“it seems almost impossible that a man with such a red head could so completely drop out of sight,” sighed tavia

the next day.

the boys had just combed dalton “with a fine-toothed comb” for the elusive tom moran, and had bagged nothing. he

had gone—vamoosed—disappeared—winked out; all these synonyms were tavia’s. the girls had discussed the

disappearance until there seemed nothing more to be said.

“we don’t really know that he was celia’s big brother,” said dorothy, reflectively. “but it seems very

probable. even your father knew that he was a bridge builder.”

“but we didn’t,” snapped tavia. “who expected to find a structural ironworker driving a yoke of steers?”

“and such steers,” sighed dorothy, for she had scarcely gotten over the scare of that perilous ride.

everybody about town knew by this time that186 the red-haired young man who had worked in simpson’s gang was wanted

by dorothy dale. dorothy had more friends in dalton than anywhere else. indeed, she could well claim every

respectable member of the community, save the nursing babies, as her own particular friend.

with so many people on the lookout for a trace of tom moran, therefore, it was no wonder that dorothy and her

friends were running down possible clues all day long.

the second morning news came from a farmer out on the fountainville road. ned and nat had come down to dalton in

their firebird, and they got the motorcar out of the garage at once and brought it around to give the girls a ride

to farmer prater’s house.

“he’s been losing chickens,” said ned, as they all scrambled in. “and he telephoned in something about a red-

headed man he had hired, named moran, having a fight in the night with a band of chicken thieves in an automobile.

what do you know about that?”

“sounds crazy enough,” said tavia, tartly.

“all right. your father’s sent a constable out to see about it, just the same. and there aren’t two red-headed

men named moran wandering about the county, i am sure.”

“but i don’t believe celia’s brother would rob a henroost,” said dorothy.

187 “oh, fudge!” exclaimed nat. “listen to the girl? who said he did?”

“well! wasn’t there something about chicken stealing in what ned said? oh! i almost lost my hat that time. what a

jolty road.”

“look out or you’ll lose your name and number both on this stretch of highway. can’t the old firebird spin some?

”

“such flowers of rhetoric,” sighed tavia. “‘spin some’ is beautiful.”

“lots you know about flowers of any kind, miss travers,” teased nat.

“i know all about flowers—especially of speech,” returned tavia, tossing her head. “i can even tell you the

favorite flowers of the various states and countries——”

“england?” shouted nat.

“primroses,” returned tavia, promptly, unwilling to be caught.

“france?” questioned bob.

“lilies.”

“scotland?” asked dorothy, laughing.

“ought to be a beard of oats, but it’s the thistle,” said tavia, promptly.

“ireland?” demanded ned, without turning from his steering wheel.

“shamrock, of course.”

“got you!” ejaculated nat. “what’s spain’s favorite?”

188 “oh-oh-oh—— bulrushes, i s’pect,” said tavia, having the words jolted out of her. “bull-fights, anyway.

dear, dear me! we might as well travel over plowed ground.”

they struck a better automobile road on the fountainville turnpike, and before long they came in sight of farmer

prater’s house. oddly enough there was a gray and yellow automobile under one of the farmer’s sheds.

the farmer was in high fettle, it proved, and willing enough to talk about the raid the night before on his pens of

rhode island reds.

“jefers pelters!” he chortled. “i got me pullets back and the ortermerbile ter boot. d’ye see it? that’s what

the raskils come in.”

“not the red-headed man?” demanded tavia.

“who said anything about a red headed—— oh! you mean tom moran?” asked mr. prater. “why, he warn’t with ’em.

if it hadn’t been for him them raskils would ha’ got erway with my pullets—ya-as, sir-ree-sir!”

“where is tom?” demanded dorothy.

but mr. prater had to tell the story in his own way. and it was an exciting one—to him! he had been awakened in the

early hours of the morning and had seen an automobile standing in the road. then he heard a squawking in the chicken

pens. he had valuable feathered stock, and he got up in a hurry to learn what was afoot.

189 but the thieves would have gotten well away with their bags of feathered loot had it not been for tom moran, who

was sleeping for the night in farmer prater’s barn.

“that red-headed feller is as smart as a steel trap,” said the farmer, admiringly. “i’ve been at him every time

i’m in dalton to come an’ work for me. but he wouldn’t.”

“what did he do?” asked dorothy, interested for more reasons than one in any account of tom moran.

“why, he jumped out of the hay, got ahead of the thieves, and leaped into their merchine before they reached it. it

’s a self-starter—d’ye see? so he jest teched up the engine button, and started the merchine to traveling. them

fellers couldn’t git aboard, and they had to drop the sacks and run. i was right behind ’em with my gun, ye see,

and i’d peppered ’em with rock salt if they hadn’t quit as they did—— ya-as, sir-ree-sir!”

“and where did tom go?” queried tavia, breathlessly.

“why, he brought the machine back, eat his breakfast, and went on his way. he didn’t say where he was goin’.

i’ll wait for the owner of the ortermobile to show up an’ explain about his car, i reckon. ain’t no license

number on it.”

so that settled this trace of tom moran. he had disappeared again. nobody near mr. prater190 had observed the red-

headed man when he left for parts unknown. the girls and their friends had lots of fun scouring the neighboring

country in the firebird; but the young man whom dorothy dale wished to see so very much was as elusive as a will-o’

-the-wisp!

and when they got back to town there was a letter about the very man himself addressed to the war cry office, in

regard to the advertisement that dorothy had caused to be printed in that paper. the letter had gone to glenwood and

been forwarded to dalton on dorothy’s trail.

the letter was written on dirty paper and in a handwriting that showed the writer to be a very ignorant person. and

it was actually mailed in dalton! the girls read it eagerly.

“if you want to knos bout tom moran i can tell you all you want to knos. but i got a be paid for what i knos.

hes a many mils from here. but i can find him if its mad wuth my wile. so no mor at present well wisher. p. s.—rite

me at dalton n. york, name john smith. ile get it from genl dlivry.”

“now, never in the world did that red-haired young man write such a letter, doro!” cried tavia.

“of course not. it is some bad person who saw191 the advertisement and thinks that some money is to be made out of

poor celia’s brother.”

“and this awful scrawl was written when tom was right here in town.”

“certainly,” agreed dorothy.

“yet the writer says he is ‘a many mils from here.’”

“that is why we may be sure that the person writing to me has a very bad mind and is trying to get money. i am sure

tom moran never saw the notice in the war cry and that he knows nothing about this letter,” repeated dorothy.

“dear me! to be so close on the trail of that redhead—and then to lose him,” tavia said despairingly.

“perhaps this person who wrote the letter knows where he is now. yes, it looks reasonable,” said dorothy,

reflectively. “you see, believing as he does that somebody will pay money to find tom moran, he will likely keep in

touch with celia’s brother.”

“i see!” cried tavia. “i see what you are driving at. aren’t you smart, doro dale? the way to do, then, is for

us to find this john smith—— but how will you do it?”

“how?”

“of course that isn’t his name. i don’t believe there is a john smith in dalton.”

“perhaps not. although john smiths aren’t192 uncommon,” laughed dorothy. “but we know that is the name in which

he’ll ask for his mail. now, why not keep watch——”

“better than that!” gasped tavia. “let’s tell mr. somes, the postmaster, and have him set a watch upon whoever

gets a letter for john smith.”

“but where’ll he get a letter—if i don’t write him?” demanded dorothy.

“of course, you’ll write him. write now. make him think you are going to ‘bite’ on his offer.”

“but i don’t intend to pay any great sum for finding tom moran—though i’d be willing to if i had it.”

“we can fool him; can’t we?” demanded tavia. “he is evidently trying to over-reach tom and you both. let the

biter be bitten,” said tavia, gaily. “come on, doro! write the letter.”