The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sparrows, by Marie Coolidge-Rask

Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay. Sparrows.
"JEST FER THAT NONE OF YOU KIDS GET ANY SUPPER!"

SPARROWS

CHAPTER I

A CRY FOR HELP

"Huh! He won't hev to. Hit's a goin' all the way. Mollie said so. Hit's more'n two thousand miles from hyer to thar."

Mollie's face, upturned to the blue sky, was pale and tense. From wide, anxious eyes she watched the kite mount higher and higher over the heads of the excited children. Head and shoulders above the tallest she stood, arms outstretched, small, capable hands extended, palms touching, after the manner of suppliants of all ages, and slowly released from between work-worn fingers yard after yard of the long, knotted string which, for the moment, anchored the heaven-bound messenger to its petitioners on earth.

"'Sh!" she warned again, without changing her position nor shifting her gaze from the fluttering kite soaring upward on the wings of the soft breeze that was stirring. "Be quiet, now, all of yo'. I'm goin' ter let go. I reckon hit's high enough. Yo' all mind the pra'rs I learnt yo'. This kite's jest nachully flyin' straight up ter God. When He gits hit, He'll shore do somethin'. Yo' all jest hol' your mouths now an' watch hit go."

Away from the restraining hold of the small hands fluttered the slender cord. With a swiftness and directness that made the watchers gasp, the air-borne message sped on its way. Ten little faces peered expectantly heavenward. Ten childish mouths stood agape as hungrily as those of young birds. Ten pairs of eager, luminous eyes stared after the kite as it receded into the great, unknown spaces of the air. With bated breath Mollie herself watched until the kite became a tiny speck in the distance and finally disappeared from even her keen range of vision.

Somewhere the sun was shining. Its rays did not penetrate the gloom which surrounded that pitiful band of innocents with age-old faces and tattered clothes. Behind them spread a miserable little vegetable patch. Beyond, to the right, were the outlines of a ramshackle barn, decrepit out-buildings and a wretched apology for a house. Above loomed tall, gnarled trees, moody and sullen in appearance, their lowering branches frowning down upon the tousled heads now reverently bowed. Directly in front of the little group yawned a morass as sinister and menacing as hell itself, its quaking mud ready to suck into bottomless depths any dead or living creature within reach of its loathsome touch.

The children clustered on its bank knew only too well the awful secrets consigned to those quaking depths. Even little Tommy, the youngest except Baby Amy asleep under a tree, clutched the hand of the child beside him and shivered as he stared, fascinated, upon the ugly black bog while Mollie voiced their prayer:

"Oh, dear God, our first kite was lost. We've sent yo' another. I printed the words on hit big. Yo'll see hit a-comin'. We want help. We want to git away from hyar before Old Grimes puts any more of us in the bog. Oh, God, we're awful hungry. We're hungrier than the sparrows yo' dote on. But they'll git along fer a spell, God. Hit's our turn now. Let us be sparrows. These hyar children need help. That's why we're sendin' yo' the kite. Yo'll find us in the barn or in the veg'table patch. Ef yo' doan find us yo'll know we're daid. We caint git away. So please help us quick. Amen."

A low, plaintive wail sounded as Mollie ceased speaking. She sprang to her feet and ran to the tree under which she had placed the least one of her brood. Little Amy was awake and moaning as only a very sick child can moan. Mollie gathered the tiny sufferer in her arms and did what she could to ease the little one's misery. She realized the uselessness of her efforts. For weeks she had watched Amy slowly wasting away for lack of nourishment. She had listened night and day to her piteous moans. Sometimes it seemed that her own heart would break under the strain of witnessing the grim tragedy about her.

Amy was a year old. She had been a plump, rosy infant when Peter Grimes brought her to the farm. She had two or three pretty frocks and a rattle with an ivory ring. Now her little body was puny and wasted. Her mother would not have recognized the emaciated frame and drawn, pinched features as that of her own offspring. An unnatural intelligence gleamed from the baby's large, pathetic eyes, so mutely eloquent of the tortured, imprisoned soul.

All Mollie's maternal instincts were roused by the suffering of this helpless child. She would not trust the little creature out of her sight.

"There's no telling what Old Grimes mought do," she confided to one of the older children. "He's gone ter town to-day fer ter git the mail. Ef any money comes from Amy's Maw, mebbe he'll let Amy live. Ef he doan git none he'll say she's a-goin' ter die anyhow an' the sooner she's outten the way the more work he'll git outten me. So I'm goin' ter keep her by me. When God starts cycoring I want Amy cycored 'fore any of the rest of us, 'cause she's the miserablest."

So little Amy was carried tenderly to and from the vegetable patch where the children worked daily while she alternately slept and moaned in her grassy bed under the lowering trees. Now, however, there was little time for Mollie's tender ministrations. The vegetable patch demanded her supervision. If Peter Grimes found any fault with the work done by the children they would all be made to suffer.

It had been a terrible task to get the kite made and released without discovery by either Grimes, his shiftless wife or their cruel, sneaking, pig-faced son. Of the three merciless monsters Mollie dreaded the latter the most. One never knew at what moment Ambrose, otherwise "Fat", might come sneaking upon them or what form of cruelty his abnormal mind might devise for their further torment.

Maria Grimes possessed neither the energy nor the intelligence for independent action. She never took the initiative. She merely carried out the commands of her husband and the demands of her ugly, over-grown son. Of those two she stood in as great awe and fear as did the children. Left undisturbed in her slatternly kitchen with her snuff dip and a bottle of corn liquor she became a negligible figure, slow to think and loath to act.

Peter Grimes, himself, sole owner and proprietor as well as instigator of the shameless institution known as Grimes' Hog Farm but which really trafficked in human flesh, was as twisted physically as he was mentally into a repellant, reptilian monster, totally devoid of all human qualities of decency and compassion.

He walked with a sidewise, writhing motion suggestive of the malevolent approach of a giant cobra. This was not due to partial paralysis resultant from an accident as many persons believed, but from a congenital deformity extending to the brain structure and transforming that which might have been human into a diabolical monstrosity. In a more populous section of the country Peter Grimes would have been removed in his youth from contact with normal persons and cared for in an institution. But in the isolated hill country of the south he grew to maturity unsuspected of being a menace to society, though shunned and feared for his cruel acts and taciturn disposition.

His hog farm was not inaugurated until after his common law marriage with Maria Honeycut, whose father owned the land and for years operated a still in the fastnesses of its quagmire protected borders. Old Honeycut had been shot by a revenue officer that he tried to throw into the bog, and the illicit distillery had been destroyed. Maria, the daughter, remained on the premises, working spasmodically in the truck patch and sometimes trudging to town to dispose of vegetables in exchange for sugar, corn-meal and other commodities. Peter Grimes, with the craft of a serpent saw his opportunity. He visited Maria in her lonely abode and told her she needed a man. Maria, dull-witted and fearful, accepted the statement without question and Peter remained. A son was born and they named him Ambrose, the name of the old moonshiner who had sought to throw the revenue officer into the bog.

From the time he could toddle young Ambrose had amused himself by throwing everything he disliked into the bog, as his grandfather had done before him. The child laughed and clapped his hands to see the frantic struggles of bird and animal to escape the suction of that black mire which slowly, steadily pulled them down, down, down into its foul depths until nothing remained on the surface but sluggish ripples of mud, lapping over the spot where the hapless victim passed from sight. It was hellish but young Ambrose laughed. It was hellish but his strange father approved. It was hellish but his mother accepted it as a matter of course. She had seen such things all her life. She supposed it was what bogs were for.

With the advent of young Ambrose the forlorn truck patch became more and more neglected. Peter Grimes was not given to manual labor. Maria was naturally shiftless. They had to live, so Peter sold a hog. The sale gave him an idea. When an expected litter arrived he did not dispose immediately of the young pigs but fed them until they were of a size to bring a better price. Then he affixed a sign to the high gate which effectually shut off all view of the farm from the one precarious roadway leading to its portals. The sign was a piece of shingle with crude lettering in black paint:

"Thet law agin lettin' hawgs run loose in the woods was plumb hard on some folks," Peter remarked to Maria when the sign was finally in place, "but I reckon hit'll do us some good."

"Peaches are powerful good for hawgs," Maria replied with unexpected brilliancy. "Pappy uster tote in great loads of 'em an' our hawgs got plumb fat 'fore killin' time."

"Ef Ambrose was bigger," Maria commenced, then paused at seeing a new expression come over Peter's grim face. It was the dawning of his great idea.

"I'll git yo' a bigger young-un," he exclaimed with more vigor than was his wont. "Hit won't cost nothing ter keep, fer I'll git board money fer keepin' hit an' hit'll work ter pay fer hit's keep."

Very soon after that conversation Peter Grimes took his writhing, ominous way to a near-by city. When he returned, two children accompanied him, one a boy of nine years, the other a tiny girl. That was the beginning of the industry which for years permitted the Grimes household to flourish amid the luxury of idleness and to lay by a snug sum of money for some undefined purpose which even Peter could not explain.

CHAPTER II

IN THE HOME OF THE MONSTER

"For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."—Ps. xci, 11

But the little girl was neither so young nor so untutored as her diminutive size indicated.

"My name is Mollie and I'm six years old, going on seven," she told Maria in clear, precise English. "My Mama went to sleep and did not wake up and a big man came and said he was my Papa. He looked at my Mama and cried. Then lots of folks came and everybody went riding in car'ges. But only my Papa came back. And after while a lady came and my Papa told me to go with her and be a good girl.

"And that lady took me away, way off in a real train. And after we came to a big, big place with lots of seats in it she told me to sit still while she talked to a cross man with a funny mustache. And that man said she was a fool and to give the money to him. And the lady said, 'her Papa will come back.' But the man said, 'Papas who go 'sploring don't come back.'

"Then they talked some more and the lady kept saying, 'but the bank will send it—they'll send it every year as long as she's alive.' And the man said, 'She'll be alive all right.' Then the lady gave him some papers and told me to come along. And we went to a funny house where there was a yellow kitten with white and black spots on it. I liked that kitty. I wanted to stay there. But the lady told me to go with the cross man. And he took me in a car'age for a long ride. And when we got out of the car'age there was another man. This little boy was with him and the little boy was afraid, but I wasn't afraid. The man made me take hold of his other hand and we walked and walked and walked until we came here. Does that man live here? I don't like this place. I want to go home."

Maria stood aghast. Never in her life had she listened to so much conversation at one time. Not half of it percolated her dull wits. Luckily Peter had gone direct to the hog pen, for as yet he was without an assistant in the discharge of his farm duties.

The small boy destined to fill that position stood mutely by the side of his chattering companion while she unfolded the most recent events of her short life. He was a mild-faced, dreamy-eyed lad with a mass of fair hair. How he had fallen into the clutches of Peter Grimes was to him a mystery beyond solution. Though his lips quivered he set his teeth and bravely forced back the tears that welled to his eyes at sight of the bleak, shadow-filled kitchen into which Maria now led them.

With a howl of rage a fat child, twice the size of little Mollie, rose from the floor and struck wildly at the newcomers with his pudgy fists.

"Hyar, yo' Ambrose, quit that," drawled Maria, stretching forth an arm meant to be restraining but which proved no more effectual than a shadow. "This hyar boy an' girl has come ter play with yo'." The howl of rage suddenly changed to a bawl of anguish. Maria gathered her son to her flat bosom. "What is ut, honey," she asked. "Did a bee sting yo'?"

The fat child blubbered something which the mother interpreted as, yes. She sought vainly for the bee.

"Ambrose es only four years old," she explained to the other children. "He's powerful peart fer his age. Yo' young uns better be keerful how yo' all treat him or his paw'll skin yo' alive. G'long now. Set up ter th' table an' eat yore cawn pone. Then yo' better git ter bed es fast es yo' kin."

Mollie tried to repeat it after him and failed. Her little tongue, otherwise fluent, found the strange name so difficult to pronounce that she gave it up.

"There you go, again," Mollie exclaimed, triumphantly pointing her diminutive finger at him. "Can't you say anything without spluttering?"

"Y-y-yes," replied Stephen, hesitatingly, "I-I-I can if folks give me time to think first. But—but when they make me hurry I can't s-s-seem to think quick."

"And I always want people to answer me quick," the little girl declared, adding with uncanny perception of what would be required on the Grimes farm, "and I reckon you'll have to answer quick here when he and she ask you something so you'll always splutter, won't you?"

"Well, then, it's all right," she returned in a judicial manner. "I'll just call you 'Splutters' and I won't have to try to say Ste-Ste-Stephen at all."

From that day little Mollie never addressed Stephen by any other name than "Splutters." Grimes and Maria frequently called him 'Steve' but during the ensuing years every child that came to the farm learned to know the wistful, thoughtful boy by the purely descriptive appellation of "Splutters."

Now, at Maria's bidding, he took Mollie's hand and led her to the untidy table. As they sat there, weary and homesick, eating the corn pone placed before them, Maria left the house to carry a bucket of food to the hogs. Ambrose followed at her heels. In silence Mollie watched them depart. Then she leaned forward and peered into Stephen's face.

"I'll tell you what made him holler so," she whispered, raising her wee forefinger knowingly. "But you mustn't tell."

Mollie's own eyes snapped and twinkled. "I pinched him," she whispered triumphantly. "He didn't know it was me. Neither did she. If he hits me again, I'll pinch him again. I don't like him. I don't like anything here. Let's run away and go home."

"I-I-I haven't any home," he said. "A nice lady I lived with said I was going to be her little boy—but she got hurt and had to go away. She said I was going to a school where there were lots of little boys—and I could read books—all I pleased. I don't guess—she knows—I've come here. That's why I didn't want to come with the man. I wasn't afraid. I just knew—it was some kind—of a mistake."

The boy was speaking slowly and thoughtfully, weighing every word. It was his natural reserve and cautiousness, not an impediment of speech which caused him to stammer when pressed to speak without previous reflection.

But Stephen as well as Mollie was precocious. His thoughtful eyes and full brow denoted unusual reasoning faculties. Habitually he spoke little, yet nothing seemed to escape his observation. He would absorb a sentence, an act or a scene and mentally puzzle upon it for hours, even days, until he arrived at what seemed to him a satisfactory solution or explanation.

At his mention of books little Mollie beamed. "Can you read?" she asked eagerly. "I can say my letters and spell lots of words. My Mama taught me."

"Huh! Of course I can read," answered the boy. "I've got picture books in my bag the man took. There it is by the door. I'll show them to you."

He ran to where Grimes had deposited the bag containing his small personal belongings and, finding it unlocked, quickly had it open. Within were garments neatly folded and a letter to be delivered to the master of the school to which, it stated, one Mr. David Connors had volunteered to conduct him.

Stephen took up the envelope in which the letter was enclosed and fingered it thoughtfully. Grimes had not yet opened the bag so he did not know about the letter nor the books. The boy recalled that his benefactress had entrusted the letter to him for delivery. Perhaps Mr. Grimes would destroy it. The thought stimulated him to prompt decision.

There was a ripped place in the lining of his jacket. He had discovered it when he lost two pennies inside the lining and had a hard time getting them out. By stretching the opening in the lining he managed to insert the letter. He paused for a moment and knit his brows after the manner of a mature person in deep reflection. Then he reached again into the traveling bag and drew forth a small photograph in a wrapper of tissue paper. This also he quickly thrust into the lining of his coat. The several picture books he secreted in his cap.

"I don't guess he'll find them," he whispered to Mollie. "I'll show them to you some other time. I reckon we'd better keep quiet now. They're coming."

The Grimes trio were indeed coming. Ambrose, the fat, over-grown four-year-old, stubbed his bare foot on a stone and bawled anew. His father struck him over the head with the back of one of his huge hands. The child yelled louder. His mother picked him up and, bending under the heavy burden, struggled with him, heedless of his kicks and blows, until she reached the house. In silence Mollie and Stephen stood hand in hand and watched the entrance of the family into the kitchen.

That kitchen was also the living room. The house, however, was a trifle more pretentious than the average domicile found in such remote parts. It boasted a narrow, steep, inside stairway leading to two sleeping rooms above. They were small, low rooms with sloping, unplastered ceilings but there was a window. In this respect, also, the house was superior to the average dwelling. Most of them had only a heavy, wooden-shuttered opening in the living room.

The larger of the two upper rooms provided sleeping accommodations for the Grimes family. Into the smaller room Maria conducted the little "furriners", as she termed the two unfortunate children consigned by fate to her ignorant care. Both were too overcome with fatigue to take much interest in preliminaries. Maria had never heard of night garments. She never mentioned undressing or bathing.

"Take off yer shoes and lay down thar," she drawled, throwing some ragged bedding on the floor, "an' doan yo' make no noise or Pete'll be up hyar and whoop yo' both."

"Who's going to hear me say my prayers!" asked Mollie, her large eyes wide with astonishment.

"Who larned yo' any pra'rs!" she asked, curious to know what "furriners" in the cities taught their children.

"My Mama," replied Mollie, her lips quivering at the mention of the loved name. "She taught me lots of things. She told me about God and the little sparrows that he takes care of. She said God always looks after little children, but I reckon He lost sight of me somewhere to-day. I don't like this place. I want to go home."

"Maria!" Peter shouted. "Leave them brats alone. Go fetch Ambrose. He's headin' fer the bog."

"I know some prayers, too," he whispered. "If they are the same as yours we'll say them together."

It was a sociable idea and appealed to Mollie at once. With attention wholly diverted from their forlorn surroundings the two motherless children seated themselves on the floor, removed their shoes and stockings, lay down on the ragged bedding and sleepily "matched prayers."

"I did know 'Mother dear, Oh, pray for me, and never cease thy care,' but the lady I lived with didn't know it, so I forgot it," said Stephen regretfully.

"I don't know that one, but I know a song about an angel. It goes like this: 'Dear angel, ever at my side, how loving thou must be, to leave thy home in heaven to guard, a little child like me.'"

Stephen's sub-conscious mind stirred a faint recollection of the past. "I've heard that before, but I can't remember where," he whispered cautiously, as voices sounded from the kitchen. "I reckon we'd better go to sleep before they find us awake. With that angel here we don't need to be afraid."

"No," returned Mollie, "but my Mama said I must always ask God for anything I wanted, so I am going to ask Him to send somebody to take me home."

She folded her tiny hands, closed her tired eyes and, while her soft lips murmured their pathetic appeal, drifted off into the land of dreams.

CHAPTER III

MARIA FINDS A COMPANION

Peter Grimes was exceedingly pleased with the success which had attended his quest for farm labor. His meeting with the young man from whom he had received little Mollie was wholly accidental but it insured a steady income for the future. For the time being, the ugly-dispositioned farmer was inclined to permit the little girl house privileges such as he deemed worthy of a well-paying guest. He had not planned to bring a girl into the establishment. Girls were useless and troublesome and no good at hog-raising. But the regular income offered by the young man he had encountered driving along the old, little-used road leading to the farm was too tempting to be refused. Upon acceptance of the child, Peter gave a post-office address to which remittances might be sent and the two men exchanged promises of secrecy.

"I doan want no one knowin' I got young-uns on the place," explained Peter. "Them big-heads thet passed thet law agin lettin' hawgs run in th' woods ain't past interferin' with what a man does on his own lan'. I doan want no agents a-comin' up hyar a-rootin' 'round."

The mustached individual in the buggy, who gave his name as Bailey, expressed much pleasure at hearing such sentiments. He agreed with Peter heartily. A man's house was his castle, he declared, and no one had a right to interfere with what he did there. He had a perfect right to house a dozen children if he so desired.

All the way home Peter pondered that statement. He had started out with the intention of securing a charity child to help with chores about the place. He had made inquiry and been directed to a hotel where a wealthy woman guest was about to be removed to a hospital. She had been too ill to see him but a maid had assumed that he was a Mr. Connors whom they were expecting and who was going to conduct a small boy to a distant school. Peter, groping for words to explain matters, was incoherent. The maid was called away and Peter found himself alone with the boy, and a small hand bag beside him.

The child looked sturdy and the maid had handed to Peter a roll of bills which she said were for traveling expenses. It seemed useless to prolong his stay in the city, so the hog farmer lost no time in starting homeward. The boy instinctively shrank from accompanying him but was too well trained to make open remonstrance.

"I'm afraid there's some mistake," was all the little fellow said as he trudged off beside the cruel-visaged man at whom, from time to time, he stole cautious, thoughtful glances.

It was while pausing to rest at a crossroads they were accosted by the man in the buggy. The latter's light remark about housing a dozen children gave Peter food for reflection. He fumbled the money in his pocket and gloated over its easy acquisition. If two children represented that much money, how much more might a dozen be reckoned to bring in? Deep in this fascinating problem he paid little heed to Mollie and Stephen for the first few hours.

For Maria, they provided diversion and entertainment. Without knowing it she had suffered all her life for lack of human companionship. Her father, the old moonshiner, and Peter her brutal consort, were both hard men, of few words. Young Ambrose, as yet, did little more than howl.

The advent of a talkative little girl and a kindly-spoken, gentle-mannered boy left the gaunt, stupid woman somewhat dazed. She studied the two attentively and listened, only half-comprehending, to their conversation. The morning following their arrival, little Mollie cried. She was tired and aching from her sleep on the floor and very, very hungry.

Maria, not intentionally cruel, and anxious to quell the outbreak of tears before Peter came within hearing, strove to learn what the child was crying about and made haste to supply something substantial in the way of food. She could not conceive of such a thing as homesickness. Her naïve questions finally resulted in staying Mollie's sobs and launching the little chatter-box upon a sea of vivid description of that world in which she had spent her short life.

"I know how to wipe dishes," she announced. "And once, Lucy let me make the coffee. Lucy's our cook. She showed me how to do lots of things. I can sew, too. My Mama taught me." There was a suspicion of tears again.

Stephen, until now very still, suddenly looked up from his huge cup of unappetizing coffee.

"It's a big piece of paper like this," Stephen explained, indicating with his arms and hands the dimensions of the kite he had in mind. "You can put pictures on it if you want to, or you can write something on it. And you make a long tail for it out of most anything and then you take a string and run with it. Only it has to be a long string for the kite goes higher and higher, and then goes away off, nobody knows where. If you don't let go of the string you can pull it back again. But if you let go it just sails away to New York or China or some place a long way off. You never see it again."

"I reckon I'd see it again if it went straight up to heaven," exclaimed Mollie, ready to argue the matter.

"Because God's up in heaven. He wouldn't take anything away from little children and not give it back some day." Then, suddenly, "Oh, of course, if it got all torn and rained on I reckon He'd feel sorry and—maybe give back something lots nicer. Did you ever try sending Him one, Splutters?"

Splutters had not. He did not think he could make a kite that would go high enough, he said.

Ambrose, waddling into the kitchen at that moment, paused by the stove to investigate the contents of a pan just within his reach. The pan overturned. There was a splash, a clatter and a shriek. Maria lurched to her feet.

"Hain't I tol' yo' to keep clar of thet thar stove?" she cried, distractedly, as she hurried to examine the child's injuries. "Now yo' got burned. Hit'll larn yo' somethin'. Lemme see yo' han'. Now, whut'll yore Paw say?"

But the thought of his "Paw" brought no comfort to Ambrose. Fortunately there had been little water in the pan. Most of it had poured over the hearth. Some had splashed over the youngster's clothes, and his hand was a trifle burned. From the degree of distress manifested he might have been undergoing torture. Mollie sprang from the table and ran to Maria's side.

"I know what to do," she cried. "Get some soda right away. That's what Lucy did when I spilled coffee on my fingers."

"Fetch hit. Hit's thar on th' shelf." Maria nodded toward the cupboard. Stephen, realizing that Mollie could not reach the shelf, climbed on a chair and secured the package of soda. Maria was having her hands full trying to manage the unruly Ambrose. She was glad to receive assistance. She had never had any before in her life. She had heard orders given and had always obeyed. Now she could give orders herself.

"Fetch that cloth, thar," she commanded. "Be still, honey, Mammy's goin' ter fix hit," she assured Ambrose, as she took the fat, pink fist in her hardened palm. "Hyar, yo' Steve, we doan' need yo'. Yo' git busy and tote thet bucket uf swill down ter th' hawgs. Pete's thar. He'll tell yo' whut ter do."

Stephen hesitated, looking down at his clothes. He had been dressed to travel to a school. They were not his oldest clothes. They were not even his every day clothes. Everything about the premises looked unclean. He wondered if he ought to carry such a big, unsavory bucket in such close proximity to his new suit. Then he remembered that the trunk which had been packed for him had not arrived. There was only the bag, and it contained no other suit; only toilet articles and night clothing. Some inner sense told him that the trunk would never come. There had certainly been some awful mistake. Again his lips quivered but the courageous spirit that had endeared him to everyone he had ever known enabled him to suppress the tears, as he had done the night previous, and to nerve his slight frame for what was before him.

"G'wan. Do as I to' yer. Doan stan' there a-gawpin'," exclaimed Maria. "Pete'll make yo' move quicker'n that, afore yo' hev ben hyar long."

Stephen stooped, carefully clutched the loathsome pail and staggered with it out of the door and along the path to the hog pen.

Mollie, whose natural instinct was to care for and mother something and who could not withstand a cry of distress from anyone or anything, was wholly engrossed in helping Maria bandage the blistered hand and quiet the cries of the luckless Ambrose. The little girl ran willingly here and there, doing whatever she was told, making suggestions as they came to her mind and trying in one way and another, after the manner of children, to divert the attention of the crying child from his injury and to make him laugh. In this she eventually succeeded. She danced for him.

Ambrose, more frightened than hurt by the accident and having created as much excitement as possible, permitted his mother to deposit him on the floor that he, too, might dance. The effort was not satisfactory. He had been dragging a stick with him when he entered the house. It now lay on the floor under his feet. He kicked it, then picked it up and, brandishing it in his uninjured hand, lunged wildly at Mollie. Some children talk volubly at three years of age. Ambrose, overgrown and lumbering, and nearing five years, possessed but a very limited vocabulary.

Maria looked around. "Yo' better do whut he tells yo'," she warned Mollie. "Ef yo' doan, he'll hit yo'. He wants yo' to run so he kin play drivin' Walter."

The little girl's eyes sparkled. "Oh, I love horses," she exclaimed. "Can I see yours?"

"Not now yo' cain't. Yo' said yo' could do dishes. I'm goin' ter let yo' do 'em."

The woman's tone implied a command. Child though she was, Mollie sensed it. The momentary pleasure that had brightened her piquant little face at the mention of the horse now gave place to something akin to fear. This was not the kindly, humorous old cook, Lucy, who, by dint of much coaxing, had permitted her to wipe a few pieces of silver and her own cup and saucer occasionally. This was a gaunt, untidy, unkempt woman who had a wild look in her eyes and who seemed to be always afraid of something. Now she turned to her own offspring and pushed him forcibly out the door.

"Yo' git, yo'self, Sonny," she ordered. "Yo' kin make Mollie git, arter th' dishes is done. See what yo' Pappy's a-doin' down thar."

Ambrose lifted up his voice to protest but glimpsed his father going toward the bog with something over his shoulder, Stephen trudging behind, also encumbered. Instantly he changed his mind and hurried as fast as his fat legs would carry him in their direction.

Maria, turning again toward the heaped-up dishes on the table, looked down upon Mollie in surprise. The tot was standing rigidly in the center of the room, her eyes flashing, her tiny hands clinched.

"I don't want to wipe dishes," she exclaimed. "I don't like it here. I want to go home."

"This is yore home now," ejaculated Maria slowly, after she had comprehended the mutinous speech.

"Shuah hit es. Yo' an' me's goin' ter cook an' wash dishes an' arter while yo' kin go with me ter pull weeds an' pick 'tater-bugs."

The evident friendliness of this announcement disarmed Mollie. She had once looked at the colored pictures in a book of natural history and been much interested in the attractive jacket worn by the queer little bug "that just loved potatoes". Perhaps, she reflected, if she were good, as her Papa had told her to be, everything would yet turn out all right. If they had potato bugs and a horse at this queer place, they must also have sparrows. And if they had sparrows, God must be around somewhere. Perhaps He was looking for her at that very moment. With a winning smile she peered up into Maria's weather-beaten countenance.

Mollie skipped about ecstatically. "Let's hurry," she said. "I like to do things quick. How do you wash dishes? That isn't the way Lucy does. If I was bigger I'd show you."

"I'll git me a box down ter th' barn fer yo' ter stan' on, an' termorrer yo' kin do 'em by yo'self while I set," said Maria.

Mollie's tongue, once loosened, found much to say. She enjoyed talking and Maria was a wonderful listener. Just as the dishes were finished and they were about to start for the truck patch a scream sounded. Another and another followed. They were screams of terror. Maria stood, as if rooted to the spot. Mollie raised her little hands in an involuntary gesture of alarm. Her heart seemed to flutter into her throat.

"Splutters!" she gasped, and darted like a bird in the direction whence the cries came.

CHAPTER IV

AN UNEQUAL STRUGGLE

"But whoso shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea."—Matt. xviii, 6

Terror lent wings to Mollie's feet. Instinct guided her over the unknown terrain of the wretched farm-yard. The overwhelming desire to aid Stephen in whatever peril threatened him restrained any thought of self. No sound escaped her lips. Unconsciously she conserved all her energy for the crucial moment that was to come.

Around the corner of the dilapidated barn with no thought of the horse, Walter, placidly munching his feed; past the miserable pig-sty with its great, fierce-looking inmates peering at her through the interstices of its frame work; along the worn path toward the vegetable garden she sped with the fleetness of a tiny, avenging spirit, ready to combat any ogre who might bar her way.

Mollie knew what an ogre looked like. She had seen the colored likeness of one in a book of fairy-tales. An ogre lived, so the story said, on human beings. She had been told that fairytales were not true. The scene which confronted her as she came abreast of the vegetable patch convinced her that statement was a mistake. The tales were true. Peter Grimes was an ogre. He lived on little children!

The awful realization made the poor child's blood run cold. Her heart seemed to stop beating. With dilated, terror-filled eyes she gazed, transfixed, upon the hideous spectacle that was never to be obliterated from her mind.

Before a black, loathsome sea of mud stood Peter Grimes. His tall, spare figure appeared to Mollie colossal. His face, what she could see of it, was twisted by a one-sided smile of inexpressible cruelty and satisfaction. Beside him his son, Ambrose, jumped up and down in sheer ecstasy of joy, his attention riveted upon the piteous cries and struggles of an animal that the mud was slowly sucking down to death in its sinister depths.

Suspended above the bog, head downward, was the form of Stephen, his slender, knickerbockered legs held in the vise-like grip of the human monster while the latter's powerful arms swung him like a pendulum to and fro, heedless of the shrieks, now subsiding as the terrified boy lapsed into unconsciousness.

Two birds, chirping furiously, flew up from the garden and across the bog. A sudden shaft of sunlight sent a golden gleam along their course. Subconsciously Mollie watched their flight. They disappeared into the safety of the thicket beyond.

God's sparrows! They were flying away from the hateful place. The ray of light pointed the way. Then God must be near!

The wonderful thought flashed over the little girl and gave her courage. So tense was the moment she was incapable of conscious mental effort. It was as if her body were completely detached and she, herself, a separate entity. But the tension was broken. Her sentient little frame quivered, then sprang with the agility of a young wildcat straight at the ogre's legs.

She kicked, she beat with her tiny fists, she pinched. It was the pinching that brought results.

"You bad man—you wicked—bad—man!" she screamed, emphasizing each word with a blow. "You put Splutters down—Put him down, I say. Don't you dare to hurt Splutters."

The leg of the ogre stamped and kicked but Mollie hung on. The great arms of the ogre ceased their pendulous motion, but Mollie's attack did not cease. The arms tossed their limp, senseless burden upon a mound of dank grass. Mollie relaxed her efforts. The tall, crooked figure of the ogre bent toward her. He seemed to be licking his chops in anticipation. His talon-like fingers made convulsive, clutching motions as if to encircle her throat. His evil, twisted face with its narrow eyes leered down into her face with savage intensity. She met the look fearlessly.

"You'd ought to be ashamed of yourself," she stormed, in a frenzy of indignation. "And there was somebody looking at you all the time. What do you suppose He thought?"

"What's that? Who saw anything?" exclaimed Grimes quickly. He raised his head and looked suspiciously about.

Mollie could be a little spitfire when she chose. Her large eyes, blazing now from out her pale, oval face gave her a weird, elfin expression that had its effect upon the uncouth and less intelligent creature she dared to arraign. She was only repeating words she had heard many times in the kitchen of old Lucy, her mother's cook, but for Grimes they now had but one significance. Someone, Bailey, probably, had been spying upon him from the other side of the gate shutting off the farm from the narrow road leading to the main highway. He muttered an oath.

"Aw, I was only a-jokin'," he exclaimed in a loud tone. "I'll larn yo' young-uns that when I say a thing I mean hit an' I doan want none o' yer back clack. Ef I feel fer ter drown a sick shote I'm a-goin' ter do hit an' ther hain't a-goin' ter be no argymint. Anybody thet tries hit'll git a taste o' th' same med'cine."

With a sweeping blow of his huge hand he hurled Mollie to one side and in his habitual writhing, dragging manner, moved ominously off toward the house.

Mollie, too dazed by the suddenness of the blow to cry out, watched him go. The stimulus of excitement was still upon her. On the heap of decaying vegetation near by Stephen stirred slightly. A sound that was half sob, half moan, escaped him. Instantly Mollie was at his side, pulling at his arms, trying with all her puny strength to lift him to a sitting posture, beseeching him to open his eyes.

"Splutters—Splutters, wake up," she implored, an hysterical note beginning to tincture the clear, childish treble of her voice. "It's all right, Stevie. The ogre's gone. He won't hurt you. God got around just in time. He scared him away. Stevie—Stevie, don't you hear me?"

Stephen heard, but the comforting little voice seemed faint and far away. It was musical, though, and pleasant to listen to. Somebody did care for him, after all. He wasn't alone and forgotten, and going to be killed—like a pig. That had all been a terrible dream. The realization brought a sense of comfort. With a long, tremulous sigh the lad opened his eyes, blue as violets, and looked about him.

His range of vision was obscured by Mollie's little face. She was bending solicitously over him. He tried to smile but there was that in Mollie's appearance which stayed him in the effort. She was pale as death. There was a wild, startled look in her eyes. Her lips were quivering.

Stephen struggled to regain his senses. He pulled himself up on one elbow and inspected the place where he was lying. Instantly he sprang up in disgust. The action made him acutely conscious of his ankles. They felt stiff, as if tight bands were about them. He looked down. His clean stockings bore traces of muck. Could it be that his dream was true, after all! He turned swiftly.

The ejaculation was involuntary. Stephen almost swooned again as his breath gave out the sound. His whole frame began to tremble as with the palsy. A panic seized him. He would have run but that his legs refused to move. His feet seemed rooted to the ground. In that moment he felt old—ages old, as if he had lived a long time ago and had just returned to the scene where he had suffered torture and death.

Mollie's sobs brought him back to a sense of reality. The nervous reaction after her heroism in confronting the monster whom she still firmly believed subsisted upon little children, and whom she would never cease to designate as "the ogre", was producing a speedy rise in the child's temperature. Her face, pale a moment ago, was now flushed and swollen with tears. She flung her arms about Stephen and implored him to take her home before the ogre killed them. He, no less miserable than herself, strove to quiet her.

"He won't eat you, Mollie," the boy whispered through lips that felt stiff and parched, so difficult was it for him to make an articulate sound. "He's not an ogre. He's just a bad man. Perhaps he's crazy. I felt sorry for the pig. I didn't want him to drown it alive. I made him mad when I teased him to give it to me and let me cure it. I reckon he was just trying to scare me so I would not tease him again."

Nervously the little fellow detached Mollie's clinging hands from his arm and led her, timidly and with the utmost caution, to a pile of thin, narrow oak boards about three feet long, such as are substituted very commonly in the south for shingles. They had been accumulated by Peter with a view to some day improving the roof of the old barn. Behind them the children were not in view of anyone at the house. There they sat down and Stephen wiped away the little girl's tears.

"Can't we go home, Splutters—Can't we go home?" she kept repeating with such heartbreaking monotony that his natural good judgment and sound, though youthful reasoning almost yielded to her entreaties that they run away at once, before any more terrible things befell them.

"He's too big and too strong," said the boy protector, sorrowfully. "That's why I came along with him in the first place. I almost knew it was a mistake, but there wasn't anything I could do. I think, when they find out about the mistake, the lady I lived with will send someone to find me. I hadn't lived with her very long but she liked me and I was going to be her real little boy, if she hadn't been hurt. But she said I could go on to school and the papers could be signed any time. I reckon if they had been signed this mistake wouldn't have happened." He sighed wistfully.

"But if we ran away, and there was anybody coming to fetch you, maybe we'd meet them on the way," argued Mollie, reluctant to abandon the thought of escape.

Stephen's blue eyes thoughtfully contemplated the forbidding landscape about them. He was considering, as well as he could, every detail and every possibility. A sudden twinge in one of his ankles decided him. With it came surging over him a mental repetition of the agony through which he had passed such a short time before. Anything—anything but that, he thought. Aloud he said to Mollie that if they did try to escape and lost their way and walked into such mud as seemed all about the farm they would die just as the little pig died.

Mollie stared at him, aghast. She had not thought of that. She was thinking only of the ogre. She wanted to get away from him.

"I don't guess he'll hurt us," Stephen remarked, after more reflection, "so long as we keep quiet and do what he and she tell us. We'll have to get dirty and spoil our clothes and I don't guess we'll get anything good to eat, but after while somebody is sure to come and take us away. I heard that man in the buggy with you tell him that he was to keep you well, and not let you get sick, because if you died the money would stop coming."

"I reckon I'll have to work awful hard to please him," he continued, after a moment. "There can't any money come to him for me, because nobody knows I'm here."

"I know what," she exclaimed, with a lightning-like change of mood. "If he's going to get money for me and mustn't hurt me, then he won't dare hurt you very much because he'll be afraid of me, for I'd tell, the first chance I got. And I wouldn't stay here alone without you, and if I went off to find my way home he'd be afraid I'd drown in the mud, and so he'll not kill you because he'll want me to live."

She paused for breath. No lawyer could have reasoned the matter out any better or more accurately. So quickly do common danger and necessity sharpen the wits of children whose intelligence has not already been dulled by brutal treatment. In her enthusiasm Mollie almost forgot her woes. Not so, Stephen.

"We'll have to be careful," he warned. "We mustn't make them mad. I reckon we'd better go into the house. They'll be looking for us."

The dispirited tone of suppressed yearning, and abject resignation to the miserable existence which he sensed was before them, gave to the orphan boy's words a quality and volume of meaning far beyond their linguistic significance.

CHAPTER V

BANISHMENT

The woman rose from the door-step where she had been sitting, adjusted her snuff dip firmly in her mouth and slouched across the muddy door-yard to meet Peter. From his manner and expression of countenance it was evident he was laboring under the burden of a new idea.

With his thumb he gestured over his shoulder. Maria understood that he referred to Mollie.

"Thar hain't a-goin' ter be no more lookin'," he declared. "I be gwine ter fix hit right now. Fotch me them tools frum th' barn an' th' can o' nails thets a-settin' on the beam over th' door."

Maria obeyed, without a word, as was her wont, slouching along, barefooted, in the direction of the barn. She did not wonder or speculate as to where the children might be. To do so would require mental effort. Any mental effort demanded a degree of energy which Maria did not possess.

As for Peter, he had solved his problem in mathematics. With all the cunning of the abnormal criminal, he was planning for the future in a manner entirely beyond her dull-witted conception, even had he been disposed to explain.

The house stood some little distance from an old highway. The section roundabout was a wilderness of tortuous passes, skirting perilously near the series of formidable bogs. For years these bogs had proved as much of a barrier between denizens of isolated districts as any mediæval moat. Peter Grimes knew nothing of castles nor moats. But the chance remark of the man who had placed little Mollie in his care had resulted in his grasping the basic principle upon which the theory that a man's house is his castle had been founded. He proposed now to convert the old moonshiner's covert retreat into an impenetrable castle.

From a heap of old boards back of the house he selected those best needed for his purpose, cut himself a large chew of tobacco, then sat down to await the return of the woman whose ancestral estate he had so calmly appropriated.

Maria took hold and together they carried, one by one, some half dozen of the long pieces of timber down to the fence.

There was no need of a fence on the side of the house where the bog lay. No one but a plumb fool would ever attempt to get away by that hazardous route, Peter reasoned. Not by chance had he demonstrated the bog's resistless suction to the children that morning. He now made a noise that might have been meant for a chuckle but which sounded more like the grunt of an animal at the recollection of his cleverness.

"I 'low they'll remember thet a spell," he muttered aloud, "an' they'll tell t'others."

The interruption passed unheeded. Peter placed one of the boards across a chunk of wood and bent himself to the task of sawing it the desired length. Maria was already sitting listlessly upon the other boards, gazing vacantly into space, her hands resting limply on her knees. Peter raised his head as the severed end of the plank fell to the ground.

"Git up thar," he commanded, "an' do es I tell yo'. H'ist up thet end whilst I nail this-un in place."

Maria pulled her lean frame upright, took hold of the board and, stretching her arms as high above her head as she was able, held it against an upright already in place, while Peter nailed it in position. She asked no questions. He vouchsafed no remarks. Thus occupied, the long absence of the children was unheeded. Ambrose ultimately joined his parents, sitting down in the dirt and amusing himself digging a hole with a stick.

It was evident that the fence repair and extension work would not be completed at one time. The farther the work progressed the more grimly eager Peter became to behold the finished structure. After a time he told Maria to go to the house and get something ready to eat.

There she came upon Mollie and Stephen, seated forlornly upon the step. They were snuggled close together, like two motherless kittens, as if to strengthen and encourage one another. They rose at Maria's approach and stood aside, expectant. Mollie's little face was strained out of its natural shape in her desperate effort to keep back the tears which welled into her eyes as the harsh, forbidding country woman bore down upon them. Stephen tucked the child's tiny hand within his own, scarcely larger, and nerved himself for whatever fate held in store for the immediate future.

To their surprise, Maria passed them without a word and entered the house, the door of which stood open. Two chickens scurried out and ran, cheeping and squawking, across the yard.

The next moment Maria reappeared at the door. Her initial preoccupation had been due to her desire to replenish her snuff dip. She was now thinking of less important things.

"Yo' Mollie," she called, "come in hyar an' lay th' table. Steve, yo' g'wan down ter th' 'tater patch an' fetch a mess o' 'taters."

"Do as she says," the boy whispered as Maria turned back toward the cook stove. "We'll have to. They won't hurt us if we keep quiet and mind them quick."

It was wise counsel. Mollie released her hold upon his hand and went into the house with a step so unlike her accustomed bird-like lightness that it was apparent the pall of the bog-lands was already beginning its blight. Stephen started off in the direction of the garden. He had never seen potatoes except in a store or when they were served at a meal. He had only a vague idea as to how they grew but he feared to ask a question. Over by the fence he could see Peter at work. Ambrose had ceased digging a hole and was now engaged in chasing a white butterfly. The butterfly was darting from bush to bush, ever coming nearer to Stephen. Finally it passed him, the fat child still in pursuit.

Stephen watched the chase until Ambrose stumbled and fell. Before Stephen could decide as to the wisdom of his extending a helping hand, the youngster scrambled to his feet and rushed forward straight into the garden patch. The butterfly eluded him and disappeared amid some high shrubbery.

Enraged, Ambrose commenced pulling up stalks of what seemed to Stephen to be small bushes. He noticed there were bright colored little bugs, somewhat larger than the bright-coated lady-bug, clustered on the leaves of the strange plant. With a howl of disappointment at having lost his winged prey, the hog-farmer's child hurled one of the uprooted plants at Stephen. It fell at the boy's feet. From its roots small tubers depended, some of which became detached and rolled to one side. He stooped and examined one. A potato! For the moment the dejected lad was honestly grateful to Ambrose. Without his fortunate, and for Ambrose unfortunate, chase of the butterfly Stephen realized he might have again been plunged into difficulty.

Patiently he collected the potatoes Ambrose uprooted until he concluded he had enough for a meal. Ambrose, sensing that his actions were conferring a kindness, immediately desisted and entered upon a new diversion. He ran with all his might and precipitated himself like a battering ram against the boy who was carefully trying to balance a goodly supply of potatoes mounted in a very shallow receptacle that he had picked up from a refuse heap to transport them to the house. The result was disastrous. The potatoes rolled in divers directions, Stephen fell and Ambrose rolled over on top of him.

During the whole performance the strange child had uttered no sound. He now bellowed lustily. No one responded. He yelled louder. Still no response.

Both Stephen and Ambrose heard the dialogue. The former made haste to collect the scattered potatoes. Ambrose started, still bawling, to meet his mother.

Maria met them midway between the house and the barn. She made no comment but, stooping, brushed enough dirt off her son to assure herself that he was uninjured, then took him by the hand and dragged him, protesting at every step, into the house. Stephen followed. Maria dropped into a chair and took the crying, striking youngster up into her lap. Little Mollie, standing on a chair, was taking cups and spoons down from the cupboard. Stephen placed the potatoes upon the table. Under Maria's direction he prepared them for boiling and got them on the stove. Then, also under her orders, he made coffee. There was no conversation, other than that required to prepare the meal. Maria rose and fried the thick slices of salt pork herself. Once she sent Stephen to fetch a bucket of water.

Returning with the water the little boy encountered Peter. The latter made no reference to the episode of the morning. He paused for a moment, looked at Stephen reflectively and delivered himself of that upon which he had been cogitating ever since he commenced work on the fence.

"Well, arter dinner me an' yo' es a-goin' ter finish this hyar fence, an' I wants yo' ter holp me string bob wire on top o' hit."

"An' beginnin' ter-night yo' air a-goin' ter sleep outten th' loft in th' barn."

"An' I'm a-goin' ter fix me a big bell on top o' this hyar gate. An' when thet thar bell rings I wants thet yo' and thet gal Mollie, an' ary others I fetch hyar, should git up the ladder into thet loft lickety-split. D'y understan'?"

Peter turned again to his labor. "G'wan. Git along ter the house with thet water," he said, shortly.

As he neared the kitchen door Mollie came flying forth, screaming. Behind her came Ambrose. He was chuckling with glee at seeing her terror.

"Don't let him!—Don't let him put it on me," she cried, piteously, dodging behind Stephen that the lumbering Ambrose might not come near her. Stephen barred the path of the infant terror.

"Here, what are you trying to do?" he asked. There was no reply but Stephen, looking down, saw that the loathsome object the child held by one leg in his hand, was a huge toad. Without a thought of consequences he struck the grewsome creature from the fat fingers which held it and, taking Mollie's hand led her, weeping, into the kitchen.

Ambrose's howl of rage echoed in their wake. He did not attempt to follow them but carried his grievance to his father. Peter paid scant attention to the incoherent utterances of his son, but after a moment put down his tools and started for the house, the youngster, still bawling, lumbering at his heels.

As the afternoon waned and the hens about the door-yard commenced flapping to roost in the limbs of convenient trees, Mollie and Stephen were conducted by Maria to the roost prepared for them in the loft under the barn eaves.

Below them Walter, the horse, whinnied softly as he sensed their nearness. Birds twittered in their nests about them. One or two late comers flitted swiftly past their heads to join their feathered families.

"I like it better than being in the house," exclaimed Mollie, much less dismayed by the prospect of living in the barn than Stephen had expected. "I'd rather be in a barn with God's sparrows and a horse than with an ogre in the most beau-ti-ful castle in the world."

The ogre who had banished the children rubbed the palms of his horny hands together and smiled greedily as he counted his ill-gotten money. The high, newly constructed portal to his terrible castle was locked and barred; the warning bell was silent. The surrounding moat gave forth a heavy, fetid odor that poisoned the breath of summer blossoms borne on the still night air. But up in the barn loft the two little prisoners knelt by the open window, above all sordid things, and watched the moon rise over the tree tops while they inhaled the pure air of heaven.

CHAPTER VI

NEW VICTIMS

"His children are far from safety, and they are crushed in the gate, neither is there any to deliver them."—Job v, 4

Momentous events followed the children's transfer to the barn loft. In many respects they found themselves better off than in the small, windowless alcove into which they had been thrust so summarily on the night of their arrival at the farm-house.

In the barn there was more freedom. They were not subjected to annoyance from the insufferable Ambrose nor to the brutality of Peter. They could talk without fear of restraint and, when there was no likelihood of interruption, could pore over the picture books which Stephen had so thoughtfully secreted.

"Don't ever let Pete get hold of those books," Stephen warned Mollie. "He'd only tear them up and throw them in the bog."

"Or give them to that fat cry-baby," supplemented Mollie, whose dread of the Grimes child increased daily.

So the gaudy little booklets of animal and Biblical stories which had been given to the orphan lad on the previous Christmas were treasured with the utmost care. To the isolated children they represented their only connection with a happy past, the link that united them with the world from which they would otherwise have been completely severed.

There were long hours in the early evening before darkness descended during which the books could be studied with impunity. As long as the children were quiet and out of sight and hearing of their persecutors they were unmolested. For this they were mutely grateful.

During these same evening hours the Grimes family was sufficient unto itself. In silence its members sat about, each absorbed according to individual bent or preference.

Peter chewed tobacco and schemed how to increase his little hoard of money with the least amount of labor. Maria alternately dipped snuff, quaffed corn liquor and attended her well-nigh ungovernable child.

Ambrose, however, was quiet at intervals, until roused to a fit of temper by some unexpected result of his own folly. His favorite pastime was that of torturing insects and other small, living creatures. His parents' only fear for him was that some day he might, inadvertently, pick up a poisonous reptile instead of the lizards and grass snakes which he had been repeatedly told were harmless. These possessed for him a fascination bordering upon mania. In anticipation of such an untoward event Maria not infrequently dosed the child with corn liquor, that he might be the better able to imbibe it in quantity when the emergency arose.

The barn was polluted by none of these features. To Mollie and Stephen it was a home, a place of retreat, a haven of rest, a city of refuge, a school and a recreation hall all in one. To them the "play-house" of the past had, in the loft, become a reality. Chairs, tables and beds were improvised with the facility which childhood alone possesses.

Mollie's persistency, and Maria's susceptibility to the little girl's magnetic personality, resulted in their retaining possession of the few personal belongings with which each child had been provided upon arrival.

Had either Maria or Peter realized the value of such a concession to children reared as Mollie and Stephen had been, the request would undoubtedly have been denied. But a casual inventory of the contents of Stephen's traveling bag, and of the small box of wearing apparel for Mollie which later arrived at the farm, revealed nothing that appealed to Maria or which Peter considered of use. So for the time being, at least, the children's creature comforts were not lacking.

With remarkable sagacity for their years the two little ones husbanded their meagre resources and endeavored as far as possible to regulate their daily life after the manner of the routine to which they had been accustomed. They had no idea what was before them in the way of hardship and privation nor how long would be the time of their exile. Stephen buoyed Mollie's hope as well as his own by the oft-repeated assertion that the mistake which had consigned him into the hands of Peter Grimes was bound to be discovered and rectified.

Secure in this hope they patiently resigned themselves to an existence in the barn loft and at times were even able to forget their unhappiness and home-sickness in the enjoyment of its novelties.

Light and ventilation came into the loft principally by means of the great window opening through which hay would ordinarily be tossed for storage purposes. In times of storm this opening would, of course, have to be closed. For this purpose there was a great door, made of uneven boards, roughly nailed together and which must be held in position by a stout stick braced against a plank in the floor. But even with this shutter in place light and air, and also rain, had ample circulation through chinks and crevices on every side.

To this aerie retreat the children had already been forced to flee in haste several times at the ringing of the jangling bell which Peter Grimes had suspended above the newly constructed gateway. It had been difficult at first for little Mollie to mount the perpendicular ladder, with its widely placed rungs, which was the only means of access to the loft and which came up through a hole in the floor. Stimulated to frantic effort by the shouts of Peter in the yard without, the clamorous bell down at the gate and demoniac chuckles from Ambrose as he rounded the barn door with a wriggling green creature in his hand, the spritelike little girl performed a series of acrobatic feats without knowing it and arrived at the top of the ladder almost as quickly as Stephen. On the occasion of her first ascension Stephen had carried her on his back. Each successive mounting of the ladder only served to increase their agility. They soon went through the exercise as automatically as if it had been a fire drill at school.

Few persons, however, came to the remote hog-farm. Peter Grimes was both feared and distrusted by the majority of those who knew him. Only when good and sufficient reasons prevailed to warrant their turning off the highway and traversing the precarious way to Peter's farm could they be induced to stop and dicker with him. During the several days following the installation of the children in the barn-loft it chanced that one man came, bringing a box. It was the box that held Mollie's clothes. From their place of observation in the loft Mollie and Stephen both recognized him as the "buggy man with the funny mustache" who had consigned Mollie to Peter. Another visitor to the Grimes estate was a farmer who argued at considerable length with Peter and, after inspecting his hogs, refused to pay the price demanded. He departed with some show of temper. The third person to ring the bell at the gate was a pedestrian who had lost his way and wanted directions.

During the interim between each of these legitimate bell-ringings there were half a dozen others, purely rehearsal affairs, staged by Peter for the purpose of training the children to effect their disappearance in an ever lessening period of time.

Thus it happened they were in the loft on the day Peter drove out the gate behind old Walter after having mentioned to Maria that their family would be increased before nightfall. From their perch in the loft Stephen and Mollie watched him depart. They saw Maria come forth from the kitchen, seat herself on the door-step, place her unkempt head against the post supporting the lean-to roof that covered the entrance to the house and compose herself for a nap. The child, Ambrose, was already asleep under a tree, lying on his back with his mouth open, while flies swarmed over his one scanty and much begrimed garment.

"Don't let's go down, Splutters," said Mollie to Stephen. "I'm tired of picking potato bugs. Let's stay here awhile and look at the pictures."

Stephen willing agreed. His back ached from pulling weeds and carrying heavy pails of water and feed for the farm animals.

"Then I'll hear you read and spell and we'll make believe we're in school," he said, as he procured the treasured books from their hiding place.

To this naturally studious child the disappointment of not arriving at the school he had so joyfully looked forward to was a deeper wound than any purely physical burden his captor could lay upon him. Whatever his occupation Stephen was always thinking of that school. Again and again the vision of its tall buildings and broad campus appeared before him like a mirage. The more he thought about it the more difficult it became to take any degree of interest in his immediate surroundings.

For Mollie's sake he tried to be cheerful and to make conversation but in his heart was an ache too deep for words and a sense of calamity it was impossible to shake off. He had not Mollie's effervescent nature nor her impulsiveness. With him every word, every act, every decision must be carefully thought out in advance. In this way he very seldom made mistakes but Mollie's alertness and keen imagination were often able to bring results of one kind or another while he was yet deliberating.

Now, Mollie designated the book she preferred for the moment and the two children flung themselves down before the great, open window from which they might quickly detect any sign of an impending interruption, and were soon absorbed in the story of Moses in the bulrushes. It greatly appealed to Mollie. Many of the words were too large even for Stephen to pronounce. Others were meaningless. But Stephen's sedate reasoning and Mollie's intuition bridged whatever difficulties there were and they contrived to read into the narrative much more than the printed page contained.

"I don't guess they had a bog like this one anywhere around," Mollie remarked at the conclusion of the reading. "Something awful might have happened to that poor little baby."

Mollie's sympathies were easily roused, and she loved babies. Had Ambrose been a normal child she would have devoted herself to him without hesitation.

The story of Moses was followed by other child stories from the scriptures, each seemingly of greater interest than the one preceding. Time passed unnoticed. Just at the beginning of what promised to be a beautiful story of a kindly shepherd, sitting with many little children grouped about him, the soft, summer stillness was shattered by cries from Ambrose.

Stephen and Mollie sprang up in dismay and hastily restored the picture books to their hiding place. A glance from the window revealed Ambrose tugging at his mother's limp, calico dress, imploring her to get him some bread and molasses. Maria, coming slowly back from dreamland, was preparing to arise.

"Perhaps we stayed here too long," said Stephen, anxiously. "If she finds out we're not down in the garden she'll tell him."

Neither of the children referred to Maria and Peter as Mr. and Mrs. Grimes. They were merely "he" and "she." Mollie frequently designated Peter as "that ogre", and Stephen in moments of great bitterness took satisfaction in letting the name of "Pete" pass between his teeth with a viciousness indicative of his inward desire to bite the despicable appellation in fragments.

They cautiously descended the ladder into the stable below and peeked through the doorway until they saw Maria and Ambrose safely within the house. Then, darting from cover to cover like little rabbits, they fled to the garden patch and resumed their labors. A loud halloo that was almost a yodel halted the work almost before it was commenced. Maria, thinking they had been steadily engaged upon it ever since Peter's departure, was summoning them to partake of the bread she was dispensing to Ambrose.

Had they but known it, this supposed generosity was not so much due to Maria's thoughtfulness of them, as to her own laziness. She wanted Stephen to fetch a bucket of water and Mollie to "red up" the house.

It was while engaged upon these tasks they witnessed Peter's return. Not wishing to descend from the ramshackle conveyance in which he was seated, he shouted loudly from without the gate for Maria to come and open it that he might drive in. Stephen was amazed to see with what alacrity Maria could move when she so desired. Mollie, dish-towel in hand, watched proceedings from the doorway. Maria swung open the gate. Peter raised the whip in his hand. Walter the horse, eager for oats and, like all other living creatures on the place, not willing to incur his master's displeasure, gave a sudden start forward. Maria sprang to one side. One wheel of the vehicle careened against the side of the gate. The buggy tilted. Something bounced out and fell to the ground. With a piercing scream a barefoot girl in rough attire leaped from the moving buggy, fell, rose and dashed madly back toward the gate.

It had already been closed by Maria, but close beside it lay a small, motionless heap. The woman stooped, curiously, to investigate what seemed to be a bundle of clothes. Before she could touch it the girl who had leaped from the buggy bore down upon her like a small cyclone.

<i>Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay</i>. <i>Sparrows</i>. "HE WAS BORN IN A BARN JEST LIKE THIS ONE."

Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay. Sparrows.
"HE WAS BORN IN A BARN JEST LIKE THIS ONE."

Without a word she brushed Maria aside and examined the little heap tenderly. Then Maria observed that it was a child about a year old. It was not dead at all events, for as the girl raised it in her arms, crooning softly the name of "Buddy", the child raised its voice in piteous, heart-rending wails.

CHAPTER VII

WHERE IS BUDDY?

"He that stoppeth his ear to the cry of the poor, shall also cry himself and shall not be heard."—Prov. xxi, 13

It took the combined efforts and intelligence of all to alleviate the suffering of the child injured at the very moment of its arrival at the farm, through Peter's wanton carelessness. Yet no blame could attach to himself, he declared, for at the time of the accident the little fellow was sitting on his sister's lap.

"Whut war yo' a-doin'," Peter asked of the distressed little girl. (Cynthy was her name.) "Must hev ben jest a-settin' thar a-sleepin' er a-gawpin' et sumpin'."

"Thar hain't nawthin' much ter gawp at aroun' hyar," retorted the girl, angered at the injustice of the accusation. "'Tain't likely I'd go an' drep my little brother thet-a-way jest a-purpose. Whyn't yo'-all tell me yo' war a-gwine ter raise hell a-jumpin' hurdles?"

For Cynthy and little Buddie came from some point in Kentucky. There could be no question as to their station in life. They were clad in coarse garments and had sharp, pinched faces. Cynthy was bare-foot but she carried a pair of new, very stout shoes tied together by their strings, and a small bundle of clothes. These were now deposited upon the floor in a corner of the room.

Just how these two poor waifs came into Peter Grimes' clutches he alone knew. What he expected to gain by housing them was another mystery. When Maria, disturbed out of her usual lethargy by the unexpected advent of the baby, ventured a question, Peter gruffly told her to "shet up."

But clothes and conditions mattered not to Mollie. The cries of a baby in excruciating pain pierced her tender little heart like a knife. As Maria and Cynthy worked over the tortured little one Mollie watched helplessly, her pitying spirit shining in her starry eyes. When Peter came in from the barn and took hold of the broken arm to set it, the baby screamed once and mercifully lost consciousness.

Without uttering a sound Mollie dropped to the floor in a dead faint. The others paying no attention, Stephen ran to her and half-carried, half-dragged her out the door. He had a vague idea that he must get her up the ladder and into the barn loft. But the fresh air revived her. As soon as she opened her eyes she sat up and demanded to know what was being done to the baby. Stephen did not know, but he told her they were probably mending its broken arm and it would be all right in a little while.

"Oh, I do hope they'll let him stay up in the loft with us," Mollie exclaimed. "I like that little girl. She is so good to the baby. She and I could take turns looking after him. I'd call him Moses."

"No, but there were the cowberry bushes growing right by the gate. He almost fell into them. And his sister was right there beside him."

Stephen could not see the connection but agreed to think it over and tell Mollie later whether or not Moses would be a suitable name for the newcomer.

"I reckon he has a name already," he observed, after a moment of serious thought. "I don't guess we ought to choose a new one until we know for sure."

"Well, anyway, I'm going to ask his sister if I may call him Moses," declared Mollie with her characteristic persistency in clinging to an idea. "If I can call you Splutters I can call him Moses."

Before the argument could be continued both children were summoned to the house. Peter wanted his supper; Maria wanted help. Cynthy, seated in a low chair, crooned over the moaning baby in an attempt to lull him to sleep. Mollie placed dishes upon the table according to Maria's direction. Stephen ground coffee in a mill which he held between his knees while he turned the crank that sent the crushed kernels down into a small receptacle in the bottom of the square box to which the grinding apparatus was affixed.

The usual menu of fat salt pork, boiled potatoes, corn bread, molasses and coffee was prepared. There was not enough table ware to go around, so the children did not eat until after Peter and Maria had finished. The portion of food remaining for the little ones was too meagre to endanger their digestions. After the meal Mollie helped Maria with the dishwashing while Stephen performed his usual chores about the barn. The baby was asleep now, so Cynthy was sent to carry feed to the chickens.

Peter went over and inspected the sleeping infant. The sleep had been induced by Maria, through the medium of her stock remedy for all bodily ills, corn liquor. After the second spoonful had been administered it became evident that the child would rest quietly for some time.

Peter glowered down upon the maimed little creature. Had it been a bird with a broken wing he would have kicked it out of his way with one sweep of his huge booted foot. Because it was a child he had been forced to repair its injury to the best of his crude ability. He had no confidence in his surgery. If those splints got awry the bone would come out of the socket again and he would have the whole thing to do over.

"Drat th' brat!" he exclaimed aloud, mentally cursing himself for having accepted the baby. "I mought ha' knowed how 'twould be, him not payin' more'n 'nough fer one. 'Tain't likely him an' her'll ever git back in these hyar parts, nuther." He crossed to the door and spat viciously at a tree in the yard.

Mollie, polishing away upon a heavy plate with a towel that resembled a scrub cloth, watched both Peter and the baby from out the corners of her eyes. Not a word of the man's soliloquy was lost to her keen ears. Later she would repeat them to Splutters and he would think out their probable meaning. Meanwhile she continued to listen.

"Them's Dave Green's young-uns," Peter suddenly announced to Maria, who had not ventured to make another inquiry after her first rebuff. "Dave an' Layunie's aimin' ter go ter Indyanner."

Maria dropped her jaw and stared, open-mouthed, awaiting further enlightenment. None coming she replenished her snuff dip and slumped into a chair, leaving the final touches of the cleaning-up process to Mollie.

Peter had enjoyed his salt pork and potatoes and felt more loquacious than usual. He cut a fresh mouthful of tobacco and settled himself in a chair by the door.

"Them's th' travellinest folks I ever seed," he went on in a low grumbling tone as if personally aggrieved by the peregrinations of the persons he had just mentioned. "They hain't got no home an' they hain't got no money, nor they won't hev es long es they're traipsen' frum hell ter Jerusalem a-lookin' fer work whilst other folks takes keer o' the'r young-uns. Ef they think they're a-goin' ter git me ter do hit fer nawthin' they're a-goin' ter git mighty fooled, thet's all."

He turned his head slightly and cast another scowling glance in the direction of the sleeping baby.

"Didn't Dave pay yo' no money?" queried Maria, meekly. She seemed a little uncertain as to whether he expected her to say something or not.

"Yes, fer th' gal, but ef I'd ha' knowed he war a-goin' ter work off a leetle set-along child on me I'd never hev driv inter town ter fotch 'em."

"An' our cow-brute's jest a-goin' dry," drawled Maria reflectively. The thought suggested by the words did not soothe Peter's ill-humor.

"Wisht I'd left him set p'int-blank whar I seed him fust, thar et th' railroad station," he said. "I come nigh a-doin' hit. But thar war folks a-comin' an' th' gal would hev set up a hullabaloo so I jes' brung him along."

"Him an' Layunie'd went. I didn't git thar afore th' train fer th' no'th pulled out. Th' gal said her Pappy 'lowed hit would be all right fer ter leave th' least one, bein' es she war a-comin' ter keer fer him."

"Shucks!" ejaculated Maria. "Hit'll take more'n her ter keer fer him like he is now. Ef he gits a fever ter-night——"

A commotion out in the yard interrupted the speaker. Ambrose was yelling as if he were being killed. Vigorous slaps sounded between the yells. Interpreted with the yells came Cynthy's shrill tones.

"I'll larn yo' ter fling rocks et me, yo' mis'ble pole-cat. Co'se I killed th' ole snake. Think I want yo' racin' atter me that-a-way? Ef yo'r Mammy doan larn yo' nawthin' I'll show yo' whut happens ter shirt-tail young-uns in Kaintucky."

They reached the house together, the fat, overgrown Ambrose incoherent; the mountain girl volubly expressing her resentment of the treatment she had received at the hands of the youngster.

But as Maria, without rising from her chair, reached forth her arms to draw her son toward her, Peter raised his hand and slapped Cynthy in the face with such force that the little girl reeled backward down the step and into the yard.

"Mebbe thet'll larn yo' sumpin," he remarked fiercely. Then, as Cynthy staggered to her feet, "None o' yer sass, now. Git out ter th' shed whar yo' belong. G'wan. Yo' too," he added, catching sight of Mollie, standing trembling just within the door. She had been keeping as still as possible fearing to attract his attention by passing him after she had finished with the dishes.

Now, at his words, she darted by like a flash and grasped Cynthy by the hand. "Shall we take the baby!" she asked, bravely, feeling that a safe distance separated her from the ogre.

"Do we-all hev ter sleep in th' barn?" gasped Cynthy, dully comprehending what it all meant. "I cain't take keer o' Buddy lessen I'm in th' house."

Peter rose to his feet. He took one writhing step in their direction. The look in his face was murderous.

"Yo' heerd whut I said. Air yo' goin' ter move er hev I got ter giv yo' sumpin' ter make yo'?" he thundered.

"But Buddy—my little brother——" protested Cynthy, anger mingling with her sobs.

Mollie, remembering the terrible punishment that had been meted out to Splutters the morning after his arrival, tugged frantically at Cynthy's dress. Not wanting to desert the barefoot little stranger she made every effort to drag her to safety. "Come, come," she whispered. "He'll kill you. He will. He'll kill you."

The ogre was advancing. His great arm was raised. Another instant and he would be upon them. Mollie was desperate. She gave another tug at Cynthy's dress, then turned and ran with all her might in the direction of the barn, Cynthy following.

For hours the two little girls lay with their heads close together by the loft window, peering toward the house, listening for any sound that would let Cynthy know her baby brother was awake and being properly cared for. But no sound came. For a time Stephen shared their vigil but the poor boy was too wearied by the heavy work imposed upon him during the day to keep awake long. He finally crawled off to his corner and fell asleep almost at once.

As darkness finally settled down upon the lonely farm the two little watchers in the loft window succumbed to tired bodies and overwrought nerves, and also fell asleep. It was a troubled sleep, broken by low sobs from Cynthy; now and then a moan from Mollie, nervous starts and subdued cries. For each was haunted in dreams by the terrifying experiences through which they had passed and by forebodings of what was to come.

Once in the night Mollie thought she awakened. But after a moment of lying with her eyes wide open she decided that she was still asleep and dreaming. She knew she was very tired and miserable and did not want to wake up, so she just lay very still and watched the dream events unfold before her eyes. Whatever it was, it was vague and did not seem to greatly concern her.

She saw a house with a light within. The light was that of a pine torch. It moved from room to room. She heard low voices. She saw a tall, shadowy figure come out from the house and walk off into the night. She heard a faint, sharp cry and dreamed that one of the baby pigs had fallen and broken its leg. Then the dream passed on to other vague and fragmentary illusions and at last, when an old rooster crowed under the barn window she knew it was morning and that she had slept all night.

Then came the morning chores and finally the children's entrance to the house for something to eat. They looked anxiously about for the baby. Buddy was nowhere in sight!

"Hain't yo-uns got hit?" the woman replied, somewhat nervously. "I hain't seed hit sence I got up. Yo' better look out in th' barn."

They looked, wildly, frantically. But Buddy was not in the barn nor could they find a trace of the baby anywhere.

CHAPTER VIII

MOLLIE MAKES A DISCOVERY

"For there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed and hid that shall not be made known."—Matt. x, 26

Mollie strove to comfort Cynthy. She told her the story of Moses in the bulrushes and of the wonderful care taken of the sparrows.

"Every single sparrow is God's," she explained as they worked together in the vegetable patch. "And if He looks after them when they break their wings or their legs, He'll look after a poor baby with a broken arm. Most likely He reckoned this place was going to be too hard for Buddy, and because He thought so much of him He wanted to put him in some other place. He came in the night, so as not to wake that old ogre, and just took Buddy away quietly; and by now he's prob'ly all well again."

"He'd otter let me know," she declared, aggrievedly. "He might take keer o' me, too. Do He think I ain't got no feelin'? Ef my Pappy knowed how old Grimes 'bused me he'd shoot him plumb full o' holes. An' my Pappy paid him money so's I'd git 'nough ter eat 'thout workin' this-a-way."

"When's your Pappy coming back?" asked Stephen, pouring kerosene into the can in which he had assembled hundreds of potato bugs, plucked from the vines that day and which were now about to be incinerated. It was a task and an execution thoroughly repugnant to him and which always made him feel ill.

"He ain't never comin' back hyer no mo'," replied Cynthy. "We-all couldn't git along hyer nohow. Ther wa'n't no work nor nawthin' ter eat. When he gits a good payin' job up no'th he 'lows ter sen' money ter Pete fer me an' Buddy ter j'ine him an' Mammy. An' now Buddy's gone, an' even ef God did take him I reckon I'll ketch th' devil fer leavin' him outer my sight."

Mollie had recalled repeatedly the conversation which she had heard between Peter and Maria regarding the unpaid for baby but her natural kindness of heart kept her from telling Cynthy of the harsh words. Both she and Stephen were too young to connect them in any way with the mysterious disappearance of the baby.

The unaccustomed hardships which she and Stephen were daily compelled to undergo had already worked great changes in their appearance, their habits and conversation. Stephen, undoubtedly suffered most because he was just old enough and large enough to be made a farm drudge, carrying loads that were too heavy for his shoulders; performing duties that should have been performed by a man; repairing fences, digging in the garden, working steadily for long hours at a stretch; and all without proper nourishment or even enough food to stay the perpetual hunger which was rapidly stunting him physically and breaking down his constitution and resistance to disease.

Mollie fared a little better. She was about the house more and, because of her conversational powers, was favored by Maria. Her quick wit and lightning-like movements also aided her not only in defending herself against Ambrose without antagonizing his parents, but in securing many morsels of food and stolen moments of leisure without discovery. Everything about her personal appearance evidenced neglect but nothing so far had dulled the bright, mischievous sparkle in her eyes nor quelled the brave, daring spirit which dwelt within her small though sturdy frame.

Until her sudden transition into the rough surroundings of this farm her earlier years had been passed almost entirely within doors. Naturally robust she was being rapidly weakened by over-much care and lack of proper exercise. She was always being told that she must be a "little lady" and not a "tom-boy." And she yearned to be a "tom-boy."

From her father she had inherited a fondness for the forest, the flowers and all living creatures, as well as an intuitive sense of direction and constant urge to explore. That which was unknown and mysterious attracted her like a magnet. In a surprisingly short time after her arrival at the farm she had inspected every nook and corner of its supposed fastnesses. She knew where a small creek passed between over-hanging trees, forming an attractive pool in which the cow loved to stand occasionally and from which Walter, the horse, frequently enjoyed a cool drink. The depth of the pool varied. The water from the creek apparently emptied into or filtered through the bog, or swamp-like area which extended along one side of the isolated farm, effectually severing it from the world which lay beyond.

Cynthy said that all creeks ran into rivers. Mollie knew that large boats passed on the river near her home. Her father had a boat. She could not recollect ever having seen him on it, for she had been such a baby when he went away. And when he returned there had been all the crying and excitement following her dear mother's strange sleep. (Mollie had never been told that her mother was dead.)

So she had never gone riding on the water, though she had often wished to. But she had spent many happy hours playing about her father's boat—a launch, her mother had called it—down in the boat house where it was laid up pending its owner's return. Mollie knew, or thought she knew, exactly what made it go. It was a wheel, up in front. You just kept on turning that wheel and the boat sailed through the water like a bird. She had often played that she was sailing to her father, away on the other side of the world, wherever that was.

She entertained Cynthy with some of these reminiscences, always ending with the avowal that some day, if Stephen's friends did not find out about the mistake which had brought him to the farm and nobody came for her, she was going to find some way of getting away from the place.

"I'm too little, now," she would say. "But you just wait till I'm big enough. You'll see what I'll do."

And she was growing faster even than the weeds she was kept perpetually pulling. The air and sunshine had been just what she needed to send the red blood coursing through her veins and bring the little hot-house plant to a fuller and more vigorous stage of development. It was her enjoyment of the out-door life and freedom from conventional restraints of dress and conduct that enabled the little girl to endure that which would otherwise have broken her physically and mentally.

Since the strange disappearance of Buddy, other children had arrived at the farm. Among them were two little boys, Bobby and Willie. Bobby brought with him a little, red wagon and some building blocks. Willie knew how to climb trees and do lots of interesting acrobatic feats. But Ambrose broke the little red wagon and threw the building blocks into the bog. When their little owner protested, he was beaten with the handle of a hoe the ogre chanced to be carrying at the moment.

The effect of that awful beating left the child's body covered with welts and great, purple bruises. Cynthy knew what to do for bruises. You took common, brown paper and soaked it in vinegar and placed the moist, pungent-smelling mass upon the wound. Mollie procured the necessary vinegar and paper from the house and, with Stephen to play doctor, that evening after their chores were done the children managed to make the little sufferer comfortable for the night.

But the next day Bobby had to go to the vegetable patch with the other children and the hot sun made him ill. Mollie promptly abandoned her task for the time being and started forth in search of a shady retreat where Peter or Ambrose would not be likely to disturb the sick child.

An attractive spot was not so easily found. Everything about the farm was untidy, unkempt and unsavory. There were beautiful nooks but they were marred by filth and debris. Mollie finally found a spot she thought might answer but even it needed attention. Patiently she gathered up the sticks, stones and battered tin cans that had accumulated and carried them, a few at a time, to the edge of the bog, into which she flung them, shutting her eyes tight as the black, viscid mass licked them hungrily like a gloating monster, before swallowing them in its depths.

One of the cans fell short. It landed almost at her feet. Like the other children she was now barefoot. She did not enjoy it. Her feet had not yet hardened. They were covered with scratches, bruises and insect stings. Night after night she had cried—and so had Stephen—over the smarting, aching discomfort resultant from going without shoes and stockings. But there was no alternative. Those they had worn when they came had been taken from them. They were told they might need them, some day, if they ever went anywhere, but they were unnecessary on the farm.

The can, in falling, dislodged a narrow strip of thin board that seemed to have lodged in the earth just at the edge of the bog. A splinter from the board entered Mollie's toe. She stooped to remove the splinter and paused, wide-eyed and frozen with horror at what she beheld.

For dangling from the board and still partially wound about it, were the strips of bandage she had last seen wrapped about Buddy's broken arm. Now, they were stained with blood.

What did it mean? What had happened? Something terrible must have hurt Buddy or even eaten the baby alive!

Again Mollie's thoughts flew to the ogre. Her first theory had been right, after all. Splutters must be wrong. Ogres were not make-believe. They were real and Peter Grimes was real. Nothing else could account for his bringing so many little children to the farm. If he didn't actually eat little children, he liked to hurt them and that was just as bad. He had hurt Buddy and then he had thrown him into the bog. And he had managed to do it at night just when God was busy looking after His sparrows. And here she had been telling Cynthy that maybe God had taken the baby away to save him!

The frightened, perplexed little girl stood there in the gloom of those tall trees and held her breath while she gazed, awe-stricken, at the tell-tale, crimson stains at her feet. Something must be done. Something must be done quick, she realized, or more of the children would disappear the same way. Oh, if she were only bigger and older!

Hark! What was that? It sounded like something moving in the bushes just beyond. And she was alone there. The other children were in the garden. She realized now that she no longer heard their voices. She had come to fix a resting place for the little sick boy. Perhaps something had happened. It seemed a long time since she had started off by herself. If the ogre or Maria had come and not found her with the others——

Thoughts tumbled through her brain so fast that the seconds seemed hours. The awful sensation that someone—or something—threatening and ominous was near, unseen, watching her, waiting, waiting to seize her, and crush her as little Buddy had been crushed, became so overwhelming that a very convulsion of terror caused Mollie to tremble and her teeth to chatter. She wanted to turn and run, but found herself powerless. She wanted to scream but could not make a sound.

And then, surmounting all other sensations, came the vision of her father, the strong, dark-faced, almost unknown young man standing, with some kind of a spear in his hand, facing a lion. She had heard him tell someone the story. Had seen him illustrate just how steady he stood. And now, as clear as when she stood by his side, she seemed to hear him say:

"It doesn't do to be afraid. The man who gets nervous and frightened is sure to be killed. The only thing to do is keep steady and watch your chance."

Mollie set her teeth and clinched her little hands till the nails cut into the flesh. As she did so she took a slow, steady look up at the sky and all about her. It was to make anyone who might be observing her think that she was not afraid and did not suspect the presence of anyone. Then she stooped, picked up the refractory tin can she had previously tried to cast into the bog and made another attempt. This time the can went far enough and, without waiting to see it disappear, she turned about and retraced her steps, back to the truck patch.

The children were still there. They were quiet because they were tired and, so Cynthy told Mollie in a whisper, because "old Pete" was around somewhere.

Mollie knew then that her consciousness of somebody watching her was not just imagination. The ogre had actually been peering at her from between the bushes!

She had just resumed her work when Peter Grimes entered the truck patch. He walked to where she was at work and leered down upon her.

"Reddin' up." Mollie was unconsciously adapting herself to the language she heard about her.

"Them cans we burned bugs in were all gaumed up. I got clean ones and threw 'em in the bog."

"I seed yo'. Thought yo' war a-loafin'. Doan let me ketch ary one o' yo' a-tryin' hit," he continued, glaring about at the frightened little toilers. "An' hyar's sumpin' more yo' mought es well git inter yer haids, ef I ketch ary one o' yo' a-lyin' ter me when I ax yo' sumpin' I'll skin yo' alive an' fling yo' ter th' hawgs."

The little girl met the piercing look as frankly, fearlessly as before. Splutters, walking wearily past them, displayed a remarkably clean tin can.

(After hearing Mollie's first statement he had quickly and unobtrusively cleaned the receptacle with grass, sand and a fragment of cloth torn from his now tattered shirt.)

The can looked about as clean as anything on the premises. The boy, moving steadily and silently along the potato vines, appeared wholly intent upon his occupation. The girl was looking up into Peter's face out of her large, clear eyes that seemed to the twisted, abnormal man almost to smile upon him.

He turned and, without another word, dragged his unwilling, halting leg down the length of the potato hills and away towards the house.

From that day Mollie's intellectual supremacy became an accepted though unacknowledged fact. The children yielded to her leadership and learned to depend upon her. Grimes, without knowing it, actually feared her.

CHAPTER IX

A REIGN OF TERROR

"And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage ... and in all manner of service in the field."—Ex. i, 14

Days and weeks rolled into months, and the months into years. Mollie and Stephen gradually gave up hoping that those responsible for their imprisonment at the Grimes farm would ever come to release them. Children came and children were taken away, and others, like Buddy, just disappeared. For these Mollie grieved night and day.

She never told anyone but Stephen of her grisly discovery that day at the bog. It would make the little ones too afraid, the boy said. And some of them might say something that would let Peter know, then he would slay them all.

Cynthy's father sent small sums of money from time to time but of this she was unaware. The ogre, as all the children now termed Peter, never told her of the remittances, nor of the messages entrusted to him for delivery. She believed her parents had both been killed on their journey north. Once she tried to run away. Peter beat and kicked her till she fell unconscious. Mollie was terrified lest he destroy Cynthy as he had her little brother. Neither child nor parents dreamed that a few hard-earned dollars alone stood between the little girl and a horrible death.

All the children were herded like sheep in the barn loft. Their accommodations there were only such as they contrived themselves. Each child, upon arrival, was permitted to retain what personal effects its parent or guardian had sent with it. These ultimately wore out and were never replenished. If any person ever sent money for their replenishment it was appropriated by Peter. As a result the children were a motley assortment of little human scare-crows whose preternatural common sense and judgment seemed to increase in proportion to the physical restraints and burdens placed upon them.

For this Mollie and Stephen were largely responsible. Mollie had a vivid imagination. She could weave wonderful stories. From her sprite-like, adored mother she had inherited her great capacity to love, soothe and entertain children. They were never too dirty for her to kiss, never too naughty for her to quiet. It was a gift, an instinct, and the circumstances under which she was now forced to live developed it to an amazing extent.

Stephen's little store of knowledge and his fondness for books proved of incalculable benefit to all. But not one of the little band of waifs realized that the tired, broken-down boy who, in the security of the barn loft, taught them their letters, was eating his heart out in sombre brooding over his own bitter disappointment. The story books he had secreted were still cherished jealously. No one but Mollie was ever permitted to touch them. She could read every story they contained. At least she thought she could. In truth, she recited them glibly, not always in strict accord with the printed text and usually with many interpolations and quaint interpretations of her own.

Each child that arrived had a little something to add to the general fund of worldly wisdom, book lore and personal accomplishments. Mollie felt a great sympathy for the newcomers. She dried their tearful eyes, heard them say their prayers and tried to tuck them into bed as she herself had been tucked to rest in that dim, far-off life which was now beginning to seem almost like a dream.

Mollie measured herself every day. There was an upright beam in the loft against which she stood and had one of the children mark the exact spot to which the crown of her head came. Some of the children, when they arrived at the farm, were taller than she. Day by day she was creeping up, taller and taller. She had never wanted to be tall like her father. Her mother was a dear, little, fairy-like creature and Mollie had always declared that she, when she grew up, was going to look like her mother.

Since the day of her terrible discovery and subsequent fright under the shadows of the great trees by the bog she had changed her mind. She now wanted to be tall. Tall and strong enough to get away from the farm and to get the children away.

Something was certainly wrong. Probably the farm was bewitched. Everything good was frightened away from it. Occasionally there were sparrows about, but they always seemed to be just going somewhere else. Even those that used to be about the barn had disappeared.

"There must be a way out, Splutters," Mollie would tell Stephen, when the two chanced to have a moment or two for a little talk alone. "Ef I could only git near 'nough to hear what some of the men say thet come in to talk ter Pete, I mought larn sumpin', but I'm allus too busy gittin' th' young-uns inter th' loft."

It had not been difficult for Mollie to revert to the hill dialect. She had heard it all her life. Only her mother's careful training and guardianship had kept her diction pure. Lacking that mother's perpetual cautions and personal example the vivacious, fly-a-way little creature had quickly absorbed whatever spoken words came to her ears. In her eager haste to express thoughts and emotions she poured them glibly forth with such blissful disregard for the English language that anyone might easily have mistaken her for the offspring of the most illiterate mountaineer.

Stephen, more chary of words, slower and more orderly in his habits of thought and action, had not so completely abandoned his early training. The fact that he was several years Mollie's senior also had weight in preserving to him the correct speech to which he was accustomed before coming to the farm. There were times, however, when it was the part of wisdom to speak as did those about him. Not to do so would aggravate Peter.

That repellant individual was daily becoming more brutal—more obnoxious. The realization of his supreme power over his small domain stimulated Peter to demonstrate that power ever more crushingly. He gloated over the little band of captives like a fiend. It gave him indescribable pleasure to see their fear of him demonstrated. He would punish a child for no cause whatever, merely to cow the others and make them tremble or flee at his approach.

Stephen, by the passive, submissive manner in which he always labored in the accomplishment of almost Herculean tasks had managed fairly well to escape much physical violence. He had quickly grasped the routine of farm life and Peter knew that he could be depended upon to look after the stock as well as he, himself.

It had been Peter's original intention to fetch to the farm a more stalwart youth or girl for this heavy labor. Fate having willed otherwise, he was now content with the present arrangement. An older child would menace the secrecy and security of the infant slave industry which had now developed to such proportions that farm and stock interests became secondary in consideration.

But Stephen was finding the work more and more difficult. If the other children had not surreptitiously come to his assistance he would not have been able to keep up the appearance of its accomplishment. The boy worried deeply over the matter. He did not feel ill. Merely tired. His thin arms would not permit him to carry a bucket of water unaided. He knew there was no money coming regularly to Peter for him as there was for Mollie. When he became unable to work—if he fell ill—he could see nothing ahead but the bog! Brooding so much made his head ache. His violet blue eyes were sunken and feverishly bright. He found himself more and more nervous and fearful, less agile in mounting the ladder, less adept in eluding the ever-tormenting Ambrose.

Mollie was now some inches taller than Stephen, quick, capable, resourceful; one moment soothing and encouraging the children like a little mother, the next helping him about the barn, then running toward house or garden to meet and distract the attention of Peter or Ambrose; into the kitchen to filch some portion of food, then back to the children again, all in less time than it took Stephen to measure out some feed for the horse.

For the children no longer ate in the kitchen with the family. They subsisted as best they could upon the scraps and leavings which were vouchsafed them after the Grimes trio had eaten. Mollie usually went to the kitchen for these rations and carried them to the barn in a large tin pan or pail. Maria treated her no worse than she would have treated her had Mollie been her daughter. She wanted her to perform those tasks which she was too lazy to perform herself and, if Mollie failed in their performance, Maria's own dread of her lord and master compelled her to scold and punish the child or be knocked down herself for her laxity.

She was worried, however, about Stephen. From the day of their arrival at the terrible farm he had taken the place of both her father and mother. He was her confidant and advisor. He was always ready to comfort and encourage her, and he thought out all her perplexing problems. If anything happened to Splutters it would seem, Mollie thought, like the end of the world. Yet she knew, and Stephen knew, that any day, any moment his life might be in jeopardy.

He still carried with him the letter addressed to the master of the school which his benefactress had entrusted to him for delivery and the small photograph, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, which he had secreted the night his arrival at the farm. These treasures he now wore about his waist under his tattered shirt. They were carefully wrapped in a piece of old oilcloth and the packet slipped into a pocket, torn from an old coat.

<i>Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay</i>. <i>Sparrows</i>. THE ESCAPE THROUGH THE SWAMP.

Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay. Sparrows.
THE ESCAPE THROUGH THE SWAMP.

Among the children's prized possessions was a sewing-kit. It had been found in Stephen's traveling bag. Mollie and Cynthy both knew how to sew doll clothes. Using this knowledge they sewed Stephen's precious documents securely in the folded cloth and fastened strings to it so he could tie them about his waist. Thus they escaped discovery.

"Ef I ever git away from here," the boy sagely remarked, "they'll help folks to find out about the mistake."

But the chance of escape grew more and more remote. Mollie, standing ever between the children and the ogre, was desperate. Something, she declared, must be done before any harm came to Splutters. It was Stephen, himself, who suggested the kite. But so far as the children could judge that first kite never reached its destination.

At the very moment of its ascension Stephen, who was holding the cord, heard Peter shout for him.

"Steve—hey, yo' Steve, whyn't yo' answer when I call! Come hyar an' 'tend ter this shoat."

In nervous haste the boy released the cord. But he was not quick enough. The ogre, coming into view at the moment, had a glimpse of the kite disappearing just beyond the tree tops. Never in their recollection had the children seen him display such rage.

"Loafin', war yo'," he roared, making a lunge after Stephen to clutch him by the neck. "I'll l'arn yo'," and he struck out wildly, right and left, the children dodging from under the flail-like arms and scurrying like rabbits to places of momentary safety. That night Stephen received the worst beating of his life.

CHAPTER X

SUBJUGATION

For days after that terrifying experience the little flock of suffering children went about with white, shocked facets, almost afraid to speak to one another lest they incur another outbreak of rage.

Returning, tired and tearful to their loft each night after their pitiful exertions in the field, there was no one to comfort them, none to ease their misery but Mollie.

And how Mollie loved them! There was Johnnie, whose right foot was mis-shapen and who always used a little, home-made crutch. And Willie, the tree-climbing wonder! When the ogre was not at home he thrilled them all by his exploits. Little Leathie, just as big as Mollie was when she first came to the farm, and Leon, her twin brother, though he was half a head taller; tongue-tied Bobbie, still grieving over the loss of his red wagon and building blocks; Jimmie, who came to the farm priding himself upon the "fine wallop" he could give with his sturdy fist and who always "made snoots" at the ogre behind the latter's back.

All were as dear to Mollie as if they were her own brothers and sisters. They were her babies—her dolls. Cynthy and Stephen were her comrades, near her own age. On them she depended for help and encouragement in whatever she undertook to carry out for the comfort and benefit of all.

Five years had passed since she and Stephen had been so treacherously dealt with by those in whom they had placed trust and confidence. Five years during which neither had any idea what had transpired in the world beyond the awful moat which barred their escape from the human fiend to whom they had been consigned.

They did not know it was five years. They had no way of computing time. They were too young and untutored when they entered upon their exile to think of checking off days and weeks in any manner that might enable them to know one day of the week from another. Now they could not even tell how old they were.

Stephen, after his beating had lapsed into a state of melancholy that was pitiful. In appearance he was little larger than when he came to the farm. But with the failing of his strength physically his tendency to mental concentration had increased. He was thinking, thinking, thinking every minute of the day and even in his disturbed dreams at night. The terrific tension was fast reaching a breaking point. Strange visions came frequently before his eyes. There were moments when he felt dazed and did not quite know where he was. Once he did not know Mollie when she spoke to him.

"I reckon I'm goin' ter die," he said, wearily, as she placed cool wet cloths on his head after they had all mounted to the loft in the evening.

And Mollie, fighting back her tears, assembled the children about her and told them for the hundredth time the story of the sparrows.

"God never does nothin' wrong," she assured her rapt little auditors. "I know, because my Mammy told me afore she went to sleep, that time I tol' yo' about. An' she said thet when folks thinks He's done whut ain't right, or ain't a-goin' ter give 'em whut they want, ef yo' jes' wait an' keep on thinkin' 'bout how He loves His sparrows, some day yo'll see a mighty lot o' good come out o' whut yo' war thinkin' war all wrong'.

"Now we've ben a-sayin' our pra'rs ever sense we ben here—me an' Splutters an' yo'all,—an' God hain't done nothin' yit, ter help us."

"I ain't a-faultin' Him," she continued, softly, "for my Mammy knowed Him an' she never tol' lies. But Stevie's gettin' most wore out, an' yo'-all es hungry an' sumpin's got ter be did. Now me an' you-uns is a-goin' ter ast God ter please git a soon start an' send thet mighty lot o' good out o' what shorely es all wrong now. We'll say all th' pra'rs we know, an' atterward we'll git ter work an' make us another kite—a bigger one with a longer tail. An' we'll send hit up the fust day old Pete's away. Thet other kite mos' likely got ketched in a tree."

It was a pitiful little group, for then, as ever, there was a baby, a "least one", for Mollie to hold in her arms. Little Amy, so near the age of the unfortunate Buddy that Mollie would not trust the infant out of her sight a moment, lay across her knee, sleeping fitfully.

Mollie arose and placed the sleeping baby upon a pile of bedding, then knelt, with the children about her, near the pallet of straw on which poor Stephen lay, too ill and weary to comprehend what was going on about him.

Down below, Walter, the horse, whinnied softly in his sleep. Outside, the watch-dog Peter had procured after Cynthy's attempt to run away bayed dismally. He was as lonely and homesick as the children. He would have liked to be with them.

Mollie, who had been surreptitiously feeding the forlorn animal, remembered him in the fervent appeal which she poured forth for their deliverance from the hands of their captor and tormentors.

"An' please, God," she begged in conclusion, "when yo' hev looked atter us children, don't fergit Tige, fer he wants ter be a good dawg an' Pete won't giv' him a chanst."

Then, scanning the pathetic little faces before her, she called upon the children singly, according to the amount of religious instruction each had received, and listened lovingly to their petitions. Jimmie recited what he said was a "Cath'lic pra'r—three or four on 'em." Johnnie knew "a 'Piscopal one." Willie's "Baptis' pra'r" came next. Leathie, Leon and Bobbie lisped "Now I lay me down to sleep," and each received a kiss from Mollie when the prayer was finished. Then came the "Our Father" prayer, which they said in unison, Mollie leading and even poor Splutters trying to join.

"'Tain't every night we kin pray so much," said Mollie as she dispersed the children to bed, "but this was special. All God's sparrows make a lot o' fuss an' mebbe thet's why they git all th' 'tention. But I reckon we beat 'em ter-night."

Work on the "bigger and better kite" progressed under difficulties but they finished it at last. It was sent up, as the reader already knows, with a success that argued well for the future. Mollie was sure that at last they had, by the very persistency of their efforts, brought their deplorable situation to the attention of One able to combat even the terrible Peter Grimes.

"Yo' jes' wait an' see," she would reiterate as they bent their youthful backs over their imposed tasks in the garden. "Sumpin's a'goin' ter happen right soon. I feel hit a-comin'."

With a scream the child tried to wrench herself loose. She thought he meant to kill her.

"Shet up," he commanded, increasing the pressure on her arm and dragging her, regardless of her struggles, back toward the barn. There he released her, with a final warning to keep quiet.

"G'wan an' wash yer face an' git yer shoes," he told her. She fled to do his bidding. But the shoes she had brought with her were far too small. She had to carry them, as before, over her arm. Where he purposed taking her, Cynthy did not know; she dared not ask. Meekly she followed Peter through the gate and, at his command, climbed into the ramshackle buggy. He writhed down into the seat beside her.

"I laid off ter fling yo' ter th' hawgs," he grumbled, as he picked up the lines that hung loosely on old Walter's back, "but yer paw's a-waitin fer yo' in Chicawgy. Thar you'll be so plumb fur away 'twon't hurt nawthin'. Yo' kin tell yer Paw th' leetle feller died."

Cynthy heard the words but they fell unheeded after the first sentence which told her that her father was still alive. He was waiting for her! She was going to him! He had sent for her!

"Oh, glory!" she gasped, as the tears trickled slowly over her pale cheeks. "An' I was th' only one who didn't feel ter b'lieve Mollie when she tol' us sumpin' jes' nachully was gwine fer ter happen, once God tuk a soon start."

"What's thet?" roared Peter, bringing the horse to a halt and glaring around at the little girl.

CHAPTER XI

PLOTTERS

It was just before noon when Peter Grimes placed Cynthy aboard the train which was to carry her north to her parents and safety. Peter performed the duty because there was no way of avoiding it without danger to himself. The letter which had come to him from Cynthy's father had contained not only her railroad fare but an extra amount to pay for the care of the baby, for whom no arrangements had been made at the time the parents, in dire poverty and uncertain as to the outcome of their venture into an unknown locality, had decided to leave with his sister.

Now, the father had written, most laboriously, to thank Peter for his kindness and to repay him for the extra expense incurred. Both children, the letter stated, were to be sent in the care of the conductor of the train designated. The conductor had even been notified when to expect them.

The length of time Peter had been accepting the remittances sent with such regularity by Cynthy's father made it necessary for him to surrender the little girl when requested. As for the baby, nobody knew when it died; never would know. The parents were too far away to ask questions. They couldn't do anything, anyway.

Peter's conscience did not trouble him as he pocketed the money they had sent. He had no conscience.

A dumb animal, when it hears a cry of distress from another of its kind will manifest alarm, anxiety and a desire to help the afflicted one. Peter Grimes was lower than the animals. Totally devoid of moral sense, his callousness to suffering had developed within him all the characteristics of a fiend. The first money ever handed him in an envelope without any effort on his part to earn it had been the final undoing of an already unbalanced and distorted mind.

The thought of procuring more and more money in the same manner became an obsession. It was the object of his life. His pastime and recreation was the infliction of pain. It thrilled him to witness suffering in any form. The more he witnessed the more insatiable he grew. He found satisfaction in seeing anything helpless succumb to his mighty power. It gratified his pride.

Covertly he shook his fist after the receding train. He would have enjoyed seeing it blown to bits or flung over an embankment. That train was bearing from him the human equivalent of money. Peter would miss those regular remittances.

Climbing once more into his old buggy, he turned the horse's head in the direction of the post office. He had placed an advertisement in three newspapers published in three different towns. Someone may have written regarding the placement of a child on his farm. That would fill the vacancy just caused by the withdrawal of Cynthy. The thought afforded Peter pleasurable anticipation. It was followed by another that caused a horrid, sinister smile to twist his crooked face in a grimace so malignant that anyone observing it would have fled from his presence.

"Thet thar least un's Maw—ef ther hain't no money cum from her ter-day, I know whut I'm a-goin' ter do. I cain't afford ter keep hit a-squallin' aroun' an' Mollie a-spendin' all her time a-keerin' fur hit. Ther hain't nawthin' ter be made harborin' them kind o' young-uns. A woman 'thout a man allus gits tared payin' money fer her young-un an' clars out. I reckon thet's whut she's done. Ef she thinks I'm a-goin' ter keep th' brat she's p'int-blank wrong."

But the baby's mother was not so unnatural as Peter supposed. There was a letter from her among the mail awaiting Peter at the post office. The letter was a mere scrawl, on very soiled paper, and with it were several one dollar bills, also much soiled and crumpled. Peter recognized the handwriting before he opened the envelope. The same handwriting appeared on a small package that was also handed to Peter. It was marked:

He thrust the package into his pocket. "Another fool toy!" he muttered under his breath. "Thet woman's a plumb idjit."

Before he had time to read the letter or to continue examining his mail he heard himself addressed. Thrusting the envelope with the soiled dollar bills into his pocket with the package and other letters, Peter turned to face the speaker.

The latter was a man of about thirty-five years. He was somewhat stocky in build, well dressed, and had sharp, restless eyes that seemed to be ever on the alert as if he were expecting someone, watching for someone or was apprehensive of surveillance. At first glance he might have been described as rather prepossessing, but when he smiled, the manner in which his upper lip curled back from his teeth and drew up under his short, dark mustache made one feel that it boded ill for the person who thwarted his will or incurred his enmity.

Peter stared for a moment before he recognized the man. The stranger's lip curled in a smile. Peter knew him then. But no answering smile twisted his face. Plainly he was not pleased by the encounter.

"Howdy!" he ejaculated in a tone that would have discouraged anyone not having a special object in accosting him.

Again the stranger smiled. He seemed to enjoy Peter's discomfiture. "Don't get alarmed," he remarked cheerfully. "I didn't come to take the girl away. You received that last money I sent, didn't you?"

"I got hit," he replied, "but hit'll hafter be more nex' time. Yo' must ha' ben mighty unthoughted not ter conceit a big gal like she is now costs more ter feed an' clothe than a leetle, mosquito-like thing she war when yo' brung her ter me five year back."

"Oh, come now," returned the other, speaking in a low voice and drawing Peter to one side. "I'm paying you plenty and you know it. I gave you too much in the first place, that's all. But a bargain's a bargain and I'll stand by it. And I'm going to see that you do, too. Get me?"

Evidently Peter did, for he made no reply. He merely stood with his head slightly drooped, like a dog that has received a lash, waiting for what was to follow. He had not long to wait.

"I just got into town this morning," the man continued. "I was planning to take a run out to your place. Luckily, I saw you drive by the hotel. I thought you'd probably stop here at the post office, so I hurried right down."

He paused. Peter waited, then edged toward the door. "Waal, I reckon I'd better be gittin' on," he drawled.

The other stayed his departure. "Wait a minute," he said. "I want to talk with you. I've got a proposition I think you'll be interested in. You'd better put your horse up somewhere and come over to the hotel—say in about half an hour. I've got a man out now getting some information. He'll be back by that time and I'll be ready to discuss the matter."

Peter twisted and writhed as he peered furtively at the speaker before replying.

"Ther hain't no call fer me ter go ter no hotel es fur es I kin see," he remarked. "Jes' whut mought yo' be aimin' ter talk ter me erbout?"

Again the man's lip curled back, his mustache drooped down and he spoke through his white teeth much as a dog would emit a low, threatening snarl.

"I thought you might like to make a little easy money. Of course if you don't, I can take the girl—Mollie—off your hands as well now as any time."

The threat was not lost on Peter. He did not want to surrender Mollie. She was his main source of income. It had been bad enough to lose Cynthy. But the amount he received for Mollie was far beyond the small sum Cynthy's father had been wont to remit. And this man now talking to him about a proposition to make easy money was Bailey, the stranger he had met at the crossroads five years previous and with whom he had made a contract that had brought him more easy money than he had ever dreamed of.

Peter thrust his tongue in his cheek and revolved the tobacco in his mouth while his slow-moving wits considered the ultimatum that had just been issued.

"All right," he said, at length. "I got a little business ter look arter et Smith's Golden Rule an' then I'll come right over. Whar'll I find yo'?"

Bailey told him the location of his room. "You needn't say anything to anyone at the hotel," he remarked in a casual manner. "Just come right up to the room."

Peter grunted scornfully. "Huh! Yo' don't need ter be afeared o' my sayin' nawthin' ter nobody."

Half an hour later, in a room of the Mansion House, Grimes, Bailey and a third man, that Bailey introduced at Mr. Swazey, sat down together to discuss the proposition dealing with easy money.

Mr. Swazey was not one who, from his appearance, would ever be judged to have had much money, easy or otherwise. He had a belligerent face, red hair, freckles, and pale blue eyes that were as hard and cold as steel. He wore a cheap suit of plaid material, a dazzling stick pin and a pair of sneakers.

"It's like this, Mr. Grimes," said Bailey, after making sure there was no possibility of their conversation being overheard. "Mr. Swazey, here, is going to assist me in a little undertaking of a purely business nature. We need a man of your judgement,—one who knows how to keep his mouth shut—to go in with us on the deal. If it goes through successfully, as it ought to if you do your part, there's a thousand dollars in it for you, cold cash."

He paused to let the statement sink in. There was no doubt, however, of Peter's comprehension. His jaw fell, his mouth opened and his small, venomous eyes gleamed with avarice.

A thousand dollars! He had never seen so much money. His hands closed and unclosed convulsively as if he already felt it in his grasp. Keep his mouth shut? Go in on the deal? Ha! There was nothing he would not do to possess a thousand dollars. If they thought he was liable to refuse they were crazy. He closed his mouth and licked his lips in a fever of expectation. So deeply was he revolving the matter in his mind that he forgot to speak. Bailey roused him.

"All right, it's a bargain. Mr. Swazey, here, is a witness. And if there's any backing out or double-crossing or any leak—"

Bailey paused and displayed his teeth while his lip curled back and his mustache drooped down and the impression was given that in any of the eventualities mentioned, serious and probably fatal results would be experienced by Mr. Peter Grimes.

"Thar won't be none," that gentleman declared, greedily. "Whut I wanter know is, when do I git the thousand dollars!"

"When we get the pile we're after," Bailey replied, "and here's cash money in advance for the care of the child." He counted out some bills which Grimes accepted eagerly. "As I said, it's an undertaking," Bailey went on. "We hope it will be successful. We expect it to be successful. If it fails we all stand to lose. If it goes through, we all win. Do you know what a ransom is, Mr. Grimes?"

"Now, the whole thing hinges on whether or not our man will come across with the money after he finds his child has disappeared," Bailey said when he had finished. "If he refuses—if he sets the police after us—all we have to do is put the kid where it will never be found, dead or alive. That'll be up to you, Grimes. What we want you to do is hold the youngster until the father agrees to pay; then we'll come and fetch her and give her to him in exchange for the ransom money. We'll take you with us, so you can see the deal finished and you'll get your thousand dollars then and there."

Grimes had been following every word with the utmost attention. He now looked apprehensively over his shoulder as if he thought someone might be standing behind him, then leaned forward and said:

Again Bailey's lip curled back from his teeth and his mustache drooped as he looked straight into the gleaming eyes of the supposed hog-farmer.

Grimes' face twisted to one side and his fingers moved as if clutching something by the throat. "Shore," he replied. "An' I'll do hit. Arything 'at stands atween me an' one thousand dollars hain't a-goin' ter stand thar long."

"I guess we understand each other," said Bailey. "Now we'll get down to business. When do you think we can do the job, Swazey?"

CHAPTER XII

THE MONSTER COMES

In other words Peter Grimes, after his conference with Messrs Bailey and Swazey, was on his way to his bog-infested farm. He was supremely happy and self-satisfied. Riches unlimited gleamed in perspective before his eyes as did a bag of oats before the eyes of his horse. His former exploits counted as nothing beside the undertaking upon which he had now embarked under the leadership of the brilliant Bailey. Peter twisted and writhed in very enjoyment of the prospect. And because he was happy he felt cruel—murderously cruel. He wanted to celebrate.

Had it not been for the swamps he might have reached home by a short cut. That being impossible he drove direct from the court house square down to the river road, followed it to the point where it crossed the old turnpike, thence along the pike until he came to the narrow, tortuous road, traversed only by those who went to and from the Grimes farm. It was while covering this last stage of his journey that Peter remembered his mail.

He felt of his pockets to assure himself that it was all safe. It was. A corner of the cumbersome parcel came in contact with his horny hand.

"What'n hell—" he muttered, then paused in the very act of withdrawing the parcel to give his attention to the horse.

Old Walter had halted. He had arrived at the castle gate. There was a bog to the right of him, a bog to the left of him, a monster behind him and an impassable barrier almost at the end of his nose. Being an intelligent animal despite his environment, he halted.

Peter did not shout for Maria. His thoughts were far away from home and family. Slowly he writhed and twisted down over the wheel of the buggy until he stood erect upon the ground. Then, taking hold of the horse's bridle, Grimes told him to back. Walter backed sufficiently to permit Grimes to pass between him and the high gate. Feeling in his pocket for the key Peter's hand again came against the parcel. This time he drew it forth.

It was a light pasteboard box, not very securely wrapped and tied with ordinary cord. With one jerk of his huge thumb he broke the cord, then tore away the paper and opened the box. In it, lying among wrappings of tissue, was a doll. A baby doll with cherubic face, winning smile and arms and hands reaching upward as if pleading for some little mother to lift it up and snuggle it in her arms.

But the sound that rumbled from the throat of Peter Grimes at sight of the dainty toy was not one of joyous appreciation. As a combination of snort and grunt any one of his ugly, forbidding looking hogs might have been proud of it. Taking the doll from its wrappings he held it in his hand and examined the card pinned to its white dress.

The words were written by the same hand that had penned the letter containing the dollar bills. It reminded Peter that he had been interrupted before he had finished reading that letter. Crushing the doll under his arm, he pulled the missive from the pocket where he had stowed it, smoothed out the crumpled paper and read the few sentences scrawled across its surface.

"Deer Mister Grimes, i send you this money. it is all i hev .. i hev been awful sick so i cudent pay like i giv you my word, when i git better i will send more. I know little Amy has growd. i wud like for to see her. i am glad she is at your farm whar things is good fer her. i pray God to take keer of her till i kin hev her agin, yours truly Ruthena Potts."

Peter snorted again as he finished reading. This time the snort sounded more like a growl. He gnashed his teeth, crumpled the pathetic message in his fist and dropped it to the ground. Turning, his heel trod it into the earth. Then he took the doll from under his arm and surveyed it again. The smile on its face maddened him. The appealing little hands seemed to strike at his heart. Damn it! He wasn't going to have that thing on the premises. The living children were enough to have to face, without being haunted by something that looked like a dead one. He wanted to see a child run and scream, like a tortured mouse. This doll was passive, peaceful, trusting—bah! He hated it.

With the thought he flung it, as if it had stung him, out into the bog. For a moment it lay there, floating on the surface of the black ooze, sustained by the filmy lightness of its frock. Then the grim mass reached upward, little by little, over the small body, sucking it ever downward until finally, only the sweet, smiling face and one tiny, outstretched arm remained visible.

From where he stood, the monster leered and gloated. Still the sweet face smiled its tranquil smile, the little arm waved and beckoned. The black mud lapped on. Now, the little face was blotted out. Only the arm remained. Would it never disappear? It was going—slowly. Nothing was left now but the pink, fairy-like hand. It moved with the fluctuations of the engulfing mud. Was it waving in farewell? Was it mocking him? Well, let it. It wouldn't wave long. There!

With a gentle, tragic flutter the pathetic little fingers sank from view. The mud closed over the spot where they went down. It was gone! The doll that a fond mother had thought would be pressed by her baby's lips had disappeared forever.

For a moment the monster remained staring at the spot as if some unseen influence emanating from the doll were tugging at him, striving to drag him down with it into the depths.

"Bah!" he ejaculated, ridding himself of the quid of tobacco in his mouth. "Ter hell with hit!"

Then he took the soiled and crumpled dollar bills that the poor mother had sent him, counted them, smoothed them carefully and placed them safely within the breast pocket of his coat.

When he entered the castle gate the bigger and better kite that carried upon its face a message to God from His little ones had been safely flung to the breeze.

CHAPTER XIII

WHAT HAPPENED TO SPLUTTERS

The jangling sound resounded to every part of the Grimes farm. Someone sought entrance at the castle gate. Maria heard the bell but she paid no heed. No one ever opened the gate any more but the ogre, himself. Ambrose heard the clamor, but the only interest it had for him was that of seeing all the children scurry for the barn loft. He liked to impede them in their progress and laugh at their tears when his father beat them for their delay.

They were coming now, running along like frightened sheep, with Mollie as shepherdess. Peter was watching them. He was waiting to open the gate and admit the pilgrim.

"Hurry, chil'un, hurry," gasped Mollie, breathless from her exertions, with the baby on her arm, Leathie by one hand and another of the younger children stumbling along just ahead.

The bell rang again. The ogre was waving his long arms in silent command for them to make haste. They would hear from him later.

Up the perpendicular ladder they clambered, each foot barely missing little fingers trying from below to clutch the ladder's rungs. Mollie had one child on her back now and was hoisting chubby Leon upward and onward by boosting him with her head. It was hard work, especially for the younger children and for Johnnie with his crutch, yet three and four times every day the feat was accomplished. No one who had visited the farm in all those five years had ever seen a child, other than Ambrose, on the premises.

Reaching the loft the children rushed, with one accord, to drag into position the great, wooden shutter that closed the window space. Not until then did Mollie discover that Stephen was missing. Alarmed, she ran to the opening in the floor and peered down into the stable below. Perhaps he had stopped there with old Nell. The stable was dark. Mollie, herself, had closed the barn door behind them. But there was light enough from the chinks and cracks for her to see that Stephen was not there. The girl's heart seemed to leap into her throat. She turned to the children.

"Splutters hain't hyar!" she exclaimed, excitedly. "Whar is he? Did he fall? Hain't none o' yo' seed him?"

They ran to where the wooden shutter obscured them from the view of any person who might have entered the gate, and peered from every knot hole and crack for a glimpse of Stevie. He was not in sight.

The reason he was not in sight became apparent a few seconds later. For the moment, he was directly under the window with his back against the barn and facing Ambrose. He was warding off the latter's blows, trying to dodge the fat, over-grown lummox, now twice as large as himself, although much younger, and escape to some shelter before the evil eyes of Peter should discern him, or he be forced by Ambrose into view of the stranger.

The latter was plainly a native of that section and evidently a farmer. Seated in a rickety light-wagon he drove in at the open gate, which Peter promptly closed and locked behind him. The horse attached to the wagon had an aged, dejected appearance, somewhat in harmony with that of his master. The latter brought his equipage to a halt close by the hog-pen and descended to inspect its occupants.

Never having visited the farm before, he was evidently unaware how closely the swamps hedged it about, for the rear wheels of his wagon came perilously near the edge of the horrible pit over which Grimes had held Stephen more than five years before.

Lying on their sides, across the end of the wagon-box, were a couple of barrels. The farmer, having selected a shoat, paid for it, then let down the tail-board of the wagon, preparatory to loading the animal into the vehicle. As he stepped back to the pen to secure his purchase one of the barrels, jarred by the dropping of the tail-board, rolled unnoticed out of the wagon and bounced in the mire.

At the sound of the splash Peter and his customer both turned around. The latter, evidently under the impression that the bog was merely a hog wallow, strode towards it to drag his property out and replace it in the wagon.

"Dawg-gone hit," he exclaimed, turning to Peter, "Lookut thet, now. I reckon we'll hev ter git a plank—"

He paused to stare at the hog vendor. Peter seemed to be grimacing at him. In a moment it became apparent that he was laughing. He gestured toward the bog.

"Ef yo' air goin' ter git hit," he chuckled, "yo'll hev ter git hit in a swivvet an' not wait fer no plank."

The farmer's gaze turned from Peter to the barrel. His eyes dilated. The barrel was almost submerged. It was slowly but surely sinking. He took several hasty steps with some thought of wading into the mud and retrieving the barrel unaided. Peter's strange mirth and possibly, as Stevie would have said, his guardian angel stayed him at the brink. He paused again to look, and in that instant the barrel disappeared. Thick layers of mud closed over the spot where it went down.

"Whyn't yo' g'wan in an' find out," returned Peter, making no effort to conceal his disappointment at being deprived of so pleasing a spectacle as the death of a human being. "I hain't a-stoppin' yo'."

Again the farmer stared. Was this Peter Grimes crazy, he wondered. He had heard for years that he was "queer," but he had never had dealings with him before. The whole place seemed queer. He wished he had gone elsewhere to purchase his hog. Now he had lost the barrel of molasses he had just been to town to buy! And this man, Grimes, seemed pleased over his loss and displeased because he, himself, had not been swallowed up with his barrel. If he had—

Enlightenment came suddenly upon him. If he had, Peter Grimes would have the hog as well as the money that had just been paid for it—and also the horse, wagon and supplies! No one knew he had driven up there; no one would search for him there. It would have been assumed that he had driven off the road at some point and got lost in the swamps. Why, the man was crazy. He was capable of murder. Perhaps he would yet kill him before he got away.

The farmer, whose name was Craddock, stepped hastily back from the edge of the bog and around to his horse's head, keeping his eyes focused upon Peter, meanwhile, suspicious of the latter's intentions.

"I didn't know you-all had one of them sinkholes up so clost ter yer house," he remarked, taking hold of the horse's bridle and pulling him about until the wagon stood in a safer position. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"'Sposed yo' hed eyes," replied Peter, belligerently, stooping, nevertheless and helping his customer pick up the shoat he had purchased and toss it into the wagon.

A child—a boy, evidently, for it was practically obscured by a man's coat and a hat several sizes too large,—dropped suddenly, apparently from heaven, and landed on the ground directly between Peter and farmer Craddock. From their faces it would have been difficult to judge which was the more amazed. The child stood, silent and trembling, before them.

Then the children, from their hiding place in the barn loft, all saw him. It was Splutters! Mollie involuntarily shut her eyes. She expected to see Grimes strike him dead or pick him up bodily and hurl him into the bog. She knew, now, what had happened. It had happened before—but the limb of the tree had never broken before. Ambrose had tripped Stevie. He had held him back from entering the barn door. She, in her haste to close it, had not noticed that he was still outside. Then, in a desperate attempt to elude Ambrose, Stevie, weak and sick as he was, had struggled and fought his way up the outside of the building until he could swing into the limbs of a large tree where, among the foliage, he might screen himself from observation.

Stephen alone knew how difficult the feat had been, for in his weakened physical condition he was totally unequal to any exertion. So loud was the roaring in his ears and the pressure on his head that, when the limb broke and he was dropped like plumpet right at the feet of the two men, the boy was incapable of sensing anything accurately.

But he was vaguely conscious that the stranger's voice was kindly and that when he looked upon him his keen, trustworthy eyes seemed to see and understand his misery.

He was also vaguely conscious that in response to the stranger's inquiry, Peter Grimes, with a murderous look, had said:

"Oh, he's a leetle feller I'm a lookin' arter fer a spell, but I doan aim ter keep him long," at which Stephen had almost imperceptibly drawn nearer the stranger.

And at the moment the latter placed his hand not un-gently upon the boy's shoulder.

"I could use a leetle feller like him on my place. Them bugs—the little old hatefuls—is jist eatin' the life out o' my potatoes," he said. "Spose I gin ye a dollar more an' tote him along with me."

If he had not exhibited the dollar bill as he spoke it is likely Peter Grimes would have deliberated long enough to become suspicious of the offer and decline it. Now, acting solely upon impulse resultant from his desire to lay violent hands upon Stephen at the earliest possible moment, he signified his acceptance by action rather than word. Extending one hand for the money, with the other he reached out and clutched Stephen by the coat collar, lifted him up like a sack of oats and, instead of tossing him into the bog, sat him down with vicious force on the remaining barrel in the wagon.

Farmer Craddock mounted quickly to the seat, picked up the reins and turned his horse's head towards the gate which Peter went to unfasten. As the wagon turned about Stephen, from his seat in the rear, faced the shuttered window of the loft. He knew he was going away—leaving Mollie and the others, perhaps never to see them again! But he was too ill, too dazed, too troubled by the roaring and surging, and pressure of his head to think about it. He just sat still and watched the farm panorama pass slowly by him as the wheels of the wagon revolved.

On the left, the bog. To the right, the house, with Maria sitting, listless, on the doorstep, Ambrose near by, tormenting the dog. In the distance, the hated truck-patch and hog-pen. And straight before him, as he rode backwards from the place was that shuttered window behind which Mollie and the other children were watching, and before which he and Mollie had knelt so many nights, mingling their childish tears and praying for someone to come and take them away.

Now he was going and Mollie was still there—in that prison, behind those rough boards, looking out at him and wondering, perhaps, why he did not take her with him. He wanted to send her some word, to call to her, to wave his hand but he felt powerless, inert, unable to move hand or foot. His head ached. Poor little Splutters could not think.

But what was that his eyes beheld—there, at that shuttered window? Oh, yes, he knew, now. It was a hand—Mollie's hand! She saw him, then. She understood. She was waving to him.

Another hand! Still another. Lots of hands. Why, all the children were there! Mollie had called them. She was telling them all to wave—to him—to Splutters,—to tell him good-by!

How they fluttered—those hands. Like birds—little, white birds! They were growing smaller now—farther away. But he could still see them. The wagon was passing through the gate. He strained his eyes for a farewell look. Yes, they were still there—waving—the little birds—waving—waving—

Something—something was shutting them from him. He could no longer see them. They were gone. Everything was black before him—

CHAPTER XIV

THE KIDNAPPING

"If the goodman of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would have watched and would not have suffered his home to be broken up."—Matt. xxiv, 43

Bill Swazey, the gentleman who wore a plaid suit, brilliant stick pin and sneakers was not a detective. Had anyone mistaken him for one he would have considered himself insulted. In fact, he loathed the word, detective. Yet the report which Mr. Swazey submitted to his superior, registered at the Mansion House as "W. J. Bailey, Phila.," might easily have been mistaken for the report of an operative to his chief. It read:

"House about four miles out. Large. White. Pillared entrance. Yard. Trees. Shrubbery. French Windows. Good get-a-way. Nursery, second floor, over library, east side. Fruit tree near with convenient ladder. Classy servants. Child three years old. Name, Doris. Mother dead. Nurse in charge.

"Housemaid recently married chauffeur. Received check from Wayne for wedding present. Servants plan private blow-out to-night to celebrate the affair. Wayne will address War Veterans at regimental rally in town. After child's abed nurse will go down stairs to attend wedding banquet. Zero hour, 9 P.M. Little Billie on the job. Park car, engine running, cedar clump, east side. Don't fail. If it rains, all the better."

Bailey found the "memo" waiting for him when he asked for his mail at the hotel. It was in a sealed envelope. The clerk said a small colored boy had brought it. Bailey thanked the clerk and withdrew to the privacy of his room to read the missive. After doing so he leaned back in his chair and puffed vigorously at his cigar.

At last, he was about to even up his score with Harris Wayne. The thought pleased him. It made his lip draw back from his teeth, and brought his mustache down over it with an expression so sinister and revengeful that if Harris Wayne, formerly of the United States Marine Corps, had seen it, he would have been tempted to kick Mr. Bailey a good deal harder than he had kicked him the day he found him appropriating another marine's wallet in a Y.M.C.A. hut in France.

"I told Wayne then I'd make him pay for it, and now he's going to do it," exclaimed Bailey aloud, bringing the legs of his chair down to the floor with an emphatic thud. "He made me lose money that day, damn him! That leatherneck was bumped off two hours afterward and somebody else got the dough. I've waited years for this chance. Wayne didn't hesitate to turn me over to the M.P.'s. Now it's my turn."

He paced the floor a few times then put on his hat and went out to a public telephone booth. The number he called was located in a city some little distance away. When given the connection he spoke briefly.

"Hello, Louis. This is Jim. Is the car ready?—All right, send her down right away. Don't bring her into town. Hold her at the edge of the woods just beyond the tobacco patch north of the Help-U Gas Station. I'll meet you there around seven o'clock. Watch out, now. If anything goes blooey you'll be out of luck."

The day that little Stephen made his forlorn exit from Peter Grimes' farm was also the day of the regimental reunion of war veterans at the county seat.

Harris Wayne was not a member of that regiment but he had a brilliant over seas' record and, moreover, was the wealthiest and most influential land owner in that section of the country. As a matter of courtesy and also because of his personal popularity he had been invited to address the assembly after their banquet that evening.

The veterans who extended the invitation were unaware that for Wayne the day was fraught with sad and bitter memories that made his participation in any gala occasion painful and his interest forced. On that day, only two short years before, his wife, the beautiful young mother of his little Doris, had sacrificed her life to save another's child from drowning. She had loved little children. It had been her dream to rear a large family. She had proved how great was her love but she had left behind her only one child—a little girl, less than a year old.

The bereft father idolized the child but his heart ached with grief and loneliness. The loss of his bride and the shattering of all their bright dreams of the future was to the young veteran a more terrible wound than any he had endured in France. Except for little Doris he would have given way to complete despair. She, too, mourned for the lovely lady whose caresses were so tender and who murmured such loving words.

But little Doris' mother would never come to her again. She would have to be happy now in the nurse's arms. Choking back his own sobs Harris Wayne told this to the child again and again. Doris could not understand. She did not want the nurse. She wanted her mother.

No one but Wayne, himself, could comfort her. He was compelled, therefore, to devote himself to her childish moods. As a result there had grown up between the two such a bond of sympathy and affection that now, when Doris was nearly three years old, he lived solely for her and was uneasy every minute she was out of his sight.

"She is all alone there in that great house," he would say when chided about his nervousness. "It is not as if she had brothers and sisters to play with and grow up among. It is unnatural for a child to thrive in solitude, cared for only by servants. She must have the companionship of someone not a hireling; one who is actuated by love, not gold."

But the thought of marrying again and supplying his darling with a step-mother was repugnant. The memory of his shattered romance and lost bride was too keen and poignant, for one thing, and for another he was afraid, for Doris' sake. The woman he chose might not possess those deep maternal instincts that would make Doris happy and transform the solitude of that great mansion into a children's paradise. So Harris Wayne did not re-marry, and the nurse said little Doris was spoiled.

"Oh, the child is safe enough," the nurse remarked in reply to the butler's question when she appeared in the servant's dining room that evening to partake of the wedding feast. "She was just falling asleep. She thinks I've gone to fetch her a glass of milk."

"There's a storm coming," announced the chauffeur-bridegroom. "I hope that banquet keeps up so late Mr. Wayne will 'phone me not to come for him. I don't like driving in a thunder storm."

But Harris Wayne also disliked motoring during a thunder storm. When he mentioned to the chairman of the program that he would like to get home, if possible, before the storm broke, a change in the order of speeches was immediately made to suit his convenience and a motor car placed at his disposal.

Thus it happened that Harris Wayne was being driven rapidly in the direction of his home when the terrific thunder storm that had been brewing all day broke in its full intensity.

Ever since leaving his home that evening after kissing Doris good night he had been haunted by a strange foreboding, a sense of impending disaster. There were moments when he seemed to hear a voice warning him to watch for something. What it was he must watch for he could not determine. No sooner had he arrived at the banquet and dismissed his chauffeur, telling the latter he would telephone him when to return, than he had again been conscious of the voice, or influence or whatever it was, this time urging him to go home—home—hurry home.

It was this mysterious warning and not mere dislike of a thunder storm that had impelled him to make his request of the committee chairman. And now, as he rode on through the black night with the thunder crashing about him and the lightning blinding his eyes, even with the curtains of the car drawn, he could hear, it seemed, but one word:

Wayne felt as if he were again on the battlefield, struggling to save a wounded comrade's life. He clinched his fists and, for a moment, closed his eyes.

The car tore up the driveway like a mad thing and stopped at the great, porticoed entrance of the old, colonial house where several generations of Wayne's had lived.

"Mr. Wayne has come," said the butler, and vanished swiftly in the direction of the entrance hall to meet his master.

"Thank the Lord, I don't have to go out again to-night!" exclaimed the chauffeur kissing his bride.

"Oh, my heavens!" cried the nurse, disappearing like a flash up the rear stairway.

The cook chuckled. "If Mr. Wayne gets to the nursery before she does, there'll be hell to pay."

"Rufus will delay him in the hall. That'll give her time," answered the bride. Rufus was the butler.

It was a penetrating, hysterical shriek such as a woman utters when she comes face to face with a burglar or finds the house afire. It was not repeated. Just that one, wild, amazed outcry that echoed through every room in the house and into the grounds beyond.

Harris Wayne heard it as he was handing his hat to Rufus and asking if everything was all right at the house. The chauffeur who had driven Wayne home and who had been told to drive on around to the garage and wait until the storm was over, heard it and wondered what calamity had occurred. Then, thinking discretion the better part of valor, decided not to wait but quickly turned his car and started back toward town. As he left the driveway he thought he saw a low, dark racing car scud silently out from behind a group of cedars and off into the night in an easterly direction. He, himself, was going north.

Almost as the shriek sounded, Wayne mounted the stairs in two bounds, the butler following. The nursery door stood wide and the nurse, speechless for the moment, was gesticulating frantically from the baby's empty crib to the open window through which the rain was beating and the ends of a ladder extended.

"What is it? Did she fall?" cried the alarmed father, passing the bewildered nurse and striving to peer out the window. "Who put this ladder up here? Where's Doris—the baby?"

Then the nurse got her breath. With a trembling finger she pointed toward the bed.

"Gone!" she gasped. "She was there—sleeping—when I left—" She commenced to sob.

"When you left?" repeated Wayne, questioningly, with difficulty restraining himself from taking hold of the nurse and shaking some information out of her. "Where were you? Weren't you here? Where's the baby, I say?"

Unable, unwilling to sense the fact that the child had been stolen, he looked from the nurse to the butler for an answer.

"But you said she was asleep," interrupted Wayne. "There's something wrong here. You're not telling me the truth." Like a flash came a recollection of the permission he had given for the chauffeur's wedding feast. "Were you down in the dining room?" he thundered. "Was the baby left here alone?"

"What about it, Wilkins? Was she down there? Tell me the truth or I'll choke it out of you."

"That will do. That's all I want to know. The baby was here alone. Anna ran in when she heard me come. She found the baby gone—stolen. You don't know whether it was done before the storm or afterward. Am I right?"

"Yes sir. It couldn't have been very long ago, sir," commenced the butler, "for Anna only came—"

He caught a glimpse of the cold fire in his employer's eyes and paused, trembling, lest he, himself, be cast bodily out of the open window, through which the baby had been taken.

"Get out of the room—Get out of my sight before I kill you," shouted Wayne as he sprang toward the telephone. "Call James—get the gardners—everybody—search the grounds. Never mind the rain—turn on the lights—raise the devil—but find the man who's got my baby or I'll break every one of your necks." Then, getting an answer to his violent rattling of the hook on the telephone, he shouted to the operator:

"Call the chief of police—Send men and detectives to Harris Wayne's and drive like hell. Baby kidnapped. Five thousand dollars reward—"

The receiver dropped limply from his hand, his body lurched heavily to one side and his head drooped forward upon the table. For the first time in his life Harris Wayne had fainted.

CHAPTER XV

IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT

"Wow! Lawsey! Hain't thet thunder turrible? Mollie, does thunder strike?" Johnnie wanted to know.

"Mollie, Mollie, I'm afeared. Didja ever see sich a storm, Mollie? Hain't yo' afeared? D'y s'pose Stevie's out in hit?"

"Don't—don't none o' yo' talk about Stevie. Hit makes me feel bad. He's gone 'n' Cynthy's gone, an' ther's only me left ter look arter all yo' young-uns an' I cain't do hit alone—I jist cain't. I'm a-nigh sick thinkin' erbout hit. An' I dunno what's become o' ary one on 'em. Mebbe they're worsser off en ary o' us! When I think thet, I feel ter set me right down an' die.—Hyar, Bobbie, I'm a-makin' a poultice now fer thet that tooth. Come hyar til I tie hit on.—Shore, the thunder strikes, jist same as th' light'nin', but hit don't strike good little boys an' girls. Go ter bed now an' fergit hit. I'll read yo' all some stories soon es I kin.—Is thet Amy a-cryin'? Leathie, give her thet that sugar teat I made. Hit fell on th' floor. I wisht she hed a dollie!"

Poor Mollie was almost distracted. She did not wonder that the children were frightened. The storm that was raging was unusually severe. They could hear the trees bending and snapping under the strain of the wind, and the rain pouring in torrents upon the roof of the old structure in which they were so precariously sheltered. All the farm animals were uneasy and restless and the children were as wakeful as young hawks. If any of them didn't really have an ailment or need some kind of attention they were in a mood to imagine something.

Mollie wondered, dully, how it would seem to have somebody wait upon her as she waited upon them. When she first came to the farm there had been only herself—and Splutters. They had been frightened by the storms and the dark, and they had had to sit, shivering and crying, until they had fallen asleep from sheer weariness. It was because she knew from experience how awful it was that she had so much sympathy and patience with the little ones.

Now, there were some comforts. She had even managed to warm milk for the baby. But little Amy was fast lapsing into a condition where neither milk, dollies, nor any of the ordinary consolations of babyhood would interest or aid her. White and still she lay, unmindful, possibly unconscious of the children's efforts to help and amuse.

How the thunder crashed! It fairly jarred the old barn. The lightning was almost continuous. Suppose something should happen? What would they do! What could they do? And where, oh, where was Stevie?

Mollie ran frantically from one child to the other in a desperate effort to quiet them and get them settled for the night.

This was difficult, for they were all hungry. Always with barely enough food to keep them alive, their hunger became acute and painful when Grimes took away their supper as he had done to-night because Mollie, in her efforts to relieve their hunger had filled her dress with potatoes. A furious slap administered to Ambrose had revealed the potatoes. The ungainly youth had taken pleasure in witnessing her punishment and her tearful pleas to Grimes not to take away the children's food because of what she, alone, had done. Grimes had long ago learned that the way to make Mollie suffer was by making the children unhappy and miserable.

But as the storm increased in fury she took what was left of the picture books from their hiding place, gathered the children about her and told them the stories anew. It would serve, she thought, to dispel their fears and make them forget their misery. Just as that object had been accomplished the bell over the gate clanged forth above the roar of the storm. It sent every child scurrying to the usual cracks and crevices for observation. Mollie as quickly extinguished the light. It would be wise to let Grimes think them asleep.

"Thar he goes with a lantern," exclaimed Johnnie, as Grimes came forth from the house and strode, with more alacrity than they had ever seen him manifest, down to the gate, where the bell continued to ring.

"Mebbe hit's Splutters comin' back," suggested one of the children. "I wisht hit war."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Mollie. "We mustn't wish him back hyar. He war sick. He wanted to git away. Ef he gits a chanst he'll tell somebody erbout us. Thet hain't him. See, hit's a man."

Mollie was not heeding the whispered conversation going on about her. She was wondering how she could possibly manage to look after another very young child, now that neither Cynthy nor Splutters was there to help her. She noticed that when the stranger left the house, after remaining in the kitchen but a few moments, he carried no bundle.

Peter made a second trip to the gate to lock it after his mysterious visitors and again returned to the house. From the door he shouted for Mollie. She knew she must make haste to obey the summons. Quickly depositing little Amy where she would be most comfortable, Mollie turned to the children. She had already replenished the light.

"Now don't git frightened," she said. "I'm a comin' right back an' I'll try ter fotch yo' a snack ter eat."

She slipped, barefooted as usual, down the ladder and ran, through the mud and rain, to the house. To her surprise, the whole family was up. They had evidently been expecting the late visitor for Maria had her hair combed and there was a cloth upon the table, at which something in the nature of food was about to be served.

The table was large. Over the opposite end was thrown a large, old-fashioned, blanket shawl and seated in the very center of the shawl, which had evidently served to wrap about her, was the very prettiest, most beautifully dressed baby girl that Mollie had ever seen. Mollie did not realize that the beribboned little frock the child wore was only a night-gown, nor did she think of the incongruity of her appearance and that of the other children at the farm. There were no class distinctions in Mollie's world. She only knew that the little one was beautiful—more like an animated doll than a real, flesh and blood baby. Mollie hesitated for a moment, scarce knowing what was required of her.

Grimes nodded sullenly toward the child on the table. The little one had risen now and, with chubby, outstretched arms was endeavoring to make overtures to Peter. She laughed, revealing two rows of tiny, even, white teeth and a pair of bewitching dimples. The short curls that clustered closely about her head bobbed and danced when she nodded and bowed in her evident enjoyment of the strange situation in which she found herself.

"Me—take keer o' her?" gasped Mollie, thinking she had not heard aright. "Yo' mean ter giv her ter me—ter hev her with us—out thar?" This with an inclination of her head toward the barn loft.

"Yo' heered whut I sed," returned Grimes. "Git her outen hyar mighty quick, afore I lam yo'."

With a cry of joy Mollie swept the beautiful baby into her arms. She had never had a doll since she arrived at the farm. All her dolls had been live babies. But this one looked like the doll she remembered playing with in the long ago, when she played by her mother's knee. And this one could walk and talk! She snatched up the shawl and wrapped it about the child, preparatory to dashing with it through the rain to the barn. Peter reached forth his begrimed hand and dragged the shawl away.

He did not speak. The action sufficed. Mollie stared out at the storm and wondered what to do. The baby must be covered and it must be fed. With two quick, bird-like darts she caught up food that lay within reach and which Maria would not miss, pulled off the old coat which she had been holding over her own head and wrapped it tightly about the new baby. Then, totally unprotected herself, she dashed out into the storm.

Five minutes later the roly-poly baby girl was holding a levee in the barn loft and trying to tell the children her name. Patiently, and with irresistible smiles, she pronounced it again and again, but not one of those who heard could understand or pronounce it after her.

"Yo' must go ter sleep, now, honey," said Mollie, as she made a place for the child upon one of the make-shift beds. "Shut them pretty eyes tight an' see whut nice things yo'll see." The child, having already been aroused from sleep to make the trip and now wearied by excitement, sweetly obeyed Mollie's urging and promptly fell asleep.

But there was no rest for Mollie. Little Amy's plaintive moans rent her heart. She had never seen anyone die, but she knew, instinctively that the frail little creature would not live through the night. There was nothing more she could do. For weeks she had been doing everything she could possibly think of to sooth and cure the sick baby but evidently her prayers were not going to be answered. God had not even indicated that he had received their message on the kite. It was very strange. She could not understand it. And she was tired—very, very tired. Her head nodded forward, but she drew herself up hastily and forced her eyes wide open.

She must not sleep-she must not sleep. Something strange and miraculous was going to happen to Amy. She must keep watch and see what it was. Perhaps the child might awake and be frightened—It was still now in the loft. All the children were asleep, herself, was the only one awake, and she was very, very tired!—She leaned her head back against an upright post that supported the root and gazed down upon the dying child in her lap. No, she would not go to sleep, but she would close her eyes—and rest them—for one, little minute. Just one minute. Then Mollie gave a little sigh, and closed her eyes.

CHAPTER XVI

THE AWAKENING

"He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in his bosom."—Isaiah x, 11

Mollie gave an exclamation of delight at the wonderful scene spread out before her eyes. She blinked several times to make sure it was no hallucination and that what she beheld was real. There could be no mistake.

The barn loft was just as she was accustomed to seeing it. The children were asleep in their miserable beds. The improvised light was dim. It only accentuated the shadows in the far corners and made the disorder everywhere appear more wretched. And there was she, herself, sitting, tired and distressed, on an over-turned box, with little Amy, so white and still, lying across her lap, breathing—just breathing, so faintly it could scarce be called by the name, her little soul lingering on the brink of—death, was it? Or life? Mollie wondered.

Then the strange thing happened. The whole end of the loft toward which she faced suddenly dissolved. It disappeared as completely from her sight as if it had never existed.

Instead, there were fields—beautiful green pastures, as far as eye could reach. One could step from the loft right out onto the velvety slope of a little knoll. There was not a thing to mar the beauty and charm of that landscape. One glimpse of it made her forget all the sordidness and terror through which she had struggled for years. She wanted to cry out in very ecstasy of joy but restrained herself, after the one, involuntary exclamation of rapture, because there was Someone sitting there, on that gentle incline, looking at her with an expression of such ineffable peace upon His beautiful features that instinctively she felt the slightest sound would be sacrilege.

The questions floated vaguely through her mind as she looked into that calm, tranquil face, striving with all her might to comprehend the meaning of the Stranger's presence. It was evident that He was kind and thoughtful, for there were little lambs lying about His feet, resting. Others close by were enjoying the wondrous pasture into which their steps had been led.

For He must have led them. There was a Shepherd's crook in His hand to keep any of them from wandering away and getting lost. How beautiful his hands were! And yet there was a scar on each of them! But Oh, what gentle, loving hands they looked to be. Mollie felt tears welling into her eyes at very sight of them.

Who was this glorious Stranger who by one look had made her want to run to Him, to kneel beside Him and ask Him so many puzzling questions? She felt sure He would be able to explain them all. There was that in His eyes which comforted her and made her feel so rested, so satisfied! She wished the children were awake. She wanted to lead them over to Him, so He could lay those marvellous hands upon them, as He did upon the lambs.

Why, it was—it was—Oh, it couldn't be! But it was. She knew Him now. She recognized Him—the Shepherd! The Good Shepherd, who fed His flocks, who cared for the sparrows and who loved little children!

The realization awed and thrilled her. The joy of it made her want to shout, to sing, to weep such tears of happiness as she had never wept in her short life.

At last, He had come! God had heard their prayers! He had received the message their kite had carried! He was sending them help. He was going to take them away. The Good Shepherd had come to tell her. And only yesterday she had been thinking that He had not heard or was not going to answer their prayers! The recollection made her feel so ashamed. She could hardly bear to look up into those loving, tender eyes. Yet she knew, somehow, that He understood just how she felt, and that He didn't hold anything against her.

His very nearness made her feel calm and courageous. Even if He didn't stay, she knew she would never feel afraid and discouraged again. Seeing Him, knowing Him, even for a moment seemed to have dispelled all her old, haunting terror of Grimes and her dread of the future. She felt strong—strong to face even a lion, as her father had done. Strong enough to defy Grimes, if necessary, to help those children.

But the sudden ecstasy and sense of exhilaration gradually gave place to an exquisite calm. A great hush fell, even upon her thoughts. It permeated the entire landscape and spread itself over into the loft. The little lambs on the hillside stood still. A soft, yet radiant light appeared as the Shepherd arose from His seat on the grassy knoll and passed, slowly and majestically, between them.

Like one transfixed Mollie watched Him come—nearer, ever nearer, straight toward her, His sweet, loving eyes looking down so tenderly, so pityingly at Amy's little form lying, weak and helpless, across Mollie's lap, the strange, mysterious light emanating from Him falling in a direct ray, like a glorified sunbeam, full on the baby's face.

Was it the magnetism of that wondrous light that drew Amy's soul away from its tiny tenement of pain and suffering, or was it those strong, gentle, scarred hands that reached forth and lifted the little sufferer from Mollie's tired arms?

It may have been both. Mollie did not know. It was all so brief! So wonderful! So beautiful! She could not tell at just what instant the miracle took place. She only knew that in the twinkling of an eye there had been a change and when she looked again at the child in her lap little Amy had ceased to suffer, a smile of seraphic sweetness lingered upon her face and the Good Shepherd had gone away.

Mollie was wide awake. She had not slept. She had only closed her eyes for one little minute, but what wonders had taken place!

From the small, waxen form on her lap she turned her gaze toward the rough boards of the barn where, but a moment before, He had stood looking into her eyes and had walked, in that glorious light, over to stand beside her.

Everything about the loft seemed just the same as usual—but no! No! It never would—never could be the same to her again. The Good Shepherd had walked among the children as they slept. He had gathered one in his arms. He had given her, Mollie, strength and courage. No, nothing would ever be the same again. Somewhere, she knew, He was watching over her darlings. With Him they were as safe as were his sparrows. God did not forget!

CHAPTER XVII

ON THE TRAIL

"But the transgressors shall be destroyed together; the end of the wicked shall be cut off."—Pa. xxxvii, 38

When the police arrived at the home of Harris Wayne they found the house and grounds brilliantly illumined and every employee on the place engaged in searching for the kidnappers. Between the havoc wrought by the storm and the zeal of the searchers, if any clue had been left it was obliterated.

The detectives inspected every nook and corner of the nursery and questioned the servants. None of the latter could recall having seen any suspicious characters about, nor suggest any reason for the kidnapping.

"It was somebody who knew that Wayne was going to be away and that the servants were having a jollification," remarked one of the detectives. "He'd probably been tipped off by somebody in the house. Might be intentionally; might be by accident.

"Are you sure none of yo'-all has talked to any stranger, even if he wasn't suspicious looking?" asked the Chief, who had come personally to direct the investigation. He looked inquiringly from one to the other of the little group.

"Have yo' talked with anybody who showed a lot of interest,—asked questions? I don't care who the person is, whether it's someone you know or don't know? Anybody from out of town—visitin' hereabouts! Think, now—Think!"

"There was a fellow—" he commenced, then paused as if loath to think of the individual in question as having any connection with the kidnapping.

"Oh, I don't know as it's worth anything," continued the chauffeur, "but when I stopped in at Grier's, where we always deal, to get some supply parts for the car, a fellow I never saw before was talking about the best car for these roads. But he didn't ask anything in particular and there was nothing about him anyway suspicious."

"No?" said the Chief, interrogatively. "How did you come to think of him? What impressed him on your mind!"

"I don't remember. I didn't pay much attention to him except the pin." He grinned again. "I couldn't get my eyes off it."

"Hm!" The Chief exchanged glances with one of the detectives. "If Tom Grier'd work more and talk less he'd be a mighty rich man. What were they talking about when you went in?"

"You say you'd never seen this fellow before? Did he have a badge on, or button or anything? Lot of strangers in town, you know. Hotel's full of 'em. Think he was one of the veterans!"

The chauffeur shook his head. "Oh, no," he said, contemptuously. "He wasn't one of them."

"Oh, I don't know," returned the harrassed James. "Like the pin, I guess. He didn't match up."

"Well, if he wanted information, about anything, from politics to bee-raisin', he couldn't have picked out a better man than Tom Grier," put in the detective.

The Chief interrupted. "Call Tom up," he said, turning to the detective. "Get him out of bed. Find out who that fellow was, if he knows, and get a line on their conversation. Get his description, anyhow."

The servants, all but the chauffeur, were dismissed, and while the detective was occupied at the telephone the chief persuaded Wayne, who had been pacing the floor, to sit down for a few minutes and talk with him. He wanted to know if Wayne had any enemies, if anyone had ever threatened him in any way.

"I never had anyone threaten me in my life—but once," exclaimed Wayne, "and that was over in France."

"I can't!" Wayne exclaimed, irritably. "Not now. It hasn't anything to do with this affair. All I want now is to find my baby. While we're wasting time here she may be killed." He pressed his hands to his throbbing temples and started to rise but the Chief put his hand upon his arm and detained him.

"We're not wasting time," he said. "We're doing very nicely. By daybreak we'll have something, at least, to work on. The chances are that the baby is not in danger for the present. Everything indicates this kidnapping was a carefully laid plan. People who plan a thing in such detail usually have a motive. By to-morrow morning you'll probably receive a letter demanding money for ransom. The letter will probably contain a threat. As soon as that letter comes you must let me have it. Don't lose an instant. In the meantime, rest assured the baby is safe. Now tell me about this affair you mentioned in France. Who threatened you—and why?"

Wayne groaned. He didn't want to go over that old story now, when his mind was filled with thoughts of the present. He wished the Chief wouldn't be so insistent.

"Oh, I just caught a cheap crook stealing from a Marine at the Y. hut," he exclaimed, impatiently, "and I collared him. He fought like a snake and I kicked him clear across the room. Then I turned him over to the M.P.'s."

"Yes. I met him twice after that. Both times he vowed to get even. He said the marine's money belonged to him—that he owed it to him. The marine was killed and the fellow never got it, he claimed. The last time I saw him, was in a restaurant, he came over to my table, leaned over my shoulder and said in a low and most disagreeable tone that I needn't think he had forgotten. That the day would come when he'd get even and he'd make me pay, and pay till it hurt. But that was six—seven years ago and I've never seen the fellow since."

The Chief seemed to be revolving something in his mind. For a moment he did not speak.

"God! No," returned Wayne with emphasis. "He was a civilian supposed to be doing something or other over there. He was doing it all right when I discovered him," he added. "I reckon he'll remember me as long as he lives."

"The devil, I should say. A mighty disagreeable face. He had a way of drawing his lip back from his teeth when he smiled just like a vicious dog will do when he's planning to spring at your throat."

Little by little the Chief got the man's description. He was dark skinned, and smooth-faced, Wayne said.

The detective who had been telephoning joined them at the moment to make his report. "Tom didn't know that fellow," he observed. "Said he'd been out and in his place several times during the past week. Had bought a few little things but mostly asked questions. Tom answered them as well as he could, so he said, and that must have been considerable, if I know Tom, at all. Yesterday they got to talking about country estates and old houses and prominent citizens, and Tom said Wayne's name was mentioned. That means that Tom gave him the whole Wayne history as far back as Noah and clear up to date. Did Tom know about your wedding celebration?" he asked, turning to the chauffeur.

"Yes," admitted the latter. "I told him how kind Mr. Wayne had been to let the cook fix it up for us, and he wanted me to bring him a piece of the cake."

"Well," said the Chief, rising, "I guess we've got a start. Now we'll go after our men. 'Phone Ashton to check up on all the garages and gas stations around and have Burke find out who's who at the hotel. He may run across a dark, smooth-faced man with a nasty smile. It seems to me I have seen someone like that just lately but I can't quite place him. You say James didn't come in for you to-night, Mr. Wayne? Who drove you home!" he asked, turning suddenly back to where the distracted young father was pacing the floor.

"Some driver from town. I don't know his name. He works for Lawrence. I think James knows him."

"Get him on the 'phone. Ask him if he saw or heard anything suspicious going or coming," snapped the Chief to his assistant.

"Never mind. We'll look him up down town. There's a chance he might have seen a car or something suspicious."

After again warning Wayne to notify them the instant he received any word from the kidnappers the police and detectives started back to town.

By nine o'clock in the morning considerable more information had been gained, but as yet there was no direct clue to the whereabouts of the missing child.

A strange, low car had been seen early in the evening near the Help-U Gas Station. It had waited for a full half hour near the woods beyond the tobacco patch. A man working in the tobacco patch had observed it and mentioned it at the gas station when he stopped there, later, for a smoke and a chat. He gave a general description of the man who drove the car as well as the man who finally joined him.

The chauffeur who had driven away when the nurse's scream resounded, told of having seen what looked like a low, high-powered car scud off to the east, just as he came out of the driveway.

"All this helps," the Chief telephoned Wayne, "for it gives us a tangible working basis. In about half an hour—as soon as Burke gets back from the hotel—we're going to start east and see what we can learn from the farmers out that way."

When detective Burke appeared he was jubilant. He had made a find. Somebody at the hotel had lost a cuff-link. To find it the trash barrel into which all waste paper baskets had been emptied was over-hauled. Burke had witnessed the search. A scrap of paper attracted attention and was examined. He had picked it up thinking it was the report of a private operative and was amazed to find it pertained to the Wayne affair. He produced the paper and handed it to his Chief.

"But who was it sent to? Who threw it in the trash barrel?" the latter asked. That was a mystery. "Go back to the hotel," he told the detective, "and pump every employee on the premises. Get anything you can about a dark man with a nasty smile, and a chunky fellow wearing a flashy pin and a plaid suit."

He put the paper in his pocket. "Now," he remarked to those who were to accompany him on the trip through the farming district, "when the letter comes demanding ransom, we'll compare it with this handwriting first, and then with the register at the hotel."

True to the Chief's prophecy, the letter demanding ransom reached Harris Wayne with his morning's mail. He ordered his car and drove at once to the Chief's office. There, after a consultation he was advised against meeting the ransom terms.

"We've got information now that will enable us to run down the kidnappers within a few hours," declared the Chief. "You wait here while I send this letter over to Burke to check it up with handwriting on the hotel register." For the letter that threatened the life of little Doris Wayne unless the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars was paid to the kidnappers at the river pier near the cross-roads before noon that following day, was not penned by the same hand as that which wrote the report found in the wastebasket. It was soon discovered, however, that the writing corresponded in some respects with that of someone who had registered at the Mansion House as "W. J. Bailey, Phila." And Mr. Bailey was said to have a very peculiar smile—but he was not smooth faced. He wore a mustache. And he had already checked out.

"You may say," said the Chief, speaking to the newspaper men who begged him for information, "that our entire force is at work on the case and we expect to round up the criminals in a few hours."

After the reporters were gone he summoned his secretary. "Get hold of Carey and Wright," he snapped. "Tell them to slip the Mary Ann out quietly and keep watch of any suspicious looking or acting craft in the neighborhood of Simpson's pier by the cross-roads. Now, Mr. Wayne," he added, "if you care to come with us, we're going to take a little cross-country run and interview our farmer friends."

"Do you think we'll gain anything by going?" asked Wayne. "With so much information right at hand it seems like a waste of time to be driving aimlessly about the country. I feel as if I must be doing something drastic and violent toward locating my baby."

"That's just what we are going to do, Mr. Wayne," returned the Chief, rising and starting for the door, Wayne accompanying him. "The child is being secreted somewhere in the vicinity. We must learn the identity of any questionable character in the county who, for a consideration, would be apt to shelter her. My object is not only to recover the child but to wipe out the entire gang of villains involved in this outrage. They are a menace to any community. I'll not stop until I've either brought them to trial or exterminated them. Come. We're hot on the trail. Let's go."

A few hours later newspaper accounts stated that the criminals were known to the police and that arrests, with startling disclosures, were momentarily expected.

CHAPTER XVIII

STEPHEN GIVES A CLUE

Away sped the police car, over the country roads and lanes throughout the district towards which the kidnapper's car was believed to have disappeared. The sun shone brightly after the storm of the night before and the heavy fragrance of flowers was in the air. On all sides of the valley were tumbled hills and beyond the hills rose the rugged tops of mountain ranges, bristling with interminable forest.

Up and down and round about these hills they made their search, keeping always to the east. Passers-by were stopped and questioned. Deserted log cabins and prosperous farm houses were visited. Again and again some member of the party got out of the car and proceeded afoot into some thicket or along a little-used path to ask questions of people living off from the main roads.

Everywhere the answer was the same. No one had seen a strange car of any description passing, or stopping, at an unusual hour or in any manner to attract attention. The search was discouraging, even to the optimistic Chief.

Just as they were on the verge of turning back and beginning their search all over again, a little more to the south, they came upon a farmer sitting in his wagon, waiting by the side of the road to let their car go by. He was tall and gaunt, and he wore a broad slouch hat, pushed sufficiently back from his face for his features to be distinguishable. He smiled genially and called, "Howdy, Chief," as the police car whizzed by.

"Yes," answered the Chief. "Turn around. I know that fellow. He's got something under his hat that he wants to gossip about or he wouldn't have been so cordial. Don't scare his mare, now. She's skittish. That's why he pulled off the road. It's all right. He sees we're coming back. He'll wait."

"How are you, Mr. Tyler," called the Chief as he came again within speaking distance of the farmer. "I wonder if you can give us a little help in a search we're making for a kidnapped child."

"Well, now, mebbe I kin," drawled the farmer. "War hit a leetle, sawed-off feller with big, starey blue eyes an' yaller haar?"

Harris Wayne groaned. His heart had throbbed with hope at the man's first words. Now he leaned back in his seat and pressed his hand over his eyes as if he would shut out, if possible the sight of everything in the world but the one face which was ever before him. His baby! Little Doris! What were they doing to her? Where was she? Whose hands were caring for her! Was she crying, sobbing her little heart out, calling constantly for him, or had they drugged her into insensibility? A thousand such thoughts were continually floating before his mind. He gave no heed to the conversation which now ensued between the Chief and the garrulous farmer. A little chap with blue eyes and fair hair meant nothing to him. For him there was now but one child in the whole world, and that one, Doris.

The Chief, however, manifested considerable interest in the farmer's unexpected question. He had had no report of any other lost child. If there was one, he wanted to know about it. He explained that their quest was not for a boy, but for Mr. Wayne's little girl. Of her, the farmer knew nothing but he had a strange story to tell of another farmer, living over by the old turnpike, from whose place he had just come.

"Yo' mind thet creepy kind of a critter what tuk over ole Honeycut's place an' datter, Chief, thet feller by name o' Pete Grimes, thet folks allus thought hed a screw er sumpin' loose in his haid?"

"Well, hit seems he raises hawgs up thar now, stid o' whiskey, an' Rich Craddock driv up ter his place a day er so back ter buy him a shoat. Yo' know Rich got religin and j'ined th' chu'ch a spell back an' he's plumb pious but he shore thought he'd met up with th' ole boy himself when he found this hyar Grimes hed locked the gate behind him and 'lowed ter let him walk pin't-blank inter one o' them sink holes thet section's full of. Rich 'lowed th' feller had gone crazy. Then, whilst they was a-talkin', right spang out o' th' tree over their haids come the skeertest, sickest lookin' leetle feller yo' ever sot eyes on a-tumblin' down alongside them. Rich tol' me he thought fer a minnit thet feller Grimes was a-goin' ter toss thet leetle runt plumb inter th' bog. He seed from the boy's eyes thet he expected sumpin' like thet, too, fer he kind o' aidged erlong to'rd Rich, like es ef he wanted him ter do sumpin'. Rich sed he done some mighty quick thinkin'. An' he wanted ter git out er thet place mighty quick, too. So he jist axed who th' leetle feller war an' when Grimes sed he didn't aim ter keep him an' th' boy commenced ter kind o' shiver, Rich jist peeled out a dollar bill an' sed he'd tote th' young-un home ter pick tater bugs. Now thet jist shows yo' what religion'll do fer a man, becus Rich Craddock hain't got dollar bills ter hire help with, an' him jist losin' a full bar'l o' m'lasses in thet devilish sink hole.

"Anyhow, he gits himself an' th' leetle feller out o' th' dum place an' starts fer home, lickety-split, with the shoat he bought in th' back o' th' wagon an' th' boy a-settin' up on th' bar'l whar Grimes hed pitched him. Rich hed 'lowed ter hev th' boy set up on th' seat along o' him, but he didn't feel ter delay none in thet hell-for-sartain place, so es soon es he war shut of hit, he pulled up an' sed:

"Come an' set up hyar with me, sonny," but thar wa'n't no answer. An' when he looked back, ef thar wa'n't th' boy a-layin' stone-daid in th' bottom o' th' wagon. Co'se he wasn't stone-daid, he jist looked thet-a-way.

"Well, Rich, he driv fer home es ef th' devil war arter him. Him an' his ole woman worked over thet leetle feller the hull night. He war plumb light-haided an' kep' a-talkin' 'bout somebody a-breakin' some baby's arm, an' a-throwin' babies inter a bog an'—"

The interruption came from Wayne. He had roused from his troubled thoughts sufficiently to grasp the latter part of the farmer's narrative and the possibilities it suggested filled his soul with horror and apprehension.

The Chief shot the questions so rapidly, the farmer was unable to answer them as they came. He was distressed, too, at having his thrilling tale interrupted, though the interest it aroused in his auditors was extremely gratifying.

"Shore," returned the farmer. "Melindy, she sets a heap on her nussin' an' she says th' boy's nigh crazed es 'tis, an' she won't 'low no one ter ax him much. Es soon es he gits ter talkin' he goes right off his haid an' inter fever ag'in. But he hed a leetle passel o' papers tied 'roun' his waist thet Craddock aimed ter fotch down ter yo' fellers but he hain't hed a minnit ter spare yit ter do nawthin'. He'll be right glad ter show 'em ter yo'-all ef yo' want ter drive out thet-a-way. Yo' know how ter git thar, don't yo'? Yo' go along this hyar road ter th' bend an' then cut through Miller's place an' that'll fotch yo 'out on th' old pike. Frum thar on hit's not mor'n a whoop an' a holler, an' all clar 'goin'."

The Chief thanked his informant, sprang into the car and they started off according to the directions given.

"Why not go right out to that hog farm, Chief, if you know where it is," suggested one of the detectives in the car.

"Not yet," answered the Chief. "We haven't any evidence against the man. I know who he is. I've seen him around town for years. Devilish ugly looking type but I always understood he was harmless. This may all be the result of delirium—fever, you know. The boy may just be rambling, or he may be crazy, himself. We've got to see him before we can take any action. And then, if Mr. Wayne's little girl has been taken to any such place—which I doubt—we'll have to proceed with every caution or some harm will come to the child."

Again Wayne groaned aloud. Every moment they delayed, riding about the country, seemed to increase Doris' danger. He urged the Chief to hurry.

The Chief reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter demanding ransom which Wayne had received that morning. After studying it a minute he said:

"This was written by a man of fair education, not by such a type as Grimes. The fact that he was stopping at the Mansion House, according to the handwriting we found on the register, seems to indicate that he is a stranger to these parts and would therefore not know anything about Grimes. I understand he is a pretty disagreeable person and shuns acquaintances. But we can't afford to overlook any chance, however remote. That's why I'm going up to the Craddock place. If what the boy says warrants it, we'll institute some inquiries around the hotel as to whether or not Grimes was seen about the place by anyone during the past week. If he was, and we can link him up with this man Bailey, as he calls himself, then we'll have something to work on. Meanwhile," he turned to Wayne, "you've got until to-morrow noon to meet the terms of the ransom."

"Well don't you think, Chief," Wayne urged, "that it would be wise for me to get word to them that I am willing to meet their demands, so as to ensure the baby's safety?"

"I wouldn't advise it—at least not yet," the Chief replied. "There'll be time enough this evening if you want to do it."

Waiting was torture for Wayne, but he strove to control his nerves and to look at the situation from the detective's viewpoint.

The story they had heard from their loquacious informant was corroborated by Richard Craddock when they reached his farm. The boy, he said, was very, very ill and might, or might not rally enough at their entrance to answer questions. His wife, a kind-hearted, motherly person, who went out nursing whenever her services were required, was caring for the child as well as the average rural practitioner could do, and she, too, thought it unlikely that the boy could be roused sufficiently to give them any intelligent information.

But the slight stir of their entrance made him open his eyes and look at them at first with terror, then with something akin to pleasure.

"I knowed—knew—hit was a mistake," he murmured, looking straight into the eyes of Wayne. "I thought—mebbe—she'd send—you." Then he sighed as if with satisfaction and closed his eyes, apparently to sleep. But after a moment it was noticed that two great tear-drops were slowly making their way from under the transparent lids and coursing down the sick boy's cheeks. Mrs. Craddock stepped forward and gently wiped them away. "Mollie—" murmured the boy. "Mollie and—the—children—the babies—." Mrs. Craddock laid her fingers upon his pulse.

"Hit's a sin an' a shame ter bother him with questions," she said. "Cain't ye wait til termorrer? He'll be better then."

"I'll tell you what," said the Chief, in a low tone to Mrs. Craddock. "I'll have someone from my office stay right here the rest of the day and through the night, and you must do your best to get him in condition to answer a few questions before daybreak. This gentleman, here, Mr. Wayne,——"

"Oh, howdy, Mr. Wayne," interrupted the farmer's wife, in some confusion that so distinguished a person should be in her humble home, "I thought I'd seed yore face afore. Won't yo' set?"

"Mr. Wayne's little girl has disappeared—been stolen. They have given him until noon to-morrow to decide whether or not he will pay them a large sum of money in exchange for the child. If he pays the money they may not keep their word. I am trying to find the child for him before their time limit expires. What I want to learn from this boy is whether or not there are children on the Grimes farm and how he came to be there. I know Grimes has one child of his own. I never heard of any other child being on the premises."

Wayne and the detectives withdrew. As they passed through the kitchen door out onto the porch the farmer came forward with some papers.

"These were tied onto him," he said, "but bein' es I don't read I cain't make nawthin' out o' them."

The letter was unfolded. It was old, torn and begrimed from handling, for Stephen had looked at it often. When it was handed to Wayne, he stared in blank amazement. The signature was that of Wayne's sister who had died following an operation shortly after the letter was written.

"She had planned to adopt him," Wayne explained to the astonished detectives. "He was an orphan. My sister had made all arrangements for his education. Quite a search was made for him but when my sister died it was abandoned. We all thought he ran away to avoid going to school."

"My sister," answered Wayne. "Poor little Stephen! God alone knows what happened to him. He must have recognized me. That's why he spoke as he did. For God's sake, Chief, clear up this tangle. It gets worse every minute. What about those children thrown in bogs, with broken arms and legs? That talk isn't delerium. If this boy is Stephen, and he's kept these means of identification all these years, the boy's got sense. He's trying to tell something. And by heavens, if they've got my baby in any such hellish hole with a crazy fiend in charge of her, I'll—I'll—Oh, my God, my God, this is killing me!" Then, suddenly drawing himself erect he started for the road. "I'll go out there alone, Chief, and I'll search that place myself," he thundered.

"Yo' cain't git in," said the latter. "There's bogs all about th' place, 'cept, jist in front o' th' gate an' hit is ten foot high, with wire an' glass a-top an' a big bell ter ring. Ef he doan want ter see yo' he'll never open th' gate an' he mought fling th' leetle gal inter th' mire."

"That's right," added the Chief. "You don't want to do anything rash. I'll leave a man here, as I said—Joe, you better stay," he added, turning to one of the detectives with them. "And the instant that boy can talk coherently you get word to me. There's a telephone down at the Murphy place. That's not far from here. Come on, Mr. Wayne. We'll go down and see what Burke has unearthed at the hotel. I'll have him make some inquiries there, as I said I would, about this man Grimes."

CHAPTER XIX

MOLLIE AT BAY

"For the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand saying unto thee, 'Fear not; I will help thee.'"—Isaiah xl, 13

Baby Doris was blissfully unaware of danger. She awoke, not with the lark, but with the crowing of the old, dominique rooster under the barn window.

It was dawn. Time for the children to get up and begin their day's work. Mollie hated to rouse them. She knelt for a moment beside the wonder-child that had been so unexpectedly given into her keeping the night before.

"Oh, yo' darlin'—yo' wonderfulest baby!" she exclaimed, softly, pressing one of the dimpled hands against her lips. "I never seed ary thing so pretty in my life!"

It was then the rooster crowed and Doris opened her eyes. They were eyes that danced, twinkled and sparkled all at once. They were brimming over with fun. They beamed coquettishly upon Mollie for an instant, then the rosebud lips parted and there came a sound of laughter like the tinkle of silver bells.

"Muh—Mollie! Muh—Mollie!" the child chirruped, then laughed again in glee over her own cleverness, for Mollie had taught her the words before she went to sleep.

"Oh, yo' doll! Yo' angel!" cried Mollie, cuddling the little one close in an ecstasy of joy. "An' ter think I don't even know yore name!"

Another peal of silvery laughter greeted this statement. Just as if names counted for anything in the life of a baby! Little Doris didn't care that minute whether she had a name or not. She twisted her fingers in the meshes of Mollie's hair and as suddenly released them to throw her arms enthusiastically about her neck. She loved this muh-Mollie. She was glad that dumpy old nurse was gone. She had never liked her, anyway. So she cooed and kicked and wriggled and laughed in the exuberance of her joy.

Mollie was enraptured. "Oh, baby, baby," she cried, "I'd jes' lov ter play wif yo' all day, but ef yo' only knowed—" The girl paused to crush the little one to her as if to protect her from threatened evil.

Know! This beautiful child know the horrors and hardship of the ogre's farm! Never. She must never, never know. To be beaten and made to do hard, dirty work with those beautiful little hands! To be frightened and hungry and punished for nothing and perhaps flung into the bog? Oh, no, no! It must never be. Something must be done to save her. Mollie, herself, must do it. She was old enough, now, and strong enough to do something,—though she did not know what—to save both herself and the children.

With feverish energy she hurried to get the children up and about their tasks. They were all hungry. They had gone supperless to bed. There was nothing to eat that morning save what they could steal from the animals or eat raw in the garden. Mollie contrived, however, to get milk for the baby.

Then another problem presented. This new baby was not weak and passive like little Amy. This baby was robust and mischievous. She wanted to romp and play. She could not be left to her own devices. Someone must be with her every minute. They would have to take turns and they must not let old Grimes catch them idling. It was going to be difficult. Well, everything was difficult. They would just have to manage, that's all.

Doris kept singing the beautiful new words she had learned and chuckling like a little witch each time after their utterance. She felt so clever—so accomplished. And all this wonderful excitement in this strange place! Why, it was entrancing. Children—lots of them—running hither and thither, each one stopping now and then to smother her with kisses or tickle her under the chin, or clap their hands to make her laugh and show her pretty teeth. It really was the best time she had ever had in her life. Once—twice she looked around and called for "Daddy"; but daddy didn't come right away and the next instant Mollie was there, so it was all right. Daddy was probably around somewhere. Anyway, it didn't matter because they were going to play games and Daddy didn't play games. This was a new one. Doris clapped her hands at the spectacle.

The children all ran to a hole in the floor and disappeared into some mysterious depth below. Doris toddled toward the place to see where they went. She wanted to go, too.

It was then Mollie caught her up with a splendid swoop and, taking her in her arms, went right down the hole after the children. Doris squealed with delight and pounded Mollie's head with her pink fists.

"Oh, honey darlin', yo' mustn't," whispered Mollie. "This hain't no place ter laugh. Ef he hyars yo' mebbe he'll make me leave yo' set hyar alone, tied with a string ter sumpin' like he's done afore. Honey, chile, be Mollie's good girl and shut yore eyes tight and keep thet sweet mouf shet til we-uns all git ter th' co'n-field." Mollie smothered the gurgles of laughter against her breast and ran, as fast as her sturdy legs would carry her, toward the field where the other children were already relaxing from the restraint of the loft, where every word might be overheard.

Grimes was not yet out of bed. Ambrose would not come prowling about until after breakfast. Before that repast could be served Mollie must go to the house to help prepare it. For the time being the children were free. The day was unusually warm. The day previous had been filled with especially hard and dirty work. The children had all slept with their clothes on. This morning they looked more than ordinarily wretched. Mollie, scanning them, had an idea.

There was a clamor of childish voices and a general rush toward her. The clamor was not loud, like the merry voices heard in a children's play-ground but a subdued, apprehensive babble that could not have been heard beyond the confines of that corn-patch. But every child knew what Mollie's words implied. If they hurried and kept quiet so that no one heard them, there would be time for a quick dash into that beautiful pool where old Walter drank and where the cow-brute loved to stand, soaking her feet and swishing her tail during the heat of the day.

Now, after the heavy storm of the previous night, the pool would be fresh and clean. Mollie had stolen some soap from the house. They would be able to cleanse the scratches and bruises and insect bites that kept them all in misery. The children nearly overwhelmed Mollie in their eagerness to be off. She glanced quickly toward the house, then up at the sun. It was not yet high. There would be time.

"Run, then! Yo'-all go an' git in th' water. I'll be thar en time ter soap yo'," she told them.

The children trooped off. Mollie came more slowly with Doris in her arms and Leathy by the hand.

All too soon their frolic had to cease. But when they returned to the field to hoe those interminable rows of corn they looked very unlike the forlorn band of half-asleep, fretful and bedraggled youngsters that had first assembled.

<i>Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay</i>. <i>Sparrows</i>. "DO YOU MEAN SLEEP HERE AND EAT--AND--EV'RYTHING?"

Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay. Sparrows.
"DO YOU MEAN SLEEP HERE AND EAT—AND—EV'RYTHING?"

Baby Doris thought it a picnic—a glorious adventure that promised new entertainment every minute. Throughout the day Mollie had not the slightest trouble with her new and winsome charge. A bond of sympathy and understanding seemed to exist between them. Each was irresistibly drawn toward the other.

But all day Mollie was thinking of a way of escape. To dig under the fence or to attempt to scale it would be hopeless. The children, even if they once were outside in the road, could not walk or even run fast enough to elude Grimes. And if any were overtaken they would be killed or, at best, treated worse than ever.

No, whatever was undertaken must be accomplished. There must be no failure. No coming back. If they could only take the route followed by the sparrows, thought Mollie. Somewhere, beyond that bog, there was safety—if only they could reach it!

And while the children worked in the corn-field and the police scoured the countryside and Stephen was moaning with fever, Peter Grimes learned what the newspapers had printed regarding the kidnapping.

"Hell's banjers!" he thundered, bringing his great fist down heavily upon the table. "Th' police is a-goin' ter make arrests."

"An' hain't thar goin' ter be no more money?" Maria asked in amazement, not unmixed with consternation.

"Not ef Wayne doan pay thet ransom," growled Peter. "They're aimin' ter recover th' child."

Maria turned and faced him. There are times when even a worm will turn. Maria had been improving in proportion to their financial condition. She wore shoes now and sometimes combed her hair. And she didn't use her snuff dip as constantly as formerly. Maria was getting ambitious.

"I s'picioned hit. En now, ef they come hyar an' git her, they'll git all th' young-uns—"

"Like hell they'll git her! I'll fling her so fur—" He paused and started for the door.

"Yo'-all take keer," warned Maria. "I ben a-tellin' yo' right along yo'll fling one too many in thet bog an—"

Peter paused and fixed his eyes upon her. "Air yo'-all a-goin' ter shet up?" he asked. "Ef yo' hain't, I'll fling yo' in with her, d' yo' hyar?"

Maria heard. Without another word she returned to her cooking. Grimes strode toward the gate. Before destroying the child it would be well to find out from Bailey and Swazey whether or not the report was true that the ransom was not going to be paid. He knew where the two were in hiding. It was he who had directed them to the old, ruined cobble-stone house in which they were now secreted. He would walk there in a few minutes after he reached the pike.

But Ambrose, who had heard the conversation between his parents, had scudded from the kitchen chortling with glee. He had a standing grudge against Mollie, drat her! She fought him off when he tried to kiss her, and his paw had cuffed him because he bellowed and had pushed him backwards and shoved his face right into the molasses on the bread he was eating! Now, he'd fix her—now, he'd fix her!

The fat, chuckle-headed moron kept singing the words over as he betook himself in the direction of the farm outbuildings in search of Mollie and the beautiful baby with which she was so enraptured.

"Haw, haw, haw!" he guffawed at the mere thought of what Mollie would say and do when she realized his purpose. He had already made her lose her supper, and the children, too. Served her right. They were his paw's potatoes, anyhow. Mollie had stuffed her clothes with them. If she hadn't slapped him he wouldn't have told. When she fought and kicked him the way she did, anybody would get mad. He laughed again at the memory of the picture Mollie had made when his maw shook her and the potatoes came rolling out from all parts of her clothing. And how mad his paw was when he came and saw the potatoes! Of course he wouldn't let her have any supper after that—not she nor any of the children.

Still chuckling over the inefficiency of poor Mollie's pleas that she alone be punished and not the children, Ambrose waddled about in search of his prey.

Ah, there they were! Mollie had stood little Doris on the ground for a minute. It was only a minute but that minute sufficed for Ambrose.

"Haw, haw, haw!" he guffawed again as he jerked the unsuspecting baby girl up in his murderous embrace and tore with her toward the bog.

"Oh, oh, Mollie—Oh, look!" shrieked the children who had seen the performance.

Mollie looked, then with a scream that resounded to every part of the farm confines, she flew to the rescue of her beloved. There was cause, indeed, for Harris Wayne to fear for his baby daughter's safety. Her life now hung not by a thread but by the speed of Mollie's small, naked feet and the strength of her brown young arms.

She reached the edge of the quagmire as quick as Ambrose. Had the boy been more of an athlete he could have hurled the baby from him without first pausing to get his breath but he was fat and clumsy. Mollie was fleet and agile as a wild-cat. And like a wild-cat she sprang upon him, at the risk of precipitating all three of them into the bog. She never spoke. She fought, just as she had in the long ago days when she had fought the ogre single handed in her attempt to save Stephen. She clung to Ambrose's arms as she had clung to the ogre's legs. She pulled that precious baby from him and, with the child in her arms, fought to save herself from the fate from which she had just rescued the baby. If she went, the baby would go with her. Ambrose's fat, bulky form effectually blocked her way. He stood between her and safety. One step backward and she would be in the clutches of that sinister mass from which there was no escape.

"Oh, dear God, help me," she moaned, half aloud, as she struggled on the very brink of death to retain her footing and fight off this young fiend.

Just beyond Ambrose stood the huddled, frightened children, round-eyed, trembling, not daring to utter a sound nor raise a hand to help Mollie.

With her right hand she struck Ambrose back. She had not known she possessed so much strength. How did it happen? Ambrose lurched slightly to the left. He lost his balance and clutched at Mollie to save himself. In that instant she whirled about. The movement was unexpected and brought Ambrose himself to the edge of the mire. Simultaneously they pulled, each seeking to break the other's hold. Mollie won. She had fought with one hand, she held the baby with the other, but she had won!

The suddenness with which she broke away from Ambrose sent him plunging backwards into the bog. His frantic cries and now howls rent the air.

Mollie, dazed and breathless, stood for a moment gasping and horrified. The children voiced their glee. They thought it was the result for which Mollie had been fighting. The sound of their voices awakened her to a sense of her surroundings and the result of all of them if anything happened to Ambrose. He must be pulled out. But how? She looked wildly about for a rope, a stick, anything long enough to reach him. There was nothing in sight.

Placing Doris with the other children, Mollie sped to the barn and procured a heavy rope. When she returned, Ambrose was engulfed to the waist. He was still howling. Maria, in the house, was too accustomed to the sound to be disturbed by it. Peter had gone out the big gate. For this Mollie was thankful.

"Hold yore hands up high," she called to Ambrose, "an' ketch this rope 'fore hit falls in th' mud." The boy was in mud almost to the arm-pits now. Every second was precious if he was to be saved.

Mollie flung the rope high. Her aim was true. Ambrose clutched it and with desperate haste knotted it about his neck, clinging to it with his hands that it might not choke him.

Then Mollie pulled, but it was of no use. The children ran to help her. It seemed almost as if the suction of the mud would drag them all down with the sinking boy. Their puny strength combined was as nothing against its relentless grip.

"Oh, what shall we do?" wailed Mollie. Then in an inspiration she cried: "Run, Jimmie, Bobbie—somebody—quick an' fetch Walter."

So promptly were the children accustomed to obeying the slightest command, that almost before the words were fairly uttered little feet were tearing toward the stable, little hands were untying the horse and leading him out of his stall and across the yard.

It seemed to Mollie as if she were ages getting the rope fastened securely to the animal. At last it was accomplished. Ambrose's chin was now touching the mud. The rope about his neck was submerged. Only his hands and his face remained visible.

"Go, Walter, go!" "Giddep!" cried the children together, striking the horse across the flanks with such force that he started with every ounce of his strength back toward the stable. So sudden and so forceful was the action that it brought Ambrose up like a cork out of a bottle and dragged him, fish-like and covered with mud, across the ground on his stomach.

At that moment Peter entered the gate. He had reconsidered his decision to go in search of his confederates in the kidnapping conspiracy and decided to return home. The newspaper statement was undoubtedly true, he reflected. That being the case he had better not endanger his own safety by wandering about but make such preparations at home that, if Bailey and Swazey did bring his name into the case, any police search of his farm would reveal nothing.

"That gal, Mollie knows too much, anyway," he decided for the dozenth time. He had been saying it for months but had kept her for two reasons—the income which Bailey sent him monthly for her maintenance, and the value of her service in caring for the other children. But if Bailey was going to be sent to prison the money would no longer come, so Mollie would best be silenced before any police got around; she and the brat for which he had expected to receive a thousand dollars! Peter was therefore returning home to act upon this decision. Ambrose's howls and the commotion in the stable-yard led him in that direction.

When he learned what had happened his rage, already at white heat, knew no bounds.

"Give me thet brat," he commanded Mollie, as she stood, holding Doris tight in her arms. "The boy's right, I was a-goin' ter fling her in th' bog, an' I be a-goin' ter do hit this minnit. Gi'n her hyar, I say; then I'm a-comin' back fer yo'."

But the children, in a panic of terror, were already scuttling up the ladder into the loft. Never had they gone so rapidly. Mollie, tugging Leathy and carrying the precious Doris brought up the rear. It seemed to her that hours were consumed in getting up the ladder. Each second was an age. She could almost feel the ogre's breath at her back, the grip of his hands upon her shoulders.

She thought she said it, but her lips uttered no sound. They were dry and parched. Her heart was pounding. With a supreme effort she pushed Leathy and Doris through the hole in the floor and dragged herself up behind them.

But he was coming—the ogre! He was close upon them. Snorting and growling forth threats, Grimes was mounting the ladder. He was infuriated now. He would kill them all. He was roaring like a lion—Ah! The thought was an inspiration again. Lions must be faced bravely—with a spear. And there was the spear!

The next instant Mollie had whirled like a trapped animal at bay. Pitchfork in hand, she was looking the ogre straight in the eye.

There was no nervousness in the manner those little brown, work-hardened hands gripped that heavy handle. They were as steady and taut as steel. And there was no flinching in those clear eyes. She meant what she said.

There was no threat. The prongs of that pitchfork backed by the strength of purpose revealed in Mollie's eyes were more than sufficient for any coward, and Grimes was a coward.

Step by step he descended, and one step, two steps came Mollie with the pitchfork, until he was back on the stable floor. Then, still using the pitchfork as a defense, she quickly sprang back into the loft, seized the top of the ladder and, with the children's help, pulled it up into the loft, and closed the hole in the floor.

CHAPTER XX

THE FLIGHT OF THE SPARROWS

"Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day."—Ps. sci, 5

Mollie dropped, exhausted, upon the floor. The children clustered about her. Some were crying. All were tired and hungry. Little Doris, not in the least understanding what all the excitement had been about, crept forward and patted Mollie's cheek with the palm of her much-soiled little hand.

"Muh-Mollie!" she lisped, then snuggled into her lap and embraced her with such ardor that Mollie was forced to respond, tired and trembling though she was.

But youth revives quickly. Mollie was now keyed up to such a pitch that she could not be still a moment.

"We-uns has getter do sumpin', now!" she exclaimed, turning for encouragement toward the eldest of the children. "I cain't hol' back thet ole ogre only fer ter-night. Gi'n termorrer he'll kotch us, shore. An' I cain't see no way ter git out 'cept over thet bog; an' I ben a-figurin' all day erbout hit. Ther hain't no use'n our a-settin' hyar a-waitin' fer God ter come an' do somethin'. We-uns has gotter do hit our own selfs. He's a-goin' ter watch over us, same es He does th' sparrows an' take keer on us an' see thet nawthin' hurts us, but hits we-uns an' not Him thet's got ter git th' soon start. I hain't afeerd now, o' nawthin'. I tol' you-all down thar in th' co'n field 'bout th' Good Shepherd who come las' night whilst you-all war a-sleepin'. Well, I l'arned a lot, jist a-lookin' at Him.

"An' ter-day I ben a-watchin' th' sparrows. I ben a-watchin' them ever sence I war es leetle es Leathie an' a-thinkin' thet when I war big 'nough I'd fin' out whar they go when they fly straight-a-way over th' bog. I hain't never seed ary one fall. He holts 'em up. An' ef He'll holt sparrows up He'll holt little chil'en up. All we hafter do es hang on ter trees an' things like th' birds. Willie has l'arnt yo'-all how ter do thet. Now ef we-all hold together, an' take thet thar rope we used ter-day, an' fling hit acrost frum one tree ter 'nother, so thet we kin keap aholt on hit, I feel thet we'll git just whar them sparrows git an' whar thet air, ole Grimes cain't never come."

The children listened, breathless with anticipation. The theory was excellent. The tree stunts appealed to them. The fear of Grimes spurred them in their eagerness to put the plan into operation.

"We mustn't gi'n him a chanst," returned Mollie. "We must git Ole Walter outter th' gate an' git his key ter th' gate an' fling hit inter th' bog. I'll do thet. I'll do hit whilst he's a-sleepin'. I know whar hit is. Hit's with his pants. His pants hang 'side his bed. I see 'em mornings when I go ter help Maria an' he ain't up yit. I'll git th' key."

There were many other things to be thought of. Mollie would have to carry Doris on her back. The baby must be tied on very, very securely. Then there was Johnnie. It would be hard for him, with his mis-shapen foot and his crutch, but Johnnie was not sickly. He was as strong and sturdy as any and he could climb trees almost as well as Willie. His crutch could be used if any of them slipped and someone had to extend a helping hand. They could extend the crutch instead of the hand. It would be longer and stronger. The alert, childish minds were working swiftly and in perfect harmony. What one did not think of the others did.

"Yo' boys'll hev ter help Leathy, an' take keer on her. She's th' least-un, 'ceptin' Honey, an' I'll hev her on my back," said Mollie. In lieu of any other name for the new baby, Mollie had called her Honey, and by that name the children now knew her.

Some of the boys wanted to start at once. Mollie was firm in her opposition. Despite her youth, she had an old head. She had been made old by the experiences through which she had passed.

"No," she counseled. "Not till jist 'fore sun-up. We gotter hev light 'nuff ter see whut we air a-doin'. An' when we air ready ter go, I—golly, we-all's got ter git acrost thet thar bog en such a swivvet he won't be able ter tell one o' us frum t'other."

Then she made the little ones all say their prayers and lie down for a bit of rest, promising to call them in plenty of time. But for herself there was no rest. For hours she mounted guard. From the darkness and quietness of the Grimes dwelling it finally became evident that the ogre had gone to rest and would not disturb them again that night.

The undertaking Mollie proposed was so hazardous that no person of mature years would ever have conceived it. The idea of dragging a dozen small children, including a cripple and a baby, strung together by a rope and equipped only with a small, wooden crutch, across those man-eating swamps and quagmires was so beyond the bounds of reasonable possibility that the mere mention of it to any denizen of the locality would have been considered proof of the person's mental irresponsibility.

Of this, however, Mollie was blissfully unaware. From her viewpoint and under existing circumstances it was the only way out and she was going that way. Through the hours she watched the stars. Then, just before the first faint streaks of dawn lighted the sky she went from bed to bed, and from child to child, whispering the words that brought each little dreamer up with a start, eager to put their plan into action.

It was still dark. That intense darkness that comes just before dawn and everything was very, very still.

The plans had been well laid and the children well instructed. Their training in obedience was a wonderful asset. There was no talking, no confusion. Like a band of busy little gnomes they worked, silently, swiftly. Burlap bags were filled with straw and hay. They were for Walter to walk on, that the thud of his hoofs might not arouse the ogre. The little boys attended to that part of the work. The girls looked after the baby while Mollie attended to everything.

Very softly, stealthily they extended the ladder and crept down into the stable. Walter was sleepy but he loved the children and yielded willingly to their soft persuasions. The old horse seemed to sense that something wonderful was occurring and that much depended upon him. And while the boys led him slowly, with padded hoofs across the yard to the gate and the other children made their way noiselessly toward the edge of the bog where they were to await Mollie and the boys, the brave girl crept, little by little, into the home of the monster, across the kitchen floor and up the narrow stairs leading to that dark, windowless alcove where the ogre slept.

He was snoring, loudly. She could hear him. She could also hear Ambrose's heavy breathing from the small alcove adjoining. She did not hear Maria but she hoped and prayed that she, also, might be sleeping with equal soundness. It was very dark. If she stubbed her bare toes on anything that hurt she must make no sound, no move for a moment. But she escaped that danger.

At the door of the room she paused again to listen. Then she stole in, oh, so lightly! No fairy could have been more still. Her hand reached out toward the bed post where the ogre's trousers were wont to hang, ready to be donned with speed if the great bell rang in the night. He moved heavily in his sleep. Mollie stood rigid, her heart in her mouth. But he continued snoring. Maria groaned and snuffled. She was dreaming. She thought, probably, that she was being beaten.

Again Mollie's hand reached toward the bed post. This time she was successful. The trousers were there. She detached them with the lightness of touch and deftness of a little bird struggling with a string for its nest. Then she turned. If the ascent of the stairs had been dangerous the descent was more so. She wanted to go fast and dared not. Every creak seemed as loud as a thunderclap. But nothing happened. She reached the door in safety and fairly shot across the yard to where the boys were waiting with the horse.

She did not see the window back of her—that small, glass window that Grimes had had put into the alcove where Ambrose slept and which was not there the night Mollie and Stephen had said their childish prayers, beseeching guardian angels to watch over them in that dark and fearsome place. And now Ambrose, like a young imp, was peering out at the array of tiny, dark outlines which dotted the yard as far as he could see. Something had creaked, he thought. He was not yet accustomed to that new window. He thought the wind might break it, or something. So he got up to examine it. And what he saw terrified him.

Not for a moment did he think the children could be trying to escape. There was no place to escape to. This must be some kind of an army of robbers. They were stealing Walter. Or else the police his Paw had been talking about had come to arrest them. It was this last thought which terrified him sufficiently to make him cower in silence long enough for the brave little band of children to eject the horse from the home where he, as well as they, had never known happiness, and send him at a canter down the road to the pike. Then the gate was re-locked and the ogre's pants, with the key attached, were thrown in the bog.

It took but a moment to secure baby Doris to Mollie's back. The child laughed and crowed with delight at such a novel way of playing "ridey-horse."

"Quick, Willie, fling th' rope up to the limb o' thet tree yan," ordered Mollie.

Away went the heavy rope. It caught and tightened upon the limb of a tall tree standing upon a tiny oasis of more solid ground well out in the bog. Thank God! It held.

"Now, chil'en," said Mollie, "we-uns has all said our pra'rs. We's tol' God whut we air a-goin' ter do an' axed Him ter holt us up. So we doan need ter git skeered. Jist leave arything ter Him an' keep a-goin'. Now! Yo' air all fixed tight. I'll go fust."

And Mollie, with Harris Wayne's baby girl strapped on her back, looked fearlessly up at the heavenly glow far in the east and stepped off into the bog, her hands clutching the rope to which they were all tied.

"Paw—Paw—Git up! Th' young-uns is doin' sumpin'. Hit wa'n't police. Hit war Mollie. She's got 'em in th' bog!"

CHAPTER XXI

CROSSING THE BOG

Peter bounded from his bed in a daze. What was Ambrose yelling about? Was the house afire? He reached, from force of habit, for his pants. His hand failed to touch them.

Maria was awake, too, groping about for a light. "Hain't they whar yo' put 'em?" she asked.

"Naw, they hain't," he shouted. "Somebody's tuk 'em. Hit's thet Mollie—thet's who hit es."

He pranced about, roaring invectives, while Maria made a light and Ambrose appeared in the doorway.

"Out in th' yard," cried Ambrose, trembling with excitement. "She war a-goin' es ef th' devil hed kicked her on end. Gosh! but she war a-steppin'. An' they shoved ole Walter outten th' gate—"

Grimes gave a whoop. "Whut!" he cried. "Whar war yo'? Ef yo' seed hit, whyn't yo' yell? Yo' kin make noise 'nuff 'bout nawthin'." He tore down the stairs and out into the yard with no further thought of pants. He did not propose to lose his horse as well. But the great gate was locked. The key was attached to the pants. The pants were gone. The Grimes family were prisoners in their own home.

They ran about like a bevy of frightened jack-rabbits and finally brought up on the edge of the bog. There was light now, light enough to see clearly. And what they saw was so incredible that for a moment they thought their eyes were deceiving them.

Children—a swaying, floundering string of them, like the tail of a kite, with the largest, Mollie, in the lead, clear out in the bog, beyond the reach of any plank on the premises—and nobody would have ventured to cross on a plank had one been available.

Grimes stared, rubbed his eyes and stared again. "Plumb idjits!" he ejaculated. "Th' dum fools! I'll git 'em off en thar mighty quick."

He tore indoors and returned on the jump, his shirt flying like a sail in the morning breeze, and carrying a shot-gun. He paused, raised the gun to his shoulder and took aim.

From her precarious position on the limb of a tree, her feet barely out of the mud, Mollie watched him.

"He ain't a-goin' ter hit none on us," she told the children with a calmness of tone and a sense of conviction that was nothing short of inspired. "Th' Good Shepherd's a-watchin'. He'll put up His hand, er sumpin'. They was scarred hands. Mebbe thet's how hit happened. He was a helpin' little chil'en."

But the hand that reached forth and touched the ogre's arm was the hand of a poor, ignorant, half-witted woman, the victim of circumstances, the creature of her environment—Maria.

"I wouldn't shoot 'em," she said, and who knows but that she, too, was inspired, "th' police might be aroun' an' hear yo'. Leave 'em an' they'll die in th' mire, anyhow."

Peter lowered the gun. Several sparrows twittered and went flying over his head in the direction of the children. Neither the children nor the sparrows fell. Maria's hand had performed the most noble deed of her life.

"Thet's right," remarked Peter, for once not berating her for interference. Then he commenced to laugh. The laugh was a cross between that of a fiend and a hyena. And when he laughed, Ambrose, his son, laughed. It was a good joke on Mollie! But Maria did not laugh.

Then Peter remembered his unclad extremities and the run-a-way horse and the missing key. He gritted his teeth and shook his fist futilely toward the children before turning and making his way back to the house.

"Now, didn't I tell yo-all?" said Mollie, smiling upon the children. "I'm jist es happy es this hyar Honey-baby on my back. An' I hain't a-feared o' nawthin'. Come on, we-uns has got our breff now. Kin yo' git out on thet limb, Willie, ter fling th' rope?"

Willie was already climbing like a monkey out on the limb from which he was to cast the rope to the next tree, further on in the depths of the swamp. The trees were closer together now, the ground seemed to be firmer and the mud less tenacious than in that one awful hole so close to the farm outbuildings.

Leathy was quickly getting tired. She had run a sliver in her finger. Every time she tried to cling tightly to a tree-limb the sliver pierced her hand anew.

"Shore," called back Johnnie. "Luk out, thar, now. Ef yo' hain't keerful, yo're a-goin' ter slip." Leathy emitted a little scream. It was true, she was slipping. She tried to right herself. The sliver hurt. She tried to move her hand to ease it. Down she went! But she was still fast to the rope. Practical Johnnie extended his crutch. She grasped it. She clambered back into safety. On they went.

But it was slow work—very slow work. Mollie was hampered by the baby on her back; but a better, less troublesome child it would have been difficult to find. Little Doris laughed and sang and clapped her chubby hands at everything.

It was truly a venture of faith. Not one of that sad little procession had the slightest idea of the topography of the country save Johnnie. He declared that when he arrived at the farm he was brought along a river road. He remembered it because he had been looking at a boat that was just being docked. It dimly recalled to Mollie's mind the boat she remembered playing about when she was almost a baby. Perhaps if they could get to this river Johnnie told about, they could get in a boat. Then Grimes would surely never find them. But did the bogs extend to a road, and was there a river near that road? There was no one to answer the question.

"Whar th' birds go thar has ter be sumpin' to eat an' drink," declared Mollie. "We-all is a-goin' ter foller th' sparrows, hain't we, Honey-chile?"

Yet there were dangers all about them. The dangers were of the deadliest kind. The little boys knew it. Mollie knew it. There were poisonous bugs, insects and snakes. They infested the trees and foliage as well as the ground under the trees. Every move the children made, every step they took was a veritable gamble with death. But all along the line of mud-stained little pilgrims bright, alert, trained eyes kept watch, and acute little ears, ever attuned to detect the slightest sound that might mean a closely menacing danger, were constantly on duty.

It was Bobbie who saw the snake and Johnnie's crutch that killed it. It was Willie who, with a branch broken from a tree, brushed the horrid spider from Leon's shoulder without the younger boy's knowledge. It was Leon, himself, who cried out a warning to Jimmie and the girls to dodge some flying creature. They were on guard, each one, like a little band of soldiers. They were fighting a battle with death. Every one of those tired, half-starved little ones, climbing with the ease of monkeys along those low-hanging branches knew with an awful certainty that they were fleeing for their lives. Any one of them would instantly have dropped into the engulfing mud rather than fall again into the clutches of the ogre they had left behind.

But their passage was as if the sparrows that flew ahead had, with their wings, swept the way clear before them. The snakes crawled away, or were sleeping, having gorged themselves during the night. The bugs and spiders seemed incurious regarding the strange procession, and the sun shone down between the trees with such unusual brightness that the insects sought deeper shade.

"Everything a-goin' fine," called Mollie from her place up ahead. "Yo'-all don't need ter be a-feared ter laugh, now. Ther hain't ary one ter whup yo'-all. Jimmie, yo' kin sing ef yo' feel fer hit. Thar hain't nawthin' a-goin' ter tech us an' time we gits ter thet thar nex' tree we'll set a spell on thet low limb an' each on us eat a potato."

For Mollie had left nothing forgotten. She had included in her provisions for the journey, milk for the baby, water for the children and raw potatoes for them all. She did not know that greater struggles lay ahead; that they had accomplished but a small part of their tortuous journey.

CHAPTER XXII

RANSOM MONEY

All through the night just passed a haggard man paced the floor of an empty nursery in his lonely home, awaiting for a message that did not come.

Whether or not he would have been cheered by the knowledge that his baby daughter was being prepared to start at daybreak on the back of a young girl, little more than a child herself, through the swamps and quagmires that lay between the Grimes farm and the river road, it is difficult to say.

It might, at least, have reassured him regarding her welfare for the moment and dispelled the haunting fear that the little one was in the hands of a fiend.

But Harris Wayne did not know. And uncertainty as to the safety and whereabouts of a loved one is always torture.

He was not rendered more tranquil by what had been learned at the hotel. The man, Grimes, had actually been seen leaving the Mansion House several days prior to the kidnapping. It was not known with whom he had visited there. Yet the script of the letter demanding ransom corresponded in part with the handwriting of the man who had registered at the hotel as Bailey.

Were the two acquainted, Wayne wondered. Were they in league together! Had his child really been turned over to the hog farmer for shelter while arrangements for ransom were pending?

Again and again he asked himself the questions. He blamed himself for not having paid the ransom at once, thus saving himself from torment and Doris from danger. He might have had her back in his arms again by now! What a fool he had been to listen to the Chief. Naturally, all the police thought about was apprehending criminals. They could not be expected to understand his feelings and emotions!

He did not know that the Chief had six children and the detectives were each fathers of families numbering from two to seven. He did not realize that it was their very love of children and their desire to protect other fathers and other children from such suffering that made them concentrate their energies upon running down the criminals.

People in great trouble are apt to be selfish. They think no trouble can possibly equal theirs and that no one can properly understand their sorrow or anxiety.

So Harris Wayne paced the floor, nursing his grief and listening, ever listening for a sound—a step on the gravel, a tap on the window, a knock at the door, a ring at the telephone—heralding a message that his child had been recovered.

His nerves were exhausted, his hands trembling, his hair disheveled. The Chief had told him that he would telephone the very instant anything new developed. Evidently nothing new had developed, for the Chief was depending upon information he hoped to gain from a sick child, unconscious and apparently at the point of death. It was nonsense from Wayne's point of view—sheer nonsense!

Morning dawned. Food was brought him but he could not eat. Still no word from the Chief. Time had gone slowly during the night. Now, the minutes seemed flying. And the time limit would expire at noon! Wayne grew desperate. He looked at his watch. Six o'clock. The Chief had said he would sleep in his office that night. All right, Wayne would see him at once and arrange to pay that ransom. He would brook no argument against it.

He ordered his car. Five minutes later it was tearing at high speed along the road to town. A few minutes more and Wayne burst in upon the Chief as he was eating his breakfast, brought in from a near-by restaurant.

"I can't stand this suspense any longer, Chief," Wayne exclaimed. "I'm going to pay that ransom. I'm on my way to the Herald office now, to insert the notice as they requested. I'll just have time to get it in before the city edition goes to press. By nine o'clock the paper will be out—perhaps a little before."

The Chief knitted his brows. For a few seconds he sat considering the matter from all angles.

"It might not prove a bad idea," he said at length. "The time is short, now; and if the boy up at Craddock's rallies enough to talk and says anything worth while we'd be able to round up the whole bunch just as they're getting ready to make the transfer and receive the ransom."

<i>Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay</i>. <i>Sparrow</i>. "WE SHALL GA-A-THER AT THE RIV-VER."

Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay. Sparrow.
"WE SHALL GA-A-THER AT THE RIV-VER."

When the connection was given he wasted no words nor time. "Hello, Jimmie," he exclaimed, in greeting the editor. "This is Adams, over at Headquarters. Paper gone to press yet?—Well, hold it a minute. I've got to get a notice in.—No, don't change your make-up. Just run a big head across the front page. It'll sell the paper. Here it is: 'Wayne agrees to meet kidnapper's terms.' That's all, now. Not another word or you'll queer the whole deal. As soon as the story is ready I'll give it to you and you can get out an extra. Make a display of that, now, and rush the paper onto the streets, will you? All right. Thanks. Good-by."

He hung up the receiver and turned to Wayne. "Now, that's done," he said. "As soon as the bank's open you can go over and draw the money. Meanwhile, pull up a chair and have a cup of coffee. There's plenty here, and it's good."

He got another cup out of a locker and poured some of the coffee for Wayne who, now that the agreement to pay the ransom was made, found himself able to relax sufficiently to drink it. Had he known that his little daughter was at that moment perched on the limb of a tree, in the depth of a swamp, absorbed in the enjoyment of a drink of milk, served in a bottle that had once contained corn liquor while her companions breakfasted on raw potatoes, his own enjoyment of the coffee would have been sadly marred.

Within an hour the Herald's big headline was being shouted on the streets by the newsboys. And within half an hour thereafter the same car that had waited near the Help-U Gas Station on the night of the kidnapping was dashing along the old pike in the direction of the private thoroughfare which led to the Grimes estate. Bill Swazey was at the wheel. Bailey sat beside him.

"If Grimes fetches the kid quick we'll be able to get there and have the engine going nicely before Wayne's due at the pier," said Bailey.

"So far, so good," declared Bailey. "Now what we want to do, is this. After Wayne has paid over the money and sits down on the bench on the pier, we get into the automobile, see, where this fellow Grimes and Louis will already be, and we reach out and put the kid down on the ground where Wayne can see her, but he'll not dare make a move toward her until our car gets out of sight. But we don't go with the car, see? We step right out the other door and through the bushes onto the boat. If Wayne has any police following him, they'll take after this car. When they overhaul it,—which they won't, for Louis knows his business—there won't be anyone in it that Wayne can identify. This fellow Grimes won't talk—I've got his grand all ready to slip him as we duck through the car—and Louis, when he does talk, will have a story that will pull him through anything. Now all we have to do is get the child and step on the gas on the way back."

But even then Swazey was stepping on the gas in a manner that made their progress over the Grimes' private roadway decidedly precarious. As they neared the formidable gate they slowed down and honked fiercely for admittance. There was no response. Bailey muttered oaths and cursed Grimes for a fool. Swazey sent forth another powerful blast of the horn. Finally Bailey sprang out and rang the bell which swung above the gate. It clattered and clanged with a fury that told Grimes it would be dangerous to ignore its summons.

"Hit's th' police," he told Maria, "but they won't find nawthin'. I've cleaned out th' loft. Now you'all keep yore mouths shet or yo' know whut'll happen. Reach me thet ax."

Maria handed him the ax. Then he strode off, across the yard, and chopped open the gate.

Bailey, annoyed by the delay and the necessity of making such a noise to announce their arrival was in no mood for listening to apologies or explanations even if Grimes had attempted to make any. But the latter's surprise upon seeing Bailey instead of the police so paralyzed his tongue that he could not have spoken had he tried.

"The child—where is it?" demanded Bailey, after he had cursed Grimes roundly and called him all the unpleasant names he could think of at the moment. "Come on, speak up. We can't lose time. Where's the child?"

Then Peter regained his voice. He smiled ingratiatingly. "Hit's all right," he drawled. "Thar hain't a mite o' evidence. I heered how things was a-goin', an' I 'lowed ter git hit outen th' way ter day but thet danged gal, Mollie, lit out airly this mornin' takin' th' Wayne young-un with her."

He did not mention that she had also taken a dozen other children beyond his reach. What he said, however, was sufficiently startling. Bailey fairly shouted. His former oaths were as nothing.

Bailey knew nothing of the death gripping tendencies of the bog that lay so close to the farmer's house. He started toward it. "Then we must get them out," he shouted. "Is that them, out there," pointing to what seemed to be moving figures far in the distance.

"Thar hain't nawthin' on earth thet kin git 'em out," he drawled, as if the statement were a most delectable morsel.

"Then I'll raise hell and get them out," thundered Bailey, "and you'll go after them, yourself. We've got to get back to the crossroads ahead of Wayne and we've got to have the child. He's coming to pay the ransom!"

It was Peter's turn to rave. He did so, handsomely. Then he explained and demonstrated the impossibility of crossing the bog after the fleeing children.

"How en hell they ever got acrost, beats me," he told Bailey. "Thet thar Mollie's plumb bewitched er sumpin'. She doan know nawthin' 'bout whar she's a-headin', but ef she keeps on a-goin' th' way she is now, she's bound ter come out some'eres aroun th' river road, not fur frum th' cross-roads. Hit's one chanst in a million."

"That'll suit us," exclaimed Bailey, making flying leaps toward the automobile, which Swazey had already headed in the opposite direction. "Step on her, Bill."

"Hey, whut erbout my thousand dollars?" he cried, springing upon the running board, with an agility never before attained by his twisted limbs. Bailey not replying, and the car going too fast for the door to be unfastened to permit him to enter, the farmer continued to cling to the running board from which, by way of retaliation upon Bailey, he roared back to where Maria and Ambrose stood in the open gateway:

"Hyar, you-uns, don't stand thar a-gawpin. run—Sic th' dawg on them young-uns—Let 'im chaw 'em up!"

CHAPTER XXIII

PURSUED AND PURSUERS

"He that fleeth from the fear shall fall into the pit; and he that getteth up out of the pit shall be taken in the snare."—Jer. xlviii, 44

At the door of the bank Harris Wayne paused. Someone was calling to him. He turned to perceive the Chief's car pulling up to the curb just beyond his own.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Wayne," called the Chief. "Don't draw that money, yet. I want to speak to you first."

Wayne stepped back to the curb and, after hearing what the Chief had to say, dismissed his own car and stepped into the one in which the Chief and several of his men were seated. The man at the wheel threw in the clutch and the car shot ahead, making for the hill country where lay the Craddock farm.

"The message came right after you left," said the Chief. "The boy's conscious. Weak but perfectly rational and eager to talk. I gave orders that he was to be kept quiet and do no talking until we got there. They're giving him nourishment and getting him ready. That Craddock woman is a good nurse. She can break up a fever, they say, quicker than most doctors."

It was fortunate for Stephen that he had fallen into such kind and capable hands. He was lying, pale and emaciated, against the pillows that Mrs. Craddock prided herself upon possessing, and looked up with something like a smile when the Chief and Wayne entered. That mistake—that dreadful mistake that had landed him at the Grimes farm instead of the school for which he had yearned, was at last to be rectified.

But it was not of himself, nor of the school that the boy wished to talk. He had escaped just when escape, for him, seemed impossible and he had resigned himself to die. Yet here he was, lying in a real bed for the first time in all those long years—he didn't know how many—enjoying comforts that he had forgotten existed and feeling that he never, never wanted to move his thin, wasted limbs from the cool, comforting linen on which they now rested.

And back on the farm Mollie, his little companion in misery, even though she had now outgrown him, who had saved his life from the hands of the ogre, was every day still risking her life for others, not knowing at what moment the ogre's wrath would turn against her. It was of Mollie, that Splutters wanted to talk. Mollie must be saved.

There was so much to tell. The lad was not naturally talkative, but the pent up thoughts of years were released when the flood-gates opened. The hill language which had been so foreign to him and which, by silence, he had struggled not to acquire, seemed to slip away from him with the fever, leaving the pure diction of his childhood that he had learned from his beloved books.

Softly, gently, steadily he told his story. Twice they made him pause to rest. Several times Mrs. Craddock administered some medicinal preparation or held water to the pale lips. He knew nothing, however, of Mr. Wayne's little girl.

Wayne looked up in surprise at the Chief's words. They were addressed to Burke, the detective who had been engaged in running down clues at the hotel and who now accompanied the party to the farmhouse. The latter reached into his pocket and drew forth a sheet of hotel stationery on which appeared a rough pencil sketch of a man's face. This he held where the boy could observe it closely.

"Did you ever see anyone who looked like that come to the Grimes place?" the Chief asked.

"No, sir," answered the boy. "He didn't come to the farm. He met us at a place where two roads cross. I was walking beside Mr. Grimes when the buggy came along and he was sitting in it with the little girl beside him—Mollie, you know—and he asked Mr. Grimes where he lived and if he was paid enough money would he keep the little girl. And Mr. Grimes said if the money came he'd keep her and if it didn't he get rid of her. And this man told him the money would come regular as long as she lived and so Mr. Grimes said all right. So they took her out of the buggy and told her to walk along with me and I didn't hear what they said after that. She was a good little girl and didn't cry or anything. I think I told you about it, didn't I? I forgot. But I didn't know you had his picture."

The Chief was on his feet. Everyone present was alert. The moment was pregnant with action. That picture—the rough sketch which an idle night clerk had made to amuse himself, just because he had not liked the peculiar smile which Bailey bestowed upon him when he gave him his mail,—now proved beyond a doubt that Grimes was known to Bailey and that it must have been Bailey with whom Grimes had been in communication the day he was seen leaving the hotel. But the Chief had another idea.

"Have you got an eraser, Burke? Sub out that mustache. Be careful. Don't spoil the likeness."

The slight change was quickly made and the Chief, taking the picture from Burke, handed it to Wayne.

Wayne had almost forgotten having told the Chief about the old threat that had been made against him. He looked at the picture first with some impatience, then with perplexity and finally with amazed interest. The Chief, noting the rapid changes of expression on Wayne's face, did not wait for a reply.

"We've got our men," he remarked succinctly. "If we hurry we can catch them all at the Grimes place. That's where they've taken the child. This boy was already gone. They'll have seen the morning papers and be going there to fetch her away." He started toward the door.

Stephen, realizing their purpose, strove to raise himself in bed. "Go quietly," he warned, fear again lighting his large, sunken eyes. "Just all break down the gate and go in together or he'll throw the baby into the bog. He will. He's terrible."

The Chief, even in his haste, managed to call back to Mrs. Craddock to reassure the little fellow. "Tell him not to worry," he said. "That's our business—saving children. I'll send somebody to tell him about it."

And Splutters, feeling that he had done all he could and that Mollie and the children were going to be saved, went tranquilly to sleep.

Craddock was sitting on the rail fence by the side of the road talking to the driver of the police car as Wayne and the detectives hurried toward it. He descended as they approached and came around to meet them.

"How's the quickest way to get to the Grimes place?" the Chief asked. "Is there any short cut—any back way we can get in?"

The farmer shook his head. "Not as I knows on," he said. "But yo'-all kin git over ter th' river road less'n no time ef yo' jist foller this road es fur es Murphy's place, then cut acrost thet stretch o' timber-land o' his'n—Mike'll let yo' take down th' bars an' go through. Hit's a good road—an' thet'll fotch yo' ter th' top o' th' knob whar hit runs inter th' hill road thet goes down ter Simpkins' dock. Thet's whar hit jines th' river road. Frum thar on ter th' ole pike yo'll hev th' river on one side an' th' swamps on t'other, so yo' wanter drive keerful like—an' th' same arter yo' turn off onto th' Grimes road, thet runs inter th' pike 'bout a whoop an' a holler further."

The farmers in this section had once been wont to measure distance by sound and the expression still lingered, even though meaningless to a modern generation.

The route was more direct than it sounded. It was not a waste of time to listen to the directions for they ensured a through journey once the car started, which it did with a suddenness and swiftness that left the farmer gazing with amazement. One statement he had made impressed every man in the car. From the top of that knob to which the timber-land route would lead them, they would descend almost direct to the Simpkins' dock—the place designated by the kidnappers for Wayne to bring the money demanded for the ransom of his child.

And in that other automobile, tearing away from the Grimes place and along the pike and river roads, coming directly toward them, Bailey looked at his watch and made the same remark. His object was to reach the cross-roads in time to head off the children, get possession of the Wayne baby and park his car, with engine throttled down, in the position he had already described to Swazey to cover their escape after the ransom was paid.

The sun was mounting higher in the heavens and Mollie was growing tired. Her back ached with the heavy load she was carrying and her body was one mass of scratches, bruises and mud. The children were in even worse condition. She looked back along the struggling line, and her brave heart ached for the little creatures. Not one had made a complaint; not one had been fretful or impatient. The boys were even making jokes and doing their utmost to celebrate their freedom.

Then from behind them sounded the baying of a dog. Tige was unloosed! Maria was urging him to brave the swamp and come after them. The children called to Mollie.

"Poor Tige!" she exclaimed. "He'd hev ben a good dawg ef Pete hed gi'n him a chanst. Ef he goes inter th' bog he'll die."

Tige, however, combined his strength with his intelligence. He seemed to sense that the bog would drag him down to death and, by an almost impossible leap, succeeded in landing close to the foot of the first tree at which the children had halted. From there he alternately plunged and plowed his way, his loud bays echoing through the swamps in a manner to strike terror to the ears of anyone who chanced to be fleeing before him.

For the first time the children manifested some degree of nervousness. They had for so long lived in fear of everyone and everything connected with the Grimes establishment that the thought of pursuit from that quarter was in itself alarming.

Mollie strove to reassure the frightened little ones. Tige, she reminded them, had kept singularly quiet all during their departure that morning. Once she had even heard him whine, as if he would like to come with them.

"I reckon he's sick o' bein' cooped up in thet leetle dog house an' not' lowed ter run no furder'n th' rope he's tied with," she said, cheerfully. "I s'pose he thinks now she's gi'n him a chanst he wants ter run away with we-uns. He's jist hollerin' thet-a-way ter let we-uns know he's a-comin'. Mebbe 'twould be better ef us h'isted ourselfs up inter this hyar tree an' set a spell ter wait fer him."

Mollie was not quite sure just how Tige would behave. It would be wise, she thought, to get the children out of harm's way. But before they could act upon her suggestion, she glanced down into the sluggish water that lay beyond and almost swooned at the fearful object which loomed directly ahead.

CHAPTER XXIV

NEW TERRORS

"Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder; the young lion and dragon shalt thou trample under feet."—Ps. xci, 13

The children, too, had glimpsed the hideous black creature lying half-imbedded in mud. A few inches more and Mollie would have stepped upon it.

The creature was moving. It was coming toward them. It was raising its horrible head and opening its mouth.

Panic seized them as they scrambled for safety along the low-over-hanging limb of the tree Mollie had just indicated.

But Mollie did not know what the creature was. She had never even seen a picture of so terrifying an object. Her face went white under its coating of tan and mud. Her knees shook. Her heart seemed to leap into her throat. She was powerless to move. Her arms fell limp at her sides and her teeth chattered.

It was Jimmie's voice. It roused Mollie from the momentary paralysis that had seized her at sight of the on-coming horror. She sprang for the bough and struggled to pull herself and little Doris upward. Never in her recollection had Mollie been conscious of such over-powering weakness. She was shaking from head to foot. It seemed she would fall before she succeeded finally in getting herself beyond the reach of those yawning, murderous jaws, up-stretched toward her naked feet.

"Git up—git up! Set clost. Hol' on tight," she managed to articulate to the wide-eyed, frightened children. "Lawsey, I dunno whut hit air."

"W-w-will hit come—u-u-up hyar?" wailed Leathy, tears rolling over her mud-stained cheeks.

The giant shape was moving about in the muddy water. It seemed to have a tail. It did not look as if it could climb. But even as she looked, the fearsome thing reared its grisly head and extended its jaws again with terrible menace. Mollie shuddered but did not cry out. The creature was directly underneath. It floundered. It lashed the mud with its whole body. Was it the devil coming right up out of the pit to confront them and prevent their escape?

Cold chills crept over the courageous little girl. Still she did not lose her nerve entirely. It was the shock and lack of knowledge that disturbed her. She had not expected to encounter wild beasts and gigantic creatures, the existence of which she had never even dreamed.

True, she was frightened—terribly frightened. But not for herself. Never once did the little heroine think of herself. It was of the baby strapped to her back and the dozen small children tied to a rope behind her.

The sense of responsibility weighed upon her. She had led the children forth into the swamps. If any evil befell them there she would be to blame. They had trusted her. She must not fail them.

"No—Oh, lawsey, no!" cried Mollie. "Doan rile 'im more'n he is. Hit cain't climb. Hit's too big."

The muddy water ahead commenced to churn furiously. From out it another black bulk became visible. Another and another followed. It was like one long, endless serpent making voluminous convulsions and creeping steadily onward in the direction of the children, hanging precariously to the limb of that mangrove tree. If it should break—

Again they screamed and clung to one another. This horror was beyond anything their childish imaginations had ever conjured.

And following them, ever coming nearer and nearer, was the dog. His baying had never ceased. They could see him, now plunging along, clawing at the mangrove roots to regain his footing, pulling himself up by desperate efforts, baying with the weird, nerve-racking regularity of his kind, his livid mouth hanging open, eyes gleaming from the strain of his endeavors to keep himself alive and overtake the children.

Would he leap at them and jerk them down from their present security into the very mouths of these appalling reptiles? Mollie didn't think so.

"Never yo' min' Tige," called Mollie, still speaking with difficulty through teeth that continued to chatter like castanets. "He ain't so mean's Pete thunk he war. He'll git chawed up, shore es sartin, ef he lan's on ary o' them thing's." She lifted up her voice then and shouted back to the plunging dog that she had pitied from the day Peter had kicked him into unconsciousness for some trivial thing. "Go back, Tige. Go hum—go hum!"

But Tige had no thought now of turning back. He knew his best friend was up in that tree and he came on, unable to sense that his formidable appearance belied his kind intentions and only increased the terror of the little ones whose prattling voices he had loved to hear as he lay, day after day, in his gloomy prison house. He only knew that he was free at last and that he was coming to them as fast as he could.

Poor Tige! He reached the foot of the tree, hesitated, gave one startled, guttural sniff mingled with a growl of fear, caught one glimpse of the dragon-like monster under the tree, then dropped his tail and bounded back, faster and faster, in the direction from whence he had come. Whether or not he ever succeeded in re-crossing the death-gripping bog at the farm entrance Mollie never knew. She could not think of Tige. Her struggle, at that moment, was for the string of little, human sparrows, lined out on that limb behind her.

Her nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that even the rustling of a leaf was enough to startle her, but the sound which now crept to her ears was far more ominous than the mere falling of a bit of foliage. It was accompanied by an almost imperceptible jar. Again it came. Mollie's blood ran cold. She gave one quick glance in the direction of the sound then another down at the swirling welter of what she had now decided were "water-hawgs" almost directly under the limb upon which they were perched. If that limb broke and the children fell, nothing on earth could save them!

"Set still," she commanded, and there was that in her tone which made every one of the little flock know that their lives depended upon instant obedience. "Doan move—ary one o' yo'. Doan' jar." Her eyes, shining like stars, scanned the trees about them. The trees were closer together than at any part of the swamp just crossed. And it was strange that there should be more water. Were they nearing the river, she wondered. If the trees stopped and the river commenced, what would they do, even after they had passed this present danger.

Questions crowded upon her. She brushed them aside. She had heard that ominous crackling sound again. Every second increased their peril.

"Willie," said Mollie, addressing the boy with the rope, "Kin yo' fling thet rope ter thet tree over yan? 'Tain't so good but we gotter go over. Be keerful. Doan jar. An' git ready, ary one o' yo' ter hang on ter th' rope. Leathy, doan cry, now. Nobody's a-goin' ter fall."

Willie flung the rope. It caught, tightened, held fast. But the jar was more than the limb could stand. It creaked again—they all heard it now—and slowly, surely, commenced to sag. There was no mistake. The limb upon which the little flock of sparrows was perched was breaking under them!

"Oh, God, hol' us up," cried Mollie, suddenly inspired, and instantly the panic which a few moments before had gripped them passed as suddenly as it had come, and the children seemed fairly to develop wings, so quickly did they contrive, by means of the rope, to cross from the breaking limb to the tree beyond without a single mishap.

"Keep right on a'goin', keep right on a-goin," called Mollie, while Johnnie extended his crutch again and again to help first one and then another get a firmer hold upon the rope which brought them all up to another limb; for the strange, floundering creatures with the lashing tails and jaws that could swallow a child were still all about underneath.

Leon was beginning to be fretful. His throat was sore when they started. The frightful experiences through which they had passed had not served to improve his spirits. Leathy, in her terror, kept edging closer and closer to her brother. Her little hands clutched nervously at his waistband as they all squirmed and crawled slowly across the limb to what seemed to be a sort of elevation just beyond.

They were almost across now, Mollie had stepped down onto a log. There was no water nor mud beyond it. One had to climb up a sort of rubbish-like bank. The little ones on the limb made haste to follow their leaders. Leon jerked himself forward. Leathy wasn't ready to move. The button of the waistband gave way. Leathy's little hands still clutched. At all events, she held of the top of his breeches. She hitched herself along another inch and Leon pulled ahead a good six inches. The inevitable happened. Danger and disaster were all forgotten in that tragic moment when the little fellow realized that his small twin sister had, in her eagerness to escape, exposed his rear anatomy to the cool breeze of the tree tops. At the risk of his own life he released his hold on the limb with one hand and, reaching back struck at his twin and uttered those momentous words which they all remembered in after years:

Leathy commenced to cry. But as they dropped, one by one upon the rubbish heap and edged their way across the log just before ascending the little slope beyond, they heard Mollie's voice calling, merrily:

"Hit's all right, chil'en. We-uns air hyar. Thar hain't nawthin' ter tech us now. Git erlong up. Help Leathy, Bobbie. Jimmie, whut er yo' a-waitin' fer? Hyar's th' road by thet thar river yo'-uns war a-talkin' 'bout. Th' river's jist acrost on t'other side. Thet thar mud water runs under th' road. Thet's how them thar critters swum inter th' swamp. Git erlong, now. We-uns hes gotter fin' us a boat, so's Pete won't ketch us. Come on, Jimmie—come on!"

(But Jimmie was waiting to make a gesture of defiance at the biggest alligator. Leon was tearfully struggling with his pants!)

CHAPTER XXV

AT THE CROSS-ROADS

"Escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain."—Gen. xix, 17

Down the road the children trudged, mud-smeared from head to foot, their little, bare legs scratched and bleeding, their hair matted and unkempt, clad in tattered, non-descript garments, hungry and weary to the point of exhaustion but in a veritable transport of delight.

Oh, what joy it was to look about them and view the sunlit landscape and admire the flowers that grew by the roadside without dread lest the harsh voice and still harsher hand of "ole Pete" descend upon them.

With the vitality and exuberance of childhood they laughed and prattled, asking Mollie question after question and holding up flowers and shrubs for Baby Doris to smell of, and clutch at while she laughed her silvery, tinkling laugh and displayed her tiny white teeth and dimples.

But Mollie hurried them all on. "Thar hain't time yit fer foolishment," she warned them. "Sumpin' may happen. We doan want ole Pete ter ketch us ag'in."

"An' thar hain't ary boat thet I kin see, 'cept thet one sort o' settin' aroun' 'way out thar." Mollie pointed to where the police boat, "Mary Ann," was drifting with the current out in the middle of the river.

The children withdrew more and more to the side of the road where berries were growing along the fence and they could eat as they went. They were inclined to loiter. The tots were all so worn out by the events of the morning that any one of them could have dropped down in the grass and fallen asleep in less than five minutes.

A strange noise in the distance made them turn their heads to look back in the direction whence they had come. Instantly every one of the little band, even Mollie, scurried for cover with as much speed as if the farm bell were ringing and they were climbing into the loft.

"Injine nawthin'," retorted Willie. "Whur d'y live 'fore yo' all come hyar. Hain't yo' ever seed an autymobile?"

Before the question could be answered the speeding car was sufficiently near for bright eyes peeping from between the leaves of the blackberry bushes and rhododendron to recognize the tall man clinging to the running board.

It was a near panic but Mollie averted it, and not a leaf stirred nor a whisper sounded as the car tore past, carrying with it Messrs. Bailey, Swazey and Grimes.

"Didja seed him?—Didja seed him?" whispered the children, excitedly. "He war a-hangin' on like he war afeared he'd fall off."

Willie, who had been following the car with his eyes, suddenly extended his arm, pointing to where another car, tearing along at even greater speed, was coming down a slight incline almost at right angles with the road along which the Grimes and Bailey car was traveling.

"Golly!" he exclaimed in great excitement. "Lookit—Lookit! They'll smash—shore es shootin'—jes' whar them roads cross. Come on—Let's we-uns run back o' th' bushes hyar an' see does he git killed."

Thrilled by any diversion, the newly emancipated little farm laborers hurried as fast as they could toward the point where it seemed the two cars must collide. To their amazement, the men in the car coming down hill were standing up. Suddenly they commenced shooting at the other car. Then the men with Grimes began to shoot back. The children cowered on the ground.

"Lawdy!" gasped Mollie, "hit's a fight!" Her eagerness to see automobiles wrecked had vanished. "Git back thar—git back—run—over thar ter th' edge o' th' river, whar they won't see us."

Bullets were flying all about them. The children were terrified. Mollie feared they would cry out and so apprise Grimes of their presence. She herded them together as closely as possible and hurried on. The noise of the shooting seemed to deafen them. Leathy was crying again. Suddenly they found themselves in a little clearing. There was a platform, like a little bridge, and a shed. They sped along it breathlessly without in the least knowing where they were going and Mollie, running ahead, thinking principally of getting the baby sheltered from that hail of bullets, rushed straight on, across a narrow plank and into the cutest little house the children had ever seen. In less than a minute they were every one across the plank and, with Mollie, snuggled down under beds, behind chairs and under tables in the small room in which they found themselves. They were none too soon.

Footsteps were coming close behind them. The next instant two men dashed in breathlessly and shouted:

"He must have gone," said one of the men. "He knew he was to take the car. He's probably up near the road. Get her started, Bill. Hurry, damn it! The engine's going."

Thumping, bumping noises sounded. The house commenced to shake and quiver. The children could feel it moving, faster and faster. What was it, they wondered. A boat?

"I reckon so," whispered Mollie in reply to the question. The little ones clutched one another's hands and held their breaths. It must be a boat. They found themselves swaying from side to side. Cautiously peeking out, Mollie found that they were alone in this queer little room. Where were the men? She reconnoitered.

Yes, there they were, up in front. One was turning a wheel just like the wheel that had been on her father's boat. Oh, glory! They were actually on a boat and sailing away, she didn't care where, away from Grimes and his old farm forever!

But there was little time for rejoicing. They were still in danger, it seemed. That man at the wheel looked like someone she had seen before. She was trying to think where. Then another shot rang out. It came right across in front of the boat. The man turned the craft to the left. Another shot sounded.

Mollie looked in the direction the shots came from and observed the boat she had previously seen loitering idly out in the middle of the river. It seemed to be trying to overtake the one on which she and the children had taken refuge. Were they after them? Had someone seen them come aboard? Was Grimes, himself, on that pursuing boat? Oh, why didn't the man at the wheel make it go faster? She watched his every motion.

He seemed to be terribly afraid. He kept looking back over his shoulder. The dark brown boat was almost alongside. There was lots of shooting now. Mollie slipped back out of range of the bullets. But she could still see what was happening.

The man at the wheel was afraid. He was running frantically now and letting the wheel go all by itself. Another man was running about. He had red hair and a plaid suit. He seemed more scared than the man with the dark mustache.

"I'm going to jump," he called to the other. "I'm not going to stay here and be caught like a rat in a trap. Come on. We can swim. Dive. Let 'em think we're drowned. We can make the shore anywhere along here. You can stay if you want to. I'm going."

He sprang up on the rail and plunged into the water. The other man did the same. Mollie and the children were alone!

When the bullets commenced to fly at the cross-roads and the tires were punctured, one after another, bringing their car to a halt Peter Grimes had leaped from the running board and run, as fast as his withered leg would let him, back along the river road in the direction he had come.

But the men in the other car were jumping out to pursue the kidnappers. They were running down the lane to the pier. And they hadn't seen him! But they might, any minute. He parted a clump of bushes and ran down a slight embankment. The swamps came in around here, somewhere, but there was nothing dangerous, so far as he knew, such as the bog that lay at his door. A shot whistled past his ears, so close as to make him dodge. Were they shooting at random or had they seen him? He cowered and shivered in terror. He gave no thought to his footsteps. Let them lead him anywhere—anywhere so long as it was away from danger of death out there in the open road. He plunged, he floundered. He drew forth his lame leg with difficulty, only to find that the other leg was going deeper into the mud. A frenzy of terror seized him. He lifted up his voice and shouted with all his strength:

But the only other sound that broke the summer stillness was the boom of a gun out on the river where the police boat, Mary Ann, was chasing a motor launch that was apparently running amuck.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE PIT OF DEATH

"It is appointed to all men once to die, and after death, the judgement."—Heb. ix, 27

The sun was high in the heavens but the air was hot and sultry. Occasionally there were far distant mutterings of thunder. A storm was brewing. It was nearly noon, the time appointed for the paying of the ransom. At the cross-roads the sound of shooting had died away. The air was still with that ominous, pregnant stillness which precedes a storm. There was no twitter of bird nor hum of insect. A brooding silence seemed to have suddenly descended over all the landscape.

On the river road, near its intersection with the lane leading to the Simpkins' dock and the hill road stood an abandoned automobile. It was the car in which Bailey and Swazey had planned to make their escape and from which Peter Grimes had leaped when it was halted by bullets. Its tires were now riddled, its windshield wrecked and its radiator a-leak. The gasoline that dripped to the ground sullied the fragrance of the air with its heavy fumes.

Just across, and headed directly toward it, from the incline of the hill road stood another car. It was the one in which Harris Wayne and the detectives had sought to reach the Grimes farm in time to apprehend the kidnappers and recover his little girl.

They had failed, but from the crest of the hill they had recognized the men they sought and had speeded to intercept them. The tall, lank, crooked frame of Peter Grimes, clinging, hatless, to the side of the car, his long coattails waving with the speed at which it was going, would have been recognizable at an even greater distance than across the corner of a field.

Wayne had begged the detectives not to shoot. He feared his child might be in the kidnapper's car, but when the tires were riddled and the car halted it was seen that none of the occupants who took to their heels was carrying a baby.

"They haven't got her," shouted the Chief, springing from his own car and running in pursuit. "Shoot to kill if necessary. Don't let one of them escape."

But the men on the lower road had the advantage. Shielded by their car, which blocked the road between them and their pursuers, they were able to disappear into the bushes and seek shelter aboard the boat which they had known was waiting. Grimes, however, not knowing about the boat and thinking only of concealment, had gone in the opposite direction.

As they reached the end of the little dock the detectives saw the launch making for the open water.

"The Mary Ann will over-haul her," said the Chief, chagrined at the turn affairs had taken. "The crooks had their boat all ready. The child must be back at the farm."

They supposed, naturally enough, that Grimes had accompanied the kidnappers in their mad dash for the boat and had sailed away with them. Disappointed, but by no means hopeless, the chief led the way back to where they had left his car. The driver was not there. The car was empty. There was nothing to indicate how, where or when he disappeared.

They waited a few moments for him to reappear and, when he did not, commenced a search of the bushes that lined the fences along the side of the road. Then they saw him coming up the river road from the direction the kidnapper's car had come. He was running and, as he drew near, they observed that he looked somewhat alarmed.

"You-all went down on the dock," he observed. "The geezers didn't all go that way. That tall fellow—the guy that was hanging on the side of the car—made a bee line in that direction."

He pointed off to the side of the road, somewhat in the direction from which he had just come.

"Are you sure!" asked the Chief and Wayne in a breath. "That was Grimes—the one we think had the child. Perhaps he's got her hid out there somewhere." They started quickly forward as if to continue their search but the chauffeur interposed.

"No," he said. "She isn't there. I looked. I started to follow him but it's all swamp after you get in a few rods. That's why I came back by the road. Look at my feet."

It was evident that the man spoke the truth. His feet and legs were covered with thick, black muck.

"I don't know about that," returned the chauffeur. "He may not come back. I wouldn't want to try it. Listen!"

The chauffeur's nerves seemed to have been somewhat upset by even the brief investigation he had made of the swamp. He had been alarmed, for a moment or so, he told them, lest he, himself, get mired and be unable to return. "You never would have known what had happened to me," he said.

At his sudden exclamation they all paused to listen. Someone was certainly calling. They could all hear the voice. On the still, heavy air it sounded weird and far away:

It was a man's voice. In it there was a wail of despair. Again it sounded. It increased in volume and mounted to a shriek. It was the cry of a soul in torment. Cold chills ran through the veins of the men who listened.

"If he went in there, something's got him," said another. "Maybe it's 'gators. There's a lot of them in there, down the road a little further."

"If 'twas alligators he'd never yell more than once," said the Chief. "It sounds to me as if he might be mired, but I doubt it."

The cries continued. They varied from shrieks to howls. They became maniacal. And the final appeal was always the same:

The Chief looked quickly about. "Anybody want to come with me," he snapped. "You don't have to, you know."

"Good God!" exclaimed the chauffeur who had just emerged from the edge of the swamp, "You don't mean you're going in there, Chief?"

But the Chief had already started. The others followed. A leaden haze now enveloped the countryside. The air was hot and muggy. The sultry stillness seemed intensified by the low rumble of thunder which continued to mutter in the distance as if the vengeance of heaven were being aroused. Occasionally fierce, flying streaks of lightning zig-zagged across the skyline just where it seemed to meet the trees which dotted the swamps. There was something vibrant and supernatural in the atmosphere. The butterflies, the birds and the insects seemed all to have sought shelter from some demonstration of power against which they were as nothing.

Subconsciously the men now running along the dusty road felt the influence of the strange phenomenon but they did not swerve from their purpose. The cries for help had not ceased. They were growing, if anything, more constant, more tragic. Of a sudden they paused then burst forth again in peal after peal of wild, mocking laughter. The man had gone mad!

Trampled flowers on the crest of a slight rise by the side of the road marked the spot where he had entered the bushes. The Chief, followed closely by Wayne and the detectives, forced his way through. As they did so the shadows lengthened about them and finally closed over their heads. A heavy vapor seemed to rise from the marshy ground under their feet. There was a sulphuric tang to it that added to the silence of all nature.

The mud grew deeper. They picked their steps cautiously, selecting the roots and branches of trees as a footing but halted abruptly as the Chief, who was in the advance, held up his hand. The wild laughter had lessened now and, as they neared the spot from whence it had proceeded, gave place to low, incoherent mumblings. At the Chief's signal those with him peered curiously forward.

There was little to see. Only the head and shoulders of the creature known as Peter Grimes. His naturally distorted features were twisted into a mask of unbelievable malignancy. His gleaming eyes were baleful as a snake's and his chattering tongue was releasing such horrible mouthings as none who heard ever wished afterward to recall. He did not see them. He would not have known them if he had.

And he was still going down—down—into the pit. Suddenly two blood-curdling cries burst from him. They were cries of fright and abject terror. His eyes rolled in their sockets. He looked fearfully upward.

A fiery shaft of lightning penetrated the gloom of that death pit. The thunder crashed directly overhead. The detonation brought a gleam of returning reason to the shattered brain of the creature about to meet judgement. The baleful light went out of his eyes but the fear remained. For the first time in all his twisted, warped life Peter Grimes was rational.

"Oh, God—" he mumbled, as the mud crept up onto his chin, "I war—awful mean—I didn't know—nawthin'." The shaggy head drooped forward.

With one accord, the watchers closed their eyes. When they opened them again the mud was forming little circles where the ogre had disappeared.

CHAPTER XXVII

MOLLIE IN COMMAND

"And the waters covered their enemies; there was not one of them left."—Ps. cvi, 11

As the second man sprang overboard from the launch on which the children had taken refuge Mollie came from her hiding place. She was back again, at last, in her proper sphere in life. The faint recollections of her early childhood when she had made a "play-house" in her father's discarded boat came suddenly before her with startling vividness. The intervening years seemed more like a bad dream—a night-mare.

She did not realize that she had grown considerably in the interval, that the little, fragile creature of the long ago was now almost a young woman, that she had missed much of her childhood by having responsibilities heaped upon her and by the farm work she had done. She only knew that she was free at last to play again, to have a good time, to laugh and make the children laugh and to actually sail in a boat instead of make believe.

She called the children to come out from where they had been concealed and rushed, herself, to grasp that crazily acting wheel. She had watched the man just long enough to have an idea it was an easy task and one which she would much enjoy performing. But it was not so easy as it looked. My, but she had to hold on, with all her might. Well, her arms were strong. She was equal to the tugging. But which way ought it to go?

She gave it a whirl to the left. The boat veered so suddenly that the assembled children, watching her movements with curious, excited eyes, went tumbling like nine-pins to the deck. They scrambled up laughing. Mollie whirled the big wheel to the right. Again the children went down. This time two of them received bumps.

"Hit's all right," she assured them. "Thet's th' way boats act up. You-uns set down in a row an' watch me. We'll git some place ef thet boat'll only git outten th' way. Whut's thet man holler'n 'bout, Willie?"

"He's flingin' sumpin' over ter them fellers whut jumped off'n this boat. An' now—look but, Mollie! He's shootin' at 'em."

As he spoke, two shots rang out in rapid succession. The black mustached man who was swimming toward shore was seen to throw up his firms and go down under water. The other man was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly he came up some distance ahead, looked about wildly, flung his arms above his head and shrieked for aid. Then he, too, disappeared.

But the man with the revolver who stood in the front of the other boat was now leveling it at Mollie. He shouted to her to stop the boat.

Mollie's cheeks were crimson from her exertions. Her eyes were dancing with their old-time roguishness. Her voice sounded across the water as clear and resonant as a bell when she called her reply:

"I cain't stop hit. I dunno whut ter do with hit. This dum wheel keeps right on a-goin'."

"How'd you get on that boat? Who is with you?" the man called, as his own boat was being maneuvered to get along side of Mollie's erratic craft.

"Hide, chil'un, hide," whispered Mollie, now suddenly fearful that this troublesome person might turn her and the children back to the ogre from whom they had just escaped. There was a patter of little bare-feet, a momentary flurry, then all was deserted. That little bevy of sea-going sparrows was experienced in darting to cover.

When the captain of the police boat and his assistants managed to get aboard Mollie's careening vessel she confronted them bravely.

"Nobody brung me hyar," she told them. "I brung m'self. I wanted ter ride in a boat. I war on hit when them two men come a-runnin' in an' set hit a-goin'. No sir. I dunno who they war. I never seed 'em afore. Leastways I doan think I did, but I mought ha' seed thet thar feller with the mustache—"

Mollie paused abruptly, with her mouth open. Enlightenment came suddenly upon her. "Shore, I hev," she exclaimed, her eyes dilated with excitement and her slight frame almost trembling at the recollection. "Hit war thet man th' lady give me to when my Daddy tol' me ter go with her. But she didn't let me stay with her. She tol' me to go with him. An' he giv' me ter Pete."

The river police captain and his companions looked at Mollie and then at each other. They were completely mystified.

Mollie flared up. This was an insult. "I hain't no crazier then what yo' be," she retorted. "Ef yo' doan know whut I'm a-talkin' erbout yo'-all kin jist go ast Splutters. He's up yan, some'ers I reckon, with thet man what fotched away one o' Pete's hawgs."

This time there was a flicker of intelligence in the river captain's eyes. "D'y suppose she means that fellow Pete Grimes?" he said. "That's the one the Chief's got his eye on in connection with the Wayne kidnapping."

Mollie caught the words. It was out, now. In her excitement she had been foolish enough to mention Grimes. They would know, now, that she had run away and would, without doubt, send her and the children back again. But that must never be. She would tell them about Pete and how he treated the children. They looked like kind men. They'd certainly believe her.

The police sought to question her further but the sudden recollection that she did not know who these men were nor whether they were friends of Pete's or not, caused her to shut her lips tight together and refuse to say another word.

"Well, I reckon we'd best get her down to the Chief as soon as possible," said the captain. He was staring directly at the swaying curtains under a berth. Surely that was a child's hand that he saw, palm downward on the floor. "What's that?" he exclaimed, turning to the man beside him. He, too, looked.

Then, without another word, he strode over and pulled the curtain aside. Jimmie was flat on his stomach, small hands extended, palm downward, while he elevated his head sufficiently to peer through the curtains at the men who were talking with Mollie. And Jimmie there was instantly dragged forth from a variety of hiding places Leathy and Leon, Johnnie, Willie and all the rest of the "sparrows."

But the child upon whom all eyes were focused and which sent the captain into a great state of excitement was the beautiful, well-dressed, curly-haired, laughing baby which Mollie now grasped and held tightly in her arms.

"And whose are all these?" the captain asked, indicating the ragged group assembled for police inspection.

"Mine," snapped Mollie, again. No tigress fighting for her young could have exceeded Mollie's fervor, though she might have manifested it in a less gentle manner.

"Now listen, little girl," said the captain, addressing Mollie in a tone that compelled her undivided attention. "There's something not right about all this and it has got to be straightened out. You needn't talk to me if you don't want to, but I'm going to tow this boat, with you and all these children, right down to town. Then we'll go up to see the Chief and you can talk to him."

And even then poor Mollie had no idea who he was nor who a chief was. She had never seen nor heard of a policeman before she was brought to the Grimes farm and certainly she had never seen nor heard of one since. To her and to all the half-starved little ones with her, they were merely men with shiny buttons on their coats. But somehow, Mollie liked them, despite their big voices and stern eyes. They were so good to the children. And during the cruise down the river to the town they allowed the children to look over the rail at everything along the bank. But not once did one of the children speak. Mollie had signalled them to be silent.

That the hot, sultry day developed suddenly into a one of storm, that lightning flashed and thunder roared seemed only to increase the pleasurable excitement of the young mariners. They were accustomed to rain. They had worked many a day in the rain. They were not afraid of thunder and lightning when they were outside the barn loft. Only once did there seem to be anything unusual about this storm which crashed over their heads on that memorable day. That was when one excessively vivid flash of lightning swept across the sky and seemed to dart downward back toward the point at which they had entered the boat. With it came a thunder clap more violent, more furious than anything they had ever heard.

"Golly!" exclaimed Johnnie, "Thet war a whopper. I reckon ef thet hit somebody, he war a gonner."

A great wave of pity suddenly swept over Mollie. She shivered as if cold. "I feel es ef sumpin' had happened," she said to herself. "Thet seemed 'most es ef God hed spoke. I reckon Pete's dead."

CHAPTER XXVIII

A WOMAN'S CONFESSION

"The wicked are overthrown and are not; but the house of the righteous shall stand."—Prov. xii, 7

After making their way from the perilous swamp in which they had seen the hog-farmer engulfed, the detectives, with Wayne, made all haste to the Grimes farm, hoping they might find the kidnapped child there unharmed.

Their interview with Maria, however, had been bitterly disappointing. When she told of Mollie's venture into the swamp, with little Doris strapped on her back, Wayne collapsed and had to be taken home.

The horrible death of Grimes which he had just witnessed, convinced him that a similar fate must have overtaken his baby. The pictures his imagination conceived as to what took place after the children had passed beyond Maria's range of vision were more than any father could endure with stoicism.

Maria, when they told her of Peter's tragic end, manifested no trace of grief or affection. She dropped down on the door-step with a sigh that was plainly one of relief. The wild, hunted look which had for so many years dwelt in her eyes, giving her an aspect of fierceness which she was far from feeling, gave place to the stupid dullness and placidity that had been hers before Peter Grimes ever walked into her life and home.

"Then I reckon I kin tell yo'-all jist how mean he war," she remarked in a voice that was not unpleasant. "Thar wa'n't a dangder scoundrel ever trod shoe leather. He needed killin'. He war jus' nachully mean. Ary man, woman er child on earth thet went contrary ter him he'd fling in th' bog es quick es scat. Ef I be alive ter-day hit air becus I allus done whut he sed. Many's th' time I'd a-gi'n them young-uns sumpin' ter eat ef I didn't know he'd pitch me inter th' bog fer doin' hit. Thet thar Mollie war th' bes' leetle gal on earth. I knowed th' dawg hain't a-goin' ter harm 'em when I sic'd 'im onter them. But Pete tol' me ter do hit an' I knowed I mus'."

Fourteen years of living under such a strain would have told upon a stronger mentality than Maria's.

"An' I got thet brat," she went on, indicating Ambrose. "When he war leetle I thunk mebbe he'd grow up ter be a good son ter me, but he's jes' like his Pappy an' orter be put away whar he cain't do nobody no harm. I'm mos' es skeered o' him es I war o' Pete."

"All right," interrupted the Chief, "we'll look after him for you. It isn't safe for the community to have such people at large. The greatest kindness their own folks can ever do them is to put them some place where they will be cared for and treated like human beings but kept from doing harm to anybody. They're mental cripples. In other words, their heads are twisted inside just like some people have a mis-shapen arm or leg which keeps them from using it. These fellows with twisted, warped brains shouldn't be expected to use them, either. They can't use them right and when they try to use them, they only commit crimes. And now Mrs. Grimes,—"

Maria raised her head to say morosely: "Doan yo' call me thet name no mor'. I hain't Mrs. Grimes. I don't never wanter hyar th' name spoke. I'm Maria Honeycut, ole Am. Honeycut's datter an' this hyar farm es my place that my Pappy giv me."

There was a trace of pride in the poor woman's tone which had not been there before and which demanded respect as well as pity. She, too, had suffered under the domination of the ogre.

She and Ambrose, however, accompanied the officers to headquarters to make what statements were necessary before a notary and to arrange for the boy's admittance to an institution. There was so much to tell and, for Maria, conversation was difficult. After the first sudden outpouring of the fear and resentment she had nursed for years she retreated into her usual shell of reticence and responded only to questioning.

But when the Chief entered the big room at headquarters he stood for an instant as if transfixed. What on earth, he wondered, had been brought in? A kindergarten? It looked like it. There were children on all sides of him and, squarely facing him, the brightest-eyed little girl just entering upon her teens that he had ever seen. She wore her hair in two long braids that fell below her waist, was bare-footed and hatless and clad mostly in rags. She, as well as the other children, were soiled and disheveled and drenched with rain. It was plain they had been out in the storm that had passed. But the child that particularly riveted the Chief's gaze was the curly-headed, winsome baby in the oldest girl's arms.

He turned to the lieutenant at the desk. "Where'd you find her?" he asked, in evident relief.

"Who—which—Oh, that one?" returned the man at the desk. "She came in with the bunch. Captain Carey brought 'em. He found 'em cruising down the river on a motor launch. He's up-stairs. Shall I call him down? He's got a report to make about a couple of fellows who jumped overboard."

The Chief wanted very much to see Captain Carey and said so. A moment later he and the river captain were closeted in his private office comparing notes regarding the launch, the kidnappers, all of whom seemed to have met death within a few moments of one another, Mollie's remarkable story and the recovery of Wayne's little girl.

"Of course, you'll get the reward," the Chief told the captain, as he reached for the telephone to notify the distracted father that his baby was safe.

"I don't see it that way," the captain instantly retorted. "I didn't find her. It was that little girl. From what she says and you've just told me, if she hadn't taken the child and fled with her into the swamp, keeping her up in the trees, that fellow Grimes would have flung her in the bog two or three hours before the other fellows got there looking for her."

"That's right," said the Chief. "I'll mention that to Wayne. What we've done has only been in the line of duty, just what we'd do for anybody in trouble."

Connection with the Wayne establishment was quickly secured but the telephone was answered by the butler. Mr. Wayne was ill and unable to speak to anyone, he said.

"Tell him," said the Chief, "that his little girl is safe, well, unharmed and happy down at police headquarters. I think that news will make him get well at once."

No better restorative could have been administered to Harris Wayne. Within ten minutes after the message came over the wire he was on his way to town. A regiment of doctors and nurses could not have deterred him. When he dashed into the room at headquarters and saw little Doris in Mollie's arms his impetuous rush almost frightened the child.

After her one glad cry of "Daddy!" she flung her arms about Mollie's neck as if fearing to be taken away.

"Muh-Mollie! Muh-Mollie!" she repeated over and over. Mollie held her firmly, reluctant to release her even into her father's arms. Realizing that the baby she so adored was going to be taken from her and out of her sight, Mollie made one last desperate stand.

"She wants me—an' I love her," she declared, with tears in her big, lustrous eyes. "Ef she hain't got no mammy she needs me ter look arter her, so's she won't git stol'd ag'in."

But the father's thoughts were, for the moment, solely for his child. "That's all right about the reward, Chief," he found time to say. "Give it to this girl. She deserves credit. But give me my baby and let me get away. I'm all in."

The baby was taken from Mollie's arms and given to her father. As he carried her from the room she waved her chubby hand in farewell.

The lieutenant at the desk was speaking over the telephone. "Have they got the body?" he asked. "Yes. Black mustache, eh! You say Burke identified him as the fellow called Bailey? All right. Send down any letters or papers you may find on him."

He turned to the Chief, who was trying to make friends with Leathy, for as yet none of the children would talk. The sight of Mollie in tears impressed them with the idea that she was being abused and they must each stand by her.

"They've got that fellow Bailey's body," the lieutenant remarked. "There was an unmailed letter in his pocket addressed to some woman. They're sending it down."

A messenger soon arrived with the expected packet. After the Chief examined it, a look of amazed incredulity overspread his face. "Well, I'll be darned!" he ejaculated. Then he called one of his men, gave the latter a brief message to deliver and told him to go in civilian clothes. "Don't attract any attention," he said, "and fetch her right back with you. Take a cab."

An hour or so later, after he had been talking for a long time in his private office with a woman whose identity no one knew, the Chief sent for a notary. And after the latter, as well as the woman had gone, he put papers in the safe which he said would be the means of proving Mollie's identity.

Meanwhile the matron was instructed to make the little waifs comfortable for the night. Mollie, alone, refused to be comforted or comfortable. She shivered in her wet clothes and gratefully accepted a policeman's coat in lieu of a jacket, but refused to part with the bottle in which she had thoughtfully carried milk for her "Honey-baby" when they traversed the death-haunted swamps. Bolt upright she sat, listening, listening for the summons which her love and intuition knew would come.

It was nearing midnight when the messenger came. Mollie was on her feet instantly. She had never seen James, Wayne's chauffeur, before, but she sensed that he had come for her. "Mr. Wayne sent me down to fetch up the girl, Mollie," said the man. "The baby wants her."

Mollie started forward, the bottle that had once contained corn liquor gripped tightly in her hands. A policeman handed her a newspaper. She tore off a piece, wrapped it about the bottle and hurried out the door with the chauffeur.

It was not her first ride in an automobile. They had driven up from the river in the police patrol only that afternoon. Before the Wayne residence was reached Mollie had told the chauffeur of the thrilling experience and learned all the principal points of difference between the Wayne limousine and the "black Maria."

The car had hardly paused before Mollie was out and running up the steps, brushing past the astonished butler who opened the door, and tearing on through the house as if she had entered it many times before. Straight up the stairs she sped, her queer little figure with its bare feet and legs extending rather startlingly from below a policeman's coat, appearing an incongruous note in the harmony of that stately, sumptuous mansion. The nursery door was open and Mollie, hearing the baby's voice, dashed in.

"Muh-Ma-Mollie!" cried the little one, extending her arms and fairly leaping into Mollie's embrace.

"She wouldn't take her bottle—she wouldn't do anything," explained the poor little rich girl's father, by way of excuse for having sent for Mollie.

The latter examined the bottle they had been trying to persuade little Doris to accept. It was modern and extremely sanitary. Mollie inspected it and put it contemptuously aside.

"She knowed it wa'n't hern," she remarked, with great dignity. "I reckon she wanted this'n," and to Harris Wayne's horror she took from out its newspaper wrappings the corn liquor relic, partially filled with a lacteal fluid evidently procured by some kindly policeman from the open can of a delicatessen store, and, after first testing the milk herself, placed the improvised rubber top of the bottle in his child's mouth. The baby accepted it with gurgles of joy. The child's nurse cried out in horror. Mollie sniffed.

"She doan know nawthin' 'bout babies," she remarked, of the nurse. "She hain't hed th' sperience I've hed."

Neither Wayne nor Mollie knew that down at police headquarters, securely locked in the safe, were papers that told of Mollie's family and the fortune, rightfully hers, that was invested through his own bank and remitted in monthly sums, supposedly for her education and maintenance, through the medium of a woman connected with a fashionable private school.

CHAPTER XXIX

REUNION

"Our soul is escaped as a bird out of the snare of the fowlers; the snare is broken and we are delivered."—Ps. cxxiv, 7

Mollie had been up all of the night previous preparing for that hazardous day through which she and the children had just passed. She had eaten scarcely anything until she arrived at the police station where the kind policeman had sent to a restaurant and had food brought in for them all. Never in their recollection had the children seen so much food at one time. They ate ravenously and were already dozing in their chairs before the matron came to take them to their beds. But Mollie had fought off sleep, or it may have been that sheer excitement kept her awake, until after her arrival at the Wayne home.

There, sitting in a comfortable chair, for the first time in her recollection, with little Doris dropping contentedly to sleep in her arms, Mollie found her own head nodding every now and then, and her eyes closing in spite of her efforts to keep them open. She was only a child, herself, yet she had performed a feat of heroism that day which was the culmination of long years of daily sacrifice of her own comfort that little children might be succored and comforted. Now, tired nature was beginning to assert itself by demanding rest and sleep.

As Harris Wayne sat watching the ragged, lonely little girl who had so nobly and unhesitatingly risked her life to save his baby daughter his heart smote him with the realization of his own selfishness. The thought that sickened him—made him feel mean and small—was that he, with all his wealth and education was, little better than Grimes.

True, he had not knowingly inflicted suffering upon anyone, but he had by his self-absorption and disinterest in affairs outside his own household been guilty of criminal negligence. It was he, and men like him, who had permitted such a state of affairs as had been revealed on the Grimes farm to exist year after year for the enrichment of some criminal or abnormal person at the expense of helpless little children. Why had it not been discovered and investigated? Peter Grimes was ignorant, abnormal and irresponsible. Dying, he spoke the truth. He literally knew no better.

But Harris Wayne knew better. He, who had professed to love children, had done nothing whatever for any child in the world other than his own. He had not even made the search for little Stephen that he knew he ought to have made. He was the one actually responsible for the little boy's unhappy, wasted years. If Stephen had been traced and located all these other children might have been spared suffering and the lives of those saved that had perished for lack of food and care.

That such horrors should have existed unsuspected and unmolested in his own township, seemed a crime in which he and every citizen like him were participants. He wanted to do something to atone for his selfishness and indifference. Something to make other children as happy and content as this tattered, neglected little girl had made his baby. He had prated of the inadequacy of hireling service as compared with that actuated solely by love but he had viewed the matter from only one side—his side. He wanted someone to love his child and give to her unselfish devotion but it had never occurred to him that other children might also be suffering for lack of affection.

This little girl had been starved of love and care all during her childhood. She had realized it and in her way had tried to supply to other little ones that for which she, herself, had yearned.

He crossed to where she was sitting and lifted his sleeping baby into her crib. Then he took Mollie's little brown hand in his and stroked it tenderly.

"Little girl," he said, "to-morrow there is much that I shall want to talk to you about. You have done more for me—and for little children—than you, perhaps, realize. I shall not try to thank you now. In fact I never will be able to thank you enough for what you have done. But I want you to feel that this house is your home. I want to see you happy—very, very happy. I have been selfish to-night in keeping you up till this hour. I should have brought you with us the first time. Now, the baby is sleeping and I want you to go with the nurse and let her make you as comfortable as you have made Doris. She will bandage your poor, bruised feet and get you everything necessary for the present. To-morrow we will talk about the future."

Mollie was too near asleep, from sheer fatigue, to grasp much beyond the statement that she was to remain there with the baby and that this nurse, who didn't know how to take care of babies, seemed to be doing just the right things to make her more comfortable than she had been in years. She was almost afraid to touch the dainty bed to which the nurse finally conducted her. Oh, how comfortable it was! She had not known before how tired she had grown, nor how her back ached from carrying the baby. She tried to think—there was something the baby's father had said about Stephen—Did he know Splutters?—She would ask to-morrow.—And the children—She hoped they were all right—They were so tired—She, too, was tired—How nice it was here—If only—Splutters—The children—could enjoy it too!

It was Mollie's last waking thought. Her tight-clinched little hands relaxed, the long-lashed lids drooped over her tender, brooding eyes, the sweet lips parted in a smile. When the nurse entered the room, she was sleeping as tranquilly as she had slept that last night before she was turned over to the custody of Peter Grimes.

When Mollie awoke it was with the sense that she had slept too late and the children would not get to the field in time. For a full moment she could not comprehend where she was nor what had happened. The sight of a maid placing a dainty breakfast tray beside her bed made her think that she was dreaming. The maid spoke, and then she remembered. It was not a dream—it was true. At last, they had escaped! She moved and was surprised to find how bruised and sore her limbs and body were. The nurse entered.

"After you have had your breakfast I will fix you up for the day," she said, placing a tray of interesting looking little jars and bottles down on a table. "You were pretty badly bitten by insects. It was lucky you didn't meet a snake."

"We said our pra'rs," Mollie said, simply. Then, suddenly starting up, "Oh, whar's th' baby?"

The baby was taking her nap, the nurse explained. Mollie stared. Then she asked the time. When she realized that she had slept until afternoon she laughed as she had not laughed in years. Mr. Wayne had gone to town, she learned, for the purpose of bringing all the children out to his house.

Mollie gave a cry of joy. She could hardly restrain herself from leaping out of bed and dispensing with the food which had been brought her. But the nurse persuaded her to yield to her ministrations, to eat her breakfast and later to be fitted into proper clothes.

The poor little girl laughed and cried by turns. It all seemed like a fairy tale. It began to look as if she might yet find out about her father and her former home. There was so much she wanted to talk about to Mr. Wayne. She was ashamed that she had behaved so badly about surrendering the baby to him after he had felt so badly because the child had been stolen.

Several times during the progress of her toilette she slipped into the nursery to admire Doris as she lay in her beautiful bed and to contrast it with the horrible rags and disorder of the barn loft.

"No wonder her daddy war upsot," she told the nurse. "Hit'll take a long time fer we-uns ter git used ter all th' fine things you-uns has hyar. Them chil'en will hev ter be mighty keerful not ter spile nawthin'."

At last she saw them coming. With the baby in her arms she ran to the gate to meet them. Harris Wayne, as he rode those few miles out to his home, felt more content and satisfied with life than he had since his wife's death. His limousine swarmed with children. They asked him a thousand questions. They laughed and chattered like sparrows. Wayne thought of the simile himself. When he mentioned it, every child tried to explain to him about the sparrows that flew across the swamp and didn't fall.

"So Mollie said we war jist es good es sparrows an' ef we'd keep a-lookin' up et th' sky an' not down in th' mud we-uns could git ary place. An' we done hit, mister, we done hit," explained Jimmie, triumphantly.

"An' when we-all seed them things th' man tol' us war 'gators an' had ter git up in th' tree quick, God jist a'most giv wings ter all on us," declared Willie. "Yo' jist oughter ha' seed Johnnie skedaddle 'thout usin' his crutch. Hain't et th' truf, Johnnie?"

Harris Wayne glanced down at the child's bare, crippled foot and made a quick decision.

"I wouldn't be a bit surprised," he said, "if Johnnie would be able to throw his crutch away some of these days. I think I know a man who'll be able to make his foot as good as new."

Johnnie gave a whoop of delight. The other boys joined. From the gate, Mollie answered. Then they all saw her. They waved and shouted hilariously. Harris Wayne found himself laughing with them as he turned them loose to awaken the echoes of his all too silent home.

But the final note of happiness was achieved a little later when the chauffeur again appeared with the car and drove gently in at the gate and up to the front door. The children ran to see who had come. Then the door of the car opened and they recognized Stephen, sitting weakly among the pillows that had been arranged for his comfort, and smiling upon them.

Mollie flew to his side, eager to ask about his illness, of which she had not known and to learn all that had befallen him since he had been so suddenly taken from among them.

"Oh, I missed yo' turrible, Splutters," she exclaimed, tears brimming over the lashes of her large, luminous eyes that now seemed like deep pools of thought. "I missed yo' turrible."

"But th' mistake hes been found out," he told her eagerly. "Mr. Wayne come for me, an' he's goin' ter hev a man come and teach me every day, so's I kin go ter school right soon."

The boy's pinched little face was shining with happiness. The blue eyes that beamed upon Mollie were full of an affection far beyond words. To Splutters there was no one like Mollie in the whole, wide world.

But Mollie's surprise was yet to come. When Mr. Wayne drew her away from the children and told her all that he had learned regarding her from the Chief, down at police headquarters, she could not at once comprehend that for her, too, there would be opportunity for education and training.

"But hit's th' chil'en I wanter help," she exclaimed, looking straight into Harris Wayne's eyes in a manner that seemed to read his very soul. "This is such a big, big house. Hit hain't a doin' yo' ary good es I kin see, 'thout folks in hit. Hain't thar room fer these hyar young-uns—all on em—ter live hyar?"

Harris Wayne admitted there was. Mollie need not worry about the children, he assured her. They would be provided for. And she need never be separated from little Doris. But the plan he proposed was somewhat different. It was bigger, better, more enduring and would be the means not only of helping the little flock she had led through the swamps but generations of children to come.

His house, he explained to her, would not be large enough for such an extensive plan. It might serve temporarily. But by the time she had received her education, by the time Stephen would get through college there would be established upon his broad acres such an institution for children that it would be known, throughout the country.

Mollie entered into the plan heartily. "An' hit mus' hev money," she insisted, "so thet pore folks like little Amy's mammy, doan hev ter fret ef th' hain't got money ter pay fer the'r chil'en. Let th' young-uns stay jest th' same."

"That's my idea, exactly," exclaimed Wayne, at which Mollie, in sheer gratitude, grasped his hand and pressed it to her lips.

CHAPTER XXX

IN PERPETUITY

"They shall be mine, saith the Lord of Hosts, in that Day when I make up my jewels."—Malachi iii, 17

All the children joined in planning for that new Home. They talked of it morning, noon and night. Harris Wayne consulted architects and contractors. Surveyors came and went. Drawings were submitted and, because the children were so deeply interested, these were patiently explained to them. Competing architects and contractors came. Consultations and conferences were continuous. Harris Wayne had never been so busy in his life. And with it all he looked younger, as if a load of care had been removed from his shoulders. He was living now, to make others happy and the world a better place for children to live in. He was completely absorbed and happier than he had ever expected to be.

The project was not one that could be completed in a day, a week or even a year. The scope and magnitude of the plans attracted widespread attention. The story of the "sparrows" that flitted from the Grimes baby farm and miraculously crossed the terrible swamps under the leadership of a little girl with a baby on her back was published all over the world. The home of which they would be the first occupants became known as The Sparrows' Nest.

Mollie and the children became famous over night. Their exploits and experiences were recounted in press, pulpit and club rooms. Tourists came to the section for no other purpose than to visit the Grimes place, greet Maria, now living there in peace and solitude, look at the impassable bog over which the children did pass, then motor down to view the progress being made in the erection of their new habitation and to ask permission to contribute toward its maintenance.

Large sums of money poured in unsolicited. Some came from anonymous donors. Some gave funds in memory of other little ones whose memories they wished to perpetuate. Every train brought great sacks of mail, every letter expressing the writer's interest in the gigantic undertaking.

Contributions of all kinds were offered and some even sent without previous notification. Furniture, clothing, food supplies, linens and household appurtenances seemed to rain down upon the Wayne estate months before the new building was even under roof.

Yet there had been no requests made, no agitation on the part of any of the adults now aiding Wayne in pulling his experiment through to a successful finish. It was all the result of one little girl's heroism supplemented by the children's own enthusiasm over a home that should be their very own, and to the graphic accounts they could each give as to what sometimes happens to little children farmed out, as they had been, to one so totally incapable of looking after their well being as was Peter Grimes.

Mollie insisted upon a wonderful nursery with all kinds of toys. Stephen helped plan the library and reading room. Johnnie, now that his foot was being cured by means of braces, announced his intention of becoming a doctor and wanted one wing of the building adapted to surgical purposes so that one day he might help other children as he had been helped. Each child gravitated naturally into the particular sphere for which each was best adapted. The building of The Sparrows' Nest, developed, automatically, into a school for vocational training, so Wayne declared, when he espied one boy devoting all his energy to aiding the carpenters, another to the brick-layers and a third concentrating his attention upon the plumbing arrangements.

Letters from parents and relatives of children asking to have them granted admission to the Home arrived almost as quickly as did the supplies with which to furnish it. Wayne had never imagined there were so many uncared for and homeless little ones awaiting such a shelter as was now going forward.

Former friends came to see him and looked at him curiously. He informed them that he was having "the time of his life."

As for Mollie, she had not believed it possible that she could ever be so happy. She was studying, too, at home, under competent teachers as were the other children. She was making rapid progress. No one, seeing her now would have believed that she was the same ragged, mud-begrimed, barefoot and hungry-looking little girl who, after emerging from the swamp had undertaken to run a launch down the river.

Time came when The Sparrows' Nest was completed and the original nestlings, clad in their neat, new uniforms, welcomed more people than any of them had ever seen at one time. They sang a chorus they had learned and Mollie, not in the least awed by the many curious eyes turned upon her, delivered the little address she had rehearsed for weeks. It was very brief and couched in perfect English. Harris Wayne was proud of her. She would be an ornament to any home and could mother as many children as would ever come within its doors. His daughter worshipped her. Why, he asked himself, should he not? She was fast growing up. She would soon be going away to a finishing school, that she might later be fitted to accompany Doris on her travels. When she returned he might—well, he would wait and see.

Time passed. The gigantic Sparrows' Nest was filled with little ones. They were happy. They loved to sing. They were singing now. Mollie heard them as she approached. Those blessed voices! To her ears they had always been as the sound of heavenly music. How sweetly the piping treble rang out on the balmy air. It mingled with the songs of the birds in the trees and went upward on the breeze of heaven, just as that kite had mounted upward in those dark days of the past.

It was a past that was getting more and more remote. Wonderful changes had come into all their lives. Everything had dated from that day they had flown the kite. It had been a novel idea. Childish, of course, but as an act of faith nothing could have been more sincere. How miserable they all were that day—how desperate she had been! She would have stormed a fortress, if there had been one to storm. God had surely heard their prayers—those prayers of little children!

Mollie smiled and sang softly to herself as she moved swiftly along the driveway leading to the beautiful Home. Let's see, she reflected. Just how many would it accommodate? Five—six hundred, now that the east wing was completed. Splutters had not seen it yet. He would be home soon for the holidays. How thrilled he would be. He was growing tall, he had written. He would be taller than she when they met again. She wondered if she would know him.

Just beyond towered the massive building, surrounded by broad porches, sun parlors and gardens brilliant with flowers. Somewhere there was a fountain playing. Children of all sizes were running about the grounds.

A beautiful little girl with clustering curls and most alluring dimples suddenly detached herself from the others and ran to meet Mollie.

"Oh, Ma-Mollie!" she exclaimed, holding up her rosebud mouth for a kiss. "Isn't it a beautiful home!"

"A home for little children is always a beautiful home if it is built for their happiness," Mollie replied with an adoring look that embraced the Home, the broad lawns and every child within sight or hearing.

"And this," she said softly, half to herself and half to the child at her side, "is the great good that came out of all our suffering."

For Mollie never forgot her wonderful experience that night in the barn loft when the Good Shepherd walked among the children while they slept and tenderly took one of them—the least one—into his arm. At the recollection she raised her eyes to where, near the entrance to this beautiful Home was a marble tablet on which were lettered the words:

Should it be suggested that the characters and incidents of this story are exaggerated or improbable, it is only necessary to refer to the newspapers of May 2nd, 1926, which published Associated Press accounts of the living counterpart of Peter Grimes and pictures of the children for whose care and maintenance he was paid by their widowed mother.

That human counterpart of the ogre described in these pages did not die in a bog. He was sentenced to die on May 11, 1926 for the murder of one child and the mutilation of others. The verdict against him was reached on the first ballot by a jury of mountaineers from his own district and by whom, until his crimes were discovered, he had for years been considered harmless. The only reason why he did not conceal the evidence of his crimes in a bog was because there happened to be no bog on his premises.

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