CHAPTER XI
MR. PETERBY PAUL AND “WHOSIS”
Ruth Fielding was more than a little startled, for the appearance of this bearded and gruff-spoken man was much against him.
She had become familiar, however, during the past months with all sorts and conditions of men—many of them much more dangerous looking than this stranger.
Her experiences at the battlefront in France had taught her many things. Among them, that very often the roughest men are the most tender with and considerate of women. Ruth knew that the girls and women working in the Red Cross and the “Y” and the Salvation Army might venture among the roughest poilus, Tommies and our own Yanks without fearing insult or injury.
After that first startled “Oh!” Ruth Fielding gave no sign of fearing the bearded man with the gun under his arm. She stood her ground as he approached her.
“How many air there of ye, Sissy?” he wanted to know. “And air ye all loose from some bat factory? That other one’s crazy as all git out.”
“Oh, did you see her?”
“If ye mean that Whosis that’s wanderin’ around yellin’ like a cat-o’-mountain——”
“Oh, dear! It was she that was screaming so!”
“I should say it was. I tried to cotch her——”
“And that scared her more, I suppose.”
“Huh! Be I so scareful to look at?” the stranger demanded. “Or, mebbe you ain’t loony, lady?”
“I should hope not,” rejoined Ruth, beginning to laugh.
“Then how in tarnation,” demanded the bearded man, “do you explain your wanderin’ about these woods in this storm?”
“Why,” said Ruth, “I was trying to catch that poor creature, too.”
“That Whosis?” he exclaimed.
“Whatever and whoever she is. See! Here’s one of her shoes.”
“Do tell! She’s lost it, ain’t she? Don’t you reckon she’s loony?”
“It may be that she is out of her mind. But she couldn’t hurt you—a big, strong man like you.”
“That’s as may be. I misdoubted me she was some kind of a Whosis,” said the woodsman. “I seen her a couple of times and heard her holler ev’ry time the lightning was real sharp.”
“The poor creature has been frightened half to death by the tempest,” said Ruth.
“Mebbe. But where did she come from? And where did you come from, if I may ask? This yere ain’t a neighborhood that many city folks finds their way into, let me tell ye.”
Ruth told him her name and related the mishap that had happened to the two cars at the bottom of the hill.
“Wal, I want to know!” he responded. “Out o’ gasoline, heh? Wal, that can be mended.”
“Tom Cameron has gone on foot for some.”
“Which way did he go, Ma’am?”
“East,” she said, pointing.
“Towards Ridgeton? Wal, he’ll have a fine walk.”
“But we have not seen any gasoline sign for ever so far back on the road.”
“That’s right. Ain’t no reg’lar place. But I guess I might be able to scare up enough gas to help you folks out. Ye see, we got a saw mill right up this gully and we got a gasoline engine to run her. I’m a-watchin’ the place till the gang come in to work next month. That there Whosis got me out in the rain——”
“Oh! Where do you suppose the poor thing has gone?” interrupted Ruth. “We should do something for her.”
“Wal, if she don’t belong to you folks——”
“She doesn’t. But she should not be allowed to wander about in this awful way. Is she a woman grown, or a child?”
“I couldn’t tell ye. I ain’t been close enough to her. By the way, my name is Peterby Paul, and I’m well and fav’rably knowed about this mounting. I did have my thoughts about you, same as that Whosis, I must say. But you ’pear to be all right. Wait, and I’ll bring ye down a couple of cans of gasoline, and you can go on and pick up the feller that’s started to walk to Ridgeton.”
“But that poor creature I followed up here, Mr. Paul? We must find her.”
“You say she ain’t nothin’ to you folks?”
“But she is alone, and frightened.”
“Wal, I expect so. She did give me a start for fair. I don’t know where she could have come from ’nless she belongs over toward Ridgeton at old Miz Abby Drake’s. She’s got some city folks stopping with her—”
“There she is!” cried Ruth, under her breath.
A hobbling figure appeared for a moment on the side of the ravine. The rain had ceased now, but it still dripped plentifully from the trees.
“I’m going after her!” exclaimed Ruth.
“All right, Ma’am,” said Mr. Peterby Paul. “I guess she ain’t no Whosis, after all.”
Ruth could run much faster than the strange person who had so startled both the woodsman and herself. And running lightly, the girl of the Red Mill was almost at her quarry’s elbow before her presence was suspected by the latter.
The woman turned her face toward Ruth and screeched in evident alarm. She looked wild enough to be called a “Whosis,” whatever kind of supernatural apparition that might be. Her silk dress was in rags; her hair floated down her back in a tangled mane; altogether she was a sorry sight, indeed.
She was a woman of middle age, dark, slight of build, and of a most pitiful appearance.
“Don’t be frightened! Don’t be afraid of me,” begged Ruth. “Where are your friends? I will take you to them.”
“It is the voice of God,” said the woman solemnly. “I am wicked. He will punish me. Do you know how wicked I am?” she added in a tense whisper.
“I have no idea,” Ruth replied calmly. “But I think that when we are nervous and distraught as you are, we magnify our sins as well as our troubles.”
Really, Ruth Fielding felt that she might take this philosophy to herself. She had been of late magnifying her troubles, without doubt.
“I have been a great sinner,” said the woman. “Do you know, I used to steal my little sister’s bread and jam. And now she is dead. I can never make it up to her.”
Plainly this was a serious matter to the excited mind of the poor woman.
“Come on down the hill with me. I have got an automobile there and we can ride to Mrs. Drake’s in it. Isn’t that where you are stopping?”
“Yes, yes. Abby Drake,” said the lost woman weakly. “We—we all started out for huckleberries. And I never thought before how wicked I was to my little sister. But the storm burst—such a terrible storm!” and the poor creature cowered close to Ruth as the thunder muttered again in the distance.
“It is the voice of God——”
“Come along!” urged Ruth. “Lots of people have made the same mistake. So Aunt Alvirah says. They mistake some other noise for the voice of God!”
The woman was now so weak that the strong girl could easily lead her. Mr. Peterby Paul looked at the forlorn figure askance, however.
“You can’t blame me for thinkin’ she was a Whosis,” he said to Ruth. “Poor critter! It’s lucky you came after her. She give me such a start I might o’ run sort o’ wild myself.”
“Perhaps if you had tried to catch her it would only have made her worse,” Ruth replied, gently patting the excited woman’s hand.
“The voice of God!” muttered the victim of her own nervousness.
“And she traipsing through these woods in a silk dress!” exclaimed Mr. Paul. “I tell ’em all, city folks ain’t got right good sense.”
“Maybe you are right, Mr. Paul,” sighed Ruth. “We are all a little queer, I guess. I will take her down to the car.”
“And I’ll be right along with a couple of cans of gasoline, Ma’am,” rejoined Peterby Paul. “Ain’t no use you and your friends bein’ stranded no longer.”
“If you will be so kind,” Ruth said.
He turned back up the ravine and Ruth urged the lost woman down the hill. The poor creature was scarcely able to walk, even after she had put on her lost shoe. Her fears which had driven her into this quite irresponsible state, were the result of ungoverned nervousness. Ruth thought seriously of this fact as she aided her charge down the hillside.
She must steady her own nerves, or the result might be quite as serious. She had allowed the loss of her scenario to shake her usual calm. She knew she had not been acting like herself during this automobile journey and that she had given her friends cause for alarm.
Then and there Ruth determined to talk no more about her loss or her fears regarding the missing scenario. If it was gone, it was gone. That was all there was to it. She would no longer worry her friends and disturb her own mental poise by ruminating upon her misfortune.
When she and the lost woman got out of the ravine, Ruth could hear the girls calling her. And there was Colonel Marchand’s horizon-blue uniform in sight as he toiled up the ascent, looking for her.
“Don’t be frightened, dear,” Ruth said to the startled woman. “These are my friends.”
Then she called to Helen that she was coming. Colonel Marchand hurried forward with an amazed question.
“Never mind! Don’t bother her,” Ruth said. “The poor creature has been through enough—out in all this storm, alone. We must get her to where she is stopping as soon as possible. See the condition her clothes are in!”
“But, Mademoiselle Ruth!” gasped the Frenchman. “We are stalled until Captain Tom comes back with the gasoline—is it not?”
“We are going to have gas in a very few minutes,” returned Ruth gaily. “I did more than find this poor woman up on the hill. Wait!”
Helen and Jennie sprang at Ruth like a pair of terriers after a cat, demanding information and explanation all in a breath. But when they realized the state of mind of the strange woman, they calmed down.
They wrapped her in a dry raincoat and put her in the back of the big car. She remained quietly there with Jennie’s Aunt Kate while Ruth related her adventure with Mr. Peterby Paul and the “Whosis.”
“Goodness!” gasped Helen, “I guess he named her rightly. There must be something altogether wrong with the poor creature to make her wander about these wet woods, screeching like a loon.”
“I’d screech, too,” said Jennie Stone, “if I’d torn a perfectly good silk dress to tatters as she has.”
“Think of going huckleberrying in a frock like that,” murmured Ruth. “I guess you are both right. And Mr. Peterby Paul did have good reason for calling her a ‘Whosis’.”