CHAPTER XIV

WHAT HAPPENED

Larry was so intent on the progress of himself and Mr. Meldron that he paid little attention to what the others were doing. They had left him and his companion, in order to circle about the suspected house, and were soon out of sight.

“We’re to close in when we hear Bob fire his gun in the air, ain’t we?” asked Mr. Meldron in a whisper, when he and Larry had advanced some distance through the underbrush.

“That’s it. He’s got the farthest to go, and it will take him some little time to get around. We’ll have to wait for him. I hope everything comes off all right.”

“So do I,” said the farmer. “I guess them tramps won’t light out right away. It’s dinner time, and they’re as fond of eatin’ as most folks, I reckon.”

“I’m beginning to feel that way myself,” spoke Larry, for he had had an early breakfast that morning, and it was now past noon.

In due time Larry and his companion had approached as close as they dared to the house, without running the chance of being seen. They crouched down behind a fringe of bushes, while in front of them was an open space, what had once been the yard about the old house, but which was now overgrown with long and tangled grass.

The young reporter and the farmer were about three hundred feet away from the house, and they had a clear view of the tramps, who were gathered about the fire, over which something was cooking in a kettle. Now and then one of the sprawling men on the ground would go to the pot, and dip out some soup in a tin can which served him for a plate.

The group seemed to be a merry one, though they did not talk loudly enough for Larry to hear what they were saying. Occasionally one of them would break out into song, the others joining in a chorus.

“Some of ’em is good singers, if they be tramps,” commented Mr. Meldron in a whisper.

“That’s so,” agreed Larry. “And they’re all disguised, too?”

“Disguised? How do you mean?”

“Why, nearly every one of ’em has a false beard or mustache on. I can see it from here. They don’t fit very well.” Larry had had some experience with false beards, when working on the bank mystery, and he knew what he was talking about.

“Disguised!” exclaimed the farmer. “Well, I s’pose that’s natural.”

Larry looked beyond the house for a sight of any of the other raiders, but he saw none of them.

“I wish they’d hurry up,” spoke the farmer. “Not that these here fellers show any signs of trying to skip, but I’d like the job over with.”

“So would I,” agreed Larry. “I don’t see anything of the boy, though, do you?”

“Not a sign,” replied the farmer. “But they’ve probably got him safe under lock and key after the way he tried to escape before.”

“Here comes someone else out of the house,” spoke Larry in a whisper. “Maybe something is going to happen.”

The man who came down the steps was apparently a tramp like the rest, but he seemed to be the leader.

“Get ready!” he called to the others, loudly enough for Larry and his companion to hear; “you’ve been long enough at the eats. Come on.”

“Where’s the kid?” asked another.

“He’ll be out in a minute, and then we’ll finish up this business, and get back to New York.”

“Finish up!” whispered the farmer hoarsely. “I wonder if they’re going to do away with the poor little chap.”

“They wouldn’t dare!” declared Larry. “But I can’t understand what they mean by going back to New York. I should think that would be the very place they’d keep away from.”

“Look! Look!” suddenly exclaimed the farmer, pointing toward the house. Larry saw a strange sight.

From the lonely house came bursting a small boy, and to the startled gaze of Larry he seemed very much like the pictures of the stolen Lorenzo. Forth he came, and darted away across the deep grass of the yard.

“There he goes!” cried the tramp leader. “Get after him now, and see how long it takes to catch him!”

The tramps about the fire sprang to their feet, and were off after the fleeing lad.

“By heck! I can’t stand this!” fairly shouted Mr. Meldron. “I don’t care where the others are, I’m going to close in.”

“So am I!” yelled Larry, as he saw a good chance to rescue the stolen lad.

The farmer raised his gun in the air, and fired. At the sound of it the tramps looked back in alarm, and the boy ceased running.

“Go on! Go on!” yelled Larry. “We’re going to save you!”

A second later another shot was fired.

“There they are!” cried Mr. Meldron. “That’s Bob’s gun! Now we’ll close in on ’em!”

He and Larry rushed forward. At the same time, from behind the house, came the others of the posse. The tramps and their young captive were surrounded.

But a strange thing happened. The boy who had ceased running, did not appear to be at all frightened or alarmed. Instead a puzzled look came over his face, as it did over the faces of the tramps. They stood grouped together, and a man came out from the old house, and called:

“What’s the matter there?”

“You’ll find out what’s the matter!” replied Bob Nestor savagely. “We’ve got you just where we want you. Surrender in the name of the law!”

“Surrender? What for? Are you crazy?” demanded the man on the porch of the old house. “What are you after, anyhow?”

“That boy! The stolen boy!” burst out the constable. “We have come for him, and we’re going to have him. Surrender, I tell you,” and he brought his gun to bear.

“Say, put that weapon aside!” exclaimed the man, and Larry, as he caught the smooth and cultivated accents in his voice, began to understand something that had been puzzling him. At the same time he felt a sense of great disappointment.

“Do you give up the boy?” cried Bob.

“Give him up! I guess not! Are you crazy?”

Some of the tramps were laughing now, and, as for the boy, he was smiling.

“Give him up or we’ll take him!” threatened Mr. Meldron. “We know all about him, and we’re going to have him and restore him to his mother.”

“Oh, are you?” coolly asked the man on the porch. “Well, you won’t have far to go to do that, seeing that she’s here. Alice!” he called, and a well-dressed lady came out on the stoop. Her face wore a puzzled expression.

“Gentlemen, I don’t know who you are,” went on the man on the porch smoothly, “but this lady is my wife, and that is my son, whom you talk of taking away. I guess you’ve made a mistake.”

“What? Ain’t he the kidnapped son of Madame Androletti?” demanded the constable, much crestfallen.

“Not a bit of it,” came the firm answer, “though I don’t mind admitting that this is a kidnapping play.”

“A play?” cried Mr. Meldron.

A man came around the corner of the house, carrying a box-like arrangement on a tripod. At the sight of it the farmer who had brought Larry to the lonely house cried out:

“Lay low, fellers! There’s their cannon.”

“Cannon!” exclaimed Larry, who now understood it all. “That’s no cannon. It’s a moving-picture camera.”

“Moving-picture camera!” gasped the constable.

“You’ve guessed it,” said the man on the porch, “and now, if you’re through trying to rescue some one who doesn’t need to be rescued, perhaps you’ll be good enough to stand aside so we can go on with our acting, and make some reels of film.”

“Acting!” cried Mr. Meldron. “They’re actors instead of tramps!”

“That’s it,” came in a chorus from the ragged men, and one of them took off his false beard and waved it gaily at the group of puzzled and chagrined farmers.

“We’ve come on a wild-goose chase,” murmured Larry, “though I can’t blame Mr. Meldron for being suspicious of what he saw. They were only making a moving-picture play, after all.”

“Perhaps you’ll explain why you came near spoiling our act?” suggested the man, evidently the manager.

“I will,” offered Larry. “It was a natural mistake, as I think you will agree.”

He then detailed the circumstances; how Mr. Meldron had seen the boy fleeing down the road, pursued by the tramps, and carried into the lonely house.

“Mr. Meldron met me by accident,” Larry went on, “and as I am working on the Androletti case for a newspaper, I naturally, as did he, jumped to the conclusion that we had stumbled on a kidnapping case.”

“So you have,” spoke an actor, “only it wasn’t the right kind. I’m sorry we disappointed you.”

“So am I,” admitted Larry ruefully. He then told how the raid had been planned, and its unexpected outcome was apparent to all.

“My wife and son and I have a small theatrical troupe for making moving-picture plays,” explained the head actor, who proved to be a Mr. Blake. “We go to different places about the country in the vicinity of New York, to get the proper scenic background.

“A play, involving the capture of a boy, and his attempt to escape from some tramps, was needed. I heard of this old house here, and, as it had the right kind of surroundings, and was lonely enough, I brought my troupe here. We have been sort of camping out, for we needed a day or two to rehearse the scenes before we took the pictures. That’s what we’ve been doing, and we are about finished. I don’t blame you gentlemen for thinking it was the real thing. It’s a credit to our acting. If we had known you were coming we could have arranged to work you into a scene. Maybe it’s not too late yet. You might be a rescue party. Will you?”

“I think not,” said Larry. “We’ve been disappointed enough as it is, and these gentlemen want to get home to their dinners. We’ll leave you to finish your play in peace.”

“Sorry we can’t have a real kidnapped boy for you,” went on Mr. Blake, “but I can’t spare Edgar,” and he nodded toward his son.

“No, indeed!” exclaimed the lad’s mother. “Oh, but I am so sorry for Mrs. Androletti! I know her slightly, and I do hope you succeed in finding her son for her,” she said to Larry.

“I’ve got to begin all over again,” the young reporter said with a rueful smile. “My hopes are all shattered. But I can at least have a story out of it.”

“It wasn’t your fault at all,” said Mr. Meldron, as he walked away at Larry’s side, when they had bidden the troupe of actors good-by. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions so quick-like. I’m wuss than a kid, I guess.”

“No, I think you were justified,” spoke Larry. “It certainly did look suspicious. I hope you won’t mind being written up in the paper--you and the others.”

“Not a bit of it! It’s the least we can do for you after fooling you on a fake kidnapping,” said the constable.

“And to think them fellers was acting all the while!” murmured one farmer. “Gosh, but they fooled us!”