CHAPTER XXII — Groping In the Dark

Five distinct parties were engaged in searching for the missing child, Ruth Spellman. Hoke Butler and his companions had left the bungalow on foot, because there was not room in the two canoes for them. Knowing nothing of the cause of the doctor’s appeal for help, they made no hunt until, when the greater part of the distance was passed, they met Mike Murphy and his friends. These had advanced at a slower pace, for they were hunting for that which they dreaded to find, and they meant to neglect nothing.

When the two parties came together, a brief explanation made everything clear. Inasmuch as the larger part of the beach to the eastward had not been examined, it was agreed that the coalesced companies should return at a slower pace to the bungalow, and then, if nothing resulted, reverse and push the search all the way to the house of Doctor Spellman. This would be covering the ground twice, and it would be done effectively.

“Do you think she has been drowned?” asked Hoke of Mike.

“I do not, for it’s unraisinable that she should be. The Sunbeam is afeard of the water and would not step into it. If there was a dock or a pile of rocks where she could have fell off, she might have done the same, but there’s nothing of the kind, and the little one couldn’t have slipped into the lake while walking along the shore.”

It may be said that this theory was accepted by every one except the parents and they were inclined toward it. It was their anguish of anxiety which warped their reasoning and made them fear at times that that precious form was drifting in the embrace of the chilling waters, and would never again respond to their loving caresses.

While scrutinizing every foot of the way, each member of the two parties scanned the moonlit lake, as far as the vision extended, urged by a fearful fascination that scattered cold reasoning to the winds.

Suddenly Hoke Butler, who was slightly in the lead, stopped short, pointed out on the water and asked in a startled undertone:

“Isn’t something floating out there?”

All grouped about the speaker and peered in the direction he indicated.

“Ye’re right,” whispered Mike, swallowing the lump in his throat; “can it be Sunbeam?”

The surface of the lake was as placid as a millpond. Barely a hundred feet from shore a motionless object was seen floating, but it was so low that for a time it could not be identified.

“I’m thinking,” added Mike, “that she would not float for a day or two, but bide ye here till I swim out and make sartin.”

He began hastily disrobing, but before he was ready for the plunge Hoke exclaimed:

“It’s the branch of a tree.”

Now that the assertion was made, all saw that it was true. The identity of a limb with its foliage was so evident that they wondered how even a momentary mistake had occurred. The advance was resumed, and in the course of the following hour the boys reached the bungalow, where Jack Crandall was seated on the piazza with his crutch leaning beside him. It need not be said that he was shocked beyond expression by the news.

“How I wish I were able to join in the search,” he lamented, “but I can only sit here and wait and pray for you.”

“Do you think it likely she has been drowned?” Hoke asked.

“No; and yet it is possible. She may have slipped while walking on the edge and a child like her is so helpless that it would be all over in a minute or so. Keep up your hunt until she is found and don’t forget to scan every part of the lake you can see.”

Jack made no reference to Biggs and Hutt, the tramps, for he knew very little about them. Mike, like his intimate friends, had them continually in mind, but the same strange dread that for a time restrained them, held his lips mute. He did not want to believe they had had any hand in Sunbeam’s disappearance, and yet the conviction was growing upon him that they had kidnapped and would hold her for ransom.

“And if the same proves true,” he muttered with the old glint in his eye, “it’s mesilf and the rest of the byes that will do the biggest kind of a good turn consarning the spalpeens.”

For the second time the beach leading from the bungalow eastward to the temporary home of Doctor Spellman was traversed, and the search if possible was made more rigid than before. With so many at work, a number tramped through the woods bordering on the open space, though that seemed useless since in the gloom their eyes were of little help. They did not forget to call the name of the lost one, Mike taking upon himself this duty. He used her right name as well as those by which he and other friends knew her, and his clear voice penetrated so far into the still arches that it was heard by other searchers who, though they shouted as loud, were not audible to him and his companions.

Gradually they approached the desolate home, arriving there about midnight. They had not come upon the slightest clue and no one was found in the house, nor was any light burning. All were pretty tired, for the tramp was a long one, but they were as ardent as ever to do their utmost to find the missing child.

“There’s no use in going back to the bungalow,” said Mike, as the group gathered in the little clearing; “it strikes me we may as well turn into the woods.”

It must have been about this time that the searching party which had gone to the westward completed the circumvallation and joined Jack Crandall seated on the piazza,—listening, watching and praying that all might be well with the lost child. These boys had been as painstaking and thorough as Mike and his friends, and were equally unsuccessful. Not the faintest light upon the mystery had come to them.

“I don’t think it possible she took that direction, unless it may have been for a short distance, for there was nothing to attract her thither. In visiting us she was always brought across the lake, though I heard her father say they had followed the beach once or twice. The distance is less.”

“We fellows can’t go to bed,” said Colgate Craig, “until the little one is found.”

“You have had a long tramp and must be pretty tired.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” said Robert Snow sturdily; “we’ll keep it up all night, if there’s the least chance of it doing any good.”

“The trouble is,” said Jack, who had learned the particulars of what had been done from Mike Murphy, “Mr. Hall has made no plans beyond what all of you were to do first. You with Mike’s party have gone round the lake, and a part of the distance—the most promising as it seems to me—has been covered twice.”

“Do you think there is any use of our retracing our steps?”

“Not the slightest; wherever Ruth may be found, it will not be in that direction.”

“Where do you advise us to go?”

“Follow Mike’s party; that will be the third time the ground has been traversed.”

“What do you think has become of Sunbeam, as Mike calls her?”

“It seems to me she has strayed only a little way from home, grown weary, sat down to rest and fallen asleep.”

The counsel of Jack Crandall was followed. Thus the major part of the searchers were soon pushing through the woods in the neighborhood of Doctor Spellman’s home. It will be recalled that he, his wife and Scout Master Hall, set about this task upon the first breaking up of the Boy Scouts to prosecute their separate lines of work. Although they parted company directly after leaving the others, the three kept in touch with one another, and after a time husband and wife joined, with Mr. Hall just far enough away to be invisible.

The Scout Master left it to the parents of Ruth to call to her. They did this at brief intervals, and they did not listen more intently for the reply which came not than did he. When an hour had been used without result, the three came together in a small open space lighted by the moon.

The mother, although distressed beyond description, was become more composed.

“What do you think, Mr. Hall?” she wearily asked.

“I judge that, like all healthy children, Ruth is a sound sleeper. What more likely than that when worn out, she has lain down on the leaves like another Babe in the Wood, and will not open her eyes until morning? Am I not right, Doctor?”

“Undoubtedly, provided she has been permitted to do as you say.”

“I do not understand you.”

“What is the use of our keeping silent, when the same fear is in all our hearts?”

“I still fail to catch your meaning.”

“Wife, and you, and I believe she has been kidnapped by those tramps.”

The mother gave a gasp and low moan. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed:

“That’s what I have feared from the first.”

“I cannot deny that the dread has been with me,” said the Scout Master, “yet I have hoped and still hope we are mistaken.”

“I see no room for such hope.”

“But, even if so, it should be an immeasurable relief. It means that she has not fallen into the lake, nor is she in danger from a night’s exposure.”

“But think of her being in the power of those hideous creatures,” wailed the mother.

“If they have stolen her it is for the purpose of ransom. They will take the utmost care that not the slightest harm befalls her, since it would defeat their scheme.”

“And this is the twentieth century!” was the bitter exclamation of the physician. “If the probability occurred to you and me, why did we not take steps to baffle them instead of wasting our time in groping through the darkness of the woods?”

“I did do so.”

“Now it is I who do not understand.”

“Two of the fleetest of the Boy Scouts,—Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes,—are at this moment making all haste to the village of Bovil, on the road to Boothbay Harbor. If they can reach a telephone, they will communicate with officers in the surrounding towns and villages, asking for the arrest of the tramps on sight. Those boys will not waste a minute.”

“Thank heaven for that.”

“Furthermore, at the earliest moment they will ’phone your nephew, and you need not be told that he and his dog Zip will be equally quick in getting on the job.”

“That gives me more hope than anything that has happened since my child disappeared,” was the declaration of Doctor Spellman, whose wife shared in the pleasurable thrill.

CHAPTER XXIII — A Fortunate Meeting

Scout Master Hall was right when he said Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes would not waste a minute in carrying out the task he had given them. They were determined to secure the arrest of the men who it was believed had kidnapped the little daughter of Doctor Spellman, before they could leave that section. In addition, they aimed to get the help of George Burton and his bloodhound.

This last was far more important than the other, and would insure the discovery of the fate of the child. If Zip was allowed to take the scent within twenty-four hours after she left home—and possibly a little later—he would never lose it.

It was four miles over the rough broken trace to the highway, and then two more of smoother traveling would bring them to the straggling town of Bovil, where they hoped to secure telephonic communication with Boothbay Harbor and other near by towns. If that could be done, they could reach Samoset Hotel, on Mouse Island, by the same means. It would be like young Burton to start at once. He could be taken quickly across to Boothbay in a motor-boat, where he knew the right course to follow, since he had been over it with Zip. He would have to ascend the Sheepscot and walk three miles to reach Bovil, but if a midnight start was made, he ought to reach the village at daylight and soon after.

It was between eleven and twelve o’clock that Alvin and Chester came in sight of the score of buildings which make up the village of Bovil. When they passed through it on their way to Gosling Lake, they paid so slight attention that they could not recall whether it had an inn. Vastly to their delight, however, they came upon the old-fashioned structure near the center of the place, and it was the only one in which a light was burning.

“That’s luck,” said Alvin, as the two ascended the steps, pushed open the door and entered the roomy office, with its unpainted desk, broad fireplace where no wood was burning, a bench without any back, several rickety chairs, and showy posters on the walls for the information of travelers by boat or rail.

Staring around the room, by the dim light of the kerosene lamp suspended from the middle of the ceiling, the youths at first saw no person, but heavy breathing directed attention to a settee at the other side, upon which a young man was stretched at full length, with his coat doubled under him for a pillow. He was the model watchman, who was aroused only by vigorous shaking. By and by he glumly assumed a sitting posture, and blinked at the disturbers.

“What do you want?” he demanded sourly.

“Can you get us a room?”

“’Spose so. Why didn’t you come earlier?”

“Because we came later,” replied Chester; “have you got a telephone in the house?”

“’Course we have,—what of it?”

“We want to use it at once to call up Boothbay Harbor.”

“This ain’t no time to bother with such things; you’ll have to wait till morning. What bus’ness had you to wake me up?”

“See here,” said Alvin, who was in no mood for trifling, “we have come a good many miles to reach a telephone; this is a case of life and death; we haven’t a minute to spare.”

“Don’t make no difference; you’ll have to wait till to-morrer morning.”

“Give me the number of the Chief of police at Boothbay.”

As Alvin made the peremptory request, he slipped two silver half dollars into the bony hand of the young man. This effected the purpose intended. He became wide awake on the instant, stepped briskly to the desk, caught up the receiver of the instrument, asked and answered several questions, and after a brief wait, nodded to Alvin, who with Chester stood at his elbow.

“Here you are,” he said, passing the receiver to the former; “Art Spofford is the chief of police at Boothbay, and he’s at t’other end of the wire.”

Artemus Spofford, or “Art” as he is called by every one, was courteous, and replied that no tramps had been seen in town for several weeks, but he and his officers would be on the alert and arrest and hold any vagrants answering the description. Not only that, but he volunteered to communicate with the neighboring towns and see that every possible precaution was taken.

“Leave it to me,” he added; “don’t mix in; I can attend to it better than you; how shall I reach you, if we scoop in the gentlemen?”

It was agreed that Art should ’phone to Bovil, where some of the Boy Scouts would call at intervals of a few hours to get any message left for them. This arrangement was the most convenient for all concerned.

It took some trying minutes for Alvin to get Hotel Samoset on Mouse Island. It looked as if Everett Ham, the night clerk, was also asleep at his post, but I must not do the faithful young man that injustice. He responded after a time, and an understanding was speedily reached.

“Is George Burton staying at your hotel?”

“Yes; he has been here for a week.”

“Please call him to the ’phone as quickly as you can; this is of the utmost importance; don’t delay for a moment.”

“Hold the wire.”

With his ear to the receiver, Alvin Landon plainly heard by means of the marvelous invention the hurrying footfalls of Clerk Ham as he dashed out of the office, along the hall and upstairs to rouse Burton. Sooner than was expected he was back at the instrument.

“Hello! are you there?” he called.

“Yes; where is Burton?”

“He isn’t in the hotel.”

The boys were dumfounded for the moment.

“You are sure of that?”

“Yes; I’ve been to his room; he isn’t there; then I remembered he went off two days ago and hasn’t been back since.”

“Didn’t he leave any word as to where he was going?”

“He never does; he and that dog of his are on the tramp all the time.”

“Then you can’t help me to locate him?”

“I wish I could; there’s only two things he’s fond of,—that is scouting through the country with that dog of his, and going to clambakes. Capt. Free McKown says he’s looney on clambakes and eats as much as any two men.”

“Well, Mr. Ham, will you be good enough to give a message to Burton the first minute you see him?”

“I surely will.”

“Tell him to make all haste to his uncle on Gosling Lake—Got that? That their little girl is lost, and her parents are distracted with grief—Get that? And they beg him to come as quickly as he can—Get that?”

Ham repeated the substance of the words, and then rang off.

“We may as well go to bed,” said Chester to the clerk, who had sauntered back to the settee and sat down. He lighted a tallow candle and led them upstairs to a roomy apartment, where he bade them good night, pausing at the door long enough to say:

“There’s only one other chap staying with us; he’s at t’other end of the hall. Do you want me to call you in the morning?”

“No; we shall wake early.”

“That’s a bad setback,” said Chester dejectedly, as the two began preparing for bed; “we never dreamed that Burton would be away from Mouse Island.”

“And with not the remotest idea of where to look for him. He left his uncle’s house this forenoon, and may be miles inland, without our being able to get track of him for a week. I can’t help feeling that Zip is the only one that can solve the puzzle, and it won’t take him long to do so.”

“No one who knows the dog can doubt that. If Sunbeam has managed to fall into the lake, he will lead us to the spot. If those scamps have stolen her, she will be found within an hour or two,—and then may the Lord have mercy on them!”

“Chest, do you believe they are mixed up in this business?”

“I can’t help suspecting it.”

“I don’t, even though their hanging about Doctor Spellman’s home has a bad look. Those kidnappings are done in the cities,—not in the open country like this; and then think for a moment of the conditions. For two tousled bums to steal a little girl, and compel her father to pay a ransom for her,—here in the Maine woods, within a few miles of Boothbay Harbor,—why the thing is preposterous.”

“Has it occurred to you that they may be connected with others? They may be agents of the Mafia or Camorra or some regularly organized gang of kidnappers.”

This was new to Alvin, and disturbed him painfully. What was improbable about it? The persistency of Biggs and Hutt in prowling about the lake suggested a strong motive,—such as that of earning a big reward through the commission of some such crime as indicated.

“I tell you, Chest, none of us has gone the right way about this business. Suppose Chief Spofford or some other officer succeeds in arresting the two tramps, what good will it do? They are not such fools as to walk into a town with a little girl in their charge. They would be called to account on sight without any request from her friends. As we agreed, we must pin our faith on the bloodhound, and we may not find him for days, when the trail will be so cold that even he cannot follow it.”

The two felt that for the present they were at the end of their rope. They had done all they could to set the wheels in motion for the arrest of the tramps who were under suspicion, and the dread was strong with them that if such arrest could be brought about it would affect nothing. Any plan for the kidnapping of the little girl would be so cunningly laid by master minds that their agents would never walk into a trap, no matter how skilfully set.

“We must find Burton and his dog,” was the last remark of Alvin. His companion murmured assent and then the two sank into the sleep of weariness and sound health, because of which they did not awake until the young man who had received them the night before hammered on the door and shouted that breakfast would be ready in ten minutes.

With self-reproaches they bounded out of bed, hurried through their preparations, and went down stairs two steps at a time. The meal was on the table, and for the moment they were the only guests, with the young man referred to acting as waiter.

The boys had hardly seated themselves when through the open door entered a third guest, accompanied by a black, sturdy, long-eared dog, and the name of the youth was George Burton and that of his canine companion Zip.

CHAPTER XXIV — “The Latchstring Was Inside!”

The meeting was a joyous one. Alvin and Chester sprang to their feet and grasped in turn the hand of their astonished friend, while Zip, never forgetting his dignity, looked on as if he understood it all, as quite likely he did.

“I didn’t leave Uncle Wilson’s until after dinner yesterday,” said Burton, “and as Zip and I were in no hurry, it was growing dark when we got here. Somehow or other, I fancied the looks of this old-fashioned inn and decided to stay over night, but what is it brings you here?” asked the young man as all three sat down to the table.

And then Alvin told his astounding story, to which Burton listened with breathless interest.

“How dreadful!” he exclaimed; “it distresses me more than I can tell. It was fortunate indeed that I decided to stop here, for I may not return to Mouse Island for several days. I reckon we shall do some tall traveling to Gosling Lake.”

They did not linger over their breakfast. Burton tossed a few mouthfuls of meat to the dog, which sat on the floor beside his chair. As a rule, when off on one of his tramps, the hound shared his room, though he did not do so at the bungalow, which explained why Alvin and Chester saw nothing of the animal when they arrived several hours before.

“It isn’t any use to theorize,” remarked Burton, as the three paid their bill and hurried out of the inn, “for at such times you are more likely to be wrong than right. Ruth may have fallen into the lake and been drowned, without her body being found for several days; it may be that those tramps belong to an organized gang and have stolen and hidden her, but in that case,” added the young man with a flash of his eyes, “they forgot to reckon with Zip; and if so, they will soon learn their mistake.”

“The general belief when we left last night,” said Chester, “was that she had simply wandered off in the woods until tired out, when she lay down and fell asleep.”

“That sounds reasonable, but I can’t shake off the fear that it is not the right explanation.”

It need not be said that while the three boys were hurrying over the highway and along the rough path with the eager Zip, who knew that something was in the air, keeping them company, the Boy Scouts and Doctor Spellman and his wife were busy.

Their aimless groping through the wood was kept up until far beyond midnight, when the physician compelled his wife to return with him to the house and lie down for a brief rest. Scout Master Hall suggested to the members of the troop to return to the bungalow, he accompanying them, where they too secured sleep, and ate their morning meal at daylight. The agreement was that all should assemble at an early hour at the doctor’s home, where a decision would be made as to what was next to be done.

If the child, as all prayed was the case, had simply gone astray in the woods, she would awake at an early hour and renew her effort to find her way home. With so many persons wandering here, there and everywhere she must hear their calls and her rescue could not be long delayed. If such proved not to be the case, and she had not been drowned, it would mean the worst. She was the victim of the most atrocious miscreants who lived,—for no crime is more merciless and unforgivable than the kidnapping of the pet of a household, and giving its parents the choice of paying an enormous ransom or never seeing it again.

Now, it may have struck you as strange that no reference has been made to Uncle Elk in the consternation which followed the discovery that Ruth Spellman had been lost or stolen. In knowledge of woodcraft none of the searchers could be compared to him, and yet no one had asked his help. The reason was simple. With all his skill in the ways of the forest, he could do no more, so long as the night lasted, than the youngest member of the Boy Scouts. He could join in the aimless groping and shouting, but with a score already doing their utmost, he would simply be one among them.

Although morning brought a change of conditions, it would seem that they were still unsurmountable, for what Apache, or Sioux or Shawnee (unless he were Deerfoot) could trail a little child through the forest, when her almost imperceptible footprints had been repeatedly crossed by other feet?

“I think we ought to appeal to Uncle Elk,” said Scout Master Hall to the parents, after the scouts assembled at the Doctor’s home had scattered to press their hunt harder than ever. “None of us can equal him.”

“You know that for some cause which I cannot fathom, he has formed an intense dislike for my wife and me,” said the perplexed father.

“But it is impossible that it should include the little one. At such a time as this no heart has room for enmity, no matter what fancy may have dictated.”

“I am willing to be guided by your judgement,” replied the doctor, after his wife had joined in the plea. “If Ruth has slept alone in the woods, she must have awakened an hour or two ago and ought to have been found. I don’t see how the old hermit can help us, but we must neglect nothing. Come on.”

But Mike Murphy had anticipated their action. We know what unbounded faith he held in Uncle Elk, and more than once he had felt inclined to go to his cabin. With the coming of morning he decided to do so.

Consulting with Patrol Leader Chase, Mike found that he had formed the same decision. Accordingly the two withdrew from the others without attracting notice and made their way together to the cabin of their old friend. This was so far removed from the zone of active search that none of the other Scouts was met.

“If he can’t help us, no one can,” said Chase.

“There’s only one cratur that can thrack Sunbeam through the woods, and his name is Zip,” replied Mike. “If I hadn’t seen with me own eyes what he can do, I wouldn’t belave the same. Wal, here we are!”

They had reached the little clearing in the middle of which stood the familiar cabin, as silent and devoid of all signs of life as ever. Without hesitation, Mike led the way up the path, placed his foot on the small steps, and was about to reach up to draw the latch, when he recoiled with a gasp.

“Do ye obsarve that?” he asked in a startled whisper.

The latchstring was inside!

Never since the leathern thong was first shoved through the little orifice above the tongue of iron had this occurred, by day or night.

The two boys stood for several minutes staring at the blank door, and then looked in each other’s face. Not the slightest sound was heard from within.

“What does it mean, Mike?” asked the Patrol Leader in a still lower whisper.

“It maans ‘no admittince’; this is no place for us. I can’t guess what raison Uncle Elk has for shutting ivery one out, but he’s done it, and we must respect it.”

They turned away, hurrying in the direction of Doctor Spellman’s house, and had almost reached it when they met the physician, his wife and Scout Master Hall, to whom the two boys told the astounding news. In other circumstances they would have theorized as to the cause of Uncle Elk’s unaccountable action, but there was only one theme that filled every mind.

“It shuts us off from any aid by him,” remarked the doctor; “we can only keep up the search and wait for the coming of my nephew and his dog,—but,” he added bitterly, “that may not be for days, when even he can do nothing.”

A ringing shout caused all to turn their heads and look along the beach toward the northern side of the lake. Three boys were coming toward them on a run, and a few paces ahead of them, as if he were their leader, galloped a black dog.

“God be thanked!” exclaimed the mother clasping her hands. “It’s George and Zip!”

“Not forgitting Alvin and Chest, the two best boys that iver lived, barring only mesilf.”

The next minute the parties were mingling, and greeting one another. Alvin, Chester and young Burton were panting, for they had not let the grass grow under their feet on the way from Bovil to Gosling Lake, but they were still good for much more of the same kind of work.

“Zip is ready,” said his master, “and we are near the house. Let’s make a start, for we are soon to learn the truth.”

The news of the arrival of Zip quickly spread by means of shouts and calls to the scattered Boy Scouts, who began flocking to the quarters of Doctor Spellman, until very nearly the whole troop were gathered there. In answer to the request of Burton for some article of wearing apparel recently worn by Ruth, the mother with a calmness that impressed every one, brought forward a pair of chubby shoes, which the little one in an effort to “break them in” had kept on her feet until late in the afternoon, when they irked her so much she changed them for an old pair. Burton held them out to Zip, who sniffed several times and then turned his head away to signify that he had learned enough.

“Now, get to work!” commanded his master.

The scent was perhaps fourteen hours old when the Boy Scouts assembled in front of the wooden structure, saw Zip begin trotting to and fro with his nose to the ground. Suddenly he bayed slightly, and started down the slope in the direction of the lake.

“He’s hit the trail!” said the excited Burton, dashing after him; “not too fast, Zip.”

The youth never used a leash. The hound wore a handsome collar with his name and the address of his master engraved on it. His voice was sufficient to restrain Zip if he traveled too rapidly.

But the dog at his slowest traveled so fast that the boys had to trot to keep pace with him. His master by common consent took the lead, with Alvin, Chester, Mike and the others at his heels. Zip would have drawn away from them all had not his master sharply restrained him. The doctor was well to the rear, in order to keep company with his wife.

The hound went straight toward the water, but a few paces away turned to the left, taking a course which if continued would lead him to the bungalow. This was kept up for more than a hundred yards, when he abruptly stopped and throwing up his head looked off over the lake, without emitting any sound.

The mother with a moan staggered and would have fallen had she not been caught in the arms of her husband.

“That means she is drowned!” faintly whispered the stricken wife. “O Wilson! I cannot bear it!”

“No, my dear; he has gone forward again; be brave; hope is still left.”

Zip now led the company along the beach, at the same steady trot, with his master almost near enough to grasp his collar, and checking him now and then when he went too fast. There could be no doubt that he was following the scent, from which nothing could divert him.

But whither was it leading?

The run was a long one, always within a few paces of the water, until a point was reached opposite the path which led to the cabin of Uncle Elk. Here, to the astonishment of every one, the dog turned off and went up the slope.

“What can that mean?” was the question which each one asked himself.

And with more amazement than before, the procession of pursuers saw Zip follow the path across the clearing to the door of the cabin, where he stopped, threw up his nose and bayed. It was notice that he had reached the end of the trail.

Ruth Spellman was inside the log structure.

In a twinkling the whole company was grouped around the front of the building.

“Why don’t you go in?” demanded the Doctor, pressing impatiently forward.

“You forget the latchstring is inside,” reminded Scout Master Hall.

“What difference does that make? Is this a time to hesitate? Let’s break in the door! Make room for me and I’ll do it!”

Mike Murphy, Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes ran to the little window a few paces beyond the door and peered through the panes.

“Sunbeam is there!” shouted Mike, “and nothing is the matter with her!”

Before he could explain further, there was a crash. The impact of Doctor Spellman’s powerful shoulder carried the staple which held the latch from its fastenings and the door swung inward. Through it swarmed the Boy Scouts, the physician and his wife in the lead.

In front of the broad fireplace, where the embers had long died, sat Uncle Elk in his rocking chair, silent, motionless and with head bowed. Seated on his knees, with her curls half hiding her pretty face and resting against his massive chest, was Ruth Spellman, sleeping as sweetly as if on her cot at home.

With a glad cry, the mother rushed forward and flung her arms about the child, sobbing with joy.

“O my darling! Thank heaven you are found!” and she smothered the bewildered one with kisses and caresses.

Suddenly Doctor Spellman raised his hand and an instant hush fell upon all. He had lifted the limp arm of the man and placed his finger on the wrist. The professional eye saw that which escaped the others. He said in a solemn voice:

“Uncle Elk is dead!”

CHAPTER XXV — And the Last

Enough has been said in the preceding pages to show that Elkanah Sisum was a man of excellent birth and superior culture. He possessed moderate wealth, and when admitted to the bar his prospects could not have been brighter, but misfortune seemed to have marked him for its own. It delivered the first crushing blow by taking away the beloved wife of his young manhood, and leaving him an only child,—Ruth, who was as the apple of his eye. At eighteen she married a worthy young man who was admitted as a partner in the law firm and displayed brilliant ability. Unto the couple was born also a single daughter, named for its mother.

Sisum never remarried, but lavished his affection upon his daughter and especially the grandchild Ruth, whom it may be said he loved more than his own life. Thus things stood until the little one was nearly five years old, when she showed alarming signs of sinking into a decline. Her parents decided to take her on a long sea voyage in the summer time. The understanding was that they were to be gone for several months, but they never returned. Their steamer was not heard of again.

It was years before the grandfather gave up hope. The long brooding over his grief and the final yielding to despair,—slow but final,—produced a strange effect upon his mind. Only his most intimate friends saw that his brain was affected; others met and talked with him daily with never a suspicion of the fact. He had come to the gradual but fixed belief that although his dear ones had left him for the land of shadows, yet somewhere and at some time in this life his grandchild would come to him. She might not remain long, but she would reveal herself unmistakably before Uncle Elk himself passed into the Great Beyond. It was the centering of his thoughts and hopes upon this strange fancy that was actual monomania. Scout Master Hall detected it, though none of the Boy Scouts dreamed of anything of the kind. As the delusion fastened itself upon the old man, he formed a distaste for society, which of itself grew until it made him the hermit we found in the Maine woods during this summer. There he spent his hours in reading, and in studying animal and bird life,—trees and woodcraft. He never lost his gentle affection for his fellow men, and at long intervals visited his former acquaintances; but, though he left his latchstring outside and gave welcome to whoever called, he preferred to make his abiding place far from the haunts of men.

What mind can understand its own mysteries? While the current of life was moving smoothly with the old man, Doctor Spellman put up his summer home on the shore of the lake not very distant from the cabin of Uncle Elk. The latter set out to call upon them almost as soon as he learned of their arrival. While too far for the couple to see him, he caught sight of them sitting in front of their structure, the doctor smoking and the wife engaged in crochet work. Their child was playing with a doll indoors, and Uncle Elk saw nothing of her, nor did he learn of her existence until several days later, when occurred the incident that will be told further on.

It was that sight of the man and woman that gave a curious twist to the delusion of the hermit. He was startled by the woman’s striking resemblance to his own daughter who had been lost at sea years before. He formed a sudden and intense dislike of the man who had presumed to marry a person that resembled his child, and it was painful to look upon the wife who bore such a resemblance. No brain, except one already somewhat askew, could have been the victim of so queer a process. Such, however, was the fact and of itself it explains a number of incidents that otherwise could not be explained.

It will be noted that thus far Uncle Elk had not seen the little child who was the image of her mother, and since the parents quickly learned of his strange antipathy and took care to avoid meeting him, it is unlikely that in the ordinary course of events he ever would have come face to face with the little one.

Now nothing is more evident than the absurdity of my trying to describe the mental ordeal through which this man passed on that last and most memorable night of his life. I base what I say upon that which Doctor Spellman told me as the result of his painstaking investigation, during the succeeding months, of the most singular case with which he was ever concerned, and even the brilliant medical man could not be absolutely certain of all his conclusions. However, they sound so reasonable that I now give them.

Throughout the afternoon, Uncle Elk was depressed in spirits, as is sometimes true of a person who is on the eve of some event or experience of decisive importance to himself. He was subject to a peculiar physical chilliness which led him to kindle a fire on his broad hearth, in front of which as the night shadows gathered, he seated himself in his cushioned rocking chair. As time passed he gave himself over to meditation of the long ago with its sorrowful memories.

He had sat thus for some time when he was roused by the twitching of the latchstring. He turned his head to welcome his caller, when he was so startled that at first he could not believe what his eyes told him. A little girl, of the age and appearance of the one who had gone down in the depths of the fathomless sea, stood before him.

“Good evening,” called the child in her gentle voice; “how do you do?”

“Who are you? What’s your name?” faltered the astounded old man.

“I am Ruth,” she replied, coming toward him with the trusting confidence of childhood.

This was the name of the loved one who had left him in the long ago. The resemblance was perfect, as it seemed to him. It was she!

He rose to his feet, reached out, clasped her hand and touched his lips to the chubby cheek.

“God be praised! You are my own Ruth come back to me after all these years!”

That poor brain, racked by so many torturing fancies, accepted it all as truth.

“I am so tired,” said the wearied little one, “I want to rest myself.”

He tenderly lifted her in his arms and carried her behind the curtains, through which the firelight shone, laid her on the couch with her head resting on the pillow, and drew the coverlet over her form. At the end of the few moments thus occupied he saw that she had sunk into the soft dreamless sleep of health and exhaustion.

He came back to the sitting room. The outer door stood ajar, as it had been left by the infantile visitor. As he closed it he did an unprecedented thing,—he drew in the latchstring. He wanted no intruders during these sacred hours. Then he seated himself as before and gave himself up to musings and to wrestling with the problem which was really beyond his solution.

There must have been moments when he glimpsed the truth. That which he had lifted in his arms was flesh and blood and therefore could not be the Ruth who had stepped into the great unknown many years before. Yet she looked the same, and bore her name. Could it not be that heaven had permitted this almost incomprehensible thing?

He sat in front of the fire, which was allowed to smoulder all through the night. It is probable that he rose more than once, drew the curtains aside and looked upon the little one as revealed in the expiring firelight.

“Whatever the explanation, it means that my Ruth and I will soon be together. If it is not she who has come to me, I shall soon go to her.”

Unlocking a small drawer of the table, he drew out a large, unsealed envelope, unfolded the paper inside, glanced at the writing, returned it to the enclosure and laid it on the stand where it could not fail to be seen by any visitor, and then resumed his seat.

“By this time,” said Doctor Spellman, “the brain which had been clouded probably became normal. He knew that my Ruth could not be his Ruth. He must have seen that she was the child of the man whom he intensely disliked because I had presumed to marry a woman who resembled the daughter whom he had lost.”

When daylight returned, Uncle Elk after a time aroused himself. He did not renew the blaze on the hearth, but once more drew the curtain aside. Ruth Spellman still slept. As gently as he had laid her down, he raised and carried her back to his chair where he resumed his seat, with the curly unconscious head resting upon his breast, and after a time, he closed his own eyes, never to open them again.

In the presence of death all was hushed. The Boy Scouts bowed their uncovered heads, and as they stood in the crowded room gazed in awe upon the gray head and inanimate form in the chair. Even the overjoyed mother who had clasped her loved child and lifted her from the lifeless arms suppressed her glad croonings, while the bewildered Ruth gazed upon the strange scene with hardly a glimmering of what it all meant.

For the moment, Doctor Spellman was the professional expert. In a low voice he addressed the Scout Master and the young friends who looked into his face and listened.

“Uncle Elk passed away several hours ago,—his death from heart failure was so painless that it was like falling asleep, as was the case with our child. This looks as if he had left a message for us.”

As he spoke, the doctor picked up the large unsealed envelope and held it up so as to show the address,—“To be opened by whosoever finds it after my death.”

Drawing out and unfolding the sheet, the physician read aloud:

“It is my wish to be buried on the plot between my cabin and the brook. Over my grave a plain marble stone is to erected with the inscription, ‘Elkanah Sisum. Born January 23, 1828; died ——’ Add nothing to the date of my death. Inclosed are enough funds to pay the expense. Whatever remains, which is all the money I possess, I desire to be presented to the Sailors’ Snug Harbor, New York.”

Having finished the reading, the physician added:

“The coroner must be notified and the proper legal steps taken. We should get word to Boothbay Harbor as soon as possible.”

“I will attend to that,” said George Burton, “and start at once.”

The wishes of Uncle Elk were carried out in spirit and letter. The clergyman who came from Boothbay Harbor preached a touching sermon, and a score of men who had known the old man for years came out to the cabin to pay their last respects. The evidence of Doctor Spellman was all the coroner required, and there was no hitch in the solemn exercises.

Mike Murphy, when he could command his emotions, sang “Lead, kindly Light,” with such exquisite pathos that there was not a dry eye among the listeners. The grave had been dug by the Boy Scouts, who stood with bared heads as the coffin was slowly lowered into its final resting place. A few days later all departed for their homes, carrying memories of their outing in the woods of Southern Maine, which will remain with them through life.