CHAPTER IV—A CRY FOR HELP
AS they talked the young girls wandered over the grassy sward of the churchyard and their voices grew fainter and fainter to the cyclist and Miss Sallie.
The latter had seated herself on the stump of an old tree and was busily engaged in re-reading her mail, at which she had glanced only carelessly that morning.
The air was very still and hot, and the hum of insects made a drowsy accompaniment to the songs of the birds. The cyclist had stretched himself at full length on the grass under an immense elm tree and was lazily blowing blue rings of smoke skywards.
Presently there broke upon the noonday stillness a cry for help. It was in a high, girlish voice—Mollie’s in fact—and it was followed by others in quick succession.
Miss Stuart, scattering her mail on the ground in her fright, rushed in the direction of the cries, the cyclist close behind her.
On a knoll near the church the sight which met Miss Sallie’s eyes almost made her knees give way. But she had a cool head in danger, in spite of her lavender draperies and pretended helplessness.
A tramp, who seemed to them all at the moment as big as a giant, with matted hair and beard and face swollen from drink, had seized Ruth and Barbara by the wrists with one of his enormous hands. A woman equally ragged in appearance was tugging at the fellow’s other hand in an effort to quiet him.
As Miss Sallie ran toward the group she heard Barbara say quietly:
“Let go our wrists and we shall be glad to give you all the money we have with us.”