The Torn Page
“If that isn’t the last straw!” Cara exclaimed indignantly. She permitted
herself one glance at the place where the page had been torn from the
diary and sank limply back against the settee. “After keying myself up to
hear the grand solution, the whole thing falls flat!”
“I feel like wilted spinach myself,” Madge admitted. She closed the diary
with an impatient snap, placing it on the table. “Well, we’re at the end.
The page that was torn out, was the last one.”
“It would be,” Cara groaned. “Our chance of helping Miss Swenster has
gone glimmering.”
“What do you guess became of the missing page?”
“Probably Florence tore it out herself and burned it up.”
Madge agreed that the theory was a likely one. However, she suggested
that some other person might have taken the page. The thought left her
even more depressed, for in that case, it was likely that whoever had
learned the hiding place, had long ago taken the pearls.
The girls were so thoroughly disheartened that it was some time before
they summoned courage to report their failure to Miss Swenster. Her face
fell at the news but she tried not to show how keen was her
disappointment.
“At any rate, I owe you both a great deal for your interest in the
matter.”
Before leaving the mansion, Madge asked permission to take the diary home
for a few days. In their haste to reach the end, the girls had not read
every paragraph but had skipped those that looked uninteresting. Madge
had little hope that she would find any new material, but at least
thought it would do no harm to reread the diary at her leisure.
“You never admit defeat, do you?” Cara asked as they walked home
together. “As far as I’m concerned, I consider the adventure washed-up.”
“I haven’t completely given up,” Madge returned. “But I must confess I
haven’t a tangible clue.”
She did not have time to reread the diary that night, and in truth, she
rather dreaded the ordeal. It was a long tedious task, one that offered
slight hope of success. Nevertheless, Madge continued to think of the
Swenster pearls and to wonder if she had not overlooked some hitherto
unimportant clue.
“In the diary Florence said that she had taken old Uncle George Jackson
into her confidence. Why didn’t I think to ask Miss Swenster who she
meant?”
This seemed such an oversight that Sunday afternoon she dropped around at
the mansion.
“Uncle George?” Miss Swenster repeated, in response to her question.
“Why, he was the old Negro caretaker I told you about. You can’t hope to
learn anything from him for he has been dead years and years. In fact,
his son is an old man now. Or was the last time I heard. He too may be
dead by this time.”
Madge came to life at this scrap of information. Instantly it flashed
through her mind that possibly Uncle George Jackson’s son might know
something of the pearls.
“Can you tell me his name?” she questioned eagerly.
“Uncle George’s son? Why, it must have been Ross. Yes, that was it. Ross
Jackson.”
Miss Swenster knew very little concerning either the old caretaker or his
son. When she had left Claymore eight years before, Ross Jackson had been
living in a shack down by the railroad tracks but she did not know what
had become of him.
“I should have looked after him,” she said regretfully. “I always
intended to, but I have had very little ready money. Now that he is an
old man it must be difficult for him to find work. I wish I could afford
to employ him.”
Madge went away with the avowed intention of discovering what had become
of old Uncle Ross Jackson. His name was not in the telephone or city
directories. She inquired of any number of persons without success.
Then Jane Allen came to the rescue. Among others, Madge had asked her if
she had ever heard of the old Negro. At the time, Jane could not help
her, but she had inquired of their negress wash woman and had learned the
location of Uncle Ross’ cabin.
“You’re welcome to the information, but I’d not advise you to be going
down there by the tracks alone,” Jane warned. “I can’t imagine what’s
gotten into you lately. You’re so quiet and secretive. Always wanting to
know such odd things too!”
Madge did not enlighten her as to what had caused the change, though she
was tempted to disclose everything. She knew that Jane and Enid both were
somewhat hurt because they felt they were being excluded from something.
She must make it up to them later.
Madge had no intention of venturing alone down into the slum district of
Claymore. She broached the subject of the trip with Cara who was willing
to accompany her when she comprehended that the visit might have an
important bearing on the missing pearls.
Monday night after school, Madge borrowed her uncle’s car and they set
forth upon their quest. The house they sought was set well back from the
road. They parked the car and walked toward a dilapidated shack with a
caved-in roof. The place seemed deserted save for a Plymouth Rock hen
which fussed busily over her downy brood and a lank, hungry-looking hound
that lay on the door-step with eyes half closed as if he were dreaming of
some exciting coon hunt of a long departed day when both he and his
master were younger.
Cara was afraid of the hound and though he scarcely looked in her
direction, held timidly back. Madge went boldly to the door and knocked.
There were stirrings within and presently Uncle Ross came to the door,
knuckling his eyes as if he had been aroused from a nap, which indeed he
had.
“Howdy, Miss, howdy,” he said to Madge and smiled at Cara. “Won’t you
step right in—dat is, if you can find a groove to walk in with all this
dishevelment.”
The girls returned the greeting, suggesting that they all sit under a
tree in the front yard where Uncle Ross had provided a bench for smoking
and resting purposes.
“Uncle,” Madge began when they were seated, “I have been told that your
father was a caretaker at the old Swenster place years ago.”
“’Deed he was, chile. He’s tole me dat many a time. ’Sides dat, I used to
live dere myself when I was a boy.”
“Do you remember that your father ever mentioned anything about the
family pearls?” Madge inquired, watching him closely. “I mean the ones
that were lost.”
“Oh, dem pearls! I used to hear heaps about ’em but dey just faded out
wid de years. Sometimes I thinks dey neveh was any pearls—just ghost
pearls dat went up in smoke if dey eveh was any such-like jewels in de
family.”
“But can’t you recall anything your father ever said about where he
thought they had been hidden?” Madge persisted.
Uncle Ross scratched his white wool, assuming a pose of deep reflection.
“Mah ole memory is full o’ holes now, Miss. It was so long ago dat de ole
haid has lost its grip.”
“But try and think, Uncle! What were your father’s duties about the
place. He was a gardener for one thing, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Miss. De ole man was one of de expertest gardeners in dis town. Dey
wasn’t anotheh family in dis whole town dat had a garden like dem
Swenster folks—roses a ramblin’ around over de walls and honeysuckles
loaded down wid hummin’ birds. Dey don’t have no more quality white folks
dese days, no suh!”
“But Uncle,” Madge insisted, smiling at the implication of her own social
status. “Surely you remember something your father said about the pearls.
Maybe just a few words or even one word.”
Uncle Ross reflected deeply again and then replied:
“I does remembeh dat de ole man was powerful wurrit ’bout what happened
to dem pearls. Fust place, he was ’fraid folks would say he stole ’em and
he was de honestest culled man in dis town. Yes, suh! Why, de ole man was
a Deacon in de church and de ministeh used to say—”
Madge saw he was going off on a new tangent so tried to draw him up.
“Yes, yes, Uncle. No one ever thought your father took the pearls. All we
want to know is if you recall anything he ever said about where he
thought they might have been hidden.”
The old Negro reflected deeply.
“Well, Miss, I does remembeh dat when de ole man was in dis here very
same house a passin’ on to de otheh shore and sort of talkin’ wild-like
jest before he died, he said somethin’ about de pearls. And den he said
another word. Let me think. What was it he said?”
While the girls waited patiently, hoping that he would be able to furnish
the clue they needed, Uncle Ross seemed to lose control of his briefly
gathered memories. Madge could almost see them slipping away.
“Think hard, Uncle,” she urged. “What was the word?”
Uncle Ross made one last grand effort to remember. He closed his eyes,
shaking his head in a baffled sort of way.
Then speaking very slowly, as though probing his memory almost beyond its
powers, he said:
“Seems to me, Miss, he said somethin’ about de sun. No, dat wasn’t it
neither. It was sun—”
“Not sundial,” Madge supplied eagerly.
Uncle Ross’ dark face brightened and he slapped his thigh a resounding
whack.
“Dat was it! De word de ole man said was sundial!”