Melissa Has a Pin
As soon as they possibly could after breakfast the next day, the three
girls rowed over to the houseboat and fed Tania. They let her romp for a
while and reluctantly locked her up again. They feared the townspeople,
ever on the watch for something to talk about, would find some choice
gossip if they were seen in the village with the “Russian’s” dog.
The storm was over, and the sun, almost a stranger, broke through the
clouds, blinding in its brightness. The day promised to be hot, so
dressed in cool “semi-back” dresses the girls left the houseboat and went
home first to report to Mrs. Landry that there was no news.
Then they got the car out and went to the village to send the telegram,
which they all hoped would bring good results.
“You’d better shut the door of the phone booth,” Terry suggested to Arden
as they entered the drug store. “You never can tell who’ll be listening,
and the whole town would be excited if they heard the message.”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” Arden agreed.
Trying to appear nonchalant, as though this was an ordinary call, Arden
sent off the message. She requested an immediate answer. To make doubly
sure, she informed the operator who took the telegram that she must know
as soon as possible if it was delivered and left the number of the
drug-store phone.
The telegraph company had an arrangement with the drug store so that
messages could be telephoned in and payment made to the clerk. When Arden
had completed the dictation, at the request of the operator, she got the
drug clerk into the booth, and he was informed as to the toll, which
Arden paid him.
“It will take a while, even if it is delivered,” Arden told her friends.
“So we might as well do the shopping and come back.”
“Oh, I do hope we get a reply,” Sim said earnestly. “I couldn’t sleep
last night thinking about Dimitri.”
“For a person who couldn’t sleep, you gave a marvelous imitation,” Arden
answered sarcastically. “Three or four times I could have sworn you were
dead to the world.”
“Me-ouw—me-ouw,” Terry squeaked. “Don’t be catty! The time will go
quicker if we keep busy.”
They did all the shopping they had to for Terry’s mother and walked once
around the block to kill more time before returning to the drug store.
Arden could no longer be diplomatic. She marched up to the dull-looking
soda boy and asked in clear tones: “Did a message come for me?”
“Haven’t had a call today,” replied the youth behind the counter. “Were
you expect——”
The phone bell rang sharply. Arden almost ran to answer it, slamming the
door shut behind her.
Terry and Sim could see her face, bright with anticipation for a few
seconds, then with dismay saw her expression change. They couldn’t hear
what she was saying, but in a short while she was out again and beckoned
them to follow her outside.
“That was one of the managers of the telegraph company in New York,”
Arden reported. “He’s in the office nearest Ninth Street. He said they
couldn’t send a boy out to deliver a message without a street address—it
would lose too much time. But if we are willing to pay extra for
messenger service, he says he’ll have a boy sort of scout around and try
to locate the party.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Terry.
“Told him to go ahead and we’d pay anything in reason. He said it
probably would not be much more than a dollar.”
“We’ll chip in,” declared Terry.
“I thought you would; that’s why I authorized him to go on. So now we’ll
have some more waiting. They’re going to try again.”
“Oh, I hope we have some luck this time,” Terry remarked. “But whatever
shall we do with ourselves while we’re waiting?”
“That’s a problem,” Arden said thoughtfully. “Let’s get our hair washed
and waved. Mine could stand it. It’s full of salt water.”
“Great!” Sim exclaimed. “Of course, we know the beauty parlor here is
nothing to write home about, but it will serve.”
“It will serve us, little one,” Terry declared, and they walked three
abreast down the sunny street.
The girl operators were glad to have some new customers, and city folks
at that, so they asked innumerable questions. The three girls were
guarded in their answers, afraid they would give away their secret.
A none too gentle girl rubbed Arden’s scalp with stubby fingers, keeping
up her barrage of questions the while. What was the latest coiffure in
the city? Was the long bob going out? What kind of a permanent did she
have? Wearily Arden answered, wishing the girl would keep quiet.
But at last it was over and they went back to haunt the drug store again.
No, the clerk told them, no message had yet come.
The girls sat down on the steps outside. This was not an unusual thing to
do. In a small village one could sit for hours by the gas station, post
office, or drug store without being thought queer.
In an agony of suspense, they waited fifteen minutes—twenty minutes. They
reached a point where they were sitting silently, each busy with her own
worrying and wondering thoughts.
An answer was almost too much to expect of the most kindly fate. But it
was true there was no harm in trying. Dimitri was gone, and the snuffbox
too. The situation, despite Chief Reilly’s jovial acceptance of it, was
taking on a serious character.
Sim was just about to ask if the state police should not be notified,
when the phone in the store rang shrilly. They could hear it, for the
booth door had been left open.
Arden jumped up. For a fleeting second she looked at her companions as
though to plead with some unseen force that this call should bring
results. Then she dashed inside with no thought of appearance. When she
emerged from the booth this time her chums knew she had met with some
success. Her face wreathed in smiles she burst out:
“We’ve got an answer!”
“Oh, what?”
“Tell us!”
“It was the telegraph manager again,” Arden reported. “The boy finally
located our man, and we owe a dollar and a quarter. It took a little
longer than was expected.”
“Pooh! Only an extra quarter!” exclaimed Sim.
“But did they deliver the telegram?” asked Terry.
“Yes, of course. To Serge Uzlov, and he wired an answer.”
“Oh!” Sim and Terry exclaimed in unison. “What did he say?”
“‘Leaving at once for Oceanedge,’” quoted Arden.
“How wonderful!” Terry almost shouted. “Then he was some relative of poor
Dimitri?”
“It looks that way,” admitted Arden. “Wait, we must pay that dollar and a
quarter,” she said quickly, for Sim and Terry evinced a desire to hasten
away. They made up the money, though it rather taxed their purses after
the beauty parlor treatment. But they didn’t mind in the least.
“Now let’s go and tell your mother, Terry,” suggested Sim.
They started out of the drug store and almost bowled over Melissa
Clayton, who was on the point of entering.
“Oh, Melissa, how are you?” Sim asked. “We haven’t seen you for a long
time.”
“I’m all right,” the girl replied noncommittally.
“Weren’t sick, were you?” Arden asked.
“No, just a cold,” Melissa replied.
“All better?” Terry inquired. They were anxious to be on their way, yet
they could not pass by the poor child for whom they had so much sympathy.
“What a pretty pin,” Arden remarked next, looking at a stick pin with a
deep red stone which Melissa had thrust through the collar of an old
middy blouse. “Where did you get it?”
Sim and Terry pressed closer; they could tell from Arden’s tone that this
was no idle question, and as they looked they started, for the pin, a
man’s, they had all seen Dimitri wearing the day of the little tea party.