MEG'S SECRET
And what of Florence and Meg? They had not fared so badly after all.
Three minutes after her first meeting with the young policeman, Florence
was thinking fine things about Meg.
"This girl Meg certainly has a way about her," she thought. "She does
things to people."
She wondered what Meg had done to the young policeman. "Surely," she told
herself, "she didn't use that iron belaying pin on him the way she did on
that terrible man who had been following me. No, she didn't do that,
though I suspect she still has it hidden up her sleeve."
One thing was sure, she had done something to the young policeman.
Florence hadn't heard what Meg had said, but she did know that one moment
he was frightening the very life out of her by demanding that she unlock
the bag and show him the contents, which was quite as much unknown to her
as to him, and the next he had let out a low chuckling laugh and had told
her she might run along. How was she to account for that?
She didn't bother much to account for it. She was too much pleased at
being able to go on her way, and carrying with her the bag with its
secret securely sealed. She would know about Meg later. Meg had promised
to tell.
It was only after they had started on that she noticed that the storm had
blown itself out and the stars were shining. They were soon aboard a car
bound for home.
An hour later, in the warmth of her room, and with the bag at their feet,
Florence and Meg sat dreamily thinking their own thoughts.
Florence was not sure that she did not sleep a little. After the wild
experiences of the night, followed by the battle with the storm, this
would not be surprising.
She did not sleep long, however, and soon they fell to talking in the way
girls will when the hour is approaching midnight and the strenuous
experiences of an exciting night are all at an end.
At an end, did I say? Well, not quite. Perhaps you might say not at all;
for did not the mysterious brown leather traveling bag, which had been
wondered about and fought over, rest on the floor at their feet? And was
not the seal unbroken? Did it not still contain Florence's Christmas
secret? And now it was just twenty-five minutes until midnight, the
witching hour when secrets are revealed.
"There is just time for you to finish telling me about yourself before
the tower clock strikes midnight," said Florence, glancing at the small
clock on her desk.
"Oh!" laughed Meg with a little shrug of her wonderful shoulders. "There
really isn't much to tell. I've already told you that since I was a slip
of a child I've lived on ships with my uncle. He's a mate. We've been on
a lot of ships because he often drinks too much and can't hold his
position. He's a big gruff man, but kind enough in his way."
"That man who----"
"No, the man who told you about the train was not my uncle. That was Tim,
a sailor. My uncle sent him.
"Well, you know," she went on, "at first I was just sort of a ship's
mascot and the sailors' plaything. They rode me on their backs and
carried me, screaming with delight, to the top of the mast.
"That didn't last long. They found I could peel potatoes, so they put me
to work. And I've been at work ever since."
She spread out her hands and Florence saw that they were as seamed and
hard as a farmer's wife's.
"I don't mind work," Meg continued. "I love it. But I like to learn
things, too; like to learn them out of books, with folks to tell me what
it means. I've gone to school all I could, but it wasn't much. I want to
go some more.
"Uncle has signed up for a sea voyage through the Canal to England. He
wanted me to go along as cook. It's a lumber ship; sure to be a rough
crew. I don't mind 'em much."
Something suddenly clattered on the floor. It was Meg's belaying pin.
"I--I guess you sort of get rough when you go on the sea," she
apologized, smiling. "That's partly why I didn't want to go. My uncle
would have made me go that day you changed places with me, if he'd found
me. He likes to have me along because he can get a better berth himself
if he can bring along a good cook. Good sea cooks are scarce.
"I'm not going now. His train's gone and he's gone. He left that day."
"So that was what the man and the woman meant by the train leaving at
eleven-thirty?" asked Florence.
"Yes. That woman was the matron of the Seamen's Home. She thought I ought
to go. She didn't know everything. She didn't understand. I'm eighteen.
My uncle hasn't any right to claim me now, and I owe him nothing.
Everything that's been done for me I've paid for--paid with hard labor."
Again she spread her seamed hands out on her lap.
"But now," she said after a moment's silence, "now I'm not sure that I
know how I'm going to school. It costs a lot, I suppose, and besides I've
got to live. They let me stay on that ship. That's something, but it's a
long way from any school, and besides----"
"Wait," Florence broke in. "Let me tell you----"
But just then Meg held up a warning finger. Loud and clear there rang out
over the snow the midnight chimes.
"Midnight," whispered Florence, reaching out a hand for the bewitching
bag.