AUNT ABIGAIL IS MISLAID
The little country schoolhouse had been the scene of varied activity
that morning. Even in term time, when the battered desks were occupied,
it is a question whether a forenoon's program would have been more
strenuous. Equipped with tape-measures the girls had calculated to a
nicety just how much furniture the platform could accommodate, and still
give the performers room to make their entrances and exits without
colliding with the armchair or overturning the small table. The question
of extra benches had also come up for consideration, and the girls had
demonstrated to their complete satisfaction that two people of ordinary
size could be seated comfortably at each desk. Absorbed in these
fascinating calculations, they had failed to notice how rapidly the time
was passing, till Dorothy began to complain of being hungry.
"You're as good as an alarm-clock," declared Priscilla, consulting her
watch. "It's half-past eleven, Peggy."
"Is it? Then we mustn't wait another minute. If Aunt Abigail is back
from her walk, she may be hungry too." Aunt Abigail had been invited to
attend the preliminary inspection of the schoolroom, but had declined,
frankly avowing her preference for a walk. Jerry had told her of a
somewhat rare fern growing half a mile from the cottage, and Aunt
Abigail who intermittently was an enthusiastic amateur botanist had
professed a desire to see this particular species in its native haunts.
"Don't hurry, Peg," pleaded Amy, as the procession headed for the
cottage at a more rapid pace than Amy approved on a summer morning.
"It's more than likely that she isn't home yet. You know she never
thinks anything about the time if she's interested."
As Amy's conjecture was based on an intimate knowledge of Aunt Abigail's
peculiarities, no one was surprised to find it correct. The front door
of the cottage was locked, and the key was hanging on a nail in full
view, a custom of the trusting community which had gradually come into
favor at Dolittle Cottage. The girls trooped indoors, and preparations
for dinner began forthwith, even Dorothy lending her aid. Dorothy loved
to shell peas, that ordinarily prosaic task being enlivened by the
certainty that she would drop at least two-thirds of the agile
vegetables, and be compelled to pursue them into the most unlikely
hiding-places.
The peas were shelled at last, and Dorothy comforted for the untimely
fate of several luckless spheres which had rolled under the feet of
preoccupied workers, and, according to Dorothy, had been "scrunched."
Another twenty minutes and Peggy announced that dinner was ready. "If
Aunt Abigail would only come. Things won't be so good if they wait."
"I won't be so good if _I_ wait, either," Dorothy declared. "'Cause
it makes me cross to get hungry."
Dorothy was provided with an aid to uprightness in the shape of a slice
of bread and butter, and the others seated themselves on the porch to
await Aunt Abigail's return. It is an open secret that time spent in
waiting invariably drags. The wittiest find their ideas deserting them
under such circumstances. The most congenial friends have nothing to say
to each other. There are, as a rule, any number of things one can do
while one is waiting, but unluckily there is nothing one feels inclined
to do. Up till one o'clock conversation was spasmodic. For the next half
hour silence reigned, and each face became expressive of a sense of
injury and patient suffering. At quarter of two, open revolt was
reached.
"Peggy, how much longer are you going to wait?" Amy demanded.
"Everything is probably spoiled by now."
Peggy did her best to be encouraging. "Oh, not exactly spoiled. But it
doesn't do a dinner any good to wait an hour or two after it is cooked."
"Why not sit down? She's sure to be here by the time we're fairly
started," suggested Ruth.
"I'd as soon wait as not." Claire's face was angelically patient. "I
haven't a bit of appetite any more. I suppose it's because my head
always begins to ache so if I don't eat at the regular hour."
Peggy rose to her feet rather hastily. "Come on," she said briskly.
"We'll begin. Probably that'll be just the way to bring her." And she
wondered why it was that Claire's patient sweetness was so much more
trying than Amy's fretful complaint.
But the device for bringing Aunt Abigail home proved unsuccessful. Peggy
put her dinner on the back of the stove to keep warm, and it was still
simmering, undisturbed, when the platter and the various serving dishes
on the table had been scraped clean, for the loss of appetite of which
Claire complained was by no means universal. The work of clearing the
table and washing the dishes was usually protracted, for every other
minute some one ran out on the porch to see if Aunt Abigail were
approaching. By three o'clock a general uneasiness began to make itself
evident.
"I believe I'll go over to the place where those ferns grow," Peggy
declared. "Even if she's forgotten all about her dinner, it can't be
good for her to go so long without eating. Don't you want to come with
me, Amy?"
Amy, who seemed less concerned than any of the company, blithely
accepted the invitation. "We'll probably find her with a great armful of
ferns and her hat tipped over one ear, and she'll be perfectly
astonished to know that it's after twelve o'clock. Oh, you don't know
Aunt Abigail as well as I do."
But though they searched the section of the woods Jerry had designated
as the _habitat_ of the rare fern, and called Aunt Abigail's name
at frequent intervals, there was no answer, nor did they find anything
to indicate that there had been an earlier visitor to the locality.
Amy's confidence seemed a little shaken by this discovery and she made
no objection to the rapidity of their return to the cottage. Ruth came
hurrying out to meet them. "Has she come?" Amy called, her voice
betraying her change of mood.
"No. Haven't you found her?" It was of course an unnecessary question,
for the anxious faces of the two girls would have told that their quest
had been unsuccessful, even if their failure had not been sufficiently
demonstrated by the fact that Aunt Abigail was not accompanying them.
"We'd better go right over to Coles'," Peggy said after a minute's
pause. "Perhaps Mrs. Cole found she was alone, and asked her to dinner."
"I've been there," was Ruth's disappointing reply. "And I went down to
Mrs. Snooks', too. I thought Aunt Abigail might have gone there to
borrow something. You know she was so unwilling to give up the idea. But
Mrs. Snooks was sitting out on the porch, and she said she hadn't seen
her."
The others had gathered around them as they stood talking. The speckled
chicken, who, as a result of being brought up "by hand," was developing
an extravagant fondness for human society, came up peeping shrilly,
evidently under the impression that in so sizable a gathering, there
must be some one who had nothing better to do than minister to his
wants. Hobo, too, made his appearance, and he alone of the company gave
no sign of mental disturbance. Amy pushed him away impatiently as he
rubbed against her, the effect of worry on Amy's temperament having the
not unusual result of making her short-tempered. Then a bright idea
flashed into her head.
"Peggy, maybe he could track her."
"Who could?"
"Why, Hobo. We can let him smell something Aunt Abigail has worn, and
then if he's any good, he ought to be able to follow the trail. I don't
see how we're going to hunt for her, unless we try something like that."
Peggy did not regard the suggestion in a particularly hopeful light, but
at the same time she had nothing better to suggest. To continue the
search for Aunt Abigail without a single clue as to the direction she
had taken, was not unlike looking for the proverbial needle in the
haymow. Accordingly, Peggy followed without protest, while the other
girls, relieved by the mere suggestion of a definite program, hurried
into the house and up the stairs to Aunt Abigail's room. A moment later
they reappeared, each bearing something selected from Aunt Abigail's
belongings.
The various articles were deposited in a circle about Hobo, as if he had
been a heathen idol, and Aunt Abigail's worsted shawl and silk work-bag,
votive offerings. Hobo did not in the least understand the meaning of
this new game, but he was pleased to find himself the centre of
attention, and thumped his tail against the porch with a sound like
persistent knocking.
"I don't believe I'd give him this," exclaimed Peggy, picking up the
work-bag and sniffing thoughtfully. "It smells so strong of peppermint
that it's likely to mislead him."
"She always carried peppermint drops in that bag," said Amy. The use of
the past tense was such an unconscious admission of fearing the worst,
that the girls looked at one another aghast. And then Peggy, with a
desperate realization that something must be done, and that immediately,
seized the worsted shawl, and knelt down before Hobo. "Find her, good
fellow," she urged, holding the wrap close to the dog's nose.
Over the fleecy mound, Hobo regarded Peggy with bright, intelligent
eyes. "He's smelling of it," said a thrilled voice in the background.
"Yes, and he looks as if he understood," cried another voice. "See how
his eyes shine."
Even Peggy's doubts were vanishing before Hobo's air of absorbed
attention. "Find her, Hobo," she insisted. "Find Aunt Abigail."
The little group stood breathless, while Hobo descended the steps, and
nose to earth, followed the winding gravelled path for half its
distance. Then taking an abrupt turn, he struck off across the lawn.
Their hearts in their mouths the girls hurried after. Peggy heard
Priscilla just behind her, saying that it was perfectly wonderful.
Priscilla had always retained a trace of her first disapproval of Hobo's
admission into the family circle, and even at that anxious moment, Peggy
felt a little thrill of satisfaction over the fact that the wisdom of
her charity had been vindicated.
Hobo ambled across the lawn, stopped abruptly at the foot of the
pear-tree, and there seated himself, looking up into the branches, and
wagging his tail, with an air of having abundantly satisfied his own
expectations. Peggy's efforts to induce him to take up the trail were
useless. Familiar as they all were with Aunt Abigail's eccentricities,
it was impossible to believe that she had improved the occasion of their
absence to climb a pear-tree, especially as its fruit had been gathered
weeks earlier. Moreover, even granting the possibility of so erratic a
proceeding, she must have descended from her perch, unless she had
continued her journey by airship. Peggy brought the worsted shawl, and
renewed her appeals and commands, while Hobo continued to wag his tail,
apparently under the impression that he was being praised for some
remarkable achievement.
"There's no use wasting any more time," Amy cried at last, "on a dog as
stupid as that one."
"He never pretended to be a bloodhound," said Peggy, her sense of
justice driving her to the defence of her protege. And then she dropped
the shawl and ran to meet Jerry Morton, whose cheery whistle usually
announced his coming some time in advance of his actual arrival.
Jerry had come to ask the opinion of the company as to the advisability
of occupying the second intermission by a banjo duet. But before he
could introduce the subject, his attention was claimed by the news of
Aunt Abigail's mysterious disappearance. As all the girls talked at
once, the resulting explanation was somewhat confused, and Jerry
gathered the impression that Hobo was being held responsible for driving
Aunt Abigail into the pear-tree. Corrected on this point, his face
suddenly acquired an expression of extreme seriousness.
"I saw long 'bout noon--but 'tain't likely that had anything to do with
it."
"What was it?" cried the girls in chorus, each conscious of a chilly
sensation in the neighborhood of the spine. And Amy added fiercely, "If
you know anything, Jerry, tell it quick! We're losing lots of time."
"Well, it was a band of gypsies."
There was a minute of awed silence. "But you don't think--" Amy began,
and paused helplessly.
"I don't think anything but--well, they had three wagons--you know the
kind--and in the bottom of the last one, I could see somebody lying
stretched out and all covered over with a blanket. I thought most likely
one of the men had been drinking and was just sleeping it off. But, of
course--"
Jerry paused, overwhelmed at the sight of the horror depicted on the
faces of his auditors. Vainly he racked his brain for a less harassing
explanation of the fact that Aunt Abigail had disappeared some time
during the forenoon, and at five o'clock was still missing. Peggy, her
lips very white, attempted to reassure herself and the others, by
attacking the theory he had suggested.
"But, Jerry, what would gypsies want with an old lady like Aunt Abigail?
I thought they only stole babies."
"Yes, and they come back after a while and claim their fathers'
estates," chimed in Amy hysterically.
Jerry would have liked to be consoling, but did not see his way clear to
that end. He accordingly observed that real gypsies would steal anything
they could lay their hands on. And when he had finished this expression
of his inmost convictions, Amy burst into tears.
"Oh, why are we wasting time?" she cried. "We ought to get Mr. Cole and
Joe and all the men around to drive after those people and see who was
under that blanket. Oh, dear. Oh, dear!"
Dorothy was pulling Peggy's skirt. "Aunt Peggy! Aunt Peggy, listen!"
"Oh, hush, Dorothy. I can't attend to you."
"But listen, Aunt Peggy--"
"Dorothy, you're a naughty girl. I can't listen."
Dorothy too burst into sobs. "I just wanted to tell you," she wailed,
"that Aunt Abigail was a-sitting on the porch."
Peggy spun about. The astonishing news was true. On the porch sat Aunt
Abigail, swaying slightly in one of the willow rockers, with her
meditative gaze fixed on the western sky. After the first inevitable
half minutes of stupefaction, there was a wild rush for the house.
"It seems to me I never saw the sky prettier," was Aunt Abigail's
astonishing beginning. But no one was in the mood to join her in
discussing the beauties of nature. "Where have you been?" was the cry
echoed from lip to lip.
Aunt Abigail smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt, and for the first time
since undertaking the chaperonage of the Terrace girls, she looked a
trifle discomfited.
"I found such an interesting story in the garret," she said, "a
continued story it was, and it ran through an entire year, fifty-two
numbers. I had a little difficulty in finding every instalment, but I
succeeded at last. You girls will enjoy reading it. I am afraid--" Aunt
Abigail glanced uneasily at the rosy west, and left the sentence
unfinished. "I hope," she said instead, "that you didn't wait dinner for
me."
"But the door was locked," said Peggy, finding it almost impossible to
believe that their alarm had been groundless.
"Yes. I thought it wasn't quite safe to leave the door unlocked, when I
would be in the third story, but I didn't want to have to hurry down to
let you in. I locked the front door on the outside, and hung up the key.
Then I went in by the back door and locked it on the inside."
"And you mean that you've been in the garret all these hours?" cried Amy
in accents of exasperation. Her face gave no hint of its usual
easy-going good-nature. Though the tears were still undried upon her
cheeks, ominous lightning played in her eyes. It really looked as if she
could not easily forgive Aunt Abigail for her failure to be kidnapped by
gypsies.
And just at the right moment somebody giggled. Among other benefits that
laughter confers on the race, it not infrequently serves as a lightning
conductor. With all the anxiety they had suffered, the situation was
ludicrous nevertheless. While they had agonized below stairs, Aunt
Abigail had sat on the garret floor, absorbed in a sensational serial
story, oblivious to everything but the next chapter. An uncontrollable
titter went the rounds. It gained volume, like a seaward flowing brook.
It swelled to a roar. And Amy, who for a moment had stood silent and
disdainful, as if she defied the current to sweep her off her feet, gave
up all at once, and laughed with the rest.
Aunt Abigail laughed too, though more as if she wished to appear
companionable than because she really saw the joke. When the silence of
exhaustion followed the uproar, and the girls were wiping their wet eyes
and each avoiding the glances of her neighbor, for fear of going off
into another paroxysm, Aunt Abigail made a remark which helped to
explain her failure to enter into the fun.
"I really hope you didn't wait dinner," repeated Aunt Abigail politely.
"And if--if it's the same to the rest of you, I vote for an early
supper."