by Roy J. Snell
All uninvited, a startling conviction pressed itself upon Florence'ssenses. The child was a gypsy.
There could be no questioning this. Her face might have been that of anIndian; her attire, never. Florence had seen too much of these strangepeople to make any mistake.
"Not alone that," she told herself, as she once more took up the trail."Her people have but recently come from Europe. There is not a trace ofAmerica in her costume.
"Perhaps--" She paused to ponder. "We are near the Canadian border.Perhaps they have entered without permission and are here in hiding."
This thought was disturbing. The tribe of gypsies with which PetiteJeanne had traveled so long had many enemies. She had come to know thiswell enough when the terrible Panna had kidnapped Jeanne and all butbrought her to her death. Panna was dead, but her numerous tribesmen wereready enough to inherit and pass on her dark secrets and black hatreds.
"If Petite Jeanne knew there were gypsies in this forest she would begreatly disturbed," Florence said to herself with a sigh.
"After all, what's the good of telling her?" was her conclusion of thematter. "Gypsies are ever on the move. We will see nothing more of them."In this she was wrong.
She did not tell Jeanne. Together they reveled in a feast of blueberrymuffins, wild honey and caramel buns.
After Jeanne had gone through her wild dance once more, they trudged backto camp through the sweet-smelling forest while the sunset turned thewoodland trail to a path of gleaming gold.
CHAPTER VI HAUNTING MELODY
That evening Florence received a shock. The night before they had,through no purpose of their own, been thrown for an hour or two into thecompany of the young recluse who lived in a windowless cabin on a shadowyisland. Since this person very evidently wished to be alone, Florence hadnot expected to see her again. Imagine her surprise, therefore, when, onstepping to the cabin door for a good-night salute to the stars, shefound the lady standing there, motionless and somber as any nocturnalshadow, on their own little dock.
"I--I beg your pardon," the mysterious one spoke. "So this is where youlive? How very nice!
"But I didn't come to make a call. I came for a favor," she hastened toassure the astonished Florence.
"You were very kind to us last night." Florence tried to conceal herastonishment. "We will do what we can."
"It is but a little thing. I wish to visit an island across the bay. Itis not far. Half an hour's row. I do not wish to go alone. Will you be sokind as to accompany me?"
"What a strange request!" Florence thought. "One would suppose that shefeared something. And there is nothing to fear. The island channels aresafe and the bay is calm."
"I'd be delighted to go," she said simply.
This did not express the exact truth. There was that about the simplerequest that frightened her. What made it worse, she had seen, as in aflash of thought, the two pistols hanging over the strange one's bed.
"Very well," said the mystery lady. "Get your coat. We will go at once."
Since Florence knew that Petite Jeanne was not afraid to be alone as longas her bear was with her, she hurried to the cabin, told Jeanne of herintentions, drew on a warm sweater, and accompanied the strange visitorto her boat.
Without a word, the lady of the island pushed her slight craft off, thentaking up her oars, headed toward the far side of the bay.
"What island?" Florence asked herself.
There were four islands; three small, one large. The nearest small onewas not inhabited. She and Jeanne had gone there once to enjoy theirevening meal. There was a camping place in a narrow clearing at thecenter. The remainder of the island was heavily forested with birch andcedar.
On another small island was a single summer cottage, a rather large andpretentious affair with a dock and boathouse.
The large one, stretching away for miles in either direction, was dottedwith summer homes.
The course of their boat soon suggested to her that they were to visitthe small island that held the summer cottage. Yet, even as she reachedthis conclusion, she was given reasons for doubting it. Their coursealtered slightly. They were now headed for the end where the growth ofcedar and birch reached to the water's edge and where there was no signof life. The cottage was many hundred feet from this spot.
"When one visits a place by water at night, one goes to the dock," shetold herself. "Where can we be going now?"
A rocky shoal extended for some little distance out from the point of theisland. The light craft skirted this, then turned abruptly toward shore.A moment later it came to rest on a narrow, sandy beach.
"If you will please remain here for a very few moments," said the lady ofthe island, "I shall be very grateful to you. Probably nothing willhappen. Still, one never can tell. Should you catch a sound of commotion,or perhaps a scream, row away as speedily as possible and notify DeputySheriff Osterman at Rainy Creek at once. If I fail to return within thenext half hour, do the same."
"Why--er--"
Florence's answer died on her lips. The mysterious one was gone.
"Who is she? Why are we here? What does she wish to know?" These and ahundred other haunting questions sped through the girl's mind as shestood there alone in the dark, waiting, alert, expectant, on tiptoe,listening to the tantalizing lap-lap of water on the sandy shore.
A moment passed into eternity, another, and yet another. From somewherefar out over the dim-lit waters there came the haunting, long drawn hootof a freighter's foghorn.
Something stirred in the bush. She jumped; then chided herself for herneedless fear.
"Some chipmunk, or a prowling porcupine," she told herself.
A full quarter of an hour had passed. Her nerves were all but at thebreaking point, when of a sudden, without a sound, the lady of the islandstood beside her.
"O. K.," she said in a low tone. "Let's go."
They were some distance from the island when at last the lady spokeagain.
"That," she said in a very matter-of-fact tone, "is Gamblers' Island. AndI am a lady cop from Chicago."
"A--a lady cop!" Florence stared at her as if she had never seen herbefore.
"A lady policeman," the other replied quietly. "In other words, adetective. Women now take part in nearly every field of endeavor. Why notin this? They should. Men have found that there are certain branches ofthe detective service that naturally belong to women. We are answeringthe challenge.
"But listen!" She held up a hand for silence.
To their waiting ears came the sound of a haunting refrain. The soundcame, not from the island they had just left, but from the other, thesupposedly uninhabited one.
"They say--" into the lady's voice there crept a whimsical note, "thatthis island was once owned by a miser. He disappeared years ago. Hiscabin burned long since. Perhaps he has returned from another world tothrum a harp, or it may be only a banjo. We must have a look!"
She turned the prow of her boat that way and rowed with strength andpurpose in the direction from which the sound came.
CHAPTER VII GYPSY MOON
As they neared the tiny island, the sound of banjo and singing grewlouder. From time to time the music was punctuated by shouts and clappingof hands.
"Someone playing gypsy under the gypsy moon," said the lady of theisland, glancing at the golden orb that hung like a giant Chinese lanternin the sky.
Florence made no reply. She recalled the dark-skinned child she hadsurprised on the trail, but kept her thoughts to herself.
"There's a tiny beach half way round to the left," she suggested. "Wewere here not long ago."
The boat swerved. Once more they moved on in silence.
To Florence there was something startling about this night's happenings.
"Gamblers' Island; a lady cop," she whispered. "And now this."
Once more their boat grounded silently. This time, instead of findingherself l
eft behind, the girl felt a pull at her arm and saw a hand inthe moonlight beckon her on.
From the spot where they had landed, a half trail, strewn with brush andoverhung with bushes, led to the little clearing at the center of theisland.
Florence and Jeanne had found this trail difficult in broad daylight. Yether guide, with a sense of direction quite uncanny, led the way throughthe dark without a single audible swish of brush or crack of twig until,with breath coming quick and fast, Florence parted the branches of a lowgrowing fir tree and found herself looking upon a scene of wild,bewitching beauty.
Round a glowing campfire were grouped a dozen people.
"Gypsies," she told herself. "All French gypsies!" Her heart sank. Herewas bad news indeed.
Or was it bad? "Perhaps," she said to herself, "they are Jeanne'sfriends."
Whether the scene boded good or ill, it enthralled her. Two beautifulgypsies, garbed in scant attire, but waving colorful shawls about them asthey whirled, were dancing before the fire. Two banjos and a mandolinkept time to the wild beating of their nimble feet.
Old men, women, and children hovered in the shadows. Florence had nodifficulty in locating the child of the trail who had played with thechipmunk. She was now fast asleep in her mother's arms.
Florence's reaction to all this was definite, immediate. She disliked theimmodest young dancers and the musicians. The children and the older onesappealed to her.
"They have hard faces, those dancers," she told herself. "They would stopat nothing."
Of a sudden a mad notion seized her. These were water gypsies who haddeserted the caravan for a speed boat. They had seen Jeanne, hadrecognized her, and it had been their speed boat that had overturned therowboat.
"But that," she told herself instantly, "is impossible. Such a speed boatcosts two or three thousand dollars. How can a band of gypsies hope toown one?"
Nevertheless, when her strange companion, after once more pulling at herarm, had led her back to the beach, she found the notion in fullpossession of her mind.
Florence offered to row back to the mainland but as if by mistake sherowed the long way round the island. This gave her a view of the entireshore.
"No speed boat, nor any other motor craft on those shores," she assuredherself after a quarter of an hour of anxious scanning. "Wonder how theytravel, anyway."
Thereupon she headed for the distant shore which was, for the time being,their home.
Once again her mind was troubled. Should she tell Petite Jeanne of this,her latest discovery, or should she remain silent?
CHAPTER VIII SUN-TAN TILLIE
Next day Florence made a new friend. Petite Jeanne wished to spend themorning, which was damp and a trifle chilly, among the cushions beforethe fire. Florence went for a ramble in the forest.
She took a path she had not followed before. These strange trailsfascinated her. Some of them, she had been told, led on and on and oninto vast, trackless slashings where one might be lost for days, andperhaps never return.
She had no notion of getting herself lost. By watching every fork in thetrail, and noting the direction she had taken, she made sure of findingher way back.
She had been following this trail for half an hour when of a sudden avoice shattered the silence of the forest.
"Now, Turkey, do be careful!" It was a girl's light pitched voice. "We'vegot to get them. You know we have."
"But what if they ain't here?" grumbled a boy's voice.
"What can they be after?" Florence asked herself. "And who can they be,way back here in the forest where no one lives?"
She hesitated for a moment. Then, deciding to investigate, she pushed on.
She was not long in discovering that she had been mistaken on one count.She was not in the heart of the forest. The trees thinned. She foundherself on the edge of a bay where bullrushes were thick. She had crosseda point of land and had come to water again.
Near the beach, in shallow water, a boy of twelve and a girl of sixteenwere struggling with a minnow net.
The net was long and hard to handle. Weeds in the water hampered theirprogress. They had not seen Florence. The girl labored with thedetermined look of one who must not pause until her task is completed.
The boy was a plain towhead. There are a thousand such on the shores ofthe Upper Peninsula. The girl caught Florence's attention. She was plump,well formed, muscular. Her body was as brown as an Indian's. Shepossessed a wealth of golden red hair. A single garment covered her, abathing suit which had once been green, but was now nearly white.
"Natives," thought Florence. "But what are they after?"
Just then the girl looked up. She took Florence in from head to toe at aglance.
"Hello." Her tone was frank, friendly.
"Hello," Florence came back. "What's your name?"
"Tillie--Tillie McFadden." The girl flashed her charming Irish smile.
"Tillie!" exclaimed Florence. "Sun-Tan Tillie!"
The smile faded for a second, then returned. "Oh! You mean I'm brown.I've always been that way."
"I know girls who'd give their best dresses for your color. They buy itin boxes, and put it on with a brush, in Chicago."
The girl laughed. Then she looked at the net and frowned. "Now we lost'em! Turkey, we've got to get 'em. There's ten autos on the way."
"What are you catching?" asked Florence.
"Minnies."
"Oh, minnows? Not many here, are there?"
"No. That's the trouble. Been trying for more than an hour. Pop, he runsa tourist camp. Turkey and I catch the bait. It's tough sometimes."
"Over across the point," Florence replied quickly, "there are millions. Isaw them half an hour ago. Water's black with them."
"Morton's Bay." Tillie's face lighted. "Turkey, we got to go there. It'squite a row, but that's the only place."
"Why don't you bring the net across the point?" Florence asked. "Let yourbrother take the boat around. I'll slip on my bathing suit and help you."
"Would you?" Tillie smiled gratefully.
"I'd love to. Must be a lot of fun. All those minnows tickling yourtoes."
"Might be fun for some," said Tillie doubtfully.
"Turkey," she commanded, "you bring the boat around."
"Why do you call him Turkey?" Florence asked when they were in theforest.
"Turkey Trot. That's his nickname. Boys called him that because they saidhe ran like a turkey. He don't mind. Up here everybody's got a nickname."
They said no more, but marched straight on over the woodland trail.Tillie was strong and fast. There was no questioning that. She was in ahurry, too. She led the way, and the city girl experienced difficulty inholding the pace.
She had dropped a little behind. Tillie was around a curve and out ofsight, when of a sudden she heard a piercing scream. The next moment shebeheld Tillie nimbly climbing a tree.
The cause was not far to seek. Despite her efforts at self control, sheburst out laughing. Down the path came a big brown bear. The bear wore aleather collar set with mother-of-pearl.
When she could stop laughing she screamed to Tillie: "You don't have tobe afraid of him. He's our pet bear, Tico."
But what was this? Tico, if Tico it be, marched straight at her. Heshowed all his teeth in an ugly snarl. Florence promptly followed Tillieup the tree. From this point of vantage she was able to make a morecareful study of the bear and to discover that he was not Tico after all.He was not as large as Tico. His collar, though somewhat like Tico's, wasutterly different in design.
"The final laugh is on me," she said, almost gayly.
"No," replied Tillie. "It's on me. There's a tourist party of ten autoscoming to our camp. They'll be there in two hours. They've got to havebait. You can't catch minnies in a tree."
This, Florence admitted, was true. However, the bear did not keep themprisoners long. For, after all, he was someone's tame bear and had eatenhis breakfast. After sniffing at Tillie's n
et and enjoying its fishysmell, he ambled off, leaving them to continue their journey, which theydid at redoubled speed.
As they hurried down the trail, one thought occupied Florence's mind."That bear," she told herself, "belongs to those gypsies. And he's nearerour camp right now than the gypsies have been." She was thinking oncemore of Petite Jeanne.
CHAPTER IX BANGING A BEAR
Arrived at the cabin, Florence hurried into her bathing suit. All thetime she was changing she was thinking: "I only hope those minnows arestill there. Tillie promises to become an interesting friend. I do notwish to lose her by a false move now."
She need not have feared. The minnows were there still, flashing in thesunlight.
As Florence appeared with two large buckets, Tillie cried out in greatdelight. "We'll get enough for two days! Put the buckets on the beach.And please hurry!"
Florence followed her instructions, then seizing one end of the net,plunged after Tillie into the water.
"Like to fish?" Tillie asked, as she executed a deft curve with the net.
"Yes. Do you?"
"I love it!" Tillie's tone was full of meaning. "But there's so littletime. There are boats to bail out, camping places to clean up, lines tomend, minnies to catch, and a lot more things. We're never through.Honest, I haven't had this suit off, except at night, for days."
Florence envied her. She adored the very tasks this girl had come tohate.