[Illustration: “How do you feel now?” asked Linda.]
LINDA CARLTON’S PERILOUS SUMMER
By EDITH LAVELL
Author _of_
“The Girl Scout Series,” “Linda Carlton’s Ocean Flight,” “Linda Carlton,
Air Pilot,” Etc.
[Illustration: Linda Carlton Series logo]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
_PUBLISHERS_
New York Chicago
Printed in U. S. A.
Linda Carlton Series
Thrilling Adventure Stories of a Group of Girl Aviation Enthusiasts
By EDITH LAVELL
LINDA CARLTON, AIR PILOT
LINDA CARLTON’S OCEAN FLIGHT
LINDA CARLTON’S ISLAND ADVENTURE
LINDA CARLTON’S PERILOUS SUMMER
Copyright, 1932
By A. L. BURT COMPANY
Printed in U. S. A.
TO
MY HUSBAND
VICTOR LAMASURE LAVELL
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Accident 7
II. The Lost Girl 21
III. Planning the Treasure Hunt 35
IV. A Stranger at Green Falls 47
V. A Flying Engagement 57
VI. The Telegram 70
VII. The Widow in Black 83
VIII. Amy’s Relatives 96
IX. The Take-Off 104
X. The Treasure 116
XI. The Return of the Flyers 131
XII. Trickery 141
XIII. The Haunted House 151
XIV. Two Surprises for Linda 160
XV. The Ghost in the Tower 169
XVI. While the House Burned 184
XVII. The Rescue 193
XVIII. In Quest of the Money 205
XIX. A Clew to Follow 218
XX. Flying Over the Mountains 226
XXI. A Strange Landing 238
LINDA CARLTON’S PERILOUS SUMMER
Chapter I
The Accident
“Aunt Emily, may we have a picnic lunch?”
Pretty Linda Carlton, the first girl in America to fly from New York to
Paris alone, stood in the living room of her aunt’s summer bungalow at
Green Falls, and asked the question. Her blue eyes were pleading,
although it was not for the mere favor of a lunch. The older woman
glanced at her costume—a flying suit—and looked grave.
“Where do you want to go, dear?” she countered.
“Dot and I want to go off by ourselves—in the ‘Ladybug.’”
“The ‘Ladybug!’” repeated Miss Carlton, with despair in her tone. That
was the name of Linda’s autogiro, which she had purchased in June and
flown south to Georgia. There she had met with all sorts of disasters,
had been kidnaped by a gang of thieves and stranded on a lonely island
with this same girl—Dot, or Dorothy Crowley—as her only companion.
“I should think you and Dot would have had enough flying to last you the
rest of your lives.”
“Now, Aunt Emily, you know I could never have enough flying. I—I—belong
in the air.” Linda’s eyes lighted up with joy, as they always did when
she spoke of her favorite pastime. She came across the room and seated
herself upon the arm of her aunt’s chair. “I’ve stayed on the ground for
two weeks, Auntie dear—just for your sake. But I’ve got to go up now—I
just have to! You do understand, don’t you?”
Miss Carlton, who had taken care of Linda ever since she was a baby, was
so afraid of airplanes that she had never even taken a ride with her
niece. She sighed.
“I suppose so, dear. But don’t go far, and promise me you’ll be back for
supper.”
“Oh, we will! I’m sure of that!” Linda replied, as she bent over and
kissed her aunt.
The words she spoke were sincere; the “Ladybug” was in perfect shape,
and Linda truly meant to plan her flight so that she would be back in
Green Falls before sunset, but, of course, she could not know that
circumstances would step in and prevent her.
Fifteen minutes later, she and her chum, Dot Crowley—diminutive in size,
but bubbling over with spirits and capable to the tips of her fingers,
stepped into the autogiro, adjusted the self-starter and left the earth
behind. It was a beautiful summer day, without a cloud in the sky, and
the girls were as happy as birds.
Linda directed her “Ladybug” straight across Lake Michigan, over the
heads of the swimmers and above the boats, for the shores of Wisconsin.
An invigorating breeze was blowing, so that the girls were glad of their
sweaters and helmets, and they laughed and sang as they flew.
It was over a hundred miles across the lake, but the autogiro took the
distance with the ease of a motor car. On and on they went, pressing
into Wisconsin, leaving the lake behind. When they finally landed in a
field for their lunch, Linda confessed that she didn’t know just where
they were.
“Why, it’s two o’clock, Linda!” exclaimed Dot, as she dived into the
lunch box for a sandwich.
“No wonder I’m hungry.”
“So am I!” agreed her companion. “But I guess we better not go any
further, Dot. We must get home to supper.”
“I wish we didn’t have to. You know what I love, Linda—flying over the
lake. I always have adored all kinds of water sports, but honestly,
flying _over_ water beats everything.”
“Want to fly to Paris with me?” suggested Linda, playfully.
“Sometime. But in a bigger boat than the ‘Ladybug.’ Now if you still had
the Bellanca——”
“If I had, I wouldn’t go,” interrupted Linda calmly, reaching for
another sandwich. “I wouldn’t do a thing that would get me into the
newspapers!”
“I don’t blame you,” agreed her companion.
Little did they think as they spoke thus idly, that that very evening
they themselves would be requesting the papers to print a story which
concerned them.
It all happened two hours later, with incredible swiftness. They were
flying back across Wisconsin, low enough to watch the landscape, when
Dot suddenly let out a shriek of horror.
“Look at that—oh—Linda!”
Her companion grasped the joy stick, and looked about expectantly, as if
some plane must be coming at her which she did not see.
“No—down on the road!” cried Dot. “That car!”
Casting her glance downward, Linda saw what she meant. A huge car,
driven by a man with a great mass of gray hair and a gray beard, at a
speed nearing eighty miles an hour, zigzagged wildly in the road,
rushing headlong at the forlorn figure of a girl walking beside the
gutter.
“The man must be crazy!” muttered Linda, discreetly pointing her
autogiro upward. “Or drunk!”
An instant later the car knocked the girl down, threw her up against the
bank, and by some miracle, regained its position again and sped away.
“He’s killed her!” screamed Dot. “A hit-and-runner!”
Linda brought her plane downward, but it was too far away to see the man
so that she might identify him later, except by that beard.
“There isn’t a soul in sight!” observed Dot. “You’re going to land?”
Linda nodded; luckily her autogiro didn’t need a special field. She
descended and brought it to a stop, not far from the injured girl. She
and Dot climbed out, dashed over the field to the road, and picked up
the victim in their arms. She was a young girl, possibly about fourteen
years of age, whether dead or merely unconscious, they could not tell.
Blood was running from her head.
“We’ll carry her over beside the autogiro, and apply first aid,” said
Linda. “Luckily I have all sorts of supplies with me—and water.”
She was a pretty girl, except that there was something decidedly
pathetic about her whole appearance. Her clothing was not ragged, but
dreadfully out of style; her straight hair hung about her temples
without any attempt to make it becoming. It was neither long nor short,
and had no ribbon, no pin of any kind to keep it out of her eyes. Her
sweater looked like a man’s, and her skirt was evidently handed down
from an older woman. Her whole body was so thin that she looked almost
emaciated. Her face was a blank white, with no make-up to relieve the
pallor.
Linda bound up the wound, and after some minutes the girl finally opened
her eyes. Deep, black eyes they were, that appeared huge in such a
small, colorless face, eyes that gazed at the girls without any
understanding.
“How do you feel now?” asked Linda, still kneeling beside her, and
offering her water from a thermos bottle.
The girl raised her eyebrows, and muttered a feeble, “All right.”
Meanwhile, Dot ran over to the road to see whether there wasn’t a car
somewhere in sight. But there was neither a car nor a house. It was a
barren stretch of country—she didn’t know where.
It was a lonely place indeed for a poor helpless girl to have such a
dreadful accident, through no fault of hers. But now that she was
conscious, surely she could tell them where the nearest town was, so
they could take her to a hospital.
Linda, too, was realizing that they could not hope for a machine to come
along, that they would have to take the girl with them in the “Ladybug.”
She was just about to ask her who she was, and where she came from, when
she was startled by the very question from the girl herself.
“Please tell me who I am, pretty lady,” she said, pathetically. “I can’t
seem to remember anything.”
Linda gasped.
“I don’t know. My friend saw the accident from the air—from our
autogiro, while we were flying. You were walking along the road, and a
car swerved at you going eighty miles an hour. I think the driver was
crazy, or drunk, for he almost seemed to drive right at you. And he
didn’t even stop.... So we landed our plane, to look after you.”
“What was I doing on the road?”
“Just walking.... Look in your sweater pockets. Maybe there’s a letter,
or something.”
“You look—please. I’m so tired,” sighed the girl, and her eyes closed.
Linda searched frantically, hoping that the girl would not die without
their even finding out who she was. But the search was of no avail; the
pockets of her sweater were full of nothing but holes.
Dot returned from the road and glanced questioningly at the girl, and
then at Linda.
“Unconscious again?”
“No, I’m all right,” replied the stranger herself, wearily opening her
eyes.
“Have you thought of your name yet?” inquired Linda.
“No, I haven’t. My head hurts so. Please take me to a hospital!”
Between them, Dot and Linda managed to get her to her feet, and helped
her into the autogiro, where she sat on Dot’s lap in the passenger’s
cockpit. Linda started the motor.
“Ever been in a plane before?” asked Dot, as the “Ladybug” taxied.
The girl shook her head.
Linda consulted her map. She did not know where she was, but as she had
flown almost directly west from Lake Michigan, she decided to fly east.
If they did not pass another town, they could land at Milwaukee.
It was growing late—they had spent more time on the ground than they had
realized, and Linda felt uneasy. If darkness came on before they reached
a town, the girl might die before they found a hospital. And besides,
Linda’s Aunt Emily, who was always worrying about her, would be sure
that she had been kidnaped or killed.
The girl in Dot’s lap seemed perfectly inert as the time passed, until
the sun set. Then she uttered a queer moan.
“Does your head hurt?” asked Dot, in her ear.
“Yes—but that isn’t it. I’m—I’m—afraid!”
“Of an airplane? I can assure you that you’re with one of the best
pilots in the world!”
“Oh, not that! I’m not afraid of flying!”
“What then?”
“Of the dark,” she whispered, fearfully. “Of—ghosts!”
Dot looked at the girl as if she were crazy. In these modern times—how
had she been brought up? If she were a child of six, it would have been
different. She wondered whether she could have understood her correctly,
the motor was making so much noise. She bent over and asked her to
repeat what she had said.
“Ghosts!” replied the girl. A frightful shiver ran through her whole
body, so intense that Dot could feel it in hers. She thought the girl
was delirious.
“There’s no such thing, my dear,” she reassured her, patting the shaking
frame.
“Oh, yes, there is! And I mustn’t be out alone at night! Never!”
“Put your head on my shoulder, and try to go to sleep,” urged Dot,
comfortingly. “We’ll soon be at the hospital.”
But it was not so soon as she hoped. They flew on and on, without seeing
any lights that would indicate a city. And all the while the girl
continued to sob.
At last, however, they glimpsed bright lights ahead, and Linda flew low
enough to read the signs of Milwaukee. She followed a huge beacon light
that led to an airport, and brought her autogiro down to earth.
While she wired to her aunt at Green Falls that she and her companion
would have to spend the night at Milwaukee, Dot succeeded in finding a
taxicab, which they all took to the nearest hospital.
The girl was perfectly conscious when they were admitted, but when the
authorities asked for her name, she still could not give it.
“I don’t remember anything,” she said; “before these ladies were bending
over me on that country road. Except about a ghost that I see and hear
at nights.”
Dot looked helplessly at the doctor.
“She isn’t an idiot, is she, Doctor?” she whispered.
“No, no! It’s a case of loss of memory—after concussion. Brought on by
that blow on the back of her head.”
“But why the ghost?”
“That is some memory that is vivid enough to pierce through the fog
which is surrounding her past life. It is a good sign—when one fact
remains, the others are more likely to follow.”
The nurse was ready to take her to her bed, when the girl uttered a wail
that was pitiful to hear.
“Don’t leave me!” she begged Linda and Dot. “You are the only friends
that I have in this strange world. And in the other world there is that
frightful ghost!”
Impulsively, Linda bent down and kissed her affectionately. “You must
let the nurse take care of you now, dear—and be a good girl. We have to
get some supper. But we’ll be back to-morrow. We promise.”
“If that specter doesn’t carry me off to-night!”
“He can’t carry you away from the hospital,” replied the nurse,
smilingly. “We never let ghosts into the hospital.”
“Never?”
“Absolutely not.”
The girl seemed reassured, and Linda and Dot returned to their taxi, to
find a hotel where they could spend the night.
“Did you ever hear of anything so queer in all your life?” demanded Dot.
“Or anything more pitiful?”
“We’ll have to do something, Dot,” said Linda, thinking seriously.
“We’ll buy all the papers to-morrow and look for the names and
descriptions of missing persons. We’ve just got to find that kid’s
parents.”
“If she has any.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The way she was dressed. As if nobody in the world cared a bit for
her.”
“That’s sure. But she must live somewhere. She couldn’t exist in the
woods, on berries, or on that lonely stretch of country where we found
her.”
“Well, let’s try to forget her for the time being,” urged Dot. “Here’s
the hotel, and I certainly am hungry.”
“So am I. But I wish we could dress for dinner. Dot, we always ought to
carry some extra clothing on these trips, because we never know when
we’re going to need it.”
“Oh, what’s the dif, Linda? These suits are becoming, so what do we
care?”
They went to their room and took off their sweaters and helmets. When
they had washed their faces and combed their hair, they were so
presentable that no one even noticed them as they entered the dining
room. After all, it was a common sight to see girls in knickers.
The dinner was delicious, and they ate it with great enjoyment, but
neither girl could get the accident out of her mind, or the pathetic
child—for she seemed like only a child to them, with her strange
superstition. So they decided, when they finished their meal, to call
two of the Milwaukee newspapers, and to give them the story, with their
own names as references.
“And may we print yours and Miss Crowley’s pictures, Miss Carlton?”
asked the delighted reporter. “We have them on file, you know.”
Linda groaned.
“How is that going to help identify this girl?” she demanded. “It’s her
picture you ought to print.”
“We would, if we had it. We’ll get it later. But your pictures will call
attention to the article.... However, we don’t wait for permission in a
case like this, Miss Carlton. You’ll just have to grin and bear it!”