CHAPTER III
THE NEWSPAPER CLIPPING
The Red Mill was a grist mill, and Mr. Jabez Potter made wheat-flour,buckwheat, cornmeal, or ground any grist that was brought to him.Standing on a commanding knoll beside the Lumano River, it wasvery picturesquely situated, and the rambling old farmhouse connectedwith it was a very homey-looking place indeed.
The automobile had stopped at the roadside before the kitchen door,and Mr. Cameron alighted and started immediately up the straight pathto the porch. He was a round, jolly, red-faced man, who was foreverthinking of some surprise with which to please his boy and girl, andseldom refused any request they might make of him. This plan oftaking a party of young folk into the backwoods for a couple of weekswas entirely to amuse Tom and Helen. Personally, the dry-goodsmerchant did not much care for such an outing.
He came stamping up the steps and burst into the kitchen in a jollyway, and Helen ran to him with a kiss.
"Hullo I what's all this?" he demanded, his black eyes taking in thegrove of airing garments around the stove. "Tom been in the river?No! Those aren't Tom's duds, I'll be switched if they are!"
"No, no," cried Helen. "It's another boy."
And here Tom himself appeared from the bedroom.
"I thought Tom could keep out of the river when the ice was fourinches thick--eh, son?" laughed Mr. Cameron.
His children began to tell him, both together, of the adventure withthe bull and the mysterious appearance of the strange boy.
"Aye, aye!" he said. "And Ruth Fielding was in it, of course--anddid her part in extricating you all from the mess, too, I'll bebound! Whatever would we do without Ruth?" and he smiled and shookhands with the miller's niece.
"I guess we were all equally scared. But it certainly was my faultthat the old bull bunted the hollow stump into the creek. So this boycan thank me for getting him such a ducking," laughed Ruth.
"And who is he? Where does he come from?"
Ruth showed Mr. Cameron the stencil on the inside of the wallet.
"Isn't that funny, Father?" cried Helen. "Right where we are going--Scarboro."
"If the wallet is his," muttered Mr. Cameron.
"What do you mean, sir?" questioned Ruth, quickly. "Do you think heis a bad boy--that he has taken the wallet----"
"Now, now!" exclaimed Mr. Cameron, smiling at her again. "Don'tjump at conclusions, Mistress Ruth Fielding. I have no suspicionregarding the lad----How is the patient, Aunt Alviry?" he added,quickly, as the little old woman came hobbling out of the bedroomwhere the strange boy lay.
"Oh, my back, and oh, my bones!" said Aunt Alviry, under her breath.But she welcomed Mr. Cameron warmly enough, too. "He's getting onfine," she declared. "He'll be all right soon. I reckon he won'tsuffer none in the end for his wetting. I'm a-goin' to cook him amess of gruel, for I believe he's hungry."
"Who is he, Aunt Alviry?" asked the gentleman. Aunt Alvirah Boggswas "everybody's Aunt Alviry," although she really had no living kin,and Mr. Jabez Potter had brought her from the almshouse ten years ormore before to act as his housekeeper.
"Dunno," said Aunt Alvirah, shaking her head in answer to Mr.Cameron's question. "Ain't the first idee. You kin go in and talk tohim, sir."
With the wallet in his hand and the three young folk at his heels,both their interest and their curiosity aroused, Mr. Cameron wentinto the passage and so came to the open door of the bedroom. Mr.Potter slept in a big, four-post bedstead, which was heaped high atthis time of year with an enormous feather bed. Rolled like a mummyin the blankets, and laid on this bed, the feathers had plumped upabout the vagabond boy and almost buried him. But his eyes were wideopen--pale blue eyes, with light lashes and eyebrows, which gave histhin, white countenance a particularly blank expression.
"Heigho, my lad!" exclaimed Mr. Cameron, in his jolly way. "So yourname is Jonas Hatfield, of Scarboro; is it?"
"No; sir; that was my father's name, sir," returned the boy in bed,weakly. "My name is Fred."
And then a brilliant flush suddenly colored his pale face. He halfstarted up in bed, and the pale blue eyes flashed with an entirelydifferent expression. He demanded, in a hoarse, unnatural voice:
"How'd' you find me out?"
Mr. Cameron shook his head knowingly, and laughed.
"That was a bit of information you were keeping to yourself--eh?Well, why did you carry your father's old wallet about with you, ifyou did not wish to be identified? Come, son! what harm is there inour knowing who you are?"
Fred Hatfield sank back in the feathers and weakly rolled his headfrom side to side. The blood receded from his cheeks, leaving himquite as pale as before. He whispered:
"I ran away."
"Yes. That's what I supposed," said Mr. Cameron, easily. "What for?"
"I--I can't tell you."
"What did you do?"
"I didn't say I did anything. I just got sick of it up there, andcame away," the boy said, sullenly.
"Your father is dead?" asked the gentleman, shrewdly.
"Yes, sir."
"Got a mother?"
"Yes, sir."
"Doesn't she need you?"
"No, sir."
"Why not?"
"She's got Ez, and Peter, and 'Lias to work the farm. They're allolder'n me. Then there's the two gals and Bob, who are younger. Shedon't need me," declared Fred Hatfield, doggedly.
"I don't believe a mother ever had so many children that she didn'tsorely miss the one who was absent," declared Mr. Cameron, quietly."Tell me how you came away down here."
Brokenly the boy told his story--not an uncommon one. He hadtraveled most of the distance afoot, working here and there forfarmers and storekeepers. He admitted that he had been some weeks onthe road. His being in that hollow stump in Hiram Bassett's field wasquite by accident. He was passing through the field, making for themain road, when he had seen Ruth, Helen, and Tom, and stepped behindthe tree so as not to be observed.
"What made you so afraid of being seen by anyone?" demanded Mr.Cameron, at this point. "Do you think your folks are trying to findyou?"
"I--I don't know," stammered the lad.
This was about all his questioner was able to get out of him.
"You'll be cared for here to-night--I'll speak to Mr. Potter," saidMr. Cameron. "And in the morning I'll decide what's to be done withyou."
"Why, Dad! we're going----"
Tom had begun this speech when his father warned him with a look tobe still.
"You'll be all right here," pursued Mr. Cameron, cheerfully. "AuntAlviry and Ruth will look after you. Why! I wouldn't want betternurses if _I_ was sick."
"But I'm not sick," said Fred Hatfield, as the little old womanhobbled in with a steaming bowl. His eyes were wolfish when he sawthe gruel, however.
"No, you're not so sick but that a good, square meal would be yourbest medicine, I'll be bound," cried the gentleman, laughing.
He went out to the mill then and was gone some moments; when hereturned he called Helen and Tom to come with him quickly to the car.
"Remember and be ready as early as nine o'clock, Ruth!" calledHelen, looking back as she climbed into the automobile.
When her friends had bowled away up the frozen road, Ruth came backinto the kitchen. Aunt Alvirah was still in the bedroom with theirstrange guest. Of a sudden the girl's eye caught sight of thenewspaper clipping laid on the window sill to dry.
Mr. Cameron had placed the old wallet belonging to Fred Hatfield'sfather on the table when he came out of the bedroom. Now Ruth pickedit up, found it dry, and went to the window to replace the clippingin it. It was the most natural thing in the world for Ruth to glanceat the slip of paper when she picked it up. There is nothing secretabout a newspaper clipping; it was no infringement of good manners toread the article.
And read it Ruth did when she had once seen the heading--she read itall through with breathless attention. Her rosy face paled as shecame to the conclusion, and she glanced suddenly toward the bedroomas she heard Aunt Alvirah's v
oice again.
Dropping the old wallet on the table, Ruth folded the clipping andhastily thrust it into the bosom of her frock. She did not dare facethe old woman when she appeared, but kept her back turned until shewas sure the color had returned to her cheeks. And all the time shehelped Aunt Alvirah get supper, Ruth was very, very silent.
Ruth Fielding at Snow Camp; Or, Lost in the Backwoods Page 3