The Meadow-Brook Girls Under Canvas

CHAPTER IX

SOUND­ING THE GEN­ER­AL ALARM

The in­stant a hand touched her cot Har­ri­et Bur­rell was awake and sit­ting up. But to her amaze­ment she was thrown on her back, a tow­el was twist­ed about her head by a pair of dex­ter­ous hands and her arms were pin­ioned at her sides. At first she did not know what to make of this sud­den at­tack, then a warn­ing whis­per in a girl­ish voice brought un­der­stand­ing with it. Har­ri­et had been strug­gling with good prospect of get­ting free, but she ceased her ef­forts at once up­on com­ing to the con­clu­sion that some of the Camp Girls were play­ing a mid­night trick on her. Har­ri­et even as­sist­ed them by obe­di­ent­ly ris­ing from her cot. A pair of rub­ber-​soled ten­nis shoes were quick­ly slipped on her feet. Her cloth­ing, with the ex­cep­tion of her camp uni­form, was hand­ed her and she dressed as best she could un­der the cir­cum­stances. Then her bathrobe was thrown about her shoul­ders and again the warn­ing voice whis­pered to her to be silent.

The mid­night in­trud­ers found Tom­my, how­ev­er, a most bel­liger­ent cap­tive. She strug­gled vi­olent­ly and made fran­tic ef­forts to scream out, un­til, fear­ful of dis­cov­ery, one of the mys­te­ri­ous vis­itors hasti­ly seized Tom­my's cloth­ing from her lock­er, an­oth­er took charge of her bathrobe while four of them marched the in­dig­nant lit­tle girl out of the tent and away from the camp where she was forced in­to her clothes de­spite her stren­uous re­sis­tance.

“They are haz­ing us,” thought Har­ri­et as she was led away.

That was the plan. The haz­ers, now di­vid­ed them­selves in­to two par­ties. One di­vi­sion took charge of Grace, while the oth­er di­vi­sion pro­ceed­ed in the op­po­site di­rec­tion with Har­ri­et and af­ter walk­ing a short dis­tance came to a halt. The bath tow­el that was near­ly suf­fo­cat­ing Har­ri­et was part­ly re­moved from her head. A voice, plain­ly dis­guised spoke to her.

“Art thou pre­pared for ini­ti­ation in­to the mys­ter­ies of the tribe of Wau-​Wau, my sis­ter?” asked the voice.

“That de­pends up­on what the ini­ti­ation in­to those mys­ter­ies is. I don't know whether I am pre­pared or not,” an­swered the girl light­ly.

“My sis­ters, is the fire ex­tin­guished and the hearth left in or­der?” asked the first speak­er.

“Even so.”

“Then hav­ing been tried by fire, by the flame that thou wilt one day wear up­on thine arm it is meet that thou shouldst learn the touch of the en­emy of those flames. My sis­ters what is the en­emy that de­feats the flame?”

“Wa­ter,” an­swered a muf­fled cho­rus of voic­es.

“Then, my sis­ter, thou, hav­ing been tried by the fire, the fire that burned at our feet this evening it is meet that thou shouldst now sub­mit to the fi­nal test. Be­low thee is a pool, a pool deep and dark where­in lurk the wa­ter sprite and the wood nymph, wait­ing there to wel­come thee.”

Har­ri­et now heard the rip­ple of wa­ter some­where near at hand. She smiled. Wa­ter, no mat­ter how deep, held no ter­rors for her. She was an ex­pert swim­mer. How­ev­er, the night was cool and she knew that the wa­ter of a for­est stream would be a great deal cold­er.

“Hast thou yet earned the swim­ming hon­or?” asked the voice at her side.

“I can swim, if that is what you mean.”

“It is well. The wa­ter sprites and the wood nymphs will lend wings to thee in thy ef­forts to please them. But be­ware. The way is far and dark. A bot­tom­less pool lies far be­low thee. Art thou pre­pared?”

“Oh, yes, I think so. At least I shall be no bet­ter pre­pared in----”

Har­ri­et Bur­rell did not com­plete the sen­tence. Her bathrobe was sud­den­ly snatched from her shoul­ders. Some one gave her a vi­olent push from be­hind. She leaped to save her­self from falling, just what they had looked for her to do. It seemed to Har­ri­et that she must have fall­en many, many feet be­fore she reached the wa­ter, which in re­al­ity was not more than three feet be­low the spot from which she leaped. She struck the wa­ter with a lit­tle gasp, then stood still for a sec­ond in be­wil­der­ment, as the wa­ter rip­pled over her feet and an­kles. The bot­tom­less pool was not more than a foot deep.

“Is that all?” she asked in a calm voice af­ter she had re­cov­ered from her first as­ton­ish­ment. “I hope you do not wish me to swim this stream. The wa­ter is rather too shal­low, even for me.”

“Come, sis­ter. Thou hast been tried in the wa­ters of Wau-​Wau and found not want­ing. A help­ing hand will meet thee where wa­ter meets earth and earth meets wa­ter. Come.”

Har­ri­et did not seek the as­sis­tance of any one in get­ting out of the stream, but a hand grasped one of hers and as­sist­ed her to the bank. The girl felt her­self en­veloped once more in her bathrobe, and her cap­tives led her in what she shrewd­ly guessed to be the di­rec­tion of the camp.

While all this was go­ing on, the oth­er par­ty of haz­ers was hold­ing Grace Thomp­son cap­tive not far from the stream to where Har­ri­et had been con­duct­ed. Wrapped in the folds of her bathrobe, the tow­el still bound about her head and over her eyes, Tom­my stood prac­ti­cal­ly help­less in the midst of her cap­tors.

“My sis­ters,” said one of the haz­ers, act­ing as the spokesman for that branch of the ini­ti­ation par­ty. “What is the name of the In­di­an maid­en whose spir­it guides this lit­tle sis­ter?”

“Tom­my, the Squir­rel,” was the prompt re­ply.

“Ah! Then be­ing guid­ed by the spir­it of a squir­rel, O lit­tle maid­en, thou shouldst prove thy prowess by climb­ing a tree. Ah! The tree is close at hand. Climb, sis­ter.”

“I gueth not!” re­turned Tom­my, in a threat­en­ing voice. “I'll thcream for help.”

“Shout­ing will avail thee noth­ing. No ears will hear. Climb and all shall be well.”

Tom­my had her doubts about this lat­ter state­ment. She knew how loud­ly she could scream. She knew al­so that they were not very far from the camp be­cause she could now and then catch a flick­er of the camp­fire through the trees.

An idea oc­curred to the lit­tle girl and could her cap­tors have looked in­to her eyes they would have read there an ex­pres­sion of cun­ning that bod­ed ill for them.

“Will the Squir­rel climb?” de­mand­ed the voice.

“Yeth, the Thquir­rel will climb,” she ac­qui­esced, with sur­pris­ing docil­ity. “Where ith the tree?”

“Just be­hind you.”

Grace was turned about, her hands were placed against the trunk of the tree, and the tow­el was sud­den­ly re­moved from about her head.

The tree was a small one with limbs hang­ing low, al­most with­in reach of Grace Thomp­son's hands. Some one gave her a boost. Tom­my took ad­van­tage of it and with the help of the haz­ers clam­bered to the low­er limb. In the in­tense dark­ness she was un­able to see clear­ly any­thing about her. Feel­ing her way, cau­tious­ly, she climbed to the next limb. Her bathrobe, how­ev­er, sad­ly im­ped­ed her progress, but by de­ter­mined ef­forts she man­aged at last to reach the top of the tree.

“Come on up, girlth. It ith fine up here.”

Tom­my's courage was rapid­ly re­turn­ing to her. Then again she could af­ford to speak pleas­ant­ly to her cap­tors for she was about to turn the ta­bles on them in a most un­ex­pect­ed man­ner.

“You're all 'fraid catth, 'fraid catth and I'm go­ing to thhow you that you are. In a minute I'm go­ing to thcare you half to death. Now watch me.”

Tom­my did all she had promised to do, and just as Har­ri­et and her cap­tors were mov­ing to­ward the camp, Tom­my ut­tered a wild, pierc­ing cry. Then she ut­tered an­oth­er and still an­oth­er. About that time half a dozen girls might have been ob­served flee­ing to­ward the camp. They were run­ning as per­haps they had nev­er run be­fore. Har­ri­et was left stand­ing alone on the bank of the stream. She was too star­tled at first to re­al­ize what the cries meant. All at once she dis­cov­ered that the voice was Tom­my's. But Har­ri­et was con­sid­er­ably puz­zled, for there was not the least note of alarm in the cries. They were in­tend­ed sole­ly to arouse the camp and cause the down­fall of the girls who were run­ning for their tents. So far as arous­ing the camp was con­cerned, Tom­my's plan worked to per­fec­tion for girls in ev­ery tent were tum­bling out in alarm.

Then Tom­my dis­cov­ered that she was alone, and be­com­ing alarmed at be­ing left out in the woods with­out com­pa­ny, she be­gan to scream in earnest. At the same time she en­deav­ored to scram­ble down from her lofty po­si­tion scratch­ing her hands on the pro­jec­tions of the tree in her hasty de­scent. Sud­den­ly she missed her foot­ing. Her hands slipped from the limb to which she had been cling­ing, and she felt her­self falling. She did not reach the ground, how­ev­er, for the heavy cord con­fin­ing her bathrobe at the waist caught on a pro­ject­ing limb of the tree, and Tom­my dan­gled help­less­ly in the air.

This time her screams were full of ter­ror. Nev­er be­fore had such screams been heard at Camp Wau-​Wau. Off in the camp a bell was be­ing fran­ti­cal­ly rung. A gen­er­al alarm was be­ing sound­ed. Guardians clad in ki­monos and bathrobes were run­ning to­ward Tom­my and the tree that was hold­ing her pris­on­er. Camp Girls ea­ger to dis­tin­guish them­selves and earn a bead for their brav­ery were not far be­hind the guardians, with promise of out­dis­tanc­ing the lat­ter if the race last­ed long enough.

Guardians car­ried lanterns and here and there a girl was car­ry­ing a torch that she had thought­ful­ly snatched from the fire as she ran along. Among the torch bear­ers were Pa­tri­cia Scott and Co­ra Kid­der. They were among the fore­most of the girls to rush to the re­lief of the un­for­tu­nate Tom­my.

No soon­er had Har­ri­et rec­og­nized the note of ter­ror in Tom­my's voice than she sprang for­ward to go to her com­pan­ion's as­sis­tance. She be­lieved some­thing se­ri­ous had hap­pened to Grace.

“Where are you! Grace, oh, Grace!” cried Har­ri­et.

Tom­my, in­stead of an­swer­ing, screamed the loud­er. Har­ri­et, guid­ed by the sound of her friend's voice, groped her way to the tree from which Grace was sus­pend­ed, and af­ter stum­bling blind­ly about she fi­nal­ly suc­ceed­ed in reach­ing the base of the tree.

“Oh, Tom­my, what is the mat­ter?”

“I'm--I'm up a tree,” wailed Grace.

“Why don't you come down?”

“I can't. I'm fatht.”

“Be qui­et. I'll climb up and re­lease you,” soothed Har­ri­et, start­ing to climb up the small tree trunk. “Some one is com­ing from the camp. I see the lights. This is too bad. I was in hopes they might not know about it. Now we shall nev­er hear the last of it.”

“I don't care if we don't. I want to get down,” wailed Grace.

Har­ri­et suc­ceed­ed in, climb­ing the tree to a point where she could reach out and touch her com­pan­ion. Per­haps sus­pect­ing some­thing of the truth, Har­ri­et moved very cau­tious­ly. She dis­cov­ered what the trou­ble was al­most at once.

“Tom­my I'm afraid when I loosen this cord that holds you you will fall,” said Har­ri­et.

“How far will I fall?” qua­vered Tom­my.

“On­ly a few feet,” replied Har­ri­et. “You aren't more than six or sev­en feet from the ground. The ground is soft. It's all moss and mold un­der this tree.”

“I don't want to fall,” wailed the lit­tle girl “I want to thtay here. Don't you dare touch me, Har­ri­et Bur­rell.”

“Then wait un­til the oth­ers get here. They are al­most here now.”

“There it is,” cried a voice. Har­ri­et thought the voice be­longed to Miss Elt­ing. It proved to be­long to Co­ra Kid­der. “My gra­cious, girls what is it?”

“It ith I,” an­swered a plain­tive voice from above their heads.

“Oh, oh, oh!” cried the girls as they gazed up at the limb of the tree from where Tom­my was sus­pend­ed.

“Young wom­an what are you do­ing up there?” de­mand­ed Mrs. Liv­ingston. “Are you Miss Thomp­son?”

“I wath. I don't know who I am now, Mithith Liv­ingth­ton. Pleathe help me down.”

“If you will stand be­low to catch her I think I shall be able to re­lease her,” called Har­ri­et from her perch in the tree.

Har­ri­et had not been seen be­fore in the dark­ness, screened by the fo­liage as she was, Mrs. Liv­ingston called to know who she was. Har­ri­et gave her name. Then the Chief Guardian di­rect­ed that Har­ri­et should re­lease the pris­on­er from her dif­fi­cul­ty while sev­er­al of the guardians stood in a cir­cle un­der the tree with arms out­stretched ready to stop the fall of the lit­tle fig­ure hang­ing over their heads.

“Are you go­ing to drop me?” ques­tioned Tom­my in great alarm.

“Yes, but it won't hurt you,” an­swered Har­ri­et.

“I don't want to. I----”

Tom­my did not com­plete the sen­tence. In­stead she fin­ished with a scream as Har­ri­et un­fas­tened the cord from the stub that had held it and with one hand low­ered Tom­my in­to the arms of her friends. This Har­ri­et did with one hand, cling­ing with the oth­er to one of the low­er limbs of the tree. As sev­er­al of the girls held up their lanterns to aid the oth­ers in catch­ing Grace, there were ex­cla­ma­tions of ad­mi­ra­tion at Har­ri­et's ex­hi­bi­tion of strength.

“Who would think her so strong?” ex­claimed a guardian.

“Har­ri­et is as plucky as she is strong,” an­swered Miss Elt­ing.

So Tom­my did not fall af­ter all. Har­ri­et had not been cer­tain that the cord would hold, hence she had re­quest­ed the guardians to stand ready to break the small­er girl's fall. Af­ter Tom­my had been low­ered, Har­ri­et swung her­self down and joined the ex­cit­ed group be­low.

“Miss Bur­rell, kind­ly ex­plain what you were do­ing in the tree?” de­mand­ed the Chief Guardian.

“I went up to as­sist my com­pan­ion.”

“What was she do­ing there--how did she chance to be in the tree?”

“I do not know, Mrs. Liv­ingston. Tom­my will know. I was not there when she climbed the tree. I heard her call and went to her as­sis­tance.”

Mrs. Liv­ingston did not say that Har­ri­et's be­ing near enough to hear the call be­fore any of the oth­ers had heard it, need­ed ex­pla­na­tion. In­stead she turned to Tom­my.

“Miss Thomp­son, what were you do­ing in the tree?”

“I wath hang­ing down.”

“How did you get up there? Did some one lift you there?”

“I climbed. Then when I got up far enough tho they couldn't get me, I yelled.”

“So who could not get you?” ques­tioned the Chief Guardian sharply.

“Oh, thome folk­th that I wath tak­ing a walk with through the woodth,” an­swered Tom­my lame­ly.

“Young wom­en we will re­turn to the camp,” an­nounced Mrs. Liv­ingston. It was a silent pro­ces­sion, ex­cept in the case of Grace, who kept up a con­tin­ual chat­ter with­out say­ing much of any­thing.

Most of the girls were aware that a se­ri­ous of­fense had been com­mit­ted and that the mor­row would be a day of reck­on­ing. More than one girl in that par­ty was shiv­er­ing as though from the chill night air. All crawled in­to bed silent­ly that night with ex­pec­ta­tions of trou­ble when morn­ing came.