A CLOUD ARISES
While Mrs. Smith and Helen and Ann Hicks were "running around in circles,"
as Ann put it, wondering what had become of Amy Gregg, Ruth did the only
practical thing she could think of.
She hunted up Curly.
"Old Scratch!" ejaculated the boy. "I haven't seen Amy to-day. Sure I
haven't! No, Ma'am!"
"Not at _all_?" asked Ruth. "And don't you know where to look for her?"
"Oh, she'll take care of herself," said the boy, carelessly. "She isn't as
soft as most girls."
"But Mrs. Tellingham will be awfully angry with me," Ruth cried. "I was
supposed to look out for her when she came over here."
"Shucks!" exclaimed Curly. "Amy didn't want to be looked out for."
"That doesn't absolve me from my duty," sighed Ruth. "Haven't you the
least idea where she's gone?"
"No, Ruth, I haven't," the boy declared earnestly. "If I had I'd tell
you."
"I believe you, Curly."
"She and I haven't been so friendly," admitted the boy, in some
embarrassment, "since you went fishing with me that time."
"Goodness me! she's not jealous?" cried Ruth.
"I don't know what you call it," said Curly, hanging his head. "It's some
foolish girl stuff. Boys don't act that way. I told her I'd take her
fishing, too--if she'd get up early enough." Here Curly began to laugh.
"You can bet, Ruth, that wherever she is, she got there before dark and
won't come back until daylight."
"What do you mean?" asked Ruth, sharply.
"I know she's afraid as she can be of the dark. She's a regular baby about
that. Of course, she won't own up to it."
"Why! I never knew it," Ruth exclaimed.
"She wouldn't go fishing because I start so early--while it's still dark.
Catch _her_ out of the house before sun-up!"
"Oh, Curly! I blame myself," gasped Ruth. "I never knew that about her.
Are you sure?"
"'Course I am. She's scared of the dark. I can make her mad any time by
just hinting at it. So that proves it, don't it?" responded this young
philosopher.
"Maybe she has gone somewhere and is afraid to come back till morning,"
repeated Ruth.
"She's been after me to take her up to that dam where we caught the fish,
in the afternoon; but I told her we couldn't get home before pitch dark. I
ought to have taken her along, I guess, and said nothing," Curly added
reflectively.
"Last night she was talking about it. She said I should take her because I
took you there."
"You don't suppose she's gone clear over there by herself, do you?" Ruth
cried, in alarm.
"I don't believe she knows how to start, even," Curly said easily. "And I
told her last night she'd better not go anywhere till she got rid of that
sore throat."
"Sore throat!" repeated Ruth, with added worriment. "I never knew her
throat was sore."
"She told me, she did," Curly said. "It was pretty bad, I guess, too. I
guess maybe she was afraid to say anything about it. I don't like to tell
Gran when there's anything the matter with me. She mixes up such nasty
messes for me to take!"
"The poor child!" murmured Ruth, thinking only of Amy Gregg. "What _shall_
we do?"
"I'll get a lantern and we'll go hunt around for her," suggested Curly,
ripe for any adventure.
"But where will we hunt?"
"Maybe she's gone with some other girl somewhere."
"You know that can't be so," Ruth said. "There isn't a girl friendly
enough with her for her to say ten pleasant words to. The poor little
mite! I'm just as sorry as I can be for her, Curly."
"Well!" returned Curly, "what did she want to tell a story for? I know
what she did. She left the candle burning in her room because she was
afraid to come back to it in the dark after supper. I made her own up to
that."
"Oh! the poor child!" cried Ruth.
"And she didn't understand the electric light. They don't have electricity
in the town where she comes from; natural gas, instead. So that's the
_why_ of the fire," Curly said. "I picked that out of her long ago."
"And she was so close-mouthed with us!" exclaimed Ruth.
"She doesn't like it at Briarwood. She doesn't like the girls. She doesn't
like the teachers. Old Scratch!" exclaimed the boy, "I don't blame
her--and I guess I'd run away myself."
"You don't suppose she _has_ run away, Curly Smith? Not for _keeps_?"
"I don't know," answered the boy. "Her folks don't treat her right, I
guess. They sent her to Briarwood to get her out the way. So she says. And
she's afraid of what her father will do to her if he ever hears about that
candle and about how the dormitory got afire."
"That's why she wouldn't write to him for a contribution to the rebuilding
fund," cried Ruth.
"I guess so," said Curly. "She never said much to me about it. I just
wormed it out of her, as you might say. She isn't so awful happy here, you
bet."
"Oh, Curly! I blame myself," groaned Ruth.
"What for?"
"Because I ought to have learned more about her--got closer to her."
"You might's well try to get close to a prickly porcupine," laughed the
boy. "She'd made up her mind to hate the rest of you girls and she's going
to keep on hating you till the end of time. That's the sort of a girl Amy
is."
"And nothing to be proud about," declared Ruth, with some vexation. "Don't
you think it, Curly?"
"Huh! I don't. You're silly, Ruth--but I like you a whole lot more than I
do Amy."
"Goodness! what a polite boy," cried Ruth. "There's the telephone!"
She ran back upstairs, hoping the message would be that Amy Gregg was
found. But that was not it. Over the wire Mrs. Tellingham herself was
speaking to Ann.
"No, Ma'am. We don't know where to look for her," Ann said.
"We haven't any idea."
"Yes, Ma'am; Helen and I have looked. She hasn't taken any of her
clothes."
"Oh, goodness! you don't really suppose she's run away?"
"Do come here, Ruth, and hear what Mrs. Tellingham says!"
Ruth went to the telephone and heard the principal of Briarwood Hall
talking. What Mrs. Tellingham said was certainly startling.
It seemed that Amy Gregg had received a letter that afternoon. It was from
her father, and, of course, was not opened by the principal. But
afterward--after the child had disappeared from the premises, of
course--the letter came into Mrs. Tellingham's hands. It was found by Tony
Foyle down by the marble statue in the sunken garden. Evidently Amy had
run there, where she would be out of the way, to read it.
It was a very stern letter and accused Amy of some past offense before she
had left home. It likewise said that Mr. Gregg had received an anonymous
letter from some girl at Briarwood, telling about the fire, and about
Amy's supposed part in starting the blaze, and complaining that Amy would
not ask for a contribution to the dormitory fund.
Mr. Gregg was extremely angry, and he told his daughter that he would come
to Briarwood in a few days and investigate the whole matter. Why Amy Gregg
should run away was now clear. She was afraid to meet her father.
"Make sure that the poor child is nowhere about Mrs. Smith's, Ruth," Mrs.
Tellingham begged her over the wire. "I am sure I should not know what to
say to Mr. Gregg if he comes and finds that his daughter has disappeared.
The poor child! I shall not sleep to-night, Ruth Fielding. Amy must be
found."
Ruth felt just that way herself. No matter what her friends said in
contradiction, Ruth felt that she was partly to blame. She should have
kept a close watch over Amy Gregg.
"I let that picture-making get in between us," she wailed. "I'm glad it's
all done and out of the way. I'd rather not have written the scenario at
all, than have anything happen to Amy."
"You're a goose, Ruthie," declared her chum. "You're not to blame. Her
father's harshness with her has made the child run away. _If_ she has."
"Her own unhappy disposition has caused all the trouble," said Ann,
bitterly.
"Oh! don't speak so," begged Ruth. "Suppose something has happened to
her."
"Nothing ever happens to kids like her," said Ann, bruskly.
But that was not so. Something already had happened to Amy Gregg. She was
lost!