HELD CAPTIVE
Then King's fears were realized. He had suspected these people were
gypsies, and now he discovered that they were. Inside the tent were three
or four men and women, all of the dark, gypsy type, and wearing the
strange, bright-colored garments characteristic of their tribe. They did
not seem ill-disposed toward the visitors, but welcomed them cordially,
and one of the women went at once for a pitcher of milk, and brought it,
with two glasses, which she set on the table.
King was not exactly frightened, for they all seemed pleasant and kind
enough, but he couldn't help remembering how gypsies were credited with
the habit of stealing children, and holding them for ransom. "But only
babies," he thought to himself; "I don't believe they ever steal such big
kids as Marjorie and me."
King was fifteen, and tall for his age, and as he looked at Marjorie he
realized that she was a big girl, too, and he felt sure they were beyond
the age of being kidnapped. But as he noted the furtive glances which
were cast at them by the gypsies, he again felt alarmed, and glanced at
Marjorie to see if her thoughts were like his own.
But they were not. Marjorie was chatting gaily with the good-looking
young woman who had brought her into the tent, and she was accepting
an invitation to have a glass of milk and a cracker.
As an old gypsy woman poured the milk from the pitcher into the glass,
she turned her back to Marjorie, but King's alert eyes could see her
shaking a small portion of white powder into the milk.
Like a flash it came to King what it all meant! They were kidnappers,
these wicked gypsies, and they meant to put some drug in the milk that
the children drank, so they would go to sleep, and then the kidnappers
would carry them away!
King thought rapidly. He couldn't let Marjorie drink that milk,--and yet
if he made a fuss about it, they could easily overpower him. He
determined to use strategy.
"Let me pass the glass to my sister," he said, jumping up, and going to
take the glass from the old woman who had poured it. Unsuspectingly,
she let him take it, but as he turned, he stumbled, purposely, against
the table leg, and spilled all the milk on the ground.
"Oh, excuse me," he said, politely. "Now we shall have to go without
a drink of milk! But we are just as much obliged, and we bid you
good-morning. Come, Midget."
Marjorie was at a loss to understand King's actions, but she knew her
brother well enough to know that his tone and his look meant that
something very serious was the matter, and she was quite ready to obey
him without knowing why.
But though he grasped her arm, and endeavored to lead her out of the
tent, they were suddenly stopped. Two stalwart men who had been sitting
in shadow at the back of the tent came forward, and grasping the
children's shoulders, pushed them back into their seats rather roughly.
"You set down there!" said one of the men, "and don't you move till
you're told to! We ain't decided just what to do with you yet, and when
we see fit, we'll tell you, and not till then, so you just keep still!"
Marjorie suddenly sensed the situation. These people were enemies, not
friends! She understood King's efforts to get her away, and she
remembered, too, his misgivings as they were on their way across the
field.
Moreover, it was she who had insisted on coming, and so she felt, in a
way, responsible for what had happened to them. She jumped to her feet as
soon as the man let go of her shoulder, and cried, with flashing eyes, "I
will not keep still! What do you mean by treating me like that? Don't you
know who I am? We're Maynards! We're Edward Maynard's children,--and
everybody loves the Maynards!"
"Oh, they do, do they!" said the man who had spoken before. "Then that's
a mighty good reason why we should keep you here a little while."
"Keep us here!" stormed Marjorie, not at all realizing that they were
being kidnapped, but merely thinking these people were playing some
sort of a joke upon them. "Why should you keep us here? We want to go
on."
"You want to go on, do you?" And the man fairly snarled at them; "well,
you can't go on, and you may as well understand that! Didn't Jim send
you?"
"Yes, Jim sent us," said Marjorie, remembering what the man who was
weaving the basket had said.
"Then if Jim sent you, you're here to stay. And as it's just impossible
for you to get away, there's small use in your trying! So you may as
well make the best of it, and if you don't want your bread and milk you
needn't eat it, but if you do, you can have it. There, now, I'm speaking
fair by you, and you may as well behave yourselves."
"Speaking fair by us!" exclaimed Marjorie, who was as yet more indignant
than frightened. "Do you call it speaking fair by us to tell us that
we must stay here when we want to go on! You are bad, wicked men!"
"Yes, little Miss," was the answer, with a shout of laughter, "we _are_
bad, wicked men! Now what are you going to do about it? You don't fancy
for a minute that you can get away, do you?"
This silenced Marjorie, for there was no answer to such a question. Her
rage had spent itself in her impetuous speech, and she knew of course
that two children could not get away from this band of villains if they
were not allowed to do so. But she did not cry. Her feelings were too
wrought up for that. She sat where they had placed her, and tried bravely
to conceal the fright and fear that were every moment growing stronger
within her. She gave one imploring glance at King, and he came over and
sat beside her. He took her hand in a tight clasp, implying that whatever
happened they would face it together.
"Keep 'em there for the present," growled the man who seemed to be the
spokesman, and then he and the other man went away, leaving the children
in care of the three gypsy women.
Although apparently the women paid little attention to their young
prisoners, King and Midget could easily see that the eyes of their
jailers were ever alert, and watching their slightest movement. Had they
tried to cut and run, they would have been caught before they reached the
door. But no heed was paid when they whispered together, and so they were
able to hold a long conversation which was unheard, and even unnoticed by
the others.
"You know, Mops, what has happened?" whispered King.
"No, I don't; what do they want of us?"
"Why, we're kidnapped and held for ransom. Those men have probably gone
out now to send letters to Father about the ransom money."
"Oh, then Father'll pay it, and we'll get away."
"It isn't so easy as that. They have lots of fussing back and forth. We
may be here a long time. I say, Mops, you're a brick not to cry."
"I'm too mad to cry. The idea of their keeping us here like this! It's
outrageous! Why, King, by this time we would have been in Pelton. Just
think how worried Father and Mother must be!"
"Don't think about that, Mops, or you will cry sure. And I will, too!
Let's think how to get away."
But thinking was of little use, as there was no way to get away but to
run out at the door, and an attempt at that would be such certain failure
that it was not worth trying.
So the children sat there in dumb misery, silently watching the gypsy
women as they moved about preparing the mid-day meal.
Occasionally they spoke, and their manner and words were kindly, but King
and Midget could not bring themselves to respond in the same way.
"King," whispered Marjorie, "how far do you suppose we are from the
road?"
"Too far to run there, if that's what you mean. We'd be caught before we
started," was the whispered reply.
"That isn't what I mean; but how far are we?"
"Not very far, Midget; after we crossed the little bridge, the path to
this place was sort of parallel to the road."
"Well, King, I've got an idea. Don't say anything, and don't stop me."
With a stretch and a yawn as of great weariness, Marjorie slowly rose.
Immediately the three women started toward her. "You sit still!" said
one, sharply.
"Mayn't I walk about the room, if I promise not to go out the door?" said
Marjorie; "I'm so cramped sitting still."
"Move around if you want to," said the youngest of the women, a little
more gently; "but there's no use your trying to run away," and she wagged
her head ominously.
"Honest, I won't try to run away," and Marjorie's big, dark eyes looked
gravely at her captor.
The women said nothing more, and Marjorie wandered about the tent in an
apparently aimless manner. But after a time she came near to a small slit
in the side of the tent that served as a sort of window, and here she
paused and examined some beads that hung near by. Then choosing a moment
when the women were most attentive to their household duties, she put her
head out through the window and _yelled_. Now Marjorie Maynard's yell was
something that a Comanche Indian might be proud of. Blessed with strong,
healthy lungs, and being by nature fond of shouting, she possessed an
ability to scream which was really unusual.
As her blood-curdling shouts rent the air, the three women were so
stupefied that for a moment they could say or do nothing. This gave
Marjorie additional time, and she made the most of it. Her entire lung
power spent itself in successive shrieks more than a dozen times, before
she was finally dragged away from the window by the infuriated gypsy
women.
Marjorie turned upon them, unafraid.
"I told you I wouldn't try to run away," she said, "and neither I didn't.
But I had a right to yell, and if anybody heard me, I hope he'll come
right straight here! You are bad, wicked women!"
The child's righteous indignation had its effect on the women, and they
hesitated, not knowing exactly what to do with this little termagant.
And strange to say, Marjorie's ruse had succeeded.
For when the Maynards reached Pelton, and had found the inn where they
were to lunch, Pompton, the chauffeur, had expressed himself as unwilling
to sit there quietly and await the arrival of King and Marjorie.
"The poor children will be done out," he said to Mr. Maynard, "and by
your leave, sir, I'll just take the car, and run back a few rods and pick
them up."
"That's good of you, Pompton," said Mr. Maynard, appreciatively. "They
can't be far away now, but they'll be glad of a lift."
So Pompton turned the car about, and started back along the road he had
just come. To his surprise, he did not meet the children as soon as he
had expected, and as he continued his route without seeing them, he began
to be really alarmed. He passed the halfway sign, and went nearly to the
place where he had left them and had taken in the lame girl.
"There's something happened to them," he said to himself. "My word! I
knew those children ought not to be left to themselves! They're too full
of mischief. Like as not they've trailed off into the woods, and how can
I ever find them?"
Wondering what he had better do, Pompton turned the car around, and
slowly went back toward Pelton. At every crossroad or side path into
the woods he paused and shouted, but heard no response. When at last he
came near the place where the children had really turned off toward
the brook, he stopped and looked about. Seeing smoke issuing from among
the trees at a little distance, he thought, "That's a gypsy camp. Now
wouldn't it be just like those youngsters to trail in there? Anyway it's
the most likely place, and I'm going to have a look."
Leaving his car by the side of the road, Pompton struck into the
field, and soon came to the little bridge just beyond which the old
basket-weaver still sat.
"Have you seen anything of two children?" Pompton inquired, civilly.
"No," growled the man, looking up and frowning a little.
"Well, I'm fairly sure they came in here from the road about half an hour
ago. Perhaps you didn't notice them. I'll just take a look round." He
started in the direction of the camp, but the man called him back.
"I tell you no children have been near here," he said, in a voice
slightly less surly. "If they had, they'd have had to cross this bridge,
and I couldn't miss seeing them. I've been here two hours."
This seemed conclusive, and Pompton had no reason to think the man was
not telling the truth. But he was without doubt a gypsy, and Pompton
had small respect for the veracity of the gypsy. He waited a few moments,
pretending to be interested in the man's basketry, but really considering
whether to insist on going on to the camp hidden in the trees, or whether
to believe the man's statement.
And it was at this moment that Marjorie's shrieks rang out.
"Good heavens!" cried Pompton. "What is that?"
The basket-weaver neither heard nor answered him, for the shrieks
continued, and Pompton set off at a run in the direction whence they
came. He was not quite sure it was Marjorie's voice, but there was
certainly somebody in distress, and Pompton was of a valiant nature.
The smoke issuing above the trees was sufficient guide, and his flying
steps soon brought him to the encampment. Flinging open, indeed almost
tearing down the flapping door of the tent, he strode inside.
"What's the matter here?" he began, but he could get no further, for
with a glad cry the two Maynard children flung themselves into his
out-stretched arms.