The Girl Scouts at Bellaire Part 20

"And you'll be in with her," screamed Cleo--"Madaline, grab that bush, never mind the old turtle!"

But Madaline had now reached the bottom, and feet first she struck the water, just as Mary grabbed her skirt and held on tight enough to keep her from sliding in further.

"Oh, my!" cried Madaline, trying to back out. "I thought I was gone."

"You were!" insisted Grace, who had come to the edge by way of a safer track through bushes instead of on an avalanche. "You almost frightened us to death! Just see how swift the water is here."

"I don't want to see it. The earth is swift enough for me," declared Madaline, shaking the water out of her slippers, which fortunately had not fallen off in the water. "I have been both fis.h.i.+ng and turtle hunting to-night, and all I got was--wet," she groaned. "And my nice clean gingham! Whatever will Jennie say!"

"Nothing, dearie, don't you mind," soothed Cleo. "We are so glad to see you safely landed we can even forgive the turtle. It was a perfectly foolish thing to do, to fall in the brook at this hour, with not even a boy scout to perform a daring, das.h.i.+ng rescue. Madie, I'm surprised at your lack of judgment. Think how Mally Mack would have loved to pull you out by the hair!"

"And carry you home in his manly arms!" chimed in Grace. "What a chance wasted!"

"And think of rolling our little fat girl on a big b.u.mple barrel----"

But Madaline had recovered her poise and posture, not to mention proclivities, and, taking to the better foot-hold on the clumps of gra.s.s along the bank, a little farther from the bridge, she managed to scamper after both her tormentors. Mary was also in the race, and on reaching the road safely even the turtle was forgotten.

"Am I all mud?" asked Madaline, shaking her skirts.

"No, really you are not," Mary a.s.sured her. "It is only your slippers and stockings, and it is so dark they won't show. But I hope my pretty dress is not soiled. I was foolish to put it on for fis.h.i.+ng, but I was so proud I wanted to try it."

"Oh, come on. It's getting dark and Aunt Audrey is having company,"

said Cleo. "Madaline, you will have to change your shoes, of course, then we can come out again, and go for a walk. It's all right to go toward the village, but we must turn our backs on the mountains with sundown. Mary-love, when may we go up to the studio to do some exploring?" she changed the subject. "You know you said you wanted to look over Reda's things and send them to her, if you knew where she might get them?"

"Yes, I have been anxious about that," said Mary, falling in step with Cleo, while Grace went ahead with Madaline. "I would so like to know about Reda. I wonder where she is?"

"Wouldn't she go to friends?" Cleo asked.

"Oh, those men would frighten her, and you remember what that woman on the mountain road said about police the other day," and Mary shuddered as she recalled the maid's careless speech about the police looking for the gypsy woman. "I feel so helpless sometimes," the child sighed.

"But please don't, Mary," Cleo spoke up. "You have no idea how much we girls have done already in difficult matters. Why, I wouldn't be afraid to go to New York with Aunt Audrey and look for Reda, if you are worried about her," Cleo volunteered.

"Oh, I wouldn't have you think of such a thing," Mary quickly replied with something like fear in her voice. "I hope Mrs. Dunbar is not taking any trouble about her?"

"No, indeed. Aunt Audrey is so busy with her pictures I don't see what she does when Uncle Guy is home, and he wants any attention," Cleo remarked. "Mary, I wondered if we might not pack up Reda's things?

She won't come back now, surely, and I think you might feel better to be sure her folks would not come around for anything. Have you any address we might send to?"

"No, but she kept papers. I could understand them if we could find them. Perhaps we better look to-morrow. Here we are home, and the girls have gone in already. I guess we must have crawled slower than Madaline's turtle."

"And it's quite dark," said Cleo. "Mary," she whispered, "isn't that a man over there behind that tree? See, he just stepped back from the light. Let us talk as if we saw the other girls so he won't think we're alone," she hastily muttered. Then in a clear voice she called--"Wait a minute, Benny, I want you to carry this" (it was the fis.h.i.+ng rod). "Oh, all right," she kept on to the imaginary boy.

"Here it is," and with that both girls ran into the driveway and up to the house like two frightened deer. At the porch they stopped breathless. Mrs. Dunbar and two friends were sitting there.

"Well, what's the trouble, girls?" she asked. "Running away from the new moon?"

"No, Auntie," Cleo replied, "but we thought we saw someone back of the tree--a man, and when he saw us he seemed to hide. Where's Michael?"

"I'll call him if you are timid, but we are going to have some gentlemen callers this evening. Maybe you are running away from one of them," she said with a light laugh. "But you girls set such store by Michael, I am afraid I shall have to have the garage moved up nearer the house. Never mind, our good watchman will be home soon. Uncle Guy will be in Chicago this week," she finished with an inflexion of pleasure antic.i.p.ated.

Cleo was just deciding she must get her letter off to her Uncle Guy's hotel quickly, as she calculated wisely he would give more attention to a letter than he would be able to give to conversation for some days after his home-coming.

Leaving her guests for a few moments, Mrs. Dunbar touched the call b.u.t.ton for Michael, and when he came up the path Cleo and Mary went to meet him. They told him the shadow story, of course, even offered to go down the walk and point out the tree, but he declined their a.s.sistance.

"Now, I'll tell you girls," he said, shaking his head as he always did when uttering an important fact, "we have a special watchman guarding this place and maybe it was him" (he might have said he, but grammar is not so important to a handy man as are good tools, and Michael always had these).

"Oh, a watchman!" exclaimed Cleo. "I'm so glad. Now, Mary dear, don't you go climbing any more trees," she warned with a pinch for Mary's elbow.

"No, you had better all behave," added Michael, "for our man is a regular hawk for night watching. I had to introduce him to Shep; knows his step clear down the road. Not that he makes a sound we can hear, but a dog, you know--a dog has ears in his paws, and they hear sounds for a long distance in the ground," he declared.

"I guess so," said Mary, simply, "for I have seen dogs listen to things so far off. But the watchman--would he shoot anyone who came around?"

There was anxiety in her voice.

"Well, no," conceded Michael; "he wouldn't exactly shoot first shot; he might fire that over a prowler's head. Why?"

"Oh, nothing," fluttered Mary, "except that my old nurse is odd and doesn't know American ways very well. And if she should come around looking for me, a watchman would not understand her, I'm afraid."

"Tell me what she looks like and I'll post Jim. He's a careful enough chap, but you know, young ladies, we have had some trouble about here lately."

Mary described Reda as best she could, and being a.s.sured the man behind the tree was really some pa.s.serby and not a prowler, the girls went back to the house to find Grace and Madaline.

The two latter could hardly wait to come down the stairs by steps, so impatient were they to reach Cleo and Mary.

"Oh, look!" exclaimed Grace. "Here's a letter for Mary. We picked it up out by the gate. It must have been left there just as we came along. But we couldn't see that it was a letter until we got into the light. Here, Mary," and she handed over a square, common business envelope. "It is only addressed to 'Maid Mary,'" finished Grace.

"Come on up to our room, to my room," suggested Cleo, surmising the letter might be better read privately. "Aunt Audrey has guests on the porch."

"All right," agreed Mary, crus.h.i.+ng the letter in her hands. "Come along, girls. Whatever it is we may all know it, I don't want any _new_ secrets; the _old_ ones are heavy enough burdens."

Up in Cleo's room, under the softly shaded light, Mary tore open the envelope. She knew the hand was laboriously penned by some foreigner.

Then she read aloud:

"Reda is sick. She says you can't come here, but wants her things.

Send the box by express. Reda will come out when she can walk.

"Carmia Frantez."

An address was carefully spelled out, and there followed this postscript.

"I go to school, and we don't want Janos to get our letters. Dominic is going to take this out on the train; he is a good honest boy.

Answer to this house by the number I give here. Carmia."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mary, staring at her companions. "That must have been the man we saw behind the tree. And this Carmia is a little girl I have heard Reda speak of. Now what shall I do! Poor Reda!" she sighed. "I hope she is not very sick."

"Let's go the first thing in the morning to pack her box," suggested Cleo. "Then we can send it to her by express," and this plan was promptly decided upon.