THE PURSUIT.
When John Hadley came to the basket-ball game on Saturday, he brought
with him some illuminating facts about Sam MacDonald’s history for
Marjorie’s consideration. But the absence of Queenie Brazier from the
team decided him in favor of silence—for the time being at least.
It was after Marjorie had actually started to play that he concluded
that there might be a good reason for Queenie’s failure to put in an
appearance—a reason connected with the young man whose record he had
just traced, and which he had found to be so precarious. Without giving
much attention to the game, he went over the whole situation in his own
mind, deciding finally to take Mr. Richards into his confidence.
“I have found out about MacDonald—that friend of Queenie’s,” he
whispered to the scout-master, “and know that he isn’t any good. That’s
an assumed name—his real one is George Hinds—and he has served a term
in an Ohio prison.”
Mr. Richards, however, was inclined to give the man the benefit of the
doubt.
“Maybe he’s reformed—you couldn’t blame him for changing his name to
get a clean start,” he suggested.
“But he hasn’t made a clean start—that’s just the difficulty. They are
after him now for a contemptible crime—and they have his picture on
record at City Hall. That’s how I identified him.”
“They haven’t caught him, then?”
“No; he’s sneaked out of the city, of course. Now, what worries me,
naturally, is that he may have tried to lure Queenie after him. He does
that sort of thing.”
“Then we’ve got to locate Queenie!” cried Richards, alert for action.
“Yes, for even supposing he were honest in his desire to marry her,
he’s no sort of man for her to throw herself away on.”
“Obviously not. What shall we do first?”
“Go to the girl’s home. I’ll give Lily an inkling of the situation, and
get Queenie’s address. Marjorie mustn’t hear a word about it until the
game is over—then Lily can use her own discretion.”
“Right!” agreed the other, in admiration of John’s direct reasoning and
well calculated plan.
They lost no time in securing the desired information and hurried
off in John’s car to the girl’s home. If only they might find her
there—and thus end all their fears!
But Mrs. Brazier’s reply immediately dashed all their hopes to the
ground.
“Why no—she ain’t here. She left about half-past seven for the
basket-ball game,” the woman told them cheerfully. She identified Mr.
Richards by his uniform, for she had often heard her daughter speak of
him. “Did you look in on the game?”
“Perhaps she is there by now,” answered the scout-master, unwilling to
arouse the mother’s suspicions. “Did she carry a suit-case?”
“Yes, she always does—a bag for her shoes and bloomers. She must ’ave
went there, because I noticed the bag. I picks it up, and I says to
her, ‘It’s heavier than usual,’ and she says it had oranges in it—they
was goin’ to have eats after the game.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said John, drawing his own conclusions. “Well, I
guess she’s there by now. We’ll go back. Thank you, Mrs. Brazier.”
No sooner were they in the car than they both blurted out the same
solution.
“She’s going off to elope with Hinds!”
“Which station shall we go to first?” demanded Richards.
“The Pennsylvania—I think it’s most likely he’d strike out for the
west. Probably a Pittsburg train.”
“If we can only catch her in time!” cried the other. “Speed up, Hadley!”
“I’m feeding her to the limit, for the city traffic laws,” John assured
him. “And then some!”
They reached the station and dashed to the information booth. A local
for Pittsburg had just left, but there was an express due in fifteen
minutes.
“Think one of us better take that?” asked Richards.
“Seems sort of wild,” replied John. “Let’s search the station first.
You take the down-stairs, and the platform, and I’ll go upstairs.”
They separated; John going first to the Traveller’s Aid Agent, in the
hope that Queenie might have consulted her. After all the girl was very
young and inexperienced in travelling. In a few words he described the
girl to the woman, telling her that they feared she might have eloped
with a questionable man.
“I don’t recall any couple of that description during the last hour,”
she said.
“Oh, I don’t mean a _couple_—the girl was probably alone. The man is
not in the city, I’m sure of that.” Then he went on to give a minute
description of Queenie. Suddenly the woman recalled her.
“Yes—she did come ask me, about the difference between the local and
the express, and which she ought to take to get to Wilmington at nine
o’clock. I advised the express, but she didn’t want to wait around the
station, and took the local.”
“Wilmington!” repeated John. “So that’s where she went!”
“Yes; she showed me her ticket.”
John thanked her, and hurried off to the ticket booth. But the express
had already gone; there was not another train for over an hour.
Looking up, he saw Richards, still busily searching the station. He
called him over, and told him his news.
“The best thing we can do,” he said, “is to drive with all speed to
Wilmington, and catch her at the station, before she meets the man.
Luckily it’s a good road—we may be able to beat the train.”
In the meantime Marjorie and Lily had gone back to college, and
were making an attempt to sleep. So utterly weary was Marjorie that
her room-mate insisted upon undressing her, comforting her with the
assurance that all would be right on the morrow. For, she reminded her,
whenever Jack and John undertook anything, they succeeded.
The full reaction set in on Sunday; when Marjorie opened her eyes the
next morning she realized that something was vitally wrong with her.
Her head swam and her limbs ached; she wondered whether she could
ever summon sufficient courage to get up. The thought of food was
abhorrent to her; she absolutely refused to allow Lily to bring her any
breakfast, and turned back on her pillow again in despair.
Neither she nor her room-mate mentioned the name of Queenie, yet
Lily knew that in spite of her own aches and pains, Marjorie must
be worrying about her. It was only when Daisy Gravers came in to
congratulate her upon the winning of the championship, that the episode
was mentioned.
“What’s the matter, Marj?” inquired Daisy, with concern. “You ought to
be the happiest, gayest girl in the world, and instead you look all in.”
“I’m afraid that I over-did it,” replied Marjorie, sitting up in
bed, and wearily brushing her hair. “I had no business to play last
night——”
“Then why did you?”
“One of our girls didn’t show up, and we hadn’t any other substitute.
So I had to—or forfeit the game.”
“Why can’t those girls take responsibility?” exclaimed Daisy,
irritably. “You never seem able to count on them! What happened to
her—who was it?”
“Queenie Brazier,” Marjorie admitted, reluctantly. “I don’t know what
happened to her. We haven’t heard yet.”
“Well, I’m sorry that I ever got you into it, Marj, especially since
you’re so tired out. Please don’t go and get sick.”
“I don’t feel very well, but it isn’t your fault, Dais, or the Girl
Scouts, either. It’s just everything, all at once. But spring vacation
will be here a day after tomorrow!”
“Drop the old troop!” urged the other.
“The troop may drop me—for Queenie’s the leader, you know. And I’m not
sure just how secure my hold on the others would be without her.”
Against the advice of both girls, she insisted upon making the attempt
to dress. She had not progressed very far, when she was summoned to
the telephone in the hall.
“Let me answer for you, Marj!” begged Daisy.
“No—it might be about Queenie—I better go,” she said, slipping on her
kimona. “But you can come with me.”
She was correct in her surmise. “Sis, this is Jack,” came the welcome
voice over the wire. “John and Richards have succeeded in waylaying
Queenie. John is bringing her to college this afternoon. Can you look
after her?”
“Of course,” answered Marjorie, forgetting her own weakened condition
for the time being. “Is she all right?”
“Absolutely!” her brother assured her. “She’ll tell you the whole story
when she comes.”
“Thank heavens!” cried the girl leaning back upon Daisy. “Now I know I
will soon feel better.”
Obedient to Lily’s request she consented to go back to bed and to
attempt to eat some of the dinner which was brought to her on a tray
from the infirmary. At last Queenie arrived and, leaving John in his
car, came right up to Marjorie’s room.
Both Lily and Marjorie were startled at her appearance; never had
Queenie looked so pathetic, so crest-fallen, so utterly dejected.
Instinctively Marjorie forgot her anger, and felt only sympathy towards
the sufferer.
“Miss Wilkinson!” exclaimed the girl, bursting into tears as soon as
she was inside the door. “I’ve run away from home!”
“Sit down, Queenie,” said Marjorie, in a soft voice; “and tell us all
about it.”
“To begin with, I’m almost afraid to come to you, because I guess I got
in like a burglar when I stood you up at the big game.”
“We were rather put out about it,” Marjorie admitted. “But I supposed
there was some good reason——”
“There was. I was elopin’!”
Marjorie gasped; it was, then, as bad as she had feared. Although Lily
had told her of Queenie’s disappearance, she never mentioned the fact
that they thought she was joining MacDonald. But Marjorie had kept it
at the back of her mind, yet not caring to speak of it.
“But I take it that you didn’t succeed!”
“No, I didn’t—and I guess I was lucky at that. Just as I was steppin’
off the train at Wilmington, and lookin’ about for Sam—and by the way,
his name ain’t Sam at all—two men rushed up to me. Maybe I wasn’t
surprised to see Mr. Hadley and Mr. Richards!”
“But how did they know where to find you?” asked Marjorie incredulously.
“Search me! I never told anybody but Sam—and the ticket agent—wait, I
did ask the Traveller’s Aid woman a question—maybe they found out from
her.”
“Didn’t your mother know?”
Queenie laughed. “Much chance of me going if she’d found out!” she
remarked.
“But what about Mr. MacDonald—didn’t you meet him?”
“No; he must have given those men one look, and sneaked off in the
other direction. Then they told me about him being a criminal, and I
believed every word of it. You know I always had a soft spot in my
heart for Mr. Richards, and I’m sure Mr. Hadley wouldn’t tell anything
but the truth. So I just got into their car as they told me, and we
drove home.”
“What did your mother say?” asked Marjorie.
“What didn’t she say? The fellows didn’t go in, and I was just fool
enough to blurt out the whole song and dance. It might have been all
right, if Aunt Tillie hadn’t been in the room. It just seemed like she
couldn’t keep her hand out of the pie.”
“Did she scold you?”
Queenie’s eyes flashed with anger.
“She sure did butt in with her say. ‘The city’s no place for a wild ’un
like her,’ she says, lookin’ daggers at me. ‘But I tell you what ’ud
fix her—let me take her back to the country with me. I’ll keep her
away from the fellows!’”
“Then you can believe I flared up. ‘Be buried on that farm, in the
wilds of nowhere!’ I yells. ‘I should say not!’”
“Well, the family kep’ on arguin’ for a while, and at last I went to
bed. And today before they were up, I slipped out. I went straight to
Mr. Hadley—he gave me his address last night. His mother made me eat
a nice breakfast, and pretty soon your brother showed up. Then he said
he’d call you.”
She paused, hardly daring to look at Marjorie. She expected to receive
another scolding, milder perhaps than the one her parents had given her
but just as serious. But Marjorie merely asked her what she intended to
do.
“I don’t know—I only make ten dollars a week at my job, and there’s
not much chance of a raise. I’ll have to get along somehow till I can
get a better job.”
“Suppose you stay here until I go home,” suggested Marjorie, laying
her head wearily against the pillow, “and then go home with me for a
vacation. You can find a new position when you come back.”
“You really mean it, Miss Wilkinson?” cried Queenie, gratefully.
“Yes, of course. Now will you go down and tell Mr. Hadley that I’m
sick, and can’t see him. And ask him to stop and tell your mother
you’re with me for several days?”
Queenie obeyed immediately, thankful to find forgiveness so easily.