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Outdoor Girls at the Hostess House

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<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> <h3>POLITE KIDNAPPERS</h3> But it seems that breakfast "hath charms to sooth the savage breast," for after Mollie had attacked and conquered the appetizing fruit and cereal, ham and eggs, she seemed to forget all about her dire threat and smiled amiably at her intended victim across the table. "How long will it take you to get ready, Grace?" she inquired. "Can you do it while Betty and I go around to the garage and back out the car?" "Let Amy help you with the car this time," Betty objected before Grace could reply. "I want to ask Mrs. Sanderson to go with us." Mollie clapped her hand over her mouth in a gesture of dismay. "Goodness," she reproached herself, "I almost forgot about her. Yes, go ahead Betty and do your best to get her. I know it would do her good. But you had better take Amy with you to help persuade Mrs. Sanderson. Amy and you together are a pair that will be hard to refuse. There goes Mr. Bretton now! He's so grateful for what we girls have done for him here—as though it were anything at all—that he'd do far more than help get the car ready. I'll get his help, while you and Amy go for Mrs. Sanderson and Grace gets ready. Now, rush! hurry! fly! off with you!" Mollie ran out of the house and after the young soldier whose help she sought. Grace went to her room for some last-minute dressing, and Amy and Betty went upstairs to importune Mrs. Sanderson. "Well, good morning, my dears," said the old woman, delighted at sight of their bright faces. "I declare, if you don't bring all the sunshine in with you! It is lovely of you to call on an old woman so early in the morning." "Well, you see," said Betty, eagerly diving right into the middle of her subject. "We've come to kidnap you. Please, won't you let us?" "Kidnap me," repeated the old lady, patting the soft cheek with a puzzled air. "Why, it seems to me sort of unusual to ask a body if you can kidnap 'em." Betty laughed. "Well, I guess maybe it is," she admitted gayly. "But, you see, we can't very well do it without asking you. Mollie said," she added, taking the little lady's hand in hers and squeezing it affectionately, "that you told her the only way we could get you to do it was to make you unconscious again. And," she finished, with an adorable little coaxing smile, "we couldn't do that, you know. We're altogether too fond of you." Mrs. Sanderson laughed and pinched her cheek. "Very well, honey," she chuckled. "Now if you'll tell me what it's all about—" "We want you to go on a picnic with us," broke in Amy. "A picnic!" repeated the old lady, more puzzled than before. "What sort of picnic?" "An automobile picnic," explained Betty, adding quickly as she saw refusal in the bright old eyes. "Oh, please don't say 'no' yet. We've got the whole day off, and we're going to take Mollie's car and go off all by ourselves and eat our lunch and admire the view and—" "Taste gasoline for a week after," finished the old lady with a little grimace. Then she added quickly, as she saw the hurt look in Betty's bright face: "No, I didn't exactly mean that, dear, and I wouldn't say anything to make you feel bad for worlds, that I wouldn't, only—I jest can't bring myself to ride in those automobiles. You see," there was an almost pathetic appeal for understanding in the bright old eyes, "I guess I'm maybe too old to change my ways, an' I get tired easy—" "I'll tell you what we'll do," Amy intervened with rare tact. "Some day when we're going for just a little ride around the block we'll ask you again. Maybe you'll feel more like it then, and you can get used to it by degrees." "That's awfully nice of you, dearie," said the old woman, looking gratefully from one bright face to the other. "I suppose you don't know how much I appreciate all you've done for me," she added, her voice breaking a little, "'cause I never could tell you if I lived for a hundred years. But you just sort o' revived my faith in human nature. Since my boy went away—" The old voice broke down entirely then, and Betty continued patting her hand soothingly, "But there," she added, in a different tone, wiping her eyes determinedly and smiling at them, "this ain't no kind of a mornin' for tears, an' I know my son Willie would be the first one to tell me so. "Thank you jest as much for askin' me, dearies, and maybe some other time I'll get my courage up to it. But now you jest run along an' enjoy yourselves. "An' when you come back," she added, taking both of the soft young hands in her wrinkled one and patting them gently, "you can come up an' tell me all about it." "Oh, will you let us?" asked Betty eagerly, jumping up and dropping a kiss, light as thistle-down, upon the old face. "And we'll bring you flowers, whole bunches of them. Will you promise to be happy while we're gone?" "Yes, dearie, just happy thinking of your coming back and the flowers," she agreed, and the smile remained on her lips even after the door closed behind them until the sound of their light footsteps and laughter faded away. Then the brave lips drooped and the gray head went down upon her arms. "They're such lovely little ladies," she murmured to herself. "An' I will try to be happy. Only—I want my boy, my little son—my baby—" Meanwhile— "Isn't she the dearest thing?" asked Amy of Betty as they went into the kitchen to gather up the picnic baskets. "I'm getting so fond of her it will just hurt like everything to have her go away." "Go away? Oh, Amy!" cried the Little Captain in surprise, facing her as though that possibility had not yet entered her mind. "Why, yes," repeated Amy, astonished at Betty's amazement. "She's almost well now, and, of course, she's too independent to want to stay here when she's all right again. Why, Betty, what's the matter?" For Betty had sunk down in one of the kitchen chairs and was regarding her tragically. "But, Amy, she mustn't go away," she argued weakly, knowing that she really had no argument at all. "Why, I really can't imagine it! I—I never thought—" "Well, of course, none of us wants her to," Amy admitted, adding reasonably: "But I really don't see how we're going to stop her if she makes up her mind to go. Do you?" Betty picked up one of the hampers and they walked slowly back through the hall to the front porch. "Why no, not exactly," she said thoughtfully, then added, with a sudden gleam in her eyes: "Unless—unless—" "Unless what?" queried Amy breathlessly. "Oh, I don't know whether you'd call it an idea or just plain foolishness," answered Betty, striving to speak carelessly. "I was just thinking that we might persuade her to stay longer on the plea that we wanted to bring the motorcyclist to justice and needed her identification." Amy looked a little disappointed. "Well, I don't know," she said doubtfully. "She said the other day that she didn't care much about bringing the fellow to justice. She said one motorcyclist was as bad as another, and the only thing that would give her satisfaction would be 'to arrest the whole tribe o' them.'" Betty laughed a little at the characteristic remark, but her eyes were troubled. "Well," she said with a sigh, "I suppose you're right. She is rather hard to reason with at times. If only I could think of something." The sharp toot of a horn as Mollie grazed the curb with the huge touring car put an end to the conversation for the time being. Grace was already on the porch, and as they raced down the steps the girls' spirits rose happily. After all, it was a perfect summer day, the sun shone brilliantly down upon them, the wind caressed their faces, and, above all, they were young. It was not till they were several miles out upon the shining road that Betty once more thought of Mrs. Sanderson. "We might," she said thoughtfully, as though speaking to herself, "tell her that we were trying to find her son. That might have some effect upon her." "Upon whom?" asked Mollie, nearly running the car into a tree by the roadside in an effort to get a glimpse of Betty. "Oh, Mollie, do be careful," cried Amy plaintively. "I never come out with you but what I expect to be killed." "I should think you'd be tired expecting by this time," returned Mollie practically. "Now will you please repeat that somewhat meaningless jumble of words, Betty dear? What was it—something about somebody's son having a good effect upon somebody—" "Well, I hope you feel better, now that you've gotten it out of your system," drawled Grace. "Now, Betty, go on. I'll keep her quiet with chocolates till you've had your say." "Go on talking all night, will you, Betty dear?" entreated Mollie, speaking thickly because of a mouthful of chocolate. "Home was never—" But here Grace inserted another bonbon so deftly that Mollie choked and almost precipitated another appalling accident. "For goodness sakes, hurry, Betty!" cried Amy, in dismay. "If you don't, there won't be anything of us left to listen to you." "Well," said Betty obediently, for she had been so busy with her own thoughts that half the persiflage and gay bantering had passed above her head, "I was speaking of Mrs. Sanderson and her son. I thought that if we told her we were trying to find her Willie, she might consent to stay on with us a little longer." "But wouldn't that be rather raising false hopes?" objected Grace. "We haven't very much chance of really making such a promise good, you know." "Well, but if we tried hard enough we might think of something," Betty insisted. "We might," she added vaguely, "We might—advertise—" "In what?" queried Amy. "The papers, of course," Betty answered impatiently. "Well," said Mollie, chewing down the last bit of chocolate and speaking thoughtfully, "there may be something in your idea, at that, Betty. I don't know about the others, but I'm with you, anyway." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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