The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Julia K. Duncan

  After a long time Mr. Riboux, followed by Jack and Ormand, crossed the yard, and she ran downstairs hoping for news. Her brother merely shook his head gravely when they met in the kitchen where Mrs. Riboux was making coffee and setting out a lunch for the men who were still in the woods. One by one they straggled in, reporting no luck at all.

  Desiré’s own acute distress was increased every time she looked at Jack’s stern, set face. Well she knew by the deep lines between his eyes that he was blaming himself for Priscilla’s disappearance.

  Although it had been a great relief to have René sleep through the first excitement, now it was a distinct pleasure to hear his voice from upstairs and be able to run up and see what he wanted. At least it provided something to do.

  “I’m coming,” called Desiré, stopping in her room to get a lamp.

  “Don’t want you,” replied René rudely, as she entered. “Want Prissy. She was going to catch the mouse,” he added.

  “The mouse,” repeated his sister in bewilderment, feeling his head to see if he were feverish.

  “Yes,” said the little boy, jerking fretfully away from her and pointing to the corner behind the bed.

  There lay Priscilla, curled up on the floor, fast asleep, with Polly, the big grey house cat, clasped tightly in her arms. The animal blinked at the light and uttered a loud “Me-o-w!”

  Desiré, together with Jack who had by that time followed her, stood speechless, looking down at the sleeping child.

  “I want to know if she caught that mouse,” demanded René in positive tones.

  At that moment Priscilla, aroused by the sound of voices, opened her eyes, a bit bewildered by the sudden awakening. She looked blankly from one to another, her gaze finally centering on Jack’s face.

  “I didn’t disobey you,” she said. “René called me because he was frightened of a mouse. You said I might leave the room if he wanted anything.”

  “But what are you doing down here on the floor, darling?” asked Desiré softly; for Jack could not speak.

  “I got Polly and sat down here by the mouse’s hole so’s she could catch him when he came out again; and we all kept so quiet I guess we went to sleep.”

  Jack picked the little girl up, carried her to the room across the hall, and held her close for a moment before laying her on the bed.

  “Both of you get to sleep as soon as you can,” he directed. “I’ll go down and tell the family she’s found.”

  “Is Jack angry at me?” inquired Priscilla, sleepily.

  “Not a bit, dear. We thought you were lost. Everybody has been looking all over for you, out in the barn, in the woods, and—”

  “And here I was all the time,” giggled the child, wholly unconscious of having been the cause of great anxiety and effort.

  Along the shore, the next morning, as the Wistmores started out after parting reluctantly with the Riboux family, were hundreds of gulls looking for food, and the air was filled with their harsh croaking cries. Out on the blue waters floated others, at rest on the ripples. In the meadows herds of black and white cows wandered about, cropping the grass heavy with dew, their bells tinkling constantly as they sought for choicer tidbits.

  “Before we get to Saulnierville we make our first stop,” said Desiré, consulting the list she had taken from Jack’s pocket.

  “We’ll be there shortly.”

  “Oh, I hope we sell just lots of stuff!” cried Priscilla, who was quite herself again.

  “Yes, lots of stuff,” echoed René, grabbing Jack around the neck.

  “Don’t choke brother,” laughed Desiré, loosening the embracing arms.

  Before many minutes passed, they came in sight of a small grey house. An immense grey barn stood behind it, its double doors freshly painted a brilliant red. The farm was enclosed by a grey fence with double gates of pure white.

  “Why don’t the gates and the doors match, I wonder,” remarked Priscilla, who had an eye for color combinations.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied Jack, bringing the wagon to a stop before a path bordered with clam shells. The path led up to the front door, and another row of clam shells surrounded the house, which was built, like so many others in Nova Scotia, with overlapped shingles on one side and clapboards on the other three.

  “Let the youngsters run about a bit while I go in,” directed Jack, preparing to climb over the wheel.

  At this moment the sound of galloping horses on the road over which they had just come made everyone turn; and they saw another wagon, the counterpart of their own, swaying crazily from side to side as the driver urged on his excited animals.

  “Runaway!” squealed René delightedly.

  “They’ll hit us!” shrieked Priscilla.

  Jack deftly pushed off the road into a field, and jumped from the wagon ready to be of assistance. His keen eye saw at once, however, that the approaching team was not out of control. As soon as it came abreast of the Wistmore “store” the driver pulled up with a suddenness which threw the animals on their haunches; and, leaping from his seat, he faced Jack belligerently.

  CHAPTER VIII

  A FIGHT

  “My territory!” growled the man, motioning toward the house. “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re mistaken,” responded Jack quickly. “I have old Simon’s entire route, and this is the first stop on the list he gave me.”

  “It may have been his, but it ain’t goin’ to be yours!”

  “And who is going to prevent me?” inquired Jack, in even, quiet tones which Desiré knew meant that he was working hard to keep his temper under control.

  “I am. I made up my mind soon as I heard the old man was sick, that I would take this route; and nobody’s goin’ to stop me. Least of all, you,” he added, looking Jack’s slender form up and down contemptuously.

  “You great—big—” began Priscilla excitedly.

  “Be quiet, Prissy,” said her brother. “You and the others stand over there beside the wagon.”

  As he spoke, he started in the direction of the farmhouse. Like a flash the thick-set figure was in his pathway.

  “No, you don’t!” he sneered.

  The two measured each other silently for a moment, standing as motionless as dogs in that last tense moment just before they spring.

  Jack put out his foot to advance, and his opponent was upon him. They fell heavily to the ground, the stranger on top.

  “He’ll kill him!” sobbed Priscilla, while René added his wails to hers.

  “Don’t kill Jack!” he cried.

  “Hush!” pleaded Desiré, her eyes wide with fright. “Say a prayer that Jack will come out all right.”

  The terrified little group watched the two adversaries roll over and over, pounding, grappling, struggling. Then Jack, with a quick twist, loosened the grasp of the other and sprang to his feet. With surprising swiftness, for a man so heavy, the enemy also righted himself and again leaped upon Jack. Back and forth they swayed, locked in a close embrace, each trying desperately to keep his own footing and trip the other. At times they stood stock still waiting to get breath and strength for a renewal of the contest. Then it began all over again.

  Finally Jack succeeded in twisting one of his long legs quickly around one of his adversary’s, thereby throwing him heavily to the ground. With a leap, Jack was astride of him, pinning his arms to the earth. The man tried to roll sufficiently to throw him off, but Jack was too well placed to allow him very much motion. Weight, anger, and unskilled methods had worked against him; now Jack had complete advantage.

  “Shall I give you what you deserve?” demanded Jack, after a moment’s pause.

  “Nough!” muttered the man sullenly.

  “Get off this route, then, and stay off of it; or next time—” threatened Jack, getting up. “Turn that team right around, and go back to Yarmouth, or wherever you come from!”

  Slowly, keeping one eye on Jack the while, he obeyed. As soon as he was on the way, Desiré and t
he children ran toward their brother.

  “Oh, Jack, aren’t you hurt somewhere?” demanded Desiré anxiously.

  “Only a few bruises and scratches, thank God!” was the grateful response. “I kept wondering what you would do, poor child, if I were smashed up.”

  After a good brushing, and “first-aid” treatment of his scratches, Jack pronounced himself as good as new.

  “Children,” said Desiré, “we begged so hard for Jack’s safety. We mustn’t fail to say ‘Thank You’ for what we received. Let’s each say a little prayer of thanksgiving right now.”

  After a moment of silence they again turned their attention to the business in hand. Desiré and the children stayed with the wagon, while Jack started once more toward the house.

  At his knock, the inner door opened, a woman’s head showed behind the glass of the storm door, and then the outer door was pushed back. Almost every dwelling, no matter how small and unpretentious, has its storm door, and usually these are left on all summer.

  “I’m taking old Simon’s route this summer,” began Jack, using the words he was to repeat so many times that season; “and I called to see if you need anything.”

  “Yes, I do,” answered the plump little woman in the doorway, her black eyes busily inspecting Jack, and traveling rapidly to the wagon, the girl, and the children on the road. “I’m all out of thread, crackers, kerosene, and—what else was it? Oh, yes, shoe laces. Where’s old Simon? I’ve been watching out for him for three weeks.”

  “Sick, in Yarmouth,” replied Jack, turning to go to the wagon to fill her order. The woman followed him.

  “This your wife?” she asked, curiously staring at Desiré.

  Jack flushed.

  “No, my sister; and that is another sister, and my kid brother,” he replied, talking more rapidly than usual to hold the woman’s attention; for Desiré, overcome by laughter, had walked a few steps down the road to recover her composure.

  “Where are your folks!”

  “Dead,” was the brief reply.

  “Now that’s too bad! You so young, and with three youngsters to keep. Dear! Dear!”

  Desiré returned just in time to hear the last remarks, and her face twitched so in her efforts to control it that Jack himself had to bury his head in the depths of the wagon while he looked for the cracker boxes.

  “Come up to the house with me when this young man carries my things in,” she said to Desiré, taking her by the arm. As if she were indeed a child, she led her along the path to the doorstep.

  “Set here,” she directed; and disappeared into the house.

  “Ready?” asked Jack, when he came out.

  “I don’t know. I was told to ‘set here’; and here I ‘set,’” whispered Desiré.

  At that moment the woman returned with a pasteboard box which she thrust into Desiré’s hands.

  “Here’s a few cookies for your dinner. They always taste good to children, I guess.”

  “Oh, thank you so much. I’m sure we’ll enjoy them,” responded the girl.

  “Stop every time you come around,” called the odd little woman, as they closed the gate behind them.

  CHAPTER IX

  IN CAMP

  “Well, our first sale wasn’t so bad,” observed Desiré, as they drove away. “But wasn’t she funny?”

  “I thought you were going to disgrace us,” said Jack, smiling. “If you can’t behave any better than that, I’ll have to leave you beside the road somewhere and pick you up later.”

  “Oh—o—o!” shrieked René.

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Jack, turning to look at the small boy behind him.

  “Don’t want Dissy left anywhere! Want her with us!”

  “Jack’s only fooling, darling; don’t cry,” consoled Desiré, reaching back over the seat to pet the little boy.

  Peace and quiet having been restored, they jogged along the sunshiny road, and soon were abreast of St. Mary’s Bay, where flecks of white were dancing over the blue surface.

  “White caps,” observed Desiré. “Fundy must be rough today.”

  “Those are gulls,” corrected Jack, “at least so the Indians used to believe. The Spirit of the Sea was so fond of the birds that he caught a lot one day and, with a long string, tied their legs together. He keeps them down in his house under the water, and at times he lets the gulls come up to swim on the top of the water for air and exercise.”

  “Why don’t they fly away then? I would!” asserted René, big-eyed with interest.

  “Because the Spirit holds fast to the string, and when he thinks they’ve been out long enough, he pulls them all down under the water again.”

  Between Saulnierville and Little Brook they made several stops and substantial sales. The picnic dinner which good Mrs. Riboux had insisted upon packing for them, they ate beside a shady stream in which many little fish darted about among the weeds. René insisted upon trying to catch some with his hands, but succeeded only in getting his clothing so splashed that Desiré had to stand him out in the sun to dry before they could continue on their way.

  “There’s Church Point,” cried Desiré, later in the afternoon, pointing to the skyline ahead, where a tall spire topped with a cross rose proudly against the blue.

  “How happy the sailors must be when they first catch sight of that point,” mused Jack.

  “Why?” asked Priscilla.

  “Because the spire can be seen for many miles out at sea, and the sailors use it as a guide.”

  The shadows were getting long, and the air was much cooler by the time they drove into the little town. On St. Mary’s Bay several fishing boats had already been anchored near the sands, and farther out on the gilded water others were heading for the shore. Over the slight rise near the church they drove, and in and out among the ox teams and lines of slow-moving cows.

  “Everybody’s goin’ home but us,” remarked René rather plaintively, making the tears spring to Desiré’s eyes, while the lines of Jack’s mouth became even more stern.

  “Silly!” observed Priscilla. “We are home. Home’s where Jack and Desiré are.”

  Desiré smiled up at Jack, and leaned back to squeeze her little sister’s arm.

  “Shall we try to make our sales before supper, and then camp outside of town?” asked Jack; “or shall we eat, and then sell afterwards.”

  “Sell first. Work before pleasure,” Desiré decided promptly.

  At a house far beyond the church they came to a halt, and Desiré leaned from the wagon to call to a small boy in blue overalls, who sat on the gate watching them—“Tell your mother that old Simon’s wagon is here, please, and ask her if she wants anything.”

  Without a word the little fellow slid down and ran into the house. Almost immediately a tall, loose-jointed man, whose resemblance to the child was marked, came out and crossed the yard.

  “The missus is sick,” he explained, “but I know what she wants. She’s been talkin’ of nothin’ else for days. Buttons, five yards of calico, a pencil for the boy, and a few pounds of sugar. Got old Simon’s route for good?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s sick in Yarmouth now.”

  “So? That’s too bad. Are you going on up the Bay?”

  “Expect to,” replied Jack, giving the man his purchases and counting out change.

  “When you get to Digby would you tell the lady in the knickknack store that I’ll sell her the pitcher?”

  “Glad to, if you’ll tell me how to find her.”

  “Her store is the first one of its kind that you’ll pass. She catches all the tourists by a window full of trash, and a sign ‘Souvenir Shoppe’ or something like that. She was out here a few weeks ago looking for stuff, and wanted that pitcher, but the wife didn’t want to sell it then. Since she’s been sick, though, she’s more concerned about money than about old pitchers.”

  After several more stops, most of which resulted in sales, Jack pulled off of the main road into a balsam grove, just before dusk.
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  “You children scamper around and find some dried wood for a fire,” he directed, swinging René down, and going to unharness the horses.

  “Do you intend to build a fire in here, Jack?” asked Desiré doubtfully.

  “No, on the sand across the road. Take some bacon and whatever else you need from the stock while I feed Dapple and Dolly.”

  By the time he had made several trips with great armfuls of grass which he had pulled for the animals, Desiré had gathered together her supplies, and with the children’s help made a fire on the beach and set out their supper. When Jack appeared, he took charge of the frying of the bacon himself.

  “Isn’t this fun?” demanded Priscilla every few minutes. “Just like a picnic; and lots nicer than eating in a house.”

  “Lots nicer,” echoed René, adding, “Now tell me a story.”

  “Oliver Owl’s mother had told him again and again that he must not go anywhere near the big cave where the wicked witch Gamona lived,” began Jack slowly; “but Oliver was getting so big and strong that he thought he knew how to take care of himself. He had never seen the old woman, of whom all the forest folks spoke in whispers. So, early one evening, his curiosity got the better of him; and while his mother was making the beds—”

  “Jack!” interrupted Priscilla, patronizingly, “people don’t make beds at night!”

  “The owls do,” he replied gravely, “because they sleep in them all day and go out only at night. Around the big home tree he fluttered carelessly a while; then, suddenly, off like a shot toward a big pile of rocks whose top he could just see. Not a soul did he meet when he reached them, not a sound did he hear except the murmuring of a little breeze in the very top of the pines. So fast had he hurried that he was a very tired bird, and besides the aching of his wings he felt just a little bit doubtful about what would happen to him when he got home. So he alighted on the very highest rock of the big pile to rest, and decided how he would explain his absence to his mother. Hardly had he settled himself comfortably when a huge claw-like hand shot up from below him and grabbed his feet—”

  “Oh!” squealed René.