Jan and Her Job Part 52

Meg had been down to the village and discovered that Hugo and Tony had gone by bus to the junction in time for the 10.23.

Peter was playing golf with Squire Walcote on a little course he had made in some of his fields. It was impossible to go and hunt for Peter without giving away the whole situation, and Jan was loth to do that.

She and Meg stared at one another in dismayed impotence.

Jan ordered the pony-carriage; she would drive to the junction, leaving a note for Peter at "The Green Hart," but it was only too likely he would lunch with the Walcotes.

"You must eat something," said Meg. "There's a train in at a quarter to two; you'd better meet that before you go to the junction; the guard might be able to tell you something."

At lunch little Fay wept because there was no Tony.

CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH SEVERAL PEOPLE SPEAK THEIR MINDS

"After all, you know," Meg said, with intent to comfort, "no great harm can happen to Tony. Hugo will only take the child a little way off, to see what he can get out of you."

"It's the moral harm to Tony that I mind," Jan answered sadly. "He was getting so happy and trustful, so much more like other children. I know his father has got him to go away by some ruse, and he will be miserable and embittered because he has been cheated again."

"Shall you drive to the junction if you hear nothing at the station?"

"Yes, I think so, though I've little hope of learning anything there.

You see, people come there from three directions. They couldn't possibly notice everybody as they do at a little station like this."

"Wait," said Meg, "don't go to the junction. Have you forgotten Mr.

Ledgard was to fetch us all at half-past two? He'll run you over in his car in a quarter the time you'd take to go with Placid, and be some use as well. You'd better come straight back here if you get no news, and I'll keep him till you get back if he turns up first."

By this time the pony-cart was at the door. Meg helped Jan in, kissed her, and whispered, "Cheer up; I feel somehow you'll hear something,"

and Jan drove off. She found a boy to hold the pony when she reached the station, and went in. The old porter was waiting for the train, and she asked if he happened to notice her little nephew that morning.

"Yes, miss, I did see 'un along with a holder gentleman unbeknownst to me."

Jan walked up and down in an agony of doubt and apprehension.

The train came in. There were but few pa.s.sengers, and among them was Miles, come down again for the week-end.

He greeted Jan with effusion. Had she come to meet anyone, or was it a parcel?

To his astonishment Miss Ross broke from him and rushed at the guard right up at the far end of the train.

The guard evidently disclaimed all knowledge of the parcel, for Miles saw him shaking his head vigorously.

"Any other luggage, sir?" asked the old porter, lifting out Miles'

suit-case.

"Yes, a box of rods in the van."

The old porter went to the end of the train near where Jan had been to the guard three minutes before.

He opened the van door and nearly tumbled backward in astonishment, for right in the doorway, blinking at the light, stood "Miss Ra.s.s' young gen'leman."

"Well, I am blessed!" exclaimed the porter, and lifted him out.

Tony was dreadfully dirty. The heat, the dust, the tears he had shed when he woke up with the putting in of luggage at the junction and couldn't understand what had happened to him, all combined to make him about the most miserable-looking and disreputable small boy you could imagine. He had left his hat behind the milk-cans.

Jan had gone out of the station. She had pa.s.sed Miles blindly, and her face caused that young man to whistle softly, just once. Then he dashed after her.

"Your haunt bin askin' for you," the old porter said to Tony. "'Peared to me she was a bit worried-like."

Tony moved stiffly down the little station, the old porter following with Miles' luggage on a truck.

The ticket-collector stood in the doorway. Tony, of course, had none.

"Don't you say nothin'," whispered the old porter. "'Is haunt'll make it good; there's some sort of a misteree."

Tony felt queer and giddy. Jan, already in her little pony-trap, had started to drive away. Miles, waiting for his baggage beside his uncle's car, saw the dejected little figure appear in the station entrance.

He let fly a real barrack-square bellow after Jan, and she pulled up.

She looked back and saw the reason for Captain Middleton's amazing roar.

She swung the indignant Placid round, and in two minutes she was out of the pony-trap and had Tony in her strong arms.

Miles tipped the porter and drove off. He, too, realised that there was some sort of a "misteree," something painful and unpleasant for Miss Ross, and that she would probably prefer that no questions were asked.

Whatever mischief could that young Tony have been after? And dared Miles call at Wren's End that evening, in the hope of a glimpse of Meg, or would it look inquisitive and ill-bred?

Placid turned a mild, inquiring head to discover the reason for this new delay.

When Jan, after paying Tony's fare back from the junction, had driven away, the old porter, the ticket-collector, and the station-master sat in conclave on the situation. And their unanimous conclusion was summed up by the old porter: "Byes be a mishtiful set of young varmints, an' it warn't no job for a lone 'ooman to 'ave to bring 'em up."

The lone woman in question held her reins in one hand and her other arm very tightly round the dirty little boy on the seat beside her.

As they drove through the village neither of them spoke, but when they reached the Wren's End Road, Tony burst into tears.

"I _am_ so hungry," he wailed, "and I feel so nasty in my inside."

As Meg was putting him to bed that night she inquired if he had done anything with his green jersey, for she couldn't find it.

"No," Tony answered. "I haven't had it for a long time--it's been too warm."

"It's very odd," said Meg. "It has disappeared, and so have two vests of little Fay's that I put in the nursery ottoman to mend. Where can they be? I hate to lose things; it seems so untidy."

"I 'spect," said Tony, thoughtfully, "my Daddie took them. He'd never leave without takin somefin."