ON THE TRAIL
“It seems almost impossible that a man with _such_ a red head could so
completely drop out of sight,” sighed Tavia the next day.
The boys had just combed Dalton “with a fine-toothed comb”
for the elusive Tom Moran, and had bagged nothing. He had
gone--vamoosed--disappeared--winked out; all these synonyms were
Tavia’s. The girls had discussed the disappearance until there seemed
nothing more to be said.
“We don’t really know that he _was_ Celia’s big brother,” said Dorothy,
reflectively. “But it seems very probable. Even your father knew that
he was a bridge builder.”
“But we didn’t,” snapped Tavia. “Who expected to find a structural
ironworker driving a yoke of steers?”
“And _such_ steers,” sighed Dorothy, for she had scarcely gotten over
the scare of that perilous ride.
Everybody about town knew by this time that the red-haired young man
who had worked in Simpson’s gang was wanted by Dorothy Dale. Dorothy
had more friends in Dalton than anywhere else. Indeed, she could well
claim every respectable member of the community, save the nursing
babies, as her own particular friend.
With so many people on the lookout for a trace of Tom Moran, therefore,
it was no wonder that Dorothy and her friends were running down
possible clues all day long.
The second morning news came from a farmer out on the Fountainville
Road. Ned and Nat had come down to Dalton in their _Firebird_, and they
got the motorcar out of the garage at once and brought it around to
give the girls a ride to Farmer Prater’s house.
“He’s been losing chickens,” said Ned, as they all scrambled in. “And
he telephoned in something about a red-headed man he had hired, named
Moran, having a fight in the night with a band of chicken thieves in an
automobile. What do you know about _that_?”
“Sounds crazy enough,” said Tavia, tartly.
“All right. Your father’s sent a constable out to see about it, just
the same. And there aren’t two red-headed men named Moran wandering
about the county, I am sure.”
“But I don’t believe Celia’s brother would rob a henroost,” said
Dorothy.
“Oh, fudge!” exclaimed Nat. “Listen to the girl? Who said he _did_?”
“Well! wasn’t there something about chicken stealing in what Ned said?
Oh! I almost lost my hat that time. _What_ a jolty road.”
“Look out or you’ll lose your name and number both on this stretch of
highway. Can’t the old _Firebird_ spin some?”
“Such flowers of rhetoric,” sighed Tavia. “‘Spin some’ is beautiful.”
“Lots you know about flowers of any kind, Miss Travers,” teased Nat.
“I know all about flowers--especially of speech,” returned Tavia,
tossing her head. “I can even tell you the favorite flowers of the
various States and countries----”
“England?” shouted Nat.
“Primroses,” returned Tavia, promptly, unwilling to be caught.
“France?” questioned Bob.
“Lilies.”
“Scotland?” asked Dorothy, laughing.
“Ought to be a beard of oats, but it’s the thistle,” said Tavia,
promptly.
“Ireland?” demanded Ned, without turning from his steering wheel.
“Shamrock, of course.”
“Got you!” ejaculated Nat. “What’s Spain’s favorite?”
“Oh-oh-oh---- Bulrushes, I s’pect,” said Tavia, having the words jolted
out of her. “Bull-fights, anyway. Dear, dear me! we might as well
travel over plowed ground.”
They struck a better automobile road on the Fountainville turnpike, and
before long they came in sight of Farmer Prater’s house. Oddly enough
there was a gray and yellow automobile under one of the farmer’s sheds.
The farmer was in high fettle, it proved, and willing enough to talk
about the raid the night before on his pens of Rhode Island reds.
“Jefers pelters!” he chortled. “I got me pullets back and the
ortermerbile ter boot. D’ye see it? That’s what the raskils come in.”
“Not the red-headed man?” demanded Tavia.
“Who said anything about a red headed---- Oh! you mean Tom Moran?”
asked Mr. Prater. “Why, _he_ warn’t with ’em. If it hadn’t been for him
them raskils would ha’ got erway with my pullets--ya-as, sir-ree-sir!”
“Where is Tom?” demanded Dorothy.
But Mr. Prater had to tell the story in his own way. And it was an
exciting one--to him! He had been awakened in the early hours of the
morning and had seen an automobile standing in the road. Then he heard
a squawking in the chicken pens. He had valuable feathered stock, and
he got up in a hurry to learn what was afoot.
But the thieves would have gotten well away with their bags of
feathered loot had it not been for Tom Moran, who was sleeping for the
night in Farmer Prater’s barn.
“That red-headed feller is as smart as a steel trap,” said the farmer,
admiringly. “I’ve been at him every time I’m in Dalton to come an’ work
for me. But he wouldn’t.”
“What did he do?” asked Dorothy, interested for more reasons than one
in any account of Tom Moran.
“Why, he jumped out of the hay, got ahead of the thieves, and leaped
into their merchine before they reached it. It’s a self-starter--d’ye
see? So he jest teched up the engine button, and started the merchine
to traveling. Them fellers couldn’t git aboard, and they had to drop
the sacks and run. I was right behind ’em with my gun, ye see, and I’d
peppered ’em with rock salt if they hadn’t quit as they did---- Ya-as,
sir-ree-sir!”
“And where did Tom go?” queried Tavia, breathlessly.
“Why, he brought the machine back, eat his breakfast, and went on his
way. He didn’t say where he was goin’. I’ll wait for the owner of the
ortermobile to show up an’ explain about his car, I reckon. Ain’t no
license number on it.”
So _that_ settled this trace of Tom Moran. He had disappeared again.
Nobody near Mr. Prater had observed the red-headed man when he
left for parts unknown. The girls and their friends had lots of fun
scouring the neighboring country in the _Firebird_; but the young
man whom Dorothy Dale wished to see so very much was as elusive as a
will-o’-the-wisp!
And when they got back to town there was a letter about the very
man himself addressed to the _War Cry_ office, in regard to the
advertisement that Dorothy had caused to be printed in that paper. The
letter had gone to Glenwood and been forwarded to Dalton on Dorothy’s
trail.
The letter was written on dirty paper and in a handwriting that showed
the writer to be a very ignorant person. And it was actually mailed in
Dalton! The girls read it eagerly.
“If you want to knos bout Tom Moran I can tell you all you want
to knos. but I got a be paid for what I knos. hes a many mils
from here. but I can find him if its mad wuth my wile. So no mor
at present Well wisher. p. s.--rite me at Dalton N. York, name
john Smith. Ile get it from genl dlivry.”
“Now, never in the world did that red-haired young man write such a
letter, Doro!” cried Tavia.
“Of course not. It is some bad person who saw the advertisement and
thinks that some money is to be made out of poor Celia’s brother.”
“And this awful scrawl was written when Tom was right here in town.”
“Certainly,” agreed Dorothy.
“Yet the writer says he is ‘a many mils from here.’”
“That is why we may be sure that the person writing to me has a very
bad mind and is trying to get money. I am sure Tom Moran never saw the
notice in the _War Cry_ and that he knows nothing about this letter,”
repeated Dorothy.
“Dear me! to be so close on the trail of that redhead--and then to lose
him,” Tavia said despairingly.
“Perhaps this person who wrote the letter knows where he is now. Yes,
it looks reasonable,” said Dorothy, reflectively. “You see, believing
as he does that somebody will pay money to find Tom Moran, he will
likely keep in touch with Celia’s brother.”
“I see!” cried Tavia. “I see what you are driving at. Aren’t you smart,
Doro Dale? The way to do, then, is for us to find this John Smith----
But how will you do it?”
“How?”
“Of course that isn’t his name. I don’t believe there is a John Smith
in Dalton.”
“Perhaps not. Although John Smiths aren’t uncommon,” laughed Dorothy.
“But we know that is the name in which he’ll ask for his mail. Now, why
not keep watch----”
“Better than that!” gasped Tavia. “Let’s tell Mr. Somes, the
postmaster, and have him set a watch upon whoever gets a letter for
John Smith.”
“But where’ll he get a letter--if I don’t write him?” demanded Dorothy.
“Of course, you’ll write him. Write now. Make him think you are going
to ‘bite’ on his offer.”
“But I don’t intend to pay any great sum for finding Tom Moran--though
I’d be willing to if I had it.”
“We can fool him; can’t we?” demanded Tavia. “He is evidently trying
to over-reach Tom and you both. Let the biter be bitten,” said Tavia,
gaily. “Come on, Doro! Write the letter.”