IN QUEST OF PEACHES
When the Girl Scouts finished their ice-cream, they sat for a few
minutes in the little drug store at Rikers, waiting for Ruth to return
from her errand.
“She certainly is a devoted daughter,” remarked Alice, as she directed,
with a spluttering, over-worked pen, a souvenir postal to her mother.
“I never would think of sending a telegram!”
“Ruth’s an only child,” explained Lily; “and it makes a difference, I
can tell you.”
“But you didn’t send your parents a telegram, Lil!” put in Marjorie.
“No--they’re away, somewhere. But I do write often.”
Tired of waiting for Ruth, the girls started toward the inn, and met
her almost at the steps. They were glad of the opportunity to go to bed
early that they might make a good start in the morning.
“And today’s Thursday,” remarked Miss Phillips, as they left the inn
before seven o’clock the following morning. “I think we ought to make
it by Saturday night. I sent a postal announcing our arrival for then,
anyhow.”
“And to whom did you announce it?” asked Ruth, hoping to catch her
captain unawares and cause her to give away the secret. But Miss
Phillips only smiled knowingly.
“This is the earliest start we have made yet,” she said; “but then we
had no breakfast to cook, or tents to take down.”
The girls paddled steadily all day. At last they came in sight of the
big mill which Miss Phillips had designated as their camping spot.
Ruth, however, was less interested in that than in the farm near by;
for, sure enough, it was there, only instead of being opposite the
mill, it was on the same side of the stream, a little farther down.
She had never confided to the other scouts the rumors that Michael had
repeated about the woman who lived there. Indeed, she scarcely believed
them herself, for she knew that gossiping people usually build stories
about lonely, isolated lives. Nor had she any desire to frighten the
girls; on the contrary she wanted to get Marjorie--and Frieda, if
possible--to visit the farm. She resolutely kept all her information to
herself. Only Harold Mason shared her knowledge.
Once she was sure of the farm, her next problem was how to get Marjorie
there on some ordinary pretext. But she did not have to think hard; the
difficulty practically solved itself. Before their very eyes, as they
passed by, loomed a whole orchard of magnificent peaches--just about
ripe! To the scouts, who had eaten little except dried fruit since
they had left home, the display was most alluring. And Ruth lost no
opportunity in mentioning them at every chance, in order to make the
girls’ mouths water all the more.
Accordingly, the next morning, soon after breakfast, she remarked,
“I’ve simply got to have some of those peaches! Captain, couldn’t Marj
and I paddle back to that farm-house and buy some for the rest of the
trip? Our supplies aren’t very heavy now, are they?”
Miss Phillips considered; it was Friday. Even if the weather continued
favorable and conditions good, they could not reach their destination
before Saturday night. So there were two days left to the journey; and
girls can eat a lot in two days. It was true, too, as Ruth said, that
their baggage was light. So, for all these reasons Miss Phillips gave
her consent to Ruth’s proposal, cautioning her, however, not to buy too
many.
“I’ll give you a dollar out of the fund,” she said; “and you may buy as
much as you can for that.”
Ruth and Marjorie jumped up in great glee, and made haste to go and
load their canoe. The others lingered a little.
“We better go in _Will-o’-the-Wisp_,” said Ruth. “Doris, will you go
with Lilian in _Water-Witch_?”
“Anything to get some of those peaches!”
“Don’t wait for us to come back here!” called Ruth; “we’ll paddle on,
and meet you later. We can’t get lost; if we’re too speedy for you,”
she added laughingly, “we’ll meet you at the next camp site--up by the
bend!”
“Well, don’t eat all the peaches!” called Ethel, as they started off.
But Ruth was not yet satisfied; she had no intention of going to the
farm herself. She knew she must, in some way, contrive to substitute
Frieda for herself. Before they reached the bank, she stopped short.
“Hang it all!” she exclaimed, apparently annoyed. “I’ve got a nail in
my shoe.”
“Shall I go get the hammer?” suggested Marjorie.
“No--I’d better go, for if I can’t get it out, I’ll have to get the
sneakers out of our bag. But say, this means delay. Could you go for
the peaches by yourself?”
“All right; certainly.”
“No, you better not, either,” decided Ruth, pretending to be very
solicitous about Marjorie’s welfare; “you’d better get another girl.
Ho--Frieda!”
Frieda appeared in a second, accepted the explanation, and took Ruth’s
place. The latter returned to the group of scouts, now ready to depart,
and made elaborate pretense at fixing an imaginary nail in her shoe.
The operation, however, seemed to be quickly performed; in less than
five minutes the scouts had pushed off, with now only four instead of
five canoes in the party.
Meanwhile, Marjorie and Frieda made for the opposite direction.
Arriving at their destination before the remainder of the party had
even started, they tied their canoe securely to a tree-trunk, and
walked towards the farm-house.
“I hope whoever lives there doesn’t bite our heads off,” observed
Marjorie.
Looking all around, they saw no one in sight, and proceeded towards the
front door.
“Don’t go to the front door, Marj!” said Frieda, stopping suddenly.
“Country people always use their kitchens most of all. Let’s go there!”
Accordingly, they passed around to the rear of the house. Peering
through the screen door of the kitchen, they beheld an attractive
interior--neat and clean and well kept. At the far corner, beside the
stove, they distinguished the stout figure of a woman bending over a
pan. Marjorie knocked timidly.
“Come in!” called the woman, cheerily. Then, turning around, she opened
her eyes wide in amazement at the sight of the two young girls.
“How do you do?” said Marjorie pleasantly, as she and Frieda entered
the big room. “We belong to the girls who camped last night a little
way up the stream, and we want to know whether you will sell us a
dollar’s worth of peaches. They looked delicious.”
The woman smiled with pleasure. A workman loves to hear praise of
his achievements, and the peach orchard was this lonely woman’s one
happiness and pride. For the moment, she forgot the part she was to
play in her sheer delight at the compliment.
“Yes, I growed them all myself. Been livin’ here nigh on to thirty
year--” she was about to say, “by myself” but caught herself in time,
and added, “me and my husband. And if I do say it myself, it’s a fine
crop of peaches I’ve got. I never have no trouble sellin’ them.”
“And do you do all the work yourself?” questioned Frieda. “Doesn’t your
husband help you?”
The woman shook her head. “No, he runs the car into Besley and other
towns and sells ’em, but I do all the growin’. He never seemed to have
no luck. But set down a minnit, and I’ll give you some doughnuts and
fresh milk.”
“Thanks,” said Marjorie, gratefully. “But I almost think we oughtn’t
to be so far behind the others----”
“But it will take a while to pick the peaches,” interrupted the
other; “and you might as well be restin’ and a refreshin’
yourselves. Set down!”
The girls laughed good naturedly, and seated themselves upon a long
wooden box which was evidently used for kindling. Just as they were
handed their refreshments, an old man shuffled into the room.
“Jim, these girls wants some peaches,” said the woman. “Will you go out
and pick them a basket?”
“A dollar’s worth,” explained Marjorie, biting into her doughnut.
The man nodded his head slowly, and then turned around and carefully
closed the wooden door and bolted it.
“First of all,” he drawled, “will you answer me one question. Be either
of yez by any chance Margie Wilkison?”
Marjorie dropped her doughnut into her lap in amazement. How could
this man possibly know her name? But she never thought for a moment of
attempting to conceal her identity. So she answered unhesitatingly.
“Yes, my name is Marjorie Wilkinson. Why?”
The old man squinted one eye, and, glorying in the completeness of his
disguise, looked into her face.
“You know why as good as I do, young leddy! They’s no use pretendin’!”
At these words both girls sprang up instantly. There was something
queer about the old creature--something uncanny! Both girls shuddered
involuntarily, and with a common purpose started for the door, leaving
their half-finished doughnuts on the table.
But the man held up his hand. He had no intention of allowing them to
escape thus easily.
“Maybe you think we don’t know all about who you are!” he said
mockingly.
Marjorie looked helplessly at the woman.
“Is he crazy?” she asked.
“No, indeed,” replied the other. “He really knows what he’s talking
about. And you do too, only you won’t own up to it!”
“Frieda!” said Marjorie, in a terrified voice. “We must get out of here
immediately.”
“Not so fast! Not so fast!” said the old man. “All the doors happen
to be locked. But in case you think I mean to harm you, I’ll explain,
though I know you’re only pretendin’ like you don’t know.
“Miss, you know better’n I do that you ran away from your pap. And you
must know as how he’s anxious to get you back. Though mebbe you’re not
acquainted with the fact that he’s offered a thousand dollars’ reward
to them as locates you and notifies him accordingly. Therefore, I mean
to hold you--and your friend, too, to keep you company--until your pap
gets my message and shows up to claim you and give me my reward. My
wife jest had one of them new fangled arrangements for runnin’ water
put in the house, and it cost us a pretty penny; the money’ll come in
right handy. We’ve got a nice bedroom for you upstairs, so you might
as well make yourselfs to home. Now is there anything I can do for you?”
By this time Marjorie realized that he was really in earnest, though
where he could have heard the strange story appalled her. She stood
still, hopeless, in the centre of the room, and two great tears rolled
down her cheeks.
“It’s all a ghastly lie!” she cried. “You people are ordinary
kidnappers--and that’s the meanest kind of criminal there is!” She
flashed a look of intense hatred at them both. “My father knows all
about where I am, and he gave me full permission to go with the scouts.
If you don’t believe me, why don’t you telephone him?”
“Easy, easy, me gal!” said the old man, with a cynical smile on his
face. “It’s possible, of course, that we might have the wrong Margaret
Wilkison, but I guess I’ll find that out. A thousand dollars would lift
the mortgage from this yere farm!”
“My name is _Marjorie_, not Margaret!” snapped the girl. “So you see
you’re mistaken after all, and you might as well let us go! You’ll
never get anything but a jail sentence out of my father!”
“Give me a chance to find that out; then, if I’m mistaken, I give you
my word, I’ll let you both go.”
“Well, then go phone now!” challenged Frieda. Though she had said
nothing thus far, it was not because she was not greatly incensed. Had
there been any hope of escape, she would have leaped at the old man,
for she was exceptionally strong. But she realized that it was useless
to attempt such a thing.
“Yes, go!” commanded Marjorie; and she gave the man her telephone
number. “Just see what my father says!”
“I am going over to Besley now. We ain’t rich enough to have a
telephone here. So make yourselfs comfortable, while I’m gone. Reckon
I’ll lock the missis in, too, in case you all get too rambunctious for
her!”
With these words he unbolted the door and went out, locking it on the
outside behind him. Frieda’s mind instantly flew to the windows, but
they were completely covered by a heavy wire screening which was
fastened to the window frame on the outside.
“I’m sorry, girls,” said the woman, her voice softening with pity, “but
he really won’t hurt you. He only wants the money. You don’t know how
it feels to be poor all yer life and then see a chance to make a tidy
sum, and not put all yer powers into gettin’ it. It’ll only be a matter
of a day or two, and then you can join yer party again if you ain’t the
one we’re lookin fer. And if you are, think how glad yer pap will be to
see you again. Now--want to come upstairs?”
The girls followed the woman half-heartedly up the crooked stair-case
to the second floor, all the while watching for chances to escape. But
they saw none.
The bedroom into which she led them was neat and clean, and the
bed linen spotless. Marjorie silently thanked her for that, and
sat down upon the chair beside the window. Here there was no wire
screening--only netting, and the sash was wide open. The lovely air
from the orchard floated in reminding them what a beautiful day it was
outside. Marjorie secretly wished that Ruth were her fellow-sufferer,
as originally planned; for somehow she felt that Ruth, with her
cleverness, could rise superior to almost any contingency.
“Well, Frieda, I guess we’re in for it!” she remarked as the door was
closed, and the retreating footsteps of the woman could be heard going
down stairs again. “And I suppose there’s no use getting excited over
it. But it certainly is hard luck!”
“Marj!” cried Frieda suddenly, in a doleful tone. “Suppose this makes
us too late for the water meet!”
The idea had not occurred to Marjorie. She looked thunderstruck for a
moment, but upon consideration, dismissed the thought with her usual
optimism.
“It simply couldn’t, Frieda,” she reassured the other. “Today’s only
Friday; the old sinner will surely find out today that he’s mistaken
and let us go early tomorrow. It’s two days’ trip--we’ll only be a day
late; and the meet isn’t till Wednesday. Oh, Frieda--” she jumped up
and threw her arms around her companion--“I’d be so disappointed if I
don’t have a chance to try for that cup!”
The woman appeared with their luncheon, and the girls found themselves
treated like royal guests. They slept in the afternoon, but by five
o’clock the old man had not appeared, and Marjorie’s hopes sank.
One day was lost!