The words of the deputy sheriff came clearly to the ears of Ruth
Fielding and her two girl friends as they stood on the lower step of the
broad flight leading to the second floor of the hotel.
Jimson, the warehouse boss, who had already shown his interest in Curly,
looked quickly around and spied the girls. He made a crooked face and
began at once to fence with the deputy.
"What's that?" he said. "Said I got an escaped prisoner? _Who_ said
that, Mr. Ricketts?"
"Yo' wife, I reckon 'twas, tol' me the boy was yere."
"She's crazy!" declared Jimson with apparent anger. "I dunno what's got
into that woman. I ain't seen no convict----"
"Who's talkin' about a convict, Jimson?" demanded Mr. Ricketts. "D' yo'
think I'm after some desperado from the swamps? I reckon not."
"Well, who _are_ you after?" demanded the boss, in great apparent
vexation. "I ain't got him, whoever he is!"
"Not a boy named Henry Smith?"
"What's he done?"
"I see you're some int'rested," said Ricketts, drily. "Come on now,
Jimson! I know you. The boy's a bad lot."
"Your say-so don't make him so. And I dunno as I know the boy you mean."
"Come now, your wife tol' me all about him. He's a curly-headed boy. He
come along on a flatboat. You took him on as a hand in the warehouse."
"Huh? I did, did I?" grunted Jimson, not at all willing to give in that
he knew whom the deputy sheriff was talking about.
"I mean a curly-headed Yankee boy that come over yere last night in that
old boat of yours, Jimson," said the deputy sheriff, chuckling. "And
your woman wants to know when you're going to bring the boat back?"
"Huh?" growled Jimson.
"Don't yo' call him Curly?"
"Oh! you mean _him_?" said the boss. "Wal--I reckon he's yere. Got a
broken laig. Doctor won't let him be moved. Impossible, Mr. Ricketts.
Impossible!"
"I reckon I'll look to suit myself, Jimson," said Ricketts, firmly.
"This ain't no funnin', you know." Then he turned to the man in the
boat. "Tie that rope to one o' these posts, Tom, and come ashore. I may
need you to hold Jimson," and he winked and chuckled at the chagrined
warehouse boss.
The big deputy sheriff strode across the porch, in at the door,
scattering the wide-eyed negroes right and left, and came face to face
with three pretty young girls, dressed in the party frocks donned for
the ball the night before, all the frocks they had to wear on this
occasion.
"Bless my soul, ladies!" gasped the confused Ricketts, sweeping off his
hat. "Your servant!"
"Oh, Mr. Ricketts!" exclaimed Nettie Parsons, her hands clasped, and
looking in her most appealing way up into the big man's face. Although
Nettie stood a step up from the hall floor, the deputy sheriff still
towered above her head and shoulders. "Oh, Mr. Ricketts!"
"Ya-as, ma'am! that's my name, ma'am," said the embarrassed deputy.
"We heard what you just said," pursued Nettie. "About Curly Smith, you
know."
"I--I----"
"And we're awfully interested in Curly," put in Helen, joining in the
attempt to cajole a perfectly helpless officer of the law from the path
of duty.
"Your servant, ma'am!" gasped the deputy, very red in the face now, and
bowing low before Helen.
"There are three of us, Mr. Ricketts," suggested Ruth, her own eyes
dancing with fun, despite the really serious distress she felt over
Curly's case.
"Bless my soul!" murmured Mr. Ricketts, bowing in her direction, too.
"So there are--so there are. _Your_ servant, ma'am."
"Then, Mr. Ricketts, if you are the servant of _all_ of us, I know you
will do what we ask," and Nettie laughed merrily.
Little drops of perspiration were exuding upon the deputy's broad, bald
brow. He was not used to the society of ladies--not even extremely young
ladies; and he felt both ridiculous and in a glow of delight. He
chuckled and wabbled his head above his stiff collar, and looked
foolish. But there was a grim firmness to his smoothly shaven chin that
led Ruth to believe that he would not be an easy person to swerve from
his path.
"You know," repeated Nettie, taking her cue from Helen, "that we are
awfully interested in that boy that you say you have come after."
"The young scamp's mighty lucky, then--mighty lucky!"
"But he has a broken leg--and he's awfully sick," said Nettie, her lips
drooping at the corners as though she were about to cry.
"Tut, tut, tut! I'm awfully sorry miss. But----"
"And he's had an awfully bad time," broke in Helen. "Curly has. He's
ragged, and he has been ill-treated. And we saw him jump overboard and
swim from that steamer before it reached Old Point Comfort, and he was
picked up by a fishing boat. Oh! he is awfully brave."
Mr. Ricketts stared and swallowed hard. He could not find voice to reply
just then.
"And he saved that cat from drowning. Oh! I had forgotten that," said
Nettie, chiming in. "He really is very kind-hearted, as well as brave."
"And," said Ruth, from the stair above, "I am sure he never helped those
men rob the Lumberton railroad station. Never!"
"My soul and body, ladies!" exclaimed the deputy sheriff. "You are sho'
more knowin' about this yere boy from the No'th than I am. I only got
instructions to _git_ him--and git him I must."
"Oh, Mr. Ricketts!" gasped Helen.
"Please, Mr. Ricketts!" begged Nettie.
"Do consider, Mr. Ricketts!" joined in Ruth. "He's really not guilty."
"Who says he ain't?" demanded the deputy sheriff, shooting in the
question suddenly.
"He says so," said Ruth, firmly, "and I never knew Curly Smith to tell a
story."
Mr. Ricketts was undoubtedly in a very embarrassing position. He was the
soul of gallantry--according to his standards. To please the ladies was
almost the highest law of his nature.
Behind him, Jimson, his companion, Tom, and the negroes had gathered in
a compact crowd to listen. Mr. Ricketts, hat in hand, and perspiring now
profusely, did not know what to do. He said, feebly:
"My soul and body, ladies! I dunno what t' say. I'd please yo' if I
could. But I'm instructed t' bring this yere boy in, an' I got t' do it.
A broken laig ain't no killin' matter. I've had one myself--ya-as, ma'am!
We kin take him in this yere little launch that b'longs t' Kunnel
Peters. He'll be 'tended to fust-class."
"Not in your old jail at Pegburg!" cried Nettie. "You know better, Mr.
Ricketts," and she was quite severe.
"I know you, Miss Nettie," Mr. Ricketts said, with humility, "You're
Mrs. Parsons' niece. You say the wo'd an' I'll take the boy right to my
own house."
Ruth had been watching one of the negroes who had stood on the outskirts
of the group. He was a big, burly, dull-looking fellow--the very man whom
Curly had risked his life to save from the river the night before.
This man stepped softly away from the crowd. He disappeared toward the
front of the porch. By craning her neck a little Ruth could see around
the corner of the door-jamb and follow the movements of this negro with
her eyes.
The man, Tom, had tied the painter of the launch to a post there. The
negro stood for a moment near that post; then he disappeared altogether.
Ruth's heart suddenly beat faster. What had the negro done? She leaned
forward farther to see the launch tugging at its rope. _The craft was
already a dozen yards away from the hotel!_
"I'm awful sorry, ladies," declared the deputy sheriff, obstinately
shaking his head. "I've got t' arrest that boy. That's my sworn and
bounden duty. And I got t' take him away in this yere launch of Kunnel
Peterses."
He turned to wave a ham-like hand toward the tethered launch. The
gesture was stayed in midair. Jimson, turning likewise, burst into a
high cackle of laughter.
"Here's a state of things!" roared the deputy, and rushed out upon the
porch. The launch was whirling away down the current, far out of reach.
"Here, Tom! didn't you hitch that boat?"
"I reckon ye won't git away with that there little Yankee boy as you
expected, Mr. Ricketts," cried Jimson. "Er-haw! haw! haw!"