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

by Julia K. Duncan

  “Going back to college?” he asked, looking first at Hazel and then at Patricia, who had just slipped out of her seat.

  “Yes,” replied Patricia briefly, when Hazel did not respond.

  “So am I. Guess I’ll walk along with you, if you don’t mind,” continued the boy, following them out of the shop.

  Once on the street, he began to talk about the Greystone game.

  “There’s a lot of money up on that game,” he remarked. “Not only among the students, but also among the townsfolk. Greystone has a player almost as famous as our Dunn, and the betting between the two factions is heavy. If Dunn were to be out of the game for any reason—”

  “What would be likely to keep him out?” inquired Hazel sharply, while Patricia listened breathlessly.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” laughed Norman; “probably nothing at all. I was only mentioning an improbable chance of such a thing. But, if he were, the Greystone supporters would be in line to win a heap of dough.”

  “What kind of a place is Greystone?” asked Hazel.

  “About the size of Granard. People of the town are just as loyal to their college as we are here. Maybe a little rougher crowd than ours.”

  “Do you think Tut Miller has any chance of being put in for part of the game?” asked Patricia anxiously, the conversation of the morning recurring to her.

  “How should I know?” questioned the boy, looking straight into Patricia’s eyes with a peculiar, twisted smile.

  “You must know all the gridiron gossip,” asserted Hazel.

  “Why should I? I’m neither coach nor manager.”

  “No, but you watch practice a lot,” said Patricia before Hazel could reply.

  “How do you know?” he inquired curtly.

  Patricia laughed. “Did you ever know anything to be kept quiet in a college community?”

  Norman looked searchingly at her for a moment, then replied gravely: “Yes, a few things.”

  They had reached Clinton Hall by that time, and the girls left Norman at the steps with a hasty “We’re going in here. Goodbye.”

  “Pat!” gasped Hazel, clasping the other girl’s arm in a frenzied grasp as they hurried along the hall toward their classroom. “Do you suppose he heard what we were talking about at lunch? He was evidently in the stall next to us, all the time.”

  “I hardly think so. We were talking very low,” replied Patricia kindly, pressing Hazel’s cold fingers.

  “He acted very funny, I thought,” chattered Hazel, trying to control the nervous chills which shook her.

  “Pull yourself together,” ordered Patricia sternly. “If he did, we can’t change it by getting wrought up over it; but I think we’ll just take it for granted that he didn’t. Don’t worry,” she added, as they entered Professor Donnell’s classroom.

  Patricia gave good advice to others, but during the class which followed, her mind dwelt persistently and anxiously on Norman’s reference to Jack’s possibly being out of the game. Had Joe some secret influence which might, at the last minute, result in Tut getting his chance? Did Norman have some inside information? Or was his supposition as casual as he tried to make it sound. Ought she to tell Jack, or would that tend to make things worse?

  “Mademoiselle Randall,” Professor Donnell’s smooth voice broke into her reveries, “de quoi avons nous lu?”

  “De foot balle,” replied Patricia promptly; then realized, too late, what an absurd reply she had made.

  Everybody laughed and turned around to look at her. Crimson with embarrassment, Patricia slid as low in her seat as she could, without landing on the floor.

  “Ce n’est pas etrange,” Professor Donnell smiled his oily smile as he passed a long white hand over his star-like hair. “Tout le monde parle, et pense, et entende ne que de footballe.”

  CHAPTER IX

  A TOUGH PROPOSITION

  “Now, boys,” said Coach Tyler on Friday afternoon, at the close of a meeting of the football team, “take the rest of the day off.”

  Tyler did not believe in working a team up to the very last minute, and never had his men on the field the day before a big game.

  “Take things easy,” he went on. “Drop football out of your minds and conversation. Stay out of doors as much as possible. Don’t do anything exciting, and get to bed early. The train leaves South Street Station at 8:30, and I want you here in the gym at eight sharp!”

  “Let’s go for a little spin,” suggested Tut Miller to Jack Dunn as they strolled out onto the campus. “It’s only half past one. Tyler is certainly getting big-hearted.”

  “I’ve got a paper to write for—” began Jack.

  “Oh, come on!” urged Tut, dragging him toward a yellow roadster parked on the drive. “You’ll have plenty of time to do that later. Some friends of mine want to meet you.”

  Reluctantly Jack got into the car, wondering a little at the unusual request. Tut settled himself in the driver’s seat, quickly swung the machine out onto Grover Road, and headed for the country. Jack had never been very chummy with this big blond Soph with the protruding jaw and narrowed eyes which looked at you speculatively, as if you were a bug under a microscope. He was always friendly, almost too friendly; one sometimes wondered if he were laughing scornfully, away down inside of him.

  Neither boy spoke until they had turned onto Route 8, one very little traveled at that hour of the day; then Tut began smoothly: “These friends of mine live about ten miles out on this road; some fellows I knew in prep school. They’re awfully keen on football, and like to be able to say they’ve met this or that celebrity. Been at me for some time to bring you out. They run a big roadside stand; have several cabins, and I guess they’re making a pretty good thing of it; always have plenty of dough to spend.”

  Jack, for all his popularity, was a modest fellow and hated being shown off. If he had known where they were going, he would have managed to evade the trip; but Tut had trapped him, fairly and squarely. Nothing for it now but to get the meeting over with as quickly as possible.

  Tut drove rapidly, and before long drew up at a tourist camp in a grove some feet back from the road. Three fellows a little older than the Granard boys came out to greet them. They were husky, finely built individuals, all with bright red hair, blue eyes, and a strong family resemblance.

  “The Holm brothers,” said Tut, with a wave of his hand. “I don’t need to tell you boys who this is!” slapping Jack on the back. “Everybody knows him, at least by sight.”

  “Mighty glad to meet you,” said each in turn, as he grasped Jack’s hand in a vise-like grip.

  The five stood for a few minutes talking of various unimportant matters; then Seldon, the oldest Holm, proposed showing Jack around the place.

  “Some of our cabins are pretty nice,” he said; “and farther back in the grove there is a stream beside which we have built ovens and tables.”

  Bernard, the second brother, promptly moved to their side as Jack murmured a polite assent to the proposal.

  “I’ll stay here with Vin,” said Tut, “and help keep store.”

  After Seldon and Bernard had proudly displayed their property, of which Jack was able to approve quite honestly, they stopped for a moment at a rustic bridge which led back from the picnic grounds to a deep woods.

  “We’ve a proposition to make to you, Dunn,” began Seldon abruptly, “somewhat of a surprise to you, and probably not a very agreeable one; but just keep cool and think it over a bit before you decide. Briefly, it’s this: we Huron Prep fellows always hang together, and let nothing stand in the way of promoting the welfare and reputation of our school. We want Tut to have his big chance in the Greystone game. Now, what will you take to stay out of it?”

  For a fleeting second, Jack’s impulse was to knock the fellow over into the stream below; but some more cautious instinct immediately urged upon him the wisdom of proceeding carefully.

  “Well,” began Jack, as slowly as his fast-beating heart would allow, “naturally, since I’
ve never given a thought to such a question, I’m not prepared to answer it on the spur of the moment.”

  “Take your time,” urged Bernard, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

  Jack’s brain fairly raced. If he refused, since they strongly outnumbered him, they could readily keep him a prisoner until after the game. Yet to accept was definitely out of the question; he’d be just a plain cur to take a bribe. How could he get away from them without either definitely accepting or refusing? That seemed to be his only chance. What an easy mark he had been!

  “How long am I to have to decide?” he asked, finally.

  “Until Tut’s ready to go back,” replied Seldon, who, leaning against a big oak tree, was watching Jack closely.

  “Let’s go back to where the others are,” suggested Jack; “I’d like to talk to Tut before I decide.”

  “No objection to that, I guess,” replied Bernard, looking at his brother. Not a chance of this fellow getting away when there were four of them to prevent such a contingency. Much better for Dunn to accept the bribe (for that meant Tut would have his place for the next two years, as well as at the Greystone game) than it would be to have to keep him prisoner until after Saturday. Why had the fellows urged Tut’s being helped with his course at Granard except so that Huron could have a representative on the big team? Tut had played mighty good football at prep school, but this upstart kept him from his rightful place here. Pity they hadn’t gotten rid of him before. It took the Greystone game to wake them all up. The Greystone supporters would be glad to see Dunn out of the game; they didn’t know how good Tut was.

  “Now let’s get down to business,” said Seldon briskly, when they joined the others who were standing at the edge of the grove. “Tut, Dunn wants to talk over the proposition with you before he decides.”

  Jack managed to get on the outside of the group, from which point he had a straight and unobstructed path to the yellow car which was parked at the farthest point of the Holm property and headed toward Granard. Tut must have turned it around so as to be ready for a quick get-away if necessary. The Holms probably had a car; but it was not in sight. Wherever they kept it, it would take at least a few minutes to get it started and out. True, Tut could have him arrested for going off with his car, but he’d have to run the risk.

  “Well,” Tut was saying, “spill it!”

  “If I should decide to take the money, how would you explain my absence?”

  “We thought you’d play up sick, and just stay at home,” put in Seldon.

  “That would be sheer foolishness,” retorted Jack. “Tyler would send Doc to examine me, and he’d find me perfectly O. K. How would it do for me to go to Greystone, just as if nothing had happened, and start the game; then get hurt and have you put in in my place?”

  “That would seem more natural,” answered Tut, looking at Seldon for approval; but that sturdy individual frowned.

  “How could you fake that any better than being sick before you went?” he growled.

  “Just this way. I’d make a run, stumble, fall, and lie still on the field. When they picked me up, I’d go limp and not be able to stand at all. I could fool anybody who’d never seen me do it before. Let me show you what I mean, and then see if you don’t think it would work out perfectly. When I fall, you come and try to stand me up, Tut.”

  Jack looked questioningly at the Holms for permission to stage his act.

  “Go ahead,” replied Seldon curtly.

  Instead of making directly for the yellow roadster, as he had intended, Jack cleverly ran about a bit, close enough to the others for them to have been able to seize him any moment they chose.

  “This is just warming up a bit,” he said, smiling, as he passed the group for the second time. “In a minute or two I’ll put on my act.”

  Jack sensed, rather than saw, that the tenseness with which they had watched his start relaxed somewhat as he continued to warm up. Then like a catapult he hurled himself forward and sprinted to the car. With a bound he was in the driver’s seat, the ignition was on, the clutch was thrown in, the car shot out onto the road. Wild shouts from those left behind.

  Jack realized that it would be foolhardy to stay on Route 8; so at the first crossroad he turned off into a road which he thought would bring him out at Portersville, a suburb of Granard. The road was a winding one, but he made good time and met no other cars. He kept close watch in the mirror for his pursuers, but the road behind him basked quietly in the afternoon sunshine.

  Just as he turned into the road leading into Portersville, a stretch of heavily wooded highway, he saw a big blue car coming toward him. In it were four big fellows wearing blue and green ribbons in their buttonholes—Greystone colors. All this, Jack took in at a glance as he sped onward. The blue car slowed down, turned around, stopped for a moment, then came on with a burst of speed, passed him and swung sharply across the road, directly in his path. It was so unexpected that Jack had to jam on the brakes suddenly to avoid crashing into the larger car.

  “What—” he began angrily, when he noticed that the three individuals who had tumbled out of the car and were coming toward him had handkerchiefs tied over the lower part of their faces.

  “A hold-up!” thought Jack. “Foolhardy to try to resist them.”

  Without a word they seized him, dragged him out of the yellow roadster, then two of them hurried him over to the blue car while the third moved the smaller car over onto the shoulder. A blindfold was tied tightly over Jack’s eyes, he was tumbled into the tonneau, and the big car started off for—somewhere.

  CHAPTER X

  JACK IN DANGER

  At first Jack was too stunned by the suddenness of the transfer to talk, but after a few dizzy miles, he began:

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Shut up!” ordered a harsh voice, accompanied by a dig in the ribs; and he shut up.

  Not a word did any of his captors exchange, and mile after mile whirled by in utter silence. Where he might be, he had no idea whatever. After endless eons, so it seemed to Jack, the car began to move more slowly and wind about, then came to a sudden stop.

  He was hustled out, run across some gravel, up a few steps. A door slammed, footsteps on stone, then up stairs, and stairs, and more stairs. A key turned protestingly. A door creaked; there was a blast of cool air; he was pushed into some place. Then the door closed, and the key grated a second time. The sound of footsteps on stairs sounded more and more faintly; then silence, broken only by a peculiar grating sound from somewhere above him.

  Where could he be?

  Pulling the bandage from his eyes he discovered that he was in a small square room with slatted walls. It looked like a belfry. Yes, there was a great bell just above his head, almost touching it. If that mass of metal ever moved, it would put him out of business in short order all right. What tower was this anyhow? He tried to peer out between the slats. The only object within his narrow range of vision was the framework of some new building. What big structure was going up now in town, or nearby? He tried hard to think, but he still felt a little dazed. How stupid! Who knew where he was now? They had been riding for a long time; he might be miles and miles from Granard. Still, there was something annoyingly familiar about that naked, orange-colored framework out there, with the big 0032 in black on the top girder. Again he peered at it. It must be—it was! The new forestry building at the University! Then this was the tower of the old chapel. His captors had evidently entered the campus from the alley gate at the back, where no one would be likely to see them. That accounted for the gravel they had crossed. They had driven for miles, first, to throw him off. But how strange of the gang to have brought him here! Who were they, and what was their game anyhow?

  Game? Ah, that must be it! He remembered now; there was a lot of money up on the Greystone struggle, not only on the campus but even in the town; and if he were out of the contest, Granard stood to lose—so it was said. Evidently those fellows were Greystone supporters. He remembered
now they had worn Greystone colors. Darned clever of them to put him where he would have no evidence, when he got out, and where no one would ever think to look for him.

  But how to get out; that was the question.

  “Good thing it’s not Sunday, for that big fellow to knock me out!” he thought, looking up at the bell. A horrible thought came to him. The boys were going to have a rouser that night; everybody out in front of the gym before dinner for songs and speeches. They’d ring that bell to call the students together; and the janitor pulled the rope from a little room at the foot of the stairs! What time was it now? Glancing at his wrist he was shocked to find it bare. Where was his watch? Must have come unfastened in the car.

  One, two, three, sounded the bell of a clock in the distance. The clock on the college library. Breathlessly, Jack listened. Four. One hour—one little hour of sixty minutes to devise a means of escape. Frantically he shook the door. Only the flutter of wings, as some startled pigeons arose from the roof, answered his plea.

  Panting for breath, he paused; then began to batter the slats of one panel with his fists. They were stout, and withstood the blows of even a husky football player.

  He must keep his head and work rationally. There were only two means of exit: the door and the four slatted windows. Again he shook the door, not wildly, but listening critically. Perhaps he could pick the lock.

  Eagerly he felt in his pockets for his knife and buttonhook. Only a crumpled handkerchief, a pencil, a soft package of butterscotch, and a ball of twine rewarded his efforts. The door was now out of the question. What in heck had become of his knife? Had those fellows purposely stripped him of everything so he couldn’t possibly get out? To do them justice, however, he supposed they didn’t know about the ringing of the bell for the rouser, and probably intended him to be secure until after the game.

  One, two; one, two, chimed the library clock. Four-fifteen! Nothing accomplished yet.

  “If I could get the slats broken, and then lean out of the window and yell for help,” he said, half aloud.

  A squeak on the stairs outside of the door caught his ear. “Wonder if they left a guard around,” he thought. “If I yelled, they would only come in and gag me; and that would make things worse than they are now. My only hope, a forlorn one at that, is to attract the attention of someone in order to let the fellows know where I am, and come to rescue me.”