CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XII THE MAN WITH THE LIMP For a moment those watching the making of the moving picture stood as if paralyzed. The horses, frightened out of their usual calmness by the barking dog, were rushing madly down the field, the mowing machine clicking viciously. "Hold them in! Hold them in! Pull on the lines!" cried Sandy, who was the first to spring to action. He set off on a run toward the horses. Russ, too, leaping aside from his camera, started off to the rescue, and the others followed. Mr. DeVere was not in this play, and had remained at the farmhouse. Ruth, however, not being required in this particular scene, though she would come in the film later, had strolled down the meadow toward a little stream, to gather some flowers. It was in her direction that the frightened horses were running, and as Ruth heard the shouts, and caught the sound made by the clicking machine, she looked up. Then she saw her sister's danger, and without a thought of her own stepped directly in the path of the oncoming animals, waving up and down, frantically, a bunch of flowers she had gathered. "Don't do that! Jump to one side!" cried Sandy, who was now nearer the mowing machine. "Look out, Miss DeVere!" "But I want to stop the horses!" Ruth cried. "I must save Alice!" "You can't do it that way! They'll run you down, or if they don't the knives will cut you! Jump to one side—I'll try and catch them!" Ruth had the good sense to obey. She did not really mean to make a grab for the horses, but to stand in their path as long as she could, hoping to make them slacken speed. But she had forgotten about the projecting knives, which, even in their sheath of steel, might seriously injure her. Alice, white-faced, but still keeping her wits about her, tried to follow the shouted directions, and pull on the reins. But either the horses had the bits in their teeth, or her strength was not enough to bring them to a stop. On they raced, and, as the meadow was a large one, they had plenty of room. Alice might be able to guide them until they tired themselves out, but there was danger that they would turn into a fence, or that the machine would overturn and crush her under it. She had half a notion to leap from the iron seat, and trust to falling on the soft earth. But she feared she might become entangled in the reins, or that she would slip, and fall under the flying feet of the horses, or even on the clattering set of knives. And of these last she well knew the danger, for Sandy had warned her of them. So she decided she would keep her seat as long as she could. Sandy was racing up behind her. Above the thud of the horses' hoofs, and the shrill sound of the clicking knives, Alice could hear him coming on, trying to save her. And how she prayed that he would be in time. The mowing machine was opposite Ruth now, who had stepped back out of the way of harm. And as Alice passed her sister in the machine the latter cried: "Oh, Alice! If you should be hurt!" There was the sound of tears in her voice. Alice did not answer. She had all she could do to look after the plunging horses. Sandy was not at such a disadvantage in his race as at first it would seem. He was light on his feet, and a good runner, though much tramping over plowed fields and rough hills had given him a rather clumsy gait in walking. But the horses were not built for racing, either, and they were dragging a heavy machine on soft ground. The iron wheels of the reaper were made with projections, to enable them to bite deeper into the earth, and thus turn the gears that operated the knives. And these iron wheels were a heavy drag. So it is not surprising that, after a comparatively short run, the horses slackened their pace. "Sit down! I'm comin'!" cried Sandy, and now Alice could hear him panting behind her. In another instant she felt a jar on the machine, and then someone reached over her shoulder, and took the reins from her hands. "I'll pull 'em down!" cried Sandy, balancing himself on a part of the machine, back of the seat on which Alice was riding. The young farmer sawed hard on the lines and this, added to the fact that they had had enough of the hard run, caused the animals to slacken speed. They slowed down to a trot, and then to a walk, finally coming to a halt. And just in time, too, for right in front of them was a big stone fence, into which they might have crashed. "Oh! Oh dear!" gasped Alice. "I—I think I'm going to faint!" "Don't! Please don't, Miss!" begged Sandy, more frightened at that prospect, evidently, than he had been at the runaway. "I—I don't know what to do when ladies faint. Really I don't I—I never saw one faint, Miss. Please don't!" "All right—then I won't," laughed Alice, by an effort conquering her inclination. But she felt a great weakness, now that the strain was over, and she trembled as Sandy helped her down from the machine. In another moment Ruth and the others came up, and Ruth clasped her sister in her arms. "You poor dear!" she whispered. "Oh, I'm all right now," said Alice, bravely. "Perhaps there wasn't as much danger as I imagined." "There was a plenty," spoke Sandy, grimly. The dog, the cause of all the mischief, had disappeared. The horses were now quiet enough, though breathing hard, and soon they began to nibble at the grass. "Well, my dear girl, I'm sorry this happened!" exclaimed Mr. Pertell, as he came running up. "I never would have let you go through that scene if I had dreamed of any danger." "No one could foresee that this was going to happen," returned Alice, who was almost herself again. "I'm all right now, and we'll finish the act, if you please." "Oh, no!" cried Mr. Pertell. "I can't allow it. We'll substitute some other scene." "No," insisted Alice. "I'm not afraid, really, and I think the picture will be a most effective one. Besides, it is almost finished. We can go on from the point where the horses started to run; can't we?" she asked Russ. "Oh, yes," he agreed, with a look at the manager, "but——" "Then I'm going to do it!" laughed Alice, gaily. "I'm not going to back out just because the horses got a little frisky. They will be quiet now; won't they, Sandy?" she asked. "I think so, Miss—yes. That run took all the tucker out of 'em. They'll be quiet now," and he rather backed away from Alice, as though he feared she might, any moment, put into execution her threat to faint. "Alice, I'm not sure you ought to go on with this," spoke Ruth in a low voice. "Papa might not like it." "He wouldn't like me to begin a thing and not finish it," was the younger girl's answer. "I'm not afraid, and I do hate to spoil a film. Come, we'll try it over again," and she pluckily insisted on it until, finally, Mr. Pertell gave in. The horses were driven back to the place from which they had bolted and Alice again took her place on the seat of the mowing machine, while Russ worked the camera. This time everything went well, but Sandy Apgar was near at hand, though out of sight of the camera, to be ready to jump on the instant, if the horses showed any signs of fright. Paul Ardite, too, was on the watch, Ruth noticed. However, there was no need of these precautions. The horses acted as though they had never had any idea of bolting, and the film was finished. Mr. DeVere looked grave when told of the accident, and after a moment or two of thought remarked: "I wonder if I had better let you girls keep on with this moving picture work? It is much more dangerous than I supposed. I am worried about you." "You needn't be, Daddy dear!" exclaimed Alice, slipping her arm about his neck. "Nothing has happened yet, and I'll be real careful. I should be heartbroken if we had to give it up now. I just love the work; don't you, Ruth?" "Indeed I do; but twice lately, danger has come to you." "Well, I'll have one more near-accident and then the 'hoodoo' will be broken, as Mr. Sneed would say. Three times and out, you know the old saying has it." "Oh, Alice!" cried Ruth. "Do be sensible!" "Can't, dear! I leave that to you. But, Daddy, you mustn't think of taking us out of moving pictures. Why, some of the best and most important of all the farm dramas are to come yet. There's the one with the burning barn—I wouldn't miss that for anything! Please, Daddy, let us stay. You want to; don't you, Ruth?" "Oh, yes, of course. Only there seems to be so many dangers about a farm. I used to think a country life was calm and peaceful, but things happen here just as in a city." "Indeed they do," laughed Alice, "only such different things. It's quite exciting, I think. Mayn't we stay, Daddy?" "Oh, I suppose so," he consented, rather grudgingly. "But take no more chances." "Oh, I didn't take the chances," laughed Alice. "The chances took me." During the next few days several farm scenes were filmed by Russ, and a number of partly finished plays were completed, the reels being sent to New York for development. Word came back that everything was a success, only a few minor errors being made, and these were easily corrected. A few scenes had to be done over. "But I'm glad it wasn't the one with the hose," said Mr. Bunn, with a sigh. "Really I'd never go through that again." "Ha! I vould like dot—if I vos on der right side of der hose!" exclaimed Mr. Switzer. The day had been a busy one, filled with hard work for all before the moving picture camera. When evening came the players were glad of the chance to rest. "Let's walk down the road," suggested Alice to Ruth. "It is so pretty and restful on the little white bridge, just before you come to the red schoolhouse." They walked down, arm in arm, talking of many things, and soon were standing on the white bridge that spanned a little stream, which flowed between green banks, fragrant with mint. Here and there were patches of green rushes and beds of the spicy water cress. "Oh, it's just lovely here!" sighed Ruth. "It is too beautiful. I wish we could share it with some one." "Here comes someone now, to share it with—a man," spoke Alice, motioning down the road, which was shaded with many trees, through which the moon was now shining, making patches of light and shadow. "Perhaps it is some of our friends," murmured Ruth. "I believe Russ and Paul started out for a walk before we did." "That's not two persons; it's only one," declared Alice as she continued to look at the advancing figure. "And see, Ruth, he—he limps!" She caught her sister's arm as she spoke, and the two girls drew closer together. The same thought came to both. Was this the man who had run out of the barn? "I believe it's the same one," whispered Ruth. "And I'm perfectly positive," answered Alice. "Oh, Ruth, now is our chance!" "Chance! Chance for what?" "I mean we can find out who he is, and perhaps solve the mystery." "Alice DeVere! We're going to do no such thing! We're going to run back home—that man is coming straight toward us!" cried Ruth, and she began to drag Alice away from the bridge. Meanwhile the limping figure continued to come along the road, going alternately from bright moonlight to shadow as he passed clumps of trees. CHAPTER XIII ON GUARD Perhaps Alice really intended to do as she had intimated, and seek to learn, through a direct question, the identity of the mysterious man who seemed to have some object in remaining about Oak Farm. Then, again, she may not. I believe it may not have been altogether clear in her own mind. At any rate, once Ruth began to show the white feather, and to insist that Alice come away—then, if ever, the younger girl made up her mind that she would do as she had said—really interview the stranger—for, be it known, Alice was rather headstrong when opposed. But she had no chance to carry out her resolution, for the simple reason that the man himself acted to prevent it. "Come, Alice! Please come!" pleaded Ruth, almost in a frenzy of fear. And then the man, catching sight of the girls, who were in bold relief in the gleam of the moonlight, on the white bridge, and hearing their voices, stood still for a moment in a light patch. Then he turned and went rapidly down the road, limping as he hurried along. So Alice had no chance to do as she had said she would. "There he goes!" she exclaimed. "So I see," responded Ruth with a sigh of relief. "Oh, I'm so glad!" "I'm not!" declared Alice, and she really thought she meant it. Perhaps she did. "Oh, Alice!" exclaimed Ruth. "Suppose he had kept on?" "Just what I wanted him to do. There's nothing very harmful in one man, particularly as there are two of us, and we are so near the house, and on a public road. Oh, it was the best chance we've yet had of finding out who he is, and what he wants around here. And he had to go and—spoil it!" Alice acted as though really grieved. "We had better go back and tell Sandy or his father," suggested Ruth. "They may want to chase him." "Not much chance of catching him," replied Alice, ruefully. "See him go, even if he is lame." The man was really making rapid prog ress down the road in spite of his halting gait. "But come on," Alice resumed, "we'll tell the men, and they can do as they like." The two sisters hurried back to the farmhouse, and the message they delivered caused some excitement. For all were more or less interested in the mysterious man. Sandy, Russ and Paul at once hurried out, and went in the direction where Alice and Ruth had last seen the man. The girls, including Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon, also went out to see what success should attend the efforts of the young men. But it was the same as before—there was no sign of the man. This was not strange, though, considering that he might have slipped off at either side of the road, and gone into hiding in the fields, or in a patch of woodland nearby. "Guess we'll have to give it up," said Russ, as he and the others turned back. "I'd like to find out who he is, though." "Do you suppose he could be one of those men who tried to get your patent?" asked Alice. "I mean, he might be disguised." "I hardly think so," was the answer of the young moving picture operator. "Besides, my patent is fully protected now. They couldn't make anything out of that." "Then he must be after something on the farm," suggested Paul, who was walking beside Alice. "There ain't nothin' valuable lyin' aroun' here loose," said Sandy, with a short laugh. "I only wish there was. I'd get it myself an' pay off th' mortgage. More likely that fellow is after some of your movin' pictures. Aren't those reels, as you call 'em, valuable?" "That's so!" exclaimed Paul. "I never thought of that. Maybe he is after some of our films, Russ! We'd better speak to Mr. Pertell about it." "Perhaps we had. There are some moving picture men mean enough to try to take the ideas of other folks, and they might not be above taking the reels of exposed films, too. We've got some good ones on hand." Mr. Pertell was a little skeptical about the matter when it was mentioned to him, but he agreed that there was something in the idea, after all, and that it was rather odd for the mysterious man to remain so long in the vicinity of Oak Farm, without disclosing his errand. "He's a stranger—that's sure," said Mr. Apgar, Sandy's father. "He's a stranger here, for none of th' farmers in these parts know him. I've heard one or two mention seein' a lame feller going about, as if he had plenty of spare time. It must be this man. But, as Sandy says, we ain't got nothin' he can git. It all belongs t' Squire Blasdell," he added with a rueful laugh. "Or it will after th' mortgage is foreclosed," he finished with a sigh. The old man looked over at his wife, who was seated in a rocking chair, mending stockings. She was a good sewer, and members of the theatrical troupe had her do work for them, thus enabling her to earn a little money, for which she was very grateful. The plight of the old people was really pitiful, with the dark shadow of losing their home ever looming nearer. Sandy tried to be cheerful, and several times said that perhaps at the last minute a way might be found to save the farm. But he was not very hopeful. He worked hard—doubly hard, since his father was able to do very little. This made it necessary to hire help, and that left so much less profit on the gathered crops. "Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to keep watch to-night," suggested Mr. DeVere, when the matter of the mysterious man was being discussed. "That fellow may have designs on some of your farm buildings, Mr. Apgar." "That's so, he might," agreed the farmer. "Barns has been sot afire afore this." "Don't talk that way, Father, you'll scare the young folks," chided his wife gently, as she looked at Ruth and smiled reassuringly. "That'll never happen," she added, for, at the mention of the word "fire," Ruth had glanced nervously at the door, as though the limping man stood on the other side of it. "I'll keep an eye open to-night," said Sandy. "If that fellow comes around I'll be ready for him." "I'll help you," volunteered Russ, and Paul, too, said he would help in standing guard. It was arranged that the three men should take turns in keeping watch, and, during the night, patrol the barns and other buildings occasionally, to watch for any signs of the stranger. At first the girls, and even Mrs. Maguire, were a bit nervous, and this made little Tommy and Nellie, the latter's grandchildren, somewhat timid. Then Mr. Pertell suggested that they all consider their parts in a new drama that was to be started next day, as that would take their minds off the scare. Save for the occasional barking of a dog, who bayed at the moon, and the lowing of the cattle, there was scarcely a sound, except those of the night insects. The night passed quietly, and there was no sign of the mysterious man. "I guess you girls scared him away for good," remarked Paul, at the breakfast table. "I hope so," murmured Alice. "I had one look at his face, and if ever I saw a hard and cruel one I saw it then." Work and rehearsals of the new play occupied all for the next two days. Several new things in the way of properties were needed, and this kept Pop Snooks busy. One of the things he had to provide was a rickety two-wheeled cart, that was to be hitched to a donkey, one of the farm animals. "Who's going to ride in that cart?" asked Mr. Bunn, as he strode about the place with the new silk hat which, true to promise, Mr. Pertell had purchased to replace the water-soaked one. "I think I'll cast Ruth DeVere to ride in the cart," said the manager. "Someone will have to ride the mule, though, and as I want a tall man for that act I think I'll take you, Mr. Bunn. You will black up as a colored man, and——" "Stop! Stop where you are!" cried the Shakespearean actor, in stentorian tones. "I shall do nothing of the sort. You may consider that I have resigned!" CHAPTER XIV AN UPSET Perhaps Wellington Bunn was disappointed that Mr. Pertell did not at once beg him to reconsider his resignation, and to stay his parting steps, for the actor had turned aside after issuing his defiance, and started toward the house, as though to carry out his threat, pack up and go back to New York. But the manager did not call after Mr. Bunn to stay. All he said was: "Very well, Mr. Bunn, if you resign now, without the two weeks' notice called for in your contract, you need not expect another engagement with me, nor with any of the moving picture associations with which I am connected. I am not asking you to do anything very difficult." "But to ride a mule! Great Scott! I can't do that, my dear sir!" "You told me you could ride." "Yes, a horse, perhaps; but not a mule. Why, a mule kicks!" "Oh, I don't believe this one will kick," replied the manager. "Anyhow, I want you to ride him. There is to be a comic part to this play, and I look to you to provide it. You will blacken your face and——" "Black up and take the part of a colored man—me, Wellington Bunn—who has played the classic Shakespeare—do blackface? Never!" "You forget that Shakespeare's Othello was a colored man, I guess," laughed Mr. Pertell, "and you told me you had played that character." "So I have, but Othello was a Moor—not a common black-faced comedian. He was brown, rather than black." "Well, we'll go a few shades darker, and be real black, in your case," suggested Mr. Pertell. "And you'll have to ride the mule. It is necessary to make the scene a success." Wellington Bunn sighed, as he answered: "Very well. But when this engagement is over no more moving pictures for me! I am through with them!" "We'll see," replied the manager, as he went on with his preparations for the new play. Nearly the whole company were to take part in this, and Tommy and Nellie had parts that pleased them very much. "I'm to drive a little goat cart!" exclaimed the small lad, "and you're to ride with me, Nellie." "Oh, that will be fun!" she cried, clapping her hands. "But your goat won't bite; will he?" "I won't let him bite you, anyhow," promised Tommy, kindly. Although Mr. Bunn had tacitly agreed to ride the mule, he had many misgivings on the subject, and several times he might have been seen standing near the animal, carefully studying it, as though it were a piece of complicated machinery that had to be mastered in detail. "Is it a—er—a gentle beast?" the actor asked of Sandy. "Allers has been," replied the young farmer. "'Hee-haw,' as we call him, ain't never done no harm to speak of." "He may begin on you," predicted Pepper Sneed, gloomily. "I wish you wouldn't say such things!" exclaimed the other actor, testily. "You are always looking for trouble." "Well, you'll get some without looking for it, if you ride that mule," declared the "grouch," as he walked off. "Yes, and if anything happens, I suppose you'll say 'I told you so!'" remarked Mr. Bunn, with a gloomy countenance. Preparations for the play went on, and rehearsals were in order. Without blacking his face, which could be done when the play was actually filmed, Mr. Bunn gingerly rode the mule. He made as much of a success of it as was possible. And certainly Hee-haw showed no signs of obstreperousness. Ruth rode in the curious old cart, which Pop Snooks had made from material found about the farm. She was to represent a country maid of a generation past—and very pretty she looked, too, in her wide skirts and poke bonnet, covered with roses. Quite in contrast to the long and lanky figure Mr. Bunn, who in a nondescript suit, rode the mule that drew the cart, after the fashion of an English postillion. The play was a comic one without much rhyme or reason, but it was found that audiences occasionally liked things of that sort, so the films were made. The day for the humorous film had arrived, and all went well until the scene came with the mule. Even the first part of that was successfully taken, though Mr. Bunn kept muttering to himself over the fact that he had to blacken his face. But he rode the beast, which certainly did nothing out of the ordinary, though Mr. Sneed, with his usual gloomy forebodings, confided to Pop that the beast had a wicked look in his eyes. Ruth had ridden in the cart along the country road and had alighted from the vehicle, her part being over. Then, just as Mr. Bunn was about to get off the mule's back a bee, or some other insect, stung the animal. With a "Hee-haw!" worthy of his name the mule lashed out with his hind feet and, in an instant, the frail cart that Pop Snooks had constructed was kicked to bits. It was lucky that Ruth was out of it. As for Wellington Bunn, he fell forward on the mule's back when the animal kicked out, and there, holding on tightly, the actor clung, while the beast dashed off down the road, dragging behind him the shafts and a small part of the cart. "There he goes! I knew something would happen to him!" cried Mr. Sneed. "To-day is Friday!" "Oh, he'll be hurt—maybe killed!" cried Ruth, for, in spite of his rather too-tragic airs, Mr. Bunn was liked by all. "I guess he won't get hurt much!" exclaimed Sandy. "Hee-haw never runs far, an' he never did such a thing before." However, all the men ran down the road to see the outcome of the happening to Mr. Bunn, and to lend help, if necessary. On ran the mule, seemingly not slackening speed, and to his neck, so that he should not fall off, clung the actor. His long legs flapped up and down, and swayed from side to side, while his cries of wild distress floated back to his friends. "Stop him! Don't let him run! Grab him, somebody!" pleaded Mr. Bunn. But there was no one who could stop the animal. However, the ride was not destined to be a long one. The mule ran along the highway, leaped a roadside ditch, and then stopped short in front of a grassy bank. So sudden was the halt that Mr. Bunn shot over the animal's head, his hold around the neck being broken, and he was thus neatly upset, coming down amid the luxurious growth of grass. He sat there dazed for a moment, his face being now curiously streaked, for some of the powdered carbon had rubbed off on the mule's neck. As for Hee-haw, he began quietly cropping the grass, as if he had done his part of the entertainment. "Oh, if I had only been able to get that on the film!" cried Russ, as he and the others ran up. "Maybe we can get him to do it over again, Mr. Pertell." "What—do that again! Never! I resign here and now!" exclaimed the actor. "I am through with the moving picture business forever!" But as he had often said that before, and as he was in the habit of resigning at least once every day, no one took him seriously. "Are you hurt, my dear sir?" asked the manager, solicitously, as he reached Mr. Bunn's side. "If I am not, it is not due to you," was the retort. "But I believe I have escaped with my life." He arose gingerly, and discovered that he had not even a scratch. The soft grass had saved him from everything but a jolt. "I never knew Hee-haw to act so before," said Sandy, as he came up and took charge of the mule. "Well, he'll never get the chance to act so with me again," declared Mr. Bunn, with great decision. "Now, as soon as I get this detestable black from my face, I am going to New York. I am through with moving pictures." Mr. Pertell did not attempt to argue with the actor, well knowing that the threat would not be carried out. Nor was it. A little later, when clothed in his accustomed garb, with his tall hat, which he seldom omitted from his costume, Mr. Bunn walked out, studying a new part that he was to take in the next play. But for several days after that, if anyone said "mule" to him, or even imitated the braying of that beast, Mr. Bunn scowled fiercely and strode off. In one of the scenes Mr. Pertell needed a number of farm hands to pose in the background, representing a scene in a wheat field, that was being mowed with the old fashioned scythes. Sandy undertook to get the characters, and a number of rather shy and awkward young men presented themselves at Oak Farm one morning. "Now we'll try this," said the manager, when all was in readiness. "You young farmers are supposed to be working in the wheat field. Just act naturally—as if you were working. Don't pay any attention to the camera. Talk among yourselves, and swing your scythes. My actors will do the main work in front of you. But I want a truly artistic background for the film. "Now, Mr. Sneed, you and Miss Pennington are the main characters in this scene. You, Mr. Sneed, are supposed to be one of the reapers, and Miss Pennington comes out to bring the workers a jug of lemonade. She also has a letter for you to read. You lean on your scythe as you read it—you know, a nice, graceful pose." "I know," answered the actor. "And you, Miss Pennington, you are supposed to be in love with one of the young farmers." "Me! Me!" cried several of the lads Sandy had engaged. "Now, not all at once, please!" begged Mr. Pertell, with a smile. "I appreciate your interest in Miss Pennington, but this must be worked out according to the scenario." He went on to explain how he wanted the action carried out, and Russ was ready with the camera. "Attention!" called the manager, as he stepped back to get a general view of the scene. "That will do, I think," he added. "Go!" he cried, and the action of the play was on, Russ clicking away at the camera. First the reapers were shown, swaying as they walked along, each one cutting his "swath," or path, through the standing grain. Mr. Sneed was one of these. Then the view changed, so as to show Miss Pennington, dressed as a country lass, coming along with a jug on her shoulder, and a letter in her hand. She reached the scene of the mowing, and there was a little "business," or acting, as she handed over the letter. Some of the farmers drank from the jug, and all of them had hard work to keep their eyes from the camera. "Not that way! Not that way!" cried the manager, as one young reaper took a position directly in front of the clicking machine and stared straight into the lens. "You're not posing in a beauty contest. Go on with your reaping, if you please, young man!" "I can cut a foot or so out," said Russ. "That won't spoil the film." "Now then, Mr. Sneed, lean your arm on the scythe, and read your letter," directed the manager. "Miss Pennington, you stand off a little to one side, and talk to one of the reapers. The rest of you swing your scythes." The action went on, and Mr. Sneed, taking as graceful an attitude as was consistent with his character, began to read the missive, which would be photographed, much enlarged, later, and thrown on the screen for the audience to read. Made nervous by something to which they were unaccustomed, the farmer-actors were perhaps a little self-conscious. One of them, swinging his scythe, came too near Mr. Sneed. In an instant he had knocked from under the actor's arm the crooked scythe handle on which Mr. Sneed was leaning, and the next instant the "grouch" went down in a heap, fortunately falling in such a way that he was not cut by the sharp blade. CHAPTER XV THE LONELY CABIN "Stop the reel! Hold that, Russ! Everyone keep position! We don't want that spoiled!" cried Mr. Pertell, when he had seen, at a glance, that Mr. Sneed was not hurt. "Hold your positions, everybody!" This is an order frequently given during the taking of moving pictures, when any accident happens. Often the film will break, while the exposures are being made, and if the actors keep to the places and positions they had when the break occurred, the film can be threaded up again, and mended. Then, later, undesireable parts can be cut out of the exposed part, so that no great harm is done. For a moment the little accident rather upset the crowd of farm lads, who were not used to such happenings. But the moving picture actors themselves were not unduly alarmed. Russ had stopped operating his camera. "You're not hurt; are you, Mr. Sneed?" asked the manager. "Hurt—no! But I might have been! I was sure something would happen to-day, for I saw a black cat as I got up. Well, it's lucky it's no worse. But I wish you'd make those fellows with their big cutters keep farther back, Mr. Pertell. They might slice my legs off. I know some serious accident will happen before the day is over." "Oh, cheer up!" laughed Russ. The actor arose, Mr. Pertell cautioned the young farmers about coming too close with their keen, swinging scythes, and the moving picture play went on. Ruth and Alice DeVere had parts in the little drama, but they were to enact them with a different background, and when Russ finished filming the scenes in the wheat field he went back to the farmhouse to get other pictures. There appeared to be something unusual going on, for out in the road stood two carriages, and on the porch could be seen Mr. and Mrs. Apgar, and Sandy, with two men. The moving picture actors and actresses who had not gone to the field were also there. "I wonder what is going on?" said Mr. Pertell. "Something has happened!" exclaimed Mr. Sneed. "I knew it would—I told you so!" Hurrying to the porch where the group was, Mr. Pertell heard one of the strangers saying: "Well, we've got to do it whether you like it or not, Mr. Apgar. Squire Blasdell wants the money on that mortgage, and the only way he can get it is to foreclose. So I've got to post the notices of the sale." "To think that I should live to see this day!" sighed Mr. Apgar. "My farm to be sold under foreclosure!" "It is hard, Pa, dreadful hard," said Mrs. Apgar. "But we are honest. We'd pay if we could." "If only I could find Uncle Isaac's money," sighed Sandy. "Couldn't you give us a little more time, Sheriff Hasell?" "No, I'm sorry; but I can't," replied the official. "You see this isn't actually selling the farm. We're only going to post notices that it will be sold. That has to be done, according to the law here. It'll be some time though, before the farm is auctioned off to the highest bidder." "And we can stay here until then; can't we?" asked Sandy. "Oh, yes, sure, and for a little while after. You see these things take time," the sheriff re turned. "It's too bad—I'm sorry, but me and my deputy has to do our duty." "Go ahead, then," said Sandy, and there were tears in his eyes. "We won't stop you, but it's hard—it's terrible hard—to lose the place we worked so long for, an' all because of some mistake. Uncle Isaac would want us to have that money paw lent him, but he died afore he could tell where he hid it." The sheriff and his man then went about the farm, posting several notices of the sale on the different buildings. This gave Russ an idea, and he suggested it to Mr. Pertell. "Why not make a film of this," said the young operator. "Old couple—going to be turned off their farm—foreclosure of mortgage—posting the notices—the cruel creditor—the sheriff and all that. We could make up a good play." "So we could!" cried the manager. "A good idea, and I'll pay Mr. and Mrs. Apgar for posing for us. It'll give 'em a little extra money." At first the aged couple would not hear of posing before the camera, but Sandy explained matters to them, and told them they could easily do it. Mr. Pertell promised to pay well, and this finally won them over. The sheriff and his deputy good-naturedly agreed to do their tacking up of the notices in front of the camera, and so an unexpected film was obtained. It is often that way in making moving pictures. The least germ of an idea often leads to a good play. The other scenes in "The Loss of the Farm," as the play was to be called, would be made later. For the present it was necessary to go on with the scenes of the drama, part of which had been laid in the wheat field. Russ put some fresh film in his camera and was ready for Ruth and Alice, who had some pretty little scenes together. The day was hot, the work was exacting, and when it was over everyone was ready to rest. Russ was perhaps busier than any, for he had to prepare the films to be sent in light-tight boxes to New York for development, arrangement, and printing. "Let's go off to the woods," suggested Alice to her sister, when they had changed their costumes for walking dresses of cool brown, with white waists. "I declare I just want to get under a tree and lie down on the soft green moss." "So do I, dear. We'll go up to that little dell which is so pretty—the one where we got the lovely flowers. It is so restful there." Together the sisters set off, walking slowly, for the air was sultry. "Don't you want to come, Daddy?" called Ruth to her father, who was sitting on the farmhouse porch. "No, thank you," he answered. "I have some letters to write." His voice had grown somewhat stronger under the influence of the pure, country air, and from the fact that he used it very little. But still it was not clear enough to enable him to go back into legitimate theatrical work. And, truth to tell, he rather preferred the moving pictures now. It was easier, even if there was no audience to applaud him. Ruth and Alice soon reached the edge of the cool woods, and then they strolled slowly along until they came to a little dell—a nook they had discovered one day when out walking. "Oh, this is delightful!" exclaimed Alice, as she sank down on a bed of moss. "Yes, it is very soothing to the nerves," agreed Ruth. "Oh, dear!" she suddenly cried, leaping to her feet. "What is it?" demanded Alice. "A bug walked right over my shoe!" "Oh, mercy me!" mocked her sister. "Are you so scared that even a bug can't look at you, sister mine? Why, it's only a lady-bug—very proper to have on one's shoes, I'm sure," she added, as she saw the harmless insect. "I don't care! I just hate bugs!" cried Ruth. "I wish I had a rug to sit on." "Oh, you were never meant for the country!" laughed Alice. "Come, sit down, I'll keep the bugs away from you," and she pulled a big fern, which she used as a fan. The sisters sat and talked of many things, speculating on the identity of the mysterious man and wondering if the Apgars would ever discover Uncle Isaac's missing money and so save the farm. The day was drawing to a close, and the girls felt that they must soon return to the farmhouse. "Hark! What's that?" asked Alice, suddenly, after a period of silence. A distant rumble came to their ears. "Wagon going over a bridge, I should say," replied Ruth. "More like thunder," Alice went on. "It is thunder," she said a moment later, as a sharp clap reverberated through the still air. "Come on, Ruth, or we'll be caught." They scrambled up from the mossy bed, and hurried from the little glen. But the storm came on apace, and before they were half-way out of the woods there was a sudden flurry of wind, and then came a deluge of rain, ushered in by vivid lightning, and loud thunder. "Oh, Alice, we'll be drenched—and our new dresses!" cried Ruth. "Let's get under a tree," suggested the younger girl. "That will shelter us." "And get struck by lightning! I guess not!" protested Ruth. "Trees are always dangerous in a thunder storm." "But we must find shelter!" said Alice, as they ran on. They came to a little clearing in the woods, and pausing at the edge saw a lonely cabin in the midst of it. "Come on over there!" cried Alice. "They'll take us in, whoever they are, until the shower is over." Seizing Ruth's hand she darted toward the cabin. Then both girls saw a man open the door and stand in it—a man at the sight of whom they drew back in alarm. CHAPTER XVI THE MAN AND THE UMBRELLA For a moment the man stood in the doorway of the cabin, staring at Ruth and Alice standing there in the drenching rain. They had recognized him at once as the man whom they had seen run out of the old barn—the limping man who had fled down the moonlit road when he espied them on the bridge. Whether or not he knew the girls, they did not stop to consider. Certainly they were dressed differently than on either of the occasions they had encountered him; but that might not obviate recognition. "Come—come on back to the woods," whispered Ruth. "We—we don't want to meet him, Alice." "No, I suppose not," agreed Alice, "and yet," and she seemed to shiver, "we ought not to stand out in this storm when shelter is so near, no matter who that man is." "Oh, Alice!" exclaimed Ruth. "Well, I mean it! I am soaked, and you are, too. Besides, that lightning is awful—and the thunder! I can't stand it—come on. I'm sure he won't eat us!" But the girls were saved any anxiety by the action of the strange man. Alice was trying to draw her sister toward the cabin, and Ruth, torn between a desire to get under shelter, and fear of the man, was hardly able to decide, when the stranger darted back into the cabin, and came out with an umbrella. "Oh, he's going to offer it to us!" exclaimed Alice. "That is good of him." But, to her surprise, no less than that of Ruth, the man called out: "Come in, and welcome, young ladies. You may stay in this cabin as long as you like. The roof leaks in one place, but otherwise it is dry. I have to go away. Come in!" And with that he put up the umbrella and hurried off, limping through the rain, but never once glancing back at the girls. For a moment Alice and Ruth did not know what to do or think. The action was certainly strange. And why had not the man come to meet them with the umbrella, while he was about it? There was some little distance to go, from the fringe of trees where the two girls stood, to the cabin, and this space was open; whereas, by keeping under the leafy boughs they were, in a measure, protected from the pelting rain. "What shall we do, Ruth?" asked Alice. She wanted to defer to the older judgment of her sister. But Ruth answered: "I don't know, dear. What had we better do? I'm afraid——" "And so am I afraid—but I'm more afraid of this thunder and lightning, to say nothing of the rain, than I am of what may be in that cabin, now that the man has so kindly left it to us. I'm going in there, Ruth, and stay until the storm is over." With that, picking up her skirts, Alice sped across the open space, leaving Ruth to do as she pleased. And, naturally, Ruth would not stay there to be drenched alone. "Wait for me, Alice—wait!" she pleaded. But there was no need for Alice to delay, since she would only get the wetter, and Ruth was in no danger. "Come along," called Alice over her shoulder, and Ruth came. The sisters reached the cabin just as a brilliant flash of lightning, with almost simultaneous thunder, seemed to open the clouds, and the rain came down in a veritable flood. "Just in time!" cried Alice. "We would have been drowned if we had stayed out there. That man has some good qualities about him, at any rate. He was nice enough to give us the use of this place." "And maybe we're wronging him," panted Ruth, out of breath after her little run, and her hair all awry. "He may be all right, and it is foolish to suspect him of something we know nothing about." "Perhaps," admitted Alice. "But there is a look in his face I do not like. I can't explain why, but he looks, somehow—oh, I can't explain it, but he looks as if he had been in prison—or some place like that." "What a strange idea," responded Ruth. "I can't say I think that of him, but I agree with you that there is something repulsive about him. And that seems a mean thing to say, after he has given us the use of the cabin." "How do we know it was his?" asked Alice. "It doesn't appear to me to belong to anybody. Certainly it isn't very sumptuously furnished!" and she looked about the place in considerable curiosity. It was devoid of anything in the way of furniture, and only a few rough boxes were scattered about. On a stone hearth were the gray and blackened embers of a fire, and in one corner was a broken chair. "It seems to have been deserted a long time," said Alice. "I guess that man was passing and took shelter in here, just as we intended to. But there's another room. We may as well inspect that, and there's another upstairs. That may be a little better. We'll look, Ruth." "We'll do nothing of the kind!" exclaimed Ruth. "We'll just stay right by the door where we can run, in case—in case anything happens," she finished, rather falteringly. "Silly!" exclaimed Alice. "There is no one in this place." "But that man might come back." "Not likely. Besides, don't you know that it's the worst thing in the world to stand in an open doorway, before a fireplace or in a draft of any kind when there's lightning. Lightning is always attracted by a draft, or a chimney, or something like that." "Oh, why do you always think of such nervous, scary things?" cried Ruth. "Because they're true," answered Alice. "And I want to get you into the other room. We might find out something. And if you won't come upstairs, I'll go alone." "And leave me down here? I'll not stay!" "Then come along. We'll investigate. We may find a clue, as they say in books." Alice drew back from the open door, and started for the inner room. Ruth stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. She looked across the glade, but the strange man was not in sight. He and his umbrella had disappeared into the depths of the woods. Just then there came another vivid flash of lightning, and such a startling clap of thunder that Ruth, with a little scream, darted back, and, springing across the room, clutched Alice by the arm. "Oh, I'm so frightened!" she gasped. "We'll be all right now—in the back room," soothed the younger girl. "Oh, look! I believe that man does live here after all!" For the room was furnished with some chairs, a table, and in one corner was a cot bed, with the clothes tossed aside as if someone had lately been sleeping there. There was a small stove in the room, and pots, pans and dishes scattered about, as if meals had been recently cooked. A cupboard gave hint of things to eat. All this the girls took in by means of the rapid flashes of lightning, for it was growing too dark to see well inside the cabin, which was of logs, and with only small windows. "Yes, he must live here," agreed Ruth. "Oh, I hope he doesn't come back before the storm is over, so we can get away. You'll not go upstairs now; will you, Alice, dear?" Ruth looked pleadingly at her sister. "No, I guess not," was the answer. "We couldn't see much, anyhow. And if that man really lives here it wouldn't be exactly polite to go about his place without a better invitation than we have. He spoke truly when he called this his cabin." "Unless he just found it empty and took the use of it without asking the owner," suggested Ruth. "I wish we knew more about him." "So do I," agreed Alice. "I wonder if he really had to go away in the storm, or whether he knew we would not come in the cabin while he was here, and so made an excuse to leave it to us alone?" "If he did that it certainly was very kind of him," said Ruth. "Perhaps he is bashful and shy," observed Alice. "He ran before, when he saw us on the bridge, and now he runs away and leaves us his house—such as it is. Clearly there is some mystery about him. Oh, listen to the rain!" Indeed the storm was at its height now, and the girls were glad of the shelter of the cabin. As the man had said, there was a leak somewhere in the roof, and they could hear the steady drip, drip of water falling. But they did not see it, and the cabin seemed quite dry. It was a shelter from the wind, too, which was now blowing fiercely, bending the trees before the might of its blast. But, like all summer showers, this was not destined to last long. Its fury kept up a little longer, and then began to die away. Gradually the lightning grew less vivid, and the flashes were farther apart. The thunder rumbled less heavily and the rain slackened. The girls went to the entrance room and gazed out. "We can start soon," spoke Ruth. "It may sound a selfish thing to say, but I wish that man had left us his umbrella. We'll get quite wet going home, for the water will drip from the trees for some time." "Perhaps he'll come back and offer us the use of it," suggested Alice. "Don't you dare say such a thing!" exclaimed her sister. "Oh, I wish we were home! I'm afraid daddy will worry." "I wish there was a fire in that stove," spoke Alice, musingly. "I'd make some coffee, if I could find any. I'm quite chilly. We are wet through, and can't be made much worse by not having a umbrella. I'm going to look and see if I can find some coffee." "Alice, don't!" objected Ruth, but her sister was already in the rear room, and, not wanting to be left alone, Ruth followed. But, before either of the girls had time to look about and see if it were possible to kindle a blaze in the old stove, they heard a noise in the room they had just left. It was the patter, as of bare feet, on the wooden floor. Startled, the two gazed at one another. Then they clasped their arms about each other's waists. "Did—did you hear that?" whispered Ruth. Alice nodded, and looked over her sister's shoulder toward the door between the two rooms. Meanwhile the pattering footfalls in the other apartment continued. They seemed to be coming nearer, and there was a panting, as though someone had run far, and was breathing hard. CHAPTER XVII IN THE WOODS "What—what can it be?" faltered Ruth, as she clung to her sister. "I—I don't know," answered Alice, and her voice was far from steady. "I wish we hadn't come in here." "So do I!" Ruth confessed. Nearer and nearer came the footfalls. Now the girls were able to distinguish that they were made by some four-footed beast, and not by a human being, for the sound came in a peculiar rhythm that was unmistakable. Also there could be heard a panting, sniffing sound, that could only be made by some beast. "Oh, if it's a bear !" gasped Ruth. "Silly!" chided Alice. She was less nervous now, for she realized, with Ruth's remark, that there were no savage beasts in that part of the country. "Maybe it's only a cat," Alice suggested, after a moment. "It's too big and heavy for a cat," objected Ruth. "Oh, there it is!" she suddenly cried, pointing to the doorway between the two rooms, and, looking, Alice saw a tawny animal standing looking at them in the fast falling darkness. "It's only a dog!" cried Alice, in joyous relief. "A fine dog! Come here, sir!" she called, for Alice could make friends with almost any animal. But this dog, though he barked in a friendly fashion, and wagged his tail as a flag of truce, would not come nearer. He sniffed in the direction of the girls and then, with another bark, turned and ran out toward the entrance door. "Come on!" called Alice. "It has stopped raining, Ruth, and maybe that dog will follow us home. He'll be fine protection!" Ruth was not at all averse to having some sort of guardian on the walk through the lonely woods, but when she and Alice reached the outer room the dog, with a last look back, and a farewell bark, trotted off across the glade in the direction taken by the strange man with the umbrella. "He's gone!" exclaimed Alice, in disappointment. "Come back!" she invited. "Come back, sir!" and she whistled in boyish fashion. But the dog was not to be enticed, and was soon lost in the woods. "Maybe he belonged to that man," suggested Ruth, "and came here looking for him. What sort of a dog was it, Alice?" "A collie. The same kind Mrs. Delamont lost in the train wreck, you know." "Oh, maybe it was her prize animal, Alice!" "How could it be? He was lost a good way from here. But it looked to be a fine dog. Shall we go home, now?" "Yes," agreed Ruth. "We can't get much wetter, and I don't want to stay here any longer. I know daddy will be worried about us." With a last look about the cabin, wondering what could be the business of the man who stayed there, the girls started off. But they had not taken three steps before they saw, coming toward them from the other side of the clearing, two figures. "Oh!" cried Ruth, drawing back. "There comes that man, and he's got someone with him." Alice, too, was startled and a little bit afraid, but a moment later there came a cheerful hail. "Oh, it's Russ and Paul!" Alice cried. "They have come for us!" "Thank goodness!" exclaimed Ruth, and a few seconds later the four young people were together, making mutual explanations. Mr. DeVere had indeed become worried about his daughters, when the storm arose, and, as they had left word whither they were going, Russ and Paul volunteered to go after them, taking raincoats and umbrellas. "And here we are!" exclaimed Russ, as he helped Ruth on with her garment. "And we were never so glad to see anyone in all our lives; were we?" went on Alice, who, in spite of her brave nature, had been considerably unnerved by the events of the last few minutes. The young men were much surprised when told about the strange man and the dog, and they at once wanted to make an inspection of the cabin. "Who knows what we might find!" exclaimed Russ. "Wait until later, then," suggested Ruth. "Please take us home now." Russ and Paul had no choice, after that, but to take the girls back to Oak Farm. The rain was over, but the trees still dripped with moisture and the raincoats and umbrellas were very useful. Paul walked with Alice, while Russ kept pace at the side of Ruth. And as the four walked together they talked of the recent happenings, speculating as to the meaning of them all. Back in the comfortable farmhouse, clothed in dry garments, Ruth and Alice were inclined to laugh at their scare, which, at the time, had seemed very real. "I think that man was real kind," said Mrs. Apgar, as she heard the story. "To leave his cabin that way." "He was, unless he had some object in view," said Sandy. "I'd like to know what his game is. He's got some object hangin' around here, and I'm goin' to find out what it is." "Was that his cabin?" asked Ruth. "No, that's an old shack that really belongs on this place," explained Mr. Apgar, "but there's a dispute as to the title, so no one really knows who owns it. 'Tain't much 'count, anyhow. But you say he was livin' in it?" "He had it partly furnished, at any rate," said Alice. "It could be fixed up and made into a lovely little bungalow." "Well, you folks kin do that if you like," offered Sandy. "I kin have it fixed so that fellow won't stay there. He's got no rights: only a squatter." "I think we'd feel safer here," returned Ruth, with a smile. "That man might come back unexpectedly." "I think I'll go up there to-morrow and have a look around," suggested Russ. "I'd like to see more of that cabin by daylight." "And I'll go with you," offered Sandy. "I'm gittin' real interested in this chap." But when they went up early next morning they found the place deserted, and no signs of the strange man. There was evidence that he had packed up some of his things, for the bed clothing was gone, with some of the cooking utensils the girls had seen in the kitchen. "He's stolen a march on us," declared Paul, grimly. "Probably took fright because the girls located his hiding place," said Russ. "And I reckon he is in hidin' for some reason or other," remarked Sandy. "I wish I could have him arrested!" "What for?" Russ wanted to know. "I'm afraid you'd have hard work to make a charge that would hold. So far he hasn't done anything that we know of." "He could be held as a trespasser," spoke Paul. "He was in the Apgar barn; wasn't he?" "Yes, I suppose so." "That fellow's up to more than jest tres passin'," declared Sandy. "He's got some motive, and I'm goin' to find out what it is." But for the present this was out of the question. The man was gone, and none at Oak Farm knew his whereabouts. The only thing they could do was to wait until he showed himself again. "But having a dog was a new one," said Russ. "That is, if it was his the girls saw." But even on this point they could not be sure. They returned to the house, for Russ had to make several films that day. Several acts of one of the plays were to take place in the woods, and Russ had found a spot, not far from the lonely cabin, where there was the proper background of trees and hills. Thither the company went that afternoon, and after a little rehearsal, Mr. Pertell gave the word for the real action of the drama to begin. Miss Pennington and Miss Dixon were in this, as were Ruth and Alice. There was to be a picnic scene, with a campfire at which a meal was to be cooked, and real food had been prepared for the act. "All ready!" called the manager, when he had looked over the little company, and seen that they were all in their proper positions. "Go ahead, Russ!" For a time all went well, and then came a scream from Miss Dixon, who jumped up with such suddenness that she upset a pitcher of lemonade over Mr. Switzer. "Cut that out, Russ!" called the manager, sharply. "We seem to be having all sorts of accidents of late." "Oh, I'm so sorry!" apologized the actress. "But I—I saw a bug!" "You usually do in der voods, my dear young lady!" said Mr. Switzer, as he sopped up the lemonade from his trousers with his handkerchief. "Und, if it iss all der same mit you, I vould like to have my oder lemonade on der insides of me und not on der outsides, ef you pliss!" It took some little time to get matters straightened out, so that the making of the film could proceed. Several scenes were successfully made, and they were ready for the final one, when this time Miss Pennington screamed. "Another bug?" asked Mr. Pertell, and he was a bit sarcastic over it, for several little things had bothered him that day. "No, it's a snake! A snake! See, he's coming right for me!" and deserting the scene Miss Pennington made for a broad stump, upon which she jumped, screaming. "Snake! Call that a snake!" cried Russ, as he picked up a rather large and squirming angleworm. "Oh, put it down—the horrid thing!" begged Miss Dixon, who had joined her friend on the stump. "Poor little thing!" laughed Russ, as he tossed the worm into a clump of leaves. "Go home and tell your folks you scared two brave young ladies!" "Smarty!" exclaimed Miss Pennington, with a vindictive look at the moving picture operator, who had left his camera when the scene was broken up. Once again matters were arranged and the taking of the film went on as before. But that was a day destined to be fraught with adventures of more or less moment. In one scene Mr. Sneed had to pose as a wood chopper, and, to make it more realistic he was to fell a small tree. This action on his part had cost him no little time and trouble, for he was not proficient in the use of the axe. For several days the actor had had Sandy "coaching" him until he could do fairly well. "We'll try that tree-cutting scene now," said Mr. Pertell, after a bit. "Get ready for that, Russ. And, whatever you do, Mr. Sneed, don't have the tree fall on the camera. I don't want all the film spoiled." Soon all was in readiness for the final act of the day. Mr. Sneed swung his axe with vigorous strokes and the keen weapon bit deep into the wood. Alice and Ruth, who were acting with him, went through their parts in the little play. At times Mr. Sneed would pause to go through some other "business," and then resume his chopping. "Look out," warned Sandy Apgar, who was one of the characters in the act. "She'll fall in a minute." "Yes, get from under," advised Russ. "I'll get a good picture of the tree coming down." Mr. Sneed ran out of the way, as a cracking warned him that the tree was going to fall. It was not a large one, but it had very heavy and thick foliage. Crash! Down came the tree, and then followed a cry of alarm. "Ach! I am killet! I am caught under der tree!" "Great Scott! Another accident!" groaned Mr. Pertell. "This certainly is a hoodoo day!" and they all ran to where Mr. Switzer had been pinned.