CHAPTER IV

The Reward Circular

"What could that have been?" gasped Terry, sinking on her bed.

"Then you heard it, too?" asked Arden.

"Of course! We all heard it!" declared Sim. "A shout or groan in that dark orchard as if someone were suffering. Do you think there could have been a fight among the help? You know they have a resident farmer here at Cedar Ridge and several laborers. They might have had a bout--or something."

Suddenly all three burst out laughing. They couldn't help it. The looks on their faces were so queerly tragic. And Terry said:

"I think we're making a lot out of nothing. Probably what happened was that a porter--the blue-eyed porter--was trying to lug in some faculty baggage the back way and it fell on his toes."

"Well, whatever it was, don't let's go spreading scandal around the college so early in the term," warned Arden. "We must keep the secret of the orchard to ourselves--if there is a secret."

"Guess we'll have to," yawned Sim. "For who knows what the secret is?"

"That taxi-man seemed to hint at something," murmured Terry.

"Oh--bosh!" exploded Arden. "I guess we're all just worked up and nervous because this is our first night and we've had to stand a lot of annoyance so soon--those sophs and all that."

"Well spoken, my brave girl!" declaimed Sim. "Let's forget it."

It was this thought which gradually quieted the palpitating hearts and the excited breathing of the three. After they had listened, more or less cowering on their beds, and heard no sounds of any general alarm, they finally prepared to retire for their first night at Cedar Ridge.

"After all," said Terry, "it may have been some skylarking boys trying to steal the college apples."

"Maybe," agreed Sim.

"It didn't sound like boys to me," declared Arden. "It was more like a man's shout."

"Well, we don't need to worry about it," went on Terry. "But if those snobby sophs think we're going in that orchard in the dark, after what we just heard, to get apples for them, they can have my resignation."

"And mine!" echoed her chums.

Sleep was actually in prospect, and final yawns had been stifled when a scratching in one corner of the room aroused the tired girls.

"We must get a trap for those mice," Terry sleepily murmured. "I suppose they smell the fruit-cake crumbs."

"All very well to trap 'em," chuckled Sim, "but who's going to take 'em out of the trap after they're caught or strangled to death?"

"Oh, stop!" pleaded Arden. "Let the poor mice have the crumbs. Maybe they need them." Which seemed sound advice well given.

The morning of a new day dawned bright and cool. Fall had only lately checked the glories of summer, and the heavily clumped shrubbery about the college seemed strong enough to withstand many wintry blasts before giving up its well-earned beauty.

"Oh, look, girls!" exclaimed Arden, first of the trio out in the corridor ready for breakfast. She pointed a slim finger, well manicured, at the table near the end of the passage.

"What?" asked Sim. "Has the orchard noise of last night materialized?"

"No. But they didn't collect our letters for the mail," said Terry.

"Something must be wrong with the system," spoke Sim. "Though it isn't to be wondered at, in the confusion of opening night. But can't we take them ourselves and drop them into the post office after breakfast? The office is just off the college grounds across the railroad tracks. Can't we do that?"

"I don't see why not," reasoned Arden.

Breakfast was rather a cold and grim meal compared to the excitement of the supper the night before. It was finally eaten, however, and then, it being too early for any classes yet and no orders having been issued about chapel attendance, the three from room 513 started for the little post office outside the college grounds.

Arden looked completely happy. Surroundings were so important to her. Wearing a light wool dress, dull blue in color and with most comfortable walking shoes on, she urged her chums forward. All of the girls were simply dressed. In keeping with the traditions at Cedar Ridge, hats gave place to mortar-boards and, even in freezing weather, they would be donned with a gay defiance of winter winds.

"Come on, girls!" Arden was excited. "I must be at Bordmust Hall at nine. My adviser is going to help me arrange my schedule of classes. I hope we can get together at least on a few."

"We all have to be there," said Terry, adding with a sigh: "I suppose I'll have an eight-thirty class every day, worse luck!" Morning sleep was so good.

"Oh, swimming pool!" chanted Sim as they passed the building now turned to so base a use as that of a vegetable cellar. "When first I saw thee----"

"Have patience!" interrupted Arden. "Look who's coming this way!"

A white-haired old gentleman, clad somberly in black, was slowly approaching along the path that led from the front campus down to the railroad tracks and across to the post office. His hands were clasped behind his back and, with head bent down, he seemed to observe only the ground at his feet.

"Who is he?" whispered Sim.

"He must be Rev. Henry Bordmust, the resident chaplain here. Shall we speak--or just bow respectfully?" Terry looked to Arden for advice.

"I don't believe he even sees us. He looks as though he were thinking deeply. Let's wait and see if he speaks to us." After this advice, Arden stepped a little in advance of her two chums to invite the clergyman's attention.

The daydreaming chaplain had met and was passing the girls now; still without a sign of recognition. But he was saying something--muttering to himself as old men often do. The girls overheard a few words.

"Dear, dear! The orchard! The old orchard!" he murmured. Mentally he seemed to be wringing his hands in real distress. "Why doesn't he come out of it?"

Rev. Henry Bordmust sighed and passed the freshmen, his eyes still on the path at his feet, as oblivious of the trio as if it did not exist.

"Did you hear that?" mumbled Terry as they walked on.

"He was talking about the orchard--where we heard the noise last night," spoke Sim. "What can he mean?"

"I heard one of the seniors talking about him," volunteered Arden. "He is said to be--queer--says things no one can understand. And he often gives the girls awful scoldings over nothing--and sometimes asks you in to have tea with him, most unexpectedly."

"Well, I wish he'd invite us in to tea this afternoon," murmured Sim with new energy. "And I wish he'd explain what he means about someone coming out of the orchard. I hope that weird noise doesn't play any tricks tonight."

"Oh, perhaps we misunderstood him," suggested Terry. "The chaplain can't know anything about a mysterious noise in our college apple orchard."

"Hardly," agreed Sim. "Well, he certainly never saw us. I don't believe I'd like to have tea with him."

"Oh, I think he looks sweet," declared Arden.

"Then you won't need sugar in your tea," laughed Terry. "But let's hurry and mail these letters. It would never do to be late for our first class."

They had reached the tracks of the Delawanna Railroad, the line that ran from New York to Morrisville, the small city nearest the college. From force of habit the girls stopped and looked up and down the rails for the possible approach of a train. Soon they would know when each one was expected. It was a tradition that by the time one was a senior at Cedar Ridge no watch was necessary, so familiar did the students become with the passage of the trains.

The post office was a small one-roomed building with a stove in the center. Two windows, one for the sale of stamps and the other for the mailing of parcels, broke the stretch of tiers of glass-fronted boxes behind which the business was carried on. For the post office served the town as well as the college.

The side walls were literally papered with police posters offering rewards for the arrest, or information leading to the arrest or apprehension, of various persons--criminals--men and women. The posters were from the police departments of several cities, New York among them. Many of the placards were adorned with profiles and front views of the oddest faces the girls had ever seen.

"Oh, for the love of stamps!" gasped Arden when they had dropped their letters in the slot and were looking at the posters. "What nightmares!"

"Aren't they awful!" agreed Terry.

"Not a good-looking man among them," was Sim's opinion. "I've heard about these posters. They've been here, some of them, for I don't know how long. It's a sort of a game among the girls to see who can find the funniest face."

"Let's try it," suggested Arden, laughing. Suddenly she ceased her mirth and stood as if fascinated in front of a poster showing the full-face picture of a young man. He was rather good-looking and quite an exception to the other portraits so publicly displayed. His face, like most of the others, was smooth, unadorned by beard or mustache.

"Terry!" impulsively exclaimed Arden. "Look! Haven't you seen that face before?"

Terry considered carefully before slowly answering:

"No, I don't believe I have. It isn't a bad face, though."

"Rather interesting," agreed Sim. "What's he wanted for, murder or bank robbery?"

"Neither," answered Arden. "Listen." She read from the poster:

"One thousand dollars reward for information as to the whereabouts of Harry Pangborn." Then followed a general description, the age being given as twenty-three, and there was added the statement that the young man had suddenly disappeared from his home on the estate of his grandfather, Remington Pangborn, on Long Island.

Part of the poster consisted of a statement from the attorneys of Remington Pangborn--the _late_ Mr. Pangborn, it was made plain.

"Harry Pangborn," the statement read, "is not wanted on any criminal charge whatever. He disappeared from his friends and his usual haunts merely, it is surmised, because he was expected to assume the duties and responsibilities of the large estate he was about to inherit from his grandfather. It is understood that he stated he did not want the inheritance just yet. Of a high-strung and nervous temperament, Mr. Pangborn is believed to have gone away because the responsibilities of wealth are distasteful to him and also, perhaps, because he seeks adventure, of which he is very fond. If this meets his eye or if anyone can convey to him the information that he will be permitted to assume as much or as little of the estate as he wishes, a great service will have been done. All that is desired is that Harry Pangborn will return to his friends and relatives as soon as possible. His hasty action will be overlooked. It is rumored that Mr. Pangborn may be in the vicinity of Morrisville, though he may have gone abroad, as he was fond of foreign travel.

"Information and claims for the above reward may be sent to Riker & Tabcorn, Attorneys, New York City, or to the local police department in the municipality where this poster is displayed."

The girls, crowding about Arden, read the poster with her. Then Sim said:

"Maybe it was in the movies that you saw someone who reminds you of him, Arden. Harry Pangborn isn't bad looking, compared to all the others." With a sweeping gesture she indicated the various poster exhibits.

"Why, he's positively handsome when you put him alongside of Dead-eye Dick, here," laughed Terry. "As for Two-gun Bobbie----"

"I'm serious, girls," interrupted Arden. "I'm sure I've seen this young man somewhere before. Now, if we could only locate him or tell the lawyers where to look for him and get this reward money, wouldn't it be just wonderful?"

"Grand!" agreed Terry. "But wake up, my dear. You're dreaming!"

"And I've just thought of something else!" went on Arden, oblivious of the banter.

"What?"

"If we did collect this money we could donate it to the college to have the swimming pool repaired."

"That's sweet of you and a good idea, Arden, but I don't believe we could do it," objected Sim. "Besides, I don't exactly believe what it says on this poster. It seems very silly for a young fellow to disappear just when he's coming into a lot of money--a fortune."

"Perhaps he was made to disappear," suggested Terry, her eyes opening wide.

"Oh! You mean--kidnaped?" asked Arden.

"Yes."

"Worse and more of it!" laughed Sim.

"Well, anyhow, we could try, couldn't we?" Arden asked. "You'd help, wouldn't you, Terry?"

"Yes, indeed I'll help. I've always fancied myself in the rôle of a detective, spouting pithy Chinese philosophy and generally getting underfoot."

"Now, Terry, just be serious for once. And Sim, you also. You know how disappointed you were when you found out the swimming pool was----"

"_Kapoot!_" chuckled Sim, supplying Arden's evident lack of a word with the latest Russian expression. "Go on!"

"Well," resumed Arden, pouting a little, "you never can tell. Maybe we could do it. It isn't impossible. Stranger things have happened. And I just know I've seen that young man on the poster somewhere before. If I could only remember where! Did either of you ever have that feeling?"

"Lots of times. I'm for you, Arden!" declared Sim. "I'll do what I can and whatever you say. This mysterious Harry Pangborn may very well be right around here."

"Around Cedar Ridge!" shrilled Terry.

"Certainly! Why not? If the authorities didn't think it likely that he might be in this vicinity, why did they put the poster up here in the post office? And they mentioned Morrisville," challenged Sim.

"There's something in that," Terry admitted.

"Oh, if he should be in hiding around here and we could find him and claim the thousand dollars reward," breathed Arden, "wouldn't it be just wonderful! And what a sensation when we magnanimously turned the money over to the college for the swimming pool. Oh, oh!"

"Would you do that for dear old Alma Mater when you don't know her so very well?" asked Sim, who, with her chums, was still gazing at the poster of the good-looking but missing heir of the Pangborn estate of millions.

"I'd do it for you, Sim, dear," murmured Arden. "I want you to be happy here, since I teased you so to come."

"And you think I won't be happy without the swimming pool?"

"Will you?"

"Not as happy as I would be with it."

"But even admitting that this missing young man may be around here," suggested Terry, "what chance have we of finding him? We have so much college work to do. For, after all, we were sent here to learn something," she sighed.

"Granted," laughed Arden. "But we may find time for a little detective work on the side as well as for hazing. Oh, it's a wonderful prospect!" She swung around in a few dance steps right there in the old post office.

"Well, we'd better be getting back," suggested Sim after this. "Oh, look at the clock!" she gasped. Then followed a hurried sending of some picture postcards they had bought; cards on which they marked with an X the location of their room.

The three chums were bubbling with life, laughter, and merriment as they turned to leave the little building, but their mirth was turned to alarm as a stern voice assailed them.

"Young ladies!"

They looked around to see Rev. Dr. Henry Bordmust sternly regarding them from the doorway.

"Yes, Dr. Bordmust," Sim almost whispered as the chaplain appeared to be waiting for formal recognition.

"You are freshmen!" he accused, with a glance at their mortarboards, the tassels of which told the tale. "You know you are not permitted over here--in the post office. It is against the college rules--for you freshmen. Return at once! You must! You must!"

He appeared strangely stirred and angry, and his dark brows, shading his bright little eyes, bent into a frown. But somehow, after that first booming and accusative "young ladies," the chaplain seemed exhausted, as though the anger pent up in him had taken something from his none too profuse vitality. He was an old man. Now he essayed a wintry smile and added, as he gently waved them out with motions of his thin white hands:

"That is to say, you shouldn't have come here. You--er--have no need to be--er--frightened at this first infraction of the rules, but--er--another time you may be--er--campused for such action."

Then, having seen that the three were on their way out, Dr. Bordmust turned to the window, evidently to buy some stamps for the letters he held in one hand. He murmured to himself in those queer, quavering, meaningless tones:

"Too bad; too bad! I can't always be watching! Dear me!"

Wonderingly, Arden and her chums looked at the shrinking figure in black as they passed out of the door. But Dr. Bordmust gave them no further attention.