be chief of the local police, Peter. And since you find the mystery
beyond your power to solve, you have called to your aid a private
detective force--that's us. Jerome and Wallace and me can be detectives,
and Augustus can be a policeman."
"I want to be a detective, too," objected Augustus.
"It's nice to be a policeman," soothed Bobby. "When we've tracked down
the thief, we'll call to you and say, 'Officer, handcuff this man!' and
you'll snap 'em on his wrist and lead him to jail."
"All right!" agreed Augustus. "Give 'em to me."
"Later, when we're on his track," said Bobby. "Now, Peter, you ought to
plan a campaign. 'Course, you aren't expected to find out anything, the
local police never do; but nominally we're under your orders, so you
must tell us to shadow some one."
Peter had been staring into space only half at tending to their
prattle. Bobby jogged his elbow.
"Pay attention, Peter! We're waiting for orders. You ought to detail two
plain-clothes men to watch the gates, and I think it would be well to
shadow Vittorio. He's a foreigner, you know; maybe he b'longs to the
Black Hand. I shouldn't wonder if he was planning to blow up the
stables. Only," he added, as an afterthought, "it's sort of hard
shadowing a man who stands by the hedge all day talking to Annie."
Peter's frown darkened as his gaze sought the rustic bench under the
apple tree. He had little spirit left for the boys' diversions, but he
roused himself to say:
"I'll turn the details o' the case over to you, Master Bobby. Guard the
gates, an' shadow anyone that seems suspicious. I'm drivin' Joe's wife
to the hospital this afternoon; ye can report at six o'clock, when I
gets back."
The four rose and saluted; they held a whispered consultation, and
crept warily away in different directions. Peter watched them out of
sight with a wan smile, then turned inside to hitch up. The ladies of
the family were spending the day in the city on a midsummer shopping
expedition, so he had no fear of any demands issuing from the house. He
called the under-groom, gave him strict orders not to leave the stables
alone a minute, and drove on to the cottage to pick up Joe's wife. She
packed a basket for the invalid into the back of the cart, and climbed
up beside Peter.
"I'm fetching him out something to eat," she explained. "They don't give
him nourishment enough for a kitten. A man of Joe's size can't keep up
his strength on beef tea and soft-boiled eggs."
As they drove through the gate, a small figure sprang out from the
bushes in front of the astonished Trixy's head.
"I'm sorry to detain you," said Bobby, with dignified aloofness--his
expression suggested that he had never seen Peter before--"but my
orders are to search every person leaving the premises."
"Lord love you, Master Bobby! What are you playing at now?" inquired
Joe's wife with wide-eyed amazement.
"I am Robert Carter, of the Secret Service," said Bobby, icily, as he
walked to the rear of the buckboard and commenced his search. "Ha! What
is this?" He raised the towel that covered the basket and suspiciously
peered inside. It contained two pies, a quantity of doughnuts, and a jar
of cherry preserves. "Madam, may I ask where you obtained these
articles?" His manner was so stern that she stammered her reply with an
air of convicted guilt.
"I--I made them myself. They're for Joe in the hospital."
"H'm!" said Bobby. "As they are for charitable purposes, I will not
confiscate the entire lot." He gravely abstracted two of the most
sugary doughnuts and transferred them to his pocket. "These will be
sufficient to exhibit at headquarters with a description of the rest.
Please favour me with your names and addresses."
Peter complied in all seriousness. Evidently, his was a case of dual
personality; he represented the local police only when he was not acting
as coachman. He drove on with an amused grin. After all, the boys and
their escapades added to the dull routine of daily life a spice of
adventure which most twentieth century households lacked; the
entertainment they furnished paid for the trouble they caused.
Three hours later Peter set down Joe's wife at the door of the cottage
and drove on to the stables. As he rounded the corner, he perceived an
excited group gathered under the apple tree where he had left Annie and
her kindergarten class.
"There he is!" cried Nora. "Peter! Come here quick."
Peter threw the lines to an adjacent groom--the one who had been told
not to leave the stables--and hurriedly joined the circle. He found
Annie collapsed on her bench beside the baby-carriage, rocking back and
forth, and sobbing convulsively, while the other servants crowded about
her.
"What's the matter?" he gasped.
"They've stolen the baby!" Annie wailed.
Peter felt a cold chill run up his back as he peered into the empty
carriage. For a moment he was silent, struggling to grasp the full
horror of the fact; then he laid a hand, none too lightly, on Annie's
shoulder, and shook her into a state of coherence.
"Stop yer noise an' tell me when it happened."
"Just now! Just a few minutes ago. The baby was asleep, an' Vittorio, he
had some new flowers in the farther bed, an' he wanted me to tell him
their name. I wasn't gone more'n five minutes, an' when I come back I
peeked in to see if the baby was all right, an' the carriage was empty!
We've hunted everywhere. He's gone--stolen just like the lap-robes."
Annie buried her head in her arms and commenced sobbing anew. Peter's
face reflected the blankness of the others.
"Lord! This is awful! What will its mother be sayin'?"
Annie's sobs increased at this agonizing thought.
"It's them Armenian-lace women," Nora put in. "Master Bobby says they're
gypsies, and are always stealing babies and holding them for ransom."
"Haven't ye done anything?" he cried. "Didn't ye telephone for the
p'lice?"
"Master Bobby wouldn't let us. He says the local police are blind as
bats and what we need are detectives. An' above all, he says, we must
not let it get into the papers; his father is awful mad when anything
gets into the papers. Leave it to him, he says, and he'll have the
gypsies shadowed."
"This ain't no time for play," growled Peter, whirling toward the house
and the telephone. "What's that?" He stopped as his eye lighted upon a
vivid sheet of paper lying on the ground.
"It was pinned to the p-pillow," Annie sobbed.
Peter snatched it up and stared for a moment in blank amazement. The
words were printed in staggering characters, a bright vermilion in tone.
PLACE TEN THOUSAN DOUBBLOONS
IN GOLD IN THE HOLLO OAK
BEFORE SUN RISE AND
YOUR BABY SHALL BE
RISTORED FAIL AND
YOU WONT NEVER SEE
HIM AGEN!!
BLOOD! BLOOD!
A flash of illumination swept over Peter's face.
There was an old barn at the end of the lane that had been moved back
when the new stables were built. A few days before, Peter, himself
unobserved, had seen Wallace knock three times on the door, and had
heard a voice from inside respond:
"Who goes there?"
"A friend," said Wallace.
"Give the countersign."
"Blood!"
"Pass in," said the voice.
The door had opened six inches while Wallace squeezed through. Peter had
supposed it merely their latest play, unintelligible but harmless; now,
however, he commenced putting two and two together. Evidently, his was
not the only case of dual personality.
"Gee! I'm a fool not to have thought of it," he muttered.
"Oh, Pete!" Annie implored. "Do you know where he is?"
Peter controlled his features and gravely shook his head.
"I can't say as I do, exactly, but this here paper furnishes a clue. I
think p'raps I can find the baby without calling in the p'lice." He
faced the others. "Go back to the house and watch out that none o' them
gypsy women comes prowlin' around." He waited until they were out of
hearing, then he sat down on the bench by Annie. "I'll find the kid on
just one condition--ye're to let that Dago alone. D'ye understand?"
"Get the baby, hurry--please! I'll talk to you afterward."
"I think I'll be talkin' just a second now. Ye know well enough I never
had nothin' to do with that Circassian Beauty girl."
"Yes, yes, Pete! I believe you. I know you didn't. Please go."
"Stop thinkin' o' the kid a minute an' listen to me." He reached over
and grasped her firmly by the wrist. "If I fetches him back without no
hurt before his mother gets home, will everything be just the same
between us as before I took ye to that infernal Heart of Asia?"
"Yes, Pete, honest--I promise." Her lips trembled momentarily into a
smile. "I knew you didn't have nothing to do with her. I just wanted to
make you mad."
His grasp tightened.
"Ye succeeded all right."
"Ow, Pete, let me go! You hurt."
He dropped her wrist and rose to his feet.
"Mind, now, this is on the straight. I finds the kid an' we're friends
again."
She nodded and smiled into his eyes. Peter smiled back, and swung off,
whistling, down the lane. A rustling behind the hedge, and a scampering
of feet, warned him that the enemy had posted scouts. He stilled his
whistle and approached the old barn warily. It presented a blank face
when he arrived; the door was shut and locked. He pounded three times. A
startled movement occurred inside, but no challenge. He pounded again,
more insistently, pushing with his shoulder until there was the sound of
straining timber.
"Who goes there? Give the countersign," issued from the keyhole in
Master Augustus's tones.
"Blood!" said Peter, with grim emphasis.
A pause followed, during which he kept his ear to the crack. A whispered
consultation was going on inside, then presently, a small window opened
and Master Augustus's head appeared.
"Oh, Pete! Is dat you?" There was relief in his tone. "Wait a minute an'
I'll let you in. I was 'fraid it was gypsies."
"Well, it ain't gypsies; it's the local p'lice on the track o' stolen
goods. You open up that door an' be quick about it!"
A long wait ensued while Augustus ineffectually fumbled with the lock,
talking meanwhile to Peter in as loud a voice as possible to drown the
sound of movement behind him. The door was finally flung wide, and Peter
was received with a disarming smile. He stepped inside and peered about.
"Where have ye hid the other boys?" he demanded.
"I'm a p'liceman," lisped Augustus, with engaging inconsequence,
"stationed here to guard de lane. I fought it was safest to keep de door
locked for fear some more gypsy people might come along."
"Where's the ladder gone to that loft?"
"De ladder?" Augustus raised wide innocent eyes to the hole in the
ceiling. "Maybe de same person stole de ladder as stole de ovver fings."
"Maybe," Peter assented genially, as he squinted up through the opening.
The end of the ladder was visible, also the end of a rope-ladder, easier
to haul up in emergencies. The clothes-line at least was accounted for.
Peter took off his coat, shoved a saw-horse under the opening, and
sprang and caught the edge of the scuttle, while Augustus, in a frenzy
of remonstrance, danced below and shouted warnings. After a few
convulsive kicks Peter swung himself up and sat down on the edge of the
scuttle to get his breath, while he took a preliminary survey of the
room. There was no doubt but that he had tracked the robbers to their
den. Opposite him, in letters a foot high, the legend sprawled the
length of the wall:
TOM SAWYER'S ROBBER GANG
As his eyes roved about the room they lit on one familiar object after
another. The four walls were hung with sheets; two pirate flags of black
broadcloth (he recognized his lap-robes) fluttered overhead; the centre
of the room was occupied by the umbrella-stand, upside down, serving as
a pedestal for the Bible, and the tomato stakes, made into cross swords,
decorated the walls. The booty was there, but the thieves had escaped. A
second, more thorough examination, however, betrayed in a shadowy
corner, a slight bulging of the sheets, while sundry legs protruded
from below. Peter stalked over, and laying a firm grasp on the nearest
ankle, plucked out Master Wallace from behind the arras. He set the boy
on his feet and shook him.
"What have ye done with that baby?"
Wallace dug his fists into his eyes and commenced to whimper. Peter
tried another cast, and fetched out Master Bobby.
"Hello, Pete!" said Bobby, with cheerful impudence.
"You cough up that baby," said Peter.
"He's in the wash-boiler." Bobby waved his hand airily toward the
opposite end of the room.
Peter, still grasping Bobby's collar with a touch unpleasantly firm,
strode across and raised the lid. The baby was sleeping as peacefully as
in his own perambulator.
"We were just going to return him when you came." Bobby's voice
contained an increasing note of anxiety. "We fed him and sterilized his
milk just like Annie does. He's been having a bully time, laughing and
crowing to beat the band. He likes adventures. It's terribly stupid
lying all day in that carriage; a little change is good for his health."
Peter shook his captive. "What's the meanin' o' this?" His gesture
included the entire interior.
"We're robbers," said Bobby, stanchly. "I'm Huck Finn, the Red-handed,
and Jerome's Tom Sawyer, the Terror of the Plains. When we saw that baby
left alone in the carriage, we thought we ought to teach Annie a lesson.
We meant to turn into detectives pretty soon and raid this robber den
and take the baby back. We were just getting ready to be detectives when
you came."
"This is one time the local police got in first," observed Peter.
"What's that Bible for?"
"To take our oaths on."
"Huh! I guess yer mother will be havin' somethin' to say to that." He
lowered the ladder and faced the robbers. There were three by this
time: Jerome had emerged of his own accord. "I'll take the baby meself.
Master Bobby, ye follow with the Bible; Master Jerome, ye rip the skull
an' bones off them lap-robes, fold 'em up neat, an' put 'em in the
closet where they b'long. I'll give ye just half an hour to break up
this gang an' return the loot. Master Augustus!" Peter bellowed down the
trap, "fetch four pairs o' handcuffs an' have these robbers at the
p'lice station in half an hour to hear their sentence."
He shouldered the baby with awkward care, and retraced his steps toward
the house. Annie was still drooping on her bench. Peter approached
softly from behind.
"Here he is like I promised."
"Oh, Pete! Is he hurt?" She snatched the child from his arms and
commenced anxiously examining his limbs for injuries. The baby grabbed
her hair and cooed. She covered him with kisses. "Where'd you find him?"
"I found him--where I found him," said Peter, cannily, "an' don't ye be
leavin' him alone again."
"I won't! I can't never thank you enough."
"Yes, ye can--by not flirtin' with that Dago any more."
"I wasn't flirtin' with him; he don't care nothin' about me. All he
wants is to learn to talk."
Peter looked sceptical.
"Honest, Pete! It's the livin' truth. I never flirted with no one,
except--maybe you."
Peter's face softened momentarily, but it hardened again as a shadow
fell between them. Vittorio was standing on the other side of the hedge.
"You find-a dat baby?" he inquired with an all-inclusive smile. As the
fact was self-evident, nobody answered. Vittorio was a romantic soul; he
caught the breath of sentiment in the air. "Annie you girl?" he inquired
genially of Peter.
Peter scowled without speaking.
"I got-a girl too, name Marietta. Live-a Napoli. Some day I send-a
money, she come Americ'; marry wif me. Nice girl, Marietta. Annie nice
girl, too," he added, as a polite afterthought. "You marry wif her?"
Peter's face cleared.
"Some day, Vittorio, if she'll be havin' me." He stole a side glance at
Annie. She rose with a quick flush.
"Quit your foolin', Pete! 'Tis time this baby was getting his supper.
Would you mind settin' his carriage on the porch? Good night, Vittorio."
She tucked the baby under her arm and started, singing, for the house.
Peter put up the carriage and sauntered toward the stables in the utmost
good humour. He found Augustus with his prisoners drawn up in line,
their wrists and ankles shackled together.
Augustus saluted. "I caught free robbers," he observed. "De ovver one
'scaped."
Peter drew his face into an expression of judicial sternness. "What
have ye got to say for yourselves?" he growled.
There was silence for a moment, then Jerome ventured: "We're going away
in three days. I shouldn't think at the very end you'd want to have hard
feelings between us."
"If you tell mother," Bobby added, "you'll get Annie into an awful lot
of trouble. Annie's been good to me. I'd hate to have her get a
scolding."
Peter suppressed a grin.
"Ten years at solitary confinement is what ye deserve," he announced,
"but since there's extenuatin' circumstances, I'll let ye go free on
parole--providin' ye play base-ball all the rest o' the time."
"I say, Pete, you're bully!"
"It's a bargain," said Peter. "_An' mind ye keep to it._ Officer, set
free the prisoners."
VII
GEORGE WASHINGTON'S UNDERSTUDY
"Wait a moment, Peter," Miss Ethel called from the veranda, as he was
starting for the village with the daily marketing list. "I want you to
drive around by Red Towers on your way home and leave this note for Mrs.
Booth-Higby."
"Very well, Miss Ethel." Peter reined in Trixy and received the note
with a polite pull at his hat brim.
"And, Peter, you might use a little discretion. That is--I don't want
her to know----"
"You trust me, Miss Ethel; I'll fix it."
Her eyes met his for a second and she laughed. Peter's face also relaxed
its official gravity as he pocketed the note and started off. He
understood well the inner feelings with which she had penned its polite
phrases. A battle had been waging in the Carter family on the subject of
Mrs. Booth-Higby, and the presence of the invitation in Peter's pocket
proved that Miss Ethel was vanquished.
The invitation concerned a garden party to be given at Willowbrook on
the evening of the fifteenth, with the Daughters of the Revolution as
guests of honour, and amateur theatricals as entertainment. Peter knew
all about it, having arduously assisted the village carpenter in the
construction of rocks, boats, wigwams, log-cabins and primæval forests.
He knew, also, that the chief attraction of the evening would not be the
theatricals, but rather the presence of a young Irish earl who was
visiting Mr. Harry Jasper. Miss Ethel was also entertaining guests, and
the two households formed an exclusive party among themselves. The
entire neighbourhood was agog at the idea of a live lord in their midst,
but so far no one had seen him, except from a distance, as he was
whirled past in Mr. Harry's motor, or trailed across the golf links in
Miss Ethel's wake. She was planning to exhibit him publicly on the night
of the garden party.
The question of invitations had been difficult, particularly in the case
of Mrs. Booth-Higby. In regard to this lady society was divided into two
camps, comprising those who received her and those who did not. Miss
Ethel was firm in her adherence to those who did not, but her father and
mother had tacitly slipped over to the other camp--Mr. Carter being a
corporation lawyer, and Mr. Booth-Higby a rising financier. Peter
likewise knew all about this, Mrs. Carter and her daughter having
discussed the matter through the length of a seven-mile drive, while he
sedulously kept his eyes on the horses' ears, that the smile which would
not be suppressed might at least be unobserved.
Mrs. Carter had maintained that, since Mrs. Booth-Higby was a member of
the Society, not to invite her would be too open a slight. Miss Ethel
had replied that the party was purely a social affair--she could invite
whom she pleased--and she had added some pointed details. The woman's
maiden name, as everyone knew, was Maggie McGarrah, and her father,
previous to his political career, had kept a saloon; she was odious,
pushing, _nouveau riche_; she dyed her hair and pencilled her eyebrows,
she didn't have a thought in the world beyond clothes, and she flirted
outrageously with every man who came near. Peter's smile had broadened
at this last item. It was, he shrewdly suspected, the keynote of the
trouble. Miss Ethel had caught Mr. Harry Jasper paying too assiduous
attention to Mrs. Booth-Higby's commands on the occasion of a recent
polo game.
Peter felt that when Mrs. Carter and her daughter matched wills, the
result was pretty even betting, and his sporting instincts were aroused.
He had been interested, upon delivering the invitations, to see that
there was none for the Booth-Higbys; and now his interest was doubly
keen at receiving it three days late. Miss Ethel had succumbed to the
weight of superior argument.
He turned in between the ornate gates of Red Towers--the two posts
surmounted by lions upholding a mythical coat of arms--and drew up in
the shadow of an imposing _porte-cochère_. A gay group of ladies and
gentlemen were gathered in lounging chairs on the veranda, engaged with
frosted glasses of mint julep; while Mrs. Booth-Higby herself, coifed
and gowned as for an evening reception, was standing in the glass doors
of the drawing-room. As her gaze fell upon Peter she strolled toward him
with a voluminous rustle of draperies.
"Whose man are you?" she inquired, with an air of languid condescension.
Peter's face reddened slightly. The entire group had ceased their
conversation to stare.
"Mr. Jerome Carter's," he replied, fumbling for the note.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Booth-Higby, with a lifting of the eyebrows.
"It should have come three days ago," Peter glibly lied. "Miss Carter
give me a lot o' them to deliver; this one must have slipped down the
crack between the cushions an' got overlooked. We come across it this
mornin' when we was washin' the buckboard, so I drove over with it on me
way home from the marketin'. I hope that it ain't important, and that ye
won't feel called upon to tell Miss Carter? It would get me into
trouble, ma'am."
Her face had cleared slightly during this recital; it was evident that
she knew about the garden party, and had entertained emotions over the
absence of her own invitation. She saw fit now to work off her stored-up
anger upon the delinquent. Peter knew his place, and respectfully
swallowed the scolding, but he did it with a cordial assent to Miss
Ethel's description of the lady's character. She ended by bidding him
wait for an answer. He heard her say, as she swept down the veranda:
"Excuse me a moment while I answer this note. It's from Ethel Carter,
Jerome Carter's daughter, you know"--evidently this was a name to
conjure with--"an invitation to meet Lord Kiscadden. It should have come
three days ago, but their man stupidly forgot to deliver it. He is
begging me not to report him, though I feel that such carelessness
really ought to be punished." She rustled on into the house, and Peter
sat for twenty minutes flicking the flies from Trixy's legs.
"An' she's a daughter o' Tim McGarrah!" he repeated to himself. There
had been nothing snobbish about Tim; he was hail-fellow-well-met with
every voter east of Broadway. "She's ashamed of him now," Peter
reflected, "and won't let on she ever heard the name; but the old man
was ten times more a gentleman than his daughter is a lady, for all his
saloon!"
His cogitations came to an end as Mrs. Booth-Higby rustled back, a
delicately tinted envelope in her hand and a more indulgent smile upon
her lips.
"There are to be theatricals?" she inquired, in a note of forgiveness.
"I believe so, ma'am."
"Is Lord Kiscadden to take part?"
"Can't say, ma'am."
Peter, as scene-shifter, had had ample opportunity to study Lord
Kiscadden's interpretation of the character of George Washington--his
lordship, with a fine sense of humour, had himself selected the
rôle--but at mention of the name, Peter's face was blank.
"Is he to remain much longer at Jasper Place?" she persisted.
"Haven't heard him say, ma'am."
She abandoned her pursuit of news, handed him the note, and graciously
added ten cents.