Marjorie's Maytime by Carolyn Wells

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"She looked awful poor, and I s'pose poor folks are always hungry. It
must be awful to be always hungry, Mops!"

"Well, I'm 'most always hungry myself."

"Oh, that isn't real hunger; that's just wanting something to eat. Hello,
here's the Mossville sign now! See it?"

"Yes; so now we must be halfway. I'm not tired, are you?"

"No, not a bit. I'd like a drink of water, though. Perhaps we'll come to
a brook."

But they walked on considerably further without seeing any brook, or even
a farmhouse where they might stop for a drink of water. But when they
were about half a mile from Pelton, King saw a little bridge off toward
the right, and exclaimed, "That bridge must be over water of some sort.
If you want to, Midget, we can go over and see if it's clean enough to
drink."

"Come on, then; it won't take long, and I'm 'most choked to death."

They walked across an intervening field, and came to the little bridge
which did cross a small but clear and sparkling brook.

"What can we drink out of?" asked Midget.

"Have to drink out of our hands, I guess; wish we had a cup or something.
Oh, look at that man!"

Midget looked in the direction King pointed, and saw a man seated on the
ground, busily working at something which seemed to be made of long
rushes of reeds.

"He's making a basket," cried King, greatly interested. "Let's go and
look at him."

They trotted over to the man, and King said, politely, "Is that a basket
you're making, sir?"

"Yes," came the answer in a gruff voice, and when the man looked up at
them, they saw he was a strange-looking person indeed. His complexion
was dark, his coarse black hair rather long, and his black eyes had a
shrewd expression, but were without kindliness. "What do you want?" he
said, still in his gruff voice.

"We don't want anything p'ticular," said Marjorie, who did not wish to be
intrusive; "we did want a drink of water out of the brook, but we had
nothing to drink from, and then we saw you building a basket, and we just
came over to look at you. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, I don't mind," and the man's voice was a little less gruff as he
looked at Marjorie's pretty smiling face. Then he gave her another look,
somewhat more scrutinizing, and then he looked again at King. "You want a
drink of water, do you?" and the look of interest in his round black eyes
seemed to become intensified. "Well, I'll tell you what to do; you go
right straight along that little path through the grass, and after a few
steps, you'll find some people, and they'll give you a drink of water
with pleasure, and a nice cup to drink it out of."

"Is it far?" asked Marjorie, for she couldn't see any signs of
habitation, and did not wish to delay too long.

"No; 'tain't a dozen steps. Just behind that clump of trees yonder; you
can't miss it."

"A farmhouse, I suppose," said King.

"Well, not just exactly a farmhouse," said the man, "but you go on, you
youngsters, and whoever you see when you get there, tell 'em Jim sent
you."

"We will; and thank you, Jim," said Marjorie, suddenly remembering her
manners.

"You're welcome," said the man, and again his voice was gruff as at
first.

"Somehow I don't like it, Mops," said King, who had a troubled look on
his face as they walked swiftly along the path indicated.

"Don't like what?"

"His sending us over here. And I don't like him; he didn't look right."

"I thought he was very kind to tell us about the farmhouse, and if his
voice is sort of gruff, I s'pose he can't help that."

"It isn't that exactly; but I think he's a,--a--"

"A what?"

"Never mind; here we are at the place. Why, Mops, it isn't a house at
all! It's a tent,--a lot of tents."

"So it is! It must be an encampment. Do you think there are soldiers
here?"

"Soldiers? No! I only wish they _were_ soldiers."

As King was speaking, a young woman came walking toward them, smiling
in an ingratiating way. Like the man, Jim, she was dark-haired and
dark-skinned. Her black eyes flashed, and her smiling red lips showed
very white teeth as she spoke kindly to the children.

"Come in," she said, in a wheedling voice; "come in; I love little boys
and girls. What do you want?"

Marjorie began to say, "We want a drink of water," when King pinched her
elbow as a sign to be quiet, and he spoke to the woman himself. "We don't
want anything," he said, "we're just passing by on our way to Pelton.
Good-morning."

Grasping Marjorie's arm he turned to go away, but the woman stopped him,
saying, "Oh, don't go so quickly; come in and rest a moment, and I will
give you a drink of milk, and then you can go on to Pelton."

"Yes, let's do that, King," said Marjorie, looking at her brother, amazed
at his ungracious actions.

But King persisted in his determination. "No, thank you," he said to the
woman in a decided way; "you're very kind, but we don't care for any
milk, and we must go right on to Pelton."

"And I say you must stay right here," said the woman, in much sterner
tones than she had used before, and taking the children each by an arm,
she pushed them ahead of her inside of the largest tent.

CHAPTER V

HELD CAPTIVE

Then King's fears were realized. He had suspected these people were
gypsies, and now he discovered that they were. Inside the tent were three
or four men and women, all of the dark, gypsy type, and wearing the
strange, bright-colored garments characteristic of their tribe. They did
not seem ill-disposed toward the visitors, but welcomed them cordially,
and one of the women went at once for a pitcher of milk, and brought it,
with two glasses, which she set on the table.

King was not exactly frightened, for they all seemed pleasant and kind
enough, but he couldn't help remembering how gypsies were credited with
the habit of stealing children, and holding them for ransom. "But only
babies," he thought to himself; "I don't believe they ever steal such big
kids as Marjorie and me."

King was fifteen, and tall for his age, and as he looked at Marjorie he
realized that she was a big girl, too, and he felt sure they were beyond
the age of being kidnapped. But as he noted the furtive glances which
were cast at them by the gypsies, he again felt alarmed, and glanced at
Marjorie to see if her thoughts were like his own.

But they were not. Marjorie was chatting gaily with the good-looking
young woman who had brought her into the tent, and she was accepting
an invitation to have a glass of milk and a cracker.

As an old gypsy woman poured the milk from the pitcher into the glass,
she turned her back to Marjorie, but King's alert eyes could see her
shaking a small portion of white powder into the milk.

Like a flash it came to King what it all meant! They were kidnappers,
these wicked gypsies, and they meant to put some drug in the milk that
the children drank, so they would go to sleep, and then the kidnappers
would carry them away!

King thought rapidly. He couldn't let Marjorie drink that milk,--and yet
if he made a fuss about it, they could easily overpower him. He
determined to use strategy.

"Let me pass the glass to my sister," he said, jumping up, and going to
take the glass from the old woman who had poured it. Unsuspectingly,
she let him take it, but as he turned, he stumbled, purposely, against
the table leg, and spilled all the milk on the ground.

"Oh, excuse me," he said, politely. "Now we shall have to go without
a drink of milk! But we are just as much obliged, and we bid you
good-morning. Come, Midget."

Marjorie was at a loss to understand King's actions, but she knew her
brother well enough to know that his tone and his look meant that
something very serious was the matter, and she was quite ready to obey
him without knowing why.

But though he grasped her arm, and endeavored to lead her out of the
tent, they were suddenly stopped. Two stalwart men who had been sitting
in shadow at the back of the tent came forward, and grasping the
children's shoulders, pushed them back into their seats rather roughly.

"You set down there!" said one of the men, "and don't you move till
you're told to! We ain't decided just what to do with you yet, and when
we see fit, we'll tell you, and not till then, so you just keep still!"

Marjorie suddenly sensed the situation. These people were enemies, not
friends! She understood King's efforts to get her away, and she
remembered, too, his misgivings as they were on their way across the
field.

Moreover, it was she who had insisted on coming, and so she felt, in a
way, responsible for what had happened to them. She jumped to her feet as
soon as the man let go of her shoulder, and cried, with flashing eyes, "I
will not keep still! What do you mean by treating me like that? Don't you
know who I am? We're Maynards! We're Edward Maynard's children,--and
everybody loves the Maynards!"

"Oh, they do, do they!" said the man who had spoken before. "Then that's
a mighty good reason why we should keep you here a little while."

"Keep us here!" stormed Marjorie, not at all realizing that they were
being kidnapped, but merely thinking these people were playing some
sort of a joke upon them. "Why should you keep us here? We want to go
on."

"You want to go on, do you?" And the man fairly snarled at them; "well,
you can't go on, and you may as well understand that! Didn't Jim send
you?"

"Yes, Jim sent us," said Marjorie, remembering what the man who was
weaving the basket had said.

"Then if Jim sent you, you're here to stay. And as it's just impossible
for you to get away, there's small use in your trying! So you may as
well make the best of it, and if you don't want your bread and milk you
needn't eat it, but if you do, you can have it. There, now, I'm speaking
fair by you, and you may as well behave yourselves."

"Speaking fair by us!" exclaimed Marjorie, who was as yet more indignant
than frightened. "Do you call it speaking fair by us to tell us that
we must stay here when we want to go on! You are bad, wicked men!"

"Yes, little Miss," was the answer, with a shout of laughter, "we _are_
bad, wicked men! Now what are you going to do about it? You don't fancy
for a minute that you can get away, do you?"

This silenced Marjorie, for there was no answer to such a question. Her
rage had spent itself in her impetuous speech, and she knew of course
that two children could not get away from this band of villains if they
were not allowed to do so. But she did not cry. Her feelings were too
wrought up for that. She sat where they had placed her, and tried bravely
to conceal the fright and fear that were every moment growing stronger
within her. She gave one imploring glance at King, and he came over and
sat beside her. He took her hand in a tight clasp, implying that whatever
happened they would face it together.

"Keep 'em there for the present," growled the man who seemed to be the
spokesman, and then he and the other man went away, leaving the children
in care of the three gypsy women.

Although apparently the women paid little attention to their young
prisoners, King and Midget could easily see that the eyes of their
jailers were ever alert, and watching their slightest movement. Had they
tried to cut and run, they would have been caught before they reached the
door. But no heed was paid when they whispered together, and so they were
able to hold a long conversation which was unheard, and even unnoticed by
the others.

"You know, Mops, what has happened?" whispered King.

"No, I don't; what do they want of us?"

"Why, we're kidnapped and held for ransom. Those men have probably gone
out now to send letters to Father about the ransom money."

"Oh, then Father'll pay it, and we'll get away."

"It isn't so easy as that. They have lots of fussing back and forth. We
may be here a long time. I say, Mops, you're a brick not to cry."

"I'm too mad to cry. The idea of their keeping us here like this! It's
outrageous! Why, King, by this time we would have been in Pelton. Just
think how worried Father and Mother must be!"

"Don't think about that, Mops, or you will cry sure. And I will, too!
Let's think how to get away."

But thinking was of little use, as there was no way to get away but to
run out at the door, and an attempt at that would be such certain failure
that it was not worth trying.

So the children sat there in dumb misery, silently watching the gypsy
women as they moved about preparing the mid-day meal.

Occasionally they spoke, and their manner and words were kindly, but King
and Midget could not bring themselves to respond in the same way.

"King," whispered Marjorie, "how far do you suppose we are from the
road?"

"Too far to run there, if that's what you mean. We'd be caught before we
started," was the whispered reply.

"That isn't what I mean; but how far are we?"

"Not very far, Midget; after we crossed the little bridge, the path to
this place was sort of parallel to the road."

"Well, King, I've got an idea. Don't say anything, and don't stop me."

With a stretch and a yawn as of great weariness, Marjorie slowly rose.
Immediately the three women started toward her. "You sit still!" said
one, sharply.

"Mayn't I walk about the room, if I promise not to go out the door?" said
Marjorie; "I'm so cramped sitting still."

"Move around if you want to," said the youngest of the women, a little
more gently; "but there's no use your trying to run away," and she wagged
her head ominously.

"Honest, I won't try to run away," and Marjorie's big, dark eyes looked
gravely at her captor.

The women said nothing more, and Marjorie wandered about the tent in an
apparently aimless manner. But after a time she came near to a small slit
in the side of the tent that served as a sort of window, and here she
paused and examined some beads that hung near by. Then choosing a moment
when the women were most attentive to their household duties, she put her
head out through the window and _yelled_. Now Marjorie Maynard's yell was
something that a Comanche Indian might be proud of. Blessed with strong,
healthy lungs, and being by nature fond of shouting, she possessed an
ability to scream which was really unusual.

As her blood-curdling shouts rent the air, the three women were so
stupefied that for a moment they could say or do nothing. This gave
Marjorie additional time, and she made the most of it. Her entire lung
power spent itself in successive shrieks more than a dozen times, before
she was finally dragged away from the window by the infuriated gypsy
women.

Marjorie turned upon them, unafraid.

"I told you I wouldn't try to run away," she said, "and neither I didn't.
But I had a right to yell, and if anybody heard me, I hope he'll come
right straight here! You are bad, wicked women!"

The child's righteous indignation had its effect on the women, and they
hesitated, not knowing exactly what to do with this little termagant.

And strange to say, Marjorie's ruse had succeeded.

For when the Maynards reached Pelton, and had found the inn where they
were to lunch, Pompton, the chauffeur, had expressed himself as unwilling
to sit there quietly and await the arrival of King and Marjorie.

"The poor children will be done out," he said to Mr. Maynard, "and by
your leave, sir, I'll just take the car, and run back a few rods and pick
them up."

"That's good of you, Pompton," said Mr. Maynard, appreciatively. "They
can't be far away now, but they'll be glad of a lift."

So Pompton turned the car about, and started back along the road he had
just come. To his surprise, he did not meet the children as soon as he
had expected, and as he continued his route without seeing them, he began
to be really alarmed. He passed the halfway sign, and went nearly to the
place where he had left them and had taken in the lame girl.

"There's something happened to them," he said to himself. "My word! I
knew those children ought not to be left to themselves! They're too full
of mischief. Like as not they've trailed off into the woods, and how can
I ever find them?"

Wondering what he had better do, Pompton turned the car around, and
slowly went back toward Pelton. At every crossroad or side path into
the woods he paused and shouted, but heard no response. When at last he
came near the place where the children had really turned off toward
the brook, he stopped and looked about. Seeing smoke issuing from among
the trees at a little distance, he thought, "That's a gypsy camp. Now
wouldn't it be just like those youngsters to trail in there? Anyway it's
the most likely place, and I'm going to have a look."

Leaving his car by the side of the road, Pompton struck into the
field, and soon came to the little bridge just beyond which the old
basket-weaver still sat.

"Have you seen anything of two children?" Pompton inquired, civilly.

"No," growled the man, looking up and frowning a little.

"Well, I'm fairly sure they came in here from the road about half an hour
ago. Perhaps you didn't notice them. I'll just take a look round." He
started in the direction of the camp, but the man called him back.

"I tell you no children have been near here," he said, in a voice
slightly less surly. "If they had, they'd have had to cross this bridge,
and I couldn't miss seeing them. I've been here two hours."

This seemed conclusive, and Pompton had no reason to think the man was
not telling the truth. But he was without doubt a gypsy, and Pompton
had small respect for the veracity of the gypsy. He waited a few moments,
pretending to be interested in the man's basketry, but really considering
whether to insist on going on to the camp hidden in the trees, or whether
to believe the man's statement.

And it was at this moment that Marjorie's shrieks rang out.

"Good heavens!" cried Pompton. "What is that?"

The basket-weaver neither heard nor answered him, for the shrieks
continued, and Pompton set off at a run in the direction whence they
came. He was not quite sure it was Marjorie's voice, but there was
certainly somebody in distress, and Pompton was of a valiant nature.

The smoke issuing above the trees was sufficient guide, and his flying
steps soon brought him to the encampment. Flinging open, indeed almost
tearing down the flapping door of the tent, he strode inside.

"What's the matter here?" he began, but he could get no further, for
with a glad cry the two Maynard children flung themselves into his
out-stretched arms.

CHAPTER VI

AT GRANDMA SHERWOOD'S

Aside from his threatening face, red with rage, and stormy with
indignation, Pompton's terrifying aspect was increased by the chauffeur's
costume which he wore. His goggles were pushed up on his brow, but his
eyes darted vengeance, and the three gypsy women were completely cowed at
the sight of him.

"You shall pay for this outrage!" he exclaimed; "and don't think you will
be let down easy! Kidnapping is a crime that is well punished, and your
punishment shall be to the full! I shall take these children away now,
but don't think you can escape! I will see to that! Where are your men
folks?"

Pompton was a large man, more than six feet high, and heavy in
proportion, and as he towered above the frightened gypsy women, they
could find no words to answer him.

"I'll find them for myself!" he exclaimed, and taking the children by
either hand, he hurried them out of the tent.

As Pompton had surmised, the men had run away to the woods, and hidden
themselves, for no trace of them could be seen. The old basket-maker,
too, had disappeared, and there was nothing to prevent their departure.

"Miss Marjorie, you're a wonder!" Pompton exclaimed, as they crossed the
little bridge and made for the road. "Now, how did you think to shout the
very lungs out of you like that?"

"It was the only thing to do, Pompton; they wouldn't let us run away, so
there was nothing to do but holler. My! but I'm glad you came!"

"Me, too!" cried King. "I felt awful to sit there and not do anything to
rescue Mops, but I couldn't think of a thing to do. I never thought of
yelling to beat the band!"

"Of course you didn't, King," said Marjorie. "A boy wouldn't do that.
And, anyway, you can't screech like I can."

"I didn't suppose anybody could, Miss Marjorie; I'm sure such screams
were never heard before, outside of Bedlam!"

"Well, we're safe now, anyway," cried Marjorie, skipping along gaily by
Pompton's side; "and here's our dear, blessed car! Oh, King, I'm so glad
we're safe!"

In a reaction of joy, Marjorie threw her arms around her brother's neck,
and the tears came to her eyes.

"There, there, Mops," and King patted her shoulders, while there was a
suggestion of emotion in his own voice; "it's all right now! Hop in, old
girl!"

"Yes, hop in, both of you," said Pompton, "and I'll get you back to
Pelton pretty quick, and then I'll set somebody on the track of those
villains. They'll not get away!"

The trip to Pelton took but a short time, for Pompton drove as fast as
the law allowed. But even so, they found a very much alarmed group
waiting for them on the veranda of the little inn.

"Where have you been?" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, as Marjorie flung her arms
around her mother's neck, and burst into violent sobs. The realization
that she was safe brought a nervous reaction, and though she had been
plucky and brave in the hour of danger, she now collapsed with emotion.

"I'll tell you all about it," said King, grasping his father's hands.
"Midget was the bravest, pluckiest girl, and she saved both our lives."

"What!" cried Mr. Maynard, "have you been in danger?"

Marjorie stopped her sobs a moment, and lifted her head from her mother's
shoulder.

"It was P-Pompton saved us! I didn't do any saving,--I only s-screeched!"

"And you screeched good and plenty, Miss Marjorie," said the chauffeur,
"which was what saved the day; and, Mr. Maynard, by your leave, I'll take
the car a minute, to see if there's anybody in authority in this village.
I've a matter to put in their hands."

Without waiting for further explanation, Pompton whizzed away in the big
car to find the public officials, and set them on trail of the gypsies.
For though unsuccessful, their base attempt at kidnapping ought not to go
unpunished.

Kingdon told a straightforward story of all that had happened. Unlike
Marjorie, he was not overcome by emotion, and though somewhat excited
after the experience they had had, he gave a clear and direct account of
it all.

Mrs. Maynard held Marjorie closer as she heard of the danger they had
been in, and Mr. Maynard laid his hand on the shoulder of his tall son,
and heartily exonerated him from all blame in the matter.

"I suppose," King said, a little dubiously, "we ought not to have gone on
to the camp; but Mops,--I mean, we were both thirsty,--and we thought
it was a farmhouse."

"Of course you did," said Mrs. Maynard; "you did nothing wrong whatever."

"I did," said Midget, penitently; "after we passed the horrid basket-man,
King sort of thought he was a gypsy, and he thought we'd better turn
back, but I insisted on going on."

"Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed King. "Mops isn't a bit to blame! I did
think maybe the man was a gypsy,--and I ought to have insisted on going
back."

"Well, well," said Mr. Maynard, "don't strive so hard for the honor of
being to blame. It's all over now, and for the present let's forget it,
while we eat our luncheon, because it might interfere with our digestion.
We're truly thankful to have you back, and we're going to show our
thankfulness by not worrying or lamenting over what might have been."

Mr. Maynard's gaiety, though it was really a little forced, had a good
effect on the others. For, had he taken a melancholy attitude, they were
quite ready to follow suit.

As it was, they all cheered up, and with bright faces followed Mr.
Maynard to the dining-room. Kitty slipped her hand in Marjorie's as they
went along. She had said little while the story was being told, but as
Marjorie well knew, silence with Kitty was always indicative of deep
emotion.

The inn, though modern, was copied after a quaint old plan, and the
low-ceiled, raftered dining-room greatly pleased the children. There were
seats along the wall--something like church pews,--with long tables in
front of them. Mr. Maynard had ordered a dainty and satisfying luncheon,
and Marjorie and King soon found that thrilling experiences improve the
appetite.

Led by Mr. Maynard, the table talk was gay, light, and entertaining; and
though Mrs. Maynard could not quite play up to this key, yet she did her
best, and carefully hid the tremors that shook her as she looked at her
two older children.

"What became of Minnie Meyer?" asked Marjorie, suddenly, for in the
stress of circumstances she had almost forgotten the lame girl.

"I tried my best to persuade her to lunch with us," said Mrs. Maynard,
"but she would not do so. She was very shy and timid, and though very
glad to have the ride, she was unwilling to let us do more for her. She
had many errands to attend to, and she was sure of a ride home, so she
said we need not worry about her."

"I'm glad she had the ride," said Marjorie, thoughtfully; "and of course
it wasn't her fault that the morning turned out as it did."

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