As Eli Cronk said, Scraggy Peterson left her lonely squatter home two
weeks before with no companion but her vicious black cat. The woman had
intervals of sanity, and during those periods her thoughts turned to a
dark-haired boy, growing up in a luxurious home. In these rare days she
donned her rude clothing, and with the cat perched close to her thin
face walked across the state to Tarrytown. Several times during the five
years after leaving Lem's scow she walked to Tarrytown, returning only
when she had seen the little boy, to take up her squatter life in her
father's hut. So secretive was she that no one had been taken into her
confidence; neither had she interfered with her child in any way. Never
once, hitherto, had her senses left her on those long country marches
toward the east; but often when she turned backward she would utter
forlorn cries, characteristic of her malady.
* * * * *
At eight o'clock, four hours before Lon Cronk opened his heart to his
companions, Scraggy, footsore and weary, entered Sleepy Hollow Cemetery
and seated herself on the damp earth to gather strength. By begging and
stealing she had managed to reach her destination; but now for the first
time on this journey the bats were in her head, sounding the walls of
her poor brain with the ceaseless clatter of their wings. Still the
mother heart called for its own, through the madness--called for one
sight of Lem's child and hers. At length after a long rest she turned
into a broad path which she knew well, and did not halt until she was
staring eager-eyed into the window of Harold Brimbecomb's house which
stood close to the cemetery.
[Illustration: FOR MIDGE'S SAKE.]
To the left of the Brimbecomb's was the mansion, belonging to the
orphans of Horace Shellington. The young Horace and his sister Ann were
the favorite companions of Everett Brimbecomb, now six years old. He was
a strong, proud, handsome lad. Many conjectures had been made concerning
him by the Tarrytown people, because one day five years before the
delicate, light-haired wife of Mr. Brimbecomb had appeared with a
dark-haired baby boy, announcing that from that day on he would take the
place of her own child who had died a few months before. No person had
told Everett that the millionaire was not his father, nor was he made to
understand that the mother and the home were not his by right of birth.
His bright mind and handsome appearance were the pride of his adopted
mother's life, and his rich father smiled only the more leniently when
the lad showed a rebellious spirit. In the child's dark, limpid eyes
slumbered primeval passions, needing but the dawn of manhood to break
forth, perhaps to destroy the soul beneath their reckless domination.
Everett was entertaining Ann and Horace Shellington at dinner, and after
the repast the youngsters betook themselves to the large square room
given to the young host's own use. Here were multitudinous playthings
and mechanical toys of all descriptions. For many minutes the children
had been too interested to note that the shadows were grown long and
that a somber gloom had settled down over the cemetery that lay just
beyond the windows.
Ann Shellington, a delicate little creature of eight, looked up
nervously. "Everett, draw down the curtain," she said. "It looks so
ghostly out there!"
Ann made a motion toward the window; but the boy did not obey her.
"Isn't that just like a girl, Horace?" he asked. "I'm not afraid of
ghosts. Dead people can't walk, can they, Horace?"
The other boy answered "No" thoughtfully, as he started a miniature
train across the length of the room.
"Then who is it that walks in the night out there?" insisted the girl.
"Lots of town people have seen it. It's a woman with shaggy hair, and
sometimes her eyes turn green."
"Pouf!" scoffed Everett. "My father says there aren't any such things as
ghosts. I wouldn't be a fraidy cat, Ann."
"I'm not a fraidy cat," pouted the girl. "I always go upstairs alone,
don't I, Horace?"
Another answer in the affirmative, and Horace proceeded to roll the
train back over the carpet.
"If you had any mother," said Everett, "she'd tell you there weren't any
ghosts. My mother tells me that."
"I haven't any mother," sighed the little girl, listlessly folding her
hands in her lap.
"Nor any father, either," supplemented Horace, with seemingly no thought
of the magnitude of his statement. "I don't believe in ghosts, anyhow!"
He glanced up as he spoke, and the train fell with a bang to the floor.
Everett Brimbecomb dropped the toy he held in his hand, and Ann bounded
from her chair. A white face with wide eyes, staring through scraggly
gray hair, appeared at the window. For only an instant it pressed
against the pane, then vanished as if it had never been.
"It was a woman," gasped Horace, "or was it a--"
"It wasn't a ghost," interrupted Everett stoutly. "I dare follow it out
there. Look at me!"
He straightened his shoulders, threw up his dark head, and opened the
door leading to the narrow walk at the side of the house. In another
moment the watching boy and girl at the window saw him dart into the
hedge and a minute later emerge through it, picking his way among the
ancient graves. Suddenly from behind a tall monument stole a figure, and
as it approached the solemn eyes of the apparition smiled in dull wonder
on Everett Brimbecomb.
Scraggy held out her hands. "Don't run away, little 'un," she whispered.
"There be bats flyin' about in my head; but my cat won't hurt ye."
She passed one arm about the snarling creature perched on her shoulder;
but the cat with a hiss only raised himself higher.
"Don't spit at the pretty boy, Kitty--pretty pussy, black pussy!"
wheedled the woman. "He won't hurt ye, childy. Come nearer, will ye?
This be a good cat."
"Are you a ghost?" demanded Everett, edging into the light.
"Nope, I ain't no ghost. I love ye, pretty boy. Ye won't tell no one
that I speak to ye, will ye? I ain't doin' no hurt."
"What do you carry that cat for, and what's your name?" demanded Everett
insolently; for the proud young eyes had noticed the disheveled figure.
"If any one of our men see you about here, they'll shoot you. I'd shoot
you and your cat, too, if I had my father's gun!"
Scraggy smiled wanly. "Screech Owl's my name," said she. "They call me
that 'cause I'm batty. But ye wouldn't hurt me, little 'un, 'cause I
love ye. How old be ye?"
"Six years old; but it isn't any of your business. Crazy people ought to
be locked up. You'd better go away from here. My father owns that house,
and--don't you follow me through the hedge. Get back, I say! If I call
Malcolm--"
Everett drew back through the box-hedge, and the boy and the girl at the
window saw the woman squeeze in after him. In another moment the young
heir to the Brimbecomb fortune bounded through the doorway. His face was
white; his eyes were filled with fear.
"Did you see that old woman?" he gasped. "She tried to kiss me, and I
punched her in the face, and her cat did this to my arm."
He pulled up his sleeve, and displayed a long scratch from wrist to
elbow.
"Are you sure it wasn't a ghost, Everett?" asked Ann, shivering.
"Of course, it wasn't," boasted Everett. "It was only a horrid woman
with a cat--that's all."
As he closed the door vehemently, there drifted to the children from the
marble monument and waving trees the faint wail of a night-owl.