Читать книгу The Outdoor Girls on a Hike - Stratemeyer Edward - Страница 5

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Dick Blossom was told about the Outdoor Girls’ proposed hike and listened with flattering attention.

“Bully!” he said, and added, with a grin: “Nothing better for reducing, I’ve been told.”

Lota and Irene made a dash for him and he ducked adroitly from the summerhouse.

“I was going, anyway,” and he grinned as he avoided their laughing attack. “Don’t hurry me! It isn’t polite!”

As he dodged among the bushes, Stella called after him:

“Come on over to-night, Dick. I think Hal and Clem will be here.”

Dick paused and glanced back.

“Will you treat me right?” he demanded.

“We’ll pet and pamper you to your heart’s content,” Stella promised recklessly. “Only come.”

Dick nodded.

“Try to keep me away,” he retorted, and vaulted over the hedge.

After he had gone, the girls exchanged uncomfortable glances. Stella went to the doorway of the summerhouse and stood there uncertainly.

“It’s time for refreshments, girls,” she said, in what she hoped was a matter-of-fact voice. “Shall we have them here or up at the house?”

“At the house!” was voted unanimously, and then all exchanged shame-faced glances.

“We’ll feel better about those gypsies to-morrow,” said Irene Moore, as though trying to find an excuse for their “attack of nerves.” “But that old hag they called Hulah is something you don’t see except in nightmares. And after all, she might come back.”

In the house, refreshed by crisp lettuce sandwiches, small cakes, and tall glasses of iced lemonade, the girls were more inclined to laugh at their fear of the gypsies.

“Those wandering tribes never pitch their camps long in one place,” Meg Bronson pointed out. “Probably by to-morrow they will be gone and we’ll never hear of them again.”

“A consummation devoutly to be wished!” murmured Lota, who had recently discovered a certain famous poet named William Shakespeare and was proud of her ability to quote—or misquote—him on certain occasions.

“Especially now that we are planning our hike,” added Meg. “I wouldn’t enjoy meeting Hulah and her pleasant friends—on a dark night, for instance.”

Carolyn Cooper gave a little shriek and covered her ears with both hands.

“Make her stop!” she implored. “I don’t want to give up our glorious hike, but I will if any one mentions that horrible Hulah woman to me again!”

This dire threat temporarily banished the name of Hulah from the conversation of the Outdoor Girls.

A short time later they parted, promising to meet again directly after dinner.

So, about eight o’clock of this particular evening, the girls began to drift back toward their leader’s house. They had changed into frocks more appropriate for evening and the soft hues gave them the appearance of a bouquet of flowers.

At Stella’s they found that Hal Duckworth had already arrived. He and Stella were engaged in an earnest conversation when the girls burst in upon them.

“Here, you two!” cried Irene. “What are you up to, conspiring in a corner?”

Hal got up and came toward them. He was a good-looking youth and possessed a certain charm. Older people were apt to say that young Hal Duckworth had “a way” with him.

Now he greeted all the girls pleasantly, but his last and most lingering look was for Carolyn Cooper. One could scarcely blame him. Carolyn always sparkled at night. On this particular evening she was lovelier than usual in a pale blue frock with her bright hair fluffed out about her face.

“We weren’t conspiring,” he declared. “We were merely having an interesting conversation. Isn’t that right, Stella?”

“Perfectly,” agreed Stella gayly. “Tell them your news, Hal. They’ll be thrilled.”

“News!” drawled Meg. “I didn’t think anything ever happened in Deepdale these days. What is it, Hal? Murder or theft?”

“Theft,” returned Hal.

The girls found seats for themselves and Hal, at a corner of a massive table, faced them.

“I don’t know whether you girls will be as interested as I am,” he began. “But the robbery occurred under somewhat curious circumstances.”

“Tell us,” begged Carolyn. “We’ll all promise to be pleasantly thrilled.”

“I imagine poor old Fennelson was thrilled, too,” said Hal. “Though not so pleasantly.”

“Fennelson,” repeated Stella thoughtfully. “I don’t recall the name.”

“He has a curio shop on Maple Street, pretty well back from the main street,” Hal explained. “I’ve passed the place once or twice and I remember wondering how the old fellow ever managed to do any business. His shop is dingy and stuffed with curious junk and cheap jewelry.”

Carolyn leaned forward in her chair. She looked startled, but no one seemed to notice.

“Hal!” she breathed. “Was it Fennelson’s place that was robbed?”

“I’ll say so,” returned the young fellow. “The poor old man was found gagged and bound in the cellar under his shop. He had evidently been beaten about the head, for he was unconscious when they discovered him.”

“Is he going to die?” gasped Lota.

“They don’t think so. He recovered consciousness in the hospital; but unfortunately he was unable to describe his assailants. The scoundrel—or scoundrels—attacked him from behind. When the police found him he was blindfolded.”

“And he never saw the robbers!” mused Irene.

“Only felt them,” agreed Hal, with a grim smile.

Carolyn interrupted again and this time her agitation was apparent to them all.

“You haven’t said a word, Hal, about what was stolen from the shop,” she said, and looked at him with a sort of strained eagerness.

“About two thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry and curios, they say.”

“Oh!” gasped Carolyn, and sank back in her chair, limp and white.