The Talking Tree
“Don’t look for what? Who said that? Where—”
Judy’s voice trailed off in bewilderment. She moved closer to Honey,
whose startled expression showed that she had heard something, too. The
men had started hurriedly toward their car.
“We may be back,” the driver called as they climbed in and drove on
toward Roulsville.
Judy gazed after them, her thoughts in a whirl. She was a sensible girl,
not easily frightened. Before she and Peter Dobbs were married, she used
to spend part of every summer with her grandparents in this very house.
She knew every tree in the grove of beeches where the two girls were now
standing in puzzled silence.
[Illustration: Judy’s voice trailed off in bewilderment]
“Grandma used to tell me those trees could talk,” Judy said at last.
“But how?” asked Honey. “Those men didn’t do it. They were frightened,
too.”
“They did seem to be,” agreed Judy, “but maybe it was a trick of some
kind. I don’t believe they wanted rooms at all.”
“I don’t either. They acted more as if they were looking for something—”
“And then the—the trees warned them not to! That’s it!” exclaimed Judy.
All of a sudden she remembered an old family legend that when danger
threatened, the trees would sound a warning. She had laughed at the
superstition when she first heard it from her grandparents. Later, after
the old couple died and willed the house to her, she remembered it only
in her more fanciful moments, never mentioning it to anyone.
As she stood pondering, Honey put a sympathetic arm around her.
“Our sign accomplished something, anyway,” she said reassuringly. “It
gave us a mystery to solve.”
“Just the same, it _was_ a foolish thing to do. Let’s walk back to the
main road and take it down before anyone else sees it,” Judy suggested.
“Do we have to,” Honey said plaintively, “after all my work?”
“I’m afraid we do, Honey. We’ve invited trouble, not tourists. How do we
know those men weren’t criminals trying to find out something about
Peter?”
“But Judy, you said yourself there was no danger,” Honey protested,
hurrying to keep up with her. They had crossed Dry Brook and were
climbing the slope toward the main road where they had posted the sign.
“One of those men was Mr. Montrose. At least, he had signs lettered for
the Montrose Moving Company, and they’re well known in Farringdon.”
“But the others? Who were they and why were they so interested in
exploring our property? No, I think that sign will have to come down. I
only hope it comes down easier than it went up. You’ll have to help me
with it, Honey.”
“I will. I wish—”
Honey’s wish was never expressed, as a two-toned convertible the color
of coffee and cream, and rather the worse for hard use, slowed to a stop
beside them. At the wheel of the car sat Judy’s brother Horace, grinning
like a Cheshire cat.
“So my sister is running a tourist camp,” he said to Honey, observing
the sign which she and Judy were now struggling to remove from the post
where they had nailed it.
“We need a hammer,” Judy remarked, ignoring him.
“Here’s the one we were using before. We forgot it and left it here. But
where is the paint?”
“Didn’t you take it?”
“No, I thought you did.”
“That’s odd,” declared Judy. “It really looks as if someone’s stolen it.
I’m glad they left the hammer, anyway.”
“What,” asked Horace, “are you trying to do? I suppose I’ll find you
building a little row of cottages next. If you’re going to take in
tourists it wouldn’t be a bad idea. Cottages would look quite cozy
nestled in among the trees in the haunted grove.”
“Why do you call it that?” demanded Judy.
“The name just came back to me,” Horace laughed. “Grandpa called it
that, and he told me once that the trees talked. I heard them myself
when I was just a little fellow. It scared me nearly out of my wits.”
“It scared quite a lot of us today,” said Honey.
Judy nudged her to keep quiet, but it was too late.
“You don’t mean to tell me the trees still talk!” Horace exclaimed.
“That’s news! If we can find out why—”
“We don’t mean to tell you anything we don’t wish to see printed in the
_Farringdon Daily Herald_,” Judy interrupted. “The story would look
pretty ridiculous, anyway, without an explanation. ‘TREES TALK. SCARE
TOURISTS AWAY.’ Seriously,” she continued, “some rather peculiar
tourists did stop here. That’s why we’re taking down the sign.”
“I don’t get it,” Horace said. “If you didn’t want them to stop, why did
you put the sign up in the first place?”
“We did, only we didn’t. Oh, bother!” Judy exclaimed. “I’m not
explaining anything, am I? It’s a good thing you don’t write the way I
talk. By the way, did the _Herald’s_ star reporter bring along a copy of
today’s paper?”
“He’s sitting on it,” giggled Honey.
“Ouch!” exclaimed Horace as Judy pulled the paper out from under him and
then seated herself at his side to read it. “That news is hot off the
press. I might have burned myself. It was my own story I was messing up,
too.”
Judy glanced at the headlines—THIEVES LOOT MILLIONAIRE’S HOME—and
quickly read Horace’s story about the mysterious looting of a secluded
old mansion not far from the national forest.
“The national forest!” she exclaimed. “Honey, do you remember the look
that man gave me when I mentioned it? The other men acted funny, too.
Maybe _they_ were the thieves. Horace, could they have been escaping
over this road?”
“I wouldn’t think they’d still be around. The robbery was pulled
Thursday night, and this is Saturday,” Horace replied. “I haven’t the
remotest idea what men you’re talking about, though. Everything I know
about the robbery is right there in the paper.”
“I see it is. It has your by-line on it. Where did you get your
information, Horace?”
“From the police and other sources,” he replied a little vaguely. “I’d
like to interview the caretaker of the estate, even though the police
have already. That robbery was carefully planned. He may have had a hand
in it. What do you think, Judy?”
“Heavens!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know what to think!”