The Oakdale Affair [32]
eyes to the building Bridge smothered an exclamation of surprise and chagrin, nor did he linger to inspect the other mem- bers of the party; but turned and ran quickly back to his companions.
"We've got to beat it!" he whispered; "they've brought Burton himself down here."
"Who's Burton?" demanded the youth.
"He's the best operative west of New York City," replied Bridge, as he moved rapidly toward an out- house directly in rear of the main building.
Once behind the small, dilapidated structure which had once probably housed farm implements, Bridge paused and looked about. "They'll search here," he prophesied, and then; "Those woods look good to me."
The Squibbs' woods, growing rank in the damp ravine at the bottom of the little valley, ran to within a hun- dred feet of the out-building. Dense undergrowth choked the ground to a height of eight or ten feet around the boles of the close set trees. If they could gain the seclusion of that tangled jungle there was little likelihood of their being discovered, provided they were not seen as they passed across the open space between their hiding place and the wood.
"We'd better make a break for it," advised Bridge, and a moment later the three moved cautiously toward the wood, keeping the out-house between themselves and the farm house. Almost in front of them as they neared the wood they saw a well defined path leading into the thicket. Single-file they entered, to be almost instantly hidden from view, not only from the house but from any other point more than a dozen paces away, for the path was winding, narrow and closely walled by the budding verdure of the new Spring. Birds sang or twit- tered about them, the mat of dead leaves oozed spongily beneath their feet, giving forth no sound as they passed, save a faint sucking noise as a foot was lifted from each watery seat.
Bridge was in the lead, moving steadily forward that they might put as much distance as possible between themselves and the detective should the latter chance to explore the wood. They had advanced a few hundred yards when the path crossed through a small clearing the center of which was destitute of fallen leaves. Here the path was beaten into soft mud and as Bridge came to it he stopped and bent his gaze incredulously upon the ground. The girl and the youth, halting upon either side, followed the direction of his eyes with theirs. The girl gave a little, involuntary gasp, and the boy grasped Bridge's hand as though fearful of losing him. The man turned a quizzical glance at each of them and smiled, though a bit ruefully.
"It beats me," he said.
"What can it be?" whispered the boy.
"Oh, let's go back," begged the girl.
"And go along to father with Burton?" asked Bridge.
The girl trembled and shook her head. "I would rather die," she said, firmly. "Come, let's go on."
The cause of their perturbation was imprinted deeply in the mud of the pathway--the irregular outlines of an enormous, naked, human foot--a great, uncouth foot that bespoke a monster of another world. While, still more uncanny, in view of what they had heard in the farm house during the previous night, there lay, sometimes partially obliterated by the footprints of the THING, the impress of a small, bare foot--a woman's or a child's --and over both an irregular scoring that might have been wrought by a dragging chain!
In the loft of his father's hay barn Willie Case delved deep into the small red-covered volume, HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE; but though he turned many pages and flitted to and fro from preface to conclusion he met only with disappointment. The pictures of noted bank burg- lars and confidence men aided him not one whit, for in none of them could he descry the slightest resemblance to the smooth faced youth of the early morning. In fact, so totally different were the types shown in the little book that Willie was forced to scratch his head and ex- claim "Gosh!" many times in an effort to reconcile the appearance of the innocent boy to the hardened, crimi- nal faces he found portrayed
"We've got to beat it!" he whispered; "they've brought Burton himself down here."
"Who's Burton?" demanded the youth.
"He's the best operative west of New York City," replied Bridge, as he moved rapidly toward an out- house directly in rear of the main building.
Once behind the small, dilapidated structure which had once probably housed farm implements, Bridge paused and looked about. "They'll search here," he prophesied, and then; "Those woods look good to me."
The Squibbs' woods, growing rank in the damp ravine at the bottom of the little valley, ran to within a hun- dred feet of the out-building. Dense undergrowth choked the ground to a height of eight or ten feet around the boles of the close set trees. If they could gain the seclusion of that tangled jungle there was little likelihood of their being discovered, provided they were not seen as they passed across the open space between their hiding place and the wood.
"We'd better make a break for it," advised Bridge, and a moment later the three moved cautiously toward the wood, keeping the out-house between themselves and the farm house. Almost in front of them as they neared the wood they saw a well defined path leading into the thicket. Single-file they entered, to be almost instantly hidden from view, not only from the house but from any other point more than a dozen paces away, for the path was winding, narrow and closely walled by the budding verdure of the new Spring. Birds sang or twit- tered about them, the mat of dead leaves oozed spongily beneath their feet, giving forth no sound as they passed, save a faint sucking noise as a foot was lifted from each watery seat.
Bridge was in the lead, moving steadily forward that they might put as much distance as possible between themselves and the detective should the latter chance to explore the wood. They had advanced a few hundred yards when the path crossed through a small clearing the center of which was destitute of fallen leaves. Here the path was beaten into soft mud and as Bridge came to it he stopped and bent his gaze incredulously upon the ground. The girl and the youth, halting upon either side, followed the direction of his eyes with theirs. The girl gave a little, involuntary gasp, and the boy grasped Bridge's hand as though fearful of losing him. The man turned a quizzical glance at each of them and smiled, though a bit ruefully.
"It beats me," he said.
"What can it be?" whispered the boy.
"Oh, let's go back," begged the girl.
"And go along to father with Burton?" asked Bridge.
The girl trembled and shook her head. "I would rather die," she said, firmly. "Come, let's go on."
The cause of their perturbation was imprinted deeply in the mud of the pathway--the irregular outlines of an enormous, naked, human foot--a great, uncouth foot that bespoke a monster of another world. While, still more uncanny, in view of what they had heard in the farm house during the previous night, there lay, sometimes partially obliterated by the footprints of the THING, the impress of a small, bare foot--a woman's or a child's --and over both an irregular scoring that might have been wrought by a dragging chain!
In the loft of his father's hay barn Willie Case delved deep into the small red-covered volume, HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE; but though he turned many pages and flitted to and fro from preface to conclusion he met only with disappointment. The pictures of noted bank burg- lars and confidence men aided him not one whit, for in none of them could he descry the slightest resemblance to the smooth faced youth of the early morning. In fact, so totally different were the types shown in the little book that Willie was forced to scratch his head and ex- claim "Gosh!" many times in an effort to reconcile the appearance of the innocent boy to the hardened, crimi- nal faces he found portrayed