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Perils of Pauline (dramatic reading)

<h1 id="id02106" style="margin-top: 5em">CHAPTER XX</h1> <h5 id="id02107">CYRUS MAKES A REPUTATION</h5> The proceedings behind the hidden doors in the cellar of the ruined house between Bathwater and Castle Marvin were not interrupted by so small a matter as the kidnapping of an heiress—a kidnapping that had progressed no further as yet than the capture of a dog. As Owen stepped into the den the next forenoon he saw the bull terrier tied to the wall. "I see we have the main ingredient of the repast in hand." "The main ingredient and the most dangerous," said Wallace. "He has done nothing but howl and bark. May we kill him?" "Not yet," answered Owen. "It is possible that she might demand sight of him before entering the house, or some nonsense of that sort. I would let him howl a little longer." "Very well," laughed Wallace. "What orders have you for us today, sir?" The other counterfeiters kept steadily on at their work over the melting pots, the molds and stamping machines. The old woman was stacking half-dollar pieces at the table. "Why do you have the woman here?" demanded Owen suddenly. "To prevent starvation," answered Wallace. "Carrie is not only our purchasing agent, but our excellent cook." The hag looked up for a moment with a cackle of appreciation; then bent again to her work. "Can she write?" asked Owen. "Yes." "Well, then, she can help us. Here is an advertisement which appears in the morning papers." He presented a newspaper clipping to Wallace, which read: LOST—A fine white bull terrier. Finder will receive liberal reward if dog is returned to Pauline Marvin. Castle Marvin, N. Y. "What do you want Carrie to do?" "Answer the advertisement. Just call her over here." The hag laid down the coins and moved laboriously to the, table. Wallace produced from a drawer a pen, paper and ink, and told the woman to take his chair. Owen dictated: "Miss Pauline Marvin: "A dog came to my house yesterday which I think is the one you advertise for. I am an old, crippled woman and it's hard for me to get out. Can't you come and see if it is your dog? "Mary Sheila, 233 Myrtle Avenue." The old woman wrote slowly in a shaking hand, and Owen waited patiently while she addressed an envelope. Then he placed the letter in the envelope, sealed it, and took his leave. "And no sign of Cyrus?" inquired Harry cheerily as he entered the library, where Pauline sat disconsolate. She did not even answer and she was still gazing dejectedly out of the window when Bemis brought in the mail. Two of the letters she laid aside, unread; the third, she opened: "A dog came to my house yesterday —" Her face lighted with hope and happiness; she read no further. "Oh, isn't Owen—splendid," she breathed. "He knew just what to do." And with the letter in her hand she ran out to the veranda. "Harry! Harry!" she called across the garden. There was no answer. "Run up to Mr. Marvin's room and see if he is there, Margaret. Bemis, go out and see if he is at the garage." "No, Miss Marvin," said Bemis. "He has gone into Westbury." Pauline stood silent for a moment. "Well, then I must go myself," she said with quick decision. She sped upstairs and within a few minutes was, out at the garage in her motoring dress. A mechanic was working over her racing car in front of the garage, the racing car that was just recovering from recent calamity in the international race. "Is it all fixed, Employ? Can I drive it today?" she asked eagerly. "Why—yes, ma'am—you could," said the mechanic. "But I haven't got it polished up yet." "That doesn't matter in the least. I want to use it to day—now." She sprang lightly to the seat of the lithe racer and in a moment was away down the drive. NO. 233 Myrtle avenue was an address a little difficult to find. Myrtle avenue was well outside the new town and Pauline had made several inquiries before an elderly man, whom she found in the telegraph office, volunteered directions. She thanked him, and drove back for two miles before she found the turn he had indicated. The appearance of the place was unprepossessing enough to dampen even the ambitious courage of Pauline. But the sight of woman on the porch training a vine over the front door, allayed her fears. "You are Mrs. Sheila—you sent me a message that you had found my dog?" she asked, approaching. For a moment the confusion that the woman had meant to simulate was sincere. She had expected to see no such vision as that of Pauline on the blackened steps of the coiners' den. "A dog?" she quavered vaguely. Then, "Oh, yes, my—dear little lady —the pretty white dog. He came to us yesterday. My son he brought me the newspaper, and—" "Oh, you are just a dear," cried Pauline. "May I see him now? I am so fond of him!" "Yes, my little lady. Will you come in?" Pauline followed her into the basement. She stepped back with a tremor of suspicion as the woman rapped three times upon the folding doors, and they opened silently on their oiled rails. But she was inside the narrow passage, and the light that gleamed through the second pair of doors allayed her anxiety. With a bow and the wave of a directing hand, the old woman waited for Pauline to enter. In a breath she was seized from both sides. Strong cruel hands held her, while Wallace smothered her cries with a tight-drawn bandage. She had hardly had time to see the little terrier tugging at his chain in the corner of the room, but his wild barking was all she knew of possible assistance in the plight in which she found herself. They laid her on the floor. She heard a voice that seemed strangely familiar giving abrupt orders. Pauline sought in vain to place the memory of the voice of Balthazar, the Gypsy. Suddenly she heard cries. The barking of the dog had stopped and there was the thud of heavy foot steps on the stone floor of the cellar. "Catch him! Shoot if you have to," came the command in the mysteriously familiar voice. She felt that her captors were no longer near. There was a beat of rushing foot-steps on the floor. It was several minutes before she heard voices again. "The cur hasn't been there long enough to know her. It won't make any difference," said Wallace, coming through the open doors. "But I'm sorry it got away." "Where is Miss Pauline?" asked Harry, as he entered the house on his return from Westbury. "She has found her dog, sir," answered Margaret, smiling. "She went to get him—with the racing car." His brow darkened. "The advertisement was answered, you mean, Margaret?" "I think so, sir." An hour later he walked into the garden and sat down on the rustic bench where he and Pauline had quarreled. He had just taken up his newspaper when he was startled by the spring of a small warm body fairly into his face. Lowering the torn paper, he saw Pauline's dog cavorting around the bench in circles of excitement. The animal rushed towards him again, but did not leap this time. It came very near and, with braced feet, began to bark wildly. Harry stood up. The dog, with another volley of barks, started towards the gate. Harry followed instinctively. The terrier dashed ahead of him, reached the, gate, returned, renewed the appealing barks, and again led the way. In another minute Harry was following the urgent little guide. He was thoroughly stirred now. As the dog returned to him the second time, with its appealing yelps, he quickened his speed. After traversing five miles of dust-laden road they reached a certain house on the thoroughfare, which still carried the dignity of "Myrtle avenue." The dog rushed up the steps. Harry, following closely, was surprised to find the door was ajar. He entered and found himself in the cellar passageway. A sound outside made him grasp the broken rope on the collar of the dog. It was an automobile wheezing to a stop and it was followed by the sound of voices. The outer door opened. Harry drew the dog aside into the darkness and held its muzzle tight. Four men entered. One rapped on the wall and the panels opened softly. The man went in. Harry's hand had fallen on a slim stick as he stooped in the darkness, and he slipped the stick into the aperture between the folding doors. He carried the dog to the outer door and thrust it through. Then he came back. "Who is the woman?" asked a gruff voice. "She does not concern you. Have you distributed all of the coins?" "All but $5,000. She's a peach, ain't she?" The door crashed at their heels. Harry was in the room. He had gripped Wallace by the throat before the man could stir. The others backed toward their hidden weapons. Shots blazed in the room but the smoke was protection for Harry, swinging wildly at whomsoever he saw. "You're there, Polly?" "Yes," she gasped, tugging at her bonds in desperation. She was almost free. Harry had Wallace at his feet and Wallace's gun was in his hand. He blazed blindly through room. A shriek told of one man gone. Pauline felt strong hands grasp her. She was whisked through the door; through the outer door and away, into the fresh air, and into the waiting automobile. She felt Harry's hot breath on her fore head as they sped in flight. There was clamor behind them for a moment car was starting. Then came only the thrash of footsteps through the grassy road as the coiners rushed to their own machine. One stern command reached the ears of Pauline and Harry as they sped on: "It's your lives or theirs. Get them or kill yourselves." "It's no use, Polly. Come," cried Harry, after a time. His voice sounded grim, peremptory. The machine with a sudden swerve had gone almost off the road with an exploded tire. It was only Harry's powerful hand that had saved them from wreck. But as he helped Pauline out and led her on a run into the forest he heard the sound of the pursuing machine coming to a stop and the tumult of voices behind them. He knew that one peril had only been supplanted by another. "Where—Where are we going, Harry?" "The Gorman camp—if we can make it; if we can reach the river." "There's the old quarry," she exclaimed as they came out on the crest of a blast-gnarled cliff overlooking a stream. "I know their camp is near the quarry." "But on the other side of the river. Don't talk; run," he pleaded, leading her down a footpath that traced a winding way over the face of the cliff into the quarry. In the shelter of the rocks there stood two small buildings about five hundred yards apart. One was the old tool house of the deserted quarry. The other was a hunter's hut, evidently newly built. A commanding cry came from the top of the cliff. "Halt or we fire!" They ran on. A shot echoed and a bullet flattened itself against the stone base of the quarry not two yards from Pauline. "In here—quick," said Harry, dragging her to the hunter's lodge and thrusting her through the open door. There was another shot and the thud of another bullet as he slammed the door. "It looks like a fight now, Polly," he said, as he' moved quickly around the hut. "And thank Heaven—here's something to fight with." From a rack in the wall he lifted down a Winchester rifle and a belt of cartridges. "Get into the corner and lie down," he ordered. "No, give me the revolver," cried Pauline. She did not wait for his protest, but drew from hilt coat pocket the pistol he had wrested from Wallace. For an instant he looked at her with mingled admiration, love and fear. He opened the little window of the hut, aimed and fired three shots at the group of six men who were running down the cliff path. "Into the tool house," ordered Balthazar, stopping only for a glance at one of his fellows who had fallen. The five gained the workmen's hut and burst the door open. Immediately from the air hole and the wide chinks in the sagging walls came a blaze of shots. A small white dog ran down the path into the quarry, but no one saw it. Balthazar was searching the tool-house. "Ha!" he exclaimed suddenly. "That is what we want!" He lifted from the floor a box of blasting powder. But the next instant he dropped it and sprawled, cursing, beside the half-spilled contents. Another man, shot through the body, had fallen over his leader. Balthazar quickly recovered himself. He whisked about the hut and found a coil of fuse. The shots were still dinning in his ears while he fashioned, with the powder and the box and the fuse, a bomb powerful enough to have shattered tons of imbedded stone. "Stop shooting," he commanded. "Here's a better way!" As he suddenly threw open the door and dashed out, he nearly fell over the dog whining in terror. But Balthazar kept on. In a better business—with a heart in him—he would have been counted among the bravest of men. Running a swaying, zigzag course, in the very face of the fire of Harry and Pauline, he reached the hunter's hut and dropped the bomb beside it. He did not try to return. With the long fuse in his hand he moved into shelter behind the hut, struck a match, lighted the fuse, and fled toward the river. After him ran the small white dog. Balthazar turned and uttered a scream of rage. He dashed at the animal, which dodged and passed him. In its teeth it held the bomb he had just laid at the risk of his life. The fuse was sputtering behind as the dog fled. Balthazar pursued desperately. The path to the river led through a narrow defile of rock. But the beast was not trapped at the water's edge as the Gypsy had expected. It took to the water with a wide plunge. Balthazar turned away, cursing. He rushed back to the huts. The guns and pistols were silent. He picked up from the side of the path a huge piece of wood. As he neared his companions, he shouted: "Come out! Rush them, You cowards! Follow me!" Harry fired his last two shots and two men fell. Pauline had long ago emptied the revolver. Three men came on. There was a crash as the log in Balthazar's mighty hands beat down the door and he staggered through. But Harry was upon him. He hurled the Gypsy across the room. He charged at the others and one went down. Through the door came four men. "It's Harry. Help him!" cried Pauline. Balthazar charged straight at the newcomers but he did not attempt to fight. He was out through the door and away to the river before they could intercept him. Within a few moments his companions lay bound on the hut floor. "But how did you find out? How did you know we needed you?" asked Pauline afterward of young Richard Gorman, whose camping party had been the rescuers. "That's the girl who told us," he said, pointing to a dejected little bull terrier that stood, quaking with excitement, a few feet away. "Cyrus!" cried Pauline, running and clutching the little terrier in her arms. "Yes, he brought us the dead bomb and we knew something was up." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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