Читать книгу The Outdoor Girls on a Hike - Stratemeyer Edward - Страница 6

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Carolyn Cooper’s collapse took her companions completely by surprise. They had been so interested in what Hal Duckworth was saying that, up to the moment that she had fallen back in her chair, looking white and ill, they had no notion that the robbery of the Fennelson Curio Shop was of any more personal interest to Carolyn than to the rest of them.

Now, the other girls ran to her. Hal jumped to his feet and looked conscience stricken.

Irene ran to the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Bring smelling salts, some one,” called Lota distractedly.

“Might better stand back and give her a little air,” Meg suggested practically.

At this Carolyn sat up and took a firm grip on the arms of the chair. She shook her bright hair back from her face with an impatient gesture.

“I’m all right, girls,” she said. “If you think I’m going to faint, you’ll have a disappointment.”

“A very pleasant disappointment, Carol,” said Stella gently.

“I should say!” added Irene, returning with the glass of water. “Drink this, anyway. It can’t hurt and it might help.”

Carolyn drank the water and then looked appealingly at the girls. She smiled at Hal, hovering penitently in the background.

“You needn’t look as if you’d murdered somebody,” she told him. “It’s only that your news sort of—knocked me out for a moment.”

“But why should it?” Meg asked, mystified.

Irene added, with a nervous giggle:

“Yes, tell us! What was Mr. Fennelson to you?”

To this flippant remark Carolyn returned only an injured glance.

“It isn’t Mr. Fennelson I’m worried about, silly—though I’m sorry enough for the poor old man. I was thinking of my family heirlooms.”

After much persuasion and many interruptions that served only to delay the narrative, they finally coaxed the tale from Carolyn.

“I don’t suppose the heirlooms are worth a great deal in actual cash,” she told them. “But they were trinkets that have been in the family for—oh, I don’t know how long. Some of them were mother’s and so,” her voice lowered and her eyes filled with tears, “they were very valuable to me——”

“We know, dear,” said Stella soothingly, gently patting her hand.

“Some of the settings were loose,” Carolyn continued, “and so Uncle Joe thought I’d better take them to Fennelson’s and have them fixed before they were lost—the stones I mean, of course. Mr. Fennelson is an expert at such work.”

Stella continued to pat her hand.

“And you took them?” she queried.

“That’s the worst of it,” wailed Carolyn. “I took them right away. You know that isn’t like me! I usually wait a week before I actually get anything done. If I’d been true to my worse nature this time, I might still have the family heirlooms.”

“When did you take these trinkets of yours to Fennelson?” Hal asked. He frowned at Carolyn, but she knew he was thinking not of her but of a raided curio shop, of an unconscious old man found on the floor of his cellar, bound, gagged and brutally beaten about the head.

“Yesterday,” she said, in response to his question.

“And the robbery was pulled off to-day. But even at that,” he added, “you are merely assuming that these heirlooms of yours were among the loot carried off by the thief.”

“No,” said Carolyn mournfully, “I’m counting on my bad luck, Hal. If any one has to suffer because a cowardly scoundrel or two needed a little extra pin money, your little friend Carolyn is bound to be it!”

“Just the same, I wouldn’t be too sure,” Hal insisted. “Wait till Mr. Fennelson recovers from that crack on the head. Then he will be able to take an inventory of his stock and tell exactly what goods have been lost.”

“How soon do you suppose he will be able to do that?” Carolyn asked, brightening.

“Neither the police nor the doctors seem to be very clear on that point,” he said. “A hard blow on the head of a man of Fennelson’s age isn’t a thing to be taken lightly. As a matter of fact, there’s some danger that, in this case, brain fever may result. In that event, of course, the poor old fellow will be laid up for an indefinite time with the possibility of death at the other end.”

“Which would turn plain thieves into murderers,” Meg observed.

Hal nodded gravely.

“It would that,” he said. “And of course, Fennelson’s being laid up in this way, the police are hampered at the very start of their investigation. If they knew just what type and quantity of goods had been stolen, they would be able to follow along that track, searching pawn shops and such places, in the end, almost certainly turning up a clue that would lead to the thieves. As it is, they must search for other clues—which are chiefly conspicuous by their absence.”

He made this last observation under his breath as though speaking to himself.

Meg, who had been watching him shrewdly for some time, asked suddenly:

“You are very much interested in this case, aren’t you, Hal?”

He looked at her, surprised; but, as he met her steady glance, the girl imagined that a veil fell across his own. He said, lightly:

“Why, yes, of course I’m interested, especially so now that Carolyn appears to be involved.”

An interruption occurred now in the form of Clem Field, who has already been introduced as Stella Sibley’s cousin, and Dick Blossom. It appeared that Clem had overtaken Dick on his way to the same rendezvous and had given him a lift in his car.

The other two boys had heard of the robbery and expressed their sympathy to Carolyn upon hearing that she was, or might be, involved in it.

“However, we hope that your property was not among the stolen stuff,” Clem said, and Hal added:

“That’s what I’ve tried to tell her. There’s no use anticipating bad fortune. And, in the meantime, why not enjoy the evening?”

The revived gayety was infectious. Carolyn was gradually won over to a more optimistic view of the robbery and, in the end, entered into the fun of the evening with much of her usual light-hearted zest.

It was a lovely party, as all parties at the home of the Outdoor Girls’ leader were bound to be.

“Turn on the radio, some one,” Stella cried. “You boys, take up the rugs, will you, and throw them into the corner? We want plenty of room to dance.”

The request was promptly complied with. Rugs were removed, furniture thrust into corners, while music from one of New York’s most famous jazz bands filled the room with irresistible syncopation.

After a while Clem, dancing with Irene close to the radio, turned it off. Silence descended upon the dancers. They stopped and looked indignantly at the perpetrator of the outrage.

“S O S,” announced Clem, grinning. “Everybody off the air for ten minutes while we have some real music by Miss Stella Sibley with a possible dance by the young lady at my right.”

“The young lady at his right,” by name, Irene Moore, made a face at him.

“Bother!” she cried. “Who wants to clog dance when she might Charleston? Don’t take the joy out of life, Clem. Turn on the radio, do!”

But Stella was already at the piano, her fingers busy with an Irish jig. Irene’s feet could not resist it. She danced out into the middle of the room, hands on hips, and leaped into a roguish clog, her short hair bobbing, merry eyes flashing.

Irene’s audience urged her on, clapping in time to the rhythm until she was out of breath and Stella’s clever fingers refused to strike another note.

Then they gathered around their leader and she played for them tender little ballads and they sang in fresh, clear, untrained voices that nevertheless caught the meaning of the melody, rendering it more truly than many a trained chorus could have done.

They sang “The Rosary,” with Dick’s deep voice carrying the bass. When the last rich chord melted away and became part of the vibrating stillness of the room, some one said, “Bravo!”

They turned to see Mr. Sibley sitting in a deep chair, the picture of content.

“Why, Dad,” cried Stella, “when did you come in?”

“Don’t stop,” urged her father. “Sing it again. It sounded good!”