“ALIAS JOHN SMITH”
The wood smoke curled up in a spiral from the side of a big, rotting
log where Nat had settled on the camp. The _Firebird_ stood beside
the narrow road with the lunch board spread, and Ned and Abe were
diligently making ready the picnic repast, of which the seven pound
trout and a half-peck of potatoes, bought of a farmer, were the main
viands.
But how good it all did smell! The girls had appetites equal to the
boys’ own. And although Dorothy and Tavia were deeply disappointed in
their search for Tom Moran, they “threw aside carking care,” as Nat
said, for the time being.
“For there is another day coming, Dot!” he declared. “A man with a head
as red as that fellow’s cannot be lost for long--no, indeed!”
“Cheerful soul, is Nattie,” jollied Ned. “He always was hopeful.
’Member when you were fishing in the bathtub that time, kid?”
“What time?” demanded his brother, suspecting one of Edward’s jokes.
“You know--when mother asked you what you expected to catch? And says
you: ‘Pollyglubs.’
“‘What _is_ a pollyglub?’ says the mater, and you handed her back a hot
one.
“Oh, I did?” grunted Nat. “Don’t remember it. What did I say?”
“Why, says you: ‘Don’t know; I haven’t caught one yet.’ Oh, you
couldn’t beat Nattie for hopefulness. He was one sanguine kid,” laughed
Ned. Bob slapped Nat on the back at that and rolled him over on a dry
bit of sod where they wrestled for a few minutes--until Ned yelled
for help at the campfire. Soon all six of the young folk were busy
discussing the luncheon.
“This is really the nicest meal I’ve eaten since we were in camp--eh,
Doro?” asked Tavia.
“I believe you, dear,” admitted her friend.
But Dorothy could not be very enthusiastic. Her disappointment over
missing Tom Moran was keen. And she was not much fun that night when
the boys all came over to Tavia’s for a “sing” and a general good time.
_Her_ mind was fixed upon the watch-and-watch they were to keep upon
the general delivery window of the post-office the next day.
Joe demanded the privilege of being the first “man on duty.” He was
deeply interested in the Tom Moran conspiracy, as he insisted upon
calling it because he admired Dorothy so, and because his boyish heart
and sense of chivalry had been touched by the story of little Celia,
“the findling.”
“If this chap who’s written to you, Doro,” said Joe, with decided
appreciation of the situation, “is in communication with Tom Moran,
maybe we can catch Celia’s brother before he gets any farther away from
Dalton.”
“But he’s going farther away all the time, it seems,” sighed Dorothy.
“And up there beyond Polk’s mill is a wild country.”
Young Joe went off after an early breakfast in Tavia’s kitchen, full of
importance. He was to stand guard at the post-office window until ten
o’clock, or until one of the other boys, or Dorothy or Tavia, relieved
him.
The signal agreed upon with the mail-clerk was a newspaper dropped
through the opening after the person calling for “John Smith’s” letter
turned away. Joe served his time patiently, and nothing happened. Nat
White lounged down, entered the post-office corridor, tweaked Joe’s
ear, and sent him off about his business.
“Johnny Travers and Rogue are waiting for you to go woodchucking,” Nat
told his cousin. “Off with you!”
Dorothy took her own luncheon early, and drifted into the post-office
about one o’clock. Tavia was to join her later.
“Never did think you’d come,” groaned Nat. “I’m starved to death.”
“No sign of the Mystery yet?” breathed Dorothy.
“Nary a sign. I’m off! Good luck.”
And if finding the mysterious “John Smith” was sure enough good luck,
Dorothy could consider herself fortunate within half on hour. A lanky,
hesitating youth approached the general delivery window. Twice he
stepped back and allowed other people to get in front of him. Somehow
Dorothy’s attention was particularly attracted to the nondescript’s
face.
He might have been seventeen--perhaps older. There was a little
yellow fuzz on his cheeks and chin, showing that his blonde beard was
sprouting early. He was possessed of sharp features and a high and
narrow forehead, prominent, watery blue eyes, and scarcely a vestige of
eyebrows or lashes. This lack in the upper part of his face gave him
a blank appearance--like the end wall of a house with two shutterless
windows in it.
Below his countenance was quite as unattractive. In the first place he
had a retreating, weak chin, prominent upper teeth, and an enormous
Adam’s apple. He was evidently nervous, or bashful. Dorothy saw him
swallow several times before he could speak to the clerk inside the
window. And when he swallowed, that bunch in his throat went up and
down in a most ridiculous way.
“What did you say the name was?” Dorothy heard the mail clerk ask.
The shambling youth repeated it: “John Smith. Mis-ter John Smith. Yes,
sir. Thank ye, sir.”
The boy backed away with something white in his hand which Dorothy knew
to be her letter. A newspaper, pushed through the window, fluttered to
the floor of the corridor. But Dorothy was already going out of the
post-office.
The youth followed her out. The letter had been put away somewhere in
his skimpy clothing; for it must be admitted that not a garment visible
on the stranger seemed to fit him.
Either his trousers, and coat, and vest, had been intended for a much
smaller youth, or he was growing so fast that he could not wear a suit
out before wrists, ankles, and neck were thrust through their several
openings in the clothes in a most ridiculous fashion.
“I never saw such a funny-looking creature,” Dorothy told herself, as
she watched the boy from across the street. “And I don’t remember ever
having seen him in Dalton before. He looks ignorant enough to have
written that letter I received, too; and yet--there is an innocent look
about his face. I wonder if he really has intelligence enough to fix
up any scheme to make money out of those who wish to find Tom Moran?”
The boy dawdled along the street and Dorothy walked on the other side,
looking into shop windows now and then, but unfailing in her vigilance.
She did not let the shambling youth out of her line of vision; and
especially was she watchful when he passed close to any other person.
Nobody spoke to him; he seemed quite unknown in the town. He drifted
down toward the railroad yards where--in two or three mean streets--the
poorer and most shiftless denizens of Dalton resided.
Down here was an open lot on which much of the refuse of the town
was dumped to fill in a yawning gully. Ashes and piles of cans, and
boxes and the like, offered to the poorer children a playground most
amusing, if not conducive to health. At one corner two or three
shacks--incongruous huts they were--had been constructed. Certain
squatters evidently had taken up their abode in these, despite the
still cool weather.
Lengths of rusty stovepipes were thrust through the side walls of these
huts. The roofs were made of oil cans, unsoldered, and beaten flat,
the sheets overlapping one another. Doors wabbled on leather hinges. A
broken window was plugged up with an old silk hat.
[Illustration: “I’D VERY MUCH LIKE TO KNOW YOUR NAME,” SAID DOROTHY.
_Dorothy Dale’s Promise._ _Page 207._]
Dorothy felt a shiver as she ventured further into the bad section of
the town; but she was determined to learn something more of the boy who
had received the letter addressed to “John Smith” from the post-office.
He crossed the open lot, aiming without doubt for the squalid huts.
Dorothy quickened her steps and remained on the sidewalk, following the
line of the open square. She reached the corner nearest to the huts
just as the youth strolled out of the open gully and to the side of the
nearest shack.
There, sitting upon an overturned tub, barefooted, and dressed in
coarse petticoat and blouse, was a hatless woman picking over a mess of
greens in a rusty dishpan.
“Wa-al! I wanter know, Poke!” she drawled, looking up at the shambling
youth. “Y’ don’t mean ter say you’ve got back?”
“Ye din’t tell me ter run,” said the young fellow, dropping down upon a
broken box beside her.
“Wal! Plague take it! you air the laziest---- Good afternoon, Ma’am!
Was you wantin’ anything?”
This last question was directed at Dorothy. The girl, quite thoughtless
in her excitement, had crossed the street and stood before the woman
and the youth.
“I--I---- Oh! I’d very much like to know your name,” said Dorothy,
rather confused.
“Huh? Y’ got some pertic’lar reason for findin’ out, Miss?”
“Perhaps,” and Dorothy began to look at the woman more calmly.
“I ain’t none ashamed of it. It’s Daggett. Jane Daggett. And this is my
boy, Poke Daggett.”
“You never were called Smith, I suppose?” queried Dorothy, quickly.
“Smith?” the woman exclaimed, and although she did not change
color--she was too sallow for that--her little black eyes brightened
perceptibly. “No. I can’t say I ever was. Daggett was my secon’
husban’; but I never married a Smith, an’ my own name--’fore I married
a-tall--was Blinkensopp. Now, air you satisfied, Miss?”
“Not wholly,” Dorothy said, with courage. “If your name is not Smith,
and your son’s name is not Smith, why did he just get a letter from the
post-office addressed to Mr. John Smith?”
The boy, Poke, jumped; indeed, he almost fell off the box. His mother
pinched him sharply in the leg.
“Dunno what ye mean, lady,” she whined. “Poke ain’t never got a letter
in his life--I don’t believe. Has you, Poke?”
“I--I never!” gasped Poke, the lie showing plainly in his face.
“You have a letter somewhere in your pocket now,” accused Dorothy,
looking at the youth directly. “Don’t deny it. I wrote it myself, so I
should know. And,” she added, wheeling on the mother, who had risen and
let the greens slip from her lap, “I want to know what _you_ know about
Tom Moran?”
“Tom Moran?” whispered the boy, shaking his head, and looking terrified.
But the woman wasn’t like that. She was a hard, bony-looking woman, and
very tall and strong. While Dorothy was speaking she had beckoned to
a black-haired, red-faced woman who stood curiously a little distance
away.
“What’s wanted, Jane?” demanded this virago, coming forward.
“Here’s a poor gal out o’ her senses, I make no doubt,” said the woman
who owned the name of Jane Daggett. “She--she’s firm’ off her mouth too
much--that’s what she’s doin’. Sech folks oughter be restrained----”
“An’ we’ll restrain ’em!” declared the black-haired woman, and the next
instant she seized Dorothy by the shoulders and ran into the open door
of the hut.
Both women were in the shack with the girl, and the door was closed,
before Dorothy could even scream.