The mystery of the missing eyebrows
on the game which was now a winning one for him. Another tug, this time
a long tearing one, and something slipped, the knot the old man had
tied so firmly that morning. Renfro jerked at his hands and Tammy was
onto the bandage again.
And then it came loose. Renfro could have hurrahed from joy. Instead
he rolled over quickly to his pile of articles taken from his pocket,
found his knife, cut the thongs around his legs and stood tottering,
his legs stiff and aching. With a bound he was to the door working
at the lock. Indeed it was old and rusty. It gave way before his
onslaught and he stood free to go out into the open.
He flew back to the other door. “Helen,” he called softly, “I’m free
and you’ll be in a little while. If they come back before help comes,
be sick or do anything you can to keep them interested and away from my
door.”
Outside he stood in a new world which he soon identified as being
the thicket below the hill on the Hall farm. He found the lower road
and fairly flew to the edge of town, boarded a waiting car and rode
directly to the office of the Globe.
The big building looked like paradise to him. Straight through the
outer door, into the hall and back to the door marked “Route Manager,
Morrison,” he hurried. And inside it he fell into Morrison’s arms.
“That wasn’t a complaint, Morrison!” he burst out. “That was a fake
call! I went--”
“You--Hooch, you--you!” Morrison gasped like a drowning man, seized
Renfro, and half carried, half dragged him into Circulation Manager
Bruce’s office. The office was deserted except for that worthy and his
stenographer. He looked up at the confusion, jumped to his feet and
caught Renfro in the curve of his arm.
And to him Renfro began his story once more. “That wasn’t a complaint
call last night at all. It was just a fake. I was kidnaped. It was a
cave. And I found Helen Wier and--and--”
“You found Helen Wier?” Bruce shouted his question. Then before it
could be answered he had dragged him to the door. And there he decided
that the boy was not going fast enough. Up into his arms he lifted him.
Through the hall to the elevator cage he went, Morrison following.
“Car up!” Bruce was still shouting. “Can’t wait.”
Up the steps he ran. At the landing he ducked but Renfro’s head struck
the ceiling a hard whack, in spite of that, Renfro merely winced. At
the top of the steps Bruce made a sharp turn, rushed against the door
marked “Managing Editor” and threw it open with the weight of his big
body.
Morrison, puffing and trying to obtain answers to a whole chain of
questions he was hurling at Renfro, still perched perilously near the
top of Bruce’s shoulders, followed. He saw Bruce drop Renfro, grab a
little man who was having a discussion with Mr. North, The Globe’s
managing editor, pull him to the door, shove him through and then lock
the door after him.
“What in the--” North jumped to the floor, scattering proof sheets in
all directions. “What--”
The little man who had been forcibly ejected was beating and pounding
his protest on the panels of the big oak door but Bruce didn’t mind
him. “North,” he jerked North so that he faced Renfro, “This is Renfro
Horn.”
“And,” Morrison would not be ignored, “he has found Helen Wier.”
“When--where--how?” North was all editor.
“In a cave! I was there too. They kidnaped me last night,” Renfro burst
out. “She’s there now! Locked in! Bart and Maggie are up town. Let’s
get her before they come back.”
North pushed Morrison toward the door. “Get a taxi,” he ordered, “and
keep your mouth shut.”
He jerked open his desk, took his revolver from a drawer and thrust it
in his pocket. Five steps carried him to the locked door. He jerked it
open, breaking the lock. “Warriner,” he called. “We’re making a trip.
Big story! Extra edition! Get the presses ready for it. I’ll take Figg
with me.”
The man sitting at the table on the front of which was printed “City
Editor,” jumped to his feet. “Figg!” he bawled, “Figg!”
While they waited North demanded Warriner’s revolver and handed it to
Bruce. “You’re going too,” he said.
Figg came out of the cubby hole which bore the name Sporting
Editor--big, burly and aggressive in every step and gesture. No one
ever mentioned a gun to Figg. With the first word of “Big story,” he
had his gun out of his desk and in his pocket.
No one mentioned elevator this time. They made their descent down the
steps. Through the hall, a curious crowd stopping at sight of the odd
procession, they rushed. Morrison outside had the taxi door open and
into it they sprang, Bruce, North, Figg and Renfro. Morrison thinking
that he was to be left behind clung to the running board.
Renfro’s directions were shouted to the driver by North. Out of town,
breaking all traffic rules they went. A sharp turn by the tile factory
took them down the river road. Beyond it they rode a few yards, made
another turn, jolted up a deserted lane and came to an abrupt stop.
Around the shrubbery to the passage to the open door Renfro led them.
Inside the room Lang Tammy sat in a dejected attitude. Bristling every
hair he jumped at the intruders, saw Renfro and sprang on him with a
joyful bark.
But a girlish voice sounded above all the confusion. “Renfro, have them
hurry! It’s time for Maggie and Bart any minute.”
CHAPTER XXV.
THE GLOBE GETS A SCOOP.
Not until the taxicab turned into Elm Street back in town once more did
Helen Wier speak. She simply crouched in one corner of the taxicab and
stared out of the window. There she clutched at Figg’s arm. “That’s my
street,” she pointed at the one they left. “I have to see my mother
right away. I do,” she was emphatic, jerking his arm savagely, “I do!”
Then North became the cunning editor. “Not immediately,” he spoke in
conciliatory tones. “The shock would kill her. She has to be prepared.
We’ll attend to that at the Globe office.”
Renfro stared at Helen. How white and thin she looked! Her voice had
sounded hollow back there in the cave. Now as he afterwards described
it, she looked hollow, too. Leaning against his knees, Lang Tammy was
staring up at him with happy eyes. From time to time he kissed his hand
and gave Figg hostile growls.
Everything at the Globe was waiting for them. Outside a long line of
newsboys was waiting for the extras to be shot through the presses and
out to them on the street in a few minutes.
A crowd of girls from the business office stared through the windows
at the motley procession. The elevator man, watching outside his cage,
rushed in again and seized the lever. They shot up to the editorial
floor and rushed into the room where Warriner had his star writer at
his machine and his copy boys ready.
He looked at the crowd. “Shoot!” he commanded. “The girl first.”
And Helen Wier encouraged by North told her story in weary, strained
gasps. “I was in the library alone reading that night. I heard a noise.
There was somebody in the room. He had a gun pointed at me. He said he
would kill me if I screamed. He said there was some one in the other
room who would kill my mother if I didn’t come with him. His forehead
was bleeding. Something was wrong with his eyebrows--”
“Oh, yes,” Renfro jumped forward and jerking off his cap, turned down
the band. “His eyebrows were missing. They froze to the window pane.
He jerked them off and I found them on the pane. That’s how I found
Helen.”
North jerked him over to one side. “Your time next,” he commanded, and
nodded at Helen.
“Outside the house, he made me walk into the shrubbery. I was afraid
they would shoot my mother.” Helen’s tone was full of worry. “They
didn’t--did they?”
“No, no, she’s safe,” North clipped out his words.
The typewriter stopped its clicking. The feature writer rolled out one
sheet, Warriner grabbed it and another one was in its place.
“Shoot!”
Warriner gave the command again. “They gagged me then. A woman helped
him. She was Maggie. And they put me in a wagon. We rode miles. It was
cold and I didn’t have any coat--just an old rug they put around me. We
went through some buildings. And then down into the cave.”
It was Renfro whom North asked to give a description of Bart and
Maggie. He told his own story first--of the first night he had seen
the stranger peering into the Wier home, the second experience, his
attempt to telephone the Judge, of the line out of order, and then of
his finding the eyebrows frozen to the window pane.
The reporters moved closer to him while he talked. North interrupted
to ask questions. Warriner gave orders to copy boys, to the writers at
their machines, through a telephone to the press room and through it
all managed to hear every word of the story.
When Renfro at the close of his story again took off his cap,
pulled down the band and exhibited his specimens--The Missing
Eyebrows--carefully opened one of the square packages and took one
look, held it to North, and then handed it to one of the men. “Have
them photographed and a plate made,” he ordered.
And then he was down to the press room. North once more took
command--got more detailed stories from both Renfro and Helen, had
half a dozen reporters writing at once--descriptions of the cave, of
the rooms there, of Maggie and Bart and then one of Lang Tammy who was
still by Renfro’s side, his nose firmly clutched by one of the boy’s
muscular hands.
There was a shout below. Morrison and Bruce both jumped. “The paper’s
off the press,” the reporter nearest the chute yelled and North turned
to Helen, “Get ready to go home,” he said kindly, “I’ll telephone your
mother.”
“Telephone mine,” for the first time Renfro remembered his parents. “I
can’t get home and back before it’s time to carry my route.”
North motioned to the cub reporter. “Tell Bruce to send some other boy
out on Horn’s route tonight,” he commanded. “I want to take Horn home
myself.”
The trip down the stairway was made more slowly this time. North
noticed that Renfro was limping. He reached out his hand and steadied
him. “Best story of the year,” he muttered. “And we scooped them all.”
And Renfro understood him. But he didn’t say anything except to nod at
Lang Tammy. “I’m going to keep him,” he said, “I wonder if they’ve got
Bart and Maggie yet.”
“Figg will tend to them,” North smiled. “I sent him back with some of
the boys to get the story for the next edition.”
At the door his editor’s mantle seemed to drop. He looked first at
Helen and then at Renfro. He had several children out at his home.
“You’re great kids!” he grinned.
But there was a volume in that grin and both of them realized it. In
the taxi he was quite as laconic. “Your folks will about die! I talked
to both of your dads.”
Yet it was Helen’s mother who was waiting on the porch when the taxi
drove up in front of the Wier home. She rushed down the walk as Helen
rushed toward the house. Half way they met.
North turned his head. But he heard Mrs. Wier talking. She had taken
Renfro’s hand. The tears from her eyes dropped on it but she talked
bravely, and in a collected manner, giving him the greatest eulogy he
had ever received.
The judge too talked to the boy, as one man does to another. Helen left
her mother’s arm to come over to him. “But you won’t be hard on Bart,
daddy,” she begged. “You--see--now--we know--how--cruel--it--is to be
away from the people we love.”
Judge Wier nodded his head. He looked up at North. “I will attend to
them,” he smiled, “but still I feel it would not be best to quote me on
that. Just say that I shall not be too harsh on these people.”
Mrs. Wier nodded. Then she looked at Renfro. “His mother is waiting,”
she said.
And North took Renfro back to the taxi in which Lang Tammy was waiting.
As they crossed town, Renfro nodded toward the street. “This is my