“Writes letters an’ reads the ones he gits, I guess. He don’t let me go to his office.”
“Does he get many letters, then?”
“Heaps an’ heaps of ‘em. You ask Jim Bennett, who brings the mail bag over from the station ev’ry day.”
“Is Jim Bennett the postman?”
“His wife is. Jim lugs the mail ‘tween the station an’ his own house — that’s the little white house next the church — where his wife, who’s deef-’n’-dumb, runs the postoffice. I know Jim. He says there’s ‘bout six letters a year for the farmers ‘round here, an’ ‘bout one a week for Sol Jerrems — which is mostly bills — an’ all the rest belongs to Ol’ Swallertail.”
Mary Louise was puzzled.
“Has he a business, then?” she asked.
“Not as anybody knows of.”
“But why does he receive and answer so many letters?”
“Ye’ll hev to guess. I’ve guessed, myself; but what’s the use? If he was as stingy of postage stamps as he is of pork an’ oatmeal, he wouldn’t send a letter a year.”
Mary Louise scented 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 sence I’ve knowed him.”
“Really,” said Mary Louise, “it is perplexing.”
Ingua nodded. She was feeling quite happy after her lunch and 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 Ingua might confide anything, almost; and, while she was not fully aware of that fact just now, she said impulsively:
“Without tellin’ what’d cost me my life, or lettin’ anybody know what’s become of Ned Joselyn, I’ll say they was money — lots o’ money! — passed atween him an’ ol’ Swallertail. Sometimes the heap went to one, an’ sometimes to the other; I seen it with my own eyes, when Gran’dad didn’t know I was spyin’. But it didn’t stick to either one, for Ned was — ” She stopped short, then continued more slowly: “When Ned dis’peared, he’d spent all his own an’ his wife’s money, an’ Ol’ Swallertail ain’t got enough t’ live decent.”
“Are you sure of that, Ingua?”
“N-o, I ain’t sure o’ noth’n. But he don’t spend no money, does he?”
“For stamps,” Mary Louise reminded her.
Then 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 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 quite a period of silence Mary Louise asked gently:
“Did you like Mr. Joselyn, 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 was goin’ good with him. Once, Mary Louise, he kissed me, an’ never wiped off his mouth afterwards! Y-e-s, I liked Ned, ‘ceptin’ when — ” Another break. “I thought Ned was a pretty decent gink.”
“Where did you learn all your slang, dear?”
“What’s slang?”
“Calling a man a ‘gink,’ and words like that.”
“
Oh. Marm was full o’ them words,” she replied with an air of 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, yit, afore I’m a lady, so I guess I’ll talk like Marm did. Marm weren’t a real lady, to my mind, though she claimed she’d show anybody that said she wasn’t. Real ladies don’t leave the’r kids in the clutches of Ol’ Swallertails.”
Mary Louise did not think it wise to criticize the unknown Mrs. Scammel or to allow the woman’s small daughter to do so. So she changed the subject to more pleasant and interesting topics and the afternoon wore speedily away.
Finally Ingua jumped up and said:
“I gotta go. If Gran’dad don’t find supper ready there’ll be another rumpus, an’ 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 ain’t one o’ them tramps that wants food pushed at ‘em 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. Cragg 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. Joselyn and Mr. Cragg, were confided by Mary Louise to her Gran’pa Jim that evening, while the old Colonel listened with grave interest.
“I’m sure there is 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. Joselyn 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. Cragg still writing scores of letters and getting bags full of replies? I don’t believe that business deal — whatever it was — is ended, by any means. I think that Ned Joselyn and Old Swallowtail 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, Gran’pa 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 confessed, “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, Gran’pa 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, ungoverned 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 right them. The United States Government employs special officers for such duties.”
Mary Louise was a bit nettled, 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. Gran’pa Jim was not acquainted with Ingua Scammel 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 Swallowtail” and to Ingua. At length she laid down her book and said:
“Gran’pa, 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. Cragg.”
“I want to save Ingua, 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 won 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, Gran’pa 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’ve scented 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’re 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. Gran’pa 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 Burrows.
Gran’pa Jim read this note and approved it, so next morning Mary Louise walked to the village and deposited it in the postoffice, which located in the front room of Jim Bennett’s little residence and was delightfully primitive. Jim was “jus’ makin’ up the mail bag,” 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 talent; at least her fond parent 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 shrewd 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 Ingua as she could and trying to cement the growing friendship between them. Ingua 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 Ingua one day, in confidential mood, “I haven’t had the devils since that time I started to run away and you stopped me? P’r’aps it’s because I’m not as hungry as I used to be; but, anyhow, I’m glad I stayed. Gran’dad’s been good, too, ‘though he’s got the ‘wakes’ ag’in.”
“What are the ‘wakes’?” asked Mary Louise.
“Can’t sleep nights. Goes t’ bed on time, ye know, but gits up ag’in an’ dresses himself an’ walks.”
“In the house?”
“No, walks out o’ doors. Sometimes he’ll come in at jes’ daylight; sometimes not till break-fas’ is ready.”
“And doesn’t that make him cross, Ingua?”
“Not a bit. It seems to chirk him up. Yist’day mornin’, when he come in, he was feelin’ so chipper he give me a cent, an’ told me to buy somethin’ useful. I guess that’s the first cent he ever give me. I’ve took money o’ his’n, but he never give me none afore.”
“Oh, Ingua! I hope you haven’t stolen money?”
“Nope. Jes’ took it. It ain’t easy, ‘cause he knows ev’ry cent he’s got, an’ it ain’t often he leaves it where I kin git it. P’r’aps he knows it’s me, but when I lie out of it he can’t do noth’n’ but growl — an’ growlin’ 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. Ingua 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 an’ then. He wouldn’t stan’ for losin’ any more, ye see. P’r’aps, altogether, I’ve swiped twenty-five cents. But once Ned Joselyn give me a dollar, an’ Ol’ Swallertail knowed it, an’ made me give it to him to save for me. That were the last I ever saw o’ that dollar, Mary Louise, so I ain’t even with Gran’dad yet.”
“Do you think,” remarked Mary Louise, “there is ever any excuse for stealing?”
The girl stared at her, coloring slightly.
“Do ye mean Gran’dad, er me?”
“I mean you. He didn’t steal your dollar, dear; he merely took it so you wouldn’t spend it foolishly.”
“An’ I merely took them nickels so’s I could, spend ‘em foolish. There’s no fun in spendin’ money, seems to me, unless you squander it reckless. That’s what I done with them nickels. Candy an’ chewin’ gum tastes better when you know it’s swiped.”
Mary Louise sighed. It was so hard to show little Ingua the error of her ways.
“As fer stealin’ — out an’ out stealin’,” continued the girl, with a proud toss of her head, “we Craggs ain’t never took noth’n’ that don’t belong to us from nobody. What a Cragg takes from a Cragg is a Cragg’s business, an’ when we takes someth’n’ from somebody else I’ll ask ye to tell me ‘bout it.”
“Where are you going, Ingua?”
“Home.”
“You’re not offended, I hope.”
“No, but I got work to do. I ain’t done my breakfas’ 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 code of honor was a peculiar one. Her pride in the Craggs 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 clear consciences slumbered. There must be some powerful reason to account for the old man’s deserting his bed in this manner. What could it be?
When she walked over to the postoffice 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 a rest, so I’m coming. To-morrow — by the train to Chargrove. The mystery you hint at will help me to rest. Dad 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 forever. 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 while I’m working on a mystery; it wouldn’t do at all. Explain this to dear old Gran’pa Jim.
Between the receipt of this script and to-morrow’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 Swallowtail may be, Josie is sure to solve it.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE RED-HEADED GIRL
Sol Jerrems 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.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 585
