THE OWNER OF THE RETICULE
The sleeping propensity of a top is nothing to the way Harry and Gordon
slumbered. You cannot sleep such sleep indoors. You need the starry sky,
the dark surrounding trees, the lullaby of cricket and locust, the low,
musical rustle of leaves. Then you can sleep, as Gordon put it, “till
the cows come home.”
It must have been the custom for the cows in that vicinity to come home
at seven A. M., for at that hour the boys awoke, and Harry soon had
water boiling for the coffee. Of course, every one’s way of making
coffee is by far the best way. The scout way is to bring your water to a
boil first, then drop your coffee in and stir like the mischief.
At eight-thirty they had every single thing in their bags and were on
their way down the northern slope of the mountain. You would not have
known that any one had camped at the spot except for the ashes of the
fire and the beaver’s head scratched on a rock.
They followed a winding, woodland path, scarcely visible in places.
“What’s this?” asked Gordon, picking up a small, flat, triangular stone
which his alert eyes had discovered. It proved to be an Indian
arrow-head about an inch and a half long and nearly an inch wide at one
end, tapering to a blunt point at the other. Harry showed his companion
how, wedged into the split end of a stick and bound firmly, it
constituted the old-time arrow of the bloody Mohawk tribe, whose savage
warwhoops had no doubt once been heard along this obscure mountain path.
Gordon trudged along, kicking the earth in search of more of these
murderous souvenirs. Although they searched carefully, they could find
no more of them, but Harry came upon something which held a grewsome
interest. At the base of an old oak tree where the earth was gray and
powdery, he found the head of a tomahawk, eaten with rust and so
encrusted with earth that he was able to break off the corners of it as
if it had been made of plaster.
“I guess some poor chap met his end here,” Harry said soberly. “How
would you like to be tied against that old tree and have a pack of
savages throw these things at you?”
Gordon shuddered. “Do you suppose we’re on the old trail of the Mohawks,
Harry?”
They were, indeed, treading the very ground over which that treacherous,
bloodthirsty tribe had once carried their victims to torture and
massacre. The thought of it had a quieting effect on Gordon, and they
pressed their way along silently for a little while. Then he began
humming:
“Though you didn’t or you wouldn’t,
Or you hadn’t or you couldn’t—”
“What’s that?” asked Harry.
“It’s the rest of that ‘Scout Song,’ Harry,” said Gordon, looking slyly
sideways at his friend.
“You know what I told you, Kid! So help me—”
“Where do we come out?” Gordon interrupted.
“We’re headed for Crown Point Centre.”
Within an hour they came upon an open road and soon reached the village.
It was not necessary to inquire for the owner of the little reticule,
for on a wooden post outside the post-office was a notice written in a
delicate hand on a half sheet of note paper:
LOST
Lady’s small hand-bag on road near Ticonderoga. Finder will
confer great favor by kindly leaving with postmaster or
returning to
Miss Antoinette Crosby,
Buck Mansion.
The word “great” was underlined several times, the word “kindly” was
underlined twice, and the word “Miss” once.
“How far is it to Buck Mansion?” Harry asked, sauntering into the
post-office.
The postmaster took a leisurely scrutiny of both boys. “What yer want to
go up thar for?”
“Just to see some one. About how far is it?”
“Well, up here folks calls it three mile. City folks sometimes calls it
five. One man that was up thar last summer calc’lated ’twas ten—said
’twas ten mile down and twenty mile back. He was a kind of a comic. But
I can tell you right now they ain’t got a vacant room in the house.”
“Thank you,” said Harry. “Come on, Kid, we’ll go up there. We don’t need
to get up Bulwagga Mountain before night.”
The distance to Buck Mansion was somewhere between one mile and ten, and
the way led them through a fragrant country with houses at intervals
along the road. To-day the distance was rather shorter than usual, or
else the “scout pace” helped to make it seem so, for within an hour the
boys reached a spacious white house, standing well back from the road.
The lawn in front was covered with trees, where a number of hammocks
hung. The fence skirting the road was broken in one place by a little
summer-house containing a pump, and the half of a cocoanut shell hung
near by way of a cup.
The position of this little well-house on the very edge of the public
road afforded a tempting resting-place for tired wayfarers. Through the
trees the boys could see that a deer’s head with spreading antlers hung
over the doorway of the house. On the deep porch easy-chairs stood
about, and in a frame swing to one side of the lawn a solitary figure
sat writing. With this exception, not a soul was to be seen, which
seemed odd in a spot that afforded such tempting facilities for idleness
and repose.
“The deserted village,” said Harry, “but I guess this is the place, all
right.”
Just then voices reached the boys through the trees:
“Shall I come to you?”
“No, try to go out.”
“She’s for that wicket.”
“_She_ can’t get through.”
“I could send her down to you.”
“She plays before I do.”
“Well, I’m going to try to hit her anyway.” There was a second’s
silence, then a whack, then “Missed! I told you so!”
“Come on over there,” said Harry.
On a smooth croquet ground an exciting war was going on. So intent was
the group of ladies on the game that it was fully five minutes before
any one spied the two scouts who leaned on the picket fence watching the
play. Then one of them came toward the fence, her croquet mallet over
her shoulder like a musket.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” said Harry, removing his hat, “but I
didn’t like to come out on the ground. Is this Buck Mansion?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said, eying the boys curiously. “Is there some one
you wish to see?”
“Is there a Miss Crosby here?”
“Indeed, there is. Nettie!” she called. “Here are two young gentlemen to
see you.”
The figure in the swing rose quickly, spilling a writing tablet, a bag
of candy, a fountain pen, and a magazine. As she straightened out her
gown, which did not reach anywhere near the ground, the boys saw her to
be a girl of not more than sixteen. They turned toward her.
“Miss Crosby?” Harry asked.
“Ye-es.”
“I think this little hand-bag is yours.”
“Oh, _did_ you find it?”
“Yes, and I ought to have returned it sooner. I’m afraid I found it
within an hour of the time you lost it, but better late than never.” He
handed her the bag.
“Oh, thank you so _very, very_ much. How _did_ you find it?”
“Oh, I was just amusing myself noticing where your auto broke down.”
“It isn’t _my_ auto.”
“And I picked up the bag on the stone wall.”
“Oh, thank you so _very_ much for your trouble. The bag isn’t really
_worth_ anything, but—” She stopped short and looked at him
suspiciously. “How did you know I was in an auto?”
“You just said so—or said as much,” smiled Harry.
“Yes, but _you_ said it _first_.”
“Well,” said Harry, driven to it, “I happened to be along the road above
Ticonderoga that night, and I saw the auto tracks in the moonlight and
the ground all rumpled, and, oh, one thing and another, and then the bag
on the wall. So I put it in my pocket to return it if I could find the
owner.”
“You _knew_ we broke down?”
“I thought so.”
“Oh, _isn’t_ that just _wonderful_?”
“That’s nothing,” said Gordon. “He does things like that every day—he
does them by deduction.”
“Deduction?”
“Yes—putting two and two together and making four.”
“That’s arithmetic,” said she.
“For instance, he thought this bag belonged to an elderly lady,” Gordon
continued. “Of course, once in a great while he’s wrong,” he added
quickly, rather regretting that he had selected this particular
illustration of Harry’s talent for deducing.
“What made him think _that_? Why, it’s a pale blue—it matches—what
_made_ you think that?” she demanded of Harry.
“On account of the smelling salts,” said Gordon.
She opened the bag and closed it hastily. “I think you’re just
_horrid_!” she said, looking at Harry. But she did not think he was
_horrid_. Quite otherwise.
“You see,” explained Harry, “I had to open it to see if it contained a
name or address.”
“Of course,” she said, “but it was just horrid to _think_ I was an _old
maid_! Do you always finds things out about people that way—what is
it?”
“Deduction,” Gordon spoke up. “All scouts have to learn to decide things
that way—it’s dandy fun.”
“I think it’s horrid. I suppose you’re just finding things _out_ about
me _now_. It makes me _creepy_! But you’re _very_ kind,” she promptly
added. “Tell me, honest and true, what _are_ you deducing about _me_
now?”
“Well,” said Harry, “I deduce that you’ve been writing a letter and
underlining lots of words.”
She opened her mouth in astonishment. “You’re a _perfect_ ghoul!” said
she. “But I haven’t _even_ asked you to sit down yet. Won’t you come
over here and rest?” She led the way to the little well-house by the
roadside, giving Gordon an opportunity to whisper to Harry:
“Now, you see, Harry—if you only had your uniform on! Did you see how
she looked at me? It wasn’t I she cared about, Harry—it was the scout
uniform. The scout suit catches them every time. I know more about those
things than you do, Harry, because I’ve had more experience. Now you’ve
learned a lesson.”
There was no chance for Harry to reply, for the young lady had reached
the little shelter and stood waiting for them. She was an extremely
pretty young lady, with a great mass of dark hair held together in the
back by a huge bow, and she had a very snub nose and a way of puckering
her brows into a kind of whimsical frown. A number of rebellious locks
hung about her forehead, shaken loose by the habit she had of giving all
her adjectives a racking emphasis, thus causing her head to be in a
state of almost continual agitation. She wore a white sailor blouse,
with blue trimming and a blue anchor worked in front. Also a blue
braided cord with a tiny round mirror on the end, used in capturing and
confining the loose locks after a particularly emphatic tirade. The
other extremity of Miss Antoinette was on the whole more demure and
reposeful, her small feet being encased in bewitching little pumps,
which were hardly worth while at all since they were almost completely
obscured by enormous silk bows.
It took Gordon about one minute to forget his anxiety to keep secret the
object of their wanderings, and presently Miss Antoinette was apprised
of their intention of ascending Bulwagga that very day. She said it was
all _wonderful_.
“And it was so _clever_,” she went on, “your _knowing_ that I was
autoing. They were friends of mine over in Vermont, and have such a
_lovely_ place. Mr. Danforth—he’s just, oh, _so_ generous and _such_ a
dear! It was his son, Roger, that I was with that evening, and oh, he’s
so _dreadfully_ unlucky!”
“I should call him lucky,” said Harry.
“Oh, _no_, you wouldn’t. _Something_ happens _every_ time he goes out.
Now what _are_ you looking that way for? You’re _deducing_ this very
minute—you _know_ you are!”
Harry clasped his hands behind his head, settled far back on the seat,
and looked serious and thoughtful. Gordon cast his eyes heavenward as if
buried in deep calculation.
“There must be some cause for this bad luck, Kid,” said Harry. “What do
you make of it? He understands autos perfectly, I suppose, Miss Crosby?”
“Oh, yes, he has _two_.”
“Interested in mechanical matters, then?”
“Oh, _very_ much.”
“Probably has a motor boat, also?”
“Yes, he _has_.”
“Such traits usually run in families. Has he any brothers and sisters?”
“Yes, the _dearest_ little fellow—and _he’s_ interested in mechanical
things, too.”
“Ah,” said Harry, thoughtfully. “He would probably be interested more in
some other form of mechanics—aeroplanes, for instance.”
“He is, he is!” cried Miss Antoinette.
“And if he spent too much time reading and studying about them it might
affect his health,” suggested Gordon, innocently.
“I catch your idea,” Harry said. “You think the older brother might be
preoccupied by concern for the little fellow’s health, and so not give
his full attention to his car?”
“That might account for his having so many accidents,” said Gordon. “He
ought to take his chauffeur along.”
“Possibly he leaves him at home to help the little fellow with his
aeroplanes,” said Harry, after a moment’s thoughtful pause. “Living in
the city, as I suppose they do, the little chap would naturally take
advantage of being up here to try out his models. And they might be
afraid of his meeting with some accident—being so near the lake, too.
_Is_ his health at all delicate, Miss Crosby?” he added.
“Yes, _indeed_,” cried the girl, who had been staring from one to the
other in speechless amazement.
“They all worry about him _so_ much. And he _does _stay indoors too
much, reading and experimenting with his aeroplanes. Roger is _always_
speaking of it, and I believe he _does_ leave his chauffeur at home for
that _very_ reason.”
“Then, too,” said Gordon, placing the tips of his fingers together, “the
chauffeur would be needed for the other auto—taking parties about. The
house is probably full of guests most of the time.”
“Pre-cisely,” said Harry. “And the father probably doesn’t understand
much about motors,” he added, as an after-thought. “He naturally
wouldn’t. May I ask if the chauffeur is Irish, Miss Crosby?”
“His name is Pat,” she answered, as if in a trance.
“Probably cheerful and good-natured,” mused Harry. “So you think they do
worry about the younger brother’s health?”
“Oh, I _know_ they _all_ do, for his lungs aren’t strong.”
“I should say they’ll probably move to the country before very long,”
said Gordon, with great deliberation. “The little boy would be better
there. Very likely they’ll build in some good, healthful suburb, most
likely somewhere in New Jersey, and give up their city residence
altogether.”
“Not necessarily,” said Harry.
But Miss Antoinette had jumped to her feet. “I _never_ in my _life_!”
she exclaimed. “It’s _perfectly miraculous_! That’s _exactly_ what they
_are_ going to do! Mr. Danforth is building a _beautiful_ place up on a
hill in New Jersey, and they’re going there to live this Fall!”
[Illustration: “‘I NEVER IN MY LIFE!’ SHE EXCLAIMED.”]
“’Twas merely a guess of my friend,” said Harry, in a deprecating way,
as he rose to pump some water. But the repressed twitching around
Gordon’s rebellious lips made the girl suspicious.
“You’re just _fooling_ me!” she cried. “You must _know_ them!”
In a few minutes it was all out. Gordon, entirely heedless of Harry’s
scowls and embarrassment, gave her a complete account of the rescue of
little Penfield and their subsequent visit at the Danforth place. She
was entirely of Gordon’s way of thinking as to the acceptance of the
boat, and assured Harry that there was really no hope of escaping Mr.
Danforth. “You might _just_ as well have _taken_ it,” she said, “and
then you wouldn’t have to be _worrying_ about what he might do next.”
“You don’t think he’ll really get up a conspiracy?” Harry laughed.
“I _know_ he will, and it will serve you _right_; you _did_ interfere
with his liberty.”
“Now you see,” sneered Gordon, with great satisfaction. “What did I tell
you? He never takes my advice,” he added, confidentially, to the girl.
“Now you take to-day, if he only had—”
“Is that a tennis court over there?” Harry interrupted.
“Yes—do you like tennis? I _hate_ croquet—they _all_ play croquet
here, and there’s not a _boy_ in the place. Oh, I wish I were you, you
can have _such_ fun, going _wherever_ you want to, and just camping
out.”
They walked over through the croquet field and were presented to twelve
ladies and two lonely gentlemen, all of whom showed a lively interest in
them, as people usually do in boy scouts. Then to the tennis court,
where Miss Crosby and Harry played a lively game, while Gordon sat on a
rustic seat and gorged himself with apples. Between games she made a
hasty trip to her mother on the croquet ground, and presently that lady
strolled over and insisted that the boys remain to dinner.
Gordon’s eye was on Harry, and he did not dare decline. They found the
summer guests a cordial set, who were only too glad to vary the daily
routine of alternate croquet and bridge by entertaining them and plying
them with questions.
Early in the afternoon they set forth for Bulwagga Mountain. Miss Crosby
had acquired a lively interest in their enterprise and had made them
promise, at parting, that they would call again if they could possibly
manage it, “and show me some more _deducing_” she had said, with an
injured look.
And she added that she would “_certainly_ stay up until _midnight_, and
try to discover smoke, and if she _did_ discover it, she would know that
_they_ had seen it too, and would be with their friends in the morning,
and _wouldn’t_ that be just _dear_?”
Harry said it certainly would, but that it was too good to be true.
“Now, Harry,” said Gordon, as they started into a clump of woods in the
direction of the great Bulwagga Mountain, “the trouble with you is that
you don’t recount your adventures. That’s the only trouble with you,
Harry. You should have recounted your adventures. There was your chance
to recount them to a maiden.”
“A what?”
“A maiden—it’s the same as a girl. And you’ve got the very best kind of
an adventure, too—rescuing some one from drowning—it’s always a
winner. Why, Harry, a maiden always marries a fellow that saves her from
drowning—always! It’s all right to have adventures, but if you want to
be a real hero, you’ve got to recount them. They always do in books.
‘After he recounted his adventures—’”
“Well, that shows I’m not much of a hero, Kid, doesn’t it?”
“I know, but you _might_ be. You’ve got the adventures all right, only
you don’t recount them. _I’m_ not blaming you, Harry, because you don’t
know much about girls. Now there was a fellow in a play, named Othello,
and oh, cracky, Harry, but he was a peacherino! He used to recount his
adventures all the time—to a maiden. And he made a great hit, too. And
you could do the same thing, Harry. There’s no kind of an adventure like
a rescue from drowning. Of course, I don’t say anything against pulling
a maiden off the railroad track, especially if she’s bound with cruel
thongs, because that’s a winner, too. But a rescue from drowning catches
them every time. Why, don’t you suppose that Alger, and Henry, and men
like that, know? You bet they do! ’Most all their heroes save people
from drowning, and that’s how they win her hand. If I had an adventure
like that, I’d recount it to maidens, you can bet! But I’m not saying
you didn’t make a hit, Harry.”
“Oh, stop that, Kid.”
“No, I won’t stop it, either. If you’d only had on your khaki suit, like
me, it would have been great. But even as it was, you made a hit,
Harry.”
“You’re dreaming, Kid.”
“All right; but you’re going there again, I can tell you that.”
“Not.”
“I bet you do.”
“I bet I don’t.”
“She invited you.”
“She invited both of us.”
“Yes, but she meant you.”
“What the dickens gives you that idea?”
“I deduced it, Harry.”