CHAPTER VI
WHO STOLE THE RING?
There were no preliminaries and less ceremony about searching Dorothy. Within the office she was confronted by the superintendent of the store, and then the woman detective explained that a valuable ring had been taken from a tray on the counter, and she had reason to believe Dorothy or Tavia knew something about the missing article.
Tavia could not, or would not, keep her anger within bounds. She simply declared the whole thing an outrage, and promised that Dorothy's father would demand satisfaction for the insult.
Dorothy almost forgot her own predicament in trying to calm Tavia. She assured her it would be all right—was all a mistake, and, after all, what would it matter? When the detective would be satisfied they knew nothing about the ring——
Dorothy's little Indian bag had been looked into by the superintendent, and now he stood before her with something in his hand.
"Is this it?" he asked of the woman detective.
Tavia and Dorothy stood speechless. He held up to their gaze a handsome ring!
"In my bag!" faltered Dorothy.
"If this is your bag," replied the man.
"Then some one put it there," declared Tavia promptly.
"No doubt of that, miss," said the man significantly. "It did not walk in there."
"I mean some one who tried to get us into trouble. The little woman in black!" she exclaimed suddenly. "I knew she had a motive in following us!"
But this assertion had no effect upon the store people. They were evidently accustomed to persons making ready excuses, and paid no heed to Dorothy's appealing eyes, her flaming cheeks, or her general astonishment.
"I never saw that ring before," she managed to say.
"You will have to explain all that to the police," the man declared, while the woman detective was smiling "audibly" at her catch.
"But I tell you it is all a mistake!" Dorothy almost shrieked, realizing now she must do or say something to defend herself.
"A woman has been following us all day," added Tavia, "and at the jewelry counter she almost pushed me through the case. I am positive she stole the ring, and got scared, or something. Then she must have tossed it in Dorothy's bag."
"You should go on the force," said the man with a sneer. "You know how to make a case out, all right."
"And you know how to impose on innocent girls," cried Tavia, while Dorothy begged her to be quiet.
Just then another young lady entered the office. She proved to be head clerk from the jewelry counter, and had been sent for by the superintendent.
He questioned her sharply as to the actions of Dorothy and Tavia while they were in her department. Did they appear hurried, or did they seem to crowd others? These and like questions were put to the clerk. Dorothy felt by this time that the whole thing was a farce. How could they help crowding? And why would they not appear in a hurry, when there were not half enough clerks to attend to the customers?
Miss Allen, the head clerk, looked at Dorothy keenly. She had that plain face, honest face, fearless in its simplicity, ready to stand up for the truth, whether to praise or denounce.
"This young lady," she said, still with her eyes fixed upon Dorothy, "could not possibly have taken the ring. I waited on these girls myself, and noticed they never left their stand at the counter. The tray with that ring in it was at the extreme other end of the case."
Dorothy could have hugged her.
"Oh, thank you so much!" she stammered. "I was sure some one would know."
"And did you notice the little woman with the pale face——" Tavia began, but the superintendent interrupted her.
"That will do, if you please," he ordered. "Miss Allen, we found the ring in this young lady's bag."
For an instant the clerk looked surprised. Then she regained that satisfied look, and seemed to wave her head defiantly.
"An open bag is a handy thing in a crowd," she said.
At this the woman detective flushed up and left her seat at the desk. She approached the young clerk.
"Are you in league with these—shoplifters?" she sneered.
"Very likely," replied Miss Allen with provoking coolness. "I can just about afford to lose my place for the sake of an opal ring."
The bitterness of her tone as she said this was as frank as were her eyes when she first looked at Dorothy and declared her innocent.
The superintendent bowed his head as if to say: "You are right, Miss Allen, you cannot afford to risk your reputation in this store, and I am convinced you would do nothing of the sort."
At this the woman detective, quick to see the possible turn in her case, hurried to strengthen her evidence. She picked up the telephone and called for another clerk from the jewelry counter. But her eagerness to fix the blame on Dorothy became all the more apparent and did not serve to help her case in the eyes of the superintendent.
Tavia showed her impatience—she could see no reason why they should be thus detained unjustly. Dorothy had lost her fear now, and appeared satisfied to await developments. Miss Allen's manner was reassuring.
Presently the clerk called for entered.
"Miss Berg," began the superintendent, interrupting the detective's attempt to put a question, "did you see these young ladies at your counter?"
The clerk glanced from Dorothy to Tavia. "Yes, sir," she replied. "I showed them some rings!"
"Rings!" exclaimed Dorothy. "We never looked at a ring!"
"There!" sneered the detective triumphantly, "I thought Miss Berg would know."
Miss Allen fairly glared at the other clerk.
"You showed them rings?" asked the superintendent. "What kind of rings?"
"Why, I had the tray—with the mixed pieces——"
"Just a minute," interrupted Miss Allen. "Miss Berg, what time did you ask permission to leave the floor?"
"At 10:15," replied the other promptly.
"And the ring was lost, or missed, at 10:20. You were not on the floor when it happened, at all."
"She ought to know her own business," snapped the detective.
"And I ought to know mine," replied Miss Allen. "I gave Miss Berg fifteen minutes, and she was not there when that tray was out of the case."
"You should be very careful in a matter of this kind," cautioned the superintendent.
Dorothy left her place and stood straight before the big flat-top desk.
"My name is Dorothy Dale," she began clearly, "and I tell you, honestly, I know nothing about this ring. I never looked at a ring at the counter, and never touched an article except those in the tray with the small pins. I feel you must believe me, but if you are not satisfied you may call up my father, Major Dale, of The Cedars, North Birchland. He will give you any security you may demand."
The speech was just like Dorothy, unexpected, simple, clear in its avowals, and sharp in its purpose. The superintendent looked pleased and Miss Allen smiled. Miss Berg was frightened—she had made a mistake, but the woman detective seemed to know, and she had followed her leading. The detective turned away to hide her disgust.
"Well," said the superintendent, "I am satisfied to drop the matter. I believe you, but should I be mistaken in the matter I am willing to let it drop at any rate because of your youth. You may go, young ladies." Then he continued to the employes: "Be careful not to leave tempting goods under the hands of a Christmas throng."
But the detective waited. She had missed a case—perhaps she would lose by it, if not money, some fame as a detective.
"Miss Dearing," said the superintendent, addressing her, "be very careful to cause no false arrests. It appears in this case you have missed the actual culprit, and followed a line pointed out by the clerks."
"But several of the clerks——"
"Mere hearsay," interrupted the gentleman. "Now, miss," to Dorothy, "I am sorry you have had your morning spoiled, and I hope you can make up the lost time."
His manner said plainly that he, too, had lost valuable time, so, with a hasty word of thanks, Dorothy and Tavia left the office.
"Well, you are the coolest kid," began Tavia with a loving little tug at Dorothy's arm. "You go to pieces on small things, but seem to glory in a good big scrape. I would simply have hauled off and landed one on that high-up lady's pug nose."
Dorothy laughed at Tavia's attempt to cover up the experience with her joke. She knew Tavia did not really want to use common slang, but understood her way of teasing and jesting under pretense that Dorothy would be shocked and give her a "good scolding." But this time Dorothy disappointed her—she was too well pleased to get out of "the scrape," and had no intention of checking Tavia's suddenly-freed spirits.
"Now for steam engines," she declared, "and if anything else happens to prevent us from buying our Christmas gifts——"
"We will make trouble ourselves," finished Tavia, and then they darted off in the direction of the toy department.
Some one jostled them as they neared the arch.
"That woman!" whispered Tavia. "I am perfectly sure she took that ring and threw it in your bag."
"Hush!" cautioned Dorothy. "She can hear you!"
"I intend her to," replied Tavia. "I guess she made enough trouble for us."
"But we only think she did," corrected Dorothy. "It is just as easy for us to be mistaken as it was for the others."
"If she did not intend some wrong, why in the world is she tagging around after us?" persisted Tavia.
"And if she did do wrong I cannot imagine why she would keep after us," objected Dorothy. "I am sure if she had anything to do with the ring she would be glad of a chance to get out of the store. Dear, I fancy every one is looking at me!" as some one turned at the sound of Dorothy's voice. "It must be awful to be tempted and actually do wrong."
"It is," replied Tavia, and Dorothy wondered how she would know enough about such things to speak as decidedly as she had spoken.
CHAPTER VII
THE HAUNTED WOODS
That night Dorothy Dale retired to her own cozy little room with her head swathed in cooling cloths. The excitement of the day had cost her more than mere experience and an unexplainable interest in the pale little woman in black.
When the whole matter had been discussed, Major Dale was naturally indignant, and declared in plain terms that the unwarranted zeal some detectives evinced in trying to convict supposed wrongdoers without sufficient evidence would some day bring these selfsame sleuths into serious trouble.
Mrs. White, too, was annoyed and anxious. Dorothy was not the type of girl who would soon forget her experience. The boys, even to little Roger, declared the whole thing an outrage, and they wanted to go right to town and tell somebody so.
But Dorothy tried to make the best of it, and said her head would be all right after a night's rest.
"If you are really better, Doro," whispered Roger, kissing her good-night, "we may go to Tanglewood Park for the Christmas tree. Nat promised we could—and then perhaps we will see Tavia's ghost."
"Tavia's ghost?" repeated his sister. "Oh, you mean the ghost Tavia was telling us about. Well, I am sure to be better, and then we may have a chance to prove that there is absolutely no such thing in this world as ghosts," and with a fond embrace Dorothy dismissed the boy with the yellow hair, so like her own, and eyes just as blue. Surely Roger and Dorothy belonged to the Dales, while Joe, with his dark, rich coloring, was like the other branch of their family.
It was not an easy matter, however, for Dorothy to actually get to sleep that night. So many thoughts crowded her brain: Tavia was acting queerly about something, and it was perfectly plain to everybody she wanted to talk to Nat alone, directly after the evening meal. Tavia was not a silly girl—she would never risk such criticism if something quite serious did not make it necessary. Then how that woman in black looked at Tavia when they entered the train for home! She had to take the same train to get back from town; that was easily understood, as few trains passed in and out to the city, even in holiday time. But why did she sit opposite them again?
And Tavia was sure she just wanted to confess—about the ring.
So Dorothy's thoughts ran riot, and her head ached proportionately. Finally she heard Tavia steal into the room; felt she was looking down to see if slumber had come; then, being satisfied that Dorothy was actually asleep, she went out and turned the hall light very low.
Dorothy was asleep. She dreamed of everything—the superintendent's office, of Miss Allen's sweet face, of how confused the other clerk became—it was all perfectly clear yet so closely interwoven as to be inextricable, after the manner of most feverish dreams.
It seemed she had been sleeping a long time when she heard whispering at her door—or, rather, just outside the second door that led into Tavia's room.
"But it was so foolish," she heard some one protest. "I wouldn't think it so wrong as so foolish."
It was Nat's voice. Then she heard Tavia whisper:
"Hush! she might be awake!"
"I'd advise you to make a clean breast of it," insisted the other. "It is bound to leak out some way."
"Not unless you tell," said Tavia.
"As if I would," spoke Nat again.
By this time Dorothy was wide awake, and realized that she had overheard a conversation not intended for her ears. She coughed and cleared her throat. Tavia was beside her almost instantly.
"Do you want anything?" she asked, with ill-concealed anxiety. "Is your headache better?"
"Yes, I guess so," faltered Dorothy. "I slept well, and just awoke."
She had no idea of deceiving Tavia, but she did intend to set her mind at ease concerning how much of the whispered conversation she might have heard.
"Then turn right over before you get too wide awake," advised Tavia. "Here is some lemonade Aunt Winnie said you were to drink." Tavia always called Mrs. White Aunt Winnie. "And you are to remain in bed for breakfast. Oh, for an aristocratic head that would ache! And oh, for one dear, long, luscious, lumpy day in bed! With meals à la tray, and beef tea in the intervals. But I must not talk you awake. There," and she kissed her friend lightly, "I'll tumble in, for I really am dead tired."
"It must be late?" asked Dorothy.
"Not so very," answered Tavia evasively.
"Good-night," called Dorothy.
"Good-night," replied Tavia.
But Tavia's head did not ache. She "tumbled in" as she promised, but did not immediately try to sleep. She was, instead, trying to arrange some things clearly before her much-confused faculties—trying to decide what she should write home. She had her mother's pin and Johnnie's steam engine, thanks to Dorothy's good nature, but what about paying Dorothy back? Where was the money to come from, and what possible explanation could she make? Tell her she had not spent her own five dollars, but instead had mailed it to a strange woman in a strange place, on the printed promise that in place of five she would get——
"But how on earth can I ever tell so silly a thing to Dorothy?" she found herself answering. "Why, it is too absurd——"
She deliberately got out of bed, went to the drawer of her dresser and took from it an envelope. It was the very one she had dropped in the train, and which the strange woman noticed.
Closing the door softly, Tavia took from the blue envelope a printed slip. She looked it over critically, then with a look of utter disgust replaced it in the envelope, and folding that so it would fit into a very small compass, put it away again.
"And to think I should have gotten Nat into such a thing!" she was thinking. "It was good of him to be so nice about it—but, all the same, I did feel awfully, and I wish this very minute I was at home in my own shabby little room, next to Johnnie's."
Tavia rarely cried, but this time she felt there was simply nothing else left to do. Bravely she struggled to choke her sobs; then at last fixing her mind successfully upon a plan to straighten out her difficulties (or, at least, she thought it would adjust them), the girl with the tear-stained, hazel eyes and the much-tangled, bronze braids, found herself forgetting where she was, what she was thinking about, whether she was Nat or Dorothy.
And then Tavia was asleep.
The cracking of everything out of doors next morning brought both Tavia and Dorothy to the realization of the fact that another day had come—another day bitterly cold.
They had hoped for snow, but Tavia, being first to reach the window, called to Dorothy that not a single flake had fallen.
"Then perhaps we can ride out to the woods and get a Christmas tree," said Dorothy, mindful of little Roger's wish of the previous night.
"We would freeze," declared Tavia. "Why, everything is snapping and cracking—but there must be fine skating," she broke off abruptly.
"Likely," answered Dorothy, "but I am anxious to get the tree, and if we do not get it before the storm comes we will have to take a boughten one. But I do so love a hand-picked tree. It has always been a part of our Christmas to get one."
Tavia was not at all particular about that part of it—whether it was hand-picked or peddler-purchased, and she said so promptly.
But the severe cold of the morning precluded the idea of an auto ride in search of the tree, and the time was spent in many little preparations for the holiday—odds and ends that ever hang on, in spite of the most carefully-laid plans to get through in good time.
By noon, however, the weather had moderated. Clouds hung thick and heavy, and not a glimmer of sun appeared, but the cold was less keen and the winds had almost entirely subsided.
Joe and Roger went off to the skating-pond directly after luncheon, and Dorothy, eager to get the tree before the storm should break (for every one said it would surely snow before nightfall), proposed the trip to the woods.
Nat and Ned, as well as Tavia, readily agreed, and with plenty of extra wraps, as well as the patent foot-warming attachment from the auto radiator in operation, the party started off.
"Now, where?" asked Ned, who was at the wheel.
"I saw a dear little tree over Beechwood way," said Dorothy, "but perhaps you boys know where we might find a larger one."
"Never bother about pines or cedars," answered Nat, "but I would first rate like a spruce—I love the smell of a good fresh spruce. Makes me think of—a good smoke!"
"Next day in the best lace curtains," added Tavia. "That's about how much spruce smells like real smoke."
"Try the Duncan place," interposed Nat. "Used to be plenty of pretty trees about there."
Following this suggestion the Fire Bird was directed toward the Glen, where, set in a deep clump of trees, could be seen one of the very old residences of the township.
"Is it inhabited?" asked Tavia as they swung into the rough drive.
"Oh, yes," replied Nat. "Old Cummings and his wife live there. It's a fine old place, too. Pity all the old places are allowed to go to rack and ruin."
"No Christmas trees around here," declared Ned, wheeling about along the turn in the drive. "Queer, I would have bet I saw spruce in this grove."
"I'll tell you," exclaimed Nat. "Tanglewood Park. That's the very place for a choice selection of real old cheroot spruces."
"Yes," groaned Ned, "five miles away."
"I don't think it's very cold," ventured Dorothy.
"But the air is full of snow," announced Ned.
"Well, do we go to Tanglewood Park or back to The Cedars?" asked Ned.
"How long will it take to go to the Park?" questioned Dorothy.
"Oh, we may as well try it," concluded Ned, turning the Fire Bird in the direction of the open road and starting off.
"Your haunted house, you know, Tavia," said Nat as they whizzed along. "Now we will, have a chance to make the very intimate acquaintance of a real, up-to-date ghost."
"Oh, is that the place?" said Tavia in surprise. "Well, I'll just be tickled to death to pay a visit there. I have never quite made up my mind whether the light was in the house or——"
"A halo around the head of old Bagley, your tongue-tied driver. Now, take it from me, Tavia, it was simply the brilliancy of your own——"
"Oh, here, quit!" called Ned from the front seat. "If there is one thing I like more than another on a day like this it isn't spooning."
"There's the snow!" announced Dorothy as some very large, lazy flakes tumbled down into the laps of the party in the Fire Bird.
"Won't amount to much," Nat predicted. "Never does when it starts that way. The larger the flakes the shorter the storm. Like a kid howling—the louder he starts the sooner he quits."
"Well, that's worth knowing," said Tavia, laughing. "I won't feel so badly next time the baby on my right starts in."
Meaning Nat, Tavia enjoyed her little joke, but the young man pretended not to understand.
Lightly the Fire Bird flew along the hard road, and soon the tall trees of old Tanglewood Park could be seen against the dull, dark landscape.
"We won't have time to get half a dozen trees, Doro," said Ned, "so if you have it in mind to supply all the poor kids between here and Ferndale, as you usually do, you had best cancel the contract."
"I did hope to get one for little Ben," confessed Dorothy. "He is always so delighted when I tell him how things grow away out in the woods. Poor little chap! Isn't it a pity he can never hope to be better?"
"It sure is," replied Ned, with more sympathy in his voice than in, his words. "But I really think it will be dark very early this evening."
"Almost that now," put in Nat, who had been listening.
"Better for ghosts," declared Tavia. "I have always heard that no respectable ghost ever comes out in the bold, broad light of day."
"Here we are!" announced Ned as he turned into the darkly-arched driveway of Tanglewood Park.
"My, but it's spooky!" murmured Tavia, trying to crawl under the robes.
"I thought you particularly wanted to see the ghost?" teased Nat. "There, what's that? I am sure I saw something up in the castle. Come on, let's get out and try the old knocker. If some of the antique fellows knew old brass affair was on that door they would come over and get the door."
"Oh, don't go up to the house," faltered Tavia, who really showed signs of fear.
"Not pay our respects to the light of ages—or whatever you might call it? And we on the very spot! For shame, girl!" continued Nat. "Methinks thou art a coward."
"Think away, then," snapped Tavia, "but if you go up to that old ramshackle house I'll just——"
"Scream! Oh, do; it will add greatly to the effect," and Nat, in his boyish way, continued to joke and tease, until Tavia was obliged to laugh at her own fears.
Presently Dorothy espied a tree—a pretty young spruce—that seemed to meet all the requirements of a Christmas tree.
"Over there," she directed Nat, who with hatchet in hand was making for the desired tree.
The particular tree was situated near a side path, quite close to the old mansion. Dorothy left her seat and followed Nat, but Tavia remained behind in the car with Ned.
Suddenly they were all startled by a noise—a shrill scream—or perhaps it was some wild bird.
"Oh!" cried Tavia, "let's get out of this creepy place. Dorothy! Dorothy!" she called, "do come along and never mind the tree. I feel I shall die, I am so—frightened!"
"You!" said Ned with a light laugh. "Why, I thought you just loved ghosts."
"Now, just stop!" insisted the girl. "If you had gone through the scare before, as I did, perhaps you would not be so merry."
Dorothy and Nat came toward the car. They had heard the shriek, and could not understand it. The tree still stood on its frozen mound and was likely to remain there, for one more night, at least.
"I was not frightened," explained Dorothy, "but I heard you call. Perhaps we had better go. It is almost dark."
"But I would first rate like to bag that owl," said Nat. "I believe I could teach a bird like that to talk English."
"It certainly said some thing," his brother added. "Well, I suppose we will have to please the ladies and turn out," he finished. Then Dorothy and Nat climbed back into the car, and the pretty Christmas tree was left behind with the other queer things in Tanglewood Park.
CHAPTER VIII
A MAGAZINE GHOST
That evening the boys had no end of fun teasing the girls. That Dorothy and Tavia should have been so easily frightened, that Tavia should have "turned turtle," as Ned put it, and that Dorothy "should have run under fire," and left the coveted tree behind, seemed to the boys beyond explanation.
Listening to their telling of the affair, Major Dale became interested, and soon discovered that the old Mayberry Mansion, in Tanglewood Park, was none other than the former home of a veteran of the war, who had been in the same regiment with the major.
"I knew him well," volunteered Dorothy's father. "He was a fine fellow, but always a little queer. Seems to me he had a sister or step-sister. Her name was—Pumfret. Yes, that was it. I always thought it such a queer name, and many a time saw it written by the captain on his letters home."
"And was he killed?" asked Tavia. "Do you suppose it is his ghost that haunts the castle?"
This provoked a very gale of laughter, even little Roger considering it a great joke that Tavia should take the matter so seriously.
"Indeed, he was not killed," replied the major. "He had done good service and was made captain. Seems to me the last I heard of him he was traveling abroad."
"Then it's Miss 'Plumpet's' ghost," declared Nat. "I'm sure, Uncle Frank, you must have forgotten that name. More likely to be Plumpet than Pumfret."
"Oh, no; I remember very well. It was Pumfret, and I used to think she would have plenty to 'fret' about when Nick Mayberry went home, for he could keep a whole regiment busy while in service."
"Then he has turned the castle into a barracks," declared Joe. "I'll wager that solves the mystery. He has got a lot of old 'vets' walled up in there, and they——"
"Go on parade every night about time for reveille. Now we have it. And I propose we take a trip out there some evening at about the same hour," put in Nat.
"Leave the girls at home," suggested Ned, with an arch glance at Dorothy.
"Indeed, I'm not the least bit afraid," declared his cousin. "I did hear something like a scream, and I don't believe in ghosts. Therefore I should very much like to have a chance to investigate the matter."
"Now, see here, children," put in Mrs. White, "I want you all to retire early. There are so many little things to do for the holidays, and I will need a lot of help to-morrow."
This order broke up the evening party, and as the girls were quite tired after the run to the woods and its consequent incidents, they made no protest.
There was, however, some whispering between the boys before they left the room. Then Nat stayed behind and detained the girls—he had something very important to consult them about. Ned and the younger boys went directly upstairs.
A half hour might have passed, during which time Nat seemed at his wits' end in his efforts to keep the girls interested. Finally Dorothy jumped up and declared she was going upstairs. Tavia followed, but Nat managed to reach the second landing in advance of them by going up the servants' stairs.
He called good-night from the hall that led to his own room, and soon all was quiet, and the ghost of Mayberry Hall evidently forgotten.
Between the two alcove rooms, occupied by Dorothy and Tavia, was a long wardrobe closet. Into this both girls put such belongings as might not be used daily—a sort of "dress-up" clothes' closet. It was in this closet that street apparel was placed, so that on the night of the auto ride both Dorothy and Tavia had something to hang on the padded hooks there.
"I'm going to town in the morning," said Dorothy to her chum as she went to the hall closet. "I simply could not do any shopping the other day. Do you want to come, Tavia?"
"I don't think so," replied Tavia; and as she spoke a shadow crossed her face. "I simply hate to shop."
"Oh, very well," said Dorothy somewhat stiffly. "I only thought you might have some more things to buy."
"I'm—I'm—broke," declared Tavia frankly. "I always am at this time of the holiday season," and she seemed anxious to restore a more genial atmosphere.
A moment later she followed Dorothy out to the hall closet. Dorothy had stepped back to make room for her chum. Tavia pushed some garments rather roughly aside to make a place for the heavy cloak, thrusting her arm well into the depths of the closet. No sooner had she done so than she jumped back, uttering a scream of fright.
"What's that?" she cried. "I thought I felt—Dorothy, turn up the light!"
Then, as the fear took greater hold on her, she cried:
"Oh, help! There's a man in the closet! Run, Doro! run! Help, somebody!"
Dorothy did not pause to turn up the lights. She swung around and fled with Tavia, who continued to scream, while Dorothy, too, uttered frightened cries. There were calls sounding throughout the house—voices anxiously demanding to know what the matter was. The girls ran down the front stairs, and then swung around and darted up the rear flight that they might reach the room of the boys without passing the closet which contained something that had frightened them so terribly.
"Oh!" screamed Tavia, pounding on the boys' door. "Do come out—quick! There's a man in the big hall closet! He—he almost grabbed me!" she panted.
But somehow the boys could not seem to hurry. Dorothy and Tavia were almost in hysterics before Ned finally opened the door, just as if nothing had happened. He was fully dressed, and it did seem as if he might have responded more quickly to the frightened summons.
"What did you say?" he asked, as if just awakened from a sound sleep.
"A man—a man—in the hall closet—he nearly grabbed me!" cried Tavia, "I put my arm in—to hang up my cloak—I shoved the clothes aside—then I—I felt—something—terrible. Then I'm sure I saw—oh, for pity's sake get help—don't go alone—he may kill all of us!"
Tavia trembled and seemed about to fall in a faint.
"Oh, come on," exclaimed Ned as he stepped out into the hall. "I guess we can manage a little thing like this. Come on; we'll see what it is that frightened you. Likely it was only Tavia's excited imagination."
"Oh, please don't go alone!" pleaded Dorothy, holding her cousin back by the arm. "I—I saw—him—it—too. The awfullest-looking——"
"Ghost!" finished Ned with a laugh. "Well, I'm not afraid of anything, from ghosts to—gillies!"
At this he lightly shook off Dorothy's detaining hand, and started down the long hall toward the closet. Nat and the other boys were in the hall now, and in spite of her terror Dorothy noticed that they were all dressed, though it was supposed they had all retired—especially Roger and Joe, who should have been asleep long ago.
"Now, come on out, whoever you are!" exclaimed Ned as he strode up to the open closet. "Where is he?" he asked, poking through the garments hanging on the rear hooks. "Nothing doing here."
"Then he has hidden himself in some other part of the house," declared Tavia.
But at this Joe and Roger could hold back their laughter no longer. The others also joined in. But Tavia would not be convinced.
"I certainly saw—him—it," she insisted. "It did not look like anything human!"
"Come and see if it's here now," invited Ned, who could not seem to find a trace of whatever it was that had frightened the girls.
"Never! never!" cried Tavia. "I had enough in that one look! Didn't you, Doro? No more ghosts for mine, thank you!"
"Well," put in Nat, "it's a good thing to know when you've had enough—even of ghosts."
"I'll go and take a look," volunteered Dorothy. "There can be nothing harmful there if Ned did not discover it."
She advanced toward the closet, in which her cousin was partly hidden, seemingly hunting for the ghost.
"Be careful," cautioned Roger, "He'll eat you up, Doro."
At that moment Dorothy leaped back. She did see something.
"Look there!" she cried to Ned.
"Where?" he asked innocently, "I don't see anything. Look again, Doro."
She had the courage to look again.
Then she covered her face with her hands and burst out laughing.
"You horrid boys!" she exclaimed as soon as she could do so. "To play such a trick!" and she proceeded to bring out from the closet the "ghost." "I might have known you were up to something!"
"Then why didn't you?" asked Joe, still dancing about; jubilant over the success of their joke.
"Just look at this, Tavia," said Dorothy, dragging from the closet the stuffed figure of a man. "Isn't he perfectly lovely? Such a——"
"Fine figure," ventured Tavia, now quite calm, and perhaps a trifle embarrassed, for she had made such a fuss, saying he almost grabbed her, and all that.
The joke surely had been a success, and it took some time to allay the spirits of the boys, from Ned to Roger.
Each seemed to attribute the success of the "ghost" to his own particular talent in that line, and when finally Mrs. White insisted that every one go to bed, echoes of laughter would peal out from behind closed doors, and the girls promised to get even, if they had to do so out in Tanglewood Park, "where the real ghost would not stand for any nonsense."
CHAPTER IX
THE LITTLE WOMAN IN BLACK
Again Dorothy invited Tavia to go to the city with her, but Tavia refused on the plea that her head threatened to ache, and she thought it best to stay at home. So on the morning following the boys' joke with the stuffed man, Dorothy got ready early and hurried for the business train to the city.
She reached the station just in time—merely had her ticket bought when the train steamed in—and making her way among the crowds of men, she was able to reach a seat in one of the coaches where a few women were scattered in with the many gentlemen who patronized the express.
She had unconsciously followed the one woman who boarded the train at North Birchland, and now took the same seat—the other getting close to the window and leaving the half seat free for Dorothy.
It was some moments before the girl chanced to look up and observe her companion. When she did so, she was startled to find her none other than the little woman in black.
The stranger seemed to note Dorothy's surprise, and turned directly to her.
"We meet again," she said pleasantly, in a voice Dorothy thought at once cultured and peculiarly sweet.
"Yes," replied Dorothy, also smiling. Surely she and Tavia had been mistaken in their unkind opinion of this little body.
"I go into the city almost daily," continued the woman, "and now, in the busy time, I try to make this early train. I do so dislike to get in the dense crowd."
"It is unpleasant," said Dorothy a little guiltily, for at each word the woman spoke she felt more positive this gentle person could never be what they had supposed her—a shoplifter.
"I wanted to speak to your friend the other day," went on the stranger, "but I couldn't seem to get an opportunity. I suppose I might—send her a message—by you?"
"Why, yes—certainly," Dorothy stammered, really surprised this time.
"I saw when she dropped the envelope in the train that her name was Travers, and I thought if she would call on me I might be able to help her in a little business matter. It is of rather a delicate nature," the woman added, smiling, "so you will excuse me for being so mysterious."
"Why, of course," was all that Dorothy could think to answer. "I am sure Tavia—Miss Travers—would be glad——"
"Here is my card," interrupted the woman, evidently noting Dorothy's embarrassment. Dorothy accepted the piece of cardboard, and glancing at it read:
Miss Estelle Brooks
Expert Penman
Envelopes addressed, etc. Benson Road, Ferndale.
As she read the card it flashed through Dorothy's mind that after all the woman might simply be trying to get trade. There seemed to be some connection between Tavia's envelope and the business advertised on Miss Brooks' card. But whatever could she want of Tavia? Surely she could not imagine a young girl needing the services of an expert penman?
"I saw your trouble in the store the other day," Miss Brooks ventured, "and was so sorry for you. I did want to help you—to tell that young woman detective just what I thought. But experience has taught me that it is not always best to interfere in such cases. It often only adds to the difficulty."
Dorothy could not find words in which to reply. Whatever she might say would either seem stupid or perhaps suspicious. And of the subtle ways of women "sharpers" Dorothy had often heard. It was, she decided, almost impossible to be sufficiently alert to offset their cunning. Perhaps this woman was one of that class—an adept at it.
"Is there any particular time you would like Miss Travers to call?" Dorothy asked, turning the subject sharply.
"I am always at home on Thursdays," replied Miss Brooks, "and she will have no trouble in finding me. I board at the Griswold."
Dorothy knew the Griswold to be a rest resort, a sort of sanitarium where fashionable people went to recuperate from home or social duties. This Miss Brooks did not appear to be in the circumstances of those who frequented the Griswold, the girl thought.
"I'll tell her," she said simply.
"She is just a friend?" ventured Miss Brooks questioningly.
"A very dear friend," replied Dorothy warmly, at the same moment making up her mind that the stranger would not learn from her any more concerning Tavia or her character.
"I thought so," went on her companion. "Well, she is evidently impetuous; that is why I feel I may help her. Ordinarily I would not interfere—it is really a trifle risky for me, but she seems so young; and—well, I'll take my chances this time."
Dorothy was completely mystified. She could not guess at any business or circumstances which might occasion such remarks. But somehow she felt that the woman spoke with knowledge of something about Tavia. What that something might be Dorothy was absolutely at a loss to conjecture.
"I know I surprise you," said Miss Brooks, divining her thoughts, "but some girls do strange things. Miss Travers is evidently one of them."
Dorothy's cheeks flamed at this remark. Why should she speak so of Tavia?
"I have known Miss Travers since she was a child," flashed Dorothy, "and I have never thought her—strange."
Scarcely had the words been uttered than all Tavia's pranks and follies seemed to come up before Dorothy's memory like some horrid, mocking specters.
Surely Tavia had always done "strange things," and very likely only Dorothy's powerful influence had kept her from risking greater dangers.
But Dorothy could not listen to anything against her nearest and dearest friend. No stranger had a right to condemn her.
The train was slacking up as it steamed into the big, arched station. Here Miss Brooks would go her way, while Dorothy would be left to think over the unexpected happenings of the brief railroad journey.
There seemed to Dorothy something almost patronizing in the stranger's manner as she bade her good-by. Perhaps she did pity her—but why? What was wrong, or what might happen on this day's shopping venture?
"I really do believe I'm getting queer myself," mused the girl, trying vainly to shake off her fears and suspicions. "Well, so many queer things do manage to happen in a single holiday vacation I don't wonder that I catch the germ; it must be infectious."
Dorothy's little fur toque fitted gracefully on her beautiful blonde head. Her cheeks matched the poinsettia, or Christmas flower, and her eyes were as blue as the sapphires in the jewel shops.
With some slight agitation she entered Boardman's. It was in this store that the ring incident had occurred, and the thought of her experience was not exactly pleasant to the sensitive girl.
"But I saw such pretty things in there," she insisted secretly. "I must go back and get some of them."
Timidly she approached the jewelry counter. Surely the clerks, or Miss Allen, at least, recognized her. The latter stepped directly up to the place where Dorothy stood.
"Good-morning," began the clerk, smiling pleasantly. "What can I do for you?"
Dorothy was hardly ready to make her purchases. She answered the greeting and said so. Then Miss Allen leaned over the counter.
"I wanted to tell you that Miss Dearing, the woman detective, has been discharged."
"Oh, has she?" asked Dorothy. "I'm sorry."
"Well, you needn't be," Miss Allen assured her. "She didn't much care how you fared."
"But she only made a mistake," pleaded Dorothy.
"Perhaps," and Miss Allen shrugged her shoulders; "but she took the trouble to come to me and ask your address."
"My address!"
"Yes; wanted it awfully bad, too. I wouldn't take any customer's address off a tag; not for all the detectives in the house. But I happen to know some one else did."
"But what did she want my address for?" asked Dorothy as quietly as her voice could speak in spite of her agitation.
"Don't know," replied the clerk, indicating she might be able to guess; "but it might be handy some day. When she gets time to think it over, you know."
Dorothy was now almost as greatly mystified as she had been when the woman on the train spoke of Tavia. But Miss Allen went to wait on another customer, and when Dorothy had finally succeeded in selecting some trinkets she left the counter with Miss Allen's words ringing in her ears.
"Whatever does it all mean?" she asked herself. It was some time before she had her answer.
CHAPTER X
THE THORNS OF A HOLLY WREATH
"Loafing is not resting; labor is the grindstone of life's dull edges," quoted Dorothy Dale on the evening of her return from the city.
"Copyrighted?" asked Tavia in a grave tone of voice.
"No; but all rights are reserved," answered her chum. "It took me all the way from the city to North Birchland station to work that out. What do you think of it?"
"Great for the grindstone, but hard on life," commented Tavia. "No sharpening for mine. I make it 'Labor is the sharp knife that cuts all the good things out of life.'"
"But your motto will not stand the test," declared Dorothy. "I happen to know—I found out to-day. Going in on the train I 'loafed' all the way, and the process tired me. Coming out I was tired from shopping, and that tire rested me."
"Well, if you're all right, I'm glad I'm crazy," declared Tavia facetiously. "There's just one thing I want to get to heaven for—one great, long, delicious loaf! If I cannot rest without labor, then please pass along the 'loaf.'"
"But, seriously, Tavia, I particularly want to speak to you," began Dorothy, putting away numerous small packages and then dropping into her favorite seat—the window-bench in her own room.
"Go ahead and speak, then," answered Tavia. "I hope what you have to say has nothing to do with work."
"Now, dearie, listen," commanded Dorothy. "Who do you think was on the train with me this morning?"
"The conductor?"
"Likely," replied Dorothy; "but he did not occupy the entire ten coaches, although he managed to circulate through them rather successfully. But I did not refer to him. I sat in the same seat with—our little woman in black!"
"Our little woman in black! Please do not include me in that class. Did she want your purse?"
"Now, really, Tavia, I am almost convinced that we have greatly wronged that woman—she was just as nice as she could be——"
"Oh, of course, she was—nice. That's what the laws are for, keeping people nice. They don't have much trouble to make that clear to you, Doro, dear."
"Well, of course, you are entitled to your own opinion, but I do wish you would listen. She sent you a message."
"Sent me a message! It was to you she owed the apology. She has her cases mixed."
"Tavia, she gave me this card to hand you with the request that you call upon her on Thursday morning."
Tavia glanced at the card. Then she read the inscription aloud.
"Of all the—nerve!" she exclaimed, seemingly at a total loss to grasp any other word. "To ask me to call on a handwriting expert! Does she think I want her services?"
"I was, and am still, just as puzzled as you are, Tavia; but she seemed so serious. Said you were young, and that perhaps she could help you——"
Tavia seemed to catch her breath. The next moment she had recovered herself. "I might call—just for fun. Then, again—I might not," she said indifferently.
"So many queer things contrived to happen," continued Dorothy, noting the slight agitation her chum betrayed. "The clerk at the jewelry counter—Miss Allen, the pleasant girl—told me the woman detective, Miss Dearing, had been discharged."
"Nothing queer about that," exclaimed Tavia. "The wonder is they ever employed such a person in that capacity. Why, I fancy she would arrest a baby to fix her case. Too ambitious, I guess."
"Perhaps," acquiesced Dorothy. "But Miss Allen said she asked for my address. Now, what could she want that for?"
"To apologize, likely. Surely she owes you some sort of apology."
"She was merely mistaken," corrected Dorothy, "and did what she considered her duty."
"The sweetness of forgiving," soliloquized Tavia.
"Simply a matter of justice," added Dorothy. "But it does seem strange to me. However, we will have to await developments. Meantime, we must get ready for Christmas."
"I sent my things off to-day," said Tavia in a relieved tone.
"So early?"
"It is a little early, but they say express packages are always sure to be delayed at this season, and I would simply not live through it if Johnnie did not have his steam engine for Christmas morning. It was awfully sweet of you, Doro, to lend me that money."
"Why shouldn't I when you had to spend yours for needed things? I only wish it had been twice as much. You would have been welcome to it, Tavia. I don't forget chewing-gum days in dear old Dalton."
Tavia's brow was clouded. What an opportunity for her confession! Why did she so dread to tell Dorothy what her own five dollars had gone for? Nat said it would positively leak out some day. Yet he promised not to tell.
"Do you want me to go with you to see Miss Brooks?" asked Dorothy suddenly.
"Why," stammered Tavia, "I don't know that I will go at all. Such a wild-goose chase! I am really not so curious as some might think me. I can overcome a desire for further knowledge of that peaked little thing. In fact, she makes me—creepy."
"Just as you like, of course," replied Dorothy, her manner somewhat strained. "I only thought you might not like to go alone."
But Tavia had made up her mind to precisely that thing.
"I must sew the ribbons on Aunt Winnie's bag," went on Dorothy pleasantly after a pause. "Don't you think it pretty?" and she displayed a small bag made of white oiled silk and fitted up with all the little pockets needed in traveling. One for the wet sponge, another for the toothbrush, then a place for soap; in fact, a place for everything necessary in the emergency of traveling.
"It is dear," agreed Tavia, looking the prospective gift over carefully. "I don't see how you have patience to do such fine work."
"Oh, that is not fine," replied Dorothy. "See my lace pieces. They are what I call fine."
"Oh, they are simply beyond my understanding altogether. Like geometry, you know. But I forgot to ask Nat something. I wonder if he has gone up to his room yet?" and Tavia rose to ascertain.
"It's nearly ten," Dorothy told her, "and he usually retires before ten o'clock."
"Well, I'll just run down to the library and find out. I may forget it by morning."
Dorothy could not help thinking that so urgent a matter as one which required that attention would scarcely be so easily forgotten, but when Tavia left the room she put her little gifts away and soon forgot all about Tavia's sudden determination to seek Nat. Dorothy had so many other more interesting things to dwell upon.
"But I do hope she will not sit up late," came the thought, when some time after Tavia's exit Dorothy remembered that no sound had since indicated that her chum had come toward the room. "Aunt Winnie does not like these little late conferences."
Then she turned off her light and continued to listen for Tavia's footstep.
Meanwhile, Tavia was talking very seriously to Nat. She had told him about Dorothy's message from the strange woman, and he had suggested that the handwriting expert might in some way be connected with the Chicago firm to which Tavia had written, and through which she had made her financial—mistake.
"But how would she know me?" asked Tavia, deeply perplexed.
"You said she saw your name on the envelope that dropped in the car," Nat reminded her, "and she might have had an envelope with your name on. Those—sharks send names all over the country."
"Then do you think I ought to go see her?" asked Tavia in a whisper.
"Certainly. She can't eat you," replied the young man, "and she might be able to help you."
"Then I'll go—next Thursday," decided Tavia. "But I'll have trouble to slip away from Dorothy."
"Course you will," Nat assured her promptly; "and you'll have trouble all along the line if you don't do as I say, and make a clean breast of it."
But Tavia, having so long delayed that telling, felt unequal to going through with it now. She would simply "await developments," as Dorothy herself had suggested doing in the other matter.
CHAPTER XI
GATHERING EVERGREENS
"I have it all planned," announced Mrs. White the next morning. "The boys are to go for evergreens, and the girls are to assist me here. It is rather early, but it is best to have the greens on time."
Ned and Nat groaned. It would be dull enough to go for evergreens, but with the possibility of "a scare in the woods" for Dorothy and Tavia it might be bearable, whereas, if the girls would be obliged to remain at home——
But Mrs. White's sons did not object. She had "planned the day," and that settled it.
Joe and Roger were delighted. They felt that girls often proved unequal to all "the bear hunts and wild beast chasing," so dear to the hearts of healthy, young boys.
"We might build a campfire," suggested Roger enthusiastically when Joe told him he was to go to the woods.
"Too cold for camping," Joe reminded his small brother. But the fact of it being very cold seemed to Roger all the more reason why a campfire should be built, and he said so.
"Well, I'll ask Ned," agreed Joe, "and if he says so we'll take bacon and things to roast."
Ned and Nat thought seriously over the prospect of hunting evergreens with two "kids." They liked their little cousins—in fact, were very fond of them—but it did seem to the larger boys that there would not be much fun in scouring the woods for greens, and answering small boys' questions, unlimited.
"Let's ask Roland Scott and Tom Jennings," suggested Nat. "They came home yesterday, and likely would enjoy a fly in the Fire Bird."
"Good idea," agreed Ned. "Just run over, and do the asking. I saw Tom cross the lawn a short time ago. He is sure to stick close to Roland."
One hour later the Fire Bird was "on the wing," and in the car were the boys from The Cedars and their guests, two young men just home from college for the holidays.
"Whew!" whistled the handsome Roland as soon as the party got away from The Cedars. "What a stunner your blonde cousin is, Ned! Seems to me you might have prepared a fellow. I almost had a spell when she came to greet me."
Now, Ned White never relished hearing other fellows admire Dorothy. It was a strange fact that while he knew Dorothy to be pretty he was never prepared to hear others say so. Nat picked up the end of Roland's remark. He knew Ned would not say anything very agreeable to it.
"But what do you think of the other?" asked Nat. "Now, I prefer the burnished type."
"A tomboy, isn't she?" ventured Tom, referring to Tavia.
"Oh, just a good fellow," answered Nat. "Always ready for a lark, if that's what you mean."
"Jolly! I thought so," responded Tom. "Well, I do like a girl with some go in her, if she doesn't happen to put all the go in my direction."
"In other words," assumed Nat, "you like the tomboy type—in the abstract."
"Guess that's it," answered Tom. "But certainly those two girls are equal to putting you through a lively holiday. Wish we had a pair like them down to The Elms for this spell. Gee—I just dread this Christmas stuff. Aunts and uncles have my bedroom lined with 'secret packages' already. I went on the 'collar button crawl' this morning, and nearly fainted when I saw the stuff under my bed. Aunt Molly runs some kind of a charity jinks, you know, and she has picked out my room as the safest place to hide her trash."
"Oh, yes," remarked Ned, "I heard Dorothy say something about it yesterday. Seems to me she said she was going to help."
"Oh, then the stuff may remain under my bed," quickly spoke Tom. "If Miss Dorothy is interested—so am I."
"I had her first," objected Roland, joking. "I may buy a couple of rag dolls myself. Does Miss Dorothy prefer the rag variety?"
Ned seemed all attention to the car. Occasionally he turned to speak to Joe and Roger, but otherwise he took little part in his friends' badinage.
"Where are you bound for?" asked Tom as Ned guided the Fire Bird into a narrow lane.
"We'll try old Hemlock Grove first. There should be plenty of green stuff there," replied Ned.
"Yes, and if I mistake not," added Nat, "there is in those woods a cabin—old Hume's place. We may be able to lay out there for dinner."
"Goody!" exclaimed Roger, whose eyes had been continually on the big basket of stuff which Norah, the good-natured cook at The Cedars, had put up for the boys.
"Right," concluded Ned; "there's a chimney and all. Just the place for a layout. Let me see, where did that shanty used to stand?"
"I see something like a cabin over there," said Joe, pointing to a corner in the woods where great oak trees towered above all others in the grove. Even in December some brown leaves clung to these giants of the forest, that now rustled a gentle welcome to the boys in the Fire Bird.
Ned swung up as close as the wagon road would allow, and presently the party had "disembarked," and were scampering through the woods toward the abandoned hut of an old woodchopper.
"Great catch!" exclaimed Tom. "If there is one thing I like it is an outdoor hut with an indoor place on a cold day."
"We've got a bag of charcoal, you know," Roger reminded them, for Norah had secretly given that part of the equipment to Roger personally.
"That's right," assented Ned, "Then run over to the car and fetch it. Norah is an all-right girl, isn't she?"
"I would call her a peach, whoever she may be," added Roland as he gathered up some dry bits of wood on his way to the cabin.
"Norah's our cook," declared Roger with an implied rebuke in his voice, for it did seem to him every one should have been aware of that important fact.
"Beg your pardon," said Roland. "I have a profound respect for such a cook as your refreshing Norah—I say refreshing advisedly," making a grab at the basket Joe and Nat were carrying.
"Here we are," called Tom, who was somewhat in advance. "And the door is not barred."
Roger was back with the bag of charcoal, and now they all entered the old hut. The place had evidently been long ago left to the squirrels and wood birds, but it was clean, save for the refuse of dry leaves and bits of bark, remnants of other winters, when the broken windows accepted what the winds chose to hurl in and scatter about the old woodchopper's cabin.
"Hurrah!" shouted Roger, inadvertently spilling his prized bag of charcoal.
"We don't light the fire there," said Nat "Better pick that up and dump it on the fireplace. Isn't this great, though? Glad I came! Fellows, help yourselves," and he stretched out on a rude board bench that lined one side of the place.
"Get up!" insisted Tom. "Do you suppose for one instant that you do not have to work? I assign you to the task of striking the matches."
It occurred to Roger that some boys, big ones at that, might be just as silly as girls—in fact, more silly than most girls, for when they said foolish things they invariably took the trouble to laugh at their own attempts. Now, thought Roger, girls never do that. Close upon the heels of that thought sprang into the little fellow's heart the wish that Dorothy might have been along. She would know just how to arrange the dinner so that the big fellows did not get the best pieces.
Nat had already begun at his task—he was striking matches furiously by the old stone fireplace, watching the dry leaves blaze up and then die out quickly.
"Here, quit!" called Roland. "Do you think we fellows are lined with matches? We really might want one for the fire, you know."
"Oh, certainly," assented Nat, discontinuing his pastime. "I was just trying the flue."
"But I say, fellows," remarked Tom seriously, "isn't this great? What do you suppose the place stands for?"
"A woodchopper's cabin," Ned replied. "There was fine wood in these parts some years ago, before the telephone company bought up all the tall trees. Uncle Frank—Major Dale, you know—was telling us only the other night about it. Some ten years ago a telephone inspector came out here and bargained for the whole grove—that is, all the good, sound trees. Then the woodchoppers went back to Canada."
"Glad they left their hut, at any rate," remarked Tom, tossing an armful of dry wood on to the stone hearth. "What do we cook?"
"Bacon, potatoes, cheese to toast, and—let me see. What else?" queried Nat, rummaging through the basket of supplies.
"Bread and butter, pepper and salt, and a whole cake," announced Roger with unconcealed glee.
"I guess that'll do," drawled Tom. "Sorry we didn't think to fetch something ourselves."
"Oh, this is my treat," replied Nat.
"It was I who thought about the lunch," Roger reminded him.
"That's right, kid, you did. But then, you are always hungry, which may, in a measure, account for your wonderful forethought."
The blazing fire had by this time warmed the place comfortably, and it was jolly, indeed, to prepare the meal over the strong embers of good solid oak.
An old grate had been found about the place, and upon this the sliced bacon was spread, while the potatoes were dropped directly into the embers. Norah had thought of everything, even paper napkins and picnic knives and forks. There was, too, a bottle of olives and some cold ham in the very bottom of the basket.
"What's to drink?" asked Ned, his tone implying that anything to drink had been forgotten.
"Oh, the jug of coffee!" exclaimed Joe. "That's in the car. I'll run and fetch it."
The jug of coffee had been placed in a deep, enameled pan, which was to serve as coffee-pot in the warming process.
"Well, I say!" exclaimed Roland. "Think I'll change quarters. I would like first rate to meet your Norah."
"I'm first there," put in Tom. "I met her at the kitchen door as I went around for the oil can. And I must say I rather like that shade of hair. Our shortstop had it, and he claimed it was classic—called it mahogany, too."
The bacon sizzled merrily, the potatoes smelled "brown," and soon all was ready.
It was a queer sort of picnic—a "smoker," Tom insisted, for something happened with the fire that caused the smoke to flare back into the cabin instead of going peaceably out of the little chimney. But the boys did not mind that—they were too interested in the meal. Even Norah's good nature could scarcely estimate on a dinner of this kind. Eating seemed to cause hunger, instead of allaying the sensation.
But when everything was really gone, and each boy knew it was not possible to get another crumb, each declared he had had plenty.
Certainly it was jolly, but when Ned glanced at his watch and discovered that the noon hour had long since passed, he hurried his companions along.
"Look here," he reminded them, "we are out for evergreens. This is not a food-grabbing affair. Let's get back to the car. I don't see a blade of green around here."
"Nary a sprig," declared Tom, looking over the woodland. "Well, I suppose we will have to leave this retreat. But I hope we find it next summer. Wouldn't it be a great place to camp?"
All agreed the spot would be ideal for a summer camp, and when they had entered the Fire Bird and swung again out upon the wagon road, some of the party rather blamed the kind of holiday that required greens, when such a fine day might have been spent in the woodchopper's cabin.