E-text prepared by Stephen Hutcheson, Brenda Lewis,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)

The Clock
Strikes Thirteen

By
MILDRED A. WIRT

Author of
MILDRED A. WIRT MYSTERY STORIES
TRAILER STORIES FOR GIRLS

Illustrated

CUPPLES AND LEON COMPANY
Publishers
NEW YORK

PENNY PARKER
MYSTERY STORIES

Large 12 mo. Cloth Illustrated

TALE OF THE WITCH DOLL
THE VANISHING HOUSEBOAT
DANGER AT THE DRAWBRIDGE
BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR
CLUE OF THE SILKEN LADDER
THE SECRET PACT
THE CLOCK STRIKES THIRTEEN
THE WISHING WELL
SABOTEURS ON THE RIVER
GHOST BEYOND THE GATE
HOOFBEATS ON THE TURNPIKE
VOICE FROM THE CAVE
GUILT OF THE BRASS THIEVES
SIGNAL IN THE DARK
WHISPERING WALLS
SWAMP ISLAND
THE CRY AT MIDNIGHT

COPYRIGHT, 1942, BY CUPPLES AND LEON CO.

The Clock Strikes Thirteen

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

PENNY HUDDLED AGAINST THE WALL WATCHING FEARFULLY.
“The Clock Strikes Thirteen” ([See Page 191])

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE [1 SANDWICHES FOR TWO] 1 [2 NIGHT RIDERS] 11 [3 A BLACK HOOD] 20 [4 A NEW CARETAKER] 28 [5 OLD SETH] 38 [6 TALL CORN] 48 [7 MR. BLAKE’S DONATION] 55 [8 PUBLICITY BY PENNY] 63 [9 JERRY’S PARTY] 71 [10 IN THE MELON PATCH] 78 [11 PENNY’S CLUE] 89 [12 ADELLE’S DISAPPEARANCE] 97 [13 AN EXTRA STROKE] 106 [14 THROUGH THE WINDOW] 115 [15 TRACING BEN BOWMAN] 123 [16 A FAMILIAR NAME] 130 [17 FALSE RECORDS] 137 [18 ADELLE’S ACCUSATION] 147 [19 TRAILING A FUGITIVE] 155 [20 CLEM DAVIS’ DISCLOSURE] 163 [21 A BROKEN PROMISE] 170 [22 THE MAN IN GRAY] 178 [23 A TRAP SET] 185 [24 TIMELY HELP] 193 [25 SPECIAL EDITION] 203

CHAPTER
1
SANDWICHES FOR TWO

Jauntily, Penny Parker walked through the dimly lighted newsroom of the Riverview Star, her rubber heels making no sound on the bare, freshly scrubbed floor. Desks were deserted, for the final night edition of the paper had gone to press half an hour earlier, and only the cleaning women were at work. One of the women arrested a long sweep of her mop just in time to avoid splashing the girl with water.

“I sorry,” she apologized in her best broken English. “I no look for someone to come so very late.”

“Oh, curfew never rings for me,” Penny laughed, side stepping a puddle of water. “I’m likely to be abroad at any hour.”

At the far end of the long room a light glowed behind a frosted glass door marked: “Anthony Parker—Editor.” There the girl paused, and seeing her father’s grotesque shadow, opened the door a tiny crack, to rumble in a deep voice:

“Hands up! I have you covered!”

Taken by surprise, Mr. Parker swung quickly around, his swivel chair squeaking a loud protest.

“Penny, I wish you wouldn’t do that!” he exclaimed. “You know it always makes me jump.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Penny grinned, slumping into a leather chair beside her father’s desk. “A girl has to have some amusement, you know.”

“Didn’t three hours at the moving picture theatre satisfy you?”

“Oh, the show was worse than awful. By the way, here’s something for you.”

Removing a sealed yellow envelope from her purse, Penny flipped it carelessly across the desk.

“I met a Western Union boy downstairs,” she explained. “He was looking for you. I paid for the message and saved him a trip upstairs. Two dollars and ten cents, if you don’t mind.”

Absently Mr. Parker took two crisp dollar bills from his pocket and reached for the telegram.

“Don’t forget the dime,” Penny reminded him. “It may seem a trifle to you, but not to a girl who has to live on a weekly allowance.”

For lack of change, the editor tossed over a quarter, which his daughter pocketed with deep satisfaction. Ripping open the envelope, he scanned the telegram, but as he read, his face darkened.

“Why, Dad, what’s wrong?” Penny asked in surprise.

Mr. Parker crumpled the sheet into a round ball and hurled it toward the waste paper basket.

“Your aim gets worse every day,” Penny chuckled, stooping to retrieve the paper. Smoothing the corrugations, she read aloud:

“YOUR EDITORIAL ‘FREEDOM OF THE PRESS’ IN THURSDAY’S STAR THOROUGHLY DISGUSTED THIS READER. WHAT YOUR CHEAP PAPER NEEDS IS A LITTLE LESS FREEDOM AND MORE DECENCY. IF OUR FOREFATHERS COULD HAVE FORESEEN THE YELLOW PRESS OF TODAY THEY WOULD HAVE REGULATED IT, NOT MADE IT FREE. WHY DON’T YOU TAKE THAT AMERICAN FLAG OFF YOUR MASTHEAD AND SUBSTITUTE A CASH REGISTER? FLY YOUR TRUE COLORS AND SOFT-PEDAL THE PARKER BRAND OF HYPOCRISY!”

“Stop it—don’t read another line!” the editor commanded before Penny had half finished.

“Why, Dad, you poor old wounded lion!” she chided, blue eyes dancing with mischief. “I thought you prided yourself that uncomplimentary opinions never disturbed you. Can’t you take it any more?”

“I don’t mind a few insults,” Mr. Parker snapped, “but paying for them is another matter.”

“That’s so, this little gem of literature did set you back two dollars and ten cents. Lucky I collected before you opened the telegram.”

Mr. Parker slammed his desk shut with a force which rattled the office windows.

“This same crack-pot who signs himself ‘Disgusted Reader’ or ‘Ben Bowman,’ or whatever name suits his fancy, has sent me six telegrams in the past month! I’m getting fed up!”

“All of the messages collect?”

“Every one. The nit-wit has criticised everything from the Star’s comic strips to the advertising columns. I’ve had enough of it!”

“Then why not do something about it?” Penny asked soothingly. “Refuse the telegrams.”

“It’s not that easy,” the editor growled. “Each day the Star receives a large number of ‘collect’ messages, hot news tips from out-of-town correspondents and from reporters who try to sell free lance stories. We’re glad to pay for these telegrams. This fellow who keeps bombarding us is just smart enough to use different names and send his wires from various places. Sometimes he addresses the telegrams to me, and then perhaps to City Editor DeWitt or one of the other staff members.”

“In that case, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” Penny said teasingly. “How about drowning your troubles in a little sleep?”

“It is late,” Mr. Parker admitted, glancing at his watch. “Almost midnight. Time we’re starting home.”

Reaching for his hat, Mr. Parker switched off the light, locked the door, and followed Penny down the stairway to the street. At the parking lot opposite the Star building, he tramped about restlessly while waiting for an attendant to bring the car.

“I’ll drive,” Penny said, sliding behind the steering wheel. “In your present mood you might inadvertently pick off a few pedestrians!”

“It makes my blood boil,” Mr. Parker muttered, his thoughts reverting to the telegram. “Call my paper yellow, eh? And that crack about the cash register!”

“Oh, everyone knows the Star is the best paper in the state,” Penny said, trying to coax him into a better mood. “You’re a good editor too, and a pretty fair father.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Parker responded with a mock bow. “Since we’re passing out compliments, you’re not so bad yourself.”

Suddenly relaxing, he reached out to touch Penny’s hand in a rare expression of affection. Tall and lean, a newspaper man with a reputation for courage and fight, he had only two interests in life—his paper and his daughter. Penny’s mother had been dead many years, but at times he saw his wife again in the girl’s sparkling blue eyes, golden hair, and especially in the way she smiled.

“Hungry, Dad?” Penny asked unexpectedly, intruding upon his thoughts. “I know a dandy new hamburger place not far from here. Wonderful coffee too.”

“Well, all right,” Mr. Parker consented. “It’s pretty late though. The big clock’s striking midnight.”

As the car halted for a traffic light, they both listened to the musical chimes which preceded the regularly spaced strokes of the giant clock. Penny turned her head to gaze at the Hubell Memorial Tower, a grim stone building which rose to the height of seventy-five feet. Erected ten years before as a monument to one of Riverview’s wealthy citizens, its chimes could be heard for nearly a mile on a still night. On one side, its high, narrow windows overlooked the city, while on the other, the cultivated lands of truck farmers.

“How strange!” Penny murmured as the last stroke of the clock died away.

“What is strange?” Mr. Parker asked gruffly.

“Why, that clock struck thirteen times instead of twelve!”

“Bunk and bosh!”

“Oh, but it did!” Penny earnestly insisted. “I counted each stroke distinctly.”

“And one of them twice,” scoffed her father. “Or are you spoofing your old Dad?”

“Oh, I’m not,” Penny maintained. As the car moved ahead, she craned her neck to stare up at the stone tower. “I know I counted thirteen. Why, Dad, there’s a green light burning in one of the windows! I never saw that before. What can it mean?”

“It means we’ll have a wreck unless you watch the road!” Mr. Parker cried, giving the steering wheel a quick turn. “Where are you taking me anyhow?”

“Out to Toni’s.” Reluctantly Penny centered her full attention upon the highway. “It’s only a mile into the country.”

“We won’t be home before one o’clock,” Mr. Parker complained. “But since we’re this far, I suppose we may as well keep on.”

“Dad, about that light,” Penny said thoughtfully. “Did you ever notice it before?”

Mr. Parker turned to gaze back toward the stone tower.

“There’s no green light,” he answered grimly. “Every window is dark.”

“But I saw it only an instant ago! And I did hear the clock strike thirteen. Cross my heart and hope to die—”

“Never mind the dramatics,” Mr. Parker cut in. “If the clock struck an extra time—which it didn’t—something could have gone wrong with the mechanism. Don’t try to build up a mystery out of your imagination.”

The car rattled over a bridge and passed a deserted farm house that formerly had belonged to a queer old man named Peter Fenestra. Penny’s gaze fastened momentarily upon an old fashioned storm cellar which marred the appearance of the front yard.

“I suppose I imagined all that too,” she said, waving her hand toward the disfiguring cement hump. “Old Peter never had any hidden gold, he never had a SECRET PACT with tattooed sailors, and he never tried to burn your newspaper plant!”

“I’ll admit you did a nice piece of detective work when you uncovered that story,” her father acknowledged. “Likewise, you brought the Star one of its best scoops by outwitting slippery Al Gepper and entangling him in his own Silken Ladder.”

“Don’t forget the Tale of the Witch Doll either,” Penny reminded him. “You laughed at me then, just as you’re doing now.”

“I’m not laughing,” denied the editor. “I merely say that no light was burning in the tower window, and I very much doubt that the clock struck more than twelve times.”

“Tomorrow I shall go to the tower and talk with the caretaker, Seth McGuire. I’ll prove to you that I was right!”

“If you do, I’ll treat to a dish of ice cream decorated with nuts.”

“Make it five gallons of gasoline and I’ll be really interested,” she countered.

Due to an unusual set of circumstances, Penny had fallen heir to two automobiles, one a second-hand contraption whose battered sides bore the signature of nearly every young person in Riverview. The other, a handsome maroon sedan, had been the gift of her father, presented in gratitude because of her excellent reporting of a case known to many as Behind the Green Door. Always hard pressed for funds, she found it all but impossible to keep two automobiles in operation, and her financial difficulties were a constant source of amusement to everyone but herself.

Soon, an electric sign proclaiming “Toni’s” in huge block letters loomed up. Penny swung into the parking area, tooting the horn for service. Immediately a white-coated waiter brought out a menu.

“Coffee and two hamburgers,” Penny ordered with a flourish. “Everything on one, and everything but, on the other.”

“No onions for the little lady?” the waiter grinned. “Okay. I’ll have ’em right out.”

While waiting, Penny noticed that another car, a gray sedan, had drawn up close to the building. Although the two men who occupied the front seat had ordered food, they were not eating it. Instead they conversed in low tones as they appeared to watch someone inside the cafe.

“Dad, notice those two men,” she whispered, touching his arm.

“What about them?” he asked, but before she could reply, the waiter came with a tray of sandwiches which he hooked over the car door.

“Not bad,” Mr. Parker praised as he bit into a giant-size hamburger. “First decent cup of coffee I’ve had in a week too.”

“Dad, watch!” Penny reminded him.

The restaurant door had opened, and a man of early middle age came outside. Immediately the couple in the gray sedan stiffened to alert attention. As the man passed their car they lowered their heads, but the instant he had gone on, they turned to peer after him.

The man who was being observed so closely seemed unaware of the scrutiny. Crossing the parking lot, he chose a trail which led into a dense grove of trees.

“Now’s our chance!” cried one of the men in the gray sedan. “Come on, we’ll get him!” Both alighted and likewise disappeared into the woods.

“Dad, did you hear what they said?” asked Penny.

“I did,” he answered grimly. “Tough looking customers too.”

“I’m afraid they mean to rob that first man. Isn’t there anything we can do?”

Mr. Parker barely hesitated. “I may make a chump of myself,” he said, “but here goes! I’ll tag along and try to be on hand if anything happens.”

“Dad, don’t do it!” Penny pleaded, suddenly frightened lest her father face danger. “You might get hurt!”

Mr. Parker paid no heed. Swinging open the car door, he strode across the parking lot, and entered the dark woods.

CHAPTER
2
NIGHT RIDERS

Not to be left behind, Penny quickly followed her father, overtaking him before he had gone very far into the forest.

“Penny, you shouldn’t have come,” he said sternly. “There may be trouble, and I’ll not have you taking unnecessary risks.”

“I don’t want you to do it either,” she insisted. “Which way did the men go?”

“That’s what I wonder,” Mr. Parker responded, listening intently. “Hear anything?”

“Not a sound.”

“Queer that all three of them could disappear so quickly,” the editor muttered. “I’m sure there’s been no attack. Listen! What was that?”

“It sounded like a car being started!” Penny exclaimed.

Hastening to the edge of the woods, she gazed toward the parking lot. The Parker car stood where it had been abandoned, but the gray sedan was missing. A moving tail light could be seen far down the road.

“There go our friends,” Mr. Parker commented rather irritably. “Their sudden departure probably saved me from making a chump of myself.”

“How could we tell they didn’t mean to rob that other man?” Penny asked in an injured tone. “You thought yourself that they intended to harm him.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you,” the editor answered, starting toward the parking lot. “I’m annoyed at myself. This is a graphic example of what we were talking about awhile ago—imagination!”

Decidedly crestfallen, Penny followed her father to the car. They finished their hamburgers, which had grown cold, and after the tray was removed, started home.

“I could do with a little sleep,” Mr. Parker yawned. “After a hard day at the office, your brand of night life is a bit too strenuous for me.”

Selecting a short-cut route to Riverview, Penny paid strict attention to the road, for the narrow pavement had been patched in many places. On either side of the highway stretched truck farms with row upon row of neatly staked tomatoes and other crops.

Rounding a bend, Penny was startled to see tongues of flame brightening the horizon. A large wooden barn, situated in plain view, on a slight knoll, had caught fire and was burning rapidly. As she slammed on the brake, Mr. Parker aroused from light slumber.

“Now what?” he mumbled drowsily.

“Dad, unless I’m imagining things again, that barn is on fire!”

“Let ’er burn,” he mumbled, and then fully aroused, swung open the car door.

There were no fire fighters on the scene, in fact the only person visible was a woman in dark flannel night robe, who stood silhouetted in the red glare. As Penny and Mr. Parker reached her side, she stared at them almost stupidly.

“We’ll lose everything,” she said tonelessly. “Our entire crop of melons is inside the barn, packed for shipment. And my husband’s new truck!”

“Have you called a fire company?” the editor asked.

“I’ve called, but it won’t do any good,” she answered. “The barn will be gone before they can get here.”

With a high wind whipping the flames, Penny and her father knew that the woman spoke the truth. Already the fire had such a start that even had water been available, the barn could not have been saved.

“Maybe I can get out the truck for you!” Mr. Parker offered.

As he swung open the barn doors, a wave of heat rushed into his face. Coughing and choking, he forced his way into the smoke filled interior, unaware that Penny was at his side. Seeing her a moment later, he tried to send her back.

“You can’t get the truck out without me to help push,” she replied, refusing to retreat. “Come on, we can do it!”

The shiny red truck was a fairly light one and stood on an inclined cement floor which sloped toward the exit. Nevertheless, although Penny and her father exerted every iota of their combined strength, they could not start it moving.

“Maybe the brake is on!” Mr. Parker gasped, running around to the cab. “Yes, it is!”

Pushing once more, they were able to start the truck rolling. Once in motion its own momentum carried it down the runway into the open, a safe distance from the flames.

“How about the crated melons?” Penny asked, breathing hard from the strenuous exertion.

“Not a chance to save them,” Mr. Parker answered. “We were lucky to get out the truck.”

Driven back by the heat, Penny and her father went to stand beside the woman in dark flannel. Thanking them for their efforts in her behalf, she added that her name was Mrs. Preston and that her husband was absent.

“John went to Riverview and hasn’t come back yet,” she said brokenly. “This is going to be a great shock to him. All our work gone up in smoke!”

“Didn’t you have the barn insured?” the editor questioned her.

“John has a small policy,” Mrs. Preston replied. “It covers the barn, but not the melons stored inside. Those men did it on purpose, too! I saw one of ’em riding away.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Parker demanded, wondering if he had understood the woman correctly. “You don’t mean the fire deliberately was set?”

“Yes, it was,” the woman affirmed angrily. “I was sound asleep, and then I heard a horse galloping into the yard. I ran to the window and saw the rider throw a lighted torch into the old hay loft. As soon as he saw it blaze up, he rode off.”

“Was the man anyone you knew?” Mr. Parker asked, amazed by the disclosure. “Were you able to see his face?”

“Hardly,” Mrs. Preston returned with a short laugh. “He wore a black hood. It covered his head and shoulders.”

“A black hood!” Penny exclaimed. “Why, Dad, that sounds like night riders!”

“Mrs. Preston, do you know of any reason why you and your husband might be made the target of such cowardly action?” the newspaper man inquired.

“It must have been done because John wouldn’t join up with them.”

“Join some organization, you mean?”

“Yes, they kept warning him something like this would happen, but John wouldn’t have anything to do with ’em.”

“I don’t blame your husband,” said the editor, seeking to gather more information. “Tell me, what is the name of this disreputable organization? What is its purpose, and the names of the men who run it?”

“I don’t know any more about it than what I’ve told you,” Mrs. Preston replied, suddenly becoming close-lipped. “John never said much about it to me.”

“Are you afraid to tell what you know?” Mr. Parker asked abruptly.

“It doesn’t pay to do too much talking. You act real friendly and you did me a good turn saving my truck—but I don’t even know your name.”

“Anthony Parker, owner of the Riverview Star.”

The information was anything but reassuring to the woman.

“You’re not aiming to write up anything I’ve told you for the paper?” she asked anxiously.

“Not unless I believe that by doing so I can expose these night riders who have destroyed your barn.”

“Please don’t print anything in the paper,” Mrs. Preston pleaded. “It will only do harm. Those men will turn on John harder than ever.”

Before Mr. Parker could reply, the roof of the storage barn collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks and burning brands. By this time the red glare in the sky had attracted the attention of neighbors, and several men came running into the yard. Realizing that he could not hope to gain additional information from the woman, Mr. Parker began to examine the ground in the vicinity of the barn.

“Looking for hoof tracks?” Penny asked, falling into step beside him.

“I thought we might find some, providing the woman told a straight story.”

“Dad, did you ever hear of an organization such as Mrs. Preston mentioned?” Penny inquired, her gaze on the ground. “I mean around Riverview, of course.”

Mr. Parker shook his head. “I never did, Penny. But if what she says is true, the Star will launch an investigation. We’ll have no night riders in this community, not if it’s in my power to blast them out!”

“Here’s your first clue, Dad!”

Excitedly, Penny pointed to a series of hoof marks plainly visible in the soft earth. The tracks led toward the main road.

“Apparently Mrs. Preston told the truth about the barn being fired by a man on horseback,” Mr. Parker declared as he followed the trail leading out of the yard. “These prints haven’t been made very long.”

“Dad, you look like Sherlock Holmes scooting along with his nose to the ground!” Penny giggled. “You should have a magnifying glass to make the picture perfect.”

“Never mind the comedy,” her father retorted gruffly. “This may mean a big story for the Star, not to mention a worthwhile service to the community.”

“Oh, I’m heartily in favor of your welfare work,” Penny chuckled. “In fact, I think it would be wonderfully exciting to capture a night rider. Is that what you have in mind?”

“We may as well follow this trail as far as we can. Apparently, the fellow rode his horse just off the main highway, heading toward Riverview.”

“Be sure you don’t follow the trail backwards,” Penny teased. “That would absolutely ruin your reputation as a detective.”

“Jump in the car and drive while I stand on the running board,” Mr. Parker ordered, ignoring his daughter’s attempt at wit. “Keep close to the edge of the pavement and go slowly.”

Obeying instructions, Penny drove the car at an even speed. Due to a recent rain which had made the ground very soft, it was possible to follow the trail of hoof prints without difficulty.

“We turn left here,” Mr. Parker called as they came to a dirt road. “Speed up a bit or the tires may stick. And watch sharp for soft places.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Penny laughed, thoroughly enjoying the adventure.

Soon the car came to the entrance of a narrow, muddy lane, and there Mr. Parker called a halt.

“We’ve come to the end of the trail,” he announced.

“Have the tracks ended?” Penny asked in disappointment as she applied brakes.

“Quite the contrary. They turn into this lane.”

Both Mr. Parker and his daughter gazed thoughtfully toward a small cabin which could be seen far back among the trees. Despite the late hour, a light still glowed in one of the windows.

“The man who set the fire must live there!” Penny exclaimed. “What’s our next move, Dad?”

As she spoke, the roar of a fast traveling automobile was heard far up the road, approaching from the direction whence they had just come.

“Pull over,” Mr. Parker instructed. “And flash the tail light. We don’t want to risk being struck.”

Barely did Penny have time to obey before the head-beams of the oncoming car illuminated the roadway. But as it approached, the automobile suddenly slackened speed, finally skidding to a standstill beside the Parker sedan.

“That you, Clem Davis?” boomed a loud voice. “Stand where you are, and don’t make any false moves!”

CHAPTER
3
A BLACK HOOD

“Good Evening, Sheriff,” Mr. Parker said evenly as he recognized the heavy-set man who stepped from a county automobile. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else this time.”

Sheriff Daniels put away his revolver and moved into the beam of light.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Thought you might be Clem Davis, and I wasn’t taking any chances. You’re Parker of the Riverview Star?”

“That’s right,” agreed the editor, “Looking for Clem Davis?”

“I’m here to question him. I’m investigating a fire which was set at the Preston place.”

“You’re a fast worker, Sheriff,” Mr. Parker remarked. “My daughter and I just left the Preston farm, and we didn’t see you there. What put you on Davis’ trail?”

“Our officer received an anonymous telephone call from a woman. She reported the fire and said that I’d find my man here.”

“Could it have been Mrs. Preston who notified you?” Mr. Parker inquired thoughtfully.

“It wasn’t Mrs. Preston,” answered the sheriff. “I traced the call to the Riverview exchange. Thought it must be the trick of a crank until our office got a report that a fire actually had been set at the Preston farm. By the way, what are you doing around here, Parker?”

“Oh, just prowling,” the editor replied, and explained briefly how he and Penny had chanced to be at the scene of the fire.

“If you followed a horseman to this lane there may be something to that anonymous telephone call,” the sheriff declared. “I’ll look around, and then have a talk with Davis.”

“Mind if we accompany you?” inquired Mr. Parker.

“Come along,” the sheriff invited.

Penny was hard pressed to keep step with the two men as they strode down the muddy lane. A light glowed in the window of the cabin, and a woman could be seen sitting at a table. The sheriff, however, circled the house. Following the trail of hoof marks he went directly to the stable, quietly opening the double doors.

Once inside, Sheriff Daniels switched on a flashlight. The bright beam revealed six stalls, all empty save one, in which stood a handsome black mare who tugged restlessly at her tether. Her body was covered with sweat, and she shivered.

“This horse has been ridden hard,” the sheriff observed, reaching to throw a blanket over her.

“Here’s something interesting,” commented Mr. Parker. Stooping, he picked up a dark piece of cloth lying in plain view on the cement floor. It had been sewed in the shape of a headgear, with eye holes cut in the front side.

“A black hood!” Penny shouted in awe.

Sheriff Daniels took the cloth from the editor, examining it closely but saying very little.

“Ever hear of any night riders in this community?” Mr. Parker asked after a moment, his tone casual.

“Never did,” the sheriff replied emphatically. “And I sure hope such a story doesn’t get started.”

Mr. Parker fingered the black mask. “All the same, Sheriff, you can’t just laugh off a thing like this. Even if the November elections aren’t far away—”

“I’m not worried about my job,” the other broke in. “So far as I know there’s no underground organization in this county. All this mask proves is that Clem Davis may be the man who set the Preston fire.”

The officer turned to leave the stable. Before he could reach the exit, the double doors slowly opened. A woman, who carried a lighted lantern, peered inside.

“Who’s there?” she called in a loud voice.

“Sheriff Daniels, ma’am,” the officer answered. “You needn’t be afraid.”

“Who said anything about bein’ afraid?” the woman belligerently retorted.

Coming into the stable, she gazed with undisguised suspicion from one person to another. She was noticeably thin, slightly stooped and there was a hard set to her jaw.

“You’re Mrs. Davis?” the sheriff inquired, and as she nodded, he asked: “Clem around here?”

“No, he ain’t,” she answered defiantly. “What you wanting him for anyhow?”

“Oh, just to ask a few questions. Where is your husband, Mrs. Davis?”

“He went to town early and ain’t been back. What you aimin’ to lay onto him, Sheriff?”

“If your husband hasn’t been here since early evening, who has ridden this horse?” the sheriff demanded, ignoring the question.

Mrs. Davis’ gaze roved to the stall where the black mare noisily crunched an ear of corn.

“Why Sal has been rid!” she exclaimed as if genuinely surprised. “But not by Clem. He went to town in the flivver, and he ain’t been back.”

“Sorry, but I’ll have to take a look in the house.”

“Search it from cellar to attic!” the woman said angrily. “You won’t find Clem! What’s he wanted for anyway?”

“The Preston barn was set afire tonight, and your husband is a suspect.”

“Clem never did it! Why, the Prestons are good friends of ours! Somebody’s just tryin’ to make a peck o’ trouble for us.”

“That may be,” the sheriff admitted. “You say Clem hasn’t been here tonight. In that case, who rode the mare?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” the woman maintained sullenly.

“Didn’t you hear a horse come into the yard?”

“I never heard a sound until your car stopped at the entrance to the lane.”

“I suppose you never saw this before either.” The sheriff held up the black hood which had been found in the barn.

Mrs. Davis stared blankly at the cloth. “I tell you, I don’t know nothin’ about it, Sheriff. You ain’t being fair if you try to hang that fire onto Clem. And you won’t find him hidin’ in the house.”

“If your husband isn’t here, I’ll wait until he comes.”

“You may have a long wait, Sheriff,” the woman retorted, her lips parting in a twisted smile. “You can come in though and look around.”

Not caring to follow the sheriff into the house, Penny and her father bade him goodbye a moment later. Tramping down the lane to their parked car, they both expressed the belief that Clem Davis would not be arrested during the night.

“Obviously, the woman knows a lot more than she’s willing to tell,” Mr. Parker remarked, sliding into the car seat beside Penny.

“Dad, do you think it was Clem who set fire to the Preston barn?”

“We have no reason to suspect anyone else,” returned the editor. “All the evidence points to his guilt.”

Penny backed the car in the narrow road, heading toward Riverview.

“That was the point I wanted to make,” she said thoughtfully. “Doesn’t it seem to you that the evidence was almost too plain?”

“What do you mean, Penny?”

“Well, I was just thinking, if I had been in Clem Davis’ place, I never would have left a black hood lying where the first person to enter the barn would be sure to see it.”

“That’s so, it was a bit obvious,” Mr. Parker admitted.

“The horse was left in the stable, and the hoof tracks leading to the Davis place were easy to follow.”

“All true,” Mr. Parker nodded.

“Isn’t it possible that someone could have tried to throw the blame on Clem?” suggested Penny, anxiously awaiting her father’s reply.

“There may be something to the theory,” Mr. Parker responded. “Still, Mrs. Davis didn’t deny that the mare belonged to her husband. She claimed that she hadn’t heard the horse come into the stable, which obviously was a lie. Furthermore, I gathered the impression that Clem knew the sheriff was after him, and intends to hide out.”

“It will be interesting to learn if Mr. Daniels makes an arrest. Do you expect to print anything about it in the paper?”

“Only routine news of the fire,” Mr. Parker replied. “There may be much more to this little incident than appears on the surface, but until something develops, we must wait.”

“If you could gain proof that night riders are operating in this community, what then?” Penny suggested eagerly.

“In that case, I should certainly launch a vigorous campaign. But why go into all the details now? I’m sure I’ll not assign you to the story.”

“Why not?” Penny asked in an injured tone. “I think night riders would be especially suited to my journalistic talents. I could gather information about Clem Davis and the Prestons—”

“This is Sheriff Daniel’s baby, and we’ll let him take care of it for the time being,” Mr. Parker interrupted. “Why not devote yourself to the great mystery of the Hubell clock? That should provide a safe outlook for your energies.”

The car was drawing close to Riverview. As it approached the tall stone tower, Penny raised her eyes to the dark windows. Just then the big clock struck twice.

“Two o’clock,” Mr. Parker observed, taking a quick glance at his watch. “Or would you say three?”

“There’s no argument about it this time, Dad. All the same, I intend to prove to you that I was right!”

“How?” her father asked, covering a wide yawn.

“I don’t know,” Penny admitted, favoring the grim tower with a dark scowl. “But just you wait—I’ll find a way!”

CHAPTER
4
A NEW CARETAKER

“I declare, getting folks up becomes a harder task each morning,” declared Mrs. Maud Weems, who had served as the Parker housekeeper for eleven years, as she brought a platter of bacon and eggs to the breakfast table. “I call and call until I’m fairly hoarse, and all I get in response is a few sleepy mutters and mumbles. The food is stone cold.”

“It’s good all the same,” praised Penny, pouring herself a large-size glass of orange juice. “There’s not a woman in Riverview who can equal your cooking.”

“I’m in no mood for blarney this morning,” the housekeeper warned. “I must say quite frankly that I don’t approve of the irregular hours in this house.”

“Penny and I did get in a little late last night,” Mr. Parker admitted, winking at his daughter.

“A little late! It must have been at least four o’clock when you came in. Oh, I heard you tiptoe up the stairs even if you did take off your shoes!”

“It was only a few minutes after two,” Penny corrected. “I’m sorry though, that we awakened you.”

“I hadn’t been asleep,” Mrs. Weems replied, somewhat mollified by the apology. “I’m sure I heard every stroke of the clock last night.”

“You did!” Penny exclaimed with sudden interest. “How many times would you say it struck at midnight? I mean the Hubell Tower clock.”

“Such a question!” Mrs. Weems protested, thoroughly exasperated.

“It’s a very important one,” Penny insisted. “My reputation and five gallons of gas are at stake, so weigh well your words before you speak.”

“The clock struck twelve, of course!”

“There, you see, Penny,” Mr. Parker grinned triumphantly. “Does that satisfy you?”

“Mrs. Weems,” Penny persisted, “did you actually count the strokes?”

“Certainly not. Why should I? The clock always strikes twelve, therefore it must have struck that number last night.”

“I regret to say, you’ve just disqualified yourself as a witness in this case,” Penny said, helping herself to the last strip of bacon on the platter. “I must search farther afield for proof.”

“What are you talking about anyhow?” the housekeeper protested. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

As she finished breakfast, Penny explained to Mrs. Weems how the disagreement with her father had arisen. The housekeeper displayed slight interest in the tale of the clock, but asked many questions about the fire at the Preston farm.

“That reminds me!” Mr. Parker suddenly exclaimed before Penny had finished the story. “I want to ’phone Sheriff Daniels before I start for the office. Excuse me, please.”

Pushing aside his chair, he went hurriedly to the living room. Not wishing to miss any news which might have a bearing on the affair of the previous night, Penny trailed him, hovering close to the telephone. However, her father’s brief comments told her almost nothing.

“What did you learn?” she inquired eagerly as he hung up the receiver. “Was Clem Davis arrested last night?”

“No, it turned out about as we expected. Apparently, Davis knew the sheriff was looking for him. Anyway, he never returned home.”

Jamming on his hat, Mr. Parker started for the front door. Penny pursued him to the garage, carrying on a running conversation.

“This rather explodes my theory about Clem not being guilty,” she remarked ruefully. “If he were innocent, one would expect him to face the sheriff and prove an alibi.”

“Davis can’t be far away,” Mr. Parker responded, getting into the maroon sedan. “The sheriff will nab him soon.”

Penny held open the garage doors, watching as her father backed down the driveway, scraping the bark of a tree whose gnarled trunk already bore many scars. Before she could reenter the house, Louise Sidell, a dark-haired, slightly plump girl, who was Penny’s most loyal friend, sauntered into the yard.

“Hi!” she greeted cheerily. “About ready?”

“Ready for what?” Penny asked, her face blank.

Louise regarded her indignantly. “If that isn’t just like you, Penny Parker! You make promises and then forget them. Don’t you remember telling Mrs. Van Cleve of the Woman’s Club that we would help sell tags today, for the Orphans’ Home summer camp?”

“Now that you remind me, I have a vague recollection. How many are we to sell?”

“Twenty-five at not less than a quarter each. I have the tags, but we’ll have to work fast or the other girls will sell all the easy customers.”

“I’ll be with you in two shakes,” Penny promised, heading for the house. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Weems where I am going.”

Returning a moment later with the car ignition keys, she found Louise staring disconsolately at the empty space in the garage.

“What became of your new car?” asked her chum.

“Dad’s auto is in the garage for repairs,” Penny explained briefly. “I didn’t have the heart to make him walk.”

“I should think not!” laughed Louise. “Imagine having three cars in one family—if you can call this mess of junk by such a flattering name.” Depreciatingly, she kicked the patched tire of a battered but brightly painted flivver which had seen its heyday in the early thirties.

“Don’t speak so disrespectfully of my property,” Penny chided, sliding into the high, uncomfortable seat. “Leaping Lena is a good car even if she is a bit creaky in the joints. She still takes us places.”

“And leaves us stranded,” Louise added with a sniff. “Oh, well, let’s go—if we can.”

Penny stepped on the starter and waited expectantly. The motor sputtered and coughed, but true to form, would not start. Just as the girls were convinced that they must walk, there was an explosive backfire, and then the car began to quiver with its familiar motion.

“You should sell Lena to the government for a cannon,” Louise teased as they rattled down the street. “What do you burn in this smoke machine? Kerosene?”

“Never mind the slurs. Where do we start our business operations?”

“We’ve been assigned to the corner of Madison and Clark streets,” Louise answered as she separated the yellow benefit tags into two evenly divided piles. “It shouldn’t take us long to get rid of these.”

Neither of the girls regretted their promise to help with the tag-day sale, for the cause was a worthy one. The campaign to raise sufficient funds with which to purchase and equip an orphans’ summer camp site, had been underway many weeks, and was headed by Mrs. Van Cleve, a prominent club woman.

Parking Leaping Lena at the designated street corner, the girls went to work with a will. All their lives they had lived in Riverview, and Penny in particular, had a wide acquaintance. Accosting nearly everyone who passed, she soon disposed of all her tags, and then sold many for her chum.

“They’ve gone fast,” Louise declared as the morning wore on. “We have only one left.”

“Don’t sell that tag!” Penny said impulsively. “I have it earmarked for a certain person—Old Seth McGuire.”

“The caretaker at the Hubell Clock Tower?” Louise asked in astonishment.

“Yes, he always liked children and I think he would be glad to help.”

“But why drive so far?” protested Louise. “I’m sure we could dispose of it right here, and much quicker.”

“Oh, I have a special reason for going to see Seth,” Penny answered carelessly. “I’ll tell you about it on the way there.”

From her chum’s manner, Louise deducted that something interesting lay ahead. She had learned, frequently to her sorrow, that Penny enjoyed interviewing unusual characters and engaging in amazing activities. Only a few months earlier, the girls had operated their own newspaper in an abandoned downtown building with results which were still the talk of Riverview. Another time they had attended a society wedding on an island guarded by a drawbridge, and had ended by using the drawbridge as a means of capturing a boatload of crooks. In fact, Louise took delight in remarking that if ever her chum chose to write an autobiography, a suitable title would be: “Life with Penelope Parker: Never a Dull Moment.”

“What’s up now, Penny?” she inquired, as they rattled toward the Hubell Tower in Leaping Lena.

“Just a little argument I had with Dad last night. I maintain that the big clock struck thirteen last night at midnight. He thinks I’m a wee bit touched in the head.”

“Which you must be,” retorted Louise. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“What’s so crazy about it?” Penny asked with a grimace. “Didn’t you ever hear a clock strike the wrong number?”

“Of course, but not the Hubell clock. Why, the works were purchased in Europe, and it’s supposed to be one of the best in the country.”

“Even a good clock can make a mistake, I guess. Anyway, we’ll see what Seth McGuire has to say about it.”

Penny brought Leaping Lena to a quivering halt opposite the tall Hubell Tower. Glancing upward at the octagonical-shaped clock face, she saw that the hands indicated twenty minutes to twelve.

“Rather an awkward time to call,” she remarked, swinging open the car door, “but Seth probably won’t mind.”

As the girls walked toward the tower entrance, they noticed that the grounds surrounding the building were not as neat as when last they had viewed them. The shrubs were untrimmed, the lawn choked with weeds, and old newspapers had matted against the hedge.

“I wonder if Mr. McGuire has been well?” Penny commented, knocking on the tower door. “He always took pride in looking after the yard.”

“At least he seems to be up and around,” Louise returned in a low tone. “I can hear someone moving about inside.”

The girls waited expectantly for the door to open. When there was no response to their knock, Penny tried again.

“Who’s there?” called a loud and not very friendly voice.

Penny knew that it was not Old Seth who spoke, for the caretaker’s high-pitched tones were unmistakable.

“We came to see Mr. McGuire,” she called through the panel.

The door swung back and the girls found themselves facing a stout, red-faced man of perhaps forty, who wore a soiled suede jacket and unpressed corduroy trousers.

“McGuire’s not here any more,” he informed curtly. “You’ll probably find him at his farm.”

Before the man could close the door, Penny quickly asked if Mr. McGuire had given up his position as caretaker because of sickness.

“Oh, he was getting too old to do his work,” the man answered with a shrug. “I’m Charley Phelps, the new attendant. Visiting hours are from two to four each afternoon.”

“We didn’t come to see the clock,” persisted Penny.

“What did bring you here then?” the man demanded gruffly. “You a personal friend of Seth’s?”

“Not exactly.” Penny peered beyond the caretaker into an untidy living room clouded with tobacco smoke. “We thought we might sell him one of these tags. Perhaps you would like to contribute to the orphans’ camp fund?”

She extended the bit of yellow cardboard, bestowing upon the attendant one of her most dazzling smiles.

“No, thanks, Sister,” he declined, refusing to take the tag. “You’ll have to peddle your wares somewhere else.”

“Only twenty-five cents.”

“I’m not interested. Now run along and give me a chance to eat my lunch in peace.”

“Sorry to have bothered you,” Penny apologized woodenly. Without moving from the door, she inquired: “Oh, by the way, what happened to the clock last night?”

“Nothing happened to it,” the caretaker retorted. “What d’you mean?”

“At midnight it struck thirteen times instead of twelve.”

“You must have dreamed it!” the man declared. “Say, what are you trying to do anyhow—start stories so I’ll lose my job?”

“Why, I never thought of such a thing!” Penny gasped. “I truly believed that the clock did strike thirteen—”

“Well, you were wrong, and I’ll thank you not to go around telling folks such bunk!” the man said angrily. “The clock hasn’t struck a wrong hour since the day it was installed. I take better care of the mechanism than Seth McGuire ever did!”

“I didn’t mean to intimate that you were careless—” Penny began.

She did not complete the sentence, for Charley Phelps slammed the door in her face.

CHAPTER
5
OLD SETH

“Well, Penny, you certainly drew lightning that time,” Louise remarked dryly as the girls retreated to Leaping Lena. “I thought Mr. Phelps was going to throw the tower at you!”

“How could I know he was so touchy?” Penny asked in a grieved tone.

“You did talk as if you thought he had been careless in taking care of the big clock.”

“I never meant it that way, Lou. Anyway, he could have been more polite.”

Jerking open the car door, Penny slid behind the steering wheel and jammed her foot on the starter. Leaping Lena, apparently realizing that her young mistress was in no mood for trifling, responded with instantaneous action.

“I guess you’re satisfied now that the clock never struck thirteen,” Louise teased as the car fairly leaped forward.

“I should say not!” Penny retorted. “Why, I’m more convinced than ever that something went wrong with the mechanism last night. Phelps knew it too, and for that reason didn’t want us asking questions!”

“You die hard, Penny,” chuckled Louise. “From now on, I suppose you’ll go around asking everyone you meet: ‘Where were you at midnight of the thirteenth?’”

“It wouldn’t do any good. Most folks just take things for granted in this world. But there’s one person who would pay attention to that clock!”

“Who?”

“Why, old Seth McGuire. We’ll drive out to his farm and ask him about it.”

“It’s lunch time and I’m hungry,” Louise protested.

“Oh, you can spend the rest of your life eating,” Penny overruled her. “Business before pleasure, you know.”

Seth McGuire, one of Riverview’s best known and well loved characters, had been caretaker at the Hubell Clock Tower from the day of its erection, and the girls could not but wonder why he had been relieved of his post. The old man had personally installed the complicated machinery, caring for it faithfully over the years. In fact, his only other interest in life was his farm, located a mile from the city limits, and it was there that Penny hoped to find him.

“Watch for a sign, ‘Sleepy Hollow,’” she instructed. “Mr. McGuire has given his place a fancy name.”

A moment later Louise, seeing the marker, cried: “There it is! Slow down!”

Penny slammed on the brakes and Leaping Lena responded by shivering in every one of her ancient joints. Louise was thrown forward, barely catching herself in time to prevent a collision with the windshield.

“Why don’t you join a stunt circus?” she said irritably. “You drive like Demon Dan!”

“We’re here,” replied Penny cheerfully. “Nice looking place, isn’t it?”

The car had pulled up near a small, neatly-kept cottage framed in well-trimmed greenery. An even, rich green lawn was highlighted here and there by beds of bright red and blue flowers.

After admiring the grounds, the girls rang the front bell. Receiving no response, they went around to the rear, pounding on the kitchen screen door.

“Mr. McGuire’s not here,” said Louise. “Just another wild goose chase.”

“Let’s try this out-building,” Penny suggested, indicating a long, low structure made of cement building blocks which was roofed with tin. A sign dangling above the door proclaimed that it was the foundry and machine shop of one Seth McGuire, maker of bells and clocks.

As the girls peered through the open door an arresting sight met their gaze. Through clouds of smoke they saw a spry old man directing the movements of a muscular youth who pulled a large pot-shaped crucible of molten metal on an overhead pulley track.

“Are you Seth McGuire?” Penny shouted to make herself heard above the noise of running machinery.

The old man, turning his head, waved them back.

“Don’t come in here now!” he warned. “It’s dangerous. Wait until we pour the bell.”

With deft, sure hands, the old fellow pulled control chains attached to the crucible. The container twisted and finally overturned, allowing the molten metal to pour into a bell-shaped mold. As the last drops ran out of it, a great cloud of steam arose, enveloping both the old man and his helper.

“Won’t they be burned?” Louise murmured in alarm, moving hastily backwards.

“Mr. McGuire seems to know what he’s doing,” Penny answered, watching with interest.

In a moment the steam cleared away, and the old man motioned that the girls might come inside.

“You’ll have to excuse my manners,” he apologized, his mild blue eyes regarding them with a twinkle. “Pouring a bell is exacting work and you can’t stop until it’s done.”

“Is that what you were doing?” Penny inquired, staring at the steaming mass which had been poured into the mold. “It’s sort of like making a gelatin pudding, isn’t it?”

“Jake and me never thought of it that way,” the old man replied. “I learned from an old Swiss bell maker when I was a lad. And I apprenticed under a master, you may be sure of that.”

“How do you make a bell anyway?” Louise inquired curiously.

“You can’t tell in five minutes what it takes a lifetime to learn,” the old man answered. “Now a bell like this one I’m making for the Methodist Church at Blairstown takes a heap o’ work. Jake and me have worked a solid week getting the pattern and mold ready for that pouring job you just saw.”

“Do you ever have any failures?” Penny asked, seeking to draw him out.

“Not many, but once in awhile a bell cracks,” the old fellow said modestly. “That happens when the mold is damp, or not of proper temperature. If gasses collect you may get a nice healthy explosion, too!”

“Does it take a long while to finish a bell after it’s been poured?” Penny pursued the subject.

“A large one may require a week to cool, but I’ll have this fellow out of the mold by tomorrow night,” Mr. McGuire returned. “Then we’ll polish her off, put in the clapper, and attach the bell to a sturdy mounting. If the tone is right, she’ll be ready to install.”

“How do you tell about the tone?” Louise questioned in perplexity.

“This one should have a deep, low tone,” the old man replied. “Other things being equal, a large bell gives a deeper tone than a small one. Pitch depends upon diameter, and timbre upon the shape and the alloy used.”

“I never realized there was much to a bell besides its ding-dong,” commented Penny. “But tell me, Mr. McGuire, do you find this work more interesting than taking care of the Clock Tower?”

“Looking after that place wasn’t work. It was more like a rest cure. I took the job because, twelve years ago when the tower went up, they couldn’t find a competent man to look after the clock.”

“And now you’ve gone back to your old trade?”

“Oh, I liked it at the tower,” Old Seth admitted truthfully. “I’m a bit old to do heavy work such as this. More than likely I’d have gone on putting in my time if Mr. Blake hadn’t wanted the job for a friend of his.”

“Mr. Blake?” Penny inquired thoughtfully. “Do you mean Clyde Blake, the real estate man?”

The old bell maker nodded as he gazed moodily out the window toward the distant tower which could be seen outlined against the blue sky.

“Yes, it was Blake that eased me out of that job. He has a lot of influence and he uses it in ways some might say isn’t always proper. I can make a fair living as long as I have my health, so I’m not complaining.”

“We met the new caretaker this morning,” Penny said after a moment. “He wasn’t very polite to us, and the grounds have gone to wrack and ruin.”

“Did you notice the flower beds?” Old Seth asked, feeling creeping into his voice. “Half choked with weeds. Charley Phelps hasn’t turned a hand since he took over there six weeks ago.”

“I suppose he spends most of his time looking after the big clock,” Penny remarked, deliberately leading the old man deeper.

“Charley Phelps spends most of his hours smoking that vile pipe of his and entertaining his roustabout friends,” Old Seth snapped. “He doesn’t know as much as a child about complicated clock machinery. What he can’t take care of with an oil can goes unrepaired!”

The conversation had moved in exactly the channel which Penny desired.

“No doubt that explains why the clock hasn’t always been striking right of late,” she said in an offhand way. “Last night I was almost sure I heard it strike thirteen instead of twelve times. In fact, I had a little argument with my father about it.”

“You were correct,” the old man assured her. “I was working late here in the shop and heard it myself.”

“There! You see, Louise!” Penny cried triumphantly, turning to her chum.

“Mr. McGuire, what would cause the clock to strike wrong?” the other asked.

“I was wondering myself,” he admitted. “In all the ten years I was at the tower, it never once struck an incorrect hour. I think that there must have been something wrong with the striking train.”

“Pardon my ignorance,” laughed Penny, “but what in the world is the striking train?”

“Oh, we apply that name to the center section of the mechanism which operates the clock. The going train drives the hands, while the quarter train chimes the quarter-hours, sounding four tuned bells.”

“Just as clear as mud,” sighed Louise who disliked all mechanical things. “Does the clock strike wrong every night?”

“Last night was the first time I ever heard it add a stroke,” Mr. McGuire answered. “I’ll be listening though, to see if Phelps gets it fixed.”

Penny and Louise had accomplished the purpose of their trip, and so, after looking about the shop for a few minutes, left without trying to sell the old man a camp-benefit tag.

“Why didn’t you ask him to take one?” Louise asked as she and her chum climbed into the parked car.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Penny answered uncomfortably. “It just came over me that Old Seth probably doesn’t have much money now that he’s out of steady work.”

“He must make quite a lot from his bells.”

“But how often does he get an order?” Penny speculated. “I’d guess not once in three months, if that often. It’s a pity Mr. Blake had to push Mr. McGuire out of the tower job.”

Louise nodded agreement, and then with a quick change of subject, reminded her chum that they had had no lunch.

“It’s too late to go home,” said Penny, who had other plans. “I’ll treat you to one of the biggest hamburger sandwiches you ever wrapped your teeth around! How’s that?”

“I’ll take anything so long as you pay for it,” Louise agreed with a laugh.

Driving on to Toni’s, the girls lunched there without incident, and then started for Riverview by a different route.

“Say, where are you taking me anyway?” Louise demanded suspiciously. “I’ve never been on this road before.”

“Only out to the Davis farm,” Penny responded with a grin. “We have a little detective work to do.”

During the bumpy ride, she gave her chum a vivid account of the adventure she had shared with her father the previous night.

“And just what do you expect to learn?” Louise inquired at the conclusion of the tale. “Are we expected to capture Clem Davis with our bare hands and turn him over to the authorities?”

“Nothing quite so startling. I thought possibly Mrs. Davis might talk with us. She seemed to know a lot more about the fire than she would tell.”

“I don’t mind tagging along,” Louise consented reluctantly. “It doesn’t seem likely, though, that the woman will break down and implicate her husband just because you want a story for the Riverview Star.”

Undisturbed by her chum’s teasing, Penny parked Leaping Lena at the entrance to the lane, and the girls walked to the cabin.

“It doesn’t look as if anyone is here,” Louise remarked, rapping for the second time on the oaken door.

“I’m sure there is,” Penny replied in a whisper. “As we came up the lane, I saw the curtains move.”

Louise knocked a third time, so hard that the door rattled.

“At any rate, no one is going to answer,” she said. “We may as well go.”

“All right,” Penny agreed, although it was not her nature to give up so easily.

The girls walked down the lane until a clump of bushes screened them from the cabin.

“Let’s wait here,” Penny proposed, halting. “I have a hunch Mrs. Davis is hiding from us.”

“What’s to be gained by waiting?” grumbled Louise.

Nevertheless, she crouched beside her chum, watching the house. Ten minutes elapsed. Both Louise and Penny grew very weary. Then unexpectedly, the cabin door opened and Mrs. Davis peered into the yard. Seeing no one, she took a wooden water bucket and started with it to the pump which was situated midway between cabin and stable.

“Now’s our chance!” Penny whispered eagerly. “Come on, Louise, we’ll cut off her retreat and she can’t avoid meeting us!”

CHAPTER
6
TALL CORN

Hastening up the lane, Penny and Louise approached the pump in such a way that Mrs. Davis could not return to the house without meeting them. Not until the woman had filled the water bucket and was starting back did she see the two girls.

“Well?” she demanded defiantly.

By daylight the woman appeared much younger than Penny had taken her to be the previous night. Not more than thirty-two, she wore a shapeless, faded blue dress which had seen many washings. Rather attractive brown hair had been drawn back into a tight, unbecoming knot that made her face seem grotesquely long.

“I don’t suppose you recognize me,” Penny began diffidently. “My father and I were here last night with Sheriff Daniels.”

“I remember you very well,” the woman retorted. “What do you want?”

“Why, I should like to buy some melons,” Penny replied, the idea only that instant occurring to her. “Have you any for sale?”

“Melons,” the woman repeated, and the hard line of her mouth relaxed. “I thought you came to pester me with questions. Sure, we’ve got some good Heart o’ Gold out in the patch. How many do you want?”

“About three, I guess.”

“You can pick ’em out yourself if you want to,” Mrs. Davis offered. Setting down the water bucket, she led the way through a gate to a melon patch behind the cabin. Her suspicions not entirely allayed, she demanded: “Sheriff Daniels didn’t send you out here?”

“Indeed not,” Penny assured her. “I haven’t seen him since last night.”

“It’s all right then,” Mrs. Davis said in a more friendly tone. She stooped to examine a ripe melon. “I figured maybe he sent you to find out what became of my husband.”

“Oh, no! Didn’t Mr. Davis return home last night?”

“Not on your life!” the woman answered grimly. “And he won’t be back either—not while Sheriff Daniels is looking for him.”

From Mrs. Davis’ manner of speaking, Penny was convinced that she had been in communication with her husband since the sheriff’s visit. Trying to keep her voice casual, she observed:

“Don’t you think it would be wise for your husband to give himself up? By hiding, he makes it appear as though he actually did set fire to the Preston barn.”

“Clem would be a fool to give himself up now! Why, they’d be sure to hang the fire onto him, even though he wasn’t within a mile of the Preston place.”

“Then couldn’t he prove it?”

“Not a chance,” the woman said with a short, hard laugh. “Clem was framed. He never rode the horse last night, and that black hood was planted in the stable.”

“Does your husband have any enemies?”

“Sure, he’s got plenty of ’em.”

“Then perhaps you can name a person who might have tried to throw blame on your husband.”

“I could tell plenty if I was a mind to,” the woman said significantly. “I’d do it in a minute, only it would make things worse for Clem.”

Penny started to reply, then remained silent as she saw that Mrs. Davis’ gaze had focused upon a section of cornfield which fringed the melon patch. The tall stalks were waving in an agitated manner, suggesting that someone might be moving among them.

“Here are your melons,” Mrs. Davis said nervously, thrusting three large ones into Penny’s hands. “That will be a quarter.”

As the girl paid her, she abruptly turned and hurried toward the house.

“Just a minute, Mrs. Davis,” Penny called. “If you’ll only talk to me I may be able to help your husband.”

The woman heard but paid no heed. Picking up the water bucket, she entered the cabin, closing the door behind her.

“Well, we gained three melons, and that’s all,” Louise shrugged. “What’s our next move?”

“I think Mrs. Davis was on the verge of telling us something important,” Penny declared, her voice low. “Then she saw someone out there in the corn field and changed her mind.”

“I don’t see anyone now,” Louise said, staring in the direction her chum had indicated. “The stalks aren’t even moving.”

“They were a moment ago. Clem Davis may be hiding out there, Lou! Or it could be some of Sheriff Davis’ men watching the cabin.”

“Or an Indian waiting to scalp us,” teased Louise. “Let’s go back to the car.”

Penny shook her head and started toward the corn patch. Reluctantly, Louise followed, overtaking her at the edge of the field.

“Sheriff Daniels!” Penny called through cupped hands.

There was no answer, only a gentle rippling of the corn stalks some distance from them.

“Whoever the person is, he’s sneaking away,” Penny whispered. “Come on, let’s stop him!”

“Don’t be foolish—” Louise protested, but her chum had vanished into the forest of tall corn.

After a moment of indecision she, too, entered the field. By that time there was no sign of Penny, no sound to guide her. Wandering aimlessly first in one direction, then another, she soon became hopelessly lost.

“Penny!” she shouted frantically.

“Here!” called a voice not far away.

Tracing the sound, and making repeated calls, Louise finally came face to face with her chum.

“Such a commotion as you’ve been making,” chided Penny. “Not a chance to catch that fellow now!”

“I don’t care,” Louise retorted crossly. Her hair was disarranged, stockings matted with burs. “If we can get out of this dreadful maze I want to go to the car.”

“We’re at the edge of the field. Follow me and I’ll pilot you to safety.”

Emerging a minute later at the end of the corn row, Penny saw the stable only a few yards away. Impulsively, she proposed to Louise that they investigate it for possible clues.

“I’ve had enough detective work for one day,” her chum complained. “Anyway, what do you hope to discover in an old barn?”

“Maybe I can induce the horse to talk,” Penny chuckled. “Sal must know all the answers, if only she could speak.”

“You’ll have to give her the third degree by yourself,” Louise decided with finality. “I shall go to the car.”

Taking the melons with her, she marched stiffly down the lane and climbed into Leaping Lena. Carefully she rearranged her hair, plucked burs, and then grew impatient because her chum did not come. Fully twenty minutes elapsed before Penny emerged from the stable.

“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Lou,” she apologized as she reached the car. “See what I found!”

Penny held up a bright silver object which resembled a locket, save that it was smaller.

“What is it?” Louise inquired with interest.

“A man’s watch charm! It has a picture inside too!”

With her fingernail, Penny pried open the lid. Flat against the cover had been fastened the photograph of a boy who might have been ten or twelve years of age.

“Where did you get it, Penny?”

“I found it lying on the barn floor, not far from the place where we picked up the black hood last night.”

“Then it must belong to Clem Davis!”

“It may,” Penny admitted, sliding into the seat beside her chum. “Still, I don’t believe the Davis’ have any children.”

“What will you do with the charm? Turn it over to the sheriff?”

“I suppose I should, after I’ve shown it to Dad,” Penny replied, carefully tying the trinket into the corner of a handkerchief. “You know, Lou, since finding this, I wonder if Mrs. Davis may not have told the truth.”

“About what, Penny?”

“She said that her husband had been framed.”

“Then you think this watch charm was left in the barn to throw suspicion upon Clem Davis!”

Penny shook her head. “No, this is my theory, Louise. Perhaps someone hid the black hood there, and rode Clem’s horse to make it appear he was the guilty person. Inadvertently, that same person lost this watch charm.”

“In that case, you would have a clue which might solve the case.”

“Exactly,” Penny grinned in triumph. “Get ready for a fast ride into town. I’m going to rush this evidence straight to the Star office and get Dad’s opinion.”

CHAPTER
7
MR. BLAKE’S DONATION

Not wishing to ride to the Star building, Louise asked her chum to drop her off at the Sidell home. Accordingly, Penny left her there, and then drove on alone to her father’s office. The news room hummed with activity as she sauntered through to the private office.

“Just a minute, please,” her father requested, waving her into a chair.

He completed a letter he was dictating, dismissed his secretary, and then was ready to listen. Without preliminary ado, Penny laid the watch charm on the desk, explaining where she had found it.

“Dad, this may belong to Clem Davis, but I don’t think so!” she announced in an excited voice. “It’s my theory that the person who planted the black hood in the stable must have lost it!”

Mr. Parker examined the charm carefully, gazing at the picture of the little boy contained within it.

“Very interesting,” he commented. “However, I fear you are allowing your imagination to take you for a ride. There isn’t much question of Clem Davis’ guilt according to the findings of the sheriff.”

“Has any new evidence come to light, Dad?”

“Yes, Penny, the sheriff’s office has gained possession of a document showing beyond question that Clem Davis is a member of a renegade band known as the Black Hoods.”

“Where did they get their proof?”

“Sheriff Davis won’t disclose the source of his information. However, our star reporter, Jerry Livingston, is working on the case, and something may develop any hour.”

“Then you’re intending to make it into a big story?” Penny asked thoughtfully.

“I am. An underground, subversive organization, no matter what its purpose, has no right to an existence. The Star will expose the leaders, if possible, and break up the group.”

“Since the Hoods apparently burned the Preston storage barn, their purpose can’t be a very noble one,” Penny commented. “Nor are their leaders especially clever. The trail led as plain as day to Clem Davis—so straight, in fact, that I couldn’t help doubting his guilt.”

“Penny, I’ll keep this watch charm, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Parker said, locking the trinket into a drawer. “I’ll put Jerry to work on it and he may be able to learn the identity of the little boy in the picture.”

Abruptly changing the subject, the editor inquired regarding his daughter’s success in selling Camp-Benefit tags.

“I have only one left,” Penny replied, presenting it with a flourish. “Twenty-five cents, please.”

“The cause is a worthy one. I’ll double the amount.” Amiably, Mr. Parker flipped a half dollar across the desk.

“While you’re in a giving mood I might mention that my allowance is due,” Penny said with a grin. “Also, you owe me five gallons of gasoline. I saw old Seth McGuire this morning and he agreed with me that the Hubell clock struck thirteen last night.”

Mr. Parker had no opportunity to reply, for just then his secretary re-entered the office to say that Mr. Clyde Blake wished to see him.

“I suppose that means you want me to evaporate,” Penny remarked, gazing questioningly at her father.

“No, stay if you like. It’s probably nothing of consequence.”

Penny welcomed an invitation to remain. After her talk with Seth McGuire she was curious to see the man who had caused the old bell maker to lose his position at the Hubell Tower.

“Blake probably wants to ask me to do him a personal favor,” Mr. Parker confided in a low tone. “He’s a pest!”

In a moment the door opened again to admit the real estate man. He was heavy-set, immaculately dressed, and the only defect in his appearance was caused by a right arm which was somewhat shorter than the left.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Parker,” he said expansively. “And is this your charming daughter?”

The editor introduced Penny, who bowed politely and retreated to a chair by the window. Prejudiced against Mr. Blake, she had no desire to talk to him.

“What may I do for you?” Mr. Parker asked the caller.

“Ah, this time it is I who shall bestow the favor,” Mr. Blake responded, taking a cheque book from his pocket. “Your paper has been campaigning for a very worthy cause, namely the Orphans’ Summer Camp Fund. It wrings my heart that those unfortunate kiddies have been denied the benefit of fresh air and sunshine.”

“If you wish to make a donation, you should give your money to Mrs. Van Cleve,” the editor cut him short.

“I much prefer to present my cheque to you,” the caller insisted. “Shall I make it out for a hundred and fifty dollars?”

“That’s a very handsome donation,” said Mr. Parker, unable to hide his surprise. “But why give it to me?”

Mr. Blake coughed in embarrassment. “I thought you might deem the offering worthy of a brief mention in your paper.”

“Oh, I see,” the editor responded dryly.

“I don’t wish publicity for myself, you understand, but only for the real estate company which bears my name.”

“I quite understand, Mr. Blake. If we should use your picture—”

“That will be very acceptable,” the real estate man responded, smiling with satisfaction. “I’ll be happy to oblige you by posing.”

Helping himself to a pen, he wrote out the cheque and presented it to the editor.

“Penny, how would you like to write the story?” inquired her father. “You’ve been helping Miss Norton with the publicity, I believe.”

“I’m rather bogged down with work,” Penny demurred. “I think Mrs. Weems wants me to clean the attic when I get home.”

“Never mind the attic. Please conduct Mr. Blake to the photography room and ask one of the boys to take his picture.”

Penny arose obediently, but as the real estate man left the office ahead of her, she shot her father a black look. She considered a publicity story very trivial indeed, and it particularly displeased her that she must write honeyed words about a man she did not admire.

“You have a very nice building here, very nice,” Mr. Blake patronizingly remarked as he was escorted toward the photographic department. Noticing a pile of freshly printed newspapers lying on one of the desks, he helped himself to a copy.

“I see the sheriff hasn’t captured Clem Davis yet,” he commented, scanning the front page. “I hope they get him! It’s a disgrace to Riverview that such a crime could be perpetrated, and the scoundrel go unpunished.”

“He’ll probably be caught,” Penny replied absently. “But I wonder if he’s the guilty person.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Blake demanded, regarding her with shrewd interest. “You think Davis didn’t burn the Preston barn?”

“I was only speculating upon it.”

“Reflecting your father’s opinion, no doubt.”

“No, not anyone’s thought but my own.”

“Your father seems to be making quite a story of it,” Mr. Blake resumed. “It will be most unfortunate for the community if he stirs up talk about underground organizations.”

“Why unfortunate?” Penny asked.

“Because it will give the city a bad reputation. I doubt there is anything to this Black Hood talk, but if there should be, any publicity might lead to an investigation by state authorities.”

“A very good thing, I should think.”

“You do not understand,” Mr. Blake said patiently. “Depredation would increase, innocent persons surely would suffer. With Riverview known unfavorably throughout the country, we would gain no new residents.”

Penny did not reply, but opened the door of the photographic room. While Mr. Blake wandered about, inspecting the various equipment, she relayed her father’s instructions to Salt Sommers, one of the staff photographers.

“Better get a good picture of Blake,” she warned him. “He’ll be irritated if you don’t.”

“I’ll do my best,” Salt promised, “but I can’t make over a man’s face.”

Mr. Blake proved to be a trying subject. Posed on a stool in front of a screen, he immediately “froze” into a stiff position.

“Be sure to make it only a head and shoulders picture, if you please,” he ordered Salt.

“Can’t you relax?” the photographer asked wearily. “Unloosen your face. Think of all those little orphans you’re going to make happy.”

Mr. Blake responded with a smirk which was painful to behold. Nothing that Salt could say or do caused him to become natural, and at length the photographer took two shots which he knew would not be satisfactory.

“That’ll be all,” he announced.

Mr. Blake arose, drawing a deep sigh. “Posing is a great ordeal for me,” he confessed. “I seldom consent to having my picture taken, but this is a very special occasion.”

Completely at ease again, the real estate man began to converse with Penny. In sudden inspiration, Salt seized a candid camera from a glass case, and before Mr. Blake was aware of his act, snapped a picture.

“There, that’s more like it,” he said. “I caught you just right, Mr. Blake.”

The real estate man turned swiftly, his eyes blazing anger.

“You dared to take a picture without my permission?” he demanded. “I’ll not have it! Destroy the film at once or I shall protest to Mr. Parker!”

CHAPTER
8
PUBLICITY BY PENNY

The real estate man’s outburst was so unexpected that Penny and Salt could only stare at him in astonishment.

“It’s a good full length picture,” the photographer argued. “Much better than those other shots I took.”

“I can’t allow it,” Blake answered in a calmer tone. He touched his right arm. “You see, I am sensitive about this deformity. Unreasonable of me, perhaps, but I must insist that you destroy the film.”

“Just as you say,” Salt shrugged. “We’ll use one of the other pictures.”

“No, I’ve changed my mind,” Blake said shortly. “I don’t care for any picture. Kindly destroy all the films—now, in my presence.”

“Why, Mr. Blake!” Penny protested. “I thought you wanted a picture to accompany the story I am to write.”

“You may write the article, but I’ll have no picture. The films must be destroyed.”

“Okay,” responded Salt. Removing two plates from a holder he exposed them to the light. He started to take the film from the candid camera, but did not complete the operation. Mr. Blake, however, failed to notice.

“Thank you, young man,” he said, bowing. “I am sorry to have taken so much of your valuable time, and I appreciate your efforts.”

Nodding in Penny’s direction, Mr. Blake left the studio, closing the door behind him.

“Queer duck,” commented Salt. “His picture on the front page would be no break for our readers!”

“I can’t understand why Mr. Blake became so provoked,” Penny said thoughtfully. “That excuse about his arm seemed a flimsy one.”

“Let’s develop the film and see what it looks like,” Salt suggested, starting for the darkroom. “It was just an ordinary shot though.”

Penny followed the young photographer into the developing room, watching as he ran the film through the various trays. In exactly six minutes the picture was ready, and he held it beneath the ruby light for her to see.

“Nothing unusual about it,” he repeated. “Blake’s right arm looks a bit shorter than the left, but we could have blocked that off.”

Salt tossed the damp picture into a wastepaper basket, only to have Penny promptly rescue it.

“I wish you would save this,” she requested. “Put it in an envelope and file it away somewhere in the office.”

“What’s the big idea, Penny?”

“Oh, just a hunch, I guess. Someday the paper may want a picture of Blake in a hurry, and this one would serve very nicely.”

Aware that time was fast slipping away, Penny returned to her father’s office to report Mr. Blake’s strange action. Mr. Parker, well versed in the peculiarities of newspaper patrons, shrugged indifferently.

“Blake always was a queer fellow,” he commented, fingering the cheque which still lay on his desk. “I never trusted him, and I wish I hadn’t accepted this money.”

“How could you have refused, Dad?”

“I couldn’t very well. All the same, I have a feeling I’ll regret it.”

“Why do you say that?” Penny asked curiously.

“No reason perhaps. Only Blake isn’t the man to give something for nothing. He aims to profit by this affair, or I’m no judge of human nature.”

“He craves publicity, that’s certain.”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that,” Mr. Parker declared. “Oh, well”—he dismissed the subject, “I’ll turn the cheque over to the camp committee and let someone else do the worrying.”

“I’ll tell you why I dislike Mr. Blake,” Penny said with feeling. “He caused Seth McGuire to lose his job at the Hubell Tower.”

“That so?” the editor asked in surprise. “I hadn’t heard about it.”

“Blake gave the position to a special friend of his. Can’t you do something about it, Dad?”

“I don’t know any of the basic facts, Penny. Why should I interfere in a matter which is none of my affair?”

“At least let’s not give Mr. Blake a big build-up because of his donation.”

“The story must be written,” Mr. Parker said with finality. “I always keep a bargain, even a bad one.”

“Then you might write the story,” Penny proposed mischievously. “I can’t spell such a big word as hypocrite!”

“Never mind,” Mr. Parker reproved. “Just get busy and see that you handle the article in a way favorable to Blake.”

With a deep sigh, Penny took herself to the adjoining newsroom. Selecting a typewriter, she pecked listlessly at the keys. Presently Jerry Livingston, one of the reporters, fired a paper ball at her.

“Your story must be a masterpiece,” he teased. “It’s taken you long enough to write it.”

Penny jerked the sheet of copy from the typewriter roller. “It’s not fair,” she complained. “I have to dish out soft soap while you handle all the interesting stories. There should be a law against it.”

“Learn to take the bitter along with the whipped cream,” chuckled Jerry. “I’ve also just been handed an assignment that’s not to my liking.”

“Covering the Preston fire, I suppose.”

“Nothing that spectacular. DeWitt’s sending me out to the Riverview Orphans’ Home to dig up human interest material in connection with the camp-fund campaign. Want to ride along as ballast?”

“Well, I don’t know?” Penny debated. “I’ve had almost enough of publicity stories for one day.”

“Oh, come on,” Jerry coaxed, taking her by the arm. “You can talk to the orphans and maybe turn up a lot of interesting facts.”

“For you to write,” she added ruefully. “Just a Sister Friday—that’s my fate in this office.”

Actually Penny welcomed an opportunity to accompany Jerry, for she liked him better than any young man of her acquaintance. Spearing the story she had just written on the copy desk spindle, she followed the reporter to the parking lot. Jerry helped her into one of the press cars, and they expertly drove through heavy downtown traffic.

“What’s the latest on the Preston case?” Penny inquired, clutching her hat to keep it from blowing out the window.

“No latest,” Jerry answered briefly. “The Prestons won’t talk, Mrs. Davis won’t talk, the sheriff won’t talk. So far it totals up to one little story about a fire.”

“Dad said the sheriff had learned Clem Davis was a member of a secret organization, probably known as the Black Hoods.”

“Sheriff Daniels claims he has documentary proof,” Jerry admitted. “He won’t produce it though, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he may be bluffing.”

“Then you think he wants to convict Clem Davis whether or not he’s guilty?”

“He wants to end the case just as quickly as he can, Penny. The November elections aren’t far away. If this night rider story gets a start, the dear public might turn on him, demanding action or his job.”

“Do you think there actually is such an organization as the Black Hoods, Jerry?”

“I do,” he returned soberly. “After talking with the Prestons and Mrs. Davis, I’m convinced they could tell quite a bit about it if they were willing to furnish evidence.”

It pleased Penny that Jerry’s opinion so nearly coincided with her own. Eagerly she told him of her own talk with Mrs. Davis, mentioning that someone had been hiding in the cornfield near the cabin.

“What time was that?” Jerry asked, stopping the car at a traffic light.

“Shortly after twelve o’clock.”

“Then it couldn’t have been Sheriff Daniels or his deputies,” the reporter declared. “I was at the county office talking to them about that same time.”

“It might have been Clem Davis,” Penny suggested. “I’m sure his wife knows where he is hiding.”

As the car sped over the country road, she kept the discussion alive by mentioning the watch charm which she had picked up at the Davis stable. Jerry had not seen the picture of the little boy, but promised to inspect it just as soon as he returned to the Star offices.

“Clem Davis has no children,” he assured Penny, “so it’s unlikely the charm ever belonged to him. You may have found an important clue.”

“I only wish Dad would officially assign me to the story,” she grumbled. “He never will, though.”

Presently the car approached the Riverview Orphans’ Home, a large brick building set back some distance from the road. Children in drab blue uniforms could be seen playing in the front yard, supervised by a woman official.

“Poor kids,” Jerry said with honest feeling, “you can’t help feeling sorry for ’em. They deserve the best summer camp this town can provide.”

“The project is certain to be possible now,” Penny replied. “Mr. Blake’s cheque put the campaign over the top.”

Jerry gave the steering wheel an expert flip, turning the car into the private road.

“Don’t tell me that old bird actually parted with any money!”

“Oh, he did, Jerry. He donated a cheque for a hundred and fifty dollars.”

“And no strings attached?”

“Well, he hinted that he wanted a nice write-up about himself. I was torturing myself with the story when you interrupted.”

“It’s mighty queer,” the reporter muttered. “Leopards don’t change their spots. Blake must expect something more tangible than publicity out of the deal.”

His mind centering on what Penny had just told him, Jerry gave no thought to his driving. Handling the steering wheel skillfully, but automatically, he whirled the car into the play area of the institution, drawing up with a loud screeching of brakes.

Uncertain that the reporter could stop, the children scattered in all directions. One little girl remained squarely in front of the car. Covering her face with her hands, she began to scream.

“Gosh all fish hooks!” Jerry exclaimed in dismay. “I didn’t mean to frighten the kid.”

Jumping from the coupe, he and Penny ran to the child.

“You’re all right,” Jerry said, stooping beside the little girl. “The car didn’t come within a mile of you. I’m mighty sorry.”

Nothing that either he nor Penny could say seemed to quiet the child. Her screams did not subside until a matron appeared and took her by the hand.

“Come Adelle,” she said gently. “We’ll go into the house.”

“I’m as sorry as I can be,” Jerry apologized, doffing his hat. “I didn’t intend to drive into the yard so fast. It’s all my fault.”

The attendant smiled to set him at ease. “Don’t mind,” she said quietly. “Adelle is very easily upset. I’ll explain to you later.”

CHAPTER
9
JERRY’S PARTY

Both Penny and Jerry regretted the incident, feeling that they had been at fault because they had driven into the play area at such high speed.

“Maybe I can send the kid a box of candy or make it up to her in some way,” the reporter remarked.

Roving about the yard, he and Penny talked to many of the orphans. Nearly all of the children answered questions self-consciously and had little to say.

“We’ll not get much of a story here,” Jerry commented in an undertone. “These youngsters are as much alike as if they had been cut from one pattern.”

“Adelle was different,” Penny returned with a smile. “Almost too much so.”

In a short while, Miss Anderson, the young woman who had taken the child away, returned to the play yard. Penny and Jerry immediately inquired about the little girl.

“Oh, she is quite herself again,” the young woman responded. “The upset was only a temporary one.”

“Is Adelle easily frightened?” Penny inquired curiously.

“Unfortunately, she is terrified of automobiles,” responded Miss Anderson. “I am afraid it is becoming a complex. You see, about a year ago both of her parents were killed in a motor accident.”

“How dreadful!” Penny gasped.

“Adelle was in the car but escaped with a broken leg,” the young woman resumed. “The incident made a very deep impression upon her.”

“I should think so!” exclaimed Jerry. “How did the accident occur?”

“We don’t know exactly, for Adelle was the only witness. According to her story, the Hanover automobile was crowded off the road by another motorist who drove at reckless speed, without lights. The car upset, pinning the occupants beneath it.”

“It seems to me I remember that story,” Jerry said thoughtfully. “The hit-run driver never was caught.”

“No, according to Adelle he stopped, only to drive on again when he saw that her parents were beyond help.”

“The man must have been heartless!” Penny declared indignantly. “How could he run away?”

“Because he feared the consequences,” Miss Anderson answered. “Had he been apprehended he would have faced charges for manslaughter, and undoubtedly would have been assessed heavy damages.”

“I take it the child has no property or she wouldn’t be at this institution,” Jerry said soberly.

“Adelle is penniless. Her parents were her only relatives, so she was brought to us.”

“It’s a shame!” Penny declared feelingly. “Wasn’t there any clue as to the identity of the man who caused the fatal accident?”

“No worthwhile ones. Adelle insists that she saw the driver’s face plainly and could recognize him again. However, she never was able to give a very good description, nor to make an identification.”

Having heard the story, Jerry was more than ever annoyed at himself because he had caused the child needless suffering.

“Miss Anderson, isn’t there something I can do to make amends?” he asked earnestly. “What would the little girl like? Candy, toys?”

“It isn’t necessary that you give her anything.”

“I want to do it,” Jerry insisted.

“In that case, why not make some small bequest to the institution, or send something which may be enjoyed by all the children.”

“Jerry, I have an idea!” cried Penny impulsively. “Why not give a party? Would that be permissible, Miss Anderson?”

“Indeed, yes. The children love them, and outings away from the institution are their special delight.”

“Let’s give a watermelon party!” Penny proposed, immediately considering herself Jerry’s partner in the affair. “We could take the children to a nearby farm and let them gorge themselves!”

“The children would enjoy it, I’m sure,” Miss Anderson smiled. “Can transportation be arranged? We have sixty boys and girls.”

“I’ll take care of everything,” Jerry promised. “Suppose we set tomorrow afternoon as the date.”

“Oh, can’t we have the party at night?” Penny pleaded. “There will be a full moon. A watermelon feast wouldn’t be much fun by daylight.”

Miss Anderson replied that she thought the children might be allowed to attend such a party, providing it were held early in the evening. Penny and Jerry talked with her about various details of the plan, and then drove away from the institution.

“Well, you certainly got me into something,” Jerry chuckled as the car turned into the main road. “Where are we going to throw this party?”

“Oh, any melon farmer will be glad to let the children invade his patch, providing we pay for the privilege,” Penny answered carelessly. “You might turn in at the next farm.”

Her confidence proved to be ill-founded, for Mr. Kahler, the farmer whom they accosted, would not consider the proposition.

“The children will trample the vines, and do a lot of damage,” he declined. “Why don’t you try the Wentover place?”

At the Wentover farm, Jerry and Penny likewise were turned down.

“No one wants sixty orphans running rampant over his place,” the reporter observed in discouragement. “We may as well give up the idea.”

“It’s possible Mrs. Davis would allow us to hold a muskmelon party at her farm,” Penny replied thoughtfully. “Now that her husband has skipped, she must be in need of money.”

The chance of success seemed unlikely. However, to please Penny, Jerry drove to the Davis property. To their surprise they found the place humming with activity. Professional melon pickers were at work in the patch, and Mrs. Davis, dressed in overalls, was personally supervising the laborers.

“I have no time to answer questions!” she announced to Jerry before he could speak. “Please go away and leave me alone!”

“Oh, I’m not here in an official capacity this time,” the reporter grinned. “We want to make you a business proposition.”

He then explained what he had in mind. Mrs. Davis listened attentively but with suspicion.

“It’s likely some trick!” she declared. “I’ll have nothing to do with it!”

“Mrs. Davis, we’re not trying to deceive you,” Penny interposed earnestly. “We’ve tried several other farms before we came here. No one is willing to let the children trample the vines.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt mine,” the woman admitted. “By tomorrow night we’ll have all the best melons picked and sorted. I reckon the youngsters can have what’s left in the patch.”

“We’ll pay you well for the privilege,” Jerry promised, taking out his wallet.

“I don’t want your money,” the woman answered shortly. “Just see to it that the youngsters don’t tear up the place.”

Neither Penny nor Jerry wished to accept such a favor, but Mrs. Davis firmly refused to take pay.

“You know, I think the old girl has a tender heart beneath a hard exterior,” the reporter remarked after the woman had gone back to the patch. “Down under she’s a pretty decent sort.”

For a time Penny and Jerry watched the laborers at their work. Heaping baskets of melons were brought from the patch to the barn. There they were sorted, stamped, and packed into crates which were loaded into a truck.

“Nice looking melons,” the reporter remarked. “Mrs. Davis should make a pretty fair profit.”

An elderly workman, who was sorting melons, glanced sideways at Jerry, grinning in a knowing way.

“Maybe,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?” Jerry questioned him.

“Sellin’ melons is a speculative business,” the old fellow shrugged. “You ain’t sure o’ anything until your harvest is sold and you get the money in your fist.”

Penny and Jerry watched the sorting work for a few minutes longer and then returned to the car.

“You know, for a minute I thought that old duffer was hinting at something,” the reporter remarked. “He acted as if it would give him real pleasure to see something happen to Mrs. Davis’ melons.”

“Oh, I didn’t take it that way,” Penny responded. “He was only waxing philosophical.”

The hour was late. Knowing that he might be wanted at the Star office, Jerry drove rather fast over the bumpy road.

As the press car sped around a bend, a man who stood leaning against a fence post, quickly retreated into the woods. His act, however, had drawn Penny’s attention.

“Stop the car, Jerry!” she cried. “There he is again!”

“Who?” demanded the reporter, slamming on brakes.

“I think it’s the same man who hid in the cornfield!” Penny exclaimed excitedly. “It must be Clem Davis!”

CHAPTER
10
IN THE MELON PATCH

“Which way did the fellow go?” Jerry demanded, bringing the car to a standstill.

“Into the woods,” Penny answered tersely.

Leaping from the automobile, they climbed a fence, and reached the edge of the woods. Pausing there, they listened intently. No sound could be heard, not even the crackling of a stick.

“This timber land extends for miles,” said Jerry. “We’d only waste time playing hide and seek in there. Our best bet is to notify Sheriff Daniels and let him throw a net around the entire section.”

“I guess you’re right,” Penny acknowledged regretfully.

Making all haste to Riverview, they stopped briefly at the sheriff’s office to make their report. Penny then said goodbye to Jerry and went to the newspaper building where she had parked Leaping Lena. The car would not start. Experienced in such matters, Penny raised the hood and posed beside it, a picture of a young lady in deep distress. Soon a taxi-cab cruised along.

“Having trouble, sister?” the driver asked.

Penny slammed down the hood, and scrambled into Leaping Lena.

“Just give me a little push,” she instructed briskly.

Obligingly, the taxi driver backed into position behind Leaping Lena. After the two cars had gathered speed, Penny shifted gears. Lena responded with an ailing cough and then a steady chug.

“Thanks!” Penny shouted, waving farewell to her benefactor. “I’ll return the favor someday.”

“Not with that mess of junk!” the taxi man laughed.

By keeping the motor running at high speed, Penny reached home without mishap. Her father had arrived ahead of her, she noted, for the maroon car had been put away for the night.

Locking the garage doors, Penny entered the house by way of the kitchen.

“Where’s Dad?” she asked the housekeeper, absently helping herself to a freshly baked cookie.

“Listen, and I think you can tell,” Mrs. Weems answered.

A loud hammering noise came from the basement. Inspired by an advertisement of Waldon’s Oak Paneling, Mr. Parker had decided to wall up the recreation room without the services of a carpenter. Much of his spare time was spent carrying on a personal feud with boards which refused to fit into the right places.

“Poor Dad,” Penny grinned as she heard a particularly loud exclamation of wrath. “I’ll go down and drip a few consoling words.”

Descending the stairs, she stood watching her father from the doorway of the recreation room.

“Hello, Penny,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “You may as well make yourself useful. Hold this board while I nail it in place.”

“All right, but be careful where you pound. Remember, I have only two hands and I prize them both.”

With Penny holding the board, Mr. Parker nailed it to the underpinning.

“Well, what do you think of the job?” he asked, standing back to admire his work.

“As a carpenter you’re a very good editor,” Penny answered with exaggerated politeness. “Aren’t walls supposed to come together at the corners?”

“I made a little mistake in my calculations. Later on I may build a corner cupboard to cover up the slight gap.”

“Slight!” Penny chuckled. “Dad, if I were you I wouldn’t get tangled up in any more carpenter jobs. It’s too hard on your disposition.”

“I never was in a better mood in my life,” Mr. Parker insisted. “Good reason, too. At last I’ve got the best of Mr. Ben Bowman!”

“Bowman?” Penny inquired in a puzzled tone.

“That crank who keeps sending me collect messages.”

“Oh, to be sure! I’d forgotten about him.”

“He sent another telegram today,” Mr. Parker declared, smiling grimly. “I suspected it came from him and refused to pay for it.”

“Bravo,” Penny approved. “I knew you could get the best of that fellow if you just put your mind to it.”

On the floor above a telephone rang, but neither of them paid any heed, knowing that Mrs. Weems would answer. In a moment the housekeeper called down the stairway, telling Mr. Parker he was wanted on the ’phone.

“It’s Mr. DeWitt from the office,” she informed him.

Putting aside his hammer, Mr. Parker went upstairs. Soon he returned to the basement, his manner noticeably subdued.

“What’s the matter, Dad?” Penny inquired curiously. “You look as if you had just received a stunning blow.”

“DeWitt telephoned to tell me the Star lost an important story today.”

“How did that happen, Dad?”

“Well, a correspondent wired in the news, but by accident the message never reached DeWitt’s desk.”

Penny regarded her father shrewdly. “Ben Bowman’s telegram?”

“I’m afraid it was,” Mr. Parker admitted. “The message came to two dollars. I didn’t know DeWitt had hired a correspondent at the town of Altona. Naturally I jumped to conclusions.”

“So you lost a news story because you refused a bona fide telegram,” Penny said, shaking her head. “Ben Bowman scores again.”

“You see what I’m up against,” the editor growled. “I’d give a hundred dollars to be rid of that pest.”

“You really mean it?” Penny demanded with interest.

“My peace of mind would be well worth the price.”

“In that case, I may apply my own brain to the task. I could use a hundred dollars.”

The discussion was interrupted by Mrs. Weems who called that dinner was ready. As Mr. Parker went to his usual place at the dining room table, he saw a yellow envelope lying on his plate.

“What’s this?” he demanded sharply.

“A telegram,” explained Mrs. Weems. “It came only a moment ago. I paid the boy.”

“How much was the message?” the editor asked, his face grim.

“A dollar and a half.” Mrs. Weems regarded her employer anxiously. “Did I do anything I shouldn’t have? I supposed of course you would want me to accept the message.”

“This is just too, too good!” Penny chuckled, thoroughly enjoying the situation. “Everything so perfectly timed, almost as if it were a play!”

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Weems murmured. “I’ve done something I shouldn’t—”

“It was not your fault,” Mr. Parker assured her. “In the future, however, refuse to accept any collect message.”

As her father did not open the telegram, Penny seized upon it.

“This is from a man who calls himself Isaac Fulterton,” she disclosed, glancing at the bottom of the typed page.

“Merely one of Ben Bowman’s many names,” Mr. Parker sighed.

“Ah, this is a gem!” Penny chuckled, and read aloud: “‘Here is a suggestion for your rotten rag. Why not print it on yellow paper? I know you will not use it because editors think they know everything. I once knew a reader who got a little good out of your paper. He used it to clean the garbage can.’”

“How dreadful!” Mrs. Weems exclaimed, genuinely shocked.

“Penny, if you insist upon reading another line, I shall leave the table,” Mr. Parker snapped. “I’ve had quite enough of Ben Bowman.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Penny apologized, slipping the message into her pocket. “I can appreciate that this doesn’t seem very funny to you.”

The telegram was not mentioned again. Nevertheless, Mr. Parker’s good humor had given way to moody silence, contributing no cheer to the evening meal. Mrs. Weems kept glancing uneasily at her employer, wondering if she had offended him. Only Penny, whose appetite never failed, seemed thoroughly at ease.

“Dad,” she said suddenly. “I have an idea how Ben Bowman might be trailed!”

“Never mind telling me,” her father answered. “I prefer not to hear his name mentioned.”

“As you like,” she shrugged. “I’ll shroud myself in mystery and silence as I work. But when the case is ended, I’ll present my bill!”

Actually, Penny held slight hope that ever she would be able to turn the elusive Ben Bowman over to the police. The wily fellow was far too clever ever to file two messages from the same telegraph office, and very seldom from the same city. However, the town of Claymore, from which the last message had been sent, was only fifty-five miles away. It had occurred to her that by going there she might obtain from telegraph officials the original message filed.

“In that way I’d at least have Ben Bowman’s signature,” she reflected. “While it wouldn’t be much, it represents a start.”

Always, Penny’s greatest problem was insufficient time. Greatly as she desired to drive to Claymore, she knew it would be out of the question for several days. Not only must arrangements for the orphans’ melon party be completed, but other interests demanded attention.

Temporarily dismissing Ben Bowman from her mind, Penny devoted herself to plans for the outing. Cars easily were obtained, and the following night, sixty excited orphans were transported to the Davis farm. With shrieks of laughter, the boys and girls took possession of the melon patch.

“Pick all you like from the vines,” Penny called, “but don’t touch any of the crated ones.”

In the yard not far from the storage barn stood a truck loaded with melons which were ready for the market.

“This must represent the cream of Mrs. Preston’s crop,” Jerry remarked, lifting the canvas which covered the load. “Maybe she’ll be luckier than her neighbors, the Doolittles.”

“What happened to them?” Penny asked, surprised by the remark.

“Don’t you ever read the Star?”

“I didn’t today. Too busy. Tell me about the Doolittles, Jerry.”

“Mr. Doolittle was taking a load of melons to market. Another truck brushed him on the River road. The melon truck upset, and the entire shipment was lost.”

“Can’t he get damages?”

“Doolittle didn’t learn who was responsible.”

“Was it an accident or done deliberately?” Penny asked thoughtfully.

“Sheriff Daniels thinks it was an accident. I’m inclined to believe the Black Hoods may have had something to do with it.”

“Why should anyone wish to make trouble for Mr. Doolittle, Jerry? All his life he has stayed on his little truck farm, and strictly attended to his own affairs.”

“There’s only one possible reason so far as I know,” the reporter answered. “Not long ago Doolittle refused to join the Holloway County Cooperative, an organization that markets crops for the truck farmers.”

“And you believe the Hoods may be connected with the Cooperative?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Jerry replied hastily. “Fact is, the Holloway Cooperative always has had a good reputation.”

“There’s no question the Preston barn was destroyed by the Hoods,” Penny said reflectively. “Although the evidence pointed to Clem Davis, I’ve never felt satisfied he was guilty.”

“Same here,” agreed Jerry. “Another thing, I keep mulling over what that melon sorter said yesterday.”

“You mean his hint that something might happen to Mrs. Davis’ crop?”

“Yeah. Maybe he knew more than he let on.”

“The Hoods will have to work fast if they destroy the Davis melons,” Penny rejoined. “Besides, didn’t the sheriff uncover proof that Clem Davis is a member of the organization?”

“That’s what he says. I wonder about that too.”

Not far from the truck was a small pile of discarded melons, culls which were misshapen or over-ripe. Selecting one, Jerry tossed it into the air and caught it.

“Just the right size for a hand grenade,” he remarked. “Watch!”

He threw the melon hard against the barn. It burst against the siding, breaking into a dozen fragments and leaving an unsightly blotch of oozing seeds.

“Jerry, you shouldn’t do that,” Penny chided. “Mrs. Davis won’t like it.”

“Okay, I’ll be good,” the reporter promised. “The temptation was just too strong to resist.”

By this time, the hubbub in the melon patch had slightly subsided as the youngsters gained their fill of cantaloupe. Soon institution officials began to pilot the children to the waiting cars. Several lads protested at the early termination of the party.

“Do let the boys stay awhile longer,” Penny pleaded. “Jerry and I will bring them back in a few minutes.”

“Very well,” the matron consented. “But don’t allow them to eat so many melons that they will be sick.”

The responsibility of looking after six orphans weighed heavily upon Penny. After the cars had driven away, she and Jerry patrolled the patch, trying vainly to maintain order. With institution authorities no longer present, the boys proceeded to enjoy themselves. They ran races down the furrows, lassoed one another with vines, and pelted ripe melons against the fence posts.

“Hey, you little hoodlums!” Jerry shouted. “Cut it out or you’ll go back to the Home pronto!”

“Says who?” mocked one saucy little fellow in a piping voice.

“Quiet everyone!” commanded Penny suddenly. “Listen!”

In the silent night could be heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs. Jerry whirled around, gazing toward the entrance to the lane. Two horsemen, black hoods covering their faces, rode at a hard gallop toward the storage barn.

CHAPTER
11
PENNY’S CLUE

“The nightshirt riders!” Jerry exclaimed. “Duck down, everyone!”

Penny and the six lads from the Riverview Home crouched low, watching the approach of the two riders.

“One of those men may be Clem Davis, but I doubt it!” muttered Jerry. “They’re here to destroy the crated cantaloupes!”

“Jerry, we can’t let them get away with it!” Penny exclaimed. “Why not pelt them with melons when they get closer?”

“Okay,” he agreed grimly, “we’ll give ’em a spoiled cantaloupe blitz. Gather your ammunition, gang, and get ready!”

Screened from the approaching horsemen by trees and bushes, the young people hastily collected a few over-ripe cantaloupes which were small enough to throw with accuracy.

Unaware of the barrage awaiting them, the two hooded men rode into the yard.

“Now!” Jerry gave the signal. “Let ’em have it!”

Taking careful aim, he hurled his own melon with all his strength. It found its mark, striking one of the men with stunning force, nearly causing him to fall from the saddle.

Penny and the boys from the orphans’ home concentrated their efforts on the other horseman. While many of their shots were wild, a few went true. One struck the horse which reared suddenly on her hind legs, unseating the rider.

“Give it to him!” Jerry shouted, observing that the fallen man was unhurt.

Handicapped by lack of ammunition, there followed a brief lull in the battle, as the young people sought to replenish their stock. Seizing the opportunity, one of the night riders galloped away. The other man, who had lost his horse, scrambled into the cab of the loaded melon truck.

“He’s going to drive off!” Penny cried. “Let’s stop him!”

She and Jerry ran toward the truck, but they were too late. The giant motor started with a roar, and the heavy vehicle rolled out of the yard.

Just then, Mrs. Davis came running from the cabin.

“My melons!” she screamed. “They’ve taken my melons! Oh, I was afraid something like this would happen!”

“Maybe I can overtake that fellow,” Jerry called to her. “Ride herd on these kids until I get back!”

As he ran toward his own car, Penny was close at his heels. She slid into the seat beside him and they raced down the lane.

“Which way did the truck go?” Jerry demanded. “I was so excited I forgot to notice.”

“It turned right. No sign of it now, though.”

“The fellow is running without lights to make it harder for us to follow him.”

Jerry and Penny both were hopeful that they could overtake the truck, which carried a heavy load. However, they had been delayed several minutes in getting started, and as the miles fell behind them, they caught no glimpse of the man they pursued.

“He must have turned off on that little side road we passed a quarter of a mile back,” Penny declared in discouragement. “Switch off the engine a minute.”

Bringing the car to a standstill, Jerry did as instructed. Both listened intently. From far over the hills they thought they could hear the muffled roar of a powerful motor.

“You’re right, Penny! He turned off at that side road!” Jerry exclaimed, backing the coupe around. “We’ll get him yet!”

Retracing their route, they started down the narrow rutty highway. Five minutes later, rounding a sharp bend, they caught their first glimpse of the truck, a dark object silhouetted in the moonlight. Only for a moment did it remain visible, and then, descending a hill, was lost to view.

“We’re gaining fast,” Jerry said in satisfaction. “It won’t be long now.”

The coupe rattled over a bridge. For no reason at all it began to bump, a loud pounding noise coming from the rear of the car.

“Gracious! What now?” Penny exclaimed.

“A flat,” Jerry answered tersely. “Just our luck.”

Pulling up at the side of the road, he jumped out to peer at the tires. As he had feared, the left rear one was down.

“We’ll probably lose that fellow now,” he said irritably.

With Penny holding a flashlight, the reporter worked as fast as he could to change the tire. However, nearly fifteen minutes elapsed before the task had been accomplished.

“We may as well turn back,” he said, tossing tools into the back of the car. “How about it?”

“Oh, let’s keep on a little farther,” Penny pleaded. “If we drive fast we might still overtake him.”

Without much hope, they resumed the pursuit. Tires whined a protest as they swung around sharp corners, and the motor began to heat.

“This old bus can’t take it any more,” Jerry declared, slackening speed again. “No sense in ruining the car.”

Penny had been watching the road carefully. They had passed no bisecting highways, so she felt certain that the truck could not have turned off. On either side of the unpaved thoroughfare were lonely stretches of swamp and woods.

“Let’s not turn back yet,” she pleaded. “We still have a chance.”

“Okay,” Jerry consented, “but don’t forget we have six orphans waiting for us at the Davis place.”

The car went on for another eight miles. Then came a welcome stretch of pavement.

“We must be getting near the state line,” Jerry remarked. “Yeah, there it is.”

Directly ahead was a tiny brick building with an official waiting to inspect cars which passed beyond that point. A series of markers warned the motorist to halt at the designated place.

As Jerry drew up, a man came from the little building.

“Carrying any shrubs, plants or fruit?” he began but the reporter cut him short.

“We’re following a stolen truck!” he exclaimed. “Has a red truck loaded with cantaloupes gone through here tonight?”

“I checked one about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Fifteen minutes!” Jerry groaned. “That finishes us.”

“The trucker could have reached Claymore by this time,” the inspector responded. “Once in the city you wouldn’t have much chance to pick him up. I have the truck license number though. If you’ll give me all the facts, I’ll make a report to Claymore police.”

There was no point in pursuing the thief farther. Accordingly, Penny and Jerry provided the requested information, and then drove to the Davis farm. Regretfully, they told Mrs. Davis of their failure to trace the melon thief.

“I’ve lost my crop, the truck—everything,” she said in a crushed voice. “What’s the use trying anyhow? A body would be smarter to go along with ’em than to try to fight.”

“I take it you have a pretty fair idea who it was that came here tonight?” Jerry said shrewdly. “Who are these Hoods?”

“I don’t dare tell you,” the woman answered fearfully. “You saw what they did tonight. They threw the blame of the Preston fire on Clem. They’ll do worse things if I don’t keep mum.”

“You want to help your husband, don’t you?” Penny inquired.

“Of course I do! But I know better than to talk.”

“You’ve been warned?” Jerry pursued the subject.

“Yes, I have. Now don’t ask me any more questions. I’ve told you too much already.”

“I just want to know one thing,” Jerry said relentlessly. “Did your trouble start because you and your husband refused to join the Holloway Cooperative?”

“Maybe it did,” the woman answered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I ain’t saying.”

It was apparent to Jerry and Penny that they could expect no assistance from Mrs. Davis. Although the events of the night had convinced them that Clem Davis was innocent, others would not share their opinion. They felt that by shielding the guilty parties, Mrs. Davis was adopting a very stupid attitude.

“Come along, Penny,” Jerry said with a shrug. “Let’s be moving.”

Six reluctant orphans were rounded up from the hay loft where a boisterous game of hide and seek was in progress.

“I can jam four into my coupe if you can handle the other two in your car,” Jerry remarked to Penny. “If they make you any trouble, just toot the horn twice, and I’ll come back and settle with ’em!”

“Oh, we’ll get along fine,” she smiled. “Come along, boys.”

“Here’s a souvenir to remember the night by,” Jerry said. From the ground he picked up two melons which he handed to the orphans. “Just don’t sock the matron with them when you get back to the Home!”

“Jerry, let me see one of those melons!” Penny exclaimed suddenly. “They fell from the truck, didn’t they?”

“I guess so,” Jerry responded, surprised by her display of interest. “What about ’em?”

“I’ll show you.”

Turning on the dash light of the car, Penny held the melon in its warm glow. Slowly, she turned it in her hands.

“There!” she said, pointing to a tiny triangle shaped marking on the cantaloupe. “This may prove a clue which will lead to the capture of the thief!”

“I don’t get it,” answered Jerry. “What clue?”

“Why, this stamping on the melon!” she replied excitedly. “The Hoods must intend to sell that load of cantaloupes. If they do, we may be able to trace the shipment.”

CHAPTER
12
ADELLE’S DISAPPEARANCE

Jerry took the melon from Penny’s hand to examine it.

“This stamp may be helpful,” he said dubiously, “but I doubt it. The Hoods never would be so stupid as to sell melons which could be traced. No, I think our investigation will have to center close at home.”

“You’re referring to the Holloway Cooperative, Jerry?”

“That outfit certainly merits an investigation. In the morning I’ll jog out to their packing plant and talk to the manager, Hank Holloway.”

“What time will you be going, Jerry?”

“About nine o’clock probably.”

“Perhaps I’ll meet you there,” Penny said thoughtfully. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Glad to have you,” the reporter responded in a hearty voice.

The two cars soon started for the Riverview Orphans’ Home, arriving there without mishap. After unloading the boys entrusted to their care, Jerry and Penny then went to their respective residences.

“I’m glad you came at last,” Mrs. Weems remarked as the girl entered the house. “You’re to telephone Miss Anderson at the Riverview Orphans’ Home.”

“But I just left there,” Penny protested. “When did the call come?”

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

Wondering what could be amiss, Penny went to the telephone. In a moment she was in communication with Miss Anderson, who assisted the matron of the institution. The young woman’s voice betrayed agitation as she disclosed that following the night’s outing, an orphan had been discovered missing.

“Oh, goodness!” Penny exclaimed, aghast. “One of those six boys?”

Miss Anderson’s reply slightly reassured her.

“No, the missing child is a little girl who was not permitted to attend the party because of a severe cold. You may remember her—Adelle.”

“Indeed I do, Miss Anderson. Tell me how I may help.”

“We’ve already organized searching parties,” the young woman returned. “Adelle surely will be found within a few hours. However, if the story gets out it will do the institution no good—particularly at this time when our drive for funds is on.”

“I see,” Penny murmured, “you would like the news kept out of the Star?”

“Can it be arranged?” Miss Anderson asked eagerly. “If you will talk to your father about it we’ll be very grateful.”

“I’ll ask him not to print the story,” Penny promised, none too pleased by the request. “I do hope Adelle is found soon.”

She could not help feeling that the institution officials seemed far more worried about the prospect of unfavorable publicity than over the missing child’s welfare. Saying goodbye to Miss Anderson, she sought her father who was reading in the library.

“Penny, you know I don’t like to grant such favors,” Mr. Parker frowned when the conversation was repeated to him. “As a matter of principle, it never pays to withhold information unless the telling will harm innocent persons.”

“In this case, it will damage the institution,” Penny argued quietly. “Besides, I feel more or less responsible. What started out as a nice little party for the orphans, ended in a regular brawl. It was planned primarily for Adelle and then she ran away because she wasn’t permitted to attend.”

Starting at the very beginning, Penny told her father everything that had happened during the night. The tale was one of absorbing interest to Mr. Parker. When she had finished, he said:

“Don’t worry about the affair, Penny. I am as interested in the Riverview Camp fund as you are. We’ll give the institution no unfavorable publicity.”

“Oh, thanks, Dad!” she cried gratefully, wrapping her arms about his neck. “You’re just grand!”

“Weak as water, you mean,” he corrected with a chuckle. “By the way, I suppose you know that your friend Blake has been named to the Camp Fund board.”

“No!” Penny exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

“He hinted to Mrs. Van Cleve that he would like to serve. Naturally, after his handsome donation, she couldn’t refuse.”

“Why do you suppose Mr. Blake has taken such a sudden interest in the Home?”

“I wonder myself. I’ve thought from the first that he’s up to something. So far I’ve not been able to figure out his little game.”

“Well, you’re on the board too,” Penny declared, undisturbed. “If he starts any monkey business you can put a quick stop to it.”

“I fear you overestimate my talents,” Mr. Parker responded. “However, I do intend to see that Blake doesn’t profit too much by his donation.”

The hour was late and Penny soon went to bed. Disturbed by Adelle’s disappearance, she did not sleep well. Arising early, she telephoned the Orphans’ Home, hoping to learn that the child had been found. No such good news awaited her.

“Searchers have looked everywhere between here and the Davis farm,” Miss Anderson revealed. “Unless the child is found by noon, it will be necessary to broadcast a general alarm. And that’s certain to bring unfavorable attention to the Home.”

“Is there any chance she could have been kidnaped?” Penny asked thoughtfully.

“Not the slightest,” was the prompt reply. “Adelle took most of her clothes with her. It’s a plain case of a runaway, but most annoying at this time.”

Penny ate a hasty breakfast, and then remembering her appointment with Jerry, drove to the Holloway Cooperative. The buildings were of modern concrete construction, located three and a half miles from Riverview in the heart of the truck farming district.

Jerry Livingston had not yet arrived, so Penny waited in the car. Soon his coupe swung into the drive and pulled up alongside Leaping Lena.

“Sorry to be late,” he apologized. “I was held up at the office.”

Knowing that her father would have told Jerry about Adelle’s disappearance, Penny inquired regarding the latest news.

“So far there’s not a trace of the child,” the reporter answered. “Your father’s sore at himself for promising not to carry the story. It may develop into something big.”

Penny walked beside Jerry to the entrance of the cooperative plant.

“No one seems to worry much about Adelle,” she remarked. “The institution people are afraid of unfavorable publicity, Dad’s alarmed about his story, while you and I are just plain indifferent.”

“I’m not indifferent,” Jerry denied. “In a way I feel responsible for that kid. But what can we do?”

“Nothing, I guess,” acknowledged Penny unwillingly. “Miss Anderson said they had enough searchers.”

Opening the door of the building, they stepped into a huge room which hummed with activity. Girls in uniforms stood at long tables inspecting melons which moved on an endless belt arrangement before them. Sorted as to quality and size, each cantaloupe was stamped and packed in a crate which was then borne away.

“Hank Holloway around here?” Jerry asked one of the workers.

“Over there,” the girl responded, pointing to a burly, red-faced man who stood at the opposite end of the room.

Jerry and Penny approached the manager of the cooperative.

“Good morning,” the man said gruffly, gazing at them critically. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re from the Star,” Jerry informed. “Do you mind answering a few questions?”

“I’m pretty busy,” Hank Holloway responded, frowning. “What do you want to know?”

“There’s a rumor going the rounds that this cooperative has been forcing farmers to market their melons through your organization.”

“It’s a lie!” the manager retorted. “Why they come here begging us to take their stuff! We get better prices than anyone in this section of the state, and we pass the profit right back to the farmers.”

“How do you account for the depredation that’s been going on around here lately? Who would you say is behind it?”

“What d’you mean, depredation?” Hank Holloway demanded.

“The destruction of the Preston barn just as their melons were ready for market. Then last night a truck of cantaloupes was stolen from the Davis place.”

“That so?” the manager asked. “Hadn’t heard about it. Clem Davis always was a worthless, no-good. It wouldn’t surprise me that he covered his harvest with plenty of insurance, and then arranged the snatch so he could collect.”

“That hardly seems reasonable,” Jerry said dryly.

“You asked for my opinion and I’m giving it to you. The Davis melons were so inferior we wouldn’t handle them at the cooperative.”

“Why, I thought their cantaloupes were particularly fine ones!” Penny protested.

“I don’t know what you two are trying to get at!” Hank Holloway said with sudden anger. “The Cooperative does business in a fair and square way. Our books are open for inspection at any time. Now you’ll have to excuse me, for I’ve got work to do.”

With a curt nod, he turned away.

Penny and Jerry wandered about the room for a few minutes, watching the packers. They did not much blame Hank Holloway for showing irritation. Their questions had been very pointed and the man had immediately guessed that their purpose was to uncover facts detrimental to the Cooperative.

“We learned about as much as I expected to,” Jerry said with a shrug, as he and Penny finally left the building. “Naturally one couldn’t hope he’d break down and confess all.”

“What did you really think of him, Jerry?”

“Hard to say,” the reporter answered. “He’s a rough and ready sort, but that’s not against him. There’s no real reason to believe he’s crooked—just a hunch of mine.”

Having been assigned to cover a board meeting, Jerry hurriedly said goodbye to Penny. Left to herself, she drove slowly toward Riverview.

“Since I am so near Seth McGuire’s place, I may as well stop for a minute or two,” she thought impulsively.

Despite many exciting events, Penny had not lost interest in the Hubell clock. Although it seemed reasonable that a faulty mechanism had caused it to strike thirteen, such an explanation did not completely satisfy her. She was eager to learn from the former caretaker if the difficulty had been corrected.

Leaving her car by the main road, Penny went directly to the shop. The door was closed and locked. However, as she turned away, she distinctly heard a voice inside the building. Although she could not make out the words, she was certain that a child had called.

“Who is it?” she shouted.

“Help! Let me out!” came the plaintive cry from inside the shop.

Penny ran to the window and peered into the dark interior. She scarcely was able to believe what she saw. A little girl, her face streaked with tears and dirt, pounded fiercely on the heavy door, seeking release.

“It’s Adelle!” she gasped. “How in the world did she get locked in Mr. McGuire’s shop?”

CHAPTER
13
AN EXTRA STROKE

With all the windows and the door of the shop locked, Penny did not know how to free the imprisoned child. However, as she considered the problem, Seth McGuire appeared on the porch of the cottage.

“Good morning,” he greeted her pleasantly.

“Oh, Mr. McGuire!” Penny exclaimed. “Did you know there is a child locked inside your shop?”

“A child!” the old man exclaimed, coming quickly down the steps. “Why bless me! How can that be?”

“I don’t understand how she got inside, but she’s there! Officials of the Riverview Orphans’ Home have been searching for Adelle Hanover since last night.”

“Wait until I get my key,” the old man said in an agitated voice. “I hope you don’t think I locked the child into the shop!”

Knowing Mr. McGuire as she did, Penny entertained no such thought. Waving encouragingly to Adelle through the window, she waited for the old man to return.

“I locked the door about eleven o’clock last night,” he explained, fumbling nervously with the key. “The little girl must have stolen in there sometime between six o’clock and that hour.”

The old man’s hand shook so that he could not unlock the door. Taking the key, Penny did it for him. Adelle, her hair flying wildly about her face, stumbled out of the shop.

“I’m hungry,” she sobbed. “It was cold in there, and a big rat kept running around. Why did you lock me inside?”

“Why, bless you,” Mr. McGuire murmured, “I never dreamed anyone was inside the shop! How did you get in there?”

“I went inside last night and hid,” Adelle explained in a calmer voice. “It was cold outside and I had to have some place to sleep.”

“You never should have run away from the Home,” Penny reproved. “Why did you do it?”

“Because I don’t like it there,” the child answered defiantly. “I’ll never be adopted like the other children.”

“Why, how silly!” Penny answered. “Of course someone will adopt you.”

Adelle shook her head. “Miss Anderson says I won’t be—I heard her tell the matron. It’s on account of a nervous ’fliction. I’m afraid of things, ’specially cars.”

“That’s very natural, everything considered,” Penny replied, thinking of the story Miss Anderson had told her. “Now I’ll take you to the Home.”

Adelle drew away, and as if seeking protection, crowded close beside Mr. McGuire.

“I’m never going back, even if I freeze and starve!” she announced. “I’ll find me a cave and live on berries. It would be more fun than being an orphan.”

Penny gazed despairingly at the old bell maker. With a chuckle, he took the child by the hand and led her toward the cottage.

“We’ll have lunch and talk things over,” he proposed. “How will that be?”

“I’m awful hungry,” Adelle admitted, smiling up at him. “But you won’t give me any old boiled potatoes, will you? We have ’em every single day at the Home.”

“No potatoes,” he laughed. “We’ll have the very nicest things I can find in the icebox, and maybe a stick of candy to top it off.”

While Mr. McGuire pottered about the kitchen preparing a warm meal, Penny washed Adelle and combed her tangled hair. Afterwards, she telephoned officials of the Home, telling them that the child had been found.

“I’ll bring her there within an hour,” she promised. “Just as soon as she has had her lunch.”

Adelle was ravenous. She was not a pretty child, but her face had an elfin quality when she smiled. Her brown eyes, roving about the spick and span little dinette, took in every detail.

“This is almost as nice as it was at our home,” she remarked. “I mean my real home, when Daddy and Mother were alive.”

“You’ll have a nice place again when you are adopted,” Penny assured her kindly.

“I’d like to stay here,” Adelle said, looking thoughtfully at the old man. “Would your wife let me?”

“Why, bless you, I haven’t a wife,” he answered in embarrassment. “I’m a bachelor.”

“Wouldn’t you like a little girl?” Adelle persisted. “I could do your dishes for you and sweep the floor. I’d be real good.”

“Well, now I’ve often thought I would like a nice little girl,” he replied, smiling.

“Then you can have me!” Adelle cried, jumping up from her chair. “You can tell the Home I won’t be back!”

“Not so fast, not so fast,” Mr. McGuire said hastily. “I’d like a little girl, but I am afraid I can’t afford one. You see, I don’t make much money any more and there are other reasons—”

“Oh, I won’t eat much,” Adelle promised. “Please keep me, Mr. McGuire.”

The old man was so distressed that Penny tried to come to his rescue. However, despite repeated explanations, Adelle refused to understand why she could not immediately become Mr. McGuire’s little girl.

“If I had my old job back, I’d be tempted, sorely tempted,” the old man said to Penny. “I’ve always wanted someone that was near and dear to me.” He drew a deep sigh. “As things are, I don’t see how it could be worked out.”