 Is this the station, Grandpa Jim?" inquired a young girl, as the train began to slow up. I think so, Mary Louise, replied the handsome old gentleman, addressed. It doesn't look very promising, does it?" she continued, glancing eagerly out of the window. The station? No, my dear, but the station isn't crags-crossing, you know. It is merely the nearest railway point to our new home. The conductor opened their drawing-room door. The next stop is Chargrove, Colonel, he said. Thank you. The porter came for their hand baggage, and a moment later the long train stopped and the vestibule steps were let down. If you will refer to the timetable of the D, R, and G railway, you will find that the station of Chargrove is marked with a character dagger, meaning that trains stop there only to let off passengers, or, when properly signaled, to let them on. Mary Louise, during the journey, had noted this fact with misgivings that were by no means relieved when she stepped from the sumptuous train, and found before her merely a shed-like structure, open on all sides that served as station-house. Colonel Hathaway and his grand-daughters stood silently upon the platform of this shed, their luggage beside them, and watched their trunks tumbled out of the baggage-car ahead, and the trains start, gather speed, and go rumbling on its way. Then the girl looked around her to discover that the primitive station was really the only barren spot in the landscape. For this was no western prairie country, but one of the oldest-settled and most prosperous sections of a great state that had been one of the original thirteen, to be represented by a star on our national banner. Chargrove might not be much of a railway station, as it was only eleven miles from a big city, but the country around it was exceedingly beautiful. Great oaks and maples stood here and there, some in groups and some in stately solitude. The land was well fenced and carefully cultivated, roads, smooth or ruddy, led in every direction, flocks and herds were abundant, hidden by hills or splendid groves peeped the roofs of comfortable farmhouses that evidenced the general prosperity of the community. Uncle Eben is late, isn't he, Grandpa Jim? asked the girl, as her eyes wandered over the pretty peaceful scene. Colonel Hathaway consulted his watch. Our train was exactly on time, he remarked, which is more than can be said for old Eben, but I think, Mary Louise, I now see an automobile coming along the road. If I am right, we have not long to wait. He proved to be right, for presently a small touring car came bumping across the tracks and halted at the end of the platform on which they stood. It was driven by an old colored man whose hair was snow-white, but who sprang from his seat with the agility of a boy when Mary Louise rushed forward with words of greeting. My, Uncle Eben, but it's good to see you again, she exclaimed, taking both his dusky hands in her own and shaking them cordially. How is Aunt Polly, and how is your rheumatix? It's done gone for good, Mary Louise, he said, his round-faced all smiles. Just show I'm one prosperous country for health. Nobody's sick but the invalids, and they just imagine stay sick, that's all. Glad to see you, Uncle, said the Colonel, a little late, eh, as usual, but perhaps you had a tire change. No sir, Colonel, no tire change. I was just trying to hurray along that lazy Joe Brennan who's done coming for the trunks. Joe Brennan is coming, then. That's right, Colonel. He's coming. Done stopped before daylight into Lumbawagon, but when I done catch up with that Joe, a mile and a half away he won't listen to no reason. So I dodged on ahead to tell youans that Joe's on the way. How far is it from here to Crack's Crossing, then? inquired Mary Louise. They call it Ten Miles, replied her grandfather, but I imagine it's nearer twelve. And this is the nearest railway station? Yes, the nearest. But usually the crossing folks who own motor-cars drive to the city to take the trains. We alighted here because in our own case it was more convenient and pleasant than running into the city and out again, and it will save us time. We be home and half an hour most likely, added Uncle Ebbon, as he placed the suitcases and satchels in the car. Colonel Hathaway and Mary Louise followed and took their seats. Is it safe to leave our trunks here? asked the girl. Undoubtedly, replied her grandfather, Joe Brennan will doubtless arrive before long, and really there is no person around to steal them. I have an idea I shall like this part of the country, said Mary Louise musingly as they drove away. Unconfident you will, my dear. Is Crack's Crossing as beautiful as this? I think it more beautiful. And how did you happen to find it, Grandpa Jim? It seems as isolated as can be. A friend and I were taking a motor-trip and lost our way. A farmer told us that if we went to Crack's Crossing we would find a good road to our destination. We went there, following the man's directions, and encountered beastly roads, but found a perfect gem of a tiny, antiquated town which seems to have been forgotten or overlooked by map-makers, automobile guides, and tourists. My friend had difficulty in getting me away from the town, I was so charmed with it. Before I left I had discovered, by dint of patient inquiry, a furnished house to let. And you know, of course, that I promptly secured the place for the summer. That's the whole story, Mary Louise. It is interesting, she remarked. As a result of your famous discovery you sent down Uncle Ebbon and Aunt Polly with our car, and a lot of truck you thought we might need, and now, when all is ready, you and I have come to take possession. Rather neatly arranged, I think, declared the Colonel with satisfaction. Do you know anything about the history of the place, Grandpa, or of the people who live in your tiny forgotten town? Nothing whatever. I imagine there are folks in Crack's Crossing who have never been a dozen miles away from it since they were born. The village boasts a hotel, the funniest little inn you can imagine, where we had an excellent home-cooked meal, and there is one store in a blacksmith's shop, one church, and one schoolhouse. These with half a dozen ancient and curiously assorted residences constitute the shy and retiring town of Crack's Crossing. Ah! I think we have found Joe Brennan. Uncle Ebbon drew up beside a rickety wagon drawn by two sorry nags, who just now were engaging in cropping grass from the roadside. On the seat, Half reclined a young man who was industriously eating an apple. He wore a blue-checked shirt open at the throat, overalls, suspenders, and a straw hat that had weathered many seasons of sunshine and rain. His feet were encased in heavy boots, and his bronzed face betoken an out-of-door life. There are a million countrymen in the United States just like Joe Brennan in outward appearance. Joe did not stop munching. He merely stared as the automobile stopped beside him. Say, you, Joe, shouted Uncle Ebbon indignantly, what for you done setting here? Reston, said Joe Brennan, taking another bite from his apple. Ain't you going to get them trunks home today? Demanded the old darkie. Joe seemed to consider this question carefully before he ventured to commit himself. Then he looked at Colonel Hathaway and said, What I want to know, boss, is whether I'm hired by the hour or by the day. Didn't Uncle Ebbon tell you? No, he didn't. He just said to go and get the trunks, and he'd give me a dollar for the trip. Well, that seems to settle the question, doesn't it? Not quite, boss. I'd be thinking it over on the way, and a dollar's too pesky cheap for this trip. Sometimes I get twenty-five cents an hour for hauling things, and this looks to me like a day's work. If you made good time, said Colonel Hathaway, you might do it easily in four hours. Joe shook his head. Not me, sir, he replied, I ain't got the Constitution for it, and them hausses won't trot lest I lick them, and if I lick them I'm guilty of cruelty to animals, including myself. No, boss, the job's too cheap, so I guess I'll give it up and go home. But you're nearly at the station now, protested the Colonel. I know, but it's half a mile further, and the hausses is tired. I guess I'll go home. Oh, Grandpa, whispered Mary Louise, it'll never do to leave our trunks lying there by the railroad tracks. The Colonel eyed Joe thoughtfully. If you were hired by the day, said he, I suppose you would do a day's work. I'd have to, admitted Joe. That's why I asked you about it. Just now it looks to me like I ain't hired at all. The black man said he'd give me a dollar for the trunks. That's all. How much do you charge a day? asked the Colonel. A dollar and a quarter's my regular price, and I won't take no less, asserted Joe. Mary Louise nearly laughed outright, but the Colonel frowned and said, Joe Brennan, you've got me at your mercy. I'm going to hire you by the day, at a dollar and a quarter. And as your time now belongs to me, I request you go at once for those trunks. You will find them just beyond the station. The man's face brightened. He tossed away the core of his apple and jerked the reins to make the horses hold up their heads. A bargain's a bargain, boss, he remarked cheerfully. So I'll get them their trunks to your house if it takes till midnight. Very good, said the Colonel. Drive on, Uncle. The old servant started the motor. That's what I call's downright robbery, Colonel, he exclaimed, highly incensed. Didn't I ask the storekeeper what to pay Joe Brennan for bringing over them trunks, and didn't he say a dollar is big pay for such like a trip? If we's gone to live in this town, where they don't understand city prices and the high cost of living yet, we got to hold them down and keep them from speculating with us, or else we'll spoil them for the time when we's done gone away. Very true, Uncle. Has Joe a competitor? Uncle Evan reflected. If he has, Colonel, I ain't seen it, he presently replied. But I guess all he's got is that lumber-wagon. Mary Louise had enjoyed the controversy immensely, and was relieved by the promise of the trunks by midnight. For the first time in her life the young orphaned girl was to play housekeeper for her grandfather, and surely one of her duties was to see that the baggage was safely deposited in their new home. This unknown home, in an unknown town, had an intense fascination for her just now. Her father had been rather reticent in his description of the house he had rented at Cragg's Crossing, merely asserting it was a pretty place, and ought to make them a comfortable home for the summer. Nor had the girl questioned him very closely, for she loved to discover things and be surprised, whether pleasurably or not did not greatly interfere with the thrill. The motor took them speedily along a winding way to Cragg's Crossing, a toy town that caused Mary Louise to draw a long breath of delight at first sight. The crossing of two country roads had probably resulted, as some far back period, in farmers building their residences on the four corners so as to be neighborly. Farm hands or others built little dwellings adjoining, not many of them, though, and some unambitious or misdirected merchant erected a big-framed store, and sold groceries, dry goods, and other necessities of life not only to the community at the crossing, but to neighboring farmers. Then someone started the little hotel, mainly to feed the farmers who came to the store to trade, or the drummers who visited it to sell goods. A church and a schoolhouse naturally followed in course of time, and then, as if its destiny were fulfilled, the sleepy little town, ten miles from the nearest railway, gradually settled into the comatose state in which Colonel Hathaway and his granddaughter now found it. CHAPTER II The tiny town, however, was not all that belonged to the crack's crossing settlement. Barely a quarter of a mile away from the village, a stream with beautifully wooded banks ran diagonally through the countryside. It was called a river by the natives, but it was more of a creek, halfway between a small rivulet and a brook, perhaps. But its banks afforded desirable places for summer residences, several of which had been built by well-to-do families, either retired farmers or city people who wished for a cool and quiet place in which to pass the summer months. These residences, all having ample grounds and facing the creek on either side, were sufficiently scattered to be secluded, and it was to one of the most imposing of these that Uncle Ebbon guided the automobile. He crossed the creek on a primitive but substantial bridge, turned to the right, and the first driveway led to the house that was to be Mary Louise's temporary home. "'This is lovely,' exclaimed the girl, as they rolled up a winding drive edged by trees and shrubbery, and finally drew up before the entrance of a low and rambling but quite modern house. There was Aunt Polly, her round black face, all smiles, standing on the veranda to greet them, and Mary Louise sprang from the car first to hug the old servant, Uncle Ebbon's spouse, and then to run in to investigate the establishment, which seemed much finer than she had dared to imagine it. The main building was of two stories, but the wings, several of which jutted out in various directions, were one story in height, somewhat on the bungalow plan. There was a good-sized stable and connection, now used as a garage, and down among the oaks toward the river an open pavilion had been built. All the open spaces were filled with flowers and ferns, in beds and borders, and graveled paths led here and there in a very enticing way. But the house was now the chief fascination, and the other details Mary Louise gleaned by sundry glances from open windows as she rambled from room to room. At luncheon, which Aunt Polly served as soon as her young mistress could be coaxed from her tour of inspection, the girl said, Grandpa Jim, who owns this place? A Mrs. Jocelyn, he replied. A young woman? I believe so. It was built by her mother, a Mrs. Kenton, some fifteen years ago, and is still called the Kenton Place. Mrs. Kenton died, and her daughter, who married a city man named Jocelyn, has used it as a summer home until this year. I think Mrs. Jocelyn is a woman of considerable means. The furnishings prove that, said Mary Louise, they're not all in the best of taste, but they are plentiful and meant to be luxurious. Why does it Mrs. Jocelyn occupy her home this summer? And why, if she is wealthy, does she rent the place? Those are problems I am unable to solve, my dear, replied the Colonel with a smile. When old man Craig, who is the nearest approach to a real estate agent in the village, told me the place was for rent, I inquired the price and contracted to lease it for the summer. That satisfied me, Mary Louise, but if you wish to inquire into the history and antecedents of the Kenton and Jocelyn families, I have no doubt there are plenty of village gossips who can fill your ears full of it. There is one thing I found out, sir, remarked Uncle Evan, who always served at table and was not too diffident to join in the conversation of his bedders at times. This Jocelyn man done disappear, he run away, or dig out somehow, and he misses his most plum crazy about it. When did that happen? asked Mary Louise. About Christmas time, Dostoekeeper say. Nobody don't like him down here, because he put on a extraordinary amount of heirs, and didn't mix with the town people know-how. Dostoekeeper tinks Massa Jocelyn and crooked like, and done squander a lot at his wife's money before he went. Perhaps, said Mary Louise musingly, that is why the poor woman is glad to rent this house. I wish, however, we had gotten it for a more pleasant reason. Don't pay attention to Ebbon's chatter, my dear, advised her grandfather. His authority seems to be the ancient storekeeper, whom I saw but once and didn't fancy. He looks like an old owl in those big, horn-drimmed spectacles. That Stokekeeper, he ain't no owl, Colonel, asserted Uncle Evan earnestly. He done know all day is to know round his diggings and a lot moe, too. An owl is a mighty wise bud, Colonel, if I do say it, and no disrespect. So what that Stokekeeper say I is bound to take notice of? Mary Louise spent the afternoon in examining her new possession and getting settled. For wonder of wonders, Joe Brennan arrived with the trunks at three o'clock, some nine hours before the limit of midnight. The Colonel, as he paid the man, congratulated him on making such good time. Yes, drawed Joe, I'd done pretty well, considering. But if I hadn't hired out by the day I'd sure been a loser. I've been a good ten hours going for them trunks, for I started at five this morning. So if I'd taken a dollar for the job I'd only made ten cents an hour, my price being twenty-five. But as it is, he added with pride, I get my regular rate of a dollar and a quarter a day. Proving that it pays to drive a bargain, commented the Colonel. Mary Louise unpacked Grandpa Jim's trunk first and put his room in apple pie order, as Aunt Polly admiringly asserted. Then she settled her own pretty room, held a conference with her servants about the meals and supplies, and found it was then time to dress for dinner. She was not yet old enough to find household duties abhor, so the afternoon had been delightfully spent. Early after breakfast the next morning, however, Mary Louise started out to explore the grounds of her domain. The day was full of sunshine and the air laden with fragrance of flowers, a typical May morning. Grandpa Jim would, of course, read for an hour or two and smoke his pipe. He drew a chair upon the broad veranda for this very purpose, but the girl had the true pioneer spirit of discovery and wanted to know exactly what her five acres contained. The water was doubtless the prime attraction in such a neighborhood. Mary Louise made straight for the river bank and found the shallow stream, here scarcely fifty feet in width, rippling over its stony bed, which was a full fifty feet wider than the volume of water then required. When the spring freshets were on perhaps the stream reached its banks, but in the summer months it was usually subdued as now. The banks were four feet or more above the rabble of stones below, and close to the bank, facing the river on her side, Mrs. Kenton had built a pretty pavilion with ample seats and room for half a dozen wicker chairs and a table, where one could sit and overlook the water. Mary Louise fervently blessed the old lady for this idea and at once seated herself in the pavilion while she examined at leisure the scene spread out before her. These hid all the neighboring residences but one. Just across the river and not far from its banks stood a small, weather-beaten cottage that was in sharp contrast with the rather imposing Kenton residence opposite. It was not well kept, nor even picturesque. The grounds were unattractive. A woodpile stood in the front yard, the steps leading to the little porch had rotted away, and had been replaced by a plank, rather unsafe unless one climbed it carefully, Mary Louise thought. There were time-worn shades to the windows but no curtains. A pane of glass had been broken in the dormer window when replaced by a folded newspaper tacked over it. Beside the porch door stood a wash-tub on edge, a few scraggly-looking chickens wandered through the yard. If not in a boat of poverty it was surely a place where careless indifference to either beauty or the comfort of orderly living prevailed. So much Mary Louise had observed, wondering why Mrs. Kenton had not bought the cottage and torn it down, since it was a blot on the surrounding landscape, when she saw the door open and a man come out. She gave a little gasp of astonishment as her eyes followed this man, who slowly took the path to the bridge, from whence the road led into the village. CHAPTER III Her first glance told the girl that here was a distinctly unusual personage. His very appearance was quaint enough to excite comment from a stranger. It must have been a way back in the revolutionary days when men daily wore coats cut in this fashion, straight across the waistline in front, and with two long tails flapping behind. Modern dress-coats were much like it, to be sure, but this was of a faded, blue-bottle color, and had brass buttons and a frayed velvet collar on it. His trousers were tight-fitting below the knee, and he wore gaiters and a wide-brim silk hat that rivaled his own age, and doubtless had seen happier days. Mary Louise couldn't see all these details from her seat in the pavilion across the river, but she was near enough to observe the general effect of the old man's antiquated costume, and it amazed her. Yes, he was old, nearly as ancient as his apparel, the girl decided, but although he moved with slow deliberation his gait was not feeble by any means. With hands clasped behind him and head slightly bowed as if in meditation he paced the length of the well-worn path, reached the bridge, and disappeared down the road toward the village. That, said a voice beside her, is the poo-ba of Crag's crossing. It is Old Crag himself. Grandpa Jim was leaning against the outer breast of the pavilion book in hand. You startled me, she said, but no more than that queer old man did. Was the village named after him, Grandpa? I suppose so, or after his father perhaps, for the place seems even older than Old Crag. He has an office and a bare little room over the store, and I rented this place from him. For his former fortunes may have been, and I imagine that Crag's once owned all the land about here, Old Hezekiah seems reduced to a bare existence. Perhaps, suggested Mary Louise, he inherited those clothes with the land from his father. Isn't it an absurd costume, Grandpa Jim? And in these days of advanced civilization, too. Of course Old Hezekiah Crag is not strong mentally, or he would refuse to make a laughing-stock of himself in that way. Old Hathaway stared across the river for a time without answering. Then he said, I do not think the natives here laugh at him, although I remember they called him Old Swallow-Tale when I was directed to him as the only resident real estate agent. I found the old man quite shrewd in driving a bargain and thoroughly posted on all the affairs of the community. However, he is not a gossip but inclined to be taciturn. There is a fathomless look in his eyes and he is cold and unresponsive. Every life breeds strange characteristics in some people. The whimsical dress and mannerisms of old Mr. Crag would not be tolerated in the cities, while here they seem regarded with unconcern because they have become familiar. I was rather pleased with his personality because he is the Crag of Crag's crossing. How much of the original plot of land he still owns I don't know. Why, he lives in that hobble, said the girl. So it seems, although he may have been merely calling there. He fits the place, she declared. It's old and worn and neglected, just as he and his clothes are. I'd be sorry indeed to discover that Mr. Crag lives anywhere else. The Colonel, his finger between the leaves of the book he held to mark the place where he was reading, nodded somewhat absently and started to turn away. Then he paused to ask, anxiously, Does this place please you, my dear? Ever so much grandpa Jim, she replied with enthusiasm, leaning from her seat inside the pavilion to press a kiss upon his bare-gray head. I've had a sense of separation from all the world, yet it seems good to be hidden away in this forgotten nook. Perhaps I wouldn't like it for always, you know, but for a summer it is simply delightful. We can rest, and rest, and rest, and be as cozy as can be. Again the old gentleman nodded, smiling at the girl this time. They were good chums, these two, and what pleased one usually pleased the other. Colonel Hathaway had endured a sad experience recently, and his handsome old face still bore the marks of past mental suffering. His only daughter, Beatrice Burroughs, who was the mother of Mary Louise, had been indirectly responsible for the Colonel's troubles, but her death had lifted the burden. Her little orphaned girl, to whom no blame could be attached, was very dear to grandpa Jim's heart. Indeed she was all he now had to love and care for, and he continually planned to promote her happiness and to educate her to become a noble woman. Fortunately he had saved considerable money from the remains of an immense estate he had once possessed, and so was able to do anything for his grandchild that he desired. In New York and elsewhere Colonel James Hathaway had a host of influential friends, but he was shy of meeting them since his late unpleasant experience. Mary Louise, for her part, was devotedly attached to her grandfather, and preferred his society to that of any other person. As the erect form of the old gentleman sauntered away through the trees, she looked after him affectionately, and wagged her little head with hearty approval. "'This is just the place for grandpa Jim,' she mused. "'There is no one to bother him with questions or sympathy, and he can live as quietly as he likes, and read those stuffy old books. The very name Classics makes me shudder to his heart's content. He'll grow stronger and happier here, I'm sure.' Then she turned anew to revel in the constantly shifting view of river and woodland that extended panoramically from her seat in the pavilion. As her eyes fell on the old cottage opposite, she was surprised to see a dishpan sail through the open window, to fall with a clatter of broken dishes on the hard ground of the yard. A couple of dish towels followed, and then a broom and a scrubbing brush, all tossed out in an angry energetic way that scattered them in every direction. Then on the porch appeared the form of a small girl, poorly dressed in a shabby gingham gown, who danced up and down for a moment as if mad with rage, and then, observing the wash-tub, gave it a kick which sent it rolling off the porch to join the other utensils on the ground. Next, the small girl looked around at her as if seeking more inanimate things upon which to vent her anger. But finding none she dashed into the cottage and soon reappeared with a much worn straw hat, which she jammed on her flaxen head, and then, with a determined air, walked down the plank and marched up the path toward the bridge, the same direction that old Craig had taken a short time before. Mary Louise gave a gasp of amazement. The scene had been dramatic and exciting while it lasted, and it needed no explanation whatever. The child had plainly rebelled at enforced treachery and was going, where? Mary Louise sprang lightly from her seat and ran through the grounds to their entrance. When she got to the road she sped along until she came to the bridge, reaching one end of it just as the girl started to cross from the opposite end. Then she stopped, and in a moment the two met. Where are you going? asked Mary Louise, laying a hand on the child's arm as she attempted to pass her. None of your business, was the curt reply. Oh, it is, indeed, said Mary Louise, panting a little from her run. I saw you throw things a minute ago, so I guess you mean to run away. The girl turned and stared at her. I don't know you, she said. Never saw you before. Where'd you come from, anyway? Why, my grandfather and I have taken the Kenton House for the summer, so weird to be your neighbors. Of course you know we must get acquainted. You can be neighbors to my grandad, if you like, but not to me. Not by a ginger cookie. I'd done with this place for good and all, I have, and if you ever see me here again my name ain't Ingwa Scamble. Here, let's sit down on the bridge and talk it over, proposed Mary Louise. There's plenty of time for you to run away, if you think you'd better. Is Mr. Craig your grandfather, then? Yes. Old Swallowtail it is. Old Humbug is what I call him. Not to his face, do you? I ain't so foolish. He's got a grip on him like a lobster, and when he's mad at me he grips my arm and twists it till a holler. When grandad's around you bet I have to knuckle down or I get's the worst of it. So he's cruel, is he? Uh-huh. That is, he's cruel when I riles him, as I've got to happen to do him. When things run smooth grandad ain't so bad, but I ain't going to stand that slave life no longer I ain't. I've quit for good. Wherever you go, said Mary Louise gently, you will have to work for someone. Someone perhaps who treats you worse than your grandfather does. No one else is obliged to care for you any way, so perhaps you're not making a wise change. I ain't, eh? Perhaps not. Have you any other relatives to go to? No. Or any money? Not a red cent. Then you'll have to hire out as a servant. You're not big enough or strong enough to do much, so you'll search a long time before you find work, and that means being hungry and without shelter. I know more of the world than you do, Ingla. What an odd name you have, and I honestly think you are making the mistake to run away from your own grandfather. The girl stared into the water and fell in silence for a time. Mary Louise got a good look at her now, and saw that her freckled face might be pretty if it were not so thin and drawn. The hands lying on her lap were red and calloused with housework, and the child's whole appearance indicated neglect, from the broken down shoes to the soiled and tattered dress. She seemed to be reflecting, for after a while she gave a short, bitter laugh at the recollection of her late exhibition of temper and said, It's too late to back down now. I've busted the dishes and smashed things generally. That is bad, said Mary Louise, but it might be worse. Mr. Crag can buy more dishes. Oh, he can, can he. Where's the money to come from? Is he poor? He ain't got no money, if that's what you mean. That's what he says, anyhow. Says it were a godsend you folks rented that house of him, because it'll keep us in cornbread and pork for six months if we're careful. Being careful means that he'll eat the pork and I'll get a chunk of cornbread now and then. Dear me, exclaimed Mary Louise, in a distressed voice, don't you get enough to eat? Oh, I managed it somehow, declared Ingoa, with indifference. I've been swiping one egg a day for weeks and weeks. Granddad says he'll trim me good and plenty if he catches me eating eggs, because all that our chickens lay he takes down to the store and sells. But he ate home daytimes to count what eggs is laid, and so I watch as out and grabs one a day. He's mighty cute, I tell you, granddad is, but he ain't cute enough to catch me at the eggs-wiping. Mary Louise was greatly shocked. Really she decided something must be done for this poor child. Looking at the matter from Ingoa's report, the smashing of the dishes might prove serious. So she said, Come, dear, let's go together to your house and see if we can't restore the damage. But the girl shook her head. Nothing can mend them busted dishes, she said, and when granddad sees him he'll have a fit. That's why I did it. I wanted to show him I'd had revenge before I quit him cold. He won't be home till night, but I've got to be a long way off before then so he can't catch me. Give it up, said Mary Louise. I've come here to live all summer, Ingoa, and now that we're friends I'm going to help you to get along more comfortably. We will have some splendid times together, you and I, and it will be a good deal better off than wandering among strangers who don't care for you. The girl turned and looked into Mary Louise's face long and earnestly. Her eyes wandered to her neatly arranged hair, to the white collar at her throat, then down to her blue-sourced dress and her dainty shoes. But mostly she looked straight into the eyes of her new friend and found their sincerity and evident goodwill. So she sighed deeply, cast a glance at her own bedraggled attire and said, We ain't much alike us too, but I guess we can be friends. Other girls has come here to the rich people's houses, but they all stuck up their noses at me. You're the first that's ever given me a word. All girls are not alike, you know, responded Mary Louise cheerfully. So now let's go to your house and see what damage has been done. CHAPTER IV The two girls had been sitting on the edge of the bridge, but Mary Louise now rose and took Inglis's arm in her own, leading the reluctant child gently toward the path. It wasn't far to the old cottage, and when they reached the yard Inglis laughed again at the scene of disorder. It's almost a pity Grandad can't see it, she chuckled. He'd be so crazy he'd have them claws of his and round my throat in a jiffy. Mary Louise drew back, startled. Did he ever do that? she asked. Only once, but that time near ended me. It were a long time ago, and he was sorry, I guess, because he bought me a new dress next day and new shoes. I ain't had any sense, she added disconsolently. So the other day I asked him, was it about time, he choked me again. What did he say to that? Just growled at me. Grandad's got an awful temper when he's good and riled, but usual he's still is a mouse. Don't say a word to me for days together sometimes. Once I saw him, she suddenly checked herself and cast an uneasy, side-long glance at her companion. Mary Louise was rolling the wash-tub back to the stoop. The only thing that will bother us, Ingua, she said, is those dishes. Let us try to count the broken ones. Do you know how many there were? Sure I do, answered the girl, removing the battered dish-pan from the heap of crockery. Two plates, two cups and saucers, a oatmeal-dish, a bread-plate, and the pork platter. Gee, what a smash! One cup's whole and the oatmeal-dish. The rest is gone up. I'm going to dig a hole and bury the broken pieces, said Mary Louise. Have you a spade? There's an old shovel, but it won't do no good to bury of them. Granddad, he counts every piece every day. He counts everything, from the grains of salt to the chickens. Say, once I tried to play a trick on him. I got so hungry for meat I just couldn't stand it, so one day I killed a chicken, thinking he wouldn't miss it. My, my, what do you suppose? Say, you never told me your name yet. I am Mary Louise Burroughs. I fly a name, ain't it? Well I killed that chicken and cut it up and fried it, and ate just a leg and a wing, and hid the rest under my bed in the peak up there, where old swallow-tail never goes. All the feathers in the head I buried, and I cleaned up the hatchet and the frying pan, so there wasn't a smidge of anything left to prove I'd murdered one of them chicks. I was feeling kind of turkey when Granddad came home, because I thought he'd never find out. But what did the old villain do but begin to sniff around, and he sniffed and he sniffed until he said, Ingua, what chicken did you kill, and where did you kill it? You're crazy, says I. What are you talking about? Then he gives me one sour look and marches out to count the chickens, and when he comes back, he says, It's the brown pullet with the white on the wings. It were worth 40 cents and 40 cents will buy 10 pounds of oatmeal. Where's the chicken, girl? Ed up, says I. Your lion, says he. Go get it, hustle. Well, I saw his claws beginning to work, and it scared me stiff. So I goes to my room and brings down the chicken, and he eyes it quiet like for a long time. And then eats some for a supper. The rest he locks up in the cupboard that he always cares the key to. Say, Mary Louise, I never got another taste of that chicken as long as it lasted. Old Swallowtail added all himself and took a week to do it. During this recital, the broom and mop and scrubbing brush had been picked up and restored to their proper places. Then the two girls got out the old shovel and buried the broken dishes in a far corner of the yard among the high weeds. Mary Louise tried to get the dents out of the old dish pan, but succeeded only indifferently. It was so battered through long use, however, that Inge thought the jams would not be noticed. Next, said Mary Louise, we must replace the broken pieces. I suppose they sell dishes at the village store, do they not? That's where these come from long ago, replied Inge, but dishes cost money. I have a little money in my purse, enough for that, I'm sure. Will you go to town with me? Inge stared at her as if bewildered. The proposition was wholly beyond her understanding. But she replied to her new friend's question, saying slowly, No, I won't go. Old Swallow-tailed skinned me alive if he caught me in the village. Then I'll go alone, and I'll soon be back, though I must run over to my own house first to get my purse in my hat. Let me have one of the cups for a sample, Inge. She left the child sitting on the plank runway and looking rather solemn and thoughtful. Mary Louise was somewhat fearful that she might run away in her absence, so she hurried home and from there walked into the village, a tramp easily accomplished in ten minutes. The store was the biggest building in town, but not very big at that. It was clapboarded and two storeys in height, the upper floor being used by Saul Jerams, the storekeeper, as a residence, except for two little front rooms which he rented, one to Miss Huckins, the dressmaker and milliner, who slept in aid in her shop, and the other to Mr. Crag. A high platform had been built in front of the store for the convenience of farmer-customers in muddy weather, and there were steps at either end of the platform for the use of pedestrians. When Mary Louise entered the store, which was cluttered with all sorts of goods, not arranged in a very orderly manner, there were several farmers present. But old Saul had his eye on her in an instant and shuffled forward to wait upon her. I want some crockery, please, she said. He looked at the sample cup and led her to a corner of the room, where a jumble of dishes crowded a single shelf. I take it you're one of them new folks at the Kenton Place, he remarked. Yes, said she. I thought there was plenty of dishes in that place, continued Mr. Jerams in a friendly tone, but perhaps you don't want the black folks to eat off in the same things you do yourselves. Mary Louise ignored this speech and selected the dishes she wanted. She had measured the broken platter and found another of the same size. Old Saul wouldn't sell a saucer without a cup, explaining that the two always went together. The cup to hold the stuff and the saucer to drink it out in. Without argument, however, the girl purchased what she wanted. It was heavy, cheapware of the commonest kind, but she dared not substitute anything better for it. Then she went to the grocery counter, and after considering what Ingle might safely hide and eat in secret, she bought a tin of cooked corned beef, another of chipped beef, one of deviled ham, and three tins of sardines. Also she bought a basket to carry her purchases in, and although Old Saul constantly sought to pump her concerning her past life, present history, and future prospects, she managed to evade successfully his thirst for information. No doubt the fellow was a great gossip, as Old Ebbon had declared, but Mary Louise knew better than to cater to this dangerous talent. The proprietor accompanied her to the door, and she drew back, hesitating, as she observed an old man in a bottle-blue swallowtail coat, paced in deliberate, dignified manner along the opposite side of the street. "'Who is that?' she asked, as an excuse for not going out, until Ingle's grandfather had passed from sight. "'That? Why, that's Old Swallowtail, otherwise has a coy crag, one of our most interest in citizens,' replied Saul, glad of the chance to talk. "'Does he own crags-crossing?' asked Mary Louise. "'Mercy, no. He owned a lot of it once, though, but that were for my time. He pulled it out and squandered the money, I guess, for he lives like a rat in a hole. Maybe, though, he's got some hit away. That's what some of the folks here whispers. Folks that's likely to know. But if that's a fact, he's got a streak of miser in him, for he don't spend more than the law allows. He may have lost the money in speculations,' suggested the girl. "'Say, you've hit the nail square on the head,' he exclaimed admiringly. "'Them's my own opinions to a tee. I've told the boys so a hundred times, but they can't get it. Old Swallowtail hand in glove with that slick Mr. Jocelyn, who they say has run away and left his poor wife in the lurch. That's how you got a chance to rent the Kenton house. Jocelyn wore slick as butter and high strung. Wouldn't hobnob with any of us but old Swallowtail, and that's why I think Crag was investing money with him. Jocelyn, he came down here three years ago, having married Annabelle Kenton in the winter, and the way he swelled around wore a caution to snakes. But the poor devil run his rope and lit out. Very skipped to, I don't know. Nobody seems to know, not even his wife. But they say she didn't have enough money left to count, and by the glum looks, the old Swallowtail, I'm guessing he got nipped too. "'How long ago was that?' asked Mary Louise. "'Some time about last Christmas,' they say. "'Anyhow, that's when his wife missed him and set up a hunt that didn't do no good. She came down here with red eyes and tramped around in the snow asking questions. "'But sakes! Ned Jocelyn wouldn't have come out to the old place anyway like this. We didn't ever suit his style, you see. So poor Ann Kenton, whose misfortune made her Mrs. Ned Jocelyn, cried and wailed for a day or two, and then crept back to the city like a whipped dog. Funny how women will care for a worthless, never-do-well chap that happens to be good-looking, ain't it?' Mary Louise nodded rather absently. However distorted the story might be, it was curious what had become of Mr. Jocelyn. But her thoughts reverted to another scheme, and she asked, "'Has it Mr. Craig a granddaughter?' "'Oh, you've seen little Ingle Scammel, have you? There may be just her tell of her. She's the cussestest little coalifier in seven counties. Keeps old Swallowtail guessing all the time, they say, just like her mom, Nan Craig, did it for her. Gosh, what a woman her mom were! She didn't stay round here much, but whenever she ran out of cash and didn't have a square meal coming to her, she camped on old Swallowtail and made him border. Last time she came, she left her youngin'—that's Ingle, you know—and the kids been here ever since. But if a thorn in the side of old Hezekiah we folks think, though he don't never complain. She ain't more than twelve or thirteen year old, that Ingle, but she keeps house for her granddad, what they is to keep which ain't much. I won't let the kid round my store know-how, cause she swipes everything, from dried apples to peanuts, that she can lay her hands on. "'Perhaps she's hungry,' said Mary Louise, defending her new friend. Like enough, that I ain't feedin' starving kids, taint my business. If old Swallowtail don't feed her enough, that's his look I've warned him, if she sets foot in this store I'll charge him ten cents, just for safety, so he keeps her out. He's slick, old Swallowtail is, and silent like a secret gnolly dozen says, but he's got to get up earlier in the morning to get the best of old Saul Jarrams, he or his kid, either one. As Mr. Crag had now vanished from sight up the street, Mary Louise ventured out, and after a brisk walk deposited her basket on the stoop of the Crag cottage, where Ingle West still sat, swinging her feet pensively, as if she had not stirred since Mary Louise had left her. CHAPTER V. of Mary Louise and the Country by L. Frank Baum read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. CHAPTER V. Mary Louise becomes a peacemaker. Here are the dishes exactly like the broken ones, reported Mary Louise, in a jubilant tone, as she set down her heavy basket. Let us go in and wash them, Ingle, and put them away where they belong. The child followed her into the house. All her former pent-up energy seemed to have evaporated. She moved in a dull sort of way that betokened grim resignation. I've been planning for months to make a run for it, she remarked as she washed the new dishes, and Mary Louise wiped them dry, and just when I'd mustered up courage to do the trick, along comes you and queered the whole game. You'll thank me for that some day, Ingle. Aren't you glad even now that you have a home in shelter? I ain't tickled to death about it, a home, with a scornful glance around the room, barren of all comforts, a graveyard, a more cheerful place to my notion. We must try to make it pleasant, her dear. I'm going to get acquainted with Mr. Crag, and coax him to brighten things up some, and buy you some new clothes, and take better care of you. Noah fell back on a stool, fairly choking, twixed in mainsman and derision. You, coaxed old Swallertail, make him spend money on me. Say, if he wasn't a stranger here, Mary Louise, I'd just laugh. But being as how you're a poor innocent, I'll only say there ain't no power on earth can coax Grandad to do anything better than to scowl and box my ears. You don't know him, but I do. Meantime, said Mary Louise, refusing to argue the point, here are some things for you to hide away, and to eat whenever you please. And she took from the basket the canned goods she had brought and set them in an enticing row upon the table. Ingoe stared at the groceries, and then stared at Mary Louise. Her wand, face, flushed, and then grew hard. You bought them for me? She asked. Yes. So you won't have to steal eggs to satisfy your natural hunger. Well, you can take the truck away again. And you better go with it, said the girl indignantly. We may be poor, but we ain't no beggars, and we don't take charity from nobody. But your grandfather will pay our own bills and buy our own fodder. The crags is just as good as your folks, and I'm a crag to the backbone, she said, her eyes glinting angrily. If we want to starve, it's none of your business nor nobody else's. And springing up she seized the tins one by one and sent them flying through the window as she had sent the dishpan and dishes earlier in the morning. Now then, follow your charity and make yourself scarce. And she stamped her foot defiantly at Mary Louise, who is done with astonishment. It was hard to understand this queer girl. She had made no objection to replacing the broken dishes, yet a present of food aroused her to violent anger. Her temper was positively something terrible and so small a person, and remembering her story of how old Swallowtail had clenched his talon-like fingers and twisted Ingwa's arm till she screamed with pain, Mary Louise could well believe the statement that the child was a crag to the backbone. But Mary Louise, although only a few years older than Ingwa, had had a good deal more experience, and was, moreover, a born diplomat. Astonished, though she was, she quickly comprehended the peculiar pride exhibited in a refusal to accept food from a stranger and knew she must sue the girl's outraged spirit of independence if they were to remain friends. I guess I'll have to beg your pardon, Ingwa, she said quietly. I was grieved that you are so often hungry, while I have so much more than I need, and the money which I spent was all my own to do what I liked with. If I were in your place and you in mine, and we were good chums, as I know we're going to be, I'd be glad to have you help me in any little way you could. True friends Ingwa share and share alike, and don't let any foolish pride come between them. She spoke earnestly, with a ring of sincerity in her voice that impressed the other girl. Ingwa's anger had melted as quickly as it had roused, and with sudden impulsiveness she seized Mary Louise's hands in her own and began to cry. I'm as wicked as they make them, she wailed. I know I am, but I can't help it, Mary Louise, it's borne in me. I want to be friends with you, but I won't take your charity if I starve. Not now, anyhow. Here, I'll go get the stuff and put it back in your basket, and then you can lug it home and do what you please with it. They picked up the cans together, Ingwa growing more calm and cheerful every moment. She laughed at Mary Louise's disappointed expression and said, I don't always have tantrums, this is my bad day, but the devils will work out on me by tomorrow and I'll be as sweet as sugar. I'm sorry, but it's the crab blood that sets me crazy at times. Once you run over and see me, asked Mary Louise, preparing to go home. When? This afternoon. Ingwa's sugar-head. I dastard, she said. I've got to hold myself in the rest of the day so as I won't fight with Old Swallowtail when he comes home. Anyhow, I ain't fit to show up around your swell place. That black Coon of yours had turned me out if he saw me coming, thinking I was a tramp. Mary Louise had a bright idea. I'm going to have tea tomorrow afternoon in that summer house across the creek, she said. I will be all alone, and if you will come over and join me, we'll have a nice visit together. Will you, Ingwa? I guess so, was the careless answer. When you're ready, just wave your handkerchief, and if the devils ain't squeezing my gizzard like they is today, I'll be there in a jiffy. CHAPTER VI. AFTERNOON TEA. Mary Louise, who possessed a strong sense of humour, that evening at dinner, told Grandpa Jim of her encounter with old Mr. Craig's granddaughter, and related their interview in so whimsical a manner that Colonel Hathaway laughed aloud more than once. But he also looked serious at times, and when the recital was ended he gravely considered the situation and said, I believe, my dear, you have discovered a mine of human interest here that will keep you occupied all summer. It was most fortunate for the poor child that you interpreted her intent to run away from home, and foiled it so cleverly. From the little girl's report, that grim and dignified grand sire of hers has another and less admirable side to his character, and, unless she grossly exaggerates, has a temper so violent that he may do her mischief some day. I'm afraid of that, too, declared Mary Louise, especially as the child is so provoking, yet I'm sure Ingwa has a sweeter side to her nature if it can be developed, and perhaps old Craig has, too. Do you think, Grandpa Jim, it would be advisable for me to plead with him to treat his orphaned grandchild more considerably? Not at present, my dear. I'll make some inquiries concerning Craig, and when we know more about him we can better judge how best to help Ingwa. Are you sure that is her name? Yes. Isn't it an odd name? Somewhere, said the Colonel musingly, I have heard it before, but just now I cannot recollect where. It seems to me, however, that it was a man's name. Do you think the child's mother is dead? I gathered from what Ingwa and the storekeeper said that she has simply disappeared. An erratic sort of creature from the vague reports you have heard, commented Grandpa Jim. But whatever her antecedents may have been, there is no reason why Ingwa may not be rescued from her dreadful environments and be made to become quite a proper young lady, if not a model one. But that can only result from changing the existing character of her environment rather than taking her out of them. That will be a big risk, Grandpa Jim, and it may prove beyond me, but I'll do the best I can. He smiled. These little attempts to help our fellows, said the Colonel, not only afford us pleasure but render us stronger and braver in facing our own tribulations, which none, however securely placed, seem able to evade. Mary Louise gave him a quick, sympathetic glance. He had surely been brave and strong during his own period of tribulation, and the girl felt she could rely on his aid in whatever sensible philanthropies she might undertake. She was glad, indeed, to have discovered poor Ingwa, for she was too active and of too nervous a temperament to be content simply to rest all summer. Rest was good for Grandpa Jim just now, but rest, pure and simple, with no compensating interest, would soon drive Mary Louise frantic. She conferred with Aunt Polly the next day and told the faithful black servant something of her plans. So when the old cook lugged a huge basket to the pavilion for her in the afternoon and set a small table with snowy linen and bright silver, with an alcohol arrangement for making tea, she said, with an air of mystery, Don't you go and open that basket, Mary Louise, till the time comes for eating. I just want to surprise you. You and that little poor girl who gets hungry so much. So when Aunt Polly had gone back to the house, Mary Louise arranged her table, and then stood up and waved a handkerchief to signal that all was ready. Soon Ingwa appeared in her doorway, hesitated a moment, and then ran down the plank in advance to the river bank, instead of following the path to the bridge. Almost opposite the pavilion, Mary Louise noticed that several stones protruded from the surface of the water. They were not in a line, but placed irregularly. However, Ingwa knew their lie perfectly and was able to step from one to another until she had quickly passed the water. Then she ran up the dry bed of the river to the bank, where steps led to the top. Why, this is fine, exclaimed Mary Louise, meeting her little friend at the steps. I had no idea one could cross the river in that way. Oh, we've known about that always, was the reply. Ned Jocelyn used to come to our house ever so many times by the river stones to talk with old swallertail, and Grad Dan used to come over here to this same summer house and talk with Jocelyn. Mary Louise noticed that the old gingham dress had been washed, ironed, and mended, all in a clumsy manner. Ingwa's blonde hair had also been trained in awkward imitation of the way Mary Louise dressed her own brown lots. The child, observing her critical gaze, exclaimed to the laugh, Yes, I've slicked up some. No one will see me but you, will they? She added suspiciously. No, indeed. We are to be all alone. How do you feel today, Ingwa? The devils are gone. Granddad didn't spish in anything last night and never said a word. He had one of his dreamy fits and wrote letters till long after I went to bed. This morning he said his old Saul Jarems has raised the prize of flour two cents, so I'll have to be careful. But that was all. No rumpus nor anything. That's nice, said Mary Louise, leading her arm in arm to the pavilion. Aren't you glad you didn't run away? Ingwa did not reply. Her eyes, big and round, were taking in every detail of the table. Then they wandered to the big basket, and Mary Louise smiled and said, The table is set as you see, but I don't know what we're going to have to eat. I asked Aunt Polly to put something in the basket, as I was going to have company, and I'm certain there'll be enough for two whatever it's like. You see, this is a sort of surprise party, for we won't know what we've got until we unpack the basket. Ingwa nodded, much interested. You said tea, she remarked, and I ain't tasted tea since Marm left us. But I suppose something goes with tea? Always. Tea means a lunch, you know, and I'm very hungry because I didn't eat much lunch in a noon. I hope you're hungry too, Ingwa, she added, opening the basket and beginning to place its contents upon the table. Ingwa may have considered her reply unnecessary, for she made none. Her eyes were growing bigger every moment, for here were dainty sandwiches, cakes, jelly, a pot of marmalade, and assortment of cold meats, olives, Saratoga chips, and, last of all, a chicken pie still warm from the oven. One of those chicken pies that Aunt Polly could make is no one else ever made them. Even Mary Louise was surprised at the array of eatables. It was a veritable feast. But without comment she made the tea, the water being already boiling, and seating Ingwa opposite her, at the table, she served the child as liberally as she dared, bearing in mind her sensitiveness to charity. But Ingwa considered this a party, where as a guest she was entitled to all the good things, and she ate with a ravenous haste that was pitiful, trying all the while not to show how hungry she was, or how good everything tasted to her. Mary Louise didn't burden her with conversation during the meal, which she prolonged until the child positively could eat no more. Then she drew their chairs to a place where they had the best view of the river in Woodland, with the old crag cottage marring the foreground, and said, Now we will have a good long talk together. Ingwa sighed deeply. Don't we have to do the dishes? she asked. No, Aunt Polly will come for them by and by. All we have to do now is to enjoy your visit, which I hope you will repeat many times while I am living here. Again the child sighed contentedly. I wish she was going to stay always, she remarked. You folks is a sight nicer than that Jocelyn tried. They kept us stirred up a good deal till Ned. She stopped abruptly. What were the Jocelyn's like? inquired Mary Louise, in a casual tone that was meant to mask her curiosity. Well, that's hard to say, answered Ingwa thoughtfully. Miss Kenton were a good lady, and everybody liked her. But after she died, Anne Kenton come down here with a new husband, who were Ned Jocelyn, and then things began to happen. Ned was slick as a band box, and wouldn't hop nod with nobody at first. But one day he got acquainted with Old Swallowtail, and they made up something wonderful. I guess other folks didn't know about their being so close, for they would sly about it generally. They'd meet in this summer house, or they'd meet at our house, crossing the river on the steppin' stones. But when Ned came over to us, Granddad all us sent me out, and said he'd skin me if I listened. But one day— No, I mustn't tell that, she said, checking herself quickly, as a hard look came over her face. Why not, softly asked Mary Louise? Because if I do I'll get killed, that's why, answered the child in a tone of conviction. Something in her manner startled her hearer. Who would kill you, Ingwa? she asked. Granddad would. Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't do that, whatever you said. You don't know Granddad, Mary Louise. He does leave kill me as look at me if I give him calls to. And he has asked you not to talk about Mr. Jocelyn. He told me to keep my mouth shut or eat murder me and stick my body in a hole in the yard, and he'd do it in a minute you can bank on that. Then, said Mary Louise, looking troubled, I advise you not to say anything he has forbidden you to. And if anything ever happens to you while I'm here, I shall tell Grandpa Jim to have Mr. Craig arrested and put in prison. Will you? Will you honest? asked the girl eagerly. Say, that'll help a lot. If I'm killed I know I'll be revenged. So tragic was her manner that Mary Louise could have laughed outright had she not felt there was a really serious foundation for Ingwa's fears. There was something about the silent, cold-featured, mysterious old man that led her to believe he might be guilty of any crime. But after all she reflected she knew Mr. Craig's character only from Ingwa's description of it, and the child feared and hated him. What does your grandfather do in his office all day? She inquired after a long pause. Writes letters and reads the ones he gets, I guess. He don't let me go to his office. Does he get many letters then? Heaps and heaps of them. You ask Jim Bennett who brings the mail bag over from the station every day. Is Jim Bennett the postman? His wife is. Jim lugs the mail between the station and his own house. That's a little white house next to the church. There is his wife, whose deep and dumb runs the post office. I know Jim. He says there's about six letters a year for the farmers round here, and about one a week for Saul Jerams, which is mostly bills, and all the rest belongs to Old Swallowtail. Mary Louise was puzzled. Is he a business then? She asked. Not as anybody knows of. But why does he receive an answer so many letters? You'll have to guess. I've guessed myself, but what's the use? If he was a stingy of postage stamps as he is a pork and oatmeal, he wouldn't send a letter a year. Mary Louise sent it a mystery. Mysteries are delightful things to discover and fascinating to solve. But who would have thought this quiet, retired village harbored a mystery? Does your grandfather ever go away from here? Does he travel much? Was her next question. He ain't never been out of Cragg's Crossing since I've known him. Really? said Mary Louise. It is perplexing. Inguin nodded. She was feeling quite happy after her lunch and had already counted Mary Louise a warm friend. She had never had a friend before, yet here was a girl of nearly her own age who was interested in her and her history and sweetly sympathetic concerning her woes and worries. To such a friend Inguin might confide anything, almost. And while she was not fully aware of that fact just now, she said impulsively, without telling what had cost me my life or letting anybody know what's become a Ned Jocelyn, I'll say they was money, lots of money, passed between him and old Swallowtail. Sometimes the heap went to one and sometimes to the other. I seen it with my own eyes when Grandad didn't know I was spying. But it didn't stick to either one, for Ned was—she stopped short and then continued more slowly. When Ned disappeared, he'd spent all his own and his wife's money, and old Swallowtail ain't got enough to live decent. Are you sure of that, Inguin? No, I ain't sure of nothing, but he don't spend no money, does he? For stamps, Mary Louise reminded her. When the child grew silent and thoughtful again, Mary Louise, watching the changing expressions on her face, was convinced she knew more of the mystery than she dared to confide to her new friend. There was no use trying to force her confidence, however. In her childish way she was both shrewd and stubborn, and any such attempt would be doomed to failure. But after a quite a period of silence, Mary Louise asked gently, Did you like Mr. Jocelyn Ingua? Sometimes, only when— Another self-interruption. She seemed often on the point of saying something her better judgment warned her not to. Sometimes Ned were mighty good to me. Sometimes he brought me candy when things were going good with him. Once Mary Louise he kissed me and never wiped his mouth off afterwards. Yes, I liked Ned, except in when— Another break. I thought Ned was a pretty decent gink. Where did you learn all your slang, dear? What slang? Calling a man a gink in words like that. Oh, ma'am was full of them words, she replied with an air-pride. They seem to suit things better than common words. Don't you think so, Mary Louise? Sometimes, with an indulgent smile. But ladies do not use them, Ingua, because they soil the purity of our language. Well, said the girl, it'll be a long time yet for I'm a lady, so I guess I'll talk like Mom did. I'm more than a real lady to my mind, though she claimed she'd so anybody that said she wasn't. Real ladies don't leave their kids in the clutches of old swallow-tails. Mary Louise did not think it wise to criticise the unknown Mrs. Gamble, or to allow the woman's small daughter to do so. So she changed the subject to a more pleasant and interesting topics, and the afternoon more speedily away. Finally, Ingua jumped up and said, I've got to go. If Grandad don't find supper ready there'll be another rumpus, and I've been so happy to-day that I want to keep things pleasant like. Won't you take the rest of these cakes with you? urged Mary Louise. Nope, I'll eat one more on my way home, but I ate one of them tramps once food pushed at them in a bundle. We ain't got much to home but what we got's ours. A queer sort of mistaken pride, Mary Louise reflected, as she watched the girl spring lightly over the stepping-stones and run up the opposite bank. Evidently, Ingua considered old Mr. Craig her natural guardian, and would accept nothing from others that he failed to provide her with. Yet to judge from her speech she detested her grandfather, and regarded him with unspeakable aversion. CHAPTER VII Mary Louise calls for help. All the queer hints dropped by the girl that afternoon, concerning the relations between Mr. Jocelyn and Mr. Craig, were confided by Mary Louise to her grandpa-jim that evening, while the old Colonel listened with grave interest. I'm sure there's some mystery here, declared Mary Louise, and maybe we are going to discover some dreadful crime. And on the contrary, returned Colonel Hathaway, the two men may have been interested together in some business venture that resulted disastrously, and led Mr. Jocelyn to run away to escape his wife's reproaches. I consider that a more logical solution of your mystery, my dear. In that case, was her quick reply, why is Mr. Craig still writing scores of letters and getting bags fulls of replies? I don't believe that business deal, whatever it was, is ended by any means. I think that Ned Jocelyn and old Swallow-Taylor are still carrying it on, one in hiding and the other here, and to be here is to be in hiding also. And it isn't an honest business, Grandpa Jim, or they wouldn't be so secret about it. The Colonel regarded his young granddaughter with surprise. You seem quite logical in your reasoning, my dear, he addressed, and should your conjectures prove correct, these men are using the mails for illegal purposes, for which crime the law imposes a severe penalty. But consider, Mary Louise, is it our duty to trail criminals and through our investigations bring them to punishment? Mary Louise took time to consider this question, as she had been advised to do, when she replied she had settled the matter firmly in her mind. We are part of the government, Grandpa Jim, she asserted. If we believe the government is being wronged, which means the whole people is being wronged, I think we ought to uphold the law and bring the wrong doer to justice. Allowing that, said her grandfather, let us next consider what grounds you have for your belief that wrong is being committed. Are they not confined to mere suspicions? Suspicions aroused by the chatter of a wild, ungovernable child? Often the amateur detective gets into trouble through accusing the innocent. Law-abiding citizens should not attempt to uncover all the wrongs that exist, or to write them. The United States government employs special officers for such duties. Mary Louise was a bit netled, failing to find, at the moment, any argument to refute this statement. She was still convinced, however, that the mystery was of grave importance and she believed it would be intensely exciting to try to solve it. Grandpa Jim was not acquainted with Ingo Scamble, and had not listened to the girl's unconscious exposures, so naturally he couldn't feel just as Mary Louise did about this matter. She tried to read, as her grandfather, considering the conversation closed, was now doing. They sat together by the lamplight in the cozy sitting-room. But her thoughts constantly reverted to old swallow-tail and to Ingo. At length she laid down her book and said, Grandpa, would you mind if I invited Josie O'Gorman to come here and make me a visit? He gave her a curious look, which soon melted into an amused smile. Not at all, my dear. I like Josie. But I can see by your desire to introduce a female detective on the scene that you cannot abandon your suspicion of Mr. Crag. I want to save Ingo if I can, replied the girl earnestly. The poor little thing can't go on leading such a life without its ruining all her future, even if her grandfather's brutal threats are mere bluff. And Josie isn't a female detective as yet. She is only training to be one, because her father has one fame in that profession. Josie O'Gorman, said the Colonel meditatively, is a wonderfully clever girl. I believe she is better, even now, than a score of average male sleuths. Perhaps it will be a desirable thing for her to come here, for she will be shrewd enough to decide in a short time whether or not your suspicions are justified. In the latter case you will be relieved of your worries. Will you abide by Josie's decision? Will you, Grandpa Jim? I have considerable confidence in the girl's judgment. Then I will write to her at once. She went to her desk and wrote the following note. Dear Josie. We are at the dropping-off place of the world, a stagnant little village of a dozen houses set in an oasis that is surrounded by the desert of civilization. And here, where life scarcely throbs, I have sent in a mystery that has powerfully impressed me and surely needs untangling. It will be good practice for you, Josie, and so I want you to pack up at once and come to us on a good long visit. We are delightfully situated, and even if the mystery dissolves into thin air under the sunshine of your eyes, I know you will enjoy the change and our dreamy happy existence in the wilds of nowhere. Grandpa Jim wants you, too, as he thinks your coming will do me good, and his judgment is never at fault. So drop me a postal to say when you will arrive, and I will meet you at Chargrove Station with our car. Affectionately your friend, Mary Louise Burroughs. Grandpa Jim read this note and approved it, so next morning Mary Louise walked to the village and deposited it in the post office, which was located in the front room of Jim Bennett's little residence, and was delightfully primitive. Jim was just making up the mailbag, he said, so her letter was in time to catch the daily train and would be in Washington, where Josie lived, in the quickest possible time. Josie O'Gorman was about the same age as Mary Louise, and she was the only child of John O'Gorman, famed as one of the cleverest detectives in the Secret Service. Josie was supposed to have inherited some of her father's mind, at least her fond parrot imagined so. After carefully training the child almost from babyhood, O'Gorman had tested Josie's ability on just one occasion when she had amply justified her father's faith in her. This test had thrown the girl into association with Mary Louise and with Colonel Hathaway, both of whom greatly admired her cleverness, her clear head, and shrew judgment. Mary Louise especially had developed a friendship for the embryo girl detective, and had longed to know her more intimately. So she congratulated herself on the happy thought of inviting Josie to Cragg's crossing, and was delighted that the vague mystery surrounding the Cragg family offered an adequate excuse to urge the girl to come to her. There seemed nothing in the way of such a visit, for Officer O'Gorman, however pleased he might be at his daughter's success in her first detective case, declared Josie yet too young to enter active service, and insisted that she acquire further age and experience before he would allow her to enter her chosen profession in earnest. One swallow, he said, doesn't make a summer, and the next bird you fly might prove a buzzard, my dear. Take your time, let your wits mature, and you'll be the better for it in the end. So Mary Louise waited impatiently for Josie's reply, meantime seeing as much of Ingwes she could, and trying to cement the growing friendship between them. Ingwes responded eagerly to her advances, and as old Mr. Cragg was away from home the greater part of the day there was much crossing of the stepping-stones by both girls, and more than one afternoon tea in the pavilion. Do you know, said Ingwes one day in confidential mood, I haven't a devil since that time I started to run away and you stopped me? Perhaps it's because I'm not as hungry as I used to be, but anyhow I'm glad I stayed. Granddad's been good too, though he's got the wakes again. What are the wakes, asked Mary Louise? Can't sleep nights. Goes to bed on time, you know, but gets up again and dresses himself and walks. In the house? No walks out of doors. Sometimes he'll come in just at daylight, sometimes not till breakfast is ready. And doesn't that make him cross, Ingwes? Not a bit. It seems to jerk him up. Yesterday morning, when he came in, he was feeling so chipper he gave me a scent, and told me to buy something useful. I guess that's the first scent he ever gave me. I took the money a-hisen, but he never gave me none of four. Oh, Ingwes, I hope you haven't stolen money. Nope, just took it. It ain't easy, because he knows every scent he's got, and it ain't often he leaves it where I can get it. Perhaps he knows it's me, but when I lie out of it he can't do nothing but growl, and growl and don't hurt any. Mary Louise was greatly distressed. This reckless disregard of property rights was, of course, the direct result of the child's environment, but must be corrected. Ingwes resented direct chiding, and it was necessary to point out to her the wickedness of stealing in the gentlest possible manner. How much money have you taken from your grandfather? She asked. Oh, not much. A nickel now and then. He wouldn't stand for losing any more, you see. Perhaps altogether I've swiped twenty-five cents. But once Ned Jocelyn gave me a dollar, an old swallowtail noted, and made me give it to him to save for me. That were the last I ever saw of that dollar, Mary Louise, so I ain't even with Grandad yet. Do you think, remarked Mary Louise, there is ever any excuse for stealing? The girl stared at her coloring slightly. Do you mean Grandad or me? I mean you. He didn't steal your dollar, dear. He merely took it so you wouldn't spend it foolishly. And I merely took them nickels so as I could spend them foolishly. There's no fun in spending money, seems to me, unless you squander at reckless. That's what I've done with them nickels. Indie and chewing gum tastes better when you know it swiped. Mary Louise sighed. It was so hard to show little Ingua the error of her ways. As for stealing, out and out stealing, continued the girl, with a proud toss of her head, we crags ain't never took nothing that don't belong to us from nobody. What a crag takes from a crag is a crag's business, and when we take something from somebody else I'll ask you to tell me about it. Where are you going, Ingua? Home. You're not offended, I hope. Well, what I got work to do. I ain't done my breakfast dishes yet. Mary Louise musingly watched the girl cross the river. On the opposite bank she turned to wave her hand and then ran into the cottage. Ingua's coat of honour was a peculiar one. Her pride in the crags seemed unaccountable, considering she and her grandfather were the only two of the family in existence, except that wandering mother of hers. But the recent conversation had uncovered a new phase of the mystery. Old Swallowtail was nervous over something. He could not sleep at night, but roamed the roads while others with a clear conscience slumbered. There must be some powerful reason to account for the old man's deserting his bed in the spanner. What could it be? When she walked over to the post office the girl found the long looked for letter from Josie O'Gorman. It said, Dear Mary Louise, how good you are! I positively need a change of scene and rest, so I'm coming. Tomorrow by the train to Chargove. The mystery you hint at will help me to rest. O'Gorman doesn't want me to grow rusty, and he has some odd theories I'd like to work out. I haven't an idea what your mystery is, of course, but if it enables me to test any one of the O'Gorman theories, a theory is merely a stepping-stone to positive information, I shall bless you for ever. And that reminds me, I'm coming as a sewing-girl, to help you fix over some summer gowns. You're anxious to give me the work because I need it, but as we're rather chummy I'm half-servant and half-companion. I hate sewing and make the longest stitches you ever saw. Moreover, I'm Josie Jessup. I'm never an O'Gorman when I'm working on a mystery. It wouldn't do it all. Explain this to dear old Grandpa Jim. Between the receipt of this script and tomorrow's train, jot down in regular order everything you know concerning the aforesaid mystery. Make it brief. No speculations or suspicions, just facts. Then I won't waste any time getting busy. Can you hear the rumble of my train? While you're reading this, I'm on my way. Josie. Good! murmured Mary Louise as she folded the letter. I feel better already. Whatever the mystery of old swallow-tail may be, Josie is sure to solve it. CHAPTER VIII of Mary Louise in the Country by L. Frank Baum Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. CHAPTER VIII. THE RED HEADED GIRL. Paul Jarom's, the storekeeper, coming in from the back room where he had been drawing molasses for farmer Higgins, found, perched on top the sugar-barrel, a chunky, red-haired, freckle-faced young girl whom he had never seen before. She seemed perfectly at home in his store, and sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms encircling her legs, eyeing soberly the two or three farmers who had come to the crossing to trade. If the head of that barrel busts in, you'll be a fine mess. remarked Saul. The girl nodded, but did not move from her position. Saul waited on his customers, at times eyeing the strange girl cautiously. When the farmers had gone with their purchases he approached the barrel and examined his visitor with speculative care. Want anything? Spool a red cotton number thirty. I ain't got no red. Green'll do. I ain't got green. Only black and white. All right. Want black or white? No. Saul leaned against the counter. He wasn't busy. The girl seemed in no hurry. It was a good time to gossip and find out all about the strange creature perched on his sugar-barrel. Where'd you come from? He inquired. City. Tossing her head toward the north. What for? To do sewing for the Hathaways, folks. Mary Louise, you know. Saul pricked up his ears. The Hathaways were newcomers about whom little was known. He wanted to know more, and here was a girl who could give him inside information. Knowed the Hathaways in the city? Kinda. Sewed on Mary Louise's spring-dresses. How long you been here? Me? Why? I come here more than twenty years ago. What does the Colonel do in the city? Never asked him. Why did they call this place Cragg's Crossing? I didn't name it. Sposed cause old Cragg used to own all the land and the roads crossed in the middle of his farm. What Cragg was that? Eh? Why? Father to Old Swallowtail. Ever seen Old Swallowtail? No. Well, he's a sight for sore eyes. First time anybody sees him, they either laugh or choke. The move-in picture folks would go crazy over him. Ever seen a move-in picture? Yes. I did, too, when I was in the city last year. Old Swallowtail reminds me of him. Goes around dressed up like George Washington when he crossed the Delaware. Crazy? That way, yes. Other ways, not a bit. Crazy Foxy Jen is Old Swallowtail. Why? Saul hesitated, reflecting. These questions were natural and a stranger, but to explain Old Hezekiah Cragg's character was not a particularly easy task. In the first place he drives a hard bargain. Don't spend money, but always has it. Keeps busy, but keeps his business to himself. What is his business? Didn't I say he kept it to himself? But he owns all the land around here. Not now. He just owns half acre, so far as anybody knows, with a little old hut on it that a respectable pig wouldn't live in. It's just across the river from a place where you're working. Then what has become of his land? It stayed just where it's always was, I guess, with the chuckle at his own wit. But Old Swallowtail sold it long ago. Old Nick Cragg, his father of four, him sold a lot of it, they say, and when he died he left half his ready money in all his land to Hezekiah. That's Old Swallowtail. And the other half is money to his second son Peter. Where's Peter? asked the girl quickly. Went back to Ireland years ago, and never's been heard of since. The Craggs was Irish before they got to be Americans, but it seems Pete had a hankering for the old sod and quit this country cold. So the Craggs are Irish, eh? mused the girl in a casual tone. And then she yawned as if not greatly interested. But Saul was interested so long as he was encouraged to talk. I've been told by some of the old settlers, he went on, that Old Nick Cragg were born in Ireland, was a policeman in New York, where he made his first money, and then come here and bought land and settled down. There ain't much difference between a policeman and a farmer, I guess. If the story's true, it proves Old Swallowtail has Irish blood in him yet, though for that matter he's lived long enough here to be just American like the rest of us. After he'd come into the property, he'd gradual like sold off all the land, piece by piece, till he ain't got nothing left but that half-acre. Sold most of it before I come here, and I've been at the crossing more than twenty years. If the land bought a fair price, Old Swallowtail ought to be rich, remarked the girl. But then he ain't what he ought to be. Folks say he speculated years ago and got stung. I know him pretty well, as well as anybody knows him, and my opinion is he ain't got more than enough to bury him decent. I thought you said he drives a hard bargain. Young woman, said Saul earnestly, the man don't live as can make money speculating. The games again him, first and last, and the more brains he's got the harder he'll get stung. But I thought you said Mr. Crag has a business. And I said nobody knows what it is. When Ned Jocelyn used to come here the two was thick, and Ned were a speculator through and through. Some thinks it was him that's got Crag's wad, and some says he lost it all and his wife's money too. Anyhow, Jocelyn lit out for good, and when he were gone and Kenton cried like a baby, an old swallow-tail's been dumb as a clam ever since. What makes you think Crag has a business, persisted the girl? He keeps an office over the store here, and he has a sign on the door that says real estate. But he ain't got no real estate, so that ain't why he shuts himself in that office day after day, and even Sundays. He's got some other business. Every night before he goes home he takes a bunch of letters to Mrs. Bennett's post office, and every morning he goes there and gets another bunch of letters that's come to him in the mail. That don't mean some sort of business. I don't know what, and thunder it does mean. Nor I, said the girl yawning again. What about Ned Jocelyn? Was he nice? Dressed like a dandy, looked like a fool, acted like the Emperor Arushi, and pleased everybody by running away. That is everybody but his wife and old swallow-tail. I see. Who else lives over your store? I live there myself, me and my family, in the back part. One of the front rooms I rents to old swallow-tail, and he pays the rent regular. The other front room, Miss Huckins, the dressmaker, lives in. Oh! I'm a dressmaker, too. Guess I'll go up and see her. Is she in? When she's out she leaves a key with me and a key ain't here. Say, girl, what's your name? Josie. Josie, what? Jessup. Pa was a Dreyman. Ever hear of him? No, but about the Hathaways. What is—and you've got no red thread or green? Only black and white. Is the Colonel—can't use black or white, said the girl, deliberately getting off the barrel? Guess I'll go up and ask Miss Huckins if she has any red. Out she walked, and old swallow rubbed his wrinkled forehead with a bewildered look and muttered, Draft the girl! She's pumped me dry and didn't tell me a word about them Hathaway folks. She's worse than old ebbon, the help. Seems like nobody wants to talk about the Hathaways, and that means there's something queer about them. But this red-headed sewing-girl is a perfect innocent and I'll get her talking yet, if she stays here long. Meantime Josie mounted the stairs, which were boarded in at one end of the building, being built on the outside to economize space, and entered the narrow upper hallway. A chatter of children's voices in the rear proclaimed that portion to be the quarters of the Jerem family. Toward the front was a door on which, in dim letters, was the legend H. Craig, real estate. Here the girl paused to listen. No sound came from the interior of H. Craig's apartment. Farther along she found a similar door on which was a card reading, Miss Huckins, Dressmaker and Milliner. Listening again she heard the sound of a flat iron thumping on an ironing board. She knocked and the door was opened by a little middle-aged woman who held a hot flat iron in one hand. She was thin, she was bright-eyed, her hair was elaborately dressed with little ringlets across the forehead and around the ears, so Josie at once decided it was a wig. Seeing a stranger before her, Miss Huckins looked her over carefully from head to foot, while Josie smiled a vacuous, inconsequent smile and said in a perfunctory way, Good morning. Come in, returned Miss Huckins, with affable civility. I don't think I know you. I'm Josie Jessup from the city. I'm in your line, Miss Huckins, in a way that is. I've come here to do some sewing for Mary Louise Burroughs, who is the granddaughter of Colonel Hathaway, who has rented the Kenton place. Nice weather, isn't it? Miss Huckins was not enthusiastic. Her face fell. She had encouraged sundry hopes that the little rich girl would employ her to do whatever sewing she might need. So she resumed the pressing of a new dress that was spread over her ironing board and said rather shortly, Anything I can do for you? I want to use some red thread and the storekeeper doesn't keep it in stock. Queer old man, that storekeeper, isn't he? I don't call him queer. He's honest as the day is long and makes a good landlord. Country stores don't usually keep red thread, for it is seldom used. He has been talking to me about old Mr. Craig, who has an office next door to you. I'm sure you'll admit that Mr. Craig is queer if the storekeeper isn't. A man like Mr. Craig has the right to be queer, snapped the dressmaker, who did not relish this criticism of the natives by a perfect stranger. He is very quiet and respectable and makes a very satisfactory neighbor. Josie, seated in a straight, wood-bottomed chair, seemed not at all chagrined by her reception. She watched the pressing for a time silently. That's a mighty pretty gown, she presently remarked, in a tone of admiration. I don't suppose I shall ever be able to make anything as nice as that. I—I'm not good at planning, you know, with modest self-depreciation. I only do plain sewing and mending. The stern features of Miss Huckins relaxed a bit. She glanced at the girl, then at her work, and said more pleasantly than she had before spoken. This dress is for Mary Donovan, who lives two miles north of here. She is to be married next Saturday, if they get the hang over with by that time, and this is part of her trousseau. I've made her two other dresses and trimmed two hats for her—a straw shape and a felt Gainesboro. The Donovans are pretty well to do. Josie nodded with appreciation. It's nice she can get such elegant things so near home, isn't it? Why, she couldn't do as well in the city, not half as well. Miss Huckins held up the gown and gazed at it with unmistakable pride. It's the best Henrietta, said she, and I'm to get six dollars for the making. I wanted seven at first, and Mary only wanted to pay five, so I split the difference. With all the other things I didn't do so badly on this trousseau. You're in luck, declared Josie, and so is Mary Donovan. Doesn't Mr. Craig do any business except real estate? I think he must, replied the dressmaker, hanging up the gown and then seating herself opposite her visitor. All the real estate business he's done in the last two years was to rent the Kenton Place to Colonel Hathaway and make a sale of Higgins' cow pasture to Sam Marvin. But he's so quiet all day in the next room that I can't figure out what he's up to. No one goes near him, so I can't overhear any talk. One time, of course, Mr. Jocelyn used to go there, and they always whispered as if they were up to some devilry. But after the quarrel Jocelyn never came here again. Oh, did they quarrel? asked Josie, with languid interest. She knew her praise of the dress had won the dressmaker's heart, and so she was delighted to find Miss Huckins a more confirmed and eager gossip than even Saul Jerams. I should say they did quarrel, was the emphatic reply, although she sank her voice to a whisper and glanced warningly at the thin partition. At one time I thought there'd be murder done, for Jocelyn yelled, Take that away, take it away! And old swallow-tail, that's the name we call Mr. Crag, you know, roared out. You deserve to die for this cowardly act. Well, you'd better believe my hair stood on end for a minute. Josie smiled as she thought of the wig standing on end. But nothing happened. There was deep silence. Then the door opened and Mr. Jocelyn walked out. I never interfere with other people's business, but attend strictly to my own. Yet that day I was so flustered that I peeked through a crack of my door at Mr. Jocelyn, and he seemed cool as a cucumber. Then Mr. Crag slammed the door of his room, which is very unusual thing for him to do, and that was all. When did this happen, asked Josie. Last fall, just before Mrs. Jocelyn and her husband went back to their city home. Sometime in the winter Mr. Jocelyn ran away from her, they say, but I guess old Crag had nothing to do with that. Around here Jocelyn wasn't light. He put on too many years of superiority to please the country-folks. Sol Jerem thinks he made away with Mr. Crag's money in unwise speculations, but I don't believe Crag had any money to lose. He seems as poor as I am. What do you suppose drew these two men together, Miss Huckins? inquired the girl. I can't say. I've tried to figure it out, but the truth is that old Crag don't confide in anyone, not even in me, and we're close neighbors. You couldn't find two men in all America more different than Jocelyn and Crag, and yet they had dealings of some sort together and were friendly for a time. Josie sighed regretfully. I like to hear about these mysterious things, she said. It's almost as good as reading a story. Only in this case we will never know how the story ends. Well, perhaps not, admitted the dressmaker. Jocelyn is gone, and no one will ever get the truth out of Crag. But I'd like to know myself not only how the story ends, but what it was all about. Just now all we know is that there was a story of some sort or other, and perhaps is yet. A period of silence while both mused. I don't suppose you could find a bit of red thread, said Josie. No, I haven't used it for ages. Is it to mend with? Yes. If it's a red dress, use black thread. It won't show if you're careful, and it won't fade away and leave a white streak, like red sometimes does. Thank you, Miss Huckins. She rose to go. I'd like to drop in again sometime for a little visit. Come as often as you like, was the cordial reply. Crag's crossing people are rather interesting. They're so different from city folks, said Josie. Yes, they really are, and I know most of them pretty well. Come in again, Josie. Thank you, I will. End of Chapter 8. Read by Cibela Denton. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 9 of Mary Louise and the Country by L. Frank Baum. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Chapter 9. Josie Investigates. Well, what luck! asked Mary Louise as she came into Josie's room while her friend was dressing for dinner. Not much, was the reply. I'm not at all sure, Mary Louise, that this chase will amount to anything. But it will afford me practice in judging human nature, if nothing else comes of it, so I'm not at all sorry that you put me on the trail. When are we to see Ingo again? Tomorrow afternoon. She's coming to tea in the pavilion. That's good. Let me see all of her, you can. She's an original that child, and I'm going to like her. Our natures are a good deal alike. Oh, Josie! That's a fact. We're both proud, resentful, reckless, and affectionate. We hate our enemies and love our friends. We're rebellious at times and not afraid to defy the world. I am sure you're not like that, dear, protested Mary Louise. I am. Ingo and I are both children of nature. The only difference is that I am older and have been taught diplomacy and self-control, which she still lacks. I mask my feelings while Ingo frankly displays her. That's why I am attracted to her. Mary Louise did not know how to combat this mood. She remained silent until Josie was dressed and the two went down to dinner. Their visitor was no longer the type of a half-ignorant, half-shrewd sewing-girl such as she had appeared to be while in the village. Her auburn hair was now tastefully arranged and her attire modest and neat. She talked entertainingly during dinner and livening her companions thereby and afterward played a game of dominoes with the Colonel in the living-room, permitting him to beat her at this his favorite diversion. Both the old gentleman and his granddaughter enjoyed their evenings with Josie O'Gorman, for she proved delightful company. In the mornings, however, she would don her cheap gingham dress, rumple her hair, and pose throughout the day as Josie Jessup the sewing-girl. Ingwa, at first shy of the visitor, soon developed a strong liking for Josie and would talk with her more freely than with Mary Louise. Josie would skip across the stepping-stones and help Ingwa wash the breakfast-dishes and sweep the bare little rooms of the cottage, and then together they would feed the chickens, gather the eggs, and attend to such daily tasks as Ingwa was obliged to fulfill. With Josie's help this was soon accomplished, and then the child was free for the day, and could run across to join Mary Louise, while Josie sallied to the village to interview the natives. When the girl detective had been at Cragg's crossing for a week she was a familiar figure to the villagers, every one of whom was an acquaintance, and had gleaned all the information it was possible to secure from them, which was small in amount and unsatisfactory in quality. Two or three times she had passed old swallow-tail on the street, but he had not seemed to notice her. Always the old man stared straight ahead, walking stiffly and with a certain repellent dignity that forbade his neighbors to address him. He seemed to see no one. He lived in a world known only to himself, and neither demanded nor desired association with his fellows. An eccentric, bigoted, sullen and conceited, reflected Josie in considering his character, capable of any cruelty or crime but too cautious to render himself liable to legal punishment. The chances are that such a man would never do any great wrong from cowardly motives. He might starve and threaten a child, indeed, but would refrain from injuring one able to resent the act. Nevertheless he quarreled with Jocelyn, and Jocelyn disappeared. There was some reason for that quarrel, some reason for that disappearance, some reason why a man like Edward Jocelyn made old swallow-tail his confidential friend. A business connection, perhaps. Before daring a conjecture I must discover what business Cragg is engaged in. She soon discovered that Ingle was a zignant of her grandfather's business life as were all others. One day, as the two girls were crossing the stepping-stones to reach the pavilion, after doing the morning housework, Josie remarked, in winter one could cross here on the ice. Oh, no, replied Ingle, the water don't freeze. It runs too fast. But sometimes it gets over the top of the stones, and then you has to step careful to keep from falling in. Did you ever try to cross at such a time? Once I did, and I was scared you can bet, but I says to myself, if old swallow-tail can make the cross an I can, dark or no dark, and by cracky I tackled it brave as a lion. You tried to cross in the dark on a winter's night, what for, Ingle? Ingle, walking beside her up the bank, paused with a startled expression in gray red. Her eyes, narrowed and shrewd, fixed themselves suspiciously on Josie's face. But the other returned the look with a bland smile that surely ought to disarm one more sophisticated than this simple child. I mustn't talk about that, said Ingle in a low voice. Just forget, as I said it, Josie. Why? Do you want me choked or killed? Who would do that? Granddad would, if I blabbed. Shucks. You don't know Granddad, not when he's got the temper on him. If he had seen what I'd seen, you'd know he'd keep his word to kill me if I talk too much. Josie sat down on top of the bank. What did you see, Ingle? You'll have to guess it. It looks that way, said Josie calmly, but you needn't be afraid of me, Ingle. You and I could know a lot of things together and keep them to ourselves. Don't you think I'm a good enough friend not to get you choked or killed by telling any secrets you confided to me? And look here, Ingle. This secret is worrying you a good deal. Who says so? I do. You'd feel a heat better if you told me about it, for then we could talk it over together when we're alone. Ingle sat down beside her, gazing thoughtfully at the river. You'd tell Mary Louise. You know better than that. A secret's a secret, isn't it? I guess I can keep my mouth shut when I want to, Ingle. Josie had a way of imitating Ingle's mode of speech when they were together. It rendered their intercourse more free and friendly. But the girl did not reply at once. She sat dreamily reflecting upon the proposition and its possible consequences. Finally, she said, in a hesitating way, I wished I knew what to do. I sometimes think I ought to tell somebody that I knows more than I do. Josie, if I ever blab at all. Try me, Ingle. I'm pretty smart, because I've seen more of the big world than you have, and I know what goes on in the big busy cities, where life is different from what it is in this little place. I've lived in more than one city, too, and that means a lot of experience for a girl my age. I'm sure I could help you, dear. Perhaps when I've heard your story I will tell you never to say anything about it to anyone else, and then on the other hand I might think differently. Anyhow, I'd never tell myself any secret of yours, whatever I might think, because I'd cut off my right hand rather than get you in trouble. This dramatic speech was intended to appeal to the child's imagination and win her full confidence. In a way it succeeded. Ingle sidled closer to Josie and finally said, in a trembling whisper, You wouldn't get grandad into trouble, either, would you? Do you like him, Ingle? I hate him, but he's a crag, and I'm a crag, and the crags can stand up and spit at the world if they want to. That's right, agreed Josie emphatically. We've got to stick up for our own families and fight for our good name when it's necessary. Do you think I'd let anybody get the best of a Jessup? Never in a thousand years. Ingle nodded her head as if pleased. That's the way I look at it, Josie. Everybody's down on Old Swallowtail, and I'm down on it myself, for that matter, but I'll dare anybody to say anything again in when I'm around. And yet, Josie, and yet, I ain't sure, but he's a murderer. She had dropped her voice until she scarcely breathed the last words, and her little body trembled through and through with tense nervousness. Josie took her hand. Never mind, dear, she said gently. Perhaps he didn't kill Ned Jocelyn after all. Ingle sprang up with a horse scream and glared at Josie in absolute terror. How'd you know? How'd you know it were Ned Jocelyn? She demanded, trembling more and more. Josie's reply was a smile. Josie's smile was essentially winning and sweet. It was reassuring, trustful, friendly. This isn't a very big place, Ingle, she quietly remarked. I can count the people of crags crossing on my fingers and toes, and the only one who has ever disappeared is Ned Jocelyn. Why, you've told me so yourself. Your grandfather and Jocelyn were friends. Then they quarreled. Afterwards, Jocelyn disappeared. Who said they quarreled? Miss Huckins told me. It was in the office next door to where she lives and works. Oh, with a sigh of relief. But Ned Jocelyn run away. Everybody knows that. Everybody but you, dear. Sit down. Why do you get so nervous? Really, Ingle, after you've told me the whole story you'll feel better. It's too big a secret for one small body to hold, isn't it? And just between ourselves we will talk it all over many times, and then it won't seem so dreadful to you. After all, you're not positive your grandfather killed Ned Jocelyn. Perhaps he didn't. But you're afraid he did, and that keeps you unstrung and unhappy. Who knows, but I may be able to help you discover the truth. Sit down, Ingle, and let's talk it all over. Ingle slowly resumed her seat on the bank beside her friend. It was hard to resist Josie's appeals. The whole thing looks pretty black again, Grandad, she said. I suppose you can't understand what I mean till I tell you the whole story, from the beginning, because you didn't live here at the time. If you lived here, she added, I wouldn't tell you anything, but by and by you're going away, and you've promised to keep your mouth shut. Unless you give me permission to speak. I ain't likely to do that. I'm telling you this, Josie, so as we can talk it over at times. You've got hold in my mind something terrible. Once I was going to tell Mary Louise, but she couldn't understand it like you can. She's different, and if Grandad ever hears that I blabbed, I'm as good as dead and I know it. He won't hear it from me, promised Josie. Well, Grandad was always sly. I remember Mom telling him to his face, he were cold as ice and sly as sin. Mom had a way of saying what she thought of him, and he just looked at her steady and said nothing back. She is always trying to get money out of him, Mom was, and when he said he didn't have no money, she told him she knew he did. She ransacked the whole house and even tore up the floorboards, trying to find where he'd hit it. Her idea was that if he'd sold his land for a lot of money and hadn't spent a cent, he must have it yet. But I guess Mom didn't find no money, and so she lit out. The day she lit out she said to him that he was too slick for her, but she could take care of herself. All she wanted was for him to take care of me. Grandad said he would, and so he did. He didn't take any too much care of me, and I'd rather he wouldn't. If I had more to eat I wouldn't kick, but since Mary Louise come here and invited me to tea so often I ain't been hungry a bit. Mary Louise likes company, said Josie, go on, dear. Well after Anne Kenton got married her new husband come here, which was Ned Jocelyn. I never took a fancy to Anne. She wasn't specially upish, but she wasn't nothing else either. Ned made me laugh when I first seen him. He had one spectacle in one eye, with a string to catch it if it fell off. He had striped clothes and shiny shoes, and he walked as careful as if he were afraid the ground would get the bottoms of them nice shoes dirty. He used to sit in that summer house and smoke cigarettes and read books. One day he noticed Old Swallowtail, and he looked so hard at him that his one-eyed spectacle fell off a dozen times. That night he sent a letter to Grandad, and Grandad read it and tore it up, and told the old man that brung it there was no answer. That's all I knew till one night they came walking home together, chummy as a team of mules. When they come to the bridge they shook hands, and Old Swallowtail came to the house with a grin on his face, the first and last grin I ever seen him have. Doesn't he ever laugh? asked Josie. If he does he laughs when no one is looking. But after that day I seen Ned Jocelyn with Grandad a good deal. Sometimes he'd come to our house and wait for Old Swallowtail to come home, and then they'd send me away and tell me not to come back till I was called. That made me mighty curious to see what they was up to, so one day I crept up behind the house and peeked in the window. There wasn't in the kitchen, so I went around and peeked through the window of Grandad's room, and there they both sat, and Grandad was counting out money on the table. It must have been gold money, because it was yellow and bigger in scents and nickels. Ned put it all in his pocket and written something on a paper that Grandad put into his big pocket book. Then they both got up, and I made a run for it and hid behind the barn. When did that happen? asked Josie. The first summer Ann was married. That was three summers ago counting this one. I was only a kid then, said Ingwa, as if realizing she was now two years older. And after that, said Josie. Last summer it was just the same. The two was thicker in gumdrops, only Ned didn't go to the office no more. He always come to our house instead. One day when he was waiting for old Swallowtail who says to me, Ingwa, how'd you like to be rollin' in money, and live in a big city, and have your own automobile to ride in and dress like a queen? I'd like it, says I. Well, says he, it's bound to happen if old Swallowtail sticks to me and does what I say. He's got the capital, says Ned, and I got the brains, and between the two of us, Ingwa, says Ned, will corral half the money there is in America. Really stick, says I. I don't know, says Ned. He's got queer ideas about duty and honesty that ain't popular these days in business. But I'm gettin' so now that I can lead him by the nose, and I'll force him to waller in money before I've done with him. I don't see how that'll make me rollin' in money anyhow, I told him. The old man'll die pretty soon, says Ned, and then you'll get the money I'll make for him. By the time you're grown up, if not a four, says he, you may be the richest girl in the world. It all depends on how I can bend that old stick of a Granddad a-yorn. That was the day he gave me the dollar, and Granddad came in in time to see it and took it away from me. It didn't set me up anyhow that talkin' Ned's, cause I didn't believe in them brains he bragged on, or his being able to lead old Swallowtail by the nose. Granddad begun gettin' kinda harsh with Ned, afore the summer was over, which showed he wasn't bendin' much, and at the last, just before Ned went away, the big quarrel come off. It wasn't the quarrel Miss Huckins knows about, but it happened right here. They'd sent me away from the house like they always did, and I were layin' in the clover in the back yard, when there was a crash and a yell. I jumped up and ran to the door, and the table was tipped over, and a lot of papers and money scattered on the floor, and behind the table stood old Swallowtail, white and still, and Ned pointin' a gun at him. What sort of gun, questioned Josie. One of them hip pocket sort, same as Jim Benton the mailman carries. Only Jim's ain't never loaded, cause he's afraid of it. I ain't sure Ned's was loaded, either, for when he seen me in the doorway he just slipped it in his pocket. Very well, says Granddad, I know it's now what sort of man you are, Ned Jocelyn. And Ned he answers back, and I know what sort of man you are, you old crag. You're a hypocrite, through and through. You preach squareness while you're as crooked as a snake, and as poseless and deadly, and you drew in your best friend just to get a copper scent the best of him. He leaned over and set the table on its legs again. And then he says, slow and cold, but I ain't offered to murder you, not yet, Ned Jocelyn. Ned looked at him and kind of shivered, and Granddad said, pick up them papers and things, Inga. So I picked him up and put him on the table, and they sent me away again. I laid in the clover a whole hour, feeling pretty nervous and rocky, for I didn't know what was going to happen. Nothing did happen, though, except that Ned crossed the river on the steppin' stones, and half way over he turned and laughed, and waved his hand at Granddad, who stood in the door and watched him go. But Granddad didn't laugh. He says to me when I come in, Inga, if I'm ever found dead, you go to Dud Berkley, the constable, and tell him to arrest Ned Jocelyn for murder. Do you understand? I sure do, says I. Guess he'd have shot you, Granddad, if I hadn't come in just when I did. And see here, he went on, unless I'm found dead, you keep mum about what you seen today. If you blab a word to any one, you'll get me in trouble, and I'll crush his, willin' as I'd swat a fly. Me and Ned's his friends again, says he, but I don't trust him. Does he trust you? I asked him. And at first he just looked at me, and scowled, but after a minute he answered, I don't know how wise the man is. Perhaps he isn't a fool, but even wise men is foolish sometimes. Well, Josie, that was all just thin. Ned went with his wife Ann to the city next day, and things here went on as usual. The Granddad began to get wakeful nights, and couldn't sleep. He'd get up and dress, and go outdoors, and walk around till morning. He didn't say nothing to me about it, but I watched him, and one morning when he'd come in I said, Why don't you get some medicine to Doc Jenkins to make you sleep? Then he busts out, and grabs me by the throat, and near choke the life out of me. You spy, you dirty little spy, says he. You keep your eyes shut and your mouth shut, or I'll skin you alive, says he. The way he looked at me, I was scared stiff, and I never said nothing more about his sleepless nights. I guess what made him mad was my saying he ought to have a doctor, because doctors cost money, and Granddad so poor he hates to spend money unnecessary. The ever again tried to choke you? He tried once more, but I was too spry for him. It was a winter night, when it was cold in his room, and he'd come into the kitchen where there was a fire to write. I sat behind the stove, trying to keep warm, and after a time I seen him look up and glare at the bare wall a long time. The spy says in a low voice, for the cause, and starts writing again. What cause are you talking about, Granddad? says I. I guess he'd forgot I was there, but now he gives a yell and jumps up and comes for him with his fingers twisted and working like I'd seen him before. I didn't wait for him to get near me, you can bet. I made a dive out the back door and stood around in the cold, trying to keep warm, while I gave him time to cool off where the fire was. When he was writing again I sneaked in, and he didn't notice me. When Marm was here she used to jostle about the cause, and once I heard her tell him she guessed the cause was hoarding his money so as to starve his family. Marm wasn't afraid of him, but I am, so I never whisper the word cause while he's around. Josie sat in reflection for a long time. Then she asked softly, does he still walk at night ingua? Sometimes. Not so much as he once did, though. He seems to take tricks of being wakeful, explained the girl. Have you ever seen him come out or go in? Lots of times. When it's moonlight I can see him through my window and he can't see me cause my room is dark. And does he carry anything with him? Not a thing. He just goes out like he does daytime and comes back the same way. Josie nodded her tassled red head as if the answers pleased her. He's a very clever man, your grandfather, she remarked. He can fool not only his neighbors but his own family. But you've more to tell me, ingua. How do you know, Josie? Because all this is just the beginning. It is something else that has been worrying you, dear. The child stared dreamily at the rushing water for several minutes. Then she looked earnestly into Josie's face. Finally, with a sigh, she said, I may as well go on and finish it, I suppose. To be sure, said Josie, you haven't told me anything very important yet. The important parts coming, asserted ingua, her tone gradually assuming its former animation. To his last winter, on the Thursday between Christmas and New Year's. It was cold and snowing hard, and it gets dark early them days. Granddad and me was eaten supper by lamp-light when there came a knock on the door. I jumped up and opened it and there stood Ned Jocelyn in a big, heavy coat that was loaded with snow and kid-gloves on and his one-eyed spectacle on his face. He come in and stood while I shut the door and Granddad glared at him like he does when the devil gets him and said, What? More? Sure thing, says Ned. Nothing lasts forever. That's true, says Granddad, holding himself in. Then he looks at me and back to Ned and says, I can't see you here. Where are you stopping? At the Kenton House? Just for tonight, says Ned. It's more private than a hotel. Go home, then, says Granddad. I'll come over by and by. Ned opened the door and went out, saying nothing more. Granddad finished his supper and then sought by the stove and smoked his pipe while I washed the dishes. I wondered why he didn't go over and see Ned, but he sought there and smoked till I went upstairs to bed. That was queer, for I never knew him to smoke more than one pipe of tobacco at a time before and then mostly on Sundays, and I'd never seen his face so hard and cruel-looking as it were that night, and his eyes seemed like they were made of glass. I didn't undress, for I knowed there'd be trouble if he went over to Ned's house, and I made up my mind to keep watch of things. So I set still in my room in the attic, and Granddad set still in the room downstairs, and it must have been pretty late when I heard him get up and go out. I slipped down right after him, meaning to follow him, and let myself out the back door so as he wouldn't see me. It had stopped snowing by then, but it was so cold that the air cut like a knife, and the only jacket I had wasn't any too warm for such weather. When I got round the house, old Swallowtail was standing on the bank, looking at the river. I never knew nobody to try the stepping stones in winter, and I supposed to course Granddad would take the path to the bridge, but he went down the bank, wading through the snow, and started to cross over. The moon made it light enough to see easy, after you'd been out a few minutes. I watched him cross over and climb the bank and make for the house, and then I run down to the river myself. The water covered all the stones, but I knew where they were as well as Granddad did. I didn't like my job a bit, but I knew if I waited to go round by the bridge that I'd be too late to see anything that happened. So I screwed up courage and started over. My legs ain't as long as a grown-up's, and at the third step I missed the stone, and sourced one leg in the water up to my knee. Gee, that was a cold one. But I wouldn't give up, and kept on until just in the middle, where the water were roaring the worst. I slipped with both legs and went into my waist. That settled it for me. I thought I'd drown for a minute, but I went crazy with fear, and the next thing I knew I was standing on the bank where I'd come from, and the cold wind was freezing a sheet of ice on my legs and body. There wasn't no time to lose. Whatever was happening over to the big house didn't mean as much to me as death did, and death was on my track if I didn't get back home before I froze stiff. I started to run. It ain't far. Look there, Josie. You could almost make it in three jumps, but I remember falling down half a dozen times in the snow, and at the last I crawled at the door on my hands and knees and had just strength enough to raise up and lift a latch. Granddad's awful stingy about burning wood, but I threw chunks into the stove till the old thing roared like a furnace, and when I'd thought out some I got off my shoes and stockings and my wet dress and put another skirt on. Then I lay in Granddad's chair before the fire and shivered and cried like a baby whenever I thought of that icy river. I guess I must have went to sleep afterwards, for when I woke up the fire was getting low and old swallowtail opened the door on a sudden and walked in. Josie, you ought to see him. His legs was wet and icy, too, so he must have slipped on the stones himself, and he was shaking all over as if he'd got the aug. His face was dirty white, and his eyes burnt like two coals. He threw on more wood, reckless like, and jerked off his shoes and socks and sat down to the other side of the stove. Neither have said nothing for a while, and then he looks at me sort of curious and asks, did you get a cross, Ingua? No, says I. I got near drown to try on it. And then he sat silent again, looking at the fire. Fine by, he says, Ingua, you're old enough to have sense, and I want you to think careful on what I'm going to say. Folks round here don't like you and me very much, and if they got a chance, or even if they had a chance, they'd crush us under heel like they would scorpions. That's because we're crags. We're crags ain't never been popular in this neighborhood for some reason. Now, listen, I've done with Ned Jocelyn. It ain't my fault as I've cast him off. It's his'n. He's got a bad heart, and he's robbed me right and left. I could forgive him for that, because, well, you don't need to know why I clung to the feller when I knew he was a scoundrel. But he robbed a cause dearer to my heart than myself, and for that I couldn't forgive him. Nobody knows Ned we're here tonight, Ingua, so if anybody asks you questions you didn't see him at all. Fix that firm in your mind. You don't know nothing about Ned since he went away last October. You ain't seen him. Stick to that girl, and you're all right. But if you blab, if you ever tell a soul as Ned we're here, I'll have to kill you myself to stop your mouth. Fix that in your mind, too. I was so scared that I just looked at him. Then I says in a whisper, What did you do to Ned, grandad? He turned his eyes on me so fierce that I dropped my head. I didn't kill him if that's what you mean, says he. I already strangled him, but I didn't want to swing for no common thief like Ned Jocelyn. Besides he's—but that's none of your business. So I threatened him, and that was just as good as killing. He won't show up here again, never, and he ain't likely to show up anywhere else that he's known. Perhaps he'll be hunted for, but he'll keep out of the way. You and I ain't got nothing to worry about, Ingua, unless you blab. I didn't believe a word he said, Josie. They was just words, and it was natural he'd lie about that night's work. When I went to bed it was near morning, but Old Swallertale was still setting by the fire. Next day he went on just as usual, and from then till now he's never smoked to me at that night. In a couple of weeks we heard as Ned Jocelyn had run away. His wife came down here, asking for him, but nobody'd seen hidein' her hair of him. That's all, Josie. That's the whole story, and I'm glad you know it now as well as I do. What do you think? Did Old Swallertale kill Ned Jocelyn? Josie woke from her meditation with a start. I—I'm going to think it over, she said evasively. It's a queer story, Ingua, mighty queer, and it's going to take a lot of thought before I make up my mind about it.