CHAPTER V
HELD CAPTIVE
Then King's fears were realized. He had suspected these people weregypsies, and now he discovered that they were. Inside the tent were threeor four men and women, all of the dark, gypsy type, and wearing thestrange, bright-colored garments characteristic of their tribe. They didnot 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 kindenough, but he couldn't help remembering how gypsies were credited withthe habit of stealing children, and holding them for ransom. "But onlybabies," he thought to himself; "I don't believe they ever steal such bigkids as Marjorie and me."
King was fifteen, and tall for his age, and as he looked at Marjorie herealized that she was a big girl, too, and he felt sure they were beyondthe age of being kidnapped. But as he noted the furtive glances whichwere cast at them by the gypsies, he again felt alarmed, and glanced atMarjorie to see if her thoughts were like his own.
But they were not. Marjorie was chatting gaily with the good-lookingyoung woman who had brought her into the tent, and she was acceptingan 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 hershaking 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 thatthe children drank, so they would go to sleep, and then the kidnapperswould carry them away!
King thought rapidly. He couldn't let Marjorie drink that milk,--and yetif he made a fuss about it, they could easily overpower him. Hedetermined to use strategy.
"Let me pass the glass to my sister," he said, jumping up, and going totake the glass from the old woman who had poured it. Unsuspectingly,she let him take it, but as he turned, he stumbled, purposely, againstthe table leg, and spilled all the milk on the ground.
"Oh, excuse me," he said, politely. "Now we shall have to go withouta drink of milk! But we are just as much obliged, and we bid yougood-morning. Come, Midget."
Marjorie was at a loss to understand King's actions, but she knew herbrother well enough to know that his tone and his look meant thatsomething very serious was the matter, and she was quite ready to obeyhim without knowing why.
But though he grasped her arm, and endeavored to lead her out of thetent, they were suddenly stopped. Two stalwart men who had been sittingin shadow at the back of the tent came forward, and grasping thechildren's shoulders, pushed them back into their seats rather roughly.
"You set down there!" said one of the men, "and don't you move tillyou're told to! We ain't decided just what to do with you yet, and whenwe see fit, we'll tell you, and not till then, so you just keep still!"
Marjorie suddenly sensed the situation. These people were enemies, notfriends! She understood King's efforts to get her away, and sheremembered, too, his misgivings as they were on their way across thefield.
Moreover, it was she who had insisted on coming, and so she felt, in away, responsible for what had happened to them. She jumped to her feet assoon as the man let go of her shoulder, and cried, with flashing eyes, "Iwill not keep still! What do you mean by treating me like that? Don't youknow who I am? We're Maynards! We're Edward Maynard's children,--andeverybody loves the Maynards!"
"Oh, they do, do they!" said the man who had spoken before. "Then that'sa mighty good reason why we should keep you here a little while."
"Keep us here!" stormed Marjorie, not at all realizing that they werebeing kidnapped, but merely thinking these people were playing somesort of a joke upon them. "Why should you keep us here? We want to goon."
"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 sendyou?"
"Yes, Jim sent us," said Marjorie, remembering what the man who wasweaving the basket had said.
"Then if Jim sent you, you're here to stay. And as it's just impossiblefor you to get away, there's small use in your trying! So you may aswell make the best of it, and if you don't want your bread and milk youneedn't eat it, but if you do, you can have it. There, now, I'm speakingfair by you, and you may as well behave yourselves."
"Speaking fair by us!" exclaimed Marjorie, who was as yet more indignantthan frightened. "Do you call it speaking fair by us to tell us thatwe 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 fancyfor a minute that you can get away, do you?"
This silenced Marjorie, for there was no answer to such a question. Herrage had spent itself in her impetuous speech, and she knew of coursethat two children could not get away from this band of villains if theywere not allowed to do so. But she did not cry. Her feelings were toowrought up for that. She sat where they had placed her, and tried bravelyto conceal the fright and fear that were every moment growing strongerwithin her. She gave one imploring glance at King, and he came over andsat beside her. He took her hand in a tight clasp, implying that whateverhappened they would face it together.
"Keep 'em there for the present," growled the man who seemed to be thespokesman, and then he and the other man went away, leaving the childrenin care of the three gypsy women.
Although apparently the women paid little attention to their youngprisoners, King and Midget could easily see that the eyes of theirjailers were ever alert, and watching their slightest movement. Had theytried to cut and run, they would have been caught before they reached thedoor. But no heed was paid when they whispered together, and so they wereable to hold a long conversation which was unheard, and even unnoticed bythe 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 goneout 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. Wemay 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'soutrageous! Why, King, by this time we would have been in Pelton. Justthink 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 torun out at the door, and an attempt at that would be such certain failurethat it was not worth trying.
So the children sat there in dumb misery, silently watching the gypsywomen as they moved about preparing the mid-day meal.
Occasionally they spoke, and their manner and words were kindly, but Kingand Midget could not bring themselves to respond in the same way.
"King," whispered Marjorie, "how far do you suppose we are from theroad?"
"Too far to run there, if that's what you mean. We'd be caught before westarted," 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 tothis 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!" saidone, sharply.
"Mayn't I walk about the room, if I promise not to go out the door?" saidMarjorie; "I'm so cramped sitting still."
"Move around if you want to," said the youngest of the women, a littlemore gently; "but there's no use your trying to run away," and she waggedher head ominously.
r /> "Honest, I won't try to run away," and Marjorie's big, dark eyes lookedgravely at her captor.
The women said nothing more, and Marjorie wandered about the tent in anapparently aimless manner. But after a time she came near to a small slitin the side of the tent that served as a sort of window, and here shepaused and examined some beads that hung near by. Then choosing a momentwhen the women were most attentive to their household duties, she put herhead out through the window and _yelled_. Now Marjorie Maynard's yell wassomething that a Comanche Indian might be proud of. Blessed with strong,healthy lungs, and being by nature fond of shouting, she possessed anability to scream which was really unusual.
As her blood-curdling shouts rent the air, the three women were sostupefied that for a moment they could say or do nothing. This gaveMarjorie additional time, and she made the most of it. Her entire lungpower spent itself in successive shrieks more than a dozen times, beforeshe was finally dragged away from the window by the infuriated gypsywomen.
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 comeright straight here! You are bad, wicked women!"
The child's righteous indignation had its effect on the women, and theyhesitated, 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 theywere to lunch, Pompton, the chauffeur, had expressed himself as unwillingto sit there quietly and await the arrival of King and Marjorie.
"The poor children will be done out," he said to Mr. Maynard, "and byyour leave, sir, I'll just take the car, and run back a few rods and pickthem up."
"That's good of you, Pompton," said Mr. Maynard, appreciatively. "Theycan'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 hadjust come. To his surprise, he did not meet the children as soon as hehad expected, and as he continued his route without seeing them, he beganto be really alarmed. He passed the halfway sign, and went nearly to theplace where he had left them and had taken in the lame girl.
"There's something happened to them," he said to himself. "My word! Iknew those children ought not to be left to themselves! They're too fullof mischief. Like as not they've trailed off into the woods, and how canI ever find them?"
Wondering what he had better do, Pompton turned the car around, andslowly went back toward Pelton. At every crossroad or side path intothe woods he paused and shouted, but heard no response. When at last hecame near the place where the children had really turned off towardthe brook, he stopped and looked about. Seeing smoke issuing from amongthe trees at a little distance, he thought, "That's a gypsy camp. Nowwouldn't it be just like those youngsters to trail in there? Anyway it'sthe most likely place, and I'm going to have a look."
Leaving his car by the side of the road, Pompton struck into thefield, and soon came to the little bridge just beyond which the oldbasket-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 hourago. Perhaps you didn't notice them. I'll just take a look round." Hestarted 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 voiceslightly 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 wasnot telling the truth. But he was without doubt a gypsy, and Pomptonhad small respect for the veracity of the gypsy. He waited a few moments,pretending to be interested in the man's basketry, but really consideringwhether to insist on going on to the camp hidden in the trees, or whetherto 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 shriekscontinued, and Pompton set off at a run in the direction whence theycame. He was not quite sure it was Marjorie's voice, but there wascertainly somebody in distress, and Pompton was of a valiant nature.
The smoke issuing above the trees was sufficient guide, and his flyingsteps soon brought him to the encampment. Flinging open, indeed almosttearing down the flapping door of the tent, he strode inside.
"What's the matter here?" he began, but he could get no further, forwith a glad cry the two Maynard children flung themselves into hisout-stretched arms.