THE OLD MILL
Cots creaked as four forms rose to sitting positions on them. There were
gasping intakes of breath. Natalie, cowering amid the coverings pointed
with a shaking finger toward the tent wall near her.
“There—there!” she hoarsely whispered.
“Boys! Boys!” screamed Marie. “Oh, Jack—Blake!”
“Where’s that am—am—ammonia gun?” demanded Mabel, in shivering accents.
“I—oh, where did I put it—under my pillow? No, here it is,” and from an
upturned box near her cot—a box that served as bureau and chiffonier,
Mrs. Bonnell caught up her weapon.
“Where is he?” she demanded of Natalie.
“There—there—he was trying to crawl under the tent! Oh, shoot!”
Something spurted from the muzzle of the odd little revolver, and a
moment later there were other kinds of screams.
“Oh, my eyes!”
“My nose!”
“Oh, what awful stuff!”
“A-ker-choo” some one sneezed.
“Will it explode from the flame of the lantern?”
“Oh, Mrs. Bonnell! You aimed it right at me!”
“Did I, my dear? I guess my hand must have shaken. Oh, but it is
powerful; isn’t it?”
And they all covered their streaming eyes from the fumes of the ammonia,
which, confined by the closed tent, played havoc with them. Choking and
gasping Mrs. Bonnell jumped up to open one of the tent flaps to let in
air.
“Did—did you hit—him?” gasped Mabel.
“I—I didn’t see any one,” confessed the Guardian. “Natalie did, though.”
“I—I didn’t really _see_ him,” murmured breath-of-the-pine-tree. “I—I
heard him. Oh, please some one hand me my cold cream. I can’t see—those
fumes from the ammonia are in my eyes.”
“Didn’t you see him?” demanded Marie, as she tossed a tube of the cream
over on Natalie’s cot.
“No-o-o-o. There was a scratching sound, and I woke up, and—and——”
“I shot!” declared Mrs. Bonnell.
“You needn’t tell us that!” laughed Marie. “We all know it.”
“I couldn’t find the pistol at first,” went on the Guardian, “for I had
it in mind to put it under my pillow, and then I was afraid it might
leak, so I laid it on my ‘bureau,’” and she smilingly indicated the
upturned soap box. “But I found it,” she went on.
“I’m sure whoever it was won’t come back,” spoke Alice. “Suppose we take
a look.”
“Never!” cried Marie.
“Hark! What’s that?” demanded Natalie, as there sounded from without a
trampling in the bushes.
“He’s coming back!” murmured Mabel. “Shoot again, Mrs. Bonnell.”
“Cover your heads, girls!” advised Marie.
“What’s the matter in there?” demanded a voice they all recognized as
Jack’s. “What has happened?”
“Shall we come in?” asked Blake.
“Don’t you dare!” cried Natalie. “Wait a minute!”
Taking warning the Camp Fire Girls draped themselves more or less
picturesquely in their robes.
“Look around outside, and see if you can find any one mortally wounded,
Jack,” begged Marie of her brother. “Then you may just peek in, and tell
us about it.”
There was a flash of a lantern outside the tent, and the voices of the
three lads as they walked about the shelter.
“There he is!” Blake was heard to cry.
“Oh—oh, is he—is he—dead?” faltered Mrs. Bonnell.
“He seems just to be having a fit,” answered Phil with a chuckle.
The girls heard a commotion amid the dead leaves.
“That ammonia was very strong,” murmured Alice.
“Behold your victim!” cried Jack, parting the tent flaps, that had been
allowed to fall back after the fumes had been somewhat blown away.
“Behold your victim!” and by the tail, he held up to view a small fox,
the hapless animal appearing to be in a sort of fit or stupor.
“Take him away! Take him away!” screamed Alice. “He’ll bite!”
“Not for some time,” replied Jack grimly. “You did for him good and
proper. Some of that liquid ammonia must have gotten on him, Mrs.
Bonnell.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to.”
“It will be a good lesson,” went on Phil, while Jack tossed the fox into
the bushes, the skin not being in good condition, and also too small to
use. “He’ll be all right in a little while, and probably he won’t come
prowling about the tent after dark again.”
“There used to be lots of ’em, and—er—other animals of the forest about
our tent in other years,” went on Phil, “until we found that leaving
scraps of food brought them. After that we buried all our refuse and
they didn’t come.”
“Girls, we’ll dig a deep hole the first thing in the morning!” declared
the Guardian.
“We’ll do it for you,” offered Blake. “Can we do anything more?”
“No, thank you,” murmured Natalie. “It was good of you to come.”
“Why wouldn’t we; with all that yelling?” asked Jack.
“We thought the ghost of the old mill was carrying you off,” explained
Blake.
“Ugh! Don’t speak of it—we’ll never get another wink of sleep,” declared
Mabel.
The boys departed, laughing and joking, and the girls tried to compose
themselves to slumber, but it was not easy. However even a little rest
in that glorious balsam-laden air was enough, and they awoke in the
morning much refreshed.
Water had been brought from the spring the night before, and after
simple toilets, simple perforce, they arranged for breakfast. The boys
had brought them eggs from their supply, pending arrangements the girls
would make with a near-by farmer, and with crisp bacon and coffee there
was a meal that even a jaded epicure might have partaken of with
delight.
All about was a freshness; the trees with their green leaves, the
sparkling lake within a stone’s throw of their dining canopy and the
birds flitting about overhead.
“Glorious—glorious—most glorious!” murmured Natalie. “I feel like
writing a poem.”
“Compose it while you wash the dishes,” advised Marie with a laugh.
“Oh, see the flowers, growing right back of our tent!” exclaimed Mabel,
as she arose from the table to gather a clump of fern and some blue
blossoms, which she arranged in a cracked pitcher. “Isn’t that
artistic?” she demanded.
“There’s condensed milk in that vase—pronounced vaase,” murmured Alice
with a chuckle, and then a piece of bacon went down her “wrong throat,”
and Mabel declared that it served her right.
“Now to get our camp in order,” called Mrs. Bonnell after the simple
meal. “We must decide who will be the hewers of wood and the drawers of
water,” she went on. “We will take turns in doing the dishes, and
cooking—in fact all the camp duties ought to run in a sort of rotation,
for the work must be done.”
“Law of the Camp Fire number two,” murmured Marie. “Give service.”
“Exactly,” laughed the Guardian.
The girls had donned their comfortable bloomer suits, for there was to
be much activity.
Then began a busy time, which was hardly ended when from the path along
the lake shore came a hail:
“Wo-he-lo ahoy!”
“It’s the boys!” exclaimed Mabel.
“Dogwood camp!” answered Marie.
“‘Come into my garden, Maude!’” invited Blake.
“He means come for a ride,” added Phil.
“We’re too busy,” declared Mrs. Bonnell.
“We’ll help you,” offered Jack. “Come! It’s too fine a day to stay
around camp. We’ll take you to the haunted mill.”
“It doesn’t sound so scary in daylight,” spoke Natalie, as the three
lads came up the path from the water.
“Any more foxes?” asked Blake.
“Thank goodness no.”
“Come on, boys. Wood and water; and help fill the lanterns and oil
stove!” suggested Jack. “Then they’ll come with us,” and soon they had
completed the harder tasks of the camp. Then they helped the girls
arrange their cots and trunks differently so as to give more room, put
up some boxes to serve as cupboards and storage places, and did other
small services that were much appreciated.
“Will you trust yourselves in the launch?” asked Jack, when they were
ready to set out.
“Will it blow up?” asked Marie.
“No, but it may stop in the middle of the lake. But we can paddle back.”
“I’ll go,” offered Natalie. “I want to see the ancient mill and the
hermit thereof.”
“Old Hanson may not be in,” suggested Phil. “He’s always tramping off
around the country. But we can look over his shack.”
Soon the merry party was in the launch, which, though it was a bit
wheezy, like some old man with the asthma, still went along at good
speed. They talked, laughed and sang, and finally reached a small dock,
near which, according to the boys, was located the old mill.
“It used to grind the grist for the country round about here,” explained
Phil, as they took a woodland path, so narrow that they had to walk
Indian file. “Then it was on a stream that used to run into the lake.
But the stream seems to have dried up to a mere ditch, and the old mill
is in ruins.”
“Why didn’t I bring my camera!” exclaimed Natalie. “I love to snap old
ruins.”
“You’ll have plenty of chances,” said Blake. “We’ll be here all summer,
as we hope you will.”
“We may, if the foxes leave us alone,” answered Mrs. Bonnell. “Though I
have plenty more of ammonia.”
“Put some talcum powder in next time,” urged Marie with a laugh.
They tramped on for some little time longer, gradually ascending from
the level of the lake, until they turned from a dense patch of woodland
into a little glade. Then the ruined mill confronted them.
“Oh, isn’t it lovely!” exclaimed Marie.
“A perfect dream,” declared Mabel.
“So romantic,” was Natalie’s opinion. “Oh, why did I leave my camera in
the tent? I must have a picture of that!”
Truly it was a picturesque scene—a tumbled-down, old mill, the ancient
wheel mossy-green with the growth of many years. The roof, in many
places, had fallen into decay, and the flapping shutters, half-hanging
on rusty hinges seemed like the closing eyelids of a very old man. The
doors creaked dismally to and fro in the gentle wind, and the crumbling
steps which had been worn by many tramping feet, were tumbling stone
from stone.
“And this is the haunted mill?” asked Natalie.
“It is,” said Blake, simply. “A dark tragedy is hidden behind its
crumbling walls.”
“What is it?” asked Marie eagerly.
“It is a fearsome tale, gentle ladies, a tale for the flickering camp
fire rather than for the garish light of day, but such as it is it shall
e’en be told unto you.”
“Cut out the romantic slush, and give ’em the facts,” broke in Jack.
“It’s a mill that was built somewhere around the Revolutionary time,” he
went on, “and the story goes that some women and children who took
refuge here during an Indian attack were killed by the savages.”
“Oh!” murmured the girls.
“Really, Jack?” asked his sister, who knew him well.
“That’s a fact,” declared Blake, “only he puts it so crudely. He might
add that on the anniversary of the massacre the moans of the—er—of those
who were cut down in the flower of their youth—echo through the old
mill.”
“Stop it!” demanded Natalie. “Even in daylight that’s bad enough. If you
try to tell that after dark we—we’ll——”
“Use the ammonia gun on him!” threatened Mrs. Bonnell.
“Well, I’m only telling you the story,” declared Blake. “You don’t have
to believe it.”
“And does that old man who helped us live here?” asked Alice.
“In a little shack around in the back,” said Phil. “Come on, we’ll look
at it, and then we’ll go in the mill.”
“And does he live in there?” came a chorus from the girls, as they
viewed the little shack which the boys pointed out to them. It was a
mere hut, consisting of but a single room, into which they looked
through not too clean a window.
“There is where he lives, moves and has his being,” declaimed Blake. “I
guess he isn’t in,” he went on, as he rattled at the rickety door.
“Blake!” remonstrated his sister. “He may not like it.”
“Oh, we stand in good with Hanson,” declared Jack. “We keep him in
tobacco money.”
“Horrid!” murmured Natalie.
“Let’s go in the mill,” suggested Jack. “There is some curious
old-fashioned machinery there that’s worth seeing. This is an historical
place.”
“I love old places,” murmured Natalie. “But, oh! My camera!”
A musty, old, and damp odor greeted them as they crossed the rotting
threshold of the ancient mill.
“Mind the holes in the floor,” cautioned Jack. “It’s no fun to step into
one!”
They advanced into the old structure and for a moment stood in the
middle of the sagging floor. Overhead were cobwebbed beams and rafters,
and from somewhere below came the faint gurgle of the former mill stream
that had been wont, in years past, to turn the big wheel.
“It gives me the shivers!” confessed Mabel. “Let’s go——”
She did not finish the sentence. Through the hollow stillness that
seemed to weigh down her words sounded a mournful groan.