THE MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE
The unexpected announcement by the daring lad, of what he had done,
was a surprise to both Mr. Muchmore and the members of the fire
department.
"So, this is a trick by one of you young rascals, is it?" asked the
rich man's nephew. "I shall take action against you for this. The road
you are on is private property, and I shall have you arrested if you
do not, at once, cease from trespassing on it. Get out of here with
your noisy apparatus!"
"Mr. Muchmore," said Bert firmly, "you are mistaken when you think
that our fire department had anything to do with this false alarm. We
regret it as much as you do. We came here because we believed there
was a fire. The box located near here was pulled."
"I shall take steps to see that it is not rung again. I shall have it
removed," said the man. "Now I order you to clear out!"
"We will," replied the young chief, "but I want to say that no member
of our department had anything to do with annoying you."
"You heard what that young rascal said. That he did it to pay me for
not thanking you boys for what you did at the other fire. That was an
oversight. I was too excited, I suppose, but that is hardly an excuse
for disturbing me in this way."
"Mr. Muchmore," exclaimed Bert, "the boy who sent in the false alarm
is not a member of our department. He never was, though he might have
helped at the other fire."
"Well, it seems strange that I can't live here in peace and quietness,
without being annoyed by a lot of boys," retorted Muchmore. "Perhaps
you knew nothing of the false alarm--"
"I assure you we did not. We don't care enough about this long run
uphill to undertake it on a false alarm," declared Bert.
"That's right," added Cole.
"Very well, then you had better go down. As for that boy who pulled
the box, I shall take steps to have him arrested."
"If you will, you would be doing us a service," replied Bert. "We
don't want false alarms to be sent in, and if that boy--Chester Randel
is his name--finds out he is liable to arrest, it may serve as a
warning to others."
"I'll see about it," and, without thanking the boys for their
promptness in coming to put out a possible fire, Muchmore turned back,
and went up the private driveway to the big house, that stood dark and
silent on the hill.
"This is one on us," remarked Cole, as he helped to drag the engine
around. "I'd like to wallop Chester."
"So would I," declared Bert. "Mr. Muchmore will attend to him, though,
I guess."
"Muchmore needs someone to attend to him, too," remarked Tom Donnell.
"He's as cross as a couple of sour apple trees. I guess if the house
had been on fire he'd have been only too glad to see us."
Still the boys did not so much mind their useless run, as they were so
enthusiastic over their engine and the new department that it had not
yet become an old story to them.
"We were in need of a little practice, anyhow," remarked Bert, as they
backed the engine into the barn. The second apparatus had not
responded, though the boys were in readiness to run it out in case a
call came for them.
When he got back home that night Herbert was racking his brains over
the mystery that seemed to surround the Stockton mansion. That there
was something queer going on within its walls he was positive. What he
had seen, Muchmore's queer actions, his fear of something being
discovered, and what Mort Decker had told him, convinced Bert that
very unusual proceedings must be taking place in the silent house on
the hill.
"Mr. Stockton ought to be informed," he said. "I wonder if I couldn't
send a letter to him? I've a good notion to make some inquiries at the
post-office."
He did, the next day. As he entered the post-office he saw that Mr.
Daven was busy reading some postal cards.
"Ah, how d'ye do, Bert?" he greeted, for he had a kindly feeling for
the lad, who, in a measure, was responsible for the awakening of the
town. "How's the fire business?"
"Pretty good. We had a run for nothing last night."
"I heard about that. Up to the Stockton mansion. Yes, I may have to
take official action on it."
"How's that?"
"Why, Mr. Muchmore was in here a while ago. He came to see me in my
official capacity as justice of the peace, and not postmaster. He
wanted a warrant for the arrest of Chester Randel, and I made out one.
The next thing is to arrest that good-for-nothing lad, but he's like a
flea, I never can catch him when I want him. I've got another warrant
for him too."
"What's that for?"
"Oh, he robbed Deacon Stanton's apple orchard. Not that taking apples
is such a crime, but the deacon insisted on a warrant, and I had to
make one out."
"Are you going to arrest Chester?"
"If I can catch him, but I'm so busy with mail lately that I ain't got
much time to arrest anybody. 'Pears everybody is sending out souvenir
postals, with pictures of the new engines on 'em, and it takes a lot
of time to read and sort 'em."
An enterprising stationer in town had ordered a supply of postals
made, with pictures of the new fire apparatus, and he sold quite a
number. Bert thought the postmaster's talk gave him a good opening to
ask certain questions.
"I wonder if Mr. Stockton knows about our new department?" he said.
"I'd like to send him one of those postals, though I don't really know
him very well. Still, I think he would be interested. Do you know his
address?"
"No, Bert, I don't."
"I heard he had gone to Europe."
"Maybe he has, but I can't say."
"Do you get any letters for him?"
"Yes, quite a few."
"Then don't you forward them?"
"No, for I don't know where to send them. Besides, that nephew of his
calls for the mail, and takes the letters addressed to Mr. Stockton,
as well as his own. I don't believe Mr. Stockton is in Europe."
"Then where is he?"
"That's more than I know, Bert. It's something I don't have time to
bother about, with the increase in the mail, and my eyesight getting
poorer and poorer each day. I can't read as many postals as I used
to."
"Then if I wrote a letter to Mr. Stockton, you don't think he'd get
it?"
"I don't know. I do know that Muchmore would get it first. Maybe he
forwards his uncle's mail."
"I don't believe I'll write any letter then," thought Bert. "I have
nothing only suspicions, at best. I think something wrong is going on
at that house, but I can't prove it. I think Mr. Stockton ought to
know about it, but I don't see any way of informing him. I wish I
could have a talk with Mort Decker. Maybe he has found out something."
Once he got thinking in this strain Bert found it hard to get his mind
off the matter. As he had nothing in particular to do, he decided to
take a stroll past the mysterious mansion. He knew of a road, through
the woods, that would bring him to the rear of the house, without any
one seeing him.
He started off, passing through the back streets of the village, as he
did not want to meet any of his chums just then. In a little while he
was in the forest, and, proceeding along leisurely, so that if any
persons did observe him they would not think he had any particular
object, he reached the rear of the queer house. It seemed to be
deserted. The shutters on the back were tightly closed, and there was
no sign of life.
"A queer old place," mused the boy. "I wonder what--"
His musing was cut short by a sudden opening of the shutters on the
topmost window. They were thrown violently back, as though whatever
fastened them had been broken. At the same moment a hand was thrust
out. It was a white hand, and it seemed to throw something from the
window. Bert watched, and saw that the object was a bottle. The glass
struck a stone and was broken. Then, from the bottle came a piece of
white paper. The shutters were closed again. Wonderingly, Bert walked
over and picked up the paper. On it was this mysterious message:
"help i am a priso"