the crucible. The container twisted and finally overturned, allowing the
molten metal to pour into a bell-shaped mold. As the last drops ran out
of it, a great cloud of steam arose, enveloping both the old man and his
helper.
"Won't they be burned?" Louise murmured in alarm, moving hastily
backwards.
"Mr. McGuire seems to know what he's doing," Penny answered, watching
with interest.
In a moment the steam cleared away, and the old man motioned that the
girls might come inside.
"You'll have to excuse my manners," he apologized, his mild blue eyes
regarding them with a twinkle. "Pouring a bell is exacting work and you
can't stop until it's done."
"Is that what you were doing?" Penny inquired, staring at the steaming
mass which had been poured into the mold. "It's sort of like making a
gelatin pudding, isn't it?"
"Jake and me never thought of it that way," the old man replied. "I
learned from an old Swiss bell maker when I was a lad. And I apprenticed
under a master, you may be sure of that."
"How do you make a bell anyway?" Louise inquired curiously.
"You can't tell in five minutes what it takes a lifetime to learn," the
old man answered. "Now a bell like this one I'm making for the Methodist
Church at Blairstown takes a heap o' work. Jake and me have worked a
solid week getting the pattern and mold ready for that pouring job you
just saw."
"Do you ever have any failures?" Penny asked, seeking to draw him out.
"Not many, but once in awhile a bell cracks," the old fellow said
modestly. "That happens when the mold is damp, or not of proper
temperature. If gasses collect you may get a nice healthy explosion,
too!"
"Does it take a long while to finish a bell after it's been poured?"
Penny pursued the subject.
"A large one may require a week to cool, but I'll have this fellow out of
the mold by tomorrow night," Mr. McGuire returned. "Then we'll polish her
off, put in the clapper, and attach the bell to a sturdy mounting. If the
tone is right, she'll be ready to install."
"How do you tell about the tone?" Louise questioned in perplexity.
"This one should have a deep, low tone," the old man replied. "Other
things being equal, a large bell gives a deeper tone than a small one.
Pitch depends upon diameter, and timbre upon the shape and the alloy
used."
"I never realized there was much to a bell besides its ding-dong,"
commented Penny. "But tell me, Mr. McGuire, do you find this work more
interesting than taking care of the Clock Tower?"
"Looking after that place wasn't work. It was more like a rest cure. I
took the job because, twelve years ago when the tower went up, they
couldn't find a competent man to look after the clock."
"And now you've gone back to your old trade?"
"Oh, I liked it at the tower," Old Seth admitted truthfully. "I'm a bit
old to do heavy work such as this. More than likely I'd have gone on
putting in my time if Mr. Blake hadn't wanted the job for a friend of
his."
"Mr. Blake?" Penny inquired thoughtfully. "Do you mean Clyde Blake, the
real estate man?"
The old bell maker nodded as he gazed moodily out the window toward the
distant tower which could be seen outlined against the blue sky.
"Yes, it was Blake that eased me out of that job. He has a lot of
influence and he uses it in ways some might say isn't always proper. I
can make a fair living as long as I have my health, so I'm not
complaining."
"We met the new caretaker this morning," Penny said after a moment. "He
wasn't very polite to us, and the grounds have gone to wrack and ruin."
"Did you notice the flower beds?" Old Seth asked, feeling creeping into
his voice. "Half choked with weeds. Charley Phelps hasn't turned a hand
since he took over there six weeks ago."
"I suppose he spends most of his time looking after the big clock," Penny
remarked, deliberately leading the old man deeper.
"Charley Phelps spends most of his hours smoking that vile pipe of his
and entertaining his roustabout friends," Old Seth snapped. "He doesn't
know as much as a child about complicated clock machinery. What he can't
take care of with an oil can goes unrepaired!"
The conversation had moved in exactly the channel which Penny desired.
"No doubt that explains why the clock hasn't always been striking right
of late," she said in an offhand way. "Last night I was almost sure I
heard it strike thirteen instead of twelve times. In fact, I had a little
argument with my father about it."
"You were correct," the old man assured her. "I was working late here in
the shop and heard it myself."
"There! You see, Louise!" Penny cried triumphantly, turning to her chum.
"Mr. McGuire, what would cause the clock to strike wrong?" the other
asked.
"I was wondering myself," he admitted. "In all the ten years I was at the
tower, it never once struck an incorrect hour. I think that there must
have been something wrong with the striking train."
"Pardon my ignorance," laughed Penny, "but what in the world is the
striking train?"
"Oh, we apply that name to the center section of the mechanism which
operates the clock. The going train drives the hands, while the quarter
train chimes the quarter-hours, sounding four tuned bells."
"Just as clear as mud," sighed Louise who disliked all mechanical things.
"Does the clock strike wrong every night?"
"Last night was the first time I ever heard it add a stroke," Mr. McGuire
answered. "I'll be listening though, to see if Phelps gets it fixed."
Penny and Louise had accomplished the purpose of their trip, and so,
after looking about the shop for a few minutes, left without trying to
sell the old man a camp-benefit tag.
"Why didn't you ask him to take one?" Louise asked as she and her chum
climbed into the parked car.
"Oh, I don't know," Penny answered uncomfortably. "It just came over me
that Old Seth probably doesn't have much money now that he's out of
steady work."
"He must make quite a lot from his bells."
"But how often does he get an order?" Penny speculated. "I'd guess not
once in three months, if that often. It's a pity Mr. Blake had to push
Mr. McGuire out of the tower job."
Louise nodded agreement, and then with a quick change of subject,
reminded her chum that they had had no lunch.
"It's too late to go home," said Penny, who had other plans. "I'll treat
you to one of the biggest hamburger sandwiches you ever wrapped your
teeth around! How's that?"
"I'll take anything so long as you pay for it," Louise agreed with a
laugh.
Driving on to Toni's, the girls lunched there without incident, and then
started for Riverview by a different route.
"Say, where are you taking me anyway?" Louise demanded suspiciously.
"I've never been on this road before."
"Only out to the Davis farm," Penny responded with a grin. "We have a
little detective work to do."
During the bumpy ride, she gave her chum a vivid account of the adventure
she had shared with her father the previous night.
"And just what do you expect to learn?" Louise inquired at the conclusion
of the tale. "Are we expected to capture Clem Davis with our bare hands
and turn him over to the authorities?"
"Nothing quite so startling. I thought possibly Mrs. Davis might talk
with us. She seemed to know a lot more about the fire than she would
tell."
"I don't mind tagging along," Louise consented reluctantly. "It doesn't
seem likely, though, that the woman will break down and implicate her
husband just because you want a story for the _Riverview Star_."
Undisturbed by her chum's teasing, Penny parked Leaping Lena at the
entrance to the lane, and the girls walked to the cabin.
"It doesn't look as if anyone is here," Louise remarked, rapping for the
second time on the oaken door.
"I'm sure there is," Penny replied in a whisper. "As we came up the lane,
I saw the curtains move."
Louise knocked a third time, so hard that the door rattled.
"At any rate, no one is going to answer," she said. "We may as well go."
"All right," Penny agreed, although it was not her nature to give up so
easily.
The girls walked down the lane until a clump of bushes screened them from
the cabin.
"Let's wait here," Penny proposed, halting. "I have a hunch Mrs. Davis is
hiding from us."
"What's to be gained by waiting?" grumbled Louise.
Nevertheless, she crouched beside her chum, watching the house. Ten
minutes elapsed. Both Louise and Penny grew very weary. Then
unexpectedly, the cabin door opened and Mrs. Davis peered into the yard.
Seeing no one, she took a wooden water bucket and started with it to the
pump which was situated midway between cabin and stable.
"Now's our chance!" Penny whispered eagerly. "Come on, Louise, we'll cut
off her retreat and she can't avoid meeting us!"
CHAPTER
6
_TALL CORN_
Hastening up the lane, Penny and Louise approached the pump in such a way
that Mrs. Davis could not return to the house without meeting them. Not
until the woman had filled the water bucket and was starting back did she
see the two girls.
"Well?" she demanded defiantly.
By daylight the woman appeared much younger than Penny had taken her to
be the previous night. Not more than thirty-two, she wore a shapeless,
faded blue dress which had seen many washings. Rather attractive brown
hair had been drawn back into a tight, unbecoming knot that made her face
seem grotesquely long.
"I don't suppose you recognize me," Penny began diffidently. "My father
and I were here last night with Sheriff Daniels."
"I remember you very well," the woman retorted. "What do you want?"
"Why, I should like to buy some melons," Penny replied, the idea only
that instant occurring to her. "Have you any for sale?"
"Melons," the woman repeated, and the hard line of her mouth relaxed. "I
thought you came to pester me with questions. Sure, we've got some good
Heart o' Gold out in the patch. How many do you want?"
"About three, I guess."
"You can pick 'em out yourself if you want to," Mrs. Davis offered.
Setting down the water bucket, she led the way through a gate to a melon
patch behind the cabin. Her suspicions not entirely allayed, she
demanded: "Sheriff Daniels didn't send you out here?"
"Indeed not," Penny assured her. "I haven't seen him since last night."
"It's all right then," Mrs. Davis said in a more friendly tone. She
stooped to examine a ripe melon. "I figured maybe he sent you to find out
what became of my husband."
"Oh, no! Didn't Mr. Davis return home last night?"
"Not on your life!" the woman answered grimly. "And he won't be back
either--not while Sheriff Daniels is looking for him."
From Mrs. Davis' manner of speaking, Penny was convinced that she had
been in communication with her husband since the sheriff's visit. Trying
to keep her voice casual, she observed:
"Don't you think it would be wise for your husband to give himself up? By
hiding, he makes it appear as though he actually did set fire to the
Preston barn."
"Clem would be a fool to give himself up now! Why, they'd be sure to hang
the fire onto him, even though he wasn't within a mile of the Preston
place."
"Then couldn't he prove it?"
"Not a chance," the woman said with a short, hard laugh. "Clem was
framed. He never rode the horse last night, and that black hood was
planted in the stable."
"Does your husband have any enemies?"
"Sure, he's got plenty of 'em."
"Then perhaps you can name a person who might have tried to throw blame
on your husband."
"I could tell plenty if I was a mind to," the woman said significantly.
"I'd do it in a minute, only it would make things worse for Clem."
Penny started to reply, then remained silent as she saw that Mrs. Davis'
gaze had focused upon a section of cornfield which fringed the melon
patch. The tall stalks were waving in an agitated manner, suggesting that
someone might be moving among them.
"Here are your melons," Mrs. Davis said nervously, thrusting three large
ones into Penny's hands. "That will be a quarter."
As the girl paid her, she abruptly turned and hurried toward the house.
"Just a minute, Mrs. Davis," Penny called. "If you'll only talk to me I
may be able to help your husband."
The woman heard but paid no heed. Picking up the water bucket, she
entered the cabin, closing the door behind her.
"Well, we gained three melons, and that's all," Louise shrugged. "What's
our next move?"
"I think Mrs. Davis was on the verge of telling us something important,"
Penny declared, her voice low. "Then she saw someone out there in the
corn field and changed her mind."
"I don't see anyone now," Louise said, staring in the direction her chum
had indicated. "The stalks aren't even moving."
"They were a moment ago. Clem Davis may be hiding out there, Lou! Or it
could be some of Sheriff Davis' men watching the cabin."
"Or an Indian waiting to scalp us," teased Louise. "Let's go back to the
car."
Penny shook her head and started toward the corn patch. Reluctantly,
Louise followed, overtaking her at the edge of the field.
"Sheriff Daniels!" Penny called through cupped hands.
There was no answer, only a gentle rippling of the corn stalks some
distance from them.
"Whoever the person is, he's sneaking away," Penny whispered. "Come on,
let's stop him!"
"Don't be foolish--" Louise protested, but her chum had vanished into the
forest of tall corn.
After a moment of indecision she, too, entered the field. By that time
there was no sign of Penny, no sound to guide her. Wandering aimlessly
first in one direction, then another, she soon became hopelessly lost.
"Penny!" she shouted frantically.
"Here!" called a voice not far away.
Tracing the sound, and making repeated calls, Louise finally came face to
face with her chum.
"Such a commotion as you've been making," chided Penny. "Not a chance to
catch that fellow now!"
"I don't care," Louise retorted crossly. Her hair was disarranged,
stockings matted with burs. "If we can get out of this dreadful maze I
want to go to the car."
"We're at the edge of the field. Follow me and I'll pilot you to safety."
Emerging a minute later at the end of the corn row, Penny saw the stable
only a few yards away. Impulsively, she proposed to Louise that they
investigate it for possible clues.
"I've had enough detective work for one day," her chum complained.
"Anyway, what do you hope to discover in an old barn?"
"Maybe I can induce the horse to talk," Penny chuckled. "Sal must know
all the answers, if only she could speak."
"You'll have to give her the third degree by yourself," Louise decided
with finality. "I shall go to the car."
Taking the melons with her, she marched stiffly down the lane and climbed
into Leaping Lena. Carefully she rearranged her hair, plucked burs, and
then grew impatient because her chum did not come. Fully twenty minutes
elapsed before Penny emerged from the stable.
"Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Lou," she apologized as she reached
the car. "See what I found!"
Penny held up a bright silver object which resembled a locket, save that
it was smaller.
"What is it?" Louise inquired with interest.
"A man's watch charm! It has a picture inside too!"
With her fingernail, Penny pried open the lid. Flat against the cover had
been fastened the photograph of a boy who might have been ten or twelve
years of age.
"Where did you get it, Penny?"
"I found it lying on the barn floor, not far from the place where we
picked up the black hood last night."
"Then it must belong to Clem Davis!"
"It may," Penny admitted, sliding into the seat beside her chum. "Still,
I don't believe the Davis' have any children."
"What will you do with the charm? Turn it over to the sheriff?"
"I suppose I should, after I've shown it to Dad," Penny replied,
carefully tying the trinket into the corner of a handkerchief. "You know,
Lou, since finding this, I wonder if Mrs. Davis may not have told the
truth."
"About what, Penny?"
"She said that her husband had been framed."
"Then you think this watch charm was left in the barn to throw suspicion
upon Clem Davis!"
Penny shook her head. "No, this is my theory, Louise. Perhaps someone hid
the black hood there, and rode Clem's horse to make it appear he was the
guilty person. Inadvertently, that same person lost this watch charm."
"In that case, you would have a clue which might solve the case."
"Exactly," Penny grinned in triumph. "Get ready for a fast ride into
town. I'm going to rush this evidence straight to the _Star_ office and
get Dad's opinion."
CHAPTER
7
_MR. BLAKE'S DONATION_
Not wishing to ride to the _Star_ building, Louise asked her chum to drop
her off at the Sidell home. Accordingly, Penny left her there, and then
drove on alone to her father's office. The news room hummed with activity
as she sauntered through to the private office.
"Just a minute, please," her father requested, waving her into a chair.
He completed a letter he was dictating, dismissed his secretary, and then
was ready to listen. Without preliminary ado, Penny laid the watch charm
on the desk, explaining where she had found it.
"Dad, this may belong to Clem Davis, but I don't think so!" she announced
in an excited voice. "It's my theory that the person who planted the
black hood in the stable must have lost it!"
Mr. Parker examined the charm carefully, gazing at the picture of the
little boy contained within it.
"Very interesting," he commented. "However, I fear you are allowing your
imagination to take you for a ride. There isn't much question of Clem
Davis' guilt according to the findings of the sheriff."
"Has any new evidence come to light, Dad?"
"Yes, Penny, the sheriff's office has gained possession of a document
showing beyond question that Clem Davis is a member of a renegade band
known as the Black Hoods."
"Where did they get their proof?"
"Sheriff Davis won't disclose the source of his information. However, our
star reporter, Jerry Livingston, is working on the case, and something
may develop any hour."
"Then you're intending to make it into a big story?" Penny asked
thoughtfully.
"I am. An underground, subversive organization, no matter what its
purpose, has no right to an existence. The _Star_ will expose the
leaders, if possible, and break up the group."
"Since the Hoods apparently burned the Preston storage barn, their
purpose can't be a very noble one," Penny commented. "Nor are their
leaders especially clever. The trail led as plain as day to Clem
Davis--so straight, in fact, that I couldn't help doubting his guilt."
"Penny, I'll keep this watch charm, if you don't mind," Mr. Parker said,
locking the trinket into a drawer. "I'll put Jerry to work on it and he
may be able to learn the identity of the little boy in the picture."
Abruptly changing the subject, the editor inquired regarding his
daughter's success in selling Camp-Benefit tags.
"I have only one left," Penny replied, presenting it with a flourish.
"Twenty-five cents, please."
"The cause is a worthy one. I'll double the amount." Amiably, Mr. Parker
flipped a half dollar across the desk.
"While you're in a giving mood I might mention that my allowance is due,"
Penny said with a grin. "Also, you owe me five gallons of gasoline. I saw
old Seth McGuire this morning and he agreed with me that the Hubell clock
struck thirteen last night."
Mr. Parker had no opportunity to reply, for just then his secretary
re-entered the office to say that Mr. Clyde Blake wished to see him.
"I suppose that means you want me to evaporate," Penny remarked, gazing
questioningly at her father.
"No, stay if you like. It's probably nothing of consequence."
Penny welcomed an invitation to remain. After her talk with Seth McGuire
she was curious to see the man who had caused the old bell maker to lose
his position at the Hubell Tower.
"Blake probably wants to ask me to do him a personal favor," Mr. Parker
confided in a low tone. "He's a pest!"
In a moment the door opened again to admit the real estate man. He was
heavy-set, immaculately dressed, and the only defect in his appearance
was caused by a right arm which was somewhat shorter than the left.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Parker," he said expansively. "And is this your
charming daughter?"
The editor introduced Penny, who bowed politely and retreated to a chair
by the window. Prejudiced against Mr. Blake, she had no desire to talk to
him.
"What may I do for you?" Mr. Parker asked the caller.
"Ah, this time it is I who shall bestow the favor," Mr. Blake responded,
taking a cheque book from his pocket. "Your paper has been campaigning
for a very worthy cause, namely the Orphans' Summer Camp Fund. It wrings
my heart that those unfortunate kiddies have been denied the benefit of
fresh air and sunshine."
"If you wish to make a donation, you should give your money to Mrs. Van
Cleve," the editor cut him short.
"I much prefer to present my cheque to you," the caller insisted. "Shall
I make it out for a hundred and fifty dollars?"
"That's a very handsome donation," said Mr. Parker, unable to hide his
surprise. "But why give it to me?"
Mr. Blake coughed in embarrassment. "I thought you might deem the
offering worthy of a brief mention in your paper."
"Oh, I see," the editor responded dryly.
"I don't wish publicity for myself, you understand, but only for the real
estate company which bears my name."
"I quite understand, Mr. Blake. If we should use your picture--"
"That will be very acceptable," the real estate man responded, smiling
with satisfaction. "I'll be happy to oblige you by posing."
Helping himself to a pen, he wrote out the cheque and presented it to the
editor.
"Penny, how would you like to write the story?" inquired her father.
"You've been helping Miss Norton with the publicity, I believe."
"I'm rather bogged down with work," Penny demurred. "I think Mrs. Weems
wants me to clean the attic when I get home."
"Never mind the attic. Please conduct Mr. Blake to the photography room
and ask one of the boys to take his picture."
Penny arose obediently, but as the real estate man left the office ahead
of her, she shot her father a black look. She considered a publicity
story very trivial indeed, and it particularly displeased her that she
must write honeyed words about a man she did not admire.
"You have a very nice building here, very nice," Mr. Blake patronizingly
remarked as he was escorted toward the photographic department. Noticing
a pile of freshly printed newspapers lying on one of the desks, he helped
himself to a copy.
"I see the sheriff hasn't captured Clem Davis yet," he commented,
scanning the front page. "I hope they get him! It's a disgrace to
Riverview that such a crime could be perpetrated, and the scoundrel go
unpunished."
"He'll probably be caught," Penny replied absently. "But I wonder if he's
the guilty person."
"What's that?" Mr. Blake demanded, regarding her with shrewd interest.
"You think Davis didn't burn the Preston barn?"
"I was only speculating upon it."
"Reflecting your father's opinion, no doubt."
"No, not anyone's thought but my own."
"Your father seems to be making quite a story of it," Mr. Blake resumed.
"It will be most unfortunate for the community if he stirs up talk about
underground organizations."
"Why unfortunate?" Penny asked.
"Because it will give the city a bad reputation. I doubt there is
anything to this Black Hood talk, but if there should be, any publicity
might lead to an investigation by state authorities."
"A very good thing, I should think."
"You do not understand," Mr. Blake said patiently. "Depredation would
increase, innocent persons surely would suffer. With Riverview known
unfavorably throughout the country, we would gain no new residents."
Penny did not reply, but opened the door of the photographic room. While
Mr. Blake wandered about, inspecting the various equipment, she relayed
her father's instructions to Salt Sommers, one of the staff
photographers.
"Better get a good picture of Blake," she warned him. "He'll be irritated
if you don't."
"I'll do my best," Salt promised, "but I can't make over a man's face."
Mr. Blake proved to be a trying subject. Posed on a stool in front of a
screen, he immediately "froze" into a stiff position.
"Be sure to make it only a head and shoulders picture, if you please," he
ordered Salt.
"Can't you relax?" the photographer asked wearily. "Unloosen your face.
Think of all those little orphans you're going to make happy."
Mr. Blake responded with a smirk which was painful to behold. Nothing
that Salt could say or do caused him to become natural, and at length the
photographer took two shots which he knew would not be satisfactory.
"That'll be all," he announced.