The Automobile Girls Along the Hudson: or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow

“I say, you know,” he said to Ruth as they strolled toward the beautiful tennis court that was shaded, at one side, by a row of tall elm trees, “must I call you Ruth? I notice the other fellows do?”

“Oh, well,” replied Ruth, “we are none of us actually grown yet and what is the use of so much formality before it is really necessary? What do you do in England?”

“In England,” replied Alfred, “we don’t call them anything. We don’t see them except in the holidays, and then they are only sisters and cousins.”

“Isn’t there any fun in sisters and cousins?” asked Ruth.

“Well, they’re not very jolly,” replied the candid youth; “not as jolly as you, that is.”

Ruth laughed. By this time they had reached the court and were selecting racquets and tossing for sides.

“Stephen, Ruth and I will play against you and Barbara,” said Alfred rather testily. “What is the use of tossing when it was arranged beforehand?”

“You seem rather eager, Alfred, my boy,” replied Stephen. “I’m sure we have no objections, have we, Barbara?”

“None,” said Barbara, “At least I haven’t. You may, however, when you hear that Ruth won the championship at Newport last summer.”

“You look to me like a pretty good player, too,” said Stephen.

Just then Jimmie Butler appeared, bearing a hammock and a book.

“You can get in the next set, Jimmie,” called Stephen. “We are just starting in on this one.”

“I don’t care for the game,” replied Jimmie. “I prefer a book ’neath the bough, especially as this house party seems to go in companies of twos. Every laddie has a lassie but me, so I’ve taken to literature.”

He waved his hand toward the garden, and then toward the walk leading from the house.

In the old-fashioned flower garden, a stone’s throw from the court, could be seen Miss Sallie and the major strolling along the paths, stopping occasionally to examine the late roses and smell the honeysuckle trained over wicker arches.

In the direction of the house appeared Mollie and Grace, followed by Martin and José. The sound of their laughter floated over to Jimmie as he swung in his hammock.

“Keep away, all,” he called as he spread himself comfortably among the cushions and opened his book. “I intend to enter a monastery and take the vow of silence, and this is a good time to begin. It’s easy because I have nobody to talk to.”

“What are you grumbling about, Jimmie?” asked the major, who came up just then with Miss Sallie.

“Oh, nothing at all, Major,” replied Jimmie. “I was only saying how delightful it was to see all you young people walking around this sylvan place in couples. It reminds me of my lost youth.”

“Jimmie’s lonesome,” exclaimed Martin. “We’ll have to get up some more excitement if we want to keep him happy.”

“Very well,” replied the major. “We will. The most exciting thing I can think of, just now, is to take a long ride in the automobiles, or go driving, whichever the ladies prefer, and wind up at the forest pool for tea. How does that strike you, Jimmie?”

“It sounds fine,” said Jimmie, “if you mean the haunted pool. It is a beautiful spot, and it has a new haunt since last you saw it, Major. It’s haunted by water nymphs now.”

“Only nymphs in wading,” cried Mollie, blushing. “Jimmie caught us in the act yesterday morning.”

“Oho!” exclaimed the major. “You really are little girls, after all, are you?”

“Think of going in wading in that lonesome spot,” said Grace, “and actually meeting somebody as casually as if you were walking up Fifth Avenue?”

“You’re likely to meet Jimmie anywhere,” said Martin. “He’s a regular Johnnie-on-the-spot. He is the first person to get up and the last one to go to bed. Excitements have a real attraction for him. Haven’t they, Jimsy?” and Martin gave the hammock such an affectionate shake that Jimmie nearly fell out on his face.

The luncheon gong rang out in the summer stillness, and they started toward the house, leaving the players to finish the game.

“José,” asked the major, putting his arm through the young Spaniard’s, “have you any theories about last night?”

“Yes,” replied José. “I do not think it will do any good to hunt for the one who threw the knife. I have, in my country, an enemy. I believe it was he.”

“What?” cried the major. “He has followed you all the way to America, and your life is constantly in danger?”

“I do not think he will come again,” answered José. “At any rate, I am not afraid,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “and I can do nothing.”

“You could have him arrested,” said Miss Sallie.

“Yes, Madam, I could. But it would not be easy to catch him.”

“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Miss Sallie. “What a dangerous country Spain must be to live in!”

“No more dangerous than America, Madam, I find,” replied José.

“True enough,” assented Miss Sallie, “since this is America and not Spain, and we find ourselves in a perfect hotbed of criminals. My dear John, I think we shall need a body-guard if we go out in the open this afternoon.”

“Well, Sallie,” answered the courteous old man, “you shall have one in me and my nephews and their friends – a devoted body-guard, I assure you.”

At luncheon the feeling of good will which comes to friends who have just found each other, so to speak, had spread itself. Enjoyment was in the air and there were no discordant elements. All their troubles were of the past, and Bab determined to cast aside her suspicions and regard José in the light of a mysterious but otherwise exceedingly attractive foreigner. When she looked across the table into his clear, brown eyes, which regarded her sadly but without a single guilty quiver of the lids, she could not but believe that there had been some bitter mistake somewhere. He was lonely and strange, and there was something about him that aroused her pity. Everybody liked him; even Miss Sallie was attracted by his graceful and gentle manners.

Luncheon over, everyone made ready for the auto trip, and it was not long before the two autos carrying a merry party, had set forth.

CHAPTER XIII – CROSS QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS

After a long ride through the country, skirting the edge of the forest in which the highwayman had lurked, and where the smoke from the Gypsies’ camp fire could be seen curling up in the distance, the two automobiles took to the river road.

Ruth was steering her own car with Alfred beside her; behind them on the small seat sat José and Mollie, and on the back seat were Bab and Stephen. As they skimmed over the bridge, which had been repaired by the major’s men, Mollie said to José:

“Was the bridge all right, Mr. Martinez, when you came over it the other day?”

The Spaniard flushed and his eye caught Bab’s, who was gazing at him curiously.

“Yes, no – or rather, I do not know,” he stammered. “I did not come by the bridge but through the forest.”

“But how did you find the way?” asked Mollie, wondering a little at his embarrassment.

“I asked it,” he replied, “of a Gypsy.”

“Oh, really?” cried Mollie. “And did she tell you?”

“It was not a woman,” went on José. “It was a man.”

“And did he know the way? Because they told us they did not, perhaps because they didn’t want to be disturbed so late in the evening.”

“Perhaps,” said José, and changed the subject by asking Stephen whose was the large estate they were now approaching. It was that of a famous millionaire, and their attention was for the moment distracted. José seemed to breath a sigh of relief and engaged Mollie in conversation for the rest of the ride, telling her about his own country, the bull fights and carnivals and a hundred other things of interest until the little girl had quite forgotten his confusion at the mention of the damaged bridge.

On the way back the automobiles turned into the wooded road, but before they reached the Gypsy camp they turned again into another road pointed out by Martin in the first car. The road led directly through the forest to the haunted pool, where the automobiles drew up. The pool, in the late afternoon sunlight, was more enchanting than ever.

“This is a famous spot in the neighborhood,” observed the major. “When I was a boy it was the scene of many a picnic and frolic. People in these parts were more neighborly in those days. The girls and boys used to meet and ride in wagons or on horseback over here. We ate our luncheons on this mossy bank; then strolled about in couples until dark and drove home by moonlight.”

“The Gypsy girl told us it was really haunted, Major,” said Ruth. “She even said she had seen the ghost.”

“Indeed,” replied the major, looking up a little startled, “and what sort of ghost was it?”

“Just a figure sitting here on the bank,” answered Ruth.

“Oh!” he exclaimed in a tone of evident relief.

“Why, Major,” cried Miss Sallie, “one would think you believed in ghosts.”

“And so I do, Sallie, my dear,” declared the gentle old major, “but only in the ghosts of my lost youth, which seem to appear to me to-day in the forms of all these delightful young people. What about tea, Miss Ruth Stuart?” he demanded, turning to Ruth.

The chauffeur brought out the elaborate tea basket which had served them so well at the Gypsy camp and Ruth and Barbara proceeded to make the tea while the other girls unpacked boxes of delicious sandwiches and tea cakes.

“This is a very beautiful spot,” observed José. “If it were perpetual summer I could live and die on this mossy bank and never tire of it!” Walking a little apart from the others he stretched himself out at full length on the ground, staring up into the branches overhead.

Then the other boys, who had been strolling about under the trees, returned, but they were not alone. They had espied Zerlina in the depths of the woods, with her guitar slung over her shoulder, and persuaded her to go back with them to the pool.

“You see we’ve brought a wandering minstrel with us,” cried Jimmie. “She has promised to sing us a song of the Romany Rye, haven’t you, Zerlina?”

The girls greeted Zerlina cordially. She was presented to the major, but José, as she approached, had turned over on his side and flung his arm over his head, as if he were asleep.

“Leave him alone. He’s dreaming,” said Jimmie. “Give Zerlina some tea and cake, and then we’ll have a song.”

Zerlina ate the cake greedily and drank her tea in silence. She examined the fresh summer dresses of “The Automobile Girls,” and a look of envy came into her eyes as she cast them down on her cotton skirt full of tatters from the briars and faded from red into a soft old pink shade. But she was very pretty, even in her ragged dress, which was turned in at the collar showing her full, rounded throat and shapely neck. She was lithe and graceful, and as she thrummed on the guitar with her slender, brown fingers her ragged dress and rough shoes faded into insignificance. The group of people sitting on the bank saw only a beautiful, dark-haired girl with a glowing face and eyes that shone with a smouldering fire. After a few preliminary chords she began to sing in a rich contralto voice. The song again was in the Romany tongue. It seemed to convey to the listeners a note of sadness and loneliness.

The kind old major was much impressed by the performance.

“Zerlina,” he said, “you have a very beautiful voice, much too beautiful to be wasted. You must ask your grandmother to bring you over to Ten Eyck Hall. I should like to hear you sing again.”

“Zerlina will be a great opera singer, one of these days,” predicted Jimmie. “She will be singing Carmen, yet, at the Manhattan Opera House. How would you like that, Zerlina?”

The Gypsy girl made no reply. Her eyes were fastened on José, who still lay as if asleep, his back turned to the circle.

“She can dance, too,” cried Ruth. “She told me she could. This would be a pretty place to dance, Zerlina, where the fairies dance by moonlight.”

“I have no music,” objected Zerlina.

“Oh, I can make the music all right,” said the irrepressible Jimmie, seizing the guitar and tuning it up. Then he began to whistle. The tone was clear and flute-like and the tune the same Spanish dance he had played for José. Zerlina pricked up her ears when she heard the music and the rhythm of the guitar. It is said that no Gypsy can ever resist the sound of music. Now the body of the girl began swaying to the beat of the accompaniment. Presently she began to dance, a real Spanish dance full of gestures and movement. They half guessed the story woven in, a lover repelled and called back, coquetted with and threatened; threatened with a knife which she drew from the blouse of her dress and then restored to its hiding place; for the dance ended quickly without disaster, imaginary or otherwise. Miss Sallie had given a little cry at sight of another murderous weapon. But the knife! Had no one seen it, no one recognized the chased silver handle and the slightly curved blade? Bab sat as if rooted to the spot, waiting for somebody to speak, to cry out that the knife was the same that had whizzed past José’s head the other night. After all, nobody had really seen it but herself. She had learned by a former experience to keep her own counsel, and she decided to wait, and not to tell until matters took a more definite turn.

Was it possible this beautiful Gypsy girl could be a murderess, or one at heart? But, on the other hand, would she have dared to display the mysterious dagger in the presence of the same company? Bab was puzzled and worried. Was Zerlina a robber also, or was José, after all, the robber? Perhaps there was some connection between them. There must be, since they had exchanged knives on several occasions.

Her reflections were interrupted by a general movement toward the automobiles. Zerlina was evidently pleased at the praises she had received, for her cheeks were flushed with pride.

“Won’t you let us see your dagger, Zerlina?” asked Bab.

“Oh, yes, do!” begged Mollie. “It will be the third dagger we have seen this week; but this is the first chance we have had to take a good look at any of them.”

Zerlina looked at them darkly. Her lips drew themselves together in a stubborn line.

“I cannot, now,” she said. “Perhaps, another time. Good-bye.” She slipped off into the woods as quietly as one of the spirits which were said to haunt the place.

“Gypsies are so tiresome,” exclaimed Miss Sallie. “Why shouldn’t she show her dagger, I’d like to know? And who cares whether she does or not, anyhow?”

“If you had ever read any books on Gypsies, Sallie,” replied the major, “you would know that their lives are full of things they must keep secret if they want to keep out of jail. However, these Gypsies seem peaceable enough,” he added, his kindly spirit never liking to condemn anything until it was necessary. “But what a beautiful girl she is!” he continued. “If she were properly dressed she would be as noble and elegant looking as” – he paused for a comparison – “as our own young ladies here. I wonder if her grandmother would ever consent to her being educated and taught singing?”

“Now, Major,” cried the impetuous Ruth, “keep on your own preserves! I asked her first, and I’m just dying to do it. I know papa would let me, and wouldn’t it be a beautiful thing to launch a great singer upon the public?”

“It certainly would, my dear,” replied the major, “and I promise not to meddle, if you had first choice.”

“Why, where’s Mr. Martinez?” asked Mollie, as they climbed into the automobiles and she missed her companion of the ride over.

One of the boys gave a shrill whistle and the others began calling and shouting. Presently the answer came from up the stream. “I’m coming,” he called and José appeared. “I was only taking a little stroll.”

“Why did you wish to miss the Gypsy song and dance?” demanded Mollie. “It was charming.”

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” he replied, stiffly, “but I do not care to hear the songs of my country, or to see its dances in a foreign land.”

Mollie was a little piqued by José’s short answer, but she forgave him when he said sadly:

“Did you ever know, Madamoiselle, what it is to be homesick?”

“But I thought you said you liked America?” she persisted.

“So I do,” he replied; “nevertheless, there are times when I feel very lonely. You will forgive me, will you not. Was I rude?”

In the meantime Stephen said to Barbara:

“Bab, are you a good walker? How would you like to take a short cut through the woods to-morrow morning, and visit the hermit who lives on the other side? We can’t ride or drive very well, because it is too far by the road, but it is only about five miles when we walk. I haven’t been there for several years, but I know the way well. I suppose the hermit is still alive. At least, he was all right last summer, so John the butler told me. Anybody else who wishes may go along, but nobody shall come who will lag behind and complain of the distance.”

“I am good for a ten mile walk,” replied Barbara. “I have done it many a time at home.”

“The woods grow more and more interesting the deeper you go into them,” continued Stephen. “There are places where the sun never comes through, and the whole way is cool and shaded. It is full of people, too. You would be surprised to find how many people make a living in a forest. They are perfectly harmless, of course, or else I wouldn’t be taking you among them. Besides the Gypsies, there are woodcutters, old men and women who gather herbs, and a few lonely people who live in cabins on the edge of the forest and have little gardens. Uncle has always helped them, in the winter, without asking who they were or why they were there. Then there’s the hermit. He is the most interesting of the lot. He is as old as the hills and he has a secret that he would never tell, the secret of who he is and why he has lived alone for some forty years.”

“How interesting!” exclaimed Bab. “I hope Miss Sallie won’t object.”

“We shall have to get the major on our side,” replied Stephen, “and perhaps win her over, too.”

“Oh, she is not really so strict,” replied Bab, “but she feels the responsibility of looking after other peoples’ children, she says.”

“Here we are,” said Stephen, as the cars stopped at Ten Eyck Hall.

CHAPTER XIV – IN THE DEEP WOODS

It was not such a difficult matter, after all, to win permission from Miss Sallie and the major to take the walk through the forest. The major explained to Miss Sallie that Stephen was a safe and careful guide who knew the country by heart, and that if the girls were equal to the walk there would be no danger in the excursion. The party, however, dwindled to five persons, Bab and Ruth, Stephen, Jimmie and Alfred. The latter appeared early, equipped for the walk, carrying a heavy cane, his trousers turned up over stout boots.

“Now, Stephen,” said Miss Sallie, “I want you to promise me to take good care of the girls. You say the woods are not dangerous, although a highwayman stepped out of them one evening and attacked us with a knife. But I take your word for it, since the major says it is safe and I see Alfred is armed.”

Everybody laughed at this, and Alfred looked conscious and blushed.

“Doesn’t one carry a cane in this country?” he asked.

“Not often at your age, my boy,” replied Jimmie. “But I daresay it will serve to beat a trail through the underbrush.”

“Come along, girls; let’s be off,” cried Stephen, who at heart was almost a Gypsy, and loved a long tramp through the woods. He had strapped over his shoulder a goodly sized box of lunch, and the cavalcade started cheerfully down the walk that led toward the forest, a compact mass of foliage lying to the left of them.

“Isn’t this fun?” demanded Jimmie. “I feel just in the humor for a lark.”

“I hope you can climb fences, girls,” called Stephen over his shoulder, as he trudged along, ahead of the others.

“We could even climb a tree if we had to,” answered Bab, “or swim a creek.”

“Or ride a horse bareback,” interrupted Jimmie, who had heard the story of Bab’s escapade on the road to Newport.

“This is the end of uncle’s land,” said Stephen, at last. “We now find ourselves entering the black forest. Here’s the trail,” he called as the others helped the two girls over the dividing fence.

“All right, Scout Stephen,” replied Jimmie. “We are following close behind. Proceed with the march.”

Sure enough, there was a distinct road leading straight into the forest, formed by ruts from cartwheels, probably the carts of the woodcutters, Stephen explained. The edges of the wood were rather thin and scant, like the meagre fringe on a man’s head just beginning to turn bald at the temples; but as they marched deeper into the forest, the trees grew so thickly that their branches overhead formed a canopy like a roof. Squirrels and chipmunks scampered across their path and occasionally a rabbit could be seen scurrying through the underbrush.

“Isn’t this great!” exclaimed Stephen, after they had been walking for some time. “Uncle says there’s scarcely such another wood in this part of the country.”

“Don’t speak so loud, Stephen,” said Jimmie. “It is so quiet here, I feel as if we would wake something, if we spoke above a whisper.”

“Let’s wake the echoes,” replied Stephen and he gave a yodel familiar to all boys, a sort of trilling in the head and throat that is melodious in sound and carries further than an ordinary call. Immediately there was an answer to the yodel. It might have seemed an echo, only there was no place for an echo in this shut-in spot.

They all stopped and listened as the answer died away among the branches of the trees.

“Curious,” said Jimmie. “It was rather close, too. Perhaps one of your woodcutters is playing a trick on us, Stephen. Suppose we try again, and see what happens!” Jimmie gave another yodel, louder and longer than the first. As they paused and listened, the answer came again like an echo, this time even nearer.

“Let’s investigate,” proposed Alfred. “I think it came from over there,” and he led the way through the trees toward the echo.

“Halloo-o,” he called, “who are you?” and the answer came back “Halloo-o, who are you?” followed by a mocking laugh.

“Well, after all, it isn’t any of our business who you are,” cried Stephen, exasperated, “and I don’t think we had better leave the trail just here for a fellow who is afraid to come out and show himself,” he added in a lower tone.

There was no reply and they returned to the cartwheel road and began the march again.

“You were quite right, Stephen,” said Ruth, “why should we waste our time over an idler who plays tricks on people?”

There was another laugh, which seemed to come from high up in the branches; then sounds like the chattering of squirrels, followed by low whistles and bird calls. They examined the branches of the trees around them, but there was nothing in sight.

“Oh, go along!” exclaimed Alfred angrily. “Only cowards hide behind trees. Brave men show themselves.”

Silence greeted this sally, also, and they trudged on through the forest without any further effort to see the annoyer. Several times acorn shells whizzed past their heads, and once Jimmie made a running jump, thinking he saw some one behind a tree, but returned crestfallen. A surprise was in store for them, however. They had been walking for some time when the trail, which hitherto had run straight through the middle of the wood, gave a sudden and unexpected turn, to avoid a depression in the land, overgrown with vines and small trees, and now dry from the drought.

They paused a moment on the curve of the path to look across at the graceful little hollow which seemed to be the meeting place of slender young pine trees and silver birches gleaming white among the dark green branches.

“How like people they look,” Bab whispered. She never knew just why she did so. “Like girls in white dresses at a party.”

“And the pine trees are the men,” whispered Jimmie. “Look,” he said excitedly, under his breath, “there’s a man! Perhaps it’s the – ”

He stopped short and his voice died away in amazement. Barbara said “Sh-h-h!” and the others paused in wonder. Just emerging from the hollow on the other side, was the figure of a man. All eyes saw him at the same moment and two pairs of eyes at least recognized a green velveteen hunting suit. As the figure turned for one brief instant and scanned the forest they saw his face in a flash.

“It’s José!” they gasped.