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“I mean to find the missing bracelet, Stumpy!” was the emphatic answer. “That’s what we’ve got to do! It’s up to us! We didn’t take it, but perhaps that man did. If so we’ve got to find him as well as the bracelet. Come on, now, not so much talking. Let’s get busy, but, remember, if we don’t find the bracelet now, we must keep mum about the man, if we don’t want to be laughed at, as well as accused.”
There was a momentary discussion, but Bart’s chums agreed with him, as they usually did. They hastened on to Fenn’s house, and at once began a frantic search about the yard and in the shack where the lad kept his reptiles.
But there was no sign of the bracelet. Fenn lifted out every one of his turtles, toads and kindred specimens, and the place was gone over carefully. So was the route the boys had taken to and from the school. But it was a fruitless search.
“Fellows, let’s look for the mud turtle, anyhow,” suggested Ned. “Maybe we can find that for Professor Long, if we can’t get the bracelet.”
They looked in every likely and unlikely place for the missing turtle, but it had vanished as completely as had the bracelet. They were loath to give up the hunt, but concluded that there was nothing else to do. As they were about to return to the school much cast down and dispirited, to report no progress, Fenn exclaimed:
“Fellows, I have just thought of something.”
“Out with it,” ordered Bart.
“I believe the mud turtle has the bracelet!” exclaimed the stout youth.
“The mud turtle? Are you crazy?” demanded Ned.
“No, I’m not,” answered Fenn, with a show of indignation. “Listen! The missing mud turtle was a large one, and a species that has a very long neck. Now it would be the easiest thing in the world for the turtle to get the diamond bracelet over his neck, and walk off with it. One of mine once got his neck in an iron ring, and I didn’t know it for quite a while, as the folds of skin on the reptile’s neck hid the iron. I’ll wager that’s what’s happened in this case. We’ll find that the turtle is wearing Mrs. Long’s diamond bracelet on its neck!”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Bart.
“Well, there might be something in it,” admitted Ned. “Let’s have another look for that turtle, fellows.”
“We’ll look for the turtle all right,” agreed Bart, “but as for expecting to find Mrs. Long’s diamond bracelet on its neck – why you fellows are crazy to think of such a thing. You might as well expect to find hickory nuts growing on a peach tree. You’re loony! Off your trolley! You’ve got bats in your belfry, as the poet says,” and, when Frank and Ned thought it over, they were inclined to agree with their chum.
CHAPTER IV
IN THE SHOOTING GALLERY
Fenn’s suggestion gave a new impetus to the hunt, which was renewed with energy. Mrs. Masterson, who heard from the boys what had taken place, joined them in searching through the long grass of the back yard for the turtle. But it was not to be found.
“It’s very likely a good distance from here,” said Fenn, who was well versed in the habits of the reptiles. “They go slow, but they keep it up, and this one has had two days’ start. We’ll have to hunt farther off than this for him.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do!” declared Frank. “We’ll organize ourselves into a hunting party for a diamond-studded turtle,” and he laughed.
“It’s no laughing matter, though,” declared Bart. “If we go back and tell that kind of a yarn we’ll look ridiculous.”
“Then why tell it?” inquired Ned. “Let’s keep mum about that part of it, too. We’ll simply report to Professor Long that we can’t find his wife’s bracelet, or the turtle, either, but every spare minute we get we’ll be on the lookout for the reptile.”
“And the man, too,” added Fenn. “We want to find out who he was.”
“Of course,” agreed Bart. “We should have given the alarm when we saw him going in the school, but it’s too late now. Come on back, and take our medicine.”
It was not a very happy quartette of lads who made their way back to the Darewell High School. They went directly to Professor Long, who turned his physics class over to another instructor, and conducted the chums to his private room.
“Well?” he asked suggestively.
“We couldn’t find the bracelet or the turtle,” said Bart.
“I was afraid not,” was Mr. Long’s quiet comment. “I have notified the detectives.”
“You – you’re not going to have us arrested – are you?” blurted out Frank. “My father – ”
“Have no fears on that score,” answered the professor. “I have not the slightest grounds for thinking you boys stole the bracelet,” and, perhaps unconsciously, he emphasized the word.
“We never took the bracelet!” declared Ned stoutly.
“Of that I am not so sure,” was the retort. “I do not accuse you – that would not be right. You have accused yourselves, after a fashion. What I think is this: I believe the bracelet was accidentally taken out of the cabinet in the confusion, and, perhaps, dropped on the way to Fenn’s house. That is why I am sending for the police. Some person may have picked it up, and may be keeping it. I believe that is all now. You may return to your classes,” and though he tried to speak calmly, there was a note of disappointment, not to say displeasure, in Mr. Long’s voice.
Naturally the story was all over the school by the noon recess, and Bart and his chums were besieged with questions. They had held a brief consultation, and resolved to make only certain statements. These were to the effect that though they had played the trick with the reptiles, they knew nothing of the bracelet, and their search for that and the turtle, had been without avail.
Needless to say, that few, if any, of the students had the least suspicion against the chums. Nor, for that matter, did any of the faculty entertain any unjust thoughts. It was regarded more as an accident. Mr. Long being the party who suffered, could, perhaps, be excused for thinking that perhaps the boys had taken the bracelet in a joke, and were now afraid to return it. In fact he hardly knew what to believe. In due time the police came to the school, made an investigation and questioned our heroes. They went away as wise as they came. But, as several days passed, and there was no trace of the bracelet, there was an undefined air of suspicion directed against the chums. It was not in so many words, but nevertheless they felt it.
Two weeks passed, during which, in all of their spare time, Bart and his chums made a search for the turtle in such places as the reptiles were wont to be found. But, of course, they discovered none wearing a diamond bracelet on its neck, though they did find a few specimens which Fenn added to his collection. It was not the time of year when turtles abounded.
Several football games were played, and there seemed to be no ill spirit manifested against the four lads, until one Saturday about three weeks after the disappearance of the diamond ornament. Then, during a hotly-contested game with the Fernwood High School, one of the opposing players remarked to Bart, after a hard scrimmage:
“We’re not used to playing against diamond robbers, and maybe that’s why we can’t break through your line.”
Bart’s answer was a blow that knocked the sneering lad down, and resulted in Bart being ruled out of the game. From then on the Darewell eleven seemed to go to pieces, and they lost the game.
There were many sore hearts among the students that night, and accusing glances were cast at Bart. His chums felt his position deeply.
“I know it was a hasty thing to do,” said Bart, contritely, “but I couldn’t help it.”
From then on there seemed to be a spirit manifested against the four chums, and, naturally, they resented it. The others would not desert Bart, and when he refused to apologize to the lad he had struck, and was permanently ruled off the eleven, Ned, Frank and Fenn resigned. They resisted the pleading of the manager to remain, so that the school eleven would not be crippled.
“It’s the school’s place to stick by us, as much as it is ours to stick by the eleven,” declared Frank. “The fellows are beginning to think we took that bracelet. We’ll show them that we didn’t, and, in the meanwhile, it’s better that we don’t take part in any games.”
His chums agreed with him, and for a time it seemed as if they would be sent to Coventry. But a calmer spirit prevailed, and when some of the school societies took up the matter it was agreed that the four had a right to do as they pleased, and that the lad who had made the offensive remark was in the wrong; and so matters quieted down.
But the football season ended anything but brilliantly for Darewell, and the four chums felt this bitterly in their hearts, though they could do no differently than they had done.
“I should think you boys would hire a detective on your own account,” said Alice Keene to her brother, one November evening, when the four chums were at Bart’s house. “You could get one easily, and perhaps he could locate the bracelet for you.”
“We’ll do it ourselves,” remarked Bart firmly.
“If we could only find the turtle we’d have it, I’m sure,” declared Fenn, who had not lost faith in his odd theory.
“We’ve looked in every likely place where turtles are around here,” said Frank.
“Yes; and now we ought to go farther off,” came from Ned. “I say fellows, what’s the matter with going on a little hunting expedition soon? The weather is just right, we all have guns, and I think the trip would do us good.”
“Why not make it a big hunting expedition while we’re at it?” suggested Frank.
“A big one? What do you mean?” asked Bart.
“Why, I mean go camping, as we did not long ago. We don’t mind the cold, or ice and snow. We could make a winter camp, around the Christmas holidays, and have lots of sport.”
“And a Christmas tree in the woods!” cried Alice. “That would be lovely! Jennie Smith and I would come out and see you – if it wasn’t too far.”
“Yes, Jennie’d recite poetry, and you’d insist on making us drink hot ginger tea, so as not to catch cold,” observed Bart.
Alice looked a little hurt, until Ned added:
“Well, I’m sure ginger tea would be all right in a snow storm, such as we had the last time we camped in the winter.”
“Of course,” agreed Alice, gratefully.
“It would be a good thing to get away from school and the town of Darewell for a while, at least,” was Bart’s opinion. “People are beginning to think we really stole that bracelet.”
“Oh, Bart!” remonstrated Alice, reproachfully.
“Well, it’s the truth,” he went on doggedly. “I’d as soon have ’em say it as look it. I’d like to get away for that reason, and, of course, it would be sport to have a winter camp again.”
“Then let’s do it,” proposed Ned. “At the same time we can look for mud turtles.”
“You won’t see many, unless there’s a thaw,” was Fenn’s opinion. “But you can count on me going.”
“And me,” added Frank and Ned.
“Hasn’t anything been learned of the missing bracelet yet?” asked Mrs. Keene, coming into the room, in time to hear some of the conversation.
“No,” answered her son, “and it’s my opinion that it never will be found, until – ” He paused in some confusion.
“Until when?” asked his mother.
“Until we locate it,” finished Bart. “Well, fellows, let’s talk of a winter camp. Maybe we can manage it around the holidays. We don’t get much of a vacation, but I guess we could afford to take an extra week.”
“Is your gun in shape again, since you broke it?” asked Ned.
“Sure. I fixed that spring,” replied Bart. “I’ll show you. Come on up to my den. I’m not allowed to have firearms in the dining-room,” and he led the way, his chums following. From then on, until the three left, the talk was a conglomeration of powder, shot, shells, guns, game and camp-life.
The weeks passed. Little mention was made of the bracelet now, but Mr. Long showed by his manner that he had not forgotten the loss of it. He was not exactly distrustful of the boys, but his bearing was, to say the least, a bit suspicious.
One evening, following an examination in school, Bart remarked to his chums, as they gathered at his house:
“Come on down to the shooting gallery. They’ve got some new guns there, and I want to try them. It’s good practice if we’re going camping. Besides, I’m full of Latin verbs and Greek roots, and I want to clear my mind.”
“You don’t need any practice,” remarked Ned. “You can beat us all to pieces shooting.”
“I have to keep in practice, though,” asserted Bart, who, to give him credit, was quite expert with the rifle.
A little later the four were in the gallery, trying their skill with the new rifles which the proprietor had purchased.
“Here’s one that ought to suit you, Bart,” remarked the man in charge, who was well known to the boys. “It’s well balanced. Try that small target.”
“No, I want something moving, Clayton,” replied Bart. “Start off the birds and beasts.”
These were small images of birds and squirrels that moved around on a sort of endless chain arrangement. Clayton, the man in charge of the gallery, set the machinery in motion, and the painted effigies began to go around. Bart raised the rifle – a repeater – to his shoulder, took quick aim, and fired. A bird was knocked over, then a squirrel went down, and, in rapid succession he repeated this until he had fifteen hits to his credit, out of a possible sixteen.
“Fine!” cried Ned, enviously.
“I should have had ’em all,” announced Bart with a shake of his head. “Here, some of you fellows try.”
They did, but could not do nearly as good as had Bart. Then Bart contented himself with making bullseyes at a stationary target, though Frank and Ned made another effort to equal Bart’s record with the moving objects. Frank came the nearest with ten.
“Now I’ll try for sixteen out of sixteen,” announced Bart, as Clayton reloaded the weapon for him.
By this time a crowd had gathered in the gallery, which, being a new amusement resort in town, was quite an attraction. Bart paid no attention to the spectators grouped back of him, but, with the coolness a veteran shot might envy, he began.
Report after report rang out, and at each burst of flame and puff of smoke a bird or a squirrel toppled over, until fifteen straight had gone down.
“That’s the stuff!” cried one man, enthusiastically, as Bart was about to make his last shot.
“Hush!” cautioned Clayton, but Bart did not mind. He fired his last bullet, and knocked over his sixteenth target, only he did not hit it as squarely as he had the others.
“That’s very good shooting, my lad,” remarked a man who had stood near Bart’s elbow. “Very good indeed. Would you like to try your skill with me; on a little wager?”
“I never bet,” answered Bart, coolly, as he tried to get a glimpse of the man’s face. But the latter wore a slouch hat, which was pulled well down over his eyes, shading his features.
“Oh, I don’t mean a bet,” was the quick answer. “I only meant that the loser would pay the bill for cartridges,” and he laughed, not unpleasantly. As Bart had often done this with his chums, and other lads in town, he had no objection to it, and the arrangement was made.
“What shall it be, sixteen straight?” asked the stranger, as he carefully selected a gun.
“Double it if you like,” replied Bart, who was just warming up to his work.
“Ah, you’re game, I see,” was the laughing comment. “Well, I’m willing. Will you go first?”
“I’ll shoot sixteen shots, then you can do the same, then I’ll take sixteen more, and you can finish,” answered Bart, and this arrangement was made.
By this time word had gotten around that some remarkable shooting was going on in the gallery, and it was packed almost to the doors. Bart and the stranger had difficulty in getting room to aim properly.
Bart started off, and in rapid succession made sixteen straight targets of the moving objects. There was a cheer, and it was repeated when his rival duplicated the lad’s performance. Bart was not exactly annoyed, but he felt that his reputation was at stake. He was easily accounted the best shot in Darewell, but now it seemed likely that he would have to share the honors with this stranger. Bart felt himself wishing that the man would show his face, but the soft hat remained pulled down well over the fellow’s eyes.
Bart began on his second round, and all went well until the last shot. Then, in some unaccountable manner, he missed it clean. Still, his performance was a fine one.
The stranger said nothing as he took his place. Slowly and confidently he pulled the trigger, and worked the lever that ejected the discharged shell, and pumped a new bullet into place. For fourteen shots he never made a miss. Then, on the fifteenth of the second round he made a blank by a narrow margin. A start of annoyance betrayed itself. At best he could but tie Bart. Once more the gun sent out flame and smoke.
“Missed!” called out Clayton, quickly, as he looked at the target.
Bart had won. The stranger paused a moment, as if to make sure that he had lost, and then, throwing down on the counter the price for his shots and Bart’s, he turned to leave the place. Several stared at him, for it seemed as if he should have said something, or congratulated his rival, but he did not. He pushed his way through the press of men and boys, and reached the outer door.
Then, by some accident, a man brushed against him, and the stranger’s hat came off. Bart, who was looking at him, could not repress an exclamation of astonishment.
“What’s the matter?” asked Clayton.
“Nothing – nothing,” murmured Bart, quickly.
