KIDNAPED
In the morning Bill and Gus were up at daylight, as was their habit. The storm had ceased, and it was turning warm, the snow melting already. The boys went to the barn to help with the milking; they got in some wood and performed other chores. Mr. Farrell, coming in, declared with his hearty laugh that they could stay as long as they might wish to, for they had certainly more than earned their food and lodging. As they went in to the breakfast table he said.
“Mother, better give that other young fellow his money back. Where is he, anyway? Not down yet?”
“Not yet,” said Mrs. Farrell, “though I called him twice.”
“I’ll get him up and down,” said Gus, going toward the stairway.
“Father, have you seen Gyp?” asked Mary Farrell. “I’ve called him too, but he doesn’t come for his breakfast.”
The farmer shook his head and, stepping to the back door, whistled sharply and at length. Turning to come in he heard a low whine and a quick search found the dog, lying on his side and unable to rise, his eyes dull and bloodshot, his tongue protruding. Mr. Farrell had seen something of the sort before. He picked up the poor little beast and carried him to a warm bed by the kitchen stove.
“Sarah, he’s been poisoned! Nothing else. Getting over it, though. What—?” And then they heard Gus calling from above.
“Bill! Bill! Come up here, quick! Tony’s gone!”
It was true and the manner of his going was very apparent. The room had been entered from without, noiselessly and by experts. Taking advantage not only of the lad’s sleeping soundly, the housebreakers had used some anæsthetic, for a wad of cotton that smelled like a drug store lay on the carpet. Tony had evidently been roughly dressed. His collar, necktie and cap lay on the bureau and his stockings on the floor. That he had been carried out of the window and to the ground was certain. The two ends of the ladder had left their imprint in the snow in the sill and on the ground. The ladder itself had been thrown among the bushes.