The Rival Campers Ashore: or, The Mystery of the Mill

"Colonel Witham," said Henry Burns, coolly, "we were up in the mill last night."

The colonel's eyes stuck out, and he glared at Henry Burns with mingled astonishment and wrath.

"Eh, what's that?" he exclaimed, "you were in my mill! Why, you young rascals, don't you know I could have you all arrested as burglars?"

"No," replied Henry Burns, "we didn't go to take anything of yours. We were after some papers that belonged to John Ellison's father. We weren't going to keep them either, if we found them; just turn them over to Lawyer Estes."

"Well, then, it was trespass," cried Colonel Witham, wrathfully. "Who told you there were papers in the mill. Lawyer Estes didn't – he knows better."

"No," replied Henry Burns, "but you told the fortune-teller so."

"I didn't say that," bellowed Colonel Witham, rising from his chair. But it was plain the suggestion of the fortune-teller worried him. "What did you do in there?" he added. "If you did any harm, you'll suffer for it."

"We didn't," said Henry Burns. "We only played on a horse-fiddle once or twice. You know there are rats in the mill, colonel. I guess they scampered when they heard that."

Colonel Witham had been about to burst forth with an angry exclamation; but the thought of his own ignominious flight made him pause. Rats, indeed! He knew there wasn't a rat in the whole mill that had been half so terrified as he.

"Now see here," he said, shaking his fist for emphasis, "I know you didn't do any harm in the mill. It was one of your crazy pranks. But don't you ever go in there again, or I'll make trouble for you."

"We're not going to," said Henry Burns.

"There isn't anything in there, anyway," urged Colonel Witham. "I've heard that talk, around Benton, and it's all nonsense. You couldn't find anything in there, if you hunted a hundred years."

"But we did find something," said Henry Burns, in a matter-of-fact way.

Colonel Witham's jaw dropped, and he looked at Henry Burns almost helplessly. He couldn't speak for a moment. Then he asked, huskily, "What was it you found? None of your pranks now; what did you find?"

"A small box, with some coins in it," replied Henry Burns; and he described the hiding place. "There was a dollar and eighty-six cents."

Colonel Witham looked relieved. "Give them to me," he cried. "You've got no right to the stuff."

"Wasn't it Ellison's?" inquired Henry Burns.

"Never you mind whose it was," cried Colonel Witham. "It was in my mill. Give it to me, or I'll have the law on you."

"There were some papers, too," continued Henry Burns.

Colonel Witham staggered again. The hand that held his pipe shook. Then his eyes twinkled craftily.

"Well, you're right smart boys," he said. "Keep the money, if you want it, or give it to John Ellison. Yes, it was Jim Ellison's – the money was. But the papers are mine. Have you got them? Give me the papers, and keep the money. I don't claim the money."

"Yes, I've got the papers," replied Henry Burns. "Here they are. There's all there were."

He handed the package to Colonel Witham, who took it with trembling hand. Then Henry Burns and his friends made a hurried departure. By the time the colonel had made an examination of the papers, and had turned, white with anger, to vent his rage upon them, they were spinning down the road.

"Tim," said Henry Burns, as they rode along, "you get the money."

It was a day or two later, on a sultry afternoon, and Bess Thornton stood in the doorway of the old house where she and Granny Thornton lived, looking forth at the sky. A passing shower was sprinkling the doorsteps with a few big drops, and the girl drew back with a look of disappointment on her face.

"It always rains when you don't want it to," she said. "Wish there was somebody to play with. It's pokey here, with gran' gone to Witham's. I don't know what to do."

Something suggested itself to her mind, however, for presently she opened the door leading to the attic and went up the stairs. It was dark and silent in the attic, but she threw open a window at either end, unfastened the blinds, and the daylight entered. It disclosed a clutter of old household stuff: some strings of pop-corn and dried apples and herbs hanging from the rafters, and a lot of faded garments, suspended from nails.

She tried on an old-fashioned poke-bonnet, looked at herself in a bit of cracked mirror that leaned against a wash-stand, and laughed at the odd picture she made. Then, by turns, she arrayed herself in some of the antiquated garments. She rummaged here and there, until she came to the old bureau.

"Gran' always keeps that locked," she said. "I guess nobody'd want to steal anything from this old place, though. She needn't be so particular. I wonder where she keeps the key."

There was no great difficulty in finding that, either, once she had set about it; for soon her hand rested on the key, as she felt along the tops of the beams, and came to the one where Granny Thornton had laid it.

"I'm going to have a look," said the girl softly to herself. "Gran's always telling me to keep out of here." Then, as the thought struck her, she exclaimed, "I'll bet here's where she put the coin."

The lock of the upper drawer of the bureau yielded readily to the pressure of the key; she drew the drawer out, and looked within. There was a mixture of curious odds and ends, from which she picked up a tiny white dress.

"That's funny," she exclaimed. "It's a baby's dress. I wonder what gran' keeps it for; perhaps 'twas mine. It's small, though. Wonder if I was ever as little as that."

She took the tiny garment by the sleeves, and held it up against herself. Then she laughed merrily. "I wish I could ask gran' about it," she said.

A small box attracted her eye and she seized that. She got a surprise then. She had thought that perhaps it might contain the coin. But it contained that and more. There, indeed, was the golden coin; but, strangely enough, it was not as she and Tim Reardon had found it, but affixed to a small golden chain.

"Oh!" she exclaimed; "Gran' was right, then. It did belong to us, after all. My, it's pretty, too. Gran' ought to let me wear it."

She tried to hang it about her neck, but the chain was too short. She remedied that, however, by piecing it out with two bits of ribbon which she found in the drawer. These she knotted in a bow at the back of her neck, and danced over to the mirror, to note the effect of the chain with its ornament. It was a rare piece of finery in her eyes, and she gazed upon it long and wistfully.

"I'm going to wear it awhile," she exclaimed. "It won't hurt it any. Gran' said I wore it once, when I was little. It's mine, I guess, anyway."

She continued her rummaging through the drawer, but it yielded nothing more to her fancy. She shut the drawer and locked it, and went to look at herself once more in the piece of mirror. The sun came out from behind the passing clouds, and, as it streamed in at one of the windows, it shone on the chain and the coin and on the girl's face.

"I just can't take it off yet," she said; and, closing the blinds, tripped down the stairs. But, as she looked out the door, she espied Granny Thornton coming in at the gate. She thought of the chain and its coin; and, realizing it was too late to regain the attic and replace it, slipped quietly out at the shed door and ran down through the fields to the brook, before Granny Thornton had espied her.

As she came to the edge of the brook, a small boy, that had been lying face down on the turf, with an arm deep in the water, rose up and greeted her.

"Why, hello, Tim," she said, surprised; "what are you doing?"

"Trying to tickle that big trout," replied Tim Reardon. "I've been here half an hour, without moving, but I can't find him. There's where he lies, though; I've seen him often. But he won't come near; he's too smart. I'm going to try the pickerel. See here, look what I've got."

He put a hand into his trousers pocket, and drew forth an object wrapped in a piece of newspaper. It proved to be a new spoon hook, bright and shiny, with gleaming red and silver, and a bunch of bright feathers covering the hooks at the end.

"Isn't that a beauty!" he exclaimed. "Cost a quarter. I bought it. John Ellison gave me that money I found in the mill."

"It's fine," replied the girl. "Going to try it?"

"Sure," answered Tim. "My rod's hid down by the stream. I wanted to try to tickle a trout when the shower ruffled the water here. Ever tickle a trout?"

Bess Thornton laughed. "No," said she; "nor you, either, I guess."

"Honest injun, I have," asserted Tim, warmly. "You just put your hand down in the water, and keep it still for an awful while; and by and by perhaps a fish'll brush against it. Then he'll keep doing it, and then you just move your hand and your fingers easy like, and the trout, he kind er likes it. Then, when you get a good chance, you just grab quick and throw him out on shore."

"Hm!" exclaimed the girl; "I'd like to see you do it."