MORE GIRLS
Ned, Bob and Jerry looked at one another. Then they turned their
glances on the professor.
"Whew!" softly whistled Jerry. "Can it be possible that our dear
friend is in love--and with two girls at once? This is getting
serious!"
It would have been had Jerry's diagnosis been correct. But it was
wrong, as was proved a moment later, when the professor, with a sigh,
resumed his narrative.
"Yes," he said, "I am much concerned over two girls--young ladies I
suppose would be the more proper designation. I have never seen either
of them."
Jerry breathed more freely, and so did his chums. Clearly if the
professor had not seen the two girls he could not be in love with
them. And the professor in love was something unthinkable. He never
would have remembered, from one day to the next, the name of the
favored lady.
"And, boys," went on Professor Snodgrass, "I think you will agree with
me that it is quite a problem to try to find in Europe, at this
particular time, two girls I have never seen, that I may deliver to
them a small fortune, and claim one myself."
"Say, this is getting worse and more of it!" cried Ned. "What does it
all mean, Professor? Are you in earnest about these girls and the
effect of war noises on insects?"
"I am in earnest about both problems--never more so," was the answer,
and it needed but a glance at the face of the scientist to disclose
this fact. "But perhaps I had better explain."
"Perhaps you had," said Jerry with a smile.
"And never mind about the insects--tell us about the girls," urged
Bob.
"Yes, relieve his mind," agreed Ned. "He hasn't heard from his dear
Helena in some hours, I guess."
"Oh, cut it out!" protested the stout lad.
"The two girls to whom I refer," went on Professor Snodgrass, "are the
nieces of my late friend, Professor Emil Petersen."
"The man who wrote the book on trigonometry that we used to study at
Boxwood Hall?" asked Ned.
"The same," murmured Professor Snodgrass. "Professor Petersen was an
eminent mathematician, and the world did not fully estimate his worth.
His mathematical work was only a branch of his many-sided activities.
Professor Petersen died about three months ago, and he left me a most
peculiar legacy."
"Peculiar in what way?" asked Ned.
"It is like this," said the little scientist, as he pulled up a blade
of grass, and examined it under a powerful hand glass to see if any
strange insects might be crawling on it. "Professor Petersen, unlike
most of us professional men, was very wealthy. He was a Swede, and his
wealth came to him from his father. He never used much of it, and the
money accumulated.
"After his death I was surprised to learn that he had made me one of
his heirs, but under certain conditions. It appears that in his
younger days Professor Petersen was estranged from his brother and
sister, on account of some family matters. They received an equal
share with him from their father's estate, but they made unwise
investments, and soon lost the major portion of their inheritances.
The professor kept his. Perhaps that was one reason for the
estrangement.
"At any rate, some coldness existed, and it was not until just before
his death that the professor wished to be reconciled. Then it was too
late, as his brother and sister were both dead. But each had left a
daughter, and the young ladies were studying abroad--somewhere in
France or Germany, I believe, when the war broke out.
"I was greatly surprised, when the will was made public, to learn that
I was to have half the professor's not inconsiderable wealth, on a
certain condition."
"And what condition?" remarked Jerry, as the professor hesitated.
"That condition is as follows. I am to seek out these two nieces of my
dead friend and give them each a fourth of his estate. The other half
I am to have for myself if I fulfill the trust. That is, I get it if I
can succeed in finding the two girls, and I need not tell you that I
shall be very glad of the large sum of money--not for myself, oh, no!"
said Professor Snodgrass quickly, "but that I may devote it to the
furtherance of the interests of science. If I can solve the problem,
and find the two girls, I shall have a large sum at my disposal, and I
can then fulfill a life-long desire to undertake the study of the
insects of the Amazon River. That is what I have always desired to do
since I took up my studies, but I always lacked the means. Now, if I
succeed in finding these two girls, I shall have wealth enough to
travel in South America."
"And where are the girls?" asked Jerry.
"Somewhere in Germany or France," was the answer. "The latter country,
I think. I have, among my papers, their last address. But since the
war there is no telling where I may find them. I have written a number
of letters, but have had no answers. Now I must go to seek them, and,
at the same time, make a study of the effect of battle noises on
crickets and grasshoppers. Is it any wonder that I seem puzzled? Was
there ever such a hard problem for a peace-loving scientist to
solve?"
"It isn't going to be easy," admitted Ned. "Then you really expect to
go across?"
"Yes. And since I understand you are going, we may go together; or at
least meet there, for I suppose I shall not be allowed on a transport,
being a civilian."
"Hardly," assented Jerry. "But if, as you say, you have passports and
credentials and letters of introduction, it may be arranged. You had
better see our colonel. He seems to have taken quite a notion to
you."
"Thank you; I will," promised the scientist. "And now I think I had
better go back and see about Ticula and Pete Bumps. Pete may be
worried about me."
"Just a moment," suggested Ned. "If we are to help you in the search
for these two girls, we ought to know something more about them."
"That is right," assented the professor; "and I hope you will help me.
The problem of finding the two young ladies would be easy were it not
for the war. But they have been missing since the conflict started,
and I can get no trace of them. I hope they are still living, for, if
they are dead, all the wealth Professor Petersen left goes to a humane
society for the care of distressed cats and dogs and to provide a
shelter for them. Not that I object to cats and dogs," he hastily
added, "but I think some other form of scientific activity might be
chosen. However, Professor Petersen was very peculiar, and, after all,
it was his money. Will you boys help me?"
"Indeed we will!" cried Jerry. "But how are we to go about it? What
part of France were the girls last in?"
"And what are their names?" Bob demanded.
"And what do they look like?" asked Ned.
"That last question I can answer first," said the professor. "I happen
to have recent pictures of them. They sent them to their uncle
following the deaths of their parents, and after the reconciliation,
and Professor Petersen left them to me, with certain other material,
documents and such, to aid me in the search. Here are the girls--their
names are Gladys Petersen and Dorothy Gibbs."
He reached in his pocket and took out a folded paper. As he opened it
he gave a start and hastily closed it again.
"That isn't it," he murmured. "Those are some dried specimens of
_ameba_ that I wish to study under a microscope."
"What are _ameba_?" asked Jerry. "Fish?"
"Not exactly," answered the professor with a smile, "though I secured
these from a little pond on the other side of the camp. _Ameba_ are
microorganisms of the simplest structure--a protoplasm which is
constantly changing in shape. Very interesting--very interesting
indeed, but not the pictures of the girls. Ah, here they are," he
added, as he replaced the first paper and took out a second. From the
folds of that he produced two unmounted photographs at which the boys
gazed with interest.
They saw the likenesses of two pretty girls in traveling costume, and
the pictures had, obviously, been snapped by an amateur at some
country place, for there was a barn and fields in the background.
"The girls took these pictures themselves, I understand," explained
the professor. "They sent them to their uncle."
"Which is which?" asked Jerry. "I mean which is Gladys and which is
Dorothy?"
"The names are on the reverse side of the photographs, I believe,"
said the professor, and so it proved.
"They are both pretty," observed Jerry.
"I rather fancy Gladys," murmured Ned.
"Dorothy seems real jolly," stated Bob.
"Here! None of that, young man, or I'll write to Helena Schaeffer,
and tell her how you're carrying on!" warned Jerry, shaking a finger
at his stout chum.
"Aw, you----" began Bob.
But at that moment there came an interruption. A small, very much
excited lad came fairly bounding over the grass toward the figures of
the three chums and Professor Snodgrass.
"Oh, here you are!" cried the newcomer. "Found you at last--thought I
never would--asked everybody--nearly got stabbed by a sentry--had to
jump out of the way of a bullet--whoop--but here I am--Gosh! Say, it's
good to see you again--I told 'em I could find you--awful hot, ain't
it? Lots of things going on--never saw so many soldiers in all my
life--here they are, girls! I found 'em!"
Ned, Bob and Jerry gazed in amazement at the small lad. Ned murmured
his name--Andy Rush--and then Jerry, looking over the head of the
excited little chap, descried three girls approaching.
"Girls! Girls!" murmured the tall lad. "More girls! What does it
mean?"