A STRANGE BOY SCOUT
Marjorie and Frieda began to feel very tired and uncomfortable after
they had walked several miles in their wet clothing. Had the sun been
out to dry them, or had they been familiar with the road, it would not
have been so difficult to go on. Their pace became slower and slower,
each girl making a desperate effort to keep cheerful for the sake of
the other. But soon they began to look eagerly for a house where they
could get food and have a place to rest. They knew that they dared not
lie down upon the ground, for they would not only be in danger of cold,
but also of discovery by their enemy. So they pressed valiantly on.
“Anyway, it’s better than staying forever at that prison!” commented
Marjorie. Her feet were particularly wet, and her shoes heavy.
“I should say so! But wasn’t the old man awful? Marj, don’t you hope we
never are greedy like that when we get old?”
“You bet! But do you know, I felt sorry for his poor wife. Isn’t it
funny, Frieda, to think how differently a man may turn out, after he’s
been married a long time? I don’t think Mrs. Higgins loves him now,
but probably she did when they were young.”
“I suppose so!” sighed the other girl, much more interested in their
own problem than in that of their former captors.
All the while she was keeping a sharp look-out among the trees, hoping
to spy a house, or at least a forsaken barn where they might find
protection. It was not long afterward that she was rewarded for her
diligence.
“Look, Marj!” she cried. “Isn’t that a house--or something?”
And suddenly the girls realized that the night was over, that the
first grey light of dawn was upon them. Looking in the direction her
companion indicated, Marjorie too distinguished a grey, shadowy outline
in the distance. Her heart leaped for joy; there was a chance of a rest
at last!
“Don’t you wish we had a watch?” she said; “or even our maps?”
“Anyhow, we know it’s Monday morning,” said Frieda. “And we ought to
get to Silvertown today--tonight, rather. For walking is as fast as
canoeing.”
By this time they were close enough to the structure to see that it was
a rather tumble-down farm-house. The boards of the porch were rotting,
and the woodwork everywhere needed paint. Two or three chairs on the
porch made the girls certain of the fact that the place was inhabited.
The windows were all wide open, but there was not a sign of a screen.
Obviously, this was not so prosperous a farm as the one they had just
left. But Marjorie and Frieda did not mind; they were so weary that
a great sense of thankfulness at the promise of a rest was the only
feeling that possessed them.
“How much of the truth shall we tell?” asked Frieda, as they approached
the porch.
“Only that we are Girl Scouts, who have lost our party, and had our
canoe stolen,” answered Marjorie, promptly. “And that we have no money,
but when we get to Silvertown, we’ll send it to pay for a bed and a
meal!”
With no attempt at quiet, they walked boldly up the porch steps,
and knocked loudly. They had to wait only a minute or two, until a
middle-aged woman in a soiled wrapper came to the door. Her hair was
already arranged in a knot; it was evident that she had been occupied
in the process of dressing when she heard the knock. Marjorie told
the story as briefly as possible, leaving out the part about their
captivity.
“Yes, sure!” said the woman, in answer to their request. “I’ll fix you
up a cup of coffee, and you can go right to bed. Then I’ll have a nice
breakfast when you wake up.”
She proceeded to fix up her own bed for the girls and loaned them night
dresses so that she might hang their wet clothing out to dry. The girls
drank their coffee gratefully, and slipped into the borrowed garments,
too tired even to laugh at the absurd appearance they made. They were
asleep in no time.
It was noon when they finally awakened. Frieda jumped out, surprised at
the brightness of the sun.
“Oh, Marj! We’ll have to hurry!” she cried; “or else we won’t get there
tonight. Maybe the woman, whatever her name is, can tell us how many
miles away Silvertown is.”
She went to the door and called down the stairs, wishing that she knew
the woman’s name. In a second, however, she received an answer, and
Mrs. Brown appeared at the foot of the stairway.
“Have a good nap?” she asked.
“Fine, thanks,” replied Frieda. “But it’s late, and we want to get
started. Are our clothes dry?”
“Good and dry!” answered Mrs. Brown; “and I pressed your dresses fer
you!”
“Oh, thanks!” called Marjorie, gratefully. “Will you bring them up,
Mrs.----?”
“Brown,” supplied the woman. “I’m a widder, and I live with me brother,
Sam Cullen. You’ll meet him when you come down.”
A few minutes later she appeared with the clothing, all thoroughly
dry, and, as she had said, the suits both carefully pressed. In high
spirits, the girls dressed quickly.
When they went downstairs they were surprised at the darkness of the
house. Then, looking around, they saw that every window was tight
shut, and the shutters closed and bolted from the outside. Two or three
oil lamps were burning in the hall, kitchen and dining room.
“Why so dark?” asked Marjorie, as Mrs. Brown motioned her to a seat at
the table.
“Well, we ain’t got no nettin’ and the flies gets in after the vittals.
It’s dreadful to be poor!”
“Mrs. Brown, how much shall we owe you for our visit?” asked Marjorie,
changing the subject. “And will it be all right to send a money order?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that!” said the older woman. “Yer welcome to
what we’ve got--it ain’t much. But I don’t think you’d better start out
today. Why not rest and wait till termorrer mornin’ early? If you start
now, you’ve got another night to spend in the woods, and I reckon you
won’t find another place to house you like this.”
“Thanks ever so much,” replied Marjorie; “but we don’t want to miss our
party any longer than necessary. About how far is it to Silvertown?”
“Dunno exactly--’bout ten miles, I reckon.” She really knew it was not
nearly so far, but she thought that if she could persuade the girls to
stay it would be so much easier than forcing them.
The girls ate their breakfast, which, though good, and well cooked, was
not nearly so nice as the food Mrs. Higgins had given them. As they ate
they talked the situation over. They thought that it was about one
o’clock, but having no watches, they were amazed to find it quarter of
three. This deception was merely another part of Mrs. Brown’s scheme.
“Frieda, I don’t believe we could go ten miles before dark, even in our
dry clothing,” said Marjorie; “and I don’t care about the prospects of
another night in the woods by ourselves, with no tent, or food. If we
only had some money, we could hire a machine!”
“Where would you hire it from?” put in Mrs. Brown, rather sharply.
“Besley’s the nearest town, and it’s five miles off! Of course,” she
added; “if I had the money, you’d be welcome to it. But I ain’t got no
more than fifty cents to my name.”
Marjorie sighed, and settled herself to the inevitable. They decided to
stay.
Mrs. Brown, although delighted with the decision, was nevertheless in a
quandary. She would have to let the girls go out; but could she trust
them to return? She thought how angry her brother would be if she let
them escape, and how roughly he might treat her afterwards for it.
Still, she decided to take the risk.
“And what would you like to do this afternoon?” she inquired, politely.
“Take a walk?”
The girls were delighted with this suggestion, for it reminded them of
their freedom, but they did not wish to act upon it. They were still
weary, and their feet were sore; the prospect of rest was alluring.
“No, thanks, I think it would be nicer to stay on the porch, and take
it easy,” said Marjorie. “Have you any books, Mrs. Brown?”
“No books,” she replied; “but a travellin’ man left me some sample
copies of magazines here a month or two ago. Want ’em?”
“Yes, indeed!” answered Marjorie; and Mrs. Brown promptly brought them.
All the afternoon the girls sat in the rickety, yet comfortable rocking
chairs on the porch, and read the stories in the magazines. If they had
not reached the goal of their desire, they were at least content.
Supper was ready about seven o’clock--by real time; for Mrs. Brown had
switched the clock back while they were reading--and she gave them a
very good meal. The girls enjoyed it immensely; and after supper they
helped her with the dishes, walked around the farm with her brother,
and went early to bed, with the promise of being awakened at five the
next morning.
Their disappointment came, however, when Frieda awoke to find it broad
daylight. She had no way of telling time, but she knew by the sun that
it was long after five o’clock.
“And today’s Tuesday!” she wailed. “Marj, we were fools to stay! The
whole world is against us, I believe. Oh, do hurry!”
The girls dressed quickly and descended to the darkness below.
“Oh, what time is it, Mrs. Brown, and why didn’t you call us?” demanded
Marjorie, in distress.
“It’s half past seven,” replied the woman. “But you need not get so
impatient, for yer not a leavin’ this here house today!”
“What do you mean?” asked Marjorie, in amazement. A quick, sudden pang
of fear seized her: were they in a prison again?
“I mean jest what I said! There was a man here to say that you are a
runaway, and your father’s offered a thousand dollars to whoever finds
you, and the man’s over to Beasley’s tryin’ to get your father on the
telephone. So, if my brother and I kin keep you here, the old man’s
goin’ fifty-fifty on the reward!”
Marjorie sank into a chair, overcome by the sense of the relentless
fate that seemed to be pursuing and overtaking her. It was like a
hideous dream: they were caught in a queer, unreal sort of net, from
which there was no escape. She wondered whether the old man who had
first announced the idea were not crazy; indeed, she felt that this
must be the explanation of the matter. And yet he seemed to be very
sane in all other respects.
She remembered reading of other demented persons--rational on all but
one subject, and obsessed by a certain idea. Evidently old Higgins had
gone crazy on the subject of gold, and his diseased, avaricious mind
had imagined this contingency. But why, oh, why, should she--poor,
innocent Marjorie Wilkinson--be the victim? Especially when it meant
so much to her to get to Silvertown by Wednesday, and to be in time to
take part in the races!
In vain she protested that the facts were not true; that her father and
mother knew exactly where she was and had given their full consent to
the trip; but the woman only shook her head.
“It will not be for long. The old man promised me he’d be back tonight,
no matter what happened. So it means only one more day. You can start
early t’morrer mornin’.”
“But that will be too late!” cried Marjorie, bursting into tears.
“Oh, you are too cruel! You’re not human beings; you’re beasts! And I
hope----”
“Marj, come upstairs,” interrupted Frieda. She did not wish her
companion to say anything for which she might later be sorry.
“I’ll bring your breakfast up,” said Mrs. Brown, calmly. “And you’d
better stay upstairs, it’s cooler. You can have the windows open
there--there’s no danger of you gettin’ out so high up.”
With Frieda’s arm around her, Marjorie stumbled out of the room and up
the stairs. Frieda was the stronger now, of the two, but it was only
because the thing did not touch her so deeply as it did her companion.
Indeed, she suffered more for Marjorie’s sake than for her own. The
canoe race meant little to her, and the house-party less. The canoe
trip had been the main event to her; she even shrank a little shyly
at the idea of such an exclusive resort and so gorgeous a house. She
feared that she might say and do the wrong things, and she dreaded
Ruth’s silent ridicule. But she realized how much it all meant to
Marjorie.
Marjorie sank upon the bed, disconsolately refusing to eat. Frieda,
however, partook of the breakfast, and then went over to examine the
windows. Perhaps there might be another lattice.
But this old tumble-down house boasted of no such decoration, and if
there had been one, it would no doubt have been so rotten that an
attempt to descend by it would have been fatal. She sighed and turned
away.
“We can see the creek plainly from this window,” she said; “let’s sit
by it. Maybe somebody might come along, and we could call for help.”
“We wouldn’t dare--they’d hear us and persecute us all the more,”
objected Marjorie.
“If the scouts came, we could semaphore to them,” remarked Frieda.
“They’d be near enough to read it.”
“_If_ they came, Frieda!” repeated Marjorie, sarcastically.
Nevertheless, she pulled a chair over to the window, and sat down. For
some minutes she gazed idly out of the window, watching the patches
of light made by the bright morning sun flickering on the water. The
ripple of the current, as the creek passed over the stones, was the
only sound that broke the stillness on that summer morning.
“You can’t see very far, though,” she observed; “there must be a bend
up there.”
She got up from her chair and leaned against the narrow frame, in her
endeavor to see as far as she could. For a moment the motion of the
wind in the foliage deceived her; she thought she saw something coming,
only, however, to find herself a minute later, disappointed.
She was still leaning in this position when suddenly her attitude
became tense, alert, eager! Was she to be deluded again? She waited
in breathless anticipation. From around the bend, she distinguished a
narrow birch-bark canoe glide into view!
“Frieda!” gasped the excited girl, “somebody’s coming!”
“Sh!” warned the other, rushing towards the window. “Don’t scream! Oh,
how shall we get their attention?” she looked wildly about the room for
inspiration.
“There--get that red table-cover, and I’ll wave it!” commanded
Marjorie. “Oh, Frieda, look--he has a uniform! It’s khaki color! Oh, if
it--if it could be--Frieda, _It’s a Boy Scout_!”
No discovery could possibly have brought a greater thrill to these
desolate prisoners. For surely this meant delivery from captivity,
freedom! If they could only attract his attention!
The canoe came nearer; they watched it in breathless suspense, both
leaning far out of the window, and waving their arms, their red
table-cover, even the ties of their uniforms. Fortunately, being a
canoeist, the stranger approached them face to face; had he been rowing
a boat, all their hopes of securing his attention would have been lost.
In spite of their wild attempts to attract his notice, the boy
continued to look into the water until he advanced to within twenty
yards of the house. But suddenly from the tree near by sounded the
clear call of a king-fisher; and instantly he looked up toward
the house. He missed the bird, but caught sight of the two girls,
frantically signalling.
Frieda instantly put her finger to her lips, while Marjorie spelled out
the word HELP in semaphore.
The boy stopped paddling, and wrinkled his forehead in uncertainty.
What was the meaning of this? Had he read the message aright?
Assured now of the scout’s interest, Marjorie began to send a longer
message, to explain her meaning at length.
“We are two Girl Scouts held prisoners here. Please bring help. Not a
word.”
She repeated the entire message and waited breathlessly. Then, to her
infinite joy, she watched him signal back.
“Give me one hour! Courage!” he flashed, and, turning around, he
returned whence he came.
With a great gasp of joy the girls sank to the floor exhausted.