A Missing Messenger
IT was Thursday when Mabel discovered the boy. Friday morning Dave was
still missing and the lad was still unconscious.
"He must have been a pretty tough little chap to start with," declared
Mrs. Crane, when all the members of her always-hungry family had been
bountifully served with steaming breakfast food, "or he never would
have lasted as long as this with such a fever. I wish Dave was here.
He ought to have a doctor; and, if the boy's people live in Lakeville,
they'll surely want to know that he's alive."
"We've been talking about that," said Jean, "and we don't think he _is_
a Lakeville boy."
"You see," explained Marjory, "he must be about twelve or thirteen
years old--somewhere between Mabel's age and Henrietta's. If he'd been
in school one or another of us would have seen him--we're scattered
all over, you know."
"And I," said Henrietta, "am scattered about in _all_ the grades,
because I'm so smart and so stupid in spots."
"But perhaps," suggested Mr. Black, "this illness has altered his
appearance."
"It couldn't change his hair," asserted Mabel. "It's a very queer
color."
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Crane, "it's a most unusual shade--very bright and
glistening like ruddy gold. There's a tinge of copper to it and yet
it's golden. If only Dave were here----"
"I could walk to Lakeville myself," began Mr. Black, reflectively,
"but----"
"But you're not going to," protested his sister. "We can't stay here
without a man. Besides, if anything happened to you on the way down,
where should _we_ be?"
"At Pete's Patch, I suspect," twinkled Mr. Black. "Suppose you give
that boy some hot sponge baths--that may help a little."
"But, goodness!" objected Mabel, "he must be perfectly soaked with
water--his clothes were drenched."
"Still," said Mr. Black, "baths are beneficial to fever patients."
"I've been putting mild mustard plasters on his chest," confessed
anxious Mrs. Crane. "I didn't like his breathing--it sounded too much
like pneumonia yesterday; but it's a bit better to-day. And I'll try
those baths."
"I haven't much faith in your mustard plasters," asserted Mr. Black,
teasingly. "You're too tender-hearted to make one strong enough to do
any good."
"I'm not," retorted Mrs. Crane; "but there's no sense in blistering
folks."
"I'm glad there's a really sick person in this camp," said Bettie,
"because now, perhaps, I can persuade you to believe that I'm most
as well as ever. I had two long walks yesterday and I feel just fine
to-day."
"Did you sleep well?" queried Mrs. Crane, anxiously. "I declare, with
all this excitement, I forgot to ask you."
"Only five minutes," said Bettie, in a sorrowful tone. "I shut my eyes
at eight o'clock last night and when I opened them it was only five
minutes after eight."
"Last night?" pursued Mrs. Crane, anxiously.
"No, this morning," replied Bettie, demurely, "but the clock _said_
five minutes, and it didn't _seem_ like any more than that."
Among the many things that Mrs. Crane had ordered from town was a
truly alarming alarm clock. Although it went off faithfully and with
astonishing vigor at seven every morning, no one ever heard it after
the first day except Mrs. Crane. The campers, never very early risers,
grew lazier every day--and fatter! Mabel, always exceedingly plump,
was now so rotund that Mrs. Crane was obliged to tie loops of twine
in all her buttonholes. Bettie's cheeks and the calves of her legs
were certainly rounding into new and pleasing curves. Tall Jean was
casting a wider shadow, shapely Henrietta had punched two new holes in
her tight leather belt; and it was now possible to pinch the hitherto
unpinchable Marjory. Their complexions, too, had undergone curious
changes. Mabel had gained a generous sprinkling of very fine, very dark
freckles. Marjory's blue-white skin was dotted with a limited number of
very large, pale tan-colored freckles. Henrietta was tinged a rich even
brown, except where a fine red glowed in her dark cheeks. Most of the
time Jean was a brilliant scarlet; for her tender skin burned easily
and her nose, as Bettie said, was disreputably ragged, for it peeled
every day or two. So did the edges of her ears. As for Bettie, her
yellowish pallor was gone and a fine, rose-colored flush now tinged her
lips and her cheeks. Her big, dark eyes were brighter and merrier than
the girls had ever seen them.
"Another ten days in camp," asserted Mr. Black, pinching Bettie's
firm cheek, "and you'll all be wearing Mrs. Crane's clothes. Your own
mothers won't know you by the time we're ready to go home."
"They won't want to," laughed Marjory, "if we all gain as Mabel has.
Look at her back!"
It was really a shockingly untidy back, because bits of Mabel and
Mabel's underwear stuck out between the loops.
"She drinks so much water," complained Henrietta, "that my arm just
aches from filling her cup."
"Put the pail beside her," suggested Mr. Black. "Water's the one thing
that can't give out."
"That reminds me," said Mrs. Crane, "we'll need a lot of things by the
time Dave goes to town again. My list is growing bigger every minute."
"Like Mabel," breathed Marjory, teasingly.
"Well," sighed Mabel--and the sigh burst two of her loops--"I shall ask
for a very wide sailor-jumper to pull on over my head. The knots in
those loops are pretty bumpy. If I were to sneeze, they'd _all_ go, I
guess."
Mrs. Crane, of course, appropriated most of the care of the newest
castaway. But the willing girls helped in many ways.
"They are my feet," said slow-moving, stiff-jointed Mrs. Crane. "They
bring me everything I need and save me hundreds of steps every day.
They're all as good as gold, Peter."
"They're _better_," declared Mr. Black. "I wish they all belonged to
_me_--anyway, we'll enjoy 'em while we can."
Sometimes one or another of the girls was permitted to sit beside the
sleeping boy for half an hour, while Mrs. Crane busied herself with
the camp cooking--no one else, the good lady was certain, could plan
the meals; but nursing proved rather an uninteresting task, because
there was really nothing that one could do. The girls found cooking
rather more to their taste and were able to relieve Mrs. Crane of many
of her culinary burdens. Jean, however, was the only one who could fry
the fine brook trout that Mr. Black sometimes caught in the attractive
river.
"They're all right after they're cooked," shuddered Marjory, that
afternoon, when Mr. Black brought in a pretty string of fish, cleaned
and ready to fry, "but I _couldn't_ touch a raw one--ugh!"
"Neither could I," said Henrietta, "but Anthony Fitz-Hubert could--see,
he's just crazy for one this minute."
"Here's one with his name on it," said Mr. Black, presenting the little
cat with a small specimen. "That one is under-sized, so it wouldn't
do for _us_ to be caught with it; but they couldn't arrest or fine
Anthony, because he's too active and too poor. How would you girls like
to try fishing?"
"We'd like it," responded Henrietta. "Once, when I was very small,
I went fishing in Scotland, in a little rushing river; and once, in
France, a little peasant boy let me hold his rod for a few minutes."
"Well," promised Mr. Black, "some day I'll take you all fishing. After
you've caught a trout or two you won't mind handling them. But just now
I can't afford to be reckless with the bait--we'll get a bigger supply
next time."
"I've heard it said," laughed Mrs. Crane, "that there's a stingy streak
in everybody, if you know just where to look for it; we've found yours,
Peter; it's fish-worms."
"Well, they're mighty scarce in this part of the country. I dug for
nearly an hour along the river bank and found only one. I'll send word
to Martin, next time, and have him dig a pailful in our garden."
"He'll dig up everything else, too," sighed Mrs. Crane, "but never
mind. But that reminds me of Dave. Marjory, I wish you and Henrietta
would see if that rascal has slipped in by some back way to his wigwam.
I declare I never thought that I'd _want_ to set eyes on that homely
half-breed, but I'd give a dollar, this very minute, to see him."
Mrs. Crane, however, was not called on to part with her dollar. The
messengers returned without Dave.
"Not a single sign of him," said Henrietta, "and we called until all
the little squirrels sat up and scolded us for making such a noise."
"He's out for venison, I fear," said Mr. Black, who was counting his
seven precious fish-worms. "He has no regard whatever for the game
laws. I shall give him a good talking to when he returns."
"You'd better wait," suggested Mrs. Crane, "until after he's been to
Lakeville."
"You'd better wait," laughed saucy Henrietta, "until you see him."
"Anyway," said Mr. Black, "we must all remember to stand between Dave
and the game warden, if that officer ever visits Pete's Patch."
"No really respectable game warden," laughed Henrietta, "would ever
visit a camp with a name like that."
"That's a nice name," championed Mabel. "It's plain and sensible like
Mr. Black. I _like_ things that are plain and sort of--homely."
At this, everybody (including Mr. Black, who might easily have been
much homelier than he was) laughed merrily; for Mabel, cheerful little
blunderer, usually managed to give a queer twist to her compliments.
"Anyhow," said Mabel, rather huffily, "I _meant_ to be polite."
"You _were_," assured Mr. Black, patting the hunched shoulder, "because
it's our meaning that counts; and we all know that you meant well."
"I wonder," queried Jean, "if Dave does?"
"I fear," returned Mr. Black, "that the workings of that rascal's mind
would be pretty hard to follow--let's see if his boat is in sight."
But it wasn't, so Mr. Black got the wood and the water that he was
paying Dave to bring and arranged the evening bonfire.
And the sick boy, in spite of the young campers' impatience to learn
his story, still slept. Mrs. Crane, by this time, was almost sure that
he would never waken.