GERRY’S NEWS
It was some time later the same day--about two o’clock, to be exact.
A group of excited young folks, friends of Gerry and Bab and Gordon,
were lounging on the lawn outside the tennis court on the Seymour
place. It was a very hot day and, while some of the young folks had
resolutely started to play tennis, they gave up after a set or two,
finding it much more agreeable to discuss Bab Winters and her startling
letter from New York.
Meanwhile Bab, the center of attraction, had slipped away with Gordon.
“You’ve answered so many questions your voice is hoarse,” said the boy,
as he lured her away. “Come over near the fountain and cool off.
“Look here, Bab,” he added, when they had put a sufficient distance
between them and the “crowd,” “I think it’s corking--all this happening
to you----”
“Gordon,” Bab interrupted eagerly, “what do _you_ think of Uncle
Jeremiah’s will?”
Gordon chuckled.
“I think the old boy had a wonderful sense of humor,” he said. “I’d
like to have known him while he was still in the land of the living.”
The youth dropped to the seat beside her, looking very handsome and
eager, with one lock of his sunburnt hair falling over his forehead.
“You say the old fellow had some reason for leaving the legacy to you
instead of to your grandmother?”
“Great-uncle Jeremiah’s favorite sister was named Barbara,” Bab
explained. “In fact, I think I was named for her. They say she was very
beautiful and the only thing poor crusty Uncle Jeremiah ever loved.
“She died when she was only twenty, of consumption, I think, and
Grandmother says poor Uncle Jerry was never the same afterward. So I
suppose I owe all this good luck to the fact that my name happens to be
Barbara,” she finished.
“Why question the fates?” demanded Gordon gayly. “At any rate, you
are set down in the midst of a mystery that promises to be chock
full of thrills and adventures. I don’t mind telling you,” he added,
resentfully whacking the bushes with his racket, “that I’m jealous!”
“Jealous!” repeated Bab, dimpling. “What of?”
“You, of course,” said the boy, in an injured tone. “How do you suppose
it makes a fellow feel to be left behind to twiddle his thumbs while
adventure like that looms in the offing----”
“As it were,” teased Bab.
“I fear you don’t realize how real my trouble is,” Gordon insisted. “I
tell you, it’s downright tragedy.”
Bab Winters was thoughtful for a moment. Then she chuckled.
“If it hurts you so to stay behind, Gordon,” she said, “why do you?”
Gordon met her mischievous eyes for a moment; then slowly and joyfully
grinned.
“Do you mean that as an invitation?” he demanded.
Before Bab could reply there was the sound of running feet on the
path behind them and a voice penetrated through the shrubbery--Gerry
Thompson’s voice.
“Bab, Bab! Where are you? I’ve got news for you.”
As Bab jumped to her feet, Gordon caught her arm eagerly.
“Did you mean it?” he asked. “Will you really let me tag along?”
Bab had just time to nod her head before Gerry burst into view.
“Oh, I beg a million pardons! If I intrude----”
“Don’t be silly,” retorted Bab shortly. “What’s this wonderful news
you’ve been shouting about?”
“Oh, yes, the news!” returned Gerry. She sank down on the stone bench
and tried to fan herself with an inadequate handkerchief. “Charlie
brought it--the news, I mean. About that kidnaped girl--the one we
saw, or thought we saw, the day Charlie tried to kill us in that new
atrocity of his----”
“But was the girl actually being kidnaped?” interrupted Bab, and added
in the same breath: “How do you know?”
“It’s in all the papers,” Gerry returned excitedly. “The parents are
offering a big reward--a thousand dollars I think Charlie said--for her
return or for the capture of the villain that kidnaped her. Makes it
interesting, don’t you think?”
“It might, if we had any chance of catching the kidnaper,” Bab
admitted. “That poor girl! What an awful thing to happen to any one!”
“It is,” admitted Gerry. “But you haven’t heard the strangest part yet,
Bab. Charlie showed me the girl’s picture in the paper and she looks a
lot like you. That isn’t all,” as Bab started to interrupt. “Her name
is like yours, too. The first name is the same--Barbara--and the last
is Winthrop.”
“Barbara Winthrop,” repeated Bab, wondering. “It does sound something
the same. But, really, Gerry, I can’t see----”
“Of course you can’t. Neither can anybody else. But really, Bab,” she
added, lowering her voice and speaking quickly as an increasing tumult
from the direction of the tennis court heralded the approach of the
crowd, “don’t you think it’s odd--a girl stolen from Scarsdale who
looks like you and has a name that is almost the same as yours and just
at this time, too?”
“What do you mean--just at this time?” queried Bab, impressed in spite
of herself.
“Just at the time you receive your mysterious inheritance, of course.
Two sensational things like that don’t often happen at the same time.”
Gordon Seymour was inclined to scoff.
“Just coincidence,” was his verdict.
“Oh, all right,” said Gerry. “Scoff if you will. But now I’ll tell you
a piece of news, Bab, that you can’t laugh at.”
“What’s that?” asked Bab obligingly.
“Charlie Seymour has invited himself to go with us! Laugh that off, if
you can!”
However, when they came to think it over later, the girls did not
resent Charlie Seymour’s intrusion into the sacred circle as much as
they had thought they would. As long as Gordon was included anyway, it
would be rather nice to have another boy along.
“If for nothing else than to keep the numbers even,” added Gerry.
“Besides, if the ghost gets too obstreperous, we may need the boys to
handle him!”
It was Gordon who finally suggested the perfect chaperon to take along
in addition to Rosa Lee.
“How about Mrs. Fenwick? She’s a sort of relation of mine, you know,
sixth cousin thrice removed, or something of the sort. Anyway, she must
be pretty lonesome, living alone the way she does. Bet she’d be glad to
go.”
Mrs. Fenwick was a quiet little mouse of a woman with a face that was
uninteresting until she smiled, when it lit up in a wonderful manner.
She lived all alone in a small cottage on the outskirts of the town,
and because she was a little deaf and a little queer she was left
considerably to herself.
“I’ll be glad to go, my dears,” she told the girls, with pathetic
eagerness. “I am not deaf, really, except when people mumble their
words. If you will learn to speak distinctly, I think we shall get
along quite well.”
So, to the great satisfaction of all concerned, that important point
was settled.
Uncle Jeremiah’s lucky ring which Bab wore day and night, in accordance
with the old gentleman’s instructions, was turned about so many times
on Bab’s finger by awed and youthful acquaintances that it was only a
wonder both ring and finger were not worn through before the day of
departure.
Rosa Lee was prepared--old trunk and slender suitcase packed in
readiness for the trip, herself eagerly anticipating this joyful break
in the dull routine of her life.
The consent of Gerry Thompson’s parents had been won only by the
exercise of strenuous cajolery on the part of that young person
and Gerry declared herself “quite worn out” when the question was
satisfactorily settled.
Gerry had arranged to spend the night before their departure with Bab.
Despite her eager anticipation of the morrow, dinner that night was a
trial to Bab Winters. Although Gerry was in hilarious spirits and her
grandmother and grandfather joined gallantly in the fun, Bab’s watchful
eyes discovered a deep underlying depression in the mood of the old
people.
If she had not known the tragic secret of their poverty, Bab might have
thought that they were only sad at the prospect of parting from her.
As it was, she knew that a far deeper trouble gnawed at their hearts
and threw a dread blight on these last years of their lives, years that
should have been filled with sunshine.
And she could not help them!
Uncle Jeremiah’s will? A possible hidden fortune? Perhaps----
Later that night when Gerry was sound asleep--dreaming, no doubt, of
chests and boxes crammed with gold--Bab pushed back the covers, went to
her door and opened it.
A few steps brought her just outside her grandmother’s room.
Ah! She had not been mistaken! There was sobbing within that room,
a soft, heartbroken sobbing, a sound so lonely and forlorn in its
hopelessness that it forced a sob to Bab’s own lips.
Slowly the girl crept back to her own room.
For a long time she stood at her window, looking up at the twinkling
stars that swam in a mist of tears before her eyes.
The night was heavenly calm. A balmy, sweet-scented breath of air crept
in at the window. It stirred the curtain gently and drew a corner of it
across her hand as it rested on the window sill.
There was magic in that breeze, magic in the fragrant breath of it that
blew Bab’s soft hair about her face. The stars no longer swam as though
in a mist. Each star was suddenly a tiny lighted torch--a torch that
beckoned her on to what?
Adventure!
All the youth of an ageless world called clamorously to Barbara’s
youth. At that moment she felt equipped to dare and to conquer, no
matter how great the odds might be against her.
“If Uncle Jerry has left me money,” she told herself vehemently, “I’ll
find it if I have to dig my way right through to China!”