The Camp Fire Girls at Onoway House; Or, The Magic Garden

by Hildegard G. Frey

But the others had noticed the same characteristics in Ophelia and were inclined to agree with Gladys on the subject.

“But what about the strange spot of light hair on her head?” asked Sahwah. “Would you call that a mark of quality?” But to this there was no answer. They had never seen or heard of anything like it before. Thus the summer days slipped by and Onoway House continued to shelter two homeless orphans, neither of whom knew what the future held in store for them.

One afternoon when the girls had planned to go for a long walk to the woods Gladys read in the paper that a balloonist was to make an ascension over the lake. For some unaccountable reason she took a fancy that she would like to see the performance. “Oh, Gladys,” said Sahwah, impatiently, “you’ve seen balloonists before and you’ll see plenty yet; come with us this afternoon.” But Gladys held out, even while she wondered to herself why she was so eager to see this not uncommon sight. Half offended at her, the other girls departed in the direction of the woods. Gladys climbed high up in the Balm of Gilead tree, from which she could look over the country for miles around and easily see the lake and the distant amusement park from which the balloonist was to ascend.

The newspaper said three o’clock, but evidently the performance was delayed, for although Gladys was on the lookout since before that time nothing seemed to be happening. To aid her in seeing she took Nakwisi’s spy glass up into the tree with her, and while she was waiting for the parachute spectacle she amused herself by focusing the glass on far away objects on the land and bringing them right before her eyes, as it seemed. She could look right into the back door of a distant farm house and see children playing in the doorway and chickens walking up and down the steps; she could see the men working in the fields; she could see the yachts out on the lake and the smoky trail of a freight steamer. Somewhere in the middle of her range of vision were the gleaming rails of the car tracks. She looked at them idly; they were like long streaks of light in the sun. She saw two men, evidently tramps, come out of the bushes along the road and bend over the rails. Somewhere along that stretch of track there was a derailing switch and it seemed to Gladys that it was at this point where the men were. Gladys looked at the pair, suspiciously, for a second and then decided they were track testers. One had an iron bar in his hand and he seemed to be turning the switch. Suddenly the other man pointed up the road and then the two jumped quickly backward into the bushes. Gladys looked in the direction the man had pointed. Far off down the track she could see the red body of the “Limited” approaching at a tremendous rate. The stretch of country past the Centerville Road was flat and even; the track was perfect and there was no traffic to block the way, and the cars made great speed along here. Something told Gladys that the men had had no business at the switch; that they meant to derail and wreck the Limited. Gladys had learned to think and act quickly since she had become a Camp Fire Girl, and scarcely had the idea entered her head that the Limited was in danger, than she conceived the plan of heading it off. Before the car reached the switch it must pass the Centerville Road. Being the Limited, it did not stop there. So Gladys planned to run the automobile down the Centerville Road and flag the car. She flung herself from the tree in haste, got the machine out of the barn and started down the road with wide-open throttle.

Trees and fences whirled dizzily by, obscured in the cloud of dust she was raising. Across the stillness of the fields she could hear the Limited pounding down the track. A hundred yards from the end of the road the automobile engine snorted, choked and went dead. Without waiting to investigate the trouble, Gladys jumped out and proceeded on foot. Could she make it? She could see the red monster through the trees, rushing along to certain destruction. With an inward prayer for the speed of Antelope Boy, the Indian runner, she darted forward like an arrow from the bow. Breathless and spent she came out on the car track just a moment ahead of the thundering car, and waved the scarlet Winnebago banner, which she had snatched from the wall on the way out. With a quick jamming of the emergency brakes that shook the car from end to end it came to a standstill just beyond the Centerville Road, and only fifty feet from the switch.

“What’s the matter?” asked the motorman, coming out.

“Look at the switch!” panted Gladys, sinking down beside the road, unable to say more.

The motorman looked at the switch. “My God,” he said, mopping his forehead, “if we’d ever run into that thing going at such a rate there wouldn’t have been anyone left to tell the tale.”

The passengers were pouring from the car, eager to find out the reason for the sudden stoppage. “What’s the matter?” was heard on every side.

“You’ve got that girl to thank,” said the motorman, moving back toward his vestibule, “that you’re not lying in a heap of kindling wood.” Gladys, much abashed and still hardly able to breathe, laid her head on her knee and sobbed from sheer nervousness and relief.