“He said that he could take us right to where Abigail is,” Mr. Prim was explaining to Burton, “and that this Oskaloosa Kid is with her, and another man and a for- eign looking girl. He told a wild story about seeing them burying a dead man in the woods back of Squibbs’ place. I don’t know how much to believe, or whether to believe any of it; but we can’t afford not to run down every clew. I can’t believe that my daugh- ter is wilfully consorting with such men. She always has been full of life and spirit; but she’s got a clean mind, and her little escapades have always been en- tirely harmless–at worst some sort of boyish prank. I simply won’t believe it until I see it with my own eyes. If she’s with them she’s being held by force.”
Burton made no reply. He was not a man to jump to conclusions. His success was largely due to the fact that he assumed nothing; but merely ran down each clew quickly yet painstakingly until he had a foundation of fact upon which to operate. His theory was that the simplest way is always the best way and so he never be- fogged the main issue with any elaborate system of de- ductive reasoning based on guesswork. Burton never guessed. He assumed that it was his business to KNOW, nor was he on any case long before he did know. He was employed now to find Abigail Prim. Each of the sev- eral crimes committed the previous night might or might not prove a clew to her whereabouts; but each must be run down in the process of elimination before Burton could feel safe in abandoning it.
Already he had solved one of them to his satisfac- tion; and Dopey Charlie and The General were, all un- known to themselves, on the way to the gallows for the murder of Old John Baggs. When Burton had found them simulating sleep behind the bushes beside the road his observant eyes had noticed something that resem- bled a hurried cache. The excuse of a lost note book had taken him back to investigate and to find the loot of the Baggs’s crime wrapped in a bloody rag and hastily buried in a shallow hole.
When Burton and Jonas Prim arrived at the Case farm they were met by a new Willie. A puffed and important young man swaggered before them as he retold his tale and led them through the woods toward the spot where they were to bag their prey. The last hundred yards was made on hands and knees; but when the party arrived at the clearing there was no one in sight, only the hovel stood mute and hollow-eyed before them.
“They must be inside,” whispered Willie to the detec- tive.
Burton passed a whispered word to his followers. Stealthily they crept through the underbrush until the cabin was surrounded; then, at a signal from their leader they rose and advanced upon the structure.
No evidence of life indicated their presence had been noted, and Burton came to the very door of the cabin unchallenged. The others saw him pause an instant upon the threshold and then pass in. They closed be- hind him. Three minutes later he emerged, shaking his head.
“There is no one here,” he announced.
Willie Case was crestfallen. “But they must be,” he pleaded. “They must be. I saw ’em here just a leetle while back.”
Burton turned and eyed the boy sternly. Willie quailed. “I seen ’em,” he cried. “Hones’ I seen ’em. They was here just a few minutes ago. Here’s where they bur- rit the dead man,” and he pointed to the little mound of earth near the center of the clearing.
“We’ll see,” commented Burton, tersely, and he sent two of his men back to the Case farm for spades. When they returned a few minutes’ labor revealed that so much of Willie’s story was true, for a quilt wrapped corpse was presently unearthed and lying upon the ground beside its violated grave. Willie’s stock rose once more to par.
In an improvised litter they carried the dead man back to Case’s farm where they left him after notifying the coroner by telephone. Half of Burton’s men were sent to the north side of the woods and half to the road upon the south of the Squibbs’ farm. There they sep- arated and formed a thin line of outposts about the entire area north of the road. If the quarry was within it could not escape without being seen. In the mean time Burton telephoned to Oakdale for reinforcements, as it would require fifty men at least to properly beat the tangled underbrush of the wood.
o o o
In a clump of willows beside the little stream which winds through the town of Payson a party of four halted on the outskirts of the town. There were two men, two young women and a huge brown bear. The men and women were, obviously, Gypsies. Their clothing, their head-dress, their barbaric ornamentation proclaimed the fact to whoever might pass; but no one passed.
“I think,” said Bridge, “that we will just stay where we are until after dark. We haven’t passed or seen a human being since we left the cabin. No one can know that we are here and if we stay here until late to-night we should be able to pass around Payson unseen and reach the wood to the south of town. If we do meet anyone to-night we’ll stop them and inquire the way to Oakdale –that’ll throw them off the track.”
The others acquiesced in his suggestion; but there were queries about food to be answered. It seemed that all were hungry and that the bear was ravenous.
“What does he eat?” Bridge asked of Giova.
“Mos’ anything,” replied the girl. “He like garbage fine. Often I take him into towns late, ver’ late at night an’ he eat swill. I do that to-night. Beppo, he got to be fed or he eat Giova. I go feed Beppo, you go get food for us; then we all meet at edge of wood just other side town near old mill.”
During the remainder of the afternoon and well after dark the party remained hidden in the willows. Then Giova started out with Beppo in search of garbage cans, Bridge bent his steps toward a small store upon the outskirts of town where food could be purchased, The Oskaloosa Kid having donated a ten dollar bill for the stocking of the commissariat, and the youth and the girl made their way around the south end of the town toward the meeting place beside the old mill.
As Bridge moved through the quiet road at the out- skirts of the little town he let his mind revert to the events of the past twenty four hours and as he pon- dered each happening since he met the youth in the dark of the storm the preceding night he asked him- self why he had cast his lot with these strangers. In his years of vagabondage Bridge had never crossed that in- visible line which separates honest men from thieves and murderers and which, once crossed, may never be re- crossed. Chance and necessity had thrown him often among such men and women; but never had he been of them. The police of more than one city knew Bridge– they knew him, though, as a character and not as a criminal. A dozen times he had been arraigned upon suspicion; but as many times had he been released with a clean bill of morals until of late Bridge had become al- most immune from arrest. The police who knew him knew that he was straight and they knew, too, that he would give no information against another man. For this they admired him as did the majority of the crim- inals with whom he had come in contact during his rovings.
The present crisis, however, appeared most unprom- ising to Bridge. Grave crimes had been committed in Oakdale, and here was Bridge conniving in the escape of at least two people who might readily be under po- lice suspicion. It was difficult for the man to bring him- self to believe that either the youth or the girl was in any way actually responsible for either of the murders; yet it appeared that the latter had been present when a murder was committed and now by attempting to elude the police had become an accessory after the fact, since she possessed knowledge of the identity of the actual murderer; while the boy, by his own admission, had committed a burglary.
Bridge shook his head wearily. Was he not himself an accessory after the fact in the matter of two crimes at least? These new friends, it seemed, were about to topple him into the abyss which he had studiously avoided for so long a time. But why should he permit it? What were they to him?
A freight train was puffing into the siding at the Pay- son station. Bridge could hear the complaining brakes a mile away. It would be easy to leave the town and his dangerous companions far behind him; but even as the thought forced its way into his mind another obtruded itself to shoulder aside the first. It was recollection of the boy’s words: “Oh, Bridge, I don’t want to leave you– ever.”
“I couldn’t do it,” mused Bridge. “I don’t know just why; but I couldn’t. That kid has certainly got me. The first thing someone knows I’ll be starting a foundlings’ home. There is no question but that I am the soft mark, and I wonder why it is–why a kid I never saw before last night has a strangle hold on my heart that I can’t shake loose–and don’t want to. Now if it was a girl I could understand it.” Bridge stopped suddenly in the middle of the road. From his attitude he might have been startled either by a surprising noise or by a surpris- ing thought. For a minute he stood motionless; then he shook his head again and proceeded along his way to- ward the little store; evidently if he had heard anything he was assured that it constituted no menace.
As he entered the store to make his purchases a fox- eyed man saw him and stepped quickly behind the huge stove which had not as yet been taken down for the summer. Bridge made his purchases, the volume of which required a large gunny-sack for transportation, and while he was thus occupied the fox-eyed man clung to his coign of vantage, himself unnoticed by the pur- chaser. When Bridge departed the other followed him, keeping in the shadow of the trees which bordered the street. Around the edge of town and down a road which led southward the two went until Bridge passed through a broken fence and halted beside an abandoned mill. The watcher saw his quarry set down his burden, seat himself beside it and proceed to roll a cigaret; then he faded away in the darkness and Bridge was alone.
Five or ten minutes later two slender figures ap- peared dimly out of the north. They approached timidly, stopping often and looking first this way and then that and always listening. When they arrived opposite the mill Bridge saw them and gave a low whistle. Immedi- ately the two passed through the fence and approached him.
“My!” exclaimed one, “I thought we never would get here; but we didn’t see a soul on the road. Where is Giova?”
“She hadn’t come yet,” replied Bridge, “and she may not. I don’t see how a girl can browse around a town like this with a big bear at night and not be seen, and if she is seen she’ll be followed–it would be too much of a treat for the rubes ever to be passed up–and if she’s followed she won’t come here. At least I hope she won’t.”
“What’s that?” exclaimed The Oskaloosa Kid. Each stood in silence, listening.
The girl shuddered. “Even now that I know what it is it makes me creep,” she whispered, as the faint clank- ing of a distant chain came to their ears.
“We ought to be used to it by this time, Miss Prim,” said Bridge. “We heard it all last night and a good part of to-day.”
The girl made no comment upon the use of the name which he had applied to her, and in the darkness he could not see her features, nor did he see the odd ex- pression upon the boy’s face as he heard the name addressed to her. Was he thinking of the nocturnal raid he so recently had made upon the boudoir of Miss Abigail Prim? Was he pondering the fact that his pock- ets bulged to the stolen belongings of that young lady? But whatever was passing in his mind he permitted none of it to pass his lips.
As the three stood waiting in silence Giova came pres- ently among them, the beast Beppo lumbering awk- wardly at her side.
“Did he find anything to eat?” asked the man.
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Giova. “He fill up now. That mak him better nature. Beppo not so ugly now.”
“Well, I’m glad of that,” said Bridge. “I haven’t been looking forward much to his company through the woods to-night–especially while he was hungry!”
Giova laughed a low, musical little laugh. “I don’ think he no hurt you anyway,” she said. “Now he know you my frien’.”
“I hope you are quite correct in your surmise,” re- plied Bridge. “But even so I’m not taking any chances.”
o o o
Willie Case had been taken to Payson to testify be- fore the coroner’s jury investigating the death of Giova’s father, and with the dollar which The Oskaloosa Kid had given him in the morning burning in his pocket had proceeded to indulge in an orgy of dissipation the mo- ment that he had been freed from the inquest. Ice cream, red pop, peanuts, candy, and soda water may have diminished his appetite but not his pride and self- satisfaction as he sat alone and by night for the first time in a public eating place. Willie was now a man of the world, a bon vivant, as he ordered ham and eggs from the pretty waitress of The Elite Restaurant on Broadway; but at heart he was not happy for never be- fore had he realized what a great proportion of his anat- omy was made up of hands and feet. As he glanced fearfully at the former, silhouetted against the white of the table cloth, he flushed scarlet, assured as he was that the waitress who had just turned away toward the kitchen with his order was convulsed with laughter and that every other eye in the establishment was glued upon him. To assume an air of nonchalance and thereby impress and disarm his critics Willie reached for a tooth- pick in the little glass holder near the center of the ta- ble and upset the sugar bowl. Immediately Willie snatched back the offending hand and glared ferociously at the ceiling. He could feel the roots of his hair being consumed in the heat of his skin. A quick side glance that required all his will power to consummate showed him that no one appeared to have noticed his faux pas and Willie was again slowly returning to normal when the proprietor of the restaurant came up from behind and asked him to remove his hat.
Never had Willie Case spent so frightful a half hour as that within the brilliant interior of The Elite Restau- rant. Twenty-three minutes of this eternity was con- sumed in waiting for his order to be served and seven minutes in disposing of the meal and paying his check. Willie’s method of eating was in itself a sermon on efficiency–there was no lost motion–no waste of time. He placed his mouth within two inches of his plate after cutting his ham and eggs into pieces of a size that would permit each mouthful to enter without wedging; then he mixed his mashed potatoes in with the result and working his knife and fork alternately with bewild- ering rapidity shot a continuous stream of food into his gaping maw.
In addition to the meat and potatoes there was one vegetable in a side-dish and as dessert four prunes. The meat course gone Willie placed the vegetable dish on the empty plate, seized a spoon in lieu of knife and fork and–presto! the side-dish was empty. Whereupon the prune dish was set in the empty side-dish–four deft motions and there were no prunes–in the dish. The en- tire feat had been accomplished in 6:34 1/2, setting a new world’s record for red-headed farmer boys with one splay foot.
In the remaining twenty five and one half seconds Willie walked what seemed to him a mile from his seat to the cashier’s desk and at the last instant bumped into a waitress with a trayful of dishes. Clutched tightly in Willie’s hand was thirty five cents and his check with a like amount written upon it. Amid the crash of crockery which followed the collision Willie slammed check and money upon the cashier’s desk and fled. Nor did he pause until in the reassuring seclusion of a dark side- street. There Willie sank upon the curb alternately cold with fear and hot with shame, weak and panting, and into his heart entered the iron of class hatred, searing it to the core.
Fortunately for youth it recuperates rapidly from mor- tal blows, and so it was that another half hour found Willie wandering up and down Broadway but at the far end of the street from The Elite Restaurant. A mo- tion picture theater arrested his attention; and pres- ently, parting with one of his two remaining dimes, he entered. The feature of the bill was a detective melo- drama. Nothing in the world could have better suited Willie’s psychic needs. It recalled his earlier feats of the day, in which he took pardonable pride, and raised him once again to a self-confidence he had not felt since be entered the ever to be hated Elite Restaurant.
The show over Willie set forth afoot for home. A long walk lay ahead of him. This in itself was bad enough; but what lay at the end of the long walk was infinitely worse, as Willie’s father had warned him to return immediately after the inquest, in time for milk- ing, preferably. Before he had gone two blocks from the theater Willie had concocted at least three tales to ac- count for his tardiness, either one of which would have done credit to the imaginative powers of a Rider Hag- gard or a Jules Verne; but at the end of the third block he caught a glimpse of something which drove all thoughts of home from his mind and came but barely short of driving his mind out too. He was ap- proaching the entrance to an alley. Old trees grew in the parkway at his side. At the street corner a half block away a high flung arc swung gently from its support- ing cables, casting a fair light upon the alley’s mouth, and just emerging from behind the nearer fence Willie Case saw the huge bulk of a bear. Terrified, Willie jumped behind a tree; and then, fearful lest the animal might have caught sight or scent of him he poked his head cautiously around the side of the bole just in time to see the figure of a girl come out of the alley be- hind the bear. Willie recognized her at the first glance– she was the very girl he had seen burying the dead man in the Squibbs woods. Instantly Willie Case was trans- formed again into the shrewd and death defying sleuth. At a safe distance he followed the girl and the bear through one alley after another until they came out upon the road which leads south from Payson. He was across the road when she joined Bridge and his companions. When they turned toward the old mill he followed them, listening close to the rotting clapboards for any chance remark which might indicate their future plans. He heard them debating the wisdom of remaining where they were for the night or moving on to another loca- tion which they had evidently decided upon but no clew to which they dropped.
“The objection to remaining here,” said Bridge, “is that we can’t make a fire to cook by–it would be too plainly visible from the road.”
“But I can no fin’ road by dark,” explained Giova. “It bad road by day, ver’ much worse by night. Beppo no come ‘cross swamp by night. No, we got stay here til morning.”
“All right,” replied Bridge, “we can eat some of this canned stuff and have our ham and coffee after we reach camp tomorrow morning, eh?”
“And now that we’ve gotten through Payson safely,” suggested The Oskaloosa Kid, “let’s change back into our own clothes. This disguise makes me feel too con- spicuous.”
Willie Case had heard enough. His quarry would re- main where it was over night, and a moment later Willie was racing toward Payson and a telephone as fast as his legs would carry him.
In an old brick structure a hundred yards below the mill where the lighting machinery of Payson had been installed before the days of the great central power- plant a hundred miles away four men were smoking as they lay stretched upon the floor.
“I tell you I seen him,” asserted one of the party. “I follered this Bridge guy from town to the mill. He was got up like a Gyp; but I knew him all right, all right. This scenery of his made me tink there was something phoney doin’, or I wouldn’t have trailed him, an’ its a good ting I done it, fer he hadn’t ben there five min- utes before along comes The Kid an’ a skirt and pretty soon a nudder chicken wid a calf on a string, er mebbie it was a sheep–it was pretty husky lookin’ fer a sheep though. An’ I sticks aroun’ a minute until I hears this here Bridge guy call the first skirt ‘Miss Prim.'”
He ceased speaking to note the effect of his words on his hearers. They were electrical. The Sky Pilot sat up straight and slapped his thigh. Soup Face opened his mouth, letting his pipe fall out into his lap, setting fire to his ragged trousers. Dirty Eddie voiced a characteris- tic obscenity.
“So you sees,” went on Columbus Blackie, “we got a chanct to get both the dame and The Kid. Two of us can take her to Oakdale an’ claim the reward her old man’s offerin’ an’ de odder two can frisk de Kid, an’– an’–.”
“An’ wot?” queried The Sky Pilot.
“Dere’s de swamp handy,” suggested Soup Face.
“I was tinkin’ of de swamp,” said Columbus Blackie.
“Eddie and I will return Miss Prim to her bereaved parents,” interrupted The Sky Pilot. “You, Blackie, and Soup Face can arrange matters with The Oskaloosa Kid. I don’t care for details. We will all meet in Toledo as soon as possible and split the swag. We ought to make a cleaning on this job, boes.”
“You split a mout’ful then,” said Columbus Blackie.
They fell to discussing way and means.
“We’d better wait until they’re asleep,” counseled The Sky Pilot. “Two of us can tackle this Bridge and hand him the k.o. quick. Eddie and Soup Face had better attend to that. Blackie can nab The Kid an’ I’ll annex Miss Abigail Prim. The lady with the calf we don’t want. We’ll tell her we’re officers of the law an’ that she’d better duck with her live stock an’ keep her trap shut if she don’t want to get mixed up with a mur- der trial.”
o o o
Detective Burton was at the county jail in Oakdale administering the third degree to Dopey Charlie and The General when there came a long distance telephone call for him.
“Hello!” said the voice at the other end of the line; “I’m Willie Case, an’ I’ve found Miss Abigail Prim.”
“Again?” queried Burton.
“Really,” asserted Willie. “I know where she’s goin’ to be all night. I heard ’em say so. The Oskaloosie Kid’s with her an’ annuder guy an’ the girl I seen with the dead man in Squibbs’ woods an’ they got a BEAR!” It was almost a shriek. “You’d better come right away an’ bring Mr. Prim. I’ll meet you on the ol’ Toledo road right south of Payson, an’ say, do I get the whole re- ward?”
“You’ll get whatever’s coming to you, son,” replied Burton. “You say there are two men and two women– are you sure that is all?”
“And the bear,” corrected Willie.
“All right, keep quiet and wait for me,” cautioned Burton. “You’ll know me by the spot light on my car– I’ll have it pointed straight up into the air. When you see it coming get into the middle of the road and wave your hands to stop us. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Willie.
“And don’t talk to anyone,” Burton again cautioned him.
A few minutes later Burton left Oakdale with his two lieutenants and a couple of the local policemen, the car turning south toward Payson and moving at ever ac- celerating speed as it left the town streets behind it and swung smoothly onto the country road.
o o o
It was after midnight when four men cautiously ap- proached the old mill. There was no light nor any sign of life within as they crept silently through the doorless doorway. Columbus Blackie was in the lead. He flashed a quick light around the interior revealing four forms stretched upon the floor, deep in slumber. Into the blacker shadows of the far end of the room the man failed to shine his light for the first flash had shown him those whom he sought. Picking out their quarry the intruders made a sudden rush upon the sleepers.
Bridge awoke to find two men attempting to rain murderous blows upon his head. Wiry, strong and full of the vigor of a clean life, he pitted against their greater numbers and cowardly attack a defense which was infinitely more strenuous than they had expected.
Columbus Blackie leaped for The Oskaloosa Kid, while The Sky Pilot seized upon Abigail Prim. No one paid any attention to Giova, nor, with the noise and con- fusion, did the intruders note the sudden clanking of a chain from out the black depths of the room’s further end, or the splintering of a half decayed studding.
Soup Face entangling himself about Bridge’s legs suc- ceeded in throwing the latter to the floor while Dirty Eddie kicked viciously at the prostrate man’s head. The Sky Pilot seized Abigail Prim about the waist and dragged her toward the doorway and though the girl fought valiantly to free herself her lesser muscles were unable to cope successfully with those of the man. Co- lumbus Blackie found his hands full with The Oskaloosa Kid. Again and again the youth struck him in the face; but the man persisted, beating down the slim hands and striking viciously at body and head until, at last, the boy, half stunned though still struggling, was dragged from the room.
Simultaneously a series of frightful growls reverber- ated through the deserted mill. A huge body cata- pulted into the midst of the fighters. Abigail Prim screamed. “The bear!” she cried. “The bear is loose!”
Dirty Eddie was the first to feel the weight of Beppo’s wrath. His foot drawn back to implant a vicious kick in Bridge’s face he paused at the girl’s scream and at the same moment a huge thing reared up before him. Just for an instant he sensed the terrifying presence of some frightful creature, caught the reflected gleam of two savage eyes and felt the hot breath from distended jaws upon his cheek, then Beppo swung a single terrific blow which caught the man upon the side of the head to spin him across the floor and drop him in a crumpled heap against the wall, with a fractured skull. Dirty Eddie was out. Soup Face, giving voice to a scream more bestial than human, rose to his feet and fled in the oppo- site direction.
Beppo paused and looked about. He discovered Bridge lying upon the floor and sniffed at him. The man lay perfectly quiet. He had heard that often times a bear will not molest a creature which it thinks dead. Be that as it may Beppo chanced at that moment to glance toward the doorway. There, silhouetted against the lesser darkness without, he saw the figures of Co- lumbus Blackie and The Oskaloosa Kid and with a growl he charged them. The two were but a few paces outside the doorway when the full weight of the great bear struck Columbus Blackie between the shoulders. Down went the man and as he fell he released his hold upon the youth who immediately turned and ran for the road.
The momentum of the bear carried him past the body of his intended victim who, frightened but uninjured, scrambled to his feet and dashed toward the rear of the mill in the direction of the woods and distant swamp. Beppo, recovering from his charge, wheeled in time to catch a glimpse of his quarry after whom he made with all the awkwardness that was his birthright and with the speed of a race horse.
Columbus Blackie, casting a terrified glance rear- ward, saw his Nemesis flashing toward him, and dodged around a large tree. Again Beppo shot past the man while the latter, now shrieking for help, raced madly in a new direction.
Bridge had arisen and come out of the mill. He called aloud for The Oskaloosa Kid. Giova answered him from a small tree. “Climb!” she cried. “Climb a tree! Ever’one climb a small tree. Beppo he go mad. He keel ever’one. Run! Climb! He keel me. Beppo he got evil-eye.”
Along the road from the north came a large touring car, swinging from side to side in its speed. Its brilliant headlights illuminated the road far ahead. They picked out The Sky Pilot and Abigail Prim, they found The Oskaloosa Kid climbing a barbed wire fence and then with complaining brakes the car came to a sudden stop. Six men leaped from the machine and rounded up the three they had seen. Another came running toward them. It was Soup Face, so thoroughly terrified that he would gladly have embraced a policeman in uniform, could the latter have offered him protection.
A boy accompanied the newcomers. “There he is!” he screamed, pointing at The Oskaloosa Kid. “There he is! And you’ve got Miss Prim, too, and when do I get the reward?”
“Shut up!” said one of the men.
“Watch this bunch,” said Burton to one of his lieuten- ants, “while we go after the rest of them. There are some over by the mill. I can hear them.”
From the woods came a fearfilled scream mingled with the savage growls of a beast.
“It’s the bear,” shrilled Willie Case, and ran toward the automobile.
Bridge ran forward to meet Burton. “Get that girl and the kid into your machine and beat it!” he cried. “There’s a bear loose here, a regular devil of a bear. You can’t do a thing unless you have rifles. Have you?”
“Who are you?” asked the detective.
“He’s one of the gang,” yelled Willie Case from the fancied security of the tonneau. “Seize him!” He wanted to add: “My men”; but somehow his nerve failed him at the last moment; however he had the satisfaction of thinking it.
Bridge was placed in the car with Abigail Prim, The Oskaloosa Kid, Soup Face and The Sky Pilot. Burton sent the driver back to assist in guarding them; then he with the remaining three, two of whom were armed with rifles, advanced toward the mill. Beyond it they heard the growling of the bear at a little distance in the wood; but the man no longer made any outcry. From a tree Giova warned them back.
“Come down!” commanded Burton, and sent her back to the car.
The driver turned his spot light upon the wood be- yond the mill and presently there came slowly forward into its rays the lumbering bulk of a large bear. The light bewildered him and he paused, growling. His left shoulder was partially exposed.
“Aim for his chest, on the left side,” whispered Bur- ton. The two men raised their rifles. There were two re- ports in close succession. Beppo fell forward without a sound and then rolled over on his side. Giova covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
“He ver’ bad, ugly bear,” she said brokenly; “but he all I have to love.”
Bridge extended a hand and patted her bowed head. In the eyes of The Oskaloosa Kid there glistened some- thing perilously similar to tears.
In the woods back of the mill Burton and his men found the mangled remains of Columbus Blackie, and when they searched the interior of the structure they brought forth the unconscious Dirty Eddie. As the car already was taxed to the limit of its carrying capacity Burton left two of his men to march The Kid and Bridge to the Payson jail, taking the others with him to Oak- dale. He was also partially influenced in this decision by the fear that mob violence would be done the principals by Oakdale’s outraged citizens. At Payson he stopped long enough at the town jail to arrange for the reception of the two prisoners, to notify the coroner of the death of Columbus Blackie and the whereabouts of his body and to place Dirty Eddie in the hospital. He then tele- phoned Jonas Prim that his daughter was safe and would be returned to him in less than an hour.
By the time Bridge and The Oskaloosa Kid reached Payson the town was in an uproar. A threatening crowd met them a block from the jail; but Burton’s men were armed with rifles which they succeeded in convincing the mob they would use if their prisoners were molested. The telephone, however, had carried the word to Oak- dale; so that before Burton arrived there a dozen auto- mobile loads of indignant citizens were racing south to- ward Payson.
Bridge and The Oskaloosa Kid were hustled into the single cell of the Payson jail. A bench ran along two sides of the room. A single barred window let out upon the yard behind the structure. The floor was littered with papers, and a single electric light bulb relieved the gloom of the unsavory place.
The Oskaloosa Kid sank, trembling, upon one of the hard benches. Bridge rolled a cigaret. At his feet lay a copy of that day’s Oakdale Tribune. A face looked up from the printed page into his eyes. He stooped and took up the paper. The entire front page was devoted to the various crimes which had turned peaceful Oakdale inside out in the past twenty four hours. There were reproductions of photographs of John Baggs, Reginald Paynter, Abigail Prim, Jonas Prim, and his wife, with a large cut of the Prim mansion, a star marking the bou- doir of the missing daughter of the house. As Bridge examined the various pictures an odd expression en- tered his eyes–it was a mixture of puzzlement, incredu- lity, and relief. Tossing the paper aside he turned to- ward The Oskaloosa Kid. They could hear the sullen murmur of the crowd in front of the jail.
“If they get any booze,” he said, “they’ll take us out of here and string us up. If you’ve got anything to say that would tend to convince them that you did not kill Paynter I advise you to call the guard and tell the truth, for if the mob gets us they might hang us first and listen afterward–a mob is not a nice thing. Beppo was an angel of mercy by comparison with one.”
“Could you convince them that you had no part in any of these crimes?” asked the boy. “I know that you didn’t; but could you prove it to a mob?”
“No,” said Bridge. “A mob is not open to reason. If they get us I shall hang, unless someone happens to think of the stake.”
The boy shuddered.
“Will you tell the truth?” asked the man.
“I will go with you,” replied the boy, “and take what- ever you get.”
“Why?” asked Bridge.
The youth flushed; but did not reply, for there came from without a sudden augmentation of the murmur- ings of the mob. Automobile horns screamed out upon the night. The two heard the chugging of motors, the sound of brakes and the greetings of new arrivals. The reinforcements had arrived from Oakdale.
A guard came to the grating of the cell door. “The bunch from Oakdale has come,” he said. “If I was you I’d say my prayers. Old man Baggs is dead. No one never had no use for him while he was alive, but the whole county’s het up now over his death. They’re bound to get you, an’ while I didn’t count ’em all I seen about a score o’ ropes. They mean business.”
Bridge turned toward the boy. “Tell the truth,” he said. “Tell this man.”
The youth shook his head. “I have killed no one,” said he. “That is the truth. Neither have you; but if they are going to murder you they can murder me too, for you stuck to me when you didn’t have to; and I am go- ing to stick to you, and there is some excuse for me be- cause I have a reason–the best reason in the world.”
“What is it?” asked Bridge.
The Oskaloosa Kid shook his head, and once more he flushed.
“Well,” said the guard, with a shrug of his shoulders, “it’s up to you guys. If you want to hang, why hang and be damned. We’ll do the best we can ’cause it’s our duty to protect you; but I guess at that hangin’s too good fer you, an’ we ain’t a-goin’ to get shot keepin’ you from get- tin’ it.”
“Thanks,” said Bridge.
The uproar in front of the jail had risen in volume until it was difficult for those within to make themselves heard without shouting. The Kid sat upon his bench and buried his face in his hands. Bridge rolled another smoke. The sound of a shot came from the front room of the jail, immediately followed by a roar of rage from the mob and a deafening hammering upon the jail door. A moment later this turned to the heavy booming of a battering ram and the splintering of wood. The frail structure quivered beneath the onslaught.
The prisoners could hear the voices of the guards and the jailer raised in an attempt to reason with the unreasoning mob, and then came a final crash and the stamping of many feet upon the floor of the outer room.
Burton’s car drew up before the doorway of the Prim home in Oakdale. The great detective alighted and handed down the missing Abigail. Then be directed that the other prisoners be taken to the county jail.
Jonas Prim and his wife awaited Abigail’s return in the spacious living room at the left of the reception hall. The banker was nervous. He paced to and fro the length of the room. Mrs. Prim fanned herself vigorously although the heat was far from excessive. They heard the motor draw up in front of the house; but they did not venture into the reception hall or out upon the porch, though for different reasons. Mrs. Prim because it would not have been PROPER; Jonas because he could not trust himself to meet his daughter, whom he had thought lost, in the presence of a possible crowd which might have accompanied her home.
They heard the closing of an automobile door and the sound of foot steps coming up the concrete walk. The Prim butler was already waiting at the doorway with the doors swung wide to receive the prodigal daughter of the house of Prim. A slender figure with bowed head ascended the steps, guided and assisted by the detective. She did not look up at the expectant but- ler waiting for the greeting he was sure Abigail would have for him; but passed on into the reception hall.
“Your father and Mrs. Prim are in the living room,” announced the butler, stepping forward to draw aside the heavy hangings.
The girl, followed by Burton, entered the brightly lighted room.
“I am very glad, Mr. Prim,” said the latter, “to be able to return Miss Prim to you so quickly and un- harmed.”
The girl looked up into the face of Jonas Prim. The man voiced an exclamation of surprise and annoyance. Mrs. Prim gasped and sank upon a sofa. The girl stood motionless, her eyes once again bent upon the floor.
“What’s the matter?” asked Burton. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything is wrong, Mr. Burton,” Jonas Prim’s voice was crisp and cold. “This is not my daughter.”
Burton looked his surprise and discomfiture. He turned upon the girl.
“What do you mean–” he started; but she interrupted him.
“You are going to ask what I mean by posing as Miss Prim,” she said. “I have never said that I was Miss Prim. You took the word of an ignorant little farmer’s boy and I did not deny it when I found that you intended bring- ing me to Mr. Prim, for I wanted to see him. I wanted to ask him to help me. I have never met him, or his daughter either; but my father and Mr. Prim have been friends for many years.
“I am Hettie Penning,” she continued, addressing Jonas Prim. “My father has always admired you and from what he has told me I knew that you would listen to me and do what you could for me. I could not bear to think of going to the jail in Payson, for Payson is my home. Everybody would have known me. It would have killed my father. Then I wanted to come myself and tell you, after reading the reports and insinuations in the paper, that your daughter was not with Reginald Payn- ter when he was killed. She had no knowledge of the crime and as far as I know may not have yet. I have not seen her and do not know where she is; but I was present when Mr. Paynter was killed. I have known him for years and have often driven with him. He stopped me yesterday afternoon on the street in Payson and talked with me. He was sitting in a car in front of the bank. After we had talked a few minutes two men came out of the bank. Mr. Paynter introduced them to me. He said they were driving out into the country to look at a piece of property–a farm somewhere north of Oakdale –and that on the way back they were going to stop at The Crossroads Inn for dinner. He asked me if I wouldn’t like to come along–he kind of dared me to, because, as you know, The Crossroads has rather a bad reputation.
“Father had gone to Toledo on business, and very foolishly I took his dare. Everything went all right un- til after we left The Inn, although one of the men–his companion referred to him once or twice as The Oska- loosa Kid–attempted to be too familiar with me. Mr. Paynter prevented him on each occasion, and they had words over me; but after we left the inn, where they had all drunk a great deal, this man renewed his atten- tions and Mr. Paynter struck him. Both of them were drunk. After that it all happened so quickly that I could scarcely follow it. The man called Oskaloosa Kid drew a revolver but did not fire, instead he seized Mr. Paynter by the coat and whirled him around and then he struck him an awful blow behind the ear with the butt of the weapon.
“After that the other two men seemed quite sobered. They discussed what would be the best thing to do and at last decided to throw Mr. Paynter’s body out of the machine, for it was quite evident that he was dead. First they rifled his pockets, and joked as they did it, one of them saying that they weren’t getting as much as they had planned on; but that a little was better than noth- ing. They took his watch, jewelry, and a large roll of bills. We passed around the east side of Oakdale and came back into the Toledo road. A little way out of town they turned the machine around and ran back for about half a mile; then they turned about a second time. I don’t know why they did this. They threw the body out while the machine was moving rapidly; but I was so frightened that I can’t say whether it was before or after they turned about the second time.
“In front of the old Squibbs place they shot at me and threw me out; but the bullet missed me. I have not seen them since and do not know where they went. I am ready and willing to aid in their conviction; but, please Mr. Prim, won’t you keep me from being sent back to Payson or to jail. I have done nothing criminal and I won’t run away.”
“How about the robbery of Miss Prim’s room and the murder of Old Man Baggs?” asked Burton. “Did they pull both of those off before they killed Paynter or af- ter?”
“They had nothing to do with either unless they did them after they threw me out of the car, which must have been long after midnight,” replied the girl.
“And the rest of the gang, those that were arrested with you,” continued the detective, “how about them? All angels, I suppose.”
“There was only Bridge and the boy they called The Oskaloosa Kid, though he isn’t the same one that mur- dered poor Mr. Paynter, and the Gypsy girl, Giova, that were with me. The others were tramps who came into the old mill and attacked us while we were asleep. I don’t know who they were. The girl could have had nothing to do with any of the crimes. We came upon her this morning burying her father in the woods back of the Squibbs’ place. The man died of epilepsy last night. Bridge and the boy were taking refuge from the storm at the Squibbs place when I was thrown from the car. They heard the shot and came to my rescue. I am sure they had nothing to do with–with–” she hesi- tated.
“Tell the truth,” commanded Burton. “It will go hard with you if you don’t. What made you hesitate? You know something about those two–now out with it.”
“The boy robbed Mr. Prim’s home–I saw some of the money and jewelry–but Bridge was not with him. They just happened to meet by accident during the storm and came to the Squibbs place together. They were kind to me, and I hate to tell anything that would get the boy in trouble. That is the reason I hesitated. He seemed such a nice boy! It is hard to believe that he is a criminal, and Bridge was always so considerate. He looks like a tramp; but he talks and acts like a gentle- man.”
The telephone bell rang briskly, and a moment later the butler stepped into the room to say that Mr. Burton was wanted on the wire. He returned to the living room in two or three minutes.
“That clears up some of it,” he said as be entered. “The sheriff just had a message from the chief at Toledo saying that The Oskaloosa Kid is dying in a hospital there following an automobile accident. He knew he was done for and sent for the police. When they came he told them he had killed a man by the name of Paynter at Oakdale last night and the chief called up to ask what we knew about it. The Kid confessed to clear his pal who was only slightly injured in the smash-up. His story corroborates Miss Penning’s in every detail, he also said that after killing Paynter he had shot a girl witness and thrown her from the car to prevent her squealing.”
Once again the telephone bell rang, long and insist- ently. The butler almost ran into the room. “Payson wants you, sir,” he cried to Burton, “in a hurry, sir, it’s a matter of life and death, sir!”
Burton sprang to the phone. When he left it he only stopped at the doorway of the living room long enough to call in: “A mob has the two prisoners at Payson and are about to lynch them, and, my God, they’re innocent. We all know now who killed Paynter and I have known since morning who murdered Baggs, and it wasn’t either of those men; but they’ve found Miss Prim’s jew- elry on the fellow called Bridge and they’ve gone crazy–they say he murdered her and the young one did for Paynter. I’m going to Payson,” and dashed from the house.
“Wait,” cried Jonas Prim, “I’m going with you,” and without waiting to find a hat he ran quickly after the de- tective. Once in the car he leaned forward urging the driver to greater speed.
“God in heaven!” he almost cried, “the fools are go- ing to kill the only man who can tell me anything about Abigail.”
o o o
With oaths and threats the mob, brainless and heart- less, cowardly, bestial, filled with the lust for blood, pushed and jammed into the narrow corridor before the cell door where the two prisoners awaited their fate. The single guard was brushed away. A dozen men wielding three railroad ties battered upon the grat- ing of the door, swinging the ties far back and then in unison bringing them heavily forward against the puny iron.
Bridge spoke to them once. “What are you going to do with us?” he asked.
“We’re goin’ to hang you higher ‘n’ Haman, you damned kidnappers an’ murderers,” yelled a man in the crowd.
“Why don’t you give us a chance?” asked Bridge in an even tone, unaltered by fear or excitement. “You’ve nothing on us. As a matter of fact we are both inno- cent–“
“Oh, shut your damned mouth,” interrupted another of the crowd.
Bridge shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the youth who stood very white but very straight in a far corner of the cell. The man noticed the bulging pock- ets of the ill fitting coat; and, for the first time that night, his heart stood still in the face of fear; but not for himself.
He crossed to the youth’s side and put his arm around the slender figure. “There’s no use arguing with them,” he said. “They’ve made up their minds, or what they think are minds, that we’re guilty; but principally they’re out for a sensation. They want to see something die, and we’re it. I doubt if anything could stop them now; they’d think we’d cheated them if we suddenly proved beyond doubt that we were innocent.”
The boy pressed close to the man. “God help me to be brave,” he said, “as brave as you are. We’ll go together, Bridge, and on the other side you’ll learn something that’ll surprise you. I believe there is ‘another side,’ don’t you, Bridge?”
“I’ve never thought much about it,” said Bridge; “but at a time like this I rather hope so–I’d like to come back and haunt this bunch of rat brained rubes.”
His arm slipped down the other’s coat and his hand passed quickly behind the boy from one side to the other; then the door gave and the leaders of the mob were upon them. A gawky farmer seized the boy and struck him cruelly across the mouth. It was Jeb Case.
“You beast!” cried Bridge. “Can’t you see that that– that’s–only a child? If I don’t live long enough to give you yours here, I’ll come back and haunt you to your grave.”
“Eh?” ejaculated Jeb Case; but his sallow face turned white, and after that he was less rough with his prisoner.
The two were dragged roughly from the jail. The great crowd which had now gathered fought to get a close view of them, to get hold of them, to strike them, to revile them; but the leaders kept the others back lest all be robbed of the treat which they had planned. Through town they haled them and out along the road toward Oakdale. There was some talk of taking them to the scene of Paynter’s supposed murder; but wiser heads counselled against it lest the sheriff come with a posse of deputies and spoil their fun.
Beneath a great tree they halted them, and two ropes were thrown over a stout branch. One of the leaders started to search them; and when he drew his hands out of Bridge’s side pockets his eyes went wide, and he gave a cry of elation which drew excited inquiries from all sides.
“By gum!” he cried, “I reckon we ain’t made no mis- take here, boys. Look ahere!” and he displayed two handsful of money and jewelry.
“Thet’s Abbie Prim’s stuff,” cried one.
The boy beside Bridge turned wide eyes upon the man. “Where did you get it?” he cried. “Oh, Bridge, why did you do it? Now they will kill you,” and he turned to the crowd. “Oh, please listen to me,” he begged. “He didn’t steal those things. Nobody stole them. They are mine. They have always belonged to me. He took them out of my pocket at the jail because he thought that I had stolen them and he wanted to take the guilt upon himself; but they were not stolen, I tell you–they are mine! they are mine! they are mine!”
Another new expression came into Bridge’s eyes as he listened to the boy’s words; but he only shook his head. It was too late, and Bridge knew it.
Men were adjusting ropes about their necks. “Be- fore you hang us,” said Bridge quietly, “would you mind explaining just what we’re being hanged for–it’s sort of comforting to know, you see.”
“Thet’s right,” spoke up one of the crowd. “Thet’s fair. We want to do things fair and square. Tell ’em the charges, an’ then ask ’em ef they got anything to say afore they’re hung.”
This appealed to the crowd–the last statements of the doomed men might add another thrill to the eve- ning’s entertainment.
“Well,” said the man who had searched them. “There might o’ been some doubts about you before, but they aint none now. You’re bein’ hung fer abductin’ of an’ most likely murderin’ Miss Abigail Prim.”
The boy screamed and tried to interrupt; but Jeb Case placed a heavy and soiled hand over his mouth. The spokesman continued. “This slicker admitted he was The Oskaloosa Kid, ‘n’ thet he robbed a house an’ shot a man las’ night; ‘n’ they ain’t no tellin’ what more he’s ben up to. He tole Jeb Case’s Willie ’bout it; an’ bragged on it, by gum. ‘Nenny way we know Paynter and Abi- gail Prim was last seed with this here Oskaloosa Kid, durn him.”
“Thanks,” said Bridge politely, “and now may I make my final statement before going to meet my maker?”
“Go on,” growled the man.
“You won’t interrupt me?”
“Naw, go on.”
“All right! You damn fools have made up your minds to hang us. I doubt if anything I can say to you will alter your determination for the reason that if all the brains in this crowd were collected in one individual he still wouldn’t have enough with which to weigh the most obvious evidence intelligently, but I shall present the evidence, and you can tell some intelligent people about it tomorrow.
“In the first place it is impossible that I murdered Abi- gail Prim, and in the second place my companion is not The Oskaloosa Kid and was not with Mr. Paynter last night. The reason I could not have murdered Miss Prim is because Miss Prim is not dead. These jewels were not stolen from Miss Prim, she took them herself from her own home. This boy whom you are about to hang is not a boy at all–it is Miss Prim, herself. I guessed her secret a few minutes ago and was convinced when she cried that the jewels and money were her own. I don’t know why she wishes to conceal her identity; but I can’t stand by and see her lynched without trying to save her.”
The crowd scoffed in incredulity. “There are some women here,” said Bridge. “Turn her over to them. They’ll tell you, at least that she is not a man.”
Some voices were raised in protest, saying that it was a ruse to escape, while others urged that the women take the youth. Jeb Case stepped toward the subject of dispute. “I’ll settle it durned quick,” he announced and reached forth to seize the slim figure. With a sud- den wrench Bridge tore himself loose from his captors and leaped toward the farmer, his right flew straight out from the shoulder and Jeb Case went down with a broken jaw. Almost simultaneously a car sped around a curve from the north and stopped suddenly in rear of the mob. Two men leaped out and shouldered their way through. One was the detective, Burton; the other was Jonas Prim.
“Where are they?” cried the latter. “God help you if you’ve killed either of them, for one of them must know what became of Abigail.”
He pushed his way up until he faced the prisoners. The Oskaloosa Kid gave him a single look of surprise and then sprang toward him with outstretched arms.
“Oh, daddy, daddy!” she cried, “don’t let them kill him.”
The crowd melted away from the immediate vicinity of the prisoners. None seemed anxious to appear in the forefront as a possible leader of a mob that had so nearly lynched the only daughter of Jonas Prim. Bur- ton slipped the noose from about the girl’s neck and then turned toward her companion. In the light from the automobile lamps the man’s face was distinctly visi- ble to the detective for the first time that night, and as Burton looked upon it he stepped back with an ex- clamation of surprise.
“You?” he almost shouted. “Gad, man! where have you been? Your father’s spent twenty thousand dollars trying to find you.”
Bridge shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dick,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s too late. The open road’s gotten into my blood, and there’s only one thing that–well–” he shook his head and smiled ruefully–“but there ain’t a chance.” His eyes travelled to the slim figure sitting so straight in the rear seat of Jonas Prim’s car.
Suddenly the little head turned in his direction. “Hurry, Bridge,” admonished The Oskaloosa Kid, “you’re coming home with us.”
The man stepped toward the car, shaking his head. “Oh, no, Miss Prim,” he said, “I can’t do that. Here’s your ‘swag.'” And he smiled as he passed over her jewels and money.
Mr. Prim’s eyes widened; he looked suspiciously at Bridge. Abigail laughed merrily. “I stole them myself, Dad,” she explained, “and then Mr. Bridge took them from me in the jail to make the mob think he had stolen them and not I– he didn’t know then that I was a girl, did you?”
“It was in the jail that I first guessed; but I didn’t quite realize who you were until you said that the jewels were yours–then I knew. The picture in the paper gave me the first inkling that you were a girl, for you looked so much like the one of Miss Prim. Then I commenced to recall little things, until I wondered that I hadn’t known from the first that you were a girl; but you made a bully boy!” and they both laughed. “And now good-by, and may God bless you!” His voice trembled ever so little, and he extended his hand. The girl drew back.
“I want you to come with us,” she said. “I want Father to know you and to know how you have cared for me. Wont you come–for me?”
“I couldn’t refuse, if you put it that way,” replied Bridge; and he climbed into the car. As the machine started off a boy leaped to the running-board.
“Hey!” he yelled, “where’s my reward? I want my re- ward. I’m Willie Case.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Bridge. “I gave your reward to your father–maybe he’ll split it with you. Go ask him.” And the car moved off.
“You see,” said Burton, with a wry smile, “how simple is the detective’s job. Willie is a natural-born detective. He got everything wrong from A to Izzard, yet if it hadn’t been for Willie we might not have cleared up the mystery so soon.”
“It isn’t all cleared up yet,” said Jonas Prim. “Who murdered Baggs?”
“Two yeggs known as Dopey Charlie and the Gen- eral,” replied Burton. “They are in the jail at Oakdale; but they don’t know yet that I know they are guilty. They think they are being held merely as suspects in the case of your daughter’s disappearance, whereas I have known since morning that they were implicated in the killing of Baggs; for after I got them in the car I went behind the bushes where we discovered them and dug up everything that was missing from Baggs’ house, as nearly as is known–currency, gold and bonds.”
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Prim.
On the trip back to Oakdale, Abigail Prim cuddled in the back seat beside her father, told him all that she could think to tell of Bridge and his goodness to her.
“But the man didn’t know you were a girl,” suggested Mr. Prim.
“There were two other girls with us, both very pretty,” replied Abigail, “and he was as courteous and kindly to them as a man could be to a woman. I don’t care any- thing about his clothes, Daddy; Bridge is a gentleman born and raised–anyone could tell it after half an hour with him.”
Bridge sat on the front seat with the driver and one of Burton’s men, while Burton, sitting in the back seat next to the girl, could not but overhear her conversa- tion.
“You are right,” he said. “Bridge, as you call him, is a gentleman. He comes of one of the finest families of Vir- ginia and one of the wealthiest. You need have no hesitancy, Mr. Prim, in inviting him into your home.”
For a while the three sat in silence; and then Jonas Prim turned to his daughter. “Gail,” he said, “before we get home I wish you’d tell me why you did this thing. I think you’d rather tell me before we see Mrs. P.”
“It was Sam Benham, Daddy,” whispered the girl. “I couldn’t marry him. I’d rather die, and so I ran away. I was going to be a tramp; but I had no idea a tramp’s existence was so adventurous. You won’t make me marry him, Daddy, will you? I wouldn’t be happy, Daddy.”
“I should say not, Gail; you can be an old maid all your life if you want to.”
“But I don’t want to–I only want to choose my own husband,” replied Abigail.
Mrs. Prim met them all in the living-room. At sight of Abigail in the ill-fitting man’s clothing she raised her hands in holy horror; but she couldn’t see Bridge at all, until Burton found an opportunity to draw her to one side and whisper something in her ear, after which she was graciousness personified to the dusky Bridge, in- sisting that he spend a fortnight with them to recuper- ate.
Between them, Burton and Jonas Prim fitted Bridge out as he had not been dressed in years, and with the feel of fresh linen and pressed clothing, even if ill fitting, a sensation of comfort and ease pervaded him which the man would not have thought possible from such a source an hour before.
He smiled ruefully as Burton looked him over. “I ven- ture to say,” he drawled, “that there are other things in the world besides the open road.”
Burton smiled.
It was midnight when the Prims and their guests arose from the table. Hettie Penning was with them, and ev- eryone present had been sworn to secrecy about her share in the tragedy of the previous night. On the mor- row she would return to Payson and no one there the wiser; but first she had Burton send to the jail for Giova, who was being held as a witness, and Giova promised to come and work for the Pennings.
At last Bridge stole a few minutes alone with Abi- gail, or, to be more strictly a truthful historian, Abigail outgeneraled the others of the company and drew Bridge out upon the veranda.
“Tell me,” demanded the girl, “why you were so kind to me when you thought me a worthless little scamp of a boy who had robbed some one’s home.”
“I couldn’t have told you a few hours ago,” said Bridge. “I used to wonder myself why I should feel toward a boy as I felt toward you,–it was inexplicable,–and then when I knew that you were a girl, I understood, for I knew that I loved you and had loved you from the mo- ment that we met there in the dark and the rain be- side the Road to Anywhere.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?” murmured the girl, and she had other things in her heart to murmur; but a man’s lips smothered hers as Bridge gathered her into his arms and strained her to him.