THE CAPTURE
Once on the train, and out among strangers, Dorothy felt as if all eyes
were upon Urania. Was her disguise really good? Might some one know her
from the published descriptions, that had appeared in the newspaper
from North Birchland?
“Now, you must not talk aloud,” she whispered to Urania. “Someone might
suspect, and listen to our conversation.”
Of course, Miette was all excited over her own affair. Would she really
see Marie? she asked Dorothy, and when did Dorothy think her aunt would
take them to New York?
Dorothy found it difficult to take care of the two girls. She was
so anxious about Urania she could scarcely keep up with Miette’s
questions. Urania in turn settled down rather awkwardly in her new
outfit. She wanted to remove the big stiff hat, but Dorothy said she
should not. Then she insisted on taking off the thin silk gloves, and
Dorothy warned her to keep her hands well down in her lap, as they
were very brown, and rather “suspicious” looking.
A woman opposite attempted to get into conversation with Urania, but
Dorothy felt obliged to take the gypsy down the aisle for a drink of
water, in order to have a chance to tell her she positively must not
talk to strangers.
They had to change cars at another junction. Dorothy wanted to go out
of the train both first and last, but with human limitations she was
obliged to be content with leading the way for her two charges.
A wait of fifteen minutes in the little way station added to Dorothy’s
discomfort. Urania must not talk to the station agent--why did every
one speak to her? Was she too attractive?
The task Dorothy had undertaken now seemed more and more difficult.
If she only could get on the train for North Birchland safely! But
there would be one more change, at Beechville. There was a strange man
waiting in the station. He got on the train at Glenville, and seemed
interested in the three girls. Perhaps Dorothy only imagined it, but he
certainly was watching them.
He took a seat in the North Birchland car directly opposite Dorothy and
Urania (Miette occupied a separate seat), Dorothy was plainly nervous,
and she handed Urania a book and whispered to her to pretend to be
reading it.
The man finally spoke to Dorothy.
“Aren’t you Miss Dale?” he inquired, “Major Dale’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Dorothy promptly, feeling a relief since her dear
father’s name had been mentioned.
“And these other girls?” he asked pointedly.
“Friends of mine from the Glenwood Boarding School.”
“You were friends with that gypsy girl,” he said, fixing his eyes on
Urania, “You know she got away--I know your folks out at the Cedars,”
he went on, seeing the surprise on Dorothy’s face, “and I thought you
might be able to tell me something about the girl--I’d first-rate like
to find her.”
Urania turned around and almost gasped! Her eyes showed plainly her
confusion, and in spite of Dorothy’s tugging at her skirt, she was in
imminent danger of making her identity known. This frightened Dorothy,
and, of course, the man saw at once that both girls were agitated.
Whether he had been suspicious, or whether Urania’s sudden change
of attitude led to his conclusions, it was now apparent that he did
suspect the identity of the girl with the big white hat turned down so
closely over her brown hair.
Dorothy tried to speak, but she only succeeded in smiling faintly, and
her effort to take the situation as a joke was an utter failure.
The man left his seat and stood directly in front of them.
“You don’t happen to know the runaway gypsy girl?” he asked Urania.
“N-o,” she stammered, while the blood in her cheeks burned through
Dorothy’s clever make-up.
“H’m!” he asked again, pressing nearer the frightened girl.
Dorothy was stunned--bewildered! Surely he must know. She could not say
that this was Tavia Travers, in fact, to tell the untruth did not occur
to her--he would be able to see through that if he had penetrated the
disguise.
The train was whistling for a stop at Beechville. Here they must change
cars--oh, if only he would get off there and go away, then, perhaps,
some one would help her!
Miette, quick to discern the change in Dorothy, looked on, trembling
with fear. Perhaps the man had been sent out by her aunt--perhaps he
would take her, too, as well as Urania! She had suffered so many
strange experiences, that now she dreaded and feared everything!
“We all change cars here,” coolly said the man. “I guess I had better
take you little girls in hand--you need not be afraid. I’m a regular
officer, and I will take good care of you.”
“Oh!” screamed Urania, “I will not go! I won’t be arrested!”
“Hush!” exclaimed Dorothy, “You are not going to be arrested, but you
must be quiet or they may think we--think something is wrong. Sir,” she
said, looking up at the big man with the slouch hat, “I will not go
with you unless I know who you are.”
“That’s easy settled,” he replied, pulling back his coat and displaying
a badge, “I’m head constable of North Birchland.”
“And what do you want of us?” asked Dorothy, bravely.
“Don’t know as I want anything with you,” he replied, “But I am after
that gypsy girl, and I have an idea this is the girl I am looking for,”
touching Urania on the shoulder.
“But I cannot let her go with you unless I go along, too,” spoke up
Dorothy, now prepared to stand by Urania in this new difficulty.
“Then you may come along, too,” he said, good-naturedly enough. “Here
we are. This is the Beeches--and you know the Borough lock-up is out
here.”
“Lock-up!” almost shrieked Miette.
An elderly gentleman a few seats back noticed the girls’ plight. He
stepped forward and spoke to the constable:
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing,” replied the constable, resenting the interference.
“But these young girls--what do you want of them?”
“We change cars here,” spoke the constable, ignoring the man’s
question, as the train came to a stop.
“So do I, then,” declared the man, looking kindly at Dorothy, and
following the party out of the car.
Miette clung to Dorothy’s skirt--the constable had taken Urania by
the arm. She struggled to get away, and no doubt would have given the
officer a lively chase could she have freed herself from his hold.
“I must telegraph my aunt,” declared Dorothy, as they reached the
platform.
“Office is closed,” said the constable, looking into the ticket office
that was really deserted.
“Oh, what shall I do?” wailed Dorothy, now dreadfully alarmed at their
plight.
“Don’t you worry, little girl. I’ll see that nothing happens to you,”
said the gentleman who had left the train with them.
“I can’t see the necessity,” interfered the constable. “I’m a regular
officer of the law, and I guess I’m about able to take care of a little
thing like this.”
“No doubt,” replied the other, “but even an officer of the law
may--overstep his authority. Have you a warrant for any one of these
little girls?”
Dorothy looked her thanks, but the constable did not give her a chance
to speak.
“Perhaps that will satisfy you,” said the officer, handing the man a
paper.
The gentleman glanced at it--then looked at Urania.
“I can’t see how this description fits?” the man said, with a sharp
look, first at Urania and then at the constable.
“But I can,” declared the officer. “See that scar?” pointing to a long,
deep ridge on Urania’s cheek.
Certainly the mark agreed with the mark mentioned in the description.
“Let me go!” cried Urania, making a desperate effort to free herself.
“Now! Now!” spoke the officer. “Just you go easy, little girl. Nobody’s
goin’ to hurt you. But you must not make too much trouble.”
“Can’t we go?” pleaded Miette, thoroughly frightened and plainly
anxious to get away from the scene.
“I will not leave Urania,” declared Dorothy, firmly, “and you could not
find your way to North Birchland alone. I am sure Aunt Winnie will come
as soon as she receives my telegram--the office must surely open before
train time.”
“I don’t fancy old Baldwin’s much good on sending messages over the
ticker,” said the officer, with an uncomfortable smile, “and Miss
Blackburn’s off somewhere--wasn’t here last night.”
“Do they not employ a regular operator?” asked the strange gentleman.
“Not at this junction,” replied the constable, “don’t have many
messages here.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Dorothy, “Isn’t that awful? What shall we do?”
“I said before, young lady, you can do as you please, but I’m wasting
good time standing here talking. I’ll just be movin’ along. Come along,
Urania.”
But Urania would not move. She put her two feet down so firmly against
the planks of the platform that even the strong constable saw he would
have to drag her, if he insisted on her going along.
Miette began to cry. Dorothy stepped aside and spoke to the gentleman
who had so kindly offered to help her. The thought that she had
not sent word to the Cedars that she was coming--that she was not
expected--just flashed across her mind.
What if Mrs. White should not be at home? But the major--and yet, in
her last letter to Glenwood Mrs. White told that Major Dale was gone
away on a business trip, about some property that had to be settled up.
What a predicament? But this was no time to speculate on possible
troubles--there were plenty of certainties to worry about.
Urania still defied the officer. And Miette was over on a bench crying.
“Couldn’t you--let these girls go--on my bond?” asked the gentleman,
crossing to the officer’s side. “I will be responsible--”
“I have said before those two can go--but there ain’t a bond strong
enough in the county to stand for this one--she’s too slippery.”
“Then we must all go together,” declared Dorothy. “I will stay with--my
friend.”
“Just’s you say,” replied the officer, “But I’m going to make a start.
See here, young lady”--this to Urania--“if you want fair play, no new
troubles, you had better step along here, and lively, too.”
“Yes,” said Dorothy to the gypsy girl, “we had better go. I’ll go with
you.”