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THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE

OR

CAMPING AND TRAMPING FOR FUN AND HEALTH

BY LAURA LEE HOPE

1913

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I A FLUTTERING PAPER

II THE TRAMPING CLUB

III JEALOUSIES

IV A TAUNT

V AMY'S MYSTERY

VI THE LEAKY BOAT

VII TO THE RESCUE

VIII CLOSING DAYS

IX OFF ON THE TOUR

X ON THE WRONG ROAD

XI THE BARKING DOG

XII AT AUNT SALLIE'S

XIII THE MISSING LUNCH

XIV THE BROKEN RAIL

XV "IT'S A BEAR!"

XVI THE DESERTED HOUSE

XVII IN CHARGE

XVIII RELIEVED

XIX A LITTLE LOST GIRL

XX THE BOY PEDDLER

XXI THE LETTER

XXII A PERILOUS LEAP

XXIII THE MAN'S STORY

XXIV BY TELEGRAPH

XXV BACK HOME

THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE

CHAPTER I

A FLUTTERING PAPER

Four girls were walking down an elm-shaded street. Four girls, walking two by two, their arms waist-encircling, their voices mingling in rapid talk, punctuated with rippling laughter—and, now and then, as their happy spirits fairly bubbled and overflowed, breaking into a few waltz steps to the melody of a dreamy song hummed by one of their number. The sun, shining through the trees, cast patches of golden light on the stone sidewalk, and, as the girls passed from sunshine to shadow, they made a bright, and sometimes a dimmer, picture on the street, whereon were other groups of maidens. For school was out.

"Betty Nelson, the idea is perfectly splendid!" exclaimed the tallest of the quartette; a stately, fair girl with wonderful braids of hair on which the sunshine seemed to like to linger.

"And it will be such a relief from the ordinary way of doing things," added the companion of the one who thus paid a compliment to her chum just in advance of her. "I detest monotony!"

"If only too many things don't happen to us!" This somewhat timid observation came from the quietest of the four—she who was walking with the one addressed as Betty.

"Why, Amy Stonington!" cried the girl who had first spoken, as she tossed her head to get a rebellious lock of hair out of her dark eyes. "The very idea! We want things to happen; don't we, Betty?" and she caught the arm of one who seemed to be the leader, and whirled her about to look into her face. "Answer me!" she commanded. "Don't we?"

Betty smiled slightly, revealing her white, even teeth. Then she said laughingly, and the laugh seemed to illuminate her countenance:

"I guess Grace meant certain kinds of happenings; didn't you, Grace?"

"Of course," and the rather willowy creature, whose style of dress artistically accentuated her figure, caught a pencil that was slipping from a book, and thrust it into the mass of light hair that was like a crown to her beauty.

"Oh, that's all right, then," and Amy, who had interposed the objection, looked relieved. She was a rather quiet girl, of the character called "sweet" by her intimates; and truly she had the disposition that merited the word.

"When can we start?" asked Grace Ford. Then, before an answer could be given, she added: "Don't let's go so fast. We aren't out to make a walking record to-day. Let's stop here in the shade a moment."

The four came to a halt beneath a great horsechestnut tree, that gave welcome relief from the sun, which, though it was only May, still had much of the advance hint of summer in it. There was a carriage block near the curb, and Grace "draped herself artistically about it," as Mollie Billette expressed it.

"If you're tired now, what will you be if we walk five or six miles a day?" asked Betty with a smile. "Or even more, perhaps."

"Oh, I can if I have to—but I don't have to now. Come, Betty, tell us when we are to start."

"Why, we can't decide now. Are you so anxious all of a sudden?" and Betty pulled down and straightened the blue middy blouse that had been rumpled by her energetic chums.

"Of course. I detest waiting—for trains or anything else. I'm just dying to go, and I've got the cutest little traveling case. It—"

"Has a special compartment for chocolates; hasn't it, Grace?" asked Mollie Billette, whose dark and flashing eyes, and black hair, with just a shade of steely-blue in it, betrayed the French blood in her veins.

"Oh, Grace couldn't get along without candy!" declared Betty, with a smile.

"Now that's mean!" exclaimed Grace, whose tall and slender figure, and face of peculiar, winsome beauty had gained her the not overdrawn characterization of "Gibson girl." "I don't see why Billy wants to always be saying such horrid things about me!"

"I didn't say anything mean!" snapped Mollie, whose pseudonym was more often "Billy" than anything else. "And I don't want you to say that I do!" Her eyes flashed, and gave a hint of the hidden fire of temper which was not always controlled. The other girls looked at her a bit apprehensively.

"If you don't like the things I say," she went on, "there are those who do. And what's more—"

"Billy," spoke Betty, softly. "I'm sure Grace didn't mean—"

"Oh, I know it!" exclaimed Mollie, contritely. "It was horrid of me to flare up that way. But sometimes I can't seem to help it. I beg your pardon, Grace. Eat as many chocolates as you like. I'll help you. Isn't that generous?"

She clasped her arms about the "Gibson-girl," and held her cheek close to the other's blushing one.

"Don't mind me!" she cried, impulsively. Mollie was often this way—in a little whirlwind of temper one moment, and sweetly sorry for it the next, albeit her little spasms of rage were never serious, and seldom lasted long.

"Forgiven," murmured Grace. "But I am really anxious to know when we can start our Camping and Tramping Club. I think the idea is perfectly splendid! How did you come to think of it, Betty?"

"I got the idea from a book—it isn't original by any means. But then I always have been fond of walking—out in the country especially. Only it isn't so much fun going alone. So it occurred to me that you girls would like to join. We can take a nice long tramp the first opportunity we get."

"Just us four?" asked Grace.

"No, not necessarily. We can have as many members as we like."

"I think four is a nice number," spoke Amy. She was rather shy, and not given to making new friends.

"We four—no more!" declaimed Mollie. "Suppose we do limit it to four, Betty?"

"Well, we can talk of that later. And I do so want to talk of it. I thought we'd never get out of school," and the four who had just been released from the Deepdale High School continued their stroll down the main street of the town, talking over the new plan that had been proposed that morning by Betty Nelson—the "Little Captain," as she was often called by her chums, for she always assumed the leadership in their fun and frolics.

"Will we just walk—walk all the while?" asked Grace. "I'm afraid I shan't be able to keep up to you girls in that case," and she swung about on the sidewalk in a few steps of a mazy waltz with Amy.

"Of course we won't walk all the while," explained Betty. "I haven't all the details arranged yet, but we can set a certain number of miles to cover each day. At night we'll stop somewhere and rest."

"That's good," sighed Grace, with a glance at her small and daintily shod feet.

"Oh, here comes your brother Will!" Betty called to her.

"And that horrid Percy Falconer is with him," went on Mollie. "I—I can't bear him!"

"He's seen Betty—that's why he's hurrying so," spoke Grace. "Probably he's bought a new cane he wants to show her."

"Stop it!" commanded Betty, with a blush. "You know I can't bear him any more than you girls can."

"You can't make Percy believe that—my word!" and Mollie imitated the mannerism perfectly. For young Falconer, be it known, was partial to good clothes of a rather flashy type, and much given to showing them off. He had very little good sense—in fact, what little he had, some of his enemies used to say, he displayed when he showed a preference for pretty Betty Nelson. But she would have none of his company.

"I don't see why Will wants to bring him along," remarked his sister
Grace, in a petulant tone. "He knows we don't like him."

"Perhaps Will couldn't help it," suggested Amy.

"That's nice of you to say, Amy," commented Grace. "I'll tell Will—some time when I get a chance."

"Don't you dare! If you do I'll never speak to you again!" and the pink surged to a deeper red in Amy's cheeks.

"Betty'd much rather have Will pick up Allen Washburn," remarked Mollie, in decisive tones. "Wouldn't you, Bet?"

"Oh, please don't say such things!" besought Betty. "I don't see why you always—"

"Hush, they'll hear you," cautioned Grace. "Let's pretend we don't see them. Hurry up! I've got a quarter, and I'll treat you to sodas. Come on in Pierson's drug store."

"Too late!" moaned Billy, in mock-tragic tones. "They are waving to us—we can't be too rude."

Will Ford, the brother of Grace, accompanied by a rather overdressed youth slightly older, had now come up to the group of girls.

"Good afternoon!" greeted Percy Falconer, raising his hat with an elaborate gesture. "Charming weather we're having—my word!" Percy rather inclined to English mannerisms—or what he thought were such.

"Hello, Sis—and the rest of you!" said Will, with a more hearty, and certainly a more natural, air. "What's doing?"

"Grace was going to treat," said Amy slowly; "she is so good about that—only—"

"Oh, girls! This is on me!" exclaimed Percy. "I shall be delighted. May I have the honor?" and again he took off his hat with an elaborate bow.

"Shall we?" Betty telegraphed this question to her friends with her eyes.

"Take the goods the gods provide," murmured Grace. "I can save my quarter for another time."

With a rather resigned air Betty followed her chums into the drug store and presently all were lined up before the marble-topped counter.

"The soda's delicious to-day," murmured Grace. "I've a good notion to get some fudge," and she began toying with a little silver purse.

"Save your money for our club," advised Mollie. "Did you hear of our expedition?" she asked Will.

"No, what's that? Are you going to try for the East or West pole?—seeing that the North and South ones have been captured," and he laughed, thereby getting some of the soda down his "wrong throat."

"Serves you right," murmured his sister, as he coughed.

"Betty is going to form a Camping and Tramping Club," went on Amy.

"Fine!" exclaimed Percy. "Are you going to take gentlemen? If so, consider my application."

"Oh, we really mean to walk!" exclaimed Grace, with a glance at the too-small patent leather shoes the overdressed youth thrust out ostentatiously. If he understood the allusion he gave no sign of so doing.

"What's the game, Sis?" asked Will, quizzically.

"Why, it isn't anything very elaborate," explained Betty, as she finished her soda. "It occurred to me that, as school closes exceptionally early this year, some of us girls could go for a two weeks' tramping tour before our regular summer vacation."

"And we're all in love with the idea," declared Amy.

"Twenty miles a day is our limit," added Mollie, smiling behind the youth's back.

"Twenty miles!" faltered Percy. "You never can do it—never!"

"Oh, yes, we can," said Betty, assuredly.

"Now do you still wish to join?" asked Grace, pointedly, glancing at
Percy.

"You never can do twenty miles!" affirmed Percy. "Let's have some more soda!" he added quickly, to change the subject.

To the credit of Grace Ford, who was really very fond of sweets, be it said that she refused, and that with the mocking eyes of all the girls fastened on her.

"I've had enough," spoke Betty. "You walk with me," she whispered to
Amy. "I don't want Percy to bore me. Stay near me, do!"

"I will," promised Amy.

Balked of his design to stroll beside Betty, Percy was forced to be content with Mollie, and she, with malice aforethought, talked at him in a way he could not understand, but which, the other girls overhearing, sent them into silent spasms of laughter.

"Don't you find it troublesome to carry a cane all the while?" Mollie asked him, sweetly ignorant.

"Oh, I don't have to carry it," he said quickly.

"Don't you? I thought on account of not being able to walk—"

"Why, Mollie—I can walk all right."

"Oh, I misunderstood you. You said twenty miles was too much."

"I meant for girls."

"Oh, then you carry the cane for dogs."

"No, indeed. I'm not afraid of dogs."

"He doesn't know she's 'spoofing' him—I believe that is the proper
English word; isn't it?" whispered Grace, who was with her brother.

"Correct, Sis."

"Whatever did you want to bring him along for?"

"Couldn't help it. He fastened to me when I came out of school, and I couldn't shake him off. Is Bet mad?"

"You know she doesn't like him."

"Well, tell her it wasn't my fault, when you get the chance; will you? I don't want to get on her bad books."

"I'll tell her."

"I say, Sis, lend me a quarter; won't you? I'm broke."

"You had the same allowance that I did."

"I know, but I need just that much to get a catching glove. Go on—be a sport."

"I—"

"Don't say you haven't got it. Weren't you going to treat the crowd when
I brought Percy along and let you sting him?"

"Such horrid slang!"

"Go on, be a sport! Lend me the quarter!"

Grace produced it from her purse. There were several other coins in it.

"Say, you're loaded with wealth! Where'd you get it?"

"I just didn't spend it."

"Go on! And you with a two-pound box of chocolates—or what's left of 'em—under your bed!"

"Will Ford, did you dare go snooping in my room?" and she grasped his arm, apprehensively.

"I couldn't help seeing 'em. I was looking for my ball, that rolled in there."

"Did you—did you eat them all?" she faltered.

"Only a few. There's Allen Washburn, I want to speak to him," and Will ran off uncermoniously, to join a tall, good-looking young man who was on the other side of the street. The latter, seeing the girls, raised his hat, but his glance rested longest on Betty, who, it might have been observed, blushed slightly under the scrutiny.

"Allen always has a book with him," murmured Amy.

"Yes, he's studying law, you know," spoke Betty.

Some other girls joined the four then, and Percy, seeing that he was rather ignored, had the sense to leave, making an elaborate departure, after what he considered the correct English style.

"Thank goodness!" murmured Mollie. "Puppies are all right, but I like better-trained ones!" and her dark eyes flashed.

"Billy!" exclaimed Grace, reproachfully, shaking an accusing finger at her friend.

"Well, you don't like him any more than—than Betty does!"

"Hush!" warned the Little Captain. "He'll hear you."

"I don't care if he does," was the retort.

Gradually the main part of the town had been left as the girls walked slowly on. Houses were fewer now, and the trees not so large, nor well cared for. The sun seemed to increase in warmth as it approached the west, wherein was a bank of fluffy clouds that soon would be turned into masses of golden, purple and olive.

"Oh, girls, I simply must rest again!" exclaimed Grace, as, with a wry face, she made for a smooth stump, which was all that was left of a great oak that had recently been cut down, as it had died, and was in danger of falling.

"What! Again?" cried Mollie. "Say, Grace, my dear, you never will be able to keep up with us on the tramp, if you give out so easily now. What is the matter?"

"Matter? Look at her shoes!" cried Amy. "Such heels!"

"They're not so awful high!" and Grace sought to defend her footwear from the three pairs of accusing eyes.

"It's a very pretty boot," remarked Betty. "But hardly practical, my dear."

"I suppose not," sighed Grace. "But I just simply could not resist the temptation to take them when the sales-girl tried them on me. I saw them in Robertson's window, and they were such a bargain—a sample shoe she said—that's why they're so narrow."

"You can wear a narrow size," spoke Mollie with a sigh. "I wish I could."

"Oh, I think your shoes are a lovely shape," spoke Grace. "I wish I had your high instep."

"Move over," begged Amy. "There's room for two on that stump, Grace."

Grace obligingly moved, and her friend sat beside her, idly swinging a couple of books by a long strap. Betty and Mollie supported themselves by draping their arms about each other's waists.

"'Patience on a monument,'" quoted Betty, looking at the two on the stump.

"Which one?" asked Mollie with a laugh.

"We'll divide the virtues between us; won't we, Amy?" exclaimed Grace, putting her head on the other's shoulder. "Now I'm—"

"The sleeping beauty!" supplied Betty, "Do come on!" and after a little argument, in which Grace insisted that she had not had more than a minute's respite, the four started off again. They were approaching the outskirts of the town in the vicinity of which they all lived.

"If this weather keeps up we can't start off on our tramping and camping trip any too soon," remarked Grace.

"When can we arrange for it?" asked Amy. "I think it is the nicest idea I ever heard of."

"You can all come over to my house to-night," suggested Betty. "We can make some plans then, perhaps."

"Let's, then!" cried impulsive Mollie. "But do you really intend to do any camping, Betty?"

"Yes, if we can. Of course not for any length of time—say a night or two. There are one or two places where camps are open the year around, and all you have to do is to go there and board, just as you would at a hotel."

"Only it must be much nicer," said Amy.

"It is—lots."

They had reached a place where the highway ran under a railroad line, that crossed on a high bridge. As the girls came under the structure a fluttering bit of paper on the ground caught the eyes of Betty. Rather idly she picked it up, and the next moment she uttered a cry that brought her chums to her side in some alarm.

"Look!" she exclaimed. "A five hundred dollar bill is pinned to this paper! A five hundred dollar bill, girls!"

CHAPTER II

THE TRAMPING CLUB

With staring eyes, and with breaths that were labored, the three chums gathered about Betty. She held the bill, and the paper pinned to it, stretched tightly between her slim fingers.

"Is it—is it real?" gasped Grace.

"Of course it's real," declared Amy.

"How do you know?" asked Mollie. "I confess I never saw a five hundred dollar bill all at once before."

"Did you see it in pieces?" asked Grace. "What a lot of money!"

"How many pounds of chocolates would it buy?" asked Amy, with a laugh.

"Don't you dare say chocolate to me!" commanded Grace.

"It is real," went on Betty, who had not spoken since picking up the money. "There's no doubt of that."

"If findings were keepings you'd be well off," said Mollie. "How lucky you are!" and sighed.

"Of course I can't keep it," decided Betty. "But I wonder who could have dropped it?" and she looked up at the railroad bridge over their heads, as if she might see some one standing there waiting for the return of the bill.

"What is that paper pinned to it?" asked Grace, as she took hold of it while Betty held the bank note by the two ends.

"That's so—I forgot to look at that," said the finder. She turned it over. There was some writing on it. It said:

" This is my last five hundred dollar bill—all that is left of my fortune. This is to remind me that if I don't make good use of this I don't deserve any more luck. It is make or break with me now! Which will it be?"

The girls were silent for a moment or two after reading this strange message that had come to them in such a queer manner. Then Betty said:

"Girls, what do you make of it?"

"It's a joke!" declared Grace.

"It sounds far from being a joke," spoke Betty, seriously. "Girls, there may be a grim tragedy here."

"How romantic!" sighed Mollie. "What shall we do with the money?"

"We must take it home and consult our folks about it," decided Betty. "I'll ask papa—and you might refer the question to yours, Amy. Being a broker, he's quite likely to know about such things, and can tell us what to do. This is quite a lot of money to lose, I wonder how we can find the owner?"

"Advertise?"

"Maybe there'll be a notice in the post office."

"It can't have been here very long. Perhaps we'll meet whoever it belongs to, coming back to look for it," spoke Grace.

Thus came some opinions, and while various others were rapidly formed and expressed, and as the girls are speculating on how the bill, and the attached paper, came to lie so openly on the highway, I hope I may be permitted to insert here a little descriptive matter that will, perhaps, give the reader a clearer understanding of the characters of this story.

And as Betty Nelson had, by right of more than one informal conquest, reached the position of leader, I can do no better than begin with her.

Betty was about sixteen years old. She was not exactly what one would call "pretty"—that is, at first glance. More likely she would have been spoken of as "good-looking." At least by the boys. And certainly Betty was good to look upon. Her face showed her character. There was a calm thoughtfulness about it that suggested strength of mind, and yet it was not the type of face called "strong." It was purely girlish, and it reflected her bright and vivacious manner perfectly. How her features lighted up when she spoke—or listened—her friends well knew. Her eyes seemed always to be dancing with fun, yet they could look calmly at trouble, too.

And when Betty Nelson looked at trouble that same trouble seemed to melt away—to flee as though it had no right to exist. And this not only as regarded her own troubles, but those of her friends as well. Intensely practical was Betty, yet there was a shade of romance in her character that few suspected. Perhaps the other girls had so often taken their little troubles to Betty, listening to her advice and sympathy, that they forgot she might have some of her own. But, under it all, Betty had a romantic nature, that needed but a certain influence to bring it out.

Full of life and vigor she was always ready to assume the leadership in whatever of fun or work was at hand. Perhaps that is why she was often called "The Little Captain," and certainly she deserved the name. Her father, Charles Nelson, was a wealthy carpet manufacturer, his factory being just outside of Deepdale, and her mother, Rose, was one of the society leaders of the town, though there was no elaborate social system.

A regular "Gibson girl," was Grace Ford, not only in form but in face. There was that well-rounded chin, and the neck on which was poised a head with a wonderful wealth of light hair. The other girls rather envied Grace her hair—especially Mollie, who was a decided brunette. And, as I have said, Grace dressed to advantage. There had been a time when she bemoaned the fact that she was tall—"regular bean-pole" her brother had taunted her with being—and Grace—well, she had slapped him. But this was some years ago. But now, with the newer styles that seem to forbid the existence of hips, and with skirts that so circumscribe the steps that fast walking is impossible, Grace fitted in perfectly. She was artistically tall and slender, which fact none knew better than she herself.

But Grace was not vain. She did pose at times, but it was done naturally and without undue thought. She just could not help it.

Her brother Will made no end of fun about her—even at this date, but Grace had sufficient composure to ignore him now, and only smiled sweetly, remarking:

"You only show how little you know, Billie-boy. Run along now and play ball!"

Then Will, trying to think of some cutting thing to say, would hasten to join his bosom friend Frank Haley, perhaps remarking as they tramped off:

"Hanged if I can understand girls anyhow."

"Why, what's up?"

"Oh, Grace is such a primper. She's got a new dress and some sort of fancy dingus on it doesn't mix in right. She says it makes her look too stout, and she's going to have it changed."

"Hum! I think your sister is a mighty stunning-looking girl."

"I'll tell her you said so."

"If you do I'll rub your nose in the mud!" and then, as they thought, philosophising further on the queerness of girls in general, the boys departed to the ball field.

The father of Grace and Will Ford was a lawyer with more than a local reputation. He was often called on to handle big cases of state-wide interest, and had made a modest fortune in the practice of his profession.

Of Mollie Billette—"Billy" to her chums, I hardly know what to say. Aged fifteen, the daughter of a well-to-do widow, Mrs. Pauline Billette, Mollie seemed older than either Betty or Grace, though she was a year younger. Yet she did not assume anything to herself by reason of this seeming difference in years; and the difference was only seeming.

Perhaps it was that bit of French blood making her so quick-tempered—so vivacious—so mature-appearing—that accounted for it. And it was, very likely, that same French blood that gave her a temper which was not to be admired, and which Mollie tried so hard to conquer. But her friends knew her failing, and readily forgave her. Besides Mollie there were the comical twins—Dora—never called anything but Dodo—and Paul, aged four. They were always getting into mischief, and out again, and were "just too sweet and dear for anything," as Betty put it. Betty, being an only child, rather hungered for brothers and sisters.

And now we come to Amy Stonington. Poor Amy! There was something of a mystery about her. She realized something of it herself when she was old enough to know that she was not in physical characteristics at all like her parents—at least she regarded Mr. and Mrs. John Stonington as her parents. And yet she could not understand why she was not more like them in type, nor why, of late, she had often come upon them talking earnestly together, which talk ceased as soon as she entered the room. In consequence of which Amy was not very happy these days.

Yet the most that she feared was that her parents were mapping out a career for her. She was talented in music, playing the piano with a technique and fire that few girls of her age could equal. More than once, after a simple concert in the High School, at which she played, teachers had urged Mr. and Mrs. Stonington to send her to some well-known teacher, or even abroad to study.

"But if that's what they're planning I just won't go!" said Amy to herself, after one of those queer confidences she had broken up. "I'd die of loneliness if they sent me away."

So much for our four girls.

Dear Deepdale the girls always called it—Dear Deepdale! They always spoke affectionately of their home town, the only residence place any of them had ever really known, for though some of them had lived as children in other places, their years, since they were old enough to appreciate localities, had been spent in Deepdale.

And certainly it was a town of much natural beauty, to which a certain amount of civic pride added, had made for local enjoyment in parks, memorials and statues. Though there were only about fifteen thousand residents, there was a spirit about Deepdale that many a fair-sized city might have envied—a spirit of progress.

Deepdale was situated on the Argono river, which gave a natural advantage, and provided a setting that could not be improved upon. The stream ran around two sides of the place, the waters curling gracefully around a bend which had been laid out in a little pleasure park.

There were some who protested against this "waste" of good and valuable dockage facilities, but the town committeemen, wisely ignoring objections, had, at some cost, acquired the land, and made what was one of the prettiest spots for miles around—a little breathing place on the very edge of the beautiful river.

Nor was the river the only attractive bit of water about Deepdale. The stream emptied into Rainbow Lake, some miles below the town, and Rainbow Lake fully justified its name. It was a favorite scene of canoeing and motor-boat parties, and many summer residences dotted its shores. In summer white tents of campers gleamed beneath the trees on its banks.

Situated in the lake were a number of islands, also camping sites, and much frequented, in summer, by little parties of young people who landed there after a trip on the lake, to rest in the shade of the leafy trees. Triangle Island, so called from its shore outline, was the largest of those that seemed floating on the lake, like green jewels in a setting of silver.

Several steamers of good size plied on the Argono river, one a freight and passenger boat, belonging to a local line going as far as Clammerport at the foot of the lake. Often school society excursions were held, and the boys and girls made merry on the trip.

About Deepdale were several thriving farming communities, for the slightly rolling land was well suited to cultivation. The town, and the outlying farms filled a sort of valley, girt around with hills of sufficient size and height to be called mountains, at least by the local inhabitants who were proud of them.

There were valleys in these mountains, some large and others merely glens, though Shadow valley, one of the most beautiful, was only of medium size. It was a favorite spot for excursionists who wanted a change from the water route, there being a sort of summer resort and picnic ground at one end of this valley.

The other end was not so often visited. It had once formed the estate of a very wealthy man, who built a large mansion there. But, on his death, the property was contested for in the courts by several heirs and for years had been tied up by litigation. So the mansion became deserted.

Of sufficient importance to have a railroad, as well as a steamer line,
Deepdale was well provided with transportation facilities.

True, the railway was only a branch one, but it connected with the main road running to New York, and this was enough for the people of Deepdale. The town also boasted of a paper, the Weekly Banner, and there was a good high and grammar school in town, besides numerous stores, and other establishments, including a moving picture theatre—this last rather an innovation.

Our girls—I call them ours, for it is with their fortunes that we shall be chiefly concerned—our girls lived near each other on the outskirts of the town.

Betty and her parents occupied an old-fashioned stone house, that had once been the manor of a farm. But it was old-fashioned outwardly only, for within it was the embodiment of culture and comfort. It set well back from the street, and a lane of elms led from the front porch to the thoroughfare. Back of the house was an old-fashioned garden, likewise well-shaded, and there were the remains of an apple orchard, some of the trees still bearing fruit.

On the other side of the street, and not far off, was the home of Grace—a modern brick house of tasteful design. It had ample grounds about it, though being rather new could not boast of such noble trees as those that added dignity to the old stone house.

Amy Stonington lived in a large, rambling wooden structure, too large for the needs of the family, but artistic nevertheless. It was just around the corner from the residence of Betty, and the yards of the two girls joined—-if you can call the big orchard of Betty's home a "yard."

Mollie's home was near the river, about ten minutes' walk from that of the other three girls. It was a wooden house of a dull red that mingled well in tone with the green grass and the spreading trees that surrounded it.

And now I believe I have mentioned my principal characters, and places, though others will be introduced to you from time to time as our story progresses.

So on this pleasant spring day, for one of the few times, Amy was not brooding on the subject that had given her such uneasiness of late. Nor were the other girls concerned with anything save the finding of the five hundred dollar bill, which absorbed everything else for the time being.

"Who could have lost it?" wondered Mollie.

"There aren't so many persons in Deepdale who can afford to throw away money like this," added Amy.

"It wasn't thrown away—it was lost," declared Betty, "and we must find the owner if we can."

"Especially after such a pathetic message," said Grace. "Poor fellow! His last big bill!"

"What makes you think it was a man?" asked Amy.

"That isn't a girl's writing," insisted Grace.

"Fine! You'll be a detective if you keep on—or should I say detectivess?" asked Mollie, with a laugh.

"I wonder what that note means?" inquired Mollie.

"Why," said Betty, "it seems to indicate that some young man ran through a fortune—or lost it—and had only five hundred dollars left. He was going to try to redeem his standing or wealth with this, and probably wrote this to remind himself not to fail. I used to have a habit of leaving my room untidy, and Daddy suggested once that I write a notice to myself, and pin it where I would see it as I came out each morning. I did, and I cured myself. This young fellow probably tried the same system."

"What makes you think he is young?" Grace wanted to know.

"I'm following your line of reasoning—no elderly man would do anything like this—write such a strange memorandum to himself. I'm sure he is young."

"And—good-looking?" asked Amy, smiling.

"Let us hope so—if we are to return the money to him in person," suggested Mollie.

"Well, the best thing to do is to put that in some secure place, Betty," advised Grace. "Has your father a safe at home?"

"Yes."

"Then let him keep it, and we can put an advertisement in the Banner. 'Found—a sum of money. Owner can have same by proving property, and paying for this advertisement.' How is that?"

"Wouldn't you ask for a reward?" came from Mollie.

"The idea—of course not!"

"But he might give us one," suggested Amy, "without being asked."

Then talking excitedly about the find, and speculating on how it could have come in the road, the girls accompanied Betty to her house. Mrs. Nelson was duly astonished at the news, and agreed with the chums that the best plan was that suggested by Grace. Accordingly, when Mr. Nelson came home, the bill and the queer attached note, were put in his safe. Then an advertisement was telephoned to the paper.

"And now let's talk about our Camping and Tramping Club," proposed Betty, for her three chums had called that evening after supper.

"I spoke to mamma about it," said Mollie, "and she said she thought I could go. But we must stay with friends, or relatives, at night; she won't let me put up at a hotel."

"Of course not!" cried Betty—"none of us will. Now my plan is this: Papa and mamma have a number of relatives living in distant towns, but all in this vicinity. Probably you girls have some also. Now, why couldn't we arrange a tour that would take us on a circuit say of—two hundred miles—"

"Two hundred miles!" came in a horrified chorus.

"Why, yes, that's not much. We can take three weeks to it, and that's only a little over ten miles a day—not counting Sundays, of course. If we can't walk ten miles a day—"

"Oh, that's not so bad," admitted Amy.

"I can easily do that," assented Mollie.

"What about our meals?" asked Grace.

"Can't you carry enough chocolate fudge to do between morning and evening?" asked Amy, with a laugh.

"I've got that part all planned," began Betty. "Or at least I have an idea about it. We can get breakfast and supper at our friends' or relatives' and at noon we can go to restaurants, or to houses along the way. Why, we can even take a little camping outfit with us, and make coffee on the road, carrying sandwiches, too."

"Fine!" cried Amy and Mollie.

"Make chocolate—not coffee," begged Grace.

"Well, chocolate then," assented Betty.

"I have a couple of aunts somewhere out Bessingford way," spoke Amy.

"And mamma has a cousin or two near Millford," went on Grace.

"Now, it's your turn, Mollie," said Betty.

"Oh, I have some wood-pile relations scattered about the country!" exclaimed the French girl, her eyes sparkling. "I guess they would be glad to entertain us."

"And I can fill in the between-spaces with uncles and aunts and cousins,
I think," spoke Betty. "Now let's make out a partial list."

It took some little time to do this, but it was finally accomplished.

"Well, shall we decide on it?" asked Betty after a pause. "Shall we form the Deepdale Camping and Tramping Club?"

"I move you, Miss Chairman, that we do!" exclaimed Grace. "The sooner the better."

"Second the motion!" came laughingly from Mollie.

"All in favor—"

"Aye!" came in a joyous chorus, and the little club was thus quickly formed.

CHAPTER III

JEALOUSIES

"What do they find to talk about so often?"

"And so secretly. As soon as any of us other girls come near they begin to speak of the weather—or something like that."

Thus remarked Alice Jallow to Kittie Rossmore a few days after the formation of the Camping and Tramping Club. The question and comments took place in the court of the High School, just before the bell was to ring for the morning session.

"It's all Betty Nelson's doings," declared Alice, who had often tried to make herself more intimate with the quartette of friends, but unsuccessfully. The other girls did not care for these two.

"Yes. Grace, Mollie and Amy will do anything Betty tells them," asserted Kittie.

"I don't see why she is so popular. She hasn't a bit of style about her."

"I should say not! Her skirt is entirely too wide, and her blouse never seems cut right."

"They say her mother doesn't believe in style. But I do," said Alice. "I'd rather have a cheap dress, if it was in style, than something old-fashioned, even if it cost a lot more."

"So would I. Look at them now, with their heads together! I wonder if they're going to have a dance?"

"I don't know. How can we find out?"

"Leave it to me. Jennie Plum is quite friendly with Mollie. I'll get her to ask some questions."

"Do; and then tell me. I'm sure they're getting up some affair."

"I shouldn't wonder. If they'd only ask us—"

"We have a right to be asked!" and Alice flared up.

The warning bell interrupted further conversation, and the girls and boys filed into their classrooms.