Ruth Fielding Down East | Page 6

stole those things."
"I didn't see anybody snuck in there," declared Ben, with more
confidence than good English.
"Say!" ejaculated Tom, impatiently, "haven't you seen any tramp, or
straggler, or Gypsy--or anybody like that?"
"Hi gorry!" suddenly said Ben, "I do remember. There was a man along
here this morning--a preacher, or something like that. Had a black frock
coat on and wore his hair long and sort o' wavy. He was shabby enough
to be a tramp, that's a fact. But he was a real knowledgeable feller--he
was that. Stood at the mill door and recited po'try for us."
"Poetry!" exclaimed Tom.
"To you and Uncle Jabez?" asked Ruth.
"Uh-huh. All about 'to be or not to be a bean--that is the question.' And
something about his having suffered from the slung shots and bow
arrers of outrageous fortune--whatever that might be. I guess he got it
all out of the Scriptures. Your uncle said he was bugs; but I reckoned
he was a preacher."
"Jimminy!" muttered Tom. "A derelict actor, I bet. Sounds like a
Shakespearean ham."

"Goodness!" said Ruth. "Between the two of you boys I get a very
strange idea of this person."
"Where did he go, Ben?" Tom asked.
"I didn't watch him. He only hung around a little while. I think he axed
your uncle for some money, or mebbe something to eat. You see, he
didn't know Mr. Potter."
"Not if he struck him for a hand-out," muttered the slangy Tom.
"Oh, Ben! don't you know whether he went toward Cheslow--or
where?" cried Ruth.
"Does it look probable to you," Tom asked, "that a derelict actor---- Oh,
Jimminy! Of course! He would be just the person to see the value of
that play script at a glance!"
"Oh, Tom!"
"Have you no idea where he went, Ben?" Tom again demanded of the
puzzled mill hand.
"No, Mister Tom. I didn't watch him."
"I'll get out the car at once and hunt all about for him," Tom said
quickly. "You go in to Helen and Aunt Alvirah, Ruth. You'll be sick if
you let this get the best of you. I'll find that miserable thief of a ham
actor--if he's to be found." He added this last under his breath as he ran
for the shed where he had sheltered his automobile.
CHAPTER IV
THE CRYING NEED
Tom Cameron chased about the neighborhood for more than two hours
in his fast car hunting the trail of the man who he had decided must be
a wandering theatrical performer. Of course, this was a "long shot,"

Tom said; but the trampish individual of whom Ben had told was much
more likely to be an actor than a preacher.
Tom, however, was able to find no trace of the fellow until he got to
the outskirts of Cheslow, the nearest town. Here he found a man who
had seen a long-haired fellow in a shabby frock coat and black hat
riding toward the railroad station beside one of the farmers who lived
beyond the Red Mill. This was following the tempest which had burst
over the neighborhood at mid-afternoon.
Trailing this information farther, Tom learned that the shabby man had
been seen about the railroad yards. Mr. Curtis, the railroad station
master, had observed him. But suddenly the tramp had disappeared.
Whether he had hopped Number 10, bound north, or Number 43, bound
south, both of which trains had pulled out of Cheslow within the hour,
nobody could be sure.
Tom returned to the Red Mill at dusk, forced to report utter failure.
"If that bum actor stole your play, Ruth, he's got clear way with it,"
Tom said bluntly. "I'm awfully sorry----"
"Does that help?" demanded his sister snappishly, as though it were
somewhat Tom's fault. "You go home, Tom. I'm going to stay with
Ruthie to-night," and she followed her chum into the bedroom to which
she had fled at Tom's announcement of failure.
"Jimminy!" murmured Tom to the old miller who was still at the supper
table. "And we aren't even sure that that fellow did steal the scenario."
"Humph!" rejoined Uncle Jabez. "You'll find, if you live to be old
enough, young feller, that women folks is kittle cattle. No knowing
how they'll take anything. That pen cost five dollars, I allow; but them
papers only had writing on 'em, and it does seem to me that what you
have writ once you ought to be able to write again. That's the woman of
it. She don't say a thing about that pen, Ruthie don't."
However, Tom Cameron saw farther into the mystery than Uncle Jabez

appeared to. And after a day or two, with Ruth still "moping about like
a moulting hen," as the miller expressed it, the young officer felt that he
must