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Aunt Jane's Nieces at Millville
CHAPTER XIX.
THE COURT'N OF SKIM CLARK
By this time the summer was well advanced, and the rich people at the Wegg farm had ceased to be objects of wonder to the Millville folk. The girls were still regarded with curious looks when they wandered into the village on an errand, and Mr. Merrick and Major Doyle inspired a certain amount of awe; but time had dulled the edge of marvelous invasion and the city people were now accepted as a matter of course.
Peggy McNutt was still bothering his head over schemes to fleece the strangers, in blissful ignorance of the fact that one of his neighbors was planning to get ahead of him.
The Widow Clark was a shrewd woman. She had proven this by becoming one of the merchants of Millville after her husband's death. The poor man had left an insurance of five hundred dollars and the little frame building wherein he had conducted a harness shop. Mrs. Clark couldn't make and repair harness; so she cleared the straps and scraps and wax-ends out of the place, painted the interior of the shop bright yellow, with a blue ceiling, erected some shelves and a counter and turned part of the insurance money into candy, cigars, stationery, and a meager stock of paper-covered novels.
Skim, her small son, helped her as far as he was able, and between them they managed things so frugally that at the end of eight years the widow still had her five hundred dollars capital, and the little store had paid her living expenses.
Skim was named after his uncle, Peter Skimbley, who owned a farm near Watertown. The widow's hopeful was now a lank, pale-faced youth of eighteen, whose most imposing features were his big hands and a long nose that ended in a sharp point. The shop had ruined him for manual labor, for he sat hunched up by the stove in winter, and in summer hung around Cotting's store and listened to the gossip of the loungers. He was a boy of small conversational powers, but his mother declared that Skim "done a heap o' thinkin' that nobody suspected."
The widow was a good gossip herself, and knew all the happenings in the little town. She had a habit of reading all her stock of paper-covered novels before she sold them, and her mind was stocked with the mass of romance and adventure she had thus absorbed. "What I loves more'n eat'n' or sleep'n'," she often said, "is a rattlin' good love story. There don't seem to be much love in real life, so a poor lone crittur like me has to calm her hankerin's by a-readin' novels."
No one had been more interested in the advent of the millionaire at the Wegg farm than the widow Clark. She had helped "fix up" the house for the new owner and her appreciative soul had been duly impressed by the display of wealth demonstrated by the fine furniture sent down from the city. She had watched the arrival of the party and noticed with eager eyes the group of three pretty and stylishly dressed nieces who accompanied their rich uncle. Once or twice since the young ladies had entered her establishment to purchase pens or stationery, and on such occasions the widow was quite overcome by their condescension.
All this set her thinking to some purpose. One day she walked over to the farm and made her way quietly to the back door. By good fortune she found blind Nora hemming napkins and in a mood to converse. Nora was an especially neat seamstress, but required some one to thread her needles. Mary the cook had been doing this, but now Mrs. Clark sat down beside Nora to "hev a little talk" and keep the needles supplied with thread.
She learned a good deal about the nieces, for old Nora could not praise them enough. They were always sweet and kind to her and she loved to talk about them. They were all rich, too, or would be; for their uncle had no children of his own and could leave several millions to each one when he died.
"An' they're so simple, too," said the old woman; "nothin' cityfied ner stuck-up about any on 'em, I kin tell ye. They dresses as fine as the Queen o' Sheba, Tom says; but they romp 'round just like they was borned in the country. Miss Patsy she's learnin' to milk the cow, an' Miss Beth takes care o' the chickens all by herself. They're reg'lar girls, Marthy Clark, an' money hain't spiled 'em a bit."
This report tended to waken a great ambition in the widow's heart. Or perhaps the ambition had already taken form and this gossip confirmed and established it. Before she left the farm she had a chance to secretly observe the girls, and they met with her full approval.
At supper that evening she said to her hopeful:
"Skim, I want ye to go courtin'."
Skim looked up in amazement.
"Me, ma?" he asked.
"Yes, you. It's time you was thinkin' of gittin' married."
Skim held his knife in his mouth a moment while he thought over this startling proposition. Then he removed the cutlery, heaved a deep sigh, and enquired:
"Who at, ma?"
"What's that?"
"Who'll I go courtin' at?"
"Skim, you 'member in thet las' book we read, 'The Angel Maniac's
Revenge,' there was a sayin' that fate knocks wunst on ev'ry man's door.
Well, fate's knockin' on your door."
Skim listened, with a nervous glance toward the doorway. Then he shook his head.
"All fool fancy, ma," he remarked. "Don't ye go an' git no rumantic notions out'n books inter yer head."
"Skim, am I a fool, er ain't I?"
"'Tain't fer me ter say, ma."
"Fate's knockin', an' if you don't open to it, Skim, I'll wash my hands o' ye, an' ye kin jest starve to death."
The boy looked disturbed.
"What's aggrivatin' of ye, then?" he enquired, anxiously.
"A millionaire is come right under yer nose. He's here in Millville, with three gals fer nieces thet's all got money to squander an's bound to hev more."
Skim gave a low whistle.
"Ye don't mean fer me to be courtin' at them gals, do ye?" he demanded.
"Why not? Yer fambly's jest as respectible as any, 'cept thet yer Uncle Mell backslided after the last revival, an' went to a hoss race. Yer young, an' yer han'some; an' there's three gals waitin' ready to be won by a bold wooer. Be bold, Skim; take fate by the fetlock, an' yer fortun's made easy!"
Skim did not reply at once. He gulped down his tea and stared at the opposite wall in deep thought. It wasn't such a "tarnal bad notion," after all, and so thoroughly impressed was he with his own importance and merit that it never occurred to him he would meet with any difficulties if he chose to undertake the conquest.
"Peggy says marri'ge is the mark of a fool; an' Peggy married money, too," he remarked slowly.
"Pah! money! Mary Ann Cotting didn't hev but a hundred an' forty dollars, all told, an' she were an old maid an' soured an' squint-eyed when Peggy hitched up with her."
"I hain't seen nuthin' o' the world, yit," continued Skim, evasively.
"Ner ye won't nuther, onless ye marry money. Any one o' them gals could take ye to Europe an' back a dozen times."
Skim reflected still farther.
"Courtin' ought to hev some decent clothes," he said. "I kain't set in the nabob's parlor, with all thet slick furnitur', in Nick Thorne's cast-off Sunday suit."
"The cloth's as good as ever was made, an' I cut 'em down myself, an' stitched 'em all over."
"They don't look like store clothes, though," objected Skim.
The widow sighed.
"Tain't the coat that makes the man, Skim."
"It's the coat thet makes decent courtin', though," he maintained, stubbornly. "Gals like to see a feller dressed up. It shows he means business an' 'mounts to somethin'."
"I give Nick Thorne two dollars an' a packidge o' terbacker fer them clotlies, which the on'y thing wrong about was they'd got too snug fer comfert. Nick said so himself. But I'll make a bargain with ye, Skim. Ef you'll agree to give me fifty dollars after yer married, I'll buy ye some store clothes o' Sam Cotting, to do courtin' in."
"Fifty dollars!"
"Well, I've brung ye up, hain't I?" "I've worked like a nigger, mindin' shop." "Say forty dollars. I ain't small, an' ef ye git one o' them city gals, Skim, forty dollars won't mean no more'n a wink of an eye to ye."
Skim frowned. Then he smiled, and the smile disclosed a front tooth missing.
"I'll dream on't," he said. "Let ye know in the mornin', ma. But I won't court a minite, mind ye, 'nless I git store clothes."
CHAPTER XX.
A LOST CAUSE
The boy's musings confirmed him in the idea that his mother's scheme was entirely practical. He didn't hanker much to marry, being young and fairly satisfied with his present lot; but opportunities like this did not often occur, and it seemed his bounden duty to take advantage of it.
He got the "store clothes" next day, together with a scarlet necktie that was "all made up in the latest style," as Sam Cotting assured him, and a pair of yellow kid gloves "fit fer a howlin' swell." Skim wasn't sure, at first, about the gloves, but capitulated when Sam declared they were "real cityfied."
In the evening he "togged up," with his mother's help, and then walked over to the Wegg farm.
Beth answered the knock at the door. The living room was brightly lighted; Uncle John and the Major were playing checkers in a corner and Patsy was softly drumming on the piano. Louise had a book and Beth had been engaged upon some fancy-work.
When the door opened Skim bobbed his head and said:
"Evenin', mom. I've come a-visitin'."
Beth conquered an inclination to smile.
"Won't you come in?" she said, sweetly.
"Thankee; I will. I'm Skimbley Clark, ye know; down t' the village. Ma keeps a store there."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Clark. Allow me to introduce to you my uncle and cousins," said the girl, her eyes dancing with amusement.
Skim acknowledged the introductions with intense gravity, and then sat down upon a straight-backed chair near the piano, this being the end of the room where the three girls were grouped. Uncle John gave a chuckle and resumed his game with the Major, who whispered that he would give a dollar for an oil painting of Mr. Clark – if it couldn't be had for less.
Louise laid down her book and regarded the visitor wonderingly. Patsy scented fun and drew a chair nearer the group. Beth resumed her embroidery with a demure smile that made Skim decide at once that "he picked the pretty one."
Indeed, the decision did justice to his discretion. Beth De Graf was a rarely beautiful girl and quite outshone her cousins in this respect. Louise might be attractive and Patsy fascinating; but Beth was the real beauty of the trio, and the most charming trait in her character was her unconsciousness that she excelled in good looks.
So Skim stared hard at Beth, and answered the preliminary remarks addressed to him by Patsy and Louise in a perfunctory manner.
"Won't you take off your gloves?" asked Louise, soberly. "It's so warm this evening, you know."
The boy looked at his hands.
"It's sech a tarnal job to git 'em on agin," he replied.
"Don't put them on, then," advised Patsy. "Here in the country we are allowed to dispense with much unnecessary social etiquette."
"Air ye? Then off they come. I ain't much stuck on gloves, myself; but ma she 'lowed that a feller goin' courtin' orter look like a sport."
A chorus of wild laughter, which greeted this speech, had the effect of making Skim stare at the girls indignantly. He couldn't find anything funny in his remark; but there they sat facing him and uttering hysterical peals of merriment, until the tears ran down their cheeks.
Silently and with caution he removed the yellow gloves from his hands, and so gave the foolish creatures a chance "to laugh out their blamed giggle."
But they were watching him, and saw that he was disconcerted. They had no mind to ruin the enjoyment in store for them by offending their guest, so they soon resumed a fitting gravity and began to assist the youth to forget their rudeness.
"May I ask," said Patsy, very graciously, "which one of us you intend to favor with your attentions?"
"I ain't much used to sech things," he replied, looking down at his big hands and growing a little red-faced. "P'raps I hadn't orter tell, before the rest o' ye."
"Oh, yes; do tell!" pleaded Louise. "We're so anxious to know."
"I don't s'pose it's right clever to pick an' choose when ye're all by," said Skim, regaining confidence. "But ma, she 'lowed thet with three gals handy I orter git one on 'em, to say the least."
"If you got more than one," remarked Beth, calmly, "it would be illegal."
"Oh, one's enough," said Skim, with a grin. "Peggy says it's too many, an' a feller oughtn't to take his gal out'n a grab-bag."
"I should think not, indeed," returned Patsy. "But here are three of us openly displayed, and unless you turn us all down as unworthy, it will be necessary for you to make a choice."
"What foolishness are you girls up to now?" demanded Uncle John, catching a stray word from the other corner while engaged in a desperate struggle with the Major.
"This is a time for you to keep quiet, Uncle," retorted Patsy, merrily. "We've got important things to consider that are none of your affairs, whatever."
Skim reflected that he didn't want this one, except as a last resort.
She was "too bossy."
"When I started out," he said, "I jest come a-courtin', as any feller might do thet wasn't much acquainted. But ef I've got to settle down to one o' ye – "
He hesitated.
"Oh, you must really take one at a time, you know," asserted Louise.
"It's the only proper way."
"Then I'll start on thet dark-eyed one thet's a sewin'," he said, slowly.
Beth looked up from her work and smiled.
"Go ahead, Mr. Clark," she said, encouragingly. "My name is Beth. Had you forgotten it?"
"Call me Skim," he said, gently.
"Very well, Skim, – Now look here, Patsy Doyle, if you're going to sit there and giggle you'll spoil everything. Mr. Clark wants to court, and it's getting late."
"P'raps I've went fur enough fer tonight," remarked Skim, uneasily.
"Next time they'll leave us alone, an' then – "
"Oh, don't postpone it, please!" begged Beth, giving the boy a demure glance from her soft brown eyes. "And don't mind my cousins. I don't."
"These things kain't be hurried," he said. "Si Merkle courted three weeks afore he popped. He tol' me so."
"Then he was a very foolish man," declared Patsy, positively. "Just look at Beth! She's dying to have you speak out. What's the use of waiting, when she knows why you are here?"
By this time Skim had been flattered to the extent of destroying any stray sense he might ever have possessed. His utter ignorance of girls and their ways may have been partly responsible for his idiocy, or his mother's conviction that all that was necessary was for him to declare himself in order to be accepted had misled him and induced him to abandon any native diffidence he might have had. Anyway, the boy fell into the snare set by the mischievous young ladies without a suspicion of his impending fate.
"Miss Beth," said he, "ef yer willin', I'll marry ye; any time ye say. I agreed t' help Dick Pearson with the harvestin', but I'll try to' git Ned Long to take my place, an' it don't matter much, nohow."
"But I couldn't have you break an engagement," cried Beth, hastily.
"Why not?"
"Oh, it wouldn't be right, at all. Mr. Pearson would never forgive me," she asserted.
"Can't ye – "
"No; not before harvest, Skim. I couldn't think of it."
"But arterward – "
"No; I've resolved never to marry after harvest. So, as you're engaged, and I don't approve of breaking engagements, I must refuse your proposition entirely."
Skim looked surprised; then perplexed; then annoyed.
"P'raps I didn't pop jest right," he murmured, growing red again.
"You popped beautifully," declared Patsy. "But Beth is very peculiar, and set in her ways. I'm afraid she wouldn't make you a good wife, anyhow."
"Then p'raps the gal in blue – "
"No;" said Louise. "I have the same prejudices as my cousin. If you hadn't been engaged for the harvest I might have listened to you; but that settles the matter definitely, as far as I am concerned."
Skim sighed.
"Ma'll be mad as a hornet ef I don't get any of ye," he remarked, sadly. "She's paid Sam Cotting fer this courtin' suit, an' he won't take back the gloves on no 'count arter they've been wore; an' thet'll set ma crazy. Miss Patsy, ef yo' think ye could – "
"I'm sure I couldn't," said Patsy, promptly. "I'm awfully sorry to break your heart, Skim, dear, and ruin your future life, and make you misanthropic and cynical, and spoil your mother's investment and make her mad as a hornet. All this grieves me terribly; but I'll recover from it, if you'll only give me time. And I hope you'll find a wife that will be more congenial than I could ever be."
Skim didn't understand all these words, but the general tenor of the speech was convincing, and filled him with dismay.
"Rich gals is tarnal skeerce in these parts," he said, regretfully.
Then they gave way again, and so lusty was the merriment that Uncle John and the Major abandoned their game and came across the room to discover the source of all this amusement.
"What's up, young women?" asked their Uncle, glancing from their laughing faces to the lowering, sullen one of the boy, who had only now begun to suspect that he was being "poked fun at."
"Oh, Uncle!" cried Patsy; "you've no idea how near you have been to losing us. We have each had an offer of marriage within the last half hour!"
"Dear me!" ejaculated Uncle John.
"It shows the young man's intelligence and good taste," said the Major, much amused. "But is it a Mormon ye are, sir, to want all three?" directing a keen glance at Skim.
"Naw, 'tain't," he returned, wholly disgusted with the outcome of his suit. "All three got as't 'cause none of 'em's got sense enough t' know a good thing when they seen it."
"But I do," said the Major, stoutly; "and I maintain that you're a good thing, and always will be. I hope, sir, you'll call 'round and see me in Baltimore next year. I'll not be there, but ye can leave your card, just the same."
"Please call again, sir," added Uncle John; "about October – just before snow flies."
The boy got up.
"I don't keer none," he said, defiantly. "It's all ma's fault, gittin' me laughed at, an' she won't hear the last of it in a hurry, nuther."
"Be gentle with her, Skim," suggested Beth, softly. "Remember she has to face the world with you by her side."
Having no retort for this raillery, which he felt rather than understood, Skim seized his hat and fled. Then Patsy wiped the tears from her eyes and said:
"Wasn't it grand, girls? I haven't had so much fun since I was born."
CHAPTER XXI.
THE TRAP IS SET
Uncle John was forced to acknowledge to his nieces that his boast to unmask Bob West within three days was mere blustering. If he accomplished anything in three weeks he would consider himself fortunate. But he had no wish to conceal anything from the girls, so he told them frankly of his interview with the hardware merchant, and also what Joe Wegg had said about the stock in the locked cupboard. They were, of course, greatly interested in this new phase of the matter and canvassed it long and eagerly.
"The man is lying, of course," said Patsy, "for Captain Wegg and poor Mr. Thompson could not transfer their stock to West after that fatal night when he brought to them the news of the fire."
"I believe the stock is still in this cupboard," declared Uncle John.
"Unless West stole the keys and has taken it away," suggested Louise.
"I'm sure he did not know about the secret drawer," said her uncle. "Probably he stole the keys and searched the cupboard; if he had found the stock he would have left the keys, which would then be of no further use to him. As he did not find the stock certificates, he carried the keys away, that he might search again at his leisure. And they've never yet been returned."
"Why, John, ye're possessed of the true detective instinct," the Major remarked, admiringly. "Your reasoning is at once clever and unassailable."
"I wonder," mused Beth, "if we could tempt Mr. West to come again to search the cupboard."
"He will scarcely venture to do that while we are here," replied Uncle
John.
"I said 'tempt him,' Uncle."
"And what did you mean by that expression, Beth?"
"I'll think it over and tell you later," she returned, quietly.
*****
Ethel Thompson would have shown Joe Wegg how much she resented his leaving Millville without a word to her, had she not learned from Mr. Merrick the boy's sad condition. Knowing her old friend was ill, she determined to ignore the past and go to him at once, and Uncle John knew very well there would be explanations to smooth away all the former misunderstandings.
Joe was now aware of the fact that his letter to Ethel had never reached its destination, so, as soon as the girl had arrived and the first rather formal greetings were over, he sent Kate Kebble to McNutt's to ask the agent to come over to the hotel at once.
The girl returned alone.
"Peggy says as he can't come," she announced.
"Why not?" asked Joe.
"Says he's jest painted his off foot blue an' striped it with red, an' it hain't dried yit."
"Go back," said Joe, firmly. "Tell Peggy he's in trouble, and it's likely to cost him more than a new coat of paint for his foot if he doesn't come here at once."
Kate went back, and in due time the stump of McNutt's foot was heard on the stairs. He entered the room looking worried and suspicious, and the stern faces of Ethel and Joe did not reassure him, by any means. But he tried to disarm the pending accusation with his usual brazen impertinence.
"Nice time ter send fer me, this is, Joe," he grumbled. "It's gittin' so a feller can't even paint his foot in peace an' quiet."
"Peggy," said Joe, "when I went away, three years ago, I gave you a letter for Miss Ethel. What did you do with it?"
Peggy's bulging eyes stared at his blue foot, which he turned first one side and then the other to examine the red stripes.
"It's this way, Joe," he replied; "there wa'n't no postige stamp on the letter, an' Sam Cotting said it couldn't be posted no way 'thout a stamp."
"It wasn't to be sent through the post-office," said the boy. "I gave you a quarter to deliver it in person to Miss Ethel."
"Did ye, Joe? did ye?"
"Of course I did."
"Cur'ous," said McNutt, leaning over to touch the foot cautiously with one finger, to see if the paint was dry.
"Well, sir!"
"Well, Joe, there's no use gittin' mad 'bout it. Thet blamed quarter ye giv me rolled down a crack in the stoop, an' got lost. Sure. Got lost as easy as anything."
"Well, what was that to me?"
"Oh, I ain't blamin' you," said Peggy; "but 'twere a good deal to me, I kin tell ye. A whole quarter lost!"
"Why didn't you take up a board, and get it again?"
"Oh, I did," said McNutt. cheerfully. "I did, Joe. But the money was all black an' tarnished like, by thet time, an' didn't look at all like silver. Sam he wouldn't take it at the store, so my ol' woman she 'lowed she'd polish it up a bit. Ye know how sort o' vig'rous she is, Joe. She polished that blamed quarter the same way she jaws an' sweeps; she polished it 'til she rubbed both sides smooth as glass, an' then Sam wouldn't take it, nuther, 'n' said it wasn't money any more. So I drilled two holes in it an' sewed it on my pants fer a 'spender butt'n."
"But why didn't you deliver the letter?"
"Did ye 'spect I'd tramp way t' Thompson's Crossing fer nuthin'?"
"I gave you a quarter."
"An' it turned out to be on'y a 'spender butt'n. Be reason'ble, Joe."
"Where is the letter?"
"'Tain't a letter no more. It's on'y ol' fambly papers by this time.
Three years is – "
"Where is it? By thunder, Peggy, if you don't answer me I'll put you in jail for breach of trust!"
"Ye've changed, Joe," sadly. "Ye ain't no more like – "
"Where is it?"
"Behind the lookin'-glass in my sett'n-room."
"Go and get it immediately, sir!"
"Ef I hev to cross thet dusty road twic't more, I'll hev to paint all over agin, an' thet's a fact."
"Ethel," said Joe, with the calmness of despair, "you'll have to telephone over to the Junction and ask them to send a constable here at once."
"Never mind," cried McNutt, jumping up hastily; "I'll go. Paint don't cost much, nohow."
He stumped away, but on his return preferred to let Kate carry the soiled, torn envelope up to the young folks. The letter had palpably been tampered with. It had been opened and doubtless read, and the flap clumsily glued down again.
But Ethel had it now, and even after three years her sweet eyes dimmed as she read the tender words that Joe had written because he lacked the courage to speak them. "My one great ambition is to win a home for us, dear," he had declared, and with this before her eyes Ethel reproached herself for ever doubting his love or loyalty.
When she rode her pony over to the Wegg farm next day Ethel's bright face was wreathed with smiles. She told her girl friends that she and Joe had had a "good talk" together, and understood each other better than ever before. The nieces did not tell her of their newly conceived hopes that the young couple would presently possess enough money to render their future comfortable, because there were so many chances that Bob West might win the little game being played. But at this moment Ethel did not need worldly wealth to make her heart light and happy, for she had regained her childhood's friend, and his injuries only rendered the boy the more interesting and companionable.
Meantime Uncle John had been busily thinking. It annoyed him to be so composedly defied by a rascally country merchant, and he resolved, if he must fight, to fight with all his might.
So he wired to his agent in New York the following words:
"What part of the Almaquo timber tract burned in forest fire three years ago?"
The answer he received made him give a satisfied grunt.
"No forest fires near Almaquo three years ago. Almadona, seventy miles north, burned at that time, and newspaper reports confounded the names."
"Very good!" exclaimed Uncle John. "I've got the rascal now."
He issued instructions to the lumber company to make no further payments of royalties to Robert West until otherwise advised, and this had the effect of bringing West to the farm white with rage.
"What do you mean by this action, Mr. Merrick?" he demanded.
"We've been paying you money that does not belong to you for three years, sir," was the reply. "In a few days, when my investigations are complete, I will give you the option of being arrested for embezzlement of funds belonging to Joseph Wegg and the Thompsons, or restoring to them every penny of their money."
West stared.
"You are carrying matters with a high hand, sir," he sneered.
"Oh, no; I am acting very leniently," said Uncle John.
"Neither Joe nor the Thompsons own a dollar's interest in the Almaquo property. It is all mine, and mine alone."
"Then produce the stock and prove it!" retorted Mr. Merrick, triumphantly.
At that moment Louise interrupted the interview by entering the room suddenly.
"Oh, Uncle," said she, "will you join us in a picnic to the Falls tomorrow afternoon? We are all going."
"Then I won't be left behind," he replied, smiling upon her.
"We shall take even Thomas and Nora, and come home late in the evening, by moonlight."
"That suits me, my dear," said he.
West stood silent and scowling, but as the girl tripped away she saw him raise his eyes and glance slyly toward the cupboard, for they were in the right wing room.
"Mr. Merrick," he resumed, in a harsh voice; "I warn you that if your company holds up the payment of my royalties it will break the contract, and I will forbid them to cut another tree. You are doubtless aware that there are a dozen firms willing to take your place and pay me higher royalties."
"Act as you please, sir," said Uncle John, indifferently. "I believe you are face to face with ruin, and it won't matter much what you do."
West went away more quietly than he had come, and the girls exclaimed, delightedly:
"The trap is set, Uncle!"
"I think so, myself," he rejoined. "That picnic was a happy thought,
Louise."
Early the next afternoon they started out with hammocks and baskets and all the paraphernalia of a picnic party. The three girls, Nora and Uncle John squeezed themselves into the surrey, while the Major and Old Hucks rode after them in the ancient buggy, with Dan moaning and groaning every step he took. But the old horse moved more briskly when following Joe, and Hucks could get more speed out of him than anyone else; so he did not lag much behind.
The procession entered Millville, where a brief stop was made at the store, and then made its exit by the north road. West was standing in the door of his hardware store, quietly observing them. When they disappeared in the grove he locked the door of his establishment and sauntered in the direction of the Pearson farm, no one noticing him except Peggy McNutt, who was disappointed because he had intended to go over presently and buy a paper of tacks.
When the village was left behind, Uncle John drove swiftly along, following the curve of the lake until he reached a primitive lane that he had discovered formed a short cut directly back to the Wegg farm. Old Thomas was amazed by this queer action on the part of the picnic party, but aside from blind Nora, who had no idea where they were, the others seemed full of repressed eagerness, and in no way surprised.
The lane proved very rocky though, and they were obliged to jolt slowly over the big cobble stones. So Beth and Patsy leaped out of the surrey and the former called out:
"We will run through the forest, Uncle, and get home as soon as you do."
"Be careful not to show yourselves, then," he replied. "Remember our plans."
"We will. And don't forget to tie the horses in the thicket, and warn
Thomas and Nora to keep quiet until we come for them," said Patsy.
"I'll attend to all that, dear," remarked Louise, composedly. "But if you girls are determined to walk, you must hurry along, or you will keep us waiting."
The nieces had explored every path in the neighborhood by this time, so Beth and Patsy were quite at home in the pine forest. The horses started up again, and after struggling along another quarter of a mile a wheel of the surrey dished between two stones, and with a bump the axle struck the ground and the journey was promptly arrested.
