Dorothy's Triumph Part 17

"Why, yes," Jim returned; "Old Ephraim, our darkey, woke us up in the night to hear some mournful noises which he said came from somewhere down the mountainside. We listened and heard someone crying out at intervals for help. But having no fire-arms, and not knowing whether it was a drunken man or a lunatic, we were afraid to venture very far away from camp."

"What time was this?"

"Must have been in the neighborhood of two o'clock."

The sheriff shot a questioning glance at Mr. Haley.

"It was Len; no doubt about it," said that worthy, nodding. "He's only a kid and I s'pose he got scared when he found himself alone in the dark."

"You don't know which way he was going at that time?" asked the sheriff, turning again to the boys.

"It would be hard to say. At one time the cries seemed to be nearer, then got farther, and finally ceased altogether. We all heard them, including the ladies, and none of us went back to bed until everything was quiet."

"Let's see," said the sheriff; "I didn't quite catch your names."

"Mine's Jim Barlow. This is Gerald Blank. We're members of a camping party from Baltimore. We arrived in the mountains yesterday morning for a two weeks' stay."

"Blank?" repeated the sheriff. "Blank? Any relation to Blank, the broker?"

"He's my father," said Gerald.

"That so? Then I'm right glad to meet you." The sheriff extended a h.o.r.n.y hand, which Gerald shook. "I knew him years ago. Didn't realize he had a boy as old as you. Well, we must be getting on. Sorry you can't give us a clue to the boy's whereabouts."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I AM SHERIFF OF THIS COUNTY."

"_Dorothy's Triumph._"]

"It is too bad," said Gerald. "When we last heard the cries they came from about that direction," and he extended his finger down the mountainside. "Then they grew fainter and seemed to be moving off to the east. We'd like very much to help you, sheriff. If we'd any idea it was only a boy, and a scapegoat, at that, we could have caught and held him until your arrival."

"Well, I could hardly expect that," returned the minion of the law, with a good-natured smile. "Come, Haley, let's be off. He can't have gone far between midnight and now, so we're apt to overhaul him at some of the farm houses up the valley. Good-by, boys--see you later!"

The men tipped their hats to the ladies out of courtesy for their presence, and rode away.

"Hope they don't see us later," said Jim, as he stood with Gerald gazing after their receding forms.

"No; for he might catch us at an inopportune moment. If they ever found Len in our camp there'd be the very d.i.c.kens to pay."

"Couldn't do anything to us, Gerald, and I don't believe he'd have any right to take Len, unless there's some papers filed in the court of this county, appointing James Haley his guardian. Just merely because he's an orphan don't give a man a right to take him and hold him against his will--even if he is his uncle."

"Boys, I really must congratulate you on your presence of mind," said Dorothy, when the riders had disappeared from view. "You handled the matter perfectly. Wait till I tell Ephraim to let Len come out from under cover," and she left them to enter the tent.

Len was nearly roasted when he emerged from beneath the quilt, for the weather was excessively warm and his clothes were not as thin as they might have been. But he was smiling bravely through the perspiration, and rejoiced with the others that he had been so lucky as to escape being returned to captivity.

"I don't understand how my uncle ever influenced the sheriff to help him hunt for me," he said. "I know Sheriff Dundon, and he's a mighty good man. He knows very well the way I was treated, so Uncle James must have pulled the wool over his eyes some way. Well, I reckon it don't matter much now. They're gone and I hope they'll never come back."

"It won't do to take any chances, yet, Len," said Aunt Betty. "You'll have to spend most of your time in the tent, with someone constantly on watch outside. It will be pretty hard on you, but better than going back to the life you left."

"I don't mind in the least, Mrs. Calvert--staying in the tent, I mean. I'd do anything to escape my uncle. He's certainly the meanest man on earth."

Aunt Betty's plan was followed during the next few days, but neither Sheriff Dundon or James Haley put in a further appearance at the camp. Aunt Betty cautioned Len, however, to keep out of sight until the end of the trip, at which time he was to be piled into the big auto and taken with them back to Baltimore.

The party had been in the mountains a week before Jim and Gerald decided to put into practice their oft-repeated resolve to go fis.h.i.+ng. Dorothy and Molly begged to be taken along, and to this the boys reluctantly consented.

The trout stream in the valley was the objective point of the pilgrimage. Here, in the spot where Molly had discovered the fish swimming about in plain view of those on sh.o.r.e, they would try their luck.

Aurora, interested in a book, refused to be tempted by the other girls, and stated her intention of remaining in camp with Aunt Betty, Ephraim and Len.

With a bundle of sandwiches and their tackle, the fis.h.i.+ng party got away from camp in the early morning, planning to spend the better part of the day in enticing the denizens of the deep to nibble at their flies. Then the return to camp could be made in the cool of the evening between sundown and dark.

By nine o'clock they were seated on the bank of the stream, poles in hand, and lines cast far out into the stream.

At first the girls kept up an incessant chatter, in spite of the warning from Jim and Gerald that if they did not stop they would scare the fish away.

"Nonsense!" cried Molly, laughing aloud at the warning. "Fish can't hear."

At this Jim and Gerald exchanged glances of amused tolerance.

"Told you we should have left 'em at home," said the latter.

"I knew it," Jim replied. "It was only through the kindness of my heart that I agreed to let them come."

This statement only served to amuse Dorothy and Molly, and their laughter rang out over the water so loudly, that Jim and Gerald, with sighs of resignation, began winding in their lines with the evident intention of departing.

At first this increased the merriment of the girls. But when they saw the boys taking their poles apart, and stowing the sections away in their fis.h.i.+ng bags, they realized that they had really incurred the displeasure of their young friends by what they had intended as a joke.

"Come," said Dorothy, soberly. "You boys are not going home?"

"Oh, aren't we?" demanded Gerald.

"Yes; we're going home," Jim said, rather curtly. "Where did you think we were going--to the village?"

"Oh, come! You must have known Molly and I were only joking?"

"Of course, they knew it," Molly chimed in, in a careless tone.

"There's such a thing as carrying a joke too far," said Gerald.

"No use to argue with a couple of girls, Gerald," said Jim. "Let's take 'em home and come back to-morrow."

"Suits me," responded his chum. "I hate to think we've had this long jaunt for nothing, but there's an old saying to the effect that we must learn by experience."

Their poles "knocked down," and stowed away in their canvas cases, the boys picked up their coats and prepared to move.

"Oh, I say, this is a shame!" cried Dorothy. "I had counted on having such a good time."

"So had I," echoed Molly--"such a good time!"

"So had we," said the boys in unison.

"But we didn't," Jim added.