by A. A. Milne
“Oh, mercy me! no!” cried Nan.
“I should say not!” murmured Bess.
The director’s worried, querulous face showed relief. He listened attentively while Nan explained about the runaways. She likewise repeated the actress’ version of the discharging of the girls whom she had afterward identified as the two for whom Nan and Bess were in search.
“Yes, yes! I remember. And Madam was quite right in that instance,” grudgingly admitted the director. He drew a notebook from his pocket and fluttered the leaves. “Yes. Here are their names crossed off my list. ‘Lola Montague’ and ‘Marie Fortesque.’ I fancy,” said Mr. Gray, chuckling, “they expected to see those names on the bills.”
“But, oh, Mr. Gray!” cried Nan Sherwood, feeling in no mood for laughing at silly Sallie Morton and Celia Snubbins. “Don’t you know where they live— those two poor girls?”
“Why— no. They were extras and we get plenty of such people,” said the director, carelessly. “Now, the girl who sent them is as daring a girl as I ever saw. I’m sorry she’s hurt, or sick, or something, for although Jenny Albert has little ‘film charm,’ as we call it, she is useful—
“There!” suddenly broke off Mr. Gray. “You might try Jenny’s address. She sent those girls here. She probably knows where they live.”
He hastily wrote down the street and number on a card and handed it to Nan. “Sorry. That’s the best I can do for you, Miss Sherwood.”
He turned away, taking up his own particular worries again.
“And, goodness me, Nan!” sighed Bess, as they went out of the cluttered studio, back through the passage, and so into the courtyard and the street again. “Goodness me! I think we have the greatest lot of other people’s worries on our shoulders that I ever heard of. We seem to collect other folk’s troubles. How do we manage it?”
Runaways Of A Different Kind
The chums, on leaving the moving picture studio, stopped to read more carefully the card Mr. Gray, the director, had given them. The street on which Jennie Albert lived was quite unknown to Nan and Bess and they did not know how to find it.
Besides, Nan remembered that Mrs. Mason trusted her to go to the moving picture studio, and to return without venturing into any strange part of the town.
“Of course,” groaned Bess, “we shall have to go back and ask her.”
“Walter will find the place for us,” Nan said cheerfully.
“Oh— Walter! I hate to depend so on a boy.”
“You’re a ridiculous girl,” laughed her chum. “What does it matter whom we depend upon? We must have somebody’s help in every little thing in this world, I guess.”
“Our sex depends too much upon the other sex,” repeated Elizabeth, primly, but with dancing eyes.
“Votes for Women!” chuckled Nan. “You are ripe for the suffragist platform, Bessie. I listened to that friend of Mrs. Mason’s talking the other day, too. She is a lovely lady, and I believe the world will be better— in time— if women vote. It is growing better, anyway.
“She told a funny story about a dear old lady who was quite converted to the cause until she learned that to obtain the right to vote in the first place, women must depend upon the men to give it to them. So, to be consistent, the old lady said she must refuse to accept anything at the hands of the other sex— the vote included!”
“There!” cried Bess, suddenly. “Talk about angels— ”
“And you hear their sleighbells,” finished Nan. “Hi, Walter! Hi!”
They had come out upon the boulevard, and approaching along the snow-covered driveway was Walter Mason’s spirited black horse and Walter driving in his roomy cutter.
The horse was a pacer and he came up the drive with that rolling action peculiar to his kind, but which takes one over the road very rapidly. A white fleck of foam spotted the pacer’s shiny chest. He was sleek and handsome, but with his rolling, unblinded eyes and his red nostrils, he looked ready to bolt at any moment.
Walter, however, had never had an accident with Prince and had been familiar with the horse from the time it was broken to harness. Mr. Mason was quite proud of his son’s horsemanship.
Walter saw Nan as she leaped over the windrow of heaped up snow into the roadway, and with a word brought Prince to a stop without going far beyond the two girls. There he circled about and came back to the side of the driveway where Nan and Bess awaited him.
“Hop in, girls. There’s room for two more, all right,” cried Walter. “I’ll sit between you. One get in one side— the other on t’other. ’Round here, Nan— that’s it! Now pull the robe up and tuck it in— sit on it. Prince wants to travel to-day. We’ll have a nice ride.”
“Oh-o-o!” gasped Bess, as they started. “Not too fast, Walter.”
“I won’t throw the clutch into high-gear,” promised Walter, laughing. “Look out for the flying ice, girls. I haven’t the screen up, for I want to see what we’re about.”
Walter wore automobile goggles, and sat on the edge of the seat between the two girls, with his elbows free and feet braced. If another sleigh whizzed past, going in the same direction, Prince’s ears went back and he tugged at the bit. He did not like to be passed on the speedway.
Bess quickly lost her timidity— as she always did— and the ride was most enjoyable. When the first exuberance of Prince’s spirit had worn off, and he was going along more quietly, the girls told Walter what they had seen and heard at the motion picture studio.
“Great luck!” pronounced the boy. “I’d like to get into one of those places and see ’em make pictures. I’ve seen ’em on the street; but that’s different. It must be great.”
“But we didn’t find Sallie and Celia there,” complained Nan.
“You didn’t expect to, did you?” returned the boy. “But I know where that street is. We’ll go around there after lunch if mother says we may, and look for that girl who knows them.”
“Oh, Bess!”
“Oh, Nan!”
The chums had caught sight of the same thing at the same moment. Just ahead was a heavy sleigh, with plumes on the corner-posts, drawn by two big horses. They could not mistake the turnout. It belonged to the Graves’ family with whom Linda Riggs was staying.
The chums had not seen Linda since the evening of the party, when the railroad president’s daughter had acted in such an unladylike manner.
“I see the big pung,” laughed Walter. “And I bet Linda’s in it, all alone in her glory. Pearl told me she hated the thing; but that her grandmother considers it the only winter equipage fit to ride in. You ought to see the old chariot they go out in in summer.
“Hello,” he added. “Got to pull up here.”
A policeman on horseback had suddenly ridden into the middle of the driveway. Just ahead there was a crossing and along the side road came clanging a hospital ambulance, evidently on an emergency call.
The white-painted truck skidded around the corner, the doctor on the rear step, in his summerish looking white ducks, swinging far out to balance the weight of the car.
The pair of horses drawing the Graves’ sleigh, snorted, pulled aside and rose, pawing, on their hind legs. The coachman had not been ready for such a move and he was pitched out on his head.
The girls and Walter heard a shrill scream of terror. The footman left the sleigh in a hurry, too— jumping in a panic. Off the two frightened horses dashed— not up the boulevard, but along the side street.
“That’s Linda,” gasped Bess.
“And she’s alone,” added Nan.
“Say! she’s going to get all the grandeur she wants in a minute,” exclaimed Walter. “Why didn’t she jump, too, when she had the chance?”
He turned Prince into the track behind the swaying sleigh. The black horse seemed immediately to scent the chase. He snorted and increased his stride.
“Oh, Walter! Can you catch them?” Nan cried.
“I bet Prince can,” the boy replied, between his set teeth.
Th
e policeman on horseback was of course ahead in the chase after the runaways. But the snow on this side road was softer than on the speedway, and it balled under his horse’s hoofs.
The black horse driven by Walter Mason was more sure-footed than the policeman’s mount. The latter slipped and lost its stride. Prince went past the floundering horse like a flash.
The swaying sleigh was just ahead now. Walter drew Prince to one side so that the cutter would clear the sleigh in passing.
The chums could see poor, frightened Linda crouching in the bottom of the sleigh, clinging with both hands to one of the straps from which the plumes streamed. Her face was white and she looked almost ready to faint.
An Unexpected Find
The mounted policeman came thundering down the street after them, his horse having regained its footing. The reins of the big steeds were dragging on the ground, and Walter and his girl companions saw no way of getting hold of the lines and so pulling down the frightened horses.
There was another way to save Linda Riggs, however. Walter looked at Nan Sherwood and his lips moved.
“Are you afraid to drive Prince?” he asked.
“No,” declared Nan, and reached for the reins. She had held the black horse before. Besides, she had driven her Cousin Tom’s pair of big draught horses up in the Michigan woods, and Mr. Henry Sherwood’s half-wild roan ponies, as well. Her wrists were strong and supple, and she was alert.
Walter passed the lines over and then kicked the robe out of the way. Bess sat on the left side of the seat, clinging to the rail. She was frightened— but more for the girl in the other sleigh, than because of their own danger.
Walter Mason motioned to Bess to move over to Nan’s side. The latter was guiding Prince carefully, and the cutter crept up beside the bigger vehicle. Only a couple of feet separated the two sleighs as Walter leaned out from his own seat and shouted to Linda:
“Look this way! Look! Do exactly as I tell you!”
The girl turned her strained face toward him. The bigger sleigh swerved and almost collided with the cutter.
“Now!” yelled Walter, excitedly. “Let go!”
He had seized Linda by the arm, clinging with his other hand to the rail of the cutter-seat. She screamed— and so did Bess.
But Walter’s grasp was strong, and, after all, Linda was not heavy. Her hold was torn from the plume-staff, and she was half lifted, half dragged, into the cutter.
Prince darted past the now laboring runaways. One of the latter slipped on a smooth bit of ice and crashed to the roadway.
His mate went down with him and the sleigh was overturned. Had Linda not been rescued as she was, her injury— perhaps her death— would have been certain.
They stopped at the first drug store and a man held the head of the excited black horse while Walter soothed and blanketed him. Then the boy went inside, and into the prescription room, where Nan and Bess were comforting their schoolmate.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’d have been killed if it hadn’t been for you, Walter Mason,” cried Linda, for once so thoroughly shaken out of her pose that she acted and spoke naturally. “How can I ever thank you enough?”
“Say!” blurted out Walter. “You’d better thank Nan, here, too. I couldn’t have grabbed you if it hadn’t been for her. She held Prince and guided the sleigh.”
“Oh, that’s all right!” interjected Nan, at once very much embarrassed. “Anybody would have done the same.”
“’Tisn’t so!” cried Bess. “I just held on and squealed.”
But Linda’s pride was quite broken down. She looked at Nan with her own eyes streaming.
“Oh, Sherwood!” she murmured. “I’ve said awfully mean things about you. I’m so sorry— I really am.”
“Oh, that’s all right!” muttered Nan, almost boyish in her confusion.
“Well, I have! I know I made fun of your medal for bravery. You deserve another for what you just did. Oh, dear! I— I never can thank any of you enough;” and she cried again on Bess Harley’s shoulder.
Walter telephoned to the Graves’ house, telling Linda’s aunt of the accident and of Linda’s predicament, and when a vehicle was sent for the hysterical girl the boy, with Nan and Bess, hurried home to a late luncheon, behind black Prince.
Although Mrs. Mason, naturally, was disturbed over the risk of accident Walter and the girl chums had taken in rescuing Linda Riggs, the interest of the young folks was in, and all their comment upon, the possible change of heart the purse-proud girl had undergone.
“I don’t know about these ‘last hour conversions,’” said the pessimistic Bess. “I should wring the tears out of the shoulder of my coat and bottle ’em. Only tears I ever heard of Linda’s shedding! And they may prove to be crocodile tears at that.”
“Oh, hush, Bess!” said Nan. “Let’s not be cruel.”
“We’ll see how she treats you hereafter,” Grace said. “I, for one, hope Linda has had a change of heart. She’ll be so much happier if she stops quarreling with everybody.”
“And the other girls will have a little more peace, too, I fancy; eh?” threw in her brother, slyly. “But how about this place you want to go to this afternoon, Nan?” he added.
“I should think you had had enough excitement for one day,” Mrs. Mason sighed. “The wonderful vitality of these young creatures! It amazes me. They wish to be on the go all of the time.”
“You see,” Nan explained, “we have only a few more days in Chicago and I am so desirous of finding Sallie and Celia. Poor Mrs. Morton is heart-broken, and I expect Celia’s mother fears all the time for her daughter’s safety, too.”
“Those foolish girls!” Mrs. Mason said. “I am glad you young people haven’t this general craze for exhibiting one’s self in moving pictures.”
“You can’t tell when that may begin, Mother,” chuckled Walter. “When Nan was holding on to Prince and I was dragging Linda out of that sleigh, if a camera-man had been along he could have made some picture— believe me!”
“You’ll walk or take a car to the address,” Mrs. Mason instructed them. “No more riding behind that excited horse to-day, please.”
“All right, Mother,” said Walter, obediently. “Now, whenever you girls are ready, I am at your service. It’s lucky I know pretty well the poorer localities in Chicago. Your calling district, Nan Sherwood, seems to number in it a lot of shady localities.”
However, it was only a poor neighborhood, not a vicious one, in which Jennie Albert lived. Grace had accompanied the chums from Tillbury, and the trio of girls went along very merrily with Walter until they came near to the number Mr. Gray had given them.
This number they had some difficulty in finding. At least, four hundred and sixteen was a big warehouse in which nobody lodged of course. Plenty of tenement houses crowded about it but four hundred and sixteen was surely the warehouse.
While Walter was inquiring in some of the little neighboring stores, Nan saw a child pop out of a narrow alley beside the warehouse and look sharply up and down the street. It was the furtive, timid glance of the woods creature or the urchin of the streets; both expect and fear the attack of the strong.
The Lakeview Hall girls were across the street. The little girl darted suddenly toward them. Her head was covered by an old shawl, which half blinded her. Her garments were scanty for such brisk winter weather, and her shoes were broken.
“Oh, the poor little thing!” murmured Grace Mason.
Nan was suddenly excited by the sight of the child crossing the crowded street; she sprang to the edge of the walk, but did not scream as the little one scurried on. Down the driveway came a heavy auto-truck and although the little girl saw the approach of this, she could not well see what followed the great vehicle.
She escaped the peril of the truck, but came immediately in the path of a touring car that shot out from behind to pass the truck. With a nerve-racking “honk! honk!” the swiftly moving car was upon the child.
Bess and Grace did scream;
but Nan, first aware of the little one’s danger, was likewise first to attempt her rescue. And she needed her breath for that effort. Other people shouted at the child and, from either sidewalk, Nan was the only person who darted out to save her!
The driver under the steering wheel of the touring car did his best to bring it to an abrupt stop; but the wheels skidded and— for a breathless moment— it did seem as though the shawl-blinded child must go under the wheels of the vehicle.
Nan Sherwood seized the shawl and by main strength dragged its owner to the gutter. The car slid past; both girls were safe!
“You lemme be! you lemme be!” shrieked the girl Nan had rescued, evidently considering herself much abused by the rough treatment her rescuer had given her, and struggling all the time to keep Nan from lifting her upon the sidewalk.
“Why, you little savage!” gasped Bess Harley. “Don’t you know you’ve been saved?”
“Who wants to be saved?” demanded the smaller girl, looking up at the three older ones out of the hood of the shawl she had clung to so desperately. “What youse savin’ me from?”
Bess grew more excited. “Why, Nan!” she cried. “It is— it must be! Don’t you see who she is?”
Nan was already looking down into the dark, shrewd and thin countenance of the little one with a smile of recognition. It was Inez, the little flower-girl, whom she had so fortunately pulled out of the way of the automobile.
“Hullo, honey; don’t you know us?” Nan asked her.
“Hi!” exclaimed the street waif. “If it ain’t me tony friends from Washington Park. Say! youse got ter excuse me. I didn’t know youse.”
“Why, Inez!” exclaimed Nan, kindly. “You have a dreadful cold.”
“Say! if I don’t have nothin’ worse than that I’ll do fine,” croaked the little girl, carelessly. “But I never expected to see youse tony folks again.”
“Why, Inez!” exclaimed Bess. “And we’ve been hunting all over for you.”
“Goodness me!” burst out Grace Mason. “You don’t mean to say that this is the poor little thing we’ve been in such a fuss about?”