“How old is he?” continued the old man.
“Twenty-eight next month; why do you wish to know?” she quizzically asked.
“Simply idle curiosity,” old Sanders carelessly replied. “I wonder if he is
in love with any one in Tuscany?”
“Of course not; how could he be?”
quickly rejoined the girl.
“And why not?” added old Sanders.
“Why? Because, because–he is in
love with some one in America.”
“Ah, with you, I see,” said the old man, as if it were the greatest discovery of his life; “are you sure he has not
some beautiful sweetheart in Tuscany as well as here?”
“What a foolish question,” she
replied. “Men like Angelo Diotti do not fall in love as soldiers fall in line. Love to a man of his nobility is too
serious to be treated so lightly.”
“Very true, and that’s what has
excited my curiosity!” whereupon the old man smoked away in silence.
“Excited your curiosity!” said
Mildred. “What do you mean?”
“It may be something; it may be
nothing; but my speculative instinct has been aroused by a strange peculiarity in his playing.”
“His playing is wonderful!” replied Mildred proudly.
“Aye, more than wonderful! I
watched him intently,” said the old man; “I noted with what marvelous
facility he went from one string to the other. But however rapid, however difficult the composition, he steadily avoided
one string; in fact, that string remained untouched during the entire hour he
played for us.”
“Perhaps the composition did not
call for its use,” suggested Mildred, unconscious of any other meaning in the
old man’s observation, save praise for her lover.
“Perhaps so, but the oddity
impressed me; it was a new string to me. I have never seen one like it on a violin before.”
“That can scarcely be, for I do not
remember of Signor Diotti telling me there was anything unusual about his
violin.”
“I am sure it has a fifth string.”
“And I am equally sure the string
can be of no importance or Angelo
would have told me of it,” Mildred quickly rejoined.
“I recall a strange story of
Paganini,” continued the old man,
apparently not noticing her interruption; “he became infatuated with a lady of high
rank, who was insensible of the admiration he had for her beauty.
“He composed a love scene for two
strings, the `E’ and `G,’ the first was to personate the lady, the second himself. It commenced with a species of
dialogue, intending to represent her indifference and his passion; now sportive, now sad; laughter on her part and
tears from him, ending in an apotheosis of loving reconciliation. It affected the lady to that degree that ever after she
loved the violinist.”
“And no doubt they were happy?”
Mildred suggested smilingly.
“Yes,” said the old man, with
assumed sentiment, “even when his
profession called him far away, for she had made him promise her he never would
play upon the two strings whose music had won her heart, so those strings were mute, except for her.”
The old man puffed away in silence
for a moment, then with logical directness continued: “Perhaps the string
that’s mute upon Diotti’s violin is mute for some such reason.”
“Nonsense,” said the girl, half impatiently.
“The string is black and glossy as
the tresses that fall in tangled skeins on the shoulders of the dreamy beauties of
Tuscany. It may be an idle fancy, but if that string is not a woven strand from some woman’s crowning glory, then I
have no discernment.”
“You are jesting, uncle,” she
replied, but her heart was heavy already.
“Ask him to play on that string; I’ll wager he’ll refuse,” said the old man,
contemptuously.
“He will not refuse when I ask him,
but I will not to-night,” answered the unhappy girl, with forced determina-
tion. Then, taking the old man’s hands, she said: “Good-night, I am going to
my room; please make my excuses to
Signor Diotti and father,” and wearily she ascended the stairs.
Mr. Wallace and the violinist soon
after joined old Sanders, fresh cigars were lighted and regrets most earnestly
expressed by the violinist for Mildred’s “sick headache.”
“No need to worry; she will be all
right in the morning,” said Sanders, and he and the violinist buttoned their
coats tightly about them, for the night was bitter cold, and together they left
the house.
In her bed-chamber Mildred stood
looking at the portrait of her lover. She studied his face long and intently, then crossing the room she mechanically took
a volume from the shelf, and as she opened it her eyes fell on these lines:
“How art thou fallen from Heaven,
O Lucifer, son of the Morning!”
***
Old Sanders builded better than he knew.
XI
When Diotti and old Sanders left
the house they walked rapidly
down Fifth Avenue. It was after eleven, and the streets were bare of pedestrians, but blinking-eyed cabs came up the avenue, looking at a distance like a trail
of Megatheriums, gliding through the darkness. The piercing wind made the
men hasten their steps, the old man by a semi-rotary motion keeping up with
the longer strides and measured tread of the younger.
When they reached Fourteenth Street,
the elder said, “I live but a block from here,” pointing eastward; “what do
you say to a hot toddy? It will warm the cockles of your heart; come over to
my house and I’ll mix you the best
drink in New York.”
The younger thought the suggestion
a good one and they turned toward the house of old Sanders.
It was a neat, red brick, two-story
house, well in from the street, off the line of the more pretentious buildings on either side. As the old man opened the
iron gate, the police officer on the beat passed; he peered into the faces of the
men, and recognizing Sanders, said, “tough night, sir.”
“Very,” replied the addressed.
“All good old gentlemen should be in bed at this hour,” said the officer, lifting one foot after the other in an effort
to keep warm, and in so doing showing little terpsichorean grace.
“It’s only the shank of the evening, officer,” rejoined the old man, as he
fumbled with the latch key and finally opened the door. The two men entered
and the officer passed on.
Every man has a fad. One will tell
you he sees nothing in billiards or pool or golf or tennis, but will grow enthusiastic over the scientific possibilities of
mumble-peg; you agree with him, only you substitute “skittles” for “mumble- peg.”
Old Sanders’ fad was mixing toddies
and punches.
“The nectar of the gods pales into
nothingness when compared with a toddy such as I make,” said he. “Ambrosia
may have been all right for the
degenerates of the old Grecian and
Roman days, but an American gentleman demands a toddy–a hot toddy.” And
then he proceeded with circumspection and dignity to demonstrate the process
of decocting that mysterious beverage.
The two men took off their overcoats
and went into the sitting-room. A pile of logs burned brightly in the fire-place. The old man threw another on the burning heap, filled the kettle with water and
hung it over the fire. Next he went to the sideboard and brought forth the
various ingredients for the toddy.
“How do you like America?” said
the elder, with commonplace indifference, as he crunched a lump of sugar in
the bottom of the glass, dissolving the particles with a few drops of water.
“Very much, indeed,” said the
Tuscan, with the air of a man who had answered the question before.
“Great country for girls!” said
Sanders, pouring a liberal quantity of Old Tom gin in the glass and placing it
where it gradually would get warm.
“And for men!” responded Diotti,
enthusiastically.
“Men don’t amount to much here,
women run everything,” retorted the elder, while he repeated the process of
preparing the sugar and gin in the second glass. The kettle began to sing.
“That’s music for you,” chuckled the old man, raising the lid to see if the
water had boiled sufficiently. “Do you know I think a dinner horn and a singing kettle beat a symphony all hollow
for real down-right melody,” and he lifted the kettle from the fire-place.
Diotti smiled.
With mathematical accuracy the old man filled the two tumblers with boiling water.
“Try that,” handing a glass of the
toddy to Diotti; “you will find it all right,” and the old man drew an arm-
chair toward the fire-place, smacking his lips in anticipation.
The violinist placed his chair closer to the fire and sipped the drink.
“Your country is noted for its beautiful women?”
“We have exquisite types of femininity in Tuscany,” said the young man,
with patriotic ardor.
“Any as fine looking as–as–as–well, say the young lady we dined with to-night?”
“Miss Wallace?” queried the Tuscan.
“Yes, Miss Wallace,” this rather impatiently.
“She is very beautiful,” said Diotti, with solemn admiration.
“Have you ever seen any one prettier?” questioned the old man, after a
second prolonged sip.
“I have no desire to see any one
more beautiful,” said the violinist, feeling that the other was trying to draw
him out, and determined not to yield.
“You will pardon the inquisitiveness of an old man, but are not you musicians a most impressionable lot?”
“We are human,” answered the violinist.
“I imagined you were like sailors and had a sweetheart in every port.”
“That would be a delightful prospect to one having polygamous aspirations,
but for myself, one sweetheart is enough,” laughingly said the musician.
“Only one! Well, here’s to her!
With this nectar fit for the gods and goddesses of Olympus, let us drink to her,” said old Sanders, with convivial dignity, his glass raised on high. “Here’s wishing health and happiness to the dreamy-
eyed Tuscan beauty, whom you love and who loves you.”
“Stop!” said Diotti; “we will drink to the first part of that toast,” and holding his glass against that of his bibulous
host, continued: “To the dreamy-eyed women of my country, exacting of
their lovers; obedient to their parents and loyal to their husbands,” and his
voice rose in sonorous rhythm with the words.
“Now for the rest of the toast, to the one you love and who loves you,” came
from Sanders.
“To the one I love and who loves me, God bless her!” fervently cried the guest.
“Is she a Tuscan?” asked old Sanders slyly.
“She is an angel!” impetuously answered the violinist.
“Then she is an American!” said the old man gallantly.
“She is an American,” repeated
Diotti, forgetting himself for the instant.
“Let me see if I can guess her
name,” said old Sanders. “It’s–it’s Mildred Wallace!” and his manner
suggested a child solving a riddle.
The violinist, about to speak, checked himself and remained silent.
“I sincerely pity Mildred if ever she falls in love,” abstractedly continued
the host while filling another glass.
“Pray why?” was anxiously asked.
The old man shifted his position and
assumed a confidential tone and attitude: “Signor Diotti, jealousy is a more
universal passion than love itself. Environment may develop our character,
influence our tastes and even soften our features, but heredity determines the
intensity of the two leading passions, love and jealousy. Mildred’s mother was a
beautiful woman, but consumed with an overpowering jealousy of her husband.
It was because she loved him. The
body-guard of jealousy–envy, malice and hatred–were not in her composition. When Mildred was a child of
twelve I have seen her mother suffer the keenest anguish because Mr. Wallace
fondled the child. She thought the
child had robbed her of her husband’s love.”
“Such a woman as Miss Wallace
would command the entire love and
admiration of her husband at all times,” said the artist.
“If she should marry a man she
simply likes, her chances for happiness would be normal.”
“In what manner?” asked the lover.
“Because she would be little
concerned about him or his actions.”
“Then you believe,” said the
musician, “that the man who loves her and whom she loves should give her up
because her chances of happiness would be greater away from him than with him?”
“That would be an unselfish love,”
said the elder.
“Suppose they have declared their
passion?” asked Diotti.
“A parting before doubt and jealousy had entered her mind would let the image of her sacrificing lover live within
her soul as a tender and lasting memory; he always would be her ideal,” and the
accent old Sanders placed on ALWAYS left no doubt of his belief.
“Why should doubt and jealousy enter her life?” said the violinist, falling
into the personal character of the discussion despite himself.
“My dear sir, from what I observed
to-night, she loves you. You are a dan- gerous man for a jealous woman to love.
You are not a cloistered monk, you are a man before the public; you win the
admiration of many; some women do not hesitate to show you their preference. To a woman like Mildred that would be torture; she could not and would not separate
the professional artist from the lover or husband.”
And Diotti, remembering Mildred’s
words, could not refute the old man’s statements.
“If you had known her mother as I
did,” continued the old man, realizing his argument was making an impression
on the violinist, “you would see the agony in store for the daughter if she
married a man such as you, a public servant, a public favorite.”
“I would live my life not to excite her suspicions or jealousy,” said the artist, with boyish enthusiasm and simplicity.
“Foolish fellow,” retorted Sanders, skeptically; “women imagine, they don’t reason. A scented note unopened on
the dressing table can cause more
unhappiness to your wife than the loss of his country to a king. My advice to you
is: do not marry; but if you must, choose one who is more interested in your
gastronomic felicity than in your marital constancy.”
Diotti was silent. He was pondering
the words of his host. Instead of seeing in Mildred a possibly jealous woman,
causing mental misery, she appeared a vision of single-hearted devotion. He
felt: “To be loved by such a one is bliss beyond the dreams of this world.”
XII
A tipsy man is never interesting,
and Sanders in that condition
was no exception. The old man arose with some effort, walked toward the
window and, shading his eyes, looked out. The snow was drifting, swept
hither and thither by the cutting wind that came through the streets in great
gusts. Turning to the violinist, he said, “It’s an awful night; better remain here until morning. You’ll not find a cab; in fact, I will not let you go while this
storm continues,” and the old man
raised the window, thrusting his head out for an instant. As he did so the icy blast that came in settled any doubt in
the young man’s mind and he concluded to stop over night.
It was nearly two o’clock; Sanders
showed him to his room and then
returned down stairs to see that everything was snug and secure. After changing
his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers and wrapping a dressing gown around
him, the old man stretched his legs toward the fire and sipped his toddy.
“He isn’t a bad sort for a violinist,” mused the old man; “if he were worth
a million, I believe I’d advise Wallace to let him marry her. A fiddler! A million! Sounds funny,” and he laughed
shrilly.
He turned his head and his eyes
caught sight of Diotti’s violin case resting on the center table. He staggered
from the chair and went toward it; opening the lid softly, he lifted the silken
coverlet placed over the instrument and examined the strings intently. “I am
right,” he said; “it is wrapped with hair, and no doubt from a woman’s head.
Eureka!” and the old man, happy in the discovery that his surmises were correct, returned to his chair and his toddy.
He sat looking into the fire. The
violin had brought back memories of the past and its dead. He mumbled, as if
to the fire, “she loved me; she loved my violin. I was a devil; my violin
was a devil,” and the shadows on the wall swayed like accusing spirits. He
buried his face in his hands and cried piteously, “I was so young; too young
to know.” He spoke as if he would
conciliate the ghastly shades that moved restlessly up and down, when suddenly
–“Sanders, don’t be a fool!”
He ambled toward the table again.
“I wonder who made the violin? He
would not tell me when I asked him to- night; thank you for your pains, but I
will find out myself,” and he took the violin from the case. Holding it with
the light slanting over it, he peered inside, but found no inscription. “No
maker’s name–strange,” he said. He tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and
listened intently; “he must be asleep; he won’t hear me,” and noiselessly he
closed the door. “I guess if I play a tune on it he won’t know.”
He took the bow from its place in the case and tightened it. He listened
again. “He is fast asleep,” he whispered. “I’ll play the song I always
played for her–until,” and the old man repeated the words of the refrain:
“Fair as a lily, joyous and free,
Light of the prairie home was she;
Every one who knew her felt the gentle power Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower.”
He sat again in the arm-chair and
placed the violin under his chin.
Tremulously he drew the bow across the middle string, his bloodless fingers moving slowly up and down.
The theme he played was the melody
to the verse he had just repeated, but the expression was remorse.
***
Diotti sat upright in bed. “I am
positive I heard a violin!” he said, holding one hand toward his head in an attitude
of listening. He was wide awake. The drifting snow beat against the window
panes and the wind without shrieked like a thousand demons of the night. He
could sleep no more. He arose and
hastily dressed. The room was bitterly cold; he was shivering. He thought of
the crackling logs in the fire-place below. He groped his way along the darkened
staircase. As he opened the door leading into the sitting-room the fitful gleam
of the dying embers cast a ghastly light over the face of a corpse.
Diotti stood a moment, his eyes
transfixed with horror. The violin and bow still in the hands of the dead man told
him plainer than words what had happened. He went toward the chair, took
the instrument from old Sanders’ hands and laid it on the table. Then he knelt
beside the body, and placing his ear close over the heart, listened for some
sign of life, but the old man was beyond human aid.
He wheeled the chair to the side of
the room and moved the body to the
sofa. Gently he covered it with a robe. The awfulness of the situation forced
itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed himself. The terrible power of the
instrument dawned upon him in all its force. Often he had played on the strings telling of pity, hope, love and joy, but now, for the first time, he realized what that fifth string meant.
“I must give it back to its owner.”
“If you do you can never regain it,” whispered a voice within.
“I do not need it,” said the violinist, almost audibly.
“Perhaps not,” said the voice, “but if her love should wane how would you
rekindle it? Without the violin you would be helpless.”
“Is it not possible that, in this old man’s death, all its fatal power has been expended?”
He went to the table and took the
instrument from its place. “You won her for me; you have brought happiness
and sunshine into my life. No! No!
I can not, will not give you up,” then placing the violin and bow in its case he locked it.
The day was breaking. In an hour
the baker’s boy came. Diotti went to the door, gave him a note addressed to
Mr. Wallace and asked him to deliver it at once. The boy consented and drove
rapidly away.
Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived;
Diotti told the story of the night. After the undertaker had taken charge of the
body he found on the dead man’s neck, just to the left of the chin, a dullish, black bruise which might have been
caused by the pressing of some blunt instrument, or by a man’s thumb. Considering it of much importance, he notified
the coroner, who ordered an inquest.
At six o’clock that evening a jury was impaneled, and two hours later its
verdict was reported.
XIII
On leaving the house of the dead man
Diotti walked wearily to his hotel. In flaring type at every street corner he saw the announcement for Thursday
evening, March thirty-first, of Angelo Diotti’s last appearance: “To-night I
play for the last time,” he murmured in a voice filled with deepest regret.
The feeling of exultation so common
to artists who finally reach the goal of their ambition was wanting in Diotti this morning. He could not rid himself of
the memory of Sanders’ tragic death. The figure of the old man clutching the
violin and staring with glassy eyes into the dying fire would not away.
When he reached the hotel he tried to rest, but his excited brain banished
every thought of slumber. Restlessly he moved about the room, and finally
dressing, he left the hotel for his daily call on Mildred. It was after five o’clock when he arrived. She received him coldly and without any mark of affection.
She had heard of Mr. Sanders’ death;
her father had sent word. “It shocked me greatly,” she said; “but perhaps the old man is happier in a world far from
strife and care. When we realize all the misery there is in this world we often
wonder why we should care to live.” Her tone was despondent, her face was
drawn and blanched, and her eyes gave evidence of weeping.
Diotti divined that something beyond
sympathy for old Sanders’ sudden death racked her soul. He went toward her
and lovingly taking her hands, bent low and pressed his lips to them; they were
cold as marble.
“Darling,” he said; “something has made you unhappy. What is it?”
“Tell me, Angelo, and truly; is your violin like other violins?”
This unexpected question came so
suddenly he could not control his agitation.
“Why do you ask?” he said.
“You must answer me directly!”
“No, Mildred; my violin is different from any other I have ever seen,” this
hesitatingly and with great effort at composure.
“In what way is it different?” she
almost demanded.
“It is peculiarly constructed; it has an extra string. But why this sudden
interest in the violin? Let us talk of you, of me, of both, of our future,” said he with enforced cheerfulness.
“No, we will talk of the violin. Of
what use is the extra string?”
“None whatever,” was the quick reply.
“Then why not cut it off?”
“No, no, Mildred; you do not
understand,” he cried; “I can not do that.”
“You can not do it when I ask it?”
she exclaimed.
“Oh Mildred, do not ask me; I can
not, can not do it,” and the face of the affrighted musician told plainer than
words of the turmoil raging in his soul.
“You made me believe that I was the
only one you loved,” passionately she cried; “the only one; that your happiness was incomplete without me. You led
me into the region of light only to make the darkness greater when I descended
to earth again. I ask you to do a simple thing and you refuse; you refuse because another has commanded you.”
“Mildred, Mildred; if you love me do not speak thus!”
And she, with imagination greater than reasoning power, at once saw a Tuscan
beauty and Diotti mutually pledging their love with their lives.
“Go,” she said, pointing to the door, “go to the one who owns you, body and
soul; then say that a foolish woman threw her heart at your feet and that you
scorned it!” She sank to the sofa.
He went toward the door, and in a
voice that sounded like the echo of despair, protested: “Mildred, I love you; love you a thousand times more than I
do my life. If I should destroy the string, as you ask, love and hope would
leave me forevermore. Death would
not be robbed of its terror!” and with bowed head he went forth into the twilight.
She ran to the window and watched
his retreating figure as he vanished. “Uncle Sanders was right; he loves
another woman, and that string binds them together. He belongs to her!” Long
and silently she stood by the window, gazing at the shadowing curtain of the
coming night. At last her face softened. “Perhaps he does not love her now, but
fears her vengeance. No, no; he is not a coward! I should have approached
him differently; he is proud, and maybe he resented my imperative manner,”
and a thousand reasons why he should or should not have removed that string
flashed through her mind.
“I will go early to the concert to-
night and see him before he plays.
Uncle Sanders said he did not touch that string when he played. Of course he
will play on it for me, even if he will not cut it off, and then if he says he loves me, and only me, I will believe him. I
want to believe him; I want to believe him,” all this in a semi-hysterical way addressed to the violinist’s portrait on the piano.
When she entered her carriage an hour later, telling the coachman to drive direct to the stage-door of the Academy, she
appeared more fascinating than ever before.
She was sitting in his dressing-room
waiting for him when he arrived. He had aged years in a day. His step was
uncertain, his eyes were sunken and his hand trembled. His face brightened as
she arose, and Mildred met him in the center of the room. He lifted her hand
and pressed a kiss upon it.
“Angelo, dear,” she said in repentant tone; “I am sorry I pained you this afternoon; but I am jealous, so jealous of you.”
“Jealous?” he said smilingly; “there is no need of jealousy in our lives; we
love each other truly and only.”
“That is just what I think, we will
never doubt each other again, will we?”
“Never!” he said solemnly.
He had placed his violin case on the
table in the room. She went to it and tapped the top playfully; then suddenly
said: “I am going to look at your violin, Angelo,” and before he could interfere, she had taken the silken coverlet off and was examining the instrument closely.
“Sure enough, it has five strings; the middle one stands higher than the rest
and is of glossy blackness. Uncle Sanders was right; it is a woman’s hair!
“Why is that string made of hair?”
she asked, controlling her emotion.
“Only a fancy,” he said, feigning
indifference.
“Though you would not remove it at my wish this afternoon, Angelo; I know you will not refuse to play on it for me now.”
He raised his hands in supplication.
“Mildred! Mildred! Stop! do not ask it!”
“You refuse after I have come
repentant, and confessing my doubts and fears? Uncle Sanders said you would
not play upon it for me; he told me it was wrapped with a woman’s hair, the
hair of the woman you love.”
“I swear to you, Mildred, that I love but you!”
“Love me? Bah! And another woman’s
tresses sacred to you? Another
woman’s pledge sacred to you? I asked you to remove the string; you refused.
I ask you now to play upon it; you re- fuse,” and she paced the room like a
caged tigress.
“I will watch to-night when you
play,” she flashed. “If you do not use that string we part forever.”
He stood before her and attempted to
take her hand; she repulsed him savagely.
Sadly then he asked: “And if I do
play upon it?”
“I am yours forever–yours through
life–through eternity,” she cried passionately.
The call-boy announced Diotti’s turn; the violinist led Mildred to a seat at the entrance of the stage. His appearance
was the signal for prolonged and enthusiastic greeting from the enormous audience
present. He clearly was the idol
of the metropolis.
The lights were lowered, a single
calcium playing with its soft and silvery rays upon his face and shoulders. The
expectant audience scarcely breathed as he began his theme. It was pity–pity
molded into a concord of beautiful
sounds, and when he began the second movement it was but a continuation of
the first; his fingers sought but one string, that of pity. Again he played,
and once more pity stole from the violin.
When he left the stage Mildred rushed So him. “You did not touch that string; you refuse my wish?” and the sounds
of mighty applause without drowned his pleading voice.
“I told you if you refused me I was
lost to you forever! Do you understand?”
Diotti returned slowly to the center of the stage and remained motionless until
the audience subsided. Facing Mildred, whose color was heightened by the in-
tensity of her emotion, he began softly to play. His fingers sought the string
of Death. The audience listened with breathless interest. The composition
was weirdly and strangely fascinating.
The player told with wondrous power
of despair,–of hope, of faith; sunshine crept into the hearts of all as he pictured the promise of an eternal day; higher
and higher, softer and softer grew the theme until it echoed as if it were afar in the realms of light and floating o’er the waves of a golden sea.
Suddenly the audience was startled by the snapping of a string; the violin and bow dropped from the nerveless hands of
the player. He fell helpless to the stage.
Mildred rushed to him, crying,
“Angelo, Angelo, what is it? What has happened?” Bending over him she
gently raised his head and showered un- restrained kisses upon his lips,
oblivious of all save her lover.
“Speak! Speak!” she implored.
A faint smile illumined his face; he
gazed with ineffable tenderness into her weeping eyes, then slowly closed his own as if in slumber.
The Conspirators
Arriving opposite the Franklin
house, Tom Foley took position in a near-by alley, where he could keep close watch on the front gate. After hours of
nervous waiting, little Lillian Franklin came out, and Tom’s heart gave a jump.
She was alone, and began to roll a hoop, which her friend Sandy had given her
that morning. Down the street she
tripped, all smiles and happiness.
Tom watched her until she had turned
a corner, then he rushed up the alley to intercept her. When he emerged into
the street, he saw her resting on a rustic bench, and hastened to join her. As he
came up, he was greeted with:
“Why, Tom, I thought you went fishing with Gil, and papa, and Sandy, and
the rest.”
“No, Lily. I felt so bad ’bout my
dad being arrested yest’day I couldn’t git up no courage to go,” answered the boy
with simulated contrition. What d’yer say? let’s s’prise Gil, and go down to
the landin’ an’ meet him when he comes in from fishin’,” suggested Foley, knowing the intense love she had for her brother.
“That’ll be lovely, won’t it? And
Gil will be so glad if I come.”
Lillian whipped the hoop rapidly, and Tom kept pace with her.
“Gil will be surprised, sure enough, when he sees me coming, won’t he?”
“Yes, he’ll be s’prised, you bet!” said the boy, taking a firmer hold of her hand.
The night was fast approaching and
Foley was leading the child through unfrequented alleys and streets.
“But maybe Gil won’t come back
this way, and it’s getting awful dark.”
“Oh, he’ll come back this way, all right.”
They were now on the shore of the
river, dark and desolate in its winter dress. The restless splash of the water
sent icy sprays over the child, and, clinging still closer to her treacherous companion, she stopped him for a second
and begged him to return.
“Don’t be afear’d, nuthin’s goin’ ter happen to yer,” he said, jerking her
savagely, and almost breaking into a run at the same time.
“Oh, Tom, please let’s go back,”
supplicated the child.
They were now at the old wharf. He
gave a low whistle, and, without waiting for an answer, pulled the helpless child through the entrance. Then, groping his
way over the slimy stones and through the oozing mud, he dragged the affrighted little one after him, to the mouth of the cave, and called:
“Dad, I’m here.”
“Come right in,” answered a voice.
“I’ve got her, an’ I got her easy as dirt,” said the son, pushing the terrified child into the cave, and then roughly
into the arms of his father.
“Don’t yell, yer brat!” said the older, clasping his hand over mouth, and drawing her brutally toward him. “Shut
up, or I’ll kill yer.”
Foley now called Hildey, who was,
asleep in the corner, and said, “Cul, we’ve got to git out er this place jest as quick as possible. It’s too near the
city, an’ if we’re tracked here we’ll stand no more chance than a snowball on
Beelzebub’s gridiron.”
“What’s yer lay, Dennis?” questioned Hildey.
“Move up the river,” was the reply. “I knows jest the place where we wouldn’t be found in a thousand years.”
“When d’yer want to start?” asked Tom.
In ten minutes the abductors, with
the stolen child, were slowly winding their way along the deserted beach.
It was now very dark. No stars
were shining, and it had become bitterly cold. Suddenly voices were heard, and
the abductors stopped to listen. They were in a ravine near the magazine
landing, not more than fifty feet from the spot where the Lillian was launched.
Foley, Tom, and Hildey crouched low, and drew the little girl closer.
The steady dip of oars was heard up
stream, and the voices grew plainer. Out of the mingled sounds was heard,
“I agrees with Sandy, he’s the dirtiest coward as ever went unhung.”
Lillian started, for she recognized the voice of the Jedge, who with Colonel Franklin, Sandy, Dink, Leander and Gilbert,
were returning from a sail up the river
Foley became frightened, and bending
over, hissed into the child’s ear:
“Remember what I tol’ yer: if yer
utter a sound, I’ll kill yer.”
The sailing party meantime had reached the landing and stepped ashore. Sandy
and the other three boys lowered the sail, rolled and carried it into the boat-house. The whole party then, marching three
abreast, with steady step, went up the graveled walk of the old magazine road,
singing in unison:
“Hep–Hep–
Shoot that ni**er if he don’t keep step. Hep–Hep–
Shoot that ni**er if he don’t keep step.”
While its cadence was continued by
Colonel Franklin and the Jedge, the four boys, in marching rhythm, sang out
cheerily into the crisp cold night:
“When other lips and other hearts,
Their tales of love shall tell,
In accents whose excess imparts
The power they feel so well.
There may, perhaps, in such a scene, Some recollection be,
Of days that have as happy been,
And you’ll remember me.”
The three scoundrels listened, as the voices rose and fell on the air. The
child, with the fear of death before her, and in the clutches of her horrible captor, gave one convulsive sob and sank swooning at his feet.
Foley picked her up and, walking
quickly, placed her in the very boat her father and friends had left but a moment before. He wrapped her in a ragged
coat, loosened the hasp of the door on the boat-house, and took out the oars.
Quickly the captors pushed the craft
into deep water, and with muffled stroke moved through the inky waves, a somber
specter sneaking along the banks of the sleeping marches.
When they neared the upper bridge,
Foley ran the boat ashore and abandoned it. Picking up the exhausted and benumbed child, he led his two companions
along the causeway and over the road leading to the bridge.
The wind came out of the north,
howling through the leafless boughs of the mighty monarchs of the forest. The
last flickering light of the town was left far behind, and darkness, like a great
shroud, enveloped river, valley and woods.
In due time Colonel Franklin and his
party reached home, hungry after their fine sail on the river, and all in high spirits.
“Jedge, you and the boys sit right
down, and we’ll have supper in a jiffy.”
The guests thoroughly enjoyed the
evening meal. The repast was about
concluded when Edith, who had just
returned from the parsonage, came in, and called cheerily:
“Hurry up, Lily, it’s time to go to the festival. They’re going to light up thet tree at half-past eight, and it’s nearly that now.”
“Why, chil’, Lily ain’t here. She’s
wif yo’ folks,” exclaimed Delia.
“With us? She hasn’t been with us
at all,” responded Edith.
“It’s likely she’s at one of the
neighbors,” ventured the Colonel.
“I’ll fin’ her, Muster Franklin, an’ I’se gwine to scol’ her good an’ hard fo’ worryin’ her ol’ mammy. At this she
put a shawl over her head and shoulderst and started in search of the absent one
“Suppose I go too,” suggested Gilbert, rising.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,”
interposed the Colonel.
“It’ll only take me a minute,” assured the son, as he began to put on his overcoat.
“Go if you like then,” consented the Colonel.
“An’ if yer don’t mind, Miss Deed,” volunteered Sandy, “I’ll go up to church with yer, an’ then come back an’ fetch
Lily and Gil.”
“That’s a good idea,” answered Edith, “bring her right over to the church, and I’ll be waiting for you there.”
“I guess I’ll go up to my house an’
look. Mebbe Lily is playin’ with Zorah, an’ if she is, I’ll come right back an’ tell yer,” put in Dink.
Edith, Delia and the three boys
departed, leaving the Colonel and the Jedge alone, smoking their pipes and
discussing the sensational events of the week, in which Dennis Foley was the central
figure.
The conversation was stopped by the
appearance of Delia and Gilbert, who declared that not one of the neighbors
had seen Lillian that afternoon.
“It seems almost incredible that she could be lost,” said the father, “she must be somewhere about here. Perhaps she
went to the church, and fell asleep in one of the pews.”
The searching party set out once more, this time accompanied by the Colonel
himself, and by the Jedge. At the church they heard from Sandy and Dink that
no trace of the child had been found, so the father requested the minister to
inquire of the congregation if the missing one had been seen anywhere. There was no response from those present, and the family and friends began to show grave concern.
Another effort at finding her was
immediately made. The police sergeant was notified, and he sent out a general alarm.
All night long, and all the next day the hunt was continued. Wells were explored, basements, cellars and out-of-the-way
places were ransacked, lumber yards and coal yards were gone through most carefully. In fact, not a foot of the town was
left unsearched, but all to no avail, and the once happy home of the Franklins
was steeped in sorrow and despair.
The morning after Lillian’s disappearance, Mrs. Foley inquired of the boys
in the neighborhood if they had seen anything of her son Tom, who, she
declared, had been gone since the
previous morning.
From Sandy she learned that Tom
had taken dinner at Gilbert’s the day before, but that when the party had
started for the river he had dropped out, claiming he was too down-hearted
to join in the pleasure.
“That’s the way he acted at home,”
said the widow, “and it seemed to me it was almost unnacheral for him to
talk against his father, as he did. However, I’m not bothered about him, for he comes and goes just as he pleases,
and when he gets good and ready he’ll turn up, like a bad penny. I’ve stopped
worryin’ about him years an’ years ago.”
“If I see Tom,” volunteered the boy, “I’ll tell him yer want him,”–and he
hurried away.
The next morning Sandy left home
earlier than usual, and on his own account began a search for Lillian. A new theory had taken possession of him, and he
started at once for the river. At the magazine gate he chatted with the sentry about the mysterious disappearance, and
passed on. When he reached the shore half a mile beyond, he was surprised to
find that the padlock on the door of the shed had been pried off, and that his
boat was missing.
Opening the door he saw that his
oars and blankets were gone, and he began to feel that his theory might lead him
to important discoveries. For fully five minutes he stood motionless, and gazed
into the river, buried deep in his own thoughts. Then he soliloquized: “I
wonder if Lily’s been stolen? S’pose, while we’ve been searchin’ fer her high
an’ low, Foley an’ the galoot what
whacked me jest took the little girl an’ carried her off in my boat? That ‘ere
story ’bout Dennis Foley buyin’ a ticket for Philadelphy struck me as fishy when
I fust heerd it, an’ now I don’t believe it a t’all. They couldn’t git through the magazine gate ‘thout the guards seein’
them, an’ whoever took my boat either came up the shore or down the shore.
‘Tain’t likely they came from up shore, ’cause they could ‘a’ found a hundred
boats ‘tween here an’ the upper bridge.”
Turning around, Sandy started down
the beach toward the cemetery. He was studying carefully the ground beyond the point of high tide, and in a few moments reached the ravine where, two nights
before, the three abductors had stopped, upon hearing Colonel Franklin and his
sailing party approach.
“Well, I’ll be durned,” he exclaimed, for in the sand before his very eyes was the impress of four pairs of shoes. Two
were evidently those of men, one small enough to be that of a boy, and one so tiny as to convince him it was that of a child.
“This is the way they come,” he con- tinued, “and there wuz three of ’em in
the gang besides the little one, an’ I’m sure er that.”
He followed the footprints until he
reached the old wharf. Peering through the rotten timbers, he said:
“That’s a rum ol’ hole. I don’t
believe Satan hisself would go in there, but I’m goin’, an’ see what I kin see.”
Sandy had no difficulty in entering the cave, which he found strewn with whisky
bottles, pieces of bread and newly-picked bones, evidence enough that some one
had been there but a short time before. Penetrating deeper in his search, he
made a find of the utmost importance. Lying at one side, and near a bed of
rags, was an envelop addressed to
Dennis Foley, and, on a peg which had been driven into the wall, was hanging
an old hat, which he had often seen on Hildey’s head.
Elated at the results of his quest, he began to retrace his steps, and in eager haste he left the cave. Picking his way
along the slimy stones under the wharf, he soon neared the outlet and there was
startled by the most significant of all his discoveries. Right before him lay
the identical hoop which he had given the lost child only Christmas Day, and
which bore the inscription, “From Sandy Coggles to Lillian Franklin.”
Every suspicion now was confirmed, and he was sure he knew the culprits. Taking the hoop, he returned to his boat-
house with all possible speed, and leaping into his skiff, paddled up the river,
his eyes scanning the marsh lines on either bank of the channel. Arriving at
the bridge, he learned by inquiry from the tender stationed there that he had
not seen the Lillian coming up stream within the past three days.
“But,” explained the bridge-tender, “I’m only on from six to six during
daylight, and of course if anything comes through at night I wouldn’t know
about it. I’m pretty sure, though, there’s been nothing up this way for a month
of Sundays, ‘cept Buck Wesley, who
creeped up ’bout two hours ago, following a gang of ducks that uses right over
there above Mayhew’s Meadows. And
the way Buck’s been shooting for the last hour, he must be having a time and no
mistake.”
“Well, so long,” called Sandy. “I
guess I’ll go up the river a little further and have a look.” And once more he
took up his paddles. As he came abreast of the Meadows he saw Buck Wesley
coming out of the creek in his gunning skiff.
“Is that you, Sandy?” shouted the gunner.
“That’s me,” was the boy’s answer.
“Come over here, I want to talk to you,” requested Buck.
When Sandy got alongside the hunter’s boat, he asked:
“Well, Buck, what’s the trouble?”
“No trouble, Sandy, but when I come
up the river this mornin’–I ain’t been up for three weeks, it’s been such pore
weather for ducks–I seen a bunch of widgeon go down right over here, an’
as I skims up by the collard patch t’other side of the bridge, I noticed a boat lyin’ in the mud, and when I gits near to her, I knows by the cut of her jib that she’s yer Lillian.”
“My Lillian? Wher’d yer say yer seen her?” asked Sandy excitedly.
“Why, by the collard patch, not fifty yards from the Causeway. She looked
like she’d drifted on the marsh. I calc’lated when I got through shootin’ that
I’d pick her up an’ take her down to yer landin’. The oars wuz in, an’ I
guess she must ‘a’ strayed from the shore, through somebody fergettin’ to tie her up.”
“I’m much ‘bliged, Buck,” thanked
Sandy, “but yer needn’t bother. I’ll bring her down, an’ the next galoot that takes her an’ lets her git away from him, is goin’ to hear from me.”
Sandy retraced the course he had come, and after turning on the other side of
the bridge, had no trouble in finding his boat. She was lying on a sand-bar,
but he soon succeeded in floating her and bringing her ashore.
Safely securing the skiff and the boat, he began another search along the beach, and almost immediately was rewarded
by finding a knot of blue ribbon, such as he had often seen Lillian wear in her
hair. Farther along, he discovered tracks in the sand. These he followed, Indian
fashion, up the embankment, lost trace of them for a moment on the hardened
surface of the carriage way, but speedily picked them up again in the soft soil
that ran downward on the other side.
Then, it was easy to pursue them along a pathway that led to a graveled beach
where a dozen or more skiffs had been drawn up and tied to stakes for the
winter. From here on, all further traces were obliterated.
Thoroughly familiar with all the river craft belonging there, even to the individual ownership, Sandy noticed at once
that one of the boats was missing, and that its painter had only recently been cut.
“Why, it’s Willie Bagner’s boat they’ve got,” he said to himself as he recognized which boat was missing, “an’ I’ll bet my life the scalawags are hidin’ somewhere
up the river.”
Hurrying back, he rowed to the landing and started in haste for his home, with
a plan of rescue fully developed in his mind. He sought out Leander, Dink and
Gilbert, and asked them to call at his house without delay.
While Sandy’s investigation had
convinced him that Lillian was stolen, Colonel Franklin had been made to realize the
same terrible fact in another and more brutal way. When he reached his office
on the same afternoon, he found on his desk a letter that read as follows:
dere sur–if U meen bizness i can put U on to whar your dorter is but its goin to kost U sum muney if U evr want to
see her agin theres a big gang got her hid where U woodnt find hur in a 100 yerze
but if U will plank down 10000 dolers sheze yourze if U dont you’ll nevr see
hur no moar if sheze wurth thet much to U U can git her by not blabin to
nobudy that yer got this leter an plankin down the rino taint no use fer U to try
an git the police on our trax fer one uv the gang is alwayz with the kid an we
have sworn to kill her if enny of us is jugged if U meen bizness an will leeve
a noat under the big stone in front of the ded tree by oyster shell landin up
the river we will git it an rite U where to meet us to bring the muney and git the
child member we dont stand fer no
trechery an if U squeel we ll no it and we ll take it out on the kid mums the word
if yer want ter see the kid again c o d and fare deelin is our moto a word to
the wize is sufishent
yourze trooley a frend
The Colonel was completely unnerved
by the horrible knowledge that his little daughter was in the hands of desperate
criminals. Without delay he wrote a note offering to pay the money demanded,
agreeing to deliver it at any spot they might name, and vowing to share his
secret with no one.
Sealing the missive, he placed it
carefully in his pocket, and drove out along the river turnpike to a point about a
quarter of a mile from the place
designated by the anonymous writer. Tying his horse to a tree, he walked through
the woods, and hid the note under the stone mentioned in the letter. It was
after nightfall when he reached home, where he was met with the heartrending
and oft-repeated question,
“Have you heard anything from Lily?”
Fearing to betray himself, even to his family, and thus perhaps endanger the
life of his child, he was compelled to answer, “No, not a thing.” With a
heavy heart, he passed into his study. Supper was announced shortly after-
ward, and as the family gathered about the table, the father noticed that his
son was not present.
“Where is Gilbert?” he inquired nervously.
“Sandy was here and asked Gilbert
to come over and spend the night with him,” answered Mrs. Franklin. “I hadn’t the heart to refuse him, for I don’t believe any one has worked harder to find our
lost darling than Sandy, and he seems to be the only one that can give Gilbert
any consolation.”
“I think it’s better that the boys stop searching,” said the father. “They might get themselves into trouble; it’s too
dangerous.”
“I don’t believe you could stop those boys from hunting for Lillian, if they
had to go into the very jaws of death,” interposed the grandmother.
“Oh, well,” spoke the father; “they must not wear themselves out, and to-
morrow, I will tell Gilbert and Sandy to leave the investigation to the police.”
“They’ll never do it,” objected the grandmother, “they love Lillian too
much. You mark my words.”
At this very moment, Sandy, Leander,
Gilbert and Dink were together, in Sandy’s little garret room. Sandy closed the
door carefully, locked it, and called his companions about him in the middle
of the room.
“Boys,” he whispered, “afore I sez anythin’, I wants yer to gimme yer
word, honor bright, an’ cross yer heart three times, that yer won’t spout a syllable of what I tells yer to a soul.”
All were agreed, and the boy began:
“Now, it’s this ‘ere way. My boat
wuz stolen an’ left, right below the upper bridge, an’ I foun’ footprints an’ this
‘ere piece of ribbon, which Gil knows b’longed to his sister, for she wore it
round her hair. Willie Bagner’s skiff’s bin stolen, an’ I believe the party that took it hez got little Lily, because I foun’ the hoop I give her, an’ this envellup in the same place, an’ it seems to me the
galoot whose name’s on it is hid somewhere up the river, an’ I’m goin’ after
him if I has to go alone.”
“But you won’t go alone, while I’m alive,” insisted Leander, intensely excited.
“An’ I’m goin’, too, even if I never come back,” added Dink, taking it for
granted that he was needed.
“And you must take me,” said Gilbert imploringly.
The four boys grasped one another’s
hands, and Sandy declared in a solemn tone:
“We’ll stick together to the bitter end.”
“What’s your plan?” asked Leander,
with great interest.
“Without breathin’ a word to a soul, to-night about nine o’clock we wants
to leave the boat-house, you an’ Dink in one skiff, an’ me an’ Gil in t’other, an’ sneak up the river, an’ try so nobody won’t see us. When we gits to the upper
bridge, paddle in as close to the Causeway on the right, as we kin, huggin’
the marsh all the way. Jest before we git to Beaver Dam, there’s a deep gut
that runs ‘longside of it fer a hundred yards or more. Foller me in there,
Leander, an’ stay hid till I sez move. Don’t speak a word, from the time we
push off till I sez so. Beaver Dam is the lonesomest creek in the world, an’
mebbe Gil’s little sister is kept in one of them ol’ shacks what muskrat hunters
live in, in the spring an’ summer. If them galoots is in there, they’re mighty apt ter come out late at night, when they don’t expec’ nobody’s roun’. Of course,
nacherelly they have some plan about gettin’ paid fer little Lily, an’ they ain’t a-goin’ to stay in hidin’ without tryin’ to find out the lay er the land, an’ jest how hot the police is on their trail. My idee is to go an’ lay in ambush fer ’em
all night. If they don’t come out, we’ll explore in the mornin’, an’ if we don’t
find ’em hidin’ roun’ Beaver Dam, then we’ll lay low all day, an’ push up the river to-morrow night. But somehow, I think
that’s the place they would pick out to hide in. ‘Tain’t one person out er a
million that would know how to git
through Beaver Dam without gittin’ lost, an’ I’m a recollectin’ I took Tom Foley
through there onct an’ that’s why I’m goin’ there to-night. I knows it so well, I could go through with my eyes shet.
“Each of us wants his pistol loaded
fer keeps, a knife, an’ about three yards er rope he can tie round his waist. Let’s have a bite o’ supper right here in my
house, an’ then we’ll start fer the river, but each feller goin’ alone, an’ in a different way. Now, remember, no talkin’
to nobody, an’ let’s all say honor bright, an’ cross our hearts three times ag’in.”
Sandy was the first to arrive at the
boat-house. Securing the paddles, he put them into the skiffs and watched for his companions. He had not long to wait.
Gilbert came in a few moments, then Leander, and shortly afterward, Dink.
Not a word was spoken. Sandy motioned Gilbert to sit in the center seat of the Dolly, while he took his accustomed
place at the stern. Noiselessly they pushed into the stream, followed by
Leander and Dink.
The tide was going out, and had,
perhaps, two hours to ebb. The boys hugged the channel bank on the right,
passed under the bridge unnoticed, and kept on their silent and anxious way,
mile after mile. Finally, Sandy steered into a creek and glided softly against the mud bank, holding his skiff firmly by driving a paddle into the soft soil. Leander
and Dink followed suit. That they might be screened from any one coming out of
Beaver Dam, which was separated by
a narrow strip of marsh-land, they lay flat on the bottom of their boats.
The night was not especially dark, for the moon was looking through a mist
of hazy clouds. It was bitingly cold, and though the boys became numb from
the many minutes of inactivity, not one of them moved. For fully an hour
they had remained motionless, when
faintly over the water was heard the splash, splash, splash, of paddles, far away.
The searching party were all alert in an instant, and with raised heads, peered cautiously over the top of the marsh
line in the direction of the sounds. Hardly a minute had passed, when out of the
shadows that hid the entrance to Beaver Dam, there came slowly a skiff into the
clear water. It approached to within fifteen feet of the hidden boys, when they recognized a voice, distinctly saying:
“I hope that guy Franklin’s ben up
to the landin’ an’ left the note where I tol’ him to, an’ don’t try no shenanigan.”
“He ain’t goin’ to try no flapdoodles with us,” was the quick answer.
“Well, if he knows when he’s well off,” the first voice resumed, “he’ll come
round with the rhino mighty quick, an’ give us no more trouble.”
“I kin see us livin’ like gent’men, a’ready.”
“Gent’men born an’–” the other began, but the last of his sentence was lost as the boat turned up the river, and the
cadence of the paddles died in the distance.
Sandy waited until the rascals had
disappeared around the bend, then shoving his skiff quickly alongside Leander’s,
he whispered into the latter’s ear:
“Me an’ Gil is goin’ in to Beaver Dam. Yer knows them two fellers, an’ so do I. One of ’em is the feller what whacked me, an’ the t’other is that bum Hildey. If
they gits here afore I come back, you an’ Dink’ll have to do somethin’ desp’ret.”
“All right,” said Leander, clutching his pistol, “you can trust me.”
Sandy rounded the point that divided
the two creeks, and in a short time had paddled past the trees and vines that
hung over and partly covered the entrance to Beaver Dam. The boat was managed
with consummate skill, now left, now right, through the sinuous waterway,
and the two boys had gone fully half a mile, when, without warning, they
were rudely jolted as the skiff grated harshly on a bar. Ordinarily, such an
incident would have been without effect upon them, but now their nerves were
so highly strung, that the noise of the boat rubbing against the gravel seemed
as loud as the report of a cannon.
Using all possible force, Sandy and
Gilbert succeeded in shoving their craft back into the water. Then they pressed
forward into the shadow of an embankment on the left, and not a moment too
soon did they reach Gover, for the door of a hut was thrown open, and the voice
of Tom Foley was heard, asking:
“Is that you, dad?”
An instant later Foley was seen standing in the dim light of the doorway, shading his eyes and peering into the darkness.
“I say, dad, is that you?” came again. “I’ll be doggoned if I didn’t think I heerd somebody comin’. I guess ’tain’t
nuthin’,”–looking anxiously to the right and left. “I cert’nly does git scared out er my boots aroun’ here, though, when
I’m left alone. I’m goin’ to wake up the brat an’ make her keep me comp’ny,”–
and the door closed with a bang.
He had hardly gone inside when the
piteous cry of a child was heard, “Please don’t beat me, Tom.”
“I ain’t beatin’ yer; go ahead, dance fer me.”
Sandy and Gilbert were fairly crazed, and in their anger rushed up toward the hut.
Again came the cry, “Please don’t hit me, Tom.”
“Dance, I say,”–and the sharp swish of a whip was heard.
It took but a second for Sandy to
bound into the room. Surprised and
terrified, Foley made a dart for the door, but was met by Gilbert, who, pistol in
hand, held him stock still. In desperation Foley reached for a club and ran
back of the frightened child in the hope that she might serve as guard against
his assailant. Like a flash, Sandy followed, and knocked the cowardly brute
senseless with the barrel of his pistol.
Gilbert ran to his sister, and, taking her up, showered loving kisses upon her.
With her arms clasped about his neck and her head nestling on his shoulder, she cried:
“Oh, Gil, I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve been waiting all this time for you. I knew Sandy would come, because he ain’t afraid of robbers, or anybody else, even if he had his hands tied behind him. I’ve been
praying for you every minute, and here you are.” Again Gilbert pressed his sister to his heart, and kissed her.
Young Foley was still lying unconscious, as the result of the blow he had received, and Sandy was clutching him tightly
by the throat.
“Take yer sister, little codger,” said Sandy, “wrap her up, git in the skiff,
an’ I’ll be with yer as soon as I tie this chuckle-headed idiot fast and tight.”
Gilbert left the hut with Lillian, while the other boy remained long enough to
loosen the rope around his waist, and bind the young ruffian securely. Then
he placed him in a corner of the room. Locking the door behind him, Sandy
joined Gilbert in the skiff, and together they paddled furiously out of the creek
into the river.
The moon was up in all her splendor,
and objects on the water were plainly visible for some distance. Lillian was
seated in the bow, facing the two boys at the paddles. Leander and Dink fell
in the wake of Sandy’s skiff, about ten yards in the rear.
As the party reached the middle of
the channel, a skiff came into view from the bend, a short way above, and steered directly toward them. With a cry,
Lillian stood up:
“Oh, Gil, here come those two bad
men that took me away.”
The boys turned, and they, too,
recognized Dennis Foley and Hildey as the occupants of the approaching boat.
“Lie flat, little one,” whispered Sandy, “an’ don’t move till I tells yer.”
The child obeyed, but already Foley
and his partner had espied her, and it was evident they were using all their
efforts to catch up. Leander now called:
“It’s the same gang, Sandy, that came out of the creek. What shall we do?”
“Paddle fer all ye’re worth,” was
shouted back.
“Hold up, or we’ll shoot,” yelled Dennis Foley.
With that a pistol-shot was heard
coming from the direction of the
pursuers, but the bullet went wide of its mark, and the boys sped on.
“Don’t waste yer load unless yer haveto,” cautioned Sandy, “ ’cause yer won’t have time to put in ‘nother, an’ I don’t want er draw their fire, fer fear they might hit Lily.”
The race had become one of life and
death. The boys strained to the utmost their strong young muscles, and, with
paddles bent almost double, drove their little craft like the wind before them.
Down past Turtle Creek they flew; Licking Banks were soon left behind, and
shortly, they were alongside the
Sycamores. Dink looked back over his shoulder, and whispered:
“We ain’t gained on ’em a bit, an’
they seem to be goin’ strong.”
When the Meadows were reached, Dink
said again:
“They’re comin’ like everythin’.”
“Don’t weaken,” urged Leander; “as long as we’re between them and Sandy’s
skiff, they’ll have to kill us before they can get to Lillian.”
The moon was casting its light on the waters like a great silvery path, and the splashing of the paddles was the only