MYSTERIOUS NOTES
Larry was quite relieved when he got to the house, and found that
nothing unusual had occurred. He was tired from the day’s work, and his
mind was full of the terrible scenes he had witnessed. Soon after supper
he went to bed.
Larry’s room opened out on a fire-escape. As it was warm he had his
window open, though it made the room more noisy. Several times during
the night he thought he heard someone moving on the escape near his
room, but he was too sleepy to get up and make an investigation.
“If it’s burglars they’ll not get much here,” he thought, as he turned
over, and went to sleep again.
Larry awoke with a strange feeling that something had happened. It was
as if he had dreamed a nightmare, the thoughts of which still lingered
with him. At first he thought it might be a foreboding that Jimmy had
been captured by the gang during the night. He jumped out of bed, but,
as he did so, he heard his brother’s voice in the next room and knew
that the little chap was safe.
“It’s all nonsense,” thought Larry to himself, as he began to dress.
“I’m thinking too much about this. I’m getting to be as nervous and
fidgety as a girl. I must go to work, and forget all about it.”
He walked over to the bureau for his collar. As he picked it up his
attention was attracted by a piece of paper pinned to the bureau cover.
“That’s queer,” he remarked, “I don’t remember putting that there. I
wonder if I’m beginning to walk in my sleep, and write notes to myself.”
He unpinned the paper. It was folded several times, and when Larry had
opened it, he saw printed in large letters this message:
“_FOUR DAYS MORE. BLUE HAND._”
Larry did not disguise from himself the fact that he was frightened.
That the gang had not given up the matter, but was acting along the
lines the members had laid down, seemed certain. It showed also that
they were keeping close watch of the time, and of Larry’s movements.
“That must have been what the noises were I heard out on the roof,”
Larry mused, as he finished dressing. “They are certainly a bold band to
come into my room at night, and pin this here. They ran the risk of
being taken for burglars, and, though I haven’t a revolver to shoot,
someone who saw them on the fire-escape might put a bullet into them.”
That he was being watched by a desperate gang, who had possession of his
deed, and who would go to almost any length to accomplish their purpose,
Larry had no doubt. He felt more than ever the necessity of guarding his
little brother, yet he did not know how to do it.
To speak to his mother, Larry felt, would only cause her so much alarm
that it might make her ill, as her health was not very good. As for
Jimmy he was too small to appreciate his danger, even if he had been
told. The only thing to do was to make him believe in the danger of
automobiles, and have him keep close to the house.
Yet even that might count for little, seeing that the members of the
gang had shown that they did not fear to enter the house, giving no
warning.
“I wonder what I’d better do?” thought Larry, conscious of the feeling
that it was no easy task to be a lad pitted against a powerful band of
men bent on doing him injury. “I’m almost willing to sign the deed, and
let them have the property for the money they’ll give. Of course, it is
nothing like what I believe it to be worth, but it would save a lot of
trouble.”
So convinced, at first, was he that this would be the best plan, that,
before he finished dressing, he sat down, and began to write out an
advertisement to “Blue Hand,” that he could put in the paper to give
notice the deed would be signed.
“No! I’ll not do it!” decided Larry, suddenly. “I’ll fight ’em. We’ll
see if they’ll dare to do as they say. I’m at a disadvantage, but I’ll
do my best to get ahead of those fellows. I’ll not give in until they do
something worse than leave notes in my room, anyhow.”
Then, feeling better, now that he had made up his mind to fight, Larry
finished dressing, and went to breakfast, as if getting mysterious notes
during the night was not unusual.
Larry’s first assignment when he reached the office was to get an
account of a wedding that had occurred the night before. There are two
assignments reporters hate to cover, weddings and obituaries, and Larry,
in his brief experience, had come to feel much as did all other members
of his profession about these things. But, just as a reporter never
shrinks from danger in getting a story for his paper (if he is a real
reporter, and not a pretended one), so none of them ever “kick,” at
least to their city editor, when they get a disagreeable assignment.
Larry started off to get the wedding, which was that of persons fairly
well known, or else the _Leader_ never would have sent for it. Usually
some of the women reporters on the paper attended to these society
affairs, but at that time one of the women was away on vacation, and the
other had double work to do, so the men had to help out, and much
grumbling there was in consequence.
“I don’t see what people want to get married for,” thought Larry, as he
walked along the street where the house of the bride was located. “At
least if they do, I don’t see why they want it in the papers. I’d rather
cover an Anarchist meeting, than go where a lot of women will tell how
the bride looked, and what she wore.”
Thus talking to himself, Larry walked along, forgetting in his sense of
injury to take note of the numbers of the houses. Suddenly his feet slid
out from under him, and he went down on the sidewalk rather hard.
He had stepped into a lot of rice that covered the flags for quite a
distance, the small kernels making the stones very slippery. Larry
picked himself up, and looked about to see if his undignified arrival in
a sitting position had been observed by anyone. The street seemed
deserted.
“I guess this is where the wedding was,” he said. “This is some of the
rice they threw at the bride for good luck. It was bad luck for me,
though. Well, here goes,” and with that Larry walked up the steps, which
were white with kernels, and rang the bell.
To the girl who opened the door Larry stated his errand; that he had
come to get an account of the wedding.
“Come in,” said the servant, a good-natured-looking Irish girl. “Did you
hurt yourself?”
“You mean just now?”
“Yes, when you fell,” and she began to laugh at Larry.
“Oh,” said the reporter, blushing at the remembrance of his fall, “no, I
guess not. Did you see me?”
“I was at the window,” said the girl. “I couldn’t help laughing, you
went down so sudden.”
“Well, I didn’t get a letter or a telegram to say it was about to
happen, that’s a fact,” admitted Larry, joining in the girl’s merriment.
“Come in,” said the maid; “none of the family is up yet, but I guess
Miss Clarice will soon be down, and she’ll give you all the particulars.
It was a sweet wedding, to be sure, and the bride looked lovely.”
“Um,” grunted Larry, beneath his breath. He was not particularly fond of
lovely brides. He was shown into a large parlor, back of which was a
drawing-room, and both apartments bore evidences of the previous night’s
gayeties. Flowers were strewn about the floor, and there was rice over
everything, while a number of old shoes were in one corner.
“We haven’t cleaned up yet,” the girl said. “It was three o’clock when
we got to bed.”
She left Larry sitting alone in the darkened parlor, while she went
about her duties. Larry sat there for half an hour. Then he began to get
nervous.
“I wonder if they’ve forgotten all about me,” thought the young
reporter. “I’ve got something else to do besides sitting here waiting
for someone to come, and tell me about a wedding.”
He gave a loud cough, to attract the attention of anyone who might be
within hearing.
“Oh, how you frightened me!” exclaimed a voice, and a tall, dark, and
exceedingly pretty girl came into the room. “I didn’t know anyone was
here.”
“I’m from the _Leader_,” said Larry, rising. “I came about the wedding.”
“Oh, are you a real, truly reporter?” asked the girl.
“Well, I think I can say I am,” replied Larry.
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to see a real reporter,” the girl went on. “It
must be a grand life. Think of seeing terrible fires, and big accidents,
and writing about murders, and suicides, and battles, and sudden death,
and—and all sorts of horrible, scary things! Oh, I would love to be a
reporter, only papa will not hear of it. Did you ever see a drowned
man?”
“Several,” replied Larry, wondering what kind of a girl this was.
“Oh, how lovely! And did you ever see a real, live, truly, really
murderer?”
“Well, I have seen men in the Tombs, accused of murder, though they had
not been convicted yet.”
“Oh, how perfectly fascinating! I must get papa to let me be a
reporter.”
“About this wedding,” began Larry. “Could you——”
“Oh, don’t let’s talk about weddings,” interrupted the girl. “They’re
horrid, stupid things. Tell me something about what you report. And to
think I’ve seen a real reporter, just as I’ve always wanted to.”
Larry agreed with her statement about weddings being stupid affairs, but
he felt he was sent to get an account of one, and not to talk about
himself. He was a little uncertain how to proceed.
“Were you ever at a fire?” the girl went on.
“Several times,” replied Larry. “What is the bride’s name, if you
please?”
“Did the walls fall and crush anyone?” asked Larry’s questioner, paying
no attention to what he said.
“I think so. Can you tell me the groom’s name?”
“Were you ever in an explosion, Mr. Reporter?”
“Well, close to one, once. Now about this wedding. I wish——”
“Show me how you write stories,” the girl went on. “I think it must be
perfectly lovely to write things for the paper? Do you think I could?”
“I guess so,” replied Larry, in desperation. He did not know what to do,
and did not wish to offend the girl, who was very pretty, and seemed
much in earnest in her questions. But help came from an unexpected
quarter.
“Why, Clarice!” exclaimed a woman’s voice, as she came into the room. “I
have been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing?”
“I am giving the reporter from the _Leader_ an account of the wedding,”
replied Clarice, with a smile.
“How far have you gone with it?” asked her mother. “If you do as you
usually do, you have asked more questions than you have answered.”
“I was only asking about a reporter’s life,” spoke the girl. “It’s
perfectly lovely. They see murdered people——”
“Clarice, you must not talk so!” exclaimed her mother. “Now, you run
upstairs, and I’ll tell the young man about the wedding.”
Pouting a little the girl went out, nodding and smiling at Larry. The
bride’s mother then gave the young reporter a story of the ceremony.