The Corner House Girls' Odd Find

Nor would he have taken the book away if he had been decided, one way or the other, about the bonds and money. Had he shown them to any person while in Tiverton?

If so, Agnes suddenly wished to know who that person was. If Barnabetta Scruggs could get into Neale’s room at the winter quarters of Twomley & Sorber’s Herculean Circus and Menagerie, and could take a peep at the contents of the big book the boy carried in his bag, why could not some other – and some more evil-disposed person – have done the same?

Ruth had suggested it. She had said that a robber might have followed Neale O’Neil all the way from the circus and stolen the book off the porch of the old Corner House.

The same possibility held good regarding the removal of the money and the bonds from the book after Barnabetta had hidden it in the dining room closet. At that very moment the robber might have been in the house and seen what Barnabetta did with the book.

Of course, that was the explanation! Some hanger-on of the circus had followed Neale home to rob him – and had succeeded.

But, beyond that thought, and carrying the idea to its logical conclusion, Agnes pondered that Neale might have noticed that he was followed to Milton, and might know who the person was.

With Neale to suggest the identity of this robber, it might be possible to secure his person and recover the money. That idea no sooner took possession of Agnes Kenway’s mind than she started up, ready and eager to do something to prove the thought correct.

“And I’ll see Neale first of all. It all lies with him,” she said aloud. “He’s got to help us. I don’t care if he is mad. He’s just got to get over his mad and tell us how we shall go about finding the robber!”

CHAPTER XXIV – NEALE O’NEIL FLINGS A BOMB

Agnes came to her decision to interview Neale O’Neil just before the family dinner hour. She had to wait until after the meal before putting it into execution.

Ordinarily Neale would have been over at the old Corner House soon after seven o’clock with his books, ready to join the girls at their studies in the sitting room. He was not to be expected now, however. Only the little girls mentioned Neale’s absence.

“I guess something has happened since Neale came home from the circus,” Dot observed. “He don’t seem to like us any more.”

“I’m sure we’ve done nothing to him,” said Tess, quite troubled. “But, anyway, you can’t ever tell anything about boys – what they’ll do. Can you, Ruthie?”

“There spoke the oracle,” giggled Agnes.

“Tess is a budding suffragette,” commented Mrs. MacCall.

“Oh, my! You sure won’t be one of those awful suffering-etts when you grow up, will you, Tessie?” cried the horror-stricken Dot.

“Goodness! Suffragette, Dot!” admonished her sister. “But – but I guess I don’t want to be one. They say Miss Grimsby is one and I’m sure I don’t want to be anything she is.”

“Is she very – very awful?” asked Dot, pityingly, yet with curiosity.

“She is awfully hard to get along with,” admitted Tess. “Sometimes Miss Pepperill was cross; but Miss Grimsby is mad all the time.”

“I – I wish they’d take Mabel Creamer into your room and let you take her place in mine,” Dot said, feeling that her enemy next door should be put under the eye of just such a stern teacher as Miss Grimsby.

“I s’pose she’ll make faces at me to-morrow,” pursued Dot, with a sigh. “And she can make awful faces, you know she can, Tessie.”

“Well, faces won’t ever hurt you,” the other sister said, philosophically.

“No-o,” rejoined Dot. “Not really, of course. But,” she confessed, “it makes you want to make faces, too. And I can’t wriggle my face all up like Mabel Creamer can!”

Now, clothed in a proper frock again, Barnabetta Scruggs made one at the dinner table. She was subdued and rather silent; but as always she was kind to the children, beside whom she sat; and she was really grateful now to Ruth.

Despite her rough exterior, Barnabetta was kind at heart. She had only been hiding her good qualities from Ruth and Agnes because she knew in her heart that she meant to injure them. Now that she had confessed her wrong doing, her hardness of manner and foolish pride were all melted down. And nobody could long resist the sweetness of Ruth and the jollity of Agnes.

The latter slipped away right after dinner, leaving the little girls listening to one of Barnabetta’s fairy stories – this time about The Horse That Made a House for the Birds.

“That circus girl is a good deal like a singed cat,” remarked Mrs. MacCall in the kitchen. “I’m free to confess I didn’t think much of her at first. You and Ruth do pick up some crooked sticks.” She spoke to Agnes who was preparing to go out.

“But I watched her with the little ones and – bless her heart! – she’s a real little woman! Working in a circus all her life hasn’t spoiled her; but it isn’t a business that I’d want a daughter of mine to follow.

“And there isn’t a mite of harm in that Asa Scruggs,” added the housekeeper. “Only I never did see such a melancholy looking man. And he a clown!”

Agnes was thinking how strange it was she should have met Barnabetta and her father in the woods and brought them home, when they had come from the Twomley & Sorber Circus, and knew Neale O’Neil. And what would Neale say when he learned that the clown and his daughter were at the old Corner House?

Agnes remembered quite clearly that Neale had caught Barnabetta looking at the book of money while he had it in his possession at the winter quarters of the circus. At once the boy would connect the robbery of the Corner House with the circus girl’s presence there.

And that would never do. For Agnes was positive that Barnabetta was guiltless of the final disappearance of the treasure trove.

But suppose Neale was convinced otherwise? With sorrow the Corner House girl had to admit that her boy friend could be “awful stubborn” if he so chose.

“And he might come right over here and say something cross to Barnabetta and to poor Mr. Scruggs, and then everybody’d be unhappy,” Agnes told herself. “Barnabetta is repentant for all she did. It would be mean to accuse her of something she hadn’t done at all.”

So Agnes went rather soberly down the back yard paths to the end of the chicken run. She never contemplated for an instant going round by Willow Street and Willow Wythe to reach the cobbler’s front door.

Only a high board fence separated the Corner House premises from the little back yard of Mr. Con Murphy. There was the corner where Neale got over, and Agnes was enough of a tomboy to know the most approved fashion of mounting the barrier.

But she hesitated a moment before she did this. Maybe Neale was not there. Maybe he was still so angry that he would not see her if she went into Con’s little shop. She must cajole him.

Therefore she sent a tentative call over the back fence:

“Oh-ee! Oh-ee! Oh-ee!”

She waited half a minute and repeated it. But there was no answer.

“Oh, dear me!” thought Agnes. “Is he still huffy? Or isn’t he home?”

She ventured a third call, but to no avail. Agnes, however, had a determined spirit. She felt that Neale might help them in the emergency which had arisen, and she proposed to get his help in some fashion.

So she started to climb the fence. Just as she did so – spang! A snowball burst right beside her head. She was showered with snow and, screeching, let go her hold and fell back into the Corner House yard.

“Oh! oh! oh! Who was that?” sputtered Agnes.

She glanced around under the bare-limbed trees and tried to peer into the shadows cast by the hen house and Billy Bumps’ abode. Not a soul there, she was sure.

“Some boy going by on the street must have thrown it,” Agnes thought. “But how could he see me away in here?”

She essayed to climb the fence again, and a second snowball – not quite as hard as the first – struck her right between the shoulder blades.

“Oh! you horrid thing!” exclaimed Agnes, turning to run toward the street fence. “I’d like to get my hands on you! I bet if Neale were here you wouldn’t fling snowballs at a girl!”

“Don’t blow too much about what Neale O’Neil would do!” cried a voice; and a figure appeared at the corner of the hen house.

“Oh! you horrid thing! Neale O’Neil! You flung those snowballs yourself!” gasped Agnes.