WHERE THE BARNACLE'S NOSE LED HIM
The rain descended in torrents before the cabin door. E'er Laura could
plunge into it, Jess dragged her back and slammed the door.
"Don't be a goose, Laura!" she cried.
"She--she----Something is the matter with Liz," declared Laura.
"Of course not!"
"I tell you, I heard her. And there's the dog barking again."
"You can't go through that rain----"
"I will!" declared Laura, and she wrenched open the door once more.
Jess could not hold her. Mother Wit plunged out into the storm.
Never having deserted her chum but once--and then involuntarily at a
certain occasion long ago--Jess was not going to be behind now. She
dove likewise into the storm.
The rain beat upon the two girls in a fashion to almost take their
breath away. Never had they been so beaten by the elements.
They staggered, almost fell, clung together, and then bent their
heads to the downpour and pressed on. The flickering lantern still
illuminated the cook-tent. The awning was dropped and the canvas
heaved and slatted against the poles.
The rain made so much noise that they did not hear Liz now. Or else,
she had ceased crying out. Laura and Jess pressed forward and--it
being but a few yards, after all, to the tent--they burst into the
kitchen in a moment more.
"Liz! Liz!" gasped Laura, almost breathless.
There was a noise behind the fluttering canvas partition. Was it the
girl in the sleeping part of the tent?
"Oh! somebody's there!" muttered Jess, clinging to her chum's hand.
Laura sprang forward and jerked apart the flap. She only feared that
something was the matter with Liz.
And there was, apparently. She was crouching down, against the far
wall of the tent, her hands over her face, and trembling like a leaf.
Afterward Laura thought over this scene with wonder. Lonesome Liz did
not seem like a girl who would be so terribly disturbed about a
thunder storm. She had shown no fear when the tempest began and the
other girls had scampered for the cabin.
But now she was moaning, and rocking herself to and fro, and it was
some moments before they could get a sensible word out of her.
"Oh! oh! oh!" wailed Liz. "I want to go back to town. I don't like
this place a little bit--no, I don't! Oh, oh!"
"Stop your noise, Liz!" exclaimed Jess, suddenly exasperated. "You
can't go back while it is storming so. And when it stops you won't
want to."
But Laura was worried. She looked all about the tent. What had the
Barnacle barked so about?
Nor was he satisfied now. The storm held up after a time; but the dog
kept rushing out and barking as though he had just remembered that
there had been a prowler about, and he had not had a chance to chase
him.
Laura understood that rain, or wet, killed the scent for dogs and like
trailing animals. This that had disturbed the Barnacle must have been
a person who had come very close.
They took Liz to the cabin, and left her there after the storm was
over and the six Central High girls went to their own tent. But
although Laura did not say much about it, she was as dissatisfied as
the dog seemed to be.
In the morning she was up earlier than anybody else in the camp. The
grass and brush was drenched with the rain. There were puddles here
and there. The sun was not yet up and it would take several hours of
his best work to dry up the wet places.
Laura had not won her nickname of "Mother Wit" for nothing. She had
inventiveness; likewise she had a sane and sensible way of looking at
almost any mysterious happening. She did not get scared as Nellie did,
or ignore a surprising thing, as Jess did.
Now she was dissatisfied with the outcome of Liz Bean's "conniption,"
as Bobby had termed it the evening before. The maid-of-all-work had
shown no fear of thunder and lightning when the tempest began and the
other girls were frightened.
Then, why should she wait until the storm was nearly over before
showing all the marks of extreme terror? And, in addition, Liz seemed
to be fairly speechless about the matter, whereas she was naturally an
extremely garrulous person.
"Why did the Barnacle bark so?" demanded Laura, when she stood,
shivering, in the gray light of dawn before the cook-tent. "Not just
for the fun of hearing his own voice, I am sure."
The ground before the cook-tent was soft, and trampled by the girls'
own feet. Laura went carefully around to the rear, stepping on firm
ground so as to leave no marks.
There was a rear opening to the cook-tent--out of the part Liz had
been sleeping in. But these flaps were laced down.
However, there were marks in the soft ground right here--footmarks
that could not be mistaken. They were prints of a man's boot--no girl
in the crowd wore such footgear as those that made these marks!
The boot-prints led right from the laced flaps of the tent toward the
woods. Laura could see fully a dozen of the marks, all headed that
way. The man had come from the inside of the tent, for there were no
footprints showing an approach to the tent from this end.
"I knew that girl did not cry because of the thunder and lightning,"
was Laura's decision. "This man burst into the tent while she was
alone. And for some reason she is afraid to tell us the truth about
him.
"Of course, she hasn't really told a falsehood. She just let us
believe that it was the storm that had scared her.
"Now, who is the man? Is she sheltering him because of fear, or for
another reason?
"And what did he want? Why did he come to the tent in the storm? For
shelter from the rain? Not probable. I declare!" thought Mother Wit,
"this is as puzzling a thing as ever I heard."
She said nothing to anybody before breakfast about her discoveries.
She did not wish to disturb Mrs. Morse, for that lady had come into
the woods for a rest from her social duties, and for the writing of a
book. Why should she be troubled by a mere mystery?
The detective fever burned hotly in Laura Belding's veins on this
morning. From Jess she could not keep her discovery for long; but she
swore her chum to silence.
Then she took Bobby Hargrew into her confidence. Despite the younger
girl's recklessness, she was brave and physically strong.
"We're going to run down Lizzie's 'ha'nt,' if the Barnacle has a
nose," declared Laura, after the trio had discussed the pros and cons
of the affair.
So they loosened the dog, Laura holding him in leash, and slipped away
to the woods when none of the other members of the party were
watching. Laura knew that the scent would not lie very strong after
the pelting rain; but they could follow the trail by sight for a long
distance.
It led straight toward the far end of Acorn Island--the end which they
and the boys had so carelessly searched the day after the larder had
been robbed. Here and there they came upon the print of the unknown
man's boots in the softened soil.
"Gee, Laura!" gasped Bobby. "Suppose he turns on us? We don't know
whether he is a robber or a minister. What will we do when we find
him?"
"That depends altogether upon what he looks like," said Laura. "Now
hush, Bobby. The Barnacle is pulling hard; he really smells
something."
"I hope it isn't another black and white kitten," chuckled Bobby.
They went down a slope to a small hollow, well sheltered by trees and
rocks. There was a faint odor of wood smoke in the air.
"A camp," whispered Jess, having hard work to keep her teeth from
nervously chattering, despite the heat of the day, "Who do you suppose
is here?"
"We'll see," whispered Laura in return, and slipped the dog's leash.
The Barnacle ran down into the dale at once. The three girls followed,
cautiously parting the branches. They came in sight of the fire.
It was the remains of a late breakfast-fire, without doubt. There was
a single figure sitting at one side of the smoldering wood. Barnacle
was running about the encampment, snuffing eagerly for broken bits. He
paid the figure by the fire no attention, nor did the man look at the
dog.
The man stooped, and his face was buried in his hands. He wore a
shabby frock coat, and a disreputable hat.
"That's one of those two fishermen we saw in the canoe," whispered
Jess.
"Wonder if you're right?" breathed Bobby.
Just then the man raised his head and turned so that the three girls
from Central High could see his face. It was unshaven and the man
looked altogether like a tramp. But there was no mistaking him for
anybody but Professor Dimp, the Latin and history instructor of
Central High!