The Corner House Girls' Odd Find / Where they made it, and What the Strange Discovery led to

She went into the house, her return not being remarked by the younger children. Upstairs Agnes was at her dresser putting the finishing touches to her hair and her frock in readiness for dinner.

“What’s that?” she asked Ruth, as the latter put down her purse and likewise the torn envelope Mr. Con Murphy had given her.

“Oh!” ejaculated Ruth. “I must have brought it away with me.”

“Brought what away with you—and from where?” demanded Agnes, picking up the paper. Then in a moment she cried: “Why! it’s addressed to Neale—by his circus name, ‘Neale Sorber.’ Where’d you get it, Ruth?”

“I saw Mr. Murphy,” the older sister confessed. “He thinks that the letter that came in this envelope was the cause of Neale’s going away so suddenly.”

“Goodness! it’s some trouble about his uncle,” said Agnes. “How Neale hates to be called ‘Sorber,’ too!”

“That isn’t his uncle’s writing,” Ruth said.

“Of course it isn’t,” the second sister replied scornfully. “Mr. Bill Sorber doesn’t write at all. Don’t you remember? That’s why he thinks it so foolish for Neale to want an education. But it’s somebody Uncle Bill’s got to write for him.”

Agnes’ practical explanation could not be gainsaid. She did not connect for a moment the disappearance of the old album with Neale’s sudden flight from Milton. The bonds and banknotes pasted into the big volume she had found in the garret gave Agnes not the least anxiety. But she looked closely at the envelope.

“Wish Mr. Murphy had found the letter, too,” she said. “Then we could have learned what made that horrid boy run off so.”

“‘Tiverton,’ Humph! Where’s Tiverton? That’s where this letter was mailed. Seems to me somebody said ‘Tiverton’ to me only lately,” murmured Agnes.

Ruth did not hear her, and Agnes said no more about it. But after she had retired that night and was almost in dreamland—in that state ’twixt waking and sleeping when the happenings of the day pass through one’s mind in seemingly endless procession—suddenly Agnes sat up in bed.

“Oh! I know where I’ve heard of Tiverton before,” she whispered shrilly in the darkness. “That’s where Mr. Howbridge has gone—to see his sick brother. Say, Ruth!”

Ruth was asleep. And by morning Agnes had forgotten all about the matter. So the coincidence was not called to the older sister’s attention.

CHAPTER XI—SOME EXCITEMENT

“Ya’as’m, Miss Tessie. Alfredia’s home takin’ car’ ob de baby. Burne-Jones W’istler—he de artis’ lady named—an’ Jackson Montgomery Simms, done gone tuh pick up wood, where dey is buildin’ dat new row ob flats. Gladiola, she’s jes’ big nuff now tuh mess intuh things. I tol’ Alfredia to keep an eye on Glad.”

“That’s a pretty name,” said Agnes, who heard this; “Gladiola. I hope you’ll find as pretty a name for the baby.”

“I has, Miss Aggie,” Petunia assured her.

“Oh! but that would be hard. He’s a boy. You can’t name him after a flower, as you did little Glad and Hyacinth and Pansy.”

“Oh, ya-as’m,” Petunia said, with confidence. “I done hit. De baby, he named aftah a flower, too. I named him ‘Artuhficial,’ an’ we calls him ‘Arty’ fo’ short.”

“Oh, my dear! ‘Artificial’ flower—of course!” gasped Agnes, and ran away to have her laugh out. It certainly pleased the Corner House family. But Uncle Rufus was critical as usual:

“Sho’ don’t see why de good Lawd send all dem bressed babies t’ dat no-‘count brack woman. He must know dey ain’t a-gettin’ no fittin’ care. Why—see yere! She don’t know how even t’ name ’em propah. Flower names—indeedy, das jes’ mak’ me powerful squeegenny, das does—sho’ nuff! Ain’t dey no sensible names lef’ in dis worl’, Ah’d lak’t’ know?”

There was nobody able to answer Uncle Rufus’ question, and he went away, grumbling to himself. And, as he was not within call later, that was why Dot chanced to go to the drug store for Mrs. MacCall, who could not wait for the old colored man’s return.

Tess was upstairs helping Agnes make the beds. Mrs. MacCall wanted something to use at once and the smallest Corner House girl was eager to be helpful.

“I’ll go! I’ll go, Mrs. MacCall!” she cried, running for her hood and coat and overshoes, and, when she had donned them, seizing her Alice-doll, without which she seldom went anywhere, save to church and school. “I’ll be there and back in just no time—you see if I’m not.”

Mrs. MacCall told her carefully what she wanted, and gave her the dime.

“Oh, I’ll ‘member that!” Dot declared, with assurance, and she went out repeating it over and over to herself.

It was some distance to the druggist’s and there were a lot of things to see on the way, and from frequent repetition of the name of the article the housekeeper wanted, the smallest Corner House girl arrived at her destination with only the sound and not much of the sense of it on her tongue.

“Good morning, little Miss Kenway,” said the druggist, who knew Dot and her sisters very well. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh!” said Dot, breathlessly. “Mrs. MacCall wants a box of glory divine.”

The druggist gasped, looked all around at his shelves helplessly, and murmured:

“What did you say it was you wanted?”

“Ten cents’ worth of glory divine,” repeated the smallest Corner House girl, positively.

“What—what does she do with it?” asked the druggist in desperation.

“Why—why, she puts it down the sink drain, and sprinkles it down cellar, an’—”

“Oh, my aunt!” groaned the druggist. “You mean chloride of lime?”

“Ye—yes, sir,” admitted the somewhat abashed Dot. “I guess that’s mebbe it.”

Dot put the article purchased into the go-cart at Alice’s feet, tucked the rug all around her cherished child, for it was a cold if sunny day, and started for home. As she wheeled the doll-carriage toward the Creamer cottage she saw the laundry wagon stop at that gate, while the driver jumped out and ran up the walk to the Creamers’ side porch.

Dot knew that Mabel’s mother always had her basket of soiled clothes ready for the man when he came and this occasion seemed to be no exception. There was the basket and the man grabbed it, ran back to the wagon, and, putting it in at the back, sprang up to his seat and rattled away to his next customer.

It was after Dot had returned to the old Corner House and delivered the box of “glory divine” to the housekeeper that the neighborhood was treated to a sensation originating in the Creamer cottage.

Tess had joined Dot in the yard of the old Corner House. The weather was much too cold for them to have all their dolls in the garden-house as they did in summer; but Neale had shoveled all the paths neatly since the last snow-storm, and the little girls could parade up and down with their doll carriages to their hearts’ content.

They saw Mrs. Creamer run out upon her porch, look wildly around, and then she began to scream for Mabel.

“Mabel! Mabel! come here with the baby this moment! Didn’t I tell you to let him sleep in the basket?”

Mabel appeared slowly from the back yard.

“You naughty child!” cried the worried woman. “You don’t deserve to have a darling baby brother. And you broke his carriage, too—I verily believe—so you wouldn’t have to wheel him in it. Where is he?”

“Ain’t touched him,” declared Mabel, sullenly.

“You—what do you mean? Where is the basket with the baby in it?” demanded Mrs. Creamer, wildly.

“Oh!” gasped Dot and—as she usually did when she was startled—she grabbed up her Alice-doll and hugged her to her bosom.

“I—I don’t know,” declared Mabel, looking rather scared now. “Honest, Mamma—I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s been kidnapped! Thieves! Gypsies!”

The poor mother’s shrieks might have been heard a block. Neighbors came running. Milton had only a small police force, but one of the officers chanced to be within hearing. He came, heard the exciting tale, and galloped off to the nearest telephone to let them know at headquarters that there was a child mysteriously missing.

“Why, isn’t that funny?” said Dot to Tess. “If he was a kidnapper, he looked just like the laundryman.”

“Who did?” demanded the amazed Theresa.

“The man who took the basket and stole Bubby Creamer.”

“What ever are you saying, Dot Kenway?”

So Dot told her all that she had seen of the strange transaction.

“Why, that was the laundryman, of course!” declared Tess. “The baby is not stolen at all—at least he never meant to take it. I know the laundryman, and he’s got seven children of his own. I don’t believe he’d steal another.”

The whole neighborhood was aroused. Agnes ran out into the yard to learn what the trouble was, and Tess and Dot, with great verbosity, related their version of the occurrence.

“Oh, children! we must tell Mrs. Creamer,” Agnes said. “Of course the laundryman wouldn’t have stolen the baby! He thought the basket held the wash and had been put out there for him.”

She ran across the yard and swarmed over the fence into the Creamers’ premises like a boy. Flying up to the group of lamenting women on the porch, she exploded her information among them like a bomb.

“Telephone to the laundry and find out if the man has got there yet,” suggested one woman.

But Agnes knew that Mrs. Creamer’s was one of the first places at which the laundryman stopped. He did not get back to the laundry until near noon.

Suddenly an automobile coming up Main Street attracted the Corner House girl’s attention. She recognized the driver of the car, and ran out into the street, calling to him to stop.

“Oh, Joe Eldred! Wait! Wait!”

Joe was a boy somewhat older than Neale O’Neil, but one of the latter’s closest friends. He was driving his father’s car, having obtained a license only the month before.

“Joe! Wait!” Agnes repeated, waving her mittened hand to him.

“Hullo! Whose old cat is dead?” was his reply.

“Oh, Joe! such a dreadful thing has happened,” Agnes said breathlessly. “Bubby Creamer has gone off with Mr. Billy Quirk, the laundryman, and his mother’s worried to death.”

“Whew! that’s some kid!” exclaimed Joe. “Didn’t know he could walk yet.”

“He can’t, silly!” returned Agnes, exasperated. “Listen!” and she told the boy how the wonder had occurred. “You know, Mr. Billy Quirk drives away out High Street to collect laundry. Won’t you drive out that way and see if he’s got poor little Bubby in his wagon?”

“Sure!” cried Joe. “Hop in!”

“But—but I didn’t think of going.”

“Say! You don’t suppose I’d take a live baby aboard this car all alone?” gasped Joe. “I—guess—not!”

“Oh, I’ll go!” agreed Agnes, and immediately slipped into the seat beside him. “Do hurry—do! Mrs. Creamer is almost crazy.”

Joe’s engine had been running all the time, and in a minute they rounded the corner into High Street.

“Neale got back yet?” asked Joe, slipping the clutch into high speed.

“Oh—oh!” gasped Agnes, as the car shot forward with suddenly increased swiftness. “How—how did you know he had gone away?”

“Saw him off Christmas morning.”

“Oh, Joe Eldred! did you know Neale was going?”

“Why, not till he went,” admitted the boy. “I was running down to the railroad station to meet my married sister and her kids—they were coming over for Christmas dinner—and I saw Neale lugging his satchel and legging it for the station. That bag weighed a ton, so I took him in.”

“Where did he say he was going?” Agnes asked eagerly.

“He didn’t say. Don’t you know?”

“If I did I wouldn’t ask you,” snapped Agnes. “Mean old thing!”

“Hul-lo!” ejaculated Joe. “Who’s mean?”

“Not you, Joe,” the girl said sweetly. “But that Neale O’Neil. He went off without saying a word to any of us.”

“Close mouthed as an oyster, Neale is. But I asked him what was in the bag, and what d’ you s’pose he said?”

“I don’t know,” returned the girl, idly.

“He said: ‘Either a hundred thousand dollars or nothing.’ Now! what do you know about that?” demanded Joe, chuckling.

“What!” gasped Agnes, sitting straight up and staring at her companion.

“I guess if he’d been lugging such a fortune around it would have been heavy,” added Joe, with laughter.

Agnes was silenced. For once the impulsive Corner House girl was circumspect. Neale’s answer to Joe could mean but one thing. Neale must have carried away with him the old album she had found in the garret of the Corner House.

“Goodness gracious!” thought Agnes, feeling a queer faintness within. “It can’t be that Neale O’Neil really believes that money and the bonds are good! That is too ridiculous! But, if not, what has he carried the book away with him for?

“He was going to show the bonds to somebody, he said. He went off in too great a hurry to do that. And did he take the book because the contents might be valuable and he was afraid to leave it behind him?”

“I never did hear of such a funny mix-up,” concluded Agnes, still in her own mind. “And Ruth acts so strangely about it, too. She looked at the book first. Can it be possible that she thinks that old play money is real? Suppose some of it is good—just some of it?”

Agnes had begun to worry herself now about the old album and its contents. The mystery of it quite overshadowed in her mind the matter of the missing baby.

CHAPTER XII—MISS PEPPERILL’S DISASTER

“In your wagon, I mean. It’s Mrs. Creamer’s Bubby. Oh, dear, Mr. Quirk! do look quick and see if you’ve smothered him.”

“What do you mean, girl? That I’ve smothered a baby!” groaned Mr. Quirk, who was a little, nervous man who could not stand much excitement.

“I don’t know. Do look,” begged Agnes. “Bubby was in the basket—not the soiled clothes—”

“Which basket?” cried the laundryman.

“The one you took away from the Creamers’ porch, Billy,” put in Joe Eldred, who had left the car, too. “Come on and look. Maybe the kid’s all right.”

“Oh, dear me! I hope so!” groaned Agnes. “What would Mrs. Creamer do—”

Joe helped the shaking laundryman to lift down the baskets of wash that were already stacked three tiers deep in the wagon.

“That’s it! That’s the one!” cried Agnes eagerly, recognizing Mrs. Creamer’s basket.

And there was the baby, under a veil, sleeping as peacefully as could be. Fortunately the basket placed on top of the baby’s temporary cradle had been the larger of the two, and had completely and safely covered the lower basket.

They got the baby, basket and all, into the back of the Eldred car without awakening Bubby, and Agnes sat beside him.

“I’ll drive back as if I had a load of eggs,” Joe declared, grinning. “If that kid wakes up and bawls, Aggie, what’ll you do?”

“Humph!” said Agnes, with scorn, “isn’t that just like a boy? Don’t you suppose I know how to take care of a baby?”

Billy Bumps, the goat, that had once been Sammy’s, looked longingly through the Corner House fence at the straw thus laid down, as though it was more tempting fodder than that with which Uncle Rufus supplied him.

“I believe Billy Bumps must know Sammy is awful sick,” Tess said, in a hushed voice to Dot. “See how solemn he looks.”

“Seems to me, Tess,” Dot replied, “I never saw Billy Bumps look any other way. Why, he looked solemn when he eat-ed up Mrs. MacCall’s stocking. I believe he must have a melancholic disposition.”

“‘Melancholic’! Goodness me, Dot!” snapped Tess, “I wish you wouldn’t try to use words that you can’t use.”

“Why can’t I use ’em, if I want to!” demanded Dot, stubbornly.

“But you get them all wrong.”

“I guess I can use ’em if I want to—so now, Tess Kenway!” exclaimed Dot, pouting. “Words don’t belong to anybody in particular, and I’ve as good a right to ’em as you have.”

This revolt against her criticism rather staggered Tess. But she had much more serious problems to wrestle with at school just then.

In the first place Miss Pepperill was very “trying.” Tess would not admit that the red-haired teacher was cross.

After a vacation of nearly two weeks the pupils had, of course, gotten quite out of hand. They were not only uneasy and had forgotten the school rules, but they seemed to Miss Pepperill to be particularly dull. Every little thing annoyed the teacher. She almost lost her voice trying to explain to the class the differences in tense—for they took up some simple grammar lessons in that grade.

One day Miss Pepperill completely lost her temper with Jakey Gerlach, who, in truth, was not her brightest pupil.

“I declare, Jakey, you never will get anywhere in school. You’re always at the bottom of the class,” she told him, sharply.

“Vell, does idt matter, teacher?” propounded Jakey, “whether I am at top or at bottom of de class? You teach de same at bot’ ends.”

At the end of each day the teacher was despairing. Tess always waited, timidly, to walk to the car with her. There was a crosstown car that made the trip from school to boarding house fairly easy for Miss Pepperill.

Perhaps, had she remained at the hospital with her sister, where she would have been more or less under Dr. Forsyth’s eye, the final disaster in Miss Pepperill’s case would not have arrived.

She really lost control of her scholars after a few days. In her room, where had always been the greatest decorum because the children feared her, there was now at times much confusion.

“Oh, children!” she gasped, holding her head in both hands, “I can’t hear myself think!”

She sat down, unable to bear the hubbub of class recitation, and put her hands over her ears for a moment. Her eyes closed. The throbbing veins at her temples seemed about to burst.

It was Sadie Goronofsky who brought about the final catastrophe—and that quite innocently. Being unable at this juncture to attract attention by the usual means of waving her hand in the air and snapping her fingers, Sadie jumped up and went forward to Miss Pepperill’s desk.

She had just sent away a class, and their clumsy footsteps had but ceased thundering on her eardrums when Sadie came on tiptoe to the platform. Miss Pepperill did not see her, but Sadie, tired of weaving her arm back and forth without result, clutched the edge of the light shawl Miss Pepperill wore over her shoulders.

The jerk the child gave the shawl was sufficient to pull Miss Pepperill’s elbow from the edge of the desk where it rested, her hand upholding her throbbing head.

In her weakness the teacher almost pitched out of her chair to the floor. She shrieked.

Sadie Goronofsky flew back to her seat in terror. Miss Pepperill opened her eyes and saw nobody near. It was just as though an invisible hand had pulled at the shawl and had dislodged her elbow.

She was not of a superstitious nature, but her nerves were unstrung. She uttered another shriek—then a third.

The children under her care were instantly alarmed. They rose and ran from her, or cowered, whimpering, in their seats, while the poor hysterical woman uttered shriek after shriek.

Her cries brought other teachers into the room. They found her with her hair disarranged, her dress disheveled, beating her heels on the platform and shrieking at the top of her voice—quite out of her mind for the time being.

The children were dismissed at once and took to their homes excited and garbled reports of the occurrence.

Tess did not go home at once. She saw them finally take Miss Pepperill, now exhausted and moaning, out to a taxi-cab and drive away with her to the Women’s and Children’s Hospital, where Mrs. Eland was.

But the damage was done. Poor Miss Pepperill’s mind was, for the time, quite out of her control. The next day she had to be removed to the state hospital for the insane because she disturbed the other patients under her sister’s care.

That ended, of course, Miss Pepperill’s career as a public school teacher. With a record of having been at the insane hospital, she could hope never again to preside over a class of children in the public school. Her occupation and manner of livelihood were taken from her.

“It is a terrible, terrible thing,” Ruth said at dinner, the day Miss Pepperill was taken to the state hospital.

Ruth had been with Tess to call on Mrs. Eland, and the little gray lady had told them all about it.

“I am awfully sorry for my Mrs. Eland, too,” Tess said. “I am sure she could have cared for Miss Pepperill if they’d let her stay.”

“Don’t worry, honey,” Agnes said quickly. “They’ll soon let Miss Pepperill come back.”

“But the harm is done,” Ruth rejoined gravely. “Just as Dr. Forsyth said, she ought to take a long, long rest.”

“If they were only rich,” sighed Agnes.

“If we were only rich!” Ruth rejoined.

“My goodness! and wouldn’t we be rich—just!—if all that stage money I found was only real, Ruthie?” Agnes whispered to her elder sister.

Ruth grew very red and said, quite tartly for her: “I don’t see that it would do us any good—if it were so. You let it go out of your hands very easily.”

“Oh, pshaw! Neale will bring it back,” said Agnes, half laughing, yet wondering that Ruth should be so earnest. “You speak just as though you believed it was good money.”

“You don’t know, one way or another, whether it is so or not.”

“Why, Ruth!”

“Well, you don’t, do you?” demanded the elder sister.

“How silly you talk. You’re as bad as Neale about those old bonds. I believe he lugged that book off with him just to show somebody the bonds to see if they were any good.”

Ruth turned away, and said nothing more regarding the album; but Agnes was more and more puzzled about the whole affair. The two girls were not confiding in each other. Nothing, of course, could have shaken Agnes’ belief in Neale’s honesty. While, on the other hand, Ruth feared that the ex-circus-boy had fallen before temptation.

Believing, as she did, that the banknotes found in the album were all good, the oldest Corner House girl considered that the bonds might be of great value, too. Altogether, as Neale had figured up, there was over a hundred thousand dollars in the album.

This fortune was somewhere—so Ruth believed—in the possession of a thoughtless, if not really dishonest, boy. A thousand things might happen to the treasure trove Neale O’Neil had borne away from the old Corner House.

No matter whether it were Neale himself or another who made wrong use of the money or the bonds, if they were lost it would be a catastrophe. Neither the Corner House girls, nor whoever properly owned the book, would ever be benefitted by the odd find in the garret of the Stower homestead.

Who the actual owner—or owners—of the treasure was, Ruth could not imagine. But that she was the proper custodian of the album until Mr. Howbridge returned, the girl was quite sure.

She dared take nobody into her confidence until their guardian came home. Least of all could she talk about it to Agnes. And on her part, Agnes was quite as loath to speak of the matter, in earnest, to Ruth.

What Joe Eldred had said about Neale and his heavy satchel really alarmed Agnes. A hundred thousand dollars! A fortune, indeed.

“Goodness me!” Agnes thought. “Neale is never silly enough to believe that the money is real, is he? Impossible! Yet—why did he carry the old thing off with him?

“It bothers Ruth—I can see that. I don’t know what idea she’s got in her head; but surely both of them can’t be mad about that money and those bonds. Goodness! am I the only sensible one in the family?” the flyaway asked herself, quite seriously.

“For I know very well that stuff in the old album is nothing but ‘green goods.’ Maybe somebody, years ago, used it dishonestly—used it to fool other people. And suppose Neale is fooling himself with it?”

For it never entered the loyal Agnes’ mind that her boy chum was other than the soul of honesty.

CHAPTER XIII—AGNES IN THE WOODS

The top of this boxlike arrangement was of oiled paper, pasted over a wooden frame, and one eager sparrow, pecking at crumbs on the taut paper, burst a hole right through; so he, or another, hopped saucily down through the hole and tried to peck out the Alice-doll’s bead-like eyes!

“Why—why—you cannibal!” gasped Dot, and ran to her child’s rescue.

With a frightened chirp the sparrow shot up through the torn paper and winged his flight over the housetop.

“You’ll have to paste up that hole, Dot,” Tess said, “or something more than a sparrow will get in at your Alice-doll.”

“Oh, me! what shall I do?” moaned Dot. “Alice must sleep in her porch. The doctors all say so.”

“I’ve a piece of silk you may have to paste over the top of your porch, honey,” Ruth said. “That will let the light through, and the birds won’t peck it to shreds.”

“Oh, thank you, sister!” said Dot, much relieved.

“I’ll run for the glue bottle,” Tess added, wishing to be helpful.

But having brought the bottle Tess was obliged to help Agnes with the beds. There were certain duties the Corner House girls had to do every day, and on Saturdays three of the early morning hours at least were spent by all of them save Dot in housework of one kind or another, and even she had some light household duties. The house was very large and Mrs. MacCall and Linda could not do all the work. As for Aunt Sarah Maltby, she only “ridded up” her own room, and never lifted her fingers to work outside it.

So just now Dot was left alone with the silk and the glue bottle. It was not a difficult task, and even Dot might be expected to do it with neatness and despatch.

But when Ruth chanced to come into the room some time later, Dot was still struggling with the glue bottle. She had not yet been successful in removing the cork.

“Goodness me! what a mean, mean thing,” Dot cried, quite unaware that she was being observed. “Now I tell you what,” she added, addressing the cork with which she was struggling, “I’m going to get you out, if I have to push you in—so there!”

This cheered up the family considerably when it was repeated; but Dot was used to furnishing amusement for the Corner House family. Usually the hour spent at the dinner table was the most enjoyable of all the day for the girls, for all that had happened during the day was there and then discussed.

It had been just the evening before that Dot was taken to task quite seriously by Ruth for a piece of impoliteness of which the little girl stood confessed.

“Sister was sorry to see this afternoon, when you were talking at the gate with Mr. Seneca Sprague, Dot, that you ate cookies out of a paper bag and did not offer Mr. Sprague any.”

“Didn’t,” said Dot. “’Twas crackers.”

“Well, crackers, then. You should always offer any person whom you are with, a share of your goodies.”

“Why, Ruthie!” exclaimed Dot. “You know very well Seneca Sprague wouldn’t have eaten any of those crackers.”

“Why not?” asked Ruth, still serious.

“Isn’t he a—a vegetablearian?” propounded Dot, quite warmly.

“A vegetarian—yes,” admitted the older sister.

“Well!” exclaimed Dot, in triumph, “he wouldn’t have eaten ’em then. They were animal crackers.”

Agnes made her preparations that evening for a visit she proposed to make the next day. After their work was done on Saturday the Corner House girls sometimes separated to follow different paths for the remainder of the holiday. This week Agnes was going to visit Mr. Bob Buckham and his invalid wife, who lived some distance from Milton, but not far off the interurban car line.

When she started about ten o’clock to go to the car, not only Tess and Dot, but Tom Jonah was ready to accompany her. The old dog was always glad to be in any expedition; but Agnes did not want him to follow the car and she told him to go back.

“Oh, don’t do that, sister,” begged Tess. “We’ll look out for Tom Jonah. You know he’ll mind us—Dot and me. We’ll bring him home from the corner.”

So he was allowed to pace sedately behind the trio to the corner of Ralph Avenue where Agnes purposed to take the car. This was not far down Main Street from the Parade Ground, and the children could easily find their way home again.

As the three sisters passed the drug store they saw coming out a woman in long, black garments, a veil, and a huge collar and a sort of hood of starched white linen.

Dot’s eyes grew big and round as she watched this figure, and finally she whispered: “Oh, Aggie; who is that?”

“That is a sister of charity,” replied Agnes.

Dot pondered deeply for a moment and then returned to the charge with: “Say, Aggie, which sister is she—Faith or Hope?”

“Hear that child!” sighed Tess. “I never heard of such a ridiculous question, did you, Aggie?” she asked the laughing, older sister.

Just then the car Agnes must take came along and the older girl ran to climb aboard, after kissing the little ones good-bye. And there was Tom Jonah, bounding right behind her.

“No, no! You must not! You can’t, Tom Jonah,” Agnes cried, stopping at the car step. “Go back, Tom Jonah!”

The dog’s ears and tail drooped. He turned slowly away, disappointed.

“You know I can’t take you in the car,” Agnes said. “Go home with Tess and Dottie.”

She stepped aboard. The conductor just then rang the bell for starting. Agnes pitched into a seat as the car jumped forward and failed to see whether the dog returned to her sisters or not.

It was a long ride in rather a round-about way to the Buckham farm. Mr. Bob Buckham raised strawberries for market and was a good friend of the Corner House girls. Agnes particularly was a favorite of the farmer and his invalid wife.

Although the interurban car passed one end of the Buckham farm, there was another point where Agnes could leave the car to cut across lots and through the woods to reach the house. She had been this way once with Neale, and she thought it a much pleasanter, if somewhat longer, walk.

So, when the car came to the road in the woods which the Corner House girl was sure was the right one, she signaled the conductor to stop and she stepped down into the snow beside the track.

Agnes was to learn, however, that the woods look different under a blanket of snow, from what they do when the ground is bare.

The road into which she ventured was merely a track leading into a place where cordwood had been cut. Wagons had gone back and forth, but not for several days. The path led in a direction quite different from the Buckham house and every minute she walked this way took her farther and farther from the road to Strawberry Farm.

The air was invigorating, the sun shone, and the path was hard under her feet, so Agnes found the walk very pleasant indeed. Being quite unconscious of her mistake, nothing troubled her mind. She tramped on, rejoicing, expecting to come into familiar territory within a mile or so.

The forest grew thicker as she advanced. The only tracks she saw in the snow on either side of the wood road were those of birds and rabbits. Jays shot through the leafless woods shouting their raucous call; crows cawed in the distance; close at hand, squirrels chattered and scolded at her from the trees as she passed under the stark, bare branches.

Finally the impression was forced upon Agnes Kenway’s mind that the wood was very lonely. She heard no axe—and an axe can be heard for miles. She noticed, too, at length, that the tracks in the road—both of men and horses—were not fresh. She had not observed before that a light snow powdered these marks—and it had not snowed for three days.

“Why! can it be possible that nobody has been to Mr. Buckham’s by this road for so long?” murmured Agnes.

She turned around to look behind her. As she did so some creature—quite a big and shaggy animal—darted across the path and disappeared in the brush.

Mercy! How startled Agnes was for a moment. It might be a bear! Or a wolf! Then, of course, she came to herself, shrugged her shoulders, and laughed.

“It’s a dog. Somebody is out hunting. But goodness! how he did scare me,” she thought.

Agnes went on again, cheerfully enough. The road was by no means straight. If she looked back she could see only a short distance, for the brush and trees hid the back stretches.

She turned again. There was the creature just darting once more into the shrubbery!

Agnes halted in her tracks. She was suddenly smitten with fear. She could not shake the feeling off. Surely there was something dogging her footsteps.

She puckered her lips to whistle; but no sound came. She tried to call; but her tongue seemed dry and her throat contracted. She knew it was a dog; yet the possibility of its being some savage beast instead, terrified her.

Even a bad dog would be dangerous to meet in this lonely place. And he followed her so stealthily!

Agnes was panic-stricken at midday. It was almost noon now, and how strange that she had not reached the Buckham house! Why! she had been walking for an hour.

It came over the girl suddenly that she was lost.

“Yet I don’t see how that can be,” she murmured. “I’m in the road and it’s plain enough. Surely it should lead somewhere.”

Nevertheless she would have turned about and gone back to the car tracks had it not been for the apparition that seemed dogging her steps.

She dared not turn back and face that Unknown!

Slily she looked over her shoulder again. There it was—dim, shaggy, slinking close to the snow. Agnes was sure now that she knew what it was. Naught but a wolf would act like that—would trail her so silently and with such determination.

Agnes was truly terror-stricken. She began to run—and running was not easy in this rutty road. She fell once; but she did not mind the bruises and scratches she received, for all she could think of was that the wolf might leap upon her while she was down.

Up the poor girl scrambled and ran on, crying now—all her brave temper quenched. She dared look behind no more. How close her awful pursuer was she dared not know.

On and on she hastened; now running, now walking fast, her limbs shaking with dread and weariness. It seemed as though she must come to some habitation soon. She had had no idea that there was any such wilderness as this anywhere back of Milton!

There were no signs here of man’s nearness save the road through the forest, nor had she seen such since leaving the main highway. As she said, surely this road must lead somewhere.

Suddenly Agnes smelled smoke. She saw it rising between the trees ahead. Escape from the prowling beast was at hand. The girl hurried on. The place where the smoke was rising was down a little slope, at the foot of which she suddenly discovered the railroad. She knew something about the locality then. It was some distance from Mr. Bob Buckham’s house.

This was a lonely place, too. There was no station anywhere near. Heaps of ties lay about—cords and cords of them. It suddenly smote upon the girl’s mind that tramps might be here. Tramps followed the railroad line. And tramps might be more to be feared than a wolf!

She halted in her tracks and waited to get her breath. Of course she glanced fearfully behind again. But the prowling beast was no longer in sight. The vicinity of the fire had doubtless made him hesitate and draw off.

So Agnes could take her time about approaching the campfire. She was sure that was what it must be. The smoke arose from beyond a great heap of railroad ties, and now, when her pulses stopped beating so in her ears, she distinguished voices.

Well! human beings were at hand. She could not help feeling suspicious of them; yet their nearness had driven off the strange and terrible beast that had so frightened her.

After a minute or two the Corner House girl crept forward. Some of her usual courage returned to her. Her heart beat high and her color rose. She bit her lower lip with her pretty, even teeth, as she always did when she labored under suppressed excitement, and tiptoed to the end of the piled up ties.

The voices were louder here—more easily distinguished. There were two of them—a young voice and an old voice. And in a moment she discovered something that pleased and relieved her. The young voice was a girl’s voice—Agnes was quite positive of that.

She thought at once: “No harm can come to me if there is a girl here. But who can she be, camping out in the snowy woods?”

In another moment she would have stepped around the corner of the pile of ties and revealed herself to the strangers had not something that was said reached her ears—and that something was bound to arrest Agnes Kenway’s attention.

“A book full of money.”

The young voice said this, and then the other spoke, it seemed, doubtingly.

Again came the girl’s voice with passionate earnestness:

“I tell you I saw it! I know ’twas money.”

“It don’t sound reasonable,” and the man’s husky voice was plainer now.

“I tell you I saw it. I had the book in my hand.”

“Why didn’t you bring it away and let me see it?” demanded the other.

“I’d ha’ done it, Pop, if I’d been let. He had it in his bag in his room. I got in and had the book in my hand. It’s heavy and big, I tell you! He came in and caught me messin’ with his things, and I thought he’d lam me! You know, Neale always was high tempered,” added the strange young voice.

Agnes was powerless to move. Mention of money in a book was sufficient to hold her in her tracks. But now they were speaking of Neale O’Neil!

“Where’d he ever get so much money?” demanded the husky voice.

“Stole it, mebbe.”

“None of the Sorbers was ever light-fingered—you’ve got to say that much for them.”

“What’s that boy doing with all that money, and we so poor?” snarled the young voice, “Wasn’t you hurt when that gasoline tank exploded in the big top, just the same as Bill Sorber? And nobody made any fuss over you.”

“Well, well, well,” muttered the man.

“They’re not carin’ what becomes of us—neither Twomley nor Sorber. Here you’ve been laid up, and it’s mid-winter and too late for us to get any job till the tent shows open in the spring. An’ we must beat it South like hoboes. I say ’tisn’t fair!” and the young voice was desperate.

“There ain’t many things fair in this world, Barnabetta,” said the husky voice, despondently.

“I—I’d steal that money from Neale Sorber if I got the chance. And he’ll be coming back to this very next town with it. That’s where he’s living now—at Milton. I hate all the Sorbers.” “There, there, Barnabetta! Don’t take on so. We’d have got into some good act in vaudeville ’fore now if I hadn’t had to favor my ankle.”

“You’d better’ve let me go into that show alone, Pop.”

“No, no, my girl. You’re too young for that. No, that warn’t the right kind of a show.”

The girl’s voice sounded wistful now: “Wish we could get an act like that we had in the tent show when Neale was with us. He was a good kid then.”

“Yes; but there ain’t many like Neale Sorber was. And like enough he’s gone stale ‘fore now.”

“I’d just like to know where he got all that money,” said the girl-voice. “And in a book, too. I thought ’twas a photograph album.”

“Hist!” said the man-voice, “’Tisn’t so much where he got it as it is, is he comin’ back here with it.”

“He’ll come back to Milton, sure. Bill Sorber isn’t so sick now.”

The voices died to a whisper. Agnes, both troubled and frightened, tried to steal away. But she had been resting her weight upon the corner of the heap of ties. As she moved, the icy timbers shook, slid, and suddenly overturned.

Agnes, her face white, and with a terrified air, found herself facing a man and, not a girl but, a boy, who had sprung up from a log by the fire. And they knew she had overheard their conversation.

CHAPTER XIV—BARNABETTA

As he advanced, Agnes began to retreat, stepping slowly backward. She would have run at once, trusting to her lightness of foot to relieve her of the boy’s company in a few rods, had it not been that she remembered the unknown and savage beast that had followed her to this spot.

It must have been this boy’s voice she had heard; yet it sounded just like a girl’s. Agnes was greatly puzzled by the youth’s appearance. She looked again over his supple, crouching body as he advanced. It was wide-hipped, narrow-waisted, and not at all boyish looking. Despite the thinness of this young stroller, his figure did not at all suggest the angles of a boy’s frame.

Aside from being puzzled, Agnes Kenway was much afraid of him. His face was so keenly threatening in expression, and his stealthy actions so antagonistic, that the Corner House girl almost screamed aloud. Finally, she found relief in speech.

“What are you going to do with that stick? Put it down!” she cried.

“I—I——You’ve been listening to us talking,” said the boy. But it was the girl’s voice that spoke.

It did not sound like a boy’s voice at all. It was too high, and there was a certain sweetness to it despite the tremor of the notes. Agnes began to recover her self-possession. She might have been afraid of a reckless boy. But she was strong herself, and agile. Even if the other did have a stick—

“You were listening,” cried the other accusingly, again. “Yes, I was listening—a little,” confessed the Corner House girl. “But so would you—”

“No, I wouldn’t. That’s sneaky,” snapped the other.

“How about your finding out about the book of money you spoke of?” asked Agnes, boldly. “Didn’t you do anything ‘sneaky’ to find out about that?”

The other started and dropped the stick. The man sat down suddenly. It was plain, even to usually unobservant Agnes Kenway, that her remark had startled both of them.

“I was alone—and lost,” Agnes went on to explain. “I was trying to reach Mr. Bob Buckham’s farm, and a wolf chased me—”

“A wolf!” interrupted the youthful tramp. “Now I know you’re telling a wicked story.”

“It was. Or something,” said Agnes, stoutly. “I was scared. Then I saw your smoke.”

“Why didn’t you walk right in and speak to us instead of snoopin’?”

“You’d have ‘snooped’,” flashed back Agnes, with some heat. “I was alone, and I was afraid of tramps—”

“Well, we’re tramps,” said the boy, stooping and picking up the dropped stick.

“Not the kind I am afraid of,” Agnes replied, trying to smile.

The boy would not be pacified, but the man said, shakingly, from his seat on the log:

“We wouldn’t hurt you, girl. Put down that stick, Barney. This is my son, Barney, and I’m Asa Scruggs. I’m a joey when I’m in luck, and Barney—he’s a trapeze artist. He’s good.”

“Oh, Pop!” shrilled the youthful trapeze artist, “might’s well tell the truth this time. She’s nothing but a girl herself.”

“And that’s what you are!” cried Agnes, with excitement.

“Yes. I’m Barnabetta, not Barney, Scruggs. Nice name, isn’t it?” scoffed the strange girl. “My mother was Pennsylvania Dutch; that’s where I got my name, Barnabetta. But it’s safer to travel as a boy, so I’m Barney on the road. Besides, skirts would be in the way, climbing in and out of ‘rattlers.’”

“Oh, what fun!” gasped Agnes. “Do you and your father always travel this way?”

“You bet we don’t! Not when we have an engagement. We’ve ridden in Pullman cars—haven’t we, Pop?”

The man nodded. He did not say much but watched Agnes with eyes that, in a child, the girl would have thought expressed terror. Barnabetta was much the stronger character of the two, the Corner House girl was positive.

“But where are you traveling now?” asked the interested Agnes.

“We’re aimin’ on gettin’ South, miss. There’s tent shows there all winter long,” said the man, plaintively. “I’ve been laid up with my ankle, and it’s too late to get any bookings worth while through the usual vaudeville agencies. We been workin’ for Twomley & Sorber’s Herculean Circus and Menagerie; but of course they’re in winter quarters now at Tiverton. That’s where I got hurt—right at the end of the season, too.”

Agnes’ brain was working busily. Twomley & Sorber’s at Tiverton. Tiverton was where the letter was postmarked that had taken Neale O’Neil away from home so strangely. The talk she had just overheard assured her that these two circus performers had been conversing about Neale and the old album full of money and bonds that he had taken away with him.

But she caught the disguised Barnabetta watching her very sharply. That girl’s black eyes were like glittering steel points. They seemed to say: “How much does this girl who listened guess—how much does she suspect—how much does she know?”

“We’ve got to work up some kind of patter to go with our act if we strike a job,” said Barnabetta, still with her eyes fixed on the Corner House girl. “You’ve got to have something new if you expect to put any act over these days. Pop’s a good joey—”

“I suppose you mean a clown?” asked Agnes.

“Yep. How’d you know?” sharply retorted Barnabetta.

“I—I’ve heard the word used before,” admitted Agnes, seeing that she had been unwise. “Then you know circus folks?” observed the suspicious trapeze artist.

“Oh, no!”

Barnabetta was not convinced, that was plain. But she turned in a matter-of-fact way to the man. “Well, Pop,” she said coolly, “about that money.” The man jumped, and his weak eyes opened wide. But Barnabetta kept right on and Agnes was sure she was winking at her father. “You must disbelieve me when I say I saw it, and I’m goin’ to say we’ll get it,” she declared.

“Huh?” gasped the clown.

“That’s the way it must be in our act,” the girl said firmly. “In our act—don’t you see?”

“Oh! Ha! Hum!” said the clown, clearing his throat. “I see.”

“This is second-story work,” the girl explained eagerly. “I’ll show you how to climb up to the window for the money—that’s to the trapeze, you see,” she added, throwing the explanation at Agnes.

“Oh! I see,” murmured the Corner House girl.

“And you play the joey part, Pop,” pursued Barnabetta. “I’ll go ahead, and say ‘Hist!’ and ‘Take care!’ and ‘Clumsy!’ and the like, making believe we’re going to rob a house. You do the joey, as I said, and climb almost up to the trapeze on the rope, and then make a fall. We’ve got to get the laughs,” she added again, glancing sidewise at Agnes.

The latter felt very peculiar indeed. Bluntly honest, it was hard for Agnes to play a part in this way. She knew the girl trapeze performer was trying to lead her astray. Barnabetta and her father were talking of Neale and his money before Agnes appeared, and this tale about the new act was being invented on the spur of the moment to confuse her.

Barnabetta stopped suddenly. Perhaps she saw that her tale was making little impression upon their visitor.

“Where were you going, miss?” asked Mr. Scruggs, after a minute’s silence.

“I was on my way to visit Mr. and Mrs. Buckham. They expect me,” said Agnes, wisely. “But I must have missed the road. I know where I am now, however, I’ll go down the railroad beyond the water-tank a little way and find the very crossing of the lane that goes into their dooryard from the west. Those trees must hide the house from here.”

Secretly Agnes wanted to get away, but not to visit Mr. and Mrs. Buckham. She felt that she ought to communicate with Neale O’Neil just as soon as possible. This old clown and his disguised daughter might have a plan to stop Neale on his way home and take the old album and its precious contents away from him.

For now Agnes, like her sister, Ruth, had begun to believe that the engraved slips of paper pasted into the book were “really truly” banknotes. How they had gotten there, and who they originally belonged to, Agnes could not guess. Nor did she believe that Neale O’Neil had carried them off with him, knowing them to be good currency.

However, everybody who got a sight of them seemed to think that the notes were legal tender. Even this strange girl, Barnabetta Scruggs, thought Neale was carrying around thousands of dollars with him. Dear me! if Neale would only know enough to go to Mr. Howbridge, there at his brother’s house at Tiverton, the lawyer would tell him just what to do with the old album.

These thoughts raced like lightning through Agnes’ mind as she turned calmly away from the campfire. “I must be going,” she said. “Good-bye.”

The man said nothing, but looked away. Barnabetta said: “How about that wolf you said was chasing you?” and she said it sneeringly, as though she doubted Agnes’ story.

“I guess he won’t follow me down upon the railroad tracks,” the Corner House girl said cheerfully.

“Huh! I guess he won’t. ’Cause why? There wasn’t any wolf,” snapped Barnabetta. “That’s a story!”

“It isn’t, either!” cried Agnes, hotly.

“I’d like to know what you were hidin’ behind that pile of ties and listenin’ to us for?” said the circus girl.

“I told you how I came to do that.”

“I don’t believe you,” was the flat reply.

Agnes was too impulsive to let this stand without answering. She whirled and spoke hotly to the trapeze performer:

“I tell you the truth. I doubt if you tell me the truth. Why were you so afraid of being overheard, if all that talk about the money you saw in the book was just play-acting?”

“You are too smart,” snarled Barnabetta.

“I am smart enough to know that you are trying to fool me. I’m not going to believe you at all—not a word you say. I don’t like you. I’m going to Mr. Buckham’s—so now!”

Barnabetta sprang forward, crying: “You’re not goin’ so fast! Is she, Pop?”

Agnes had forgotten the clown. He had come silently around the other side of the fire—evidently at some signal from Barnabetta—and was now right at her elbow.

“Grab her, Pop! Don’t let her get away!” cried the circus girl, commandingly.

Agnes would have run; but she fairly bumped into the little man. He seized her by both arms, and she found that she was powerless against him.

At this point Agnes Kenway became thoroughly frightened. She opened her lips and screamed for help.

Instantly there was a scrambling in the brush beside the overturned pile of ties, a savage growl, and a shaggy body sprang into sight and charged the struggling Corner House girl and the man who held her.