AUNT JANE'S NIECES AT MILLVILLE
BY
EDITH VAN DYNE (one of L. Frank Baum's pen names)
1908
Continued....
CHAPTER XII.
THE BAITING OF PEGGY M'NUTT.
By this time the three nieces were so thoroughly
impressed with the
importance of the task they had undertaken that more
ordinary things
failed to interest them. Louise longed to solve the
mystery. Beth wanted
to punish the wrongdoers. Patsy yearned to exonerate
the friends whom
she imagined unjustly accused. Therefore the triple
alliance for
detective purposes was a strong one.
By mutual agreement they kept the matter secret from
Uncle John, for
they realized what a triumph it would be to surprise
the old gentleman
with proofs of their cleverness. To confide in him
now would mean to
invite no end of ridicule or good natured raillery,
for Uncle John had
not a grain of imagination or romance in his nature
and would be unable
to comprehend the delights of this secret
investigation.
Because he was in the dark the significant looks and
unnatural gravity
of his nieces in the succeeding days puzzled the
poor man greatly.
"What's wrong, girls?" he would ask. "Aren't you
happy here? Do you miss
anything you'd like? Is it too quiet and dull at
Millville to suit you?"
"Oh, no!" they would exclaim. "We are having a
splendid time, and would
not leave the farm for anything."
And he often noticed them grouped in isolated places
and conversing in
low, eager tones that proved "something was up." He
felt somewhat
grieved that he was not their confidant, since these
girls and their
loyal affection for him constituted the chief joy of
his life. When he
put on his regulation fishing costume and carried
his expensive rod and
reel, his landing net and creel to the brook for a
day's sport, he could
no longer induce one of his girls to accompany him.
Even Patsy pleaded
laughingly that she had certain "fish to fry" that
were not to be found
in the brook.
Soon the three nieces made their proposed visit to
McNutt, their idea
being to pump that individual until he was dry of
any information he
might possess concerning the Wegg mystery. They
tramped over to the
village after breakfast one morning and found the
agent seated on the
porch before his little "office," by which name the
front room of his
cottage was dignified. He was dressed in faded
overalls, a checked shirt
and a broad-brimmed cheap straw hat. His "off foot,"
as he called it
with grim humor, was painted green and his other
foot was bare and might
have been improved in color. Both these extremities
rested on the rail
of the porch, while McNutt smoked a corncob pipe and
stared at his
approaching visitors with his disconcerting,
protruding eyes.
"Good morning, Mr. McNutt," said Louise, pleasantly.
"We've come to see
if you have any books to sell."
The agent drew a long breath. He had at first
believed they had come to
reproach him for his cruel deception; for although
his conscience was
wholly dormant, he had at times been a bit uneasy
concerning his
remarkable book trade.
"Uncle is making a collection of the 'Lives of the
Saints.'" announced
Patsy, demurely. "At present he has but three
varieties of this work,
one with several pages missing, another printed
partly upside down, and
a third with a broken corner. He is anxious to
secure some further
variations of the 'dee looks' Lives, if you can
supply them."
Peggy's eyes couldn't stare any harder, so they just
stared.
"I--I hain't got no more on hand," he stammered,
fairly nonplussed by
the remarkable statement.
"No more? Oh, how sad. How disappointed we are,"
said Beth.
"We were depending so much on you. Mr. McNutt,"
added Louise, in a tone
of gentle reproach.
McNutt wiggled the toes of his good foot and
regarded them reflectively.
These city folks were surely the "easiest marks" he
had ever
come across.
"Ef ye could wait a few days," he began, hopefully,
"I might----"
"Oh, no; we can't possibly wait a single minute,"
declared Patsy.
"Unless Uncle can get the Saints right away he will
lose interest in the
collection, and then he won't care for them at all."
McNutt sighed dismally. Here was a chance to make
good money by fleecing
the lambs, yet he was absolutely unable to take
advantage of it.
"Ye--ye couldn't use any duck eggs, could ye?" he
said, a sudden thought
seeming to furnish him with a brilliant idea.
"Duck eggs?"
"I got the dum-twistedest, extry fine lot o' duck
eggs ye ever seen."
"But what can we do with duck eggs?" inquired Beth,
wonderingly, while
Patsy and Louise tried hard not to shriek with
laughter.
"W'y, set 'em under a hen, an' hatch 'em out."
"Sir," said Beth, "I strongly disapprove of such
deceptions. It seems to
me that making a poor hen hatch out ducks, under the
delusion that they
are chickens, is one of the most cruel and
treacherous acts that
humanity can be guilty of. Imagine the poor thing's
feelings when her
children take to water! I'm surprised you could
suggest such a wicked
use for duck eggs."
McNutt wiggled his toes again, desperately.
"Can't use any sas'frass roots, can ye?"
"No, indeed; all we crave is the 'Lives of the
Saints.'"
"Don't want to buy no land?"
"What have you got to sell?"
"Nuth'n, jest now. But ef ye'll buy I kin git 'most
anything."
"Don't go to any trouble on our account, sir; we are
quite content with
our splendid farm."
"Shoo! Thet ain't no good."
"Captain Wegg thought it was," answered Louise,
quickly seizing this
opening. "Otherwise he would not have built so good
a house upon it."
"The Cap'n were plumb crazy," declared the agent,
emphatically. "He
didn't want ter farm when he come here; he jest
wanted to hide."
The girls exchanged quick glances of intelligence.
"Why?"
"Why?" repeated McNutt. "Thet's a thing what's
puzzled us fer years,
miss. Some thinks Wegg were a piret; some thinks he
kidnaped thet pretty
wife o' his'n an' took her money; some thinks he
tried to rob ol' Will
Thompson, an' Will killed him an' then went crazy
hisself. There's all
sorts o' thinks goin' 'round; but who _knows_?"
"Don't you, Mr. McNutt?"
The agent was flattered by the question. As he had
said, the Weggs had
formed the chief topic of conversation in Millville
for years, and no
one had a more vivid interest in their history than
Marshall McMahon
McNutt. He enjoyed gossiping about the Weggs almost
as much as he did
selling books.
"I never thought I had no call to stick my nose
inter other folkses
privit doin's," he said, after a few puffs at the
corncob pipe. "But
they kain't hide much from Marsh McNutt, when he has
his eyes open."
Patsy wondered if he could possibly close them. The
eyelids seemed to be
shy and retiring.
"I seen what I seen," continued the little man,
glancing impressively at
his attentive audience. "I seen Cap'n Wegg livin'
without workin', fer
he never lifted a hand to do even a chore. I seen
him jest settin'
'round an' smokin' his pipe an' a glowerin' like a
devil on ev'ryone
thet come near. Say, once he ordered me off'n his
premises--me!"
"What a dreadful man," said Patsy. "Did he buy any
'Lives of the
Saints?'"
"Not a Life. He made poor Ol' Hucks fetch an' carry
fer him ev'ry
blessid minnit, an' never paid him no wages."
"Are you sure?" asked Louise.
"Sure as shootin'. Hucks hain't never been seen to
spend a cent in all
the years he's been here."
"Hasn't he sold berries and fruit since the
Captain's death?"
"Jest 'nough to pay the taxes, which ain't much. Ye
see, young Joe were
away an' couldn't raise the tax money, so Ol' Hucks
had to. But how they
got enough ter live on, him an' Nora, beats me."
"Perhaps Captain Wegg left some money," suggested
Patsy.
"No; when Joe an' Hucks ransacked the house arter
the Cap'n's death they
couldn't find a dollar. Cur'ous. Plenty o' money
till he died, 'n' then
not a red cent. Curiouser yet. Ol' Will Thompson's
savin's dis'peared,
too, an' never could be located to this day."
"Were they robbed, do you suppose?" asked Louise.
"Nat'rally. But who done it? Not Ol' Hucks, fer he's
too honest, an'
hasn't showed the color of a nickel sense. Not Joe;
'cause he had to
borrer five dollars of Bob West to git to the city
with. Who then?"
"Perhaps," said Louise, slowly, "some burglar did
it."
"Ain't no burglers 'round these parts."
"I suppose not. Only book agents," remarked Beth.
McNutt flushed.
"Do ye mean as I did it?" he demanded, angrily. "Do
ye mean as I killed
Cap'n Wegg an' druv 01' Will crazy, an' robbed the
house?"
His features were fairly contorted, and his
colorless eyes rolled
fearfully.
"If you did," said Beth, coolly, "you would be sure
to deny it."
"I kin prove a alybi," answered the little man,
calming down somewhat.
"I kin prove my ol' woman had me locked up in the
chicken-coop thet
night 'cause I wouldn't split a lot o' cordwood thet
were full o'
knots." He cast a half fearful glance over his
shoulder toward the
interior of the cottage. "Next day I split 'em," he
added, mildly.
"Perhaps," said Louise, again, "someone who knew
Captain Wegg in the
days before he came here followed him to his retreat
and robbed and
murdered him."
"Now ye've hit the nail on the head!" cried the
agent, slapping his fat
thigh energetically. "Thet's what I allus claimed,
even when Bob West
jest shook his head an' smiled sort o' superior
like."
"Who is Bob West?" asked Louise, with interest.
"He's our implement man, an' hardware dealer. Bob
were the on'y one o'
the Millville folks thet could git along with Cap'n
Wegg, an' even he
didn't manage to be any special friend. Bob's rich,
ye know. Rich as
blazes. Folks do say he's wuth ten thousan' dollars;
but it don't set
Bob up any. He jest minds his business an' goes on
sellin' plows an'
harvesters to the farmers an' takin' notes fer 'em."
"And you say he knew Captain Wegg well?" inquired
Patsy.
"Better 'n' most folks 'round here did. Once er
twicet a year the Cap'n
'd go to Bob's office an' set around an' smoke his
pipe. Sometimes Bob
would go to the farm an' spend an' ev'nin'; but not
often. Ol' Will
Thompson might be said to be the on'y friend the
Cap'n really
hankered fer."
"I'd like to meet Mr. West," said Louise, casting a
shrewd look at her
cousins. For here was another clue unearthed.
"He's in his store now." remarked McNutt, "Last
buildin' on the left. Ye
can't miss it."
"Thank you. Good morning, sir."
"Can't use any buttermilk er Dutch cheese?"
"No, thank you."
McNutt stared after them disconsolately. These girls
represented so much
money that ought to be in his pockets, and they
were, moreover,
"innercent as turtle doves"; but he could think of
no way to pluck their
golden quills or even to arrest their flight.
"Well, let 'em go," he muttered. "This thing ain't
ended yit."
AUNT JANE'S NIECES AT MILLVILLE
Continued....
 
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