Berra i dn
Belleforte, Pa., February 10, 1928.
LADDIES.
Though we've sounded a warning ’gainst
lads who persist
In smoking the vile cigarette,
Bear in mind that good lads, in our mind,
are as fine
As the best of the lassies e'er get.
This would be a drear world if we hadn’t
the hoys,
We'd really not care to stay,
If all of our merry and fun-loving lads,
Were gone from our fireside away.
If they’re ever away for a day and a
. night
Seems like there was somebody dead.
And we're not quite at ease till they all
are back home,
“At home in their own little bed.”
It’s not only the small lads we miss when
they're gone,
But the manly and ‘grown up” young
sport;
And you see it’s the girls keep them stay-
ing so long,
They're going
“court.”
through sessions of
But look skarp, my laddies, before you
get “tied,”
Look out for a lass who can cook,
Who can bake you a pie, or a little brown
loaf, :
Without getting it out of a book.
Now don’t get discouraged and down in
the mouth,
You may yet do as well as your chum;
One lad found a lass who is worth quite
a prize,
For she can do more than chew gum.
She can make water boil in a pot on the
stove
Without scorching, so don’t be so blus,
For if other young men have such won-
derful luck
Pray, tell me, now, why should not you?
So look out, my dear lad, for the lass
who can cook,
Who car bake you a loaf or a pie;
If you'll take this advice from a friend
of the boys,
You will thank that same friend till
you die.
But if you ignore this timely advice
You’ll have to put up with your lot;
You'll be lucky, I ween, if you eer find a
lass
Who can make water boil in a pot
(without scorching).
—M. F. in Perry County Democrat.
TO BE HELD FOR RANSOM.
Gerald Jennerton, who had been ab-
sorbed in the study of a report con-
cerning the misdeeds of a much want-
ed criminal, was disturbed by a slight
tapping a few yards away. He looked
up and discovered to his surprise that
he had a visitor. A small boy, im-
maculately dressed in Eton coat, gray
trousers, white and spotless collar, his
silk hat rather on the back of his
head, was standing before the desk,
tapping his leg lightly with a bamboo
cane. Te boy was apparently of ten-
der years, but he had an intelligent,
even an attractive face. His nose was
slightly retrousse, and he was very
much freckled. His eyes were blue,
and his manner earnest.
“Are you Mr. Gerald Jennerton?”
he asked.
“I am,” Gerald admitted. “Who the
mischief are you?”
“Mr. Gerald Jennerton, the great
detective ?” his visitor insisted.
“You've got the name all right.”
“Mine’s Philip Fotherhay,” the lit-
tle boy confided. “I'm at Brown’s—
your old house.”
“How do you know that?” Gerald
inquired.
“Oh, we know all about you at Wor-
sley,” the boy assured him.
sort of school, isn’t it? The Jay Bird
they used to call you . .. I beg your
pardon!”
The moment was an awkward one.
Gerald coughed. “That’s all right,”
he said. “Everybody gets a nick-
name there.”
“Of course they do,” the boy con-
curred eagerly. “They call me the
Guinea Pig. I’ve always been aw-
fully interested in you, Mr. Jenner-
ton.”
“Very kind of you, I'm sure. You
seem to know a great deal about me,”
Gerald observed.
“Of course I do,” the boy assented.
“We've a young cub in Dicker’s house
who used to be at that school in
Hampstead. He doesn’t think Sher-
lock Holmes is in it with you or
your father. I say, I've got a kid
waiting outside. Can I bring him in?”
“Certainly,” Gerald acquiesced.
“Bring him in by all means.”
The boy crossed the room and op-
ened the door. “Come in, Yankee-
doodle!” he invited.
An exact replica of Master Philip
Fotherhay, so far as costume was con-
cerned, obeyed the summons. His
complexion was sallower, however,
and his figure more wiry. He ac-
knowledged an introduction to Gerald
with a marked absence of shyness,
211 estallistied himself on his friend’s
chair.
“We looked the address up in the
telephone directory, but we had to
take a taxi. Bit off our beat, this?”
“You want to consult me profes-
sionally ?” Gerald asked.
“If you mean what I think you
mean, that’s what we do,” Philip ad-
mitted, a little enigmatically.
A smile flickered across Gerald’s
lips. “Any trouble at Brown’s?” he
inquired. “Pocket-knives being stol-
en, or cakes pilfered, eh?”
Philip dicarded the idea with a
scornful gesture. “It isn’t any pif-
fling thing like that,” he declared sol-
emnly. “Yankeedoodle and I have
talked it over, and we believe that
something horrible is going to hap-
pen where we're staying tonight.”
“And where are you staying?”
“Down with Bunny Spencer-Wiley’s
people at Esher,”
“And who, by the by, is Yankee-
“Decent | P
doodle?” Gerald asked, glancing at
-the other boy. 2
—
“That’s just it,” Philip pointed out.
“Yankeedoodle’s a rum kid—an
American, you know—but he isn’t a
bad sort, and he’s been through it
once before. They kidnapped him
from somewhere in New York State.
That’s why he’s over here now. His
name’s Hammerton. His father was
supposed to be the richest man in the
world, wasn’t he Yankeedoodle?
“I guess he was,” the other assent-
ed laconically.
“So you are the hero of the famous
kidnapping case?” Gerald observed
with a certain access of interest.
“Yes, Sir,” was the prompt reply.
“They kept me a prisoner up in the
wooa close on to a week.” :
“That’s why he’s at school in Eng-
land, you see,” Philip explained. “His
father’s dead, and his mother sent
him over here, thinking he’d be safe.
Well, Bunny and I have put our
heads together the last few days, and
we ain’t so sure.”
“Kidnappers don’t stand much
chance on this side,” Gerald assured
them, ; :
Philip leaned forward in his chair.
He was obviously very much in earn-
est. “Mr. Jennerton,” he confided,
“there have been American—"
“Toughs,” the other boy muttered.
“Down at Worsley. We've seen ’em
hanging about the school. Three or
four nights ago there was a burglary
at Brown’s—ai least the room where
Yankeedoodle and I sleep was broken
into.”
“What happened to you then?”
“We weren’t there. The men were
repairing some pipes outside, and
they’d moved us to another room.”
“Burglars, eh?” Gerald remarked
thoughtfully. “Was anything stolen?”
“Not a thing,” Philip replied. “It
was this kid they were after. I'm
jolly well sure of that.”
“What did the Head say about it?”
“He wired for Yankeedoodle’s
guardian, who came down and gassed
a lot, but laughed at the idea that
they were anything but ordinary bur-
glars.”
“Who is this guardian of—er—
Yankeedoodle’s” Gerald asked.
“His name’s Howson—Major How-
son. He’s staying down with Bunny
Spencer-Wiley’s people too. He seems
very good-natured—laughs and talks
a great deal. He gave us both a
sovereign tip to spend on ices and
things today—but I don’t like him—
no more does Yankeedoodle.”
“And now tell me why you think
something horrible is going to hap-
pen tonight,” Gerald invited.
“You'll think us a couple o° funks,
I'm afraid,” Philip demurred, “but
I’m pretty certain that one of those
American chaps we saw down at
Worsley was hanging around the
grounds at Esher last night. Yank-
eedoodle saw him; so did I—and he
wasn’t alone either.”
“Whom was he with?”
“Major Howson—the kid’s guar-
dian. They were strolling up and
down one of the lawns at the back of
the house. I wanted to keep Yankee-
doodle out of sight, so we got Bunny
to do an Indian stalk. He couldn’t
hear much of what they were saying,
but they kept on talking about to-
night and a car at some place on the
Ripley Road. , Bunny and I think
they're fixing ‘it up “to cart him off
somewhere.”
“Have you mentioned this to Mr.
Spencer-Wiley ?” Gerald inquired.
“Bunny tried to give him a hint,
but he only laughed. You see Mr.
Jennerton, all he’d do would be to
send for the police, and the police
never catch anybody, do they? We
thought if we could get you inter-
ested, you might, be able to get hold
of these men.”
“You're the quaintest clients I ev-
er had,” Gerald confessed.
Philip moved a little uneasily in his
chair. “We ain’t funks,” he deciared,
“but Yankeedoodle had a horrid time
when they kidnapped him before.”
“You're going up to the match Ger-
old suggested, after a moment's re-
flection.
“Rather!” was the enthusiatic re-
1
y.
“Well, you meet me at the right-
hand corner of the members’ stand at
tea time and I'll take you along to
our tent. I'll make a few inquiries
and tell you then whether I can do
anything about it.”
“Righto! We'll scoot for the sand
directly they go in to tea . . . I say,
Mr. Jennerton.”
“Well, my lad.”
“It was your father who started
this, wasn’t it? It was he who taught
you detecting ?”
“In a sense I suppose it was,” Ger-
ald agreed.
“We couldn’t see him, could we?”
the boy asked.
“Well, I don’t know. Tll see if
he’s in” Gerald strolled across to
his father’s room, and opened the
door. “Dad,” he announced from the
threshold, “we have two new clients
here who would like a word with you.”
Mr. Jennerton, rosy-cheeked, bulky,
carefully dressed, good-humored as
usual, promptly made his appearance.
He stared at the two boys in frank
surprise.
“Sorry if we've disturbed you, Mr.
Jennerton,” Philip apologized, look-
ing up politely. “You see it’s been
very interesting to talk to your son,
but we thought we'd like to have just
a glimpse of you. Yankeedoodle and
I—that’s the kid here—want to be
detectives ourselves when we grow
up.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Jennerton,”
the American boy said.
Mr. Jennerton sat down in the easy
chair and laughed softly. “Clients,
gh > he observed. “What’s the trou-
e?’
“It’s something jolly serious, Mr.
Jennerton,” * Philip confided, “but I
feel sure it will turn out all right
now. Your son’s going to make some
inquiries for us.”
Gerald opened the door. “Well, you
mustn't be late for the match,” he
enjoined. “See you both at tea time,
and we’ll have a word or two about
this matter.”
The umpire had scarcely turned his
face towards the pavilion at five
o’clock that afternoon when two per-
spiring boys came hurrying up to
Gerald.
“Here we are, Mr. Jennerton,” Phil-
ip announced with satisfaction. “Hope
you didn’t mind our bringing Bunny,”
he went on, as a third boy made a
somewhat tentative appearance. “He
is not a bad kid, but he’s a wolf at
strawberries.” E
Arrived at the tent, the boys, with
unlimited supply of cake and straw-
berries before them, settled down to
business, and light conversation was
impossible. : 3
Later on, however, in the first
stages of repletion, Gerald asked a
few questions.
“How long has Major Howson been
your guardian?” he inquired of young
merton.
“About six months before I came
to England,” the boy replied. “My
mother met him in New York, and
he kidded her that it would be a fine
thing to send me over here to school.”
“I see. Isuppose he’s a friend of
the Spencer-Wileys too, as he’s stay-
ing down there?”
“I don’t belleve he is,” Philip in-
tervened. I believe Mr. Spencer-Wil-
ey asked him because, if he hadn't,
Yankeedoodle would have had to stay
alone with him, and the kid wanted to
be with the rest of us. I say, Mr.
Jennerton.”
“Well 7”
“Young Mr. Spencer-Wiley—Bun-
ny’s elder brother—the one who's in
the Foreign Office, you know—is aw- |
fully keen on knowing you. Would |
you speak to him when we go back to !
the coach?”
“Of course, I will,” Gerald assent-
ed. “I think I know his father any-
way. By the way, what are they go-
ing to do with you this evening?”
Philip indulged in a little grimace.
“We're going straight back to Esh-
er, he answered. “They've got a
lot of half grown-ups staying in the
house, and we're going to have a
dance. I'd rather go to a show. Be-
sides, it’s such a lonely house at Esh-
er—just the sort of place for them to
get hold of Yankeedoodle in if they
are really after him—and I do be-
lieve they are, Mr. Jennerton. Are
you going to try to help?”
“Very likely,” Gerald promised.
“There’s the bell. I'll take you back,
and have a word with Spencer-Wil-
ey.
The boys left the tent reluctantly.
They made their way to the coach,
and Spencer-Wiley—a young man a
little Gerald's junior, who was in the
Foreign Office—expressed his satis-
faction at the introduction which the
boys effected.
“Awfully good of you to look after
these lads,” he remarked. “You know
you're a sort of hero to them.”
Gerald was introduced to some oth-
ers of the party and found several
acquaintances. The boys parted with
him later on with reluctance.
“Come down and have a dance with
us tonight,” young Spencer-Wiley
suggested. “We're dining early—
making a young people’s party out of
it—seven-thirty, I think. If you can
not get down to dine, come down lat-
er.”
“Thank you very much,” Gerald as-
sented. “Probably after dinner, if
you don’t mind.”
The Jennerton organization was |
notably a perfect one. Two neatly
typed reports lay upon Gerald’s desk |
when he returned. His father looked !
across at him inquiringly. 4
“The Hamemrton boy’s the goods |
anyhow,” Gerald announced. “Only
son of the late William Hammerton,
multimillionaire, estate valued at
thirty-three millions, bulk of it left |
in trust for the lad, was kidnapped |
eighteen months ago, providing great |
sensation in ail the American news-
papers, rescued bv huge overation on
the part of the police, entrusted by
mother to care of an Englishman,
Major Howson and sent to Worsley
School. Word for word the boy’s
story, Governor.”
“What about Howson?”
“A very colorless report,” Gerald
admitted. “Retired Major, did some
liaison work with the American Ar-
my during the war and was invited to
Washington, middle-aged, belongs to
the Somerset Club, and is apparently
impecunious, is sometimes sued for
small sums by tradespeople, but noth-
ing definite against him, plays golf
occasionally, and frequents the cheap-
er places on the French coast.”
“H’m!” Mr. Jennerton, senior ob-
served. “What do you make of it
all, Gerald?”
“I'm hanged if I know!” was the
latter’s thoughtful admission. “But
ayway we can keep an eye on them.
Young Spencer-Wiley has asked me
to dine and dance tonight. If you
wouldn’t mind motoring down to
we should soon be able to find out if
there was anything wrong.”
Mr. Jennerton nodded assent. “If
those lads aren’t mistaken about
those Americans down at Worsley, the
whole affair seems to me pretty
fishy,” he admitted.
Esher Hall was a very magnificent
mansion, and Gerald found upon his
arrival that the dance was not the
impromptu affair he had imagined,
but the guests numbered several hun-
dreds. He danced for an hour, after
which time he went in search of his
young friend, whom he found seated
upon a high stool at a cleverly im-
provised bar.
“Don’t touch the ices, Sir—they’re
rotten,” Philip warned him. “Go bald-
headed for the fruit salad. Tl have
some more myself, please,” he added,
pushing his plate across.
“Look here, young fellow,” Gerald
said, “ I want you to point out this
chap Howson to me.”
“Righto! You really think they're
after Yankeedoodle, Mr. Jennerton?”
Dilip asked eagerly between spoon-
fuls. ’
“There’s just a chance they may
be,” Gerald admitted.
“But what about your father, Mr.
Jennerton? Isn't he coming to
help 7”
“You don’t trust me, eh, young-
ster?”
“It isn’t that, Sir,” Philip apolo-
gized, as he pushed aside his plate,
“but you haven’t had so much exper-
ience as he has, have you? We'd
feel safer if both of you were there.”
Gerald smiled. “You’re a mistrust-
ful young devil,” he declared. “How-
ever, as a matter of fact, my father
is outside.” HE
There was undoubted relief in the
small boy’s face.
“And now come along,” Gerald con-
tinued. “I want you to find Howson,
if he’s anywhere about.” LL
“I’m ready,” Philip agreed, slipping
off his stool. “He spends most of his
time here, drinking whiskies and so-
das, but tonight he seems to be hang-
ing around the side door all the even-
ing. I believe he’s looking for those
Americans. Yankeedoodle swears he
heard one of them a little time ago
talking to a chauffeur, asking about
the Portsmouth Road. This way, Mr.
Jennerton.” :
Gerald and his small companion
searched for some time in vain. Fin-
ally, in one of the smaller rooms, they
came across a man peering out of the
window into the avenue.
“Here he is!” Philip exclaimed.
Major Howson, this is Mr. Jenner-
ton. We were just talking about
you.”
Major Howson swung around ab-
ruptly. He appeared to be a man of
some forty or forty-five years of age,
high-complexioned, with a moderately
good-humored face and expression,
but rather small eyes and a weak
mouth.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Jennerton,”
he said, with a marked absence of
cordiality.
Gerald acknowledged the introduc-
tion perfunctorily. The Major's ap-
pearance was certainly not prepos-
sessing. His shirt, though well laun-
dered, was a little frayed at the cuffs.
His studs were imitation pearls, his
patent-leather shoes were cracked
with numerous varnishings. Impe-
cuniosity clung to his. exterior and
his manner was distinctly uneasy.
“By the by, where is my young
ward?” Major Howson demanded
presently, after the interchange of a
few strained civilities. .
. “Oh, he’s playing round,” Philip
replied. “He’s got a mash for a lit-
tle girl from the Priory. I expect he
is sitting in a corner with her.”
The Major threw away his cigar.
“Well,” he said, “you’ll excuse me.
I must go back and dance with some
of these children. See you later Mr.
Jennerton.”
He departed, and Gerald looked af-
ter him thoughtfully. “I don’t fancy |
the fellow as a guardian, Philip,” he |
confided.
“He’s all right sometimes,” was the
boy’s dubious comment. He does a
very good trick with a handkerchief
and a tennis racket. Until last night
I rather liked him. Hope he gets it
in the neck now, though. Where is
your father, Sir?”
“He’s = outside, looking around,”
Gerald replied. “I think, if you don’t
mind, youngster, I'll go and have a
word with him.”
Gerald made his way into the gar-
den, and met his father near the
courtyard. Mr, Jennerton appeared
perturbed.
“The lads are right anyway, Ger-
ald,” he confided, “as to there being
some Americans around—toughs, I
should call them, too. One of them
was walking up and down the avenue
with that fellow Howson only a quar-
ter of an hour ago. I think you'd
better gu and have a word with Spen-
cer-Wiley. Wait a minute, though.
Here’s one of them coming! Looks as
though he were assigned to watch
us.”
' Gerald swung around, and sudden-
ly accosted the man who had been
loitering in the background. :
“May I ask what your business is |
here?” Gerald inquired.
“What's that got to do with you?” |
was the brusk rejoirder.
“I belong to the house,” Gerald
lied, “and if I find a stranger hang-
ing about [ feel quite justified in
asking his business.” |
The man’s manner became propi-
tiatory. “Sure,” he agreed. If you're
one of the folk at the house, that’s
different. See that.” He unbuttoned
his overcoat, and touched a round
badge attached to his vest. |
“I see it,” Gerald admitted. “What
does it mean?” |
“New York detective force,” the !
man answered, dropping his voice a
little. “I'm sent over to shadow a
gang who are after the Hammerton
kid. I'm hot on their trail down here.
Know #nything about it?”
“Not a thing. Do you mean the
American boy who's staying with
?
“I surely do. He’s been kidnapped
once before, and the same gang are
after him again. The Commissioner
sent me over here to keep my eye on
the lad.”
“I see,” ‘Gerald observed quietly.
“I've got a mate here,” the man
went on. “All we want is to be let
alone, and we’ll see the kid doesn’t
come to any harm. Pat Harwood, my
name is. It was I who rounded up the
gang last time.”
“Are there any of them down here
tonight ?”’ Gerald asked.
“Nope. Nothing doing tonight. All
the same, we have to know where the
lad is. We shall be pushing off as
soon as the folks have gone ta bed.
Good night, Sir.”
The man turned abruptly away and
disappeared round the corner of the
courtyard. Gerald turned to his fa-
ther.
“What do you make of that, Dad 7”
he inquired.
Mr. Jennerton was suddenly very
much alive. “Get hold of the boy first,
and lock him up where he can’t be
got at,” he directed. “Then ring up
the police, in my name—the name of
the firm. Esher Police Station, or
Ripley, will do. Ask the sergeant to
get in a car and come over here at
once. I'll try to keep an eye on that
fellow.”
“You don’t believe his story?” Ger-
ald ventured.
“I know the New York police
badge when I see it,” was the swift
rejoinder. “Hurry up!”
Gerald hastened into the house and
discovered Philip waiting patiently
for him,
“Where’s Yankeedoodle?” the
former demanded bruskly.
“Messing around somewhere.”
“Let’s find him quickly,” Gerald in-
siste. “Come. We've got to keep
him in sight until the party’s over.”
“Have you discovered any thing,
Sir?”
“Looks. rather like it,” Gerald ad-
mitted. “Come on!”
They began their search breathless-
ly—Gerald himself disturbed by a dis-
tinct premonition of evil. Nowhere
could they discern any sign of Yan. |
keedoodle. His small fair-headea
companion from the Priory was wan-
dering about disconsolately. Philip
hurried across to her, asked a few
questions, and came back with a
scared expression on his face.
“l say, Sir,” he announced, “she
says that Major Howson same up and
took Yankeedoodle away. What an
ass I was not to have stayed with the
kid!”
“Did he say where they were go-
ing 7” :
“Something about showing him the
guns while there was no one about
down in the gun-room, she thought.”
“Do you know the way?”
“I think I can find it. Come on,
Sir!”
- They lost their way twice, but even-
tually arrived at a long stone corri- |
dor.
“Here we are!” Philip cried in tri-
umph. “It’s the last door on the
right.”
They reached it at the double. Ger-
ald tried the handle. It was locked
on the inside.
“Never mind, Sir,” Philip shouted.
“This other door leads into the court- |
yard.” |
They raced to the end of the cor-
ridor. There were bolts to be drawn, |
a chain unfastened and a key turned.
Afterwards they stepped out into a
spacious courtyard, where a great
motor-car was dimly to be seen in
the half-light. There were two men
inside, one of them holding something
whose struggles were clearly visible
under a rug. The car started with a |
roar, and dashed out of the gate. A
man who had been standing by its |
side turned and walked back towards
the open gun-room window. |
“Stay here and see which way they
turn, Philip,” Gerald called out. I'll |
be back in a second.” He sprang |
towards the drive, coming face to
face with the loiterer. It was Major
Howson. “What have you done with
that boy?” he demanded.
The Major shrank back in conster- |
nation. In an instant Gerald’s fist
shot out, and Yankeedoodle’s guar-
dian went down like a log. A chauf-
feur came hurrying up. |
“What’s all this trouble about, '
Sir?” he inquired. i
“Never you mind,” Gerald replied.
“You'll know when the police come. |
Help me get my car out.” !
The chauffeur looked at him more !
closely. “Are you the gentleman who !
was talking—yes, you are,” he broke
off abruptly. “The older gentleman |
you were with, he’s got it bad.” i
“What do you mean?” Gerald ex-
claimed. “Where is he?”
The chauffeur led the way, and
Gerald followed. There was a little |
group at the entrance to the court-
yard, standing around Mr. Jennerton, |
senior, who had apparently just
scrambled to his feet. Across the
avenue young Spencer-Wiley was
hurrying in their direction.
“Anything wrong?” {
“An American gang,” Mr. Jenner- |
ton, senior, confided a little faintly.
“They've got hold of that lad. They
have gone off in a Stanton—LX3629,
‘Will you telephone to Ripley and
Guilford to stop them?” he added, '
turning to Spencer-Wiley.. “Come on,
i Gerald" : |
“Are you all right, Sir?” the lat '
ter inquired.
His father nodded.
“I'll ring up the police, of course,”
Spencer-Wiley interposed. “Shall I
come along with you, Mr. Jennerton 2”
“You see to the police,” Gerald
directed. “We'll let you know what
happens. Let’s go, Dad!”
Gerald thundered down the Ports-
mouth Road with dimmed headlights,
but at a pace which provoked shouts
and remonstrances from every pass-
ing vehicle. They flashed through
Cobham and raced past the lake on
the way to Ripley. Then Mr. Jenner-
ton touched his son lightly upon the
arm,
“Slow up here,” he enjoined. “We'll
call at the police station.”
“It is worth while, Sir?” Gerald
asked regretfully. “We've been doing
sixty-five, and we ought to be up to
them directly.”
“The police station is on the right
there,” was Mr. Jennerton’s sole re-
ply.
Gerald slackened speed and eventu-
ally drew up with a little sigh. His ;
father descended.
“I shall telephone to Scotland
Yard,” he announced.
Gerald looked down the long, level
stretch of road impatiently. The ex-
citement of the chase was upon him,
and his foot was aching to be once
more upon the accelerator. When his
father reappeared, however, he came
out in leisurely fashion. He was ac-
companied by a Sergeant.
“Old friend of mine here, Sergeant
Clowson,” Mr. Jennerton remarked.
“They only got through from Esher
while I was there, and the Sergeant
says that a score of cars have passed
during the last twenty minutes.”
“Any quantity of them, Sir,” the
Sergeant confirmed. “There’s a
dance on at Guilford tonight. Any-
thing more I can do for you, Mr. Jen-
nerton ?”
“Nothing at all, thank you,” the
latter assured him.
The Sergeant took his leave. Ger-
ald pressed the starting button. Mr.
Jennerton suddenly came to a deci-
sion.
“Turn round,” he directed. “We'll
go back.”
Gerald stared at him in amazement.
“Turn round,” Mr. Jennerton re-
peated firmly. “I’ll explain as we go
along.”
“But I say!” Gerald protested. “We
know they're ahead of us. We can’
give it up like this. An old Stanton,
too, you said their car was. They
couldn’t live with us on the hills.”
“Ill explain as we go along,” Mr.
Jennerton insisted.
Gerald swung across the road with-
out further comment and turned back
towards London. His silence and his
manner, however, were alike signifi-
cant,
“See here, Gerald,” his father con-
tinued earnestly, “this gang arent
fools. They turned out of the gates
in this direction with all lights flash-
ing, yet they've been hanging about
so long they must know that your
car could overtake them any minute.
There's a catch in it, Pm sure.”
| ing the bed,
“But what else is there to do ex~
cept follow them?” Gerald demanded.
“Find out the catch,” his father re-
plied. “So far as following is con-
cerned, that’s a blind business, and it
isn’t necessary. I've spoken to Hen-
slow at the Yard, and before another
hour has passed, the whole of the
South coast will be blocked against
them. I don’t think it would matter.”
Mr, Jennerton went on thoughtfully,
“if we took the Brighton Road or the
portsmouth Road—I don’t think if we
traveled a hundred miles an hour we
should come up with them.”
“What do you propose, then?”
“I’m just thinking out myself what
I should do if I were the kidnapper.”
About a mile from Esher, Mr. Jen~
nerton spoke after a somewhat pro
longed silence.
“Turn to the right here,” he en-
joined. {
“It’s only a lane,” Gerald objected.
“Never mind.” :
Gerald turned out the headlights
and made his way cautiously along
the narrow thorough-fare for about
a mile. Then his father stopped him
once more.
“You can turn at the corner there,”
he pointed out quietly. “Let’s go back
again.”
Gerald obeyed orders in mute but
resentful silence. They regained the
main road, but his father waved him
across it, and they plunged once more
into the darkness of a by-road. Soon
after they had rounded the first bend
Mr. Jennerton uttered an exclamation
of interest.
“What’s that?” he exclaimed.
There was no doubt about what it
was—a Stanton limousine with no
lights burning, deserted, with the off
front wheel in the ditch. They came
to a standstill and both alighted.
“You see,” Mr. Jennerton explained
rapidly, “they did what was after all
the most natural thing in the world:
they left Esher Hall in a Stanton
car, with the number showing clearly,
hoping we’d chase it to the coast.
What they really did was to take the
first secluded lane they could find,
pull up, abandon the car and change
into another one. You can see where
it was drawn up, waiting for them.”
“You're right,” Gerald admitted
with awakening interest. “This lane
leads out to the road from London to
Weybridge. They could get on any
of the main roads lower down.”
“Yes, but they wouldnt do it,” Mr.
Jennerton replied. “They’d know we
should have those blocked.”
“Well, you guessed their first move,”
Gerald said. “What about their see
ond?”
“That’s a more difficult matter,
his father confessed. “I'll bet by this
Hime they're pretty well back in Lon-
on.
Gerald lighted a cigaret. “Well?”
Mr. Jennerton opened the door of
the Stanton car. “We're going to
search this old vehicle to the exteat
of ripping the cushions up,” he de-
clared. “They left her in a hurry, T
can see that—license holder and name
plate both torn off—but if they've on-
ly dropped a handkerchief if might:
help. Have you got an electric
torch ?”
Gerald produced one from the pock-
et of his car. With it in his hand’
Mr. Jennerton entered the limousine.
At about half past three in the
morning, the soi-disant Mr. Pat Har-
| wood—better known as Slippery Sam:
to his friends of the Bowery, and to
tne police of New York—was awak-
ened by the sudden turning on of alf
the lights in his bedroom. He opened
his eyes sleepily, and then sat up with:
a stare. The hand which crept under
his pillow came away empty. He
looked into the smiling face of In-
epector Henslow of Scotland Yard.
“Is this a nightmare?” he ex-
claimed, glancing around at several
other sinister figures.
The Inspector signed to one of his
subordinates. The man in the bed
yielded his wrists and scrutinized dis-
conslately the tokens of his enslave-
ment.
“You're wanted on three charges in
New York—extradition all arranged
for,” the Inspector replied. “At the
present moment we want the boy.
Where is he 7?”
“Next room,” said the captive.
Gerald slipped past the others, un-
bolted the communicating doors,
turned on the lights, and approach-
shook the lightly clad
figure concealed under the bedelothes.
“Wake up, young man,” he en-
joined.
Yankeedoodle opened first one eye
and then the other. . As he recognized
Gerald a broad grin slowly trans-
formed his face.
“Yoa all right?” Gerald asked anx.
iously.
“Sure!” the boy answered. “They
doped me good, too, but I spat some
of it out and shammed. I was pretty
well scared, but I guessed you’d be
along presently.”
“How did you get the envelop 7”
“Well,” the boy explained, “as soon
as we got in that lane there was an-
other car all fixed up and waiting for
us. The chauffeur had brought two
notes, which that beast who was hold-
Ing me opened and read. One of the
envelops, with his address on it, had
blown on to the floor, and when he
got up to speak to the chauffeur,
leaning out of the window, although
he had me by the collar all the time,
I was just able to reach it and stuff
it down behind the cushions. When he
turned around again, he tore up the
letters and the other envelop without
noticing that there was one gone.
After that I pretended to be asleep
so they shouldn’t give me any more
dope. I knew you'd be along pretty
soon . . . Say, Mr. Jennerton, what-
ever Philip does, I guess I've made
up my mind new.”
“What about?” Gerald asked.
. “Why, I don’t care if I've got mil-
lions emough to buy this little old
island of yours,” Yankeedoodle de-
clared happily—“when I grow up I'm
going to be a detective like you.”
—E. Phillips Oppenheim in Cosmopolitan.
Vincente Blasco Ibanez, author of
“The Four Horsemen of the Apoca-
lypse,” died Saturday, January 28, in
France. His native country failed to
appreciate his talent, but America
gave him the deserved praise.
rr ——— A ————
—Subscribe for the Watchman.