Arriving opposite the Franklin house, Tom Foley took position in a
near-by alley, where he could keep close watch on the front gate. After
hours of nervous waiting, little Lillian Franklin came out, and Tom's
heart gave a jump. She was alone, and began to roll a hoop, which her
friend Sandy had given her that morning. Down the street she tripped,
all smiles and happiness.
Tom watched her until she had turned a corner, then he rushed up the
alley to intercept her. When he emerged into the street, he saw her
resting on a rustic bench, and hastened to join her. As he came up, he
was greeted with:
"Why, Tom, I thought you went fishing with Gil, and papa, and Sandy,
and the rest."
"No, Lily. I felt so bad 'bout my dad being arrested yest'day I
couldn't git up no courage to go," answered the boy with simulated
contrition. "What d'yer say? let's s'prise Gil, and go down to the
landin' an' meet him when he comes in from fishin'," suggested Foley,
knowing the intense love she had for her brother.
"That'll be lovely, won't it? And Gil will be so glad if I come."
Lillian whipped the hoop rapidly, and Tom kept pace with her.
"Gil will be surprised, sure enough, when he sees me coming, won't he?"
"Yes, he'll be s'prised, you bet!" said the boy, taking a firmer hold
of her hand.
The night was fast approaching and Foley was leading the child through
unfrequented alleys and streets.
"But maybe Gil won't come back this way, and it's getting awful dark."
"Oh, he'll come back this way, all right."
They were now on the shore of the river, dark and desolate in its
winter dress. The restless splash of the water sent icy sprays over the
child, and, clinging still closer to her treacherous companion, she
stopped him for a second and begged him to return.
"Don't be afear'd, nuthin's goin' ter happen to yer," he said, jerking
her savagely, and almost breaking into a run at the same time.
"Oh, Tom, please let's go back," supplicated the child.
They were now at the old wharf. He gave a low whistle, and, without
waiting for an answer, pulled the helpless child through the entrance.
Then, groping his way over the slimy stones and through the oozing mud,
he dragged the affrighted little one after him, to the mouth of the
cave, and called:
"Dad, I'm here."
"Come right in," answered a voice.
"I've got her, an' I got her easy as dirt," said the son, pushing the
terrified child into the cave, and then roughly into the arms of his
father.
"Don't yell, yer brat!" said the older, clasping his hand over mouth,
and drawing her brutally toward him. "Shut up, or I'll kill yer."
Foley now called Hildey, who was, asleep in the corner, and said, "Cul,
we've got to git out er this place jest as quick as possible. It's too
near the city, an' if we're tracked here we'll stand no more chance
than a snowball on Beelzebub's gridiron."
"What's yer lay, Dennis?" questioned Hildey.
"Move up the river," was the reply. "I knows jest the place where we
wouldn't be found in a thousand years."
"When d'yer want to start?" asked Tom.
In ten minutes the abductors, with the stolen child, were slowly
winding their way along the deserted beach.
It was now very dark. No stars were shining, and it had become bitterly
cold. Suddenly voices were heard, and the abductors stopped to listen.
They were in a ravine near the magazine landing, not more than fifty
feet from the spot where the Lillian was launched. Foley, Tom, and
Hildey crouched low, and drew the little girl closer.
The steady dip of oars was heard up stream, and the voices grew
plainer. Out of the mingled sounds was heard, "I agrees with Sandy,
he's the dirtiest coward as ever went unhung."
Lillian started, for she recognized the voice of the Jedge, who with
Colonel Franklin, Sandy, Dink, Leander and Gilbert, were returning from
a sail up the river.
Foley became frightened, and bending over, hissed into the child's ear:
"Remember what I tol' yer: if yer utter a sound, I'll kill yer."
The sailing party meantime had reached the landing and stepped ashore.
Sandy and the other three boys lowered the sail, rolled and carried it
into the boat-house. The whole party then, marching three abreast,
with steady step, went up the graveled walk of the old magazine road,
singing in unison:
"Hep--Hep--
Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step.
Hep--Hep--
Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step."
While its cadence was continued by Colonel Franklin and the Jedge, the
four boys, in marching rhythm, sang out cheerily into the crisp cold
night:
"When other lips and other hearts,
Their tales of love shall tell,
In accents whose excess imparts
The power they feel so well.
There may, perhaps, in such a scene,
Some recollection be,
Of days that have as happy been,
And you'll remember me."
The three scoundrels listened, as the voices rose and fell on the air.
The child, with the fear of death before her, and in the clutches of
her horrible captor, gave one convulsive sob and sank swooning at his
feet.
Foley picked her up and, walking quickly, placed her in the very boat
her father and friends had left but a moment before. He wrapped her in
a ragged coat, loosened the hasp of the door on the boat-house, and
took out the oars.
Quickly the captors pushed the craft into deep water, and with muffled
stroke moved through the inky waves, a somber specter sneaking along
the banks of the sleeping marches.
When they neared the upper bridge, Foley ran the boat ashore and
abandoned it. Picking up the exhausted and benumbed child, he led his
two companions along the causeway and over the road leading to the
bridge.
The wind came out of the north, howling through the leafless boughs of
the mighty monarchs of the forest. The last flickering light of the
town was left far behind, and darkness, like a great shroud, enveloped
river, valley and woods.
In due time Colonel Franklin and his party reached home, hungry after
their fine sail on the river, and all in high spirits.
"Jedge, you and the boys sit right down, and we'll have supper in a
jiffy."
The guests thoroughly enjoyed the evening meal. The repast was about
concluded when Edith, who had just returned from the parsonage, came
in, and called cheerily:
"Hurry up, Lily, it's time to go to the festival. They're going to
light up thet tree at half-past eight, and it's nearly that now."
"Why, chil', Lily ain't here. She's wif yo' folks," exclaimed Delia.
"With us? She hasn't been with us at all," responded Edith.
"It's likely she's at one of the neighbors," ventured the Colonel.
"I'll fin' her, Muster Franklin, an' I'se gwine to scol' her good an'
hard fo' worryin' her ol' mammy. At this she put a shawl over her head
and shoulderst and started in search of the absent one.
"Suppose I go too," suggested Gilbert, rising.
"I don't think that's necessary," interposed the Colonel.
"It'll only take me a minute," assured the son, as he began to put on
his overcoat.
"Go if you like then," consented the Colonel.
"An' if yer don't mind, Miss Deed," volunteered Sandy, "I'll go up to
church with yer, an' then come back an' fetch Lily and Gil."
"That's a good idea," answered Edith, "bring her right over to the
church, and I'll be waiting for you there."
"I guess I'll go up to my house an' look. Mebbe Lily is playin' with
Zorah, an' if she is, I'll come right back an' tell yer," put in Dink.
Edith, Delia and the three boys departed, leaving the Colonel and the
Jedge alone, smoking their pipes and discussing the sensational events
of the week, in which Dennis Foley was the central figure.
The conversation was stopped by the appearance of Delia and Gilbert,
who declared that not one of the neighbors had seen Lillian that
afternoon.
"It seems almost incredible that she could be lost," said the father,
"she must be somewhere about here. Perhaps she went to the church, and
fell asleep in one of the pews."
The searching party set out once more, this time accompanied by the
Colonel himself, and by the Jedge. At the church they heard from Sandy
and Dink that no trace of the child had been found, so the father
requested the minister to inquire of the congregation if the missing
one had been seen anywhere. There was no response from those present,
and the family and friends began to show grave concern.
Another effort at finding her was immediately made. The police sergeant
was notified, and he sent out a general alarm.
All night long, and all the next day the hunt was continued. Wells were
explored, basements, cellars and out-of-the-way places were ransacked,
lumber yards and coal yards were gone through most carefully. In fact,
not a foot of the town was left unsearched, but all to no avail, and
the once happy home of the Franklins was steeped in sorrow and despair.
The morning after Lillian's disappearance, Mrs. Foley inquired of the
boys in the neighborhood if they had seen anything of her son Tom, who,
she declared, had been gone since the previous morning.
From Sandy she learned that Tom had taken dinner at Gilbert's the day
before, but that when the party had started for the river he had
dropped out, claiming he was too down-hearted to join in the pleasure.
"That's the way he acted at home," said the widow, "and it seemed to me
it was almost unnacheral for him to talk against his father, as he did.
However, I'm not bothered about him, for he comes and goes just as he
pleases, and when he gets good and ready he'll turn up, like a bad
penny. I've stopped worryin' about him years an' years ago."
"If I see Tom," volunteered the boy, "I'll tell him yer want him,"--and
he hurried away.
The next morning Sandy left home earlier than usual, and on his own
account began a search for Lillian. A new theory had taken possession
of him, and he started at once for the river. At the magazine gate he
chatted with the sentry about the mysterious disappearance, and passed
on. When he reached the shore half a mile beyond, he was surprised to
find that the padlock on the door of the shed had been pried off, and
that his boat was missing.
Opening the door he saw that his oars and blankets were gone, and he
began to feel that his theory might lead him to important discoveries.
For fully five minutes he stood motionless, and gazed into the river,
buried deep in his own thoughts. Then he soliloquized: "I wonder if
Lily's been stolen? S'pose, while we've been searchin' fer her high an'
low, Foley an' the galoot what whacked me jest took the little girl an'
carried her off in my boat? That 'ere story 'bout Dennis Foley buyin' a
ticket for Philadelphy struck me as fishy when I fust heerd it, an' now
I don't believe it a t'all. They couldn't git through the magazine gate
'thout the guards seein' them, an' whoever took my boat either came up
the shore or down the shore. 'Tain't likely they came from up shore,
'cause they could 'a' found a hundred boats 'tween here an' the upper
bridge."
Turning around, Sandy started down the beach toward the cemetery. He
was studying carefully the ground beyond the point of high tide, and in
a few moments reached the ravine where, two nights before, the three
abductors had stopped, upon hearing Colonel Franklin and his sailing
party approach.
"Well, I'll be durned," he exclaimed, for in the sand before his very
eyes was the impress of four pairs of shoes. Two were evidently those
of men, one small enough to be that of a boy, and one so tiny as to
convince him it was that of a child.
"This is the way they come," he continued, "and there wuz three of 'em
in the gang besides the little one, an' I'm sure er that."
He followed the footprints until he reached the old wharf. Peering
through the rotten timbers, he said:
"That's a rum ol' hole. I don't believe Satan hisself would go in
there, but I'm goin', an' see what I kin see."
Sandy had no difficulty in entering the cave, which he found strewn
with whisky bottles, pieces of bread and newly-picked bones, evidence
enough that some one had been there but a short time before.
Penetrating deeper in his search, he made a find of the utmost
importance. Lying at one side, and near a bed of rags, was an envelop
addressed to Dennis Foley, and, on a peg which had been driven into the
wall, was hanging an old hat, which he had often seen on Hildey's head.
Elated at the results of his quest, he began to retrace his steps, and
in eager haste he left the cave. Picking his way along the slimy stones
under the wharf, he soon neared the outlet and there was startled by
the most significant of all his discoveries. Right before him lay the
identical hoop which he had given the lost child only Christmas Day,
and which bore the inscription, "From Sandy Coggles to Lillian
Franklin."
Every suspicion now was confirmed, and he was sure he knew the
culprits. Taking the hoop, he returned to his boathouse with all
possible speed, and leaping into his skiff, paddled up the river, his
eyes scanning the marsh lines on either bank of the channel. Arriving
at the bridge, he learned by inquiry from the tender stationed there
that he had not seen the Lillian coming up stream within the past three
days.
"But," explained the bridge-tender, "I'm only on from six to six during
daylight, and of course if anything comes through at night I wouldn't
know about it. I'm pretty sure, though, there's been nothing up this
way for a month of Sundays, 'cept Buck Wesley, who creeped up 'bout two
hours ago, following a gang of ducks that uses right over there above
Mayhew's Meadows. And the way Buck's been shooting for the last hour,
he must be having a time and no mistake."
"Well, so long," called Sandy. "I guess I'll go up the river a little
further and have a look." And once more he took up his paddles. As he
came abreast of the Meadows he saw Buck Wesley coming out of the creek
in his gunning skiff.
"Is that you, Sandy?" shouted the gunner.
"That's me," was the boy's answer.
"Come over here, I want to talk to you," requested Buck.
When Sandy got alongside the hunter's boat, he asked:
"Well, Buck, what's the trouble?"
"No trouble, Sandy, but when I come up the river this mornin'--I ain't
been up for three weeks, it's been such pore weather for ducks--I seen
a bunch of widgeon go down right over here, an' as I skims up by the
collard patch t'other side of the bridge, I noticed a boat lyin' in the
mud, and when I gits near to her, I knows by the cut of her jib that
she's yer Lillian."
"My Lillian? Wher'd yer say yer seen her?" asked Sandy excitedly.
"Why, by the collard patch, not fifty yards from the Causeway. She
looked like she'd drifted on the marsh. I calc'lated when I got through
shootin' that I'd pick her up an' take her down to yer landin'. The
oars wuz in, an' I guess she must 'a' strayed from the shore, through
somebody fergettin' to tie her up."
"I'm much 'bliged, Buck," thanked Sandy, "but yer needn't bother. I'll
bring her down, an' the next galoot that takes her an' lets her git
away from him, is goin' to hear from me."
Sandy retraced the course he had come, and after turning on the other
side of the bridge, had no trouble in finding his boat. She was lying
on a sand-bar, but he soon succeeded in floating her and bringing her
ashore.
Safely securing the skiff and the boat, he began another search along
the beach, and almost immediately was rewarded by finding a knot of
blue ribbon, such as he had often seen Lillian wear in her hair.
Farther along, he discovered tracks in the sand. These he followed,
Indian fashion, up the embankment, lost trace of them for a moment on
the hardened surface of the carriage way, but speedily picked them up
again in the soft soil that ran downward on the other side.
Then, it was easy to pursue them along a pathway that led to a graveled
beach where a dozen or more skiffs had been drawn up and tied to stakes
for the winter. From here on, all further traces were obliterated.
Thoroughly familiar with all the river craft belonging there, even to
the individual ownership, Sandy noticed at once that one of the boats
was missing, and that its painter had only recently been cut.
"Why, it's Willie Bagner's boat they've got," he said to himself as he
recognized which boat was missing, "an' I'll bet my life the scalawags
are hidin' somewhere up the river."
Hurrying back, he rowed to the landing and started in haste for his
home, with a plan of rescue fully developed in his mind. He sought out
Leander, Dink and Gilbert, and asked them to call at his house without
delay.
While Sandy's investigation had convinced him that Lillian was stolen,
Colonel Franklin had been made to realize the same terrible fact in
another and more brutal way. When he reached his office on the same
afternoon, he found on his desk a letter that read as follows:
dere sur--if U meen bizness i can put U on to whar your dorter is but
its goin to kost U sum muney if U evr want to see her agin theres a
big gang got her hid where U woodnt find hur in a 100 yerze but if U
will plank down 10000 dolers sheze yourze if U dont you'll nevr see
hur no moar if sheze wurth thet much to U U can git her by not blabin
to nobudy that yer got this leter an plankin down the rino taint no
use fer U to try an git the police on our trax fer one uv the gang is
alwayz with the kid an we have sworn to kill her if enny of us is
jugged if U meen bizness an will leeve a noat under the big stone in
front of the ded tree by oyster shell landin up the river we will git
it an rite U where to meet us to bring the muney and git the child
member we dont stand fer no trechery an if U squeel we ll no it and we
ll take it out on the kid mums the word if yer want ter see the kid
again c o d and fare deelin is our moto a word to the wize is sufishent
yourze trooley a frend
The Colonel was completely unnerved by the horrible knowledge that his
little daughter was in the hands of desperate criminals. Without delay
he wrote a note offering to pay the money demanded, agreeing to deliver
it at any spot they might name, and vowing to share his secret with no
one.
Sealing the missive, he placed it carefully in his pocket, and drove
out along the river turnpike to a point about a quarter of a mile from
the place designated by the anonymous writer. Tying his horse to a
tree, he walked through the woods, and hid the note under the stone
mentioned in the letter. It was after nightfall when he reached home,
where he was met with the heartrending and oft-repeated question,
"Have you heard anything from Lily?"
Fearing to betray himself, even to his family, and thus perhaps
endanger the life of his child, he was compelled to answer, "No, not a
thing." With a heavy heart, he passed into his study. Supper was
announced shortly afterward, and as the family gathered about the
table, the father noticed that his son was not present.
"Where is Gilbert?" he inquired nervously.
"Sandy was here and asked Gilbert to come over and spend the night with
him," answered Mrs. Franklin. "I hadn't the heart to refuse him, for I
don't believe any one has worked harder to find our lost darling than
Sandy, and he seems to be the only one that can give Gilbert any
consolation."
"I think it's better that the boys stop searching," said the father.
"They might get themselves into trouble; it's too dangerous."
"I don't believe you could stop those boys from hunting for Lillian, if
they had to go into the very jaws of death," interposed the grandmother.
"Oh, well," spoke the father; "they must not wear themselves out, and
to-morrow, I will tell Gilbert and Sandy to leave the investigation to
the police."
"They'll never do it," objected the grandmother, "they love Lillian too
much. You mark my words."
At this very moment, Sandy, Leander, Gilbert and Dink were together, in
Sandy's little garret room. Sandy closed the door carefully, locked it,
and called his companions about him in the middle of the room.
"Boys," he whispered, "afore I sez anythin', I wants yer to gimme yer
word, honor bright, an' cross yer heart three times, that yer won't
spout a syllable of what I tells yer to a soul."
All were agreed, and the boy began:
"Now, it's this 'ere way. My boat wuz stolen an' left, right below the
upper bridge, an' I foun' footprints an' this 'ere piece of ribbon,
which Gil knows b'longed to his sister, for she wore it round her hair.
Willie Bagner's skiff's bin stolen, an' I believe the party that took
it hez got little Lily, because I foun' the hoop I give her, an' this
envellup in the same place, an' it seems to me the galoot whose name's
on it is hid somewhere up the river, an' I'm goin' after him if I has
to go alone."
"But you won't go alone, while I'm alive," insisted Leander, intensely
excited.
"An' I'm goin', too, even if I never come back," added Dink, taking it
for granted that he was needed.
"And you must take me," said Gilbert imploringly.
The four boys grasped one another's hands, and Sandy declared in a
solemn tone:
"We'll stick together to the bitter end."
"What's your plan?" asked Leander, with great interest.
"Without breathin' a word to a soul, to-night about nine o'clock we
wants to leave the boat-house, you an' Dink in one skiff, an' me an'
Gil in t'other, an' sneak up the river, an' try so nobody won't see us.
When we gits to the upper bridge, paddle in as close to the Causeway on
the right, as we kin, huggin' the marsh all the way. Jest before we git
to Beaver Dam, there's a deep gut that runs 'longside of it fer a
hundred yards or more. Foller me in there, Leander, an' stay hid till I
sez move. Don't speak a word, from the time we push off till I sez so.
Beaver Dam is the lonesomest creek in the world, an' mebbe Gil's little
sister is kept in one of them ol' shacks what muskrat hunters live in,
in the spring an' summer. If them galoots is in there, they're mighty
apt ter come out late at night, when they don't expec' nobody's roun'.
Of course, nacherelly they have some plan about gettin' paid fer little
Lily, an' they ain't a-goin' to stay in hidin' without tryin' to find
out the lay er the land, an' jest how hot the police is on their trail.
My idee is to go an' lay in ambush fer 'em all night. If they don't
come out, we'll explore in the mornin', an' if we don't find 'em hidin'
roun' Beaver Dam, then we'll lay low all day, an' push up the river
to-morrow night. But somehow, I think that's the place they would pick
out to hide in. 'Tain't one person out er a million that would know how
to git through Beaver Dam without gittin' lost, an' I'm a recollectin'
I took Tom Foley through there onct an' that's why I'm goin' there
to-night. I knows it so well, I could go through with my eyes shet.
"Each of us wants his pistol loaded fer keeps, a knife, an' about three
yards er rope he can tie round his waist. Let's have a bite o' supper
right here in my house, an' then we'll start fer the river, but each
feller goin' alone, an' in a different way. Now, remember, no talkin'
to nobody, an' let's all say honor bright, an' cross our hearts three
times ag'in."
Sandy was the first to arrive at the boat-house. Securing the paddles,
he put them into the skiffs and watched for his companions. He had not
long to wait. Gilbert came in a few moments, then Leander, and shortly
afterward, Dink. Not a word was spoken. Sandy motioned Gilbert to sit
in the center seat of the Dolly, while he took his accustomed place at
the stern. Noiselessly they pushed into the stream, followed by Leander
and Dink.
The tide was going out, and had, perhaps, two hours to ebb. The boys
hugged the channel bank on the right, passed under the bridge
unnoticed, and kept on their silent and anxious way, mile after mile.
Finally, Sandy steered into a creek and glided softly against the mud
bank, holding his skiff firmly by driving a paddle into the soft soil.
Leander and Dink followed suit. That they might be screened from any
one coming out of Beaver Dam, which was separated by a narrow strip of
marsh-land, they lay flat on the bottom of their boats.
The night was not especially dark, for the moon was looking through a
mist of hazy clouds. It was bitingly cold, and though the boys became
numb from the many minutes of inactivity, not one of them moved. For
fully an hour they had remained motionless, when faintly over the water
was heard the splash, splash, splash, of paddles, far away.
The searching party were all alert in an instant, and with raised
heads, peered cautiously over the top of the marsh line in the
direction of the sounds. Hardly a minute had passed, when out of the
shadows that hid the entrance to Beaver Dam, there came slowly a skiff
into the clear water. It approached to within fifteen feet of the
hidden boys, when they recognized a voice, distinctly saying:
"I hope that guy Franklin's ben up to the landin' an' left the note
where I tol' him to, an' don't try no shenanigan."
"He ain't goin' to try no flapdoodles with us," was the quick answer.
"Well, if he knows when he's well off," the first voice resumed, "he'll
come round with the rhino mighty quick, an' give us no more trouble."
"I kin see us livin' like gent'men, a'ready."
"Gent'men born an'--" the other began, but the last of his sentence was
lost as the boat turned up the river, and the cadence of the paddles
died in the distance.
Sandy waited until the rascals had disappeared around the bend, then
shoving his skiff quickly alongside Leander's, he whispered into the
latter's ear:
"Me an' Gil is goin' in to Beaver Dam. Yer knows them two fellers, an'
so do I. One of 'em is the feller what whacked me, an' the t'other is
that bum Hildey. If they gits here afore I come back, you an' Dink'll
have to do somethin' desp'ret."
"All right," said Leander, clutching his pistol, "you can trust me."
Sandy rounded the point that divided the two creeks, and in a short
time had paddled past the trees and vines that hung over and partly
covered the entrance to Beaver Dam. The boat was managed with
consummate skill, now left, now right, through the sinuous waterway,
and the two boys had gone fully half a mile, when, without warning,
they were rudely jolted as the skiff grated harshly on a bar.
Ordinarily, such an incident would have been without effect upon them,
but now their nerves were so highly strung, that the noise of the boat
rubbing against the gravel seemed as loud as the report of a cannon.
Using all possible force, Sandy and Gilbert succeeded in shoving their
craft back into the water. Then they pressed forward into the shadow of
an embankment on the left, and not a moment too soon did they reach
Gover, for the door of a hut was thrown open, and the voice of Tom
Foley was heard, asking:
"Is that you, dad?"
An instant later Foley was seen standing in the dim light of the
doorway, shading his eyes and peering into the darkness.
"I say, dad, is that you?" came again. "I'll be doggoned if I didn't
think I heerd somebody comin'. I guess 'tain't nuthin',"--looking
anxiously to the right and left. "I cert'nly does git scared out er my
boots aroun' here, though, when I'm left alone. I'm goin' to wake up
the brat an' make her keep me comp'ny,"--and the door closed with a
bang.
He had hardly gone inside when the piteous cry of a child was heard,
"Please don't beat me, Tom."
"I ain't beatin' yer; go ahead, dance fer me."
Sandy and Gilbert were fairly crazed, and in their anger rushed up
toward the hut.