Further Adventures of Lad [79]
day, none of the motorists has the remotest solution to the mystery of the vanished lunch.
Lad had not stolen the basket. He would have suffered himself to be cut in three, before sinking to theft or to any other sneaking act. He had found a basket standing alone in the highroad, several feet away from the nearest humans. He had no way of guessing it belonged to them. So far as he was concerned, this was as much a lost article as had been the gorgeous parasol. He had been praised to the skies for bringing the parasol and the thermos case to the Mistress. He had every reason to expect the same meed of praise for this new gift.
Indeed, to Lad's way of thinking, he might well hope for even higher praise. For the parasol had been an odorless and foolish thing of no apparent usefulness; while this basket exhaled most heavenly scents of fried chicken and other delectable foods. Heavy as was the burden, it did not occur to Lad to set it down. Fragrant as were its contents, it did not occur to him to nose the cover off and sample them. There was no tinge of snooping in his make-up. No, the basket was a gift for the Mistress. And as such he was bearing it home to her.
"See what Laddie brought me, this time!" cried the Mistress, coming into her husband's study, a few minutes later, and holding forth the trophy. "It's full of food, too; and of course he never touched a mouthful of it. But I gave him two of the frosted cakes, by way of reward. He's ridiculously happy over them,--and over the fuss I made about the basket."
"H'm!" mused the Master, inspecting the present. "Jostled off the car-seat, as some fool of a driver took the curve at top speed! Well, that same driver has paid for his recklessness, by the loss of his lunch. It's funny, though--There's not a trace of mud or dust on this; and even the food inside wasn't jostled about by the tumble. That curve is paying us big dividends, lately. It's a pity no bullion trucks pass this way. Still, parasols and picnic lunches aren't to be sneered at."
Lad was standing in the study doorway, eyes alight, tail waving. The Master called him over and petted him; praising this newest accomplishment of his, and prophesying untold wealth for the Place if the graft should but continue long enough.
There was something pathetic in dear old Laddie's pleasure over the new trick he had learned; or so it seemed to the two people who loved him. And they continued to flatter him for it;--even when, among other trophies, he dragged home a pickaxe momentarily laid aside by a road mender; and an extremely dead chicken which a motor-truck wheel had flattened to waferlike thickness.
Which brings us, by degrees to the Rennick kidnaping case.
Claude Rennick, a New York artist of considerable means, had rented for the summer an ancient Colonial farmhouse high among the Ramapo hills; some six miles north of the Place, There, he and his pretty young wife and their six-months-old baby had been living for several weeks; when, angered at a sharp rebuke for some dereliction in his work, Schwartz, their gardener, spoke insultingly to Mrs. Rennick.
Rennick chanced to overhear. Being aggressively in love with his wife, he did not content himself with discharging Schwartz. Instead, he thrashed the stalwart gardener, then and there; and ended the drastic performance by pitching the beaten man, bodily, out of the grounds.
Schwartz collected his battered anatomy and limped away to his home in the hills just above. And, that night, he called into council his two farmhand brothers and his wife.
Several characteristic plans of revenge were discussed in solemn detail. These included the burning of the Rennick house or barn, or both; the shooting of Rennick from among the hillside boulders as the artist sketched; of waylaying him on his walk to the post-office, by night, and crippling him for life; and other suggestions equally dear to the hearts of rural malefactors.
But one plan after another was vetoed. To burn any of the property would cause Rennick nothing worse than temporary annoyance;
Lad had not stolen the basket. He would have suffered himself to be cut in three, before sinking to theft or to any other sneaking act. He had found a basket standing alone in the highroad, several feet away from the nearest humans. He had no way of guessing it belonged to them. So far as he was concerned, this was as much a lost article as had been the gorgeous parasol. He had been praised to the skies for bringing the parasol and the thermos case to the Mistress. He had every reason to expect the same meed of praise for this new gift.
Indeed, to Lad's way of thinking, he might well hope for even higher praise. For the parasol had been an odorless and foolish thing of no apparent usefulness; while this basket exhaled most heavenly scents of fried chicken and other delectable foods. Heavy as was the burden, it did not occur to Lad to set it down. Fragrant as were its contents, it did not occur to him to nose the cover off and sample them. There was no tinge of snooping in his make-up. No, the basket was a gift for the Mistress. And as such he was bearing it home to her.
"See what Laddie brought me, this time!" cried the Mistress, coming into her husband's study, a few minutes later, and holding forth the trophy. "It's full of food, too; and of course he never touched a mouthful of it. But I gave him two of the frosted cakes, by way of reward. He's ridiculously happy over them,--and over the fuss I made about the basket."
"H'm!" mused the Master, inspecting the present. "Jostled off the car-seat, as some fool of a driver took the curve at top speed! Well, that same driver has paid for his recklessness, by the loss of his lunch. It's funny, though--There's not a trace of mud or dust on this; and even the food inside wasn't jostled about by the tumble. That curve is paying us big dividends, lately. It's a pity no bullion trucks pass this way. Still, parasols and picnic lunches aren't to be sneered at."
Lad was standing in the study doorway, eyes alight, tail waving. The Master called him over and petted him; praising this newest accomplishment of his, and prophesying untold wealth for the Place if the graft should but continue long enough.
There was something pathetic in dear old Laddie's pleasure over the new trick he had learned; or so it seemed to the two people who loved him. And they continued to flatter him for it;--even when, among other trophies, he dragged home a pickaxe momentarily laid aside by a road mender; and an extremely dead chicken which a motor-truck wheel had flattened to waferlike thickness.
Which brings us, by degrees to the Rennick kidnaping case.
Claude Rennick, a New York artist of considerable means, had rented for the summer an ancient Colonial farmhouse high among the Ramapo hills; some six miles north of the Place, There, he and his pretty young wife and their six-months-old baby had been living for several weeks; when, angered at a sharp rebuke for some dereliction in his work, Schwartz, their gardener, spoke insultingly to Mrs. Rennick.
Rennick chanced to overhear. Being aggressively in love with his wife, he did not content himself with discharging Schwartz. Instead, he thrashed the stalwart gardener, then and there; and ended the drastic performance by pitching the beaten man, bodily, out of the grounds.
Schwartz collected his battered anatomy and limped away to his home in the hills just above. And, that night, he called into council his two farmhand brothers and his wife.
Several characteristic plans of revenge were discussed in solemn detail. These included the burning of the Rennick house or barn, or both; the shooting of Rennick from among the hillside boulders as the artist sketched; of waylaying him on his walk to the post-office, by night, and crippling him for life; and other suggestions equally dear to the hearts of rural malefactors.
But one plan after another was vetoed. To burn any of the property would cause Rennick nothing worse than temporary annoyance;