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Dorothy Dale's Camping Days

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<hr /> <h2>CHAPTER XXIVToC</h2> <h3>A LONELY RIDE</h3> No sooner had Dorothy paddled around the bend in the stream that led into the river, than she heard the alarm bell of the sanitarium ring. "That's the alarm for me!" she told herself, "but they can never see me in this narrow pass. How fortunate that no one saw me take the boat. And I suppose they think I escaped from the front gate during the excitement about the horse." Dorothy was right in her surmise. So reasonable did it seem that she had passed out by the front gate, when the guards came to the rescue of those in danger from the frightened horse, that no one thought of looking at the rear of the institution. "I wonder where I am going?" she thought. "Perhaps this river runs into a dangerous rapid. I have always heard that Maine waters are full of surprises." "At any rate, this is lovely," she went on musingly, "and, somehow, I feel that I will get back to camp before nightfall." The water was as smooth as glass, and in the sunshine that every moment became more insistant, Dorothy, in her linen dress, paddled away with all the skill she had acquired in dear old Glenwood School lake. She had discarded the nurse's cap, and the coat, and as her own suit was beneath the linen, she was only waiting for an opportunity to discard the skirt. "It pulls," she thought. "I might as well drop it now." At this she stood up in the canoe very cautiously, and with one move of her hand dropped the skirt into the bottom of the boat. "There, that's more like paddling," she thought. Adjusting herself again, she picked up the blade and plied it through the clear water. Suddenly the report of a gun startled her! Was it at her that the shot had been fired? Glancing over at the bank she saw something fall. Could some person have been shot? The season for shooting was not opened, but perhaps—— Then her alarm subsided. A man, who looked like an Indian, or a lumberman, was pulling at something—it was a beautiful young deer! Indignation filled her heart. But what could she do? Alone on that water, and that man so near with his gun! Fortunately, he was so interested in looking at his game that he thought it not worth while to look at whoever might be passing in the skiff; so, once more, Dorothy slid out of danger down the placid stream. In all her trouble she had kept the little watch and her compass, and just now it occurred to her that by consulting the magnetic instrument she could tell whether she was going in the direction of Everglade. She paused in her action to look at the trembling needle. "Yes, I am going toward camp—due east." How lightly she paddled along! It seemed now that the sanitarium was past finding, for the noise of the bell and the whistle had ceased, and that everything, even the talking of the man to himself as he pulled the deer over his shoulders, was gone, and Dorothy was all alone on the delightful lake, moving toward camp. It all seemed like some horrible dream—all but the thought that she was going back—back to her dear ones, who must be so anxious. "I hope I have saved poor Miss Bell," she thought. "That girl seemed to dread something more than the mere mistake in taking me in instead of the other patient." She slowed up, to gather some water lilies. "I'll take them to Cologne," she thought. "I wonder where the girls are? I suppose scouring the country for me. Well, Tavia must have been found, at any rate. Poor foolish Tavia! I hope they have not blamed her." A gentle swish of the water startled her. She turned to see two canoes approaching! "Are they after me?" she thought, and her heart jumped. "I must have some excuse ready if they question me. I will just say I am from Camp Capital, and have come out for exercise. They may not know how far away our camp is." She heard the other paddles in the lake. Then they ceased to cut the water. On either side of her canoe the two other craft suddenly appeared. "What if this boat is marked!" she thought. "If it should have some lettering to show it is from the sanitarium!" That was the first time this had occurred to her. But the canoeists were now actually looking very pleasantly at her—two young men. They seemed too well-mannered to speak, and Dorothy wanted so much to speak with them, now that she felt they had no idea of her predicament. Finally one said: "We beg your pardon, but might you have a bit of canvas, that you could let us take? We have a small leak in the side of this canoe and the water is coming in." Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief. Then she looked about her boat—although she knew it was quite empty when she slid it into the water. "I'm afraid not," she replied. "I never carry anything for such an emergency." "It's a delightful morning," said the other young man, out of pure civility. "Have you been out long?" "Oh, no, not very—that is, it does not seem long to me," stammered Dorothy still afraid that she would be caught in some new trap. "I love the water." "You seem to," agreed the young man with the college cap. "We have been out with a searching party. Have you heard of the strange disappearance of two young girls?" Dorothy gasped. "Two?" she repeated. "I suppose we ought to say three, since one from a sanitarium has not yet been discovered. But the insane, they say, have some weird manner of attracting self preservation." "Have they been dragging the lake?" asked Dorothy, her voice all a-tremble. "No, not yet, although many have wanted to. But we have so many people lost in these woods every summer, that we feel it is a case of that kind. We suppose the girls, who did not go off together, met later somehow, and in trying to make their way back, got deeper into the woods." "And their folks from camp?" asked Dorothy. "We have not been to see them," said the young man, "but some of the boys there are friends of ours, and as soon as we have looked this place over, as well as we can do it, we are going up to Everglade. The girl's father is an old soldier, and they say he is still a soldier in this trouble." Dorothy felt as if she must speak—must ask them to take her back to the camp, wherever it might be. But suppose they should take her for that demented girl? No, she must find her way on alone. Perhaps she could follow them. By this time the two canoeists had glided on ahead. Dorothy felt as if her heart would choke her! Then her father was still bearing up, waiting for her! She must soon reach him! A shout from the bank, and the two young men turned into shore. "Come on," some one called. "We have a clew. Get in here. We must get over to——" But that was all Dorothy heard, and again she was alone on the lake. For the space of a moment or so she felt that she had made a mistake, then came the awful thought of that sanitarium, and the knowledge that the people from there were searching everywhere for her. "No, I will go down the lake a little farther. At least I am free now," she told herself. It was nearing noon, she could tell by the sun, and she felt the need of food. Just below her she could see that the lake broadened, and there she determined to stop. Her arms were getting stiff, and the sun burned down on her head, which was uncovered. "Seems to me I hear voices," she thought. "I must go in to shore." Gracefully she swung into the grassy bank. No sooner had her paddle sent her boat within reach of shore than she saw—— "Oh, my! It is our camp!" she yelled frantically, jumping out, and attempting to run up the hill toward the barn. But eager ears had heard her voice. The next moment Dorothy Dale was clasped in the arms of her father. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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