CHAPTER XII

THE LONELY HOUSE

Larry crossed the road and stood beside the ancient farm wagon. The driver saw his intention, and waited for our hero, yelling a command to the horse to stand still. This was hardly needed, as the steed showed no signs of desiring to move. It had not been driven so fast before in many years.

“I know several detectives at police headquarters,” said Larry, his heart beating strangely at the possibility he saw before him. “I also know some in the Bronx here, and perhaps I can help you. If you’ll tell me why you want an officer I can telephone downtown, and that will be quicker than driving in.”

“I guess it will be, young feller. I’d a telephoned myself, only I don’t know how to use th’ queer contraption. I tried it once, an’ by heck, I got so twisted that I didn’t know which end t’ put t’ my ear, so I reckoned I’d hitch up an’ take in th’ news by word of mouth. I’m a stranger ’round here. I jest started a truck farm. I am from Jersey.”

“But what’s the matter?” asked Larry. “You say there’s a boy being held in captivity?”

“That’s what he is, stranger, an’ every time he tries t’ git away them tramps chase after him, while one feller, with a gun, stands ready t’ shoot him if he gits too far. It’s nothin’ short of scandalous, that’s what I say, an’ arter my wife an’ I talked it over this mornin’ I decided t’ tell th’ authorities.”

“Did the boy try to get away this morning?” asked Larry.

“He sure did. An’ suthin’ ought t’ be done about it. Maybe, arter all, I’d better drive in t’ N’York. An’ yet I don’t like t’, with Major here. He’s easily riled when he sees one of them automobiles, an’ I understand they’re tolable thick in th’ city.”

“They certainly are,” replied Larry. “I think we can do better by telephoning, or putting the horse up at some stable around here, and going to the Bronx station.”

“Well, young feller, seeing as how you seem t’ know th’ ropes, I’ll leave it t’ you. We’ll put Major up at that road house over there, and I’ll tell ye all ’bout it.”

This first was soon done, and, when he had the truck farmer in a quiet spot along the road, Larry began asking questions.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” promised Mr. Meldron, which he proceeded to do.

It appeared that he lived in an old-fashioned farm-house, about five miles from where Larry had met him. He did a general truck-raising business, carting his vegetables to a small town just outside of the limits of Manhattan, whence they were sent to market.

“There’s constables there,” he said, “but land sakes, I wouldn’t trust ’em with a case like this, even if my own brother-in-law is on th’ force, an’ has a reg’lar badge. This is a case for _real_ detectives.”

“What sort of a case is it?” asked Larry, who, so far, had not been able to get much satisfaction from the farmer.

“It’s a case of a boy bein’ held in captivity,” explained the man. “I’ve got quite considerable of a piece of land,” he went on, “and part of it, where I raise my late beans, is down in a holler, behind a big hill. About half a mile away there’s an old house that nobody’s lived in for years. There’s some trouble as to who it belongs t’, an’ nobody will take a chance on rentin’ it, ’cept maybe fer a month or so. Anyhow, th’ house has been empty for quite a spell.

“This mornin’ I went out t’ look at th’ beans; when I got on top of th’ hill that looks down in th’ holler, where th’ old house is, I see suthin’ goin’ on there that I didn’t like.”

“What was it?” asked Larry.

“Well, it was two or three rough-dressed men hangin’ around there. Tramps, I sized ’em up for, right away, an’ as we’ve had more or less trouble with them fellers out our way, I looked for all I was wuth.”

“But I thought you said something about a boy,” spoke Larry.

“So I did, I’m comin’ t’ that part of it in a minute. I watched them tramps, an’ see that they was gittin’ a meal. There was smoke comin’ out from the chimbley, an’ one of th’ ragged fellers was pumpin’ water.

“Well, I thinks t’ myself, it ain’t no fun t’ have a colony of tramps camped so close t’ your house. They come in an’ steal late vegetables an’ fruit, an’ land knows it’s hard enough t’ make a livin’ as it is without feedin’ tramps. So I was makin’ up my mind that I’d notify my brother-in-law, who’s a constable, an’ we’d clean th’ place out.

“Then I seen suthin’ that puzzled me. Out from th’ house come a feller who wasn’t dressed like a tramp. He was--well, he was dressed as good as you be,” and the farmer looked at Larry approvingly. “Thinks I t’ myself, this must be th’ boss tramp. Then I see him sort of talkin’ t’ th’ others, and pretty soon one of ’em come out with a cannon.”

“A cannon!” exclaimed Larry, wondering if the men of whom the farmer was speaking were desperate enough to fortify the house they occupied.

“Yep; leastways it looked like a cannon. It was on wheels, and it was black, an’ it had a muzzle to it.”

“What did they do with it?”

“Well, th’ well-dressed feller, he took it down the road a piece, an’ then he aimed it at th’ house.”

“What happened next?” asked Larry, full of curiosity.

“That’s the queer part of it. Here’s where the boy comes in. The feller trained the cannon on th’ house, an’ them tramps didn’t seem t’ mind it a bit. They went right on gettin’ their meal, drawin’ water, an’ choppin’ wood, and what not. Fust time I ever see tramps work without being made.”

“But about the boy?” cried Larry impatiently.

“I’m comin’ t’ him,” said the farmer. “Arter a bit one of th’ tramps went in th’ house, an’ th’ others sort of disappeared. Then, all t’ once I see a little feller, somewhat smaller than you, runnin’ out of that house t’ beat th’ band.

“Out of th’ old weed-grown front yard he come, and then he began t’ leg it down th’ road, straight toward th’ feller that was standin’ by the cannon. Thinks I t’ myself he’ll be shot sure. That’s what th’ cannon’s for, I thinks, an’ I were jest a goin’ t’ yell, when I see a whole lot of them tramps come streamin’ out from behind th’ house, an’ they chases arter th’ poor lettle feller who was runnin’ t’ beat th’ band.

“Gosh! you never saw such a chase. Down th’ road run th’ boy, with th’ tramps arter him, an’ the feller with th’ cannon waitin’ t’ blow him t’ flinders. Then th’ boy got in sight of th’ gun, but he never stopped. Talk about pluck! He had it all right.

“Th’ feller with th’ cannon tried t’ shoot it, but, seems like it got jammed, or stuck, or suthin’. Anyhow he couldn’t shoot it, for I didn’t see no smoke, an’ I didn’t hear no noise. It might have been one of them new-fangled wireless cannon, eh?”

“Maybe,” agreed Larry. “What next?”

“Well, them tramps kept chasin’ arter that poor boy until finally they caught up to him. Say, I jest wish you could see th’ way they grabbed him! It was sure scandalous! I yelled out, but they was too far away t’ hear me.”

“Why didn’t you run over and help him?” asked Larry.

“I didn’t dast. Them tramps is desprit fellers,” replied the farmer. “Anyhow, they was too quick for me. They had th’ poor feller caught ’fore I could say Jack Robinson. He tried t’ git away, but he couldn’t, an’ they certainly handled him shameful.

“They started back toward th’ house with him, an’ by heck, if he didn’t give ’em th’ slip when he was close t’ it. Yes, he did. I give him credit for it, too. He got away an’ he run like a whitehead, but th’ tramps was too much fer him, an’ they took him in th’ house.”

“Is he there yet?” asked Larry eagerly, his mind filled with visions of Lorenzo, the stolen boy.

“I think he is,” replied the farmer. “I was so excited that I jest stood there in my bean patch, wonderin’ if I’d dreamed it all. I were jest comin’ away, thinkin’ how I could best notify th’ New York police, when suthin’ else happened.”

“What?” asked Larry impatiently.

“Th’ boy got away again. Yes, by jimminetties! He did! Clumb out of a winder, on a rope, too. Slid down it as slick as ever I see. But, poor feller, he didn’t git clear.”

“Why not?”

“Because there was a couple of them tramp fellers waitin’ for him. They grabbed him as soon as he landed on th’ ground, an’ took him inside. Lands sakes, but I felt sorry for th’ plucky chap.”

“What next?” cried Larry.

“Then I come away,” replied Mr. Meldron. “I wanted t’ notify th’ police as soon as I could, so I hitched up an’ here I be.”

“And it’s a good thing you acted as you did!” cried Larry. “I think you have helped solve a big mystery.”

“How’s that?”

“Why, I believe the boy you speak of is the little lad stolen from Madame Androletti!” cried the young reporter. “I think I am on the trail at last!”

“Get out! You don’t mean it!” cried the farmer. “Then you come right back with me, an’ we’ll raid them tramps, an’ git th’ boy.”

“Right!” cried Larry.

A little later he and the farmer were driving back along the country road, and, after a hasty explanation to his wife, the truck-grower led Larry to the bean patch.

“There’s th’ lonely house, where th’ boy is held captive!” exclaimed the farmer, pointing to a deserted dwelling down in the hollow. Larry gazed at it curiously and hopefully.