stopped. the queen's terrible eyes seemed to hold the girl in a spell. involuntarily helen's limbs bore her toward the far end of the van. the girl's face became pale; her own eyes protruded from their sockets; the gypsy queen charmed her, just as a snake is said to charm a young bird in its nest. but ruth sprang after her, seized helen's arm again, and shook her. "you stop that!" she cried, to the old woman. "don't you mind her, helen. she has some wicked power in her eyes, my dear!" her cry broke the hypnotic spell the woman had cast over helen cameron. the latter sank down, trembling and sobbing, with her hands over her face. "oh, dear, ruthie! i wish we hadn't gotten into this wagon," she moaned. "i am sure i wish so, too," returned her chum, in a low voice, while the old woman rocked herself to and fro in her seat, and cackled her horrid laughter. "aren't we ever going to get to that town? tom said it was only two miles or a little over." "i wish we could speak to that other woman," muttered ruth. "do you suppose this old thing is crazy?" whispered helen. "worse than that," returned ruth. "i am afraid of them all. i don't believe they mean us well. let's get out, helen." "oh! where shall we go?" returned her friend, in a tone quite as soft as ruth's own. "we must be somewhere near the town." "it is pitch dark outside the windows," complained helen. "let's try it. pitch dark is not as bad as this wicked old creature----" the hag laughed again, although she was not looking at them. surely she could not hear the girls' whispers, yet her cackling laugh sent a shiver over both girls. it was just as though queen zelaya, as she called herself, could read what was in their minds. "yes, yes!" whispered helen, with sudden eagerness in her voice. "you are right. we will go." "we'll slip out without anybody but the old woman seeing us----then we'll run!" ruth jumped up suddenly and stepped to the door at the rear of the van. she turned the knob and tried to open it. _the door was fastened upon the outside!_ again the old woman broke into her cackling laugh. "oh, no! oh, no!" she cried. "the pretty, rich little ladies cannot go yet. they must be the guests of the poor old gypsy a little longer--they must eat of her salt. then they will be her friends--and maybe they will help to make her rich." the girls stood close together, panting, afraid. helen put her lips to ruth's ear, and whispered: "does _that_ mean she is going to hold us for ransom? oh, dear! what did i say this very day? i _knew_ gypsies were like this." "hush!" warned ruth. "try and not let her see you are so afraid. perhaps she means only to frighten us." "but--but when she looks at me, i seem to lose everything--speech, power to move, even power to think," gasped helen. just then the van turned suddenly from the road and came to a halt. they had been traveling much faster than ruth and helen had supposed. lights flashed outside, and dogs barked, while the voices of men, women and children rose in a chorus of shouts and cries. "oh, thank goodness!" exclaimed helen. "they have gotten into town at last." ruth feared this was not so. she tried to peer out of one of the windows. there was a bonfire at one side, and she thought she saw a tent. there were other wagons like the one in which they seemed to be imprisoned. "now they'll _have_ to let us out," repeated helen. "i am afraid not," returned the girl of the red mill. "this is the gypsy camp, i am sure, dear. do try to be brave! i think they never meant to take us after tom, at all. we are prisoners, dear." at once helen's spirits sank, but she grew angry. "you'd better not keep us here," she cried, looking again at the old woman. "my father has plenty of money and he will spend it all to get me back--and to punish you." "we will not take all his money from him, my pretty little lady," returned zelaya. "only a part of it. and the poor gypsy has nothing," and once more she cackled. the door of the van was unlocked and opened. in the lamplight appeared a rough-looking man, with an evil face and a squint in one eye. he said something to the queen in their own tongue, but he spoke with great respect, and removed his hat and bowed to her, when she replied. ruth and helen started for the door, but the man motioned them back and scowled at them in an evil manner. they could see a crowd of curious faces without, and behind this man were children, women both old and young, and a few men. zelaya lifted the child from its bed, and passed her into the arms of the woman who had guided ruth and helen to the van. she smiled upon the girls just as pleasantly as before, but now they knew that she was false and cruel. then the queen waved her hand and the door was closed. "you remain with me to-night, little ladies. oh! zelaya would let nothing trouble you--no, no!" helen burst into wild sobs at this, and threw herself upon the floor of the van. ruth faced the old woman with wrathful sparks in her brown eyes. "you are acting very foolishly, indeed, whoever you are. you gypsies cannot carry things with such a high hand in this state of new york. you'll find out----" "i am zelaya, the queen," interrupted the old hag, hoarsely. "have a care! i will put a spell upon you, little lady----" "pooh! you can't frighten me that way," declared ruth fielding. "i am not afraid of your spells, or your fortune telling, or any of your foolish magic. if you believe in any of it yourself, you have not gained much wisdom all the years you have lived." "you do not fear the arts of my people?" repeated zelaya, trying to hold ruth with her eye as she had helen. "no, i do not. i fear your wickedness. and i know you must be very dishonest and cruel. but you have no more supernatural power than i have myself!" zelaya's wrinkled face suddenly reddened with passion. she raised her claw-like hand and struck the bold girl sharply upon the cheek. "impudence!" she muttered. "and _that_ is nothing supernatural," said ruth, with continued boldness, although the blow had hurt her--leaving its mark. "you are breaking the laws of the land, which are far more powerful than any gypsy law----" "wait!" commanded the woman, threateningly. "you will learn yet, bold girl, how strong our laws are." she went back to her stool, mumbling to herself. ruth lifted helen into one of the berths, and sat down beside her. by and by the door of the van opened again and a bold-looking young woman--not the one that had brought them to the van--came in with three wooden bowls of a savory stew. she offered the tray to the visitors at a motion from old zelaya, so that they had their choice before the queen received her own supper. "let's eat it," whispered ruth to helen, when she saw that zelaya plunged her own tin spoon into the stew. "it surely isn't drugged, or _she_ wouldn't touch it." they ate greedily, for both were hungry. it takes more than fear to spoil the healthy appetite of youth! "do you suppose," whispered helen, "that we could climb out of one of these windows after she falls asleep?" "i am sure i couldn't get through one," returned ruth. "and i doubt if you could. besides, there will be guards, and the dogs are awake. we've got to wait for help from outside, my dear." "do you suppose tom will find us?" "i hope not!" exclaimed ruth. "not while he is alone. but he certainly will give the alarm, and the whole countryside will be aroused." "oh, dear, me! this old woman seems so sure that she can hold us captive." "i think she is crazy," ruth declared. "and the other gypsies must lack good sense, too, or they would not be governed by her." the queen gobbled down her supper and then prepared to retire to her own bunk. she told the girls to do the same, and they removed their shoes and outer garments and lay down--one on one side of the wagon, and one on the other. ruth's head was toward the door. she could watch the movements of the old gypsy woman. zelaya did not go to sleep at all, but seemed to be waiting for the camp to get quiet and for her two visitors to fall into slumber. she kept raising her head and looking first at helen, then at ruth. the latter knew by her chum's breathing that, despite her fears, helen had fallen asleep almost instantly. so ruth began to breathe deeply and regularly, too. she closed her eyes--almost entirely. this was what zelaya had been waiting for. silently the old woman arose and turned up the lampwick a little. she knelt down before one of the padlocked boxes and unlocked it softly. then she rummaged in the box--seemingly beneath a lot of rubbish that filled it, and drew forth a japanned box--like a cashbox. this was locked, too, and zelaya wore the key of it on a string about her neck. silently, with a glance at the two girls now and then, she unlocked this box and opened it on the top of the chest, before which she knelt. ruth could see the old woman's face. it changed very much as she gazed upon what was in the japanned box. her black eyes glowed, and her gray, thin lips were wreathed in a smile of delight. again ruth remembered roberto's account of his grandmother. she was a miser, and he had mentioned that he had seen her at night gloating over her hoarded wealth. surely zelaya had all the signs of a miser. the next moment ruth saw that the old woman verily possessed something worth gloating over. she lifted from the interior of the box a string of flashing gems--a broad band, or necklace, of them, in fact--and let them flow through her fingers in a stream of sparkling light. they were beautiful, beautiful pearls--a really wonderful necklace of them! ruth held her breath for a moment. the queen turned suddenly and shot a keen, suspicious glance at her. the girl knew enough to cough, turn slightly, and recommence her steady breathing. the old woman had dropped the pearls in haste. now she picked them up again, and went on with her silent worship of the gems. ruth did not startle her again; but she saw something that made her own heart beat faster and brought the perspiration out upon her limbs. above the old woman's head, and behind her, was a window. pressed close to the pane of the window ruth saw a face--dark, evil, be-mustached. it was one of the gypsy men. she remembered now what she had overheard between the two supposed tramps who had taken shelter in the deserted house during the tempest. was _this_ one of those two ruffians? and was he the one who had railed at the division of some stolen treasure, and had spoken with covetousness of the beautiful pearls? the thought made ruth tremble. his wicked face withdrew, but all the time the gypsy queen was admiring the necklace, ruth felt that the evil eyes of the man were also gloating over the pearls. chapter xi tom on the trail in spite of the fact that his sister thought it hard that tom cameron had not returned to the stalled auto by dark, the lad was having no easy time. in the first place, he had not run a mile on the road to severn corners when he stepped on a pebble, turned his ankle sharply, and had to hobble the rest of the way at a much slower pace than he had expected. all the time, too, tom was troubled about the uncertainty of there being at the corners any repair shop. he knew it was a small settlement. at most, the repair garage would be very small, and perhaps the mechanic a mere country "jack-of-all-trades," who would fumble the job. to obtain a car to drag his own into the town was beyond the boy's hopes, and when he came at last to a comfortable looking farmhouse some half a mile that side of the settlement, he determined to see if he could not obtain a pair of horses from the farmer, to get the car to the hamlet. he approached the back door of the house without seeing anybody about. it was already growing dark, he had hobbled so slowly on the road. as he stepped upon the porch, tom heard a sudden furious barking inside the house. "welcome to our city!" he muttered. "if nobody's at home but _that_ savage beast, i'm likely to fare about as roberto did at that farmhouse 'way back on the road by culm falls." but he ventured to rap upon the door. it was one of those old-fashioned doors which opens in two parts. the upper half swung outward, but the lower remained bolted. lucky for tom cameron this was so. a great, shaggy beast, with gleaming fangs and slobbering jaws, appeared over the ledge, scratching with his strong claws to get out at the intruder. "what do you want?" demanded a shrill voice from somewhere behind the excited brute. "we ain't got nothin' for tramps." "i should say you most certainly _had_ something for tramps, madam," said tom, when he could make himself heard. "any tramp would run from that fellow." "i don't see _you_ running. but you better," advised the woman, who was thin-faced, scant of hair, and had a voice about as pleasant as a whip-saw going through a knot. "but _i_ am not a tramp, i assure you, madam," said tom, politely. "huh! ye look it," declared the woman, without any politeness at all. and the boy _did_ look rather dilapidated. he had gotten more than a little wet in the first of the shower, and he had pawed around among the "internal arrangements" of the balky auto to such purpose, that he was disheveled and oil-streaked from head to foot. "i'm in disguise just now, ma'am," laughed tom, cheerfully. "but really, i have not come begging either food or lodging. is your husband at home?" "yes, he is. and he'll be here in a minute and chase ye off the place--ef ye don't scat at once," said the woman, sourly. "_he_ wouldn't hold back this dog, now, i tell ye." "please believe me, madam," urged tom, "that i am better than i appear. our car broke down on the road yonder, and i have come to see if i can hire a team of horses to drag it into the corners." "car? what kind of a car? ain't no railroad here," she said, suspiciously. the dog had barked himself breathless by now and they could talk a little easier. tom smiled, as he replied: "our motor car--automobile." "huh! why didn't ye say so?" she demanded. "tryin' to fool me. it's bad enough ter drive one o' them abominations over people's roads, but tryin' to make out ye air on a train--though, land o' goshen! some of ye make 'em go as fast as airy express i ever see. wal! what about your ortermobile?" "it's broken down," said tom, feeling that he had struck the wrong house, after all, if he expected help. "i'm 'tarnal glad of it!" snapped the farmer's wife. "nuthin' could please me better. las' time i went to town one o' them plagued nuisances come hootin' erlong an' made the old mare back us clean inter the ditch--an' i broke a dozen an' a ha'f of aigs right in the lap of my new bombazeen dress. drat 'em all, i say!" "i am very sorry, ma'am, that the accident occurred. but i can assure you i was not the cause of it," tom said, quietly, and stifling a great desire to laugh. "i wish only to get your husband to help me with his team--and i will pay him well." "huh! what d'ye call well?" she demanded. "a boy like you ain't likely to have much money." thus brought to a "show down," tom promptly pulled out his billcase and opened it in the light that streamed out of the doorway. the woman could see that he carried quite a bundle of notes--and that they were not all single dollar bills! "land o' goshen!" she ejaculated. "where'd you steal all that money, ye young ruffian? i thought there was suthin' mighty bad about you when i fust set eyes on ye." this was a compliment that tom cameron had not been looking for! he was certainly taken aback at the woman's words, and before he could make any response, she raised her voice and began to shout for "sam!" "crickey!" thought the boy, "i hope sam will have a better opinion of me than she does, or i'm likely to get into trouble." he began to back off the porch, and had his ankle not pained him so, he certainly would have set off on a run. perhaps it is well he did not try this, however, for the woman cried: "you move a step off'n thet platform before sam blodgett comes an' i'll open the lower ha'f of this door and let the dawg loose on ye!" then she bawled for her husband again, and pretty soon a shouted response came from the direction of the barns. then a lantern flickered and swung, and tom knew the man was coming toward the house. he appeared--a short, heavy-set man, barefooted, and with a pail of milk in one hand and the lantern in the other. "what's the matter, sairy?" he demanded. "who's this?" "thet's what _i_ wanter know," snapped the woman. "it 'pears like he's one o' these runaway boys ye read about in the papers--an' he's stole some money." "i haven't either!" cried tom, in some exasperation. "i don't have to steal money--or anything else, i hope. i showed her that i had some money, so that she would believe i could pay you for some work i wanted done----" "what work?" interposed the farmer. tom told him about the stalled auto and what he wanted. "how much'll ye give?" shot in the farmer, right to the point. "what do you ask to drag the machine to town--to the corners, i mean?" "if it's where ye say it is, ten dollars!" "all right," agreed the boy. "your wife knows i have the money. i'll pay you when we get to the corners." "i know ye got the money," said the woman. "but i don't know _how_ ye got it. and if you've got an ortermobile, too, i bet ye stole _that_!" "you hesh up, sairy," advised mr. blodgett. "no need of your sp'ilin' a trade. gimme my supper. i'll hafter eat b'fore i go with ye, young man." "oh, all right," sighed tom, remembering how the girls must be very much frightened by this time. the man tramped into the house with the milk and the lantern. neither he nor his wife asked tom inside--or mentioned supper to him. the woman put it steaming on the table and tom--like the dog--might stand and look on. at last the farmer was finished. "guess the team's eat by now," he remarked, and came out with the lantern hung on his arm. all this time the dog had had "fits and starts" of wanting to get at tom and eat him up. now he slipped past his master and ran at the visitor with a savage growl. the boy had no idea of being made the supper of the brute, no matter how hungry fido might be. so he kicked out and barely touched him. instantly the brute set up a terrible "ki-yi-ing!" and shot off the porch and disappeared into the darkness. evidently the blodgetts kept the animal for its bark, for it did not have the pluck of a woodchuck! "come on," advised sam, as the woman began to rail again. "she's wound up an' ain't likely to run down again for a week. you sure you wanter pay ten dollars for this job?" "i'm sure i _will_ pay that for it, whether i want to or not," declared tom, with confidence. "aw right. we'll be movin'. maybe another shower by'm'by, an' i sha'n't wanter be out in it." "we'll go just as fast as you want to," said tom, hobbling along to the stables. "i won't keep you back, mr. blodgett." "you're lame, i see," said the man, not unkindly. "you kin straddle one of the hosses if you like." tom was glad enough to do this, and in a few minutes they were going back over the dark track tom had come, the harness jingling from the horses' hames, and mr. blodgett trudging sturdily along by the animals' heads. they came to the top of the ridge from which the stalled car had last been seen by tom. "there are the lights!" he cried. he was glad to see them. they shone cheerfully in the dark, and he had no idea that the girls were in any trouble. but when they got down to the bottom of the hill there was neither sign nor sound of the two girls. tom shouted at the top of his voice. he searched the car all over for some written word. he saw that the girls had carried off only their own personal belongings and nothing else. what could it mean? surely no thieves had come this way, or the car would have been stripped of everything portable, and of value. at least, so it seemed to master tom. he was not wise enough to suspect that the goods in the car had been left alone to mislead him. the gypsies had been after bigger game than a few dollars' worth of auto furnishings. "come now!" exclaimed sam blodgett. "i can't wait here all night. i only agreed to drag the car ter town." "but where could those girls have gone? my sister and ruth fielding?" "ye ain't payin' me ter be no detectif," drawled the man. "come! shell i hitch on?" "oh, yes! i don't know what else to do," groaned the boy. "i've got to get the car fixed first of all. then i will find help and follow the girls." the farmer was as unsympathetic as a man possibly could be. he started the car and let tom ride in it. but he had no word of advice to give about the absent girls. perhaps, like his wife, he believed that tom was not honest, that the car was stolen, and that tom's companions were mythical! they rolled into severn corners at ten o'clock. of course, in a hamlet of that kind, there was scarcely a light burning. tom had learned from blodgett that the local blacksmith sometimes "monkeyed with ortermobiles that come erlong busted." so he had the farmer draw the car to the door of the blacksmith shop. "sim lives right next door, there," said blodgett, preparing to depart. "mebbe ye kin wake him up an' convince him he'd oughter mend yer contraption in the middle of the night. but sim peck is constable, too, so mebbe ye won't keer ter trouble him," and the farmer drove away with a chuckle. this news was, however, important to tom. a constable was just about the man he most wanted to see. it had dawned on the boy's mind that his sister and ruth had gotten into trouble, and he must find help for them. the street of the village was dark. this was one of the nights when the moon was booked to shine, but forgot to! the town fathers evidently lit the street lights only when the almanac said there was to be no moon. tom removed one of the headlights and found his way to the door of the cottage next to the smithy. there was neither bell nor knocker, but he thundered at the panel with right good will, until he heard a stir in a chamber above. finally a blind opened a little way and a sleepy voice inquired what he wanted. "are you the blacksmith, sir?" asked tom. "huh? wal! i should say i was. but i ain't no doctor," snarled the man above, "and i ain't in the habit of answering night calls. don't ye see i ain't got no night bell? go away! you're actin' foolish. i don't shoe hosses this time o' night." "it's not a horse," explained tom, near laughter despite his serious feelings. "it's a motor-car." "naw, i don't shoe no ortermobile, neither!" declared the man, and prepared to close the blind. "say, mister!" shouted tom. "do come down. i need you----" "if i come down thar, i won't come as no blacksmith, nor no mechanic. i'll come as the constable and run ye in--ye plaguey whipper-snapper!" "all right," cried tom, fearing he would shut the blind. "come down as constable. i reckon i need you in that character more than any other." "i believe ye do!" exclaimed the man, angrily. "if you air there when i git on my pants, you'll take a walk to the callaboose. none o' you young city sports air goin' to disturb the neighborhood like this--not if i know it!" meanwhile, tom could hear him stirring around, tumbling over the chairs in the dark, and growling at his boots, and otherwise showing his anger. but the boy was desperate, and he stood still until the man appeared--tin star pinned to his vest. "wal, by gravey!" exclaimed the blacksmith-constable. "ain't you a reckless youngster ter face up the majesty of the law in this here way?" tom saw that, after all, the constable was grinning, and was not such an ill-natured fellow, now that he was really awake. the boy plunged into his story and told it with brevity, but in detail. "why, i see how it is, youngster," said the man. "you're some scart about your sister and that other girl. but mebbe nothing's happened 'em at all." "but where have they gone?" "i couldn't tell you. we'll make search. but we've got to have something to travel in, and if it don't take too long to fix your auto, we'll travel in _that_." of course, this was good sense, and tom saw it, impatient as he was. the constable laid aside the vest with the badge of office upon it, and the blacksmith proceeded to open his forge and light a fire and a lantern. then he listened to tom's explanation of what had happened to the car, and went to work. fortunately the damage was not serious, and the blacksmith was not a bad mechanic. therefore, in an hour and a half he closed the smithy again, removing his apron, and the constable donned his vest and got into the car beside the troubled tom. "now let her out, son!" advised the official. "you've got all the law with ye that there is in this section, and ye kin go as fast as ye please." tom needed no urging. he shot the repaired car over the road at a pace that would have made his sister and her chum scream indeed! once at the bottom of the hill where the car had been stalled, they stopped and got out, each taking a lantern by the constable's advice. blodgett and his horses had done their best to trample out the girls' footsteps, but there had been no other vehicle along the road, and the searchers managed to find footprints of the girls at one side. "sure them's them?" asked mr. peck. "you can see they are not the prints of men's shoes," said tom, confidently. "right ye air! and here's another woman's shoe--only larger. they went away with some woman, that's sure." "a woman?" muttered tom, greatly amazed. "whoever could she be--and where have they gone with her?" chapter xii a break for liberty ruth finally slept in the gypsy van as sweetly as though she were in her own little bed in the gable room at the red mill. she was bodily wearied, and she had lost herself while yet she was watching the gypsy queen worshipping the pearl necklace, and fearing that the man with the evil eyes was peering into the interior of the van. a hundred noises of the gypsy camp awakened her when the sun was scarcely showing his face. dogs barked and scampered about; horses neighed and stamped; roosters crowed and hens cackled. the children were crying, or laughing, and the women chattering as they went about the getting of breakfast at the fires. the fires crackled; the men sat upon the van tongues cleaning harness after the rain and mud of the afternoon before. the boys were polishing the coats of the beautiful horses, till they shone again. all these activities ruth fielding could see through the tiny windows of the queen's van, in which she and helen cameron were imprisoned. her chum roused, too, but was half tempted to cry, when she remembered their circumstances. queen zelaya had gone out. "come on!" exclaimed ruth. "we've got to make the best of it. get on your dress and shoes, and perhaps they will let us out, too." "let's run away, ruthie," whispered helen. "the very first chance we get--sure we will!" agreed her chum. they found the door unlocked, and, as nobody stayed them, the two girls descended the steps to the ground. a cross-looking dog came and smelled of them, but the bold-looking girl who had brought the supper the night before drove him away. ruth essayed to speak to her, but she shook her head and laughed. perhaps she did not understand much english. ruth was looking around eagerly for roberto. had she seen the gypsy boy, she would certainly have thrown herself--and helen--upon him for protection. but although not many of the gypsies looked unkindly toward the girls, none appeared really friendly. the woman who had aided in their capture the night before took them down to the water, where they might wash their faces and hands and comb their hair, using the toilet requisites from their bags. nobody had offered to interfere with them in any manner, or touch their belongings. the woman waited patiently until they were ready, and took them back to the camping ground for breakfast. but ruth had seen something. at first she dared not whisper it to her chum. after they had eaten (and a very good breakfast it was that the gypsies gave them), she managed to get helen out of earshot of the watchers. everybody in the camp watched the prisoners. the girls were not driven back into the van again at once, but ruth saw that even the children circled about her and helen, at a little distance, so that the girls were continuously guarded. they sat down upon an old stump, in an open space, where nobody could creep near enough to hear what ruth said to helen without one or the other of the captives seeing the eavesdropper. "what is it?" asked helen, anxiously. "oh, ruth! where do you suppose tom is? what can he think of us?" "i only hope tom won't come along here alone and fall into trouble, too," said the girl of the red mill, in return. "but i believe there is a chance for us to get away without his help, dear." "oh, how?" demanded her chum. "did you look along the shore when we were down there to the lake just now?" "yes. in both directions. there wasn't a soul in sight but you and myself and that woman," returned helen, showing that she had been observant to a degree, at least. "you are right. it is a lonely spot. i saw nobody. but i saw a fishing punt." "a fishing punt?" "yes. pulled up on the shore a little way. there is a pole in it, too. it can be pushed off into the water easily, and i did not see another boat of any kind in either direction." "oh, ruth! neither did i. i didn't even see the boat you speak of." "it is there just the same. we can reach it in one minute from here--by running." "let's run, then!" whispered helen, energetically. "we'll wait our chance. they are watching too closely now. by and by they must get more careless. then we'll try it." "but i don't just see what we can do in that boat," queried helen, after a moment's thought. "push out into the lake, so that they can't reach us. then risk being seen by tom or somebody else who will help us escape the gypsies." "but these men will follow us," said helen, with a shudder. "they can swim--some of them--surely." "and if they try it, we'll beat them off with the push-pole," declared ruth. "keep up your pluck, helen. they will not really dare hurt us--especially if they expect to get money for our release. and i'd like to know," added ruth, with rather a bitter little laugh, "who will pay _my_ ransom?" "i'll make father pay whatever they ask," whispered helen. "oh, dear! won't he be just _mad_ when he hears about it?" soon the activities of the camp changed. it was plain to the two girls that their captors had no intention of spending the day in this dell by the lake side. a number of the men and boys had gone off with some of the horses early. now they returned, and it was evident that the men were angry, if not a little frightened. they talked loudly with zelaya, and the queen of the gypsies seemed to be scolding them soundly. it was surprising to the visitors at the camp that the old woman should have such influence over these black-browed ruffians. but she _did_ possess a power; it was self-evident! soon preparations were begun for shifting camp. the tents were struck and all the paraphernalia of the camp was returned to the three vans. "something has happened," whispered ruth to helen. "perhaps tom has raised the hue and cry for us, and they are afraid of being caught here with us in their possession." "mean old things!" snapped helen. "i wish they would all be caught and put into jail." "the little children, too?" "the little ones will grow up to be big ones--and they are all bad," declared helen, with confidence. "i can't believe that roberto is bad," said ruth, thoughtfully. "i wish he was with them now. i believe he would help us get away." "maybe these are not his people." "i think they are," returned ruth. but she did not say anything then to helen about the pearl necklace, and the cashbox of queen zelaya. the necklace was never out of ruth's thought, however, for she was sure it had been stolen. the girl of the red mill would know the necklace again; wherever she might see it. in the first place it was the most beautiful necklace she had ever seen. but there was a peculiar pendant attached to it--in the shape of a fleur-de-lis--of larger pearls, that would distinguish it among any number of such articles of adornment. ruth kept in mind the chance she hoped would arise for their escape. helen was hopeless; but she had agreed to make the attempt, if ruth did. the whole camp was busy in preparing for departure. there were not so many eyes now upon the girls. and--therefore--there being no regular guard set over them, the opportunity ruth hoped for arose. in harnessing one of the horses to a van, something happened to call most of the excited crowd together. the horse kicked, and one of the men was hurt. the moment the shouting over this incident arose, ruth pinched helen and they both got up and slipped into the wood. they were out of sight in a moment, and having chosen the side toward the lake, they set off at top speed through the underbrush for the spot where ruth had seen the fishing punt. "suppose it leaks?" gasped helen, running hard beside her friend. "well! we'll know it when we're in deep water," grimly returned ruth. at that moment they heard a great hullabaloo at the camp behind them. "they've discovered we're missing," gasped helen. "come on, then!" cried ruth. "let's see if we can outwit them. we've got a chance for liberty, my dear. don't lose heart." chapter xiii ruth in the toils the lake shore was just ahead of the fugitives. ruth had been but a few yards out of the way in her calculations. she and helen came out upon the beach almost at the spot where the fishing punt lay. the boat appeared to be sound, and the pole lying in it was a straight, peeled ash sapling, not too heavy for either of the girls to handle. "jump in, helen!" commanded ruth. "take the pole and push off. i'll push here at the bow." "but you'll get all wet!" quavered her chum. "as though _that_ mattered," returned the other, with a chuckle, as she leaned against the bow of the punt and braced her feet for the grand effort. "now!" helen had scrambled in and seized the pole. she thrust it against the shore, her own weight bearing down the stern, which was in the water, and thus raising the bow a trifle. "all-to-geth-er!" gasped ruth, as though they were at "tug-of-war" in the briarwood gymnasium. the boat moved. ruth's feet slipped and she scrambled to get a fresh brace for them. "now, again!" she cried. at that moment a great hound came rushing out of the wood upon their trail, raised his red eyes, saw them, and uttered a mournful bay. "we're caught!" wailed helen. "we're nothing of the kind!" returned her friend. "push again, helen!" one more effort and ruth was ankle deep in the water. the boat floated free! but before the brave girl could scramble aboard, the hound leaped for her. helen screamed. that shriek was enough, without the baying of the hound, to bring their enemies to the water's edge. ruth fielding was terrified--of course! but she gave a final push to the boat as the hound grabbed her. fortunately the beast seized only her skirt. perhaps he had been taught not to actually worry his prey. however, the girl was dragged to her knees, and she could not escape. the punt shot out into the lake, and ruth shouted to her chum: "keep on! keep on! never mind me! find tom and bring help----oh!" the weight of the big dog had cast her into the shallow water. she immediately scrambled to her feet again. the hound held onto the skirt. the material was too strong to easily tear, and she could not get away. there was a crashing in the brush and out upon the edge of the lake came half a dozen of the gypsy men and one of the women. she was the one who had befooled ruth and helen into entering the green van the night before. when she saw ruth's plight, standing in the water with the hound holding her, she laughed as though it were a great joke. but the men did not laugh. he with the squinting eye strode down to the girl and would have slapped her with his hard palm, had not the woman jumped in and put herself between the man and ruth. she seemed to threaten him in her own language, and the ruffian desisted. one of the boys threw off his clothing--all his outer garments, at least--and plunged right into the lake after helen. the boat had swung around, for there was considerable current in long lake. "don't let him come near you, helen!" screamed ruth. "use your pole!" her friend stood very bravely in the stern of the punt and raised the pole threateningly. the gypsy boy could not easily overtake the boat, which was drifting farther and farther out toward the middle of the lake. some of the others began running along the shore as though to keep pace with the boat. but suddenly a long-drawn, eerie cry resounded from the direction of the camp. the men stopped and returned; the boy scrambled ashore and hastily grabbed his clothing. the woman and the squint-eyed man dragged ruth into the bush. the cry was a signal of some kind, and one not to be disobeyed. the gypsies hurried back to the vans, and ruth did not see helen again. all was confusion at the camp. the horses were ready to start, and the movables were packed. the children and women swarmed into two of the vans. queen zelaya stood at the door of the other, and the moment she saw that one of the prisoners had not been recovered, she began to harangue her people threateningly. the squint-eyed man pushed ruth toward the old woman. zelaya's claw-like hand seized the girl's shoulder. she was jerked forward and up the steps into the van. almost at once the caravan started, and zelaya pulled the door to, and darkened the windows. "quick, now!" she commanded the girl. "take off your hat. gypsies have no use for hats." she seized it and thrust it into one of her boxes. then she commanded ruth to remove her frock, and that followed the hat into the same receptacle. afterward the girl was forced to take off her shoes and stockings. "sit down here!" commanded zelaya, as the van rolled along. the queen had been mixing some kind of a lotion in a bowl. now with a sponge she anointed ruth's face and neck, far below the collar of any gown she would wear; likewise her arms and hands, and her limbs from the knees down. then zelaya threw some earth on ruth's feet and streaked her limbs with the same. she gave her a torn and not over-clean frock to put on instead of her own clothing, and insisted that she don the ugly garment at once. "now, gentile girl," hissed the old woman, "if they come to search for you, speak at your peril. we say you are ours--a wicked, orphan gypsy, wicked through and through." she tore down ruth's hair and rubbed some lotion into it that darkened its color, too. she really looked as wild and uncouth as the bold girl who waited upon the queen of the gypsies. "now let them find you!" cackled the old woman. "you are belle, my great-granddaughter, and you are touched here--eh?" and she tapped her own wrinkled forehead with her finger. chapter xiv roberto again ruth cried a little. but, after all, it was more because she was lonely than for any other reason. what would eventually happen to her in the gypsy queen's toils she did not know. she had not begun to worry about that as yet. helen had gotten clear away. she was confident of that, and was likewise sure that her chum would rouse the authorities and come in search of her. tom, too, was faithful; he must already be stirring up the whole neighborhood to find his sister and ruth. how far the caravan had traveled the night before, after the girls had joined the gypsies, ruth could not guess. but she realized that now they were making very good time up the road leading to boisé landing, along the edge of long lake. there might be some pursuit already. if tom had telegraphed his father, mr. cameron would come looking for helen "on the jump"! and had the searchers any idea the gypsies had captured the two girls, ruth was sure that the wanderers would get into trouble very quickly. "why, even uncle jabez would 'start something,' as tom would say, if he learned of this. i believe, even if i am not 'as good as a boy,' that uncle jabez loves me and would not let a parcel of tramps carry me off like this." she wiped away the tears, therefore, and in looking into a cloudy little mirror screwed to the wall of the vehicle, she found that the tears did not wash off the walnut stain. she had been dyed with a "fast color," sure enough! "if heavy and the fox, or belle and lluella could see me now!" thought ruth fielding. suddenly the caravan halted. there were shouts and cries, and evidently the other vans were being emptied of their occupants in a hurry. some of the men seemed to be arguing in english at the head of the queen's van. ruth believed that a searching party had overtaken the gypsies. she feared there would be a fight, and she was anxious to show herself, so that her unknown rescuers might see her. but she dared not scream. old zelaya scowled at her so savagely and threatened her so angrily with her clenched fist, that ruth dared not speak. finally the old woman opened the door of the van and flung her down the steps. the act was so unexpected that ruth fell into the arms of the crowd waiting for her. it was evidently ready for her appearance. the boys and girls, and some of the women, received her into their midst, and they made so much noise, chattering and shrieking, and dancing about her, that ruth was both confused and frightened. had she herself shrieked aloud, her voice would have been drowned in the general hullabaloo. this noise was all intentional on the part of the gypsies, for up at the head of the caravan ruth caught a glimpse of a big man standing with a stout oak club in his hand and a big shiny star pinned to his vest near the armhole. a constable! whether he was there searching for her and helen, or was merely making inquiries about a robbed hen-roost, the girl from the red mill could not guess. there was so much confusion about her, that she could not hear a word the constable said! she waved her hand to him and tried to attract his attention. the girls and boys laughed at her, and pulled her about, and the bold girl she had seen before almost tore the frock from her shoulders. suddenly ruth realized that, even did the constable look right at her, he would not discover that she was a white girl. she looked just as disreputable in every way as the gypsy children themselves! the constable came toward the first van. zelaya now sat upon the top step, smoking a cheroot, and nodding in the sun as though she were too old and too feeble to realize what was going on. yet ruth was sure that the sly old queen had planned this scene and told her tribesmen what to do. ruth was whisked away from the steps of the queen's van, and borne off by the shouting, dancing children. she tried to cry out so that the constable would hear her, but the crowd drowned her cries. she saw the constable search each of the three vans. of course, he found no girls answering to the descriptions of ruth and helen--and it was the girls that he was searching for. he was sim peck, the blacksmith-constable from severn corners. it was a pity tom cameron had not been with him! finally ruth saw that the man had given up the search, and the gypsies were going to depart. she determined to make a desperate attempt to attract his attention to herself. she suddenly sprang through the group of children, knocking the bold girl down in her effort, and started, yelling, for the constable. instantly one of the men halted her, swung her about, clapped a palm over her mouth, and she saw him staring balefully down into her face. "you do that ageen--i keel you!" he hissed. it was the evil-eyed man who had spied upon queen zelaya, as she had worshipped the pearl necklace in the van the evening before. ruth was stricken dumb and motionless. the man looked wicked enough to do just what he said he would. she saw the constable depart. then the gypsies huddled into the wagons, and she was seized by zelaya and put into the first van. the old witch was grinning broadly. "ah, ha!" she chuckled. "what does the gentile girl think now? that she shall escape so easily zelaya? ha! she is already like one of our own kind. her own parents would not know her--nor shall they see her again until they have paid, and paid in full!" "you are holding the wrong girl, zelaya," murmured ruth. "_my_ parents are dead, and there is nobody to pay you a great ransom for me." "false!" croaked the hag, and struck her again. the caravan rolled on after that for a long way. it did not stop for dinner, and ruth grew very hungry, for she and helen had been too excited that morning to eat much breakfast. through the open door and the forward window ruth saw considerable of the road. they were seldom out of sight of the lake. by and by they turned right down to the water's edge and she heard the horses' feet splashing through the shallow water. she could not imagine where they were going. out of the door she saw that they seemed to be leaving the land and striking right out into the lake. the water grew deeper slowly, rising first over one step and then another, while the shore of the lake receded behind them. the other vans and the boys driving the horses followed in their wake. curious, ruth arose and went to the forward end of the van. she could see out between the driver and his wife, and over the heads of the horses. the latter were almost shoulder deep now, and were advancing very slowly. some rods ahead she saw that there was a wooded island. it was of good size and seemed to be densely covered with trees and brush. yet, there was a patch of sandy shore toward which the horses were being urged. the lake was so low, that there was a fordable stretch of its bottom between the mainland and this island. these gypsies seemed to know this bar perfectly, and the driver of the queen's van made no mistake in guiding his span. in half an hour the horses were trotting through the shallows again. they rolled out upon the white beach, and then ruth saw that a faint wagon trail led into the interior of the island. the gypsies had been there before. there, in the middle of the wooded isle, was a clearing. the moment the vans arrived, all the people jumped out, laughing and talking, and the usual preparations for an encampment were begun. only, in this case, queen zelaya sent the squint-eyed man and the ruffian who had so frightened ruth to either shore of the island to keep watch. tents were set up, fires kindled, a great supper begun, and the poultry was set loose to roam at will. somewhere the gypsy children had picked up a kid and a little calf. both of these were freed, and at once began to butt each other, to the vast delight of the little ones. all about, under-foot and growling if they were disturbed, were the ugly dogs. ruth was afraid of them! now that they were on the island, the gypsies gave her slight attention. the children did not come near her, and she was glad of that. of course, the adults knew she could not escape. later she heard one of the men on the shore shout. nobody was disturbed at the camp, but after a little, there was some loud conversation and then somebody broke through the bushes and appeared suddenly in the little clearing. ruth fielding gasped and sprang to her feet. nobody noticed her. the newcomer was roberto. he strode swiftly across the camp to the queen's van. zelaya sat upon the steps and when he came before her, he bowed very respectfully. the old woman showed more emotion at his appearance than ruth believed possible. she got up quickly and kissed the boy on both of his cheeks. her eyes sparkled and she talked with him for some time in the tzigane tongue. once or twice roberto glanced in ruth's direction, as though he and the old woman had been speaking of the captive girl. but, to the latter's surprise, she saw no look of recognition in the gypsy boy's eyes. finally, when he parted from the queen, roberto crossed the encampment directly toward ruth. the girl, fearful, yet hoping he would see and know her, rose to her feet and took a single step toward him. roberto turned upon her fiercely. he struck at her with his arm and pushed ruth roughly back into her seat. but although the action was so cruel and his look so hateful, the girl heard him whisper: "wait! let the little lady have no fear!" then he passed on to greet his friends about the nearest campfire. chapter xv helen's escape helen cameron was so fearful at first of the gypsies overtaking her, that she had no thought of any peril which might lie ahead of the drifting punt, into which she had scrambled. she realized that ruth had sacrificed herself in their attempt to escape, but she could render her chum no help now. indeed, the current which had seized the boat was so strong that she could not have gotten back to the shore, had she tried. when the gypsies disappeared into the wood, taking ruth with them, helen realized her helplessness and loneliness, and she wept. she sat in the stern of the punt and floated on and on, without regard to where she was going. she could not have changed the course of the punt, however. she was now in too deep water; the guiding pole was of no use to her, and there were no oars, of course. she was drifting toward the middle of the lake, it seemed, yet the general direction was eastward. there, at the lower end of the lake, a wide stream carried its waters toward the distant minturn dam. but long before the stream came to that place, there was much of what the local guides called "white water." these swift rapids helen thought little about at first. she had had no experience to warn her of her peril. at this moment she was fearful only of the wild gypsy clan that had tried to keep her prisoner and that had, indeed, succeeded in carrying away her dear friend, ruth fielding. as she floated on, she saw nothing more of the gypsies. she began to believe that they had not turned back to follow her along the edge of the lake. they were satisfied with their single prisoner! "but father will see to that!" sobbed helen. "he won't let them run away with ruth fielding--i know he won't! dear, dear! what would i ever do if ruth disappeared and we shouldn't meet each other again--or not until we were quite grown up? "such things _have_ happened! i've read about it in books. and those dreadful gypsies make the children they capture become gypsies, too. suppose, years and years hence, i should meet ruth and she should ask to tell my fortune as gypsy women do--and she shouldn't know me----" helen began to sob again. she was working herself up into a highly nervous state and her imagination was "running away with her," as ruth often said. just then she almost lost the punt-pole, and this near-accident startled her. she might need that pole yet--especially if the boat drifted into shallow water. she looked all around. she stood up, so as to see farther. not a moving object appeared along either shore of the lake. this was a veritable wilderness, and human habitations were far, far away. she raised her eyes to the chain of hills over which she and her brother and ruth had ridden the day before. at one point she could see the road itself, and just then there flashed into view an auto, traveling eastward at a fast clip. "but, of course, they can't see _me_ 'way down here," said helen, shaking her head. "they wouldn't notice such a speck on the lake." so she did not even try to signal to the motor-car, and it was quickly out of sight. the current was now stronger, it seemed. the punt drifted straight down the lake toward the broad stream through which long lake was drained. helen hoped the boat would drift in near one shore, or the other, but it entered the stream as near the middle as though it had been aimed for that point! here the water gripped the heavy boat and drew it onward, swifter and swifter. at first helen was not afraid. she saw the banks slipping by on either hand, and was now so far from the gypsies, that she would have been glad to get ashore. yet she did not think herself in any increased danger. suddenly, however, an eddy gripped the boat. to her amazement the craft swung around swiftly and she was floating down stream, stern foremost! "oh, dear me! i wish i had a pair of oars. then i could manage this thing," she told herself. then the boat scraped upon a rock. the blow was a glancing one, but it drove the craft around again. she was glad, however, to see the bow aimed properly. from moment to moment the boat now moved more swiftly. it seemed that the foam-streaked water tore at its sides as though desiring to swamp it. helen sat very quietly in the middle seat, and watched the dimpling, eddying stream with increasing anxiety. suddenly the punt darted shoreward. it looked just as though it must be cast upon the beach. helen raised herself stiffly, seized the pole more firmly, and prepared to leap ashore with its aid. and just as she was about to risk the feat, the bow of the boat whirled outward again, she was almost cast into the water, and once more the boat whirled down the middle current. she dropped back into her seat with a gasp. this was terrible! she could not possibly control the craft in the rapids, and she was traveling faster and faster. the boat came to another eddy, and was whirled around and around, so swiftly, that helen's poor head swam, too! she raised her voice in a cry for help, but it was likewise a cry of despair. she had no idea that there was a soul within the sound of her voice. crash! the boat went against an outcropping rock. it spun around again and darted down the current. it was leaking now; the water poured into it between the sprung planks. the river widened suddenly into a great pool, fringed with trees. at one point a rock was out-thrust into the river and helen saw--dimly enough at first--a figure spring into view upon this boulder. "help! help!" shrieked the girl, as the boat spun about. "hi! catch that!" it was dear old tom's voice! the shout brought hope to helen's heart. "oh, tom! tom!" she cried. "save me!" "bet you i will!" returned the boy. "just grab this rope----now!" she saw the loop come hurtling through the air. tom had learned how to properly throw a lariat the summer before, while in montana, and he and his particular chums had practised the art assiduously ever since that time. now, at his second trial, he dropped the noose right across the punt. helen seized upon it. "hitch it to the ring in the bow--quick!" commanded her brother, and helen obeyed. in five minutes he had her ashore, but the punt sunk in shallow water. "i don't care! i don't care!" cried helen, wading through the shallow water. "i really thought i was going to drown, tommy boy." "but where's ruth? whatever have you girls been doing since last evening? where did you go to?" he held her in his arms for a moment and hugged her tightly. helen sobbed a little, with her face against his shoulder. "oh! it's so-o good to have you again, tommy," she declared. then she told him swiftly all that had happened. tom was mighty glad to get his sister back, but he was vastly worried about her chum. "that's what i feared. i had a feeling that you girls had fallen into the hands of those gypsies. those men in the old house were two of them----" "i know it. we saw them at the encampment." "but if ruth is still with them," tom said, "peck will get her. he said he knew how to handle gyps. he's been used to them all his life. and this tribe often come through this region, he told me." "who is mr. peck?" asked helen, puzzled. tom told her of his adventures on the previous night. after returning to the spot where the auto had been stalled earlier in the evening, tom and the constable had searched with the lanterns all about the place, and had followed the footsteps of the girls and the strange woman to the lower road. "i had no idea then that the wagon you had evidently gotten into was a gypsy cart," pursued tom. "we saw you'd gone on toward severn corners, however, and we went back. but you come along with me, now, helen, and we'll return to that very place. i expect uncle ike will be waiting for us. i telephoned him before daylight this morning--and it's now ten o'clock. the car is right back here on the road." "oh! i am so glad!" "yes. soon after breakfast peck and i separated! i came this way in the car, hoping to find some trace of you. peck made inquiries and said he'd follow the gyps. ruth will be taken away from them," declared tom, with conviction. "that big smith isn't afraid of anybody." "oh, i hope so," said helen. "but that horrible old gypsy--the queen, she calls herself--is very powerful." "not much she isn't!" laughed tom. "peck fully feels the importance of that star he wears. i think he would tackle a herd of elephants, if they were breaking the law." so they sped on in the motor-car, feeling considerably better. the twins were very fond of each other, and were never really happy, when they were apart for long. but when they ran down into severn corners, expecting to find ruth at the constable's house, they were gravely disappointed. the forge was open and sim peck was shoeing a horse. he stood up, hammer in hand, when the motor-car stopped before the smithy. "hello!" he said to tom. "did you get her?" "i got my sister. she's had an awful time. those gypsies ought to be all shut up in jail," said tom, vigorously. "them 'gyptians?" drawled peck, in surprise. "what they got ter do with it?" "why, they had everything to do with it. don't you know that they carried off both my sister here and ruth fielding?" "look here," said the blacksmith-constable, slowly, "let me understand this. your sister has been with the 'gyptians?" "yes. didn't you find ruth with them?" "wait a minute. was she with old zelaya's tribe?" "yes," cried helen. "that is the name of the gypsy queen." "and the other gal?" demanded the man. "where is she?" "that's what i ask you," said tom, anxiously. "my sister escaped from them, but they recaptured the other girl." "sure o' that?" he demanded. "yes, i am!" cried helen. "i saw them drag her back through the woods to the encampment." "when was this?" "not far from six o'clock this morning." "by gravey!" ejaculated the man. "she ain't with 'em now. i been all through them vans, and seen the whole tribe. there ain't a white gal with 'em," said mr. peck, with confidence. chapter xvi through the night and the storm ruth did not really know what to think of roberto, the gypsy boy. his push, as he passed her, had been most rude, but his whispered words seemed a promise of friendship. he did not look at her again, as he went around the encampment. roberto seemed a privileged character, and it was not hard to guess that he was queen zelaya's favorite grandchild. as for the prisoner, she was scarcely spoken to by anybody. she was not abused, but she felt her position keenly. particularly was she ashamed of her appearance--barefooted, bareheaded, and stained until she seemed as dark as the gypsy girls themselves. ruth thought she looked altogether hateful! "i really would be ashamed to have tom cameron see me now," she thought. yet she would have been delighted indeed to see tom! it was in her chum's twin brother that she hoped, after all, for escape. for roberto, the gypsy, ignored her completely. she feared that his whispered words to her, when he first entered the camp, had meant nothing after all. why should she expect him to be different from his tribesmen? the gypsies fed her well and allowed her to wander about the camp as she pleased. there were two sentinels set to watch the northern and southern shores of the lake. nobody could approach the island without being observed and warning given to the camp. ruth had lost hope of anybody coming to the encampment in search of her, for the present. the constable had doubtless been sent by tom cameron, and he would report that there was nobody but gypsies in the camp. nobody but her immediate friends would distinguish ruth from a gypsy now. if helen had found tom, the situation could not be changed much for ruth--and the latter realized that. mr. cameron and uncle jabez would have to be communicated with, before a general alarm could be sent out and detectives put on the case. by that time, where would the girl from the red mill be? this question was no easy one to answer. ruth did not believe the gypsies would remain on this island for any length of time. queen zelaya was doubtless shrewd enough to plan a long jump next time, and so throw off pursuit. indeed, all the next day the girl could do little but worry about her own situation, and about helen's fate. the last she had seen of her chum, she had been drifting out into the middle of this lake. suppose the punt had sprung a leak, or capsized? clouds gathered that day, and the second evening on the island closed with a steady, fine rain falling. the encampment was quiet early. even the dogs found shelter from the wet, but ruth had every reason to believe that the gypsy men took turns in guarding the encampment. ruth was made to sleep in queen zelaya's van, and as soon as it had become real dark, the old woman made her enter. in her rags of clothing, ruth was not afraid of a little rain--surely she had on nothing that would be spoiled by the wet; but she had to obey the old hag. at supper time roberto brought the bowls of savory stew that usually made up that meal for the gypsies. there were three bowls on the tray and the boy gave ruth a sharp side glance and pointed to a certain bowl. she dared not refuse to take it. when he approached his grandmother at the other end of the van, he removed his own bowl before setting the tray upon the box beside her. ruth hesitated to eat her own portion; she had been afraid of being drugged from the beginning. yet, somehow, she could not help feeling confidence in roberto. the latter ate his supper with gusto, talking all the while with the old woman. but he went away without a word or look at ruth after the meal. soon zelaya made her go to bed. ruth was not sleepy, but she appeared to go to sleep almost at once, as she had before. she lay down in all the clothing she wore, for she was apprehensive of something happening on this night. she saw that the old woman was very drowsy herself. appearing to sleep, ruth waited and watched. the storm whined in the trees of the island, but there was no other noise. zelaya was at the locked box again, and she soon drew forth her treasure-casket. she fondled the collar of pearls as she had on the first night ruth had slept in the van. the girl was watching for that evil face at the window again. for a moment she thought she saw it, but then she recognized that it was roberto's handsome face against the wet pane. suddenly ruth realized that the old woman had fallen asleep over her box of valuables. the girl was confident that there had been a drugged bowl at supper time, but _she_ had not eaten of it. there was a little noise at the door--ever so slight. the handle turned, and roberto's head was thrust in. he nodded at ruth as though he were sure she was not asleep, and then creeping up the steps, he gazed at his grandmother. there could be no doubt that she was sound asleep! he slipped in and closed the door. at first he did not say a word to ruth. he went to zelaya's side and shook her lightly. she did not awake. as though she were a child, the strong youth lifted her and placed her in the bed. then he locked the small box, put the key again around zelaya's neck, and lowered the treasure box into the chest. the padlock of this he snapped and then turned cheerfully to the watchful ruth. "come!" he whispered. "missy not afraid of roberto? come!" no. ruth was _not_ afraid of him. she rose quickly and preceded him, as he directed by a gesture, out of the door of the van. there was neither light nor sound in the whole camp. once they were free, roberto seized the girl's hand and led her through the darkness and the rain. ruth's tender feet stumbled painfully over the rough ground, but the boy was not impatient. he seemed to know his way in the dark by instinct. certainly, ruth could scarcely see her hand before her face! however, it was not long before she realized that they had come out upon the shore of the island. there was a vast, empty-looking place before them, which ruth knew must be the open lake. where the sentinels had gone, she could not guess, unless roberto had managed to drug _them_, too! however, there was not a word said, save when roberto led her down, to the water and she felt it lave her feet. then he muttered, in a low tone: "don't fear, little missy." as they waded deeper and deeper into the lake, following as she supposed the track by which the wagons had come to the island, ruth _was_ more than a little frightened. yet she would not show roberto it was so. once she whispered to him: "i can swim, roberto." "good! but i will carry you," and he suddenly stooped, slung her across his shoulder as though she had been a feather-weight, and marched on through the water. it was plain that the gypsy boy knew this ford better than the drivers of the vans, for he found no spot that he could not wade through and carry ruth, as well. it was nearly an hour before they reached the land. the rain beat upon them and the wind soughed in the trees. it seemed to get darker and darker, yet roberto never hesitated for direction, and setting ruth down upon her own feet, helped her on till they came to a well-traveled road. not far ahead was a light. ruth knew at once that it was a lamp shining through the windows of some farmhouse kitchen. "there they will take you in," roberto said. "they are kind people. i am sorry i could not bring away your own clothes and your bag. but it could not be, missy." "oh! you have been so good to me, roberto!" she cried, seizing both of his hands. "however can i thank you--or repay you?" "don't be too hard on gypsy--on my old grandmother. she is old and she is a miser. she thought she could make your friends pay her money. but now we will all leave here in the morning and you shall never be troubled by us again." "i will do nothing to punish her, roberto," promised ruth. "but i hope i shall see you at the red mill some time." "perhaps--who knows?" returned the youth, with a smile that she could see in the dark, his teeth were so white. "now run to the door and knock. when i see it opened and you go in, i will return." ruth fielding did as she was bidden. she entered the gate, mounted the porch, and rapped upon the kitchen door. the moment she looked into the motherly face of the woman who answered her knock, the girl knew that her troubles were over. chapter xvii off for school again there was much bustle about the old red mill. the first tang of frost was in the air, and september was lavishly painting the trees and bushes along the banks of the lumano with crimson and yellow. a week had elapsed since ruth and helen had been prisoners in the gypsies' encampment, up in the hills. that week had been crowded with excitement and adventure for the chums and tom cameron. they would all three have much to talk about regarding the gypsies and their ways, for weeks to come. uncle ike cameron had roused up the county sheriff and all his minions, before ruth appeared at severn corners, driven by the kindly farmer to whose door roberto had brought her through the darkness and rain. constable peck, having searched the gypsy camp, believed that ruth must have escaped from the romany people at the same time as helen. therefore, it was not until ruth's complete story was told, that actual pursuit of the gypsies by the county authorities was begun. then queen zelaya and her band were not only out of the county, but out of the state, as well. they had hurried across the border, and it was understood that the tribe had gone south--as they usually did in the winter--and would be seen no more in new york state--at least not until the next spring. the three friends had much to tell wherever they went during this intervening week. they had had a fine time at "uncle ike's," but every adventure they had was tame in comparison to those they had experienced on the road overlooking long lake. they wondered what had become of roberto--if he had returned to his people and risked being accused of letting ruth escape. ruth discussed this point with her friends; but one thing she had never mentioned to either helen, or her brother tom. she did not speak to them of the wonderful pearl necklace she had seen in the old gypsy queen's possession. there was a mystery about that; she believed zelaya must have stolen it. the man with the wicked face had intimated that it was part of some plunder the gypsies had secured. now, ruth and helen--and tom as well--were ready to start for school again. this was the last morning for some time to come, that ruth would look out of her little bedroom window at the red mill. she always left the beautiful place with regret. she had come to love old aunt alvirah so much, and have such a deep affection and pity for the miserly miller, that the joy of going back to briarwood was well tempered with remorse. the night before, uncle jabez had come to ruth, when she was alone, and thrust a roll of coin in her hand. "ye'll want some ter fritter away as us'al, niece ruth," he had said in his most snarling tone. when she looked at it, her heart beat high. there were five ten-dollar gold pieces! it was given in an ungrateful way, yet the girl of the red mill believed her uncle meant to be kind after all. the very thought of giving up possession of so much money made him cranky. perhaps he was determined to give her these fifty dollars on the very day they had been wrecked on the lumano. no wonder he had been so cross all this time! it was uncle jabez's way. as aunt alvirah said, he could not help it. at least, he had never learned to make any effort to cure this unfortunate niggardliness that made him seem so unkind. "i do wish i had a lot of money," she told aunt alvirah, with a sigh. "i would never have to ask him to pay out a cent again. i could refuse to take this that he has given me and then i----" "tut, tut, my pretty! don't say that," said the little old woman, soothingly. "it does him good to put his hand in his pocket--it does, indeed. if it is a sad wrench for him ter git it out ag'in--all the better!" and she chuckled a little as she lowered herself into her rocker. "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" "ye don't understand yer uncle's nater like i do, ruthie. you bein' his charge has been the salvation of him--yes, it has! don't worry when he gives ye money; it's all thet keeps his old heart from freezin' right up solid." now the cameron automobile was at the gate, and helen and tom were calling to ruth to hurry. ben had taken her trunk to the cheslow station the day before. ruth appeared with her new handbag (the gypsies had the old one), flung her arms about aunt alvirah's neck as she sat on the porch, and then ran swiftly to the door of the mill. "uncle! i'm going!" she called into the brown dusk of the place. he came slowly to the door. his gray, grim face was unlighted by even an attempt at a smile, as he shook hands with her. "i know ye'll be a good gal," he said, sourly. "ye allus be. but be savin' with--with all thet money i gave ye. it's enough to be the ruination of a young gal to hev so much." he repented of his gift, she knew. yet she remembered what aunt alvirah had said, and refrained from handing it back to him. she determined, however, if she could, to never touch the five gold pieces, and some time, when she was self-supporting, she would hand the very same coins back to him! this was in her thought as she moved away. so, on this occasion, ruth fielding did not leave the red mill with a very happy feeling at her heart. the automobile sped away along the shady road into cheslow. at the station mercy curtis, the lame girl, was awaiting them, although it was still some time before the train was due that would bear them away to lake osago. when it _did_ steam into view and come to a slow stop beside the platform, there was heavy stone and the fox with their hands out of the windows, shouting to them. they had secured two seats facing each other, and ruth and mercy joined them, while tom and helen took the seat behind. such a chattering as there was! the fleshy girl and mary cox had not seen ruth and helen and mercy since they had all returned from the steeles' summer home at sunrise farm, and you may believe there was plenty to talk about. "who else is here?" demanded ruth, standing up to search the length of the car for familiar faces. "look out, miss!" cried heavy, producing her first joke of the fall term. "remember lot's wife!" "why so?" asked helen. "goodness me! how ignorant you are--and you took chemistry last year, too," declared jennie stone. "i--don't--just--see," admitted helen. "you mean to say you don't know what two-fold chemical change lot's wife underwent?" "give it up!" "why," giggled heavy, "first she turned to rubber, and then she turned to salt!" when the crowd had shown their appreciation, the fox said: "we're going to pick up an infant at maxwell. heard about her?" "no. who is she?" asked helen. "not that infants interest me much now. we can let the juniors take them in hand. remember, girls, we are full-fledged seniors this year." "you'll have an interest in this new girl," said miss cox, with assurance. "why?" "she is nettie parsons. you know her father is the big sugar man. he has oodles of money!" "lot's of sugar, eh?" chuckled heavy. "hope she'll bring some to school with her. i have a sweet tooth, i hope you know." "a tooth! a whole set of sweet teeth, you mean!" cried ruth. "i only hope she is nice. i don't care how much money she has," said helen, smiling. "we won't hold her wealth up against her, if she's the right sort." "oh, i'm not fooling," said the fox, rather sharply, for she had a short temper, "to match her red hair," as heavy said. "she'll probably bring trunks full of nice dresses to school and loads of jewelry----" "won't that be silly? for mrs. tellingham won't let her wear them." "only on state and date occasions," put in mercy. "at any rate, her folks have splendid things. why! don't you remember about her aunt losing that be-a-utiful necklace last spring?" "necklace?" repeated ruth. "what sort of a necklace?" "one of the finest pearl collars in the world, they say. worth maybe fifty thousand dollars. wonderful!" "a pearl necklace?" queried the girl from the red mill, her interest growing. "yes, indeed." "how careless of her!" said heavy, with a yawn. "silly!" exclaimed the fox. "it was stolen, of course." "by whom?" demanded ruth. "why, if the police knew that, they'd get back the necklace, wouldn't they?" demanded mary cox, with scorn. "but i didn't know--they might suspect?" suggested ruth, meekly. "they do. gypsies." "gypsies!" cried ruth and helen together. and then the latter began: "oh, girls! listen to what happened to ruth and me only a week ago!" "wait a bit, dear," broke in ruth. "let us know a little more about the lost necklace. why do they think the gypsies took it?" "i'll tell you," said the fox. "you see, this aunt of nettie's is very, very rich. she comes from california, and she was on to visit the parsons last spring. "there was a tribe of gypsies camping near the parsons estate. they all went over to have their fortunes told--just for a lark, you know. it was after dinner one evening, and there was company. nettie's aunt rachel had dressed her best, and she wore the necklace to the gypsy camp. "that very night the parsons' house was robbed. not much was taken except the aunt's jewel-box and some money she had in her desk. the robbers were frightened away before they could go to any of the other suites. "the next day the gypsies had left their encampment, too. of course, there was nothing to connect the robbery with the gyps., save circumstantial evidence. the police didn't find either the gypsies or the necklace. but aunt rachel offered five thousand dollars' reward for the return of the pearls." "just think of that!" gasped helen. "five thousand dollars. my, ruthie! wouldn't you like to win _that_?" "indeed i would," returned her chum, with longing. "but i guess the gypsies _we_ were mixed up with never owned a pearl necklace like that. they didn't look as though they had anything but the gaily colored rags they stood in--and their horses." "what do you know about gypsies?" asked the fox. "a whole lot," cried helen. "let me tell you," and she proceeded to repeat the story of their adventure with queen zelaya and her tribe. ruth said nothing during the story; her mind was busy with the mystery of the missing necklace. chapter xviii getting into harness nettie parsons proved to be a very sweet, quiet girl, when she came aboard the train at maxwell. she was rather older than the majority of girls who entered briarwood hall as "infants." it seemed that she had suffered considerable illness and that had made her backward in her books. "never mind! she'll be company for ann hicks," said helen. "won't that be fine? neither of them will feel so badly, then, because they are in the lower classes." "we'll get the sweetbriars to make her feel at home," said ruth, to her chum. "no hazing this term, girlie! let's welcome the newcomers like friends and sisters." "sure, my dear," agreed helen. "we haven't forgotten what they did to _us_, when we first landed at briarwood hall." when the train ran down to the dock where they were to take the steamboat _lanawaxa_ for the other side of the lake, there was a crowd of a dozen or more girls in waiting. a welcoming shout greeted ruth as she headed the party from the vestibule coach: "s. b.--ah-h h! s. b.--ah-h-h! sound our battle-cry near and far! s. b.--all! briarwood hall! sweetbriars, do or die-- this be our battle-cry-- briarwood hall! _that's all!_" every girl present belonged to the now famous school society, and nettie parsons was interested right away. she wished to know all about it, and how to join, and of course she was referred to ruth. in this way the girl of the red mill and the new pupil became better acquainted, and ruth found opportunity very soon to ask nettie about the pearl necklace that her aunt rachel had lost some months before. meanwhile, the girls, with their hand luggage, trooped down the long dock to the _lanawaxa's_ boarding-plank. heavy stone turned suddenly in the hot sunshine (for it was a glowing noon) to find two of the smaller girls mincing along in her very footsteps. "i say! what are you two infants following me so closely for?" she demanded. "please, miss," giggled one of them, "mother told me to take sadie for a nice long walk, but to be sure and keep her in the shade!" this delighted the other girls immensely, for it was not often that anybody got ahead of the plump girl. she was too good-natured to take offense, however, and only grinned at them. they all crowded aboard and sought seats on the upper deck of the steamer. tom had met some of his friends who attended the seven oaks military academy, among them big bob steele and little isadore phelps. of course the boys joined the girls, and necessary introductions were made. before the _lanawaxa_ pulled out of the dock, they were all having great fun. "but how we will miss madge!" was the general cry of the older girls, for bobbins' sister no longer attended briarwood hall, and her absence would be felt indeed. not being under the immediate eye of his sharp-tongued sister, bobbins showed his preference for mercy curtis, and spent a good deal of time at the lame girl's side. he was so big and she was so slight and delicate, that they made rather an odd-looking pair. however, bobbins enjoyed her sharp tongue and withstood her raillery. she called him "fee-fi-fo-fum" and made believe that she was very much afraid of him; yet it was noticeable that there was no venom in the sharp speeches the lame girl addressed to her big cavalier--and mercy curtis could be most unmerciful if she so desired! soon they were on the train again, and a short run to the seven oaks station, where the red brick barracks of the military school frowned down upon the railroad from the heights above. "i wouldn't go to school in such an ugly place," declared the girls. here is where they separated from their boy friends. a great, ramshackle bus, and another vehicle, were waiting at the end of the platform. an old man in a long duster stood beside the bus to help the girls in and see to their baggage. this was "uncle noah" dolliver. at once the fox formed the girls into line, and keeping step to the march, they tramped the length of the platform, singing: "uncle noah, he built an ark-- one wide river to cross! and in it we have many a lark-- one wide river to cross! one wide river! one wide river of jordan! one wide river! one wide river to cross! "the sweetbriars get in, one by one-- one wide river to cross! the last in line is heavy stone-- one wide river to cross!" and the plump girl _was_ the last one to pop into the ancient equipage, filling the very last seat--_tight_! "lucky you brought along another wagon, uncle noah," said the fox, as the remainder of the girls ran to the second vehicle. both of the wagons soon started. it was a hot and dusty afternoon and the girls were really crowded. "i'm squeezed in so tight i can't think," moaned helen. "ouch!" cried belle tingley. "that's my funny-bone you hit, lluella, with your handbag. oh! how funny it feels." "did you ever know why they call that thing in your elbow the funny bone?" asked heavy, mighty serious. "no," said belle, rubbing the elbow vigorously. "why, it's what makes folks 'laugh in their sleeves,'" chuckled the plump girl. "oh, dear me! isn't she smart?" groaned lluella. "almost as smart as my cousin bill," said the fox, breaking into the conversation. "he won't be called 'willie' and he'll answer only to 'bill,' or 'william.' "'william,' said the teacher one day to him in school, 'spell "ibex."' "bill jumps up and begins: 'i-b----' "'stop! stop, william!' cries the teacher. 'where did you learn such grammar? always say, "i am."' "and do you know," chuckled mary, "bill sat down and gave up spelling the word--and he doesn't know how to spell 'ibex' yet!" the sun had set, when they got out at the end of the cedar walk. ruth, who had sat beside nettie parsons, went with her to the principal's office and introduced her to mrs. grace tellingham. later ruth joined her chums in the old west dormitory. there were two quartette rooms side by side, in which were hatched most of the fun and good times that happened at briarwood hall. in one were ruth, helen, mercy, and ann hicks, the girl from the west. the other had long been the room of the fox, heavy, belle tingley, and lluella fairfax. ann hicks, right from silver ranch, was on hand to greet ruth and the others, she having arrived at briarwood the day before. she brought greetings from her uncle bill, bashful ike and his sally. the crowd quieted down at last. the last guilty shadows stole from room to room, and finally every girl sought her own bed. ruth and helen shared one of the big beds in their room, but they did not go to sleep at once. they could hear the quiet breathing of mercy and ann, but the chum's eyes were still wide open. "that nettie parsons is a much nicer girl than i expected," whispered helen. "that is something i want to talk with you about," said ruth, quickly. "what?" "nettie parsons. at least, something about her aunt rachel." "oh! the necklace," laughed helen. "are you really interested in it, ruth?" "she offered five thousand dollars' reward for it," continued ruth, breathlessly. "she really did. and the reward still stands." "why, ruthie!" exclaimed helen, astonished. "do you mean to say----" "this is what i mean to say," said ruth, with energy. "i mean that i'd love to win that reward. i believe i know what has become of the pearl necklace. in fact, helen, i am very sure that i have seen the necklace." chapter xix can it be possible? ruth was thinking a great deal--it must be confessed!--about money during the first days of this new term at briarwood hall, and yet she was not naturally of a mercenary nature. nor was she alone in this, for the advent of nettie parsons into the school quite turned the heads of many. nettie parsons was the first multi-millionaire's daughter who had ever come to briarwood hall. most of the girls' parents were well-to-do; otherwise they could not have afforded to pay the tuition fees, for mrs. grace tellingham's institution was of considerable importance on the roster of boarding schools. many of the girls' parents, like helen cameron's father, were really wealthy. but mr. parsons was way above that! and with a certain class the mere fact of money _as_ money, is cause enough for them to kneel down and worship! after a time these "toadies" were disappointed in the daughter of the "sugar king." nettie parsons was a very commonplace, kindly girl, not at all brilliant, and dressed more plainly than the majority of the girls at briarwood hall. ruth's thoughts about money were not in the same lines as the thoughts of those girls so much interested in nettie parsons' riches. she neither envied the wealthy girl her possessions, nor desired to be like her. what ruth fielding desired so keenly was independence. she wanted to control her own destiny, instead of being so beholden to uncle jabez potter for everything. the sting of being an object of charity had gotten deeply into ruth's heart. the old miller had an unfortunate way with him, which made the proud girl feel keenly her situation. there was really no reason at all why the miller should take care of, and educate, his niece's child. he was not legally bound to do it. the kinship was not close enough for people to really expect uncle jabez to do all that he had for ruth fielding! there had been times when the girl, through several fortunate circumstances, had been of real help to the miller. she had once helped recover some money he had lost when the freshet wrecked a part of the red mill. again, it was through her that an investment in a mine in montana had proved productive of gain for uncle jabez, instead of loss. and now, only this summer, she had actually saved the miller's life. grudgingly, uncle jabez had paid these debts by keeping her at this expensive school and furnishing her with clothes and spending money. it was plain he had never approved of her being away from the mill during vacations, too. uncle jabez saw no reason for young people "junketing about" and spending so much time in pleasure, as ruth's friends did. boys and girls learned to work, in his day, between short terms at school. it was all so different now, that the old man could not be blamed for misunderstanding. for a girl to look forward to making a name for herself in the world--to have a career--to really be somebody--was something of which uncle jabez (and aunt alvirah as well) could not fail to disapprove. ruth desired to prepare for college, and in time enter a higher institution of learning. she wished, too, to cultivate her voice, and to use it in supporting herself later. she knew she could sing; she loved it, and the instructors at briarwood encouraged her in the belief that she had a more than ordinarily fine contralto voice. uncle jabez did not believe in such things. he would never be willing to invest money in making a singer of his niece. useless to think of it! uncle jabez had said that girls were of little use in the world, anyway--unless they settled down to housekeeping. the times ruth had been of aid to him were, as he said, "just chancey." it was of the reward for the return of the missing pearl necklace to nettie parsons' aunt rachel, that the girl of the red mill was thinking so continually, while the first days of this term at briarwood slipped by. but five thousand dollars would grant ruth fielding the independence she craved! ruth and helen cameron had discussed the mystery of the pearl necklace in all its bearings--over and over again. all the "pros" and "cons" in the case had "been before the house," as helen said, and it all came to the same answer: could it be possible that queen zelaya, roberto's grandmother, now had in her possession the necklace rightfully the property of nettie parsons' aunt rachel? "that is, she had it," said ruth, believing fully it was so, "if that awful man i saw spying on her, has not robbed the old woman and gotten away with the necklace. you know how he talked that day in the deserted house to the other gypsy?" "i guess i do!" exclaimed helen. "could i ever forget a single detail of that awful time?" "and where are the gypsies now?" said ruth, feelingly. "ah! _that_ is the question." "uncle ike wrote father that they had been traced some distance toward the south," helen returned, doubtfully. "the south is a big section of the country," and ruth wagged her head. "father was very angry," said helen, "that the police did not find them, so that the whole tribe could be punished for what they did to us, i never saw father so angry before. he declared that the gypsies should be taught a lesson, and that their escape was most inexcusable." ruth said nothing, but shook her head. "you know the excuse the sheriff and that constable peck, at severn corners, gave?" "yes," nodded ruth. "if you had come right up to the village that night, when roberto brought you to the farmhouse, and told where the camp was, they'd have nabbed the whole crowd, before they could have gotten over the state line." "i know," murmured ruth. she was remembering roberto's words as he left her that stormy night in sight of her refuge. he had asked not to be too hard on the gypsies; therefore, she had not hurried to lodge information against queen zelaya and her tribe. but if she had only known about this pearl necklace! nettie parsons had described the jewel so clearly that the girl of the red mill could not for a moment doubt that the necklace in zelaya's possession was the one for which the reward was offered. "i tell you what i'll do, if you say the word," helen said at last, seeing that her friend was really so much troubled about the affair. "what's that, dear?" "i'll write to father. let me tell him all about you seeing the old woman handling the pearls, and then about this necklace that was lost by nettie's aunt. he can advise you, at any rate." so it was agreed. helen wrote that very day. inside of a week an answer came, and it quite excited helen. "what do you think?" she demanded of her chum. "father has business that calls him to lumberton in a few days. he will come here to see us. and he says for me to tell you to be sure and say nothing to anybody else about the missing necklace until he sees you." "of course i won't speak of it," replied ruth. "i am not likely to. oh, dear, helen! if i could only win the reward that woman offers for the return of her necklace!" it was not many days before helen received the telegram announcing her father's coming to lumberton, which was the nearest town to briarwood hall. she showed it to mrs. tellingham, and asked that she and ruth be excused from lessons, when mr. cameron came, as he wished to drive the girls over to see tom at seven oaks. this was, of course, arranged. mr. cameron was a very busy man, and he could not spend much time in this visit. but he desired to speak to ruth regarding the mystery of the pearl necklace. he had hired a pair of spirited horses at lumberton, and he quite had his hands full, as they bowled over the hilly road toward the military academy. but he could talk to the girls. he had ruth give him every particular of what she had seen at night in the gypsy van, and when she had done so, he said: "i have taken the pains to get from the police the description of mrs. rachel parsons' missing necklace. it fits your tale exactly, ruth. now, i tell you what i shall do. "i will set a detective agency at work. for my own part, i wish to overtake this queen zelaya, as she calls herself, and punish her for what she did to you two girls. if such people go free, it encourages them to do worse next time. "now, if she has the necklace, and we can secure it, all the better. i would be glad to see you get that reward, ruthie. and helen says you are very anxious to win it." "who wouldn't be?" gasped ruth. "just think of five thousand dollars!" they were driving through a fine piece of chestnut wood as she said this. the blight had not struck these beautiful trees and they hung full of the prickly burrs. the frost of the previous night had opened many of these, and the brown nuts smiled at once through the openings. "there's a boy knocking them down!" cried helen. "let's stop and get some, father. see them rain down!" at that moment a shower of chestnuts fell and a prickly burr landed on the back of one of the team. the beast rose on his hind legs and pawed the air, snorting. "look out!" exclaimed the boy in the tree. mr. cameron was a good horseman and he had the animals well in hand. the boy, however, was so anxious to see what went on below, that he strained forward too far. with a scream, and the snap of broken boughs, he plunged forward, shot through the leafy-canopy, and landed with a sickening thud upon the ground! mr. cameron had halted the horses dead. ruth was out of the carriage like a flash and dropped on her knees by the boy's side. she was horror-stricken and speechless; yet she had made a great discovery as the boy fell. he was roberto, the gypsy! chapter xx he cannot talk "is he badly hurt?" cried mr. cameron, who dared not get down and leave the horses just then. "don't tell us he is killed, ruthie!" wailed helen, clasping her hands and unable to leave the carriage. the gypsy boy lay very still. one arm was bent under him in such a queer position that the girl of the red mill knew it must be broken. his olive face was pallid, and there was a little blood on his lips. she dared not move him. she bent down and put her ear to his chest. his heart was beating--he breathed! "he's alive!" she said, turning to her friends in the carriage. "but i am afraid he is badly hurt. at least, one arm----" the youth groaned. ruth turned toward him with a tender little cry. she thought his eyelids quivered, but they were not opened. "what will we do with him? he ought to be taken to a hospital. where's the nearest doctor?" asked mr. cameron. "lumberton," said ruth, promptly. "and that is the only place where there is a hospital around here." "back we must go, then," declared mr. cameron, promptly. "we sha'n't see master tom to-day, that's sure. you get out, helen, and i'll turn around." helen ran to her friend who still hovered over the boy. at once she recognized him. "my goodness me! roberto! isn't that strange? then he did not go south with the other gypsies." "it seems not--poor fellow," returned ruth. "do you suppose he knows all about the necklace--how his grandmother became possessed of it, and all?" "i don't know. i am sure roberto is quite honest himself," returned ruth. "he is not a thief like those wicked men who were talking that day in the old house, and who seem to have so much influence in the gypsy camp." "i don't care!" exclaimed helen, warmly. "i am sorry for roberto. but i hope father _does_ send detectives after the gyps., and that they catch and punish that horrid old woman. how mean she was to us!" "sh!" warned ruth. roberto gave no sign of returning consciousness now. that puzzled the girl of the red mill, for she had thought he was just about to come to. mr. cameron turned the carriage and halted it beside the spot where the boy lay. "of course you two girls can't lift him?" he said. "of course we can!" returned his daughter, promptly. "oh! ruth and i haven't been doing gym. work for two years for nothing. just watch us." "easy!" murmured ruth, warningly, as helen seized the youth's legs. "perhaps he has more than a broken arm." "but he must be lifted," said helen. "come on, now! he isn't conscious, and perhaps we can get him into the carriage before he wakes up." and they did. roberto did not seem to be conscious, and yet, to ruth's surprise, the color came and went in the boy's cheeks, and his black brows knitted a little. it was just as though he _were_ conscious and was endeavoring to endure the pain he felt without moaning. they got him into the carriage in as comfortable a position as possible. ruth sat beside him, while helen joined her father on the front seat. then the gentleman let the spirited team go, and they dashed off over the road toward lumberton. at once helen told her father who the injured youth was. having heard all the details of his young folks' adventures on the road to boisé landing, mr. cameron knew just who roberto was, and he saw the importance of learning from him, if possible, where his clan had gone. "we want to know especially what has become of the old woman--the queen," mr. cameron said. "i can't help it, if she _is_ the boy's grandmother, she is a wicked woman. besides, we want to get back that necklace for mrs. parsons." unfortunately, it would be impossible for the dry goods merchant to remain in lumberton to watch the case. he had to return that very evening, and could not spare the time now to see tom. he arranged at the hospital for roberto to be given every care, and left some money with helen and ruth for them to purchase little luxuries for the boy when he should become convalescent. he waited until after the doctors had made their examination and learned that roberto not only suffered from a broken arm, but had two ribs broken and his right leg badly wrenched. mr. cameron wrote a note to mrs. tellingham, asking that helen and ruth might visit the hospital every day or two to see how the patient fared. "besides," said ruth, eagerly, "i may get him to talk. perhaps he has deserted his tribe for good, and he may help us learn about the necklace." "you want to be very careful in trying to pump the lad," said mr. cameron, with a smile. he need not have feared on this point, however, as it turned out. the very next afternoon ruth and helen hurried in to lumberton to make inquiries at the hospital. they saw the head physician and he was frankly puzzled about roberto. "i thought i had had every kind of a case in my experience," said the surgeon, "but there's something about this one that puzzles me." "is he more hurt than you thought?" cried ruth, anxiously. "i don't know. it seems that we have found all his injuries that are apparent. but there is one we cannot reach. something is the matter with his speech." "his speech?" gasped helen. "you have heard him speak?" "of course!" "then he is not naturally dumb----" "dumb?" repeated helen, in wonderment. "you don't mean that he is dumb?" "i mean just that. it appears that since his fall yesterday, he cannot talk at all," said the doctor. chapter xxi ruth intercedes the two girls did not see roberto that day, nor for several days following. the hospital authorities did not think it best to allow him to be excited even in a mild way. they sent in such delicacies as the nurse said he could have, and tony foyle was bribed by helen to get a report from the hospital every day about the young gypsy. the girls kept very quiet about the patient in the hospital. their mates knew only that helen and ruth had been driving with mr. cameron when the boy fell out of the tree. they did not dream that the victim of the accident had any possible connection with the pearl necklace that nettie parsons' aunt had lost! helen kept her father informed of the progress of roberto's case, and in return he wrote helen that the detectives were confident of reaching old queen zelaya and her tribe. "but if we could only get roberto to talk!" sighed ruth. "why, ruth fielding! if the poor fellow has been made speechless by that fall, how _can_ he talk?" "i know, but----" "don't you believe it is _so_?" "why--yes," admitted ruth. "of course, he would have no reason for refusing to speak. and they say he has a hard time making them understand what he wants, for he doesn't know how to write. poor fellow! i suppose he never realized before, that the art of writing was of any use to _him_." in a week or so the girls were allowed to go to the ward where roberto lay. helen carried an armful of good things for the gypsy lad to eat, but ruth remembered that he had not cared much for delicacies, and she carried picture papers and a great armful of brilliant fall flowers--some picked by herself in the woods, and the others begged from tony foyle. "taking flowers to a boy--pshaw!" scoffed helen. "why, that shows you have no brother, ruthie. tom wouldn't look at flowers when he's sick." ruth believed she had made no mistake. when they approached the bed in which roberto lay, he looked very pale indeed, and the expression of weariness on his face as he stared out of the distant window, made ruth's heart ache for the captive wild-boy. "here are visitors for you, robert," said the kindly nurse. the big, black eyes of the gypsy boy rolled toward the two girls. then his face lit up and his eyes sparkled. they were fixed eagerly on the mass of brilliant blossoms ruth carried. she scattered the flowers over the coverlet, and roberto seized some of them, fairly pressing them to his lips. he nodded and smiled at the display of helen's offerings, too, but he could not keep his eyes away from the flowers. he had been homesick for his beloved woodlands. he was still in plaster and could not move much. he did his best to make the girls understand how welcome they were, but not a sound came from his lips. "a very strange case, indeed," said the doctor in charge, when the girls came down from the ward. "there seems to be absolutely no reason why he does not speak. apparently no paralysis of the vocal cords. but speechless he is. and as he cannot read or write, it is a nuisance." "it isn't possible that for some reason he doesn't _wish_ to speak?" queried ruth, doubtfully. "why, ruth! there you go again!" exclaimed helen. "i never knew you to be so suspicious." the doctor laughed. "i think not," he said. "of course, he might, but he must be a wonderfully good actor. the next time you come, we shall try him." so on a subsequent call of the two girls at the hospital, the doctor entered the ward at the same time they did and likewise approached roberto's bed, only on the opposite side. ruth had brought more flowers, and the boy was evidently delighted. "are you sure you can't speak to me, roberto?" asked ruth, softly, as he nodded and smiled and clasped the flowers to his breast with his one good hand. roberto shook his head sadly, and his black eyes showed every indication of sorrow. but of a sudden he jumped, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. the doctor straightened up and roberto scowled at him wrathfully. the boy had not uttered a sound. "i jabbed him with this needle," said the doctor, with disgust. "you see, either he has perfect control over himself; or he absolutely cannot speak. while i was setting his arm and fixing up his smashed ribs, he only moaned a little." "oh!" helen had gasped, looking at the medical man in some wrath. "don't do it again--not for _me_," urged ruth. "i am sorry i said anything about it." "oh, he isn't seriously injured by _that_," said the surgeon, holding up the needle. "but i do not think he is 'playing possum.'" "it isn't possible!" exclaimed helen, confidently. "and how long must he lie here?" ruth asked. "oh, in a fortnight he'll be as fine as a fiddle. of course, he won't be able to use his arm much for several weeks. but the ribs will knit all right. maybe he can find some light job----" "we'll see about _that_," helen interrupted. "i can see you young ladies are much interested in him," chuckled the doctor. "and not entirely because he is a handsome, black-eyed rascal, eh?" ruth knew that old tony foyle, the gardener at briarwood hall, was interested in the lad. he had gone up to the ward to see roberto several times, and came away enthusiastic in the gypsy's praise. "sure," said tony, to ruth, "he's jist the bye after me hear-r-t. herself would like him, he's that doomb!" "herself" was tony's wife, who was the cook at briarwood hall. "and the way that boy do be lovin' flowers! sure, his bed in the horspital is jest covered wid 'em. he'd be a handy lad to have here ter give me aid, so he would. an' i been tellin' mis' tellingham that i need another helper." "we'll get him the job, tony!" cried ruth, in delight. "i believe he would like to help around your hothouse and the beds. i'll see." she interceded with the principal for roberto, and obtained her promise that the gypsy boy should have the job. then she sounded roberto himself, and by the way his eyes lit up and he smiled and nodded, ruth knew he would be delighted to be tony foyle's assistant. "at least," thought ruth, "i can keep in sight of him for a time. perhaps he couldn't tell us, anyway, where queen zelaya has hidden herself. but i believe he knows, and i haven't much faith in the results those detectives get." roberto mended rapidly. he was soon up and about the ward, when the girls called. he was less restless than ruth expected him to be, and he still signified his intention of coming to help the little old irish gardener at briarwood hall. "when he recovers his powers of speech," said the doctor, "it will be as suddenly as he lost them. no doubt of that. but it is a most puzzling case. i am glad he is not going far from lumberton. i want to watch the progress of the affair." the next day roberto came to briarwood. chapter xxii a great temptation about this time ruth suffered a great temptation. she was so little given to covetousness or envy, that other girls of her class might have dresses, jewelry, and many other things dear to girlish hearts, without ruth's being at all disturbed. her one great, overmastering passion was for independence! she envied none of her mates anything but _that_. now she fell under temptation, and this was the way of it: ruth belonged to the picked class that the physical instructor had chosen for exhibition gymnasium work at the mid-winter entertainment. this year there were to be important visitors at the school, and mrs. tellingham wished to make the occasion a more than ordinarily successful entertainment. the class of twenty girls, selected from the best of the seniors and juniors, was to drill, dance, and go through other gymnastic exercises. and it was agreed among them that each girl should have a brand new costume, although this was no suggestion of either the teacher or mrs. tellingham. the class invented this idea itself. it was agreed--nineteen in favor, at least--to appear at the entertainment in a brand new outfit. and how could ruth say "no?" every girl in the class but herself had only to write home for money and order the uniform. as it chanced, ruth had plenty of money to pay for a costume. helen, who was one of the number, knew ruth had that fifty dollars in gold that uncle jabez had given the girl of the red mill the day she left home. this was the temptation: ruth had promised herself never to use that money. she had a small sum left from her vacation money, and she was making that do for incidentals, until she could earn more in some way. she was already tutoring both nettie parsons and ann hicks in their more advanced textbooks, and they were paying her small sums for this help. but she could not earn enough in this way--nor in any other--to buy the new gymnasium costume. and there were the five ten-dollar gold pieces lying in a little jeweler's box in the bottom of her trunk. she went with helen to the dressmaker in lumberton, when helen ordered _her_ new costume. "why don't you let her fit you now, too, ruth?" demanded miss cameron. "oh, there is plenty of time. let us see first how well she makes yours," ruth returned, with a forced laugh. she knew she could not wear her usual costume with the picked class without looking odd. the girls had decided on crimson trimming on the blue skirt and blouse, instead of the regulation white. nineteen girls with crimson bands and one with white--and that soiled!--would look odd enough. it would fairly spoil the picture, ruth knew. she was worried because of this, for she did not want to make her mates look ridiculous. never had ruth fielding been so uncertain about any question since she had been old enough to decide for herself. she was really so troubled that her recitation marks were not as high as they should have been. the teachers began to question her, for ruth fielding's course at briarwood had been a triumphant one from the start! "you are not ill, miss fielding?" asked miss gould. "i am surprised to find that you are going below your past averages. what is the matter?" "i am sure i do not know, miss gould," declared ruth. yet she feared that the reply was not strictly truthful. she _did_ know; night and day she was worrying about the new gymnasium costume. should she order one, or should she not? could she buy a little of the crimson ribbon and put it on her old uniform and thus pass muster? what would the girls say, if she did that? and what would they say if she appeared at the exhibition in her old costume? was she purely selfish in trying to get out of buying the new dress? was her reason for not wishing to break into that roll of coin a bad one, after all? those questions kept coming to ruth fielding, and got between her and her books. mrs. tellingham called her into the office early in october and pointed out to her that, unless her averages increased, her standing in her class would be greatly changed. "you are doing no outside work, miss fielding?" inquired the principal. "no, ma'am." "i hear you are helping two of the other girls--in a perfectly legitimate way, of course. it is not taking too much out of you?" "oh, no, dear mrs. tellingham!" cried ruth, fearful that her tutoring would be forbidden. "you are not working too hard in the gym.?" "i do not think so," stammered ruth. "and _this_ is ridiculous," said mrs. tellingham, with a smile. "i do not think there is a more robust looking girl in my school. but, there must be something." "i suppose so," murmured ruth. "but you do not know what it is? if you do, tell me." "i study just as hard, mrs. tellingham," said ruth, non-committally. "i spend quite as much thought over my books. really, i think i shall do better again." "i hope so. i do not want to see any bright girl like you fall behind. there is always some reason for such changes, but sometimes we teachers have hard work to get at it. i want all my girls to have confidence in me and to tell me if anything goes wrong with them." "yes, ma'am," said ruth, guiltily. but she could not take the principal of briarwood hall into her confidence--she positively could _not_ do it! how ridiculous it would seem to the dignified mrs. grace tellingham that she did not dip into the money her uncle had given her to buy that costume! and she was losing her standing, and worrying everybody who cared, because of this temptation. she knew she was doing wrong in falling behind in her studies. surely _that_ was not the way to give uncle jabez the best return possible for his investment. if she fell back in her books this year, ruth knew she would never be able to make it up. she must either be prepared for college half a year later, or skip some work that would be found wanting at a later time--would be a thorn in her flesh, indeed, for the remainder of her school life. one hour ruth told herself that she would be decisive--she would be brave--she would not move in her determination to keep the fifty dollars intact. and then, the next hour, her heart would sink, as she looked forward to what would be said and thought by her companions when the exhibition day came around and she appeared in her old suit. she thought seriously of trying to withdraw in season from the exhibition class. but unfortunately she could not easily do that. the instructor had selected the twenty girls herself, and what excuse--what honest excuse--could ruth give for demanding her release? "oh, dear me!" she thought, tossing on her pillow at night, "if i could only be the means of returning that necklace to mrs. parsons! my troubles would all be over for sure. "mr. cameron's detectives will _never_ find that old queen zelaya, but i bet roberto knows just where she has gone for the winter." with this in mind she tried again and again to get some information out of tony foyle's new helper. roberto always had a smile for her, and seemed willing enough to try to make signs about anything and everything but his tribe and his grandmother. and so smart was he that his gestures were very understandable indeed, when he wished to give information about the new work that he loved, and about the fall flowers and bulbs which were being taken up for storage in the conservatory against the cold of winter. it seemed strange--indeed, it made ruth suspicious--that roberto could convey his meaning so easily by gesture when the subject was not one regarding the missing gypsies! again and again the thought came to the girl that the gypsy boy was actually "playing possum." knowing, perhaps, that he would be questioned about his grandmother, and not wishing to give information about her or her tribe, he had decided to become dumb. yet, if this was so, how wonderfully well he did it! even the doctor at the hospital could not understand the case. roberto's condition certainly was puzzling. and ruth believed that he held the clew to the whereabouts of queen zelaya and the pearl necklace. that being the case, he stood between ruth and that great reward which the girl of the red mill was so anxious to win. chapter xxiii nettie parsons' feast incidentally there was as much fun going on at briarwood hall as usual this fall, but ruth fielding did not entirely enjoy any of the frolics in which she necessarily had a part. the work of the sweetbriar organization was all that really interested her in this line. several new girls who entered the school in september who were old enough, joined the association, besides others who were advanced from the lower classes. it was an honor--and was so considered by all--to be invited to become a sweetbriar. within the association was much innocent entertainment. picnics, musicals, evening parties approved by the school faculty--even little feasts after curfew--were hatched within the membership. nettie parsons, the daughter of the "sugar king," was destined never to be very popular in the school. those girls who hoped to benefit by nettie's wealth soon found that money meant as little to nettie as to any girl at briarwood. on the other hand, she was no brilliant scholar, and she made friends slowly. ruth and helen determined to help the "poor little rich girl," as they called her, and they egged her on to give a midnight reception in the room nettie occupied with three other girls in the west dormitory. "there's no way so sure to the hearts of these girls than through their stomachs," mercy said, when she heard of the plan. "let poor net stuff them full of indigestible 'goodies,' and they will remember her for life!" "why put it that way, mercy?" drawled heavy. "you know, you are fond of a bit of candy, or a pickle, yourself. the 'goodies' which we do not get at the school table are 'gifts of the gods.' they are unexpected pleasures. and when eaten after hours, with a blanket for a tablecloth and candles for lights, they become 'forbidden fruit,' which is known to be the sweetest of all!" "listen to jen going into rhapsodies over eatables!" sniffed the fox. "give her her way, and every composition she handed in to miss gould would be a menu." "bah!" scoffed heavy. "you eat your share when you get a chance, i notice." "when heavy is free from the scholastic yoke, and bosses her father's house for good," said helen, "every dinner will make old luculus turn in his grave and groan with envy----" "or with indigestion," snapped mercy. "the girl will positively _burst_ some day!" "i don't care," mourned heavy, shaking her head. "it isn't what i get to eat at briarwood that makes me fat--that's sure." "no," chuckled ruth. "you grow plump on the remembrance of what you have already eaten, dear. who was it ate three plates of floating island last night for supper?" "well!" cried heavy, with wide open eyes, "you wouldn't want me to leave them and let them go to waste, would you? both you and helen left your shares, and the cook would have been hurt, if the pudding had come back untouched." "kind-hearted girl!" said the fox, with a sniff. after-hour parties were frowned upon by mrs. tellingham and the teachers, of course; not for the mild breaking of the school rules entailed, but because the girls' stomachs were apt to suffer. in the west dormitory, too, miss picolet was known to be very sharp-eyed and sharp-eared for such occasions. it took some wit to circumvent miss picolet; perhaps that is why the girls on ruth's corridor so delighted in holding orgies unbeknown to the little french teacher. miss scrimp, the matron, was a heavy sleeper. the girls did not worry about her. nettie parsons' room was at the very end of the cross-corridor, and farthest from the stairway. the stairway went up through the middle of the big brick dormitory building, and perhaps _that_ was not the best arrangement in case of fire; but there were plenty of fire escapes on the outside. the question which at once arose, when the sixteen girls nettie chose had been invited to the feast, was who should stand guard? this was always a matter for discussion--sometimes for heart burnings, too. it was no pleasant task to sit out upon the cold stairway and watch for the opening of miss picolet's door below. sometimes they decided by casting lots. sometimes some girl who was very good-natured was inveigled into taking her plate of goodies out there in the dimly lit corridor. and sometimes one had to be bribed to stand watch for the others. miss picolet was always known to light her candle when she was disturbed by any sound, or suspicion; then she would come to her door and listen. she never moved about her room without a light, that was one good thing! the girl on watch had warning the instant the french teacher opened her door. but of the sixteen girls nettie parsons had chosen, not one wanted to play sentinel. some of them said they would rather not attend the jamboree at all! the season was far enough advanced for the nights to be cold, and the corridors were not warm after the steam went down. the party was called for ten o'clock. by that time frost would most likely be gathering on the window panes. "catch _me_ bundling up in a fur coat and mittens and stopping out there in that draughty place!" cried the fox, "while the rest of you are stuffing yourself to repletion in a nice warm room." "thought you didn't care for the goodies?" demanded heavy, slily. "i don't care for catching my death of cold, miss!" snapped mary cox. neither lluella, nor belle, would "be the goat." of course, it was understood that heavy herself could never be out of reach of the cake plates! nettie would not hear of ruth being on watch. "i have it!" said ruth, at last. "leave it to me. i'll find a new guard, and i know he will not fail us." "who is that?" demanded her chum. "roberto." "goodness me!" exclaimed nettie. "not that boy who helps foyle?" "that's the one. and he'll do anything for ruth," declared helen, promptly. "anything but talk!" thought ruth, to herself, but she did not say it aloud. "i don't see how _he_ can help us," ann hicks said. "he can't come into the dormitory." "i--guess--not!" cried helen. "but he won't mind watching outside," ruth explained. "at least, i'll ask him----" "but what good will _that_ do?" demanded heavy. "if miss picolet gets up out of her warm nest, _he_ won't know it." "yes, he will," said ruth, nodding. the fox began to laugh. "don't let _her_ hear you say that, fielding. picolet is an awful old maid. she would be horrified, if she thought a male person even imagined her in bed!" "but how will he know?" demanded ann. "that's easy," laughed ruth. "he will stand where he can watch her window. if he sees her candle lit, he will give the alarm." "how?" asked nettie. "we'll rig a 'tick-tack'--you know what i mean?" "oh, don't i!" giggled heavy. "roberto can pull the string below, and that will make a tick-tack rap on nettie's window." "splendid!" cried the giver of the feast. "you just see if he will do it, miss fielding. and i'll give him a dollar--or more, if he wants it." "a dollar will be a lot of money for roberto," laughed helen. "but he won't do it for that." "no?" "of course not. he'll only do it because ruth asks him." which was really the fact. roberto understood well enough what was desired of him. ruth pointed out the french teacher's window, and the windows of nettie parsons' quartette room. from one of them would hang a weighted string on that night. everything was agreed, and the feast planned. it was a starlight night, when it arrived, but roberto could find a place to hide in the shrubbery, where he could watch both windows, as agreed. he slept in a little back room of tony foyle's suite in the basement of the main building, and could get out and in without disturbing mr. and mrs. foyle. if he were caught out of his room after hours, ruth knew that tony would be angry, but she had great influence with the little irishman and promised roberto that she would "make it all right" for him, if he were caught. the hour of the party came. the west dormitory had apparently been "in the arms of morpheus" for half an hour, at least. "but mr. murphy didn't get a strangle hold on us to-night," giggled heavy, as she led the procession from her room. the girls were all in their kimonas, and many brought plates, knives and forks, cups, and other paraphernalia for the feast. there was to be hot chocolate and there were two alcohol lamps and two pots. the fox presided over one lamp and heavy bossed the other one. there was something wrong with the plump girl's lamp; either it had been filled too full, or it leaked. from the start it kept flaring and frightening the girls. "i really wish you would not use that old contraption!" exclaimed ann hicks. "it's just as uncertain as a pinto pony." "never you mind," snapped heavy. "i guess i know----" pouf! the flames flared suddenly. heavy leaped back, stumbled over another girl, and went sprawling. the flames did not touch her, but they _did_ ignite the curtain at the window. there was a great squealing as the girls ran. nobody dared tear down the blazing curtain, and the flames leaped higher and higher each instant. then one of the most frightened of the company jerked open the door, put her head out into the corridor, and shrieked "fire!" chapter xxiv roberto finds his voice that settled it! there was a full-fledged panic in that quartette room in an instant. it bade fair, too, to spread to the whole building. ruth, who had been busy distributing cakes before the accident, sprang to the open door, seized the girl who had yelled, and literally "yanked" her back into the room. then she banged the door to and placed her back against it. "stop!" she cried, yet in a low voice. "don't be foolish. it's only a little fire. we can put it out. don't rouse the whole house and frighten everybody." "oh, ruth! i can't reach it!" wailed helen, who was really trying to pull down the curtain. ann ran with a bowl of water and tried to splash it over the burning curtain. but the bowl tipped backwards and part of the water went over heavy, who was just trying to struggle to her feet. "oh! oh! wow!" gasped the plump girl. "i'm drowning! do you think i'm afire, ann hicks?" some of the others were sane enough to laugh, but the more nervous girls were already in tears, and the fire _was_ spreading from one curtain to the other. there was a smell of scorching varnish, too. the window frame was catching! in the very midst of the confusion, when it seemed positive that the whole school must be aroused, there came a commanding rap upon the window pane. it was not the gentle signal of the tick-tack--no, indeed! "will you hear _that_?" gasped belle tingley. "miss picolet's up." "no!" cried ruth, from the other end of the room. "open that window, ann! it's roberto. he's climbed the fire-escape." "my goodness me!" gasped the fox. "i never was so glad to see a boy in all my life! let him in--do!" no sooner said than done. the girl from silver ranch had her wits about her. she snapped open the catch and raised the sash. into the room bounded the gypsy lad. he had seen the flames from the ground and he immediately knew what to do when he got inside. he seized a chair, leaped up into it, and with his long arms was enabled to tear down the blazing hangings. these he thrust into the bowl of water. "oh, roberto! your hands are burned!" cried ruth, darting to his side, as the fire was quenched. "never you mind, little missy----" he halted, staring at her. then his face flushed like fire and his eyes dropped before her accusing gaze. "you _can_ speak!" exclaimed the girl from the red mill. "you _can_!" "he's gotten back his tongue!" cried helen, in surprise. "isn't that wonderful?" but ruth was sure, by the gypsy boy's shamefaced look, that there was nothing wonderful about it at all. roberto had been able to speak all the time, but he did not wish to. now, in his excitement, he had betrayed the fact. there was too much confusion just then for the matter to be discussed or explained. the girls, seeing that the fire was out, scattered at once to their rooms. roberto left instantly by the window, and ruth helped nettie and her roommates repair the damage as well as possible. "i'll buy new curtains for the windows," said the "sugar king's" daughter. "and i'm only glad nothing worse happened." "the worst hasn't happened yet," giggled one of her roommates. "what do you mean?" "i saw jennie stone take a bag of pickles, some seed cakes, a citron bun, and about half a pound of candy with her, when she flew. if she absorbs all that to-night, she will be sick to-morrow, that's all!" "well," ruth advised, "the best we can do won't hide the damage. miss scrimp will find out about the fire, anyway. the best thing to do is to make a clean breast of it, nettie. i'm sorry the feast was a failure, but we all know you did your best." "i'm thankful it was no worse," returned the new girl. "and how brave that gypsy boy was, ruth! i must thank him to-morrow." "you leave him to me," said the girl of the red mill, grimly. "i want to talk to roberto myself." when she got back to her excited roommates, she said little about the wonderful recovery of the gypsy boy's power of speech, until mercy and ann were asleep. then she said to helen cameron: "i am going to telegraph to your father the first thing in the morning. roberto has been fooling us all. you can't tell me! i know he's been able to talk all the time." "you don't really think so, dear?" asked helen. "i do. he must have been conscious when we picked him up that time and carried him to the carriage. and we mentioned his grandmother then and the necklace. he's just as sharp as a knife, you know; he's been dumb for a purpose. he did not want to be questioned about zelaya and the missing pearl necklace." "my goodness me! father will be _so_ angry," cried helen. "roberto will have to tell. i like him, and he was very brave to-night. but i do not believe the boy is a thief himself, and he would be better if he entirely left his thieving relatives." "maybe he'll run away," suggested helen. but roberto would have been obliged to start very early that next morning to have run away. ruth fielding was the first person up in the school, and she was standing outside tony's door, when the little irishman first appeared. "helen cameron wants you to take this telegram down to the office at once, tony," she said. "mrs. tellingham knows about it. we are in a dreadful hurry. is roberto inside?" "sure he is, miss----" "you take the message; don't let roberto see it, and you keep your eye on that boy to-day, until mr. cameron arrives. he'll want to see him." "now, don't be tellin' me th' bye has been inter mischief?" cried the warm-hearted irishman. "not much. only he's suddenly recovered the use of his tongue, tony, and mr. cameron wants to talk with him." "gracious powers!" murmured tony. "recovered his spache, has he? the saints be praised!" he obeyed ruth, however, in each particular. if roberto had it in his mind to run away, he had no chance to do so that day. tony watched him sharply, and in the evening mr. cameron arrived at briarwood hall. the gentleman greeted his daughter and ruth in mrs. tellingham's parlor, but when he interviewed roberto, it was downstairs in tony foyle's rooms. the girls saw mr. cameron only for a moment after that. he was just starting for the train, and roberto was going with him. "the young rascal has admitted just what ruth suspected," said mr. cameron, chuckling a little. "he fooled us all--including the doctor. though the doc., i reckon, suspected strongly that the boy could talk, if he desired to. "roberto did not want to be questioned. now he has told me that his grandmother did not go south at all. he says she often spends the winter in new york city as do other gypsies. she is really a great character among her people, and with the information i have gathered, i believe the new york police will be able to locate her. "i shall hang on to master roberto until the matter is closed up. he will say nothing about the necklace. he'll not even own up that he ever saw it. but he tells me that his grandmother is a miser and hoards up valuables just like a magpie." helen's father and the gypsy boy went away then, and the chums had to possess their souls with patience, and attend strictly to their school work, until they could hear how the matter turned out. chapter xxv five thousand dollars it was not likely that ruth found it any easier, after this, to attend strictly to her school duties, but after her conversation with mrs. tellingham she _had_ put forth a greater effort to recover her standing in her class. whether mrs. parsons' necklace was found, or not; whether ruth obtained a portion of the reward in pay for the information she had lodged, the girl realized that she had no right to neglect her studies. she had come to one conclusion at least: whether or no, she would not break into that fifty dollars uncle jabez had given her so unwillingly. and she would use no more of his money for vacation jaunts, or for luxuries. "i must accept his help in gaining my education," she told herself. "but beyond that, i need not go. i have gone about, and had good times, and bought many things just as though i really had a right to expect uncle jabez to supply every need. "no more of that, ruth fielding! you prate of wishing to be independent: be so in any event!" she was young to come to such a determination; yet ruth's experiences since her parents had died were such as would naturally make her self-assertive. she knew what she wanted, _and she went after it_! as for the matter of the new gymnasium suit--why! that ruth gave up entirely. she decided that she had no business to use uncle jabez's money for it, and of course she could not go into debt for a new costume. no matter what the other girls thought, or what they did, _she_ would have to be content with her old uniform when it came to the exhibition games. she did not have the courage yet to tell even helen of this decision; nevertheless she was determined to stick to it. at once she had begun to pick up in recitation marks, and miss gould no longer scowled over ruth's reports. the strain of mind had been considerable, however; ruth had much to make up in her studies; she wasted no time and began to forge ahead again. she would not even think of roberto and mr. cameron's search for queen zelaya. helen was full of the topic, and often tried to discuss it with ruth, but the latter put it aside. she had done all she could (or so she thought) to help restore the missing pearl necklace to nettie's aunt. worrying about it any more was not going to help a bit. it seemed too ridiculous to think of _her_ ever obtaining five thousand dollars--or any part of that generous reward! so the busy days passed. helen heard from her father several times, but although she knew he was in new york, ostensibly buying goods, and that he had roberto with him, the gentleman said very little about the other gypsies and the missing necklace. then one day mrs. tellingham sent for ruth. to be sent for by the principal never frightened the girl of the red mill--much. she stood well on the principal's books, she knew. but the lady had called her to discuss nothing about the school work. she had a letter and a railroad ticket in her hand. "tony has telephoned for dolliver to come for you, ruth," said mrs. tellingham. "you must go away----" "nothing has happened at home? uncle jabez--aunt alvirah----?" "nothing is wrong with them at all, my dear," declared the lady, kindly. "it is mr. cameron. he wants you to come to new york at once. here is transportation for you. he will meet your train at the grand central station." "mrs. parsons' necklace!" gasped ruth. "he says something about that--yes," said mrs. tellingham. "it is important for you to come and identify somebody, i believe. you must tell him that, at this time in the term, you can be spared only a short time." all was bustle and confusion for ruth during the next two hours. then she found herself on the train bound for new york. she had a section of the sleeper to herself, and arrived in the city the next morning at an early hour. she was making her toilette, as the electric engine whisked the long train through the upper reaches of the city, and she marveled at the awakening bronx and harlem streets. when she came out through the gateway of the trainshed, she saw a youth standing by, watching the on-coming passengers sharply. but she was almost upon him, and he had stepped forward, lifting his hat and putting out a hand to take her bag, before she recognized roberto, the gypsy boy. but how changed in appearance! of course, he was still dark of skin, and his black eyes flashed. but he had removed the gold rings from his ears, his hair had been trimmed to a proper length, he was dressed smartly in a gray suit, and wore a nice hat and shoes. altogether roberto was a very handsome youth indeed--more so now than when he had been a wild boy! "you do not know me, miss fielding?" he said, his eyes twinkling and a warm blush rising in his cheeks. "you--you are so changed!" gasped ruth. "yes. mr. cameron is a fine man," said the boy, nodding. "i like him. he do all this for me," and he made a gesture that included his new outfit, and flashed her another brilliant smile. "oh! how it does improve you, roberto!" she cried. "_robert_, if you please," he said, laughing. "_i_ am going to be american boy--yes. i have left the gypsy boy forever behind--eh?" ruth fairly clapped her hands. "do you mean all that, robert?" she cried. "sure!" he said proudly. "i like america. yes! i have been here now ten years, and it suit me. and mr. cameron say i can go to school and learn to be american business man. that is better than trading horses--eh?" "oh, isn't that fine!" cried the girl of the red mill. "now, where are you going to take me?" "to the hotel. mr. cameron will wait breakfast for us," declared the lad, and in ten minutes ruth was greeting her chum's father across the restaurant table. "and i suppose you are just about eaten up with curiosity as to why i sent for you?" mr. cameron asked her, smiling, when robert had gone out on an errand. "just about, sir," admitted the girl. "why, i want to tell you, my dear, that you are likely to be a very lucky girl indeed. the five thousand dollars reward----" "you haven't found the necklace?" "yes, indeed. that has been found and identified. what i want you for is so you can identify that old gypsy, queen zelaya. i did not want to force her grandson to appear against her before the authorities. but you can do so with a clear conscience. "queen zelaya will be sent back to bohemia. she has a bad record, and entered the country secretly some years ago. your evidence will enable the federal authorities to clinch their case, and return the old woman to the country of her birth. "it is not believed that she actually stole the pearl necklace, but it is plain she shared in the proceeds of all the gypsies' plundering, and in this case she took the giant's portion. "we could not prove robbery upon her, but she can be transported, and she shall be," concluded mr. cameron, firmly. this was what finally happened to queen zelaya. her clan was broken up, and not one of them was ever seen in the neighborhood of the red mill--or elsewhere in that county--again. robert mazell, as is the gypsy boy's americanized name, promises to be all that he told ruth he hoped to be--in time. he must begin at the bottom of the educational ladder, but he is so quick to learn that his patron, mr. cameron, tells tom, laughingly, that _he_, tom, will have to look to his laurels, or the boy from bohemia will outstrip him. having carried out the trailing of the gypsy queen at his own expense, and recovered the necklace privately, mr. cameron did not have to divide the reward offered by mrs. rachel parsons with anybody. the entire five thousand dollars was deposited in ruth's name in the cheslow savings bank. and this happened in time so that ruth could draw enough of her fortune to get a new gymnasium costume for the mid-winter exhibition! she did not have to use the money uncle jabez grudgingly gave her. her tuition fees were paid in advance for this year at briarwood hall, but she determined thereafter to pay all her own expenses, at school and elsewhere. at last she felt herself to be independent. by going to mr. cameron, she could get money when she wished, without annoying the miller, and for this situation she was very very thankful. her life stretched before her over a much pleasanter path than ever before. there were kind friends whom she could help in the future, as they needed help--and that delighted ruth fielding. her own future seemed secure. she could prepare herself for college and could gain the education she craved. it seemed that nothing could balk her ambition in that direction. and so--this seems to be a very good place indeed in which to bid good-bye for a time to ruth fielding of the red mill. the end ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the ruth fielding series by alice b. emerson mo. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. ruth fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. by her sunny disposition she melted the old miller's heart. her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. the ruth fielding series is the biggest and best selling series of books for girls ever published. ruth fielding of the red mill or jaspar parloe's secret ruth fielding at briarwood hall or solving the campus mystery ruth fielding at snow camp or lost in the backwoods ruth fielding at lighthouse point or nita, the girl castaway ruth fielding at silver ranch or schoolgirls among the cowboys ruth fielding on cliff island or the old hunter's treasure box ruth fielding at sunrise farm or what became of the raby orphans ruth fielding and the gypsies or the missing pearl necklace ruth fielding in moving pictures (new) or helping the dormitory fund ruth fielding down in dixie (new) or great days in the land of cotton send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon co., publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the motor girls series by margaret penrose author of the highly successful "dorothy dale series" mo. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. since the enormous success of our "motor boys series," by clarence young, we have been asked to get out a similar series for girls. no one is better equipped to furnish these tales than mrs. penrose, who, besides being an able writer, is an expert automobilist. the motor girls or a mystery of the road the motor girls on a tour or keeping a strange promise the motor girls at lookout beach or in quest of the runaways the motor girls through new england or held by the gypsies the motor girls on cedar lake or the hermit of fern island the motor girls on the coast or the waif from the sea the motor girls on crystal bay or the secret of the red oar the motor girls on waters blue or the strange cruise of the tartar the motor girls at camp surprise or the cave in the mountain send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon co., publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the dorothy dale series by margaret penrose author of "the motor girls series" mo. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. dorothy dale is the daughter of an old civil war veteran who is running a weekly newspaper in a small eastern town. her sunny disposition, her fun-loving ways and her trials and triumphs make clean, interesting and fascinating reading. the dorothy dale series is one of the most popular series of books for girls ever published. dorothy dale: a girl of to-day dorothy dale at glenwood school dorothy dale's great secret dorothy dale and her chums dorothy dale's queer holidays dorothy dale's camping days dorothy dale's school rivals dorothy dale in the city dorothy dale's promise dorothy dale in the west dorothy dale's strange discovery (new) send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon co., publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the saddle boys series by captain james carson mo. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. all lads who love life in the open air and a good steed, will want to peruse these books. captain carson knows his subject thoroughly, and his stories are as pleasing as they are healthful and instructive. the saddle boys of the rockies or lost on thunder mountain telling how the lads started out to solve the mystery of a great noise in the mountains--how they got lost--and of the things they discovered. the saddle boys in the grand canyon or the hermit of the cave a weird and wonderful story of the grand canyon of the colorado, told in a most absorbing manner. the saddle boys are to the front in a manner to please all young readers. the saddle boys on the plains or after a treasure of gold in this story the scene is shifted to the great plains of the southwest and then to the mexican border. there is a stirring struggle for gold, told as only captain carson can tell it. the saddle boys at circle ranch or in at the grand round-up here we have lively times at the ranch, and likewise the particulars of a grand round-up of cattle and encounters with wild animals and also cattle thieves. a story that breathes the very air of the plains. the saddle boys on mexican trails or in the hands of the enemy the scene is shifted in this volume to mexico. the boys go on an important errand, and are caught between the lines of the mexican soldiers. they are captured and for a while things look black for them; but all ends happily. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- up-to-date baseball stories the baseball joe series by lester chadwick author of "the college sports series" mo. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. baseball joe of the silver stars or the rivals of riverside in this volume, the first of the series, joe is introduced as an everyday country boy who loves to play baseball and is particularly anxious to make his mark as a pitcher. a splendid picture of the great national game in the smaller towns of our country. baseball joe on the school nine or pitching for the blue banner joe's great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the school team. he got to boarding school but found it harder making the team there than it was getting on the nine at home. baseball joe at yale or pitching for the college championship from a preparatory school baseball joe goes to yale university. he makes the freshman nine and in his second year becomes a varsity pitcher and pitches in several big games. baseball joe in the central league or making good as a professional pitcher in this volume the scene of action is shifted from yale college to a baseball league of our central states. baseball joe's work in the box for old eli had been noted by one of the managers and joe gets an offer he cannot resist. baseball joe in the big league or a young pitcher's hardest struggle from the central league joe is drafted into the st. louis nationals. at first he has little to do in the pitcher's box, but gradually he wins favor. a corking baseball story that fans, both young and old, will enjoy. baseball joe on the giants or making good as a twirler in the metropolis how joe was traded to the giants and became their mainstay in the box makes an interesting baseball story. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon co., publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the motor boys second series (trade mark, reg. u. s. pat. of.) by clarence young mo. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. this, the second series of the now world famed motor boys virtually starts a new series, but retains all the favorite characters introduced in the previous books. the motor boys series is the biggest and best selling series of books for boys ever published. ned, bob and jerry at boxwood hall or the motor boys as freshmen fresh from their adventures in their automobile, their motor boat and their airship, the youths are sent to college to complete their interrupted education. some boys at the institution of learning have heard much about our heroes, and so conclude that the motor boys will try to run everything to suit themselves. a plot is formed to keep our heroes entirely in the background and not let them participate in athletics and other contests. how the motor boys forged to the front and made warm friends of their rivals makes unusually interesting reading. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon co., publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the y.m.c.a. boys series by brooks henderley mo. cloth. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. this new series relates the doings of a wide-awake boys' club of the y. m. c. a., full of good times and everyday, practical christianity. clean, elevating and full of fun and vigor, books that should be read by every boy. the y. m. c. a. boys of cliffwood or the struggle for the holwell prize telling how the boys of cliffwood were a wild set and how, on hallowe'en, they turned the home town topsy-turvy. this led to an organization of a boys' department in the local y. m. c. a. when the lads realized what was being done for them, they joined in the movement with vigor and did all they could to help the good cause. to raise funds they gave a minstrel show and other entertainments, and a number of them did their best to win a gold medal offered by a local minister who was greatly interested in the work of upbuilding youthful character. the y. m. c. a. boys on bass island or the mystery of russabaga camp summer was at hand, and at a meeting of the boys of the y. m. c. a. of cliffwood, it was decided that a regular summer camp should be instituted. this was located at a beautiful spot on bass island, and there the lads went boating, swimming, fishing and tramping to their heart's content. there were a great many surprises, but in the end the boys managed to clear up a mystery of long standing. incidentally, the volume gives a clear insight into the workings of the now justly popular summer camps of the y. m. c. a., throughout the united states. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon co., publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the motor boys series (trade mark, reg. u. s. pat. of.) by clarence young mo. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. the motor boys or chums through thick and thin the motor boys overland or a lone trip for fun and fortune the motor boys in mexico. or the secret of the buried city the motor boys across the plains or the hermit of lost lake the motor boys afloat or the stirring cruise of the dartaway the motor boys on the atlantic or the mystery of the lighthouse the motor boys in strange waters or lost in a floating forest the motor boys on the pacific or the young derelict hunters the motor boys in the clouds or a trip for fame and fortune the motor boys over the rockies or a mystery of the air the motor boys over the ocean or a marvellous rescue in mid-air the motor boys on the wing or seeking the airship treasure the motor boys after a fortune or the hut on snake island the motor boys on the border or sixty nuggets of gold the motor boys under the sea or from airship to submarine the motor boys on road and river or racing to save a life cupples & leon co., publishers, new york note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) ruth fielding down east or the hermit of beach plum point by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding at sunrise farm," "ruth fielding homeward bound," etc. illustrated [illustration: tom cast aside his sweater and plunged into the tide. _ruth fielding down east page _] new york cupples & leon company publishers books for girls by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. ruth fielding of the red mill ruth fielding at briarwood hall ruth fielding at snow camp ruth fielding at lighthouse point ruth fielding at silver ranch ruth fielding on cliff island ruth fielding at sunrise farm ruth fielding and the gypsies ruth fielding in moving pictures ruth fielding down in dixie ruth fielding at college ruth fielding in the saddle ruth fielding in the red cross ruth fielding at the war front ruth fielding homeward bound ruth fielding down east cupples & leon co., publishers, new york. copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding down east printed in u. s. a. contents chapter page i. the wind storm ii. the mystery of it iii. the derelict iv. the crying need v. off at last vi. "the nevergetovers" vii. movie stunts viii. the auction block ix. a dismaying discovery x. a wild afternoon xi. mr. peterby paul--and "whosis" xii. alongshore xiii. the hermit xiv. a quotation xv. an amazing situation xvi. ruth solves one problem xvii. john, the hermit's, contribution xviii. uncertainties xix. counterclaims xx. the grill xxi. a hermit for revenue only xxii. an arrival xxiii. trouble--plenty xxiv. about "plain mary" xxv. lifting the curtain ruth fielding down east chapter i the wind storm across the now placidly flowing lumano where it widened into almost the proportions of a lake just below the picturesque red mill, a bank of tempestuous clouds was shouldering into view above the sky line of the rugged and wooded hills. these slate-colored clouds, edged with pallid light, foredoomed the continuance of the peaceful summer afternoon. not a breath of air stirred on the near side of the river. the huge old elms shading the red mill and the farmhouse connected with it belonging to mr. jabez potter, the miller, were like painted trees, so still were they. the brooding heat of midday, however, had presaged the coming storm, and it had been prepared for at mill and farmhouse. the tempest was due soon. the backyard of the farmhouse--a beautiful lawn of short grass--sloped down to the river. on the bank and over the stream itself was set a summer-house of fair proportions, covered with vines--a cool and shady retreat on the very hottest day of midsummer. a big robin redbreast had been calling his raucous weather warning from the top of one of the trees near the house; but, with her back to the river and the coming storm, the girl in the pavilion gave little heed to this good-intentioned weather prophet. she did raise her eyes, however, at the querulous whistle of a striped creeper that was wriggling through the intertwined branches of the trumpet-vine in search of insects. ruth fielding was always interested in those busy, helpful little songsters. "you cute little thing!" she murmured, at last catching sight of the flashing bird between the stems of the old vine. "i wish i could put _you_ into my scenario." on the table at which she was sitting was a packet of typewritten sheets which she had been annotating, and two fat note books. she laid down her gold-mounted fountain pen as she uttered these words, and then sighed and pushed her chair back from the table. then she stood up suddenly. a sound had startled her. she looked all about the summer-house--a sharp, suspicious glance. then she tiptoed to the door and peered out. the creeper fluttered away. the robin continued to shout his warning. had it really been a rustling in the vines she had heard? was there somebody lurking about the summer-house? she stepped out and looked on both sides. it was then she saw how threatening the aspect of the clouds on the other side of the river were. the sight drove from her thoughts for the moment the strange sound she had heard. she did not take pains to look beneath the summer-house on the water side. instead, another sound assailed her ears. this time one that she could not mistake for anything but just what it was--the musical horn of tom cameron's automobile. ruth turned swiftly to look up the road. a dark maroon car, long and low-hung like a racer, was coming along the road, leaving a funnel of dust behind it. there were two people in the car. the girl beside the driver--black-haired and petite--fluttered her handkerchief in greeting when she saw ruth standing by the summer-house. at once the latter ran across the yard, over the gentle rise, and down to the front gate of the potter farmhouse. she ran splendidly with a free stride of untrammeled limbs, but she held one shoulder rather stiffly. "oh, ruth!" "oh, helen!" the car was at the gate, and tom brought it to a prompt stop. helen, his twin sister, was out of it instantly and almost leaped into the bigger girl's arms. "oh! oh! oh!" sobbed helen. "you _are_ alive after all that horrible experience coming home from europe." "and you are alive and safe, dear helen," responded ruth fielding, quite as deeply moved. it was the first time they had met since separating in paris a month before. and in these times of war, with peace still an uncertainty, there were many perils to fear between the port of brest and that of new york. tom, in uniform and with a ribbon and medal on his breast, grinned teasingly at the two girls. "come, come! break away! only twenty seconds allowed in a clinch. don't helen look fine, ruth? how's the shoulder?" "just a bit stiff yet," replied the girl of the red mill, kissing her chum again. at this moment the first sudden swoop of the tempest arrived. the tall elms writhed as though taken with st. vitus's dance. the hens began to screech and run to cover. thunder muttered in the distance. "oh, dear me!" gasped ruth, paling unwontedly, for she was not by nature a nervous girl. "come right into the house, helen. you could not get to cheslow or back home before this storm breaks. put your car under the shed, tom." she dragged her friend into the yard and up the warped flag stones to the side door of the cottage. a little old woman who had been sitting on the porch in a low rocking chair arose with difficulty, leaning on a cane. "oh, my back, and oh, my bones!" murmured aunt alvirah boggs, who was not long out of a sick bed herself and would never again be as "spry" as she once had been. "do come in, dearies. it is a wind storm." ruth stopped to help the little old woman. she continued pale, but her thought for aunt alvirah's comfort caused her to put aside her own fear. the trio entered the house and closed the door. in a moment there was a sharp patter against the house. the rain had begun in big drops. the rear door was opened, and tom, laughing and shaking the water from his cap, dashed into the living room. he wore the insignia of a captain under his dust-coat and the distinguishing marks of a very famous division of the a. e. f. "it's a buster!" he declared. "there's a paper sailing like a kite over the roof of the old mill----" ruth sprang up with a shriek. she ran to the back door by which tom had just entered and tore it open. "oh, do shut the door, deary!" begged aunt alvirah. "that wind is 'nough to lift the roof." "what _is_ the matter, ruth?" demanded helen. but tom ran out after her. he saw the girl leap from the porch and run madly down the path toward the summer-house. back on the wind came a broken word or two of explanation: "my papers! my scenario! the best thing i ever did, tom!" he had almost caught up to her when she reached the little pavilion. the wind from across the river was tearing through the summer-house at a sixty-mile-an-hour speed. "oh! it's gone!" ruth cried, and had tom not caught her she would have dropped to the ground. there was not a scrap of paper left upon the table, nor anywhere in the place. even the two fat notebooks had disappeared, and, too, the gold-mounted pen the girl of the red mill had been using. all, all seemed to have been swept out of the summer-house. chapter ii the mystery of it for half a minute tom cameron did not know just what to do for ruth. then the water spilled out of the angry clouds overhead and bade fair to drench them. he half carried ruth into the summer-house and let her rest upon a bench, sitting beside her with his arm tenderly supporting her shoulders. ruth had begun to sob tempestuously. ruth fielding weeping! she might have cried many times in the past, but almost always in secret. tom, who knew her so well, had seen her in dangerous and fear-compelling situations, and she had not wept. "what is it?" he demanded. "what have you lost?" "my scenario! all my work gone!" "the new story? my goodness, ruth, it couldn't have blown away!" "but it has!" she wailed. "not a scrap of it left. my notebooks--my pen! why!" and she suddenly controlled her sobs, for she was, after all, an eminently practical girl. "could that fountain pen have been carried away by the windstorm, too?" "there goes a barrel through the air," shouted tom. "that's heavier than a fountain pen. say, this is some wind!" the sound of the dashing rain now almost drowned their voices. it sprayed them through the porous shelter of the vines and latticework so that they could not sit on the bench. ruth huddled upon the table with tom cameron standing between her and the drifting mist of the storm. she looked across the rain-drenched yard to the low-roofed house. she had first seen it with a home-hungry heart when a little girl and an orphan. how many, many strange experiences she had had since that time, which seemed so long ago! nor had she then dreamed, as "ruth fielding of the red mill," as the first volume of this series is called, that she would lead the eventful life she had since that hour. under the niggard care of miserly old jabez potter, the miller, her great uncle, tempered by the loving kindness of aunt alvirah boggs, the miller's housekeeper, ruth's prospects had been poor indeed. but providence moves in mysterious ways. seemingly unexpected chances had broadened ruth's outlook on life and given her advantages that few girls in her sphere secure. first she was enabled to go to a famous boarding school, briarwood hall, with her dearest chum, helen cameron. there she began to make friends and widen her experience by travel. with helen, tom, and other young friends, ruth had adventures, as the titles of the series of books run, at snow camp, at lighthouse point, at silver ranch, on cliff island, at sunrise farm, with the gypsies, in moving pictures, and down in dixie. with the eleventh volume of the series ruth and her chums, helen cameron and jennie stone, begin their life at ardmore college. as freshmen their experiences are related in "ruth fielding at college; or, the missing examination papers." this volume is followed by "ruth fielding in the saddle; or, college girls in the land of gold," wherein ruth's first big scenario is produced by the alectrion film corporation. as was the fact with so many of our college boys and girls, the world war interfered most abruptly and terribly with ruth's peaceful current of life. america went into the war and ruth into red cross work almost simultaneously. in "ruth fielding in the red cross; or, doing her bit for uncle sam," the girl of the red mill gained a very practical experience in the work of the great peace organization which does so much to smooth the ravages of war. then, in "ruth fielding at the war front; or, the hunt for the lost soldier," the red cross worker was thrown into the very heart of the tremendous struggle, and in northern france achieved a name for courage that her college mates greatly envied. wounded and nerve-racked because of her experiences, ruth was sent home, only to meet, as related in the fifteenth volume of the series, "ruth fielding homeward bound; or, a red cross worker's ocean perils," an experience which seemed at first to be disastrous. in the end, however, the girl reached the red mill in a physical and mental state which made any undue excitement almost a tragedy for her. the mysterious disappearance of the moving picture scenario, which had been on her heart and mind for months and which she had finally brought, she believed, to a successful termination, actually shocked ruth fielding. she could not control herself for the moment. against tom cameron's uniformed shoulder she sobbed frankly. his arm stole around her. "don't take on so, ruthie," he urged. "of course we'll find it all. wait till this rain stops----" "it never blew away, tom," she said. "why, of course it did!" "no. the sheets of typewritten manuscript were fastened together with a big brass clip. had they been lose and the wind taken them, we should have seen at least some of them flying about. and the notebooks!" "and the pen?" murmured tom, seeing the catastrophe now as she did. "why, ruthie! could somebody have taken them all?" "somebody must!" "but who?" demanded the young fellow. "you have no enemies." "not here, i hope," she sighed. "i left them all behind." he chuckled, although he was by no means unappreciative of the seriousness of her loss. "surely that german aviator who dropped the bomb on you hasn't followed you here." "don't talk foolishly, tom!" exclaimed the girl, getting back some of her usual good sense. "of course, i have no enemy. but a thief is every honest person's enemy." "granted. but where is the thief around the red mill?" "i do not know." "can it be possible that your uncle or ben saw the things here and rescued them just before the storm burst?" "we will ask," she said, with a sigh. "but i can imagine no reason for either uncle jabez or ben to come down here to the shore of the river. oh, tom! it is letting up." "good! i'll look around first of all. if there has been a skulker near----" "now, don't be rash," she cried. "we're not behind the german lines now, fraulein mina von brenner," and he laughed as he went out of the summer-house. he did not smile when he was searching under the house and beating the brush clumps near by. he realized that this loss was a very serious matter for ruth. she was now independent of uncle jabez, but her income was partly derived from her moving picture royalties. during her war activities she had been unable to do much work, and tom knew that ruth had spent of her own means a great deal in the red cross work. ruth had refused to tell her friends the first thing about this new story for the screen. she believed it to be the very best thing she had ever originated, and she said she wished to surprise them all. he even knew that all her notes and "before-the-finish" writing was in the notebooks that had now gone with the completed manuscript. it looked more than mysterious. it was suspicious. tom looked all around the summer-house. of course, after this hard downpour it was impossible to mark any footsteps. nor, indeed, did the raider need to leave such a trail in getting to and departing from the little vine-covered pavilion. the sward was heavy all about it save on the river side. the young man found not a trace. nor did he see a piece of paper anywhere. he was confident that ruth's papers and notebooks and pen had been removed by some human agency. and it could not have been a friend who had done this thing. chapter iii the derelict "didn't you find anything, tom?" ruth fielding asked, as helen's twin re-entered the summer-house. his long automobile coat glistened with wet and his face was wind-blown. tom cameron's face, too, looked much older than it had--well, say a year before. he, like ruth herself, had been through much in the war zone calculated to make him more sedate and serious than a college undergraduate is supposed to be. "i did not see even a piece of paper blowing about," he told her. "but before we came down from the house you said you saw a paper blow over the roof like a kite." "that was an outspread newspaper. it was not a sheet of your manuscript." "then it all must have been stolen!" she cried. "at least, human agency must have removed the things you left on this table," he said. "oh, tom!" "now, now, ruth! it's tough, i know----" but she recovered a measure of her composure almost immediately. unnerved as she had first been by the disaster, she realized that to give way to her trouble would not do the least bit of good. "an ordinary thief," tom suggested after a moment, "would not consider your notes and the play of much value." "i suppose not," she replied. "if they are stolen it must be by somebody who understands--or thinks he does--the value of the work. somebody who thinks he can sell a moving picture scenario." "oh, tom!" "a gold mounted fountain pen would attract any petty thief," he went on to say. "but surely the itching fingers of such a person would not be tempted by that scenario." "then, which breed of thief stole my scenario, tom?" she demanded. "you are no detective. your deductions suggest two thieves." "humph! so they do. maybe they run in pairs. but i can't really imagine two light-fingered people around the red mill at once. seen any tramps lately?" "we seldom see the usual tramp around here," said ruth, shaking her head. "we are too far off the railroad line. and the cheslow constables keep them moving if they land _there_." "could anybody have done it for a joke?" asked tom suddenly. "if they have," ruth said, wiping her eyes, "it is the least like a joke of anything that ever happened to me. why, tom! i couldn't lay out that scenario again, and think of all the details, and get it just so, in a year!" "oh, ruth!" "i mean it! and even my notes are gone. oh, dear! i'd never have the heart to write that scenario again. i don't know that i shall ever write another, anyway. i'm discouraged," sobbed the girl suddenly. "oh, ruth! don't give way like this," he urged, with rather a boyish fear of a girl's tears. "i've given way already," she choked. "i just feel that i'll never be able to put that scenario into shape again. and i'd written mr. hammond so enthusiastically about it." "oh! then he knows all about it!" said tom. "that is more than any of us do. you wouldn't tell us a thing." "and i didn't tell him. he doesn't know the subject, or the title, or anything about it. i tell you, tom, i had _such_ a good idea----" "and you've got the idea yet, haven't you? cheer up! of course you can do it over." "suppose," demanded ruth quickly, "this thief that has got my manuscript should offer it to some producer? why! if i tried to rewrite it and bring it out, i might be accused of plagiarizing my own work." "jimminy!" "i wouldn't dare," said ruth, shaking her head. "as long as i do not know what has become of the scenario and my notes, i will not dare use the idea at all. it is dreadful!" the rain was now falling less torrentially. the tempest was passing. soon there was even a rift in the clouds in the northwest where a patch of blue sky shone through "big enough to make a scotchman a pair of breeches," as aunt alvirah would say. "we'd better go up to the house," sighed ruth. "i'll go right around to the neighbors and see if anybody has noticed a stranger in the vicinity," tom suggested. "there's ben! do you suppose he has seen anybody?" a lanky young man, his clothing gray with flour dust, came from the back door of the mill and hastened under the dripping trees to reach the porch of the farmhouse. he stood there, smiling broadly at them, as ruth and tom hurriedly crossed the yard. "good day, mr. tom," said ben, the miller's helper. then he saw ruth's troubled countenance. "wha--what's the matter, ruthie?" "ben, i've lost something." "bless us an' save us, no!" "yes, i have. something very valuable. it's been stolen." "you don't mean it!" "but i do! some manuscript out of the summer-house yonder." "and her gold-mounted fountain pen," added tom. "that would tempt somebody." "my goodness!" ben could express his simple wonderment in a variety of phrases. but he seemed unable to go beyond these explosive expressions. "ben, wake up!" exclaimed ruth. "have you any idea who would have taken it?" "that gold pen, ruthie? why--why---- a thief!" "old man," said tom with suppressed disgust, "you're a wonder. how did you guess it?" "hush, tom," ruth said. then: "now, ben, just think. who has been around here to-day? any stranger, i mean." "why--i dunno," said the mill hand, puckering his brows. "think!" she commanded again. "why--why----old jep parloe drove up for a grinding." "he's not a stranger." "oh, yes he is, ruthie. me nor mr. potter ain't seen him before for nigh three months. your uncle up and said to him, 'why, you're a stranger, mr. parloe.'" "i mean," said ruth, with patience, "anybody whom you have never seen before--or anybody whom you might suspect would steal." "well," drawled ben stubbornly, "your uncle, ruthie, says old jep ain't any too honest." "i know all about that," ruth said. "but parloe did not leave his team and go down to the summer-house, did he?" "oh, no!" "did you see anybody go down that way?" "don't believe i did--savin' you yourself, ruthie." "i left a manuscript and my pen on the table there. i ran out to meet tom and helen when they came." "i seen you," said ben. "then it was just about that time that somebody sneaked into that summer-house and stole those things." "i didn't see anybody snuck in there," declared ben, with more confidence than good english. "say!" ejaculated tom, impatiently, "haven't you seen any tramp, or straggler, or gypsy--or anybody like that?" "hi gorry!" suddenly said ben, "i do remember. there was a man along here this morning--a preacher, or something like that. had a black frock coat on and wore his hair long and sort o' wavy. he was shabby enough to be a tramp, that's a fact. but he was a real knowledgeable feller--he was that. stood at the mill door and recited po'try for us." "poetry!" exclaimed tom. "to you and uncle jabez?" asked ruth. "uh-huh. all about 'to be or not to be a bean--that is the question.' and something about his having suffered from the slung shots and bow arrers of outrageous fortune--whatever that might be. i guess he got it all out of the scriptures. your uncle said he was bugs; but i reckoned he was a preacher." "jimminy!" muttered tom. "a derelict actor, i bet. sounds like a shakespearean ham." "goodness!" said ruth. "between the two of you boys i get a very strange idea of this person." "where did he go, ben?" tom asked. "i didn't watch him. he only hung around a little while. i think he axed your uncle for some money, or mebbe something to eat. you see, he didn't know mr. potter." "not if he struck him for a hand-out," muttered the slangy tom. "oh, ben! don't you know whether he went toward cheslow--or where?" cried ruth. "does it look probable to you," tom asked, "that a derelict actor---- oh, jimminy! of course! _he_ would be just the person to see the value of that play script at a glance!" "oh, tom!" "have you no idea where he went, ben?" tom again demanded of the puzzled mill hand. "no, mister tom. i didn't watch him." "i'll get out the car at once and hunt all about for him," tom said quickly. "you go in to helen and aunt alvirah, ruth. you'll be sick if you let this get the best of you. i'll find that miserable thief of a ham actor--if he's to be found." he added this last under his breath as he ran for the shed where he had sheltered his automobile. chapter iv the crying need tom cameron chased about the neighborhood for more than two hours in his fast car hunting the trail of the man who he had decided must be a wandering theatrical performer. of course, this was a "long shot," tom said; but the trampish individual of whom ben had told was much more likely to be an actor than a preacher. tom, however, was able to find no trace of the fellow until he got to the outskirts of cheslow, the nearest town. here he found a man who had seen a long-haired fellow in a shabby frock coat and black hat riding toward the railroad station beside one of the farmers who lived beyond the red mill. this was following the tempest which had burst over the neighborhood at mid-afternoon. trailing this information farther, tom learned that the shabby man had been seen about the railroad yards. mr. curtis, the railroad station master, had observed him. but suddenly the tramp had disappeared. whether he had hopped number , bound north, or number , bound south, both of which trains had pulled out of cheslow within the hour, nobody could be sure. tom returned to the red mill at dusk, forced to report utter failure. "if that bum actor stole your play, ruth, he's got clear way with it," tom said bluntly. "i'm awfully sorry----" "does that help?" demanded his sister snappishly, as though it were somewhat tom's fault. "you go home, tom. i'm going to stay with ruthie to-night," and she followed her chum into the bedroom to which she had fled at tom's announcement of failure. "jimminy!" murmured tom to the old miller who was still at the supper table. "and we aren't even sure that that fellow did steal the scenario." "humph!" rejoined uncle jabez. "you'll find, if you live to be old enough, young feller, that women folks is kittle cattle. no knowing how they'll take anything. that pen cost five dollars, i allow; but them papers only had writing on 'em, and it does seem to me that what you have writ once you ought to be able to write again. that's the woman of it. she don't say a thing about that pen, ruthie don't." however, tom cameron saw farther into the mystery than uncle jabez appeared to. and after a day or two, with ruth still "moping about like a moulting hen," as the miller expressed it, the young officer felt that he must do something to change the atmosphere of the red mill farmhouse. "our morale has gone stale, girls," he declared to his sister and ruth. "worrying never did any good yet." "that's a true word, sonny," said aunt alvirah, from her chair. "'care killed the cat.' my old mother always said, and she had ten children to bring up and a drunken husband who was a trial. he warn't my father. he was her second, an' she took him, i guess, 'cause he was ornamental. he was a sign painter when he worked. but he mostly advertised king alcohol by painting his nose red. "we children sartain sure despised that man. but mother was faithful to her vows, and she made quite a decent member of the community of that man before she left off. and, le's see! we was talkin' about cats, warn't we?" "you were, aunty dear," said ruth, laughing for the first time in several days. "hurrah!" said tom, plunging head-first into his idea. "that's just what i wanted to hear." "what?" demanded helen. "i have wanted to hear ruth laugh. and we all need to laugh. why, we are becoming a trio of old fogies!" "speak for yourself, master tom," pouted his sister. "i do. and for you. and certainly ruth is about as cheerful as a funeral mute. what we all need is some fun." "oh, tom, i don't feel at all like 'funning,'" sighed ruth. "you be right, sonny," interjected aunt alvirah, who sometimes forgot that tom, as well as the girls, was grown up. she rose from her chair with her usual, "oh, my back! and oh, my bones! you young folks should be dancing and frolicking----" "but the war, auntie!" murmured ruth. "you'll neither make peace nor mar it by worriting. no, no, my pretty! and 'tis a bad thing when young folks grow old before their time." "you're always saying that, aunt alvirah," ruth complained. "but how can one be jolly if one does not feel jolly?" "my goodness!" cried tom, "you were notoriously the jolliest girl in that french hospital. didn't the _poilus_ call you the jolly american? and listen to grandmother grunt now!" "i suppose it is so," sighed ruth. "but i must have used up all my fund of cheerfulness for those poor _blessés_. it does seem as though the font of my jollity had quite dried up." "i wish heavy stone were here," said helen suddenly. "_she'd_ make us laugh." "she and her french colonel are spooning down there at lighthouse point," scoffed ruth--and not at all as ruth fielding was wont to speak. "say!" tom interjected, "i bet heavy is funny even when she is in love." "_that's_ a reputation!" murmured ruth. "they are not at lighthouse point. the stones did not go there this summer, i understand," helen observed. "i am sorry for jennie and colonel marchand if they are at the stones' city house at this time of the year," the girl of the red mill said. "bully!" cried tom, with sudden animation. "that's just what we will do!" "what will we do, crazy?" demanded his twin. "we'll get jennie stone and henri marchand--he's a good sport, too, as i very well know--and we'll all go for a motor trip. jimminy christmas! that will be just the thing, sis. we'll go all over new england, if you like. we'll go down east and introduce colonel marchand to some of our hard-headed and tight-fisted yankees that have done their share towards injecting america into the war. we will----" "oh!" cried ruth, breaking in with some small enthusiasm, "let's go to beach plum point." "where is that?" asked helen. "it is down in maine. beyond portland. and mr. hammond and his company are there making my 'seaside idyl.'" "oh, bully!" cried helen, repeating one of her brother's favorite phrases, and now quite as excited over the idea as he. "i do so love to act in movies. is there a part in that 'idyl' story for me?" "i cannot promise that," ruth said. "it would be up to the director. i wasn't taking much interest in this particular picture. i wrote the scenario, you know, before i went to france. i have been giving all my thought to---- "oh, dear! if we could only find my lost story!" "come on!" interrupted tom. "let's not talk about that. will you write to jennie stone?" "i will. at once," his sister declared. "do. i'll take it to the post office and send it special delivery. tell her to wire her answer, and let it be 'yes.' we'll take both cars. father won't mind." "oh, _but_!" cried helen. "how about a chaperon?" "oh, shucks! i wish you'd marry some nice fellow, sis, so that we'd always have a chaperon on tap and handy." she made a little face at him. "i am going to be old-maid aunt to your many children, tommy-boy. i am sure you will have a full quiver. we will have to look for a chaperon." "aunt kate!" exclaimed ruth. "heavy's aunt kate. she is just what helen declares she wants to be--an old-maid aunt." "and a lovely lady," cried helen. "sure. ask her. beg her," agreed tom. "tell her it is the crying need. we have positively got to have some fun." "well, i suppose we may as well," ruth sighed, in agreement. "yes. we have always pampered the boy," declared helen, her eyes twinkling. "i know just what i'll wear, ruthie." "oh, we've clothes enough," admitted the girl of the red mill rather listlessly. "shucks!" said tom again. "never mind the fashions. get that letter written, sis." so it was agreed. helen wrote, the letter was sent. with jennie stone's usual impulsiveness she accepted for herself and "_mon henri_" and aunt kate, promising to be at cheslow within three days, and all within the limits of a ten-word telegram! chapter v off at last "the ancients," stated jennie stone solemnly, "burned incense upon any and all occasions--red letter days, labor days, celebrating columbus day and the morning after, i presume. but we moderns burn gasoline. and, phew! i believe i should prefer the stale smoke of incense in the unventilated pyramids of egypt to this odor of gas. o-o-o-o, tommy, do let us get started!" "you've started already--in your usual way," he laughed. this was at cheslow station on the arrival of the afternoon up train that had brought miss stone, her aunt kate, and the smiling colonel henri marchand to join the automobile touring party which jennie soon dubbed "the later pilgrims." "and that big machine looks much as the _mayflower_ must have looked steering across cape cod bay on that special occasion we read of in sacred and profane history, hung about with four-poster beds and whatnots. in our neighborhood," the plump girl added, "there is enough decrepit furniture declared to have been brought over on the _mayflower_ to have made a cargo for the _leviathan_." "oh, _ma chere_! you do but stretch the point, eh?" demanded the handsome henri marchand, amazed. "i assure you----" "don't, heavy," advised helen. "you will only go farther and do worse. in my mind there has always been a suspicion that the _mayflower_ was sent over here by some shipped knocked-down furniture factory. miles standish and priscilla mullins and john alden must have hung on by their eyebrows." "their eyebrows--_ma foi_!" gasped marchand. "say, old man," said tom, laughing, "if you listen to these crazy college girls you will have a fine idea of our historical monuments, and so forth. take everything with a grain of salt--do." "_oui, monsieur!_ but i must have a little pepper, too. i am 'strong,' as you americans say, for plentiful seasoning." "isn't he cute?" demanded jenny stone. "he takes to american slang like a bird to the air." "poetry barred!" declared helen. "say," tom remarked aside to the colonel, "you've got all the pep necessary, sure enough, in jennie." "she is one dear!" sighed the frenchman. "and she just said you were a bird. you'll have a regular zoo about you yet. come on. let's see if we can get this baggage aboard the good ship. it does look a good deal of an ark, doesn't it?" although ruth and aunt kate had not joined in this repartee, the girl of the red mill, as well as their lovely chaperon, enjoyed the fun immensely. ruth had revived in spirits on meeting her friends. jennie had flown to her arms at the first greeting, and hugged the girl of the red mill with due regard to the mending shoulder. "my dear! my dear!" she had cried. "i _dream_ of you lying all so pale and bloody under that window-sill stone. and what i hear of your and tom's experiences coming over----" "but worse has happened to me since i arrived home," ruth said woefully. "no? impossible!" "yes. i have had an irreparable loss," sighed ruth. "i'll tell you about it later." but for the most part the greetings of the two parties was made up as tom said of "ohs and ahs." "take it from me," the naughty tom declared to marchand, "two girls separated for over-night can find more to tell each other about the next morning than we could think of if we should meet at the resurrection!" the two cameron cars stood in the station yard, and as the other waiting cars, taxicabs and "flivvers" departed, "the sacred odor of gasoline," which jennie had remarked upon, was soon dissipated. the big touring car was expertly packed with baggage, and had a big hamper on either running-board as well. there was room remaining, however, for the ladies if they would sit there. but as tom was to drive the big car he insisted that ruth sit with him in the front seat for company. as for his racing car, he had turned that over to marchand. it, too, was well laden; but at the start jennie squeezed in beside her colonel, and the maroon speeder was at once whisperingly dubbed by the others "the honeymoon car." "poor children!" said aunt kate in private to the two other girls. "they cannot marry until the war is over. _that_ my brother is firm upon, although he thinks well of colonel henri. and who could help liking him? he is a most lovable boy." "'boy!'" repeated ruth. "and he is one of the most famous spies france has produced in this war! and a great actor!" "but we believe he is not acting when he tells us he loves jennie," aunt kate said. "surely not!" cried helen. "he is the soul of honor," ruth declared. "i trust him as i do--well, tom. i never had a brother." "i've always shared tom with you," pouted helen. "so you have, dear," admitted ruth. "but a girl who has had no really-truly brother really has missed something. perhaps good, perhaps bad. but, at least, if you have brothers you understand men better." "listen to the wisdom of the owl!" scoffed helen. "why, tommy is only a girl turned inside out. a girl keeps all her best and softest attributes to the fore, while a boy thinks it is more manly to show a prickly surface--like the burr of a chestnut." "listen to them!" exclaimed aunt kate, with laughter. "all the wise sayings of the ancient world must be crammed under those pretty caps you wear, along with your hair." "that is what we get at college," said helen seriously. "dear old ardmore! ruth! won't you be glad to get back to the grind again?" "i--don't--know," said her chum slowly. "we have seen so much greater things than college. it's going to be rather tame, isn't it?" but this conversation was all before they were distributed into their seats and had started. colonel marchand was an excellent driver, and he soon understood clearly the mechanism of the smaller car. tom gave him the directions for the first few miles and they pulled out of the yard with mr. curtis, the station master, and his lame daughter, who now acted as telegraph operator, waving the party good-bye. they would not go by the way of the red mill, for that would take them out of the way they had chosen. the inn they had in mind to stop at on this first night was a long four hours' ride. "eastward, ho!" shouted tom. "this is to be a voyage of discovery, but don't discover any punctures or blow-outs this evening." then he glanced at ruth's rather serious face beside him and muttered to himself: "and we want to discover principally the smile that ruth fielding seems to have permanently lost!" chapter vi "the nevergetovers" after crossing the cheslow hills and the lumano by the long bridge about twenty miles below the red mill, the touring party debouched upon one of the very best state roads. they left much of the dust from which they had first suffered behind them, and tom could now lead the way with the big car without smothering the occupants of the honeymoon car in the rear. the highway wound along a pretty ridge for some miles, with farms dotting the landscape and lush meadows or fruit-growing farms dipping to the edge of the distant river. "ah," sighed henri marchand. "like _la belle_ france before the war. such peace and quietude we knew, too. fortunate you are, my friends, that _le boche_ has not trampled these fields into bloody mire." this comment he made when they halted the cars at a certain overlook to view the landscape. but they could not stop often. their first objective inn was still a long way ahead. they did not, however, reach the inn, which was a resort well known to motorists. five miles away tom noticed that the car was acting strangely. "what is it, tom?" demanded ruth quickly. "steering gear, i am afraid. something is loose." it did not take him long to make an examination, and in the meantime the second car came alongside. "it might hold out until we get to the hotel ahead; but i think we had better stop before that time if we can," was tom's comment. "i do not want the thing to break and send us flying over a stone wall or up a tree." "but you can fix it, tom?" questioned ruth. "sure! but it will take half an hour or more." after that they ran along slowly and presently came in sight of a place called the drovers' tavern. "not a very inviting place, but i guess it will do," was ruth's announcement after they had looked the inn over. the girls and aunt kate alighted at the steps while the young men wheeled the cars around to the sheds. the housekeeper, who immediately announced herself as susan timmins, was fussily determined to see that all was as it should be in the ladies' chambers. "i can't trust this gal i got to do the upstairs work," she declared, saying it through her nose and with emphasis. "just as sure as kin be, if ye go for to help a poor relation you air always sorry for it." she led the way up the main flight of stairs as she talked. "this here gal will give me the nevergitovers, i know! she's my own sister's child that married a good-for-nothing and is jest like her father." "bella! you bella! turn on the light in these rooms. is the pitchers filled? and the beds turned down? if i find a speck of dust on this furniture i'll nigh 'bout have the nevergitovers! that gal will drive me to my grave, she will. bella!" bella appeared--a rather good looking child of fourteen or so, slim as a lath and with hungry eyes. she was dark--almost gypsy-like. she stared at ruth, helen and jennie with all the amazement of the usual yokel. but it was their dress, not themselves, ruth saw, engaged bella's interest. "when you ladies want any help, you call for bella," announced miss susan timmins. "and if she don't come running, you let me know, and i'll give her her nevergitovers, now i tell ye!" "no wonder this hotel is called 'drovers' tavern,'" said jennie stone. "that woman certainly is a driver--a slave driver." ruth, meanwhile, was trying to make a friend of bella. "what is your name, my dear?" she asked the lathlike girl. "you heard it," was the ungracious reply. "oh! yes. 'bella.' but your other name?" "arabella montague fitzmaurice pike. my father is montague fitzmaurice." she said it proudly, with a lift of her tousled head and a straightening of her thin shoulders. "oh!" fairly gasped ruth fielding. "it--it sounds quite impressive, i must say. i guess you think a good deal of your father?" "aunt suse don't," said the girl ungraciously. "my mother's dead. and pa is resting this season. so i hafter stay here with aunt suse. i hate it!" "your father is--er--what is his business?" ruth asked. "he's one of the profession." "a doctor?" "lands, no! he's a heavy." "a _what_?" "a heavy lead--and a good one. but these moving pictures knock out all the really good people. there are no chances now for him to play shakespearean roles----" "your father is an actor!" cried ruth. "of course. montague fitzmaurice. surely you have heard the name?" said the lathlike girl, tossing her head. "why--why----of course!" declared ruth warmly. it was true. she had heard the name. bella had just pronounced it! "then you know what kind of an actor my pa is," said the proud child. "he did not have a very good season last winter. he rehearsed with four companies and was only out three weeks altogether. and one of the managers did not pay at all." "that is too bad." "yes. it's tough," admitted bella. "but i liked it." "you liked it when he was so unsuccessful?" repeated ruth. "pa wasn't unsuccessful. he never is. he can play any part," declared the girl proudly. "but the plays were punk. he says there are no good plays written nowadays. that is why so many companies fail." "but you said you liked it?" "in new york," explained bella. "while he was rehearsing pa could get credit at mother grubson's boarding house on west forty-fourth street. i helped her around the house. she said i was worth my keep. but aunt suse says i don't earn my salt here." "i am sure you do your best, bella," ruth observed. "no, i don't. nor you wouldn't if you worked for aunt suse. she says i'll give her her nevergitovers--an' i hope i do!" with which final observation she ran to unlace aunt kate's shoes. "poor little thing," said ruth to helen. "she is worse off than an orphan. her aunt susan is worse than uncle jabez ever was to me. and she has no aunt alvirah to help her to bear it. we ought to do something for her." "there! you've begun. every waif and stray on our journey must be aided, i suppose," pouted helen, half exasperated. but tom was glad to see that ruth had found a new interest. bella waited on the supper table, was snapped at by miss timmins, and driven from pillar to post by that crotchety individual. "jimminy christmas!" remarked tom, "that timmins woman must be a reincarnation of one of the ancient egyptians who was overseer in the brickyard where moses learned his trade. if they were all like her, no wonder the israelites went on a strike and marched out of egypt." they were all very careful, however, not to let miss susan timmins hear their comments. she had the true dictatorial spirit of the old-fashioned new england school teacher. the guests of drovers' tavern were treated by her much as she might have treated a class in the little red schoolhouse up the road had she presided there. she drove the guests to their chambers by the method of turning off the electric light in the general sitting room at a quarter past ten. each room was furnished with a bayberry candle, and she announced that the electricity all over the house would be switched off at eleven o'clock. "that is late enough for any decent body to be up," she announced in her decisive manner. "that's when i go to bed myself. i couldn't do so in peace if i knew folks was burning them electric lights to all hours. 'tain't safe in a thunder storm. "why, when we first got 'em, jed parraday from wachuset come to town to do his buyin' and stayed all night with us. he'd never seed a 'lectric bulb before, and he didn't know how to blow it out. and he couldn't sleep in a room with a light. "so, what does the tarnal old fool do but unhook the cord so't the bulb could be carried as far as the winder. and he hung it outside, shut the winder down on it, drawed the shade and went to bed in the dark. "elnathan spear, the constable, seen the light a-shining outside the winder in the middle of the night and he thought 'twas burglars. he _dreams_ of burglars, elnathan does. but he ain't never caught none yet. "on that occasion, howsomever, he was sure he'd got a whole gang of 'em, and he waked up the whole hotel trying to find out what was going on. i charged parraday ha'f a dollar for burning extry 'lectricity, and he got so mad he ain't stopped at the hotel since. "he'd give one the nevergitovers, that man would!" she concluded. chapter vii movie stunts jennie stone slept in ruth's bed that night because, having been parted since they were both in france, they had a great deal to say to each other--thus proving true one of tom cameron's statements regarding women. jennie was just as sympathetic--and as sleepy--as she could be and she "oh, dear, me'd" and yawned alternately all through the tale of the lost scenario and notebooks, appreciating fully how ruth felt about it, but unable to smother the expression of her desire for sleep. "maybe we ought not to have come on this automobile trip," said jennie. "if the thief just did it to be mean and is somebody who lives around the red mill, perhaps you might have discovered something by mingling with the neighbors." "oh! tom did all that," sighed ruth. "and without avail. he searched the neighborhood thoroughly, although he is confident that a tramp carried it off. and that seems reasonable. i am almost sure, heavy, that my scenario will appear under the trademark of some other producing manager than mr. hammond." "oh! how mean!" "well, a thief is almost the meanest person there is in the world, don't you think so? except a backbiter. and anybody mean enough to steal my scenario must be mean enough to try to make use of it." "oh, dear! ow-oo-ooo! scuse me, ruth. yes, i guess you are right. but can't you stop the production of the picture?" "how can i do that?" "i don't----ow-oo!----know. scuse me, dear." "most pictures are made in secret, anyway. the public knows nothing about them until the producer is ready to make their release." "i--ow-oo!--i see," yawned jennie. "even the picture play magazines do not announce them until the first runs. then, sometimes, there is a synopsis of the story published. but it will be too late, then. especially when i have no notes of my work, nor any witnesses. i told no living soul about the scenario--what it was about, or----" "sh-sh-sh----" "why, heavy!" murmured the scandalized ruth. "sh-sh-sh--whoo!" breathed the plump girl, with complete abandon. "my goodness!" exclaimed ruth, tempted to shake her, "if you snore like that when you are married, henri will have to sleep at the other end of the house." but this was completely lost on the tired jennie stone, who continued to breathe heavily until ruth herself fell asleep. it seemed as though the latter had only closed her eyes when the sun shining into her face awoke the girl of the red mill. the shades of the east window had been left up, and it was sunrise. plenty of farm noises outside the drovers' tavern, as well as a stir in the kitchen, assured ruth that there were early risers here. jennie, rolled in more than her share of the bedclothes, continued to breathe as heavily as she had the night before. but suddenly ruth was aware that there was somebody besides herself awake in the room. she sat up abruptly in bed and reached to seize jennie's plump shoulder. ruth had to confess she was much excited, if not frightened. then, before she touched the still sleeping jennie stone, ruth saw the intruder. the door from the anteroom was ajar. a steaming agateware can of water stood on the floor just inside this door. before the bureau which boasted a rather large mirror for a country hotel bedroom, pivoted the thin figure of arabella montague fitzmaurice pike! from the neatly arranged outer clothing of the two girls supposedly asleep in the big four-poster, bella had selected a skirt of ruth's and a shirt-waist of jennie's, arraying herself in both of these borrowed garments. she was now putting the finishing touch to her costume by setting ruth's cap on top of her black, fly-away mop of hair. turning about and about before the glass, bella was so much engaged in admiring herself that she forgot the hot water she was supposed to carry to the various rooms. nor did she see ruth sitting up in bed looking at her in dawning amusement. nor did she, as she pirouetted there, hear her nemesis outside in the hall. the door suddenly creaked farther open. the grim face of miss susan timmins appeared at the aperture. "oh!" gasped ruth fielding aloud. bella turned to glance in startled surprise at the girl in bed. and at that moment miss timmins bore down upon the child like a shrike on a chippy-bird. "ow-ouch!" shrieked bella. "oh, don't!" begged ruth. "what is it? goodness! _fire!_" cried jennie stone, who, when awakened suddenly, always remembered the dormitory fire at briarwood hall. "you little pest! i'll larrup ye good! i'll give ye your nevergitovers!" sputtered the hotel housekeeper. but the affrighted bella wriggled away from her aunt's bony grasp. she dodged miss timmins about the marble-topped table, retreated behind the hair-cloth sofa, and finally made a headlong dash for the door, while jennie continued to shriek for the fire department. ruth leaped out of bed. in her silk pajamas and slippers, and without any wrap, she hurried to reach, and try to separate, the struggling couple near the door. miss timmins delivered several hearty slaps upon bella's face and ears. the child shrieked. she got away again and plunged into the can of hot water. over this went, flooding the rag-carpet for yards around. "fire! fire!" jennie continued to shriek. helen dashed in from the next room, dressed quite as lightly as ruth, and just in time to see the can spilled. "oh! water! water!" "drat that young one!" barked miss timmins, ignoring the flood and everything else save her niece--even the conventions. she dashed after bella. the latter had disappeared into the hall through the anteroom. "oh, the poor child!" cried sympathetic ruth, and followed in the wake of the angry housekeeper. "fire! fire!" moaned jennie stone. "cat's foot!" snapped helen cameron. "it's water--and it is flooding the whole room." she ran to set the can upright--after the water was all out of it. without thinking of her costume, ruth fielding ran to avert bella's punishment if she could. she knew the aunt was beside herself with rage, and ruth feared that the woman would, indeed, give bella her "nevergetovers." the corridor of the hotel was long, running from front to rear of the main building. the window at the rear end of it overlooked the roof of the back kitchen. this window was open, and when ruth reached the corridor bella was going head-first through the open window, like a circus clown diving through a hoop. she had discarded jennie's shirt-waist between the bedroom and the window. but ruth's skirt still flapped about the child's thin shanks. miss timmins, breathing threatenings and slaughter, raced down the hall in pursuit. ruth followed, begging for quarter for the terrified child. but the housekeeper went through the open window after bella, although in a more conventional manner, paying no heed to ruth's plea. the frightened girl, however, escaped her aunt's clutch by slipping off the borrowed skirt and descending the trumpet-vine trellis by the kitchen door. "do let her go, miss timmins!" begged ruth, as the panting woman, carrying ruth's skirt, returned to the window where the girl of the red mill stood. "she is scared to death. she was doing no harm." "i'll thank you to mind your own business, miss," snapped miss timmins hotly. "i declare! a girl growed like you running 'round in men's overalls--or, what be them things you got on?" at this criticism ruth fielding fled, taking the skirt and jennie's shirt-waist with her. but aunt kate was aroused now and the four women of the automobile party swiftly slipped into their negligees and appeared in the hall again, to meet tom and colonel marchand who came from their room only partly dressed. the critical miss timmins had darted downstairs, evidently in pursuit of her unfortunate niece. the guests crowded to the back window. "where did she go?" demanded tom, who had heard some explanation of the early morning excitement. "is she running away?" "what a child!" gasped aunt kate. "my waist!" moaned jennie. "look at ruth's skirt!" exclaimed helen. "i do not care for the skirt," the girl of the red mill declared. "it is bella." "her aunt will about give her those 'nevergetovers' she spoke of," chuckled tom. "_ma foi!_ look you there," exclaimed colonel marchand, pointing through the window that overlooked the rear premises of the hotel. at top speed miss timmins was crossing the yard toward the big hay barn. bella had taken refuge in that structure, and the housekeeper's evident intention was to harry her out. the woman grasped a clothes-stick with which she proposed to castigate her niece. "the cruel thing!" exclaimed helen, the waters of her sympathy rising for bella pike now. "there's the poor kid!" said tom. bella appeared at an open door far up in the peak of the haymow. the hay was packed solidly under the roof; but there was an air space left at either end. "she has put herself into the so-tight corner--no?" suggested the young frenchman. "you've said it!" agreed tom. "why! it's regular movie stunts. she's come up the ladders to the top of the mow. if auntie follows her, i don't see that the kid can do anything but jump!" "tom! never!" cried ruth. "he is fooling," said jennie. "tell me how she can dodge that woman, then," demanded tom. "ah!" murmured henri marchand. "she have arrive'." miss timmins appeared at the door behind bella. the spectators heard the girl's shriek. the housekeeper struck at her with the clothes stick. and then---- "talk about movie stunts!" shouted tom cameron, for the frightened bella leaped like a cat upon the haymow door and swung outward with nothing more stable than air between her and the ground, more than thirty feet below! chapter viii the auction block helen cameron and jennie stone shrieked in unison when miss susan timmins' niece cast herself out of the haymow upon the plank door and swung as far as the door would go upon its creaking hinges. ruth seized tom's wrist in a nervous grip, but did not utter a word. aunt kate turned away and covered her eyes with her hands that she might not see the reckless child fall--if she did fall. "name of a name!" murmured henri marchand. "_au secours!_ come, tom, _mon ami_--to the rescue!" he turned and ran lightly along the hall and down the stairs. but tom went through the window, almost as precipitately as had bella pike herself, and so over the roof of the kitchen ell and down the trumpet-vine trellis. tom was in the yard and running to the barn before marchand got out of the kitchen. several other people, early as the hour was, appeared running toward the rear premises of drovers' tavern. "see that crazy young one!" some woman shrieked. "i know she'll kill herself yet." "stop that!" commanded tom, looking up and shaking a threatening hand at miss timmins. for in her rage the woman was trying to strike her niece with the stick, as bella clung to the door. "mind your own business, young man!" snapped the virago. "and go back and put the rest of your clothes on. you ain't decent." tom was scarcely embarrassed by this verbal attack. the case was too serious for that. miss timmins struck at the girl again, and only missed the screaming bella by an inch or so. helen and jennie screamed in unison, and ruth herself had difficulty in keeping her lips closed. the cruel rage of the hotel housekeeper made her quite unfit to manage such a child as bella, and ruth determined to interfere in bella's behalf at the proper time. "i wish she would pitch out of that door herself!" cried helen recklessly. tom had run into the barn and was climbing the ladders as rapidly as possible to the highest loft. scolding and striking at her victim, miss susan timmins continued to act like the mad woman she was. and bella, made desperate at last by fear, reached for the curling edges of the shingles on the eaves above her head. "don't do that, child!" shrieked jennie stone. but bella scrambled up off the swinging door and pulled herself by her thin arms on to the roof of the barn. there she was completely out of her aunt's reach. "oh, the plucky little sprite!" cried helen, in delight. "but--but she can't get down again," murmured aunt kate. "there is no scuttle in that roof." "tom will find a way," declared ruth fielding with confidence. "and my henri," put in jennie. "that horrid old creature!" "she should be punished for this," agreed ruth. "i wonder where the child's father is." "didn't you find out last night?" helen asked. "only that he is 'resting'." "some poor, miserable loafer, is he?" demanded aunt kate, with acrimony. "no. it seems that he is an actor," ruth explained. "he is out of work." "but he can't think anything of his daughter to see her treated like this," concluded aunt kate. "she is very proud of him. his professional name is montague fitzmaurice." "some name!" murmured jennie. "their family name is pike," said ruth, still seriously. "i do not think the man can know how this aunt treats little bella. there's tom!" the young captain appeared behind the enraged housekeeper at the open door of the loft. one glance told him what bella had done. he placed a firm hand on miss timmins' shoulder. "if you had made that girl fall you would go to jail," tom said sternly. "you may go, yet. i will try to put you there. and in any case you shall not have the management of the child any longer. go back to the house!" for once the housekeeper was awed. especially when henri marchand, too, appeared in the loft. "madame will return to the house. we shall see what can be done for the child. _gare!_" perhaps the woman was a little frightened at last by what she had done--or what she might have done. at least, she descended the ladders to the ground floor without argument. the two young men planned swiftly how to rescue the sobbing child. but when tom first spoke to bella, proposing to help her down, she looked over the edge of the roof at him and shook her head. "no! i ain't coming down," she announced emphatically. "aunt suse will near about skin me alive." "she shall not touch you," tom promised. "she'll give me my nevergitovers, just as she says. you can't stay here and watch her." "but we'll find a way to keep her from beating you when we are gone," tom promised. "don't you fear her at all." "i don't care where you put me, aunt suse will find me out. she'll send elnathan spear after me." "i don't know who spear is----" "he's the constable," sobbed bella. "well, he sha'n't spear you," declared tom. "come on, kid. don't be scared, and we'll get you down all right." he found the clothes-stick miss timmins had abandoned and used it for a brace. with a rope tied to the handle of the plank door and drawn taut, it was held half open. tom then climbed out upon and straddled the door and raised his arms to receive the girl when she lowered herself over the eaves. she was light enough--little more than skin and bone, tom declared--and the latter lowered her without much effort into henri's arms. when the three girls and aunt kate at the tavern window saw this safely accomplished they hurried back to their rooms to dress. "something must be done for that poor child," ruth fielding said with decision. "are you going to adopt her?" helen asked. "and send her to briarwood?" put in jennie. "that might be the very best thing that could happen to her," ruth rejoined soberly. "she has lived at times in a theatrical boarding house and has likewise traveled with her father when he was with a more or less prosperous company. "these experiences have made her, after a fashion, grown-up in her ways and words. but in most things she is just as ignorant as she can be. her future is not the most important thing just now. it is her present." helen heard the last word from the other room where she was dressing, and she cried: "that's it, ruthie. give her a present and tell her to run away from her aunt. she's a spiteful old thing!" "you do not mean that!" exclaimed her chum. "you are only lazy and hate responsibility of any kind. we must do something practical for bella pike." "how easily she says 'we'," helen scoffed. "i mean it. i could not sleep to-night if i knew this child was in her aunt's control." a knock on the door interrupted the discussion. ruth, who was quite dressed now, responded. a lout of a boy, who evidently worked about the stables, stood grinning at the door. "miz timmins says you folks kin all get out. she won't have you served no breakfast. she don't want none of you here." "my goodness!" wailed jennie. "dispossessed--and without breakfast!" "where is the proprietor of this hotel, boy?" ruth asked. "you mean mr. drovers? he ain't here. gone to boston. but that wouldn't make no dif'rence. suse timmins is boss." "oh, me! oh, my!" groaned jennie, to whom the prospect was tragic. jennie's appetite was never-failing. the boy slouched away just as tom and henri marchand appeared with bella between them. "you poor, dear child!" cried ruth, running along the hall to meet them. bella struggled to escape from the boys. but tom and colonel marchand held her by either hand. "easy, young one!" advised captain cameron. "i never meant to do no harm, miss!" cried bella. "i--i just wanted to see how i'd look in them clothes. i never do have anything decent to wear." "why, my dear, don't mind about that," said ruth, taking the lathlike girl in her arms. "if you had asked us we would have let you try on the things, i am sure." "aunt suse would near 'bout give me my nevergitovers--and she will yet!" "no she won't," ruth reassured her. "don't be afraid of your aunt any longer." "that is what i tell her," tom said warmly. "say! you won't put me in no home, will you?" asked bella, with sudden anxiety. "a 'home'?" repeated ruth, puzzled. "she means a charitable institution, poor dear," said aunt kate. "that's it, missus," bella said. "i knew a girl that was out of one of them homes. she worked for mrs. grubson. she said all the girls wore brown denim uniforms and had their hair slicked back and wasn't allowed even to whisper at table or after they got to bed at night." "nothing like that shall happen to you," ruth declared. "where is your father, bella?" tom asked. "i don't know. last i saw of him he came through here with a medicine show. i didn't tell aunt suse, but i ran away at night and went to broxton to see him. but he said business was poor. he got paid so much a bottle commission on the sales of chief henry red-dog's bitters. he didn't think the show would keep going much longer." "oh!" "you know, they didn't know he was montague fitzmaurice, the great shakespearean actor. pa often takes such jobs. he ain't lazy like aunt suse says. why, once he took a job as a ballyhoo at a show on the bowery in coney island. but his voice ain't never been what it was since." "do you expect him to return here for you?" ruth asked, while the other listeners exchanged glances and with difficulty kept their faces straight. "oh, yes, miss. just as soon as he is in funds. or he'll send for me. he always does. he knows i hate it here." "does he know how your aunt treats you?" aunt kate interrupted. "n--not exactly," stammered bella. "i haven't told him all. i don't want to bother him. it--it ain't always so bad." "i tell you it's got to stop!" tom said, with warmth. "of course she shall not remain in this woman's care any longer," aunt kate agreed. "but we must not take bella away from this locality," ruth observed. "when her father comes back for her she must be here--somewhere." "oh, lady!" exclaimed bella. "send me to new york to mrs. grubson's. i bet she'd keep me till pa opens somewhere in a good show." but ruth shook her head. she had her doubts about the wisdom of the child's being in such a place as mrs. grubson's boarding house, no matter how kindly disposed that woman might be. "bella should stay near here," ruth said firmly, "as long as we cannot communicate with mr. pike at once." "let's write a notice for one of the theatrical papers," suggested helen eagerly. "you know--'montague fitzmaurice please answer.' all the actors do it." "but pa don't always have the money to buy the papers," said bella, taking the suggestion quite seriously. "at least, if bella is in this neighborhood he will know where to find her," went on ruth. "is there nobody you know here, child, whom you would like to stay with till your father returns?" bella's face instantly brightened. her black eyes flashed. "oh, i'd like to stay at the minister's," she said. "at the minister's?" repeated ruth. "why, if he would take you that would be fine. who is he?" "the reverend driggs," said bella. "do you suppose the clergyman would take the child?" murmured aunt kate. "why do you want to go to live with the minister?" asked tom with curiosity. "'cause he reads the bible so beautifully," declared bella. "why! it sounds just like pa reading a play. the reverend driggs is an educated man like pa. but he's got an awful raft of young ones." "a poor minister," said aunt kate briskly. "i am afraid that would not suit." "if the driggs family is already a large one," began ruth doubtfully, when bella declared: "miz driggs had two pairs of twins, and one ever so many times. there's a raft of 'em." helen and jennie burst out laughing at this statement and the others were amused. but to ruth fielding this was a serious matter. the placing of bella pike in a pleasant home until her father could be communicated with, or until he appeared on the scene ready and able to care for the child, was even more serious than the matter of going without breakfast, although jennie stone said "no!" to this. "we'd better set up an auction block before the door of the hotel and auction her off to the highest bidder, hadn't we?" suggested helen, who had been rummaging in her bag. "here, bella! if you want a shirt-waist to take the place of that calico blouse you have on, here is one. one of mine. and i guarantee it will fit you better than heavy's did. she wears an extra size." "i don't either," flashed the plump girl, as the boys retreated from the room. "i may not be a perfect thirty-six----" "is there any doubt of it?" cried helen, the tease. "well!" "never mind," ruth said. "jennie is going to be thinner." "and it seems she will begin to diet this very morning," aunt kate put in. "ow-wow!" moaned jennie at this reminder that they had been refused breakfast. captain tom, however, had handled too many serious situations in france to be browbeaten by a termagant like miss susan timmins. he went down to the kitchen, ordered a good breakfast for all of his party, and threatened to have recourse to the law if the meal was not well and properly served. "for you keep a public tavern," he told the sputtering miss timmins, "and you cannot refuse to serve travelers who are willing and able to pay. we are on a pleasure trip, and i assure you, madam, it will be a pleasure to get you into court for any cause." on coming back to the front of the house he found two of the neighbors just entering. one proved to be the local doctor's wife and the other was a kindly looking farmer. "i knowed that girl warn't being treated right, right along," said the man. "and i told mirandy that i was going to put a stop to it." "it is a disgrace," said the doctor's wife, "that we should have allowed it to go on so long. i will take the child myself----" "and so'll mirandy," declared the farmer. "it is an auction," whispered helen, overhearing this from the top of the stairs. the party of guests came down with their bags now, bringing bella in their midst--and in the new shirt-waist. "let her choose which of these kind people she will stay with," tom advised. "and," he added, in a low voice to ruth, "we will pay for her support until we can find her father." "like fun you will, young feller!" snorted the farmer, overhearing tom. "i could not hear of such a thing," said the doctor's wife. "i'd like to know what you people think you're doing?" demanded miss timmins, popping out at them suddenly. "now, suse timmins, we're a-goin' to do what we neighbors ought to have done long ago. we're goin' to take this gal----" "you start anything like that--taking that young one away from her lawful guardeen--an' i'll get elnathan spear after you in a hurry, now i tell ye. i'll give you your nevergitovers!" "if nate spear comes to my house, i'll ask him to pay me for that corn he bought off'n me as long ago as last fall," chuckled the farmer. "just because you're own cousin to nate don't put _all_ the law an' the gospel on your side, suse timmins. i'll take good care of this girl." "and so will i, if bella wants to live with me," said the doctor's wife. "mirandy will be glad to have her." "and she'd be company for me," rejoined the other neighbor. "i haven't any children." "bella must choose for herself," said ruth kindly. "i guess i'll go with mr. perkins," said the actor's daughter. "miz holmes is real nice; but doctor holmes gives awful tastin' medicine. i might be sick there and have to take some of it. so i'll go to miz perkins. she has a doctor from maybridge and he gives candy-covered pellets. i ate some once. besides, miz perkins is lame and can't get around so spry, and i can do more for her." "now listen to that!" exclaimed the farmer. "ain't she a noticing child?" "well, mrs. perkins will be good to her, no doubt," agreed the doctor's wife. "i'd like to know what you fresh city folks butted into this thing for!" demanded miss timmins. "if there's any law in the land----" "_you'll_ get it!" promised tom cameron. "go get anything you own that you want to take with you, bella," ruth advised the shrinking child. with another fearful glance at her aunt, bella ran upstairs. miss timmins might have started after her, but tom planted himself before that door. the lout of a boy began bringing in the breakfast for the automobile party. ruth talked privately with the doctor's wife and mr. perkins, and forced some money on the woman to be expended for a very necessary outfit of clothing for bella. miss timmins finally flounced back into the kitchen where they heard her venting her anger and chagrin on the kitchen help. bella returned bearing an ancient extension bag crammed full of odds and ends. she kissed ruth and shook hands with the rest of the company before departing with mr. perkins. the doctor's wife promised to write to ruth as soon as anything was heard of mr. pike, and the automobile party turned their attention to ham and eggs, stewed potatoes, and griddle cakes. "only," said jennie, sepulchrally, "i hope the viands are not poisoned. that miss timmins would certainly like to give us all our 'nevergetovers'." chapter ix a dismaying discovery "'the later pilgrims' are well out of that trouble," announced helen, when the cars were underway, the honeymoon car ahead and the other members of the party packed into the bigger automobile. "and i hope," she added, "that ruth will find no more waifs and strays." "don't be knocking ruthie all the time," said tom, glancing back over his shoulder. "she's all right." "and you keep your eyes straight ahead, young man," advised aunt kate, "or you will have this heavy car in the ditch." "watch out for henri and heavy, too," advised helen. "they do not quite know what they are about and you may run them down. there! see his horizon-blue sleeve steal about her? he's got only one hand left to steer with. talk about a perfect thirty-six! it's lucky henri's arm is phenomenally long, or he could never surround _that_ baby!" "i declare, helen," laughed ruth. "i believe you are covetous." "well, henri is an awfully nice fellow--for a frenchman." "and you are the damsel who declared you proposed to remain an old maid forever and ever and the year after." "i can be an old maid and still like the boys, can't i? all the more, in fact. i sha'n't have to be true to just one man, which, i believe, would be tedious." "you should live in that part of new york called greenwich village and wear a russian blouse and your hair bobbed. those are the kind of bon mots those people throw off in conversation. light and airy persiflage, it is called," said tom from the front seat. "what do you know about such people, tommy?" demanded his sister. "there were some co-eds of that breed i met at cambridge. they were exponents of the 'new freedom,' whatever that is. bolshevism, i guess. freedom from both law and morals." "those are not the kind of girls who are helping in france," said ruth soberly. "you said it!" agreed tom. "that sort are so busy riding hobbies over here that they have no interest in what is going on in europe unless it may be in russia. well, thank heaven, there are comparatively few nuts compared with us sane folks." such thoughts as these, however, did not occupy their minds for long. just as tom had declared, they were out for fun, and the fun could be found almost anywhere by these blithe young folk. ruth's face actually changed as they journeyed on. she was both "pink and pretty," helen declared, before they camped at the wayside for luncheon. the hampers on the big car were crammed with all the necessities of food and service for several meals. there were, too, twin alcohol lamps, a coffee boiler and a teapot. altogether they were making a very satisfactory meal and were having a jolly time at the edge of a piece of wood when a big, black wood-ant dropped down jennie stone's back. at first they did not know what the matter was with her. her mouth was full, the food in that state of mastication that she could not immediately swallow it. "ow! ow! ow!" choked the plump girl, trying to get both hands at once down the neck of her shirt-waist. "what _is_ the matter, heavy?" gasped helen. "jennie, dear!" murmured ruth. "don't!" "_ma chere!_" gasped henri marchand. "is she ill?" "jennie, behave yourself!" cried her aunt. "i saw a toad swallow a hornet once," tom declared. "she acts just the same way." "as the hornet?" demanded his sister, beginning to giggle. "as the toad," answered tom, gravely. but henri had got to his feet and now reached the wriggling girl. "let me try to help!" he cried. "if you even begin wiggling that way, colonel marchand," declared helen, "you will be in danger of arrest. there is a law against _that_ dance." "ow! ow! ow!" burst out jennie once more, actually in danger of choking. "what _is_ it?" ruth demanded, likewise reaching the writhing girl. "oh, he bit me!" finally exploded jennie. ruth guessed what must be the trouble then, and she forced jennie's hands out of the neck of her waist and ran her hand down the plump girl's back. between them they killed the ant, for ruth finally recovered a part of the unfortunate creature. "but just think," consoled helen, "how much more awful it would have been if you had swallowed him, heavy, instead of his wriggling down your spinal column." "oh, don't! i can feel him wriggling now," sighed jennie. "that can be nothing more than his ghost," said tom soberly, "for ruth retrieved at least half of the ant's bodily presence." "you'll give us all the fidgets if you keep on wriggling, jennie," declared aunt kate. "well, i don't want to sit on the grass in a woodsy place again while we are on this journey," sighed jennie. "ugh! i always did hate creepy things." "including spiders, snakes, beetles and babies, i suppose?" laughed helen. "come on now. let us clear up the wreck. where do we camp to-night, tommy?" "no more camping, i pray!" squealed jennie. "i am no gypsy." "the hotel at hampton is recommended as the real thing. they have a horse show every year at hampton, you know. it is in the midst of a summer colony of wealthy people. it is the real thing," tom repeated. they made a pleasant and long run that afternoon and arrived at the hampton hotel in good season to dress for dinner. jennie and her aunt met some people they knew, and naturally jennie's fiancé and her friends were warmly welcomed by the gay little colony. men at the pleasure resorts were very scarce that year, and here were two perfectly good dancers. so it was very late when the automobile party got away from the dance at the casino. they were late the next morning in starting on the road to boston. besides, there was thunder early, and helen, having heard it rumbling, quoted: "'thunder in the morning, sailors take warning!'" and rolled over for another nap. ruth, however, at last had to get up. she was no "lie-abed" in any case, and in her present nervous state she had to be up and doing. "but it's going to ra-a-ain!" whined jennie stone when ruth went into her room. "you're neither sugar nor salt," said ruth. "henri says i'm as sweet as sugar," yawned jennie. "he is not responsible for what he says about you," said her aunt briskly. "when i think of what that really nice young man is taking on his shoulders when he marries you----" "but, auntie!" cried jennie, "he's not going to try to carry me pickaback, you know." "just the same, it is wrong for us to encourage him to become responsible for you, jennie," said her aunt. "he really should be warned." "oh!" gasped the plump girl. "let anybody dare try to get between me and my henri----" "nobody can--no fear--when you are sitting with him in the front seat of that roadster of tom's," said ruth. "you fill every atom of space, heavy." she went to the window and looked out again. heavy rolled out of bed--a good deal like a barrel, her aunt said tartly. "what is it doing outside?" yawned the plump girl. "well, it's not raining. and it is a long run to boston. we should be on our way now. the road through the hills is winding. there will be no time to stop for a gypsy picnic." "thank goodness for that!" grumbled jennie, sitting on the floor, schoolgirl fashion, to draw on her stockings. "i'll eat enough at breakfast hereafter to keep me alive until we reach a hotel, if you folks insist on inviting wood ants and other savage creatures of the forest to our luncheon table." when the party finally gathered for breakfast in the hotel dining room on this morning, it was disgracefully late. tom had been over both cars and pronounced them fit. he had ordered the tanks filled with gasoline and had tipped one of the garage men liberally to see that this was properly done. afterward captain tom declared he would never trust a garage workman again. "the only way to get a thing done well is to do it yourself--and a tip never bought any special service yet," declared the angry tom. "it is merely a form of highway robbery." but this was afterward. the party started off from hampton in high fettle and with a childlike trust in the honesty of a garage attendant. there were banks of clouds shrouding the horizon both to the west and north--the two directions from which thunder showers usually rise in this part of new england in which they were traveling. and yet the shower held off. it was some time past noon before the thunder began to mutter again. the automobile party was then in the hilly country. heretofore farms had been plentiful, although hamlets were few and far between. "if it rains," said ruth cheerfully, "of course we can take refuge in some farmhouse." "ho, for adventure among the savage natives!" cried helen. "i hope we shall meet nobody quite as savage as miss susan timmins," was aunt kate's comment. they ran into a deep cut between two wooded hills and there was not a house in sight. indeed, they had not passed a farmstead on the road for the last five miles. over the top of the wooded crest to the north curled a slate colored storm cloud, its upper edge trembling with livid lightnings. the veriest tyro of a weather prophet could see that a storm was about to break. but nobody had foretold the sudden stopping of the honeymoon car in the lead! "what is the matter with you?" cried helen, standing up in the tonneau of the big car, when tom pulled up suddenly to keep from running the maroon roadster down. "don't you see it is going to rain? we want to get somewhere." "i guess we have got somewhere," responded jennie stone. "as far as we are concerned, this seems to be our stopping place. the old car won't go." tom jumped out and hurried forward to join henri in an examination of the car's mechanism. "what happened, colonel?" he asked the frenchman, worriedly. "i have no idea, _mon ami_," responded marchand. "this is a puzzle, eh?" "first of all, let's put up the tops. that rain is already beating the woods on the summit of the hill." the two young men hurried to do this, first sheltering jennie and then together dragging the heavy top over the big car, covering the baggage and passengers. helen and ruth could fasten the curtains, and soon the women of the party were snug enough. the drivers, however, had to get into rain garments and begin the work of hunting the trouble with the roadster. the thunder grew louder and louder. flashes of lightning streaked across the sky overhead. the electric explosions were soon so frequent and furious that the girls cowered together in real terror. jennie had slipped out of the small car and crowded in with her chums and aunt kate. "i don't care!" she wailed, "henri and tom are bound to take that car all to pieces to find what has happened." but they did not have to go as far as that. in fact, before the rain really began to fall in earnest, tom made the tragic discovery. there was scarcely a drop of gasoline in the tank of the small machine. tom hurried back to the big car. he glanced at the dial of the gasoline tank. there was not enough of the fluid to take them a mile! and the emergency tank was turned on! it was at this point that he stated his opinion of the trustworthiness of garage workmen. chapter x a wild afternoon this was a serious situation. five miles behind the automobile party was the nearest dwelling on this road, and tom was sure that the nearest gasoline sign was all of five miles further back! ahead lay more or less mystery. as the rain began to drum upon the roofs of the two cars, harder and harder and faster and faster, tom got out the road map and tried to figure out their location. ridgeton was ahead somewhere--not nearer than six miles, he was sure. and the map showed no gas sign this side of ridgeton. of course there might be some wayside dwelling only a short distance ahead at which enough gasoline could be secured to drive the smaller car to ridgeton for a proper supply for both machines. but if all the gasoline was drained from the tank of the big car into that of the roadster, the latter would be scarcely able to travel another mile. and without being sure that such a supply of gas could be found within that distance, why separate the two cars? this was the sensible way tom put it to henri; and it was finally decided that tom should start out on foot with an empty can and hunt for gasoline, while colonel marchand remained with the girls and aunt kate. when the two young men ran back through the pouring rain to the big car and announced this decision, they had to shout to make the girls hear. the turmoil of the rain and thunder was terrific. "i really wish you'd wait, tom, till the tempest is over," ruth anxiously said. "suppose something happened to you on the road?" "suppose something happened to _us_ here in the auto?" shrieked helen. "but henri marchand will be with you," said her brother, preparing to depart. "and if i delay we may not reach boston to-night." "oh!" gasped jennie. "do please find some gas, tom. i'd be scared to death to stay out here in these woods." "one of the autos may bite her," scoffed helen, ready to scorn her own fears when her friend was even more fearful. "these cars are the wildest thing in these woods, i warrant." "of course you must do what you think is best, tom," said ruth, gravely. "i hope you will not have to go far." "no matter how long i am gone, ruth, don't be alarmed," he told her. "you know, nothing serious ever happens to me." "oh, no!" cried his sister. "of course not! only you get carried away on a zeppelin, or are captured by the germans and ruth has to go to your rescue. we know all about how immune you are from trouble, young man." "thanks be! there are no boches here in peaceful new england," exclaimed jennie, after tom had started off with the gasoline can. "oh!" a sharp clap of thunder seemingly just overhead followed the flash that had made the plump girl shriek. the explosion reverberated between the hills in slowly passing cadence. jennie finally removed her fingers from her ears with a groan. aunt kate had covered her eyes. with helen they cowered together in the tonneau. ruth had been sitting beside tom in the front seat when the cars were stalled, and now henri marchand was her companion. "i heard something then, colonel," ruth said in a low tone, when the salvo of thunder was passed. "you are fortunate, mademoiselle," he returned. "me, i am deafened complete'." "i heard a cry." "not from captain cameron?" "it was not his voice. listen!" said the girl of the red mill, in some excitement. despite the driving rain she put her head out beyond the curtain and listened. her face was sheltered from the beating rain. it would have taken her breath had she faced it. again the lightning flashed and the thunder crashed on its trail. ruth did not draw in her head. she wore her raincoat and a rubber cap, and on her feet heavy shoes. the storm did not frighten her. she might be anxious for tom's safety, but the ordinary chances of such a disturbance of the elements as this never bothered ruth fielding at all. as the rolling of thunder died away in the distance again, the splashing sound of the rain seemed to grow lighter, too; or ruth's hearing became attuned to the sounds about her. there it was again! a human cry! or was it? it came from up the hillside to the north of the road on which the automobiles were stalled. was there somebody up there in the wet woods--some human creature lost in the storm? for a third time ruth heard the wailing, long-drawn cry. henri had his hands full soothing jennie. helen and aunt kate were clinging together in the depths of the tonneau. possibly their eyes were covered against the glare of the lightning. ruth slipped out under the curtain on the leeward side. the rain swept down the hillside in solid platoons that marched one after another from northwest to southeast. dashing against the southern hillside, these marching columns dissolved in torrents that ruth could hear roaring down from the tree-tops and rushing in miniature floods through the forest. the road was all awash. the cars stood almost hub-deep in a yellow, foaming flood. the roadside ditches were not deep here, and the sudden freshet was badly guttering the highway. sheltered at first by the top of the big car, ruth strained her ears again to catch that cry which had come down the wind from the thickly wooded hillside. there it was! a high, piercing scream, as though the one who uttered it was in great fear or agony. nor did the cry seem to be far away. ruth went around to the other side of the automobile. the rain was letting up--or seemed to be. she crossed to the higher ground and pushed through the fringe of bushes that bordered the road. already her feet and ankles were saturated, for she had waded through water more than a foot in depth. here on the steep hillside the flowing water followed the beds of small rivulets which carried it away on either side of her. the thick branches of the trees made an almost impervious umbrella above her head. she could see up the hill through the drifting mist for a long distance. the aisles between the rows of trees seemed filled with a sort of pallid light. across the line of her vision and through one of these aisles passed a figure--whether that of an animal or the stooping body of a human being ruth fielding could not at first be sure. she had no fear of there being any savage creature in this wood. at least there could be nothing here that would attack her in broad daylight. in a lull in the echoing thunder she cried aloud: "hoo-hoo! hoo-hoo! where are you?" she was sure her voice drove some distance up the hillside against the wind. she saw the flitting figure again, and with a desire to make sure of its identity, ruth started in pursuit. had tom been present the girl of the red mill would have called his attention to the mystery and left it to him to decide whether to investigate or not. but ruth was quite an independent person when she was alone; and under the circumstances, with henri marchand so busy comforting jennie, ruth did not consider for a moment calling the frenchman to advise with her. as for helen and aunt kate, they were quite overcome by their fears. ruth was not really afraid of thunder and lightning, as many people are. she had long since learned that "thunder does not bite, and the bolt of lightning that hits you, you will never see!" heavy as the going was, and interfering with her progress through her wet garments did, ruth ran up the hill underneath the dripping trees. she saw the flitting, shadowy figure once more. again she called as loudly as she could shout: "wait! wait! i won't hurt you." whoever or whatever it was, the figure did not stay. it flitted on about two hundred yards ahead of the pursuing girl. at times it disappeared altogether; but ruth kept on up the hill and her quarry always reappeared. she was quite positive this was the creature that had shrieked, for the mournful cry was not repeated after she caught sight of the figure. "it is somebody who has been frightened by the storm," she thought. "or it is a lost child. this is a wild hillside, and one might easily be lost up here." then she called again. she thought the strange figure turned and hesitated. then, of a sudden, it darted into a clump of brush. when ruth came panting to the spot she could see no trace of the creature, or the path which it had followed. but directly before ruth was an opening in the hillside--the mouth of a deep ravine which had not been visible from the road below. down this ravine ran a noisy torrent which had cut itself a wider and deeper bed since the cloudburst on the heights. small trees, brush, and rocks had been uprooted by the force of the stream, but its current was now receding. one might walk along the edge of the brook into this hillside fastness. determined to solve the mystery of the strange creature's disappearance, and quite convinced that it was a lost child or woman, ruth fielding ventured through the brush clump and passed along the ragged bank of the tumbling brook. suddenly, in the muddy ground at her feet, the girl spied a shoe. it was a black oxford of good quality, and it had been, of course, wrenched from the foot of the person she pursued. this girl, or woman, must be running from ruth in fear. ruth picked up the shoe. it was for a small foot, but might belong to either a girl of fourteen or so or to a small woman. she could see the print of the other shoe--yes! and there was the impress of the stockinged foot in the mud. "whoever she may be," thought ruth fielding, "she is so frightened that she abandoned this shoe. poor thing! what can be the matter with her?" ruth shouted again, and yet again. she went on up the side of the turbulent brook, staring all about for the hiding place of her quarry. the rain ceased entirely and abruptly. but the whole forest was a-drip. far up through the trees she saw a sudden lightening of the sky. the clouds were breaking. but the smoke of the torrential downpour still rose from the saturated earth. when ruth jarred a bush in passing a perfect deluge fell from the trembling leaves. the girl began to feel that she had come far enough in what appeared to be a wild-goose chase. then suddenly, quite amazingly, she was halted. she plunged around a sharp turn in the ravine, trying to step on the dryer places, and found herself confronted by a man standing under the shelter of a wide-armed spruce. "oh!" gasped ruth, starting back. he was a heavy-set, bewhiskered man with gleaming eyes and rather a grim look. worst of all, he carried a gun with the lock sheltered under his arm-pit from the rain. at ruth's appearance he seemed startled, too, and he advanced the muzzle of the gun and took a stride forward at the same moment. "hello!" he growled. "be you crazy, too? what in all git out be you traipsing through these woods for in the rain?" chapter xi mr. peterby paul and "whosis" ruth fielding was more than a little startled, for the appearance of this bearded and gruff-spoken man was much against him. she had become familiar, however, during the past months with all sorts and conditions of men--many of them much more dangerous looking than this stranger. her experiences at the battlefront in france had taught her many things. among them, that very often the roughest men are the most tender with and considerate of women. ruth knew that the girls and women working in the red cross and the "y" and the salvation army might venture among the roughest _poilus_, tommies and our own yanks without fearing insult or injury. after that first startled "oh!" ruth fielding gave no sign of fearing the bearded man with the gun under his arm. she stood her ground as he approached her. "how many air there of ye, sissy?" he wanted to know. "and air ye all loose from some bat factory? that other one's crazy as all git out." "oh, did you see her?" "if ye mean that whosis that's wanderin' around yellin' like a cat-o'-mountain----" "oh, dear! it was she that was screaming so!" "i should say it was. i tried to cotch her----" "and that scared her more, i suppose." "huh! be i so scareful to look at?" the stranger demanded. "or, mebbe _you_ ain't loony, lady?" "i should hope not," rejoined ruth, beginning to laugh. "then how in tarnation," demanded the bearded man, "do you explain your wanderin' about these woods in this storm?" "why," said ruth, "i was trying to catch that poor creature, too." "that whosis?" he exclaimed. "whatever and whoever she is. see! here's one of her shoes." "do tell! she's lost it, ain't she? don't you reckon she's loony?" "it may be that she is out of her mind. but she couldn't hurt you--a big, strong man like you." "that's as may be. i misdoubted me she was some kind of a whosis," said the woodsman. "i seen her a couple of times and heard her holler ev'ry time the lightning was real sharp." "the poor creature has been frightened half to death by the tempest," said ruth. "mebbe. but where did she come from? and where did you come from, if i may ask? this yere ain't a neighborhood that many city folks finds their way into, let me tell ye." ruth told him her name and related the mishap that had happened to the two cars at the bottom of the hill. "wal, i want to know!" he responded. "out o' gasoline, heh? wal, that can be mended." "tom cameron has gone on foot for some." "which way did he go, ma'am?" "east," she said, pointing. "towards ridgeton? wal, he'll have a fine walk." "but we have not seen any gasoline sign for ever so far back on the road." "that's right. ain't no reg'lar place. but i guess i might be able to scare up enough gas to help you folks out. ye see, we got a saw mill right up this gully and we got a gasoline engine to run her. i'm a-watchin' the place till the gang come in to work next month. that there whosis got me out in the rain----" "oh! where do you suppose the poor thing has gone?" interrupted ruth. "we should do something for her." "wal, if she don't belong to you folks----" "she doesn't. but she should not be allowed to wander about in this awful way. is she a woman grown, or a child?" "i couldn't tell ye. i ain't been close enough to her. by the way, my name is peterby paul, and i'm well and fav'rably knowed about this mounting. i did have my thoughts about you, same as that whosis, i must say. but you 'pear to be all right. wait, and i'll bring ye down a couple of cans of gasoline, and you can go on and pick up the feller that's started to walk to ridgeton." "but that poor creature i followed up here, mr. paul? we _must_ find her." "you say she ain't nothin' to you folks?" "but she is alone, and frightened." "wal, i expect so. she did give me a start for fair. i don't know where she could have come from 'nless she belongs over toward ridgeton at old miz abby drake's. she's got some city folks stopping with her--" "there she is!" cried ruth, under her breath. a hobbling figure appeared for a moment on the side of the ravine. the rain had ceased now, but it still dripped plentifully from the trees. "i'm going after her!" exclaimed ruth. "all right, ma'am," said mr. peterby paul. "i guess she ain't no whosis, after all." ruth could run much faster than the strange person who had so startled both the woodsman and herself. and running lightly, the girl of the red mill was almost at her quarry's elbow before her presence was suspected by the latter. the woman turned her face toward ruth and screeched in evident alarm. she looked wild enough to be called a "whosis," whatever kind of supernatural apparition that might be. her silk dress was in rags; her hair floated down her back in a tangled mane; altogether she was a sorry sight, indeed. she was a woman of middle age, dark, slight of build, and of a most pitiful appearance. "don't be frightened! don't be afraid of me," begged ruth. "where are your friends? i will take you to them." "it is the voice of god," said the woman solemnly. "i am wicked. he will punish me. do you know how wicked i am?" she added in a tense whisper. "i have no idea," ruth replied calmly. "but i think that when we are nervous and distraught as you are, we magnify our sins as well as our troubles." really, ruth fielding felt that she might take this philosophy to herself. she had been of late magnifying her troubles, without doubt. "i have been a great sinner," said the woman. "do you know, i used to steal my little sister's bread and jam. and now she is dead. i can never make it up to her." plainly this was a serious matter to the excited mind of the poor woman. "come on down the hill with me. i have got an automobile there and we can ride to mrs. drake's in it. isn't that where you are stopping?" "yes, yes. abby drake," said the lost woman weakly. "we--we all started out for huckleberries. and i never thought before how wicked i was to my little sister. but the storm burst--such a terrible storm!" and the poor creature cowered close to ruth as the thunder muttered again in the distance. "it is the voice of god----" "come along!" urged ruth. "lots of people have made the same mistake. so aunt alvirah says. they mistake some other noise for the voice of god!" the woman was now so weak that the strong girl could easily lead her. mr. peterby paul looked at the forlorn figure askance, however. "you can't blame me for thinkin' she was a whosis," he said to ruth. "poor critter! it's lucky you came after her. she give me such a start i might o' run sort o' wild myself." "perhaps if you had tried to catch her it would only have made her worse," ruth replied, gently patting the excited woman's hand. "the voice of god!" muttered the victim of her own nervousness. "and she traipsing through these woods in a silk dress!" exclaimed mr. paul. "i tell 'em all, city folks ain't got right good sense." "maybe you are right, mr. paul," sighed ruth. "we are all a little queer, i guess. i will take her down to the car." "and i'll be right along with a couple of cans of gasoline, ma'am," rejoined peterby paul. "ain't no use you and your friends bein' stranded no longer." "if you will be so kind," ruth said. he turned back up the ravine and ruth urged the lost woman down the hill. the poor creature was scarcely able to walk, even after she had put on her lost shoe. her fears which had driven her into this quite irresponsible state, were the result of ungoverned nervousness. ruth thought seriously of this fact as she aided her charge down the hillside. she must steady her own nerves, or the result might be quite as serious. she had allowed the loss of her scenario to shake her usual calm. she knew she had not been acting like herself during this automobile journey and that she had given her friends cause for alarm. then and there ruth determined to talk no more about her loss or her fears regarding the missing scenario. if it was gone, it was gone. that was all there was to it. she would no longer worry her friends and disturb her own mental poise by ruminating upon her misfortune. when she and the lost woman got out of the ravine, ruth could hear the girls calling her. and there was colonel marchand's horizon-blue uniform in sight as he toiled up the ascent, looking for her. "don't be frightened, dear," ruth said to the startled woman. "these are my friends." then she called to helen that she was coming. colonel marchand hurried forward with an amazed question. "never mind! don't bother her," ruth said. "the poor creature has been through enough--out in all this storm, alone. we must get her to where she is stopping as soon as possible. see the condition her clothes are in!" "but, mademoiselle ruth!" gasped the frenchman. "we are stalled until captain tom comes back with the gasoline--is it not?" "we are going to have gas in a very few minutes," returned ruth gaily. "i did more than find this poor woman up on the hill. wait!" helen and jennie sprang at ruth like a pair of terriers after a cat, demanding information and explanation all in a breath. but when they realized the state of mind of the strange woman, they calmed down. they wrapped her in a dry raincoat and put her in the back of the big car. she remained quietly there with jennie's aunt kate while ruth related her adventure with mr. peterby paul and the "whosis." "goodness!" gasped helen, "i guess he named her rightly. there must be something altogether wrong with the poor creature to make her wander about these wet woods, screeching like a loon." "i'd screech, too," said jennie stone, "if i'd torn a perfectly good silk dress to tatters as she has." "think of going huckleberrying in a frock like that," murmured ruth. "i guess you are both right. and mr. peterby paul did have good reason for calling her a 'whosis'." chapter xii alongshore mr. peterby paul appeared after a short time striding down the wooded hillside balancing a five-gallon gasoline can in either hand. "i reckon you can get to ridgeton on this here," he said jovially. "guess i'd better set up a sign down here so's other of you autermobile folks kin take heart if ye git stuck." "you are just as welcome as the flowers in spring, tra-la!" cried helen, fairly dancing with delight. "you are an angel visitor, mr. paul," said the plump girl. "i been called a lot o' things besides an angel," the bearded woodsman said, his eyes twinkling. "my wife, 'fore she died, had an almighty tart tongue." "and _now_?" queried helen wickedly. "wal, wherever the poor critter's gone, i reckon she's l'arned to bridle her tongue," said mr. peterby paul cheerfully. "howsomever, as the feller said, that's another day's job. mr. frenchy, let's pour this gasoline into them tanks." ruth insisted upon paying for the gasoline, and paying well. then peterby paul gave them careful directions as to the situation of abby drake's house, at which it seemed the lost woman must belong. "abby always has her house full of city folks in the summer," the woodsman said. "she is pretty near a whosis herself, abby drake is." with which rather unfavorable intimation regarding the despised "city folks," mr. peterby paul saw them start on over the now badly rutted road. helen drove the smaller car with ruth sitting beside her. henri marchand took the wheel of the touring car, and the run to boston was resumed. "but we must not over-run tom," said ruth to her chum. "no knowing what by-path he might have tried in search of the elusive gasoline." "i'll keep the horn blowing," helen said, suiting action to her speech and sounding a musical blast through the wooded country that lay all about. "he ought to know his own auto-horn." the tone of the horn was peculiar. ruth could always distinguish it from any other as tom speeded along the cheslow road toward the red mill. but then, she was perhaps subconsciously listening for its mellow note. she tacitly agreed with helen, however, that it might be a good thing to toot the horn frequently. and the signal brought to the roadside an anxious group of women at a sprawling farmhouse not a mile beyond the spot where the two cars had been stalled. "that is the drake place. it must be!" ruth exclaimed, putting out a hand to warn colonel marchand that they were about to halt. a fleshy woman with a very ruddy face under her sunbonnet came eagerly out into the road, leading the group of evidently much worried women. "have you folks seen anything of----" "_abby!_" shrieked the woman ruth had found, and she struggled to get out of the car. "well, i declare, mary marsden!" gasped the sunbonneted woman, who was plainly abby drake. "if you ain't a sight!" "i--i'm so scared!" quavered the unforunate victim of her own nerves, as ruth ran back to help her out of the touring car. "god is going to punish me, abby." "i certainly hope he will," declared her friend, in rather a hard-hearted way. "i told you, you ought to be punished for wearing that dress up there into the berry pasture, and---- land's sakes alive! look at her dress!" afterward, when ruth had been thanked by mrs. drake and the other women, and the cars were rolling along the highway again, the girl of the red mill said to helen cameron: "i guess tom is more than half right. altogether, the most serious topic of conversation for all kinds and conditions of female humans is the matter of dress--in one way or another." "how dare you slur your own sex so?" demanded helen. "well, look at this case," her chum observed. "this mary marsden had been lost in the storm and killed for all they knew, yet abby drake's first thought was for the woman's dress." "well, it was a pity about the dress," helen remarked, proving that she agreed with abby drake and the bulk of womankind--as her twin brother oft and again acclaimed. ruth laughed. "and now if we could see poor dear tommy----" the car rounded a sharp turn in the highway. the drake house was perhaps a mile behind. ahead was a long stretch of rain-drenched road, and helen instantly cried: "there he is!" the figure of tom cameron with the empty gasoline can in his hand could scarcely be mistaken, although he was at least a mile in advance. helen began to punch the horn madly. "he'll know that," ruth cried. "yes, he looks back! won't he be astonished?" tom certainly was amazed. he proceeded to sit down on the can and wait for the cars to overtake him. "what are you traveling on?" he shouted, when helen stopped with the engine running just in front of him. "fairy gasoline?" "why, tommy, you're not so smart!" laughed his sister. "it takes ruth to find gas stations. we were stalled right in front of one, and you did not know it. hop in here and take my place and i'll run back to the other car. ruth will tell you all about it." "perhaps we had better let colonel marchand and jennie have this honeymoon car," ruth said doubtfully. "humph!" her chum observed, "i begin to believe it will be just as much a honeymoon car with you and tom in it as with that other couple. 'bless you, my children!'" she ran back to the big car with this saucy statement. tom grinned, slipped behind the wheel, and started the roadster slowly. "it must be," he observed in his inimitable drawl, "that sis has noticed that i'm fond of you, ruthie." "quite remarkable," she rejoined cheerfully. "but the war isn't over yet, tommy-boy. and if our lives are spared we've got to finish our educations and all that. why, tommy, you are scarcely out of short pants, and i've only begun to put my hair up." "jimminy!" he grumbled, "you do take all the starch out of a fellow. now tell me how you got gas. what happened?" everybody has been to boston, or expects to go there some time, so it is quite immaterial what happened to the party while at the hub. they only remained two days, anyway, then they started off alongshore through the pleasant old towns that dot the coast as far as cape ann. they saw the ancient fishing ports of marblehead, salem, gloucester and rockport, and then came back into the interior and did not see salt water again until they reached newburyport at the mouth of the merrimac. the weather remained delightfully cool and sunshiny after that heavy tempest they had suffered in the hills, and they reached portsmouth and remained at a hotel for three days when it rained again. the young folks chafed at this delay, but aunt kate declared that a hotel room was restful after jouncing over all sorts of roads for so long. "they never will build a car easy enough for auntie," jennie stone declared. "i tell pa he must buy some sort of airship for us----" "never!" cried aunt kate in quick denial. "whenever i go up in the air it will be because wings have sprouted on my shoulder blades. and i should not call an aeroplane easy riding, in any case." "at least," grumbled tom, "you can spin along without any trouble with country constables, and _that's_ a blessing." for on several occasions they had had arguments with members of the police force, in one case helping to support a justice and a constable by paying a fine. they did not travel on sunday, however, when the constables reap most of their harvest, so they really had little to complain of in that direction. nor did they travel fast in any case. after the rainy days at portsmouth, the automobile party ran on with only minor incidents and no adventures until they reached portland. there ruth telegraphed to mr. hammond that they were coming, as in her letter, written before they left cheslow, she had promised him she would. herringport, the nearest town to the moving picture camp at beach plum point, was at the head of a beautiful harbor, dotted with islands, and with water as blue as that of the bay of naples. when the two cars rolled into this old seaport the party was welcomed in person by mr. hammond, the president and producing manager of the alectrion film corporation. "i have engaged rooms for you at the hotel here, if you want them," he told ruth, after being introduced to aunt kate and colonel marchand, the only members of the party whom he had not previously met. "but i can give you all comfortable bunks with some degree of luxury at the camp. at least, we think it luxurious after our gold mining experience in the west. you will get better cooking at the point, too." "but a camp!" sighed aunt kate. "we have roughed it so much coming down here, mr. hammond." "there won't be any black ants at this camp," said her niece cheerfully. "only sand fleas," suggested the wicked tom. "you can't scare me with fleas," said jennie. "they only hop; they don't wriggle and creep." "my star in the 'seaside idyl,' miss loder, demanded hotel accommodations at first. but she soon changed her mind," mr. hammond said. "she is now glad to be on the lot with the rest of the company." "it sounds like a circus," aunt kate murmured doubtfully. "it is more than that, my dear madam," replied the manager, laughing. "but these young people----" "if aunt kate won't mind," said ruth, "let us try it, while she remains at the herringport inn." "i'll run her back and forth every day for the 'eats'," tom promptly proposed. "my duty as a chaperon----" began the good woman, when her niece broke in with: "in numbers there is perfect safety, auntie. there are a whole lot of girls down there at the point." "and we have chaperons of our own, i assure you," interposed mr. hammond, treating aunt kate's objection seriously. "miss loder has a cousin who always travels with her. our own mother paisley, who plays character parts, has daughters of her own and is a lovely lady. you need not fear, madam, that the conventions will be broken." "we won't even crack 'em, aunt kate," declared helen rouguishly. "i will watch jen like a cat would a mouse." "humph!" observed the plump girl, scornfully. "_this_ mouse, in that case, is likely to swallow the cat!" chapter xiii the hermit "now, tell me, miss ruth," said mr. hammond, having taken the girl of the red mill into his own car for the short run to beach plum point, "what is this trouble about your new scenario? you have excited my curiosity during all these months about the wonderful script, and now you say it is not ready for me." "oh, mr. hammond!" exclaimed ruth, "i fear it will never be ready for you." "nonsense! don't lose heart. you have merely come to one of those thank-you-ma'ams in story writing that all authors suffer. wait. it will come to you." "no, no!" sighed ruth. "it is nothing like that. i had finished the scenario. i had it all just about as i wanted it, and then----" "then what?" he asked in wonder at her emotion. "it--it was stolen!" "stolen?" "yes. and all my notes--everything! i--i can't talk about it. and i never could write it again," sobbed ruth. "it is the best thing i ever did, mr. hammond." "if it is better than 'the heart of a schoolgirl', or 'the forty-niners', or 'the boys of the draft', then it must be some scenario, miss ruth. the last two are still going strong, you know. and i have hopes of the 'seaside idyl' catching the public fancy just when we are all getting rather weary of war dramas. "if you can only rewrite this new story----" "but mr. hammond! i am sure it has been stolen by somebody who will make use of it. some other producer may put it on the screen, and then my version would fall flat--if no worse." "humph! and you have been so secret about it!" "i took your advice, mr. hammond. i have told nobody about it--not a thing!" "and somebody unknown stole it?" "we think it was a vagrant actor. a tramp. just the sort of person, though, who would know how to make use of the script." "humph! all actors were considered 'vagrants' under the old english law--in shakespeare's younger days, for instance," remarked mr. hammond. "you see how unwise it would be for me to try to rewrite the story--even if i could--and try to screen it." "i presume you are right. yes. but i hoped you would bring a story with you that we could be working on at odd times. i have a good all-around company here on the lot." "i had most of your principals in mind when i wrote my scenario," sighed ruth. "but i could not put my mind to that same subject now. i am discouraged, mr. hammond." "i would not feel that way if i were you, miss ruth," he advised, trying, as everybody else did, to cheer her. "you will get another good idea, and like all other born writers, you will just _have_ to give expression to it. meantime, of course, if i get hold of a promising scenario, i shall try to produce it." "i hope you will find a good one, mr. hammond." he smiled rather ruefully. "of course, there is scarcely anybody on the lot who hasn't a picture play in his or her pocket. i was possibly unwise last week to offer five hundred dollars spot cash for a play i could make use of, for now i suppose there will be fifty to read. everybody, from jacks, the property man, to the old hermit, believes he can write a scenario." "who is the hermit?" asked ruth, with some curiosity. "i don't know. nobody seems to know who he is about herringport. he was living in an old fish-house down on the point when we came here last week with the full strength of the company. and i have made use of the old fellow in your 'seaside idyl'. "he seems to be a queer duck. but he has some idea of the art of acting, it seems. director jim hooley is delighted with him. but they tell me the old fellow is scribbling all night in his hut. the scenario bug has certainly bit that old codger. he's out for my five hundred dollars," and the producing manager laughed again. "i hope you get a good script," said ruth earnestly. "but don't ask me to read any of them, mr. hammond. it does seem as though i never wanted to look at a scenario again!" "then you are going to miss some amusement in this case," he chuckled. "why so?" "i tell you frankly i do not expect much from even those professional actors. it was my experience even before i went into the motion picture business that plays submitted by actors were always full of all the old stuff--all the old theatrical tricks and the like. actors are the most insular people in existence, i believe. they know how plays should be written to fulfill the tenets of the profession; but invention is 'something else again'." the young people who had motored so far were welcomed by many of mr. hammond's company who had acted in "the forty-niners" and had met ruth and her friends in the west, as related in "ruth fielding in the saddle." the shacks that had been built especially for the company's use were comfortable, even if they did smell of new pine boards. the men of the company lived in khaki tents. there were several old fish-houses that were likewise being utilized by the members of the company. beach plum point was the easterly barrier of sand and rock that defended the beautiful harbor from the atlantic breakers. it was a wind-blown place, and the moan of the surf on the outer reef was continually in the ears of the campers on the point. the tang of salt in the air could always be tasted on the lips when one was out of doors. and the younger folks were out on the sands most of the time when they were not working, sleeping, or eating. "we are going to have some fun here," promised tom cameron to ruth, after their party had got established with its baggage. "see that hard strip of beach? that's no clamflat. i am going to race my car on that sand. palm beach has nothing on this. jackman, the property man (you remember jacks, don't you, ruth?), says the blackfish and bass are biting off the point. you girls can act in movies if you like, but _i_ am going fishing." "don't talk movies to me," sighed the girl. "i almost wish we had not come, tom." "nonsense! you shall go fishing with me. put on your oldest duds and--well, maybe you will have to strip off your shoes and stockings. it is both wet and slippery on the rocks." "pooh! i'll put on my bathing suit and a sweater. i never was afraid of water yet," ruth declared. this was the morning after their arrival. tom had been up to the port and brought down aunt kate for the day. aunt kate sat under an umbrella near where the company was working on location, and she scribbled all day in a notebook. jennie whispered that she, too, was bitten by the scenario bug! "i feel it coming over me," announced helen. "i've got what i think is a dandy idea." "oh, there's too much to do," jennie stone said. "i couldn't find time to dabble in literature." "my, oh, my!" gasped helen, with scorn. "how busy we are! you and henri spend all your time making eyes at each other." "but just think, nell!" cried the plump girl. "he's got to go back to france and fight----" "and so has my tom." "but tom is only your brother." "and henri is nothing at all to you," rejoined helen cruelly. "a fiancé is only an expectation. you may change your mind about henri." "never!" cried jennie, with horror. "well, he keeps you busy, i grant. and there go tom and ruth mooning off together with fish lines. lots of fishing _they_ will do! they are almost as bad as you and henri. why!" ejaculated helen in some heat, "i am just driven to writing scenarios to keep from dying of loneliness." "i notice that 'juvenile lead,' mr. simmons, is keeping you quite busy," remarked jennie slyly, as she turned away. it was a fact that ruth and tom enjoyed each others' company. but helen need not have been even a wee bit jealous. to tell the truth, she did not like to "get all mussed up," as she expressed it, by going fishing. to ruth the adventure was a glad relief from worriment. much as she tried, she could not throw off all thought of her lost scenario. she welcomed every incident that promised amusement and mental relaxation. some of the troupe of actors--the men, mostly--were bathing off the point. "and see that man in the old skiff!" cried ruth. "'the lone fisherman'." the individual in question sat upon a common kitchen chair in the skiff with a big, patched umbrella to keep the sun off, and was fishing with a pole that he had evidently cut in the woods along the shore. "that is that hermit fellow," said tom. "he's a queer duck. and the boys bother him a good deal." he was angrily driving some of the swimmers away from his fishing location at that moment. it was plain the members of the moving picture company used the hermit as a butt for their jokes. while one fellow was taking up the hermit's attention in front, another bather rose silently behind him and reached into the bottom of the skiff. what this second fellow did tom and ruth could not see. "the old chap can't swim a stroke," explained one of the laughing bathers to the visitors. "he's as afraid of water as a cat. now you watch." but tom and ruth saw nothing to watch. they went on to the tip of the point and tom prepared the fishing tackle and baited the hooks. just as ruth made her first cast there sounded a scream from the direction of the lone fisherman. "what is it?" she gasped, dropping her pole. the bathers had deserted the old man in the skiff, and were now at some distance. he was anchored in probably twenty feet of water. to the amazement of ruth and her companion, the skiff had sunk until its gunwales were scarcely visible. the hermit had wrenched away his umbrella and was now balanced upon the chair on his feet, in danger of sinking. his fear of this catastrophe was being expressed in unstinted terms. chapter xiv a quotation "do help him, tom!" cried ruth fielding, and she started for the spot where the man and the skiff were sinking. tom cast aside his sweater, kicked his sneakers off, and plunged into the tide. ruth was quite as lightly dressed as tom; but she saw that he could do all that was necessary. that was, to bring the frightened man ashore. this "hermit" as they called him, was certainly very much afraid of the water. he splashed a good deal, and tom had to speak sharply to keep him from getting a strangle-hold about his own neck. "jimminy! but that was a mean trick," panted tom, when he got ashore with the fisherman. "somebody pulled the plug out of the bottom of the skiff and first he knew, he was going down." "it is a shame," agreed ruth, looking at the victim of the joke curiously. he was a thin-featured, austere looking man, scrupulously shaven, but with rather long hair that had quite evidently been dyed. now that it was plastered to his crown by the salt water (for he had been completely immersed more than once in his struggle with tom cameron) his hair was shown to be quite thin and of a greenish tinge at the roots. the shock of being dipped in the sea so unexpectedly was plainly no small one for the hermit. he stood quite unsteadily on the strand, panting and sputtering. "young dogs! no respect for age and ability in this generation. i might have been drowned." "well, it's all over now," said tom comfortingly. "where do you live?" "over yonder, young man," replied the hermit, pointing to the ocean side of the point. "we will take you home. you lie down for a while and you will feel better," ruth said soothingly. "we will come back here afterward and get your skiff ashore." "thank you, miss," said the man courteously. "i'll make those fellows who played the trick on you get the boat ashore," promised tom, running for his shoes and sweater. the hermit proved to be a very uncommunicative person. ruth tried to get him to talk about himself as they crossed the rocky spit, but all that he said of a personal nature was that his name was "john." his shack was certainly a lonely looking hovel. it faced the tumbling atlantic and it seemed rather an odd thing to ruth that a man who was so afraid of the sea should have selected such a spot for his home. the hermit did not invite them to enter his abode. he promised ruth that he would make a hot drink for himself and remove his wet garments and lie down. but he only seemed moderately grateful for their assistance, and shut the door of the shack promptly in their faces when he got inside. "just as friendly as a sore-headed dog," remarked tom, as they went back to the bay side of the point. "perhaps the others have played so many tricks on him that he is suspicious of even our assistance," ruth said. thus speaking, she stooped to pick up a bit of paper in the path. it had been half covered by the sand and might have lain there a long time, or only a day. just why this bit of brown wrapping paper had caught her attention, it would be hard to say. ruth might have passed it a dozen times without noticing it. but now she must needs turn the paper over and over in her hands as she watched tom, with the help of the rather abashed practical jokers, haul the water-logged skiff ashore. she had forgotten the fishing poles they had abandoned on the rocks, and sat down upon a boulder. suddenly she discovered that there was writing on the bit of paper she had picked up. it was then that her attention really became fixed upon her find. the characters had been written with an indelible pencil. the dampness had only blurred the writing instead of erasing it. her attention thus engaged, she idly scrutinized more than the blurred lines. her attitude as she sat there on the boulder slowly stiffened; her gaze focused upon the paper. "why! what is it?" she murmured at last. the blurred lines became clearer to her vision. it was the wording of the phrase rather than the handwriting that enthralled her. this that follows was all that was written on the paper: "flash:-- "as in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be----" to the ordinary observer, with no knowledge of what went before or followed this quotation, the phrase must seem idle. but the word "flash" is used by scenario writers and motion picture makers, indicating an explanatory phrase thrown on the screen. and this quoted phrase struck poignantly to ruth fielding's mind. for it was one she had used in that last scenario--the one that had so strangely disappeared from the summer-house back at the red mill! amazed--almost stunned--by this discovery, she sat on the boulder scarcely seeing what tom and the others were doing toward salvaging the old hermit's skiff and other property. thoughts regarding the quotation shuttled back and forth in the girl's mind in a most bewildering way. the practical side of her character pointed out that there really could be no significance in this discovery. it could not possibly have anything to do with her stolen script. yet the odd phrase, used in just this way, had been one of the few "flashes" indicated in her scenario. was it likely that anybody else, writing a picture, would use just that phrase? she balanced the improbability of this find meaning anything at all to her against the coincidence of another author using the quotation in writing a scenario. she did not know what to think. which supposition was the more improbable? the thought was preposterous that the paper should mean anything to her. ruth was about to throw it away; and then, failing to convince herself that the quotation was but idly written, she tucked the piece of paper into the belt of her bathing suit. when tom was ready to go back to their fishing station, ruth went with him and said nothing about the find she had made. they had fair luck, all told, and the chef at the camp produced their catch in a dish of boiled tautog with egg sauce at dinner that evening. the company ate together at a long table, like a logging camp crew, only with many more of the refinements of life than the usual logging crew enjoys. it was, however, on a picnic plane of existence, and there was much hilarity. these actor folk were very pleasant people. even the star, miss loder, was quite unspoiled by her success. "you know," she confessed to ruth (everybody confided in ruth), "i never would have been anything more than a stock actress in some jerkwater town, as we say in the west, if the movies hadn't become so popular. i have what they call the 'appealing face' and i can squeeze out real tears at the proper juncture. those are two very necessary attributes for a girl who wishes to gain film success." "but you can really act," ruth said honestly. "i watched you to-day." "i should be able to act. i come of a family who have been actors for generations. acting is like breathing to me. but, of course, it is another art to 'register' emotion in the face, and very different from displaying one's feelings by action and audible expression. you know, one of our most popular present-day stage actresses got her start by an ability to scream off-stage. nothing like that in the movies." "you should hear jennie stone with a black ant down her back," put in helen, with serious face. "i am sure heavy could go the actress you speak of one better, and become even more popular." "i am not to be blamed if i squeal at crawly things," sniffed the plump girl, hearing this. "see how brave i am in most other respects." but that night jennie exhibited what tom called her "scarefulness" in most unmistakable fashion, and never again could she claim to be brave. she gave her chums in addition such a fright that they were not soon over talking about it. the three college girls had cots in a small shack that mr. hammond had given up to their use. it was one of the shacks nearest the shore of the harbor. several boat-docks near by ran out into the deep water. it was past midnight when jennie was for some reason aroused. usually she slept straight through the night, and had to be awakened by violent means in time for breakfast. she was not startled, but awoke naturally, and found herself broad awake. she sat up in her cot, almost convinced that it must be daylight. but it was the moon shining through a haze of clouds that lighted the interior of the shack. the other two girls were breathing deeply. the noises she heard did not at first alarm jennie. there was the whisper of the tide as it rolled the tiny pebbles and shells up the strand and, receding, swept them down again. it chuckled, too, among the small piers of the near-by docks. then the listening girl heard footsteps--or what she took to be that sound. they approached the shack, then receded. she began to be curious, then felt a tremor of alarm. who could be wandering about the camp at this grim hour of the night? she was unwise enough to allow her imagination to wake up, too. she stole from her bed and peered out of the screened window that faced the water. almost at once a moving object met her frightened gaze. it was a figure all in white which seemed to float down the lane between the tents and out upon the nearest boat-dock. afterward jennie declared she could have suffered one of these spirit-looking manifestations in silence. she crammed the strings of her frilled nightcap between her teeth as a stopper! this spectral figure was going away from the shack, anyway. it appeared to be bearing something in its arms. but then came a second ghost, likewise burdened. gasping, jennie waited, clinging to the window-sill for support. a third spectre appeared, rising like banquo's spirit at macbeth's feast. this was too much for the plump girl's self-control. she opened her mouth, and her half-strangled shriek, the partially masticated cap-strings all but choking her, aroused ruth and helen to palpitating fright. "oh! what is it?" demanded helen, bounding out of bed. "ghosts! oh! waw!" gurgled jennie, and sank back into her friend's arms. helen was literally as well as mentally overcome. jennie's weight carried her to the straw matting with a bump that shook the shack and brought ruth, too, out of bed. chapter xv an amazing situation "'ghost'?" cried ruth fielding. "let me see it! remember the campus ghost back at old briarwood, helen? i haven't seen a ghost since that time." "ugh! get this big elephant off of me!" grunted her chum, impolitely as well as angrily. "_she's_ no ghost, i do assure you. she's of the earth, earthy, and no mistake! ouch! get off, heavy!" "oh! oh! oh!" groaned the plump girl. "i--i saw them. three of them!" "sounds like a three-ring circus," snapped helen. but ruth was peering through the window. she saw nothing, and complained thereof: "jen has had a nightmare. i don't see a thing." "nightmare, your granny!" sputtered the plump girl, finally rolling off her half crushed friend. "i saw it--them--_those_!" "your grammar is so mixed i wouldn't believe you on oath," declared helen, getting to her own bare feet and paddling back to her cot for slippers and a negligee. "o-o-oh, it is chilly," agreed ruth, grabbing a wrap, too. "do tell us about it, jennie," she begged. "did you see your ghost through the window here?" "it isn't my ghost!" denied the plump girl. "i'm alive, ain't i?" "but you're not conscious," grumbled helen. "i can see!" wailed jennie. "i haven't lost my eyesight." "stop!" ruth urged. "let us get at the foundation of this trouble. you say you saw----" "i saw what i saw!" "oh, see-saw!" cried helen. "we're all loony, now." ruth was about to ask another question, but she was again looking through the window. she suddenly bit off a cry of her own. she had to confess that the sight she saw was startling. "is--is that the ghost, jennie?" she breathed, seizing the plump girl by her arm and dragging her forward. jennie gave one frightened look through the window and immediately clapped her palms over her eyes. "ow!" she wailed in muffled tones. "they're coming back." they were, indeed! three white figures in indian file came stalking up the long dock. they approached the camp in a spectral procession and had she been awakened to see them first of all, ruth might have been startled herself. helen peered over her chum's shoulder and in teeth-chattering monotone breathed in ruth's ear the query: "what is it?" "it--it's heavy's ghost." "not mine! not mine!" denied the plump girl. "oh!" gasped helen, spying the stalking white figures. it was the moonlight made them appear so ghostly. ruth knew that, of course, at once. and then---- "who ever saw ghosts carrying garbage cans before?" ejaculated the girl of the red mill. "mercy me, heavy! do stop your wailing. it is the chef and his two assistants who have got up to dump the garbage on the out-going tide. what a perfect scare-cat you are!" "you don't mean it, ruth?" whimpered the plump girl. "is that _all_ they were?" helen began to giggle. and it covered her own fright. ruth was rather annoyed. "if you had remained in bed and minded your own business," she said to jennie, "you would not have seen ghosts, or got us up to see them. now go back to sleep and behave yourself." "yes, ma'am," murmured the abashed jennie stone. "how silly of me! i was never afraid of a cook before--no, indeed." helen continued to giggle spasmodically; but she fell asleep soon. as for jennie, she began to breathe heavily almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. but ruth must needs lie awake for hours, and naturally the teeth of her mind began to knaw at the problem of that bit of paper she had found in the sand. the more she thought of it the less easy it was to discard the idea that the writing on the paper was a quotation from her own scenario script. it seemed utterly improbable that two people should use that same expression as a "flash" in a scenario. yet, if this paper was a connecting link between her stolen manuscript and the thief, _who was the thief_? it would seem, of course, if this supposition were granted, that some member of the company of film actors mr. hammond had there at beach plum point had stolen the scenario. at least, the stolen scenario must be in the possession of some member of the company. who could it be? naturally ruth considered this unknown must be one of the company who wished mr. hammond to accept and produce a scenario. ruth finally fell into a troubled sleep with the determination in her mind to take more interest in the proposed scenario-writing contest than she had at first intended. she could not imagine how anybody could take her work and change it so that she would not recognize it! the plot of the story was too well wrought and the working out of it too direct. she did not think that she had it perfect. only that she had perfected the idea as well as she was able. but changing it would not hide from her the recognition of her own brain-child. so after breakfast she went to mr. hammond to make inquiry about the scenario contest. "ha, ha! so you are coming to yourself, miss ruth!" he chuckled. "i told you you would feel different. i only wish _you_ would get a real smart idea for a picture." "nothing like that!" she told him, shaking her head. "i could not think of writing a new scenario. you don't know what it means to me--the loss of that picture i had struggled so long with and thought so much about. i---- "but let us not talk of it," she hastened to add. "i am curious regarding the stories that have been offered to you." "you need not fear competition," he replied. "just as i told you, all these perfectly good acting people base their scenarios on dramas they have played or seen played. they haven't got the idea of writing for the screen at all, although they work before the camera." "and that is no wonder!" exclaimed ruth. "the way the directors take scenes, the actors never get much of an idea of the continuity of the story they are making. but these stories?" "so far, i haven't found a possible scenario. and i have looked at more than a score." "you don't mean it!" "i most certainly do," he assured her. "want to look at them?" "why--yes," confessed ruth. "i am curious, as i tell you." "go to it!" exclaimed mr. hammond, opening a drawer of his desk and pointing to the pile of manuscripts within. "consider yourself at home here. i am going over to the port with director hooley and most of the members of the company. we have found just the location for the shooting of that scene in your 'seaside idyl' where the ladies' aid society holds its 'gossip session' in the grove--remember?" "oh, yes," ruth replied, not much interested, as she took the first scenario out of the drawer. "and hooley's found some splendid types, too, around the village. they really have a sewing circle connected with the herringport union church, and i have agreed to help the ladies pay for having the church edifice painted if they will let us film a session of the society with our principal character actors mixed in with the local group. the sun is good to-day." he went away, and a little later ruth heard the automobiles start for herringport. she had the forenoon to herself, for the rest of her party had gone out in a motor boat fishing--a party from which she had excused herself. eagerly she began to examine the scenarios submitted to mr. hammond. the possibility that she might find one of them near enough like her own lost story to suggest that it had been plagiarized, made ruth's heart beat faster. she could not forget the quotation on the scrap of brown paper. somebody on this point--and it seemed that the "somebody" must be one of the moving picture company--had written that quotation from her scenario. she felt that this could not be denied. chapter xvi ruth solves one problem had ruth fielding been confronted with the question: "did she expect to find a clue to the identity of the person who had stolen her scenario before she left the red mill?" she could have made no confident answer. she did not know what she would find when she sat down at mr. hammond's desk for the purpose of looking over the submitted stories. doubt and suspicion, however, enthralled her mind. she was both curious and anxious. ruth had no particular desire to read the manuscripts. in any case she did not presume mr. hammond desired her advice about selecting a script for filming. she skimmed through the first story. it had not a thing in it that would suggest in the faintest way any familiarity of the author with her own lost scenario. for two hours she fastened her attention upon one after another of the scenarios, often by main will-power, because of the utter lack of interest in the stories the writers had tried to put over. without being at all egotistical, ruth fielding felt confident that had any one of these scenario writers come into possession of her lost script, and been dishonest enough to use it, he would have turned out a much better story. but not a trace of her original idea and its development was to be found in these manuscripts. her suspicion had been needlessly roused. ruth could not deny that the scrap of paper found in the sand was quite as mysterious as ever. the quotation on it seemed to be taken directly from her own scenario. but there was absolutely nothing in this pile of manuscripts to justify her suspicions. she was just as dissatisfied after scanning all the submitted scenarios as mr. hammond seemed to be with the day's work when the company came back from herringport in the late afternoon. "i suppose it is a sanguine disposition that keeps me at this game, miss ruth," he sighed. "i always expect much more than i can possibly get out of a situation; and when i fail i go on hoping just the same." "i am sure that is a commendable disposition to possess," she laughed. "what has gone so wrong?" "it is the old story of leading the horse to water, and the inability of making him drink. this is a balky horse, and no mistake!" "do tell me what you mean, mr. hammond?" "why, i told you we had got what the ladies call 'perfectly lovely' types for that scene to-day. you ought to see them, miss ruth! you would be charmed. just what the dear public expects a back-country sewing circle should look like." "oh!" "and they all promised to be on hand at the location--and they were. i have had my experiences with amateurs before. i had begged the ladies to dress just as they would were they going to an actual meeting of their sewing society----" "and they all dressed up?" laughed ruth, clasping her hands. "well, that i expected to contend with. and most of them even in their best bib and tucker were not out of the picture. not at all! that was not the main difficulty and the one that has spoiled our day's work." "indeed?" "i am afraid jim hooley will have to fake the whole scene after all," continued the manager. "those women came all dressed up 'to have their pictures took,' it is true. but the worst of it is, they could not be natural. it was impossible. they showed in every move and every glance that they were sitting with a bunch of actors and were not at all sure that what they were doing was altogether the right thing. "we worked over them as though it were a 'mob scene' and there were five hundred in it instead of twenty. but twenty wooden dummies would have filmed no more unnaturally. you know, in your story, they are supposed to be discussing the bit of gossip about your heroine's elopement with the schoolteacher. i could not work up a mite of enthusiasm in their minds about such a topic." ruth laughed. but she saw that the matter was really serious for mr. hammond and the director. she became sympathetic. "i fancy that if they had had a real scandal to discuss," she observed, "their faces would have registered more poignant interest." "'poignant interest'!" scoffed the manager in disgust. "if these herringport tabbies had the toothache they would register only polite anguish--in public. they are the most insular and self-contained and self-suppressed women i ever saw. these down-easters! they could walk over fiery ploughshares and only wanly smile----" ruth went off into a gale of laughter at this. mr. hammond was a westerner by birth, and he found the yankee character as hard to understand as did henri marchand. "have you quite given up hope, mr. hammond?" ruth asked. "well, we'll try again to-morrow. oh, they promised to come again! they are cutting out rompers, or flannel undervests, i suppose, for the south sea island children; or something like that. they are interested in that job, no doubt. "i wanted them to 'let go all holts,' as these fishermen say, and be eager and excited. they are about as eager as they would be doing their washing, or cleaning house--if as much!" and mr. hammond's disappointment became too deep for further audible expression. ruth suddenly awoke to the fact that one of her best scenes in the "seaside idyl" was likely to be spoiled. she talked with mr. hooley about it, and when the day's run was developed and run off in one of the shacks which was used for a try-out room, ruth saw that the manager had not put the matter too strongly. the sewing circle scene lacked all that snap and go needed to make it a realistic piece of action. of course, there were enough character actors in the company to use in the scene; but naturally an actor caricatures such parts as were called for in this scene. the professional would be likely to make the characters seem grotesque. that was not the aim of the story. "i thought you were not going to take any interest in this 'seaside idyl,' at all," suggested helen, when ruth was talking about the failure of the scene after supper that night. "i can't help it. my reputation as a scenario writer is at stake, just as much as is mr. hooley's reputation as director," ruth said, smiling. "i really didn't mean to have a thing to do with the old picture. but i can see that somebody has got to put a breath of naturalness into those ladies' aid society women, or this part of the picture will be a fizzle." "and our ruth," drawled jennie, "is going to prescribe one of her famous cure-alls, is she?" "i believe i can make them look less like a lot of dummies while they are cutting out rompers for cannibal island pickaninnies," laughed ruth. "tom, i am going to the port with you the first thing in the morning." "by all means," said captain cameron. "i am yours to command." her newly aroused interest in the scenario at present being filmed, was a good thing for ruth fielding. having found nothing at all in the submitted stories that suggested her own lost story, the girl of the red mill tried to put aside again the thing that so troubled her mind. and this new interest helped. in the morning before breakfast she and tom ran over to the port in the maroon roadster. while they were having breakfast at the inn, ruth asked the waitress, who was a native of this part of the country, about the union church and some of the more intimate life-details of the members of its congregation. it is not hard to uncover neighborhood gossip of a kind not altogether unkindly in any similar community. the union church had a new minister, and he was young. he was now away on his vacation, and more than one local beauty and her match-making mamma would have palpitation of the heart before he returned for fear that the young clergyman would have his heart interests entangled by some designing "foreigner." tom had no idea as to what ruth fielding was getting at through this questioning of the beaming hebe who waited on them at breakfast. and he was quite as much in the dark as to his friend's motive when ruth announced their first visit to be to the office of the herringport _harpoon_, the local news sheet. chapter xvii john, the hermit's, contribution a man with bushy hair, a pencil stuck over his ear, and wearing an ink-stained apron, met them in the office of the _harpoon_. this was ezra payne, editor and publisher of the weekly news-sheet, and this was his busiest day. the _harpoon_, ruth had learned, usually went into the mails on this day. "tut, tut! i see. is this a joke?" mr. payne pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow in uncertainty. "a whole edition, miss? wall, i dunno. i do have hard work selling all the edition some weeks. but i have reg'lar subscribers----" "this will not interfere with your usual edition of the _harpoon_," she hastened to assure him. "how's that, miss?" "i want to buy an edition of one copy." "one copy!" "yes, sir. i want something special printed in one paper. then you can take it out and print your regular edition." "tut, tut! i see. is this a joke?" mr. payne asked, his eyes beginning to twinkle. "it is the biggest joke you ever heard of," declared ruth. "and who's the joke on?" "wait and see what i write," ruth said, sitting down at the battered old desk where he labored over his editorials and proofsheets. opening a copy of the last week's _harpoon_ that lay there, she was able to see the whole face of the paper. "i've got the inside run off," said mr. payne, still doubtfully. "so you can't run anything on the second and third pages." "oh, i want the most prominent place for my item," laughed ruth. "front page, top column---- here it is!" he bent over her. tom stared in wonder, too, as ruth pointed to an item under a certain heading at the top of the middle column of the front page of the sheet. "that is just where i want my item to appear," she said briskly to the editor. "you run that--that department there every week?" "oh, yes, miss. the people expect it. you know how folks are. they look for those items first of all in a country paper." "yes. it is so. one of the new york dailies is still printed with that human foible in mind. it caters to this very curiosity that your _harpoon_ caters to." "yes, miss. you're right. most folks have the same curiosity, city or country. shakespeare spoke of the 'seven ages of man'; but there are only three of particular interest--to womankind, anyway; and they are all _here_." "there you go! slurring the women," she laughed. "or do you speak compliments?" "i guess the women have it right," chuckled mr. payne. "now, what is it you want me to print in one paper for you?" ruth drew a scratch pad to her and scribbled rapidly for a couple of minutes. then she passed the page to the newspaper proprietor. mr. payne read it, stared at her, pursed his lips, and then read it again. suddenly he burst into a cackle of laughter, slapping his thigh in high delight. "by gravy!" he chortled, "that's a good one on the dominie. by gravy! wait till i tell----" "don't you tell anybody, mr. payne," interrupted ruth, smiling, but firmly. "i am buying your secrecy as well as your edition of _one copy_." "i get you! i get you!" declared the old fellow. "this is to be on the q.t.?" "positively." "you sit right here. the front page is all made up on the stone, marriages, births, death notices, and all. i'll set the paragraph and slip it in at the top o' the column. my boy is out, but this young man can help me lift the page into the press. she's all warmed up, and i was going to start printing when edgar comes back from breakfast." he grabbed the piece of copy and went off into the printing room, chuckling. half an hour later the first paper came from the press, and ruth and tom bent over it. the item the girl had written was plainly printed in the position she had chosen on the front page of the _harpoon_. "now, you are to keep still about this," ruth said, threatening mr. payne with a raised finger. "i don't know a thing about it," he promised, pocketing the bill she took from her purse, and in high good humor over the joke. tom helped him take the front page from the press again. the printer unlocked the chase, and removed and distributed the three lines he had set up at ruth's direction. the crowd from beach plum point came over in the cars about noontime. aunt kate had remained at the inn on this morning, and she and ruth walked to the "location," which was a beautiful old shaded front yard at the far end of the village. helen and jennie had come with the real actors, and were to appear in the picture. the story related incidents at a sunday-school picnic, and most of the comedy had already been filmed on the lot. the scene around the long sewing table under the trees, when the ladies' aid was at work with needle and tongue, should be the principal incident of this reel devoted to the picnic. the heroine, to the amazement of the village gossips, has run away with the schoolmaster and married him in the next county. a certain character in the picture runs in with this bombshell of news and explodes it in the midst of the group about the sewing table. the day before this point had failed to make much impression upon the amateur members of the company engaged in this typical scene. the herringport ladies were not at all interested in such a thing happening to the town's schoolmaster, for to tell the truth the local schoolmaster was an old married man with a house full of children and nothing at all romantic about him. ruth took mr. hooley aside and showed him the copy of the _harpoon_ she had had printed, and whispered to him her idea of the change in the action of the scenario. he seized upon the scheme--and the paper--with gusto. "you are a jewel, miss fielding!" he declared. "if this doesn't make those old tabbies come to life and act naturally, nothing ever will!" ruth left the matter in the director's hands and retired from the location. she had no intention herself of appearing in the picture. she found mr. hammond sitting in his automobile in a state of good-humor. "you seem quite sure that the work will go better to-day, mr. hammond," ruth observed, with curiosity as to the reason for his apparent enjoyment. "whether it does or not, miss ruth," he responded. "there is something that i fancy is going to be more than a little amusing." he tapped a package wrapped in a soiled newspaper which lay on the seat beside him. "thank goodness, i can still enjoy a joke." "what is the joke? let me enjoy it, too," she said. "with the greatest of pleasure. i'll let you read it, if you like--as you did those other scenarios." "what! is it a movie story?" she asked. "so i am assured. it is the contribution of john, the hermit. he brought it to me just before we started over here this morning. poor old codger! just look here, miss ruth." mr. hammond turned back the loose covering of the package on the automobile seat. ruth saw a packet of papers, seemingly of roughly trimmed sheets of wrapping paper and of several sizes. at the top of the upper sheet was the title of the hermit's scenario. it was called "plain mary." she glanced down the page, noting that it was written in a large, upright, hand and with an indelible pencil. ruth fielding had not the least idea that she was to take any particular interest in this picture-story. she smiled more because mr. hammond seemed so amused than for any other reason. secretly she thought that most of these moving picture people were rather unkind to the strange old man who lived alone on the seaward side of the beach plum point. "want to read it over?" mr. hammond asked her. "i would consider it a favor, for i've got to go back and try to catch up with my correspondence. i expect this is worse than those you skimmed through yesterday." ruth did not hear him. suddenly she had seen something that had not at first interested her. she read the first few lines of the opening, and saw nothing in them of importance. it was the writing itself that struck her. "why!" she suddenly gasped. she was reminded of something that she had seen before. this writing---- "let me go back to the camp with you, mr. hammond," she said, slipping into the seat and taking the packet of written sheets into her lap. "i--i will look through this scenario, if you like. there is something down there on the point that i want." "sure. be glad to have your company," he said, letting in his clutch after pushing the starter. "we're off." ruth did not speak again just then. with widening eyes she began to devour the first pages of the hermit's manuscript. chapter xviii uncertainties the automobile purred along the shell road, past the white-sided, green-blinded houses of the retired ship captains and the other well-to-do people of herringport. the car ran so smoothly that ruth might have read all the way. but after the first page or two--those containing the opening scenes of "plain mary"--she dared not read farther. not yet. it was not that there was a familiar phrase in the upright chirography of the old hermit. the story merely suggested a familiar situation to ruth's mind. thus far it was only a suggestion. there was something else she felt she must prove or disprove first of all. she sat beside mr. hammond quite speechless until they came to the camp on the harbor shore of beach plum point. he went off cheerfully to his letter writing, and ruth entered the shack she occupied with helen and jennie. she opened her locked writing-case. under the first flap she inserted her fingers and drew forth the wrinkled scrap of paper she had picked up on the sands. a glance at the blurred writing assured her that it was the same as that of the hermit's scenario. "flash: "as in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be----" shakingly ruth sat down before the cheap little maple table. she spread open the newspaper wrapper and stared again at the title page of "plain mary." that title was nothing at all like the one she had given her lost scenario. but a title, after all, meant very little. the several scenes suggested in the beginning of the hermit's story did not conflict with the plot she had evolved, although they were not her own. she had read nothing so far that would make this story different from her own. the names of the characters were changed and the locations for the first scene were different from those in her script. nevertheless the action and development of the story might prove to be exactly like hers. she shrank from going deeper into the hermit's script. she feared to find her suspicions true; yet she _must_ know. finally she began to read. page after page of the large and sprawling writing she turned over, face down upon the table. ruth grew so absorbed in the story that she did not note the passing of time. she was truly aware of but one thing. and that seized upon her mind to wring from it both bitterness and anger. "want to go back to the port, miss ruth?" asked mr. hammond. "i want to mail my letters." his question startled her. she sprang up, a spot of crimson in either cheek. had he looked at her, the manager would certainly have noted her strange look. "i'll come in a minute," she called to him in a half-stifled voice. she laved her eyes and cheeks in cool water, removing such marks of her emotion as she could. then she bundled up the hermit's scenario and joined mr. hammond in the car. "did you look at this?" she asked the producer as he started the motor. "bless you, no! what is it? as crazy as the old codger himself?" "do you really think that man is crazy?" she asked sharply. "why, i don't really know. just queer perhaps. it doesn't seem as though a sane man would live all stark alone over on that sea-beaten point." "he is an actor," declared ruth. "your director says so." "at least, he does not claim to be, and they usually do, you know," chuckled mr. hammond. "but about this thing----" "you read it! then i will tell you something," said the girl soberly, and she refused to explain further. "you amaze me," said the puzzled manager. "if that old codger has succeeded in turning out anything worth while, i certainly shall believe that 'wonders never cease.'" "he has got you all fooled. he _is_ a good actor," declared ruth bitterly. then, as mr. hammond turned a puzzled frown upon her, she added, "tell me what you think of the script, mr. hammond, before you speak to--er--john, or whatever his name may be." "i certainly am curious now," he declared. they got back to the place where the director had arranged to "shoot" the sewing circle scene just as everything was all set for it. mother paisley dominated the half circle of women about the long table under the trees. ruth marveled at the types mr. hooley had found in the village. and she marveled further that any group of human beings could appear so wooden. "oh, ruth!" murmured helen, who was not in this scene, but was an interested spectator, "they will surely spoil the picture again. poor mr. hooley! he takes _such_ pains." it was like playing a child's game for most of the members of the herringport union congregation. they were selfconscious, and felt that they were in a silly situation. those who were not too serious of demeanor were giggling like schoolgirls. yet everything was ready for the cameras. mr. hooley's keen eye ran over all the group. he waved a hand to the camera men. "ready camera--action--go!" the women remained speechless. they merely looked at each other in a helpless way. it was evident they had forgotten all the instructions the director had given them. but suddenly into the focus of the cameras ran a barefooted urchin waving a newspaper. this was the alectrion company's smartest "kid" actor and a favorite wherever his tousled head, freckled face, and wide grin appeared on the screen. he plunged right at mother paisley and thrust the paper into her hand, while he pointed at a certain place on the front page. "read _that_, ma bassett!" cried the news vender. mrs. paisley gave expression first to wonder, then utter amazement, as she read the item ruth had had inserted in this particular "edition" of the _harpoon_. she was a fine old actress and her facial registering of emotion was a marvel. mr. hooley had seldom to advise her. now his voice was heard above the clack of the cameras: "pass it to the lady at your left. that's it! cling to the paper. get your heads together--three of you now!" the amateur players looked at each other and began to grin. the scene promised to be as big a "fizzle" as the one shot the previous day. but the woman next to mrs. paisley, after looking carelessly at the paper, of a sudden came to life. she seized the _harpoon_ with both hands, fairly snatching it out of the actress' hands. she was too startled to be polite. "what under the canopy is this here?" she sputtered. she was a small, wiry, vigorous woman, and she had an expressive, if a vinegary, face. she rose from her seat and forgot all about her "play-acting." "what d'you think it says here?" she demanded of her sister-members of the ladies' aid. "sh!" "ella painter, you're a-bustin' up the show!" admonished a motherly old person at the end of the table. but mrs. painter did not notice these hushed remarks. she read the item in the paper aloud--and so extravagantly did she mouth the astonishing words that ruth feared they might be read on her lips when shown on the screen. "listen!" mrs. painter cried. "right at the top of the marriage notices! 'garside--smythe. at perleyvale, maine, on august twenty-second, the reverend elton garside, of herringport, and miss amy smythe, of perleyvale.' what do you know about that?" the gasp of amazement that went up from the women of the herringport union church was almost a chorus of anguish. the paper was snatched from hand to hand. nobody could accuse the amateurs now of being "wooden." not until mrs. paisley in the character of _ma bassett_, at the signal from mr. hooley, fell back in her chair, exclaiming: "my mercy me! luella sprague and the teacher! who'd have thought it?" did the company in general suspect that something had been "put over on them." "all right! all right!" shouted jim hooley in high delight, stopping his camera men. "that's fine! it's great! miss fielding, your scheme worked like a charm." the members of the sewing circle began to ask questions. "do you mean to say this is in the play?" demanded mrs. ella painter, waving the newspaper and inclined to be indignant. "yes, mrs. painter. that marriage notice is just a joke," the director told her. "it certainly gave you ladies a start and---- well, wait till you see this scene on the screen!" "but ain't it _so_?" cried another. "why, mr. garside---- why! it's in the _harpoon_." "but you won't find it in another _harpoon_," laughed the director, recovering possession of the newspaper. "it's only a joke. but i positively had to give you ladies a real shock or we'd never have got this scene right." "well, of all the impudence!" began mrs. painter. however, she joined in the laughter a minute later. at best, the women had won from mr. hammond enough money to pay for the painting of their church edifice, and they were willing to sacrifice their dignity for that. chapter xix counterclaims "i declare, ruth! that was a ridiculous thing to do," exclaimed helen, when they were on their way back to the point. "but it certainly brought the sewing circle women all up standing." "i've been wondering all day what ruth was up to," said tom, who was steering the big car. "i was in on it without understanding her game." "well, it was just what the directer needed," chuckled jennie. "oh, it takes our ruth to do things." "i wonder?" sighed the girl of the red mill, in no responsive mood. she had something very unpleasant before her that she felt she must do, and nothing could raise her spirits. she did not speak to anybody about the hermit's scenario. she waited for mr. hammond to express his opinion of it. at the camp she found a letter for her from the doctor's wife who had promised to keep her informed regarding arabella montague fitzmaurice pike. that young person was doing well and getting fat at the perkins' farm. but mrs. holmes was quite sure that she had not heard from her father. "you've got another half-orphan on your hands, ruth," said helen. she made it a point always to object to ruth's charities. "i don't believe that man will ever show up again. if he went away with a medicine show----" "no, no," said ruth firmly. "no child would ever respect and love her father as bella does if he was not good to her. he will turn up." just then tom called from outside the door of the girls' shack. "what say to a moonlight dip off the point?" he asked. "the tide is not very low. and i missed my splash this morning." "we're with you, tommy," responded his sister. "wait till we get into bathing suits." even ruth was enthusiastic--to a degree--over this. in twenty minutes they were running up the beach with tom and henri toward the end of the point. "let's go over and get the surf," suggested jennie. "i do love surf bathing. all you have to do is to bob up and down in one place." "heavy is lazy even in her sport," scoffed helen. "but i'm game for the rough stuff." they crossed the neck of land near the hermit's hut. there was a hard beach almost in front of the hut, and up this the breakers rolled and foamed delightfully. the so-called hermit, hearing their voices, came out and sat on a rock to watch them. but he did not offer to speak until ruth went over to him. "mr. hammond let me read your script, john," she said coldly. "indeed?" he rejoined without emotion. "where did you get the idea for that scenario?" he tapped his head with a long forefinger. "right inside of that skull. i do my own thinking," he said. "you did not have any help about it? you originated the idea of 'plain mary?'" he nodded. "you ain't the only person who can write a picture," he observed. "and i think that this one they are filming for you is silly." ruth stared down at him, but said nothing more. she was ready to go back to camp as soon as the others would, and she remained very silent. mr. hammond had been asking for her, miss loder said. when ruth had got into something more presentable than a wet bathing suit, she went to his office. "what do you know about this?" he demanded in plain amazement. "this story the old man gave me to read is a wonder! it is one of the best ideas i ever saw for the screen. of course, it needs fixing up a bit, but it's great! what did you think of it, miss ruth?" "i am glad you like it, mr. hammond," she said, steadying her voice with difficulty. "i do like it, i assure you." "it is _my_ story, mr. hammond!" she exclaimed. "it is the very scenario that was stolen from me at home. he's just changed the names of the characters and given it a different title, and spoiled some of the scenes. but a large part of it is copied word for word from my manuscript!" "miss fielding!" gasped the president of the alectrion film corporation. "i am telling you the truth," ruth cried, rather wildly, it must be confessed, and then she broke down and wept. "my goodness! it can't be possible! you--you've let your mind dwell upon your loss so much----" "do you think i am crazy?" she demanded, flaring up at him, her anger drying her tears. "certainly not," he returned gently; yet he looked at her oddly. "but mistakes have been made----" "mistakes, indeed! it is no mistake when i recognize my own work." "but--but how could this old man have stolen your work--and away back there at the red mill? i believe he has lived here on the point for years. at least, every summer." "then somebody else stole it and he got the script from them. i tell you it is mine!" cried ruth. "miss fielding! let us be calm----" "you would not be calm if you discovered somebody trying to make use of something you had originated, and calling it theirs--no you wouldn't, mr. hammond!" "but it seems impossible," he said weakly. "that old man is an actor--an old-school actor. you can see that easily enough," she declared. "there was such a person about the red mill the day my script was lost. oh, it's plain enough." "not so plain, miss ruth," said mr. hammond firmly. "and you must not make wild accusations. that will do no good--and may do harm in the end. it does not seem probable to me that this old hermit could have actually stolen your story. a longshore character like him----" "he's not!" cried ruth. "don't you see that he is playing a part? he is no fisherman. no longshore character, as you call him, would be as afraid of the sea as he is. he is playing a part--and he plays it just as well as the parts mr. hooley gives him to play." "jove! there may be something in that," murmured the manager. "he got my script some way, i tell you!" declared ruth. "i am not going to let anybody maul my story and put it over as his own. no, sir!" "but--but, miss ruth!" exclaimed mr. hammond. "how are you going to prove what you say is true?" "prove it?" "yes. you see, the burden of proof must be on you." "but--but don't you believe me?" she murmured. "does it matter what i believe?" he asked her gently. "remember, this man has entrusted me with a manuscript that he says is original. at least it is written in his own hand. i cannot go back of that unless you have some means of proof that his story is your story. who did you tell about your plot, and how you worked it out? did you read the finished manuscript--or any part of it--to any person who can corroborate your statements?" "oh, mr. hammond!" she cried, with sudden anguish in her voice. "not a soul! never to a single, solitary person. the girls, nor aunt alvirah, nor tom----" she broke down again and he could not soothe her. she wept with abandon, and mr. hammond was really anxious for her. he went to the door, whistled for one of the boys, and sent for mrs. paisley. but ruth recovered her composure--to a degree, at least--before the motherly old actress came. "don't tell anybody! don't tell anybody!" she sobbed to mr. hammond. "they will think i am crazy! i haven't a word of proof. only my word----" "against his," said the manager gravely. "i would accept your word, miss ruth, against the world! but we must have some proof before we deliberately accuse this old man of robbing you." "yes, yes. i see. i will be patient--if i can." "the thing to do is to find out who this hermit really is," said mr. hammond. "through discovering his private history we may put our finger on the thing that will aid you with proof. good-night, my dear. try to get calm again." chapter xx the grill ruth did not go back to her chums until, under mother paisley's comforting influence, she had recovered a measure of her self-possession. the old actress asked no questions as to the cause of ruth's state of mind. she had seen too many hysterical girls to feel that the cause of her patient's breakdown was at all important. "you just cry all you want to, deary. right here on mother paisley's shoulder. crying will do you good. it is the good lord's way of giving us women an outlet for all our troubles. when the last tear is squeezed out much of the pain goes with it." ruth was not ordinarily a crying girl. she had wept more of late, beginning with that day at the red mill when her scenario manuscript had been stolen, than in all her life before. her tears were now in part an expression of anger and indignation. she was as mad as she could be at this man who called himself "john, the hermit." for, whether he was the person who had actually stolen her manuscript, he very well knew that his scenario offered to mr. hammond was not original with him. the worst of it was, he had mangled her scenario. ruth could look upon it in no other way. his changes had merely muddied the plot and cheapened her main idea. she could not forgive that! the other girls were drowsy when ruth kissed mother paisley good-night and entered the small shack. she was glad to escape any interrogation. by morning she had gained control of herself, but her eyes betrayed the fact that she had not slept. "you certainly do not look as though you were enjoying yourself down here," tom cameron said to her at breakfast time, and with suspicion. "maybe we did come to the wrong place for our vacation after all. how about it, ruth? shall we start off in the cars again and seek pastures new?" "not now, tom," she told him, hastily. "i must stay right here." "why?" "because----" "that is no sensible reason." "let me finish," she said rather crossly. "because i must see what sort of scenario mr. hammond finds--if he finds any--in this contest." "humph! and you said you and scenarios were done forever! i fancy mr. hammond is taking advantage of your good nature." "he is not." "you are positively snappish, ruth," complained tom. "you've changed your mind----" "isn't that a girl's privilege?" "very well, miladi!" he said, with a deep bow as they rose from the table. "however, you need not give all your attention to these prize stories, need you? let's do something besides follow these sun-worshippers around to-day." "all right, tommy-boy," acclaimed his sister. "what do you suggest?" "a run along the coast to reef harbor where there are a lot of folks we know," tom promptly replied. "not in that old _tocsin_," cried jennie. "she's so small i can't take off my sweater without tipping her over." "oh, what a whopper!" gasped helen. "never mind," grinned her twin. "let jennie run to the superlatives if she likes. anyway, i would not dream of going so far as the harbor in that dinky little _tocsin_. i've got my eye on just the craft, and i can get her over here in an hour by telephoning to the port. it's the _stazy_." "goody!" exclaimed jennie stone. "that big blue yacht! and she's got a regular crew--and everything. aunty won't be afraid to go with us in her." "that's fine, tom," said his sister with appreciation. even ruth seemed to take some interest. but she suggested: "be sure there is gasoline enough, tom. that _stazy_ doesn't spread a foot of canvas, and we are not likely to find a gas station out there in the ocean, the way we did in the hills of massachusetts." "don't fear, miss fidget," he rejoined. "are you all game?" they were. the girls went to "doll up," to quote the slangy tom, for reef harbor was one of the most fashionable of maine coast resorts and the knockabout clothing they had been wearing at beach plum point would never do at the harbor hotels. the _stazy_ was a comfortable and fast motor-yacht. as to her sea-worthiness even tom could not say, but she looked all right. and to the eyes of the members of ruth fielding's party there was no threat of bad weather. so why worry about the pleasure-craft's balance and her ability to sail the high seas? "it is only a short run, anyway," tom said. as for colonel marchand, he had not the first idea about ships or sailing. he admitted that only continued fair weather and a smooth sea had kept him on deck coming over from france with jennie and helen. at the present time he and jennie stone were much too deeply engrossed in each other to think of anything but their own two selves. in a fortnight now, both the frenchman and tom would have to return to the battle lines. and they were, deep in their hearts, eager to go back; for they did not dream at this time that the german navy would revolt, that the high command and the army had lost their morale, and that the end of the great war was near. within tom's specified hour the party got under way, boarding the _stazy_ from a small boat that came to the camp dock for them. it was not until the yacht was gone with ruth fielding and her party that mr. hammond set on foot the investigation he had determined upon the night before. the president of the alectrion film corporation thought a great deal of the girl of the red mill. their friendship was based on something more than a business association. but he knew, too, that after her recent experiences in france and elsewhere, her health was in rather a precarious state. at least, he was quite sure that ruth's nerves were "all out of tune," as he expressed it, and he believed she was not entirely responsible for what she had said. the girl had allowed her mind to dwell so much upon that scenario she had lost that it might be she was not altogether clear upon the subject. mr. hammond had talked with tom about the robbery at the red mill, and it looked to the moving picture producer as though there might be some considerable doubt of ruth's having been robbed at all. in that terrific wind and rain storm almost anything might have blown away. tom admitted he had seen a barrel sailing through the air at the height of the storm. "why couldn't the papers and note books have been caught up by a gust of wind and carried into the river?" mr. hammond asked himself. "the river was right there, and it possesses a strong current." the president of the alectrion film corporation knew the lumano, and the vicinity of the red mill as well. it seemed to him very probable that the scenario had been lost. and the gold-mounted fountain pen? why, that might have easily rolled down a crack in the summer-house floor. the whole thing was a matter so fortuitous that mr. hammond could not accept ruth's version of the loss without some doubt, in any case. and then, her suddenly finding in the only good scenario submitted to him by any of his company, one that she believed was plagiarized from her lost story, seemed to put a cap on the whole matter. ruth might be just a little "off soundings," as the fishermen about herringport would say. mr. hammond was afraid that she had been carried into a situation of mind where suspicion took the place of certainty. she had absolutely nothing with which to corroborate her statement. nobody had seen ruth's scenario nor had she discussed the plot with any person. secrecy necessary to the successful production of anything new in the line of picture plays was all right. mr. hammond advised it. but in this case it seemed that the scenario writer had been altogether too secret. had ruth not chanced to read the hermit's script before making her accusation, mr. hammond would have felt differently. better, had she been willing to relate to him in the first place the story of the plot of her scenario and how she had treated it, her present accusation might have seemed more reasonable. but, having read the really good story scrawled on the scraps of brown paper that john, the hermit, had put in the manager's hands, the girl had suddenly claimed the authorship of the story. there was nothing to prove her claim. it looked dubious at the best. john, the hermit, was a grim old man. no matter whether he was some old actor hiding away here on beach plum point or not, he was not a man to give up easily anything that he had once said was his. the manager was far too wise to accuse the hermit openly, as ruth had accused him. they would not get far with the old fellow that way, he was sure. first of all he called the company together and asked if there were any more scenarios to be submitted. "no," being the answer, he told them briefly that out of the twenty-odd stories he had accepted one that might be whipped into shape for filming--and one only. each story submitted had been numbered and the number given to its author. the scripts could now be obtained by the presentation of the numbers. he did not tell them which number had proved successful. nor did he let it be known that he proposed to try to film the hermit's production. mr. hooley was using old john on this day in a character part. for these "types" the director usually paid ten or fifteen dollars a day; but john was so successful in every part he was given that mr. hooley always paid him an extra five dollars for his work. money seemed to make no difference in the hermit's appearance, however. he wore just as shabby clothing and lived just as plainly as he had when the picture company had come on to the lot. when work was over for the day, hooley sent the old man to mr. hammond's office. the president of the company invited the hermit into his shack and gave him a seat. he scrutinized the man sharply as he thus greeted him. it was quite true that the hermit did not wholly fit the character he assumed as a longshore waif. in the first place, his skin was not tanned to the proper leathery look. his eyes were not those of a man used to looking off over the sea. his hands were too soft and unscarred for a sailor's. he had never pulled on ropes and handled an oar! now that ruth fielding had suggested that his character was a disguise, mr. hammond saw plainly that she must be right. as he was a good actor of other parts before the camera, so he was a good actor in his part of "hermit." "how long have you lived over there on the point, john?" asked mr. hammond carelessly. "a good many years, sir, in summer." "how did you come to live there first?" "i wandered down this way, found the hut empty, turned to and fixed it up, and stayed on." he said it quite simply and without the first show of confusion. but this tale of his occupancy of the seaside hut he had repeated frequently, as mr. hammond very well knew. "where do you go in the winter, john?" the latter asked. "to where it's a sight warmer. i don't have to ask anybody where i shall go," and now the man's tone was a trifle defiant. "i would like to know something more about you," mr. hammond said, quite frankly. "i may be able to do something with your story. we like to know about the person who submits a scenario----" "that don't go!" snapped the hermit grimly. "you offered five hundred for a story you could use. if you can use mine, i want the five hundred. and i don't aim to give you the history of my past along with the story. it's nobody's business what or who i am, or where i came from, or where i am going." "hoity-toity!" exclaimed mr. hammond. "you are quite sudden, aren't you? now, just calm yourself. i haven't got to take your scenario and pay you five hundred dollars for it----" "then somebody else will," said the hermit, getting up. "ah! you are quite sure you have a good story here, are you?" "i know i have." "and how do you know so much?" sharply demanded the moving picture magnate. "i've seen enough of this thing you are doing, now--this 'seaside idyl' stuff--to know that mine is a hundred per cent. better," sneered the hermit. "whew! you've a good opinion of your story, haven't you?" asked mr. hammond. "did you ever write a scenario before?" "what is that to you?" returned the other. "i don't get you at all, mr. hammond. all this cross-examination----" "that will do now!" snapped the manager. "i am not obliged to take your story. you can try it elsewhere if you like," and he shoved the newspaper-wrapped package toward the end of his desk and nearer the hermit's hand. "i tell you frankly that i won't take any story without knowing all about the author. there are too many comebacks in this game." "what do you mean?" demanded the other stiffly. "i don't _know_ that your story is original. frankly, i have some doubt about that very point." the old man did not change color at all. his gray eyes blazed and he was not at all pleasant looking. but the accusation did not seem to surprise him. "are you trying to get it away from me for less than you offered?" he demanded. "you are an old man," said mr. hammond hotly, "and that lets you get away with such a suggestion as that without punishment. i begin to believe that there is something dead wrong with you, john--or whatever your name is." he drew back the packet of manuscript, opened a drawer, put it within, and locked the drawer. "i'll think this over a little longer," he said grimly. "at least, until you are willing to be a little more communicative about yourself. i would be glad to use your story with some fixing up, if i was convinced you really wrote it all. but you have got to show me--or give me proper references." "give me back the scenario, then!" exclaimed the old man, his eyes blazing hotly. "no. not yet. i can take my time in deciding upon the manuscripts submitted in this contest. you will have to wait until i decide," said mr. hammond, waving the man out of his office. chapter xxi a hermit for revenue only the bays and inlets of the coast of maine have the bluest water dotted by the greenest islands that one can imagine. and such wild and romantic looking spots as some of these islands are! just at this time, too, a particular tang of romance was in the air. the germans had threatened to devastate our atlantic coast from eastport to key west with a flock of submersibles. there actually were a few submarines lurking about the pathways of our coastwise shipping; but, as usual, the hun's boast came to naught. the young people on the _stazy_ scarcely expected to see a german periscope during the run to reef harbor. yet they did not neglect watching out for something of the kind. skipper phil gordon, a young man with one arm but a full and complete knowledge of this coast and how to coax speed out of a gasoline engine, ordered his "crew" of one boy to remain sharply on the lookout, as well. the _stazy_ did not, however, run far outside. the high and rocky headland that marked the entrance to reef harbor came into view before they had more than dropped the hazy outline of beach plum point astern. but until they rounded the promontory and entered the narrow inlet to reef harbor the town and the summer colony was entirely invisible. "if a german sub should stick its nose in here," sighed helen, "it would make everybody ashore get up and dust. don't you think so?" "is it the custom to do so when the enemy, he arrive?" asked colonel marchand, to whom the idiomatic speech of the yankee was still a puzzle. "sure!" replied tom, grinning. "sure, henri! these new england women would clean house, no matter what catastrophe arrived." "oh, don't suggest such horrid possibilities," cried jennie. "and they are only fooling you, henri." "look yonder!" exclaimed captain tom, waving an instructive hand. "behold! let the kaiser's underseas boat come. that little tin lizzie of the sea is ready for it. depth bombs and all!" the grim looking drab submarine chaser lay at the nearest dock, the faint spiral of smoke rising from her stack proclaiming that she was ready for immediate work. there was a tower, too, on the highest point on the headland from which a continual watch was kept above the town. "o-o-oh!" gurgled jennie, snuggling up to henri. "suppose one of those german subs shelled the movie camp back there on beach plum point!" "they would likely spoil a perfectly good picture, then," said helen practically. "think of ruthie's 'seaside idyl!'. "oh, say!" helen went on. "they tell me that old hermit has submitted a story in the contest. what do you suppose it is like, ruth?" the girl of the red mill was sitting beside aunt kate. she flushed when she said: "why shouldn't he submit one?" "but that hermit isn't quite right in his head, is he?" demanded ruth's chum. "i don't know that it is his head that is wrong," murmured ruth, shaking her own head doubtfully. here jennie broke in. "is auntie letting you read her story, ruth?" she asked slyly. "now, jennie stone!" exclaimed their chaperon, blushing. "well, you are writing one. you know you are," laughed her niece. "i--i am just trying to see if i can write such a story," stammered aunt kate. "well, i am sure you could make up a better scenario than that old grouch of a hermit," helen declared, warmly. ruth did not add anything to this discussion. what she had discovered regarding the hermit's scenario was of too serious a nature to be publicly discussed. her interview the evening before with mr. hammond regarding the matter had left ruth in a most uncertain frame of mind. she did not know what to do about the stolen scenario. she shrank from telling even helen or tom of her discovery. to tell the truth, mr. hammond's seeming doubt--not of her truthfulness but of her wisdom--had shaken the girl's belief in herself. it was a strange situation, indeed. she thought of the woman she had found wandering about the mountain in the storm who had lost control of both her nerves and her mind, and ruth wondered if it could be possible that she, too, was on the verge of becoming a nervous wreck. had she deceived herself about this hermit's story? had she allowed her mind to dwell on her loss until she was quite unaccountable for her mental decisions? to tell the truth, this thought frightened the girl of the red mill a little. practical as ruth fielding ordinarily was, she must confess that the shock she had received when the hospital in france was partly wrecked, an account of which is given in "ruth fielding homeward bound," had shaken the very foundations of her being. she shuddered even now when she thought of what she had been through in france and on the voyage coming back to america. she realized that even tom and helen looked at her sometimes when she spoke of her lost scenario in a most peculiar way. was it a fact that she had allowed her loss to unbalance--well, her judgment? suppose she was quite wrong about that scenario the hermit had submitted to mr. hammond? the thought frightened her! at least, she had nothing to say upon the puzzling subject, not even to her best and closest friends. she was sorry indeed two hours later when they were at lunch on the porch of the reef harbor house with some of the camerons' friends that helen brought the conversation around again to the beach plum point "hermit." "a _real_ hermit?" cried cora grimsby, a gay, blonde, irresponsible little thing, but with a heart of gold. "and is he a hermit for revenue only, too?" "what do you mean by that?" helen demanded. "why, we have a hermit here, you see. over on reef island itself. if you give us a sail in your motor yacht after lunch i'll introduce our hermit to you. but you must buy something of him, or otherwise 'cross his palm with silver.' he told me one day that he was not playing a nut for summer folks to laugh at just for the good of his health." "frank, i must say," laughed tom cameron. "i guess he's been in the hermit business before," said cora, sparkling at tom in his uniform. "but this is his first season at the harbor." "i wonder if he belongs to the hermit's union and carries a union card," suggested jennie stone soberly. "i don't think we should patronize non-union hermits." "goody!" cried cora, clapping her hands. "let's ask him." ruth said nothing. she rather wished she might get out of the trip to reef island without offending anybody. but that seemed impossible. she really had seen all the hermits she cared to see! she could not, however, be morose and absent-minded in a party of which cora grimsby and jennie stone were the moving spirits. it was a gay crowd that crossed the harbor in the _stazy_ to land at a roughly built dock under the high bluff of the wooded island. "there's the hermit!" cora cried, as they landed. "see him sitting on the rock before the door of his cabin?" "right on the job," suggested tom. "no unlucky city fly shall escape that spider's web," cried jennie. he was a patriarchal looking man. his beard swept his breast. he wore shabby garments, was barefooted, and carried a staff as though he were lame or rheumatic. "dresses the part much better than our hermit does," helen said, in comment. the man met the party from the _stazy_ with a broad smile that displayed a toothless cavity of a mouth. his red-rimmed eyes were moist looking, not to say bleary. ruth smelled a distinct alcoholic odor on his breath. a complete drouth had evidently not struck this part of the state of maine. "good day to ye!" said the hermit. "some o' you young folks i ain't never seed before." "they are my friends," cora hastened to explain, "and they come from beach plum point." "do tell! if you air goin' back to-night, better make a good v'y'ge of it. we're due for a blow, i allow. you folks ain't stoppin' right on the p'int, be ye?" ruth, to whom he addressed this last question, answered that they were, and explained that there was a large camp there this season, and why. "wal, wal! i want to know! somebody did say something to me about a gang of movin' picture folks comin' there; but i reckoned they was a-foolin' me." "there is a good sized party of us," acknowledged ruth. "wal, wal! mebbe that fella i let my shack to will make out well, then, after all. warn't no sign of ye on the beach when i left three weeks ago". "did you live there on the point?" asked ruth. "allus do winters. but the pickin's is better over here at the harbor at this time of year." "and the man you left in your place? where is your house on the point?" the hermit "for revenue only" described the hut on the eastern shore in which the other "hermit" lived. ruth became much interested. "tell me," she said, while the others examined the curios the hermit had for sale, "what kind of man is this you left in your house? and who is he?" "law bless ye!" said the old man. "i don't know him from adam's off ox. never seed him afore. but he was trampin' of it; and he didn't have much money. an' to tell you the truth, miss, that hutch of mine ain't wuth much money." she described the man who had been playing the hermit since the alectrion film corporation crowd had come to beach plum point. "that's the fella," said the old man, nodding. ruth stood aside while he waited on his customers and digested these statements regarding the man who claimed the authorship of the scenario of "plain mary." not that ruth would have desired to acknowledge the scenario in its present form. she felt angry every time she thought of how her plot had been mangled. but she was glad to learn all that was known about the beach plum point hermit. and she had learned one most important fact. he was not a regular hermit. as jennie stone suggested, he was not a "union hermit" at all. and he was a stranger to the neighborhood of herringport. if he had been at the point only three weeks, as this old man said, "john, the hermit," might easily have come since ruth's scenario was stolen back there at the red mill! her thoughts began to mill again about this possibility. she wished she was back at the camp so as to put the strange old man through a cross-examination regarding himself and where he had come from. she had no suspicion as to how mr. hammond had so signally failed in this very matter. chapter xxii an arrival mr. hammond was in no placid state of mind himself after the peculiarly acting individual who called himself "john, the hermit," left his office. the very fact that the man refused to tell anything about his personal affairs--who he really was, or where he came from--induced the moving picture producer to believe there must be something wrong about him. mr. hammond went to the door of the shack and watched the man tramping up the beach toward the end of the point. what a dignified stride he had! rather, it was the stride of a poseur--like nothing so much as that of the old-time tragedian, made famous by the henry irving school of actors. "an ancient 'ham' sure enough, just as the boys say," muttered the manager. the so-called hermit disappeared. the moving picture people were gathering for dinner. the sun, although still above the horizon, was dimmed by cloud-banks which were rising steadily to meet clouds over the sea. a wan light played upon the heaving "graybacks" outside the mouth of the harbor. the wind whined among the pines which grew along the ridge of beach plum point. a storm was imminent. just as mr. hammond took note of this and wished that ruth fielding and her party had returned, a snorting automobile rattled along the shell road and halted near the camp. "is this the alectrion film company?" asked a shrill voice. "this is the place, miss," said the driver of the small car. the chauffeur ran his jitney from the railroad station and was known to mr. hammond. the latter went nearer. out of the car stepped a girl--a very young girl to be traveling alone. she was dressed in extreme fashion, but very cheaply. her hair was bobbed and she wore a russian blouse of cheap silk. her skirt was very narrow, her cloth boots very high, and the heels of them were like those of jananese clogs. what with the skimpy skirt and the high heels she could scarcely walk. she was laden with two bags--one an ancient carpet-bag that must have been seventy-five years old, and the other a bright tan one of imitation leather with brass clasps. she wore a coal-scuttle hat pulled down over her eyes so that her face was quite extinguished. altogether her get-up was rather startling. mr. hammond saw jim hooley come out of his tent to stare at the new arrival. she certainly was a "type." there was a certain kind of prettiness about the girl, and aside from her incongruous garments she was not unattractive--when her face was revealed. mr. hammond's interest increased. he approached the spot where the girl had been left by the jitney driver. "you came to see somebody?" he asked kindly. "who is it you wish to see?" "is this the moving picture camp, mister?" she returned. "yes," said the manager, smiling. "are you acquainted with somebody who works here?" "yes. i am arabella montague fitzmaurice," said the girl, with an air that seemed to show that she expected to be recognized when she had recited her name. mr. hammond refrained from open laughter. he only said: "why--that is nice. i am glad to meet you, my dear. who are you looking for?" "i want to see my pa, of course. i guess you know who _he_ is?" "i am not sure that i do, my dear." "you don't--say! who are you?" demanded bella, with some sharpness. "i am only the manager of the company. who is your father, child?" "well, of all the---- wouldn't that give you your nevergitovers!" exclaimed bella, in broad amazement. "say! i guess my pa is your leading man." "mr. hasbrouck? impossible!" "never heard of him," said bella, promptly. "montague fitzmaurice, i mean." "and i never heard of him," declared mr. hammond, both puzzled and amused. "what?" gasped the girl, almost stunned by this statement. "maybe you know him as mr. pike. that is our honest-to-goodness name--pike." "i am sorry that you are disappointed, my dear," said the manager kindly. "but don't be worried. if you expected to meet your father here, perhaps he will come later. but really, i have no such person as that on my staff at the present time." "i don't know---- why!" cried bella, "he sent me money and said he was working here. i--i didn't tell him i was coming. i just got sick of those perkinses, and i took the money and went to boston and got dressed up, and then came on here. i--i just about spent all the money he sent me to get here." "well, that was perhaps unwise," said mr. hammond. "but don't worry. come along now to mother paisley. she will look out for you--and you can stay with us until your father appears. there is some mistake somewhere." by this speech he warded off tears. bella hastily winked them back and squared her thin shoulders. "all right, sir," she said, picking up the bags again. "pa will make it all right with you. he wrote in his letter as if he had a good engagement." mr. hammond might have learned something further about this surprising girl at the time, but just as he introduced her to mother paisley one of the men came running from the point and hailed him: "mr. hammond! there's a boat in trouble off the point. i think she was making for this harbor. have you got a pair of glasses?" mr. hammond had a fine pair of opera glasses, and he produced them from his desk while he asked: "what kind of boat is it, maxwell?" "looks like that blue motor that miss fielding and her friends went off in this morning. we saw it coming along at top speed. and suddenly it stopped. they can't seem to manage it----" the manager hurried with maxwell along the sands. the sky was completely overcast now, and the wind whipped the spray from the wave tops into their faces. the weather looked dubious indeed, and the manager of the film corporation was worried before even he focused his glasses upon the distant motor-boat. chapter xxiii trouble--plenty even ruth fielding had paid no attention to the warning of the reef island hermit regarding a change in the weather, in spite of the fact that she was anxious to return to the camp near herringport. it was not until the _stazy_ was outside the inlet late in the afternoon that skipper phil gordon noted the threatening signs in sea and sky. "that's how it goes," the one-armed mariner said. "when we aren't dependent on the wind to fill our canvas, we neglect watching every little weather change. she's going to blow by and by." "do you think it will be a real storm?" asked ruth, who sat beside him at the steering wheel and engine, watching how he managed the mechanism. "maybe. but with good luck we will make beach plum point long before it amounts to anything." the long graybacks were rather pleasant to ride over at first. even aunt kate was not troubled by the prospect. it was so short a run to the anchorage behind the point that nobody expressed fear. when the spray began to fly over the bows the girls merely squealed a bit, although they hastily found extra wraps. if the _stazy_ plunged and shipped half a sea now and then, nobody was made anxious. and soon the point was in plain view. to make the run easier, however, skipper gordon had sailed the motor-yacht well out to sea. when he shifted the helm to run for the entrance to the bay, the waves began to slap against the _stazy's_ side. she rolled terrifically and the aspect of affairs was instantly changed. "oh, dear me!" moaned jennie stone. "how do you feel, henri? i did not bargain for this rough stuff, did you? oh!" "'mister captain, stop the ship, i want to get off and walk!'" sang helen gaily. "don't lose all hope, heavy. you'll never sink if you do go overboard." "isn't she mean?" sniffed the plump girl. "and i am only afraid for henri's sake." "i don't like this for my own sake," murmured aunt kate. "are you cold, dear?" her niece asked, with quick sympathy. "here! i don't really need this cape with my heavy sweater." she removed the heavy cloth garment from her own shoulders and with a flirt sought to place it around aunt kate. the wind swooped down just then with sudden force. the _stazy_ rolled to leeward. "oh! stop it!" bulging under pressure of the wind, the cape flew over the rail. jennie tried to clutch it again; henri plunged after it, too. colliding, the two managed between them to miss the garment altogether. it dropped into the water just under the rail. "of all the clumsy fingers!" ejaculated helen. but she could not seize the wrap, although she darted for it. nor could ruth help, she being still farther forward. "now, you've done it!" complained aunt kate. the boat began to rise on another roller. the cape was sucked out of sight under the rail. the next moment the whirling propeller was stopped--so abruptly that the _stazy_ shook all over. "oh! what has happened?" shrieked helen. ruth started up, and tom seized her arm to steady her. but the girl of the red mill did not express any fear. the shock did not seem to affect her so much as it did the other girls. here was a real danger, and ruth did not lose her self-possession. phil gordon had shut off the power, and the motor-boat began to swing broadside to the rising seas. "the propeller is broken!" cried tom. "she's jammed. that cape!" gasped the one-armed skipper. "here! tend to this till i see what can be done. jack!" he shouted to his crew. "this way--lively, now!" but ruth slipped into his place before tom could do so. "i know how to steer, tommy," she declared. "and i understand the engine. give him a hand if he needs you." "oh, we'll turn turtle!" shrieked jennie, as the boat rolled again. "you'll never become a turtle, jen," declared tom, plunging aft. "turtles are dumb!" the _stazy_ was slapped by a big wave, "just abaft the starboard bow," to be real nautical, and half a ton of sea-water washed over the forward deck and spilled into the standing-room of the craft. henri had wisely closed the door of the cabin. the water foamed about their feet. ruth found herself knee deep for a moment in this flood. she whirled the wheel over, trying to bring up the head of the craft to meet the next wave. "oh, my dear!" groaned jennie stone. "we are going to be drowned." "drowned, your granny!" snapped helen angrily. "don't be such a silly, jennie." ruth stood at the wheel with more apparent calmness than any of them. her hair had whipped out of its fastenings and streamed over her shoulders. her eyes were bright and her cheeks aglow. helen, staring at her, suddenly realized that this was the old ruth fielding. her chum had not looked so much alive, so thoroughly competent and ready for anything, before for weeks. "why--why, ruthie!" helen murmured, "i believe you like this." her chum did not hear the words, but she suddenly flashed helen a brilliant smile. "keep up your pluck, child!" she shouted. "we'll come out all right." again the _stazy_ staggered under the side swipe of a big wave. "ye-ow!" yelped tom in the stern, almost diving overboard. "steady!" shouted skipper gordon, excitedly. "steady she is, captain!" rejoined ruth fielding, and actually laughed. "how can you, ruth?" complained jennie, clinging to henri marchand. "and when we are about to drown." "weeping will not save us," flung back ruth. her strong hands held the wheel-spokes with a grip unbreakable. she could force the _stazy's_ head to the seas. "can you start the engine on the reverse, miss?" bawled gordon. "i can try!" flashed ruth. "say when." in a moment the cry came: "ready!" "aye, aye!" responded ruth, spinning the flywheel. the spark caught almost instantly. the exhaust sputtered. "now!" yelled the skipper. ruth threw the lever. the boat trembled like an automobile under the propulsion of the engine. the propeller shaft groaned. "ye-ow!" shouted the excited tom again. this time he sprawled back into the bottom of the boat, tearing away a good half of jennie's cape in his grip. the rest of the garment floated to the surface. it was loose from the propeller. "full speed ahead!" shouted the one-armed captain of the motor-boat. ruth obeyed the command. the _stazy_ staggered into the next wave. the water that came in over her bow almost drowned them, but ruth, hanging to the steering wheel, brought the craft through the roller without swamping her. "good for our ruth!" shouted helen, as soon as she could get her breath. "oh, ruth! you always come to our rescue," declared jennie gratefully. "hi! i thought you were a nervous wreck, young lady," tom sputtered, scrambling forward to relieve her. "get you into a tight corner, and you show what you are made of, all right." the girl of the red mill smiled at them. she had done something! nor did she feel at all overcome by the effort. the danger through which they had passed had inspired rather than frightened her. "why, i'm all right," she told tom when he reached her. "this is great! we'll be behind the shelter of the point in a few minutes. there's nothing to worry about." "you're all right, ruth," tom repeated, admiringly. "i thought you'd lost your grip, but i see you haven't. you are the same old ruthie fielding, after all." chapter xxiv about "plain mary" mr. hammond and the actors with him had no idea of the nature of the accident that had happened to the _stazy_. from the extreme end of beach plum point they could merely watch proceedings aboard the craft, and wonder what it was all about. the manager could, however, see through his glasses that ruth fielding was at the wheel. her face came out clear as a cameo when he focused the opera glasses upon her. and at the change in the girl's expression he marveled. those ashore could do nothing to aid the party on the motor-yacht; and until it got under way again mr. hammond was acutely anxious. it rolled so that he expected it to turn keel up at almost any moment. before the blasts of rain began to sweep across the sea, however, the _stazy_ was once more under control. at that most of the spectators made for the camp and shelter. but the manager of the film corporation waited to see the motor-yacht inside the shelter of beach plum point. the rain was falling heavily, and not merely in gusts, when ruth and her friends came ashore in the small boat. the lamps were lit and dinner was over at the main camp. therefore the automobile touring party failed to see bella pike or hear about her arrival. by this time the girl had gone off to the main dormitory with mother paisley, and even mr. hammond did not think of her. nor did the manager speak that evening to ruth about the hermit's scenario or his interview with the old man regarding it. the three girls and aunt kate changed their clothing in the little shack and then joined the young men in the dining room for a late supper. aunt kate was to stay this night at the camp. there was a feeling of much thankfulness in all their hearts over their escape from what might have been a serious accident. "providence was good to us," said aunt kate. "i hope we are all properly grateful." "and properly proud of ruthie!" exclaimed helen, squeezing her chum's hand. "don't throw too many bouquets," laughed ruth. "it was not i that tore jennie's cape out of the propeller. i merely obeyed the skipper's orders." "she is a regular cheerful grig again, isn't she?" demanded jennie, beaming on ruth. "i have been a wet blanket on this party long enough. i just begin to realize how very unpleasant i have been----" "not that, mademoiselle!" objected henri. "but yes! hereafter i will be cheerful. life is worth living after all!" tom, who sat next to her at table (he usually managed to do that) smiled at ruth approvingly. "bravo!" he whispered. "there are other scenarios to write." "tom!" she whispered sharply, "i want to tell you something about that." "about what?" "my scenario." "you don't mean----" "i mean i know what has become of it." "never!" gasped tom. "are you--are--you----" "i am not '_non compos_,' and-so-forth," laughed ruth. "oh, there is nothing foolish about this, tom. let me tell you." she spoke in so low a tone that the others could not have heard had they desired to. she and tom put their heads together and within the next few minutes ruth had told him all about the hermit's scenario and her conviction that he had stolen his idea and a large part of his story from ruth's lost manuscript. "it seems almost impossible, ruth," gasped her friend. "no. not impossible or improbable. listen to what that man on reef island told me about this hermit, so-called." and she repeated it all to the excited tom. "i am convinced," pursued ruth, "that this hermit could easily have been in the vicinity of the red mill on the day my manuscript disappeared." "but to prove it!" cried tom. "we'll see about that," said ruth confidently. "you know, ben told us he had seen and spoken to a tramp-actor that day. uncle jabez saw him, too. and you, tom, followed his trail to the cheslow railroad yards." "so i did," admitted her friend. "i believe," went on ruth earnestly, "that this man who came here to live on beach plum point only three weeks ago, is that very vagrant. it is plain that this fellow is playing the part of a hermit, just as he plays the parts mr. hooley casts him for." "whew!" whistled tom. "almost do you convince me, ruth fielding. but to prove it is another thing." "we _will_ prove it. if this man was at the red mill on that particular day, we can make sure of the fact." "how will you do it, ruth?" "by getting one of the camera men to take a 'still' of the hermit, develop it for us, and send the negative to ben. he and uncle jabez must remember how that traveling actor looked----" "hurrah!" exclaimed tom, jumping up to the amazement of the rest of the party. "that's a bully idea." "what is it?" demanded helen. "let us in on it, too." but ruth shook her head and tom calmed down. "can't tell the secret yet," helen's twin declared. "that would spoil it." "oh! a surprise! i love surprises," said jennie stone. "i don't. not when my chum and my brother have a secret from me and won't let me in on it," and helen turned her back upon them in apparent indignation. after that ruth and tom discussed the matter with more secrecy. ruth said in conclusion: "if he was there at the mill the day my story was stolen, and now submits this scenario to mr. hammond--and it is merely a re-hash of mine, tom, i assure you----" "of course i believe you, ruth," rejoined the young fellow. "mr. hammond should be convinced, too," said the girl. but there was a point that tom saw very clearly and which ruth fielding did not seem to appreciate. she still had no evidence to corroborate her claim that the hermit's story of "plain mary" was plagiarized from her manuscript. for, after all, nobody but ruth herself knew what her scenario had been like! chapter xxv lifting the curtain ruth slept peacefully and awoke the next morning in a perfectly serene frame of mind. she was quite as convinced as ever that she had been robbed of her scenario; and she was, as well, sure that "john, the hermit," had produced his picture play from her manuscript. but ruth no longer felt anxious and excited about it. she clearly saw her way to a conclusion of the matter. if the old actor was identified by ben and uncle jabez as the tramp they had seen and conversed with, the girl of the red mill was pretty sure she would get the best of the thief. in the first place she considered her idea and her scenario worth much more than five hundred dollars. if by no other means, she would buy the hermit's story at the price mr. hammond was willing to pay for it--and a little more if necessary. and if possible she would force the old actor to hand over to her the script that she had lost. thus was her mind made up, and she approached the matter in all cheerfulness. she had said nothing to anybody but tom, and she did not see him early in the morning. one of the stewards brought the girls' breakfast to the shack; so they knew little of what went on about the camp at that time. the rain had ceased. the storm had passed on completely. soon after breakfast ruth saw the man who called himself "john, the hermit," making straight for mr. hammond's office. that was where ruth wished to be. she wanted to confront the man before the president of the film corporation. she started over that way and ran into the most surprising incident! coming out of the cook tent with a huge apron enveloping her queer, tight dress and tilting forward upon her high heels, appeared bella pike! ruth fielding might have met somebody whose presence here would have surprised her more, but at the moment she could not imagine who it could be. "ara-bella!" gasped ruth. the child turned to stare her own amazement. she changed color, too, for she knew she had done wrong to run away; but she smiled with both eyes and lips, for she was glad to see ruth. "my mercy!" she ejaculated. "if it ain't miss fielding! how-do, miss fielding? ain't it enough to give one their nevergitovers to see you here?" "and how do you suppose i feel to find you here at beach plum point," demanded ruth, "when we all thought you were so nicely fixed with mr. and mrs. perkins? and mrs. holmes wrote to me only the other day that you seemed contented." "that's right, miss fielding," sighed the actor's child. "i was. and miz perkins was always nice to me. nothing at all like aunt suse timmins. but, you see, they ain't like pa." "did your father bring you here?" "no'm." "nor send for you?" "not exactly," confessed bella. "well!" "you see, he sent me money. only on tuesday. forty dollars." "forty dollars! and to a child like you?" "well, miss fielding, if he had sent it to aunt suse i'd never have seen a penny of it. and pa didn't know what you'd done for me and how you'd put me with miz perkins." "i suppose that is so," admitted the surprised ruth. "but why did you come here?" "'cause pa wrote he had an engagement here. i came through boston, an' got me a dress, and some shoes, and a hat--all up to date--and i thought i'd surprise pa----" "but, bella! i haven't seen your father here, have i?" "no. there's a mistake somehow. but this nice miz paisley says for me not to worry. that like enough pa will come here yet." "i never!" ejaculated ruth. "come right along with me, bella, and see mr. hammond. something must be done. of course, mrs. perkins and the doctor's wife have no idea where you have gone?" "oh, yes'm. i left a note telling 'em i'd gone to meet pa." "but we must send them a message that you are all right. come on, bella!" and with her arm about the child's thin shoulders, ruth urged her to mr. hammond's office--and directly into her father's arms! this was how arabella montague fitzmaurice pike came to meet her father--in a most amazing fashion! "pa! i never did!" half shrieked the queer child. "arabella! here? how strange!" observed the man who had been acting the part of the beach plum point hermit. "my child!" mr. pike could do nothing save in a dramatic way. he seized bella and hugged her to his bosom in a most stagy manner. but ruth saw that the man's gray eyes were moist, that his hands when he seized the girl really trembled, and he kissed bella with warmth. "i declare!" exclaimed mr. hammond. "so your name is something-or-other-fitzmaurice pike?" "john pike, if it please you. the other is for professional purposes only," said bella's father. "if you do not mind, sir," he added, "we will postpone our discussion until a later time. i--i would take my daughter to my poor abode and learn of her experience in getting here to beach plum point." "go as far as you like, mr. pike. but remember there has got to be a settlement later of this matter we were discussing," said the manager sternly. the actor and his daughter departed, the former giving ruth a very curious look indeed. mr. hammond turned a broad smile upon the girl of the red mill. "what do you know about _that_?" mr. hammond demanded. "why, miss ruth, yours seems to have been a very good guess. that fellow is an old-timer and no mistake." "my guess was good in more ways than one," said ruth. "i believe i can prove that this pike was at the red mill on the day my scenario was stolen." she told the manager briefly of the discovery she had made through the patriarchal old fellow on reef island the day before, and of her intention of sending a photograph of pike back home for identification. "good idea!" declared mr. hammond. "i will speak to mr. hooley. there are 'stills' on file of all the people he is using here on the lot at the present time. if you are really sure this man's story is a plagiarism on your own----" she smiled at him. "i can prove that, too, i think, to your satisfaction. i feel now that i can sit down and roughly sketch my whole scenario again. i must confess that in two places in this 'plain mary' this man pike has really improved on my idea. but as a whole his manuscript does not flatter my story. you'll see!" "truly, you are a different young woman this morning, miss ruth!" exclaimed her friend. "i hope this matter will be settled in a way satisfactory to you. i really think there is the germ of a splendid picture in this 'plain mary.'" "and believe me!" laughed ruth, "the germ is mine. you'll see," she repeated. she proved her point, and mr. hammond did see; but the outcome was through quite unexpected channels. ruth did not have to threaten the man who had made her all the trouble. john m. f. pike made his confession of his own volition when they discussed the matter that very day. "i feel, miss fielding, after all that you did for my child, that i cannot go on with this subterfuge that, for bella's sake, i was tempted to engage in. i did seize upon your manuscript in that summer-house near the mill where they say you live, and i was prepared to make the best use of it possible for bella's sake. "we have had such bad luck! poverty for one's self is bad enough. i have withstood the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune for years. but my child is growing up----" "would you want her to grow up to know that her father is a thief?" ruth demanded hotly. "hunger under the belt gnaws more potently than conscience," said pike, with a grandiloquent gesture. "i had sought alms and been refused at that mill. lurking about i saw you leave the summer-house and spied the gold pen. i can give you a pawn ticket for that," said mr. pike sadly. "but i saw, too, the value of your scenario and notes. desperately i had determined to try to enter this field of moving pictures. it is a terrible come down, miss fielding, for an artist--this mugging before the camera." he went on in his roundabout way to tell her that he had no idea of the ownership of the scenario. her name was not on it, and he had not observed her face that day at the red mill. and in his mind all the time had been his own and his child's misery. "it was a bold attempt to forge success through dishonesty," he concluded with humility. whether ruth was altogether sure that pike was quite honest in his confession or not, for bella's sake she could not be harsh with the old actor. nor could he, ruth believed, be wholly bad when he loved his child so much. as he turned over to ruth every scrap of manuscript, as well as the notebooks she had lost, she need not worry about establishing her ownership of the script. when mr. hammond had examined her material he agreed with ruth that in two quite important places bella's father had considerably improved the original idea of the story. this gave ruth the lead she had been looking for. mr. hammond admitted that the story was much too fine and too important to be filmed here at this summer camp. he decided to make a great spectacular production of it at the company's main studio later in the fall. so ruth proceeded to force bella's father to accept two hundred dollars in payment for what he had done on the story. as her contract with mr. hammond called for a generous royalty, she would make much more out of the scenario than the sum john pike had hoped to get by selling the stolen idea to mr. hammond. the prospects of bella and her father were vastly improved, too. his work as a "type" for picture makers would gain him a much better livelihood than he had been able to earn in the legitimate field. and when ruth and her party left beach plum point camp for home in their automobiles, bella herself was working in a two-reel comedy that mr. hooley was directing. "well, thank goodness!" sighed helen, "ruth has settled affairs for two more of her 'waifs and strays.' now don't, i beg, find anybody else to become interested in during our trip back to the red mill, ruthie." ruth was sitting beside tom on the front seat of the big touring car. he looked at her sideways with a whimsical little smile. "i wish you would turn over a new leaf, ruthie," he whispered. "and what is to be on that new leaf?" she asked brightly. "just me. pay a little attention to yours truly. remember that in a week i shall go aboard the transport again, and then----" "oh, tom!" she murmured, clasping her hands, "i don't want to think of it. if this awful war would only end!" "it's the only war so far that hasn't ended," he said. "and i have a feeling, anyway, that it may not last long. henri and i have got to hurry back to finish it up. leave it to us, ruth," and he smiled. but ruth sighed. "i suppose i shall have to, tommy-boy," she said. "and do finish it quickly! i do not feel as though i could return to college, or write another scenario, or do a single, solitary thing until peace is declared." "and _then_?" asked tom, significantly. ruth gave him an understanding smile. the end * * * * * the ruth fielding series by alice b. emerson _ mo. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid_ _ruth fielding will live in juvenile fiction_. ruth fielding of the red mill _or jasper parloe's secret_ ruth fielding at briarwood hall _or solving the campus mystery_ ruth fielding at snow camp _or lost in the backwoods_ ruth fielding at lighthouse point _or nita, the girl castaway_ ruth fielding at silver ranch _or schoolgirls among the cowboys_ ruth fielding on cliff island _or the old hunter's treasure box_ ruth fielding at sunrise farm _or what became of the raby orphans_ ruth fielding and the gypsies _or the missing pearl necklace_ ruth fielding in moving pictures _or helping the dormitory fund_ ruth fielding down in dixie _or great days in the land of cotton_ ruth fielding at college _or the missing examination papers_ ruth fielding in the saddle _or college girls in the land of gold_ ruth fielding in the red cross _or doing her bit for uncle sam_ ruth fielding at the war front _or the hunt for a lost soldier_ ruth fielding homeward bound _or a red cross worker's ocean perils_ ruth fielding down east _or the hermit of beach plum point_ ruth fielding in the great northwest _or the indian girl star of the movies_ ruth fielding on the st. lawrence _or the queer old man of the thousand islands_ ruth fielding treasure hunting _or a moving picture that became real_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the betty gordon series by alice b. emerson _author of the famous "ruth fielding" series_ _ mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors_ _price per volume, cents, postpaid_ _a series of stories by alice b. emerson which are bound to make this writer more popular than ever with her host of girl readers._ . betty gordon at bramble farm _or the mystery of a nobody_ at the age of twelve betty is left an orphan. her uncle sends her to live on a farm. . betty gordon in washington _or strange adventures in a great city_ in this volume betty goes to the national capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. . betty gordon in the land of oil _or the farm that was worth a fortune_ from washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. a splendid picture of the oil field operations of to-day. . betty gordon at boarding school _or the treasure of indian chasm_ seeking the treasure of indian chasm makes an exceedingly interesting incident. . betty gordon at mountain camp _or the mystery of ida bellethorne_ at mountain camp betty found herself in the midst of a mystery involving a girl whom she had previously met in washington. . betty gordon at ocean park _or gay days on the boardwalk_ adventure in high society let loose on the seashore. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the girl scout series by lilian garis _ mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors_ _price per volume, cents, postpaid_ _the highest ideals of girlhood as advocated by the foremost organizations of america form the background for these stories and while unobtrusive there is a message in every volume._ . the girl scout pioneers _or winning the first b. c._ a story of the true tred troop in a pennsylvania town. two runaway girls, who want to see the city, are reclaimed through troop influence. the story is correct in scout detail. . the girl scouts at bellaire _or maid mary's awakening_ the story of a timid little maid who is afraid to take part in other girls' activities, while working nobly alone for high ideals. how she was discovered by the bellaire troop and came into her own as "maid mary" makes a fascinating story. . the girl scouts at sea crest _or the wig wag rescue_ luna land, a little island by the sea, is wrapt in a mysterious seclusion, and kitty scuttle, a grotesque figure, succeeds in keeping all others at bay until the girl scouts come. . the girl scouts at camp comalong _or peg of tamarack hills_ the girls of bobolink troop spend their summer on the shores of lake hocomo. their discovery of peg, the mysterious rider, and the clearing up of her remarkable adventures afford a vigorous plot. . the girl scouts at rocky ledge _or nora's real vacation_ nora blair is the pampered daughter of a frivolous mother. her dislike for the rugged life of girl scouts is eventually changed to appreciation, when the rescue of little lucia, a woodland waif, becomes a problem for the girls to solve. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the radio girls series by margaret penrose _ mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors_ _price per volume, cents, postpaid_ _a new and up-to-date series, taking in the activities of several bright girls who become interested in radio. the stories tell of thrilling exploits, out-door life and the great part the radio plays in the adventures of the girls and in solving their mysteries. fascinating books that girls of all ages will want to read._ . the radio girls of roselawn _or a strange message from the air_ showing how jessie norwood and her chums became interested in radiophoning, how they gave a concert for a worthy local charity, and how they received a sudden and unexpected call for help out of the air. a girl who was wanted as a witness in a celebrated law case had disappeared, and how the radio girls went to the rescue is told in an absorbing manner. . the radio girls on the program _or singing and reciting at the sending station_ when listening in on a thrilling recitation or a superb concert number who of us has not longed to "look behind the scenes" to see how it was done? the girls had made the acquaintance of a sending station manager and in this volume are permitted to get on the program, much to their delight. a tale full of action and not a little fun. . the radio girls on station island _or the wireless from the steam yacht_ in this volume the girls travel to the seashore and put in a vacation on an island where is located a big radio sending station. the big brother of one of the girls owns a steam yacht and while out with a pleasure party those on the island receive word by radio that the yacht is on fire. a tale thrilling to the last page. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york [illustration: the cameras whirred while the barge pushed close into shore. "ruth fielding on the st. lawrence." page ] ------------------------------------------------------------------------- ruth fielding on the st. lawrence or the queer old man of the thousand islands by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding in the great northwest," "betty gordon series," etc. illustrated new york cupples & leon company publishers ------------------------------------------------------------------------- books for girls by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. ruth fielding of the red mill ruth fielding at briarwood hall ruth fielding at snow camp ruth fielding at lighthouse point ruth fielding at silver ranch ruth fielding on cliff island ruth fielding at sunrise farm ruth fielding and the gypsies ruth fielding in moving pictures ruth fielding down in dixie ruth fielding at college ruth fielding in the saddle ruth fielding in the red cross ruth fielding at the war front ruth fielding homeward bound ruth fielding down east ruth fielding in the great northwest ruth fielding on the st. lawrence betty gordon series betty gordon at bramble farm betty gordon in washington betty gordon in the land of oil betty gordon at boarding school betty gordon at mountain camp cupples & leon co., publishers, new york copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding on the st. lawrence printed in u. s. a. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- contents chapter page i "here comes the bride" ii a rift in his lute iii rice and old shoes iv bilby v trouble in prospect vi an abduction vii expediency viii at chippewa bay ix a film mystery x a smell of smoke xi bilby again xii the dance at alexandria bay xiii the kingdom of pipes xiv a demand is made xv the yellow lady xvi marooned xvii a determination xviii bilby's trump card xix suspense xx a failure in calculation xxi in the chinese den xxii the twins' alarm xxiii trouble enough xxiv a letter comes xxv the heart's desire ------------------------------------------------------------------------- ruth fielding on the st. lawrence chapter i "here comes the bride" the sudden joyous pealing of the organ could be heard upon the sidewalk before the stately church. as there was a broad canopy from the door to the curb, with a carpet laid down and motor-cars standing in line, it took no seer to proclaim that a wedding was in progress within. idlers halted to wait for the appearance of the wedding party, which was about to come forth. some of the younger spectators ran up the steps and peered in at the door, for there was only a lame, old, purblind sexton on guard, and he, too, seemed vastly interested in what was going on inside. one glance down the main aisle of the great edifice revealed a much more elaborate scheme of decoration than usually appears at a church wedding. its main effect was the intertwining of french and american flags, and as the bridal party turned from the altar the horizon blue uniform of the soldier-bridegroom was a patch of vivid color that could not be mistaken. the bride in her white gown and veil and wreath made, it may be, even a more prominent picture than did her husband. but that was only to be expected perhaps, for a girl on her wedding day, and in the church, is usually the focus of all eyes. it must be confessed (even her dearest friends must confess it) there was another reason why she who, only a moment before had been jennie stone, quite filled the public eye. in the first place, jennie was a well-built girl, and upon her well-built frame there had always been since her childhood days a superabundance of flesh. and getting married had not changed sweet, jolly, funny jennie stone in the least! instead of coming back down the aisle of the church with modestly downcast eyes (which is usually a hypocritical display of emotion), jennie smiled at her friends and beamed proudly upon the figure in horizon blue at her side. and she might well be proud of major henri marchand, for he was in the very best sense a soldier and a gentleman, and there gleamed a bit of color on his breast that had been pinned there by marshal foch's own hand. as he was still in active service and had only been given leave to come to america for his bride, this might be considered the last military wedding that the old church was likely to see--perhaps for many years. the groom's french uniform, and even the olive gray of the best man and two or three other men in the party at the altar, had lent their touch of color to the picture. but it was the bride's attendants, however, that made the party so well worth looking at--especially to the greater number of young women and girls in the pews. jennie stone was a popular girl, and had friends galore. many of those girl friends had come from a distance to see their beloved "heavy stone" (as she had been nicknamed in the old briarwood hall days) married to the man she had met in france while she was engaged in those useful and helpful occupations into which so many american girls entered during the war. besides, jennie was the first of the old briarwood hall set to be married, and this was bound to be a gala occasion. this was no "weepy" wedding, but a time of joy. and the bridal party coming down the aisle made as brilliant a picture as had ever been seen in the old church. the maid of honor in pink was as refreshing to look upon as a bouquet of arbutus. she had always been a pretty, winsome girl. now she was developing into a handsome young woman, as all ruth fielding's friends declared. in her present filmy costume with its flowery picture hat the girl of the red mill had never looked better. the young man at her side in the uniform of an american captain with his black curls and dark face, made a splendid foil for ruth's beauty. behind him walked his twin sister--as like tom cameron as another pea in a pod--and ann hicks, both in rose-color, completing a color scheme worthy of the taste of whoever had originated it. for the sheer beauty of the picture, this wedding would long be remembered. in the very last pew, on the aisle, sat an eager old colored woman--one of those typical "mammies" now so seldom seen--in an old-fashioned bonnet and shawl. she was of a bulbous figure, and her dark face shone with perspiration and delight as she stared at the coming bride and groom. jennie saw mammy rose (the old woman had been a dependent of the stone family for years), and had the occasion been much more serious than jennie thought it, the plump girl would surely have smiled at mammy rose. the old woman bobbed up, making an old-time genuflection. she thrust out a neat, paper-covered parcel which she had held carefully in her capacious lap all through the ceremony. "miss janie--ma blessed baby!" she whispered. "i is suttenly glad to see dis here day! heaven is a-smilin' on yo'. and here is one o' ma birfday cakes yo' liked so mighty well. mammy rose done make it for her chile--de las' she ever will make yo' now yo' is goin' to foreign paths." another girl than jennie might have been confused, or even angered, by the interruption of the procession. but jennie could be nothing if not kind. her own hands were filled with her bouquet--it was enormous. she stopped, however, before the old woman. "as thoughtful for me as ever, mammy rose, aren't you?" she said pleasantly. "and you know all my little failings. henri," she said to her husband. but the courtly young frenchman had quite as great a sense of _noblesse oblige_ as his bride. he bowed to the black woman as though she was the highest lady in the land and accepted the parcel, tied clumsily with baby ribbon by the gnarled fingers of mammy rose. they moved on and the smiling, yet tearful, old woman, sank back into her seat. if there was anything needed to make this a perfect occasion, it was this little incident. the bride and groom came out into the smiling sunshine with sunshine in their hearts as well as on their faces. "i knew," whispered helen cameron to ann hicks, who stalked beside her in rather a mannish way, "that heavy stone could not even be married without something ridiculous happening." "'ridiculous'?" repeated the western girl, with something like a catch in her throat. "well, it _might_ have been ridiculous," admitted helen. "only, after all, jennie is real--and so is major marchand. you couldn't feaze him, not even if a bomb had been dropped in the church vestibule." they were crowding into the motor-cars then, and merrily the wedding party sped back to the big house on madison avenue, which had been garnished for the occasion with the same taste that marked the color-scheme of the bride's attendants. the canopied steps and walk, the footmen in line to receive the party, and the banked flowers in the reception hall were all impressive. "my!" whispered the irrepressible jennie to henri, "i feel like a prima donna." "you are," was his prompt and earnest agreement. they trooped in at once to the breakfast table. the spacious room was wreathed with smilax and other vines--even to the great chandelier. the latter was so hidden by the decorations that it seemed overladen, and tom cameron, who had a quick eye, mentioned it to ruth. "wonder if those fellows braced that thing with wires? florists sometimes have more sense of art than common sense." "hush, tom! _nothing_ can happen to spoil this occasion. isn't it wonderful?" but tom cameron looked at her rather gloomily. he shook his head slightly. "i feel like one of those pictures of the starving children in armenia. i'm standing on the outside, looking in." it is true that ruth fielding flushed, but she refused to make reply. a moment later, when tom realized how the seating of the party had been arranged, his countenance showed even deeper gloom. as best man tom was directed to jennie's right hand. on the other side of henri, ruth was seated, and that placed her across the wide table from tom cameron. the smiling maid of honor was well worth looking at, and tom cameron should have been content to focus his eyes upon her whenever he raised them from his plate; but for a particular reason he was not at all pleased. this particular reason was the seating of another figure in military uniform next to ruth on her other side. this was a tall, pink-cheeked, well set-up youth looking as though, like tom, he had seen military service, and with an abundance of light hair above his broad brow. at school chessleigh copley had been nicknamed "lasses" because of that crop of hair. he entered into conversation with ruth at once, and he found her so interesting (or she found him so interesting) that ruth had little attention to give to her _vis-à-vis_ across the table. the latter's countenance grew heavier and heavier, his dark brows drawing together and his black eyes smouldering. if anybody noticed this change in tom's countenance it was his twin sister, sitting on ruth's side of the table. and perhaps she understood her brother's mood. now and then her own eyes flashed something besides curiosity along the table on her side at ruth and chess copley, so evidently lost in each other's companionship. but it was a gay party. how could it be otherwise with jennie at the table? and everybody was bound to second the gaiety of the bride. the groom's pride in jennie was so open, yet so very courteously expressed, that half the girls there envied jennie her possession of henri marchand. "to think," drawled ann hicks, who had come east from silver ranch, "that heavy stone should grab off such a prize in the matrimonial grab-bag. my!" and she finished with a sigh. "when does your turn come, ann?" asked somebody. "believe me," said the ranch girl, with emphasis, "i have got to see somebody besides cowpunchers and horse-wranglers before i make such a fatal move." "you have lost all your imagination," laughed helen, from across the table. "i don't know. maybe i used it all up, back in those old kid days when i ran away to be 'nita' and played at being 'the abused chee-ild'. remember?" "oh, _don't_ we!" cried helen and some of the other girls. something dropped on tom cameron's plate. he glanced up, then down again at the object that had fallen. it was a piece of plaster from the ceiling. chess copley likewise shot a glance ceilingward. there was a wide gap--and growing wider--on his side of the chandelier. a great piece of the heavy plaster was breaking away from the ceiling, and it hung threateningly over his own and ruth fielding's head. "look out, ruth!" shouted tom cameron, jumping to his feet. chapter ii a rift in his lute tom cameron, no matter how desirous he might be of saving ruth from hurt, could not possibly have got around the table in time. with a snarling, ripping noise the heavy patch of plaster tore away from the ceiling and fell directly upon the spot where the chairs of ruth and chess copley had been placed! the screams of the startled girls almost drowned the noise of the plaster's fall, but ruth fielding did not join in the outcry. with one movement, it seemed, copley had risen and kicked his own chair away, seized ruth about her waist as he did so, and so dragged her out from under the avalanche. it was all over in a moment, and the two stood, clinging to each other involuntarily, while the dust of the fallen plaster spread around them. for a moment ruth fielding had been in as perilous a situation as she had ever experienced, and her life had been rather full of peril and adventure since, as a girl of twelve, and in the first volume of this series, we met her as "ruth fielding of the red mill." at the time just mentioned, the orphaned ruth had appeared at her great-uncle's mill on the lumano river, near cheslow, in one of the new england states, and had been taken in by the miserly old miller rather under protest. but aunt alvirah boggs, who was uncle jabez potter's housekeeper, had loved the child from the very beginning. and in truth the old miller loved ruth too, only he was slow to admit it. ruth's first young friends at the red mill were the cameron twins, and with helen she had spent her schools days and many of her vacations, at briarwood hall, in the north woods, at the seashore, in the west, in the south, down east, and in other localities, the narrated adventures of which are to be found in the several volumes of the ruth fielding series. in the book just preceding this present story, "ruth fielding in the great northwest," helen was likewise with ruth when she made her famous moving picture, "brighteyes" in connection with the alectrion film corporation, the president of which, mr. hammond, had first encouraged ruth to turn her entire time and talent to the writing of moving picture scenarios. the fall before the time of this wedding party in which the girl of the red mill was taking part, fortune threw in ruth's way a charming young woman, a full-blood osage indian, in whom mr. hammond saw possibilities of development for screen acting. at least, to use the trite and bombastic moving picture phrase, wonota, the indian princess, "photographed like a million dollars." the great war's abrupt conclusion brought tom cameron home just as eager as he had been for two years past to have ruth agree to his plans for the future. as ruth saw it (no matter what may have been her secret feeling for tom) to do as tom wished would utterly spoil the career on which she had now entered so successfully. tom, like most young men in love, considered that a girl's only career should be a husband and a home. he frankly said that he was prepared, young as he was, to supply both for ruth. but their youth, in the first place, was an objection in the very sensible mind of ruth. it was true, too, that a second objection was the fact that she wanted to live her own life and establish herself in the great career she had got into almost by chance. and then too tom himself, since his return from france, had shown little determination to settle himself at work. being the son of a wealthy merchant and possessing, now that he was of age, a fortune in his own right inherited from his mother's estate, tom cameron, it seemed to ruth, was just playing with life. like many another young fellow so recently from the battlefield, it seemed as if he could not settle to anything. and his sister encouraged him in this attitude. ruth secretly blamed helen for this. and therefore her own attitude to tom had grown more stern. it was now june--the june following the armistice--the loveliest and most accepted time for a bridal. the ceremony of jennie stone's wedding to major henri marchand had passed off, as we have seen, very smoothly. even tom, as best man, had found the ring at the right moment, and nobody had stepped on jennie's train. but this accident at the breakfast table--and an accident that might have resulted fatally for ruth fielding--threatened to cause not only excitement but to sober the whole party. in a moment, however, in spite of the dust rising from the broken plaster, the others saw that ruth and chess copley were both safe. the latter was repeating, over and over and in much anxiety: "you are all right, ruth! i've got you. you are all right." the girl herself was quite breathless. copley held her in rather a close embrace, and for a much longer time than appeared necessary--to tom cameron at least. tom had got around the table just too late to be of any assistance. "we see you've got her, 'lasses," tom observed, rather tartly. "the close-up is shot. break away." his words started the laughter--and there was much relief expressed in the laughter in which all about the table joined. people are apt to laugh when serious danger is over. but it might have been observed by his friends at another time that tom cameron was not usually tart or unkind of speech. ruth said nothing, and chess copley flushed hotly. jennie had got up with henri in the moment of excitement, and now she quickly seized her goblet of grape-juice in which the party had previously toasted the bride and groom, and raised the glass on high. "hear! hear!" cried ann hicks. "the bride speaks." "this is a good omen," declared jennie clinging to henri's arm. "our ruth was wounded in france and has been in danger on many occasions, as we all know. never has she more gracefully escaped disaster, nor been aided by a more chivalrous cavalier. drink! drink to ruth fielding and to chessleigh copley! they are two very lucky people, for that ceiling might have cracked their crowns." they drank the toast--most of them with much laughter. "some orator, jennie," commented helen. "we are just beginning to appreciate you." "you will all be sorry that you did not treat me better--especially as a chee-ild," returned the plump bride, with mock solemnity. "think! think how you all used to abuse my--my appetite at briarwood hall. it is only mammy rose who is kind to me," and she pointed to the old colored woman's gift that had a place of honor before her own plate and that of major marchand's. "let me give a toast," cried helen gaily. "let us drink to jennie's appetite--long may it wave." "goodness me! don't speak of waves and appetite in the same breath, i beg. remember we are going directly aboard ship from the house and--and i never was a good sailor. waves! ugh!" the fun went on while the serving people swept up the debris and removed those dishes that had been covered with dust. aside, ruth, taking for the moment little part in the chatter and merriment, for she had received a considerable shock, stood talking with copley. ruth had given him her hand again and chess clung to it rather more warmly--so the watchful tom thought--than was needful. but the girl felt that she really had a great deal to thank copley for. "jennie in her fun spoke quite truly," ruth said in a low voice. "you are a friend in need." "and i hope you consider me a friend indeed, ruth," rejoined the young fellow. "i certainly do," agreed the girl of the red mill with her customary frank smile. "i--i am afraid," chess added, "that i am not considered in that light by all your friends, ruth. helen cameron hasn't spoken to me to-day." "no? is it serious?" "it is serious when a fellow gets turned down--snubbed--and not a word of explanation offered. and, in the words of the old song, we were 'companions once, but strangers now'." "oh, don't mind. helen usually gets over the mollygrubs very quickly." chess turned to see the other cameron twin eyeing him with no great favor. however, the throng of guests who were invited to the reception began coming in, and for the next two hours the parlors were crowded with the many friends of the plump girl, who, as helen had said, found this the greatest day of her life, and there was little time for much individual chat, though, it seemed to tom, chess copley kept as close as possible to ruth's side. it was after jennie had gone to put on her traveling dress, and the immediate wedding party, who were to accompany the bridal couple to the dock to see them embark, were hurrying out of the room to put on street clothes that tom, in a low voice, demanded of chess: "what are you trying to do--put a label on ruth? don't forget she belongs to all of us." chess copley had not won his commission in the war and wore only a sergeant's chevrons. but the war was over and he could tell his captain just what he thought of him. and he did. "do you know what you are, tom cameron?" he drawled, smiling a hard little smile. "you are a regular dog in the manger, and i'm frank to tell you so!" chapter iii rice and old shoes "it is the greatest day in a girl's life," declared helen cameron, sitting on the edge of one of the twin beds in the room she and ruth occupied while they were at the stone house. she buckled her fingers around her knee to hold one limb crossed over the other--a very mannish and independent position. "i don't know that i ever envied heavy before in my life. but she has got something now that we haven't, ruth." "cat's foot!" exclaimed ann hicks from her chair. "who'd want a frenchman for a husband?" ruth laughed. "not to say that major marchand is not a fine fellow, i agree with ann that i don't want a husband. not--right--now!" "oh! very well," said helen complacently. "but if you thought you'd never be able to get one----" "shucks!" exclaimed ann. "as though our ruth couldn't have all she wants if she wants them." "i really wish you would not speak plurally of them, ann," cried ruth, laughing. "you will make me feel like the queen of the amazons. they say she keeps a masculine harem--like a bey, or a sultan, or something of that kind." "be serious," rejoined helen. "i mean what i say. jennie's great day has arrived. and she is the first of all our old bunch that went to briarwood--and surely of those who went to ardmore college--to fetter herself to a man for life." "well, i shall never be fettered, even if i am married," observed ann. "i'd like to see myself!" "if the right man comes riding by, ann, even you will change your mind," ruth said softly. "then i suppose the right man has never ridden up to the red mill and asked for you?" demanded helen, with a glance at her chum that was rather piercing. "perhaps he has," said ruth composedly, "but i wasn't at home. aunt alvirah thinks i am almost never at home. and, girls, as i told you yesterday, i am going soon on another journey." "oh, ruth, i've been thinking of that!" helen rejoined, with a sudden access of interest and excitement. "to the thousand islands! and at the loveliest time of all the year up there." "and that is only the truth," said one of the other bridesmaids. "we spent last summer there." "the copleys always go," helen remarked quietly. "no! do you mean it?" cried ruth, showing some surprise. "well, indeed." "so you will see a lot more of 'lasses copley," remarked ann. "i shall be glad if chess copley is there when and where we make this picture, for i think he is very nice," was ruth's composed reply. "oh, he's nice enough," agreed helen, rather grumblingly however. "i've got nothing to say against chess--as a general thing." "and you don't seem to say much for him," put in the western girl curiously. but helen said nothing further on that topic. ruth broke in, answering one of the other girls who spoke of the forthcoming picture ruth was going to make for the alectrion corporation. "of course our famous wonota is going to be in the picture. for she is famous already. 'brighteyes' appeared for two successive weeks in one of the big broadway picture houses and we are making a lot of money out of its distribution. "but we know wonota is a find for another very unmistakable reason," she added. "what is that?" asked helen. "other producers have begun to make wonota and her father offers. for chief totantora has become interested in the movie business too. mr. hammond used totantora in a picture he made in oklahoma in the spring; one in which wonota did not appear. she was off at school at the time. we are going to make of the princess a cultivated and cultured young lady before we get through with her," and ruth laughed. "a red indian!" cried somebody. "that makes no difference," said ruth placidly. "she is amenable to white customs, and is really a very smart girl. and she has a lovely disposition." "especially," put in helen, who remembered the occasion clearly, "when she wanted to shoot dakota joe fenbrook when he treated her so unkindly in his wild west show. but, i wanted to shoot him myself," she added, frankly. "especially after he tried to hurt ruth." "never mind him," said her chum at that. "joe fenbrook is in the penitentiary now, and he is not bothering us. but other people are bothering mr. hammond about wonota." "how?" asked helen. "why, as i said, there are other picture producers who have seen 'brighteyes' and would like to get the chief and his daughter under contract. they have told totantora that, as the contract with his daughter was made while she was not of age, it can be broken. of course, the indian agent agreed to the contract; but after totantora returned from europe, where he had been held a prisoner in germany during the war, the guardianship of wonota reverted to her father once more. "it is rather a complicated matter," went on ruth, "and it is giving mr. hammond and his lawyers some trouble. there is a man named bilby, who has been a picture producer in a small way, who seems to have some influence with the head of the government bureau of indian affairs. he seems to have financial backing, too, and claims to have secured a series of stories in which wonota might be featured to advantage. and he certainly has offered totantora and the girl much more money than mr. hammond would be willing to risk in a star who may, after all, prove merely a flash in the pan." "what do you mean by that?" asked ann. "i thought she was a sure-fire hit." "no amateur screen actress--and that is all wonota is as yet--is ever a 'sure-fire hit', as you call it," said the practical ruth. "many a producer has been badly bitten by tying up a new actor or actress to a long-time contract. because a girl films well and is successful in one part, is not an assurance that she can learn to be a really great actress before the camera. "in 'brighteyes' wonota merely played herself. i was successful in fitting my story to her individuality. but she cannot always play the same part. in this story we are about to do on the st. lawrence, she will be called upon to delineate a character quite different from that of the heroine of 'brighteyes.'" "dear me, ruth," sighed helen, "what a business woman you are getting to be. your career has really begun--and so promisingly. while i can't do a thing but play the fiddle a little, daub a little at batik, and crochet!" "and make most delightful fudge!" cried jennie stone, just then coming into the room in her traveling dress, fresh from the hands of her maid and aunt kate. "how do i look, girls?" the bride's appearance drove everything else out of her friends' minds for the time being. it was two o'clock and the automobiles were at the door. the bridal couple, attended by bridesmaids, the best man, the ushers, and other close friends, departed for the dock amid showers of rice and a bombardment of old shoes which littered madison avenue for half a block and kept even the policemen on special duty for the occasion, dodging! they all trooped aboard the steamship where arrangements had been made to have the passports of the bride and groom examined. mr. stone had done everything well, as he always did. the bridal suite was banked with flowers. even the orchestra belonging to the ship had been engaged specially to play. a second, though brief, reception was held here. the ship's siren sent a stuttering blast into the air that seemed to shake the skyscrapers opposite the dock. the young folks trooped back to the pier. tom did his best to escort ruth; but to his amazement and anger chess copley pushed in front of him and ruth took the sergeant's arm. helen came along and grabbed her brother with a fierce little pinch. her eyes sparkled while his smouldered. "i guess we are relegated to the second row, tommy-boy," she whispered. "i do not see what has got into ruth." "it's not ruth. the gall of that 'lasses!" muttered the slangy tom. "so you think he is at fault?" rejoined his sister. "oh, tommy-boy! you do not know 'us girls'--no indeed you do not." it was a gay enough party on the dock that watched the big ship back out and being turned in the stream by the fussy tugs. the bride and groom shouted until they were hoarse, and waved their hands and handkerchiefs as long as they could be seen from the dock. if helen and tom cameron were either, or both, offended by ruth, they did not show it to the general company. as for the girl of the red mill, she enjoyed herself immensely; and she particularly liked chess copley's company. it was not that she felt any less kindly toward tom; but tom had disappointed her. he seemed to have changed greatly during this past winter while she had been so busy with her moving pictures. instead of settling down with his father in the offices of the great drygoods house from which mr. cameron's fortune had come, tom, abetted by helen, had become almost a social butterfly in new york. but chess copley, although no sober-sides, had thrown himself heart and soul into the real estate business and had already made a tidy sum during the six months that had ensued since his discharge from the army. it was true, chess was looking forward to taking a vacation at the thousand islands with his family. he told ruth so with enthusiasm, and hoped to see her again at that resort. but chess, ruth felt, had earned his vacation, while tom remained a mere idler. chess accompanied the cheslow young people to the grand central terminal when they left the dock and there bade ruth good-bye. "i shall see you in a fortnight at the thousand islands," he assured her, and shook hands again. "i shall look forward to it, believe me!" tom hung about, gloomy enough, even after they boarded the train. but the girls were gay and chattering when they entered their compartment. ann hicks was going home with helen for a brief visit, although she would be unable to go elsewhere with them during the early part of the summer, owing to previous engagements. "i am determined to go to the st. lawrence with you, ruth," declared helen. "and i know tommy-boy is aching to go." "i thought," said ruth rather gravely, "that he might really take to business this summer. doesn't your father need him?" "plenty of time for work, tommy thinks," rejoined tom's sister gaily. but ruth did not smile. chapter iv bilby the old, shingled red mill, which jabez potter had revamped each spring with mineral paint, was as brilliant a landmark on the bank of the lumano river as ever it had been. in fact, it seemed as though ben, the hired man, had got the red of the shingles and the trim a little redder and the blinds a little greener this last spring than ever they had been before. overshadowed by great elms, with the yard grass growing thick and lush right up to the bark of the trees, the surroundings of the mill and farmhouse connected with it (at least, all of those surroundings that could be seen from the cheslow road), were attractive indeed. although the old house seemed quite as it always had been from without, many changes had been made inside since first ruth fielding had stepped out of dr. davison's chaise to approach her great-uncle's habitation. at that time ruth had been less than a mote in the eye of uncle jabez. she was merely an annoyance to the miller at that time. since then, however, she had many and many a time proved a blessing to him. nor did jabez potter refuse to acknowledge this--on occasion. when ruth began to do over the interior of the old house, however, uncle jabez protested. the house and mill had been built a hundred and fifty years before--if not longer ago. it was sacrilege to touch a crooked rafter or a hammered nail of the entire structure. but ruth insisted that she be allowed to make her own rooms under the roof more comfortable and modern. ruth had seen old new england farmhouses rebuilt in the most attractive way one could imagine without disturbing their ancient exterior appearance. she gathered ideas from books and magazines, and then went about replanning the entire inside of the mill farmhouse. but she began the actual rejuvenation of the aspect of the structure in her own rooms, and had had all the work done since her return from the war zone the year before. she now had a bedroom, a sitting room, a dressing room and bathroom up under the roof, all in white (helen said "like a hospital"), and when one opened ruth's outer door and stepped into her suite it seemed as though one entered an entirely different house. and if it was a girl who entered--as wonota, the osage princess, did on a certain june day soon after jennie stone's marriage--she could not suppress a cry of delight. wonota had stayed before at the red mill for a time; but then the workmen had not completed ruth's new nest. and although wonota had been born in a wigwam on the plains and had spent her childhood in a log cabin with a turf roof, she could appreciate "pretty things" quite as keenly as any girl of ruth's acquaintance. that was why ruth--as well as mr. hammond of the alectrion film corporation--believed that the indian girl would in time become a successful screen actress. wonota, though her skin was copper-colored, liked to dress in up-to-date clothes (and did so) and enjoyed the refinements of civilization as much as any white girl of her age. "it is so pretty here, miss ruth," she said to her mentor. "may i sleep in the other bed off your sitting room? it is sweet of you. how foolish of people wanting to see on the screen how poor indians live in their ignorance. i would rather learn to play the part of a very rich new york lady, and have servants and motor-cars and go to the opera and wear a diamond necklace." ruth laughed at her, but good-naturedly. "all girls are the same, i suppose, under the skin," she said. "but we each should try to do the things we can do best. learn to play the parts the director assigns you to the very best of your ability. doing that will bring you, quicker than anything else, to the point where you can wear diamonds and ride in your own motor-car and go to the opera. what does your father, chief totantora, say to your new ideas, wonota?" "the chief, my father, says nothing when i talk like that to him. he is too much of an old-fashioned indian, i fear. he is staying at a country hotel up the road; but he would not sleep in the room they gave him (and then he rolled up in his blanket on the floor) until they agreed to let him take out the sashes from all three windows. he says that white people have white faces because they sleep in stale air." "perhaps he is more than half right," rejoined ruth, although she laughed too. "some white folks even in this age are afraid of the outdoor air as a sleeping tonic, and prefer to drug themselves with shut-in air in their bedrooms." "but one can have pretty things and nice things, and still remain in health," sighed wonota. ruth agreed with this. the girl of the red mill tried, too, in every way to encourage the indian maiden to learn and profit by the better things to be gained by association with the whites. there were several days to wait before mr. hammond was ready to send mr. hooley, the director, and the company selected for the making of ruth's new picture to the thousand islands. meanwhile ruth herself had many preparations to make and she could not be all the time with her visitor. as in that past time when she had visited the red mill, wonota was usually content to sit with aunt alvirah and make beadwork while the old woman knitted. "she's a contented creeter, my pretty," the old woman said to ruth. "red or white, i never see such a quiet puss. and she jumps and runs to wait on me like you do. "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" exclaimed aunt alvirah, rising cautiously with the aid of a cane she now depended upon. "my rheumatism don't seem any better, and i have had it long enough, seems to me, for it to get better," she added. "poor dear!" said ruth. "don't the new medicine do any good?" "lawsy me, child! i've drenched myself with doctor's stuff till i'm ashamed to look a medicine bottle in the face. my worn out old carcass can't be helped much by any drugs at all. i guess, as my poor old mother used to say, the only sure cure for rheumatics is graveyard mould." "oh, aunt alvirah!" "i don't say it complainingly," declared the little old woman, smiling quite cheerfully. "but i tell jabez potter he might as well make up his mind to seeing my corner of his hearth empty one of these days. and he'll miss me, too, cantankerous as he is sometimes." but uncle jabez was seldom "cantankerous" nowadays when ruth was at home. to the miller's mind his great-niece had proved herself to be of the true potter blood, although her name was fielding. ruth was a money-maker. he had to wink pretty hard over the fact that she was likewise a money spender! but one girl--and a young one at that--could scarcely be expected (and so the old miller admitted) to combine all the virtues which were worth while in human development. "keep a-making of it, niece ruth," uncle jabez advised earnestly. "you never can tell when you are going to want more or when your ability to make money is going to stop. i'd sell the red mill or give up and never grind another grist for nobody, if i didn't feel that perhaps by next year i should have to stop, anyway--and another year won't much matter." "you get so little pleasure out of life, uncle jabez," ruth once said in answer to this statement of the old man. "shucks! don't you believe it. i don't know no better fun than watching the corn in the hopper or the stuns go round and round while the meal flour runs out of the spout below, warm and nice-smellin'. the millin' business is just as pretty a business as there is in the world--when once you git used to the dust. no doubt of it." "i can see, uncle jabez, that you find it so," said ruth, but rather doubtfully. "of course it is," said the old man stoutly. "you get fun out of running about the country and looking at things and seeing how other folks live and work. and that's all right for you. _you_ make money out of it. but what would i get out of gadding about?" "a broader outlook on life, uncle jabez." "i don't want no broader outlook. i don't need nothing of the kind. nor does alviry boggs, though she's got to talking a dreadful lot lately about wanting to ride around in an automobile. at her age, too!" "you should own a car, uncle jabez," urged ruth. "now, stop that! stop that, niece ruth! i won't hear to no such foolishness. you show me how i can make money riding up and down the lumano in a pesky motor-car, and maybe i'll do like alviry wants me to, and buy one of the contraptions." "hullo, now!" added the miller suddenly. "who might this be?" ruth turned to see one of the very motor-cars that uncle jabez so scorned (or pretended to) stopping before the wide door of the mill itself. but as it was the man driving the roadster, rather than the car itself, uncle jabez had spoken of, ruth gave her attention to him. he was a ruddy, tubby little man in a pin-check black and white suit, faced with silk on lapels and pockets--it really gave him a sort of minstrel-like appearance as though he should likewise have had his face corked--and he wore in a puffed maroon scarf a stone that flashed enough for half a dozen ordinary diamonds--whether it really was of the first water or not. this man hopped out from back of the wheel of the roadster and came briskly up the graveled rise from the road to the door of the mill. he favored ruth with a side glance and half smile that the girl of the red mill thought (she had seen plenty of such men) revealed his character very clearly. but he spoke to uncle jabez. "i say, pop, is this the place they call the red mill?" "i calkerlate it is," agreed the miller dryly. "leastways, it's the only red mill i ever heard tell on." "i reckoned i'd got to the right dump," said the visitor cheerfully. "i understand there's an injun girl stopping here? is that so?" uncle jabez glanced at ruth and got her permission to speak before he answered: "i don't know as it's any of your business, mister; but the princess wonota, of the osage nation, is stopping here just now. what might be your business with her?" "so she calls herself a 'princess' does she?" returned the man, grinning again at ruth in an offensive way. "well, i have managed a south sea island chief, a pair of circassian twins, and a bunch of eskimos, in my time. i guess i know how to act in the presence of injun royalty. trot her out." "trot who out?" asked the miller calmly, but with eyes that flashed under his penthouse brows. "wonota ain't no horse. did you think she was?" "i know what she is," returned the man promptly. "it's what she is going to be that interests me. i'm bilby--horatio bilby. maybe you've heard of me?" "i have," said ruth rather sharply. at once mr. bilby's round, dented, brown hat came off and he bowed profoundly. "happy to make your acquaintance, miss," he said. "you haven't made it yet--near as i can calkerlate," gruffly said uncle jabez. "and it's mebbe a question if you get much acquainted with wonota. what's your business with her, anyway?" "i'll show you, old gent," said bilby, taking a number of important looking papers from his pocket. "i have come here to get this princess, as you call her. the indian department has sent me. she is a ward of the government, as you perhaps know. it seems she is held under a false form of contract to a moving picture corporation, and wonota's friends have applied to the bureau of indian affairs to look into the matter and get at the rights of the business." ruth uttered a cry of amazement; but uncle jabez said calmly enough: "and what have you got to do with it all, mister--if i may be so curious as to ask?" "the girl is given into my charge while her affairs are being looked into," said mr. horatio bilby, with an explanatory flourish which included both the miller and ruth in its sweeping gesture. chapter v trouble in prospect ruth fielding wished that mr. hammond was within reach; but she knew he was already on his way to the thousand islands, for which she herself expected to start the next day with wonota and her father. she had not heard much about this bilby; but what she had learned--together with what she now saw of him--impressed her not at all in his favor. in any event she was not willing to accept either horatio bilby or his declaration at face value. and she was glad to see that the hardheaded old miller was not much impressed by the man, either. "i don't know much about this business, mister," said uncle jabez, with much calmness. "but it strikes me that you'd better see the girl's father." "what girl's father?" demanded the visitor, and now he seemed surprised. "wonota's. chief totantora is the name he goes by. it strikes me that he ought to have a deal more to say about the girl than any government department." "why, he's nothing but a blanket injun!" ejaculated bilby, with disgust. "mebbe so," rejoined uncle jabez. "but his wearing a blanket (though i never see him with it on; he wears pants and a shirt when he comes here) don't figger none at all. he still remains the girl's father." "i guess you don't know, pop, that these injuns are all wards of uncle sam." "mebbe so," again observed the miller. "and i have sometimes thought that uncle sam ain't always been any too good to his red relations. however, that isn't to the point. the girl's here. she's sort of in my care while she is here. unless chief totantora shows up and asks to have her handed over to you, i calkerlate you won't get her." "see here, my man!" exclaimed bilby, at once becoming blusterous, "you'll get into trouble with the government if you interfere with me." "that doesn't scare me none," was the prompt reply of jabez potter. "right now the government of the united states don't look so important to me as our local constable. i guess to get possession of the girl you will have to bring an officer with you to certify to all this you say you are. until you do, i might as well tell you, first as last, that you ain't got a chance--not a chance!--to even see wonota." mr. bilby grew even redder in the face than nature seemed to have intended him to be. and his little greenish-gray eyes sparkled angrily. "you'll get into trouble, old man," he threatened. "don't you let that bother you none," rejoined the miller. "i've had so much trouble in my life that i'm sort of used to it, as you might say. now, if that is all you got to offer, you might as well get back into that go-cart of yours and drive on." mr. potter turned on his heel and went back into the mill, beckoning to ruth to come with him. she did so--for a little way at least; but she soon stopped to peer out and watch the man, bilby. when they were, as he thought, out of hearing, he gave vent to several grunts, kicked a pebble across the road, and scowled ferociously. he said something about "these rubes are smarter than they used to be." he seemed convinced that he could do nothing further in the matter he had come upon. not at this time, it was quite plain. he turned and climbed into the roadster. but he did not drive back toward cheslow; instead he went up the river road, and ruth fielding remembered that wonota's father was stopping at the country inn which was only three or four miles up that road. "but nothing can happen because of that, of course," the girl thought, as she entered the passage that led to the farmhouse from the mill. "wonota is perfectly safe here, and surely totantora can take care of himself with that little fat man, or with anybody else!" she entered the kitchen expecting to find the indian girl at work with aunt alvirah in the old woman's sunny corner of the great room. the old woman was alone, however. "where is wonota?" ruth asked. before aunt alvirah could reply an automobile siren echoed outside of the house. aunt alvirah was smiling and waving at somebody and ruth hurried to the window to look out. "here's helen come for you, my pretty, in that beautiful big car of hers," said aunt alvirah. "isn't it fine to be rich?" "wait till i make a few more pictures, aunty, and we'll have a car too. if uncle jabez won't buy one, i've made up my mind to get a car if it's only to take you to drive once in a while." "it wouldn't hurt jabez potter to buy a car," declared the old woman. "she's coming in ruthie. oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" she murmured, as she got up to receive the visitor. helen swept into the house gaily. she always had a kiss for the little old woman who thought her, next to ruth, the finest girl who ever lived. "you're always a sight for anyone to look on with pleasure, helen cameron," said aunt alvirah. "and you're mighty smart in that long coat and cap." "and do you put on your coat and bonnet, aunty," cried helen, patting her wrinkled cheek. "i've come to take you for a spin. and ruth, too." "there's wonota," suggested ruth. "of course. the princess shall join us," helen cried merrily. "where is she? tell her to leave her everlasting beadwork long enough to ride in the white man's motor-car." "i suppose," said ruth, starting for the stairway, "wonota must be up in her own room." "no, no!" aunt alvirah called from her bedroom, to which she had hobbled for her cloak and bonnet. "i was just about to tell you, my pretty. wonota has gone out." "where did she go?" and ruth suddenly turned back, and with surprise if not exactly with a feeling of alarm. "she said she would walk up the road to see her father. she is quite fond of her father, i believe," added aunt alvirah, coming back with her wrap and bonnet. "of course, indians have family feelings, if they do seem to hide 'em so well." "i am sorry she went out alone," murmured ruth. "pooh! she isn't a child. and she'll not lose her way, that's sure," laughed helen. "anyway, we'll overtake her and give her a ride. chief totantora, too, if he will deign to step into the white man's car." ruth said no more. but after the visit of bilby to the mill she could not help but feel some little anxiety. she remembered that dakota joe, in whose show wonota had once worked, had tried his best to make trouble for her and mr. hammond because of the osage maiden; and this bilby was plainly a much shrewder person than the westerner had been. she and helen aided aunt alvirah out to the car. it was a heavy, seven passenger machine; but helen could drive it as well as tom himself. "and tommy-boy," she explained as she tucked the robe about aunt alvirah before following ruth into the front seat, "went to town to-day with father." "i hope he will really get down to work now," said ruth softly, as helen began to manipulate the levers. "pooh!" exclaimed helen carelessly. "work was made for slaves. and tom had a hard time over in france. i tell dad he ought not to expect tommy-boy to really work for a long, long time to come." "do you think that is right, helen?" admonished her chum. "idleness was never good for anybody." "it isn't as though tom was poor. he hasn't got to toil and delve in an old office--" "you know it isn't that," cried ruth warmly. "but he should make good use of his time. and your father needs him. he ought to be idle now, not tom." "grandmother grunt!" laughed helen. "you're twice as old as aunt alvirah right now." "after what we have been through--after what the world has been through for five years--we all ought to be at work," said ruth rather severely. "and tom is no exception." "why, i never knew you to be hard on tommy-boy before!" pouted tom's sister. "perhaps i never had occasion to be hard on him before," ruth answered. "he is only one of many. especially many of those who were over there in france. they seem to be so unsettled and--and so careless for the future." "regular female simon legree, you are, ruthie fielding." "but when tom first came back he was as eager as he could be to get to business and to begin a business career. and lately, it seems to me, he's had an awful slump in his ambition. i never saw the like." "oh, bother!" muttered helen, and started the car. the car shot ahead, and in five minutes they passed the country inn, but saw nothing of either wonota or the indian chief. in a cove below the river bank, however, ruth caught a glimpse of a small motor-boat with two men in it. and backed into a wood's path near the highway was a small motor-car. was it the smart roadster mr. horatio bilby had driven to the red mill? ruth could not be sure. but she did not enjoy the ride with helen and aunt alvirah very much for thinking of the possibility of its being mr. bilby's car so close to the inn where chief totantora was stopping. chapter vi an abduction the ride in helen's car was enjoyable, especially for aunt alvirah. how that old lady did smile and (as she herself laughingly said) "gabble" her delight! being shut inside the house so much, the broader sight of the surrounding country and the now peacefully flowing lumano river was indeed a treat. helen drove up the river and over the long bridge, where she halted the car for a time that they might look both up and down the stream. and it was from this point that ruth again caught a glimpse of the motor-boat she had before spied near the roadside inn. there was but one man in it now, and the boat was moored to the root of a big tree that overhung the little cove. not that there was anything astonishing or suspicious in the appearance of the boat. merely, it was there and seemed to have no particular business there. and the girl of the red mill recalled that mr. horatio bilby's motor-car was backed into the bushes near that spot. had mr. bilby, who had announced that his business in this vicinity was to obtain possession of wonota, anything to do with the men in the boat? the thought may have been but an idle suggestion in ruth's mind. intuition was strong in ruth fielding, however. somehow, the abandoned car being there near the inn where totantora was staying and to which wonota had gone to see her father, and the unidentified motor-boat lurking at the river's edge in the same vicinity, continued to rap an insistent warning at the door of the girl's mind. "helen, let's go back," she said suddenly, as her chum was about to let in the clutch again. "turn around--do." "what for?" asked helen wonderingly, yet seeing something in the expression of ruth's face that made her more than curious. "i--i feel that everything isn't right with wonota." "wonota!" ruth, in low tones, told her chum her fears--told of bilby's call at the mill--mentioned the fact that the indian girl was probably at this time at the roadside inn and that the rival moving picture producer was perhaps there likewise. "what do you know about that!" gasped helen. "is there going to be a real fight for the possession of wonota, do you think?" "and for totantora too, perhaps. for he figures importantly in this picture we are about to make up on the st. lawrence." "fine!" exclaimed helen cameron. "there is going to be something doing besides picture making. why, ruth! you couldn't keep me from going with you to-morrow. and i know tommy-boy will be crazy to be in it, too." ruth made an appealing gesture as helen began to back and turn the car. "don't frighten aunt alvirah," she whispered. helen was delighted with any prospect for action. it must be confessed that she did not think much about disappointment or trouble accruing to other people in any set of circumstances; she never had been particularly thoughtful for others. but she was brave to the point of recklessness, and she was at once excited regarding the suggested danger to her chum's plans. bilby had already, ruth understood, offered more money to wonota and totantora for their services than mr. hammond thought it wise to risk in the venture. and, after all, the temptation of money was great in the minds of the indians. it might be that bilby could get them away from ruth's care. and then what would the alectrion film corporation do about this next picture that had been planned? aunt alvirah made no complaint as to how or where the car went--as long as it went somewhere. she admitted she liked to travel fast. having been for so many years crippled by that enemy, rheumatism, she seemed to find some compensation in the speed of helen's car. the inn was several miles away from the long bridge; but the road was fairly straight, and as the car went over the ridges they could now and then catch glimpses of the hotel. on the right were cornfields, the dark green blades only six or eight inches high; and scattered over them the omnipresent scarecrows which, in the spring, add at least picturesqueness to the new england landscape. above the purring of the motor aunt alvirah raised her voice to remark to the chums on the front seat: "i don't see it now--did it fall down?" "did what fall down, aunty?" asked ruth, who, though troubled as she was by her suspicions, could not ignore the little old woman. "that scarecrow i see coming up. i thought 'twas a gal picking up stones in that field--the one this side of the hotel. it had a sunbonnet on, and it was just as natural! but it's gone." "i don't see any scarecrow there," admitted ruth, turning to look. at that moment, however, the car she had seen parked in the bushes wheeled out into the highway ahead of them. it started on past the hotel. there was another figure beside that of the tubby horatio bilby on the seat. ruth recognized bilby at once. "who's that?" asked helen, slowing down involuntarily. "that's the man i spoke of," explained ruth, "i--i wonder who it is that's with him?" "a girl!" exclaimed helen. "do you suppose he has got wonota?" "wonota--with a sunbonnet on?" cried her chum. "i bet he's running away with wonota!" cried helen, and started to speed up after the other car. ruth laid a quick hand on her chum's arm. "wait! stop!" she cried. "see what a curiously acting thing that is he has got beside him? is--it can't be a girl, helen!" "it certainly isn't a boy," declared her friend, with exasperation. "he'll get away from us. that is a fast car he is driving." "wait!" exclaimed ruth again, and as helen brought her machine to an abrupt stop aunt alvirah was heard saying: "now, ain't that reediculous? ain't it reediculous?" "what is ridiculous?" asked helen, looking back with a smile at the little old woman while ruth opened the door and leaped out to the side of the road nearest the river. "why, where are your eyes, helen cameron?" demanded aunt alvirah. "there's that scarecrow now. that feller is a-running away with it!" helen flashed another look along the road. the figure beside bilby on the seat had been set upright again. now the girl saw that it was nothing but a figure. it was no girl at all! "what under the sun, ruth--" but ruth was not in hearing. she had dashed into the bushes and to the spot where she had previously seen the roadster belonging to horatio bilby parked. the bushes were trampled all about. here and there were bits of torn cloth hanging to the thorns. yonder was a slipper with rather a high heel. she recognized it as one belonging to wonota, the osage girl, and picked it up. the indian maid was really attempting the fads, as well as the fancies, in apparel of her white sisters! but what had become of the girl herself? she certainly would not have removed one of her pumps and thrown it away. like aunt alvirah and helen, ruth knew that the figure beside bilby in the car was not the missing indian girl. he had attempted to use the scarecrow he had stolen from the cornfield across the road to bewilder anybody who might pursue him. and this very attempt of the rival picture producer to foul his trail impressed ruth that something serious regarding wonota and her father was afoot. if the indian girl had not gone with bilby, where had she gone? and where was totantora? ruth could not believe that either wonota or her father would prove faithless to their contract with mr. hammond--not intentionally, at least. she hesitated there in the trampled bushes for a moment, wondering if she ought not first to go on to the hotel and make inquiries. then she heard something thrashing in the bushes not far away. she started, peering all about, listening. the noise led her to the head of a gully that sloped down toward the river's edge. it was bush-bestrewn and the way was rough. ruth plunged down the slant of it, and behind the first clump of brush she came upon a man struggling on the ground. his ankles and his wrists were lashed, and when the girl turned him over she was amazed to see that he was most cruelly gagged with a piece of stick and a handkerchief. "totantora!" she screamed. "what is the matter? where is wonota?" his glaring eyes seemed almost popping from their sockets. his copper-colored face was a mask of demoniacal rage. his dignity as an indian and his feelings as a father had been outraged. yet, ruth was positive that the figure in the roadster beside horatio bilby was not wonota, the chief's daughter. her strong and nimble fingers had gone to work almost at once upon the cord that held the indians wrists. she loosened them in a few moments. totantora leaped to his feet, drew a clasp-knife from the pocket of his trousers, snapped it open, and slashed through the cords about his ankles. "where is wonota? what has happened?" ruth cried. the indian slashed the handkerchief that held the gag in place, dragged it out, and cast it away. he made no reply to ruth's question, but lifting up his head sent a long and quavering cry through the grove--a cry that might have been the war-whoop of his tribe generations before. however, ruth knew it was a signal to his daughter that he was free and was in pursuit. if wonota was where she could hear! speaking not at all to the anxious ruth, totantora started down the gully to the riverside. the girl followed him, running almost as wildly as did the indian chief. bounding out into the more open grove at the edge of the stream, totantora uttered another savage yell. ruth heard, too, the _put, put, put_, of a motor-boat. when she reached the water the boat she had previously observed was some few yards from the bank. there were two men in it now, and ruth saw at first glance that wonota, likewise bound and gagged, lay propped up against the small over-decked part of the launch. the indian chief halted not even to kick off his moccasins. he ran to the edge of the bank and, the water being deep, dived on a long slant into the river. he rose almost instantly to the surface, and with a long, swift side-stroke followed after the motor craft, which was now gaining speed. chapter vii expediency up in the big north woods ruth fielding had seen loons dive and swim (and of all the feathered tribe, loons are the master divers) and she had wondered at the birds' mastery of the water. but no loon ever seemed more at home in that element than did the indian chief. totantora tore through the water after the escaping motor-boat as though he, too, were propelled by a motor. and his motor was more powerful, in a short race at least, than that driving the launch in which wonota was held prisoner. before the men who had abducted the osage maiden could get their boat out of the little cove, totantora reached the stern of it. he rose breast high in the water and clutched the gunwale with one hand. one of the men swung at him with a boathook; but the other picked up his canvas coat and managed to smother the chief's head and face in it for a minute. totantora flung himself backward and dragged the canvas coat out of the man's hand. indeed, he came near to dragging the man himself into the water. the coat did not retard the indian much. he grabbed it with both hands, spread it abroad, and then plunged with it under the stern of the motor-boat. at once the propeller ceased turning and the boat lost headway. totantora had fouled the propeller blades with the canvas jacket, and the abductors could not get away. the indian lunged for the gunwale of the boat again. one of the men was now attending to the mechanism. the other beat at totantora's hands with the boathook. in a flash the chief let go of the rail with one hand and seized the staff of the implement. one powerful jerk, and he wrenched the boathook from the white man's grasp. the latter fell sprawling into the bottom of the boat. with a display of muscle-power at which ruth could not but marvel, totantora raised himself over the gunwale of the boat and scrambled into it. the second white man turned on him, but the indian met him stooping, seized him around the waist, and tossed him, seemingly with scarcely an effort, into the water. the other abductor scrambled forward to get out of his reach. the chief bent for a minute over his daughter, and then ruth saw that the girl was free and that she stood up, unhurt. it was all over so quickly that it left ruth breathless. "miss ruth! miss ruth!" cried the indian girl. "i am all right. my father, chief totantora, would not let these bad white men carry me away a captive." ruth waved her hand to the younger girl. but she watched the white man who was swimming for the shore. she was not afraid of him--any more than the indian chief was fearful of the other white man perched in the bow of the motor-boat. the swimmer reached the bank, caught hold of an overhanging bush, and dragged himself out of the river. he was a hang-dog looking sort of fellow, anyway; and in his saturated condition his appearance was not improved. he lay panting for a minute like an expiring fish, and ruth looked down at him perhaps more contemptuously than she realized. "well, who you looking at?" he growled at length. "i suppose i am looking at one of mr. horatio bilby's choice assistants," ruth returned scornfully. "huh? what do you know about bilby?" demanded the fellow, evidently much surprised. "i know nothing very good of him, i am sure," the girl of the red mill replied coolly. "and i am quite confident that you are a fit companion for him." the fellow sat up and leered at her. "i ain't such a mighty fine sight just now, i guess," he said. "but there are worse than me. i didn't know there were any white folks interested in this business." "you make a perfectly proper distinction," ruth told him. "bilby is not a white man--not in his business ethics i am sure. i want to warn you that those indians have powerful friends and you would do well to have nothing more to do with them." "i get you," growled the fellow. "but take it from me; that injun don't need no friends. he can take care of himself. he's as strong as a bull." "and with a temper you would best not ruffle. i do not know what bilby's scheme was, or how he got you into it. but take my advice and keep out of any further association with bilby in this matter." "you don't have to warn me and my partner," said the fellow. "we got enough right now. is he coming ashore?" he turned to look at the boat, and then leaped to his feet in some fear. totantora, by leaning well over the stern of the boat, had dragged the torn coat out of the propeller, and now he was coolly examining the mechanism with the evident idea of starting the boat. the indian seemed familiar with the driving power of such a craft. "i think he will bring his daughter ashore," ruth said composedly. "if i were you i would not cross him further." "i ain't going to, miss," said the fellow, now on his feet. "i see jim is keeping as far away from him as he can. jim can't swim." "go aside somewhere. when they reach the bank i will try to take totantora and the girl away with me. do nothing to cross him, for the temper of an indian is not easily quelled. it just simmers and may break out again at any time." "believe me," said the fellow, starting off through the bushes, "i ain't aiming to have another run-in with him. not with my bare hands. i hope he don't smash the boat, that's all." "i will do all i can to pacify totantora," said ruth, and she really was somewhat anxious on this point, for the grim countenance of the indian chief threatened further reprisal. he was busy with the engine for a time; but by and by the regular popping of the exhaust revealed the fact that everything was all right with it. the boat described a circle and came back into the cove and to the place where ruth stood on the bank. the second white man, who was younger and looked less like a drowned rat, remained in the bow, staring back in apprehension at the indian. the moment he could do so, this man leaped ashore. "say nothing to him," advised ruth. "i will try to take them both away. and, as i have warned your companion, have nothing more to do with bilby or his schemes. these indians are my friends, and they have other friends who are much more powerful than i am, i can assure you." "yes, miss," said the man, politely enough. "i don't want to mix in with that redskin. i guess not!" wonota stepped ashore and ruth gave her the shoe she had lost. her father followed her. he turned as though to set the boat adrift, but ruth laid her hand upon his wet sleeve. "let it alone, totantora. i hope you will be advised by me. we will go right away from here. instead of waiting until to-morrow, let us leave here to-night and start for the north." wonota said something to her father in their own tongue, and he looked at ruth more peacefully. "white lady is always my friend, i know; and wonota's friend," he observed. "but these bad men tried to steal wonota." "tell me how it happened," ruth put in, hoping to change his trend of thought and determination. "i will tell you, my friend," said the indian girl. "a little fat man came in a car when chief totantora and i were walking in the road. he got us to sit down yonder and talk to him. he is one of those who have tried to get chief totantora and me to go away from you to make pictures. he offers much money. and while we talked, those other two men crept up behind us and they all seized chief totantora and me. we were bound and our mouths closed before we knew how many, or how few, our enemies were. then my father was left in the wood and i was carried to the boat. i do not know what became of the little fat man." "i saw him drive away," ruth said. "it made me suspicious. i had already seen and talked with the fat man, whose name is bilby. don't forget that name, wonota." "i will remember," said the indian girl, composedly. "he may make some other attempt to get possession of you. some attempt by aid of the courts." "the white man's law is very strange," muttered totantora. "but we will get ahead of bilby before he can do anything else," ruth went on. "miss cameron's car is outside in the road. go to the hotel and change your clothes, totantora, and i will take both you and wonota back to the red mill. until we get away for the north i shall not want you out of my sight." the indian shook himself much as a dog might. a lighter expression flickered over his dark face. "i shall not suffer cold from a wetting," he said. "it is nothing. i have nothing at the hotel. we will go now." "come on, then," rejoined ruth, promptly. "it is best that we get away before bilby can learn that his plan to make wonota a captive miscarried. hurry!" she swept them in her earnestness out to the road where helen and aunt alvirah saw them with considerable surprise--particularly because of the saturated condition of the indian. "i declare, ruth!" cried helen, "you do manage to get into such perfectly lovely rows. what is the matter?" but ruth postponed all explanation for a later time. on their way back to the red mill she did explain to helen, however, that she intended to take the two indians to cheslow and get a train for albany that evening. "i will fool bilby and whoever is aiding him. we will get away." "if you go to-night, so do i!" exclaimed her chum. "you can't lose me, ruth fielding. i can see that we are going to have perfectly scrumptious times before this picture you are going to make is finished." "i hope we'll fool bilby--leave him behind," sighed ruth. "the worst of it is, we must leave tommy-boy behind," said tom's twin. "won't he be sore when he hears about it!" chapter viii at chippewa bay helen pronounced that exodus from the red mill "some hustle;" and really it was but a brief time that ruth allowed for packing, dressing, and getting to cheslow for the eight-forty-five train, bound north. this was a through train with sleeping cars, and stopped at cheslow only on special occasions. ruth determined that this was one of those occasions. she hustled ben, the hired man, off to town ahead, and by the good offices of mercy curtis a compartment and berth were obtained on that especial train. mercy kept the wires hot arranging this for her friend. meanwhile, helen rushed home in her car, packed her trunk and bag, had them loaded into the front of the car, and drove up the road again to the red mill where she picked up the two indians and ruth. uncle jabez and aunt alvirah were sorry enough to see ruth go; but this trip promised not to be a long one, for the picture should be made in five or six weeks. the cameron's chauffeur had been instructed by helen to "burn up the road," for there was none too much time before the train was due, and he did as he was ordered. indeed, there were ten minutes to spare when they reached the station platform, and the girls spent that time chatting with mercy curtis leaning out of her window of the telegraph office. "so, you are off on your travels again," said the lame girl. "i wish i was a butterfly of fashion, too." "'butterfly,'!" scoffed helen. "ruth, at least, is no butterfly. she might be called a busy bee with more truth." "ah-ha, miss helen!" returned mercy, shaking her finger, "you are the improvident grasshopper--no less." helen giggled. "tom says that that old proverb, 'go to the ant, thou sluggard;' should read: 'go to the ant and slug her.' he does not love work any more than i do." again ruth's expression of countenance was one of disapproval, but she made no comment on tom. the train thundered toward the station, slowing down as though resenting being stopped in its swift career for even a few moments. mr. curtis, the station master, made a point himself of seeing that the baggage of the party was put into the baggage car. the conductor and porter helped the girls aboard, and they found their sections. ruth was determined that wonota should not get out of her sight again, and the indian girl was to occupy a berth in the stateroom. totantora was to have had the berth; but when he saw it made up and noted the cramped and narrow quarters offered him, he shook his head decidedly. he spent the night in the porter's little room at the end of the car, and the porter, when he found out totantora was an indian chief, did not dare object for fear of being scalped! the party reached hammond the following afternoon. here they alighted instead of at redwood, the more popular station of those wishing to reach the thousand islands by way of the electric road to alexandria bay. ruth and her party were going direct to chippewa bay, for it was upon some of the more northern of the fourteen hundred or more isles that constitute the "thousand islands" that mr. hammond had arranged for the film company's activities at this time. a big touring car was waiting for the party, for one of the telegrams ruth had caused to be sent the evening before was to mr. hammond, and they were glad to leave the pullman and get into the open air. totantora, even, desired to walk to chippewa bay, for he was tired of the white man's means of locomotion. ruth and wonota would not hear to this. "i guess we have eluded bilby," said the girl of the red mill; "but i shall not feel that wonota is safe, totantora, unless you are near her at all times. you must keep watch of your daughter. she is a valuable possession." for once totantora smiled--although it was grimly. "a squaw did not use to be counted for much in my nation," he said. "but wonota is not like the old squaws." "wonota is quite an up-to-date young woman, let me tell you, mr totantora," helen told him briskly. the party remained over night at a small hotel at chippewa bay; but in the morning ruth and her companions entered a motor launch and were transported to an island where the film producing company had been established in several bungalows which mr. hammond had rented for the time of their stay. the water between the small islands was as calm as a mill pond; but the party caught glimpses from the launch of the breadth of the st. lawrence, its canadian shore being merely a misty blue line that morning. the rocky and wooded islands were extremely beautiful and as romantic in appearance as the wilderness always is. now and then a privately owned island, improved by landscape gardening into a modern summer estate, offered contrast to the wilder isles. the girls spent most of the day in getting settled. no work on the new picture could be done for a couple of days, and helen, naturally, looked for amusement. there were canoes as well as motor boats, and both the chums were fond of canoeing. wonota, of course, was mistress of the paddle; and with her the two white girls selected a roomy canoe and set out toward evening on a journey of exploration among the closer islands. one of the largest islands in the group was in sight--grenadier island; but that they learned was beyond the american line. they saw it only from a distance, keeping close to the new york shore as they did on this brief voyage. the tall tamaracks and the other trees crowded some of the islands until they seemed veritable jungles. some few, however, were bold and precipitous in the extreme. "just the sort of place for pirate dens and robber caves," helen declared, shivering gleefully. "what a romantic puss you are," laughed ruth. "well, those cracks in the rock yonder look so dark and dismal. and there _might_ be dark-skinned men with red bandanas bound around their heads, and knives in their belts, along with the rest of the scenery, ruthie," complained helen. wonota stared at her. "do you mean, miss helen, that there are cholos--are greasers--in these woods? my geography book that i study shows this country to be far, far from mexico." "oh, my aunt!" chuckled helen. "she thinks nobody but mexicans can wear gay handkerchiefs bound about their noble brows. wait till you see sure-enough pirates--" "that is perfect nonsense, wonota," said ruth, warningly. "helen is only in fun." "ah," said the practical indian maid, "i understand english--and american; only i do not always grasp the--er--humor, do you call it?" "good!" applauded ruth. "serves you right, helen, for your silly nonsense." "the indians' fun is different," explained wonota, not wishing to offend the white girl. "you are a pair of old sober-sides, that is what is the matter," declared helen gaily. "oh, ruth! drive the canoe ashore yonder--on that rocky beach. did you ever see such ferns?" they brought the canoe carefully in to the shore, landing on a sloping rock which was moss-grown above the mark of the last flood. ruth fastened the tow-rope to the staff of a slender sapling. wonota got out to help helen gather some of the more delicately fronded ferns. ruth turned her back upon them and began climbing what seemed to be a path among the boulders and trees. this was not a very large island, and it was well out from the american shore, but inside the line between the states and canada. although the path ruth followed seemed well defined, she scarcely thought the island was inhabited. as they had paddled past it in the canoe there had been no sign of man's presence. it had been left in the state of nature, and nothing, it seemed, had been done to change its appearance from the time that the first white man had seen it. some rods up the ascent ruth came to an open place--a table of rock that might really have been a giant's dining-table, so flat and perfectly shaped it was. she could look down upon helen and wonota, and they looked up and called to her. "look out for the pirates!" shouted helen, with laughter. ruth waved her hand, smiling, and, crossing the rock, parted the brush and stepped out of sight of her friends. two steps she took through the clinging bushes when a most surprising figure started up before her. there was plenty of light, even if the sun had gone down. she was not uncertain at all as to the nature of the figure that confronted her--that of a man. she saw almost instantly that the old man's brown eyes were more like a child's in expression than like an angry man's. he grinned at her, but the grimace was involuntary or meaningless. "hush!" he whispered. "hush!" ruth remained both quiet and speechless, looking into his wrinkled old face calmly. she thought he must be a beggar from his clothing, but she could not imagine him a robber, nor even one of helen's "pirates." as she said nothing the old man repeated his sibilant warning: "hush!" "i am 'hushing' just as hard as i can," whispered the girl in return, and smiling a little now. "why must i 'hush'?" "hush!" he said again, quite as earnestly. "you are in danger of your life, young woman." "not from you, i am sure," she returned. "you would not try to hurt me." "hush!" he repeated, looking back over his shoulder into the thicker wood. "they may come at any moment now. and although i am their king, they would kill you. you see, kings aren't as powerful now as they used to be before the war." "so i understand," agreed ruth soberly. "but who are you king of--or what?" "i am king of the pipes," whispered the old man. "you don't know what that means," he added, scanning her puzzled face. "no. and that's the secret. you cannot be told." "oh," murmured ruth, somewhat amused, yet pitying his evident mental state. "hush!" he said again. "you are in danger. go away from this place at once, and don't come here again. if my courtiers see you--ha! off with her head! i shall have to follow the kingly custom. it is not my fault," he added, in the same low tone, shaking his head mournfully. "we kings have to lead our lives, you know." "it must be a dreadful life, if you have to order people's heads cut off when they have done you no harm," ruth ventured. "but my people would not believe that you would do no harm," he explained. "i can see that you are quite harmless. but they have not the intelligence i possess. you understand?" "quite," said ruth. "and i will go right away. thank you for your kindness." "that is right, young woman. go away. and do not return. it is not safe here." "can't--can't i do anything for you?" "hush!" warned the old man. "no, i do not think you can. i do not care to divide my power with any consort. and, unless you are of noble blood i could not make you queen of the pipes. that would never do. such a mésalliance would never do. my people would never stand for it--oh, never!" "i quite understand that," said ruth, having difficulty to keep from smiling. "now go, young woman," the man said pompously. "and do not return." "i will obey you," said ruth soberly. "if you are sure i cannot help you." "hush!" he warned her again, waving his hand. "they are likely to come at any moment. and then--" the girl backed through the bushes and stepped upon the table-like rock. she would have bade him good-bye, but he hissed after her another sibilant "hush!" and disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. ruth descended to the canoe and waited until they were well away from the island before she said a word to the other girls about the queer old man. chapter ix a film mystery "i told you there were pirates there," helen declared that evening, when she and ruth were in the room they shared together. wonota slept in a room adjoining and had already retired. "i don't think that poor old man was a pirate," returned ruth, smiling a little. "didn't he tell you he was 'king of the pirates'?" demanded helen. ruth laughed outright. "he said he was 'king of the pipes'--whatever that may mean. poor old fellow!" "well, it seems he most certainly had been 'smoking the pipe'--or do they call it 'hitting the pipe'?" "don't ask me to aid you with any information on slang," admonished her friend. "i don't suppose he is really king of anything except of a country of his dreams--poor fellow." "dear me!" grumbled helen. "you never will boost romance, ruth fielding. maybe there are pirates on that island." "or pipes," said ruth calmly. "never mind. when the boys come i am going to shoo them on to that place." "what boys?" demanded ruth in surprise. "the copleys arrive to-morrow. and their place is not five miles away from this very spot. we'll get a motor-boat and go down there to-morrow evening and welcome them. i got a telegram from tom when i came back from canoeing. i forgot to tell you." "tom!" exclaimed ruth, and for perhaps the first time in her life she seemed undesirous of hearing about tom cameron. helen gave her a somewhat puzzled side glance as she found the telegram and gave it to her chum, who read: "vacation begins to-morrow. will be with you next day. tom." helen giggled. "you can make up your mind that he knows chess copley has started for this neck of woods. tom is becoming mr. jealous jellaby. did you ever?" "i am sorry tom considers it necessary to take a vacation when he has only just begun work with your father, helen." "there you go again!" exclaimed her chum. "i don't understand you at all, ruth fielding. tom doesn't have to work." "it might be better if he did," said ruth, and refused to discuss the point further that evening. the next day was just as lovely as that first one. preparations were under way all over the island mr. hammond had rented for the making of the picture which ruth had written. the continuity was being studied by mr. hooley, the director; and the principals had been furnished with their detail. the ordinary participants in the filming of a picture--the "extras"--seldom know much about the story. they merely appear in certain scenes and do what they are told. as the scenes are not made in sequence these actors of the smaller parts have little idea of the story itself. ruth, under the advice of mr. hammond, had chosen a certain series of incidents relating to early french-canadian history, and it began with an allegory of the bringing of the christian religion to the indians by the first french priests. this allegory included the landing of the french upon the shore of a rocky island where they were met by the wondering indians, and mr. hooley's assistant had chosen the spot for this scene to be "shot," not far from the place where the company had its headquarters. ruth paid little attention to the locations until the moment arrived for the camera work. in fact, after supplying the detailed script she had little to do with the preparation of the picture until the scenes were made. she had never made continuity, as it is called, for that is more or less of a mechanical process and is sure to interfere with the creative faculty of the screen writer. in the afternoon of this day helen engaged a motor-boat, and she and ruth set out for the copley island, which was some miles away, toward alexandria bay. caretakers and servants had been at work there for some time, it was evident, for the lawns were neatly shaved, the gardens in full growth, and the family were already comfortably settled in their summer home. chess copley must have been on the watch (could it be possible that he had inside information about this early visit of helen and ruth?) for he came running down to the dock before the gardener could reach that point to fasten the boat's line. "hurrah!" he shouted. "i was just wondering if we would see you girls to-day; and if you hadn't come i should have got out our launch and tried to find your camp this evening." "oh, hullo, chess," helen said coolly as she stepped ashore, refusing his assistance. "where are the girls?" "there they are--waiting for you on the porch," he said, rather subdued it would seem by her bruskness. helen started directly for the wide veranda of the villa-like house that topped the higher part of the island. there were several acres of grounds about the copley house, for the whole island was cultivated to the water's edge. there was nothing wild left in the appearance of the property, save a few of the tall forest trees that had been allowed to stand and some huge boulders almost covered with climbing vines. ruth gave chess her hand--and he squeezed it warmly. she gave him a frank smile, and chess seemed comforted. "nell's dreadfully tart with a fellow," he grumbled. "she's nothing like she used to be. but you are kind, ruth." "you should not wear your heart on your sleeve," she told him briskly, as they followed helen cameron toward the veranda. the two girls from the moving picture camp passed a pleasant evening with their new york friends. the copley girls always managed to gather, helen declared, "perfectly splendid house parties;" and they had brought with them several companionable girls and young men. music and dancing filled the evening, and it was ten o'clock when the two chums from cheslow sought their motor-boat and set out for the camp on the chippewa bay island. chess copley had kept by ruth's side almost all the evening, and although helen treated him so cavalierly, she seemed provoked at her chum for paying the young man so much attention. "i don't understand what you see in chess," she said in a vexed tone to the girl of the red mill. "he's nothing much." "he is pleasant, and you used to like him," said ruth quietly. "humph!" helen tossed her head. "i found him out. and he's not to be compared with tommy-boy." "i quite agree with you--that is, considering tom as a brother," observed ruth, and after that refused to be led into further discussion regarding chess copley. it was not often that ruth and helen had a disagreement. and this was not really of importance. at least, there was no sign of contention between them in the morning. to tell the truth, there was so much going on, on this day, that the girls could scarcely have found time to quarrel. the sun was bright and the sky cloudless. it was an ideal day for out-of-door "shots," and the camera men and mr. hooley had the whole company astir betimes. the few real indians, besides wonota and totantora, in the company, and all those "extras" who were dressed as aborigines, got into their costumes before breakfast. soon after eight o'clock the company got away in barges, with launches to tow them through the quiet waterways. in a costume play like this that had been planned, the participants naturally make a very brilliant spectacle wherever they appear. but among the islands of chippewa bay there were few spectators at this time save the wild fowl. "and they," helen said, "might be descendants of the very birds who looked on the actual first appearance of the white man in this wilderness. isn't it wonderful?" when mr. hooley, megaphone in hand and stationed with the two cameras on one of the decked-over barges, had got his company in position and the action was begun, it was indeed an impressive picture. of course, a scene is not made off-hand--not even an outdoor pageant like this. the detail must be done over and over again before the cranks of the cameras are turned. it was almost noon before mr. hooley dared tell the camera men to "shoot the scene." the flag-decorated barge bearing the frenchmen to the rocky shore moved forward into focus in a stately way, while the indians gathered in a spectacular group on the sloping shore--tier upon tier of dark faces, wearing nodding feather head-dresses, blankets, deerskin leggings, and other garments of indian manufacture--all grouped to make a brilliant spectacle. totantora, a commanding figure, and his daughter as _white fawn_, the demure yet dominant princess of the hurons, stood forth from the background of the other indians in a graceful picture. helen was delighted and could not help shouting to the osage girl that she was "great"--a remark which elicited a frown from the director and an admonition from ruth. behind the grouped indians was the greenery of the primeval forest with which this rocky island seemed to be covered. the cameras whirred while the barge containing the actors representing the frenchmen pushed close into the shore and the whites landed. a boy carried ashore the great cross, and with him came a soldier bearing the lilies of france, the standard of which he sank into the turf. the detail of costume and armament had been carefully searched out by ruth herself, and the properties were exact. she was sure that this part of the picture at least could not be criticised but to be praised. it was three o'clock before the party disembarked and went back to the camp for a delayed lunch. the remainder of the afternoon was devoted to the taking of several "close-ups" and an interior scene that had been built on the island rather than in the city studio of the alectrion film corporation. the films taken earlier in the day were developed, and that evening after dinner ruth and helen joined mr. hammond and mr. hooley in the projection room to see a "run" of the strip taken at the island where the frenchmen landed. "do you know that that island is the one we landed on ourselves the other evening, ruth?" helen remarked, as they took their seats and waited in the darkness for the operator to project the new film. "do you mean it? i did not notice. the island where i met that strange old man?" "the pirate--yes," giggled helen. "only we went ashore at the far end of it." "i never thought of it--or of him," admitted ruth. "poor, crazy old fellow--" the machine began its whirring note and they fell silent. upon the silver sheet there took shape and actuality the moving barge with its banners and streamers and costumed actors. then a flash was given of the indians gathering on the wild shore--wondering, excited, not a little fearful of the strange appearance of the white men. the pageant moved forward to its conclusion--the landing of the strangers and the setting up of the banners and the cross. but suddenly ruth shrieked aloud, and mr. hammond shouted to the operator to "repeat." the dense underbrush had parted behind the upper tier of indians and in the aperture thus made appeared a face and part of the figure of a man--a wild face with straggling hair and beard, and the upper part of his body clad in the rags of a shirt. "what in thunder was that, hooley?" cried mr. hammond. "somebody butted in. it's spoiled the whole thing. i thought your men warned everybody off that island?" "i never saw that scarecrow before," declared the director, quite as angrily. but ruth squeezed helen's hand hard. "the king of the pipes," she whispered. chapter x a smell of smoke the discovery of the face and figure of the old man whom ruth had once met and spoken with on the island thrust out of the undergrowth and showing through a good part of the length of film that had been made that first day, caused a good deal of disturbance. the king of the pipes, as he had called himself, was entirely "out of the picture." his representation on the celluloid could not be removed. and he had been in focus for so many feet of the film that it was utterly impossible to cut it, and thus save the picture. "it is a wretched piece of business," mr. hammond said to ruth, as they came from the projection room after seeing the reel run off again and again. "the entire scene will have to be made over. and, aside from that irremediable fault, i consider the work remarkably good. mr. hooley may never again be able to get it so good." ruth and helen had told him about the old crazy man--a hermit, perhaps--and mr. hammond had given instructions that before the retaking of the scene was tried the island should be searched for the king of the pipes. "whoever, or whatever, he is," the producer said, "he's got to be looked after while we are making this picture. he is likely to burst most unexpectedly into any of the outdoor scenes, and on any location, and break up the show. this is going to cost money, miss ruth." "i know it, mr. hammond. but it never crossed my mind that it was on that very island i had my meeting with the man." "when hooley tries to shoot the picture again we must send somebody up into that island to watch for the old fellow. he'd better be under confinement, anyway, if he's crazy." "the poor old thing." ruth sighed. "i don't think he means any harm--" "he's harmed us all right," grumbled the president of the alectrion film corporation. "i tell you, a day's work like this--with such salaries as we pay, and supplies and all--mounts into real money." "oh," said ruth, "some of the film can be saved. all that until the frenchmen land--" "we won't dare risk it. in a costume story like this somebody is sure to get his dress, or armor, or something, different next time from what it was to-day. and if we try to save any part of this piece of film the change will show up in the finished picture. every critical spectator will see the break and will comment upon it. might as well make up our minds to take the loss; but we must be sure that a similar accident does not occur again." "will mr. hooley risk taking the scene over on that island?" asked ruth thoughtfully. "why not? it is a fine location--couldn't be beat. we've got to shoo that old man out of it, that's all." the girl had an idea that if she could meet the queer old man again she might be able to convince him that some other island would serve quite as well for his "kingdom" as that particular isle. at any rate, she hated the thought of his being abused or roughly treated. soon after the fiasco in the projection room, tom cameron arrived by motor-boat from the town across the bay. now, ruth was secretly very glad to see tom. she always would be glad to see his sunny face, no matter how or when. but she could not approve of his being here at the thousand islands at this particular time. tom had grown up to be one of those young men who do not know what they want to do in life, and the reaction from the strain of his military life had, as was natural, intensified this tendency to drift. after the time that he had determined to be a soldier, then to go west and hunt indians and grizzly bears, and then shifted to the desire to be a pirate or a policeman, tom cameron had really expressed very little taste for any commercial pursuit. he had made his mark in his preparatory school and college in several lines of athletics. but a boy in his position would scarcely become a professional baseball player or pull an oar for a living. to tell the truth, tom had never shown much aptitude for his father's business. dry goods did not interest him. yet when he had come home after the armistice ruth thought he was going to buckle right down to business with mr. cameron's firm. there seemed to be a super-abundant supply of energy in tom that had to be worked off. and ruth thought it would be worked off properly under the yoke of business. besides, mr. cameron was getting no younger, and he ought to have the support of his only son in business affairs. but the last winter, since ruth and the cameron twins had returned from the northwest, things had not gone with tom quite as the girl of the red mill would have chosen. yet she felt that it was not really her business to interfere. indeed, she did not purpose to interfere. if she undertook to advise tom it would please him only too well--that she knew, of course. for tom considered ruth quite as much his property as helen--only in a slightly different way. and if ruth showed in any manner that she considered tom her property--well, it would be all off, to use one of helen's favorite expressions. there was no engagement between ruth and tom--not even a tacitly recognized one. in times of stress and need tom had proved himself to be a very good friend indeed, and ruth fully appreciated this. but during this past winter he had been somewhat spoiled--or so the girl thought. in the first place, helen was determined to make a hero of her handsome brother. captain cameron was pushed to the fore by his sister in every possible way and manner. helen had many gay friends in new york--she had met them through the stones, for helen had often been with jennie when ruth was elsewhere and more seriously engaged. naturally tom had been one with his sister in gay parties, dances, theater groups, supper crowds, and all the rest. business had gone by the board with tom; and before ruth realized it the young returned soldier had lapsed into a butterfly existence that busy ruth did not approve. especially, did she believe, was such an aimless life bad for tom cameron. she met him in the living room of the bungalow, however, with her usual warmth; perhaps "lack of warmth" would be the better expression. for although ruth was always quietly cordial with most people, she was never "hail fellow, well met" with anybody, unless it was her own, dear, old girl friends of briarwood hall. she resisted, however, making any criticism upon tom's presence in the moving picture camp. everybody in the house--and there were several members of the company there besides mr. hammond and the director--greeted tom cameron cordially. he was a favorite with them all. and the minute totantora heard of tom's arrival, the osage chief appeared at the door, standing with glittering eyes fixed on the ex-captain and unmoved expression of countenance while he waited to catch tom's attention. "bless my heart!" cried the rollicking tom, "here's my old buddy! totantora, how are you?" they shook hands, the indian gravely but with an expression in his eyes that revealed a more than ordinary affection for the young white man. in france and along the rhine totantora, the osage chief, had become the sworn follower of the drygoods merchant's son--a situation to cause remark, if not wonder. tom had learned a few words of the osage tongue and could understand some of totantora's gutturals. what the chief said seemed at one point to refer to ruth, who, quite unconscious, was talking with mr. hammond across the room. tom glanced at ruth's back and shook his head slightly. but he made no audible comment upon what the indian said. he did not, indeed, see much of ruth that night; but in one moment of privacy she said to tom: "do you want to make an early morning excursion--before lazybones helen is roused from her rosy slumbers?" "bet you!" was tom's boyish reply. "six o'clock, then, at the dock. if you are there first rouse out willie, the boatman, and offer him a five dollar bill from me to take us through the islands in the _gem_. that's his boat." "i'll find him to-night and make sure," said tom promptly. "you are a faithful servitor," laughed ruth, and left him before tom could take any advantage of her kindness. the appointment was kept to the letter and minute in the morning. helen was still asleep when ruth dressed and stole out of the bungalow. not many of the people on the island, save the cooks and dining-room employees, were astir. but tom and the boatman--and the _gem_--were at the dock in readiness. ruth gave willie his instructions. he was to make a landing at the far end of the island on which the picture had been taken the day before. it was too early for any of mr. hooley's men to be over there looking for the old man whose face had spoiled several hundred feet of good film. ruth wished, if possible, to first interview the strange man. she took tom into her confidence at once about the king of the pipes. she did not believe the man was so crazy that he ought to be shut up in an asylum. he was merely "queer." and if they could get him off the island and out of the way while the picture was being shot, he might then go back to his hermit life and play at being king all he wished to. "what a lark!" exclaimed tom, looking at the matter a good deal as his twin sister did. "and you are constantly falling in with queer characters, ruth." "you might better say they are falling in with me, for i am sure i do not intentionally hunt them up," complained ruth. "and this poor old man has cost us money enough." "it is too bad," was tom's comment. "worse than that, perhaps mr. hooley will never again get as fine an allegorical picture as he did yesterday. they were all in the spirit of the piece when the shot was made." they arrived at the sloping stone beach and landed as ruth and the girls had before disembarked. ruth led tom up the rough path into the woods beyond the table-rock. the trees stood thick, and the bushes were thorny, but they pushed through to an open space surrounding an old, gnarled, lightning-riven beech. the top of this monarch of the ancient forest had been broken off and the line of its rotted trunk and branches could be marked amid the undergrowth. but the staff of it stood at least thirty feet in height. "what a spread of shade it must have given in its day," said tom. "all these other tall trees have grown up since the top broke off." "quite so," agreed ruth. "but where do you suppose that queer old man has his camp?" they looked all about the island, coming back at last to the riven beech. but they found no mark of human occupancy on the island. "i smell wood smoke, just the same," tom declared, sniffing the air. "there is a fire somewhere near." they saw no smoke, however, nor did they find any cavity in the rocks that seemed to have been occupied by man or used as the rudest kind of camp. "maybe he doesn't live on this island after all," said tom. "he could get to half a dozen other islands from here in a light canoe. or even on a raft." "he spoke as though he considered this particular island his kingdom," rejoined ruth. "this was the only place he warned me away from--not from the islands in general. i don't understand it at all, tom. and i don't want the men to be unkind to him." "well, it looks to me," observed her friend, "that if we cannot find him, they will be unable to find him as well. so i wouldn't worry, ruth." but the girl went back to the gem and sailed again to the headquarters of the moving picture company not at all satisfied as to the result of their undertaking. chapter xi bilby again the work of picture making that day went without a hitch. mr. hooley sent several men into the woods above the spot on the shore of the "kingdom of pipes," as helen insisted upon calling the island where the prologue of the picture was made, and they remained on watch there during the activities of the company below. when the film was developed and run off in the projection room that evening it was pronounced by all--even by mr. hammond--as good in detail as the spoiled reel. from that point the work went on briskly, for the weather remained perfect for picture taking. ruth was busy; but she could give some time to enjoyment, too, especially in the evening; and that next evening when chess copley appeared in his own motor-boat, the _lauriette_, she was glad to join a moonlight boating party which ventured as far as alexandria bay, where they had supper and danced at the pavilion, returning to the picture camp in the early hours of the morning. ruth was chessleigh's particular guest on this occasion, and tom and helen cameron went in another launch. the moonlight upon the islands and the passages of silvery water between them was most beautiful. and ruth enjoyed herself immensely. that is, she found the occasion enjoyable until they got back to the bungalow and had bidden the copleys and their party good night. then the girl of the red mill found her roommate rather irritable. helen pouted and was frankly cross when she spoke. "i don't see what you find so interesting in chess copley," she observed, brushing her hair before the glass. "he is nice i think," replied ruth placidly. "and you just ignore tommy-boy." "i could not very well refuse chess when he invited me into his launch. i did not know you and tom were going in the other boat." "well, i wasn't going with chess. and i wouldn't let tommy tag after you." "i wish you wouldn't be so foolish, helen," sighed her chum. "if you act this way," declared the rather unreasonable helen, "you'll spoil our whole visit at the thousand islands." "my goodness!" exclaimed ruth, for once showing exasperation, "you do not talk very sensibly, helen. i have come here to work, not to play. please bear that in mind. if you think i spoil your sport i will not join any other evening parties." the next evening when the copley party came over to get acquainted with some of the moving picture people and arrange for a big dance on saturday night, ruth was as good as her word, and remained in mr. hammond's office, recasting certain scenes in her story that mr. hooley proposed to make next day. helen was sure ruth was "mad" and kept out of the way intentionally. she told tom so. but she did not choose to relieve chess copley's loneliness when she saw him mooning about. whenever chess tried to speak to helen in private she ran away from him. whether it was loyalty to her brother, tom, or some other reason that made helen treat copley so unkindly, the fact remained that chess was plainly not in helen's good books, although she made much of the two copley girls. the next day ruth was quite as busy, for the making of the picture was going ahead rapidly while the good weather lasted. this story she had written was more of a pageant than anything she had yet essayed. the scenes were almost all "on location," instead of being filmed under a glass roof. helen and tom did not seem to understand that their friend could not go off fishing or sailing or otherwise junketing whenever they would like to have her. but picture making and directors, and especially sunlight, will not wait, and so ruth tried to tell them. it was chess copley, after all, who seemed to have the better appreciation of ruth's situation just at this time. before a week had passed he was almost always to be found at ruth's beck and call; for when she could get away from the work of picture making, chess turned up as faithfully as the proverbial bad penny. "you are not a bad penny, however, chess," she told him, smiling. "you are a good scout. now you may take me out in your motor-boat. if it is too late to fish, we can at least have a run out into the river. how pretty it is to-day!" "if everybody treated me as nicely as you do, ruth," he said, rather soberly, "my head would be turned." "cheer up, chess," she said, laughing. "i don't say the worst is yet to come. perhaps the best will come to you in time." "you say that only to encourage me i fear." "i certainly don't say it to discourage you," she confessed. "going around like a faded lily isn't going to help you a mite--and so i have already told you." "huh! how's a fellow going to register joy when he feels anything but?" "you'd make a poor screen actor," she told him. "see mr. grand to-day. he has an ulcerated tooth and is going to the bay to-night to have it treated. yet, as the french voyageur, he had to make love to wonota and miss keith, both. some job!" "that fellow makes love as easy as falling off a log," grumbled chess. "i never saw such a fellow." "but the girls flock to see him in any picture. if he were my brother--or husband--i would never know when he was really making love or just registering love. still actors live in a world of their own. they are not like other people--if they are really good actors." copley's _lauriette_ shot them half way across the broad st. lawrence before sunset, and from that point they watched the sun sink in the west and the twilight gather along the canadian shore and among the islands on the american side. when chessleigh was about to start the engine again and head for the camp--and dinner--they suddenly spied a powerful speed boat coming out from the canadian side. it cleaved the water like the blade of a knife, throwing up a silver wave on either side. and as it passed the _lauriette_ ruth and her companion could see several men in her cockpit. "there are those fellows again," chess remarked. "wonder what they are up to? that boat passed our island yesterday evening and the crowd in her then acted to me as though they were drunk." "i should think----why!" exclaimed ruth suddenly breaking off in what she was first going to say, "one of those men is a chinaman." "so he is," agreed chessleigh copley. "and that little fat man--see him? why, chess! it looks like----" "who is it?" asked the young fellow, in surprise at ruth's excitement. "it's bilby!" gasped ruth. "that horrid man! i i hoped we had seen the last of him. and now he's right here where we are working with wonota." she had said so much that she had to explain fully about bilby, while they sat and watched the speed boat disappear up the river. ruth was sure she had made no mistake in her identification of the rival picture producer who had made her so much trouble back at the red mill. "i must tell mr. hammond at once," she concluded. "if bilby is here, he is here for no good purpose, i can be sure. and if he has a boat like that at his command, we must keep double watch." "you think he would try to abduct wonota again?" queried chess. "i would believe that fellow capable of anything," she returned. "i mean anything that did not call for personal courage on his part." "humph!" murmured chess thoughtfully. "i wonder what he was doing with the chinaman in his party. you know, sometimes chinamen are smuggled across from canada against the emigration laws of the states." he headed the _lauriette_ for the camp then, and they arrived there in a rather serious mood. chapter xii the dance at alexandria bay "you might have been mistaken, i suppose, miss ruth?" suggested mr. hammond, the president of the film corporation, sitting at his desk in the room of the main bungalow which he used as an office. "it was growing dark when that speed boat passed you and your friend, was it not?" "not out on the river, mr. hammond. it was light enough for us to see the men in that boat plainly. just as sure as one of them was a chinaman, the short, fat man was horatio bilby." "it doesn't seem possible that the fellow would chase away up here after us when he so signally failed down below. my lawyer tells me that he had no real authority from the bureau of indian affairs to secure wonota's services, after all." "he is a man who would not need much authority to attempt any mean thing," said the girl hotly. "that may be true," admitted mr. hammond. "but it seems quite too sensational." he smiled, adding: "quite too much like a movie plot, eh?" "you say yourself that he has obtained the production rights to those 'running deer' stories that have appeared in the _gotham magazine_," said ruth, with earnestness. "they are good stories, mr. hammond. i have read them." "yes. i believe they are pretty good material for pictures. that is, if they were handled by a practical scenario writer like yourself." "it is too bad you did not get them." "well, bilby was ahead of us there. somehow, he got backing and bought the picture and dramatic rights to the tales outright. he can find somebody besides wonota to play _running deer_." "he seems to have set his heart on our wonota." "yes. he did make totantora a whacking good offer. i must admit he did. i could not begin to see such a price for the girl's services. and on a mere speculation. but i pointed out to totantora that, after all, a promise is only a promise. he and wonota have already had considerable hard cash from us," and mr. hammond ended with a laugh. he was evidently not so much impressed by the possible danger of bilby's presence in the thousand islands as ruth could have wished. she determined herself, however, to be sharply on the watch for the reappearance of the coarse little fat man who had so troubled her and the indians at the red mill. she took totantora into her confidence, after speaking to mr. hammond, although she did not say a word to wonota. despite the natural stoicism of the osage maiden, ruth did not know but that wonota might become nervous if she knew the plotting bilby was near at hand. the chief listened to ruth's warning with a certain savage anger in his look that warned ruth not to push the suggestion of bilby's determination to obtain possession of wonota too far. the chief was not a patient man, and the possible threat against the safety of his daughter roused in him the instinct of defence. "me watch," he said. "that fat man come here, me chase him away. yes!" "don't do him any harm, totantora," warned ruth. "but tell mr. hammond or me if you see him." nobody saw bilby immediately, however; and as several days passed ruth began to wonder if, after all, she had not been mistaken in her identification of the fat man in the boat. meanwhile, the making of the picture went on steadily; but something else--and something helen cameron at least considered of moment--was planned during this time. many other summer residents of the thousand islands besides the copleys had now arrived, and the gaiety of the season was at its height. there was one very large hotel at alexandria bay, and it was planned to use its ballroom for a "big war dance," to quote helen. it was to be a costume dance, and everybody that appeared on the floor must be dressed in indian costume. wonota helped the chums and the actresses with the alectrion film corporation who attended, in the getting up of their costumes and the staining of their faces and arms. the osage girl herself wore a beautiful beaded robe, feather-trimmed and brilliantly dyed. it was her "coronation robe" in the picture she was helping to film. but mr. hammond, who likewise attended the dance, allowed the girl to wear this finery, which really was part of the "props" of the company. launches were engaged from chippewa bay to take most of those from the camp who attended the dance, either as participants in the costume review or as spectators, but chess copley arranged to come for his particular friends in the _lauriette_. helen was tempted to refuse to go in the copley launch; but when she saw jean and sara copley beside their brother, she went aboard with ruth and tom. there actually was no friction between the two young men, although tom usually addressed chess by that opprobrious nickname, 'lasses, while chess retorted by scoffing at all the ex-captain's opinions and advice on any and all subjects. really, had she not felt that she was partly the cause of this mild strife, ruth would have laughed at the two. they were, after all, but grown-up boys. it was a gay party aboard the _lauriette_, nevertheless. even wonota (whom ruth was keeping with her) was gay. and she was so pretty in her beautiful costume that when they arrived at the hotel the young men at the dance vied in their attempts to have her for a partner on the floor. there was a fine band and the dancing floor was smooth. even mr. hammond went on to the floor, having secured a costume, and mother paisley, who acted as chaperon for the moving picture girls, was as light as anybody on her feet and the embodiment of grace. "actor folk nowadays," the old woman told ruth once, "are not trained as they once were. i came of circus folk. my people had been circus performers in the old country for generations before my father and mother came over here. my husband was a trapeze performer. "and working on the bars makes one supple and limber beyond any other form of exercise. afterward, while still a young girl, i was in the ballet. at least, when one has had my training, one brings to the speaking stage a grace and carriage that can scarcely be secured in any other way. "as for this moving picture business," she sighed, "i see these poor girls as awkward as heifers--and they are really learning very little. they depend upon the director to tell them how a lady should enter a room, and how to walk. but often the director has never seen a real lady enter a room! directors of moving pictures are not masters of deportment as our old dancing masters were." ruth always listened to strictures upon the moving picture art and gained what she could from such criticism. and the harshest critics the motion pictures have are the people who work in them. but, after all, ruth had a vision. she felt that in spite of all the "great," "grand," "magnificent," "enormous" pictures already advertised upon the billboards, the public was still waiting for a really well made and properly written and acted series of pictures that claimed neither more sensationalism than they possessed, nor were hastily and carelessly made. ruth liked to work with mr. hammond, and he had been very kind and considerate of her. but she felt that, untrammeled, she would be able to make better pictures than she had made with him. she wanted a free hand, and she felt the insistence of the treasurer's office at her elbow. money could be lavished upon anything spectacular--for instance, like this french-indian picture they were making. but much had to be "speeded up" to save money in other phases of production. mr. hammond, like most of the other moving picture producers, thought only of the audience coming out of the theater with "ohs!" and "ahs!" upon their lips regarding the spectacular features in the film shown. ruth wanted to go deeper--wanted to make the impression upon the minds and intelligence of the audiences. she felt that the pictures could be something bigger than mere display. but this is all aside from the fun they had at the costume dance. ruth and helen both danced with mr. hammond and mr. grand and with several others of the moving picture people, as well as with their own friends. chess got the second dance with ruth; and then he had the third; and then got the sixth. he might have gone on all the evening coming back to her and begging the favor had ruth not insisted upon his devoting himself to some of his sisters' friends. but, at the same time, ruth was somewhat piqued because tom cameron did not come near her all the first part of the evening. she could not understand what the matter really was with him--why he acted in so offish a manner. after that sixth dance (and ruth had danced them all with one partner or another) she sent chess away from her definitely. she went in search of tom. the orchestra began playing for the next dance. ruth looked keenly about the brilliant assembly. she knew tom's costume--it was distinctive and could not be mistaken. but she could not mark it at all in the throng. two or three men asked her to dance, but she pleaded fatigue and continued to walk about the edge of the ballroom. finally, in an alcove, sitting at an empty table, and with no companion, she spied the recreant tom. "why, tom!" she cried cheerfully, "are you sitting out this dance too? and the music is so pretty." "the music is all right," he agreed. "don't you want to dance?" "no. i do not want to dance," he answered sourly. "not--not even with me, tom?" she ventured, smiling rather wistfully at his averted face. "with nobody. i am waiting for helen and the rest of you to get enough of this foolishness and go home." "why, tom! you--you are not ill?" she ventured, putting out a hand to touch his shoulder yet not touching it. "not at all, ruth," he said, and now he glanced up at her. his look was cold. "not at all." "you are not yourself," she said, more composedly. "what are you thinking of?" "i am thinking," said tom, looking away again and with the same moodiness, "that i was a fool to leave the army. that was my job. i should have stuck to it. i should have used my commission and father's influence to stay in the army. but it's too late now. i guess i had my chance and didn't know enough to use it." he arose abruptly, bowed stiffly, and walked away. if tom had actually slapped her, ruth could have felt no more hurt. chapter xiii the kingdom of pipes ruth fielding at first felt only hurt; then she felt angry. she was no longer the timid, sensitive girl who had faced jabez miller when she first came to the red mill with a tremulous smile, to be sure, but tears standing thick in her eyes. no, indeed! the present ruth fielding, a young woman of purpose and experience, not only could hide her feelings--especially if they were hurt ones--but possessed a saving sense of humor. and to her mind, just a moment later, tom cameron's very military looking shoulders and stride seemed rather funny. he had hurt her; but then, he had hurt her as a boy might. it was true, perhaps, tom was not grown up. ruth considered that she was--very much so! there he was, daring to complain because his army career had ended so suddenly--wishing that he had remained in uniform. and how would his father and his sister have felt if he had done so! "he's a great, big booby!" ruth whispered to herself. then her smile came back--that wistful, caressing smile--and she shook her head. "but he's tom, and he always will be. dear me! isn't he ever going to grow up?" so she hid her hurt and accepted the first partner thereafter who offered; but it was not chess. secretly she knew what the matter with tom was. and she was too proud to let the ex-captain see that she cared. nevertheless she was sorry that the party from down the river broke up as they did when the time to go home came. she found herself in the copley's launch again, with chess' sisters and the members of the house party the copleys were entertaining at their island. this dividing of the clans made it possible for chess after letting the others out at the copley dock, to take ruth to the moving picture island alone. it was a lovely, soft, moonlight night. the haze over the islands and the passages between could not be called a fog, but it was almost as shrouding as a fog. when chess ran the launch outside into the main stream, where the current was broad and swift, the haze lay upon the rippling surface like a blanket. they were going very swiftly here, for it was with the current. suddenly chess shut off the engine. the "plop" of the exhaust ceased. they drifted silently on the bosom of the st. lawrence. "i don't see why i am treated so, ruth," chess suddenly burst out. "do you know, i'm awfully unhappy?" "you poor boy!" said ruth in her warm-hearted way. "i think you are over-sensitive." "of course i am sensitive. i shall always be when i am--am--interested in any person and their treatment of me. it is congenital." "dear, dear!" laughed ruth. "they have discovered that even incipient congenital idiocy can be cured by the removal of the adenoids. but i don't suppose such an operation will help you?" "oh, don't tease a fellow," complained her friend. he reached for the throttle, then hesitated. somewhere in the mist ahead was the throb of another engine. "who's this?" muttered chess. "maybe it is tom--looking for us," said ruth, chuckling. "the gall of him," exclaimed the heated copley. then he made a gesture for silence. a long, quavering "co-ee! co-ee!" came through the mist and from the south. "from one of the islands," said chess quickly. "what island is that over there?" demanded ruth, in a whisper. "isn't it the one we took the first picture on?" "it sure is," agreed the young fellow, but wonderingly. "the kingdom of pipes," murmured ruth. "what's that?" asked chessleigh. ruth repeated helen's name for the rocky island on which ruth had met the queer old man. "that call came from the island, didn't it?" she asked. "i believe it did. what's going on here?" "hush!" begged ruth. "that launch is coming nearer." as she spoke, a moving object appeared in the mist. there was no light upon this strange craft. chessleigh shuttered his own cockpit lamp instantly. "good boy," acclaimed ruth. "there is something going on here----" they heard the call from the island again. there was a low reply from the strange launch--a whistle. then the launch pushed on and was hidden by the mist again from the curious eyes of ruth and her companion. but they knew it had gone close to the island, if it had not really touched there. its engine was stilled. all they heard for a time was the lapping of the waves. "i'd like to know what it means," grumbled chess. ruth agreed. "let's wait a while. we may hear or see something more." "won't see much, i guess," replied her companion. "never mind. let the boat drift. we're all right out here in the current, are we not?" "guess so. it beats my time," said her friend. "they say there is a lot of smuggling done along the border." "do you say so?" gasped ruth, clasping her hands and almost as excited as helen might have been. "smugglers! think of it!" "and bad eggs they are." "of course there is no danger?" "danger of what?" he asked. "wouldn't the smugglers hurt us if we caught them?" "don't know. i've got a loaded pistol in the cabin. guess i'll get it out," said chess. "i guess you won't!" ruth exclaimed. "we'll go right away from here before we get into a fight!" "humph!" grunted chess. "you don't suppose they would welcome any spies if they are smugglers, do you?" he asked. "but what do they smuggle? diamonds? precious stones?" "don't know. maybe. there is a heavy internal revenue tax on diamonds," chess said. "goodness! wouldn't helen like to be here." "she'd want to go ashore and take a hand in it," grinned copley. "i know her." "yes, helen is brave," admitted ruth. "humph! she's foolish, you mean," he declared. "whatever and whoever those fellows are, they would not welcome visitors i fancy." their launch had been drifting by the island, the upper ridge and trees of which they could see quite plainly. suddenly a breath of wind--the forecast of the breeze that often rises toward daybreak--swooped down upon the river. it split the mist and revealed quite clearly the upper end of the island where ruth had interviewed the queer old man, and which copley's launch had now drifted past. a light showed suddenly, and for a few moments, close to the water's edge. it revealed enough for the two in the drifting launch to see several figures outlined in the misty illumination of the light. there was the bow of the mysterious boat close against the landing place. at least three men were in the boat and on the shore. ruth could not be sure that either of them was the old man she had spoken with. but she and chess copley saw that they were unloading something from the boat--square, seemingly heavy boxes, yet not so heavy that they could not be passed from hand to hand. one was about all the weight a man might easily lift. "what do you suppose those boxes are?" whispered ruth, as the copley launch drifted into the mist again and the end of the island and the other boat were blotted out of sight. "give it up. provisions--supplies. maybe they are going to camp there. lots of people camp out on these smaller islands." "the king of the pipes will have something to say about that," laughed ruth. "one thing sure about it," she added the next moment, as chess started his engine again. "those boxes don't contain diamonds." "i should say not!" "so if we saw smugglers they are smuggling something besides precious stones," said the girl gaily. "won't helen be interested when i tell her!" chapter xiv a demand is made helen had gone to bed when ruth went into their bedroom that morning, and either she was asleep or did not want to speak to her chum. ruth felt that, after what had gone on at the ball at alexandria bay, she had better not wake helen up to tell her about the strange launch that had landed at the kingdom of the pipes. and in the morning the attitude of both helen and tom closed ruth's lips on all subjects. the twins were plainly offended. why? because ruth had shown ordinary interest in other people besides themselves! at least, that is how ruth saw it. she thought it very silly for helen to be jealous. tom's jealousy was another matter; but he had brought the situation on himself. for once ruth was determined not to give in, as she so often did when helen showed spleen. fortunately, ruth was busy with her picture work, so she had good reason to excuse herself from much association with the cameron twins during the next two days. then something happened to give them all an entirely different topic of thought and conversation. that day had been spent in taking close-ups and scenes under the canvas and glass roof of the make-shift studio that had been built at the camp. the great pageant of historical times along the st. lawrence was moving swiftly on its way. the scenes of a picture are seldom taken in any sequence at all, but mr. hooley had gone so far now that the bulk of the scenes had been filmed; and as they had been run off in the little projection room, both mr. hammond and ruth had expressed their approval of almost every finished length of celluloid. the work was practically over for the day at four o'clock and the actors in their costumes--especially the indians, including wonota and her father--made a brilliant picture as they wandered about the lawns and in and out of the several bungalows on the island. from the direction of chippewa bay appeared a chugging motor-launch that came directly to the dock. it was not one of the hired launches used by the picture company, nor were those in the launch men who had anything to do with mr. hammond's corporation. but when ruth idly looked into the launch from her seat with helen and miss keith and mrs. paisley on the porch of their house, the girl of the red mill got up suddenly, uttering an astonished exclamation: "that horrid man again!" "hoity-toity!" exclaimed mrs. paisley. "what man deserves such a title as that, miss fielding?" "that bilby!" exclaimed ruth. "i just felt it in my bones--like aunt alvirah--that that creature would annoy us again." "then you are not disappointed," said helen drily. "is that the fellow--that big gawk in the blue suit?" "no, no! i don't know him," said ruth. "the little fat man tagging after the big fellow." for two men from the launch had now stepped ashore. in accordance with orders from mr. hammond, the visitors were stopped at the head of the dock. nobody was allowed on the island without invitation or a permit. "let me tell you," said the man in blue pompously, "that i am a county officer. you'd better have a care, young fellow." "say! i don't care if you are the king of the yaps," said willie, the boatman. "i have my orders. this is private property. stay where you are--right where you are, mind!--till i send for the boss." "you send for them two injuns--that is who our business is with," put in bilby. "that totantora and wonota. i want to see them--not that hammond." ruth had run to another house to warn those very individuals to get out of the way and to keep out of sight until bilby's visit was over. she did not know, of course, who the big man in blue was. the latter was inclined to be pompous and commanding, even when mr. hammond came down to the head of the dock to see him. it was evident that bilby's money felt warm in the deputy sheriff's pocket, and he was determined to give the little fat man full weight for his cash. "this here business is something that can be settled without any row, mr. hammond--if that's your name," said the officer, puffingly. "it is my name, all right," returned the president of the alectrion corporation. "and i don't expect any row. what do you want--and that fellow behind you?" horatio bilby grinned rather sheepishly. "well, you know, mr. hammond, all's fair in love and war." "this is certainly not love," said the moving picture man. "now, what do you both want?" "you are ordered to bring two people into court," said the deputy sheriff, "and show cause why they shouldn't be handed over to mr. bilby pending certain proceedings to break their contract with you." "blunt enough," admitted mr. hammond, but without excitement. "let's see: you have a paper of some kind, i suppose, to serve on me?" "i've a summons for you," said the officer, drawing forth some papers, "and i propose to take the two indians back to the bay with me." "you can serve me, and i will arrange for my representative to appear for me in your court," said hammond. "but totantora, to whom i suppose you refer, is a citizen of the united states, and you will have to find him to serve him." "he's nothing but an injun!" squealed bilby, in wrath. "being an osage indian, and owning properly surveyed oil lands in oklahoma, the government has acknowledged his citizenship," was the quiet reply. "he certainly is a good american and will doubtless answer to any court demand--if you can serve him legally." "you got him hid away somewhere?" demanded the deputy sheriff. "and the girl, too!" cried bilby. "i want the girl more than i do the crazy old indian." "you'll think he's crazy if he ever sets eyes on you again, mr. bilby," was mr. hammond's warning. "he hasn't forgotten you." bilby drew back--and he looked frightened, too. "i--i don't want him right now," he muttered. hammond accepted the summons of the local court, glanced at it, and put it in his pocket. "i see i have five days' grace," he remarked. "all right. i will see that proper representation is made before the court." "but we want them indians," said the deputy. "this island is private property. i have hired its use for a certain term. i will allow you on it only under proper legal motion. have you a search warrant?" hammond asked the deputy. "i ain't got a warrant. i don't need a warrant for a couple of indians. they ain't got any standing in this community. i know indians all right. you give 'em over." "i do not even acknowledge that the two individuals you demand are under my control. at least, i know very well that no united states court can touch the young woman, wonota, except through her guardian. that guardian is her father. i don't see him here--do you?" "you'd better produce him," threatened the deputy. "you can't make me. go back and get proper authority--if you can," advised mr. hammond. "and don't come here again--either of you--without proper authority. willie!" "on the job," said the boatman, grinning. "don't let these fellows upon the island again--not even on the dock. not unless they are armed with a proper warrant." he turned his back on the visitors and started toward the nearest bungalow. "you'll be sorry for this, hammond!" shouted horatio bilby. "i'll get you yet, and don't you forget it." "to get me, as you call it, you will have to have both right and might on your side, bilby. and just now you do not seem to have either," was the parthian shot the president of the alectrion corporation sent over his shoulder. willie hustled the deputy and the fat man back into their launch. "go on away from here," advised willie. "i know you, tom satchett--known you all my life. all you are fit for is to jump a few fishermen and game hunters that break the law. this job is too big for you. you're up against money and influence, both, this time." "i won't forget you, willie," growled the deputy. "you'll want something of me some time----" "i want something of you right now," put in the boatman. "a good reason for punching you. go on into your boat before i find it." so the pair retreated. but ruth came to mr. hammond in some little disturbance. "what shall we do?" she demanded. "suppose they take wonota away before the picture is finished?" "they won't. at least, i don't believe the court will allow it. i will telegraph to a good lawyer and have him come up here and watch proceedings." "but, if it should happen, we would be in a bad fix, mr. hammond. mr. hooley says nobody could double for wonota." "let's not cross bridges until we come to them," returned her friend. but perhaps mr. hammond felt less confidence than he managed to get into his voice and appearance at that moment. chapter xv the yellow lady there could be no further haste about the making of the picture, "the long lane's turning." although most of the big scenes were already shot, those that remained to do held in them the more poignant action of the piece and must be rehearsed over and over again. much time is sometimes spent upon a single scene--a few feet of a reel. infinite patience, repetition and experimenting go into the making of a pictured story. infinite detail and a close attention to that detail make the successful picture. to stage a "big" scene may seem to be a marvelous feat of the director. but in a big scene, with a large number of actors, the latter are divided into groups, each group has its captain, and each individual actor has to follow the lead of his particular captain. the groups are trained and perfected in every little motion before they come into the real scene before the camera. thus the allegorical picture that was a prologue to "the long lane's turning" had been gone over and rehearsed again and again by the principal actors in it, even before the company left new york city. now, with all these "big" scenes filmed, the more difficult work of making the individual scenes of action came to the fore. wonota had to be coached over and over again in her scenes with mr. grand and miss keith. both the latter were well-practised screen actors and could register the ordinary gamut of emotions as easily as they ate their breakfast or powdered their noses. with wonota, however, it was different. in the first place, she came of a tribe of people in whom it was bred to smother all expression of emotion--even the most poignant. wonota almost worshiped her father; but did she ever look upon chief totantora with a smile of pride or with affection beaming in her eyes? "not so you'd notice it," said helen, on one occasion. "ordinarily, as far as her looks go, totantora might be a stranger to her." "is there any wonder, then," sighed ruth, "that we find it so hard to make her register affection for mr. grand? and she already should have learned to do that in that first picture we took out west." "maybe that's the reason," said helen wickedly. "if she did not know mr. grand's foibles so well, she might the better show interest in him. goodness knows he's handsome enough." "better than that, he can act," said ruth thoughtfully. "not many of these handsome screen heroes can do that. but perhaps if wonota did not disdain him so much (and she does, secretly) she could play up to him better." "is there much more for her to do?" helen asked, with renewed interest. "several scenes--and some of them most important. mr. hooley can not give all his time to her. i am trying to coach her in them. but there is so much going on here at the island----" "why not take her away to some other place and just pound it into her?" "not to the kingdom of pipes!" laughed ruth suddenly. "no. let the old pirate have that place to his heart's content. but there are other islands." "true enough. fourteen hundred of them." "come on!" exclaimed the energetic helen. "let's get willie and the _gem_ and go somewhere with wonota. you've all day to hammer at her. get your continuity and try to get it into wonota's head that she is deeply and desperately in love with grand." in spite of helen's brusk way of speaking, ruth decided that her idea might be well worth following. helen took some knitting and a parasol--and a hamper. ruth gathered her necessary books and script; and likewise got wonota. then they boarded the launch and willie took them up the river to a tiny islet not far from the kingdom of pipes, after all. "i don't see anybody moving over there," helen remarked, as willie landed them at the islet selected. she was looking at the island on which ruth had had her adventure with the king of the pipes. "it looks deserted enough. we might have gone there just as well as not." "i feel as well satisfied to keep away from that queer old fellow," her chum said. "who's that?" asked willie, the boatman, overhearing their remarks. ruth told him about the strange man, and willie laughed. "oh! that old jigger? was he the fellow the boss wanted we should shoo off that island? why didn't he say so? old charley-horse pond. we all know him about here." "oh!" cried helen. "is he crazy?" "not enough to make any difference. just got a twist in his brain. calls himself a king, does he? mebbe he will be a duke or an emperor next time. or a doctor. can't tell. he gets fancies." "and of course he is not dangerous?" said ruth. "just about as dangerous as a fly," drawled willie. "and not so much. for flies bite--sometimes, and old charley-horse pond ain't even got teeth to bite with. no, ma'am!" "but what are the 'pipes' he talks about? why 'king of the pipes'?" demanded the insistent helen. "got me. never heard of 'em," declared willie. "now, you ladies all right here?" "all right, willie," said ruth as the _gem_ was backed off the island. "i'll come for you at half past three, eh? that's all right, then," and the boatman was off. the three girls, really glad to be away from the crowd and the confusion of the moving picture camp, settled down to several hours of companionship. helen could be silent if she pleased, and with her knitting and a novel proceeded to curl up under a tamarack tree and bury herself for the time being. helen had not, however, forgotten the "inner woman," as she pronounced it. when lunch time came she opened the covered basket which she had brought in addition to the book and the knitting, and produced sandwiches and cake, besides the wherewithal for the making of a cup of tea over a can of solidified alcohol. they lunched famously. it was while they were thus engaged, and chatting, that the staccato exhaust of a motor-boat drew their attention to the island of pipes. from the other side, a boat was poking around into the passage leading to the american shore. "my goodness!" exclaimed helen, "the king of the pipes isn't in that boat, is he?" "not at all," ruth assured her. "i see nobody who looks like him among those men--" "all are not men, miss ruth," interrupted wonota, the keen-eyed. "what do you mean, wonota?" gasped helen, whirling around to gaze again at the passing launch. but ruth did not say a word. she had been examining the boat closely. she saw it was the very speedy boat she and chess copley had seen out on the wider part of the river several weeks before. the launch was not moving rapidly now, but ruth was sure that it was a powerful craft. it was helen who marked the figure wonota had spoken of in the boat. it certainly did not appear to be a man. "why ruth! see! that is a woman!" "a yellow-faced lady," said wonota calmly. "i saw her first, miss ruth." all three of the girls on the island stared after the moving motor-boat. ruth saw the woman. she was dressed plainly but in modern garments. she did not seem to be one of the summer visitors to the islands. indeed, her clothing--such as could be seen--pointed to city breeding, but nothing was chosen, it would seem, for wear in such a place as this. she might have been on a ferryboat going from shore to shore of the hudson! "she _is_ a yellow lady," wonota repeated earnestly. "i should say she was!" exclaimed helen. "what do you think of her, ruth?" "i am sure i do not know what to say," the girl of the red mill answered. "does she look like a white woman to you, helen?" "she is yellow," reiterated wonota. "she certainly is not an indian," observed helen. "what say, ruth?" "she surely is not," agreed her chum. "a yellow lady," murmured wonota again, as the boat drew behind another island and there remained out of sight. chapter xvi marooned "i wonder if the boat did come from that island over yonder?" ruth murmured, after a few moments of thought. "for goodness' sake! what are you worrying about?" asked helen cameron. "i'm not worrying at all," ruth returned, smiling. "but i am curious." "about that yellow lady?" "about what happens on that island the queer old man lives on." "you don't know that he really lives there," was the prompt rejoinder. "that is so. he may not be there now. but--" "but me no buts, unless you mean to go on," said helen, as ruth hesitated again. "it does seem queer," said ruth thoughtfully. "other people go there besides the king of the pipes." "indeed! we all went there when that allegory was staged." "and since then," said ruth, and proceeded to tell the two girls what she and chess copley had seen early one morning. "men landing boxes on the island?" cried helen, while wonota merely looked puzzled. "there is a camp there, like enough. and those men--and the woman--in the launch might have come from there, of course. when willie comes back for us, let's sail around the island and see if we can spy where their tent is set up. for of course there is no house there?" "tom and i found no habitation when we went to search for the old man," admitted ruth. "all right. it must be a tent, then," said her chum with conviction. "we'll see." but as it turned out, they made no such search that day. indeed, willie and the _gem_ did not return for them. the camp launch was not the first craft that appeared. ruth was again coaching wonota after lunch when helen spied something on the water that caused her to cry out, drawing the other girls' attention. "who under the sun is this coming in the canoe?" helen demanded. "why! he is making it fairly fly. i never!" wonota scarcely glanced in the direction of the distant moving picture camp, and she said composedly: "it is chief totantora. he comes for me." the indian in the canoe caused the craft to tear through the water. no such paddling had the two white girls ever seen before. not a motion was lost on the part of chief totantora. every stroke of his paddle drove the craft on with a speed to make anybody marvel. "something has happened!" gasped ruth, standing up. "he comes for me," repeated wonota, still calmly. "what for?" queried helen, quite as much disturbed now as her chum. before the indian girl could have answered--had she intended to explain--the canoe came close in to the bank of the island, was swerved dexterously, and totantora leaped ashore--a feat not at all easy to perform without overturning the canoe. it scarcely rocked. he stooped and held it from scraping against the rock, and shot up at his daughter several brief sentences in their own tongue. he paid no attention to ruth, even, although she stepped forward and asked what his errand was. "i must go, miss ruth," said wonota quickly. "mr. hammond has sent him. it was arranged before." "what was arranged?" demanded ruth, with some sharpness. "we are going yonder," she pointed to the hazy shore of grenadier island that was in view from where they stood. "it is said by mr. hammond that yonder the man with the little green eyes--the fat man--cannot have us taken." "for goodness' sake!" gasped helen, "she's talking of that bilby, isn't she?" "what does it mean? has bilby come again?" cried ruth, speaking directly to totantora. "we go," said the chief. "hammond, he say so. now. they come for me and for wonota with talking papers from the white man's court." "then mr. hammond's lawyer could not do all mr. hammond expected," sighed ruth. "the picture will be ruined." "i never heard of such a thing," cried helen angrily. "i'd like to know what sort of courts and judges they have up here in these woods?" but ruth wanted to know more. she held wonota back as she would have stepped into the canoe. "wait," she urged. "tell me more, totantora. where are you taking wonota?" it was the indian girl who answered. "over on that shore," said she, pointing again to the canadian island, "these courts cannot touch us. mr. hammond told my father so. we go there to wait until the trouble is over. mr. hammond spoke of it before. totantora is informed." "but it means delay and expense," cried ruth. "how mean!" exploded helen. "i'd like to do something to that bilby." "have you money--plenty of money?" ruth demanded of the indian. "i have money," said wonota, touching the bosom of her blouse. "we do not need much. we shall live quietly there until mr. hammond sends for us. we will be faithful to you, miss ruth." she turned, with more impulsiveness than she usually showed, and kissed the white girl's cheek. "you are so good to me!" she cried. "i will not forget all you have taught me. and i will rehearse every day so to be perfect when mr. hooley wants me again." there was no way to stop her. indeed, as mr. hammond had advised this sudden move, ruth knew she had no right to interfere. it was evident that an emergency had arisen of which she, herself, knew nothing. in some way the enemy had forced mr. hammond's hand. totantora and his daughter were in danger of being brought into court after all, and mr. hammond did not wish that to come about. the indian girl stepped lightly into the canoe and picked up the extra paddle. her father leaped in after her, pushed the light craft away from the rock, and seized his own paddle. in another moment the canoe shot away from the island and off toward the broad expanse of the open st. lawrence. helen and ruth stared after them--then at each other. naturally it was helen who first regained her voice and gave expression to her amazement. "what do you know about that?" she demanded. "i--i don't know what to say," murmured ruth. "oh! i know what to say, all right," said the disgusted helen. "it's no joke." ruth herself admitted it was nothing to laugh about. she saw difficulties in the way of the completion of "the long lane's turning" of which helen knew but little--or of which she did not think. ruth knew that there were scenes--some of them she had been studying with wonota this day--that could not be changed nor eliminated. wonota must be in them. no "double" could be used. in the first place, the indian girl's personality was distinct. it could not easily be matched. ruth knew that, even at that time, one of the most popular screen actresses, because of her inability longer to look the child, was using a double for all her "close-ups" when she was forced to play those childish parts that a hungry public of "movie fans" demanded. nothing like this would save "the long lane's turning." the throne room scene in paris, which was yet to be photographed, was too delicate a matter to put in the hands of any double. wonota was herself--even in this picture she was a distinct personality--and she must be shown to the very end of the last reel and the last "fade-out." the thoughts caused ruth to feel very, very sober. helen looked at her with some appreciation of her chum's despair; yet she could not appreciate the situation in full. suddenly the lighter-minded helen leaped to her feet from the bank on which she was sitting, and exclaimed: "my goodness, ruth! do you realize that we are marooned?" "marooned?" was the wondering rejoiner. "yes. just as though we had been put ashore here by a crew of mutineers and deserted--a pair of robinson crusoesses!" "your english--" "bother my english!" "it would surely bother mrs. tellingham--if she could hear it, poor dear." "now, don't sidetrack me," remarked helen. "don't you see we are cast away on this desert isle with no means of getting back to the camp unless we swim?" "willie will be after us." "but, will 'e?" asked the roguish helen, punning on the boatman's name. "do be sensible--" "even good sense will not rescue us," interrupted helen. "i'd like to get back to camp and hear all the exciting details. totantora certainly can say less in a few moments than any person i ever saw. and wonota is not much better." "it does not matter how much they said or how little. the fat is all in the fire, i guess," groaned ruth. "chirk up! something is sure to turn up, i suppose. we won't be left here to starve," and helen's eyes flashed her fun. "oh, _you_!" began ruth, half laughing too. then she stopped and held up her hand. "what's that?" she whispered. the sound was repeated. a long-drawn "co-ee! co-ee!" which drained away into the depths of the forest-covered islands all about them. they were not where they could see a single isle known to be inhabited. "who is calling us?" demanded helen. "hush!" commanded ruth. "that is not for us. i have heard it before. it comes from the king of the pipes' island--to be sure it does." "he's calling for help!" gasped helen. "he is doing nothing of the kind. it is a signal." ruth told helen swiftly more of that early morning incident she and chess copley had observed when they saw the boxes carried ashore from the motor-boat. "seems to me," grumbled helen, "you have a lot of adventures with 'lasses copley, ruth." "your own fault that you don't," returned her chum promptly. "you could have been along. but you don't like mr. copley." "what has that to do with it?" rejoined helen smartly. "i would go adventuring with any boy--even 'lasses." "don't call him that," commanded ruth. "pooh! he likes it. or he used to." "he is a nice fellow," ruth declared, with more earnestness than there really seemed to be necessity for. "i--de-clare!" murmured helen. "really! does the wind sit in that quarter?" chapter xvii a determination however the wind might sit and whatever may have been her secret opinion of ruth fielding's interest in chessleigh copley, helen suddenly became mute regarding that young man. but, after a moment, she was not at all mute upon the subject of the king of the pipes and what might be going on on the island where they believed the queer old man had his headquarters. "if it should be smugglers over there--only fancy!" sighed helen ecstatically. "diamonds and silks and lots of precious things! my, oh, my!" "better than pirates?" laughed ruth. "consider!" cried her chum boldly. "i said that island looked like a pirate's den from the start." "your fore-sight-hind-sight is wonderful," declared ruth, shaking her head and making big eyes at her friend. "don't laugh--oh! what's that?" from over the water, and unmistakably from the rocky island on the summit of which the blasted beech stood--a prominent landmark--came the strange cry, "co-ee! co-ee!" which they had heard before. "do you suppose that poor old man is calling for help?" hesitated ruth. "your grandmother's aunt!" ejaculated helen, in disgust. "we-ell that is even a more roundabout relationship than that between aunt alvirah boggs and me. poor old soul, she is nobody's relation, as she often says, but everybody's aunt." "there goes the signal again, and here comes that boat!" exclaimed helen suddenly. "what boat?" demanded ruth, looking in the direction of the distant canadian island, toward which the canoe, with totantora and wonota in it, had now disappeared. "turn around--do!" exclaimed helen. "this way. that is the same boat we saw going by some time ago. the boat with the yellow lady in it, as wonota called her." "this is very strange," murmured ruth. "but the yellow lady is not with those men now," said helen. "i do not see any woman aboard," admitted her friend. the boat--going not so fast now--crossed their line of vision and finally rounded the end of the island on which the two chums believed the queer old man resided. at least, somebody had uttered the strange, shrill cry from that very spot. "oh, dear! if we were not marooned here!" grumbled helen. "what would you do?" "if we had a boat--even a canoe--we could follow that motor-launch and see if those pirates make a landing." "pirates!" repeated ruth. "smugglers, then. your own chess copley says they may be smugglers, you know." "i wish you would not speak in that way, helen," objected ruth. "he is not my chess copley----or anything else." "well, he certainly isn't mine," retorted helen, with more gaiety. "i can't say i approve of him--and i long since told you why." "i believe you are unfair, helen," said ruth seriously. "dear me! if you don't care anything about him, why are you so anxious to have me change my opinion of 'lasses?" "for your own sake," said her friend shortly. "i wonder! for _my_ sake?" "yes. because you are not naturally unfair--and chess feels it." "oh, he does, does he?" snapped helen. "i hope he does. let him feel!" this heartless observation closed ruth's lips on the subject. the two girls watched the other island. they did not see the boat again. nor did they see anybody on the island or hear any other cry from there. they both began to grow anxious. no boat appeared from the direction of the camp, and it was past the hour now when willie was to have called for them with the _gem_. why didn't he come? "of course, mr. hammond doesn't expect us to swim home," complained helen. "something must have occurred. totantora's being sent off so suddenly really worries me. perhaps mr. hammond himself was obliged to leave the camp and perhaps he went in the _gem_, and willie cannot return for us until later." "but where is tom? surely he must know all about this sudden trouble." "what was tom going to do to-day?" asked ruth quietly. "oh, that's so! i had forgotten," said tom's sister, in despair. "he was going around to oak point with some of the men. that's down the river, beyond chippewa point, and they could scarcely get back in the other motor-boat before dark." "that's the answer, i guess," sighed ruth. "then we are marooned!" ejaculated helen. "i do think it is too mean--and my goodness! we ate every crumb of lunch." "the two 'robinson crusoesses,' then, may have to go on short rations," but ruth said it with a smile. "i guess we are not in any real danger of starvation, however." "just the same, a joke can easily become serious when one is deserted on a desert island." "but you were looking for adventure," retorted ruth. "well!" "now you have it," said ruth, but soberly. "and worrying about it will not help us a particle. might as well be cheerful." "you are as full of old saws as a carpenter's abandoned tool-chest," said helen smartly. "oh! what is this i hear? the smuggler's boat again?" they did hear a motor, but no boat appeared from the other side of the kingdom of pipes. the sound drew nearer. the motor-boat was coming down the river, through a passage between the island where the girls were and the american side. "come on! i don't care who it is," cried helen, starting to run through the bushes. "we'll hail them and ask them for rescue." but when she came in sight of the craft, to ruth's surprise helen did not at once shout. ruth only saw the bow of the boat coming down stream herself; but suddenly she marked the small name-board with its gilt lettering: lauriette "here's chess, i do believe!" she cried. "humph!" grumbled helen. "now, helen cameron!" gasped ruth, "are you going to be foolish enough to refuse to be taken off this island by chessleigh copley?" "didn't say i was." "and don't be unkind to him!" pleaded ruth. "you seem so terribly fond of him that i guess he won't mind how i treat him." "you know better," ruth told her admonishingly. "chess thinks a great deal of you, while you treat him too unkindly for utterance." "he'd better not think of me too much," said helen scornfully. "his head won't stand it. tom says 'lasses never was strong in the deeper strata of college learning." ruth was not to be drawn into any controversy. she called to the young man when, dressed in flannels and standing at his wheel and engine, he came into view. "hurrah! here's good luck!" shouted chess, swerving the bow of the _lauriette_ in toward the island instantly. "hurrah! glad you think it's good luck," said helen sulkily. "i guess you never were marooned." "that's navy blue you've got on--not maroon," said chess soberly. "do you suppose i am color-blind?" "smarty!" "now, children, this is too serious a matter to quarrel over," admonished ruth, but smiling because her chum showed, after all, interest enough in the young man to be "scrappy." "what do you suppose we have seen, chess?" "i'd like to know first of all how you came here without a boat?" "my goodness, yes!" gasped helen. "i'd almost forgotten about wonota and totantora." ruth shook her head. "i am not likely to forget that," she said. she explained to the young man as they got into the launch and he pushed out from the shore about the difficulty that had arisen over the indians. he was naturally deeply interested in ruth's trouble and in the fate of the indians. but on top of that helen eagerly told about the speedy launch, the yellow lady, and their suspicions regarding what was going on at the island that they had nicknamed the kingdom of pipes. "i tell you what," chess said, quite as eagerly as helen, "i was coming over to take you all for a sail on the river to-night. let's get tom and just us four keep watch on that island. i believe there is something going on there that ought to be looked into." "i--i don't know that it is our business to look into it," suggested ruth, doubtfully. but for once helen agreed with chess, and against ruth's better judgment it was determined to come back to this locality after dinner and lurk about the mysterious island in the copley launch. chapter xviii bilby's trump card naturally, ruth went in search of mr. hammond the moment she landed on the island where the moving picture company was established. but, as she saw that the _gem_ was not at the dock, she scarcely expected to find the president of the company at hand--and in that expectation she was not mistaken. mr. hooley, the director, however, told her what he knew about the occurrence that had started totantora so madly from the island in the canoe. bilby and whoever it was that backed him in his enterprise were evidently determined to obtain the services of wonota, the osage princess, if it could be brought about. "looks to me," said the director, "as though we were going to have some trouble finishing this picture, miss fielding." "we can't finish it without wonota!" cried the girl. "you don't think you could rewrite the remaining scenes so that we can keep on to the conclusion?" he asked thoughtfully. "why, mr. hooley! how about the throne-room scene? wonota must appear in that. you say yourself that we cannot use anybody in her place." "how about cutting out that scene? finish the play on this side of the water. don't go to france at all." "then the picture is spoiled!" "no picture is spoiled until it goes out of our hands, you know," and mr. hooley smiled satirically. "you know how it is in the picture business, miss fielding. some unfortunate producer buys a script or a story. the scenario writer 'saves' the story by his work on the script. then the continuity man 'saves' it a second time. then the director 'saves' it after he gets it into his hands. we know that the star performer always 'saves' it again. and then the film cutter and the title writer each 'save' it. "most pictures are 'saved' in this way by the omniscience of all who work on it so that, when it is finally produced, the writer seldom recognizes more than a glimmer of his original idea in the final product. "you are much better treated than most picture writers, you know very well. and here you have a chance to 'save' your own work," and mr. hooley finished with a laugh. "it is no laughing matter," she told him. "i wanted this to be a really big picture. and i do not want to cut out wonota. without that throne-room scene it will fall flat." "we should have taken it in new york," grumbled mr. hooley. "i felt it at the time. but mr. hammond contracted for so many weeks' use of this island and the time is running out already." "and wonota and totantora are gone!" "exactly." "do you know where they have gone?" "haven't the least idea. but mr. hammond knows." "he went to town?" asked ruth thoughtfully. "he has gone to confer with the lawyers and see if they can get the court to vacate the injunction issued against our use of wonota. bilby and the sheriff came again. they had a warrant this time. it called for the production of wonota. luckily you had her off the island at the time. they searched every nook and cranny, and meanwhile totantora got away. they wanted him too." "i think that bilby is too mean for words!" "well, i take it that it was his trump card. he must have some powerful influence behind him. but--" "but what, mr. hooley?" asked ruth eagerly. "i can see how we might get over the difficulty if the courts will not listen to reason." "oh! do tell me!" "we can move the whole company over the canadian border, and before bilby can do anything over there we'll have finished 'the long lane's turning.' that's the only way i see out of the mess." "but think of the expense!" "sure! i'm thinking of that all the time," grumbled hooley. "and don't you forget that the boss never allows me to lose sight of it. your interest in this picture is greater than mine, miss fielding; but my job is sort of tangled up in it, too. mr. hammond is a good man; but he is a good business man first of all. i am afraid that you will be obliged to make some changes in the remaining scenes so as to overcome the difficulty of losing wonota." "i will not do it!" cried the girl, this time in anger. "better read your contract. if you won't do it, somebody else will have to. you know, we've got a man at the studio who could change hamlet into a slap-stick comedy over night, if the emergency arose." "i will not agree to have my picture ruined," said ruth, almost in tears. "that isn't the way to look at it," hooley observed more kindly. "just see that you save your story yourself instead of letting some other person do it for you. that's the answer, i fear." ruth had no appetite for dinner that evening, but she was obliged to meet her friends and the actors and actresses who ate at her table with at least an appearance of cheerfulness. it was impressed upon her mind more deeply than ever before, however, that her arrangement with the alectrion film corporation was not wholly satisfactory. she had learned so much now about the making of a screen picture that often her advice in the directing of the action was accepted with admiration by mr. hooley. mr. hammond was not afraid to go away and leave the two to film the most important scenes in a script. and why should she be tied to certain agreements that cramped her? especially in a case of this kind. for the sake of saving expense mr. hammond was likely to insist that the artistic part of "the long lane's turning" should be sacrificed. ruth felt that on her part she would spend twenty-five thousand dollars more (if she had it to spend) in shipping the whole company over the border and making the remainder of the picture in canada. "i am going to be in a position some time where i shall have the say as to every detail of the picture," she told herself. "i want to be my own manager and my own producer. otherwise i shall never be happy--nor will i ever be sure of making worth-while pictures." for ruth took this career of hers very seriously indeed. because she did so, perhaps, the fact that tom cameron seemed to consider his work so lightly caused ruth to criticise the young man harshly. that could only be expected. tom did not return for dinner. nor did mr. hammond come back to headquarters. chess copley was eager to get the girls out in his _lauriette_ again. "pooh! it's nothing much, i guess," said helen, seemingly having lost her first interest in the smugglers and the king of the pipes. "and, anyway, i shall not go unless tom is with us." "why, helen!" cried ruth, "i thought you were so eager." "well, perhaps. if tom went." "but we promised chess." "you promised him. he wants to do it because you are going." "now, helen, you know--" "i know just what i am saying. i have no interest in 'lasses copley. you have." "you are the most exasperating girl!" exclaimed ruth, in some warmth. they were in their room freshening their toilets for the evening. "i don't seem to suit you any more than tom does," said her chum coolly. "i declare, helen! you go too far." "i shan't go too far this time--without tom." helen laughed in a provoking way. "you can run along with your chessleigh if you like. not me!" "that is just what i will do," said ruth quietly, but with flashing eyes. "i would not insult him by refusing--now. i will tell him you have a headache and cannot come." "do as you like," was the ungracious reply. "you are crazy about chess, i guess." "i believe you are jealous, helen cameron!" cried ruth, in wonder. "i don't know why i should be," returned helen lightly. "i've no interest in chess copley. and i haven't had since--" "since when, i'd like to know?" "since i found him out. so now! that's enough. i am not going. unless, of course, tom returns and wants me to go along with you and chess." what more was there to say? ruth did not wish to disappoint chessleigh. she felt that helen cameron had no reason for treating the young man as she did. so, as she had done before, and without much interest in the evening sailing party, ruth left the bungalow to join the waiting chessleigh at the dock. chapter xix suspense tom and his party in the other motor-boat had not appeared, nor had the _gem_ come back from the town of chippewa bay with mr. hammond. why should not ruth and chessleigh spy about among the islands for a time? it was not now moonlight; and there was some haze which gave a smouldering effect to the stars peering through it. but these soft, hazy nights had their own charm and ruth had come to love them. especially on the water. amid the tamarack-clothed islets the motor-boats crept in and out in a delightful way. to lie on the cushions in the cockpit of the _lauriette_ and bask in the pearly starlight was an experience the girl from cheslow was not likely to forget. to-night, when the _lauriette_ got away from the moving picture camp, there were no other boats in sight. chess dimmed his lights and the craft crept through the narrow passages between the islands, heading up stream. "my idea," he said, "is to land at the back of that island--" "the kingdom of pipes?" interrupted ruth in surprise. "yes. where you say you landed before--twice." "oh!" "that is, if we see nothing or nobody about." "i don't think we'd better take any great risk--only two of us," observed ruth, with her usual caution. "of course, we won't walk right into danger." "i should hope not! and just what are we going for, anyway?" and she suddenly laughed. "why, i'm curious about those fellows," said the young man. "and i thought you were." "i'm curious about the king of the pipes. charley-horse pond, willie calls him." "queer old boy, i guess," admitted chess. "but i want to know more about those chaps who unloaded the boxes." "what could have been in the boxes? surely there is no camping party on that island. at least, no pleasure party." "i fancy not. if you ask me about the boxes, i am puzzled. yet, i've a glimmer of an idea--are you sure that was a woman with them to-day in their boat?" "wonota called her the yellow lady. and wonota has good eyes." "with a yellow face, yes? and we saw a chinaman in the boat that other time on the river," said chess quickly. "surely she wasn't a chinese woman? yet, she might have been." "chinese women aren't usually smuggled over the border, i guess," muttered the young fellow. "but chinese men are." "perhaps we should have reported it to the authorities," ruth suggested. "not until we are sure there is really something wrong. i don't want to be laughed at, you know." but ruth just then had considered another phase of the matter. "oh!" she cried. "there's bilby! he was in it!" "in what?" "in that boat when we first saw it. when we saw the chinaman, you know, out on the canadian side of the river. if there is anything wrong about these men--and the king of the pipes--bilby is mixed up with them." "i guess you are right, ruth. maybe that fellow is into more queer games than just trying to grab your osage princess." "but more than that," said ruth much worried now, "he may have so many friends on the canadian side that he can trace wonota and her father over there on grenadier island." "better warn mr. hammond when he comes back from town," suggested her friend. "that bilby seems to be universally troublesome. i'll say he is!" they kept quiet after that, for the outline of the rocky island, with the blasted beech visible at its summit, came into view. nothing stirred upon the island, nor was there any other boat in sight. "had we better venture ashore?" breathed ruth, again in doubt. "come on. let's try it. i've got an electric torch in my pocket. we can find our way all over the island with that." it was true that the girl of the red mill felt some trepidation, but she had confidence in her companion's muscle and courage if not in his caution. besides, she was very curious about the queer old man and the doings on his island. chess shut off the engine of the _lauriette_ some distance from the island; but first he had gone above the rocky landing, so that the sluggish current between the islands drifted the motor-boat back upon that strand. he went forward and, with a line in his hand, leaped ashore the moment he could do so, and drew the _lauriette_ in to the rock. then he passed the line around the very sapling to which ruth had once fastened the canoe. "come on!" he whispered, offering his hand to the girl. she leaped ashore. they were both wearing canvas, rubber-soled, low shoes which made no noise on the stones. chess drew forth the electric torch and tried it, turning the spot of light on the ground at their feet. it worked perfectly. in his right-hand jacket pocket he carried an entirely different article, but he did not mention that fact to ruth. she would not have gone with him had she known of the presence of the pistol. the possession of firearms would have, to her mind, at once taken the matter out of the realm of mere adventure into that of peril, and ruth was not seeking such an experience. she only half believed in the smugglers. she had seen some men in a boat at the island, but she doubted if it meant anything more than a fishing party. those boxes taken ashore meant nothing much to her, if they did suggest some particularly interesting situation to chess. in fact, copley had not fully taken ruth into his confidence. he had reason to suspect that whoever might be on this island were law-breakers, and he really had no right to bring ruth here. tom cameron would not have done it. copley was serious, however, in his intention of finding out if possible who was on the island; and when they had passed up the rough path to the round table-stone, ruth had got over her little shivery feeling and was as eager as chess himself. they passed carefully through the fringe of brush and reached the open space where the blasted beech tree stood. the faint starlight illumined the space, so that chess did not need to use the torch in his left hand. there was no tent set up here nor any other mark of human habitation. ruth knew that there was scarcely any other place on the island where a camp could be established. had the people they had seen landing from the speedy launch gone away for good and taken their camp equipment with them? suddenly copley seized her wrist. his touch was cold and betrayed the fact that he was nervous himself. "listen!" he whispered, his lips close to ruth's ear. helen would have immediately been "in a fidget," and said so. but ruth could restrain herself pretty well. she nodded so that copley saw she heard him and was listening. they waited several moments. "there!" breathed the young fellow again. "what is it?" ruth ventured. "somebody talking. listen!" there was a human voice near by. it sounded close to them, and yet its direction ruth could not decide upon. there was a hollow, reverberating quality to the sounds that baffled determination as to their origin. but it was a human voice without doubt. ruth could not, however, understand a word that was spoken. the tones were first high, then low, never guttural, and possessed a certain sibilant quality. whether the words spoken were english or not, was likewise a mystery. ruth and chessleigh stood first in one place, then in another, in that circle about the big beech tree. the young man had gone all around the tattered trunk and found no opening. if it was hollow, there was no way of getting into it near the ground, nor was there any ladder by which one might scale the huge trunk to the top. "that's no hide-away," mouthed chess, his lips close at ruth's ear again. "and it seems to me the sound doesn't come from overhead." "more as though it came up from the ground," returned ruth, in the same low voice. "do you suppose we are standing on the roof of a cavern, chess copley?" "it might be," agreed the young fellow. "but if it is a cavern, where under the sun is the mouth of it? how do they get in or out? it beats my time!" ruth quickly acknowledged that the mystery was beyond her comprehension. the sing-song sounds--for such they seemed to be--went on and on, meaningless for the two listeners, who could not distinguish a single word. "think that's your king of the pipes?" asked chessleigh finally. "i don't know. if it is, there must be something more the matter with him than willie says there is. he sounds crazy--that is the way it sounds to me." chapter xx a failure in calculation "what shall we do now?" asked ruth finally, and in a whisper. "let's go down to that place where we saw the boat land the other morning," returned her companion. "i'd like to look about there a bit." "do you think it is wise?" "i don't know about the wisdom of it," chuckled chessleigh. "but i do know that i'm not at all satisfied. some people are here on the island, and i'd like to know where they are." "i am afraid we will get into trouble." "if it is only that old man----" "we don't know that it is. he must be talking to somebody--if that is his voice we hear." "maybe he is only talking to himself. i don't hear anybody else," replied the young fellow. "come on. let's see the thing through, now we have started." indeed ruth wanted to see it through. she was quite as curious as her companion. so she made no further objection. pushing through the brush, they climbed carefully down the slope on the outer side of the island. the landing where they had fastened their own boat was on the inner side of the island, while this side fronted the broad expanse of the river. they could see the hurrying current, glinted here and there by the soft starlight. everything looked ghostly about them. the dim silvery light made it possible for them to pick their way without stumbling. they made little noise in reaching the shore. there was a little indention here--a tiny cove. the shore was shelving, and of sand and gravel. chess pointed silently to the unmistakable marks of a boat's bow in several places. "that boat has been here more than once," he whispered. ruth breathed "yes," but said no more. up-stream of the cove was a great mass of rock--not one rock, but several huddled together and the cracks between overgrown with brush and vines. chess brought into use the electric torch again. he shot the spotlight into the crannies. was there a path there between two of the big boulders? he drew ruth's attention to it with a touch on her arm. she saw that some of the bushes were broken--the vines torn away and dead. "somebody has been here," she murmured. "of course. that is what we came to find," said the young man. "we are on the verge of a discovery, ruth." "i hope we are not on the verge of trouble," she returned, in the same low tone. "don't have a bit of fear," he told her, in a louder voice. he was about to mention the loaded pistol in his pocket; then thought better of it. but he went ahead, venturing into the narrow passage between the two boulders. the ray of the torch showed the way. it played on the ground at their feet and upon the rocky sides of the passage. was that an abrupt end to the passage ahead of them, or a sharp turn in it? chess pressed on, ruth trying to peer over his shoulder, although to do this she had to stand on tiptoe. "by jove!" uttered the young man in surprise, "i believe it is a cavern. it's the entrance to a cave." "then those voices did come from a cavern. be careful, chess--do!" he had reached the turn in the passage. a jutting shelf of rock roofed them over. the young man shut off the lamp and they were in darkness. he thrust forward his head to peer around the corner. as he did so, without the least warning, something swished through the air and ruth heard the sound of a dull blow. chess pitched forward, with a groan of pain, falling to his knees. ruth uttered a scream. she did not try to retreat, but seized the young man by the shoulders and dragged him back. her brave act saved the young fellow from receiving a second and heavier blow. a club was being wielded in the hands of a powerful man who had met them in the passage! chess was speechless and apparently in a confused state of mind. the electric torch had fallen from his hand. he seemed struggling to get something out of his jacket pocket, but before he could accomplish this a light flashed up in the tunnel ahead. the same sing-song, chattering voice they had heard so faintly on the summit of the island broke out close at hand. in the red, flickering light of a burning pine torch the frightened girl saw a man in a broad-brimmed hat and loose, flapping upper garment bending over chess with a club again raised to strike. "don't hurt him! don't hit him again!" she cried. other voices--all speaking in that strange, sing-song tongue--broke out, and ruth suddenly realized that these enemies that confronted them were chinese. in the red light she saw clearly now, under the round, broad-brimmed hat, the yellow face and slanting eyes of the man. ruth did not understand it--she could not imagine why these orientals should be here on the island. but she realized fully that the calculations of copley and herself had gone astray. they were in peril--serious peril. the leading chinaman glared into ruth's frightened face and his thin lips curled back from his yellow teeth in a snarl like that of a rabid dog. his very look was enough to turn the girl cold. she trembled, still striving to drag the half-senseless chessleigh back. the chinaman uttered a long, jabbering howl, turning his face over his shoulder as though speaking to those who crowded behind him in the passage. ruth might still have escaped, but she would not desert her injured companion. suddenly there was a stir in the passage and the big chinaman was thrust aside. another figure pushed forward--a ragged, bushy-haired figure. it was the king of the pipes! "hush!" he commanded in his old way. he waved the chinaman back. he seemed to have some authority, for the burly chinaman obeyed. the old man thrust his face forward and peered with his wild eyes into ruth's countenance. "hush!" he whispered. "what did i tell you? i know you, of course. i told you that i could not divide my kingdom with any one. it was quite useless for you to come here again. "and see what has come of it," he added. "the pipes have seen you. they know your intentions. they will never in this world stand for a divided kingdom. i shall have to cut off your head. too bad! too bad!" he seized ruth's wrist. she tried to draw away from him, but he was much more powerful than she had supposed. one quick jerk and she was fairly dragged over the crouching figure of copley and around the corner of the narrow passage. the head chinaman darted forward and seized chess. he likewise was dragged into the place. amid the chattering of several high, sing-song voices, and only half seeing what was being done because of the flickering torchlight, ruth knew that she was being hurried into a tunnel of some size that ran back into the island. it was rocky all about her--on both sides as well as under foot and overhead. it was a natural tunnel, not one made by man. the figures flitting before her were gnomelike. she saw clearly only the old man who led her, holding her tightly by the arm. she knew that the chinaman was dragging chess behind them, as though that unfortunate young man was a sack of potatoes. this outcome of their innocent adventure was entirely different from anything ruth had dreamed of. if she did not exactly fear the queer old man who called himself the king of the pipes, she certainly did fear the men who were with him in this cavern. chapter xxi in the chinese den it was several minutes before ruth could accustom her sight to the uncertain, flickering flame of the torches with which the cavern was illuminated. there was, too, a small fire on a stone hearth and above it a stone and cement chimney that portrayed ingenuity in its building. the cavern was a natural one, but man had made of it a not impossible habitation. she felt rugs under her feet as she was drawn along by the king of the pipes, and when her eyes became accustomed to the half-gloom of the place she saw that there were several low tables and a couch or two, the latter likewise covered with rugs. not only had some ingenuity been expended in fitting up the cave, but the furnishings must have occasioned the expenditure of considerable money. it was not at all the sort of place that she would have expected the queer old man to occupy on the lonely island. she was so much interested in chessleigh's state, however, that she gave small attention to these other things. when she could break away from the king of the pipes she flung herself down upon her knees beside the recumbent young man and raised his head in her arms. chess had received a hard blow from the chinaman's club. and he had not uttered a word. the latter fact caused ruth more alarm than anything else. she feared that he was very badly injured, although he was not insensible. but there was no blood on his head and face. she passed her hand swiftly over his crown and found an unmistakable lump there, a lump raised by the blow. but, looking more closely into his half open eyes she saw more intelligence in their expression than she expected. indeed, as she peered closely at him she distinctly saw him wink his left eye, and this act, with the bright look in his eyes, warned her that copley was playing possum. having been felled by the blow, and feeling himself out-matched by the chinamen who had come jabbering to the scene, chess had displayed much more helplessness than he need have shown. but ruth decided that he was very wise to do this, and she was much relieved to discover this to be the fact. she did nothing to attract the attention of their captors to his real condition. she moaned over him, and made little pitying sounds as though she thought he had been very seriously hurt by the blow he had received. the king of the pipes put his clawlike hand upon her shoulder again. "let him alone. he will have to have his head off, of course. no hope for it. but i will try to postpone your decapitation until the thirty-first day of june, which comes when there are two sundays in the same week. eh? isn't that shrewd? as king of the pipes i have to show great astuteness. oh, great astuteness!" "i am sure you will help us, sire," murmured ruth, standing up once more and looking appealingly at the queer old man. "well, i will do what i can. but, remember, we kings can't do what we once could. seems to me i told you that before. the war did the business for us. and i would not dare suggest taking a consort. the pipes would never stand for it." "whom do you call 'the pipes'?" ruth asked wonderingly. "look about you. see them? already they are beginning to smoke up again. and it is a dirty smell. i have to go out and roam about the island to get away from it. dreadful! to give up my throne room to nasty little brass pipes. ugh!" while he was speaking the girl stared about her, now better able to see the place and the people in it. there were at least half a dozen men. and all were chinamen, as far as she could see, although not all were dressed in blouse and loose trousers and wadded slippers--the usual costume of the un-westernized chinaman. two of the men were lying down, and there were tiny lamps sputtering on the low stools, or tables, set close to their heads. they held long-stemmed pipes with small brass bowls, and had begun to smoke something that had a very pungent and disagreeable odor. ruth's mind had begun to clear. she remembered the heavy boxes she and chess had seen brought ashore, and the chinaman in the speed launch, and then the yellow-faced woman being taken on this very day toward the american shore. the whole puzzle began to fit together like a piece of patchwork. chinamen; a high-powered boat going back and forth across the st. lawrence; a hidden cave on this supposedly uninhabited island; the heavy boxes; the smoking of this vile paste which she now saw a third chinaman dip out of a tiny bowl, on a stick, and drop into his pipe in the form of a "pill." _opium!_ if these men--and the white men of the speed launch--did any smuggling it was not diamonds they smuggled. it was opium. and they were probably running chinese across the border as well. ruth knew that she was in a very serious predicament when she had swiftly thought this out, if she had not realized it before. what would these evil-looking yellow men do to her--and to poor chess? the latter, she was relieved to feel, was biding his time. but what chance was likely to arise which would lead to their escape from this cavern? she looked about the place. two of the yellow men were between her and the passage through which she and her companion had been dragged. if she wanted to, she could not make a dash for liberty. she turned again to the bedraggled and ragged-haired old man, curiosity about whom had led to this predicament. the king of the pipes was watching her with eyes that glittered like a bird's. "hush!" he whispered, moving nearer again. "you cannot escape. the pipes are very strong and very agile. they would not let you. to tell the truth, they fear so much for my safety that i haven't the freedom myself that i would sometimes like." "can't you leave this place?" ruth asked softly. "hush!" he warned her in his usual stealthy way. "don't speak of it. of course a king can do no wrong, and naturally a king can do as he pleases. otherwise, what is kingship? but it is always well to bow to the peculiarities and the prejudices of one's subjects. they do not like me to leave the throne-room at certain times. so i do not attempt to do so. when you met me before, my dear, there was nobody on the island but myself. but to-night you see how many are here, and more yet to come." "more chinamen?" she whispered. "no. perhaps no more of the pipes," and she thought he showed involuntary disgust of the opium-smokers. "but other subjects of mine who must be catered to. oh, dear, yes! being a king is not all it is cracked up to be, i assure you." for some reason ruth felt more alarm because of this last statement of the poor old man than of anything that had gone before. she realized that he, of course, really had no influence with the opium smugglers. but she began to understand that there were other men coming here who might be more savage than the chinamen. she remembered that there had been several white men in the launch when she had observed it, and that on one occasion horatio bilby had been one of them. now, ruth felt not only a great distaste for bilby, but she feared him exceedingly. it might be that the red-faced fat man who had so fretted mr. hammond and her about wonota, had only crossed the river in the launch as a passenger. he might have no close connection with the opium smugglers. but knowing bilby as she did, ruth could imagine that he might be mixed up in almost any illegal business that promised large returns in money. if he would attempt to steal the indian girl, why would he not join hands with opium smugglers and chinese runners, if he saw a possibility of gain in those industries? she wished she might talk to chess and learn just what was working in his mind at that moment. she was quite sure that he was by no means as stunned as he appeared to be. she approved of his feigning, for as long as these men did not seek to injure her, why should he incur their further notice? he lay on the rug, quite as though he was helpless; but she knew he was alert and was ready, if occasion arose, to show much more agility than the chinamen or the old king of the pipes dreamed. chapter xxii the twins' alarm it was fully an hour after the _lauriette_ had chugged away from the dock at the island where the moving picture company was established that the motor-boat which had been to oak point returned with tom cameron aboard. tom, with the other men who had been exploring and fishing all day, was ravenously hungry, but he went around to the veranda of the chief bungalow where his twin sister and ruth stayed to see how they were before even going to wash and to see if he could bribe one of the cooks to set out "a cold snack." tom found helen on the porch, alone. at a glance, too, he saw that she was not in a pleasant mood. "what's gone wrong?" demanded tom. and with a brother's privilege of being plain-spoken, he added: "you look cross. go in search of your temper." "who says i've lost it?" demanded helen sharply. "i cagliostro--merlin--wizard that i am," chuckled tom. "i am still little brighteyes, and i can see just as far into a spruce plank as the next one." "well, i am mad, if you want to know," sniffed helen. "where's ruth?" "she's whom i am mad at," declared the girl, nodding. "i don't believe it," said tom soothingly. "we could not really be mad at ruth fielding." "don't you feel that way yourself--the way she acts with chess copley?" "i wouldn't mind punching 'lasses' head," returned tom. "but that's different." "is that so? what do you know about their being out on the river together right now? humph!" "where have they gone?" asked her brother. "why aren't you with them? are they alone?" this brought out the full particulars of the affair, and tom listened to the end of a rather excited account of what had happened that afternoon--both on the island where helen and ruth had been "marooned" and here at the camp--together with the suspicions and curiosity about the island which had been dubbed the kingdom of pipes. nor did it lack interest in tom's ears in spite of his sister's rather excited way of telling it. "but look here," he asked. "why didn't you go with ruth and 'lasses?" "humph! they didn't want me," sniffed helen. "now, helen, you know better. ruth never slighted you in the world. i know her better than that." "well, she makes too much of chess copley. she is always praising him up to me. and i don't like it. i'll treat him just as i want to--so there!" tom looked rather sober at this. he hesitated a moment. he wanted to ask his pettish sister a question, but evidently did not know how to go about it. "it can't be helped now, i suppose. they will be back after a while. where were they going besides to that crazy fellow's island?" "just there. that's all." "come on and watch me eat. i'm starved." "thanks! i watched the pythons fed at the zoo once," said helen with unwonted sharpness. "i will sit here till the scene of savagery is over. you can come back." "you are in a fine mood, i see," observed tom, and went off chuckling. nevertheless, he was not feeling very happy himself over the thought that ruth and chess copley were out on the river together. "looks mighty fishy," muttered tom cameron. "i could punch 'lasses' head, the way i feel." these thoughts seemed to take tom's appetite away. to his sister's surprise, he returned in a very few minutes to the front porch of the bungalow. "i told you that you had boa-constrictor habits," she gasped. "why, tom cameron! you must have swallowed your supper whole." "i didn't swallow as much as i expected," returned the young man, smiling. but he grew serious again. "how long was chess going to stay out in his boat?" he asked. "you don't suppose that i saw him go?" asked helen, with surprise. "do you know that it is after eleven o'clock?" said her brother. "if they went no further than that crazy man's island, what do you suppose is keeping them?" "mercy's sake! is that the time, tommy-boy? why, the crazy man himself must be keeping them! do you suppose the king of the pipes has captured ruth and chess?" "don't try to be funny," advised tom. "it may be no laughing matter." "well, i like that!" "i don't think that chess would keep her out so late if everything was all right. sure they were not going to copley island?" "sure. the girls have gone away. there's no fun going on there." "well, of course the motor-boat may have broken down. such things happen," said tom reflectively. "now you have got me stirred up," cried helen. "i had no idea it was so late. and ruthie does not believe in late hours." "she would not stay out on the river with me half the night, that is sure," grumbled tom. "oh, tommy-boy!" exclaimed his sister, "i don't believe she cares so much for chess. i really don't." "well, that is not here nor there. what's to be done? where's mr. hammond--or willie?" "they haven't got back from chippewa bay with the _gem_." "this clumsy old _tamarack_ is too big for me to handle alone. and the boys have all gone to bed by this time." "the canoes aren't too big for us to handle," helen said. "us?" "yes. i insist on going, too, if you start out to look for the _lauriette_. and it will look better too. if we are simply paddling about, there being nothing the matter with chess and ruth, they won't be able to laugh at us. come on!" exclaimed helen, picking up her sweater. "i am a loyal sister, tom cameron." "right-o!" he agreed, more cheerfully. "i suppose there really is nothing the matter. yet, whatever else chess copley is, he's not the sort of fellow to keep a girl out till midnight on the river when there is nobody else along." "humph! do you think ruth is a mere chit of a flapper? you are old-fashioned, tommy-boy. the day of the chaperon is about over." "you know it isn't over in our set, and never will be," he returned. "you girls have a lot of freedom, i admit. but there are limits." "baa!" was helen's utterly impudent remark. they ran down to the shore and got out one of the canoes. helen was familiar with the use of the paddle and served her brother as a good second. they drove the canoe out into the open river, but only just for a look up its expanse. there was no motor-boat in sight or hearing--not even the distant lights of one. the current was so strong that the cameron twins went back among the islands where the water was smoother. besides, it was much more romantic, helen said wickedly, among the islands, and chess and ruth were more likely to remain in the tortuous passages. the two laid a pretty direct course, however, for the kingdom of pipes. as they spied it, and drew nearer, tom suddenly stopped paddling and held up his hand. "what's the matter?" demanded his sister, likewise raising her paddle out of the water. "listen," warned tom. faintly there came the noise of a motor-boat to their straining ears. "here they are!" shrilled helen. "will you be still?" demanded her brother. "that's not copley's boat. it's a deal bigger craft. she's on the other side of the island." helen leaned forward and caught at his sleeve. "look there!" she whispered. "there is the _lauriette_." she had been the first to see the outline of the copley launch moored close to the shore of the island at its upper end. "they've gone ashore," said tom. "where can they be? if that other boat is approaching this island----" "oh, tom! the pirates!" "oh, fudge!" "the smugglers, then. chess said he believed there were smugglers here." "what do they smuggle?" demanded tom with some scorn. "i don't know. he did not seem very clear about it." "just the same," tom observed, sinking his paddle again in the water, "there may be trouble in the air." "trouble on the river, i guess you mean," giggled helen. but she giggled because she was excited and nervous. she was quite as alarmed as tom was over the possibility that chess and ruth had got into some difficulty on the king of the pipes' island. chapter xxiii trouble enough returning to ruth fielding in the cavern: although her heart beat rapidly and she really was fearful, she showed little perturbation in her countenance and manner after she had talked with charley pond, if that was the real name of the king of the pipes. just how mentally disturbed the old man was it was difficult for the girl to judge. but she feared that he had, after all his claims, absolutely no influence with the chinamen. she believed that the leader of the orientals was the heavy-set chinaman who had struck chessleigh copley down with the club. the others--some smoking the little brass pipes, and others not smoking--were probably men who were endeavoring to get into the states without the knowledge of the emigration authorities. indeed, they were already in new york. this island was south of the american line. but from the kingdom of pipes to any city where the chinamen would be safe from apprehension was a pretty big jump. as for the opium--the smoke of which ruth smelled now for the first time--she had no idea how that commodity might be handled or disposed of. she knew that it was valuable, even when imported for medicinal purposes. there was a heavy tariff on it, as well as restrictions upon the trading in it. if those boxes--each as heavy as a man could lift and which she and chess had seen brought ashore on this island--contained opium, there might be many thousand of dollars' worth of the drug, in its paste form, here now. perhaps it was hidden somewhere in this cave. ruth had seated herself upon the end of one of the low tables. she knew that all the furniture in the cavern, including the rugs, must be of chinese manufacture. there could be no doubt that the place was fitted up for the convenience of the orientals. she looked about, trying to penetrate the obscurity of the place. were there passages besides the one by which she and chess had been dragged in? were there other apartments in the cavern, shut off by some of the hanging rugs which she saw? her principal thought, however, was of the possibility of escape. and she wished heartily that she and copley could get out of the cave before the arrival of the "others" of whom the king of the pipes had spoken. whoever they might be--or whether horatio bilby was one of them--ruth did not want to meet the smugglers and chinese runners. she feared very much for her safety, and for that of her companion. the law-breakers would know immediately that their safety was threatened. they must know that if they allowed ruth and chess to depart from the cave, their presence here and what they were doing would be reported to the police. and men like bilby, who would stoop to anything for money, were not likely to give over such a profitable business as the smuggling of opium without a fight. just how much did bilby and his companions care for the law? it was a question that created no little anxiety in ruth's mind. and she wondered, too, what chess thought about it. the young fellow lay upon the floor of the cavern, silent and immovable. she was quite sure, by the exceedingly knowing wink that he had given her, that he was neither panic-stricken nor seriously hurt. he was merely waiting to see what would turn up. and what would happen when the new chance did turn up? already chess was in opposition to at least seven chinamen, if he attempted anything. and if those the old man had spoken of, likewise appeared, what could copley do against such numbers? there was nothing ruth, herself, could do. she sat quietly on the end of the low table and looked sadly about the dimly lighted place. this was certainly a situation from which her usually ingenious mind could invent no means of escape. suddenly the old man who called himself the monarch of this island came from the corner where he had been standing, watching ruth, and made his way swiftly to the entrance to the cave. the big chinaman got up and looked at him. the king of the pipes waved his hand and pointed through the passage. it seemed to be sufficiently clear--that gesture--for the chinaman began to gabble to his friends. they scrambled to their feet--all but two who had fallen into a sluggish state after their indulgence in the use of the drug. they looked toward the cavern entrance. the king of the pipes disappeared through the passage. ruth stole a stealthy glance at chess. she saw that he had moved. he was lying with his right hand covered by his body. there seemed an alertness about him--in posture and in gleaming, half-closed eyes--that startled ruth. what had the young fellow in his mind to do. for what was he waiting? in a minute she heard the ring of quick steps upon the rock-floor of the tunnel. ruth shrank away from the table and stood at her companion's head. what would the newcomers--bilby, perhaps--do to copley and to her? and it was bilby! the little, red-faced, greenish-eyed man, projected himself into the cavern as though he had been shot out of a gun. "what's the matter here? what's going on, i want to know? that crazy-head is trying to tell me something--ye gods! a girl?" he saw ruth vaguely. then he glanced down at the prostrate copley. "who knocked him out?" demanded bilby. the burly chinaman was the one he addressed, who answered in a form of english: "allee same me. i get um, mist' blibly." "for mercy's sake!" whined bilby, wringing his fat hands. "these people aren't police. they are some of the summer visitors. now we _are_ in a mess!" "allee same look-see," growled the chinaman. he kicked chessleigh, and not gently. "number one sneakee--him! she----" he nodded violently toward ruth, thus drawing bilby's attention to the girl. bilby strained his fat neck forward to see the girl more closely. there were other sounds coming from the passage. "what's doing, mr bilby?" asked a gruff voice. the fat little man was panting. he pointed waveringly at ruth. "here's a pretty mess," he gasped. "what between these chinks and that crazy old duffer, they have got me in a nice mess. i know this girl. she belongs to that moving picture outfit. now what are we going to do?" "knock her in the head," was the advice of the growling voice. the advice probably was not intended to be followed. it was said perhaps to scare ruth. but it excited somebody else besides the girl of the red mill. before bilby could reply or anybody else could speak, copley came to his feet with all the suddenness of a jumping-jack. bilby squealed and started back, falling against the gruff man who had followed him into the cave and who was evidently the boatman. "what's this?" ejaculated this man. but that was all he said. the chinamen squealed in unison, and that was all from them. bilby himself faintly groaned. "put your hands up--all of you!" commanded copley, and one of the most amazing things about the whole wild extravaganza was that the young fellow's voice was perfectly unshaken. lads that have been in the army are apt to consider circumstances like these as meat and drink to them. chessleigh had not served uncle sam in vain. he was as cool as the proverbial cucumber! "put your hands up--all of you! there are ten shots in this magazine and every one of them will get its man. quick! up with 'em!" in all probability only one of the chinamen understood this strictly american form of expression. but when the burly chinaman elevated his yellow hands, his fellow countrymen did the same. as for bilby and the boatman, they reached toward the roof of the cavern hastily. there was no hesitation on their part. although copley was alone, his unwavering attitude and the threat of the automatic pistol, played hob with such shreds of courage as the malefactors possessed. chapter xxiv a letter comes nobody had come through the passage into the cave save bilby and the boatman. chess stood where he could keep half an eye, at least, upon the opening, and although the passage was filled with shadow he was quite sure there was nobody lurking there who was friendly to the law-breakers. "just step around behind those two men and see if they are armed, miss ruth, will you?" went on copley. "take 'em from behind. don't get in line with my pistol. for if i begin to shoot, somebody is bound to get hit. keep your hands up, you fellows!" and he gestured toward the chinamen. even the two of their number who had been half-overcome with the fumes of opium had come to attention when chess produced his pistol. the chinamen huddled together at one side. the boatman and bilby were opposite the doorway of the tunnel. ruth promptly obeyed chess and went around behind the last-named two of the enemy. ruth hesitated a moment in the dusk there at the opening of the passage. she hated to touch either bilby or the other man. but probably both of them were armed, and for the sake of safety their weapons must be taken from them. while she hesitated she heard a faint rustle in the passage. then came the softest possible whisper: "ss-st!" ruth jumped and glanced over her shoulder. was it friend or enemy who evidently tried to attract her attention by this sibilant sound? a figure moved in the gloom. before she could cry any warning to copley an arm was put firmly about her and ruth was almost lifted to one side. she saw the gleam of a weapon in the other hand of her neighbor, and the point of this weapon was dug suddenly into the broad back of the gruff boatman who was bilby's companion. "don't get nervous, 'lasses," came in tom cameron's voice. "we're all friends here. ah! a nice automatic pistol from our friend, mr. bilby. just so. here, nell!" but it was ruth's hand that took the captured weapon, although helen stood at her side squeezing her other hand and whispering: "my goodness, ruthie, what a perfectly glorious experience! are those the real smugglers?" "i shouldn't wonder," replied her friend. then she accepted the revolver extracted from the hip pocket of the boatman by tom cameron. "where is the king of the pipes?" "taking the air. we heard the talk below here through the hollow tree. do you know," whispered helen, "that old beech is a regular chimney. and we saw the boat come here. then we grabbed the king of the pipes outside." "tom did not hurt him, i hope?" murmured ruth. "not a bit of it. in fact, the queer old fellow said he was willing to abdicate in tom's favor, and now, i suppose, tommy-boy is king of the pipes," and helen, the irrepressible, grinned. the two ex-army men, however, took the matter quite seriously. tom disarmed the chinamen as well as the white men. and to search and disarm a squirming oriental, they found not easy work. "but i disarmed enough fritzies in europe to learn my job pretty well. how's the weather, sergeant?" "all right here, captain cameron," said copley seriously. "then i'll back out with this bunch of junk. here's a pair of brass knuckles in the bunch. i'll use 'em on any of these fellows who try to run. we'll keep 'em hived up here till the police come. one fellow can hold 'em. unless they try to climb up that hollow beech tree." "no fear," said copley. "get the girls out first." tom had already loaded both ruth and helen down with the loot from the malefactors' pockets. he motioned to the girls to leave the cavern. "hold on! hold on!" bilby cried. "i beg of you, don't leave me with these men. i only happen to be here by chance--" "a bad chance for you, then," said chess copley. "don't listen to him, captain cameron." "no, don't listen to him," said ruth severely. "i know he is worse than the others. why, tom! he is the man who has made us all that trouble about wonota and my picture." "sure," agreed tom. "i know the snake. go ahead, girls. chess and i will follow you. and one of us will be right in this passage all the time," he added, addressing the two white men. "don't make any mistake. we'll shoot if you try to come out until you are told to." the girls were already feeling their way through the darkness of the tunnel. at the turn ruth kicked something, and, stooping, secured chess' electric torch. she pressed the switch and the illumination allowed the two young men to overtake them with more certainty, chess backing out with his pistol trained on the opening into the cavern. when once the four friends were around the turn and out of hearing of the prisoners, tom cameron began to chuckle. "this is no laughing matter!" exclaimed his sister. "i am so excited i don't know what to do." "keep right on," said ruth. "i want to get home just as soon as i can. i don't believe i shall care hereafter to leave the island until we are through with the picture and can go back to the red mill. what are you laughing about, tom cameron?" "i don't know how 'lasses is fixed," said the amused tom. "but my pistol isn't loaded. it is my old service automatic and needs repairing, anyway." "don't fret, cameron. mine is loaded all right," said chess grimly. "then you stay and guard the cave," said tom. "you bet you! you couldn't get me away from here until you have sent for the sheriff and he comes for the gang. i believe we have done a good night's work." "oh, you were wonderful!" helen burst out. "and ruth says they knocked you down and hurt you." "i shall get over that all right," returned chess quietly. but when they were out of the passage and on the open shore helen insisted upon fussing around chessleigh, bathing the lump on his head, and otherwise "mothering" him in a way that secretly delighted ruth. tom looked at his sister in some amazement. "what do you know about that?" he whispered to ruth. "she was as sore at him as she could be an hour ago." "you don't know your own sister very well, tom," retorted ruth. "humph!" ejaculated tom cameron. "perhaps we fellows don't understand any girl very well." but ruth was not to be led into any discussion of that topic then. it was agreed that she and helen and tom should hurry back to the motion picture camp at once. "the king of the pipes won't bite you," tom said to chess. "only don't let him go back into the cave. those fellows might do him some harm. and the sheriff will want him for a witness against the gang. he is not so crazy as he makes out to be." the night's adventures were by no means completed, for ruth and helen could not go to bed after they reached the bungalow until they knew how it all turned out. mr. hammond had returned before them, and willie and tom started at once for chippewa bay in the _gem_. the capture of bilby in connection with the smugglers and chinese runners delighted the motion picture producer. "that will settle the controversy, i believe," mr. hammond said to the two girls. "bilby's attempt to annoy us must fall through now. we will get totantora and wonota back from canada and finish the picture properly. but, believe me! i have had all the experience i want with freak stars. the expense and trouble i have been put to regarding wonota has taught me a lesson. i'd sell my contract with wonota to-morrow--or after the picture is done--for a song." ruth looked at him steadily for a moment. "do you mean that, mr. hammond?" she asked quietly. "yes, i do." helen laughed. "i guess ruth is thinking of singing that song. ruth believes in wonota." "if i could carry the tune," her chum said, more lightly. "we'll talk of that later, mr. hammond." "oh, i would give you first chance, miss ruth," said the producer. "by the way," and he turned to his desk. "i brought mail from the town. here are several letters for you, miss ruth, and one for miss cameron." the girls began to open their letters as soon as they reached their room. but it was helen's single epistle that created the most excitement. "it's from carrie perrin," she said to ruth. then, in a moment, she uttered a cry that drew ruth's full attention. "listen to this! what do you know about this, ruth?" "what is it, my dear?" asked her chum, in her usual composed manner. "just think of that!" cried helen, in tears. "and i have treated him so hatefully. he'll never forgive me in this world, i suppose. it is about chess," she sobbed, and handed her chum the letter. chapter xxv the heart's desire "and what do you think of this, nell? i've wormed out of bill kenmore the truth about that mean joke the boys played on us last spring when we were all at jennie stone's. excuse! i suppose i should say madame marchand's. to think of heavy stone being an old married woman now! "well, bill kenmore always did have a crazy streak--and he wasn't shell-shocked in france, either. you remember the time you went away down town in answer to a telegram, thinking it was somebody who needed you very much, and you walked into that place and found the boys all dressed up and ready to give you the 'ha, ha!'? "i know it got you awfully mad--and i don't blame you. chess was there, i know. but he didn't even know what the row was all about. bill engineered the whole thing, and he thinks still that it was an awfully good joke. his ideas of humor must have originated in the stone age. "i made him tell me all about it, he thinking i would be amused. then i turned him right out of our parlor and told him not to call again. i hear that he thinks i am a regular cat! "but who wouldn't be cattish with a fellow who has no more sense? anyhow, we know the truth now. perhaps chess copley is not very sharp, but i couldn't think of his doing anything really mean. so now you know. if chess is up there at the thousand islands you can tell him from me, at least, that 'all is forgiven.' sounds like a newspaper personal, doesn't it?" * * * * * ruth stopped reading there, and looked brightly at her chum. "what do you think of that?" asked the latter, wiping her eyes. "well, my dear, i shouldn't cry about it," said ruth. "i think it is an occasion to be joyful." "but, chess--" "is of a forgiving nature, i think," ruth said. "at any rate, i would not let the matter stand between me and a nice boy friend any longer. i could never suspect chess of doing an unkind thing." "but i have wronged him!" cried helen, who was, after all, tender-hearted. "do you know," said her friend, "i believe you can make it up to him very nicely, if you want to, helen?" the _gem_ returned to the island just at daybreak. the girls ran down to the dock to meet the returned young men and willie. chess copley had come to get his own motor-boat, and the report they made of the end of the smuggling affair was very satisfactory. the sheriff and his posse in a big motor-boat had gone to the kingdom of pipes and relieved chess of his duty as guardian of the cave. the chinamen, who were hiding there until they could be shipped into the states dressed in feminine garments, were all handcuffed, together with the owner of the launch and horatio bilby, and loaded into the sheriff's launch. "and you should have heard bilby squeal," said tom. "there is one bad egg who is likely to pay a considerable penalty for his crimes. he'll not get out of the mess very easy." "what of the king of the pipes?" asked ruth. "poor old charley-horse pond," willie, the boatman, said, "will be detained as a witness. already he has got a new name for himself. he isn't 'king of the pipes' any longer." "what do you mean?" ruth inquired, for she was interested in the queer old man and his fate. "he told me that he was major andré," chuckled willie. "he is a number one spy. the sheriff knows him well and knows there isn't a mite of harm in him." later it came out that the old man had been living on the island for some time, having found the cave there. the smugglers of opium and the chinese found him there and made use of him. but when the court proceedings came on, pond was merely used by the prosecution as a witness. his harmlessness was too apparent for the court to doubt him. that particular day had to be a day of rest for ruth and her friends, for they had had no sleep the night before. but while they slept mr. hammond's representative went in search of totantora and wonota and the two osage indians were brought back to the moving picture camp before night. the work of making the last scenes of "the long lane's turning" was taken up at once, and until the last scene was taken ruth and her associates were very busy indeed. the cameron twins spent most of the ensuing time with the copleys and the other summer visitors. and it was noticeable that helen was attended by chess copley almost everywhere she went. tom saw this with some wonder; but he found very little opportunity to talk to ruth about it. and when he tried to question helen regarding her change toward chess, she quite ignored the subject. "looks to me," tom said to himself, "as though i was shut out in the cold. i wish i hadn't come up here. i might as well be slaving in that old office. gee, i'm an unlucky dog!" for tom, no more than helen, could not see that ruth's attitude toward the matter of strenuous occupation for a wealthy young man was a fair one. tom certainly had none of uncle jabez potter's blood in his veins. the big scene at the end of the picture--the throne room of the french king--was as carefully made as the other parts of the picture had been. and because of ruth's coaching wonota did her part so well that mr. hooley was enthusiastic--and to raise enthusiasm in the bosom of a case-hardened director is no small matter. "the boss is rather sore on the whole business," hooley said to ruth. "it has been an expensive picture, i admit. we have gone away over the studio estimate. "but that is not my fault, nor your fault, nor the indian girl's fault. mr. hammond is not to be blamed either, i suppose, for feeling worried. the motion picture business is getting to that stage now where lavish expenditure must be curtailed. i fancy mr. hammond will make only five-reel program pictures for some time. and where will your big feature pictures come in, miss fielding?" "the program pictures are sure-fire, i suppose," the girl admitted. "but it doesn't take much of a story to make those. nor does it give the stars as good a chance." "well, lean years may be coming. we shall all have to draw in our horns. remember me, miss fielding, if you decide to produce with some other firm. i like to work with you, and i have a more or less elastic contract with the alectrion corporation." ruth actually did have an idea for the future. it was in embryo as yet. but, as will be seen in the next volume of this series, entitled, "ruth fielding treasure hunting; or, a moving picture that became real," it led the girl of the red mill into new fields and drew her and her friends into new adventures. the last scene being completed, ruth and helen packed their trunks. but helen was to ship hers to the copley's island up the river, where she would stay for a week or so before returning to cheslow. ruth was going back to the red mill, and after that she was not sure of her movements. tom would accompany her home. she was glad of this, for she knew that, once at home, he must of necessity take up his work again with his father. tom cameron, however, confessed that he "hated" the dry goods business. chess copley showed his appreciation of ruth's kindness and friendship in a very pretty way indeed. he came to her secretly with a jeweler's box in his hand. "you know, ruth, you have been just like a sister to me since you have been up here. i think as much of you as i do of sara and jean--i declare i do! and i know helen--or--or anybody, won't mind if you wear this little trinket. when you wear it remember you've got a good friend whose initials are engraved on the inside." ruth accepted the present frankly, for she liked chess. but she did not know how beautiful the bracelet was until after copley had disappeared in his _lauriette_. it was more costly than ruth thought a present from that source should be. so, rather doubtful, she said nothing to tom cameron about the bracelet, although she wore it. she knew that she would have refused such a present from tom himself. but, then--there was a difference! she did not intend to be rushed into any agreement with tom cameron that would at all interfere with her freedom. she still had her career in mind. they got back to cheslow early in july. and how glad aunt alvirah was to see her pretty. as for uncle jabez, his interest was in the commercial end of the picture ruth had made. was it going to make money when it was distributed? how much money had ruth already drawn in advance royalties? and a multitude of other questions of that character came from the old miller's lips. "and when do you begin on another of them pictures, niece ruth?" he added. "you ain't going to stop now, when there is so much to be made in 'em?" "i do not know exactly what i shall do next," she told him, shaking her head. "but i think i shall try to make my next picture under different circumstances. but as i don't really know, how can i tell you?" "never mind, my pretty," put in aunt alvirah, "you are here with us now, and that means a lot. you certainly deserve a rest," and the old woman placed an affectionate hand on ruth's shoulder. at this the girl of the red mill smiled. "maybe i do," she replied, "after all those strenuous happenings on the st. lawrence." the end ------------------------------------------------------------------------- the ruth fielding series by alice b. emerson mo. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid ruth fielding of the red mill or jasper parole's secret ruth fielding at briarwoodhall or solving the campus mystery ruth fielding at snow camp or lost in the backwoods ruth fielding at lighthouse point or nita, the girl castaway ruth fielding at silver ranch or schoolgirls among the cowboys ruth fielding on cliff island or the old hunter's treasure box ruth fielding at sunrise farm or what became of the raby orphans ruth fielding and the gypsies or the missing pearl necklace ruth fielding in moving pictures or helping the dormitory fund ruth fielding down in dixie or great days in the land of cotton ruth fielding at college or the missing examination papers ruth fielding in the saddle or college girls in the land of gold ruth fielding in the red cross or doing her bit for uncle sam ruth fielding at the war front or the hunt for a lost soldier ruth fielding homeward bound or a red cross worker's ocean perils ruth fielding down east or the hermit of beach plum point ruth fielding in the great northwest or the indian girl star of the movies ruth fielding on the st. lawrence or the queer old man of the thousand islands ruth fielding treasure hunting or a moving picture that became real ruth fielding in the far north or the lost motion picture company ruth fielding at golden pass or the perils of an artificial avalanche cupples & leon company, publishers new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------- the betty gordon series by alice b. emerson author of the famous "ruth fielding" series mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid a series of stories by alice b. emerson which are bound to make this writer more popular than ever with her host of girl readers. . betty gordon at bramble farm or the mystery of a nobody at the age of twelve betty is left an orphan. . betty gordon in washington or strange adventures in a great city in this volume betty goes to the national capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. . betty gordon in the land of oil or the farm that was worth a fortune from washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. a splendid picture of the oil field operations of to-day. . betty gordon at boarding school or the treasure of indian chasm seeking the treasure of indian chasm makes an exceedingly interesting incident. . betty gordon at mountain camp or the mystery of ida bellethorne at mountain camp betty found herself in the midst of a mystery involving a girl whom she had previously met in washington. . betty gordon at ocean park or school chums on the boardwalk a glorious outing that betty and her chums never forgot. . betty gordon and her school chums or bringing the rebels to terms rebellious students, disliked teachers and mysterious robberies make a fascinating story. . betty gordon at rainbow ranch or cowboy joe's secret betty and her chums have a grand time in the saddle. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------- billie bradley series by janet d. wheeler mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid . billie bradley and her inheritance or the queer homestead at cherry corners billie bradley fell heir to an old homestead that was unoccupied and located far away in a lonely section of the country. how billie went there, accompanied by some of her chums, and what queer things happened, go to make up a story no girl will want to miss. . billie bradley at three-towers hall or leading a needed rebellion three-towers hall was a boarding school for girls. for a short time after billie arrived there all went well. but then the head of the school had to go on a long journey and she left the girls in charge of two teachers, sisters, who believed in severe discipline and in very, very plain food and little of it--and then there was a row! the girls wired for the head to come back--and all ended happily. . billie bradley on lighthouse island or the mystery of the wreck one of billie's friends owned a summer bungalow on lighthouse island, near the coast. the school girls made up a party and visited the island. there was a storm and a wreck, and three little children were washed ashore. they could tell nothing of themselves, and billie and her chums set to work to solve the mystery of their identity. . billie bradley and her classmates or the secret of the locked tower billie and her chums come to the rescue of several little children who have broken through the ice. there is the mystery of a lost invention, and also the dreaded mystery of the locked school tower. . billie bradley at twin lakes or jolly schoolgirls afloat and ashore a tale of outdoor adventure in which billie and her chums have a great variety of adventures. they visit an artists' colony and there fall in with a strange girl living with an old boatman who abuses her constantly. billie befriended hulda and the mystery surrounding the girl was finally cleared up. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers new york ruth fielding in the great northwest or the indian girl star of the movies by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding in the saddle," "ruth fielding down east," etc. _illustrated_ new york cupples & leon company publishers [illustration: behind her the timbers poured down the bluff. "ruth fielding in the great northwest." page ] books for girls by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. * * * * * ruth fielding of the red mill ruth fielding at briarwood hall ruth fielding at snow camp ruth fielding at lighthouse point ruth fielding at silver ranch ruth fielding on cliff island ruth fielding at sunrise farm ruth fielding and the gypsies ruth fielding in moving pictures ruth fielding down in dixie ruth fielding at college ruth fielding in the saddle ruth fielding in the red cross ruth fielding at the war front ruth fielding homeward bound ruth fielding down east ruth fielding in the great northwest * * * * * betty gordon series betty gordon at bramble farm betty gordon in washington betty gordon in the land of oil betty gordon at boarding school cupples & leon co., publishers, new york. copyright, , by cupples & leon company * * * * * ruth fielding in the great northwest printed in u.s.a. contents chapter page i. ruth in peril ii. a perfect shot iii. in the ring iv. smoking the peace pipe v. inspiration vi. everybody agrees but dakota joe vii. dakota joe's wrath viii. a wonderful event ix. the plot develops x. one new york day xi. evading the traffic police xii. bound for the northwest xiii. dakota joe makes a demand xiv. the hubbell ranch xv. pursuing danger xvi. news and a threat xvii. the prologue is finished xviii. an accident threatening xix. in deadly peril xx. good news xxi. a bull and a bear xxii. in the canyon xxiii. reality xxiv. wonota's surprise xxv. other surprises ruth fielding in the great northwest chapter i ruth in peril the gray dust, spurting from beneath the treads of the rapidly turning wheels, drifted across the country road to settle on the wayside hedges. the purring of the engine of helen cameron's car betrayed the fact that it was tuned to perfection. if there were any rough spots in the road being traveled, the shock absorbers took care of them. "dear me! i always do love to ride in nell's car," said the plump and pretty girl who occupied more than her share of the rear seat. "even if tom isn't here to take care of it, it always is so comfy." "only one thing would suit you better, heavy," declared the sharp-featured and sharp-tongued girl sitting next to jennie stone. "if only a motor could be connected to a rocking-chair--" "right-o!" agreed the cheerful plump girl. "and have it on a nice shady porch. i'd like to travel that way just as well. after our experience in france we ought to be allowed to travel in comfort for the rest of our lives. isn't that so, nell? and you agree, ruthie?" the girl at the wheel of the flying automobile nodded only, for she needed to keep her gaze fixed ahead. but the brown-haired, brown-eyed girl, whose quiet face seemed rather wistful, turned to smile upon the volatile--and voluble--heavy stone, so nicknamed during their early school days at briarwood hall. "don't let's talk about it, honey," she said. "i try not to think of what we all went through." "and the soup i tasted!" groaned the plump one. "that diet kitchen in paris! i'll never get over it--never!" "i guess _that's_ right," agreed mercy curtis, the sharp-featured girl. "how that really nice frenchman can stand for such a fat girl--" "why," explained heavy calmly, "the more there is of me the more there is for him to like." then she giggled. "there were so few fat people left in europe after four years of war that everybody liked to look at me." "you certainly are a sight for sore eyes," helen cameron shot over her shoulder, but without losing sight of the road ahead. she was a careful, if rapid, driver. "and for any other eyes! one couldn't very well miss you, heavy." "let's not talk any more about france--or the war--or anything like that," proposed ruth fielding, the shadow on her face deepening. "both your henri and helen's tom have had to go back--" "helen's tom?" repeated mercy curtis softly. but jennie stone pinched her. she would not allow anybody to tease ruth, although they all knew well enough that the absence of helen's twin brother meant as much to ruth fielding as it did to his sister. this was strictly a girl's party, this ride in helen cameron's automobile. aside from mercy, who was the daughter of the cheslow railroad station agent, and therefore lived in cheslow all the year around, the girls were not native to the place. they had just left that pretty town behind them. it appeared that ruth, helen, and surely jennie stone, knew very few of the young men of cheslow. so this jaunt was, as jennie saucily said, entirely "_poulette_". "which she thinks is french for 'old hen,'" scoffed the tart mercy. "i do not know which is worse," ruth fielding said with a sigh, as helen slowed down for a railroad crossing at which stood a flagman. "heavy's french or her slang." "slang! never!" cried the plump girl, tossing her head "far be it from me and et cetera. i never use slang. i am quite as much of a purist as that professor at ardmore--what was his name?--that they tell the story about. the dear dean told him that some of the undergrads complained that his language was 'too pedantic and unintelligible.'" "'never, madam! impossible! why,' said the prof, 'to employ a vulgarism, perspicuity is my penultimate appellative.'" "ow! ow!" groaned helen at the wheel "i bet that hurt your vocal cords, heavy." she let in the clutch again as the party broke into laughter, and they darted across the tracks behind the passing train. "just the same," added helen, "i wish some of the boys we used to play around with were with us. those fellows tom went to seven oaks with were all nice boys. dear me!" "most of them went into the war," ruth reminded her. "nothing is as it used to be. oh, dear!" "i must say you are all very cheerful--not!" exclaimed jennie. "ruth is a regular grandmother grimalkin, and the rest of you are little better. i for one just won't think of my dear henri as being food for cannon. i just won't! why! before he and tom can get into the nasty business again the war may be over. just see the reports in the papers of what our boys are doing. they really have the heinies on the run." "ye-as," murmured mercy. "running which way?" "treason!" cried jennie. "the only way the germans have ever run forward is by crawling." "oh! oh! listen to the irish bull!" cried helen. "oh, is it?" exclaimed jennie. "maybe there is a bit of irish in the mcstones, or o'stones. i don't know." she certainly was the life of the party. helen and ruth had too recently bidden tom cameron good-bye to feel like joining with jennie in repartee. though it might have been that even the fat girl's repartee was more a matter of repertoire. she was expected to be funny, and so forced herself to make good her reputation. this trip by automobile in fact was a forced attempt to cheer each other up on the part of the chums. at the outlook, the cameron's handsome country home, matters had become quite too awful to contemplate with calm, now that tom had gone back to france. at least, so helen stated. at the red mill ruth had been (she admitted it) ready to "fly to pieces." for naturally poor aunt alvirah and jabez potter, the miller, were pot cheerful companions. and the two chums had jennie stone as their guest, for she had returned from new york with them, where they had all gone to bid tom and henri marchand farewell. the three college friends had picked mercy curtis up (she had been with them at boarding-school "years and years before," to quote jennie) and started on this trip from cheslow to longhaven. on the outskirts of longhaven a wild west show was advertised as having pitched its tents. "and, of course, if there is anything about the wild west close at hand our movie writer must see it," said jennie. "give you local color, ruth, for another western screen masterpiece." "i suppose it is one of these little fly-by-night shows!" scoffed mercy. "let's see that bill. dakota joe's wild west and frontier round-up' mm! sounds big. but the bigger they sound the smaller they are, as a rule." "i am glad i am not a pessimist," sighed jennie stone. "it must be an awfully uncomfortable feeling inside one to wear such a cloak." "ow! ow!" cried helen again. "another hibernianism, without a doubt." she turned the car into a much-traveled road just then. not a mile ahead loomed the "big top." a band was playing, and what it lacked in sweetness it certainly made up in noise. "look at the cars!" exclaimed ruth, becoming interested. "we shall have to park before long, helen, and walk to the show lot." "right here!" returned helen, with vigor, and turned her car into a field where already a dozen automobiles were parked. a man with a whisp of whisker on his chin, and actually chewing a straw, motioned the young girl where to run her car. he was evidently the farmer who owned the field, and he was surely "making hay while the sun shone," for he was collecting a quarter from every automobile owner who wished to get his car off the public road. "your car'll be all right here, young ladies," he said, reaching for the quarter ruth offered him. "i'm going to stay here myself and watch 'em until the show's over. cal'late to stay here anyway till them wild injuns and wilder cowboys air off peleg swift's land yonder. no knowing what they'll do if they ain't watched." "listen to the opinion our friend has of your old wild west show," hissed jennie, as ruth hopped out of the seat beside helen. ruth laughed. the other girls, getting out of the car on the other side, were startled by hearing her laugh change to a sudden ejaculation. "dear me! has that thing broken loose from the show?" jennie was the first to speak, and she stepped behind the high car in order to catch sight of what had caused ruth's exclamation. instantly the plump girl emitted a most unseemly shout: "oh! oh! look at the bull!" "what is the matter with you, heavy?" demanded mercy snappishly. but when she and helen followed the plump girl behind the automobile, they were stricken dumb with amazement, if not with fear. tearing down the field toward the row of automobiles was a big black bull--head down, strings of foam flying from his mouth, and with every other indication of extreme wrath. "run!" shrieked jennie, and turned to do so. she bumped into mercy and helen, who clung to her and really retarded the plump girl's escape. but plowing right on to the shelter of the automobile, jennie actually swept her two friends with her. their cries and evident fright attracted the notice of the farmer before he really knew what was happening. then he saw the bull and gave tongue to his own immediate excitement: "look at that critter! he's broke out of the barnyard--drat him! don't let him see you, gals, for he's as vicious as sin!" he started forward with a stick in his hand to attack the enraged bull. but the animal paid no attention to him. it had set its eyes upon something which excited its rage--ruth fielding's red sweater! "oh, ruth! ruth!" shrieked helen, suddenly seeing her chum cornered on the other side of the car. ruth tried to open the car door again. but it stuck. nor was there time for the girl of the red mill to vault the door and so escape the charge of the maddened bull. the brute was upon her. chapter ii a perfect shot one may endure dangers of divers kinds (and ruth fielding had done so by land and sea) and be struck down unhappily by an apparently ordinary peril. the threat of that black bull's charge was as poignant as anything that had heretofore happened to the girl of the red mill. after that first outcry, ruth did not raise her voice at all. she tugged at the fouled handle of the automobile door, looking back over her shoulder at the forefront of the bull. he bellowed, and the very sound seemed to weaken her knees. had she not been clinging to that handle she must have dropped to the earth. and then, crack! it was unmistakably a rifle shot. the bull plowed up several yards of sod, swerved, shook his great head, bellowing again, and then started off at a tangent across the field with the farmer, brandishing a stick, close on his heels. saved, ruth fielding did sink to the earth now, and when the other girls ran clamorously around the motor-car she was scarcely possessed of her senses. truly, however, she had been through too many exciting events to be long overcome by this one. many queer experiences and perilous adventures had come into ruth fielding's life since the time when, as an orphan of twelve years, she had come to the red mill, just outside the town of cheslow, to live with her great uncle jabez and his queer little old housekeeper, aunt alvirah. the miller was not the man generously to offer ruth the advantages she craved. had it not been for her dearest friend, helen cameron, at first ruth would not have been dressed well enough to enter the local school. but if jabez potter was a miser, he was a just man after his fashion. ruth saved him a considerable sum of money during the first few months of her sojourn at the red mill, and in payment for this uncle jabez allowed her to accompany helen cameron to that famous boarding school, briarwood hall. while at school at briarwood, and during the vacations between semesters, ruth fielding's career actually began, as the volumes following "ruth fielding of the red mill" show. the girl had numerous adventures at briarwood hall, at snow camp, at lighthouse point, at silver ranch, on cliff island, at sunrise farm, among the gypsies, in moving pictures, down in dixie, at college, in the saddle, in the red cross in france, at the war front, and when homeward bound. the volume just previous to this present story related ruth's adventures "down east," where she went with helen and tom cameron, as well as jennie stone, jennie's fiancé, henri marchand, and her aunt kate, who was their chaperon. the girl of the red mill had long before the time of the present narrative proved her talent as a scenario writer, and working for mr. hammond, president of the alectrion film corporation, had already made several very successful pictures. it seemed that her work in life was to be connected with the silver sheet. even uncle jabez had acknowledged ruth's ability as a scenario writer, and was immensely proud of her work when he learned how much money she was making out of the pictures. for the old miller judged everything by a monetary standard. aunt alvirah was, of course, very proud of her "pretty" as she called ruth fielding. indeed, all ruth's friends considered her success in picture-making as only going to show just how smart ruth fielding was. but the girl of the red mill was far too sensible to have her head turned by such praise. even tom cameron's pride in her pictures only made the girl glad that she succeeded in delighting him. for ruth and tom were closer friends now than ever before--and for years they had been "chummy." the adventures which had thrown them so much together in france while tom was a captain in the american expeditionary forces and ruth was working with the american red cross, had welded their confidence in and liking for each other until it seemed that nothing but their youth and tom's duties in the army kept them from announcing their engagement. "do finish the war quickly, tom," she had said to him whimsically, not long before tom had gone back to france. "i do not feel as though i could return to college, or write another scenario, or do another single solitary thing until peace is declared." "and _then_?" tom had asked significantly, and ruth had given him an understanding smile. the uncertainty of that time--the whole nation waited and listened breathlessly for news from abroad--seemed to ruth more than she could bear. she had entered upon this pleasure jaunt to the wild west show with the other girls because she knew that anything to take their minds off the more serious thoughts of the war was a good thing. now, as she felt herself in peril of being gored by that black bull a tiny thought flashed into her mind: "what terrible peril may be facing tom cameron at this identical moment?" when the bull was gone, wounded by that unexpected rifle shot, and her three chums gathered about her, this thought of tom's danger was still uppermost in ruth's mind. "dear me, how silly of me!" she murmured. "there are lots worse things happening every moment over there than being gored by a bull." "what an idea!" ejaculated helen. "are you crazy? what has that to do with you being pitched over that fence, for instance?" she glanced at the fence which divided the field in which the automobiles stood from that where the two great tents of the wild west show were pitched. a broad-hatted man was standing at the bars. he drawled: "gal ain't hurt none, is she? that was a close shave--closer, a pile, than i'd want to have myself. some savage critter, that bull. and if dakota joe's gal wasn't a crack shot that young lady would sure been throwed higher than haman." ruth had now struggled to her feet with the aid of jenny and mercy. "do find out who it was shot the bull!" she cried. jennie, although still white-faced, grinned broadly again. "_now_ who is guilty of the most atrocious slang? 'shot the bull,' indeed!" "thar she is," answered the broad-hatted man, pointing to a figure approaching the fence. helen fairly gasped at sight of her. "right out of a remington black-and-white," she shrilled in ruth fielding's ear. the sight actually jolted ruth's mind away from the fright which had overwhelmed it. she stared at the person indicated with growing interest as well as appreciation of the picturesque figure she made. she was an indian girl in the gala costume of her tribe, feather head-dress and all. or, perhaps, one would better say she was dressed as the white man expects an indian to dress when on exhibition. but aside from her dress, which was most attractive, the girl herself held ruth's keen interest. despite her high cheekbones and the dusky copper color of her skin, this strange girl's features were handsome. there was pride expressed in them--pride and firmness and, withal, a certain sadness that added not a little to the charm of the indian girl's visage. "what a strange person!" murmured helen cameron. "she is pretty," announced the assured mercy curtis, who always held her own opinion to be right on any subject. "one brunette never does like another," and she made a little face at helen. "listen!" commanded jennie stone. "what does she say?" the indian girl spoke again, and this time they all heard her. "is the white lady injured, conlon?" "no, ma'am!" declared the broad-hatted man. "she'll be as chipper as a blue-jay in a minute. that was a near shot, wonota. for an injun you're some shot, i'll tell the world." an expression of disdain passed over the indian girl's face. she looked away from the man and ruth's glance caught her attention. "i thank you very much, miss--miss--" "i am called wonota in the osage tongue," interposed the indian maiden composedly enough. "she's dakota joe's injun sharpshooter," put in the man at the fence. "and she ain't no business out here in her play-actin' costume--or with her gun loaded that-a-way. aginst the law. that gun she uses is for shootin' glass balls and clay pigeons in the show." "well, miss wonota," said ruth, trying to ignore the officious man who evidently annoyed the indian maiden, "i am very thankful you did have your rifle with you at this particular juncture." she approached the fence and reached over it to clasp the indian girl's hand warmly. "we are going in to see you shoot at the glass balls, for i see the show is about to start. but afterward, wonota, can't we see you again?" the indian girl's expression betrayed some faint surprise. but she bowed gravely. "if the white ladies desire," she said. "i must appear now in the tent. the boss is strict." "you bet he is," added the broad-hatted man, who seemed offensively determined to push himself forward. "after the show, then," said ruth promptly to the girl. "i will tell you then just how much obliged to you i am," and she smiled in a most friendly fashion. wonota's smile was faint, but her black eyes seemed suddenly to sparkle. the man at the fence looked suspiciously from the white girls to the indian maid, but he made no further comment as wonota hastened away. chapter iii in the ring "what do you know about that indian girl?" demanded jennie stone excitedly. "she was just as cool as a cucumber. think of her shooting that bull just in the nick of time and saving our ruth!" "it does seem," remarked mercy curtis in her sharp way, "that ruthie fielding cannot venture abroad without getting into trouble." "and getting out of it, i thank you," rejoined helen, somewhat offended by mercy's remark. "certainly i have not been killed yet," was ruth's mild observation, pinching helen's arm to warn her that she was not to quarrel with the rather caustic lame girl. mercy's affliction, which still somewhat troubled her, had never improved her naturally crabbed disposition, and few of her girl friends had ruth's patience with her. "i don't know that i feel much like seeing cowboys rope steers and all that after seeing that horrid black bull charge our ruthie," complained helen. "shall we really go to the show?" "why! ruth just told that girl we would," said jennie. "i wouldn't miss seeing that wonota shoot for anything," ruth declared. "but there is nobody here to watch the automobile now," went on helen, who was more nervous than her chum. "yes," jennie remarked. "here comes 'silas simpkins, the straw-chewing rube,'" and she giggled. the farmer was at hand, puffing and blowing. he assured them that "that critter" was tightly housed and would do no more harm. "hope none o' you warn't hurt," he added. "by jinks! that bull is jest as much excited by this here wild west show as i be. did you pay me for your ortymobile, young ladies?" "i most certainly did," said ruth. "your bull did not drive all memory away." "all right. all right," said the farmer hastily. "i thought you did, but i wasn't positive you'd remember it." with which frank confession he turned away to meet another motor-car party that was attempting to park their machine on his land. the four girls got out into the dusty road and marched to the ticket wagon that was gaily painted with the sign of "dakota joe's wild west and frontier round-up." "this is my treat," declared ruth, going ahead to the ticket window with the crowd. "i certainly should pay for all this excitement i have got you girls into." "go as far as you like," said jennie. "but to tell the truth, i think the owner of the black bull should be taxed for this treat." dakota joe's show was apparently very popular, for people were coming to it not only from longhaven and cheslow, but from many other towns and hamlets. this afternoon performance attracted many women and children, and when the four young women from cheslow got into their reserved seats they found that they were right in the midst of a lot of little folks. the big ring, separated from the plank seats by a board fence put up in sections, offered a large enough tanbark-covered course to enable steers to be roped, bucking broncos exhibited, indian riding races, and various other events dear to the heart of the wild west show fans. and the program of dakota joe's show was much like that of similar exhibitions. he had some "real cowboys" and "sure-enough indians," as well as employees who were not thus advertised. the steers turned loose for the cowboys to "bulldog" were rather tame animals, for they were used to the employment. the "bronco busters" rode trick horses so well trained that they really acted better than their masters. some of the roping and riding--especially by the indians--was really good. and then came a number on the program that the four girls from cheslow had impatiently awaited. the announcer (dakota joe himself, on horseback and wearing hair to his shoulders _à la_ buffalo bill) rode into the center of the ring and held up a gauntleted hand for attention. "we now offer you, ladies and gentlemen, an exhibition in rifle shooting second to none on any program of any show in america to-day. the men of the old west were most wonderful shots with rifle or six-gun. to-day the new west produces a rifle shot that equals wild bill hickok, colonel cody himself, or major lillie. and to show that the new west, ladies and gentlemen, is right up to the minute in this as in every other pertic'lar, we offer wonota, daughter of chief totantora, princess of the osage indians, in a rifle-shooting act that, ladies and gentlemen, is simply marv'lous--simply marv'lous!" he waved a lordly hand, the band struck up a strident tune, and on a "perfect love of a white pony," as helen declared, wonota rode into the ring. she looked just as calm as she had when she had shot the bull which threatened ruth. nothing seemed to flutter the indian girl's pulse or to change her staid expression. yet the girls noticed that dakota joe spurred his big horse to the white pony's side, and, unless they were mistaken, the man said something to wonota in no pleasant manner. "look at that fellow!" exclaimed helen. "hasn't he an ugly look?" "i guess he didn't say anything pleasant to her," ruth rejoined, for she was a keen observer. "i shouldn't wonder if that girl was far from happy." "i shouldn't want to work for that dakota joe," added mercy curtis. "look at him!" unable to make wonota's expression of countenance change, the man, who was evidently angry with the indian girl, struck the white pony sharply with his whip. the pony jumped, and some of the spectators, thinking it a part of the program, laughed. unexpecting dakota joe's act, wonota was not prepared for her mount's jump. she was almost thrown from the saddle. but the next instant she had tightened the pony's rein, hauled it back on its haunches with a strong hand, and wheeled the animal to face dakota joe. what she said to the man certainly ruth and her friends could not understand. it was said in the osage tongue in any case. but with the words the indian girl thrust forward the light rifle which she carried. for a moment its blue muzzle was set full against the white man's chest. "oh!" gasped jennie. and she was not alone in thus giving vent to her excitement. "oh!" "why doesn't she shoot him?" drawled mercy curtis. "i--i guess it was only in fun," said helen rather shakingly, as the indian girl wheeled her mount again and rode away from dakota joe. "i wouldn't want her to be that funny with me," gasped jennie stone. "she must be a regular wild indian, after all." "i am sure, at least, that this dakota joe person would have deserved little sympathy if she had shot him," declared mercy, with confidence. "dear me," admitted ruth herself, "i want to meet that girl more than ever now. there must be some mystery regarding her connection with the owner of the show. they certainly are not in accord." "you've said something!" agreed jennie, likewise with conviction. if wonota had been at all flurried because of her treatment by her employer, she no longer showed it. having ridden to the proper spot, she wheeled the white pony again and faced the place where there was a steel shield against which the objects she was to shoot at were thrown. dakota joe rode forward as though to affix the first clay ball to the string. then he pulled in his horse, scowled across the ring at wonota, and beckoned one of the cowboys to approach. this man took up the duty of affixing the targets for the indian girl. "do you see that?" chuckled jennie stone. "he's afraid she might change her mind and shoot him after all." "sh!" cautioned ruth. "somebody might hear you. now look." the swinging targets were shattered by wonota as fast as the man could hook them to the string and set the string to swinging. then he threw glass balls filled with feathers into the air for the indian girl to explode. it was evident that she was not doing as well as usual, for she missed several shots. but this was not because of her own nervousness. since the pony had been cut with dakota joe's whip it would not stand still, and its nervousness was plainly the cause of wonota's misses. the owner of the show was, however, the last person to admit this. he showed more than annoyance as the act progressed. perhaps it was the strained relations so evident between the owner of the show and wonota that affected the man attending to the targets, for he became rather wild. he threw a glass ball so far to one side that to have shot at it would have endangered the spectators, and the indian girl dropped the muzzle of her rifle and shook her head. the curving ball came within dakota joe's reach. "some baseball player, i'll say!" ejaculated jennie stone slangily. for the owner of the show caught the flying ball. he wheeled his spirited horse, and, holding the ball at arm's length, he spurred down the field toward the indian girl. "oh!" cried ruth under her breath. "he is going to throw it at her!" "the villain!" ejaculated mercy curtis, her eyes flashing. but if that was his intention, dakota joe did not fulfill it. the indian girl whipped up the muzzle of her rifle and seemed to take deliberate aim at the angry man. evidently this act was not on the bill! chapter iv smoking the peace pipe ruth fielding almost screamed aloud. she rose in her seat, clinging to helen cameron's arm. "oh! what will she do?" gasped the girl of the red mill, just as the rifle in the indian sharp-shooter's hands spat its brief tongue of flame. the glass ball in dakota joe's fingers was shattered and he went through a cloud of feathers as he turned his horse at a tangent and rode away from the indian girl. it was a good shot, but one that the proprietor of the wild west show did not approve of! "oh!" exclaimed mercy curtis, bitterly, "why didn't she shoot him instead of the ball? he deserves it, i know." "dear me, mercy," drawled jennie stone, "you most certainly are a blood-thirsty person!" "i just know that man is a villain, and the indian girl is in his power." "next reel!" giggled helen. "it is a regular western cinema drama, isn't it?" "i certainly want to become better acquainted with that wonota," declared ruth, not at all sure but that mercy curtis was right in her opinion. "there! wonota is going off." the applause the indian girl received was vociferous. most of the spectators believed that the shooting of the glass ball out of the man's hand had been rehearsed and was one of wonota's chief feats. ruth and her friends had watched what had gone before too closely to make that mistake. there was plainly a serious schism between dakota joe and the girl whom he had called the indian princess. the girls settled back in their seats after wonota had replied to the applause with a stiff little bow from the entrance to the dressing-tent. the usual representation of "pioneer days" was then put on, and while the "stage" was being set for the attack on the emigrant train and indian massacre, the fellow who had stood at the pasture fence and talked to the girls when the black bull had done his turn, suddenly appeared in the aisle between the plank seats and gestured to ruth. "what?" asked the girl of the red mill "you want me?" "you're the lady," he said, grinning. "won't keep you a minute. you can git back and see the rest of the show all right." "it must be that wonota has sent him for me," explained ruth, seeing no other possible reason for this call. refusing to let even helen go with her, she followed the man up the aisle and down a narrow flight of steps to the ground. "what is the matter with her? what does she want me for?" ruth asked him when she could get within earshot and away from the audience. "her?" "yes. you come from wonota, don't you?" the man chuckled, but still kept on. "you'll see her in a minute. right this way, miss," he said. they came to a canvas-enclosed place with a flap pinned back as though it were the entrance to a tent. the guide flourished a hamlike hand, holding back the canvas flap. "just step in and you'll find her," he said, again chuckling. ruth was one not easily alarmed. but the fellow seemed impudent. she gave him a reproving look and marched into what appeared to be an office, for there was a desk and a chair in view. there, to her surprise, was dakota joe, the long-haired proprietor of the wild west show! he stood leaning against a post, his arms folded and smoking a very long and very black cigar. he did not remove his hat as ruth entered, but rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other and demanded harshly: "you know this injun girl i got with the show?" "certainly i know her!" ruth exclaimed without hesitation, "she saved my life." "huh! i heard about that, ma'am. and i don't mean it just that way. i'm talking about her--drat her! she says she has got a date with you and your friends between the afternoon and night shows." "yes," ruth said wonderingly. "we are to meet--and talk." "that's just it, ma'am," said the man, rolling the cigar again in an offensive way. "that's just it. when you come to talk with that injun girl, i want you to steer her proper on one p'int. we're white, you an' me, and i reckon white folks will stick together when it comes to a game against reds. get me?" "i do not think i do--yet," answered ruth hesitatingly. "why, see here, now," dakota joe went on. "it's easy to see you're a lady--a white lady. i'm a white gent. this injun wench has got it in for me. did you see what she come near doin' to me right out there in the ring?" ruth restrained a strong wish to tell him exactly what she had seen. but somehow she felt that caution in the handling of this rough man would be the wiser part. "i saw that she made a very clever shot in breaking that ball in your hand, mr. dakota joe," the girl of the red mill said. "heh? well, didn't you see she aimed straight at me? them reds ain't got no morals. they'd jest as lief shoot a feller they didn't like as not. we have to keep 'em down all the time. i know. i been handling 'em for years." "well, sir?" asked ruth impatiently. "why, this wonota--drat her!--is under contract with me. she's a drawin' card, i will say. but she's been writin' back to the agency where i got her and making me trouble. she means to leave me flat if she can---and a good winter season coming on." "what do you expect me to do about it, mr.--er--dakota joe?" asked ruth. "fenbrook. fenbrook's my name, ma'am," tardily explained the showman. "now, see here. she's nothin' but an ignorant redskin. yep. she's daughter of old totantora, hereditary chief of the osages. but he's out of the way and her guardian is the indian agent at three rivers station in oklahoma where the osages have their reservation. as i say, this gal has writ to the agent and told him a pack o' lies about how bad she is treated. and she ain't treated bad a mite." "well, mr. fenbrook?" demanded ruth again. "why, see now. this injun gal thinks well of you. i know what she's told the other performers. and i see her looking at you. naturally, being nothin' but a redskin, she'll look up to a white lady like you. you tell her she's mighty well off here, all things considered--will you? just tell her how hard some gals of her age have to work, while all she does is to ride and shoot in a show. all them injuns is crazy to be play-actors, you know. even old chief totantora was till he got mixed up with them germans when the war come on. "huh? you savvy my idee, miss? jest tell her she's better off with the show than she would be anywhere else. will you? do as i say, miss, and i'll slip you a bunch of tickets for all your friends. we're showin' at great forks on friday, at perryville saturday, and at lymansburg fust of the week. you can take your friends in and have fust-class seats to all them places." "thank you very much, mr. fenbrook," said ruth, having difficulty to keep from laughing. "but owing to other engagements i could not possibly accept your kind offer. however, i will speak to the girl and advise her to the best of my ability." which was exactly what ruth did when, later, she and her friends were met by the princess wonota at the exit of the big tent. the girl of the red mill had had no opportunity to explain to helen and jennie and mercy in full about her interview with dakota joe. but she was quite decided as to what she proposed to do. "let us go on to the automobile, girls," ruth said, taking wonota's hand. "we want to talk where nobody will overhear us." it was mercy, when they arrived at helen's car, who put the first question to the indian maid: "why didn't you shoot that man? i would have done so!" "oh, hush, mercy!" ejaculated jennie stone. "she will think you are quite a savage." helen laughed gaily and helped wonota into the tonneau. "come on!" she cried. "let us smoke the peace-pipe and tell each other all our past lives." but ruth remained rather grave, looking steadily at the indian girl. when they were seated, she said: "if you care to confide in us, wonota, perhaps we can advise you, or even help you. i know that you are unhappy and unkindly treated at this show. i owe you so much that i would be glad to feel that i had done something for you in return." the grave face of the indian girl broke into a slow smile. when she did smile, ruth thought her very winsome indeed. now that she had removed her headdress and wore her black hair in two glossy plaits over her shoulders, she was even more attractive. "you are very kind," wonota said. "but perhaps i should not trouble you with any of my difficulties." "if you have troubles," interposed jennie, "you've come to the right shop. we all have 'em and a few more won't hurt us a bit. we're just dying to know why that man treats you so mean." "he wouldn't treat me that way!" put in mercy vigorously. "but you see i--i am quite alone," explained wonota. "since father totantora went away i have been without any kin and almost without friends in our nation." "that is it," said ruth. "begin at the beginning. tell us how the chief came to leave you, and how you got mixed up with this dakota joe. i have a very small opinion of that man," added the girl of the red mill, "and i do not think you should remain in his care." chapter v inspiration it was on the verge of evening, and a keen and searching wind was blowing across the ruffled lumano, when helen cameron's car and its three occupants came in sight of the old red mill. mercy curtis had been dropped at the cheslow railway station, where she had the "second trick" as telegraph operator. for the last few miles of the journey from the wild west show there had been a good-natured, wordy battle between ruth and helen as to which of the twain was to have jennie stone for the night. "her trunk is at my house," helen declared. "so now!" "but her toilet bag is at the farmhouse. and, anyway, i could easily lend her pajamas." "she could never get into a suit of yours, you know very well, ruth fielding!" exclaimed helen. "i'd get one of uncle jabez's long flannel nightgowns for her, then," giggled ruth. "look here! i don't seem to be in such great favor with either of you, after all," interposed the plump girl. "one would think i was a freak. and i prefer my own night apparel in any case." "then you'll come home with me," helen announced. "but i have things at ruth's house, just as she says," said jennie. at the moment the car wheeled around the turn in the road and helen stopped it at the gate before the old, shingled farmhouse which was connected by a passage with the grist mill. a light flashed in the window and at once the place looked very inviting. a door opened upon the side porch, and to the girls' nostrils was wafted a most delicious odor of frying cakes. "that settles it!" ejaculated jennie stone, and immediately sprang out of the car. "i'm as hungry as a bear. i'll see you to-morrow, nell, if you'll ride over. but don't come too near mealtime. i never could withstand aunt alvirah's cooking. m-mm! griddle-cakes--with lashin's of butter and sugar on 'em, i wager." "dear me!" sighed helen, as ruth, too, got out, laughing. "you are incurable, jennie. your goddess is your tummy." but the plump girl was not at all abashed. she ran up the walk on to the porch and warmly greeted the little old woman who stood in the doorway. "how-do, jennie. oh, my back and oh, my bones! be careful, child! i'm kinder tottery to-day, and no mistake. coming in, helen cameron?" "not to-night, aunt alvirah," replied the girl, starting the car again. "good-night, all." "and here's my pretty!" crooned aunt alvirah, putting up her thin arms to encircle ruth's neck as the girl came in. "it does seem good to have you home again. your uncle jabez (who is softer-hearted than you would suppose) is just as glad to have you home as i am, to be sure." they had a merry supper in the wide, home-like kitchen, for even the miller when he came in was cheerful. he had had a good day at the grist mill. the cash-box was heavy that night, but he did not retire to his room to count his receipts as early as usual. the chatter of the two girls kept the old man interested. "it is a shame that the indian agent should let a girl like wonota sign a contract with that dakota joe. anybody might see, to look at him, that he was a bad man," jennie stone said with vehemence at one point in the discussion. "i am not much troubled over that point for the girl," said ruth. "she says she has already written to the agent at the three rivers station, oklahoma, telling him how badly fenbrook treats her. that will soon be over. she will get her release." "i shouldn't wonder," said uncle jabez, "that if a gal can fire a gun like you say she can, there ain't much reason to worry about her. she can take care of herself with that showman." "but suppose she should be tempted to do something really desperate!" cried ruth. "i hope nothing like that will happen. she is really a savage by instinct." "and a pretty one," agreed jennie, thoughtfully. "shucks! pretty is as pretty does," said aunt alvirah. "i didn't s'pose there was any real wild injuns left." "you'd think she was wild," chuckled jennie, "if you'd seen her draw bead on that dakota joe person." "all that is not so much to the point," pursued ruth. "i know that the girl wants to earn money--not alone for her mere living. she could go back to the reservation and live very comfortably without working--much. the osage nation is not at all poverty stricken and it holds its property ill community fashion." "what makes her travel around in such a foolish way, then?" aunt alvirah asked. "she wants ready cash. she wants it for a good purpose, too," explained ruth thoughtfully. "you see, this girl's father is chief totantora, a leading figure in the osage nation. the year before germany began the war he was traveling with a wild west show in europe. the show was in the interior of germany when war came and the frontiers were closed. "once only did wonota hear from her father. he was then in a detention camp, for, being a good american, he refused to bow down to hun gods--" "i should say he had a right to call himself an american, if anybody has," said jennie quickly. "and he is not the only indian who proved his loyalty to a government that, perhaps, has not always treated the original americans justly," ruth remarked. "i dunno," grumbled uncle jabez. "injuns is injuns. you say yourself this gal is pretty wild." "she is independent, at any rate. she wishes to earn enough money to set afoot a private inquiry for chief totantora. for she does not believe he is dead." "well, the poor dear," aunt alvirah said, "she'd ought to be helped, i haven't a doubt." "now, now!" exclaimed the miller, suspiciously. "charity begins at home. i hope you ain't figgerin' on any foolish waste of money, niece ruth." the latter laughed. "i don't think wonota would accept charity," she said. "and i have no intention of offering it to her in any case. but i should like to help the girl find her father--indeed i should." "you'd oughtn't to think you have to help everybody you come 'cross in the world, gal," advised uncle jabez, finally picking up the cash-box to retire to his room. "every tub ought to stand on its own bottom, as i've allus told ye." when he was gone aunt alvirah shook her head sadly. "ain't much brotherhood of man in jabez potter's idees of life," she said. "he says nobody ever helped him get up in the world, so why should he help others?" "of all things!" exclaimed ruth, with some warmth. "i wonder what he would have done all these years without you to make a home for him here!" "tut, tut!" objected the old woman. "'tain't me that's done for him. i was a poor lone creeter in the poorhouse when jabez potter came and took me out. i know that deep down in his old heart there's a flame of charity. who should know it better?" "oh, dear!" cried ruth. "he keeps it wonderfully well hidden--that flame. he certainly does." jennie laughed. "well, why shouldn't he be cautious? see how many times you have been charitable, ruth, and seen no gratitude in return." "well!" gasped the girl of the red mill, in disgust, "is _that_ what we are to be charitable for? for shame!" "right you are, my pretty," said aunt alvirah. "doin' one's duty for duty's sake is the way the good lord intended. and if jabez potter is charitable without knowin' it--and he _is_--all the better. it's charged up to his credit in heaven, i have no doubt." the girls were tired after their long ride in the keen evening air and they were ready for bed at a comparatively early hour. but after ruth had got into bed she could not sleep. thoughts rioted in her brain. for a week she had felt the inspiration of creative work milling in her mind--that is what she called it. she had promised the president of the alectrion film corporation to think up some unusual story--preferably an outdoor plot--for their next picture. and thus far nothing had formed in her mind that suggested the thing desired. outdoor stories had the call on the screen. they had but lately made one on the coast of maine, the details of which are given in "ruth fielding down east." earlier in her career as a screen writer the girl of the red mill had made a success of a subject which was photographed in the mining country of the west. "ruth fielding in the saddle" tells the story of this venture. there spun through her half-drowsing brain scenes of the wild west show they had attended this day. that was surely "outdoor stuff." was there anything in what she had seen to-day to suggest a novel scheme for a moving picture? she turned and tossed. her eyes would not remain closed. the program of dakota joe's wild west and frontier round-up marched in sequence through her memory. she did not want anything like that in her picture. it was all "old stuff," and the crying need of the film producer is "something new under the sun." yet there was color and action in much of the afternoon's performance. even dakota joe himself--as the figure of a villain, for instance--was not to be scorned. and princess wonota herself-- if the story was up to date, showing the modern, full-blooded indian princess in love and action! ruth suddenly bounded out of bed. she grabbed a warm robe, wrapped herself in it and ran across to jennie's room. "jennie! jennie! i've got it!" ruth cried in a loud whisper. jennie's only answer was a prolonged and pronounced snore! she was lying on her back. "jennie stone!" exclaimed ruth, shaking the plump girl by the shoulder. "wo--wow--ough! is it fire?" gasped jennie, finally aroused. "no, no! i've got it!" repeated ruth. "well--ell--i hope it isn't catching," said the other rather crossly. "you've spoiled--ow!--my beauty sleep, ruthie fielding." "listen!" commanded her friend. "i've the greatest idea for a picture. i know mr. hammond will be delighted. i am going to get wonota on contract when she breaks with dakota joe. i'll make her the central figure of a big picture. she shall be the leading lady." "why, ruthie fielding! that's something you have never yet done for me, and i have been your friend for years and years." "never mind. when it seems that the time is ripe to screen a story about a pretty, plump girl, you shall have an important part in the production," promised ruth. "but listen to me--do! i am going to make princess wonota an indian star--" "i believe you," drawled the plump girl. "i suppose you might call her a 'shooting star'?" chapter vi everybody agrees but dakota joe an inspiration is all right--even when it strikes one in the middle of the night. so jennie stone remarked. but there had to be something practical behind such a venture as ruth fielding had suggested to the sleepy girl. her thought regarding princess wonota of the osage tribe was partly due to her wish to help the indian girl, and partly due to her desire to furnish mr. hammond and the alectrion film corporation with another big feature picture. ruth and jennie (who became enthusiastic when she was awake in the morning) chattered about the idea like magpies from breakfast to lunch. then helen drove over from the outlook, and she had to hear it all explained while ruth and jennie were making ready to go out in the car with her. "you must drive us right to cheslow," ruth said, "where i can get mr. hammond on the long-distance 'phone. this is important. i feel that i have a really good idea." "but what do you suppose that dakota joe will say?" drawled helen. "he won't love you, i fear." "has he got to know?" demanded jennie. "don't be a goose, helen. this is all going to be done on the q.t." "very well," sniffed the other girl. "guess you'll find it difficult to take wonota away from the wild west show without joe's knowing anything about it." "of course!" laughed ruth. "but until the fatal break occurs we must not let him suspect anything." "i see. it is a fell conspiracy," remarked helen. "well, come on! the chariot awaits, my lady. if i am to drive a bunch of conspirators, let's be at it." "helen would hustle one around," complained jennie, "if she were in the plot to kill cæsar." "your tense is bad, little lady," said helen. "cæsar, according to the books, has been dead some years now. right-o?" the girls sped away from the old mill, and in a little while ruth was shut into a telephone booth talking with mr. hammond in a distant city. she told him a good deal more than she had the girls. it was his due. besides, she had already got the skeleton of a story in her mind and she repeated the important points of this to the picture producer. "sounds good, miss ruth," he declared. "but it all depends upon the girl. if you think she has the looks, is amenable to discipline, and has some natural ability, we might safely go ahead with it, i will get into communication by telegraph with the department of indian affairs at washington and with the agent at three rivers station, oklahoma, as well. we can afford to invest some money in the chance that this wonota is a find." "fifty-fifty, mr. hammond," ruth told him. "on whatever it costs, remember, i am just as good a sport as you are when it comes to taking a chance in business." he laughed. "i have often doubted your blood relationship to uncle jabez," mr. hammond declared "he has no gambler's blood in his old veins." "he was born too long before the moving picture came into existence," she laughingly returned. "now i mean to see wonota again and try to encourage her to throw in her fortunes with us. at least, i hope to get her away from that disgusting dakota joe." later jennie teasingly suggested: "you should have taken up with his offer, ruthie. you could have had free passes to the show in several towns." "i don't much wish to see the show again," ruth declared. "i bet mercy curtis would like to see it," giggled helen, "if wonota was sure to shoot joe. what a bloodthirsty child that mercy continues to be." "she has changed a lot since we were all children together," ruth said reflectively. "and i never did blame mercy much for being so scrappy. because of her lameness she missed a lot that we other girls had. i am so glad she has practically gotten over her affliction." "but not her failings of temper," suggested jennie. "still, as long as she takes it out on dakota joe, for instance, i don't know but i agree with her expressions of savage feeling." "hear! hear!" cried helen. despite their expressed dislike for fenbrook, helen and jennie stone accompanied ruth the next day to the afternoon performance of the wild west show at a town much farther away than that at which they had first met wonota, the indian princess. wonota was glad to see them--especially glad to see ruth fielding. for ruth had given her hope for a change. the indian girl was utterly disillusioned about traveling with a tent show; and even the promises fenbrook had made her of improved conditions during the winter, when they would show for week-runs in the bigger cities, did not encourage wonota to continue with him. "yet i would very much like to earn money to spend in searching for the great chief totantora," she confessed to the three white girls. "the great father at washington can do nothing now to find my father--and i do not blame the white father. the whole world is at war and those peoples in europe are sick with the fever of war. it is sad, but it cannot be helped." "and if you had money how would you go about looking for chief totantora?" helen asked her curiously. "i must go over there myself. i must search through that german country." "plucky girl!" ejaculated jennie. "but not a chance!" "you think not, lady?" asked wonota, anxiously. "we three have been to europe--to france. we know something about the difficulties," said ruth, quietly. "i understand how you feel, wonota. and conditions may soon change. we believe the war will end. then you can make a proper search for your father." "but not unless i have much money," said wonota quickly. "the osage people have valuable oil lands on their reservation. but it will be some years before money from them will be available, so the agent tells me. that is why i came with this show." "and that is why you wish to keep on earning money?" suggested ruth reflectively. "that is why," wonota returned, nodding. at this point in the conversation the showman himself came up. he smirked in an oily manner at the white girls and tried to act kindly toward his pretty employee. wonota scarcely looked in the man's direction, but ruth of course was polite in her treatment of dakota joe. "i see you're doin' like i asked you, ma'am," he hoarsely whispered behind his hairy hand to the girl of the red mill. "what's the prospect?" "i could scarcely tell you yet, mr. fenbrook," ruth said decidedly. "wonota must decide for herself, of course." "humph! wal, if she knows what's best for her she'll aim to stay right with old dakota joe. i'm her best friend." ruth left the girl at this time with some encouraging words. she had told her that if she, wonota, could get a release from her contract with the showman there would be an opportunity for her to earn much more money, and under better conditions, in the moving picture business. "oh!" cried wonota with sparkling eyes, "do you think i could act for the movies? i have often wanted to try." "there it is," said helen, as the girls drove home. "even the red indian is crazy to act in the movies. can you beat it?" "well," ruth asked soberly, "who is there that is not interested in getting his or her picture taken? not very many. and when it comes to appearing on the silver sheet--well, even kings and potentates fall for that!" ruth was so sure that wonota could be got into the moving pictures and that mr. hammond would be successful in making a star of the indian girl, that that very night she sat up until the wee small hours laying out the plot of her picture story--the story which she hoped to make into a really inspirational film. there was coming, however, an unexpected obstacle to this achievement--an obstacle which at first seemed to threaten utter failure to her own and to mr. hammond's plans. chapter vii dakota joe's wrath it was a crisp day with that tang of frost in the air that makes the old shiver and the young feel a tingling in the blood. aunt alvirah drew her chair closer to the stove in the sitting-room. she had a capable housework helper now, and even jabez potter made no audible objection, for ruth paid the bill, and the dear old woman had time to sit and talk to "her pretty" as she loved to do. "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" she murmured, as she settled into her rocking-chair. "i am a leetle afraid, my pretty, that you will have your hands full if you write pictures for red savages to act. it does seem to me they air dangerous folks to have anything to do with. "why, when i was a mite of a girl, i heard my great-grandmother tell that when she was a girl she went with her folks clean acrosst the continent--or, leastways, beyond the mississippi, and they drove in a big wagon drawed by oxen." "goodness! they went in an emigrant train?" cried ruth. "not at all. 'twarn't no train," objected aunt alvirah. "trains warn't heard of then. why, _i_ can remember when the first railroad went through this part of the country and it cut right through silas bassett's farm. they told him he could go down to the tracks any time he felt like going to town, wave his hat, and the train would stop for him." "well, wasn't that handy?" cried the girl. "it sounded good. but silas didn't have it on paper. first off they did stop for him if he hailed the train. he didn't go to town more'n three or four times a year. then the railroad changed hands. 'there arose up a new king over egypt which knew not joseph'--you know, like it says in the bible. and when silas bassett waved his hat, the train didn't even hesitate!" ruth laughed, but reminded her that they were talking about her great-grandmother's adventures in the indian country years and years before. "yes, that's a fact," said aunt alvirah boggs. "she did have exciting times. why, when they was traveling acrosst them western prairies one day, what should pop up but a band of indians, with tall feathers in their hair, and guns--mebbe bow and arrows, too. anyway, they scare't the white people something tremendous," and the old woman nodded vigorously. "well, the neighbors who were traveling together hastened to turn their wagons so as to make a fortress sort of, of the wagon-bodies, with the horses and the cattle and the humans in the center. you understand?" "yes," ruth agreed. "i have seen pictures of such a camp, with the indians attacking." "yes. well, but you see," cackled the old woman suddenly, "them, indians didn't attack at all. they rode down at a gallop, i expect, and scared the white folks a lot but what they come for was to see if there was a doctor in the party. those indians had heard of white doctors and knowed what they could do. the chief of the tribe had a favorite child that was very sick, and he come to see if a white doctor could save his child's life." "oh!" cried ruth, her eyes sparkling. "what an idea!" "well, my pretty, i dunno," said aunt alvirah. "'twas sensible enough, i should say, for that indian chief to want the best doctoring there was for his child. the medicine men had tried to cure the poor little thing and failed. i expect even red indians sometimes love their children." "why, of course, aunt alvirah. and you ought to see how lovable this girl wonota is." "mm--well, mebbe. anyway, there was a doctor in that party my great-grandmother traveled with, and he rode to the indian village and cured the sick child. and for the rest of their journey across them plains indians, first of one tribe, then of another, rode with the party of whites. and they never had no trouble." "isn't that great!" cried ruth. and when she told helen and jennie about it--and the idea it had given ruth for a screen story--her two chums agreed that it was "perfectly great." so ruth was hard at work on a scenario, or detailed plot, even before mr. hammond made his arrangements with the indian department for the transferring of the services of princess wonota from dakota joe's wild west show to the alectrion film corporation for a certain number of months. the matter had now gone so far that it could not be kept from dakota joe. he had spent money and pulled all the wires he could at the reservation to keep "dead-shot" wonota in his employ. at first he did not realize that any outside agency was at work against him and for die girl's benefit. ruth and her friends drove to a distant town to see the indian girl when the wild west show played for two days. they attended the matinee and saw wonota between the two performances and had dinner with her at the local hotel. after dinner they all went to an attorney's office, where the papers in the case were ready, and wonota signed her new contract and helen and jennie were two of the witnesses thereto. mr. hammond could not be present, but he had trusted to ruth's good sense and business acumen. in a week--giving dakota joe due notice--the old contract would be dead and wonota would be at liberty under permission from the indian agent to leave the show. as helen stopped the car before the torch-lighted entrance to the show for wonota to step out, dakota joe strode out to the side of the road. he was scowling viciously. "what's the matter with you, wonota?" he demanded. "you trying to queer the show? you ain't got no more'n enough time to dress for your act. get on in there, like i tell you." instead of propitiating ruth now, he showed her the ugly side of his character. "i guess you been playin' two-faced, ain't you, ma'am?" he growled as wonota fled toward the dressing tent "i thought you was a friend of mine. but i believe you been cuttin' the sand right out from under my feet. ain't you?" "i do not know what you mean, mr. fenbrook," said ruth sharply. "you're ruth fielding, ain't you?" he demanded. "yes. that is my name." "so they tell me," growled dakota joe. "and you are coupled up with this hammond feller that they tell me has put in a bid for wonota over and above what she's wuth, and what i can pay. ain't that so?" "if you wish to discuss the matter with mr. hammond i will give you his address," ruth said with dignity. "i am not prepared to discuss the matter with you, mr. fenbrook." "is that so?" he snarled. "well, ma'am, whether you want to talk or don't want to talk, things ain't goin' all your way. no, ma'am! i got some rights. the courts will give me my rights to wonota. i'm her guardian, i am. her father, totantora, is dead, and i'll show you folks--and that injun agent--just where you get off in this business!" "go on," said ruth to helen, without answering the angry man. but when the car had gone a little way along the road, the girl of the red mill exclaimed: "dear me! i fear that man will make trouble. i--i wish tom were here." "don't say a word!" gasped helen. "but not only because he could handle this western bully do i wish tommy-boy was home and the war was over." "why don't you offer dakota joe a job in your picture company, too?" drawled jennie stone. "he'd make such a fine 'bad man.'" "he certainly would," agreed helen. just how bad the proprietor of the wild west show could be was proved the following day. mr. hammond sent ruth a telegram in the morning intimating that something had gone wrong with their plans to get wonota into their employ. * * * * * "the court has given fenbrook an injunction. what do you know about it?" * * * * * now, of course, ruth fielding did not know anything at all about it. and after what she had seen of dakota joe she had no mind to go to him on behalf of mr. hammond and herself. if the westerner was balking the attempt to get wonota out of his clutches, nothing would beat him, ruth believed, but legal proceedings. she telegraphed mr. hammond to this effect, advising that he put the matter in the hands of the attorney that had drawn the new contract with the indian girl. "the goodness knows," she told aunt alvirah and uncle jabez, "i don't want to have anything personally to do with that rough man. he is just as ugly as he can be." "wal," snorted the miller, "he better not come around here cutting up his didoes! me and ben will tend to him!" ruth could not help being somewhat fearful of the proprietor of the wild west show. if the man really made up his mind to make trouble, ruth hoped that he would not come to the red mill. helen and jennie drove over to the mill to get ruth that afternoon, and they planned to take aunt alvirah out with them. she had lost her fear of the automobile and had even begun to hint to the miller that she wished he would buy a small car. "land o' goshen!" grumbled uncle jabez, "what next? i s'pose you'd want to learn to run the dratted thing, alvirah boggs?" "well, jabez potter, i don't see why not?" she had confessed. "other women learns." "huh! you with one foot in the grave and the other on the gas, eh?" he snorted. however, aunt alvirah did not go out in helen's car on this afternoon. while the girls were waiting for her to be made ready, helen looked back, up the road, down which she and jennie had just come. "what's this?" she wanted to know. "a runaway horse?" jennie stood up to look over the back of the car. she uttered an excited squeal. "helen! ruthie!" she declared. "it's that indian girl--in all her war-togs, too. she is riding like the wind. and, yes! there is somebody after her! talk about your moving picture chases--this is the real thing!" "it's dakota joe!" shrieked helen. "goodness! he must have gone mad. see him beating that horse he rides. why--" "he surely has blown up," stated jennie stone with conviction. "ruthie! what are you going to do?" chapter viii a wonderful event wonota was a long way ahead of the westerner. she was light and she bestrode a horse with much more speed than the one dakota joe rode. she lay far along her horse's neck and urged it with her voice rather than a cruel goad. the plucky pony was responding nobly, although it was plain, as it came nearer to the girls before the old mill farmhouse, that it had traveled hard. it was thirty miles from the town where the wild west show was performing to the red mill. "oh, wonota!" cried jennie stone, beckoning the indian girl on. "what is the matter?" ruth had not waited to get any report from wonota. she turned and dashed for the house. already sarah, the maid-of-all-work, had started through the covered passage to the mill, shrieking for ben, the hired man. ben and the miller ran down the long walk to roadside. jabez potter was no weakling despite his age, while ben was a giant of a fellow, able to handle two ordinary men. wonota pulled her pony in behind helen's car, whirling to face her pursuer. she did not carry the light rifle she used in her act. perhaps it would have been better had she been armed, for dakota joe was quite beside himself with wrath. he came pounding along, swinging his whip and yelling at the top of his voice. "what's the matter with that crazy feller?" demanded the old miller in amazement. "he chasin' that colored girl?" "she's not colored. she is my indian princess, uncle jabez," ruth explained. "i swanny, you don't mean it! hi, ben!" but nobody had to tell ben what to do. as fenbrook drew in his horse abruptly, the mill-hand jumped into the road, grabbed dakota joe's whip-hand, broke his hold on the reins, and dragged the westerner out of the saddle. it was a feat requiring no little strength, and it surprised dakota joe as much as it did anybody. "hey, you! what you doin'?" bawled dakota joe, when he found himself sitting on the hard ground, staring up at the group. "ain't doing nothing," drawled ben. "it's done. better sit where you be, mister, and cool off." "what sort o' tomfoolishness is this?" asked the miller again. "makin' one o' them picture-shows right here on the public road? i want to know!" at that, and without rising from his seat in the road, dakota joe fenbrook lifted up his voice and gave his opinion of all moving picture people, and especially those that would steal "that injun gal" from a hard-working man like himself. he stated that the efforts of a "shark named hammond" and this girl here that he thought was a lady an' friendly to him were about to ruin his show. "they'll crab the whole business if they git wonota away from me. that's what will happen! and i ought to give her a blame' good lickin'--" "we won't hear nothing more about that," interrupted the old miller, advancing a stride or two toward the angry westerner. "whether the gal's got blue blood or red blood, or what color, she ain't going to be mishandled none by you. understand? you git up and git!" "but what has happened, wonota?" the puzzled ruth asked the indian girl. wonota pointed scornfully at fenbrook, just then struggling to his feet. "joe, heap smart white man. wuh!" she really was grimly chuckling. "he go get a talking paper from the court. call it injunction, eh?" "i heard about the injunction," admitted ruth interestedly. "all right wonota can't leave joe to work for you, eh? but the paleface law-man say to me that that talking paper good only in that county. you see? i not in that county now." "oh, jerry!" gasped jennie stone. "isn't that cute? she is outside the jurisdiction of the court." "sho!" exclaimed jabez potter, much amused by this outcome of the matter. "it is a fact. go on back to your show, mister. the gal's here, and she's with friends, and that's all there is to it." dakota joe had already realized this situation. he climbed slowly into his saddle and eyed them all--especially ruth and wonota--with a savage glare. "wait!" he growled. "wait--that's all. i'll fix you movie people yet--the whole of you! it's the sorriest day's job you ever done to get wonota away from me. wait!" he rode away. when he was some rods up the road, down which he had galloped, he set spurs to his horse again and dashed on and out of sight. for a little while nobody spoke. it was jennie who, as usual, light-hearted and unafraid, broke the silence. "well, all right, we'll wait," she said. "but we needn't do it right here, i suppose. we can sit down and wait just as easily." helen laughed. but ruth and wonota were sober, and even uncle jabez potter saw something to take note of in the threat of the proprietor of the wild west show. "that man is a coward. that's as plain as the nose on your face. and a coward when he gits mad and threatens you is more to be feared than a really brave man. that man's a coward. he's mean. he's p'ison mean! you want to look out for him, niece ruth. i wouldn't wonder if he tried, some time, to do you and mr. hammond some trick that won't bring you in no money, to say the least." the old miller went off with that statement on his lips. ben, the hired man, followed him, shaking his head. the girls looked at each other, then at the rapidly disappearing cloud of dust raised by dakota joe's pony. jennie said: "well, goodness! why so serious? guess that man won't do such a much! don't be scared, wonota. we won't let anybody hurt you." "i wish tom were here," ruth fielding repeated. and in less than forty-eight hours this wish of the girl of the red mill seemed to her almost prophetical. tom cameron was coming home! the whole land rejoiced over that fact. the whole world, indeed, gave thanks that it was possible for a young captain in the american expeditionary forces to look forward to his release and return to his home. the armistice had been declared. cheslow, like every town and city in the union, celebrated the great occasion. it was not merely a day's celebration. the war was over (or so it seemed) and the boys who were so much missed would be coming home again. it took some time for ruth and her friends to realize that this return must be, because of the nature of things, postponed for many tiresome months. before tom cameron was likely to be freed from the army, the matter of the indian girl's engagement with the moving picture corporation must be completely settled--at least, as far as dakota joe's claim upon wonota's services went. chapter ix the plot develops ruth had insisted upon wonota's remaining at the red mill from the hour she had ridden there for protection. not that they believed fenbrook would actually harm the indian girl after he had cooled down. but it was better that she should be in ruth's care as long as she was to work somewhat under the latter's tutelage. besides, it gave the picture writer a chance to study her subject. it would be too much to expect that wonota could play a difficult part. she had had no experience in acting. ruth knew that she must fit a part to wonota, not the girl to a part. in other words, the indian girl was merely a type for screen exploitation, and the picture ruth wrote must be fitted to her capabilities. grasping, like any talented writer does, at any straw of novelty, ruth had seen possibilities in the little incident aunt alvirah had told about her ancestor who had crossed the western plains in the early emigrant days. she meant to open her story with a similar incident, as a prologue to the actual play. ruth made her heroine (the part she wished to fit to wonota, the osage indian girl) repay in part the debt her family owed the white physician by saving a descendant of the physician from peril in the indian country. this young man, the hero, is attracted by the indian maid who has saved his life; but he is under the influence of a new york girl, one of the tourist party, to whom he is tentatively engaged. but the new york girl deserts the hero when he gets into difficulty in new york. he is accused of a crime that may send him to the penitentiary for a long term and there seems no way to disprove the crime. word of his peril comes to the indian maid in her western home. she knows and suspects the honesty of the timber men with whom the hero is connected in business. she discovers these villains are the guilty ones, and she travels to new york to testify for him and to clear him of the charge. the end of the story, as well as the beginning, was to be filmed in the wilds. with the incidents of her plot gradually taking form in her mind and being jotted down on paper, ruth's hours began to be very full. she was with wonota as much as possible, and the indian girl began to show an almost doglike devotion to the girl of the red mill. "that is not to be wondered at, of course," jennie stone said, as she was about to return to her new york home. "everybody falls for our ruth. it's a wonder to me that she has not been elected to the presidency." "wait till we women get the vote," declared helen. "then we'll send ruth to the chair." "goodness!" ejaculated jennie. "that sounds terrible, nell! one might think you mean the electric chair." "is there much difference, after all, between that and the presidential chair?" helen demanded, chuckling. "the way some people talk about a president!" "we are a loose-talking people," ruth interrupted gravely, "and i think you girls talk almost as irresponsibly as anybody i ever heard." "list to the stern and uncompromising ruthie," scoffed jennie. "i am glad i am going back to aunt kate. she is a spinster, i admit; but she isn't anywhere near as old-maid-like as ruth fielding." "i'll tell tom about that," said tom's sister wickedly. "spinsters are the balance-wheel of the universe machinery," declared ruth, laughing. "i always have admired them. but, joking aside, at this time when the whole world should be so grateful and so much in earnest because of the end of a terrible war, trivial matters and trivial talk somehow seems to jar." "not so! not so!" cried helen vigorously. "we have been holding in and trying to keep cheerful with the fear at our hearts that some loved one would suddenly be taken. it was not lightness of heart that made people dance and act as though rattled-pated during the war. it was an attempt to hide that awful fear in their hearts. see how the people in cheslow acted as though they were crazy the night of the armistice. and did you read what the papers said about the times in new york? it was only a natural outbreak." "well," remarked. ruth, shrugging her shoulders, "you certainly have got off the subject of old maids--bless 'em! give my love to your aunt kate, jennie, and when we come to the city to take the shots for this picture, i'll surely see her." "hi!" cried miss stone energetically. "i guess you will! you'll come right to the house and stay with us during that time!" "oh, no. i shall have wonota with me. we will stay at a hotel. our hours are always so uncertain when we shoot a picture that i could not undertake to be at any private house." there was some discussion over this. ruth did not intend to let wonota out of her sight much while the picture was being made. nor did she propose to let the script of the picture out of her sight until copies could be made of it, and the continuity man had made his version for the director. ruth was not going to run the risk of losing another scenario, as she had once while down east. ruth put in two weeks' hard work on the new story. as she laughingly said, she ate, slept, and talked movies all the time. wonota had to amuse herself; but that did not seem hard for the indian girl to do. she was naturally of a very quiet disposition. she sat by aunt alvirah for hours doing beadwork while the old woman darned or knitted. "you wouldn't ever suspect she was a red indian unless you looked at her," aunt alvirah confessed to the rest of the family. "she's a very nice girl." as for wonota, she said: "i used to sit beside my grandmother and work like this. yes, chief totantora taught me to shoot and paddle a canoe, and to do many other things out-of-doors. but my grandmother was the head woman of our tribe, and her beadwork and dyed porcupine-quill work was the finest you ever saw, ruth fielding. i was sorry to leave my war-bag with dakota joe. it had in it many keepsakes my grandmother gave me before she passed to the land of the spirits." a demand had been made upon the proprietor of the wild west show for wonota's possessions, but the man had refused to give them up. the girl had not brought away with her even the rifle she had used so successfully in the show. but her pony, west wind, was stabled in the red mill barn. indeed, uncle jabez had begun to hint that the animal was "eating its head off." the miller could not help showing what aunt alvirah called "his stingy streak" in spite of the fact that he truly was interested in the indian maid and liked her. "that redskin gal," he confessed in private to ruth, "is a pretty shrewd and sensible gal. she got to telling me the other day how her folks ground grist in a stone pan, or the like, using a hard-wood club to pound it with. right slow process of makin' flour or meal, i do allow. "but what do you think she said when i put that up to her--about it's being a slow job?" and the miller chuckled. "why, she told me that all her folks had was time, and they'd got to spend it somehow. they'd better be grinding corn by hand than making war on their neighbors or the whites, like they used to. she ain't so slow." ruth quite agreed with this. the osage maiden was more than ordinarily intelligent, and she began to take a deep interest in the development of the story that ruth was making for screen use. "am i to be that girl?" she asked doubtfully. "how can i play that i am in love when i have never seen a man i cared for--in that way?" "can't you imagine admiring a nice young man?" asked ruth in return. "not a white man like this one in your story," wonota said soberly. "it should be that he did more for himself--that he was more of a--a brave. we indians do not expect our men to be saved from disgrace by women. squaws are not counted of great value among the possessions of a chief." "so you could not really respect such a man as i describe here if he allowed a girl to help him?" ruth asked reflectively, for wonota's criticism was giving her some thought. "he should not be such a man--to need the help of a squaw," declared the indian maid confidently. "but, of course, it does not matter if only palefaces are to see the picture." but ruth could not get the thought out of her mind. it might be that the indian girl had suggested a real fault in the play she was making, and she took mr. hammond into her confidence about it when she sent him the first draft of the story. her whole idea of the principal male character in "brighteyes" might need recasting, and she awaited the picture producer's verdict with some misgiving. while she waited a red-letter day occurred---so marked both for herself and for helen cameron. the chums had hoped--oh, how fondly!--that they would hear that tom cameron was on his way home. but gradually the fact that demobilization would take a long time was becoming a fixed idea in the girls' minds. letters came from tom cameron--one each for the two girls and one for mr. cameron. instead of being on his way home, captain cameron had been sent even farther from the french port to which he had originally sailed in the huge transport from new york. * * * * * "i am now settled on the rhine--one of the 'watches,' i suppose, that the germans used to sing about, now stamped 'made in america,' however," he wrote to ruth. "we watch a bridge-head and see that the germans don't carry away anything that might be needed on this side of the most over-rated river in the world. i have come to the conclusion, since seeing a good bit of europe, that most of the scenery is over-rated and does not begin to compare with the natural beauties of america. so many foreigners come to our shores and talk about the beauty-spots of their own countries, and so few americans have in the past seen much of their own land, that we accept the opinions of homesick foreigners as to the superiority of the beauties of their father-and-mother-lands. after this war i guess there will be more fellows determined to give the states the 'once over.'" * * * * * tom always wrote an interesting letter; but aside from that, of course ruth was eager to hear from him. and now, as soon as she could, she sat down and replied to his communication. she had, too, a particular topic on which she wished to write her friend. now that embattled germany would no longer hold its prisoners _incommunicado_, ruth hoped that news about the imprisoned performers of the wild west show might percolate through the lines. chief totantora had been able but once to get a message to his daughter. this message had reached america long before the united states had got into the war. although the osage chieftain was an american (who could claim such proud estate if totantora could not?), the show by which he was employed had gone direct to germany from england, and anything english had, from the first, been taboo in germany. now, of course, the indian girl had no idea as to where her father was. "see if you can hear anything about those performers," ruth wrote to tom. "get word if you can to the chief of the osage indians and tell him that his daughter is with me, and that she longs for his return. "i should love to make her happy by aiding in chief totantora's reappearance in his native land. she is so sad, indeed, that i wonder if she is going to be able to register, for the screen, the happiness that she should finally show when my picture is brought to its conclusion." chapter x one new york day that "happy ending" became a matter of much thought on ruth's part, and the cause of not a little argument between her and mr. hammond when he came up to cheslow and the red mill to discuss "brighteyes" with its youthful author. he had come, too, to get a glimpse of wonota in the flesh. one of the first things ruth had done when the indian girl came under her care was to take wonota to cheslow and have the best photographer of the town take several "stills" of the indian girl. copies of these she had sent to the alectrion film corporation, and word had come back from both mr. hammond and his chief director that the photographs of wonota were satisfactory. the president of the film company, however, was interested in talking with wonota and judging as far as possible through cursory examination just how much there was to the girl. "what has she got in her? that is what we want to know," he said to ruth. "can she get expression into her face? can she put over feeling? we want something besides mere looks, miss ruth, as you very well know." "i realize all that," the girl of the red mill told him earnestly. "but remember, mr. hammond, you cannot judge this osage girl by exactly the same standards as you would a white girl!" "why not? she's got to be able to show on the screen the deepest feelings of her nature--" "not if you would have my 'brighteyes' true to life," interrupted ruth anxiously. "you must not expect it." "why not?" he demanded again, with some asperity. "we don't want to show the people a dummy. i tell you the public is getting more and more critical. they won't stand for just pretty pictures. the actors in them must express their thoughts and feelings as they do in real life." "exactly!" ruth hastened to say. "that is what i mean. my 'brighteyes' is a full-blooded indian maiden just like wonota. now, you talk with wonota--try to get to the very heart of the girl. then you will see." "see what?" he demanded, staring. "what you will see," returned ruth, with a laugh. "go ahead and get acquainted with wonota. meanwhile i will be getting this condensed plot of the story into shape for us to talk over. i must rewrite that street scene again, i fear. and, of course, we are in a hurry?" "always," grumbled the producer. "we must start for our western location as soon as possible; but the new york scenes must be shot first." it was a fine day, and the shore of the lumano river offered a pleasant prospect for out-of-door exercise, and after he had spent more than an hour walking about with wonota, the canny mr. hammond obtained, he said, a "good line" on the character and capabilities of the indian girl. "you had me guessing for a time, miss ruth," he laughingly said to the girl of the red mill. "i did not know what you were hinting at i see it now. wonota is a true redskin. we read about the stoicism of her race, but we do not realize what that means until we try to fathom an indian's deeper feelings. "i talked with her about her father. she is very proud of him, this totantora, as she calls him. but only now and then does she express (and that in a flash) her real love and admiration for him. "she is deeply, and justly, angered at that dakota joe fenbrook. but she scarcely expresses that feeling in her face or voice. she speaks of his cruelty to her with sadness in her voice merely, and scarcely a flicker of expression in her countenance." "ah!" ruth said. "now you see what i see. it is impossible for her to register changing expressions and feelings as a white girl would. nor would she be natural as 'brighteyes' if she easily showed emotion. yet she mustn't be stolid, for if she does the audience will never get what we are trying to put over." "the director has got to have judgment--i agree to that," said mr. hammond, nodding. "wonota must be handled with care. but she's got it in her to be a real star in time. she photographs like a million dollars!" and he laughed. "now if we can teach her to be expressive enough--well, i am more than ever willing to take the chance with her, provided you, miss ruth, will agree to supply the vehicles of expression." "you flatter me, mr. hammond," returned ruth, flushing faintly. "i shall of course be glad to do my best in the writing line." "that's it. between us we ought to make a lot of money. and incidentally to make an indian star who will make 'em all sit up and take notice." ruth was so much interested in "brighteyes" by this time that she "ate, slept, walked and talked" little else--to quote helen. but tom's sister grew much interested in the production, too. "i'm going with you--to new york, anyway," she announced. "i might as well. father is so busy with his business now that i scarcely see him from week end to week end. dear me, if tommy only would come home!" "i guess he'd be delighted," rejoined ruth, smiling. "but if you go with me, honey, you're likely to be dragged around a good deal. i expect to jump from new york to somewhere in the northwest. mr. hammond has not exactly decided. the weather is very promising, and if we can shoot the outdoor scenes before christmas we'll be all right." "well, i do love to travel. maybe we could get jennie to go, too," helen said reflectively. "she certainly would help," laughed ruth. "i would rather laugh with jennie than grouch with anybody else." "the wisdom of mrs. socrates," scoffed helen. "anyway, ruthie, i'll write her at once and tell her to begin pulling wires. you know, mr. stone is as 'sot as the everlasting hills'--and it takes something to move the hills, you know. he will have to be convinced, maybe, that jennie's health demands a change of climate at just this time." "she looks it." "well, one might expect her to fade away a bit because of henri's absence. i wonder if she's heard from him since the armistice?" "if she hasn't she'll need something besides a change of climate, i assure you," laughed ruth again. "she hates ocean voyaging, does jennie; but she wouldn't wait till she could go in an ox-cart to get back to france if henri forgot to write." there was one thing sure: jennie stone was a delighted host when helen arrived in new york a few days ahead of ruth and wonota. ruth had not intended to go to the stones; she would have felt more independent at a hotel. she did not know what engagements mr. hammond or the director of the picture might make for her. so she tried to dodge jennie's invitation. when the train got in from new england, however, and ruth and the indian girl, following a red-capped porter with their bags, walked through the gateway of entrance to the concourse of the grand central terminal, there were both jennie and helen waiting to spy them. "mr. hammond told me to come to the borneaux. he has made reservations there," ruth said. "that's all right for to-morrow," declared jennie bruskly. "hotel rooms are all right to make up in, or anything like that. but you are both going to my house for to-night" "now, jennie--" "no buts or ands about it!" exclaimed her friend. "if you don't come, ruthie fielding, i'll never speak to you again. and if wonota doesn't come i declare i'll tell dakota joe where she is, and he'll come after her and steal her. in fact," jennie added, wickedly smiling, "his old wild west show is playing right here in the big town this week." "you don't mean it!" exclaimed ruth, while the indian girl shrank a little closer to her friend. "sure do. in brooklyn. a three-day stand in one of the big armories over there, i believe. so a telephone call--" "shucks!" exclaimed helen. "don't you believe her, wonota. just the same you folks had better come to the stone house. mr. stone has taken a whole box to-night for one of the very best musical shows that ever was!" ruth could see that the indian girl was eager to agree. she did show some small emotions which paleface girls displayed. she laughed more than at first, too. but she was often downright gloomy when thinking of chief totantora. however, seeing wonota wished to accept the invitation, and desiring herself to please helen and jennie, ruth agreed. they telephoned a message to the hotel borneaux and then went off to dinner at the stone house. it was a very nice party indeed, and even busy mr. stone did his best to put wonota at her ease. "some wigwam this, isn't it, wonata?" said helen, smiling, as the girls went upstairs after dinner to prepare for the theatre. "the osage nation does not live in wigwams, miss cameron," said wonota quietly. "we are not blanket indians and have not been for two generations." "well, look at the clothes you wore in that show!" cried jennie. "that head-dress looked wild enough, i must say--and those fringed leggings and all that." wonota smiled rather grimly. "the white people expect to see indians in their national costumes. otherwise it would be no novelty, would it? why, some of the girls--osage girls of pure blood too--at three rivers station wear garments that are quite up to date. you must not forget that at least we have the catalogs from the city stores to choose from, even if we do not actually get to the cities to shop." "printer's ink! it is a great thing," admitted helen. "i don't suppose there are really any wild indians left." the four girls and aunt kate were whisked in a big limousine to the play, and wonota enjoyed the brilliant spectacle and the music as much as any of the white girls. "believe me," whispered jennie to ruth, "give any kind of girl a chance to dress up and go to places like this, and see other girls all fussed up, as your tommy says--" "helen's tommy, you mean," interposed ruth. "rats!" murmured the plump girl, falling back upon briarwood hall slang in her momentary disgust. "well, anyway, miss fielding, what i said is so. wonota would like to dress like the best dressed girl in the theatre, and wear ropes of pearls and a plume in her hat--see that one yonder! isn't it superb?" "the poor birdie that lost it," murmured ruth. "i declare, i don't believe you half enjoy yourself thinking of the reverse of the shield all the time," sniffed jennie stone. "and yet you do manage to dress pretty good yourself." "one does not have to be bizarre to look well and up-to-date," declared the girl of the red mill. "but that has nothing to do with wonota." "i did get off the track, didn't i?" laughed jennie. "oh, well! dress her up, or any other foreign girl, in american fashion and she seems to fit into the picture all right--" "'foreign girl' and 'american fashion'?" gasped ruth. "as--as _you_ sometimes say, jennie, 'how do you get that way'? wonota is a better american than we are. her ancestors did not have to come over in the _mayflower_, with henry hudson, or with sir walter raleigh." "isn't that a fact?" laughed jennie. "i certainly am forgetting everything i ever learned at school. and, to tell the truth," she added, making a little face at her chum, "i feel better for it. i just _crammed_ at ardmore and briarwood." helen heard this. she glanced scornfully over jennie's still too plump figure. "i should say you did," she observed. "you used to create a famine at old briarwood hall, i remember. but i would not brag about it, heavy." "crammed my brain, i mean," wailed the plump girl. "can't you let me forget my avoirdupois at all?" "it is like the poor," laughed ruth. "it is always with us, jennie. we cannot look at you and visualize your skeleton. you are too well upholstered." this sort of banter did not appeal to the indian girl. she did not, in fact, hear much of it. all her attention was given to the play on the stage and the brilliant audience. she had traveled considerably with dakota joe's show, but she had never seen anything like the audience in this broadway theatre. she went back to the stone domicile in a sort of daze--smiling and happy in her quiet way, but quite speechless. even jennie could not "get a rise out of her," as she confessed to helen and ruth after they were ready for bed and the plump girl had come in to perch on one of the twin beds her chums occupied for the night. "but i like this osage flower," observed jennie. "and i am just as anxious as i can be to see you make a star actress out of her, ruthie." "it will be mr. hammond and the director who do that." "i guess you'll be in it," said helen promptly. "if it wasn't for your story they would not be able to feature wonota." "anyway," went on jennie, "i want to go west with you, ruth--and so does helen. don't you, nell?" "i certainly do," agreed ruth's good friend. "heavy and i are going to tag along, ruthie, somehow. if there is a chaperone, father said i could go." "not aunt kate!" cried jennie. "she says she has had enough. we dragged her down east this summer, but she will not leave madison avenue this winter." "no need of worrying about that. mother paisley is going with the company. i have a part for her in my picture. she always looks out for the girls--a better chaperone than mr. hammond could hire," said ruth. "fine!" cried helen. "we'll go, then." "we will," echoed jennie. "i wish you'd go to bed and let me go to sleep," complained the girl of the red mill. "i have a hard day's work to-morrow--i feel it." she was not mistaken in this feeling. at eight mr. hammond's assistant telephoned that the director and the company would meet ruth and wonota at a certain downtown corner where several of the scenes were to be shot. dressing rooms in a neighboring hotel had been engaged. ruth and her charge hastened through their breakfast, and mr. stone's chauffeur drove them down to the corner mentioned. it was a very busy spot, especially about noon. ruth had seen so much of this location work done, that it did not bother her. she was only to stand to one side and watch, anyway. but wonota asked: "oh! we don't have to do this right out here in public, do we, miss fielding?" "you do," laughed her friend. "why, the people on the street help make the picture seem reasonable and natural. you need not be frightened." "but, shall i have to be in that half-indian costume mr. hammond told me to wear? what will people say--or think?" ruth was amused. "that's the picture. you will see some of the characters in stranger garments than those of yours before we have finished. and, anyway, in new york you often see the most outlandish costumes on people--turks in their national dress, hindoos with turbans and robes, japanese and chinese women dressed in the silks and brocades of their lands. oh, don't worry about bead-trimmed leggings and a few feathers. and your skirt in that costume is nowhere near as short as those worn by three-fourths of the girls you will see." aside from wonota herself, there were few of the characters of the picture of "brighteyes" appearing in the scenes at this point. mr. hammond had obtained a police permit of course, and the traffic officers and some other policemen in the neighborhood took an interest in the affair. traffic was held back at a certain point for a few moments so that there would not be too many people in the scene. wonota could not be hidden. ruth stood in the street watching the arrangements by the director and his assistants. two films are always made at the same time, and the two camera men had got into position and had measured with their tapes the field of the picture to be taken. ruth had noticed an automobile stopped by the police on the other side of the cross street. she even was aware that two men in it were not dressed like ordinary city men. they had broad-brimmed hats on their heads. but she really gave the car but a momentary glance. wonota took up her closest attention. the indian girl crossed and recrossed the field of the camera until she satisfied the director that her gait and facial expression was exactly what he wanted. "all right!" he said through his megaphone. "camera! go!" and at that very moment, and against the commanding gesture of the policeman governing the traffic, the car ruth had so briefly noticed started forward, swerved into the avenue, and ran straight at ruth as though to run her down! chapter xi evading the traffic police ruth had turned her back on the car and did not see it slip out of the crowd of motor traffic and turn into the avenue. but wonota, the indian girl, saw her friend's danger. she uttered a loud cry and bounded out of the camera field just as the two camera men began to crank their machines. "look out, miss fielding!" the cry startled ruth, but it did not aid her much to escape. and perhaps the chauffeur of the car only intended to crowd by the girl of the red mill and so escape from the traffic hold-up. at wonota's scream the director shouted for the camera men to halt. he started himself with angry excitement after the indian girl. she had utterly spoiled the shot. but on the instant he was adding his warning cry to wonota's and to the cries of other bystanders. ruth, amazed, could not understand what wonota meant. then the car was upon her, the mudguard knocked her down, and her loose coat catching in some part of the car, she was dragged for several yards before wonota could reach her. over and over in the dust ruth had been whirled. she was breathless and bruised. she could not even cry out, the shock of the accident was so great. the instant the indian girl reached the prostrate ruth the motor-car broke away and its driver shot the machine around the nearest corner and out of sight. a policeman charged after the car at top speed, but when he reached the corner there were so many other cars in the cross street that he could not identify the one that had caused the accident. to ruth, wonota gasped: "that bad man! i knew he would do something mean, but i thought it would be to me." ruth could scarcely reply. the director was at her side, as well as other sympathetic people. she was lifted up, but she could not stand. something had happened to her left ankle. she could bear no weight upon it without exquisite pain. for the time the taking of the picture was called off. the traffic officer allowed the stalled cars to pass on. a crowd began to assemble about ruth. "do take me into the hotel--somewhere!" she gasped. "i--i can't walk--" one of the camera men and the director, mr. hooley, made a seat with their hands, and sitting in this and with wonota to steady her, the girl of the red mill was hurried under cover, leaving the throng of spectators on the street quite sure that the accident had been a planned incident of the moving picture people. they evidently considered ruth a "stunt actress." it was not until ruth was alone with wonota in a hotel room, lying on a couch, the indian girl stripping the shoe and stocking from the injured limb, that ruth asked what wonota had meant when she first bounded toward her, shrieking her warning of the motor-car's approach. "what did you mean, wonota?" asked the girl of the red mill. "who was it ran over me? i know mr. hooley will try to find him, but--" "that bad, _bad_ dakota joe!" interrupted the indian girl with vehemence, her eyes flashing and the color deeping in her bronze cheeks. "when your friend told us he was in this city, i feared." "why, wonota!" cried ruth, sitting up in surprise, "do you mean to say that dakota joe fenbrook was driving that car?" "no. he cannot drive a car. but it was one of his men--yes." "i can scarcely believe it. he deliberately ran me down?" "i saw dakota joe in the back of the car just as it shot down toward you, miss fielding. he is a bad, bad man! he was leaning forward urging that driver on. i know he was." "why, it seems terrible!" ruth sighed. "yes, that feels good on my ankle, wonota. i do not believe it is really sprained. oh, but it hurt at first! wrenched, i suppose." jim hooley, the director, had telephoned for mr. hammond, and the producer hurried to the hotel. he insisted on bringing a surgeon with him. but by the time of their arrival ruth felt much easier, and after the medical man had pronounced no real harm done to the ankle, ruth dressed again, insisting that a second attempt be made to shoot the scene while the sun remained high enough. the police had endeavored to trace the motor-car that had caused the accident. but it seemed that nobody had noted the numbers on the machine, or even the kind of car it was. ruth had forbidden wonota to tell what she revealed to her. if it was dakota joe who had run her down there was no use attempting to fasten the guilt of the incident upon him unless they were positive and could prove his guilt. "and you know, wonota, you cannot be _sure_--" "i saw him. it was for but a moment, but i _saw_ him," said the indian girl positively. "even at that, it would take corroborative testimony to convince the court," mused ruth. "i do not understand paleface laws," said wonota, shaking her head. "if an indian does something like that to another indian, the injured one can punish his enemy. and he almost always does." "but we cannot take the law into our own hands that way." "why not?" asked wonota. "is a redman so much superior to a white man? if the redman can punish an enemy why cannot a white man?" "our law does not leave it in our hands to punish," said ruth, quietly, though rather staggered by the indian girl's question. "we have courts, and judges, and methods of criminal procedure. a person who has been injured by another cannot be the best judge of the punishment to be meted out to the one who has harmed him." "why not?" demanded wonota, promptly. "he is the one hurt. who other than he should deal out punishment?" ruth was silenced for the time being. in fact, wonota looked upon mundane matters from such a different angle that it was sometimes impossible for ruth to convince her protégé that the white man's way was better. however, this incident gave ruth fielding a warning that she did not intend to ignore. a little later she told mr. hammond of the indian girl's suspicion that it was fenbrook who had been the cause of ruth's slight injury. it was too late then to set the police on the track of the showman, for on making private inquiry mr. hammond found that dakota joe's show had already left brooklyn and was _en route_ for some city in the middle west. "but it seems scarcely probable, miss ruth," the producer said, "that that fellow would take such a chance. and to hurt _you!_ why, if he had tried to injure that indian girl, i might be convinced. she probably saw somebody in the car with a sombrero on--" "i noticed two men in that car with broad hats," confessed ruth. "but i gave them only a glance. it doesn't seem very sensible to believe that the man would deliberately hurt me. yet he did threaten us when he was angry, there at the mill. no getting around that." mr. hammond shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "you will begin to believe that the making of moving pictures is a pretty perilous business." "it may be." she laughed, yet rather doubtfully. "i am to be on the watch for the 'hand in the dark,' am i not? at any rate when we are hear dakota joe again, i will keep a very sharp lookout." "yes, of course, miss ruth, we'll all do that," returned mr. hammond, more seriously now, for he saw that ruth was really disturbed. "still, whatever his intentions, i do not believe fenbrook will have the power to do any real harm. at any rate, keep your courage up, for we are forewarned now, and can take care of ourselves--and of you," he added, with a smile, as he left her. chapter xii bound for the northwest because of the accident in which ruth might have been seriously hurt, the company was delayed for a day in new york, altogether the various shots (some of them of and in one of the tallest office buildings on broadway) occupied more than a week--more time than mr. hammond wished to give to the work in the east. nevertheless, ruth's finished script, as handled deftly by the continuity writer, promised so well that the producer was willing to make a special production of it. the money--and time--cost were important factors in the making of the picture; but the selection of the cast was not to be overlooked. jim hooley had chosen the few acting in the eastern scenes with wonota, including the hero, whom, to tell the truth, the indian girl considered a rather wonderful person because she saw him in a dress suit" "yes, it is true! no indian could look so heroic a figure," she whispered to ruth. "he looks like--like a nobleman. i have read about noblemen in the book of an author named scott--sir walter scott. noblemen must look like mr. albert grand." "and to me he looks like a head waiter," said ruth, when laughingly relating this to helen and jennie. "don't let mr. grand hear you say that," warned helen. "they tell me that he refuses to appear in any picture where at least once he does not walk into the scene in a dress suit. he claims his clientele demand it--he looks so perfectly splendid in the 'soup and fish.'" "then why laugh at wonota?" demanded jennie stone. "she is no more impressed by his surface qualities than are the movie fans who like mr. grand." "well, it is a great game," laughed ruth. "some of the movie stars have more laughable eccentricities or idiosyncracies than that. i wonder what our wonota will develop if she becomes a star?" the development of the indian girl was promising so far. she had feeling for her part, if it was at first rather difficult for her to express in her features those emotions which, as an indian, she had considered it proper to hide. she did just enough of this to make her feelings show on the screen, yet without being unnatural in the part of brighteyes, the indian maid. mr. hammond was inclined to believe that "brighteyes" would be a big feature picture. the director was enthusiastic about it as well. and even the camera man (than whom can be imagined no more case-hardened critic of pictures) expressed his belief that it would be a "knockout." mr. hammond arranged for a special car for the cross-continent run, and he took his own family along, as the weather prophesied for the ensuing few weeks was favorable to out-of-door work and living. the special car made it possible for ruth and her two friends, helen and jennie, as well as the osage indian girl, to be very comfortably placed during the journey. ruth had traveled before this--north, south, east and west--and there was scarcely anything novel in train riding for her. but a journey would never be dull with jennie stone and helen cameron as companions! they ruined completely the morale of the car service. the colored porter could scarcely shine the other passengers' shoes he was kept so much at the beck and call of the two wealthy girls, who tipped lavishly. the pullman conductor was cornered on every possible occasion and led into discourse entirely foreign to his duties. even the "candy butcher" was waylaid and made to serve the ends of two girls who had perfectly idle hands and--so ruth declared--quite as idle brains. "well, goodness!" remarked helen, "we must occupy our minds and time in some way. you, ruthie, are confined to that story of yours about twenty-five hours out of the twenty-four. even wonota has thought only for her tiresome beadwork when she is not studying her part with mr. hooley and you. i know we'll have fun when we get to the hubbell ranch where mr. hammond says your picture is to be filmed. i do just dote on cowboys and the fuzzy little ponies they ride." "and the dear cows!" drawled jennie. "do you remember that maniacal creature that attacked our motor-car that time we went to silver ranch, years and years and years ago? you know, back in the paleozoic age!" "quite so," agreed helen. "i have a photographic remembrance of that creature--ugh! and how he burst our tires!" _"he,_ forsooth! what a way to speak of a cow!" "it wasn't a cow; it was a steer," declared helen confidently. ruth retired from the observation platform where her chums were ensconced, allowing them to argue the matter to a finish. it was true that the girl of the red mill was very busy most of her waking hours on the train. they all took a recess at chicago, however, and it was there a second incident occurred that showed dakota joe fenbrook had not forgotten his threat to "get even" with ruth fielding and the moving picture producer with whom she was associated. the special car was sidetracked just outside of chicago and the whole party motored into the city in various automobiles and on various errands. the hammonds had relatives to visit. ruth and her three girl companions had telegraphed ahead for reservations at one of the big hotels, and they proposed to spend the two days and nights mr. hammond had arranged for in seeing the sights and attending two particular theatrical performances. "and i declare!" cried helen, as they rolled on through one of the suburbs of the city, "there is one of the sights, sure enough. see that billboard, girls?" "oh!" cried wonota, who possessed quite as sharp eyes as anybody in the party. "we can't escape that man," sighed jennie, as she read in towering letters the announcement of "dakota joe's wild west and frontier round-up." "i am sorry the show is here in chicago," added ruth with serious mien. "i am still limping. next time that awful man will manage to lame me completely." "you ought to have a guard. tell the police--do!" exclaimed jennie stone. "tell the police _what?"_ demanded ruth, with scorn. "we can't prove anything." "i know it was joe in that car that ran you down, miss fielding," declared wonota, with anxiety. "yes. but nobody else saw him--to recognize him, i mean. we cannot base a complaint upon such little foundation. nor would it be well, perhaps, to get dakota joe into the courts. he is a very vindictive man--he must be----" "he is very bad man!" repeated wonota vehemently. "yes. that is just it. why stir up his passions to a greater degree, then?" "of course, ruthie would want to turn 'the other cheek,'" scoffed jennie. "i am not going around with a chip on my shoulder, looking for somebody to knock it off," laughed the girl of the red mill. "i just want joe to leave us alone--that's all." wonota shook her head and seemed unconvinced of the wisdom of this. she was not a pacifist. she knew, too, the heart of the showman, and perhaps she feared him more than she was willing to tell her new friends. the four girls made their headquarters at the hotel, and then set forth at once to shop and to look. as the hours of that first day passed wonota was vastly excited over the new sights. for once she lost that stoic calmness which was her racial trait. the big stores and the tall buildings here in the mid-western city seemed to impress her even more than had those in new york. there was reason for that. she was, while in new york, so much taken up with the part she was playing in "brighteyes" that she could think of little else. she saw many things in the stores she wished to buy. ruth had advanced wonota some money on her contract with the alectrion film corporation. but when it came right down to the point of buying the things that girls like and long for--little trinkets and articles of adornment--the indian girl hesitated. "buy it if it pleases you," ruth said, rather wondering at the firmness with which wonota drew back from selecting and paying for something that cost less than a dollar. "no, miss fielding. wonota does not need that. chief totantora may be lost to me forever. i should not adorn myself, or think of self-adornment. no! i will save my money until i can go to that europe where the great chief is held a prisoner." the girls--helen and jennie--were both for buying presents for the indian girl, as she would not use her own money. but ruth would not allow them to purchase other than the simplest souveniers. "that would spoil it all. let her deny herself in such a cause--it will not hurt her," the girl of the red mill said sensibly. "she has an object in life and should be encouraged to follow out her plan for helping chief totantora." "maybe he is not alive now," said helen, thoughtfully. "i would not suggest that," ruth hastened to rejoin. "as long as she can hope, the better for wonota. and i should not want her to find out that totantora has died in captivity, before my picture is finished." "whoo!" breathed jennie. "you sound sort of selfish, ruthie fielding." "for her sake as well as for the sake of the picture," returned the other practically. "i tell you wonota has got it in her to be a valuable asset to the movies. but i hope nothing will happen to make her fall down on this first piece of work. like mr. hammond, i hope that she will develop into an indian star of the very first magnitude." chapter xiii dakota joe makes a demand at first ruth and her friends did not worry about the presence of fenbrook and his wild west show in chicago. "just riding past the billboard of the show isn't going to hurt us," chuckled jennie stone. it was a fact soon proved, however, that the westerner had made it his business in some way to keep track of the movements of wonota and her friends. he made this known to them in a most unexpected way, mr. hammond called ruth up at her hotel. "i must warn you, miss fielding" he said, "that i had a very unpleasant meeting with that man, fenbrook, only an hour ago. he actually had the effrontery to look me up here in wabash avenue where i am staying with my family, and practically demanded that i help finance his miserable show because i had taken wonota from him. he claims now she was his chief attraction, though he would not admit that she was worth a living wage when he had her under contract he was so excited and threatening that i called an officer and had him put out of the house." "oh!" murmured ruth. "then he is in jail? he will not trouble us, then?" "he is not in jail. i made no complaint. just warned him to keep away from here. but he said something about finding wonota and making trouble." "i am sure, mr. hammond," said ruth with no little anxiety, "that we had better leave chicago, then, as soon as possible. and if he comes here to the hotel i will try to have him arrested and kept by the police. i am afraid of him. "i do not believe he will do anything very desperate--" "i am not so sure," ruth interrupted. "wonota is confident it was he who ran me down in new york. i am afraid of him," she repeated. "well, i will arrange for the shortening of our stay here. mr. hooley will 'phone you the time we will leave--probably to-morrow morning very early." ruth said nothing to the other three girls--why trouble them with a mere possibility?--and they went to the theatre that evening and enjoyed the play immensely. but getting out of the taxicab at the hotel door near midnight, wonota, who was the first to step out, suddenly crowded back into ruth fielding's arms as the latter attempted to follow her to the sidewalk. "what is the matter, wonota?" the girl of the red mill asked. "there he is!" murmured the indian girl, drawing herself up. "there who is?" was ruth's demand. then she saw the object of wonota's anxiety, dakota joe stood under the portico of the hotel entrance. "he's waiting for us!" hissed ruth. "stop, girls! don't get out." helen and jennie, over the heads of the others, saw the man. jennie was irrepressible of course. "what do you expect us to do? ride around all night in this taxi?" "call a policeman!" cried helen, under her breath. "come back in here, wonota," commanded ruth, making up her mind with her usual assurance. "say nothing, girls." then to the driver ruth observed: "isn't there a side entrance to this hotel?" "yes, ma'am. round on the other street." "take us around to that door. we see somebody waiting here whom we do not wish to speak with." "all right, ma'am," agreed the taxicab driver. in two minutes they were whisked around to the other door, and entered the hotel thereby. as they passed through the lobby to the elevators one of the clerks came to ruth. "a man has been asking for you, miss fielding" he said. "he--he seems a peculiar individual--" ruth described dakota joe fenbrook and the clerk admitted that he was the man. "a rather rude person," he said. "so rude that we do not wish to see him," ruth told the clerk. "please keep him away from us. he is annoying, and if he attempts to interfere with me, i will call a policeman." "oh, we could allow nothing like that," the clerk hastened to say. "no disturbance would be countenanced by the management of the hotel," and he shook his head. "we will keep him away from you, miss fielding." "thank you," said ruth, and followed her friends into the elevator. she felt that they were free of dakota joe until morning at least she assured wonota that she need not worry. "that bad man may hurt you. i am not afraid," declared the indian girl. "if i only had him out on the osage reservation, i would know what to do to with him." but she did not explain what treatment she would accord dokota joe if she were at home. it was only seven o'clock when jim hooley called on the telephone and told ruth that, following instructions from mr. hammond, he had gathered the company together and that the special car standing in the railroad yard outside chicago would be picked up by the nine-thirty western bound continental. the girls had scarcely time to dress and drive to the point of departure. there was some "scrabbling," as jennie expressed it, to dress, get their possessions together, and get away from the hotel. "didn't see dakota joe anywhere about, did you?" helen asked, as their taxi-cab-left the hotel entrance. "for goodness' sake! he would not have hung about the hotel all night, would he?" demanded jennie. "mr. hammond seems to be afraid of the man" pursued helen. "or we would not be running away like this." ruth smiled. "i guess," she said, "that mr. hammond is hurrying us on for a different reason. you must remember that he has this company on salary and that the longer we delay on the way to the hubbell ranch the more money it is costing him while the company is idle." it was proved, however, that the picture producer had a good reason for wishing to get out of dakota joe's neighborhood. when the four girls in the taxicab rolled up to the gate of the railroad yard and got out with their bags, dakota joe himself popped out of hiding. with him a broad-hatted man in a blue suit. "hey!" ejaculated the showman, standing directly in ruth's path. "i got you now where i want you. that hammond man won't help me, and i told him the trouble i'm in jest because he got that injun gal away from me. i see her! that's the gal--" "what do you want of me, mr. fenbrook?" demanded ruth, bravely, and gesturing wonota to remain behind her. "i have no idea why you should hound me in this way." "i ain't houndin' you." "i should like to know what you call it then!" the girl of the red mill demanded indignantly. she was quick to grasp the chance of engaging fenbrook in an argument that would enable wonota and the two other girls to slip out of the other door of the taxicab and reach the yard gate. she flashed a look over her shoulder that helen cameron understood. she and jennie and wonota alighted from the other side of the cab. "i got an officer here," stammered dakota joe. "he's a marshal. that injun gal's got to be taken before the united states district court. she's got to show cause why she shouldn't come back to my show and fill out the time of her contract." "she finished her contract with you, and you know it, fenbrook," declared ruth, turning to pay the driver of the cab. "i say she didn't!" cried dakota joe. "officer! you serve that warrant--hey! where's that wonota gone to?" the indian girl and ruth's friends had disappeared. dakota joe lunged for the gate. but since the beginning of the war this particular railroad yard had been closed to the public. a man stood at the gate who barred the entrance of the showman. "you don't come in here, brother," said the railroad man. "not unless you've got a pass or a permit." "hey!" shouted dakota joe, calling the marshal. "show this guy your warrant." "don't show me nothin'," rejoined the railroad employee. he let ruth slip through and whispered: "your party's aboard your car. there's a switcher coupled on. she'll scoot you all down the yard to the main line. get aboard." ruth slipped through the gate, while the guard stood in a position to prevent the two men from approaching it. the girl heard the gate close behind her. it was evident that mr. hammond had been apprised of dakota joe's attempt to bring the indian girl into court. of course, the judge would deny his appeal; but a court session would delay the party's journey westward. ruth saw the other girls ahead of her, and she ran to the car. mr. hammond himself was on the platform to welcome them. "that fellow is a most awful nuisance. i had to make an arrangement with the railroad company to get us out of here at once. luckily i have a friend high up among the officials of the company. come aboard, miss ruth. everybody else is here and we are about to start." chapter xiv the hubbell ranch "you see, miss ruth," mr. hammond told the girl of the red mill as the special car rolled out of the railroad yard, "this dakota joe has become a very annoying individual. we had to fairly run away from him." "i do not understand," ruth said. "i think he should be shown his place--and that place i believe is the police station." "it would be rather difficult to get him into that for any length of time. and in any case," and the picture producer smiled, it would cost more than it would be worth. he really has done nothing for which he can be punished--" "i don't know. he might have had me killed that time his auto ran me down," interrupted ruth, indignantly. "but the trouble is, we cannot prove that," mr. hammond hastened to repeat. "i will see that you are fully protected from him hereafter." mr. hammond did not realize what a large undertaking that was to be. but he meant it at the time. "the man is in trouble--no doubt of it," went on the producer reflectively. "he has had a bad season, and his winter prospects are not bright. i gave him an hour of my time yesterday before i advised you that we would better get away from chicago." "but what does he expect of you, mr. hammond?" asked ruth in surprise. "he claims we are the cause of his unhappy business difficulties. his show in on the verge of disintegrating. he wanted me to back him with several thousand dollars. of course, that is impossible." "why!" cried ruth, "i would not risk a cent with such a man." "i suppose not. and i felt no urge to comply with his request. he was really so rough about it, and became so ugly, that i had to have him shown out of the house." "goodness! i am glad we are going far away from him." "yes, he is not a nice neighbor," agreed mr. hammond. "i hope wonota will repay us for all the bother we have had with dakota joe." "it seems too bad. of course, it is not wonota's fault," said ruth. "but if we had not come across her--if i had not met her, i mean--you would not have been annoyed in this way, mr. hammond." "take it the other way around, miss ruth," returned her friend, with a quizzical smile. "we should be very glad that you did meet wonota. considering what that mad bull would have done to you if she had not swerved him by a rifle shot, a little bother like this is a small price to pay." "oh--well!" "in addition," said mr. hammond briskly, "look what we may make out of the indian girl. she may coin us a mint of money, ruth fielding." "perhaps," smiled ruth. but she was not so eager for money. the thing that fascinated her imagination was the possibility that they might make of wonota, the osage maiden, a great and famous movie star. ruth desired very much to have a part in that work. she knew, because mr. hammond had told her, as well as wonota herself, that the osage indians as a tribe were the wealthiest people under the guardianship of the american government. their oil leases were fast bringing the tribe a great fortune. but wonota, being under age, had no share in this wealth. at this time the income of the tribe was between four and five thousand dollars a day--and the tribe was not large. "but wonota can have none of that," explained the indian maid. "it is apportioned to the families, and totantora, the head of my family, is somewhere in that europe where the war is. i can get no share of the money. it is not allowed." so, with the incentive of getting money for her search, wonota was desirous of pleasing her white friends in every particular. besides, ambition had budded in the girl's heart. she wanted to be a screen actress. "if your 'brighteyes,' miss fielding, is ever shown at three rivers station or pawhuska, where the agency is, i know every member of the tribe will go to see the film. when some of the young men of our tribe acted in a round-up picture when i was a little girl, even the old men and great-grandmothers traveled a hundred miles to see the film run off. it was like an exodus, for some of them were two days and nights on the way" "the osage indians are not behind the times, then?" laughed ruth. "they are movie fans?" "they realize that their own day has departed. the buffalo and elk have gone. even the prairie chickens are seen but seldom. almost no game is found upon our plains, and not much back in the hills. many of our young men till the soil. some have been to the carlisle school and have taken up professions or are teachers. the osage people are no longer warlike. but some of our young men volunteered for this white man's war." "i know that," sad ruth warmly. "i saw some of them over there in france--at least, some indian volunteers. captain cameron worked in the intelligence service with some of them. that is the spy service, you know. the indians were just as good scouts in france and belgium as they were on their own plains." "we are always the same. it is only white men who change," declared wonota with confidence. "the redman is never two-faced or two-tongued." "well," grumbled jennie, afterward, "what answer was there to make to that? she has her own opinion of lo, the poor indian, and it would be impossible to shake it." "who wants to shake it?" demanded helen. "maybe she is right, at that!" the thing about wonota that "gave the fidgets" to jennie and helen was the fact that she could sit for mile after mile, while the train rocked over the rails, beading moccasins and other wearing apparel, and with scarcely a glance out of the car window. towns, villages, rivers, plains, woods and hills, swept by in green and brown panorama, and seemed to interest wonota not at all. it was only when the train, after they changed at denver, began to climb into the rockies that the indian maid grew interested. the osage indians had always been a plains' tribe. the rugged and white-capped heights interested wonota because they were strange to her. here, too, were primeval forests visible from the windows of the car. hemlock and spruce in black masses clothed the mountainsides, while bare-limbed groves of other wood filled the valleys and the sweeps of the hills. years before ruth and her two chums had been through this country in going to "silver ranch," but the charm of its mysterious gorges, its tottering cliffs, its deep canyons where the dashing waters flowed, and the generally rugged aspect of all nature, did not fail now to awe them. wonota was not alone in gazing, enthralled, at the landscape which was here revealed. two days of this journey amid the mountains, and the train slowed down at clearwater, where the special car was sidetracked. although the station was some distance from the "location" mr. hammond's representative had selected for the taking of the outdoor pictures, the company was to use the car as its headquarters. there were several automobiles and a herd of riding ponies at hand for the use of the company. here, too, mr. hammond and his companions were met by the remainder of the performers selected to play parts in "brighteyes." there were about twenty riders--cowpunchers and the like; "stunt riders," for the most part. in addition there were more than a score of indians--some pure blood like wonota, but many of them halfbreeds, and all used to the moving picture work, down to the very toddlers clinging to their mothers' blankets. the osage princess was inclined to look scornfully at this hybrid crew at first. finally, however, she found them to be very decent sort of folk, although none of them were of her tribe. ruth and helen and jennie met several riders who had worked for mr. hammond when he had made ruth's former western picture which is described in "ruth fielding in the saddle," and the gallant westerners were ready to devote themselves to the entertainment of the girls from the east. there was only one day of planning and making ready for the picture, in which helen and jennie could be "beaued" about by the cow-punchers. ruth was engaged with mr. hammond, jim hooley, and the camera man and their assistants. everyone was called for work on the ensuing morning and the automobiles and the cavalcade of pony-riders started for the hubbell ranch. wonota rode in costume and upon a pony that was quite the equal of her own west wind. this pet she had shipped from the red mill to her home in oklahoma before going to new york. the principal characters had made up at the car and went out in costume, too, they had to travel about ten miles to the first location. the hubbell ranch grazed some steers; but it was a horse ranch in particular. the country was rugged and offered not very good pasturage for cattle. but the stockman, arad hubbell, was one of the largest shippers of horses and mules in the state. it was because of the many half-broken horses and mules to be had on the ranch that mr. hammond had decided to make "brighteyes" here. the first scenes of the prologue--including the indian scare--were to be taken in the open country near the ranch buildings. naturally the buildings were not included in any of the pictures. a train of ten emigrant wagons, drawn by mules, made an imposing showing as it followed the dusty cattle trail. the train wound in and out of coulees, through romantic-looking ravines, and finally out upon the flat grass-country where the indians came first into view of the supposedly frightened pilgrims. helen and jennie, as well as ruth herself, in the gingham and sunbonnets of the far west of that earlier day, added to the crowd of emigrants riding in the wagons. when the indians were supposed to appear the excitement of the players was very realistic indeed, and this included the mules! the stock was all fresh, and the excitement of the human performers spread to it. the wagons raced over the rough trail in a way that shook up severely the girls riding in them. "oh--oo!" squealed jennie stone, clinging to ruth and helen. "what _are_ they trying to do? i'll be one m-a-ass of bruises!" "stop, william!" commanded ruth, trying to make the driver of their wagon hear her. "this is too--too realistic." the man did not seem to hear her at all. ruth scrambled up and staggered toward the front, although mr. hooley had instructed the girls to remain at the rear of the wagons so that they could be seen from the place where the cameras were stationed. "stop!" cried ruth again. "you will tip us over--or something." there was good reason why william did not obey. his six mules had broken away from his control entirely. a man must be a master driver to hold the reins over three span of mules; and william was as good as any man in the outfit. but as he got his team into a gallop the leaders took fright at the charging indians on pony-back, and tried to leave the trail. william was alone on the driver's seat. he put all his strength into an attempt to drag the leaders back into the trail and--the rein broke! under ordinary circumstances this accident would not have been of much moment. but to have pulled the other mules around, and so throw the runaways, would have spoiled the picture. william was too old a movie worker to do that. when ruth stumbled to the front of the swaying wagon and seized his shoulder he cast rather an embarrassed glance back at her. "stop them! stop!" the girl commanded. "i'd like mighty well to do it, miss fielding," said william, wagging his head, "but these dratted mules have got their heads and--they--ain't---no notion o' stoppin' this side of the ranch corrals." ruth understood him. she stared straight ahead with a gaze that became almost stony. this leading wagon was heading for the break of a ravine into which the trail plunged at a sharp angle. if the mules were swerved at the curve the heavy wagon would surely overturn. in twenty seconds the catastrophe would happen! chapter xv pursuing danger when a mule is once going, it is just as stubborn about stopping as it is about being started if it feels balky. the leading span attached to the covered wagon in which ruth and her two chums, helen cameron and jennie stone, rode had now communicated their own fright to the four other animals. all six were utterly unmanageable. "do tell him to stop, ruth!" shrieked jennie stone from the rear of the wagon. the next moment she shot into the air as the wheels on one side bounced over an outcropping boulder. she came down clawing at helen to save herself from flying out of the end of the wagon. "oh! this is too much!" shouted helen, quite as frightened as her companion. "i mean to get out! don't a-a-ask me to--to act in moving pictures again. i never will!" "talk about rough stuff!" groaned jennie. "this is the limit." neither of them realized the danger that threatened. of the three girls only ruth knew what was just ahead. the maddened mules were dragging the emigrant wagon for a pitch into the ravine that boded nothing less than disaster for all. in the band of indians riding for the string of covered wagons wonota had been numbered. she could ride a barebacked pony as well as any buck in the party. she had removed her skirt and rode in the guise of a young brave. the pinto pony she bestrode was speedy, and the osage maid managed him perfectly. long before the train of wagons and the pursuing band of indians got into the focus of the cameras, wonota, as well as her companions, saw that the six mules drawing the head wagon were out of control. the dash of the frightened animals added considerable to the realism of the picture, as they swept past jim hooley and his camera men; but the director was quite aware that disaster threatened william's outfit. "crank it up! crank it!" he commanded the camera men. "it looks as if we were going to get something bigger than we expected." mr. hammond stood behind him. he saw the three white girls in the rear of the wagon. it was he who shouted: "that runaway must be stopped! it's miss fielding and her friends in that wagon. stop them!" "great scott, boss! how you going to stop those mules?" jim hooley demanded. but wonota did not ask anybody as to the method of stopping the runaway. she was perfectly fearless--of either horses or mules. she lashed her pinto ahead of the rest of the indian band, cut across a curve of the trail, and bore down on the runaway wagon. "that confounded girl is spoiling the shot!" yelled hooley. "never mind! never mind!" returned mr. hammond. "she is going to do something. there!" and wonota certainly did do something. aiming her pinto across the noses of the lead-mules, she swerved them off the trail before they reached that sharp turn at the break of the rough hill. the broken rein made it impossible for the driver to swerve the leaders that way; but wonota turned the trick. william stood up, despite the bounding wagon, his foot on the brake, yanking with all his might at the jaws of the other four mules. all six swung in a wide circle. but william admitted that it was the indian girl who started the crazed mules into this path. the wheels dipped and bounced, threatening each moment to capsize the wagon. but the catastrophe did not occur. the other indians rode down upon the head of the string of wagons madly, with excited whoops. for once the whole crowd forgot that they were making a picture. and that very forgetfulness on the part of the actors made the picture a great success the finish was not quite as ruth had written the story, or as hooley had planned to take it. but it was better! "it's a peach! it's a peach! the shot was perfect!" the director cried, smiting mr. hammond on the back in his excitement. "what do you know about that, boss? can't we let her stand as the camera has it?" "i believe it is a good shot," agreed mr. hammond. "we'll try it out to-night in the car." one end of the special car was arranged as a projection room. "if the indians did not hide the wagon too much, that dash of the girl was certainly spectacular." "it was a peach," again declared the director. "and nobody will ever see that she is a girl instead of a man. we got one good shot, here, mr. hammond, whether anything else comes out right or not." the girls who had taken the parts of emigrant women in the runaway wagon were not quite so enthusiastic over the success of the event, not even when the director sent his congratulations to them. all three were determined that if a "repeat" was demanded, they would refuse to play the parts again. "i don't want to ride in anything like that wagon again," declared ruth. "it was awful." "enough is enough," agreed helen. "another moment, and we would have been out on our heads." "i'm black and blue--or will be--from collar to shoes. _what_ a jouncing we did get! girls, do you suppose that fellow with the shaggy ears did it on purpose?" "whom do you mean--william or one of the mules?" asked helen. "i am sure william was helpless," said ruth. "he was just as much scared as we were. but wonota was just splendid!" "i am willing to pass her a vote of thanks," groaned jennie. "but we can't expect her to be always on hand to save us from disaster. you don't catch me in any such jam again." "oh, nothing like this is likely to happen to us again," ruth said. "we're just as safe taking this picture as we would be at home--at the red mill, for instance." "i don't know about that," grumbled helen. "i feel that more trouble is hanging over us. i feel it in my bones." "you'd better get a new set of bones," said ruth cheerfully. "yours seem to be worse, even, than poor aunt alvira's." "nell believes that life is just one thing after another," chuckled jennie stone. "having struck a streak of bad luck, it _must_ keep up." "you wait and see," proclaimed helen cameron, decisively nodding her head. "that's the easiest thing in the world to do--_wait_," gibed ruth. "no, it isn't, either. it's the hardest thing to do," declared jennie, and ruth thought she could detect a shade of sadness in the light tone the plump girl adopted. "and especially when--as nell predicts--we are waiting for some awful disaster. huh--" and the girl shuddered as realistically as perfect health and unshaken nerves and good nature would permit--"are we to pass our lives under the shadow of impending peril?" it did seem, however, as though helen had come under the mantle of some seeress of old. jennie flatly declared that "nell must be a descendant of the witch of endor." the company managed to make several scenes that day without further disaster. although in taking a close-up of the charging indian chief one of the camera men was knocked down by the rearing pony the chief rode, and a perfectly good two hundred dollar camera was smashed beyond hope of repair. "it's begun," said helen, ruefully. "you see!" "if you have brought a hoodoo into this outfit, woe be it to you!" cried ruth. "it is not me," proclaimed her chum. "but i tell you _something_ is going to happen." they worked so late that it was night before the company took the trail for clearwater station. there was no moon, and the stars were veiled by a haze that perhaps foreboded a storm. this coming storm probably was what caused the excitement in a horse herd that they passed when half way to the railroad line. or it might have been because the motor-cars, of which there were four, were strange to the half-wild horses that the bunch became frightened. "there's something doing with them critters, boys!" william, who was riding ahead, called back to the other pony riders, who were rear guard to the automobiles. "keep yer eyes peeled!" his advice was scarcely necessary. the thunder of horse-hoofs on the turf was not to be mistaken. through the darkness the stampeding animals swept down upon the party. "git, you fellers!" yelled another rider. "and keep a-goin'! jest split the wind for the station!" the horsemen swept past the jouncing motor-cars. some of the women in the cars screamed. helen cried: "what did i tell you!" "don't--_dare_--tell us anything more!" jerked out jennie. through the murk the girls saw the heads and flaunted manes of the coming horses. just what harm they might do to the motor-cars, which could not be driven rapidly on this rough trail, ruth and her two chums did not know. but the threat of the wild ponies' approach was not to be ignored. chapter xvi news and a threat a stampede of mad cattle is like the charge of a blind and insane monster. river, nor ravine, nor any other obstruction can halt the mad rush of the horned beasts. they pile right into it, and only if it is too steep or too high do they split and go around. a stampede of horses is different in that the equine brain appreciates danger more clearly than that of the sullen steer. behind a cattle stampede is often left an aftermath of dead and crippled beasts. but horses are more canny. a wild horse seldom breaks a leg or suffers other injury. it is not often that the picked skeleton of a horse is found in the hills. this herd belonging to the hubbell ranch charged through the night directly across the trail along which the moving picture company was riding. those on horseback could probably escape; but the motor-cars could not be driven very rapidly over the rough road. the girls screamed as the cars bumped and jounced. out of the darkness appeared the up-reared heads and tossing manes of the ponies. there were possibly three hundred in the herd, and they ran _en masse,_ snorting and neighing, mad with that fear of the unknown which is always at the root of every stampede. the automobile in which ruth fielding and her two friends, helen and jennie, were seated was the last of the string. it seemed as though it could not possibly escape the stampede of half-wild ponies, even if the other cars did. "get down in the car, girls!" shouted ruth, suiting her action to her word. "don't try to jump or stand up. stoop!" there was good reason for her command. the plunging horses seemed almost upon the car. indeed one leader--a big black stallion,--snorting and blowing, jumped over the rear of the car, clearing it completely, and bounded away upon the other side of the trail. he was ahead of the main stampede, however. all that found the motor-car in the path could not perform his feat. some would be sure to plunge into the car where ruth and helen and jennie crouched. suddenly there rode into view, coming from the head of the string of cars, a wild rider, plying whip and heel to maddened pinto pony. "wonota! go back! you'll be killed!" shrieked ruth. and then she added: "the picture will be ruined if you are hurt." even had the indian girl heard ruth's cry she would have given it small attention. wonota was less fearful of the charging ponies than were the punchers and professional riders working for mr. hammond. at least, she was the first to visualize the danger threatening the girls in the motor-car, and she did not wait to be told what to do. up ahead the men were shouting and telling each other that miss fielding was in danger. but wonota went at the charging horses without question. she forced her snorting pinto directly between the motor-car and the stampede. she lashed the foremost horses across their faces with her quirt. she wheeled her mount and kept on beside the motor-car as its driver tried to speed up along the trail. the mad herd seemed intent on keeping with the motor-train. wonota gave the pinto his head and lent her entire attention to striking at the first horses in the stampede. her quirt brought squeals of pain from more than one of the charging animals. she fell in behind the car at last, and the scattering members of the stampede swept by. back charged several of the pony riders, but too late to give any aid. the chauffeur of ruth's car slackened his dangerous pace and yelled: "it's all over, you fellers! we might have been trod into the ground for all of you. it takes this injun gal to turn the trick. i take off my hat to wonota." "i guess we all take off our hats to her!" cried helen, sitting up again. "she saved us--that is what she did!" "good girl, wonota!" ruth exclaimed, as the snorting pinto brought its rider up beside the motor-car again. "it was little to do," the indian girl responded modestly. "after all you have done for me, miss fielding. and i am not afraid of horses." "them horses was something to be afraid of--believe me!" ejaculated one of the men. "the gal's a peach of a rider at that." here helen suddenly demanded to know where jennie was. "i do believe she's burrowed right through the bottom of this tonneau!" "haven't either!" came in the muffled voice of the fleshy girl, and she began to rise up from under enveloping robes. "take your foot off my arm, nell. you're trampling me awfully. i thought it was one of those dreadful horses!" "well--i--like--that!" gasped helen. "i didn't," jennie groaned, finally coming to the surface--like a porpoise, ruth gigglingly suggested, to breathe! "i was sure one of those awful creatures was stamping on me. if i haven't suffered _this_ day! such spots as were not already black and blue, are now properly bruised. i shall be a sight." "poor heavy!" said ruth. "you always have the hard part. but, thank goodness, we escaped in safety!" "do let's go to a hotel somewhere and stay a week to recuperate," begged the fleshy girl, as they rode on toward the railroad town. "one day of movie making calls for a week of rest--believe me!" "you and helen can remain at the car--" "not me!" cried helen cameron. "i do not wish to be in the picture again, but i want to see it made." after they arrived at the special car, where a piping hot supper was ready for them, the girls forgot the shock of their adventure. jennie, however, groaned whenever she moved. "'tis too bad that fat girl got so bunged up," observed one of the punchers to helen cameron. "i see she's a-sufferin'." "miss stone's avoirdupois is forever making her trouble," laughed helen, rather wickedly. "huh?" demanded the man. "alfy dupoy? who's that? her feller?" "oh, dear me, no!" gasped helen. "_his_ name is henri marchand. i shall have to tell her that." "needn't mind," returned the man. "i can't be blamed for misunderstanding half what you easterners say. you got me locoed right from the start." the joke had to be told when the three friends retired that night, and it was perhaps fortunate that jennie stone possessed an equable disposition. "i am the butt of everybody's joke," she said, complacently. "that is what makes me so popular. you see, you skinny girls are scarcely noticed. it is me the men-folk give their attention to." "isn't it nice to be so perfectly satisfied with one's self?" observed helen, scornfully. "come on, ruthie! let's sleep on that." there were other topics to excite the friends in the morning, even before the company got away for the "location." mail which had followed them across the continent was brought up from the post-office to the special car. helen and ruth were both delighted to receive letters from captain tom. in the one to ruth the young man acknowledged the receipt of her letter bearing on the matter of chief totantora. he said that news of the captured wild west performers had drifted through the lines long before the armistice, and that he had now set in motion an inquiry which might yield some important news of the missing osage chieftain--if he was yet alive--before many weeks. as for his own return, tom could not then state anything with certainty. * * * * * "nobody seems to know," he wrote. "it is all on the knees of the gods--and a badgered war department. but perhaps i shall be with you, dear ruth, before long." * * * * * ruth did not show her letter to her girl friends. jennie had received no news from henri, and this disaster troubled her more than her bruised flesh. she went around with a sober face for at least an hour--which was a long time for jennie stone to be morose. william, the driver who had handled the emigrant wagon the day before, came along as the men were saddling the ponies for the ride out to the ranch. he had an open letter in his hand that he had evidently just received. "say!" he drawled, "didn't i hear something about you taking this injun gal away from dakota joe's show? ain't that so, miss fielding?" "her contract with that man ran out and mr. hammond hired her," ruth explained. "and that left the show flat in chicago?" pursued william. "it was in chicago the last we saw of it," agreed ruth. "but wonota had left dakota joe's employ long before that--while the show was in new england." "wal, i don't know how that is," said william. "i got a letter from a friend of mine that's been ridin' with dakota joe. he says the show's done busted and joe lays it to his losing this injun gal. joe's a mighty mean man. he threatens to come out here and bust up this whole company," and william grinned. "you want to tell mr. hammond that," said ruth, shortly. "i did," chuckled william. "but he don't seem impressed none. however, miss fielding, i want to say that dakota joe has done some mighty mean tricks in his day. everybody knows him around here--yes, ma'am! if he comes here, better keep your eyes open." chapter xvii the prologue is finished "we must do something very nice for wonota," helen cameron said seriously. "she has twice within a few hours come to our succor. i feel that we might all three have been seriously injured had she not turned the mules yesterday, and frightened off those mad horses on the trail last evening." "'seriously injured,' forsooth!" grumbled jennie stone. "what do you mean? didn't i show you my bruises? i was seriously injured as it was! but i admit i feel grateful--heartily grateful--to our indian princess. i might have suffered broken bones in addition to bruised flesh." "we could not reward her," ruth fielding said decidedly. "i would not hurt her feelings for the world." "we can do something nice for her, without labeling it a reward, i should hope," helen cameron replied. "i know what i would like to do." "what is that?" asked jennie, quickly. "you remember when they dressed wonota up in that evening frock there in new york? to take the ballroom picture, i mean?" "indeed, yes!" cried jennie stone. and she looked too sweet for anything." "she is a pretty girl," agreed ruth. "i saw her preening before the mirror," said helen, smiling. "that she is an indian girl doesn't make her different from the other daughters of eve." "somebody has said that the fashion-chasing women must be daughters of lilith," put in jennie. "never mind. wonota likes pretty frocks. you could see that easily enough. and although some of the osage girls may follow the fashions in the mail order catalogs, i believe wonota has been brought up very simply. 'old-fashioned,' you may say." "fancy!" responded jennie. "an old-fashioned' indian." "i think helen is right," said ruth, quietly. "wonota would like to have pretty clothes, i am sure." "then," said helen, with more animation, "let us chip in--all three of us--and purchase the very nicest kind of an outfit for wonota--a real party dress and 'all the fixin's,' girls! what say?" "i vote 'aye!'" agreed jennie. "the thought is worthy of you, helen," said ruth proudly. "you always do have the nicest ideas. and i am sure it will please wonota to be dressed as were some of the girls we saw in the audiences at the theatres we took her to." "but!" ejaculated jennie stone, "we can't possibly get that sort of clothes out of a mail-order catalog." "i know just what we can do, jennie. there is your very own dressmaker--that madame joné you took me to." "oh! sure! mame jones, you mean!" cried the fleshy girl with enthusiasm. "aunt kate has known mame since she worked as an apprentice with some fifth avenue firm. now madame joné goes to paris--when there is no war on--twice a year. she will do anything i ask her to." "that is exactly what i mean," helen said. "it must be somebody who will take an interest in wonota. send your madame joné a photograph of wonota--" "several of them," exclaimed ruth, interested as well, although personally she did not care so much for style as her chums. "let the dressmaker get a complete idea of what wonota looks like." "and the necessary measurements," helen said. "give her _carte blanche_ as to goods and cost--" "would that be wise?" interposed the more cautious ruth. "leave it to me!" exclaimed jennie stone with confidence. "we shall have a dandy outfit, but mame jones will not either overcharge us or make wonota's frock and lingerie too _outré_." "it win be fine!" declared helen. "i believe it will," agreed the girl of the red mill. "it will be nothing less than a knock-out," crowed jennie, slangily. the three friends had plenty of topics of conversation besides new frocks for ruth's indian star. the work of making the scenes of the prologue of "brighteyes" went on apace, and although they all escaped acting in any of the scenes, they watched most of them from the sidelines. mr. hooley had found a bright little girl (although she had no indian blood in her veins) to play the part of the sick child in the indian wigwam. these shots were taken in a big hay barn near the special car standing at clearwater, and with the aid of the electric plant that had been set up here the "interiors" were very promising. several other "sets" were built in this make-shift studio, for all the scenes were not out-of-door pictures. the prologue scenes, however, aside from the interior of the chief's lodge, were made upon the open plain on the hubbell ranch not more than ten miles from the clearwater station. two weeks were occupied in this part of the work, for outside scenes are not shot as rapidly as those in a well equipped studio. when these were done the company moved much farther into the hills. they were to make the remaining scenes of "brighteyes" in the wilderness, far from any human habitation more civilized than a timber camp. benbow camp lay well up behind hubbell ranch, yet in a well sheltered valley where scarcely a threat of winter had yet appeared. a big crew of lumbermen was at work on the site, and many of these men mr. hammond used as extras in the scenes indicated in ruth's script. ruth had now gained so much experience in the shooting of outdoor scenes that her descriptions in this story of "brighteyes," the indian maid, were easily visualized by the director. besides, she stood practically at jim hooley's elbow when the story was being filmed. so, with the author working with the director, the picture was almost sure to be a success. at least, the hopes of all--including those of mr. hammond, who had already put much money into the venture--began to rise like the quicksilver in a thermometer on a hot day. the small river on which locations had been arranged for was both a boisterous and a picturesque stream. there were swift rapids ("white water" the woodsmen called it) with outthrust boulders and many snags and shallows where a canoe had to be very carefully handled. several scenes as ruth had written them were of the indian girl in a canoe. wonota handled a paddle with the best of the rivermen at benbow camp. there was no failure to be feared as to the picture's requirements regarding the indian star, at least. having seen the scenes of the prologue shot and got the company on location at benbow camp, mr. hammond went back to the railroad to get into communication with the east. he had other business to attend to besides the activities of this one company. scenes along the bank and at an indian camp set up in a very beautiful spot were shot while preparations for one of the big scenes on the stream itself were being made. the text called for a freshet on the river, in which the indian maid is caught in her canoe. the disturbed water and the trash being borne down by the current was an effect arranged by jim hooley's workmen. the timbermen working for the benbow company helped. a boom of logs was chained across the river at a narrow gorge. this held back for two nights and a day the heavy cultch floating down stream, and piled up a good deal of water, too, for the boom soon became a regular dam. below the dam thus made the level of the stream dropped perceptibly. "i am going to put wonota in her canoe into the stream above the boom," hooley explained. "when the boom is cut the whole mass will shoot down ahead of the girl. but the effect, as it comes past the spot where the cameras are being cranked, will be as though wonota was in the very midst of the freshet. she handles her paddle so well that i do not think she will be in any danger." "but you will safeguard her, won't you, mr. hooley?" asked ruth, who was always more or less nervous when these "stunt pictures" were being taken. "there will be two canoes--and two good paddlers in each--on either side of wonota's craft, but out of the camera focus of course. then, we will line up a lot of the boys along the shore on either side. if she gets a ducking she won't mind. she understands. that indian girl has some pluck, all right," concluded the director with much satisfaction. "yes, wonota's courageous," agreed ruth quietly. arrangements were made for the next morning. ruth went with mr. hooley to the bunkhouse to hear him instruct the timbermen hired from the benbow company and who were much interested in this "movie stuff." the girl of the red mill had already made some acquaintances among the rough but kindly fellows. she stepped into the long, shed-like bunkhouse to speak to one of her acquaintances, and there, at the end of the plank table, partaking of a late supper that the cook had just served him, was no other than dakota joe fenbrook, the erstwhile proprietor of the wild west and frontier round-up. chapter xviii an accident threatening probably the ex-showman was not as surprised to see ruth fielding as she was to see him. but he was the first, nevertheless, to speak. "ho! so it's you, is it?" he growled, scowling at the girl of the red mill. "reckon you didn't expect to see me." "i certainly did not," returned ruth tartly. "what are you doing at benbow camp, mr. fenbrook?" "i reckon you'd be glad to hear that i walked here," sneered the showman, and filled his cheek with a mighty mouthful. he wolfed this down in an instant, and added, with a wide grin: "but i didn't. i saved my horse an' outfit from the smash, and enough loose change to bring me west--no thanks to you." "i am sorry to hear you have failed in business, mr. fenbrook," ruth said composedly. "but i am sorrier to see that you consider me in a measure to blame for your misfortune." "oh, don't i, though!" snarled dakota joe. "i know who to thank for my bust-up--you and that hammond man. yes, sir-ree!" "you are quite wrong," ruth said, calmly. "but nothing i can say will convince you, i presume." "you can't soft-sawder me, if that's what you mean," and dakota joe absorbed another mighty mouthful. ruth could not fail to wonder if he ever chewed his food. he seemed to swallow it as though he were a boa-constrictor. "i know," said dakota joe, having swallowed the mouthful and washed it down with half a pannikin of coffee, "that you two takin' that injun gal away from me was the beginning of my finish. yes, sir-ree! i could ha' pulled through and made money in chicago and st. louis, and all along as i worked west this winter. but no, you fixed me for fair." "wonota had a perfect right to break with you, mr. fenbrook," ruth said decidedly, and with some warmth. "you did not treat her kindly, and you paid her very little money." "she got more money than she'd ever saw before. them injuns ain't used to much money. it's jest as bad for 'em as hootch. yes, sir-ree!" "she was worth more than you gave her. and she certainly was worthy of better treatment. but that is all over. mr. hammond has her tied up with a hard and fast contract. let her alone, mr. fenbrook." "aw, don't you fret," growled the man. "i ain't come out here to trouble wonota none. the little spitfire! she'd shoot me just as like's not if she took the notion. them redskins ain't to be trusted--none of 'em. i know 'em only too well." ruth went out of the shack almost before the man had ceased speaking. she did not want anything further to do with him. she was exceedingly sorry that dakota joe had appeared at benbow camp just when the moving picture company was getting to work on the important scenes of "brighteyes." besides, she felt a trifle anxious because mr. hammond himself did not chance to be here under the present circumstances. he might be better able to handle dakota joe if the ruffian made trouble. she said nothing to jim hooley about dakota joe. she did not wish to bother the director in any case. she had come to appreciate hooley as, in a sense, a creative genius who should have his mind perfectly free of all other subjects--especially of annoying topics of thought--if he was to turn out a thoroughly good picture. hooley fairly lived in the picture while the scenes were being shot. he must not be troubled by the knowledge of the possibility of dakota joe's being at benbow camp for some ulterior purpose. ruth told the girls about the man's appearance when she returned to the shacks where the members of the moving picture company were spending the night. and she warned wonota in particular, and in private. "he is as angry with us as he can be," the girl of the red mill told the osage maiden. "i think, if i were you, wonota, i would beware of him." "beware of dakota joe?" repeated wonota. "yes." "i would beware of him? i would shoot him?" said the osage girl with suddenly flashing eyes. "that is what you mean?" ruth laughed in spite of her anxiety. "beware" was plainly a word outside the indian girl's vocabulary. "don't talk like a little savage," she admonished wonota, more severely than usual. "of course you are not to shoot the man. you are just to see that he does you no harm--watch out for him when he is in your vicinity." "oh! i'll watch dakota joe all right," promised wonota with emphasis. "don't you worry about that, miss fielding. i'll watch him." to ruth's mind it seemed that the ex-showman, in his anger, was likely to try to punish the indian girl for leaving his show, or to do some harm to the picture-making so as to injure mr. hammond. he had already (or so ruth believed) endeavored to hurt ruth herself when she was all but run over in new york. ruth did not expect a second attack upon herself. the next morning--the really "great day" of the picture taking--all at the camp were aroused by daybreak. there was not a soul--to the very cook of the timber-camp outfit--who was not interested in the matter. the freshet jim hooley had planned had to be handled in just the right way and everything connected with it must be done in the nick of time. wonota in her indian canoe--a carefully selected one and decorated in indian fashion--was embarked on the sullen stream above the timber-boom. the holding back of the water and the driftwood had formed an angry stretch of river which under ordinary circumstances ruth and the other girls who had accompanied her west thought they would have feared to venture upon. the indian girl, however, seemed to consider the circumstances not at all threatening. with her on the river, but instructed to keep on either side and well out of the focus of the cameras, were two expert rivermen, each in a canoe. these men were on the alert to assist wonota if, when the dam was broken, she should get into any difficulty. below the dam the men were arranged at important points, so that if the logs and drift threatened to pile up after the boom was cut, they could jump in with their pike-poles and keep the drift moving. on one shore the cameras were placed, and jim hooley, with his megaphone, stood on a prominent rock. across from the director's station ruth found a spot at the foot of a sheer bank to the brow of which a great pile of logs had been rolled, ready for the real freshet in the spring when the log-drives would start. she had a good view of all that went on across the river, and up the stream. jennie suggested that she and helen accompany ruth and watch the taking of the picture from that vantage point, a proposal to which helen readily agreed. but ruth evaded this suggestion of her two friends, for she wanted to keep her whole mind on her work, and when helen and jennie were with her she found it impossible to keep from listening to their merry chatter, nor could she keep herself from being drawn into it. the upshot was that, after some discussion by the three girls, ruth set off alone for her station under the brow of the steep river bank. about ten o'clock, in mid-forenoon, hooley was satisfied that everything was ready to shoot the picture. one of the foremen of benbow camp--the best ax wielder of the crew--ran out on the boom to a point near the middle of the frothing stream and began cutting the key-log. it was a ticklish piece of work; but these timbermen were used to such jobs. the gash in the log showed wider and wider. where ruth stood she cocked her head to listen to the strokes of the axman. it seemed to her that there was a particularly strange echo, flattened but keen, as though reverberating from the bank of the river high above her head. "now, what can that be?" she thought, and once looked up the slope to the heap of logs which were held in place by chocks on the very verge of the steep descent. if those logs should break away, ruth realized that she was right in the path of their descent. it would not be easy for her to escape, dry-footed, in either direction, for the bank of the river, both up, and down stream, was rough. but, of course, that chopping sound was made by the man cutting the boom. surely nobody was using an ax up there on the pile of logs. she glanced back to the man teetering on the boom log. the gap in it was wide and white. he had cut on the down-river side. already the pressure from up stream was forcing the gash open, wider and wider---- there came a yell from across the river. somebody there had seen what was threatening over ruth's head. then jim hooley cast his glance that way and yelled through his megaphone: "jump, miss fielding! quick! jump into the river!" but at that moment the man on the boom started for the shore, running frantically for safety. the key log split with a raucous sound. the water and drift-stuff, in a mounting wave, poured through the gap, and the noise of it deafened ruth fielding to all other sounds. she did not even glance back and above again at the peril which menaced her from the top of the steep bank. chapter xix in deadly peril "this stunt business," as director hooley called the taking of such pictures as this, is always admittedly a gamble. after much time and hundreds of dollars have been spent in getting ready to shoot a scene, some little thing may go wrong and spoil the whole thing. there was nothing the matter with the director's plans on this occasion; every detail of the "freshet" had been made ready for with exactness and with prodigious regard to detail. the foreman had cut the key log almost through and the force of the water and débris behind the boom had broken it. the man barely escaped disaster by reason of agile legs and sharp caulks on his boots. the backed-up waters burst through. up stream, amid the turmoil and murk of the agitated flood, rode wonota in her canoe, directly into the focus of the great cameras. to keep her canoe head-on with the flood, and to keep it from being overturned, was no small matter. it required all the indian girl's skill to steer clear of snags and floating logs. besides, she must remember to register as she shot down the stream a certain emotion which would reveal to the audience her condition of mind, as told in the story. wonota did her part. she was rods above the breaking dam and she could not see, because of an overhanging tree on ruth's side of the stream, any of that peril which suddenly threatened the white girl. wonota was as unconscious of what imperiled ruth as the latter was at first unknowing of the coming catastrophe. it was jim hooley whom the incident startled and alarmed more than anybody else. he committed an unpardonable sin--unpardonable for a director! he forgot, when everything was ready, to order the starting of the camera. instead he put his megaphone to his lips and shouted across to ruth fielding--who was not supposed to be in the picture at all: "jump, miss fielding! quick! jump into the river!" and ruth did not hear him, loudly as his voice boomed across the flood! she was deafened by the thunder of the waters and the crashing of the logs in mid-flood. her eyes, now that she was sure the foreman was safe on the other bank, were fixed upon the bow of wonota's canoe, just coming into sight behind the ware of foaming water and upreared, charging timbers. it was a great sight--a wonderful sight. no real freshet could have been more awful to behold. mr. hooley's feat was a masterstroke! but behind and above ruth was a scene of disaster that held those on the opposite bank speechless--after hooley's first mighty shout of warning. at least, all but the camera men were so transfixed by the thing that was happening above the unconscious ruth. trained to their work, the camera men had been ready to crank their machines when hooley grabbed up his megaphone. the boom had burst, the flood poured down, and the indian maid's canoe came into the range of their lenses. it was the most natural thing in the world that they should begin cranking--and this they did! alone among all those on the far bank of the stream, the camera men were blind to ruth's danger. "she'll be killed!" shrieked jennie stone, while helen cameron ran to the water's edge, stretching forth her arms to ruth as though she would seize her from across the stream. the next moment the water flooded up around helen's ankles. the stream was rising, and had jennie not dragged her back, helen would have been knee-deep in the water--perhaps have been injured herself by one of the flying logs. ruth was out of reach of the logs in the stream, although they charged down with mighty clamor, their ends at times shooting a dozen feet into the air, the bark stripping in ragged lengths, displaying angry gashes along their flanks. it was from that great heap of logs above, on the brink of the steep bank, that ruth was in danger. a fringe of low brush had hidden the foot of the logpile up there. this hedge had also hidden from the observation of the party across the stream the villains who must have deliberately knocked out the chocks which held the high pile of timbers from skidding down the slope. mr. hooley had seen the logs start. squeezed out by the weight of the pile, the lower logs, stripped of bark and squealing like living creatures started over the brink. they rolled, faster and faster, down upon the unwarned ruth fielding. and behind the leaders poured the whole pile, gathering speed as the avalanche made headway! the turmoil of the river and the crashing logs would have smothered the sound of the avalanche until it was upon the girl of the red mill. no doubt of that. but providentially ruth flashed a glance across the stream. she saw the party there all screaming at her and waving their arms madly. jennie was just dragging helen back from the rising flood of the turbulent river. ruth saw by their actions that they were trying to draw her attention to something behind her. she swung about and looked up the almost sheer bluff. ruth fielding was not lacking in quick comprehension. a single glance at the descending avalanche of logs was sufficient to make her understand the peril. she knew that she could not clear the hurtling timbers by running either up stream or down. the way was too rough. as well as jim hooley, she knew that escape was only possible by leaping into the river. and that chance was rather uncertain. ruth was dressed for the rough outdoor life she was living. she wore high, laced boots, a short skirt, knickerbockers, a blouse, and a broad-brimmed hat. when she turned to face the turbulent stream the rocking timbers coming down with the released water almost filled the pool before the endangered girl. had she worn caulks on the soles of her boots, as did the foreman who had cut the boom, and been practised as he was in "running the logs," ruth would have stood a better chance of escaping the plunging avalanche. as it was, she was not wholly helpless. she had picked up a peavey one of the timbermen had left on this bank and was using is as a staff as she watched the "freshet" start. warned now of the danger she was in, the girl of the red mill seized this staff firmly in both hands and poised herself to leap from the boulder to which she had stepped. only a moment did she delay--just long enough to select the most promising log in the smother of foam and water before her. then she leaped outward, striking down with the pike-staff and sinking its sharp point in the log to which she jumped. behind her the timbers poured down the bluff, landed on their splintering ends on the rocks, and then--many of them--pitched their long lengths into the angry river. the spray flew yards high. it curtained, indeed, all that occurred for the next few moments upon this side of the stream. however much the scene, arranged by jim hooley might need the attention of the moving picture makers, here was a greater and more dangerous happening, in which ruth fielding was the leading participant! chapter xx good news tragedy was very dose indeed at that moment to the girl of the red mill. many adventures had touched ruth nearly; but nothing more perilous had threatened her than this. she balanced herself on the rushing log with the help of the peavey. she was more than ordinarily sure-footed. but if the log she rode chanced to be hit by one of the falling timbers loosened from their station on top of the bluff--that would be the end of the incident, and the end of the girl as well! perhaps it was well that helen and jennie could no longer see their chum. the curtain of spray thrown up by the plunging logs from above hid the whole scene for several minutes. then out of the turmoil on the river shot the log on which ruth stood, appearing marvelously to her friends on the other bank. "ruth! ruth fielding!" shrieked helen, so shrilly that her voice really could be heard. "are you alive?" ruth waved one hand. she held her balance better now. she shot a glance behind and saw wonota in the canoe coming down the rapids amid the snags and drifting débris--a wonderful picture! jim hooley, almost overcome by the shock and fright, suddenly beheld his two camera men cranking steadily--as unruffled as though all this uproar and excitement was only the usual turmoil of the studio! "bully, boys!" the director shouted. "keep at it!" then through the megaphone: "eyes on the camera, wonota! your lover is in the water--you must save him! nobody else can reach him there! he's going down again! bend forward--look at him--at the camera! that's it! when he appears again that log is going to hit him if you do not swerve the canoe in between the log and him--there! with your paddle! shoot the canoe in now!" he swerved the megaphone to the men waiting on the bank: "look out for miss fielding, some of you fellows. the rest of you stand ready to grab wonota when that canoe goes over." again to the indian girl: "now, wonota! pitch the paddle away. lean over--grab at his head. there it is!" the indian girl did as instructed, leaning so far that the canoe tipped. mr. hooley raised his hand. he snapped his fingers. "there! enough!" he shouted, and the cameras stopped as the canoe canted the indian girl headfirst into the stream. the rest of that scene would be taken in quiet water. while the man waded in to help wonota, ruth reached the bank and sprang off her log before she was butted off. helen and jennie ran to her, and such a hullabaloo as there was for a few minutes! jim hooley came striding down to the three eastern girls, flushed and with scowling brow. "i want to know who did that?" he shouted. "no thanks to anybody but my camera men that the whole scene wasn't a fizzle. and what would mr. hammond have said? who were those men, miss fielding?" "what men?" asked ruth in wonder. "up there on the other bank? those that knocked the chocks out from under that heap of logs? you don't suppose that avalanche of timber started all by itself?" "i don't know what you are talking about, mr. hooley," declared ruth fielding. "and surely," helen added quickly, "you do not suppose that it was her fault? she might have been killed." "i got a glimpse of a man dodging out of the way just as that pile of logs started. i saw the flash of the sun on his ax," and the director was very much in earnest. it was jennie who put into words the thought that had come both to ruth and helen as well: "where is that awful dakota joe? he was here last night. he has tried to harm our ruthie before. i do believe he did it!" "who's that?" demanded the director. "the man who had wonota in his show?" "yes, mr. hooley. he was here last night. i spoke with him up in the bunk-house while you were telling the boys about this scene," ruth said gravely. "the unhung villain!" exclaimed the director. "he tried to ruin our shot." jennie stared at him with open mouth as well as eyes. "well!" she gasped after a minute. "that is what you might call being wrapped up in one's business, sure enough! ruined your shot, indeed! how about ruining a perfectly good girl named ruth fielding?" "oh, i beg miss fielding's pardon," stammered the director. "you must remember that taking such a scene as this costs the corporation a good deal of money. miss fielding's danger, i must say, threw me quite off my balance. if i didn't have two of the keenest camera men in the business all this," and he gestured toward the turbulent river, "would have gone for nothing." "i can thank mr. hooley for what he tried to do for me," smiled ruth. "i saw his gestures if i could not hear his voice. that was my salvation. but i believe it must have been dakota joe who started that avalanche of logs down upon me." "i'll have the scoundrel looked for," promised hooley, turning to go upstream again. "but don't tell these rough men why you want dakota joe," advised the girl of the red mill. "no?" "you know how they are--even some of the fellows working for the picture company. they are pretty rough themselves. i do not want murder done because of my narrow escape." the other girls cried out at this, but mr. hooley nodded understandingly. "i get you, miss fielding. but i'll make it so he can't try any capers around here again. no, sir!" the girls were left to discuss the awful peril that had threatened, and come so near to over-coming, ruth. helen was particularly excited about it. "i do think, ruth, that we should start right for home. this is altogether too savage a country. to think of that rascal _daring_ to do such a thing! for of course it was dakota joe who started those logs to rolling." "i can imagine nobody else doing it," confessed her chum. "then i think you should start east at once," repeated helen. "don't you think so, jennie?" "i'd hire a guard," said the plump girl. "this country certainly is not safe for our ruth." "neither was new york, it seemed," rejoined ruth, with a whimsical smile. "of course we are not sure--" "we are sure you came near losing your life," interrupted helen. "quite so. i was in danger. but if it was joe, he has run away, of course. he will not be likely to linger about here after making the attempt." and to this opinion everybody else who knew about it agreed. a search was made by some of the men for dakota joe. it was said he had left for another logging camp far to the north before daybreak that very morning. nobody had seen him since that early hour. "just the same, he hung around long enough to start those logs to rolling. and i am not sure but that he had help," jim hooley said, talking the matter over later, after mr. hammond had arrived from the railroad and had been told about the incident, "he is a dangerous fellow, that fenbrook." "he has made himself a nuisance," agreed mr. hammond. "tell william and the other boys to keep their eyes open for him. the moment he appears again--if he does appear--let them grab him. i will get a warrant sworn out at clearwater for his arrest. we will put him in jail until our picture is finished, at least." they did not believe at the time that ruth was in any further peril from dakota joe. as for the girls, they were particularly excited just then by some news mr. hammond had brought with him from the post-office. letters from tom cameron! he was coming home! indeed, he would have started before ruth and helen received the messages he wrote. and in ruth's letter he promised a great surprise. what that surprise was the girl of the red mill could not imagine. "doesn't he say anything about a surprise for me?" demanded jennie stone. "he doesn't say a word about you in my letter, heavy," said helen wickedly. "why, jennie, he doesn't know you are with us here in the west," ruth said soothingly. "i don't care," sputtered the fat girl. "he must know about my henri. and not a word have i heard from or about him in a month. if the war is over, surely henri must be as free as tom cameron." "i suppose some of the soldiers have to stay along the rhine, jennie, dear," replied ruth. "maybe henri is one of those guarding the frontier." "he is holding the german hordes back, single-handed, from _la belle_ france," put in helen, smiling. "oh, cat's foot!" snapped jennie. "the germans are just as glad to stop fighting as we are. they certainly don't need henri in the army any longer. i am going to write to his mother!" chapter xxi a bull and a bear wonota had known nothing of what was supposed to have been a deliberate attempt to injure ruth fielding until some hours after the occurrence. she had not much to say about it, but, like the three white girls, she was sure the guilty man was dakota joe. as william had said, fenbrook was a "mighty mean man," and the osage maid knew that to be a fact. she nodded her head gravely as she commented upon the incident that might have ended so seriously. "that dakota joe is bad. chief totantora would have sent him to the spirit land long since, had he been here. there are white men, miss fielding, who are much worse than any redman." "i will grant you that," sighed ruth. "badness is not a matter of blood, i guess. this fenbrook has no feeling or decency. he is dangerous." "i should have shot him," declared the osage girl confidently. "i am afraid i have done wrong in not doing so before." "how can you talk so recklessly!" exclaimed ruth, and she was really troubled. "shooting dakota joe would make you quite as bad as he is. no, no! that is not the way to feel about it." but wonota could not understand this logic. and yet, wonota in other ways was not at all reckless or ferocious. she possessed a fund of sympathy, and was kindly disposed toward everybody when one of the cook's helpers cut his foot with an ax, she aided in the rough surgery furnished by the camp boss, and afterwards nursed the invalid while he was confined to his bunk and could not even hop about. all the men liked her, and after a time they did not speak carelessly of her as "that injun gal." she seemed to be of a different caliber from the other indians engaged in making the picture. at least, she was more intelligent. the girls from the east did not lose their personal interest in wonota in the least degree. but of course while the various scenes were being made even ruth did not give all her attention to either the indian maiden or to the shooting of the picture. the great freshet scene, when developed and tried out in the projection room at clearwater, proved to be a very striking film indeed. if "brighteyes" was to rise to the level of that one scene, every reel of the picture must be photographed with great care. while the director and mr. hammond and the company in general worked over some of the lumber-camp scenes, retaking or arranging for the shots over and over again, ruth rode with her two chums on many a picturesque trail around benbow camp, hubbell ranch and the clearwater station of the railroad. they were quite sure that dakota joe fenbrook had left this part of the country--and left in a hurry. if he learned that his attempt on ruth fielding's life was not successful, he must have learned it some time after the occurrence. just where the "bad man" had gone after leaving benbow on the run, nobody seemed to know. ruth and helen and jennie were in the saddle almost every day. they found much to interest them on the various trails they followed. they even discovered and visited several pioneer families--"nesters" in the language of the cowpunchers and stockmen--who welcomed the eastern girls with vast curiosity. "and how some of these folks can live in such wild places, and in such perfectly barren cabins, i do not see," groaned helen cameron after a visit to one settler's family near a wild canyon to the west of benbow camp. "that woman and those girls! not a decent garment to their backs, and the men so rough and uncouth. i would not stay there on a bet--not for the best man who ever breathed." "that woman's husband isn't the best man who ever breathed," said jennie, grimly. "but perhaps he is the best man she ever knew. and, anyway, having as the boys say 'got stuck on him,' now she is plainly 'stuck with him.' in other words she has made her own bed and must lie in it." "why should people be punished for their ignorance?" complained helen. "nature's way," said ruth confidently. "civilization is slowly changing that--or trying to. but nature's law is, after all, rather harsh to us." "if i was one of those girls we saw back there," helen continued, "i would run away." "run where?" asked ruth slyly. "with a movie company? or a wild west show?" "either. anything would be better than that hut and the savagery of their present lives." "they don't mind it so much," admitted jennie. "i asked one of them. she was looking forward to a dance next week. she said they had three of four through the year--and they seemed to be reckoned as great treats, but all a girl could expect." "and think how much we demand," said ruth thoughtfully. "welladay! maybe we have too much--too much of the good things of the earth." "bah!" exclaimed helen, with disgust. "one can't get too much of the good things. no, ma'am! take all you can----" "and give nothing?" suggested ruth, shaking her head. "nobody can say with truth that you are selfish, ruthie fielding," put in jennie. "in fact, you are always giving, and never taking." ruth laughed at this. "you are wrong," she said. "the more you give the more you get. at least, i find it so. and we are getting right now, on this trip to the great northwest, much more than we are giving. i feel as though i would be condemned if i did not do something for these hard-working people who are doing their part in developing this country--the settlers, and even the timbermen." "you want to be a lady santa claus to that bunch of roughnecks at benbow camp, do you?" laughed jennie. "well, i would like to help somebody besides wonota. what do you hear from your new york dressmaker about wonota's new outfit, jennie?" "it will be shipped right out here to clearwater before long," announced the plump girl, with new satisfaction. "won't wonota be surprised?" "and delighted!" added helen, showing satisfaction too. at that very moment they rode out of a patch of wood which had hidden from the girls' eyes a piece of lowland fringed by a grove of northern cottonwood trees. on the air was borne a deep bellow--a sound that none of the three had noted before. "what is that?" demanded helen, startled and half drawing in her snorting pony. "oh, listen!" cried jennie. "hear the poor cow." ruth was inclined to doubt. "when you hear a 'cow' bellowing in this country, look out. it may be a wild steer or a very ugly bull. let us go on cautiously." all three of the ponies showed signs of trepidation, and this fact added to ruth's easily aroused anxiety. "have a care," she said to helen and jennie. "i believe something is going on here that spells danger--for us at least." "it's down in the swamp. see the way the ponies look," agreed jennie. they quickly came to a break in the cottonwood grove on the edge of the morass. instantly the ponies halted, snorting again. ruth's tried to rear and turn, but she was a good horsewoman. "oh, look!" squealed helen. "a bear!" "oh, look!" echoed jennie, quite as excited. "a bull!" "well, i declare!" exclaimed ruth, her hands full for the moment with the actions of her mount. "one would think you were looking at a picture of wall street--with your bulls and your bears i let me see--do!" chapter xxii in the canyon ruth wheeled her mount the next moment and headed it again in the right direction. she saw at last what had caused her two companions such wonder. in a deep hole near the edge of the morass was a huge hereford bull. most of the cattle in that country were herefords. the animal had without doubt become foundered in the swamp hole; but that was by no means the worst that had happened to him. while held more than belly-deep in the sticky mud he had been attacked by the only kind of bear in all the rockies that, unless under great provocation, attacks anything bigger than woodmice. a big black bear had flung itself upon the back of the bellowing, struggling bull and was tearing and biting the poor creature's head and neck--actually eating the bull by piecemeal! "oh, horrors!" gasped helen, sickened by the sight of the blood and the ferocity of the bear. "is that a dreadful grizzly? how terrible!" "it's eating the poor bull alive!" jennie cried. ruth had never ridden out from camp since dakota joe's last appearance without carrying a light rifle in her saddle scabbard. she rode a regular stockman's saddle and liked the ease and comfort of it. now she seized her weapon and cocked it. "that is not a grizzly, girls!" she exclaimed. "the grizzly is ordinarily a tame animal beside this fellow. the blackbear is the meat-eater--and the man-killer, too. i learned all about that in our first trip out here to the west." "quick! do something for that poor steer!" begged helen. "never mind lecturing about it." but ruth had been wasting no time while she talked. she first had to get her pony to stand she knew it was not gun-shy. it was only the scent and sight of the bear that excited it. once the pony's four feet were firmly set, the girl of the red mill, who was no bad shot, raised her rifle and sighted down the barrel at the little snarling eyes of bruin behind his open, red jaws. the bear crouched on the bull's back and actually roared at the girls who had come to disturb him at his savage feast. ruth's trigger-finger was firm. it was an automatic rifle, and although it fired a small ball, the girl had drawn a good bead on the bear's most vulnerable point--the base of his wicked brain! the several bullets poured into that spot, severing the vertebrae and almost, indeed, tearing the head from the brute's shoulders! "oh, ruth! you've done for him!" cried helen, with delight. "but the poor bull!" murmured jennie. "see! he can't get out. he's done for." "i am afraid they are both done for," returned ruth. "take this gun, jennie. let me see if i can rope the bull and help him out." she swung the puncher's lariat she carried hung from her saddle-bow with much expertness. she had practised lariat throwing on her previous trips to the west. but although she was able to encircle the bull's bleeding head with the noose of the rope, to drag the creature out of the morass was impossible. he was sunk in the mire too deeply, and he was too far gone now to help himself. the bear had rolled off the back of the bull and after a few faint struggles ceased to live. but bruin's presence made it very difficult for the girls to force their ponies closer to the dying bull. therefore, after all, ruth had to abandon her lariat, tying the end of it to a tree and by this means keeping the bull from sinking out of sight after she had put a merciful bullet into him. as they rode near the hubbell ranch they stopped and told of their adventure at the swamp, and a party of the boys rode out and saved both bear and bull meat from the coyotes or from cougars that sometimes came down from the hills. the three girls had not been idly riding about the country during these several days which had been punctuated, as it were, with the adventure of the bull and the bear. that very day they had found the canyon which mr. hammond and the director had been hoping to find and use in filming some of the most thrilling scenes of "brighteyes." as ruth was the writer of the scenario it was natural that she should be quite capable of choosing the location. the lovely and sheltered canyon offered all that was needed for the taking of the scenes indicated. the girls went back the next day, taking mr. hammond with them. this time they merely glanced at the spot where the bear and the bull had died, and they did not visit the family of nesters at all. the shadowy mouth of the canyon, its sides running up steeply into the hills, was long in sight before the little cavalcade reached it. from the mouth of it mr. hammond could not judge if ruth's selection of locality was a wise one. certain natural attributes were necessary to fit the needs of the story she had written. when, after they had ridden a couple of miles up the canyon, he saw the cliff path and the lip of the overhanging rock on which the hero of the story and _brighteyes_' indian lover were to struggle, he proclaimed himself satisfied. "you've got it, i do believe," the producer declared. "this will delight jim hooley, i am sure. we can stake out a net down here under that rock so if either or both the boys fall, they will land all right. it will be some stunt picture, and no mistake!" he wanted to look around the place, however, before riding back, and the girls dismounted too. the bottom of the canyon was a smooth lawn--the grass still green. for although the tang of winter was now in the air even at noon, the weather had been remarkably pleasant. only on the distant heights had the snow fallen, and not much there. there was a silvery stream wandering through the meadow over which the girls walked. by one pool was a shallow bit of beach, and ruth, coming upon this alone, suddenly cried out: "oh, helen! jennie! i am a miss crusoe. come here and see the unmistakable mark of my man friday." "what do you mean, you ridiculous thing?" drawled jennie. "you cannot be a crusoe. you are not dressed in skins." "well, i like that!" rejoined ruth, raising her eyebrows in apparent surprise, "i should think i was covered with skin. why not? am i different from the remainder of humanity?" of course they laughed with her as they came to view her discovery upon the sand. it was the mark of a human foot. "and no savage, i'll be bound," said helen. "that is the mark of a mighty brogan. a white man's foot-covering, no less. see! there is another footprint." "he certainly was going away from here," jennie stone observed. "who do you suppose he is?" "i wonder if his eyes are blue and if he has a moustache?" queried helen, languishingly. "bet he has whiskers and chews tobacco. i known these western men. bah!" "jennie takes all the romance out of it," said ruth, laughing. "now i don't care to meet my man friday at all." they ate a picnic lunch before they rode out of the lovely canyon. mr. hammond was always good company, and he exerted himself to be interesting to the three girls on this occasion. "my!" helen remarked to jennie, "ruth does make the nicest friends, doesn't she? see how much fun--how many good times--we have had through her acquaintanceship with mr. hammond." jennie agreed. but her attention was attracted just then to something entirely different. she was staring up the cliff path that mr. hammond had praised as being just the natural landmark needed for the scene the company wished to picture. "did you see what i saw?" drawled the plump girl. "or am i thinking too, too much about mankind?" "what is the matter with you?" demanded helen. "i didn't see any man." "not up that rocky way--there! a brown coat and a gray hat. did you see?" "ruth's man friday!" ejaculated helen. "i shouldn't wonder. but we can't prove it because we haven't the size of yonder gentleman's boot. humph i he is running away from us, all right." "maybe he never saw us," suggested helen. they called to ruth and told her of the glimpse they had had of the stranger. "and what did he run away for, do you suppose?" demanded jennie. "i am sure you need not ask me," said ruth. "what did he look like?" "i did not see his face," said jennie. she repeated what she had already said to helen about the stranger's gray hat and brown coat. ruth looked somewhat troubled and made no further comment of course, the coat and hat were probably like the coat and hat of numberless other men in the west. but the last time ruth had seen dakota joe fenbrook, that individual had been wearing a broad-brimmed gray sombrero and a brown duck coat. chapter xxiii reality ruth fielding was not a coward. she had already talked so much about dakota joe that she was a little ashamed to bring up the subject again. so she made no comment upon the man in the brown coat and gray hat that jennie stone declared she had seen climbing the path up the canyon wall. mr. hammond was not annoyed by it. his mind was fixed upon the scenes that could be filmed in the canyon. like jim hooley, the director, his thought was almost altogether taken up with the making of ruth's "brighteyes." the work of making the picture was almost concluded. wonota, the indian maid, had lost none of her interest in the tasks set her; but she expressed herself to ruth as being glad that there was little more to do. "i do not like some things i have to do," she confessed. "it is so hard to look, as mr. hooley tells me to, at that hero of yours, miss fielding, as though i admired him." "mr. grand? you do not like him?" "i could never love him," said the indian girl with confidence. "he is too silly. even when we are about to engage in one of the most thrilling scenes, he looks first in the handglass to see if his hair is parted right." ruth could not fail to be amused. but she said cautiously: "but think how he would look to the audience if his hair was tousled when it was supposed to be well brushed." "ah, it is not a manly task," said wonota, with disgust. "and the indian man who is the villain--tut! he is only half indian. and he tries to look both as though he admired me and hated the white man. it makes his eyes go this way!" and wonota crossed her eyes until ruth had to cry out. "don't!" she begged, "suppose you suffered that deformity?" "but he doesn't--that jack onehorse. your brighteyes, i am sure, would have felt no pity for such an indian." "you don't have to feel pity for him," laughed ruth. "you know, you shoot him in the end, wonota." "most certainly," agreed wonota, closing her lips firmly. "he deserves shooting." the calm way in which the indian girl spoke of this taking off of the indian lover who became the villain in the end of the moving picture, rather shocked the young author. "but," said jennie, "wonota it only a single generation removed from arrant savagery. she calls a spade a spade. you shouldn't blame her. it is civilization--which is after all a sort of make-believe--that causes us white folk to refer to a spade as an agricultural implement." but ruth would not laugh. she had become so much interested in wonota by this time that she wished her to improve her opportunities and learn the ways--the better ways, at least--of white people. mr. hammond naturally looked at the commercial end of wonota's improvement. nor did ruth overlook the chance the osage maid had of becoming a money-earning star in the moving picture firmament. but she desired to help the girl to something better than mere money. wonota responded to a marked degree to ruth's efforts. she was naturally refined. the indian is not by nature coarse and crude. he is merely different from the whites. wonota seemed to select for herself, when she had the opportunity, the better things obtainable--the better customs of the whites rather than the ruder ones. meanwhile the work of preparing for the scenes of "brighteyes" to be shot in the canyon went on. the day came when all the company were informed that the morrow would see the work begun. at daybreak, after a hasty breakfast, the motors and vans and the cavalcade of riders left the clearwater station for a week--and that the last week of their stay--up in the lovely canyon ruth and her two girl chums had found. "i do declare!" exclaimed the gay jennie (even the lack of letters from henri marchand could not quench her spirits for long), "this bunch of tourists does look like an old-time emigrant train. we might be following the santa fe trail, all so merrily." "only there were no motor-cars in those old days," remarked ruth. "nor portable stoves," put in helen with a smile. "and i am quite sure," suggested mr. hammond, who heard this, "that no moving picture cameras went along with the old santa fe trailers." "yet," said ruth thoughtfully, "the country about here, at any rate, is just about as wild as it was in those old days. and perhaps some of the people are quite as savage as they were in the old days. oh, dear!" "who are you worrying about? william?" asked helen slyly. "he did sound savage this morning when he was harnessing those mules to the big wagon." but her chum did not reply to this pleasantry. she really had something on her mind which bothered her. but she did not explain the cause of her anxiety to the others, even after the arrival of the party in the canyon. it looked like a great gypsy camp when the party was settled on the sward beside the mountain stream. mr. hooley had not seen the location before, and he was somewhat critical of some points. but finally he admitted that, unless the place had been built for their need, they could not really expect to find a location better fitted. "and thank goodness!" ruth sighed, when the camera points were severally decided upon, "after these shots are taken we can head east for good." "why, ruthie! i thought we were having a dandy time," exclaimed helen. "have you lost your old love for the wild and open places?" "i certainly will be glad to see a porcelain bathtub again," yawned jennie, breaking in. "i don't really feel as though a sponge-down in an icy cold brook with a tarpaulin around one for a bath-house is altogether the height of luxury." "it is out here," laughed helen. "i do not mind the inconveniences so much," said ruth reflectively. "the old red mill farmhouse was not very conveniently arranged--above stairs, at least--until i had it built over at my own expense, greatly to uncle jabez's opposition. it is not the roughing it. that is good for us i verily believe. but i have a depressing feeling that before the picture is done something may happen." "i should expect it would!" cried helen, not at all disturbed by the prophecy. once helen had prophesied disaster, and it had come. but she forgot that now. "i expect something to happen--every day, most likely. but of course it will be a pleasant and exciting something. yes, indeedy!" neither of her friends, after all, realized that ruth fielding was actually in fear. she was very anxious every waking moment. that strange man whom the girls had spied here in the canyon might be a perfectly harmless person. and then again-- two days were occupied in placing the paraphernalia and training the actors in their parts. they all got a working knowledge of what was expected of them when the picture was being photographed, and the principals learned their lines. for nowadays almost as much care is given to what is said by actors before the camera as by those having speaking parts upon the stage. the big scene--the really big scene in the drama--was set upon that overhanging lip of rock that ruth had spied when first she, with helen and jennie, had ridden up the trail. on that overhanging shelf occurred the struggle between the white lover of _brighteyes_ and the indian who had trailed him and the girl to this wild spot. mr. grand, in spite of wonota's scorn of him, was a handsome man and made as fine an appearance in the out-of-door garments the part called for as he did in the dress-suit to which he was so much addicted. the indian who played the part of the villain was an excellent actor and had appeared many times on the silver sheet. he was earnest in his desire to please the director, but he failed sometimes to "keep in the picture" when he was not actually dominating a scene. because of this failing in john onehorse, mr. hooley sent ruth to the top of the rock to watch and advise onehorse as the scene proceeded. she was quite able by this time to act as assistant director. indeed, it was ruth's ambition to direct a picture of her own in the near future. she sometimes had ideas that conflicted with those of mr. hammond and his directors, and she wished to try her own way to get certain results. now, however, she was to follow mr. hooley's instructions exactly. the arrangement of the cameras were such, both from below and at the level of the scene to be shot, that ruth had to stand upon a narrow shelf quite out of sight of the actors on the overhanging rock, and hidden as well from most of the people below. this, to make sure that she was out of the line of the camera. behind her the narrow and broken trail led to the top of the canyon wall. it was up this trail that jennie and helen had seen the "man friday" disappear on the occasion of their first visit to the place. patiently, over and over again, mr. hooley had the principal characters try the scene. below, wonota, as the heroine, was to run into the camera field at a certain point in the struggle of the two men on the lip of rock. to time the indian girl's entrance was no small task. but at last the characters seemed to be about letter perfect. "look out now! we're going to shoot it!" shouted jim hooley through his megaphone. "miss fielding! keep your eye on onehorse. keep him up to the mark while he waits for mr. grand's speech. now! ready?" it was at just this moment that ruth felt something--something hard and painful--pressing between her shoulder-blades. she shot a glance over her shoulder to see the ugly face of dakota joe fenbrook peering out at her between the walls of a narrow crack in the face of the cliff. the thing he pressed against her was a long stick, and, with a grin of menace, he drove that stick more firmly against ruth's body! "ready? camera! go!" shouted mr. hooley, and the scene was on. ruth, with a stifled cry, realized that she was being pushed to the edge of the steep path. there was a drop of twenty feet and more, and where she stood there was no net to break the fall! if fenbrook pushed her over the brink of the path ruth knew very well that the outcome would be even too realistic for a moving picture. chapter xxiv wonota's surprise ruth fielding might have cried out. but at that moment the attention of everyone was so given to the taking of the important scene that perhaps nobody would have understood her cry--what it meant. behind her dakota joe stretched forward, pushing the stick into the small of her back and urging her closer to the brink. the spot on which she stood was so narrow that it was impossible for her to escape without turning her body, and the bad man knew very well that the pressure of the stick kept her from doing that very thing! the cameras were being cranked steadily, and mr. hooley shouted his orders as needed. fortunately for the success of the scene, onehorse did not need the admonitions of ruth to "keep in the picture." the point came where he made his leap for the shoulders of the white man, and it was timed exactly. the two came to the brink of the rock in perfect accord with the appearance of wonota on the ground below. the indian girl came, gun in hand, as though just from the chase. as she ran into the field of the camera hooley shouted his advice and she obeyed his words to the letter. until---- she raised her eyes, quite as she was told. but she looked beyond grand and onehorse struggling on the rock. it was to another figure she looked--that of ruth being forced over the verge of the narrow path. the girl of the red mill was half crouched, striving to push back against the thrust of the stick in dakota joe's hands. the upper part of fenbrook's body was plainly visible from wonota's station at the foot of the cliff, and his wicked face could be mistaken for no other. "now! the gun!" shouted mr. hooley. "wonota! come alive!" the indian girl obeyed--as far as springing into action went. the gun she held went to her shoulder, but its muzzle did not point at the actors above her. instead, the threatening weapon pointed directly at the head of the villain who was forcing ruth off her insecure footing on the narrow path. "what are you doing, wonota? wonota!" shouted mr. hooley, who could not see ruth at all. the indian girl made no reply. she drew bead upon the head of dakota joe, and his glaring eyes were transfixed by the appearance of the gaping muzzle of wonota's gun. he dropped the stick with which he had forced ruth to the edge of the path. she fell sideways, dizzy and faint, clinging to the rough rock with both hands. as it was, she came near rolling over the declivity after all. but it was dakota joe, in his sudden panic, who came to disaster. he had always been afraid of wonota. she was a dead shot, and he believed that she would not shrink from killing him. now it appeared that the indian girl held his life in her hands. the muzzle of her weapon looked to dakota joe at that moment as big as the mouth of a cannon! he could see her brown finger curled upon the trigger. each split second threatened the discharge of the gun. with a stifled cry he tried to leap out of the crack and along the path down which he had come so secretly. but he stumbled. his riding boots were not fit for climbing on such a rugged shelf. stumbling again, he threw out one hand to find nothing more stable to clutch than the empty air! "wonota!" shouted hooley again. "stop!" he raised his hand, stopping the cameras. and at that moment there hurtled over the edge of the path a figure that, whirling and screaming, fell all the distance to the bottom of the canyon. helen and jennie, for a breathless instant, thought it must be ruth, for they knew where she had been hidden. but the voice that roared fear and imprecations was not at all like ruth fielding's! "who's that?" shouted mr. hammond, likewise excited. "he's spoiled that shot, i am sure." ruth sat up on the shelf and looked over. "oh!" she cried. "is he killed?" "he ought to be, if he isn't," growled mr. hooley. "what did you do that for, wonota?" the indian girl advanced upon the man writhing on the ground. dakota joe saw her coming and set up another frightened yell. "don't let her shoot me! don't let her!" he begged. "shut up!" commanded mr. hammond. "the gun only has blanks in it. we don't use loaded cartridges in this business. why! hanged if it isn't fenbrook." "now you have busted me up!" groaned the ex-showman. "i got a broken leg. and i believe my arm's broken too. and that gal done it." as jennie said later, however, he could scarcely "get away with that." ruth came down and told what the rascal had tried to do to her. for a little while it looked as though some of the rougher fellows might do the dastardly joe bodily harm other than that caused by his fall. but mr. hammond hurried him in a motor-car to clearwater, and there, before the moving picture company returned, he was tried and sent to the state penitentiary. the great scene had to be taken over again--a costly and nerve-racking experience. like ruth herself, helen and jennie were glad now when the work was finished and they could head for the railroad. "guess you were right, ruthie," agreed jennie. "something did happen. as aunt alvirah would have said, you must have felt it in your bones." "i feel it in my body, anyway," admitted ruth. "i got dreadfully bruised when i fell on that path. my side is all black and blue." the misadventures of the occasion were soon forgotten however, especially when the girls reached clearwater and found a box waiting for them at the express office. unsuspicious wonota was called into the stateroom in the special car, and there her white friends displayed to her delighted gaze the "trousseau," as jennie insisted upon calling the pretty frock and other articles sent on by madame joné. "for _me_?" asked wonota, for once showing every indication of delight without being ordered to do so by the director. "all for me? oh, it is too much! how my father, chief totantora, would stare could he see me in those beautiful things. wonota's white sisters are doing too much for her. there is no way by which she can repay their kindness." "say!" said jennie bluntly, "if you want to pay ruth fielding, you just go ahead and become a real movie star--a real indian star, wonota. i can see well enough that then she will get big returns on her investment. and in any case, we are all delighted that you are pleased with our present." chapter xxv other surprises it was not merely a matter of packing up and starting for the east. it would be a week still before the party would separate--some of the westerners starting for california and the great moving picture studios there, while ruth and her friends with mr. hammond and his personal staff would go eastward. it had been arranged that wonota should return to the osage agency for a short time. meanwhile ruth had promised to try to do another scenario in which the young indian girl would have an important part. mr. hammond was enthusiastic, having seen some of the principal scenes of "brighteyes" projected. he declared to ruth: "she is going to be what our friend the camera man calls 'a knock-out.' there is a charm about wonota--a wistfulness and naturalness--that i believe will catch the movie fans. maybe, miss fielding, we are on the verge of making one of the few really big hits in the game." "i think she is quite worthy of training, mr. hammond," agreed the girl of the red mill. "when i get to work on the new picture i shall want wonota with me. can it be arranged?" "surely. her contract takes that into consideration. unless her father appears on the scene, for the next two years wonota is to be as much under your instruction as though she were an apprentice," and he laughed. mention of chief totantora did not warn ruth of any pending event. the thing which happened was quite unexpected as far as she was concerned. the westbound train halted at clearwater one afternoon, while the three white girls were sitting on the rear platform of their car busy with certain necessary needlework--for there were no maids in the party. ruth idly raised her eyes to see who got off the train, for the station was in plain view. "there are two soldiers," she said. "look! boys coming home from 'over there,' i do believe. see! they have their trench helmets slung behind them with their other duffle. why----" she halted. helen had looked up lazily, but it was jennie who first exclaimed in rejoinder to ruth's observation: "dear me, it surely isn't my henri!" "no," said ruth slowly, but still staring, "there is no horizon blue uniform in sight." "don't remind us of such possibilities," complained helen cameron with a deep sigh. "if tom--" "it _is_!" gasped ruth, under her breath, and suddenly the other girls looked at her to observe an almost beatific expression spread over the features of the girl of the red mill. "ruthie!" cried helen, and jumped up from her seat. "my aunt!" murmured jennie, and stared as hard as she could along the beaten path toward the station. the two figures in uniform strode toward the special car. one straight and youthful figure came ahead, while the other soldier, as though in a subservient position, followed in the first one's footsteps. wonota was coming across the street toward the railroad. she, too, saw the pair of uniformed men. for an instant the indian girl halted. then she bounded toward the pair, her light feet fairly spurning the ground. "my father! chief totantora!" the white girls heard her cry. the leading soldier halted, swung about to look at her, and said something to his companion. not until this order was given him did the second man even look in the direction of the flying indian maid. ruth and her friends then saw that he was a man past middle age, that his face was that of an indian, and that his expression was quite as stoical as the countenances of indians are usually presumed to be. but wonota had learned of late to give way to her feelings. no white girl could have flung herself into the arms of her long-lost parent with more abandon than did wonota. and that not-withstanding the costume she wore--the very pretty one sent west from the fifth avenue modiste's shop! perhaps the change in his lovely daughter shocked totantora at first, he seemed not at all sure that this was really his wonota. nor did he put his arms about her as a white father would have done. but he patted her shoulder, and then her cheek, and in earnest gutturals he conversed a long time with the indian maid. meanwhile the three white girls had their own special surprise. the white soldier, who was plainly an officer, advanced toward the special car. his bronzed and smiling face was not to be mistaken even at that distance. helen suddenly cried: "hold me, somebody! i know i'm going to faint! that's tommy-boy." ruth, however, gave no sign of fainting. she dashed off the steps of the car and ran several yards to meet the handsome soldier. then she halted, blushing to think of the appearance she made. suppose members of the company should see her? "well, ruth," cried the broadly smiling tom, "is that the way you greet your best chum's brother? say! you girls ought to be kinder than this to us. why! when we paraded in new york an old lady ran right out into the street and kissed me." "and how many pretty girls did the same, captain tom?" ruth wanted to know sedately. "nobody as pretty as you, ruth," he whispered, seizing both her hands and kissing her just as his sister and jennie reached the spot. he let helen--and even jennie---kiss him also. "you know how it is, tommy," the latter explained. "if i can't kiss my own soldier, why shouldn't i practise on you?" "no reason at all, jennie," he declared. "but let me tell the good news. by the time you get back to new york a certain major in the french forces expects to be relieved and to be on his way to the states again. he tells me that you are soon going to become a french citizeness, _ma cherie."_ it was a very gay party that sat for the remainder of that afternoon on the observation platform of the special car. there was so much to say on both sides. "so the appearance of wonota's father was the great surprise you had in store for us, tom?" ruth said at one point. "that's it. and some story that old fellow can tell his daughter--if he warms up enough to do it. these indians certainly are funny people. he seems to have taken a shine to me and follows me around a good deal as though he were my servant. yet i understand that he belongs to the very rich osage tribe, and is really one of the big men of it." "quite true," ruth said. the story of totantora's adventures in germany was a thrilling one. but only by hearsay had tom got the details. the indians and other performers put in confinement by the germans when the war began, had all suffered more or less. twice chief totantora had escaped and tried to make his way out of the country. each time he had been caught, and more severely treated. the third time he had succeeded in breaking through into neutral territory. even there, in a strange land, amid unfamiliar customs and people talking an unknown language, he had made his way alone and without help till he had reached the american lines. perhaps one less stoical, with less endurance, than an indian, and an indian, like chief totantora, trained in an earlier, hardier day, could not have done it. but wonota's father did succeed, and after he reached the american lines he became attached in some indefinite capacity to captain tom cameron's regiment. "when i first saw the poor old chap he was little more than a skeleton. but the life indians lead certainly makes them tough and enduring. he stood starvation and confinement better than the white men. some of the ex-show people died in that influenza epidemic the second year of the war. but old totantora was pretty husky, in spite of having all the appearance of a professional living skeleton," explained tom. whether totantora told wonota the details of his imprisonment or not, the white girls never knew. wonota, too, was inclined to be very secretive. but she was supremely happy. she was to have a recess from work, and when the special car started east with ruth and her chums, wonota and her father accompanied them to kansas city. then the osages went south to the reservation. totantora had heard all about his daughter's work in the moving picture before the party separated, and he put his mark on mr. hammond's contract binding himself to allow the girl to go on as already agreed. totantora had possibly some old-fashioned indian ideas about the treatment of squaws; but he knew the value of money. the sums wonota had already been paid were very satisfactory to the chief of the osages. in ruth's mind, the money part of the contract was the smallest part. she desired greatly to see wonota develop and grow in her chosen profession. to see the indian maid become a popular screen star was going to delight the girl of the red mill, and she was frank in saying so. "see here," tom cameron said when they were alone together. "i can see very well, ruthie, that you are even more enamored of your profession than you were before i left for europe. how long is this going to last?" "how long is what going to last?" she asked him, her frank gaze finding his. "you know what i mean," said the young man boyishly. "gee, ruth! the war is over. you know what i want. and i feel as though i deserved some consideration after what i have been through." she smiled, but still looked at him levelly. "well, how about it?" he demanded. "do you think we know our own minds? altogether, i mean?" asked the girl. "you are in a dreadfully unsettled state. i can see that, tom. and i have only just begun with wonota. i could not stop now." "i don't ask you to stop a single, solitary thing!" he cried with sudden heat. "i expect to get to work myself--at something. i feel a lot of energy boiling up in me," and he laughed. "but, say, ruth, i want to know just what i am going to work for? is it all right with you? haven't found anybody else you like better than your old chum, have you?" ruth laughed, too. yet she was serious when she gave him both her hands. "i am very sure, tom, dear, that that could never be. you will always be the best beloved of all boys----" "great scott, ruth!" he interrupted. "when do you think i am going to be a man?" the end the ruth fielding series by alice b. emerson _ mo. illustrated. jacket in full colors._ _price cents per volume. postage cents additional._ ruth fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. ruth fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. . ruth fielding of the red mill . ruth fielding at briarwood hall . ruth fielding at snow camp . ruth fielding at lighthouse point . ruth fielding at silver ranch . ruth fielding on cliff island . ruth fielding at sunrise farm . ruth fielding and the gypsies . ruth fielding in moving pictures . ruth fielding down in dixie . ruth fielding at college . ruth fielding in the saddle . ruth fielding in the red cross . ruth fielding at the war front . ruth fielding homeward bound . ruth fielding down east . ruth fielding in the great northwest . ruth fielding on the st. lawrence . ruth fielding treasure hunting . ruth fielding in the far north . ruth fielding at golden pass . ruth fielding in alaska . ruth fielding and her great scenario . ruth fielding at cameron hall . ruth fielding clearing her name cupples & leon company, publishers new york the linger-not series by agnes miller _ mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors. price per volume, cents. postage cents additional._ _this new series of girls' books is in a new, style of story writing. the interest is in knowing the girls and seeing them solve the problems that develop their character. incidentally, a great deal of historical information is imparted._ [illustration] . the linger-nots and the mystery house _or the story of nine adventurous girls_ how the linger-not girls met and formed their club seems commonplace, but this writer makes it fascinating, and how they made their club serve a great purpose continues the interest to the end, and introduces a new type of girlhood. . the linger-nots and the valley feud _or the great west point chain_ the linger-not girls had no thought of becoming mixed up with feuds or mysteries, but their habit of being useful soon entangled them in some surprising adventures that turned out happily for all, and made the valley better because of their visit. . the linger-nots and their golden quest _or the log of the ocean monarch_ for a club of girls to become involved in a mystery leading back into the times of the california gold-rush, seems unnatural until the reader sees how it happened, and how the girls helped one of their friends to come into her rightful name and inheritance, forms a fine story. . the linger-nots and the whispering charm _or the secret from old alaska_ whether engrossed in thrilling adventures in the far north or occupied with quiet home duties, the linger-not girls could work unitedly to solve a colorful mystery in a way that interpreted american freedom to a sad young stranger, and brought happiness to her and to themselves. _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the barton books for girls by may hollis barton _ mo. cloth. illustrated. with colored jacket._ _price cents per volume. postage cents additional._ _may hollis barton is a new writer for girls who is bound to win instant popularity. her style is somewhat of a reminder of that of louisa m. alcott, but thoroughly up-to-date in plot and action. clean tales that all the girls will enjoy reading._ [illustration] . the girl from the country _or laura mayford's city experiences_ . three girl chums at laurel hall _or the mystery of the school by the lake_ . nell grayson's ranching days _or a city girl in the great west_ . four little women of roxby _or the queer old lady who lost her way_ . plain jane and pretty betty _or the girl who won out_ . little miss sunshine _or the old bachelor's ward_ . hazel hood's strange discovery _or the old scientist's treasure box_ . two girls and a mystery _or the old house in the glen_ . the girls of lighthouse island _or the strange sea chest_ . kate martin's problem _or facing the wide world_ _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the girl scout series by lilian garis _ mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents. postage cents additional._ [illustration] _the highest ideals of girlhood as advocated by the foremost organisations of america form the background for these stories and while unobtrusive there is a message in every volume._ . the girl scout pioneers _or winning the first b.c._ a story of the true tred troop in a pennsylvania town. two runaway girls, who want to see the city, are reclaimed through troop influence. the story is correct in scout detail. . the girl scouts at bellaire _or maid marys awakening_ the story of a timid little maid who is afraid to take part in other girls' activities, while working nobly alone for high ideals. how she was discovered by the bellaire troop and came into her own as "maid mary" makes a fascinating story. . the girl scouts at sea crest _or the wig wag rescue_ luna land, a little island by the sea, is wrapt in a mysterious seclusion, and kitty scuttle, a grotesque figure, succeeds in keeping all others at bay until the girl scouts come. . the girl scouts at camp comalong _or peg of tamarack hills_ the girls of bobolink troop spend their summer on the shores of lake hocomo. their discovery of peg, the mysterious rider, and the clearing up of her remarkable adventures afford a vigorous plot. . the girl scouts at rocky ledge _or nora's real vacation_ nora blair is the pampered daughter of a frivolous mother. her dislike for the rugged life of girl scouts is eventually changed to appreciation, when the rescue of little lucia, a woodland waif, becomes a problem for the girls to solve. _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the betty gordon series by alice b. emerson _ mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors_ _price per volume, cents, postpaid_ [illustration: ] . betty gordon at bramble farm _or the mystery of a nobody_ at twelve betty is left an orphan. . betty gordon in washington _or strange adventures in a great city_ betty goes to the national capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. . betty gordon in the land of oil _or the farm that was worth a fortune_ from washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. a splendid picture of the oil field operations of today. . betty gordon at boarding school _or the treasure of indian chasm_ seeking treasures of indian chasm makes interesting reading. . betty gordon at mountain camp _or the mystery of ida bellethorne_ at mountain camp betty found herself in the midst of a mystery. . betty gordon at ocean park _or school chums on the boardwalk_ a glorious outing that betty and her chums never forgot. . betty gordon and her school chums _or bringing the rebels to terms_ rebellious students, disliked teachers and mysterious robberies. . betty gordon at rainbow ranch _or cowboy joe's secret_ betty and her chums have a grand time in the saddle. . betty gordon in mexican wilds _or the secret of the mountains_ betty receives a fake telegram and finds both bob and herself held for ransom in a mountain cave. . betty gordon and the lost pearls _or a mystery of the seaside_ betty and her chums go to the ocean shore for a vacation and betty becomes involved in the disappearance of a string of pearls. . betty gordon on the campus _or the secret of the trunk room_ an up-to-date college story with a strange mystery that is bound to fascinate any girl reader. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company. publishers new york. billie bradley series by janet d. wheeler _ mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid_ [illustration] . billie bradley and her inheritance _or the queer homestead at cherry corners_ billie bradley fell heir to an old homestead that was unoccupied and located far away in a lonely section of the country. how billie went there, accompanied by some of her chums, and what queer things happened, go to make up a story no girl will want to miss. . billie bradley at three-towers hall _or leading a needed rebellion_ three-towers hall was a boarding school for girls. for a short time after billie arrived there all went well. but then the head of the school had to go on a long journey and she left the girls in charge of two teachers, sisters, who believed in severe discipline and in very, very plain food and little of it--and then there was a row! . billie bradley on lighthouse island _or the mystery of the wreck_ one of billie's friends owned a summer bungalow on lighthouse island, near the coast. the school girls made up a party and visited the island. there was a storm and a wreck, and three little children were washed ashore. . billie bradley and her classmates _or the secret of the locked tower_ billie and her chums come to the rescue of several little children who had broken through the ice. there is the mystery of a lost invention, and also the dreaded mystery of the locked school tower. . billie bradley at twin lakes _or jolly schoolgirls afloat and ashore_ a tale of outdoor adventure in which billie and her chums have a great variety of adventures. they visit an artists' colony and there fall in with a strange girl living with an old boatman who abuses her constantly. . billie bradley at treasure cove _or the old sailor's secret_ a lively story of school girl doings. how billie heard of the treasure and how she and her chums went in quest of the same is told in a peculiarly absorbing manner. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york proofreading team at http://www.fadedpage.net [illustration: she was unconscious when they lifted her out. ruth fielding at lighthouse point. page ] ruth fielding at lighthouse point or nita, the girl castaway by alice b. emerson author of ruth fielding of the red mill, ruth fielding at briarwood hall etc. illustrated new york cupples & leon company publishers books for girls by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. ruth fielding of the red mill or, jasper parloe's secret. ruth fielding at briarwood hall or, solving the campus mystery. ruth fielding at snow camp or, lost in the backwoods. ruth fielding at lighthouse point or, nita, the girl castaway. ruth fielding at silver ranch or, schoolgirls among the cowboys. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york. copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding at lighthouse point printed in u.s.a. contents chapter page i an initiation ii the fox at work iii on lake osago iv trouble at the red mill v the tintacker mine vi uncle jabez at his worst vii the signal gun viii the lifeboat is launched ix the girl in the rigging x the double charge xi the story of the castaway xii busy izzy in a new aspect xiii crab proves to be of the hardshell variety xiv the tragic incident in a fishing excursion xv tom cameron to the rescue xvi ruth's secret xvii what was in the newspaper xviii another night adventure xix the goblins' gambol xx "whar's my jane ann?" xxi crab makes his demand xxii thimble island xxiii marooned xxiv plucky mother purling xxv what jane ann wanted ruth fielding at lighthouse point chapter i an initiation a brown dusk filled the long room, for although the windows were shrouded thickly and no lamp burned, some small ray of light percolated from without and made dimly visible the outlines of the company there gathered. the low, quavering notes of an organ sighed through the place. there was the rustle and movement of a crowd. to the neophyte, who had been brought into the hall with eyes bandaged, it all seemed very mysterious and awe-inspiring. now she was set in a raised place and felt that before her was the company of masked and shrouded figures, in scarlet dominoes like those worn by the two guards who had brought her from the anteroom. the bandage was whisked from her eyes; but she could see nothing of her surroundings, nor of the company before which she stood. "candidate!" spoke a hollow, mysterious voice somewhere in the gloom, yet sounding so close to her ear that she started. "candidate! you stand before the membership body of the s. b.'s. you are as yet unknown to them and they unknown to you. if you enter the secret association of the s. b.'s you must throw off and despise forever all ties of a like character. do you agree?" the candidate obeyed, in so far as she prodded her sharply in the ribs and a shrill voice whispered: "say you do--gump!" the candidate obeyed, in so far as she proclaimed that she did, at least. "it is an oath," went on the sepulchral voice. "remember!" in chorus the assembly immediately repeated, "remember!" in solemn tones. "candidate!" repeated the leading voice, "you have been taught the leading object of our existence as a society. what is it?" without hesitation now, the candidate replied: "helpfulness." "it is right. and now, what do our initials stand for?" "sweetbriar," replied the shaking voice of the candidate. "true. that is what our initials stand for to the world at large--to those who are not initiated into the mysteries of the s. b.'s. but those letters may stand for many things and it is my privilege to explain to you now that they likewise are to remind us all of two virtues that each sweetbriar is expected to practice--to be sincere and to befriend. remember! sincerity--befriend. remember!" again the chorus of mysterious voices chanted: "remember!" "and now let the light shine upon the face of the candidate, that the shrouded sisterhood may know her where'er they meet her. once! twice! thrice! light!" at the cry the ray of a spot-light flashed out of the gloom at the far end of the long room and played glaringly upon the face and figure of the candidate. she herself was more blinded by the glare than she had been by the bandage. there was a rustle and movement in the room, and the leading voice went on: "sisters! the novice is now revealed to us all. she has now entered into the outer circle of the sweetbriars. let her know us, where'er she meets us, by our rallying cry. once! twice! thrice! _now!_" instantly, and in unison, the members chanted the following "yell": "s. b.--ah-h-h! s. b.--ah-h-h! sound our battle-cry near and far! s. b.--all! briarwood hall! sweetbriars, do or die-- this be our battle-cry-- briarwood hall! _that's all!_" with the final word the spot-light winked out and the other lights of the hall flashed on. the assembly of hooded and shrouded figures were revealed. and helen cameron, half smiling and half crying, found herself standing upon the platform before her schoolmates who had already joined the secret fraternity known as "the sweetbriars." beside her, and presiding over the meeting, she found her oldest and dearest friend at briarwood hall--ruth fielding. a small megaphone stood upon the table at ruth's hand, and its use had precluded helen's recognition of her chum's voice as the latter led in the ritual of the fraternity. like their leader, the other sweetbriars had thrown back their scarlet hoods, and helen recognized almost all of the particular friends with whom she had become associated since she had come--with ruth fielding--the autumn before to briarwood hall. the turning on of the lights was the signal for general conversation and great merriment. it was the evening of the last day but one of the school year, and discipline at briarwood hall was relaxed to a degree. however, the fraternity of the sweetbriars had grown in favor with mrs. grace tellingham, the preceptress of the school, and with the teachers, since its inception. now the fifty or more girls belonging to the society (fully a quarter of the school membership) paired off to march down to the dining hall, where a special collation was spread. helen cameron went down arm-in-arm with the president of the s. b.'s. "oh, ruthie!" the new member exclaimed, "i think it's ever so nice--much better than the initiation of the old upedes. i can talk about them now," and she laughed, "because they are--as tommy says--'busted all to flinders.' haven't held a meeting for more than a month, and the last time--whisper! this is a secret, and i guess the last remaining secret of the upedes--there were only the fox and i there!" "i'm glad you're one of us at last, helen," said ruth fielding, squeezing her chum as they went down the stairs. "and i ought to have been an original member along with you, ruth," said helen, thoughtfully. "the up and doing club hadn't half the attractiveness that your society has----" "don't call it _my_ society. we don't want any one-girl club. that was the trouble with the up and doings--just as 'too much faculty' is the objection to the forward club." "oh, i detest the fussy curls just as much as ever," declared helen, quickly, "although madge steele _is_ president." "well, we 'infants,' as they called us last fall when we entered briarwood, are in control of the s. b.'s, and we can help each other," said ruth, with satisfaction. "but you talk about the upedes being a one-girl club. i know the fox was all-in-all in that. but you're pretty near the whole thing in the s. b.'s, ruthie," and helen laughed, slily. "why, they say you wrote all the ritual and planned everything." "never mind," said ruth, calmly; "we can't have a dictator in the s. b.'s without changing the constitution. the same girl can't be president for more than one year." "but you deserve to boss it all," said her chum, warmly. "and i for one wouldn't mind if you did." helen was a very impulsive, enthusiastic girl. when she and ruth fielding had come to briarwood hall she had immediately taken up with a lively and thoughtless set of girls who had banded themselves into the up and doing club, and whose leader was mary cox, called "the fox," because of her shrewdness. ruth had not cared for this particular society and, in time, she and most of the other new pupils formed the sweetbriar club. helen cameron, loyal to her first friends at the school, had not fallen away from mary cox and joined the sweetbriars until this very evening, which was, as we have seen, the evening before the final day of the school year. ruth fielding took the head of the table when the girls sat down to supper and the other officers of the club sat beside her. helen was therefore separated from her, and when the party broke up late in the evening (the curfew bell at nine o'clock was abolished for this one night) the chums started for their room in the west dormitory at different times. ruth went with mercy curtis, who was lame; outside the dining hall helen chanced to meet mary cox, who had been calling on some party in the east dormitory building. "hello, cameron!" exclaimed the fox. "so you've finally been roped in by the 'soft babies' have you? i thought that chum of yours--fielding--would manage to get you hobbled and tied before vacation." "you can't say i wasn't loyal to the upedes as long as there was any society to be loyal to," said helen, quickly, and with a flush. "oh, well; you'll be going down to heavy's seashore cottage with them now, i suppose?" said the fox, still watching helen curiously. "why, of course! i intended to before," returned the younger girl. "we all agreed about that last winter when we were at snow camp." "oh, you did, eh?" laughed the other. "well, if you hadn't joined the soft babies you wouldn't have been 'axed,' when it came time to go. this is going to be an s. b. frolic. your nice little ruth fielding says she won't go if heavy invites any but her precious sweetbriars to be of the party." "i don't believe it, mary cox!" cried helen. "i mean, that _you_ must be misinformed. somebody has maligned ruth." "humph! maybe, but it doesn't look like it. who is going to lighthouse point?" demanded the fox, carelessly. "madge steele, for although she is president of the fussy curls, she is likewise honorary member of the s. b.'s." "that is so," admitted helen. "heavy, herself," pursued mary cox, "belle and lluella, who have all backslid from the upedes, and yourself." "but you've been invited," said helen, quickly. "not much. i tell you, if you and belle and lluella had not joined her s. b.'s you wouldn't have been numbered among heavy's house party. don't fool yourself on that score," and with another unpleasant laugh, the older girl walked on and left helen in a much perturbed state of mind. chapter ii the fox at work ruth fielding, after the death of her parents, when she was quite a young girl, had come from darrowtown to live with her mother's uncle at the red mill, on the lumano river near cheslow, as was related in the first volume of this series, entitled, "ruth fielding of the red mill; or, jasper parloe's secret." ruth had found uncle jabez very hard to get along with at first, for he was a miser, and his kinder nature seemed to have been crusted over by years of hoarding and selfishness. but through a happy turn of circumstances ruth was enabled to get at the heart of her crotchety uncle, and when ruth's very dear friend, helen cameron, planned to go to boarding school, uncle jabez was won over to sending ruth with her. the fun and work of that first half at school are related in the second volume of the series, entitled "ruth fielding at briarwood hall; or, solving the campus mystery." in the third volume of the series, "ruth fielding at snow camp; or, lost in the backwoods," ruth and some of her school friends spend a part of the mid-winter vacation at mr. cameron's hunting lodge in the big woods, where they enjoy many winter sports and have adventures galore. ruth and helen occupied a "duo" room on the second floor of the west dormitory; but when mercy curtis, the lame girl, had come to briarwood in the middle of the first term, the chums had taken her in with them, the occupants of that particular study being known thereafter among the girls of briarwood as the triumvirate. helen, when deserted by the fox, who, from that first day at briarwood hall, had shown herself to be jealous of ruth fielding, for some reason, went slowly up to her room and found ruth and mercy there before her. there was likewise a stout, doll-faced, jolly girl with them, known to the other girls as "heavy," but rightly owning the name of jennie stone. "here she is now!" cried this latter, on helen's appearance. "'the candidate will now advance and say her a-b-abs!' you looked scared to death when they shot you with the lime-light. i was chewing a caramel when they initiated me, and i swallowed it whole, and pretty near choked, when the spot-light was turned on." mercy, who was a very sharp girl indeed, was looking at helen slily. she saw that something had occasioned their friend annoyance. "what's happened to you since we came from the supper, helen?" she asked. "indigestion!" gasped heavy. "i've some pepsin tablets in my room. want one, nell?" "no. i am all right," declared helen. "well, we were just waiting for you to come in," the stout girl said. "maybe we'll all be so busy to-morrow that we won't have time to talk about it. so we must plan for the lighthouse point campaign now." "oh!" said helen, slowly. "so you can make up your party now?" "of course! why, we really made it up last winter; didn't we?" laughed heavy. "but we didn't know whether we could go or not then," ruth fielding said. "you didn't know whether _i_ could go, i suppose you mean?" suggested helen. "why--not particularly," responded ruth, in some wonder at her chum's tone. "i supposed you and tom would go. your father so seldom refuses you anything." "oh!" "i didn't know how uncle jabez would look at it," pursued ruth. "but i wrote him a while ago and told him you and mercy were going to accept jennie's invite, and he said i could go to lighthouse point, too." "oh!" said helen again. "you didn't wait until i joined the s. b.'s, then, to decide whether you would accept heavy's invitation, or not?" "of course not!" "how ridiculous!" cried heavy. "well, it's to be a sweetbriar frolic; isn't it, heavy?" asked helen, calmly. "no. madge and bob steele are going. and your brother tom," chuckled the stout girl. "and perhaps that isadore phelps. you wouldn't call busy izzy a sweetbriar; would you?" "i don't mean the boys," returned helen, with some coolness. suddenly mercy curtis, her head on one side and her thin little face twisted into a most knowing grimace, interrupted. "i know what this means!" she exclaimed. "what do _you_ mean, goody two-sticks?" demanded ruth, kindly. "our helen has a grouch." "nonsense!" muttered helen, flushing again. "i thought something didn't fit her when she came in," said heavy, calmly. "but i thought it was indigestion." "what _is_ the matter, helen?" asked ruth fielding in wonder. "'fee, fi, fo fum! i see the negro run!'--into the woodpile!" ejaculated the lame girl, in her biting way. "i know what is the matter with queen helen of troy. she's been with the fox." ruth and heavy stared at mercy in surprise; but helen turned her head aside. "that's the answer!" chuckled the shrewd little creature. "i saw them walk off together after supper. and the fox has been trying to make trouble--same as usual." "mary cox! why, that's impossible," said heavy, good-naturedly. "she wouldn't say anything to make helen feel bad." mercy darted an accusing fore-finger at helen, and still kept her eyes screwed up. "i dare you to tell! i dare you to tell!" she cried in a singsong voice. helen had to laugh at last. "well, mary cox said you had decided to have none but sweetbriars at the cottage on the beach, heavy." "lot she knows about it," grunted the stout girl. "why, heavy asked her to go; didn't she?" cried ruth. "well, that was last winter. i didn't press her," admitted the stout girl. "but she's your roommate, like belle and lluella," said ruth, in some heat. "of course you've got to ask her." "don't you do it. she's a spoil-sport," declared mercy curtis, in her sharp way. "the fox will keep us all in hot water." "do be still, mercy!" cried ruth. "this is heavy's own affair. and mary cox has been her roommate ever since she's been at briarwood." "i don't know that belle and lluella can go with us," said the stout girl, slowly. "the fright they got up in the woods last winter scared their mothers. i guess they think i'm too reckless. sort of wild, you know," and the stout girl's smile broadened. "but you intended inviting mary cox?" demanded ruth, steadily. "yes. i said something about it to her. but she wouldn't give me a decided answer then." "ask her again." "don't you do it!" exclaimed mercy, sharply. "i mean it, jennie," ruth said. "i can't please both of you," said the good-natured stout girl. "please me. mercy doesn't mean what she says. if mary cox thinks that i am opposed to your having her at lighthouse point, i shall be offended if you do not immediately insist upon her being one of the party." "and that'll suit the fox right down to the ground," exclaimed mercy. "that is what she was fishing for when she got at helen to-night." "did _i_ say she said anything about lighthouse point?" quickly responded helen. "you didn't have to," rejoined mercy, sharply. "we knew." "at least," ruth said to heavy, quietly, yet with decision, "you will ask your old friend to go?" "why--if you don't mind." "there seems to have been some truth in mary's supposition, then," ruth said, sadly. "she thinks i intended to keep her out of a good time. i never thought of such a thing. if mary cox does not accept your invitation, heavy, i shall be greatly disappointed. indeed, i shall be tempted to decline to go to the shore with you. now, remember that, jennie stone." "oh, shucks! you're making too much fuss about it," said the stout girl, rising lazily, and speaking in her usual drawling manner. "of course i'll have her--if she'll go. father's bungalow is big enough, goodness knows. and we'll have lots of fun there." she went her leisurely way to the door. had she been brisker of movement, when she turned the knob she would have found mary cox with her ear at the keyhole, drinking in all that had been said in the room of the triumvirate. but the fox was as swift of foot as she was shrewd and sly of mind. she was out of sight and hearing when jennie stone came out into the corridor. chapter iii on lake osago the final day of the school year was always a gala occasion at briarwood hall. although ruth fielding and her chum, helen cameron, had finished only their first year, they both had important places in the exercises of graduation. ruth sang in the special chorus, while helen played the violin in the school orchestra. twenty-four girls were in the graduating class. briarwood hall prepared for wellesley, or any of the other female colleges, and when mrs. grace tellingham, the preceptress, graduated a girl with a certificate it meant that the young lady was well grounded in all the branches that briarwood taught. the campus was crowded with friends of the graduating class, and of the seniors in particular. it was a very gay scene, for the june day was perfect and the company were brightly dressed. the girls, however, including the graduating class, were dressed in white only. mrs. tellingham had established that custom some years before, and the different classes were distinguished only by the color of their ribbons. helen cameron's twin brother, tom, and madge steele's brother, bob, attended the seven oaks military academy, not many miles from briarwood. their graduation exercises and "breaking up," as the boys called it, were one day later than the same exercises at briarwood. so the girls did not start for home until the morning of the latter day. old dolliver, the stage driver, brought his lumbering stage to the end of the cedar walk at nine o'clock, to which point tony foyle, the man-of-all-work, had wheeled the girls' baggage. ruth, and helen, and mercy curtis had bidden their room good-bye and then made the round of the teachers before this hour. they gathered here to await the stage with jennie stone, madge and mary cox. the latter had agreed to be one of the party at lighthouse point and was going home with heavy to remain during the ensuing week, before the seashore party should be made up. the seven girls comfortably filled the stage, with their hand luggage, while the trunks and suitcases in the boot and roped upon the roof made the ark seem top-heavy. there was a crowd of belated pupils, and those who lived in the neighborhood, to see them off, and the coach finally rolled away to the famous tune of "uncle noah, he built an ark," wherein madge steele put her head out of the window and "lined out" a new verse to the assembled "well-wishers": "and they didn't know where they were at, one wide river to cross! till the sweetbriars showed 'em that! one wide river to cross! one wide river! one wide river of jordan-- one wide river! one wide river to cross!" for although madge steele was now president of the forward club, a much older school fraternity than the sweetbriars, she was, like mrs. tellingham, and miss picolet, the french teacher, and others of the faculty, an honorary member of the society started by ruth fielding. the sweetbriars, less than one school year old, was fast becoming the most popular organization at briarwood hall. mary cox did not join in the singing, nor did she have a word to say to ruth during the ride to the seven oaks station. tom and bob, with lively, inquisitive, harum-scarum isadore phelps--"busy izzy," as his mates called him--were at the station to meet the party from briarwood hall. tom was a dark-skinned, handsome lad, while bob was big, and flaxen-haired, and bashful. madge, his sister, called him "sonny" and made believe he was at the pinafore stage of growth instead of being almost six feet tall and big in proportion. "here's the dear little fellow!" she cried, jumping lightly out to be hugged by the big fellow. "let sister see how he's grown since new year's. why, we'd hardly have known our bobbins; would we, ruthie? let me fix your tie--it's under your ear, of course. now, that's a neat little boy. you can shake hands with ruthie, and helen, and mary, and jennie, and mercy curtis--and help uncle noah get off the trunks." the three boys, being all of the freshman class at seven oaks, had less interest in the final exercises of the term at the academy than the girls had had at briarwood; therefore the whole party took a train that brought them to the landing at portageton, on osago lake, before noon. from that point the steamer _lanawaxa_ would transport them the length of the lake to another railroad over which the young folks must travel to reach cheslow. at this time of year the great lake was a beautiful sight. several lines of steamers plied upon it; the summer resorts on the many islands which dotted it, and upon the shores of the mainland, were gay with flags and banners; the sail up the lake promised to be a most delightful one. and it would have been so--delightful for the whole party--had it not been for a single member. the fox could not get over her unfriendly feeling, although ruth fielding gave her no cause at all. ruth tried to talk to mary, at first; but finding the older girl determined to be unpleasant, she let her alone. on the boat the three boys gathered camp-chairs for the party up forward, and their pocket money went for candy and other goodies with which to treat their sisters and the latter's friends. there were not many people aboard the _lanawaxa_ on this trip and the young folks going home from school had the forward upper deck to themselves. there was a stiff breeze blowing that drove the other passengers into the inclosed cabins. but the girls and their escorts were in high spirits. as madge steele declared, "they had slipped the scholastic collar for ten long weeks." "and if we can't find a plenty of fun in that time it's our own fault," observed heavy--having some trouble with her articulation because of the candy in her mouth. "thanks be to goodness! no rising bell--no curfew--no getting anywhere at any particular time. oh, i'm just going to lie in the sand all day, when we get to the point----" "and have your meals brought to you, heavy?" queried ruth, slily. "never you mind about the meals, miss. mammy laura's going down with us to cook, and if there's one thing mammy laura loves to do, it's to cook messes for me--and bring them to me. she's always been afraid that my health was delicate and that i needed more nourishing food than the rest of the family. such custards! um! um!" "do go down and see if there is anything left on the lunch counter, boys," begged helen, anxiously. "otherwise we won't get heavy home alive." "i _am_ a little bit hungry, having had no dinner," admitted the stout girl, reflectively. the boys went off, laughing. "she's so feeble!" cried mary cox, pinching the stout girl. "we never should travel with her alone. there ought to be a trained nurse and a physician along. i'm worried to death about her----" "ouch! stop your pinching!" commanded jennie, and rose up rather suddenly, for her, to give chase to her tormentor. the fox was as quick as a cat, and heavy was lubberly in her movements. the lighter girl, laughing shrilly, ran forward and vaulted over the low rail that separated the awning-covered upper deck from the unrailed roof of the lower deck forward. "you'd better come back from there!" ruth cried, instantly. "it's wet and slippery." the fox turned on her instantly, her face flushed and her eyes snapping. "mind your business, miss!" she cried, stamping her foot. "i can look out----" her foot slipped. heavy thoughtlessly laughed. none of them really thought of danger save ruth. but mary cox lost her foothold, slid toward the edge of the sloping deck, and the next instant, as the _lanawaxa_ plunged a little sideways (for the sharp breeze had raised quite a little sea) the fox shot over the brink of the deck and, with a scream, disappeared feet-first into the lake. it all happened so quickly that nobody but the group of girls on the forward deck had seen the accident. and madge, heavy and helen were all helpless--so frightened that they could only cry out. "she can't swim!" gasped helen. "she'll be drowned." "the paddle-wheel will hit her!" added madge. "oh! where are those useless boys?" demanded the stout girl. "they're never around when they could be of use." but ruth said never a word. the emergency appealed to her quite as seriously as it did to her friends. but she knew that if mary cox was to be saved they must act at once. she flung off her cap and light outside coat. she wore only canvas shoes, and easily kicked them off and ran, in her stocking-feet, toward the paddle-box. onto this she climbed by the short ladder and sprang out upon its top just as the fox came up after her plunge. by great good fortune the imperiled girl had been carried beyond the paddles. but the _lanawaxa_ was steaming swiftly past the girl in the water. ruth knew very well that mary cox could not swim. she was one of the few girls at briarwood who had been unable to learn that accomplishment, under the school instructor, in the gymnasium pool. whereas ruth herself had taken to the art "like a duck to water." mary's face appeared but for a moment above the surface. ruth saw it, pale and despairing; then a wave washed over it and the girl disappeared for a second time. chapter iv trouble at the red mill the screams of the other girls had brought several of the male passengers as well as some of the boat's crew to the forward deck. mercy curtis, who had lain down in a stateroom to rest, drew back the blind and saw ruth poised on the wheel-box. "don't you do that, ruth fielding!" cried the lame girl, who knew instinctively what her friend's intention was. but ruth paid no more attention to her than she had to the other girls. she was wearing a heavy serge skirt, and she knew it would hamper her in the water. with nimble fingers she unfastened this and dropped it upon the deck. then, without an instant's hesitation, she sprang far out from the steamer, her body shooting straight down, feet-first, to the water. ruth was aware as she shot downward that tom cameron was at the rail over her head. the _lanawaxa_ swept by and he, having run astern, leaned over and shouted to her. she had a glimpse of something swinging out from the rail, too, and dropping after her into the lake, and as the water closed over her head she realized that he had thrown one of the lifebuoys. but deep as the water was, ruth had no fear for herself. she loved to swim and the instructor at briarwood had praised her skill. the only anxiety she had as she sank beneath the surface was for mary cox, who had already gone down twice. she had leaped into the lake near where the fox had disappeared. once beneath the surface, ruth opened her eyes and saw the shadow of somebody in the water ahead. three strokes brought her within reach of it. she seized mary cox by the hair, and although her school fellow was still sinking, ruth, with sturdy strokes, drew her up to the surface. what a blessing it was to obtain a draught of pure air! but the fox was unconscious, and ruth had to bear her weight up, while treading water, until she could dash the drops from her eyes. there was the lifebuoy not ten yards away. she struck out for it with one hand, while towing mary with the other. long before the steamer had been stopped and a boat lowered and manned, ruth and her burden reached the great ring, and the girls were comparatively safe. tom cameron came in the boat, having forced himself in with the crew, and it was he who hauled mary cox over the gunwale, and then aided ruth into the boat. "that's the second time you've saved that girl from drowning, ruth," he gasped. "the first time was last fall when you and i hauled her out of the hole in the ice on triton lake. and now she would have gone down and stayed down if you hadn't dived for her. now! don't you ever do it again!" concluded the excited lad. had ruth not been so breathless she must have laughed at him; but there really was a serious side to the adventure. mary cox did not recover her senses until after they were aboard the steamer. ruth was taken in hand by a stewardess, undressed and put between blankets, and her clothing dried and made presentable before the steamer docked at the head of the lake. as tom cameron had said, mary cox had fallen through the ice early in the previous winter, and ruth had aided in rescuing her; the fox had never even thanked the girl from the red mill for such aid. and now ruth shrank from meeting her and being thanked on this occasion. ruth had to admit to herself that she looked forward with less pleasure to the visit to the seashore with heavy because mary cox was to be of the party. she could not like the fox, and she really had ample reason. the other girls ran into the room where ruth was and reported when mary became conscious, and how the doctor said that she would never have come up to the surface again, she had taken so much water into her lungs, had not ruth grasped her. they had some difficulty in bringing the fox to her senses. "and aren't you the brave one, ruthie fielding!" cried heavy. "why, mary cox owes her life to you--she actually does _this_ time. before, when you and tom cameron helped her out of the water, she acted nasty about it----" "hush, jennie!" commanded ruth. "don't say another word about it. if i had not jumped into the lake after mary, somebody else would." "pshaw!" cried heavy, "you can't get out of it that way. and i'm glad it happened. now we _shall_ have a nice time at lighthouse point, for mary can't be anything but fond of you, child!" ruth, however, had her doubts. she remained in the stateroom as long as she could after the _lanawaxa_ docked. when she was dressed and came out on the deck the train that took heavy and the fox and the steeles and busy izzy home, had gone. the train to cheslow started a few minutes later. "come on, miss heroine!" said tom, grinning at her as she came out on the deck. "you needn't be afraid now. nobody will thank you. i didn't hear her say a grateful word myself--and i bet _you_ won't, either!" helen said nothing at all about the fox; but she looked grave. the former president of the upedes had influenced helen a great deal during this first year at boarding school. had ruth fielding been a less patient and less faithful chum, helen and she would have drifted apart. and perhaps an occasional sharp speech from mercy was what had served more particularly to show helen how she was drifting. now the lame girl observed: "the next time you see mary cox fall overboard, ruth, i hope you'll let her swallow the whole pond, and walk ashore without your help." "if your name _is_ 'mercy' you show none to either your friends or enemies; do you?" returned ruth, smiling. the girl from the red mill refused to discuss the matter further, and soon had them all talking upon a pleasanter theme. it was evening when they reached cheslow and mercy's father, of course, who was the station agent, and mr. cameron, were waiting for them. the big touring car belonging to the dry-goods merchant was waiting for the young folk, and after they had dropped mercy curtis at the little cottage on the by-street, the machine traveled swiftly across the railroad and out into the suburbs of the town. the red mill was five miles from the railroad station, while the camerons' fine home, "outlook," stood some distance beyond. before they had gotten out of town, however, the car was held up in front of a big house set some distance back from the road, and before which, on either side of the arched gateway, was a green lamp. the lamps were already lighted and as the cameron car came purring along the street, with helen herself under the steering wheel (for she had begged the privilege of running it home) a tall figure came hurrying out of the gateway, signaling them to stop. "it's doctor davison himself!" cried ruth, in some excitement. "and how are all the sweetbriars?" demanded the good old physician, their staunch friend and confidant. "ah, tom, my fine fellow! have they drilled that stoop out of your shoulders?" "we're all right, dr. davison--and awfully glad to see you," cried ruth, leaning out of the tonneau to shake hands with him. "ah! here's the sunshine of the red mill--and they're needing sunshine there, just now, i believe," said the doctor. "did you bring my goody two-sticks home all right?" "she's all right, doctor," helen assured him. "and so are we--only ruth's been in the lake." "in lake osago?" "yes, sir--and it was wet," tom told him, grinning. "i suppose she was trying to find that out," returned dr. davison. "did you get anything else out of it, ruthie fielding?" "a girl," replied ruth, rather tartly. "oh-ho! well, _that_ was something," began the doctor, when ruth stopped him with an abrupt question: "why do you say that they need me at home, sir?" "why--honey--they're always glad to have you there, i reckon," said the doctor, slowly. "uncle jabez and aunt alviry will both be glad to see you----" "there's trouble, sir; what is it?" asked ruth, gravely, leaning out of the car so as to speak into his ear. "there _is_ trouble; isn't there? what is it?" "i don't know that i can exactly tell you, ruthie," he replied, with gravity. "but it's there. you'll see it." "aunt alviry----" "is all right." "then it's uncle jabez?" "yes, my child. it is uncle jabez. what it is you will have to find out, i am afraid, for _i_ have not been able to," said the doctor, in a whisper. "maybe it is given to you, my dear, to straighten out the tangles at the red mill." he invited them all down to sample old mammy's cakes and lemonade the first pleasant afternoon, and then the car sped on. but ruth was silent. what she might find at the red mill troubled her. chapter v the tintacker mine it was too late to more than see the outlines of the mill and connecting buildings as the car rushed down the hill toward the river road, between which and the river itself, and standing on a knoll, the red mill was. ruth could imagine just how it looked--all in dull red paint and clean white trimmings. miserly as jabez potter was about many things, he always kept his property in excellent shape, and the mill and farmhouse, with the adjoining outbuildings, were painted every spring. a lamp burned in the kitchen; but all else was dark about the place. "don't look very lively, ruth," said tom. "i don't believe they expect you." but even as he spoke the door opened, and a broad beam of yellow lamplight shot out across the porch and down the path. a little, bent figure was silhouetted in the glow. "there's aunt alviry!" cried ruth, in delight. "i know _she's_ all right." "all excepting her back and her bones," whispered helen. "now, ruthie! don't you let anything happen to veto our trip to heavy's seaside cottage." "oh! don't suggest such a thing!" cried her brother. but ruth ran up the path after bidding them good-night, with her heart fast beating. dr. davison's warning had prepared her for almost any untoward happening. but aunt alvirah only looked delighted to see the girl as ruth ran into her arms. aunt alvirah was a friendless old woman whose latter years would have been spent at the cheslow almshouse had not jabez potter taken her to keep house for him more than ten years before. ill-natured people said that the miller had done this to save paying a housekeeper; but in aunt alvirah's opinion it was an instance of mr. potter's kindness of heart. "you pretty creetur!" cried aunt alvirah, hugging ruth close to her. "and how you've growed! what a smart girl you are getting to be! deary, deary me! how i have longed for you to git back, ruthie. come in! come in! oh, my back and oh, my bones!" she complained, under her breath, as she hobbled into the house. "how's the rheumatics, aunty?" asked ruth. "just the same, deary. up one day, and down the next. allus will be so, i reckon. i'd be too proud to live if i didn't have my aches and pains--oh, my back and oh, my bones!" as she lowered herself into her rocker. "where's uncle jabez?" cried ruth. "sh!" admonished aunt alvirah. "don't holler, child. you'll disturb him." "not _sick?_" whispered ruth, in amazement. "no--o. not sick o' body, i reckon, child," returned aunt alvirah. "what _is_ it, aunt alviry? what's the matter with him?" pursued the girl, anxiously. "he's sick o' soul, i reckon," whispered the old woman. "sumpin's gone wrong with him. you know how jabez is. it's money matters." "oh, has he been robbed again?" cried ruth. "sh! not jest like that. not like what jasper parloe did to him. but it's jest as bad for jabez, i reckon. anyway, he takes it jest as hard as he did when his cash-box was lost that time. but you know how close-mouthed he is, ruthie. he won't talk about it." "about _what?_" demanded ruth, earnestly. aunt alvirah rose with difficulty from her chair and, with her usual murmured complaint of "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" went to the door which led to the passage. off this passage uncle jabez's room opened. she closed the door and hobbled back to her chair, but halted before sitting down. "i never thought to ask ye, deary," she said. "ye must be very hungry. ye ain't had no supper." "you sit right down there and keep still," said ruth, smiling as she removed her coat. "i guess i can find something to eat." "well, there's cocoa. you make you a warm drink. there's plenty of pie and cake--and there's eggs and ham if you want them." "don't you fret about me," repeated ruth. "what makes you so mussed up?" demanded aunt alvirah, the next moment. "why, ruth fielding! have you been in the water?" "yes, ma'am. but you know water doesn't hurt me." "dear child! how reckless you are! did you fall in the lake?" "no, aunty. i jumped in," returned the girl, and then told her briefly about her adventure on the _lanawaxa_. "goodness me! goodness me!" exclaimed aunt alvirah. "whatever would your uncle say if he knew about it?" "and what is the matter with uncle jabez?" demanded ruth, sitting down at the end of the table to eat her "bite." "you haven't told me that." "i 'lowed to do so," sighed the old woman. "but i don't want him to hear us a-gossipin' about it. you know how jabez is. i dunno as he knows _i_ know what i know----" "that sounds just like a riddle, aunt alvirah!" laughed ruth. "and i reckon it _is_ a riddle," she said. "i only know from piecin' this, that, and t'other together; but i reckon i fin'ly got it pretty straight about the tintacker mine--and your uncle's lost a power o' money by it, ruthie." "what's the tintacker mine?" demanded ruth, in wonder. "it's a silver mine. i dunno where it is, 'ceptin' it's fur out west and that your uncle put a lot of money into it and he can't git it out." "why not?" "'cause it's busted, i reckon." "the mine's 'busted'" repeated the puzzled ruth. "yes. or so i s'pect. i'll tell ye how it come about. the feller come along here not long after you went to school last fall, ruthie." "what fellow?" asked ruth, trying to get at the meat in the nut, for aunt alvirah was very discursive. "now, you lemme tell it my own way, ruthie," admonished the old woman. "you would better," and the girl laughed, and nodded. "it was one day when i was sweepin' the sittin' room--ye know, what mercy curtis had for her bedroom while she was out here last summer." ruth nodded again encouragingly, and the little old woman went on in her usual rambling way: "i was a-sweepin', as i say, and jabez come by and put his head in at the winder. 'that's too hard for ye, alviry,' says he. 'let the dust be--it ain't eatin' nothin'.' jest like a man, ye know! "'well,' says i, 'if i didn't sweep onc't in a while, jabez, we'd be wadin' to our boot-tops in dirt.' like that, ye know, ruthie. and he says, 'they hev things nowadays for suckin' up the dirt, instead of kickin' it up that-a-way,' and with that a voice says right in the yard, 'you're right there, mister. an' i got one of 'em here to sell ye.' "there was a young feller in the yard with a funny lookin' rig-a-ma-jig in his hand, and his hat on the back of his head, and lookin' jest as busy as a toad that's swallered a hornet. my! you wouldn't think that feller had a minnit ter stay, the way he acted. scurcely had time to sell jabez one of them 'vac-o-jacs,' as he called 'em." "a vacuum cleaner!" exclaimed ruth. "that's something like it. only it was like a carpet-sweeper, too. i seen pitchers of 'em in the back of a magazine onc't. i never b'lieved they was for more'n ornament; but that spry young feller come in and worked it for me, and he sucked up the dust out o' that ingrain carpet till ye couldn't beat a particle out o' it with an ox-goad! "but i didn't seem ter favor that vac-o-jac none," continued aunt alvirah. "ye know how close-grained yer uncle is. i don't expect him ter buy no fancy fixin's for an ol' creetur like me. but at noon time he come in and set one o' the machines in the corner." "he bought it!" cried ruth. "that's what he done. he says, 'alviry, ef it's any good to ye, there it is! i calkerlate that's a smart young man. he got five dollars out o' me easier than _i_ ever got five dollars out of a man in all my days.' "i tell ye truthful, ruthie! i can't use it by myself. it works too hard for anybody that's got my back and bones. but ben, he comes in once in a while and works it for me. i reckon your uncle sends him." "but, aunt alviry!" cried ruth. "what about the tintacker mine? you haven't told me a thing about _that_." "but i'm a-comin' to it," declared the old woman. "it's all of a piece--that and the vac-o-jac. i seen the same young feller that sold jabez the sweeper hangin' about the mill a good bit. and nights jabez figgered up his accounts and counted his money till 'way long past midnight sometimes. bimeby he says to me, one day: "'alviry, that vac-o-jac works all right; don't it?' "i didn't want to tell him it was hard to work, and it does take up the dirt, so i says 'yes.' "'then i reckon i'll give the boy the benefit of the doubt, and say he's honest,' says jabez. "i didn't know what he meant, and i didn't ask. 'twouldn't be _my_ place ter ask jabez potter his business--you know that, ruthie. so i jest watched and in a day or two back come the young sweeper feller again, and we had him to dinner. this was long before thanksgivin'. they sat at the table after dinner and i heard 'em talking about the mine." "ah-ha!" exclaimed ruth, with a smile. "now we come to the mine, do we?" "i told you it was all of a piece," said aunt alvirah, complacently. "well, it seemed that the boy's father--this agent warn't more than a boy, but maybe he was a sharper, jest the same--the boy's father and another man found the mine. prospected for it, did they say?" "that is probably the word," agreed ruth, much interested. "well, anyhow, they found it and got out some silver. then the boy's father bought out the other man. then he stopped finding silver in it. and then he died, and left the mine to his folks. but the boy went out there and rummaged around the mine and found that there was still plenty of silver, only it had to be treated--or put through something--a pro--a prospect----" "process?" suggested ruth. "that's it, deary. some process to refine the silver, or git it out of the ore, or something. it was all about chemicals and machinery, and all that. your uncle jabez seemed to understand it, but it was all dutch to me," declared aunt alvirah. "well, what happened?" "why," continued the old woman, "the tintacker mine, as the feller called it, couldn't be made to pay without machinery being bought, and all that. he had to take in a partner, he said. and i jedge your uncle jabez bought into the mine. now, for all i kin hear, there ain't no mine, or no silver, or no nothin'. leastwise, the young feller can't be heard from, and jabez has lost his money--and a big sum it is, ruthie. it's hurt him so that he's got smaller and smaller than ever. begrudges the very vittles we have on the table, i believe. i'm afraid, deary, that unless there's a change he won't want you to keep on at that school you're going to, it's so expensive," and aunt alvirah gathered the startled girl into her arms and rocked her to and fro on her bosom. "that's what i was comin' to, deary," she sobbed. "i had ter tell ye; he told me i must. ye can't go back to briarwood, ruthie, when it comes fall." chapter vi uncle jabez at his worst it was true that mr. potter had promised ruth only one year at school. the miller considered he owed his grand-niece something for finding and restoring to him his cash-box which he had lost, and which contained considerable money and the stocks and bonds in which he had invested. jabez potter prided himself on being strictly honest. he was just according to his own notion. he owed ruth something for what she had done--something more than her "board and keep"--and he had paid the debt. or, so he considered. there had been a time when uncle jabez seemed to be less miserly. his hard old heart had warmed toward his niece--or, so ruth believed. and he had taken a deep interest--for him--in mercy curtis, the lame girl. ruth knew that uncle jabez and dr. davison together had made it possible for mercy to attend briarwood hall. of course, uncle jabez would cut off that charity as well, and the few tears ruth cried that night after she went to bed were as much for mercy's disappointment as for her own. "but maybe dr. davison will assume the entire cost of keeping mercy at school," thought the girl of the red mill. "or, perhaps, mr. curtis may have paid the debts he contracted while mercy was so ill, and will be able to help pay her expenses at briarwood." but about herself she could have no such hope. she knew that the cost of her schooling had been considerable. nor had uncle jabez, been niggardly with her about expenditures. he had given her a ten-dollar bill for spending money at the beginning of each half; and twice during the school year had sent her an extra five-dollar bill. her board and tuition for the year had cost over three hundred dollars; it would cost more the coming year. if uncle jabez had actually lost money in this tintacker mine ruth could be sure that he meant what he had left to aunt alvirah to tell her. he would not pay for another school year. but ruth was a persevering little body and she came of determined folk. she had continued at the district school when the circumstances were much against her. now, having had a taste of briarwood for one year, she was the more anxious to keep on for three years more. besides, there was the vision of college beyond! she knew that if she remained at home, all she could look forward to was to take aunt alvirah's place as her uncle's housekeeper. she would have no chance to get ahead in life. life at the red mill seemed a very narrow outlook indeed. ruth meant to get an education. somehow (there were ten long weeks of summer vacation before her) she must think up a scheme for earning the money necessary to pay for her second year's tuition. three hundred and fifty dollars! that was a great, great sum for a girl of ruth fielding's years to attempt to earn. how should she "begin to go about it"? it looked an impossible task. but ruth possessed a fund of good sense. she was practical, if imaginative, and she was just sanguine enough to keep her temper sweet. lying awake and worrying over it wasn't going to do her a bit of good; she knew that. therefore she did not indulge herself long, but wiped away her tears, snuggled down into the pillow, and dropped asleep. in the morning she saw uncle jabez when she came down stairs. the stove smoked and he was growling about it. "good morning, uncle!" she cried and ran to him and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him--whether he would be kissed, or not! "there! there! so you're home; are you?" he growled. ruth was glad to notice that he called it her _home_. she knew that he did not want a word to be said about what aunt alvirah had told her over night, and she set about smoothing matters over in her usual way. "you go on and 'tend to your outside chores, uncle," she commanded. "i'll build this fire in a jiffy." "huh! i reckon you've forgotten how to build a kitchen fire--livin' so long in a steam-heated room," he grunted. "now, don't you believe that!" she assured him, and running out to the shed for a handful of fat-pine, or "lightwood," soon had the stove roaring comfortably. "what a comfort you be, my pretty creetur," sighed aunt alvirah, as she hobbled down stairs. "oh, my back and oh, my bones! this is going to be a _creaky day_. i feel the dampness." "don't you believe it, aunty!" cried the girl. "the sun's going to come out and drive away every atom of this mist. cheer up!" and she was that way all day; but deep down in her heart there was a very tender spot indeed, and in her mind the thought of giving up briarwood rankled like a barbed arrow. she would _not_ give it up if she could help. but how ever could she earn three hundred and fifty dollars? the idea seemed preposterous. aside from being with aunt alvirah, and helping her, ruth's homecoming was not at all as she had hoped it would be. uncle jabez was more taciturn than ever, it seemed to the girl. she could not break through the crust of his manner. if she followed him to the mill, he was too busy to talk, or the grinding-stones made so much noise that talking was impossible. at night he did not even remain in the kitchen to count up the day's gains and to study his accounts. instead, he retired with the cash-box and ledger to his own room. she found no opportunity of opening any discussion about briarwood, or about the mysterious tintacker mine, upon which subject aunt alvirah had been so voluble. if the old man had lost money in the scheme, he was determined to give her no information at first hand about it. at first she was doubtful whether she should go to lighthouse point. indeed, she was not sure that she _could_ go. she had no money. but before the week was out at dinner one day uncle jabez pushed a twenty-dollar bill across the table to her, and said: "i said ye should go down there to the seaside for a spell, ruth. make that money do ye," and before she could either thank him or refuse the money, uncle jabez stumped out of the house. in the afternoon helen drove over in the pony carriage to take ruth to town, so the latter could assure her chum that she would go to lighthouse point and be one of jennie stone's bungalow party. they called on dr. davison and the girl from the red mill managed to get a word in private with the first friend she had made on her arrival at cheslow (barring tom cameron's mastiff, reno) and told him of conditions as she had found them at home. "so, it looks as though i had got to make my own way through school, doctor, and it troubles me a whole lot," ruth said to the grave physician. "but what bothers me, too, is mercy----" "don't worry about goody two-sticks," returned the doctor, quickly. "your uncle served notice on me a week before you came home that he could not help to put her through briarwood beyond this term that is closed. i told him he needn't bother. sam curtis is in better shape than he was, and we'll manage to find the money to put that sharp little girl of his where she can get all the education she can possibly soak in. but you, ruth----" "i'm going to find a way, too," declared ruth, independently, yet secretly feeling much less confidence than she appeared to have. mercy was all ready for the seaside party when the girls called at the curtis cottage. the lame girl was in her summer house, sewing and singing softly to herself. she no longer glared at the children as they ran by, or shook her fist at them as she used to, because they could dance and she could not. on monday they would start for the shore, meeting heavy and the others on the train, and spending a good part of the day riding to lighthouse point. mr. cameron had exercised his influence with certain railroad officials and obtained a private car for the young folk. the cameron twins and ruth and mercy would get aboard the car at cheslow, and jennie stone and her other guests would join them at jennie's home town. between that day and the time of her departure ruth tried to get closer to uncle jabez; but the miller went about with lowering brow and scarcely spoke to either ruth or aunt alvirah. "it's jest as well ye air goin' away again so quick, my pretty," said the old woman, sadly. "when jabez gits one o' these moods on him there ain't nobody understands him so well as me. i don't mind if he don't speak. i talk right out loud what i have to say an' he can hear an' reply, or hear an' keep dumb, jest whichever he likes. they say 'hard words don't break no bones' an' sure enough bein' as dumb as an oyster ain't hurtin' none, either. you go 'long an' have your fun with your mates, ruthie. mebbe jabez will be over his grouch when you come back." but ruth was afraid that the miller would change but little unless there was first an emphatic betterment in the affairs of the tintacker mine. chapter vii the signal gun the train did not slow down for sandtown until after mid-afternoon, and when the party of young folk alighted from the private car there were still five miles of heavy roads between them and lighthouse point. it had been pleasant enough when ruth fielding and her companions left cheslow, far up in new york state; but now to the south and east the heavens were masked by heavy, lead-colored clouds, and the wind came from the sea in wild, rain-burdened gusts. "my! how sharp it is!" cried ruth. "and it's salt!" "the salt's in the air--especially when there is a storm at sea," explained heavy. "and i guess we've landed just in time to see a gale. i hope it won't last long and spoil our good time." "oh, but to see the ocean in a storm--that will be great!" cried madge steele. the stones' house had been open for some days and there were two wagons in readiness for the party. the three boys and the baggage went in one, while the five girls crowded into the other and both wagons were driven promptly toward the shore. the girls were just as eager as they could be, and chattered like magpies. all but mary cox. she had been much unlike her usual self all day. when she had joined the party in the private car that morning, ruth noticed that the fox looked unhappy. her eyes were swollen as though she had been weeping and she had very little to say. for one thing ruth was really thankful. the fox said nothing to her about the accident on the _lanawaxa_. she may have been grateful for ruth's timely assistance when she fell into lake osago; but she succeeded in effectually hiding her gratitude. heavy, however, confided to ruth that mary had found sore trouble at home when she returned from briarwood. her father had died the year before and left his business affairs in a tangle. mary's older brother, john, had left college and set about straightening out matters. and now something serious had happened to john. he had gone away on business and for weeks his mother had heard nothing from him. "i didn't know but mary would give up coming with us--just as lluella and belle did," said the stout girl. "but there is nothing she can do at home, and i urged her to come. we must all try to make it particularly pleasant for her." ruth was perfectly willing to do her share; but one can scarcely make it pleasant for a person who refuses to speak to one. and the girl from the red mill could not help feeling that the fox had done her best to make _her_ withdraw from jennie stone's party. the sea was not in sight until the wagons had been driven more than half the distance to the stone bungalow. then, suddenly rounding a sandy hill, they saw the wide sweep of the ocean in the distance, and the small and quieter harbor on the inviting shore of which the bungalow was built. out upon the far point of this nearer sandy ridge was built the white shaft of the sokennet light. sokennet village lay upon the other side of the harbor. on this side a few summer homes had been erected, and beyond the lighthouse was a low, wind-swept building which heavy told the girls was the life saving station. "we'll have lots of fun down there. cap'n abinadab cope is just the nicest old man you ever saw!" declared heavy. "and he can tell the most thrilling stories of wrecks along the coast. and there's the station 'day book' that records everything they do, from the number of pounds of coal and gallons of kerosene used each day, to how they save whole shiploads of people----" "let's ask him to save a shipload for our especial benefit," laughed madge. "i suppose there's only one wreck in fifteen or twenty years, hereabout." "nothing of the kind! sometimes there are a dozen in one winter. and lots of times the surfmen go off in a boat and save ships from being wrecked. in a fog, you know. ships get lost in a fog sometimes, just as folks get lost in a forest----" "or in a blizzard," cried helen, with a lively remembrance of their last winter's experience at snow camp. "nothing like that will happen here, you know," said ruth, laughing. "heavy promised that we shouldn't be lost in a snowstorm at lighthouse point." "but hear the sea roar!" murmured mary cox. "oh! look at the waves!" they had now come to where they could see the surf breaking over a ledge, or reef, off the shore some half-mile. the breakers piled up as high--seemingly--as a tall house; and when they burst upon the rock they completely hid it for the time. "did you ever see such a sight!" cried madge. "'the sea in its might'!" the gusts of rain came more plentifully as they rode on, and so rough did the wind become, the girls were rather glad when the wagons drove in at the gateway of the stone place. immediately around the house the owner had coaxed some grass to grow--at an expense, so jennie said, of about "a dollar a blade." but everywhere else was the sand--cream-colored, yellow, gray and drab, or slate where the water washed over it and left it glistening. the entrance was at the rear; the bungalow faced the cove, standing on a ridge which--as has been before said--continued far out to the lighthouse. "and a woman keeps the light. her husband kept it for many, many years; but he died a year ago and the government has continued her as keeper. she's a nice old lady, is mother purling, and she can tell stories, too, that will make your hair curl!" "i'm going over there right away," declared mary, who had begun to be her old self again. "mine is as straight as an indian's." "a woman alone in a lighthouse! isn't that great?" cried helen. "she is alone sometimes; but there is an assistant keeper. his name is crab--and that's what he is!" declared heavy. "oh, i can see right now that we're going to have great fun here," observed madge. this final conversation was carried on after the girls had run into the house for shelter from a sharp gust of rain, and had been taken upstairs by their hostess to the two big rooms in the front of the bungalow which they were to sleep in. from the windows they could see across the cove to the village and note all the fishing and pleasure boats bobbing at their moorings. right below them was a long dock built out from mr. stone's property, and behind it was moored a motor-launch, a catboat, and two rowboats--quite a little fleet. "you see, there isn't a sail in the harbor--nor outside. that shows that the storm now blowing up is bound to be a stiff one," explained heavy. "for the fishermen of sokennet are as daring as any on the coast, and i have often seen them run out to the banks into what looked to be the very teeth of a gale!" meanwhile, the boys had been shown to a good-sized room at the back of the house, and they were already down again and outside, breasting the intermittent squalls from the sea. they had no curls and furbelows to arrange, and ran all about the place before dinner time. but ere that time arrived the night had shut down. the storm clouds hung low and threatened a heavy rainfall at any moment. off on the horizon was a livid streak which seemed to divide the heavy ocean from the wind-thrashed clouds. the company that gathered about the dinner table was a lively one, even if the wind did shriek outside and the thunder of the surf kept up a continual accompaniment to their conversation--like the deeper notes of a mighty organ. mr. stone, himself, was not present; but one of heavy's young aunts had come down to oversee the party, and she was no wet blanket upon the fun. of course, the "goodies" on the table were many. trust heavy for that. the old black cook, who had been in the stone family for a generation, doted on the stout girl and would cook all day to please her young mistress. they had come to the dessert course when suddenly tom cameron half started from his chair and held up a hand for silence. "what's the matter, tommy?" demanded busy izzy, inquisitively. "what do you hear?" "listen!" commanded tom. the hilarity ceased suddenly, and all those at the table listened intently. the sudden hush made the noise of the elements seem greater. "what did you hear?" finally asked his sister. "a gun--there!" a distant, reverberating sound was repeated. they all heard it. heavy and her aunt, miss kate, glanced at each other with sudden comprehension. "what is it?" ruth cried. "it's a signal gun," heavy said, rather weakly. "a ship in distress," explained miss kate, and her tone hushed their clamor. a third time the report sounded. the dining room door opened and the butler entered. "what is it, maxwell?" asked miss kate. "a ship on the second reef, miss," he said hurriedly. "she was sighted just before dark, driving in. but it was plain that she was helpless, and had gone broadside on to the rock. she'll break up before morning, the fishermen say. it will be an awful wreck, ma'am, for there is no chance of the sea going down." chapter viii the lifeboat is launched the announcement quelled all the jollity of the party on the instant. heavy even lost interest in the sweetmeats before her. "goodness me! what a terrible thing," cried helen cameron. "a ship on the rocks!" "let's go see it!" busy izzy cried. "if we can," said tom. "is it possible, miss kate?" heavy's aunt looked at the butler for information. he was one of those well-trained servants who make it their business to know everything. "i can have the ponies put into the long buckboard. the young ladies can drive to the station; the young gentlemen can walk. it is not raining very hard at present." mercy elected to remain in the house with miss kate. the other girls were just as anxious to go to the beach as the boys. there were no timid ones in the party. but when they came down, dressed in rainy-weather garments, and saw the man standing at the ponies' heads, glistening in wet rubber, if one had withdrawn probably all would have given up the venture. the boys had already gone on ahead, and the ship's gun sounded mournfully through the wild night, at short intervals. they piled into the three seats of the buckboard, ruth sitting beside the driver. the ponies dashed away along the sandy road. it was two miles to the life saving station. they passed the three boys when they were only half way to their destination. "tell 'em not to save all the people from the wreck till we get there!" shouted tom cameron. none of the visitors to lighthouse point realized the seriousness of the happening as yet. they were yet to see for the first time a good ship battering her life out against the cruel rocks. nor did the girls see the wreck at first, for a pall of darkness lay upon the sea. there were lights in the station and a huge fire of driftwood burned on the beach. around this they saw figures moving, and heavy said, as she alighted: "we'll go right down there. there are some women and children already--see? sam will put the horses under the shed here." the five girls locked arms and ran around the station. when they came to the front of the building, a great door was wheeled back at one side and men in oilskins were seen moving about a boat in the shed. the lifeboat was on a truck and they were just getting ready to haul her down to the beach. "and the wreck must have struck nearly an hour ago!" cried madge. "how slow they are." "no," said heavy thoughtfully. "it is july now, and uncle sam doesn't believe there will be any wrecks along this coast until september. in the summer cap'n abinadab keeps the station alone. it took some time to-night to find a crew--and possibly some of these men are volunteers." but now that the life-savers had got on the ground, they went to work with a briskness and skill that impressed the onlookers. they tailed onto the drag rope and hauled the long, glistening white boat down to the very edge of the sea. the wind was directly onshore, and it was a fight to stand against it, let alone to haul such a heavy truck through the wet sand. suddenly there was a glow at sea and the gun boomed out again. then a pale signal light burned on the deck of the foundered vessel. as the light grew those ashore could see her lower rigging and the broken masts and spars. she lay over toward the shore and her deck seemed a snarl of lumber. between the reef and the beach, too, the water was a-foul with wreckage and planks of all sizes. "lumber-laden, boys--and her deck load's broke loose!" shouted one man. the surf roared in upon the sands, and then sucked out again with a whine which made ruth shudder. the sea seemed like some huge, ravening beast eager for its prey. "how can they ever launch the boat into those waves?" ruth asked of heavy. "oh, they know how," returned the stout girl. but the life-savers were in conference about their captain. he was a short, sturdy old man with a squarely trimmed "paint-brush" beard. the girls drew nearer to the group and heard one of the surfmen say: "we'll smash her, cap, sure as you're born! those planks are charging in like battering-rams." "we'll try it, mason," returned cap'n abinadab. "i don't believe we can shoot a line to her against this gale. ready!" the captain got in at the stern and the others took their places in the boat. each man had a cork belt strapped around his body under his arms. there were a dozen other men to launch the lifeboat into the surf when the captain gave the word. he stood up and watched the breakers rolling in. as a huge one curved over and broke in a smother of foam and spray he shouted some command which the helpers understood. the boat started, truck and all, and immediately the men launching her were waist deep in the surging, hissing sea. the returning billow carried the boat off the truck, and the lifeboatmen plunged in their oars and pulled. their short sharp strokes were in such unison that the men seemed moved by the same mind. the long boat shot away from the beach and mounted the incoming wave like a cork. the men ashore drew back the boat-truck out of the way. the lifeboat seemed to hang on that wave as though hesitating to take the plunge. ruth thought that it would be cast back--a wreck itself--upon the beach. but suddenly it again sprang forward, and the curling surf hid boat and men for a full minute from the gaze of those on shore. the girls clung together and gazed eagerly out into the shifting shadows that overspread the riotous sea. "they've sunk!" gasped helen. "no, no!" cried heavy. "there! see them?" the boat's bow rose to meet the next wave. they saw the men pulling as steadily as though the sea were smooth. old cap'n abinadab still stood upright in the stern, grasping the heavy steering oar. "i've read," said ruth, more quietly, "that these lifeboats are unsinkable--unless they are completely wrecked. water-tight compartments, you know." "that's right, miss," said one of the men nearby. "she can't sink. but she can be smashed--ah!" a shout came back to them from the sea. the wind whipped the cry past them in a most eerie fashion. "cap'n abinadab shouting to the men," explained heavy, breathlessly. suddenly another signal light was touched off upon the wreck. the growing light flickered over the entire expanse of lumber-littered sea between the reef and the beach. they could see the lifeboat more clearly. she rose and sank, rose and sank, upon wave after wave, all the time fighting her way out from the shore. again and again they heard the awesome cry. the captain was warning his men how to pull to escape the charging timbers. the next breaker that rolled in brought with it several great planks that were dashed upon the beach with fearful force. the splinters flew into the air, the wind whipping them across the sands. the anxious spectators had to dodge. the timbers ground together as the sea sucked them back. again and again they were rolled in the surf, splintering against each other savagely. "one of those would go through that boat like she was made of paper!" bawled one of the fishermen. at that moment they saw the lifeboat lifted upon another huge wave. she was a full cable's length from the shore, advancing very slowly. in the glare of the coston light the anxious spectators saw her swerve to port to escape a huge timber which charged upon her. the girls screamed. the great stick struck the lifeboat a glancing blow. in an instant she swung broadside to the waves, and then rolled over and over in the trough of the sea. a chorus of shouts and groans went up from the crowd on shore. the lifeboat and her courageous crew had disappeared. chapter ix the girl in the rigging "oh! isn't it awful!" cried helen, clinging to ruth fielding. "i wish i hadn't come." "they're lost!" quavered mary cox. "they're drowned!" but heavy was more practical. "they can't drown so easily--with those cork-vests on 'em. there! the boat's righted." it was a fact. much nearer the shore, it was true, but the lifeboat was again right side up. they saw the men creep in over her sides and seize the oars which had been made fast to her so that they could not be lost. but the lifeboat was not so buoyant, and it was plain that she had been seriously injured. cap'n abinadab dared not go on to the wreck. "that timber mashed her in for'ard," declared a fisherman standing near the girls. "they've got to give it up this time." "can't steer in such a clutter of wreckage," declared another. "not with an oared boat. she ought to be a motor. every other station on this coast, from macklin to cape brender, has a lifeboat driven by a motor. sokennet allus has to take other folks' leavin's." helplessly the lifeboat drifted shoreward. the girls watched her, almost holding their breath with excitement. the three boys raced down to the beach now and joined them. "crickey!" yelped little isadore phelps. "we're almost too late to see the fun!" "hush!" commanded ruth, sharply. "your idea of fun, young man, is very much warped," madge steele added. "haven't they got the wrecked people off?" demanded tom, in wonder. at the moment an added coston burned up on the wreck. its uncertain glare revealed the shrouds and torn lower rigging. they saw several figures--outlined in the glaring light--lashed to the stays and broken spars. the craft was a schooner, lumber-laden, and the sea had now cast her so far over on her beam-ends that her deck was like a wall confronting the shore. against this background the crew were visible, clinging desperately to hand-holds, or lashed to the rigging. and a great cry went suddenly up from the crowd ashore. "there's women aboard her--poor lost souls!" quavered one old dame who had seen many a terrifying wreck along the coast. ruth fielding's sharper eyes had discovered that one of the figures clinging to the wreck was too small for a grown person. "it's a child!" she murmured. "it's a girl. oh, helen! there's a girl--no older than we--on that wreck!" the words of the men standing about them proved ruth's statement to be true. others had descried the girl's figure in that perilous situation. there was a woman, too, and seven men. seven men were ample to man a schooner of her size, and probably the other two were the captain's wife and daughter. but if escape to the shore depended upon the work of the lifeboat and her crew, the castaways were in peril indeed, for the boat was coming shoreward now with a rush. with her came the tossing, charging timbers washed from the deck load. the sea between the reef and the beach was now a seething mass of broken and splintering planks and beams. no craft could live in such a seaway. but ruth and her friends were suddenly conscious of a peril nearer at hand. the broken lifeboat with its crew was being swept shoreward upon a great wave, and with the speed of an express train. the great, curling, foam-streaked breaker seemed to hurl the heavy boat through the air. "they'll be killed! oh, they will!" shrieked mary cox. the long craft, half-smothered in foam, and accompanied by the plunging timbers from the wreck, darted shoreward with increasing velocity. one moment it was high above their heads, with the curling wave ready to break, and the sea sucking away beneath its keel--bared for half its length. crash! down the boat was dashed, with a blow that (so it seemed to the unaccustomed spectators) must tear it asunder. the crew were dashed from their places by the shock. the waiting longshoremen ran to seize the broken boat and drag it above high-water mark. one of the crew was sucked back with the undertow and disappeared for a full minute. but he came in, high on the next wave, and they caught and saved him. to the amazement of ruth fielding and her young companions, none of the seven men who had manned the boat seemed much the worse for their experience. they breathed heavily and their faces were grim. she could almost have sworn that the youngest of the crew--he had the figure " " worked on the sleeve of his coat--had tears of disappointment in his eyes. "it's a desperate shame, lads!" croaked old cap'n abinadab. "we're bested. and the old boat's badly smashed. but there's one thing sure--no other boat, nor no other crew, couldn't do what we started to do. ain't no kick comin' on that score." "and can't the poor creatures out there be helped? must they drown?" whispered helen in ruth's ear. ruth did not believe that these men would give up so easily. they were rough seamen; but the helplessness of the castaways appealed to them. "come on, boys!" commanded the captain of the life saving crew. "let's git out the wagon. i don't suppose there's any use, unless there comes a lull in this etarnal gale. but we'll try what gunpowder will do." "what are they going to attempt now?" madge steele asked. "the beach wagon," said somebody. "they've gone for the gear." this was no explanation to the girls until tom cameron came running back from the house and announced that the crew were going to try to reach the schooner with a line. "they'll try to save them with the breeches buoy," he said. "they've got a life-car here; but they never use that thing nowadays if they can help. too many castaways have been near smothered in it, they say. if they can get a line over the wreck they'll haul the crew in, one at a time." "and that girl!" cried ruth. "i hope they will send her ashore first. how frightened she must be." there was no more rain falling now, although the spray whipped from the crests of the waves was flung across the beach and wet the sightseers. but with the lightening of the clouds a pale glow seemed to spread itself upon the tumultuous sea. the wreck could be seen almost as vividly as when the signal lights were burned. the torn clouds were driven across the heavens as rapidly as the huge waves raced shoreward. and behind both cloud and wave was the seething gale. there seemed no prospect of the wind's falling. ruth turned to see the crew which had failed to get the lifeboat to the wreck, trundling a heavy, odd-looking, two-wheeled wagon down upon the beach. they worked as though their fight with the sea had been but the first round of the battle. their calmness and skillful handling of the breeches buoy gear inspired the onlookers with renewed hope. "oh, cap'n abinadab and the boys will get 'em this time," declared heavy. "you just watch." and ruth fielding and the others were not likely to miss any motion of the crew of the life saving station. the latter laid out the gear with quick, sure action. the cannon was placed in position and loaded. the iron bar to which the line was attached was slipped into the muzzle of the gun. the men stood back and the captain pulled the lanyard. bang! the sharp bark of the line-gun echoed distressingly in their ears. it jumped back a pace, for the captain had charged it to the full limit allowed by the regulations. a heavier charge might burst the gun. the line-iron hurtled out over the sea in a long, graceful curve, the line whizzing after it. the line unwound so rapidly from the frame on which it was coiled that ruth's gaze could not follow it. the sea was light enough for them to follow the course of the iron, however, and a groan broke from the lips of the onlookers when they saw that the missile fell far short of the wreck. to shoot the line into the very teeth of this gale, as cap'n abinadab had said, was futile. yet he would not give up the attempt. this was the only way that was now left for them to aid the unfortunate crew of the lumber schooner. if they could not get the breeches buoy to her the sea would be the grave of the castaways. for already the waves, smashing down upon the grounded wreck, were tearing it apart. she would soon break in two, and then the remaining rigging and spars would go by the board and with them the crew and passengers. yet captain abinadab cope refused to give over his attempts to reach the wreck. "haul in!" he commanded gruffly, when the line fell short. ruth marveled at the skill of the man who rewound the wet line on the pegs of the frame that held it. in less than five minutes the life-savers were ready for another shot. "you take it when the regular crew are at practice, sometimes," whispered heavy, to ruth, "and they work like lightning. they'll shoot the line and get a man ashore in the breeches buoy in less than two minutes. but this is hard work for these volunteers--and it means so much!" ruth felt as though a hand clutched at her heart. the unshed tears stung her eyes. if they should fail--if all this effort should go for naught! suppose that unknown girl out there on the wreck should be washed ashore in the morning, pallid and dead. the thought almost overwhelmed the girl from the red mill. as the gun barked a second time and the shot and line hurtled seaward, ruth fielding's pale lips uttered a whispered prayer. chapter x the double charge but again the line fell short. "they'll never be able to make it," tom cameron said to the shivering girls. "oh, i really wish we hadn't come down here," murmured his sister. "oh, pshaw, nell! don't be a baby," he growled. but he was either winking back the tears himself, or the salt spray had gotten into his eyes. how could anybody stand there on the beach and feel unmoved when nine human beings, in view now and then when the billows fell, were within an ace of awful death? again and again the gun was shotted and the captain pulled the lanyard. he tried to catch the moment when there was a lull in the gale; but each time the shot fell short. it seemed to be merely a waste of human effort and gunpowder. "i've 'phoned to the minot cove station," the captain said, during one of the intervals while they were hauling in the line. "they've got a power boat there, and if they can put to sea with her they might get around to the other side of the reef and take 'em off." "she'll go to pieces before a boat can come from minot cove," declared one grizzled fisherman. "i fear so, henry," replied the captain. "but we got to do what we can. they ain't give me no leeway with this gun. orders is never to give her a bigger charge than what she's gettin' now. but, i swan----" he did not finish his sentence, but gravely measured out the next charge of powder. when he had loaded the gun he waved everybody back. "git clean away, you lads. all of ye, now! she'll probably blow up, but there ain't no use in more'n one of us blowin' up with her." "what you done, cap'n?" demanded one of his crew. "never you mind, lad. step back, i tell ye. she's slewed right now, i reckon." "what have you got in her?" demanded the man again. "i'm goin' to reach them folk if i can," returned cap'n abinadab. "i've double charged her. if she don't carry the line this time, she never will. and she may carry it over the wreck, even if she blows up. look out!" "don't ye do it!" cried the man, mason, starting forward. "if you pull that lanyard ye'll be blowed sky-high." "well, who should pull it if i don't?" demanded the old captain of the station, grimly. "guess old 'binadab cope ain't goin' to step back for you young fellers yet a while. come! git, i tell ye! far back--afar back." "oh! he'll be killed!" murmured ruth. "you come back here, ruth fielding!" commanded tom, clutching her arm. "if that gun blows up we want to be a good bit away." the whole party ran back. they saw the last of the crew leave the old captain. he stood firmly, at one side of the gun, his legs placed wide apart; they saw him pull the lanyard. fire spat from the muzzle of the gun and with a shriek the shot-line was carried seaward, toward the wreck. the old gun, double charged, turned a somersault and buried its muzzle in the sand. the captain dodged, and went down--perhaps thrown by the force of the explosion. but the gun did not burst. however, he was upon his feet again in a moment, and all the crowd were shouting their congratulations. the flying line had carried squarely over the middle of the wreck. "now, will they know what to do with it?" gasped ruth. "wait! see that man--that man in the middle? the line passed over his shoulder!" cried heavy. "see! he's got it." "and he's hauling on it," cried tom. "there goes the line with the board attached," said madge steele, exultantly. the girls had already examined this painted board. on it were plain, though brief, instructions in english, french, and italian, to the wrecked crew as to what they should do to aid in their own rescue. but this schooner was probably from up maine way, or the "blue-nose country" of nova scotia, and her crew would be familiar with the rigging of the breeches buoy. they saw, as another light was burned on the wreck, the man who had seized the line creep along to the single mast then standing. it was broken short off fifteen feet above the deck. he hauled out the shot-line, and then a mate came to his assistance and they rigged the larger line that followed and attached the block to the stump of the mast. then on shore the crew of the life saving station and the fishermen--even the boys from the bungalow--hauled on the cable, and soon sent the gear across the tossing waves. they had erected a stout pair of wooden "shears" in the sand and over this the breeches buoy gear ran. it went out empty, but the moment it reached the staggering wreck the men there popped the woman into the sack and those ashore hauled in. over and through the waves she came, and when they caught her at the edge of the surf and dragged the heavy buoy on to the dry land, she was all but breathless, and was crying. "don't ye fear, missus," said one rough but kindly boatman. "we'll have yer little gal ashore in a jiffy." "she--she isn't my child, poor thing," panted the woman. "i'm captain kirby's wife. poor jim! he won't leave till the last one----" "of course he won't, ma'am--and you wouldn't want him to," broke in cap'n cope. "a skipper's got to stand by his ship till his crew an' passengers are safe. now, you go right up to the station----" "oh, no, no!" she cried. "i must see them all safe ashore." the huge buoy was already being hauled back to the wreck. there was no time to be lost, for the waves had torn away the after-deck and it was feared the forward deck and the mast would soon go. ruth went to the woman and spoke to her softly. "who is the little girl, please?" she asked. "she ain't little, miss--no littler than you," returned mrs. kirby. "her name is nita." "nita?" "that's what she calls herself." "nita what?" asked ruth. "i don't know, i'm sure. i believe she's run away from her folks. she won't tell much about herself. she only came aboard at portland. in fact, i found her there on the dock, and she seemed hungry and neglected, and she told us first that she wanted to go to her folks in new york--and that's where the _whipstitch_ was bound." "the _whipstitch_ is the name of the schooner?" "yes, miss. and now jim's lost her. but--thanks be!--she was insured," said the captain's wife. at that moment another hearty shout went up from the crowd on shore. the breeches buoy was at the wreck again. they saw the men there lift the girl into the buoy, which was rigged like a great pair of overalls. the passenger sat in this sack, with her legs thrust through the apertures below, and clung to the ring of the buoy, which was level with her shoulders. she started from the ship in this rude conveyance, and the girls gathered eagerly to greet her when she landed. but several waves washed completely over the breeches buoy and the girl was each time buried from sight. she was unconscious when they lifted her out. she was a black-haired girl of fourteen or thereabout, well built and strong. the captain's wife was too anxious about the crew to pay much attention to the waif, and ruth and her friends bore nita, the castaway, off to the station, where it was warm. the boys remained to see the last of the crew--captain kirby himself--brought ashore. and none too soon was this accomplished, for within the half hour the schooner had broken in two. its wreckage and the lumber with which it had been loaded so covered the sea between the reef and the shore that the waves were beaten down, and had it been completely calm an active man could have traveled dry-shod over the flotsam to the reef. meanwhile nita had been brought to her senses. but there was nothing at the station for the girl from the wreck to put on while her own clothing was dried, and it was heavy who came forward with a very sensible suggestion. "let's take her home with us. plenty of things there. wrap her up good and warm and we'll take her on the buckboard. we can all crowd on--all but the boys." the boys had not seen enough yet, anyway, and were not ready to go; but the girls were eager to return to the bungalow--especially when they could take the castaway with them. "and there we'll get her to tell us all about it," whispered helen to ruth. "my! she must have an interesting story to tell." chapter xi the story of the castaway there was only the cook in the station and nobody to stop the girls from taking nita away. she had recovered her senses, but scarcely appreciated as yet where she was; nor did she seem to care what became of her. heavy called the man who had driven them over, and in ten minutes after she was ashore the castaway was on the buckboard with her new friends and the ponies were bearing them all at a spanking pace toward the stone bungalow on lighthouse point. the fact that this strange girl had been no relation of the wife of the schooner's captain, and that mrs. kirby seemed, indeed, to know very little about her, mystified the stout girl and her friends exceedingly. they whispered a good deal among themselves about the castaway; but she sat between ruth and helen and they said little to her during the ride. she had been wrapped in a thick blanket at the station and was not likely to take cold; but miss kate and old mammy laura bustled about a good deal when nita was brought into the bungalow; and very shortly she was tucked into one of the beds on the second floor--in the very room in which ruth and helen and mercy were to sleep--and miss kate had insisted upon her swallowing a bowl of hot tea. nita seemed to be a very self-controlled girl. she didn't weep, now that the excitement was past, as most girls would have done. but at first she was very silent, and watched her entertainers with snapping black eyes and--ruth thought--in rather a sly, sharp way. she seemed to be studying each and every one of the girls--and miss kate and mammy laura as well. the boys came home after a time and announced that every soul aboard the _whipstitch_ was safe and sound in the life saving station. and the captain's wife had sent over word that she and her husband would go back to portland the next afternoon. if the girl they had picked up there on the dock wished to return, she must be ready to go with them. "what, go back to that town?" cried the castaway when ruth told her this, sitting right up in bed. "why, that's the _last_ place!" "then you don't belong in portland?" asked ruth. "i should hope not!" "nor in maine?" asked madge, for the other girls were grouped about the room. they were all anxious to hear the castaway's story. the girl was silent for a moment, her lips very tightly pressed together. finally she said, with her sly look: "i guess i ain't obliged to tell you that; am i?" "witness does not wish to incriminate herself," snapped mercy, her eyes dancing. "well, i don't know that i'm bound to tell you girls everything i know," said the strange girl, coolly. "right-oh!" cried heavy, cordially. "you're visiting me. i don't know as it is anybody's business how you came to go aboard the _whipstitch_----" "oh, i don't mind telling you that," said the girl, eagerly. "i was hungry." "hungry!" chorused her listeners, and heavy said: "fancy being hungry, and having to go aboard a ship to get a meal!" "that was it exactly," said nita, bluntly. "but mrs. kirby was real good to me. and the schooner was going to new york and that's where i wanted to go." "because your folks live there?" shot in the fox. "no, they don't, miss smartie!" snapped back the castaway. "you don't catch me so easy. i wasn't born yesterday, miss! my folks don't live in new york. maybe i haven't any folks. i came from clear way out west, anyway--so now! i thought 'way down east must be the finest place in the world. but it isn't." "did you run away to come east?" asked ruth, quietly. "well--i came here, anyway. and i don't much like it, i can tell you." "ah-ha!" cried mercy curtis, chuckling to herself. "i know. she thought yankee land was just flowing in milk and honey. listen! here's what she said to herself before she ran away from home: "i wish i'd lived away down east, where codfish salt the sea, and where the folks have apple sass and punkin pie fer tea!" "that's the 'western girl's lament,'" pursued mercy. "so you found 'way down east nothing like what you thought it was?" the castaway scowled at the sharp-tongued lame girl for a moment. then she nodded. "it's the folks," she said. "you're all so afraid of a stranger. do i look like i'd _bite_?" "maybe not ordinarily," said helen, laughing softly. "but you do not look very pleasant just now." "well, people haven't been nice to me," grumbled the western girl. "i thought there were lots of rich men in the east, and that a girl could make friends 'most anywhere, and get into nice families----" "to _work?_" asked ruth, curiously. "no, no! you know, you read a lot about rich folks taking up girls and doing everything for them--dressing them fine, and sending them to fancy schools, and all that." "i never read of any such thing in my life!" declared mary cox. "i guess you've been reading funny books." "huh!" sniffed the castaway, who was evidently a runaway and was not made sorry for her escapade even by being wrecked at sea. "huh! i like a story with some life in it, i do! jib pottoway had some dandy paper-covered novels in his locker and he let me read 'em----" "who under the sun is jib pottoway?" gasped helen. "that isn't a real name; is it?" "it's ugly enough to be real; isn't it?" retorted the strange girl, chuckling. "yep. that's jib's real name. 'jibbeway pottoway'--that's the whole of it." "oh, oh!" cried heavy, with her hand to her face. "it makes my jaw ache to even try to say it." "what is he?" asked madge, curiously. "injun," returned the western girl, laconically. "or, part injun. he comes from 'way up canada way. his folks had jibbeway blood." "but _who_ is he?" queried ruth, curiously. "why, he's a puncher that works for----well, he's a cow puncher. that's 'nuff. it don't matter where he works," added the girl, gruffly. "that might give away where you come from, eh?" put in mercy. "it might," and nita laughed. "but what is your name?" asked ruth. "nita, i tell you." "nita what?" "never mind. just nita. mebbe i never had another name. isn't one name at a time sufficient, miss?" "i don't believe that is your really-truly name," said ruth, gravely. "i bet you're right, ruth fielding!" cried heavy, chuckling. "'nita' and 'jib pottoway' don't seem to go together. 'nita' is altogether too fancy." "it's a nice name!" exclaimed the strange girl, in some anger. "it was the name of the girl in the paper-covered novel--and it's good enough for me." "but what's your real name?" urged ruth. "i'm not telling you that," replied the runaway, shortly. "then you prefer to go under a false name--even among your friends?" asked the girl from the red mill. "how do i know you're my friends?" demanded nita, promptly. "we can't very well be your enemies," said helen, in some disgust. "i don't know. anybody's my enemy who wants to send me back--well, anyone who wants to return me to the place i came from." "was it an institution?" asked mary cox quickly. "what's that?" demanded nita, puzzled. "what do you mean by an 'institution'?" "she means a sort of school," explained ruth. "yes!" exclaimed the fox, sharply. "a reform school, or something of the kind. maybe an almshouse." "never heard of 'em," returned nita, unruffled by the insinuation. "guess they don't have 'em where i come from. did _you_ go to one, miss?" heavy giggled, and madge steele rapped the fox smartly on the shoulder. "there!" said the senior. "it serves you right, mary cox. you're answered." "now, i tell you what it is!" cried the strange girl, sitting up in bed again and looking rather flushed, "if you girls are going to nag me, and bother me about who i am, and where i come from, and what my name is--though nita's a good enough name for anybody----" "anybody but jib pottoway," chuckled heavy. "well! and _he_ warn't so bad, if he _was_ half injun," snapped the runaway. "well, anyway, if you don't leave me alone i'll get out of bed right now and walk out of here. i guess you haven't any hold on me." "better wait till your clothes are dry," suggested madge. "aunt kate would never let you go," said heavy. "i'll go to-morrow morning, then!" cried the runaway. "why, we don't mean to nag you," interposed ruth, soothingly. "but of course we're curious--and interested." "you're like all the other eastern folk i've met," declared nita. "and i don't like you much. i thought _you_ were different." "you've been expecting some rich man to adopt you, and dress you in lovely clothes, and all that, eh?" said mercy curtis. "well! i guess there are not so many millionaires in the east as they said there was," grumbled nita. "or else they've already got girls of their own to look after," laughed ruth. "why, helen here, has a father who is very rich. but you couldn't expect him to give up helen and tom and take you into his home instead, could you?" nita glanced at the dry-goods merchant's daughter with more interest for a moment. "and heavy's father is awfully rich, too," said ruth. "but he's got heavy to support----" "and that's some job," broke in madge, laughing. "two such daughters as heavy would make poor dear papa stone a pauper!" "well," said nita, again, "i've talked enough. i won't tell you where i come from. and nita _is_ my name--now!" "it is getting late," said ruth, mildly. "don't you all think it would be a good plan to go to bed? the wind's gone down some. i guess we can sleep." "good advice," agreed madge steele. "the boys have been abed some time. to-morrow is another day." heavy and she and mary went off to their room. the others made ready for bed, and the runaway did not say another word to them, but turned her face to the wall and appeared, at least, to be soon asleep. ruth crept in beside her so as not to disturb their strange guest. she was a new type of girl to ruth--and to the others. her independence of speech, her rough and ready ways, and her evident lack of the influence of companionship with refined girls were marked in this nita's character. ruth wondered much what manner of home she could have come from, why she had run away from it, and what nita really proposed doing so far from home and friends. these queries kept the girl from the red mill awake for a long time--added to which was the excitement of the evening, which was not calculated to induce sleep. she would have dropped off some time after the other girls, however, had she not suddenly heard a door latch somewhere on this upper floor, and then the creep, creep, creeping of a rustling step in the hall. it continued so long that ruth wondered if one of the girls in the other room was ill, and she softly arose and went to the door, which was ajar. and what she saw there in the hall startled her. chapter xii busy izzy in a new aspect the stair-well was a wide and long opening and around it ran a broad balustrade. there was no stairway to the third floor of this big bungalow, only the servants' staircase in the rear reaching those rooms directly under the roof. so the hall on this second floor, out of which the family bedrooms opened, was an l-shaped room, with the balustrade on one hand. and upon that balustrade ruth fielding beheld a tottering figure in white, plainly visible in the soft glow of the single light burning below, yet rather ghostly after all. she might have been startled in good earnest had she not first of all recognized isadore phelps' face. he was balancing himself upon the balustrade and, as she came to the door, he walked gingerly along the narrow strip of moulding toward ruth. "izzy! whatever are you doing?" she hissed. the boy never said a word to her, but kept right on, balancing himself with difficulty. he was in his pajamas, his feet bare, and--she saw it at last--his eyes tight shut. "oh! he's asleep," murmured ruth. and that surely was busy izzy's state at that moment. sound asleep and "tight-rope walking" on the balustrade. ruth knew that it would be dangerous to awaken him suddenly--especially as it might cause him to fall down the stair-well. she crept back into her room and called helen. the two girls in their wrappers and slippers went into the hall again. there was busy izzy tottering along in the other direction, having turned at the wall. once they thought he would plunge down the stairway, and helen grabbed at ruth with a squeal of terror. "sh!" whispered her chum. "go tell tom. wake him up. the boys ought to tie izzy in bed if he is in the habit of doing this." "my! isn't he a sight!" giggled helen, as she ran past the gyrating youngster, who had again turned for a third perambulation of the railing. she whispered tom's name at his open door and in a minute the girls heard him bound out of bed. he was with them--sleepy-eyed and hastily wrapping his robe about him--in a moment. "for the land's sake!" he gasped, when he saw his friend on the balustrade. "what are you----" "sh!" commanded ruth. "he's asleep." tom took in the situation at a glance. madge steele peered out of her door at that moment. "who is it--bobbins?" she asked. "no. it's izzy. he's walking in his sleep," said ruth. "he's a regular somnambulist," exclaimed helen. "never mind. don't call him names. he can't help it," said madge. helen giggled again. tom had darted back to rouse his chum. bob steele appeared, more tousled and more sleepy-looking than tom. "what's the matter with that fellow now?" he grumbled. "he's like a flea--you never know where he's going to be next! ha! he'll fall off that and break his silly neck." and as busy izzy was just then nearest his end of the hall in his strange gyrations, bob steele stepped forward and grabbed him, lifting him bodily off the balustrade. busy izzy screeched, but tom clapped a hand over his mouth. "shut up! want to raise the whole neighborhood?" grunted bobbins, dragging the lightly attired, struggling boy back into their room. "ha! i'll fix you after this. i'll lash you to the bedpost every night we're here--now mark that, young man!" it seemed that the youngster often walked in his sleep, but the girls had not known it. usually, at school, his roommates kept the dormitory door locked and the key hidden, so that he couldn't get out to do himself any damage running around with his eyes shut. the party all got to sleep again after that and there was no further disturbance before morning. they made a good deal of fun of isadore at the breakfast table, but he took the joking philosophically. he was always playing pranks himself; but he had learned to take a joke, too. he declared that all he dreamed during the night was that he was wrecked in an iceboat on second reef and that the only way for him to get ashore was to walk on a cable stretched from the wreck to the beach. he had probably been walking that cable--in his mind--when ruth had caught him balancing on the balustrade. the strange girl who persisted in calling herself "nita" came down to the table in some of heavy's garments, which were a world too large for her. her own had been so shrunk and stained by the sea-water that they would never be fit to put on again. aunt kate was very kind to her, but she looked at the runaway oddly, too. nita had been just as uncommunicative to her as she had been to the girls in the bedroom the night before. "if you don't like me, or don't like my name, i can go away," she declared to miss kate, coolly. "i haven't got to stay here, you know." "but where will you go? what will you do?" demanded that young lady, severely. "you say the captain of the schooner and his wife are nothing to you?" "i should say not!" exclaimed nita. "they were nice and kind to me, though." "and you can't go away until you have something decent to wear," added heavy's aunt. "that's the first thing to 'tend to." and although it was a bright and beautiful morning after the gale, and there were a dozen things the girls were all eager to see, they spent the forenoon in trying to make up an outfit for nita so that she would be presentable. the boys went off with mr. stone's boatkeeper in the motor launch and mary cox was quite cross because the other girls would not leave miss kate to fix up nita the best she could, so that they could all accompany the boys. but in the afternoon the buckboard was brought around and they drove to the lighthouse. nita, even in her nondescript garments, was really a pretty girl. no awkwardness of apparel could hide the fact that she had nice features and that her body was strong and lithe. she moved about with a freedom that the other girls did not possess. even ruth was not so athletic as the strange girl. and yet she seemed to know nothing at all about the games and the exercises which were commonplace to the girls from briarwood hall. there was a patch of wind-blown, stunted trees and bushes covering several acres of the narrowing point, before the driving road along the ridge brought the visitors to sokennet light. while they were driving through this a man suddenly bobbed up beside the way and the driver hailed him. "hullo, you crab!" he said. "found anything 'long shore from that wreck?" the man stood up straight and the girls thought him a very horrid-looking object. he had a great beard and his hair was dark and long. "he's a bad one for looks; ain't he, miss?" asked the driver of ruth, who sat beside him. "he isn't very attractive," she returned. "ha! i guess not. and crab's as bad as he looks, which is saying a good deal. he comes of the 'wreckers.' before there was a light here, or life saving stations along this coast, there was folks lived along here that made their livin' out of poor sailors wrecked out there on the reefs. some said they used to toll vessels onto the rocks with false lights. anyhow, crab's father, and his gran'ther, was wreckers. he's assistant lightkeeper; but he oughtn't to be. i don't see how mother purling can get along with him." "she isn't afraid of him; is she?" queried ruth. "she isn't afraid of anything," said heavy, quickly, from the rear seat. "you wait till you see her." the buckboard went heavily on toward the lighthouse; but the girls saw that the man stood for a long time--as long as they were in sight, at least--staring after them. "what do you suppose he looked at nita so hard for?" whispered helen in ruth's ear. "i thought he was going to speak to her." but ruth had not noticed this, nor did the runaway girl seem to have given the man any particular attention. chapter xiii crab proves to be of the hardshell variety they came to the lighthouse. there was only a tiny, whitewashed cottage at the foot of the tall shaft. it seemed a long way to the brass-trimmed and glistening lantern at the top. ruth wondered how the gaunt old woman who came to the door to welcome them could ever climb those many, many stairs to the narrow gallery at the top of the shaft. she certainly could not suffer as aunt alvirah did with _her_ back and bones. sokennet light was just a steady, bright light, sending its gleam far seaward. there was no mechanism for turning, such as marks the revolving lights in so many lighthouses. the simplicity of everything about sokennet light was what probably led the department officials to allow mother purling to remain after her husband died in harness. "jack crab has done his cleaning and gone about his business," said mother purling, to the girls. "ye may all climb up to the lantern if ye wish; but touch nothing." beside the shaft of the light was a huge fog bell. that was rung by clockwork. mother purling showed ruth and her companions how it worked before the girls started up the stairs. mercy remained in the little house with the good old woman, for she never could have hobbled up those spiral stairs. "it's too bad about that girl," said nita, brusquely, to ruth. "has she always been lame?" ruth warmed toward the runaway immediately when she found that nita was touched by mercy curtis' affliction. she told nita how the lame girl had once been much worse off than she was now, and all about her being operated on by the great physician. "she's so much better off now than she was!" cried ruth. "and so much happier!" "but she's a great nuisance to have along," snapped mary cox, immediately behind them. "she had better stayed at home, i should think." ruth flushed angrily, but before she could speak, nita said, looking coolly at the fox: "you're a might snappy, snarly sort of a girl; ain't you? and you think you are dreadfully smart. but somebody told you that. it ain't so. i've seen a whole lot smarter than you. you wouldn't last long among the boys where _i_ come from." "thank you!" replied mary, her head in the air. "i wouldn't care to be liked by the boys. it isn't ladylike to think of the boys all the time----" "these are grown men, i mean," said nita, coolly. "the punchers that work for--well, just cow punchers. you call them cowboys. they know what's good and fine, jest as well as eastern folks. and a girl that talks like you do about a cripple wouldn't go far with them." "i suppose your friend, the half-indian, is a critic of deportment," said the fox, with a laugh. "well, jib wouldn't say anything mean about a cripple," said nita, in her slow way, and the fox seemed to have no reply. but this little by-play drew ruth fielding closer to the queer girl who had selected her "hifaluting" name because it was the name of a girl in a paper-covered novel. nita had lived out of doors, that was plain. ruth believed, from what the runaway had said, that she came from the plains of the great west. she had lived on a ranch. perhaps her folks owned a ranch, and they might even now be searching the land over for their daughter. the thought made the girl from the red mill very serious, and she determined to try and gain nita's confidence and influence her, if she could, to tell the truth about herself and to go back to her home. she knew that she could get mr. cameron to advance nita's fare to the west, if the girl would return. but up on the gallery in front of the shining lantern of the lighthouse there was no chance to talk seriously to the runaway. heavy had to sit down when she reached this place, and she declared that she puffed like a steam engine. then, when she had recovered her breath, she pointed out the places of interest to be seen from the tower--the smoke of westhampton to the north; fuller's island, with its white sands and gleaming green lawns and clumps of wind-blown trees; the long strip of winding coast southward, like a ribbon laid down for the sea to wash, and far, far to the east, over the tumbling waves, still boisterous with the swell of last night's storm, the white riding sail of the lightship on no man's shoal. they came down after an hour, wind-blown, the taste of salt on their lips, and delighted with the view. they found the ugly, hairy man sitting on the doorstep, listening with a scowl and a grin to mercy's sharp speeches. "i don't know what brought you back here to the light, jack crab, at this time of day," said mother purling. "you ain't wanted." "i likes to see comp'ny, too, _i_ do," growled the man. "well, these girls ain't your company," returned the old woman. "now! get up and be off. get out of the way." crab rose, surlily enough, but his sharp eyes sought nita. he looked her all over, as though she were some strange object that he had never seen before. "so you air the gal they brought ashore off the lumber schooner last night?" he asked her. "yes, i am," she returned, flatly. "you ain't got no folks around here; hev ye?" he continued. "no, i haven't." "what's your name?" "puddin' tame!" retorted mercy, breaking in, in her shrill way. "and she lives in the lane, and her number's cucumber! there now! do you know all you want to know, hardshell?" crab growled something under his breath and went off in a hangdog way. "that's a bad man," said mercy, with confidence. "and he's much interested in you, miss nita anonymous. do you know why?" "i'm sure i don't," replied nita, laughing quite as sharply as before, but helping the lame girl to the buckboard with kindliness. "you look out for him, then," said mercy, warningly. "he's a hardshell crab, all right. and either he thinks he knows you, or he's got something in his mind that don't mean good to you." but only ruth heard this. the others were bidding mother purling good-bye. chapter xiv the tragic incident in a fishing excursion the boys had returned when the party drove back to the bungalow from the lighthouse. a lighthouse might be interesting, and it was fine to see twenty-odd miles to the no man's shoal, and mother purling might be a _dear_--but the girls hadn't done anything, and the boys had. they had fished for halibut and had caught a sixty-five-pound one. bobbins had got it on his hook; but it took all three of them, with the boatkeeper's advice, to get the big, flapping fish over the side. they had part of that fish for supper. heavy was enraptured, and the other girls had a saltwater appetite that made them enjoy the fish, too. it was decided to try for blackfish off the rocks beyond sokennet the next morning. "we'll go over in the _miraflame_"--(that was the name of the motor boat)--"and we'll take somebody with us to help phineas," heavy declared. phineas was the boatman who had charge of mr. stone's little fleet. "phin is a great cook and he'll get us up a regular fish dinner----" "oh, dear, jennie stone! how _can_ you?" broke in helen, with her hands clasped. "how can i _what_, miss?" demanded the stout girl, scenting trouble. "how can you, when we are eating such a perfect dinner as this, be contemplating any other future occasion when we possibly shall be hungry?" the others laughed, but heavy looked at her school friends with growing contempt. "you talk--you talk," she stammered, "well! you don't talk english--that i'm sure of! and you needn't put it all on me. you all eat with good appetites. and you'd better thank me, not quarrel with me. if i didn't think of getting nice things to eat, you'd miss a lot, now i tell you. you don't know how i went out in mammy laura's kitchen this very morning, before most of you had your hair out of curl-papers, and just _slaved_ to plan the meals for to-day." "hear! hear!" chorused the boys, drumming with their knife handles on the table. "we're for jennie! she's all right." "see!" flashed in mercy, with a gesture. "miss stone has won the masculine portion of the community by the only unerring way--the only straight path to the heart of a boy is through his stomach." "i guess we can all thank jennie," said ruth, laughing quietly, "for her attention to our appetites. but i fear if she had expected to fast herself to-day she'd still be abed!" they were all lively at dinner, and they spent a lively evening, towards the end of which bob steele gravely went out of doors and brought in an old boat anchor, or kedge, weighing so many pounds that even he could scarcely carry it upstairs to the bed chamber which he shared with tom and isadore. "what are you going to do with that thing, bobby steele?" demanded his sister. "going to anchor busy izzy to it with a rope. i bet he won't walk far in his sleep to-night," declared bobbins. with the fishing trip in their minds, all were astir early the next morning. miss kate had agreed to go with them, for mercy believed that she could stand the trip, as the sea was again calm. she could remain in the cabin of the motor boat while the others were fishing off the rocks for tautog and rock-bass. the boys all had poles; but the girls said they would be content to cast their lines from the rock and hope for nibbles from the elusive blackfish. the _miraflame_ was a roomy craft and well furnished. when they started at nine o'clock the party numbered eleven, besides the boatman and his assistant. to the surprise of ruth--and it was remarked in whispers by the other girls, too--phineas, the boatkeeper, had chosen jack crab to assist him in the management of the motor boat. "jack doesn't have to be at the light till dark. the old lady gets along all right alone," explained phineas. "and it ain't many of these longshoremen who know how to handle a motor. jack's used to machinery." he seemed to feel that it was necessary to excuse himself for hiring the hairy man. but heavy only said: "well, as long as he behaves himself i don't care. but i didn't suppose you liked the fellow, phin." "i don't. it was hobson's choice, miss," returned the sailor. phineas, the girls found, was a very pleasant and entertaining man. and he knew all about fishing. he had supplied the bait for tautog, and the girls and boys of the party, all having lived inland, learned many things that they hadn't known before. "look at this!" cried madge steele, the first to discover a miracle. "he says this bait for tautog is scallops! now, that quivering, jelly-like body is never a scallop. why, a scallop is a firm, white lump----" "it's a mussel," said heavy, laughing. "it's only the 'eye' of the scallop you eat, miss," explained phineas. "now i know just as much as i did before," declared madge. "so i eat a scallop's _eye_, do i? we had them for breakfast this very morning--with bacon." "so you did, miss. i raked 'em up myself yesterday afternoon," explained phineas. "you eat the 'eye,' but these are the bodies, and they are the reg'lar natural food of the tautog, or blackfish." "the edible part of the scallop is that muscle which adheres to the shell--just like the muscle that holds the clam to its shell," said heavy, who, having spent several summers at the shore, was better informed than her friends. phineas showed the girls how to bait their hooks with the soft bodies of the scallop, warning them to cover the point of the hooks well, and to pull quickly if they felt the least nibble. "the tautog is a small-mouthed fish--smaller, even, than the bass the boys are going to cast for. so, when he touches the hook at all, you want to grab him." "does it _hurt_ the fish to be caught?" asked helen, curiously. phineas grinned. "i never axed 'em, ma'am," he said. the _miraflame_ carried them swiftly down the cove, or harbor, of sokennet and out past the light. the sea was comparatively calm, but the surf roared against the rocks which hedged in the sand dunes north of the harbor's mouth. it was in this direction that phineas steered the launch, and for ten miles the craft spun along at a pace that delighted the whole party. "we're just skimming the water!" cried tom cameron. "oh, nell! i'm going to coax father till he buys one for us to use on the lumano." "i'll help tease," agreed his twin, her eyes sparkling. nita, the runaway, looked from brother to sister with sudden interest. "does your father give you everything you ask him for?" she demanded. "not much!" cried tom. "but dear old dad is pretty easy with us and--mrs. murchiston says--gives in to us too much." "but, does he buy you such things as boats--right out--for you just to play with?" "why, of course!" cried tom. "and i couldn't even have a piano," muttered nita, turning away with a shrug. "i told him he was a mean old hunks!" "whom did you say that to?" asked ruth, quietly. "never you mind!" returned nita, angrily. "but that's what he is." ruth treasured these observations of the runaway. she was piecing them together, and although as yet it was a very patched bit of work, she was slowly getting a better idea of who nita was and her home surroundings. finally the _miraflame_ ran in between a sheltering arm of rock and the mainland. the sea was very still in here, the heave and surge of the water only murmuring among the rocks. there was an old fishing dock at which the motor boat was moored. then everybody went ashore and phineas and jack crab pointed out the best fishing places along the rocks. these were very rugged ledges, and the water sucked in among them, and hissed, and chuckled, and made all sorts of gurgling sounds while the tide rose. there were small caves and little coves and all manner of odd hiding places in the rocks. but the girls and boys were too much interested in the proposed fishing to bother about anything else just then. phineas placed ruth on the side of a round-topped boulder, where she stood on a very narrow ledge, with a deep green pool at her feet. she was hidden from the other fishers--even from the boys, who clambered around to the tiny cape that sheltered the basin into which the motor boat had been run, and from the point of which they expected to cast for bass. "now, miss," said the boatkeeper, "down at the bottom of this still pool mr. tautog is feeding on the rocks. drop your baited hook down gently to him. and if he nibbles, pull sharply at first, and then, with a stead, hand-over-hand motion, draw him in." ruth was quite excited; but once she saw nita and the man, crab, walking farther along the rocks, and ruth wondered that the fellow was so attentive to the runaway. but this was merely a passing thought. her mind returned to the line she watched. she pulled it up after a long while; the hook was bare. either mr. tautog had been very, very careful when he nibbled the bait, or the said bait had slipped off. it was not easy to make the jelly-like body of the scallop remain on the hook. but ruth was as anxious to catch a fish as the other girls, and she had watched phineas with sharp and eager eyes when he baited the hook. ruth dropped it over the edge of the rock again after a minute. it sank down, down, down----was that a nibble? she felt the faintest sort of a jerk on the line. surely something was at the bait! again the jerk. ruth returned the compliment by giving the line a prompt tug. instantly she knew that she had hooked him! "oh! _oh!_ oh!" she gasped, in a rising scale of delight and excitement. she pulled in on the line. the fish was heavy, and he tried to pull his way, too. the blackfish is not much of a fighter, but he can sag back and do his obstinate best to remain in the water when the fisher is determined to get him out. this fellow weighed two pounds and a half and was well hooked. ruth, her cheeks glowing, her eyes dancing, hauled in, and in, and in----there he came out of the water, a plump, glistening body, that flapped and floundered in the air, and on the ledge at her feet. she desired mightily to cry out; but phineas had warned them all to be still while they fished. their voices might scare all the fish away. she unhooked it beautifully, seizing it firmly in the gills. phineas had shown her where to lay any she might catch in a little cradle in the rock behind her. it was a damp little hollow, and mr. tautog could not flop out into the sea again. oh! it was fun to bait the hook once more with trembling fingers, and heave the weighted line over the edge of the narrow ledge on which she stood. there might be another--perhaps even a bigger one--waiting down there to seize upon the bait. and just then mary cox, her hair tousled and a distressfully discontented expression on her face, came around the corner of the big boulder. "oh! hullo!" she said, discourteously. "you here?" "sh!" whispered ruth, intent on the line and the pool of green water. "what's the matter with you?" snapped the fox. "don't say you've got a bite! i'm sick of hearing them say it over there----" "i've caught one," said ruth, with pride, pointing to the glistening tautog lying on the rock. "oh! of course, 'twould be you who got it," snarled mary. "i bet he gave you the best place." "_please_ keep still!" begged ruth. "i believe i've got another bite." "have a dozen for all i care," returned mary. "i want to get past you." "wait! i feel a nibble----" but mary pushed rudely by. she took the inside of the path, of course. the ledge was very narrow, and ruth was stooping over the deep pool, breathlessly watching the line. with a half-stifled scream ruth fell forward, flinging out both hands. mary clutched at her--she _did_ try to save her. but she was not quick enough. ruth dropped like a plummet and the green water closed over her with scarcely a splash. mary did not cry out. she was speechless with fear, and stood with clasped hands, motionless, upon the path. "she can swim! she can swim!" was the thought that shuttled back and forth in the fox's brain. but moment after moment passed and ruth did not come to the surface. the pool was as calm as before, save for the vanishing rings that broke against the surrounding rocks. mary held her breath. she began to feel as though it were a dream, and that her school companion had not really fallen into the pool. it must be an hallucination, for ruth did not come to the surface again! chapter xv tom cameron to the rescue the three boys were on the other side of the narrow inlet where the _miraflame_ lay. phineas had told them that bass were more likely to be found upon the ocean side; therefore they were completely out of sight. the last tom, bob and isadora saw of the girls, the fishermen were placing them along the rocky path, and mercy was lying in a deck chair on the deck of the launch, fluttering a handkerchief at them as they went around the end of the reef. "i bet they don't get a fish," giggled isadore. "and even miss kate's got a line! what do girls know about fishing?" "if there's any tautog over there, i bet helen and ruth get 'em. they're all right in any game," declared the loyal tom. "madge will squeal and want somebody to take the fish off her hook, if she does catch one," grinned bob. "she puts on lots of airs because she's the oldest; but she's a regular 'scare-cat,' after all." "helen and ruth are good fellows," returned tom, with emphasis. "they're quite as good fun as the ordinary boy--of course, not you, bobbins, or busy izzy here; but they are all right." "what do you think of that nita girl?" asked busy izzy, suddenly. "i believe there's something to her," declared bob, with conviction. "she ain't afraid of a living thing, i bet!" "there is something queer about her," tom added, thoughtfully. "have you noticed how that crab fellow looks at her?" "i see he hangs about her a good bit," said isadore, quickly. "why, do you suppose?" "that's what i'd like to know," returned tom cameron. they were now where phineas had told them bass might be caught, and gave their attention to their tackle. all three boys had fished for perch, pike, and other gamey fresh-water fish; but this was their first casting with a rod into salt water. "a true disciple of izaak walton should be dumb," declared tom, warningly eyeing isadore. "isn't he allowed any leeway at all--not even when he lands a fish?" demanded the irrepressible. "not above a whisper," grunted bob steele, trying to bait his hook with his thumb instead of the bait provided by phineas. "jingo!" "old bobbins has got the first bite," chuckled tom, under his breath, as he made his cast. the reel whirred and the hook fell with a light splash into a little eddy where the water seemed to swirl about a sunken rock. "you won't catch anything there," said isadore. "i'll gag you if you don't shut up," promised tom. suddenly his line straightened out. the hook seemed to be sucked right down into a hole between the rocks, and the reel began to whir. it stopped and tom tried it. "pshaw! that ain't a bite," whispered isadore. at tom's first attempt to reel in, the fish that had seized his hook started--for spain! at least, it shot seaward, and the boy knew that spain was about the nearest dry land if the fish kept on in that direction. "a strike!" tom gasped and let his reel sing for a moment or two. then, when the drag of the line began to tell on the bass, he carefully wound in some of it. the fish turned and finally ran toward the rocks once more. then tom wound up as fast as he could, trying to keep the line taut. "he'll tangle you all up, tommy," declared bob, unable, like isadore, to keep entirely still. tom was flushed and excited, but said never a word. he played the big bass with coolness after all, and finally tired it out, keeping it clear of the tangles of weed down under the rock, and drew it forth--a plump, flopping, gasping victim. bob and isadore were then eager to do as well and began whipping the water about the rocks with more energy than skill. tom, delighted with his first kill, ran over the rocks with the fish to show it to the girls. as he surmounted the ridge of the rocky cape he suddenly saw nita, the runaway, and jack crab, in a little cove right below him. the girl and the fisherman had come around to this side of the inlet, away from phineas and the other girls. they did not see tom behind and above them. nita was not fishing, and crab had unfolded a paper and was showing it to her. at this distance the paper seemed like a page torn from some newspaper, and there were illustrations as well as reading text upon the sheet which crab held before the strange girl's eyes. "there it is!" tom heard the lighthouse keeper's assistant say, in an exultant tone. "you know what i could get if i wanted to show this to the right parties. _now_, what d'ye think of it, sissy?" what nita thought, or what she said, tom did not hear. indeed, scarcely had the two come into his line of vision, and he heard these words, when something much farther away--across the inlet, in fact--caught the boy's attention. he could see his sister and some of the other girls fishing from the rocky path; but directly opposite where he stood was ruth. he saw mary cox meet and speak with her, the slight struggle of the two girls for position on the narrow ledge, and ruth's plunge into the water. "oh, by george!" shouted tom, as ruth went under, and he dropped the flopping bass and went down the rocks at a pace which endangered both life and limb. his shout startled nita and jack crab. but they had not seen ruth fall, nor did they understand tom's great excitement. the inlet was scarcely more than a hundred yards across; but it was a long way around to the spot where ruth had fallen, or been pushed, from the rock. tom never thought of going the long way to the place. he tore off his coat, kicked off his canvas shoes, and, reaching the edge of the water, dived in head first without a word of explanation to the man and girl beside him. he dived slantingly, and swam under water for a long way. when he came up he was a quarter of the distance across the inlet. he shook the water from his eyes, threw himself breast high out of the sea, and shouted: "has she come up? i don't see her!" nobody but mary cox knew what he meant. helen and the other girls were screaming because they had seen tom fling himself into the sea but they had not seen ruth fall in. nor did mary cox find voice enough to tell them when they ran along the ledge to try and see what tom was swimming for. the fox stood with glaring eyes, trying to see into the deep pool. but the pool remain unruffled and ruth did not rise to the surface. "has she come up?" again shouted tom, rising as high as he could in the water, and swimming with an overhand stroke. there seemed nobody to answer him; they did not know what he meant. the boy shot through the water like a fish. coming near the rock, he rose up with a sudden muscular effort, then dived deep. the green water closed over him and, when helen and the others reached the spot where mary cox stood, wringing her hands and moaning, tom had disappeared as utterly as ruth herself. chapter xvi ruth's secret "what has happened?" "where's ruth?" "mary cox! why don't you answer?" the fox for once in her career was stunned. she could only shake her head and wring her hands. helen was the first of the other girls to suspect the trouble, and she cried: "ruth's overboard! that's the reason tom has gone in. oh, oh! why don't they come up again?" and almost immediately all the others saw the importance of that question. ruth fielding had been down fully a minute and a half now, and tom had not come up once for air. nita had set off running around the head of the inlet, and crab shuffled along in her wake. the strange girl ran like a goat over the rocks. phineas, who had been aboard the motor boat and busy with his famous culinary operations, now came lumbering up to the spot. he listened to a chorused explanation of the situation--tragic indeed in its appearance. phineas looked up and down the rocky path, and across the inlet, and seemed to swiftly take a marine "observation." then he snorted. "they're all right!" he exclaimed. "_what?_" shrieked helen. "all right?" repeated heavy. "why, phineas----" she broke off with a startled gurgle. phineas turned quickly, too, and looked over the high boulder. there appeared the head of ruth fielding and, in a moment, the head of tom cameron beside it. "you both was swept through the tunnel into the pool behind, sir," said phineas, wagging his head. "oh, i was never so scared in my life," murmured ruth, clambering down to the path, the water running from her clothing in little streams. "me, too!" grunted tom, panting. "the tide sets in through that hole awfully strong." "i might have told you about it," grunted phineas; "but i didn't suppose airy one of ye was going for to jump into the sea right here." "we didn't--intentionally," declared ruth. "how ever did it happen, ruthie?" demanded heavy. there was a moment's silence. tom grew red in the face, but he kept his gaze turned from mary cox. ruth answered calmly enough: "it was my own fault. mary was just coming along to pass me. i had a bite. between trying to let her by and 'tending my fish,' i fell in--and now i have lost fish, line, and all." "be thankful you did not lose your life, miss fielding," said aunt kate. "come right down to the boat and get those wet things off. you, too, tom." at that moment nita came to the spot. "is she safe? is she safe?" she cried. "don't i look so?" returned ruth, laughing gaily. "and here's the fish i _did_ catch. i mustn't lose him." nita stepped close to the girl from the red mill and tugged at her wet sleeve. "what are you going to do to her?" she whispered. "do to who?" "that girl." "what are you talking about?" demanded ruth. "i saw her," said nita. "i saw her push you. she ought to be thrown into the water herself." "hush!" commanded ruth. "you're mistaken. you didn't see straight, my dear." "yes, i did," declared the western girl, firmly. "she's been mean to you, right along. i've noticed it. she threw you in." "don't say such a thing again!" commanded ruth, warmly. "you have no right." "huh!" said nita, eyeing her strangely. "it's your own business, i suppose. but i am not blind." "i hope not," sad ruth, calmly. "but i hope, too, you will not repeat what you just said--to anyone." "why--if you really don't want me to," said nita, slowly. "truly, i don't wish you to," said ruth, earnestly. "i don't even admit that you are right, mind----" "oh, it's your secret," said nita, shortly, and turned away. and ruth had a word to say to tom, too, as they hurried side by side to the boat, he carrying the fish. "now, tommy--remember!" she said. "i won't be easy in my mind, just the same, while that girl is here," growled master tom. "that's foolish. she never meant to do it." "huh! she was scared, of course. but she's mean enough----" "stop! somebody will hear you. and, anyway," ruth added, remembering what nita had said, "it's _my_ secret." "true enough; it is." "then don't tell it, tommy," she added, with a laugh. but it was hard to meet the sharp eye of mercy curtis and keep the secret. "and pray, miss, why did you have to go into the water after the fish?" mercy demanded. "i was afraid he would get away," laughed ruth. "and who helped you do it?" snapped the lame girl. "helped me do what?" "helped you tumble in." "now, do you suppose i needed help to do so silly a thing as that?" cried ruth. "you needed help to do it the other day on the steamboat," returned mercy, slily. "and i saw the fox following you around that way." "why, what nonsense you talk, mercy curtis!" but ruth wondered if mercy was to be so easily put off. the lame girl was so very sharp. however, ruth was determined to keep her secret. not a word had she said to mary cox. indeed, she had not looked at her since she climbed out of the open pool behind the boulder and, well-nigh breathless, reached the rock after that perilous plunge. tom she had sworn to silence, nita she had warned to be still, and now mercy's suspicions were to be routed. "poor, poor girl!" muttered ruth, with more sorrow than anger. "if she is not sorry and afraid yet, how will she feel when she awakes in the night and remembers what might have been?" nevertheless, the girl from the red mill did not allow her secret to disturb her cheerfulness. she hid any feeling she might have had against the fox. when they all met at dinner on the _miraflame_, she merely laughed and joked about her accident, and passed around dainty bits of the baked tautog that phineas had prepared especially for her. that fisherman's chowder was a marvel, and altogether he proved to be as good a cook as heavy had declared. the boys had caught several bass, and they caught more after dinner. but those were saved to take home. the girls, however, had had enough fishing. ruth's experience frightened them away from the slippery rocks. mary cox was certainly a very strange sort of a girl; but her present attitude did not surprise ruth. mary had, soon after ruth entered briarwood hall, taken a dislike to the younger girl. ruth's new club--the sweetbriars--had drawn almost all the new girls in the school, as well as many of mary's particular friends; while the up and doing club, of which mary was the leading spirit, was not alone frowned upon by mrs. tellingham and her assistants, but lost members until--as helen cameron had said--the last meeting of the upedes consisted of the fox and helen herself. the former laid all this at ruth fielding's door. she saw ruth's influence and her club increase, while her own friends fell away from her. twice ruth had helped to save mary from drowning, and on neither occasion did the older girl seem in the least grateful. now ruth was saving her from the scorn of the other girls and--perhaps--a request from heavy's aunt kate that mary pack her bag and return home. ruth hoped that mary would find some opportunity of speaking to her alone before the day was over. but, even when the boys returned from the outer rocks with a splendid string of bass, and the bow of the _miraflame_ was turned homeward, the fox said never a word to her. ruth crept away into the bows by herself, her mind much troubled. she feared that the fortnight at lighthouse point might become very unpleasant, if mary continued to be so very disagreeable. suddenly somebody tapped her on the arm. the motor boat was pushing toward the mouth of sokennet harbor and the sun was well down toward the horizon. the girls were in the cabin, singing, and madge was trying to make her brother sing, too; but bob's voice was changing and what he did to the notes of the familiar tunes was a caution. but it was tom cameron who had come to ruth. "see here," said the boy, eagerly. "see what i picked up on the rocks over there." "over where?" asked ruth, looking curiously at the folded paper in tom's hand. "across from where you fell in, ruth. nita and that crab fellow were standing there when i went down the rocks and dived in for you. and i saw them looking at this sheet of newspaper," and tom began to slowly unfold it as he spoke. chapter xvii what was in the newspaper "whatever have you got there, tom?" asked ruth, curiously. "hush! i reckon crab lost it when you fell in the water and stirred us all up so," returned the boy, with a grin. "lost that paper?" "yes. you see, it's a page torn from the sunday edition of a new york daily. on this side is a story of some professor's discoveries in ancient babylon." "couldn't have interested jack crab much," remarked ruth, smiling. "that's what i said myself," declared tom, hastily. "therefore, i turned it over. and _this_ is what crab was showing that nita girl, i am sure." ruth looked at the illustrated sheet that tom spread before her. there was a girl on a very spirited cow pony, swinging a lariat, the loop of which was about to settle over the broadly spreading horns of a texas steer. the girl was dressed in a very fancy "cow-girl" costume, and the picture was most spirited indeed. in one corner, too, was a reproduction of a photograph of the girl described in the newspaper article. "why! it doesn't look anything like nita," gasped ruth, understanding immediately why tom had brought the paper to her. "nope. you needn't expect it to. those papers use any old photograph to make illustrations from. but read the story." it was all about the niece of a very rich cattle man in montana who had run away from the ranch on which she had lived all her life. it was called silver ranch, and was a very noted cattle range in that part of the west. the girl's uncle raised both horses and cattle, was very wealthy, had given her what attention a single man could in such a situation, and was now having a countrywide search made for the runaway. "jane ann hicks has run away from a fortune" was the way the paper put it in a big "scare head" across the top of the page; and the text went on to tell of rough bill hicks, of bullhide, and how he had begun in the early cattle days as a puncher himself and had now risen to the sole proprietorship of silver ranch. "bill's one possession besides his cattle and horses that he took any joy in was his younger brother's daughter, jane ann. she is an orphan and came to bill and he has taken sole care of her (for a woman has never been at silver ranch, save indian squaws and a mexican cook woman) since she could creep. jane ann is certainly the apple of old bill's eye. "but, as old bill has told the bullhide chief of police, who is sending the pictures and description of the lost girl all over the country, 'jane ann got some powerful hifalutin' notions.' she is now a well-grown girl, smart as a whip, pretty, afraid of nothing on four legs, and just as ignorant as a girl brought up in such an environment would be. jane ann has been reading novels, perhaps. as the eastern youth used to fill up on cheap stories of the far west, and start for that wild and woolly section with the intention of wiping from the face of nature the last remnant of the red tribes, so it may be that jane ann hicks has read of the eastern millionaire and has started for the atlantic seaboard for the purpose of lassoing one--or more--of those elusive creatures. "however, old bill wants jane ann to come home. silver ranch will be hers some day, when old bill passes over the great divide, and he believes that if she is to be montana's coming cattle queen his niece would better not know too much about the effete east." and in this style the newspaper writer had spread before his readers a semi-humorous account (perhaps fictitious) of the daily life of the missing heiress of silver ranch, her rides over the prairies and hills on half-wild ponies, the round-ups, calf-brandings, horse-breakings, and all other activities supposed to be part and parcel of ranch life. "my goodness me!" gasped ruth, when she had hastily scanned all this, "do you suppose that any sane girl would have run away from all that for just a foolish whim?" "just what i say," returned tom. "cracky! wouldn't it be great to ride over that range, and help herd the cattle, and trail wild horses, and--and----" "well, that's just what one girl got sick of, it seems," finished ruth, her eyes dancing. "now! whether this same girl is the one we know----" "i bet she is," declared tom. "betting isn't proof, you know," returned ruth, demurely. "no. but jane ann hicks is this young lady who wants to be called 'nita'--oh, glory! what a name!" "if it is so," ruth rejoined, slowly, "i don't so much wonder that she wanted a fancy name. 'jane ann hicks'! it sounds ugly; but an ugly name can stand for a truly beautiful character." "that fact doesn't appeal to this runaway girl, i guess," said tom. "but the question is: what shall we do about it?" "i don't know as we can do anything about it," ruth said, slowly. "of course we don't know that this hicks girl and nita are the same." "what was crab showing her the paper for?" "what can crab have to do with it, anyway?" returned ruth, although she had not forgotten the interest the assistant lighthouse keeper had shown in nita from the first. "don't know. but if he recognized her----" "from the picture?" asked ruth. "well! you look at it. that drawing of the girl on horseback looks more like her than the photographic half-tone," said tom. "she looks just that wild and harum-scarum!" ruth laughed. "there _is_ a resemblance," she admitted. "but i don't understand why crab should have any interest in the girl, anyway." "neither do i. let's keep still about it. of course, we'll tell nell," said tom. "but nobody else. if that old ranchman is her uncle he ought to be told where she is." "maybe she was not happy with him, after all," said ruth, thoughtfully. "my goodness!" tom cried, preparing to go back to the other boys who were calling him. "i don't see how anybody could be unhappy under such conditions." "that's all very well for a boy," returned the girl, with a superior air. "but think! she had no girls to associate with, and the only women were squaws and a mexican cook!" ruth watched nita, but did not see the assistant lighthouse keeper speak to the runaway during the passage home, and from the dock to the bungalow ruth walked by nita's side. she was tempted to show the page of the newspaper to the other girl, but hesitated. what if nita really _was_ jane hicks? ruth asked herself how _she_ would feel if she were burdened with that practical but unromantic name, and had to live on a lonely cattle ranch without a girl to speak to. "maybe i'd run away myself," thought ruth. "i was almost tempted to run away from uncle jabez when i first went to live at the red mill." she had come to pity the strange girl since reading about the one who had run away from silver ranch. whether nita had any connection with the newspaper article or not, ruth had begun to see that there might be situations which a girl couldn't stand another hour, and from which she was fairly forced to flee. the fishing party arrived home in a very gay mood, despite the incident of ruth's involuntary bath. mary cox kept away from the victim of the accident and when the others chaffed ruth, and asked her how she came to topple over the rock, the fox did not even change color. tom scolded in secret to ruth about mary. "she ought to be sent home. i'll not feel that you're safe any time she is in your company. i've a mind to tell miss kate stone," he said. "i'll be dreadfully angry if you do such a thing, tom," ruth assured him, and that promise was sufficient to keep the boy quiet. they were all tired and not even helen objected when bed was proposed that night. in fact, heavy went to sleep in her chair, and they had a dreadful time waking her up and keeping her awake long enough for her to undress, say her prayers, and get into bed. in the other girls' room ruth and her companions spent little time in talking or frolicking. nita had begged to sleep with mercy, with whom she had spent considerable time that day and evening; and the lame girl and the runaway were apparently both asleep before ruth and helen got settled for the night. then helen dropped asleep between yawns and ruth found herself lying wide-awake, staring at the faintly illuminated ceiling. of a sudden, sleep had fled from her eyelids. the happenings of the day, the mystery of nita, the meanness of mary cox, her own trouble at the mill, the impossibility of her going to briarwood next term unless she found some way of raising money for her tuition and board, and many, many other thoughts, trooped through ruth fielding's mind for more than an hour. mostly the troublesome thoughts were of her poverty and the seeming impossibility of her ever discovering any way to earn such a quantity of money as three hundred and fifty dollars. her chum, lying asleep beside her, did not dream of this problem that continually troubled ruth's mind. the clock down stairs tolled eleven solemn strokes. ruth did not move. she might have been sound asleep, save for her open eyes, their gaze fixed upon the ceiling. suddenly a beam of light flashed in at one window, swinging from right to left, like the blade of a phantom scythe, and back again. ruth did not move, but the beam of light took her attention immediately from her former thoughts. again and once again the flash of light was repeated. then she suddenly realized what it was. somebody was walking down the path toward the private dock, swinging a lantern. she would have given it no further thought had not a door latch clicked. whether it was the latch of her room, or another of the bedrooms on this floor of the bungalow, ruth could not tell. but in a moment she heard the balustrade of the stair creak. "it's izzy again!" thought ruth, sitting up in bed. "he's walking in his sleep. the boys did not tie him." she crept out of bed softly so as not to awaken helen or the other girls and went to the door. when she opened it and peered out, there was no ghostly figure "tight-roping it" on the balustrade. but she heard a sound below--in the lower hall. somebody was fumbling with the chain of the front door. "he's going out! i declare, he's going out!" thought ruth and sped to the window. she heard the jar of the big front door as it was opened, and then pulled shut again. she heard no step on the porch, but a figure soon fluttered down the steps. it was not isadore phelps, however. ruth knew that at first glance. indeed, it was not a boy who started away from the house, running on the grass beside the graveled walk. ruth turned back hastily and looked at the other bed--at mercy's bed. the place beside the lame girl was empty. nita had disappeared! chapter xviii another night adventure ruth was startled, to say the least, by the discovery that nita was absent. and how softly the runaway girl must have crept out of bed and out of the room for ruth--who had been awake--not to hear her! "she certainly is a sly little thing!" gasped ruth. but as she turned back to see what had become of the figure running beside the path, the lantern light was flashed into her eyes. again the beam was shot through the window and danced for a moment on the wall and ceiling. "it is a signal!" thought ruth. "there's somebody outside besides nita--somebody who wishes to communicate with her." even as she realized this she saw the lantern flash from the dock. that was where it had been all the time. it was a dark-lantern, and its ray had been intentionally shot into the window of their room. the figure she had seen steal away from the bungalow had now disappeared. if it was nita--as ruth believed--the strange girl might be hiding in the shadow of the boathouse. however, the girl from the red mill did not stand idly at the window for long. it came to her that somebody ought to know what was going on. her first thought was that nita was bent on running away from her new friends--although, as as far as any restraint was put upon her, she might have walked away at any time. "but she ought not to go off like this," thought ruth, hurrying into her own garments. by the faint light that came from outside she could see to dress; and she saw, too, that nita's clothing had disappeared. "why, the girl must have dressed," thought ruth, in wonder. "how could she have done it with me lying here awake?" meanwhile, her own fingers were busy and in two minutes from the time she had turned from the window, she opened the hall door again and tiptoed out. the house was perfectly still, save for the ticking of the big clock. she sped down the stairway, and as she passed the glimmering face of the time-keeper she glanced at it and saw that the minute hand was just eight minutes past the hour. in a closet under the stairs were the girls' outside garments, and hats. she found somebody's tam-o'-shanter and her own sweater-coat, and slipped both on in a hurry. when she opened the door the chill, salt air, with not a little fog in it, breathed into the close hall. she stepped out, pulled the door to and latched it, and crossed the porch. the harbor seemed deserted. two or three night lights sparkled over on the village side. what vessels rode at anchor showed no lights at their moorings. but the great, steady, yellow light of the beacon on the point shone steadily--a wonderfully comforting sight, ruth thought, at this hour of the night. there were no more flashes of lantern light from the dock. nor did she hear a sound from that direction as she passed out through the trimly cut privet hedge and took the shell walk to the boathouse. she was in canvas shoes and her step made no sound. in a moment or two she was in the shadow again. then she heard voices--soft, but earnest tones--and knew that two people were talking out there toward the end of the dock. one was a deep voice; the other might be nita's--at least, it was a feminine voice. "who under the sun can she have come here to meet?" wondered ruth, anxiously. "not one of the boys. this can't be merely a lark of some kind----" something scraped and squeaked--a sound that shattered the silence of the late evening completely. a dog instantly barked back of the the bungalow, in the kennels. other dogs on the far shore of the cove replied. a sleep-walking rooster began to crow clamorously, believing that it was already growing day. the creaking stopped in a minute, and ruth heard a faint splash. the voices had ceased. "what can it mean?" thought the anxious girl. she could remain idle there behind the boathouse no longer. she crept forth upon the dock to reconnoiter. there seemed to be nobody there. and then, suddenly, she saw that the catboat belonging to mr. stone's little fleet--the "_jennie s._" it was called, named for heavy herself--was some distance from her moorings. the breeze was very light; but the sail was raised and had filled, and the catboat was drifting quite rapidly out beyond the end of the dock. it was so dark in the cockpit that ruth could not distinguish whether there were one or two figures aboard, or who they were; but she realized that somebody was off on a midnight cruise. "and without saying a word about it!" gasped ruth. "could it be, after all, one of the boys and nita? are they doing this just for the fun of it?" yet the heavy voice she had heard did not sound like that of either of the three boys at the bungalow. not even bob steele, when his unfortunate voice was pitched in its very lowest key, could rumble like this voice. the girl of the red mill was both troubled and frightened. suppose nita and her companion should be wrecked in the catboat? she did not believe that the runaway girl knew anything about working a sailboat. and who was her companion on this midnight escapade? was he one of the longshoremen? suddenly she thought of jack crab. but crab was supposed to be at the lighthouse at this hour; wasn't he? she could not remember what she had heard about the lighthouse keeper's assistant. nor could ruth decide at once whether to go back to the house and give the alarm, or not. had she known where phineas, the boatkeeper, lodged, she would certainly have tried to awaken him. he ought to be told that one of the boats was being used--and, of course, without permission. the sail of the catboat drifted out of sight while she stood there undecided. she could not pursue the _jennie s._ had she known where phineas was, they might have gone after the catboat in the _miraflame;_ but otherwise ruth saw no possibility of tracking the two people who had borrowed the _jennie s._ nor was she sure that it was desirable to go in, awaken the household, and report the disappearance of nita. the cruise by night might be a very innocent affair. "and then again," murmured ruth, "there may be something in it deeper than i can see. we do not really know who this nita is. that piece in the paper may not refer to her at all. suppose, instead of having run away from a rich uncle and a big cattle ranch, nita comes from bad people? mrs. kirby and the captain knew nothing about her. it may be that some of nita's bad friends have followed her here, and they may mean to rob the stones! "goodness! that's a very bad thought," muttered ruth, shaking her head. "i ought not to suspect the girl of anything like that. although she is so secret, and so rough of speech, she doesn't seem to be a girl who has lived with really bad people." ruth could not satisfy herself that it would be either right or wise to go in and awaken miss kate, or even the butler. but she could not bring herself to the point of going to bed, either, while nita was out on the water. she couldn't think of sleep, anyway. not until the catboat came back to the dock did she move out of the shadow of the boathouse. and it was long past one o'clock when this occurred. the breeze had freshened, and the _jennie s._ had to tack several times before the boatman made the moorings. the starlight gave such slight illumination that ruth could not see who was in the boat. the sail was dropped, the boat moored, and then, after a bit, she heard a heavy step upon the dock. only one person came toward her. ruth peered anxiously out of the shadow. a man slouched along the dock and reached the shell road. he turned east, moving away toward the lighthouse. it was jack crab. "and nita is not with him!" gasped ruth. "what has he done with her? where has he taken her in the boat? what does it mean?" she dared not run after crab and ask him. she was really afraid of the man. his secret communication with nita was no matter to be blurted out to everybody, she was sure. nita had gone to meet him of her own free will. she was not obliged to sail away with crab in the catboat. naturally, the supposition was that she had decided to remain away from the bungalow of her own intention, too. "it is not my secret," thought ruth. "she was merely a visitor here. miss kate, even, had no command over her actions. she is not responsible for nita--none of us is responsible. "i only hope she won't get into any trouble through that horrid jack crab. and it seems so ungrateful for nita to walk out of the house without saying a word to heavy and miss kate. "i'd best keep my own mouth shut, however, and let things take their course. nita wanted to go away, or she would not have done so. she seemed to have no fear of jack crab; otherwise she would not have met him at night and gone away with him. "ruth fielding! you mind your own business," argued the girl of the red mill, finally going back toward the silent house. "at least, wait until we see what comes of this before you tell everything you know." and so deciding, she crept into the house, locked the door again, got into her room without disturbing any of the other girls, and so to bed and finally to sleep, being little the wiser for her midnight escapade. chapter xix the goblins' gambol helen awoke ruth in the morning with the question that was bound to echo and re-echo through the bungalow for that, and subsequent days: "where is nita?" ruth could truthfully answer: "i do not know." nor did anybody else know, or suspect, or imagine. what had happened in the night was known only to ruth and she had determined not to say a word concerning it unless she should be pointedly examined by miss kate, or somebody else in authority. nobody else had heard or seen nita leave the bungalow. indeed, nobody had heard ruth get up and go out, either. the catboat rocked at its moorings, and there was no trace of how nita had departed. as to _why_ she had gone so secretly--well, that was another matter. they were all of the opinion that the runaway was a very strange girl. she had gone without thanking miss kate or heavy for their entertainment. she was evidently an ungrateful girl. these opinions were expressed by the bulk of the party at the bungalow. but ruth and helen and the latter's brother had their own secret about the runaway. helen had been shown the paper tom had found. she and tom were convinced that nita was really jane ann hicks and that she had been frightened away by jack crab. crab maybe had threatened her. on this point ruth could not agree. but she could not explain her reason for doubting it without telling more than she wished to tell; therefore she did not insist upon her own opinion. in secret she read over again the article in the newspaper about the lost jane ann hicks. something she had not noticed before now came under her eye. it was at the end of the article--at the bottom of the last column on the page: "old bill certainly means to find jane ann if he can. he has told chief penhampton, of bullhide, to spare no expense. the old man says he'll give ten good steers--or five hundred dollars in hard money--for information leading to the apprehension and return of jane ann. and he thinks some of starting for the east himself to hunt her up if he doesn't hear soon." "that poor old man," thought ruth, "really loves his niece. if i was sure nita was the girl told of here, i'd be tempted to write to mr. hicks myself." but there was altogether too much to do at lighthouse point for the young folks to spend much time worrying about nita. phineas said that soft-shell crabs were to be found in abundance at the mouth of the creek at the head of the cove, and that morning the boys made nets for all hands--at least, they found the poles and fastened the hoops to them, while the girls made the bags of strong netting--and after dinner the whole party trooped away (mercy excepted) to heckle the crabs under the stones and snags where phineas declared they would be plentiful. the girls were a bit afraid of the creatures at first, when they were shaken out of the scoops; but they soon found that the poor things couldn't bite until the new shells hardened. the boys took off their shoes and stockings and waded in, whereupon bob suddenly began to dance and bawl and splash the water all over himself and his companions. "what under the sun's the matter with you, bobbins?" roared tom, backing away from his friend to escape a shower-bath. "oh! he's got a fit!" squealed isadore. "it's cramps!" declared heavy, from the shore, and in great commiseration. "for pity's sake, little boy!" cried bob's sister, "what is the matter with you now? he's the greatest child! always getting into some mess." bob continued to dance; but he got into shoal water after a bit and there it was seen that he was doing a sort of highland fling on one foot. the other had attached to it a big hardshell crab; and no mortgage was ever clamped upon a poor man's farm any tighter than mr. crab was fastened upon bob's great toe. "ooh! ooh! ooh!" repeated the big fellow, whacking away at the crab with the handle of his net. isadore tried to aid him, and instead of hitting the crab with _his_ stick, barked bob's ankle bone nicely. "ow! ow! ow!" yelled the youth in an entirely different key. the girls were convulsed with laughter; but tom got the big crab and the big boy apart. bob wasn't satisfied until he had placed the hardshell between two stones and wrecked it--smashed it flat as a pancake. "there! i know that fellow will never nip another inoffensive citizen," groaned bob, and he sat on a stone and nursed his big toe and his bruised ankle until the others were ready to go home. they got a nice mess of crabs; but bob refused to eat any. "never want to see even crabs _a la_ newburgh again," he grunted. "and i don't believe that even a fried soft-shell crab is dead enough so that it can't bite a fellow!" there was a splendid smooth bit of beach beyond the dock where they bathed, and even mercy had taken a dip that morning; but when the girls went to their bedrooms at night each girl found pinned to her nightdress a slip of paper--evidently a carbon copy of a typewritten message. it read: "the goblins' gambol--you are instructed to put on your bathing suit, take a wrap, and meet for a goblins' gambol on the beach at ten sharp. the tide will be just right, and there is a small moon. do not fail." the girls giggled a good deal over this. they all declared they had not written the message, or caused it to be written. there was a typewriter downstairs, heavy admitted; but she had never used it. anyhow, the suggestion was too tempting to refuse. at ten the girls, shrouded in their cloaks and water proofs, crept down stairs and out of the house. the door was locked, and they could not imagine who had originated this lark. the boys did not seem to be astir at all. "if aunt kate hears of this i expect she'll say something," chuckled heavy. "but we've been pretty good so far. oh, it is just warm and nice. i bet the water will be fine." they trooped down to the beach, mercy limping along with the rest. ruth and helen gave her aid when she reached the sand, for her crutches hampered her there. "come on! the water's fine!" cried madge, running straight into the smooth sea. they were soon sporting in it, and having a great time, but keeping near the shore because the boys were not there, when suddenly helen began to squeal--and then madge. those two likewise instantly disappeared beneath the water, their cries ending in articulate gurgles. "oh! oh!" cried heavy. "there's somebody here! something's got me!" she was in shallow water, and she promptly sat down. whatever had grabbed her vented a mighty grunt, for she pinioned it for half a minute under her weight. when she could scramble up she had to rescue what she had fallen on, and it proved to be isadore--very limp and "done up." "it's the boys," squealed helen, coming to the surface. "tom swam under water and caught me." "and this is that horrid bob!" cried madge. "what have you got there, heavy?" "i really don't know," giggled the stout girl. "what do you think it looks like?" "my--goodness--me!" panted busy izzy. "i thought--it--it was ruth! why--why don't you look where you're sitting, jennie stone?" but the laugh was on isadore and he could not turn the tables. the boys had been out to the diving float watching the girls come in. and in a minute or two miss kate joined them, too. it was she who had planned the moonlight dip and for half an hour they ran races on the sand, and swam, and danced, and had all sorts of queer larks. miss kate was about to call them out and "shoo" the whole brood into the house again when they heard a horse, driven at high speed, coming over the creek bridge. "hullo! here comes somebody in a hurry," said tom. "that's right. he's driving this way, not toward the railroad station," rejoined heavy. "it's somebody from sokennet." "who can it be this time of night?" was her aunt's question as they waited before the gateway as the carriage wheeled closer. "there's a telegraph office, you know, at sokennet," said heavy, thoughtfully. "and--yes!--that's brickman's old horse. hullo!" "whoa! hullo, miss!" exclaimed a hoarse voice. "glad i found you up. here's a message for you." "for me?" cried heavy, and dripping as she was, ran out to the carriage. "sign on this place, miss. here's a pencil. thank you, miss; it's paid for. that's the message," and he put a telegraph envelope into her hand. on the outside of the envelope was written, "stone, lighthouse point." under the lamp on the porch heavy broke the seal and drew out the message, while the whole party stood waiting. she read it once to herself, and was evidently immensely surprised. then she read it out loud, and her friends were just as surprised as she was: "stone, lighthouse point, sokennet.--hold onto her. i am coming right down. "w. hicks." chapter xx "whar's my jane ann?" three of heavy's listeners knew in an instant what the telegram meant--who it was from, and who was mentioned in it--ruth, helen and tom. but how, or why the telegram had been sent was as great a mystery to them as to the others; therefore their surprise was quite as unfeigned as that of the remaining girls and boys. "why, somebody's made a mistake," said heavy. "such a telegram couldn't be meant for me." "and addressed only to 'stone,'" said her aunt. "it is, of course, a mistake." "and who are we to hold on to?" laughed mary cox, prepared to run into the house again. "wait!" cried mercy, who had come leaning upon madge's arm from the shore. "don't you see who that message refers to?" "no!" they chorused. "to that runaway girl, of course," said the cripple. "that's plain enough, i hope." "to nita!" gasped heavy. "but who is it that's coming here for her? and how did 'w. hicks' know she was here?" demanded ruth. "maybe captain and mrs. kirby told all about her when they got to boston. news of her, and where she was staying, got to her friends," said mercy curtis. "that's the 'why and wherefore' of it--believe me!" "that sounds very reasonable," admitted aunt kate. "the kirbys would only know our last name and would not know how to properly address either jennie or me. come, now! get in on the rubber mats in your rooms and rub down well. the suits will be collected and rinsed out and hung to dry before mammy laura goes to bed. if any of you feel the least chill, let me know." but it was so warm and delightful a night that there was no danger of colds. the girls were so excited by the telegram and had so much to say about the mystery of nita, the castaway, that it was midnight before any of them were asleep. however, they had figured out that the writer of the telegram, leaving new york, from which it was sent at half after eight, would be able to take a train that would bring him to sandtown very early in the morning; and so the excited young folks were all awake by five o'clock. it was a hazy morning, but there was a good breeze from the land. tom declared he heard the train whistle for the sandtown station, and everybody dressed in a hurry, believing that "w. hicks" would soon be at the bungalow. there were no public carriages at the station to meet that early train, and miss kate had doubted about sending anybody to meet the person who had telegraphed. in something like an hour, however, they saw a tall man, all in black, striding along the sandy road toward the house. as he came nearer he was seen to be a big-boned man, with broad shoulders, long arms, and a huge reddish mustache, the ends of which drooped almost to his collar. such a mustache none of them had ever seen before. his black clothes would have fitted a man who weighed a good fifty pounds more than he did, and so the garments hung baggily upon him. he wore a huge, black slouched hat, with immensely broad brim. he strode immediately to the back door--that being the nearest to the road by which he came--and the boys and girls in the breakfast room crowded to the windows to see him. he looked neither to right nor left, however, but walked right into the kitchen, where they at once heard a thunderous voice demand: "whar's my jane ann? whar's my jane ann, i say?" mammy laura evidently took his appearance and demand in no good part. she began to sputter, but his heavy voice rode over hers and quenched it: "keep still, ol' woman! i want to see your betters. whar's my jane ann?" "lawsy massy! what kine ob a man is yo'?" squealed the fat old colored woman. "t' come combustucatin' inter a pusson's kitchen in disher way----" "be still, ol' woman!" roared the visitor again. "whar's my jane ann?" the butler appeared then and took the strange visitor in hand. "come this way, sir. miss kate will see you," he said, and led the big man into the front of the house. "i don't want none o' your 'miss kates,'" growled the stranger. "i want my jane ann." heavy's little aunt looked very dainty indeed when she appeared before this gigantic westerner. the moment he saw her, off came his big hat, displaying a red, freckled face, and a head as bald as an egg. he was a very ugly man, saving when he smiled; then innumerable humorous wrinkles appeared about his eyes and the pale blue eyes themselves twinkled confidingly. "your sarvent, ma'am," he said. "your name stone?" "it is, sir. i presume you are 'w. hicks'?" she said. "that's me--bill hicks. bill hicks, of bullhide, montanny." "i hope you have not come here, mr. hicks, to be disappointed. but i must tell you at the start," said miss kate, "that i never heard of you before _i_ received your very remarkable telegram." "huh! that can well be, ma'am--that can well be. but they got your letter at the ranch, and jib, he took it into colonel penhampton, and the colonel telegraphed me to new york, where i'd come a-hunting her----" "wait, wait, wait!" cried miss kate, eagerly. "i don't understand at all what you are talking about." "why--why, i'm aimin' to talk about my jane ann," exclaimed the cattle man. "jane ann who?" she gasped. "jane ann hicks. my little gal what you've got her and what you wrote about----" "you are misinformed, sir," declared miss kate. "i have never written to you--or to anybody else--about any person named jane ann hicks." "oh, mebbe you don't know her by that name. she had some hifalutin' idee before she vamoosed about not likin' her name--an' i give her that thar name myself!" added bill hicks, in an aggrieved tone. "nor have i written about any other little girl, or by any other name," rejoined miss kate. "i have written no letter at all." "you didn't write to silver ranch to tell us that my little jane ann was found?" gasped the man. "no, sir." "somebody else wrote, then?" "i do not know it, if they did," miss kate declared. "then somebody's been a-stringin' of me?" he roared, punching his big hat with a clenched, freckled fist in a way that made miss kate jump. "oh!" she cried. "don't you be afeared, ma'am," said the big man, more gently. "but i'm mighty cast down--i sure am! some miser'ble coyote has fooled me. that letter said as how my little niece was wrecked on a boat here and that a party named stone had taken her into their house at lighthouse point----" "it's nita!" cried miss kate. "what's that?" he demanded. "you're speaking of nita, the castaway!" "i'm talkin' of my niece, jane ann hicks," declared the rancher. "that's who i'm talking of." "but she called herself nita, and would not tell us anything about herself." "it might be, ma'am. the little skeezicks!" chuckled the westerner, his eyes twinkling suddenly. "that's a mighty fancy name--'nita.' and so she _is_ here with you, after all?" "no." "not here?" he exclaimed, his big, bony face reddening again. "no, sir. i believe she has been here--your niece." "and where'd she go? what you done with her?" he demanded, his overhanging reddish eyebrows coming together in a threatening scowl. "hadn't you better sit down, mr. hicks, and let me tell you all about it?" suggested miss kate. "say, miss!" he ejaculated. "i'm anxious, i be. when jane ann first run away from silver ranch, i thought she was just a-playin' off some of her tricks on me. i never supposed she was in earnest 'bout it--no, ma'am! "i rid into bullhide arter two days. and instead of findin' her knockin' around there, i finds her pony at the greaser's corral, and learns that she's took the train east. that did beat me. i didn't know she had any money, but she'd bought a ticket to denver, and it took a right smart of money to do it. "i went to colonel penhampton, i did," went on hicks, "and told him about it. he heated up the wires some 'twixt bullhide and denver; but she'd fell out o' sight there the minute she'd landed. denver's some city, ma'am. i finds that out when i lit out arter jane ann and struck that place myself. "wal! 'twould be teejious to you, ma'am, if i told whar i have chased arter that gal these endurin' two months. had to let the ranch an' ev'rythin' else go to loose ends while i follered news of her all over. my gosh, ma'am! how many gals there is runs away from their homes! ye wouldn't believe the number 'nless ye was huntin' for a pertic'lar one an' got yer rope on so many that warn't her!" "you have had many disappointments, sir?" said miss kate, beginning to feel a great sympathy for this uncouth man. he nodded his great, bald, shining head. "i hope you ain't going to tell me thar's another in store for me right yere," he said, in a much milder voice. "i cannot tell you where nita--if she is your niece--is now," said miss kate, firmly. "she's left you?" "she went away some time during the night--night before last." "what for?" he asked, suspiciously. "i don't know. we none of us knew. we made her welcome and said nothing about sending her away, or looking for her friends. i did not wish to frighten her away, for she is a strangely independent girl----" "you bet she is!" declared mr. hicks, emphatically. "i hoped she would gradually become confiding, and then we could really do something for her. but when we got up yesterday morning she had stolen out of the house in the night and was gone." "and ye don't know whar jane ann went?" he said, with a sort of groan. miss kate shook her head; but suddenly a voice interrupted them. ruth fielding parted the curtains and came into the room. "i hope you will pardon me, miss kate," she said softly. "and this gentleman, too. i believe i can tell him how nita went away--and perhaps through what i know he may be able to find her again." chapter xxi crab makes his demand bill hicks beckoned the girl from the red mill forward. "you come right here, miss," he said, "and let's hear all about it. i'm a-honin' for my jane ann somethin' awful--ye don't know what a loss she is to me. and silver ranch don't seem the same no more since she went away." "tell me," said ruth, curiously, as she came forward, "was what the paper said about it all true?" "why, ruth, what paper is this? what do you know about this matter that i don't know?" cried miss kate. "i'm sorry, miss kate," said the girl; "but it wasn't my secret and i didn't feel i could tell you----" "i know what you mean, little miss," hicks interrupted. "that new york newspaper--with the picter of jane ann on a pony what looked like one o' these horsecar horses? most ev'rythin' they said in that paper was true about her--and the ranch." "and she has had to live out there without any decent woman, and no girls to play with, and all that?" "wal!" exclaimed mr. hicks. "that ain't sech a great crime; is it?" "i don't wonder so much she ran away," ruth said, softly. "but i am sorry she did not stay here until you came, sir." "but where is she?" chorused both the ranchman and miss kate, and the latter added: "tell what you know about her departure, ruth." so ruth repeated all that she had heard and seen on the night nita disappeared from the stone bungalow. "and this man, crab, can be found down yonder at the lighthouse?" demanded the ranchman, rising at the end of ruth's story. "he is there part of the time, sir," miss kate said. "he is a rather notorious character around here--a man of bad temper, i believe. perhaps you had better go to the authorities first----" "what authorities?" demanded the westerner in surprise. "the sokennet police." bill hicks snorted. "i don't need police in this case, ma'am," he said. "i know what to do with this here crab when i find him. and if harm's come to my jane ann, so much the worse for him." "oh, i hope you will be patient, sir," said miss kate. "nita was not a bit afraid of him, i am sure," ruth hastened to add. "he would not hurt her." "no. i reckon he wants to make money out of me," grunted bill hicks, who did not lack shrewdness. "he sent the letter that told me she was here, and then he decoyed her away somewhere so's to hold her till i came and paid him the reward. wal! let me git my jane ann back, safe and sound, and he's welcome to the five hundred dollars i offered for news of her." "but first, mr. hicks," said miss kate, rising briskly, "you'll come to breakfast. you have been traveling all night----" "that's right, ma'am. no chance for more than a peck at a railroad sandwich--tough critters, them!" "ah! here is tom cameron," she said, having parted the portières and found tom just passing through the hall. "mr. hicks, tom. nita's uncle." "er--mr. bill hicks, of the silver ranch!" ejaculated tom. "so you've hearn tell of me, too, have you, younker?" quoth the ranchman, good-naturedly. "well, my fame's spreadin'." "and it seems that _i_ am the only person here who did not know all about your niece," said miss kate stone, drily. "oh, no, ma'am!" cried tom. "it was only ruth and helen and i who knew anything about it. and we only suspected. you see, we found the newspaper article which told about that bully ranch, and the fun that girl had----" "jane ann didn't think 'twas nice enough for her," grunted the ranchman. "she wanted high-heeled slippers--and shift--shift-on hats--and a pianner! common things warn't good enough for jane ann." ruth laughed, for she wasn't at all afraid of the big westerner. "if chiffon hats and french heeled slippers would have kept nita--i mean, jane ann--at home, wouldn't it have been cheaper for you to have bought 'em?" she asked. "it shore would!" declared the cattleman, emphatically. "but when the little girl threatened to run away i didn't think she meant it." meanwhile miss kate had asked tom to take the big man up stairs where he could remove the marks of travel. in half an hour he was at the table putting away a breakfast that made even mammy laura open her eyes in wonder. "i'm a heavy feeder, miss," he said apologetically, to ruth. "since i been east i often have taken my breakfast in two restaurants, them air waiters stare so. i git it in relays, as ye might say. them restaurant people ain't used to seeing a _man_ eat. and great cats! how they do charge for vittles!" but ugly as he was, and big and rude as he was, there was a simplicity and open-heartedness about mr. hicks that attracted more than ruth fielding. the boys, because tom was enthusiastic about the old fellow, came in first. but the girls were not far behind, and by the time mr. hicks had finished breakfast the whole party was in the room, listening to his talk of his lost niece, and stories of silver ranch and the growing and wonderful west. mercy curtis, who had a sharp tongue and a sharper insight into character, knew just how to draw bill hicks out. and the ranchman, as soon as he understood that mercy was a cripple, paid her the most gallant attentions. and he took the lame girl's sharp criticisms in good part, too. "so you thought you could bring up a girl baby from the time she could crawl till she was old enough to get married--eh?" demanded mercy, in her whimsical way. "what a smart man you are, mr. bill hicks!" "ya-as--ain't i?" he groaned. "i see now i didn't know nothin'." "not a living thing!" agreed mercy. "bringing up a girl among a lot of cow--cow--what do you call 'em?" "punchers," he finished, wagging his head. "that's it. nice society for a girl. likely to make her ladylike and real happy, too." "great cats!" ejaculated the ranchman, "i thought i was doin' the square thing by jane ann----" "and giving her a name like that, too!" broke in mercy. "how dared you?" "why--why----" stammered mr. hicks. "it was my grandmother's name--and she was as spry a woman as ever i see." "your grandmother's name!" gasped mercy. "then, what right had you to give it to your niece? and when she way a helpless baby, too! wasn't she good enough to have a name of her own--and one a little more modern?" "miss, you stump me--you sure do!" declared mr. hicks, with a sigh. "i never thought a gal cared so much for them sort o' things. they're surprisin' different from boys; ain't they?" "hope you haven't found it out too late, mister wild and woolly," said mercy, biting her speech off in her sharp way. "you had better take a fashion magazine and buy nita--or whatever she wants to call herself--clothes and hats like other girls wear. maybe you'll be able to keep her on a ranch, then." "wal, miss! i'm bound to believe you've got the rights of it. i ain't never had much knowledge of women-folks, and that's a fact----" he was interrupted by the maid coming to the door. "there's a boy here, miss kate," she said, "who is asking for the gentleman." "asking for the gentleman?" repeated miss kate. "yes, ma'am. the gentleman who has just came. the gentleman from the west." "axing for _me?_" cried the ranchman, getting up quickly. "it must be for you, sir," said aunt kate. "let the boy come in, sally." in a minute a shuffling, tow-headed, bare-footed lad of ten years or so entered bashfully. he was a son of one of the fishermen living along the sokennet shore. "you wanter see me, son?" demanded the westerner. "bill hicks, of bullhide?" "dunno wot yer name is, mister," said the boy. "but air you lookin' for a gal that was brought ashore from the wreck of that lumber schooner?" "that's me!" cried mr. hicks. "then i got suthin' for ye," said the boy, and thrust a soiled envelope toward him. "jack crab give it to me last night. he said i was to come over this morning an' wait for you to come. phin says you had come, w'en i got here. that's all." "hold on!" cried tom cameron, as the boy started to go out, and mr. hicks ripped open the envelope. "say, where is this crab man?" "dunno." "where did he go after giving you the note?" "dunno." just then mr. hicks uttered an exclamation that drew all attention to him and the fisherman's boy slipped out. "great cats!" roared bill hicks. "listen to this, folks! what d'ye make of it? "'now i got you right. whoever you be, you are wanting to get hold of the girl. i know where she is. you won't never know unless i get that five hundred dols. the paper talked about. you leave it at the lighthouse. mis purling will take care of it and i reckon on getting it from her when i want it. when she has got the five hundred dols. i will let you know how to find the girl. so, no more at present, from "'j. crab.' "listen here to it, will ye? why, if once i get my paws on this here crab----" "you want to get the girl most; don't you?" interrupted mercy, sharply. "of course!" "then you'd better see if paying the money to him--just as he says--won't bring her to you. you offered the reward, you know." "but maybe he doesn't really know anything about nita!" cried heavy. "and maybe he knows just where she is," said ruth. "wal! he seems like a mighty sharp feller," admitted the cattleman, seriously. "i want my jane ann back. i don't begredge no five hundred dollars. i'm a-goin' over to that lighthouse and see what this missus purling--you say she's the keeper?--knows about it. that's what i'm going to do!" finished hicks with emphasis. chapter xxii thimble island miss kate said of course he could use the buckboard and ponies, and it was the ranchman's own choice that the young folks went, too. there was another wagon, and they could all crowd aboard one or the other vehicle--even mercy curtis went. "i don't believe that crab man will show up at the light," ruth said to tom and helen. "he's plainly made up his mind that he won't meet nita's friends personally. and to think of his getting five hundred dollars so easy!" and she sighed. for the reward mr. hicks had offered for news of his niece, which would lead to her apprehension and return to his guardianship, would have entirely removed from ruth fielding's mind her anxiety about briarwood. let the tintacker mine, in which uncle jabez had invested, remain a deep and abiding mystery, if ruth could earn that five hundred dollars. but if jack crab had placed nita in good hands and was merely awaiting an opportunity to exchange her for the reward which the runaway's uncle had offered, then ruth need not hope for any portion of the money. and certainly, crab would make nothing by hiding the girl away and refusing to give her up to mr. hicks. "and if i took money for telling mr. hicks where nita was, why--why it would be almost like taking blood money! nita liked me, i believe; i think she ought to be with her uncle, and i am sure he is a nice man. but it would be playing the traitor to report her to mr. hicks--and that's a fact!" concluded ruth, taking herself to task. "i could not think of earning money in such a contemptible way." whether her conclusion was right, or not, it seemed right to ruth, and she put the thought of the reward out of her mind from that instant. the ranchman had taken a liking to ruth and when he climbed into the buckboard he beckoned the girl from the red mill to a seat beside him. he drove the ponies, but seemed to give those spirited little animals very little attention. ruth knew that he must be used to handling horses beside which the ponies seemed like tame rabbits. "now what do you think of my jane ann?" was the cattleman's question. "ain't she pretty cute?" "i am not quite sure that i know what you mean by that, mr. hicks," ruth answered, demurely. "but she isn't as smart as she ought to be, or she wouldn't have gone off with jack crab." "huh!" grunted the other. "mebbe you're right on that p'int. he didn't have no drop on her--that's so! but ye can't tell what sort of a yarn he give her." "she would better have had nothing to say to him," said ruth, emphatically. "she should have confided in miss kate. miss kate and jennie were treating her just as nicely as though she were an invited guest. nita--or jane, as you call her--may be smart, but she isn't grateful in the least." "oh, come now, miss----" "no. she isn't grateful," repeated ruth. "she never even suggested going over to the life saving station and thanking cap'n abinadab and his men for bringing her ashore from the wreck of the _whipstitch._" "great cats! i been thinkin' of that," sighed the westerner. "i want to see them and tell 'em what i think of 'em. i 'spect jane ann never thought of such a thing." "but i liked her, just the same," ruth went on, slowly. "she was bold, and brave, and i guess she wouldn't ever do a really mean thing." "i reckon not, miss!" agreed mr. hicks. "my jane ann is plumb square, she is. i can forgive her for running away from us. mebbe thar was reason for her gittin' sick of silver ranch. i--i stand ready to give her 'bout ev'rything she wants--in reason--when i git her back thar." "including a piano?" asked ruth, curiously. "great cats! that's what we had our last spat about," groaned bill hicks. "jib, he's had advantages, he has. went to this here carlisle injun school ye hear so much talk about. it purty nigh ruined him, but he _can_ break hosses. and thar he l'arned to play one o' them pianners. we was all in to bullhide one time--we'd been shipping steers--and we piled into the songbird dancehall--had the place all to ourselves, for it was daytime--and jib sot down and fingered them keys somethin' scand'lous. bashful ike--he's my foreman--says he never believed before that a sure 'nough man like jibbeway pottoway could ever be so ladylike! "wal! my jane ann was jest enchanted by that thar pianner--yes, miss! she was jest enchanted. and she didn't give me no peace from then on. said she wanted one o' the critters at the ranch so jib could give her lessons. and i jest thought it was foolishness--and it cost money--oh, well! i see now i was a pretty mean old hunks----" "that's what i heard her call you once," chuckled ruth. "at least, i know now that she was speaking of you, sir." "she hit me off right," sighed mr. hicks. "i hadn't never been used to spending money. but, laws, child! i got enough. i been some waked up since i come east. folks spend money here, that's a fact." they found mother purling's door opened at the foot of the lighthouse shaft, and the flutter of an apron on the balcony told them that the old lady had climbed to the lantern. "she doesn't often do that," said heavy. "crab does all the cleaning and polishing up there." "he's left her without any help, then," ruth suggested. "that's what it means." and truly, that is what it did mean, as they found out when ruth, the cameron twins, and the westerner climbed the spiral staircase to the gallery outside the lantern. "yes; that crab ain't been here this morning," mother purling admitted when ruth explained that there was reason for mr. hicks wishing to see him. "he told me he was mebbe going off for a few days. 'then you send me a substitute, jack crab,' i told him; but he only laughed and said he wasn't going to send a feller here to work into his job. he _is_ handy, i allow. but i'm too old to be left all stark alone at this light. i'm going to have another man when jack's month is out, just as sure as eggs is eggs!" mr. hicks was just as polite to the old lady as he had been to miss kate; and he quickly explained his visit to the lighthouse, and showed her the two letters that crab had written. "well, ain't that the beatenest?" she cried. "jack crab is just as mean as they make 'em, i always did allow. but this is the capsheaf of all his didoes. and you say he run off with the little girl the other night in mr. stone's catboat? i dunno where he could have taken her. and that day he'd been traipsing off fishing with you folks on the motor launch; hadn't he? he's been leavin' me to do his work too much. this settles it. me and jack crab parts company at the end of this month!" "but what is mr. hicks to do about his niece, mother purling?" cried ruth. "will he pay the five hundred dollars to you----?" "i just guess he won't!" cried the old lady, vigorously. "i ain't goin' to be collector for crab in none of his risky dealin's--no, ma'am!" "then he says he won't give nita up," exclaimed tom. "can't help it. i'm a government employe. i can't afford to be mixed up in no such didoes." "now, i say, missus!" exclaimed the cattleman, "this is shore too bad! ye might know somethin' about whar i kin find this yere reptile by the name of crab--though i reckon a crab is a inseck, not a reptile," and the ranchman grinned ruefully. the young folks could scarcely control their laughter at this, and the idea that a crustacean might be an insect was never forgotten by the cameron twins and ruth fielding. "i dunno where he is," said mother purling, shortly. "i can't keep track of the shiftless critter. ha'f the time when he oughter be here he's out fishing in the dory, yonder--or over to thimble island." "which is thimble island?" asked tom, quickly. "just yon," said the lighthouse keeper, pointing to a cone-shaped rock--perhaps an imaginative person would call it thimble-shaped--lying not far off shore. the lumber schooner had gone on the reef not far from it. "ain't no likelihood of his being over thar now, missus?" asked mr. hicks, quickly. "an' ye could purty nigh throw a stone to it!" scoffed the old woman. "not likely. b'sides, i dunno as there's a landin' on the island 'ceptin' at low tide. i reckon if he's hidin', jack crab is farther away than the thimble. but i don't know nothin' about him. and i can't accept no money for him--that's all there is to that." and really, that did seem to be all there was to it. even such a go-ahead sort of a person as mr. hicks seemed balked by the lighthouse keeper's attitude. there seemed nothing further to do here. ruth was rather interested in what mother purling had said about thimble island, and she lingered to look at the conical rock, with the sea foaming about it, when the others started down the stairway. tom came back for her. "what are you dreaming about, ruthie?" he demanded, nudging her. "i was wondering, tommy," she said, "just why jack crab went so often to the thimble, as she says he does. i'd like to see that island nearer to; wouldn't you?" "we'll borrow the catboat and sail out to it. i can handle the _jennie s._ i bet helen would like to go," said tom, at once. "oh, i don't suppose that crab man is there. it's just a barren rock," said ruth. "but i _would_ like to see the thimble." "and you shall," promised tom. but neither of them suspected to what strange result that promise tended. chapter xxiii marooned it was after luncheon before the three friends got away from the stone bungalow in the catboat. tom owned a catrigged boat himself on the lumano river, and helen and ruth, of course, were not afraid to trust themselves to his management of the _jennie s._ the party was pretty well broken up that day, anyway. mercy and miss kate remained at home and the others found amusement in different directions. nobody asked to go in the _jennie s._, for which ruth was rather glad. mr. hicks had gone over to sokennet with the avowed intention of interviewing every soul in the town for news of jack crab. somebody, surely, must know where the assistant lighthouse keeper was, and the westerner was not a man to be put off by any ordinary evasion. "my jane ann may be hiding over thar amongst them fishermen," he declared to ruth before he went away. "he couldn't have sailed far with her that night, if he was back in 'twixt two and three hours. no, sir-ree!" and that was the thought in ruth's mind. unless crab had sailed out and put nita aboard a new york, or boston, bound steamer, it seemed impossible that the girl could have gotten very far from lighthouse point. "shall we take one of the rowboats in tow, ruth?" queried tom, before they left the stone dock. "no, no!" returned the girl of the red mill, hastily. "we couldn't land on that island, anyway." "only at low tide," rejoined tom. "but it will be about low when we get outside the point." "you don't really suspect that crab and nita are out there, ruth?" whispered helen, in her chum's ear. "it's a crazy idea; isn't it?" laughed ruth. yet she was serious again in a moment. "i thought, when mother purling spoke of his going there so much, that maybe he had a reason--a particular reason." "phineas told me that jack crab was the best pilot on this coast," remarked tom. "he knows every channel, and shoal, and reef from westhampton to cape o' winds. if there was a landing at thimble island, and any secret place upon it, jack crab would be likely to know of it." "can you sail us around the thimble?" asked ruth. "that's all we want." "i asked phin before we started. the sea is clear for half a mile and more all around the thimble. we can circle it, all right, if the wind holds this way." "that's all i expect you to do, tommy," responded ruth, quickly. but they all three eyed the conical-shaped rock very sharply as the _jennie s._ drew nearer. they ran between the lighthouse and the thimble. the tide, in falling, left the green and slime-covered ledges bare. "a boat could get into bad quarters there, and easily enough," said tom, as they ran past. but when he tacked and the catboat swung her head seaward, they began to observe the far side of the thimble. it was almost circular, and probably all of a thousand yards in circumference. the waves now ran up the exposed ledges, hissing and gurgling among the cavities, and sometimes throwing up spume-like geysers between the boulders. "a bad rock for any vessel to stub her toe against trying to make sokennet harbor," quoth tom cameron. "they say that the wreckers used to have a false beacon here in the old times. they used to bring a sheep out here and tie a lantern to its neck. then, at low tide, they'd drive the poor sheep over the rocks and the bobbing up and down of the lantern would look like a riding light on some boat at anchor. then the lost vessel would dare run in for an anchorage, too, and she'd be wrecked. jack crab's grandfather was hanged for it. so phineas told me." "how awful!" gasped helen. but ruth suddenly seized her hand, exclaiming: "see there! what is it fluttering on the rock? look, tom!" at the moment the boy could not do so, as he had his hands full with the tiller and sheet, and his eyes were engaged as well. when he turned to look again at the thimble, what had startled ruth had disappeared. "there was something white fluttering against the rock. it was down there, either below high-water mark, or just above. i can't imagine what it was." "a seabird, perhaps," suggested helen. "then where did it go to so suddenly? i did not see it fly away," ruth returned. the catboat sailed slowly past the seaward side of the thimble. there were fifty places in which a person might hide upon the rock--plenty of broken boulders and cracks in the base of the conical eminence that formed the peculiarly shaped island. the three watched the rugged shore very sharply as the catboat beat up the wind--the girls especially giving the thimble their attention. a hundred pair of eyes might have watched them from the island, as far as they knew. but certainly neither ruth nor helen saw anything to feed their suspicion. "what shall we do now?" demanded tom. "where do you girls want to go?" "i don't care," helen said. "seen all you want to of that deserted island, ruthie?" "do you mind running back again, tom?" ruth asked. "i haven't any reason for asking it--no good reason, i mean." "pshaw! if we waited for a reason for everything we did, some things would never be done," returned tom, philosophically. "there isn't a thing there," declared helen. "but i don't care in the least where you sail us, tom." "only not to davy jones' locker, tommy," laughed ruth. "i'll run out a way, and then come back with the wind and cross in front of the island again," said tom, and he performed this feat in a very seamanlike manner. "i declare! there's a landing we didn't see sailing from the other direction," cried helen. "see it--between those two ledges?" "a regular dock; but you couldn't land there at high tide, or when there was any sea on," returned her brother. "that's the place!" exclaimed ruth. "see that white thing fluttering again? that's no seagull." "ruth is right," gasped helen. "oh, tom! there's something fluttering there--a handkerchief, is it?" "sing out! as loud as ever you can!" commanded the boy, eagerly. "hail the rock." they all three raised their voices. there was no answer. but tom was pointing the boat's nose directly for the opening between the sharp ledges. "if there is nobody on the thimble now, there _has_ been somebody there recently," he declared. "i'm going to drop the sail and run in there. stand by with the oars to fend off, girls. we don't want to scratch the catboat more than we can help." his sister and ruth sprang to obey him. each with an oar stood at either rail and the big sail came down on the run. but the _jennie s._ had headway sufficient to bring her straight into the opening between the ledges. tom ran forward, seized the rope in the bow, and leaped ashore, carrying the coil of the painter with him. helen and ruth succeeded in stopping the boat's headway with the oars, and the craft lay gently rocking in the natural dock, without having scraped her paint an atom. "a fine landing!" exclaimed tom, taking a turn or two with the rope about a knob of rock. "yes, indeed," returned ruth. she gave a look around. "my, what a lonely spot!" "it is lonely," the youth answered. "kind of a robinson crusoe place," and he gave a short laugh. "listen!" cried ruth, and held up her hand as a warning. "what did you hear, ruth?" "i thought i heard somebody talking, or calling." "you did?" tom listened intently. "i don't hear anything." he listened again. "yes, i do! where did it come from?" "i think it came from yonder," and the girl from the red mill pointed to a big, round rock ahead of them. "maybe it did, ruth. we'll--yes, you are right!" exclaimed the boy. as he spoke there was a scraping sound ahead of them and suddenly a tousled black head popped, up over the top of the boulder from which fluttered the bit of white linen that had first attracted ruth's attention. "gracious goodness!" gasped helen. "it's nita!" cried ruth. "oh, oh!" shrilled the lost girl, flying out of concealment and meeting ruth as she leaped ashore. "is it really you? have you come for me? i--i thought i'd have to stay here alone forever. i'd given up all hope of any boat seeing me, or my signal. i--i'm 'most dead of fear, ruth fielding! do, do take me back to land with you." the western girl was clearly panic-stricken. the boldness and independence she had formerly exhibited were entirely gone. being marooned on this barren islet had pretty well sapped the courage of miss jane ann hicks. chapter xxiv plucky mother purling tom cameron audibly chuckled; but he made believe to be busy with the painter of the catboat and so did not look at the western girl. the harum-scarum, independent, "rough and ready" runaway was actually on the verge of tears. but--really--it was not surprising. "how long have you been out here on this rock?" demanded helen, in horror. "ever since i left the bungalow." "why didn't you wave your signal from the top of the rock, so that it could be seen on the point?" asked ruth, wonderingly. "there's no way to get to the top of the rock--or around to the other side of it, either," declared the runaway. "look at these clothes! they are nearly torn off. and see my hands!" "oh, you poor, poor thing!" exclaimed helen, seeing how the castaway's hands were torn. "i tried it. i've shouted myself hoarse. no boat paid any attention to me. they were all too far away, i suppose." "and did that awful man, crab, bring you here?" cried ruth. "yes. it was dark when he landed and showed me this cave in the rock. there was food and water. why, i've got plenty to eat and drink even now. but nobody has been here----" "didn't he come back?" queried tom, at last taking part in the conversation. "he rowed out here once. i told him i'd sink his boat with a rock if he tried to land. i was afraid of him," declared the girl. "but why did you come here with him that night?" demanded ruth. "'cause i was foolish. i didn't know he was so bad then. i thought he'd really help me. he told me jennie's aunt had written to my uncle----" "old bill hicks," remarked tom, chuckling. "yes. i'm jane hicks. i'm not nita," said the girl, gulping down something like a sob. "we read all about you in the paper," said helen, soothingly. "don't you mind." "and your uncle's come, and he's just as anxious to see you as he can be," declared ruth. "so they _did_ send for him?" cried jane ann. "no. crab wrote a letter to silver ranch himself. he got you out here so as to be sure to collect five hundred dollars from your uncle before he gave you up," grunted tom. "nice mess of things you made by running off from us." "oh, i'll go back with uncle bill--i will, indeed," said the girl. "i've been so lonely and scared out here. seems to me every time the tide rose, i'd be drowned in that cave. the sea's horrid, i think! i never want to see it again." "well," tom observed, "i guess you won't have to worry about crab any more. get aboard the catboat. we'll slip ashore mighty easy now, and let him whistle for you--or the money. mr. hicks won't have to pay for getting you back." "i expect he's awful mad at me," sighed jane ann, _alias_ nita. "i know that he is awfully anxious to get you back again, my dear," said ruth. "he is altogether too good a man for you to run away from." "don't you suppose i know that, miss?" snapped the girl from the ranch. they embarked in the catboat and tom showed his seamanship to good advantage when he got the _jennie s._ out of that dock without rubbing her paint. but the wind was very light and they had to run down with it past the island and then beat up between the thimble and the lighthouse, toward the entrance to sokennet harbor. indeed, the breeze fell so at times that the catboat made no headway. in one of these calms helen sighted a rowboat some distance away, but pulling toward them from among the little chain of islands beyond the reef on which the lumber schooner had been wrecked. "here's a fisherman coming," she said. "do you suppose he'd take us ashore in his boat, tom? we could walk home from the light. it's growing late and miss kate will be worried." "why, sis, i can scull this old tub to the landing below the lighthouse yonder. we don't need to borrow a boat. then phineas can come around in the _miraflame_ to-morrow morning and tow the catboat home." but jane ann had leaped up at once to eye the coming rowboat--and not with favor. "that looks like the boat that crab came out to the thimble in," she exclaimed. "why! it _is_ him." "jack crab!" exclaimed helen, in terror. "he's after you, then." "well he won't get her," declared tom, boldly. "what can we do against that man?" demanded ruth, anxiously. "i'm afraid of him myself. let's try to get ashore." "yes, before he catches us," begged helen. "do, tom!" there was no hope of the wind helping them, and the man in the rowboat was pulling strongly for the becalmed _jennie s._ tom instantly dropped her sail and seized one of the oars. he could scull pretty well, and he forced the heavy boat through the quiet sea directly for the lighthouse landing. the three girls were really much disturbed; crab pulled his lighter boat much faster than tom could drive the _jennie s._ and it was a question if he would not overtake her before she reached the landing. "he sees me," said jane hicks, excitedly. "he'll get hold of me if he can. and maybe he'll hurt you folks." "he's got to catch us first," grunted tom, straining at the oar. "we're going to beat him, tommy!" cried helen, encouragingly. "don't give up!" once crab looked around and bawled some threat to them over his shoulder. but they did not reply. his voice inspired tom with renewed strength--or seemed to. the boy strained at his single oar, and the _jennie s._ moved landward at a good, stiff pace. "stand ready with the painter, ruth!" called tom, at last. "we must fasten the boat before we run." "and where will we run to?" demanded helen. "to the light, of course," returned her chum. "give _me_ the hitch-rein!" cried jane ann hicks, snatching the coil of line from ruth's hand, and the next moment she leaped from the deck of the catboat to the wharf. the distance was seven or eight feet, but she cleared it and landed on the stringpiece. she threw the line around one of the piles and made a knot with a dexterity that would have surprised her companions at another time. but there was no opportunity then for tom, helen and ruth to stop to notice it. all three got ashore the moment the catboat bumped, and they left her where she was and followed the flying western girl up the wharf and over the stretches of sand towards the lightkeeper's cottage. before their feet were off the planks of the wharf jack crab's boat collided with the _jennie s._ and the man scrambled upon her deck, and across it to the wharf. he left his own dory to go ashore if it would, and set out to catch the girl who--he considered--was worth five hundred dollars to him. but jane ann and her friends whisked into the little white house at the foot of the light shaft, and slammed the door before crab reached it. "for the land of goshen!" cried the old lady, who was sitting knitting in her tiny sitting-room. "what's the meaning of this?" "it's crab! it's jack crab!" cried helen, almost in hysterics. "he's after us!" tom had bolted the door. now crab thundered upon it, with both feet and fists. "let me in!" he roared from outside. "mother purling! you let me git that gal!" "what does this mean?" repeated the lighthouse keeper, sternly. "ain't this the gal that big man was after this morning?" she demanded, pointing at jane ann. "yes, mrs. purling--it is jane hicks. and this dreadful crab man has kept her out on the thimble all this time--alone!" cried ruth. "think of it! now he has chased us in here----" "i'll fix that jack crab," declared the plucky old woman, advancing toward the door. "hi, you, jack! go away from there." "you open this door, mother purling, if you knows what's best for you," commanded the sailor. "you better git away from that door, if you knows what's best for _you_, jack crab!" retorted the old woman. "i don't fear ye." "i see that man here this morning. did he leave aught for me?" cried crab, after a moment. "if he left the five hundred dollars he promised to give for the gal, he can have her. give me the money, and i'll go my ways." "i ain't no go-between for a scoundrel such as you, jack crab," declared the lighthouse keeper. "there's no money here for ye." "then i'll have the gal if i tear the lighthouse down for it--stone by stone!" roared the fellow. "and it's your kind that always blows before they breeches," declared mother purling, referring to the habit of the whale, which spouts before it upends and dives out of sight. "go away!" "i won't go away!" "yes, ye will, an' quick, too!" "old woman, ye don't know me!" stormed the unreasonable man. "i want that money, an' i'm bound to have it--one way or th' other!" "you'll get nuthin', jack crab, but a broken head if ye keep on in this fashion," returned the woman of the lighthouse, her honest wrath growing greater every moment. "we'll see about that!" howled the man. "are ye goin' to let me in or not?" "no, i tell ye! go away!" "then i'll bust my way in, see ef i don't!" at that the fellow threw himself against the door, and the screws of one hinge began to tear out of the woodwork. mother purling saw it, and motioned the frightened girls and tom toward the stairway which led to the gallery around the lantern. "go up yon!" she commanded. "shut and lock that door on ye. he'll not durst set foot on government property, and that's what the light is. go up." she shooed them all into the stairway and slammed the door. there she stood with her back against it, while, at the next blow, jack crab forced the outer door of her cottage inward and fell sprawling across its wreck into the room. chapter xxv what jane ann wanted ruth and her companions could not see what went on in the cottage; but they did not mount the stairs. they could not leave the old woman--plucky as she was--to fight jack crab alone. but they need not have been so fearful for mother purling's safety. the instant the man fell into the main room of the cottage, mother purling darted to the stove, seized the heavy poker which lay upon the hearth, and sprang for the rascal. jack crab had got upon his knees, threatening her with dire vengeance. the old lighthouse keeper never said a word in reply, but brought the heavy poker down upon his head and shoulders with right good will, and jack crab's tune changed on the instant. again and again mother purling struck him. he rolled upon the floor, trying to extricate himself from the wreck of her door, and so escape. but before he could do this, and before the old woman had ceased her attack, there was a shout outside, a horse was brought to an abrupt halt at the gate, and a huge figure in black flung itself from the saddle, and came running through the gate and up to the cottage. "what you got there, missus?" roared the deep voice of bill hicks, of bullhide, and at the sound of his voice jane ann burst open the door at the foot of the stairs and ran out to meet him. "this here's the man you want to meet, i guess," panted the old woman, desisting at length in her use of the poker. "do ye want him now, mister?" "uncle bill!" shrieked jane ann. "great cats!" cried the cattleman. "is it jane ann herself? is she alive?" the girl flung herself into the big man's arms. "i'm all right, uncle!" she cried, laughing and crying together. "and that man yonder didn't hurt me--only kep' me on a desert island till ruth and tom and helen found me." "then he kin go!" declared bill hicks, turning suddenly as crab started through the door. "and here's what will help him!" the westerner swung his heavy boot with the best intention in the world and caught jack crab just as he was going down the step. with a yell of pain the fellow sailed through the air, landing at least ten feet from the doorway. but he was up from his hands and knees and running hard in an instant, and he ran so hard, and to such good purpose, that he ran right out of this story then and there. ruth fielding and her friends never saw the treacherous fellow again. "but if he'd acted like he oughter," said mr. hicks, "and hadn't put my jane ann out on that thar lonesome rock, and treated her the way he done, i should have considered myself in his debt. i'd have paid him the five hundred dollars, sure enough. i'd have paid it over willingly if he'd left my gal with these nice people and only told me whar she was. but i wouldn't give him a cent now--not even if he was starvin'. for if i found him in that condition i'd see he got food and not money," and the big man chuckled. "so you haven't got to pay five hundred dollars for me, then, uncle bill?" said his niece, as they sat on the porch of the stones' bungalow, talking things over. "no, i haven't. no fault of yours, though, you little rascal. i dunno but i ought to divide it 'twixt them three friends of yourn that found ye." "not for us!" cried tom and helen. "nor for me," said ruth, earnestly. "it would not be right. i never should respect myself again if i thought i had tried to find nita for money." "but if it hadn't been for ruth we'd never have sailed over there to the thimble," declared tom. the western girl had been thinking seriously; now she seized her uncle by the arm. "i tell you what i want, uncle bill!" she cried. "something beside the pianner and the shift-on hat?" he grumbled, but his blue eyes twinkled. "those things don't count," she declared earnestly. "but this five hundred dollars, uncle bill, you haven't got to pay that crab man. so you just spend it by taking all these girls and boys that have been so nice to me out to silver ranch. they think it must be the finest place that ever happened--and i don't know but 'tis, uncle, if you don't have too much of it," she added. "great cats! that would shore be some doin's; wouldn't it?" exclaimed the cattleman, grinning broadly. "you bet it would! we'll take ruth and helen and tom and heavy an--why, every last one of 'em that'll go. we'll show 'em a right good time; is it a go, uncle bill?" and it certainly was "a go," for we shall meet ruth and her friends next in a volume entitled, "ruth fielding at silver ranch; or, schoolgirls among the cowboys." old bill hicks' hearty invitation could not be accepted, however, until the various young folks had written home to their parents and guardians about it. and the expectation of what fun they could have on silver ranch did not spoil the fun to be found closer at hand, at lighthouse point. the remainder of that fortnight at the bungalow would long be remembered by ruth and her girl friends, especially. mr. hicks got board at sokennet; but jane ann (although they all called her "nita" save the fox, who took some delight in teasing her about her ugly name) remained at the bungalow. the cattleman could not do too much for anybody who had been kind to his niece, and had the life saving men not refused absolutely to accept anything from him, he would have made them all a present because they had rescued jane ann from the wreck of the _whipstitch_. nevertheless, mr. hicks found out something that he _could_ do for the life-savers, and he presented the station with a fine library--something which all the surfmen, and cap'n abinadab as well, could enjoy during the long winter days and evenings. nor did the ranchman forget mother purling at the lighthouse. up from new york came the finest black silk dress and bonnet that the big man could buy for money in any shop, and no present could have so delighted the plucky old lighthouse keeper. she had longed, she said, for a black silk dress all her life. before the young folks departed from lighthouse point, too, miss kate invited the life-savers, and mother purling, and phineas and some of the other longshoremen and their wives to a "party" at the bungalow. and there were good things to eat (heavy saw to _that_, of course) and a moving-picture entertainment brought down from the city for that evening, and a big display of fireworks afterward on the shore. this wound up ruth fielding's visit to lighthouse point. the fortnight of fun was ended all too soon. she and helen and tom, and the rest of the visitors, started for home, all promising, if their parents and guardians agreed, to meet jane ann hicks and her uncle a week later, in syracuse, ready for the long and delightful journey across the continent to bullhide, montana. "well, we certainly did have some great times," was tom's comment, after the last goodbyes had been spoken and the young folks were homeward bound. "oh, it was lovely," answered his twin sister. "and think of how we helped nita--i mean jane ann." "most of the credit for that goes to ruth," said tom. "oh, no!" cried the girl from the red mill. "yes, we certainly had a grand time," she added. "i love the bounding sea, and the shifting sands, and the lighthouse, and all!" "oh, i do hope we can go out to that ranch!" sighed helen. "i have always wanted to visit such a place, to see the cattle and the cowboys, and the boundless prairies." "and i want to ride a broncho," put in her brother. "they say some of 'em can go like the wind. ruth, you'll have to ride, too." "take your last look at the sea!" came from heavy. "maybe we won't get another look at it for a long time." all turned to look at the rolling waves, glistening brightly in the summer sun. "isn't it lovely!" "good-bye, old ocean, good-bye!" sang out helen. ruth threw a kiss to the waves. then the ocean faded from their sight. and here we will leave ruth fielding and say good-bye. the end the ruth fielding series by alice b. emerson mo. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid ruth fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. ruth fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. . ruth fielding of the red mill . ruth fielding at briarwood hall . ruth fielding at snow camp . ruth fielding at lighthouse point . ruth fielding at silver ranch . ruth fielding on cliff island . ruth fielding at sunrise farm . ruth fielding and the gypsies . ruth fielding in moving pictures . ruth fielding down in dixie . ruth fielding at college . ruth fielding in the saddle . ruth fielding in the red cross . ruth fielding at the war front . ruth fielding homeward bound . ruth fielding down east . ruth fielding in the great northwest . ruth fielding on the st. lawrence . ruth fielding treasure hunting . ruth fielding in the far north . ruth fielding at golden pass . ruth fielding in alaska . ruth fielding and her great scenario cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the betty gordon series by alice b. emerson mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid . betty gordon at bramble farm or the mystery of a nobody at twelve betty is left an orphan. . betty gordon in washington or strange adventures in a great city betty goes to the national capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. . betty gordon in the land of oil or the farm that was worth a fortune from washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. a splendid picture of the oil field operations of to-day. . betty gordon at boarding school or the treasure of indian chasm seeking treasures of indian chasm makes interesting reading. . betty gordon at mountain camp or the mystery of ida bellethorne at mountain camp betty found herself in the midst of a mystery involving a girl whom she had previously met in washington. . betty gordon at ocean park or school chums on the boardwalk a glorious outing that betty and her chums never forgot. . betty gordon and her school chums or bringing the rebels to terms rebellious students, disliked teachers and mysterious robberies make a fascinating story. . betty gordon at rainbow ranch or cowboy joe's secret betty and her chums have a grand time in the saddle. . betty gordon in mexican wilds or the secret of the mountains betty receives a fake telegram and finds both bob and herself held for ransom in a mountain cave. . betty gordon and the lost pearl or a mystery of the seaside betty and her chums go to the ocean shore for a vacation and there betty becomes involved in the disappearance of a string of pearls worth a fortune. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the barton books for girls by may hollis barton mo. cloth. illustrated. with colored jacket price per volume, cents, postpaid may hollis barton is a new writer for girls who is bound to win instant popularity. her style is somewhat of a mixture of that of louisa m. alcott and mrs. l. t. meade, but thoroughly up-to-date in plot and action. clean tales that all girls will enjoy reading. . the girl from the country or laura mayford's city experiences laura was the oldest of five children and when daddy got sick she felt she must do something. she had a chance to try her luck in new york, and there the country girl fell in with many unusual experiences. . three girl chums at laurel hall or the mystery of the school by the lake when the three chums arrived at the boarding school they found the other students in the grip of a most perplexing mystery. how this mystery was solved, and what good times the girls had, both in school and on the lake, go to make a story no girl would care to miss. . nell grayson's ranching days or a city girl in the great west showing how nell, when she had a ranch girl visit her in boston, thought her chum very green, but when nell visited the ranch in the great west she found herself confronting many conditions of which she was totally ignorant. a stirring outdoor story. . four little women of roxby or the queer old lady who lost her way four sisters are keeping house and having trouble to make both ends meet. one day there wanders in from a stalled express train an old lady who cannot remember her identity. the girls take the old lady in, and, later, are much astonished to learn who she really is. . plain jane and pretty betty or the girl who won out the tale of two girls, one plain but sensible, the other pretty but vain. unexpectedly both find they have to make their way in the world. both have many trials and tribulations. a story of a country town and then a city. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the linger-not series by agnes miller mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid this new series of girls' books is in a new style of story writing. the interest is in knowing the girls and seeing them solve the problems that develop their character. incidentally, a great deal of historical information is imparted. . the linger-nots and the mystery house or the story of nine adventurous girls how the linger-not girls met and formed their club seems commonplace, but this writer makes it fascinating, and how they made their club serve a great purpose continues the interest to the end, and introduces a new type of girlhood. . the linger-nots and the valley feud or the great west point chain the linger-not girls had no thought of becoming mixed up with feuds or mysteries, but their habit of being useful soon entangled them in some surprising adventures that turned out happily for all, and made the valley better because of their visit. . the linger-nots and their golden quest or the log of the ocean monarch for a club of girls to become involved in a mystery leading back into the times of the california gold-rush, seems unnatural until the reader sees how it happened, and how the girls helped one of their friends to come into her rightful name and inheritance, forms a fine story. . the linger-nots and the whispering charms or the secret from old alaska whether engrossed in thrilling adventures in the far north or occupied with quiet home duties, the linger-not girls could work unitedly to solve a colorful mystery in a way that interpreted american freedom to a sad young stranger, and brought happiness to her and to themselves. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the girl scout series by lilian garis mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid the highest ideals of girlhood as advocated by the foremost organizations of america form the background for these stories and while unobtrusive there is a message in every volume. . the girl scout pioneers or winning the first b. c. a story of the true tred troop in a pennsylvania town. two runaway girls, who want to see the city, are reclaimed through troop influence. the story is correct in scout detail. . the girl scouts at bellaire or maid mary's awakening the story of a timid little maid who is afraid to take part in other girls' activities, while working nobly alone for high ideals. how she was discovered by the bellaire troop and came into her own as "maid mary" makes a fascinating story. . the girl scouts at sea crest or the wig wag rescue luna land, a little island by the sea, is wrapt in a mysterious seclusion, and kitty scuttle, a grotesque figure, succeeds in keeping all others at bay until the girl scouts come. . the girl scouts at camp comalong or peg of tamarack hills the girls of bobolink troop spend their summer on the shores of lake hocomo. their discovery of peg, the mysterious rider, and the clearing up of her remarkable adventures afford a vigorous plot. . the girl scouts at rocky ledge or nora's real vacation nora blair is the pampered daughter of a frivolous mother. her dislike for the rugged life of girl scouts is eventually changed to appreciation, when the rescue of little lucia, a woodland waif, becomes a problem for the girls to solve. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york billie bradley series by janet d. wheeler mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid . billie bradley and her inheritance or the queer homestead at cherry corners billie bradley fell heir to an old homestead that was unoccupied and located far away in a lonely section of the country. how billie went there, accompanied by some of her chums, and what queer things happened, go to make up a story no girl will want to miss. . billie bradley at three-towers hall or leading a needed rebellion three-towers hall was a boarding school for girls. for a short time after billie arrived there all went well. but then the head of the school had to go on a long journey and she left the girls in charge of two teachers, sisters, who believed in severe discipline and in very, very plain food and little of it--and then there was a row! the girls wired for the head to come back--and all ended happily. . billie bradley on lighthouse island or the mystery of the wreck one of billie's friends owned a summer bungalow on lighthouse island, near the coast. the school girls made up a party and visited the island. there was a storm and a wreck, and three little children were washed ashore. they could tell nothing of themselves, and billie and her chums set to work to solve the mystery of their identity. . billie bradley and her classmates or the secret of the locked tower billie and her chums come to the rescue of several little children who have broken through the ice. there is the mystery of a lost invention, and also the dreaded mystery of the locked school tower. . billie bradley at twin lakes or jolly schoolgirls afloat and ashore a tale of outdoor adventure in which billie and her chums have a great variety of adventures. they visit an artists' colony and there fall in with a strange girl living with an old boatman who abuses her constantly. billie befriended hulda and the mystery surrounding the girl was finally cleared up. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the curlytops series by howard r. garis author of the famous bedtime animal stories mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid . the curlytops at cherry farm or vacation days in the country a tale of happy vacation days on a farm. . the curlytops on star island or camping out with grandpa the curlytops camp on star island. . the curlytops snowed in or grand fun with skates and sleds the curlytops on lakes and hills. . the curlytops at uncle frank's ranch or little folks on ponyback out west on their uncle's ranch they have a wonderful time. . the curlytops at silver lake or on the water with uncle ben the curlytops camp out on the shores of a beautiful lake. . the curlytops and their pets or uncle toby's strange collection an old uncle leaves them to care for his collection of pets. . the curlytops and their playmates or jolly times through the holidays they have great times with their uncle's collection of animals. . the curlytops in the woods or fun at the lumber camp exciting times in the forest for curlytops. . the curlytops at sunset beach or what was found in the sand the curlytops have a fine time at the seashore. . the curlytops touring around or the missing photograph albums the curlytops get in some moving pictures. . the curlytops in a summer camp or animal joe's menagerie there is great excitement as some mischievous monkeys break out of animal joe's menagerie. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york four little blossom series by mabel c. hawley mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid . four little blossoms at brookside farm mother called them her four little blossoms, but daddy blossom called them bobby, meg, and the twins. the twins, twaddles and dot, were a comical pair and always getting into mischief. the children had heaps of fun around the big farm. . four little blossoms at oak hill school in the fall, bobby and meg had to go to school. it was good fun, for miss mason was a kind teacher. then the twins insisted on going to school, too, and their appearance quite upset the class. in school something very odd happened. . four little blossoms and their winter fun winter came and with it lots of ice and snow, and oh! what fun the blossoms had skating and sledding. and once bobby and meg went on an errand and got lost in a sudden snowstorm. . four little blossoms on apple tree island the four little blossoms went to a beautiful island in the middle of a big lake and there had a grand time on the water and in the woods. and in a deserted cabin they found some letters which helped an old man to find his missing wife. . four little blossoms through the holidays the story starts at thanksgiving. they went skating and coasting, and they built a wonderful snowman, and one day bobby and his chums visited a carpenter shop on the sly, and that night the shop burnt down, and there was trouble for the boys. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the dorothy dale series by margaret penrose author of the motor girls series, radio girls series, & c. mo. illustrated price per volume, $ . , postpaid dorothy dale is the daughter of an old civil war veteran who is running a weekly newspaper in a small eastern town. her sunny disposition, her fun-loving ways and her trials and triumphs make clean, interesting and fascinating reading. the dorothy dale series is one of the most popular series of books for girls ever published. dorothy dale: a girl of to-day dorothy dale at glen wood school dorothy dale's great secret dorothy dale and her chums dorothy dale's queer holidays dorothy dale's camping days dorothy dale's school rivals dorothy dale in the city dorothy dale's promise dorothy dale in the west dorothy dale's strange discovery dorothy dale's engagement dorothy dale to the rescue send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york ruth fielding at snow camp or lost in the backwoods by alice b. emerson contents chapter i. a lively time ii. a surprising appearance iii. the newspaper clipping iv. the mysterious behavior of fred hatfield v. off for the backwoods vi. on the train vii. a runaway in good earnest viii. first at snow camp ix. "long jerry" todd x. bears--and other things xi. the frost games xii. peril--and a taffy pull xiii. shells and kernels xiv. a telephone chase xv. the battle in the snow xvi. an appearance and a disappearance xvii. long jerry's story xviii. "the amazon march" xix. besieged by the storm king xx. the snow shroud xxi. adrift in the storm xxii. the hideout xxiii. a double captivity xxiv. the search xxv. certain explanations ruth fielding at snow camp chapter i a lively time "i don't think we'd better go home that way, helen." "why not? mr. bassett won't care--and it's the nearest way to the road." "but he's got a sign up--and his cattle run in this pasture," said ruth fielding, who, with her chum, helen cameron, and helen's twin brother, tom, had been skating on the lumano river, where the ice was smooth below the mouth of the creek which emptied into the larger stream near the red mill. "aw, come on, ruthie!" cried tom, stamping his feet to restore circulation. the ground was hard and the ice was thick on the river; but the early snows that had fallen were gone. it was the day after christmas, and helen and ruth had been at home from school at briarwood hall less than a week. tom, too, who attended the military academy at seven oaks, was home for the winter holidays. it was snapping cold weather, but the sun had been bright this day and for three hours or more the friends had enjoyed themselves on the ice. "surely hiram bassett hasn't turned his cows out in this weather," laughed helen. "but maybe he has turned out his bull," said ruth. "you know how ugly that creature is. and there's the sign." "i declare! you do beat peter!" ejaculated tom, shrugging his shoulders. "we are only going to cut across bassett's field--it won't take ten minutes. and it will save us half an hour in getting to the mill. we can't go along shore, for the ice is open there at the creek." "all right," agreed ruth fielding, doubtfully. she was younger than the twins and did not mean to be a wet blanket on their fun at any time; but admiring helen so much, she often gave up her own inclinations, or was won by the elder girl from a course which she thought wise. there had been times during their first term at briarwood hall, now just completed, when ruth had been obliged to take a different course from her chum. this occasion, however, seemed of little moment. hiram bassett owned a huge red herd-leader that was the terror of the countryside; but it was a fact, as helen said, that the cattle were not likely to be roaming the pasture at this time of year. "come on!" said tom, again. "the car was to go down to the cheslow station for father and stop at the mill for us on its return. we don't want to keep him waiting." "and we've got so much to do to-night, ruthie!" cried helen. "have you got your things packed?" "aunt alvirah said she would look my clothes over," said ruth, in reply. "i don't really see as i've much to take, helen. we only want warm things up there in the woods." "and plenty of 'em," advised tom. "bring your skates. we may get a chance to use them if the snow isn't too heavy. but up there in the backwoods the snow hasn't melted, you can bet, since the first fall in november." "we'll have just the loveliest time!" went on helen, with her usual enthusiasm. "tom and i spent a week-end at snow camp when mr. parrish owned it, and when we knew he was going to sell, we just _begged_ papa to buy it. you never saw such a lovely old log cabin--" "i never saw a log cabin at all," responded ruth, laughing. they had climbed the steep bank now and started across the pasture in what tom called "a catter-cornering" direction, meaning to come out upon the main road to osago lake within sight of the red mill, which was the property of mr. jabez potter, ruth's uncle. ruth fielding, after her parents died, had come from darrowtown to live with her mother's uncle at the red mill, as was told in the first volume of this series, entitled "ruth fielding of the red mill; or, jasper parloe's secret." the girl had found uncle jabez very hard to get along with at first, for he was a good deal of a miser, and his finer feelings seemed to have been neglected during a long life of hoarding and selfishness. but through a happy turn of circumstances ruth was enabled to get at the heart of her crotchety uncle, and when ruth's very dear friend, helen cameron, planned to go away to school, uncle jabez was won over to the idea of sending ruth with her. the girls were now home for the winter holidays after spending their first term at briarwood hall, where they had made many friends as well as learning a good many practical and necessary things. the fun and work of this first term is all related in "ruth fielding at briarwood hall; or, solving the campus mystery," which is the second volume of the ruth fielding series. and now another frolic was in immediate prospect. mr. cameron, who was a very wealthy dry-goods merchant, had purchased a winter camp deep in the wilderness, up toward the canadian line, and christmas itself now being over, helen and tom had obtained his permission to take a party of their friends with them to the lodge in the backwoods --snow camp. it was really helen's party. besides ruth, she had invited madge steele, jennie stone, belle tingley, and lluella fairfax to be of the party. she had invited one other girl from briarwood, too; but mary cox had refused the invitation. "the fox," as her school-fellows called her, had been under a cloud at the end of the term, and perhaps she might have felt somewhat abashed had she joined the party of her school-fellows at snow camp. tom had invited his chum at school, who was madge steele's brother bob, and another boy named isadore phelps. with mr. cameron himself and mrs. murchiston, the lady who had been the twins' governess when they were small, and several servants, the party were to take train at cheslow the next day for the northern wilderness. the trio of friends, as they hurried across hiram bassett's pasture, were full of happy anticipations regarding the proposed trip, and they chatted merrily as they went on. halfway across the field they passed along the edge of a bush-bordered hollow. their skating caps-- tom's white, ruth's blue, and helen's of a brilliant scarlet--bobbed up and down beside the hedge, and anybody upon the other side, in the hollow, might have been greatly puzzled to identify the bits of color. "for mercy's sake! what's that?" ejaculated helen, suddenly. the others fell silent. a sudden stamping upon the frozen ground arose from beyond the bushes. then came a reverberating bellow. tom leaped through the bushes and looked down the hill. there sounded the thundering of pounding hoofs, and the boy sprang back to the side of his sister and her chum with a cry. "run!" he gasped. "the bull is there--i declare it is! he's coming right up the hill and will head us off. we've got to go back. he must have seen us through the bushes." "oh, dear me! dear me!" cried his sister. "what will we do--" "run, i tell you!" repeated tom, seizing her hand. ruth had already taken her other hand. with their skates rattling over their shoulders, the trio started back across the field. the bull parted the bushes and came thundering out upon the plain. he swerved to follow them instantly. there could be no doubt that he had seen them, and the bellow he repeated showed that he was very much enraged and considered the three friends his particular enemies. ruth glanced back over her shoulder and saw that the angry beast was gaining on them fast. it was indeed surprising how fast the bull could gallop--and he was very terrible indeed to look upon. "he will catch us! he will catch us!" moaned helen. "you girls run ahead," gasped tom, letting go of his sister's hand. "maybe i can turn him---" "he'll kill you!" cried helen. "come this way!" commanded ruth, suddenly turning to the left, toward the bank of the open creek. the current of this stream was so swift that it had not yet frozen--saving along the edges. the bank was very steep. a few trees of good size grew along its edge. "we can't cross the creek, ruthie!" shrieked helen. "he will get us, sure." "but we can get below the bank--out of sight!" panted her chum. "come, tom! that beast will kill you if you delay." "it's our caps he sees," declared master tom. "that old red cap of nell's is what is exciting him so." in a flash ruth fielding snatched the red cap from her chum's head and ran on with it toward the bank of the creek. the others followed her while the big bull, swerving in his course, came bellowing on behind. chapter ii a surprising appearance helen was sobbing and crying as she ran. tom kept a few feet behind the girls, although what he could have done to defend them, had the big bull overtaken him, it would be hard to say. and for several moments it looked very much as though hiram bassett's herd-leader was going to reach his prey. the thunder of his hoofs was in their ears. they did not speak again as they came to the steep bank down to the open creek. there, just before them, was an old hollow stump, perhaps ten feet high, with the opening on the creek side. all three of them knew it well. as helen went over the bank and disappeared on one side of the stump, tom darted around the other side. ruth, with the red cap in her hand, stumbled over a root and fell to her knees. she was right beside the hollow stump, and helen's cap caught in a twig and was snatched from her hand. as ruth scrambled aside and then fairly rolled over the edge of the bank out of sight, the cap was left dangling right in front of the stump. the bull charged it. that flashing bit of color was what had attracted the brute from the start. as the three friends dived over the bank--and their haste and heedlessness carried them pell-mell to the bottom--there sounded a yell behind them that certainly was not emitted by the bull. goodness knows, he roared loudly enough! but this was no voice of a bull that so startled the two girls and tom cameron--it was far too shrill. "there's somebody in that tree!" yelled tom. and then the forefront of the bull collided with the rotten old stump. taurus smashed against it with the force of a pile-driver-- three-quarters of a ton of solid flesh and bone, going at the speed of a fast train, carries some weight. it seemed as though a live tree could scarcely have stood upright against that charge, let alone this rotten stump. crash! the rotten roots gave way. they were torn out of the frozen ground, the stump toppled over, and, carrying a great ball of earth with it, plunged down the bank of the creek. tom had clutched the girls by their hands again and the three were running along the narrow shore under shelter of the bank. the bull no longer saw them. indeed, the shock had thrown him to the ground, and when he scrambled up, he ran off, bellowing and tossing his head, in an entirely different direction. but the uprooted stump went splash! into the icy waters of the creek, and as it plunged beneath the surface--all but its roots--the trio of frightened friends heard that eyrie cry again. "it's from the hollow trunk! i tell you, some body's in there!" declared tom. but the uprooted stump had fallen into the water with the opening down. if there really was anybody in it, the way in which the stump had fallen served to hold such person prisoner. ruth fielding was as quick as tom to turn back to the spot where the old stump had been submerged; but helen had fallen in her tracks, and sat there, hugging her knees and rocking her body to and fro, as she cried: "he'll be drowned! don't you see, he _is_ drowned? and suppose that bull comes back?" "that bull won't get us down here, nell," returned her brother, laying hold of the roots of the hollow tree and trying to turn it over. but although he and ruth both exerted themselves to the utmost, they could barely stir the stump. suddenly they heard a struggle going on inside the hollow shell; as well, a thumping on the thin partition of wood and a muffled sound of shouting. "he's alive--the water hasn't filled the hollow," cried ruth. "oh, tom! we must do something." "and i'd like to know what?" demanded that youth, in great perturbation. the stump rested on the shore, but was half submerged in the water for most of its length. the unfortunate person imprisoned in the hollow part of the tree-trunk must be partly submerged in the water, too. had the farther end of the stump not rested on a rock, it would have plunged to the bottom of the creek and the victim of the accident must certainly have been drowned. "why don't he crawl out? why don't he crawl out?" cried ruth, anxiously. "how's he going to do it?" sputtered tom. "can't he dive down into the water through the hole in the tree and so come up outside?" demanded the girl from the red mill, irritably. "i never saw such a fellow!" whether this referred to tom, or to the unknown, the former did not know. but he recognized immediately the good sense in ruth's suggestion. tom leaped out upon the log and stamped upon it. helen screamed: "you'll go into the creek, too, tom!" "no, i won't," he replied. "then you'll make the stump fall in entirely and the man will be drowned." "no, i won't do that, either," muttered master tom. he stamped upon the wooden shell again. a faint halloo answered him, and the knocking on the inner side of the hollow tree was repeated. "come out! come out!" shouted tom, "dive down through the water and get out. you'll be suffocated there." but at first the prisoner seemed not to understand--or else was afraid to make the attempt. "oh, if i only had an axe!" groaned master tom. "if you cut into that tree you might do some damage," said his sister, now so much interested in the prisoner that she got up and came near. ruth saw helen's red cap high up on the bank and she scrambled up and got it, stuffing it under her coat again. "we'll keep _that_ out of sight," she said. "if it hadn't been for that old red thing," growled tom, "the bull wouldn't have chased us in the first place." but all of them were thinking mainly of the person in the hollow of the old stump. how could they get this person out? and the answer to that question was not so easily found--as tom had observed. they could not roll the stump over; they had no means of cutting through to the prisoner. but, suddenly, that individual settled the question without their help. there was a struggle under the log, a splashing of the water, and then a figure bobbed up out of the shallows. ruth screamed and seized it before it fell back again. it was a boy-- a thin, miserable-looking, dripping youth, no older than tom, and with wild, burning eyes looking out of his wet and pallid face. had it not been for ruth and tom he must have fallen back into the stream again, he was so weak. they dragged him ashore, and he fell down, shaking and chattering, on the edge of the creek. he was none too warmly dressed at the best; the water now fast congealed upon his clothing. his garments would soon be as stiff as boards. "we've got to get him to the mill, girls," declared tom. "come! get up!" he cried to the stranger. "you must get warmed and have dry clothing." "and something hot to drink," said ruth. "aunt alviry will make him something that will take the cold out of his bones." the strange boy stared at them, unable, it seemed, to speak a word. they dragged him upright and pushed him on between them. the bull had run towards the river and had not come back; so the friends, with their strange find, hurried on to the public road and crossed the bridge at the creek, turning off into the orchard path that led up to the red mill. "what's your name?" demanded tom of the strange boy. but all the latter could do was to chatter and shake his head. the icy water had bitten into his very bones. they fairly dragged him between them for the last few yards, and burst into aunt alvirah's kitchen in a manner "fit to throw one into a conniption!" as that good lady declared. "oh, my back, and oh, my bones!" she groaned, getting up quickly from her rocking chair by the window, where she had been knitting. "for the good land of mercy! what is this?" all three of the friends began to tell her together. but the little old woman with the bent back and rheumatic limbs understood one thing, if she made nothing else out of the general gabble. the strange boy had been in the water, and his need was urgent. "bring him right in here, tommy," she commanded, hobbling into mr. potter's bedroom, which was the nearest to the kitchen, and thereby the warmest. "i don't know what jabez will say, but that child's got to git a-twixt blankets right away. it's a mercy if he ain't got his death." they drew off the stranger's outer clothing, and then aunt alviry left tom to help him further disrobe and roll up in the blankets on mr. potter's bed. meantime the old woman filled a stone water-bottle with boiling water, to put at his feet, and made a great bowl of "composition" for him to drink down as soon as it was cool enough for him to swallow. ruth wrung out the boy's wet garments and hung them to dry around the stove, where they began immediately to steam. as she had noticed before, the stranger's clothing was well worn. he had no overcoat-- only a thick jacket. all his clothing was of the cheapest quality. suddenly helen exclaimed: "what's that you've dropped out of his vest, ruthie? a wallet?" it was an old leather note-case. there appeared to be little in it when ruth picked it up, for it was very flat. certainly there was no money in it. nor did there seem to be anything in it that would identify its owner. however, as ruth carried it to the window she found a newspaper clipping tucked into one compartment, and, as it was damp, too, she took this out, unfolded it, and laid it carefully on the window sill to dry. but when she looked further, she saw inside the main compartment of the wallet a name and address stenciled, it was: jonas hatfield scarboro, n. y. "sec, helen," she said to her chum. "maybe this is his name--jonas hatfield." "and scarboro, new york!" gasped helen, suddenly. "why, ruthie!" "what's the matter?" returned ruth, in surprise. "what a coincidence!" "what is a coincidence?" demanded ruth, still greatly amazed by her chum's excitement. "why this boy--if this is his wallet and that is his name and address--comes from right about where we are going to-morrow. scarboro is the nearest railroad station to snow camp. what do you think of that?" before ruth could reply, the sound of an automobile horn was heard outside, and both girls ran to the door. the cameron automobile was just coming down the hill from the direction of cheslow, and in a minute it stopped before the door of the potter farmhouse. chapter iii the newspaper clipping the red mill was a grist mill, and mr. jabez potter made wheat-flour, buckwheat, cornmeal, or ground any grist that was brought to him. standing on a commanding knoll beside the lumano river, it was very picturesquely situated, and the rambling old farmhouse connected with it was a very homey-looking place indeed. the automobile had stopped at the roadside before the kitchen door, and mr. cameron alighted and started immediately up the straight path to the porch. he was a round, jolly, red-faced man, who was forever thinking of some surprise with which to please his boy and girl, and seldom refused any request they might make of him. this plan of taking a party of young folk into the backwoods for a couple of weeks was entirely to amuse tom and helen. personally, the dry-goods merchant did not much care for such an outing. he came stamping up the steps and burst into the kitchen in a jolly way, and helen ran to him with a kiss. "hullo i what's all this?" he demanded, his black eyes taking in the grove of airing garments around the stove. "tom been in the river? no! those aren't tom's duds, i'll be switched if they are!" "no, no," cried helen. "it's another boy." and here tom himself appeared from the bedroom. "i thought tom could keep out of the river when the ice was four inches thick--eh, son?" laughed mr. cameron. his children began to tell him, both together, of the adventure with the bull and the mysterious appearance of the strange boy. "aye, aye!" he said. "and ruth fielding was in it, of course--and did her part in extricating you all from the mess, too, i'll be bound! whatever would we do without ruth?" and he smiled and shook hands with the miller's niece. "i guess we were all equally scared. but it certainly was my fault that the old bull bunted the hollow stump into the creek. so this boy can thank me for getting him such a ducking," laughed ruth. "and who is he? where does he come from?" ruth showed mr. cameron the stencil on the inside of the wallet. "isn't that funny, father?" cried helen. "right where we are going-- scarboro." "if the wallet is his," muttered mr. cameron. "what do you mean, sir?" questioned ruth, quickly. "do you think he is a bad boy--that he has taken the wallet----" "now, now!" exclaimed mr. cameron, smiling at her again. "don't jump at conclusions, mistress ruth fielding. i have no suspicion regarding the lad----how is the patient, aunt alviry?" he added, quickly, as the little old woman came hobbling out of the bedroom where the strange boy lay. "oh, my back, and oh, my bones!" said aunt alviry, under her breath. but she welcomed mr. cameron warmly enough, too. "he's getting on fine," she declared. "he'll be all right soon. i reckon he won't suffer none in the end for his wetting. i'm a-goin' to cook him a mess of gruel, for i believe he's hungry." "who is he, aunt alviry?" asked the gentleman. aunt alvirah boggs was "everybody's aunt alviry," although she really had no living kin, and mr. jabez potter had brought her from the almshouse ten years or more before to act as his housekeeper. "dunno," said aunt alvirah, shaking her head in answer to mr. cameron's question. "ain't the first idee. you kin go in and talk to him, sir." with the wallet in his hand and the three young folk at his heels, both their interest and their curiosity aroused, mr. cameron went into the passage and so came to the open door of the bedroom. mr. potter slept in a big, four-post bedstead, which was heaped high at this time of year with an enormous feather bed. rolled like a mummy in the blankets, and laid on this bed, the feathers had plumped up about the vagabond boy and almost buried him. but his eyes were wide open--pale blue eyes, with light lashes and eyebrows, which gave his thin, white countenance a particularly blank expression. "heigho, my lad!" exclaimed mr. cameron, in his jolly way. "so your name is jonas hatfield, of scarboro; is it?" "no; sir; that was my father's name, sir," returned the boy in bed, weakly. "my name is fred." and then a brilliant flush suddenly colored his pale face. he half started up in bed, and the pale blue eyes flashed with an entirely different expression. he demanded, in a hoarse, unnatural voice: "how'd' you find me out?" mr. cameron shook his head knowingly, and laughed. "that was a bit of information you were keeping to yourself--eh? well, why did you carry your father's old wallet about with you, if you did not wish to be identified? come, son! what harm is there in our knowing who you are?" fred hatfield sank back in the feathers and weakly rolled his head from side to side. the blood receded from his cheeks, leaving him quite as pale as before. he whispered: "i ran away." "yes. that's what i supposed," said mr. cameron, easily. "what for?" "i--i can't tell you." "what did you do?" "i didn't say i did anything. i just got sick of it up there, and came away," the boy said, sullenly. "your father is dead?" asked the gentleman, shrewdly. "yes, sir." "got a mother?" "yes, sir." "doesn't she need you?" "no, sir." "why not?" "she's got ez, and peter, and 'lias to work the farm. they're all older'n me. then there's the two gals and bob, who are younger. she don't need me," declared fred hatfield, doggedly. "i don't believe a mother ever had so many children that she didn't sorely miss the one who was absent," declared mr. cameron, quietly. "tell me how you came away down here." brokenly the boy told his story--not an uncommon one. he had traveled most of the distance afoot, working here and there for farmers and storekeepers. he admitted that he had been some weeks on the road. his being in that hollow stump in hiram bassett's field was quite by accident. he was passing through the field, making for the main road, when he had seen ruth, helen, and tom, and stepped behind the tree so as not to be observed. "what made you so afraid of being seen by anyone?" demanded mr. cameron, at this point. "do you think your folks are trying to find you?" "i--i don't know," stammered the lad. this was about all his questioner was able to get out of him. "you'll be cared for here to-night--i'll speak to mr. potter," said mr. cameron. "and in the morning i'll decide what's to be done with you." "why, dad! we're going----" tom had begun this speech when his father warned him with a look to be still. "you'll be all right here," pursued mr. cameron, cheerfully. "aunt alviry and ruth will look after you. why! i wouldn't want better nurses if _i_ was sick." "but i'm not sick," said fred hatfield, as the little old woman hobbled in with a steaming bowl. his eyes were wolfish when he saw the gruel, however. "no, you're not so sick but that a good, square meal would be your best medicine, i'll be bound," cried the gentleman, laughing. he went out to the mill then and was gone some moments; when he returned he called helen and tom to come with him quickly to the car. "remember and be ready as early as nine o'clock, ruth!" called helen, looking back as she climbed into the automobile. when her friends had bowled away up the frozen road, ruth came back into the kitchen. aunt alvirah was still in the bedroom with their strange guest. of a sudden the girl's eye caught sight of the newspaper clipping laid on the window sill to dry. mr. cameron had placed the old wallet belonging to fred hatfield's father on the table when he came out of the bedroom. now ruth picked it up, found it dry, and went to the window to replace the clipping in it. it was the most natural thing in the world for ruth to glance at the slip of paper when she picked it up. there is nothing secret about a newspaper clipping; it was no infringement of good manners to read the article. and read it ruth did when she had once seen the heading--she read it all through with breathless attention. her rosy face paled as she came to the conclusion, and she glanced suddenly toward the bedroom as she heard aunt alvirah's voice again. dropping the old wallet on the table, ruth folded the clipping and hastily thrust it into the bosom of her frock. she did not dare face the old woman when she appeared, but kept her back turned until she was sure the color had returned to her cheeks. and all the time she helped aunt alvirah get supper, ruth was very, very silent. chapter iv the mysterious behavior of fred hatfield uncle jabez potter came in from the mill after a time. he was a gaunt, gray-faced man, who seldom smiled, and whose stern, rugged countenance had at first almost frightened ruth whenever she looked at it. but she had fortunately gotten under the crust of mr. potter's manner and learned that there was something better there than the harsh surface the miller turned to all the world. uncle jabez hoarded money for the pleasure of hoarding it; but he had been generous to ruth, having put her at one of the best boarding schools in the state. he could be charitable at times, too; aunt alvirah could testify to that fact. so could a certain little lame friend of ruth fielding, mercy curtis, who was attending briarwood hall as the result of the combined charity of uncle jabez and dr. davison, of cheslow. but it is said that "charity begins at home"; when charity begins in a man's very bed, that seems a little too near! at least, so mr. potter thought. "what's this i hear about a vagabond boy in my bed, aunt alviry?" he demanded, when he came in. "the poor child!" said the old woman. "oh, my back, and oh, my bones! come in and see him, jabez," she urged, hobbling toward the passage. "no. who is he? what is he here for? that cameron talks so fast i never can get the rights of what he's saying till afterward. says the boy belongs up there where he wants to take ruth to-morrow?" "he has run away from his home at scarboro, uncle," said ruth. "young villain! a widder's son, too!" said her uncle. "he says his father is dead," said ruth, hesitating. "i venture to say!" exclaimed jabez potter. "and he's in my bed; is he?" he came back to this as being a reason for objection. "now, now, jabez," said aunt alvirah, soothingly. "he ain't hurted the bed. he was wet--the coat frozen right on him--when they brought him in. i had to git him atween blankets jest as quick as i could. and your bedroom isn't so cold as the rooms upstairs." "well?" grunted mr. potter. "before bedtime i'll make him up a couch in here near the fire and put your bed straight for you." "young vagabond!" grunted mr. potter. "don't know who he is. may rob us before morning. perhaps he come here for just that purpose." "that's not possible, uncle," said ruth, laughing. she told him the story of their adventure with the bull and fred hatfield's appearance. yet all the time she looked worried herself. there was something troubling the girl of the red mill. ruth took the tray into the bedroom with the supper that aunt alvirah had prepared. there was a flaming red spot in the center of each of the boy's pallid cheeks, and his eyes were still bright. he had no little fever after the chill of his plunge into the creek. but the fever might have been as much from a mental as a physical cause. it was on ruth's lips to ask the boy certain questions. that newspaper clipping fairly burned in the bosom of her frock. but his suppressed excitement warned her to be silent. he was hungry still. it was plain that he had been without proper food for some time. but in the midst of his appreciation of the meal he asked ruth, suddenly: "wasn't there anything in that wallet when you gave it to that man, miss?" "no," she replied, truthfully enough. "no. he didn't say there was," muttered the boy, and said not another word. ruth watched him eat. he did not raise his light eyes to her. the color faded out of his cheeks. she knew that it was actual starvation that kept him eating; but he was greatly troubled in his mind. she went back to her own supper, and remained very quiet all through the evening. later aunt alvirah made up the couch with plenty of blankets and thick, downy "comforters," and when ruth had gone to bed the boy came out into the kitchen and left uncle jabez free to seek his own repose. but though the whole house slept, ruth could not--at first. long after it was still, and she knew aunt alvirah was asleep and uncle jabez was snoring, ruth arose, slipped on a warm wrapper and her slippers, and squeezing something tightly between her fingers, crept down the stairs to the kitchen door. she unlatched it softly and let it swing open a couple of inches. there was a stir within. she waited, holding her breath. she heard the couch creak. then came the sound of a shuffling step. the moonlight lay in a broad band under the front window. into this radiance moved the figure of the vagabond boy, shrouded in a blanket. he came to the table and he felt around until he found the wallet. he had doubtless marked it lying there by the window before aunt alvirah had put the lamp out and left him. he seized the wallet and opened it wide. he shook it over the table. then ruth heard him groan: "it's gone! it's gone!" he stood there, shaking, and dropped the leather case unnoticed. for half a minute he stood there, uncertain and--ruth thought--sobbing softly. then the boy approached the garments hung upon the chairs about the stove, wherein the coal fire was banked for the night. he stopped before he touched his underclothing. all these garments were well dried by this time; but aunt alvirah had wished them left there to be warm when he put them on in the morning. ruth knew exactly what fred hatfield had in his mind. the vagabond boy was determined to dress quietly and secretly leave the miller's house. but when master fred touched the first garment ruth rattled the door latch ever so lightly. fred stopped and turned fearfully in that direction. his lips parted. she could see that he was panting with fear. ruth rattled the latch again. he ran back to his couch and plunged into the comforters with a gasp. ruth pulled the door quietly to and stood there, shivering in the dark, wondering what to do. she knew that the boy had it in his mind to escape. she did not wish to arouse uncle jabez. nor did she wish the strange boy to depart so secretly. mr. cameron expected to find him here when he came in the morning, she was sure. although mr. cameron only supposed him an ordinary runaway, and perhaps wished to advise him to return to his mother, ruth knew well that fred hatfield's was no ordinary case of vagabondage. ruth hesitated on the stairs for some minutes. uncle jabez snored. there was no further movement from the boy on the couch. she was growing very cold. ruth could not remain there on the stairs to guard the boy all night. something desperate had to be done--and something very desperate she did! she unlatched the door again as quietly as possible. she pushed it open far enough to slip through into the kitchen. there was no movement from the boy--not a sound. nor did ruth dare even look in his direction. she crept across the kitchen floor to the stove. she reached the garments hung upon the chair backs. she selected one and withdrew in a hurry to the staircase, and so ran up to her room. "there!" she thought, shutting her door and breathing heavily. "if he wants to run away he can; but he'll have to go without his trousers!" chapter v off for the backwoods it was still dark when ruth awoke and slipped down to the kitchen again. but she heard her uncle rattling the stove grate. he was a very early riser. she peered into the kitchen and saw the grove of drying clothing, so knew that her trick of the night before had kept fred hatfield from running away. therefore she merely dropped the boy's nether garments inside the kitchen door and scurried back to her own room to dress by candle-light. she heard aunt alvirah stumbling about her room and groaning her old, old tune, "oh, my back, and oh, my bones!" as soon as ruth was dressed she ran in to see if she could do anything for the old woman. "ah, deary! what a precious pretty you be," said the old woman, hugging her. "i'm so glad to see you again after your being away so long. and your uncle's that proud of you, too! he often reads the reports the school teacher sends him--i see him doing that in the evening. he keeps the reports in his cash-box, just as though they was as precious as his stocks and bonds. yes-indeedy!" "you are so glad to have me at home, aunt alvirah, that i feel guilty to be going away again so soon," ruth said. "no, honey. have your good times while ye may, my pretty creetur. it's mighty nice of the camerons to take you away with them. you go and have a good time. your trunk's all packed and ready, and your young friend, helen, would be dreadful disappointed if you didn't go. now, let's go down and git breakfast. jabez has been up for some time and i heard him just go out to the mill. that boy must be up and dressed by now, for if he had been sick, jabez would have hollered up the stairs about it." she was right. fred hatfield was completely dressed when they came into the kitchen. ruth did not look at him, but busied herself with the details of getting breakfast. she did not speak to him, nor did fred speak to her. but aunt alvirah was as cheerful and as chatty as ever. uncle jabez was never talkative; but he was no more taciturn this morning than was their guest. the boy ate his breakfast with downcast eyes and only said timidly, at the end of the meal: "i'm real obliged for your kindness, mr. potter. i think i'm all right again now. can't i do some work for you to pay--" "i don't need another hand at the mill--and i couldn't make use of a boy like you at all," said mr. potter, hastily. "you wait till mr. cameron comes here this morning." ruth saw that there was an understanding between her uncle and mr. cameron regarding this boy. but fred said, still hesitating: "if--if i can't do anything to repay you, i'd rather go on. i was making for cheslow. i'll get a job--" "you wait here as you're told, boy," snapped uncle jabez, and the runaway shrank into his chair again and said nothing more. breakfast at the red mill was always early; it had been finished before seven o'clock on this clear winter morning. it was a fine day when the sun appeared, and ruth's mind--at least, a _part_ of it!--delighted in the thought of the journey to be taken into the great woods to the north and east of osago lake. she had several little things to do in preparation; therefore she could not be blamed if she lost sight of fred hatfield occasionally. suddenly, however, she found that he had left the kitchen. she cried up the stairs to aunt alvirah: "have you seen him, auntie? where is he?" "where's who?" returned the old woman. "that boy. he's not here." "for the land's sake!" returned aunt alvirah. "i dunno. didn't your uncle tell him to wait for mr. cameron here?" "but he's gone!" exclaimed ruth; and picking up her cap she pulled it on, and likewise her sweater, and went out of the house with a bang. he was not on the road to cheslow. she could see that, straight before the mill, for a mile. she ran down to the gate and looked along the river road, up stream. no figure appeared there. nor in the other direction--although the camerons' car would appear from that way, and if the runaway went in that direction he would surely run right into the camerons. "he slipped out of the back door--towards the river," she whispered. back she ran into the house. she caught up her skates in the back hall and burst out upon the back porch, which was partly enclosed. there was the figure of fred hatfield on the ice--some distance, already, from the shore. ruth ran eagerly down to the shore. she had no idea what young hatfield intended; but she was well aware that he could get across the lumano if he chose; the ice was thick enough. she quickly clamped the skates upon her shoes, and within five minutes was darting off across the ice. hatfield heard the ring of her skates within a very few moments; he threw a glance over his shoulder, saw her, and then began to run. it was a feeble attempt to escape, for unless some accident happened to ruth, she could easily overtake him. and she did so, although he ran straight ahead, and ran so hard that finally he slipped and fell, panting, to his knees. ruth was beside him before he could rise. "don't you be such a ridiculous boy!" she commanded, seizing the lad by the shoulder, as he attempted to rise. "you mustn't run away. mr. cameron expects to find you at the mill, and you must stay. and they'll be here, ready to take the train from cheslow, shortly." "i--i don't want to stay here," stammered the boy. "i--i don't want to see that man again." "but he expects to see you, and i could not let you go before he comes." "you're just the meanest girl i ever saw!" cried hatfield, almost in tears. "i'd got away in the night if it hadn't been for you." ruth fairly giggled at that--she couldn't help it. "well, don't you be nasty about it," she said. "you are a dreadfully foolish boy--" "what do you know about me?" he gasped, turning to look at her finally with frightened eyes. "i know that running away isn't going to help you," ruth fielding said, with returning gravity. "you think that man--that cameron man--will take me back?" "back where?" "to--to scarboro?" "i don't know." "i tell you i won't go," the boy cried. "i won't go." "but we're all going up there this very day," said ruth, slowly. "mr. cameron, and helen and tom, and some other girls and boys. i'm going, too--" "_going where_?" shrieked fred hatfield, actually shaking with terror, and as pale as a ghost. "we're off for the backwoods--up scarboro way. mr. cameron is going to take us for a fortnight to snow camp. and you--" with another wild cry fred hatfield crumpled down upon the ice and burst into a tempest of sobbing. he beat his ungloved hands upon the ice, and although ruth could not help feeling contempt for a boy who would so give way to weakness she could not help but pity him, too. for ruth fielding had more than an inkling of the trouble that so weighed fred hatfield down, and had made him an outcast from his home and friends. chapter vi on the train when the cameron automobile arrived at the red mill that forenoon fred hatfield sat gloomily upon the porch steps. ruth kept an eye on him from the doorway. mr. cameron seemed to understand their position when he came up the walk, and asked ruth: "so, he wants to leave; does he?" ruth merely nodded; but fred hatfield scowled at the dry-goods merchant and turned away his head. "now, young man," said mr. cameron, standing in front of the sullen boy, with his legs wide apart and a smile upon his ruddy face, "now, young man, let's get to the bottom of this. you confide in me, and i will not betray your confidence. why don't you want to live at home?" "i don't want to--that's all," muttered fred hatfield, shortly. "and i _won't_." mr. cameron shook his head. "i hate to see one so young so obstinate," he said. "it may be that your mother and brothers and sisters find you a sore trial; perhaps they are glad you are not at home. but until i am sure of that i consider it my duty to keep an eye on you. i want you to come along with us to-day." "i know where you are going. this girl has told me," said the light-haired youth, nodding at ruth. "you're going up to scarboro." "yes. and i propose to take you with us. we'll see whether your mother wants you or not." "you don't know what you're doing, sir!" gasped fred hatfield, crouching down upon the step. "i certainly do not know what i am doing," admitted mr. cameron. "but that is your fault, not mine. if you would trust us--" "i can't!" cried the boy, shaking as though with a chill. "then, you come along, young man," commanded the merchant. he put a hand upon fred's shoulder and the boy wriggled out from under it and started to run. but tom had got out of the automobile and seemed rather expecting this move. he sprang for the other boy and held him. "here! hold on!" he cried. "put on this old overcoat of mine that i've brought along, it's going to be cold riding. put it on--and then get into the auto with us. aw, come on! what are you afraid of? we aren't going to eat you." snivelling, but ceasing his struggles, fred hatfield got into the coat tom offered him, and entered the car. ruth said never a word, but she looked very grave. uncle jabez came to the door of the mill and ruth ran to him and kissed the old miller goodbye. not that he returned the kiss; uncle jabez looked as though he had never kissed anybody since he was born! but aunt alvirah hugged and caressed her "pretty creetur" with a warmth that made up for the miller's coldness. "bless ye, deary!" crooned the little old woman, enfolding ruth in her arms. "go and have the best of times with your young friends. we'll be thinkin' of ye here--and don't run into peril up there in the woods. have a care." "oh, we won't get into any trouble," ruth declared, happily, with no suspicion of what was before the party in the backwoods. "goodbye!" "good-bye, ruthie--oh, my back and oh, my bones!" groaned aunt alvirah, as she hobbled into the house again, while ruth ran down to the car, leaped aboard, and the chauffeur started immediately. ben, the hired man, had gone on to cheslow with ruth's trunk early in the morning, and now the automobile sped quickly over the smooth road to the railroad station. by several different ways--for cheslow was a junction of the railroad lines--the young folk who had been invited to snow camp had gathered at the station to meet the camerons and ruth fielding. nobody noticed fred hatfield, saving mr. cameron and ruth herself; but the runaway found no opportunity of leaving the party. tom had no attention to give the scarboro boy as he welcomed his own chums. "here's old bobbins and busy izzy!" he cried, seeing bob steele and his sister, with isadore phelps, pacing the long platform as the car halted. bob steele was a big, yellow-haired boy, rosy cheeked and good-natured, but not a little bashful. as madge, his sister, was a year and a half older than bob she often treated him like a very small boy indeed. "now, master cameron!" she cried, when tom appeared, "don't muss his nice clean clothes. be careful he doesn't get into anything. be a good boy, bobbie, and the choo-choo cars will soon come." isadore phelps was a sharp-looking boy, with red hair and so many freckles across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes that, at a little distance, he looked as though he wore a brown mask. isadore seldom spoke without asking a question. he was a walking interrogation point. perhaps that was one reason why he was known among his mates as "busy izzy," being usually busy about other people's business. "what do you let her nag you for that way, bob?" he cried. "i'd shake her, if she was my sister--wouldn't you, tom?" "no," said tom, boldly, for he considered madge steele quite a young lady. "she's too big to shake--isn't she, bobbins?" but bob only smiled in his slow way, and said nothing. the girls were in a group by themselves--helen and ruth, belle and lluella, jennie stone (who rejoiced in the nickname of "heavy" because of her plumpness) and madge steele. mr. cameron had gone to the ticket window to make an inquiry. it was ruth who saw fred hatfield making across the tracks to where a freight train was being made up for the south. "tom!" she cried to helen's brother, and he turned and saw her glance. "by george, fellows!" exclaimed tom, with some disgust. "there's that chap sneaking off again. we've got to watch him. come on!" he ran after the runaway. busy izzy was at his ear in a moment: "what's the matter with him? who is he? what's he been doing? is he trying to get aboard that freight? what do you want of him?" "oh, hush! hush!" begged tom. "your clatter would deafen one." then he shouted to hatfield: "hold on, there! the train will be in soon. come back!" hatfield stopped and turned back with a scowl. tom grinned at him cheerfully and added: "might as well take it easy. dad says you're to go along with us, so i advise you to stick close." "pleasant-looking young dog," said bob, in an undertone. "what's he done?" "i don't know that he has done anything," returned tom, in the same low tone. "but we're going to take him with us to scarboro. that is the place he has run away from." "did he run away from home?" demanded isadore phelps. "what for?" "i don't know. but don't you ask him!" commanded tom. "he wouldn't tell you, anyway; he won't tell father. but don't nag him, izzy." to the great surprise of the young folks, when the train bound north came along, there was a private car attached to it, and in that car the cameron party were to travel. one of the railroad officials had lent his own coach to the cheslow merchant, and he and his party had the car to themselves. there was a porter and a steward aboard--both colored men; and soon after the train started odors from the tiny kitchen assured the girls and boys that they were to have luncheon on the train. "isn't it delightful?" sighed heavy, gustily, in ruth's ear. "riding through the country on this fast train and being served with our meals--oh, dear! why weren't _all_ fathers born rich?" "it's lucky your father isn't any richer than he is, jennie stone!" whispered madge steele, who heard this. "if he was, you'd do nothing but eat all the livelong day." "well, i might do a deal worse," returned heavy. "father says that himself. he says he wishes my reports were better at briarwood; but he can't expect me to put on flesh and gain much learning at the same time--not when the days are only twenty-four hours long." they all laughed a good deal at heavy, but she was so good-natured that the girls all liked her, too. what they should do when they reached snow camp was the principal topic of conversation. as the train swept northward the snow appeared. it was piled in fence corners and lay deep in the woods. some ice-bound streams and ponds were thickly mantled in the white covering. mr. cameron read his papers or wrote letters in one compartment; mrs. murchiston was the girls' companion most of the time, while tom and his two chums had a gay time by themselves. they tried to get fred hatfield into their company, but the runaway boy would not respond to their overtures. at the dinner table, when the fun became fast and furious, fred hatfield did not even smile. heavy whispered to ruth that she never did see a boy before who was so dreadfully solemn. "and he grows solemner and solemner every mile we travel!" added heavy. "what do you suppose is on his mind?" ruth was quite sure she knew what was on the lad's mind; but she did not say. indeed, all the day long she was troubled by the special knowledge she had gained from the newspaper clipping that she carried hidden in the bottom of her pocket. should she tell mr. cameron about it? should she speak plainly to fred himself about it? the nearer they approached scarboro the more uncertain she became, and the more sullen fred hatfield looked. ruth watched him a good deal, but so covertly that her girl friends did not notice her abstraction. the short winter day was beginning to draw in and the red sun was hanging low above the tree-tops when mr. cameron announced that the second stop of the train would be their destination. the party--at least, mr. cameron, the governess, and the young folk--were to remain at the hotel in scarboro over-night. the serving people and the baggage were to go on that evening to snow camp. fred hatfield sauntered to the rear of the car and stood looking out of the window in the door. the flagman was on the rear platform, however, and he could not get down without being observed. the stop at this town was brief; then the train sped on through the deep woods. but suddenly the airbrakes were put on again and they slowed down with a good deal of clatter and bumping. "we're not at scarboro yet, surely?" cried mrs. murchiston. "no, no!" mr. cameron assured them. "we're stopping from some other cause--why, this is merely a flag station. not even a station--just a crossing." a white-sheeted road crossed the rails. there were two or three houses in sight and a big general store, over the door of which was painted: emoryville p. o. but the train had stopped and the rear brake-man, or flagman, seized his lamp and ran back to wait for the engineer to recall him. it was growing dusk and the lamps had been lighted the length of the train. the general interest of the party drew their attention forward. ruth, suddenly remembering fred hatfield, looked toward the rear of the car. fred was just going out of the door in the wake of the brakeman. "oh, he mustn't go!" whispered ruth to herself, and leaving her girl companions she ran back to speak to the runaway boy. when she reached the door, fred had already descended the steps. she saw him run across the tracks, and quick as a flash she sprang down after him. chapter vii a runaway in good earnest fred hatfield, the runaway, was approaching the old, rambling country store at emoryville crossroads. it was so cold an evening that there were no loungers upon the high, railless porch which extended clear across the front of the building. indeed, there was but one wagon standing before the store and probably there were very few customers, or loungers either, inside. the stopping of the train had brought nobody to the door. as fred gained the sidewalk in front of the store he glanced back. there was ruth crossing the tracks behind him. "you come back! come back immediately, fred hatfield!" she called. "come back or i shall call mr. cameron." the girl had been his nemesis all day. fred knew he could have given the party the slip at some station, had ruth not kept such a sharp watch upon him. and here she was on his very heels, when he might have gotten well away. the next stop would be scarboro. fred did not want to appear in scarboro again. and he had a suspicion that ruth knew his reasons for desiring to keep away from his home and friends. he looked wildly about the lonely crossroads. the panting of the locomotive exhaust was not the only sound he heard. the two mules hitched to the timber wagon--the only wagon standing by the store-- jingled their harness as they shook their heads. one bit at the other, and his mate squealed and stamped. they were young mules and full of "ginger"; yet their driver had carelessly left them standing unhitched in the road. fred gave another glance at ruth and kept on running. the engineer suddenly whistled for the return of the flagman. but none of the train-hands--nor did the party in the private car--notice the boy and girl who had so incautiously left the train. "come back!" commanded ruth, so much interested in following fred that she did not notice the lantern of the rear brakeman bobbing along beside the ties. in a moment he swung himself aboard the private car and his lantern described half an arc in the dusk. the engine answered with a loud cough and the heavy train began to move. but at that moment fred hatfield, grown desperate because of ruth's pursuit, leaped aboard the timber wagon. he was a backwoods boy himself; he knew how to handle mules. he gave a shout to which the team responded instantly. they leaped ahead just as ruth came to the side of the long reach that connected the small pair of front wheels with the huge wheels in the rear. "get off of that wagon, fred!" she had just cried, when the mules started. she was directly in front of the large rear wheel. if it struck her--knocked her down--ran over her! fred knew that she would be killed and he seized her hands and dragged her up beside him on the jouncing timber-reach. "now see what you've done!" he bawled, as the mules broke into a gallop. but ruth was too frightened for the moment to speak. her uncle had a pair of mules, and she knew just how hard they were to manage. and this pair were evidently looking toward supper. they flew up the road, directly away from the railroad, and the wagon jounced about so that she could only hold on with both hands. "stop them! stop them!" she cried. but that was much easier said than done. the animals had been willing enough to start when given the word by a stranger; but now they did not recognize their master's voice when the boy yelled: "yea-a! yea-a!" instead of stopping, the mules went faster and faster. they had their bits 'twixt their teeth and were running away in good earnest. almost immediately, when the bumping and jouncing wagon got away from the store and the two or three neighboring houses, they were in the deep woods. there were no farms--no clearings--not even an open patch in the timber. the snow lay deep under the pines and firs. the road had been used considerably since the last snow, and the ruts were deep. therefore the mules kept to the beaten track. "oh, stop them! stop them!" moaned ruth, clinging to the swaying, jouncing cart. "i can't! i can't!" repeated the terrified boy. "oh, you wicked, wicked boy! you'll kill us both!" cried ruth. "it's your own fault you're here," returned fred, sharply. "and i wouldn't never have got onto the wagon if you hadn't chased me." "i believe you are the very worst boy who ever lived!" declared the girl from the red mill, in both anger and despair. "and i wish i had let you go your own wicked way." "i wish you had," growled hatfield, and then tried to soothe the running mules again. he was successful in the end. he had driven mules before and understood them. the beasts, after traveling at least two miles, began to slow down. the wagon was now passing through a wild piece of the forest, and it was growing dark very fast. only the snow on the ground made it possible for the boy and girl to see objects at a distance. ruth was wondering what her friends would think when they missed her, and likewise how she would ever get back to the railroad. would mr. cameron send back for her? what would happen to her, here in the deep woods, even when the mules stopped so that she dared leap down from the cart? and just then--before these questions became very pertinent in her mind--she was startled by a wild scream from the bush patch beside the road. fred cried out in new alarm, and the mules stopped dead-- for a moment. they were trembling and tossing their heads wildly. the awful, blood-chilling scream was repeated, and there was the soft thudding of cushioned paws in the bushes. some beast had leaped down from a tree-branch to the hard snow. "a cat-o'-mountain!" yelled fred hatfield, and as he shouted, the lithe cat sprang over the brush heap and landed in the road, right beside the timber cart. once ruth had been into the menagerie of a traveling circus that had come to darrowtown while her father was still alive. she had seen there a panther, and the wicked, graceful, writhing body of the beast had frightened her more than the bulk of the elephant or the roaring of the lion. this great cat, crouching close to the snow, its tail sweeping from side to side, all its muscles knotted for another spring, struck ruth dumb and helpless. fortunately her gloved hands were locked about the timber on which she lay, for the next instant a third savage scream parted the bewhiskered lips of the catamount and on the heels of the cry the mules started at full gallop. the panther sprang into the air like a rubber ball. had the mules not started the beast must have landed fairly upon the boy and the girl clinging to the reach of the timber wagon. but providentially ruth fielding and her companion escaped this immediate catastrophe. the savage beast landed upon the wagon, however--far out upon the end of the timber, beyond the rear wheels. mad with fright, the mules tore on along the wood road. there were many turns in it, and the deep ruts shook them about terrifically. ruth and fred barely retained their positions on the cart--nor was the catamount in better situation. it hung on with all its claws, yowling like the great tom-cat it was. on and on plunged the poor mules, sweating and fearful. ruth and fred hatfield clung like mussels to a rock, while the panther bounded into the air, screeching and spitting, always catching the tail of the cart as it came down--afraid to leap off and likewise afraid to hang on. the mules came to a hill. they were badly winded by now and their pace grew slower. the panther scratched along the reach nearer to the two human passengers, and ruth saw its eyes blazing like huge carbuncles in the dusk. there was a fork of the roads at the foot of the hill. fred hatfield uttered a shriek of despair as the mules took the right hand road and struck into the bush itself--a narrow and treacherous track where the limbs of the trees threatened to brush all three passengers from the cart at any instant. "oh! oh! we're done for now!" yelled fred. "they've taken the road to rattlesnake hill. we'll be killed as sure as fate!" chapter viii first at snow camp fred hatfield's fears might have been well-founded had the mules not been so winded. they had run at least four miles from the railroad and even with the fear of the snarling panther behind them they could not continue much farther at this pace. but over this rougher and narrower road the timber cart jounced more than ever. in all its life the panther had probably never received such a shaking-up. the mules had not gone far on what fred called the rattlesnake hill road when, with an ear-splitting cry, the huge cat leaped out from the flying wagon and landed in the bush. "we're saved!" gasped ruth. "that dreadful beast is gone." fred immediately tried to soothe the mules into a more leisurely pace; but nothing but fatigue would bring them down. thoroughly frightened, they kept starting and running without cause, and there was no chance in this narrow road to turn them. the fact that it ascended the side of the hill steeply did more toward abating the pace of the runaways than aught else. the track crept along the edge of several abrupt precipices, too--not more than thirty or forty feet high, but enough to wreck the wagon and kill mules and passengers had they gone over the brink. these dangerous places in the winding road were what had so frightened young hatfield at first. he knew this locality well. but to ruth the place was doubly terrifying, for she was lost--completely lost. "oh, where are we going? what will become of us?" she murmured, still obliged to cling with both hands to the jumping, rocking reach. the mules could gallop no longer. fred yelled at them "yea-a! yea-a!" at the top of his voice. they began to pay some attention--or else were so winded that they would have halted of their own volition. and as the cart ceased its thumping and rumbling a light suddenly blazed up before them, shining through the dusk, and higher up the hill. "what is that? a house?" cried ruth, seizing fred by the shoulder. not more than half an hour ago the girl from the red mill had slipped out of the private car at the emoryville crossing, in pursuit of the runaway youth; now they were deep in the wilderness and surrounded by such dangers as ruth had never dreamed of before. the baying of a hound and the angry barking of another dog was ruth's only answer. she turned to see fred hatfield sliding down off the cart. "you sha'n't leave me!" cried ruth, jumping down after him and seizing the runaway desperately. "you sha'n't abandon me in this forest, away from everybody. you're a cruel, bad boy, fred hatfield; but you've just _got_ to be decent to me." "what did you interfere for, anyway?" he demanded, snarling like a cross dog. "lemme go!" but if ruth was afraid of what terrors the forest might hold, and of her general situation, she had seen enough of this boy to know that he was just a poor, miserable coward--he aroused no fear in her heart. "i'm going to just stick to you, freddie," she assured him. she was quite as strong as he, she knew. "you are going home. at least, you shall go back to mr. cameron--" just then the flare of light ahead broadened and a gruff voice shouted: "hullo! what's wanted? down, tiger! behave, rose!" the dogs instantly stopped their clamor. the light came through the open door and the glazed window of a little hut perched on a rock overlooking the road. the mules had halted just below this eminence, and ruth saw that there was a winding path leading up to the door of the hovel. down this path came the huge figure of a man, with the two dogs gamboling about him in the snow. the occupant of this cabin in the wilderness carried a rifle in one hand. "hullo!" he said again. "that's sim rogers's team--i know those mules. are you there, sim? what's happened ye?" "who is it?" whispered ruth, again, still clinging to fred's jacket. "it's--it's the rattlesnake man," returned the boy, in a shaking voice. "who is he?" asked ruth, in surprise. "he lives here alone on the hill. he's a hermit. they say he's crazy. and i guess he is," added fred, with a shudder. "why do you think he's crazy?" but before fred could reply--if he intended to--the hermit reached the road. he was an old but very vigorous-looking man, burly and stout, with a great mat of riotous gray hair under his fur cap, and a beard of the same color that reached his breast. he seemed to have very good eyes indeed, for he immediately muttered: "ha! sim's mules--been running like the very kildee! all of a sweat, i vow. two young folks--ha! scared. runaway--ah! what's that?" the dogs began to bay again. far behind the boy and girl--down the hill road--rose the eyrie scream of the disappointed panther. "that cat-o'-mountain chase ye, boy?" the hermit asked, sharply. but fred had no answer. he stood, in ruth's sharp clutch, and hung his head without a word. the girl had to reply: "i never was so scared. the beast jumped right on the cart and we just shook him off down the hill yonder." "a girl," said the hermit, talking to himself, but talking aloud, in the same fashion as before. without doubt, being so much alone in these wilds he had contracted the habit of talking to himself--or to his dogs--or to whatever creature chanced to be his company. "a girl. not sim's gal. sim ain't got nothing but louts of boys. let me see. what boy is this?" "he is fred hatfield," said ruth, simply. fred jumped and tried to pull away from her; but ruth's hold was not to be so easily broken. the hermit, however, seemed to have never heard the name before. he only said, idly: "fred hatfield, eh? you his sister?" "no, sir. i am ruth fielding," she replied. "ruth fielding? don't know her. she's not belongin' around here. no. well, how'd you get here? and with sim's mules?" ruth told him briefly, but without bringing fred hatfield's trouble into the story. they had got aboard the timber cart at the crossing, the mules had run away, the panther had taken a ride with them and-- here they were! the hermit merely nodded in acknowledgment of the tale. his questions dealt with her alone: "where do you belong?" "the party i was with are bound for snow camp. do you know where that is, sir?" ruth asked. "not ten miles away. yes." "they will be worried--" "i will get you over there before bedtime. go up to my house and wait. this boy and i will stable the mules in my barn; it's just along the road here. sim will follow the beasts and find them; but he'll be some time in getting along. he lives along this road himself --not far, not far. ah!" the old man talked mostly as though he spoke to himself. he seldom more than glanced at her, his eye roving everywhere but at the person to whom he spoke. ruth started toward the house from which the fire and lamplight shone so cordially. the dogs stood before her--tiger, the big hound, and rose, a beautiful gordon setter. "let her alone," said the hermit to his canine companions. "she's all right." the dogs seemed to agree with him immediately. the hound sniffed once at the hem of ruth's frock; rose gambolled about her and licked her hand. ruth now realized how cold she was, and she ran quickly up to the open door of the cabin. on the threshold she hesitated a moment. a great lamp with a tin shade, hanging from the rafters, illuminated all the center of the room. at one end burned a hot log fire on the hearth; but the two further corners were in gloom. ruth had said she had never seen a log cabin, and it was true. this one seemed to her to be a very cozy place indeed, even if it was the habitation of a hermit. as she entered, however, she found that there was a rather suffocating, unpleasant odor in the place. it was light, yet penetrating enough to be distinguished clearly. in one of the darker corners was what appeared to be a big green chest, and it had a glazed window frame for a cover. something rustled there. the dogs followed her in and she sat down in an old-fashioned, bent hickory chair on the hearth--perhaps the hermit himself had just risen from it, for there was a sheepskin lying before it for a mat and a pair of huge carpet slippers on either side of the sheepskin. the dogs came in and sat down by the slippers, just where ruth could rest a hand on either head, and so blinked at the flames while they waited for the return of the hermit and the runaway boy. so she sat when they came into the cabin, stamping the snow from their shoes. the hermit led fred by the arm. he had not overlooked the care with which ruth had retained him by her side. "so you want to go over to mr. parrish's snow camp?" asked the old man. "it belongs to mr. cameron, now." said ruth. "i know that there is a telephone there, and i can get word to mr. cameron and helen and tom at scarboro that we are safe." "i'm not going," said fred "i'll stay here." "you'll go along with young miss," said the hermit, firmly. "i'll git ye a pannikin of tea and a bite. then we'll start. we'll go 'cross the woods on snowshoes--'twill be easier." "oh, can i do it, do you suppose?" cried ruth. "i never wore such things in my life." "you'll learn," said the hermit. he bustled about, making the tea and warming a big pancake of cornbread which he put into an iron dripping-pan down before the glowing coals at one side. while they waited for the water to bubble for the tea the old man went to the big chest, and began to talk and fondle something. ruth heard the rustling again and turned around to look. "want to see my children, young miss?" asked the old man, whose eyes seemed as sharp as needles. ruth arose in curiosity and approached. within a yard of the old man and his chest she stopped suddenly with a gasp. the hermit stood up with two snakes twining about his hands and wrists. the serpents ran their tongues out like lightning, and their beady eyes glowed as though living fire dwelt in their heads. ruth was frightened, but she would not scream. the hermit handled the snakes as though they were as harmless as kittens--as probably they were, the poison sacks having been removed. "they won't hurt you--harmless, harmless," said the old man, caressingly. "there, there, my pretties! go to bed again." he lifted the glass cover of the chest and dropped them into its interior. there was a great hissing and rustling. the hermit stepped to the hanging lamp and turned the shade so as to send the radiance of it into that corner. through the pane ruth saw a squirming mass of scaly bodies, mixed up with an old quilt. more than one tail, with rows of "buttons" and rattles on it, was elevated, and one angry serpent "sprung his rattle" sharply. "hush, hush, my dears!" said the hermit, soothingly. "go to sleep again now. my children," he said, nodding at ruth. "pretty dears!" to tell the truth, the girl from the red mill wanted to scream; but she held herself down, clenching her hands, and saying nothing. the kettle began to sing and she was glad to go back to the chair by the fire and afterward to sip the tin cup of hot tea that their host gave her, and eat with good appetite a square of the crisp cornbread. meanwhile, the hermit took from the walls three pairs of great, awkward-looking snowshoes and tightened the lacings and fitted thongs to them. the pair he selected for ruth looked to the girl to be so big that she never could take a step in them; but he seemed to expect her to try. they went out of the cabin as the moon was rising. it came up as red and fiery as the sun had gone down. long shadows of the tall trees were flung across the snow. the hermit commanded rose, the setter, to guard the hut, while he allowed the hound to follow at heel. he carried his rifle, and ruth was glad of this. "haven't heard a cat-o'-mountain around here this winter," he said, as they started up the hill. "didn't hear nor see one at all last winter. neighbors will have to get up a hunt for this one that troubled you, young miss, 'fore it does more damage." at the top of the ascent they stopped and the old man put on ruth's snowshoes for her. fred, always without a word and looking mighty sullen (but evidently afraid of the rattlesnake man) tied his own in place and the hermit slipped into his and they each gave ruth a hand. she stood up and found that her weight made little or no impression upon the well-packed snow. there was no wind and, although the air was very keen (the thermometer probably being almost to the zero mark) it was easy for her to move over the drifts. with some little instruction from the rattlesnake man, and after several tumbles-- which were of little moment because he and fred held her up--ruth was able to put one foot before the other and shuffle over the snow at a fairly good pace. the moonlight made the unbroken track as plain as noonday. to ruth it seemed almost impossible that the hermit could find his way through a forest which showed no mark of any former traveler; but he went on as though it was a turnpike. two hours and a half were they on the way, and ruth had begun to be both tired and cold when they crossed a road on which there were telegraph, or telephone poles and then--a little farther into the big woods--they struck a well-defined private track over which sleds had recently traveled. "you say some of your party and the baggage were coming over to-night," said the hermit to ruth. "they have been along. this is the road to snow camp--and there is the light from the windows!" ruth saw several points of light directly ahead. they quickly reached a good-sized clearing, in the middle of which stood a two-story log cabin, with a balcony built all around it at the height of the second floor. sleigh bells jingled as the horses stamped in the yard. the heavy sledges with the luggage and the serving people had just arrived. ruth fielding was the first of the pleasure party to arrive at snow camp. chapter ix "long jerry" todd some dogs began barking, and the hermit's hound replied by baying with his nose in the air--a sound to make anybody shiver! the rattlesnake man gave a lusty shout, and a door opened, flooding the porch of the big log cabin with lamplight. "hello!" came the answering shout across the clearing, and a very tall man--as thin as a lath--strode down from the porch and approached them, after sending back the dogs--all but one. this big creature could not be stayed in his impetuous rush over the snow and the next instant he sprang up and put both his forepaws on ruth's shoulders. "oh, reno!" she cried, fondling tom cameron's big mastiff, that had come all the way from cheslow with them in the baggage car. "_you_ know me; don't you?" "guess that proves her right to be here," said the hermit, more to himself than to the surprised tall man, who was the guide and keeper in charge of snow camp. "your boss lose one of his party off the train, long jerry todd?" "so i hear. is this here the gal?" cried the other, in immense surprise. "i swanny!" "yep. she's all right. i'll go back," said the rattlesnake man, without further ado, turning in his tracks. "oh, sir!" cried ruth. "i'm so much obliged to you." but the hermit slipped away on his snowshoes and in less than a minute was out of sight. then ruth looked around suddenly for fred hatfield. the runaway had disappeared. "where's that boy?" she cried. "what boy?" returned long jerry, curiously. "didn't see no boy here." "why, the boy that came here with us. he left the train at emoryville when i did--you must have seen him." "i never did," declared the guide. "he must have slipped away. maybe he's gone into the house. you'd better come in yourself. the women folks will 'tend to you. why, miss, you're dead beat!" indeed ruth was. she could scarcely stumble with the guide's help to the porch. she had kicked off the snowshoes and the hermit had taken them with him. had it not been for the hermit and fred hatfield, ruth fielding would never have been able to travel the distance from the hermit's cabin to snow camp. and the terrible shaking up she had received on the timber cart made her feel like singing old aunt alvirah's tune of "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" there were two maids whom mr. cameron had brought along and they, with two men, had come over from scarboro (a ride of eight miles, or so) with the luggage. they welcomed ruth and set her down before a great fire in the dining room, and one of them removed the girl's shoes so that her feet might be dried and warmed, while the other hurried to make some supper for the wanderer. but as soon as ruth got her slippers on, and recovered a little from the exhaustion of her trip, two things troubled her vastly. she inquired for the boy again, and learned that he had not been seen about the camp. when she and the hermit had entered the clearing, fred had undoubtedly taken the opportunity to slip away. "and in the night--and it so cold, too," thought ruth. "what will mr. cameron say?" that question brought her to the second of her troubles. her friends would worry about her all night if she did not find some way of allaying their anxiety. "oh, mary!" she said to the maid. "where's the telephone? tom said there was telephone connection here." "so there is, miss," returned the maid. "and somebody had better tell mrs. murchiston that you're safe. they're all as worried as they can be about you, for the folks at that store by the railroad--where the train stopped--when _they_ was called up as soon as the train reached scarboro, declared that you had got run away with by a team of mules." "which was most certainly true," admitted ruth. "i never had such a dreadful time in all my life. run away with by mules, and frightened to death by a great big catamount----" mary squealed and covered her ears. "don't tell me!" she gasped. "sure, miss, there do bes bears, an' panthers, an' wild-cats, an'-- an' i dunno what-all in these woods. sure, me and janey will never go out of this house whilst we stay. 'tain't civilized hereabout." ruth laughed rather ruefully. "i guess you're right, mary," she said. "it doesn't seem to be very civilized here in the backwoods-- and such queer people live here, too. but now! let me telephone." the maid showed her where it was and ruth called up scarboro and got the hotel where the cameron party was stopping. almost immediately she heard mr. cameron's voice. "hullo! snow camp? what's wanted?" he asked, in a nervous, jerky way. "this is me, mr. cameron--ruth, you know. i am all right at snow camp." "well! that's fine! thank goodness you're safe!" ejaculated the merchant, in an entirely different tone. "why, ruth, i was just about sending a party out from the store at emoryville to beat up the woods for you. they say there is a big panther in that district." "oh, i know it. the beast frightened us most to death--" "who was with you?" interrupted mr. cameron. "why, that boy! he jumped off the train and i followed to stop him. now he's run away again, sir." "oh, the boy calling himself fred hatfield?" ejaculated mr. cameron. "he's left you?" "he came here to snow camp and then disappeared. i am sorry--" "you're a good little girl, ruth. i wanted to bring him up here--and there are people who would be glad to know who he really is." "but don't you know? isn't his name fred hatfield?" questioned ruth, in surprise. "that can't be. fred hatfield was shot here in the woods more than a month ago. it was soon after the deer season opened, they tell me, and it is supposed to have been an accident. young 'lias hatfield, half-brother of the real fred, is in jail here, held for shooting his brother. who the boy was whom we found and brought from the red mill, seems to be a mystery." "oh!" cried ruth, but before she could say more, mr. cameron went on: "we'll all be over in the morning. i hope you have not taken cold, or overtaxed your strength, i must go and tell helen. she has been frightened half to death about you. goodnight." he hung up the receiver, leaving ruth in rather a disturbed state of mind. the newspaper clipping that had dropped out of the old wallet the strange boy had carried, was the account of the shooting affair. mention was made in it about the very frequent mistakes made in the hunting season--mistakes which often end in the death of one hunter by the hand of another. it said that 'lias hatfield and his younger brother, fred, had had a quarrel and then gone hunting, each taking a different direction. the younger boy had ensconced himself just under the brink of a steep bank at the bottom of which was rolling river, a swift and deep stream. his brother's story was that he had come up facing this place, having started a young buck not half a mile away. he thought he heard the buck stamping, and blowing, and then saw what he thought was the animal behind a fringe of bushes at the top of this steep river bank. the hunter blazed away, and heard a dreadful scream, a rolling and thrashing in the brush, and a splash in the river. he ran forward and found his brother's old gun and tippet. there was blood on the bushes. the supposition was that fred hatfield had been shot and had rolled into the swift-flowing river. 'lias had given himself up to the authorities and there seemed some doubt in the minds of the people of scarboro as to whether the shooting had been an accident. "if there was no body found," thought ruth, all the time she was eating the supper that mary brought her, "how do they know fred hatfield is really dead? and if he _is_ dead, who is the boy who is traveling about the country using fred hatfield's name and carrying mr. hatfield's old wallet? i guess fred has run away, instead of being killed, and is staying away because he hates his brother 'lias, and wishes him to get into trouble about the shooting. if that's so, isn't he just the meanest boy that ever was?" long jerry todd came in with a huge armful of wood for the fire, and ruth determined to pump him about the accident. the tall man knew all about it, and was willing enough to talk. he sat down beside the fire and answered ruth's questions most cheerfully. "ya-as, i knowed old man hatfield," he said. "he's been dead goin' on ten year. that fred wasn't good to his mother. his half-brothers-- children of old man hatfield's fust wife--is nicer to their marm than fred was. oh, ya-as! he was shot by 'lias, all right. i dunno as 'lias meant to do it. hope not. but they found fred's body in the river t'other day, and so they arrested 'lias." but long jerry hadn't seen any sign of the boy that had been with ruth and the hermit when they arrived at snow camp. ruth did not like to discuss the mystery with him any more; for it _was_ a mystery now, that was sure. fred hatfield's body had been found in the river, yet a boy was traveling about the country bearing fred hatfield's name. the guide finally unfolded himself and rose slowly to his full height, preparatory to going back to the kitchen regions. he was nearly seven feet tall, and painfully thin. he grinned down upon ruth fielding as she gazed in wonder at his proportions. "i'm some long; ain't i, miss?" he chuckled. "but i warn't no taller than av'rage folks when i was a boy. you hear of some folks gettin' stunted by sickness, or fright, or the like. wal, i reckon _i_ got stretched out longer'n common by fright. want to hear about it?" he was so jolly and funny that ruth was glad to hear him talk and she encouraged him to go on. so jerry sat down again and began his story. chapter x bears--and other things "ye see," drawled jerry, "my marm was alive in them days--bless her heart! dad was killed on the boom down rolling river when i was a little shaver; but marm hung on till i got growed. ya-as! i mean till i got clean through growin' and that was long after i voted fust time," and he chuckled and wagged his head. "wal, mebbe i was sixteen; mebbe seventeen. boys up here in the woods have to cut their own vittles pretty airly. i was doin' a man's labor when i was 'leven. ya-as, miss! had to work for me an' marm. "and marm worked, too. one day i started for drownville with a big bundle of aperns marm had sewed for mis' juneberry that kep' store at drownville. she got two bits a dozen for makin' them aperns, i remember. wal, it was a wilder country then than it is now, and i never see a soul, nor heard the sound of an axe in walking four miles. just at the end o' them four miles," continued long jerry, his eyes twinkling, "there was a turn in the road. i swung around it--i was travelin' at a good clip--and come facin' up an old she b'ar which riz up on her hind laigs an' said: 'how-d'-do, jerry todd!' jest as plain as ever a bear spoke in its e-tar-nal life! "why," said long jerry, almost choking with his own laughter, "by the smile on thet thar b'ar's face and the way she spread her arms wide to receive me, it was plain enough how glad she was ter see me." "i should think you'd have been scared to death!" gasped ruth, looking down at him. "wal, i calculate i was some narvous. i was more narvous in them days than i be now. hadn't seen so much of the world. and sure hadn't seen so much o' b'ars," cackled jerry. "not bein' used to b'ar sassiety i natcherly balked when that ol' she b'ar appeared so lovin'. i had pretty nigh walked right into her arms and there wasn't much chance to make any particular preparations. fact was, i didn't have nothin' with me more dangerous than a broken jack-knife, and i don't know how it might strike you, miss, but to me that didn't seem to be no implement with which to make a b'ar's acquaintance." "i should think not!" giggled ruth. "what _did_ you do?" "wal, first of all i give her marm's bundle--ya-as i did! i pitched that there bundle of aperns right at her, and the way she growled an' tore at 'em was a caution, now i tell ye! i seen at once what she'd do to me if she got me, so i left them parts, an' left 'em quick! i started off through the woods, hittin' only the high spots, and fancied i could beat the old gal runnin'. but not on your tin-type! no, sir-ree! the old gal jest give a roar, come down on all four feet, and started after me at a pace that set me a-thinkin' of my sins. "jest as sure as you live, if i'd kept on running she'd had me within thirty yards. an' i knew if i climbed a big tree she'd race me to the top of it and get me, too. ye see, a small-round tree was my only chance. a b'ar climbs by huggin' their paws around the trunk, and it takes one of right smart size to suit them for climbin'. "i see my tree all right, and i went for it. missus b'ar, she come cavortin' an' growlin' along, and it did seem to me as though she'd have a chunk out o' me afore i could climb out o' reach. it was jest about then, i reckon," pursued long jerry, chuckling again, "when i believe i began to grow tall! "i stretched my arms up as fur as i could, an' the way i shinnied up that sapling was a caution to cats, now i tell ye! she riz up the minute she got to the tree and tried to scrape me off with both paws. she missed me by half a fraction of an infinitessimal part of an inch --that's a good word, that 'infinitessimal'; ain't it, miss? i got it off of a college perfesser what come up here, and he said he got it straight-away out of the dictionary." "it's a good word, mr. todd," laughed ruth, highly delighted at the man and his story. "wal!" chuckled jerry, "we'll say she missed me. i was so scar't that i didn't know then whether she had missed me or was chawin' of me. i felt i was pretty numb like below my waist. and how i did stretch up that tree! no wonder i growed tall after that day," said jerry, shaking his head. "i stretched ev'ry muscle in my carcass, miss--i surely did! "there was that ol she b'ar, on her hind legs and a-roarin' at me like the mr. bashan's bull that they tell about, and scratchin' the bark off'n that tree in great strips. she cleaned the pole, as far up as she could reach, as clean as a bald man's head. she jumped as far as she could, gnashed her teeth, and tried her best to climb that sapling. every time she made a jump, or howled, i tried to climb higher. an', miss, that was the time i got stretched out so tall, for sure. "the bear, with wide-open mouth, kept on a-jumpin' an' ev'ry time she jumped i clumb a little higher, i was so busy lookin' down at her that i never looked up to see how fur i was gettin' toward the top, so, all of a suddent-like, the tree top begun to bend over with me an' sumpin' snapped. 'twarn't my galluses, neither!" crowed long jerry, very much delighted by his own tale. "i knowed that, all right. sna-a-ap! she went again, and i begun to go down. "i swanny! but that was a warm time for me, miss--it sure was. there was that ol' she b'ar with her mouth as wide open as a church door-- or, so it looked to jerry todd. they say a feller that's drowndin' thinks over all his hull endurin' life when he's goin' down. i believe it. sure i do. 'twarn't twenty feet from the top o' that tree to the ground, but i even remembered how i stole my sister jane's rag baby when i couldn't more'n toddle around marm's shanty--that's right!--an' berried of it in the hog-pen. every sin that was registered to my account come up before me as plain as the wart on jim biggle's nose!" "oh, mr. todd!" cried ruth. "falling right on that awful bear?" "that's what i was doin', miss--and it didn't take me long to do it, neither, i reckon. mebbe the b'ar warn't no more ready to receive me than i was to drap down on her. i heard her give a startled _whuff_, and she come on all four paws. the next thing i done was to land square on her back--i swanny! that was a crack. purty nigh drove my spine up through the top of my head, it did. and the ol' b'ar must ha' been mighty sorry arterwards that she was right there to receive me. she give a most awful grunt, shook me off onto the ground and kited out o' that as though she'd been sent for in a hurry! i swanny! i never did see a b'ar run so fast," and long jerry burst into an uproarious laugh. "but that, i reckon, is the time i got so stretched out an' begun to grow so tall, miss," he added. "stretchin' an' strainin' to git away from that ol' she b'ar was what done it." ruth was delighted with the guide; but she was very tired, too, and when the maids came in she was only too glad to fall in with the suggestion of bed. she was put to sleep in a great, plainly furnished room, where there were three other beds--a regular dormitory. it was like one of the prime sleeping rooms at briarwood hall. and how ruth did sleep that night after her adventurous day! the sun shone broadly on the clearing about the camp when she first opened her eyes. mary put her head in at the door and said: "your breakfast will be spoilt, miss ruth, or i wouldn't disturb you. all the men's ate long ago and janey's fussin' in the kitchen. besides, the folks will be over from scarboro in an hour. mr. cameron just telephoned and asked how you were." "oh, i feel fine!" cried the girl from the red mill, joyfully. but when she hopped out of bed she found herself dreadfully stiff and lame; the jouncing she had received while riding with the boy calling himself fred hatfield, and the catamount, on the timber cart, and later her first long walk on snow-shoes, had together strained her muscles and lamed her limbs to a degree. old aunt alvirah's oft-repeated phrase fitted her condition, and she grimly repeated it: "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" but the prospect of the other girls, coming--and tom and his friends, too--and the fun in store for them all at snow camp, soon made ruth fielding forget small troubles. besides, the muscles of youth are elastic and the weariness soon went out of her bones. before the party arrived from scarboro she had opportunity of going all about the great log lodge, and getting acquainted with all it held and all that surrounded it. the great hall on the lower floor was arranged so as to have a broad open fireplace at either end. these fires were kept burning day and night and the great heaps of glowing logs made the hall, and most of the upper rooms, very comfortable indeed. the walls of this hall were hung with snowshoes, canadian toboggans--so light, apparently, that they would not hold one man, let alone four, but very, very strongly built--guns, indian bows and sheaf of arrows, fish-spears, and a conglomeration of hunting gear for much of which ruth fielding did not even know the names, let alone their uses. outside the snow had been cleared away immediately around the great log house and a wide path was cut through the drifts down to a small lake, or pond. in coming from rattlesnake hill the night before with the old hermit, and the boy who called himself fred hatfield, they had come down a long incline in sight of the camp. now, ruth saw that a course had been made level upon that hillside, banked up on either side with dykes of snow, and water poured over the whole to make a perfect slide. there was a starting platform at the top and the course was more than half a mile in length, long jerry told her. but when she had seen all these things sleigh bells were heard and ruth ran out to welcome her friends. chapter xi the frost games the big sleigh in which were helen and the other girls swept into the clearing in advance and ruth's chum led the chorus addressed vociferously to the girl from red mill. "oh, ruthie!" "the lost is found!" "and she got here first--wasn't that cute of her?" "oh, _do_ tell us all about it, ruth," cried lluella fairfax. "however could you scare us so, ruthie?" cried jennie stone, the heavyweight. "i was so worried i was actually sick." "and that is positively 'no error,'" laughed belle tingley. "for once heavy was so troubled that she couldn't eat." helen was out of the sleigh at once and hugged ruth hard. "you blessed girl!" she cried. "i was _so_ afraid something dreadful had happened to you." "and what became of that horrid boy mr. cameron tried to take to scarboro?" demanded madge steele. the boys piled out of their sledge before ruth could answer these questions, and she was unable to give a very vivid explanation of all that had happened to her since leaving the train, until the whole party was gathered before one of the open fires in the hall, waiting for dinner. before this hour came, however, and while the rest of the young folks were getting acquainted with the possibilities of snow camp, ruth had a serious talk with mr. cameron regarding the mysterious boy who had disappeared on the verge of the snow camp reservation. "i don't know how he escaped us. he sped away through the woods with the old hermit's snowshoes--i am sure of that. and that old rattlesnake man didn't seem to be bothered at all by his loss," ruth said. "perhaps that hermit knows something about the fellow. we'll look into that," said the merchant, gravely. "however, ruth, you did what you thought was right. it was reckless. i cannot commend you for leaving the train, child. something dreadful might have happened to you." "i thought something dreadful _did_ happen to me," said ruth, with a shudder, "when those mules ran away and that catamount leaped up on the timber cart." "i believe you! and your going to the cabin of that rattlesnake catcher. they say he is mad, and he handles the serpents just as though they were white mice. the people hereabout are afraid of him," said mr. cameron, earnestly. "he was as kind as he could be to me," said ruth, shaking her head. "i don't think i should ever be afraid of him. his eyes are kind. but the snakes--oh! they did frighten me dreadfully." "from what i hear of this young man, 'lias hatfield, who is in jail at scarboro, he is a decent lad and has worked hard for his stepmother. the half-brother he shot was about the age of this boy we found down home. but _his_ body was recovered from the river only the other day when they arrested 'lias. i shall make it my business to see the hatfields personally and learn, if possible, how a stranger like that boy who came here with you, ruth, could have obtained mr. hatfield's old wallet." "he had some deep interest in the mystery of this shooting," declared ruth, and she told the merchant of the newspaper clipping that had dropped out of the old wallet when she had undertaken to dry the boy's clothing at the red mill. meanwhile, the other young folks were highly delighted over the possibilities for fun at snow camp. tom and his friends did not pay much attention to what was inside the great log house; but before noon they knew all that was to be done outside and were unhappy only because they did not know which to do first. in addition, busy izzy had exhausted himself and every man about the place, asking questions; and finally tom and bob gagged him with his own handkerchief and threatened to tie him up and not give him any dinner if he did not stop it. "but _do_ let him ask for a second helping to pudding, boys," urged the kind-hearted heavy. "it's going to be fine--i had a taste of the dough. mary says it's 'whangdoodle pudding, with lallygag sauce'; but you needn't be afraid of the fancy name she gives it," added the plump girl, rolling her eyes. "it's just scrumptious!" they laughed at heavy's ecstasies, yet all did full justice to the pudding. such a hearty appetite as everybody had! the snapping cold and the odor of balsam and pine gave a tang to the taste that none of them had ever known before. the girls were full of plans for quiet hours around the great open fires, as well as for the out-of-door fun; but tom was leader on this first day of the vacation at snow camp, and he declared for skating in the afternoon. even mrs. murchiston went down to the pond. the boys took turns in pushing her about in an ice-chair. but mr. cameron put on skates and proved himself master of them, too. long jerry came down to watch them and grinned broadly at the boys' antics on the ice. jerry was no skater; but he was stringing snowshoes and by the morning would have enough ready for the whole party and promised to teach the young folk the art of walking on them in half a day. that afternoon on the ice only put an edge on the appetite of the whole party for the frost games. "plenty of time to make those pine-needle pillows for the girls at briarwood, if we have a stormy day," quoth helen cameron. "we mustn't mope before the fire this evening. the moon is coming up--big as a bushel and red as fire! oh, we'll have some fun this night." "what now?" demanded madge steele. "i see the boys have stolen out after supper. a sleigh ride?" "no; although that would be fun," said helen. "oh, dear! can't we take it easy this evening?" whined heavy, after a mighty yawn. "i _was_ so hungry--" "you shouldn't give way to that dreadful appetite of yours, jennie stone!" cried belle tingley. "if there's any fun afoot i want to be in it." "come on! all ready!" shouted the boys outside the house, and the sextette of girls ran to get on their wraps. they bundled out of the house to find tom, bob and isadore each drawing a long, flat, narrow toboggan. helen clapped her hands and shouted: "fine! fine! see these sleds, girls." "we're going to shoot the chutes, heavy," sang out madge. "do you think you can stand it?" "now, don't any of you back out," tom said. "each of us will take two girls on his sled. there's plenty of room." "you'd better draw matches for us," said the irrepressible heavy. "that is, if you intend drawing _us_--two to each toboggan--to the top of that slide. i never did care much for boys--they are greedy; but which one of you could drag madge and me, for instance, up that hill?" "we draw the line at that," cried tom. "those who can't toddle along to the top of the chute needn't expect to ride to the bottom." they all hurried off, laughing and shouting. it was a most beautiful moonlight night. save their own voices, only the distant barking of a fox broke the great silence that wrapped the snow-clad country about. none of the grown folk followed them. the party had the hill to themselves. it being a race to the hill-top, with the first two girls to take their places on the toboggan of the first boy, naturally heavy was out of the running, and bound to be last. she came panting to the starting platform, and found ruth waiting to share isadore's sled with her. tom, with madge and belle, had already shot down the icy chute. bob steele, with lluella and helen before him, dropped over the verge of the platform and their toboggan began to whiz down the pathway, as jennie plumped down upon the remaining toboggan. "come on, ruthie! you're a good little thing to wait for me--and i guess tom cameron didn't like it much, either? he wanted you." "nonsense, jennie," returned ruth, with a laugh. "what does it matter? as long as we all get a slide--" "hurry up, now," cried busy izzy, troubled because he was behind his comrades, if the girls were not. "sit tight." he pushed the toboggan over the edge of the drop almost before ruth was settled behind jennie. he flung himself upon the sled, sitting sideways, and "kicked" them over the drop. the toboggan struck the icy course and began to descend it like an arrow shot from a bow. jennie stone shrieked a single, gasping: "oh!" the toboggan whizzed down the path, with the low, icy dykes on either hand, and so rapidly that their eyes watered and they could not see. it seemed only a breath when the third toboggan shot onto the level at the bottom, and they passed the crew of the first sled already coming back. it was exhilarating sport--it was delightful. yet every time they started ruth felt as though the breath left her lungs and that she couldn't catch it again until they slowed down at the bottom of the hill. she would have felt safer with one of the other boys, too. isadore phelps was none too careful, and once the toboggan ran up one of the side dykes and almost spilled them on the course. "do look out what you are about, isadore," ruth begged, when they reached the bottom of the slide that time. "if we should have a spill----" "great would be the fall thereof!" grinned isadore, looking at heavy, puffing up the hill beside them. "you take care now, and don't spatter me all over the slide," said the cheerful stout girl, whose doll-like face was almost always wreathed in smiles. but isadore was really becoming reckless. to tell the truth, bob and tom were laughing at him. he had been the last to get away each time from the starting platform, and he could not catch up with the others. perhaps that was the stout girl's fault; but ruth would climb the hill no faster than jennie, and so the third toboggan continued far behind the others. as they panted up the hill tom and his two companions shot past and waved their hands at them; then followed bob steele's crew and helen shouted some laughing gibe at them. isadore's face grew black. "i declare! i wish you girls would stir yourselves. hurry up!" he growled quite ungallantly. "what's the hurry?" panted heavy. "there's nobody paying us for this; is there? let 'em catch up with us and then we will be--all--to--geth--er--woof! my goodness me, i'm winded," and she had to stop on the hill and breathe. "go on and leave us. take one trip by yourself, isadore," said ruth. "no, i won't," returned phelps, ungratefully. "then they'll all gab about it. come along; will you?" "don't you mind him, jennie," whispered ruth. "i don't think he's very nice." they got aboard the toboggan once more and isadore recklessly flung himself on it, too, and pushed off. at the moment there came a shrill hail from below. tom was sending up some word of warning--at the very top of his voice. but the three just starting down the slide could not distinguish his words. jennie shut her eyes tight the moment the toboggan lurched forward, so she could not possibly see anything that lay before them. ruth peered over the stout girl's shoulder, the wind half blinding her eyes with tears. but the moonlight lay so brilliantly upon the track that it was revealed like midday. something lay prone and black upon the icy surface of the slide. chapter xii peril--and a taffy pull it seemed to ruth fielding, as the toboggan dashed down the chute toward that strange object in their course, as though her lips were glued together. she could not speak--she could not utter a sound. and yet this inaction--this dumbness--lasted but a very few seconds. the thing upon the slide lay more than half way down the hill--a quarter of a mile ahead when her stinging eyes first saw it. toward it the sled rushed, gathering speed every moment, and the object on the track grew in her eyes apace. when her lips parted she screamed so that isadore heard her words distinctly: "stop, izzy! there's something ahead! look!" of course it was foolish to beg of the boy to stop. nothing could halt them once they had started upon the icy incline. but her cry warned isadore of the peril ahead. he echoed her cry, and was as panic-stricken as the girl herself. at first, the thing looked like somebody lying across the slide. had one of their friends fallen off either of the other toboggans, and been too hurt to rise? then, the next instant, both isadore and ruth knew that the thing was too small for that. it was really a jacket that bob steele had tied about his neck by the arms. on the way down the sleeves had become untied and the jacket had spread itself out upon the slide to its full breadth. it didn't seem as though such a thing could do the coming toboggan any harm; but ruth and isadore phelps knew well that if it went upon the outspread coat there would be a spill. it would act like a brake to the sled, and that frail vehicle on which the three young folk rode would stop so abruptly that they would be flung off upon the icy course. ruth at least understood this peril only too well; but she made no further outcry. jennie stone's eyes were still tight shut. one moment the outspread jacket lay far before them, across the path. the next instant--or so it seemed--they were right upon it. "hang on!" yelled isadore, and shot his boot-heel into the icy surface of the slide. the toboggan swerved. jennie uttered a cry. the sled went up the left hand dyke like a bolting horse climbing a roadside wall or a side hill. in ruth's ears rang the shouts of their friends, who were coming hastily up the hillside. they could do nothing to help the endangered crew, nor could the latter help themselves. up the toboggan shot into the air. it leaped the shoulder of the dyke and--crew and all--darted out into space. that was certainly an awful moment for ruth fielding and her two companions. jennie's intermittent squeal turned into a sudden shriek-- as keen and nerve-racking as the whistle of a locomotive. isadore phelps "blew up" with a muffled roar as he turned half a somersault in the air and landed headfirst in a huge snowdrift. that is how the girls landed, too. at least, if they didn't dive headfirst into the drift, they were pretty well swallowed up in it. and it was providential that they all did find such a soft cushion when they landed. their individual shrieks were broken off suddenly by the smothering snow. their friends, on the other side of the slide, came plunging across the course, and bob steele, slipping on the smooth surface, kicked up both feet high in the air, landed with a crash on the small of his back, and finished the slide to the very bottom of the chute in that most undignified position. bob's accident turned the whole affair into a most ludicrous scene. tom cameron laughed so hard that he scarcely had the strength to help the girls out of the snowdrift. as for isadore, he had to scramble out by himself--and the soft snow had got down his neck, and he had lost his hat, his ears were full of snow, and altogether he was in what madge steele called "a state of mind." "huh!" izzy growled, "you all can laugh. wait! i'll get square with you girls, now, you better believe that." and he actually started off for the camp in a most abused state. the others could not help their laughter--the more so that what seemed for a few seconds to promise disaster had turned out to be nothing but a most amusing catastrophe. this ended the coasting for this particular evening, however. jennie stone was pried out of the snowdrift last of all, and they all went to the bottom of the hill where bob steele sat with his back against a tree trunk, waiting, as he said, for the "world to stop turning around so fast." his swift descent had made him dizzy. they all ran back to snow camp, catching up with isadore before he got there with his grouch, and tom and bob fell upon the grouch and dumped it into another snowbank--boy and all--and managed in the scuffle to bring busy izzy into a better state of mind. "just the same," he declared, "i'll get square with those girls for laughing at me--you see if i don't!" "a lot of good that'll do you," returned tom cameron. "and why shouldn't they laugh? do you suppose that the sight of you on your head in a snowbank with your legs waving in the wind was something to make them _weep_? huh!" but when they got inside the big hall, where the two fires burned, izzy forgot his grouch. there was a basket of popcorn and several "poppers" and the crowd of young folk were soon shelling corn and popping it, turning the fluffy, snow-white kernels into big bowls, over which thick cream was poured, and, as jennie declared, "they ate till they couldn't eat another crumb!" "isn't it just grand?" cried belle tingley, when the girls had retired to the big room in which ruth fielding had slept alone the night before. "i never did know you could have so much fun in the woods in the dead of winter. helen! your father is just the dearest man to bring us up here! we'll none of us forget this vacation." but in the morning there were new things to go and learn. the resources of snow camp seemed unending. as soon as breakfast was over there was long jerry ready with snowshoes for all. tom and helen, as well as bob steele, were somewhat familiar with these implements. and ruth had had one unforgettable experience with them. but at first there were a good many tumbles, and none of the party went far from the big lodge on this occasion. they came into the mid-day dinner pretty well tired, but oh, how hungry! "i declare, eating never seemed so good before," bob steele murmured. "i really wish i could eat more; but room i have not!" heavy went to sleep before the fire directly after the meal, but was awakened when the girls all trooped out to the kitchen to make molasses taffy. the boys had gone with long jerry to try to shoot squirrels; but they came back without having any luck before the girls were fairly in possession of janey's kitchen. "let us help--aw, do!" cried tom, smelling the molasses boiling on the range and leading the way into the kitchen. "you can't cook anything good to eat when there are boys within a mile, and they not know it," sighed jennie stone. "or be able to keep them out of it," declared madge steele. "i suppose we shall have to let them hang around, helen." "i tell you!" cried helen, who never would go back upon her twin, and who liked to have him around, "we'll make some nut candy. there's nuts--half a bushel of them. the boys must crack and pick the nuts and we'll make some walnut taffy--it will be lots nicer than plain taffy." "oh, well, that _does_ put another face upon the matter," laughed lluella fairfax. "but they must all three whistle while they're picking out the nuts," cried heavy. "i know them! the nut meats will never go into the taffy pan if they don't whistle." tom and his chums agreed to this and in a few minutes they were all three sitting gravely on the big settee by the fire, a flatiron in each boy's lap, each with a hammer and the basket of nuts in reach, and all dolefully whistling--with as much discord as possible. the whistling did certainly try the girls' nerves; but the boys were not to be trusted under any other conditions. busy izzy, however--that arch schemer--had not forgiven the girls for laughing at his overset on the toboggan slide the night before. and as he sat whistling "good night, ladies" in a dreadful minor, he evolved such a plan for reprisal in his fertile mind that his eyes began to snap and he could hardly whistle for the grin that wreathed his lips. "keep at it, mr. isadore phelps!" cried ruth, first to detect izzy's defection. "we're watching you." "come! aren't we going to have a chance to eat a single kernel?" izzy growled. "not one," said helen, stoutly. "after you have the nuts cracked and picked out, we'll spread the kernels in the dripping pans, the taffy will then be ready, we'll pour it over, and then set the candy out to cool in the snow. after that we'll give you some--if you're good." "huh!" grunted isadore. "i guess i know a trick worth two of that. we'll get our share, fellows," and he winked at tom and bob. chapter xiii shells and kernels the three boys stuck to their work, with only a whisper or two, until there was a great bowl of nutmeats, and ruth pronounced the quantity sufficient. meanwhile, the taffy was boiling in the big kettle, and ruth and jennie had buttered three dripping pans. they spread the nutmeats evenly in the pans and then set the pans carefully on a snowdrift outside the back door to get thoroughly cold before the taffy was poured thinly over the nuts. everybody was on the _qui vive_ about the candy then. the girls couldn't drive the boys out of the room. the bubbling molasses filled the great kitchen with a rich odor. jennie began popping corn with which to make cornballs of the taffy that could not be run into the three pans of nuts. isadore phelps disappeared for possibly three minutes--no longer; and the girls never missed him. at last the candy could be "spun" and ruth pronounced it ready to pour into the pans outside. isadora said he would help--the kettle was too heavy for the girls to carry. he was adjured to be very, very careful and the girls followed him to the door in a body when he carried out the steaming couldron. "do pour it carefully, izzy!" cried helen. "if that boy spoils it, i'll never forgive him," sighed heavy. ruth ran out after him. but isadore took great care in pouring the mixture into the pans as he had been instructed, and even she had no complaint to make. he hurried back to the kitchen, too, poured the residue of the boiled molasses upon the popcorn and they made up the cornballs at once. "come on, now," said izzy, in a great hurry. "give us fellows our share of the cornballs and we'll beat it. we're going skating. we'll help you eat your old candy when we come back. "maybe it will be all gone by that time," said heavy, slily. "i wish you joy of it, then, miss smartie," returned isadore, chuckling. "come on, fellows." they seized their skates and ran away. isadore could hardly talk for laughter; and he carried a good sized paper bag besides his share of the popcorn balls. the girls "cleaned up"--for that had been the agreement with janey when she let them have her kitchen--and then sat down before the hall fire to make pine pillows, of which they were determined to take a number to briarwood to give to their friends. helen had bought a lot of denim covers stamped and lettered with mottoes, including the ever-favorite "i pine for thee and likewise balsam." but although they were very merry around the fire, heavy could not long be content. the popcorn balls disappeared like magic and the stout girl kept worrying the others with questions about the taffy. "don't you suppose that candy's cool? i declare! those boys might play a joke on us--they might creep back and steal all three pans." "dear me, jennie!" cried ruth fielding. "if you are so anxious, why don't you run and bring a pan in? we'll see if it's brittle enough to break up." heavy sighed, but put down her work and arose. "it's always i who has to do the work," she complained. "bring the pan in here and break the candy," advised madge steele. "we'll have to watch you." heavy came back with one of the candy pans in short order, bringing a hammer, too, with which to crack the brittle taffy. "come! we'll see how it tastes; and if it's good enough," she added, smiling broadly, "we won't let the boys have even a little bit. they were mean enough to go off skating without us." she cracked up a part of the candy, passed the pan around quickly, and popped a piece into her own mouth. in a moment she spat the candy into the fire, with a shriek, and put her hand to her jaw. "oh! oh! oh!" she cried. "what's the matter with you, heavy?" demanded helen, startled. "oh, i've broken a tooth i believe. oh!" "why were you so greedy?" began madge, sedately. and then, suddenly, she stopped chewing the bit of candy she had taken into her mouth, and a sudden flush overspread her face. "why, here's a piece of nutshell!" cried lluella. "how careless those boys were!" helen added. "they got some of the shells in with the meat." "we should have expected it," belle cried. "they never should have been trusted to crack the nuts." "oh, girls!" gasped ruth, who had quickly examined the candy in the pan. her voice was tragic, and the others looked at her (all but madge) in surprise. "what have those horrid boys done?" demanded jennie stone. "they've spoiled it all!" ruth cried. "there's nothing but shells in the candy. they've ruined it!" "oh! oh! oh!" shrieked heavy again. "it can't be true!" "it can be, for it is!" said madge steele, decidedly. "those mean boys! i certainly will fix bob for that." "and tom!" cried helen, almost in tears. "how could he be so mean?" "i don't believe tom did it, helen," said ruth, slowly. "he was just as bad as the others, i venture to say," madge said, sharply. "if he is, i won't speak to him for a month!" cried his twin sister. "we won't have anything more to do with them while we are here--there now! oh, how mean!" "maybe it's only one pan that is this way," suggested heavy, timidly. they all ran out to see. the other pans were just like the first one. the nut meats had been removed and shells scattered in the pans instead. no wonder isadore phelps had wanted to pour the molasses taffy! "and they've got all the meats," said belle tingley. "they are eating them and chuckling over the trick right now, i wager." "it's a mean, mean trick!" gasped helen, in a temper. "i never will forgive tom. and i just hate those other boys." "you're welcome to hate bobbie," said madge. "he deserves it." "_such_ a contemptible joke!" groaned belle. "let's make some more," ruth suggested. "and we won't give them any." "no. i don't want to go all through it again," helen said, shaking her head. at that moment the telephone rang. ruth was nearest and she jumped up and answered the call. at the other end of the wire an excited female voice demanded: "is this snow camp?" "yes," replied ruth, "it is." "mr. cameron's camp?" "yes. but he is not in the house just now." "aren't any of your men-folks there?" queried the excited voice. "i guess most of the men are drawing in logs for the fires," said ruth. "what is the matter?" "i want to warn you all to look out for the panther. it is supposed to be coming your way--towards snow camp. the beast has just killed a pig for us, and was frightened away. it's done other damage to-day among the neighbors' cattle. do you hear me?" "oh, i hear you!" cried ruth, and then held her hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to the other girls: "that panther--that catamount!" she cried. "it is supposed to be coming this way. where is your father, helen? and long jerry todd?" chapter xiv a telephone chase the excited screaming of the other girls brought mrs. murchiston to the hall in a hurry. when she heard what had caused the excitement she called the maids, intending to send one of them for mr. cameron. but just then the woman--a farmer's wife along the road--began talking to ruth again, and the maids learned from her answers into the 'phone the cause of the excitement. go out into the open when the catamount might be within a couple of miles of the lodge? no, indeed! mary threw her apron over her head and sank down on the floor, threatening hysterics. janey was scared both dumb and motionless. these women who had lived all their lives in towns, or near towns, were not fit to cope with the startling incidents of the backwoods. the woman on the wire explained to ruth that she was telephoning all along the line toward scarboro, warning each farmer of the big cat's approach. "but if it keeps on in the same direction it was going when we saw it last, the creature will strike snow camp first," declared the excited lady. "you must get your men out with guns and dogs to stop the beast if you can. it's mad with hunger and it will do some dreadful damage if it is not killed." ruth repeated this to her friends, and asked mrs. murchiston what they should do. "if the baste comes here," cried mary, the maid, "he can jump right into these low winders. we'll be clawed to pieces." "there are heavy shutters for these windows," mrs. murchiston said, faintly. "but they are to heavy for us to handle--and i suppose they are stored in one of the outbuildings, anyway." "why, i wouldn't go out of doors for a fortune!" cried lluella fairfax. "but the creature isn't here yet," ruth said, doubtfully. "how do you know how fast he's traveling?" returned helen, quickly. "but think of the boys down there skating," said her chum. "oh, oh!" gasped jennie. "if that panther eats them up they'll be more than well paid for spoiling our taffy." "hush, jennie!" commanded madge. "this is no time for joking. how are we going to warn them--and the men in the woods?" "and father?" cried helen cameron. "oh, i wouldn't _dare_ go out!" gasped belle tingley. but ruth ran out into the big kitchen and opened the door. the outbuildings were not far away, but not a soul appeared about them. there seemed to be a brooding silence over the whole place. the men were so deep in the woods that she could not hear a sound from them; nor was the ring of skates on the pond apparent to her ear. "come back, ruth! come back!" begged her chum, who had followed her. "suppose that beast should be hiding near?" "i don't suppose he's within a mile of the camp," said ruth, her voice unshaken. "there are all the guns in the hall--even the little shotguns. i don't suppose the men have a gun with them, and of course the boys have not. and both parties should be warned. i'm going----" "oh, ruth! you're mad!" cried helen. "you mustn't go." "who'll go, then?" demanded her friend. "i guess we're all equally scared--mrs. murchiston and all." "nobody will go----" "i'm going!" declared ruth, firmly. "if the panther is coming from that woman's house--the woman who telephoned--then the pond is in the very opposite direction. i'll take tom's rifle and some cartridges." "but you don't know how to shoot!" cried helen. "we ought to know. it's a shame that girls don't learn to handle guns just like boys. i'm going to get long jerry todd to show me how." while she spoke she had run into the hall and caught up tom's light rifle. she knew where his ammunition was, too. and she secured half a dozen cartridges and put them into the magazine, having seen tom load the gun the day before. "you'll shoot yourself!" murmured helen. "i hope not," returned ruth, shaking her head. "but i hope i won't have a chance to shoot the panther. i don't want to see that awful beast again." "i don't see how you dare, ruth fielding!" cried helen. "huh! it isn't because i'm not afraid," admitted her chum. "but somebody must tell those boys, dear." ruth had already seized her coat and cap. she shrugged herself into the former, pulled the other down upon her ears, and catching up the loaded gun ran out of the kitchen just before mrs. murchiston, who had suddenly suspected what she was about, came to forbid the venture. ruth, however, was out of the house and winging her way down the cleared path toward the pond, before the governess could call to her. "oh, she will be killed, mrs. murchiston!" cried helen, in tears. "not likely," declared that lady. "but she should not have gone out without my permission." nor was ruth altogether as courageous as she appeared. she did not suppose that the huge cat that had so frightened her and the strange boy that mr. cameron had brought up from cheslow, was very near snow camp as yet. yet she glanced aside as she ran with expectation in her eyes, and when of a sudden something jumped in the bushes, she almost shrieked and ran the faster. there was a crash beside the path, the bushes parted, and a great, fawn-colored body leaped out into the path. "oh, reno!" ruth cried. "i never _was_ so frightened! you bad dog--i thought you were the cat-o'-mountain." but immediately she felt that her fear was gone. here was tom's faithful mastiff, whose tried courage she knew, and which she knew would not fail her if they came face to face with the panther. she hurried on, nevertheless, to the pond, to warn the boys; but to her surprise, as she approached the ice, she heard nothing of the truants. there was no ring of steel on the ice, nor were their voices audible. when ruth fielding reached the ice, the pond was deserted. "now what could have happened to them? where have they gone?" thought the girl. she hesitated, not alone staring about the open pond, but looking sharply on either side into the snow-mantled woods. reno remained by her and she had a hand upon his collar. should she shout? should she call for tom cameron and his mates? if she called, and the terrible cat was within earshot, it might be attracted to her by the sound. "baby!" she finally apostrophized herself. "i don't suppose that beast is anywhere near. here goes!" and she raised her clear voice in a lusty shout. there came, however, no reply. she shouted again and again, with a like result. "where under the sun could those boys have gone?" was her unspoken question. "could they have returned to the house by some other path?" but she did not believe this was so. rather, she was inclined to think tom and his comrades had gone farther than the pond. there was a good-sized stream through which the waters of this pond emptied into rolling river. that outlet was frozen over, too, and it would be just like the three boys to explore the frozen stream. ruth wished that she had brought her skates instead of the gun with her. she felt now that the boys should indeed be warned of the roaming panther, as they had gone so far from the lodge. here was reno, too. if she told the mastiff to find tom, he would doubtless do so. she could even send some written word to the boys by the dog--had she a pencil and paper. it would not be the first time that reno had played message-bearer. but the warn tom and his companions would not be all ruth had started out to do. tom was a good shot and a steady hand, she knew. with this loaded rifle in his hand the party might feel fit to meet the panther, if it so fell out. without any weapon even the noble mastiff might prove an insufficient protection. chapter xv the battle in the snow it was a fact that ruth was tempted to run back to the house, just as fast as she could go, and from there send reno out to find his young master. whether the dog could have traced tom on the ice, however, is a question, for ruth did not yield to this cowardly suggestion. she had come out with the gun to find the boys, and her hesitation at the edge of the pond was only momentary. she started down the pond toward the stream, seeing the scratches of the boys' skates leading in that direction. there could be no doubt as to where they had gone. ruth only wished that she had brought her skates when she ran so hastily from snow camp. not a sound reached her ears, save the sharp twitter of a sparrow now and then, the patter of reno's feet on the ice, and the rattle of the loaded rifle against the buttons of her sweater-coat. the forest that surrounded the pond seemed uninhabited. the axes of the woodsmen did not echo here, and the boys must indeed be a great way off, for she could distinguish no sound whatever from them. yet she had no doubt that she was following their trail--not even when she came down to the outlet of the pond. the strokes of the skates upon the ice were still visible. the three boys had certainly gone down the frozen stream. "come on, reno!" she exclaimed aloud, encouraging herself in her duty. "we'll find them yet. they certainly could not have gone clear to rolling river--that's ten miles away!" the stream was not ten yards across--nothing more than a creek. the woods and underbrush shut it in closely. there was not a mark in the snow on either hand of footsteps--not that ruth could see. and how heavy the afternoon silence was! ruth had recovered in a measure from the first fear she had felt of the marauding panther. the beast, had he traveled toward snow camp, was likely miles away from the spot. she had determined to go on and find tom and the others, more that they might be warned of peril on approaching snow camp, than for any other reason. and she did wish, now, that tom and the other boys would appear. she was more than a mile--quite two miles, indeed--from the lodge. "i guess mr. cameron will call me reckless again. he suggested that i was that when i followed fred hatfield--or whatever his name was-- from the cars at emoryville. he'll surely scold me for this," thought ruth. she kept on down the stream, however, and at last began to shout for her boy friends. her clear voice rang from wall to wall of the forest; but it could not have been heard far into the snowy depths on either hand. suddenly reno growled a little, sniffed, and the hair upon his neck began to rise. "now, there's no use your doing that, boy," ruth declared, clutching the mastiff tight by the collar with her left hand, while she balanced the rifle in her right. "if you hear them, bark! tom will know it's you, then, and your bark will carry farther than my voice, i do believe." reno whined, and looked from side to side, sniffing the keen, still air. it seemed as though he scented danger, but did not know for sure from which direction it was coming. "you're scaring me, acting so, reno!" exclaimed ruth. "i wish you wouldn't. i can't help feeling that the panther is right behind me somewhere. oh!" the end of her soliloquy was a shriek. something flashed through the brush clump on her left hand. reno broke into a savage barking and sprang toward the bank. but ruth did not lose her grip on his collar, and her hand restrained him. "oh, tom! tom!" the girl cried. there was another movement in the bushes. it was between ruth and the way to the camp, had she been so foolish as to try to reach the house directly through the woods. but she did face up stream again, and had reno been willing to accompany her she would have run as hard as ever she could in that direction. "come, reno! come, good dog!" she gasped, tugging at his collar. "let it alone--we must go back----" reno uttered another savage growl and sprang upon the bank. the hard packed snow crunched under him. there sounded a scream from the brush --a sound that ruth knew well. the catamount was really at hand--there could be no mistaking that awful cry, once having heard it. the dog burst through the bushes with such a savage clamor that ruth was indeed terrified. she sprang after him, however, hoping to drag him back from any affray with the panther. what would tom cameron say if anything happened to his brave and beautiful reno? it was past the girl's power, however, to stay the mastiff. with angry barks he broke through the barrier and entered a small glade not a stone's throw from the bank of the stream. before ruth reached this cleared place she saw the tracks of the beast which had so startled her. there could be no mistaking the round impressions of the great, padded paws. unlike the print of the bear, or the dog, that of the cat shows no marks of claws unless it be springing at its prey. and now, when reno burst into the open, the panther uttered another fierce and blood-chilling scream. ruth noted the flash of the great, lithe body as the beast sprang into the air. startled for the moment by the on-rush and savage baying of the dog, the panther had leaped into a low-branching cedar. the tree shook to its very tip, and to the ends of its great limbs. there the panther crouched upon a limb, its eyes balefully glaring down upon the leaping, growling mastiff. as ruth remembered the creature from the time of her dreadful ride on the timber cart with the so-called fred hatfield, it displayed a temper and ferocity that was not to be mistaken. reno's sudden onslaught was all that had driven it to leap into the tree. but there it crouched, squalling and tearing the hard wood into splinters with its unsheathed claws. in a moment it would leap down upon the dog, and ruth was horror-stricken. "oh, reno! good dog!" she moaned. "come back! come back!" the mastiff would not obey and in a moment the huge cat sprang out of the tree directly upon tom cameron's faithful companion. reno was too sharp to be easily caught, however; he leaped aside and the sabre-like claws of the panther missed him. nor was the dog unwise enough to meet the panther face to face. he sprang in and bit the cat shrewdly, and then got away before the beast wheeled, yelling, to strike him. round and round in the snow they went, so fast that it was impossible for ruth to see which was dog and which was cat, their paws throwing up a cloud of snow-dust that almost hid the combatants. "ah!" cried ruth, aloud. "i've missed my chance, i should have tried to shoot the creature while it was in the tree." and that seemed true enough. for had she been the best of shots with the rifle, it looked now as though she was as likely to shoot reno as the panther whilst they battled in the snow. chapter xvi an appearance and a disappearance the dog's snapping barks and the squalling of the catamount stilled every other sound to ruth fielding's ears. she had fallen back to the edge of the clearing, and knew not what to do. she feared desperately for reno's safety; but for the moment did not know what she might do to help the faithful beast. she tripped upon a branch and fell to her knees, and the butt of the rifle which she had clung to, struck her sharply in the side. "oh! if i had only learned to use a gun!" gasped the distracted girl. "_could_ i shoot straight enough to do any good, if i tried? or would i kill the poor dog?" at the moment reno expressed something beside rage in his yelping. he sprang out of the cloud of snow-spray with an agonized cry, and ruth saw that there was blood upon his jaws, and a great gash high up on one shoulder. "oh! the poor fellow! poor reno!" gasped ruth fielding. "he will be killed by that hateful brute." spurred by this thought she did not rise from her knee, but threw the barrel of the gun forward. it chanced to rest in the crook of a branch--the very branch over which she had tripped the moment before. she drew the butt of the gun close to her shoulder; she drew back the hammer and tried to sight along the barrel. suddenly she saw the tawny side of the panther directly before her--seemingly it was at the end of the rifle barrel. the beast was crouching to leap. ruth did not know where reno then was; but she could hear him whimpering. the mastiff had been sorely hurt and the panther was about to finish him. and with this thought in her mind, ruth steadied the rifle as best she could and pulled the trigger. the sharp explosion and the shriek of the panther seemed simultaneous. through the little drift of smoke she saw the creature spring; but it did not spring far. one hind leg hung useless--there was a patch of crimson on the beaten snow--the huge cat, snarling and yowling, was going around and around, snapping at its own leg. but that flurry was past in a moment. the snow-dust subsided. ruth had sprung to her feet, dropping the rifle, delighted for the moment that she should have shot the panther. but she little knew the nature and courage of the beast. on three legs only the huge cat writhed across the clearing, having spied the girl; and now, with a fierce scream of anger, it crouched to spring upon ruth. she seemed devoted to the panther's revenge, for she was smitten with that terror which shackles voice and limb. "oh, reno! reno!" she whispered; but the sound did not pass her own lips. the dog was not in sight he lay somewhere in the bushes, licking his wounds. the fierce panther had bested him, and now crouched, ready to spring upon the helpless girl. with a snarl of pain and rage the beast leaped at her. its broken leg caused it to fall short by several yards, and the pain of the injured limb, when it landed, caused the catamount to howl again and tear up the snow in its agony. ruth could not run; she was rooted to the spot. she had bravely shot at the creature once. better had it been for her had she not used the rifle at all. she had only turned the wrath of the savage cat from reno to herself. and ruth realized that she was now its helpless quarry. she could neither fight nor run. she sank back into the snow and awaited the next leap of the panther. at this very moment of despair--when death seemed inevitable--there was a crash in the bushes behind her and a figure broke through and flung itself past her. a high, shrill, excited voice cried: "give me that gun! is it loaded?" ruth could not speak, but the questioner saw instantly that there were cartridges in the magazine of tom cameron's gun. he leaped upright and faced the crouching cat. the panther, with a fearful snarl, had to change the direction of its leap. it sprang into the air, all four paws spread and its terrible claws unsheathed. but its breast was displayed, too, to the new victim of its rage. bang! the rifle spat a yard of fire, which almost scorched the creature's breast. the impact of the bullet really drove the cat backward--or else the agony of its death throes turned the heavy body from its victim. it threw a back somersault and landed again in the snow, tearing it up for yards around, the crimson tide from its wounds spattering everything thereabout. "oh, it's dead!" cried ruth, with clasped hands, when suddenly the beast's limbs stiffened. "you've killed it!" then she had a chance to look at the person who had saved her. "fred hatfield!" she cried. "is it you? or, who _are_ you? for they all say fred hatfield is dead and buried." "it doesn't matter who i am, ruth fielding," said the strange lad, in no pleasant tone. "never mind. come and see mr. cameron. come to the camp. he will help you----" "i don't want his help," replied the boy. "i'll help myself--with _this_," and he tapped the barrel of the rifle. "but that belongs to tom----" "he'll have to lend it to me, then," declared the boy. "i tell you, i am not going to be bound by anybody. i'm free to do as i please. you can go back to that camp. there's nothing to hurt you now." at the moment ruth heard voices shouting from the frozen stream. the boys were skating back toward the pond, and had heard the rifle shots. "oh, wait till they come!" ruth cried. "no. i'm off--and don't any of you try to stop me," said the boy, threateningly. he slipped on the snowshoes which he had kicked off when he sprang for the rifle, and at once started away from the clearing. "don't go!" begged ruth. "oh, dear! wait! let me thank you." "i don't want your thanks. i hate the whole lot of you!" returned the boy, looking back over his shoulder. the next moment he had disappeared, and ruth was left alone. she made a detour of the spot where the dead panther lay and called to reno. the mastiff dragged himself from under a bush. he was badly cut up, but licked her hand when she knelt beside him. "hello! who's shooting over there?" cried tom cameron from the stream. "oh, tom! tom! come and help me!" replied ruth, and in half a minute the three boys, having kicked off their skates, were in the glade. "merciful goodness!" gasped bob steele. "see what a beast that is!" tom, with a cry of pain, dashed forward and fell beside ruth to examine the mastiff. "my poor dog!" he cried. "is he badly hurt? what's happened to him?" "did she shoot that panther?" demanded isadore phelps. "look at it, tom!" "reno isn't so badly hurt, tom," ruth declared. "i believe he has a broken leg and these cuts. he dashed right in and attacked the panther. what a brave dog he is!" "but he never killed the beast," said bob. "who did that?" "who was shooting here? where's the gun, ruth?" tom demanded, now giving some attention to the dead animal. ruth related the affair in a few words, while she helped tom bind up reno's wounds. the young master tore up his handkerchiefs to do duty as bandages for the wounded dog. "we'll carry him to camp--we can do it, easily enough, old man," said bob steele. "and what about the panther? don't we want his pelt?" cried isadore. "we'll send long jerry after that," tom said. "i wish that fellow hadn't run away with the rifle. but you couldn't help it, ruth." "he certainly is a bad boy," declared the girl. "yet--somehow--i am sorry for him. he must be all alone in these woods. something will happen to him." "never mind. we can forgive him, and hope that he'll pull through all right, after he saved you, ruthie," tom said. "come on, now, bobbins. lend a hand with the poor dog." tom had removed his coat and in that, for a blanket, they carried reno through the woods to the camp. it was a hard journey, for in places the snow had drifted and was quite soft. but in less than an hour they arrived at the lodge. the men had come in with the wood by that time, and mr. cameron with them. mrs. murchiston and the girls were greatly worried over ruth's absence and the absence, too, of the three boys. but the death of the catamount, and the safety of all, quickly put a better face upon the situation. ruth was praised a good bit for her bravery. and mr. cameron said: "there's something in that poor boy whom we tried to return to his friends--if the hatfields _are_ his friends. he does not lack courage, that is sure--courage of a certain kind, anyway. i must see to his business soon. i believe the hatfields live within twenty miles of this place, and in a day or two i will ride over and see them." "oh! let us all go, father," urged helen. "can't we go in the sleighs we came over in from scarboro?" "don't take them, sir," said mrs. murchiston. "i shan't feel safe for them again until we get out of these woods." "why, mis' murchiston," drawled long jerry, who had come into the hall with a great armful of wood, "there ain't a mite of danger now. that panther's killed--deader'n last thanksgivin's turkey. there may not be another around here for half a score of years." "but they say there are bears in the woods," cried the governess. "aw, shucks!" returned the woodsman. "what's a b'ar? b'ar's is us'ally as skeery as rabbits, unless they are mighty hungry. and ye don't often meet a hungry bear this time o' year. they are mostly housed up for the winter in some warm hole." "but what would these girls do if they met a bear, mr. todd?" asked mr. cameron, laughing. "why, this here leetle ruth fielding gal, _she'd_ have pluck enough to shoot him, i reckon," chuckled long jerry. "and she wouldn't be the first girl that's shot a full growed b'ar right in this neighborhood." "i thought you said there wasn't any around here, jerry?" cried helen. "this happened some time ago, miss," returned the woodsman. "and it happened right over yon at bill bennett's farm--not four mile from here. sally bennett was a plucky one, now i tell ye. and pretty--wal, i was a jedge of female loveliness in them days," went on long jerry, with a sly grin. "ye see, i was lookin' 'em all over, tryin' to make up my mind which one of the gals i should pick for my partner through life. and sally was about the best of the bunch." "why didn't you pick her then?" asked tom. "she got in her hand pickin' first," chuckled jerry. "and she picked a feller from town. fac' is, i was so long a-pickin' that i never got nary wife at all, so have lived all my life an old bachelder." "but let's hear about sally and the bear," proposed ruth, eagerly, knowing what a resourceful story-teller long jerry was. "come jerry, sit down and let's have it," agreed mr. cameron, and the party of young folk drew up chairs, before the fire. long jerry squatted down in his usual manner on the hearth, and the story was begun. chapter xvii long jerry's story "ol' man bennett," began jerry todd, "warn't a native of this neck o' woods. he come up from jarsey, or some such place, and bringed his fam'bly with him, and sally bennett. she was his sister, and as he was a pretty upstandin' man, so was she a tall, well-built gal. she sartain made a hit up here around scarboro and along rollin' river. "but she wasn't backwoods bred, and the other girls said she was timid and afraid of her shadder," chuckled long jerry. "she warn't afraid of the boys, and mebbe that's why the other gals said sharp things about her," pursued the philosophical backwoodsman. "you misses know more about that than i do--sure! "howsomever, come the second spring the bennetts had been up here, mis' bennett, old bill's wife, was called down to see her ma, that was sick, they said, and that left miss sally to keep house. come the first saturday thereafter and bennett, _he_ had to go to scarboro to mill. "you know jest how lonesome it is up here now; 'twas a whole sight wuss in them days. there warn't no telephone, and it was more than 'two hoots and a holler,' as the feller said, betwixt neighbors. "but old bill's going to mill left only miss sally and the three little boys at home. bennett had cleared a piece around the house, scratched him a few hills of corn betwixt the stumps the year before, and this spring was tryin' to tear out the roots and small stumps with a pair o' steers and a tam-harrer. "so, from the door of the cabin he'd built, sally could see the virgin forest all about her, while she was a-movin' about the room getting dinner for the young 'uns. while she was at work the littlest feller, johnny, who was building a cobhouse on the floor, yelps up like a terrier: "'aunt sally! aunt sally! looker that big dog!" "miss sally, she turns around, an' what does she see but a big brown bear--oh, a whackin' big feller!--with his very nose at the open door." "oh!" squealed helen. "how awful!" cried belle tingley. "a mighty onexpected visitor," chuckled jerry. "but, if she was scar't, she warn't plumb stunned in her tracks--no, sir! she gave a leap for the door and she swung it shut right against mr. b'ar's nose. and then she barred it." "brave girl," said mrs. murchiston. "i reckon so, ma'am," agreed the guide. "and then she remembered that tom and charlie, the other two boys, were gone down the hill to a spring for a bucket of fresh water. "there were two doors to the cabin, directly opposite each other, and they'd both been open. the spring was reached from the other door and miss sally flew to it and saw the boys just comin' up the hill. "'run, boys, run!' she screams. 'never mind the water! drop it and run! there's a b'ar in the yard! run! run!' "and them boys _did_ run, but they held fast to their bucket and brought most of the water inter the house with 'em. then miss sally barred that door, too, and they all went to the winder and peeped out. there was mister b'ar snoopin' about the yard, and lookin' almost as big as one of the steers. "he went a-sniffin' about the yard, smellin' of everything like b'ars do when they're forragin', s'archin' for somethin' ter tempt his appetite. suddenly he stood stock still, raised his big head, and sniffed the air keen-like. then he growled and went straight for the pig-pen. "'oh, the pigs! the pigs!' squealed one of the boys. 'the nice pigs! he'll eat 'em all up!' "and there was a good reason for their takin' on," said jerry, "for their next winter's meat was in that pen--a sow and five plump little porkers. "'oh, aunty sally,' cries one of the bigger boys, 'what shall we do? what'll father say when he comes back and finds the pigs killed?' "ye see," continued long jerry, shaking his head, "it was a tragedy to them. you folks livin' in town don't understand what it means for a farmer to lose his pigs. old bennett warn't no hunter, and wild meat ain't like hog-meat, anyway. if the b'ar got those porkers them young 'uns would go mighty hungry the next winter. "miss sally, she knew that, all right, and when the boy says: 'what shall we do?' she made up her mind pretty quick that she'd got to _try_ ter do sumpin'--yes, sir-ree! she run for her brother's rifle that hung over the other door. "'i'm goin' to try and shoot that b'ar, boys,' says she, jest as firm as she could speak. "'oh, aunt sally! you can't,' says tom, the oldest. "'i don't know whether i can or not till i try,' says she. she felt like miss ruthie did--eh?" and the long guide chuckled. "no tellin' whether you kin do a thing, or not, till you have a whack at it. "'don't you try it, aunt sally,' says charlie. 'he might kill you.' "'i won't give him a chance at me,' says she. 'now boys, let me out and mind jest what i say. if anything _does_ happen to me, don't you dars't come out, but go in and bar the door again, and stay till your father comes back. now, promise me!' "she made 'em promise before she ventured out of the door, and then she left 'em at the open door, jest about breathless with suspense and terror, while miss sally sped across the yard toward the pig-pen. mister ba'r, he'd torn down some of the pine slabs at one corner and got into the pen. the old sow was singin' out like all kildee, and the little fellers was a-squealin' to the top o' their bent. the b'ar smacked one o' the juicy little fellers and begun to lunch off'n him jest as miss sally come to the other end o' the pen. "his back was towards her and he didn't notice nothin' but his pork vittles," pursued long jerry. "she crept up beside him, poked the barrel of the winchester through the bars of the pen, rested it on one bar, and pulled the trigger. the ball went clear through the old feller's head! "but it takes more'n one lucky shot to kill a full grown brown b'ar," jerry said, shaking his head. "he turned like a flash, and with a horrid roar, made at her, dropping the pig. his huge carcass smashing against the pen fence, snapped a white-oak post right off at the ground, and felled two lengths of the fence. "but miss sally didn't give up. she backed away, but she kept shootin' until she had put three more balls into his big carcass. he sprung through the broke-down fence to get at her; but jest as he got outside, the blood spouted out of his mouth, and he fell down, coughing and dying. 'twas all over in ten seconds, then." "my goodness!" gasped jennie stone. "how dreadful." "but wasn't she a brave girl?" cried helen. "not a bit braver than ruthie," said her twin, stoutly. "i could almost forgive you for spoiling our taffy after that, master tom," declared helen. "is that all the story, mr. todd?" she added, as the long guide rose up to go. "pretty near all, i reckon, missy," he returned. "nobody didn't never say sally bennett was afraid, after she'd saved bill's meat for him. and that ol' b'ar pelt was a coverin' on her bed till she was married, i reckon. but things like that don't happen around here now-a-days. b'ars ain't so common--and mebbe gals ain't so brave," and he went away, chuckling. chapter xviii "the amazon march" there had been no open battle between the girls and the boys over the spoiled taffy; but that night, when the six friends from briarwood hall retired to their big sleeping room, they seriously discussed what course they should take with the three scamps who had played them so mean a trick; for even helen admitted that one boy was probably as guilty as another. "and that isadore phelps had the cheek to ask me how i liked the taffy!" exclaimed heavy. "i could have shaken him!" "the panther scare spoiled their 'gloat' over us, that's a fact," said madge steele. "but i intimated to that brother of mine that i proposed to see the matter squared up before we left snow camp." "i'd like to know how we'll get the best of them?" complained lluella. "that's so! mrs. murchiston won't let us have any freedom," said belle. "she's on the watch." "i expect she would object if we tried anything very 'brash,'" said heavy. "we have got to be sly about it." "i do not know how much at fault tom and mr. steele are," said ruth, quietly. "but so much has happened since they spoiled the candy, that i had all but forgotten the trick." "there now! ruth will forgive, of course," said helen, sharply. "but i won't. they ought to be paid back." "wouldn't it be best to just cut them right out of our good times?" suggested belle. "but won't that cut us out of their good times?" urged heavy. "and boys always do think up better fun than girls." "i never would admit it!" cried madge. "you always have been a regular tom-boy, jennie," said lluella. "you ought to be ashamed to say such a thing, miss stone," added belle. "well, don't they?" demanded the unabashed stout girl. "then it's because we girls don't put ourselves out to think up new and nice things to do," proclaimed madge steele. "perhaps girls are not as naturally inventive as boys," suggested ruth, timidly. "i won't admit it!" cried madge. "at least," said the girl from the red mill, "we don't want to do anything mean to them just because they were mean to us." "why not?" demanded belle, in wonder. "that wouldn't be nice--nor any fun," declared ruth, firmly. "a joke--yes." "do you call it a joke on us--spoiling our taffy and stealing the nutmeats?" wailed heavy. "what else was it? it was a joke to them. there was a sting to it for us. we must pay them back in like manner, but without being mean bout it." "well now!" cried helen. "i'd like to see you do it, ruth." "perhaps we can think of a plan," said ruth, gaily. "i for one shall not lose any sleep over it. but if you want to pay them off by showing how much we disapprove of their actions, and have nothing to do with their schemes to-morrow, i will agree." "we'll begin that way," said madge steele, promptly. "treat them in a dignified manner and refuse to join in any games with them. that is what we _can_ do." "oh, well," sighed the irrepressible heavy. "we're bound to have a dreadfully slow day, then. good-night!" it began by being a gray day, too. the sun hidden and the wind sighed mournfully in the pines. long jerry cocked his head knowingly and said: "it's borne in on me, youngsters, that you'll see a bit of hard weather before the new year--that it do." "a snowstorm, jerry?" queried helen cameron, clapping her hands. "oh, goody!" "dunno about it's being so everlastin' good," returned the guide. "you never see a big snow up in these woods; did ye?" "no, jerry; but i want to. don't you ruth?" "i love the snow," admitted ruth fielding. "but perhaps a snowstorm in the wilderness is different from a storm in more civilized communities." "and you're a good guesser," grunted long jerry. "anyhow, unless i'm much mistook, you'll have means of knowin' afore long." "then," said helen, to ruth, "we must get the balsam to-day for our pillows. it won't snow yet awhile, will it, jerry?" "may not snow at all to-day," replied the guide. "this weather we've had for some days has been storm-breeding, and it's been long comin'. it won't be soon past, i reckon." this conversation occurred right after breakfast. the boys had seen by the way the girls acted that there was "something in the wind." the girls ignored tom, bob and isadore as they chatted at the breakfast table, and at once they went about their own small affairs, leaving the boys by themselves. tom and his mates discussed some plan for a few minutes and then tom sang out: "who'll go sliding? there's a big bob-sled in the barn and we fixed it up yesterday morning. it will hold the whole crowd. how long will it take you girls to get ready?" helen turned her back on him. ruth looked doubtful, and flushed; but madge steele exclaimed: "you can go sliding alone, little boy. we certainly sha'n't accompany you." "aw, speak for yourself, miss," growled her brother. then bob turned deliberately to helen and asked: "will you go sliding, helen?" "no, sir!" snapped helen. "aw, let 'em alone, bob," said isadore. "who wants 'em, anyway?" jennie stone would have replied, only belle and lluella shook her. it took two girls to shake heavy satisfactorily. and the entire six ignored the three boys, who went off growling among themselves. "just for a little old mess of candy," snorted isadore, who was the last to leave the house. "that's the way to treat them!" declared madge, tossing her head, when the boys had gone. "i don't know," said ruth slowly. "we might be glad to have them help us get the pine-needles." "i believe you are too soft-hearted, ruth fielding," declared belle tingley. "it's because she likes tom so well," said lluella, slily. "well, tom never did so mean a thing before yesterday," said tom's sister, sharply. "boys are all alike when they get together," said heavy. "it spoils 'em awfully to flock in crowds." "what does it do to girls?" demanded ruth, smiling. "gives them pluck," declared madge steele. "we've got to keep the boys down--that's the only way to manage them." "my, my!" chuckled jennie stone, the stout girl. "madge is going to be a regular suffragette; isn't she?" "well, i guess girls can flock by themselves and have just as good times without their brothers, as with them." but ruth and helen looked more than doubtful at this point. they knew that tom cameron, at least, had been a loyal friend and mate on many a day of pleasure. they couldn't bear to hear him abused. but the girls felt that they really had reason for showing the boys they were offended. soon after the departure of tom and his friends the girls started out with bags to gather the balsam for the pillows. on the back porch they sat down to put on the snowshoes which, by this time, they were all able to use with some proficiency. the three boys, snowballing behind the barn, espied them. "hullo!" bawled busy izzy. "here come the amazons. they're going on their own hook now--haven't any use for boys at all." he threw a snowball; but tom tripped him into a bank of snow and spoiled his aim. "none o' that, izzy!" he commanded. "let 'em alone," growled bob steele. "if they want to flock by themselves, who cares?" "not i!" declared izzy. "look at the amazon march. my, my! if they should see a squirrel, or a rabbit, they'd come running back in a hurry. they'd think it was another panther. oh, my!" but the girls paid no attention to his gibes and shuffled on into the woods. helen suddenly saw a snow flake upon her jacket sleeve. she called ruth's attention to it. "maybe the snow will come quicker than long jerry thought," declared the girl from the red mill. "see! there's another." "oh, pshaw! what's a little snow?" scoffed belle tingley. but the flakes came faster and faster. great feathery flakes they were at first. the girls went on, laughing and chatting, with never a thought that harm could befall them through the gathering of these fleecy droppings from the lowering clouds. chapter xix besieged by the storm king tom cameron and his two friends were so busy setting up a target and throwing iced snow-balls at it, that they barely noticed the first big flakes of the storm. but by and by these flakes passed and then a wind of deadly chill swept down upon the camp and with it fine pellets of snow--not larger than pin-points--but which blinded one and hid all objects within ten feet. "come on!" roared bob. "this is no fun. let's beat it to the house." "oh, it can't last long this way," said isadore phelps. "my goodness! did you ever see it snow harder in your life?" "that i never did," admitted tom. "i wonder if the girls have come back?" "if they haven't," said bob, "they'd better wait where they are until this flurry is over." "i hope they have returned," muttered tom, as they made their way toward the rear of snow camp. the snow came faster and faster, and thicker and thicker. bob bumped square into the side of one of the out-sheds, and roared because he found blood flowing from his nose. "what do you say about this?" he bellowed. "how do we know we're going right?" "here!" cried isadore. "where are you fellows? i don't want to get lost in the back yard." tom found him (he had already seized the half-blinded bob by the arm) and the three, arm in arm, made their way cautiously to the kitchen porch. they burst in on janey and mary with a whoop. "have the girls got back?" cried tom, eagerly. "i couldn't tell ye, master tom," said mary. "but if they haven't come in, by the looks of you boys, they'd better." tom did not stop to remove the snow, but rushed into the great central hall which was used as a general sitting room. "where's helen--and ruth--and the rest of them?" he demanded. "why, thomas! you're all over snow," said mr. cameron, comfortably reading his paper before the fire, in smoking jacket and slippers. "is it snowing?" queried mrs. murchiston, from the warmest nook beside the hearth. "aren't the girls out with you, tom?" "what's the matter, my son?" demanded his father, getting up quickly. "what has happened?" "i don't know that anything has happened," said tom, swallowing a big lump in his throat, and trying to speak calmly. "the girls have not been with us. they went into the woods somewhere to get stuff for their pillows. and it is snowing harder than i ever knew it to snow before." "oh, tom!" gasped the governess. "come! we'll go out and see about this at once," cried his father, and began to get into his out-of-door clothing, including a pair of great boots. "is it snowing very hard, tom?" queried the lady, anxiously. "what makes you look so?" for tom was scared--and he showed it. he turned short around without answering mrs. murchiston again, and led the way to the kitchen. the other boys had shaken off the snow and were hovering over the range for warmth. "found 'em all right; didn't you?" demanded bob steele. "no. they haven't come in," said tom, shortly, and immediately bob began pulling on his coat again. "oh, pshaw!" said isadore. "they'll be all right." "where are jerry and the others?" mr. cameron asked the maids. "sure, sir," said mary, who was peering wonderingly out of the window at the thick cloud of snow sweeping across the pane, "sure, sir, jerry and the min went down in the swamp to draw up some back-logs. and it's my opinion they'd better be in out of this storm." "i agree with you, mary," returned mr. cameron, grimly, as he opened the door and saw for the first time just what they had to face. "but perhaps they'll pick up the girls on their way home. trust those woodsmen for finding their way." tom and bob followed him out of the house. they faced a wall of falling snow so thick that every object beyond arm's length from them was blotted out. "merciful heavens!" groaned mr. cameron. "your sister and the girls will never find their way through this smother." "nor the men, either," said tom, shortly. "oh, i say!" exclaimed bob, "it can't snow like this for long; can it?" "we have never seen a right good snowstorm in the woods," quoth mr. cameron. "from what the men tell me, this is likely to continue for hours. i am dreadfully worried about the girls--" "what's that?" cried tom, interrupting him. a muffled shout sounded through the driving snow. in chorus mr. cameron and the two boys raised their own voices in an answering shout. "they're coming!" cried bob. "it is long jerry todd and the men--hear the harness rattling?" returned tom, and he started down the steps in the direction of the stables. "wait! we'll keep together," commanded mr. cameron. "i hope they have brought the girls with them." "oh, but the girls didn't go toward the swamp," returned his son. "they started due north." "shout again!" commanded mr. cameron, and the two parties kept shouting back and forth until they met not far beyond the outbuildings belonging to the lodge. the great pair of draught horses were ploughing through the drifts and the three men were whooping loudly beside them. "dangerous work this, for you, sir," cried long jerry. "you'd all better remained indoors. it's come a whole lot quicker than i expected. we're in for a teaser, mr. cameron. couldn't scarce make out the path through the woods." "have you seen the girls, jerry?" cried tom cameron. "bless us!" gasped the tall guide. "you don't mean that any of them gals is out of bounds?" "all six of them went into the woods--toward the north--about two hours ago. they went on snowshoes," said tom. the three woodsmen said never a word, but standing there in the driving snow, at the heads of the horses, they looked at each other for some moments. "well," said jerry, at last, and without commenting further on tom's statement; "we'd best put up the horses and then see what's to be done." "to the north, tom?" said his father, brokenly. "are you sure?" "yes, sir. i am sure of it." "is there any house in that direction--within reasonable distance, jerry?" asked the gentleman. "god bless us, sir!" gasped the guide. "i don't know of one betwixt here and the canadian line. the wind is coming now from the northwest. if they are trying to get back to the camp they'll be drifted towards the southeast and miss us altogether." "don't say that, jerry!" gasped tom. "we _must_ find them. why, if this keeps up for an hour they'll be buried in the drifts." "pray heaven it hold's off soon," groaned his father. the men could offer them no comfort. being old woodsmen themselves, they knew pretty well what the storm foreboded. a veritable blizzard had swept down from the lakes and the whole country might be shrouded for three or four days. meanwhile, as long as the snow kept falling, it would be utterly reckless to make search for those lost in the snow. jerry and his mates said nothing more at the time, however. they all made their way to the stables, kicked the drift away from the door, and got the horses into their stalls. they all went inside out of the storm and closed the doors against the driving snow. in five minutes, when the animals were made secure and fed, and they tried to open the doors again, the wind had heaped the snow to such a height against them that they could not get out. fortunately there was a small door at the other end of the barn, and by this they all got out and made their way speedily across the clearing to the house--long jerry leading the way. tom and bob realized that they might easily have become lost in that short distance had they been left to their own resources. mr. cameron was very pale and his lips trembled when he stood before the three woodsmen in the lodge kitchen. "you mean that to try to seek for the girls now is impossible, jerry?" he asked. "what do you think about it yourself, sir?" returned the guide. "you have been out in it." "i--i don't expect you to attempt what i cannot do myself--" "if mortal man could live in it, we'd make the attempt without ye, sir," declared long jerry, warmly. "but neither dogs nor men could find their way in this smother it looks like it had set in for a big blizzard. you don't know jest what that means up here in the backwoods. logging camps will be snowed under and mules, horses and oxen will have to be shot to save them from starvation. the hunting will be mighty poor next fall, for the deer and other varmints will starve to death, too. "if poor people in the woods don't starve after this storm, it will be lucky. why, the last big one we had the octohac company had a gang of fifty men shoveling out a road for twenty miles so as to get tote teams through with provisions for their camp. and then men had to drag the tote teams instead of horses, the critters were so near starved. ain't that so, ben?" "surest thing you know," agreed one of the other hands. "i remember that time well. i was working for the goodwin & manse company. there was nigh a hundred of us on snow-shoes that dragged fodder from the farmers along rolling river to feed our stock on, and we didn't get out enough logs that winter to pay the company for keeping the camp open." "that's the way on it, mr. cameron," said long jerry. "we got to sit down and wait for a hold-up. nothing else to do. you kin try telephoning up and down the line to see if the girls changed their route and got to any house." but when mr. cameron tried to use the 'phone he found that already there was a break somewhere on the line. he could get no reply. they were besieged by the storm king, and he proved to be a most pitiless enemy. the drifting snow rose higher and higher about the lodge every hour. the day dragged on its weary length into night, and still the wind blew and the snow sifted down, until even the top panes of the first floor windows were buried beneath the white mantle. chapter xx the snow shroud it was rather difficult to find trees with the new and fragrant leaves started, at this time of year; therefore ruth and her companions went rather farther from snow camp than they had at first intended. but the warning flakes of snow served in no manner to startle them. the snow had been floating down, and whitening their clothing and adorning the trees with a beautiful icing, for more than half an hour, before anybody gave the coming storm a serious thought. "perhaps we'd better go back and not get any stuffing for the pillows to-day, helen," said ruth, doubtfully. "see yonder! isn't that more snow coming?" "bah!" exclaimed lluella, interrupting, "what's a little snow?" "cautious ruthie is usually right," said madge steele, frankly. "let's go back." "but we've scarcely got anything in the bags yet!" wailed jennie stone. "all this walk on these clumsy old snowshoes for nothing?" "well, we'll just go as far as that grove of small trees that we found the other day, and no farther," said helen, who naturally-- being hostess--had her "say" about it. as yet there was no real sign of danger. at least, in the woods the girls had no means of apprehending the approach of the shroud of thick snow that was sweeping out of the northwest. they could not see far about them through the aisles of the wood. laughing and joking, the jolly party reached the spot of which helen had spoken. they set to work there in good earnest to fill their bags with the pungent new growth of the trees, whose bending branches were easily within their reach. "how this soft snow does clog the snow-shoes," complained belle tingley, removing the racquettes to knock them free. "but the flakes are smaller now," said ruth. "see, girls! it's coming faster and finer. i believe we shall have to hurry back, helen." "ruth is right," added madge steele, who, as the oldest of the party, should have used her authority before this. "why! it's coming in a perfect sheet." "sheet!" repeated jennie stone, with scorn. "call it rather a blanket. and a thick one." "b-r-r-r! how cold it's grown!" cried lluella. "the wind is coming with the snow, girls," shouted helen. "come on! let's bustle along home. this place was never meant for us to be bivouacked in. why! we'll have long jerry todd, and the boys, and the dogs, and all hands out hunting for us. dear me! how the wind blows!" "i can't see, girls!" wailed belle. "wait for me! don't be mean!" "and don't forget little eva!" begged heavy, tramping on behind and carrying one of the bags. "i declare! i can't see ruth and helen." "don't get so far ahead, girls!" sang out madge steele, warningly. "we'll get separated from you." to their surprise ruth answered from their left hand--and not far away. "we're not ahead, girls," said ruth, quietly. "only the snow is falling so thickly that you can't see us. wait! let us all get together and make a fresh start. it wouldn't do to get separated in such a storm." "oh, this won't last--it can't snow so hard for long!" cried jennie. "but we can go on, clinging to each other's jacket-tails." the six had come together, and helen laughingly "counted noses." "though we mustn't even count 'em _hard_," she said, briskly rubbing her own, "or we'll break them off. isn't it cold?" "it's dreadful!" wailed lluella. "the wind cuts right through everything i've got on. i shall freeze if we stand here." "we won't stand here. we'll hurry on to the camp." "which way, girls?" demanded heavy. "i confess i have lost all the points of the compass--and i never did know them too well." "oh, i know the way back," said helen, stoutly. "don't you, ruth?" "i believe so," replied the girl from the red mill. but when they started, ruth was for one direction and helen for another. the fact that they did not all think alike frightened them, and madge called another halt. "this will never do," she said, earnestly. "why, we might be lost in such thick snow as this." "i can't walk any farther with this bag and on these old snow-shoes!" cried heavy. "say! let's get under shelter somewhere and wait for it to hold up--or until they come and dig us out." "we're a nice lot of 'babes in the woods'," sniffed belle. "i wish we'd let the boys come with us," said helen. "won't they have the laugh on us?" observed madge. "i don't care if they do," mourned lluella. "i wish they were here to help us home." "come, come!" said ruth, cheerfully. "we ought to be able to help ourselves. here is a big tree with drooping branches. let's get under it where the snow is not so deep. it may hold up in a little while, and then we can start fresh. come around here where the wind won't get at us." she led the way and the other girls crowded after her. the low-branched tree broke the force of the gale. ruth lifted the end of one sweeping branch and her friends all crawled beneath the shelter, and as she followed them heavy squealed: "oh, oh, oh! suppose there should be a bear under here?" "nonsense! suppose there should be a griffin--or a unicorn. don't be foolish," snapped madge. they at once found the retreat a perfect windbreak, and became comfortable--all hugging together "like a nestful of owlets," helen said, and all declared themselves as "warm as toast." but the wind howled mournfully through the wood, and the snow sifted down with a strange, mysterious "hush--hush--hus-s-sh" that made them feel creepy. although it was not yet midday, the light was very dim under the thick branches of the tree. the snow became banked high behind them, and ruth, who was in front, had to continually break away the drifting snow with her mittened hands so that they could see out. and they could see precious little outside of their den. just the snow drifting down, faster and faster, thicker and thicker, gathering so rapidly that they all were secretly frightened, although at first each girl tried to speak cheerfully of it. "if we'd only thought to get janey to put us up a luncheon," sighed heavy, "i wouldn't have minded staying here all day. it's warm enough, that's sure." "my feet are cold," complained lluella. "i don't believe it will remain warm forever." "and we couldn't make a fire," said helen. "i've matches in my pocket," ruth said quietly. "i've carried them in a bottle ever since we've been in the woods." "for pity's sake! what for?" demanded belle. "well--tom told me to. he does. helen knows," said ruth, hesitating. "goodness me! it's like being cast away on a desert island," cried heavy. "carrying matches!" "tom _did_ tell us to," admitted helen, laughing. "but i didn't pay much attention to what he said. i know he told us that we could never tell when matches would come in handy in the woods." "but we'd set the forest afire--and then see what damage would be done!" cried belle. "not necessarily. especially in this snow," returned ruth, calmly. "if we get very cold, and are delayed for long, we can break the dry branches off underneath this tree--and others like it--and get a fire very easily. tom told us how to do it." "so he did!" cried helen. "i do believe ruth never forgets anything she is told. and we may be glad of those matches." "goodness me!" whined lluella. "don't talk so dreadfully." "how do you mean?" queried helen. "as though we'd have to stay here under this old tree so long! it's _got_ to stop snowing soon. or else the men will come after us." "why, we all believe that we shall soon get home," said madge cheerfully. "but the boys, or the men, either, couldn't find us in this storm. we will have to be patient." patience was hard indeed to cultivate in their present situation. the minutes dragged by with funereal slowness. lluella began to sob, and the most cheerful of the party could not keep up her spirits indefinitely. "oh, but we'll be all right, i am sure!" quoth madge. "don't get down-hearted, girls." helen broke down next and declared that she could not remain idle any longer. "we must move out of this," she said. "we must find our way back. why, they might come this way hunting for us and never find us--go right by the tree. we ought to get outside and shout, at least." "don't let's leave this warm shelter," begged ruth. "it will be really serious if we move farther from the regular camp instead of toward it." "but we cannot hear any rescue party shouting for us, nor can they hear us under this drift," insisted helen. "then we'll go out, one at a time, and shout," declared ruth. "let me try." she sprang up and pushed her way through the drift at the mouth of their burrow. not until she was standing outside did she realize the extent of the storm. the snow was swept across the country in a thick and heavy curtain, with a wind driving it, against which she knew she could not stand. she could not shout into the teeth of the gale, and her cry was driven back into her own ears as weak as the mew of a kitten. "ho!" exclaimed madge steele. "they couldn't hear that if they were a stone's throw off. let _me_ give a warwhoop." "we're all coming out!" cried the dissatisfied lluella. "let's all shout. oh, girls! we've _got_ to get back to the camp. we'll die here." they scrambled out of the burrow. the wind smote full against them when once they were in the open. when they raised their voices in chorus it seemed as though there was an answering shout from a certain direction. "here we are! here we are! father! tom!" shrieked helen, at the top of her voice. "don't go!" begged ruth. "let us stick by the tree. it will shelter us. shout again." but the majority of the girls were for setting off at once toward the sound they thought they had heard in the midst of the storm. again and again they shouted. they clung to each other's hands as they ploughed through the drifts (the snowshoes were of no use to them now) but they did not hear the answering cry again. at last they stopped, all sorely frightened, lluella in tears. "what will we do now?" gasped belle. "we'd better go back to that tree. we were safe there," muttered heavy, her teeth chattering. but they had drifted with the storm, and when they turned to face it they knew at once that never could they make way against the wind and snow. "oh, oh, oh!" wailed helen. "we're lost! we're lost!" "hold up! be brave!" urged her chum. "we must not give up now. some other tree will give us shelter. cling together, girls. we _must_ get somewhere." but where? it was a question none of them could answer. they remained cowering in the driving snow, utterly confused as to direction, and fast becoming buried where they stood. chapter xxi adrift in the storm "we shall freeze to death if we stay here!" madge steele spoke thus, and the situation precluded any doubt as to the truth of the statement. the six girls from snow camp were indeed in peril of death--and all were convinced of the fact. lluella fairfax was in tears, and her chum, belle tingley, was on the verge of weeping, too. helen cameron had hard work to keep back her own sobs; even jennie stone, the stout girl, was past turning the matter into a joke. and madge steele was unable to suggest a single cheerful portent. as they clung to each other in the driving snow they seemed, intuitively, to turn to ruth fielding. she was the youngest of the six girls; but she was at this moment the more assertive and held herself better under control than her mates. it had been against her advice that they had left their temporary shelter under the tree. now they could not beat their way back to it. indeed, none of them now knew the direction of the burrow that had sheltered them for more than an hour. what next should they do? although unspoken, this was the question that the five silently asked of the girl of the red mill. she had displayed her pluck and good sense on more than one occasion, and her friends looked to her for help. particularly did helen cling to her in this emergency, and although ruth was secretly as terrified as any of her mates, she could not give in to the feeling when her chum so depended upon her. "why, we're acting just as silly as we can act!" she cried, speaking loud so that they could all hear her. "we mustn't give up hope. the boys, or mr. cameron, will find us. it can't keep on snowing forever." "but we're freezing to death!" said belle, and broke out sobbing like her chum. "stop, you silly thing!" cried madge, trying to shake her. but she was really so cold herself that she could not do this. indeed, the keen wind would soon make movement impossible if they stood still for long. "let's keep moving!" shouted ruth. "take hold of hands, girls--two by two. helen and i will go ahead. now, belle, you take lluella. madge and heavy in the rear. forward--march!" "this is a regular amazon march; isn't it?" croaked heavy, from behind. "but where shall we march to?" belle queried. "we'll keep going until we find some shelter. that's the best we can do. indeed, it is all we _can_ do," replied ruth. it was impossible to do more than drift before the gale. ruth knew this, and likewise she was confident that they were by no means getting nearer to the camp when they followed such a course. but she hoped to find some shelter before the weakest of the girls gave out. this was lluella fairfax. she was delicately built, and unused to muscular exertion of any kind. she seldom took up any gym work at briarwood, ruth knew; therefore it was not strange that she should be the first to give out. for, although the sextette of girls went but a short distance, and traveled very slowly, it was indeed a fearful task for them. the storm drove them on, and suddenly, when jennie stone gave utterance to a wild whoop and disappeared from view, lluella and belle burst out crying again, and even madge showed signs of weakening. "help! help!" she cried. "she's fallen down a precipice!" "she's smothered in a snow-bank!" gasped helen. heavy uttered another cry, but seemingly from a great way off. ruth scrambled back to madge, and suddenly found her own feet slipping over the brink of some steep descent. she cried out and clung to madge. helen took hold of madge's other hand, and they drew ruth back to safety. "look out!" commanded the older girl. "you'll be down in that hole, too, ruth." "no, no! we must make some attempt to get her up. jennie! jennie! where are you?" shrieked ruth. "right under you. girls! you want to be careful. i've slid down a bank and am standing on what appears to be a narrow shelf along the face of this bank, or hill. and the snow isn't drifted here. come down." "oh, i wouldn't dare!" cried lluella. "if the place will afford us any shelter from this awful wind, why not?" demanded helen. "we might try it." "how deep are you down, jennie?" asked madge. "only a few feet. you couldn't ever haul me up, anyway," and the stout girl laughed, hysterically. "you know how heavy i am." "let me try it," said ruth, eagerly. "here's where jennie slid over. look out, below!" "oh, come on! you can't hurt me," declared the stout one, and in a moment ruth had slipped over the edge of the bank and had landed beside heavy. "it's all right, girls!" shouted ruth at once. she could see that the shelf widened a little way beyond, and was overhung by a huge boulder in the bank, making a really admirable shelter--not exactly a cave, but a large-sized cavity. after some urging, lluella and belle allowed themselves to be lowered by madge and helen over the brink of the bank. then helen herself slid down, and then the oldest girl. when miss steele landed upon the shelf beside them, she cried: "this is just a mercy! another five minutes up there in the wind and snow, and i don't believe i could have walked at all. my, my! ain't i cold!" the six girls cowered together under the overhanging rock. the snow blew in a thick cloud over their heads and they heard it sifting down through the trees below them. they were upon a steep side-hill--the wall of a steep gully, perhaps. how deep it was they had no means of knowing; but several good-sized trees sprouted out of the hill near their refuge. they could see the dim forms of these now and then as the snow-cloud changed. but although they were out of the beat of the storm, they grew no warmer. more than madge steele complained of the cold within the next few minutes. ruth, indeed, felt her extremities growing numb. the terrible, biting frost was gradually overcoming them, now that they were no longer fighting the blast. exertion had fought this deadly coldness off; but ruth fielding knew that their present inaction was beckoning the approach of unconsciousness. chapter xxii the hideout helen had drawn close to her chum and they sat upon the pile of leaves that had blown into this lair under the bank, with their arms about each other's waists. "what do you suppose will become of us, ruthie?" helen whispered. "why, how can we tell? maybe the boys and long jerry are searching for us right now----" "in this dreadful storm? impossible!" declared helen. "well, that they _will_ search for us as soon as it holds up, we can be sure," ruth rejoined. "but, in the meantime? they may be hours finding us. and i am sure i would not know how to start for snow camp, if the storm should stop." "quite true, helen." "we won't an-n-ny of us start for snow camp again!" quavered lluella fairfax. "we'll be frozen dead--that's what'll happen to us." "i _am_ dreadfully cold," said madge. "how are you, heavy?" "stiff as a poker, thank you!" returned the irrepressible. "i haven't any feet at all now. they've frozen and dropped off!" "don't talk so terribly!" wailed belle. "we are freezing to death here. i am sleepy. i've read that when folks get drowsy out in a storm like this they are soon done for. now, isn't that a fact, madge steele?" "nonsense!" exclaimed the older girl; but heavy broke in with: "it strikes me that now is the time to make use of ruth's matches. let's build a rousing fire." "how?" demanded helen. "where can we get fuel? it's all under the snow." "there's plenty of kindling right under _us_" declared jennie stone, vigorously. "and ruth spoke about the under branches of these trees being dry----" "and so they are," declared ruth, struggling to her feet. "we must do something. a rousing fire against this rock will keep us warm. we can heat the rock and then draw the fire out and get behind it. it will be fine!" "oh, i can't move!" wailed lluella. "luella doesn't want to work," said madge. "but you get up and do your share, miss! if you freeze to death here your mother will never forgive me." of course, it would be heavy that got into trouble. she made a misstep off the platform and sunk to her arm-pits in a soft bank of snow, and it was all the others could do to pull her out. but this warmed them, and actually got them to laughing. "i believe that laughing warms one as much as anything," said madge. "ha, ha!" croaked heavy, grimly. "_your_ laughing hasn't warmed _me_ any. i'm wet to my waist, i do believe!" "we shall have to have a fire now to dry jennie," said ruth. "now take care." they had all abandoned their snowshoes long since, and the racquettes would have been of no use to them in the present emergency, anyway. but ruth and madge got to the nearest tree, and fortunately it was half dead. they could break off many of the smaller branches, and soon brought to the platform a great armful of the brush. ruth's matches were dry and they heaped up the leaves and rubbish and started a blaze. the other girls brought more fuel and soon a hot fire was leaping against the side of the rock and its circle of warmth cheered them. they got green branches of spruce and pine and brushed away the snow and banked it up in a wall all about the platform, which served them for a camp. then they scraped the fire out from the rock, threw on more branches (for the green ones would burn now that the fire was so hot) and crowded in between the blaze and the rock. "this is just scrumptious!" declared heavy. "we sha'n't freeze now." "not if we can keep the fire going," said helen. being warm, they all tried to be cheerful thereafter. they told stories, they sang their school songs, and played guessing games. meanwhile, the wind shrieked through the forest above their "hideout," and the snow continued to fall as though it had no intention of ever stopping. the hours dragged by toward dark--and an early dark it would be on this stormy day. "oh, if we only had something to eat!" groaned heavy. "wish i'd saved my snow-shoes." "what for?" demanded bell. "what possible good could they have been to you, silly?" "they were strung with deer-hide, and i have heard that when castaway sailors get very, very hungry, they always chew their boots. i can't spare my boots," quoth jennie stone, trying to joke to the bitter end. the wind wheezed above them, the darkness fell with the snow. beyond the glow of the pile of coals on the rocky ledge, the curtain of snow looked gray--then drab--then actually black. moon and stars were far, far away; none of their light percolated through the mass of clouds and falling snow that mantled these big wastes of the backwoods. "oh! i never realized anything could be so lonely," whispered helen in ruth's ear. "and how worried your father and mrs. murchiston will be," returned her chum. "of course, we shall get out of it all right, helen; but _did_ you ever suppose so much snow could fall at one time?" "never!" "and no sign of it holding up at all," said madge, who had overheard. "sh! belle and lluella have curled up here and gone to sleep," said helen. "lucky infants," observed madge. "i'm going to sleep, too," said heavy, with a yawn. "there is no danger now. we're as warm as can be here," ruth said. "why don't you take a nap, helen? madge and i will keep the first watch--and keep the fire burning." "suppose there should be wolves--or bears," whispered helen. "ridiculous! no self-respecting beast would be out in such a gale. they'd know better," declared madge steele, briskly. "and if one does come here," muttered jennie, sleepily, "i shall kill and eat him." she nodded off the next moment and helen followed her example. madge and ruth talked to keep each other awake. occasionally they fought their way to the half-dead tree and brought back armfuls of its smaller branches. "it's a shame," declared miss steele, "that girls don't carry knives, and such useful things. did you ever know a girl to have anything in her pocket that was worth carrying--if she chanced by good luck to have a pocket at all? now, with a knife, we could get some better wood." "i know," ruth admitted. "i know more about camping out than ever i did before. next time, i'm going to carry things. you never know what is going to happen." as the evening advanced the cold became more biting. they stirred up the fire with a long stick and the glowing coals threw out increased warmth. the four sleeping girls stirred uneasily, and madge, putting her hand against the back wall of rock, found that it had cooled. "when it comes ten o'clock," she said, consulting the watch she carried, "we'll wake them up, make them stir around a bit, and we'll drag all these coals over against the rock again. then we'll heap on the rubbish and heat up the stones once more. we ought to keep warm after that till near daylight." "the smut is spoiling our clothes," said ruth. "i don't know as that matters much. i'd rather spoil everything i've got on than run the risk of freezing," declared madge, with conviction. they did what they could to keep the other girls warm; but before the hour madge had proposed to awaken them, lluella roused and cried a little because she was so chilly. "my goodness me, lu!" yawned heavy, who was awakened, too, "you are just the _leakiest_ person that i ever saw! you must have been born crying!" "i never heard that we came into the world laughing," said madge; "so lluella isn't different from the rest of us on that score." "but thank goodness we're not all such snivelers," grumbled heavy. "want me to get up? what for?" but when madge and ruth explained what they intended to do, all the girls willingly bestirred themselves and helped in the moving of the fire and the gathering of more fuel. "of course we can't expect any help to-night," said helen. "but i know that they'll start out hunting for us at daybreak, no matter whether it keeps on snowing, or not." "and a nice time they'll have finding us down in this hole," complained belle tingley. "lucky i fell into this hole, just the same," remarked heavy. "it just about saved our lives." "but i guess we would have been a whole lot better off if we hadn't moved from the first big tree ruth got us to creep under," helen said, thoughtfully. "we couldn't have been more than two miles from snow camp then. _now_ we don't know where we are." "never mind that, helen," advised madge. "help get in the wood. now, we want a big, rousing fire. we'll just heat that old rock up so that it will stay warm all night. it will be like sleeping as the russian peasants do--on top of their stoves." they had piled the brush on the coals, after scraping the coals back upon the ledge, and the firelight was dancing far up the rock, and shining out into the steadily drifting snow, when suddenly helen seized her chum's hand and cried: "listen! what's that?" the girls grew silent instantly--and showing no little fear. from somewhere out in the storm a cry came to their ears. "there it is again," gasped helen. "i heard it twice before." "i hear it," repeated madge. "wait." again the distant sound came forlornly to their ears. that time they all distinguished it. and they knew that their first hope was quenched. it was no sound of a rescuing party searching for them in the storm, for the word--repeated several times, and unmistakable-- they all identified. "_help!_" chapter xxiii a double captivity "it's a ghost!" gasped belle as the voice out of the storm died away down the wind. "so are you!" snapped madge. "what would a ghost want any help for? ridiculous!" "goodness me!" drawled heavy. "seems to me even a disembodied spirit might feel the need of help if it was out in such a gale as this." "i mean that we only thought we heard the voice," chattered belle. "funny we should all think with such unanimity," scoffed ruth. "that was certainly a very able-bodied spirit--there!" again the cry came brokenly through the storm. "somebody lost like ourselves," said lluella, with a shiver. "and he sees the light of our fire," jennie stone urged. "we must help, whoever it is," ruth cried. "shout, girls! maybe he wants to know the way--" "the fire will show him," said madge, quickly. "perhaps he is hurt!" said helen. "shout!" commanded ruth. they raised their voices in a ragged chorus of cries. "again!" cried ruth, and that time they sent their halloo out into the storm with more vigor and unanimity. once more, after they had waited a full minute, they could plainly distinguish the word "help!" "this won't do," said ruth, briskly. "whoever it is cannot get to us." "and we can't get to him!" cried lluella. "i am going to try. i'll go alone. you girls keep hollering. i won't go out of earshot," promised ruth. "don't do it, ruthie! you'll be lost," cried helen. "then whatever should we do?" "i won't get lost--not if you girls continue to shout," returned her chum. she had buttoned her coat about her and pulled the skating cap she wore down over her ears, yet not too low to muffle them. again the cry came wandering through the storm. ruth started down the bank of the gully; the cry came from the other side of the hollow, she was sure--almost directly opposite the ledge on which they had taken shelter. when she plunged off the ledge she at once entered the wall of driving, smothering snow. it almost took her breath, it was so deep under her feet and shrouded her about so much like a mantle. had she ventured this way when first she and her friends had descended to the ledge, ruth must have actually sunk out of sight in the soft drifts. but the sifting snow had packed harder and harder as the storm increased. after all, she sank only to her knees and soon found that she was plunging over rather than through the great drifts that filled the gully. how broad this gully was--or how deep when the snow was out of it--she could not imagine. nor did she give a thought to these things now. again she heard the muffled cry for help; but it sounded louder. she had made no mistake in the direction she had taken. the person needing succor was directly in front of the ledge, but could not get over to the fire. she glanced back over her shoulder. the leaping flames she could not see; but their glow made a round spot of rosy light against the screen of the falling snow. the mystery of the sight terrified her for a moment. would she ever be able to fight her way back to that ledge? "our father, help me!" was her unspoken prayer, and then she plunged on. she heard the shrill cries of her friends behind; ahead the lost one shouted out once more. "here! here! this way! help!" "i'm coming!" responded ruth fielding and, beaten as she was by the gale behind, kept steadily on. the way began to rise before her. she was ascending the other bank of the gully. suddenly through the snow-wreath that surrounded her she saw something waving. she sprang forward with renewed courage, crying again: "i'm coming!" the next moment she seized somebody's gloved hand. "oh, oh!" cried a shrill, terrified voice. "who are you? help me! i am freezing. can't walk--" "fred hatfield!" gasped the amazed girl. "is it you? what is the matter?" "take me to that house. i see the light, but i cannot reach it help me, for god's sake!" cried the boy. she could see his white, pinched face as he lay there more than half buried in the snow. his eyes were feverish and wild and he certainly did not know ruth. "help me out! help me out!" he continued to beg. "my leg is caught." but it was more weakness and exhaustion than aught else that held the boy in the drift, as ruth very soon found out when she laid hold of his shoulders and exerted her strength. in a few moments, what with her pulling and his scrambling, the boy was out of the drift. he had clung to the rifle--tom cameron's weapon, of course--and into his belt was stuck a knife and a camp hatchet. "why, how did you get here in this storm?" demanded ruth, as he lay panting at her feet. "i got lost--from my--my camp," he responded. "i'm frozen! i can't feel my feet at all--" "come across to the fire," urged ruth. "we girls are lost from snow camp. but we're all right so far. my! how the snow blows." facing the storm they could hardly make headway at all. indeed, the youth fell within a few yards and ruth was obliged to drag him through the drifts. her friends continued to shout, and occasionally she stood upright, made a megaphone of her hands, and returned their hail. but her strength--all of it--finally had to be given to the boy. she seized him by the shoulders and fairly dragged him toward the other side of the gully, thus walking against the wind, backwards. occasionally she threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure that she was making straight for the campfire. the girls' voices drew nearer and finally, at the foot of the slope leading up to the camp, she was forced to halt and drop her burden. "come down and help me, madge!" she cried. "it's a boy--a boy! he can't help himself. come quick!" the girls were only a few yards away, but so fiercely did the wind blow that ruth had to repeat her call for help before madge steele understood. then the big girl dropped down off the ledge and plowed her way toward ruth and her burden. "the poor fellow! who is he?" gasped madge, as together they raised the strange boy and started up the sharp ascent. "not tom! oh! it's never tom?" shrieked helen at the top of the hill. "no, no!" gasped ruth. "it's--the--boy--that--ran away." they got him upon the dry ledge of rock before the fire. his cheeks showed frostbitten spots, and jennie began to rub them with snow. "that's the way to treat frostbite," she declared. "take off his boots. if his feet _are_ frosted we'll have to treat them the same way." helen and belle obeyed heavy, who seemed quite practical in this emergency. ruth had no strength, or breath, for the time being, but lay beside the fire herself. meanwhile madge and lluella scrapped the red coals out from the rock and swept the platform clean with green branches. ruth and the runaway boy were drawn into this cozy retreat and soon the boy began to weep and cry out as the heat got into his feet. it was very painful to have the frost drawn out in this manner. it was now after midnight and the storm still raged. madge and jennie floundered out for more fuel. the hatchet the boy carried was of great aid to them in this work and soon they had piled on the ledge sufficient wood to keep the blaze alive until dawn. by this time the strange youth had been thawed out and was dropping asleep against the warm rock. helen and belle agreed to stand the next watch, and to feed the fire. both ruth and madge needed sleep, the former aching in every muscle from her fight to bring the rescued one in. "we're doubly captives now," the girl of the red mill whispered to madge before she dropped asleep. "if it should stop snowing we couldn't try to get back to camp and leave this chap here. and it is certain sure that he could not travel himself, nor could we carry him." "you are right, ruth," returned madge. "this addition to our party makes our situation worse instead of better." "but maybe it will all come out right in the end, dear." "let us hope so." "what a boy of mystery he is!" "yes." "do you think we'll ever get to the bottom of his trouble?" "let us hope so." then both girls turned over, to get what sleep they could under such trying circumstances. chapter xxiv the search it was a most anxious night for everybody at snow camp. the thought of the six girls adrift in the blizzard kept most of the household awake, long jerry todd, the guide, remained in the kitchen, on the watch for the first break in the storm. the others retired, all but mr. cameron and tom, who sat before the fire in the living hall. "i couldn't sleep anyway," said tom, "with helen and ruth out in the cold. it's dreadful, dad. i feel that we boys are partly to blame, too." "how's that?" his father asked him. "why, the girls were mad with us. i let isadore go too far with his joking," and he told mr. cameron about the spoiled taffy. "if we hadn't done that to them of course they wouldn't have gone into the woods without us--" "but i am afraid you lads would have been no more cautious than the girls," interposed mr. cameron. "this storm would have taken you by surprise just the same." "but we could have been with them and helped them." "i have great faith in that little fielding girl's good sense--and madge steele is to be trusted," said his father. "don't blame yourself, boy. it was something entirely unforeseen." several times during the night mr. cameron tried to communicate with the neighbors over the telephone; but some disaster had overtaken the line and it probably could not be repaired until after the storm. about five o'clock long jerry came into the room. he had been out into the storm, for he was covered with snow. "how does it look?" asked mr. cameron, earnestly. "she's going to break with sun-up," prophesied the woodsman. "i've been feeding the cattle and i've got the other men up. if it breaks at all, we three'll start for the neighbors and rouse a gang to help beat the woods." "but hadn't we better try to find the girls at once, jerry?" queried tom. "we'll need a large party, master tom," said the guide. "we must cover a deal of ground, and the more men we have who are used to the trail, the better. if it stops snowing we can get around to the neighbors on snowshoes easier than any other way. the drifts are packed hard. i had to tunnel out of the kitchen door. the snow has banked up to the second story gallery." "they'll be buried yards under this snow," groaned tom. "keep up your courage," said long jerry, cheerfully. "if them gals was sharp at all they'd find some shelter and make a fire." "if they had matches," said mr. cameron, doubtfully. "ruth had matches, i know," said tom. "oh, we'll find them safe and sound," declared the guide. one of long jerry's prophecies was fulfilled within the hour. the storm broke. tom had aroused his friends and the three boys had enlarged the tunnel through the snow from the back porch into the yard, and were shoveling a passageway to the stables. the last flakes of the blizzard fluttered down upon them, and the tail of the gale blew the clouds to tatters and revealed the almost black sky with the stars sparkling like points of living fire. "hurrah!" cried bob steele. "it's over!" the guide and the two other men were already getting on their snowshoes, having eaten hurriedly by the kitchen fire. they started out at once to rouse the neighbors. by sunrise the sky was entirely clear and the visitors to the backwoods could climb to the second floor gallery of the lodge and look out over the great drifts. in places the snow was heaped fifteen feet high; but the men shuffled off over these drifts and back again as easily as they would have walked on six inches of snow. they brought with them six other men, who also sat down to breakfast in the big kitchen, while mr. cameron and the boys and mrs. murchiston finished their meal in the dining-room. to the surprise of the visitors to the camp, one of the men whom long jerry had brought in to help find the girls was the rattlesnake man, as he was called. "we found him poking about the woods by himself, sir," said long jerry, privately, to mr. cameron. "he says there's been a boy staying with him for a while back, and that he started out hunting just before the storm. the old hermit was looking for him. by what he says, i believe it's the same boy you folks was bringing up here-the one that claims to be fred hatfield." "that poor fellow may have lost himself in the blizzard, too, eh?" returned the merchant. "let us hope we will find them all safely." in fifteen minutes the whole party started from the lodge on snowshoes, the boys dragging their toboggans and the men carrying food and hot coffee in vacuum bottles. they separated into four parties; the three boys and jerry todd kept together. jerry believed that the girls would have drifted some with the storm and therefore he struck off due east from the house. in an hour they came back to the bank of the stream near where ruth and reno had their adventure with the panther. "if old reno had been well enough to come with us, he would have scented them in a hurry," declared tom. "see the creek! it's completely smothered in snow." they followed the course of the stream for some distance and found the banks growing more steep. suddenly jerry began to sniff the keen air, and in a moment he cried: "there's a fire near, boys. somebody is burning pine boughs--and there isn't any house near, that i can swear to!" they hurried on. inside of half a mile isadore descried a column of blue smoke ahead. they began to shout at once, and it was not long before answering cries delighted them. "that's madge yelling," declared bob. "i'd know her warwhoop anywhere." tom had set out as fast as he could travel, the toboggan jumping after him over the drifts. even busy izzy grew excited, and yelled like a good fellow as he joined in the chase. they all ran down the bed of the stream and reached a deep cut where the banks were very high on either hand. up the white slope of the left hand bank was a small plateau on which the fire was burning. some sort of a camp had been established, surrounded by an embankment of tramped snow. over this fortress the heads of all six of the girls became visible, all crying out to their rescuers in such a medley of exclamations that no one was understandable. "helen! ruth!" cried tom. "are you all right?" "we're right as right can be, tommy," returned his sister, gaily. "we're not!" squealed jennie stone. "we're almost starved to death. if you haven't brought anything for us to eat, don't dare come up here, for we've turned cannibals and we're just about to cast lots to see who should first be sacrificed to the general good!" but there was more than laughter to season this rescue. some tears of relief were shed, and even isadore phelps showed some shame-faced joy that the catastrophe had resulted in no worse hardships for the girls. he said to heavy: "i'm sorry i spoiled that old taffy. if you'd eaten your full share of _that_ the other day, i expect you wouldn't have suffered so from hunger." the only person who was seriously troubled by the adventure was the strange boy. he had suffered severely in the storm and now he could scarcely move for pains in his back and legs. otherwise it is doubtful if he would not have run when he heard long jerry's voice among the rescuers. "great turtle soup!" roared the guide, when he beheld the shrinking, cowering boy. "how did you get here? do you mean to say you are alive, fred hatfield? why, they buried you--" "no, they didn't!" snarled the boy. "they only thought they did." "and you've let 'em think all this time that you were shot--and poor 'lias in jail? well! you always was a mean little scamp, fred hatfield!" but ruth would not let the guide scold the boy any more. "he's very sick, mr. todd," she said. "he'll have to be carried to the lodge. i believe it is rheumatism, and he ought to have a doctor at once." "lucky he is down and out, then," muttered the guide, "or i'd be tempted to lay him across my knee and spank him right here and now!" the girls were very thankful indeed for the hot drink and the food that had been brought. jerry signaled with his rifle and brought the whole party to the spot within the hour, including the rattlesnake man. but when the old hermit saw that the boy was found he would stop no longer. "let his folks look after him. i gave him shelter; but he's a bad boy, i reckon. and he doesn't like my children. i don't want anybody about my place that doesn't like my children. now, that little girl," he added, pointing to ruth, "_she_ wasn't afraid of them; was you?" "not much," returned ruth, bravely. "and i'm coming to see you again, sir, if i can." "you may come at any time, and welcome," answered the rattlesnake man, with a low bow. "maybe you would like to learn how to handle my pets," he added, with a queer grin. "what, the snakes!" screamed helen. "no, i don't think i'd care to do that," replied ruth. "they would not hurt you-they soon learn to know their friends-and they get to be as friendly as kittens," returned the hermit. "i have a name for each one of them," he went on, somewhat proudly. "maybe i'll--i'll look at them-but i won't want to touch them," answered ruth. a few minutes later the strange rattlesnake man took his departure. fred hatfield and the girls were all packed upon the sleds and drawn over the snow to the camp, where the rescued and rescuers arrived in safety before noon. but the girls had been through such an experience, and were so exhausted, that as soon as dinner was over they were commanded to go to bed, while one of the men started to town for a doctor to attend young hatfield. "and be sure and take this letter to the sheriff," said mr. cameron. "this foolish boy's brother must be released from jail at once. and if his folks want him, they can come here to snow camp and take him home," added the merchant, in some disgust. "i must say that it seems as though pity would be wasted on fred hatfield." chapter xxv certain explanations but the boy was more seriously ill than any of them suspected at the time. before night, when the doctor arrived (walking over on snow-shoes with the guide) fred was in a high fever and was rambling in his speech. none of the girls was seriously injured by the adventure in the snow; but the doctor shook his head over hatfield. mrs. murchiston gave the youth good attention, however, and the doctor promised to come again as soon as a horse could get through the roads. two days passed before anybody got to snow camp saving on snowshoes. the governess was so kind to the sick boy that he broke down and confessed all his wretched story to her. his home life had not been very happy since his father's death. his brother 'lias, and the other big boys, were hard-working woodsmen and thought fred ought to work hard, too, in the woods and on their poor little farm. he had finally had a fierce quarrel with 'lias and the older boy had thrashed him. "i only meant to scare him," fred confessed, "when he shot at me and thought it was a deer. the bullet whistled right by my head. when i jumped i dislodged a stone in the bank, and that rolled down the hill and splashed into rolling river. i hid. "i saw 'lias was frightened, and i thought it served him right-- shooting so carelessly. lots of folks are shot for deer up here in the hunting reason, and 'lias is real careless with a gun. so i stayed hid. then i heard two men talking at night and they said they guessed marm would be glad to get rid of me--i was no good. "so i got a ride off on the railroad, and i wasn't going back. i didn't know 'lias had been arrested until mr. cameron brought me back up this way and i heard about it from a logger that didn't know me. he said my body had been found. of course, it wasn't me. somebody else was drowned in rolling river. there's been a little french canadian feller missing since last fall and he was supposed to have been drowned. it was his body they found, i reckon. the man told me the body was so broken and disfigured that nobody could recognize the features--and the clothing was torn all off it. "i don't know what marm and the boys will do to me if they find me," wailed hatfield, who seemed to be more afraid of the rough usage of his big half-brothers than anything else. but the first sled to get through to snow camp brought, besides the doctor, the boy's mother and 'lias hatfield himself. the backwoods woman showed considerable tenderness when she met her lost boy, and the young fellow who had suffered in jail for some weeks held no anger against his brother because of it. "why, mr. cam'ron," he said to the merchant, "i reckon it sarved me out right. i _was_ purty ha'sh with the boy. he ain't naught but a weakling, after all. marm, she does her best by us all, and we stick to her; but if fred ain't fitten to work in the woods, or on the farm, we'll find him something to do in town--if he likes it better. i don't hold no grudge." two days later the boy was well enough to move, and they all went away from snow camp; but mr. cameron had agreed, before they went, to give fred hatfield a chance in his store in the city, if they would send him down there in the spring. "he's not fit for the rough life up here," he told tom and helen and ruth, when they talked it over. "he's not an attractive boy, either. but he needs a chance, and i will give him one. if we only helped those people in the world who really _deserved_ helping, we wouldn't boost many folks." meanwhile the girls had all recovered from their adventure in the blizzard, and the entire party of young folk found plenty of amusement in the snow-bound camp. in one monstrous heap in the yard the boys excavated a good-sized cavern--big enough so that all the girls as well as the boys could enter it at once; and they lit it up at night with candles and held a "party" there, at which plenty of walnut taffy was served--without shells in it! "this is heaping coals of fire on your head, young man," said madge, tartly, as she passed the pan to busy izzy. "all right," he returned, with a grin. "keep on heaping. i can stand it." "if you girls had been right smart," drawled bob steele, "when you were lost the other day, you'd have scooped you out a hole like this in a snowbank and hived up as snug as a bug in a rug till the storm was over." "oh, yes! we all know lots of things to do when we are lost again," returned helen. "but i hope that our next vacation won't have any such unpleasant experience in store for us." "i'm with you in that wish," cried belle tingley. "well, now, yo've all promised to go with me to our cottage at lighthouse point for two weeks next summer," cried heavy. "i guarantee you won't be lost in the snow down there." "not at that time of year, that's sure," laughed ruth. "but we don't know yet, jennie, that we _can_ go with you." however, it is safe to state here that ruth, at least, was able to accept the stout girl's invitation, for we shall meet her next in a story entitled: "ruth fielding at lighthouse point; or, nita, the girl castaway." there was plenty of fun around snow camp for the remainder of the ten days they spent there, and when the time came to go back to civilization both girls and boys assured good mr. cameron that they had had a most delightful time. they traveled as far as cheslow together, where heavy and belle and lluella went to their homes for a day or two, to finish out the tag-end of the vacation, while the steeles and isadore went home with the camerons, and ruth returned to the red mill. and how glad aunt alvirah was to see ruth! uncle jabez didn't display his feelings so openly; but ruth had learned how to take the miller, and how to understand him. she helped him with his accounts, made out his bills for the year, and otherwise made herself of use to him. "you just wait, uncle jabez," she told him, earnestly. "i'm going to make your investment in my schooling at briarwood pay you the biggest dividend of anything you ever speculated in--you see." "i'm sure i hope so, niece ruth," he grumbled. "i don't much expect it, though. they teach you too many folderols up there. what's _this_ now?" he asked, pointing his stubbed forefinger to the little gold and black enamel pin she wore on her blouse. "'s. b.'" "is them the letters?" "yes, sir. my society emblem. we're the sweetbriars, of briarwood hall. and you wait! we're going to be the most popular club in the school before long. we've had mrs. tellingham, the preceptress, at one of our meetings." "what good is that?" he demanded, shaking his grizzled head. "fraternity--fellowship--helpfulness--hope--oh! it stands for lots of things. and then, uncle jabez, i am learning to sing and play. maybe before long i can open the old cottage organ you've got stowed away in the parlor and play for you." "that won't lower the price of wheat, or raise the price of flour," he grumbled. "how do you know it won't, until we've tried it?" she answered him, gaily. and so she made the old mill, and the farmhouse adjoining, a much brighter, gayer, pleasanter place while she was in it. her cheerfulness and sweetness were contagious. aunt alvirah complained less frequently of her back and bones when ruth was about, and in spite of himself, the old miller's step grew lighter. "ah, jabez," aunt alvirah said, as they watched ruth get into the cameron automobile to be whisked away to the station, and so to briarwood for her second half, "that's where our endurin' comfort an' hope is centered for our old age. we've only got ruthie." "she's a mighty expensive piece of property," snarled the old man. "ye don't mean it, jabez, ye don't mean it," she returned, softly. "you're thawin' out--and ruth fielding is the sun that warms up your cold old heart!" but this last was said so low that jabez potter did not hear it as he stumped away toward the red mill. in the automobile the young folks were having a gay time. helen was with ruth, and tom was on the front seat. "say, we sure did have some excitement in snow camp as well as fun," came from tom. "and that catamount!" gasped helen. "and ruth's shot!" broke in her twin brother. "ruth, you ought to try for a marksmanship badge!" "and wasn't it fine how it came out about fred," said ruth, her face beaming with satisfaction. "i am so glad to know he is no longer a homeless wanderer!" "all due to you," said tom. "ruth, you're a wonder!" he added, admiringly. "oh, tom!" she answered. nevertheless, she looked much pleased. and here let us say good-bye. the end ruth fielding of the red mill or jasper parloe's secret by alice b. emerson, chapter i the red flame in the night the sound of the drumming wheels! it had roared in the ears of ruth fielding for hours as she sat on the comfortably upholstered seat in the last car of the afternoon limited, the train whirling her from the west to the east, through the fertile valleys of upper new york state. this had been a very long journey for the girl, but ruth knew that it would soon come to an end. cheslow was not many miles ahead now; she had searched it out upon the railroad timetable, and upon the map printed on the back of the sheet; and as the stations flew by, she had spelled their names out with her quick eyes, until dusk had fallen and she could no longer see more than the signal lamps and switch targets as the train whirled her on. but she still stared through the window. this last car of the train was fairly well filled, but she had been fortunate in having a seat all to herself; she was glad this was so, for a person in the seat with her might have discovered how hard it was for her to keep back the tears. for ruth fielding was by no means one of the "crying kind," and she had forbidden herself the luxury of tears on this occasion. "we had all that out weeks ago, you know we did!" she whispered, apostrophizing that inner self that really wanted to break the brave compact. "when we knew we had to leave dear old darrowtown, and miss true pettis, and patsy hope, and--and 'all other perspiring friends,' to quote amoskeag lanfell's letter that she wrote home from conference. "no, ruth fielding! uncle jabez potter may be the very nicest kind of an old dear. and to live in a mill--and one painted red, too! that ought to make up for a good many disappointments--" her soliloquy was interrupted by a light tap upon her shoulder. ruth glanced around and up quickly. she saw standing beside her the tall old gentleman who had been sitting two seats behind on the other side of the aisle ever since the train left buffalo. he was a spare old gentleman, with a gaunt, eagle-beaked face, cleanly shaven but for a sweeping iron-gray mustache, his iron-gray hair waved over the collar of his black coat--a regular mane of hair which flowed out from under the brim of his well-brushed, soft-crowned hat. his face would have been very stern in its expression had it not been for the little twinkle in his bright, dark eyes. "why don't you do it?" he asked ruth, softly. "why don't i do what, sir?" she responded, not without a little gulp, for that lump would rise in her throat. "why don't you cry?" questioned the strange old gentleman, still speaking softly and with that little twinkle in his eye. "because i am determined not to cry, sir," and now ruth could call up a little smile, though perhaps the corners of her mouth trembled a bit. the gentleman sat down beside her, although she had not invited him to do so. she was not at all afraid of him and, after all, perhaps she was glad to have him do it. "tell me all about it," he suggested, with such an air of confidence and interest that ruth warmed more and more toward him. but it was a little hard to begin. when he told her, however, that he was going to cheslow, too--indeed, that that was his home--it was easier by far. "i am doctor davison, my dear," he said. "if you are going to live in cheslow you will hear all about doctor davison, and you would better know him at first-hand, to avoid mistakes," and his eyes twinkled more than ever, though his stern mouth never relaxed. "i expect that my new home is some little way outside of cheslow," ruth said, timidly. "they call it the red mill." the humorous light faded out of the dark, bright eyes of the gentleman. yet even then his countenance did not impress her as being unkindly. "jabez potter's mill," he said, thoughtfully. "yes, sir. that is my uncle's name." "your uncle?" "my great uncle, to be exact," said ruth. "he was mother's uncle." "then you," he said, speaking even more gently than before, "are little mary potter's daughter?" "mother was mary potter before she married papa," said ruth, more easily now. "she died four years ago." he nodded, looking away from her out of the window at the fast-darkening landscape which hurried by them. "and poor papa died last winter. i had no claim upon the kind friends who helped me when he died," pursued ruth, bravely. "they wrote to uncle jabez and he--he said i could come and live with him and aunt alvirah boggs." in a flash the twinkle came back into his eyes, and he nodded again. "ah, yes! aunt alviry," he said, giving the name its old-fashioned, homely pronunciation. "i had forgotten aunt alviry," and he seemed quite pleased to remember her. "she keeps house for uncle jabez, i understand," ruth continued. "but she isn't my aunt." "she is everybody's aunt alviry, i think," said doctor davison, encouragingly. for some reason this made ruth feel better. he spoke as though she would love aunt alviry, and ruth had left so many kind friends behind her in darrowtown that she was glad to be assured that somebody in the new home where she was going would be kind, too. miss true pettis had not shown her uncle jabez's letter and she had feared that perhaps her mother's uncle (whom she had never seen nor known much about) might not have written as kindly for his niece to come to the red mill as miss true could have wished. but miss true was poor; most of the darrowtown friends had been poor people. ruth had felt that she could not remain a burden on them. somehow she did not have to explain all this to doctor davison. he seemed to understand it when he nodded and his eyes twinkled so glowingly. "cheslow is a pleasant town. you will like it," he said, cheerfully. "the red mill is five miles out on the lake osago road. it is a pretty country. it will be dark when you ride over it to-night; but you will like it when you see it by daylight." he took it for granted that uncle jabez would come to the station to meet her with a carriage, and that comforted ruth not a little. "you will pass my house on that road," continued doctor davison. "but when you come to town you must not pass it." "sir?" she asked him, surprised. "not without stopping to see me," he explained, his eyes twinkling more than ever. and then he left her and went back to his seat. but ruth found, when he had gone, that the choke came back into her throat again and the sting of unshed tears to her eyes. but she would not let those same tears fall! she stared out of the plate-glass window and saw that it was now quite dark. the whistle of the fast-flying locomotive shrieked its long-drawn warning, and a group of signal lights flashed past. then she heard the loud ringing of a gong at a grade crossing. they must be nearing cheslow now. and then she saw that they were on a curve quite a sharp curve, for she saw the lights of the locomotive and the mail car far ahead upon the gleaming rails. they began to slow down, too, and the wheels wailed under the pressure of the brakes. she could see the signal lights along the tracks ahead and then--with a start, for she knew what it meant--a sharp red flame appeared out of the darkness beyond the rushing engine pilot. danger! that is what that red light meant. the brakes clamped down upon the wheels again so suddenly that the easily-riding coach jarred through all its parts. the red eye was winked out instantly; but the long and heavy train came to an abrupt stop. chapter ii reno but the limited had stopped so that ruth could see along the length of the train. lanterns winked and blinked in the dark as the trainmen carried them forward. something had happened up front of more importance than an ordinary halt for permission to run in on the next block. besides, the afternoon limited was a train of the first-class and was supposed to have the right of way over all other trains. no signal should have stopped it here. "how far are we from cheslow, please?" she asked of the rear brakeman (whom she knew was called the flagman) as he came down the car with his lantern. "not above a mile, miss," he replied. his smile, and his way of speaking, encouraged her to ask: "can you tell me why we have stopped?" "something on the track, miss. i have set out my signal lamp and am going forward to inquire." three or four of the male passengers followed him out of the car. ruth saw that quite a number had disembarked from the cars ahead, that a goodly company was moving forward, and that there were ladies among the curious crowd. if it was perfectly safe for them to satisfy their curiosity, why not she? she arose and hurried out of the car, following the swinging lamp of the brakeman as he strode on. ruth ran a little, seeing well enough to pick her way over the ends of the ties, and arrived to find at least half a hundred people grouped on the track ahead of the locomotive pilot. the great, unblinking, white eye of the huge machine revealed the group clearly--and the object around which the curious passengers, as well as the train crew, had gathered. it was a dog--a great, handsome, fawn-colored mastiff, sleek of coat and well fed, but muddied now along his flanks, evidently having waded through the mire of the wet meadow beside the tracks. he had come under, or through, a barbed wire fence, too, for there was a long scratch upon his shoulder and another raw cut upon his muzzle. to his broad collar was fastened a red lamp. nobody had taken it off, for both the train men and the passengers were excitedly discussing what his presence here might mean; and some of them seemed afraid of the great fellow. but ruth had been used to dogs, and this noble looking fellow had no terrors for her. he seemed so woebegone, his great brown eyes pleaded so earnestly, that she could only pity and fondle him. "look out, miss; maybe he bites," warned the anxious conductor. "i wager this is some boy's trick to stop the train. and yet--" ruth bent down, still patting the dog's head, and turned the great silver plate on his collar so that she could read, in the light of the lanterns, that which was engraved upon it. she read the words aloud: "'this is reno, tom cameron's dog.'" "cameron?" repeated some man behind her. "that tom cameron lives just outside of cheslow. his father is the rich dry-goods merchant, macy cameron. what's his dog doing here?" "and with a red light tied to his collar?" propounded somebody else. "it's some boy's trick, i tell you," stormed the conductor. "i'll have to report this at headquarters." just then ruth made a discovery. wound about the collar was a bit of twisted cloth--a strip of linen--part of a white handkerchief. her nimble fingers unwound it quickly and she spread out the soiled rag. "oh, see here!" she cried, in amazement as well as fear. "see! what can it mean? see what's drawn on this cloth--" it was a single word--a word smeared across the rag in shaking, uneven letters: "help!" "by george!" exclaimed one of the brakemen. "the little girl's right. that spells 'help!' plain enough." "it--it is written in something red, sir," cried ruth, her voice trembling. "see! it is blood!" "i tell you we've wasted a lot of time here," declared the conductor. "i am sorry if anybody is hurt, but we cannot stop for him. get back to the cars, please, gentlemen. do you belong aboard?" he added, to ruth. "get aboard, if you do." "oh, sir! you will not leave the poor dog here?" ruth asked. "not with that red lamp on his collar--no!" exclaimed the conductor. "he will be fooling some other engineer--" he reached to disentangle the wire from the dog's collar; but reno uttered a low growl. "plague take the dog!" ejaculated the conductor, stepping back hastily. "whoever it is that's hurt, or wherever he is, we cannot send him help from here. we'll report the circumstance at the cheslow station. put the dog in the baggage car. he can find the place where his master is hurt, from cheslow as well as from here, it's likely." "you try to make him follow you, miss," added the conductor to ruth. "he doesn't like me, it's plain." "come here, reno!" ruth commanded. "come here, old fellow." the big dog hesitated, stepped a yard or two after her, stopped, looked around and across the track toward the swamp meadow, and whined. ruth went back to him and put both arms about the noble fellow's neck. "come, reno," she said "come with me. we will go to find your master by and by." she started for the cars again, with one hand on the dog's neck. he trotted meekly beside her with head hanging. at the open baggage-car door one of the brakemen lifted her in. "come, reno! come up, sir!" she said, and the great mastiff, crouching for an instant, sprang into the car. even before they were fairly aboard, the train started. they were late enough, indeed! but the engineer dared not speed up much for that last mile of the lap to cheslow. there might be something ahead on the track. "you get out at cheslow; don't you miss?" asked the conductor. "yes, sir," returned ruth, sitting down with an air of possession upon her old-fashioned cowhide trunk that had already been put out by the door ready for discharging at the next station. "and you were sitting in the last car. have you a bag there?" "yes, sir, a small bag. that is all." "i'll send it forward to you," he said, not unkindly, and bustled away. and so ruth fielding was sitting on her own trunk, with her bag in her lap, and the great mastiff lying on the floor of the baggage car beside her, when the train slowed down and stopped beside the cheslow platform. she had not expected to arrive just in this way at her journey's end. chapter iii what has happened? the baggage-car door was wheeled wide open again and the lamps on the platform shone in. there was the forward brakeman to "jump" her down from the high doorway, and reno, with the little red light still hung to his collar, bounded after her. the conductor bustled away to tell the station master about the dog with the red light, and of the word scrawled on the cloth which ruth had found wound around his collar. indeed, ruth herself was very anxious and very much excited regarding this mystery; but she was anxious, too, about herself. was uncle jabez here to meet her? or had he sent somebody to take her to the red mill? he had been informed by miss true pettis the week before on which train to expect his niece. carrying her bag and followed dejectedly by the huge mastiff, ruth started down the long platform. the conductor ran out of the station, signalled the train crew with his hand, and lanterns waved the length of the train. panting, with its huge springs squeaking, the locomotive started the string of cars. faster and faster the train moved, and before ruth reached the pent-house roof of the little brick station, the tail-lights of the last car had passed her. a short, bullet-headed old man, with close-cropped, whitish-yellow hair, atop of which was a boy's baseball cap, his face smoothly shaven and deeply lined, and the stain of tobacco at either corner of his mouth, was standing on the platform. he was not a nice looking old man at all, he was dressed in shabby and patched garments, and his little eyes seemed so sly that they were even trying to hide from each other on either side of a hawksbill nose. he began to eye ruth curiously as the girl approached, and she, seeing that he was the only person who gave her any attention, jumped to the conclusion that this was uncle jabez. the thought shocked her. she instinctively feared and disliked this queer looking old man. the lump in her throat that would not be swallowed almost choked her again, and she winked her eyes fast to keep from crying. she would, in her fear and disappointment, have passed the old man by without speaking had he not stepped in front of her. "where d'ye wanter go, miss?" he whined, looking at her still more sharply out of his narrow eyes. "yeou be a stranger here, eh?" "yes, sir," admitted ruth. "where are you goin'?" asked the man again, and ruth had enough yankee blood in her to answer the query by asking: "are you mr. jabez potter?" "me jabez potter? why, ef i was jabe potter i'd be owing myself money, that's what i'd be doin'. you warn't never lookin' for jabe potter?" much relieved, ruth admitted the fact frankly. "he is my uncle, sir," she said. "i am going to live at the red mill." the strange old man puckered up his lips into a whistle, and shook his head, eyeing her all the time so slily that ruth was more and more thankful that he had not proven to be uncle jabez. "do you know mr. potter?" she asked, undecided what to do. "do i know jabe potter?" repeated the man. "well, i don't know much good of him, i assure ye! i worked for him onct, i did. and i tell ye he owes me money yet. you ax him if he don't owe jasper parloe money-- you jest ax him!" he began to get excited and did not seem at all inclined to step out of ruth's path. but just then somebody spoke to her and she turned to see the station master and two or three other men with him. "this is the girl mr. mason spoke to me about, isn't it?" the railroad man asked. "the conductor of the express, i mean. he said the dog would mind you." "he seems to like me," she replied, turning to the mastiff that had stood all this time close to her. "that is tom cameron's dog all right," said one of the other men. "and that lantern is off his motorcycle, i bet anything! he went through town about dark on that contraption, and i shouldn't wonder if he's got a tumble." ruth showed the station master, whose name was curtis, the bit of handkerchief with the appeal for help traced upon it. "that is blood," she said. "you see it's blood, don't you? can't somebody take reno and hunt for him? he must be very badly hurt." "mason said he expected it was nothing but some fool joke of the boys. but it doesn't look like a joke to me," mr. curtis said, gravely. "come, parloe, you know that patch of woods well enough, over beyond the swamp and hiram jennings' big field. isn't there a steep and rocky road down there, that shoots off the osago lake pike?" "the wilkins corners road--yep," said the old man, snappishly. "then, can't you take the dog and see if you can find young tom?" "who's going to pay me for it?" snarled jasper parloe. "i ain't got no love for them camerons. this here tom is as sassy a boy as there is in this county." "but he may be seriously hurt," said ruth, looking angrily at jasper parloe. "'tain't nothin' to me--no more than your goin' out ter live with jabe potter ain't nothin' to me," responded the old man, with an ugly grin. "you're a pretty fellow, you are, jasper!" exclaimed mr. curtis, and turned his back upon the fellow. "i can't leave the station now--ah! here's doctor davison. he'll know what to do." doctor davison came forward and put his hand upon ruth's shoulder most kindly. "what is all this?" he asked. "and there is the mastiff. they tell me you are a dog tamer, miss fielding." he listened very closely to what mr. curtis had to say, and looked, too, at the smeared handkerchief. "the dog can find him--no doubt of that. come, boys, get some lanterns and we'll go right along to the wilkins corners road and search it." then to ruth he said: "you are a brave girl, sure enough." but when the party was ready to start, half a dozen strong, with parloe trailing on behind, and with lanterns and a stretcher, reno would not budge. the man called him, but he looked up at ruth and did not move from her side. "i declare for't," exclaimed one man. "that girl will have to go with us, doctor davison. you see what the dog means to do." ruth spoke to the mastiff, commanded him to leave her and find "tom." but although the dog looked at her intelligently enough, and barked his response--a deep, sudden, explosive bark--he refused to start without her. "it's a long way for the girl," objected doctor davison. "besides, she is waiting to meet her uncle." "i am not tired," she told him, quickly. "remember i've been sitting all the afternoon. and perhaps every minute is precious. we don't know how badly the dog's master may be hurt. i'll go. i'm sure i can keep up with you." reno seemed to understand her words perfectly, and uttered another short, sharp bark. "let us go, then," said doctor davison, hurriedly. so the men picked up their lanterns and the stretcher again. they crossed the tracks and came to a street that soon became a country road. cheslow did not spread itself very far in this direction. doctor davison explained to ruth that the settlement had begun to grow in the parts beyond the railroad and that all this side of the tracks was considered the old part of the town. the street lights were soon behind them and they depended entirely upon the lanterns the men carried. ruth could see very little of the houses they passed; but at one spot--although it was on the other side of the road--there were two green lanterns, one on either side of an arched gate, and there seemed to be a rather large, but gloomy, house behind the hedge before which these lanterns burned. "you will always know my house," doctor davison said, softly, and still retaining her hand, "by its green eyes." so ruth knew she had passed his home, to which he had so kindly invited her. and that made her think for a moment about uncle jabez and aunt alvirah. would she find somebody waiting to take her to the red mill when she got back to the station? chapter iv the gate of the green eyes it was a dark lane, beneath overhanging oaks, that met and intertwined their branches from either side--this was the wilkins corners road. and it was very steep and stony--up hill and down dale--with deep ruts in places and other spots where the spring rains had washed out the gravel and sand and left exposed the very foundations of the world. it seemed as though no bicyclist, or motor-cyclist would have chosen this road to travel after dark. yet there was a narrow path at the side--just wide enough for ruth and doctor davison to walk abreast, and reno to trot by the girl's side which seemed pretty smooth. "we don't want to go by the spot, doctor," said one of the men walking ahead with the lights. "don't the dog show no signs of looking for tom?" "where's tom, reno? where's tom?" asked ruth, earnestly, believing that the dog would recognize his master's name. the mastiff raised his muzzle and barked sharply again, but trotted onward. "he might have fallen down any of these gullies, and we'd miss him, it's so dark," observed the previous speaker. "i don't believe the dog will miss the place," responded doctor davison. just then reno leaped forward with a long-drawn whine. ruth hurried with him, leaving the doctor to come on in the rear. reno took the lead and the girl tried to keep pace with him. it was not for many yards. reno stopped at the brink of a steep bank beside the road. this bank fell away into the darkness, but through the trees, in the far distance, the girl could see several twinkling lights in a row. she knew that they were on the railroad, and that she was looking across the great swamp-meadow. "hullo!" shouted one man, loudly. "something down there, old fellow?" reno answered with a short bark and began to scramble down the rough bank. "here's where somebody has gone down ahead of him," cried another of the searchers, holding his own lantern close to the ground. "see how the bank's all torn up? bet his wheel hit that stone yonder in the dusk and threw him, wheel and all, into this gulley." "wait here, child," ordered doctor davison, quickly. "if he is in bad shape, boys, call me and i'll come down. lift him carefully--" "he's here, sir!" cried the first man to descend. and then reno lifted up his voice in a mournful howl. "oh, dear! oh, dear!" murmured ruth. "i am afraid he is badly hurt." "come, come!" returned doctor davison. "be a brave girl now. if he is badly hurt he'll need us both to keep our wits about us, you know." "ye needn't fret none, leetle gal," said jasper parloe's voice, behind her. "ye couldn't kill that there cameron boy, i tell ye! he is as sassy a young'un as there is in this county." doctor davison turned as though to say something sharp to the mean old man; but just then the men below shouted up to him: "he's hit his head and his arm's twisted under him, doctor. he isn't conscious, but doesn't seem much hurt otherwise." "can you bring him up?" queried the physician. "that's what we mean to do," was the reply. ruth waited beside the old doctor, not without some apprehension. how would this tom cameron look? what kind of a boy was he? according to jasper parloe he was a very bad boy, indeed. she had heard that he was the son of a rich man. while the men were bringing the senseless body up the steep bank her mind ran riot with the possibilities that lay in store for her because of this accident to the dry-goods merchant's son. and now the bearers were at the top of the bank, and she could see the limp form borne by them--a man holding the body under the arms and another by his feet. but, altogether, it looked really as though they carried a limp sack between them. "fust time i ever see that boy still," murmured jasper parloe. "cracky! he's pale; ain't he?" said another man. doctor davison dropped on one knee beside the body as they laid it down. the lanterns were drawn together that their combined light might illuminate the spot. ruth saw that the figure was that of a youth not much older than herself--lean, long limbed, well dressed, and with a face that, had it not been so pale, she would have thought very nice looking indeed. "poor lad!" ruth heard the physician murmur. "he has had a hard fall-- and that's a nasty knock on his head." the wound was upon the side of his head above the left ear and was now all clotted with blood. it was from this wound, in some moment of consciousness, that he had traced the word "help" on his torn handkerchief, and fastened the latter, with the lamp of his motorcycle, to the dog's collar. here was the machine, bent and twisted enough, brought up the bank by two of the men. "dunno what you can do for the boy, doctor," said one of them; "but it looks to me as though this contraption warn't scurcely wuth savin'." "oh, we'll bring the boy around all right," said doctor davison, who had felt tom cameron's pulse and now rose quickly. "lift him carefully upon the stretcher. we will get him into bed before i do a thing to him. he's best as he is while we are moving him." "it'll be a mighty long way to his house," grumbled one of the men. "i believe yeou!" rejoined jasper parloe. "three miles beyond jabe potter's mill." "pshaw!" exclaimed doctor davison, in his soft voice. "you know we'll not take him so far. my house is near enough. surely you can carry him there." "if you say the word, doctor," said the fellow, more cheerfully, while old parloe grunted. they were more than half an hour in getting to the turn in the main road where she could observe the two green lights before the doctor's house. there the men put the stretcher down for a moment. jasper parloe grumblingly took his turn at carrying one end. "i never did see the use of boys, noway," he growled. "they's only an aggravation and vexation of speret. and this here one is the aggravatingest and vexationingest of any i ever see." "don't be too hard on the boy, jasper," said doctor davison, passing on ahead, so as to reach his house first. ruth remained behind, for the old gentleman walked too fast for her. before the men picked up the stretcher again there was a movement and a murmur from the injured boy. "hullo!" said one of the men. "he's a-talkin', ain't he?" "jest mutterin'," said parloe, who was at tom's head. "'tain't nothin'" but ruth heard the murmur of the unconscious boy, and the words startled her. they were: "it was jabe potter--he did it! it was jabe potter--he did it!" what did they mean? or, was there no meaning at all to the muttering of the wounded boy? ruth saw that parloe was looking at her in his sly and disagreeable way, and she knew that he, too, had heard the words. "it was jabe potter--he did it!" was it an accusation referring to the boy's present plight? and how could her uncle jabez--the relative she had not as yet seen--be the cause of tom cameron's injury? the spot where the boy was hurt must have been five miles from the red mill, and not even on the osago lake turnpike, on which highway she had been given to understand the red mill stood. not many moments more and the little procession was at the gateway, on either side of which burned the two green lamps. jasper parloe, who had been relieved, shuffled off into the darkness. reno after one pleading look into the face of the hesitating ruth, followed the stretcher on which his master lay, in at the gate. and ruth fielding, beginning again to feel most embarrassed and forsaken, was left alone where the two green eyes winked in the warm, moist darkness of the spring night. chapter v the girl in the automobile the men who had gone in with the unconscious boy and the stretcher hung about the doctor's door, which was some yards from the gateway. everybody seemed to have forgotten the girl, a stranger in cheslow, and for the first day of her life away from kind and indulgent friends. it was only ten minutes walk to the railroad station, and ruth remembered that it was a straight road. she arrived in the waiting room safely enough. sam curtis, the station master, descried her immediately and came out of his office with her bag. "well, and what happened? is that boy really hurt?" he asked. "he has a broken arm and his head is cut. i do not know how seriously, for doctor davison had not finished examining him when i--i came away," she replied, bravely enough, and hiding the fact that she had been overlooked. "they took him to the doctor's house, did they?" asked sam. "yes, sir," said ruth. "but--" "mr. curtis, has there been anybody here for me?" "for you, miss?" the station master returned, somewhat surprised it seemed. "yes, sir. anybody from red mill?" curtis smote one fist into his other palm, exclaiming: "you don't mean to say that you was what jabe potter was after?" "mr. jabez potter, who keeps the red mill, is my uncle," ruth observed, with dignity. "my goodness gracious me, miss! he was here long before your train was due. he's kind of short in his speech, miss. and he asked me if there was anything here for him, and i told him no. and he stumped out again without another word. why, i thought he was looking for an express package, or freight. never had an idea he was expectin' a niece!" ruth still looked at him earnestly. the man did not suspect, by her appearance, how hard a time she was having to keep the tears from overrunning those calm, gray eyes. "and you expected to go out to the red mill to-night, miss?" he continued. "they're country folk out there and they'd all be abed before you could get there, even if you took a carriage." "i don't know that i have enough to pay for carriage hire," ruth said, softly. "is--is there any place i can stop over night in the village? then i can walk out in the morning." "why--there's a hotel. but a young girl like you--you'll excuse me, miss. you're young to be traveling alone." "perhaps i haven't money enough to pay for a lodging there?" suggested ruth. "i have a dollar. it was given me to spend as i liked on the way. but miss true gave me such a big box of luncheon that i did not want anything." "a dollar wouldn't go far at the brick hotel," murmured the station agent. he still stared at her, stroking his lean, shaven jaw. finally he burst out with: "i tell you! we'll go home and see what my wife says." at the moment the station began to jar with the thunder of a coming train and ruth could not make herself heard in reply to his proposal. besides, sam curtis hurried out on the platform. nor was ruth ready to assert her independence and refuse any kind of help the station master might offer. so she sat down patiently and waited for him. there were one or two passengers only to disembark from this train and they went away from the station without even coming into the waiting room. then curtis came back, putting out the lights and locking his ticket office. the baggage room was already locked and ruth's old trunk was in it. "come on now, girl--what's your name?" asked curtis. "ruth fielding." "just so! well, it's only a step to our house and wife will have supper waiting. and there's nobody else there save mercy." ruth was a little curious about "mercy"--whether it referred to abounding grace, or was a person's name. but she asked no questions as they came out of the railroad station and sam curtis locked the door. they did not cross the tracks this time, but went into the new part of the town. turning a corner very soon as they walked up what curtis said was market street, they reached, on a narrow side street, a little, warm-looking cottage, from almost all the lower windows of which the lamplight shone cheerfully. there was a garden beside it, with a big grape arbor arranged like a summer-house with rustic chairs and a table. the light shining on the side porch revealed the arbor to ruth's quick eyes. when they stepped upon this porch ruth heard a very shrill and not at all pleasant voice saying--very rapidly, and over and over again: "i don't want to! i don't want to! i don't want to!" it might have been a parrot, or some other ill-natured talking bird; only ruth saw nothing of the feathered conversationalist when sam opened the door and ushered her in. "here we are, wife!" he exclaimed, cheerfully. "and how's mercy?" the reiterated declaration had stopped instantly. a comely, kind-faced woman with snow-white hair, came forward. ruth saw that she was some years younger than curtis, and he was not yet forty. it was not father time that had powdered mrs. curtis' head so thickly. "mercy is--why, who's this?" she asked espying ruth. "one of the girls come in to see her?" instantly the same whining, shrill voice began: "i don't want her to see me! they come to stare at me! i hate 'em all! all girls do is to run and jump and play tag and ring-around-a-rosy and run errands, and dance! i hate 'em!" this was said very, very fast--almost chattered; and it sounded so ill-natured, so impatient, so altogether mean and hateful, that ruth fell back a step, almost afraid to enter the pleasant room. but then she saw the white-haired lady's face, and it was so grieved, yet looked such a warm welcome to her, that she took heart and stepped farther in, so that sam curtis could shut the door. the father appeared to pay no attention to the fault-finding, shrill declamation of the unhappy voice. he said, in explanation, to his wife: "this is ruth fielding. she has come a long way by train to-day, expecting to meet her uncle, old jabe potter of the red mill. and you know how funny jabe is, wife? he came before the train, and did not wait, but drove right away with his mules and so there was nobody here to meet ruthie. she's marooned here till the morning, you see." "then she shall stay with us to-night," declared mrs. curtis, quickly. "i don't want her to stay here to-night!" ejaculated the same shrill voice. mr. and mrs. curtis paid no attention to what was said by this mysterious third party. ruth, coming farther into the room, found that it was large and pleasant. there was a comfortable look about it all. the supper table was set and the door was opened into the warm kitchen, from which delicious odors of tea and toast with some warm dish of meat, were wafted in. but the shrill and complaining voice had not come from the next room. in the other corner beside the stove, yet not too near it, stood a small canopy bed with the pretty chintz curtains drawn all about it. beside it stood a wheel-chair such as ruth knew was used by invalids who could not walk. it was a tiny chair, too, and it and the small bed went together. but of the occupant of either she saw not a sign. "supper will be ready just as soon as our guest has a chance to remove the traces of travel, sam," said mrs. curtis, briskly. "come with me, ruth." when they returned from the pleasant little bed-chamber which the good-hearted lady told ruth was to be her own for that night, they heard voices in the sitting room--the voice of mr. curtis and the querulous one. but it was not so sharp and strained as it seemed before. however, on opening the door, mr. curtis was revealed sitting alone and there was no sign of the owner of the sharp voice, which ruth supposed must belong to the invalid. "mercy has had her supper; hasn't she, wife?" said the station master as he drew his chair to the table and motioned ruth to the extra place mrs. curtis had set. the woman nodded and went briskly about putting the supper on the table. while they ate mr. curtis told about reno stopping the train, and of the search for and recovery of the injured cameron boy. all the time ruth, who sat sideways to the canopied bed, realized that the curtains at the foot were drawn apart just a crack and that two very bright, pin-point eyes were watching her. so interested did these eyes become as the story progressed, and ruth answered questions, that more of mercy curtis' face was revealed--a sharp, worn little face, with a peaked chin and pale, thin cheeks. ruth was very tired when supper was ended and the kind mrs. curtis suggested that she go to bed and obtain a good night's rest if she was to walk to the red mill in the morning. but even when she bade her entertainers good-night she did not see the child in the canopy bed and she felt diffident about asking mrs. curtis about her. the young traveler slept soundly--almost from the moment her head touched the pillow. yet her last thought was of uncle jabez. he had been in town some time before the train on which she arrived was due and had driven away from the station with his mules, mr. curtis said. had he driven over that dark and dangerous road on which tom cameron met with his accident, and had he run down the injured boy, or forced him over the bank of the deep gully where they had found tom lying unconscious? "it was jabe potter--he did it," the injured lad had murmured, and these words were woven in the pattern of ruth's dreams all night. the little cottage was astir early and ruth was no laggard. she came down to breakfast while the sun was just peeping above the house-tops and as she entered the sitting room she found an occupant at last in the little wheel-chair. it was the sharp, pale little face that confronted her above the warm wrapper and the rug that covered the lower part of the child's body; for child mercy curtis was, and little older than ruth herself, although her face seemed so old. to ruth's surprise the first greeting of the invalid was a most ill-natured one. she made a very unpleasant face at the visitor, ran out her tongue, and then said, in her shrill, discordant voice: "i don't like you at all--i tell you that, miss!" "i am sorry you do not like me," replied ruth, gently. "i think i should like you if you'd let me." "yah!" ejaculated the very unpleasant, but much to be pitied invalid. the mother and father ignored all this ill-nature on the part of the lame girl and were as kind and friendly with their visitor as they had been on the previous evening. once during breakfast time (mercy took hers from a tray that was fastened to her chair before her) the child burst out again, speaking to ruth. there were eggs on the table and, pointing to the golden-brown fried egg that mrs. curtis had just placed upon ruth's plate, mercy snapped: "do you know what's the worst wish i'd wish on my enemy?" ruth looked her astonishment and hesitated to reply. but mercy did not expect a reply, for she continued quickly: "i'd wish my enemy to have to eat every morning for breakfast two soft fried eggs with his best clothes on--that's what i'd wish!" and this is every word she would say to the visitor while ruth remained. but mr. curtis bade ruth good-bye very kindly when he hurried away to the station, and mrs. curtis urged her to come and see them whenever she came to town after getting settled at the red mill. it was a fresh and lovely morning, although to the weather-wise the haze in the west foredoomed the end of the day to disaster. ruth felt more cheerful as she crossed the railroad tracks and struck into the same street she had followed with the searching party the evening before. she could not mistake doctor davison's house when she passed it, and there was a fine big automobile standing before the gate where the two green lanterns were. but there was nobody in the car, nor did she see anybody about the doctor's house. beyond the doctor's abode the houses were far apart--farther and farther apart as she trudged on. nobody noticed or spoke to the girl as she went on with her small bag--the bag that grew heavy, despite its smallness, as she progressed. and so she traveled two miles, or more, along the pleasant road. then she heard the purring of an automobile behind her--the first vehicle that she had seen since leaving town. it was the big gray car that had been standing before doctor davison's house when she had passed, and ruth would have known the girl who sat at the steering wheel and was driving the car alone, even had reno, the big mastiff, not sat in great dignity on the seat beside her. for no girl could look so much like tom cameron without being tom cameron's sister. and the girl, the moment she saw ruth on the road, retarded the speed of the machine. reno, too, lost all semblance of dignity and would not wait for the car to completely stop before bounding into the road and coming to caress her hand. "i know who you are!" cried the girl in the automobile. "you are ruth fielding." she was a brilliant, black-eyed, vivacious girl, perhaps a year or more older than ruth, and really handsome, having her brother's olive complexion with plenty of color in cheeks and lips. and that her nature was impulsive and frank there could be no doubt, for she immediately leaped out of the automobile, when it had stopped, and ran to embrace ruth. "thank you! thank you!" she cried. "doctor davison has told us all about you--and how brave you are! and see how fond reno is of you! he knows who found his master; don't you, reno?" "oh, dear me," said ruth, breathlessly, "doctor davison has been too kind. i did nothing at all toward finding your brother--i suppose he is your brother, miss?" "how dare you 'miss' me?" demanded the other girl, hugging her again. "you're a dear; i knew you must be! and i was running back and intended to stop at the red mill to see you. i took father to town this morning, as he had to take an early train to the city, and we wished to see tom again." "he--he isn't badly hurt, then--your brother, i mean?" said ruth, timidly. "he is going to stay at the doctor's to-day, and then he can come home. but he will carry his arm in a sling for a while, although no bone was broken, after all. his head is badly cut, but his hair will hide that. poor tom! he is always falling down, or getting bumped, or something. and he's just as reckless as he can be. father says he is not to be trusted with the car as much as i am." "how--how did he come to fall over that bank?" asked ruth, anxiously. "why--it was dark, i suppose. that was the way of it. i don't know as he really told me what made him do such a foolish thing. and wasn't it lucky reno was along with him?" cried tom's sister. "now, i see you remained in town over night. they thought somebody had come for yon and taken you out to the mill. is jabez potter really your uncle?" "yes. he was my mother's uncle. and i have no other relative." "well, dear, i am more than sorry for you," declared the girl from the automobile. "and now we will climb right in and i'll take you along to the mill." but whether she was sorry for ruth fielding's friendlessness, or sorry because she was related to jabez potter, the young traveler could not decide. chapter vi the red mill "now, my name's helen, and you are ruth," declared miss cameron, when she had carefully started the car once more. "we are going to be the very best of friends, and we might as well begin by telling each other all about ourselves. tom and i are twins and he is an awful tease! but, then, boys are. he is a good brother generally. we live in the first yellow house on the right--up among the trees--beyond mr. potter's mill--near enough so that we can run back and forth and see each other just lots." ruth found herself warmly drawn toward this vivacious miss. nor was she less frank in giving information about herself, her old home, in darrowtown, that she still wore black for her father, and that she had been sent by her friends to uncle jabez because he was supposed to be better able to take care of and educate her. helen listened very earnestly to the tale, but she shook her head at the end of it. "i don't know," she said. "i don't want to hurt your feelings, ruthie. but jabez potter isn't liked very well by people in general, although i guess he is a good miller. he is stingy--" "i must say it. he isn't given to kind actions, and i am surprised that he should have agreed to take and educate you. of course, he didn't have to." "i don't suppose he did have to," ruth said, slowly. "and it wasn't as though i couldn't have remained in darrowtown. but miss true pettis--" "miss true?" repeated helen, curiously. "short for truthful. her name is rechelsea truthful tomlinson pettis and she is the dearest little old spinster lady--much nicer than her name." "well!" ejaculated the amazed helen. "miss true isn't rich. indeed, she is very poor. so are patsy hope's folks--patsy is really patricia, but that's too long for her. and all the other folks that knew me about darrowtown had a hard time to get along, and most of them had plenty of children without taking another that wasn't any kin to them," concluded ruth, who was worldly wise in some things, and had seen the harder side of life since she had opened her eyes upon this world. "but your uncle is said to be a regular miser," declared helen, earnestly. "and he is so gruff and grim! didn't your friends know him?" "i guess they never saw him, or heard much about him," said ruth, slowly. "i'm sure i never did myself." "but don't you be afraid," said the other, warmly. "if he isn't good to you there are friends enough here to look out for you. i know doctor davison thinks you are very brave, and daddy will do anything for you that tom and i ask him to." "i am quite sure i shall get on nicely with uncle jabez," she said. "and then, there is aunt alvirah." "oh, yes. there is an old lady who keeps house for mr. potter. and she seems kind enough, too. but she acts afraid of mr. potter. i don't blame her, he is so grim." the automobile, wheeling so smoothly over the hard pike, just then was mounting a little hill. they came over the summit of this and there, lying before them, was the beautiful slope of farming country down to the very bank of the lumano river. fenced fields, tilled and untilled, checkered the slope, with here and there a white farmhouse with its group of outbuildings. there was no hamlet in sight, merely scattered farms. the river, swollen and yellow with the spring rains, swept upon its bosom fence rails, hen-coops, and other flotsam of a spring flood. yonder, at a crossing, part of the bridge had been carried away. "if the dam at minturn goes, we shall be flooded all through this low land again," helen cameron explained. "i remember seeing this valley covered with water once during the spring. but we live on the shoulder of mount burgoyne, and you see, even the mill sets on quite high ground." ruth's eyes had already seen and lingered upon the mill. it was a rambling structure, the great, splashing millwheel at the far end, the long warehouse in the middle, and the dwelling attached to the other end. there were barns, corn-cribs and other outbuildings as well, and some little tillable land connected with the mill; and all the buildings were vividly painted with red mineral paint, trimmed with white. so bright and sparkling was the paint that it seemed to have been put on over night. "mr. potter is considered a good miller," said helen, again; "and he does not neglect his property. he is not miserly in that way. there isn't a picket off the fence, or a hinge loose anywhere. he isn't at all what you consider a miser must be and look like; yet he is always hoarding money and never spends any. but indeed i do not tell you this to trouble you, ruthie. i want you to believe, my dear, that if you can't stand it at mr. potter's you can stand it at mr. cameron's--and you'll be welcome there. "our mother is dead. we talk of her a good deal, just as though she were living and had gone on a little journey somewhere, and we should see her again soon. god took her when tom and i were only a few weeks old; but daddy has made himself our playfellow and dear, dear friend; and there has always been nurse babette and mrs. murchiston--at least, mrs. murchiston has been with us since we can remember. but what daddy says is law, and he said this morning that he'd like to have a girl like you come to our house to be company for me. it gets lonely for me sometimes, you see, for tom doesn't want to play with girls much, now he is so big. perhaps next fall i'll go away to boarding school--won't that be fun?" "it will be fun for you, i hope, helen," said ruth, with rather a wistful smile. "i don't know where i shall go to school." "there is your uncle now!" exclaimed miss cameron. "see that man in the old dusty suit?" ruth had already seen the tall, stoop-shouldered figure, who looked as though he had been powdered with flour, coming down the short path from one of the open doors of the mill to the road, where a little, one horse wagon stood. he bore a bag of meal or flour on his shoulder which he pitched into the wagon. the man on the seat was speaking as the automobile came to a stop immediately behind the wagon. "jefers pelters! ef there's one thing yeou know how to do, it's to take toll, jabe. let the flour be poor, or good, there's little enough of it comes back to the man that raises the wheat." "you don't have to bring your wheat here, jasper parloe," said the miller, in a strong, harsh voice. "there is no law compels ye." "yah!" snarled old parloe. "we all know ye, jabe potter. we know what ye be." potter turned away. he had not noticed the two girls in the automobile. but now jasper parloe saw them. "ho!" he cried, "here's somebody else that will l'arn ter know ye, too. didn't know you was ter hev comp'ny; did ye, jabe? here's yer niece, jabe, come ter live on ye an' be an expense to ye," and so, chuckling and screwing up his mean, sly face, parloe drove on, leaving the miller standing with arms akimbo, and staring at ruth, who was slowly alighting from the automobile with her bag. helen squeezed her hand tightly as she got out "don't forget that we are your friends, ruthie," she whispered. "i'm coming by again this afternoon when i drive over to the station for father. if--if anything happens you be out here--now remember!" what could possibly happen to her, ruth could not imagine. she was not really afraid of uncle jabez. she walked directly to him, as he stood there, staring gloomily, in front of the red mill. he was not only tall and stoop-shouldered, and very dusty; but his dusty eyebrows almost met over his light blue eyes. he was lantern-jawed, and it did seem as though his dry, shaven lips had never in all his life wrinkled into a smile. his throat was wrinkled and scraggy and his head was plainly very bald on top, for the miller's cap he wore did not entirely cover the bald spot. "i am ruth fielding, from darrowtown," she said, in a voice that she controlled well. "i have come to--to live with you, uncle jabez." "where was you last night?" demanded the miller, without so much as returning her greeting. "was you with them camerons?" "i stayed all night with the station master," she said, in explanation. "what time did you get to the station?" ruth told him. never once did his voice change or his grim look relax. "i mistook the time of the train," he said, without expressing any sorrow. "i--i hope you will be glad to have me come," the said. "miss true--" "you mean that old maid that wrote to me?" he asked, harshly. "miss true pettis. she said she thought you would like to have me here as we were so near related." "not so near related as some," was all he said in reply to this. after a moment, he added: "you can go along to the house yonder. aunt alviry will show you what to do." ruth could not have said another word just then without breaking down and weeping, so she only nodded and turned to walk up a path toward the house door. "one thing," urged the old man, before she had gone far. she turned to look at him and he continued: "one thing i want you to understand, if you live here you have got to work. i don't like no laggards around me." she could only nod again, for her heart seemed to be right in her throat, and the sting of the tears she wanted to shed, but could not, almost blinded her as she went on slowly to the house door. chapter vii aunt alvirah's back and bones ruth came to the kitchen door and found that the lower half was closed; but she could see over the upper panel that had been flung wide to let in the sweet spring air and sunlight. a little old woman was stooping to brush the rag carpet with a whisk broom and dustpan, and as she hobbled around the big stove and around the table, which was already set neatly for dinner, she was crooning to herself: "oh, my back and oh, my bones! oh, my back and oh, my bones!" she was a very neat-looking old lady, with a kerchief crossed on her breast in the style of the old-fashioned quakeresses. she was not much taller than ruth herself, for when she stood upright--or as upright as she could stand--her eyes were just about on a level with ruth's eyes looking in over the half door. but the face of the old lady seemed, to the lonely, tear-filled girl, almost the gentlest, sweetest face she had ever seen, as it slowly smiled upon her. aunt alviry's welcome was like the daybreak. "bless us and save us!" ejaculated she, rising upright by degrees with her hand upon the back she had been apostrophizing. "if here isn't a pretty little creeter come to see her aunt alviry. how-de-do, girl?" ruth had set down her bag. now she opened the door and stepped in. the smile of the old lady broke down every bit of fortitude the girl had left and she walked directly into aunt alviry's arms and burst into tears. "there! there! deary, deary me!" murmured the little old lady, patting her shoulder. "somebody has been treating you badly, i know. and you've come right to your aunt alviry for comfort. and you've come to the right place, my pretty girl, for i've got tons of comfort for ye." she found a chair and lowered herself into it, not without the formula which ruth had heard before, of "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" ruth dropped on her knees before her, hid her face in the old lady's lap, and had her cry out. meanwhile aunt alvirah seemed to have taken in several things about her guest that were significant. she touched the stuff of which ruth's gown was made, and nodded; even the black hair-ribbon did not go unnoticed. "now," said ruth, rising after a few moments, "i guess that's all of that foolishness. i--i don't usually cry, aunt alvirah." "pshaw, now! i could tell that," said the old lady, comfortably. "i am going right to work to help you," said the girl. "i can stoop better than you can." "i expect you can, you pretty creeter," admitted the old lady. ruth had already taken the brush and pan and was at work upon the floor. the lady said: "you ain't familiar to me, child. you've lost some folks lately, i see. do you live 'round here?" the little girl stopped and looked up at her in surprise. "why, don't you know about it?" she cried. "know about what, child?" "didn't you know i had come here to live with you?" "bless us and save us!" ejaculated aunt alvirah. "how did that happen?" "didn't my uncle tell you?" cried ruth, much more surprised than the old lady. "who's your uncle, child?" "why, mr. potter--uncle jabez." so astonished did the old lady appear to be that she started from her chair and her ejaculation was changed to a moan of pain as she murmured her old formula: "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" "jabez ain't said a word to me about it. why should he take anybody to help me? is he struck with the fear o' his latter end?" she said this in no cross-grained way, but because she was so amazed. she likewise stared harder and harder at her visitor. "you ain't come from the poor farm, child?" she asked, finally. the flush upon ruth's cheek and the expression which came into her face told aunt alviry that she was wrong there. "not that you look like poorhouse breed--not at all. you're too pretty dressed and you're too well fed. i know what they be there, for i have been there myself. yes, ma'am! jabez potter came after me to the poor farm. i was sickly, too. there's them that said he went to doctor davison first to find out if i was goin' to git well before he come arter me; but jabez ain't never treated me noways but kind. starn he is--by natur and by practice; an' clost he is in money matters. but he's been good to an old woman without a home who warn't neither kith nor kin to him." ruth listened to the first good word she had heard of uncle jabez, and the speech comforted her somewhat. perhaps there was something better within the rough husk of uncle jabez, after all. "i did not live near here," ruth said, quietly. "but my papa and mama did. i came from darrowtown." aunt alviry opened wide her bright brown eyes, and still stared in wonder. "my mother's name was mary potter, and she was mr. potter's niece. so he is my great-uncle." "bless us and save us!" ejaculated aunt alviry, again, shaking her head. "i never heard a word of it--never! i 'member mary potter, and a sweet, pretty child she was. but jabez never had no fondness for any of his kin. you--you are all alone in the world, child?" "all alone save for uncle jabez." she had come near to the old woman again. as she dropped quietly on her knees aunt alviry gathered her head close to her bosom; but ruth did not weep any more. she only said: "i know i shall love you very, very much, dear aunt alvirah. and i hope i shall help your back and your bones a great deal, too!" chapter viii hoarding up: passions--money--water this was ruth fielding's introduction to the red mill, its occupants, and its surroundings. the spot was, indeed, beautiful, and an hour after she had arrived she knew that she would love it. the lumano river was a wide stream and from the little window of the chamber that aunt alviry said would be her own, she could look both up and down the river for several miles. uncle jabez had a young man to help him in the mill. it was true, aunt alviry said, that jasper parloe had worked for some time at the red mill; but he was quarrelsome and mr. potter had declared he was not honest. when the mill owner was obliged to be absent and people had come to have corn or wheat ground, paying for the milling instead of giving toll, jasper had sometimes kept the money instead of turning it over to mr. potter. this had finally resulted in a quarrel between the two, and mr. potter had discharged parloe without paying him for his last month's work. the young newcomer had learned a great deal about the big mill and the homestead, and about the work aunt alviry had to do, before the first meal was prepared. she was of much assistance, too, and when uncle jabez came in, after washing at the pump, but bringing a cloud of flour with him on his clothes, the old woman was seated comfortably in her chair and ruth "dished up the dinner." at the end of his meal her uncle spoke just once to ruth. "you have l'arned to work, i see. your aunt alviry has trouble with her back and bones. if you make yourself of use to her you can stay here. i expect all cats to catch mice around the red mill. them that don't goes into the sluice. there's enough to do here. you won't be idle for want of work." and this was every word of his welcome, in a tone that showed neither interest nor care for the girl. it was what help she could be and how much he could save by her. it was plain enough that uncle jabez potter was as saving as a person could possibly be. there was none too much food on the table, and ruth watched the ravenous hunger of the hired man, when he came in, with a feeling as though she were watching a half-starved dog at his meal. jabez potter was not like the misers ruth had read about, save in his personal appearance. he was not well dressed, nor was he very clean. but naturally the mill-dust would stick to him and to his clothing. it seemed to have worked into the very texture of his skin during all the years he had controlled the mill, until he was all of a dead gray. sometimes there were half a dozen wagons or buggies waiting at the mill, and not all of them gave toll for their milling. ruth, in the afternoon, and because it had begun to rain and she could not go out, went into the mill to quench her curiosity regarding it. she saw that there was a tiny office over the water, with a fireproof safe in it. her uncle brought the money he took from his customers and put it in a little locked, japanned box, which he kept upon a shelf. the safe appeared to be full of ledgers. farther down the mill was a wide door and platform overhanging the water (this was below the dam) where flour and meal could be loaded upon barges for transportation to osago lake, some miles away. there were great bins of wheat and corn, many elevator pipes, several mills turning all the time, grinding different grains, and a great corn-sheller that went by power, and which the young man fed when he had nothing else to do. all the time the building trembled and throbbed, and this throbbing was communicated to the house. as she sat with aunt alvirah, and sewed carpet-rags for a braided mat, the distant thunder of the mills and the trembling of the machinery made the whole house vibrate. late in the afternoon ruth heard the honking of an auto horn and ran out upon the covered porch. between the scuds of rain that drove along the valley she saw the gray automobile coming slowly past the mill. there was a man driving it now, and he stopped and let helen cameron out so that she could run up to great ruth under the shelter of the porch. "oh, you dear! how are you getting on?" cried helen, kissing her impulsively and as glad to see ruth as though they had been separated for days instead of for only a few hours. "colfax wanted to drive down to the station alone for daddy--for we won't bring poor tom home in this rain--but i just couldn't resist coming to see how you were getting on." she looked around with big eyes. "how does the ogre treat you?" she whispered. but ruth could laugh now and did so, saying, cheerfully: "he hasn't eaten me up yet! and aunt alvirah is the dearest little lady who ever lived." "she likes you, then?" "of course she does." "i knew she would, she was bound to love you. but i don't know about the ogre," and she shook her head. "but there! i must run. we don't want to be late for the train. that will put daddy out. and i must stop and see tom at the doctor's, too." "i hope you will find your brother ever so mach better," cried ruth, as her friend ran down the walk again. "you'll see him come by here to-morrow, if it quits raining," returned helen, over her shoulder. but it did not stop raining that night, nor for a full week. the scuds of rain, blowing across the river, slapped sharply against the side of the house, and against ruth's window all night. she did not sleep that first night as well as she had in the charitable home of the station master and his good wife. the evening meal had been as stiff and unpleasant as the noon meal. the evening was spent in the same room-- the kitchen. aunt alviry knitted and sewed; uncle jabez pored over certain accounts and counted money very softly behind the uplifted cover of the japanned cash-box that he had brought in from the mill. she got in time to know that cash-box very well indeed. it often came into the house under uncle jabez's arm at dinner, too. he scarcely seemed willing to trust it out of his sight. and ruth was sure that he locked himself into his room with it at night. a loaded shotgun lay upon rests over the kitchen door all the time, and there was a big, two-barreled, muzzle-loading pistol on the stand beside uncle jabez's bed. ruth was much more afraid of these loaded weapons than she was of burglars. but the old man evidently expected to be attacked for his wealth at some time although, aunt alvirah told her, nobody had ever troubled him in all the years she had lived at the red mill. so it was not fear of marauders that kept ruth so wakeful on this first night under her uncle's roof. she thought of all the kind friends she had left in darrowtown, and her long journey here, and her cold welcome to what she supposed would be her future home. without helen, and without aunt alvirah, she knew she would have gotten up, put on her clothing, packed her bag, and run away in the rain to some other place. she could not have stood uncle jabez alone. jabez potter was hoarding up something besides money, too. ruth did not understand this until it had already rained several days, and the roaring of the waters fretting against the river banks and against the dam, had become all but deafening in her ears. then, during a lull in the storm, and on the afternoon that tom cameron was taken home from dr. davison's, the old doctor himself stopped at the mill and shouted for jabez to come out. the doctor drove a very fast red and white mare and had difficulty in holding her in, for she was eager to be moving. uncle jabez came out and seemed to look upon the doctor in no very friendly way. ruth, standing at the open door of the kitchen, could hear dr. davison's voice plainly. "jabez," he said, "do you know how the river is at minturn?" "no," returned the miller, briefly. "it's higher than it's ever been. that dam is not safe. why don't you let your water out so that, if minturn should break, she'd have free sweep here and so do less damage below? let this small flood out and when the greater one comes there'll be less danger of a disaster." "and how do i know the minturn dam will burst, dr. davison?" asked mr. potter, tartly. "you don't know it. i'm only advising that precaution." "and if it don't burst i'll have my pains for my trouble--and no water for the summer, perhaps. they wouldn't let me have water later, if i needed it." "but you're risking your own property here." "and it's mine to risk, dr. davison," said potter, in his sullen way. "but there are other people to think of--" "i don't agree with you," interrupted the miller. "i have enough to do to attend to my own concerns. i don't bother about other people's business." "meaning that i do when i speak to you about the water; eh?" said the old doctor, cheerfully. "well, i've done my duty. you'll learn some time, jabez." he let out the impatient mare then, and the mud spattered from his wheels as he flew up the road toward cheslow. chapter ix the crest of the wave the rain could not last forever; nature must cease weeping some time. just as girls, far away from their old homes and their old friends, must cease wetting their pillows with regretful tears after a time, and look forward to the new interests and new friends to which they have come. not that ruth wept much. but the rainy days of that first week were necessarily trying. on saturday, however, came a clear day. the sun shone, the drenched trees shook themselves, and the wind came and blew softly and warmly through their branches to dry the tender foliage. the birds popped out of their hiding-places and began to sing and chirp as though they never could be glad enough for this change in the weather. there was so much to see from the kitchen door at the red mill that ruth did not mind her work that morning. she had learned now to help aunt alvirah in many ways. not often did the old lady have to go about moaning her old refrain: "oh, my back and oh, my bones! oh, my back and oh, my bones!" the housework was all done and the kitchen swept and as neat as a new pin when the gay tooting of the cameron automobile horn called ruth to the porch. there was only helen on the front seat of the car; but in the tonneau was a bundled-up figure surmounted by what looked to be a scarlet cap which ruth knew instantly must be tom's. ruth did not know many boys and, never having had a brother, was not a little bashful. besides, she was afraid tom cameron would make much of her connection with his being found on the wilkins corners road that dark night, after his accident. and there was another thing that made ruth feel diffident about approaching the boy. she had borne it all the time in her mind, and the instant she saw tom in the automobile it bobbed up to the surface of her thought again. "it was jabe potter--he did it." so, for more reasons than one, ruth approached the motor car with hesitation. "oh, ruth!" cried helen, putting out a gauntleted hand to her. "so this horrid rain has not washed you away? you won't like the red mill if the weather keeps this way. and how do you get on?" she added, lowering her voice. "how about the ogre?" "he has not ground me into bread-flour yet," responded ruth, smiling. "i see he hasn't. you're just as plump as ever, so he hasn't starved you, either. now, ruth, i want you to know my brother tom, whom you have met before without his having been aware of it at the time," and she laughed again. tom's left arm was in a sling, and the scarlet bandage around his head made him look like a pirate; but he grinned broadly at ruth and put out his lean brown hand. "when i heard about you, miss fielding, i knew you were a spunky one," he said. "and anybody that reno takes to, the way she did to you, is all right. besides, nell is just spoons on you already, and nell, like reno, doesn't take to every girl." "the doctor said an outing in the car wouldn't hurt tom," went on helen, "and we're going to run up the valley road a way. now ruth fielding, you get your hat and coat and come with us." "i don't know that i may," ruth said, timidly. "i'll believe that he is an ogre then, and that you are kept a prisoner in this awful castle," cried helen. "i'd love to go," murmured ruth. "then run and ask," urged her friend, while tom added, good-naturedly: "yes, why not come along? don't be afraid of nell's driving. she handles the car all right." ruth knew that uncle jabez had gone to town. she had a feeling that he did not like the camerons and might oppose her friendliness with them. but he was not at hand now to interfere with her innocent pleasures. she went in and asked aunt alvirah if she could take the ride. "why not, child? you've been the very best helpmate ever an old woman had--oh, my back and oh, my bones! run along and have your fun, deary. you need not be back till supper time. you have earned your little outing, that's sure and sartain." before helen had picked her up on the road to the red mill that first day, ruth had never ridden in a motor car. on that occasion they had traveled very slowly, while the girls talked. but now, when she was seated beside her new friend, helen ran the auto on its high gear, and they shot away up the level river road at a pace that almost took ruth's breath away. "up here among the foothills is the big minturn pond dam," tom said, leaning forward to speak to their guest. "it's twenty miles above your uncle's dam and is a deal bigger. and some say it is not safe--wait, nell! slow down so that we can see the face of the dam from the overlook." the speed of the car was immediately reduced under helen's manipulation, and then she swerved it into a short side road running toward the river, and they came out upon a little graveled plaza in the center of a tiny park, which gave a splendid view of the valley in both directions. but the young people in the motor car turned their eyes to the west. there the face of the minturn dam could be discerned; and even as they looked at it they seemed to see it changing--dissolving, covered with mist, and spouting geysers of what at first seemed like smoke. but it was tom who realized the truth. "she's burst!" he cried. "the old dam's burst! there she goes in a dozen places!" although they were several miles down the valley, the thunder of the bursting masonry now echoed in their ears. and up from the bottom of the wall, near its center, a great geyser spouted. in a moment the wall crumbled and they saw tons upon tons of the masonry melt away. the waters of the pond burst through in a solid flood and charged down the valley, spreading wider and wider as it charged on, and bearing upon its crest every light and unstable structure found in its path. it was a startling--a terrifying sight. no wonder the two girls cried out in alarm and clung together. the sight of the charging flood fascinated them. but then they were aroused--and that within the first half minute of their terror--by tom. he was trying, crippled as he was, to climb over into their seat. "what are you doing, you foolish boy?" cried helen. "sit down." "we've got to get out of here!" muttered the excited youth. "why, we are safe here. the water will never rise to this height." "i know it! i know it!" groaned tom, falling back in his seat and paling because of the pain from his arm, which he had twisted. "but don't you see? there are many down the valley who won't know of this until too late. why, they can't see it at the bridge--at culm falls-- until the flood is right upon them." "it's true!" gasped helen. "what shall we do?" "we must warn them--we can warn them, can't we?" demanded ruth. "this car runs so fast--you control it so well, helen. can't we warn them?" "try it, sis!" shouted tom. "you can do it!" and already his sister, setting her teeth hard upon her lower lip, was backing and turning the motor car. in twenty seconds they were dashing off upon the track over which they had so recently come--on the road down the valley with the flood following fast behind them. chapter x the race the two girls on the front seat of the flying automobile were not prepared for racing. of course, ruth fielding had no proper automobile outfit, and helen had not expected such an emergency when she had started with her crippled brother for this afternoon run. she had no goggles, nor any mask; but she had the presence of mind to raise the wind-shield. already they could have heard the steady roaring of the advancing flood had not the racing motor car drowned all other sounds. there was, however, no need to look behind; they knew the wave was there and that it was sweeping down the valley of the lumano with frightful velocity. indeed, they were not at all sure for those first few miles whether they were traveling as fast as the flood, or not. suppose the wave should reach and sweep away the bridge before they could cross the river? the thought was in the mind of both helen and ruth, whether tom, on the rear seat, considered it or not. when they finally shot out of the woods and turned toward the toll-bridge, all glanced around. from here the upper reaches of the lumano were plainly revealed. and extending clear across the valley was the foam-crested wave charging down upon the lowlands, but a number of miles away. here was the first house, too. they saw a man and woman and several children out front, staring at the automobile as it raced down the road. perhaps they had been called from the house by the vibration of the bursting dam. tom sprang up in the car and pointed behind him, yelling: "the flood! the flood!" it is doubtful if they heard what he said; and they, too, were on a knoll and likely out of the reach of the water. but the three in the automobile saw the whole family turn and run for the higher ground behind their house. they understood the peril which menaced the whole valley. in a flash the auto had turned the bend in the river road, and the occupants saw the toll-bridge and the peaceful hamlet of culm falls. there was no stir there. the toll-bridge keeper was not even out of his cottage, and the light and flimsy gates were down across the driveway at either end of the bridge. the bend in the river hid the advancing wall of water. perhaps, too, it deadened the sound of the bursting dam and the roar of the waters. there was another house at the bend. helen tooted the automobile horn as though it had gone crazy. the raucous notes must of a certainty have awakened anybody but the seven sleepers. but the three in the car saw no sign of life about the premises. helen had started to slow down; but tom stopped her with a hand on her arm. "not here! not here!" he yelled. "get across the river first, nell! that wave is coming!" indeed it was. and the toll-bridge keeper did not appear, and the gates were shut. but helen cameron was excited now and her racing blood was up. she never hesitated at the frail barrier, but drove straight through it, smashing the gate to kindling wood, and smashing their own wind shield as well. out ran the toll-man then; but they were half way across the bridge; he could barely have raised the other gate had he set about it instantly. so they went through that, too, leaving him bawling and shrieking after them, but soon to learn by looking up the river what tom meant by his excited words as the motor car swept by. helen slowed down at the smithy. there were several men there and a number of wagons. the trio in the car screamed at them: "the dam has burst! the flood is coming!" and then started up again and swept through the little village, looking back to see the group at the smithy running in all directions to give the alarm. now the road, clear to the red mill and beyond, ran within sight of the river. the mill was all of ten miles away. the valley was low here and as far as they could see ahead it broadened considerably on this side of the lumano. but the hills arose abruptly on the farther bank and all the force and mass of the flood must sweep across these meadows. as the car moved on, helen tooted the horn constantly. its blasts alone should have warned people of what threatened, without tom's frantic shouts and gesticulations. they were obliged, however, to slow down before several houses to make the occupants understand their danger. they were not half way to the red mill when the roar of the advancing tidal wave was apparent even above the noise of the auto. then they saw the crest of the flood appear around the bend and the already heavily burdened waters dashed themselves upon the toll-bridge. it crumpled up and disappeared like a spider-web bridge, and the flood rolled on, the wave widening and overflowing the lowlands behind the automobile. ahead of them now upon the road there was a single foot-passenger--a man carrying a heavy basket. he seemed so far from the higher ground, and so determined to keep to the road, that ruth cried out and laid her hand upon helen's arm. the latter nodded and shut off the engine so that the automobile ran down and almost stopped by this pedestrian. "here, you!" shouted tom, from the tonneau. "get in here quick! there's no time to lose!" much of what he said was lost in the roaring of the waters; but the fellow understood him well enough, and scrambled into the car with his basket. it was jasper parloe, and the old man was shaking as with palsy. "my goodness gracious!" he croaked, falling back in the seat as the car darted away again. "ain't this awful? ain't this jest awful?" he was too scared, one would have supposed, to think of much else than the peril of the flood sweeping the valley behind them; yet he stared up at tom cameron again and again as the auto hurried them on toward the safety of the higher ground about the red mill, and there was something very sly in his look. "ye warn't hurt so bad then, arter all, was ye, master cameron?" he croaked. "i reckon i shall live to get over it," returned the boy, shortly. "but no thanks to jabe potter--heh? ha! i know, i know!" tom stared in return angrily, but the old man kept shaking his head and smiling up at him slily and in such a significant way that, had the boy not been so disturbed by what was going on behind them, he certainly would have demanded to know what the old fellow meant. but the car was getting close to the long hill that mounted to the crest on which the red mill stood. how much better would it have been for jabez potter and all concerned had he taken doctor davison's advice and let out the water behind his dam! but now he was not even at home to do anything before the thousands upon thousands of tons of water from the minturn reservoir swept through the red mill dam. they saw the foaming, yellow water spread over the country behind them; but within half a mile of the mill it gathered into narrower compass again because of the nature of the land, and the wave grew higher as it rushed down upon potter's dam. the motor car puffed up the hill and halted before the mill door. "will we be safe here, tom?" cried helen, as pale as a ghost now, but too brave to give way. "are we safe?" "we're all right, i believe," said tom. jasper parloe was already out of the car and ran into the mill. only the hired man was there, and he came to the door with a face whiter than it was naturally made by the flour dust. "come in, quick!" he cried to the young people. "this mill can't go-- it's too solid." beyond the red mill the ground was low again; had the camerons tried to keep on the road for home the flood would have overtaken the car. and to take the road that branched off for cheslow would have endangered the car, too. in a few seconds the knoll on which the mill stood was an island! the girls and tom ran indoors. they could hardly hear each other shout during the next few minutes. the waters rose and poured over the dam, and part of it was swept out. great waves beat upon the river-wall of the mill. and then, with a tearing crash of rent timbers and masonry, the front of the little office and the storeroom, built out over the river, was torn away. from that quarter jasper parloe ran, yelling wildly. ruth saw him dart out of the far door of the mill, stooping low and with his coat over his head as though he expected the whole structure to fall about his ears. but only that wall and the loading platform for the boats were sliced off by the flood. then the bulk of the angry waters swept past, carrying all sorts of debris before it, and no farther harm was done to the mill, or to mr. potter's other buildings. chapter xi uncle jabez is excited so rapidly had all this taken place that the girls had remained in the mill. but now ruth, crying: "aunt alvirah will be frightened to death, helen!" led the way down the long passage and through the shed into the kitchen porch. the water on this side of the building had swept up the road and actually into the yard; but the automobile stood in a puddle only and was not injured. aunt alviry was sitting in her rocker by the window. the old woman was very pale and wan. she had her bible open on her knees and her lips trembled in a smile of welcome when the girls burst into the room. "oh, my dears! my dears!" she cried. "i am so thankful to see you both safe!" she started to rise, and the old phrase came to her lips: "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" then she rose and hobbled across the room. her bright little, birdlike eyes, that had never yet known spectacles, had seen something up the cheslow road. "who's this a-coming? for the land's sake, what recklessness! is that jabez and his mules, ruthie? bless us and save us! what's he going to try and do?" the two girls ran to the door. down the hill thundered a farm wagon drawn by a pair of mules, said mules being on the dead run while their driver stood in the wagon and snapped his long, blacksnake whip over their ears. such a descent of the hill was reckless enough in any case; but now, at the foot, rolled the deep water. it had washed away a little bridge that spanned what was usually a rill, but the banks of this stream being overflowed for yards on either side, the channel was at least ten feet deep. it was jabez potter driving so recklessly down the hill from cheslow. "oh, oh!" screamed the old lady. "jabez will be killed! oh, my back and oh, my bones! oh, deary, deary me!" she had crossed the porch and was hobbling down the steps. her rheumatic twinges evidently caused her excruciating pain, but the fear she felt for the miller's safety spurred her to get as far as the fence. and there ruth and helen kept her from splashing into the muddy water that covered the road. "you can do no good, aunt alvirah!" cried ruth. "the mules are not running away with him, mrs. boggs," urged helen. "they'll kill him! he's crazy! it's his money--the poor, poor man!" it was evident that aunt alvirah read the miller's excitement aright. ruth remembered the cash-box and wondered if it had been left in the mill while her uncle went to cheslow? however that might be, her attention--indeed, the attention of everybody about the mill--was held by the reckless actions of mr. potter. it was not fifteen minutes after the wave had hit the mill and torn away a part of the outer office wall and the loading platform, or wharf, when the racing mules came down to the turbulent stream that lay between the cheslow road and the red mill. the frightened animals would have balked at the stream, but the miller, still standing in the wagon, coiled the whip around his head and then lashed out with it, laying it, like a tongue of living fire, across the mules' backs. they were young animals and they had been unused, until this day, to the touch of the blacksnake. they leaped forward with almost force enough to break out of their harness, but landing in the deep water with the wagon behind them. so far out did they leap that they went completely under and the wagon dipped until the body was full of water. but there stood the miller, upright and silent, plying the whip when they came to the surface, and urging them on. ruth had noticed before this that uncle jabez was not cruel to his team, or to his other animals; but this was actual brutality. however, the mules won through the flood. the turgid stream was not wide and it was not a long fight. but there was the peril of mules, wagon and man being swept out into the main stream of the flood and carried over the dam. "he is awful! awful!" murmured helen, in ruth's ear, as they clung together and watched the miller and his outfit come through and the mules scramble out upon solid ground. the miller had brought his half-mad team to the mill and pulled the mules down right beside the cameron's automobile. already the young fellow who worked for him had flown out of the mill to jabez's assistance. he seized the frightened mules by their bits. "how much has gone, boy?" cried jabez, in a strained, hoarse voice. "not much, boss. only a part of the office an'--" the miller was already in at the door. in a moment, it seemed, he was back again, having seen the damage done by the flood to his building. but that damage was comparatively slight. it should not have caused the old man to display such profound despair. he wrung his hands, tore off his hat and stamped upon it on the walk, and behaved in such a manner that it was little wonder helen cameron was vastly frightened. he seemed beside himself with rage and despair. ruth, herself torn by conflicting emotions, could not bear to see the old man so convulsed with what seemed to be anguish of spirit, without offering her sympathy. during this week that she had been at the red mill it could not be said that she had gained uncle jabez's confidence--that she had drawn close to him at all. but it was not for a will on her part to do so. the girl now left aunt alvirah and helen on the porch and walked straight down to the old man. she was beside him, with a hand upon his arm, before he was aware of her coming. he stared at her so angrily--with such an expression of rage and hopelessness upon his face--that she was held speechless for a moment. "what do you know about it, girl?" he demanded, hoarsely. "about what, uncle?" she returned. "the box--the cash-box--my money!" he cried, in a low voice. "do you know anything about it? was it saved?" "oh, uncle! we only got here in the automobile just in time to escape the flood. the office was wrecked at that very moment. was the box there?" "gone! gone!" he murmured, shaking his head; and turning on his heel, he strode into the mill. the boy had taken the mules around to the stable. ruth hesitated, then followed the old man into the mill. there jabez confronted tom cameron, sitting on a sack of meal and watching the turbid waters falling over the dam. "ha! young cameron," muttered uncle jabez. "you didn't see the cash-box, of course?" "where was it?" asked tom, quietly. "in that office--on a shelf, with an old coat thrown over it. i believed it to be as safe there as in the house with nobody but an old woman to guard it." "better put your money in the bank, sir," said tom, coolly. "and have some sleek and oily scoundrel steal it, eh?" snarled uncle jabez. "well, the water stole it, i reckon," tom said. "i'm sorry for you if there was much money in the box. but i know nothing about it. jasper parloe might have saved the box had he known about it; he was over there by the office when the water tore away the wall." "jasper parloe!" ejaculated uncle jabez, starting. "was he here?" "he wasn't here long," chuckled tom. "he thought the mill was going and he lit out in a hurry." uncle jabez made another despairing gesture and walked away. ruth followed him and her hands closed upon the toil-hardened fist clenched at his side. "i'm sorry, uncle," she whispered. he suddenly stared down at her. "there! i believe you be, child. but your being sorry can't help it none. the money's gone--hard it come and it's hard to part with in this way." "was it a large sum, uncle?" "all the ready cash i had in the world. every cent i owned. that boy said, put it in a bank. i lost money when the cheslow bank failed forty year ago. i don't get caught twice in the same trap--no, sir! i've lost more this time; but no dishonest blackleg will have the benefit of it, that's sure. the river's got it, and nobody will ever be a cent the better off for it. all! all gone!" he jerked his hand away from ruth's sympathetic pressure and walked moodily away. chapter xii the catastrophe this was the beginning of some little confidence between ruth and uncle jabez. he had not been quite so stern and unbending, even in his passion, as before. he said nothing more about the lost cash-box-- aunt alviry dared not even broach the subject--but ruth tried to show him in quiet ways that she was sorry for his loss. uncle jabez was not a gentle man, however; his voice being so seldom heard did not make it the less rough and passionate. there were times when, because of his black looks, ruth did not even dare address him. and there was one topic she longed to address him upon very much indeed. she wanted to go to school. she had always been quick at her books, and had stood well in the graded school of darrowtown. there was a schoolhouse up the road from the red mill--not half a mile away; this district school was a very good one and the teacher had called on aunt alvirah and ruth liked her very much. the flood had long since subsided and the repairs to the mill and the dam were under way. uncle jabez grew no more pleasant, however, for the freshet had damaged his dam so that all the water had to be let out and he might go into midsummer with such low pressure behind the dam that he could not run the mill through the drouth. this possibility, together with the loss of the cash-box, made him--even aunt alvirah admitted--"like a dog with a sore head." nevertheless ruth determined to speak to him about the school. she chose an evening when the kitchen was particularly bright and homelike and her uncle had eaten his supper as though he very much enjoyed it. there was no cash-box for him to be absorbed in now; but every evening he made countless calculations in an old ledger which he took to bed with him with as much care as he had the money-box. before he opened his ledger on this evening, however, ruth stood beside him and put a hand upon his arm. "uncle," she said, bravely, "can i go to school?" he stared at her directly for a moment, from under his heavy brows; but her own gaze never wavered. "how much schoolin' do you want?" he demanded, harshly. "if you please uncle jabez, all i can get," replied ruth. "ha! readin', writin', an' mighty little 'rithmatic--we called 'em 'the three r's '--did for me when i was a boy. the school tax they put onto me ev'ry year is something wicked. and i never had chick nor child to go to their blamed old school." "let me go, uncle, and so get some of your money back that way," ruth said, quickly, and smiling in her little, birdlike way with her head on one side. "ha! i don't know about that," he growled, shaking his head. "i don't see what i'll be makin' out of it." "perhaps i can help you later, if you'll let me learn enough," she urged. "i can learn enough arithmetic to keep your books. i'll try real hard." "i don't know about that," he said, again, eyeing her suspiciously. "the little money i make i kin keep watch of--when i'm here to watch it, that is. there ain't no book-keeping necessary in my business. and then--there's your aunt alviry. she needs you." "don't you go for to say that, jabez," interposed the old woman, briskly. "that child's the greatest help that ever was; but she can do all that's necessary before and arter school, and on saturdays. she's a good smart child, jabez. let her have a chance to l'arn." "ain't no good ever come of books," muttered the miller. "oh, uncle! just let me show you," begged the girl, in her earnestness clinging to his arm with both hands. he looked down for a moment at her hands as though he would fling off her hold. but he thought better of it, and waited fully a minute before he spoke. "you know your aunt alviry needs ye," he said. "if you kin fix it with her, why i don't see as i need object." "will it be too much trouble for you to get my trunk, uncle, so that i can begin going to school next week?" ruth asked. "ain't you got nothin' to wear to school?" he said. "it's dress; is it? beginning that trouble airly; ain't ye?" he seemed to be quite cross again, and the girl looked at him in surprise. "dear uncle! you will get the trunk from the station, won't you?" "no i won't," he said. "because why? because i can't." "you can't?" she gasped, and even aunt alvirah looked startled. "that's what i said." "why--why can't you?" cried ruth. "has something happened to my trunk?" "that's jest it--and it warn't no fault o' mine," said the miller. "i got the trunk like i said i would and it was in the wagon when we came down the hill yonder. "oh, oh!" gasped ruth, her hands clasped. "you don't mean when you ran the mules into the water, uncle?" "i had to get to my mill. i didn't know what was being done over here," he said, uglily. "and didn't i lose enough? what's the loss of some old rags, and a trunk, 'side of my money?" he said it with such force, and with so angry a gesture, that she shrank back from him. but her pain and disappointment were so strong that she had to speak. "and the trunk was washed out of the wagon, uncle jabez? it's gone?" "that's what happened to it, i suppose," he grunted, and dropping his head, opened the ledger and began to study the long lines of figures there displayed. not a word to show that he was sorry for her loss. no appreciation of the girl's pain and sorrow. he selfishly hugged to him the misfortune of his own loss and gave no heed to ruth. but aunt alvirah caught her hand as she passed swiftly. the old woman carried the plump little hand to her lips in mute sympathy, and then ruth broke away even from her and ran upstairs to her room. there she cast herself upon the bed and, with her sobs smothered in the pillows, gave way to the grief that had long been swelling her heart to the bursting point. chapter xiii butter and buttercups such little keepsakes as remained of her father and mother--their photographs, a thin old bracelet, her mother's wedding ring, her father's battered silver watch had fortunately been in ruth's bag. those keepsakes had been too precious to risk in the trunk and in the baggage car. and how glad the girl was now that she had thus treasured these things. but the loss of the trunk, with all her clothing --common though that clothing had been--was a disaster that ruth could not easily get over. she cried herself to sleep that night and in the morning came down with a woebegone face indeed. uncle jabez did not notice her, and even aunt alvirah did not comment upon her swollen eyes and tear-streaked countenance. but the old woman, if anything, was kinder than ever to her. it was saturday, and butter day. uncle jabez owned one cow, and since ruth had come to the mill it was her work twice a week to churn the butter. the churn was a stone crock with a wooden dasher and ruth had just emptied in the thick cream when helen cameron ran in. "oh, ruth!" she cried. "you're always busy--especially if i chance to want you at all particularly." "if you will be a drone yourself, helen, you must expect to be always hunting company," laughed ruth. "just what is troubling miss cameron at present?" "we're going to dress the cove chapel for to-morrow. you know, i told you our guild attends to the decoration of the chapel and i've just set my heart on making a great pillow of buttercups. the fields are full of them. and tom says he'll help. now, you'll come; won't you?" "if i come for buttercups it will have to be after the butter comes!" returned ruth, laughing. she had begun to beat the dasher up and down and little particles of cream sprayed up through the hole in the cover of the jar, around the handle of the dasher. helen looked on with growing interest. "and is that the way to make butter?" she asked. "and the cream's almost white. our butter is yellow--golden. just as golden as the buttercups. do you color it?" "not at this time of year. i used to help miss true make butter. she had a cow. she said i was a good butter maker. you see, it's all in the washing after the butter comes. you wait and see." "but i want to pick buttercups--and tom is waiting down by the bridge." "can't help it. butter before buttercups," declared ruth, keeping the dasher steadily at work. "and then, aunt alvirah may want me for something else before dinner." "we've got dinner with us--or, tom has. at least, babette put us up a basket of lunch." "oh! a picnic!" cried ruth, flushing with pleasure. this visit had driven out of her mind --for the time, at least--her trouble of overnight. "i'm going to ask aunt alviry for you," went on helen, and skipped away to find the little old woman who, despite the drawback of "her back and her bones" was a very neat and particular housekeeper. she was back in a few moments. "she says you can go, just as soon as you get the butter made. now, hurry up, and let us get into the buttercup field, which is a whole lot nicer than the butter churn and--oh! it smells much nicer, too. why, ruth, that cream actually smells sour!" "i expect it is sour," laughed her friend. "didn't you know that sweet butter comes from sour cream? and that most nice things are the result of hard work? the sweet from the bitter, you know." "my! how philosophical we are this morning. isn't that butter ever coming?" "impatience! didn't you ever have to wait for anything you wanted in your life?" "why, i've got to wait till next fall before i go to briarwood hall. that's a rhyme, ruthie; it's been singing itself over and over in my mind for days. i'm really going to boarding school in the autumn. it's decided. tom is going to the military academy on the other side of osago lake. he'll be within ten miles of briarwood." ruth's face had lost its brightness as helen said this. the word "school" had brought again to the girl's mind her own unfortunate position and uncle jabez's unkindness. "i hope you will have a delightful time at briarwood," ruth said, softly. "i expect i shall miss you dreadfully." "oh, suppose the ogre should send you to school there, too!" cried helen, with clasped hands. "wouldn't that be splendid!" "that would be beyond all imagination," said ruth, shaking her head. "i--i don't know that i shall be able to attend the balance of the term here." "why not?" demanded helen. "won't he let you?" "he has said i could." ruth could say no more just then. she hid her face from her friend, but made believe that it was the butter that occupied her attention. the dasher began to slap, slap, slap suggestively in the churn and little particles of beaten cream began to gather on the handle of the dasher. "oh!" cried helen. "it's getting hard!" "the butter is coming. now a little cold water to help it separate. and then you shall have a most delicious glass of buttermilk." "no, thank you!" cried helen. "they say it's good for one to drink it. but i never do like anything that's good for me." "give it to me, ruth," interposed another voice, and tom put a smiling face around the corner of the well. "i thought you were never coming, miss flyaway," he said, to his sister. "butter before buttercups, young man," responded helen, primly. "we must wait for ruth to--er--wash the butter, is it?" "yes," said her friend, seriously, opening the churn and beginning to ladle out the now yellow butter into a wooden bowl. "may i assist at the butter's toilet?" queried tom, grinning. "you may sit down and watch," said his sister, in a tone intended to quell any undue levity on her brother's part. ruth had rolled her sleeves above her elbows, so displaying her pretty plump arms, and now worked and worked the butter in cold water right "from the north side of the well" as though she were kneading bread. first she had poured tom a pitcher of the fresh buttermilk, and given him a glass. even helen tasted a little of the tart drink. "oh, it's ever so nice, i suppose," she said, with a little grimace; "but i much prefer my milk sweet." again and again ruth poured off the milky water and ran fresh, cold water upon her butter until no amount of kneading and washing would subtract another particle of milk from the yellow ball. the water was perfectly clear. "now i'll salt it," she said; "and put it away until this afternoon, and then i'll work it again and put it down in the butter-jar. when i grow up and get rich i am going to have a great, big dairy; with a herd of registered cattle, and i'm going to make all the butter myself." "and tom's going to raise horses. he's going to own a stock farm--so he says. you'd better combine interests," said helen, with some scorn. "i like horses to ride, and butter to eat, but--well, i prefer buttercups just now. hurry up, miss slow-poke! we'll never get enough flowers for a pillow." so ruth cleaned her face, taking a peep into the glass in the kitchen to make sure, before going out to her friends. tom looked at her with plain approval, and helen jumped up to squeeze her again. "no wonder aunt alvirah calls you 'pretty creetur'," she whispered in ruth's ear. "for that's what you are." then to tom: "now young man, have you the lunch basket?" "what there is left of it is in charge of reno down at the bridge," he replied, coolly. they found the huge mastiff lying with the napkin-covered basket between his forepaws, on the grass by the water side. reno was growling warningly and had his eyes fixed upon a figure leaning upon the bridge railing. "that there dawg don't seem ter take to me," drawled jasper parloe, who was the person on the bridge. "he needn't be afraid. i wouldn't touch the basket." "you won't be likely to touch it while reno has charge of it," said tom, quietly, while the girls passed on swiftly. neither ruth nor helen liked to have anything to do with parloe. when tom released reno from his watch and ward, the dog trotted after ruth and put his nose into her hand. "ye been up ter the mill, hev ye?" queried parloe, eyeing tom cameron aslant, "ye oughter be gre't friends with jabe potter. or has he squared hisself with ye?" "say, mister parloe," said tom, sharply, "you've been hinting something about the miller every time you've seen me lately. "only since yeou was knocked down that bank inter the gully, an' yer arm an' head hurt. there warn't nothin' about jabe ter interest yeou afore that," returned parloe, quickly. tom flushed suddenly and he looked at the old fellow with new interest. "just what do you mean?" he asked, slowly. "ye know well enough. your dad, tom cameron, is mighty riled up over your bein' hurt. i heered him say that he'd give a ten-dollar note ter know who it was drove by ye that night and crowded ye inter the ditch. would you give more than that not ter have it known who done it?" "what do you mean?" exclaimed tom, angrily. "i guess ye like this here gal that's cone to live on jabez, purty well; don't ye--yeou an' yer sister?" croaked old parloe. "wal, if your dad an' the miller gits inter a row--comes ter a clinch, as ye might say--yeou an' yer sister won't be let ter hev much ter do with ruth, eh, now?" "i don't know that that's so," tom said doggedly. "oh, yes, ye do. think it over. old jabe will put his foot right down an' he'll stop ruth havin' anything ter do with ye--ye know it! wal, now; think it over. i got a conscience, i have," pursued parloe, cringing and rubbing his hands together, his sly little eyes sparkling. "i r'ally feel as though i'd oughter tell yer dad who it was almost run ye down that night and made ye fall into the gully." "you mean, you'd like to handle dad's ten dollars!" cried tom, angrily. parloe smirked and still rubbed his hands together. "don't matter a mite whose ten dollars i handle," he said, suggestively. "your ten dollars would be jest as welcome to me as your dad's, master cameron." "ten dollars is a lot of money," said tom. "yes. it's right smart. i could make use of it i'm a poor man, an' i could use it nicely," admitted the sly and furtive parloe. "i haven't got so much money now," growled the boy. "yeou kin get it, i warrant." "i suppose i can." he drew his purse from his pocket. "i've got three dollars and a half here. i'll have the rest for you on monday." "quite correct," said jasper parloe, clutching eagerly at the money. "i'll trust ye till then--oh, yes! i'll trust ye till then." chapter xiv just a matter of a dress "well, i really believe, tommy cameron!" cried his sister helen, when he overtook the girls and reno, swinging the basket recklessly, "that you are developing a love for low company. i don't see how you can bear to talk with that jasper parloe." "i don't see how i can, either," muttered tom, and he was rather silent--for him--until they were well off the road and the incident at the bridge was some minutes behind them. but the day was such a glorious one, and the fields and woods were so beautiful, that no healthy boy could long be gloomy. besides, tom cameron had assured his sister that he thought ruth fielding "just immense," and he was determined to give the girl of the red mill as pleasant a time as possible. he worked like a trojan to gather buttercups, and after they had eaten the luncheon old babette had put up for them (and it was the very nicest and daintiest luncheon that ruth fielding had ever tasted) he told the girls to remain seated on the flat stone he had found for them and weave the foundation for the pillow while he picked bushels upon bushels of buttercups. "you'll need a two-horse load, anyway to have enough for a pillow of the size nell has planned," he said, grinning. "and perhaps she'll finish it if you help her, ruth. she's always trying to do some big thing and 'falling down' on it." "that's not so, master sauce-box!" cried his sister. tom went off laughing, and the two girls set to work on the great mass of buttercups they had already picked. they grew so large, and were so dewey and golden, that a more brilliant bed of color one could scarce imagine than the pillow, as it began to grow under the dexterous hands of helen and ruth. and, being alone together now, they began to grow confidential. "and how does the ogre treat you?" asked helen. "i thought, when i came this morning, that you had been feeling badly." "i am not very happy," admitted ruth. "it's that horrid ogre!" cried helen. "it isn't right to call uncle jabez names," said ruth, quietly. "he is greatly to be pitied, i do believe. and just now, particularly so." "you mean because of the loss of that cash-box?" "yes." "do you suppose there was much in it?" "he told me that it contained every cent he had saved in all these years." "my!" cried helen. "then he must have lost a fortune! he has been a miser for forty years, so they say." "i do not know about that," ruth pursued. "he is harsh and--and he seems to be very selfish. he--he says i can go to school, though." "well, i should hope so!" cried helen. "but i don't know that i can go," ruth continued, shaking her head. "for pity's sake i why not?" asked her friend. then, out came the story of the lost trunk. nor could ruth keep back the tears as she told her friend about uncle jabez's cruelty. "oh, oh, oh!" cried helen, almost weeping herself. "the mean, mean thing! no, i won't call him ogre again; he isn't as good as an ogre. i--i don't know what to call him!" "calling him names won't bring back my trunk, helen," sobbed ruth. "that's so. i--i'd make him pay for it! i'd make him get me dresses for those that were lost." "uncle is giving me a home; i suppose he will give me to wear all that he thinks i need. but i shall have to wear this dress to school, and it will soon not be fit to wear anywhere else." "it's just too mean for anything, ruth! i just wish--" what miss cameron wished she did not proceed to explain. she stopped and bit her lip, looking at her friend all the time and nodding. ruth was busily wiping her eyes and did not notice the very wise expression on helen's face. "look out! here comes tom," whispered helen, suddenly, and ruth made a last dab at her eyes and put away her handkerchief in a hurry. "say! ain't you ever going to get that thing done?" demanded tom. "seems to me you haven't done anything at all since i was here last." the girls became very busy then and worked swiftly until the pillow was completed. by that time it was late afternoon and they started homeward. ruth separated from helen and tom at the main road and walked alone toward the red mill. she came to the bridge, which was at the corner of her uncle's farm, and climbed the stile, intending to follow the path up through the orchard to the rear of the house--the same path by which she and her friends had started on their little jaunt in the morning. the brook which ran into the river, and bounded this lower end of mr. potter's place, was screened by clumps of willows. just beyond the first group of saplings ruth heard a rough voice say: "and i tell you to git out! go on the other side of the crick, jasper parloe, if ye wanter fish. that ain't my land, but this is." "ain't ye mighty brash, jabe?" demanded the snarling voice of parloe, and ruth knew the first speaker to be her uncle. "who are yeou ter drive me away?" "the last time ye was at the mill i lost something--i lost more than i kin afford to lose again," continued uncle jabez. "i don't say ye took it. they tell me the flood took it. but i'm going to know the right of it some time, and if you know more about it than you ought--" "what air ye talkin' about, jabe potter?" shrilled parloe. "i've lost money by you; ye ain't never paid me for the last month i worked for ye." "ye paid yerself--ye paid yerself," said jabe, tartly. "and if ye stole once ye would again--" "now stop right there, jabe potter!" cried parloe, and ruth knew that he had stepped closer to mr. potter, and was speaking in a trembling rage. "don't ye intermate an' insinerate; for if ye do, i kin fling out some insinerations likewise. yeou jest open yer mouth about me stealin' an' i'll put a flea in old man cameron's ear. ha! ye know what i mean. better hev a care, jabe potter--better hev a care!" there was silence. her uncle made no reply, and ruth, fearing she would be seen, and not wishing to be thought an eavesdropper (although the conversation had so surprised and terrified her that she had not thought what she did, before) the girl ran lightly up the hill, leaving the two old men to their wrangle. when uncle jabez came in to supper that evening his scowl was heavier than usual, if that were possible, and he did not speak to either ruth or aunt alvirah all the evening. chapter xv in school ruth thought it all over, and she came to this conclusion: uncle jabez had given his permission--albeit a grumpy one--and she would begin school on monday. the black cloth dress that was so shabby and would look so odd and proverty-stricken among the frocks of the other girls (for she had watched them going to and from school, and already knew some of them to speak to) would have to be worn, if possible, through the term. perhaps uncle jabez might notice how shabby she looked, finally, and give her something more appropriate to wear. especially as it had been through him that her other frocks were lost. but it was not an easy thing to face a whole schoolroom full of girls and boys--and most of them strangers to her--looking so "dowdyish." ruth's love of pretty things was born in her. she had always taken pride in her appearance, and she felt her shortcomings in this line quicker and more acutely than most girls of her age. she faced the school on monday morning and found it not so hard as she had supposed. miss cramp welcomed her kindly, and put her through quite a thorough examination to decide her grade. the darrowtown schools had been so good that ruth was able to take a high place in this one, and the teacher seated her among the most advanced of her pupils, although ruth was younger than some of them. the fact that ruth was well grounded in the same studies that the scholars at this district school were engaged in, made a difficulty for her at the start. but she did not know it then. she only knew that miss cramp, seating her pupils according to their grade, sent her to an empty seat beside one of the largest girls--julia semple. a good many of the girls stared at the new-comer with more than ordinary attention; but julia immediately turned her back on her new seatmate. ruth did not, however, give julia much attention at the time. she was quite as bashful as most girls of her age; and, too, there were many things during that first session to hold her attention. but at recess she found that julia walked away from her without a word and that most of the girls who seemed to be in her grade kept aloof, too. as a stranger in the school the girl from the red mill felt no little unhappiness at this evident slight; but she was too proud to show her disappointment. she made friends with the younger girls and was warmly welcomed in their games and pastimes. "julia's mad at you, you see," one of her new acquaintances confided to ruth. "mad at me? what for?" asked the surprised new scholar. "why, that seat was rosy ball's. rosy has gone away to see her sister married and she's coming back to-morrow. if you hadn't come in to take her place, rosy would have been let sit beside julia again, of course, although like enough she's fallen behind the class. miss cramp is very strict." "but i didn't know that. i couldn't help it," cried ruth. "just the same, julia says she doesn't like you and that you're a nobody--that jabe potter has taken you in out of charity. and julia pretty nearly bosses everything and everybody around this school. her father, mr. semple, you see, is chairman of the school board." her plain-spoken friend never realized how much she was hurting ruth by telling her this. ruth's pride kept her up, nor would she make further overtures toward friendship with her classmates. she determined, during those first few days at the district school, that she would do her very best to get ahead and to win the commendation of her teacher. there was a splendid high school at cheslow, and she learned that miss cramp could graduate pupils from her school directly into the cheslow high. it was possible, the teacher assured her, for ruth to fit herself for such advancement between that time and the fall term. it seemed as though ruth could never make her crotchety old uncle love her. as time passed, the loss of his cash-box seemed to prey upon the miller's mind more and more. he never spoke of it in the house again; it is doubtful if he spoke of it elsewhere. but the loss of the money increased (were that possible) his moroseness. he often spoke to neither the girl nor aunt alvirah from sunrise to sunset. but although uncle jabez was so moody and so unkind to her, in the little old woman, whose back and whose bones gave her so much trouble, ruth found a loving and thoughtful friend. aunt alvirah was as troubled at first about ruth's lack of frocks as the girl was herself. but before ruth had been attending school a week, she suddenly became very light-hearted upon the question of dress. "now, don't you fret about it, deary," said aunt alviry, wagging her head knowingly. "gals like you has jest got ter hev frocks, an' the good lord knows it, jest the same as he knows when a sparrer falls. there'll be a way pervided--there'll be a way pervided. ef i can't make ye a purty dress, 'cause o' my back an' my bones, there's them that kin. we'll hev miss 'cretia lock in by the day, and we'll make 'em." "but, dear," said ruth, wonderingly, "how will we get the goods--and the trimmings--and pay miss lock for her work?" "don't you fret about that. jest you wait and see," declared aunt alvirah, mysteriously. ruth knew very well that the old woman had not a penny of her own. uncle jabez would never have given her a cent without knowing just what it was for, and haggling over the expenditure then, a good deal. to his view, aunt alviry was an object of his charity, too, although for more than ten years the old woman had kept his house like wax and had saved him the wages of a housekeeper. this very day, on coming home from school, ruth had met doctor davison coming away from the red mill. she thought the red and white mare, that was so spirited and handsome, had been tied to the post in front of the kitchen door, and that the physician must have called upon aunt alvirah. "so this is the young lady who wouldn't stop at my house but went to sam curtis' to stay all night," he said, holding in the mare and looking down at ruth. "and you haven't been past the gate with the green eyes since?" "no, sir," ruth said, timidly. "i have never even been to town." "no. or you would not have failed to see the curtises again. at least, i hope you'll see them. mercy has never ceased talking about you." "the lame girl, sir?" cried ruth, in wonder. "why, she spoke awfully unkindly to me, and i thought her mother only thought i would feel bad and wanted to smooth it over, when she asked me to come again." "no," said the doctor, seriously, shaking his head. "nobody knows mercy like her mother. that's not to be expected. she's a poor, unfortunate, cramp-minded child. i've done what i can for her back-- she has spinal trouble; but i can do little for mercy's twisted and warped mind. she tells me she has cramps in her back and legs and i tell her she has worse cramps in her mind. bright! why, child, she knows more than most grown folks. reads every book she can get hold of; there is scarcely a child in the cheslow high school who could compete with her for a month in any study she had a mind to take hold of. but," and the doctor shook his head again, "her mind's warped and cramped because of her affliction." "i pitied her," said ruth, quietly. "but don't tell her so. go and see her again--that's all. and mind you don't come to town without turning in at the gate with the green eyes;" and so saying he let the eager mare out and she swiftly carried him away. it was after this aunt alvirah seemed so confident that a way would be provided for ruth to get the frocks that she so sadly needed. on the very next day, when ruth came home from school, she found the little old lady in a flutter of excitement. "now, ruthie," she whispered, "you mustn't ask too many questions, and i'll surely tell ye a gre't secret, child." "it must be something very nice, aunt alviry, or you'd never be like this. what is it?" "now ruthie, you mustn't ask too many questions, i tell you. but to make no secret of it, for secrets i do despise, somebody's made you a present." "made me a present?" gasped ruth. "now, careful about questions," warned aunt alvirah. "i told you that a way would be pervided for you to have frocks. and it is true. you are a-goin' to have 'em." "auntie! new frocks!" "just as good as new. ev'ry bit as good as new. somebody that's-- that's seen ye, deary, and knows how badly you want to go to school, and that you need dresses, has given you three." "my goodness me!" cried ruth, clasping her hands. "not three?" "yes, my dear. and they're jest as good as new--about. 'cretia lock won't be two days fixin' 'em over to fit you. and you won't mind, deary, if the little girl who wore them before you is--is--well, deary, she won't never want them any more." "oh, my dear!" cried ruth. "three frocks all at once! and--and i'm not to ask who gave them to me?" "that's it. you're not to ask that. i'll git 'em and show you--oh, my back and oh, my bones! oh, my back and oh, my bones!" the old lady added, starting from her chair and hobbling out of the room. ruth was so amazed that she hardly knew what her other feelings at the moment might be. but there had sprung into her mind, full-fledged, the suspicion that doctor davison had been the donor of the frocks. perhaps he had had a little girl sometime, who had died. for ruth had quite decided, from what aunt alvirah said, that the girl who had formerly worn the frocks in question was no longer upon earth. chapter xvi behind the green lamps aunt alvirah returned in a short time with such a pile of pretty colors over her arm that ruth gasped with delight, she couldn't help it the dresses were all nice ginghams, each of a different color, nicely trimmed and delightfully made. they were not too fancy for school wear, and they were good, practical frocks. ruth had worn her little black and white frocks at school while she was still in darrowtown, and had she remained longer miss true pettis would have helped her to make other frocks in colors. it is a sad thing to see a child in black, or black and white, and ruth's father had been dead now six months. "ye needn't be scart at the colors, child," said old aunt alviry. "here's this pretty lavender. we'll make that over first. 'cretia lock will be here to-morrow and we'll make a big beginnin'." "but what will uncle say?" gasped ruth, almost bursting with questions, but being debarred from asking the most important ones. "don't you fret about your uncle jabez. he ain't got nothin' ter do with it," declared the little old woman, firmly. "nor he won't say nothin'." which was very true. uncle jabez seldom spoke to his niece now. his moodiness grew upon him as time passed. and in the evening, as he sat over his endless calculations at the kitchen table, the girl and the old woman scarcely dared speak to each other save in whispers. miss lock worked three days, instead of two, at the red mill, helping aunt alvirah "dress-make." how she was paid, ruth did not know; but she feared that the pennies aunt alvirah saved from her egg and chicken money had done this. however, the shabby black frock was put away and ruth blossomed out into as pretty an appearance as any girl attending miss cramp's school. but she did not make friends among her classmates. julia semple had such influence that she seemed to have set all the girls of the higher class in the district school against ruth. julia herself could not pass ruth without tossing her head and staring at her haughtily; and sometimes she would whisper to her companions and look at the girl from the red mill in so scornful a way that ruth could not help feeling uncomfortable. indeed, ruth would have lacked almost all young company had it not been for helen cameron and tom. tom didn't think much of "playing with girls;" but he could always be depended upon to do anything ruth and helen wanted him to. helen was at the red mill often after ruth's school hours, and seldom did a saturday pass that the two chums did not spend at least half the day together. aunt alvirah declared ruth should have saturday afternoons to herself, and often helen came in her little pony carriage and drove ruth about the country. there was a fat old pony named tubby that drew the phaeton, and tubby jogged along the pleasant country roads with them in a most delightfully gypsyish way. one saturday afternoon they went to town. ruth had never seen cheslow save on the night of her arrival and on the following morning, when she had started directly after breakfast at the station master's house to walk to the red mill. "why, you'll like cheslow," declared helen, in her enthusiastic way. "it's just as pretty as it can be--you'll love it! i often drive in to shop, and sometimes mrs. murchiston goes with me. get up, tubby!" tubby had to be urged incessantly; exertion was not loved by him. he would rather walk than trot; he would rather stand than walk; and he always had the appearance of being asleep--save when he was at his manger. ruth remembered that she had been warned not to go past "the gate with the green eyes" and she told helen of her promise to doctor davison. "oh, splendid!" cried her chum. "i don't know anybody whom i like to call upon in cheslow ahead of doctor davison. it's almost as good as having him come to see you when you're sick." "but i don't think," ruth objected, "that it's any fun to have any doctor come to see one on business." "you don't half mind being ill when doctor davison calls," declared helen, with unabated enthusiasm. "and when you call there! well," concluded helen, with a sigh of anticipation, "you'll soon know what that means. he's got a colored mammy for cook who makes the most wonderful jumbles and cakes that you ever tasted--they about melt in pour mouth!" ruth soon had the opportunity of judging mammy 'liza's goodies for herself, for the doctor was at home, and the girls had scarcely become seated in his consultation room when a little colored girl with her wool "done" in innumerable pigtails, like tiny horns, and sticking out all over her brown head in every direction, came in with a tray on which was a plate piled high with fancy cakes and two tall glasses of yellow-gold beaten egg and milk with a dust of nutmeg floating upon the surface of each glassful. "'liza done sez as how yo'-all might be hongry aftah yo' ride," said the child, timidly, and then darted out of the room before ruth and helen could thank her. they were munching the goodies when doctor davison came smilingly in. "that's mammy 'liza all over," he said, shaking his head, but with his dark eyes twinkling. "i try to keep my young folk in good digestion and she is bound to make a patient of everybody who comes to see me. cookies and cakes and sweets are what she believes girls live for; or else she is trying to make customers for my nasty drugs." doctor davison seemed to have plenty of time to give to the society of young folk who called upon him. and he showed an interest in ruth and her affairs which warmed our heroine's heart. he wanted to know how she got along at school, and if it was true that she was trying to "make" the high by the opening of the fall term. "not that i want any of my young folk to travel the road to knowledge too steadily, or travel it when their bodily condition is not the best. but you are strong and well, ruthie, and you can do a deal that other girls of your age would find irksome. i shall be proud if you prepare to enter the high at your age." and this made ruth feel more and more sure that doctor davison had taken interest enough in her career at school to supply the pretty frocks, one of which she was then wearing. but aunt alvirah had warned her that the frocks were to remain a mystery by the special request of the donor, and she could not ask the good old doctor anything about them. his interest in her progress seemed to infer that he expected ruth to accomplish a great deal in her school, and the girl from the red mill determined not to disappoint him. when helen told doctor davison where else they intended to call, he nodded understandingly. "that is," he added, "ruth will call on mercy while you do your shopping, miss cameron. oh, yes! that is the better plan. you know very well that mercy curtis won't want to see you, helen." "i don't know why not," said helen, pouting. "i know she never treats anyone nicely, but i don't mind. if it does her good to do what tom calls 'bully-ragging,' i can stand it as well as ruth--better, perhaps." "no," said the doctor, gravely. "i have told you before why you shouldn't call there. you have everything that mercy can possibly desire. comparisons with poor mercy certainly are odious. ruth, she knows, is not so fortunately placed in life as yourself. she is not so fortunately placed, indeed, as mercy is. and mercy is in an extremely nervous state just now, and i do not wish her to excite herself beyond reason." "well, i declare," exclaimed helen, but good-naturedly after all. "i don't like to be told i'm not wanted anywhere. but if you say so, i'll not go with ruth to the house." doctor davison opened a new topic of conversation by asking after tom. "oh, his head is all healed up--you can just barely see the scar," helen declared. "and his arm is only a little tender. we think he got out of it very lucky indeed--thanks to ruth here." "yes, thanks to ruth," repeated the doctor, his eyes twinkling. ruth was "on pins and needles," as the saying is, for she very well remembered what the injured boy had murmured, in his half conscious state, when they brought him along the road on the stretcher. had it been jabez potter who ran down tom cameron and forced him down the embankment with his motorcycle? this thought had been bobbing up in ruth's mind ever since she had come to the red mill. she had seen her uncle driving his team of mules in one of his reckless moods. she would never forget how the team tore down the long hill and was forced through the flood the day the minturn dam had burst. had jabez potter been driving through the dark road where tom cameron was hurt, in any such way as that, he would have run down a dozen cyclists without noticing them. fortunately tom's injury had not been permanent. he was all right now. ruth felt that she must be loyal to her uncle and say nothing about her own suspicions; but as long as the matter was discussed between helen and doctor davison she was anxious. therefore she hurried their departure from the kind physician's office, by rising and saying: "i think we would better go, helen. you know how slow tubby is, and perhaps i can give the little curtis girl some pleasure by calling on her." "without doubt she'll have pleasure," observed helen, somewhat bitingly. "she is likely to scold and 'bullyrag' to her heart's content. you're such a meek thing that you'll let her." "if that's what gives her pleasure, helen," said ruth, with a quiet smile, "why, i guess i can stand it for an hour." doctor davison had risen likewise, and he went to the front door with them, his hand resting lightly on ruth's shoulder. "you have the right idea of it, ruthie," he said. "let mercy take her pleasure in that way if it's all the pleasure she can get. but perhaps a better mind as well as a better body may come to the poor child in time." then to ruth he added, more personally: "remember you have a friend in here behind the green lamps. don't forget to come to him with any troubles you may have. perhaps i do not look it, but i am something like a fairy godmother--i have a wonderful power of transmogrification. i can often turn dark clouds inside out and show you the silver on the other side." "i believe that, doctor davison," she whispered, and squeezed his hand hard, running after helen the next moment down the walk. chapter xvii tormenting mercy after they had awakened tubby and urged him into something resembling a trot they got into cheslow proper by degrees. by the light of the very sunshiny afternoon ruth thought the town looked far prettier than any place she had ever seen. this side of the railroad the houses were mostly old-fashioned, and there were few stores. there were many lawns and pretty, old-time gardens, while the elms and maples met in green arches overhead so that many of the streets were like rustic tunnels, the sun sifting through the thick branches to make only a fine, lacework pattern upon the walks and driveway. they crossed the railroad near the station and struck into market street. ruth would not allow helen to drive her directly to the curtis cottage. she had remembered doctor davison's words, and she thought that perhaps mercy curtis might be looking from the window and see her visitor arrive in the pony cart. so she got down at the corner, promising to meet her friend at that spot in an hour. she could see the pretty cottage belonging to the railroad station agent before she had walked far. its garden on the side was already a bower. but the rustic arbor on which the grape vines were trained was not yet sufficiently covered to yield any shelter from the street; therefore ruth did not expect to find it occupied. just before she reached the cottage, however, she saw two little girls ahead of her, hesitating on the walk. they were talking seriously together when ruth approached within earshot, and she heard one say to the other: "now, she'll be there in the window. we mustn't notice her, no matter what she does or says. you know what mamma said." the other child was sobbing softly. "but she made me, oh, such a face! and she chopped her teeth at me just as though she'd bite me! i think she's the very hatefulest thing--" "hush! she's greatly to be pitied," said the older sister, with an air and in a tone that showed she copied it from the "grown-ups" whom she had heard discussing poor mercy curtis. "i wish we'd gone 'round the other way," complained the other child. "now, come on. you needn't look into the window and smile. i'll do that." "no," said the little one, stubbornly. "i'll go by on the opposite side of the way. and you must come, too, anna. she--she'd bite me if she could get the chance." "oh, well! come on, little silly!" said her sister, and the two crossed over and ruth, who watched them interestedly, saw them hurry by the cottage with scarcely a glance at the front windows. but ruth could see the outline of the lame girl's figure at one of the windows and she saw a lean fist shaken in the air at the two children going by. she could imagine the face mercy curtis "pulled," as well, and did not wonder that the two little ones took to their heels and ran away as fast as ever they could. but, thus prepared for an unpleasant greeting from, the unfortunate and much to be pitied mercy, ruth smiled happily herself and waved her hand at the lame girl's window. mercy saw her and, for a moment, was stricken with surprise so that she could neither greet her with frown or smile. she knew the girl from the red mill, although she had seen her so many weeks before; but ruth ran into the yard and up the porch steps at the side of the house, and knocked at the door before the lame girl recovered from her amazement. the motherly mrs. curtis came to the door and, the moment she saw who it was, received ruth with open arms. "you dear child! i am so glad you have come again. did doctor davison tell you?" she whispered. "he told me that mercy would be glad to see me again; but i should have come before, as i promised, if i could have gotten in," ruth said. "will she see me?" "she is not so well to-day," sighed the harassed mother. "this is one of her days of torment. i do not know how she will treat you, ruth fielding; but don't mind what she says to you, dear. your being here will take her mind off her pain and off her own self." ruth laid aside her hat and coat and went into the sitting room. the crippled girl was in her wheel chair by the window. the instant ruth entered she seized the wheels on either side and propelled the chair across the room in a sudden dash that threatened to run her visitor down. and her face was screwed up into such a mean look, and her eyes flashed so angrily, that ruth was startled for a moment. but she stood her ground and instead of colliding with her, the nervous hands brought the chair to a sudden stop right before her. "thought you were going to be run down; didn't you?" snapped mercy. "i'd ought to break your legs--you run on them so fine. showing off; wasn't you?" she was offended because ruth had run so lightly into the cottage and the girl from the red mill made a decision there and then that she would never come in to see mercy again saving at a sedate walk. but she laughed lightly, and said: "do you want me to come on crutches, mercy? that wouldn't help you a bit." she put out her hand to take the lame girl's, but mercy struck it smartly with her own, then whirled her chair around and returned to her former position by the window. she handled the wheel chair with remarkable dexterity, and ruth, following her and taking a neighboring chair said: "how quick you are! you get around your room so nicely. i think that's fine." "you do; do you?" snapped the cripple. "if you'd been tied to this chair like i have, you'd be quick, too. i suppose it's something for me to be grateful for; eh?" "it must be a lot better than lying abed all the time," said ruth, quietly. "oh, yes! i suppose so!" snapped mercy. her conversation was mostly made up of snaps and snarls. "everybody tells me all about how happy i ought to be because i'm not worse off than i am. that's their tormenting ways--i know 'em! there!" she added, looking out of the window. "here's another of those dratted young ones!" ruth glanced out, too. a lady was coming along the walk holding a little boy by the hand. before they reached the cottage the little boy said something to his mother and then broke away from her hand and went to the other side of her, nearest the curb. "there! he's hiding from me," said mercy, bitterly. the lady looked up and smiled pleasantly, but the cripple only returned her pleasant salutation with a cold nod. the child peeped out from around his mother's skirt. "there! go along, you nasty little thing!" muttered mercy. "see him trot on his little fat legs. i wish a dog would bite 'em!" it was useless, ruth saw, to try and bring the cripple to a better mind. but she ignored her sallies at people who went by the window, and began to talk about the red mill and all that had happened to her since she had come to live with uncle jabez. gradually she drew mercy's attention from the street. she told about the flood, and how she, with helen and tom, had raced in the big automobile down the river road to warn the people that the water was coming. mercy's eyes grew big with wonder and she listened with increasing interest. "that's a nice place to live--that mill," the cripple finally admitted, grudgingly. "and it's right on the river, too!" "i can look 'way up and down the river from my window the first thing when i get up in the morning," ruth said. "it's very pretty at sunrise. and then, the orchard and the fields are pretty. and i like to see the men ploughing and working the land. and the garden stuff is all coming up so pretty and green." "i've got a garden, too. but it's not warm enough yet to plant many flower seeds," said mercy. "i suppose, when it comes warm, you can sit out in the arbor?" "when the grape leaves get big enough to hide me--yes," said mercy. "i don't go into the garden excepting in schooltime. then the young ones aren't always running by and tormenting me," snapped the cripple, chopping off her speech at the end. she was a self-tormentor. it was plain that the poor child made herself very miserable by believing that everybody possessing a strong back and lively legs felt his or her superiority to her and delighted in "showing off" before her. the girl of the red mill felt only pity for a sufferer possessing such an unfortunate disposition. she tried to turn the conversation always into pleasant channels. she held mercy's interest in the red mill and her life there. she told her of the broods of downy chicks that she cared for, and the butter-making, and the household tasks she was able to help aunt alviry about. "and don't you go to school?" demanded mercy. "i am going now. i hope this spring and summer to prepare myself for entering the cheslow high." "and then you'll be in town every day?" said mercy, with one of her occasional wistful looks. "i hope to. i don't know how i will get here. but i mean to try. miss cramp says if i'll come two or three times a week this summer, after our school closes, that she will help me to prepare for the high school exams., so i can enter at the beginning of the fall term. "i know miss cramp," said mercy. "she lives on this street. you'll be so busy then that you'll never get in to see me at all, i suppose." "why, i can come much oftener," cried ruth. "of course i will." if mercy was pleased by this statement, she would not show it. "i studied to enter high," she said, after a little silence. "but what's the use? i'll never go to school again. reading books isn't any fun. just studying, and studying, and studying doesn't get you anywhere." "why, i should think that would be nice," ruth declared. "you've got so much chance to study. you see, you don't have to work around the house, or outside, and so you have all your time to devote to study. i should like that." "yah!" snarled mercy, in her most unpleasant way. "that's what you say. i wish you were here to try it, and i could be out to the red mill." then she paid more softly: "i'd like to see that mill and the river--and all the things you tell about." "you wait!" cried ruth. "i'll ask uncle jabez and aunt alviry. maybe we can fix it so you could come out and see me. wouldn't that be fine?" "yah!" snarled the cripple again. "i'll never get that far away from this old chair." "perhaps not; but you might bring the chair with you," returned ruth, unshaken. "wait till vacation. i'll not give up the idea until i've seen if it can't be arranged." that the thought pleased mercy, the cripple could not deny. her eyes shone and a warmth of unusual color appeared in her thin cheeks. her mother came in with a tray of cakes and lemonade, and mercy became quite pleasant as she did the honors. having already eaten her fill at the doctor's, ruth found it a little difficult to do justice to this collation; but she would not hurt mercy's feelings by refusing. the hour passed in more pleasant converse. the cripple's mind was evidently coaxed from its wrong and unhappy thoughts. when ruth rose to leave, promising to come again as soon as she could get into town, mercy was plainly softened. "you just hate to come--i know you do!" she said, but she said it wistfully. "everybody hates to come to see me. but i don't mind having you come as much as i do them. oh, yes; you can come again if you will," and she gave ruth her hand at parting. mrs. curtis put her arms about the girl from the red mill and kissed her warmly at the door. "dear, dear!" said the cripple's mother, "how your own mother would have loved you, if she had lived until now. you are like sunshine in the house." so, after waving her hand and smiling at the cripple in the window, ruth went slowly back to the corner to meet helen, and found herself wiping some tender tears from her eyes because of mrs. curtis's words. chapter xviii the spelling bee in spite of the fact that the big girls at the district school, led by julia semple, whose father was the chairman of the board of trustees, had very little to say to ruth fielding, and shunned her almost altogether outside of the schoolroom, ruth was glad of her chance to study and learn. she brought home no complaints to aunt alvirah regarding the treatment she received from the girls of her own class, and of course uncle jabez never spoke to her about her schooling, nor she to him. at school ruth pleased miss cramp very much. she had gradually worked her way toward the top of the class--and this fact did not make her any more friends. for a new scholar to come into the school and show herself to be quicker and more thorough in her preparation for recitations than the older scholars naturally made some of the latter more than a little jealous. up to this time ruth had never been to the big yellow house on the hill--"overlook," as mr. macy cameron called his estate. always something had intervened when ruth was about to go. but helen and tom insisted upon the very next saturday following the girls' trip to cheslow as the date when ruth must come to the big house to luncheon. the camerons lived all of three miles from the red mill; otherwise ruth would in all probability have been to her chum's home before. tom agreed to run down in the machine for his sister's guest at half-past eleven on the day in question, and ruth hurried her tasks as much as possible so as to be all ready when he appeared in the big drab automobile. she even rose a little earlier, and the way she flew about the kitchen and porch at her usual saturday morning tasks was, as aunt alvirah said, "a caution." but before tom appeared ruth saw, on one of her excursions into the yard, the old, dock-tailed, bony horse of jasper parloe drawing that gentleman in his rickety wagon up to the mill door. "hi, jabe!" called jasper, in his cracked voice. "hi, jabe! here's a grindin' for ye. and for massy's sake don't take out a double toll as you us'ally do. remember i'm a poor man--i ain't got lashin's of money like you to count ev'ry night of my life--he, he, he!" the boy had appeared at the mill door first, and he stepped down and would have taken the bag of grain out of the wagon, had not the miller himself suddenly appeared and said, in his stern way: "let it be." "hi, jabe!" cackled jasper. "don't be mean about it. he's younger than me, or you. let him shoulder the sack into the mill." "the sack isn't coming into the mill," said jabez, shortly. "what? what?" cried parloe. "you haven't retired from business; have you, miller? ye ain't got so wealthy that ye ain't goin' to grind any more?" "i grind for those whom it pleases me to grind for," said the miller, sternly. "then take in the bag, boy," said jasper, still grinning. but mr. potter waved the boy away, and stood looking at jasper with folded arms and a heavy frown upon his face. "come, come, jabe! you keep a mill. you grind for the public, you know," said jasper. "i grind no more for you," rejoined the miller. "i have told you so. get you gone, jasper parloe." "no," said the latter, obstinately. "i am going to have my meal." "not here," said the miller. "now, that's all nonsense, jabe," exclaimed jasper parloe, wagging his head. "ye know ye can't refuse me." "i do refuse you." "then ye'll take the consequences, jabe--ye'll take the consequences. ye know very well if i say the word to mr. cameron--" "get away from here!" commanded potter, interrupting. "i want nothing to do with you." "you mean to dare me; do ye, jabe?" demanded jasper, with an evil smile. "i don't mean to have anything to do with a thief," growled the miller, and turning on his heel went back into the mill. it was just then that ruth spied the automobile coming down the road with tom cameron at the steering wheel. ruth bobbed into the house in a hurry, with a single wave of her hand to tom, for she was not yet quite ready. when she came down five minutes later, with a fresh ribbon in her hair and one of the new frocks that she had never worn before looking its very trimmest, jasper parloe had alighted from his ramshackle wagon and was talking with tom, who still sat in the automobile. and as ruth stood in the porch a moment, while aunt alvirah proudly looked her over to see that she was all right, the girl saw by the expression on tom's face that whatever parloe talked about was not pleasing the lad in the least. she saw, too, that tom pulled something from his pocket hastily and thrust it into parloe's hand. the old man chuckled slily, said something else to the boy, and then turned away and climbed into his wagon again. he drove away as ruth ran down the path to the waiting auto. "hullo, tom!" she cried. "i told you i wouldn't keep you waiting long." "how-do, ruth," he returned; but it must be confessed that he was not as bright and smiling as usual, and he looked away from ruth and after parloe the next moment. as the girl reached the machine uncle jabez came to the mill door again. he observed ruth about to get in and he came down the steps and strode toward the cameron automobile. jasper parloe had clucked to his old nag and was now rattling away from the place. "where are you going, ruth?" the miller demanded, sternly eyeing tom cameron, and without returning the lad's polite greeting. "she is going up to our house to lunch with my sister, mr. potter," tom hastened to say before ruth could reply. "she will do nothing of the kind," said uncle jabez, shortly. "ruth, go back to the house and help your aunt alvirah. you are going about too much and leaving your aunt to do everything." this was not so, and ruth knew very well that her uncle knew it was not so. she flushed and hesitated, and he said: "do you hear me? i expect to be obeyed if you remain here at the red mill. just because i lay few commands upon you, is no reason why you should consider it the part of wisdom to be disobedient when i do give an order." "oh, uncle! do let me go," begged ruth, fairly crying. "helen has been so kind to me--and aunt alvirah did not suppose you would object. they come here--" "but i do not propose that they shall come here any more," declared uncle jabez, in the same stern tone. "you can drive on, young man. the less i see of any of you camerons the better i shall like it." "but, mr. potter--" began tom. the old man raised his hand and stopped him. "i won't hear any talk about it. i know just how much these camerons have done for you," he said to ruth. "they've done enough--altogether too much. we will stop this intimacy right here and now. at least, you will not go to their house, ruth. do as i tell you--go in to your aunt alviry." then, as the weeping girl turned away, she heard him say, even more harshly than he had spoken to her: "i don't want anything to do with people who are hand and glove with that jasper parloe. he's a thief-- a bigger thief, perhaps, than people generally know. at least, he's cost me enough. now, you drive on and don't let me see you or your sister about here again." he turned on his heel and went back to the mill without giving tom time to say a word. the boy, angry enough, it was evident from his expression of countenance, hesitated several minutes after the miller was gone. once he arose, as though he would get out of the car and follow jabez into the mill. but finally he started the engine, turned the car, and drove slowly away. this was a dreadful day indeed for the girl of the red mill. never in her life had she been so hurt--never had she felt herself so ill-used since coming to this place to live. uncle jabez had never been really kind to her; but aside from the matter of the loss of her trunk he had never before been actually cruel. he could have selected no way that would have hurt her more keenly. to refuse to let her go to see the girl she loved--her only close friend and playmate! and to refuse to allow helen and tom to come here to see her! this intimacy was all (and ruth admitted it now, in a torrent of tears, as she lay upon her little bed) that made life at the red mill endurable. had she not met helen and found her such a dear girl and so kind a companion, ruth told herself now that she never could have borne the dull existence of this house. she heard aunt alvirah's halting step upon the stair and before the old woman reached the top of the flight, ruth plainly heard her moaning to herself: "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" thus groaning and halting, aunt alvirah came to ruth's door and pushed it open. "oh, deary, deary, me!" she whispered, limping into the room. "don't-ee cry no more, poor lamb. old aunt alviry knows jest how it hurts--she wishes she could bear it for ye! now, now, my pretty creetur--don't-ee take on so. things will turn out all right yet. don't lose hope." she had reached the bed ere this and had gathered the sobbing girl into her arms. she sat upon the side of the bed and rocked ruth to and fro, with her arms about her. she did not say much more, but her unspoken sympathy was wonderfully comforting. aunt alvirah did not criticise uncle jabez's course. she never did. but she gave ruth in her sorrow all the sympathy of which her great nature was capable. she seemed to understand just how the girl felt, without a spoken word on her part. she did not seek to explain the miller's reason for acting as he did. perhaps she had less idea than had ruth why jabez potter should have taken such a violent dislike to the camerons. for ruth half believed that she held the key to that mystery. when she came to think it over afterward she put what she had heard between the two old men--jabez and parloe--down at the brook, with what had occurred at the mill just before tom cameron had come in sight; and putting these two incidents together and remembering that jasper parloe had overheard tom in his delirium accuse the miller of being the cause of his injury, ruth was pretty sure that in that combination of circumstances was the true explanation of uncle jabez's cruel decision. ruth was not the girl to lie on her bed and weep for long. she was sensible enough to know very well that such a display of disappointment and sorrow would not better the circumstances. while she remained at the red mill she must obey uncle jabez, and his decisions could not be controverted. she had never won a place near enough to the miller's real nature to coax him, or to reason with him regarding this gruff decision he had made. she had to make up her mind that, unless something unexpected happened to change uncle jabez, she was cut off from much future association with her dear chum, helen cameron. she got up in a little while, bathed her face and eyes, and kissed aunt alvirah warmly. "you are a dear!" she declared, hugging the little old woman. "come! i won't cry any more. i'll come down stairs with you, auntie, and help get dinner." but ruth could eat none herself. she did not feel as though she could even sit at the table with uncle jabez that noon, and remained outside while the miller ate. he never remarked upon her absence, or paid her the least attention. oh, how heartily ruth wished now that she had never come away from darrowtown and had never seen the red mill. the next monday morning the rural mail carrier brought her a long letter from helen. uncle jabez had not said anything against a correspondence; indeed, ruth did not consider that he had more than refused to have the camerons come to see her or she to return their visits. if she met them on the road, or away from the house, she did not consider that it would be disobeying uncle jabez to associate with helen and tom. this letter from helen was very bitter against the miller and wildly proposed that ruth should run away from the red mill and come to overlook to live. she declared that her papa would not object-- indeed, that everybody would warmly welcome the appearance of ruth fielding "even if she came like a tramp "; and that tom would linger about the red mill for an hour or two every evening so that ruth could slip out and communicate with her friends, or could be helped away if she wanted to leave without the miller's permission. but ruth, coming now to consider her situation more dispassionately, simply wrote a loving letter in reply to helen's, entrusting it to the post, and went on upon her usual way, helping aunt alviry, going to school, and studying harder than ever. she missed helen's companionship vastly; she often wet her pillow with tears at night (and that was not like ruth) and felt very miserable indeed at times. but school and its routine took up a deal of the girl's thought. her studies confined her more and more as the end of the term approached. and in addition to the extra work assigned the girl at the red mill by miss cramp, there was a special study which ruth wished to excel in. miss cramp was old-fashioned enough to believe that spelling was the very best training for the mind and the memory and that it was a positive crime for any child to grow up to be a slovenly speller. four times a year miss cramp held an old-fashioned "spelling-bee" at the schoolhouse, on designated friday evenings; and now came the last of the four for this school year. ruth had never been an extra good speller, but because her kind teacher was so insistent upon the point, the girl from the red mill put forth special efforts to please miss cramp in this particular. she had given much spare time to the study of the spelling book, and particularly did she devote herself to that study now that she hadn't her chum to associate with. the spelling-bees were attended by the parents of the pupils and all the neighbors thereabout, and helen wrote that she and tom were going to attend on the evening in question and that tom said he hoped to see ruth "just eat up those other girls" when it came to spelling. but ruth fielding much doubted her cannibalistic ability in this line. julia semple had borne off the honors on two occasions during the winter, and her particular friend rosa ball, had won the odd trial. now it was generally considered that the final spelling-bee would be the occasion of a personal trial of strength between the two friendly rivals. either julia or rosa must win. but ruth was the kind of a person who, in attempting a thing, did her very best to accomplish it. she had given some time and thought to the spelling book. she was not likely to "go down" before any easy, or well-known word. indeed, she believed herself letter perfect in the very hardest page of the spelling-book some time before the fateful evening. "oh, perhaps you think you know them all, ruth fielding!" exclaimed one of the little girls one day when the spelling-bee was being discussed at recess. "but miss cramp doesn't stick to the speller. you just wait till she tackles the dictionary." "the dictionary!" cried ruth. "that's what miss cramp does," the child assured her. "if she can't spell them down out of the speller, she begins at the beginning of the dictionary and gives words out until she finds one that floors them all. you wait and see!" so ruth thought it would do no harm to study the dictionary a little, and taking her cue from what the little girls said, she remained in between sessions and began with "aperse," committing to memory as well as she could those words that looked to be "puzzlers." before the day of the spelling-bee she believed that, if miss cramp didn't go beyond the first letter of the alphabet, she would be fairly well grounded in the words as they came in rotation. ruth knew that every other pupil in the school would have friends in the audience that evening save herself. she wished that aunt alvirah could have attended the spelling-bee; but of course her back and her bones precluded her walking so far, and neither of them dared ask uncle jabez to hitch up and take them to the schoolhouse in his wagon. the schoolhouse was crowded, all the extra seats that could be provided were arranged in rows, and, it being a mild evening, the men and bigger boys stood outside the open windows. there was a great bustle and whispering until miss cramp's tinkling bell called the audience as well as the pupils to order. the scholars took their places according to their class standing in a long row around the room. as one was spelled down he or she took a seat again, and so the class was rapidly thinned out, for many of the little folk missed on the very easiest words in the speller. ruth stood within ten pupils of the head of the line at the beginning and when the spelling began she had an encouraging smile and nod from helen, who, with her brother, sat where they could see the girl from the red mill ruth determined to do her best. chapter xix the sting of poverty at first miss cramp's "giving out" of the words was like repeated volleys of small-arms in this orthographical battle. every pupil well knew the pages of two-syllable words beginning, "baker, maker, poker, broker, quaker, shaker" and even the boys rattled these off, grinning the while in a most sheepish fashion at their elder brothers or their women-folk, who beamed in pride upon them until such lists as "food, soup, meat, bread, dough, butter" bowled over the more shaky ones. the first failures (and usually upon comparatively easy words) were greeted with some laughter, and the ridiculed spellers sought their seats with hanging heads. by and by, however, the failures were not all at the bottom of the class; here and there such lists as "inane, profane, humane, insane, mundane, urbane," or, "staid, unlaid, mermaid, prayed, weighed, portrayed" began to pick out uncertain ones the entire length of the line. miss cramp shot out word after word, her spectacles gleaming and her eyes twinkling. the grim little smile upon her lips when one big girl above ruth went down before "forswear," spelling it with an extra "e," showed that the teacher considered the miss deserved to fail because of her heedlessness. then, when she reached the list ending in "ay, ey and eigh" they fell like ripe huckleberries all down the line. "inveigh" dropped so many that it was indeed a massacre, and some of the nervous spellers got together such weird combinations of letters to represent that single word that the audience was soon in a very hilarious state. "move up," commanded miss cramp to the pupils left standing, and there was a great clumping of feet as the line closed up. not more than two dozen were standing by this time, and half an hour had not passed. but after that it was another story. the good spellers remained. they spelled carefully and quietly and a hush fell upon the whole room as miss cramp gave out the words with less haste and more precision. the "seeds," as all the children called the puzzling list, floored two, and several of the best spellers had to think carefully while the list was being given out: "proceed, succeed, exceed, accede, secede, recede, impede, precede, concede, antecede, intercede, supersede." fortunately ruth, who now kept her eyes upon miss cramp's face, spelled carefully and correctly, without any sign of hesitancy. the match went on then, for page after page, without a pupil failing. perhaps there was hesitation at times, but miss cramp gave any deserving scholar ample time. page after page of the spelling-book was turned. that tricksey little list of "goblin, problem, conduct, rocket, pontiff, compact, prospect, ostrich" finally left but three scholars between ruth and julia at the head of the class. one of these was oliver shortsleeves, a french canadian lad whose parents had anglicised their name when they came down into new york state. he was as sharp as could be and he had pushed julia semple and rosa ball hard before in the spelling matches. but he was the only boy left standing within the next few minutes, and again the pupils moved up. there were but fifteen of them. rosa ball came next to ruth, below her, and the girl from the red mill knew very well that miss ball would only be too delighted to spell her, ruth, down. indeed, when ruth waited a moment before spelling "seraglio," rosa in her haste blurted out the word, and julia smiled and there was a little rustle of expectancy. it was evident that many of the scholars, as well as the audience, thought ruth had failed. "wait!" exclaimed miss cramp, sharply. "did i pass that word to you, rosa?" "no, ma'am; but i thought..." "never mind what you thought. you know the rule well enough," said miss cramp. "that will be your word, and i will give ruth fielding another. spell 'seraglio' again, rosa." "'s e r a l g i o'," spelled rosa. "i thought in your haste to get ahead of ruth you spelled it wrongly, rosa," said miss cramp, calmly. "you may go down. next--'seraglio.'" miss ball went down in tears--angry tears--but there was not much sympathy shown her by the audience, and little by her fellow-pupils. it was soon seen that there was some sort of rivalry between ruth and julia, and that the girl from the red mill had not been treated fairly. oliver shortsleeves became sadly twisted up after hearing those immediately before him spell in succession "schooner, tetrarch, pibroch and anarchy" and tried to spell "architrave" with so many letters that he would have needed no more to have spelled it twice over. so ruth then became fourth in the line. she continued to spell carefully and serenely. nothing disturbed her poise, for she neither looked around the room nor gave heed to anything that went on save miss cramp's distinctly uttered words. on and on went the steady voice of miss cramp. she bowled over one pupil with "microcosm," another the next minute with "metonymy "; "nymphean" and "naphtha" sent two more to their seats; while the silent "m" in "mnemonics" cut a most fearful swath in the remainder, so that after the smoke of that bomb was dissipated only julia, ruth, and two others stood of all the class. julia semple had darted many angry glances et ruth since the cutting down of her friend, rosa ball, and her flaunting of the girl from the red mill, and her scornful looks, might easily have disturbed ruth had the latter not been wise enough to keep her own gaze fixed upon the teacher. helen and tom were delighted and plainly showed their enjoyment of ruth's success. now, as the situation became more strained, the audience applauded when one of the spellers overcame a more than ordinarily difficult word. so that when the girl next to ruth missed "tergiversation" and it passed to the girl from the red mill, who spelled it without hesitation, and correctly, helen applauded softly, while tom audibly exclaimed: "good for ruthie!" this did not make julia semple any more pleasant. she actually looked across at helen and tom and scowled at them. it had already begun to be whispered about the room that the match was easily julia's--that she was sure to win; and mr. semple, the chairman of the trustees, who sat on the platform with the teacher, looked very well satisfied indeed. but miss cramp had come down now to the final words in the speller-- down to "zenith" and "zoology." and still there were three standing. miss cramp looked for a moment as though she would like to announce the match a tie between the trio, for it was plain there would be hard feelings engendered among some of the audience, as well as the pupils, if the match continued. her custom had been, however, to go on to the bitter end--to spell down the very last one, and she could not easily make a change in her method now. a general sigh and whispering went around when she was seen to reach for the academic dictionary which was always the foundation of the tower of books upon the northeast corner of miss cramp's desk. she opened the volume and shot out the word: "aperse." the girl standing between ruth and julia staggered along until they reached "abstinence"; she put an "e" instead of an "i" in the middle syllable, and went down. but the audience applauded her. julia semple began to hesitate now. the end was near. perhaps she had never taken the time to follow down the rows of words in the dictionary. at "acalycal" she stumbled, started twice, then stopped and asked to have it repeated. "'acalycal,'" said miss cramp, steadily. "'a c a l l y c a l,'" stammered julia. "wrong," said miss cramp, dispassionately. "next. 'acalycal'?" ruth spelled it with two 'l's' only and miss cramp looked up quickly. "right," she said. "you may step down, julia. it has been our custom to keep on until the winner is spelled down, too. next word, ruth: 'acalycine.'" but there was such a buzz of comment that miss cramp looked up again. julia semple had seemed half stunned for the moment. then she wheeled on ruth and said, in a sharp whisper: "i saw that cameron girl spell it for you! she's been helping you all the time! everybody knows she's patronizing and helping you. why, you're wearing her old, cast-off clothes. you've got one of her dresses on now! pauper!" ruth started back, her face turned red, then white, as though she had been struck. the smarting tears started to her eyes, and blinded her. "julia! take your seat instantly!" said miss cramp, more sharply. "ruth! spell 'acalycine.'" but ruth could not open her lips. had she done so she would have burst into tears. and she could not have spelled the word right--nor any other word right--at that moment. she merely shook her head and followed julia to her seat, stumblingly, while a dead silence fell upon the room. chapter xx uncle jabez is mysterious miss cramp was in the habit of calling upon some trustee to speak at the close of the exercises--usually mr. semple--and then there was a little social time before the assemblage broke up. but the frown on the chairman's face did not suggest that that gentleman had anything very jovial to say at the moment, and the teacher closed the exercises herself in a few words that were not at all personal to the winner of the spelling-match. when the stir of people moving about aroused ruth, her only thought was to get away from the schoolhouse. perhaps not more than two dozen people had distinctly heard what julia so cruelly said to her; but it seemed to the girl from the red mill as though everybody in that throng knew that she was a charity child--that, as julia said, the very frock she had on belonged to somebody else. and to helen! she had never for a moment suspected that helen had been the donor of the three frocks. of course everybody in the neighborhood had known all the time that she was wearing helen's cast-off clothing. everybody but ruth herself would have recognized the dresses; she had been in the neighborhood so short a time that, of course, she was not very well acquainted with helen's wardrobe. at the moment she could not feel thankful to her chum. she could only remember julia's cutting words, and feel the sting to her pride that she should have shown herself before all beholders the recipient of her friend's alms. nobody spoke to her as she glided through the moving crowd and reached the door. miss cramp was delayed in getting to her; helen and tom did not see her go, for they were across the room and farthest from the door. and so she reached the exit and slipped out. the men and boys from outside thronged the tiny anteroom and the steps. as she pushed through them one man said: "why, here's the smart leetle gal that took semple's gal down a peg-- eh? she'd oughter have a prize for that, that's what she ought!" but ruth could not reply to this, although she knew it was meant kindly. she went out into the darkness. there were many horses hitched about the schoolhouse, but she reached the clear road in safety and ran toward the red mill. the girl came to the mill and went quietly into the kitchen. she had got the best of her tears now, but aunt alviry's bright eyes discovered at once that she was unhappy. uncle jabez did not even raise his eyes when she came in. "what is the matter with my pretty leetle creetur?" whispered the old woman, creeping close to ruth. "nothing is the matter now," returned ruth, in the same low tone. "didn't you do well?" asked the old woman, wistfully. "i won the spelling match," replied ruth. "i stood up longer than anybody else." "is that so!" exclaimed aunt alvirah, with pride. "i told ye so, ruthie. and ye beat that semple gal?" "she was the last one to fail before me," ruth returned. "well, well! d'ye hear that, jabez? our ruth won the spellin'-match." the miller did not raise his head from his accounts; only grunted and nodded. "but something went wrong wi' ye, deary?" persisted aunt alvirah, watching ruth's face closely. "oh, auntie! why didn't you tell me that helen gave me the frocks?" "deary, deary, me!" ejaculated aunt alvirah. "how did you know?" "julia semple told me--she told me before everybody!" gasped ruth, fighting hard to keep back the tears. "she called me a pauper! she called it out before them all, and said that i wore helen's cast-off clothes!" "the mean thing!" said aunt alvirah, with more sharpness then she usually expressed. "isn't that jest like the semples? they're all that way. got mad with you because you beat her at spelling; eh?" "yes. but she has known it right along, of course." "deary me!" said aunt alvirah. "nobody supposed them frocks would be reckernized--least of all helen. she meant it kindly, ruthie. it was kindly meant." "i wish i'd worn my old black dress to rags!" cried ruth, who was too hurt to be sensible or just. "i suppose helen meant it kindly. and you did what you thought was right, auntie. but all the girls have turned up their noses at me--" "let 'em stay turned up--what do you care?" suddenly growled uncle jabez. for the moment ruth had forgotten his presence and she and aunt alvirah had been talking more loudly. they both fell suddenly silent and stared at him. "are ye too proud to wear dresses that's give to ye?" demanded uncle jabez. "ye ain't too proud to take food and shelter from me. and i'm a poorer man than macy cameron an' less able to give." the tone and the words were both cruel--or seemed to be to ruth's mind. but she said, bravely: "people know that you're my uncle--" "i was yer mother's uncle; that's all. the relationship ain't much," declared uncle jabez. "jabez," said the little old woman, solemnly, "you've been a good friend to me--ye've borne with me in sickness and in weakness. ye took me from the a'mshouse when i didn't have a penny to my name and nobody else to turn to, it seemed. i've tried ter do for ye faithfully. but i ain't done my duty by you no more than this child here has since she's come here to the red mill. you know that well yourself, too. don't blame the pretty leetle creetur for havin' the nateral vanity that all young things hez. remember, jabez, that it was through you that she has had to accept clothing from outsiders." "through me?" growled the miller, raising his countenance and scowling at the brave old woman--for it took courage for aunt alvirah to speak to him in this way. "helen cam'ron wouldn't have been called on to give ruthie her frocks which she only wore last year, and outgrew, if you hadn't lost ruthie's trunk. ye know that, jabez," urged aunt alvirah. "i s'pose i'm never to hear the last of that!" stormed the miller. "you are still to hear the first word from ruthie about it, jabez," admonished his housekeeper. "well!" "well," repeated aunt alvirah, still speaking quietly but earnestly. "you know it ain't my way to interfere in your affairs, jabez. but right is right. it was you lost ruthie's trunk. i never knew ye ter be dishonest--" "what's that?" gasped mr. potter, the red mantling his gray cheek dully. "i never knew ye ter do a dishonest thing afore, jabez," pursued aunt alvirah, with her voice shaking now. "but it's dishonest for ye to never even perpose ter make good what ye lost. if you'd lost a sack of grain for a neighbor ye'd made it up to him; wouldn't ye?" "what's thet gotter do with a lot of foolish fal-lals an' rigamagigs belonging to a gal that i've taken in--" "to help us. and she does help us," declared the old woman, quickly. "she more'n airns her keep, jabez. ye know she does." "well!" grunted the miller again, but he actually looked somewhat abashed and dropped his gaze to the ledger. "well, then, jabez potter," said the old housekeeper, "you think it over--think it over, jabez. and as sure as my name's alviry boggs, if you do think it over, something will come of it!" this seemed like a rather mysterious saying, and there seemed to be nothing for the miller to observe in answer to it. ruth had ere this dried her eyes and it was soon bedtime. it is a long time from friday night to monday morning--especially to young folk. the hurt that ruth had felt over julia semple's unkind words had lost its keenness in ruth's mind ere school began again. so ruth took up her school duties quite as usual, wearing one of the pretty frocks in which, however, she could no longer take such pride and delight. there was really nothing for her to do but wear them. she realized that. she felt, however, that whenever any girl looked at her she remembered that it was helen cameron's cast-off dress she wore; so she was glad that the big girls were no more friendly than before and that they seldom looked at her. besides, all the school was very busy now. in a fortnight would came graduation. about all ruth heard at recess and between sessions, even among the smaller girls, was the discussion of what they were to wear on the last day of the term. it was a great day at this school, and miss cramp was to graduate from her care seven pupils--four girls and three boys--all of whom would go to the cheslow high the coming year. ruth would not be ready to graduate; but before fall, if she was faithful to the tasks miss cramp set her, that kind teacher assured the girl from the red mill that she would be able to enter the higher school with this graduating class. all the older girls and many of the others were to wear white. miss cramp approved of this, for even a simple white dress would look pretty and nice and was within the means of most of the girl pupils. nobody asked ruth what she would wear; and she was glad of that, for she knew that she had no choice but to don the shabby black cloth frock she had worn at first, or one of the "charity" frocks. in this first week after the spelling-bee she did not see helen or tom, and only received a brief note from helen which she tried to answer with her usual cheerfulness. helen and tom were going to the city for a few days, therefore ruth was not likely to see either until the end of the term. at the red mill matters went much the same as usual. if uncle jabez had taken to heart anything that aunt alvirah had said, he did not show it. he was as moody as ever and spoke no more to ruth than before. but once or twice the girl found him looking at her with a puzzled frown which she did not understand. on saturday, however, at dinner, mr. potter said: "alviry, if the gal has got her work done she can go to town with me this afternoon." ruth shrank a little and looked appealingly at the old woman. but aunt alvirah would not or did not, understand ruth's pleading, and said, briskly: "she shall be ready when you've shaved and ben's harnessed the mules, jabez." "oh, auntie!" whispered ruth, when the miller had gone out, "i don't want to go with him! i don't really!" "now, don't say that, child," said aunt alvirah. "don't do nothing to make him feel that ye air afraid of him. go 'long. ye can call on that leetle lame gal ye was tellin' us about while jabez does his errands. now hurry, deary." ruth felt quite confused by this. it seemed that there must be some private understanding between aunt alvirah and the miller. she went slowly and changed her frock. the old lady, crying up the stairway after her, advised her to look her smartest--so as to please jabez, forsooth! indeed, she finally hobbled up stairs, with many ejaculations of "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" for the purpose of satisfying herself that ruth was as nicely dressed as she could be. and uncle jabez--or no other man--need have been ashamed of the appearance of ruth fielding when the mules came around hitched to the heavy farm-wagon which mr. potter usually drove. it was piled high with bags of flour and meal, which he proposed to exchange at the cheslow stores for such supplies as he might need. the load seemed heavier than usual this day. it was not a bad wagon to ride in, though dusty; for there was a spring seat and over it a new hood to shield the riders from the sun. ruth followed uncle jabez out of the house and climbed up over the wheel and into the seat when he nodded for her to do so. he followed her, took up the reins, and the boy, ben, stood away from the mules' heads. aunt alvirah stood on the porch and waved her apron at ruth every time the girl turned around, until the wagon had crossed the bridge and was way up the long hill on the cheslow road. it was a delightful june afternoon and had ruth been traversing this pleasant highway in almost any other way, she would have enjoyed the ride mightily. chapter xxi the end of the term but the companionship of the grim and glum proprietor of the red mill was not conducive--in ruth's case, at least--to any feeling of pleasure. uncle jabez seemed about to speak to her a dozen times before they were out of sight of the mill; but every time ruth turned toward him, half expecting to be addressed, his lips were grimly set and he was looking straight ahead over the mules' ears. it is doubtful if uncle jabez saw anything of the beauty of the day or the variety of the landscape. looking as he did he could not have observed by his eyes of flesh much but the brown ribbon of road before them, for miles. and it is doubtful if, spiritually, he appreciated much of the beauty of the june day. the mules toiled up the long hill, straining in their collars; but they began to trot upon the other side of the ridge and the five miles to cheslow were covered in a comparatively short time. finally, when uncle jabez drew up before one of the largest stores, she felt that she must break the awful silence. and stumblingly she preferred her request: "if you are going to be some time trading, uncle jabez, can't i go down to call on mercy curtis? i can come here again and meet you at any time you say." "who's that? sam curtis' gal--the cripple?" asked uncle jabez, shortly. "yes, sir. she likes to have me come and see her." "can't you find nothing more interestin' to do when ye come to town than go to see a sick gal?" was the miller's surprising inquiry. "i--i promised to call on her if i could whenever i was in town. she really likes to have me come," explained ruth. "well, you can go," grunted uncle jabez. "i'll stop there for ye when i'm done tradin'." he had already climbed down from the high seat. ruth came lightly down after him and he actually turned and jumped her over the wheel so that her dress should not be soiled. then, suddenly, he said: "wait. i want you to go into this store with me first." he turned away abruptly, so that ruth could not see what his countenance expressed. he carefully tied his mules to a hitching post and then stumped into the store without again glancing in her direction. ruth followed him timidly. it was a big store with many departments, and on one side were dry goods and clothing, where the clerks were women, or young girls, while the groceries, provisions, hardware and agricultural tools were displayed upon the other side of the long room. uncle jabez strode straight to the first woman he saw who was disengaged. "this girl wants a dress to wear to the school graduating," he said, in his harsh voice. "it must be white. let her pick out the goods, all the fal-lals that go with it, and a pattern to make it by. ye understand?" "yes, sir," said the woman, smiling. "you know me?" asked uncle jabez. "yes? then send the bill to the other side of the store and i'll pay it when i sell my meal and flour." then to the astounded ruth he said: "i'll come to sam curtis' for you when i'm done. see you don't keep me waiting." he wheeled and strode away before ruth could find her voice. she was so amazed that she actually felt faint she could not understand it. a white dress! and she to make her choice alone, without regard to material, or price! she could have been no more stunned had uncle jabez suddenly run mad and been caught by the authorities and sent to an asylum. but the shop woman awoke her, having asked her twice what kind of white goods she wanted to see. the repeated query brought ruth to her senses. she put the astonishing fact that uncle jabez had done this, behind her, and remembered at once the importance of the task before her. she had not listened to the talk of the other girls at school for nothing. she knew just what was the most popular fabric that season for simple white dresses that could be "done up" when soiled. she had even found the style of a dress she liked in a fashion magazine that one of the girls had had at school. ruth was self-posessed at once. she went about her shopping as carefully and with as little haste as though she had been buying for herself for years; whereas this was the very first frock that she had ever been allowed to have the choice of. there were costlier goods, and some of the girls of the graduating class were to have them; but ruth chose something so durable and at so low a price that she hoped uncle jabez would not be sorry for his generosity. she saw the goods, and lace, and buttons, and all the rest, made up into a neat package and sent across to the other counter with the bill, and then went out of the store and up market street toward the railroad. she saw uncle jabez nowhere, or she would have run to him to thank him for the present. and she had been in mercy curtis' front window for quite an hour before the mules turned the corner into the street and the wagon rattled up to the house and stopped. "and is that ugly old man your uncle?" demanded mercy, who had been less crusty and exacting herself on this occasion. "that is uncle jabez;" admitted ruth, hastening to put on her hat. "he is an ugly one; isn't he? i'd like to know him, i would," declared the odd child. "he ain't one that's always smirking and smiling, i bet you!" "he isn't given much to smiling, i must admit," laughed ruth, stooping to kiss the crippled girl. "there! go along with you," said mercy, sharply. "you tell that ugly, dusty man--dusty miller, that's what he is--that i'm coming out to the red mill, whether he wants me to or not." and when ruth got out upon the street mercy had her window open and cried through the opening, shaking her little fist the while: "remember! you tell dusty miller what i told you! i'm coming out there." "what's the matter with that young one?" growled uncle jabez, as ruth climbed aboard and the mules started at a trot before she was really seated beside him. ruth told him, smiling, that mercy had taken a fancy to his looks, and a fancy, too, to the red mill from her description of it. "she wants very much to come out there this summer--if she can be moved that far." then ruth tried to thank the miller for the frock--which bundle she saw carefully placed among the other packages in the body of the wagon--but uncle jabez listened very grumpily to her broken words. "i don't know how to thank you, sir; for of all the things i wanted most, i believe this is the very first thing," ruth said, stumblingly. "i really don't know how to thank you." "don't try, then," he growled, but without looking at her. "i reckon you can thank alviry boggs as much as anybody. she says i owed it to you." "oh, uncle--" "there, there! i don't wanter hear no more about it," declared the miller. but after they had rattled on for a while in silence, he said, pursuing the former topic: "there ain't no reason, i s'pose, why that gal can't come out an' see you bimeby, if you want her to." "oh, thank you, uncle jabez!" cried ruth, feeling as though something very strange indeed must have happened to the miller to make him so agreeable. and she tried to be chatty and pleasant with him for the rest of the way home. but uncle jabez was short on conversation--he seemed to have hoarded that up, too, and was unable to get at his stores of small-talk. most of his observations were mere grunts and nods, and that evening he was just as glum and silent as ever over his money and accounts. miss 'cretia lock arrived early on monday morning and when ruth came home from school in the afternoon the wonderful dress was cut out. they made it in two days and aunt alvirah washed and starched and ironed it herself and it was ready for appearance on the last friday afternoon of the term, when the district school held its graduating exercises. chapter xxii mercy ruth felt that she was not very successful at miss cramp's school. not that she had fallen behind in her studies, or failed to please her kind instructor; but among the pupils of the upper grade she was all but unconsidered. perhaps, had time been given her, ruth might have won her way with some of the fairer-minded girls; but in the few short weeks she had been in the district she had only managed to make enemies among the members of her own class. there was probably no girl in the graduating class, from julia semple and rosa ball, down the line, who was not glad that the girl from the red mill--a charity child!--was not numbered in the regular class and had no part in the graduating exercises. nevertheless, ruth proposed, if it were possible, to enter the cheslow high school in the fall, and to that end she was determined to work at her books--with miss cramp's help--all summer. when it came to the last day, however, and it was known that ruth would not come back to that school again in the autumn, the smaller girls gathered about her and were really sorry that she was to go. forced out of any part with her own grade of pupils, ruth had taken the little ones about her and played and taught them games, had told them stories on rainy days, and otherwise endeared herself to them. and now the little folk made much of her on this last day, bringing her flowers, and little presents, and clinging about her before the afternoon session began and their parents and friends came to listen to the exercises, in a way that was very pretty to behold. aunt alvirah wanted to come to the closing exercises of the school; but to expect uncle jabez to leave the mill in business hours for any such thing as that was altogether ridiculous to contemplate. uncle jabez had, however, paid some small attention to ruth in her new dress. before she started for school that last day she went to the mill door and showed herself to the miller. "well, i don't see but you look as fine as the rest of 'em," he said, slowly. "and the price ain't much. you used judgment in buying, niece ruth. i'll say that much for ye." this being the first word of approval the miller had ever given her, the girl appreciated it to its full value. since he had given her the dress she had wished more than ever to become friendly with him. but he was so moody and so given up to his accounts and the hoarding of wealth, that it seemed next to impossible for the girl to get near uncle jabez. besides, he had never recovered from the bitterness engendered by the loss of the cash-box. a heavy scowl rested upon his brow all the time. sometimes he sighed and shook his head when he sat idle at the table, or on the porch in the evening; and ruth believed he must be mourning the money which the flood was supposed to have swept away. but although neither of the old folks at the red mill came to see the graduating exercises, ruth was not exactly unhappy. the little children showing her that they liked her so well, could not fail to be a lasting pleasure to ruth. and helen and tom, with their governess, mrs. murchiston, attended the exercises, and helen sat with ruth. "and we're going to take you home; the carriage will come for us," helen whispered in her ear. "no," ruth said, shaking her head, "i cannot go home with you. you know, uncle--" "he is an ogre," whispered helen, with vigor. that made ruth smile a little, and she told helen what mercy curtis called the owner of the red mill, and of the fancy the lame girl had taken for uncle jabez. "he is 'dusty miller' to mercy, and i shouldn't be surprised if uncle jabez had her out for a day or two, if the doctor will let her come. and you mustn't call him names, i tell you. see how good he has been to me. he gave me this new dress." "that must have hurt him awfully," said helen, sharply. "not but that the dress is becoming and pretty, dear. but that's the only thing he's ever given you, i warrant--and he lost your trunk!" the camerons insisted upon driving ruth as far as the red mill, just the same. mrs. murchiston was a very pleasant lady, and helen and tom evidently thought a good deal of her. "i should have been glad to have you for helen's playmate this summer, my dear," said the governess to ruth. "and i wish you were fortunate enough to be able to go with helen this fall. you have just the characteristics in your nature to balance dear helen's impetuosity." "oh, i wish indeed she was going to briarwood hall," cried helen. "i shall be satisfied if the way is opened for me to go to high school," ruth declared, smiling. "uncle has said nothing against it, and i shall begin next week walking in to miss cramp's to recite." helen asked very minutely about ruth's plans for going to cheslow to recite, and the very first day of the next week, when the girl of the red mill started for town, who should overtake her within half a mile of the mill, but helen and her governess going to cheslow on a shopping errand, and drawn by tubby, the pony. of course, there was room for ruth in the phaeton, and helen and mrs. murchiston remained in town as long as ruth did and brought her back with them. ruth had time to run in and see mercy curtis. "i'm coming out to the red mill, so now!" declared the lame girl. "i asked doctor davison, and he says yes. and if he says so, that uncle of yours, dusty miller, will have to let me. folks have to do as doctor davison says, you know. and your uncle--isn't he just an ugly dear? does he look just that cross all the time? i bet he never forgives his enemy!" this novel reason for liking uncle jabez would have been amusing had there not been a serious side to it. this odd child, with her warped and twisted fancies, was to be pitied, and ruth secretly pitied her with all her heart. but she was careful now not to show mercy that she commiserated her condition; that way was not the way to the cripple's heart. nevertheless, being a little less afraid of uncle jabez than she once was, that very evening she mentioned mercy's desire to him. uncle jabez never smiled, but it could be said that his face relaxed when she called up the memory of sam curtis' crippled daughter. "yes; why not?" rejoined aunt alvirah. "have the poor leetle creetur out here, jabez. she'll be no bother to you. and she kin sleep with ruthie." "how'll she get up and down stairs?" demanded the miller, quite surprising ruth and aunt alvirah by considering this phase of the matter. "you'll have to open the east bedroom, alviry." "jest as you say, jabez," answered the old woman, very meekly, but her bright eyes sparkling as she glanced aside at ruth. "she kin roll herself in her chair in and out of that room, and onto the porch." "i'll see doc. davison when he drives by to-morrer," promised uncle jabez, with his usual bruskness. "if he says it's all right, she can come. i'll bring her chair and her luggage out in the wagon on saturday. the doc. will arrange about her being brought out comfortably." all this was so amazing that ruth could not speak. except when he had been angry, or at the time his cash-box was lost when the flood came down the river, she had never heard uncle jabez make so long a speech. aunt alvirah was no person with whom she could discuss this great change in the miller; and when doctor davison was hailed by mr. potter the next day and stopped at the mill for quite half an hour to confer with him, ruth was still more amazed. every other day ruth was to go to town, if it was fair. uncle jabez made no comment upon her absence; nor did he put himself out in the least to arrange for any means of transportation for his niece. he seldom went to cheslow himself, save on saturdays. ruth's next trip to miss cramp's was on a very hot day indeed. there was a glare of hot sun on the long hill and just enough fitful breeze to sift the road-dust all over her as she walked. but--and how fortunate that was!--before she had gone far the purring of a motor-car engine aroused her attention and tom cameron ran along beside her in his father's auto and stopped. "ain't i lucky?" he cried. "get in here, ruthie, and i'll take you to town in a jiffy." "i'm the lucky one, i think," said ruth, smiling in return as she slipped into the seat beside him. "and i almost believe, tommy cameron, that you knew i was starting for town and came along just to give me a lift." he grinned at her. "don't you think you're mighty important?" he teased. "suppose i haven't anything else to think about but you girls?" just the same, ruth stuck to this belief. but she had to confess that she was glad of the ride to town. it would have been very, very hot in the sun and dust. "and it's real summer, now," she said. "it will be hot in town. i'm so glad mercy is going to get out of it." "what do you mean?" demanded tom. "is she going to be taken away?" ruth told him of the remarkable interest uncle jabez had taken in the crippled girl. tom could scarcely have been more surprised. "why, the old curmudgeon has got a decent streak in him, after all; hasn't he?" he exclaimed, rather thoughtlessly. "don't speak that way of him, tom," urged ruth. "i know you've got reason for disliking him--" "what do you mean?" demanded tom, turning on her sharply. "oh, i--well, tom, you know i believe i could easily find the man who almost drove the team over you the night you were hurt? and you've known it all the time, and kept still about it!" "that mean, contemptible jasper parloe! he's told!" gasped tom. "jasper parloe told?" repeated ruth. "not me." "then--" "you muttered it when they carried you to the doctor's house that night. you said it was my uncle," said ruth, quietly. "i have known it all along, and so has parloe, i suppose. he and i were the only persons who heard what you said when you were but half conscious. you've kept still about it so as to shield uncle, and i thank you." tom looked abashed; but he was angry, too. "confound that parloe!" he exclaimed again. "he's been bleeding me, too! threatened to go to my father and tell about it--and dad would have been pretty hot with your uncle, i expect." "it was just fine of you, tommy," ruth said, admiringly. "but i'd let that parloe tell anything he liked. uncle jabez never meant to run you down, i'm sure." "i tell you what," said tom. "i'll go to him myself and talk with him. guess i can do a little bargaining on my own hook. if i don't make him any trouble about my accident, he ought to let you and helen be spoons again. she's just about worrying herself sick over you." "it will come right, tom, in the end," returned ruth, quietly, and repeating aunt alvirah's favorite word of cheer. "uncle is changed, i believe. think of his taking so much interest in mercy!" "i'll see doctor davison," said tom, eagerly; "and perhaps i'll bring the sick girl out on saturday. she ought to be very comfortable in this machine. helen would be glad to do something for her, too." "but you don't want to make any show of doing anything for mercy," returned ruth, shaking her head as she got out before the station master's cottage. "there she is at the window. she'll be curious about you, i've no doubt." she only ran in for a few moments to see mercy before going on to miss cramp's. "that's that cameron boy," said the crippled girl, in her sharp way. "i see him and that sister of his whizzing through this street before in their car. wish it'd blow up some day when they're showing off." ruth had got so now that she never showed surprise at mercy's harsh speeches. she refused to admit that she took the lame girl seriously in her ugly moods. "now, you'd better not wish that, mercy," she laughed. "tom wants to take you out to the red mill on saturday in that same automobile. uncle jabez is going to take the wheel chair and your baggage. you'll like riding in the car well enough." for a moment the cripple was silent and her eyes fell before ruth's gaze. suddenly the guest saw that mercy's shoulders shook and that tears were actually dropping from mercy's eyes. "my dear!" she cried. "go away!" murmured the crippled girl. "i want to be alone. i ain't never believed," she went on, with more vigor than grammar, "that i'd ever get out to your house. is--is it really so that i can?" "uncle jabez is determined you shall come. so is doctor davison. so am i. everybody is helping. why, mercy, you'd have to come to the red mill on a visit now, even if you didn't want to!" cried ruth, laughing happily. chapter xxiii in olakah glen and mercy curtis really came to the red mill. perhaps it was because of doctor davison, for it was notorious that when the good physician set out to do a thing, or to have it done, it was accomplished. yet in this case it seemed as though the miller himself had as much to do with the successful outcome of the plan as anybody. he had little to say about it--or little to say at first to the crippled girl. but he saw that aunt alvirah and ruth had the east bedroom ready for mercy's occupancy before he started to town with his usual load of flour and meal on saturday afternoon; and he was at home in good season for supper with the empty grain sacks, the fruits of his saturday's trading, and mercy's wheel chair in the wagon. but before he returned to the red mill the camerons' big car, with helen and tom and the chauffeur, flashed past the red mill on its way to town and in a remarkably short time reappeared with mercy sitting beside helen in the tonneau. doctor davison arrived at about the same time, too, and superintended the removal of the cripple into the house. mercy was as excited as she could be. there was actually color in her face. she was so excited that she forgot to be snappy, and thanked them all for their kindness to her. "into bed you go at once, mercy," commanded doctor davison; "and in the morning you may get up as early as you please--or as early as ruth gets up." for ruth was to sleep on the couch in the sick girl's room during her visit to the red mill. the doctor drove the camerons away then, and adjured mercy to be quiet, leaving her to the tender nursing of ruth and aunt alvirah. mercy was in a mood to be friendly with everybody--for once. she was delighted with aunt alvirah. when uncle jabez arrived with the wheelchair she actually made him do errands for her and talked to him with a freedom that astonished both ruth and mrs. alvirah boggs. "there! i knew you'd do it, dusty miller," mercy said to the old man, tartly. "you men are all alike--just as forgetful as you can be. it's all very well to bring this old wheelchair; but where are my two sticks? didn't they give you my canes, dusty miller? i assure you i have to move around a bit now and then without using this horseless carriage. i've got to have something to hobble on. i'm goody two-sticks, i am. you know very well that one of my legs isn't worth anything at all." "ha!" croaked jabez potter, eyeing her with his usual frown, "i didn't bring any canes; because why? there weren't any given me. they're not in the wagon." "my! do you always frown just like that?" demanded mercy curtis, in a manner which would have been impertinent in any other person, but was her natural way of speaking. "you don't waste your time in smiling and smirking; do you?" "i never saw any use in it--unless ye had something perticular to smile for," admitted mr. potter. "then it won't spoil your smile if i tell you that you'll have to find me canes somewhere if i'm to help myself at all," she said. he gravely brought two rough staffs, measured them off at just the right height for her, and spent the bulk of the evening in smoothing the rough sticks and tacking on bits of leather at the small ends of the canes in lieu of ferrules. the east bedroom was at the end of the passage leading from the kitchen. it was right next to uncle jabez's own room. they all sat in the east room that evening, for its windows opened upon the wide, honeysuckle-shaded porch, and the breeze was cool. it was the beginning of many such evenings, for although uncle jabez sometimes retired to his bedroom where a lamp burned, and made up his cash-book and counted his money (or so ruth supposed) not an evening went by that the miller was not, for a time at least, in the cripple's room. he did not talk much. indeed, if he talked to anyone more than to another it was to ruth; but he seemed to take a quizzical interest in watching mercy's wry faces when she was in one of her ugly moods, and in listening to her sharp speeches. the outdoor air and sun, and the plentiful supply of fresh milk and vegetables and farm cooking, began to make another girl of mercy before a week went over her head. she had actually some natural color, her hands became less like bird-claws, and her hollow cheeks began to fill out. on sunday mr. and mrs. curtis drove out to see her. the red mill had not been so lively a place since ruth came to it, she knew, and, she could imagine; for many a long year before. doctor davison was there every day. other neighbors were continually running in to see mercy, or to bring something for the invalid. at first, in her old, snappy, snarly way, mercy would say: "old cat! just wanted to see how humpy and mean i look. thought i was as ugly as a bullfrog, i s'pose. i know what they're after!" but as she really began to feel better, and slept long and sweetly at night, and altogether to gain in health, she dropped such sharp speeches and had a smile when visitors came and when they left. everybody who drove by and saw her sitting on the porch, or wheeling herself, or being wheeled by ruth, about the paths, had something to say to her, or waved a hand at her, and mercy curtis began to be pleasant mannered. she hobbled around her room more on the "two-sticks" uncle jabez had made for her; but she never liked to have even ruth see her at these exercises. she certainly did get about in a very queer manner--"just like a crab with the st. vitus dance," so she herself said. the doctor watched her closely. he was more attentive than he had been when she was much worse off in health; and finally, after mercy had been at the red mill for nearly a month, he brought a strange physician to see her. this gentleman was a great surgeon from new york, who asked mercy a few questions, but who watched her with so intent a look that the little crippled girl was half frightened at him. he inspired confidence, however, and when he said to her, on departing: "you are going to see me again before long," mercy was quite excited about it. she never asked a question of doctor davison, or of anybody else, about the strange surgeon, or his opinion of her case; but ruth often heard her humming an odd little song (she often made up little tunes and put words to them herself) of which ruth did not catch the burden for some days. when mercy was singing it she mumbled the words, or dropped her voice to a whisper whenever anybody came near. but one morning ruth was bringing the beaten egg and milk that she drank as a "pick-me-up" between breakfast and dinner, and mercy did not hear her coming, and the odd little song came clearly to the ears of the girl of the red mill: "he's going to cure me! oh, my back and oh, my bones! he's going to cure me! oh, my back and oh, my bones!" ruth knew instantly to what the little doggerel song referred. it is true mercy had filched aunt alvirah's phrase and made it her own--and it applied to the poor child as well as to the rheumatic old woman. but it was a song of joy--a song of expectation. ruth tried to be even more kind to mercy after that. she was with her almost all the time. but there were occasions when helen and tom cameron really made her come out with them on some little jaunt. since mercy's arrival at the red mill the camerons had fallen into the habit of calling occasionally, and uncle jabez had said nothing about it. ostensibly they called on mercy; but it was ruth that they came for with the pony carriage one day and took away for a visit to olakah glen. this beautiful spot was not so very far away, but it called for a picnic lunch, and tubby was quite two hours in getting them there. it was a wild hollow, with great beech trees, and a noisy stream chaffing in a rocky bed down the middle of the glen. there were some farms thereabout; but many of the farmers were no more than squatters, for a vast tract of field and forest, including the glen, belonged to an estate which had long been in the courts for settlement. just before leaving all signs of civilization behind, tom had pointed out a shanty and several outbuildings on a high hillock overlooking the road, and told the girls that that was where jasper parloe lived, all alone. "i came up here fishing with some of the other fellows once, and jasper tried to drive us out of the glen. said he owned it. likely story! he won't trouble us to-day." indeed, wild as the spot was, there was little likelihood of anybody troubling the young people, for they had reno along. this faithful creature watched over the trio most jealously and, as they were eating on the grass, he found some sudden reason to become excited. he rose up, stiffening his back, the hair rising on his neck, and a low growl issuing from his throat. the girls were a little startled, but tom sprang up, motioned to helen and ruth to keep still, and ran to the angry mastiff. "what's the matter with you, reno?" demanded tom, softly, but putting a restraining hand upon his collar. reno lurched forward, and tom gripped the collar tightly as he was dragged directly toward a thick dump of shrubbery not many yards away. chapter xxiv the initials there was no sound that tom cameron or the girls could hear from the shrubbery; but reno evidently knew that somebody was lurking there. and by the dog's actions tom thought it must be somebody whom reno disliked. "oh, don't leave us, tom!" begged helen, running behind her brother and the mastiff. "come on--both of you!" muttered tom. "we'll see what this means. stick close to me." he had picked up a stout club; but it was in the huge and intelligent mastiff that they all put their confidence. the dog, although he snuffed now and then as though the scent that had first disturbed him still came down the wind, had ceased to growl. they came to a path in the thicket and followed it for a few yards only, when reno stopped and stiffened again. "hush!" whispered tom, and parted the bushes with one hand, his other still clinging to the mastic's collar. there was a tiny opening in the shrubbery. it surrounded the foot of a huge beech tree. in some past day a careless hunter had built a fire close to the trunk of this tree. it was now hollow at the base, but vines and creepers growing up the tall tree had hidden the opening. a man was on his knees at the foot of the tree and had drawn the matted curtain of creepers aside with one hand while with the other he reached in to the full length of his arm. he had no suspicion of the presence of the young people and reno. out of the hollow in the tree trunk he drew something wrapped in an old pair of overalls. he unwrapped it, still with his back to the spot where the dog and his master and the girls stood. but the three friends could see over his shoulder as he knelt on the ground, and saw plainly that the object he had withdrawn from the tree trunk was a flat black box, evidently japanned, and there was a fair-sized brass padlock which fastened it. "ha, ha, ha!" chuckled the man to himself, as he wrapped the box up again in the old clothes, and then thrust it hastily into the hollow tree. "safe yet! safe yet!" he rose up then and without even looking about him, started directly away from the glen. he plainly had no suspicion of the presence of the dog and the trio of young folks. when he was quite out of sight and sound, tom whispered, patting reno: "i declare, girls! that was jasper parloe!" "that mean thing!" returned his sister. "i guess he's a miser as well as a hermit; isn't he?" "looks like it. i've a good mind to take that thing he put in there and hide it somewhere else. he wouldn't be so sure about it's being safe then; would he?" "no! don't you touch his nasty things, tom," advised helen, turning away. but ruth still stared at the hidden hollow in the tree and suddenly she darted forward and knelt where parloe had knelt. "what are you going to do, ruth?" demanded her chum. "i want to see that box--i must see it!" cried the girl from the red mill. "hold on!" said tom. "i'll get it for you. you'll get your dress dirty." "i wouldn't touch it," cried helen, warningly. "i must!" gasped ruth, greatly excited. "it don't belong to you," quoth helen. "and i'm very sure it doesn't belong to jasper parloe," declared ruth, earnestly. tom glanced at the girl from the red mill suddenly, and with close attention. he seemed to understand her excitement. "let me in there," said the youth. "i can reach it, ruthie." he pushed her gently, and while ruth and helen held aside the mass of vines the boy crawled in and reached the bundle of rags. he carefully hauled it all forth and the japanned box tumbled out of its loose wrappings. "there it is!" grunted tom, getting up and wiping his hands on a tuft of grass. "what do you make of it?" ruth had the box in her hands. helen, looking over her shoulder, pointed to two faded letters painted on the cover of the box. "that belongs to jasper parloe. his initials are on the box," she said. "'j. p.'--that's right, i guess," muttered tom. it could not be gainsaid that parloe's initials were there. ruth stared at them for some moments in silence. "better put it back. i don't know what he can possibly have to hide in this way," tom said. "but we wouldn't want to get into trouble with him. he's a mean customer." "it isn't his box!" said ruth, quietly. "why isn't it?" cried helen, in amazement. "i never noticed the letters on the box before. the box has been cleaned since i saw it--" "you don't mean that it is your uncle's cash-box, ruth?" interrupted tom, in excitement. "why, you ridiculous boy!" declared helen. "you know that was lost in the flood." "i don't know. do you?" tom demanded, shortly. "but, ruth!" gasped helen. "it looks like uncle jabez's box," ruth whispered. "but the letters! jasper parloe's initials," cried the hard-to-be-convinced helen cameron. "they're uncle's initials, too," explained ruth, quietly. "whew!" ejaculated tom. "so they are. 'j. p.--jabez potter.' can't get around that." "well, i never!" gasped helen. "do you suppose all old jabe's money is in this?" muttered tom, weighing the cash-box in his hands. "it can't be in coin." "i do not know that he had much money in coin," said ruth. "i think he used to change the gold and silver for notes, quite frequently. at least, aunt alvirah says so." "but suppose it should be parloe's after all?" objected helen. "let's find that out," said tom, vigorously. "come on, girls. we'll finish eating, pack up, and start back. we'll drive right up to parloe's and show him this box, and ask him if it is his. if he says yes, we'll make him come along to the mill and face mr. potter, and then if there is any doubt of it, let them go before a magistrate and fight it out!" the girls were impressed with the wisdom of this declaration, and all went back to rescue the remains of their luncheon from the birds and from a saucy gray squirrel that had already dropped down to the lowest limb of the tree under which they had spread their cloth, and who sat there and chattered angrily while they remained thereafter, as though he considered that he had been personally cheated out of a banquet. the girls and tom were so excited that they could not enjoy the remainder of the nice things that babette had packed in their lunch basket they were soon in the carriage, and tubby was startled out of a pleasant dream and urged up the hilly road that led through the woods to the squatter's cabin, where jasper parloe had taken up his quarters after he had been discharged from employment at the red mill. chapter xxv endings and beginnings when the pony carriage drove into the little clearing about the squatter's hut, parloe was pottering about the yard and he stood up and looked at them with arms akimbo and a growing grin upon his sly face. "well, well, well!" he croaked. "all together, air ye? havin' a picnic?" "we've been down yonder in the glen," said tom, sternly. for an instant jasper parloe changed color and looked a bit worried. but it was only for an instant. then he grinned again and his little eyes twinkled just as though he were amused. but tom kept on, bluntly, saying: "we found something there, parloe, and we came up here to see if it belongs to you." "what's that?" asked the man, drawing nearer. "i ain't lost nothing." "don't say that," said tom, quickly. "at least, don't say you haven't hidden something." but he could not catch mr. parloe again. the man shook his head slowly and looked as though he hadn't the least idea of what tom was driving at. "look here," continued the boy, and drew forth the japanned box. "well! well!" and jasper's mean little eyes twinkled more than ever. "you don't mean to say you found that down yonder?" "we did," said tom, tartly. "now, where was it?" "where it had been hidden," snapped tom, quite disgusted with the old man. "where it was supposed to be very safe, i reckon." "like enough, tom," said jasper, mildly. "what do you reckon on doing with it?" "you don't claim it to be yours, then?" demanded tom, in some surprise. "no-o," said parloe, slowly. "it has your initials on it," said helen, quickly. "that's odd, ain't it?" returned parloe, standing where he was and not offering to touch the box. "but other people have the same initials that i have." his grin grew to huge proportions, and he looked so sly that nothing but his high, bony nose kept his two little eyes from running together and making one eye of it. "jabe potter, for instance." "then you think this is likely to be mr. potter's?" queried tom. "couldn't say. jabe will probably claim it. he would take advantage of the initials, sure enough." "and why don't you?" asked helen. "'cause me and jabe are two different men," declared parloe, righteously. "nobody ever could say, with proof, that jasper parloe took what warn't his own." "this is my uncle's cash-box, i am very sure," interposed ruth, with some anger. "it was not swept away the day of the flood. you were there in his little office at the very moment the waters struck the mill, and we saw you running from the place as though you were scared." "jefers-pelters!" croaked jasper. "it was enough to scare anybody!" "that may be. but you weren't too scared to grab this box when you ran. and you must have hidden it under your coat as you left the mill. i am going to tell my uncle all about it--and how we saw you down the hill yonder, looking at this very box before you thrust it back in its hiding place." jasper parloe grew enraged rather than frightened by this threat. "tell!" he barked. "you tell what ye please. provin's another thing. i don't know nothin' about the box. i never opened it. i don't know what's in it. and you kin tell jabe that if he tries to make me trouble over it i'll make him trouble in a certain locality--he knows where and what about." "i shall give him the box and tell him how it came into my possession," repeated ruth, firmly, and then she and her friends drove away. they hurried tubby back to the red mill and ruth ran in ahead of her friends with the cash-box in her hands. the moment uncle jabez saw it he started forward with a loud cry. he almost tore the box from her grasp; but then became gentle again in a moment. "gal!" he ejaculated, softly, "how'd ye git this away from parloe?" "oh, uncle! how did you know he had it?" "i've been suspicious. he couldn't scarce keep it to hisself. he ain't opened it, i see." "i don't think he has." "we'll see. tell me about it," urged the miller, staring at helen and tom as they approached. ruth told him all about it. she pointed, too, to the fact that helen and tom--and especially tom's dog--had had more to do with the recovery of the cash-box than she had. uncle jabez listened and nodded as though he appreciated that fact. meanwhile, however, he hunted up the key to the japanned box and unlocked it. it was plain that the contents of the box were for the most part securities in the shape of stocks and bonds, with a good deal of currency in small notes. there was a little coin--gold and silver-- packed into one compartment. uncle jabez counted it all with feverish anxiety. "right to a penny!" he gasped, when he had finished, and mopped the perspiration from his brow. "the rascal didn't touch it. he didn't dare!" "but he'll dare something else, uncle," said ruth, hastily. "i believe he's going right to mr. cameron to make you trouble." "ah-ha!" exclaimed uncle jabez, and looked hard at tom. "i'm sorry if he makes trouble about that old thing, mr. potter," said tom, stumblingly. "i've tried to keep his mouth shut--" "ah-ha!" said uncle jabez, again. then he added: "and i shouldn't be at all surprised, young man, if you'd given jasper money to keep his mouth shut--eh?" tom flushed and nodded "i didn't want any row--especially when helen and i think so much of ruth." "you wouldn't have bought jasper off for my sake, i reckon," said jabez, sharply. "you wouldn't have done it for my sake?" "why should i?" returned tom, coolly. "you never have been any too friendly towards me." "hah!" said the miller, nodding. "that's true. but let me tell you, young man, that i saw your father about the time i ran you down. we don't get along very well, i admit. i ain't got much use for you camerons. but i had no intention of doing you harm. you can believe that, or not. if you will remember, the evening you went over that embankment on the wilkins corners road, i came up behind you. my mules were young, and your dog jumped out at them and scared them. they bolted, and i never knew till next day that you had been knocked over the embankment." "we'll let bygones be bygones, mr. potter," said tom, good-humoredly. "i came out of it all right." "but you had no business to pay jasper parloe money for keeping still about it," said the miller, sourly. "being bled by a blackmailer is never the action of a wise man. when he threatened me i went to your father at once and got ahead of parloe. we agreed to say nothing about it--that's about all we did agree on, however," added mr. potter, grimly. "now you children run along. ruth, come here. i figger i owe you something because of the finding of this box. yes! i know how much the others had to do with it, too. but they'd never been over there in olakah glen if it hadn't been for you. i'll make this up to you. i never yet owed a debt that i didn't repay in full. i'll remember this one, gal." but so much happened in those next two weeks, following the finding of the cash-box, that ruth quite forgot this promise on her uncle's part. she realized, however, that he seemed really desirous of being kind to her, and that much of his grimness had disappeared. everybody at the red mill--and many other people, too--had their thoughts fixed upon mercy curtis at this time. she had been getting stronger all the while. she had been able to hobble on her two sticks from her bedroom to the porch. she had been to ride half a dozen times in the camerons' automobile. and then, suddenly, without other warning, doctor davison and the strange surgeon who had once examined mercy, appeared in a big limousine car, with a couch arranged inside, and they whisked mercy off to a sanitarium some miles away, where she was operated on by the famous surgeon, with doctor davison's help, and from which place the report came back in a few days that the operation had been successful and that mercy curtis would--in time--walk again! meanwhile, ruth had kept up her recitations to miss cramp, often walking back and forth to town, but sometimes getting "a lift," and the teacher pronounced her prepared to enter the cheslow high school. she had taken the studies that helen cameron had taken, and, on comparing notes, the chums found that they were in much the same condition of advancement. "oh, if you were only going to briarwood with me, instead of to cheslow high!" wailed helen, one day, as they sat on the porch of the red mill house. "ah, dear!" said ruth, quietly, "don't talk about it. i want to go with you more than i ever wanted to do anything in my whole life--" "what's that?" exclaimed uncle jabez's gruff voice behind them. "what's that you want to do, ruth?" "to--to go to boarding school, uncle," stammered his niece. "hah!" grunted the miller. "ain't you calculatin' on going to high school?" "oh, mr. potter!" broke in helen, frightened by her own temerity. "that isn't the school ruth wants to go to. i am going to briarwood hall, and she wants to go, too. do, do let her. it would be--it would be just heavenly, if she could go there, and we could be together!" jabez potter came out upon the porch and looked down upon his niece. the grim lines of his face could not relax, it seemed; but his eyes did seem to twinkle as he said: "and that's the greatest wish of your life; is it, ruth?" "i--i believe it is, uncle jabez," she whispered, looking at him in wonder. "well, well!" he said, gruffly, dropping his gaze. "mebbe i owe it ye. my savin's of years was in that cash-box, ruth. i--i--well, i'll think it over and see if it can be arranged about this briarwood business. i'll--i'll see your aunt alvirah." and that uncle jabez potter "saw about it" to some purpose is proven by the fact that the reader may meet ruth and her friends again in the next volume of this series to be entitled "ruth fielding at briarwood hall; or, solving the campus mystery." "perhaps he isn't such an ogre after all," whispered helen, when she and ruth were alone. "not after you get to know him," replied the girl of the red mill, with a quiet smile. the end