The girl in the room above clapped her hand to her mouth. She had almost cried out. So Mr. Peabody could accuse her of being a thief! But what were the men saying?
“What would the girl do with hens?” propounded Lieson. “Bob think she stole ’em?”
“Bob’s so close-mouthed,” growled Wapley. “But I guess he knows where she went all right. He says she had nothing to do with the hens disappearing, and I told him I thought he was right! But Peabody figures out she was mad and chased ’em into the woods to spite him. And he’s hunting for her and his hens with fire in his eye.”
Lieson knocked the ashes from his pipe and yawned again.
“Wonder what Peabody’s got against her now?” he speculated. “For a boarder, that kid had a pretty pindling time. Well, if we’re going to be bumped around in a truck all night, I’ll say we ought to take a nap while we can get it.”
“All right,” agreed Wapley. “But I ain’t aiming to go on any such trip without a bite of supper. The rain’s stopped, and I’m going to snooze a bit and then go down the road to that farmhouse and see how they feel about feeding a poor unfortunate who’s starving. I’ll milk for ’em for a square meal.”
Betty, shivering with excitement, crouched on the floor afraid to risk moving until they should be asleep. Her one thought was to get away from the house and find Bob. Bob would know what to do. Bob would get the chickens back to the Peabodys and herself over to the haven of Doctor Guerin’s house, somehow. Bob would be sorry for Wapley and Lieson even if they had turned chicken thieves. If she could only get to Bob before he set out for home or if she might meet him on the road, everything would be all right, Bob must wait for her.
There were no back stairs to the house, and it required grit to go softly down the one flight of stairs and steal past the door of the parlor where the two men lay, but Betty set her teeth and did it. Once on the porch she put on her hat and sweater, for a cool wind had sprung up; and then how she ran!
The road was muddy, and her skirt was splashed before she slowed down to gain her breath. Anxiously she scanned the road ahead, wondering if there was another way Bob could take to reach Bramble Farm. As usual when one is worried, a brand-new torment assailed her. Suppose he should take the road to Glenside, that he might stop in to see her! He, of course, pictured her safe at the doctor’s.
“Want a lift?” drawled a lazy, pleasant voice.
A gawky, blue-eyed boy about Bob Henderson’s age beamed at her from a dilapidated old buggy. The fat, white horse also seemed to regard her benevolently.
“It’s sort of muddy,” said the boy diffidently. “If you don’t mind the stuffing on the seat—it’s worn through—I can give you a ride to Laurel Grove.”
Betty accepted thankfully, but she was not very good company, it must be confessed, her thoughts being divided between schemes to hasten the desultory pace of the fat white horse and wonder as to how she was to find Bob in the town.
The fat white horse stopped of his own accord at a pleasant looking house on the outskirts of the town, and Betty, in a brown study, was suddenly conscious that the boy was waiting for her.
“Oh!” she said in some confusion. “Is this your house? Well, you were ever so kind to give me a lift, and I truly thank you!”
She smiled at him and climbed out, and the lad, who had been secretly admiring her and wondering what she could be thinking about so absorbedly, wished for the tenth time that he had a sister.
Laurel Grove was a bustling country town, a bit livelier than Glenside, and Betty, when she had traversed the main street twice, began to be aware that curious glances were being cast at her.
“I’d go shopping, I’d do anything, for an excuse to go into every store,” she thought distractedly, “if only I had a dollar bill! Where can Bob be? I can’t have missed him!”
There was every reason to think she had missed him, except her determined optimism, but after she had been to the drug store and the hardware store and the post-office, all more or less public meeting places, and found no sign of Bob, Betty began to feel a trifle discouraged. Then two men on the curb gave her a clue.
“I’ve been hanging around all day,” declared one, evidently a thrifty farmer. “Came over to get some grinding done, and the blame mill machinery broke. They just started grinding an hour ago.”
So there was a mill, and Bob often had to go to mills for Mr. Peabody. Betty did not know why he should have to come so far, but it was quite possible that some whim of the master of Bramble Farm had sent him to the Laurel Grove mill. Betty stepped up to the farmer and addressed him quietly.
“Please, will you tell me where the mill is?” she asked.
CHAPTER XXII
SPREADING THE NET
He was a nice, fatherly kind of person, and he insisted on walking with Betty to the corner and pointing out the low roof of the mill down a side street.
“No water power, just electricity,” he explained. “Give me a water mill, every time; this current stuff is mighty unreliable.”
Betty thanked him, and hurried down the street. She was sure she saw the sorrel tied outside the mill, and when she reached the hitching posts, sure enough, there was the familiar old wagon, with some filled bags in it, and the drooping, tired old sorrel horse that had come to meet her when she stepped from the train at Hagar’s Corners.
“Betty! For the love of Mike!” Bob’s language was expressive, if not elegant.
Betty whirled. She had not seen the boy come down the steps of the mill office, and she was totally unprepared to hear his voice.
“Why, Bob!” The unmistakable relief and gladness that shone in her tired face brought a little catch to Bob’s throat.
To hide it, he spoke gruffly.
“What are you doing here? It’s after four o’clock, and I’ll get Hail Columbia when I get back. Mill’s been out of order all day, and I had to wait. Haven’t you been to Doctor Guerin’s?”
“No, not yet.” Betty pulled at his sleeve nervously. “Oh, Bob, there’s so much I must tell you! And after ten o’clock it will be too late. To think he thought I stole his old chickens! And where is Petria?”
Bob gazed at her in amazement. This incoherent stream of words meant nothing to him.
“Petria?” he repeated, catching at a straw. “Why, Petria’s a big city, sort of a center for farm products. All the commission houses have home offices there. Why?”
“That’s where Mr. Peabody’s chickens are going,” Betty informed him, “unless you can think of a way to stop ’em.”
“Mr. Peabody’s chickens? Have you got ’em?” asked Bob in wonder.
Betty stamped her foot.
“Bob Henderson, how can you be so stupid!” she stormed. “What would I be doing with stolen chickens—unless you think I stole them?”
“Now don’t go off into a temper,” said Bob placidly. “I see where I have to drive you to Glenside, anyway. Might as well go the whole show and be half a day late while I’m about it. Hop in, Betty, and you can tell me this wonderful tale while we’re traveling.”
Betty was tired out from excitement, fear, insufficient food and the long distance she had walked. Her nerves protested loudly, and to Bob’s astonishment and dismay she burst into violent weeping.
“Oh, I say!” he felt vainly in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Betty, don’t cry like that! What did I say wrong? Don’t you want to go to Glenside? What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to listen,” sobbed Betty. “I’m trying to tell you as fast as I can that Wapley and Lieson stole Mr. Peabody’s chickens. They’ve got ’em all crated, and an automobile truck is coming at ten o’clock tonight to take them to Petria. So there!”
Bob asked a few direct questions that soon put him in possession of all the facts. When he had heard the full story he took out the hitching rope he had put under the seat and tied the sorrel to the railing again.
“Come on,” he said briefly.
“Where—where are we going?�
� quavered Betty, a little in awe of this stern new Bob with the resolute chin.
“To the police recorder’s,” was the uncompromising reply.
The recorder was young and possessed of plenty of what Bob termed “pep,” and when he heard what Bob had to tell him, for Betty was stricken with sudden dumbness, he immediately mapped out a plan that should catch all the wrong-doers in one net.
“The fellow we want to get hold of is this truck driver,” he explained. “You didn’t hear his name?”
Betty shook her head.
“Well, to get him, our men will have to wait till he comes for the crates,” said the recorder. “I’ll send a couple of ’em out to this farm—they know the old D. Smith place well enough—and they can hang around till the truck comes and then take ’em all in. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to hold the girl here as a witness. My wife will look after her, and she’ll be all right.”
“I’ll stay, too, Betty,” Bob promised her hastily, noting the plea in her eyes.
“All right, so much the better,” said the recorder heartily. “We’ll put you both up for the night. It won’t be necessary for you to see the prisoners tonight, and to-morrow you’ll both be mighty good witnesses for this Mr. Peabody. I’ll send for him in the morning.”
Bob’s sense of humor was tickled at the thought of stabling the sorrel in a livery stable and charging the bill to his employer. A vision of what would be said to him caused his eyes to dance as he gave orders to the stableman to see that the horse had an extra good measure of oats.
But when he came back to the recorder’s for supper he found Betty sitting close beside the recorder’s wife, crying as though her heart would break.
“Why, Betty!” he protested. “You don’t usually act like this. What does ail you—are you sick?”
“It isn’t fair!” protested Betty passionately. “Wapley and Lieson worked so hard and Mr. Peabody was mean to ’em! I don’t want to save his old chickens for him! I’d much rather the hired men got the money. And I won’t be a witness for him and get them into prison!”
Bob looked shocked at this outburst, but Mrs. Bender only continued to soothe the girl, and presently Betty’s sobs grew less violent, and by and by ceased.
After supper Mrs. Bender played for them and sang a little, and then, declaring that Betty looked tired to death, took her upstairs to the blue and white guest-room, where, after she had helped her to undress and loaned her one of her own pretty nightgowns, she turned off the lights and sat beside her till she fell asleep. For the first time in months, Betty was encouraged to talk about her mother, and she told this new friend of her great loss, her life with the Arnolds, and about her Uncle Dick. It both rested and refreshed her to give this confidence, and her sleep that night was unbroken and dreamless.
Long after Betty was asleep, Bob and the recorder played checkers, Mrs. Bender sitting near with her sewing. Bob was starved for companionship, and something about the lad, his eager eyes, perhaps, or his evident need of interested guidance, appealed to Recorder Bender.
“You say you were born in the poorhouse?” he asked, between games. “Was your mother born in this township?”
Bob explained, and the Benders were both interested in the mention of the box of papers. Encouraged by friendly auditors, Bob told his meager story, unfolding in its recital a very fair picture of conditions as they existed at Bramble Farm.
Betty lay in dreamless sleep, but Bob, in a room across the hall, tossed and turned restlessly. At half-past ten he heard the recorder go out, and knew he was going to see if the chicken thieves and motor truck driver had been brought in by his men. Bob wondered how it seemed to be arrested, and he fervently resolved never to court the experience. He was asleep before the recorder returned, but woke once during the night. A heavy truck was lumbering through the street, the driver singing in a high sweet tenor voice, probably to keep himself awake, Bob’s swift thoughts flew to Wapley and Lieson, and he wondered if they were asleep. How could they sleep in jail?
Breakfast in the Bender household was just as pleasant and cheerful and unhurried as supper had been. Mrs. Bender in a white and green morning frock beamed upon Bob and Betty and urged delicious viands upon them till they begged for mercy. It was, she said, so nice to have “four at the table.”
Mr. Bender pushed back his chair at last, glancing at his watch.
“The hearing is set for ten o’clock,” he announced quietly. “Mr. Peabody has been notified and should be here any minute. I think we had better walk down to the office. Catherine, if you’re ready—”
Mrs. Bender smiled at Betty. She had promised to see her through.
CHAPTER XXIII
IN AMIABLE CONFERENCE
Betty’s sole idea of a court had been gained from a scene or two in the once-a-week Pineville motion picture theater, and Bob had even less knowledge. They both thought there might be a crowd, a judge in a black gown, and some noise and excitement.
Instead Recorder Bender unlocked the door of a little one-story building and ushered them into a small room furnished simply with a long table, a few chairs, and a case of law books.
Presently two men came in, nodded to Mrs. Bender, and conferred in whispers with Mr. Bender. There was a scuffling step outside the door and Mr. Peabody entered.
“Huh, there you are!” he greeted Bob. “For all of you, I might have been hunting my horse and wagon all night. Mighty afraid to let any one know where you are.”
“Mr. Peabody?” asked the recorder crisply, and suddenly all his quiet friendliness was gone and an able official with a clear, direct gaze and a rather stern chin faced the farmer. “Sit down, please, until we’re all ready.”
Mr. Peabody subsided into a chair, and the two men went away. They were back in a few moments, and with them they brought Wapley and Lieson and a lad, little more than a boy, who was evidently the truck driver.
“Close the door,” directed the recorder. “Now, Mr. Peabody, if you’ll just sit here—” he indicated a chair at one side of the table. With a clever shifting of the group he soon had them arranged so that Wapley, Lieson, the truck driver, and the two men who had brought them in were sitting on one side of the table, and Betty, Bob, Mrs. Bender and Mr. Peabody on the other. He himself took a seat between Betty and Mr. Peabody.
“Now you all understand,” he said pleasantly, “that this is merely an informal hearing. We want to learn what both sides have to say.”
Mr. Peabody gave a short laugh.
“I don’t see what the other side can have to say!” he exclaimed contemptuously. “They’ve been caught red-handed, stealing my chickens.”
The recorder ignored this, and turned to Lieson.
“You’ve worked for farmers about here in other seasons,” he said. “And, from all I can hear, your record was all right. What made you put yourself in line for a workhouse term?”
Lieson cleared his throat, glancing at Wapley.
“It can’t be proved we was stealing,” he argued sullenly. “Them chickens was going to be sold on commission.”
“Taking ’em off at ten o’clock at night to save ’em from sunburn, wasn’t you?” demanded Mr. Peabody sarcastically. “You never was a quick thinker, Lieson.”
“Now, Lieson,” struck in Mr. Bender patiently, “that’s no sort of use. Miss Gordon here overheard your plans. We know those chickens came from the Peabody farm, and that you and Wapley had a bargain with Tubbs to sell them in Petria. What I want to hear is your excuse. It’s been my experience that every one who takes what doesn’t belong to him has an excuse, good or bad. What’s yours?”
At the mention of Betty’s name, Lieson and Wapley had shot her a quick look. She made a little gesture of helplessness, infinitely appealing.
“I’m so sorry,” the expressive brown eyes told them, “I just have to tell what I heard, if I’m asked, but I wouldn’t willingly do you harm.”
Lieson threw back his head and struck the table a sounding blow.
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p; “I’ll tell you why we took those blamed chickens!” he cried. “You can believe it or not, but we were going to sell ’em in Petria, and all over and above twenty-five dollars they brought, Peabody would have got back. He owes us that amount. Ask him.”
“It’s a lie!” shouted Peabody, rising, his face crimson. “A lie, I tell you! A lie cooked up by a sneaking, crooked, chicken-thief to save himself!”
Lieson and Wapley were on their feet, and Betty saw the glint of something shiny in Peabody’s hand.
“Sit down, and keep quiet!” said the recorder levelly. “That will be about all the shouting, please, this morning. And, Mr. Peabody, I’ll trouble you for that automatic!”
The men dropped into their chairs, and Peabody pushed his pistol across the table. The recorder opened a drawer and dropped the evil little thing into it.
“Can you prove that wages are owed you by Mr. Peabody?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.
Wapley, who had been silent all along, pulled a dirty scrap of paper from his pocket.
“There’s when we came to Bramble Farm and when we left, and the money we’ve had,” he said harshly. “And when we left, it was ‘cause he wouldn’t give us what was coming to us—not just a dollar or two of it to spend in Glenside, Miss Betty can tell you that.”
“Yes,” said Betty eagerly. “That was what they quarreled about.”
The recorder, who had been studying the bit of paper, asked a question without raising his eyes.
“What’s this thirty-four cents subtracted from this two dollars for—June twenty-fourth, it seems to be?”
“Oh, that was when we had the machinist who came to fix the binder stay to supper,” explained Wapley simply. “Lieson and me paid Peabody for butter on the table that night, ‘cause Edgeworth’s mighty particular about what he gets to eat. He’d come ten miles to fix the machine, and we wanted him to have a good meal.”
Mr. Peabody turned a vivid scarlet. He did not relish these disclosures of his domestic economy.
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