CHAPTER VIII--THE GIRL IN THE STORM

Now, Bobby Hargrew was not naturally a secretive girl. Far from it. Her mates noted, however, that of late she had grown quieter. Ever since their adventure with the Gypsies she had seemed distraught at times, and not at all like her usual merry, light-hearted self.

"That horrid Gypsy woman told her something that scared her," Jess Morse said to Laura Belding. "I didn't think Bobby would be so easily gulled."

"Those people know how to make things seem awful real, I expect," returned her chum, thoughtfully. "If I had not been on my guard, and had the woman not tried to learn something from me, instead of attempting to mystify me, I expect I would have fallen under her spell."

"Nonsense!" laughed Jess.

"Well, it seems Bobby was impressed," said Laura.

"I should say she was. And whatever the woman told her, it is something that is supposed to happen in the future. Bobby is looking forward to it with terror."

"I wish I knew what it was."

"But Bobs won't take you into her confidence," sighed Jess.

"No. I've sounded her. And it is no mere trouble that she expects in school. It is something more serious than Miss Carrington's severity," Laura rejoined.

Clara Hargrew probably had more friends among the girls of Central High than any other girl on the Hill; yet she had not one "crush." She was "hail-fellow-well-met" with all her schoolmates, and never paired off with any particular girl. She had nobody in whom she would naturally confide--not even at home.

For there had been no mother in the Hargrew home for several years. Mr. Hargrew idolized Bobby, who was the oldest of his three girls; but a father can never be like a mother to a girl. Her two sisters were small--the youngest only six years old. The housekeeper and nurse looked out for the little girls; but Bobby was answerable to nobody but her father, and he was a very easy-going man indeed. He was proud of Bobby, and of her smartness and whimsicality; and about everything she did was right in his eyes.

The fact that his oldest daughter had been a good deal of a tomboy never troubled the groceryman in the least. "She was as good as any boy," he often laughingly said, and it was he who had nicknamed her "Bobby."

But the girl was just now at the age and stage of growth when she needed a mother's advice and companionship more than any other time in her life. And she felt woefully alone these days.

She was usually the life of the house when she was indoors, and the little girls, Elsie and Mabel, loved to have her as their playmate. In the evenings, too, she was used to being much with her father. But of late Mr. Hargrew had been going out one or two evenings each week--a new practice for him--and on these evenings when her father was absent, Bobby was so gloomy that it was not long before the little girls complained.

"You're sick, child," declared Mrs. Ballister, the old lady who had been with them since long before Mrs. Hargrew died.

"No, I'm not," declared Bobby.

"Then you've done something that's settin' heavy on your conscience," declared the old lady, nodding. "Nothing else would make you so quiet, Clara."

And Bobby felt too miserable to "answer back," and swallowed the accusation without comment.

It was early in the week following the Saturday on which the girls had seen the fugitive from the Gypsy camp passing the athletic field. Soon after the mid-day recess a sudden spring thunder storm came up, the sky darkened, the air grew thick, and sharp lightning played across the clouds before the threatened downpour.

Some of the girls were so frightened that they ran in from the recreation ground before the gong rang. The heavens were overcast and the trees before the schoolhouse began to writhe in the rising wind.

The first heavy drops were falling when Bobby, who had been excused by Miss Carrington to do an errand during the recess, turned the corner and faced the sudden blast. It swooped down upon her with surprising power, whirled her around, flung her against the fence, and then, in rebounding, she found herself in another person's arms.

"Oh, dear me! Excuse me--do!" gasped Bobby, blinded for the moment and clinging to the person with whom she had collided. "I--I didn't mean to run you down."

At that instant there was a blinding flash followed by a roll of thunder that seemed to march clear across the sky. Bobby felt this girl whom she clung to shrink and tremble at the sound. Now, Bobby herself was not particularly afraid of thunder and lightning, and she immediately grew braver.

"Come on!" she said. "We'll get wet here. Let's run into the boys' vestibule--that's nearest."

The boys' yard was empty; indeed, the afternoon session had been called to order now in all the classrooms. Bobby and the strange girl ran, half blindly, into the graveled yard and up the steps.

Just as they entered the vestibule the downpour came. The flood descended and had they been out in it half a minute longer the fugitives would have been saturated.

"Just in time!" cried Bobby, attempting to open the inner door.

"Oh! I can't go in there," stammered the strange girl.

"Nor I guess I can't, either," said Bobby, half laughing, half breathless. "It's locked--and the wind is blowing the rain right into this vestibule. Come on! Let's shut this outside door."

The half of the two-leaved door of the vestibule which had been open was heavy; but Bobby's companion proved to be a strong and rugged girl, and together they managed to close it. Then, with the rain and wind shut out, although the roar of the elements was still loud in their ears, the two girls were able to examine each other.

And instantly Bobby Hargrew forgot all about the thunder, and lightning, and rain. She stared at the girl cowering in the corner, who winced every time the lightning played across the sky, and closed her eyes with her palms to the reverberation of the thunder.

The girl was perhaps a couple of years older Bobby herself. She was dark and had a tangle of black hair which was dressed indifferently. A woolen cap was drawn down almost to her ears. She was rather scrubbily dressed, and nothing that she wore looked very clean or very new. The waist she had on was cut low at the neck--so low that the girl had tied loosely around her throat a soft, yellow muffler.

Although the old brown cloak she wore hid her green skirt, Bobby knew that the girl before her was the one she and her friends had seen escaping from the Gypsy camp nearly a fortnight before. The girl who had been unafraid of pursuit by the bloodhound, and had run upon stone fences and waded in an ice-cold mountain brook to hide her trail, now cowered in the vestibule of the schoolhouse, in a nervous tremor because of the thunderstorm.

"My! but you _are_ scared of lightning, aren't you?" exclaimed Bobby, after a minute, and when the noise of the elements had somewhat ceased.

"I--I always am," gasped the girl.

"The lightning won't hurt you--at least, the lightning you _see_ will never hurt you, my father says," added Bobby. "The danger is all past by the time you see the flash of it."

"But I can't help being frightened," replied the girl.

"No. I suppose not. And I guess you are brave enough about other things to make up, eh?"

The girl looked up at her, but was evidently puzzled. She glanced through the glass doors of the building into the corridor.

"Is this the school building?" she asked, quickly.

"Yes. But this is the boys' entrance, so I don't want to ring. I'd get scolded for coming here," said Bobby.

"Oh, don't ring!" exclaimed the girl, putting a timid hand upon Bobby's arm. "This is the big school, isn't it?"

"It's the biggest in town. It's Central High," said Bobby, proudly.

"You go here to school, of course?" asked the girl, somewhat wistfully.

"Yes. I'm a junior."

The other shook her head. The grading of the school was evidently not understood by the Gypsy girl.

"Say! do you have many teachers in this school?" she asked.

"Yes. There's enough of them," replied Bobby, grumblingly.

"Women, too?"

"Yes. Some women."

"Who are they?" asked the girl, quickly. "What's their names?"

The thunder was rolling away now, but the rain was still beating down in such volume that the girls could not venture forth. Bobby would have gotten wet in running around to the girls' entrance.

"Why," she said, studying the Gypsy's face in a puzzled way. "There's Miss Gould."

"Gould? That's not her whole name, is it?" asked this curious girl.

"Miss Marjorie Gould."

"Say it slow--say the letters," commanded the Gypsy girl.

Bobby, much amazed, began:

"M-a-r-j-o-r-i-e G-o-u-l-d."

The strange girl shook her head. Bobby saw that she had been counting the letters of Miss Gould's name on her fingers, and she asked:

"Don't you read English?"

"No. I'm Austrian. I know some German. A woman taught me. But I never went to school--never to a school like this," said the Gypsy girl, with a sigh.

"Who are you?" asked Bobby, deeply interested.

"You--you can call me Margit--Margit Salgo, from Austria."

Now, this puzzled Bobby Hargrew more than ever, for she knew that the Gypsies the girl had been with were English. Yet she was afraid of frightening the girl by telling her what she already knew about her. And immediately the Gypsy girl asked her another question:

"Spell me some of their other names, will you?"

"Whose other names?"

"The lady teachers," replied Margit, her black eyes flashing eagerly.

"Why--why, there's Mrs. Case," stammered Bobby.

"How do you spell the letters?"

"R-o-s-e C-a-s-e," said Bobby, slowly.

"No! no!" exclaimed Margit. "Not enough. Too short."

"But don't you know the name of the woman you are looking for?"

"I didn't say I was looking for anybody," said Margit, with suspicion. "I am just curious."

"And you can't repeat the name?"

"I never heard it repeated. I only know how many letters there are. I saw it on a card. I counted the letters," said the girl, with a shrewd light in her eyes. "Now! haven't you any more lady teachers here?"

"There's Gee Gee!" exclaimed Bobby, with half a chuckle, amused at the thought of Miss Carrington being mixed up in any manner with this half-wild Gypsy girl.

"Too short," said the other, shaking her head decidedly.

"Oh, her real name is long enough. It's Grace G. Carrington."

"Spell it out," commanded Margit Salgo, eagerly.

Bobby did so, but the girl shook her head. "Not enough letters," she declared.

"Why--there are sixteen letters to Miss Carrington's name," said Bobby, wonderingly. "How many are there to the name you are hunting for?"

"Two more," said Margit, promptly.

"Eighteen?"

"Yes. Now, don't you tell anybody what I say. That's a good girl," urged the other.

"You're not afraid of me, are you?" asked Bobby, in wonder.

"I'm afraid of everybody," muttered the girl.

"You've--you've run away from somebody?" ventured Bobby, fearing to startle the fugitive by telling her just how much she _did_ know.

"Never you mind about me. Thank you for what you've told me. I--I guess the worst of it's over now, and I'll go," said Margit, and she tugged at the knob of the outer door.

The rain was still falling fast; but the thunder only muttered in the distance and the electric display had entirely passed.

"Wait!" cried Bobby, earnestly. "Maybe I can help you some more."

"No. I don't need anybody to help me. I can take care of myself," replied the Gypsy girl, sullenly.

She mastered the door-latch, pulled the door open, and ran out into the rain. In half a minute she was flying up the street, and not until she was out of sight did Bobby remember something that might be of great importance in explaining the mystery.

"Why, Miss Carrington always writes her name 'Grace _Gee_ Carrington,'" exclaimed Bobby. "There's the eighteen letters that the girl is looking for. I never thought of that!"