THE SEARCH
It was fortunate that the Bryants were there to take the initiative, for
Mr. and Mrs. Maynard seemed incapable of action. Usually alert and
energetic, they were so stunned at the thought of real disaster to
Marjorie that they sat around helplessly inactive.
"Come with me, King," said Cousin Jack, going to the telephone in the
library.
Then he called up every house in Seacote where Marjorie could possibly
have gone, and King helped by suggesting the names of acquaintances.
But no one could give any news of the little girl; no one whom they
asked had seen or heard of her that afternoon.
Cousin Jack's face grew very white, and his features were drawn, as he
said: "You stay here, Ed, with Helen and Ethel; King and I will go out
for a bit. Come, King."
Kingdon said nothing; he snatched up his cap and went along silently by
Mr. Bryant's side, trying to keep up with his companion's long, swift
strides.
To the beach they went; it was not yet quite dark, but of course they
saw no sign of Marjorie.
"Are you thinking she might have been washed away by the waves?" asked
King, in a quivering voice.
"That's all I _can_ think of," replied Mr. Bryant, grimly.
"But it isn't likely, Cousin Jack. Mopsy is really a heavyweight, you
know. And there's not a very big surf on now."
"That's so, King. But where _can_ she be?" Then they went and talked
with the fishermen, and then on to the Life-saving Station.
The big, good-hearted men all knew Marjorie, and all declared she had
not been on the beach that afternoon,--at least, not within their
particular locality.
Discouraged, Cousin Jack and King turned down toward the pier. Their
inquiries were fruitless; though many people knew Midget, by sight, none
had seen her. There was nothing to do but go back home.
"Have you found her?" cried Cousin Ethel, as they entered the house.
"No; but the beach people haven't seen her, so I'm sure there's no
accident of that sort." Cousin Jack wouldn't make use of the word
drowning, but they all knew what he meant.
Mrs. Maynard sat staring, in a sort of dull apathy. She couldn't realize
that Marjorie was lost, she couldn't believe an accident had befallen
her, yet, where was she?
"Let's search the house," she said, jumping up suddenly. "I _must_ do
_something_. Couldn't she have gone somewhere to read quietly, and
fallen asleep?"
This was a possibility, and the house was searched from top to bottom by
eager hunters. But no Marjorie was found.
As it neared midnight, the ladies were persuaded to go to bed.
"You can do nothing, dear, by remaining up," said Mr. Maynard to his
wife. "The Bryants will stay with us to-night, so you and Ethel go to
your rooms, and King, too. Jack and I will stay here in the library for
a while."
King demurred at being sent away, but his father explained that if he
wanted to help, all he could do was to obey orders. So King went
upstairs, but not to his own room. About an hour later he came down
again, to find his father and Mr. Bryant still sitting in the library
waiting for morning.
"Father," said King, his eyes shining bright beneath his tousled hair,
"I've been rummaging in Midget's room. I thought I might find out
something to help us. And she's taken her pocketbook, and the gold
piece Uncle Steve gave her last Christmas. I know, because I know where
she always kept it,--and it's gone."
"Well, King," said his father, thoughtfully, "what do you make out from
that?"
"Only that she has gone somewhere especial. I mean somewhere to spend
that money,--not just for a walk on the beach, or down to the pier."
"That's encouraging," said Cousin Jack, "for if she went away on some
special errand, she's more likely to be safe and sound, somewhere. Did
you notice anything else missing, King?"
"Not a thing. And you know how wet her pillow was. Well, I think she
heard about some poor person or poor family, and she cried about them,
and then she took her gold piece and went to help them."
"That's ingenious, King," said Mr. Maynard, "and it may be true. I hope
so, I'm sure. But why should she stay away so long and not let us know?"
"Well, you see, the poor family may live at some distance, and not have
any telephone, and they may be ill, or something, and she may be there
yet, helping. You know Mopsy is awful kind-hearted. Remember the
Simpsons' fire? She forgot everything else in caring for them."
"That's so, my son; at any rate, it's the most comforting theory we've
had yet, and I'll go and tell your mother about it. It will help her, I
know."
Mr. Maynard went away, and King remained downstairs.
"I'm not going to bed, Cousin Jack," he said; "I'm old enough now to
stay up with you men, in trouble like this."
"All right, King. You're showing manly traits, my boy, and I'm proud of
you. Now, old chap, between you and me, I don't subscribe to your
poor-family theory. It's possible, of course, but it doesn't seem
probable to me."
"Well, then, Cousin Jack, what can we do next?"
"We can't do anything till morning; then I think we must see the
police."
"Oh, that seems so awful!"
"I know, but if it's the means of finding Marjorie?"
"Then, of course, we'll do it! How early can we see them?"
"We can telephone as early as we like, I suppose. But I've little
confidence in the powers of the police down here. They're all right to
patrol the beach, but they're not like city policemen."
At last the night wore away, and daybreak came.
They telephoned the police, and in a few minutes two of them arrived at
the Maynard house for consultation.
"I know the child well," said one of them, "I often see her about,--a
well-behaved little lady, but full o' fun, too. D'ye think she might
have been kidnapped, now?"
"It might be," said Mr. Bryant, "though she's pretty big for that. And,
too, she took extra money with her."
"Then she may have been goin' somewhere by rail."
"That's so! I never thought of that!" and Cousin Jack almost smiled.
"But where would she go?" said Mr. Maynard, hopelessly. "She never
travelled alone, and though impulsively mischievous, sometimes, she
wouldn't deliberately run away."
The policemen went away to begin their quest, and the Maynards and their
guests went to breakfast.
No one felt like eating, yet each urged the others to do so.
"Where's Middy?" inquired baby Rosamond, at table. "Middy gone 'way?"
"Yes, dear," said Cousin Jack, for no one else could speak. "Middy's
gone away for a little while."
"I know," said the child, contentedly, "Middy gone to Gramma's to see
Kitty!"
"Why, perhaps she did!" exclaimed Mr. Maynard.
But Mrs. Maynard had no such hope. It was too unlike Marjorie to do such
a thing.
"Well, let's find out," urged King. "Let's get Uncle Steve on the
long-distance wire."
"Don't alarm Grandma," said Mrs. Maynard. "There's no use stirring her
up, until we know ourselves what has happened."
"Leave it to me," said Cousin Jack. "I'll find out."
After some delay, he succeeded in getting Uncle Steve on the telephone.
Then he asked for Kitty.
"Hello, Susannah!" he cried, assuming a merry voice, in his kind desire
not to alarm her. "This is your Cousin Jack!"
"Oh, hello, Cousin Jack!" exclaimed Kitty, in delight. "How nice of you
to call me up! How is everybody?"
"We're well, thank you! How are you all?"
"Oh, we're all right."
"Are you lonesome, away from your family?"
"No, not lonesome, though I'd like to see them. Tell Midget there are
two hundred incubator chicks now."
"Well, that _is_ a lot! Now, good-by, Kitsie; I can't run up too big a
telephone bill for your father. We all send love. Be a good girl.
Good-by."
Cousin Jack hung up the receiver and buried his face in his hands. It
had been a great strain on his nerves to appear gay and carefree to
Kitty, and the implied assurance that Marjorie was _not_ there nearly
made him give way.
"She isn't there," he said, dully, as he repeated to the family what
Kitty had said. And then the telephone rang, and it was the police
department.
Mr. Maynard took the receiver.
"We've traced her," came the news, and the father's face grew white with
suspense. "She bought a ticket to New York, and went there on the
three-o'clock train yesterday afternoon. Nothing further is known, as
yet, but as soon as we can get in touch with the conductor of that
train, we will."
"New York! Impossible!" cried Cousin Ethel, when she heard the message,
and Mrs. Maynard fainted away.
Marjorie! on a train, going to New York alone!
"Come on, King," said Cousin Jack, abruptly, and leaving the others to
care for Mrs. Maynard, these two strode off again. Straight to the
railroad station they went to interview the agent themselves.
He corroborated the story. He did not know Marjorie's name, but he
described the child so exactly that there was no room for doubt of her
identity.
But he could tell them no more. She had bought her ticket and taken the
train in a quiet, matter-of-fact way, as any passenger would do.
"Did she look as if she had been crying?" asked King, almost crying
himself.
"Why, yes, now you speak of it, her face _did_ look so. Her eyes was
red, and she looked sorter sad. But she didn't say nothin', 'cept to ask
for a ticket to New York."
"Return ticket?" put in Mr. Bryant.
"No, sir; a single ticket. Just one way."
The conductor couldn't be seen until afternoon, as his run was a long
one, and his home far away.
"I can't understand it," said King, as they walked homeward; "and I
can't believe it. If Midget went to New York alone, she had lost her
mind,--that's all."
But when they reached home, they found the Maynards quite hopeful. It
had occurred to them that, by some strange freak, Marjorie had decided
to visit Grandma Maynard, and had started off there alone.
"I'm trying to get them on the long-distance," Mr. Maynard announced,
quite cheerily, as they entered.
"Let me take it," said Cousin Jack. "If she _isn't_ there, we don't want
to alarm them, either."
"That's so!" said Mr. Maynard. "All right, Jack, take it. Bless you, old
fellow, for your help."
But when connection had been made, and Cousin Jack found himself in
communication with Grandma Maynard, he didn't know what to say. He
caught at the first pretext he could think of, and said:
"How do you do, Mrs. Maynard? You don't know me, but I'm Jack Bryant, a
guest at Ed Maynard's house in Seacote. Now, won't you tell me when
Marjorie's birthday comes?"
"Ah, I've heard of you, Mr. Bryant," said Grandma Maynard, pleasantly.
"I suppose you want to surprise the child with a present or a party.
Well, her birthday is next week,--the fifteenth of July."
"Oh, thank you. She is getting a big girl, isn't she? When,--when did
you see her last?"
Cousin Jack's voice faltered, but the unsuspecting lady, listening,
didn't notice it.
"About two months ago. They were here in May. I love Marjorie, and I
wish I could see her again, but there's little hope of it. She wrote to
me last week that they would be in Seacote all summer."
"Yes, that is their plan," said Cousin Jack.
He could say no more, and dropped the receiver without even a good-by.
But though Grandma Maynard might think him rude or uncourteous, she
could not feel frightened or alarmed for Marjorie's safety, because of
anything he had said.
"She isn't there," he said, quietly; "but I still think she started for
there, and now we have a direction in which to look."
But what a direction! Marjorie, alone, going to New York, endeavoring to
find Grandma Maynard's house, and not getting there! Where had she been
all night? Where was she now?
There were no answers to these questions. And now Mr. Maynard took the
helm. He cast off the apathy that had seemed to paralyze him, and,
rising, he began to talk quickly.
"Helen," he said, "try to rouse yourself, darling. Keep up a good hope,
and be brave, as you have always been. King, I am going out to find
Marjorie. You cannot go with me, for I want to leave your mother in your
care. You have proved yourself manly in your search for your sister,
continue to do so in caring for your mother. Ethel, I'd be glad if you
would stay here with Helen, and, Jack,--will you come with me?"
"Of course," replied Mr. Bryant.
"And, King," his father went on, "keep within sound of the telephone. I
may call you at any moment. Get your sleep, my boy,--if I should be gone
over night,--but sleep here on the library couch, and then the bell will
waken you."
"Yes, Father, I'll look after Mother, and I'll be right here if you call
me. Where are you going?"
"I don't know, my son. I only know I must hunt for Marjorie with such
help and such advice as I can procure. Come on, Jack."
After affectionate farewells, the two men went away.
"First for that conductor," said Mr. Maynard. "I cannot wait till
afternoon; I shall try to reach him by telephone or go to his home."
At length he learned that the conductor lived in Asbury Park. He was off
duty at that hour, and Mr. Maynard tried to get him by telephone, but
the line was out of order.
"To his house we go, then," and the two men boarded the first possible
train.
At Asbury Park they found his house, but the conductor's wife, Mrs.
Fischer, said her husband was asleep and she never disturbed him at
that hour of the day, as he had a long run before him, and needed his
rest.
But after a few words of explanation of their quest, the good lady
became sympathetic and helpful.
"Of course I'll call him," she cried; "oh, the poor mother! my heart
aches for her!"
Mr. Fischer came downstairs, rubbing his eyes. It was about noon, and he
was accustomed to sleep soundly until two o'clock.
"Why, yes," he said, in answer to their queries. "I remember that girl.
I didn't think much about her,--for a good many children travel alone
between stations on the shore road. But, somehow, I don't think that
child went to New York,--no, I don't think she did."
"Where did she get off?" asked Mr. Maynard, eagerly.
"Ah, that I don't know. You see, the summer crowds are travelling now
and I don't notice individuals much."
"Can't you tell by your tickets?" asked Mr. Bryant.
"No, sir; I don't see's I can. You know, lots of people _did_ go to New
York on my train, and so, I've lots of New York tickets, but of course I
couldn't tell if I had hers. And yet,--seems to me,--just seems to
me,--that child got off at a way station."
"Then," said Mr. Maynard, with a businesslike air, "I must telephone or
telegraph or go personally to every way station between Seacote and New
York. It's a strange case. I can only think my daughter became suddenly
demented; I can think of no other reason for her conduct. Can you,
Jack?"
"No, Ed, I can't. And yet, Marjorie is a child who always does
unexpected things. Some crotchet or whimsey of her childish mind _might_
account for this strange freak, quite naturally."
"I can't see how. But we will do what we can. Good-day, Mr. Fischer, and
thank you for your help and interest."