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

“Just what I was thinking,” replied Stephen, “only what about Jimmie?”

“The girls will see to him,” answered Alfred.

“No, no,” retorted Stephen. “We can’t leave the girls here alone with him in that condition, not after this. There may be more tramps lurking around, for all we know.”

Just then an exclamation from Ruth, who was kneeling beside the prostrate Jimmie, caused the two boys to turn their heads involuntarily, and in that moment, the two men who were standing with their arms up at the point of Stephen’s pistol, ran for the underbrush, Stephen shot and missed his aim. He shot again and hit the small fellow in the leg, having aimed low; not wishing to kill even in self-defense. But the tramps had plunged into the woods, and were out of sight in an instant.

“Better not go after them, Stephen,” called Alfred. “We’ve got one here and we may catch the others later. I wish we had a rope to tie this fellow’s hands with.”

“Try this,” suggested Ruth, and she calmly tore the muslin ruffle off her petticoat and handed the strip to Alfred, who bound the man’s hands behind his back and ordered him to sit still until he was wanted.

Meanwhile, the two girls had turned their attention to Jimmie, who showed no signs of returning consciousness, but lay battered and bleeding, a sad sight in comparison to the joyous Jimmie of half an hour before. Blind Jennie had come from her hiding place behind a tree, and was kneeling beside the wounded boy. Feeling the abrasions on his face with her sensitive fingers, she shuddered.

“He should have water,” she whispered. “There is a brook not far from here. I will show you,” and she turned her sightless eyes in the direction of Stephen, who was guarding the remaining tramp.

“Ruth, you and Alfred take our three hats and go with Jennie for the water. Alfred, take the pistol with you in case of another attack. Bab, you stay and look after Jimmie, please.”

Ruth and Alfred followed after old Jennie, while Bab, kneeling beside Jimmie, began chafing his wrists. Not a sound broke the stillness. Stephen, on a log, had his pistol cocked and pointed straight at the tramp who was huddled in a heap on the ground, gazing sullenly into the barrel of the pistol. Bab had not looked around for some time, so intent was she on her efforts to bring some life back into poor Jimmie. But feeling a sudden, unaccountable loneliness, she called:

“Stephen, aren’t you curious to know where we found the pistols?”

There was no answer, and, looking over her shoulder, Bab was horrified to see Stephen lying prone on the ground in a dead faint, the pistol still grasped tightly in his hand, while the tramp had evidently lost no time in joining his pals.

Leaving Jimmie, Bab rushed to Stephen. First releasing the pistol from his hand, she laid it on a stump. Then she began rubbing his wrists and temples.

“Poor old Stephen!” she murmured. “You were hurt all the time and never said a word.”

Slowly he opened his eyes and looked at Bab in a sort of shamefaced way.

“I suppose the tramp got away?” he asked.

“Who cares,” replied his friend, “if you aren’t hurt?”

“Oh, I’m not,” he answered. “I was only winded. That big fellow gave me a blow, just as you shot the pistol off, that nearly did for me. But I thought I could keep up until the others came back. I knew I couldn’t go for the water. How did you get the pistols?”

By the time Bab had finished her story the others had come up with the water.

“It’s just as well the tramp has gone,” said Alfred, when he had heard what had happened. “I don’t believe we could have managed him and Jimmie, too.”

They bathed Jimmie’s face and wrists with the cold spring water, and it was a battered and disconsolate young man who finally opened his one good eye on the company.

“I think,” said Stephen, “we had better put these pistols back where they were. If they are gone, the robber will take alarm and we’ll never catch him. I don’t think we’ll be attacked by those tramps any more to-day. They’ll never imagine we have left the pistols.”

The others agreed, and the pistols were left on the shelf by Bab, who remembered exactly where they had been when she found them. All the others, even Jimmie, peered curiously down into the underground room.

“I don’t think it’s been very long dug,” observed Alfred. “There is so much fresh earth around the door. The fellow carted most of it away, I suppose, and put leaves and sticks over what was left. But there is plenty of evidence of fresh earth, just the same.”

“So there is,” replied Stephen. “Jennie, you did a good day’s work when you found that hole in the ground. You may have saved our lives, for all we can tell.”

But the old woman only muttered, as she punched the leaves with her staff. The somewhat dilapidated picnic party resumed its homeward journey, Jimmie supported by his two friends and stopping often to rest, while the two girls followed, keeping a sharp lookout on both sides. Old Jennie brought up the rear.

CHAPTER XVII – ZERLINA

When they reached Ten Eyck Hall, it was with relief that the young people learned that the others had gone motoring for the afternoon, and would probably not be back until dinner time. Stephen put Jimmie under the care of the housekeeper, who bound up his wounds in absorbent cotton saturated with witch hazel. The girls disappeared into their own room, but not before Bab had cautioned Stephen to bring them word about José.

The information came in the form of a few scribbled lines on the tea tray.

“John tells me,” the note ran, “that José was off on his motor cycle until lunch time. S.”

The two girls read the note excitedly.

“Bab, dear,” cried Ruth, “I simply can’t believe it of that nice boy, can you?”

“I don’t want to believe it,” replied Bab, “even though appearances are against him.”

“But who could the joker in the woods have been, if not José?” continued Ruth. “And, come to think of it, he might have been the highwayman, too. It would not have been difficult for him to have found out at the hotel where we were going. I am afraid he is in an awful mess, yet, in spite of everything, there is something about him that disarms suspicion.”

Ruth was a loyal friend to people she liked. She believed that her chosen circle consisted of a superior class of beings, and she was as blind to their faults as a mother to those of her favorite child. There was a tap on the door, and the maid informed them that Zerlina, the Gypsy girl, wished to speak to them.

“Send her up,” said Ruth, and presently Zerlina was ushered into the room.

There was a scared look in her eyes as they wandered hastily around the charming apartment and finally rested on the two girls who were stretched on the bed in muslin kimonos.

“How do you do, Zerlina?” said Ruth. “Excuse our not getting up. We are just dead tired. Won’t you have a cup of tea?”

“Thank you,” replied the Gypsy stiffly, “I do not care for tea. I came – ” she paused. “I thought – ” she hesitated again.

“Well, Zerlina, what did you think?” asked Ruth.

Bab was looking at the girl curiously.

“I came because you asked me,” she said finally.

“So we did,” replied Ruth, “and we are delighted to see you. Did your grandmother come with you?”

“No,” answered Zerlina and paused again.

“Perhaps you had some special reason for coming, Zerlina,” hinted Bab. “Was it to ask us a question?”

The girl’s face took on the same stubborn expression it had worn when Bab had asked her to show the knife used in the dance.

“I came because you asked me,” she repeated, in the same sing-song tone.

Again there was a tap at the door and Bridget appeared, bringing a note for Bab.

“Another note from Stephen,” observed Bab, reading it carefully and handing it to Ruth. The note said:

“If you and Ruth don’t mind, kindly keep the fight, if possible, a secret from everybody for a day or two. It would be necessary to explain about the pistols, and if José is the man who owns them, telling would give everything away. I shall tell uncle, of course. People will think that Jimmie fell out of a tree or down into a hollow. Keep as quiet as possible about the particulars of our adventure. S.”

“I’m sorry,” exclaimed Ruth; “it would have been such fun to tell it all.”

“The telling is only a pleasure deferred for a while,” said her friend.

In the meantime, the Gypsy girl had lost nothing of the conversation except the contents of the note, which Bab had rolled into a little ball and thrown into a waste paper basket.

“Will the ladies not show me some of their beautiful dresses?” asked Zerlina presently.

“We haven’t much to show,” replied Ruth, “but we’ll be glad to show what we have.” She pulled herself lazily from the bed and opened the door of a wardrobe at one side of the room.

“Ruth, you show her your fine things,” called Bab. “I haven’t a rag worth seeing. Get out your pink lingerie and your leghorn with the shaded roses. They would please her eye.”

“Why don’t you show her your organdie, Bab?” asked Ruth. “It’s just as pretty as my pink, any day.”

“Oh, very well,” returned Bab, opening her side of the massive clothes press and spreading the dress on the bed before the admiring eyes of Zerlina. “‘A poor thing, but mine own,’” she said. “I certainly never thought to be displaying my rich wardrobe to anyone. It’s entirely a new sensation.”

In the meantime Ruth had piled her own gauzy finery on the bed beside Bab’s, and Zerlina feasted her gaze on the pink lace-trimmed princess dresses and the flower bedecked hats.

“Some day you must have pretty dresses, too, Zerlina,” said Ruth from the depths of the wardrobe, as she replaced the things; “some day when you are a great singer.”

There was no reply, and Bab, who was busy folding her dress, looked quickly around. Zerlina’s arm was in the scrap basket. She had looked up as Ruth spoke, and catching Bab’s eye, dropped the crumpled note she had just seized. An angry blush overspread her face and she bit her lip in embarrassment.

“I must be going,” she said. “It is late.”

Bab did not answer. She was thinking deeply. Here was positive proof that Zerlina and José were working together in some way.

“Wait a minute, Zerlina,” called Ruth, kindly. “Won’t you accept this red velvet bow? It would look pretty in your black hair.”

“Thank you,” exclaimed the girl, her eyes filling with tears. “You are very good to me.” Her lip trembled as if she were about to burst into tears, but she conquered them with an effort and started to the door. “Good-bye,” she said, looking at Bab so reproachfully that the latter’s heart was melted to pity.

At dinner that night there was much concern expressed for poor Jimmie who, with his face swathed in bandages, was sound asleep in his own room. Stephen had been closeted with his uncle for half an hour before the gong sounded, and the major’s usually placid face was haunted by an expression of deep worry.

“Do tell us about the hermit, Stephen,” cried Grace, and that being a safe subject the four adventurers plunged into a description of the strange old man and the miniature that so resembled Bab.

“Do you remember when he came, Major?” asked Miss Stuart.

“Only vaguely,” replied the major, “I was quite a little chap then, eight or ten, I think I was, and we were living in France at the time. He had become a fixture when we came back, but he always shunned advances from my family. Undoubtedly he was a fugitive from somewhere. However, this is not such an out-of-the-way place but that he could have been found if they had looked for him very hard. I have not seen him for many years. How does he look?”

“Like an exiled prince,” answered Ruth. “He is a very noble looking old man.”

“José, did you play croquet with the girls this morning?” asked Stephen.

“Wasn’t he mean?” interrupted Mollie. “No sooner had you gone than he was off on his motor cycle.”

The young Spaniard’s face had flushed scarlet at the question, but he smiled at Mollie’s teasing reply and looked Stephen squarely in the eye.

“It must have been rather hot work motoring this morning, wasn’t it, José?” went on Stephen.

“I went only to the forest,” answered José.

The four friends stirred uneasily, and the major looked down at his plate. It hurt him deeply to see José put on the rack in this way.

“How far did you go into the woods, José? It’s curious we didn’t meet you.”

“Only to the haunted pool,” replied José.

“You were not far off, then,” said Stephen. “Did you hear us yodeling?”

“No,” answered José; “er – that is, yes. I did hear something like that, but I was not there long.” His face was still flushed and he looked as if he would like to run away from his inquisitors; but the soft-hearted major could endure the painful situation no longer and he changed the conversation to another topic.

“Why don’t you young people ever dance?” he asked. “I had planned to see young couples whirling around the red drawing room. It would be a pretty sight, Sallie. Would it not?”

“I have a plan,” broke in Mollie, “but I can’t tell it now. It’s to be a surprise for Miss Sallie and the major.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Miss Sallie. “Are we to feel honored or slighted, Major?”

“Oh, not slighted,” protested Mollie. “It is something that will amuse you.”

“What is it?” asked a voice from the doorway. “I am palpitating to know.”

Everybody looked up in surprise at the apparition of Jimmie regarding the company gravely with his one good eye. His other eye was swathed in a bandage, and his nose was swollen and red. There was a joyous peal of laughter from the assembled party.

“Why, Jimmie,” cried Martin, “you look like an exhausted Dutchman.”

“Don’t throw stones, my son,” replied Jimmie. “You’re a Dutchman yourself, remember.”

“Come in and have some dinner, Jimmie,” coaxed the major.

“I’ve dined, thank you, sir. My kind nurse saw to that, and I feel considerably better.”

“How did you happen to black your eye, you poor boy?” asked Mollie.

Stephen cleared his throat audibly. Why on earth had he not cautioned Mollie not to ask Jimmie any questions? But Ruth came to the rescue and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“You mustn’t ask Jimmie embarrassing questions, Mollie. A black eye and a red nose are enough to bear for the present.”

The major relieved the situation by saying:

“Now, Mistress Mollie, we are ready to be surprised.”

“Come on,” said Stephen, taking Jimmie by the arm, and as they stood aside, he whispered into his ear: “Keep it dark about the tramps. Uncle will explain.”

“The surprise is this,” explained Mollie, detaining the young people in the hall. “Why not give our masquerade to-night?”

“This is as good a time as any other,” agreed Martin.

“Oh, you children!” exclaimed Stephen.

“Don’t be a wet blanket, Stephen,” said Martin.

“Oh, I simply thought perhaps the girls might be tired or something,” replied Stephen. “We’ll all dress up if you like.”

“What fun!” cried Mollie. “José, you’re to be a pirate, remember.”

“I think José would make a good highwayman,” observed Bab, “with a knife in his belt and a slouch hat on.” She had no sooner spoken than she repented her words.

“Perhaps I would, Mademoiselle,” he replied gently, with a deep sigh.

CHAPTER XVIII – THE MASQUERADE

The picture they made as they filed down the oak staircase two by two and all attired in their antique costumes was one long remembered by the servants of Ten Eyck Hall, who had gathered below to see the masqueraders. Miss Stuart and the major, standing together at the door of the red drawing room, were amazed and delighted.

“Is this a company of ghosts,” cried the major, “ghosts of my dear departed ancestors returned to the halls of their youth?”

“Look at the dears!” exclaimed Miss Sallie. “How pretty they are in their ancient finery! Ruth, my child, you are the very image of the portrait of your great-grandmother at home. And here is Bab, who might have stepped out of an old miniature.”

“So she has,” replied Ruth. “In that pink dress she is a perfect likeness of the miniature the hermit had.”

“José,” said the major kindly, for he could not insult a guest by believing evil of him until it had been actually proved, “you do not belong to this company of belles and beaux. You look more like a Spanish gallant of an earlier day, in that velvet coat and cavalier hat. As for you two slips of girls,” he continued, smiling at Mollie and Grace, “you might be my two colonial great-aunts stepped down from their frames. But come along, now. We must have a little fun, after all this trouble you have taken to amuse us. Strike up, my poor bruised Jimmie, and we’ll have a dance.”

Jimmie had volunteered to furnish the music. His face, in its present state, needed no further disguise, he said. The furniture was moved back, the rugs rolled up, and in a few minutes the dancers were whirling in a waltz. There was a change of partners at the second dance, and Bab found herself dancing with José. He was not familiar with the American two-step, so, after a few rounds, they stepped out upon the piazza for a breath of the cool evening air.

“Aren’t you afraid to stay out here, José, after your experience of the other night?” Bab asked.

“Are you afraid, Barbara?” he replied.

“Why should I be?” she answered. “It was evidently you the assassin was after.”

He winced at the word “assassin,” and did not reply. The two stood gazing silently out onto the stretch of lawn in front of the house. Presently José sighed deeply.

“I am afraid you are unhappy,” said Bab sympathetically.

“Madamoiselle Barbara,” he replied, “I am in great trouble. I tell you because you have already been more observing than the others, and because I see you keep your counsel.”

“Why don’t you ask Major Ten Eyck’s advice, José?” asked Barbara, “he is so kind and gentle. I know he would love to help you.”

“In this case,” replied the Spaniard, with a frightened look in his eyes, “he might not be so kind. I am afraid to tell him. To-night I shall decide what to do. It may be that it would be better to go away. I cannot tell, now.”

“Tell me, José, have your troubles any connection with the Gypsies?”

“Yes,” he assented.

A shadowy figure moved up the lawn and approached the house. José stirred uneasily.

“Who is that?” he whispered. “Don’t you think you had better go in?”

“No,” replied Barbara. “I am not afraid, if you are not.”

It was Zerlina, and, seeing the two people on the porch, she paused irresolutely.

“What is it, Zerlina?” called Barbara. “Do you want to see anyone?”

“My grandmother is over there,” replied the girl, pointing to the shrubbery. “She has come to tell fortunes, if it pleases the ladies.”

Zerlina did not look at Bab, as she spoke. She was looking at José, long and curiously. And he returned the gaze with interest.

“You have not seen Mr. Martinez, Zerlina?” asked Bab, recalling how he had stolen away in the woods when the Gypsy danced for them.

Zerlina bowed coldly, and José took off his cavalier hat; but neither said a word, and Bab felt somewhat embarrassed at the silence.

“Wait a moment, Zerlina, and I will ask the major about the fortunes,” she said, stepping through the French window. Just as she parted the curtain, she turned to say something to José, and saw Zerlina quickly hand him a note. Bab’s face flushed angrily.

“This business ought to be stopped,” she said to herself. “We’ll all be slain in our beds some fine night. Why can’t José be frank? The entire band of Gypsies might be a lot of robbers, for all we know.”

The revelers inside were all interested to know that Granny Ann had come at last to tell fortunes, and Zerlina was dispatched at once to bring her grandmother back. When the old woman passed through the room on her way to the library, where the fortunes were to be told, she took a rapid survey of everybody there. She examined the girls and boys in their masquerade costumes, looked curiously at Jimmie’s bandaged countenance, and finally her eyes rested on José leaning on a balcony rail outside.

While the fortunes were being told, there was a concert in the drawing room. Grace sang in her high, sweet soprano voice, followed by another of Zerlina’s Gypsy songs. Then José was induced to sing a beautiful Spanish love song, and finally Jimmie gave a comic version of “The Old Homestead” in which he himself acted every part.

After the fortunes were told Granny Ann sent word that there was one person she had not seen, and go she would not until she had seen him.

“Who has not yet been in?” demanded the major.

There was no reply.

“José, you have not seen her, have you?” asked Mollie.

“No,” replied José; “I do not wish to go.”

Word was sent in to Granny Ann, who sent a message back that she insisted on seeing the young man.

“Oh, go ahead, José,” urged Stephen. “It’s only for a few minutes, and we want to have another dance before bedtime.”

José bowed and disappeared from the room. Soon after Mollie touched Bab on the arm.

“Bab,” she whispered, “come out on the porch. I have something to tell you.”

The two girls stole out onto the moonlit piazza, while Mollie continued in a low voice: “I know I should not have done it, but I followed José into the library, by the dining-room door, and hid behind a curtain. I was curious to see what Granny Ann would do. He had hardly got into the room before she commenced talking in a loud voice. She spoke in a foreign language, but she seemed terribly angry, and shook her fist in his face. He was quite gentle with her, and just stood there, pale and quiet. I felt so sorry for him. Once I thought she would strike him, but he never flinched or dodged. What do you suppose it means, Bab, dear?”

“I don’t know, Mollie,” replied Barbara, “There is some mystery about José. Something happened to-day that put him in a very unfortunate light, but I’d rather not tell you until to-morrow. Don’t dance with him any more to-night, but be kind to him, little sister,” Bab added, “for I do feel sorry for him.”

CHAPTER XIX – A RECOGNITION

The masqueraders had separated for the night; Bab, however, had asked to speak with the major before he went to his room. For half an hour she was closeted with him in his library. The time had arrived to tell him everything she knew about José.

The major had listened to her attentively. He had felt reluctance to believe anything against a guest, just on a mere chance resemblance, but certainly the circle was closing in around José.

“Do you think we had better do anything about it to-night?” he asked the girl, almost childishly. He felt obliged to ask advice in this very difficult situation, and who could give any better counsel than this fine, young woman, who had been able to keep a secret, and who was so wholesome and sweet with all her reserve?

“I don’t see what you could do, Major, in case he admitted he was guilty. You couldn’t arrest him very well to-night, unless you wanted to bind his arms and feet and take him to the nearest town. I don’t believe he has any idea of running away, because he doesn’t know we suspect him. At least he only vaguely knows it.”

“And, after all,” said the kindly old major, “it’s a pity to rout him out of his comfortable bed to-night. We will give the poor fellow another good night’s rest, and take one ourselves, too. Shall we not, little woman?”

“Yes, indeed, Major,” agreed Barbara, looking into his kindly, troubled eyes with respect and admiration. “And who knows? Maybe, in the morning, he can explain everything.”

“Indeed, my dear, I hope so,” he replied, opening the door for her and bowing good-night as if she had been Miss Sallie herself.

As Barbara started up the long staircase she felt lonely. The hall below looked vast and dark. Only a dim light was burning and every door was closed. Emerging from the shadows around the staircase she might have been a ghost of one of the early Ten Eycks in her old-fashioned peach-colored silk, with its full trailing skirt and pointed bodice. She hurried a little and wished she had got over the long space of hall which lay between her and her room; but she had scarcely taken a dozen steps before the door behind her opened. She stopped and looked back, thinking perhaps it was one of the servants waiting to put out the lights.