“Hullo!” ejaculated Tom, again.
He started ahead at full clip, bearing Ruth on with him. Something had happened to the couple Tom and Ruth had noticed. They swerved to one side and suddenly Bob Steele went down.
“His skate’s broke!” erred Tom. “Hope old Bobbins isn’t hurt. Great Scott! the girl’s with him!”
Mary Cox had indeed fallen. For a moment the two figures, flung by the momentum of their pace, slid over the ice. There came a wild shout from those nearer the boat—then a splash!
“They’re in the water!” cried Ruth, in horror.
She retarded Tom very little, but dashed forward, keeping in stroke with him. She heard Tom whisper:
“Poor old Bobbins! he’ll be drowned!”
“No, no, Tom! We can get to them,” gasped Ruth.
Indeed, she and her escort were the nearest to the open place in the lake into which Bob Steele and Mary Cox had fallen. If anybody in sight could help the victims of the accident Tom and Ruth could!
CHAPTER XXII
THE HARPIST ONCE MORE
Over all, Ruth wore a woolen sweater—one of those stretchy, clinging coats with great pearl buttons that was just the thing for a skating frolic. It had been her one reckless purchase since being at Briarwood, she and Helen having gone down into Lumberton on Saturday and purchased coats. While Ruth and Tom were yet some yards from the open water the girl began to unbutton this.
“Careful, Tom!” she gasped. “Not too near—wait!”
“It’s thick ’way to the edge,” he returned, pantingly.
“No, it isn’t. That’s why Mary Cox went in. I saw the ice break under her when she tried to turn and escape.”
Thus warned, Tom dug the heel of his right skate into the ice as a brake, and they slowed down.
Ruth let go of his hand and wriggled out of her coat in a moment. Then she dropped to her knees and slid along the ice, while Tom flung himself forward and traveled just as though he were sliding down hill.
“Take this, Tom!” cried Ruth, and tossed the coat to him. “We’ll make a chain—I’ll hold your feet. Not too near!”
“Hold on, Bobbins!” yelled young Cameron. “We’ll have you out in a minute!”
Mary Cox had screamed very loudly at first; and she struggled with her fellow victim, too. Bob Steele was trying to hold her up, but finally he was obliged to let her go, and she went under water with a gurgling cry.
“Grab her again, Bobbins!” called Tom, flinging Ruth’s coat ahead of him, but holding firmly to it himself by the two sleeves.
“I’ve got her!” gasped Bob Steele, his teeth chattering, and up The Fox came again, her hair all dripping, and her face very pale.
“Good!” said Tom. “She’s swallowed enough water to keep her still for a while—what? Come on, now, old boy! Don’t wait! Catch hold!”
As Ruth had warned him, the edge of the ice was fragile. He dared not push himself out too far with the sharp toes of his skates. He dug them into the ice now hard, and made another cast with the coat.
His chum caught it. Tom drew them slowly toward the edge of the ice. Ruth pulled back as hard as she could, and together they managed to work their bodies at least two yards farther from the open water. The ice stopped cracking under Tom’s breast.
There was the ring of skates and shouting of voices in their ears, and Ruth, raising herself slightly, looked around and screamed to the crowd to keep back. Indeed, the first of Tom’s school friends would have skated right down upon them had they not thus been warned.
“Keep back!” Ruth cried. “We can get them out. Don’t come nearer!”
Tom seconded her warning, too. But mainly he gave himself up to the work of aiding the two in the water. Bob Steele lifted the girl up—he was a strong swimmer even in that icy bath—and did it with one hand, too, for he clung to Ruth’s coat with the other.
Mary Cox began to struggle again. Fortunately Bob had her half upon the ice. Tom reached forward and seized her shoulder. He dragged back with all his strength. The ice crashed in again; but Mary did not fall back, for Tom jerked her heavily forward.
“Now we’ve got her!” called Tom.
And they really had. Mary Cox was drawn completely out of the water. Mr. Hargreaves, meanwhile, had flown to the rescue with two of the bigger boys. They got down on the ice, forming a second living chain, and hitching forward, the tutor seized the half-conscious girl’s hand. The others drew back and dragged Mr. Hargreaves, with the girl, to firm ice.
Meanwhile Tom, with Ruth to help him, struggled manfully to get Bob Steele out. That youngster was by no means helpless, and they accomplished the rescue smartly.
“And that’s thanks to you, Ruthie!” declared Tom, when the tutor and Miss Reynolds had hurried the half-drowned girl and young Steele off to the Minnetonka. “I’d never have gotten him but for you—and look at your coat!”
“It will dry,” laughed the girl from the Red Mill. “Let’s hurry after them, Tom. You’re wet a good deal, too—and I shall miss my coat, being so heated. Come on!”
But she could not escape the congratulations of the girls and boys when they reached the steamboat. Even Mary Cox’s closest friends gathered around Ruth to thank her. Nobody could gainsay the fact that Ruth had been of great help in the recovery of Mary and Bob from the lake.
But Helen! had the other girls—and Miss Reynolds—not been in the little cabin of the boat which had been given up to the feminine members of the party, she would have broken down and cried on Ruth’s shoulder. To think that she had been guilty of neglecting her chum!
“I believe I have been bewitched, Ruthie,” she whispered. “Tom, I know, is on the verge of scolding me. What did you say to him?”
“Nothing that need trouble you in the least, you may be sure, Helen,” said Ruth. “But, my dear, if it has taken such a thing as this—which is not a thing to go into heroics over—to remind you that I might possibly be hurt by your treatment, I am very sorry indeed.”
“Why, Ruth!” Helen gasped. “You don’t forgive me?”
“I am not at all sure, Helen, that you either need or want my forgiveness,” returned Ruth. “You have done nothing yourself for which you need to ask it—er, at least, very little; but your friends have insulted and been unkind to me. I do not think that I could have called girls my friends who had treated you so, Helen.”
Miss Cox had retired to a small stateroom belonging to one of the officers of the boat, while her clothing was dried by the colored stewardess. Bob Steele, however, borrowed some old clothes of some of the crew, and appeared when the lunch was ready in those nondescript garments, greatly adding to the enjoyment of the occasion.
“Well, sonny, your croup will bother you sure enough, after that dip,” declared his sister. “Come! let sister tuck your bib in like a nice boy. And don’t gobble!”
Bob was such a big fellow—his face was so pink, and his hair so yellow—that Madge’s way of talking to him made him seem highly comic. The fellows from Seven Oaks shouted with laughter, and the girls giggled. Mr. Hargreaves and Miss Reynolds, both relieved beyond expression by the happy conclusion of what might have been a very serious accident, did not quell the fun; and fifty or sixty young people never had such a good time before in the saloon of the lake steamer, Minnetonka.
Suddenly music began somewhere about the boat and the young folk began to get restive. Some ran for their skates again, for the idea was to remain near the steamer for a while and listen to the music before going back to shore. The music was a piano, guitar, violin, and harp, and when Ruth heard it and recognized the latter instrument she was suddenly reminded of Miss Picolet and the strange harpist who (she firmly believed) had caused the startling sound at the fountain.
“Let’s go and see who’s playing,” she whispered to Helen, who had clung close to her ever since they had come aboard the st
eamboat. And as Tom was on the other side of his sister, he went with them into the forward part of the boat.
“Well, what do you know about that?” demanded Tom, almost before the girls were in the forward cabin. “Isn’t that the big man with the red waistcoat that frightened that little woman on the Lanawaxa? You know, you pointed them out to me on the dock at Portageton, Helen? Isn’t that him at the harp?”
“Oh! it is, indeed!” ejaculated his sister. “What a horrid man he is! Let’s come away.”
But Ruth was deeply interested in the harpist. She wondered what knowledge of, or what connection he had with, the little French teacher, Miss Picolet. And she wondered, too, if her suspicions regarding the mystery of the campus—the sounding of the harpstring in the dead of night—were borne out by the facts?
Had this coarse fellow, with his pudgy hands, his corpulency, his drooping black mustache, some hold upon Miss Picolet? Had he followed her to Briarwood Hall, and had he made her meet him behind the fountain just at that hour when the Upedes were engaged in hazing Helen and herself? These thoughts arose in her mind again as Ruth gazed apprehensively at the ugly-looking harpist.
Helen pulled her sleeve and Ruth was turning away when she saw that the little, piglike eyes of the harpist were turned upon them. He smiled in his sly way and actually nodded at them.
“Sh! he remembers us,” whispered Helen. “Oh, do come away, Ruth!”
“He isn’t any handsome object, that’s a fact,” muttered Tom. “And the cheek of him—nodding to you two girls!”
After the excitement of the accident on the lake our friends did not feel much like skating until it came time to go back to the landing. Mr. Hargreaves was out on the ice with those students of the two schools who preferred to skate; but Miss Reynolds remained in the cabin. Mary Cox had had her lunch in the little stateroom, wrapped in blankets and in the company of an oil-stove, for heat’s sake. Now she came out, re-dressed in her own clothes, which were somewhat mussed and shrunken in appearance.
Helen ran to her at once to congratulate Mary on her escape. “And wasn’t it lucky Tom and Ruth were so near you?” she cried. “And dear old Ruthie! she’s quite a heroine; isn’t she? And you must meet Tom.”
“I shall be glad to meet and thank your brother, Helen,” said The Fox, rather crossly. “But I don’t see what need there is to make a fuss over Fielding. Your brother and Mr. Hargreaves pulled Mr. Steele and me out or the lake.”
Helen stepped back and her pretty face flushed. She had begun to see Mary Cox in her true light. Certainly she was in no mood just then to hear her chum disparaged. She looked around for Tom and Ruth; the former was talking quietly with Miss Reynolds, but Ruth had slipped away when The Fox came into the cabin.
Mary Cox walked unperturbed to the teacher and Tom and put out her hand to the youth, thanking him very nicely for what he had done.
“Oh, you mustn’t thank me more than the rest of them,” urged Tom. “At least, I did no more than Ruthie. By the way, where is Ruthie?”
But Ruth Fielding had disappeared, and they did not see her again until the call was given for the start home. Then she appeared from the forward part of the boat, very pale and silent, and all the way to the shore, skating between Tom and Helen, she had scarcely a word to say.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE SECRET
For there was the burden of a secret on Ruth Fielding’s mind and heart. She had slipped away when she saw The Fox appear in the outer cabin and, walking forward, had been stopped suddenly in a cross gallery by a firm touch upon her arm.
“Sh! Mademoiselle!”
Before she looked into the shadowy place she realized that it was the harpist. His very presence so near her made Ruth shrink and tremble for an instant. But then she recovered her self-possession and asked, unshakenly:
“What do you want of me?”
“Ah, Mademoiselle! Kind Mademoiselle!” purred the great creature—and Ruth knew well what his villainous smile must look like, although she could not see it. “May the unfortunate vagabond musician speak a single word into Mademoiselle’s ear?”
“You have spoken several words into it already, sir,” said Ruth, sharply. “What do you want?”
“Ah! the Mademoiselle is so practical,” murmured the harpist again.
“Be quick,” commanded Ruth, for although she had a strong repugnance for the fellow there was no reason why she should fear him, with so many people within call. “State your reason for stopping me, sir.”
“The Mademoiselle is from the school—the institute where learning is taught the lo-fe-ly Misses?”
He thus made three syllables of “lovely” and Ruth knew that he leered like a Billiken in the dark.
“I am at Briarwood Hall—yes,” she said.
“I have seen the kind Mademoiselle before,” said the man. “On the boat on that other so-beeg lake—Osago, is it?”
“On the Lanawaxa—yes,” admitted Ruth.
“Ah! I am proud. The Mademoiselle remember me,” he exclaimed, bowing in the dark alley.
“Go on,” urged Ruth, impatiently.
“It is of the leetle lady—Mademoiselle Picolet—I would speak,” he said, more quickly.
“Our French teacher—yes.”
“Then, knowing her, will the Mademoiselle take a small note from the poor musician to the good Picolet? ’Tis a small matter—no?”
“You want me to do this without telling anybody about it?” questioned Ruth, bluntly.
“Oui, oui, Mademoiselle! You have the discernment beyond your years. Indeed!”
“I knew it must be something underhanded you wanted,” declared Ruth, boldly.
He laughed and Ruth saw a small envelope thrust toward her in the dusk of the passage. “You will take it?” he said.
“I will take it—providing you do not come there again,” exclaimed Ruth.
“Come where?” he demanded.
“To the school. To the campus where the fountain is.”
“Ha! you know that, my pretty bird?” he returned. “Well! this will perhaps relieve the good Picolet of my presence—who knows?”
“Then I will take it,” Ruth said, hastily, her hand closing on the billet.
“Comme il faut,” he said, and went away down the passage, humming in his bassoon voice.
And so, as she sped shoreward between her two friends, Ruth had the little letter tucked away in the bosom of her frock. The secret troubled her. She was really glad to say good bye to Tom at the landing, and all the way back in the wagonette, although Helen sat close to her and tried to show her how sorry she was for her past neglect, Ruth was very silent.
For she was much disturbed by this secret. She feared she was doing wrong in carrying the note to Miss Picolet. Yet, under different circumstances, she might have thought little of it. But after her talk with Mrs. Tellingham about the mystery of the campus, she was troubled to think that she was taking any part in the French teacher’s private affairs.
Helen was so filled with the excitement of the day, and of her long talk with her twin brother, that she did not observe Ruth’s distraught manner.
“And we’ll have such fun!” Ruth finally awoke to hear her chum declare in a whisper. “Father’s always promised to get a place in the woods, and Snow Camp is a delightful spot.”
“What are you talking about, Helen?” demanded Ruth, suddenly.
“I don’t believe you’ve heard a thing I’ve been saying,” cried her chum.
“I haven’t heard everything,” admitted Ruth. “But tell me now; I’ll listen.”
“It’s about the Christmas Holidays. You shall go with us. We’re going ’way up in the woods—to a hunting camp that father has bought. We were there for a week-end once when Mr. Parrish owned it. Snow Camp is the most delightful place.”
“I am sure you will have
a fine time,” Ruth said, generously.
“And so you will, too,” declared Helen, “for you’re going.”
“My dear! I am going home to the Red Mill at Christmas.”
“And we’ll go home for Christmas, too; but there are three weeks’ holidays, and two of them we will spend at Snow Camp. Oh, yes we will!” Helen cried. “I’d cry my eyes out if you didn’t go, Ruth.”
“But Uncle Jabez—”
“We’ll just tease him until he lets you go. He’ll not object much, I’m sure. I should just cry my eyes out if you didn’t go with us, Ruthie,” she repeated.
The plan for the winter holidays sank into insignificance in Ruth’s mind, however, when they left the carriages and ran over to the West Dormitory just as evening was falling. Mercy waved a white hand to them from her window as they crossed the campus; but Ruth allowed Helen to run ahead while she halted in the lower corridor and asked Miss Scrimp if the French teacher was in her room.
“Oh, yes, Miss Ruthie,” said the matron. “Miss Picolet is in. You can knock.”
As Ruth asked this question and received its answer she saw Mary Cox come in alone at the hall door. The Fox had not spoken to Ruth since the accident on the ice. Now she cast no pleasant glance in Ruth’s direction. Yet, seeing the younger girl approaching Miss Picolet’s door, Mary smiled one of her very queerest smiles, nodded her head with secret satisfaction, and marched on upstairs to her own study.
“Enter!” said Miss Picolet’s soft voice in answer to Ruth’s timid rap on the panel of the door.
The girl entered and found the little French teacher sewing by the window. Miss Picolet looked up, saw who it was, and welcomed Ruth with a smile.
“I hope you have had a joyful day, Miss Ruth,” she said. “Come to the radiator—you are cold.”
“I am going to run upstairs in a moment, Mademoiselle,” said Ruth, hesitatingly. “But I have a message for you.”
“A message for me?” said the lady, in surprise.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“From the Preceptress, Ruth?”
“No, Miss Picolet. It—it is a letter that has been given me to be handed to you—secretly.”
The Third Girl Detective Page 50
